|Gromet's Plaza||Richard Alexander Stories|
|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: 20. Death & Transfiguration by Richard Alexander MF/mf; bondage; bdsm; cons/nc; XXX|
Chapter Twenty: Death & Transfiguration
It had been nearly a week since I had watched Trish and Jillian help the rubber-suited figure that was Monica cross the road, on their way back to Bilboes after the crotch chain had been freed. I had decided the time was opportune to take a break at Surfers Paradise, an hour to the south of Brisbane, and had rented an apartment there for the period. It had been an exhilarating, if somewhat exhausting couple of days keeping Monica and the team in their various degrees of restraint, and I felt I needed a rest. Waking up at all hours to phone bogus or genuine messages through to Monica's message bank had caused me some lost sleep. Additionally, the continued tension of making sure that keys were the right ones and were where they were supposed to be, and that nothing untoward happened, all helped to leave me drained. The girls clearly had no idea how difficult it was for me coordinating the whole exercise. However a few days of walks along the beach and people-watching amongst the Japanese tourists had cleared the cobwebs away physically, but had left a less clear picture mentally.
During all this I could not help but think: had I done the right thing in trying to teach Monica Armstrong a lesson, or had I overstepped the mark totally? I was now beginning to wonder whether I had a future at Bilboes - whether I dare show my face again. It was after I had returned to my flat in New Farm that the doorbell rang, and I answered it to find Jillian standing there. It was mid-morning and the early winter chill had nearly been replaced by a warm sunny day.
"Hello Steven," she said.
"Are you the dove of peace, or the harbinger of evil?" I asked wryly, standing aside to let her enter.
"Depends on your point of view, I guess," she answered enigmatically.
She wore a white linen skirt just above the knee, white sandals with thongs wrapped around her ankles, and topped off with a dark blue ribbed jumper. It was evidently still cold sufficiently outside to warrant such clothing, for Jill's nipples stood out as hard little lumps through the material of the jumper which clung to her curves in a most appealing way. She carried a white leather shoulder bag which she deposited on the couch.
"Monica wants you back," she said simply.
"Under what terms?"
"What do you think?"
"Yeah, silly question, I guess," I said. She smiled slightly.
"Look, Steven, you can make this easy or hard. Monica wants you back, and so do we – but for different reasons." She paused and looked at her feet uncomfortably. "Frankly, we like having you around - it breaks up the bitchy female environment. We have a soft spot for you, I guess, and if I'm honest with myself I have to say me especially, after what you did for me that night. So I'd - we'd like you to come back."
"And if I don't want to?"
"I really hoped you wouldn't ask that. Perhaps you should look at this," she said quietly, pulling Leila's video camera from her bag. It was one of those small ones with the flip-out screen to enable instant replays. It was set to display date and time superimposed on the picture, as I found out when Jill switched it on and handed me the earplug that was connected to the sound outlet.
The tiny LCD picture flickered into life before me. I watched the scene unfold with a sinking feeling. It began with a close-up of Emma's face. Her eyes were taped over with two pieces of duct tape and I could see at once that she was in the dreaded headstocks I had installed in the basement next to the back door, many months before. I also saw that the video was dated only half and hour before, that same morning. Poor Emma was no doubt under torment even as I watched the video.
The camera panned back, taking in the steel bar holding the gag fixed in her mouth, and the clamps holding her head rigid. Trickles of damp ran down her forehead and cheeks and I knew Monica had the bucket of water in place again. As the panning continued and I could see the rest of Emma, I knew Monica would really never change, and I had been naive to expect such. Emma was in a terribly stringent position in the headstock recess, balanced on the points of her knees with her ankles taped to her thighs. Her knees had been pulled wide and were bound to the vertical rods that raised and lowered the headstock. Her body was rigid, stretched vertically by the wooden planks locked about her neck. She was naked, of course. Monica needed the nude body for effect - something she did so well, such as with the wires trailing from the prisoner out of camera range.
Emma's arms were behind her, presumably crossed and bound. Beneath her was the steel plate that was regularly used to fix a dildo or vibrator. In this instance I could see the base of a large chrome dildo upon which Emma was evidently impaled with the device firmly implanted in her arse.
Emma was obviously under considerable strain. Her body was stretched to its limit, and her lovely breasts quivered with the effort of maintaining the position. Attached to the nipples were small clips which were in turn attached to the wires leading off camera.
That's when I head Monica's voice in my earpiece.
"Good morning Steven. As you now know, we would all like you to return to the fold. Emma, in particular, is anxious for your agreement, so that she can regain her freedom. At the moment she is undergoing the water-torture, in a device for which you can personally take much of the credit. The difference this time from last, of course, is firstly that since Emma is kneeling, the drops have much further to fall, and land on her pretty head with considerably more force. The second point is that on every fifth drop I shall push the button on one of these little black boxes that you made for us."
Great, I thought. Lay all the blame on my doorstep. Get Steven totally guilt-ridden, so he'll have no choice.
The camera tilted down to where a box sat on a chair, a couple of metres from the helpless figure in the recess. A hand was poised above a small button.
"Are you counting the drops, Emma? Starting from now: one... two... three... four... five!" The finger pushed down on the button and Emma jerked and spasmed as much as she was able, which was in fact very little. Her body trembled while her arms quivered behind her and a high-pitched keening wail came from deep behind the gag jammed in her mouth.
"Are we counting again Emma? ...Three ...four... five!" Again the finger on the button and the helpless jerking as electricity was sent through her nipples and up her rectum. I handed the camera back to Jillian. She looked disconsolate. I knew she and Emma were close, and it was obvious they had been partnered in this exercise for exactly this reason.
"She's still there," said Jill.
"What do I have to do to stop this?" I asked.
"Come back with me," she said quietly. "As soon as you're ready, I have to phone Monica."
"As soon as I’m ready?"
"I have to handcuff you. Will you do it?"
I sighed, and held out my wrists. Jillian picked up her bag and pulled a pair of handcuffs from it. She clicked them carefully over my wrists. "You're a nice guy, Steven. I really do appreciate this," she said with a grateful smile. "I have to make you a little more secure, though, for the moment." She delved into her bag again to retrieve a leather collar which she buckled around my neck, then with a single padlock through the chain between the cuffs lifted my wrists and locked the cuffs to a D-ring on the collar. My hands were now hard up underneath my chin.
"Is this really necessary?"
"I'm afraid it is," she said seriously. "I have strict instructions on what I must do." I didn't like the sound of this. I knew I would never come to harm with Jill, but she was obviously being pressured by Monica through Emma.
"Oh no, not that too," I groaned, when Jillian produced a red ball gag on a strap out of her bag.
"Sorry," she said apologetically. "Open wide."
She worked the big ball behind my teeth as gently as she could, and did not buckle it nearly as tightly as Monica or Mary might have done. As if to correct any misunderstanding she said: "You know I might have to tighten it before the others arrive."
"Huh?" I expostulated as best as I could.
"Someone's coming around to help with the transport," she explained. That was when she delved into that terrible bag again and came up with a piece of rope that she threaded through my collar, drawing the two long tails together and pulling me gently back to the banisters just near the front door. The ropes went around a post at head height then down the stairs to be secured to the bottom post - a point way out of my reach. Well, that was me secured pretty easily. What a total capitulation, I thought. What an absolute sucker. God, but I was pathetic sometimes in the hands of an attractive woman.
Jillian picked up the phone and dialled what was obviously Monica's number.
"Mon? Yes, he's going to come back. He's secured. Will you please let Emma go? Let me talk to her! Hello?" There was a pause. "Em? Are you okay? You're loose? Hello? Monica? Thank you… Okay, what now?" The look of relief was palpable on Jillian's face. "Okay, I'll do that. When will you be over? Okay. See you then." She turned to me. "I have to prepare you properly now. Emma's okay, thank goodness." With that, she disappeared out the front door, closing it behind her before I had a chance to utter a plaintive "Hnnmff?"
She was back a couple of minutes later, a small backpack slung over her shoulder.
"I should have told you," she said apologetically with a genuineness I saw through at once. "We want you naked."
"After what you did to us? Why on earth not?" she smiled at me bewitchingly. That was just before I found myself naked from the waist down as my trousers were dropped and removed along with my sneakers and socks. Then it was my teeshirt, and another one bit the dust at the hands of the Bilboes team as Jillian cut this one away from my body. It was admittedly easier than trying to get it off any other way.
"Now here's what's going to happen, Steven. We have to transport you across town, and we don't want anything to happen to perishable goods, so Monica has instructed that you be wrapped up properly." She reached into the backpack and pulled out a large roll of cling wrap. I groaned inwardly. "But first, because it is still a little cool, we need to make sure you keep warm - at least in some parts." This time the bag yielded a pair of surgical gloves which Jillian snapped on like she had done a hundred times before, then flourished a tube of Finalgon. This liniment she rubbed generously on my nipples and backside.
The plastic film was the pale green stuff used to wrap the daily newspaper before it was tossed over the fence by the deliveryman in the morning. It was strong and very clingy, and I had seen more than a few rolls of the stuff lying about in the storeroom at Bilboes. I knew what it was used for, and now I was obviously going to have a first hand experience.
She started with my torso just below the armpits, and wound it round my body, pulling it tight and continuing down to the top of my thighs, before winding it back up again. I found at once my breathing was already constricted by the tightness of the clinging plastic.
"Now your left arm," she said briskly, unclipping the cuff from that wrist. Resignedly I let her have her way. There was probably no way I could escape from the way she had tied me to the rails anyway, but I really had no inclination to resist Jillian.
She wound the film around my arm from shoulder to hand, wrapping the fingers tightly so that I could not move them, before then binding my arm to my side with further turns of the plastic around my body. Then it was the turn of my right arm.
At that point Jillian disappeared outside again, to reappear with a long plywood board in roughly the shape of a coffin, with two cross timbers underneath at about neck and knee points. She placed the board spanning between the seats of two kitchen chairs, then unfastened my collar and led me over to the plank. She helped me lie down on it and I knew what I was in store for at this point. There was no sense in fighting it, of course. I could only go with the flow, and a couple of minutes later my torso was immovably melded to the plywood from neck to groin. At this point she lifted my legs one by one and wrapped them carefully in the green plastic, before binding them together with more film, and then marrying them to the board. Before doing this she placed a piece of polystyrene under the lower part of my calves, down to the ankle. I wondered what this was for until I discovered she could now tilt my feet downward and secure them like a ballet dancer doing an en point. I was not happy, and I was becoming unhappier as the heat built up around my backside and nipples where the Finalgon had been applied. The skin and nips felt like they were on fire - the whole of my buttock area was burning as though from a thorough flogging.
All of this only left my head unwrapped, and I would need to have been really dumb to expect such a state of affairs to continue. Predictably enough, Jill placed foam pads over my eyes before taping them in place with duct tape. The ball gag was then removed, but before I could even establish how long my torture was to last, something was inserted in its place. With a shock I realised it was the mouthpiece I had made for Monica for her two-day endurance feat. This alarmed me, because two days being more or less mobile with access to a bathroom was one thing. The same period immobilised in a plastic cocoon was a different ball game entirely. Not that I got a chance to discuss this. The mouthpiece was wedged in place and my lips and jaw were taped around it. I could feel the plastic tube dangling somewhere around my chin. This was as embarrassing as going to the dentist, where I always seemed to encounter a gorgeous assistant who had to view me with all manner of undignified instruments stretching my mouth and hanging from it.
Jill placed a piece of foam padding under my head before wrapping it in all directions. After each pass over my nose she snipped away enough of the film to leave my nostrils clear, before making the final turns about my head that pulled it rigidly against the foam pad and the board. I was now totally immobile.
"Wriggle for me," she said, the way one might ask a child to test a shoe in a shoe shop. I tried to move, in vain.
"Come on Steven - try properly!" I did, desperately, making a faint noise through the tube in my mouth. That wasn't a great idea. I verified the fact that I couldn't move a muscle, and resulted in my tube being bent double and sealed off. Not content with this, Jill then planted her spread hands on my stomach and abdomen and wrapped a few further turns around me.
Then the game seemed to change. In the midst of the burning pain in my nipples and buttocks, I felt some of the plastic being cut away from my groin area, and questing fingers playing with Mr Willy, prising him free of the clinging film. You cannot be serious, Jill, I thought. I was surprised at her, firstly because I thought she had an exclusive relationship with Emma. While I knew she was bi-sexual, I had not thought she harboured such thoughts towards me. And quite what she thought I could do in my present situation, I did not know. I was sure Mr Willy would not be in the mood for it, given the firey baptism that was taking place elsewhere. I really should have known better. What an amazing thing the blood supply is, the way the body diverts it for more aesthetic uses. Before I knew it Mr Willy was at attention, victim of Jillian's dexterous hands then her even more skilled mouth. These attentions lasted for perhaps ten minutes before Jillian hoisted up her skirt and eased herself on top of me. She must have rubbed some sort of lubricant on the plastic, for she had no trouble moving against me, and I found myself erupting in time with her, feeling her body stiffening and shuddering against me, then her head lowered down next to mine.
"Mmmm, that was good," she said huskily next to my ear.
"Mmmnnp!" I complained.
"You stud," she murmured.
"You bitch!" I said, but it came out as "ynn bnnff!"
Amazingly Mr Willy was still upright when the next visitors arrived. These turned out to be Mary and Monica. Oh God, I thought wearily. It had to be these two, didn't it.
"Hello," said Monica, obviously eyeing up my plastic-encased form with the flagpole on top. "Who's been a naughty girl then, Jillian? Messing about with the merchandise?"
I would swear Jill blushed at that point, though of course I couldn't see her.
"The devil made me do it, Mon," she said. "I couldn't help myself."
"Understandable..." Mary murmured, running long fingernails down Mr Willy in a move that nearly made me split the plastic.
"We have a suitable mode of travel for you, Steven," Monica told me. "Mary, can you and Jill please fetch the coffin?"
Coffin? What the hell was she playing at?
While the other two were outside, Monica picked up the phone and dialled a number.
"Hello? Instant mobile locksmiths? Yes, I want the locks changed on my house please. Yes, the tenants have left and I want to make sure there is no problem in the future. What time can you come round? Okay, someone will be here at three o'clock." She gave the guy my address then hung up.
"You won't need to come back here for quite a while, Steven, so there'll be no point in even thinking about it. Ah, here's the coffin."
I couldn't see what was going on, but my abrupt questioning "mmphh?" produced an answer.
"Steven, we toyed with what to do with you. The prevailing opinion was that you were dead meat after that stunt you pulled, although I have to admit you did it extremely well. So, dead meat you shall be. We have a coffin here, and we have even hired a hearse. You can't see us, but Mary and I have dressed up especially for your funeral in our best Little Black Dresses, just like professional undertakers - but with more class, of course. We had the coffin specially made. You'll find you fit it nicely, but with a rather interesting twist. Girls?'"
That was when I felt myself picked up, one on each side and one at the foot of the plank, and I was moved a metre or so off the chairs, presumably to where the coffin was. The ‘twist’ was that I was abruptly flipped over, to my initial dismay, but of course it made no real difference for I was still immobile and trapped. The board was lowered and the two cross pieces on the board must have fitted in some sort of rebates in the coffin. Mr Willy bumped against the bottom of the coffin with a sharp thump, which immediately had the desired effect. I was now far too preoccupied to need blood supply down there. Then came Monica's voice again, fainter now.
"We are going to screw on the lid now Steven and we'll take a drive to the cemetery, where you will be interred. We want to play body snatchers, so the plan is to come and dig you up tonight. We reckon there's enough air in the coffin to let you last that long, if you breathe slowly."
There was a muffled thump and the sound of steel being screwed into wood, then a sudden series of movements upwards, sideways and a bumpy procession forwards, before I was plonked down on what I imagined as the tailgate of the hearse. What the hell would old Mrs Kostakidis in the flat next door think? I thought I heard voices but they were now distant and so indistinct I could not decipher the words.
"Mmmppphhh! Mmnnpph!" I cried, but it was hopeless in my wooden box under layers of that plastic.
Shit oh dear, what on earth had I got myself into now?
I had no idea how long I travelled in that totally immobile position, wrapped upside down like a suspended, high-tech version of Tuthankhamun. Maybe it was half an hour or so. There were occasional traffic noises, then the sound of tyres on gravel and then possibly on grass. Then the coffin was being removed again and man- (or should I say woman-) handled out of the hearse, before coming to rest somewhere. There were voices and then came music.
That was subtle, I thought, listening to the distant melody. It was Strauss’s Im Abendbrot, the final of his ‘Four Last Songs’. Trish had been in on this, I knew at that point. She knew my taste in music and she knew what could even now bring a bit of a lump to my throat. There followed Samuel Barber’s Adagio for Strings, the hauntingly sad music that had become legend since being played at JFK’s funeral. Monica was playing mind games, and unfortunately, given my present helpless position, they were having an effect. Then came the sound of Strauss’s "Death and Transfiguration", with its rolling chords that promised a new life beyond the grave. Oh yes, Monica was excelling herself, I thought.
The coffin began to move again, this time I knew it was downward. There was a slight jar as it came to a stop. The music had become fainter and abruptly began to be overpowered by a noise that sent chills down my spine – the sound of earth thudding on the lid of the coffin. This sound intensified, then faded away, as did the music, and I knew finally that I had been buried alive.
Lying immobile and sweating in my plastic cocoon, the only sound was my breathing, and I was worried about the air supply. What if something happened to the girls on the way to dig me up? What if they had a car accident? How long could I last? My mind began to play tricks. Was the air getting staler? Was it becoming harder to breathe? Such thoughts only increased my heart rate and sweating.
So this was what total silence was like. It was scary. Was this what it would be like to die? Dying was not something I had thought about often. I had certainly not contemplated anything like this, buried alive in plastic wrap. It was not dignified. I wondered who would miss me. Perhaps the girls, but as for the rest of humanity there would barely be a ripple to show the passage of Steven Reynolds. I guess I had left behind some nice houses that would serve their owners well for many years to come, but who of those owners would recognise this contribution?
I became morbid over the passage of hours, wishing I had done more in my life. I also became more and more jittery. Attempts to call out were predictably useless, given the mouthpiece taped securely in place under the windings of plastic. My eyes stung with sweat but still I could not budge in the plastic wrapping holding me tight. I guess I must have dozed eventually, for I awoke in confusion and panic as to where I was and what had happened. Then the sound of dirt being scraped away penetrated my foggy brain and there was the sound of shovel against wood.
I was scarcely aware of events after that. I didn’t know if it was day or night, nor could I feel anything except a rush of cold air in the vicinity of Mr Willy. There were voices, Monica’s, Jillian’s and Mary’s amongst them. My brain was not functioning clearly, a fact which was not helped by subsequent events. I felt myself being removed from the coffin and a voice said:
"We need to get some fluid into him quickly – he’s very dehydrated."
Then I felt a tug on the tube connected to the mouthpiece and some cool, sweet liquid reached my mouth. I vaguely guessed it must be one of those sports drinks that the girls were always using, and I sucked at it greedily. It tasted wonderful as I realised how thirsty I was. Then things started to go a bit blurry again, and I realised there had been something in the drink considerably more powerful than any restorative sports drink. That was the final act in the death of Steven Reynolds.
When I regained consciousness I had no idea of how much time had passed. I felt strange – both mentally and physically. My mind was fuzzy and the lack of a focal point in time and space left me confused. I did not know where I was, nor what day it was, nor whether in fact it was day or night. My mind was surfacing from strange dreams of being buried alive, of being helpless and unable to see, speak or move, or react to what was happening to me. Claustrophobic images of coffins, the sound of portentous music, then falling earth, and ultimately silence, lingered in my head. Mixing it up with these hangovers from a bad dream were the strange physical sensations that I had to focus on individually to understand.
I was lying on my side, and I immediately felt my wrists crossed and bound behind me. The ropes were snug and cinched and I could move them very little. There were ropes binding my legs above the knees and at the ankles as well. Predictably they were well secured, properly cinched and with little movement. What felt like several layers of duct tape was plastered over my mouth.
My eyes focussed on the dark painted blockwork immediately in front of me and it slowly came to me that I was lying on a futon in one of the holding cells. That was the first thing that I took in. Straight after that I realised to my astonishment that I was dressed as a woman.
Coming straight after my strange, almost transcendental, dream-like experience in the coffin, my mind rebelled at this thought, but it was inescapable. I wore a rust-coloured linen skirt and a white, long-sleeved silk blouse, somewhat the worse from my lying on the floor. My legs were encased in black stockings with black strappy sandals buckled on my feet.
I struggled into a sitting position against the wall, shaking my head to rid myself of the lock of auburn hair that flopped down in front of my eyes. Damn it - I was now sporting a mop of hair that hung down to my shoulders! I shook my head violently in an effort to dislodge it, but all that did was totally obscure my view with more tresses. Snorting stray hairs clear of my face I eventually tossed them clear and looked down at myself, becoming aware as I did so of what Monica had done to me, and the fact that it went considerably beneath the fashionable exterior.
I had boobs, for one thing. Yes, fair dinkum breasts, or so I surmised. My chest felt tight and constricted. Something was obviously being supported here, and it wasn’t two pairs of balled up socks. No, they were strangely real, and I was sure I could see a couple of nipple-like points through the silk of the blouse. Beneath them my torso was tightly constrained in some sort of corset. It might have been rubber or something similar – I couldn’t tell. It made breathing difficult, but I had to admit it dispensed with any hint of stomach bulge that might have been present. Oh yes, this was a much slimmer Steven – so much so that there was actually a waist line, as delineated by the belt of the skirt, pulled in to match the corset’s profile. But that was not the end of my troubles. They had done something with Mr Willy as well. From the bottom of the corset there appeared to be a front and back flap that were joined underneath. Somehow Mr Willy had been pulled back where he could do no harm – could do nothing, in fact. What happened when I wanted to go for a pee? Or a crap, for that matter, because shifting my bum as I leaned against the wall made me all too aware of the butt plug sitting snugly in my arse.
This really was too much! Just what did Monica think she was playing at? As I took stock of my situation, the possibilities for potential humilation began to dawn on me. That was when the key turned in the lock and Jillian appeared. She was wearing a simple white shift dress, and I did not know if it was now the day after I had been taken from my flat, or whether the change in clothes was unrelated.
"Mmnph!" I said. "Hhnp mmp pft!" It was all good unintelligible stuff.
"Ssh!" she said needlessly, kneeling down beside me, her head close to mine. I smelt a hint of a sweet perfume. "Look, I’m not even supposed to be here," she whispered earnestly. "I’ve only come to tell you what is going on. I’m sorry, there’s nothing else I can do – Monica and Mary will kill me if they find me here. You know the thing with Emma was a hoax, of course?"
"No, I didn’t know either – I fell for it totally. Emma was only in the headstocks long enough to take the video. There were no electric shocks and she wasn’t even tied up properly. That dildo didn’t go up her, either. But it wasn’t her fault. It was either that option or the real thing… I’m sorry, Steven… But then, you’re not Steven any longer."
"I’m telling you this to help you play the part, to avoid being on the wrong end of punishments, you goose! Listen, this is all a big role play. Your name is Stephanie, and you’ve just been kidnapped by an extremist group, who’re demanding a ransom. I don’t know what’s going to happen, but let me tell you, the better you play your part, the easier it will be for you. And let me tell you a few other things before you find out for yourself the hard way. Those breasts of yours are surgical prostheses, designed to look and behave just like the real thing. The difference in your case is that they’ve been fixed with superglue, as has that lovely head of hair of yours. You see, while you were out of it, you were completely shaved and depilated – legs, chest, arms, face, head, the works. You won’t be doing any shaving for a while Steve – I mean Stephanie. " There was a faint trace of a smile.
"And before they glued your breasts on, they put a donut electrode over each nipple – just like you did to Monica. These were wired to the black box you have below your goolies. You can probably feel it there. And of course your dick has been secured out of the way, complete with its own little plastic extension tube. Yes, you can go for a pee, but you’ll have to do it sitting down – just like a girl." This time she did smile, probably at the look of growing horror I must have been showing at that point. "The wires are covered by the corset, which – incidentally – has done wonders for your figure and has taken several inches off your waist. Monica wanted all your clothes to fit nicely, you see. And of course the wires are also connected to your butt plug, just like the device you made for the Twins, and it can be activated at the touch of a remote button. The difference is that this isn’t your normal Tens electro-muscular stimulator. This is made from one of those collars they use on barking dogs, and it can give quite a jolt. You thought the Tens was bad... You see, it’s all about turning the tables, sweetie, making you understand what it’s like to be a woman." She pushed my hair back from my face and tucked it behind my ears. "Oh yes, you can now wear proper earrings – the pierced sort." She tugged at what were obviously rings through my ear lobes, and a sudden pain shot through them. This really was the last straw, I thought disconsolately.
"You look pretty special, actually, Stephie. I hope this extremist group isn’t too rough on you, like cutting off fingers or something. Maybe they’ll just sell you into slavery…" She stood up and smoothed down her dress, looking down at me with an expression into which I hoped I read genuine concern. She started to leave, then turned back. "Oh yes, I should warn you, you’d better think about your voice. Deep-voiced women do not go down well. If you want to survive this role with your arse and nips intact, think high and husky. I must go now – I’m really sorry for this – I think things have got a little out of hand." She returned to me and kissed me gently on the forehead, then was gone, with only the sound of the lock and a faint trace of perfume in the air lingering behind her. I sat there, bound and helpless, aghast at what had happened to me, and wondering where it would all lead. Superglue, for God’s sake!
I sat there for some time, contemplating the fine paint job on the block walls. The cell was the one without the bed, only the futon on the floor and the toilet. Sitting with my back to one wall I could almost touch the opposite wall with my feet. It was oppressive in the stark light of the overhead recessed light. Various eyebolts protruded from the wall at different heights and now looked considerably more ominous than they had done at the time I had installed them.
That time now seemed long distant. Events and relationships had certainly moved on since then. What had started as a friendly competition between Monica and myself, albeit unspoken, had turned into something new and different. The stakes had been raised considerably. After her confinement for two days, I wondered what Monica had in store for me, or rather for Stephanie, now kidnapped by evil forces and held for ransom, bound and gagged and wired for torture, in this windowless cell. I wondered if my family would pay it…
I must have been almost dozing when I was jolted awake – literally – by a fearsome pain in my nipples and up my rectum.
A tall figure stood over me, with another standing just behind. Both wore jeans, work boots and bulky sweaters. Both also wore black balaclavas with holes for their eyes. Both looked very forbidding, particularly from my position.
"Don’t think you’re goin’ ter get much sleep, sweetheart," said the first. It spoke with an Irish accent and despite the deeper tone, I guessed it was Monica. She gave me a shove with her boot and I fell over on my side. The butt plug moved disconcertingly. She squatted down and undid the ropes around my ankles and knees, then dragged me upright again before pulling a black bag over my head. I felt two pairs of hands grasp me by the arms and haul me to my feet.
"Hhhrmp hrrn hrrmng?" I demanded, trying to struggle or at least put up some sort of token resistance, as a kidnap victim might. It wasn’t a very wise thing to do as the shocking pain in my arse and nipples made me falter and nearly double up. My sandals had probably two-inch heels which made walking strange and uncertain for me anyway. What had happened just then, combined with my disorientation made things even worse.
"Shut up girlie!" said the voice to my left. It was hard and cruel and was probably Mary. "Dere’s more where dat came from." Her Irish alter ego was at least as good as her German one, I concluded, moments after reaching a conclusion that resistance was futile, as the bad guys were always saying.
I stumbled along between my captors, feeling the strange sensations of my new body – Stephanie’s body. This was the hairless version, the one where materials rubbed on skin with strange sensations, with stockings encasing legs, breasts that joggled in slow motion, and a strange tightness around my torso and crotch. Walking in the sandals took some getting used to. They seemed to fit reasonably well, and were held on by a strap round the ankles, but the extra height made for weird walking. How did women manage with higher heels than this, I wondered?
Despite having walked these corridors a thousand times, I found it easy to lose my bearings, particularly after they had turned me around a few times. We seemed to walk for quite some distance, twisting and turning. There came the sound of a solid door opening. I never realised until then how forbidding such a noise could be. It was the steel-on-steel sound that held overtones of deprivation of liberty and awful things in store over a long period to come.
I was pushed backwards and found myself on a chair – the one where I had had my first not very pleasant experience at the hands of the Gestapo. My butt plug forced itself upwards as I sat down abruptly and I could also feel the outline of a small object between my legs under my goolies, as Jillian had described. That would be the battery and receiver for the remote signal. I was pulled backwards in the chair and the heavy velcro straps were tightened around my body below my breasts and around my ankles and thighs. I had begun to sweat on the way here, and I felt a fresh wave break out with the memory of what had happened before. The hood was pulled off, leaving errant strands of hair hanging about my face. A hand smoothed it back.
I looked about me. The single overhead bulb lit the room with a dull light. The place looked like a room in some deserted warehouse where any number of nefarious deeds may have taken place. A couple of metres away a video camera was standing on a tripod, pointed straight at me.
"Roight, girlie," said a figure. "You’re gonna be a movie star now. You’re gonna make a movie for your folks. You’re gonna tell them t’ree t’ings. First, you’ll say you’re okay, but you’re wired up for electric shocks. Secondly, if the money doesn’t come, they’ll start getting bits of you in the post. T’irdly, dey have 24 hours until 3p.m. tomorrow. Got dat?" I nodded. "Now I’m gonna take the tape off. Don’t try anyting funny with yer voice to send a message to your folks. I want Stephanie Markham’s normal voice, if you please, Miss," came the command, followed by the ominous "…or else!"
The tape was pulled none-too-gently from my mouth. I licked my lips, tasting the gum residue. A figure moved behind the camera and a little red light winked on top of it.
"Okay – say yer piece!"
"It’s…m-me," I stammered, not judging at all well how it would come out. I tried to make my voice sound different but obviously not very well. My nips and arse jolted with a zap of electricity.
"Aargh – shit!" I exclaimed.
"How many of dese do you want to make you voice higher?" demanded the figure. "If I want to hear Barry White I’ll go find him. When I want to hear Stephanie Markham I expect you to comply. Do I make myself clear?"
"Yes!" I gasped, suddenly finding an extra octave. "I’m sorry…"
"Roight. Shall we try again?"
It took another couple of zaps before Stephanie Markham’s faint and somewhat husky voice made its way on to the tape. One of the masked figures ripped open an onion under my nose and before long tears were streaming down my cheeks as I sniffled through my plea.
By the end of it all my blouse and skirt were soaked with sweat at the fear of another bolt of electricity if I did something wrong. I made no resistance at that point when a bit gag was shoved into my mouth and buckled tightly behind my neck. Then it was on with the hood again and the stumbling walk back to my cell.
Here I was backed against the wall and my feet locked to a spreader bar, after which my hands were untied and leather cuffs locked on and joined together. Predictably my hands ended up above my head secured to an eyebolt. The hood stayed on and there was the sound of a door slamming and being locked. Stephanie was obviously not going anywhere for a while.
After the emotional, physical and temporal demands of the last few hours I was feeling the strain, and hunger was not the least of my problems. So I hung there, becoming more aware of my new body with the passing of the hours. My scalp itched where my new head of hair was joined. My chest no doubt would have been itching as well, if my nipples hadn’t been so sore. Then there were my pubes. I had no doubt they were totally bare like the rest of me, and there was no doubt they itched like mad. I tried to squirm, to rub the tightness of the corset against the area, but it was no good. My skirt rode up my thighs and my now hairless thighs seemed to pick up every little movement of linen against nylon against flesh. And my ear lobes throbbed.
All that was before I could get past the taste of rubber in my mouth, the pain in my wrists stretched above me, or the strain in my legs stretched apart on flimsy heels I had never worn before. Stephanie was not liking being kidnapped.
The arrival of my jailors was heralded by another burst up my bum and into my nipples. I groaned through the gag, but it was a high pitched groan this time – a nasal whine that I was sure was truly Stephanie-like. There followed a blessed relief as my arms were let down and the hood was removed. I blinked in the harsh light. The two balaclavas were there again.
"On the floor!" commanded one. My brain was getting a bit fuzzy now, and what with the Irish accent I was starting to be unsure which was which. Awkwardly, with my ankles still locked to the spreader bar, I got to my knees.
"On your face, rich bitch!"
I eased myself forward, lying with my cuffed hands under my chest. It was the first time I had been able to feel my breasts and I was surprised how lifelike they seemed. It also appeared I was stuck with my nipples in a state of permanent excitement! I was aware of something on the floor next to me, then my keepers were gone.
I raised my head, not understanding what was happening. On the floor was a plate with a portion of a French loaf on it and a plastic bottle of water. I managed to undo the bit gag strap behind my head and fell upon the bread and water ravenously. Bread and water was a bit of a cliché, I thought. Monica must be losing her touch. But I was not knocking it. I ate while lying propped on my elbows, expecting at any moment that the balaclava twins would return. After devouring the food and drink I decided perhaps it was an advantageous moment to try having a pee. I supposed I had nothing to lose, even if they did come back.
It wasn’t easy with my ankles still spread, but I managed to sit on the toilet. Then came the weird exercise of releasing my muscles and seeing what would happen. Mr Willy felt most unnatural, facing the rear, and I half expected to wet myself, but there was the sound of water in the bowl and a feeling of constrained, slower release, which I decided I could live with.
Having succeeded with this, I could now examine my clothes in more detail. Beginning under my skirt, I saw that my black stockings were suspender free, held up by some sort of rubberised top. Then I saw the nature of the corset I wore. It too was of rubber. Maybe three millimetres thick and flesh-coloured, it was obviously closed up at the back, where I could not reach with my cuffed hands. Beneath my crotch, incorporated in a little pocket was the dreaded black box that had been causing me so much grief. Just behind this I felt a small padlock that joined the front and back crotch flaps. All this left me with the rather obvious conclusion that it was not a garment I was going to be getting out of in a hurry.
I undid my blouse, perversely curious to get a look at what sort of tits Monica had given me. I wore a black bra. Now I’m no expert, but I thought it was rather stylish – simple and understated, without being frumpy. Satin with the barest hint of lace, and a front loader, to boot. I undid the clip and gazed down at my breasts. It was the strangest feeling as I cupped them in my hands. They were an extraordinary match to my skin colour, and given the absence of hair and the fine feathering of the rubber at the edges, they all but merged seamlessly with my chest. Under them I found the wires that disappeared down the top of the corset that stopped just under my boobs.
As boobs went, I thought they were not bad. Not overly large, with enough wobble to be interesting. I had always thought I could never have been a woman, simply because I’d end up spending half the day playing with my tits. Well, Stephanie, now was your chance… At the tip of each was a little nipple, lifelike in everything except their ability to retract. I suspect Monica had been enhancing things with a little silicone of her own, courtesy of my plumbing sealants in the workshop. I cupped my hands around them. They actually felt good, soft and squidgy but with enough weight and resilience. A nice fit – two hands full. Anything else was a waste, as the old chauvinist saying went. Without the support of the bra they tugged at my chest, and I experimentally tried to pull the edge of one free. Not a chance. I wondered what sort of solvent could be used on superglue. But it wasn’t like I was just trying to wipe some stuff of my hands. These babies were seriously stuck on me. Resignedly I did up my bra and buttoned up my blouse.
My hands wandered up further, tentatively touching my hair. I held a lock in my thumb and forefinger and examined it. It was a nice auburn colour, not so much different from my own. I touched my forehead and found that whoever had done the shaving had left me my eyebrows – to a degree, anyway. They felt tender, and I guessed someone had been active with a pair of tweezers. My new hair was likewise married to my scalp immovably with superglue. It hung down just to my shoulders where it seemed to have a slight inward curl. A fringe came down to my eyebrows. It all felt very strange and unfamiliar. Finally there were my ear lobes, and sure enough these were sporting small sleeper rings, with little encrustations of dried blood. This was all too weird for words.
I sat there for a while, experimenting with my voice. I did not like these shocks up my arse and the only way around it seemed to be to make my voice somewhat less masculine. It wasn’t easy, and I have to say I felt pretty stupid sitting there talking to myself. I was sure Monica was having a giggle to herself, the bitch, if she was watching television in her study. It wasn’t easy with the voice. It’s one thing to put on an accent, but another to keep it even while raising it an octave or two. I ended up soft and husky, much of the time, although I found that talking as one might to a child, asking rhetorical questions, tended to aid the focus.
At length tiredness overcame me, and I almost nodded off where I was. I ended up on the floor, on my back, my legs still spread and shackled to the bar, but at least my arms were relatively free and my face was unencumbered. Thus I slept.
I awoke with the weight of a body on top of me, pinning my arms to my body. A pair of hands was working a hard red rubber ball impaled with an eye bolt, into my mouth. I spluttered and tried to resist – a move which was predictably futile. The ball was forced between my teeth and my head was lifted while the strap was buckled behind my neck. There followed a further strap buckled under my chin and one dragged either side of my nose and over the top of my head to join the neck strap at the back. It was my two hooded friends again, now undoing the cuffs on my ankles. I groaned with relief as they came off and my thigh muscles were eased. Then it was over on to my stomach, while my wrists were re-cuffed behind me and I was hauled to my feet. Another black bag over my head and off we trooped without a word of explanation.
The bag was removed in Mary’s dungeon. I did not like it here, since my last experience in the pillory. When the bag came off my head I saw that I was not alone.
"This is Jan," said one of my captors to me. Then, turning to the bound woman: "Jan, meet Stephanie. She has a rich father as well. Unfortunately for young Stephie, however, it appears Daddy doesn’t value her too highly and needs more persuasion to part with some of his millions. You would do well to watch and learn, and to hope your old man is more cooperative."
The woman was wore a simple fawn-coloured linen dress. It was sleeveless and buttoned down the front, outlining her breasts and waistline before becoming loose and flowing to her knees. Jan was a brunette, with high cheekbones and big almond eyes. Her mouth was hidden by a wide leather pad strapped in place behind her head. I knew that behind the pad was a large ball filling her mouth. Her hair was about the same length as mine, but held back by a tortoiseshell comb above each ear. Jan was positioned like a ballet dancer, her cuffed wrists stretched to a pulley above, with her right ankle attached to a second pulley two metres further across the ceiling. The rope held her leg out straight and slightly above the horizontal, pointed to a distant spot on the ceiling. She was touching the floor only with the tiptoes of her left foot. It was a very severe position and Jan was obviously under stress, her eyes large and pleading above the gag. I tried to offer what I imagined was a look of sympathy, between two prisoners destined to share a similar fate.
The video camera had been set up again and it was obvious I was to be the star of the day. I was pushed across towards the Plank. Oh no, I thought, and started to resist my captors, but the two of them were more than a match for me with my wrists cuffed behind my back. A quick jolt to nipples and rectum soon sorted Stephanie out. Reluctantly I straddled the plank which was winched up until it just touched my crotch.
I had noticed some new holes, about the size of a 20 cent piece, had been drilled through the plank, behind me, and the purpose of these quickly became apparent. They were in a fan pattern, and it was over these that my hands were secured by means of those nasty plastic ties that electricians are so fond of. One tie ran through each of the five holes, looping over a finger on each side and being drawn tight. When they were all secured I was in a semi-rigid position with a hand flat on each side of the plank behind me, obliging me to lean backwards somewhat. A few more turns of the winches made the plank lift under my arse and thrust the butt plug home even further as I was forced on to tiptoe. My ankles were then tied together, just to stop any attempt to swing a leg over. I whined into the rubber ball, making the sound as feminine as I could.
"Something wrong, Stephanie?" asked one of my captors. "There will be in a minute, anyway."
With that ominous statement a medium sized pair of bolt cutters was flourished in front of me. The penny dropped at once, and my horror was not acting, nor was that of Jan, balanced only a few metres away. I shook my head, making spluttering nasal noises into the gag.
"Let us be clear, Stephie. Your old man was supposed to cough up half a million bucks. So far there’s been a big fat zero. Which simply means he needs a little persuasion. Like receiving a finger tip in the mail."
The speaker activated the video then walked around to my left side and behind me, to be joined by the second figure. The plank was now between them and where Jan hung.
"We’ll start at the little finger this time," the voice said, "and we can do a further one every couple of days." I began to whimper, although I now realised the effect they were looking for. The tip of my left little finger was already missing from a past circular saw accident. I suspected I was about to see a little slight of hand – pardon the pun - for Jan’s benefit. All that didn’t stop me carrying on as though the worst was about to befall me, though. When it actually happened, however, I really didn’t need to act. At the moment the jaws of the bolt cutters snapped closed, two things happened to me. The first thing was the jolt of electricity through my rectum and nipples. It was not as powerful as previous ones, but it was longer, perhaps five seconds in duration. A moment later I received a hard crack across the end of my little finger, straight on the raw nerve ends under the repaired skin. Acting went out the window at that point as I stiffened and jerked under the electricity, howling into the gag with the pain from my finger. What I didn’t see was the spurt of red stuff from a small plastic bag the girls had taped to the rear of the plank, out of Jan’s line of sight. At the same time one of them caught a fake plastic portion of finger in a ‘blood-soaked’ clear zip-lock bag. I was too busy trying to writhe in agony during this time to see the bag put on the floor while some bloody bandages were wrapped around my finger and hand.
I felt the plastic ties being snipped and my only reaction was to tightly grip my injured finger in my other hand. It appeared in front of me wrapped in the aforementioned bloody bandages but I took little heed of these. The pain was real enough. I looked at Jan. She was white-faced, her eyes big and staring, shaking her head and whimpering in disbelief. My ankles were undone at this point and the plank was dropped and I was led away, panting and whining from the pain.
Whether it was out of sympathy for me or for some other reason, I was left relatively unencumbered on the return to the cell. A bowl of some sort of stew and a bottle of water awaited me on the floor. This time my wrist cuffs were linked by a short chain which was locked at mid-point to a waist chain, and my ankles were joined with a short hobble chain. My captors walked out with barely a backward glance, leaving me to remove my head harness and gag. Before the door closed, one of them tossed a key in my direction.
There was no doubt I was glad the gag had been in for the ten minutes before the cell door slammed for I would have yowled the house down with the pain. By the time I got the ball out of my mouth I had calmed down considerably, but my finger was throbbing like crazy. I pulled off the ‘bloody’ bandages and examined it, but other than some redness at the tip, it looked okay, as I had suspected it would. I had banged it before from time to time, and I knew what the reaction would be, but that still didn’t make it any better when it happened.
I examined the key, wondering what it could be for. I tried it in the cuff locks, then realised it must fit the lock under my crotch. I was right, and moments later I experienced the wonderful relief as the front and back flaps hung loose, as did Mr Willy. Mr Willy was in fact somewhat enhanced with a piece of clear plastic tube which also appeared to be glued on in some way, as I found out when I tried to remove it. This really was going too far! Nevertheless the hanging loose felt so good after maybe a day of constriction. Not only that, I could get that awful butt plug out and perform some bodily functions. The plug was attached by wires from inside the corset, and after cleaning it as best I could I let it hang, unseen, beneath my skirt.
It was clear that I was being rewarded for cooperation, but I was too tired to debate my turning into a Pavlov’s dog, performing to the whims of my masters. I remained a captive, chained in a cell awaiting my fate. The subtleties and hidden agendas of my captors were beyond me at that stage, so having eaten the food, I promptly fell asleep on the mattress.
|Monica's Place continues in Chapter Twenty-One|
|All comments welcome at firstname.lastname@example.org.
© R.Alexander 2006
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bondage stories : alexander stories