Gromet's Plaza Richard Alexander Stories
Monica's Place
by Richard Alexander
bilboes1@hotmail.com
© 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: 23. Coming Out by Richard Alexander MF/mf; bondage; bdsm; cons/nc; XXX
Chapter Twenty Three: Coming Out
8
It was Jillian who woke me again the next morning. Clearly she had been on the night shift and was looking forward to getting her head down. It did not seem like I had been asleep long. I had a headache and was feeling lousy and had not slept well on the thin futon on the concrete floor. It seemed like it was barely five o’clock or some other ungodly hour – not that I could tell – and this was much earlier than I had been woken in the past.

"What time is it?" I asked as I followed her down the corridor, the butt plug bouncing between my legs under the white smock.

"It’s a quarter to five – not that it’s any business of yours, slavegirl," Jillian told me with a curtness that I found hard to accept coming from her.

She opened the door to the sluice room and waved me inside.

"The keys and your clothes are hanging up. Wash yourself, have your cereal and make yourself presentable, then go up and get breakfast ready. You’ll make sure everything is inserted, connected and locked on properly, if you know what’s good for you. Mary will be most unhappy otherwise. You can leave the keys where you find them. When you’ve set the breakfast things you can rake the leaves off the driveway. And don’t spend too long in the shower. I’ll be back in fifteen minutes with a whip if you’re not out of here," she said tersely.

The door slammed behind her.

I stripped down to my corset and luxuriated briefly under the shower. My feeling like shit did not get any better after I had washed and fed myself. There was now a mirror on the wall here, and it looked like becoming Stephanie’s regular changing room. I had dreaded what Mary might have had in store for me to wear, but in fact I was pleasantly surprised. I had visions of tight –fitting rubber skirts again, but in this instance it was a short pleated maroon netball skirt with a long-sleeved silver lycra top with a roll collar that slipped under my stainless steel one. I had wondered why I always seemed to wind up with long sleeves and had concluded that my arms might be slightly too muscled for female credibility. 

In this instance my shoes were to be replaced by white knee-length boots with a three-inch heel. I had never worn these before, and it was only with some difficulty that I got them on. They zipped up the inside, and while very snug fitting, gave me much more support than the more open strappy-type of shoe I had worn to date. With flesh-coloured stockings I decided I didn’t make such a bad cheerleader, given that this was the clear intention. The outfit was relatively comfortable and the skirt swished pleasantly against my thighs. I concluded that at least my costume would be endurable and unrestrictive. 

The final touch was again two ribbons that I tied around my hair in pig tails, before getting down to the final business of self-bondage that would leave me helpless to the whims of Mistress Mary.

To aid my endeavours there was a brief note in a girlish hand. I worked out the gag harness myself. It was made of narrow black leather straps with a white hard rubber ball. The straps went up either side of my nose and over the top, as well as under my chin and round the back, all locking into place. The leather cuffs on my wrists and ankles were standard, but in addition there was a chain which locked about my waist, and which sported a small ring above each hip. According to the note I was to connect my left ankle cuff to my left wrist cuff with a chain running through the left ring, and then a similar process for my right wrist and ankle. I did all this in a kneeling position, and when I stood up I noticed – apart from the fact that my head was spinning somewhat – that the chains were just long enough so that my wrists were held snugly at the rings on my waist chain. To do anything at all with my hands I had to bend my knees or raise an ankle. Cunning old Mary, I thought miserably. By such a simple restraint she was going to make my life exceedingly difficult and uncomfortable.

I found I could walk all right, however, and made my way upstairs to prepare breakfast. This was my first problem – reaching things on high shelves. I had to kneel on one of the breakfast bar stools in a most ungainly way, bringing up one ankle behind me like women do in the films when they’re being kissed. I began to realise why I had been woken early and I was not happy about it. 

It took me much longer than normal to lay the table and put out the rest of the juice, cereal and fruit, but I still had time before the first of the girls appeared, and I knew I had better get on with the raking of the driveway.

This turned out to be a horrible task, for I could not use my arms properly and I tried all manner of ways of doing the job halfway decently. I experimented with kneeling and doing a series of semi-circular sweeps. This hurt my knees, so I tried just walking with bent knees, which I found both tiring and inefficient. I finally managed to do a bit by just dragging the rake with the top end under my arm and controlled by one hand. It was only marginally better than the other two methods and I was feeling headachy and frustrated when Mary caught me unawares with a surge through the butt plug and the nipple pads.

She had sneaked up on me in her bare feet with the remote in her hand. I almost collapsed with the unexpected pain of the current, instead sinking to my knees and complaining loudly behind the rubber ball. Mary wore a dark navy satin bathrobe that came down to her ankles, and she smiled down at me.

"I’m pleased to see you were a good girl and put everything where it should go," she said. I could not tell her that a proper mistress would never use punishment on a slave unless there is a good reason for it. "Get up, girl, and come with me."

I stood up and followed her, letting the rake drop in a flowerbed. 

Mary led the way down to the basement and my heart sank as we entered the dungeon. What torment did she have for me in here, I wondered, looking with trepidation at the Plank and the headstocks. I wondered whether Mary still had it in for me since I had surprised her on the driveway yesterday. 

She moved over to the whipping bench that had a face hole and breast holes. Beside the bench on a small stool was an open shoe box containing various oils, it seemed.

"Have you ever given a woman a massage?" Mary asked somewhat condescendingly. I nodded. Who hadn’t? Mary handed me a plastic bottle of oil. "Well, get on with it, then."

"Hmmph hnpft?" I asked, waggling my fettered hands by my sides.

Mary sighed. "Must I explain everything to you? Look, it’s very simple. You will climb up here and kneel astride me. Then you will have plenty of chain to use." 

I nodded dumbly again. Whatever I had caught was starting to catch up with me. I felt hot and clammy, and it was nothing to do with Mary dropping her robe to climb naked on to the bench and lie face down, her face and breasts fitting comfortably into the padded holes. With difficulty I climbed on to the stool and then on to the bench, carefully straddling her naked thighs. One thing about Mary, when she was given a slave for the day she didn’t waste time on housework.

I gave Mary a thorough workout, rubbing her from neck to toe, missing not a spot of her flesh. I was rewarded with contented sighs mixed with detailed directions. Mary had a lean, smooth body – a remarkable body, in fact for someone who I guessed would not see 35 again. She certainly was infinitely more content that I was, for my exertions coupled with the limitations of the chains were making me flush and sweat uncomfortably.

At length Mary turned over and commanded I now repeat the process on the front of her body. Under normal circumstances I would have been happy to oblige, but I was beginning to feel decidedly light-headed. Notwithstanding this I soldiered on, working my way down over the tight mounds that were her breasts, with the nipples standing up perkily, though not hard. I bypassed her crotch and began to work upwards from her feet, all the while trying to ignore the runnels of perspiration sliding down into the top of my corset and merging at my groin and behind my knees. The tightness of the stockings and the lycra top did nothing to help my predicament, and my early satisfaction with my cheerleader’s outfit was rapidly decreasing.

I had almost reached the top of Mary’s inner thighs when she slowly sat upright. She looked me in the eye and ordered me to get down from the bench. I did so, carefully, unsure of my balance now. 

"Are you all right?" she asked, though her voice betrayed no concern. I shook my head. "You look very flushed." She beckoned me to her and reaching into the shoebox pulled out a small key, with which she unlocked my gag harness. She popped the ball out of my mouth and I worked my jaw up and down.

"Mistress…" I began. "I don’t feel very well…"

She gave me a withering look and eased herself on to the edge of the bench. "On you knees, girl. Now."

"But I – arrgh!" The jolt caught me across the nipples and through the butt plug. I sank to my knees. My hands were trembling, I noticed. I was where she wanted me, anyway, for she caught me by the pigtails and pulled my face down to her pussy. It was exactly at the right height, and I really had no choice in the matter from that point. I figured this was part of the master plan that Mary had in store for me – muff diving and eating pussy was one thing, but not when your dick was secured to the point where it could not physically move. Mary was playing her games of torment again, but this in this instance her timing was off.

Nevertheless, I let my tongue do the walking this time, flirting with her clit, teasing it with all manner of suggestions as to what might await it, then flickering away to other parts. Mary was getting really steamed up and was hanging on to my pigtails so that I could barely breathe. Her pussy was dripping, but so was I. 

I decided at that moment that I was experiencing a recurrence of the malaria I had picked up whilst holidaying in northern Thailand, two years before. It had been an unpleasant experience, and the doctor had said it might reoccur on a regular basis or perhaps not at all. God, what a time to come to this conclusion, head buried in a pussy!

Things began to go blurry at that point. I knew I was feverish and the sweat poured off my face mixing with Mary’s juices. I licked frantically while Mary tried to pull me inside her, it seemed. Somewhere off in the distance I could hear someone who might have been Mary gasping and crying. It could have been me for that matter but I didn’t have the energy or the breath. Everything was going faster and faster and I was on autopilot well and truly. Mary’s slim legs were now locked around my shoulders while I tugged vainly at the chains connecting my ankles and wrists. There was a final scream from somewhere and I fell backwards, both of us ending in trembling, quivering foetal heaps. 

That was about all I remember. Several days after the event Monica had delighted us all by playing a tape of the event, more for the purposes of embarrassing Mary than for reminding me of my last conscious moments. Mary had endured the ribbing that went with the screening with a gracious smile, announcing to all and sundry at the end of the performance that they should not knock it until they’d tried it. From that point on there seemed to be a competition to look after the lowly slavegirl Stephanie, who had suddenly won new admirers in the playground.

But that was before a couple of days disappeared from my life. I awoke in Monica’s room. More specifically, I finally became aware of where I was, in Monica’s room. I was told I had awoken several times but had been delirious. Leila was there when I came back to reality. She told me the full story as I sat up in Monica’s bed sipping some soup she had brought. I was naked under the covers, my corset removed, but to all intents and purposes I was still slavegirl Stephanie, with my shoulder-length hair and silicon-tipped breasts.

"It was Emma who figured out you had malaria, somewhat assisted by your own ramblings," Leila said. "Mary nearly freaked out. Whatever you did to her left her nearly incoherent, you little tart!" She grinned impishly. "I was in the Observation Room and I have to admit I enjoyed the TV show. Until you collapsed, that is. Mary was mortified and Monica was horrified – absolutely devastated." Leila became suddenly serious. "She had you brought into her bed – here – and has looked after you herself since then. That was on Saturday – it’s now Monday. She slept here with you, kept you cool with cold flannels and warmed you with her own body when you started shivering." Leila dropped her eyes. "I probably shouldn’t be telling you all this. Mon will kill me if she finds out – and I’ll kill you if you tell her!" she said with mock fierceness.

"So it’s a question of who gets to whom first?" I suggested mischievously.

"Don’t even think about it!" she shot back.

"Did you call a doctor?"

"Yeah, we’d explain that away easily, wouldn’t we? Not! A hairless guy decked out with false tits, his willy in a plastic tube and with a glued-on head of hair – I don’t think so. No, Emma called in a favour and we persuaded you to take some tablets. You had a cold shower a couple of times to get your temperature down, and eventually your fever subsided. You’ve slept for the last twenty-four hours. Do you remember any of it?"

"Not much." I had hazy recollections of staggering about the place, of feverish dreams and a body-chilling cold that seemed to go on forever. 

"You realise what you’ve done?" – that impish smile again.

"What do you mean?"

"Duh! You’ve got Monica naked in bed with you – for two nights – and you’ve had a naked shower with her!"

"Oh bollocks," I said disconsolately.

"Never mind," she said, patting me on the arm. "Only three weeks servitude to go."

Mary appeared not long after Leila had left. 

"How are you feeling?" It was perhaps the first time I had ever heard Mary express genuine concern. She sat down on the bed and smiled at me with a look that made my heart thump. She looked as though she hadn’t slept for a week.

"Better than you, from the look of you," I said gently, still trying to retain my alter ego.

"Such impudence would normally earn a whipping," Mary said with a faint smile. "If I wasn’t so pleased to see you conscious again, I’d consider giving you one, but I’m glad to be lenient in this instance. At least we aren’t on camera here, and I feel I must be candid." I raised an eyebrow. "Look, maybe I was taking advantage of you – I don’t really think that’s an issue. You’re a slavegirl whose purpose is to be taken advantage of. But while we’re on the subject, I don’t mind admitting that what you did with your tongue was arguably one of the best experiences I’ve ever had. I don’t know who taught you that, but by God, you’re good." I blushed but said nothing, although I’d be lying if I said it was the first such compliment I had ever received. "I suspect your ability hasn’t gone unnoticed…"

"Thank you, Mistress. I’m sorry I was not at my best."

"Well, when you are, girl, I want to be there with you. But as I was saying, while I have every right to take advantage of your skills, I was lax in not looking after your health and welfare. " She looked at me with an expression I could only interpret as tenderness. "Will you forgive me?"

There was nothing put on about Mary’s question. She seemed so different from the Gestapo Queen I had seen so often, dominating her charges and the other girls alike. Here was another side to her that took me by surprise.

"Of course, Mistress."

She reached out and cupped my chin, then leaned over and kissed me briefly, on the lips. She held my gaze for a second with a warm look that that made me weak. I didn’t know what to say, and used the opportunity of our respective positions of slavegirl and mistress to avert my eyes and not speak until I was spoken to.

Mary, as collected as ever, simply smiled and touched my hand. I’m sure she saw my confusion and left me to decide for myself what it all meant.

"Get well soon, Stephie. We have unfinished business to take care of."

Monica showed up half an hour later. If Mary looked rough, Monica looked decidedly rougher, her hair tousled and grey smudges under her eyes. She sat down on the bed facing me. For a moment we didn’t say anything, then she asked how I was feeling.

"Okay," I told her. "Thanks to you."

"How much do you know?"

"Just about everything, I think," I admitted uncomfortably.

"Who told you?"

"I can’t say, Mistress."

"Are you refusing a direct order?" Monica’s voice was soft and teasing.

"I promised I wouldn’t on the grounds that she’d kill me, Mistress."

Monica smiled. "And I wouldn’t?"

"It’s not much of a choice…"

"I know it was Leila – she can’t keep quiet unless you stuff something in her mouth. And I’ll probably do that to her anyway…"

"I’m very grateful, anyway, Mistress. Can I get up now?"

"Don’t be silly, girl. You’ve just had a temperature of nearly forty degrees. You’re to stay here until I tell you otherwise, now you get some rest. I can’t tell you how pleased I am to see you back with us…" Monica’s voice trailed away and her eyes got kind of glittery. She turned away. "I think I’ve got something in my eye," she said abruptly and retired to the bathroom. She returned a couple of minutes later, looking somewhat more composed.

"I want you to just rest. We can’t have our favourite slavegirl going delirious on us. " She fluffed the pillows around me and straightened the bedclothes. "Is there anything you want?" I shook my head, not trusting myself to speak. Then she did a Mary – bending down and kissing me on the lips. But this was no passing peck. This was a full-blown tongue down the throat job that lingered – and was returned, I admit – until Monica broke off breathlessly and stood up, turning and departing with a sudden quick movement. She left me baffled and confused, but glowing with a warmth that had nothing to do with my recent fever.

I fell asleep again, waking in time for dinner, brought to me on a tray by Leila. She wore a stringent harness gag strapped to her head, which covered her mouth with a large black pad. From the angle of her jaw I suspected her mouth was packed with a large plug of some description. She glared at me and mmphed something that I’m sure was not very ladylike as she plonked the tray down on the bedside table and flounced out. Monica had obviously been true to her word in dealing with tattletales.

Night fell and I dozed, not knowing how long I was to have the benefit of Monica’s wonderful big bed. The room was dark when I felt someone slip under the covers behind me. It was Monica, and she was naked. Her hand found its way under my arm and rested on my stomach as we snuggled up like spoons nestled in a drawer. Her breasts pushed against my back and I heard a whispered ‘good night’ in my ear.

Monica was gone when I awoke the next morning. Breakfast was on the bedside table and I indulged myself, spending the day flipping through the channels of the television – a real one in this instance – and dozing in the peacefulness of Monica’s haven. Leila appeared twice during the day, and it was evident she had still not forgiven me, nor had Monica forgiven her, since she still sported the harness gag and still made disapproving mmphing noises at me. Trish, Jillian and Emma all called in during the day and I began to feel much improved, although their attitude to me appeared to be uncertain, as though they could not decide if I was still Slavegirl Stephanie or Steven who had had a near brush with a serious illness.

I was feeling considerably better by that night, and I was awake when Monica appeared, turning on a low nightlight when she did so. I remained still, with my eyes closed until I felt her naked body slide next to mine as she again performed her spoon imitation. Her flesh felt deliciously cool and I could not resist sliding my hand back between her legs.

"Oh – we’re awake, are we?" Her voice was soft with pleasant surprise. I turned myself on to an elbow and decided to see what her approach was going to be when I did some kissing of my own. It was not at all the way I had intended it to be in various scenarios and fantasies I had entertained in the past few months as I had contemplated getting a little more intimate with Monica Armstrong. Our breasts touched and then our mouths, and we kissed long and deeply, exploring each other’s mouths and tongues. 

As we broke apart she said:

"I can only assume you are at least physically improved, if not mentally. How dare you take such a liberty with your mistress in this manner!" Her voice was reproving but without conviction. I was taken aback, forgetting momentarily the role I had to continue for several weeks yet. It was only later, when I thought about it, that I realised Monica was still playing her game, tantalising me with her nakedness and knowing that I could not respond properly while Mr Willy was still captured in his plastic tube. And that was the truth of it. Mr Brain could certainly respond, but the tube remained tight and restricting and physically painful in such circumstances, not to mention mentally frustrating.

"Very well," she continued. "If you just cannot contain yourself any longer, perhaps a pussy meal will satisfy you. More to the point, it had better satisfy me."

And that was how I came to be on my knees at the side of Monica’s bed, my tongue tasting the moistness of her pussy and exploring the inner crevices of her sex. I varied the approach with some finger exploration over her breasts and into her rapidly lubricated front passage. I was in no hurry, and decided that two could play at the teasing game. Monica lay back and moaned with pleasure, her breath starting to become more ragged. She clutched my hair and pulled my head forward whenever I slackened the pace. Her first climax came with a suddenness that caught us both by surprise and she stiffened and jerked, her whole body becoming rigid as she let out a low drawn-out cry. 

But that was just the appetiser, I decided. If I was going to be exploited like this I would make her plead for mercy. Multiple orgasms, I had learnt, could sometimes be a case of too much of a good thing in certain women, depending on their capacity – and, of course, my own stamina.

I expected Monica to be no pushover, with a sexual capacity appropriate to her occupation. In this instance I was not a paying customer and she was not concerned with any gratification a lowly slavegirl might achieve. And in fact the only gratification I would achieve would be from leaving her in an exhausted heap on the bed.

It took a lot of work, I will confess. By the time I pinned her down with her legs in the air and her hands flapping weakly, I knew I had her on the run. She was red in the face, her hair matted with sweat and her breath coming in irregular pants. She had ceased to be intelligible and instead was uttering exhausted whimperings interspersed with a high-pitched keening that occasionally went off the scale as a climax enveloped her. Which was not to say that it was all one-sided. My jaw and tongue were decidedly the worse for wear. The former was aching and the latter felt fuzzy. I had alternated with my fingers and changed hands. I had teased the erogenous zones from her feet to her ears and from arse to pussy. It was a battle of wills until one of us gave in. Monica was hanging on to the bedhead by this stage, making mewing noises that sounded as though she had almost lost her voice. Finally her hands pushed my head away and tried to cover her sex, which by now was engorged and no doubt ultra sensitive. 

But I wasn’t finished, much as I would have liked to have been. I was not normally given to any form of sexual endurance, but in this instance I wanted to make a point with Monica. I was not quite sure what that point was, or even if it was purely one-upmanship, but I desperately wanted to have the last say, in whatever form it might take. 

At that point I slipped my hands under Monica’s bent knees and reached around to grab her wrists and pull them to her sides, pushing my tongue into her wet pussy yet again.

"No…no…" Monica gasped, trying to close her legs against my head and tugging weakly against my grip on her wrists, her hands clenching and unclenching. But I wanted one more climax out of Mistress High-and-Mighty. It was a headstrong Steven thing, albeit something I am not predisposed to, except on rare occasions, and this, I had decided, was definitely one of them. As I licked and sucked on her clit Monica began to arch her back and try and shake me off. Her requests for ‘no more’ became pleadings, then incoherent ramblings as she finally dissolved in a series of howls that I was sure would have the household banging on the door, although maybe they were used to this particular type of noise. I kept going, almost at the end of my own energy. Monica fought me with her last strength as the orgasm caught her with a final intensity that left us both quivering and prostrate, sweat pouring from our bodies. It was pure physical exhaustion that made for a mutual ceasefire, for I knew I couldn’t manage any more, nor could Monica take it. 

I was gasping for breath, my jaw verging on cramp and my mouth full of the taste of Monica’s juices. Monica was on her side, her hands clamped between her thighs, moaning continuously to herself, her eyes tightly closed. I hauled myself on to the bed and collapsed beside her. She opened her eyes and looked at me long enough to utter the word "Bastard…" but there had been the hint of a smile behind her gaze.

"Bitch," I managed as a weak retort, before we both fell asleep.

I never heard any alarm go off. I awoke briefly during the night to find Monica snuggled against me with her arm draped over my body. When I came to in the morning we were both still lying on top of the covers where we had died, except that Monica was shoving me with her foot.

"It’s very obvious you’re well again," she said. "Get your stuff together and go down to the sluice room and resume your duties. The holiday’s over."

"But Mon – "

"What!" Her half-awake state became fully awake, as did mine, when I realised I had used the wrong term of address. 

"Mistress, I mean – "

"You heard – go down at once and don’t you dare question me!"

The pre-dawn light was barely filtering through the curtains as I clambered off the bed. I still felt drained by the intensity of our efforts the previous night, but I had to admit I had slept well. My jaw still ached and I wanted to clean my teeth, but that could all wait. Beside the bed on the chair was the flesh-coloured rubber corset I had not worn for three days. I squeezed into it as best I could in the gloom, feeling the now-familiar dangling butt plug hanging down and the tightness about my hips. I could not do it up properly around the waist – for that I needed help, for it was far too constricting and awkward to reach the back laced wire. I headed for the door, halting as Monica called out to me.

"Stephie?"

"Yes Mistress?"

"Thank you for last night. It was… quite something."

"You’re welcome, Mistress."

"We must do it again some time – under different… circumstances."

"Yes Mistress," I said, feeling a warm glow of pleasure and satisfaction steal over me." I opened the door to leave.

"Oh, Stephie…"

"Yes Mistress?"

"I am concerned that what I shall call your… ‘talent’ may be exploited, given your current position in this household, and the advantage that Mary has already taken of you. You will appreciate that you could prove to be somewhat of a distraction to the girls and you might even affect the services we provide. I’m afraid that apart from meal times or special occasions requiring my permission, you will now have to remain gagged during all waking hours."

"But-but-"

"That’s all. Now get out of here."

As I descended the stairs into the basement I reflected that my desire for scoring points over Monica had backfired on me. Far from gaining points I had made life considerably more difficult for myself and I would be undergoing rather more discomfort than I might have anticipated.

There were only nightlights on in the basement. The place was dark and gloomy, and somebody with a black sense of humour was playing some church music over the PA system. By ‘church’ music, I mean what sounded like a bunch of monks indulging in a morbid chant that echoed down the corridor. I suppose it could have been very pleasant and restful under other circumstances, but here in the bowels of the old house it held eerie overtones of the supernatural. 

I should have guessed that Trish was behind it. Only she had a sufficiently warped sense of taste to come up with an idea like this. I knocked on the door of the Observation Room and poked my head around the door. She was dressed for the part in a long flowing black dress with heavy Gothic makeup, looking like a medieval version of Cruella de Ville. I looked past her to the view of the dungeon, where a woman, her long dress in tatters and one breast exposed, stood against the wall, her wrists chained above her head. I saw that Trish had adjusted the lighting to spotlight on a few of the more abhorrent (if not actually functioning) instruments of torture within that den of torment.

"Well?" Trish demanded haughtily. 

"I’m going to get ready in the sluice room, Mistress," I said.

"And why are you telling me this?" 

"I’ll need some help with my corset please, after my shower."

"Oh, very well. I’ll be along in a short while." Then her tone changed. "Was that Monica I heard trying to scream the house down last night?" She was trying not to smile.

"Maybe," I said cautiously.

"So she had what Mary had, to paraphrase a well known movie line…"

"And she says I have to remain gagged during all waking hours, from now on," I told her.

"What a miserable spoilsport," Trish sighed. "So we will just have to wait for your coming out ceremony at the end. But I’ll still have a go at her for breaking the sound barrier. Well, don’t just stand there – run along and have your shower."

I had forgotten how tight the corset was until Trish got going on the wires at the back of it. It was high-cut at the hips but pulled in tightly at the waist, all the way up to the underside of my silicone breasts. It took Trish nearly fifteen minutes of tugging and pulling before she was satisfied with the end result. Being the experienced campaigner she was, she had lashed my wrists to an eyebolt on the wall slightly above head height, and had strapped a ballgag in my mouth before she started reshaping my body. The heavy flesh-coloured rubber gradually compressed my waist and abdomen as she worked the stainless steel wire through the eyeholes with two pairs of pliers before finally crimping the ends together with a crimping tool. I was panting and groaning the whole time as my body stiffened and the act of breathing became more difficult. I had found from experience that over time one got used to wearing the cincher, and I was sure I had lost weight over the previous week and the time I had been ill. Notwithstanding that, Trish was merciless in tightening the garment, and I felt to all-confining stiffness grow from pelvis to chest.

Mister Butt Plug was back in position again, wedged up my arse with Mr Willy pulled back in an attempt at a mid-groin meeting, before the front and back flaps of the corset were stretched tight, clipped together and locked. Stephanie was now secured for the day.

Things were relatively normal for the next week or so – or as normal as this House of the Bizarre ever could be. I was not happy at being gagged all the time, and tried to tell people, but it was a kind of Catch-22 situation and I didn’t get very far. Leila, Emma and Jillian were kind to me in that they used duct tape instead of filling my mouth with things. In order to make sure the tape remained undisturbed when I was on my own, such as when I had to weed the garden or rake the drive, they took to writing over the tape and part of my cheeks, in the manner of a signature over two matching halves. Except that a signature would have been too easy. Instead they had to write things like "Crime scene – Do not cross tape" or "Danger, explosives". These were some of the more acceptable ones. Some of the others evoked howls of laughter, much to my shame, and I sometimes had to go in search of a mirror to then decipher – backwards – what they had written. 

My tasks during that time were fairly mundane – cleaning the house from top to bottom, washing, ironing and making meals. I was also given some outdoor tasks such as gardening and painting the filigree woodwork around the verandah. I enjoyed this latter task, which Jillian arranged for me. She let me wear sneakers, flesh-coloured stockings, a short denim skirt and a teeshirt for this activity, which made a pleasant change from the previous day. In this instance Mary had had me in a black latex catsuit - complete with hood and inflatable gag – on my knees weeding the garden for two hours. I had sweated like a pig and was mighty glad when time came to retreat indoors to prepare a meal. Emma, following Jillian, allowed me the same clothes as Jill had, in order to finish off the filigree work.

At length It was Monica’s day again, and surprisingly I found myself wearing a black sleeveless cotton lycra dress that reached the regulation length halfway down my thighs, over the top of a thin white skivvy, black stockings and heels. I say ‘surprisingly’ because Monica and Mary were not past trying to outdo each other in how to make life particularly trying for me. In this instance I wondered what Monica was up to, for on this particular day there was no gag and there were ‘accessories’. I now sported two large silver rings instead of the sleeper earings, plus a stainless steel bracelet on each wrist and a loose chain at the waist instead of a belt. She had further confused me by getting Leila to give me a manicure, the result of which was that I now sported pretty snappy silver fingernails.

"You look very nice, Stephie," Monica told me, eyeing me up and down and making me turn around. "Good," she declared finally. "Today you can go into the big wide world and accompany Jillian when she goes shopping."

I was horrified at first. It was one thing walking about in short skirts and bondage attire behind the cloistered walls of Bilboes, where eccentricity and oddity were the norm, and I now accepted this. But to go outside into a world of strangers who would look askance at me was another matter.

Jillian was – as usual – warm and understanding. "Relax – you look great. Nobody will ever know," she said as we climbed into the Transit van. "Stephie, you look every inch a female, even close up. You don’t have much of an Adam’s apple anyway, and the skivvy and your collar cover that. You makeup is immaculate and your figure is enough to make guys turn their heads, never mind a few women. You even walk properly now, and your voice is excellent. You always did have a way with it, Herr Korporal," she said, smiling her infectious grin and reminding me of my first interaction with Gestapo Queen Mary. She patted my hand. "Trust me. Relax. Enjoy the morning. We’re just two girls out shopping. I might even overlook your lowly position and buy you a cup of coffee when we get there."

"Were are we going?" I asked, as we turned right out of the driveway. 

"Indooroopilly Shopping Centre," she said. 

My heart sank. Indooroopilly was one of the larger shopping malls in Brisbane – three floors of all manner of shops and usually crowded with people. I was not looking forward to it at all.

Jillian, in these circumstances, seemed to find it hard to maintain her dominating role, and by the end of the morning we were gossiping like old girlfriends. I kept looking about, surreptitiously seeking the furtive, sidelong glance in my direction, the odd look or the pointed finger and whispered comment, but there was none. I followed Jillian about as we bought stuff for the house and Jill indulged herself with a new dress. I still found it hard to be at ease waiting for her to try it on in the changing room, hoping that nobody would speak to me as I pretended to browse amongst the dress racks outside. I jumped when a voice at my elbow asked if I needed any help. I blushed and stammered a ‘no thanks’, my voice nearly failing me. The young woman eyed me strangely for a moment then broke into a smile. 

"That’s a really neat collar you have there – where did you get it?" 

"Uh – I… it was specially made," I said hurriedly.

"It’s really cool. How does it come off?" This was getting hard.

"Ah – it doesn’t. It’s like one of those rings you get at a piercing place. It’s kind of permanent."

"Wow." Her eyes lit up in wonder. Then Jillian appeared in time to rescue me.

"Come Stephie. Time to go." I mumbled goodbye to the sales girl and hurried out behind Jill. True to her word she bought coffee and cakes and I told her of my experience. 

"See," she said. "You coped easily. Nobody would ever suspect. You’re just like one of us now."

Several days later I found another surprise for me as I reported to the sluice room for my morning ablutions. Emma had been on night duty and let me in to the room. I showered and found her waiting as I stepped out to dry myself. 

"Your butt plug is being changed today," she said. "Monica’s orders."

I didn’t like the sound of this. I didn’t like the sound of anything that involved Monica and my backside. Usually it involved some form of treatment that I would object to. Emma squatted down behind me and fiddled with the rubber flap that hung down, to which the plug was attached. After a minute or so she straightened up and told me to carry on. I tried to examine what I was now going to be subjected to, but it was really hard given the way it was fastened to the back flap of the corset.

"Stop playing around and get on with it!" Emma ordered me, irritated. "Unless you want me to insert it without any lube!" This I decidedly did not want, and promptly busied myself inserting the device. It felt no different from the previous one – round and filling and oddly discomforting and stimulating at the same time. The only thing I could discern that was different was a kind of knob or button that protruded through a hole in the flap but which did not really sit up proud.

I pulled the flaps together and locked them. That was when I found out what I was to wear. It was not that the clothes were particularly daring or bizarre – I had certainly worn worse in this regard. It was in fact the opposite. Today’s wardrobe was a pale grey silk blouse that showed off my curves pretty well, over the top of a black leather skirt that was perhaps a shade shorter than usual, but very stylish. Flesh-coloured stockings and black leather boots that stopped just below the knee completed the outfit. I had to admit the leather felt very good. Why was it women got to wear all the good stuff in the course of everyday life? A guy wearing leather trousers was usually viewed as either a poof or a poser. It was the first time I had worn the boots. They were three-inch heels but much more comfortable than the shoes I had worn to date because of the extra support they offered all around my foot. Someone had also done their measuring well, for they fitted snugly and were soft and supple with the zip up the inside. For a first wear, they were much more acceptable than many male shoes that I had found took time to break in. By now I was reasonably used to the height of the heels and this did not bother me, for they were not stiletto, nor were they those ugly chunky things that often go with thick soles and are devoid of any style whatsoever. All in all, I was pretty impressed.

When I was dressed and had eaten, Emma did my makeup and produced the large earings and bracelets that I had worn previously. This time she pulled my hair back behind my ears and clipped it in place with two silver clips. My final accessory was a black shoulder bag. I was intrigued, and at the same time a little concerned, which – on the basis of long experience – I believed I had a right to be. Emma would tell me nothing, although whether it was because she didn’t know or whether she just wouldn’t tell, I wasn’t sure.

In the absence of instructions I prepared breakfast in the usual way and waited for Monica to appear to give me directions. Jill and Trish appeared for breakfast and wolf-whistled me, which made me blush, I am ashamed to admit. 

"Who’s the new hot chick?" Leila asked Trish when she saw me.

"Some smart-looking office tart," Trish said. "Must be after the Managing Director for promotion."

"Got an interview, have you dear?" Leila teased. I stuck out my tongue – something that had been specifically denied me of recent days - and ignored them until Monica had arrived and finished her breakfast.

"Nice tits," Trish murmured, and I was conscious of the snug fit of the silk blouse making my silicone nipple protrude like tiny hillocks on a grey mound.

"Come, Stephie," Monica told me, looking at her watch. "We don’t want to be late."

"Are we going somewhere, Mistress?" I asked as her heels clicked down the hallway. I was beginning not to like the idea already.

"Just for a little drive, dear," she said, leading the way down the front steps to where her BMW was parked. "Get in."

Fully expecting to have to climb into the boot or some other such trial, I walked around to the passenger door with lingering trepidation, before climbing in beside her. Monica ignored all my questions as we drove out of the gate and headed into town. It had gone eight o’clock and the morning rush-hour was just beginning.

At this point Monica began to do a little ‘rat-running’, as the practice is known of dodging down side streets to avoid major bottlenecks and queues. I had a vague idea where we were going – heading towards the downtown area of Brisbane, roughly parallel with Coronation Drive which takes the brunt of the western traffic. I finally got my bearings as we stopped just short of an intersection with Coronation Drive and pulled in to the kerb. 

"Here’s where you get out, Stephanie," Monica ordered in her no nonsense voice.

"But – why, Mistress?"

"Purely to indulge me, Stephie," she said with an enigmatic smile. "All you have to do is walk back to Toowong down Coro Drive, where I’ll meet you at the High Street Brasserie on the corner opposite the Royal Exchange. That should be clear enough. You know where I mean?"

"Yes, but –"

"Look, I don’t have time to discuss this. Now get out and start walking." I opened the door and started to get out, still not really understanding. I had both feet outside and with my back to her at that point, when she stopped me with a hand on my arm.

"Wait," she said abruptly. "Stay there and bend forward to touch your toes. I did so, wondering what was going on and thankful there was nobody walking past. Monica’s hand slid under my leather skirt and her fingers moved between my buttocks. There was a sudden jerk and my buttplug began to vibrate. I sat up with a start and the vibrations stopped. I looked at Monica who was grinning with pleasure. "You may go now, Stephie. Your plug has a small plunger on it, you see. Stand up and the plunger moves outwards and closes the circuit. Sit down and you close it and it stops. It was held in place by this small pin which I now have." She waved something that looked like a split pin. "I might see my way to putting it back when you get to the café. You will walk along the footpath opposite the river, and you will be watched. Any deviations and you’ll be punished. You have thirty minutes. If you’re not at the café by ten to nine, I’ll be gone. It’s a helluva long walk to Bilboes," she said with a smile. "But then the way you look, you should have no problem picking up a lift."

I was halfway deciding to swing my legs back into the car and telling her to go to hell when her other hand touched the button on the remote nestling on the seat beside her. I felt the familiar jolt through my nipples that left me gasping with the pain. I had not been punished for a couple of days and the sensation reminded me there had to be better options. Obediently I got out of the car and slung my bag over my shoulder, heading, reluctantly, for Coronation Drive.

It didn’t take long to realise what Monica’s plan was. She zoomed past me, turned right at the lights on Coro Drive and headed west against the main traffic flow, towards Bilboes.

Coronation Drive, as I said, takes most of the inbound traffic from the west. It runs alongside the Brisbane River and is two lanes inbound for about half its length. Widening was currently in progress with construction work making the usual mess.

It was a glorious spring morning, and of course in spring a young man’s thoughts turn to… well, sex, women, whatever. And not just a young man’s thoughts, either. Pretty well every male with a pulse appeared to consider me fair game. I had a two, maybe three-kilometre walk alongside virtually stationary rush-hour traffic, not to mention probably a quarter of that through a mess of dug-up footpaths and pedestrian detours around holes in the ground. Oh yes, Monica had really outdone herself this time.

And of course here was Stephanie, dressed, if not like a hooker, at least like the office tart most likely to succeed. I stepped out along the street doing my best to ignore the whistles and comments coming from the trucks and the construction workers. It wasn’t as if I was unaccustomed to the language – I had worked on a building site most of my life. But jeez it was different when I was the object of it all. I was sorely tempted to retort or at least give them the finger, but I knew from experience that that would only cause more comments.

As well as the guys in the trucks there were all the looks from the cars. Perhaps they didn’t give me the verbal razz, but I could feel their eyes following me as I walked. And all the while the buzzing in my arse was really starting to get…irritating…frustrating…whatever. In desperation I sat down in a bus shelter, and thing stopped as the plunger was pushed in. Maybe I could have improvised something to hold it in, but squirming about with my hand up my skirt during rush-hour on Coro Drive was not going to help the situation. I was conscious of the time, too. I did not want to end up hitching a lift home.

Possibly the best moment came when amidst all the ogling I was attracting, some fool rear-ended another car just as they crawled past me. I continued walking, ignoring the blaring of horns that followed the collision and the raised voices in my wake. Silly bastards, I thought, perhaps ignoring the times I had been distracted by a pretty girl to the extent I had nearly rammed the car in front myself.

The crawling traffic had now almost ground to a halt as I continued on blithely ignoring the confusion behind me, the leather of the skirt taut against my thighs as I focused on my ultimate destination. I just wished my blouse was not so tight. My silicone nipples bobbed up and down like balls on a trampoline – as if I didn’t have enough to show off. There were few people on foot in this stretch. Most walked along the pedestrian precinct beside the river, on the opposite side of the road. Here were the fitness freaks, the joggers, cyclists and ordinary people walking to work beside the river amidst the trees and gardens. You’d have to be crazy to be dressed like a slutty office worker and to walk this side of the road.

The walk seemed to take forever. The sun was over my left shoulder, and what with the exertion, the looks I was getting and the strange buzzing in my arse, I was beginning to perspire. It had been nearly three weeks since my new breasts and hair had been glued to my skin. My own hair was now starting to grow back underneath, I thought, and was making the glue itch. Monica said humans ended up with new skin every month or so, and that the attachments would gradually come loose, just like when your skin peels after a bad case of sunburn. I didn’t know what to believe, but the discomfort I felt suggested something might be happening. 

Surprisingly my feet didn’t bother me the way I thought they might. The supple leather of the boots was snug and supporting, but I still had trouble with the heels. How the hell could women run in these things? They stiffened up the calves in a line I had to admit I had long admired in women. But actually experiencing it was another matter. I guess that was what Monica had in mind to teach me. It was well done, but not very subtle. I thought it was somewhat wasted on me, for I had never been particularly chauvinistic and had always got on well with the girls.

I passed the modern low-rise office blocks where the big construction contractors lived, then on past the new modern apartment complex under construction. More builder’s labourers took me for an easy target. I ignored the ribald comments but felt myself flush, nevertheless. Bastards. So much for the sophisticated Aussie male. Past the Regatta hotel, fortunately devoid of patrons on the front verandah at this hour, then into the final stretch past the library and the local pool, but still past bumper to bumper cars. Again I had to sit down in a bus shelter to relieve myself of the interminable vibrations inside me. I had only just done this when a bus hove into view and I was forced to move on again.

More pedestrians now – uni students and commuters going to Toowong station and the big shopping centre under the blue glass tower. I turned the corner and saw Monica reading the paper outside the brasserie a hundred metres away. I began to hasten my steps as I saw her start to fold up the paper and look at her watch. I broke into a run, and discovered again just why it was that women run funny. I dared not call out to her – not trusting my voice under such circumstances. Thankfully she spotted me just as she put the paper down. 

I was flushed and perspiring when I reached her. I knew my blouse must show dark stains under the arms and my hair was less than perfect. Life could be so unflattering sometimes.

"Hello Stephie," said Monica, totally cool calm and collected. She leaned back casually in her chair and let her eye rove over my flustered state. "It’s good to be one of the girls, isn’t it," she said with a smile. "Sit down and put some weight on that little insert of yours. It must be giving you hell, dear. Let me get you a coffee, and then we can discuss a little project I have in mind…"
 

 

Monica's Place continues in Chapter Twenty-Four
All comments welcome at bilboes1@hotmail.com.
© 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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