Monica's Games 1.2: Blind Manís Shoot Out

by Richard Alexander

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© Copyright 2003 - Richard Alexander - Used by permission

Storycodes: MF/f+; bondage; cons; X

(story continues from )

Monica's Games 1.2: Blind Man’s Shoot Out

“The winning team gets the services of the losing team for the rest of the day,” Monica announced, as we sat around the dining table discussing our first serious paintball match that was to take place the following day.  “The winners get waited on, and have the option of doing whatever they like with the losers.”  At that point I decided I was glad I was just going to be the umpire.

It was a week after what I now mentally called the Pentangle Incident.  I had not mentioned the event to any of the other girls outside of Trish and Mary, concerned that they might jump to all sorts of conclusions that were unwarranted.  Indeed, I could barely manage a conclusion of any sort myself  - at least nothing that fitted within the realms of the real world.

Now Monica was off on a new scheme, unaware of what I knew about her private fantasy.  The conversation at the dining table was how this new scheme all started.  It was a not unusual situation for the Bilboes establishment.  Somebody would have a bright idea, it would get enlarged, and then end up out of all proportion and leading us in a direction nobody had seen coming.  That certainly turned out to be the case in this instance.

*   *   *

“Ten bucks says Monica’s team cleans up,” I dared Debra.

“You’re on.  And Steven, if I win, I get to whip your arse,” she added mischievously.  “Jill’s team are gonna wipe the floor with them.”

“It works both ways, honey,” I told her.  “My arse on the line, then your arse is on the line too.”

She grinned at me.  Feisty Debra – always on the look out for a challenge and always stirring things up.  This was how I had come to regard her in the six months or so since I had first encountered her, bucking and making muffled squealing noises under a discipline helmet, astride a rather invigorating device that I had constructed, known as “The Saddle”.  Debra had come to be in that position after her attempt to wind up Mary and Trish, while the rest of the Bilboes establishment were in Hong Kong on an errand of mercy – which is another story entirely.  Suffice to say that Debra’s posing as a Taxation Officer had backfired and she had come unstuck in a major way, being released only when Monica finally arrived home with the rest of us. 

Debra was Monica’s cousin.  She was a petite little thing, her head barely coming up to my chin. But never let it be said she was soft, either physically or mentally.  Her body was strong and firm, her breasts plump mounds that were usually displayed in some tight-fitting top or dress.  Today she was wearing a flared green linen skirt and a tailored white blouse with nothing underneath, as attested by the two nipple-bumps showing through the thin material.  Debbie had shoulder-length auburn hair that she frequently – as at that moment – wore tucked behind her ears and held there with a couple of clips.  She was sharp-witted and imaginative – two of the basic requirements for the industry we worked in – and had a good body to boot.

She was probably three or four years older than Monica, which I guessed put her about my age, in her early thirties.  Mind you, my guesses of women’s ages in the region between twenty and forty were usually way off and so fraught with peril that I rarely went down the road of actually verbalising any estimates I might have in my brain.  At Bilboes that was a sure way to end up hanging from the rafters if you got it wrong. 

Debbie had worked in Sydney for a number of years as an ‘employee’ of an establishment not unlike Bilboes, and had recently undergone something of a lifestyle change, after we had used her house as a base to inflict severe retribution on two interlopers from Hong Kong - Madam Wong and her evil lieutenant Portia Tang. But that was more of the aforementioned ‘other story’.  In the course of that adventure, Monica had made Debra an offer she couldn’t refuse, namely to move north to sunny Brisbane, to become the manager of The Citadel, which had at one time been our competition, but which was now amalgamated with Bilboes.  In this role, Debbie had become ‘one of the gang’ visiting us regularly and adding a new source of ideas to our ever expanding repertoire of innovative scenarios able to be adapted to keep our clients satisfied.

It was as a consequence of a joint idea developed between Debbie and myself that we now found ourselves together on a bright early summer’s day in the lightly wooded land at the rear of the Bilboes estate.  We had roped off a rectangular space of around fifty metres by twenty.  The area was clothed in long grass and studded with a scattering of eucalypts and the odd small bush.  At each end of the rectangle, like football goals, were the ‘forts’, and it was here that the ’Directors’ of each team would be stationed.  From here they could direct their teams, but could do no more than that, such would be their state of restraint, the precise details of which they did not yet know.

Debra and I now stood in the middle of what was to be the field of battle.  In front of us stood the two teams of players – Red Team and White Team, headed by Monica and Jill.  Monica, as owner of Bilboes, had been the obligatory captain of one team, calling hers “Monica’s Maulers”.  I thought it was catchy, if a bit butch, and that was one thing you could never accuse Monica of being.  Jill was annoyed because her name did not lend itself to anything similar, and reluctantly settled for Leila’s suggestion of  “Jillian’s Jackals”, despite my observation that Jill was about the least jackal-like person I had ever met.

For all the teams’ trading of insults up to kick-off, they were very quiet now.  Monica’s little band of herself, Mary and Trish looked anything but the mauling type.  Sure, they toted evil-looking guns, loaded with red paint balls, but with their heads encased in motor-cycle crash helmets, they looked more like a sexy version of the Power Rangers, clad in their matching swimsuits and black knee-length boots.

Yes, it was a tad bizarre, but bizarre was Bilboes’ middle name.  And of course all things have a purpose, and the boots were there to protect feet from fallen branches, crawly insects and bumps in the ground.  It was not a place for stilettos, and the heels were only a couple of inches high – just enough to give elegant support without descending into the Doc Martin look. 

The swimsuits were there because Monica wanted team colours, and they had all seen it as an excuse to go shopping, albeit with a long and wearisome process of finally deciding on a common style.  The look was good – a halter-neck top with a tapering drop to a ring at the naval, before flaring out into a still-brief lower portion that provided just enough modesty to be legal.  Monica’s team were clad in a gorgeous crimson version, while Jill led the virgin white brigade.

The full-face helmets were second-hand and I had painted them red or white in a continuation of the team colours.  The helmets were there to lend protection to the head from splatting paint balls, but they were also to protect the wearer from injury through bumping into trees.  This was likely since the plastic visors were also painted over and were riveted shut.  Beneath the chin of each wearer the helmet was padlocked shut with a padded steel flap.  Unfortunately for each participant, considerable lengths of duct tape had been wound over their now-unreachable mouths, thus completing the job of rendering them blind and silent.  They were not, however, deaf, for under their helmets each girl was fitted with a small radio headset similar to the sort worn by receptionists.  This would enable them to hear instructions from their Director, but they would be unable to respond other than to grunt, which I personally thought would make for immensely interesting radio chatter.  The transmit/receive box was a small device bolted to the tops of the helmets, which, if it was unbolted (an easy enough job) would result in the victim becoming all but deaf to the outside world.  This was another part of my plan…

In addition to their swimsuits, the girls sported some further natty accessories, namely unattached but padlocked leather cuffs on their wrists and over the leather of their boots at the ankles.  These were to provide future quick anchor points as the game developed. We had seriously depleted the storeroom to provide these attachments, and Debra and I had a further bagful of padlocks that would come into play later on. 

The final two pieces of restraint decoration the girls wore were steel collars and light chains that ran from throat, via crotch, to attach again at the back of the collar. The collars were the ones that Madam Wong had had individually made for us all, and to which had been attached the awful throat prongs that had activated when we neared a buried cable that set off a signal.  Monica had thought the zapping was a good idea for restraint in principle, but the contact at the throat worried us.  Instead, the receiver now activated a pair of sensors taped either side of the girls’ nipples.  The signal cable now lay on the ground just inside the roped off area, and should the participants venture too close to this cable, they would experience some unpleasant tinglings in the aureola area, which would deter them from going out of bounds.  It went without saying that the wires had to be still attached at the end of the game, or else a nasty penalty would result if someone was found to be practising a discrete disconnection.

Thus the girls were prepared.  It had taken Monica, Debbie and I quite a while to work out the ground rules for all of this, and the two teams were now huddled near their end forts waiting for the game to begin.  I should point out that the huddling was not a voluntary activity, since Debbie and I had locked each trio together in a back-to-back triangle, connecting the vertical chains running down their backs.  I wondered whether Monica was losing her initial enthusiasm for the game, given her present predicament. 

Each player had a number painted on her helmet, sufficiently large front and back to be seen from the end of the field by the Director.  Monica was Red One, Mary Red Two and Trish Red Three, while Jill, Emma and Leila were White One, Two and Three respectively.  The team make up had been Debbie’s suggestion, and was essentially the “old hands versus the new ones”, or “age versus youth” as Leila had provocatively remarked, to the feigned irritation of the Red team, who preferred to think of it as “professionals versus amateurs”.

Debra and I walked past where Monica’s little group stood back to back, unknowing of what was happening around them.  We both had dual headsets which meant we would be able hear instructions from both Red and White Directors, one in each ear, whereas the individual teams could only hear their own commands.  Deb and I could halt the proceedings as the players were hit and suffered appropriate disabilities.

The guns the girls used were cool metallic green ones.  They could take up to 200 paint balls but I had modified the rate of fire down to one every two seconds, a twentieth of what they were capable of.  This gave the Directors time to move the girls ahead of the attacker.  Blind firing of ten per second was not ideal for an extended game, we reckoned, when neither participant could see. 

At the southern end was the White Director, Lisa.  We had been short of players after coopting Shawnee as the Red Director, and the thought of some free B and D had been enough to make Lisa volunteer.  Both Directors were also aware of the importance of their roles, and that failure would be punished, probably at first by the victorious team and then by the losers afterwards.

Debbie and I walked to Lisa’s end where she was tethered in a mild strappado, naked save for black patent leather boots laced midway to her thighs, a leather collar, and a black scarf bound over her eyes.  The boots had been my suggestion and we had borrowed them from the storeroom.  The heels were very high but since Lisa was not going to be wandering about the bush blindly like the others, this was not important.  Rather, she would be well secured in one spot as she directed her troops, and the boots would protect her from any pesky insects.  Debbie contended that it was unseemly for subs to wear such things, and it would serve her right if a few ants crawled into her pussy, but my  argument prevailed, not least because I thought Lisa looked quite spunky in the boots.

Beneath the main bough of the eucalypt to which Lisa was secured was a strange-looking device I had made from 40mm galvanised pipe.  Essentially it was in the shape of a letter ‘C’ – a lower horizontal bar about half a metre long, a vertical piece three times as long, and top bar matching the bottom one, screwed together with 90-degree elbows. This frame hung from the bough on several doubled-up bungy cords, such that the bottom bar was at about waist height, but could be readily pulled down.  Across the vertical pipe, about a third of the way up was another horizontal bar, at ninety degrees to the other two in plan and centred on the vertical like two little arms.

We let down Lisa’s arms and undid the cord binding her wrists, then walked her over to the pipe frame. 

“What’s going to happen to me?” she asked uncertainly.

“You know full well,” I told her.  “You’ve been through this with Monica, and you know what you have to do.”

“But nobody told me I would be incapacitated while I was doing it,” she complained.

“Don’t be such a wuss!” Debra snapped.  “You’re lucky you have those nice boots to wear and you’re getting all of this for free!”  Lisa appeared to see the logic of this.

“They are kinda cool,” she admitted.  “Oh!  What’s that?  What are you doing?  Ohhh…”

The exclamations had resulted from Debra sliding a well-lubed dildo into Lisa’s pussy.  The butt end of the dildo was attached to a short section of plastic pipe which formed a sleeve through which the lower bar of the C-frame would fit.

“Stop carrying on and bend over!” Debbie said with a show of exasperation.  Lisa did so, putting her hands on her leather-clad knees and allowing Debra to work a greased butt plug into Lisa’s arse.  She moaned softly as the intruder slid abruptly home.  This device, like the dildo, was attached to a horizontal plastic sleeve, and as Lisa slowly straightened up, I pulled the C-frame down on the bungy cords and held it while Debbie walked Lisa a couple of paces backwards, letting the bottom pipe slide through the exposed sleeves.  Gently I released my hold on the frame.

“Oh!  Ahhh…” went Lisa as the pressure came upwards on her two inserts.  “Oooo…That’s…nice…”

“Glad you like it,” I said.  “I do hope it won’t be too distracting while you’re trying to guide Jill’s team to victory, particularly as they will hear every moan and groan you utter.  No doubt they will ask themselves why Lisa is having all the fun while they are out there leaderless and in fear of getting paintballed at any second.”

“What?”  The reality of the situation appeared to dawn on Lisa as Debbie removed the blindfold and hooked the prisoner’s elbows over the crossbar at the rear of the frame, before linking her wrists with several loops of cord stretching across Lisa’s stomach.  There was no way Lisa would be getting off that frame.

“On no!  You can’t do this to me!  I’ll mess up for sure!  I can’t concentrate like this!  This isn’t fair!  Monica never said anything about this!” 

Debra reached behind the prisoner and yanked on the long blonde tresses that tumbled down to Lisa’s shoulder blades, pulling her head back so that it bumped against the vertical member.

“Consider how well you’d be able to direct things with a gag in your mouth!” she warned.  “Semaphore is not much good for blind people, is it?”  Debbie released the hair with a disgusted expression.  “Tsk!” she exclaimed.  “You just can’t get good subs these days.  Always complaining, never satisfied.”

Lisa was suddenly silent but I could see her making little squirming movements on the pipe protruding from her crotch.  She looked upwards at her suspension and did a tentative bounce to test the loading on it and found she could almost pull it down to the ground.

“Ouch!” she muttered, then grunted as she strained against the ropes tethering her wrists across her stomach.  As the bouncing settled back to normal her mouth widened in a silent ‘O’, but she said nothing more. 

“You’re going nowhere, sister,” Debra grinned, tweaking one of Lisa’s pink nipples.

“Ow!  How am I going to direct anybody like this,” Lisa complained.

“By this,” I explained, settling a headset on her head and positioning the earpiece within her left ear and the speaker on the thin wire just in front of her mouth.  I taped the transmitter to the vertical pole and plugged it in.

“Say something,” I instructed, picking up my own headset.

“Jill’s a sook,” came through in my left ear.

“You realise the White team can hear this? Not a good start in your relationship with your leader, is it?”

“Oh poop!  Jill?  Jill, I didn’t mean that?  Jillian?  Can you hear me?” 

 A muffled grunt sounded faintly. 

“She can’t talk, stupid,” said Debra, who had picked up her own headset to listen in.  “It’s a one-way conversation, so you’d better be careful what you say. Now shut up until we tell you.”

The final touches were to tie a key around Lisa’s neck and secure clear plastic goggles over her eyes.  The key was to Monica’s team’s helmets, which they could unlock once they had succeeded in capturing the fort where Lisa was.  The goggles were a safety measure in case somebody decided to take advantage of a bound and helpless occupant in the fort.

We left Lisa trying - not very successfully - to ignore the temptation to bounce up and down on her frame, while Debbie and I walked back down the length of the battlefield to where Shawnee was chained by her collar to a convenient tree.  Shawnee had also been allowed to select a pair of boots from the storeroom as a special treat.  More often than not she was obliged to carry out her duties about the house in a state of semi-nakedness and/or within some form of restraint, from nominal to severe.  Getting a choice from the Mistresses’ wardrobe was a treat for her, and she too had picked a pair of shiny red boots that laced snugly up to mid thigh. 

It did not take long to have Shawnee impaled on a pipe frame identical to Lisa’s.

“I’m really nervous,” she ventured.  Her dark brown hair was pulled back in a pony tail and she looked cute and vulnerable.  Like the rest of the team she wore a steel collar, but this was secured on her permanently, and that was the way she liked it.  If you removed it, you would probably have one very unhappy slave on your hands.

“There’s nothing to it,” I told her.  “Look, you’ve been through this with Monica.  She’s told you what to do.”

“I know, but what if I screw up?  Monica will kill me!”

“That is a possibility,” I admitted.  “It’s also a good incentive to concentrate on what you’re doing.  Look, you’re up against ditsy Lisa at the other end.  You’ve almost got a degree.  You’re not stupid.”

“But Monica expects so much…” she complained.

“Oh stop your whining,” Debra snapped and Shawnee shut up abruptly, her big brown eyes widening as Debra grabbed the vertical pipe and jiggled it fiercely. “Steven’s going to put your headset on, and if you start carrying on like that Monica will leave you hanging here for the animals to feed on.”  Shawnee quailed as I fitted the headset and positioned the microphone, then tied the key to Jill’s team’s helmets around her neck.

“Shall we begin, Miss?”  I asked Debra formally, as we adjusted our own headsets, knowing that all participants could hear us.

“Of course, sir.”

Leaving her with Monica’s Red Team, still chained in their little triangle, I walked to where Jill, Leila and Emma stood, holding their guns, but likewise chained back to back.  I slid my arms between Leila and Emma, their blonde and black hair visible beneath the bottom of their helmets.  They were forced to move apart, tightening the chains through their crotches.  I thought I heard muffled whimpers or grunts from under the helmets as I unfastened the lock holding all three chains together.

“Directors – you may begin instructions,” I announced, as the three white swim-suited figures moved uncertainly away from where they had stood, waiting to get their bearings from Lisa.  I picked up the video camera we had brought with us and began to film.  We were sure there would be plenty of laughs out of the events, particularly with a little appropriate commentary and the plugged in soundtrack that would be coming through our earphones.

At once my ears were filled with instructions from Lisa in the left ear and from Shawnee in the right.  I moved back down the field to where Debbie had released Monica’s team, and together we watched the drama unfold.

I knew both Directors had been coached by the team leaders on what strategies to use and how to give directions.  This was of fundamental importance – how to describe how much a player should turn, how they should aim, and how they should move.  There were issues of whether to play an attacking game, going all out for the opposite fort, or whether to disable the enemy forces first and take the fort at leisure.

Chaos reigned for the first ten minutes, and it was perhaps a good thing the team members were gagged and sightless, for they may well have turned on their Directors, such was the initial confusion as to which way they should be going.  From the faint chorus of gruntings and mmphings in my earphones there was no doubt that the players were very frustrated with the directions and were seriously considering rather painful punishments for their controllers. 

Unfortunately for the players, however, the only way anybody was going to administer any punishment was for a result to be achieved in the contest, and after some tentative exploring in the direction field, both teams eventually ended up facing the directions desired by their controllers and the first steps were taken.  The girls were treading warily, unaccustomed to the darkness and the outdoor surroundings, and were wary of their steps. 

The teams adopted similar tactics, spreading out to reduce the target, such that they were three abreast across the width of the field, moving towards each other.  Jill was on the right wing, Leila in the centre, and Emma on the left.  Opposite these were Mary, Monica and Trish respectively. 

There was a lot of commentary as Lisa and Shawnee attempted to describe for their charges where their opponents were and what else was in the way, such as bushes and trees.  After ten minutes the first shots were fired in anger, as Mary opened fire in the general direction of Jill.  The shots missed, and it was Jill who scored first, a white blotch blossoming on Mary’s right arm.

“Freeze!” I ordered into the twin mikes.  “Nobody move, Directors keep quiet!  No sneaky messages or you’ll stay there all night.  Players,” I announced formally, “Mary has been hit on the arm and will be incapacitated appropriately.”

Debbie was already on the job, moving up to Mary and pulling out a padlock from a bag slung over her shoulder.  Blind and unaware of Debbie’s presence, Mary was unable to resist as the locked cuff on her right wrist was locked to the vertical chain running down her back between her legs.  I noted that Debbie secured Mary’s wrist as far down the chain as she could obviously to provide maximum tugging through the crotch.  Debbie grinned and winked at me and gave the thumbs up signal.

No sooner had the game restarted than Jill fired again.  She had been smart in maintaining her position exactly when I stopped the game, and this time she hit Mary to the left of her naval, the white paint running down into the bottom of Mary’s bikini.

“Freeze!” I ordered again.  “Mary’s taken a belly shot.  This doesn’t look good for the Red team,” I added by way of a quick commentary.

Obviously with a belly wound on top of her arm wound, Mary was not going too far nor was she likely to take much more of a part in the game.  Debbie made sure of this, forcing Mary to her knees then making her lie on her face.  A short length of chain was locked to Mary’s right ankle and threaded through her crotch chain to lock on to the left chain.  Mary was obviously furious, struggling to roll on to her back and picking up her gun with her left hand. 

When the game resumed it was a purely lucky shot from Mary that took out her attacker, a shot from the ground that caught Jill square on the helmet visor – a head shot that would have done credit to any sniper.  As the game halted, I disconnected Jill’s receiver and unbolted the small box from her helmet, before turning her loose.  Jill was now blind, deaf and dumb – perhaps a worse fate than being left chained up in the dirt like Mary.  Mary could at least hear the sounds of the battle commands and follow the progress of the game as the cessations were ordered.  Jill was now condemned to wander in purgatory until somebody took pity on her.

We decided to make the game more interesting at this point, and with a pre-arranged signal Debbie and I headed to opposite ends of the field to make adjustments to the Directors’ circumstances.  This was simply done by turning on the vibrating dildos embedded in the pussies of Shawnee and Lisa, to the accompaniment of cries of protest and groans of distracted pleasure that were clearly audible to all players of their respective teams – with the exception of Jillian, of course. 

The other four combatants had been somewhat ignored by the Directors who had  until that time been preoccupied with the Mary/Jill melee, and it was to the centre of the field that attention now turned.  Shawnee was being cunning here, having positioned Monica behind a tree in roughly the centre of the field.  Like chess, or squash, whoever controlled the centre area usually controlled the game.  In this instance Leila was attempting to make headway towards her objective, namely Shawnee’s fort, but Shawnee was directing Monica well.  With the settings on the pistols, the balls had an accurate range of about five metres.  Given the inability of the shooters to see their target, the accuracy was academic, and Monica was attempting to lay down a field of fire as best she could with the Director spotting the fall.  With one shot every two seconds, the target had a chance to stay ahead by keeping moving, but that was not something you rushed into when you couldn’t see, either.

Lisa was trying to keep Leila moving forward, rather than returning fire.  It did not matter how many of the other side remained active, the winner was simply the team who shot the opposition Director first.  Clearly Lisa wanted to get Leila close to Shawnee to start shooting into the fort.  Unfortunately for Leila, Monica’s defensive fire caught her in the open, winging her in the leg.  Debbie rushed in with her padlocks and locked a length of chain to Leila’s right ankle, making her bend awkwardly while the other end was locked to the crotch chain.

Unable to straighten up, and obliged to move at more of a hobble, Leila was caught with a second shot to the right arm.  Debbie quickly secured Leila’s right wrist to her ankle, slowing her further.

At this time, Lisa, her breathing and her commands now becoming ragged and interspersed with little grunts of pleasure, decided to move Emma into the action.  I thought she was going to lend supporting fire to Leila against Monica, but no, Lisa decided to go further on the offensive against Trish, the last of the Red team.  Trish had been waiting in reserve, mainly because Shawnee had been so preoccupied getting Monica’s fire right.  With the second hit on Leila, Lisa decided to abandon her charge and concentrate her efforts against Trish – a strategy that was almost immediately effective as Emma scored a bullseye on Trish’s left breast.  It was the one area that we had agreed was a sudden death, unlike the head shot which was more of a ‘brain death’. 

Poor Trish.  She had barely fired a shot in anger, and now had to lie in the grass and listen to the hoarse breathing from both Shawnee and Lisa while Debbie chained Trish’s ankles to her crotch chain and locked her wrists high between her shoulder blades.  What I didn’t know was that Debbie felt sorry for her prisoner and inserted a small vibrator into Trish’s pussy, the device being held there by the crotch chain. 

Meanwhile, Lisa and Shawnee had taken advantage of the lull to concentrate on their own problems, and by the time Debbie had finished with Trish’s restraints and the game had restarted, Lisa was heading for an orgasm while Shawnee was sounding like she was in pain, but was marginally more coherent.

Monica was on her own now, against a crippled Leila and Emma who was unable to make sense of Lisa’s commands, which were interspersed with frequent expletives and a sudden ohgodohgodohgod!  It was only Shawnee’s teeth-clenching attempt at self-control, probably inspired by fear of a Monica retribution, that the game progressed, as Monica’s red paint ball splatted against Emma’s knee. 

Moments later Emma’s ankles were locked together and she was vainly trying to return fire from a prone position, worming her way forward through the grass.  She caught Monica on the left arm.  It wasn’t much – just enough to stop the show sufficiently for the arm in question to wind up chained behind Monica’s shoulder blades and for Lisa to climax loud and long. 

Monica had evidently been keeping score, and had worked out that the three members of Jill’s team were all sufficiently incapacitated such that they should present no further obstacle to her moving the length of the field to finish off Lisa.  From the noise coming from Lisa’s end, one might have concluded she was half dead already, as Debbie and I struggled to keep from laughing out loud.  I zoomed in a shot of Lisa bouncing madly up and down on her frame, her panting sounding loud in my left ear.

Shawnee had started directing Monica towards Lisa, who was now obviously past caring, with her three charges all disabled, when there was a sudden cry of alarm from Shawnee. 

“Monica!  Jill’s nearly here!  She must have been creeping up in the grass along the fence!  Turn to six o’clock!  Go twenty paces!  Hurry!”

Unnoticed by all of us, deprived of any instructions, poor Jill had taken a punt on her sense of direction and had made her way towards the side boundary.  Here, warned by a tingling in her nipples from the proximity of the perimeter cable, she had started to move along the boundary, guided by the tinglings.  It was a clever move that we had never considered in our planning.  She had reached the rear boundary and was now stumbling towards where Shawnee was bound on her frame.

Monica was heading back as fast as she could, and it was going to be a close-run thing as to who would get there first.   As Debbie and I moved closer to watch the action Jill reached the edge of the fort.  It was in fact only a rough waist-high barricade I had made from fallen trees that had been chain-sawn into two-metre lengths.  The rear boundary cable ran down the back of the semi-circular fort, with the entrances being at each end of the semi-circle.  Guided by the sensations through her nipples from the proximity of the cable, Jill had found her way into the fort and had almost reached Shawnee when Monica bumped into the wall of the fort.  Faced with having to climb over or go round the end of the wall, Monica in fact did not have to make that choice, for Shawnee was almost hysterical now.  One might have thought Frankenstein’s monster was bearing down on her, rather than a helmeted blonde in a white bikini.

“Monica! She’s here!  She’s going to get me!  Shoot her!  Shoot her!  Quickly!  Left!  Now!  Shoot!  No!  Arrgh! Ow!”

Driven by the panicky and none too specific directions, not to mention the urgency in Shawnee’s voice, Monica had fired, aiming as best she could in the circumstances.  Jillian was only a metre away from the bound girl, feeling her way forward in her darkened world, her arms stretched out ahead of her, one hand still holding the gun.  All the fear and hysteria in Shawnee’s voice was probably unheard by Jill, and she could not have seen the red blossoming of paint at the top of Shawnee’s hip as Monica’s shot cut down her own Director.

Debbie burst out laughing and had to remove her transmitter so that we were not all swamped with her fit of giggles. Jill, of course, continued blindly and collided gently with Shawnee, who was now moaning with probably a mixture of emotions – the remnants of the vibrations in her crotch, disappointment at the outcome, and fear at what Monica might now do to her.

“Ladies, we have a winner,” I announced.  “Red Team has managed to successfully eliminate their own Director.  White Team is declared the winner.  The teams will now be left to recover from their wounds as best they can.  Red Team may throw themselves on the mercy of White Team.”  With this, I removed the transmitting headset from Shawnee’s head, effectively isolating Monica, Trish and Mary. 

*   *   *


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