Gromet's Plaza Richard Alexander Stories
Monica's Quest
by Richard Alexander
bilboes1@hotmail.com
© 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: 7. Hong Kong Hunters by Richard Alexander MF/mf; bondage; bdsm; cons/nc; XXX
Chapter Seven: Hong Kong Hunters
Part One
8
Emma met Monica and me outside the arrivals hall at Chek Lap Kok.  There were lots of tears from Emma while Monica remained composed, but I could tell that composure was only kept with difficulty.  Monica Armstrong might come over as totally-in-control, but I knew better, and the long flight from Brisbane had confirmed that. Sitting in the dimmed business class seats, she had unloaded her conscience to me and I knew the guilt she bore at having arranged the whole deal.  Nothing I could say could make her believe anything different.

Emma introduced us to her Auntie Alice and Uncle Stan – a likeable couple in their late fifties.  Stan was thin and wiry, an engineer working on one of the Mass Transit’s seemingly endless succession of new underground lines.  We immediately hit it off, for I had worked for a subcontractor on the Airport Railway several years before. Stan and Alice had spent much time in Canada before returning to Hong Kong seven years previously, and spoke with pronounced Canadian accents.  They said little as Emma went through the story of how the three girls had been duped by the so-called film-makers.  That had been on Monday evening, but Emma had not discovered the truth until Tuesday morning.  It was now Thursday night.

“They said they would take Leila and Jill back to the hotel and we would have a 9.30 start the next morning,” sniffed Emma, sitting between Monica and me in the back seat of Stan’s Mercedes.  “When I arrived at the Furama I was told they’d checked out the previous afternoon with no forwarding address.  All their luggage was gone.”  A tear welled over from Emma’s eye and slid down her cheek.  “That’s when I rang you, Mon.”

Back at Bilboes Monica and I had had a long discussion about our strategy.  I had insisted on coming with her and she had not objected.  I at least knew the place, and between the three of us I reckoned we could at least cover a few leads.  Now, despite Emma’s close relationship with Jillian, she agreed with us that at this stage we should keep the police out of it.  There were too many loose ends to explain that might result in us all getting deported and thus becoming totally impotent in furthering the matter.  We agreed that there were certain things we had to do on our own.

On the morning of the discovered disappearance, Emma and Stan had visited the office where the three girls had met Edwin Kwan, only to find the place locked and apparently deserted.  The pair had made some discrete enquiries amongst neighbours and had checked the electoral role to see the ownership.  As had now been proven, the place was a front, owned by a holding company.  The neighbours knew it as the property of the Black Dragon Triad, which appeared to own the whole building, if the alluded-to weekly protection racket was anything to go by.  That was another reason to not involve the police at this time, Stan advised.  There was always either a problem with tip offs ahead of police action, or a reluctance to take action in the first place.  It seemed we had everything to gain and nothing to lose as long as we had some lead to follow.

Stan and Alice dropped Monica and me at the YWCA in Kowloon.  I had booked us in there for a number of reasons.  It was in fact no different from a budget hotel, and we wanted somewhere that was central, low profile, and not totally exorbitant.  The Y had come a long way from the old days of being exclusively single female accommodation.  The Hong Kongers, with an eye for a dollar, had converted most of the YW’s and YM’s to budget or even more upmarket accommodation in recent years. 

“Did you notice the name of the street we’re in?”  I asked Monica after we had booked into our double room. 

“No.”  Monica looked puzzled.  “Why?”

“It’s Man Fuk Road.  Appropriate for the YW, don’t you think?”

She smiled – the first time I had seen her do so in the last forty-eight hours.  The strain was starting to show.

“There’s another street in the New Territories called Chik Fuk Road,” I added.

“Which you’re also intimately acquainted with?”

“I have been there, yes,” I admitted with a grin.

*   *   *

We met with Emma in the ‘Y” restaurant for breakfast the next morning.  We had discussed our options and had decided that the only lead we had was to chase Mr Choi, the man with whom Monica had first made contact in Jupiter’s Casino on the Gold Coast.  It was he who had come up with the proposal for Jill and Leila to star in a Cantonese video.  His business card showed him to be a the vice president of marketing for the Shing Loong Corporation, in Jardine House, just near the Star Ferry.

It was typical Hong Kong summer weather as we crossed to the Island on the Star Ferry – hot and sticky, with gloomy low clouds hanging about obscuring the Peak.  The wind was getting up and it buffeted the ferry as we neared the high rises ahead.  It was the forerunner of a typhoon, and I knew things were going to get a lot worse before they got better.  Which seemed to be a pretty good summation of everything at that moment. 

I pointed out Jardine House to Monica as we went across on the ferry.  Jardine was one of the old established trading houses of Hong Kong.  The building was a 40-something storey edifice, but modest by comparison with some of the colossi nearby.  Its distinguishing feature was the use of circular windows, rather than the standard rectangular ones.

“It’s colloquially known as the ‘House of a Thousand Arseholes’,” I told Monica as we stood on deck looking at one of the wealthiest waterfronts in the world.  Then her mobile rang.

“Hello?  Mary?  What is it?  No, we’re on the Star Ferry.   What’s that noise – it sounds like someone swearing.  Trish?  Why, what have you done to her?  Oh Mary!  Can’t I leave you two on your own without you behaving like children?  Let her go, for God’s sake – it sounds like she’s ready to go in to orbit!  Yes all right, Mary, but do as I ask.  Goodbye.”  Monica turned to me with the ghost of a smile.  “Mary says the Horse works really well.  Trish is evidently taking equestrian lessons.”

We did not have time to discuss this apparently strange conversation since the ferry was almost at the dock.  We followed the mass of commuters down the gangplank and into the street outside.

“When we get inside, I want you to let me do the talking.  Our strategy depends on presenting a united front,” Monica said.  “We’ll have to play this thing by ear.  I know Mr Choi, so I have the relationship.  Emma, you’re here to ensure nothing is said that we can’t understand.  Steven, you’re here to look determined and if possible intimidating.”

“Would one out of two do?” I asked.

She put her hand on my shoulder and smiled wanly.  “Sure, Steve.  You do whatever comes naturally.”

*   *   *

We looked at the address board in the foyer.  Shing Loong had offices on four floors, with reception on the forty second. 

“Shing Loong seems to be part of the Dragon Fire empire,” said Emma as we rode up in the express lift. 

“Meaning?” asked Monica.

“Dragon Fire is owned by David Wong – one of the richest men in Macau.  There have been all sorts of stories linking him with triad dealings but nobody has ever been able to prove anything.  They have fingers in property, the Macau casinos, prostitution, you name it.”

“Porn?”

“Of course.”

The reception was predictably plush.  A smartly dressed receptionist asked us to wait in the comfortable armchairs while she made a phone call.  Monica and I had talked about this.  We did not know what sort of reception we would get – the runaround or the denial.  Either way, we had to try, to explore every avenue to find Jill and Leila.

Mr Choi appeared wearing a dark business suit with a sombre tie.  It was the first time Emma and I had met him.  He was tall and slim, his thinning hair slicked back, his eyes framed with gold-rimmed glasses.

“My dear Monica, such a pleasure to see you,” he enthused.  Monica was cool as she introduced us.  He invited us into his office which had enough room for half a dozen Mong Kok families to live comfortably, along with a million dollar view of the harbour.  We sat in three chrome and leather chairs while Mr Choi settled himself on the other side of the polished rosewood desk.

“And to what do I owe this pleasure?”

“I think you know, Mr Choi.  Leila and Jillian have disappeared.” 

This was it, I thought.  This is where we know what the plan will be.  Or perhaps won’t be.

“Nonsense, Monica.  We know exactly where they are.  They are doing the filming as part of our agreement.”

“I would like to see them, please.”

“Certainly.  Please come with me. “  We exchanged guarded looks and stood up to follow Mr Choi through a side door.  Beyond the door was a large boardroom with a granite-inlaid table big enough on which to play several games of ping-pong, crosswise.  Sitting near the end of the table was a young Chinese woman in a black silk blouse and jeans.

“This is Miss Ng,” said My Choi, after introducing us.  “Serina is our best photographer.  She has made many videos and produces photos for some of our best selling magazines. She was in the middle of showing me her latest shots.”  We sat down opposite her, regarding her warily.  Mr Choi sat down between us at the head of the table.  On the table before him was a brown A4 envelope.  He picked it up and slid a bunch of photos on to the table. 

“Have a look through these,” he offered.  “Leila has been absolutely sensational.” 

Monica picked up the photos and leafed through them, with me looking over her shoulder.  I heard her sharp intake of breath at the sight of Leila.  The photos were stark, stunning in their black and white imagery.  The scene was a dingy warehouse, abandoned and desolate.  Leila hung horizontally beneath a bamboo pole in a complex sling of ropes, the light and shadows making striking patterns on her nakedness.  Her arms were bound behind her back and her legs were bent and tied, but also secured to a bamboo pole at right angles to the main one.  Leila’s head hung down, her face obscured by the unmistakable curtain of blonde hair we all knew.  A second photo, in close up, shot from below, showed Leila’s face, eyes closed, her mouth stretched by a white ball gag, a runnel of saliva hanging from her bottom lip.  Her brow was furrowed, as though she was striving to overcome exhaustion.  Beads of sweat stood out on her forehead.  It was almost too much to bear.

There were several photos of this nature.  There were some further terrible shots of Leila upside down being beaten with a flogger.  My heart lurched at this sight, for I remembered her confiding to me once that she hated being inverted in any suspension.  There were more close-ups of the intricate web of ropes that confined her body and secured her limbs. 

I passed the photos to Emma as Monica leafed through a new set, this time in colour.  One showed a solitary figure, hands bound behind her, standing facing a post.  It was a long shot, the figure barely recognisable as Leila.  Beyond was a green swathe of grass in front of a low line of bush with sea beyond and the distant line of hills on the horizon.  It was a startling poignant photo, the prisoner standing alone under a great spreading banyan tree. 

There was another shot, taken in the other direction.  Leila was in close-up in the foreground, staring into the distance, her jaws locked on to a piece of bamboo that was roped around her neck.  She was secured to the post only by some thin twine tied around each nipple and joined around the post.  I could see the tear stains on her cheeks.  Some fifty metres beyond her stood a small group of houses, looking dilapidated and partly over grown.

There were more photos here, too, of Leila impaled on a dildo, riding the equivalent of the plank I had made in Monica’s dungeon, only this time it was of bamboo, obviously flexible and allowing the victim to be bounced.  There were shots of Leila with her feet tied sole to sole, her lovely face distorted with a bamboo ring gag.  I passed the last of the photos to Emma, who, with shaking hands, managed to drop them on the floor.  As she scrabbled after them I looked at Monica who was white with rage.

“You bastard,” she hissed.  “Where is she?”

“Relax, Monica.  Serina here says she is in good hands and working admirably.  We have a lot more filming to do yet.  Let’s not forget our deal.  This is, after all, what the girls came here to do.  Leila is safe and well.”

“And where is Jill?” I demanded, barely able to control myself.  Emma’s face appeared from behind the table, clutching the pile of photos, her distress obvious to all.

“Ah yes, the lovely Jillian.  She is special, isn’t she.”  I could nearly have gone for this smooth arse at this point but Monica’s restraining hand on my arm kept me seated.  For all her self-control I had seen how desolated she had been over the who affair, yet she had stressed to us to follow her lead and to trust her, and this I did, for she had shown herself in the past to be cool under pressure and to have astonishing reserves of courage.  But then again I had never seen her in a situation like this. 

“Serina, play that tape again – the one you showed me before.”  Mr Choi turned to us while Serina got up to operate the large screen TV with the built-in video.  He smiled, sincerely one might have said at any other time.  “You will have to appreciate that this is only a partially edited tape that Serina has brought to show me the progress she has made.  The finished article will be very classy indeed.  Leila and Jillian are such wonderful actresses.  So much realism…” 

The very real bleakness of the warehouse filled the screen, its grimy features broken by sunlight filtering down through translucent panels in the roof.  The camera zoomed in on two figures standing half bent over in a corner of the building.  I saw at once it was Jillian and Leila.  Both girls were still clothed.  Jill wore a short, pale blue skirt and a sky blue blouse with white sandals, while Leila wore a scarlet sleeveless dress with her favourite red boots.  Both had ball gags strapped behind their teeth. 

They were each held in a strappado, their hands bound palm to palm behind them, and, as the camera followed the ropes to pullies above, we saw how the pair were linked.  For one girl to stand up straight and to lower her arms, the other girl’s arms had to go higher.   The pair had obviously worked out a silent system between them, for after a short while Jill bend down and let her hands be raised high above her, while Leila took a minute to stand upright before the positions were reversed.  A close-up shot of Jill’s face showed a sheen of sweat as she concentrated on the load on her arms.

The shot dissolved into something different.  This time Jill was sitting on what looked like a large trunk, her arms bound behind her with copious amounts of rough hemp rope which pinioned her upper arms to her body and made her the thin fabric of the blue silk blouse stretch tautly over her breasts.

There was a man in this clip.  He was tall and well built, and obviously knew his rope work, for he was binding Jill’s legs in a very competent manner.  He disappeared off camera for a few minutes then returned with a discipline helmet that he forced over Jill’s head, ignoring her futile struggles as he laced it up over the blonde hair until it finally disappeared from sight. 

The next shot showed the man lowering Jill into the trunk and packing bags of something around her.  Although the sound was turned right down, there was the sound of frantic mewing in the background that I knew was Leila watching her friend being packaged up.  The final view followed the trunk to a van where the rear doors were opened and the trunk was lifted inside by the big man and another, slimmer guy.  The doors were then slammed shut and the picture went black.

We sat silent and stunned.

“Where is Jill now?”  Monica asked, her voice on the verge of breaking.

“In Macau.  She’s getting to see the world,” said Mr Choi genially.  “No extra charge.”

I wonder how you’d like to see the world from the inside of a trunk, Sunshine, I thought grimly.

“And Leila?”

“Still here in Hong Kong.  For the moment.”

“For the moment?”

“Monica, you must understand these productions take a lot of time,” Mr Choi explained with a gall I could not believe.  “The pair are so good we will most likely do several features.”

“And they will be returning when?”  Monica demanded through gritted teeth.

Mr Choi shrugged and looked at Serina, who smiled in a way that told me not to hold my breath.  It also told me she might end up sharing a trunk with Mr Choi if I had my way.  “Who can say?  We will let you know when we hear from the production crew.”

“And what if I go to the police?”

This time it was Mr Choi who smiled, but the eyes were cold.

“I would think that option through if I were you.  Working in porn, without visas?  Probably involved with triads and drug running?  Hong Kong is not run by the British any more, you know.  Things are returning to the old status quo.  By all means go to the police.  I think you will find yourselves on an aeroplane very quickly.  Sympathies for a couple of missing Gweipoes will be hard to find, you know.  The Chinese have a tradition of long remembering things, and many still harbour considerable resentment against the British for them seizing Hong Kong in the eighteen hundreds.  Our culture goes back a lot further than you barbarians will ever realise.  I suggest you leave here now.  The girls will be returned – eventually, when they have completed the work we require of them.”

Monica stood up, barely under control.  Emma had tears streaming down her cheeks.  I could hardly believe that Monica was going to walk out without a fight, but I knew we had to trust that she still had some cards to play, although for the life of me I could not think what they were.  Here we were up against a corporation backed by the triads, on their own turf.  I put my arm around Emma’s shoulders, taking my lead from Monica and hoping that Emma would not lose control as we followed Monica to the door now held open by Serina.  She gave me a devilish smile as we left the room. 

*   *   *

In the lift Monica turned to us and I could see her struggling to keep her emotions inside her.  But her voice was strong and determined. 

“This is what we’re going to do.  We only have one shot at this.  If we screw up, we may lose Jill and Leila forever.  I have no faith whatsoever that if we do nothing we the girls will be returned.  That arsehole started lying the moment he opened his mouth, and the girl was in it up to her neck as well.  She will be the link.  You can bet your arse she knows where they are.  We’re going to follow her and eventually wring the truth out of her by one way or the other.  Are you okay for this?  Steven?”

“Sure.  We can do it.”

“Em?”

Emma was snuffling into her handkerchief.  “Yes.  I’m sorry.  It was just so awful seeing poor Jill like that… But Mon, maybe this will help…”  We got out at the ground floor and stepped back into a corner.  Emma produced two photos from her purse.  Monica’s eyes widened in surprise.

“You sneaked a couple of photos… Why, Emma?”

“I…I’m not sure, but I thought I recognised the shape of the hills in this one – there is a particular shaped one, and of course the proximity of water is important.  And this one shows the village… He said Leila is still in Hong Kong.  I think we might be able to work out where she is…” Monica and I were both stunned at Emma’s presence of mind, not to say her sleight of hand.   Monica hugged her and I could not pass up the opportunity to join in.  I reckoned it was a long shot, however, and I for one was more than happy to pursue Monica’s plan and beat the whereabouts of the girls out of little Miss Videocam.

We hatched a plan to identify and tail Serina.  We reckoned she had been doing a simple delivery – she surely did not work in the plush offices upstairs.  Somehow that did not seem her style.  We agreed that she would probably not be too long in residence there. 

It was perhaps half an hour before Serina appeared.  It was starting to rain – the prelude to Typhoon Susie, evidently a day or so away from Hong Kong, according to the latest weather reports.  We were watching from behind some shrubs some way from the entrance to the building.  At the emergence of Serina from Jardine House, Emma immediately set out on her tail, for Emma could more easily blend in with the sea of black hair and Chinese faces that filled the footpaths, while we followed a little behind her.  Emma had dialled Monica’s mobile phone as soon as we started tracking Serina, talking to Monica as events unfolded.

“She’s crossing the road,” Monica told me.

“Maybe heading for the MTR,” I said, hurrying to catch up with the mob of people crossing as the lights changed.  Ahead of us was the entry to Central Station, one of the main underground stations on the Mass Transit Railway.  The distinctive MTR logo – a vertical line overlaid with two horizontal semi-circles, that I always thought looked like a stick insect or a run-over possum – was ahead of us. 

We soon found ourselves on a train taking us under the harbour, then north under Nathan Road, up the spine of Kowloon.  Monica and I were in the carriage next to the one carrying Emma and Serina.  Monica still had her phone to her ear.  Thank goodness so many people had mobiles in Hong Kong that the MTR had ensured adequate coverage in the tunnels.  Nearby somebody’s phone rang and a dozen people started groping in their pockets and bags until the ringing stopped.  Monica appeared not to notice, so intent was she on making sure she did not miss Emma’s instructions.

I pointed to the route map above the door.  “If she goes east we could have to change at one of the next three stations,” I warned Monica.  She nodded. 

The change came at the second station, and for two long minutes we lost sight of Emma in the surging crowds but followed her instructions until we emerged on an eastbound platform.  The process was repeated, with Monica and I lurking in the train doorway ready to jump off at a moment’s notice from Emma if her quarry did a runner at a station during the long seconds the train was stationary with the doors open.  More stations passed – Kowloon Tong, Lok Fu and Diamond Hill.

“It has to be the next one, “ I told Monica.  “Any further past this station and it would have been quicker to go another route.  And Choi Hung is where you get off to go over the hills to the east.”

Monica was tense as the doors opened, listening for the word from Emma.

“Go!” she said and we both pushed into the disembarking mob.  There were a number of exits but the plan held and we found ourselves heading up the steps on to Clearwater Bay Road. 

“She’s getting into a taxi!”  Monica said urgently.  “Em, where are you?”

We spotted her and reached her just as she flagged one of the ever-present red and white taxis that filled the streets day and night.  Emma jumped into the front seat and gabbled at the driver as we piled into the back.  I guessed it was the local equivalent of “Follow that cab!”

“Damn,” I said.  “I always wanted to do that!”

“I told him you’d pay a hundred bucks extra if he doesn’t lose the other taxi.”

“Cheap at twice the price,” I agreed.

The driver was an old guy given to sucking breath through his teeth and muttering curses at every second vehicle on the road, when he wasn’t clunking through the gears.  As we climbed over the hill and down into the New Territories I knew our odds were getting better for the roads were limited here and options for turning off were few. 

We turned north on to Hiram’s Highway, leading towards Sai Kung, home of the leisured classes.  The road was narrow and two-laned, prone to landslides in the rainy season, which periodically cut off Sai Kung.  The road followed the coast, twisting in and out of inlets and around headlands, through villages and past new plush townhouse developments overlooking marinas filled with luxury yachts.  Our quarry was a couple of cars ahead, and for all his brusque manner our driver was soon eating out of Emma’s hand – or as much as I could gather, for the singsong tones of the conversation always seemed to bear no relation to whatever was actually transpiring. 

North of the sprawling little township that was Sai Kung, the lead taxi abruptly turned up a side road.  Emma spotted the turn off and directed the cabbie to stop just past it.  The side road looked to be a dead end, maybe a hundred metres long.  Serina’s cab had halted halfway up the hill.  We paid the driver and climbed out, tracking the quarry from behind some trees.  Serina’s cab had stopped outside a single-storied group of houses slightly away from the road.  We watched her go in the front door of the one closest to the road while her cab turned around and drove out past us.

“Bingo,” breathed Monica.  “Well done, team.”

*   *   *
We watched the houses for signs of life, sheltering under the dripping trees as the wind began to increase in strength.  It was Friday, and we were nervous that school kids might shortly be returning home, if any lived nearby.  We had resolved to gain entry and overcome Serina as quickly as possible.  I had done a quick reconnaissance and had got an idea of the nature of the house.    The front garden, like the surrounding area was generally overgrown, and the dwelling appeared to have lost any class it might once have had.  I had skulked through the foliage of the front garden and discovered that although the front door had a peep hole, there was no security grille.  I reckoned if we could get Serina to open the door a crack, we could force our way in.  We hatched our plan accordingly, relying on the assumption that Serina was the only occupant.

At that moment Monica’s mobile rang.

“Hello?  Trish?  No – we’re on to something.  We’re about to lay siege to this bitch who’s kidnapped Leila…  What do you want, Trish?  Listen to what?  Trish what are you doing to her?  Dammit, stop bothering me with this stuff…  Warren did what?  You got screwed by him!  Trish – you and I are going to have words when I get back!  Now stop teasing Mary and let her go!  And stay away from Warren!  Goodbye!”
 
 

Monica was grim faced and did not confide in us what had transpired, other than what we had gleaned from overhearing things.  Monica made as though the phone call had never occurred and led the way up to the house.

With Monica and I pressing our backs to the wall either side of the door, Emma knocked.  There was a brief conversation in Cantonese through the door, with Emma, I guessed, doing her best to sound distraught and desperate for help.  Serina’s first words were probably the equivalent of ‘how the hell did you find me?’ as she opened the door.  Clearly Emma did not present a threat, but the three of us did as we poured through the door knocking Serina to the ground and eventually subduing her in a welter of flailing arms and kicking legs, not to mention abusive screeching Cantonese.  After a minute everything seemed to sort itself out, and I found myself sitting astride Serina’s upper body, my bent knees on her elbows, with one hand gripping her by the hair and the other over her mouth, my fingers hooked under her jaw.  Monica was sitting on her legs, while Emma ripped out the phone cord and searched the immediate vicinity for other means of restraint.  She returned with a roll of masking tape, wrapping several turns of the tape around Serina’s eyes and mouth in an untidy but effective manner.

We turned her on her face, never letting go for a minute, for she had fought like a deranged cat, and I had the scratches to prove it.  Emma bound her crossed wrists behind her with the phone cord, then we hogtied them to her crossed ankles to complete a temporary package.  Serina was still mmphing and trying to yell through the tape as we finally stood up and caught our collective breath.

“Good one, guys,” Monica said, letting the tension ease from her expression.  “Now let’s get into some dry clothes…”

*   *   *
In the hour since we had been in the house we had searched it thoroughly.  We had concluded that a man lived there with Serina – a fact which leant urgency to our task since he might come home at any time. Serina was now naked and bound face forward over the back of a large armchair, her legs spread and her ankles tied to the rear feet of the chair.  The act of disrobing her had been accomplished with a pair of sharp scissors, and her muted complaints had not been heeded.  Emma had translated that Serina was complaining about the clothes being Gucci or Versace or some other such over-priced so-called fashion icon.  Monica suggested she ‘tell it to the marines’.

Serina had a slim body without an ounce of spare flesh, though stopping short of anorexia.  Her skin was smooth and pale, not a line to be seen on her face.  Her breasts were small and pointed, mounds now pressed against the back of the chair in her bent-over position.  Serina’s crossed wrists were drawn high up her back and secured there with a cord running over her shoulders down to the front of the chair.  The tape had been removed from her head, to be replaced with a large black ball gag.  Overcoming the rubber ball had proved difficult for Serina, although muffled grunts and protests still came from the bound figure as we searched her belongings. 

Needless to say the search of the house had been somewhat of a revelation.  The place had only two bedrooms and it was evident that Serina was sharing the main bedroom with a partner, for the second room served as study and a storeroom for her photographic paraphernalia, plus, we discovered, an extensive range of bondage props and devices.  We were not sure whether they were solely for use in her line of work, or whether they were an additional, personal interest.  We all agreed it was probably the latter, if the eyebolts in the ceiling of the living room and bedroom were anything to go by.

We were all wet from our time in the rain and took the opportunity to quickly dry off and change our clothes.  The girls were lucky in that they were of a size where Serina’s clothes would fit them, at least in part.  Monica was obviously a size larger and settled on a sleeveless black dress.

“Bloody Chinese women,” she muttered.  “Thank God for cotton/lycra.”

“You Gweipoes – never happy,” Emma retorted.  “Except that this bitch has no tits.”

“Never happy!”  Monica shot back.  “Hey – nice skirt.”  Emma emerged from the bedroom wearing a black leather skirt that showed off her legs, with a denim shirt on top. 

“At least she’s got a waistline,” Emma admitted grudgingly.  There was more mmphing from the naked figure over the chair.

I had meanwhile found a shirt that was two sizes too big and a pair of baggy shorts that were likewise.  I decided that the figures cut by the two girls were infinitely superior to anything I could lay claim to, and so decided not to contribute to the fashion discussion.

Also in the spare bedroom was a collection of floggers and crops, and it was the nastiest, whippiest of these that Monica selected, waving it in front of the wide-eyed Selena’s face.  Monica was suddenly all scary business.  She squatted in front of the chair and looked into the Chinese girl’s eyes.  Her voice was pitched low and was cold and dispassionate.  It was like a dungeon session at Bilboes, but this time the stakes were infinitely higher, and Monica was not acting.

“Now you listen to me, you little smart-arse.  Two of my best friends are missing.  You know where they are.  I want you to tell me.  It’s that simple.  If you do not tell me, I will whip you until you bleed.  Then I will employ a lot of other measures that will be far, far worse.  Trust me.  I have done this for a living and I know just how to hurt a girl.  Are you with me so far?”  Serina made no sound, glaring instead at Monica with undisguised hatred.  Monica stood up and walked around behind the helpless female, before bending over her.

“Do you know the tune “Happy Birthday”, Serina?”  Again, no reaction.  There was a crack as the crop descended on the bare buttock, followed by a nasal grunt from behind the gag.  It was neither affirmation nor denial.

“All Hong Kong Chinese know it,” Emma volunteered.  “She does.”

“Thank you Emma.  A simple humming of that tune will stop the pain, Serina. You can manage that, even with that nice ball in your pretty little mouth.  As soon as you wish to talk, start humming.”

Thwack!

I beckoned Emma into the spare bedroom.  I was not enamoured with what Monica was going to do to her prisoner – call me old fashioned if you will.  I disliked females getting hurt, though I had got used to their strange ways in the dungeons of Bilboes.  But I accepted it for the sake of Jill and Leila.  Except that something told me Serina was not going to be an easy nut to crack.

“Em, remember you said you thought you recognised that skyline when you sneaked those two photos?  Let’s have a look at them again.”  I had found a map of Hong Kong in the study and wanted to see if we could at least get some idea of where Leila might be held captive.  Emma retrieved the photos from her handbag and put them on the desk while I spread out the map.

“Supposing we assume the photos were taken in the middle of the day,” I said.  “Look at this shadow here – it’s short.  That means it must be pointing roughly north. So this shot of the sea is looking south.  So we’re looking south from land to land across an east-west stretch of water of some size, say several kilometres.  That must be a starter.  And the place is obviously out in the wops somewhere – you don’t leave people tied up like that for all the world to gawk at.”  We studied the map.  There were at least half a dozen such configurations in the intricate coastline that was now the Special Autonomous Region of Hong Kong.

“I think that mountain is Nam Wai Shan,” said Emma, at length.

“Which makes the photo taken from where?” I asked, trying to ignore the sound of leather on flesh and the muffled grunts from the next room.

“Maybe here, somewhere,” said Emma, pointing to the north side of the Tolo Channel. 

“Are you sure?”

“Not a hundred percent, but maybe ninety nine.”

“Hmmm. Still leaves a lot of area.”

“Aw shit!”  The cry came from Monica.  “You little slut!”

We ran into the other room in time to see Serina, her backside striated with crop marks, grinding her pelvis into the top of the chair, grunting and mmphing into her gag.  Monica was standing with her hands on her hips, a look of total frustration and exasperation on her face.

“I cannot believe this!” she exclaimed.  “This bitch has just got herself off on the thrashing she was getting.  She’s a bloody pain slut!”

I took Monica aside, into the kitchen and out of earshot of Serina’s final gasping climax as she squirmed and stiffened against the padding of the chair.  Monica was furious.

“Listen Mon – calm down.  Look, I don’t think you’ll break her like that.  Part of it is Serina, part of it is Chinese.  They can take discomfort – in some forms.  They are stoic in the face of adversity.  It’s their culture.  And remember, a white woman breaking a Chinese – there’s the ‘face’ thing here as well.  Pride and principles and all that.”

“So what are you suggesting, Mr Anthropologist?” she asked sarcastically.  She was clearly displeased, and my words were doing nothing to mollify that displeasure.

“Look.  Serina’s city Chinese.  There are many things here that the locals don’t like.  I’ve seen women afraid to pat cats because they’ve never experienced them at close quarters before.  These people can master the latest in techno devices, but some far more basic things will freak them out.  Here’s what I suggest…”

Ten minutes later Serina was bound in the reverse position, her legs still spread, her glowing backside resting on the top of the armchair, her bound wrists tethered to the rung at the front.  We had wrapped further ropes about her waist and through her crotch, holding her as rigidly as possible and pulling the lips of her pussy apart.  Her face was flushed over the gag and she still glared defiantly at us.  Her body was bathed in sweat in the humid atmosphere inside the room.

I had made a brief foray into the garden, locating the inspection chamber for the sewer outlet from the house and making a rather unpleasant foray beneath the lid.  We had found a large plastic coke bottle in the fridge, emptied it and cut the bottom of it.  With the top removed, the outlet was now inserted firmly in Serina’s pussy, as far as it would go.  Serina’s expression appeared to change slightly from an outright challenge to something approaching uncertainty, even worry.

“Serina, this is your last chance,” Monica said evenly.  “If you do not tell us where Leila is, I will fill that wet little pussy of yours with what’s in this container.”  She waved a small blue Tupperware box.  “I will then tape it up with duct tape, after which we will fill your arse in the same manner.  How would you like half a dozen cockroaches in each of your orifices?” she ended, removing the top from the box and letting Serina view the brown creatures scurrying about .

“Hold the bottle steady, Steve,” Monica ordered.  “I think dropping them in one at a time, to feast on all your juices, before they start to worm their way inside of you, Serina, yes?”  Monica used a pair of chopsticks to grab one of the repulsive insects and hold it over the inverted plastic bottle.

Serina lost the plot at this point, suddenly going berserk in her bonds, screaming in horror into the ball strapped behind her teeth and shaking her head wildly.  Monica appeared to lose her grip on the chopsticks and the cockroach flipped on to Serina’s breast, pausing at the hard brown nipple before scuttling around the side of her waist and escaping on to the chair.  Serina uttered a long wail into the gag and screwed up her eyes.

“Tsk!” Monica tut-tutted.  “I am just so unused to these chopsticks.  It’s so-o-o hard to hang on to things…” She paused with a second insect above the inverted bottle.  “I want to hear ‘Happy Birthday’, Serina,” Monica reminded her coolly.

Serina’s breath was hoarse and laboured as Monica lowered the wriggling insect towards the open mouth of the funnel into the terrified Chinese girl’s pussy.  Serina finally knew defeat, a large drop of sweat sliding down her face as she hummed the magic tune.

Monica undid the gag strap at the back of Serina’s neck and worked the large ball out from behind her teeth.  I kept the coke bottle in place, even though Monica had put cockie number two back into the box.

“Ko Shing!” sobbed Serina.  “Ko Shing!  Aiyaa!  Don’t put those things near me, please!” 

Chapter Seven: Hong Kong Hunters
Part Two
8
Ko Shing, it turned out, was pretty much where Emma had reckoned, after we persuaded Serina to give us directions.  We were right in the mood for interrogations at that stage.  Serina blabbed about Tiger Tai, the guy she lived with and who was now guarding Leila in Ko Shing.  We now had some idea what to expect, as she elaborated on the photos Emma had taken.

“And whose are these car keys?”  I asked, flourishing a set of BMW keys I had found in the bedroom.

“No – no, you can’t use them!  The car is not ours.  It belongs to our boss!”  Serina’s tears began again.

“Where is it?” I demanded.

“Out the back, but you can’t use it!  I’ll get into terrible trouble!  We’re only minding it…”

“You’re already in pretty deep shit,” Monica said acidly.  “What’s another wheelbarrow load?”

I grabbed an umbrella and found the car in a rundown garage about fifty metres away.  It was a silver 523 – veerrry nice, thank you.

“We should start as soon as possible,” I told the girls when I returned.

“Why not tomorrow morning?  It’s getting late,” said Emma.

“Tomorrow’s Saturday,” I said. “We have to trek through a country park.  You know how crowded it gets on the weekend.”

“In this weather?”  Monica queried.

“Yeah, even in the typhoons the lunatic Gweilo surfies come out to ride the big waves.  And I’m assuming you want to take madam here with us?”  I gestured at Serina, now trembling in her ropes.

“Damned right,” said Monica.

“Then we don’t want her bumping into people.  And I’d rather arrive at night than in the daytime.  We’d have to hide up for the best part of a day.”

“Okay, you’ve convinced me,” she agreed.  “Let’s get ready.”

We did a quick check list of what we could find.  It was going to be a wet and wild trek, I reckoned, with a not very welcoming committee at the other end.  I found a backpack and loaded it with a couple of torches, matches, some dry clothes and food.  Monica took a small day pack and a selection of bondage gear, plus the Tupperware box.

“Umbrellas?” asked Monica, pointing to one stashed behind the door.

“Waste of space in this wind,” I said.  “And it’s going to get worse.”  I turned on the television.  The small icon showing Signal No 3 was displayed in the corner of the program showing.  A message tracked across the bottom of the picture indicating Signal 8 was imminent.  The signals were a colonial hangover from the days when visual signals were hoisted at the Kowloon Port Office to indicate the onset of a typhoon.  The maximum was a 10; I had experienced a 9 once, which had been pretty spectacular.  At Signal 8 planes were diverted, ferries stopped and people with any sense stayed off the streets where flying rogue signs and bits of shanties were prone to make life decidedly dodgy.  Winds in a Signal 8 were likely to be above 120 kilometres an hour.

“Better off with a good windjacket – preferably waterproof.  I know it’s hot and sticky now, but that wind and rain will cool you off after an hour in it.”

The girls fossicked in the bedrooms.  Monica wanted something loose that she could put over the top of Serina.  She found a raincoat, complete with hood that fitted the bill, but after that there was not much else in Serina’s wardobe.  I had found a goretex jacket that belonged to Tiger Tai which would suit.  When I finished packing the backpack, I turned to find Monica and Emma in  black rubber catsuits.

“You are kidding me!” I exclaimed.

“No.  Why not?  Just like a wetsuit.  Sheds water, keeps you warm.  Windproof…” 

I shook my head in disbelief.  Maybe she was right.  “We may be walking for a few hours…”

“We’ll manage,” she said firmly.  “Won’t we Em?”

“Sure.  I still wish this chick had tits.”  Both girls had left the front zippers undone to give themselves more room around the boobs.  It was an impressive sight.  This had to be the sexiest expedition ever going into the country park.

“Put something over the top, anyway,” I suggested.  “Much as I hate to see you cover up, you will need it.  Trust me.”

We were almost ready when Monica took me aside and opened her daypack, taking out the Tupperware box and a reel of sewing thread.

“Steve,” she asked innocently, “reckon you could tie a thread around a cockie without cutting it in half?” 

I looked at her, then saw where she was going.  As she held the creature in the chopsticks, I wrapped a couple of turns around the insect and tied off the thread.  Monica broke the thread at about a metre and tied the other end to an evil-looking chrome nipple clip.  We repeated the process with a second cockie and clip.

“Go and get the car, Steve.  I have a final point to make with that chick in there.”

The beamer was idling outside the back gate when Monica and Emma appeared.  They wore lycra tops over the catsuits, which was a pretty good idea, supplemented with nylon jackets.  Emma carried a black garbage bag which I presumed contained some more clothes.  Between them was the naked Serina, her gag again strapped firmly in place, her hands bound behind her.  She now wore a cord around her waist complete with a crotch rope.  I had the feeling that it was there for a purpose. 

Monica signalled for me to open the boot.  I popped it and got out to help with our prisoner.  Monica handed me a length of rope which I used to bind Serina’s ankles, before hefting her into the boot face down.  Monica quickly used the tail of the ankle ropes to secure Serina’s ankles to her wrists, then rolled her on to her side.

“Serina, we’re here because of what has happened to two friends of ours.  Two.  That’s one, two.  Count them and remember,” she said, clipping a nipple clap to each of Serina’s brown nubs.  Serina squealed and mmphed behind the gag, but her reaction was nothing compared to when Monica dangled the two ends of the threads with their wriggling cockroaches near her face.  Serina’s eyes widened and she shook her head desperately, trying to squirm away.  Monica tossed the cockies on top of her and slammed the boot.

“You’re evil,” I said to her as we started off.  “But in the nicest possible way, of course.” 

She smiled.  “She’s also wearing the largest butt plug I could find.”

*   *   *

“You have got a Hong Kong licence, I suppose?” Monica asked when we were on the way.

“Not any more.”

“Emma?”

“Not me.”

“Oh great.  International licence out of the question? “

“Didn’t have a lot of notice,” I reminded her.

“Terrific.  Unlicensed driver – that’s all I need.”

“Might I remind you that we’re driving a car that doesn’t belong to us?  It’s either stolen or belongs to the local triad snakehead.  We have a bound and gagged woman in the boot and we’re about to stir up the rest of the triad team.  Isn’t the licence issue a little academic?”

“Mmm.  Maybe you’re right…”

It was getting towards three o’clock when we ran out of road at the parking spot in the country park.  Predictably we had the place to ourselves, for the wind had got up and the rain was bucketing down.  This was going to be a jolly fun outing, I reckoned.

I popped the boot and gazed at the wide-eyed picture of Serina.  Monica untied the link rope and her ankles and together we hoisted her out.  The two crushed cockroaches dangled from the clips.  Monica ignored them and draped the raincoat around Serina’s shoulders then began doing up the buttons.  An agitated Serina began mmphing through the gag, presumably protesting at the clips she still wore and the likelihood that they were going to stay there for some time.

Monica was not in the mood.  “Shut it, sister,” she said, tugging the belt tight about Serina’s waist, then putting a pair of sneakers on her feet. She pulled the hood up over Serina’s head, buttoning the collar under her throat then pulling the hood drawstring tight so that only a little of the gag strap and the rubber ball was visible. “I ought to make you go barefoot, but it would slow us down too much.  Count yourself lucky.”

We set out along a wide gravelled path as the wind tore at the trees around us.  For much of the first hour we wove in and out of patches of trees interspersed with open stretches along the ridgeline.  Here we took the full force of the wind which was driving the rain almost horizontally from the south.  It was cold and miserable, to say the least.  Serina led the way, prodded by Monica with a sharp stick the moment she slowed down.  I followed behind Emma, at least enjoying the view of the rubber-clad legs in my immediate field of vision and rather wishing I had something to protect my own legs from the driving rain.  We stopped once in the lee of some rocks to share a couple of chocolate bars and some fruit before pushing on. 

At length the track deteriorated into a narrow beaten path through more overgrown country.  The trees now sheltered us to some extent, but slapped our legs and bodies with their wildly waving branches.  It was also getting dark.

Monica halted us, grabbing the back of Serina’s coat.

“How much further?” she demanded, turning her captive to face the rest of us. “One hour?”  Serina shook her head miserably. “More?”  A nod.  “Two hours?”  A shake. 

I looked at my watch.  “It’ll be dark when we get there. Let’s keep moving.”

“Yes,” said Monica.  “How’s that nasty butt plug dear?  Still uncomfortable?”  A dejected nod from Serina.  “Good.  And your poor nipples?  Still sore and hurting?”  Another nod.  “Excellent.  Think about those things next time you get a helpless victim in your sights, now get going you little shit!”

*   *   *

We were moving by torchlight with Monica in the lead when she stopped suddenly, making us cannon into each other like a bunch of dominoes.  Our focus had shrunk to the rain-streaked beams around our feet following the narrow path in a world of blackness.  We could have been walking along the edge of a cliff for all we knew, except that we kept getting slapped in the face by wet branches.  The wind was howling in our ears, shaking the foliage in an unceasing racket that made it difficult to communicate other than at point blank range. 

“There’s a light up ahead,” Monica shouted.  “Is this it?” she demanded of Serina.  The gagged face nodded, ghostly in the light of the torch, then suddenly turned and began to run towards the light.  I overtook her in a couple of strides and crash tackled her.  She landed in a muddy puddle, her cry through the gag audible above the wind.  Those nipple clips must really be hurting, I thought, hauling her to her feet.  Monica already had a length of rope out of her day pack and bound Serina tightly to a handy tree.  I had to admire the way she did it – tying her facing the trunk, the rope circling the tree and being tied elbow to elbow.  Those clips must be grinding into the bark, I knew.  Another score for Leila, I thought grimly.

We left Serina there in the darkness, whining into the tree trunk, while the three of us ventured towards the light.  Serina had described the houses – the fact that she and Tiger were staying in the first, a girl called Kuan in the second and Leila in the third.  As we got closer, I realised the light actually came from the third, whereas the first two were dark.  I took the lead and crept up to the door of the third house.  In fact there was so much noise from the wind and rain any attempt at stealth was superfluous.  I peered through a gap between the doorframe and the brick wall.  By the light of an oil lamp on the floor, my eyes were immediately drawn to the red dress of Leila. She was on her knees, a bamboo pole across her back over which her elbows were hooked and her wrists bound across her stomach.  A man stood over her, facing partly away from the door.  His trousers were around his ankles and his hands gripped Leila by the hair.  I could not see her face but I could tell from the movements of the pair what was going on.

I backed away and told the girls what was happening.  Monica gave me a pair of handcuffs from her daypack that she had picked up from Serina’s collection.  The man was big and would put up a struggle.  We quickly decided on a strategy and returned to the door, which I eased open a fraction.
It was only three paces from the door to the man and we were on top of him before he knew what was happening.  Emma wrapped herself around his legs as everyone crashed to the ground, Leila included, in a welter of flailing limbs. 
I got one cuff on his wrist in a moment while the other arm was pinioned beneath him.  Monica pulled her daypack over his head as he fought to extricate himself from our clutches.  I held on grimly to the cuffed wrist, rachetting it tighter in an effort to concentrate his mind as he swore in what I presumed was rather colourful and colloquial Cantonese, no doubt casting aspersions on all our honourable ancestors.  We, meanwhile were shouting and cursing and carrying on equally volubly.  I tugged his cuffed right wrist backwards, rolling him on to his stomach and throwing myself on top while Monica banged his covered head on the floor.  He worked his left arm free but I grabbed it and with a yank pulled it behind him with some help from Monica, just far enough to get the other cuff on.  Emma pulled out the belt from his trousers and quickly secured his ankles after removing his trousers.  It was a clever move, for there is nothing like nakedness to instil a sense of defencelessness in a man.  Having your wobbly bits swinging in fresh air creates a specific vulnerability, which I could vouch for first hand from various experiences at the hands of the girls during my early days at Bilboes.

When I finally caught my breath Monica was already helping Leila.  She had been gagged with a ring gag made from bamboo and tied in place – enough to allow oral sex while keeping the jaw locked open in a strained position.  I left the girls to their reunion and went back outside to fetch Serina.  The pale rain-coated figure bound to the tree looked lost and very unhappy.  I untied her elbows and dragged her back to the house.

“This is what your boyfriend gets up to when you’re not around,” I hissed at her as I pushed her through the doorway, to the sight of the handcuffed figure naked from the waist down.

Leila was free by now and I was treated to a wonderful warm hug and lots of tears.  One down and one to go, I thought.

*   *   *

The wind howled and lashed us for most of the night.  Tiger and Serina were left in the third house, still bound but secured with an additional chain around their necks locked to the centre post.  We figured that they would get themselves relatively free before long, save for the chain and Tiger’s handcuffs, but that didn’t bother us.  We had talked to Kuan, who seemed delighted that Leila was now no longer a prisoner, although not a little nervous about her own fate.  Safe in the former Tiger/Serina residence, we settled down to wait out the passage of the typhoon. 

The house, although the same size as the room in which Leila had been imprisoned was fitted out with a double mattress and a small kerosene fridge and fluorescent light.  We did a lot of talking and there were more tears, and in the end we all curled up as best we could on the mattress, Monica and Leila sandwiched between me and Emma.  The girls had now discarded the tight rubber catsuits, much to their relief, for they complained of chafing in sensitive areas while admitting they had at least kept them warm.  The spare clothes we had toted in the garbage bag had been put to good use.

Shortly before midnight the wind died and the night became eerily quiet as the eye of the typhoon passed overhead.  Then, minutes later the gale began again, this time driving in from the north.  The rattling of slates and trees returned but I was so tired I drifted off to sleep again, snuggled into Monica’s back.

The morning saw more of the same, and although the wind had slackened somewhat, the rain continued bucketing down.  Monica quizzed Leila while Kuan put together breakfast for us.  Leila could shed no further light on Jillian’s whereabouts, nor could Kuan, other than confirming our understanding that she was in Macau.  When Monica, Emma and I visited Tiger and Serina in their cell, we got no further with them, either.  I suspected the relationship between the pair had taken a turn for the worse, firstly with Serina spilling the beans as to the location of Leila, and secondly catching Tiger pretty much in flagrante delicto with his prisoner.  To say the atmosphere was strained was somewhat of an understatement.  Both were sullen and uncommunicative, obviously intent on trying not to make matters worse.

We discussed the situation outside and Monica decided some persuasion was in order.  Monica and I stripped to our underwear and donned two waterproof jackets.  We would be outside long enough to get drenched.  There seemed no point in getting any more clothes soaked than necessary. 

We began with Tiger, taking him as he was, half naked, handcuffed and chained at the neck, and leading him outside to the middle of the three posts under the banyan tree.  Here we bound him at the waist to the post, his handcuffs trapped between his body and the post.  Serina was next, and before unchaining her, we crossed and bound her wrists tightly behind her.  She still wore the raincoat, but this was pulled open as we pushed her front on to the post, so she could stare at the back of Tiger’s head, with the post between them.  Monica stood in front of Tiger and undid his shirt, then clipped two wicked-looking serrated clips on his nipples.  Tiger winced and muttered some Cantonese imprecation under his breath.

“You think they hurt now, Mister – wait till you’ve worn them for a morning and had your girlfriend try to pull them off for most of that time.”

Attached to each clip was a length of twine which we pulled around the post, under Serina’s armpits and tied the two ends together between her shoulder blades, holding her snugly against the post.  Monica tied a slipknot in a further piece of twine and looped the noose over Tiger’s dick.  She took the long loose end and brought it round the post, round the back of Serina’s right thigh and then around the front of Tiger again, repeating the route around Serina’s left thigh and returning to the front of Tiger to tie another slipknot around his dick.  Serina was standing with her legs apart, and any attempt to close them would now produce rather unpleasant effects for her boyfriend.

Monica, her hair streaming water flourished a slim vibrator and two narrow butt plugs in front of the pair.  Tiger was the first to get it up the arse, followed by Serina.

“You’re lucky,” Monica told her with a false smile. “You get two.  Now let me explain the circumstances behind this little exercise.  I want to know an address in Macau where Jillian is.  When you have had enough of the cold and rain and wind out here, Tiger, or when you have had enough of your girlfriend pulling on your nips, you can evacuate your friend from your arse.  And let’s not forget she may just get a little excited and decide to enjoy herself at you expense.  Clamp you thighs together, Serina,” Monica ordered.  Sullenly Serina did as she was told and was rewarded with a gasp from Tiger and an expletive that we did not understand the exact translation of, but the gist was pretty easy to follow, as the twine tightened around her thighs, in turn tightening on his dick from two different directions.

“And when you’ve got your rocks off or have had enough, Serina, simply let one of your little toys fall out and you can come inside after I have heard what I want to know.”  Monica paused, then spoke with a hard edge to her voice.  “If, on the other hand, you let one of those devices fall out without a commitment to help me, the result will be very painful for both of you.  So you had better retain them until you are sure you have decided what you want to tell me.  Are we clear on this?”  There was silence from the prisoners.  “Good,” said Monica pushing her dripping hair away from her forehead.  “I will leave you to discuss this matter amongst yourselves.  Oh, and I reckon you might like to share these as well, since I think you’re a bit of a pain slut Serina, even if your boyfriend isn’t.”  With that statement, Monica pulled the front of Serina’s raincoat apart sufficiently to clip two plastic clothes pegs to the hard nubs that were Serina’s nipples, standing pert and erect as the rain coursed down them.

We returned to the house and stripped off.  We had long since got past any embarrassment at each other’s nakedness, although I endeavoured to maintain some propriety in the presence of Kuan, for I knew many Chinese to be quite prudish in such matters.  Monica, of course, was just Monica, disrobing with a nonchalance that few others would have got away with.  Her statuesque body still delighted me, even though I had seen it many times before, and had taken advantage of it as many times as she had done so to me.  Her breasts were firm and uplifted, the nipples hard and erect in the cold.  I could not help but notice Kuan looking at first shyly and then admiringly at this strong western woman who had descended on her world and who now seemed in the process of turning it upside down.

“I wonder what Serina and Tiger will be saying to each other,” Monica mused. 

“I reckon there’ll be one hell of an argument going on – at least when Serina has finished rubbing herself over that post,” said Emma, looking through the half-opened door at the prisoners tied to the post. 

“I think she’ll be making a rather painful point to Tiger,” I said.  “Anyone want to make a bet?  Who’ll crack first and how long?”

“Tiger  - two hours,” said Monica.

“Serina – an hour,” – this from Emma.

“Tiger.  Maybe an hour, “ said Leila.  “What about you, Steven?”

“Serina – fifteen minutes.”

“Really?”

“Sure.  It’s pretty damned cold and miserable out there.  A hundred bucks says I’m right.”

“You’re on!” was the chorus.  Kuan looked at us, bewildered by these mad foreigners.

After fifteen minutes I pulled on a still-soaking jacket and made my way out into the wind and rain again. 

“Just going for a leak,” I told them, given that such an errand meant a visit to the external outhouse.  My purpose was somewhat different, however.  I approached the prisoners from the rear, and saw that there was no sign of any device lying on the ground.  Tiger and Serina were still toughing it out, it seemed, with the stoicism that an Asian ancestry can instil.  They were not doing it quietly, however, with considerable Cantonese invective (or so I presumed)  flying back and forth.  Serina was obviously in the driving seat, able to make her point by leaning back and tugging on the clips gripping Tiger’s nipples, or else pulling her thighs together to tighten the twine around his dick.  There seemed no doubt she was reading him the riot act. 

I touched her on the shoulder.  She jumped, eliciting another cry from her fellow captive. 

“Hello Serina,” I said genially.

“Piss off, Gweilo,” she spat. 

“My my, we are in a mood,” I said easily.  “Enjoying the bracing weather, are we?  Fancy a few more hours here and a long recovery from pneumonia?  You could make it end a lot quicker, you know.”  She ignored me and studied the back of Tiger’s drenched head in front of her.  “Look, Serina, I really can’t be bothered with all this.  You must be cold.  Let’s button up your raincoat a little better.  And those pegs must be hurting.”  I removed them with a flourish.

“Aiyahh…” she breathed, shutting her eyes as the renewed pain hit her nipples. 

I did up the buttons and tightened the belt on her waist.  “As I said, I really don’t have time for this.  I’m going to enlist the help of some friends.  I am going to give my little friends the free run of your body – or at least the top half.  They can explore your breasts, running their little feet all over your skin.  And if that fails, you bitch,” I continued abruptly, in her face, I will personally insert them one by one up your arse and up your pussy so that your insides are squirming with these delightful creatures as they go exploring Serina’s interior.”  Serina went white as I brought the plastic box of cockroaches out from under the jacket.  I pulled the top off and quickly dropped one down the front of her coat. 

Serina screamed and jerked wildly, sparking more abuse from Tiger.  Fortunately we had roped them both to the post so that there was a limit to how far they could move, but even so, it must have been pretty painful for him.  There was a soft plop as Serina’s butt plug dropped on to the grass.

“I want an address, Serina,” I hissed, dropping another insect down her front.

“No, no, they’ll kill me…” she moaned.

“I’ll kill you if you don’t tell me what I want to know,” I said, with far more confidence than I felt.  There was another plop and the vibrator fell out.  I guessed it was from uncontrolled fear rather than from any desire to talk to me.  “That’s good, Serina.  Guess where your next visitor is going…” I reached beneath her coat and let my fingers slip into her pussy.  It was wet and slippery, and I suspected that Serina was just about ready to talk.  She gasped, and tears flowed down her cheeks. 

“No, no…” she sobbed, “please…”

“Open wide, Serina,” I said, getting on my knees behind her and forcing her feet apart.  “Here it comes.  Where would you like it?  Back door or front?”  I slid two fingers into her arse.  “I’ll just make a little room here…” Serina was twisting and jerking, trying to flail me with her bound hands, but they had been secured to the waist rope which bound her to the post. 

“No – aaghh!”  It was still my fingers in her butt hole, together with a tiny twig, but she was not to know that.  She screamed and then pleaded: “All right, all right don’t do that to me!  I’ll tell you what you want to know!”

*   *   *

“You girls owe me a hundred bucks each,” I announced.  “Jill is being held at 
the residence of Mr Wong in Rua de San Lourenco, South Macau.  I believe Kuan’s sister is there as well.”  That was a little bonus I had not expected, but I had followed my instinct and asked the question.  Serina, her arse ripe for a six-legged invasion, had blabbed all.

My announcement was greeted with the appropriate acclamation and a little grumble to the effect that I had cheated and influenced the prisoner to confess. 

“Any complaints, send them to the management,” I suggested, pointing to Monica.

“Yeah – it just cost the management a hundred bucks as well, remember,” she chided.  “But well done.  I didn’t expect the Spanish Inquisition…”

“Nobody expects the Spanish Inquisition!”  I affirmed.  “Nobody expects the cockroach inquisition, either.  But it worked.”

*   *   *

We elected to return late that afternoon.  We had discussed what to do next, now that we had a target.  Emma rang Stan on her mobile and brought him up to date.  We agreed that we had to take Serina to Macau, for she was our insurance policy and our knowledge source.  Tiger was another problem entirely, and we resolved to leave him behind at Serina’s house for a time, chained up with enough food and water for a week.  At the end of that time we would phone the police to come and claim him if nothing had changed to warrant a different plan.  We would also leave some detailed notes – along with some of the video tapes of Leila that we had found, as evidence for the police if and when they were called on.

Our biggest problem was how to get to Macau with an unwilling prisoner.  Emma discussed this with Uncle Stan who suggested we talk to an old friend of his, Baz Melbourne, who lived on a yacht in Sai Kung marina.  Baz was evidently an old colonial type who had been in Hong Kong since the sixties and who had had the odd disagreement with authority in his time.

It was gone noon and we had just had lunch, still listening to the wind and rain occasionally buffet the ancient house.  The wind had eased off a lot, however and the rain was almost down to a steady drizzle.  We were tidying up the remains of the food when Monica’s phone rang again. 

“Hello?  Who? Mary? Now what!”  Monica’s expression changed from surprise to puzzlement to shock as the room fell silent, watching her.  “Tell me – quickly!” she said tersely.  A pause.  “No!  Don’t do anything stupid!  Mary!  Listen to me!  Mary?  Hello?  Hello?”  She put down the phone.  “Shit.  Shitshitshit!”  She was angry, but then her face crumpled and she had the look of a lost little girl.

She looked at us and explained in a voice verging on tears.  “Wayne Bennelli’s back…  He got into Bilboes while Mary was out.  She thinks he’s taken Trish prisoner… And Lisa…  Mary’s hiding in the bushes in the garden – she says she’s going to stop him, and she’ll call back when it’s all over…” Then the tears rolled.  “Why did this have to happen now? I don’t think I can deal with this…”

 

Monica's Quest continues in Chapter Eight
All comments welcome at bilboes1@hotmail.com.
© R.Alexander 2006

Also by the same author:
§ Monica’s Place
§ Monica’s Quest
§ Monica’s Revenge
§ Monica’s Games
§ Monica’s Travels
§ Monica and the Black Fortress

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