|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 Revenge Book 3 of the Monica Chronicles by Richard Alexander|
|Monica's Revenge: 9. Superheroes in Bondage by Richard Alexander MF/mf; bondage; bdsm; cons/nc; XXX|
|Chapter Nine: Superheroes in Bondage|
Thursday turned out to be another variation on the previous days, but without the pep talk from Portia this time. Naked and with the now-standard recharged butt plug up my arse I was put to work continuing the shallow trench excavation, this time at the rear of the house. Megan found a long length of chain in the storeroom, and having locked it to a tree trunk and to my collar, obviously felt she could leave me unsupervised for a while. I toyed with the idea of trying to break the lock or chain with the spade but both looked too solid. To have Megan come back to find a lock inoperable with dents all over it was asking for a nasty punishment, and unless I could get to that damned remote zapper, there was just no point.
My task was to continue the trench and install the cable around the perimeter of the house and sleeping quarters that day. It would mean anyone wearing the electronic collar could work unsupervised in the two buildings and immediate vicinity, but could not go near the electric field produced by the cable without fear of the collar activating. I did not like the idea at all, but as usual I had little say in the matter.
I had been working only half an hour since breakfast, digging the trench up the western side of the sleeping quarters and preparing to turn along the southern boundary behind the building. It was the part of the property where the neatly cut grass turned into bush, with several acres overgrown at the southern end, through which ran the assault course. My efforts were interrupted by a couple of muffled squeals and I looked up to see Monica and Jillian hurrying up the rise, with Megan hard on their heels. She carried the cattle prod, and from the sound of things had used it to hasten her captives. Over her shoulder she carried a couple of coils of heavy white sashcord.
Both girls were bound identically, although Monica was naked and Jill still wore her blue and white corset, white stockings and high heels. Both girls wore crotch straps and both were gagged with rubber balls. Megan (I assumed) had bound each girl’s elbows with multiple turns of rope so that they were nearly touching behind their backs. The wrists had been pulled to the front, although in fact they merely poked forward alongside their ribs. The wrists were locked in leather cuffs which were joined by a short chain stretched tautly across the stomach. With their elbows back and joined, their breasts protruded markedly, bouncing as they tried to keep ahead of the cattle prod. Jillian had two weights clipped to her nipples which moved up and down with her efforts. As they passed me, Megan touched Jill on the buttock with the prod. Jill jumped and wailed into the gag, increasing her rate of progress which was made more difficult by the high-heeled shoes locked on to her feet. I reckoned Megan must have had the prod on a low setting, for it had nowhere near the terrible effect of the demonstration earlier in the week.
I wondered where they were going, then figured it must be the small shed at the start of the assault course. Surely they could not be expected to undergo the test with those restraints?
They passed over the crest of the rise, following a well-worn path through the long grass and I heard the creak of the door to the tin shed opening. The sun was already high and the shed would be like an oven before too long. I felt impotent in my inability to do anything about the treatment that was being meted out to these two, but I was sure that sooner or later there would be a reckoning.
Megan was smiling when she returned.
“Your friends will be well done by the time they’re let out. Perhaps I should come up and baste them during the day.” I did not dare comment – not while she was wielding that cattle prod in such a casual way.
“Mistress, may I have some clothes to get through the brambles?” I wondered what my chances were.
“Of course, Steven. Carry on digging and I’ll see what I can find something appropriate for you.”
“Thank you, Mistress.” She was in a good mood. I couldn’t believe my luck. The trench now had to go through some ugly bits of bush which I did not fancy hacking my way through in the buff.
Megan’s idea of something appropriate was a one-piece black pvc coverall that was designed as wet weather gear for motorbike riders. The double zips up the front would have not been an issue had I been able to undo them, but once Megan had locked them to my collar that was it.
“Happy now?” I wasn’t, but there was precious little point in pursuing the matter.
* * *
The morning wore on as I sweated and dug through the bushes. Megan brought a folding chair out to supervise me when I reached the limit of the chain. I was surprised that she didn’t simply rechain me to another tree a little further on, but for some reason this was not on her mind. Maybe she simply wanted to get away from Portia for a bit of peace and quiet.
I reached the end of the run along the south side of what was to be a big rectangle around the house and sleeping quarters, then turned left along the east side at the end of the bedroom block. Megan made me stop to rehydrate and rest for a few minutes, calling me to kneel on the ground beside her chair. Today she was wearing a short tan linen skirt and white blouse, with suede knee-length boots, and looked very comfortable in the chair in the shade. The cattle prod hung by a looped cord over the corner of the chair – an ever-present reminder of who bore the instruments of power in the current set-up. I knew the remote zapper would be in the pocket of her skirt.
I knelt beside her and drank thirstily from the bottle of water she gave me. As I finished, I was surprised when she handed me a pair of handcuffs and told me to cuff my wrists behind my back. I looked questioningly at her for a moment, then did as I was ordered as she moved her hand ominously towards her pocket. She ruffled my damp hair.
“Portia’s told me some interesting things about you,” she said. “As has Monica.” I said nothing, wondering where this was going. “Portia said Madam Wong was most impressed by a little demonstration you gave her as a birthday present at her party in Macau.” I remembered being trapped between the hostess’s thighs and putting on a very public performance in front of assembled guests, which – if I do say so myself – seemed to satisfy the recipient quite admirably.
“Monica also speaks highly of you,” Megan continued. “Admittedly I had to whip it out of her, but there was no doubting her sincerity. I suspect she would rather keep your talents under wraps. So I thought you might consider giving me a little demonstration here. It’s nice and private – shady and quiet. I hope we won’t be disturbed. Do you think you could manage that?”
“Of course, Mistress.” Like I had a choice?
It was indeed quiet and shady, tucked in amongst the bushes behind the sleeping quarters. Megan stood up and unzipped her skirt, letting it fall to the ground and stepping out of it. She was naked beneath it, a point accentuated when she undid her blouse. There was no doubt Megan was an attractive woman, fine-boned and slim, her skin displaying just enough tan to make her look at home in the sun-speckled bush setting.
“On you back, Mister,” she ordered. I did so, easing myself on to the soft layer of mulch that covered this part of the planted garden. Megan got to her knees and straddled my head, her butt cheeks resting on my chest, slowly lowering her trimmed bush over my mouth. She smelt fresh and clean, despite the closeness of the morning.
I licked gently, letting my tongue explore the outer reaches of her crevices, making a preliminary recce of the area. She sighed happily and leaned forward, making a firmer contact. I began to probe harder, making contact with my teeth against her clit, gnawing and nibbling at her parts then licking hard with my tongue and occasionally blowing hard and making my lips vibrate. Megan was getting excited, and began squirming and uttering little cries of pleasure.
I eased off, drawing my knees up to try to reduce the discomfort of having my hands cuffed in the small of my back. I gave my tongue a rest, for such an activity can take its toll on the tongue and jaw muscles. But Megan was getting going of her own accord and I began again, letting my tongue work its way harder and deeper inside her. Her thighs closed against the sides of my head and I felt them begin to tremble as I struggled to breath myself. Megan was now moving in concerted motion with my tongue and teeth, her breathing rapid, the sighing becoming louder and more ragged. I glimpse swaying breasts with dark brown nipples just within my limited field of vision.
Then she was on the runway and I knew her climax was on the way as the squirming sped up and intensified. My tongue hammered at her clit and abruptly she was crying out and bending forward on her elbows all but smothering me as the orgasm hit her. She was gasping hoarsely as she eased back enough to give me air, but still gagging me with her pussy as she squeezed her legs together and arched her back, letting loose a succession of high pitched groans. Then she was bending over again. Her eyes were closed as the dark russet hair fell in a curtain and she mouthed of a succession of profanities that clearly were expressions of pleasure that could be expressed no other way.
When she rolled off it was not to allow me to get up, nor was it to catch her breath. I think she was barely aware of my being there. She lay on her side and clasped her hands between her thighs, her eyes closed and her breasts rising and falling rapidly. I rolled on my side facing her, mainly just to free my cuffed wrists from my weight. I realised that if ever there was a chance to overpower Megan it was then – if only I had had my hands free. She would have been a sitting duck, but obviously she knew it, and once again had been ahead of me in her planning.
She opened her eyes and stared directly into mine from a foot away. She sat up and pulled me awkwardly into a sitting position, where she proceeded to give me a deep tongue kiss which in turn left me breathless. I was not in a position to rebuff it, and had no alternative but to return it in kind. It was a strange moment, feeling the hard points of her nipples pressing against my chest through the pvc, and returning her ardent kiss, yet finding Mr Willy devoid of reaction. Had it not been for that terrible attachment I would almost have been shooting my load by then.
Megan seemed to sense this and let her hand stray down to the hard object locked in my crotch. She broke away breathlessly and smiled bewitchingly at me.
“That Monica must be an awful person to do this to you.” She paused, to let her breathing become more normal. “We will have to do something about that. I hate to see resources not being properly used.”
“I’d like that, Mistress,” I said sincerely.
“I’m sure you would. Monica told me about what you did to her. That was very mean.” She laughed, and I could not help smiling myself. “Fancy making her come in the middle of a crowd at Southbank. Was that your idea?”
“Yes Mistress.” I grinned at the memory.
She laughed again. “Well I think you’ve done your penance. I’ll talk to Portia about having the device removed. In the meantime, it’s almost lunchtime. I think you deserve some sustenance after your efforts. I know I do.”
She stood up and brushed the leaves and bark chips off her body and blouse, before stepping into her skirt again and zipping it up.
“Come, my excellent slave. We’ll check up on how your friends are doing before lunch.”
My friends were looking somewhat the worse for wear. Inside the small tin shed half buried in a low bank, where the tunnel entry to the assault course was, two gagged faces looked up at us as the door swung open. The blonde and black hair contrasted sharply, but both were damp and sweaty, and both pairs of eyes had the same beaten, submissive look. The fight had gone from the girls, I could see. The days of stringent bondage were taking their toll as we came to realise we were dealing with professionals who would go a long way before they allowed any of us to catch them out.
Monica and Jillian had been bound back to back on the floor in the same bondage they had had when I had seen them before. Megan had wrapped several turns of cord around their bodies at waist and shoulder, then had bound them at ankles and above the knees. The knee ropes had been cinched and the long tails from Monica’s knee ropes had been run on to her right shoulder, behind her head, over Jill’s right shoulder, through her knee ropes , over her left shoulder, behind her head, and over Monica’s left shoulder to be tied off at Monica’s knees again. It was a simple and elegant tie, lifting both girls legs into a bent position and leaving them nearly immobile. Their bodies were shiny and slick with perspiration. Looking more closely I could see that the chain joining each girl’s wrists in front of her had a crotch rope tied to it. I suspected that the chains were joined directly, so that either girl could tug on the rope to some degree.
“How are the vibes going, girls?” Megan asked in a concerned tone.
Monica shook her head and made a small groaning noise. The action sent a fine spray of sweat flying.
“What? Stopped, or just not having much of an effect?” Jillian moaned softly, working her jaws around the ball strapped in her mouth. Megan reached down under Monica’s raised legs and fiddled under the crotch rope. Monica’s eyes widened and she whined. There was now an audible buzzing. Monica squirmed in her ropes as Megan moved to Jillian and performed the same action. Jill, too, became more animated, lifting her wrists and tightening the cord between her legs, then deciding that this was exactly what she shouldn’t be doing.
We watched the pair for a minute as they became less aware of us and more conscious of the spasms of pleasure arising inside them. Runnels of sweat slid down their arms and breasts as the exhausted girls strained at their bonds but could do nothing to stop the encroaching climaxes that we knew were inevitable.
Megan swung the door shut and slid the bolt home.
“The batteries are almost finished,” she told me. They’ve been humming away on low vibes all morning – more than enough to get you randy as all hell, and no doubt there’ve been a few orgasms in there. One will feed off another, you know. There’s nothing better than feeling your friend go off and hearing her crying out, in order to bring on your own. I’ve been there. After that you can’t stop. The vibrator won’t stop, and with each wonderful climax you become weaker and more tired. But still you can’t stop. There’s just no rest. And you tug at the ropes, which just makes things worse in that position. It’s something you, as a mere male, will never have the pleasure of experiencing, Steven.” I did not know whether to be sad or relieved. “Their bums will be numb, their clits will be swollen and ultra sensitive, and now naughty Megan has just turned the vibrators on to high. Might get one more rise out of them. When that’s done they’ll be fed and watered. Don’t want them collapsing from heatstroke, do we?” she said, smiling brightly. “By the same token, why should they have all the fun. You and I did well, didn’t we?”
“Yes, Mistress,” I said gloomily, depressed at the way events were going.
“But you ought to see Trish and Mary as well. They’re having fun, too. This way, slave.”
I followed her across the lawn and down the short gravel path to the steel emergency exit door leading to the basement, under the rear verandah. A short way down the corridor we entered the Observation Room, and my already sinking spirits dropped a couple of further notches at the sights before me.
The Observation Room had one-way windows on to the Post room, the Interrogation room, and the Dungeon. In the Post Room, with its two central wooden columns, Mary had been suspended. It looked like she had initially been made to stand between the posts, her wrists encased in wide suspension cuffs, attached to the top of the posts leaving her hands lifted and spread above her. Her ankles, similarly cuffed, had then been hauled backwards, a rope attached to each cuff running over a ratchet pulley fixed to a ceiling hook, perhaps three metres back from the posts and spread equally wide. Mary was spreadeagles, face down, her body hanging at waist height.
It almost went without saying that she was naked, and I could see her back, buttocks and legs were striated with red marks and ugly bruises from a number of beatings. In this instance she was the plaything of two men whom I had never seen before. They were obviously not the type to be concerned about correct dress in such circumstances, for both had their trousers around their ankles while still wearing their shirts. One, a solid-looking guy with a close-cropped beard and semi-shaved head was standing between Mary’s stretched legs, embedded to the hilt in her pussy. The other head Mary’s head in his hands as she struggled to cope with his dick driving into her mouth. The pair had a rhythm going, swing Mary back and forth, while they stood still. The pendulum movement slid the dicks in and out of Mary’s mouth and pussy, heedless of anything she could do about it.
The man at Mary’s head had his back to us, mainly hiding Mary’s face, but I could catch glimpses of her wide eyes as she strained to cope with the members penetrating her body at each end. Her lean, stretched body was slick with sweat which slid down her flanks and dripped on to the floor. I saw that her tormentors had clipped a pear-shaped lead sinker to each nipple, and these swung relentlessly backwards and forwards with the motion of Mary’s body.
As I watched, the guy with his back to me began to move as well, speeding up the penetrations in Mary’s mouth. The microphone in the room was not on and we could not hear the inevitable gruntings and other noises that accompanied such activities, but there was no doubting the abrupt increase in pelvic thrusts and the sudden arching of the guy’s back as he shot his load into Mary’s mouth. I glimpsed a surprised look from the helpless prisoner as she gulped repeatedly to keep her airways free.
That climax was obviously enough to inspire the bearded guy, for as Number One pulled out, there was no let up in the pendulum rhythm as Number Two thrust and ground his way between Mary’s legs. Number One had stepped back and I could now clearly see Mary’s face. She struggled to keep her head up as the man climaxed, finally upsetting the rhythm and causing the weights to jerk and tug at her breasts. Mary’s eyes were now closed but her mouth was open in what might have been a scream, a moan or a sigh. The sound-proofed walls and window gave no clue.
“Relax,” Megan said, sensing my own distress at Mary’s plight. “She’s a professional. This is the business she’s in. I bet she’s had worse than this before.”
It was no consolation, whatever the logic. The man withdrew from Mary leaving her hanging there as the two men finished dressing. Her hands, which had been desperately clenching open and closed during the process, were now motionless, half closed. I could not now see her face, as she hung her head and the sweat dripped from the short black hair plastered to her forehead.
“Trish is having more fun,” Megan said, in what might have been an attempt to divert my thoughts. She pointed through the window behind me. The scene was not entirely different from that which I had just witnessed. In the Interrogation Room, the chair had been unbolted from the floor and moved to a corner, leaving the room clear for action. Trish hung suspended from the roof in a similar manner to Mary, except that she was on her back, serving only one master – Warren.
Warren was naked, save for a black leather vest, and obviously had no qualms about his body and sexual prowess being on display. At that moment he was embedded up to the hilt in Trish, who appeared to be trying to howl the house down – as much as she was able with a large rubber bit gag strapped firmly in her mouth. As Warren pumped, so Trish swung in her bonds to meet his thrusting with the predictable result. I saw that she, like Mary, had suffered a number of floggings. If the welts visible on her legs and stomach were anything to go by. I bit my tongue as another protest rose in my throat.
“She’s been there for an hour,” said Megan, matter-of-factly. “I think she’s very satisfied with life, if you get my drift.” Trish’s head shook at that moment as Warren held her widely spread thighs up against his own and humped for all he was worth. Trish’s head fell back and she shook it despairingly, a fine spray of perspiration catching the light as she did so.
“Come,” said Megan, oblivious
to the dark pun she had unintentionally uttered. “Watching all this
exercise is making me hungry.”
* * *
Emma brought me lunch after Megan left me chained to a tree again with the final length of trenching in reach down the eastern side close to the house. Emma was in her usual outfit of rubber corset, stockings and gloves. She squatted beside me under the shade of a golden cane palm. The verandah was deserted and I took the opportunity to quiz Emma as much as I could given the gag locked in her mouth. It was a case of guessing what questions to ask.
“Have you been allowed to wash?” Nod. “Each day?” Nod. “Does Shawnee help you?” Nod. “Are Leila and Jill sleeping with you on the mattress in the Sluice Room?” Yes. “How are you coping?” Emma pointed to the stainless steel strip running between her legs and mimed the plug intruding into her back passage, then pressing a button on the remote and finally clutching her abdomen.
“I know, same here. Not nice. Who is looking after you – Portia or Megan?” She held up two fingers. “Both?” Yes. “And you get zapped by both?” A waggled hand – maybe. “Let me guess – mainly Portia.” Emphatic nod. “How is Leila?” Waggled hand. So-so. “And Jill?” Emma’s black eyes became watery and she shook her head. I put my arm round her shoulders. “I know – she’s exhausted. Are you getting any sleep?” A waggled hand, then a motion over the corset. “You have to sleep with it on?” Yes. Jesus, I thought I had it tough. Wearing those tight corsets twenty-four hours a day without letup would have to make life uncomfortable in the extreme. “What about washing?” Emma mimed a hose sprayed over her body, corset and all, then a scrubbing brush.
“Have you seen Trish and Mary?” Yes. “In the dungeon?” Yes. “Elsewhere?” Yes, the Post Room and the Gym, it seemed, after further guesses. “Are they okay?” Waggled hand. “Can you get access to a phone?” No. Silly question really, with a ball locked in your mouth, but triple zero was still an option. “Have they been removed?” Yes. “Is Monica’s study locked?” Yes. Except no doubt when Portia was in there ferreting through things or working on her own secret agenda. Why was I not surprised.
“Are you getting fed properly?” Two fingers. “Only twice a day?” Yes. My gloom deepened. Two meals a day was another insidious way of lowering morale and weakening willpower, over and above the discomfort of sleeping in confining, uncomfortable outfits and sustaining various degrees of bondage and ill treatment each day.
“Look, we’re going to get out of this – don’t worry. Just think that for every hour you spend at the hands of Portia and Megan, they’ll suffer doubly when we get free. You’d better go. We don’t want you getting into any more trouble.” I kissed her on her nose and she wiped away a tear that had escaped and run slowly down her cheek.
I carried on with my trenching down the side of the house until I could go no further because of the length of the chain Megan had used to secure me to the tree trunk. Back tracking up the slight slope to a point where I could look along the verandah, I found it to be deserted. The only signs of life were two heads in the swimming pool, which turned out to be Jillian and Monica, still bound and gagged in the same manner as they had been going up to the shed. They stood in neck-deep water, their collars locked to a chain that stretched across the pool from one post of the safety fence to a post on the other side. This was evidently what Megan had had in mind when she had talked about rehydrating them.
I waited in vain for perhaps half an hour for Megan to come out to relocate me. I even went to the extent of calling out. That attracted some funny looks from Monica and Jill, but nobody came from the house. Eventually, sweating inside the suit I was wearing, I fell asleep in the shade.
* * *
I awoke to an explosion of pain in my insides as a figure in red stood over me. Gasping for breath, I opened my eyes to see a pair of strappy red shoes immediately in front of my face. I was lying on my side and one of the shoes rose from the ground to rest firmly on the side of my head while I struggled to quell the pain inside me.
“You lazy good for nothing little shit!” Portia’s words snarled down at me, sending a wave of fear through my brain, which was still getting over the unexpected shock of the zapping up the arse. “You’re here to do a job, and all you can do is sleep!”
“I’ve done as far as I can go, Mistr-“
“Silence, toad!” I turned my head to look up at Portia. She was wearing an off the shoulder dress that was decidedly form fitting. It stopped just above her knees and even with my eyes blurred from the pain I reckoned she wore nothing beneath it. Around her waist was a silver chain which after joining, ran upwards to encircle her neck. Today her hair was in a ponytail and her eyes were on fire.
“Are you saying the fault lies elsewhere, slave?”
Uh-oh. Leading the witness, it was called.
“I went as far as the chain allowed me, Mistress. I called but nobody came.”
“You’re a waste of space,” Portia spat. She unlocked the chain from the tree trunk and strode purposely down to the corner of the house as I floundered to my feet and grabbed the spade to follow her. I was all but dragged the last metre or so as she tugged on the chain to hurry me up before reaching up to lock it around the corner post of the balcony. She stormed off around the front of the house without a backward glance. I was still getting over the zapping, but also wondering if I had dropped Megan in the proverbial. And wondering if in turn this fallout would tumble down the pecking order to end up with me again.
It was mid-afternoon and as I began trenching on the northern, front side of the house, I saw Monica’s Beemer pull through the gates and come up the driveway, to pull in beside the front steps. Megan got out and retrieved a large package from the back seat.
“Did I forget about you?” she asked cheerily.
“Mistress Portia didn’t,” I said quickly. “I think I’m on the punishment list because I fell asleep after I did all I could do.” Megan smiled. “Don’t worry – I’ll sort her out. I think you deserve a little reward, not a punishment, after this morning.”
“Thank you Mistress.”
Megan climbed the front steps, the heels of her suede boots clacking sharply on the timber planks. Then she was inside and I returned to my work.
She returned soon and repositioned me so that I could finish the final part of my trench. Here in the front I felt isolated from the goings on that seemed to centre around the rear of the house, on the back verandah or the back lawn. I wanted to know that Monica and Jillian were all right, but eventually, when darkness fell and Megan unlocked me again to take me around the back, the swimming pool was empty and there was no sign of any other person. Megan chained me to the railing and Emma brought out a large plate of Chinese food. This time she was not gagged.
“Are you the chief cook with Madam Wong due here?”
“Of course. You want proper Chinese food, you don’t let barbarians cook it.”
“And most importantly, you can’t taste it with a ball in your mouth, so they have to ungag you if you’re to do your job properly.”
“Correct, oh wise one.” Emma smiled slightly, for the first time in a long while. “Leila stays gagged as she is only the lowly assistant.” Emma said this almost proudly. There was a mmphing grunt from the doorway and Leila was silhouetted against the light from inside. She stamped her foot with a jingle of chains and made burbling noises while waving her chained hands about.
“I must attend to my assistant,” said Emma formally. “She’s in a tizz tonight. Inability to communicate, I think.”
Emma scurried away with a clatter of heels while Leila waved her arms further and pointed to something inside and I was left alone again. I sat there for a long time, wondering when somebody was going to come and put me to bed, or whether I was to be left there for the night. If that was to be the case I would end up pissing down the leg of the pvc suit unless I could make a hole in it.
It was probably about nine o’clock before Megan appeared, handcuffed my wrists behind me and took me down to the cell. Today, it seemed, I didn’t get a shower, instead being put in the cell directly. I was pushed through the door and the wall chain was locked on to my collar. There was the sound of keys hitting the wall then the door slammed and the lights went out.
I should explain that in the brief time I before darkness enveloped the cell, I had had time to take in the circumstances of my cellmate. Monica was stretched in a star position, backed against the long wall opposite the bed, her wrists tied high and wide to ringbolts, while her feet were similarly stretched apart and secured. She was gagged with a ball on a short loop of strap which was too big for her to eject from her mouth. Two weights had been clipped to her nipples and it was clear she had recently been on the receiving end of a beating with some form of multi-tailed flogger, for her skin was red and striated with marks all over the front of her body, from shoulders to toes.
She had been crying, and looked exhausted. It was now obvious why I had been kept upstairs for so long. Whoever had done this had wanted time for the pain to sink in, to be eked out, as though the entire night lay before torturer and victim.
In the darkness I scrabbled about for the keys. Eventually my foot located them and drew them back to where I could reach them and contort sufficiently to unlock my handcuffs. It was simple enough to unlock and remove my sweat suit then, before turning to Monica.
She moaned at the touch of my fingers as I located the two clips on her nipples. I was never sure whether quick or slow removal was the best, and in this instance I opted for the latter, slowly taking up the pressure from the jaws over a period of a minute and ever so gently freeing her tender flesh from the clamps. Monica whimpered as I kissed her nipples then reached up to undo her wrist ropes. She had been secured with a dozen or so turns around each wrist and ankle, and the tails from each wrist rope had passed through an eyebolt to descend to one at floor level, before ending up wrapped around the corresponding ankle. The more weight Monica put on her wrists, the further apart her feet were pulled. I undid the right ankle knots and let the rope go. Her right arm was released at the same time and I turned my attention to the left ankle. Moments later she was free and moaning with pain behind the gag. I let her remove it and she collapsed into my arms.
I started to help her to the bed only to find she was pulled up short. Exploring in the darkness we found her wall chain had been locked to the wall opposite the bed and she could not reach the bed. In our original enthusiasm for the new holding cell concept we had bolted the bed frame to the floor and had provided a mattress cover that slid over the main supports. Which of course meant that neither the bed nor mattress could not be moved. Monica was condemned to sleep on the floor that night.
I thought this was particularly mean, if calculated to further drain her willpower. It would also affect me as I felt guilty about having to have the bed on my own. My only consolation was being able to give her the pvc suit I had worn all day, to use as she saw fit. The cell was cool, but not cold. The nights had been tolerable with the air conditioning in the room. This, of course, was not the intention of the air conditioning. Rather, it was intended to keep prisoners awake through regularly cycling through hot and cold, but it appeared our captors had not worked this out thus far.
I unlocked my waist belt and extracted the hated butt plug, leaving it against the door as I had been instructed the previous night. Sometime during the night no doubt Shawnee and a jailor would take it away to be washed and the batteries charged before being returned for my pleasure the next day. I was sure this plug thing would give me a phobia or kink – inasmuch as I didn’t have one (or a number of them) already, that was. However after what I had experienced in my time as Slave Stephanie, I reckoned I could still overcome this. Meanwhile, I checked that the keys I had been given did not fit either of the wall chains, and predictably no such luck was forthcoming.
It was Monica that I was worried about. I held her for a long while and we said nothing as the tension slowly ebbed out of her body. She finally fell asleep against me and I lowered her head to the floor where I had made a partial pillow of the suit and let her lie on the rest. Then I, too, fell asleep, but this time on the bed. I was not gallant enough – or was I just too pragmatic? – to share the stone floor with Monica.
At some time during the night the belt and plug was taken away, and at some time soon after somebody found the cycle programme on the air conditioning. I suppose it had to be fate. Things were going badly enough for us in any case, it seemed wrong that a minor thing like this would be overlooked indefinitely. There was a programme which had been logged into the timer of the system which allowed the temperature to cycle up and down. I awoke to a falling temperature which led us to cuddle up, with Monica now wearing the suit at my insistence. After some time it got warmer again, and ultimately became stifling. I helped Monica shed the garment again and felt the slick wetness of her body. We drank again from the large plastic bottles of water that had been left in the cell, but by the time the cycle had been repeated three times during the night the bottles were empty and we had slept little. At intervals the lights had come on for short periods. I guess it stood to reason that if somebody found the temperature cycle they might logically look for a lighting time as well. I wondered if somebody had been persuaded to talk or whether our captors had stumbled over these facilities by accident…
* * Part Two * *
By the time morning arrived we were both knackered. The combination of lights and temperature and the fact that Monica could not use the bed had all had an effect. This was the day that Madam Wong was due to arrive. This was the day on which things – already at a depressingly low point – would reach their nadir. Madam Wong would have been waiting a long time for this moment.
“Come on – get up and put the belt on!” It was Megan. She was dressed for business in a black sleeveless leather dress with a zip down the front and two chains hanging across her breasts. Her elegant legs were clad in black boots that rose to above the knee in front, but with cut-away sections behind the joint. On her wrists were wide laced-up leather guards, while a thin leather collar with a small silver pendant encircled her throat. She had pinned her dark hair back behind her ears , and these sported silver chains dangling from the lobes. This morning she wore the full make-up – dark lips and heavy eyeliner that gave her a hard, no-nonsense look, the look of someone you would think twice about upsetting.
I did as she commanded, working the hated plug into my arse and clicking the lock shut which locked the loops of wire together at my navel. Monica watched me with sad, defeated eyes. I paused, waiting for the zap to hit, for Megan to test the device. When it came I was still unprepared for the severity of it. No matter how you braced yourself, physically or psychologically, the real thing was worse, much worse. It caught you deep inside, at once making you double up and hold your abdomen, while at the same time fighting for breath and trying to stay on your feet. In short, it was not nice, and it left you with a decided reluctance to undertake any act of resistance, never mind be even capable of it. Just the thought of that pain was enough to moderate one’s behaviour, which, of course, was the whole point of it. The shock was adjustable, both in terms of duration and voltage, but I had no doubt that I was receiving the maximum. When we had first devised the punishment for the Twins, we had achieved the behaviour modification we desired without having to resort to this extent. Thank God I had put a cut-off on the timer.
While I was struggling to get to my feet, Megan entered and unlocked my chain at the wall and picked up the discarded suit, for the cell had just gone through one of its hot and stuffy stages. Monica watched me with a desolate look on her face and her eyes glistened with tears as my jailor dragged me, stumbling, out into the corridor and slammed the cell door.
Megan said little as we went upstairs. I reckoned she was getting stressed about this Madam Wong, the wife of a billionaire from Macau, about whom she had heard so much and who was now bankrolling Megan’s ambitions for her own revenge. It was obviously D-day for Megan, and she wanted things to go well. Which, coincidentally, entailed absolute obedience from her charges.
I was chained to the verandah post long enough for a gagged Leila to bring me some breakfast, then, suited up as the previous day, I was led by Megan to the workshop, where we collected the big spool of cable to go in the trench. The laying of the cable did not take long as I spooled it out around the house and sleeping quarters, then followed the same route to fill in the shallow trench and replace the turf I had removed.
It was a simple matter to run the cable into the workshop, wire a plug on each end and insert these into the proprietary box that served as a transformer and modulator from the mains. Although the cables ran past outside of the workshop, the door was also on the outside, which meant to access the transformer and switch, a person would have to cross the cable to reach the door. Access to the switch would was thus denied to anybody wearing the collar. In short, it looked foolproof.
Megan gave me a collar from a box.
I looked closely at it. The collar itself was made from a stiff brown acrylic material, and attached to the front of it was a metal box the size of a large matchbox, which was riveted on to the collar. Protruding through the collar from the box were two prongs about an inch long and the thickness of a pencil.
“Remember this was designed for dogs, not human slaves,” Megan said helpfully, “You will have to separate the box from the collar, and you will see that it can be fixed over the two threaded studs on your own collar. Obviously the prongs are too long, and will have to be cut down. That will be your job for today – to fit the boxes to all the collars you and your friends are wearing. I have a spare collar her for you to use for trying out the fit. It may end up on Shawnee. I will watch you while you do the first one, then, when you know how to do it best, you can move on to the verandah where you can be properly supervised away from all these tools, where I trust you not one iota. There are too many things here that are sharp or can grind metal. You will not be left alone with these, be assured of that.”
That was how Megan spelt out the rules of the game to me. I drilled through the rivets of the flanges of the first box and looked at it as it came away from the collar. It was covered in a clear plastic with a small plughole for charging purposes. Otherwise it was completely sealed and looked weather proof, which I guess it had to be if a dog was going to be running around with it on.
The two prongs fitted through the holes left in front of the stainless steel collar, which I had wondered about previously. I saw how the flange of the box would fit over the two threaded studs once I had drilled appropriate holes for them. It could then be bolted up tight and would need a spanner to be undone. This was accomplished relatively easily.
The prongs were a different matter. They were about an inch long and in my case there was very little space between my collar and my throat – perhaps only a finger thickness. I cut them down and ground and filed the ends into a smooth round bumps. Trying them out poking them through the holes in my own collar I found them tolerable, pressing as they were into the skin about two inches apart on either side of the throat. Megan tightened the nuts on the studs so that the box was firmly secured and the stubby prods poked into my skin.
“Now,” she said. “Time to test it.” She led me outside and perhaps ten metres back toward the house. I saw Portia standing on the verandah. Unlike Megan, she was not yet into the swing of things, wearing a demure - for her – long sleeved red dress and shoes that would obviously pass casual inspection at an airport reception for nothing more than a good looking woman, as distinct from an evil-minded Domme with a catalogue of torture plans in her mind.
“Stay there while I switch the loop on,” said Megan. “Then you will walk towards me when I tell you to.”
She disappeared into the workshop and reappeared a few moments later. I had detected nothing, no tingles or anything to suggest the system was even working.
“Come here, Steven,” Megan commanded, standing on the other side of the line of repaired turf. I started walking towards her. I had covered perhaps half the distance when I started to detect the first tremors in my skin, as the beginnings of a current began to be activated through the flesh of my throat. I slowed, taking one step at a time. I was still three metres from the wire when it started to get painful.
“Come on, Steven!” Megan ordered. “Do you want a zap up your arse instead?”
“No, Mistress! Please, it’s starting to hurt!”
“Two more paces, there’s a good boy.” Cajoling now.
I took one, and the buzzing at my throat went up in intensity, along with the pain. I shook my head and tried to pull the collar away from my skin, but it still maintained contact. I knew I couldn’t take it any longer and had started to turn when Megan hit the remote.
I collapsed at that point, blood roaring in my ears as my muscles went haywire and I finally managed to crawl away from the terrible fire at my throat, while the pain in my inside slowly subsided. I lay on the ground, sweating and trembling from the shocks, slowly curling up and making moaning sounds as best I could.
Megan was standing over me. Distantly I heard hands clapping and focussed long enough to see Portia applauding from the balcony. Glad you liked the performance, I thought miserably.
“I think we’ve learned a rather important lesson, don’t you think?” Portia suggested cheerfully. “The system functions and is very effective. I don’t think you’ll be doing any long jumps over that,” she said. I’ll go and turn it off then you can fetch your tools to do the remaining modifications.”
* * *
My afternoon was spent on the verandah with a drill and a grinder and a file, using a portable bench vice to modify the remaining collars. As the day wore on, Megan began bringing the girls out one by one to have their collars fitted. I was startled to find the girls appearing in markedly different clothes as they were brought on deck.
Monica was first. She arrived with her wrists handcuffed behind her and silenced with a red ball gag, but otherwise unrestrained. The most remarkable alteration from her previous naked state was that she was now dressed as Wonder Woman. I was momentarily taken aback when she appeared, for she looked stunning. Her hair had been washed and blow-dried and was held back with the distinctive yellow hair band with a red star above her forehead that was the trademark of WW. She wore the multicoloured strapless swimsuit that was the other trademark – red on top with an orange design over the breasts, and the bottom half in blue with white stars. The red knee-length boots and wrist guards completed the outfit.
“Ah, here comes Wonder Woman,” exclaimed Megan as Portia steered her along the verandah to where I was working. Monica glared at her and I was pleased to see a touch of the Monica spirit in her eyes again. I could hardly take my eyes off her, for her jet black hair fitted the look so perfectly, cascading about her shoulders and contrasting with the pale skin above the bright colours of the lycra swimsuit.
“Stop goggling and get on with it,” Portia snapped.
I lifted up Monica’s chin and slipped the first of the boxes into place against the studs on her collar, tightening up the nut on each side with a spanner. I slid my finger between the collar and her skin, trying to judge how much of a gap there was and how much intrusion the prongs were making against her throat.
She looked at me uncertainly, probably wondering what was being fixed to her collar. I tried to smile reassuringly, but I don’t think I pulled it off.
“Wha hath?” Monica garbled around the ball, looking fearfully at Portia.
“All will be explained in due course, my dear Wonder Woman. God, this is good!” She turned to Megan who grinned at her. “This is like being the bad guy in the movies, capturing Wonder Woman. And in this case” – she turned her gaze on Monica – “you cannot escape. There will be no superhuman feats from you today.” Portia laughed as she led Monica down the steps to the first post that I had concreted into the ground. I noticed Portia had run a length of chain along the ground in a semicircle behind the posts. The chain was relatively loose, and locked around the first and last posts. She positioned Monica between the first and second posts to the left of the steps and locked one ankle to the chain before leaving her there.
Jillian was the second slave to appear. My astonishment at seeing Monica’s new character was equalled when a handcuffed Jill was pushed on to the verandah by Portia.
“Presenting… Supergirl!” said Portia with a flourish.
“Excel-lent!” Megan enthused, as Jill, resplendent in a long-sleeved blue lycra top and short red skirt that swirled around her thighs. Like Monica, she wore red knee length boots, with these ones having a decidedly more fashionable heel to them compared to the comics I had read as a kid. Emblazoned over Jill’s breasts was the big ‘S’ symbol, while a red cape was fastened at the back of her neck. The blonde, collar length hair was possibly not quite as long as the Supergirl I remembered, but she could rescue me anytime, I thought.
“So, Supergirl, your powers of kryptonite have deserted you! Not going to leap of the balcony and fly away?” Portia taunted her. She was getting right into her own part. It would have been fun had it not been so serious. Jill hung her head and stared at the ground. A faint runnel of drool slipped around the edge of the red ball gag in her mouth. Portia was doing her darnedest to match bondage gear with outfit, I noted.
I gazed into Jill’s brown eyes as I tried to concentrate on fastening the box to her collar. She had the most expressive eyes of any of the girls at Bilboes. I could have drowned in them had I ever had the chance to getup close and personal with her - without one of us being tied up at the time, that is. Jill and I seemed to have a strange interwoven karma that I hadn’t yet worked out. I tightened the nuts on her collar and touched her cheek lightly . Her eyes seemed to lighten briefly before Portia took her by the arm and led her down the steps, here to be ankle chained between the second and third posts.
I was wondering who would appear next, and this time it was a change from the comic character to something more contemporary – Trish, as Lara Croft, but without the guns. She looked very sexy in a tight pale green latex tank top. I suspect she had a corset on underneath that, for her boobs seemed bigger than I remembered , her waist smaller, and her butt tight in the khaki shorts. The wide brown belt with the big brass buckle was done up tightly, as were the empty holsters strapped to her thighs. Behind the black ball gag she wore the most docile expression I had ever seen on her. She had her hair in a pony tail which rather suited her, I thought, and wore brown hiking boots. I could see bruises on the backs of her thighs, however, and I knew life had not been pleasant in the dungeons of Bilboes.
I tried to smile at her as I fixed the box to her collar, but unlike Lara Croft, this Tomb Raider appeared to have recognised when she had met her match and knew when to submit to overwhelming forces. She became the third shackled prisoner in the curve of poles as Portia locked her in the space next to Supergirl Jillian.
I expected Mary next, but I hardly recognised her, or her character.
“Meet Elektra – Ninja warrior!” Portia announced. Mary’s short black hair had been supplemented with a flowing black wig that swirled about her shoulders. Her willowy form was clad in a tight-fitting crimson leotard with one shoulder bare, and a length of silk flowing from her waist between her legs, front and back. Her hair was crowned with a silk scarf wrapped horizontally and trailing behind her, while – as seemed to be the pattern with superhero babes – she wore the almost obligatory red boots to her knees. The last embellishments were silk bands around her thighs and lycra wrist bands that extended nearly to her elbow.
“Elektra? Where did you get her from?” Megan asked. “I’ve never heard of her.”
I had to admit to being at a loss myself, although Mary certainly looked the part.
“You don’t read comics like Hong Kong Chinese,” smirked Portia. “Elektra is the sworn enemy of villains and has a somewhat unorthodox method of dealing with them. She is an assassin - she kills for hire, loves for thrills and leaves destruction in her wake.”
“Sounds like someone else I know,” murmured Megan, just loud enough for me to hear.
Ordinarily I would have thought what an extraordinary likeness Elektra was to Mary from the sound of her temperament. I could see Mary as an assassin, up to her neck in court intrigue in the palace of some eastern kingdom. Mary always had another agenda, but she was the best at her skills and used her knowledge judiciously. Mary was always an opponent to be respected, but I knew that secretly she was not as hard as she made out. This was a little confidence I shared with her from a time in the past when she had broken down in front of me. As with Jillian, I felt a tie to Mary, but in a different way. She was enigmatic, perhaps just like the character she now portrayed.
But the Mary before me now was not the one I knew before. Like Trish, she was subdued and docile, and as with Trish I saw the marks of beatings on her legs and other exposed parts of her flesh. Mary did not look me in the eye at all as I connected the box to her collar. Instead she averted her eyes which in itself shocked me greatly. Proud and haughty Mary, the Ice Queen, had been dethroned and subjugated, which left me suddenly fearful for the prospects of the rest of us. Of all the girls, with the possible exception of Monica, I would have thought that Mary and Trish were the strongest, most dominant, and to see them so downcast and submissive troubled me deeply. Portia took her by the arm and led her on to the grass where she became the fourth victim secured to the long chain.
I could not fail to recognise Emma when she appeared, a shiny black-latexed figure sporting two small cats ears and a tail. She made a stunning Catwoman, her generous breasts straining at the rubber that then curved in around her waist and hips, before sliding down into the high heeled black boots. Only the black ball gag was not the normal de-rigeur for the character, its strap disappearing around the back of her half-mask which overlaid the black waterfall of hair.
Contrary to my expectation Emma seemed to be holding up better than some of the others. She was a natural submissive in any case, and perhaps the change had not been so traumatic for her. Additionally, she and Leila had been occupied with the chores of the house, unlike the other girls who had been subjected to beatings and long periods of stringent bondage guaranteed to wear down the physical and mental spirit. I knew Emma’s main worry was over the punishment that had been meted out to Jillian, and the potential for further such punishment with the imminent arrival of Madam Wong. Now Emma, too, was heading down the steps to join the chain gang amongst the poles.
Leila was the last. I thought I was immune to surprises, but Portia pulled one last one out of the hat – Leila as Sweet Gwendoline. Until I had come to Bilboes I had never heard of John Willie, the great bondage writer and artist of the forties and fifties, but Monica had soon educated me through reading a rare edition of one of his works. Now here was Leila in the flesh, a living example of the art.
She wore tight black satin shorts and a white satin blouse that was cut to mould to her figure in the style of the fifties, before stretch materials came along. She must have been wearing a severe corset underneath, for her figure was pronounced and in the cool evening air her nipples were hard and straining against the thin fabric. From beneath her shorts suspenders were visible, holding up her blacked seamed stockings. She tottered across the verandah deck on the highest black heels I had ever seen on her. Like the other girls she was handcuffed and her jaw was distended by a black ball gag on a strap that stood out starkly against her blonde hair. She looked the epitome of the fifties damsel in distress, in the days before sophisticated sexual expression took hold and devices of sexual torment became bolder and more complicated.
When Leila’s ankle had been locked to the chain, there still remained one space at the end of the semi-circle. It didn’t take much to work out who was going there. I was not surprised to be given my costume for the night. In my mind it was merely a question of which captured and humiliated superhero I was to be.
“Get changed, Spidey,” said Megan, handing me a red and blue costume. Spiderman! At least it wasn’t the Incredible Hulk. Megan unlocked my worksuit from my collar and I removed my work boots, then began to pull on the Spiderman outfit.
It was a one-piece costume, made of lycra. I wondered if Portia and Megan had bought these or simply hired them. My guess was the former. I reckoned they had been made specially. Portia wanted to put on a show – and a symbolic one at that – for Madam Wong, and with the Wong riches paying for the operation making a few costumes was not exactly going to bankrupt the enterprise.
My outfit was predominantly blue, but with the red and black webbing over the hands, torso, shoulders and head. My musings as to ‘bought’ or ‘hired’ seemed to be clarified when I wriggled the costume up to my shoulders. There was a zip up the back, which Megan helpfully did up, and I found at that point that there was a hole cut in the throat of the material for the box on my collar to protrude through.
“Don’t forget the boots,” said Megan, dropping them at my feet. They were of leather and laced up to just below my knees. They also fitted quite well, and had red and black web-like painting on them. As I was finishing tying the laces, sitting on my butt on the decking, I felt Megan’s knees against my back and glimpsed a ball on a strap drop in front of my face and press against my mouth.
I had long since realised the futility of fighting such intrusions when it’s two against one and one of those two has a direct circuit to your sensitive anal regions. The best thing to do is to accept the inevitable and try to get it installed with as little discomfort as possible. There is an art to correctly fitting a ball gag, which includes making sure it is properly wedged behind the teeth and that no bits of lip are trapped between strap or ball. I managed to use my own hand to position the ball with the least discomfort before Megan’s hands buckled it behind my head. I had no doubt that if Portia had been doing the fitting it would have been at least one or two notches tighter. Then my hood was pulled up over my face and another zip was done up from the top of my hood down the back to mate with the zip up my back. I heard what sounded suspiciously like a plastic tie being done up, and I had the feeling that I would be needing a pair of scissors if I was to cease being Spiderman in the near future.
The hood covered my entire face but the eye panels had a thin gauze over them, kind of like a fly mesh. I could see reasonably well, and saw the handcuffs come out to secure my wrists behind me for the trip on to the lawn. They were entirely superfluous, of course. My recent experience of the collar and the anal plug had conditioned me adequately that afternoon not to want to try anything silly. Soon I, too, was locked to the chain, joining a cast of characters that had probably never been together before, and which had the potential to save the world several times over. It was just unfortunate none of us could escape from the handcuffs and ankle chain to commence such a rescue.
The girls were sitting or lying on the ground at this stage. It was nearly dusk and Portia took the opportunity for a last pep talk.
“I am about to go to the airport to collect Madam Wong.” Portia could barely contain the delight in her voice at the sight before her and the prospect of putting on a show for her employer. “She will be very impressed at seeing the Bilboes Superheroes – so full of themselves in Macau – now totally humiliated. She will no doubt be even more excited by the punishments she will be able to inflict on you in return for your uninspired little effort against us. You may rest assured that anything you have suffered up until now will seem like a health care treatment compared to what Madam Wong will devise, particularly for you two” – she indicated Wonder Woman Monica and Supergirl Jillian at the end of the line. “Now I will leave Megan to finish preparing you.” She turned on her heel and swept into the house.
|Monica's Revenge continues in Chapter Ten|
|All comments welcome at email@example.com.
© R.Alexander 2006
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bondage stories : alexander stories