Monica's Place: 19. Cutting Loose (by Trish)

by Richard Alexander

Email Feedback | Forum Feedback

© Copyright 2002 - Richard Alexander - Used by permission

Storycodes: MF/mf; bondage; bdsm; cons/nc; XXX

(story continues from )

Chapter Nineteen: Cutting Loose (by Trish)

In the course of this chapter you will see how I come to be doing the writing. I decided to put down exactly what happened after Steven walked out on us that Wednesday morning, on the grounds that anything he wrote would be conjecture, and he really had no idea what he put us through. Don’t get me wrong – Steven is a lovely guy. Dependable, you know? Decent. That’s the word. I nearly said predictable, but he really is anything but that. 

He left us all hanging from the frame after the little performance with his phoney London accent. In fact it wasn’t bad. If I didn’t know it was him I could’ve been quite concerned. But that goddamned electronic box of his… well, yes, it did drive us crazy. The bastard.

Its funny how you get all screwed up about the passage of time in those situations. It seemed like half a day that we lurched from one orgasm to another. The box would activate on one of us, and there she would be – struggling to stay under control, under the apprehensive gaze of the rest of us, wondering if she was going to let any sound escape. Emma and Leila were the worst offenders – both had a predisposition to throw their heads back with a nasal whinny – something no ballgag will ever fully contain. Then suddenly it would be on for all of us. And of course never mind about just the sounds we weren’t supposed to make – we weren’t meant to move either. Those wretched nipple clamps held us together, such that when we were all being vibrated to hell and back our struggles were magnified as we tugged against the nipple restraints in some mad kind of epileptic rhythm – all pulling in different directions at once. I think at one stage it went for four full cycles, with each time somebody giving vent to their feelings. And with the pain in our tits as well as those wild feelings coming from down below that seemed to flood through our bodies, it was almost impossible to be quiet. The combination of pain and pleasure was starting to become unbearable. 

I was sure Steven had turned up the heating as well, since that was typical of his subtlety, for we were all sweating freely, with perspiration making our hair damp and running down out bodies. 

I was in the midst of a solo performance myself when the ice holding us together by the tits finally gave way and the twine fell free. This took a lot of the pain away, as our poor nips were no longer stretched, but the ache continued. And with every orgasm it seemed that the blood rushed back to our confined and clamped nipples and hurt even more.

I wondered how long we could stand this torture. Where was Steven now? Was he watching on the CCTV? In the midst of our trials we sometimes momentarily forgot about poor Monica, apparently randomly rolling about on the floor. 

When Steven first left the room Monica had rolled about wildly, as though her very body had been on fire. We had seen the toothpaste but did not realise what he had done with the Finalgon on her nipples and the itching powder. It must have nearly driven her crazy, trapped in the rubber suit having no idea what was going on, but knowing she had to find a key somewhere in the darkness, with no help from anyone. Every now and then she would stop, and we could see her breasts heaving with exertion through the skin tight suit. If we thought we were hot, no doubt she was worse. We despaired of her ever reaching the key, which was behind and below me. She kept heading off in different directions. Then, in the midst of one pause, she abruptly stiffened and jerked, her body spasming into a foetal position. The spasming lasted perhaps ten seconds, at two-second intervals, then she lay on her back again, her breasts thrusting against the rubber. Her hands tried to reach the slits over her nipples, but they could not, nor could she do anything about the devices that Steven had obviously chained and locked inside her. After several seconds Monica appeared to have some plan, and rolled like a silver cylinder in the opposite direction to where she had been going. This rolling fetched her up against the rack frame, behind Emma. Her she stopped, obviously recovering her breath, then she slowly swept her chained legs around in a series of semi circles, feeling for keys. She started moving along the frame towards Leila, but halted abruptly, succumbing to another series of jerks and foetal spasms. I was starting to get alarmed, and I looked across at where Leila knelt, wearing her favourite red latex mini-dress, beyond the half-suspended Mary. Mary had her eyes closed and her head hung back. Clearly she couldn’t see as much as the rest of us, and the exertions in the various positions she had endured before Steven left – even before the infernal vibrators had started up – had drained much of her strength. 

Leila –at the opposite end of the frame, caught my look, and her big eyes also registered concern, but there was nothing we could do. Emma was suffering from a solo session with the vibrator, and at that moment gave in and let go with a long "Nnnnnmmp!" as an orgasm wracked her body. Of course the microphone picked that up and at once my silent contact with Leila disappeared as the great pink monster embedded inside her vibrated into life and her hands clenched as she closed her eyes and endeavored to control the waves of passion clawing up her body. I, too, was on the receiving end, but at least now we could move with some more freedom, as our nipples were unfettered. We could now rock and sway and jerk like a collection of demented marionettes, each dancing to our own tune. I don’t know whether this made it better or worse, but at least the pain in our nips was less. I tried to haul myself off the prong impaling me, but instead I only succeeded in making matters worse as I ended up bouncing up and down on it and climaxing amidst a desperate effort to remain silent. Thoughts of terrible tortures that Steven would suffer focused my thoughts in between such moments of oblivion.

By the time we managed with a concerted effort to stay silent for five minutes, in spite of all provocation, I realised that Monica was nowhere to be seen. Craning my head I perceived a pair of shiny rubber-clad legs beneath and behind me. She was almost on to the key, which was fitted with a large key ring (Steven thought of everything, it seemed.) I looked questioningly at Jillian, standing tautly in an inverted ‘Y’. Jill, in her white PVC leotard, strained at her bonds to see what Trish was up to, and as there came a faint rattle of the key ring – fortunately not enough for the microphone to detect, Jill’s finger and thumb formed an ‘O’, registering ‘contact’. We all smiled a little around the balls wedged in our mouths, I guess, at that moment. Whatever else Monica was suffering, she had somehow found the key, and now knew where she had to go. She recognised she was at the short end of the frame and followed it down the long side, to the rear of Jillian, moving in a slow sitting fashion, pulling her legs up and sliding her bum along the floorin a series of bumps and wriggles. That wasn’t easy in high heels, and I suspect she was experiencing a regular reaming in her arse as whatever insert she wore was forced in and out with each wriggle of her bottom. Having her hands chained in front made this mode of travel difficult in the extreme, and she was clearly exhausted by the time she turned the corner on to the short side behind Leila. 

Leila’s overhead rope had a chain on the lower end, which locked to an eyebolt. It was this which Monica eventually undid, but not before she had undergone another spasm attack, and had been obliged to lie on her side to enable her hands to reach the eyebolt and padlock.

I was barely conscious of her progress at this point, because Mary had just let forth a wail as she quivered and jerked on the suspension rope, and the terrible vibrations befell us all at that moment. I had my eyes closed and was on the verge of giving in again to the pleasure machine embedded in my pussy when there was a new noise – the clink of chain and the muffled cry of triumph from Leila. 

I opened my eyes in time to see Leila lowering her arms from where they had been stretched over the horizontal bar. Her wrists were still cuffed together, and she twisted and turned to untie the ropes holding her spread, cuffed ankles to the padded bench. All the while, of course, the pink monster buzzed relentlessly inside her, and finally – just as she undid the last rope – overcame her. She sank a couple of inches further, her fettered hands clasping her pussy through the taut red latex hem of her dress, and then bounced in a climactic rhythm oblivious to all around her. Moments later, obviously becoming aware of the pain in her nipples, she slowly released the terrible clamps from her breasts, screwing up her eyes and mewing with pain as the blood returned. Then she eased herself off the great monster dildo and climbed stiffly and awkwardly down from the bench. 

Practical girl that she was, she switched off the dreadful black box under the rack, which left us able to moan and whine at will. In a short time she had undone all the ropes stretching us to the rack frame, but our relief was short lived. We had known what Steven had done in hiding the keys, but the reality had been lost somewhat in the climactic few hours – I had no idea how long it had actually been. Now, here we were – five girls all still chained at the ankles with greater or lesser hobble chains, our wrists still cuffed in front, and still with these hard rubber balls wedged behind our teeth, holding our mouths open and denying speech other than unladylike nasal grunts. Monica lay on the floor still, clearly exhausted (yeah – like we weren’t?) An examination of what Steven had done to her left little in the way of options. She was chained up in a most thorough way, with little we could do until we found these bloody keys.

I took stock of the situation. Mary lay on the padded rack bench. I had the feeling that she was not much better off than Monica. With a grunt and a look I led the way out of the Rack Room up to the kitchen. Here I wrote on the white board on the refrigerator with the marker pen: Leila & me: outside; Jill upstairs; Emma downstairs. Priority: bathroom – get towels – get dry – stay warm. Somehow I had the feeling that our troubles were only just beginning. How hard would it be to find a dozen keys? How well had Steven hidden them? How long were we going to have to suffer?

Outside it was a gorgeous Brisbane afternoon. The sky was a cloudless blue and the air had now shrugged off the morning chill. Having said that, running about almost naked, except for a corset which only covers that between pubes and tits isn’t my idea of fun. I decided to at least go and get a skirt that I could put on over the lower half of my nakedness, and, leaving Leila looking under flowerpots on the back verandah, I went down the steps on to the pathway leading to our sleeping quarters. That was when I saw it – the little yellow plastic duck in the middle of the swimming pool. What the -?

I entered the area enclosed by the green pool fence and slowly it dawned on me that I had found the first key. It dawned on me equally soon after this revelation exactly what Steven had done. 

The pool is rectangular – about waist deep at the shallow end and up to my neck at the deep end, and surrounded by the aforementioned fence. Stretched across it at ground level, secured at each end to a fence post, I found a thin stainless steel wire, of the kind used for fishing traces. It was one of Steven’s favourite ideas – something light and inconspicuous, yet unbreakable and a real pain to try and cut through with a hacksaw or anything except big bolt cutters. Somehow I had the feeling that any form of tools would be well and truly locked up in his tool shed, if they were even on the premises. 

I tugged at the wire. It was about a metre from and parallel with the edge of the deep end, and I could see a key hanging below the yellow duck, which was tied to the wire in the middle of the pool. The bastard! Someone was going to have to get wet to get the key. It was late autumn, and while Brisbane autumn and winter are cool and sunny, they are not for swimming, and the pool had not been used since Easter.

I turned to where Leila was fossicking about on the verandah.

"Hhhhnnnm!" I cried, making as loud a noise as the ball permitted. Leila looked up and I waved her over.

Ten minutes later, joined by Mary and the other two and armed with a couple of beach towels we thought would not have been used until the next summer, we worked out who was going to get the key. To me there seemed to be little choice. Mary, Leila and I all had on leather boots, which could not come off until the ankle cuffs were removed. I had no intention of ruining my best white thigh boots for some male’s whim. Which left Emma and Jillian. Jill, wearing her white pvc leotard needed both wrists and ankles free to remove it, and I did not want her getting cold if she could not remove a soaking wet outfit. Which only left Emma, with her cheerleader’s skirt and lycra crop top.

I pointed out the duck and the key. Emma looked at me and I pointed to the water. She shook her head, indicating cold and indicating I should be the one. I pantomined the logic about clothes and leather boots and so on, interspersed with commanding grunts. Emma was adamant until I seized her by the hair and propelled her to the edge of the pool. Here Jill removed Emma’s wrap-around pleated skirt and we dragged the halter-neck top over her head. Recognising the futility of resistance, Emma took off her white high heels and slowly entered the water at the shallow end, carefully going down the steps, hobbled as she was, wearing only white stockings and looking quite a sight.

She squealed and carried on as the water rose against her body, all the time her protests and complaints muffled by the red rubber ball buckled tightly in place. Wading down the length of the pool she finally reached the key. The water was up to her neck as she gripped the key, her action followed by a muted wail of dismay. She held up the key and I saw that it was threaded on to a loop in the main wire, with the loop having been closed with a crimping device. The awful truth dawned on me that that key was going to stay there. Which had to mean two things – firstly it was probably the key to our wrist cuffs – or maybe the gags – and secondly that we were all going to have to get wet if we wanted to be free. The bastard, I thought again! 

I motioned to Emma to try undoing her cuffs. It worked but it really left us with little progress having been made. Why did I have the feeling suddenly that Steven was watching the whole show?

Emma went to her room wrapped in a towel to have a hot shower and a change of clothes. I put on a long denim skirt over the top of my corset and a halter top that I had to get Leila to do up for me, since I could not reach behind with my fettered wrists. Really Steven, this was taking things too far. And so far we had only found one key, and that effectively had been in plain sight. It was now gone two o’clock and I was beginning to get hungry. We redoubled our efforts, with once again Leila and myself turning our attention to the exterior.

I tried to put myself inside Steven’s mind. Clearly he was out to make things difficult for us. We would all have to get wet. What would he do with the ankle cuffs I wondered? Then I thought, he’d make us walk as far as possible to get the key. I headed off to the gate, noticing that Steven’s pickup was not parked in its usual position, but despite that, I had the feeling of being watched. 

Sure enough, in the letter box was another key. But again, this key was secured by a piece of crimped stainless steel wire. It hung a metre above the ground. I tried it out in the padlock behind my neck, but it clearly did not fit. Which meant it could only be for the ankle cuffs. The swine, I thought. Nothing was simple. My hobble was only half a metre long – there was no way I could get the key to the lock, or vice versa.

More time was taken up now, with the five of us hobbled and gagged girls, four of us also with our wrists cuffed together, all walking down to the gate. As we reached it a car passed, causing us to duck behind the abutting wall. God, we must look a sight, I thought. We now had to lie on our backs to get our ankles up to the key, which duly unlocked the ankle cuffs.

This was a great relief, in one way, since we could now go ahead and release our wrist cuffs, but in doing this we would have to enter that icy pool. Nevertheless, in a very short while, divested of our footwear and most articles of clothing, we stepped into the icy water – or so it seemed anyway. Leila, in her red latex minidress, and Jill, in her white pvc leotard, were obliged to leave their clothes on, while the rest of us waded naked down the length of the pool. We were watched by Emma, who was now fully dressed in designer jeans and teeshirt, but still sported her red ball gag. Talk about from the ridiculous to the sublime. There was much squealing and carrying on from behind our own well-secured gags as the water reached our crotches then our breasts, then our necks as we reached the deep end of the pool. Here we finally freed ourselves of the wrist cuffs and retreated to the luxury of hot showers and clean clothes, heedless of poor Monica still chained, gagged, deaf and blind lying in darkness on the Rack Room floor.

I was sooo-o cold that the shower was like heaven, but I was nevertheless obliged to have it while still sporting the goddamned ball gag. My jaw was aching by now – I had been wearing the ball for nearly six hours. Good old Steven had indeed woven a piece of that same stainless steel wire in and out of the leather strap, and there was no way I could cut through that. It was when I picked up the soap in the shower that I saw Steven’s note: "Roses are red; violets are blue; up in the air is something for you."

Lousy poem, I thought. What the hell was he talking about? So now we were having a treasure hunt, were we? Clues and all that. What fun. I looked around me and up at the ceiling, but nothing struck me as obvious.

Dressed in a denim skirt again with a black skivvy, I went outside and almost immediately saw what I thought the note meant. Shit. Hanging from a gum tree outside the back verandah, perhaps five metres up in the air, a large block of ice hung suspended over a fork in a branch. It would have been invisible from the verandah, but it was clear as day from the sleeping quarters. I ran down the walkway outside the bedrooms, nearly colliding with Jill as she emerged.

"Mmmph!" I said urgently.


"Mmmph!" I said, pointing to the ice. Jill stared, then we headed for the tree. The ice was secured by a length of chain, the end of which had been frozen in the ice. Where had he done this? I wondered. He must’ve hidden it under a bunch of stuff in the chest freezer. The lower end of the chain was padlocked around a branch at head height. I tugged on the chain, but it appeared to be somehow wedged at high level. In any case, I would never pull the big ice block – about the size of a football – through the fork. The only way to get the key down – for I was sure there was a key embedded in it – was to climb up… But no, the branch was too thin. Nobody in their right mind would risk going there. There had to be another way. 

Mary, Emma and Leila joined us and we studied the problem. It was Jill who came up with the solution. It was too high to beat with sticks or anything as unsophisticated as that. I checked the garage that served as Steven’s workshop, but it was locked tight as a drum. No help there. When I came back, Jill had got the garden hose and was hosing the ice. I did not need a physics degree to know that an ice block under a running tap will dissolve a helluva lot faster than a block sitting in the open air. Years of playing with ice block timing devices had taught me that.

Was there no end to Steven’s ingenuity? He seemed to be one step ahead all the time. We had to get these gags off and start thinking about freeing Monica. We left Jill with the hose and went inside, once again splitting into areas to go hunting – Leila outside, Emma upstairs , Mary in the basement and me on the ground.

We hunted for perhaps half an hour – in vain. What had the bastard done with those keys? I had given the living room the once over – looking under cushions, chairs, knick-knacks, all to no avail, when Jill appeared. Tears were rolling down her cheeks – and she was still gagged.

"Hnnn?" I asked. She held up the key and shook her head, pointing to the white ballgag still wedged behind her teeth. Oh god, I thought. I had been certain that this key would unlock those padlocks at the back of our necks. I had hung my hopes on having this wretched ball out of my mouth and being able to speak again. That shit Steven was playing mind games with us again. I embraced Jill and we made comforting noises to each other through our gags. I wiped her eyes and motioned her downstairs. If the key wasn’t ours, then at least we could make a start on poor Monica.

Poor Monica was sitting propped up against the wall when we arrived. She was motionless, her silver skin-tight suit showing signs of wear where it had been dragged around the floor. I shook Monica, then tried out the key in the readily accessible padlocks, but it worked in none on her wrists, head or ankles. Nor did it work on the waist belt or the vibrator. There was only one choice left. Jill and I hoisted Monica to her feet and carried her over to the rack, draping her face down on the padded bench, with her feet still on the floor. The padlock holding the buttplug was visible between the cheeks of her arse, and it too has obviously suffered in Monica’s seated journeys around the Rack Room. But the key fitted.

Gently we eased out the offender. Monica groaned under all her headgear, but she had the presence of mind to relax her bum muscles. The plug was big and I removed it as gently as I could. It was then I noticed the tape around the narrow part at the base, and the outline of another key underneath the tape. The plug itself was attached to two wires, which disappeared inside Monica’s rubber suit, presumably to the battery pack. On each side of the plug were electrodes, and I realised we had found the cause of Monica’s foetal spasms. We managed to cut through the wires with a pair of scissors and after a quick wash of the plug we peeled the tape away. Hoping against hope, I tried the key in the padlock at the back of Jill’s neck, and exulted as the lock popped open. Jill did the same for me and within a minute we were laughing and crying together, such was the relief at being able to move our jaws and speak again.

A short time later all five of us were much happier.

"Fancy hiding the gag key there," said Leila. "Is Steven suggesting that we are arse kissers?" 

"He can kiss my arse when I get hold of him," Mary muttered.

"It doesn’t help us with Monica," I said. "Not a lot, anyway."

"We should get her upstairs to bed," Jill suggested. "At the very least we should be making her comfortable. And we should get some fluids into her – she must’ve sweated an awful lot rolling round the floor in that suit, all taped up under the helmet. Obviously Steven left that plastic tube sticking out so she could drink. I don’t think that helmet is coming off for a while. I’ll get some sports drink from the fridge"

Four of us carried Monica upstairs and laid her on the big king sized bed in her room, while Jill went for some refreshments. She was back moments later, a broad grin on her face. 

"I found another one," she said, holding up the top to the sports drink bottle, from under which hung a small padlock key.

"Well done!" I said. "Steven is just too smart, sometimes. Sooner or later he’s going to slip up. Come on – which lock does it fit?"

It was all a bit of an anticlimax, really. In fact it fitted the lock linking her ankles, not making a major impact on her restraints, since her feet were still hobbled, but at least she was mobile enough to go to the loo or move about, even if she couldn’t communicate.

"How do we make her understand she has to drink?" asked Emma.

"Easy," I said. "Monica will figure this out. I blew into the tube protruding a handspan from the lower part of the helmet, then tugged on it a couple of times. I put the end of the tube into a glass of the liquid and was not surprised to see the fluid disappear up the tube. Monica was no slouch – she would figure out what had to be done. Unfortunately so had Steven.

We left Monica on the bed. She could only lie on her back, such was the restriction of the neck brace, so we left her propped up on some cushions. It was now dark outside, so any more explorations in the garden were out of the question. We hunted around the house until nearly midnight, exploring every nook and cranny we could think of, but to no avail. At length we returned to Monica, somewhat disconsolate and made sure she was settled for the night. This meant helping her pee first, which was not easy with the dildo still in place, but it could not be helped. We bedded her down and Leila volunteered to sleep with her, just in case. Monica, her hands still chained near her crotch and her head still blind, deaf and dumb, unable to move within the neck brace, lay rigid on her back. She was still clad in the rubber suit locked at the neck, and still with her high heels locked on, connected to the ankle cuffs with silver chains. I was about to bid the pair of them good night when Monica suddenly jerked upright, her hands clenching and unclenching. 

She swung her legs over the side of the bed and bent double, her body shaking and jerking. Then she was still, save for the rapid rise and fall of her breasts under the tautly-stretched rubber.

I didn’t know what to make of it, given that the offending buttplug had been removed, as Monica slowly flopped back on the bed, rolling on her side away from me. Leila lay beside her, stroking the rubber-clad figure with a tenderness I was sure Monica could sense through her imprisoning suit.

I returned to my room. Despite all the exposure we have to bondage it still takes it out of you. Being strung up for four hours trying not to give in to an orgasm, then letting it run wild through your body and being unable to help yourself is pretty draining. Then there had been the hunt for keys, the freezing pool and having to wear that damned ball in my mouth for a couple more hours after getting free – I was shattered. I got undressed and crawled between the sheets. That was when my body touched the coldness of steel and I realised I had found another key. Bloody Steven. First there were notes in my shower, then keys in my bed. Was nothing private?

I returned wearily to Leila and Monica, and we found it was the key that unlocked the ankle cuffs and Monica’s shoes. I supposed it meant a somewhat easier night for her. I knew I would have no trouble sleeping, anyway.

The morning dawned bright and clear again, with enough chill in the air to make a jumper a necessity. Leila had helped Monica downstairs and the pair now sat at the kitchen table, Leila helping Monica drink through her tube.

"How was your night?" I asked Leila.

"Pretty broken," she said. "Every so often – usually just after I’d gotten off to sleep – Monica had one of those fits. All up we didn’t get much sleep." 

I joined the pair, settling down to my usual weetabix, without which my day doesn’t really begin. That’s not an advertisement, just a reconciliation that old habits die hard, I guess, or perhaps it’s merely a sign of premature old age and the onset of a routine you can’t do without.

Whatever the reason, I saw how it had played a part in this great game we were trapped in, as I crunched down on something hard and metallic, and spat out another key. The bugger was now hiding them in breakfast cereal! Was there no end to this guy’s ingenuity, I thought, with – I admit – genuine admiration.

We tried out the key on the stiff-necked rubber-clad figure seated between us. There was a faint groan of relief from under the helmet as we found the key undid the padlock holding Monica’s wrist cuffs to the crotch chain. Her cuffs were still joined, but at least now she had some degree of freedom for her hands and arms.

This degree of freedom seemed to bring new life to Monica, imprisoned though she still was. At once her hands flew to the slits over her breasts, and after much groping inside these she withdrew two small donut-shaped sticky pads connected to wires. Leila’s mouth fell open.

"I had no idea!" she said. The thought had never occurred to me, either, and clearly poor Monica had been undergoing periodic nipple shocks through the night – certainly not a process designed to give a girl a lot of beauty sleep.

The removal of these was obviously a huge relief to Monica, but was not the end of her problems. She could now reach the base of the dildo still chained to the crotch chain and embedded within her. Despite her efforts there was no chance of removal of this without the key.

I have to say this for Mon, she was on the ball. She at once mimed that she wanted to write something, and we brought her pen and paper. Despite her cuffed and locked wrists, she wrote legibly, even if she could not see what she was writing:

1 squeeze yes 2 squeezes no – ok?

I squeezed her arm.

Mobile phone on helmet – Steven phones up – sets off shocks – so do other callers – ok now. S will phone to tell where next key is. Ok?

I squeezed her arm again. So that was what it was all about. This guy was so devious. Not only was he giving Monica a random electrical treatment at his whim, but any other caller would be doing likewise. What would this do to her love of her mobile phone, I wondered? As Monica scribbled on, I learned that her message bank had taken all these calls and that I had to access it to deal with the callers. She gave me her code and I spend the next hour dealing with customers and explaining that Monica was unwell at present - it was only with difficulty that I refrained from saying she was a bit tied up.

Monica was a bit happier, although there was a somewhat anti-Steven element in her scribbling. She could at least go to the loo on her own – albeit with difficulty – and could hold a glass of liquid and drink it unaided

The next call from Steven came mid-morning. Monica scribbled down something about a stake out at the south gate. The only south gate I could think of was the vehicle gate over the rise at the rear of the property where Mary had undergone somewhat of a trial in the mud beneath it. This sounded a likely fun area for Steven, I thought ruefully.

Leila and I took Monica by the arms and helped her walk the couple of hundred metres to the gate. I wondered how Mon was coping with the chain through her crotch. We arrived at the gate and found the rain of the previous week had left the place in its usual state of being a muddy waterhole. In the middle of the pool, just this side of the gate was the top of a wooden stake, barely protruding out of the muddy water. The Steven signature – a key on a very short piece of crimped stainless steel wire was visible.

"Shit," I said, without rancour. "I guess its time for mud wrestling."

"I wish it was summer," Leila added.

We both took off our shoes and Leila took off her jeans. I was wearing a twill skirt that stopped above my knees, and I hoped the mud would not be that deep. Still holding Monica by the upper arms we edged slowly into the pool. By the time we reached the stake the muddy water was halfway up my calves. It was cold and the bottom was gooey enough such that my feet sank nearly ankle deep. I shivered while Leila and I muttered rude things about Steven’s ancestry under our breaths.

We reached the stake and saw that the wire was only a fingerlength long. The guy was really going to make Monica get down on her knees for this one.

We helped Monica to kneel, prompting muted squeals from under the helmet as we guided her hands to the key. I had a feeling she might know which locks these were for. I was right about that and I was right about Steven’s devious mind. According to his message, the key actually unlocked the vibrator and the neck brace. The first lock could only be released by Monica almost having to impale herself on the stake. Having undone the lock she stood up unsteadily and withdrew the dildo slowly. I imagined the odd, empty feeling it could sometimes leave, but I had never had one chained in place for a day.

Trying to unlock the neck brace meant we had to support Monica as she tried to lie face down on the surface of the water, to get her chin near the top of the stake. That was when Leila slipped and fell on her bum, leaving me holding the full weight of Monica, which I couldn’t. We all ended up soaking wet and covered in mud, which I’m sure was just what Steven had hoped for. Our incantations against him doubled while we struggled to get the front of Monica’s neck brace in approximately the same vicinity as the key. We ended up having to lie her in a reclining position on her side, supported on one elbow while we undid the lock. There was a groan of relief from the prisoner as the stiff plastic collar came free and Monica could actually turn her head for the first time in twenty four hours.

"Bastard!" Leila and I kept repeating, as we walked back to the house. My skirt was sodden and coated in mud. It clung to my legs in a horrible slimy way, and we had no option but to hose each other down in the garden before we went anywhere near a shower, so filthy were we. The water was predictably icy, as were our thoughts towards Steven at that moment in time.

We went down into the basement to the white tiled room where the sauna was. The girls had taken to using this room for its more normal purpose on a regular basis, and we wanted to use the shower hose in here where there was more space. Soon Leila and I were naked with Monica still encased in her rubber suit. While the neck brace had been removed, and with it the lock holding the zip to the catsuit, the fact that Monica’s wrists were still cuffed and she still wore the waist belt and crotch chain meant the rubber suit was not about to come off just yet. It did not stop us opening it up part of the way down the front and giving Monica and each other a good soaping, bringing one bright spot into the day.

"We should really take advantage of this," I said to Leila, and within a minute we had slipped a rope through Monica’s cuffs and hoisted them above her head, looping the rope over a convenient wall hook and tying it off. For the next fifteen minutes we gave Monica as good a cleaning as we could, inside and out – well, as much as the silver rubber catsuit permitted. And in fact it permitted quite a lot, what with the fore-and-aft crotch slit, which allowed the intrusion of all manner of objects, such as soap, then fingers, then mouths, and finally the meanest, ribbiest vibrator we could find. The crotch chain was still in place, but it proved no hindrance to slipping things past it, front and rear. Leila delighted in this torture of Monica that had the latter squirming and jerking, helpless against the wall. Even under the layers of tape we could hear the moans and faint gasping through the small plastic tube protruding through the front of the helmet. 

Monica could barely stand by the time Leila’s and my tongues had finished with her. But the thought occurred to me, why should Monica have all the fun? Leila and I were both more or less still fully clothed at this point, having decided it was easier to get the worst of the mud off us and our clothes while still wearing them. I could not resist helping Leila off with hers, and then soaping down her back, which, of course, led to her repeating the favour and the soaping going a bit further.

Leila had a lovely body. Her breasts were not large, but they were taut and firm and still endowed with the bloom of youth. I had no real idea what experience she had with other women outside of our business, but I suspected soon that it was pretty reasonable. The girls – with the exception of Jill and Emma – while strongly hetero, often displayed bi-tendencies, and the sight of another attractive woman was enough to give us the hots sometimes. I was a firm believer in letting the occasion dictate the action. 

We had left the vibrator wedged in Monica’s pussy – held there by the crotch chain, as she strove desperately to dislodge the device as further orgasms wracked her body. Leila and I were indifferent to Monica’s struggles by then, being totally engrossed in less restricted struggles of our own. Leila’s tongue found all my buttons and I found myself flopping on the soapy tiles like a stranded fish, gasping for air.

The two of us lay side by side for some minutes, oblivious to the wrigglings and moaning still going on with the slick-skinned helmeted figure stretched up against the wall. Finally Leila looked at me and grinned: "I suppose we really should let her down…"

"You do it," I told her, still striving to make my legs stop trembling.

It was late afternoon when the next call came. Monica had spent the time resting in a deck chair on the back verandah with a pad and pen beside her, making blind notes as phone calls came in. I dealt with these while Leila went to have a nap, since she was working that night. The other girls also had commitments but we continued to search for further keys when we had time. 

The weather turned cool with a front blowing in during the afternoon, which caused external activity to cease as the rain started to fall. Monica appeared not to notice, cocooned as she was in her dark, rubber-encased world.

I had woken up to the fact that I could in fact communicate with her via the very phone that Steven was using, although this was limited and time consuming. I had to wait for five rings before I could speak, and then there was only a minute for a message to be left. While I kept Monica up to date about what we were doing, I decided to be at least a little pro-active. I tried phoning Steven on his mobile and at an address I found in Monica’s little black book in her desk. There was no answer from either number. When Emma appeared, I asked her to stay with Monica while I went to visit Steven’s house, on the off chance that the bastard might be sitting up watching television with a beer in his hand. 

I found the house given as his address in Monica’s book. It was a town house in New Farm, only seven minutes from downtown Brisbane. It was nothing fancy – one of three two-storey brick units with a garage between each. Neat and tidy, and not a bad part of town, but there was no answer when I knocked. The garage was shut tight and there was no sign of Steven’s pickup. So much for that idea. I returned to Bilboes and used the phone to update Monica. 

"Do you want me to go out and buy some bolt cutters?" I asked, before hanging up. Monica shook her head and wrote ‘No!’ in big letters. I guessed it was a matter of pride with her that she did not consider herself beaten by any bondage that a mere man could inflict on her. In any case, I suspect we both had the feeling that Steven would not prolong the test to the extent that Monica suffered any real harm, other than to her dignity.

The next phone call came in the early evening. It was blowing a howling gale by that time, and I was sitting with Monica in her room watching the news on TV. Monica stiffened as the call obviously jangled inside her helmet. Then she wrote down: ‘Sleeping qtrs – under verandah – Jill’s rm’. Damn him, I thought. Why did it have to be another outdoor one? It was dark and pouring with rain, and under the verandah of all places. How were we going to find a key there? 

I led Monica downstairs and fetched the best torch we had and an umbrella, under which the two of us sheltered while making our way to the sleeping quarters at the back. The verandah outside the bedrooms was sheltered by the roof overhang, but the rain was blowing at such an angle that the open boards of the deck – and the crawlspace under it - were soaking wet. We went into my room and I considered how we were going to find a key under the deck. 

There was barely half a metre clearance under the walkway. The clear space was blocked by a board that was screwed to one of the posts at one end and the stair stringer at the other. Lying in the grass was a screwdriver. I could only hope Steven had made the key sufficiently visible to be found easily. Given that he had obviously planned for the recovery to happen in darkness, I could only assume that he had thought of such. He had been ahead of us in every other instance so far, so why change the habit of a lifetime, as they say. No doubt he had also secured the damned thing to something as well, so I would be forced to make Monica do the crawl as well. There was nothing for it, I decided. It was going to be dark, wet, and restricted.

I went to my room, removed my clothes and pulled on a rubber wetsuit. It was my own and one of the older types of true heavy rubber, rather than the neoprene of today, left over from early years of diving. I pulled on the hood that came with it, along with mitts and a pair of old sneakers. I was not happy about groveling in the wet under the deck – a nice place for snakes, spiders, and who knew what, although perhaps the rain might send them somewhere drier. 

Monica was obviously going to share my experience, and I was concerned that she would be dragging her body through the mud and getting all sorts of unwanted stuff caught up in her crotch chain. I thought of a raincoat, but she could not get her cuffed hands through the sleeves, and so eventually I put her into a pair of my old jeans. They were a size bigger than her, I knew , annoyed that she kept so slim, but they would at least keep the worst of the ground away from her most private of parts.

We returned to the end of the verandah, outside Steven’s room. Here, with the benefit of the coach light mounted on the verandah post, I unscrewed the end of the board blocking access and swung it vertically out of the way. Then I guided Monica on to her knees and together we squeezed into the space under the deck. I was glad none of the other girls had seen me. We get into some pretty way out gear sometimes, but of course it’s all in the line of duty. Running about in a wetsuit in the garden at night in one’s own time would no doubt draw a few comments.

There was in fact less room than I thought. The joists supporting the decking planks were deep, and we had to worm our way underneath them. I do not consider myself particularly big-breasted, but I am glad they were no larger under these circumstances. It was like the typical escape-under-the- barbed-wire scene from a movie, and while Monica is slimmer than I am, her helmet meant we had to scrape a hollow under each beam to get through. 

The ground was muddy with all the rain, although some scrappy weeds and stuff were growing here. I shone the torch from side to side, trying to shut out the wet and cold and concentrate on what I was doing. Monica struggled on bravely beside me, her cuffed hands handicapping her such that she had to almost pull herself along on her tummy with her hands pressed into the dirt.

It took us perhaps fifteen minutes to reach the end of the end of the deck, outside Jillian’s room. It had to be the furthest room, of course, I thought. You have to get value for your money, Steven, by making us crawl as far as possible. Bastard, bastard, bastard!

I found the key. I was right. He’d looped it and crimped it around a joist. Probably did it simply by temporarily removing one of the planks. So easy. Monica crawled blindly up beside me, and I tried out the key in all remaining locks. The only one it worked on was the wrist cuffs, unlocking as it did the cuffs themselves and the lock joining them. It looked like Monica was in for another night with the crotch chain still in place.

I spent the night with Monica this time, after sharing her shower first. With the crotch chain on she still couldn’t remove the rubber suit, and although she could roll it down to her waist, she obviously found it more comfortable to leave on, albeit with the front zip undone. Monica’s bed was a king size, and her room was one of the biggest in the house. It was a nice place to sleep, and snuggled up to the slick silvery catsuited figure, with the storm raging outside was not the worst way to spend the night, even though she clearly awoke several times with the phone going. I wondered how long it could last before the batteries finally ran down. 

Morning arrived and the storm had passed. We had almost finished breakfast when Monica’s head cocked as the phone obviously rang, and she felt about for the pad and pen. She wrote: Front gate – across road- path.

"Shit," I groaned to nobody in particular. "Now he’s taking us outside."

Jill volunteered to come with me, and together we led the silver figure, still looking like a power ranger comic hero, down the driveway and up to the gate. We opened this just enough to ease through and stood there, checking the road for traffic. We were about fifteen kilometres from downtown Brisbane, but we might as well have been in the country. The surroundings to Bilboes were eucalypt forest, generally fairly open with low underbrush and long grass. It was a wonderful place, provided you weren’t too paranoid about snakes and the possibility of bushfires. Traffic on the road, at 8.30 on a Friday morning was minimal – certainly not such as to make crossing the road unseen a real difficulty. Nevertheless we didn’t want any trouble with nosey motorists.

I spotted the small pathway across the road and the three of us trotted quickly across the asphalt into the cover of the bush. How much far would Steven take us, I wondered?

We could not mistake the path – I had been along it myself quite a few times in the course of local bushwalks. We followed it up towards a ridge, all the while looking for some sign that Steven might have left telling us where the key was hidden. The grass and trees were still dripping from the storm and before long the legs of our slacks were soaking wet. This, of course, was not a problem for Monica. 

After fifteen minutes of fairly slow going we came to a side path to the right. Here there was a small piece of red tape around a sapling. Attached to this was a small fragment of silver rubbery material, much the same as the outfit Monica still wore. Jill and I looked at each other and decided this was the path to follow.

"But this leads back to the road," Jill said.


"Yeah, why not. It’d be just like him."

And it was. The path was a longer route, and it took us nearly half an hour holding on to Monica to get back to the road. Just before the path emerged from the bushes we came upon the small calling card pinned to the tree. It said "Instant Mobile Locksmiths".

"Ha-de-ha." I said. "It’s gotta be around here somewhere," I decided, scrabbling in the grass around the tree. Sure enough, wired to the base of the tree was the key. We figured this was the key to the dreaded crotch chain locks, and Monica was obliged to sit down with her legs spread, facing the tree, then working herself up to it so that her waist was touching the trunk. There was just enough slack in the wire for us to unlock the front lock, which held both the waist and crotch chains. I could almost hear Monica’s sigh as the chain slid free and she could ease out the offender that had been tormenting her for nearly two days.

Then Jill said: "Trish, have you noticed that the card is dry?"

I followed her gaze to the card on the tree. She was right. I realised the implication.

"He’s around here somewhere, isn’t he," Jill said, half to herself. "He’s watching us." We stood still and looked around, but no other human was visible. Only the sounds of the birds broke the wet stillness of the bush.

"Let’s go back," I said. "This is starting to give me the creeps." 

We turned for home, emerging from the path only fifty metres up the road from where we had first entered the bush. "He had to make us go tramping for an hour, didn’t he, only to end up where we started," I fumed.

"It’s no good getting up tight," Jill said with the maddening calm that she could sometimes manage unlike the rest of us. "I think it’ll be over soon – as and when Steven decides it suits him."

"I know," I agreed. "It just annoys me that he’s been so much smarter than us."

"I wonder how much Monica has repented of her wicked ways," Jill said with a smile.

"I wonder how much she’s planned a terrible revenge," I retorted.

We were sitting in the kitchen, Monica now wearing clean clothes but still trapped inside her helmet when the last call came.

Monica wrote: ‘Phone book’

"Phone book?" asked Jill. "What does that mean?"

"Something obvious," I said. "I bet it’s so obvious that none of us thought to look there. Like what?"

"K for key?" Jill suggested. I grabbed the white pages from beside the phone next to the fridge and looked up "key". Nothing. I thumbed through the whole white pages without success. Jill did the same with the two volumes of yellow pages. Nothing. We looked at each other, puzzled.

"The study!" I said with a burst of inspiration.

Again, nothing in the white pages, but there, in the yellow pages, taped to the Instant Mobile Locksmith’s van, was the last key.

I took it into the kitchen where Monica sat expectantly. With a satisfying click that only a bondage devotee can know and love, the lock under the helmet popped open and we could lift it clear. It came away trailing wires that went under the industrial earmuffs taped to her head. Only now did we properly see what Monica had suffered for the past two days. We cut the tape away and removed the earmuffs, revealing the wires leading through the small slit at each ear location. Monica prised out the earplugs and we could now clearly hear the plaintive "mmmphing" noises she had obviously been making. The tube now stuck out from the swathe of tape encircling her head, which we slowly cut away, peeling it off the rubber hood underneath. At length the mouthpiece was able to be extricated from behind her lips, and the foam pads came away from her eyes.

Her face was covered in lines from the tape, as she slowly pulled the hood from her head. The outlines of it were deeply ingrained around the edge of her face, and her hair was matted and soaking wet.

"Welcome back, honey," I said. "I hope you’ll be a good girl in future…"

story continues in