|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: 15. Long and Winding Roads by Richard Alexander MF/mf; bondage; bdsm; cons/nc; XXX|
|Chapter Fifteen: Long and Winding Roads|
The following day, Tuesday, Trish and I were left to get on with the next stage of the float construction. Monica, Jill and Emma took the van and its two backseat passengers on an outing. From the hints that Monica had dropped, the pair would doing quite a lot of exercise with those nasty zappers inside them that they had been so fond of us wearing. I didn’t fancy a five kilometre run while wearing those things under any conditions, much less with somebody holding the remote zapper at my heels like the sword of Damocles.
At my request Megan was left behind, and I ignored Monica’s wry look when I made this request, claiming it was simply for testing purposes. In this case it was the truth, too. Megan spent most of the time getting us drinks and lunch, clad in the same ensemble as the previous day. I had to confess I liked the netball outfit. I was not sure whether Megan was also growing to like it or to hate it, since she had not had much opportunity to explain her preferences. Nevertheless she trotted hither and thither, gagged and hobbled, fetching things as necessary and occasionally lending a hand.
Trish was right into it. Dressed like a true Tool-Time girl in a red checked short-sleeved shirt and denim skirt with sneakers and white socks, she looked totally spunky. We had a lot of laughs – as we usually did – mainly because we seemed to have similar dark senses of humour. I found it hard to wind up Trish, despite my best efforts. She was usually on the same wavelength and met my efforts with a suitably droll retort.
By lunchtime we had erected the two I-frames with the internal frame between them on the centreline. Criss-crossed wire bracing was then fitted at the top level, and I finished by installing further bracing from the top outside points of the I-frames to dynabolts in the concrete which represented fixing points on the front and rear of the truck. I was pleased that with a minimum of heavy members the structure remained quite stiff. Whether this would be the case under the loading with two semi-suspended prisoners was another story, however, and after lunch we tried out the fittings with Megan in place.
Megan served as our first crash test dummy, as we called her, much to her annoyance. She wound up spread in a stretched star shape, arms and legs at forty five degrees, wrist and ankle cuffs attached by cord to the top and bottom points of the I-frames on one side of the ‘truck’, facing outwards. The rope from her right wrist rang over an upper pulley down to a ratchet pulley between the upper and lower arms of the I-frame, a rope from which in turn ran through a lower pulley to her right ankle. A similar configuration existed for her left wrist and ankle. The beauty of the system using the ratchet pulley was that with a single pull of the rope through the ratchet, right arm and right leg were pulled tight in the blink of an eye and similarly the left side could be done. Because of Megan’s suppleness, however, we had to leave a meter of rope attached between her ankle cuffs, to stop her spreading her legs too far and destroying the tight symmetry of the position.
“Okay, struggle,” I told her. She twisted her body a bit and tried to throw her weight against the ropes. I watched the wires and timbers take the strain and noticed a slight bit of lift at the opposite bases of the I-frames.
“She’s not making much of an effort,” Trish said scathingly to me. “Maybe you need a bit of an incentive, Missy.” She picked out a narrow flat paddle from one of our boxes of props. Megan looked over her shoulder wild-eyed, shaking her head and indicating through indecipherable sounds that she thought such motivation was quite unnecessary. Trish let fly at Megan’s inside thigh. Megan yelped and jerked hard on the ropes. Trish continued with her attack, up both thighs and on the backside, swapping the paddle for a long-tailed flogger which she could flip around Megan’s body to catch her breasts.
“I want to see how much room we have to swing these things, too,” she explained casually, as though Megan was not there. But Megan was there, and was putting up a hell of a test, throwing herself against the ropes in a futile reaction to the relentless bite of the flogger and crying out against the ball filling her mouth. When Trish finally stopped, both she and her victim had worked up quite a sweat.
“How was that?” Trish asked, catching her breath from her exertions.
“Pretty good,” I replied, “but there’s still some movement on the opposite side. I think that will go away with a counter balancing load, but I need to be sure. Care to volunteer?”
Trish looked at me with a slow smile.
“Oh no – I know what you’re up to,” she chuckled. “You want to whip my arse. How silly do you think I am?”
“Honest, Trish, I won’t. I do need to test this thing. Monica always wants a proper job and so do I.” Trish laughed again, that infectious sound that left me unable to keep a straight face. “Monica will be pissed off something terrible if this fails at the critical moment.”
Trish sighed and shook her head, but it was an expression of resignation. “God, I don’t know why I let you do this to me, Steven. I know I’m a silly girl to go along with this. I just can’t help myself, damn you.”
“Thanks Trish. I do appreciate it. I’ll make it up to you.”
“Damn right, buster. I suppose you’d like me to put the cuffs on myself?”
“If it’s not too much trouble.”
“Hell no. I’m really
into self bondage, you know that.” I couldn’t tell if she was joking
or not, given one or two stories she’d told me that nominally concerned
experimentation techniques but which might have been something more self-satisfying.
“This is the part I really like,” I said. “It’s like starting the motor on something you’ve built.”
“Who’s motor are you intending to start?” Trish asked ingenuously.
“Shut up,” I said, hauling hard on the right and left ropes simultaneously. The ratchets gave a burst of clicking as Trish’s arms shot up in the air and her ankles slid apart until restrained by the joining rope.
“Wow!” she exclaimed, losing her balance momentarily and falling against the restraints. But of course she could not fall over and quickly regained her poise. I tweaked the ropes through the pulleys further, eliciting a few more clicks from each and a protest from Trish.
“Hey! That’s tight, mister!”
“I bet you say that to all the guys.”
“Ha ha, very funny.”
“What did you expect? Special treatment for Miss Softy?” She was silent, trying to think up a biting retort. “Well, go on, struggle.”
“Say please.” I lifted her skirt and slapped her cheek. “Ow! That’s not ‘please’!”
“It’s a special Bilboes form of ‘please’. Want to go for the cherry on top?”
“Okay, okay, you win. I’ll struggle. How’s this?” Trish tried her best to rock herself forward and back and side to side.
“Megan! More struggles, please!” I demanded.
I did my best to coordinate the struggles, to the left, the right, then forward and back. As the testing went on I climbed a ladder and tightened the wire cross bracing with the turnbuckles I had installed, then did the same for the main guy wires back to the bolts in the concrete. By the end of the exercise any movement in the overall frame had gone, and with the tightening of the wires the wrist and ankle ropes appeared to have tautened a smidgen as well, or else the girls were just getting tired.
“That was good. Thank you Megan,” said, wrapping a bandanna over her eyes and tying it snugly at the back of her head before I put the bulky noise protectors over her ears.
“Hurrh?” she asked, as if to say, what was going on?
“Nothing,” I said, although she couldn’t hear me by then, so I ran my finger around a nipple, letting it slide over the shiny material.
“What are you doing?” Trish asked, looking back over her shoulder as best she could.
“Keeping control of inquisitive eyes and ears,” I told her.
“The point being…?”
“Just a little privacy, that’s all.”
“Ste-ven…” Trish’s voice had a warning tone that said she was on to me, but wasn’t in a very good position to do anything about it. “Okay, we’ve done the testing. You can let me down, now.”
“Why on earth should I do that, my dearest Trish?” I asked, sidling up behind her and stroking the back of her neck.
“Because I asked nicely?” I slid my hand around the front of her body, undid the top buttons of her shirt and slipped my hand inside. Her breast was warm and felt wonderful. The nipple began to harden at the touch of my fingers and as I pressed against her body Trish shuddered and gave a whispering sigh.
“Oh… No, don’t… Look, they’ll be home any time… Please let me go… We can go back to the motel. That’ll be much more fun…”
“I don’t think so. You know you like it like this.”
“Oh shit. Why do I always let you do this to me?”
“I rest my case. You always let me.”
“Lacking conviction, my dear. Plenty of resignation about what is about to befall you, though. Did I tell you that you look very spunky today?”
“Well you do, and I’m sure it isn’t just because the outfit looked good in the mirror.”
“You fancy yourself, don’t you,” she said with attempted sarcasm but failed totally.
“Actually I fancy you at the moment.” I worked my hand under her skirt and down the front of her G-string. Mr Willy also chose that moment to put in an appearance and I pushed hard against Trish’s buttocks.
“Oh!” she said, possibly in reaction to the appearance of both parts of me. She attempted to recover herself. “Can I take it you’re pleased to see me?” I could tell that things were starting to warm up, because her breathing was just a little irregular.
“Always pleased to see you, Trish. You know that.” Both hands went under the skirt now and there was a ripping sound as the G-string parted.
“You bugger! That was brand new.”
“See Emma and get Madam Wong to buy you a whole new outfit on her credit card.”
“You have an answer to everything, don’t you… Aaahh…”
Mister Finger went for a little exploratory foray up what was a very damp pussy at that point, followed by another finger, and another. For several minutes they made concerted forays around the general area and Trish began to tremble and say all manner of rude things under her breath.
Deciding it was time for a change, I went round in front of her and did a long exploration of her tonsils, which she seemed to enjoy, if the way she sagged at the knees was anything to go by, I thought. Mr Willy was now painfully aware of his destiny and bulged against the target area beneath Trish’s skirt while I was involved in the tongue hockey. I did love the way her nipples hardened and thrust against her shirt, which – strangely – had come undone totally.
“Ohhh…Jesus, do it, will you! Now, Steven!”
“That’s a bit impolite, don’t you think?” I asked, as she broke away for breath as best she could. I stood back a fraction leaving her trying to make body contact again, but the ropes holding her wrists and ankles prevented much movement. She let out a shuddering moan of frustration and squirmed in her bonds. I knelt slowly in front of her and lifted the short denim skirt, burying my face in her pussy. She uttered an explosive sigh as I started with my tongue on her clit.
Conversation became somewhat one-sided at that point as I was otherwise engaged, but that did not stop our Trish from carrying on in a long and mildly obscene monologue to nobody in particular. I say nobody in particular, but in fact God figured quite highly and frequently in the outbursts, which were accompanied by lots of little cries and intakes of breath.
I finally came up for breath myself, just short of pushing Trish off the Heights of Orgasmia. She was prepared to roundly abuse me at that point, but changed her mind and pleaded instead, which I liked much better. I finally let Mr Willy out of his room and slipped him under the skirt, letting him find his own way, slowly, into Trish’s docking chamber. When he nuzzled the air lock and slid into the passage Trish was so aroused that she expressed herself the only way she could, by biting my neck.
“That’s not nice,” I told her.
“Sorry…” she gasped. “No! Don’t take him out! Don’t – oh shit! You bastard! No, please, I’m sorry! I didn’t mean to be rude – please put him back in…” She turned her big brown frustrated eyes on me but it was too late then. Mr Willy was also a bit peeved, but decided to see where it was all leading. I had decided to avoid a repetition of the vampire act and also to keep some semblance of decorum in the outbursts from Trish. She looked at me unhappily as I dug out a bit gag from the props box. The gag was made of thin dowel with a thick overlay of rubber. I wedged it in her mouth despite the protests and buckled it at the back of her neck over her hair. Trish continued to splutter but at least my carotid artery was safe for the immediate future.
The bit gag was much less effective than the ball gag, but in some ways more fun for that exact reason. You could get more of a conversational flavour though without the specifics, and climaxing women tended to find it easier to cope with than a large ball that caused conflict between the need to shout the house down and breathe at the same time.
Trish didn’t care once Mr Willy was docked again and the flight to the stars was underway. She was way off planet Earth in a very short time, shuddering and heaving against me in journey that was anything but smooth. When she finally impacted somewhere west of Saturn I had slipped a finger up that other planet, Heranus, which saw her crash and burn in spectacular fashion, screaming and jerking madly on the ropes. I was right behind her and we were quickly marooned on the same planet, me clinging to her like a lifeboat.
Fortunately I had time to tidy up things a bit better by the time the others returned, although much to her frustration and annoyance I left Trish tied up as she was, ostensibly to show Monica.
“Very good, Steven,” Monica said, studying the whole structure and the two gagged and spreadeagled girls. “This will be fun. Tell me, why is Trish’s shirt undone?”
“I… It got quite warm in here for a while.”
“And she took off her underwear to cool down?” I followed Monica’s gaze to where Jill’s G-string lay in the corner. “And tore it in the process,” Monica finished. “Hmmm?”
“It was actually quite hot,” I said lamely.
Monica laughed. “You’re incorrigible, both of you. Slutty and uncontrolled. I hope you’re still on programme.”
“Of course,” I said indignantly.
“Good. Do remember to let Trish down before you lock up,” she said as she left the garage.
“Momiha!” Trish spluttered after her. “Harm hack!”
“Teacher says you have to stay there for the rest of the day!” I said smugly, poking my tongue out at my prisoner. Trish just glared at me.
* * *
Over dinner that night, while Trish was still not talking to me, Monica told us how Madam Wong and Portia had done a lot of jogging along Manly Beach and then had gone for a walk and a picnic in the nearby state park. Except that Monica, Jill and Emma had done all the eating and their charges had been tied uncomfortably to a tree in a secluded spot during the process.
“I’ve also been on the email,” Monica confided. “Mr Wong will be looking with great interest at the Mardigras parade, since his wife has asked him to do so. He’s aware of what’s happening, except that perhaps, just maybe, he’s got the story wrong. He knows she’s in Sydney, but he thinks she’s brought us here as prisoners, and that we are going to be the ones on display on the back of the truck. Madam Wong said to tell all his friends. Hopefully they’ll be guzzling San Miguel around the widescreen TV. I just wish I could see his face when he sees her and Portia hanging from that wonderful frame you’ve made, Steven.” Monica smiled at me and when she glanced away I poked my tongue out at Trish again. Teacher’s pet, that was me.
“I’ve also finalised and paid for two air tickets. How does this catch your fancy, team? First leg, Sydney to Perth on Sunday afternoon, in time to catch a South African Airlines flight to Johannesburg. Arrive Monday morning after a long uncomfortable flight. Four hours later, catch a Kenya Air flight to Nairobi. Monday evening take another Kenya Air flight to Bombay and arrive Tuesday morning. Indian Airways flight to Calcutta and thence to Bangkok, finishing with an overnight to Hong Kong on the worst Chinese airline Emma could find.”
We looked at Monica in stunned silence, admiring the ingenuity and audacity of her.
“Wonderful!” said Jill, clapping her hands. “Absolutely wonderful!”
“But there’s more,” said Monica, with the air of a magician producing a rabbit from a hat. “They will be travelling with just their passports and plane tickets. No money, which means no changing tickets, because they’re all non-refundable. It also means no food other than the airline stuff, which, I think we can assume, will not be too crash hot between Johannesburg and Bangkok. Our passengers will also be very uncomfortable, trust me. I will let you know the details closer to the time, and you can all watch. This really will be such fun!”
* * *
That evening there was a knock on my door. It was Monica.
“The girls and I are going to a movie. Wanna come?”
“What’re you going to see?” She told me.
“It’s a girlie flick,” she said. “I didn’t think you’d like it but thought I’d ask anyway. You could do something for me instead,” she added.
“Try something on. Something I bought yesterday.” That was when I saw the shopping bag she had, and it was probably the same time I decided I wasn’t going to like this option either. When she pulled out the assortment of leather straps I had this sudden flash of déjà vu, thinking of what I had conned Trish into doing that very afternoon.
“Oh no… No you don’t – I know what happens next – you do rotten things to me when I can’t defend myself! How silly do you think I am?” How silly did I think Trish was that afternoon?
“It’s either this or the girlie flick.”
“Thanks for nothing. Anyway, what is it?”
Monica laid the device on the bed.
“It’s nothing too special, just an arm sheath, but it’s really good quality,” she enthused. “You can’t get this in Queensland. Have to come to the big smoke to get decent stuff. Sophisticated, these Sydney people.”
“That’s not what you usually say about them,” I grumbled. “You usually say they’ve lost touch with reality or else they’re totally up themselves.”
“That’s what I say about all our clients, Steven, and most times I’m right, one way or another. Now are you going to help me with this or not?”
“Help you? How is my getting imprisoned in this thing helping anyone?”
“I have to test it, don’t I? If there’s a problem with it I want to be able to take it back before we leave here. Look, don’t be such a sissy. It’s only while we go to the movies. It’s quite comfortable, but I want to know is it strong enough or is there anything that needs modification.”
“All right,” I sighed reluctantly. “But you make sure you get straight back in here after the movies. No swanning off to clubs for half the night.”
“You are so-o distrusting,” Monica complained. “Now get your shirt off and cross your arms behind your back.” I did as I was told and Monica slid the sheath over my arms like a large open bag. The black leather was soft and pliable and came halfway up my upper arms, my forearms resting on the bottom of it in a relatively comfortable manner. I watched in the mirror as she took a long strap from the outer edge and threaded it though a hole at the top of the inner edge near my left armpit. She did the same on the right hand side and draped the straps over my shoulder. I saw then that each strap was in fact two joined straps, with a buckle that sat each side of my chest. The loose ends continued under my armpits, across my back and round my arms to meet in the middle of my chest, where Monica buckled them straps together. She then undid the buckle each side of my chest and pulled the shoulder straps tighter before re-buckling them.
“Yeah, wonderful,” I said sarcastically.
“Good.” She ignored my tone. “Oh yes, I bought something else.” Hullo, here we go, I thought. Give an inch and they take a mile. I groaned when I saw the shiny black leather discipline helmet appear from the bag.
“Monica! You never mentioned that! You don’t need to test that, surely?”
“Oh stop your complaining. For your information this is a new model and you’re going to be the first to test it. I don’t know why I’m so good to you. All you do is whinge, now sit on the chair.”
Sitting in front of the mirror I saw the black helmet descend in front of my eyes and then everything went black. Helmets, I had found out, came in all shapes and sizes. Some had eyeholes, some had mouth holes, some had integral gags. This one, fortunately, did not have the last. I glimpsed a zippered mouth opening but the only other concession to the wearer was a hole for my nose. Soft pads covered my eyes under the leather itself and Monica even pushed a couple of those expandable foam plugs in my ears before she pulled the thing into place. I felt the laces being tugged tight as they went from the crown of my head down to the neck, which had a wide collar. I guessed there were more straps on the outside for something clamped my jaw closed and the fit across the face seemed to grow tighter. Monica clamped her hands over the leather and tugged it further before retightening the laces and buckling the strap at the base of the neck. Even though I had nothing in my mouth the silencing effect was quite considerable. I could only mumble my protest.
“Good,” I head a voice say, way off in the distance. That was just before I was stripped of clothes from the waist down and some fingers began to tease Mr Willy, who in an uncontrolled initiative had decided that everything was actually a bit of a turn on. The fingers seemed to confirm this with a delicate bit of lubricating, until Monica’s faint voice whispered: “See you in a couple of hours. Don’t go wandering.”
Yeah, like I even had a chance to start with.
* * *
I wasn’t impressed. I thought I might even have been able to listen to the radio, but even though my hands were not tied as such, I could do little with them trapped inside the leather bag. I struggled and twisted to get them over the top, but the straps were too tight and I just couldn’t manage it. My attempts to work the television remote through the leather came to nothing, and I decided I was condemned to an evening of boredom, eventually electing to see if I could go to sleep. Even getting into bed was a chore without arms, but I managed it finally, though failing to pull the covers back over me. There followed all the tossing and turning to establish the best position in which to sleep. I finally opted for my stomach, once I had pushed half the pillows off the bed with my head.
That was the way I finally fell asleep. I had no idea of the time when I became aware of a naked female body climbing into bed with me. I don’t know if she said anything, but my hearing was strictly limited in any case. What I did know was that Mr Willy was up and running, as were this female’s fingers in the same vicinity. Without so much as a by-your-leave I was rolled on to my back and forced into the second docking procedure of the day as a pair of thighs straddled me and my good friend impaled the newcomer in what was admittedly a very pleasant process.
I tried to make some noise to establish just who my ‘attacker’ was’, but that proved singularly unsuccessful. What soon became apparent was that the pleasurable nature of the event appeared to be aimed at only one participant, for as Mr Willy and Mr Brain began their coordinated approach to lift off, something tight was attached around the base of the former, and painful pinchings of my nipples drove back the immediate urge to climax. That pretty much set the tone for the next hour. I found myself skilfully manipulated by whoever this woman was, serving her pleasure through two major orgasms without one to my own name, despite my struggled and mumbled pleadings.
Through all of this, of course, I was searching for a clue as to who this mysterious person was. When she climaxed it was with little noise, or at least little that I could hear with my ears plugged. I tried to detect some scent, some whiff of perfume that might enable me to identify her, but the smell of the new leather hood was too strong, and I suspect she had showered recently in any case. Which left me only with the sense of touch, and here I was worse than useless. Yes, the girls all had their little tricks, but hooded and distracted by my predicament I could not narrow it down. I say ‘all the girls’, but in fact I had not known either Emma or Mary in the biblical sense. However since Mary was in Brisbane, that only left one suspect untried.
The left field thought crossed into my mind that there were in fact other potential candidates, in the three prisoners plus Debbie. This all seemed unlikely, and whoever was giving me the going over I knew Monica was behind it. And this thought in turn started me looking at motives and revenge and ended up just getting my mind all screwed up. Which came round to the final conclusion that this would be exactly what Monica intended. I would not have put it past her to have the whole team in there watching. Sometimes my mind was its own worst enemy.
When she finally dismounted I could sense her legs shaking and the effort her body had put in to achieve what had been a not insubstantial climax. I was rolled on to my side away from her, Mr Willy still at attention and still secured with whatever strap had been wrapped around him to keep him that way. I moaned my displeasure and discomfort but my bed partner simply rolled the other way and went to sleep. I could sense her there in the big king sized bed, without touching. I thus decided to try touching, and slid my leg across the distance that always existed in beds that size. The bed covers raised for an instant and I got slapped on the thigh for my temerity. There was no mistaking the message; go to sleep!
* * *
After an uncomfortable and broken sleep I awoke to the removal of whatever it was that had been securing Mr Willy. As frequently happens in the small hours of the morning (as I suspected it to be) Mr Willy was awake and pursuing his own (usually unsuccessful) agenda. This time there were those fingers aiding his efforts, and I had the optimistic feeling that this time he might just get lucky. I was rolled on to my back again, for whoever was teasing me thus was not going to let me get too close to her face, hair and boobs, I suspected, for reasons of desired anonymity. So once again I was on the bottom and my tormentor was doing her thing, but this time I knew instinctively that I was in with a chance, which in fact came pretty quickly, and only moments after she had reached the same heights. I saw the end of the tunnel and went for it, emerging into the sunlight bucking and kicking and fighting against my bonds, making stifled noises under the leather helmet.
I must confess at that moment I could see why submissives went for that preference, for the climactic moment that occurs when one is bound and helpless and having the life force burst out of you adds another dimension to the event, lifting it a quantum above the ordinary. I lay there, snorting and groaning under the hood after my long overdue release, barely conscious of the fingers undoing the buckle on my chest. My captor dismounted and I could no longer detect her presence on the bed when I realised that the straps had loosened.
Cautiously I eased my legs off the bed and tested my restraints. With some twisting and straining I managed to shrug the straps off, and then force the sheath down from my arms. By the time I had wrestled with the laces of the hood and managed to remove it, I had the room to myself. Dammit, hoodwinked again, I thought.
* * *
I walked down the hill to Debbie’s place to find Emma and Jill already breakfasting.
“How was the movie?” I asked.
“What movie?” said Emma.
“The girlie flick that you were all going to last night.”
Emma shrugged her shoulders. “Jill and I were playing scrabble with Debbie. I don’t know what the others were doing.”
“I do,” I said, resignedly, as one who had been comprehensively outsmarted..
* * *
I did my best to play it cool during the morning, trying to make like I either knew or didn’t care who had had their way with me during the night. I was convinced Monica was behind it, either in person or the puppeteer, and it was only when she couldn’t help herself that I knew the answer. Trish and I were in full swing with the painting when Monica breezed in and complimented us. Trish had been very quiet and circumspect and I was beginning to think that Monica was the sole perpetrator of the indignities (and certain very nice things) on my person until she turned to Trish and said in a pronounced American drawl:
“Saaay, who was that masked man?” Trish could contain herself no longer at that point and I knew it was she who had spent the night in my bed. I maintained my dignity as best I could in the face of the two laughing females, but had to endure more stirring from Jillian and Emma when they found out about it.
“Bet you thought it was me again,” Jill whispered to me at one point when we were alone.
“It did occur to me,” I said. “It had the Jillian M.O.” She laughed. “I kind of wished it was you,” I blurted. “Not that I’m complaining, you understand.” Jill flushed, smiled and looked embarrassed before Emma came along and we returned to our private thoughts and I returned to the work at hand.
* * *
The work at hand was now into the more decorative stage, overseen by the sullen Chinese girls and Megan, all chained up inside the garage and tormented by the others as the mood took them. It was Trish and I who did most of the work, primarily because there was limited room in the garage without us falling over ourselves, despite offers of help from the others. For some reason Monica was spending a lot of time away with Megan, with Debbie joining them when she was not working. Something was going on there, I reckoned, but kept my distance.
The next two days passed rapidly as we rigged up low voltage spotlights and some adapted timber lattice that was fitted with sharpened points to look like a portcullis ready to drop. This was attached as a fascia to the top perimeter of the frame, while centrally down the back we added a ply wall with a big doorway. The ply was painted to resemble a dungeon wall and was adorned with some props we had borrowed from the Bilboes dungeon – leg irons, branding irons and the odd fake skull. I added a black canvas tarpaulin to form the roof, in the event of rain. This was extra long and could drop down each side to attach to the base for privacy en route. Further additions front and back would keep our secrets safe from prying eyes. The last construction was a set of steps that was be bolted to the rear of the tray, to enable people with high heels to climb on and off as the truck ambled along at walking pace.
My final piece de resistance was the sound and light show. We hired a small electric smoke generator of the sort they normally use on disco dance floors. It was barely the size of a shoe box, but at the touch of a button inside the cab it would shoot out a burst of smoke. I reckoned this would give a cool effect with just enough breeze from the forward momentum of the truck. The sound part came from a couple of cheap speakers we bought and used as extensions for the speakers connected to the tape deck in the cab. The tape was a compilation I had made at Bilboes – all the most brooding classical pieces I could find. There was plenty of Wagner, Night on Bare Mountain (the title of which Monica thought was particularly appropriate), the Sorcerer’s Apprentice, Holst’s God of War and so on. All of these could be coordinated with a little well-aimed paddling, which we practiced several times in the garage, much to our prisoners’ chagrin. It was attention to detail that would lift a presentation into a memorable class above the riff-raff.
Megan was going to have the ride of her life on the Jolly Rogerer, at the back of the main frame, so I built a cage and painted it silver, to go over the top of where she would be sitting. It was made from timber dowels and was pretty lightweight, at about a metre high but by the time it was finished it looked pretty special.
The final touches were the signs on each side: “Bilboes of Brisbane – Your Secret’s Safe With Us!” and Monica’s mobile phone number. There was nothing like a bit of free publicity after what Portia and her team had done to our customer relations. We devised what I thought was a rather snappy logo – a pair of bilboes, or leg shackles on a bar, turned on their side to form the capital ‘B’. This was eventually to become our emblem.
I had picked up the truck on Thursday and backed it into the driveway. Our prisoners were secured away from prying eyes inside the house and work began on dismantling and re-erecting the frame on the back of the truck. By Saturday we were well pleased with the result and had everything looking shipshape with plenty of time to spare.
The girls were now fussing about like actresses getting ready for the big night, trying on their clothes and deciding which outfits to wear. By mid-afternoon the tension was mounting and everyone was getting excited and nervous. Madam Wong and Portia had been spreadeagled, naked, from the rafters in the garage and Jill and Emma were painting them. I looked on, fascinated.
“What the hell is that stuff?” I asked Jill.
“Liquid latex,” she said. “Dries just like a latex dress or whatever. Skin tight.”
“How does it come off?”
“It just peels off. This is the best quality. It should peel off in big strips. The cheap stuff goes all ragged and can be a sod to get off. We’re giving these two a few extra coats today. Normally three or four will do, but we’re giving them six of the base coat.”
The base coat was evidently silver for Madam Wong and gold for Portia. Emma had almost finished the first silver coat on Madam Wong, completely covering the naked woman with the glittering coating. Her hair had been pulled up and tied into a knot which had in turn been tied to the rafter, and a stainless steel Whitehead clamp held her mouth open in a continual ‘O’. Emma had taken the paint past the steel collar and up to the edge of Madam Wong’s face, where she had stopped in a series of jagged edgings.
“Why silver for her and gold for Portia?” I asked. “I’d have thought it would be the other way around.”
“What?” Jill struck her forehead in mock dismay. “You’re right. Emma, we’ve done it wrong. Of course, Madam Wong should have the gold. Oh well, too bad. What a shame.” She grinned at me and at the prisoner, who glared back at her. Jill turned back to painting Portia’s right breast with a layer of gold.
“Have you ever had this done to you?” I could not conceal my fascination.
“Uh-huh. You know what a latex glove feels like? Sort of like a second skin. Like something is there, yet not there? Now imagine that all over your body. It actually doesn’t provide a lot of warmth in a cold situation, but it does warm you up if it’s hot.”
“Doesn’t it clog up your pores or something? Remember ‘Goldfinger’? Didn’t one of the girls die when painted gold?”
“No deaths from this that I know of. You can paint anything with this stuff, can’t you, Portia.” It was a rhetorical question. Jill diverted from her methodical coverage to slap a bit more over Portia’s shaven pussy. Portia, restrained and gagged the same as her employer, spluttered and made incoherent noises of outrage. “It dries really quickly and we have some great colours. Don’t they look stunning already?” I had to admit they did. The shiny latex paint seemed to highlight all the curves and accent the best parts. “Come back in a couple of hours when we’ve finished and see our works of art.”
* * *
Two hours later we were getting ready for departure. Monica had given me a map and the instructions she had received from the organisers as to where to assemble and when. The girls were looking stunning. Monica had her hair up and wore dark, vaguely gothic makeup that highlighted her cheekbones and gave her a dark, menacing look. Around her neck was a thin leather choker that had silver chains down to the top of a black pvc corset which revealed plenty of cleavage and gave her a terrific hour glass figure. Black stockings attached by suspenders revealed enough white skin at the top of her thighs to add contrast before the stockings disappeared into the high-heeled leather boots that laced up past her knees. Topping off the ensemble were black kid leather gloves that came up to her elbows.
“Wow!” I said with genuine awe.
By contrast, Trish appeared in her Miss Sharp outfit, looking not unlike the pre-costume version of the Wonder Woman outfit we had seen forced on Monica when Portia ran her superheroes parade. Trish had her hair in a bun and large black –rimmed glasses. Her white shirt was tailored to her curves and with the thin black tie pinned near her waist her figure was shown up very tidily, and was added to by the tight navy blue skirt. Black stockings and high heels completed the outfit.
“Does this skirt make my bum stick out?” she asked me in with that time-honoured question designed to trap the unwary of the male species.
“Of course not,” I answered glibly. “You look sensational.” She swished a very bendy cane through the air.
“You wouldn’t lie to me, would you.”
“No Ma’am,” I replied with absolute certainty.
“Good. Where the hell are Jill and Emma? Are they ready?”
“I think so. They’re just checking our passengers.”
We trooped into the garage. Jill was wearing a short leather skirt and knee-high boots, topped with a waistcoat adorned with a selection of chains, which was held closed by a pair of handcuffs across her breasts, flashes of which could be seen, pale against the black leather. She, too, had dark makeup and wore leather arm bands on her forearms. Her blonde hair contrasted strikingly with a black studded collar about her neck and I could not help but admire her with a lingering gaze.
“Stop it,” she said, smiling and looking just a little flushed.
“Some Domme you are, if just a lewd stare gets you all hot under the collar,” I said. “You’ll be a total wreck by the end of the parade if that’s the way you handle things.”
“I suppose I should take that as a compliment?”
“Indeed you should, Miss. There will be fifty thousand lewd stares out there.”
Clad in a leather bikini Emma looked scrummy as well, her long raven hair pulled into a ponytail and her breasts threatening to spill out of the haltertop. The thigh boots with the heels and the red lacing down the front added to her height, but for me, Em would never have the menace that the likes of Monica and Trish and even Jill could manage. No addition of fringed arm guards and waist chains could alter Emma’s innate niceness, although she could get away with it for an hour or so on the truck.
The stars of the show were the three prisoners, however. Madam Wong and Portia were now fully painted. Their faces had been left untouched in this regard, so that Mr Wong and his mates could recognise his dearly beloved and her right hand woman. True, their mouths were slightly distorted by the red rubber balls that were now wedged behind their teeth, held there by the matching red straps buckled behind their necks under their hair. But we were sure they would be readily identifiable in the glare of the low voltage lights. The television crews would love us.
The women were standing, wrists secured behind them in leather cuffs, ready to depart. Portia and Madam Wong were both naked, save for their gags and the stainless steel belt and crotch strap locked in place. Madam Wong was painted a stunning shade of silver, with her breasts highlighted in crimson as the bottom of two large teardrops. A further red teardrop ran down from her navel to her crotch, bisected by the steel strap. Her arms were similarly decorated with red swirls, while in two lines below her breasts ran black Chinese characters, clearly the work of our Emma.
“What do they say?” I asked.
“These ones say ‘House of Wong, humbled, humiliated, vanquished, subjugated.’ These other ones say “We are corrupt, evil, debased as the excrement of the devil.”
“Oh. Seriously, what are you trying to say?” Emma flashed a smile at me. “Mr Wong will suffer major loss of face.”
“Aren’t we being just a little provocative?”
“The time has passed for namby pamby solutions, Steven,” came Monica’s voice behind me. “We mean business and they can stay off our patch. I hope that has got through to you two?” Monica stared hard at Madam Wong, who lowered her gaze and nodded.
Portia was painted identically except in gold instead of silver, and she too, looked sensational. It was only when she and Madam Wong moved that I realised they had small weights clipped to their nipples that rattled. I peered closer.
“Table cloth weights,” said Emma. “You hang them on the edge of your table cloth when you’re having a barbeque to stop everything blowing everywhere. They match the red paint very nicely, don’t you think?” They did, I had to admit.
The last member of the crew was Megan. She was painted a dazzling kaleidoscope of multi-coloured swirls, her breasts standing out as two bright golden orbs, her pussy a large silver exclamation mark on a black surround. Curving white arrows pointed to the exclamation mark across her belly and upper thighs. Like the other two she was cuffed but wore a rubber hood through which her auburn hair poked in a pony tail near the top. The hood covered her mouth but left the face open around the eyes and nose. I had the feeling that for some reason Monica did not want Megan’s face splashed across television screens.
“All right, people, mount up!” said Monica.
Jill and Emma helped the prisoners up the steps at the rear of the truck and I climbed up after them, pulling the hinged steps after me and locking them down on top. The canvas tarpaulins were in place around all sides and while I checked these the three prisoners were made to sit against one of the I-frames where their cuffs were chained to the frame. Jill and Emma made themselves comfortable inside the tarpaulins while Monica and Trish climbed into the cab and I joined them.
Debbie came out to wave goodbye as we turned out of the drive. She had been full of enthusiasm about the whole thing and was disappointed not to be coming. Instead she had offered us directions and had volunteered to record the event on video.
“Revenge is sooo sweet,” Monica said softly.
* * *
We found the assembly street easily enough and with the help of the marshals organising the thing, we worked into our allotted spot. It was well planned, and we were early. Much of the parade comprised people on foot – groups from various organisations who did not have the time to build floats, but who somehow seemed to have found time to dress in sparkly clothes and learn intricate dance steps that they would follow throughout the next hour or two, usually whilst waving streamers, blown up condoms on sticks, or giant fluorescent green dildos. Pretty much anything went. There was a group of B & D fans not far ahead of us, primarily on foot but some on motorbikes, wrapped in leather and chains with a few bare boobs and gagged slaves on leads.
Monica had done a quick recce while we waited for the show to get underway. She came back rubbing her hands.
“There’s nothing like ours out there. All the B and D stuff is amateur, or people who can’t be bothered taking it to the next level. This float has got class, believe me.” She raised a fist in the air and wiggled her bum. “Woo-hoo!”
We were near the end of the show, a late entry. Being the only one able to run without the danger of breaking an ankle on high heels, I did my own reconnaissance, watching for the groups ahead moving off. The parade was traditionally led by the Dykes on Bikes – a group of lesbians who really did not have much to offer in the way of femininity. They had been gone some time when I saw signs of movement closer ahead and raced back to warn the others.
I clambered up the back steps in time to find the girls putting the finishing touches to Madam Wong and Portia, now spreadeagled between the frames, looking at the back face of the canvas tarpaulins. Megan was seated astride the Jolly Rogerer, looking just a little apprehensive. Her bound wrists were secured to the eyebolt behind her and her ankles were pulled back and tied clear of the floor.
“Ready to open up?” I asked Monica. She nodded. I turned on the lights and used a box to reach the clips at the portcullis where the canvas was attached and dropped the sides one by one. A small crowd of fellow paraders had been watching with curiosity to find out what was going on behind the covers, intrigued at the sight of Monica and Trish’s outfits. The audience burst into spontaneous applause at the sight of the three bound prisoners and the four girls standing guard over their charges.
“Way to go!” came one cry. This was a buzz! And we hadn’t even got started yet.
Five minutes later I started the engine and the music and the smoke machine, and I saw Emma turn on the Rogerer. We emerged on to the first main street to the accompaniment of ‘Ride of the Valkyries’, and everything was an adrenalin rush from that point.
The route was jammed with people seven or eight deep on the pavements behind the barriers. When Sydney did the Gay Mardigras thing they did it in style, and thousands came from all over the world to watch or to take part. There were the gay firemen from New York and the transvestites from Sydney’s Thai community. There was a contingent from the local police force marching proudly near the front. There were the gay ‘greenies’, and the pink gays. There was almost every group with some sort of religious, political, environmental or commercial message to sell. Then there were the hidden agendas, like us.
We crawled along the crowded streets, lights going, music blaring, smoke drifting and all this punctuated by the crack of paddle on flesh. Monica had stipulated paddles because the latex was more resilient to them. Floggers tended to make it come off more quickly. I was impressed by such knowledge.
About halfway through we sighted the glare of television camera lights and saw the roving crews with cameras and sound. Close by were the pair of interviewers, two women well known on various Channel Ten presentations obviously doing a dual interview technique. I saw the jaw of one of them drop open as she pointed to us. I caught sight of Monica and Jill in my rear view mirrors as they were now walking beside the truck on each side.
Like moths to a flame the crews lined us up in their sights. Monica looked stunning as the two interviewers rushed up to her. As one camera caught her in the lights, the other did a long, slow pan over the truck. They focussed on Madam Wong taking a pasting from Trish, before circling round behind to get first Megan, now being thoroughly screwed on the Rogerer, and then Portia, on the receiving end of Emma. On the same side I saw a strange individual dressed in outrageous feminine garb with a bad wig and a bizarre creation made from blown-up latex gloves who was interviewing Jill. Jill looked to be having a hard time keeping a straight face in the face of the interviewer.
Monica was meanwhile pointing to Madam Wong, presumably explaining the Chinese characters to the two female interviewers. I saw the baffled looks on their faces. The cameras swung back to the truck for a final pass as we slowly moved on to the sound of the Trolls from Peer Gynt, punctuated by the thwacks of the paddles on the two helpless prisoners. Monica gave a wave and a broad smile to the watching millions. I sincerely hoped Mr Wong had enjoyed the show and was right at that moment in a state of shock in his flash house in Macau. Mess with Bilboes, would they…
* * *
Debbie was ecstatic when we arrived home after midnight. We were all tired and elated, whereas Megan was tired and exhausted and curled up on the floor in Jill and Emma’s bedroom, where she was chained to a bed leg. She fell asleep with a smile on her face, not caring about viewing the video.
Madam Wong and Portia, on the other hand, were brought in, still gagged, with their hands cuffed behind them, and were made to sit on the floor in front of the television. Despite the use of paddles, the latex paint had begun to come off their backsides and thighs and anywhere else their tormentors had decided was appropriate to feel the sting of leather. Debbie turned the video on and we watched through the main procession, which we hadn’t really seen properly. The wine was being passed around and we were all becoming very pleasantly pissed.
“Ooo! Look! There we are!” squealed Emma excitedly.
Monica looked alternately menacing and gorgeous in the play of the portable lights. There were the usual questions, where were we from, what did we do, great float etc. Monica told them what the characters meant as painted down the front of Madam Wong, who stared down at the camera, wide-eyed and indignant, her mouth stretched around the ball strapped firmly in place. Monica remained enigmatic about the story behind the Chinese writing.
“I don’t want to get involved in international politics on world wide television,” she said mysteriously.
“And these people have paid you for this?” The question was accompanied by a shot that lingered momentarily on the stainless steel belt and crotch strap then up to the two strawberry-like weights dangling from the hapless victim’s nipples. There was an arty shot of wrists and ankles tugging against the restraining cuffs and ropes, and a look of pain as another blow landed in time to the music and Madam Wong closed her eyes.
“Oh yes,” said Monica with relish. “These people are happy to pay for the privilege. And they have paid a lot, let me tell you.”
The interview continued over the top of a lingering shot of Megan in her cage reaching new heights of orgasmic travel. She was bouncing of her own accord, adding to the up and down reciprocation of the large member penetrating her depths ever second. Her head was tilted back and her eyes were screwed shut. It was impossible to hear her contribution to the sound effects over the crowd, the music and the voice over, but it could reasonably be presumed that her efforts were considerable.
They cut to Jill, looking drop dead gorgeous with her blonde hair and black leather contrast.
“Go Jill!” said Monica. Jill flushed.
There were more questions, handled with unexpected ease by Jillian until we began to get beyond the range of the interview area and the focus turned to the group of silver-laméd male cheerleaders behind us. At least I thought that’s what they were meant to be – it was kind of hard to categorise some of the participants.
“How cool was all that!” Debbie exclaimed.
“Ladies and gentleman,” Monica said, “I think we have made our point, and I think Bilboes has just come of age.” She turned to the two prisoners sitting uncomfortably on the floor. “And as for you two, tomorrow you’re going home.”
“Whaff?” Madam Wong’s eyes were wide with disbelief, and just a glimmer of hope that her ordeal might be at an end.
“Yes, on the big silver budgie back to Hong Kong. You didn’t know that, did you?” There was head-shaking from the pair. “We couldn’t get you on a direct flight, so you’ll be going via Perth. Four pm tomorrow afternoon. That’s a nice thought for you to go to bed on, isn’t it?” she said cheerily. “And I have another announcement that you two might want to hear. I have been conducting negotiations with Megan. She and I are going to become partners. She has offered me a half-share in the Citadel. In return I will be providing assistance with the development of it, and also in managing it. Meet the new manager.” She inclined her head towards Debbie. Now, who wants another glass of champagne?”
* * *
After the bombshell that Monica had dropped the night before, we were all well airborne by the time we got to bed, and we all slept late the next day. Predictably were all somewhat the worse for wear, me more than some of the girls. The more I thought about Monica’s strategy, the more I was amazed by her foresight and guile. Allying herself with Megan had huge advantages, not least rationalising the facilities that could be offered and capturing a larger share of the Brisbane market. At the same time she had taken one of her main competitors out of direct competition, increased her income, found a very useful outlet for Debbie, whom we knew was dissatisfied in her Sydney role, and who, by coming to Brisbane, would serve as Monica’s eye in the sky in regard to activities in the Citadel. I had to hand it to our Monica – she could see the big picture. I shook my head in admiration, then decided that wasn’t such a good move because the aftermath of the champagne was still there.
By the time I had finished what was turning into my morning constitutional, walking to Debbie’s place, my head was a little clearer. There was much chatter over breakfast, just as there was much taking of aspirin. At one point Monica took me aside to ask if I had any fine stainless steel wire in my tool box, and crimps to go with it. Told her I had, since it had become somewhat of a prerequisite to bondage scenarios that had evolved in bilboes. She wouldn’t tell me exactly what she wanted it for, however.
Jill and I spent the morning removing all the items from the float that would not be dumped. It was after lunch by the time we had been to the tip, dumped the superfluous remains of the float, and returned the truck to the hire company. Back at the ranch, Madam Wong and Portia had been strung up, naked, in the garage ready to be prepared for their flight, whatever that entailed. The latex paint had been removed from them, and I decided to watch for a short while.
Both women were blindfolded, with their wrists bound together and tied to the beam above them, and their ankles strapped. Portia was gagged with a ball gag but Madam Wong was not. I watched curiously as Monica and Jill oversaw the preparations. Monica had bought a clear plastic mouthguard, which she and Trish were now doing something with. After a minute, Monica stood beside Madam Wong and ordered her to open her mouth.
“Now keep you tongue away from this for a couple of minutes,” Monica warned, “or you’ll be sorry.” She stood in front of the Chinese woman and manoeuvred the mouthguard over her bottom teeth then pushed the jaw closed. Trish slipped a head harness over Madam Wong’s black hair and buckled it tightly under the chin, keeping the jaw closed.
“Remember what I said about your tongue,” warned Monica again as Trish sat down next to me.
“We did this to Wayne Bennelli,” said Trish, but we didn’t get to see the end result. “I still reckon Jill should run this as part of a weight loss programme. There’s a hole big enough for a straw through the front of the mouthguard, and Madam Wong will be on a liquid diet for the next little while, until the glue fails.”
“Glue?” I asked.
“Yes, we’ve epoxied her jaw closed with the mouthguard.”
“Jesus, you’re mean!” I said.
“I don’t think she’s realised it, yet. You can see why we had the blindfolds on – so they couldn’t see what we were doing.”
Monica left the women alone for a few minutes while Trish and I continued working. When she returned she broke the news to Madam Wong.
“Ladies, you will remember back in Brisbane we asked you to partake in a race over our assault course, with the loser being put through a special punishment. Well, Madam Wong, that time has now come. The good news is that those few pounds that you should consider losing will now become a reality.”
Ow, I thought. That was catty. Madam Wong looked pretty damned trim to me, but there was no stopping Monica when the knives were out.
“You will find, my dear, that your jaw is now permanently locked closed until the glue finally fails. It’s a quick setting epoxy, by the way, and I don’t expect it to fail too soon.” A look of alarm came over Madam Wong’s face as she tried to open her jaw but failed, in part because of the head harness still in place.
“You bitch!” she screeched. It was surprising how much noise she could still make, and how coherent it still came out. No different from a ventriloquist, I figured.
“Quiet!” snapped Monica, “or I’ll glue your lips together as well!” That shut her up. “It’s no different from having your jaw wired in a hospital – it goes on all the time. Because we are thoughtful, considerate people, there is a hole at the front through which you can poke a straw. It simply means that you’ll be existing on a liquid diet for the next few days. It puts the concept of a liquid lunch into a whole new context.”
Monica continued. “You, Madam Wong, will get to be the injured party, with your wired jaw and fractured vertebra, while Portia can look after you. But there are some other issues before we enlarge on that.” Jill had appeared with the breast add-ons that I had made from clear plastic resin. They were marked to identify which mammary protrusion they belonged to and still bore my psychedelic circles on them. Out came the superglue in this case, with a quick smear round the inside. Monica stroked Portia’s pussy and began to whisper something in her ear. Portia began to squirm and Monica’s fingers twisted and tweaked the brown nipples, rolling them until they became hard and erect. At that point I saw Jill provide a sprinkle of powder to the nipple recesses in the moulds before she and Monica lined up their targets and clamped the acrylic domes over their targets, holding them there for a minute while Portia tried to buck and jerk away from the unknown devices now stuck to her. But with each of her guards having a hand on one breast and another on her back, there was little she could do. Madam Wong asked something in Cantonese, obviously wondering what was happening to her off-sider, but Portia could only mumble unintelligibly through the ball in her mouth.
Two minutes later the same process had been applied to Madam Wong, with a somewhat louder response.
“Cheer up, ladies,” said Monica brightly. You’ve just had the quickest and cheapest breast augmentation in the world. You will look like a million dollars, your little nips permanently sticking out and telling the world you really want it, you sexy things. That will last until… until you shed your top layer of skin, I guess. Might be a week or two, with that superglue. I suspect you’ll find lying on your stomachs a bit awkward, but I’m sure you’ll get used to it. Oh yes, and the itching you’ll feel around the nipples – that’s just a little itching powder that will probably ease off after a few hours.”
Madam Wong broke into a torrent of Cantonese at that point, joined by moans from Portia, such that Jill and Monica were obliged to remove the head harness from the former and place several strips of duct tape over her mouth.
“That’s better,” said Monica, as the abuse died to miserable sniffling moans. I could tell the itching powder was starting to work already as they began shifting their weight from one leg to the other and tugging on the overhead ropes.
“Don’t they look stunning,” I said to Jill. “Like something out of Barbarella.”
“I bet you’ve had a crush on Jane Fonda as a young lad,” Trish teased me.
“Maybe,” I admitted.
“For my next trick, ladies and gentlemen,” Monica went on, “You will see my lovely assistant has a length of Ben Wa balls.” Emma and Debbie had now joined us and Jill did a very good impersonation of the ‘lovely assistant’, flourishing a string of five red balls the size of walnuts. “Would one of the audience like to check these out? You sir, please inspect them.” Jill strutted across to me with a radiant smile and deposited them in my hand. They were about as heavy as large marbles and covered with some sort of silicone coating. Inside each one there seemed to be a smaller one that rolled around a bit.
“Thank you sir. My lovely assistant will now insert these into a secret hiding place, and I will ask you sir to assist in securing this place with some appropriate wire.” Monica winked at me and I realised this was what she had talked to me about that morning. I ferreted in my tool box and came up with some stainless steel trace just as Jill finished working the balls inside Madam Wong’s pussy. She was making protest noises and the blindfolded Portia was joining in, unable to see what was happening and knowing she was next.
Monica took a half metre length of the trace and threaded it through the eight small rings that had been inserted in Madam Wong’s labia before leaving Bilboes, weaving it into a criss-cross pattern as if threading a lace through the eyelets on a shoe. I was stunned when she motioned me to crimp the ends and cut off the excess. I did so, needing my sharpest snips to get through the thin but brutally tough wire.
“There!” said Monica. “The balls have vanished!” Madam Wong was now making agitated keening sounds and had begun a further bout of squirming in her bonds. Five minutes later Portia was impregnated with the balls, had been sewn up equally thoroughly and was equally agitated.
“Won’t they do damage over four days?” I whispered to Trish as I put my tools away.
“Nah. They’ll be a bit messy when they go for a pee, but they’ll survive until they find someone with as good a pair of snippers as yours. It’s all about being uncomfortable, and believe me, I bet Monica has barely begun.”
Trish was right, of course. The next item on the agenda was the lovely assistant holding a corset that stretched from hip to underside of Madam Wong’s breasts. This was laced up the back with more stainless steel wire and again I was called on to crimp the ends. Madam Wong was breathing shallowly as the tight garment compressed her waist and diaphragm into a narrow wasp shape.
“Won’t this be harmful?” I whispered again to Trish. “Isn’t it painful?”
“You get used to it over half a day or so. Your body seems to re-adjust itself inside. Relax, kiddo, Monica knows what she’s doing.”
After Portia had likewise been constrained, Monica’s next idea was a pair of rubber tights with a large anal dildo fitted. They took a while to fit once Madam Wong’s ankles had been unstrapped. First her legs were powdered and then the black rubber was worked over the feet and up the legs, the black prong finally embedding itself in Madam Wong’s arse as she got a giant wedgie from Monica to help it home. Madam Wong mmphed in protest from behind her sealed lips. Hidden now was the laced-up pussy beneath the black latex, which merged nicely with the black corset.
“But don’t think you’ll get these off at the first loo stop you have,” said Monica to her whining victim. A nice pair of boots will make you think twice.” The boots were black leather ones, with a good four inch heel. They zipped up to the knee and I wondered where Monica was coming from until I saw her run a bead of superglue down the zipper of each one. Yup, those boots – and the tights inside them – would be staying on, I reckoned. Given the choice of sitting uncomfortably with your rubber knickers half up and having to do something with that black dildo, I figured you might as well sit comfortably properly dressed with the device lodged in its intended place. Hobson’s choice, really.
Now Portia was complaining as she too was fitted with the rubber tights and the inserted dong, but she was given high heeled shoes with several buckled straps which I was required to rivet in place so that they could not be undone.
“We don’t want these two looking like twins,” Monica said. “Let’s add a little variety, if you please, at least on the outside. Underneath it doesn’t matter. They can both wear what I now have in store for them.” Monica’s next surprise was a thin black latex dress for each woman. They were long sleeved, came down to just above the knee, and zipped up the back. It was a fiddle getting our pair into them, in their high-heeled and blindfolded state, but this also served to subdue them, and in the end they let the girls fit the rubber garments and do them up. Once again, they couldn’t see the tube of superglue running down the rear zipper. The tight rubber clung to their already compressed bodies and would make going to the toilet fiercely difficult in the cramped confines of an aircraft loo. The shoes wouldn’t come off, nor would the tights, and they could only be accessed by working one’s hands up under the rubber dress. Not only that, they would be infernally hot in the things. I hoped the Nairobi transit lounge was air conditioned. At least I almost did, then, on reflection, I hoped for the opposite.
Only at this point were the blindfolds removed and the pair were given normal clothes to go over the top of their restrictive undergarments. With great difficulty Madam Wong put on a black silk suit that came down to her knees and hugged her figure. It was very elegant and the skirt had a row of metal buttons down the front. No trace could be seen of the rubber beneath it.
Portia’s outfit was a dark blue dress that fell to her ankles, accompanied by a low-slung belt with a large silver buckle and silver buttons on the front at the top. With the dresses on, the pair had their wrists handcuffed behind them.
“I have one final accessory for you, Madam Wong,” said Monica. Madam Wong, now close to tears, rolled her eyes and moaned. She shook her head as Jill produced a medical collar made from clear acrylic that fastened around Madam Wong’s neck, lifting her chin and rendering her unable to turn her head at all. She continued complaining and protesting as I crimped three more stitches of stainless steel trace through the holes in the brace behind her neck.
“Very good,” said Monica. “Excellent, in fact. God, but I’m good sometimes! She grinned hugely, flashing her teeth in our direction like a performer who has just carried off a very difficult routine. Then she turned back to the miserable-looking pair, who only now were beginning to have the reality of their situation dawn on them. They were still squirming, shrugging their shoulders, and twisting their bodies in an effort to get some relief from their itching nipples. Little sniffling whimpers of frustration escaped from their gags.
“Let me suggest something to you, ladies,” Monica went on. “I think Madam Wong here has had a very serious car accident, which is why she is going back to Hong Kong. I think she may well have had her luggage go ahead on the wrong flight, which is why you have no luggage. It’s just a pity you’ll have no money for toiletries or food or magazines to read. I guess you’ll have to manage with the stuff on the planes. And as to why you’re travelling via Johannesburg and Nairobi and Bombay, well, maybe you had an aunt you had to see en route. I’m sure you can think up something.”
If Portia could have opened her jaw any further than it was with the ball wedged in it, I’m sure she would have. Madam Wong’s eyes widened and they both uttered a desperate moan as the horror in store for them suddenly got ten times worse.
Monica continued as if nothing had happened. “While you’re in an inventive frame of mind, you might think of a suitable story to tell airport security when you set the metal detectors off. Your steel collars are bound to do that, and of course they’re in full view. That may be sufficient for them to let you through. If they decide to give you the once over with the hand detectors, they may pick up the metal embedded in your pussies, but the buttons and the belt buckle should mask that. If some big African security guard decides to strip search you because you’re walking funny, in a stinking hot un-air conditioned customs hall, all they’ll find is a couple of very strange women with rubber underwear and dildos up their arses. They may suspect you’re smuggling something in your pussies, and hopefully they’ll be gentle in removing the wire. If it gets that far, I’d let them keep the balls. I don’t think you’d want to put them back.” She paused and looked at the ceiling. “Mmmm. So many things to look forward to. So many little obstacles to negotiate. My, what fun you’ll have. And not a cent or credit card with which to buy your way out of any trouble. Oh, and don’t worry about visas. As long as you don’t get picked up, you can stay in the transit lounges and you’ll be okay. As long as you catch your next flight, that is. Any questions? Gooood.”
Portia and her employer had turned a very pale shade by this stage as we accompanied them to the back of the van. Emma and Jill sat them down and strapped them to the wall battens before sitting beside them, while Trish, Monica and I climbed into the front, me behind the wheel.
“Do you think you’ll really get away with this?” I asked.
“Sure, why not? I think it’s in their interests to not get caught and to be as plausible as possible. I’m sure by the time we get to the terminal they’ll have thought up a few ideas for good stories to tell. They’re not without imagination, those two.”
* * *
The pair had been uncuffed and the tape and ball removed when Monica opened the back doors at the drop-off zone at Sydney airport. The women were looking quite down and their continued attempts to rub obviously very itchy nipples were frustrating them no end. I left the group while I parked the van and by the time I had tracked them down in the main hall they had checked in.
“First hurdle passed without a hitch,” said Monica, pointing to the boarding card each woman clasped along with her passport and ticket. “Travelling light, we are,” she added with a smirk.
“You’ll be sorry for this,” Portia muttered darkly.
“Not before you’ll be a lot sorrier if you screw up,” said Monica. “After what you did to Jill in Macau, not to mention my team in Brisbane, the thought of you rotting in an Indian jail does not bother me one bit. Now get your sorry arse through to emigration or you’ll miss your plane. Remember, you have no idea where you’ve been held, here in Sydney. Go to the cops and see where that gets you. You won’t get another chance to get home. Which reminds me… Come this way…”
We followed Monica across the terrazzo floor to a post box. She dug in her handbag and produced an unsealed envelope addressed to the Hong Kong and Shanghai Bank in Macau. She also extracted Madam Wong’s gold credit card and slipped it into the envelope.
“Just so you can’t claim your card was stolen, I am sending it back to your bank with a very credible explanation as to how you left it in the last store you visited, which just happened to be the truck hire company yesterday. I know you won’t miss the money, but I didn’t want to see the bank wearing the cost. And it also shows that I at least have some ethics. We will not all be driving Mercedes at your expense. Some of us like to genuinely earn our money.” Monica sealed the envelope with a flourish and dropped it in the box.
Bravo, I thought. Although a Mercedes would have been rather nice.
The pair said nothing but followed Monica as she led us through the crowds to the departure gateway. Portia and Madam Wong seemed just a trifle unsteady on their feet and looked a tad flushed as they neared the gate. I reckoned those dildos were starting to have their effect, and also the Ben Wa balls. Or maybe they were just feeling a little constricted. Or perhaps it was the unfamiliar shoes, or the itching powder still irritating sensitive nipples. Whatever the reason, they disappeared through the gateway without a backward glance, no doubt contemplating a very long, very uncomfortable flight ahead of them.
Monica’s revenge was complete.
|Monica's Story continues in Monica's Games|
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© R.Alexander 2006
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