|Gromet's Plaza - Richard Alexander Stories|
© 2003 - Richard Alexander - Used by permission
Illustrations Copyright Dan Dofogh - 2003 - Used by kind permision
|storycodes: F/m; Sbf; bondage; cons; X|
|grometsplaza - www.grometsplaza.cjb.net
Monica’s Games – Part I
Chapter Four: Crime and Punishment
by Richard Alexander
with Illustrations by Dan Dofogh
(click on images to enlarge, will open in new window)
Monica’s Games – Part I Chapter Four: Crime and Punishment
The following morning I drove over to our sister establishment, the Citadel, in my ute. The back of the vehicle contained a fair range of my tools, since I expected to be working there for some time. My idyll of sleeping, working and dining well in the same place had been abruptly taken from me, and I was about to become a commuter again, making my way back and forth from Brisbane’s west side to the south east. Oh well, I thought, it had been good while it lasted.
I met Monica there. She had been sulking during breakfast at Bilboes, unlike Trish, who seemed to have taken the events of the previous afternoon and evening in her stride. She had even winked at me. Mary, predictably, had not put in an appearance at all. By the time I entered the inner precinct of the Citadel, Monica, Megan and Debra - the Gang of Three, as we called them behind their backs - were in earnest discussion in Megan’s office.
Since Monica had bought into the Citadel and had installed cousin Debra as what I irreverently termed our ‘stoolie’, business had improved for both establishments – so much so that expansion of the latter was now becoming a reality. And of course you-know-who was to do the transformation. It would be considerably more of a structural nature than the work I had done at Bilboes. Here I would be building block walls and doing things to concrete slabs, some of which required a building permit and an engineer’s certification. I did not yet know how the Gang of Three would deal with the local council bureaucracy, but I was sure they would have some scheme up their collective sleeves.
Monica had also asked for some cages to be installed in one area – a collection of varying sizes that could enable a number of prisoners to be confined for longer periods but within the same room.
Structural alterations aside, the other area that Monica was looking at expanding was cyber business. Monica interrupted her Secret Mistress’s Business to lead me up to the first floor monitor room, where three computer monitors were set in individual cubicles along one side of the wall of a long and plushly fitted-out room. The other walls were decorated with large eastern rugs and there was a television set in one corner with a low settee and large cushions on the floor nearby. Lighting came from discrete spotlights within the cubicles and washed down in small areas from recessed spots in the ceiling. In this room the girls could relax between appointments, and the smell of fresh coffee wafted tantalisingly through the half-gloom.
At that moment the place was quiet. It was early in the morning and business was normally slack at that time. The Citadel differed from Bilboes in that it had no live-in facilities for staff, and consequently had a more office-like feel, compared to the relaxed atmosphere that inevitably reigned on the back verandah of Bilboes.
Two figures were working in the cubicles when we entered.
“I want to do something like this in the Observation Room,” Monica was saying. “Not so much an email-type dialogue but a live streaming view of the goings on in our dungeon. I want the main punter to be able to dictate what happens, with our team carrying out the orders. That still gives us complete control. Here they do it the other way round, with Doms or Mistresses issuing the instructions to the punters. Sometimes the recipients have a camera in their room at home, which makes the work a bit easier, but often it’s all done by electronic dialogue.”
“Which is pretty tame, for an establishment like Bilboes,” I hazarded.
“Absolutely right,” Monica agreed emphatically. “That said, email conversation is still somewhat of an art form, and if your staff are illiterate, or have poor verbal skills or are devoid of imagination, things won’t go well.
“I want something a lot better. Real interaction. Let’s have a look at what’s going on here…” In the first cubicle a man sat at the keyboard, half-turned away from us. I caught a strong smell of cigarettes mixed with coffee as Monica tapped him on the shoulder.
“Leon?” He turned.
“Uh…hi Monica.” He was in his mid-forties, I guessed, with a thin face and a sharp nose. His dark hair was closely trimmed to a stubble that ran down his cheeks to become an untidily cropped beard. He had bags under his eyes that suggested he had been working late or else had been out on the town pretty recently. He wore a black open-necked shirt that displayed a gold chain over chest hair that had the first intimations of grey in it.
“What’s happening?” Monica asked. He scratched his head and turned back to the screen. The picture was jumpy from what was probably a cheap eyeball camera set on the floor of a room. I could see a naked young woman bound cross-legged, facing the camera. Her ankles were tied and the tails from the cord rose to her throat where they were tethered to a black leather collar. Her arms were behind her, presumably secured somehow, and her jaw was stretched wide with a black rubber ball tied in place with a rope through the middle. A further rope ran around her waist and disappeared down through her crotch. Two plastic clothes pegs stood out jauntily on the tips of her nipples.
She was a redhead and quite attractive, probably about twenty, I guessed. Her eyes were an attractive shade of green and were at that moment wide with effort as she succumbed to an orgasm that wracked her body. I suspected it was not the first, for there was a sheen of sweat on her brow and as I watched a bead of sweat dripped off her chin. As we watched her eyes closed and she squirmed within her ropes, making small bouncing movements and raising and lowering her knees rapidly as though trying the prevent – or facilitate – the explosion that was building up in her body.
There was no sound attached to the picture, but it didn’t take much to imagine the mmphing that was going on behind the rubber ball as she strained at her bonds and then shook all over as the climax overcame her.
“Who’s this kid?” Monica asked.
“Her name’s Alison. She lives up on the Sunshine Coast somewhere, I think. Her parents are away for a couple of days and she’d booked in the appointment last week in anticipation.”
“Aha. A closet subbie, eh. How long have you been working on her?”
Leon looked at his watch. “Over an hour. I’ve worked her up to it gradually. You know, making her explore herself, a bit of arousal and caressing. Then the clothes pegs on, then off, then the vibrator by hand, then roped in. Then the pegs again and the gag, and finally the handcuffs.”
“And how does she get free?”
“The usual – ice block in a stocking with keys over the top. You can just see them hanging from the door handle in the background.”
“Due to fall when?”
“Any time now, I’d guess.”
“Good, good.” Monica straightened up, looking pleased, and we moved away from the cubicle.
“This is good, Steven, but it’s not where the real money is. Helping a frustrated closet subbie in Noosa get her rocks off when Mum and Dad are away is not where the money is. I want to get the world clamouring for Monica’s Team in Bilboes to perform.”
“Would this be the Red Team or the White Team?” I queried injudiciously. Monica shot me a look designed to drop me in my tracks, then decided to ignore the remark. The indignities of the previous day were evidently still fresh in her mind.
“I want to auction off our imaginations and skills to the highest bidder worldwide, who will direct a scene within prescribed limits to be performed by however many of us he wants. The also-rans will be able to pay a substantially lesser sum to watch. But hopefully there will be a lot of them.”
“And who’s going to organise all of this?”
“Well, of course you’re going to be involved with wiring and cameras and so on, but our ace will be Dianne.” As Monica said this we passed the second empty cubicle and paused at the third. I was surprised to see the figure seated at the screen clad in a black rubber suit from head to toe.”
“This is Dianne,” Monica whispered to me. The black figure appeared immersed in her work and unaware of our presence. The only parts of her flesh I could see were her hands and feet, along with an area of face above her mouth. The shiny black hood had an opening in the back through which a long auburn plait hung down to her shoulder blades. Below this a heavy red rubber corset was laced up over the outside of the latex suit, clamping her torso into a constricting hourglass shape.
“Dianne would normally be a paying customer,” Monica explained softly, “except that her web skills are too good to waste. She’s a web designer and works from home, which is another reason she can offer us time on a regular basis. Consider her the Citadel’s equivalent of Shawnee, but a more high tech version. Oh, and she loves rubber. She’s a real little latex slut.” Monica chuckled. “It’s her own suit – made to order through some of Megan’s contacts.”
I looked closer at the figure. I saw that her ankles were cuffed and a short hobble chain was locked between them, with a similar restriction at her wrists. The chain between her wrists clattered softly on the table as her fingers flew across the keys and her right hand moved the mouse about with the speed of long practice.
The flying fingers stopped and the chair swivelled as she looked up at us. I saw then that her mouth was covered with a leather pad held there by a black strap. From the interrogative mmph sound she made I knew there was an attached wad filling her mouth.
“Dianne, this is Steven. He will be working here for some time.” The luminous blue eyes widened as she inclined her head in greeting. She did not seem in the least self-conscious about her outfit and her state of enforced silence. “When you need help to run cabling here, you find Steven and he will help you, okay?” The girl nodded. “Later, when you come to help with the installation at Bilboes you will be working with Steven there, too, so you guys had better get on, all right?” The head nodded with what I took to be enthusiasm. “Dianne already knows what we will need at Bilboes. She’ll be coming over as soon as she’s finished here – maybe in a day or two, so that’s how much time you’ll spend here to begin with. I want Bilboes on line as a priority.”
I was about to answer when there was a muffled curse from Leon’s cubicle.
“Stupid bitch!” came the exclamation. “Silly, stupid cow!”
Monica whirled and was leaning over Leon’s shoulder in a matter of seconds.
“What is it?”
“I – I dunno…Silly twat can’t get herself undone…”
The three of us peered at the jumpy video coming in. We could see the back of the girl as she sat cross-legged, struggling to undo the handcuffs, the linking chain of which was knotted into the ropes encircling her waist. The keys were on a ring, and there were perhaps half a dozen of various sorts.
“Didn’t you check the cuffs?” Monica demanded. “Didn’t you get her to demonstrate that the keys were the right ones and that she could unlock the cuffs when she had the keys in her hands?” Leon shrugged. “You idiot!”
Monica straightened up, obviously thinking furiously.
“Do you realise what you’ve done, Leon? Do you understand the exposure we all face now? Shit!”
“Are you sure that is the problem?” I hazarded. “Have you actually checked by asking her? You can at least get her to nod or shake her head.”
“Do it!” Monica instructed Leon. Leon typed out a brief message: “Do you have the correct keys?” We watched as the girl struggled with the keys in her right hand, trying to fit them into the lock on the left cuff. Clearly it was not working and eventually she squirmed her way to face the camera. Tears were running down her cheeks and over the gag strap as she appealed mutely for help. She saw the message on the screen and shook her head desperately. Monica shooed Leon out of the chair and her fingers flickered over the keyboard.
Are the right keys accessible? Alison shook her head, inclining her head to a cupboard behind her, and indicating that they were obviously high up. The cupboard had a round doorknob about chest height in any case, unreachable from Alison’s bound position.
Can you reach any scissors or knives? Mournfully the girl shook her head, rolling her eyes towards the closed door, which also had a high oval doorknob. She waggled her tied legs in frustration, which sparked a fresh flood of tears.
“Damn!” muttered Monica under her breath. “Leon, when are her parents back?”
“Tomorrow, I think.”
“Shit, we can’t leave her until then, never mind what relationship repercussions that might cause. Where did you say she lived?”
“Somewhere on the Sunshine Coast.”
Monica sat for a moment, thinking, then typed:
Alison, we are sending someone to get you free. We need you to type an address as best you can. They are on their way now. Just relax and give us the details slowly and carefully. We will ask other questions which you can nod or shake your head to. Ok? A nod, and a slight brightening in the eyes.
“Steven, take Dianne with you and get going.” She thrust her mobile phone into my hand. “Dianne can give you directions and take the phone calls while you’re driving. Leon! Get out of my sight - I’ll deal with you later. This kind of incompetence is inexcusable.” This was the Monica we knew and understood, taking command and directing the troops.
“Er – Dianne won’t be much use in her present state,” I said.
“The keys are hanging up by the door, now get going.”
Monica was clearly not impressed by the whole thing and I suspected Leon was going to be in for a thorough verbal bollocking – if not something physically at least as painful and involving the same part of the male anatomy.
I returned to Dianne’s cubicle and briefly explained to her our task.
“Steven! Why are you still here?” Monica was really pissed off. She was typing furiously as I dragged the rubber-clad Dianne with me and grabbed a set of keys hanging on a hook by the door. Monica did not even look up as we departed in haste.
I urged Dianne down the stairs and out into the open part of the warehouse beside the offices where the pickup was parked. Helping her into the passenger seat I slammed the door and we were out of there moments later, heading for the motorway.
We turned on to the Gateway Bridge five minutes later. It is a six-lane toll bridge and as we approached the tollgates I suddenly realised I had a chained and gagged rubber-clad woman in the passenger seat. The proximity of other cars was not something I could do much about, but I could do without curious looks from the lady on the tollbooth. I did not want to be flagged down and charged with kidnapping.
“Get your head down!” I ordered, pushing her forward so that her head went below the dash as though she was looking for an item she’d dropped. Notwithstanding the red corset acting like a beacon, we negotiated the tollbooth and were soon speeding north, over the Brisbane River and on the long haul through the outer suburbs.
Dianne kept her head down for a few minutes more before mmphing questioningly.
“Oh. Sorry. Yes, you better come up, but keep low.” I stayed in the left lane, using myself as a shield from cars passing on my right. I fished in my pocket and handed her the ring of keys. She took it and fiddled about with the lock on the gag strap behind her head, but it appeared to be too awkward, so she tried the locks on her wrist cuffs.
“Hrrph!” she said. “Erfs zer herrm hees!”
“What?” I had no idea what she was getting at until she mimed the fact that the keys did not work. “You’re joking? We’ve got the wrong keys?” She nodded. “Gee thanks, Mon, The day gets better and better.”
The phone rang at that point. Before I had a chance to, Dianne picked it up and pressed the receive button.
“Hrrrph?” There followed several seconds when I thought I could hear Monica’s annoyed voice on the other end. Dianne made some convoluted grunting in response before holding the phone to my ear. The shortness of her wrist chain meant she had to hold both arms across, one of which she rested on my left shoulder. I liked the feel of her touch and the smell of slightly sweaty female mixed with rubber.
“What the hell’s going on, Steven? Why haven’t you ungagged Dianne yet? Why is everyone having an idiot day today?”
I let her run on for a bit before I answered.
“It would help if someone had given us the right keys.”
“What?” There was a silence on the other end that I allowed to linger in the air. Her tone had changed when she next spoke. “You took those hanging by the door?”
“But… oh shit.”
“That’s okay – I hate talkative chicks when I’m driving.”
“But… that means I’ve just done what I accused Leon of doing…”
“You’re the boss. So you’re allowed to.”
“I feel stupid.” I thought I detected what might have been a smile in her voice. It was softer when she spoke next. “I’m sorry, Steven, things were just getting to me. What will you do?”
“Oh, so it’s my problem now?” It was cruel, but I couldn’t resist it.
“I’m sorry, really.”
“That’s okay. My plan is that if we don’t get pulled up by the cops I’ll stop shortly and use the bolt cutters. But I’m afraid the cost of some new locks will have to come out of your salary.”
“Fair enough.“ I heard the hint of a chuckle. “Look, I’ve got the address. Turn off for Coolum and after ten minutes get Di to call me and I’ll direct you from there.”
“How is our patient doing?”
“Better, I think. I’ve told her what’s going to happen – that you’re on your way. She seems happier now. In fact she’s just getting herself off again as we speak. The batteries are evidently still going strong.”
“How do I get in? Do I have to smash a window? Ask her if there’s a spare key, and then you can play 20 questions in trying to locate it.”
“Will do. Talk to you later.”
* * *
After half an hour driving through the forested outskirts we turned off the motorway and found a spot on a quiet side road where I could attend to Dianne. I took a pair of bolt cutters from the toolbox in the back and easily sliced through the small padlocks securing the chains to her wrist and ankle cuffs. She looked at me expectantly as I went to put the cutters away, tugging at the strap holding the pad over her mouth and making plaintive noises. I had been only pretending to overlook this and made a show of reluctance as I made her bend her head and I snipped through the lock shank. She unbuckled the strap and pulled the pad away. Riveted to the inside was a sizeable leather-wrapped and saliva-soaked mass that she extracted from her mouth with obvious relief.
“Ohhh…that’s better…” she said. “Thank you sir.” Her voice was quiet and had a faint huskiness. She smiled and the gag marks on her cheeks merged into laughter lines.
“Now you can be a proper secretary,” I told her. “Make sure you answer the phone and take a message. And you’d better take that hood off – it’s bound to attract attention of people in passing cars.” She pulled the hood off over her head and the mouse brown plait swung free.
“What about the corset?” she asked hopefully.
“No, that can stay. I like that.”
“Yes sir,” she said, bobbing a slight curtsey and climbing back in the pickup.
* * *
Until the time we took the Coolum turnoff, I allowed Dianne to talk, which – like any woman, and any female subbie when given the opportunity – she did readily. I found out she was English, with a pleasant Liverpool accent.
I asked how she had come to be in a rubber suit in Brisbane, chained up to a keyboard. It was not at all what I had expected.
“I used to be married to a copper,” she explained.
“Married?” Somehow I had not expected that.
“Yer. It’s a quaint ceremony we Poms perform sometimes. It involves taking vows and a special ceremony and all sorts of commitment crap.”
“Haha – very funny. Any more of your cheek and that gag will go back in.”
She dropped her eyes. “Sorry, sir,” she said, but I had caught the twinkle in them.
“Aren’t you a bit young for marriage?”
“I probably was, at nineteen.”
“And that was how long ago?”
“Long enough to discover I’d made a mistake. Long enough to experience his ideas of restraint and bondage, and to grow to like it. Long enough to catch him in bed with another woman and to put him in hospital as a result. And long enough to spend time in the nick.” I was shocked. She seemed a demure young thing, not a hardened criminal.
“How long did you get?” I asked.
“I got three months. He got six weeks – in hospital, that is. I was ropable when I found the two-timing bastard in bed with her.”
“But nowadays you’re just ropable, full stop?” I observed dryly. She smiled.
“Not much of a subbie if you beat up your master,” I goaded.
“I know,” she agreed. “I felt terrible about it. I just lost my rag totally. He was gob-smacked at how I carried on. Forgot to defend himself when I swung his golf club at him. Two broken ribs, a broken wrist and a black eye. It was lucky I didn’t do anything serious.”
“Remind me not to upset you,” I murmured. “And how did the bondage start?”
“With those damned handcuffs of his, of course, and it went from there. I just seem to lose it when I’m restrained. Can’t explain it. It’s all God’s fault for giving me these genes and hormones.”
“And the rubber? “
“Neat, isn’t it?” She grinned, a flash of white, her eyes crinkling. “You know the studies they do with pheromones – how the male will attract the female, or vice versa?”
“Well the smell of rubber does that for me. Then there’s the tightness, the clinginess, the slickness when you start to sweat…” She crossed her arms under her breasts in a clutching motion and gave a shudder. “Damn, I’m setting myself off!” she laughed.
“So where did the rubber start? With hubby?”
“Yeah. He gave me this suit, which I will protect with my life. I tell you, those three months inside were the longest of my life, what with deprivation of sex. Ironic, isn’t it. I love being bound and restrained, and there I was locked up in a cell twenty-four hours a day but unable to go to the next level. Fortunately I had already left the arsehole by the time I wound up in the clink. Had all my nice toys safely stowed away, which was fortunate, for I wouldn’t have put it past him to cut the thing up and mail it to me while I was inside. But I suffered enough just in having to do without.”
“And when you came out?”
“My father had emigrated out here, so I followed him as part of the family. Left him in Sydney as soon as I had my passport stamped and came to Brisbane. Did an IT course and met Megan. The end.”
“Except it’s not, of course. What do you want from here?”
“I…I’m not really sure, to be honest.” It was the first hint of uncertainty she had shown since she had started talking. “I love Megan and what I can get at the Citadel. Some days I think I would love a 24/7 role with the right person, but I just don’t know…”
“Male or female?” I asked.
“The right person,” she repeated, as though she had not heard me.
* * *
We took the Coolum turnoff and Dianne dialled up Monica. From that point she gave me directions that led us to a house high on a hill overlooking the beach resort. The house was large, modern, and supported by steel poles where it cantilevered out from the steeply sloping sight. We reached it by travelling down a steep drive cut through the bush that covered the hillside, where a few other scattered roofs of adjacent houses could be seen. The views were spectacular, and it was evident that these people were not short of a buck or five, for locations like this did not come cheap.
“Mummy and daddy are doing well for themselves,” I murmured as we stopped outside the double garage that comprised the entrance to the house. Monica had established that there was no spare key, but at least the security system was not turned on, since Alison was inside.
“How are we going to get in?” Dianne asked as she trailed after me. As we walked around the outside of house I was immensely glad of the privacy the bush afforded. The neighbours would no doubt be somewhat suspicious of a rubber-suited female with a bright red corset, accompanied by a dodgy-looking male with a bag of tools.
“I’m not sure, yet. Ask Monica if there are any balcony windows that might be unlocked, and if so where.”
While Dianne talked, I scrambled down the slope under the house. The place had little garden other than the immediate surroundings alongside the front door and adjacent garage. Past that point, the slope beside and beneath the house had reverted to native bush. The structure was supported on steel poles with cables for cross-bracing, and I figured there might be an opportunity to climb on to one of the balconies that ringed the first level. The railings were open, infilled with stainless steel wire to provide minimum intrusion to the views.
“We think Alison’s on this side,” Dianne said, pointing to the left hand side of the house. We also think there might be a sliding door unlocked on her balcony.” I followed Dianne’s pointing finger to a balcony about four metres up. I picked up a small pebble and lobbed it up on to the balcony, and there was the sound of it rattling against glass.
Dianne was already ahead of me, talking into the phone.
“That’s the room,” she confirmed.
I reckoned I could probably shimmy up the pole, and I looped a small crow bar through my belt before starting. I opened out a folding step ladder which Dianne steadied for me as I climbed the first couple of metres before gripping the galvanised steel pole and inching my way up. Once I could reach the top of the bracing cable I could pull myself more easily, but I was not used to this Indiana Jones stuff. My heart was racing as I finally grasped the post where it emerged above the decking, and my legs momentarily swung free as I struggled to get myself past the protruding edge of the decking. I heard a gasp from the rubber-suited figure below before I managed to hook a foot through the wires between the posts and haul myself up on to the timber floor.
I lay there, gasping for breath. There was nothing in my contract about this sort of death-defying stunt. I was a builder, for God’s sake! Mind you, there was nothing about all the other predicaments I had wound up in, and I was still working for Monica, so I doubted that this particular argument would hold much sway.
When my breathing had finally settled down, I raised my head to see a forlorn-looking figure bound cross-legged beyond the glass of the large sliding door. I got to my feet and tried the door. It was locked – or at least latched. Alison followed my inspection with tearful eyes as I crouched to look at the lock at the base of the door.
“Is this locked?” I mimed to her. She shook her head. The red hair was damp with perspiration and clung to her neck. The clothes pegs gripping her nipples moved with the sway of her breasts and momentarily she closed her eyes as the pain obviously had an effect.
I turned my attention to the latch. The doorframe was of aluminium, and any attempt to jemmy it was going to leave marks, if not cause major damage. Peering through the window I tried to establish the locking mechanism and whether it could be undone from the inside. The latch was a small L-shaped lever that pivoted to hold down a hook-shaped catch. If only Alison could push it upwards, I could get in. I motioned her to turn around.
She obeyed and I took another look at her self-imposed bondage. Her hands were cuffed behind her back, the cuffs secured in the small of her back by a knot in the waist rope, at the point where the white cord dived between her buttocks. She had some freedom of hand movement, although it looked like the cuffs were causing her some discomfort, for her wrists were red and the steel manacles looked to have tightened beyond what she had intended. Poor kid, I thought. This was a fine introduction to bondage, although I suspect this was far from the first time. You don’t end up in handcuffs, rope, ball gag and nipple clips on a first-time outing.
She continued squirming around until she faced me again. She was flushed from the exertion and her nostrils flared above the black rubber ball bound in her mouth.
Cupping my hands I peered past her around the room. It was large and modern, with a fancy laptop on the floor nearby, along with the webcam. I had a momentary urge to get her to point the camera this way, just so I could make faces at Monica, but I decided that would be unnecessarily cruel to Alison, and would not endear me to Mon. There was a double bed, a desk and a hat stand, and an assortment of ropes and straps strewn around the floor.
My gaze returned to the hat stand. I was looking for something with which Alison could release the catch, and there was the answer – a golf umbrella hanging on one of the hooks amidst several jackets. I leaned over the rail to call down to Dianne.
“I want Alison to go to the hatstand and dislodge the umbrella, then bring it over to the window and use it to reach the catch and unlock the sliding door. Can you relay that to Monica and get her to type it in?” Dianne did as she was told while I directed the bound girl’s attention to the screen of the laptop. She caught on quickly, and a minute later she was humping her way across the floor towards the hatstand. She stopped halfway and I saw her shoulders heaving with the effort – or was it that the batteries were still going in the device trapped in her pussy?
She finally reached the stand and after several attempts managed to unhook the umbrella using her head to push the brolly upwards off its hook. Then the return journey began as she squirmed her way across the room dragging the umbrella behind her. She manoeuvred her back to the sliding door and worked the umbrella into an upright position, holding it by the handle and trying to wedge the point under the horizontal lever. It took five minutes of frustration before she finally managed to jerk it upwards and there was a click from the latch. The umbrella fell to the floor and I slid the door open.
The effort it had taken her was clearly enormous, and had stirred her insert into further activity, for even as her head drooped, her legs were jerking up and down and she was moaning into the gag. I dropped to my knees beside her and untied the rope that held the ball in place, prying it free and letting her hair fall loose from where it had previously been restrained.
“Ohhhh! Jesus! Ohhh God!” While this might have seemed like a religious experience, the orgasm that took hold of her was considerably more earthy, as was the subsequent language that issued forth, culminating in a high-pitched wail as she strained against the ropes and steel holding her helpless to the spasms wracking her body. The cry died away into a mixture of gasps and sobs. Little coherent came out as I searched for the keys to the cuffs in the cupboard that she had previouslyindicated. They were sitting on the top shelf.
I knelt beside her again.
“Please…please…take the clips off – they hurt so much…” she whimpered. “I thought I could stand them for a short while but it’s been hours…” Tears streamed down her face as I eased the plastic jaws slowly apart. She had placed them right on the tips of her nipples, where they would cause the most pain. She must have clicked the cuffs closed in double quick time before she had a chance to reflect on the implications of her daring. I slipped the second one off and unlocked the cuffs as she gasped with the pain and slowly eased her arms around the front of her body from where they had been held for the past two or three hours.
“I’m just going to let my friend in,” I told her, leaving her to undo the ropes on her ankles and those holding the vibrator trapped in her pussy. She at least deserved some privacy for her sins.
“How is she?” Monica asked as Dianne handed me the phone outside the front door.
“No damage,” I told her. “I reckon she’ll sleep for a day. May have a few bruises on her wrists and ankles to conceal, and she’ll need some more vibrator batteries – but probably not for a while.” There was a laugh from the other end. “Lessons have been learnt, I think.”
Monica’s voice changed. “There’ll be lessons learnt here, too. Leon won’t make that mistake again, let me tell you.”
I returned to the bedroom to find Dianne cradling the naked girl who was quietly crying. Plainly she was exhausted, and I fetched a large towel from the ensuite to dry the slick sweat from her body. Dianne took over at this point and I made myself scarce. It was a girl thing for two subbbies to sort out and commiserate over. I went upstairs to the kitchen, made myself a coffee and put my feet up in a chair on the main balcony, gazing out over the white-fringed beaches far below. So this was what rich kids got up to when their parents were away. Well, at least it was better than drugs.
* * *
I barely saw Dianne for the next two days as I began work in the Citadel. One of my first suggestions to Monica was that the big overhead gantry crane should be reactivated, which did not take too much doing. One of Monica’s submissive clients who was an electrician had been more than happy to do the initial check out in return for a couple of hours being humiliated by Monica herself. The reactivation of the crane opened up several possibilities for the future, not least that I could use it in the hoisting of blocks for new walls, not to mention for lifting reinforcement, steel or any other heavy objects. We then had further options with the hoisting of individuals during ‘therapy’ as I sometimes called the sessions we provided.
With the crane operational I began work on the walls of a new room. It was not going to be a quick exercise, for the walls were complicated in shape. The two forming the outer boundaries were the same two-story height the same as the rest of the “rooms”, but within that room would be various holding cells and some small cells barely bigger than boxes. They would be cold, dark and cramped – just the way our clients liked them.
I did the setting out with Monica and she eyed the space critically after we had marked the walls out with chalk lines on the concrete floor. She walked back and forth and I could see her picturing the finished product in her mind, stretching out her arms to assess the clearances for size. At length she pronounced herself satisfied after the chalk lines had been moved several times. I’ll say this for her, unlike many of my previous customers, she knew what she wanted and she recognised the result when we achieved it. Then she left me to get on with it.
Dianne came to me late on the first day. She was again chained at wrist and ankle, and still wore the red corset, but this time, although the rubber hood was in place, she was not gagged. I had told Monica that I did not want to waste my time playing charades and that I would rather do the job just once and have things in the right place, and that this approach was immensely more achievable if the person directing could actually speak intelligibly. Reluctantly she had agreed. Monica understood productivity and poor workmanship. Somewhere in her past she had had Scottish ancestors, I reckoned.
Dianne led me to the computer room and mapped out a route that new cabling had to come in. She showed me the cable and asked that it be installed in pvc conduit. That was enough to keep me busy for the next day, drilling holes in the blockwork and fixing the conduit in place, before between us we fed the cable through from the incoming point tom the new outlets in the computer room.
While this was happening, however, an event occurred that left us in no doubt of Monica’s management style. It was mid-morning when Debra found me perched up a ladder and said Monica wanted to see me. In fact it turned out that it was more the other way round, in that I found myself joining the remainder of the Citadel staff on the overhead gantry, looking down on Room Two, the second of the large rooms which we called the suspension room. It had two main steel beams spanning between the long side walls, with a third beam between these two on the centreline of the room. It was in this room that various suspended torments were instigated, ranging from activities with bungy cords to those with harnesses or spreader bars. In here the floor had been overlain with thick rubber tiles, not unlike those used in kids playgrounds.
The focus in this instance was a naked man standing with his legs apart, facing the overhead gantry. His ankles were secured by a spreader bar and his wrists strapped together and held above his head by a steel cable connected via a pulley on the central beam to a hand winch mounted on the wall. Despite the complicated head harness that held a large ball gag in his mouth and leather pads over his eyes, I recognised the close-cropped hair and beard of Leon. He looked very uncomfortable, for the spreader bar was wide and the cable was sufficiently taut so that he was obliged to stand on the balls of his feet. Even from our position, I could detect little tremors running through his body as he strained against his bonds and the tension being forced into his muscles.
The room was lit up like a stage and Monica was also there. She was dressed in a black leather corset that showed off her breasts to wonderful effect from our position, and she wore high-heeled pvc boots that extended to mid-thigh, where the tops were connected by straps to a belt about her waist. On each forearm was a leather sheath and about her throat was a thin leather choker. Her hair was up, emphasizing the slenderness of her neck.
I took a position leaning on the rail alongside Dianne and Debra, in time to see Monica look up in our direction. I was sure she couldn’t see us, because of the lights directed on her, but she played to the audience like the experienced trouper she was.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” she announced, her voice echoing faintly against the hard surfaces of the walls and roof. “Yesterday something happened that could have had catastrophic effects on this establishment. Due to the failure by an individual to take proper precautions in ensuring that a remote client could free herself, that client ended up trapped. I should not have to elaborate on the potential disaster that could have befallen us, but I will, for the benefit of the slower of you. “ Monica meant business, there was no doubt. Her voice was cold and clinical as she reeled off the implications of Leon’s failure.
“Imagine if this girl had been on an outback station, a thousand miles away. We couldn’t have driven up the motorway to rescue her. The police would have taken a while to make it, and we would have all been out of a job. Imagine if she was in another country. The picture gets worse. Imagine if she had panicked - if she had choked. I don’t care what releases your clients have signed. There is such a thing as a duty of care, people, and this man did not carry out that duty.” Monica paused and picked up a mean-looking cane from where it leaned against the wall. She walked slowly and purposely around Leon, letting the cane rest on his thighs and buttocks, then poking his balls softly but with a menace that made a shiver run down my spine. She continued with her theme.
“I don’t care whether you’re doing cyber work or hands-on with customers. You do it properly or you don’t do it at all. That means checking and double-checking. It means making sure blood is still circulating, that restraints are applied properly, that safewords are understood, that limbs are not being pulled out of sockets. Failure to comply with this will result in punishment!” Her words hung in the air. You could have heard a pin drop.
“Every action has an equal and opposite reaction, as the saying goes. My reaction has been to offer Leon the opportunity to resign or to accept a punishment of undisclosed nature. He is now about to do this. As a result of his action a young girl suffered needlessly. Whatever her motives for entering into the agreement with us, she got more than she bargained for in circumstances not of her choosing. It was only through the actions of Steven and Dianne that we might still count her as a possible return customer. It’s called damage control.” Monica stood behind Leon now and poked the cane between his legs, making his balls and dick waggle. But it was not funny.
I felt Dianne’s hand grip my arm as Monica had named us, and I sensed her turn towards me in the gloom that permeated the gantry. She was again gagged, this time a rubber ball with a wooden dowel through it that was locked behind her neck on a fine chain. However her eyes sparkled at the praise Monica had bestowed on us.
Monica moved across to a small side table where various implements of torture lay. She picked something up and I saw the glint of steel under the lights. She walked to the motionless, stretched figure and knelt in front of him. There was a faint ratcheting sound as she fastened the device around his penis and ball sack. When she stood up we could see the steel ring nestled against his groin and a short chain hanging below his balls, on the end of which looked like a lead weight.
“I have a number of these weights,” Monica told us. “Our client suffered over a period of hours because of this man’s incompetence. It seems only reasonable that he now do likewise. You know I believe in the punishment fitting the crime.”
Oh yes, Monica, I thought. How well we know that. Monica’s deviousness and ingenuity were legend at Bilboes, and the word had now spread amongst the staff at the Citadel. They were now about to see it first hand.
Leon groaned and shook his head, making plaintive noises.
“What’s that, Leon? You want out?” The harnessed head nodded. “Do you now wish to resign?” Another nod, more vigorous. “Well I’m terribly sorry Leon, but we can’t do that, any more than poor Alison could remove those pegs from her nipples after her time was up yesterday. She had no choice in the matter. Neither do you. In fact… it would be appropriate for you to experience a little of the same, don’t you think?” Leon was still shaking his head and whimpering when Monica returned from the side table and briefly played with his nipples before attaching the first clip. The man yelled into the ball filling his mouth, the cry turning into a series of rapid pleading grunts until Monica released the other clip on to his flesh. There was another stifled scream that also dissolved into a mixture of rapid panting and groaning. Monica bent briefly and hung another weight on the chain between his legs.
“Maybe that will take your mind off your tits,’ she commented icily. “I have a dozen of these weights. I wonder how many you can stand, and for how long?”
Leon had barely had time to adjust to the unexpectedness of the pain from the clips and the weights when Monica let loose with the cane across his buttocks. There was nothing half-hearted about the blow. Monica wound up and swung using her full weight and the leverage of her arm. I knew she played squash and this was evident from the force of the blow. The bound figure let out a stifled scream again, the sound dying into a keening, pleading moan. Monica circled the man as he tugged and struggled futilely at his bindings, all the while indicating her whereabouts by letting the tip of the cane rove over his body.
I shivered at the sight. It had gone beyond sexual gratification of the sort our clients preferred to something more brutal. Leon, I knew, was a Dom. Not only was the pain of such punishment something he would prefer to dish out rather than receive, but the very act of being humiliated himself was anathema to him.
As the second stroke landed, I could see the wetness of tears on his cheeks from under the eyepads as the desperate pleading and keening continued. Monica put her all into the third stroke, then surprised us all by abruptly striding to the door below us, opening it, then exiting, leaving the solitary figure moaning and trembling in the spotlights.
After a minute, we figured the show was over, and filed our way slowly off the catwalk. Monica had caught us off guard and had got her point across. I had expected her to be harsher, for some reason. Three strokes was not a lot, but poor old Leon was now left in limbo, not knowing what was to happen next, while suffering for an unknown period under weights and clips. This was the management style of Monica Armstrong, loosely based on that of Attila the Hun.
I decided to let the matter of Monica giving me the wrong keys lie where it had fallen in my memory. Consistency and truth were certainly out there, but sometimes they were better off being left in peace.
* * *
Illustrations Copyright Dan Dofogh - 2003 - Used by kind permision
bondagestories : alexanderstories