|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: 10. From Bad to Worse by Richard Alexander MF/mf; bondage; bdsm; cons/nc; XXX|
|Chapter Ten: From Bad to Worse|
Megan stepped up to take Portia’s place at the top of the steps.
“The first point I will make, slaves, is this.” She dangled a key from her finger then placed it very deliberately on top of the balcony rail. “This is the key that fits your ankle chain. Without it, you won’t get free. You might think about trying to overpower me, but even if you did, you would remain chained to the posts. Don’t bother about getting Shawnee to rescue you from that point. She is securely locked on to that nice vibrating saddle you people built downstairs and will not be moving until I decide to release her. She has been a good slave and is being rewarded. I could hear her cries as I came up the stairs. I think she was enjoying herself.
“So – I suggest you all accept the reality of the situation and make life just a little easier – well, a little less difficult, rather – than it would be otherwise. Cooperation will help everybody.” Megan’s tone had been reasonable up until this point, the way one might address a group of new employees. Now it hardened as she descended the steps and walked the length of the semi-circle, looking down at us as we sat, handcuffed, on the grass. “However…” She paused for effect and her eyes glinted in the setting sun, “if there is any trouble from anybody, if anyone steps out of line and tries to pull a stunt that might embarrass me or Portia in front of Madam Wong, you may count on a severe punishment being imposed on everyone. Think of the worst torture you can – electrodes on your pussy and nipples, clamps and weights, whips and floggers, and suspension in an extreme position. Imagine that, imagine how long you could stand it, then multiply the time by three. Am I making myself clear?” There was a chorus of gagged grunts and nods.
“I will tell you that I have a considerable investment in this whole operation. I have a lot to lose and even more to gain. If you cooperate, it is possible that down the track you may have the opportunity to regain some element of your freedom in working for me. Otherwise life will prove very difficult for you. Anybody who tries to contact you is being told you have left the establishment, and that I am the new owner. Letters are already being returned to senders, although I have to say you don’t get much mail, do you? A tight knit little group, aren’t we. Too bad. Nobody will miss you, except your regulars, who will be diverted to The Citadel on the south side. And of course some of my regulars, who fancy some rather more exotic treats, will enjoy coming to a new venue where such niceties as safewords are not a feature. Now, on your feet!”
* * *
Megan had clearly thought through the whole process that developed from that point. I found that at some stage since the posts had been erected lengths of white sashcord had been threaded through some of the eyebolts at the top of the posts. Looking closer, I saw that the cord ran from the ground up through one eyebolt, then passed around the post to pass through the eyebolt on the opposite side before dropping to the ground again. The short length of cord between the eyebolts, however, had a pulley hanging on it, attached to another length of cord that dropped vertically. I was to see how all this worked soon enough.
Megan retreated to the verandah to collect a box from the table. This turned out to contain a number of wide wrist cuffs with double straps and buckles and D-rings. There was only one thing these cuffs were normally used for, and I had a feeling that use was ahead of us when Megan dropped a pair of cuffs in front of each of us then unlocked our handcuffs and put them in the box. There was no denying her economy of action here.
“I want all of you to put on the leather cuffs and buckle them up properly. No slacking unless you want to be whipped afterwards. You’d better make sure they’re comfortable because you’ll have them on for a long time.”
Uh-oh. I picked up the pair lying at my feet and fastened them around my wrists, D-rings on the outside. There was enough play so that I would not cut the circulation, and these cuffs were well-used, round-edged and malleable.
“Very good, children. Now the ankles.”
Another distribution of pairs of leather cuffs, these being less substantial than the wrist cuffs, and slightly longer to enable them to be buckled around boots. Then Megan began at Monica’s end, tying the first rope to her right wrist cuff. This rope, being on the last pole, rose up through only one eyebolt before descending to the cleat. Here Megan tied it off so that Monica’s right arm was outstretched, albeit loosely. The left rope was similarly tied to the left D-ring, and the other end of the rope tied to the right cuff of Jillian. And so it went on – Jillian to Tomb Raider Trish, Trish to Elektra/Mary, Mary to Catwoman Emma, Emma to Gwendoline/Leila, and finally to me. Having done this, leaving us with our arms loosely outstretched, Megan walked along the poles pulling down on the pulleys attached to the free cords, and wrapping those cords around the cleats. Pretty soon we were all standing with our arms pulled wide and high. I realised that if one person pulled on a rope the loading would transfer to the next person, an so on, with a diminishing effect down the line. It struck me as being particularly devious.
Megan’s next act was to chain our feet properly to the cuffs. She made us stand with our feet about half a metre apart and unlocked the single ankle loop, replacing it with locks on each cuff. She made sure that any slack in the chain ended up between our feet, so that the lengths of chain between prisoners were taut. This was not nearly as extreme as it could be, but I suspected we were in for the long haul here, and what seemed tolerable at the start might soon prove to be the opposite after a few hours in an unrelenting position. Any attempt to pull one’s legs together would immediately go against the people on each side - she was playing us off against ourselves.
Darkness was rapidly falling by the time Megan had adjusted the tension in our arm ropes further to centre us properly between the posts and above our ankle restraints. She unrolled a length of cable from the verandah and positioned seven obviously low voltage garden spotlights on the ground in front of the semi-circle, spiking them into the grass then retreating to plug in the transformer inside the house. Moments later we were basking in the glare of the lights, the Secret Seven taken prisoner and waiting for retribution to descend on them from a great height.
* * *
Night fell and we stood there, listening to the chirp of the crickets. Megan had turned the lights off after a few minutes, and had closed the doors and drawn the blinds to cut down light leaking out on to the verandah and the grand surprise awaiting Madam Wong. It was probably this waiting that plunged us further into despair, although we all knew that things would become far worse. This was the proverbial calm before the storm.
There was the sound of a car in the driveway and glimpses of headlights in the trees before it parked at the front of the house. On the still night air we heard voices and the sound of high heeled shoes going up the front steps. We waited expectantly, and then the back door opened. There was a chatter of Cantonese and then a voice said in English:
“What is it, Portia? I can’t see anything?” The voice sent a chill through my bones with the memory of the S/M party in Macau and the torments that took place during and after it. If I felt like this, I thought, what would Jillian be thinking, after the agonies she had endured in Madam Wong’s dungeons?
The lights came on. I half closed my eyes in the glare. There was a delighted squeal and excited Cantonese exclamations.
“Aiyaaah!” breathed Madam Wong, clapping her hands in amazement. She turned and hugged Portia, then Megan, as though scarcely believing her eyes. She stepped down to the grass and walked over to Monica.
Straight off the plane from Hong Kong Madam Wong looked remarkably fresh, wearing a tan silk jacket with a mandarin collar and a skirt slit halfway up her thigh. Her hair had recovered from the mauling it would probably have received from being extricated from multiple wrapping of duct tape Jillian had instigated, prior to the Mistress being locked into heavy chains in the lightwell of her house. Now her hair was carefully styled, with immaculate fringe and slight upturn at the jaw line. Madam Wong was every inch the billionaire’s wife, wielder of authority and power, not to mention the sophisticated good looks of her Chinese heritage.
She lifted Monica’s chin and gazed into her eyes for a long time. From my position opposite them, I could not tell what exchange was taking place, but I suspect in the battle of wills Monica came a bad second, not least in through her stretched and gagged position. Portia sidled up beside her boss with a small cardboard box in her hands and a flashlight. I saw them fiddle with Monica’s Wonder Woman costume where the material stretched over her breasts and realised that there was a small slit in the fabric over each nipple.
“This is like a little investiture ceremony,” declared Madam Wong. “I will award all of you then Order of Submission, with different distinctions. Firstly, Monica gets the first class honour…” There was a lot of tugging and more fiddling about, accompanied by a deal of pained whining by Wonder Woman. It seemed that something was being done to her existing adornment through her now pierced nipples. I had a nasty feeling I was going to be receiving the same honours.
The pair moved down the row, and sure enough each prisoner had a slit in her costume that allowed for easy nipple access, and in short order Super Girl, Lara Croft, Elektra, Catwoman and Gwendoline all had various clamps attached to their nipples, with weights the size of walnuts hanging from them, all to the accompaniment of muffled gasps of pain as the devices were attached. Then it was Yours Truly who was in the firing line. I was about to find out what had happened at the other end of the queue.
I was unable to stop myself watching, fascinated in a morbid kind of way, as the black fingernails of Madam Wong searched for and found the slits over my nips and popped the ringed and barbelled nubs into fresh air. The barbell was unscrewed and removed, but then she pulled hard on my right nip via the ring.
“Nnnnnp!” I said, with feeling.
“Does it still hurt?” she asked solicitously, and meaning none of it. “Too bad.”
Portia handed her something and I saw it was a stainless steel padlock, about the size of a watch face and circular. Holding the ring, she slipped the thick shaft of the padlock through the extended hole and clicked it shut. It hung like some form of medal, the metal cold against my chest and the weight not inconsiderable. Moments later the other nipple was similarly impaled and decorated, and the two rings were removed with what was obviously a special tool.
“Nice,” said Madam Wong, stepping back. “In time we can increase the size of the weights, which will enlarge the holes, to take even bigger weights. It will be such fun.”
With the award ceremony over, Madam Wong produced a small digital camera from her handbag and proceeded to take numerous photos of us all. “I am going to start a new album,” she told us with obvious relish. “Some of these may also go on the net, and they will all give me much pleasure to look back on in future times.”
Portia and Madam Wong then retired to the house, while Megan untied the ropes holding Leila and Emma, to allow them to continue with their domestic duties. The pair disappeared into the kitchen while Megan secured the loose ends of the free ropes, leaving two empty spaces between me and Mary in her Elektra outfit.
Soon afterwards we were treated to the sight of Leila’s Gwendoline trotting unsteadily in and out of the kitchen to set the table on the verandah. Catwoman was presumably slaving over the hot wok, which couldn’t have been all that nice when clad from head to toe in black latex. In due course the three jailors were seated at the table, the wine opened, and with Leila fussing about like an attentive but silenced moth around a flame. We all knew that any mistake would be met with a nasty punishment and we hoped for Leila’s and Emma’s sakes that they could pull off the Chinese dinner to the satisfaction of the visitor.
It seemed, however, that Portia had a point to make to her employer, and before the commencement of the meal itself, she called both Leila and Emma from the kitchen and ordered them to stand facing away from the table with their feet apart and their hands behind their heads. As the pair did this, I saw Portia pass an object across to Madam Wong and say something in Cantonese. It was obvious to me what was going to happen next, but I was helpless – as were we all – to prevent the inevitable. Portia was explaining the use of the remote, and showing her which buttons to push. Madam Wong stood up and pushed both buttons at once.
Leila and Emma doubled over as the cramping pain hit them. Both fell into kneeling positions, their arms clutching their abdomens, making groaning noises behind their gags – noises that merged into whimpering snuffles. Madam Wong was impressed. Portia said something to her and pointed to me and to the Megan, obviously referring to the remote that she carried for my periodic training. Oh no, I thought, not like this, not now!
Madam Wong came down the steps with slow deliberation, followed by Megan. She stopped a couple of paces in front of me and without even looking at Megan held out her hand for the remote. Megan placed it in the waiting hand as if passing a scalpel to a surgeon, but I thought I detected a look that might have been disquiet cross her face. Perhaps it was one thing keeping a slave in line and checking that a device was connected and in working order, but was it different to utilise such a device to unnecessarily inflict pain? Megan had generally been fair to me, I had to admit. I had been on the receiving end of her, but there had usually been a purpose. No it was simply Madam Wong’s bloody mindedness.
When the pain hit everything in my body went rigid as I jerked futilely in my arm and leg restraints. I threw my head back but could utter nothing more than a long nasal groan before the need to actually breathe stopped that. Megan’s use of the device was usually restricted to a stab of the button. Madam Wong’s finger remained on the button for maybe five seconds, although the cut off came in after three, not that you could probably have guessed from my shuddering and twitching. I thought the deep, bowel-cramping agony would never stop, even after I knew the current had actually ceased to flow. I hung there with my eyes closed, making plaintive grunts and feeling the sweat dribble down my skin under the costume.
Well pleased with what her minions had devised and implemented, Madam Wong returned to the dining table to commence her evening meal.
* * *
Despite having experienced the rigours of (presumably) the first class in-flight cabin service, Madam Wong seemed in no hurry to go to bed. There was a lot of chatter in Cantonese as the night wore on and the delicious smells of Chinese food drifted down to the five prisoners on the lawn. It was pretty clear that we weren’t a part of the food distribution network. Rather, we were there for some preliminary entertainment value. I realised this when Megan came down the steps with a large plate of steaming food which she paraded in front of the four girls bound between the poles. I, at least, had had some lunch. The others must have been starving.
Then she walked to a position about twenty metres away, just past the workshop, and placed the tray on the ground. I realised it was just beyond the line of the trench and cable that had been activated that afternoon. I also realised that none of the girls understood the meaning of the boxes on their collars and the function of the cable in the ground.
“Who would like some dinner?” asked Megan. “Unfortunately there is only enough for one. Who would get there fastest, I wonder? Wonder Woman, Supergirl, Electra or Lara?” She paused exaggeratedly with finger to chin as if thinking. “Supergirl – must be faster than a speeding bullet… If you get to the food in less than five seconds, after I say ‘go’, you may eat. If not, well somebody else will get it.”
Megan unlocked Jillian’s ankles and untied the ropes, looping the free ends around the cleats. She removed Jill’s gag, for there was clearly no point in getting to a plate of food if you couldn’t eat it. Megan looked at her watch and then at Jill, who was obviously wondering what the catch was. I made a mmph to catch her attention, but failed as Megan called out:
Jill ran well, for a girl. It was probably not surprising considering her physio and sporting background. None of the silly arms-away-from-sides stuff girls do so well. Jill was all focus and was halfway there, her red cape streaming behind her when the first tingles of the collar started, followed immediately by obvious choking pain that saw her drop in her tracks, clawing at the collar. Whether by instinct or logic, she decided that retreat was her only option and crawled back towards us, half on her knees, half on her stomach as she vainly tried to separate the prongs from the flesh at her throat. She finally collapsed, as she cleared the range of the cable, tears streaming down her face, gasping and crying out, on her knees, holding her head in her hands.
Portia and Madam Wong were on their feet applauding. Leila and Emma were also there, summoned to watch. Emma ran down the steps and bent over Jill, making plaintive grunting noises and helping her friend to her feet. Obviously shocked by the unexpectedness and severity of the pain, Jill was shaky on her feet as Megan directed she and Emma back to Jill’s space between the posts. Here Jill was again secured and Emma banished back to the verandah. Megan turned to the semi-circle.
“You slaves have just seen what will happen to you if you now try to leave while wearing your nice new collars. I’m sure Jill will tell you that it is a very painful; experience. Steven will no doubt endorse that, since he, too, has tried it out. The cable runs around the house, the workshop and sleeping quarters. Don’t even bother trying to cross it – really. You’ll only hurt yourselves, and will then have to undergo even further punishment afterwards for disobeying my instructions. You may nod if that is clear.”
She gazed around the semi-circle and one by one we nodded and hung our heads in final defeat. Turning, she looked at Emma and Leila on the verandah. They too nodded, then were sent into the kitchen.
Madam Wong spoke appreciatively to Megan and Portia after dinner had been completed. After Leila and Emma had finished tidying up, they were returned to their pole positions. Soon we were a team again, the world’s greatest collection of superheroes and heroines, bound and helpless and there for the long night.
But our captors had one final surprise for us. Well, I suppose I shouldn’t have been surprised, really. Portia went inside and returned with a nasty-looking cane. It reminded me of the sort that the teachers had used at school – pale, solid rattan cane, the thickness of one’s finger and quite stiff. She handed the instrument of punishment to Madam Wong, who flexed it expertly, as though she was well-used to handling such things.
She moved to the opposite end of the line of prisoners, positioning herself behind Monica. Monica looked over her shoulder with wide eyes and tried to struggle in the ropes holding her, but it was a futile exercise. Admitting the inevitable, she faced the front and closed her eyes.
The first blow caused her to jerk forward and utter a muffled cry. Her eyes were open now, as the second blow caught her across her buttocks in quick time after the first. The third made her scream, albeit muted and nasal, but the agony in the cry was obvious. Madam Wong paused, then decided that perhaps too much punishment at this stage would be detrimental to her long term plan. I had no idea what that was, of course, but I was in no doubt that it would be well thought through, not to mention arduous, protracted and painful.
Jill was next to receive the three strokes, which left tears rolling down her cheeks. Then Trish and Mary, stoic and silent, before Emma and finally Leila took their punishment. The cane made a fearsome sound as it whistled through the air and impacted on buttocks that were at best protected by only a thin layer of material. My own were no exception, and despite doing what I could to prepare myself for the blow, when it cane I could barely suppress a grunt of pain. The second and third came quickly, in close proximity to the first. The shocking pain of the first was the worst, with the other two heightening this and leaving my backside on fire.
Madam Wong returned to the centre of the half-circle and gazed at her prisoners. Then she spoke, her voice sharp and cold.
“That, slaves, was a little taste of what is to come to you. By the end of your training you will look back and consider it a mere tickling. You will have many long and painful hours to think about your actions in my house and the loss of face you caused. However the damage you caused in the House of Wong will be nothing compared to the fall and total destruction of the House of Bilboes. You may consider that for the rest of the night.”
* * *
Suspension is a fearsome form of bondage, and despite stories that seem to regularly feature victims being subjected to it on a long term basis with minimal ill effects, it just doesn’t work that way. In this particular instance, of course, we were not fully suspended, although our arms were nevertheless pulled high and wide, but even this is enough to put a fair strain on our wrists and arms. When you exacerbate this over a lengthy period such as through the night, the body starts to succumb to the ravages of sleeplessness, lack of food and general wearing down through continued punishment by stringent bondage. Every now and then one of us would nod off and fall forward, the knees bending, then jerking awake with the sudden pull on the arms that went through to the muscles of the neck and shoulders.
Although our jaws ached from the gags, our bottoms were glowing and sore and perhaps the painful stimulation of our nipples helped the wakefulness, after a while (in my case) those pains subsided into dull aches. The constant standing and inability to move one’s feet more than a couple of inches also led to aching joints at ankle, knee and hip, and after a while my back joined in just for fun. Keeping one’s arms in the air meant, inevitably, reduced blood flow to the hands, and eventually these went numb, despite best efforts to periodically wiggle fingers.
I considered myself perhaps fitter and stronger than the girls, even though I had to support extra weight. However I had not been subjected to the same torments that Jill and Monica had been, for example, and I wondered how they were faring. Megan had left the lights on, perhaps to help us to stay awake, or perhaps just so Madam Wong could look down on us from her upstairs bedroom and gloat at our impotence and vulnerability. I looked at Monica and Jill. There heads were down and they looked a picture of dejection and despair. Wonder Woman and Supergirl, gagged, nipple clipped and roped up side by side. Not a good advert for the future of the world.
The night seemed to go on for ever. Slipping in and out of a doze I was partly aware of the night sounds of the bush. Possums roamed about in the trees and occasionally flying foxes would screech at each other in the nearby black bean tree. A small ring-tailed possum crossed the grass furtively to gorge itself on the plate of food that had been left beyond the buried cable.
There was no way to judge the time, but I guessed it was perhaps one or two in the morning when the kitchen door opened and Megan appeared. The noises of the animals in the bush had been supplemented by groans and whimpers of pain from some of the girls as the constant pull on their muscles took its toll. Megan was barefoot and wore a short satin wrap tied at the waist. She stood on the top step briefly, looking down at the seven captives, before picking up a small cardboard box that was beside the top step, and descending to the lawn. She came across to me and spoke in a low whisper.
“In my opinion this position is not suitable for an all night duration. I’m sure you will agree with me. I am going to let you down and lock your wrists to the chain. You will at least get some sleep before dawn.”
I don’t know why she was telling me this, but I wasn’t going to argue. I nearly collapsed when she untied the ropes from my wrist cuffs, then I sat down promptly on the grass, offering no resistance as I was made to bend my knees and my wrist cuffs were locked to the chain a couple of links outside of where the ankle cuffs were secured. It was a huge relief after the taut vertical bondage and I let my aching body slowly unwind from the strain of being pulled apart and having to stand immobile. I was barely aware of Megan doing the same to the girls, and by the time she had finished I must have fallen asleep.
* * *
Being taken down from the spread position in the middle of the night seemed like a dream the next morning, one of those half-forgotten events that sometimes take place during the darkness when one is in a state of extreme tiredness and which seems like something removed from reality. As it was, after a few hours exhausted sleep my shoulders and knees were beginning to cramp and with the first light of dawn and the birds came more discomfort, not least hunger and a need to perform one’s ablutions.
Megan was up early. She was a willing worker, I would say that for her. Just how much of it was simply a fear of or a desire to please Madam Wong, I couldn’t tell, but it was the end result that counted in this case. Leila and Emma were the first to be freed and eventually we saw them again, this time wearing the severe corsets, stockings and high heels that appeared to be their serving uniforms. A short while later we began a procession of releases and rechainings as one by one we were taken to the bathroom.
I was the first after Leila and Emma. With my wrists handcuffed behind me, I was taken through the basement emergency exit, a steel door half hidden under the rear verandah, into the Sluice Room. Here, with my collar now secured to the wall on a length of chain, I was left alone for fifteen minutes with some keys. In this time I had to unlock my cuffs, remove the gag, remove the anal plug and use the toilet. If I had time I could wash as best I could, before replacing everything as before.
Included in the keys I was given was a small one which fitted the lock to the zippers on my costume. I also examined the padlocks now locked through my nipples. Walking made them bounce somewhat and my nips were sore following their insertion. They were also supersensitive just to touch.
When Megan returned I had not quite finished and she watched as I inserted the plug and locked the belt in place. I asked her if it was necessary to test the plug in this instance. She looked at me for a few seconds, as though weighing up my request.
“Just this once, Steven, I will refrain, but only because I have seen you putting it in place. You realise I have to ensure it’s working, as a matter of common sense. I don’t believe you have yet fulfilled all your training requirements and some work still remains. Until that time you will continue to be tested, as necessary. It will not be as severe as Madam Wong was last night – unless you give me cause,” she added, gazing at me keenly. “Oh, and you may leave the costume off for the moment, and the gag. That can stay around your neck until after breakfast.”
Oh good. I much preferred being naked over breakfast..
* * *
Breakfast was served by Emma - plates of cereal and bottles of water. We were all naked now, save Leila and Emma, and with our ankle cuffs again locked to the ground chain and our hands cuffed behind us we were obliged to remain kneeling, firstly to eat our breakfast, and secondly while Madam Wong, Portia and Megan ate theirs.
The day began with a surprise, however, which lifted my spirits. It happened when Emma came to collect the plates. As she reached me, she glanced behind her to where the threesome sat eating breakfast at the table on the verandah. Seeing their preoccupation, she dropped on one knee in front of me as if to adjust her shoe. She wore leather cuffs at her wrists and ankles, as did Leila, joined with short connecting chains. Over the top of the stiff-boned rubber corset she wore was the locked-on stainless steel belt and crotch strap that held the plug up her arse, the same as my own. In Emma’s case, the strap through her pussy was perhaps two centimetres wide – probably just enough to be uncomfortable, although the steel edges were smoothed and rolled outwards slightly. As I raised my head to meet her gaze, her hand dropped to her crotch.
With an inward pull of her groin muscles, Emma slid the steel strap slightly to one side and with another muscular contraction ejected a small bottle the size of my thumb from her pussy. She held it close enough for me to read the word “Rohypnol” on the label. Roofies! She must have sneaked them from Monica’s drawer in the study.
We used ‘Roofies’ occasionally for unsuspecting clients to render them unconscious with a judicious dose in their drink. Emma’s plan was at once clear, for she obviously had access to the food and drink being served to Madam Wong and her minions.
“Tonight?” I whispered. She nodded, then in a fluent move the bottle was secreted back in its hiding place and she stood up, collecting my plate to go with the others.
* * *
So began our first day of retribution under the direction of Madam Wong. This morning, with the late summer warmth still in the air, the elegant tan outfit had gone, and she was ready for business, dressed in a sort black leather skirt and a low-cut sleeveless matching top. On her slender forearms matching leather arm guards were laced. Portia was dressed almost identically, except in red and minus the arm guards. Both women were bare-legged, and while Portia wore medium-heeled red sandals with the straps wound around her calves, Madam Wong wore elegant knee length boots. I suspected Portia was the better appraiser of the local weather conditions, which right then looked like being warm and steamy.
With our breakfasts eaten, Megan made the rounds of the prisoners and replaced our gags. It seemed Trish was to be the first victim as she was made to stand and had her wrists bound together in front. The tail from these bindings was attached to the rope that had previously bound one of her wrists, running through one of the eyebolts at the top of one of the posts. With her ankles unlocked from the chain, Trish was made to stand facing the post with her hands hanging in front of her face. The rest was very simple. Madam Wong tied a cord from the top of the adjacent post to Trish’s right ankle cuff and Portia began to haul on this, through the eyebolt at the top of the facing post.
Trish suddenly found her right leg going up behind her. As the tension increased, she found herself pulled backwards away from the post she was facing, hopping on her left foot and trying desperately to maintain her balance. As she neared the centre point between the two posts the ropes began to put more of an upward load on her arms and leg. Her head dropped between her arms as she found herself staring at the ground as her arms, back and leg now formed a shallow inverted arch. If last night had been hard, standing on two legs with arms stretched symmetrically, this position was ten times worse, I thought. Trish made no sound as her limbs were pulled taut by Portia who wrapped the rope around the cleat.
Mary was next, and suffered the identical fate, in the same space between posts, a mirror image of Trish. Mary was facing the opposite way, her right leg pulled back high so that it passed Trish’s leg at mid-calf. Here the two legs touched. Aside from the fact that it was a terribly stringent tie, the pose was incredibly graceful and erotic. It was the sort the bondage mags would look for, but have the model sustain it just long enough for the cameras before having to be let down. Trish and Mary were professionals, but something had changed them in the basement, I thought. Now they were submissive, docile, beaten in the literal and psychological senses of the word. They were accepting of their fate and all that it would entail.
With the two victims bound into immovable positions, Madam Wong inspected them closely, running her hands over their thighs and viewing the weals that criss-crossed their buttocks from the three strokes of the cane they had received the previous night. She caressed Trish’s breasts as they hung down, vulnerable to any malicious intent. And here we were not disappointed, for after squeezing and pinching them until they hardened, the Madam Wong attached clips to them and screwed them tight. Trish was making little wriggles and whimpers of pain, shaking her head in vain pleadings when her tormentor held the small lead weights in front of Trish’s eyes. Madam Wong was unmoved and after hooking the weights to the clips, let them drop six inches as the slack was taken up. Trish uttered a muffled cry and her body continued to tremble from the obvious pain being inflicted to her nipples.
Mary’s fate was identical, with an identical reaction. Madam Wong strolled around the pair, viewing the living sculpture with satisfaction and taking more shots with the digital camera. Then it was Monica’s turn, or so I thought.
Monica was unfastened from the ground chain and taken to a position beneath the overhead wire I had erected a couple of days previously and where Monica had previously suffered at the hands of Portia with the bullwhip. This was something that was obviously still fresh in Monica’s memory, for she was not at all happy about having her collar fastened by a chain to the wire. Both she and I were unprepared for me to be the next on the list for attention, however, and I found myself similarly chained to the wire alongside Monica, both of us still with our wrists handcuffed behind us.
“Do you know what’s going to happen now, Steven?” Portia asked in her most honeyed voice. I shook my head, not wishing to know. “We are going to remove that little device that Monica so cruelly inflicted on you – when? A week ago? “ I was not sure. I had lost track of the days and how long Mr Willy had been imprisoned in his acrylic case, but despite all the temptations and consequent frustration he had suffered, I was suddenly now of the opinion that it might be a rather safer place for him to be.
Megan produced a key and my friend was suddenly dangling with the fresh breeze playing over him. He was also subject to Megan’s skilled fingers playing over him as well. This, together with her fingers toying with the twin padlocks through my nipples and Monica’s very adjacent nakedness, saw him in a state of arousal in a very short time, irrespective of any ideas Mr Brain might have had concerning the fact that such behaviour might not be well advised.
The result of this was that I suddenly found myself pushed against Monica, face to face, and without so much as a “permission to enter, Ma’am”, Megan’s nimble fingers had inserted me inside Monica. It was not the first time I had been there, but never before under such circumstances. But the defining moment came when the same nimble fingers locked another padlock through those in our nipples, tethering us just about as intimately as it was possible to get. It had all happened so fast that I had barely had time to realise where it was all going, before I found myself resting my head on Monica’s left shoulder, with her head on my own.
Mr Willy could not believe his luck, and I was certainly wondering what the catch was. Portia ambled up to us and when I saw she had a riding crop in her hand I figured I was about to discover what the catch might be.
“You two make such a lovely couple,” she purred. “Nearly as cute as you and Jillian, in Macau, Steven,” she added, sending my already whirling mind back to the circuits of the dance floor that Jill and I had been forced to make in a similar position, but not with our nipples locked together. “You must have been very frustrated in these last few days, Steven. How would you like a chance to at least make up for what Monica did to you?” Before I could think of a smart remark – at least in my head – she swatted me hard on my backside with the crop.
It stung enough on top of the bruises from the caning to make me jump. And of course the jump had certain immediate implications. Mr Willy enjoyed it and my nipples were tugged against Monica’s breasts with a clink of locks. For all the momentary pain it caused in this region, it was stimulating in the extreme – a fact that was not wasted in being transmitted down to Mr Willy.
“Yes, yes that’s very good, Steven. Let’s have a little more of that, “ Portia cooed. “Up – down, up – down…” I did not need the crop to be convinced to carry on. “Excellent – keep it up while I attend to your friend Jillian.”
I did not know quite what was going on here, and my attention was momentarily distracted by watching Jill being unlocked from the chain and walked across to the pillory, where her neck and wrists were locked into the holes between the two planks. The planks were down low, such that she was bent at the waist, her legs slightly spread, her back and head horizontal.
Up – down…
Megan and Madam Wong busied themselves with several lengths of rope which they wound around Jill’s upper torso, primarily for the purpose of binding her breasts. In her helpless state with her breasts as accessible as they could possibly be, Jill could do nothing to prevent the ropes being wound around the bases and making her breasts tighten and swell as the cords were tightened. Jill’s breasts were not large, but were well proportioned mounds that gave her a figure a firm and attractive look. Having Jill’s torso horizontal gave Megan and Madam Wong the best opportunity to fully restrain the two lovely orbs with multiple turns of cord around them.
Up – down… Monica’s breathing was starting to get faster, as was my own. The proximity of Monica’s breasts was stimulating enough, but the incessant tugging on my nipples was arousing in the extreme and I knew Mr Willy was going to go all the way, very soon. Of course I did not want it to happen too quickly. Just this once I was selfish enough to consider myself only, for I considered it Monica’s fault that I had suffered this last week. That said, a man still has standards to maintain, and not lifting off without proper pre-flight preparation was part of those.
Up – down…
Madam Wong had now clipped two weights to Jill’s swollen and distended nipples. The weights dangled below the round balloons that were her breasts, and I thought I could hear muted whines of pain coming from the pilloried blonde.
Up – down… My hearing was starting to go as the blood began to pound in my ears, while Monica’s heavy snorting was going on right next to my left ear which didn’t help things. Then I saw Madam Wong come out with the cane again.
Three more strokes across Jill’s taut backside would under normal circumstances have left me horrified, and while Mr Brain registered the shock at seeing the bright red weals appear over the existing bruises, Mr Willy was on auto pilot and all systems were go. Not even Jill’s awful screams behind the muting rubber ball could avert the launch process.
Up – down… Leave me locked up for a week, will you, Monica! Take this…
The pain shot through me with terrible force as the rocket exploded on the launch pad. Portia had hit the remote that zapped me in the arse and left my plans in ruins. Mr Willy went into reverse thrust and suddenly all the tugging at my nipples went from erotic to excruciating.
I felt my body sag and it was only with an effort that I kept myself upright. I could hear Portia and Madam Wong laughing fit to bust. I suppose having a male slave’s climax cut off so decisively - not to mention denying the same to Monica – was hugely satisfying to them. I thought back to when the Twins had arrived as our reluctant clients for aversion therapy and I cursed the day I had ever built the damned plugs.
Monica and I leaned on each other for some minutes while the laughter and the pain subsided. Mr Willy, disappointed in the extreme, retreated into the world without too much persuasion, and eventually the common nipple locks were undone to separate us. Despite my intervening unkind thoughts about Monica I could see the tears and anguish in her face as she was pulled away from me and had her collar unlocked from the chain.
She was now prepared for her morning position, as it turned out. Portia attached a large black strap-on dick to Monica’s triangle, the straps running around her waist and between her legs. It was not the kind that had an extension that continued up into the woman’s pussy, enabling a good degree of pleasure to be obtained by the wearer. This morning I reckoned Monica had come as close to any pleasure as she was likely to get.
With Madam Wong on one arm and Portia on the other, Monica was marched across to where Jill was bent over in the pillory. A cord tied to each of the nipple padlocks provided enough incentive for Monica to bend over and allow the rubber dick to be inserted in Jillian’s backside. From there on both girls struggled with the pain inflicted on them. Encouraged by the pull on her nipples, Monica had no choice but to slowly screw Jillian in the arse. Jill was whining and squirming with the undoubted pain in her back passage, never mind the weights clipped to her own swollen nipples. Monica was trapped between the nipple agony and trying to lessen the inevitable pain for her friend beneath her.
It was a fiendish process, controlled by Madam Wong on the end of the cords. She played with them as though Monica were a horse and the cords a pair of controlling reins. She encouraged Monica forward with a steady pull, then eased off enough to allow a little withdrawal, thus making the penetration as protracted as possible. In truth it would have been much more painful had Monica been forced in up to the hilt in one movement, but I think Madam Wong liked the whole idea of Monica simply giving Jill a good rogering. The images of Madam Wong being herself screwed in the arse in a not dissimilar situation in a light well in Macau loomed large in my mind, as it must have done for the Chinese women over the past few months, as they plotted revenge on us. Once more the camera came out and the event was recorded for who knew what devious purpose.
When Monica was finally fully embedded in her friend’s backside, she was uncuffed and the top plank was raised, to take her wrists in the two additional holes I had made. With the plank locked down again, Monica and Jillian were going nowhere, the former impaling the latter in an irrevocable and decisive act. Portia let fly at Monica’s butt with a few cracks of the riding crop which saw Monica buck and squirm, no doubt making the rubber dick probe into any last crevice of Jill’s rear anatomy not yet touched. I could barely contain myself when I saw Madam Wong pick up the cane and deliver three further strokes to the white flesh of Monica’s tautly bent buttocks. Both girls jerked and screamed into the rubber filling their mouths before subsiding into a shaky series of sniffles and sobs that nearly broke my heart.
I wondered if this day would ever end, and whether Emma really had any chance with that crazy plan of hers…
* * *
It had been bad enough seeing what was happening to the girls around me on the back lawn, but the prospect now lay ahead of me that I would have to do some real suffering of my own, now that everybody else had paid their morning’s penance. This was the way it looked to be going when Megan unlocked my handcuffs, replacing them with a series of sashcord turns around each wrist ending in a tail about a metre long. My right wrist was pulled up behind my left shoulder blade by Megan and the tail flipped over my left shoulder. Portia stood in front of me and took the rope in her hands, and it was then that I saw what she intended to do with it as she passed it through the padlock on my left nipple.
I tried to struggle, but Megan, one hand gripping my wrist and the other waving the remote at me persuaded me it wasn’t such a good idea. It was only with hindsight that I realised she had not kept my hand up as high as it might have gone, thereby making the potential pain a degree less severe than it could have been.
Soon my left wrist was similarly secured over the right shoulder to the right nipple, and there was no way I was inclined to struggle whatsoever. Having ones pierced nipples bound to something had a fearfully calming effect, I could now state without fear of contradiction. In this state I was unhooked from the chain at my collar and marched by Portia across the lawn and through the steel emergency door into the basement. I discovered very quickly that the moment I let my arms relax and succumb to the presence of gravity, I developed a painful complaint in my nipples. It was a devious method of bondage, placing all the strain on my arms through a self-imposed loading.
My destination was the dungeon room itself. Here I found company in the form of a naked Shawnee, riding the saddle that I had developed. It had proven a highly effective device for inducing solo orgasms, including as it did arse and pussy vibrating dildos of the most stimulating sort we could find, as well as a clit vibrator and vibrators within the saddle itself.
Shawnee was astride the saddle, her feet on the floor and separated by a wide spreader bar. The saddle, on a long levered beam like a seesaw, was held firmly in her crotch by strong bungy straps pulling the other end down. At least I assumed it was Shawnee, for the figure was wearing a blow-up rubber discipline helmet which had a small tube poking out the front to allow her to breathe through her mouth. It made her head look large and shapeless, like a creature from one of the early science fiction movies. I could see dark brown hair clinging damply to the neck and shoulders which – on the basis of other possibilities – could not have been Emma’s or Leila’s, leaving Shawnee the only one unaccounted for.
Her arms were crossed horizontally behind her in a leather sheath, which was hardly the severe bondage I might have expected from her captors. On the other hand the TENS machine was parked beside her and I realised she had four patches over and around each nipple. Add this to the vibes that must have been coming up from her crotch and I thought our Shawnee must surely be away with the fairies. As if to confirm this, her body and voluptuous breasts were wracked with a series of shudders and convulsions. She threw her head back and emitted a long wailing woo-ooo sound that dissolved into grunting gasping for breath. Her torso twisted and I could see her sheathed arms banging against her back as she struggled to escape the spasms emanating from her crotch and presumably a few other sensitive spots.
“I wonder how many that makes?” Portia asked of nobody in particular.
“I think she must be into double figures.” Madam Wong had followed us into the room. She walked over to where Shawnee was doubled over from her exertions. Sweat was dripping off the bound girl, forming a damp pool on the concrete. Madam Wong lifted the black rubber balloon that was Shawnee’s head and told her: “You have a whole day of this ahead of you my dear. Perhaps you’d like a good caning instead?” She turned to me. “I realise she probably can’t hear me under the rubber. Those things are awfully tight in the first place, and when you pump them up things go quieter still. And of course when you are having an orgasm or trying to recover from one you go a bit deaf anyway.” She smiled at me – a smile which gave me no comfort. “Have you ever worn an inflatable hood, Steven?”
I shook my head. I didn’t want to try one out either, thank you very much.
“We must arrange something. See what you can do, Portia. Maybe when this one comes free, unless you have another booking on it?” She raised a perfectly-plucked eyebrow.
“I think it’ll be occupied for most of the day, but possibly after that,” Portia said genially. “You can get intimately acquainted with the smell of that sweaty little slave slut, Steven. I think you’d like that.”
I realised now what they were doing to Shawnee. While the rest of us were enduring the agonies of lash and clamp, Shawnee was struggling through the dubious pleasure of multiple orgasm. The pair were obviously seeing how much she could take before collapse. Caning or climaxing – some choice.
“Put him on the bench,” said Madam Wong. I was made to lie down on my back on the padded whipping bench. The top section had been removed so that it was a little above knee height. My knees just reached the edge so that my lower legs hung down the end face. Portia bound my ankles together and secured them to a cleat or some other anchor point, then passed a wide leather strap across my midriff, buckling it on one side so that I was locked in place, my arms trapped underneath me.
“I’ll leave you to enjoy the morning, then,” Portia said. “You’d better take the remote, though I think our boy has learned his lesson. He won’t give you any trouble, I’m sure.”
“We’re going to have such fun this morning,” Madam Wong told me when Portia had closed the door behind her. The dungeon was quiet save the persistent hum of vibrators in the corner and a distant ragged breathing interspersed with the odd grunt from the bound Shawnee. Madam Wong circled the platform, dragging her long fingernails lightly up and down my body.
“Things have come a long way since that little birthday present you gave me in the ballroom at my house.” She smiled as if at the memory, but it may have been anticipation. “I remember that. It was very special. You were very good.”
Just doing what comes naturally, Ma’am, I thought – if you could pardon the pun.
“I thought we’d do a little more of it here, if that’s all right with you.” Her fingers stopped at Mr Willy, who seemed to have got over the nasty shock he had been privy to on the back lawn. Truth be known, the noises that young Shawnee was making were having a decidedly arousing effect, and Madam Wong’s teasing fingers did nothing to staunch the flow of blood in that area. Pretty soon Mr Willy was standing at attention and being caressed by my captor.
“How long can you remain like that?” she asked.
“Nnffftmmmmnp” I said truthfully.
“A likely story. I think you’ll need a little help.” My quizzical noises were rewarded with a painful tightening down south and a zipping sound. I raised my head and saw that she’d tightened a plastic cable tie around the base of my buddy. She was pulling out another, smiling as she did so and waving it in front of my face. I did not like this at all and shook my head decisively. That only made her laugh as she zipped the second tie up around Mr Willy and Mr Scrotum. Ouch – that stung!
“Guess you’ll be up for hours…” she murmured in my ear. That was just before she unzipped her white leather skirt and let it drop to the floor. She unbuckled my gag and pulled it out of my mouth with a plop. What a joy it was to be able to move my jaw again. Moments later her shaven pussy had insinuated itself over my face while her mouth performed a serious undulation up and down Mr Willy. I was in no doubt that it was definitely time to get my jaw moving.
That set the scene for the next…I don’t know how long. I was in no position to do anything except to eat pussy, which, I confess, I did to the best of my ability, forwards, backwards, sideways, whatever. Madam Wong took off with a spirited climax which regrettably was not reciprocal, thanks to the now very restrictive ties about Mr Willy. And in the background Shawnee was sounding off again, while Madam Wong was doing an intermittent hand job on me. It was intermittent because in between hands she had stripped off her top and rubbed her breasts over most of my body, including Mr Willy.
They were nice breasts, as I had remembered, small, well-formed, pert and hard. I was also hard, and when Madam Wong skewered her well-lubricated pussy on me I thought I was going to die. But anchored as I was at the ankles and waist I could barely manage a pelvic thrust, much less get my jet fuel past the constricting O-rings.
Three times she climaxed, screaming the dungeon down in a flood of Cantonese that made Shawnee sound like the Horse Whisperer. Three times to a big zero on my part, that is, Wong 3, Reynolds nil. And it wasn’t from lack of effort on my part. It seemed I had swapped one form of unfeeling frustration for another extremely sensitive form. The last effort was with her firmly astride Mr Willy using the tails from my nipple padlocks as reins – a fact which produced my best pelvic thrust efforts to date but alas, no satisfaction for me.
When Madam Wong had finished with me I was regagged and left to my own devices, lying bound on the whipping bench. Shawnee hit another peak in the corner, but I could tell her exertions were becoming less ferocious and the efforts were obviously taking their toll. I thought the poor girl must be nearly exhausted.
I was feeling a bit drained myself, although not as much as I should have been had those cable ties not been so effective. Fighting against restraints can be quite debilitating. When Leila came down with some lunch, however, Mr Willy was still doing flagpole impressions and she was not averse to playing with him for a minute in light of my helpless state. I could only make futile gagged protests as she teased me some more, although in truth she was no more able to take advantage of me being gagged herself and with the stainless steel crotch strap locked in place. But some girls just can’t help themselves. Her eyes were laughing over the gag as her nails ran provocatively and frustratingly over my member and she ignored my muffled complaints.
“Leila!” Portia appeared in the doorway. “You were told to simply deliver food down here, not to play with the merchandise. Perhaps you’d like an hour on the exercycle next door. If your bottom isn’t sore now, it will be after you’ve pedalled a few miles with that plug up your little butt hole.”
Leila shook her head and made pleading noises of apology, but I suspected the damage was done. Portia stalked into the room, fixing Leila with a withering glare, and unbuckled my gag again as well as the belt across my midriff..
“Do your job, girl. Feed your friend so he has enough stamina to cope with me for the rest of the afternoon.”
So that was the plan. Well, it was a tough job, but somebody had to do it. However I reasoned that at least if Portia was in the dungeon doing rude things to me, she would not be outside flogging the girls. Leila looked very sorry for herself as she helped me sit up and held a large fruit smoothee for me to drink through a straw. It looked like it would be all I was getting, so I tried to make the process last as long as possible.
It was while this was going on that there was a muted cry from the corner and we looked across to see Shawnee slumped forward in the saddle. Portia looked at her watch.
“Damn! I thought she’d last longer than this. I’m down a hundred bucks to Madam Wong.”
Portia went across and turned off the vibrators and the TENS machine, but left Shawnee still straddled and impaled. Portia released the air valve and Shawnee’s balloon-like head at once shrank to more human proportions. With difficulty Portia pulled the thing off, leaving Shawnee, now conscious again, looking as though she had just come out of the shower. She was gasping and trying to regain her composure when Portia spoke to her.
“One word out of you, missy, and everything goes on again – hood, machine, the lot. Understand?” Shawnee nodded dully. She looked as though she would keel over if the saddle and spreader bar weren’t holding her up.
“Haven’t you finished yet?” Portia demanded, turning back to me and Leila. I gave a loud slurp that signalled the bottom of the container. “Good. Leila, come with me. I think you can go for a bike ride after all.”
Leila was dragged out of the room by the red clad mistress to be secured, no doubt, on the exercycle and spend her time pedalling a number of miles with the nasty plug doing various uncomfortable things inside her, until there came a time for her other duties to be resumed.
I, meanwhile, sat on the whipping bench, my arms still pulled up behind me by tender means and unable to go anywhere with my ankles bound. Shawnee stood not so tall in the saddle in the corner, head bowed and looking like she had just set a new marathon world record, though perhaps a different sort of marathon from that usually associated with the Olympics.
* * *
The afternoon was more of the same for me, only this time with Portia doing the sitting, bouncing, teasing and a fair bit of loud noise making. All in all it was quite unsatisfying from my point of view. Finally, Portia grew tired and left me alone with Shawnee again. This time Shawnee had been only partly silenced with a rubber bit gag, and had been blindfolded with a black bandanna. But with the saddle and TENS machine turned on again she was away in her Shawnee World once more, and the periodic howls of ecstasy that came from her direction at least gave me some satisfaction that the device was possibly the best I had made. I had my usual hard rubber ball wedged between my teeth. It was starting to show bite marks now and fitted relatively comfortably, which is perhaps another way of making the scary statement that maybe I was simply getting used to it.
In the late afternoon – as it turned out to be when we emerged outside – Megan came to get me. Mr Willy was still upright, if not totally and painfully swollen as he had been during the height of the painful abuse from Portia and Madam Wong. Regrettably it did not take much from Megan to get him into that state again, and I was dismayed to find Monica and Jill still imprisoned in the pillory, with a nasty case of sunburn on their backs. Evidently Madam Wong was of the opinion that this might highlight a beating later on, when she could have the joy of removing shedding skin with a flogger. What fun that would be. Somehow I did not think such thoughts were doing her a disservice. I was even more dismayed to find that I was expected to do to Monica what she was doing to Jill.
Being pulled into position by my nipples was a pretty motivating incentive to perform, especially as it was Portia doing the pulling. Fortunately it was Megan doing a bit of lubricating as well, so that when I forced Monica’s cheeks apart and drove into her butt hole it was marginally less painful for her than it might have been. She still uttered a mournful “Nnnnnrrnn!” as I was driven deeper. Monica, now the meat in the sandwich between me and Jill was helpless to do anything about it.
Portia wrapped new cords from my nipple padlocks around the bodies of Monica and Jillian and we stood there, me still with my arms pulled up behind me and now giving me nasty cramps, leaning on Monica, who in turn leaned on Jill, still trapped at neck and wrists. Secured and impaled, I made gagged sounds of protests as Portia appeared with the cane. She made it swish horribly through the air with a few practice swings, and I tried to steel myself for the first stroke.
But of course reality is always worse, and as it landed on my bare backside the pain made me clench my cheeks on the plug in my arse, while driving forward into Monica, who in turn gave the plug in Jill a shove. All in all it was an unpleasant chain reaction, repeated two more times in front of Madam Wong, who was there again with her camera, exulting in our misery an desolation. Sniffling and whining with the agony of my glowing and bruised buttocks I had to admit it was truly a low point in the history of Bilboes.
Trish and Mary, I had noticed, had been removed from their previous strenuous ballerina positions. Only now, when I had done the dirty on Monica and been bound into place, could I look about me, and it was then that I could just see two forms bound hand and foot lying on the verandah.
It was nearly dusk as Portia and Megan prepared the next two victims for some form of ritual humiliation, while Leila and Emma prepared the table for the mistresses of the house. Once again they were dining al fresco, able to look down on their lowly subjects during the feast.
From my viewpoint half lying on Monica’s back looking over her shoulder I saw Mary’s ankles untied before she was hauled to her feet and her elbows bound so that they were touching, with multiple coils of white sashcord. It was thin stuff, too, the kind that would cut off circulation and the sort we would not normally use for that reason. But then we were not paying customers. We were lowly slaves in a state of perpetual punishment until Madam Wong deemed that we had paid our penance and might perhaps perform a more useful role.
Mary’s wrists were hauled upwards via a rope over the beam so she was soon in a severe strappado. Two minutes later Trish was in a similar position and Portia was working a large double-ended dildo into Mary’s arse. It stuck out like a banana until Portia backed Trish up against it and the pair were skewered bum to bum, with a couple of turns of duct tape around their thighs holding them in place. It was going to be a long, uncomfortable evening for them and for all of us. I wondered how much worse things could get from this point. I was shortly to find out.
* * *
|Monica's Revenge continues in Chapter Eleven|
|All comments welcome at firstname.lastname@example.org.
© R.Alexander 2006
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bondage stories : alexander stories