|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: 14. Location, Location by Richard Alexander MF/mf; bondage; bdsm; cons/nc; XXX|
|Chapter Fourteen: Location, Location|
We sat round the dinner table that evening as Monica briefed us again. It was a bit like a military operation.
“I want to be out of here by nine-thirty, girls.” I supposed this statement meant that I was now ‘one of the girls’. “There has been a slight change of plan. Sorry to disappoint you, Mary, but Megan will be coming with us after all.” Mary frowned in obvious disapproval. Monica continued, cutting off an outburst that Mary was clearly thinking about giving voice to: “You did such a good job on her, Mary, that she has come around to my way of thinking and is being very cooperative.
“There are two other little incentives for you. Firstly, I have made a few phone calls to our clients and explained the circumstances. Pain slut Lisa is booked in for four hours on Sunday, two of which are on the house to welcome her back.” Mary’s expression brightened visibly. “Secondly, for you and Leila, because you have to stay behind, here are two little presents.” She tossed two envelopes on the table. Mary and Leila picked up one each and began to open them.
“Our various sessions with Madam Wong were very successful in persuading her to cooperate as well. As a result, her gold Visa card will be doing a little overtime, courtesy of Emma, who today went into Myers department store to try it out – and very successfully, Emma, yes?”
“It went all right,” she agreed.
“Except you took the Wong card,” I murmured. Emma laughed.
“Yes. I signed the receipt as Jade Wong and nobody batted an eyelid. I bought some gift vouchers.”
“A thousand dollars worth! Monica – thank you!” Leila exclaimed, her face lighting up with excitement. Even Mary was smiling, if slightly more controlled.
“Don’t thank me. It seems only right that Madam Wong provide compensation for the damage she has caused,” Monica said. “This means both to our business and to you people personally. The others will get their chance to go shopping in Sydney. Mary and Leila – I’m sorry you can’t come with us, but if there’s anything you especially want that you can’t get here in Brisbane, let me know and I’ll see what I can do. Maybe something nice for your downstairs wardrobe?”
It was a nice touch – a very human side to Monica that she did not often let show. She cared for her people, however haughty she sometimes came across, and she would not stand for her staff to be demeaned, as our prisoners were now finding out. To Madam Wong it would only be money – something that she had plenty of and that she would not think twice about. But above this level Monica had more personal scores to settle.
“Jill, Emma and I will be in the Beemer, Steven and Trish will take the van,” said Monica, over the murmurs of excitement at Mary and Leila’s little windfall and the promise of a Sydney shopping spree. “Leila and Mary – you can prepare the prisoners for travel tomorrow morning while the rest of us load up.”
* * *
I parked the Transit van on the grass near the back steps the next morning. The two benches had been removed from the rear, one of which was sitting on a pair of sawhorses nearby. On it was Jade Wong’s inert body, rapidly being turned into a mummy with several rolls over wet bed sheets that had been made into strips about half a metre wide. I paused in the process of loading up my tools, to watch Leila and Mary do their work. Mary was showing Leila how to wet the sheets and to wrap them tightly around the victim’s body. They started with the victim’s feet, Leila lifting Madam Wong’s legs while Mary pulled the damp sheet tightly around the limbs, winding them up her calves and anchoring her legs together. Mary paused at that point and worked a well-lubricated medium dildo into the woman’s pussy, before turning her over on the bench with Leila’s help. Madam Wong’s arms flopped down beside the bench and I realised they must have slipped her a Bilboes cocktail for her breakfast.
Once on her front, Madam Wong received another insert – a vibrating butt plug that was pushed home into her rectum by Leila at Mary’s direction. Like the dildo, there was a trailing wire from the plug, which was passed between her legs before Madam Wong was turned right side up again. I recognised the end plugs on the wires and knew at that point that Madam Wong and (I presumed) Portia were going to be in for a very long day. They were going to receive the bum-shock and pussy-vibe torture that Monica had forced on the girls at the end of my apprenticeship at Bilboes, when we had been obliged to partake in a treasure hunt all over Brisbane to find various release keys to unlock the girls one by one from the back of the van. The girls had been locked inside, vibrators running, connected to the accelerator, with butt plugs connected to the ignition sufficiently to give them a jolt every time it was turned on. It had been a day we would not forget for a while. Our two prisoners would find it a very long and stimulating trip.
That was when I saw Mary and Leila mount two TENS pads over Madam Wong’s nipples, and join all three wires in a bunch. I guessed with only the two prisoners Monica had decided on a further use for the six-way splitter box in the back, through the judicious use of some nipple stimulation. These women were going to be a mess by the end of the day.
Then it was on with the wrapping
as Leila held the Chinese woman’s legs up again and more layers of wet
sheets went around her knees and thighs and hips, leaving the wires poking
out. Then it was the more tedious process of wrapping the abdomen
and chest, while securing the arms to the sides. With each turn of
the sheet, Mary showed Leila how to smooth it down and pull it as tight
as she could manage. This was accomplished by first winding the sheet
around a fence paling, which kept the sheet from getting tangled, then
allowed Leila to grasp each end of the paling and pull hard over the whole
width of the fabric.
On my third trip to the van I saw the strips of duct tape over Madam Wong’s mouth and the foam pads over the eyes before more sheeting – this time in much narrower strips – was wound around her head, locking her jaw closed and clamping the pads in place. A minute later her head had been enveloped entirely and the sheeting was secured with safety pins.
The final act was to bind Madam Wong firmly to the bench, which was achieved with the multiple webbing straps already attached, enabling secure fastening with the click of a clip and a hard pull on the loose end of the strap. Madam Wong was shortly anchored immovably to the bench. Mary and I lifted her up and carried her into the van.
“The head needs to be raised about six inches,” Mary said. “It’s better for blood flow, breathing, you name it. Not my idea,” she added, as if to clarify that such namby pamby treatment of prisoners was not her style. “Monica said so.”
“I never for a moment expected it of you, Mary,” I told her truthfully. “I know you have standards to maintain, despite all the backsliding that goes on here.” Mary looked at me suspiciously then realised I was stirring her and smiled. “You don’t have anything to prove to me,” I said.
“No, I guess not. Well, I’d better help Leila with victim number two. I still think they should have nipple clips, not these soft buzzy things.”
“Maybe they’ll agree with you after a day of it,” I suggested.
“Well I hope you have to do a lot of stops en route,” she said. “And I hope your ignition doesn’t work first time in each case.”
“It has been very troublesome lately,” I agreed with a smile, as I fixed the adjustable support at the head of the bench.
* * *
By the time Leila and Mary had finished turning Portia into mummy number two, and we had stowed her in the van, the interior was starting to get just a little congested. My boxes of tools were stacked under the benches and various leather, rubber and pvc outfits were hanging on the horizontal rail down the centre. Despite the fact that this was to be a one night stand, Monica, Emma, Jill and Trish seemed to think at least three outfits each would be needed, and then had the hide to tell me my tools were taking up too much space. By the time I had stashed away a drop saw, skilly, drill, boxes of nails and screws, not to mention the carry carton of hand tools, perhaps they did take up room, but I could at least claim they were necessary.
That was when I found out there was to be a third passenger in the back – Megan. In another flashback to the day of the treasure hunt, Megan was paraded in a Queensland Firebirds netball uniform of red, black and yellow lycra, that flowed about her thighs and clung tightly to her breasts. Like all of the uniforms, this one seemed to be made a size too small, but who was I to complain. I could see the outline of the TENS pads over her nipples and knew that she, too, would be in a state of exhaustion before the day was out.
Megan’s hands were locked inside rubber mittens which were similarly locked together in front of her, and her mouth was taped with a series of criss-crosses of duct tape, before a silicone rubber swim cap was pulled over her hair and several more turns of tape locked her jaw shut and wrapped further over her mouth. With this done the motorbike helmet that I had modified many months previously was fitted over her head, the two padded steel flaps locking below her chin. Megan was seated on the floor against the dividing wall between the back and the front, and a chain was locked to the overhead bar, dropping half a metre to have the other end locked to an eyebolt protruding from the top of the helmet. This would allow her to be seated, but not to lie down, while still giving her some movement. Monica poked her head in the rear just as I began to connect up the various plugs to Portia, now slowly coming to her senses on the left hand bench.
“Now that everybody is on Planet Earth,” she said genially, “let me explain what’s going to happen to you today. You will be chauffeured in this luxury van to Coff’s Harbour today, which, for the benefit of the non-local passengers, is a distance of around four hundred and thirty kilometres from here.” This was Monica at her pedantic best, making them realise exactly what was in store for them. “At an average of seventy-five klicks an hour, it will take perhaps six hours. But then there’s lunch and morning tea stops, so it will be a very full day, since driving is such hungry work.
“And so you understand the luxury you’re travelling in, the butt plugs in your arses, ladies, are wired to the ignition. Every time we start up, zapper-roony up the old rectum, comprendo?
“However just to show we’re not totally heartless, you will discover that those nice little pads fixed to your nips, and the dildos wedged in your pussies, are connected to the accelerator. It’s a very simple thing – the closer the pedal goes to the floor, the more the revs go up inside you. I wish you a very pleasurable trip.” Monica grinned at the two sightless mummified heads now twisting futilely as they discovered these were the only parts they could actually move at all.
“Oh, and as for you Megan, you have been spared the tight bondage that these two will undergo, in return for which you will perform a duty of care in watching over them. If there is any problem, you are to communicate it at once, as best you can, to Steven and Trish in the front cab. The sliding window will remain open for that purpose. And woe betide you if they are forced to stop for any reason other than an emergency.”
I finished connecting Madam Wong and moved over to Megan, now leaning against the dividing wall. Resignedly she raised the hem of her skirt and I picked up the three wires with their plugs ready for attaching. All the connections were lockable and I saw that under Megan’s flared nylon skirt a wide leather crotch belt had been locked in place, effectively preventing removal of the inserts. I reckoned the nipple pads would be off before the end of the trip, until I later found out they had been secured with super glue, and with Megan’s hands locked in the rubber mittens, it was evident Monica was ahead of the play again.
Our personal luggage was mainly in the BMW with Jill, Emma and Monica, whom we could contact by mobile phone if we got separated. Obsessive Monica had given us a map, told us where we should have lunch and morning and afternoon tea, and where we would be staying the night.
I started the engine. It spluttered into life at the third attempt while I winked at Mary, standing by the door, and took no heed of the muffled squeals coming from the rear.
“You’re awful,” Trish said, meaning none of it.
“I know. Remember that comment when it’s your turn to drive, and also remember that this van is very hard to start some times.”
With a final wave we left Leila and Mary standing on the steps and drove around the side of the house to follow the silver Beemer down the drive.
* * *
It was a brilliant day for travelling. The temperature was in the high twenties and once clear of downtown Brisbane we could hit 110 kph down the Pacific Motorway and I could picture the vibrators whirring away as the strapped down figures tried to fight their total immovability. Fifty kilometres into the trip, her curiosity piqued by odd noises coming through the window, Trish undid her seat belt and turned around to check the interior behind her.
“Looks like Portia just took off,” she said with a grin, sitting down again. “Monica is such an artist at this.”
“How did you come to be mixed up with her?” I asked.
Trish gave a throaty chuckle. “It’s a long story, Steven. I think you hit the nail on the head when you said ‘mixed up’. I guess we all are, aren’t we.”
“Some more so than others.”
“Damn right. You’ll understand what I mean when I tell you that I came to Monica through Mary.”
“Oh. That explains a lot.”
She laughed again. “Yeah, I think it does. Not sure what it says about me, though,” she added.
“So how did you get mixed up with Mary, then?”
“Oh, a long time ago I came to Australia – the late eighties, it was. I had my interior design qualifications and I was seeing the world for the first time. Got involved with a guy… He was into B & D and from that point so was I, like it or not.”
“And did you?”
“Yeah – up to a point. I wasn’t too keen on having the crap whipped out of me, but then came the time when I found my boyfriend having it off with another girl – after tying her up, of course. Well, I have to say, I was mad as all hell, and I gave her a real good going over, ‘cos he’d left her like that, as he had a habit of doing. I got the biggest buzz of my life and she got the biggest fright of her life.”
“And of course I walked out on him, but found my whole world had been turned upside down. You have to understand I was only twenty something, and Sydney in the eighties was still pretty liberated compared to BC. Kings Cross had everything. I was blown away. Well, I saw opportunities here that interior design could never give me. Still love it, but it comes a poor second.” She gave a husky giggle.
“Well, to cut a long story short, I got involved with all sorts of people, usually the wrong type. Got into a lot of scrapes but managed to find my way out. Got into drugs. Mary found me and got me off them.”
“Mary did?” I was astonished.
“Yeah. Amazing, eh. Let me tell you a few things about our Mary. Firstly, don’t believe the act. She’s not half as hard as she makes out.”
“I’ve already worked that one out.”
“Have you now?” She shot me a sly look. “I won’t go down that road. Did you know she used to read the news for SBS?”
“I heard some allusions to it. But you girls keep your stories pretty close to your collective – and I might say, beautiful, chests. Why did she give up that life? It must’ve been pretty glamorous.”
“Dunno. She doesn’t talk about it. I think something happened – something pretty significant that made her get out. It was a very high profile existence – maybe too public…”
“And she’s never told you?”
“No,” Trish mused. “I suppose we are a rather secretive lot. I guess we’ve found our little niches in life and want to stay there. We all have our secrets, and sometimes it takes a while in this business to trust people sufficiently to let them in on some things.”
“I still can’t believe you were on drugs, Trish.”
“Yup. Not a pretty sight in those days.”
“And Mary got you out?”
“Sure did. Into rehab, put me up in her own place and finally introduced me to an establishment where I could explore my own capacity for being a Domme under properly controlled circumstances.”
“So what was she doing at the time?”
“The same thing, but at least she had her life in order. Do you know she speaks French, Spanish and some Arabic?”
“Very talented girl, is our Mary.”
“She got me started properly and we’ve stayed in contact ever since. That’s over ten years.”
“So when did Monica turn up?”
“She was one of Mary’s contacts. The three of us wound up working at Dark Castle, under a well-known Sydney mistress. It was quite a big outfit, but we had issues over the way the girls were treated and eventually we all moved to Brisbane, at Mon’s suggestion. Once again we ended up working for other people, but met the other girls in the process. They were mainly doing straight stuff – escort, massage, that sort of thing. Monica being Monica, she can spot talent a mile off, and when her father died, she was the next in line and picked up the lot. He had a nice little farming business which she sold for a tidy profit and Bilboes was the result. She took Leila and Em and Jill with her, along with quite a few clients, and the rest you know.”
“I haven’t told you the half of it.”
“Let’s save that for this afternoon,” I suggested, as there was a muted wail from the rear. “Damn, you girls have all the fun.”
* * *
We stopped in Byron Bay, Australia’s most easterly point and home to all manner of surfies, hippies and back packers. Rather than eat in, Monica bought takeaways and we found a secluded spot near one of the many white sandy beaches where we could park and open the back doors to the van. As we ate, we described the magnificent scenery to the two mummied figures, although Megan could still see to a certain extent through the grill on her helmet.
The beach was deserted, even though the weather was warm. School holidays were over and the surf was apparently better closer to town. That was probably the reason Monica decided that Megan ought to go for a swim. Knowing Monica, it was something she had probably planned in meticulous detail, and her apparent spontaneous idea was undermined by the fact that both she and Jillian had their swimsuits on under their clothes.
By the time they were ready for the waves Trish and I had uncoupled Megan from the cables and had unlocked her helmet. She remained, of course, gagged and cuffed and now had a long rope knotted loosely around her neck, the ends of which were handed to Monica and Jill.
Trish, Emma and I sat on the bench seat beside the van as the threesome ran off down the sand, the bright skirt and sleeveless top of Megan in between the two more appropriately attired girls. There was a lot of squealing and jumping amongst the waves as they toyed with Megan, splashing her and dragging her into the water. Eventually they tired of their game and returned, wet and grinning, the water sparkling on their skin. Megan looked less than enthused about the whole thing. While Monica and Jill dried off and changed into their clothes, I gave Megan as good a rub down as I could before locking the helmet on her again and connecting up the cables. She remained damp and shivering, her wet skirt clinging to her thighs and her sneakers squelching.
“Don’t worry, you’ll soon warm up,” I said to her. “Both inside and out.” She grunted unhappily behind the tape before I backed out and closed the doors.
“All right, kids, playtime’s over,” Monica announced. “Let’s get this show on the road. Wagons… roll!”
* * *
It was nearly six pm before we entered Coffs Harbour. We had had a good run, sitting on a hundred for much of the last hour. When we finally pulled up alongside the cabin Monica had rented, I reckoned our passengers would be medium to well done, if the banging and frustrated cries from Megan were anything to go by.
The cabin slept six and was discretely situated far enough from adjacent ones in a grove of pine trees at one end of the camping ground. By the time we had unloaded what we needed it was dark enough to bring Megan inside, and then the two stretcher cases. The cabin was well appointed, with six bunk beds in three rooms, with a large living room/kitchen area with a microwave and hob stove.
“Wanna be my roomie?” Trish asked, a come hither look in her eye.
“Sure, but only if you promise not to snore.”
“No promises on anything, Mister,” she grinned.
“All right, troops,” Monica said. “Seeing as how this is being thrust on me, yes Emma, you may share with Jill, and I will take the top bunk above the mummies. I think we’ll give Megan the comfy chair, just like the Spanish Inquisition.”
* * *
There was a lot of fussing about before we could eat. The Chinese girls had to be unwrapped and allowed to use the bathroom. They were both exhausted and looked utterly wrung out. Being unable to use their limbs all day while fighting an endless series of orgasms had drained them of any will to resist. Monica was delighted at how effective the method had been. Both Madam Wong and Portia just wanted to curl up in a ball and sleep, but this was not allowed until after they had eaten their meal of diet supplement. Naked, they were taken to the lower bunk in their room and chained together head to toe, ankle cuffs to wide neck collars. With these locked on, any wrist restraint became superfluous, but this did not stop Monica cuffing one of Portia’s wrists to the bed frame. The women were left ungagged, on the clear understanding that Monica was sleeping on the top bunk and any noise would mean instant retribution from above.
Megan was allowed to shower the salt off herself then was taken naked to the living room and had her ankles chained to the legs of an armchair while the rest of us sorted out the dinner and relaxed in front of television. She was allowed to share our meal, then was made to do the washing up before being bound hand and foot and laid out on the sofa as an alternative to the comfy chair. She, too, was exhausted after the torment she had suffered in the back of the van, and before we had even prepared ourselves for bed Megan was asleep.
* * *
The drive the next day was slightly longer into Sydney but was largely a repeat of Saturday. The traffic was light as we drove down the last stretch of the Pacific Highway through Chatswood and North Sydney to Cremorne, where Monica’s cousin Debbie was a one-woman welcoming whirlwind.
The house was a single storey brick and tile building of the somewhat unprepossessing appearance that was a characteristic of the nineteen fifties so-called style. It was complete with a matching double garage on the right hand side that had at some stage been connected to the main house with a short enclosed passageway. In the front was the kind of overgrown garden that came with a rented house, where the occupants are really not that interested in gardening. Debbie shared the place with a friend, who had gone on holiday, leaving her bedroom vacant for at least one of us. It was Monica who sorted out the sleeping arrangements, announcing that Jill and Emma would stay in the house with Debbie and the three prisoners. The fact that there was only one spare bed in the place, namely Debbie’s flatmate’s, and the fact that it was a king size, made it pretty obvious what the arrangement was going to be for Emma and Jill, not that anybody begrudged them their relationship. The rest of us were booked in at a motel ten minutes walking distance up the road.
The garage was empty. Debbie explained that she had no need of a car, since she was able to travel to work by either ferry or bus, and while her flatmate had a car, she had taken it with her. Which left the garage as a convenient lockup for recalcitrant human baggage. I backed the van up to the garage and opened the back doors. While I unloaded my tools from the van, Trish, Jill and Emma removed the three items of human baggage and deposited them in the empty garage. Monica was already there, sizing up the place for anchor points and items that could be turned to the advantage of a good bondage practitioner. I followed her gaze to the wooden trusses that spanned overhead. The potential there was obvious. Monica motioned me over to where she was talking with Debbie.
“Would your landlord mind of we put a few dynabolts into the brickwork?”
“For prisoner restraint? Of course not. As long as they’re done discretely and we leave no bloodstains at the end of the day, who’s to complain?”
“Certainly not these three,” I suggested, indicating the two mummies now propped up against the wall, and the dejected figure in the lycra netball uniform and crash helmet. Trish had already used her initiative and with the help of a stepladder had locked the chain from the top of the helmet around the bottom truss beam, leaving Megan no option but to stand where she was.
As I ferreted around in the boxes of tools and accessories for some dynabolts, Emma and Jill unwrapped first Portia and then Madam Wong. Both women could barely stand and there was much groaning and whimpering as the butt plugs and vibrators were extracted from what were obviously very sensitive and tender orifices. Their head bindings were left on as they wobbled inside the house, presumably for a shower. Monica remained with me and pointed out various key points for anchorages.
It did not take long to install the bolts, and as I put down my drill I saw that Monica had been working on Megan. The girl’s mittened hands were now locked to the chain above her helmet and Monica had installed her ankles in a spreader bar, which was part of a collection of equipment that had come down with us. As I watched, Monica undid the crotch belt under Megan’s skirt and let it drop to the floor, then eased out the vibrator and the butt plug. Megan was squirming with obvious the sensitivity of her private places while Monica walked behind her and cooed close to her head.
“You should consider that just a warm up, Megan dear. You really ought to think of other people besides yourself.” Her hands ran over the tight lycra material stretched over Megan’s breasts. I could see the outline of the TENS pads under the fabric, leading down to the cable now hanging freely below the hem of her skirt. Monica’s hands roved over the shiny material in a most sensuous way that made Megan’s mounds heave and shudder as the fingers wandered south and slipped under the nylon skirt. “It’s all very well for you, Megan. You’ve been getting yourself off all day but none of us have had that pleasure. What about poor Steven here? He’s been driving for two days and now has to work even more to get a nice place prepared for you to sleep. Don’t you think you owe him something?”
Where was Monica going with this, I asked myself. As if in answer, she beckoned me over and indicated that I should have a little tactile inspection of Megan myself.
“Remember that time in Bilboes’ basement when this tart and her mate did those very unpleasant things to us?” Monica asked me.
“How could I forget?”
“We could be very nasty and whip the arse off this one,” Monica said. There was a whimper from under the helmet. “Alternatively we could be very forgiving and show Megan that we are human and recognise that people get led astray. We could instead give her something nice. What do you think of the merchandise, Steven?”
I was standing behind Megan, with Monica beside me, both of us outside of the girl’s limited vision under the helmet. Monica made an obvious hourglass motion to me. I slid my hands down the smooth, taut sides of Megan’s top, then around her waist and up over her breasts. I detected little shudders as my fingers strayed over the pads. Her nipples were straining to become erect, of that there could be no doubt, and that wasn’t the only thing, for Mr Willy had woken up with a vengeance. I pushed myself against the restrained figure, burying the lump that was Mr Willy in the cleft between Megan’s buttocks. She moaned softly but could do nothing as my hands found their way under her skirt and down to her wet, swollen labia. There was a muffled gasp and a jerk as my fingers probed into her pussy. Monica handed me a battery-powered vibrator. I slid my fingers against Megan’s clit and tantalised it as her voice went up an octave and her breath began to come in ragged, irregular gasps, interspersed with pleading grunts.
“You see the kind of people we are, Megan? We’re not vindictive. We’re normal, reasonable human beings who have nothing against a little fun. I don’t know whether you’ve had enough yet – I suspect not…” Megan was now trying to squirm and wriggle within her bonds but had precious little scope for this. When she felt the head of the vibrator against her pussy she began to moan and struggle harder, but she had no chance. Her efforts to twist her body came to nought as I slipped the device slowly inside her, one hand working her clit and the other winding up the power as the intruder slid home.
Within a minute Megan was straining and tugging at the chain holding her upright. I wrapped my left arm around her and gripped her right breast, while my right arm cupped her pussy and held the vibrator deep and hard within her. She reached the inevitable stage of wanting to breathe and cry out at the same time, with the result being a series of moaning grunts, rapidly rising in pitch and speed. I pushed myself against her, gripping her stretched body so she could barely move, conscious of Monica looking on with a broad smile but also conscious that Mr Willy was getting precious little joy out of the whole exercise.
Megan abruptly reached a ferocious climax, shaking her chained arms and head and crying out into the tape under the helmet – a cry that merged into a dying series of shuddering moans as her body went limp and she sagged at the knees. Monica let her hang for a minute then climbed on the stepladder and unlocked the chain from the beam. I held Megan as she collapsed, and we laid her gently on the concrete floor, her breasts heaving as she fought for air.
“Very good,” Monica murmured to me. “I appreciate your efforts, Steven. That sort of thing is somewhat unrewarding from your point of view – and mine, for that matter.” She smiled and rubbed a hand sensuously down the crotch of her jeans. “I think we both deserve a little recreational release tonight, don’t you think?”
* * *
We spent the next morning doing what I loved the best – well, after certain other pleasures of the flesh, that is – namely hanging out at the hardware warehouse. In this instance Trish and I were doing our thing while Emma tagged along to pay for everything with Madam Wong’s credit card. We had already visited the truck hire company, checked out the truck and remeasured the size of the tray. Being a builder, having an HGV licence came with the territory – you never knew when you would need it in everyday life – such as driving in the Gay and Lesbian Mardigras…
We did not intend to get the truck until Friday, the day before the parade. I had decided the double garage was big enough to prefabricate everything inside and then install it on the truck on Friday/Saturday. This way we would have privacy and not be affected by weather.
We came out of the hardware place loaded up with all manner of cool stuff like steel brackets, big bolts, pulleys and lengths of rope. Trish had purchased her paint, brushes, heaps of silver foil and a few other things from the craft department and we had ordered the timber to be delivered that afternoon. Emma had signed for the lot and we had returned to Debbie’s house all fired up over what was going to be a wonderful creation.
Monica and Jill had been busy as well, for when I opened the side door of the garage I found Madam Wong and Portia looking very uncomfortable. We had agreed that unless by prior arrangement only the side door would be used from now on, because of the possibility that a passer by might consider it unusual enough seeing bound females strung up in a garage to phone the police.
In this particular case, both Chinese women were on their knees on a thin futon that had been rolled out on the floor. It was where they had slept that night, their hands bound into their crotches, with neck-to-knee ropes that left them in semi-foetal positions. Monica had reckoned it was all they were capable of after their ordeal strapped to the benches for two days while their front and back passages vibrated or were zapped, depending on the movement of the van.
Their positions now were infinitely more uncomfortable and had a pronounced oriental influence, I thought. Their forearms had been bound together horizontally behind them with a coarse jute rope which continued with multiple turns around their bodies, trapping their upper arms and cinching around their breasts. There were further ropes binding their breasts so that they bulged unnaturally, and other ropes that went from behind their necks down through their crotches, splitting the two lines of inserted stainless steel rings. As if this discomfort was insufficient, the women’s ankles had been bound to their thighs and they were now resting on the points of their knees, half supported by ropes from the overhead beam attached to the bindings behind their shoulder blades with further supporting ropes running forward under their armpits and up to the beam. Predictably both women sported large ball gags through which they whimpered from the obvious pain of their bindings, not to mention the agony that would be coming from the small steel vices screwed up so as to pinch their nipples.
“This is something similar to what they did to Jill in Macau,” Monica said casually, casting a disdainful glance at the two black-haired women whose heads hung dejectedly. “The vices are their own – or rather Megan’s. Jill was on the receiving end of those at Bilboes. I am a great believer in the philosophy of what goes around, comes around, as you know.
“While we’re waiting for your timber to be delivered, I thought we would give these two a little tickle up on their feet. I’m sure you remember that from Macau, Steven?” I nodded, memories of being bound immovably in Madam Wong’s dungeon, having my feet caned, made me shiver. “I thought Jill would be an appropriate deliverer of the punishment, unless you wish to partake?”
I shook my head. In fact it had been Portia’s friend, Mistress Nightshade who had beaten the soles of my feet unmercifully, but I still had a personal issue with the infliction of pain in this manner on women. It was a private reluctance in a case such as this, where there was a decided unwillingness on the part of the recipient, regardless of the justification. Perhaps if they were paying money for it I might have felt differently. Whatever the reason, my mixed-up mind was more than happy to leave the job to Jillian.
The two prisoners’ heads had lifted at the sound of what was about to happen to them, and both women made muted mmmphing sounds of protest, shaking their heads briefly, until they found the heavy clamps on their nipples swung about too much, obviously adding further pain to their bound, distended breasts.
Jillian appeared, wearing high black boots and a short, sleeveless leather dress. Various light chains across the front clinked as she walked. Around her throat was a thin black collar with studs, and she wore dark makeup which made her more forbidding than I had ever seen her before.
“I think I’ll go and attend to Megan,” Monica announced at that point. “The poor girl is finally getting a shower and has promised to demonstrate some of her other skills to me,” she said with an arch smile.
I almost asked her if the previous night – when she had sneaked into my bedroom in the motel - had been unsatisfactory, but I thought the better of it, as she closed the door behind her and left just me and Jill with the two helpless prisoners.
Jill walked slowly round the semi-suspended women. Their eyes followed her as best they could, the fear in them plain to see. Jill swished the thin cane a few times through the air. It made an evil, fearsome sound. I wanted to unpack the stuff we had bought at the hardware store, but I was conscious that Jill was creating an atmosphere loaded with tension and dread. It would have been like speaking during a live theatre performance.
I had never seen Jill like this. She had always seemed to me to be cheerful and warm-hearted, without the mean streaks and deviousness that Monica, Mary and even Trish could sometimes display. Jill was a complex girl, her bi-relationship with Emma and her switch role within Bilboes had been added to by the demons she had picked up during her period of imprisonment and torture in Macau.
The cane whizzed closer, making the prisoners flinch as it neared their bodies. Jill stopped in front of them, standing regally on her high heels, gazing dispassionately down at the bound women. She used the cane to flick the steel vices gripping the nipples of Portia and Madam Wong in turn. They both squealed and moaned, shaking their heads from the pain.
Jill squatted slowly with a faint squeak of polished leather. She reached out and lifted Portia’s chin.
“Look at me, Portia,” she said softly. Her voice was not harsh, but even and controlled, and had an overtone of menace that could not be mistaken. Portia stared at her captor with red-rimmed eyes. “Let’s go back in time for a minute. Do you remember putting those nipple vices on me?”
Portia nodded as best she could.
“Do you remember giving them an extra turn for fun, and leaving them on me all night?” Another nod and a whimper. The whimper turned to a high-pitched plea as Jill put her cane down and grasped the vice on Portia’s left breast and gave the handle a slight turn. The whimper turned to a frantic snorting moan that continued as further pressure was applied to the right nipple. Tears streamed down Portia’s face as she shook her head in an effort to deny the excruciating pain that was no doubt coursing through her breasts.
Jill continued, oblivious to the moans of pain that were mixed up with Portia’s efforts to breathe and make noise at the same time. “Do you remember suspending me from that frame on the roof of the house in Macau?” There were more moans, but they were evidently inconclusive to Jill. “I want to see you nodding if you remember, Portia,” Jill continued evenly. Portia nodded again and obviously wished she hadn’t as more pain shot through the crushed nipples. “You hung me up and left me for hours in the sun. You beat me there. You beat me in the light well, and in the dungeon. Doesn’t it seem reasonable that I should return the favour?” Miserably Portia shook her head, provoking another burst of pain as the vices swung again.
“No?” Jill was surprised. “Why ever not? You forget who is the Mistress here, Portia. You are not in a position to request anything. Had I done such a thing in your dungeon, I would have been punished for it. Is there any reason why the same should not be done to you?” Portia sniffled and hung her head, whimpering but making no other positive or negative indications.
“Too bad,” said Jill, in mock sadness. She sighed. “I really have no choice in the matter, do I?” Rhetorical question or not, it got no answer. Jill moved two paces to her right and squatted on her heels in front of Madam Wong.
“Do you remember suspending me by my thumbs as the centrepiece of your birthday party?” Red-eyed, Madam Wong nodded then she too screeched into her rubber ball as Jill tightened the screws on the two vices. There were more tears as Jill pushed a lock of blonde hair behind her ear, picked up the cane and stood up.
She walked around the two women again, slowly, stretching out their apprehension and fear. For a moment, setting aside the sharp contrast of her blonde hair on the black leather, I saw a glimpse of Mary coming through – the willowy, haughty, merciless elegance that left her victims in no doubt what was about to befall them.
The first cut of the cane, when it came, was without warning. It caught Portia across the upturned soles of both feet. She jerked and screamed into the gag, twisting and squirming within her bonds. This provoked more swinging of the vices and Portia screwed up her face in agony, making rapid, high-pitched grunts that might have been pleas for mercy. Another stroke and more thrashing about by Portia in the confinement of her ropes. Her eyes bulged as she uttered a high nasal wail as the pain from her nipples competed for her full attention with the pain from the soles of her feet. Her hands opened and closed, the fingers fluttering as she tottered about on the points of her knees.
Tears flooded down Portia’s cheeks as the third blow landed. Jill had a look of terrible calm on her face as her personal expunging of the memories continued as though I wasn’t there. I decided that in fact it was appropriate to make myself scarce, and I slipped quietly out the side door. Jill’s expression worried me, for it almost looked like she had gone off to another place. I decided to remain outside the door.
I counted a further three muffled screams before the pitch changed and I recognised Madam Wong’s stifled cries. I counted a further six blows, the pauses between the screams becoming shorter. They had continued past six, becoming almost continuous when I opened the door. Jill was in full flight, her attention now split between the two bound figures each desperately trying to get away from the blows to the limit that their suspension ropes allowed, which was minimal. Both prisoners were screaming and crying into the rubber balls wedged in their mouths and I saw that Jill, too, was crying, her previously calm face now a picture of anger and grief as she lashed out at the now-welted upturned soles.
I grabbed Jill’s wrist as she swung her arm upward for another blow. She was not even aware of my presence and turned in surprise, then seemed to lose all her ferocity. Her mascara was streaked and her face crumpled as the tears flowed.
“That’s enough,” I told her quietly as she collapsed into my arms, sobbing. It seemed that I was the only one not crying, as the continuous sniffling sobs from Madam Wong and Portia mingled with Jill’s tearful outburst as she buried her face in my shoulder. I held her for a long time as the outburst slowly subsided, then led her out of the garage and away from her nemesis.
Emma was in the living room. She looked up from the magazine she was readying, an expression of concern on her face as Jill and I entered.
“Look after her,” I said to Emma. “I think she needs a cup of tea, a good talk and a lie down. She’s been working some monkeys off her back. I think she’ll be a lot better for it when she settles down.”
* * *
By the time the timber arrived that afternoon, things had indeed settled down, at least as far as the good guys were concerned. Jill had been hugely apologetic to me but looked much better for her cathartic release. Monica had evidently been favourably impressed with Megan’s abilities and emerged from the spare bedroom looking flushed and very content with the world. I had received further compliments from her after Emma had told her the story, and eventually Monica had removed the vices from the prisoners’ nipples, to the accompaniment of much muffled crying.
When Trish and I finally got down to setting up a makeshift workbench and doing the layout for the truck tray and the scaffold, as we called it, things had quietened down all round. The two suspendees remained bound as before, but without the terrible nipple torture. They still hung as witnesses to what we were about to build, like condemned men being forced to watch the construction of the scaffold.
Following the events of the morning I was about as laid back as it was possible for me to be and still remain conscious. I was on good terms with everyone and doing something I loved. Life didn’t get much better.
* * *
Over breakfast the next morning we discussed what we still had to do. Debbie had gone to work and the five of us sat around the dining room table looking out on a fresh Sydney morning.
“As far as I’m concerned,” I said, “you can all go off and shop yourselves silly. I think you all deserve it.”
“But we can’t leave you to do all the work!” said Emma.
“Poor Emma,” Monica said, as one might to a retarded child. “This is the male speaking. The male who wants to be left alone to build his mighty construction. The male who wants to erect a symbol of his manhood and ego. Do not interfere with these desires, my child. Learn and understand.”
“It’s guy stuff,” observed Trish simply.
“Maybe,” I countered defensively. They always ganged up on me in these situations. “Why can’t you accept that I’m just being nice to you?”
“We do, Steven,” Jill said, laying her hand on my arm and giving me her most dazzling smile. “I think it’s a wonderful gesture, and I for one would be happy to drag the others around the fleshpots of Sydney, especially if our Emma is going to be signing the money away.”
“Me too,” said Trish.
“Debbie has told me about the most wonderful fetish shop,” Monica enthused. “They have the latest in latex body paint and a few little surprises I’m thinking about for our pair of refugees.”
“But what about some help for you, Steven?” Trish asked, not wanting to leave me short handed, but clearly tempted by the shopoholics.
Which was how Megan came to help me.
* * *
I was already getting things sorted out when Monica and Jill began to set things up for our Chinese guests. Naked and fresh from a shower, the pair were led back into the garage wearing matching rubber hoods with their wrists locked in leather cuffs in front of them. The hoods were full face with only an opening for the nose, beneath which I could see the bulge of a ball gag through the black rubber.
Monica had produced a nasty-looking piece of metal pipe with a butt plug attached at right angles at each end. Monica told me that Mary and Trish had been subjected to the device in Bilboes’ dungeon, so it seemed only fair that our guests experience it as well. On Monica’s instructions I had attached it with a strap to a piece of twenty centimetre wide plank, which had been laid on several bricks I found lying around. Madam Wong was the first to be made to sit on a vertical prong, which gave her considerable pain, despite its lubrication, as she was obliged to first squat then ease herself fully on to the thing. With the first prisoner in place, Portia then had to repeat the performance on her half of the device, ending up back to back with her employer. Monica then placed their legs out in front of them, on the plank, and produced some heavy-duty cable ties which she threaded together in two pairs. These went round each pair of legs, just above the knees, locking them tightly to the plank. It was an ingenious system, for without any further attachments the pair were unable to move their legs or extract themselves from their impalement..
Monica’s final act was to tie a cord to each set of wrist cuffs and pull them forward so the arms were stretched out ahead of them, holding them bent as though they were touching their toes. The could be no suggestion of bending the knees under those circumstances. The cord was then tied off to the end of the plank and I reckoned that before long the muscles in their arms and all down their legs and backs would begin to stretch and ache.
“You can keep an eye on them, can’t you,” Monica said blithely. “They won’t be any trouble.” I bet they wouldn’t be. Not much scope for it when you can’t speak, see or move.
“Sure. Where’s Megan?”
“Emma’s bringing her in now.”
Megan had also been bathed and still wore her lycra netball outfit. Her nipples were in evidence through the thin fabric and I guessed that Monica must have managed to remove the pads previously fixed there, using some sort of solvent on the superglue. Megan had been hobbled with a chain at the ankles and a ball had been locked in her mouth.
“Think you can get some work out of her like that?” Monica asked.
“Yes. Obviously you don’t want her talk to distract me.”
“You’re a soft touch, Steven,” said Monica with a smile. “You’d probably end up making lunch for her. Only two meals a day, remember?”
“You’re a hard woman, Monica Armstrong.”
“Didn’t get where I am today by being anything else,” she agreed. “See you later.”
In truth there actually wasn’t much Megan had to do, aside from hold the end of a piece of timber from time to time, since I didn’t have a decent work bench. I gave her a pair of ear protectors for when I was using the circular saw, which was quite often, and Megan appeared content to sit on a box, hobbled and gagged, just watching me work. Given some of the recent treatments she had been through, it must have been almost pleasant. She was happy to get me a cold drink when I asked for one, and she came back with some biscuits as well. I think if she could have smiled around the ball in her mouth she would have done so. As it was she gave me a big-eyed look and managed to appear cute. So cute that it was almost a come-on. Almost. I could not help but notice the close brushing past, the brush of lycra and nylon as she returned to her box, and manage to reveal her legs almost to the crotch as she sat down.
I managed to ignore her until early afternoon. She had made me lunch of salad and pasta, which I have to say was pretty good, and way past my usual expectations. By that time I had put together the two main scaffolds. I should explain that the frame I was going on the truck comprised three sub-frames. Two of these were identical, shaped like a capital ‘I’. These would sit upright, crossways on the back of the truck about three metres apart. The horizontals would span the full width of the tray and the frame would be about two and a half metres high. Between these, keeping them apart on the centre line was a rectangular frame that would give longitudinal stability. All three frames were made from doubled up four-by-two’s and had diagonal bracing at each right angle, just like a real scaffold. The intention was to have Portia and Madam Wong spreadeagled facing outwards, on opposite sides of the truck. Their wrists would be secured to the outermost top points of the I-frames and their ankles to the lowest points. To hold things secure we would take the ropes over a pulley at the top points and ratchet it down at the rear of the tray.
I made up the I-frames on the concrete floor of the garage, laying them out on their sides. This made for less distortion and meant everything could be bolted up without the need for any other support. By the time I had done the second one, Megan’s boredom was beginning to show.
At afternoon teatime, out came the cold drink and as I rested on her box she decided my shoulders needed a massage. Then it was the press of her breasts against my back, and before long her hands were down the front of my shirt doing wicked things to my nipples and I had her heavy gagged breathing in my ear. I wondered whether this was a follow-up to the role-play we had gone through on her first visit to Bilboes, where I had done my evil asylum warden routine (or was it rooting?), or whether she was just getting randy through natural inclination and through having to watch me bending over all the time. Some women were like that, so I was reliably informed.
“Look, I haven’t finished yet. I know what you’re up to, young lady, and you’ll have to desist. In fact you’re obliging me to make sure you do.”
“Urh?” said Megan, widening her eyes at me. I couldn’t decide whether this was not understanding, or in fact a dare. I grabbed a coil of sashcord and ordered her to present her wrists to me. She did so, with the barest hint of reluctance. I was sure I could see a sparkle in her eyes. I doubled the cord and looped several turns around her wrists, cinching them tightly then tossing the rope over the bottom beam of the roof truss. As I pulled on the ends, so her wrists went up above her until she was fully stretched. I took the rope down her back and through her legs, pulling the hem of her skirt between her cheeks, and tucking the front hem over her pussy before pulling the rope tight. She was making little whimpering sounds when I tied off the rope around her waist, leaving her to debate how hard she wanted to tug at the expense of having it forced into her pussy.
Megan made noises of disappointment as I returned to my work, but I couldn’t miss the squirming that now went on as the rope began to work its way deeper into her cleft. By the time I had done what I intended to do that day, Megan had got herself into a fine tizz, for the rope was clearly getting her excited, but was some way short of doing the job all the way.
“A bit frustrated are we, Miss?” I asked, putting my tools in the corner. She nodded reluctantly and looked at me as if butter wouldn’t melt in her mouth. “So what am I supposed to do about it?” She shrugged, and if there was ever a misleading shrug, this was it. “Monica would leave you there for the evening. You know that. I think I will too.”
That did it for Megan. She realised her bargaining position was not strong and finally shook her head and gave me a pleading look, along with some unintelligible pleading noises.
The protests went up a note when I left the garage, but in fact I was only going inside to get the keys that Monica had left for emergency release. It did not perhaps qualify as such, but emergency was in the eye of the beholder, I reckoned. I returned and removed the chain between Megan’s ankle cuffs, while leaving the cuffs themselves in place. I also undid the rope about her waist. She uttered a long sigh as I prised it free from her crotch. The sashcord was wet with her juices and her short nylon skirt also showed signs of excitement in her southern regions. I kept her wrists as they were, however, tying the loose end of the rope around her wrist ropes in another cinch.
“Has anyone every told you you’d make a really cute netballer?” I asked, running my hands over the swelling of her breasts under the taut material. She shook her head and closed her eyes at my touch, thrusting herself forward as much as she could with her hands secured above her. “I reckon you’d do even better as a ballet dancer, however,” I said, squatting to attach another rope to her right ankle cuff. Her eyes snapped open and she looked at me without comprehension, until I tossed this rope over the beam as well. Moments later her right leg was starting to go up in the air as I hauled on the rope, which crossed the beam almost directly above her head. I was conscious of her ability to do the splits and the ease with which she had managed it in the bondage position we had first tried her when she was still nominally a client.
Her leg remained straight while she twisted and maintained an angle that was sustainable, and soon her foot was above her head. I watched closely for signs of distress – more than normal, that is – but I could detect none. I was amazed and Megan had broken into a light sweat by the time her right leg was almost vertical, almost tucked against her chest and head in classic ballet style. I roped the loose end to her ankle and she was held there, immobile, unable to move any part of her save her head. He skirt had slipped back to the top of her thigh, revealing her shaven pussy to the world, and it was here I now put my hand.
Megan closed her eyes again as I cupped her mound and slid first one, then two, then three fingers inside her. Her breathing was strained and shallow, the rate beginning to rise. Her pussy was tight and obviously sensitive in the position she was now forced into.
“You’re a little slut, Miss Megan,” I whispered into her ear, suddenly withdrawing my hand. “Coming on to me like that. Whatever happened to being the mistress in charge? I should whip that little pink temptation so that you won’t think about using it for a fortnight.” I picked up a riding crop as I said this and Megan’s eyes widened in alarm as she realised that what had been a lovely inviting position had abruptly turned into something terribly vulnerable. I stroked the pink lips with the end of the crop while Megan trembled from the severity of the position and the fear of what was about to befall her. With a slight twist of the crop I insinuated it between her labia and began a slow reaming of her love passage, just in the outer folds where the key nerve endings lay. Megan’s breathing started to become irregular, with short intakes of breath punctuated by faint moans as she closed her eyes. I pulled the shiny lycra of her top upwards, exposing her breasts, now tense from the strained position she held. The nipples popped out as the fabric was pulled clear. They were hard and erect. I rubbed each between my thumb and forefinger, then traced their outlines with my tongue. Megan’s nasal sighs were continuing and she still had her eyes closed when I withdrew the riding crop and stepped back, delivering two sharp flicks across the points of her breasts.
Megan let forth a nasal scream and jerked in her bonds, her eyes now wide open and scared. I let loose another flick to her pussy, not really hard, but enough to provoke a muffled howl.
“Ten of those, I think, but much, much harder,” I mused, not looking directly at her. This remark provoked a burst of protest and pleadings. I saw the glistening of tears in her eyes and knew I could not keep up the pretence. Whatever Monica said, I would never make a good Master, not while I continued to have scruples.
During this time, I should explain, Mr Willy was very much alive and well and wanting a piece of the action. Seeing naked women taut and bound in Bilboes in the past year had been an education for him, and something he found undeniably attractive. Having one to himself did not occur that often, and in fact Megan had been the last ‘voluntary’ one in what seemed an age. I let him expose himself finally to see what sight lay ahead.
“Is this what you want?” I asked Megan. Perhaps given that the other option appeared to be a severe whipping, the fact that she nodded vigorously might be taken as a sign of coercion on my part, but I believe she was truthful – a supposition that appeared correct as Mr Willy slid inside her and she emitted a long, drawn-out sign of pleasure. In her contorted stance the fit was tight and stimulating. It took only a few thrusts to take Megan in her heightened state to a climax as she tugged and jerked against the ropes, struggling to breathe in between snorting through her nose. The performance ended in a rapid “Urhh! Urhh! Urhh!”, the pause between each becoming longer as the noise became more drawn out, instilled with the softness of exhaustion.
I had yet to peak, myself, and with one hand I undid the rope holding her leg in the air. She dropped it gratefully, keeping me in place and uttering a protracted groan of relief as the stringency was replaced by the comfort of standing on her two feet again. The normality of the position seemed to fire up Mr Willy as I held her against me. After a few more strokes, however, Megan surprised me by abruptly placing her weight on her bound wrists and lifting her legs off the floor to wrap around me in a display of athleticism. It was all Mr Willy needed, for he did his volcano act with an enthusiasm that this time left me gasping and doing a leg tremble of my own. I crushed the bound girl against me and she made muted sounds of encouragement through the gag.
I held her there for what seemed and age, before we finally disentangled ourselves. Megan was soaked in sweat as I pulled her top back into a less revealing mode. Her skirt clung to her thighs in a way that suggested she would need rehydration very shortly. I was in the midst of refixing her hobble when I heard Monica’s voice.
“Hello, hello, hello, what’s all this then?” I looked up guiltily, conscious of my own cheeks flushing, as well as the sheen of perspiration on Megan’s face. “Been playing with the merchandise, have we?” Monica walked into the garage, ignoring the two hooded figures still stretched on their impaling devices who had been silent listeners to the goings on between Megan and I throughout the day. I tried to read Monica’s expression, but it remained neutral. I didn’t know if I was in trouble or not.
“I assume this girl’s arms are hanging from the rafters because she has been uncooperative?”
“Er… yes. She became very distracting,” I said. “I had to secure her more appropriately.” Monica smiled very slightly.
“Of course. What else could you have done? I hope you used that riding crop appropriately as well,” she said, looking down at the crop with the wet stain on the end flap.
“I was obliged to use it,” I agreed. “She gave me no choice.”
“Good. One must maintain standards and keep these girls in their place. Finish what you’re doing and come and see what we’ve bought.” She turned on her heel with a flash of teeth and I hurriedly clicked the padlocks in place on Megan’s ankle cuffs. I was about to go when Megan whined through the gag.
“What?” I asked. She hhmmphed and inclined her head downwards, raising her right foot as much as she could.
For all the romanticism you read about the act of making love, you can not escape the end products of such a union, whatever the film producers and Mills and Boon authors would have you believe. There is always the dreaded ‘wet spot’, and here it was sliding down Megan’s leg, a runnel of little Stevens mixed up in Megan Juice that had made a very noticeable entrance probably right in front of Monica. I had been caught in the seminal equivalent of ‘red-handed’. I grinned at Megan and wiped her leg and crotch.
“Sorry,” I said. “Worth it, though, huh?” Her eyes flashed the affirmative and her lips curled back to show her teeth around the ball in her best attempt at a smile. She nodded her head vigorously and gave a long sighing “Mmmmmmm”.
|Monica's Revenge continues in Chapter Fifteen|
|All comments welcome at email@example.com.
© R.Alexander 2006
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bondage stories : alexander stories