Gromet's Plaza Richard Alexander Stories
Monica's Place
by Richard Alexander
© 2002 - Richard Alexander - Used by permission.
storycodes: MF/mf; bondage; bdsm; cons/nc; XXX
Monica’s Place Book 1 of the Monica Chronicles by Richard Alexander
Monica's Place: 17. House Calls by Richard Alexander MF/mf; bondage; bdsm; cons/nc; XXX
Chapter Seventeen: House Calls
The dungeon photo shoot had been a big success, although I had to say I had seen better ones of me. To say they made me blush would be a considerable understatement, but then most of the girls looked somewhat flushed in their individual shots as well. Funny, that. 

Two days after the shoot Monica and I took the Twins home. Monica reckoned they were reformed characters now – demure and obedient, with definitely a new respect for authority. They were given no warning that they were to return home. Monica had been dropping all sorts of dire hints to the effect that they were here for the long term and they had better get used to it. There were references to their much improved cleaning and cooking abilities, but also implied suggestions that they could be sold to a deserving household and master. The evening that a dose of knockout was put into their drinks was no different from any other. After that it was a case of dressing them in the clothes they had arrived in, nearly a month previously, and lugging them to the van. There was no doubt they had shed a kilo or two, which wasn’t surprising considering all the sweating they had done in various rubber clothing about the house.

Returning them was straightforward, and Mr Kuragin seemed happy to see them back. We left them propped on the lounge chairs as though nothing had happened. When they awoke it would indeed be like nothing had happened, except for the tiny stainless steel padlocks that would now be hanging from the rings through their nipples. I wished I could have been there to see their faces when they awoke.

After the success of the dungeon I turned my attention to what I saw as my most challenging creation yet. All dungeons have a rack, but it is usually intended for one person only. In this instance I had decided it would be a frame that could take the whole household if necessary, in various positions. The difference was that this time Steven would not be involved in the testing. This time Steven would be in the director’s chair and Mistress Monica was going to have a starring role.

I was getting right into my work now, going through until quite late at night as I was inclined to do when on a roll. I refused to let anyone see what I was making and retained an air of mystery about the whole thing, working as I was in the last vacant room, next to the holding cells. The girls said jokingly that there had been complaints from the cells’ inhabitants about the noise at night and how they couldn’t sleep. I asked what had been the result of the complaints. Predictably enough the complainants had received sound thrashings for their trouble.

It was on one of these evenings that there was a muted banging on the door to Machine Room, as I called it. I looked at my watch – it was after eleven.
"Who is it?" I queried.
"It’s me!" came Leila’s voice. "Steven, open up, quickly!"
There was something in Leila’s voice that made me ignore my previous prohibitions on visitors. Leila sounded frightened. I opened the door. She was almost shaking, her face ashen.
"What is it – what’s happened?" I asked, gripping her arms.
"It’s Jill – she’s – I was on duty in the Observation Room and I flicked through the channels, just checking on our guests. I went to the camera in the study by mistake – there’s a man there – a burglar or something! He’s attacked Jill!"
"What? How come there was no alarm?"
"I – I don’t know… maybe she left the balcony doors open ‘cause it’s so muggy… But we have to do something!"
"What’s he done to her?" I asked, feeling a chill run down my spine. 
"He must’ve overpowered her. He was tying her to the desk – God knows what he’s going to do next! What should we do?"

I looked at the frightened eyes and decided it was not something we could afford to waste any time on. I grabbed a piece of dowel timber about the size of a baseball bat, from the debris that littered the room, and headed for the door with Leila hard on my heels. The corridor outside and the stairs were lit only by low level nightlights.
We crept up the stairs, conscious of which ones made the creaks, before easing open the concealed door at the top. The hallway was again dimly lit by nightlights. Just past the reception area, on the opposite wall was the study door. We tiptoed up to it. I could hear a man’s voice, muffled by the thick walls and heavy door, and could not make out what he was saying. I thought I could also hear an occasional but muted female noise. I tried the door handle, ever so gently. It was locked. I motioned to Leila and we moved carefully through to the kitchen and out on to the verandah that wrapped around the house.

It was dark outside, the air heavy with humidity and the night awash with chirping frogs and other nocturnal creatures. Edging along with our backs to the wall we reached the corner of the house. I poked my head around the corner Iand saw that on this side of the house, light from the study flooded on to the verandah through the French doors and the large windows each side. 

I crept up to the windows. As I got nearer I could hear the man’s voice more distinctly. There was considerable laughing, the sound of which made the hairs stand up on the back of my neck. 

Peering through the glass I was stunned by what I saw. I knew Jill sometimes stayed up late working on accounts, and I supposed this had been one of those instances. She was bound half across the desk, bent backwards away from the windows. She was almost naked, except for a peach-coloured satin robe which lay open underneath her. Her legs were spread wide, each ankle tied to the leg of the desk. Her wrists, secured with one of those heavy duty cable ties from which there is no escape other than by cutting, had been pulled above her head so that she was stretched back over the desk. I assumed her wrists were tethered to the base of the desk on the other side. Jill had been gagged with a few turns of duct tape wrapped around her head in untidy fashion. There were red marks on her body and her eyes were wide and staring, tear stains on her cheeks. The study was a mess, with stuff all over the place. Jill had evidently put up a bit of a fight. 

The man had his back to me. He was a bit taller than me and solidly built, with black hair that seemed to sprout from every patch of skin I could see. It was clear what his intention was as I saw his hands going through the motions of undoing his belt. Jillian went frantic, struggling to get free and shaking her head wildly.

I am not a violent person by nature. I will avoid a fight if given any opportunity to run – that’s my philosophy as a rule. This time something in the philosophical department didn’t quite match the situation and I reacted without thinking, deciding in an instant that dirty pool was the order of the day. Realising in a moment that my opportunity and probably courage would be gone, I flung myself through the half-open French door and swung my piece of wood as hard as I could. Between his legs. Some little piece of logic had told me that the moment the guy dropped his trousers I wouldn’t get a clear shot, and there was no way I was going to take on this guy by any means other than unfair and one sided.

The bloke dropped like a falling tree, crumpling into a pain-wracked foetal position, his hands clenched tightly to his groin in agony, a stream of oaths and invective coming from him in between moans of anguish. I moved while my andrenalin was still flowing and before I got the shakes. I was not used to this sort of thing. Leila appeared by my side and together we freed Jill’s ankles and found some scissors to cut the tie at her wrists and the tape from her face. Jill hugged Leila and the pair retreated to a sofa, tears flowing freely. I was left looking after the body.

I rolled the guy over. He was heavier than I expected and much heavier than any of the girls I had had occasion to manhandle. He groaned and swore at me, his eyes screwed shut with the pain which only a guy can understand. Beside the desk was a plastic bag containing a couple of rolls of silver duct tape and a packet of electrical ties. He must’ve been a Boy Scout – he was definitely "prepared". I pulled a couple of the ties free and dragged his wrists behind him, securing them tightly. He offered almost no resistance - what little he could manage went out of him when I poked him in the goolies again with my stick. He was white-faced and looked ready to throw up. His eyes remained closed tightly in pain and I decided instinctively that this was a good state of affairs, and made sure of it by wrapping a couple of turns of tape around his head as a blindfold. To finish the job I joined a couple more plastic ties and pulled them tight about his ankles.

I moved over to where the girls sat on the sofa. Jillian had almost regained her composure but was still sobbing occasionally as the shock wore off. It came home to me the difference between the controlled circumstances of bondage and sexual play with people you trusted compared to exactly the same thing without volition.
"Leila, go and fetch Monica - wherever she is," I said gently. "I think we need another pair of hands, too – whoever’s available." I did not see Jill being much use for the rest of the evening.
Leila scurried off while I sat with Jill. 
"Thanks, Steven," she said simply, but said little more after that. She had wrapped the satin robe tightly about her and held her arms clasped across her breasts. I felt hopelessly awkward and didn’t know what to do other than hold her against me in the best gesture of comfort I could think of. She didn’t resist and it was in this position we were found when Monica and Trish appeared, some minutes later. Monica and Trish knelt down beside Jillian.

"Are you okay, Hon?" Jill nodded, making that jerky sniffling sound that kids sometimes do after a bout of crying. "You go off to bed, sweetie," said Monica. "Have tomorrow off and come and talk to me. Do you want one of us to go with you?"
"N-no, I’ll be okay. What are you going to do with …him?"
"Never mind about that. We’ll sort that out in the fullness of time and in the calm of the morning. Go now." Jill turned and left the room.
"Where’s Leila? I asked.
"She’s gone back to the Observation Room," Monica said. "We can’t have our clients neglected."
"I think we’ve got another client, now," Trish suggested, looking at the prone form still groaning and muttering beside the desk.

"Thanks for what you did, Steven," Monica told me, looking into my eyes. "I really mean that. Leila told us about it – that was really something." I blushed and looked at Trish who smiled at me.
"What are you going to do with Bozo here?" I asked, changing the subject.
"I’m not sure, yet," Monica mused. "There are a lot of aspects to this that have to be considered, and I want to talk about it with the girls tomorrow over breakfast. But for now, I think Trish’s right, and we’ve got ourselves an extra guest for the night. Help us get him downstairs, will you?"

It was gone midnight when we returned to the study. Downstairs Bozo was curled up foetally again in one of the holding cells, bound hand and foot and still wearing the tape over his eyes. We had debated over a gag but the sight of his pain-wracked face had suggested it was not wise at this stage of the game, just in case he did decide to barf. He was also naked now, and we were in the process of going through his wallet and other items in his pockets.

"That was smart thinking with the blindfold, Steven," Monica said. "I presume Jill is the only one of us he has really got a good look at, and I intend to keep it that way. We need to carefully consider where we go from here."
"Name’s Wayne Bennelli," I said, spreading the contents of the wallet on the table. There wasn’t much – a drivers licence, a few receipts, twenty-five dollars and some change and that was about it. No credit cards, no photos, no library cards or other good citizen identification. I guess the guy wasn’t into that side of society if he preferred to rape defenceless women for kicks. Monica held up a set of car keys.
"Steve, why don’t you do a bit of scouting – see if you can find what these belong to. I’d like to get the area cleared as soon as possible. We may decide to hang on to Mr Bennelli while he helps us with our enquiries, and I want to cover any leads. If you find his car, park it round the back."
"And be careful," Trish added. "He may have friends".
"Exactly," Monica agreed.
"Somehow I don’t think so," I ventured. "I don’t believe this guy would be up to what he tried if he had an accomplice hanging about."
"Nevertheless, do be careful. And see if you can find out how he got past the alarm, and if it’s working."

I had no doubt the guy was alone, and I had to admire Monica’s calm in dealing with the crisis. I suspected Mr Bennelli was going to regret his indiscretion. 

Outside in the cool of the night I walked down the drive, letting my eyes become accustomed to the darkness. The driveway was empty and the infrared light was visible atop the gates. I over-rode the setting with the masterkey and slid the gates soundlessly open. A short distance up the road, half hidden under a tree, was a Ute, which strangely enough fitted the keys I had in my hand. It had seen better days – a state of affairs in which I suspected Mr Bennelli would soon include himself. I started the engine, turned into the driveway and drove to the rear of the house. There was no point in looking for access points at this time of night, I decided. I suspected our Wayne had fought his way determinedly through the bushes, to reach the house, but daylight would determine that, and whether I needed to lay a bit of barbed wire in the middle of the undergrowth. In the meantime I was looking for a good night’s sleep.

The breakfast meeting the next morning was spirited, to say the least. Jillian was not there, which was probably a good thing. There were all manner of suggestions as to what to do with Wayne Bennelli, ranging from castration, to the police to an unmarked hole at the back of the property. Monica made her position very plain.

"There will be no police. While there may be the odd member of the constabulary who frequents these premises on a business footing, we cannot have any straight coppers snooping around and possibly closing us down."
"So what are you suggesting?" Emma asked.
"Fortunately, due to Steven’s prompt action and then his quick thinking, not only has our bully boy been taken out of the play, but he saw none of our faces, except for Jill’s. I think he’s about to learn a lesson he will never forget – one that will give him nightmares, and which will leave him with something tangible to remember us by."
"So what will stop him reporting us to the cops?" Leila said.
"You forget the video, sweetie. You also forget the photos of the indignities that he will suffer in the next few days, and you forget that by Thursday we will have checked out his house, his friends, his job – if he even has one – and we will know all-l-l about him. Certainly enough to scare the shit out of the little fucker. Blackmail is the name of the game, and we have the goods if we need them."

My first job that morning was explained to me by Monica after breakfast. I couldn’t believe what she was asking, but, hey, what the hell. I’d get it sorted out, one way or the other. I had a contact through my business in the stainless steel trade. This certainly would be a special order, wanted ASAP, and definitely on a "need to know" basis.

By the time I returned from my outing to the stainless manufacturer, where I had invented a cock and bull story (more the former than the latter) about what I wanted this device for, Mr Bennelli was undergoing the first of what were to be a number of rather severe sessions, with a considerable degree of scariness thrown in.
I entered the study, where Jillian sat at Monica’s desk, watching the CCTV monitors.
"What’s on?" I asked, moving across and perching on the edge of the desk beside her.
"Monica’s going to give our friend the fright of his life," said Jill quietly.
"And you’re not involved?"
"Mon doesn’t want me involved – she thinks it better if I stay out of it."
"Smart girl, our Monica. You okay, now?"
"Yes. Thanks to you, of course."

"’Tweren’t nuthin, ma’am," I drawled, embarrassed. I turned to the screens. The active one was in the tiled Sluice Room where the submarine and sauna were. What I saw was scary all right. All the girls were there, all wearing their most ferociously severe outfits – black leather and high heels, with not a few chains jangling – and all wore masks. The masks were the same – a white distorted grinning face derived for the "Scream" films from the Edvard Munch painting "Primal Scream". Poor old naked Wayne looked like he wanted to do just that - scream. He was kneeling in the middle of the sauna room, side on to the camera, his ankles perhaps half a metre apart and secured by a spreader bar while his hands were bound behind him. A large black ball gag was strapped tightly in his mouth and his eyes were wide with terror. Not surprisingly, since in front of him, nestled against his crotch was a large chopping block that normally resided in the garden. Wayne’s dick was secured to this by what looked like a U-bracket of the type used to fix pipes to walls.

"Looks like somebody has been into my workshop," I commented.
"I believe Trish may have had something to do with that," said Jillian, with a ghost of a smile.
"You’re not going to cut the thing off, surely?" I said, horrified.
"No, silly, though our man thinks he is about to be ‘Bobbited’!"
Monica took the floor, dressed in a tight leather catsuit.
"Wayne Bennelli you have been found guilty of attempted rape. There’s only one way to make sure this never happens again. Use it wrongly, and you lose it."

Wayne shook his head desperately and made lots of grunting noises through his nose, while trying to pull away from the chopping block, but his pecker was well secured by the bracket screwed to the block. His organ had been stretched to perhaps ten centimetres long, although given the chance it would probably recoil like a rubber band and disappear from sight, I surmised. I noticed there was also a lot of dark discoloration in the groin area. Poor guy – not, I thought.
"Number One, bring the selection of instruments," Monica commanded.

A figure in a short black leather skirt and leather bra came forward. It wore a black satin cloak with a hood that gave it a distinctly menacing appearance when combined with the white grimacing mask. I reckoned it was Leila, as I caught a glimpse of blonde hair against the hood. She carried a black cushion and gave it to Monica, who set it down on the tiled floor. On the cushion were a large carving knife, a small handsaw, a pair of secateurs, and a hatchet.
"What is your choice, ladies?" asked Monica with a darkness in her voice. "Number One?"
"Slow and painful. The saw."
"Number Two?"
"The saw."
"Number Three?"
The axe."
"Number Four?"
"The axe."
"A tie, ladies. My casting vote is the axe, because I am at least humane in my punishment. I do not believe there is a case for unwarranted cruelty. Do we have the cauterisation gear?" Leila wheeled a small portable barbecue closer to the action, and I saw several pokers on the flames, glowing white-hot. Monica picked one up and moved it closer to Wayne’s terrified face, before returning it to the barbecue. Then she picked up the hatchet.
"Are you ready for your punishment, you little turd?" Monica hissed in his ear.

I was thinking I would probably have shit myself in his position, and as Monica raised the hatchet high Wayne did just that, venting his bowels and bladder – as much as he could with his dick screwed down to the chopping block. The girls recoiled with exclamations and Monica brought the hatchet down, embedding it in the wood a couple of fingers breadth away from Wayne’s pecker. Wayne continued to pee, the steaming stream flowing over the block and on to the floor. Monica stood up abruptly.

"That just goes to show what a little shit you are, Wayne Bennelli. You’re a piece of crap – a low life that belongs in some cesspit somewhere. Number One, hose down this mess – and the source of it - and leave him to sweat a bit. After you’ve had lunch, of course. Things will only get worse from here on, Mr Bennelli." She turned imperiously and stalked out of the room, followed by the rest of the girls. I watched as the prisoner bent forward over the block as though he was to have his head chopped off. Wayne was momentarily relieved – in more ways than one. The door to the sauna was slammed and I saw a black-gloved hand turn on the heating. I didn’t know how long they intended to leave him, but I reckoned it was soon going to get pretty unpleasant in there.
Monica joined us in the study.

"What did you think of the performance?" she asked with a grin.
"Pretty impressive," I said. Jill did not comment and excused herself.
"Is she all right?" I asked.
"I think she will be. She’s strong, but a little shook up at present. That nasty little shit will regret it, and will leave here a changed man – you can be sure of that," Monica told me grimly. I was about to leave when she stopped me.
"Steve, I have a rather unusual request for you." I stopped and waited. "Do you remember Isobel?"
"Well-heeled and into all manner of fantasy stuff?"
"That’s the one. She’s got a scenario planned for her home – or rather she has suggested one in broad outline, with the details to be filled in by us."
"Us? Who ‘us’, white woman?"
"You and me."

"She wants a sort of home invasion thing – could be a burglary, could be something more imaginative. It involves a rape – hers, of course. She wants you."
"Me? She’s never even met me."
"She’s seen you and heard about you." For a moment I was speechless. The concept had totally floored me. "She’s watched you through the cameras when she and I were having a little heart to heart one day in here, as she told me what she was looking for. I told her about you, what you were like, of the high esteem I held you in. I think she took a fancy to you."
"You want me to …rape her? You’re kidding!"

"It’s pretend rape, Steve. I have a signed letter requesting it and there’s five hundred bucks in it for you as a bonus. You understand this is not something I normally do, but the situation is a little different, I’m sure you will agree. And then there’s always the safeword, even when she’s gagged – the humming the little tune thing. That’s her last resort, and all bets are off if that happens, of course."
I sat down on the sofa.
"Can I think about it?"
"Sure. No pressure. But if you decide ‘yes’, tomorrow’s the night."

And that was how I came to be skulking in Isobel’s garden with Monica that Friday night. The house was a small replica Queenslander – built recently with modern materials and wiring, but retaining the two storey look with a balcony on the front upstairs -–the traditional indoor-outdoor living style. The place was in darkness as we ascended the front stairs and found the key under the third pot plant to the left, just as we had been told. It was gone two in the morning and the neighbourhood was hushed. The house was shielded by large Alexandra palms, which gave some semblance of privacy to the balcony and windows, while the adjacent properties had more trees to screen the neighbouring houses further. 

Monica opened the door gingerly, not knowing if it would squeak or not. It moved without a sound and we slipped inside, pulling our ski masks down over our faces. We closed the door behind us and tiptoed along the polished timber hallway, the torch lights on our headbands identifying the rooms as we passed. We reached what was obviously Isobel’s bedroom. The door was open and a figure was sleeping in the big double bed. Isobel was on her back, one arm flung across the pillow, the other under the duvet. It was just as Monica and I had hoped for in the scenario plan we had devised. Monica slipped off her small daypack and pulled out a roll of duct tape and a leather strap. 

Carefully she tore off a couple of strips of the wide silver tape and laid one over the other in a shallow ‘X’. As a team we pounced on the sleeping form, Monica slapping the tape across Isobel’s mouth while I threw myself across her body, pinning her arms. She awoke with what must have been a hell of a fright, her eyes wide and confused in the half-light provided by our torches. Our priority was to keep Isobel quiet, and while I held her trapped under the covers, Monica lifted the victim’s head and wrapped several more turns of duct tape around it. All the while Isobel was mmmphing and fighting and bucking but her head-shaking stopped the moment Mon grasped a handful of hair. Isobel squirmed under the covers, but my weight was too much for her. Monica then pressed a strip of tape over each of the victim’s eyes, which elicited some more moans from behind the tape.

Our prisoner now being effectively silent and blind, we turned her on her front and pulled the covers back, each of us holding on to a wrist. Isobel wore a royal blue satin nightshirt that came down to her thighs, with nothing underneath. Her struggles died as we strapped her wrists together then pulled off our ski masks. Monica fashioned a short hobble with a piece of rope around Isobel’s ankles and we hauled her out of bed, snorting and panting through her nose.

All this had been done without a word between Monica and me. For the purposes of our scenario Monica would do none of the talking, the intention being to make Isobel think that there were two men, and to this end Monica also wore heavy leather gloves. I had told her to "think male, think rough". She had said she didn’t think she was capable of stooping to such levels and I didn’t pursue what I knew would have been a no-win argument.

"’Ere Mick, lets tie ‘er to the door ‘andles while we check out the room." I had adopted as my alter ego a London East End accent, just to give a bit of character. "Over ’ere, slag!" I commanded, and we half dragged poor Isobel to the bedroom door, forcing her to kneel with her back to the edge of it. I turned the light on, then Monica and I each took an elbow and lifted them as high as they would go, tying them off to the door knobs each side of the door with more rope from Monica’s day pack. Monica then undid the hobble and we repeated the process with Isobel’s ankles, drawing them upwards until she was kneeling most uncomfortably with the strain on her knees and elbows, her wrists still bound behind her.

"Right you little slut, where’s yor money then?" I demanded. Isobel shook her head, mmphing into the tape. I reckoned she still had some fight left in her. I undid the buttons to her satin nightshirt to her waist, where they stopped. "Look, darlin’, I ain’t got time for messin’ abaht." I slipped my hand inside her nightshirt and ran it over her breasts. Her nipples were hard and rigid. She was a little bondage slut! I squeezed the aforementioned nipples and twisted them. She squealed and moaned, but shook her head again.

"Come on Mick – let’s sort aht this place. She’s gotta keep the goods ‘ere somewhere. Find ‘er ‘andbag."
The two of us went to work with a will, making far more noise than was necessary, just to give the impression we were tearing the place apart. We opened drawers and cupboards and generally had a good sticky beak at everything that was Isobel’s. 

" ‘Ullo, what’ve we got ‘ere? The little scrubber is a bondage nut, Mick. " I had just opened a drawer in the bottom of the big free-standing dark oak closet that dominated the room. There was a pile of bondage magazines neatly stacked in one half of the drawer while in a plastic lift-out box was an assortment of straps, chains, handcuffs, gags and other bondage accoutrements. "Well well well. So you like this, do yer darlin? Maybe you’ll be happy hangin’ there for the rest of the night. Maybe moreso with somethin’ hangin’ on them luvly tits of yours." I moved back to where Isobel was balanced on her knees and placed two nipple clips I had found in the drawer, on her pointy nubs. Isobel shuddered and moaned more loudly. "That should keep yer awake while we ‘ave a bit of a butchers around the place," I told her, breathing nastily in her ear.

I had also found a video camera in the drawer, and showed it to Monica. She smiled and took it from me, before taking some long lingering shots of the bound Isobel. Monica motioned me to put my ski mask back on, and I dutifully tortured her nipples some more, before running my hand through her crotch. She was wet, and squirmed like mad, whining into the tape over her mouth.

We exited the bedroom and explored the rest of the house, then discussed what our next plan of attack would be. Monica, as usual, was full of ideas, and we decided to take advantage of two features of the place. Firstly there was an internal stairway down to the garage under the house, complete with a nice open balustrade with lots of solid posts supporting the rail – ideal for tying people to. Secondly, as is often found in Queenslanders, instead of a door into the living room, there was a lintel with a sculpted wooden grille above it, in other words a nice beam, again, perfect for securing helpless prisoners to.

We returned to the bedroom and roughly untied Isobel from the door handles. She was still reluctant to talk, it seemed, so we dragged her by her bound ankles, face down along the length of the hallway, her satin nightshirt riding up around her waist.

"Abaht time yor floor got a good polishin’, darlin," I told her. "You really ort to spend more time doin’ yor housework. Look at the state of these stairs! I bet you’ll find a bit of dust ‘ere on the way down!" Monica followed behind with the video camera going.

I tied a length of rope around the ankle ropes and we eased Isobel over the edge. She was crying and whimpering into her gag, not knowing what was going on as we gently let out the rope until she was sliding down the stairs face first, while we slowly paid out the rope. She went down 11 steps, no doubt counting every one as her body stiffened each time her tits passed the edge of the tread. Of course she was still wearing the nipple clamps, and what a performance she put up as her boobs slipped down in a series of stuttering bumps. No doubt the nightshirt was pulling all which ways as well, and poor Isobel complained bitterly as she rolled and squirmed, trying to ease the pressure on those clamps with each step.

"We’re gonna pull this place apart now, and we’d better find something or you’ll be there until someone finds you!" I told her. We went into the living room which was next to the stairs. Isobel had a good stereo, which of course had a tape deck, and into this we placed a cassette we had recorded at Bilboes. It featured the sound of things breaking, being pushed over, cupboard doors opening, muffled curses and general noises of mayhem and wreckage. Mon and I supplemented this with lots of heavy walking about. It went on for about fifteen minutes, buy which time we considered we had thoroughly trashed the place. I wondered what Isobel would make of it – how far did she think we would go?
"I dunno where the twat’s hidden it," I said loudly to Monica. "I say we just take the good gear and go – the stereo, computer, camera and video, I reckon." We followed this statement with periods of silence, tramping down the hallway, opening the front door and going up and down the front steps. Not enough noise to arouse the neighbours, but enough to give it all a bit of authenticity. 

Then we tramped down the stairs to the bound figure lying face down near the bottom step, her ankles half a dozen steps higher up. Isobel was red in the face with her head being the lowest extremity – what little of her face we could see under the duct tape, that was. She was sweating freely and her hair was damp and matted. I jingled something near her head.

"Found yer car keys dahlin’. Reckon we can make a bit on that little Mitsubishi of yours under the house. Mick’s gonna take care of that. And I’m gonna take care of you." As I traipsed up the stairs again and Monica exited through the door at the bottom with the keys in her hand, Isobel started mewing and squirming with renewed frenzy. There was the sound of an engine starting up and fading as the car disappeared out the front drive. Again I wondered what was going through Isobel’s mind. Were there sneaking doubts that it was all for real – that her darkest fears were coming true? Was her fantasy turning into a nightmare, or was she still acting out her role?

I hauled her slowly back up the steps. There were more moans and cries as her clipped nipples caught at each tread nosing before pulling free. The satin nightshirt was again around her armpits by the time she reached the top, panting hard through her nose and whimpering with the pain in her tits, no doubt. I stood her up and heaved her over my shoulder, picking up the video camera and walking back to the living room. Here there was a large black leather armchair. I stood Isobel facing the rear of it while I undid her ankles then bound them one to each chair leg. I took the length of rope that had previously suspended her down the stairs and threaded it through her wrist ropes, pulling an end over each shoulder and forcing her head down over the chair in a strappado, while I tied the ends of the rope to the handle of the open door. I positioned the video camera on a nearby table, getting a semi-frontal angle on the blindfolded and gagged woman bound over the chair back. Isobel was now ready for business.

I was glad Monica wasn’t there to watch what I was about to do. I did it with reluctance – the gentleman in me in conflict with the request from both women. Life sure was strange. I pulled Isobel’s nightshirt up, exposing the lean thighs and buttocks. I slipped a hand through her crotch. There was no denying the wetness, nor the moaning mmphing sound from the head buried on the other side of the chair. Removing the belt from my jeans I let loose a thwack across her buttocks with the leather. Isobel jerked and yelped into her gag. I repeated the strapping a number of times, bring a rosy glow to her cheeks and the backs of her thighs. By this time she was struggling and squirming and beginning to grind her hips into the cushioned leather top of the chair.

"Are yer hot, yet, darlin’?" I whispered in her ear, letting my hand linger in the wetness between her thighs. "Yes, you are… Enjoy the rest of the night, them… see yer later," I said, and left the room. There was frantic mmmphing from the chair.

I walked down the hallway to her bedroom, heedless of the muffled pleadings coming from the living room. I opened one of Isobel’s drawers and found a thin pair of socks. Then I turned my attention to her toy drawer in the large wardrobe and retrieved a pair of leather wrist cuffs and several devices that took my fancy. I had a quick flick through Isobel’s magazine selection, and I confess by the time I had done this, the thought of Isobel bent helplessly over the chair had got Mr Willy quite worked up – not that he had exactly been dormant since we had arrived. 

I returned to the bound figure and slipped a chrome dildo into Isobel’s pussy. She grunted and squirmed, her panting increasing abruptly in speed and volume when I turned it on. It took less than thirty seconds before Isobel abruptly stiffened her back, arching her feet and grinding into the leather as she climaxed with a long protracted moan. I decided Isobel was not going to get away that easily, and I slipped the chrome dildo out, replacing it with a black rubber one about twice the size. It was embedded nearly full depth, and not without some effort, squashed as her pussy was against the cushion. Meanwhile the chrome device went up her rear, accompanied by more squirmings and strainings and mewing through the tape. I switched both vibrators on. Isobel jerked as if she had been electrocuted, hmm-hhming and snorting as the vibrations took hold. She tugged desperately against the ropes but clearly she wasn’t going anywhere and was forced to submit to the incessant stimulation. The next climax took slightly longer but was more ferocious in its intensity. Isobel was lost to the world and her body slumped, damp and sweating, over the chair at the end of it.

I left the twin invaders whirring in place for another five minutes. She was on the climb again, her whimperings turning to a pleading whine as her body betrayed her again. I tried to judge the rise of her excitement, before abruptly removing both inserts and following this with a number of sharp slaps with the belt. Then I decided to finish the job myself.

Isobel was wet and tight, pushed as she was against the chair. The fact that a monstrous black phallus had recently been removed from her passion tunnel seemed to make no difference to her voracity. She bucked and strained against me as I pinned her to the chair, driving hard into her depths. She was panting and keening continuously beneath the tape over her mouth, now, the intensity rising in pitch and volume. Being the gentleman that I was I endeavoured to extend the activity, and it was probably fifteen minutes before I finally succumbed to the tightness of Isobel, but not before she had orgasmed a couple more times.

When I untied the ropes from the door handle Isobel didn’t move, other than to let her arms flop against her back. I undid her ankles and hauled her to her feet. She was like a limp doll, and again I slung her over my shoulder, accompanied by slow groans and much heavy breathing. I carried her into the hall and dumped her unceremoniously face down on the floor. There were more muffled cries and a scraping sound as the chrome nipple clamps clunked on the wooden floor. Leaving her there momentarily I returned to the kitchen and fetched a couple of large ice cubes from the freezer box, which I slipped inside one of the socks I had borrowed from Isobel’s drawer. I tied the sock to a short length of rope which I then secured to the open-styled lintel halfway down the hall, so that the sock hung at head height. Then I locked a small padlock around the sock and above the ice. When the ice blocks melted the padlock would drop.

I freed Isobel’s wrists of the rope then locked the leather cuffs on them. Taking the long piece of rope I threaded it through each cuff and pulled the two ends between her lower legs, just above the ankle ropes. Pulling on the two ends none too gently, I forced Isobel into a hog tie. She groaned and protested as her back arched and there were again the heavy sounds of the clamps against the floor. I lifted the ends of the long rope and threaded one through the padlock hanging above her, before pulling further and tying the two ends together. Her arms were now pulled back with her hands touching her ankles as she lay on her stomach. The knots to the ankle ropes were on the front, however, and I knew she could never reach those. 

I retrieved some of the devices I had borrowed from her drawer, and worked a vibrating dildo and butt plug into place. She was a bit more awake now, perhaps aware of what potentially lay in store for her. I slipped another piece of rope around her waist, tied it in the form of a belt then worked the two loose ends back underneath her, before pulling them through her crotch and tethering them at her waist. That would keep the two inserts in place. Then I turned the vibrators on. Isobel shuddered and began to moan. I fetched the video camera from the living room and set it up on the floor a couple of metres from the helpless figure, then turned it on.

"’Ow long do yer think it will be before someone comes lookin’ for yer, dahlin’?" I hissed in her ear. "How long can yer cope with those things up yer bum and twat? New long life batteries, yer know. Maybe we’ll give it twenty-four hours before we let the coppers know. If we don’t forget, that is. But just so you get a bit of enjoyment, and to show I’m not an ‘ard man, let’s take those little pliers off, eh?"

Isobel hardly had time to react to my suggestion before I lifted her up and rudely pulled off the two nipple clamps. She screamed into the tape, shaking her head and mmmphing with the instantaneous pain. This continued as I let her back down, trapping her abused breasts under her, to bear some of her weight.
"See yer, dollface," I said cheerfully. Enjoy yer weekend. Hope someone finds yer before the coppers."

Isobel made a final attempt to do something – I’m not quite sure what. The face with the tape over the eyes and mouth turned itself blindly to where I was, backing towards the front door. There was a plaintive whine from under the duct tape and she shook her head again, squirming in her restricted position and getting nowhere. There were more whines and pleadings and muffled pantings before I shut the front door behind me.

I breakfasted late the next morning, not surprisingly. Monica was there as well. She had parked Isobel’s car around the corner from her house having left the keys in the letterbox, and had picked me up as I emerged having done my dastardly deed. Now, over a leisurely Saturday morning breakfast, she told me of my next assignment.

"We’re going to get shot of that little turd Bennelli today," she said matter of factly, toying with a plate of freshly cut rock melon and banana.
"What did you have in mind," I asked cautiously.
"I’d like you and Jill to drive down to a suitably frequented area and park his pickup there. Jill can drive the pickup and you can take the van to bring the her back."

"And nothing. That’s all you have to do. Mr Bennelli will be bound in the back of the pickup, under the tarpaulin. He will know he is in a public area, and when the ice securing his ropes has melted he will eventually get free. He will know that, too. He will also know that the pickup will have a flat tyre, and that he is not just going to climb out and drive away without fixing it. He will be in a semi-naked state and not know either where he is or where his clothes are. He may well have to lie under the tarp for what looks like being a hot afternoon, until it gets dark and the people go home. I suggest a nice national park or a shopping centre car park, possibly well south of the river, since he lives on the north side. Make sure you park in the sun, of course."

"That goes without saying," I murmured into a slice of pineapple. "What did you mean about ‘a semi-naked state?’ That sounds a little soft for you."
"You won’t think so when you see him prepared," she said.

Monica was right – as usual. After breakfast we went down to the post room where Bennelli was strung up in a star shape between the two posts. The Return of the Mummy was the first impression that sprang to mind, given the bandages wound around his body. As I got closer I saw that they were not ordinary medical bandages but wide adhesive elastoplast strips. The poor bastard would go through agony trying to remove it as every body hair came with it. Monica saw my initial reaction.

"Yes, he’s going to suffer, just as he made Jill suffer, and he’ll suffer by his own hand, as well. God knows what else he’s been up to in his no doubt sordid life up till now, but I’m sure this is going to put some things to rights."
I looked closely at his plight. The flesh-coloured elastoplast was wound around his head covering his eyes and mouth with a couple of turns tightly in a vertical loop under his jaw. There were further windings spiralling around each arm, leg, and the full length of his torso. Given the amount of hair on his back and chest the removal was certainly going to make his eyes water.

Still untouched were his buttocks and groin. On the former I could see a number of blue stripes that could only have come from a whippy cane. Mary and Trish were attending to the final touches.
"This little stainless steel device which you had made goes on here," Trish showed me. The "device " was in fact a small tube some 3 centimetres long and the diameter of a soft drink bottle screw top. With some difficulty she had worked the guy’s dick through it. Over the outer end of the tube were two welded pieces of U-shaped rod that the tip of the dick snuggled up against. Effectively it made a nice little cage for this dickhead. Enough to piss through but not enough to cause trouble with. On top of the tube was another ring with its opening at right angles, and through this was threaded a U-bolt about 3 centimetres wide between the straights. These prongs were pushed backwards, either side of the guy’s scrotum, where a stainless plate with two holes in it was placed behind it, over the U-bolt straights. Both legs of the U-bolt were threaded, and the nuts were now being screwed up, tightening the cross plate. I watched with a kind of morbid fascination as the scrotum bulged and agitated whimpers came from behind the tape across his mouth. Trish gave each nut a couple more turns then stopped.

"I’ve already lubricated the threads with superglue. I’ll now give them another coat and apply a couple of lock nuts hard against the first two. We are going to have fun getting this off, aren’t we," she said sweetly into the bandaged ear. "You little shit," she ended, off handedly. The figure mmphed and shook its head.

"You will observe that any erection with this on will be very difficult, if not unachievable. The ring and U-bolt will also be very uncomfortable and difficult – but not impossible – to remove. He will almost certainly need some help, and may have difficulty asking for it. How embarrassing! Not only having this done to you, but by a bunch of women, with photographs of it taking place! The photos being in a safe location, of course – just for insurance purposes."

As a coup de grace an over- large butt plug was inserted none too gently up the guy’s arse. He squirmed and cried into the tape.
"Don’t be such a big sissy," said Mary, giving the device a final shove. "You don’t mind sticking your ugly prong into women, but you carry on the moment someone does it to you. Now you know what it’s like, and I suggest you take time to think about the consequences of your actions in future."

The plug was then taped into place with more elastoplast between the legs, in the butt crack and all over the pubic hair, with a few turns around his now armoured dick as well. I was not surprised to see a wire hanging down from the anal intruder. Trish saw my gaze and tugged hard on the wire. The bound form flinched and squirmed. 
"This little device will be attached to a battery," Trish told the blindfolded figure. "It will be governed by the accelerator of the vehicle in which you will be travelling. Idling at the traffic light you’ll probably feel nothing. Overtaking you’ll know all about life in the fast lane. I just hope your chauffeur is not heavy footed, and does not decide to drive to Sydney over the weekend." She smiled at me then pulled me aside. "I make that statement confident in the expectation that you can create such an electrical arrangement."
"Anything’s possible," I conceded.

It took me about an hour to fix the control linked to the accelerator on Bennelli’s pickup. The battery was a small one but after prolonged exposure it would be enough to be profoundly irritating to one’s anal cavity, I reckoned. This work done, the mummified figure, wrists handcuffed behind its back, was led out to the pickup. To the accompaniment of muffled pleadings and complaints, it was pushed into the back of the open tray, over the tailgate, and bound spread-eagled within the four walls of the tray, the ropes connected to the convenient cleats that would shortly also secure the tarpaulin cover. Before this happened, the cable connected to the butt plug was run into the cab and connected to the sliding contact switch that I had rigged up under the accelerator. The girls gathered to see the final stages. Monica made a speech to the helpless figure.

"Mr Bennelli, I want you to listen very closely to what I have to say. You are a piece of excrement, who ideally should be deposited in a septic tank and left to decompose. The fact that you will survive this invasion of our household is not true justice. You have been caught in the midst of a horrific assault, and you must suffer for it. In this instance it is our justice, and you must be aware of a number of things. Remember what we have done to you, and be aware that we can do much more. We know where you live, who you are and what you do. If we so much as get a sniff of you, we will come after you, and what you are now suffering is nothing to what you will suffer then.

"Be aware that we have recorded all your indignities, just as we have records of your crime on closed circuit TV tapes. Any attempt to involve the police or your friends will be highly embarrassing for you. You will be the toast of the tabloids. And you should know that we have police friends in very high places, as well.

"In case you haven’t figured out what is going to happen to you, let me tell you. You will be driven to a place and left as you are. In a few hours a block of ice will eventually melt and release you. You can then drive home – once you’ve fixed the flat tyre you will have. As you know, the ride will be shocking – shocking your arse, that is. Your disgusting vehicle will be driven by the girl you tried to rape. How far and how fast you end up travelling depends entirely on her. If she decides to take an outback tour of Queensland, I for one would not blame her. Your fate is now in her hands, and you’d better think about all those things in life like mercy and forgiveness. You will be left in a populated carpark and I would suggest you keep quiet until your ropes come free. You would have some very embarrassing explanations to offer if you make too much noise. That’s all I have to say, other than to leave you with a couple of parting gifts…" 

With these words Monica leaned into the rear of the pickup and clipped two crocodile clips on to exposed nipples – the only parts I could see not covered by elastoplast other than the hands and feet. The figure jerked and cried under the tape, writhing as much as it could do – which wasn’t much, of course – on the floor of the tray. Following that symbolic act, the girls lashed the black vinyl tarpaulin over the top, looping the securing rope through the rows of cleats around the four sides. 

Jillian climbed in the cab and started the engine, revving it a couple of times to get the feel of it. There were smiles all round and possibly imagined yelps from under the tarp. I climbed into the van and prepared to follow her, wherever her desire for revenge took her.


Monica's Place continues in Chapter Eighteen
All comments welcome at
© R.Alexander 2006

Also by the same author:
§ Monica’s Place
§ Monica’s Quest
§ Monica’s Revenge
§ Monica’s Games
§ Monica’s Travels
§ Monica and the Black Fortress

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