Gromet's Plaza - Richard Alexander Stories
Monica's Games
by Richard Alexander
© 2003 - Richard Alexander - Used by permission
storycodes: FM/ff; bondage; slave; cons; X
grometsplaza -
Monica’s Games – Part I
Chapter Nine: Oman -  Monica’s Story
by Richard Alexander
Monica’s Games – Part I Chapter Nine: Oman -  Monica’s Story

I couldn’t believe how much had happened in three weeks.  Now, here we were – Steven, Megan and I – sitting in the back of a huge white limo sailing down the motorway from Seeb Airport to Muscat, the capital of Oman.

First there had been the phone call from Mohammed Zubair, overflowing with compliments and requesting that we visit him in Oman.  Details of our visas had been provided, with Mohammed as our official sponsor (such were the entry regulations) and then we were flying first class on British Airways, landing in the clear crisp dawn on a coastal plain that merged into the dun-brown mountains a few miles inland.

We were wary this time.  The scary events that had taken place after Jillian and Leila were invited to film in Hong Kong were uppermost in our minds when the offer came.  Mohammed was very specific: Steven, Megan and I, to discuss mutually beneficial business interests.  I did my research and concluded that Mohammed Zubair was the real thing – a respected and well-educated businessman.  But there was more to it than that.  I reckon I can spot a fake, usually.  All right, so I was wrong about Hong Kong – anyone can make one mistake, but I was damned if I’d do it twice. No, there was something about his voice that gave me confidence that he was on the level.

I had dealt with Arabs before, mainly from Saudi, and I have to say I was not impressed with that lot. They were arrogant and full of themselves.  Okay, so with a million bucks in the bank you can be excused a certain amount of bullshit, but it went beyond that.  And there’s only so much of that I can take before it begins to get right up my nose.  This guy sounded different.  There was a reasonability about him – almost a sensitivity.  The way he played with the controls in our little scenario.  He was smart, but also aware of limits.  And he was rich.

The money had come through and we were all very happy.  Doubtless it wouldn’t be the last time we did a live scenario, but I wanted more from this guy.  He was now a valued client, becoming more of a known quantity every time I spoke to him or put another piece in the jigsaw with my research on the Net.  Barring a total misjudgement of his character, we were going to do well out of him.  The customer was always right, barring an inclination towards injury or self-destruction, and I had impressed on Steven and Megan that they were to do whatever it took to secure this client as the best on our books.  Money talks, and right then it was indulging in a major monologue.

I gazed through the tinted windows as we sped along, through the light morning traffic. The motorway was studded with immaculate green roundabouts and landscaping that seemed to belie the fact that this was a desert state.  We had been met by a white-robed Omani who introduced himself as Salah, and who was now driving.  He had been courteous and welcoming – not at all like the Saudis.  I had a feeling I was going to like Oman.

Regardless of first impressions of the country, I was still cranky with Megan and Steven for what they had done to me in the plane.  It had been a night flight from Singapore and after watching the movie and probably drinking more champagne than I should have, I went out like a light.  I awoke to some very pleasant feelings coming from my crotch, which turned out to be Steven’s fingers under the blanket that covered me from head to toe.  It was still dark and silent in the first class cabin, and as I came to I had become aware of two things.  The first was Steven lying in the seat beside me, his arm hidden under his own blanket stretching under mine and down the front of my skirt, gently but incessantly sending warm fuzzy feelings through my loins. 

The second thing was that my ankles had somehow been secured to the supports each side of the footrest, and that some sort of restraint held my arms bent upwards in place, forearm against upper arm.  I couldn’t see much in the gloom of the cabin, especially with the blanket tucked in all round me, but it didn’t take long to realise that the buggers had used heavy plastic cable ties on my arms, and there was no way I was going to get free.

I was not really in a position to make a scene, but nor was I in a position to repel those fingers insinuating themselves in my sex.  I reluctantly decided to surrender to the inevitable and found myself barely able to contain a series of squeaks and gasps as I climaxed under the blanket, struggling against the cable ties and the frustration of not being able to get my hands down to my crotch to prevent what was happening.

I had lain back exhausted by the unexpectedness of it, and made an attempt at abusing Steven in a low whisper.  His response to that was to change places with Megan from across the aisle, where she had a vacant seat next to her.  Megan, so skilled in her trade, had carried on what Steven had started, and I had found myself arching and trying desperately to suppress the fires that she fanned in my pussy.  Any form of intended abuse got lost in my trying to catch my breath and not awaken the other sleeping passengers as I hit the big ‘O’ twice more.

The ultimate indignity came when they refused to untie me, citing a lack of scissors.  Well, I suppose they were right, but it was hardly unforeseeable, given airport security.  It was pretty obvious that the steward – yes, it just had to be a male, didn’t it – was going to ask if he could be of assistance.  And since Steven and Megan weren’t going to ‘fess up, I was obliged to request help from the steward myself.  How bloody embarrassing is that when you have to ask a man to remove your blanket and cut through some plastic cable ties.  Perhaps he has seen a few kinky things in first class, but all credit to him, he was too polite to comment, other than to act as though it was purely routine.  People end up tied to their chairs all the time, Madam.  It’s an unfortunate fact of life, here in first class.  Yeah, right.  Better watch your backs Megan and Steven.  Even here in the car Steven had that irritating look that someone has when they can barely suppress a fit of the giggles.  Yes, you’ll keep, I thought.

We had travelled for possibly half an hour.  Every so often Salah would make an announcement over the intercom, pointing out a particularly ornate building that belonged to some government department or other. The houses and apartment blocks were modern, mostly of glass and concrete and clearly architect-designed.  Even in the air-conditioned car the day had the look and feel of an early build-up to something hot and just a tad unpleasant. 

We passed through a large urban area which Salah informed us was Ruwi, the commercial centre, before heading out along a road that climbed briefly over a low pass between rugged brown hills, or jebels as Salah called them.  We left habitation behind briefly before cresting the rise and looking down on a stunning azure blue sea with a huge and ornate building occupying pride of place at the edge of a white beach.

“Al Bustan hotel,” Salah said with obvious pride.  “Built for the OPEC conference and Gulf Heads of State meeting.”

“Are we staying there?” Megan asked, more than a modicum of hope in her voice. 

“No, you are guests of Mr Zubair.  He has a house near here.”

‘Near here’ turned out to be a spectacular location high up on cliff overlooking the bay and the hotel.  We reached the place via a winding road hewn out of the rock, driving through automatic gates and into a cavernous underground car park beneath the house. I glimpsed the outside of the house only briefly, for flat land was at a premium, and the front garden was minimalist to say the least.  The house seemed to be on at least four levels, stretching back terrace-like to follow the contours of the cliff.  I formed an impression of something modern but with a Middle Eastern look about it, through arched cloister-like balconies.

In the garage there were a couple of four-wheel drives, a Mercedes and a silver horse float.  Salah parked the limo beside this. 

“Does Mr Zubair keep horses?” Megan asked as Salah held the door open for us.

“Oh yes.  Arabian horses are very famous.  They win many races in Europe.  He keeps some at his country house outside Jabrin.  He will take you there tomorrow.”

Nearby an elevator door opened and a young man dressed the same as Salah appeared with a trolley.  Salah spoke to him in Arabic.

“Please come with me,” Salah said.  “Your bags will be taken to your rooms.” 

We followed Salah into the elevator and exited two floors higher.  A woman was waiting for us as we found ourselves in an impressive entry area.

She was about my age, with coal black hair cascading past her shoulders and her green eyes heavily outlined to make them seem bigger. It worked, for she was very attractive, dressed in an elegant dark green dress that reached the floor.  She smiled as we entered.

“Good morning Monica – and Megan, and Steven.  My name is Zara.  I am Mohammed’s sister.”  Her English was impeccable, save for a slightly more formal phrasing, and with just a trace of an accent.  You would pick it as perhaps British but with something added. 

“I must apologise for my brother. He expresses great regret that he cannot be here to greet you personally, but he had an urgent meeting with one of the government ministers, who cannot be kept waiting.  Not if you want to win further building work from that department, that is.”

We followed her through an ornate living room tastefully furnished in modern style, to a spacious balcony shaded with a pergola covered in lush vines.  The smell of jasmine filled the air.  Comfortable-looking deck chairs had been placed around a table set with all manner of fruits and breakfast food.  Zara motioned to the chairs.

“Again, I apologise for our host’s absence.  He has asked that I entertain you for the day.  I know you will be tired from your long flight, so I suggest that you acclimatise a little and relax.  This afternoon, when it gets cooler, I will take you to visit the old city in Muscat, which is just around the next headland.  In the meantime, I will show you to your rooms, give you a little tour of the house, and let you become accustomed to the place.  You will perhaps wish to shower and change, then to have breakfast, yes?” She looked at me inquiringly.

“That would be wonderful,” I said.  “This is a beautiful house.  Do you live here too?”

“No, I have a house nearby, but I sometimes stay here.  My brother is not married, so I sometimes help him out with entertaining.  You know what men are like – they do not understand the finer points of presentation and looking after guests.”  She smiled at Megan and I.  Steven had that uncomfortable look that guys get when they are outnumbered and sense women are ganging up on them.

“Just before I show you your rooms, perhaps I should explain a little about the customs here.  Oman is very liberal, you know.  We are not like in Saudi Arabia.  We do not go about chopping off people’s hands or staging public executions.  You may buy liquor in hotels, or privately if you have a liquor licence. We practise religious freedom here, and His Majesty the Sultan has much affection for the west.  He was educated in England, you know, as were my brothers and I. 

“But nevertheless you should be conservative about your dress outside of here.  You will see many women driving cars and going about their business.  They will not all wear headscarves or yashmaks, but they will have their arms and legs generally covered, although you may wear a swimming costume on public beaches.  We are slowly gaining ground in society,” she added, smiling.  I was starting to like Zara.

“But I am delaying you from refreshing yourselves.  Let me show you to your rooms.”

We followed her up a flight of broad marble stairs to the next level, where we were given rooms side by side, all with their individual ensuites and balconies overlooking the sea in a view that was to die for.  The house was enormous, with another level above ours, while at the rear there was a swimming pool cut into the natural rock amidst a surrounding of palm trees, like an oasis.  Stunning was a word that kept coming to mind.

*   *   *

Zara was the perfect hostess for the rest of the day.  She told me her name meant ‘bright as the dawn’ in Arabic, and I reckoned she was the first person I had ever come across whose name had initials that looked like they were falling asleep.

We breakfasted and spent part of the morning around the pool, plying her with questions about the country, herself, and why we were there.  She was happy to elaborate on the first two, but dodged the last, explaining that Mohammed would explain all when he returned that night.

Zara was no slouch when it came to adopting western ways, and looked gorgeous in a white swimsuit with a plunging neckline that showed up her hair and golden skin.  She told us that we would meet both Mohammed and his brother Rashid that night.  She was the youngest of the family, but they were all very close.  She had attended the university of Essex and had been quite the wild child from the sound of it, while she studied economics there.  Endowed with a good portion of the family fortune she had started up a business haute couture, which enabled her to indulge in her passion for dress design.  Apparently there was a good market amongst the wealthy Omani women.

We crashed out for a nap in the early afternoon when the outside temperature must have climbed into the high thirties, but later, as the sun began to descend, we rejoined Zara in the limo, which Salah drove down to the coast road and around the headland to Muscat proper.

Muscat nestled in a small rocky bay between two headlands.  It was low rise and dominated by two things.  The first was the Sultan’s palace, set almost on the foreshore in the centre of the bay.  It was a modern, square building with flaring columns and a flat roof, the white and gold colours standing out against the drab buildings around it.  In contrast, high on the two headlands closing like pincers around the harbour, were the two enormous mud-brick forts of Merani and Jelali.  I was entranced, more so as the sun set and the forts were lit up by floodlights.  The whole place had a wonderfully romantic atmosphere, the like of which I had never come across before.

There were no tourists anywhere.  People went about their business as though the spectacular scene was so run of the mill it was not worth bothering about.

Zara told us that the forts had been built by the Portuguese when they occupied the country during the sixteenth century, when Muscat guarded the main sea trade routes.  She said that at one stage Horatio Nelson’s ship had anchored in the bay, and where they had painted the name of the ship in white letters on some of the rocks was still visible near the harbour entrance.  We were rapt.

*   *   *
When we returned to the house we were met by Mohammed Zubair.  First impressions are sometimes strange occasions when you find out that somebody with whom you have corresponded or talked to by phone looks nothing like the image you have formed of them.  In this instance, Mohammed Zubair was probably not far off what my imagination had conjured up. 

He was about my height, perhaps in his late thirties with a close-cropped black beard and dark eyes.  He wore the traditional white dishdash and headscarf wrapped like a small turban. His handshake was strong and I liked him at once when he smiled and kissed the back of my hand.

“Monica, you are even more beautiful in the flesh.”  There it was again – the Voice, now in person.  He was like a young Omar Sharif, I thought.

“And this must be Megan.”  She got the courtly bow and hand kiss.  Steven got just a firm handshake.  I reckoned this man could charm his way anywhere he wanted.

“I must beg forgiveness for having neglected you on the day of your arrival.  It is unforgivable.”  I started to protest, but he held up his hand to silence me.  I stopped, realising also the natural air of command he had.  “No, it’s true.  I’m sure Zara took good care of you, but from now on I am at your disposal.  Tomorrow we will go into the desert and I will show you some wonderful things, but before then we must eat.  We can freshen up and we’ll meet in the dining room in half an hour.”

With a smile and a slight bow he turned and strode out, leaving us feeling like we had just been in the presence of somebody accustomed to getting what he wanted, and accustomed to going after that thing as the whim took him.

*   *   *
The bathroom attached to my bedroom was white tiled and big enough to hold a party in.  I was surprised when I stepped from the shower to find Zara standing in the doorway.

“You have a very attractive body,” she said casually.  I was momentarily taken aback by her presence, but continued to dry myself.   I was not embarrassed to be seen naked, but I was puzzled by her appearance.

“You are wondering why I am here,” she continued.  “Until now we have not spoken of the purpose in your coming to Oman, and while I will not go into detail now, you will obviously know that it is in connection to your work at Bilboes.”  She paused.  “Perhaps I should tell you a little about Mohammed.  He is a fine person, but a little old fashioned in some ways.  I can tell you that growing up as a girl in this family was not easy.  I had to fight to be educated and to go my own way in business.  Mohammed has done very well for himself, but still struggles with the concept of women being equals.  He has an ego problem, you know?” 

I had wrapped the towel around me at this stage and was brushing my hair in front of the floor to ceiling mirror, watching her as she talked.

“He wants to test you,” Zara said.  “That much I know. It is also important that you do not try to better him.  He has great pride and to be seen to lose face to a woman is unthinkable.  He likes to be the master in his own house – not unreasonably.”

“Where is all this leading, Zara?”  I asked.  “What do you want me to do?”

“You know what his fantasy was – the one you acted out… You need to continue with that.  Not specifically, but let him run the show – him and Steven.”

“Steven?  Why Steven?”

“Why do you think you three were brought here?  Let me tell you in broad terms.  You run Bilboes, and Megan runs the Citadel.  But Steven is the only man in the picture.  He will be the one that Mohammed will deal with, regardless of where the real skills and abilities lie.  You must acknowledge this and acknowledge Mohammed as your superior.”

“You’re kidding me, right?”

“No.”  I saw then that she was not joking.  “Look, Monica, Mohammed has strong family traditions.  He comes from a long line of chiefs from a tribe in the interior.  He is used to women doing his bidding – except for recalcitrant sisters, perhaps, although it hasn’t been for lack of trying on his part.  And of course he has this BDSM thing, which I have to confess I share, as does my other brother Rashid, who will also be joining us for dinner.  It comes with the attitude, I guess.”

“But you realise that Megan and I are Dommes?”

“Of course.  But that is what makes you so attractive to him.  He sees the challenge of taming someone like you.”

“Taming me?”

“He would like to see you as his slave, albeit for the time that you are here.”

“Oh,” I murmured, suddenly remembering my words to Megan and Steven in exhorting them to do whatever possible to win over this client.  Only now I was starting to see him as more than just a very rich client.  Things were beginning to get just a little more complicated, first after seeing him in person, and secondly with this bombshell that Zara had just dropped. “What did you have in mind?” I asked, now wary of what I was getting myself into.

“Come with me,” she said, and I followed her into the bedroom.  ”Firstly, you must wear something appropriate.  I have selected this dress for you.  I designed it myself.”  She picked up a long cream coloured silk gown that lay on the bed.  It was sleeveless and edged with brocade in a very simple but elegant style reminiscent of a kaftan.  “It has been tailored to your measurements.”

“My measurements?  How do you know my measurements?”

“Mohammed gave them to me.  He said you have a book with the measurements of all your staff and customers.”

The penny dropped.  “Don’t tell me, he’s been talking to Steven, right?” 

“I suspect so.  I think they have been corresponding by email.”

This suddenly put a whole new picture on things.  I thought quickly, wondering how much Steven had given away about things.  I wondered where the whole measurement thing would lead, and what else Steven had tattled about me.  Damn him.  It put me at a huge disadvantage that I could do nothing about.

“Please try on the dress,” said Zara.  “No – you don’t need anything under it.”  She helped me slip it over my head and did up the zipper at the back.  I had to confess it fitted extraordinarily well, clinging to my body, but I suddenly realised there were cut-outs over each nipple.

“What the hell is this all about?”  I asked.

Zara sidled up to me.  “You look sensational,” she said softly.  “The dress is just the beginning.  We’re going to take Mohammed’s breath away.  The cutouts are there to show off these.”  She held her hand out and showed the two small stainless steel padlocks that had been made for me in a past rather painful encounter, but which I had kept for a variety of reasons. 

“Steven gave them to you, didn’t he,” I said, realising at once. 

“Yes.  May I put them on you?”  Her voice was husky and I felt an odd dryness in my own throat as she gently touched the nipples which became instantly hard.  The locks were joined by a short length of fine chain and as the long fingernails toyed with my nips I felt the familiar feeling of excitement inside.  First one, then the other lock clicked shut through the taut flesh of my nipples, and the chain hung discretely between them across the front of the dress.

“Now these,” she went on, unfolding a towel that lay on the bed to reveal a pair of silver manacles joined by perhaps a foot of chain.  I was too astonished to react as she fitted one cuff around my right wrist and tightened the nut and bolt with a small spanner to hold it in place.  The cuff was a perfect fit, wrought in heavy silver with engraving of a sort I had not seen before.  I had heard the Omanis were fine silversmiths, but I had not expected anything like this. 

The other cuff was equally snug, and again I realised that Steven had been passing all the measurements from our private database to the Zubair household.  What else would they have in store for us, I wondered, as I tested the chain between my wrists.

“It looks very pretty,” I said.  “Very good workmanship.”

“Thank you.  I have a pair for your ankles, if you’ll allow me…”

I sat on the bed, my thoughts racing at where this was all going, while Zara knelt and fastened another pair of silver cuffs on my ankles, again joined by a fine but sturdy chain.

“There,” said Zara, tightening the bolts.  “You look lovely.  I hope that will help you understand the role you must play while you are here.  I must go to Megan now, to prepare her also.  I will return to escort you both to dinner shortly.”

While my thoughts had gone in all manner of directions since the offer of the trip to Oman had first been broached, and I had conjured up all sorts of scenarios, this was not one that had taken the front running.  Steven – the damned turncoat!  Selling out my secrets to this guy!  I tested the chain and metal cuffs, but for all their decoration they were strong and functional. 

Another fine mess you’ve got yourself into, Monica, I thought, but with just a tinge of excitement lingering at the back of my mind.

*   *   *

The evening proved in fact to be a most entertaining one.  Mohammed was a natural host, despite Zara’s rather disparaging comments about him and men in general.  His brother Rashid, younger by two years, had also inherited the family charm.  He was quiet, observant, and more reserved than Mohammed, and I could see he had an immediate interest in Megan.  She, like me, had arrived at the table chained at wrist and ankle, and like me her dress displayed her nipples to the world, though they were not confined like mine.  None of the men – including Steven – appeared in the least surprised.  I thought Steven would at least have had the grace to show a little embarrassment, but I detected none. 

Rashid and Mohammed, now in casual western dress, occupied positions at opposite ends of the table, with myself on Mohammed’s right and Megan on my right.  Zara was opposite me and Steven beside her.  The table was small enough such that when Mohammed slid his hand on to my thigh in spite of my objection to being treated like this, I could not help a feeling of excited anticipation.

The meal was delicious, served by a white-robed waiter who appeared unfazed by the two chained-up women with their nipples on display.  Wine flowed liberally and in spite of my reservations, I began to enjoy myself.  We talked of all manner of things that one might discuss at a dinner party.  I was waiting for Mohammed to break the ice and lead in to the reason he had invited us here.  In this regard I was determined not to appear over-eager, but to let him broach the subject in his own time.  If he wanted to keep me chained up to make him happy during our stay, then I could live with that.  I was now accepting of the situation such that I was prepared to bide my time and not jeopardise my plan.  Both Megan and Steven, I was pleased to see, were following my lead.

After the debris of the last course had been removed, Mohammed stood up and announced that tomorrow he would be taking us to visit the family lands near Jabrin, wherever that was. 

“But first we have we have two gifts for you ladies.”  Rashid also rose and the pair moved to the nearby sideboard where Mohammed opened a drawer.  I was amazed to see him remove two exquisitely crafted silver collars.  Megan and I looked at each other, speechless, as the collars were placed about our necks.  There was nothing we could do, and we both knew it.  To protest was pointless when we were sitting there chained at wrist and ankle.  The fact that a collar held so much significance under the circumstances, and that submitting to it was the ultimate act of obeisance, was surely known to these men, and was probably the motive behind the exercise.  It was the final psychological nail being driven home, to let us know exactly where we stood.

The collar was snug about my throat, no doubt thanks to Steven having blabbed our neck measurements.  It was hinged at the front and clicked closed on some sort of ratchet lock at the back.  I had only time to notice a couple of anchor points on Megan’s before Mohammed leaned over my shoulder and grasped the wrist chain, raising my hands and locking the chain to the collar.  I turned to ask what was going on, but Mohammed was already ahead of me.

“You must excuse us now, ladies, but Rashid and Steven and I have business issues to discuss.”  He took me gently by the arm and led me shuffling to the foot of the stairs.  We were momentarily alone, and I was astonished when he abruptly clasped me to him and kissed me firmly on the lips.  It was so unexpected that I had barely time to draw breath, and with my chained wrists pinioned between us there was little I could do in return, save to respond in kind.  Yes, maybe I did go a little weak-kneed, but in my defence he caught me by surprise.  Then there was a firm hand on my backside.

“You know where your bed is.  Go to it,” he directed without preamble.

I had only taken one hesitant step on to the staircase when he turned and disappeared back into the dining room, passing Megan and Zara on the way.  Zara accompanied us to our rooms.

“I’m sorry, ladies,” Zara said, “but Rashid and Mohammed have the only keys to your accessories, but I’m sure you’ll survive until morning.  Unfortunately I am not always privilege to everything they do.  I will see you in the morning.”

I closed the bedroom door and went into the bathroom intending to see what I could do in regard to removing my restraints, before going to talk with Megan.  We had had little chance to be alone to discuss things since we had arrived, and I was now starting to get the feeling that she could be my sole ally in the circumstances.  It was evident that Steven was now clearly in the male camp and I could expect little sympathy there.

I looked at myself in the big wall mirror, standing with my hands chained close under my chin as though in an attitude of prayer.  I examined the ornately fashioned cuffs and the chain itself, but no amount of tugging was going to loosen them.  Disheartened, I returned to the bedroom to visit Megan, only to find the outer door locked.  Damn, I thought. Things were getting serious.  Now they were keeping us apart.  I wondered what Steven was doing now, no doubt sitting about drinking more wine with the boys.  I tried to suppress a nasty lingering thought that something might be happening to him, that we might all three find ourselves prisoners under some unexplained rationale, but I found I preferred the drinking scenario, even if that did put him in league with the Zubairs.  Steven was going to have a lot to answer for down the track.

I went to bed frustrated, not least through that kiss that Mohammed had planted on me.  That had been quite something, coming as it did so unexpectedly.  I managed to haul back the covers to find satin sheets beneath.  Sliding between these, still wearing the silk dress, was an act of hedonism that unfortunately initiated some sensations that were inappropriate given my restrained state and the undeniable fact that I had already been aroused by Mohammed. 

As I squirmed between the sheets, tugging futilely at my collar, I wondered if Mohammed would be visiting me.  Was I simply being prepared for a midnight guest?  I will admit the idea filled me with a certain pleasant expectation, but it was also a feeling which added to the frustration, and with my cuffed wrists I was unable to deal with those warm murmurings from between my legs.  The little locks piercing my nipples made them feel heavy and sensitive, and every time the chain got caught in the sheets I felt the mixture of heightened pain and pleasure coursing through my breasts. I tried stacking the pillows up and straddling them, to get some pressure on my crotch, but the satin made them slide all over the place and my ankle cuffs and dress kept getting in the way.  I curled up in a foetal position in a desperate bid to get my elbows down where it mattered, but still could not find the relief I needed.

The thought crossed my mind that this scenario could have been planned.  On what I had seen to date, Mohammed was well versed in human psychology – for a guy, anyway.  If this was a deliberate ploy to get me all hot and flustered, it was working a treat, making my mind go in to overdrive on top of physical urges I could not suppress.  The bastard!  My mind went round in circles and the situation just got worse.  Eventually I fell asleep in a tangle of silk and satin, hot, wet and dissatisfied in the extreme, my thoughts equally tangled and confused.  Bastard, bastard, bastard…

*   *   *

I awoke several times during the night. My chained state played havoc with my dreams, as, no doubt, did things like jet lag and the unfamiliar bed.  My desire for sexual relief did not seem to diminish, either, and I was still one frustrated teddy when the sun began to stream through the glass doors on the private balcony. 

As I stood outside in the cool morning air, watching the sunrise over the sea, I wanted to take my dress off and shower to remove the sweaty feeling I had developed from my futile exertions during the night.  I heard the door open behind me.  It was Zara.

She was looking fresh and groomed, in jeans and a white blouse, her black hair loose and shining as though from a hundred brush strokes.  She came out on the balcony beside me.

“It’s time to go,” she said. “We like to make an early start.  Open wide.”

“Wha - ?”

Zara’s actions were so entirely unexpected I completely forgot myself in my need to ask about such vital aspects as breakfast and a shower.  Zara’s movements were quick and precise as a bit gag was jammed into my mouth over my brief protest.  It was made of leather around some sort of flexible core, and had an additional leather wad attached to one side of the bar that sat on top of my tongue, further curtailing any intelligible speech that might have been possible.  At each side of the bit was a metal ring to which was attached a rope in the form of reins.  Zara buckled the strap tightly behind my neck, over my hair, while I briefly fought the intruder in my mouth.  The leather plug was hard and uncomfortable, though I knew it would soften up as my saliva began to be absorbed into it. 

“There,” she declared with satisfaction, holding me at arm’s length.  “It’s a shame about that dress.  You’ve slept in it, Monica.  I thought you would have looked after something as nice as this.”  I spluttered with annoyance to the effect that I was hardly in a position to remove it.  It took Zara only a moment to undo the nipple locks and remove the connecting chain before relocking them again.  From that point it was a simple exercise for her to undo the buttons at the shoulders and the zipper at the back and the garment dropped to the floor. 

I stood naked in the morning air that still held the remnants of a cool zephyr off the ocean.  If they weren’t already sensitive from the little locks hanging through them, my nipples hardened further in the breeze and at the light touch of Zara’s long fingernails as she clawed gently over my breasts.  I glared at her but she just smiled.

“Had a frustrated night, did we?”

“Mmmph,” I said.

“I thought so.  Mohammed’s like that.”  She didn’t elaborate, and I wondered how much she had been on the receiving end of some brotherly pranks.  “Come, we want to make a start before it gets too hot.  Let’s put some shoes on you.”

I was surprised that she didn’t have something already sorted out in this respect, so organised did she seem, but she simply selected a pair of medium-heeled sandals from my wardrobe and tied them in place with the leather thongs that wound round my ankles. 

“These are nice,” she said.  “Very good style.  I suppose you got them in Australia.  Very fashionable.”  She might as well have been gossiping over coffee.  I refrained from telling her I had bought them in K-Mart, but they were amongst the most comfortable ones I owned.

She picked up the two cords forming the reins and towed me slowly to the door, as I was obliged to take small steps with my ankles still chained together.  We entered the lift and exited in the underground car park.  Damn, I thought, what was happening now?  What about breakfast?

“”Evfrst?” I mumbled hopefully, pointing to my gagged mouth.

“All in good time,” said Zara, though whether she understood my meaning I wasn’t sure.  I followed her over to the horse trailer connected to a big Toyota four wheel drive, and immediately decided I did not like what was happening here.  It was a single trailer, built of shiny silver aluminium with high sides and dark reflective windows in the front part, which was partly covered with a small roof.  Zara dropped the tailgate and as she did so I saw that a long strip of stretchy black rubber, about a handspan wide, was fixed between the front wall – just under the window – to the top of the tailgate. 

The tailgate had dropped only three quarters of the way to the ground before Zara had to stand on it to make it go all the way against the pull of the rubber.  At this point she propped it fully open, forming a ramp, with a pole wedged against the fixing point on the side.  She squatted and removed my hobble chain.

“This way,” she ordered, leading me into the trailer.  She tied the reins to a ring at the front of the stall, leaving about a metre of slack, then locked my ankle cuffs to anchor points on each side.  My feet were half a metre apart and held there by short lengths of chain.  Clearly I was there to stay, not liking the way the long rubber strap was stretched out between my legs at around knee height. 

My wrists were next to be freed, albeit momentarily, as they were locked in similar manner to my ankles to anchor rings welded to the sides of the trailer at around waist height.  After spending the night with my arms bent and my wrists locked to my collar, it was wonderful to be able to straighten my arms again, but I suspected I was in for another long stretch. 

I had not figured out where this was all leading.  Mohammed had yet to discuss in any detail why he had asked the three of us here, and his silence in this respect was making me increasingly nervous.  Memories of the kidnapping of Leila and Jillian in Hong Kong kept resurfacing, with the difference in this case being that I might not recognise that I was being - or had been – kidnapped until it was too late.  And I was certainly not in a position to do anything about it. 

Zara had disappeared, and I waited in the silence of the garage for some minutes before she returned.  I looked about as best I could, but I could not turn my head because of the way she had tied the reins – one cord to an anchor point at two-o’clock and one at ten o’clock.  With my vision mainly limited to the front, I noticed what appeared to be a small camera mounted at roof level just above the front window.  Presumably this was how they kept an eye on the horse while travelling. 

I could hear Zara’s voice and figured Megan was the next victim.  I was proved right as another person was pushed up behind me and I felt the warm touch of Megan’s breasts against my back.  I also felt the strange sensation of something sliding against my crotch, and looked down to see the tip of a black rubber phallus appear as Megan was shunted against me.  She was wearing a strap-on, for God’s sake!  Where the hell did they get these things in an Islamic country?

Megan was quickly and efficiently secured in the same manner as me at ankles and wrists, but without the reins holding her head.  I couldn’t see, but I was pretty sure she was gagged the same as I was – a fact which was confirmed as she brushed her head against mine and I felt the end of the bit sticking out.

I heard more voices – male ones this time.  It was Mohammed, Steven and Rashid.  They came closer and I sensed eyes inspecting the two of us chained together.

“Very nice, Zara,” said Mohammed.  “We are going on a little trip to the interior, girls.  I hope you will be comfortable.  I’m sure you can amuse yourselves on the way, if you get bored with the scenery.”

There was the sound of the prop being removed from the tailgate and as it was raised, the rubber strap rose with it, coming to nestle firmly between my legs, trapping the rubber phallus against my crotch.  Megan and I were now astride a very stretchy but insistent device and we knew exactly the intention behind it.

“Give me a hand with the cover, Steven,” said Zara.  Steven’s head appeared above the right hand side of the trailer as he must have stood on the mudguard to reach for a rolled-up cover attached to the top of the small roof.  He grinned at me and blew me a kiss.  He looked to be positively enjoying himself, no doubt after a night with the lads.  Bastard!  His fate was getting worse in my mind, though I had yet to decide what it would be.

Megan and I were left in semi darkness as the canvas cover was unrolled from the roof and secured along the sides and at the rear.  At least we would be protected from the sun and any prying eyes.  We could still see out through the tinted glass, but I suspected nobody could see in. 

There came the sound of four doors opening and closing and the deep rumble Toyota engine starting up and echoing against the concrete walls.  The automatic roller door clattered open and we were underway, moving off with a jerk that made Megan lean against me, her nipples hard in my back and the phallus squeezed upward in my crotch.  I could see what Mohammed said about what we might do if we got bored.  Or rather, what Megan might do, for I was going to be the recipient, willing or not, for whatever came into Megan’s pretty head.  The gods seemed to be conspiring against giving Monica any choice in her fate right at the moment.

*   *   *
I had been frustrated during the night, without a doubt, and the feelings had returned with a vengeance before we had even reached the bottom of the hill to the seafront road, with the movement of the vehicle and the stretchiness of the strap rubbing insistently at my pussy, with that damned phallus trapped in place.  At least it was lying flat, but that didn’t make things any better.  I had a gut feel that this was going to be a long day, and that I would need to keep these sensations in check if I wasn’t to be an exhausted wreck by the time we reached wherever we were going.

With this in mind I tried to keep focussed on the outside world as we drove the route we had followed the previous day, past the old walled town of Muscat proper, dominated by the Sultan’s palace, and round the headland to another sea front town.  I suspected this was Muttruh, the port, and like Muscat, it too was hemmed in by desolate mountains encroaching on the settlement.  We drove along the corniche, past ancient-looking wooden colonial houses with overhanging balconies, then into a newer commercial area. 

Then it was up over a winding road and back on to the motorway out to the airport until we turned inland at one of the big green roundabouts that studded the highway.  It was the last bit of green we were to see for some time.  The interesting townscape that existed in the first part of the trip had helped me disregard the persistent pressure of the rubber strap, not to mention the rather pleasant game of spoons I was forced into playing with Megan pressing against me. 

Once we began heading inland, however, the scenery became more barren, as we drove through a long narrow valley into the interior.  The road was of excellent quality, with little traffic, and the humming of the tyres transmitted subliminal vibrations up through the soles of my feet.  Megan must have been feeling it too, for she began to get restless, and her squirming made the phallus slip sideways off the strap.  She pulled backwards slightly, sufficient to work the thing clear, but then began to edge it forward again, into my arse.

And so began the game that was to occupy us for the next hour.  It goes without saying that it was hot in the horsebox, with a gamy, but not unpleasant animal smell permeating everything.  Sweat was streaming off us, and where we touched our bodies were slick and slippery like two lovers in the throes of passion.  Not that there wasn’t an element of that here, but I knew if Megan managed to get the dong into my hole things would conceivably slip out of my control, for I had precious little room to move anyway.  It took all my muscle control to keep the intruder at bay, while Megan merrily shoved and poked in an effort to breach my defences.

As we struggled, the phallus became slippery with sweat and juices, and of course all the squirmings did nothing to alleviate the pleasurable feelings that that damned rubber strap was inducing.  I had the feeling that Megan was going to get the better of me, for I had nowhere to go, and it was her body strength against my sphincter muscles.  At length I submitted, letting out a stifled cry as the head penetrated my hole.  Megan knew she had won and held it there momentarily, making little snorts of triumph through her gag, while I leaned forward as far as I could against the chains holding my wrists and ankles, before she gave another push and it went deeper inside. 

There was no holding us at that point.  I lost the focus on our struggle and the sensations from the strap came back with a rush.  Only as Megan thrust home the dong and her abdomen smacked wetly against my buttocks, did I realise we had reached the outskirts of a town and were slowing down.  I groaned, in part from the fullness inside me, and in part from the realisation that we might be stopping for a break.

My fears were realised as we turned off the main road and threaded our way through several side streets to emerge in a large dusty square.  Mud brick buildings of one or two stories formed the sides of the square, and in one corner was a large circular fort.  A number of large acacia trees provided areas of shade, and in this shade was where impromptu markets seemed to be being held.  This was manifested in the form of a smattering of pickups, camels, and goats parked together, and huddles of white-robed and bearded men squatting beneath the trees.  Here and there little groups of women in brightly coloured robes broke the monotony of white and brown.  All the women wore headshawls and some wore bizarre black masks with a kind of rudder running vertically down the centre of their face.  They looked scary, like something from a science fiction movie.

We slowed and finally stopped near the fort.  I froze as the motion of the strap ceased.  The occupants of the Toyota got out and with barely a backward glance to the horse float where I stood, chained and gagged with Megan’s dick firmly implanted in my arse. 

“Ffrk!” I said, annoyed.  There they were going off to explore the fort and no doubt down a couple of cold cokes while we sweltered here in the heat.  Bastards.  The black book I had on Steven was going to turn into several volumes if this sort of thing continued. 

My evil thoughts were interrupted as Megan did a series of pelvic thrusts with obvious glee.  The movement was enough to rekindle the sliding of the rubber against my clit and I groaned with the rush of pleasure.  Megan’s head rested on my shoulder as she slowed her movements, but increased the pressure on the strap.  I shuddered as another wave went through me.  Megan sensed my slipping into the dark fiery place from which there was no coming back, and withdrew momentarily, pausing to let the blood pounding in my ears subside, and to allow my breathing to settle. 

Then she was away again, pushing my buttons like only a professional – and a female – could understand.  Finally I could stand it no longer and let myself go, feeling the waves of pleasure starting to build up as I began to move in time with the woman screwing my arse.  In the midst of all this I could not help but be conscious of the guttural sound of Arabic being spoken immediately outside the trailer.  I tried to suppress the desire to cry out, and for once was grateful for the wad of leather filling my mouth as a sudden surge of pleasure made me moan into the gag. 

I snorted again, and finally succumbed to the explosions from my crotch and the thrusting in my rear, mmphing into the gag and snorting perhaps unconsciously like a horse.  I knew we were rocking the trailer but I couldn’t help it.  Damn Megan! Damn them all, but Jesus it was good!  I sensed Megan having a squeaky little climax of her own, which only set me off again, before we both leaned against each other, exhausted.  Megan’s breathing was harsh in my ear, barely audible above my own undignified noises.  I could see one or two glances being cast from a nearby group of men towards the trailer.  Oh please don’t come for a peek under the canvas!  Oh shit, they were doing just that!  Goddamn!  How would this go down here?  Well, somebody would have to explain it, and I guess it wouldn’t be us.  The language barrier was the least of our problems.  A stoning might be closer to reality.

Three men had stood up from the group, one of them carrying an ancient rifle that looked as if it had come from the First World War.  All wore ornate belts with wicked-looking curved daggers displayed at their stomachs.  They were laughing as they approached and disappeared around the side of the trailer.  There was further chatter and the sound of hands banging against the side of the trailer as they fiddled with the straps holding the canvas cover in place.  I sensed Megan freeze, and did likewise.  The rush of ecstasy had turned to one of fear, for I had no idea what the local customs were and how much offence would be taken.

Then the banging stopped, and there were further voices joining in.  I thought I recognised Mohammed’s voice and let out a grunt of relief.  My legs were shaking and I could feel Megan’s body trembling against mine.  How much of this was from the orgasm, then fear, then relief, I couldn’t tell, but I was even thankful to hear Steven’s voice following a sharp thump on the side of the float.

“Another hour to go, you four-legged beast,” he said.  I thought I heard a female chuckle before I saw them all in front of the float getting into the vehicle.  Thanks for the update, Steven, I thought.  Insult noted as well.

*   *   *

In the next hour I got to thinking further about things, both before and after the next orgasm which caught me half a kilometre down a dirt road that sent all sorts of tingly feelings to places where I couldn’t do much to prevent the repercussions.  That time I was able to howl into the gag and tug as much as I wanted at my restraints, knowing that nobody could hear me, save Megan, who wasn’t past the odd muffled scream herself.  In the desert no one can hear you scream… No, that was ‘in space’… Whatever.

As I was saying, I got  to thinking, and the thought crossed my mind exactly who had suggested the Megan/Monica interaction. Something about it smacked of Steven’s thought processes, which had added another volume to my own thought processes concerning his fate, by the time we reached our destination.  At that point in time I had one sore arse, no thanks to Megan who obstinately refused to remove her toy from my interior despite my protests.  I was working on a second volume for her too.

We had travelled further down an extensive valley flanked by high jebels that were a pale brown colour and as barren as the moon.  At length I had glimpsed a large village ahead – a cluster of mud brick houses amidst a grove of date palms.  The palm grove turned out to be an oasis, perhaps a couple of kilometres in length.  The palms were tall and provided a shady canopy as we followed a well worn sandy road through them.  We stopped briefly beside a huge fort that appeared suddenly in the middle of the palms.  I couldn’t see much from my position, but I could see Steven leaning across Zara in the back seat of the Toyota to get a glimpse of the massive building.  I’ll bet that’s not all he’s getting a glimpse of, I thought crankily.

For a nasty moment I thought they were going to get out and do a tour of the place, but we started up again and more fine dust began to seep into the float, sticking to our sweaty bodies.  I must’ve looked a wreck.  We continued for only another five minutes, before turning through a gate in a high mud brick wall, coming to a halt in a compound in front of a gorgeous looking two-storey house.  It was made predominantly of mud brick with small wooden balconies hanging off the first floor, the windows fashioned with ornate wood carving while above the roof was a high square wooden tower.  The four occupants of the Toyota disappeared inside, and I was busily complaining unintelligibly to Megan when Zara reappeared with some black clothing over her arm.  There were sounds of the tailgate being lowered sufficiently for Zara to enter, then being pulled up again.

“Goodness, it’s warm in here,” she exclaimed, not bothering to hide the amusement in her voice.  “Oh Megan, I see you’ve been up to no good.  Is it stuck, dear?” 

I whined in complaint.  Enough was enough, people.  Just take it out!

Megan’s wrists were disconnected from the anchor points and I think were chained together in front of her, before her ankles were freed.  She had the decency to ease the prong out slowly, and it exited with a wet sucking sound, leaving a pleasant relaxed feeling in my muscles after two hours of impalement.  There were noises of people dressing, before my own wrists were unchained from the rings on the walls and locked together in front.  Only then were my reins loosed from the front and my ankles released.  I moved my legs together stiffly, the muscles protesting at the limited movement they had endured, along with strains that had been forced on them in resisting the movement of the vehicle.  The freedom experienced by my ankles lasted only a minute, as they soon sported another locked hobble chain.

I turned to see Megan wearing a black robe that covered her from head to foot like a cloak.  Zara had put a black scarf on her prisoner’s head and wrapped the lower half of Megan’s head with the material, so that only her eyes were visible.  The restrained arms were invisible under the shapeless folds of the garment. 

Pretty soon I was likewise attired and the back of the trailer was dropped.  We dutifully followed our hostess down the ramp and across to the front door.  It was huge and made of a dull grey wood that looked like it had been there forever.  The boards were studded with iron rivets, worn to a smooth patina by years of desert winds.  Yet it opened easily to Zara’s push, and we entered to find ourselves in the cool surrounds of an enormous atrium centring round a light well that seemed to suck up the air through the tower above. Four stout wooden columns supported the ceiling at the corners of the light well, immediately below which was a small fountain in the middle of a square pool with water plants.  It was an interior designer’s delight, made more so by colourful rugs hanging on the walls.

I looked around, noting various doors and a set of stairs rising upwards.  I would have admitted how impressed I was with the décor and tastefulness, but unfortunately the leather wad in my mouth prevented any such compliments.  Zara took us through to a corridor at the rear, and we stopped halfway along this to visit the bathroom one at a time.  The room was small by comparison to the atrium, with a ‘squat and drop’ type of toilet at floor level. They are not my favourite type, especially with your hands chained and wearing a voluminous garment to boot, but I wasn’t in a position to argue.

At the end of the corridor was a back door, through which we passed into a walled garden.  The wall was at least two metres high, of mud brick, and the garden was centred on a small stream flowing through it, bordered by smooth rocks amidst more date palms and vegetables growing in a random but very productive manner.  The whole area gave one a sense of privacy and coolness, despite the heat of the day.  I was almost on the verge of thinking things were looking up when Zara motioned to a small lean-to built against the rear of the house.  Another ancient wooden door opened and we had to stoop to enter the room, which was smaller than the size of a double bed.  This point was made obvious by the single mattress which took up three quarters of the beaten earth floor.  Lit only by a barred window high up on one wall, the place was stifling and had a smell of animals and straw.  With casual efficiency Zara picked up one end of a chain lying on the floor and pulled the cloth away from my face, locking the chain on my collar.  The chain passed through a ring embedded in a block of stone in the ground, and the other end was moments later locked to Megan’s collar.

“Welcome to Beit al Kabir,” said Zara.  “These will be your quarters while we decide how best to send you to your new owners, and how to deal with Steven.”

Her words left us stunned as she turned and left the room to the sound of a chain and lock on the outside of the door.  Megan and I looked at each other, aghast.  What was going on here?  Was this some sort of white slavery thing?  Were the rumours really true?

*   *   *


Monica's Games continues in chapter 10
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