|Gromet's Plaza||Richard Alexander Stories|
|by Richard Alexander|
|© 2002 - Richard Alexander - Used by permission.|
|storycodes: MF/mf; bondage; kidnap; bdsm; cons/nc; XXX|
|Monica’s Quest Book 2 of the Monica Chronicles by Richard Alexander|
|Monica's Quest: 4. Jillian's Story by Richard Alexander MF/mf; bondage; kidnap; bdsm; cons/nc; XXX|
Chapter Four: Jillian's Story
The day they took me in the trunk was the most awful day in my life. Bound as I was and gagged under the discipline helmet left me pretty helpless, but the bean bags packed around my body left me totally immobile in a way I had never experienced before. I felt, rather than heard the click of the clasps being closed to secure the lid, and the closing compressed the bags around my body, almost driving the air from my lungs like a vice. Had I not had something protecting my face, I should have suffocated at once.
I lay back and tried to focus on my breathing, willing myself to relax, drawing on my yoga training to concentrate beyond my current predicament. While the all-encompassing grip of the beanbags was something new, it was not the worst bondage I had experienced. It was efficient but not brutal, and I knew I would survive if I kept my head. With my arms bound horizontally in the small of my back and trapped against the bottommost beanbag, they were effectively but relatively comfortably immobilised. My knee bonds had been tied relatively loosely by Tiger, he knowing full well that as soon as my legs were bent and pressed down against my body the bonds would become tighter.
While my concern with my fate was very real, I was almost more afraid for Leila, who did not have my experience in the business, and I knew she was the more emotionally vulnerable of the two of us. I would survive one way or another – I was determined to – but the shock of the whole capture still weighed heavily on me. Where was Macau? I had heard of it, and like such names as Kowloon and The Peak it had carried with it an air of undiscovered exoticism. I knew Macau used to be Portuguese, but its exact whereabouts relative to Hong Kong was a mystery.
I could hear nothing through the discipline helmet other than the noise of the blood in my ears and the occasional squishing of beans in the surrounding sacks. The thick sides of the trunk effectively silenced almost all other external sounds. The best I could do was try to establish by feel what was happening, although the absorptive powers of the beanbags diminished some of this ability.
The ride in the van seemed to go on for a long time, maybe an hour, but in such circumstances, deprived of all but the most rudimentary of sensory input, the mind plays funny tricks. It could have been only half that time before I sensed we had come to a halt. The trunk, which had obviously been roped to some sort of anchor points in the van, was untied and rolled to the back before being lifted out and dumped on some sort of uneven surface. For a minute or so I seemed to bounce along over bumps and humps before coming to another halt and some more lifting was involved. Clearly there were no ‘Fragile – helpless kidnap victim bound and gagged within – handle with care’ signs, for the trunk landed heavily a couple of times in the course of being moved to some sort of new location for more travel. It stopped with a thump – possibly against a wall – and some grating noises were transmitted through the casing. The trunk being lashed into place, I guessed. Then a distant vibration began, accompanied by a slight rolling motion that no amount of insulating beanbags could absorb. I was on a boat!
God, I wished I’d paid more attention to the maps of the place Steven had given me. I was sure he and obsessive Monica would have done their homework if they had come here, but the presence of Emma had made it so easy for us just to relax and be guided from one place to the next. I wondered what my friends were doing now? Poor Emma must be frantic! And what would Monica be doing? She would be so overwrought…
I tried not to think of them, for they could not help me now. I knew any chance of escape I had would be the result of my own actions, and if necessary I would have to bide my time until my captors let down their guard. But such a thought is a hard one to maintain when you are being transported in a trunk to some unknown and possibly terrible place of captivity, and it was only with difficulty that I kept my mind focussed sufficiently not to let my grief overcome me.
* * *
I must have dozed at some stage – a trick you learn even with a ball strapped in your mouth and with a discipline helmet over that. The ball was not the largest I had experienced, and not the most effective, either, but along with everything else, any sound I made was a waste of breath under those circumstances. I snapped awake finally as there was a change in the vibration through the floor – a weakening, perhaps a slowing of the engine.
Ten minutes later there was a bump that might have signalled the presence of a dock. More shudders and suggestions of the trunk being untied and lifted roughly on to another rough road surface, before being pushed or towed some distance, then stopping. There came the faint click of the latches and the subtle release of the pressure of the beanbags.
Noises began to be audible – the sound of Cantonese – maybe three men. Rough hands were on me, pulling me bodily out of the trunk and standing me upright. My legs were almost asleep from having been bent and elevated. Even as my ankle bonds and knee ropes were undone I could barely stand properly. My feet began to tingle as the circulation returned. Somebody put my shoes next to my feet and helped me in to them. Then strange hands brushed down my skirt and could not resist a grope of my breasts and a tweak of my nipples at the same time. I mmphed into the ball and shook my body angrily, to the accompaniment of laughter.
The hands gripped my arms and guided me to a car, helping me into the back seat. The door closed and I was conscious of the smell of new leather upholstery and the feel of it beneath me. Someone climbed in the opposite door and sat beside me. To my astonishment, hands untied the laces on the hood, and I found myself blinking in the dim light of a very luxurious car. Slim was sitting next to me. He smoothed the hair out of my eyes and caressed my cheeks with both his hands. I pulled away.
“Gotta have you looking nice for the boss,” he said with a grin. “Don’t want too many wrinkles, huh? Don’t want too much talk, either, so the gag can stay.”
I looked around me. The car was a black BMW with cream leather seats. Two of Slim’s mates were in the front seat, and we were parked in some sort of warehouse. I found out moments later the warehouse was on a wharf, as we exited on to the roadway running along the edge of the dock.
My spirits lifted briefly, but any hope a gagged girl had of being spotted through the window disappeared when I realised they were tinted sufficiently to prevent just such an embarrassing faux pas.
“You should have a look at your new home,” said Slim, his English tainted with an American, or possibly Canadian accent. “Macau. Much better than Hong Kong. Legal gambling. Big money here. Shame about the weather today.”
It was drizzling lightly, and I stared out the rain-streaked window as we left the confined dock area which was jammed with small sampans and fishing boats. I had no idea how big Macau was and desperately looked for landmarks of any description. I noticed the Portuguese street names, along with their Chinese equivalents. Portuguese architecture was everywhere – I was astonished how different it was from the bustling modernism of Hong Kong.
It was probably early afternoon. We turned off the waterfront road and climbed a hill up narrow winding streets between low-rise but densely packed apartments. I gaped at the pedestrians walking only metres from me, giving the tinted-window car barely a passing glance, little knowing that I sat bound and gagged in the rear. I felt totally frustrated and impotent. As if reading my mind, Slim said:
“Don’t try. Central child-proof locking.” He smiled smugly.
As we reached the top of a hill and I caught a glimpse of sea again, I realised we were on some sort of small peninsular. On this other side of the hill I could see tall glass-walled office blocks of what seemed to be the city centre, before we were travelling down again, past a huge cemetery and into more Portuguese-style architecture.
We emerged on to a corniche along the waterfront. ‘Rua da Praya Grande’ I glimpsed on a street sign. The beamer hummed along for perhaps half a kilometre before turning off into a bewildering series of back streets. A short distance on we pulled up outside enormous timber gates which opened after the driver spoke into an intercom. Either side of the gates a shabby moss-covered stone wall stretched around the property, invisible within.
Inside the gates it was like another world. Central to it all
was a large white flat-roofed house surrounded by a moat and gardens.
The building was mostly single-storied, but had a kind of small pavilion
as the upper story. The garden was lush and overpowering, a mixture
of tall trees and dense foliage. Like the garden, the house had a
patina of age that seems to come so easily in humid climates.
There was another intercom at the side of the two massive timber doors, one of which swung open after an exchange of Cantonese with an unseen person inside. A small suited man – presumably the butler – held the door open. We entered a large and airy vestibule, dominated by a sweeping stairway descending from the floor above. The butler spoke briefly to Slim. Slim took me by the arm and we followed the butler down a hallway resplendent with a polished timber floor and ornate plasterwork. Aged pictures hung on the walls depicting European landscapes and human beings from past centuries. I seemed to be slipping further back in time and further away from the exotic east that I had been so captivated by.
We passed through another pair of massive doors into a study. Tall picture windows looked out over a tranquil scene of still waters and luxuriant tropical vegetation. The wall opposite the windows was covered with well-stocked bookshelves, in front of which was an enormous desk that seemed to dwarf the man sitting behind it. He did not look up as we entered, instead concentrating on the slimline computer screen that looked out of place amid the antique furniture. He tapped at a few keys then gave a grunt of satisfaction at the result on the screen, before standing up to attend to his visitors.
He was perhaps in his mid-forties, but I found age so hard to guess with Asians that he might in reality have been anywhere from thirty-five to fifty-five. He was dressed in an immaculate dark business suit that had never known a shop rack, and wore rimless glasses. He was quite short, but slender, and his hands seemed to flutter constantly, his fingers intertwining. He smiled at me, looking me over with the air of a connoisseur viewing a potential purchase at an auction. Except that I got the decided impression the auction was a done deal and the selected piece had now been delivered.
“What is her name?” he asked Slim in English. This question appeared to catch Slim off guard. He replied in rapid Cantonese. I thought I heard something approaching my name and Leila’s amongst the gabble.
“I’m sorry,” the older man said to me with a smile. “My staff are not all as competent as they should be, sometimes. It appears you are either Jillian or Leila – he is not sure which.” The man pronounced both our names well, which surprised me considering the stereotypical inability of the Chinese to master the English ‘l’. “Are you Jillian?”
“Epfh,” I said, nodding. I did not want to get off on the wrong foot with this man who was obviously the power behind all that happened here.
“Excellent. My name is David Wong. How do you do?” His accent had a faint hint of well-bred English education behind it.
“Whaf mph phoofg urrgh?” I asked.
“I expect you wonder what you’re doing here,” he said, as if I had not just garbled that very question. He was about to continue when there was a knock at the door. “Yes?” he called.
The door opened and a Chinese woman walked in with a clack of high heels over the parquet floor. She was perhaps in her late twenties and quite stunning, not least dressed as she was in a short red leather skirt and matching waistcoat. Her jet-black hair hung just to her shoulders and contrasted superbly with her pale skin and the gloss of the red leather.
“Jillian,” said Mr Wong, all charm and aplomb, “this is Portia Tang. She will be looking after you while you are here. Portia – meet Jillian.”
“Whaph?” I said stupidly.
She walked slowly round me, looking like a cheetah sizing up its next meal. I noticed the blood red fingernails matching her lips – not to say everything else, save the silver chain that hung around her bare midriff. Why did this woman make me feel so vulnerable? She stopped in front of me and one of those red talons hooked under my chin, lifting it to where I had no choice but to look her in the eye. She was almost exactly my height, but typically was probably a size smaller. I so hated women like her.
“You and I are going to have a lot of fun together,” she purred, her green eyes boring into mine and doubling any discomfort I had felt up to that point. Her voice held hardly a trace of Asian accent. I could not have said where she had learnt her English.
“You are here as our guest,” said Mr Wong. “More specifically,
you will become part of the household. I have purchased you as a
present for my wife, who has rather…shall we say…interesting tastes, both
sexually and in other ways. You will become a slave to my dear Joan,
and will be trained by Portia here. You will obey absolutely every
instruction on penalty of severe punishment and you will learn Cantonese.
Do these things and life will be tolerable for you – certainly better than
a lot of the vermin on our streets.” He said these words totally
matter-of-factly, as if he was giving instructions to a new maid.
* * *
Portia unclipped the chain from around her waist and reclipped it around my neck. The touch of her nails at my throat sent a shiver down my spine and I tried not to look her in the eye. She tugged on the chain and I followed hard on her clicking heels as she led the way out of the room.
We turned right outside the library and seemed to be heading deeper into the sprawling house. We passed a window that gave on to a kind of small internal light well, its walls streaked with dripping lichen and moss. Portia opened another side door and re-emerged in the foyer behind the main stairs. Here we began to descend another set of stairs. The staircase was of stone, very narrow and smelt of damp and decay. It was lit by ancient-looking electric light bulbs that looked like they had been installed soon after Thomas Edison invented them.
At the bottom of the stairs we turned left and entered a low vaulted passageway perhaps twenty metres long with a number of doors off it. The doors looked about the same age as the light bulbs, but infinitely more solid. They were arched and had copious iron rivets holding the heavy timber together. Portia marched right past these doors, up to one at the end of the passage. Here there was another stair, returning to the floor above, and a door slightly larger than the rest. She pushed open the door and pushed me inside.
The room was large, possibly six metres square with a round stone column in the centre supporting the roof. Memories of the Bilboes dungeon came flooding back, but this time I had the uncomfortable feeling that this place was the real thing. There were no air conditioning ducts here and the damp, mildewy walls were the genuine article. None of your fake brickwork and phoney grottiness here. The walls had once been plastered and whitewashed, but now both were coming off in many places, revealing solid stone behind. Although they were not turned on, I saw that several modern lights had been added to supplement the dim bulbs in their little cages on the three-metre ceiling.
But all the muskiness and grime only added to the ambience of the place. The real scene was set by the implements of torment scattered about the room. There were numerous ringbolts set in the wall, most with heavy manacles attached to them, some at floor level and some high up. Several ringbolts hung from the ceiling, and appeared to be used in lieu of pulleys. A menacing looking pair of stocks stood at the far end, geared for neck and wrists in the planks between the uprights, and with provision for feet in horizontal planks at the base.
Around the walls all manner of whips and floggers hung. To one side was a sloping board at about a sixty-degree angle that was obviously a rack, if the capstan-like wheels behind it were anything to go by. There was a narrow wooden horse designed for some evil purpose and two stout timber posts that sported a number of eyebolts. A solid-looking wooden chair on castors stood in the corner, while – totally incongruous in the circumstances – a whiteboard was mounted on the wall immediately inside the door, with a tall metal cabinet on the other side. My eyes must have widened.
“Nice, huh?” said Portia. “This is my new school room. You are going back to school, Jillian. We are going to have lots of fun here. I hope you are a good student, because I am a very impatient teacher. If you make mistakes, well… I guess you get punished.” She picked up a cane from a receptacle like an umbrella stand and swished it through the air. I shrank back and she laughed, the sound echoing off the stonework. “Yes, Jilly, we will have lots and lots of fun, you and I…” I caught the glint in her eye and wondered what she was on… If she was a genuine Domme with a sadistic streak I was in real trouble.
She grabbed the chain dangling from my throat and pulled me after her, out into the passageway again. We went back the way we had come to the door next to the dungeon. She turned the ancient handle and pushed me inside. This room was small and dimly lit. No extra lighting here. The only objects in the room were an iron bed frame with the ubiquitous foam mattress covered in gaudy nylon material, an ex-army ammunition box at the foot of the bed, and a bucket in the corner. I knew what that was for.
“This is your room,” Portia told me. Why was I not surprised?
Portia pushed me on to my face on the bed and climbed on top of me, straddling my back. I got the impression of strength and suppleness in her body as she deftly undid my gag and prised it from my mouth. I spluttered and gasped, trying to get my swallow mechanism working again. The horrible ball had been in place since the early morning and I now guessed it was early afternoon. At length I got my speech back, as my captor stood and watched my efforts at sitting up.
“Please…” I croaked. “I’m so hungry and thirsty… Could I have some food? And a wash?”
Portia looked at me as if I had crawled out of the moat.
“You don’t yet seem to have grasped your position, missy,” she sneered. “You are here to learn to be a slave. I thought you would be a little more proficient at this… I’ll tell you what. Just this once I will pretend I never heard what you said. I’ll pretend I have just come in. Let’s start this again, shall we?” She looked at me, daring me to utter a sound.
But no, I had been here before. I knew the drill and slipped awkwardly to my knees on the floor, lowering my head and waiting for further instructions. The ropes binding my arms constricted around my breasts as I behaved as humbly as I possibly could. I had played too many D/s games not to know the score.
The red stilettos advanced and stopped in front of my knees.
“You have something you want to say, little Jillian?”
“This slave begs for food, Mistress.”
“A drink would be nice and a wash would be beneficial for people near me,” I ventured. Portia laughed again. She had a real sense of humour, this lady. Unfortunately I had the feeling that she was going to be mostly be laughing at me, rather than with me.
“Very well. I will see what I can find. In the meantime…” She opened the metal ammunition box and brought out a length of rope. “Stand against the side of the bed,” she ordered. I did so, the backs of my calves against the iron frame while she tied my left ankle to the front bed leg and my right ankle against to the rear leg, pulling my feet as far apart as she could. I gasped and panted with the effort of maintaining the stretch. She stood in front of me again with an appraising look, then began to run her hands over my body, starting with my bound arms and breasts.
“Hmm – looks like Tiger’s work. Very tidy. Am I right?” I nodded. She tugged at the ropes but there was little give. “Nice tits, girl,” she said, letting her fingers tweak my nipples under the silk of my blouse. Then she squatted down. “What’s under here, then, mmn?” I felt the hands slip up the inside of my thighs where my skirt had ridden up. The fingernails caressed the soft flesh and roved between the lips of my pussy. Ohh… she was good, this one.
“Verrry nice, Jill,” purred Portia. “I think I’ll enjoy this. Have you ever made love to another woman?” I nodded. “Oh?” She raised an eyebrow. “Often?” Another nod. I thought of Emma’s voluptuous body and wondered where she was now. “And men?”
“Of course, Mistress.”
“And which do you prefer?”
“I – I don’t have a preference, Mistress. It depends on the person…”
“A good answer, Jilly. I think you will enjoy life here, when you finally meet the other Mistress of the house.” Her hands returned to my nipples and I found they had hardened under the questing fingers.
“Stay here and behave yourself.” She reached into the box again and pulled out two clothes pegs which she slipped on to my nipples as they protruded through the thin silk of my blouse. “And not too much noise,” she whispered conspiratorially, slipping the cane between my teeth. “This had better be here when I come back.”
* * *
She was gone maybe twenty minutes, during which time the leg stretch I was forced into became too much for me, and I managed to twist myself such that my legs were stretched fore-and-aft like a pre-emption of the splits, which I could still manage, but I did not want Portia to know that. In the course of my squirming and manoeuvring, the movement of my silk blouse within it’s confines forced both pegs off my nipples, though not without some sharp pain, I might add, as the smooth plastic of the contact faces slipped over the material. I had not intended this, and I worried what Portia would say when she came back and found them on the floor.
When she returned she had a bowl of noodles in her hand and said nothing about the missing pegs. She removed the cane from between my teeth and proceeded to feed me the noodles with chopsticks, while not undoing my ankle ropes.
“I can see you are clever in your bondage,” she said at length, in a measured drawl. “I can also see that I am going to have to make a few things very clear to you, Jillian. Maybe we should get down to business right now.”
At this point she freed my feet and we trouped back into the dungeon. Here I was chained to the centre round column with a chain that hung from a ring set in the stone above my head, the loose end of the chain being locked about my throat.
“Now, Jill,” said Portia, putting the key to the heavy lock on the ledge of the whiteboard next to the door, “you can see that any problems you make at this point will get you nowhere. You can fight or try to overpower me, but you’d still be chained to the column. Understand?”
“Yes, Mistress,” I said, doing my best to be utterly subservient. I could ego massage with the best of them when I put my mind to it.
“Good.” She undid the ropes over my shoulders, around my upper body and finally around my wrists and forearms. It felt so good to have them free again. “Take off your blouse and skirt. I think I’ll let you keep your shoes on.” I did as I was told, only removing my skirt with difficulty because I could bend only a little before the chain on my neck pulled me up.
“Very nice, Jill.” Portia’s hands slid over my flesh – a sensation which – combined with the coolness of the room gave me goosebumps and made my damned nips pop up again. “You have a very attractive body. You exercise, I think?”
“Good. I’m sure we can arrange something along those lines while we’re sorting out your daily schedules. Now, hands behind your back!” Moments later my wrists were crossed and bound and I felt the tail of the rope start to go up in the air on some pulley arrangement. I was quickly bent over, my neck pulling down on the chain and my arms pulled painfully up above my back by the pulley. Portia did it expertly and without fuss. She had an air of confidence that suggested I was not going to escape without her making a mistake, and that did not look very likely. She barely paused in her activity other than to open a cupboard and select a white ball gag which very quickly found its way behind my teeth. It was relatively soft, but quite large, and filled the inside of my mouth so effectively that the strap around the back of my head was quite unnecessary. I thought the two nipple clips with the weights on them were also quite unnecessary, but my thoughts weren’t particularly high on Portia’s agenda at that point. I snuffled and whined in protest. These were metal-jawed with fine serrations that gripped the tips of my nipples painfully.
“Now Jill, we talk about rules, most of which you will know.
“So. Rule number one.” Thwack!
I didn’t see the flogger coming until it caught me across the buttocks. I jerked and whined as the weights swung on the end of the clamps.
“I am your Mistress and you obey me totally. Rule number two...” Thwack!
Snort, moan! Vain muffled splutterings.
“The real Mistress is Madam Joan. You will obey her totally, not embarrass her or me, and behave as a proper slave should. Rule number three...” Thwack!
The inside of the thighs! More nasal protests. Jumping from one foot to the other…
“Don’t even think of escaping. There are lots of guards and you will be punished very, very painfully. Rule number four...” Thwack!
Between the legs, upward…! Ohgodohgodohgodowww! Must keep my legs together…
“Don’t even think about trying to overpower me. I’ve studied judo and kickboxing, not to mention self-defence. I’d be more than happy to take you on, and you would seriously wish you hadn’t. Rule number five…” Thwack!
Across the breasts… Yeeeooowww! “Mmmmmph!” Panting and gasping behind the ball! Pain in the nips like you wouldn’t believe! Body trying to jerk but held rigid… How many of these rules were there, for godsake?
“There is no rule number five,” Portia said with a superior smile. “I just wanted to do that.” This Portia broad was rapidly climbing the Jill Whiting hit list. It was a shame I seemed to be the only one on her hit list. “It is simply to let you know who’s the boss, my little slave. And who is that?”
“Urrg arghh,” I moaned.
“I think that’s got the blood flowing better,” said Portia, more to herself than to me. “While we’ve got you there I think we should reinforce the point that you no longer have choices in your life here – that you will have things done to you – and be required to do things – at the whim of others. There need not be a reason in every case. You need only to accept what happens and go with the flow. Yes?”
I felt her fingers pulling the cheeks of my buttocks apart, and a latex-gloved finger slid up my arse. I felt the cold intrusion of a nozzle and a sharp influx of lubricant, followed by further fingers as they gently stretched my sphincter muscles. This woman could get a job at Bilboes any day, I thought, except that Monica would probably feel very threatened.
I steeled myself for what was to come next and I was not wrong. The blunt head of a butt plug nuzzled my back passage and I gasped at the size of it. No wonder she was preparing the way. I hated the really big ones, and this was one of those. Portia probed with it, uttering soothing words, cajoling me to relax as the invader pushed in further then withdrew. I was starting to breathe heavily and I could feel the sweat breaking out on my forehead as the plug eased in further still, then pulled out. The blood pounding in my ears mingled with Portia’s soft words as she pushed harder this time. I desperately willed my anal muscles to relax but could not stop myself crying out into the mouth-filling rubber as it finally surged inside with a fierce burst of pain, that died as the sphincter closed around the narrower shaft. I was panting like I had run a hundred metres, hopping from one foot to the other on tiptoes, whining and groaning with the discomforting fullness of the plug. Portia gave me a couple of minutes to settle myself down before turning her attention to the ropes holding my wrists up high.
I struggled to hold back the tears of pain from my nipples, amongst other places, as she undid the rope holding my wrists up behind me. When I was standing upright again, still shifting my weight from one leg to the other, she appeared with a medium-sized vibrator. This was slipped into my pussy without so much as a by your leave, never mind any lubricant here. Maybe I didn’t need it – God, I couldn’t believe myself sometimes! It would have been snug anyway but was even more filling because of the plug jammed into my neighbouring orifice.
“Stay there,” she told me, and don’t let me find anything on the floor this time, or you’ll really learn what rule number five is.”
Portia left the dungeon for a short time, leaving me chained to the column and savouring the pain of my tenderised flesh. When she returned she had changed clothes. She wore a skin-tight red latex catsuit that left absolutely nothing to the imagination. I saw that her breasts, while not large, were pert and provocative and were shown off to best advantage under the thin rubber. It seemed this lady was into red. Good job Leila wasn’t here, I thought wistfully, then was overcome by a flood of guilt, for I had been so wrapped up in my own trials I had hardly thought of her, and whatever she must be going through.
Even Portia’s accessories – the knee length rubber boots with the three inch heels that made them practical yet fashionable, and the scarf now covering her raven hair and holding it behind her ears – were the same shade of scarlet.
“Red is a very good Chinese colour,” she told me. “Brings luck – you see it everywhere.” I guess that was why she was wearing it and not me. I wondered how lucky Leila was feeling right then, with her red dress…
Portia retrieved the key and unlocked the chain around my neck, tut-tutting at the obvious indentations in my flesh where I had strained to get away from the indignities inflicted on me. “Right, this way,” she said, opening the door, but not before she had picked up a whippy plaited riding crop.
We returned along the gloomy passageway, with me being obliged to maintain a kind of mincing walk, scared that the vibrator might work its way out while Portia was armed with the wicked-looking crop. There was no danger of the plug coming out, but it was sending strange sensations through my nether regions in the meantime.
We passed my cell, before Portia opened another door, two doors beyond and on the opposite side of the passageway. This door seemed slightly larger than the others, which I presumed to be cells like mine. On passing through the doorway I found myself in a similar passageway at right angles to that which we had just left. It went for perhaps five metres before ending in yet another door which opened inward. Portia passed through first and I followed. We were outside – sort of. In fact we were at the bottom of the lightwell I had seen previously from the floor above.
We descended four steps from the door we had exited from, to stand on the floor of the lightwell. It was paved with large flagstones and sloped gently to a large off-set drainage grating near the middle. It was raining lightly – obviously Portia had not wanted to get her nice leather outfit wet – and in the depths of the lightwell it was in fact gloomy rather than light. Overhead, grey clouds hung about, but it was still warm despite the drizzle.
Set in each corner of the lightwell, which was barely more than three metres square, was a heavy timber post concreted into the ground, about half a metre clear of the wall. These were around three metres high, I guessed, with one diagonal pair slightly taller than the other. This allowed two diagonal timber beams to span in criss-cross fashion above us, supported on the posts. Around the perimeter, set into the flagstones, were several large iron rings. Centrally, hanging from a ring in the lower of the two beams, were two heavy chains that reached down to the ground. The links were of steel the thickness of my finger. What did they chain up here, I wondered? Elephants?
“This is my play area,” Portia announced proudly. “Well, one of them. I had it adapted specially with the posts.” She picked up a black plastic garbage bag that was lying in the corner and emptied the contents on to the wet flagstones. A pile of rope fell out, all neatly coiled and tied off into suitable lengths. I would have sighed if I could have, for I knew what was coming next. Within a minute my wrists had been unfastened and retied so that I was standing over the drain with my arms stretched out horizontally, wrists tied to diagonally opposite posts while Portia began to weave a net of thick sashcord about my body.
“We should use coarse hemp if we did this really traditionally,” she said. “Like Tiger did for you before. But I like the white stuff. Looks much tidier and smarter.” She said this as she looped a long piece around my neck and left it hanging down to the ground between my breasts. This was knotted at intervals then pulled through my crotch and up between my buttock cheeks. Portia was no wuss when it came to putting a bit of effort into it, and I gasped and whimpered as the rope tightened and pulled the twin intruders deeper inside me. Then the tails were tied to the rope at the back of my neck to complete the vertical circumnavigation of Jill’s Private Places. Portia undid the rope at the post where it secured my left wrist, and bent my left arm behind me, wrapping the wrist rope around my waist and securing it to the vertical mainstay rope. At that point she wrapped further ropes around my body, weaving a net around my breasts and melding my left arm to my body. With each tug of the horizontal ropes through the knotted vertical one, it wedged tighter through my crotch, and I became conscious of the knots forcing themselves against my sensitive spots.
I was puzzled when she untied the right wrist rope from the post and pulled me over to it. With my back against the post the rope was tossed over the beam above and the loose end tied to the knotted rope just above my backside. That was after she had extended my right arm fully above me. Any attempt to pull back now only jammed things tighter up my bum.
Portia stood back a couple of paces and looked at me critically, tilting her head to one side like an artist working on a sculpture. The rain made the red latex glisten, and I have to say she looked yummy. Not that I was in a position to check out the display merchandise, for Portia seemed to make up her mind at that stage. I figured I could probably cope until then, when she wrapped half a dozen turns of cord around my right ankle and tossed the loose end over the beam.
“Nnnnn,” I whined plaintively as I was forced to hop about while my right foot began to go up in the air. She stopped when it was about thigh high, and bent down to tie off the rope to one of the iron rings. This is so awkward, I thought. It was just too high to bend my leg properly, and stretching my leg out straight made it go even higher.
“You are a smart child, aren’t you,” said Portia, looking at me with an expression a small girl might use in picking up her kitten. “You know what this is all about. A little pressure here, a little tightness there. Would you rather have your knee bent or straight? Would you like to hold your arm up, or let it pull on that nasty butt plug? Every move you make telegraphs through to those knots, all of which push against your very special spots. Believe me Jilly, I know just where they are.” She gripped my jaw with her rubber-gloved hands and kissed my nose. “Oh yes. Been there, done that. You’ll find out shortly as things start to get a little sensitive in certain places. You’ll be all right here for an hour or two?” I shook my head and gave her a pleading look.
“Sure you will. I think the rain will get heavier. You wanted a wash, didn’t you?” I shook my head again. “But you said you did!” she exclaimed with mock indignation. “You mean I’ve wasted all my time and effort here?” I continued my visual pleading, but all that did was did me a deeper hole. “You wicked girl!” She picked up the crop and my whines went skyward.
“Nnn! Nnnn! Nnnnn!” I was conscious of how horribly exposed I was, and I knew a riding crop was far worse than any flogger. It was whippy and hard and had a horrid little leather flap on the end that stung like crazy when it caught you in the right (or wrong) place.
This girl was an expert. The crop whizzed and sang, catching me in a flurry of blows about the thighs and buttocks. I was hopping and jerking, trying to get out of the way, but all it did was drive the two devices deeper inside me and make the nipple weights dance, bringing renewed pain to my tormented breasts. Portia flipped off a couple of shots at my breasts, delighting in my muffled wailing and hoarse panting as I tried to breathe and scream at the same time. Her final blow was upward, between the legs – a blow of such power that it almost made me pass out with the pain. I saw stars and screamed into the rubber ball with all my might. Then Portia was in my face again, the genial look gone, replace by a cold expression that scared me half to death.
“That was just a little sample for you to remember me by,” she hissed softly. ”I have refrained from marking you too much at this stage, since tonight you will meet Madam Joan, and we want you looking at your best.” She paused, as if considering what her next outrage should be. Then she smiled, calculating something in her mind. “I hope I have made my point, Jill. Nod if this is so.” I nodded my head frantically, still sobbing from the pain. Please, no more! Nothing I had ever experienced at Bilboes had been this bad. She held the crop in front of my face. “This little instrument says that you are mine to do what I want with. It says if you disobey me, or put a foot wrong, or fail at your lessons, or move too slowly, or undo something you shouldn’t, or shake off your properly attached nipple clips…. Then you will wish you were dead. I want you to savour the pain. Dwell on it. Reflect what I could do to you if I was really, really angry. Am I getting through to you, Jill?” More frantic nodding. Portia paused and extracted a ziplock bag from the black plastic garbage bag. Inside it was a polaroid camera. She took several shots of me and held them in front of my face. It was the final humiliation, to see myself as others might now see me.
Then she was gone, slamming the door behind her with a noise that echoed against the stone walls stretching up to the grey sky above me.
* * *
It didn’t take long before the subtleties of Portia’s bondage to become apparent. The thing I found so disconcerting was the odd, asymmetrical nature of it. My right arm was stretched above my head, the rope pulling it upwards. But my weight was born on my left leg, the line of connection between the two leaving me somehow off balance and needing to constantly correct myself by leaning.
I found, as expected, that I couldn’t get my suspended right leg comfortable. It wanted to wobble about, neither straight nor snugly bent. And every time I moved at all the wretched rope through my crotch and arse was tweaked. And every time it tweaked the dildo and butt plug moved, and the knots pressed deeper into my clit and the sensitive spot between the two inserts, centrally between my legs. The place the Japanese call ‘the cherry’.
It was a strange and uncomfortable position, one where I could not struggle, for fear of where it would drive me, not because I was tied immovably. In many ways I wished I was tied much more stringently, where I could fight the ropes but at least get some support from them. This position was at once awkward, but oh so stimulating, if only I let it. And I knew if I did so I would rapidly spiral downhill into a weak-kneed dribbling sex slave.
* * *
“Just called in to see how you’re doing, sweetie,” said Portia. I gave my most pathetic moan. “Maybe you need a change,” she said. “Never let it be said I don’t look after my charges…” With that she untied the rope from the iron ring and lowered my right leg. I closed my eyes in relief and gratitude. Until she made me lift my left leg and bound it bent, heel to thigh, but unsecured to anything else. “Better?” she asked.
I grunted. Anything was better than the previous position.
“I thought you should also know, Jill, that we can reward for good behaviour as well. So I’ve decided to leave you with a little pleasure in the meantime.” She dragged a piece of broken flagstone across and made me hop on to it. “No – keep that hand up there – I just want a little slack down below.” She eased the knotted rope downward a fraction – enough to slip her finger behind the rope and against the base of the dildo.
“Uh-uh!” I protested. “Nnnn! Nnnn!” No – she must not…! Oh – shitshitshit!
“There! Your little buzzing friend can keep you happy now.” She smiled. “I’ll be back in half an hour.”
“Yynnn bnnchh!” I yelled nasally into the gag at the pair of shiny red buttocks disappearing through the door.
I knew my body and I knew it could take a lot of pain, despite my normal carry-on. It’s just a release mechanism. But I hated being placed in such positions as I now found myself in. I knew I would weaken and turn into a gibbering, moaning mess, for I had never mastered a shut out defence against the Big O the way I could manage against pain. It was far more humiliating than a sound thrashing, for it was betrayal by my own body.
And Portia had read me like a book.
|Monica's Quest continues in Chapter Five|
|All comments welcome at email@example.com.
© R.Alexander 2006
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bondage stories : alexander stories