|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: 24. The Final Exam by Richard Alexander MF/mf; bondage; bdsm; cons/nc; XXX|
Chapter Twenty Four: The Final Exam
Several days passed before I was allowed to work on Monica’s project. Her ‘little project’ was a modification to the Ford Transit van. It was pretty simple in effect – much the same as we had installed for our unfortunate intruder’s utility. Monica was planning something big – something big enough to warrant half a dozen outlets in the back of the van that would connect with vibrators presumably locked in place. What was she thinking of, I wondered? Kidnapping a netball team?
It took me a full day to link a cable from the cigarette lighter power source to the accelerator pedal, which would control the power supply, then under the floor to a splitter box on the floor of the rear cab. From this the cable split six ways, ending in plugs which would mate with, and be locked on to cables leading to the vibrators themselves. The cable was a multi-cored one, and served a dual purpose. Monica, at her devious best, wanted to be able to provide a jolt to a butt plug when the ignition was turned on. I accomplished this by tapping another core into the ignition light, which only carried low voltage but enough to give a little buzz under the right circumstances.
When I was ready, Monica helped me do the testing. Like me she was dressed for practicality, not glamour. I had been allowed my favourite denim skirt and a teeshirt for this work, and Monica wore likewise. The difference was that she had a small black cable hanging from beneath the hem of her skirt.
More importantly for me, I was unfettered and had my freedom of speech – a reward, I was told, for my hard work and diligence. I showed her how the plug on her cable mated with one of the six coming from the box on the floor, and how it locked in place with a small padlock through two shaped metal surrounds at the ends. I climbed into the cab and opened the window between the front and back sections, then started the engine. I had not expected Monica to be voluntarily wearing a butt plug, but evidently she was, for there was a little cry of surprise from behind me. The engine was not needed to operate the vibration system, other than to prevent a drain on the main battery, but the revving of the engine would give me an idea of what the receiver might be experiencing. However the vibrating would not start until I plugged the cable into the lighter socket.
"Ready, Mistress?" I asked through the window.
I pushed the plug home into the socket and was rewarded with a low sigh of appreciation from the rear. I revved the engine and the noises increased into a steady hum of pleasure. I didn’t need to be told the device worked.
We tested all six outlets, by the end of which time Monica had worked up a considerable sweat and I was ordered to finish the job orally. We were both flushed and perspiring by the time the van stopped rocking, but only one of us was satisfied as usual. It was a situation that was to eventuate a number of times in the next few days as Monica summoned me to her bedroom on several occasions. It appeared to be her intention to be increase my frustration level, not to mention – more specifically – the frustration level of Mr Willy. On these occasions Monica would usually be too tired to throw me out and I would end up chained to a bed leg for the night.
But time was passing and eventually the day of my release from servitude dawned. I wondered what Monica had in store for me – I knew it would not pass without some event of significance taking place.
It began unusually, in that nobody came to let me out of my cell at the normal ungodly hour. The door remained locked but my body clock told me it was later than usual. It was a Tuesday, traditionally the slowest of days for the girls, and one on which they frequently went shopping or just relaxed around the pool.
I was starting to get hungry when Monica finally let me out and took me down the hall to the sluice room for my shower. The space where my outfit for the day normally hung was empty. I followed my usual routine of ablutions and had eaten my cereal before Monica turned up with my clothes. My second indication that something unusual was up was when Monica made me wear the butt plug with the plunger – the one that vibrated unless I was sitting down or the retaining pin was in place. This revelation was followed by the sight of my ensemble for the day. I should have seen it coming, I suppose. First there had been the regular wardrobe to go shopping with Jill, then the office tart for the Coronation drive foray. Now this.
‘This’ was a black PVC dress with short sleeves and a high hemline. It zipped up the front with a chrome zip ending in an ostentatious ‘pull me down’ ring just above my boobs. A light chain was fixed around the waist of the dress, culminating in a pair of handcuffs which formed part of the ‘belt’ in front. There were two ornamental loops of chain hung below each breast, adding to the dominant appearance of the dress. Next there were fishnet stockings which I had thought a bit passé, but then the whole getup was passé if it came to that, given the thigh boots that followed.
Monica watched with a slight smile as I pulled them on and slid the zipper up the inside of the leg. They were of black leather, slightly stiff but fitting snugly. As with all my clothes Monica had obviously gone to a lot of trouble and expense in obtaining my measurements and having things custom-made. No doubt they would be worn by other customers in due course, but I could not help but be flattered by the efforts she had made for this exercise.
My final accessory was a pair of black latex gloves that stopped at my biceps, almost meeting the sleeves of the dress. Fixed to the top edge around my upper arm was a thin nylon filament of fishing line that Monica threaded up my sleeve, across my back and down the other sleeve, where it was securely knotted through a tiny eyelet at the top of the other glove. This was obviously going to stop me removing the gloves without permission. The gloves fitted like a second skin and between the smell of leather and latex I became quite enamoured of my new look, although I was filled with dread at the thought of whatever she might have me do.
Monica sat me down in front of the mirror at this point and did my hair and makeup. My hair was held in place with two black combs – one on each side – exposing the large silver rings through my ears. My makeup was decidedly gothic – false lashes, dark eyelids and highlights and dark lipstick with more accent on my cheek bones. My silver fingernails became black ones before she left me without a word, locking the door to the sluice room behind her.
I waited for perhaps an hour, sitting on a stool in the sluice room and occasionally pacing up and down, the high heels of my boots echoing against the white tiled walls. The lighting was harsh and bright in this particular room, and the large mirror that had been installed since my ‘conversion’ was the object of much attention from me. My transformation still fascinated me in a bizarre way I cannot really describe. I looked at the person in the mirror and saw quite a spunk who would certainly deserve a second glance in the street. Then in the blink of an eye there was almost visible a guy peeping through the shiny veneer of PVC, leather and makeup. All in all, however, I came to the conclusion that I did not scrub up badly and was a worthy ambassador for the female species – if that was what I wanted to be.
I got bored very quickly, however, and regardless of whatever she might have planned for me, I was pleased when Monica returned. She beckoned me and I dutifully followed her up the stairs and into the entry hall, then outside on to the front verandah. The Ford Transit van was waiting at the bottom of the front steps, its rear doors closed, the painted out windows like a pair of sightless eyes hiding who knew what inside.
"You’re going on a journey today, Stephie," Monica told me. I said nothing, dreading what this ‘journey’ might be. "You might call it a ‘quest’." We reached the bottom of the steps and she turned to face me, standing with her hand on the handle of the rear door to the van. "Today, as you know, is your last day of enforced servitude to this house…" I noted her emphasis on the word ‘enforced’. "It seems appropriate that you finish up your time with such a quest, and it is similarly appropriate that the object of your quest is to save the five lovely maidens who have risked their cash to keep you here. I refer of course," she said, pausing dramatically, "-to the Bilboes Birds!" Monica turned the handle and swung the doors open. I stared open-mouthed at the five women tightly secured in the back of the van.
When I had thought – half jokingly to myself a few days previously – that Monica might intend kidnapping a netball team, I had not realised how close to the truth I had come. A netball team had been the only appropriately female sport that sprang to my mind, and now I was faced with the five girls all attired identically in the vibrant black, yellow and red lycra uniforms of the Queensland Firebirds. All attired identically - and all restrained identically as well.
They sat – Trish, Leila and Jillian on the left and Emma and Mary on the right – facing each other on the benches which had once borne the bound twins Tanya and Natasha. Their backs were to the wall which consisted of wooden slats, much the same as are found in furniture trucks and which are used for securing objects being transported. In this particular instance the objects were five beautiful females, all sporting identical red ball gags and all with their eyes taped closed with silver duct tape. I had to hand it to Monica, she was exceptionally neat and artistic in her bondage, with no messy ropes, nothing unnecessary or discordant in her creations.
The wrists of each girl were strapped together and locked with a padlock, which also locked on to a chain looped around a wooden wall slat above their head. Their arms were thus held tautly above them, while their torsos were secured to the slats with broad webbing belts at waist level and above their breasts. In the event of a crash they would not be moving very far.
Their feet, sporting white socks and trainers, were secured equally neatly. Adjacent ankles were strapped together and padlocked, while ‘free’ ankles at the ends of the row were chained to convenient eyebolts in the floor. The girls were going to find it very difficult to squeeze their thighs together – as they were wont to do - without fighting each other, I reckoned.
The uniforms themselves were no doubt a touch of class. The sleeveless tops were of shiny black lycra while the flaring skirts were of nylon, decorated with stylised red and yellow flames rising up from the hem. Leading out from under each hem I saw a cable, which led into the central black box screwed to the floor immediately behind the front wall. Each cable was connected and locked in place with a small padlock.
The atmosphere inside the van was tense and quiet – a feeling of expectancy that came from the five helpless blind and silent women awaiting their fate and trying not to think about how devious Monica could be.
"How did you-"
"Get them to cooperate? Simple. I told each one we had a special client who fancied an outing with a netballer in her spunky outfit. Once I had the wrists strapped that was the end of the problem. They all seemed happy enough to get their uniforms, but they’re not so sure about it now. Are you, girls?" she said, raising her voice and directing it into the van. Five faces turned toward us, their movements restricted by the arms held high on each side of their heads. Emma was closest to me and I watched a tiny runnel of drool slip off the red ball strapped between her teeth and slide down on to the taut material covering her breasts, where it left a dark stain. Nobody made a noise.
"Aren’t they lovely," smirked Monica. "I’ve nearly finished preparing them. Wait her, dear." She climbed inside and picked up what looked like a child’s water pistol. With deft accuracy she proceeded to squirt the girls on their breasts and watch with satisfaction as the little lumps of their nipples hove into view pushing at the tight fabric. Monica completed the job with nimble fingers, urging the hard points to complete their erectile processes while making little murmuring sounds of encouragement. What the girls could not see was the box of small clips she had on the floor in front of them. She showed me one of them. They were smaller than a clothes peg, made of steel and with nasty-looking serrated edges. I didn’t have to be a rocket scientist to understand that they were only big enough to be clipped on the very end of the nipple. This was not looking good for the girls. Monica started pinning at the far end – Jillian, then Leila then Trish, followed by Mary and Emma. There were whines and whimpers as the tiny jaws bit through the fabric into very tender flesh and slowly settled in to grip like vices. Breathing became louder and ragged as they sought to limit the movement of their breasts by making their breaths as shallow as possible, but they couldn’t keep it up. Not content with this Monica linked opposite girls’ clips – Jillian’s with Mary’s, Leila’s with Emma’s – with joined rubber bands, placing a constant tension on them, which was heightened by a weight hanging from the midpoint on each connecting stretch of rubber. Trish having no opposite number had her clips connected to the wall slat on the opposite wall instead. There were more ineffectual pleadings and nasal complaints from behind the rubber balls.
"They still have no idea about what we’ve installed in this van," she said smugly. They’re in for such a fun day. You girls just don’t know how lucky you are," she told them in no uncertain terms. "A day out getting chauffeured around, lots of orgasms and other fun things. Poor Stephanie here will have to do all the hard work – the driving and the thinking. You see, girls, you’re all going on a treasure hunt. At each location there will be a key, which will undo one girl – mostly. And there will also be instructions as to where the next key is. I Hope Stephie is smart enough to free you all… And you’re to be back here by 4pm, Stephie, or else you won’t win your freedom and the hand of a fair maid." She smiled demurely, then slammed the door and locked it, slipping the key in the pocket of her dress.
"You’ll get the duplicate when you solve the first puzzle," she told me.
I followed her around to the driver’s side where she held the door open for me. She handed me an envelope.
"Here are your first instructions. A couple of little pointers first, though." She leaned past me and plugged the cable into the lighter socket. There was at once a muffled noise from the rear through the intervening window. "Don’t think you can just unplug this now. I smeared it with contact glue and it’s in there for good. The only way you can stop it is to unlock the individual connections or cut the wires. And heaven help you if you do that," she said ominously. "But, sweetie, just in case there is an emergency, the master key is in the glove box, which has been sealed with sealing wax and my thumb print. You’d better have a good reason before you break into that, let me tell you.
"So, there you are. Off you go. Enjoy your day out." I climbed reluctantly into the driver’s seat, not trusting myself to say anything. I was about to close the door when Monica stopped me.
"Wait a minute – lean over to the passenger seat…" I did so and felt the familiar vibrating in my rectum as she removed the retaining pin from the butt plug plunger. Monica gave me a dazzling smile as I straightened up in my seat and the buzzing cut out.
"One more thing." She reached into another pocket of her dress and pulled out several five dollar notes. "You‘ll probably need these. People may be expecting them." She pushed them down my cleavage.
"What people?" I asked, suddenly alarmed. "Where?"
"Oh, you’ll figure it out." She gave me a dazzling smile. "Have a nice day." Then she was gone, up the front steps and into the house.
I settled in the seat, feeling the filled sensation as the butt plug moved in unison. Opening the envelope Monica had given me, I read:
T is for Trish and T is for trains
T’s for Taringa and all it contains;
At the station in life wherever it be
Ask of the Master to sell you the key.
I stared at the verse and wondered what the hell I had got myself into. I had never been very good at this sort of thing. I was going to read it out to the girls, but decided that wouldn’t be a lot of use to them, other than to frustrate them even further through their being unable to communicate in any way. That was when I noticed the street directory on the floor on the passenger side. I picked it up and opened it at the Taringa page. Taringa is a suburb en route to the city near where Monica had picked me up after my slutty walk along Coronation Drive. I knew it only to drive through, but now realised that it had a railway line running through it. I thought that would be a good start, so decided to head for the station in Taringa.
The van had evidently been parked in its current position over night and did not start with the first turn of the key. In my momentary preoccupation with my quest I forgot that the ignition was connected to the wire giving nice electric shocks to the girls butts. There were muffled squeals through the sliding window as the engine failed to start first time. Then I over-corrected and gave it too much gas, no doubt causing a surge through the vibrators embedded in five pussies. I sighed. It was going to be a long, tiring day.
The morning was warm and sultry, with the promise of a storm in the afternoon if the weather boffins were to be believed. That was when I discovered more tampering by Monica. She was so into the little things that I couldn’t believe it. She had removed the window winder handles and had obviously disconnected the air conditioning if the cut wire hanging down below the console was anything to go by. It was also going to be rather hot work, quite evidently.
Yet another thing I discovered as I bumped out of the driveway was that Monica had also done something with the remote controlling my nipple pulses, for as we lurched forward on to the tarmac a sharp jolt caught me unawares through my nipples. The bitch! There really was no end to her deviousness. This gave me a further impetus to locating this first key, which must be the one to the back door. Once inside I could at least lessen the discomfort for all of us.
As I drove into town I was conscious of my foot on the accelerator and the level of vibration it would be causing in the back. There was also the issue of any bumps or potholes that might send a jolt through my nips. I was also mightily aware that I was dressed as a woman, driving without my licence and had five women bound, gagged and blindfolded in the back. Woe betide me if I had an accident. That would be major shit flying in major embarrassing directions, I decided. What media headlines that would make! I didn’t even want to think about having to explain my way out of that one, and I was surprised Monica had gone so far.
It was perhaps seven or eight klicks from Bilboes into Taringa. It was nine thirty by the clock in the van as I swung into a small steep culdersac leading down to Taringa Station. That was when the bloody remote triggered again. Obviously the angle of the vehicle down the hill had somehow caused a contact to be made and for the next twenty seconds my nipples were stabbed with pain in a series of irregular bursts as contacts must have bumped against each other. Desperately I swung the van into a driveway and paused as the piercing jolts stopped. I waited for a few moments, letting my heart and breathing settle down. I couldn’t leave the van there – it had to be either parked facing up the hill or down. Cautiously I backed into the road again, pointing the rear of the vehicle down towards the mesh fence separating the end of the road from the rail line beyond. Then it started again!
Hurriedly I backed the van against the kerb, all the time swearing under my breath, then I exited in a hurry as though a swarm of bees was after me, running the few paces to the opposite side of the road and out of range of the remote. I stood there, looking about and – seeing that nobody was around – rubbing my breasts to try to ease the pain.
The morning rush hour was over and the street was empty of pedestrians. I wondered what my hasty exit and consequent breast fondling must have looked like to the inhabitants of the low-rise office block outside which I had parked. Quickly I crossed to the driver’s door again and locked it, feeling the pain in my nipples rise as I did so, before retreating again.
I walked the hundred metres or so down a concrete path parallel with the railway line to where the ticket office stood on stilts straddling the lines. That was when a train pulled in and a dozen people got out. It was too late to hide now. I reached the short flight of steps up to the level of the ticket office just as the passengers were coming down. Yes, I got stares and I felt myself flush despite my best efforts at pretending I was invisible.
My high heels clacked across the metal floor outside the ticket office. I really had no idea what I was looking for. The verse had mentioned trains, Taringa, a station and tickets, so I figured I had to be somewhere close. Then there was that stuff about asking the Master. It all sounded a bit Zen for my liking. I hung about until the people had gone, looking at the various notices and searching for inspiration, aware of the five girls in the back of the van in the sun.
That was when I spotted the sign above the door "Station Master’s Office." Clink – the penny dropped. Ask the Master. Maybe he was holding something for me. Was this why Monica had given me the money? Was this to be pattern of the day? God, I hoped not. I wondered if the buzzing in my arse was audible to others…
I moved over to the small glassed in ticket window. There were two men in the room beyond sorting tickets and counting change from a coin-operated machine. The younger one looked up and goggled at me.
"Can I help you – er- Maam?"
"I’d like to speak to the Station Master, please," I said, trying to keep my voice level and husky as I’d learned to be the best means of disguising my gender.
"Er… sure… Brian, you’re wanted."
The older guy was going bald and wore those half-glasses that sat on the end of his nose. He pushed them back at the sight of me, all chains and black PVC filling his window.
"I was wondering…" I began, then stopped. "Look, I’m on a kind of a treasure hunt, and I suspect you might have something I have to collect." I saw a glimmer of understanding in his expression.
"Like an envelope?" he offered with a faint smile.
"I think so."
He moved out of my sight for a moment and reappeared with a plain white envelope which he slid across the counter.
"Did the lady who left it indicate the price?" I ventured.
"We agreed that five bucks would cover storage fees," he suggested with a wink.
"Good," I said, reaching down into my cleavage and extracting a note. His eyes bulged slightly as he followed my movements then picked up the bill. "Thank you very much," I said.
"The pleasure’s all mine, I’m sure," he commented. I turned and walked away, feeling two pairs of eyes riveted on my rump as I beat a retreat back to the van.
There were two keys and another note inside the envelope. The first key was to the back door of the van, and I heard moans of relief as I opened it, letting the breeze enter, albeit briefly. I hauled myself inside and closed the door. I did not want anybody poking their head in while I was working there. Quelle embarrassment that would be.
The pain in my nipples was up to speed again, and I immediately saw the problem. Monica had rigged up two remotes so that the buttons faced each other with a gap of some ten centimetres between them. The remotes were held apart by wire and one was taped to a vertical bar. In between them hung a lead weight on a string. Too much angle forward or back caused the weight to rest against the button. The bitch, I thought, at the same time admiring the fact that a woman could be so technically ingenious. I crawled along the floor in front of Mary and Emma, ignoring their wails as I accidentally caught the rubber bands stretched between their nipple clips and those of Jill and Leila. I was more concerned at that moment about the intense pain in my own poor nips. I Pulled out the weight from between the remotes and sat down on the floor, leaning myself on the dividing wall behind the cab, catching my breath and once again massaging my breasts.
It took me perhaps ten minutes to bring a modicum of relief to the poor transportees. First I had to unhook the rubber bands and weights that kept the clips under constant tension where the jaws locked into the tips of the girls’ nipples. Clutzy me, I again knocked the ties joining Jill and Mary’s clips, these being the rearmost. A stifled wail of pain was the result. I apologised in a whisper, gently undoing the rubber bands then peeling away the tape from Mary’s eyes. She looked at me then down at the clips, imploring their removal with whimpers from behind the rubber ball strapped in her mouth. Slowly I eased the jaws of the clips apart, while Mary screwed her eyes shut with the pain as the blood returned . A tear escaped from the corner and trickled down her cheek while breathing came in rapid but shallow panting.
With Mary’s clips removed I did the same for the others, whispering comforting words in their ears as I gently opened the fearsome jaws and detached them from the black shiny material and their imprisoned flesh. Immediate priorities dealt with, I removed the remainder of the duct tape from the girls’ eyes, but that was really as far as I got. Predictably, I found, the ball gags were all locked in place, as was everything else except the waist and chest straps, and they were there for safety as much as anything else. At least I would be able to free Trish, I thought, and have an ally in solving the remainder of the quest.
Five pairs of eyes were on me as I unlocked Trish’s ankle restraints with the second key. At once she and Leila squeezed their legs together with a muffled sigh of relief at being able to at last react to the buzzing that had gone on inside them. I unlocked Trish’s cable and separated the two ends, before freeing her raised wrists and helping her undo the two webbing belts. She bent her head forward, pulling her hair clear so I could see to access the padlock holding the strap and buckle snugly at the back of her neck.
"Oh shit," I breathed. "It’s a different lock! Bloody Monica!" Trish and the other girls moaned. I was still on my own. Whatever ideas the girls might have about the clues, they would not be able to communicate them. Just to make sure, I tried the key in a random selection of the remaining locks, but to no avail. The girls looked at me, mute suffering on their faces. Trish massaged her breasts and nipples with the palms of her hands, then did the same for the others. It was a touching scene, almost sexual in its simplicity. I wished I could have joined in.
I took a deep breath and picked up the envelope from where it had fallen on the floor, and extracted a piece of notepaper.
"J is for Jillian…" I read. A little snort of triumph came from that direction.
"J is for Jillian and for he of the ladder,
Now healthy and content by the sea.
In the park, beneath where you eat
Is the key."
I looked around me. "Anybody got any ideas?" I was greeted by blank looks. I read the verse again.
"Heyfumfph!" said Leila suddenly. "Hefumfph a-er!"
"What?" She repeated her statement, but I had no idea what she was trying to say. She waggled her hands where they were strapped together above her head and wriggled, frustrated, tears welling in her eyes. We stared at her as she mumbled her idea a third time, but it only served to confuse us further. She stamped her feet in vexation.
"All right, this is what we’re going to do. Monica thinks she’s beaten us, but she hasn’t. We’ll stop at a stationery shop and I’ll buy a pad and pen. You may not be able to talk, Leila, but you can still write, yes?" Her eyes brightened and she nodded emphatically. There was at once a decidedly more cheerful atmosphere in the van.
I started up again and crawled up the hill in low gear, trying to ignore the initial yelps from the back which turned into low sighing moans from only four throats now. Poor Trish could now only sit there helplessly and watch her friends suffer. I turned left into Moggil Road and found a newsagent a few hundred metres along the road in a small shopping centre.
Once again I steeled myself for the odd looks as I walked in and selected a pad and pen and paid for it with another five dollar note out of my cleavage. The buxom woman behind the counter didn’t know what to make of me. I gave her my most winning smile and said
"Modelling job," which seemed to make everything all right. That was when I spent a dollar of the change on an instant scratchit ticket, just to piss Monica off. I paused in the doorway and checked the card, scratching the stuff off with a coin. Maybe my luck was turning, for I made ten bucks on the deal, which I blithely announced to the girls as I climbed in to the van again. I passed the pen and paper through the dividing window to Trish and waited while she held the pad for Leila to awkwardly scratch a word on. The word was ‘Jacob’.
I was puzzled momentarily, then it fell into place.
"Of course," I exclaimed. "J is for Jacob. Jacob’s ladder – from the bible. And Jacob’s Well. It’s a long drive, girls – I hope you’re up to it…"
Jacob’s Well was a small hamlet perhaps an hour to the south, down the Pacific Motorway and at the end of a country road which led to the sea, or more accurately one of the maze of river inlets in the area. I had never been there, but an inspection of the street directory confirmed my intentions and showed a bit of green next to the river.
The journey was quite straight forward, following Coronation drive, scene of Stephanie’s earlier performance, over the Brisbane River and down the new motorway. I cruised at the maximum of 110 kph on the new stretch, after checking with Trish that the girls could cope with it. Every so often I would hear a sudden moaning rising rapidly in pitch and culminating in a muffled series of cries. When we finally turned off the motorway on to a service road I pulled over near a bridge and stopped, leaving the engine idling. There was no traffic around and I opened the back door to let some air in. The four bound girls were sweating freely, with probably only a part due to the warmth of the cabin.
"Trish, take off your shoes and socks please," I said, forgetting for a moment the Mistress/slave relationship. Puzzled, she did so, and I took the socks from her. "Keep watch," I told her, then I slid awkwardly down the bank of the small stream that ran beneath the bridge. It was muddy at the bottom and my high heels sank ankle deep as I reached out to wet the socks. I fell on my knees but struggled back to the van somewhat the worse for wear, but with two wringing wet socks.
Trish’s quizzical expression changed to one of thankfulness when she saw my intention. I handed them to her and waited while she cooled down the faces of the prisoners and sponged their exposed flesh. There were murmurs of gratitude from behind the rubber balls.
"Okay to go on?" I asked. They nodded.
We cruised across flat land with fields of green sugar cane bordering both sides of the road until we eventually came to the small suburb of Jacob’s Well. I followed my nose, looking for some direction to the water. Essentially the road ran out at Jacob’s well, terminating at the yacht club. Here there was a park bordering a gravelled area with a clubhouse and launching ramp for small craft. I did a circuit of the area and wound up at the park. There were a few people about – earlybirds come for a picnic. Now what, I thought?
I was sure we were in the right place – in the park, by the sea. Then Trish pointed through the window at a picnic table.
"Ehhool!" she said emphatically. Table?
"The place where you eat…"
This was easy, I decided, stopping the van and getting out. I walked over to the picnic table and bent down to look underneath the table. Nothing. I scoured the area around the table but with no more success. Looking around I realised there were perhaps half a dozen tables, scattered in amongst the gum trees, one or two already occupied by families. Bollocks, I thought. Which one would the devious Monica choose? Probably the farthest. Or would she think that I would think that? Or would she think that I would think that she would think…
Monica was playing mind games again. I did the rounds, inspecting those unoccupied tables without success. Reluctantly I approached a table occupied by a a young couple with a toddler. The woman was attractive and blonde, and looked distinctively nervous at my approach. The bloke couldn’t keep his eyes off me.
"I’m sorry to trouble you," I said as matter-of-factly as I could, "but I’m involved in a treasure hunt. I’m looking for an envelope that might be hidden underneath the table. Do you mind if I check it out?"
The guy simply goggled and gestured. The woman said:
"Why are you dressed like that?"
"See that van?" I asked.
"There’s a television camera inside and they’re filming me. It’s complicated and all part of a dare, you see. All part of this new fly-on-the-wall stuff."
"Are we on TV, then?" she whispered, suddenly conspiratorial.
"Yep," I whispered back, squatting down to look underneath the table. There, pinned to the wood was an envelope. "Aha," I said in triumph.
"Can we look in the van?"
"I don’t think that would be a good idea," I told her.
"Barry’s very interested in cameras," she went on.
"I’m sorry – I really don’t think the team would like it. They’re very private people. Thanks for your cooperation. I have a deadline to meet. Goodbye."
It was starting to heat up again in the back when I returned with the envelope and ripped it open in front of the girls. I took out the key and unlocked the cable and straps holding Jillian. Again, the key did not fit the lock holding the ball gag wedged behind her teeth, but she was grateful to have her freedom of movement back. The other three secured girls remained rigid against the slats of the van, the black lycra of their uniforms absorbing the sweat now running freely down their arms. Their hair was becoming matted, and Trish again used her damp socks to wipe their faces and skin.
I read the next note aloud.
"E is for Emma – " A pleased snort from the Chinese girl.
"E is for Emma, but not for hotel.
After Emma’s betrothal comes a ceremony as well.
And then a reception in public you see,
And here lies the answer, here lies the key."
I kid you not, this really had me stuffed. It was a strange sight inside the van. We kept the door closed as we pored over the verse. Five girls in shiny netball uniforms, all gagged and three still secured to the wall. Unable to talk Trish and Jillian scribbled down ideas and held up the pad for others to look at. There was a lot of spluttering and grunting going on until we finally focussed on the word ‘hotel’ and kicked some names around. It was Leila who got it again – her tethered hands awkwardly writing "the Marriot". Marry, reception, it all fell into place. The key was at the reception in the Marriot.
Damn, another public performance, I thought, starting the van again to the squeal from only three packed mouths this time.
It was a hot drive back to Brisbane. The sun was overhead but a dark squall front was rolling in from the west. The clock on the dash said it was almost noon and I figured I would have a bunch of hungry females in the back by the time this little quest was over.
The Marriot had only recently been completed in downtown Brizzie. Standing near the old Victorian Customs House on the riverfront, it offered only a tiny area for dropping off guests out the front.
"You girls had better be real quiet," I hissed through the window. There’s a hotel dork in uniform who might get suspicious if there’s too much moaning going on. I’m sorry, but I’ll have to turn the engine off and lock the doors." There was a collective sigh from behind me.
"I’ll just be a minute," I told the dork as he stared at my outfit. "I have to collect something from reception."
I ignored him and strode into the marbled foyer like I owned the place. Unfortunately a group of American tourists all seemingly called Martha and Ernie were milling at the desk in a cloud of nasal complaints. I eased my way through them, noting how they pulled away as they saw the outfit of the intruder and conveyed their displeasure in scarcely less vocal whispers, still designed to carry all the way across the foyer.
I was hot and hungry myself by this time. The PVC was clinging to me and my arms were sweating inside the latex gloves. I was not in the mood for pleasantries.
The girl behind the desk looked at me, not knowing how to react, probably wondering if this was Candid Camera or maybe a test from the management.
"Can I help you?" she asked – politely, to her credit.
"Yes. I believe you may be holding an envelope for me, probably left yesterday by another lady."
"Was she a guest?"
"I really don’t know."
"What name would it be under?"
"Ah – Reynolds – Stephanie Reynolds."
She turned away and opened a drawer which obviously held some sort of indexed dividers. Then she looked up.
"No, I’m sorry, there’s nothing here."
"Anything under Armstrong – Monica Armstrong?" I suddenly felt a hollow in the pit of my stomach as my confidence began to vanish.
"I’m sorry, nothing there either."
I was baffled. Baffled and not a little concerned. I had three girls bound and gagged in the van which was itself being looked on unfavourably by the doorman outside. What did I do now? It had all seemed to fit together so well. I was sure we were in the right place. The girl’s voice interrupted my desperation.
"I’m sorry?" I said.
"You could try the concierge over there." She pointed out his desk.
I edged through the Americans trying to quell the rising panic that was starting to churn through my insides.
The concierge was a man of forty something who obviously thought that I should never have been let in the front door, but whose training was far too ingrained to ever let himself say such a thing.
"Good afternoon Madam," he said, with a trace of emphasis on the last word.
I repeated my request and watched him delve into his own drawer beneath the counter. In unhurried fashion he pulled out a beige envelope and laid it deliberately on the marble surface. A tip was obviously expected, and I could see him wondering from where - with my pocketless PVC dress clinging to my body – might I produce this. I turned half away from him, with as much demureness as I could manage, and undid the zipper of my dress a few centimetres – enough to let me slip a hand in between my breast and the PVC, to where a couple of five-dollar notes still nestled. I had been sweating as much as any of the girls, but it had run between my breasts and down into my corset. The interface between the false breasts and the material of the dress was relatively unaffected.
Zipping up the dress I swapped the envelope for the note and walked out, my heels clacking on the marble. The place seemed much quieter than when I had entered – even the Americans had lowered their voices and I could guess the reason for it all.
The clouds had rolled in and the city was starting to look dark, even though it was only early afternoon. The temperature had dropped with a few spits of rain in the air. The Dork was hovering around the van, looking agitated. While the rear doors had windows, they were lined with reflective film and it was impossible to see inside. If he had been able to see in, then he would really have had something to be agitated about. I ignored him and climbed into the cab, trying also to ignore the muffled yelps from the rear as I started the engine.
"Sorry girls, this isn’t the time or place. Trish?"
The dividing window slid open fully and the mane of tawny hair trapped by the gag strap appeared. I passed her the envelope and pulled out of the Marriot parking bay.
"As soon as we find a quiet spot we’ll look at the next instructions."
Five minutes later I parked near the botanical gardens, and leaving the engine running I stuck my head through the window into the back. Emma had now been freed, leaving only Mary and Leila still bound. Trish handed me the note.
"L is for Leila, cuddly in her way,
A sight for the tourists on any given day.
Parked amongst many, alone in a tree,
Look often and upwards for here lies the key."
I must have looked blank, for then Trish thrust the pad through the window. Amidst scribbles and crossings out was a circle in which was written – Lone Pine – Koalas – trees. Jeez, as if the Americans hadn’t been bad enough, we would now have to show hordes of Japanese tourists what sex-mad Australians got up to in their spare time.
Lone Pine was one of the tourist attractions of Brisbane – a wildlife park only ten klicks from the city centre in the leafy western suburbs close to the river. It was to this place that busloads of visitors plied every day to have their photos taken with cuddly koalas, kangaroos and other assorted and diverse wildlife.
The rain was becoming heavier now as I retraced our route back along Coronation Drive. I was starting to have a real affinity for this road, I thought. What happy memories it would convey to me in the years to come. By the time we had reached Lone Pine car park the rain was drumming steadily on the roof.
I switched off the engine and climbed out, scuttling quickly to the rear doors and climbing in with the girls.
"Well?" I asked. "It’s a big area. Where do I start? Don’t make me go and ask at reception again, please."
Trish took the note and circled the word ‘parked’ with an arrow to the words ‘car park’, then wrote ‘up in a tree’.
"Have you seen the size of the car park?" I asked.
Leila wrote ‘Size isn’t important’ and the girls sniggered as much as they were able from behind their gags. ‘We’ll help’, wrote Jill. I guessed it was gloomy and wet enough so that people would be more concerned about dashing for their cars than to look at the crazy netballers wandering amongst the trees in the rain, never mind the fact that they all had large red balls strapped in their mouths. It was taking a chance, but it might save a lot of time, given the area of the car park, which merged into a large surrounding grassed area with picnic tables. Throughout the whole area were scattered mature trees of various sorts, including an avenue of conifers flanking the main entrance driveway.
I led the team of Trish, Leila, Emma and Jill into the rain now blanketing the city. It was cold and dispiriting as we divided up the area between us. There was a large car park, perhaps a quarter full, with trees located at random places throughout. I elected to search this area, simply because of its proximity to the general public. Fortunately the coach park was located elsewhere, and we were in fact spared the death by a thousand cameras from the Japanese tourists.
I scoured the trees, looking for something – though I was not quite sure what – but to no avail. Every so often I looked across at the wet black shapes a hundred metres distant amongst the thicker patches of trees and those lining the entry road. That was when I saw Emma waving to me.
I ran across to where the others had gathered at the base of one of the large conifers that lined the road in to the place. Typical of Monica to choose the most exposed location, I thought.
"Urrgh ur," said Emma pointing to a zip lock bag tied to a branch about three metres in the air. How did Monica get it up there, I wondered. She must’ve come down here with a ladder. Then the solution hit me – if Monica had come her with a ladder, she would have come here in the van, in which case the height of the van’s roof itself would have been sufficient.
"Bus coming!" I said. "Look away or hide!" The girls, now drenched and shivering in their black skirts and tops averted their faces from the passing curious looks of a Japanese tour bus. "Let’s go back to the van," I suggested.
It was snug in the back of the van, but we had nothing to dry ourselves off with. Mary and Leila, while still bound, were at least dry and warm, unlike the rest of us. My thigh boots were now sodden and sloshy, and while the dress did not exactly absorb water, enough had gone down my neck and cleavage to make me as cold and uncomfortable as the girls whose skirts now clung to their thighs.
I started the van and drove it on to the grass under the trees. Here I stopped, leaving the engine running with the heater going. Unlike the air conditioner this seemed still to work. Trish, with her sneakers on, volunteered to climb on to the roof to retrieve the bag. I boosted her on to the top of the cab with an admonition to be careful with the slippery metal underfoot. She stood up very gingerly, but was easily able to reach the bag. I caught her as she slid down off the cab with a grunt from behind her rubber ball.
We sat, trying to warm ourselves in the rear of the van while Jillian unlocked the straps holding Leila, who groaned with pleasure at the release of her limbs and the cessation of the vibrations inside her. I wished I could say the same, for the batteries in my implant kept going and going and going, every time I stood up. I read the final message from Monica:
‘M is for Mary, whom you have to Admire,
She’s sometimes a bother but always a trier.
She’s cut for this work, in a Minute you’ll see,
So Central to all and there is the key.’
Leila was ahead of us, circling the words with a capital letter. She must have been good at cryptic crosswords, I decided – something I had never understood. There was some mmming and glugging with a few splutters between them. Trish and I cuddled each other to get warm and let the others get on with their deliberations. Finally Leila showed me the finished product. ‘Admire’ was circled with an arrow to ‘At Myer’, with a further arrow to ‘Central’. I was with her thus far – Myers downtown department store. I was not liking the look of this. There was another circle around ‘cut’ and ‘minute’ and ‘key’, with three arrows down to ‘Mr Minit’ key cutters.
"In the Myer Centre?" I asked. Leila nodded vigorously. I sighed. Here we went with another trip along Coro Drive. Monica had even spaced the locations out so as to deliberately prolong the agony for the girls – and particularly for Mary. I might have guessed that she would be last on the list.
I drove into town along what was fast becoming a well-worn route. The Myer Centre was a multi-level department store-type mall smack in the middle of the CBD. On one side it faced on to the newly revamped Queen Street Mall, which had become a favourite hangout for all manner of trendies and pretty much anyone into people watching. There was a bunch of cinemas within a block of the Myer Centre and dozens of restaurants. In short, Monica had deliberately picked Brisbane’s most frequented pedestrian precinct, just to give me a last opportunity to make a fashion statement or whatever it was I was doing. Add to this the fact that it was school holidays and I really was not a happy little vegemite.
I intended to park underneath the Myer Centre, to make as little as possible of the visit to Mr Minit in the public gaze. This seemed like a good plan until I came to a screeching halt at the entrance to the underground park. Trish poked her gagged face through the window and said "Hhhrr?"
"Height restriction," I told her in disgust, pointing to the sign and the hanging bar. I knew there was no way the Transit van with its high rear cabin would ever fit under the bar. "Bollocks," I sighed. "Now I’ll have to find some other car park and walk miles to get there. In the rain. Oh joy."
My prediction wasn’t quite as bad as I had anticipated. I found a park in a vacant lot temporarily designated as parking after a bit of cruising around the area. I was temporarily distracted at one point when – with all the acceleration and slowing and changing of gears, Mary decided to climax with a struggle that rocked the van. When I finally parked and turned off the engine I peered through the window into the back. She was sitting with her eyes closed and legs together, rocking and keening to herself, quivering with the effort she had expended.
"Hopefully this is our last stop," I told them.
"Hnn unn!" said Leila, which I took to be "Good luck."
It was still raining but I found I could walk most of the two blocks under cover of the verandahs that covered most of the footpaths. I was decidedly not looking at my best, although I’ll say this for PVC, it does wear well in the rain. My arse was sore from all this getting in and out activating the plunger, and the vibrator showed no sign of letting up. My boots were cold and clammy, as I was, and there was no shortage of odd looks from people. If this was Fortitude Valley, an area well known for its street walkers, I would probably have hardly warranted a second glance. Mind you, I would probably have had an awful lot of offers from potential clients.
Parking where I had done, I was obliged to walk along a good length of street that crossed the Mall at right angles, through the busiest spot in the whole thing. Here there were not just odd looks, but a good number of comments as well. That said, there were plenty of other odd looking specimens of the human race there as well, so I didn’t see why I should necessarily have been singled out.
Mr Minit was just past MacDonalds in the Myer centre and I found it without trouble. A spotty-faced herbert was behind the counter.
"I believe you have something for me," I said.
"Like what? A key to unlock your handcuffs?"
"An envelope," I told him patiently, but not feeling at all patient.
"Maybe," he relied, eying me up and down. "What’s it worth?"
"And a free pass to your establishment?" he leered.
"So you fancy getting your balls strung up and your arse whipped, do you?" He flushed and reached under the counter, producing an envelope.
"Price has gone up," he said flatly. "Ten bucks – forgot about the GST."
I did my rabbit producing act and produced the last two notes from my cleavage, much to his delight. At that moment I actually had a desire to do what I had suggested to this little punk, but figured it was not the best time and place to make a scene, so I snatched the envelope and left. Mary would not be impressed if I failed to come back with the key, nor would the others with their gags still locked in place.
I could not get out of there fast enough, retracing my steps through the pedestrians and youths hanging out in the Mall with their smart cracks about whips and chains ringing in my ears.
The girls were pretty happy to see me when I returned and tore open the envelope to produce two keys, one of which freed Mary’s bonds and the other which undid the locks on the gags. Poor Mary had been bound for the best part of four hours and the others were all vastly relieved to free their obviously aching jaws of the ball gags. In less than a minute five red rubber balls on matching straps were lying on the floor of the van and the girls were massaging their jaws and talking nineteen to the dozen. I had not appreciated what the deprivation of speech meant to them.
I drove home with Mary beside me. She was strangely quiet and reserved.
"Are you happy at your release today?" she asked after some time.
"It’s been an interesting experience in life. I think I understand you all much better now."
"You’d already done better than most men," said, with sudden warmth in her voice. "It’s been a lot of fun for us, despite everything, and we’re glad you made it through. Maybe now you can enjoy yourself a little more fully."
I returned her smile. "It has been one of my more frustrating months," I admitted.
Monica was waiting for us at the front door with towels. There was much mock abuse and wry comments, but I could detect a genuine note of concern in Monica’s voice as she herded the girls out the back and ordered them into the jacuzzi, uniforms and all, letting them pause only to take off their sneakers. I was given the same treatment.
"What about the dress, Mistress?" I asked.
"Just the boots, Stephie. The dress will be fine. Here’s the pin to your plug, now get in the pool. You look frozen to the bone. I had no idea it was going to rain today. I’m sorry you had to get so wet."
And that was how we came to be sitting in the hot tub under the overhead shade cloth, more or less fully clothed, with Monica serving us champagne and snacks. The warmth flowed through us as we laughed and chattered and the alcohol took over. Suddenly all wrongs and injustices were righted.
After a half hour soak Monica suggested that our clothing was perhaps inappropriate and that we should do something about it. As I climbed out she enveloped me in a big towel and shunted me away from the house, along the worn path across the back lawn to the sleeping quarters.
"I think it’s time you had your old room back," she offered, leading the way up the steps and opening the first door. It had been over a month since I had been in the room on the night I had tried to escape with Jan. That night I had found a wardrobe half-filled with women’s clothing and I had wondered who was then using the room. Now, when Monica opened the wardrobe I recognised the clothes as the ones I had been wearing during my period of slavery.
"You can keep these," she said lightly. "You never know when you might feel like dressing up for a night on the town with the girls." Alongside them were a lot of my own clothes.
"I think I’d like to get back to normal for a bit," I told her. "This whole gender change thing has given me a lot of weird dreams. Sometimes I don’t know if I’m Arthur or Martha."
"Or Steven or Stephanie?"
"You did really well," she said, her voice softening. "I didn’t think you would make it – I truly didn’t."
"I guess it was a rather extreme version of getting in touch with my female side…" I observed wryly.
"Tell me honestly – did you enjoy it? Any of it?"
"Well, I have to say, you girls do get to wear some really cool clothes, and yeah, it did have its moments. The worst part was the frustration of the whole thing. There I was with two lovely tits to play with, but nothing else!"
Monica laughed, her eyes flashing in a way I found quite captivating.
"We need to free you up properly. Let me cut the wires on your corset." I saw, laid out on the dressing table, a pair of wire cutters, scissors, a scalpel and some lotions of some sorts in several bottles. "It may take a little time to remove your accessories," she said, "and we may need some help."
I removed the shiny PVC dress and hung it up in the closet. My fishnet stockings went in the laundry basket. Monica cut the crimped wire at the base of the corset and handed me the key to the crotch flaps.
"Can you manage the rest yourself?" she asked. I nodded, and on impulse held her face and kissed her, hard and on the mouth. She responded, then broke free with a flustered look – perhaps the only time I had ever seen such, possibly because it was a rare occasion when she was not calling the shots.
"I-I must check on the girls," she said, smoothing her hair with her hands. "Come and join the party as soon as you’re …yourself." Then she was gone.
I undid the padlock holding the flaps closed and worked the wires loose at the back before retiring to the bathroom to ease that infernal butt plug out. The feeling of freedom and relief as the garment dropped to the floor was wonderful, almost euphoric. I ran a shower and then concentrated on my hair, breasts and Mr Willy.
It was the latter area that gave me most concern. I immediately chopped the excess length of clear plastic tube off, which would allow me all my normal functions except an erection. I had noticed, however, that over the last week or so my breasts had started to come loose at the edges, and constant picking at the flesh-coloured rubber had resulted in a separation from my skin. I had been reluctant to pursue this activity for fear of being found out and having the things glued back again. It gave me hope, however, that in the course of my skin’s natural regeneration that the bond was breaking down, and this I now found to be the case. It took me perhaps twenty minutes to remove my lovely tits intact. Most importantly I could then peel away the two donut-shaped electrode pads that encircled my nipples and which had caused me so much grief.
My hair had started to grow somewhat under the rubber boobs, whereas the surrounding skin had suffered another depilatory process halfway through my sentence. All in all, while the outlines were evident, it was not too bad after I had used some of the lotions and solvents to remove the last of the glue.
My head had fared in much the same way. The wig was manufactured on a net, which had been glued to my naked scalp. My own hair had in fact grown through this net in the course of a month and the net itself was well advanced in coming free, such that with a little persuasion I was able to remove it with little detriment. The month’s growth of hair concealed the glue tracks that would otherwise have been evident.
It was only Mr Willy that really concerned me. I reckoned I could slit the clear plastic pipe form the outermost end, but I was worried that there might still be a fair bit of adhesion to what was a very sensitive part of my anatomy.
It was a delicate operation, I freely admit, sitting on the floor of the shower with scissors, scalpel and solvents. It proved to have a most remarkable sobering influence on the champagne I had previously drunk. It was harder in some ways than the boobs had been, simply because Mr Willy could be a bit of a coward when such dangerous implements were floating about, and he consequently lacked the smooth face of skin to separate the plastic from. Nevertheless, after some delicate surgery, he was finally free, and again I luxuriated under the shower, giving my various parts the best wash they had had in a month.
It was till raining and nearly dark when I emerged. The girls were still in the Jacuzzi, but now wearing their swimsuits. I joined them and more champagne went down. Pizzas had just arrived and I was the focus of attention. I had left in my sleeper earings which the girls thought particularly hip, but I still had on the stainless steel collar. I had still not decided how I was going to get it off – if at all. At that point in time, however, I was not at all concerned about it, so pleased was I to have my body back and functioning properly. I had lost half a dozen kilos during my period of servitude, and the girls reckoned it had done me a treat. They said they liked my new stainless steel punk image.
I was halfway through about my fifth slice of pizza when I realised Monica was not there. I asked where she was.
"She was called away," Mary said, "but she left this for you." It was an envelope with my (male) name on it.
"Haven’t I had enough of Monica and her envelopes today?" I asked of nobody in particular. Sitting on the side of the pool I tore it open and stared at the cheque for five thousand dollars. The girls were quiet, all watching me and smiling.
"Thank you," I said simply. "It means a lot to me what you did – the faith you had in me."
"It was fun," said Leila simply.
"Our absolute pleasure," Mary added.
"Yours, anyway," Trish said to her slyly, and I felt myself colour with the recollection of Mary and myself in the dungeon.
Time seemed to slip past and I felt myself becoming wrinkled like a prune. At length we decided to call it a night. The day had been long and stressful for all of us, and bed seemed very inviting. I climbed out and received a goodnight kiss from Leila, Emma and Jillian. Mary and Trish stood by as the other three headed for their rooms.
"What?" I asked, in response to their appraising looks.
"We lied," Mary said. "Monica was otherwise detained, which is why she wasn’t here. Come with us. Lead on MacTrish."
I followed the two of them up the stairs and along the corridor to Monica’s bedroom. Trish knocked on the door.
"Are you decent, Mon?" There was a grunt from the other side. Trish pushed the door open.
I was stunned by the sight of Monica stretched out naked and spreadeagled on her bed, her wrists and ankles secured by sashcord to the corners in a wide star shape. The room was unlit save for the light from a dozen candles on the dresser, the bedside tables and a bookcase. Most conspicuously, a candle burned low on each of Monica’s breasts, located over nipple in the centre of radiating runnels of solidified wax that ran down the sides of her breasts. Some had run on to the bedclothes while some had congealed between those lovely mounds.
Monica was gagged with a complex harness gag, but was not blindfolded. A large vibrator had been jammed into her pussy using a pole braced back to the foot of the bed. On her stomach was written in felt pen:
"Welcome Back Steven!"
Monica slowly turned her big luminous eyes towards me. The room seemed deathly silent and I could hear the hum of the vibrator inside her.
"We’ll be off, then Steven," said Trish gently. "You’re happy to let Steven have his way with you, Monica dear? "
Monica slowly inclined her head up and down.
"Uh-huh," she moaned, and I knew it was a moan of anticipation, and nothing else. As if in response, I could feel Mr Willy stand at attention and demand an audience.
"Thanks girls," I whispered, closing the door behind them.
|Monica's Story continues in Monica's Quest|
|All comments welcome at firstname.lastname@example.org.
© R.Alexander 2006
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bondage stories : alexander stories