|Gromet's Plaza||Richard Alexander Stories|
|by Richard Alexander|
|© 2002 - Richard Alexander - Used by permission.|
|storycodes: MF/mf; bondage; bdsm; cons/nc; XXX|
|Monica’s Quest Book 2 of the Monica Chronicles by Richard Alexander|
|Monica's Quest: 1. The Video by Richard Alexander MF/mf; bondage; bdsm; cons/nc; XXX|
Chapter One: The Video
The whole story began with the video we made. Looking back with twenty-twenty hindsight, we’d never have even considered the venture if we’d had any inkling where it would lead us. But let me start at the beginning…
* * *
The mood was relaxed in the living room of Bilboes. It was one of the rare occasions when all the girls were gathered together without one or more being engaged in the pleasuring or tormenting of a client. Monica, methodical as ever, had planned to make an evening of this, the first ‘public’ airing of her video. Over two months in the making, it was intended to advertise the virtues of Monica’s establishment.
Mind you, ‘virtues’ was probably the wrong word under the circumstances. Looking at the six females around me I reluctantly admitted to myself that whatever favourable views I might hold about these girls, ‘virtuous’ would not be high on my list of appropriate adjectives for them or the establishment.
Shawnee entered with another bottle of Cabernet Sauvignon and was directed to refill our glasses by a bubbly Monica. Shawnee was naked except for a pvc apron with a cartoon of Garfield on it. It was hardly sufficient to conceal the generous proportions of breast that peeped from behind it as she concentrated on not spilling any of the wine. She had already slipped up once during dinner and Mary has given her backside such a toasting that it almost glowed in the dark. Shawnee’s only other adornment was a stainless steel collar permanently riveted around her throat. It had once been similarly fixed around my own, but that was another story, another life. It had been cut down to suit Shawnee’s slender neck and she loved it.
I sat on the sofa between the two blondes, Leila and Jillian, with Emma sitting on the floor, her head leaning against Jill’s knee. On my left, Mary was stretched out cat-like, in black jeans and sweater, on the two-seater settee, a look of distant amusement on her face as she watched the banter between us. On the other two-seater Monica sat next to Trish and motioned for Shawnee to turn down the lights. The girl did so then returned to kneel on the thick Berber rug beside Monica, who waited with the remote poised in her hand.
There was an expectant pause and the large screen flickered into life.
The video opened with a tight shot of Monica’s head and shoulders as she sat on the front steps of Bilboes. She looked at her stunning best in the morning sunlight, the raven hair gleaming as a slight breeze stirred it off her shoulders. Her blue eyes stared into the camera. There was no doubt that she had screen presence, I thought – not a hint of self-consciousness. Not for the first time I decided that she was wasted in this job. My thoughts were cut short by her opening words.
“Hi. My name is Monica, and this is my place. Welcome to Bilboes.” She paused, and the camera began a slow retreat, bringing more of the elegant Queensland house into the picture as Monica continued:
“I’d like to take you on a guided tour, to meet the girls and to show you how a visit to Brisbane can be a special event, catering to whatever you desire…”
Monica remained seated, the striking dark green of her simple dress showing off her legs to best advantage and contrasting with the white of the steps. The pull back shot now showed the full extent of the house and gardens as it continued backing off down the driveway with the lush overhanging palms. The scene closed with a final shot of the big stone abutment to the electronic gates with the word “Bilboes” in discrete brass lettering beside the visitors’ call box.
The next shot was another close-up of Monica. The camera was following close behind her as she smiled over her shoulder and opened the ornate polished oak front door with its etched glass panels. Monica stood aside for the camera to enter. It panned around the entry hallway, as a soundtrack of chamber music began to play.
I had to hand it to Mon – she was all class. I was the cameraman for most of this video, though I had not seen the finished product until now. It was a pet project that she had kept to herself – not for the first time, I might add. Monica Armstrong could be very secretive at times. None of us had seen the finished product until now, and I had to say I was impressed already. I had expected a few smart comments from some of the girls, but Monica’s showing was that of a total professional – businesslike, but engaging and warm. I would want to visit this place if I saw the video, I thought, just for Monica alone, never mind what went on in the house.
The music continued as the camera took in the panelled walls and the polished balustrade and stairs leading up the light and airy stairwell, overlooked by the clerestory louvres at roof level.
“Let’s take a look upstairs,” whispered Monica conspiratorially with an impish smile. We followed her up the stairs, and I admit to the camera lingering on her legs as we did so.
“There are four bedrooms up here,” she told us. All are complete with ensuites, television, whatever our clients wish to make them feel comfortable and at ease.” She discretely omitted the fact that a fifth bedroom – hers – was also located here. Monica took us into the first bedroom, knocking on the door and waiting momentarily for the “come in”.
The camera again passed her as she held the door open. The room was quite a contrast to the rest of the house, done in modern minimalist style with smart chrome and beech furniture straight out of your upmarket designer store. In the centre of the room was a padded table upon which a naked male body lay face down, the head resting in a hole in the surface of the table. I had made this table myself, and if I do say so, it was extraordinarily comfortable. A woman looked up from where she was giving a deep tissue massage to the man.
“This is Emma,” said Monica, gesturing to the masseuse. “Emma is 28, and from Hong Kong originally. In her past life she was a nurse, and speaks Cantonese and Mandarin – as well as English, of course. Don’t you, Emma dear.”
“Yes Mon,” said Emma demurely.
Emma was wearing the shortest satin camisole I had seen. She was somewhat of a rarity amongst Chinese in that her breasts were extraordinarily well proportioned for her slender Asian figure. In the year I had been working at Bilboes they had been one of my favourite sights to watch bobbing along in the corridors and hallways. Ironically they were the most developed of all the girls and were favourites with the customers. They were also targets for anyone with an urge for breast bondage, however, with Emma’s submissive nature only adding to the fun in this area. Emma wore her hair quite long, just down to her breasts, and had the flawless Asian skin that was a western woman’s worst nightmare. With her big dark eyes and retiring manner, she was a favourite with many clients and had her own Asian following that Monica obviously wanted to promote.
“Anything you want to say to the millions of viewers?” asked Monica. Emma rattled off a few quick fire sentences in Cantonese, followed by something similar in Mandarin.
“What does that mean?” Jill asked Emma.
“It means ‘Monica wears fluffy bunny slippers and sleeps with a bear called Paws’,” said Emma, loud enough for all of us to hear. We all chortled while Monica looked embarrassed.
“It had better not,” she warned unconvincingly, ‘or I’ll hang you upside down from the balcony rafters!’
Emma looked over her shoulder at me and widened her big brown eyes. ‘Promises,” she murmured, such that only Jill and I could hear.
The guy on Emma’s massage table was Warren, although his face did not appear on camera. He was one of our richer clients and most of us had suffered at his hands at some stage or other. Monica pampered his ego and milked his wallet, usually through the services of us minions, but she had been involved in the fun and games a few times herself – not always voluntarily.
Warren was usually accompanied by his slave, Christina, on visits to Bilboes. Christina generally ended up secured in the cells somewhere, while Warren savoured the pleasures of the flesh in the upstairs rooms. I had shared a rather painful – then pleasurable – experience with Christina, the latter part being a secret still kept between us. Monica – not to mention Warren – would no doubt go berserk if it ever came to light.
We left Warren in the skilled hands of Emma and continued on a quick round of the other three bedrooms. All were finely furnished in different styles, with none being what I would call overly-feminine décor. The interior design had been mainly been done by Trish – a legacy from her past life.
We followed Monica back down the stairs and out the back through the kitchen, Monica breezily explaining the layout of the house. We emerged on the back verandah – a broad balcony that actually ran round all four sides of the house. A large table with a number of director chairs held pride of place, and it was here we held our weekly meetings and dined out when the weather was appropriate – which was most of the year.
“Ah,” said Monica. “There’s Trish and Christina having fun. ”
The camera swung slowly, looking down on the lush garden, jacuzzi, swimming pool and six-room accommodation block beyond, where the girls and I lived. On the far side of the pool, you didn’t have to be Sherlock Holmes to realise that Trish was giving Christina a rather gruelling castigation. Christina wore only a white corset – a garment I knew was her favourite – and was at that moment having her ankles fastened to a spreader bar while her bound wrists were stretched above her on a rope over the bough of a large jacaranda tree.
Trish finished securing the ankles and patted Christina on the rump, before holding up something in front of her prisoner. The camera zoomed in and we saw that Christina sported a white ball gag stretching her jaws wide. Her eyes opened nearly as wide as Trish dangled two objects before her. Christina shook her head and clearly suggested she was not entirely happy about what Trish had in mind. Heedless of her victim’s mute pleas, Trish expertly clipped the two walnut-sized weights to Christina’s nipples before returning to the balcony to stand next to Monica.
“This is Trish,” Monica announced to the camera. “Very skilled, very good with her hands. Likes building things.”
“You mean I’m handy with tools?” Trish asked in a deadpan voice, but could not maintain it, and her infectious throaty chuckle came out. She smiled and waved into the camera. “Hi Mom. Guess you were right – I should’ve done accounting and married Harold Smith.” Trish was in her mid-thirties, with soft auburn hair to her shoulders and a wicked sense of humour. She wore black strappy sandals with thongs that wrapped around her calves, a short black lycra skirt and a sleeveless top for this outdoor work.
“Trish comes from Vancouver,” Monica continued, “but we accept anyone here. What have you done to Christina?”
“She has a little toy inside her,” said Trish matter-of-factly. “I told her I’d be back in fifteen minutes and that I’d better not find the toy on the ground, or she’s get a severe whipping. Ain’t gonna be easy with her legs spread like that.”
“You’re evil,” said Monica with a smile.
“Yeah. And the toy is running, too – but only on low vibes.” She grinned. “Five bucks says she can’t manage it.”
“You’re on. I suspect now she’ll get a spanking either way.”
“Hmmm, maybe you’re right. Too bad. Think I’ll tickle her a bit in the meantime.”
“Not just evil but a cheat as well.”
“You knew that when you took the bet.”
Monica led the camera back into the house. “Trish is decidedly one of our more inventive staff,” she confided.
Just inside the kitchen door Monica appeared to stumble and the camera angled down to reveal a naked Shawnee on her hands and knees. Naked except for a waist belt, crotch strap and hobble chains on her ankles, that is, and sporting a complicated head harness that obviously concealed something rather filling in her mouth.
“Dammit Shawnee! You’re always in the way! Why do you have to scrub the floor now? I thought you had ironing to do?” Monica gave her two hard slaps on the bottom then looked up to the audience. “Shawnee is our resident slave,” she said apologetically. “We’ve tried to get rid of her, but she keeps coming back like a bad smell, so we do what we can with her. She’s good to experiment on, sometimes.”
“But we must move on – the business end of the house awaits.”
We followed as Monica retraced her steps down the polished wood floor of the hallway into the reception area inside the front door. Here she paused at the foot of the stairs next to an innocuous-looking panel in the wall enclosing the under-stair space. She swung aside a picture and undid a hidden latch behind it, watching as a door in the panel swung soundlessly open.
“Welcome to the fun rooms,” Monica said slyly to the camera with that arch smile she did so well, then disappeared down the concealed stairway.
“This is our store room,” she said, opening the door to the room immediately opposite the bottom of the stairs. “We can cater to pretty much anything you want in here. If we haven’t got it, we’ll get it or if we can’t get it, we’ll make it. If we can’t make it, it’s probably illegal anyway.” The camera panned over the racks of costumes hanging in the middle island, and around the walls covered with shelves of dildoes, whips, floggers, assorted electrical devices, not to mention boots, shoes and wigs. What the video couldn’t record was the sensuous smell of leather and rubber which permeated the room. Monica picked out a short black leather dress with a western type fringe, and held it against her body, admiring herself distractedly in the mirror.
Abruptly pulling herself together, she exited the room and the camera followed, into the block-walled corridor with the concrete floor that ran right round the storeroom. “Let’s have a look along here,” Monica suggested.
Beneath the stairs Monica paused and looked into a tiny triangular space under the bottom-most stairs. From behind a locked grille peered Shawnee again, her knees drawn up against her not insubstantial chest, since it was pretty much the only way she could fit in the space. She wore the same bondage attire as she had moments before in the kitchen.
“How did you get in there?” Monica demanded. Shawnee whined and shrugged her shoulders as much as she was able. “Have you been playing about behind my back?” Shawnee shook her head decisively and made incoherent mumblings with much hand fluttering. The camera changed shot to a different view of four recesses under the stairs – the one Shawnee was in at that moment and three others next to it, each getting taller as more room became available as the staircase ascended. The two largest niches were tall enough for a person to stand up in. All the recesses were of blockwork and all but the largest had hinged steel grilles across the front.
“I’m watching you, Shawnee. Don’t try my patience. If I catch you in the unauthorised use of toys and restraints there’ll be trouble. Now get out and go about your duties!” Monica squatted down and undid the padlock on the grille using a key hanging on the wall out of any prisoner’s reach. Shawnee crawled out and disappeared stage right. Monica stood up and strode off stage left.
This next section was a part of the video we had had the most fun making. While I had not seen the end product, it had been my idea to use Shawnee to inject a little humour into the video, combining it with a few special effects. Some music began to play. It was the Beatles’ ‘Help’, and for a few moments the hallway and niches were deserted. Then Shawnee appeared from stage right, waggling her fingers in front of her nose in the direction Monica had taken. In a flash Shawnee was seen locked in the second recess. This was where guests occasionally stayed overnight. It was small and cramped with barely enough room to lie down and certainly not enough to stretch out or stand up full height. Over twelve hours it became quite a strain, especially if a few restraining chains were thrown in to the situation.
Shawnee peered out from behind the grille, shaking it in mock frustration. Monica appeared from Stage left and walked past, ignoring the captive, before disappearing stage right. In the blink of an eye Shawnee was now in the third recess, standing up this time and with the grille pressing her body hard against the back block wall. There was no room for her to move except to shift her feet slightly from side to side and to wave her hands somewhat in the small space at her sides. He breasts pressed provocatively against the bars. Monica reappeared stage right and walked through the shot as if Shawnee wasn’t even there.
Another shot and Shawnee was in the fourth recess, standing still and erect. This recess had no grille, with the prisoner being held in place by a series of steel U-bars that passed though the back wall and were screwed up behind it. It only took one bar to hold a prisoner there, whether it be around the ankle, waist or neck. For the purpose of this video we had painted them all day-glo pink, and magically the bars appeared and disappeared in time to the music, always with at least one pinioning poor Shawnee to the wall. Monica walked past a number of times again, each time ignoring Shawnee, who was finally abruptly free, and threw down a bar on the floor in frustration before stalking off stage right.
The performance drew a round of applause from the viewers, and I had to admit Monica’s friend in the editing studio had done a terrific job. I looked across to Shawnee who glowed with pleasure while Monica tousled her hair in a maternal way. The shooting of that scene had taken a whole morning, while many of the other, later, cuts had come from other days when the girls were available with particular clients. The net result was to give the impression of a crowded house of discrete cells and a very busy staff. Shawnee’s presence was one we had decided to use in other scenes as well, in a much lower key. The effect would be that of a whole group of Shawnees, or else one that was very fast with a Houdini like ability to secure then release herself in seconds.
*Gromet's Selfbondage & Mummification Plaza
“This is what we call the Observation Room,” Monica told the viewers. “And this is Leila,” she added, putting an arm round the shoulders of the other occupant of the room. “Leila is the youngest of our team, but has many talents. She can provide documentary videos or digital stills of your stay at Bilboes. She’s the artistic one amongst us, aren’t you dear?” Monica gave her a sisterly hug. Leila blushed. She was blonde, and like Jillian, had to endure the inevitable jokes that came with the hair colour. She wore her hair relatively short, just covering her ears in a bob. Her brown eyes and normal expression were humorous, indicators of her bubbling personality and willingness to laugh. Under normal circumstances she would have been in jeans and tee shirt, but for the purposes of the video she wore her favourite bright red leather skirt and leather waistcoat, matched by red high heels.
“Leila is on watch,” Monica explained. “These windows provide one-way observation on to three other rooms, and you can also use the closed-circuit TV to check most other rooms in the house. We have two screens in here, as you can see.” The two screens were located in the corners at each end of the bench. Monica sat down in one of the two chairs in the room while Leila sat on the bench. They made a striking pair – the green and the red. Monica became serious and looked into the camera earnestly.
“We do a lot of unusual things in this establishment – physical, mental, and – of course, sexual. We take the safety aspect very seriously. Our clients may come for a couple of intensive hours, or may stay for weeks at a time – under varying conditions and for widely different reasons. Some come purely for pleasure, some come for therapeutic reasons, such as weaning themselves off drugs. Some play out their fantasies, and some have come under duress. We only take that class of client if we know there is a genuine reason behind the intent.
“In all cases we ensure that supervision is maintained around the clock. It may be direct supervision such as from here into the neighbouring room, or it may be by CCTV. Tell us what we can see at the moment, Leila.”
“The screen on the left is a view of Holding Cell One. Dennis is in there at the moment at the behest of his wife, while she goes out on her monthly shopping expedition with her girlfriends and Dennis’s credit card. Mon, that is one weird relationship.” A view of a rubber-suited figure filled the screen. The figure was hooded and chained to the wall standing up, his arms held up and wide in a ‘Y’ shape, the chains on the leather wrist cuffs locked to eyebolts in the blockwork. His legs were tightly bound at knee and ankle. I guessed he would be there for the day until his resistance had been weakened and he began to tire. His wife would then return to collect him, but not before giving him a sound thrashing and probably dining with us while he suffered further indignities in the basement.
“We make no judgements on such things here, as you know, Leila,” Monica chided gently. “The reasons behind our clients habits and desires are none of our business. But once they’re in our care, we like to keep them healthy and satisfied. Who’s in Number Two?”
The picture changed to an identical view of a similar cell, except that this one had a narrow iron-framed bed in it with a thin plastic-covered mattress. A woman sat on the bed. She was clothed and blindfolded, her wrists handcuffed behind her back and her ankles bound.
“Ah yes, Sigrid. She’s here because she has been kidnapped by a group of extremists who are holding her for ransom,” Monica explained to viewers. “She will most likely be subjected to a number of threats, indignities and possibly even some torture, if necessary, to extract certain information that we will need to find out. She’ll be here for three nights.
“We run shifts in the Observation Room. Rounds are done with both CCTV and in person, day and night. A log is kept of when checks are made and of what treatments are given to clients when. The CCTV’s have infrared capability so they can be used to monitor people even with the lights turned off. As long as our clients remain breathing and preferably conscious, we’re happy.
“Occasionally we even have unwanted clients here, don’t we, Leila.”
“Yes. We had an unfortunate incident where a burglar – we presume that was his original intent, although it became somewhat more serious before he was overcome – broke into the house. He was secured and spent several days as our guest, during which time we literally frightened the crap out of him.“ Monica smiled to herself at the recollection. “He was then dumped naked and tied in the back of his ute in a hot car park in a popular shopping centre, there to eventually free himself before discovering that he had a flat tyre requiring changing. I say ‘naked’ – he was in fact fully bandaged with very sticky elastoplast and wore a nice stainless steel cock protector. In short, he was discouraged from returning and given a rather extreme lesson in our inventiveness and capabilities.
“But enough of clients – we love them all, in different ways. Let’s take a quick peak in these other rooms.” During the filming the lights in the rooms beyond had been switched off. Monica flicked a switch on a small panel located centrally on the bench. To the left, the room beyond the window was illuminated. It was dingy and grey, with a single light bulb hanging over a stout wooden chair bolted to the floor. It looked not unlike the traditional electric chair, with a number of Velcro straps hanging loose from various points. “This is our interrogation room. We have lots of special effects in here – a real sound and light show, in fact.”
I knew about that aspect from personal experience, having been on one of Monica and Mary’s little scenes that had half scared me to death, but that was a whole other story.
Monica turned away from the Interrogation room, and the camera lingered, focussed over her shoulder, just in time to see Shawnee magically appear in the chair for a few seconds, struggling and kicking before gradually the Velcro straps fully secured her as if moved by invisible hands.
“We use that room for role playing, as we do with this one,” continued Monica, turning the light off without acknowledging the new captive, and illuminating the room opposite. This room was better lit under harsh fluorescents. It was the same size as the Interrogation Room and was known as the Post Room, mainly because of two central supporting posts about 3 metres apart. These were fitted with various eyebolts and anchor points that could secure a captive in any number of highly imaginative and very vulnerable positions.
There was one such person in there at the moment.
“I see Isobel is back in the war again,” Monica commented to nobody in particular, before turning to the camera. “This client has a fantasy about working for the Resistance during World War Two. Suffice to say she has been allowed to escape and has been hunted through the grounds, captured again, and brought here to Gestapo headquarters.” The shot cut to an inside view – a close-up of a blindfolded figure standing a couple of inches away from one of the posts. The woman was gagged securely with a black rubber ball strapped in her mouth. From the centre of the ball protruded an eyebolt, which was padlocked to a corresponding one screwed into the post at head height. This prisoner was clearly going nowhere.
The camera moved back, and we saw that a broom handle was bound horizontally across her back, over which her elbows had been hooked and her wrists joined with rope across her stomach. She wore a white silk blouse open to the waist, a pair of satin knickers of the old fashioned sort and a black garter belt supporting black seamed stockings. Her skirt lay on the floor beside discarded high-heeled shoes. A bead of sweat ran down her temple from under the silk blindfold as she waited for what was presumably to be her next round of torture. Silence hung in the cell for several long seconds.
A sharp crack followed and the head jerked against the anchoring gag, with a nasal “nnnnph!” echoing against the walls. The view widened and there was Mary, the Gestapo Queen, in her black boots, long black leather skirt and SS jacket and peaked cap. Good job her victim was blindfolded, I thought, because the mere sight of Mary would have made me confess to anything. There was a few seconds pause before the next blow came. The camera zoomed in on the prisoner’s trembling nylon-sheathed legs and buttocks just in time for the sight of the multiple thongs of a flogger to curl around them to a further muffled cry from the prisoner.
The picture cut to the woman’s face – a side-on shot. She was shaking, until a black-gloved hand gripped her under the jaw and Mary’s stern face appeared beside it.
“Listen mein liebschen, you can make zis easy or you can make zis hard for yourself? I vant ze names, now! You only haf to nod your head, ja?” The gloved hand let go, but the head stared immovably but sightlessly at the post in front of it. “Okay. Haf it your vay…”
“This is Mary,” came Monica’s voice dubbed over the action. “You wouldn’t think she was once a newsreader on television. What can I say about Mary? She actually does speak fluent German, and French. Loves her role-playing. Ingenious, very experienced, very skilled, can wield a riding crop like nobody else. Has a mean streak a mile wide and a heart of gold underneath.”
I looked across at Mary, lounging on the settee on my left. She poked her tongue out at Monica.
“Thanks for totally screwing up my reputation, Mon.”
“I want new customers, Mary – I don’t want them scared off before they even get here.”
Mary tucked her short dark hair behind her ear with a disdainful sniff and settled back to watch the rest of the scene like a languid cat anticipating good things to come.
There followed some nice shots - the flogger on the buttocks and the jaws clamping on the rubber ball - which I was quite proud of. We had borrowed a camera from one of Monica’s contacts, and it came with one of those neat steady-cam harnesses that make all movement possible without transmitting the vibration into the resulting picture. After playing about with it and experimenting, I became quite skilled in its use, ably assisted by Leila, who had a knack of picking the right shots and coming up with good ideas for angles and lighting.
There followed a brief shot of Shawnee now bound comprehensively to the second post, looking appealingly at the camera with big green eyes as Monica walked past, then we were back in the hallway, with Monica closing the door to the Post Room and the subdued but incessant thwack of the flogger.
“The other room you can see into from the Observation Room is the Dungeon,” Monica said over her shoulder as we followed her clacking heels along the dimly lit passage. “This is where the real action can take place. We have all the traditional implements of the trade in here. It’s one of Mary’s favourite places. Let’s see what’s happening.”
It was dark as the door opened. “Anyone in here?” Monica called. There was a faint whine from one corner. Monica switched the lights on and the room was lit by concealed spots that highlighted various instruments of torment – some that were used and some that were just for show.
The whining noise heightened and we saw a figure riding the plank – a horizontal timber fitted between two posts on the far side of the room. The figure was female and naked and bound in a strappado, feet widely stretched by a spreader bar, but still touching the ground, her arms bound behind her and pulled up by a rope over a ceiling pulley. We could not see her face for her head was covered with a leather discipline helmet. Only a mane of blonde hair protruded from beneath the collar, falling down to her breasts, from which dangled walnut-sized lead weights on clips.
“Oh, it’s Lisa,” said Monica in a conspiratorial whisper. “Lisa is one of our pain sluts – can’t get enough of it. Almost nothing is too extreme for her, short of mutilation and blood letting, which we don’t do. But strict bondage and severe discipline – Lisa’s your girl. Mary was dealing with her, I think. You see the way she is forced to rest her weight on her pussy? This is a number one plank – minimum width and surface area. The only thing that could really make this worse now would be raising her spread legs off the ground, but I won’t do that, since she is not my client and I don’t know what Mary has planned for her or has already carried out. But if you look here, you’ll see Lisa is actually impaled with a dildo up her bum. The dildo is fixed to the plank, so there’s no way she can move in any direction.
“Comfortable, Lisa?” whispered Monica next to the bound girl’s leather-encased head. The head shook emphatically and more whining noises escaped through the nose holes. Monica tugged none to gently on the nipple weights and the whining went up an octave. “Mary says she’ll be another hour over what she told you,” Monica advised. “Too bad.” There was a muffled, despairing wail from the hooded figure.
“We keep ‘em guessing – unsure what’s going on, how long it will last. All part of the game,” she told the viewers. “Let’s have a look at what else we can offer the discerning customer in here. Let’s see – we have this nice set of stocks…” How I remembered being on the receiving end of them. “And this seesaw… As it this end comes down…” she demonstrated how as one end came to rest, a dildo came up through a hole to spear the unfortunate victim. “Here we have a whipping bench, with holes in it for face, tits or willy. The parallel bars on the wall over here – ideal for stringent rope work… The dragon bench, the rotating St Andrew’s Cross, and of course lots of pulleys on the roof. Hours of fun for all the family.”
The camera trailed her to the door and we watched as it closed behind her, before the view swung back to the room to see Shawnee strapped to the cross that had been empty moments before, now rotating slowly into an upside down position…
“Along here is the gym,” Monica continued, opening another door and stepping into a brightly lit room. “Hi Jill, how’s it going?” Jill was tall and sporty-looking in her lycra shorts and crop top with nipple bumps that clearly showed the air conditioning was working. Jill was the second blonde of the team, her hair short, like Leila’s, just coming to neck level in a soft shiny flow. “Jill is an ex-physio, ex-gym teacher,” Monica told us. “We just have so much talent here, don’t we, Jill.”
“Absolutely,” Jill agreed with a voice that told of a very correct upbringing.
“What we’re offering here is not just B and D,” continued Monica, “but a chance to loose weight as well. Things don’t get much better than this in terms of value for money. Who do we have here at the moment?
“Our contestants today are Mr and Mrs Smith from Hawthorne,” said Jill, the epitome of a quiz show hostess. “Mr Smith likes gardening, reading, collecting stamps and getting severely flogged. Mrs Smith likes cooking, eating, and doing things to Mr Smith. Right now, as a consequence of Mrs Smith’s cooking, they’re both into our special weight loss and exercise program. Whoever loses the least weight each week gets extra incentives during the exercise program,” Jill told us with her stunning smile.
Then came Monica’s voice over and some nice shots of Mr and Mrs Smith from the neck down without revealing their identities. It would be fair to say that both could have shed a kilo or two, and the exercise program was part of the master plan.
“Mr Smith is currently on the rowing machine. As long as he keeps up the pace set by Jill, he will complete the session relatively pain-free. If he fails to maintain that pace, he will get a sharp electrical jolt up the arse, because currently – if you’ll pardon the pun – he’s wired to a butt plug which is connected to a timer which measures the rate of his stroke on the rowing machine. Any slacking and - zap!
“Mrs Smith, meanwhile, is on the stepper, which has contacts under it which again measure the rate of stepping. In this instance Mrs Smith gets a jolt across the tits.” The camera cut to a shot of some electrodes taped to rather nice-looking breasts. The hands that belonged to the same body appeared to be handcuffed behind that body, which – like Mr Smith – was naked. “After this there will be sessions on the weights, the strider and the treadmill, followed by the sauna, and if they’re lucky, I may give them a massage to ease their pain – and there will be plenty of that, believe me.”
Monica’s fine features filled the screen again. “One aspect that is almost as important as safety in this house is privacy. It is rare that we schedule more than three or four clients at once, and it goes without saying that they never meet. The clients you’ve seen in this video have been filmed only with their permission. Each day we plan the activities for each client and ensure that adequate supervision is available and that the rooms intended for use are free. We are always aware of our clients’ needs. “
The camera moved slightly and zoomed in over Monica’s shoulder to where Shawnee had magically appeared chained to the treadmill and was trying to attract the attention of the camera, before the picture dissolved and we were back in the corridor.
“Jill mentioned the sauna. That’s just along here.” We followed her and entered what we knew as the sluice room. It was fully tiled with white tiles and had a washbasin, bidet and toilet along one wall, and a bath against another. Situated above the bath was a strange looking structure a bit like a cross between a Ferris wheel and a seesaw.
“That’s the submarine,” Monica explained. “The victim winds up strapped to that, which in turn goes round, gives them a dunking, and, well, various unpleasant things are promoted with the help of gravity…” Monica smiled enigmatically. “In the corner here we have the sauna itself,” she said, pointing to a partitioned off section of the room. “Nobody’s using it at present – you can have a look.” She held the door open while the camera moved past her and took in the scene inside the room. There was little to see in the sauna. One side of the room was made up of a slatted wall, from behind which the steam emanated. Shawnee was bound to the slats like a scarecrow and whined plaintively at the camera before it withdrew.
Monica was already heading back into the corridor. “Our final port of call is a wonderful contraption built by our resident handyman, Steven.”
Here it was – I came face to face with myself on the video. While I had done most of the filming myself, I had handed over to Leila for this last section, at Monica’s request. “You built it, you should take credit for it,” she had told me, and of course Muggins believed the line.
So there I was – somewhat embarrassed but proud of the great contraption I had constructed – a cross between a four-poster bed and a rack, with facility for five victims to be bound in various positions. It had many memories for all the girls, for it was here that I had finally tamed Monica – or so I thought – and it was here that the rest of the team had endured some taxing torments as Monica had struggled to find the first key in what turned out to be the Great Key Treasure Hunt.
But there I was, somewhat unprepossessing – short brown hair, clean shaven, and with an earring in my right ear – the legacy of Monica’s major revenge that followed, but that was yet another whole story in itself. We were even, now, Monica and I. In the course of our unwritten competition we had gained a healthy respect for the ingenuity of each other, and I had come to be accepted as a full member of the household, even becoming part of various role playing and other treatments when such was warranted. It certainly made a change from maintenance about the house.
This time, however, Monica persuaded me to test The Rack, and there followed a series of brief shots of me bound every which way, as if to demonstrate the versatility of my creation. In this instance it seemed like the creation had turned into Frankenstein’s monster and (courtesy of Monica) was about to wreak its revenge on its creator. In deference to my modesty – since as a mere builder I had not had quite the same exposure to the Trade – Monica let me wear a pair of leather jocks. I thought this would have been acceptable, provided Monica hadn’t used every chance she got to grope me, with the predictable reaction that Mr Willy started to get somewhat excited. I finally wound up on the rack itself, stretched immovably for the cameras while wearing a complicated harness comprising blindfold and gag. Things were obviously a bit vague from that point, since I hadn’t been able to see what was going on, but I was dreading what was coming next, for at that point Monica had exposed Mr Willy to the world and climbed on board for the ride. Just how much of this she would decide to use as part of a promotional video I hated to think. Monica and Leila were quite capable of coming up with something arty.
Whether it was because of my sensitivities or simply because Monica deemed it inappropriate, Monica cut short the scene with a wicked smile and a hand over the lens as I lay vulnerable, blind and silent in the background.
The screen went blank, then the hand came away. In the background Shawnee was now strung up from the frame, but never attracted a backward glance as Monica slammed the door behind her.
The video gave the impression of having reached the end, as the next view showed us all sitting in the sun on the front steps. Monica wound up the voice-over with the usual marketing spiel, and while some of us had an inkling of what might be coming next, Monica was the only one to have seen it so far.
It had been an idea dreamed up by Monica but embroidered on by myself. We thought we needed something really classy and memorable to end the video with. Monica wanted to target the Asian market, particularly the rich gamblers who came out to spend up big at the Treasury Casino in Brisbane or at Jupiter’s on the Gold Coast. We thought a closing scene with the two blondes, Leila and Jillian, would be just the ticket.
The screen went dark and soft organ music started. A candle flickered into life, followed by another one. The violins and strings merged with the organ and the music became discernible as Albinoni’s Adagio – a gorgeous, slow piece of chamber music from the early seventeen hundreds. The candles illuminated just enough of the room for us to recognise the main living room of Bilboes, with it’s polished oak floor and chandelier, the latter now sporting four candles in special holders I had made and fitted. All furniture and paintings were gone from the room, leaving a strange, almost surreal atmosphere in the deserted room.
Then came a shot of shadows on the wall – two people moving very slowly in unison – dancing. The camera pivoted, as if searching for the source of the shadows, and alighted on Jillian and Leila in the centre of the floor. Aside from strappy high heels, they were naked, their flesh luminescent in the flickering of the candles. Each wore a black leather collar locked in place, with a steel chain running from the rear of Leila’s collar down her back, between her legs, between Jill’s legs, and up to be locked to the back of Jill’s collar. A second chain was locked to the front of Leila’s collar. This chain dropped to her crotch, looped under the first chain, rose to pass through a D-ring at the front of Jillian’s collar, then returned to the original lock. Simply and effectively the girls had been joined at crotch and throat. A close up of the crotch chain showed that it also passed through two eyebolts protruding from the two pussies, and there was no doubt what was embedded here, implanted more firmly by any tightening of the second chain, which occurred if they tried to move their heads apart.
As it was, they held the classic dancers’ pose, cheek to cheek, their breasts nuzzling together. Jill’s left hand was on Leila’s right shoulder and her right hand clasped Leila in the small of her back. Leila’s hands mirrored Jill’s, the position held by finer chains locking the girl’s wrists to the vertical chain down their partner’s back.
Neither was gagged nor blindfolded. The latter was unnecessary, for the light was dim and both girls had their eyes closed in any case. They were oblivious to the world as they shifted slowly from one foot to the other, moving in tiny circles as their bodies touched in time to the music.
I have to confess at this point that appearances did not tell the whole story, for this was in fact the second time we had filmed the scene. The first time we had got it wrong – the tempo of a Telemann piece was too fast and we had the vibrators turned up too high. Before we knew it, Jill and Leila were gasping and pawing to get loose, but could not move their hands anywhere near the problem areas, and ended up doing the bump and grind together, much to the surprise of all, and not a little embarrassment, primarily on the part of Leila. She was the youngest of the girls and perhaps the least worldly. She was also well aware that Jill was bisexual and was in a long-term relationship with Emma, not that such things were of significance in the daily activities we often undertook in the business.
The Telemann Climax (as I called it) appeared to take the edge off their appetite, and with the turning down of the vibrators and the slower, gentler music of Albinoni, they relaxed and just let the warmth of the rhythms overtake them almost unconsciously.
It was a wonderful scene. I did some arty shots of their foot movements, Jill’s white shoes contrasting so well with Lelia’s red ones. I caught a drop of sweat slide down Jill’s back into that delicious hollow at the base of the spine that I believe is one of the most sensuous parts of the female anatomy. Then came some back-lit shots of soft blonde hair against the candles, of multiple shadows on the floor, and above all the swelling of the Adagio.
The person who had edited the film had added some soft focus to the scene and the whole lot came over as something quite magical. The credits rolled briefly (there weren’t many involved and none of us figured in the acknowledgements) and the two girls faded into blackness as the final notes of the music ended.
We all sat there for several moments staring at the blank screen before Trish said “All riiight! Who the hell came up with that last scene? Fabulous! Jill and Leila – brilliant!”
Monica switched the lights on at that moment and all eyes seemed to be on the two blondes, both of whom blushed. I squeezed both their hands and their complexions deepened.
Then Monica was on her feet.
“That, girls, was the new promo for Bilboes – for selected eyes only, of course. Thank you all for you contributions, particularly Shawnee – you really enjoyed it, didn’t you, you little tramp!” There was undisguised fondness in Monica’s voice. “And of course Steven on the camera – you are just so versatile, sir. What more can I say?”
It was my turn to go red as the girls burst into a spontaneous round of applause.
“I think the Oscar must go to these ladies for stealing the show,” I said, indicating Jill and Leila. “At the end of the day, it was a team effort.”
“May it bring the clients running,” said Monica raising her glass.
The project was in fact another one of Monica’s ideas. She reasoned that since I had built a ‘human’ table for Shannen, one of our more recalcitrant clients, I ought to build a human chair as well. “Or several,” she had said at the time. “Imagine our wealthy guests pulling up chairs called Leila, Emma and Mary.”
“The day I see Mary as a human chair will be the day I do not sit down,” I had told her.
Trish and I had experimented considerably to achieve the desired effect, which was to have the ‘chair’ in a far from comfortable position when being sat upon. We figured the backs of the thighs, when folded down against the horizontal torso would make quite a reasonable seat, with the lower legs forming the back, and this was the road we had been down. It involved getting a few office chairs from second hand suppliers then doing a lot of trial and error modifications to make it work. It was the final prototype that I wheeled in to Monica’s office at eight thirty on the morning of the weekly meeting. It had been some time since I had had an opportunity such as this, and if my plan came off it would be fun, although I would no doubt pay a price afterwards. There had been an uneasy truce between Monica and I of late, such that I couldn’t resist a little wind-up. I felt Monica had become too involved with all the marketing she had been doing and needed bringing back to earth a bit.
My plan had begun with the early morning ‘capture’ of Shawnee. She was now positioned in the Post Room, supervised by Trish who was on watch. This suited me fine, for Trish was part of the plot, and having her on duty gave me an excuse to have Monica try out the device herself, rather than Trish, who was a party to its construction. Shawnee was a diversion, as would become later apparent, and I simply wanted her out of the way. I decided to give her a little compensation for the possibility of Monica’s wrath if things went wrong. As a result, Shawnee was now standing astride the ‘shaft’, a device I had manufactured again with Trish’s guidance. Shawnee’s legs were spread with a short spreader bar attached to the steel upright, on the top of which was a large vibrator firmly implanted inside her. She wore her usual about-the-house garb, that is a short pvc apron and precious little else save her collar. Her hands were secured behind her with locked leather cuffs, and she was gagged with several strips of duct tape, but by and large things weren’t too strenuous for her, and I suspect there would shortly be a smile trying to make itself felt under the tape. I had not told her what it was all about, since Shawnee was just a slave about the place and simply did as she was told. ‘Capture’ was the wrong word. She had been totally cooperative all the way, looking on what was happening, I think, as one of the better perks of the job.
With Shawnee out of the way, I wheeled the chair frame into Monica’s study and announced proudly: “This is it.”
Monica stood up from behind her desk. She wore a short denim skirt and a white tee shirt which actually looked a size too small, not that I was complaining. Mine was a crappy job, but somebody had to do it, and if it involved dealing with spunkily-attired women, then so be it.
She looked at the chair closely.
“Seems kind of…ugly? Unfinished?”
“Correct. Sort of like a car without its body shell – that’s what you’re looking at here.” I dumped a bundle of what looked like leather seat covers of some description on her desk. They were made of red leather and had lots of straps with quick release clips dangling from them in a haphazard way.
“Mmm, nice leather,” said Monica, holding it up to her nose and sniffing, then rubbing her fingers over it and giving me an arch look that always made me uncomfortable. She ran her tongue over her pale glossed lips in away that sent shivers down my spine. Damn, she was good!
“Want to see how it works?”
“You’ll have to take your clothes off.”
“You’re so romantic,” she said, her tee shirt already coming over her head. “A real lady’s man, Steven. ‘You’ll have to take your clothes off’,” she mimicked. “You might as well be ordering a takeaway. And don’t forget I have the meeting at ten.”
“You’re worse than me,” I retorted. “Is that what you tell your customers?”
“Haha – very funny.” Monica’s black satin knickers dropped to the floor. Her bush was dark and trimmed and her breasts I had always thought of as nicely proportioned. That went for Monica Armstrong all over, I reckoned. All the curves in the right places – not exaggerated or pronounced – just nicely proportioned.
“Okay, sit on the edge of the chair here,” I directed her, “now lie back.” The chair at this stage was simply a lower-than-normal office chair with the back and upholstery removed. I had put a thin bean bag under Monica’s body which conformed to her shape and provided full support. Her head went back beyond the seat to rest on an extension of the seat in the form of a canvas web stretched between two steel bars. The web reached from her neck to the top of her head, cradling it comfortably. I helped her wriggle into just the right position.
“Okay so far?”
“Sure. Feels fine.”
That was the point at which I slipped the back of the chair into position and bolted up the side supports to it. From this stage Monica would have some difficulty getting totally free, since the underside of the back came down to within an inch of her throat. And she would have had some difficulty extricating her head through the gap even with her limbs free.
“The next step is to secure your body,” I told her, pulling a wide nylon webbing strap across her, just below her navel, and another one below her breasts. I could not help giving them a quick caress before I tightened the straps under the seat.
“Stop that,” said Monica, but she said it with a smile.
“Now comes the interesting part,” I told her, lifting both legs and pulling them up and back so that her thighs nestled against her breasts, her buttocks displayed tautly. Another webbing strap crossed her legs just behind the knees, holding her legs in loosely in position. I did not pull the strap tight at this stage for there were a number of adjustments still to be made.
“Still okay?” I queried.
“Sure. Getting interesting now,” she said, and I noticed her breathing was shorter and sharper. Whether this was merely the compression of her body or something more, I didn’t know at that stage.
“Gotta get those arms out of the way,” I said. “Hold ‘em up.”
Monica did as she was told, and her arms aligned with each side of the back to the chair, fitting snugly against the padded edges. There were two straps on each side. The first pair secured the upper arms just above the elbows, while a further pair restrained the wrists at the top of the chair back. Along side these straps were two further pairs, which I now strapped around Monica’s lower legs – one pair at the top of the calves and one at the ankles.
“Mmmm,” said Monica. “Kind of permanent…”
“It is, isn’t it,” I agreed genially. “Wriggle for me please.” Monica did so. In her current position, her legs were gradually spread from her buttocks to the top of the seat back, at which point her ankles were at the outside edges, almost touching her hands. This gap between the legs was not the most comfortable on which to sit, Trish and I had decided, and we had had two stiff foam inserts cut to fit – one between the thighs and one between the calves and feet on the seat back. I slipped these in to place and tightened the webbing straps.
“Now you’re getting the feel of it,” I told her. “Snug?”
“Ye-ss…” Her voice was as tight as the straps. “Okay – I get the picture. You can undo me.”
“Not yet, Mon.” I was aghast. “The best bit is yet to come. Wait till you try out these covers. You know how much you like leather!”
“Oh all right, but don’t take too long.”
I slipped the first cover over the seat back. It was shaped to take her feet plus the thickness of her calves and the seat back, tightening with a series of laces across the back like a corset. Of more interest was the seat cover itself. This slid on the front, and could be pulled back to the base of the back. It was like a big sack, for it had to take in the seat base itself, plus the compressed body on top. This particular section of covering was secured by quick release clips underneath, and the straps through these were easily pulled tight, melding buttocks, thighs, foam insert and seat base into one.
Monica was starting to look flushed now, as the extra pressure came on her body.
“Wow,” she said. “This is quite something you’ve managed. I suppose there will be a big bill for the leather?”
“Is that a complaint?”
“No – I’m impressed, I have to say.”
“But there’s more,” I continued. “Much more.” I undid a zip along the leading edge of the seat itself. This allowed a flap to be lifted back, exposing Monica’s tightly stretched cheeks.
“What the hell…?” she demanded, as I injected a quirt of lubricant and began to work a small flexible vibrator into her pussy.
“Steven! Don’t you dare! Stop that immediately!” I ignored her and continued with my task. It was a tight squeeze but the choice of weapon was appropriate and it slid home to the accompaniment of an exasperated moan from Monica. She tried to struggle but could manage only a tiny squirm. Then vibrator number two made its entry into her arse.
“You bastard! Take that –oh – take that out immediately!”
“Don’t hear you say that to a man very often,” I mused.
“Steven, this isn’t funny! I have a meeting to attend!”
“Oh you’ll be there all right. Except you’ll be the ‘chair person’.” I laughed, for I’d only just thought of that.
“Steven – don’t you even think about it! Don’t you dare!”
“Oh shut it, Mon. Get off your high horse just for once and join in the fun!” I picked a medium density rubber ball out of my carry bag and held it in front of her mouth.
“No! I won’t!” She said this through clenched teeth until I gripped her by the nose and pulled and she realised the futility of it. “Stev –ergh! Gerk! Phhumph!”
The ball I had selected really filled her mouth and I jammed it behind her teeth, noting with satisfaction how her jaw really distended around it. This would be a short session. She would cope. The ball had a quick release catch on each end of the strap. Unlike a normal gag, this did not buckle around the neck. Rather, the catches mated with their counterparts which were fastened to the rods supporting the webbing cradle under Monica’s head. With each end of the strap clicked home, I pulled the straps tight, not only securing the ball in place, but leaving her unable to move her head.
I stared at the bright blue eyes glaring at me from the horizontal position. I was in deep shit, but I would at least enjoy myself for a short while, at Monica’s expense. The final piece of the jigsaw was a bag-like cover for Monica’s head that was attached by velcro to the chair back after it had been slid over the jet black hair and the webbing support. A small hole was positioned over her nose and further velcro straps made sure it would not move.
I turned both vibrators on. They were the type that twist and rotate as well as vibrate, and I was rewarded with a moan from the chair. Satisfied I delivered a hard smack to each buttock and zipped up the front zipper, before wheeling the chair down the hallway and on to the back verandah.
The verandah decking had small gaps between the boards and the chair shuddered and clattered as I pushed it across to where Jillian, Leila, Emma and Mary sat at the table finishing their breakfast and perusing the paper, ahead of the weekly meeting.
“Oooo!” exclaimed Leila. “Is this the chair? It’s gorgeous! Just my colour, too! Who’s in it – not Trish?”
“Trish is on duty,” I reminded her.Gromet's Selfbondage
& Mummification Plaza -
“Sure,” I said. “Just be careful – it’s still being broken in.”
Leila sat gingerly on the seat that was the back of Monica’s thighs, and slowly leant back against Monica’s calves. There was a groan from the hooded rear of the seat.
I helped Leila adjust the height and demonstrated how the chair rocked on its stand. She was entranced.
“It’s really nice – kind of different. Kind of… alive.” Then they all wanted to try it. I waited until Mary was about to try it, before demonstrating the secret zipper.
“Nice touch,” Mary commented with an amused look. “I wondered what had happened to that little tart Shawnee. Never around when you need her. And I certainly don’t consider this to be an adequate excuse.”
“What do you think might be appropriate in addressing that failing?” I wondered aloud.
Mary sat down on the tautly stretched leather and appeared to contemplate matters. More specifically she was contemplating the tautly stretched white cheeks of Monica, while twiddling with the two inserts. At that point she evidently made up her mind and gave the two moons a severe spanking with her bare hands. It wasn’t long before the skin glowed bright red and muffled squealing was coming from the red leather head-covering at the rear.
“Oh shush,” Mary said dismissively. Any more noise and I’ll fetch a riding crop.”
“Can I have another go?” asked Leila.
Mary vacated the chair with a parting smack and Leila knelt beside the exposed upturned cheeks. In her hand was a black marker pen, with which she proceeded to draw and embellish a round bullseye target with several superimposed arrows, centring on the two vibrating devices, ignoring the muffled squeals of outrage from the other end.
“Don’t get any on the leather,” I warned.
“Don’t worry, I’ll be careful. This stuff takes ages to get off your skin, I know.” she agreed, standing back and admiring the black concentric circles on the white flesh.
Mary tried it out again, looking very much at home. Mary and leather went together, I decided.
“Pretty neat chair, huh?” I fished.
“Yes, Steven. Once again you are brilliant and we all agree the world is a better place because of you.” This from Trish who had appeared in the doorway, a smirk on her face, and trailed by a gagged Shawnee. “Has the meeting started yet?”
“No, we’re waiting for Mon-… oh!” said Leila, as the truth suddenly dawned on her. “I thought you said this was Shawnee?” she whispered in a horrified tone.
“No,” I corrected. “You decided that.”
“So this is really…? Oh…shit…”
“Mmm,” I agreed. “Comfortable, isn’t she, Mary?”
“Sure is,” Mary said, nonchalant as ever, and only reluctantly getting up. “Built for comfort, not for speed.”
“Is there any other way to go?” I asked rhetorically, undoing the head cover. Monica’s face matched the colour of the leather.
“I have an errand to run,” I said. “I’ll catch up with you later. You can fill me in.”
“I think Monica will do that,” Trish murmured to me as I made my hasty exit.
* * *
Monica filled me in all right. The first thing that happened was that Trish was sent to my workshop and I was barred from it. I heard the sound of my circular saw and drill and I admit I was worried.
“She shouldn’t be fooling around in there,” I told Mary as we passed at lunch. “A man’s tools are very personal. A woman shouldn’t play around with them.”
Ignoring the double entendre, Mary reminded me : “Trish won’t be fooling around – not if Monica has anything to do with it. And Monica won’t be playing.” She looked me in the eye with a calculating gaze and a sly smile. “If I were you, I’d be afraid – very afraid.”
“Thank you for those words of comfort, Mary.”
* * *
I spent a couple of hours with my wrists cuffed behind me, around one of the verandah posts, courtesy of Mary and Jill doing as they were bid and me not having the will to resist them. Nothing more than that – no gags, no inserts, nothing strenuous, just me and the sounds of Trish beavering away in my workshop.
Then the vaulting horse appeared on the varandah. It had been surplus from a gym closure – a series of truncated boxes that stacked on top of each other to form a horse with a padded top. It had been adapted with all manner of cleats and anchor points at various locations for ease of restraint. I was left to consider what was ahead of me, for the Jill and Mary only brought up two sections, making the padded top barely above knee height.
As part of Monica’s strategy a leather discipline helmet was placed over my head and buckled up. I could speak and hear but the helmet had no eyeholes, and my imagination was left to do its unfortunate work – a process which was not dissimilar from sitting in the dentist’s waiting room, listening to the drill. Monica had not lost her touch – in more ways than one.
Predictably I wound up naked. Equally predictably I wound up on my back on the vaulting horse. Straps ran across my chest below my armpits, at my waist, and across my body just above Mr Willy. My feet rested on a bar poked through one of the myriad of holes through the horse, just above floor level, while my arms were cuffed to ring bolts at the same level. It was not the most strenuous of positions, and Jill made me more comfortable with a small cushion filled with sand, placed under my head and neck.
I would have dozed, in the last sun of the afternoon, except that every time one of the girls happened to pass, they seemed unable to resist a little fingernail titillation of Mr Willy. Which was nice as far as it went, except that it never actually went anywhere.
When voices became more collective, I figured the postponed meeting was about to take place, and my trepidation began to increase. The sight of Monica finally unfolding from the chair with a big embellished target drawn on her arse in waterproof felt pen had been described in considerable detail to me by Mary, who was never one to avoid a good undermining of confidence. She had also described Monica’s temper and the way her face continued to coordinate nicely with the red leather of the chair. Leila had been present for these descriptions and had become visibly pale at the various punishment suggestions that might befall the perpetrators of the indignity, whether the aforementioned indignity had been done innocently or otherwise.
My first realisation of what was about to happen was the sound of Mary and Trish’s voices and the feel of a large piece of plywood on top of me. I found out afterwards it was about two metres by one, with a stiffener around the perimeter underneath. More specifically, this ply, which now created a table top, had cut-outs in certain strategic locations. One hole was positioned over my face, two over my nipples and one over the general area of Mr Willy – all big enough to get a hand through and grab anything that took your fancy. There were two more hand-sized holes out towards the sides – about where my own hands would end up.
The hole over my face was padded on the edges and fitted snugly against the leather of the hood down each temple and above my forehead, while having clearance below my chin. Mary and Trish levelled the ply with a couple of thin sandbags on my thighs, before ratcheting it in position with ties of some sort on the long edges, connected to anchor points at the base of the horse. My wrists were freed and secured to the underside of the ply with straps that were obviously screwed to the wood at elbow and wrist points. My hands appeared to be level with the holes in the ply. How I rued the day I had thought what a good idea it would be to start a database of measurements of all the occupants of the house (and clients). Trish had merely had to consult this to come up with exactly the right fit for me.
“I always said we took Steven for granted,” Trish said to somebody. “We treat him just like part of the furniture sometimes.” This drew appropriate giggles and I made the mistake of poking out my tongue at the world, to have somebody grab it and hold on while I whined in complaint. Obviously there was a handy box of toys nearby, for I suddenly I felt the bite of two wooden clothes pegs clamping on to my tongue, at which point the fingers let go, much to the amusement of the onlookers.
“Owh – owh –tagh theh offh!” I pleaded, sounding like I had a nasty speech impediment, which I did. I found I could at least close my mouth and have the pegs half inside – until something happened to change that. I found out afterwards that they had made up four small frames out of 5-millimetre wire. The base was a circle, slightly bigger than the cut-outs in the ply. Rising up from the base were three wires, converging on a smaller circle about a handspan above the base, so that the whole frame looked like a kind of truncated cone. Positioning these over the holes allowed my tormentors to use the frames to secure rubber bands, attached to which were the wooden clothes pegs. The first of these frames went over my face, and the two pegs – and my tongue - were drawn out of my mouth and secured in that position. It hurt – but it hurt more so when I tried to pull my tongue free of the clips.
Monica was evidently present now, for I heard her voice telling the girls to lay the table. There was the sound of clinking cutlery and the weight on my body increased as plates were put down and serving bowls placed in the middle.
“Haven’t we forgotten the decorations?” Monica queried archly. There were murmurs from the darkness followed by two sharp pains as clothes pegs bit into my nipples and then put a steady tension on them. An object was thrust through each hand hole and my fingers made to close around what turned out to be candles. These were lit, and there followed the noise and movements of various bodies seating themselves around me, helping themselves to the food. This was obviously going to be a full-blown dinner meeting.
After a short space of time, somebody requested the olive oil. I thought nothing of it until something warm and smooth dropped through then cut-out at groin level, followed by a female hand that began to do delicious things to Mr Willy. Despite the pain in my tongue and nipples, my buddy decided he was never one to miss an opportunity to make friends, and obediently raised himself to observe all and sundry, to the sound of delighted laughter.
“Thathh noh unny!” I spluttered as the hand continued to create wonderful sensations in my nether regions before Monica commenced the business of the meeting while the others ate.
“Before we get into the client schedule for the coming week, there is some other business I wish to deal with. Firstly there is the issue of this morning. Regrettably we had to postpone this meeting due to the actions of a certain individual who shall remain nameless. Mary – stop that. When I want cream on my salad I’ll take it from the jar.” The exquisite caresses that were getting Mr Willy seriously excited stopped abruptly to the muffled sniggers from around the table.
“This individual should know better than to try and put one over me, and he can see what it’s like to become an overnight table.”
“Oh! Thath noh hair!” I protested.
“Unless it wants a dose of chilli pepper on its rebellious little tongue, I suggest the table keeps quiet,” Monica said sternly. I could take a hint. “I am prepared to overlook the participation of the rest of you,” she continued, “except Leila and her artwork. You can think about that, Leila. I propose to take no action now. In light of what I have to announce, you may consider it a postponed sentence. It will take place somewhere, sometime when you least expect it. In the meantime you can think about your sins and wonder what may befall you.” I imagined Leila quailing before a Monica stare.
“On a brighter note, you all recall that video we made?”
“Who could forget the torrid blonde love scene?” I heard Trish say, followed by her laugh as Leila obviously threw something at her.
“You may also remember a Mr Choi whom some of you met a fortnight ago when he visited here. I met him again at Jupiter’s Casino, on a recent safari down to the Gold Coast. Mr Choi is from Hong Kong, and he was most impressed by the video, a copy of which he has taken back with him. I’ve had a call from him wanting to make a video in Hong Kong for the Chinese audience, with Leila and Jill as the stars.”
The rest of the meeting and dinner was pandemonium from that point. The wine flowed and the exposed portions of my anatomy came in for considerable punishment. The clothes pegs were removed from my tongue and I was made to hold a candle in my mouth. Further candles were evidently positioned on the frames above my nips, for, with time, hot wax began to drip on to where the pegs gripped the flesh, prompting further – but now muffled – exclamations from me. I found that a slight lapse in concentration let hot wax drop on to any flesh exposed within the mouth hole in the hood.
The girls finally packed up at a late hour, by which time Mr Willy had had several obscene and a lot of very nice things done to him, none of which had quite hit the high spot, however. When Monica insisted I would be there until the end of breakfast I spat the dummy – and the candle. It was not a particularly smart move, since she promptly replaced it with an inflatable gag, and that was the end of my contribution to snappy conversation for the evening as she gave it a squeeze or two more than was warranted. Damn the woman, I thought. Still, I really should have known better. The remaining candles and pegs were removed, however, so I had this small mercy to be thankful for.
I must have dozed, until I became aware of my arms being freed from the underside of the table top before being re-fastened to the low-level anchor points. The ratchets were undone and the weight of the table top was lifted away. I had no idea of the time. Surely it was not morning already?
“Urrgh?” I asked. There was no reply, other than the smooth caress of long nails and soft fingertips over the whole extent of my body. Uh-oh – here we go again, I thought as the fingers explored my nips then worked their way further south with the predictable awakening of my buddy. Who was doing this, I wondered? Was It Monica, playing the game to her own rules, teasing me in my blindness? It would be just like her.
The caresses became stronger and more demanding, and I felt the weight of a female body as my tormentor climbed on top of me and slowly impaled herself on Mr Willy. As her flesh closed around mine we both groaned in unison, and shortly we were thrusting against each other, although admittedly she was doing most of the work. I was conscious of her breathing close to my face, of hanging breasts with their rock-hard nipples gently brushing against my own. I felt no long hair touch my chest or throat but this could merely mean Trish or Emma or Monica had simply pinned it up. The sliding of wet, smooth thighs against my own quickened until we both lost ourselves to the moment and climaxed, me struggling against the restraints on my wrists and ankles while groaning and chewing on the gag filling my mouth, my partner gasping and panting and clearly trying not to speak or cry out in a way that would reveal her identity.
She lay on top of me for some time, her scent heady and natural but unperfumed. I listened to the rapid breathing slowly subside. Still I was getting no clues. Finally she climbed off and cleaned me up, but my bonds were not released. The gag was deflated and pulled out, then she was gone. Bloody women and their games.
* * *
I awoke as Monica released me before we had to go through another performance over breakfast. What had happened during the night was like a dream, and I wondered if it had really taken place, for you become so disoriented over time with restricted senses. I showered and dressed and gave each inhabitant a scrutinising look as they appeared for breakfast. I did not want to tell my story to the whole clan – I had had enough humiliation without admitting to the amazing experience I had undergone without being able to identify the perpetrator. That would have done a lot for my credibility – not. None of my looks brought a reaction. The girls were obviously too taken with the events that now awaited Leila and Jillian.
* * *Gromet's Selfbondage
& Mummification Plaza -
We were all delighted for the pair, naturally, but the thought of them going away for some length of time ultimately unsettled us, I guess, as being a break from our comfortable routine. There was also an edge of friendly envy, of course, especially when it was revealed that Emma would be accompanying them, since she spoke Cantonese and had local contacts. Not that these were needed, but it would obviously make life a little easier for Jill and Leila, neither of whom had been to Asia before.
I have to say I was envious, for I had worked in Hong Kong for six months myself on a multi-million dollar subcontract on Kowloon Station three years previously. This was as the new Airport Railway was being completed in time for the relocation of the old Kai Tak Airport to the island of Lantau. It had been a phrenetic time, working all the hours available and partying the rest, with the handover of Hong Kong to China thrown in the middle of everything. In short, it was a time I would never forget, with many happy and exciting memories, the like of which I would never experience again, and the idea of going back there was attractive - except in this case I would not be doing it.
The movie was to be a B & D one, with the obvious attraction being two western blondes as an exotic drawcard for the Asian audiences. We bade the three girls farewell only a week later, amid tears and excitement, for they were flying Cathay business class and staying on the waterfront of Hong Kong Island in the Furama Hotel, with its revolving restaurant and stunning views of the harbour. The rest of us were so-o-o envious. Monica was taking them to the airport in her BMW, so the rest of us said our farewells on the front steps of Bilboes. I hugged Emma and Leila and then Jill, barely catching her words as she climbed into the car.
“Hope you liked my going-away present,” she whispered.
* * *
Three days later everything turned pear-shaped. I was with Monica in her study at the time when her mobile rang. It was Emma. I watched Monica as her face suddenly went white and she turned to me.
“It’s Jill and Leila – they’ve disappeared!”
|Monica's Quest continues in Chapter Two|
|All comments welcome at firstname.lastname@example.org.
© R.Alexander 2006
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bondage stories : alexander stories