|Gromet's Plaza||Richard Alexander Stories|
|by Richard Alexander|
|firstname.lastname@example.org | Forum Feedback|
|© 2003 - Richard Alexander - Used by permission.|
|storycodes: M/f; bondage; cons; XXX|
|Monica's Games - Part One Book 4 of the Monica Chronicles by Richard Alexander|
|Monica's Games: 1.1 Chance Encounter by Richard Alexander M/f; bondage; cons; XXX|
|Chapter One: Chance Encounter|
Like most disastrous situations, the reason Mary, Trish and I came to be in Monica's Real Bad Books began with an insignificant event. In this case it was a problem with the closed circuit television. This was the reason I came to be working in the Observation Room in the basement of Bilboes at eleven o'clock at night. The main reason was that the room had been in use for the whole day, and the bookings indicated it would be in use for the next few days. Which was why I was on the night repair shift. On this particular night, however, we had no overnight guests and there was no supervisory night shift by the girls as a result. I had the place to myself and was busy searching for what I thought was a loose connection somewhere, when the light came on in Room One, the adjacent room that could be viewed through the one-way mirror from the Observation Room.
Room One was also known as the Chair Room, or Interrogation Room. Normally it was an empty room save a heavy wooden chair bolted to the floor in the centre. The chair had Velcro straps that could very effectively and very quickly immobilise someone, and it was under these conditions that various interrogation techniques could be used. Recently, at Monica's request, I had unbolted the chair and moved it to the corner of the room, leaving ample space for anything else that the girls wished to do to a hapless victim. The only things present on the floor were a couple of large triangular wooden blocks that looked like a runner's starting blocks, but slightly bulkier, and which were bolted to the floor nearly a metre apart. Typically these were used to adjust the height of a victim for convenient penetration.
I was astonished to see the Interrogation Room door open and Monica walk in, followed by Warren, long-time patron and major stakeholder in Bilboes since the disastrous encounter with Madam Wong and Portia a month previously, when clientele had fallen to zero, along with our cash flow.
Clearly they were about to partake in a little private session, for Monica's wrists were crossed and bound behind her. I had heard rumours of what the pair got up to, though this was only conjecture based what some of the other girls had experienced at Warren's unmerciful hands. Monica herself would never confirm or deny the nature of her relationship, but girls being girls all manner of speculation had been offered. Usually the pair simply disappeared into one of the bedrooms upstairs where there were no prying television cameras, and Monica was predictably uncommunicative concerning events that transpired.
In this instance I suppose I could have made myself scarce, but curiosity got the better of me. In the Observation Room I was watching through the one-way glass and the pair had no way of even telling if the OR light was on, much less whether there was anybody watching them. Nor, for that matter, should they even have had a reason to consider the possibility at that hour.
Warren, dressed in black leather pants and a black silk shirt, closed and locked the heavy steel door behind them. He carried a large canvas holdall which he placed on the big chair in the corner. Monica stood in the centre of the room. She wore high-heeled black shoes with ankle straps and black stockings. The garters supporting them peeped out from below a black satin slip that stopped just below her crotch. She wore matching satin gloves that reached above her elbows, and looked as though she had been abducted just before she had had time to put on her ball gown. Black was clearly the dress code for the evening.
In contrast with the black clothing, and standing out against the raven-coloured hair, Monica was gagged with a white ball gag on a matching white strap. Her shoulder-length hair covered the strap for the most part where it buckled at the back of her neck, but I could tell from the angle of her jaw that it was locked hard in her mouth and tightly secured there. Also encircling Monica's neck at a slightly lower level was a stainless steel collar, bolted in place. It was obviously one of those that Portia had had made for us in her brief time as Queen of Bilboes.
Monica made no sound as Warren, all business, moved to the side of the room and released the ratchet on a hand winch. From an overhead pulley nearly above the starting blocks, a thin steel cable descended with a spreader bar clipped to the end. Warren moved to one wall and opened the grey metal cabinet. Most rooms in the basement had these, for they contained the main items necessary for the business that was carried on in these dark precincts. More specialised gear was held in the central storeroom, but the basics were always to be found in the cabinets.
Warren took out two heavy leather suspension cuffs, the kind that buckle around the wrist and extend out into a steel ring secured by folds of reinforced leather. Without undoing Monica's wrists, he buckled the cuffs in place over the satin gloves so that the rings hung down past her fingers. Perhaps knowing her fate and accepting it, Monica stood quietly as Warren attached one cuff to the end of the bar with a padlock, then undid the wrist ropes.
Even if Monica had tried to escape, she would have been on a loser with one wrist already secured. As it was, she allowed Warren to lock the other cuff to the bar in front of her, and at that point she knew all hope of reprieve was lost.
Warren had not spoken a word since they had entered the room, and it appeared that such was not his style. The efficiency of his movements and the complete submission of Monica I found at once astonishing and somehow enthralling. Warren now turned his prisoner so that she was looking straight at me, although obviously only able to see her reflection in the mirror between us. The single light bulb above her cast shadows below her breasts on the smooth black satin over her belly. I could see the smaller shadows beneath two nubs thrusting against the material pulled tight against her breasts. Monica, for all her helplessness, remained elegant and composed in the face of something unknown and probably unpleasant that was about to befall her. Her eyes were fixed straight ahead of her, looking uncannily like they were staring into my own.
I turned up the sound from the microphone that was located in the dungeon. Silence except for a faint hissing came to my ears, then the sound of a footstep from Warren, who had been contemplating Monica for a few seconds as she shifted her weight slightly on her high heels. More footsteps, followed by a ratcheting, clicking noise as Warren began to turn the winch and Monica's spread arms rose slowly above her. Her gagged face expressionless, she let them rise, occasionally glancing up to adjust the angle of the cuffs as her limbs slowly tightened.
Warren stopped when her arms were nearly taut, then walked slowly round her. He had a riding crop in his hand and every few seconds he slapped it against the side of his leg. The noise sounded loud and echoed against the bare concrete block walls. He moved close behind her and slid the crop up between her legs. Monica shuddered ever so slightly.
"Stay," I heard him say very quietly, as one would to a dog. He let go of the crop and it remained horizontal, protruding from Monica's crotch, half supporting the hem of her slip. Warren moved against her and reached around her to grasp a breast in each hand through the shiny material. Monica closed her eyes briefly but made no sound as his fingers traced little circles around the nipples then gripped them and twisted. Monica's eyes shut again, this time accompanied by a faint grimace of pain and a soft grunt through her nose.
"Enjoying the show?" asked a husky Canadian-accented voice in my ear. I jumped. I had been so intent on Monica I had not heard the door open and close in the OR, nor heard Trish's sneakers on the concrete floor. Trish smiled. "You perv. Don't you get enough during daylight hours?" I felt myself blush.
"And don't you get enough that you have to go round sneaking up on people like that? I came here to fix the tv connection. What's your excuse? Spying on Monica?" I meant the question lightly, but Trish's face clouded.
"No. Spying on Warren."
"I'maybe later, okay? I wanna see what the high priestess gets up to."
I didn't press Trish on what seemed to be an indiscretion that had more to it than met the eye. I assumed she would tell me when she was ready. I was certainly right there, but at that moment I confess I too was enthralled by what was going on in the next room.
Warren had released his hold on Monica's breasts and removed the crop from between her leg. He moved round in front of her and began guiding her backwards with nudges from the crop until her feet were at the starting blocks. He backed her up the inclined ramps of the blocks until she was perhaps ten centimetres above the floor, her arms pulling back on the spreader bar like a trapeze artist about to launch. The distance between the blocks meant her legs were spread wide, the high heels further accenting the curve of her nylon-clad calves.
"Stay," said Warren again, as he knelt on one knee to wrap several turns of white sashcord around her left ankle then secure it to an eyebolt at the back of the block. A minute later her right ankle was tethered similarly, and I could see the first minute tremors starting in her thigh muscles as Monica struggled to hold the position. Warren walked to the winch and began to crank further. As the cable tightened on the bar, Monica was pulled upwards and forwards, finally succumbing with a muffled cry as she fell outwards and hung by her wrists from the bar, her feet now anchored to the blocks.
Warren strolled across to his prisoner and out came the riding crop again, sliding under Monica's chin, down the front of her body, then down the inside of her leg. Monica was bent like a bow, her feet firmly bound to the blocks but her body pulled forward and upwards. Her breasts quivered under the black satin and I could see the quivering in her thigh muscles as the strain came to bear. Despite her predicament, she looked stunning with the light glinting on her hair and the shimmering satin of the gloves and slip. Her legs were as perfect as I have ever seen in a woman, smooth and firm, held stretched apart by the ankle ropes.
There was a crack as the riding crop struck home on the inside of Monica's thigh. She made no sound but I saw the flinch in her face above the ball strapped in her mouth. Warren began a slow tattoo up and down the black nyloned legs, the leather flap at the end of the crop beating a regular and insistent message on her flesh. Monica's eyes closed but her head remained level. I wondered what she was thinking.
Warren paused every few strokes. They were not hard blows, but I suspected he was working up to that, getting the blood circulating and making the skin more sensitive for the torment that was undoubtedly still to come. In between each little flurry of blows he let his hands rove across her body, feeling the taut flesh under the satin that barely covered her modesty, then sliding his fingers through her crotch or cupping his hand there to feel the moisture that I knew would be beginning to form.
Warren returned to the cabinet and selected what I saw to be a series of weights. He held them in front of Monica's eyes, and for the first time she displayed some form of emotion as she shook her head. It was a token gesture made by one who realises that nothing they say or do is going to make a difference to the outcome. It was not a denial, not a plea, more a futile expression of resigned protest by one in a hopeless situation.
Warren crouched in front of her and there was a small clattering sound as the various metallic devices were placed on the concrete floor. Warren selected two from the pile. They were short T-shaped metal weights with nasty clips at the end of the inverted tee. The cross piece was magnetic and the weight could be gradually increased by adding further steel disks to the underside of the crosspiece. In short, it was a nasty little implement, and I sympathised with Monica as far as any guy could comprehend what having two of these attached to the lips of your pussy must be like.
Monica's crotch was hidden by the hem of her slip but I could soon see the pair of steel tees hanging just below it. They clinked together gently as Warren attached two further weights to them.
"Owwee…" breathed Trish beside me.
Monica uttered a faint groan as her tormentor then stood up and proceeded to take the riding crop to her buttocks in a series of swift strikes that made her jerk and the weights jingle. Then Warren reached into his pocket and my blood ran cold as he extracted a pocketknife. For a horrible moment I wondered if the pair had some bizarre pact that involved blood-letting, but instead Warren sliced through the shoulder straps of the slip then slit it down the front from top to bottom.
Monica showed more animation then–perhaps suppressed outrage at the fate of what was presumably an expensive piece of lingerie. She mmphed a garbled protest behind the ball, her brow furrowed with evident displeasure. With what Warren was paying for the privilege of doing unspeakable things to her, I figured Monica's annoyance was unjustified, and not a very tactful outburst to display under the circumstances.
Warren ignored her, letting the garment slide slowly down her back, then her legs, on to the floor. Monica wore a garter belt that held up her stockings, and I saw also that her nipples sported the stainless steel padlocks that Portia had had made for Monica and myself. How many such souvenirs of the Chinese occupation still seemed to linger in Bilboes, I marvelled.
Monica was not marvelling, however, for the pierced nipples with their polished accessories proved perfect receptacles for more weights, deftly placed by Warren. He alternated now between flogging and weight lifting, using two floggers from the cabinet. The first was a short-handled one with perhaps a dozen thongs that was good for close-quarter work. The second had a longer handle and only half as many thongs, but they were but longer and plaited, and it was this weapon that was clearly the more painful of the two. Warren was an expert with it, using his wrist to angle the stroke where he wished, from a distance such that only the tips landed, at maximum velocity.
I was forced to watch Monica's expression as he went to work on her back. I could not see the result from where I was, but with each crack I could see her flinch, the weights on her breasts and pussy swaying as Warren set up a rhythm like a boxer on a punch bag, a rhythm which reflected in the reactions from Monica's tautly strung body. Stretched out as she was, there was not a lot of scope for movement, but what there was reflected in a swaying of her breasts and a clinking of the lower weights. No matter how tightly the human body is bound, it will usually find some outlet for movement when pain is imposed, and Monica was no exception. I watched her gloved hands open and close, her torso sway from side to side. My overactive imagination conjured up images of welts and bruises forming on the delicate flesh of her back.
Warren now stepped up the beating and applied more weights to the padlocks in her nipples. Monica's breasts were pulled downwards and as a further lead ball on a wire was hooked through each padlock, she gave a groan of real discomfort. It meant nothing to her captor, however, who stepped behind her again and let loose a series of hard strokes across her buttocks with the flogger. Monica cried out this time, her scream muted to a nasal moan by the ball strapped in her mouth. Warren ran his hands over her body again, adding four further weights to the pendulous burdens at breast and pussy. Monica moaned again and shook her head in real pain. For the first time I found myself wondering if we should interfere. I looked at Trish, and saw the same doubt in her eyes.
It was an awful position we found ourselves in. I knew nothing of the arrangement between the pair, either in financial or sexual terms. In the year and a half I had known Monica, I still had no real knowledge of her true sexual fantasies–the deepest longing that perhaps a woman admitted only to herself in her darkest dreams. For I reckoned Monica's desires would be something special, something out of the ordinary that she would most likely never let on to the other girls. Appearance was everything to Monica. Proud and arrogant and obsessive as she could be, she still had a vulnerable side which she kept hidden, but which we knew was there.
Faced with this, we had to decide what was going on between these two. While Monica insisted we always used safewords with our clients, I wondered if she did the same with Warren. Would that add to the buzz of the scene, knowing that she could not have recourse to a safeword? Was that what Warren demanded? Just how far would he push her up to or beyond her limits? How far would she push herself for that matter? If we intervened, it could mean enormous loss of face for Monica, plus possible withdrawal of financial support from Warren, and no doubt a painful punishment experience for us.
"Should we…?" I whispered to Trish, but she shook her head with the certainty of one woman's understanding of another.
I concluded that short of bloodletting or some sort of bizarre suffocation ritual, we would be forced to watch the entire scene. Somehow, I could not walk away, just in case the unthinkable did occur. I was conscious now of Trish's grip on my arm tightening as we stood glued to the window.
Time seemed to stop as a narrow flat-bladed paddle was produced and made echoing cracks against Monica's flesh. The long flogger was then used on the tightly strained flesh of Monica's stomach and the vulnerable targets that were her breasts. Monica was crying now, uttering small plaintive cries into her gag and shaking her head in protest, but still no hummed safe tune or garbled code word.
I was at first puzzled, then quite stunned at what came next, when Warren dragged the chair closer to the bound figure. From the holdall he took what turned out to be a piece of chalk and began to draw on the concrete floor. Lines began to encompass the bound woman–lines that swiftly turned into a pentangle. A minute later the pentangle was outlined with burning candles and the light had been switched off.
I became conscious that my mouth was open and that a flood of thoughts was racing through my brain. Were we watching some sort of satanic ritual? Was Monica seriously involved in this sort of thing? The scene beyond the window became more eerie and Trish drew closer. I could sense a trembling in her body that suggested something was going beyond her experience. In the ghostly light of two more candles positioned on the chair which was almost behind Monica, Warren took out a large leather-bound book and positioned it on the arm of the chair before beginning to read.
The words made no sense to me. It was like some foreign language that I had never heard, but somehow they sent shivers down my spine. Warren's voice was deep and forbidding, reading something that might have been a chant or incantation. Monica did not move, but hung as a centrepiece, her taut flesh lit by the dancing candle flames. At one point Warren paused, and taking one of the candles moved it over his victim's body, letting the hot wax drip in runnels down her breasts then holding the flame for several seconds near her crotch until she twisted and squirmed in her ropes, grunting into the gag.
Then he returned to his book for a brief second reading, before pulling from his bag a small dove. I barely registered what came next. A twist of the wrist and the bird's neck was broken, followed by a flick of the pocketknife and blood was dripping on the floor.
"Oh God…" Trish exclaimed quietly.
Warren, his hands bloody, traced several signs on Monica's body. This act seemed to bring her to life, for she tried to recoil from him, but could not, and could only swing helplessly from side to side as his bloodied fingers left whorls on her breasts and some sort of symbol on her sternum. Monica struggled as best she was able, a look of undisguised panic in her eyes.
I have to say at this point that I am neither particularly religious nor am I superstitious, but what I was seeing then was making the hairs stand up on the back of my neck. How much was Monica a part of this, and how much was she an unwilling victim? I hesitated, wondering if this really had gone too far or if it was all some bizarre role-play. The weirdness of the scene was only exceeded by it's creepiness.
The candles were burning lower, and one had already gone out. Whether through the darkening of the room or an increase in the smoke given off, the two figures seemed to become less distinct, as though some sort of mist was slowly condensing. Trish shivered beside me, for the temperature in the Observation Room appeared to have dropped several degrees.
I suppose it didn't really surprise me when Warren, now standing behind Monica, finally undid his zip. Monica's initially proud bearing had collapsed by now. Her body was bathed in a sheen of sweat and her head hung, her face hidden by the curtain of black hair. This exhausted look changed at the moment of penetration, as she lifted her head and let loose a long muted moan, her eyes wide and her hands clenched. Even after the pain inflicted on her and the tension forced into her body by the stringent restraints, she still found an extra strength to fight the invader entering her back passage, squirming and panting loudly in response. Her breathing became hoarser and more ragged as the man pushed further into her then began to move in a rhythm. Warren was now embedded up to the hilt and Monica's eyes were wide and staring, her head erect.
Amidst the gagged protests from Monica, I could hear Warren's voice, or what I presumed was his voice, for somehow it seemed deeper and more menacing. I tried to understand what he was saying, but the shadowy figure behind Monica was not speaking any tongue that I knew.
More candles began to splutter and die, sending wreaths of smoke upwards around the two figures locked together in intimate struggle. It probably did not take long, but it seemed like an hour before Warren climaxed, his bloodied hands reaching round his prisoner and gripping her breasts as the base voice roared in ecstasy from the semi-darkness. What was astonishing was that Monica climaxed simultaneously, gasping and moaning behind the ball in her mouth, her body rigid with the intensity of the act.
It had been building up to this moment, I realised then, just as I realised that I was gripping the edge of the bench in front of me so tightly that my knuckles had gone white and Trish's and my breath was condensing on the glass of the window. By the light of the last guttering candle I saw the glint of that awful knife that Warren had, and the movement of the other hand as he grasped a handful of Monica's hair and pulled her head back, exposing the whiteness of her throat ringed by the stainless steel collar.
My heart jumped in horror, as I realised that the dove was just a lead up to the sacrifice of&@8230:Monica! Monica tried to fight her attacker, to buck, to jerk, but the knife at her throat was steady and the hoarse unintelligible chant continued more loudly. I reacted instinctively, slamming my hand on the button that operated the microphone.
"Noooo!" I shouted. "Monicaaa!" I was frantic, and the flat, deadpan sound of my own voice told me at that moment that the microphone was not working! I pushed the button again, but the red light that would normally indicate a connection stubbornly refused to light up.
Trish had already dashed to the door, not considering the fact that along the corridor the dungeon door had been locked by Warren after the pair had entered the room. Forward thinking was not our strong suit at that moment. Trish grabbed the handle of the Observation Room door and ran smack into it as it refused to budge. I pushed her out of the way and rattled the handle with both hands, throwing all my strength against the door, in vain. Only then did I turn back to the viewing window, filled with dread at what I might see.
The room was dark. The last candle had died and blackness had taken its place. I was filled with dread that I had been powerless to prevent this thing that now left me trembling. Impotently I banged on the window, but it was futile, for whatever else I had done, I had built the basement doors and windows to be soundproof and to withstand impact. I was shaking now. I could not believe what I had seen. So this was what the real Warren thing had been all about! Christ! How could she have deceived us so well? Now it had led to this…
Trish hugged me, tears streaking her cheeks, but my mind and body were numb, my brain not thinking about what to do. There was a phone on the bench and I picked up the receiver, only to find the line was dead. Now enraged, I slammed it down with a force that shattered the plastic casing. I was probably crying by now, as well. I wasn't conscious of it, but my vision was watery and my cheeks were wet as I got up and again tried the door handle. The phone breaking seemed to have drained my anger, and at once I was weak and at a loss for what to do. To my surprise the door opened easily, as though nothing had been amiss with the handle, which I could have sworn had been locked. Unsteadily I moved into the corridor ahead of Trish and along to the door to the dungeon. Here I paused, not knowing what I was going to see but dreading it.
Unexpectedly, the door was unlocked and swung open. An acrid smell of smoke reached my nose, but no sound could be heard. I fumbled for the light switch but the bulb seemed to have blown. By the light from the corridor I saw the spreader bar hanging freely and I knew the room was empty. The candles remained, outlining the just visible pentangle on the floor. In the centre of this I could make out some dark stains, but the dead dove was gone as was the book and holdall. Monica's black slip remained on the floor as the only evidence of recent human occupancy.
Back in the corridor there was no sign of any further blood, nor on the stairs. We knew then that Monica was probably very much alive, and that we had witnessed an outlandish scenario obviously concocted between them to conjure up new heights of ecstasy. The intensity of the scene was one thing, but the string of spooky little occurrences that had prevented us interfering left us unsettled, but also relieved and even irritated that we had been so taken in
"Damn Monica!" whispered Trish. "She got us sucked in big time!"
"Yeah, all that supernatural stuff."
"I wonder how much she really had to do with it?" Trish mused. "I reckon Warren was the brains behind it. That dove thing was disgusting. Monica would never go with that."
"I reckon he had her going as much as us," I said. "I think she was really scared in there. I think our Warren is a loose cannon given to scaring the crap out of people."
"Really?" said Trish, looking at me quizzically in the dim corridor light. "It's interesting to hear you say that…" She stopped. Footsteps sounded on the steps coming down to the basement. "Shhh! Someone's coming!"
We ducked round the corner of the little hallway that ran around the outside of the storeroom and waited as the footsteps got louder, echoing in the silence of the basement. Trish peaked around the corner, then stepped out.
"It's Mary. God, I thought Monica or Warren was coming back…"
"You look like you've seen a ghost," Mary said, a fleeting expression of concern passing across her face. "What happened down here?"
"Monica and Warren got off on a scary supernatural thing," Trish explained. "It sure had us rattled. We were ready to go in and rescue her, but the damned door jammed, and by the time we got out they'd gone."
"They're up in her room now," Mary said. "And guess what? I found out all sorts of interesting stuff."
"Just what are you two up to?" I asked, thinking - after I'd said it - that perhaps this was something I'd be better off not knowing about.
"I'm glad you asked that," said Mary, slipping her arm through mine and taking Trish by the hand. "Why don't we go somewhere quiet and have a little chat. I think you're just the person we need."
* * *
We sat on the little grassy knoll above the sleeping quarters where the back lawn started to merge into wilder untamed bush. From here we could make out the dim silhouette of the house and the one light still on in Monica's room. Everything else was dark save the night sky. In our location on the fringes of the urban sprawl the light pollution was less and under a nearly full moon the milky way streamed overhead like a scattering of confetti on black velvet. I would have felt privileged to be with two women like Mary and Trish under such potentially romantic circumstances at any other time. In this particular instance, however, I had an uneasy sensation that something was about to fall on me from a height, from which I would not be able to extricate myself.
"Remember when Madam Wong and Portia were here?" asked Mary.
"I try not to."
"But sometimes they get into your mind, even when you're asleep," Trish said, her voice barely a whisper.
"We haven't talked about what happened to Trish and me," Mary said, "because we know everyone suffered in different ways. And at the end of it all we had the satisfaction of sending the pair on their merry way with their tails between their legs. Of course that wasn't all they had between their legs, and that was satisfying as well."
"And we know Megan got taken down a few pegs and was made to realise the error of her ways. Which of course worked out well with Debbie now keeping an eye on the Citadel."
"And the point of all this is?"
"The point, my dear boy," explained Mary patiently, "is that have you noticed that all the females have been punished, but your own gender has been remarkably absent in the retribution stakes."
"But" Do you mean Warren? But he's a client! He pays a fair part of your salaries, in case you haven't noticed. And he's bailed out Monica and the mortgage on Bilboes."
"Yes, and who was part of the team engineering that situation in the first place?" Mary demanded.
"What are you suggesting?" I asked.
"We're suggesting it's payback time for Warren," said Mary firmly.
"Monica will go ballistic! You'll get kicked out on your ear!"
"Monica doesn't have to find out," Mary said determinedly.
"Look, Steven," Trish began, her approach at once gentler. "There's more to it that what you see. We haven't really spoken of this with the others. They know about it in general terms, but not the details. They know Mary and I were selected to service Warren and his mates because we're Dommes. We're not switches and don't get our kicks from doing that. I'm not saying we don't mind being tied up from time to time, but we are not submissives and hate being treated as such.
"We were kept for two days in extreme bondage in the basement, while Warren played with us. I won't go into what they did. You wouldn't want to know," she finished.
"Steven, Trish and I are tough," Mary said as though stating one of the undisputed truths of the universe. "We've both been in the business a long time and have seen it all. Physically we're capable of enduring these things, and aside from the odd nightmare, we'll get over it. In this business it's a risk you accept. But that doesn't mean its right what he did, nor that he should continue to get away with it. We want to teach him a lesson."
As we spoke, the light in Monica's window went out and the fullness of the night enveloped us, studded with the noises of crickets in the bush. There was a screech as a flying fox flew overhead. I glimpsed the sinister shape against the sky and felt Trish shiver against me, even though the night was warm.
"It's important that he doesn't do the same thing to others. Leila and Emma probably could have handled the submissive element, but not the bondage," Trish added. "Either way, we're all in this occupation by choice. The problems would arise if and when he starts doing this sort of thing on an amateur basis."
"So what are you going to do? Kidnap him and beat him up?" I asked.
"…Something along those lines," Trish agreed seriously.
"Trish, tell me you're kidding."
"Straight up, Steven."
"And Monica? She'll go ape."
"She won't find out. Warren won't want to tell her about what we put him through," Mary predicted. "I had a good look through his things tonight while Trish was keeping watch. I checked out his briefcase, wallet and papers. I've got some ideas for him."
"I'll bet you have," I murmured, glad I was not going to be the target of Mary's retribution.
"And after what we've seen him do to Monica tonight, she'll appreciate him being pulled into line," Trish said.
"I thought you said she wouldn't find out?"
"Even if she does, she'll understand where we're coming from."
"Good luck," I said, not at all convinced. "So why are you telling me all this?"
"We didn't want to involve you, but we thought you'd help us. Meeting you tonight was fortuitous. We thought you'd see the justice in our cause." Trish's eyes looked like two black pools in the moonlight, pleading me to join them. God, these women knew a soft touch when they saw one.
"I see a lot of pain and tears," I said.
"But will you help us?"
"Against my better judgement–okay."
* * *
I was woken from an exhausted sleep by the beeping of the phone beside my bed. I struggled to come to my senses, my head full of the bizarre images I had witnessed some hours before, not knowing how much was real and how much I had dreamt.
"Steven?" It was Monica.
"What's the matter? Are you all right?" Monica sounded considerably more together than I did.
"What time is it?"
"It's six o'clock. I need you to come over and do me a favour."
"Um... sure. What is it?"
"Just get over here, and bring a spanner. Oh, and you know those nice little nipple padlocks of yours that match mine?"
"Bring the keys."
* * *
Monica was wearing her black satin dressing gown when I entered her room. She looked calm and relaxed as the morning sun streamed through the large windows that looked out at tree-level over the bush. She had her back to me, and when she turned and smiled I saw that the steel collar was still secured around her throat. I didn't know what to say. Not about that, so much, but about what I had seen in the basement.
"Warren left me a little present," she said with the hint of a chuckle, slipping her finger inside the shiny collar.
"Suits you," I teased. "You ought to wear it more often."
Her expression hardened and I knew I was on dangerous ground. Suggesting to a Domme that she should take on some form of subbie demeanour or dress was not a good career move, especially when that Domme paid your monthly salary.
"Sorry," I murmured.
"Just take it off," she said sharply, turning the metal ring so that the nut and bolt was at the back of her neck. She lifted her black hair up with both hands to allow me access. She smelt of soap and shampoo and her skin was warm and smooth. It took only a moment to undo the bolt and remove the collar. Facing me again, she opened her robe and dropped it so that it hung over her bent arms. Her breasts jutted provocatively, the shanks of the stainless steel padlocks impaled through her nipples, but the surrounding skin looking mottled and bruised. She gave me a sheepish look.
"Warren took the keys with him," she said.
"Must have been quite an uncomfortable night for you," I suggested. She eyed me strangely as I pulled my own matching set of keys from my pocket and unlocked the first padlock.
"Why do you say that?"
"Oh–you know, having to sleep with these on, and the collar" I hope Warren wasn"t too severe…"
She seemed to pull her thoughts back to the present at that point.
"Uh–no, I was too exhausted to notice. But thanks for asking. You know, Warren is a necessary–evil. We need his money, and we need to pay off the mortgage he now holds and extracts at exorbitant rates. It might almost have been better to go belly up," she said quietly.
There was an awkward pause between us. I didn't know what to say, thinking of the humiliation and torture she had undergone in the dungeon to help keep us all in business. It was pain she would never admit to. I wondered how much of it was at her own behest…
Monica's Games continues in Chapter Two: Blind Man's Shoot Out
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26.03.03 | updated - 12.04.17
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© R.Alexander 2006
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