|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: 6. Money Talks - Trish's story by Richard Alexander MF/mf; bondage; bdsm; cons/nc; XXX|
Chapter Six: Money Talks - Trish's story
Life was actually rather nice without the rest of the tribe in Bilboes – at least it would have been had the circumstances been less traumatic. Mary was tolerable, even to the extent of being nice to me. Without Monica pulling the strings we actually got on quite well, although with Mary you could never be quite sure what she was thinking or planning. Business was quiet at present. Monica had cancelled most of our appointments, save for our regulars, because we couldn’t manage the long-term supervisory coverage. It was also a long weekend and many of our regulars were in fact away.
I had been using the time to finish off a device that Steven and I had been working on until his abrupt departure to Hong Kong.
The Horse was not the conventional type, as in a vaulting horse or as in the Plank. Imagine a modified saddle mounted at the end of a seesaw. The saddle was in fact a cut down version. It had no stirrups, and fitted very snugly at arse and crotch. It had special rebates to hold two vibrators, the finishing details of which were not quite complete.
Currently it was located in the dungeon itself. The saddle was slightly raised above the end of the wooden beam that was the seesaw. In this space immediately under the saddle were two heavy-duty coil springs that Steven had sourced from a used car yard. These supported the saddle and gave it the ability to move in any direction – to some degree. Also incorporated in the space was the small electric motor with the out of balance weight that instilled vibrations to the saddle as a whole. Steven’s electrical mate Douglas had again provided a black box that could produce a random cycle to the vibrations, even turning them off for a minute or so, before recommencing at the high or low end of the range.
The other end of the beam was connected to an eyebolt in the floor by a group of bungee cords, which, left unchecked, would have resulted in the saddle end sitting about four feet off the ground. A limiting chain currently needed to be fixed between the ceiling and the bungee end to restrict how close that end could be pulled to the floor.
Steven had not had time to complete the device before leaving for Hong Kong. Sure, we had done ongoing field trials (as we liked to think of them) during construction, and the basic mechanics of the thing had been sorted. It was now the fine details that had to be sorted out, such as the exact type and position of the two vibrators that would stick up from the saddle. In a way I was glad Steven was absent, for such trials often left me embarrassed in front of him in a way that I found hard to explain. Perhaps there is something more between us than I care to admit, but that is a road we need not go down at this stage.
I was alone in the dungeon on this Saturday morning, with Steven’s toolbox and a selection of vibrators. We had previously cut the holes in the saddle in the designated places, but now there was the job of riveting the holders for the vibrators in place underneath. It took several attempts to get the size and type of vibrator worked out. I finally selected a rear one that twisted and squirmed as it vibrated, and a front one which was squat with knobs on it and again wormed around inside you while vibrating.
The most fiendish point about the Horse was that once in position, the victim would still be able to ‘move about’. When it was adjusted properly, by standing on your tiptoes you could be just clear of the saddle itself, which would be restrained by the limiting chain at the bungee end, while you remained impaled on the vibrators. Conversely, you could squirm or squat down so that your full weight was on the saddle. You could go right down on your knees, for that matter. But you would not be able to get off and you could not stop it. That was the plan, anyway.
The vibrations through the saddle itself, I have to say, were possibly its worst – or best – feature. This was because the saddle was almost wedge-shaped when viewed from the side. The more you loaded it, the deeper you slipped into the wedge and the more it pressed front and back. I needn’t say more, other than the fact that there was a particularly potent nubbed spot on the front, right over a woman’s clit, which made it imperative to stand on tiptoes every couple of minutes, since there was only so much you could take at once. And I mean tip toes, too. You had to be stretched right up there to get any relief whatsoever. All in all I think Steven did a remarkable job – admittedly with my expert consultative assistance.
Of course up until this point I had only tried the thing out without the vibrators fitted, and it had proven pretty successful thus far. I had yet to experience the full effect, and this was something I intended to do on my own and in my own time. I worked the vibrators into their holes and secured them with hose clips that I tightened up underneath the saddle. These vibrators were low voltage ones powered from a transformer that was also connected to the main electric motor with the offset weight that moved the saddle itself. One switch was thus all that was needed to set everything in motion. Unfortunately the switch was out of reach at the wall socket outlet, and the only way I could turn it on was by physically plugging in the motor cord to an extension lead, which in turn was already plugged into the wall. It was not an ideal situation, but then the device was not intended as a DIY event.
I was wearing a short, loose linen skirt with nothing underneath, and a tee shirt, for the test. It could be asked why I bothered wearing anything at all, but I always say a girl must retain some dignity, however hard she is pushed. And sometimes that isn’t easy when you’re reduced to a moaning gibbering wreck.
This was the moment of truth, however. I loved these experiments and always looked forward to trying out things that Steven and Monica dreamed up. In this instance I wanted to see whether it was possible to climb off the saddle without assistance or without using one’s hands. I figured the freedom of one’s legs was crucial to both the experience and the escape, and so I buckled a short spreader bar between my two ankles, walking myself backwards until I reached the saddle, then pushing it down behind me and moving backwards some more. With one hand holding the saddle down, I positioned the two lubricated vibrators and gently eased them inside me, then let the saddle lift upwards under the pull of the bungee cord at the other end. The sensation was delicious as the two invaders slid upwards, filling my two passages before the surface of the saddle snuggled against the inside of my thighs, my butt and the front of my pussy. It was such a comfortable fit for a moment I almost felt I did not need to go further. Turning the thing on was like clicking shut the padlock that condemns you to an irrevocable bondage position, only allowing release when something has transpired that usually involves pain, orgasm or both. It is a combination of fear, excitement and a delicious sense of anticipation.
I pushed home the plug and the glorious feeling welled up in my loins. At once the saddle seemed to come alive and snuggle up more tightly between my legs. The intruders inside me squirmed and wriggled, sending their vibrating messages throughout my body. I gasped and shivered as the waves of pleasure began to wash upward.
I could not believe how good it felt, but after a couple of minutes I figured I had better at least do my research and try to climb off unaided. It proved a total failure as long as my feet were in the spreader bar and I didn’t use my hands. The bungee cords on the opposite end kept the saddle exerting a constant pressure, which in some ways was more frustrating, for it was difficult to bear one’s whole weight down as it would have been with a fixed beam. The first orgasm caught me bending down trying to undo one of the spreader straps. I stayed bent over, eyes closed, gripping the bottom of the saddle tightly and panting as though I was at the end of a marathon, before letting loose a long drawn-out moan.
“Good, is it?” The words were accompanied by the abrupt cessation of the vibes emanating from the saddle. Mary was standing beside me, the unplugged cord in her hand. I straightened up, my legs unsteady.
“Jesus, Mary… Don’t sneak up on me like that!” Mary was wearing tight leather trousers and a black sleeveless pvc vest adorned with light chains slung between her breasts. On each wrist was a studded leather band. Her feet were bare, which explained why I hadn’t heard her coming. Mind you, she had heard me coming, which also might have helped her silent entry into the room.
“A herd of elephants could have sneaked up on you with the noise you make,” Mary commented. “Doing our research, are we?”
“Just seeing how difficult it would be to escape...” I let my heart rate slowly subside, along with the flush from my cheeks. “Mary, this thing is amazing. I think it’s the best we’ve done yet. All you need is your tits livened up and you’ll die with a smile on your face.” Mary had a smile on her own face. It was the kind of smile that only Mary could manage – at once amused, enigmatic and devious – the smile that goes with a certain look in the eyes.
“I’m glad you’re having fun,” she said. “But you ought to remember the rules for testing things at Bilboes.”
“What do you mean?”
“You know the score, Trish – if you’re going to do something, do it properly. Real testing under real conditions, with real stresses.”
“Sure, but this is only a preliminary sort of thing,” I said, suddenly having a suspicion where this was going.
“Like that preliminary sort of orgasm you just had? Sounds more like personal gratification to me. I think you should give it a proper trial.”
“Nah,” I said, trying to sound nonchalant and off-hand. “Still a few things that need to be sorted out first. A bit of fine tuning - you know what I mean.”
“I think I do,” Mary said. “Let me help with those ankle cuffs.” She squatted down beside me as I caught my breath, only registering the click of locks through the cuffs when it was too late.
“Mary… Undo those, please,” I told her, exasperated. “I have a client in an hour.”
“Who? Phillip? That’s what I came down here to tell you – he rang and cancelled.”
“Damn. He’ll be for it next time he shows his face,” I muttered.
“So now you’ve got a free morning. Well, no, actually, I think it will be rather restrained.”
“I can still get off this, you know,” I said, pushing down against the saddle.
Mary slapped my hand away. “Not till I say so,” she snapped. “You might be able to get off it, but you won’t get out of the spreader without the keys. So unless you want to wear them for the next twenty-four hours, I’d suggest we have a little cooperation. Am I sounding reasonable?”
I hung my head. I knew when I was beaten. “Yes, Mary. Very reasonable. What must I do?”
“Take your tee shirt off.”
I did so, tossing it on the floor. Mary picked it up and sashayed over to the pillory with a faint squeak of leather trousers, where she hung it over a bar.
“You’re so untidy sometimes, Trish. You need more order in your life.” She opened a long cupboard fixed to one wall and returned with two leather wrist cuffs and several lengths of heavy white sashcord. “Put the cuffs on.”
I did so, wrapping the heavy leather around my wrist and buckling it snugly. Mary checked it and twisted the buckles so they were on the outside of my wrists. She looped a doubled-up cord through the D-ring on my right wrist and pulled my arm behind me and up behind my back, running the ropes over my left shoulder, under my left armpit, across my back, under the right armpit, back over the right shoulder and then drew them through the left wrist D-ring. With a few pulls and adjustments, I found my arms very well secured, crossed and pulled up towards the opposite shoulders. Any thoughts I had of backing out were now well and truly history, and I could see Mary was in one of her fastidious rope-weaving moods. The thought of a long Saturday morning helpless to the whims of a Mary with nothing better to do gave me butterflies in my stomach.
She wound half a dozen strands around my crossed wrists then carried the ropes around my body, melding my upper arms to my torso, with the ropes passing above and below my breasts. Each time she did this her long fingernails brushed and tweaked my nipples, raising them to rock hard little points as the anticipation and anxiety began to grow within me. Mary was an expert here – not just with the rope, but with the attention to tiny details – the fingertip caress of a breast, the casual stroking of a thigh that sent shivers down my spine. With each knot she would stand back like an artist critically examining her creation – which in effect she was, unhurried and content to do it all in her own good time. I could sense a faint tremble in my legs, which was purely anticipatory. Such was Mary’s presence that she made even me feel submissive to her whims.
Shorter ropes cinched the horizontal ones running above and below my breasts. The shorter ones pulled the latter together between my mounds and on each side, making the flesh distend and swell. My average sized breasts at once took on a new life as the pink tips stood out like beacons. Mary stopped twice to lightly kiss or suck them as she circled me.
When she did it a third time I gasped and couldn’t suppress a moan in my throat, as the touch of her lips on my nipple sent a shiver all the way to my loins. She undid the buttons to my wrap-around skirt and removed it, leaving me naked and totally at her mercy – as if that wasn’t the case already.
She came up with more ropes – or rather twine – at this point, taking time to tie a metre-long piece around the top joint of each finger, before grouping the eight pieces and pulling them up over my shoulders and down to tie them to the cinch rope between my breasts. A final piece of twine went around my right thumb and was tied off to the left.
“Isn’t this going a bit far, Mary?” I queried more in hope than in expectation.
“Of course not. It’s not often that I get someone like you to play with for a day.” A day! God, could I withstand Mary for a whole day? An hour or two maybe, but a day! “Usually Monica is around to interfere or land us with a client. But not today my dear Trish. I might even phone up Monica to let her listen to your howls…” She grinned at me wickedly and I felt another lurch in my stomach. “Speaking of which,” she continued,” I would like to hear your carry on, but within limits, I think. Open wide, please.”
“Oh Mair – not that – I hate-aarhhg!” Mary had produced an O-ring which she had wedged behind my front teeth. It was made out of stiff plastic tube, covered with a thin layer of rubber, and she now secured it in place with a leather strap around the back of my head, lifting my hair out of the way as she did so. Mary was nothing if not tidy, though not as obsessive as Monica.
“How’s that?” she asked, with mock concern.
“I own eyg it!” I complained. I was sure Mary knew I hated the O-ring, or the ‘oh’ ring, as it might have been better spelt. It kept your jaws apart but gave you nothing to bite on like a conventional ball or bit gag. This particular one had a screw thread inside it into which could be screwed a stopper, to seal the mouth completely. It was hard on the jaws and while it did not prevent much noise in the unstoppered form, it distorted speech enough to make you sound totally retarded or at best, merely incomprehensible.
“Good. Now the blindfold.” Round leather pads were slipped over my eyes and the restraining strap was also buckled tightly behind my head, this time over the top of my hair.
“Bear with me while I go and fetch the video and still cameras,” Mary said.
“Aw – oh - airee! Eese!”
“You better go off into your own quiet little world, Trish,” said Mary. These were the last words I heard for the time being as she rolled up a small foam earplug into a thin cylinder and stuffed it into my right ear, followed by a similar insertion in the left one. At once my world became quiet as the foam plugs unrolled and expanded within my ears. But Mary was not quite done, for she completed the process by fitting a pair of industrial ear protectors over my head, pulling my hair clear of my ears before totally covering them with the muffs. I was now deaf, blind and if not dumb, at least somewhat incommunicado. I had no idea what Mary was up to next, for I could not see or hear her movements. I could only detect the occasional stirring of air or a hint of her perfume.
It was about five minutes later when I felt the next thing as I stood there. It was fingertips on my nipples again, and predictably they stiffened on command. Sometimes my body was unbelievable. Then came the feel of small donut-shaped pads being placed over the nipples and pressed into place with adhesive. I knew these were part of the TENS electrical stimulation machine we had. Mary must have retrieved it from the storeroom. Damn! Me and my big mouth rabbiting on about how it would only take a bit of nip stimulation to complete the picture. But Mary was not finished yet. The machine could handle eight pads at once, and I found two more attached to the inside of my thighs, just below the saddle, two on my abdomen, just above the top edge of the saddle, and the last two on the inside of my forearms. This whole business seemed to be getting seriously scary – not from a safety or pain point of view, but from a fear of the unknown. I had never experienced something as extensive as this before, and I did not know how my body was going to react.
Mary left me standing there for a long time. I didn’t know if she was fiddling with the video, taking stills, or even present at all. I knew she was playing games with me, letting my imagination do half the work for her. I shifted my weight, feeling the invaders move up and down inside me while the pressure of the saddle pushed against the inside of my thighs and my pussy. I tried to flex my fingers but they could barely move, nor could my arms.
When Mary hit the switches I nearly jumped off the saddle. She must have located the TENS machine next to the wall switch for the saddle and turned both on at once.
That was how my Friday morning began. Within minutes I was jerking and quivering like one possessed. Part of the source was the saddle itself, the vibrations sending shivers through my nether regions, supplemented by the twin vibrators embedded in my secret places that writhed and worked their magic inside me, while the saddle stimulated my already sensitive clit. Further north, my bound breasts were subjected to more vibrations from the TENS units that sent delightful tingles to meet up with those coming from the Deep South. All of that would ordinarily have been quite enough to send me wild, but the other TENS units were setting off a mad series of St Vitus dances of a totally different kind. Each pad was making the muscles jump and spasm. The pair on the insides of my thighs combined with those on my abdomen to add to the twitching and shaking that was going on, and over all of which I had no control. On my arms the pads kept trying to make my fingers twitch, but of course Mary had secured them with the twine. How had she worked this out? I bet Emma had been giving her the benefit of her nursing experience.
I was starting to get vocal, and as the first orgasm hit I found myself bouncing up and down, doing knee bends and being totally unable to stop the tide of pleasure that washed over me. I was straining at the ropes that bound my arms and fingers but they were immovable. My world dissolved in a succession of stars behind the blindfold. Maybe I heard music, but I don’t think so. I was aware of the roar of blood in my ears, of my heart going a million beats a minute and a voice somewhere in the far distance going “Ohgodohgodohgod…” Except that it was coming out more like “oh-og,oh-og,oh-og!” Then the vibrations died – or did they simply change gear? I don’t know. It all became a bit blurry after that. Stupidly I continued to struggle with my bonds, wrestling with them while finding myself still impaled on the two vibrators, unable to get off or to change the inexorable pressure against my crotch.
When the second climax arrived I was chewing on the o-ring, making incomprehensible panting and moaning noises, which went up an octave as I howled out my ecstasy.
When the vibrations subsided I was standing there like a blancmange, my legs rubbery and shaking, my breathing ragged and rasping through the ring jammed in my mouth. I felt the earmuffs and plugs removed and gradually became aware of Mary’s voice.
“…Quite a performance. You’re really stoked, you know that?”
“Ngoh ore! Ngoh ore!” I begged. “Is oo uch! Eese op…”
“I’m ringing Monica, just to stay in touch,” said Mary.
Sweat was running down my face and breasts. “Ngoh, airee! Ownt!” My attempts to speak merely resulted in more drool running out of my mouth and dribbling down on to my breasts. How sophisticated and in control was this going to look on the video, I thought.
Then the vibes started again, this time at a lower, less intense but more insidious frequency that seemed to penetrate deeper into my very core, like the waves of an earthquake.
“Hello? Monica? Yeah, it’s me. How’s everyone? No, I’m just checking you got there okay. You’re where? On the ferry? Cool. What? A noise? Oh that’s Trish. Say hi to Monica, Trish…”
I was barely aware of the conversation as another climax caught me. “Ohhhhhhhhhh….ogogog! Airee! Ellp eeeeeee! Ache it op!”
“Yes, she’s having a good time. Me? I didn’t do anything! Really! Oh all right. Monica you are such a spoilsport. Just let me finish what I’ve started. Tell Steven the Horse is a real hit! Now I want to try out that new medical stuff you bought. Please? She’s going so well – I have some terrific video footage. Hello? Monica? Damn! She said to let you go. I said I would.” She paused. “But I didn’t say when.”
Mary ripped the blindfold off my head but it took a while before my eyes could focus.
“Monica’s pissed at you having fun while they’re working their arses off. You’re a bad girl, Trish.”
“Is or ault!” I whined. “Ngoh! Op it! Ngooohhh!” This as Mary upped the vibes and I was away again.
“Oh shut up,” said Mary crossly. “Now Monica’s pissed off with me.” She gripped me by the chin and screwed the plug into the o-ring, effectively silencing most of my noise, save the now pronounced ragged panting and “uh-uh-uh” grunts I was forced to make through my nose. I shook my head as another spasm overcame me. My legs went weak at this point and I sank slowly to my knees. In doing this I dimly realised that I was creating a greater pressure against the saddle and my level of sensitivity went up a notch, if that was possible. I was starting to feel faint, my head spinning and the blood pounding in my ears. My final thought before I blacked out was how embarrassing this was going to look to the others if they ever saw this video. Trish, the pro, reduced to a gibbering wreck…
* * *
I’m sure I wasn’t out for long. It was just a rush of blood to the head – or maybe a lack of it since it was all circulating at a rapid rate down south. Mary was holding me and the plug was out of the o-ring. I was panting and trying to get my eyes to work. Mary unlocked the cuffs on the spreader bar and helped me to my feet. I could barely stand, so wobbly were my legs, and she had to hold me steady for a minute while I collected myself. All I could do was moan and whimper in a pathetic way that I had not exhibited for longer than I cared to remember.
While I was gathering my faculties, Mary removed the twine from my fingers and undid most of the ropes from my breasts and arms, but not the ones which still held the cuffs high up behind my shoulder blades. Then the blindfold went on again. It was such a good method for promoting cooperation, and of course I was no exception, for Mary now led me out of the dungeon and upstairs to the bedrooms.
This surprised me for a number of reasons, the first being that any of our own bondage scenes are usually done in the basement, although obviously not if they involve anything more substantial in the way of bedding than a single iron bedstead, such as we have in the holding cell. Secondly, I was hoping we were done with the scene, for I was exhausted. But if that was not the case, I hoped Mary would simply chain me to a bed and let me be. I didn’t actually think that might happen, knowing Mary - I just hoped it.
We entered the steel room, as I called it – the second of the four upstairs bedrooms – a fact which I worked out from the route we took from the top of the stairs. I had done the design for this room using minimalist materials – lots of chrome and glass and some nice beech furniture. It was the most popular of the rooms with the guys. There were also little touches such as the rings and cleats fixed to the bed and the discrete eyebolts in the walls behind pictures, and pullies disguised as curtain draw ropes.
“I think you need a little lie down,” Mary said. That was good, I decided, because I was thinking the same thing myself. The bed felt soft and comfortable as Mary pushed me backwards on to it. I had no idea what she did at that point, other than the fact that something cool and made of plastic was pulled over my right leg.
“Wha arh u oing?” I asked.
“Yes Trish dear, since you’re in the mood for testing things, we’re going to do some tests on Monica’s latest purchases. These are called ‘air casts’.” I felt the pressure start to build up around my leg and succumbed to the temptation to straighten my leg. No sooner had I done this than the cast seemed to inflate that extra notch and suddenly I couldn’t bend it again. Two minutes later both my legs were similarly immobilised. It was a bizarre feeling, with the pressure of the inner sleeve pressing firmly against every square inch of my flesh. A short time later Mary had undone the rope from my arms and had similarly encased them in plastic sleeves that compressed my hands and fingers at one end, and ran all the way to my armpits. I lay on the bed, assessing my situation until Mary pulled out a riding crop and began flicking at me. The advantage I had was that my arms and legs were at least covered, but Mary was adept with the crop and soon my breasts and pussy were on fire as she scored hit after hit. I was crying out for her to stop but this merely prompted the plug to be placed inside the o-ring again, reducing my noises to mmphing as I flopped about on the bed, trying to protect myself with rigid arms and legs.
Mary rolled me on to my stomach and the beating continued on my bottom. I was whining and protesting but my jaw was locked solid around the ring with its plug jammed in the middle. I could only flounder about, trying to protect my cheeks with these elongated stiff balloons that were now my arms, and I didn’t have a chance.
At length she seemed to tire of this but I suspect it was simply that she wanted to get into the next stage, which appeared to be something to match the compression that was happening to my limbs. Mary was obviously going for a ‘total’ look, part of which now involved me wearing a corset.
I had never had one put on me by Mary. Normally I used to get Jillian to do it, simply because I trusted her. I would not have trusted Mary an inch, nor would I have let her anywhere near the laces of anything I intended to get out of in roughly the same condition as when I started. In this instance I found myself on my stomach while Mary sat astride my bum and worked her magic on the laces down my spine.
The corset was black and stretched from just above my pussy to above my breasts, with two cutouts for these, about three quarters the size of what they should have been. As Mary pulled on the laces I felt the constriction begin over my abdomen and stomach, then my ribs and finally my breasts. I was panting for breath through my nose as my body began to stiffen with the pressure from the vertical ribs in the garment. At least with my legs in the splints I knew I would not have the problem you always have with a boned corset – the difficulty of bending over to pick something up. Inevitably you end up doing a kind of semi-squat with a straight back. There is no doubt about a corset – it does wonders for the posture but not for the breathing. By the time she had finished a second run of tightening the laces I was taking fast shallow breaths and making soft moaning sounds with each exhalation. I could barely move, except at my hip and shoulder joints. Things got slightly better when she rolled me on to my back, until I found out a neck brace was part of the plan too. Just what was this woman up to? Mary had a very devious look about her. I knew this was all leading up to something, but I didn’t know what, nor could I do anything about it.
The neck brace was lightweight but firm enough to hold my head rigid such that I could only stare at the ceiling. Any chance of sitting up had long since passed. I reckoned I might just be able to roll sideways, off the bed, and of course that would get me a long way – not! Other than winding up with a broken nose, I did not see much future in that option, but it turned out I was not even going to get the chance. Mary undid the strap at the back of my neck and removed that terrible plug and ring. This made it slightly less strenuous for me, and I wasted no time in demanding to know what was going on.
“You know Warren?”
“The exact one. He’ll be here in half an hour.”
“He’s a bit pissed off that Monica won’t be here – you know how he always goes for her.” This was true. Warren had a thing for Monica. Whenever he came to Bilboes he would leave us to make life miserable for his slave, Christina, while he laid claim to Monica, usually for the night in the upstairs bedroom. This one, in fact. Oh shit, I thought, as the penny dropped. Monica had never discussed Warren’s preferences – she was very private in that way. Warren was filthy stinking rich and was our best customer. Monica would do anything to keep him happy, particularly if it meant us mere minions did the “doing” – or had it “done” to us. What went on between Monica and Warren behind closed doors was anybody’s guess. It was something she didn’t discuss, although we had seen at least a couple of instances outside of the bedroom when Warren had been seriously ticked off. In one of these poor Steven had wound up chained to the lovely Christina for a few hours in the woods. Rumour had it that the pair had become intimate friends during the episode, but this had been kept from Monica and Warren. However the captives had actually escaped, leaving Monica to carry the can, which she had done, at the specific and quite malicious direction of Warren. So where did this all lead now?
“Now there’s no Monica – so you’re ‘it’.”
“You planned this?”
“Hell, no. I’m just improvising. Your little experiment seemed too good to waste. Warren is pissed off that Monica didn’t tell him she was going away. He seems to have settled on me as a second best. Except that things have now changed, and he’s going to be getting third best. How do you think he’ll take that?” She smiled mischievously.
“Haha – very funny. Okay, you’ve had your joke. Let me go.”
“I’m serious. He’s on his way.”
“Don’t mess with me, Mary…” I warned.
“No messing, sweetheart. God’s truth.”
“I won’t! Let me go this instant! Monica will be furious!”
“Then you’d better make sure dear Warren leaves satisfied.”
“Mary, you shit!”
Mary was quite unperturbed and busied herself with the curtain cords behind the bed head. My outburst was not well timed, for the next thing I knew was in the form of the bite of two nasty clamps into my nipples. I couldn’t see what sort they were, but I certainly felt them.
“Ow! Ow! Shit – take them off! Mary! You bitch! That’s not funny! No – wait – what are you doing with that ball? Don’t you put – argh urf!” Mary jammed the ball into my mouth.
“Just hold it there like a good girl,” she said. I saw a cord running directly above my nose to disappear over the top of the bed head. I could tell there was a weight of some sort on the end of it. Then I felt Mary fiddle with the clips, and two lengths of twine took the same route, passing in front of my eyes to similarly disappear over the top of the bed head.
“There,” she said. “Now, let me explain the set up to you. There’s no strap to your gag. It’s held there only by your teeth. There is also the cord that passes through the middle of it, as you can see. As you have probably guessed, there’s a nice weight tied to the other end of it – a small bag of sand, in fact. The weight is also attached to the twine tied to your nipple clips – but with a slightly longer piece of string. No weight will come on the clips until you let go of that ball. Do that and the weight will drop a couple of inches and you’ll know all about it. And you will continue to know all about it until someone comes to reel it in.”
“Or a itch!” I told her, being careful to keep my teeth clamped on the ball. It was barely the size of a golf ball and I had a nasty feeling it would not take much for it to pop out if I had a lapse of concentration. Damn Mary!
Of course if I thought she had finished I should have known better. I had noticed that the air casts had tabs of sorts at the far extremities. These turned out to be ideal for a final securing of my already rigid limbs. Mary managed this with some light cord that pulled my legs apart and tethered them to the corners of the bed. My arms she left, for some perverse reason – I could never figure her out.
She left me with a damned vibrator wedged in my pussy, taped to a broom handle that was in turn taped to the rail at the foot of the bed.
“I’ll show Warren in when he arrives,” Mary said. “Did I say he was due this afternoon?”
“If farferoon? U fed a arfower!” What a liar!
“I lied,” she said simply, closing the door behind her.
“Aireeee!” I yelled after her, but it was really more a plaintive protest than a yell. I was conscious of the sandbag over the back of the bed head and its potential for hurt to my nipples.
Money Talks - Trish's story Part
Of course the inevitable happened as I indulged in a little daydreaming and fantasy, as the warm fuzzies crept upwards from my crotch. Eventually they overcame me and I slid into a happy climax, squirming against the pole impaling me and trying to move my restrained legs and body. I could flail my arms a bit but that was no help. The damned ball in my mouth made it hard to sound off, since I was caught between a full-blown exclamation which would have let the ball pop out, and having something that I truly could not get noises past. The self-imposition was in some ways the most frustrating part of it all.
What was Warren like, I wondered? I had spoken to him casually a few times, but mostly he was jealously protected by Monica, and she never discussed what went on behind closed doors with him. Warren was a true Dom, I knew. His relationship with his slave, Christina, was long standing, which I guess said something for him. There must be something there that made for an enduring relationship, however bizarre a foundation it was laid on. I wondered if Monica’s interest was purely the money side, because we all knew Warren was loaded and – in fairness to the guy – he did not mind parting with a bit of it where Bilboes was concerned. Of course the downside of that was that anything went as far as Monica was concerned. Whatever Warren wanted, he got, however bizarre or humiliating that might be to the participants.
And I would get Mary for leaving me tied up all this time. I was busy plotting my revenge when the door opened . I caught sight of Warren only by straining to raise my head against the pressure of the brace, the cord and every other darned thing that held me in position.
“Hmmm,” came the drawly voice. “Very nice. Thank you Mary. Tastefully presented. Full marks for innovation. You may go now.” There was the sound of the door closing. I guessed there would be few people who would dismiss Mary so casually and get away with it.
“And how are we today, Trish?” Warren’s face came into my limited line of vision. I suppose you could say he was quite good looking, if you like your guys to fall into the super smooth category. Personally I’m a little more down to earth. Warren had dark wavy hair and a faint scar on his left temple. He had a short, neatly trimmed moustache and was as always impeccably dressed. Cream drill trousers and a black open-necked shirt - understated but elegant. He wore a small gold crucifix around his neck, although I presumed he was merely indicating he was Catholic by birth rather than suggesting any form of religious philosophy. Somehow the latter didn’t go with the role. He looked over the back of the bed head.
“Oh dear,” he murmured. “You should be very careful to hang on to that ball if you don’t want any extra pain. I assume you’re not masochistically inclined, Trish?” he added pleasantly.
“Uh-uh,” I affirmed with as much vigour as I could manage in my restricted position.
“I thought that would be the case.” Good, I thought. “You’re not much of a sub, are you.” Damned right, Buster. Gimme a whip in my hand any day.
“But of course you have to experience pain to understand it, don’t you.” He said this while walking slowly round the bed and looking at me in a way that I found most disconcerting.
“Uh-uh,” I contradicted.
“Yes, you do,” he said firmly, his eyes hardening at my disagreement.
I felt the movement of the vibrator as he untaped the pole from the foot of the bed and moved it about. He seemed quite deft with it, even with the pole attached. My breathing started to speed up as he hit a couple of spots, then withdrew it and began to massage my clit with the thing. Before I knew it I was into my countdown mode as things began to happen inside me and I found myself thrusting against the toy and squirming to get more pressure on those wonderful pleasure spots.
But our Warren was not having any of that. As I was getting ready for take-off, the instrument of pleasure was suddenly withdrawn, leaving me trembling in frustration. I made a whining noise of complaint from behind the ball. Nothing too specific, you understand, but the thought was there.
“What was that?” he asked sharply.
“Uffig,” I said.
“You think you’re in a position to demand pleasure?” Dammit – he’d sucked me in.
“First I find out Monica is not here and nobody has bothered to tell me, and now I have to deal with a person who is in no position to demand anything and who clearly ought to know better. I thought this place had a degree of professionalism, but you’re no better than that slut Christina whom I pay you to take care of while I take care of Monica. I will obviously have to do some training, Madam.”
He bent down and I thought I heard something that sounded like the click of briefcase clasps. I found myself sweating, and only part of it was due to the warm up the vibrator had provoked. Another part was due to the plastic holding my legs and arms rigid, and a third part was due to fear. Warren reappeared from whatever he had been unpacking and undid the ropes securing the ends of the air casts to the foot of the bed. He removed the neck brace and for a moment I thought I would be freed.
Silly Trish - but it was at least a relief to bring my legs together. They were warming up with the tightness of the pvc around the flesh and the fact that I couldn’t bend them was starting to annoy me. I could still bend at the hips, though – a fact I soon discovered. Warren attached two more cords to the ends of the arm splints and tied these to the bottom corners of the bed, replacing the leg ties. There goes any arm waving, I thought.
But that was not the half of it – as I suspected would somehow be the case. Warren then threaded the leg ropes through the top bar of the bed head and began to haul. My legs had nowhere to go but straight up, and they did this quite easily. But he kept on pulling, and of course with that much leverage my legs kept going, but not so easily now. I started to protest, but Warren merely hauled with his left hand and with his right hand under my butt, gave me a sharp lift upwards. I found myself bent over, staring at my thighs while my body did a sharp vertical U-turn. I gasped as he pulled my legs horizontal and tied the ropes off to the bed head. I was now resting on my shoulders, with the corset constricting and compressing me even more. Had I not had the ball in my mouth I would have been able to lick my nipples, and I could now clearly see the broad plastic clips with the serrated faces gripping my little pink tips as they protruded at the top of my bulging breasts.
I was not at all happy, not least because breathing was made even more difficult and I was panting in shallow breaths. I whined in complaint, which was about as thoughtless an action as I could possibly make. It had still not got through to me that Warren did not suffer slaves to complain, for whatever reason. In fact he was probably just looking for an excuse, and here was Trish, arse in the air and unable to move, begging for a good thrashing.
I heard the slap of something that sounded suspiciously like a double paddle – a pair of flat, stiff leather straps about an inch and a half wide joined at the handle. I could not see much now, my thighs being the major items blocking my sight. I was conscious of Warren standing to my right, near the foot of the bed. I sensed a movement from him and felt a searing pain across my backside.
“Nnnnph!” I cried, nearly letting go of the ball and just managing to clamp down in time. Another thwack and more pain. He set about tenderising the tautly stretched flesh of my buttocks in a methodical and expert manner, while I could only protest vehemently into the ball without letting it go. With my feet tied to the top corners and my arms tethered to the bottom corners I could go nowhere. The corset restricted my breathing, and hence my cries of complaint almost as much as the ball in my mouth.
Warren was a master with the paddle. I recognise expertise when I see – or rather feel – it, and this expertise was making itself known over every inch of my arse. I struggled as best as I could, but it was hopeless. I could only endure the beating until he decided to stop. However when he finally decided my arse was glowing red enough, the cessation was not because he had expended enough energy, rather it was simply to change weapons, swapping the paddle for a riding crop. I trembled as he stood off eyeing my cheeks as a target. I shook my head and mmmphed plaintively, trying to catch his eye to plead for mercy.
He began the crop session with a warm up – little flicks here and there with the flap on the tip of the crop, much like flicking someone with a towel. I was jerking about even at this level, but when the first full-blooded blow landed I screamed into the ball and tried to pull the bed apart – or at least the air casts. Warren delivered six strokes to each cheek, by which time I was crying and making incoherent begging sounds. When he climbed on to the bed and stood above me, near the foot of the bed, looking down at me between my widely spread legs, my blood turned cold at how exposed I was. He laid the tip of the crop on my pussy and I shook my head again, desperately mmmphing for him not to do it. The blow was fast and brutal. I screwed my eyes shut and howled into the gag, making a long nasal keening that turned into a series of short uh-uh-uh sounds as I fought for breath.
I opened my eyes from the red haze of pain to find Warren had got down from the bed. He was now scrutinising the large linen chest that stood at the foot of the bed. It was about a metre long by half a metre high and wide, and was made of sandalwood. He lifted it easily by the handles on each end and placed it on the bed where he had just been standing. Through the tears and sniffles I wondered what he was doing. He positioned the box so it was central on the bed, running lengthways, with one end nestled against my back. I had no idea where this was going as he disappeared from my field of vision until he returned, naked. That was when I started to get the picture.
The most significant part of the picture was Warren’s erection, which had to be one of the larger ones I had come across in my time in the business. Maybe this was why Monica was keeping him to herself. Did she get the whipping each time as well, I wondered? And what did he intend to do now? I was not exactly in the most conventional of positions for intercourse.
Warren sat astride the box and played with my pussy, letting his fingers rove intimately through the tender flesh. He produced a vibrator, which began its deadly work in a way I would not have thought possible just a few minutes ago. Despite the bruising and soreness, the nerve endings were functioning even more so in response to the stimulation. As I began to squirm and try to thrust against the invader (a pretty difficult task under the circumstances) he abruptly removed it and climbed over my legs so that he knelt astride my body with his back to me. I saw it all at that point – metaphorically, that is. The reason for the linen chest was made plain as he leaned forward to rest his arms on it and his great member found its way to the entrance of my front passage. As he thrust into me with his dick I groaned behind the ball. It was a groan of pleasure touched with pain, for my poor pussy was cramped and confined by my position, and having something this big buried in it seemed to heighten the sensation of both good and bad.
There was no stopping Warren at this point, nor did I complain – as such. Oh I was still making plenty of noise but it was of a different sort. I came once, nearly losing the ball in the process, but Warren was just getting into his stride. This was why Monica kept things close to her chest! I sensed Warren speeding up as he pumped back and forth and likewise felt myself rising to new heights. As I reached the top and was ready to take flight, Warren plunged the vibrator into my butt hole at the same time as he climaxed, driving real and artificial into my holes with a force that made me forget myself for that vital moment and let forth a cry. It was a cry driven by many things – ecstasy, unbearable fullness, delight, whatever. But it was also one of dismay and pain, for at that moment I let loose my howl of orgasm, the ball popped out of my mouth and a terrible pain seared through my nipples as the load of the sandbag behind the headboard transferred to the two cords hooked into the clips.
“Aaargh!” I screamed. “Oh Warren – Sir! Pleaseplease take them off! Ohgodohgod it hurts awfully!”
I am not normally quite such a wuss, but the pain had caught me by surprise with my guard down. There is a huge difference between having a clip or two positioned on a nipple, and a totally unexpected load coming on the aforementioned clip when you are at your most vulnerable.
I continued to sound off until Warren had spent himself inside of me and had dealt me a hard slap with his hand on each cheek. That merely made me snivel and whimper instead. All in all it was a pretty humiliating performance.
Warren finally dismounted and wrapped a towel around his waist. Without saying a word he produced a ball gag and stuffed it in my mouth, buckling the strap tightly behind my head. Only then did he unhook the cords from the clips, while leaving the latter in place. Tears were streaming out of the corners of my eyes by this time, but I was just grateful to have the pain decrease from my tormented nips. He removed the linen chest and untied my legs, allowing me to flop back to a prone position. Release – such as it was – had never seemed so good. I was exhausted, my body streaming with sweat. I was barely conscious of the words he said as he disappeared out the door.
“I’ll be back in a little while. When Mary told me what she had done to you, I bet her that I could make you release the ball of your own volition. Now she owes me. Ciao.”
* * *
Warren returned maybe an hour later. I had almost dozed off, despite the clips still attached to my nipples. What with the spanking, the screwing, the exertion and confinement I was mentally and physically drained. My body ached and throbbed but I still had a smile on my face – well, I would have, had the ball gag not been strapped in place. That Warren was quite something. Take away his mean streak and I could see why Monica kept mum about him.
Warren retrieved his clothes and showered in the ensuite with barely an acknowledgement of me, still tied helplessly if not stringently, to the bed. He may have been pretty damned good in the sack, but he could sure have done with a niceness transplant. When he reappeared, he again spoke little as he undid the ties to the ends of my arms, before picking me up and depositing me face down on the floor. I squealed as I pressed down on the nipple clips, moaning in pain through the rubber ball.
“There,” he said off-handedly. “I’m going into town for a long lunch and a business meeting. You may wish to help Mary out – she’s in one of the other bedrooms. Suffice to say, she won’t be able to help you. I’ll be back mid-afternoon to collect Christina. Have a nice day.”
Bastard! Bastardbastardbastard! I thought. How the hell was I going to get free, or even get to Mary, wherever she was? After somewhat of a struggle I managed to roll over on to my back, panting through my nose from the exertion of even that small feat. I experimented with trying to move, finding myself limited to kind of star-jumps on the floor, like a turtle pulling itself along. Except that turtle-motion worked, and Trish-motion didn’t. The floor was thickly carpeted and I could not get enough purchase to move my body. I fumed and thought terrible things about the man who had done this to me. And what had he done to Mary? How dare he leave us helpless in the house like this? Didn’t he know about our safety rules?
I experimented further, and finally worked out that I could manage a small degree of forward movement by arching my body and wriggling my buttocks. It was slow and tedious, not to mention painful, thanks to the paddling and whipping I had experienced at Warren’s hands.
I struggled out into the hallway beside the stairwell and painstakingly squirmed along to the next bedroom. The door was open.
“Er-hee?” I mumbled incomprehensibly. “Urh?” There was no answer. I could see no sign of Mary and concluded that she was not in there, turning to move down to the next doorway. That was when I realised I had an audience. It was Shawnee, standing at the top of the stairs.
“Errrggh!” I shouted at her. What was the matter with the stupid girl? She was naked except for a long pvc hobble skirt down to her ankles. Her wrists were handcuffed but for a change she was not gagged.
“Un-oo ee!” I demanded.
“I’m sorry, Mistress, but I have orders from Master Warren not to release you or Mistress Mary unless you’re in severe distress and I was watching you and Mistress Mary on the closed circuit TV from the basement, but there’s no camera in the hallway, so I came up to make sure you were okay, but you are, and I can’t help you, or Master Warren will know when he sees the tape.” It all gushed out at ninety miles an hour, as was usual with Shawnee, which was why we plugged her mouth on a regular basis. “Mistress Mary is in the next bedroom,” she finished.
Damn. I mmphed as ferociously as I could at Shawnee, whose eyes widened in alarm as I tried to explain what I would do to her when I got free, but evidently Warren’s threats were more graphic than mine, although mine might prove to be more real. She looked close to tears.
“I’m sorry! I’m sorry!” she pleaded. “I didn’t know what to do! You can make it to the next room, can’t you?”
I heaved a resigned sigh behind the gag and arched my back again to move a few more inches along the carpet.
By the time I arrived at the next bedroom I was snorting like a pig, with sweat popping from every pore.
“Air-ee?” I demanded. It was as much her fault that I had to go through this ordeal.
“Uhhh.” The voice came from the far side of the room, beyond the bed. I squirmed my way around until I could see what Warren had done to Mary.
She was secured in the walk-in wardrobe, her wrists cuffed together and tied to the clothes rail above her. Her ankles had been bound to her thighs and the wrist bond held her upright on the points of her knees. It was a very nasty tie, made only less so by the fact that she still had her black leather pants on to protect her knees and where the coils of white sashcord bit into her thighs and ankles.
She also still wore the pvc vest, although this was now unzipped, exposing her breasts. Mary’s breasts were not large but were firm and nicely proportioned. At that moment they each sported a silver clip with its jaws firmly embedded in the nipple. Linking the clips was a silver chain, that joined one to the other via an eyebolt protruding from the white ball gag stuffed and strapped in place in Mary’s mouth. Her chin was down on her chest, the chain preventing any upward movement without major nipple pain. The final piece de resistance from Warren was the butterfly vibrator stuffed down the front of Mary’s leather pants. This was held firmly in place by a waist rope that converted to a crotch rope, being pulled up behind her and attached to the overhead rail. Mary was really in the shit. Her raven hair with the blonde streak was plastered down on her head and beads of perspiration ran down her cheeks and down on to her breasts. I could see her body shaking from the strain – or was it from the incessant vibrations that rose up from her crotch? So perished all those who lost a bet with Warren. Idly I wondered what would have happened if she’d won. Probably the same thing, I decided.
I humped my way closer, not clear how on earth either of us could free the other. Shawnee appeared in the door behind me. Mary glared at her and made bizarre noises behind the ball, although there was no doubting their intent.
“I just told Mistress Trish that I wasn’t allowed to set you free or else I’d be punished really really badly and so would you and Mistress Trish and Monica and everybody!” wailed Shawnee, close to tears. Poor Shawnee. She was going to cop it whatever happened.
I pondered on our plight. Clearly I wasn’t going to get much help from Shawnee. The only way I could see of freeing either of us lay with Mary’s hands. Somehow I had to get one of the air casts deflated. To do this I had to reach Mary’s fingers.
I manoeuvred myself until I was parallel with the wardrobe, then bracing my arms against the floor I hoisted my legs high and over my head, in much the same way that Warren had bound me previously, except that this time I tried to keep one leg vertical as I hoisted myself up on my shoulders. Wish you hadn’t put the casts on me now, Mary? I thought with just a hint of vindictiveness.
I waved my leg as close to Mary’s fingers as I could, finally making contact, but I lost my balance and was forced to drop down again. It took three goes before Mary finally managed to unscrew the air valve on the right cast. I collapsed from the effort, lying there and letting my heart rate settle down. I could once again feel my leg against the floor, and with this advantage I managed to claw myself on to a sitting position on the bed, from which I could hop to the bound figure semi-suspended in the open wardrobe. Now it was easy to get an arm cast deflated and from there I could divest myself of the remainder and remove the ball from my mouth.
“Shawnee! Go fetch my mobile phone!” I snapped. “Now!”
She scurried away, as much as the taut skirt let her, while I sat, exhausted, on the bed.
“Urrgh!” Mary whined.
“Yeah, yeah, whatever,” I said dismissively, waving her complaint away as being not worth bothering about. “You set me up with Warren,” I told her evenly. “Now look what’s happened to you. Too bad, huh? How long did you leave me to my own devices today? I think I should double that.”
“Nnnnnh!” Mary shook her head then screwed up her eyes at the pain it brought to her nipples. I knelt in front of her and worked the butterfly vibrator down further inside her pants, adding to the stimulation with my fingers. Mary closed her eyes and moaned softly, this time from something other than the pain in her breasts. Abruptly I stood up and returned to the first bedroom, site of my own bondage predicament. I wondered what else Mary had lined up for me that she hadn’t used. Monica had evidently been into the medical equipment purchasing before she left and I was sure she would have a few other things that might be useful. I was not wrong. Delighted with my find I returned to the helpless Mary in the wardrobe keeping my discoveries wrapped in a small towel.
“Poor Mary,” I cooed. “Are those nasty clips hurting you, dear?” Mary whimpered. “Nod if that’s a yes,” I persisted. Reluctantly Mary nodded, the clips tugging her nipples up and down. I leaned around behind her and undid the buckle of the gag, prising it out from behind her mouth along with a runnel of drool.
“Oh, Jesus!” she gasped. “Please – take those damned clips off – shit they hurt!”
“Oh really? I know exactly what you mean, sweetie.”
“Look, don’t piss about Trish – let me go. I don’t think I could stand another orgasm like this.”
“Oh? Getting just a little wet down below, are we?”
“Trish! Just do it!”
“Excuse me, Miss. I don’t think you’re in any position to be demanding things, particularly after what you did to me.” Mary was at once contrite – or apparently so.
“I’m sorry Trish. Please.”
“Remember that bag of sand over the bed head? That was the cause of it all, wasn’t it.” I let the gag and strap fall from my hand. Still attached by the chain it swung on the clips, twisting them to hang in the opposite direction. Mary cried out and screwed up her eyes again, muttering profanities under her breath. It would be just too much to get Mary to beg.
Shawnee appeared as I finally removed the clips. Mary hung her head and panted, her breasts heaving from the effort. She was not expecting my next move.
“Open wide,” I said.
“What the - !” That was as far as she got as I slipped the chromed bars of the medical jaw brace between her lips.
“This is a whitehead gag, in case you didn’t know,” I told Mary. “Yes, Monica has finally got one.” The device was fiendish in its simplicity, with two horizontal bars running parallel with the lips, with a small intrusion that clipped under the front upper and lower teeth. The bars could then be parted on a ratchet system, opening the jaw with them. This I did, after I had buckled the apparatus in place behind her neck.
“Gaargh!” said Mary as I clicked it open a further notch.
“Shawnee, dial up Monica for me. Quickdial 1.”
“Ngoh!” squawked Mary, for the first time close to panic. “Eeese, ngoh, Ish!”
“Hullo? Monica? No, it’s Shawnee. Mistress Trish wants
to talk to you.”
“Aaaargh! Ache id ough! Eeese! Ezuz!”
“That was Mary saying hello, Monica,” I said, fishing out the other clamp and settling it to grip the other nipple, despite her protests and attempts to pull away. “We’re playing doctors and nurses. The whitehead and forcep clamps work really well. What? Well she started it! And your friend wasn’t above chiming in. He is very well built, Mon. Quite the stud, if a little lacking in sense of humour.” I held the phone away from my ear at that point. Maybe this hadn’t been such a good idea. “Okay Mon, calm down. Sure, I’ll let her go. Hello?”
“Monica says hi,” I told the whining figure, jaws stretched and drool sliding down her chin.
“Shawnee! Go and fetch the camera!”
|Monica's Quest continues in Chapter Seven|
|All comments welcome at firstname.lastname@example.org.
© R.Alexander 2006
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bondage stories : alexander stories