Chapter Three: The Customer is Always Right
It was a late lunch, just the two of us lingering over a salad and a bottle of Chardonnay, on the balcony. Monica was charming company when she really wanted to be. I had seen already the commanding and demanding side of her. But I had seen worse in other people, and I had encountered lots of worse clients. It was at this stage, that Monica made her proposal.
"Steve, I’ve been meaning to ask you something."
"Fire away," I said, starting to feel very relaxed and comfortable for a Friday afternoon. I did not feel at all guilty about not working, seeing as how I was having a business lunch with the boss.
"How shall I put this? I couldn’t help noticing, when you were testing your stuff for Mary, that you got very aroused by the whole thing..."
"Did I?" I’m sure I went red. I tried to be nonchalant about it and studied my drink intently.
"And what you did to - or for - Leila and Emma this morning, albeit without my permission and to some degree amateurish, nevertheless was encouraging. Would you consider becoming involved more seriously?"
"What do you mean?" The question caught me off guard.
"Well, we’re half a dozen girls, and - despite Mary’s attempts sometimes - we can’t take the place of a male, in certain cases."
"What are you suggesting, then?" I asked cautiously.
"There are certain instances where a male member in the team – if you’ll pardon the pun - would prove very… beneficial. In fact the more I think about it, the more scope there would be. I’ve thought about it in the past, but could never find the right person. I’ll give you an example. It may surprise you to know that we get quite a number of women clients. Some come here of their own volition. They may be lesbian, they may be dominant or submissive themselves, and may simply want a partner to play games with. Most of the time my team can accommodate any of these requirements. There are also women who get left here as part of their punishment - these women are slaves, and are frequently punished while their masters are pleasured upstairs."
"Surely you’re not proposing me as some sort of gigolo or stud?"
"Not exactly. But as you know we do a lot of role-playing. Having a male in the cast would lend a lot more credibility in some cases. Can you act a role?"
"I’ve absolutely no idea."
"I’m sure you could. You’d also look good in leather." Monica smiled. "You’d make a good master yourself, if we train you properly."
"Which would do what, in regard my contract?"
"Nothing specific at the moment. I’d just like you to think about it, and maybe wander about downstairs over the weekend and see what goes on. The requirement for your services to fit out the downstairs rooms remains, and is perhaps more urgent than ever. But there may well be a secondary role during this, and a longer-term position afterwards, depending on how successful it all is. Just say you’ll consider it. Yes?" Monica smiled again - her most stunning smile that totally bewitched me.
"Only if you answer me one thing - truthfully."
When I was strapped to that chair - when Mary was doing those awful things to me. Yeah, I’ll admit it, I was turned on…"
"I know. Was that you who...teased me?"
"Was it good?"
"You really are a bitch, you know that? You just about drove me crazy. "
"So you’ll consider my offer?"
"Only if you’ll finish what you started."
"Perhaps." There was that slow, wicked smile again. "But only on my terms."
"You’ll find out when the time is right. And the time is now right to rescue poor Emma." I supposed that was the best answer I was going to get at this stage of the day.
Emma was as agitated as she could be, given the state of near immobility in which we had left her.
"Mmmph! Mmmrrf! Uhhf! NNmph!" Emma was most vocal, once she heard us coming. Her roped hands were tugging at her crotch rope, but somehow I didn’t think it was for the erotic effect. She was standing on her tiptoes, her hair soaked from the water, which had run down her neck and saturated her teeshirt. Her nipples were standing out like hard little points, which I’m sure was only partially due to the dampness.
Monica lowered the bucket on the rope while I pulled it away from Emma’s head. The bucket was about half full still. It had been an hour since we had left her. Monica untied Emma’s hands, while I wound down the headstocks by a few centimetres. Emma was obviously relieved, but still mouthing off behind the gag. I unscrewed the nuts keeping the front bar in place. It came free with a soft plop, and the harsh sound of Emma panting and gasping. She pulled the tape from her eyes and gaped at us.
"God, that was awful! It was...oh... terrible! Please don’t do that to me again, Monica! I know I couldn’t take much more. I’m so glad you came back..." Emma started to cry. I undid the butterfly nuts holding the sides of the head restraint in place, until all that was keeping her there was the headstock itself. This was unlocked and Emma and Monica hugged each other, while I stood by feeling awkward. It was obviously Steve’s turn to clean up as Monica led Emma back upstairs.
I spent what was left of the Friday getting some orders in with hardware and other companies. There was a lot of planning to do to get everything completed as soon as possible.
I went to my room early that evening. The girls were obviously expecting their guests, and I had made a conscious decision to stay out of the house during the evenings, in the time I had been there. At about seven thirty, however, the phone rang. It was Monica, calling from her office.
"Steve, there’s something I want you to see. Can you come to my office, please?"
She was waiting for me when I arrived.
"I’ll be back shortly. Watch the TV while I’m out? You may need to change the channels to suit the action."
Mystified by what was going on, I sat down in the big leather chair behind the ornate old desk. Monica could be a strange mixture sometimes, but she managed to blend the style and taste of a bygone age with modern technology. The television was on, in the discrete cabinet beside the door, showing the reception area just inside the front door. Moments later the doorbell rang, and I saw Monica move into the picture to answer it. I had barely noticed her outfit - distinctly nineteen forties, with high heels with toes cut away and a long floral dress that swirled about her calves. She had even done her hair differently, it now being pulled back behind her ears into a roll at the nape of her neck.
She opened the door to greet another woman, obviously from the same time warp, but wearing a tailored black suit over a white silk blouse. She was tall and athletic-looking, with long blonde hair braided into two plaits which wrapped round the top of her head. I turned up the sound.
"Bonjour, Mademoiselle," came Monica’s voice.
"Bonjour Michelle. Is my table ready?"
"Certainment, Mademoiselle. Un moment, s’il vous plait. Please wait here."
It had me baffled. Monica disappeared from the camera frame. The visitor moved across to study a landscape hung beside the front door.
"Mademoiselle Isobel Leroux?"
"Oui?" The woman whirled at the sound of the harsh voice from behind her. She had little chance to react further as Monica and Mary were on her, pushing her against the wall. Mary was in her dreaded SS uniform.
"Isobel Leroux, you are under arrest for crimes against the Third Reich, including sabotage and belonging to the Resistance." As she hissed these words, Mary and Monica twisted their victim’s arms behind her and Mary clicked the handcuffs on the woman’s wrists.
"That’s a lie! Who told you that?" She swung round, her eyes blazing. "Is this your doing, Michelle?" she demanded, glaring at Monica. Monica shrugged. "You whore! You sleep with every Boche officer who comes to your restaurant, for a few measly francs extra on the bill!" She launched into a torrent of invective that made my skin crawl, but which was stifled abruptly when Mary forced a thick bit-gag between her teeth and buckled it tightly behind Isobel’s neck. The swearing subsided to muffled mmmphing, but her eyes continued to fling daggers.
"Ve must not upzet ze other customers," Mary chided. "Und now ve are going for a little trip, the destination of vich you vill probably guess but must not see." Mary pulled out a blindfold that looked not unlike those comfort masks you get on aircraft, except this one was made of black leather and again buckled snugly behind the victim’s head. Isobel was suddenly subdued. It is amazing what the lost of sight does to your balance and sense of security, as I could vouch for on a personal basis.
"Danke, Michelle. Zis person vill not trouble you again." Assisted by Monica, Mary manhandled her prisoner out of the front door. I switched channels with the remote, and saw Monica disappear out of the frame, while Mary helped Isobel slowly down the front steps. There was the sound of an engine starting up, and a dark-coloured Ford Transit van backed into view. It was a late model version - the one with the short wheelbase but the tall rear cab that looks high enough to stand upright inside. It stopped at the base of the steps where the two women waited. As Monica got out, Mary opened the rear doors and pushed Isobel from behind. Isobel stumbled for a couple of steps then was caught by Mary just as she reached the van. Mary turned her round and pushed her again so she involuntarily sat on the edge of the rear floor. Seconds later Mary had a strap buckled around Isobel’s ankles, and was pushing her inside the van. By the interior light I could see Mary looping a rope around the ankle strap and pulling the woman’s feet up behind her, before tying off the rope to the handcuffs. Isobel was in a hogtie that was going to be quite uncomfortable for however long Mary elected to keep her thus.
The SS officer in the tailored jacket and long leather skirt slammed the doors to the van and moved to the driver’s seat. As the van disappeared down the driveway Monica waved at the disappearing taillights, before turning and smiling up at the camera.
"They’ll be about fifteen minutes," Monica told me when she reappeared. "Mary’s taking Isobel for a drive that will hopefully disorient her, if not fool her completely. Either way it will add to the illusion. She’ll return down the back track - the unsealed road that customers don’t know about. Isobel will remain blindfolded for as long as Mary sees fit, and there is no reason for her to know she has come back to the place she started from, since she’ll be entering through the back door."
"What’s she paying for?" I asked.
"Isobel is a romantic," explained Monica with the hint of a smile. "She loves films like Casablanca and the wartime classics. She craves the romance and danger, and I guess is seeking it as best she can in today’s society, short of joining the army or being a news reporter in a war zone. So she travels back to Paris in World War Two. Her name is Isobel Leroux, and she is a society lady who we know is working for the Resistance. She is going to be interrogated for three nights and two days. She will be kept bound or chained, most probably gagged and or blindfolded, will be sleep-deprived and will be subjected to various tortures and humiliations. She will probably be released at the end for lack of evidence. That may be before or after we take her into the bush to execute her."
I was quite taken aback by the casual way Monica talked about it all. "How much did she specifically instruct in all of this?"
"Nothing, directly. She filled in one of our standard questionnaires, identifying what her preferences were, what sort of role playing she preferred, what sort of bondage she liked, what her fantasies were, and even what her greatest fears were."
"People tell you all this?"
"Oh yes. First we get them to write it all down, then we get them to sign a form saying they are in good health, fully aware of what our services entail, and to absolve us of all responsibility in the event of an accident. We had some lawyers write in the fine print, of course. All care, no responsibility, best endeavours, client’s risk, that sort of thing. The preference list is important of course, because it gives us the scope to plan the service for the client. It works well."
"So she’s paying for two days and three nights of hell."
"Yep. Isobel is actually a very sophisticated and imaginative lady. She has a very high paying job, no spouse, and has Monday off to recover. She’ll need it. She’ll be disoriented, tired, sore, drained, hungry, and somewhat poorer. She will also have had a number of sexual torments that will drive her crazy but ultimately leave her well satisfied. Hopefully the whole weekend will leave her satisfied."
"And what else is happening?"
"Well, we’re always pretty busy at the weekend, of course. You haven’t really been with us long enough to see the patterns, and for that matter we haven’t been running downstairs yet to see how it really works in concurrency with our upstairs services. But trust me, weekends are dynamite. Isobel is here for the full weekend. That means round the clock shifts of supervision and dominating. I’ll be taking the day shifts downstairs with Trish, while Mary will do the night ones - she’s had a good sleep this afternoon. The other three are all working upstairs tonight."
"So do you have other downstairs clients tonight? "
"A wife is bringing her husband here in about an hour. He will stay the weekend, too. He’ll be a bit easier than Isobel. Not so much elaborate role-playing. Dennis will arrive ready-packaged - gift-wrapped in rubber. He’ll be chained up to the wall for most of the first night, with the heating on, and with regular beatings to keep him awake. I gather Dennis is not past beating his wife on the odd occasion, and she is not past spiking his beer with a little concoction I gave her. If we have room, his wife will stay here and partake in the beatings. Dennis will get fed bread and water, which he will have great difficulty eating off the floor with his hands bound behind him. Dennis will become one of our regulars. He’s the sort that will get tested on all the nice devices you’re going to build for us, Steve."
"Sounds like a full-on weekend."
"It is. There’s also a master coming who will bring his own slave for downstairs treatment while he is pleasured upstairs. Oh - there’s the alarm for the rear gate. Mary must be coming back." I followed Monica’s gaze and saw a red light blinking on a panel beside the TV. Monica changed channels and a new picture showed the Transit van sitting on a narrow muddy track in the tree-filled valley behind the property. At the touch of a button the ancient-looking gate swung open of its own accord, and the van drove towards us, then passed out of the picture. "I must go and help Mary set up the first victim."
As she headed for the door, I could not help myself. "By the way Mon..."
"Yes?" She half turned in the doorway.
"You look sensational. "
She flushed with genuine pleasure. "Thank you, Steve. And a question for you - can you do a German accent?"
She left the question hanging in the air, closing the door before I got a chance to answer. She was certainly giving me plenty to think about.
I flipped through the channels looking to find what was happening to Isobel. I settled on the Post Room as a guess, and sure enough a minute or two later Monica and Mary appeared in the picture, leading a still blindfolded and gagged Isobel. She was reluctant, and became even more uncooperative when the girls positioned her between the posts and fastened a leather cuff on each wrist. The cuffs were no doubt locked on, and a rope was secured to each. Isobel began to struggle when the handcuffs were removed, trying briefly to claw at her gag, before Mary and Monica hauled simultaneously on their ropes and Isobel’s arms shot up into the air in a star position. She was almost off the ground and began to flail around her with her feet. Things were starting to get interesting when the doorbell rang. I had no idea who was there, nor who was supposed to be doing the meeting and greeting business. Monica was still living her life in the Forties, so I decided I had better do the obvious thing and answer the door.
I suppose I had been given warning, but I was till not quite prepared for the couple I found waiting outside. She was a handsome woman of perhaps thirty-five, dressed in a casual blue denim skirt above the knee with a black leather jacket and shapely black boots. She had long brown hair which ordinarily might perhaps have been "too young" for her age, but she definitely got away with it. Standing beside her was a tall man - at least I presumed him to be male from the absence of any bumps bulging beneath the front of the black latex suit. He was encased totally in this suit, his hands presumably secured behind his back. The only opening seemed to be two nostril holes in the hood. Around his neck was a collar, attached to which was a lead that the lady held in her hand.
"Hello. I’m Jane Sewell. This worthless piece of trash is Dennis. He belongs to me. We have an appointment with Monica Armstrong."
"Ah. Monica’s temporarily engaged at the moment. My name is Steve, I believe we’re expecting you. Would you please come this way." I led them into one of the two waiting rooms that had been created from a large lounge area. It was only at this stage that I realised the guy was wearing high spike-heeled shoes probably a good ten centimetres high, and a sole five centimetres thick to go with it. No wonder he looked taller than Jane. "Please take a seat and I’ll advise Monica that you’re here." Jane sat down gracefully on the wicker lounge, tugging at the leash. There was a "mmph" sound from the hood. I guessed Dennis had his mouth full of rubber or something similar. He sank down on to his knees, close to his wife, and I saw that his hands were manacled behind him.
I went downstairs and into the Observation Room. Here I saw Mary and Monica getting to work on Isobel. She was a little more under control now, standing spreadeagled between the two posts, still blindfolded and gagged. Her smart black skirt was now torn up the front and her ankles were linked by a wide spreader bar. Her jacket had been removed and her silk blouse was undone and open. She wore no bra, nor did she need to, for she had breasts that stood proud and firm, or at least they did while her arms were stretched tautly above her. Hanging from them now were metal clamps looking like small scissors, and from these, small lead weights were suspended by chains. As I watched Mary added a further weight to each, and I heard Isobel moan through the black rubber bit in her mouth. It was not a very effective gag - not as effective as tape or a mouth-filling ball, but then it was not designed to be. Isobel spluttered and pleaded incoherently. Monica handed a very whippy riding crop to Mary, who promptly slashed Isobel across the buttocks. She gasped and yelped. Mary strolled around the front of the prisoner, smiling a smile that could not be seen by her victim. Mary caressed Isobel’s breasts with the little flap on the end of the crop, toying with and poking at the clamps. More moaning followed from Isobel, before Mary ripped her skirt further, almost to her waist. I caught a glimpse of black underwear as the tip of the crop nosed its way into the vulnerable spot between her legs. Isobel’s head shook wordlessly. I observed Monica watching from one side, her arms folded and with a smug smile on her face. I was sure it was more than just the sight of another satisfied customer.
"Now, who are zer members of your resistance group?" Mary whispered in Isobel’s ear, softly persuasive. A shake of the head again. "You realise zis could be very protracted und painful? Yes, of course you do. Surely you haf somezing you vant to tell us? No?" Mary’s voice was silken and honey-tongued. I saw her hand reach under the skirt and linger there. "You’re a slut, Isobel Leroux," Mary said very quietly by with a hint of menace. "You’re as vet as a cat on heat. You’re also as guilty as sin. Und you know what zat means..." Isobel looked like she was trembling, as the hand snaked under her skirt again. There was the merest movement forward in her body - as much as she was able before the the taut ropes on her wrists pulled her back. I thought I heard a whine of frustration from behind the gag. Without warning Mary flicked the crop at Isobel’s left breast, catching it across the top, above the clamp, with the strap on the end. Isobel jerked and squealed.
So engrossed in the byplay was I that I almost forgot what I was there for.
"Excuse me Oberleutnant," I wasn’t really sure what rank Mary was. I made a mental note to find out. I didn’t want to wind up in the same position as Isobel by insulting a superior officer. "My apologies for interrupting zer interrogation, but zere iss a ein Frau mit ein prisoner in zer upstairs vaiting room. I vould ask your assistant to assist me vis zem, bitte."
"Danke schoen Corporal." Mary was unfazed by my intrusion. Corporal... That was a liberty. Mary motioned towards Monica. "You may go to attend to zeese people. I vill carry on here." I’ll bet you will, I thought.
"Enjoying yourself?" I asked Monica as she joined me in the corridor.
"Yes, as a matter of fact. I bet you were, too," she smirked. "That wasn’t a bad accent, either. I think we can find more work for you."
"Thanks," I said, feigning a total lack of enthusiasm.
"How are Dennis and Jane?"
"He seemed rather quiet and restrained, I thought. She’s rather tasty."
We found Mr and Mrs Sewell as I had left them, except that the latter now had an elegant boot resting on the former’s neck as he kneeled beside her. At the jerk of the leash he followed his mistress blindly as we led the couple to the concealed door and then helped the prisoner down the stairs. This was in fact not an easy exercise, given the heels the victim was wearing in his dark world. It was a situation calling for total trust, but then, when one was "trussed" as he was, one didn’t have a lot of choice, did one?
Desperate Dennis was taken into the holding cell where I had spent a night, and I suspected his fate was to be the same. In short time he was chained facing the wall, his arms spreadeagled above him, the cuffs connected to eyebolts which I had personally embedded and tested. With his legs strapped together at ankles and above and below the knees, Dennis was going nowhere. At Monica’s direction I fetched a selection of whips and floggers. I returned just in time to catch Monica telling Jane that dinner would be ready in half an hour in the dining room upstairs, and advising her that Dennis would remain fully supervised at all times via the CCTV.
We left them to it, with just time to see Jane’s eyes light up as she spotted the two-metre mini-bullwhip. Dennis was going to be one sorry cowboy, I guessed. Revenge was no doubt going to be sweet.
We retraced our steps just in time to be greeted with a further knock on the door.
"I do wish people would come at the agreed time," Monica grumbled.
"I guess you can’t always come when you want, in this place," I suggested wryly. She laughed and went to open the door, while I returned to her study to watch further events unfold.
The guests this time were a handsome couple, he around forty, in a dark jacket and black poloneck, she considerably younger, in a white silken cape that flowed around her. She had blonde hair shaped and cut just to the top of her shoulders, huge brown eyes, and - as I saw when she turned fully to the camera - an equally huge white ball gag in her mouth. The man removed her cape and handed it to Monica, who moved off screen to presumably hang it in the closet. I had time to look at this stunning woman who was now revealed in her glory. She wore a white corset which she must have had help with to get on. It stretched from just above her crotch to the underside of her breasts, which, under the influence of the device, were magnificent to say the least. Attached to the bottom of the corset were several white straps, the widest of which was tightly pulled between her legs, securing, I suspected, an insert or two. The remaining, thinner straps held up her stockings of shiny white nylon that shimmered under the hall chandelier. Her arms were secured behind her in a leather arm sheath (white, of course) that was laced up tightly to her upper arms, pulling her elbows close together, and was then retained in place with straps that looped over her shoulders and under her armpits.
Monica and the man engaged in brief conversation for a minute then Monica led the pair through the concealed door and down the stairs to the basement. The woman, whom I later learned was called Christina, was taken to the second holding cell. Monica disappeared momentarily before returning with an ankle spreader from the storeroom. She and the man - obviously Christina’s master - secured the aluminium bar with its leather cuffs to the slave’s ankles. Christina was wearing knee-high white leather boots, with heels I guessed at ten centimetres. They were not the highest I had ever seen, but I guess it’s all a matter of how long one has to wear them. I had a feeling Christina was going to be testing hers for quite some time. She looked disconcerted, rolling her eyes at her master as he adjusted the spreader. I could pick up snatches of the conversation.
"...she’s used to it... had worse than this... "
Then came the rope through the pulley, to be attached to the ring at the end of the arm sheath. I heard a whimper from Christina - a pleading "mmmph" as her arms began to go up behind her and her body was bent over into a strappado. The mmmph turned to a more urgent "hmm-hmming" as the man attached two weighted nipple clamps to her lovely breasts where they protruded over the top of the corset. Christina’s vocal range went up an octave, and there could be no doubting the pleading in her voice, particularly when her master picked up a many-tailed flogger and gave her several hard cracks across her rump. She squealed and pleaded behind the big rubber ball filling her mouth, but could do little more than shake her blonde tresses and wiggle her body a bit. Evidently the weights hanging from her nipples suggested this was not a particularly good idea, and this activity ceased abruptly. Before he left, the man fiddled briefly in the area of his slave’s crotch. Christina’s whining changed to a more urgent moaning, and a higher pitch again.
"Just changing the toys into top gear," he told Monica with a smile. "It’ll keep her happy for a few hours. See you tomorrow, Tina."
Christina’s moans became decidedly desperate, keening from behind the rubber ball before the door slammed shut.
"Thanks for helping out," said Monica, poking her head around the door. "Warren and I are going to have dinner with Jane. Leila will be in to take over the night watch shortly. See you in the morning."
Sure enough, Leila arrived ten minutes later.
"Looks like I got the short straw tonight," she smiled. "Gotta stay up all night and watch TV while others are wining and dining."
"So who’s doing the cooking?" I asked.
"Nobody. Monica’s ordered in from Luigi’s. Special delivery. Something to do with an ‘old flame’." Luigi’s was the best restaurant this side of the river.
"Payment in kind?"
"Something like that. But she’s getting in extra plates for you and me."
"And what are the others doing tonight?"
"Well, Emma’s with a handsome man in Room 3, Jillian has a date for nine o’clock, and Trish is entertaining one of the local city counselors."
"And Mistress Mary of the Gestapo is beating the crap out of poor Isobel in the Post Room."
"Jawohl mein korporal!" Leila grinned.
I’ll say this for Luigi, even his takeaways travel well. Leila and I dined well, albeit while watching Isobel, Dennis and Christina go through their various versions of pain, suffering and climax. It was a pleasant evening in Monica’s office, even though Leila could not join me in the bottle of red, since she was on duty. It was nearly midnight by the time I went to bed. Monica’s group had finished their meal and had ventured into the dungeon again for a short while. Leila made a quick round of the TV channels before I left. Dennis was still chained up to the wall, this time with his back to it, while Jane did very uncomfortable things to his dick. Christina was in a somewhat less uncomfortable position, her legs still spread, but now lying on her back on the futon. The ballgag had been removed and her mouth was now taped shut with silver duct tape, as were here eyes. The door was just closing as we tuned in. Christina’s crotch strap was still in place - I had a suspicion the insert was there for the night. Isobel was now in the Chair Room, firmly strapped to the Chair, also blindfolded and gagged with tape. Two wooden clothespins stuck out jauntily from her nipples. I had a feeling I knew what she was sitting on.
I retired to my room, taking comfort in the fact that I was at least going to have a warm, snug bed to spend a night in before waking up to greet Saturday morning.
story continues in Monica's Justice - Captives of Shark Island