|The Abduction of Monica|
|by Richard Alexander|
|email@example.com - All comments welcome|
|© Copyright 2009 - Richard Alexander - Used by permission|
|Storycodes: MF/ff; kidnap; bond; cuffs; gag; transport; cell; toys; nc; X|
|The Abduction of Monica 10: Incarceration - Mary's Story by Richard Alexander MF/ff; kidnap; bond; cuffs; gag; transport; cell; toys; nc; X|
Chapter 10: Incarceration - Mary's Story
|continued from Chapter 9
The drive went on for hours and hours, merging into a dark, mind-numbing sea of pain as the weights swung back and forth on my nipples. At times I thought I could no longer bear the pain, but my training took over, and I forced the sudden searing flashes to subside into a dull, throbbing ache. It was all right for subbies who could get off on this sort of thing. I thought of Leila and Emma, and knew that if you subjected them to this and followed it up with a gentle caress between their legs, they would climax on the spot, such were the strange orientations some of us had. True submissives could also take themselves off into sub-space, if the pain thing became too much. Alas, we Dommes had to simply bear the pain. Of course the fundamental premise of bondage was exactly that – you had no choice.
You had no choice in what was done to you, no part in the decision making – matters were taken out of your hands. It was unknown what lay ahead – though usually this was a deliciously anticipated future that might bring pleasure, might bring pain, might bring both in a frustratingly protracted fashion. That was what the subbie had to look forward to, and that was what a good Domme provided.
In my present circumstances the roles had not only been reversed, but I now knew this was not a game. The paid-for time would not suddenly expire and everybody would not finish what they were doing with exhausted happy smiles on their faces. Monica and I, as Dommes, were being subjected to this painful and humiliating treatment for some reason which we had not yet worked out. I could sense the beginnings of a psychological torture to wear us down.
We had been travelling for a long time – it must have been in the early hours of the morning. I had been subjected to sensory deprivation, sexual stimulation, denial of gratification, immobilisation and enough pain and discomfort in wet clothes to keep me from succumbing to sleep.
I moaned through the tape and bindings around my head as a particularly sharp jolt of pain shot through my breasts. For the umpteenth time I flexed my fingers and tugged on the bindings on my arms and legs, but nothing gave. My high heels were starting to become uncomfortable with the immobility, but there was not a thing I could do about it. It was scary, but I was determined to keep such fear under control. I would show these creeps a thing or two if I got the chance. Nobody kidnapped Mary Ramirez and got away without regretting it...
It was all inside my head, I told myself. If I could remain focussed, I would get through this – whatever “this” was, and whatever lay ahead of us. Monica’s presence was a comfort, even though I could not see, hear or touch her. We had been through too much over the years since she turned up on my doorstep in Sydney as an earnest 19-year old wannabe Domme. God, that seemed such a long time ago...
* * *
I tried yet again to distinguish the road noises and to make sense of the vibrations coming through the floor of the truck. There was little changing of gears, just a steady smooth droning that meant we could be travelling on a motorway somewhere.
Eventually there was a distinct change as the truck turned off on to a more windy road that slowed our progress. Now I sensed the pressure in my ropes as the truck cornered. Perhaps we were climbing – I couldn’t be sure, but I figured we might be getting closer to wherever we were supposed to be. This supposition seemed borne out as at length – after a particularly winding part – we must have turned off the road altogether. There was no mistaking the abrupt bumping and the crunching shudders of rock and gravel coming up through the floor. The truck lurched this way and that, throwing me against the ropes and making the nipple weights swing wildly and provoking some moans from me that I could not hold back.
Then we were stopped and there came the rumble of the rear shutter door opening and hands undoing ropes on my arms and the cable tie on my head. I was not in a position to resist as – before my waist and legs were undone - my head was forced down and my silk blouse and bra were pulled off.
They were very careful, these people. Limbs remained bound and senses deprived while other limbs were being dealt to. Careless handling of a sub could let them get the jump on you, if they were being particularly obnoxious or rebellious. Not that such a thing happened in my sessions. Clearly they were not happening here, either, as my arms were twisted behind my back to be locked in cold steel handcuffs. Bent over, the weights twisted my nips a different way and I couldn’t stifle a groan, much to my annoyance. It was one thing what you did in the privacy of your own bondage, but something else in admitting to pain in front of your captors.
I was allowed to straighten, to feel the chilly weight of a huge steel collar closing about my neck. I knew at once it was a Martin Collar – a couple of kilos of layered plates riveted together and with an integral lock and key – none of your loose padlocks on these babies. It simply reinforced the professionalism of the Russians – assuming it was still Dimitri and Ivana who were doing this. I could sense a man and a woman present, from the touch and the grip on my arms.
The snugness and the weight of the steel collar was a surprise, and not a pleasant one. There is something about the fitting of such a device on someone – it carries the authoritarian air of solidity and permanency. If there had been a hope you might escape, such a hope is crushed with the huge physical presence of this collar. I felt the brush of a heavy chain against my breasts as it hung down in front of me.
My skirt and underwear were the next to go, as my legs were freed, but – perhaps not surprisingly – my shoes stayed on. A plastic cable tie around each ankle and under the shoe arch ensured this outcome. With a hand gripping each arm I was walked across to the steel lift platform at the back of the truck and I felt it shudder as we descended to the ground, stopping with a gentle bump. Then it was off the platform, tottering across uneven ground that seemed to be a mixture of grass and dirt before stepping up and across a threshold. There was the feel of solid wood under my feet, the smell of forest and old bricks. A brief sensation of morning sun on my naked skin, then shade, and a slight shiver ran through me.
The chain on my collar went momentarily tight and I was made to step awkwardly down into what seemed like a pit in the floor, with a solid bottom of perhaps concrete overlain with a layer of dirt. I was made to kneel then lie down. The heavy collar pulled my head down so that I was lying on my side. The dirt was scratchy and uncomfortable on my skin and the odd movements I was obliged to perform brought more fire to my nips. I stretched my legs out but couldn’t fully straighten – the length of the pit was perhaps three quarters of my height – enough so that my knees and head remained bent. I lay there for a few minutes before I felt someone else stepping down beside me, and knew that it was Monica. Her breasts pressed against my back as she slid on to her side like me and I felt the steel devices also pinned to Monica’s nipples. I sensed rather than heard the thump of some sort of cover or grating closing down on us, then I figured we were on our own.
Monica and I were soon squirming to establish the confines of our prison. It didn’t take long to find that we couldn’t really sit up fully – the grating was just too low – but we did have room to move laterally. We wriggled in the dirt, feeling it stick to our bodies as we twisted around to try to ease our predicament. I managed to get my hands on the clamps gripping Monica’s nips and very slowly eased them open, one at a time. Then it was my turn and I couldn’t stifle an attempted scream as the searing pain of release shot through me. My nips went from white hot to merely red, then to an eventual dull ache, after which we finally managed to make Monica’s head and my hands meet up. Once there, I began to explore the tape bindings around her head.
Tape is awkward stuff. Brilliant but awkward. If you pull it the wrong way it can be as unresisting as a steel band. I managed to get my fingers under a part holding the ear protectors in place and eventually worked it all off. After that it took me ages to find the start of the tape to begin unwrapping her head. My fingers and hands cramped periodically as Monica lay with her head in the small of my back and I slowly unwound the tape from her head, imagining her complaints – for I could not hear them – as the tape pulled and tugged at her hair.
It was a huge relief to get the tape off her. I had no idea where our captors were. They could even be watching, for all I knew. But anything that focussed us and made life a little more bearable had to be worth the effort. Now we had to twist around to swap positions, but at least Monica had the chance to look at my bindings, see what she was taking on, and to talk to me.
It must still have taken fifteen or twenty minutes, and Monica did it just as carefully and gently as she could, teasing the tape away from my hair and finally uncovering my eyes and mouth. She worked her way on to her side so that we were face to face, and kissed me in a gesture of sisterly affection.
“Deep shit, huh,” I said, voicing the obvious.
We were in some sort of square below-floor drainage pit. It was like a shallow manhole without the cover, instead having a heavy steel grating that was locked down somehow – as we found out when we tried to push it upwards with our bodies. Several drainpipes led into and out of the pit, and the chains attached to our collars had been fed through two of these on opposite sides, but still leaving us with room to move.
I looked up through the grating at a high roof perhaps ten metres above us. The walls were of decaying brick and the roof was a series of heavy wooden trusses surmounted by clay tiles with no ceiling. It looked like some sort of disused factory. It was day time – there was natural light coming from somewhere just beyond our vision, which did not allow us a decent view of the walls.
“Where the hell are we?” I whispered. My mouth was dry after the long period being gagged and my voice sounded hoarse and croaky.
“Don’t know,” said Monica. “You okay?” I grunted. “How long was the flight? Three, four hours?” Sensory deprivation does weird things to your sense of time, but I didn’t disagree with her.
“Then there was the truck ride. Maybe the same length of time…”
“We were kidnapped at what – seven thirty? Eight hours would only make it three thirty in the morning… It’s too light…”
“But where would we have gone in 3 or 4 hours? North? Up around Cairns? It’s warm, but not tropical. South? Doesn’t feel like it. Have they taken us way out west into the outback?”
“I smelt forest when we came in,” I offered. “You know, grass, trees, dampness?”
“Yeah. Victoria? West Australia?”
“Time difference with WA. We’d lose at least 2 hours. It would be even darker.” The mention of a time difference then made me think. “What about New Zealand? What if we’ve just flown over The Ditch?”
“Shit, you may be right,” Monica said, mulling over the idea. “Three hours difference at this time of year with daylight saving. Four plus four plus three – eleven hours – which makes the time around 6.30. It fits. It’s got that early morning feel about it.” Her blue eyes stared into mine. “What the hell are we doing in New Zealand?”
* * *
The collars were really uncomfortable, and lying naked in a pit with your hands cuffed behind you wasn’t helping. I desperately wanted to sleep but I couldn’t get comfortable at all. We talked a bit and postulated why we had been brought there and what might lie ahead of us. In all our discussions we assumed it was Ivana, Dimitri and their Russian colleagues who were responsible. Perhaps a further hour had passed when a balaclava-clad figure unbolted the grating and lifted it clear. We eased ourselves up into a sitting position as far as our collars and chains would allow. Now, perhaps, we would find out what was going on. I hardly need to say we got the shock of our lives when the man pulled up a stool and sat down, removing his balaclava as he did so.
Holy shit! We were speechless, but both of us had the presence of mind to stay cool. We had played games for too long in our business to let the opposition get the better of us by exposing our fears, doubts and anxiety.
“Good morning Monica. Good morning Mary.” Warren was all sweetness and light, his deep voice sounding strangely flat in the large room we found ourselves surveying.
“Did somebody leave the jail door open?” Monica had enough nerve to taunt, despite the predicament we found ourselves in. Warren didn’t appear to bite.
“Something like that. A little greasing of the right palms… I made some friends in prison – Russian friends.” He gazed at us from his position on the stool. He looked as though he had aged more than the two years he had been away would have warranted. His dark hair was now greying, and had been cut short to a dark stubble. His moustache had gone – I think I liked his looks better before its loss.
He wore an open-necked black shirt and trousers tucked into combat boots that laced up to his calves. He appeared at ease and in control, but who wouldn’t be with two naked and chained females at his disposition. He sat back for a long period, as though challenging us to make further comment or demand the meaning of this outrageous kidnapping. It was already becoming very clear to us now why we were here. You didn’t have to be Einstein to recognise the classic revenge pattern here.
“Regrettably, those friends appeared on the scene a little late,” he continued, and I could detect a hardening in his voice. “Thanks to you, my dear Monica, I arrived in prison with a reputation for fancying small children. Your dumping of those images and emails on my computer was well done – I will acknowledge that. It was the classic frame up.”
“You deserved it, after what you did to us,” Monica shot back.
“This is the second time you’ve done this to me,” Warren said. The matter-of-factness in his voice couldn’t disguise the bitterness. “A year in Her Majesty’s nick in the Scrubbs was a positive rest home compared to Port Augusta when the word got out that I was a child reamer. I can tell you the inmates take a particular dislike to that sort of person, as I found out to my misfortune. Not surprisingly, the screws turned a blind eye, and had it not been for some Russian contacts I might not be here at all.
“The result of all this, Monica, is that even seeing you two in such a helpless and vulnerable position, and knowing just what will be happening to you in the next three months is still insufficient to physically arouse me. Yes, even the thought of my revenge won’t give me a hard-on any more. Does that tell you something about my experience then and my life now?
“More to the point, does it tell you something about your life now?”
“You sound surprised at the way life has treated you,” Monica said. She was trying to stay calm, but I could detect a barely-controlled tremor in her voice. “You kidnapped and raped your way across Britain, locking my girls away in castle dungeons, then invaded my house and took half my staff prisoner. I seem to recall you intending to lock them away indefinitely as slaves to be used at your whim.”
“It couldn’t justify what you then did to me,” he said, and I could see his cool was starting to crack.
“The hell it couldn’t,” Monica pressed on defiantly. “Is that what you’re going to do with us, now? Keep us prisoner to be used by you?”
“You forget, I can’t ‘use’ you – at least not in the manner to which you’re accustomed.” He smiled thinly. “But yes, I will tell you what lies ahead. It will be long and painful. I have estimated three months. I don’t think you’ll last beyond that. Regretfully, I’ll have to dispose of you by then, but I assure you that you’ll welcome it. There will be nothing worth living for, either here or back in Australia. Your little establishment will have ceased to exist. Last time I thought I would just live there. Now I don’t even want that. Simply getting rid of it will do.”
His words made my heart miss a beat and I looked across at Monica. The blood had drained from her face.
“I could tell you my plans for your friends, but I won’t. Not knowing is so much more fun, don’t you think? What’s the matter? Suddenly not so sassy with the talking back, are we? But I will tell you what’s ahead for you. Three months will be enough time to have your minds turned to jelly. There will be a lot of pain, not a lot of sleep – some pleasure, but in doses that will leave you begging for it to stop. You’ll have your time in darkness, in silence, in immobility... There is only so much that even you hard nuts can handle. You both have your breaking points, and they’ll be long gone after three months. This is something I’ve planned in great detail – starting slowly and working up to a climax – if you’ll pardon the obvious sexual reference. Unfortunately for you two, it’ll be a climax with rather severe consequences.”
“So you’re going to kill us. Is that it?” Monica spoke the words slowly.
“Maybe. Maybe not. In the latter case you’ll be just about there anyway. You’ll have wished for it many times in reaching that point and you’ll probably be beyond reasoning in any case. I expect that your minds will be lost along the way. What a shame you’re not subbies. You could at least retreat into sub-space and spare yourselves some of the agony... But seeing you two proud bitches grovel will give me special pleasure. And believe me, you will be grovelling.”
This prediction was sending chills down my spine. Whatever Warren had lost in prison – innocence, manhood, balls - he’d lost his marbles with it. I had no answer for this sort of diatribe, and nor did Monica.
But if we thought things were bad, worse was yet to come.
“And guess what?” he ended, unable to hide the smugness in his voice. “You pals will be able to see every day of your suffering, courtesy of the world wide web.”
* * *
continues in chapter eleven
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