Chapter Seven: Live, Worldwide
Monica, never one to miss an opportunity for a bit of grandstanding, worked the appointments book so that we all sat down to dinner together to hear the big announcement. Shawnee and Dianne were serving the food, dressed identically in thin latex hobble dresses that stopped just below their knees, causing them to mince in and out of the kitchen with a display of wiggling buttocks. Debra and Megan had been invited and the champagne had been flowing liberally by the time Monica finally got to her feet and banged a glass with her fork for silence. Dianne and Shawnee trotted out of the kitchen to hear the news and waited discretely in the shadows.
Monica paused as all eyes turned on her.
“Ladies – and Steven – I have to tell you that the bidding for your services was… spirited. As most of you would be aware, it is not always easy to tell where these bids originate, but we know where the winning bid has come from. Interestingly enough we have even been able to access his company website, in Oman.”
“Oman?” echoed several of the girls, clearly surprised.
“Before you ask, it’s east of Saudi Arabia, sort of across the Arabian Sea from India,” said Monica. “Mohammed Zubair is prepared to pay a quite handsome five figure sum for the chance to do remote but very intimate electrical things to selected individuals present here.” There was a round of clapping that died quickly in the expectation of who would be involved. “I will now announce the starring roles in the next production. Shawnee – the first envelope please.”
Shawnee scampered forward with an envelope and handed it to Monica. Monica hammed it up amidst groans from the audience.
“The winner of the Director’s position is…Debra!” A round of applause, and some surprise, as another envelope was handed to Monica. “The Cameraperson’s job goes to… Jillian. God, what a pairing,” Monica muttered with mock dismay. The third envelope appeared.
“This is one of those situations where when the runner up is announced, the winner also knows the outcome,” Monica explained. “I am going to read out the names of those who will be in charge of the scene. Those of you remaining – Megan and Debra and our two slaves excepted, of course – will be the victims. The dominants are… myself… Trish… and Steven!”
There were squeals of all sorts from around the table. I admit my jaw dropped. I had not been expecting to be involved at all, but suddenly I was part of the whole thing. Monica, me and Trish, eh! Then the other implication sank in – Leila and Emma were the victims – and Mary. Mary!
Mary was fuming, almost speechless.
“Monica, what the hell is going on!” she demanded. While the rest of us talked excitedly, Monica took Mary to the end of the balcony, and there evidently undertook serious negotiations. There was much gesturing and shaking of heads. Monica turned on a pleading display at one point and I could gradually see Mary’s outrage turn to disgust and then finally acceptance. I was not surprised at the reaction, and I suppose Monica would have expected it too. When they returned to the table, Monica was smiling and Mary was sulking, but at least was accepting.
“Let me elaborate a little on Mr Zubair,” said Monica, once things had calmed down. “I’ve had several long exchanges with him by email, and I’ve done some digging on the internet. I have to say he is a man not without influence, mainly because his brother is the deputy Minister for Trade and Development in Oman. Not surprisingly, our client’s construction company does rather well and both brothers are millionaires several times over, I believe.
“On the more physical front, I have discussed Mr Zubair’s requirements with him, and we have established his preferences, and on this basis we have got together a rough scenario outline. It seems Mr Zubair – despite his obvious tendencies on the B & D side of things – has high moral values as perhaps befits a devout Moslem. He does not hold with prostitutes, nor with many of the more outrageous western standards of dress on women. In this regard I suspect he thinks women should be seen but not heard – or at least they should be gagged, anyway. That’s why Steven has the starring role. Apparently it is the male who should be controlling all these things that happen to the female slaves.”
“But why is Mary getting the subbie end of the stick?” asked Trish.
“Well, firstly he took a shine to her from the web site,” Monica explained. “I tried to talk him out of it, but he was adamant. One of the things he wants is genuine resistance, which will be a theme for all three girls. I assured him if he insisted on Mary there would be no acting going on when she resisted.” There was a flicker of laughter amongst the girls – except Mary, who just glared at Monica. “Mary will play a prostitute who will be taught a lesson in morality.”
“Doesn’t the anti-prostitute thing tend to conflict with the whole service that we’re providing?” suggested Trish.
“Not really, given that we’re not in the prostitution business,” said Monica. “I took great pains to explain to Mr Zubair that we did not hang around on street corners flaunting our bodies – that we are a legitimate, skilled and very specialised consulting business.” This was Monica-speak at its best. “I don’t know what the law is in Oman, but I suspect the outlets for this sort of thing are somewhat more limited than they are here. Mr Zubair obviously considers he is not the sort to go seeking out girls on street corners, either.”
“And where do we fit in?” Leila asked.
“You and your trampy friend Emma are given to hanging about in bars in the most provocative clothing ever, so it’s not surprising when you get picked up by the Morals Police, namely Steven, Trish and myself, and are brought here for some re-indoctrination.”
“Oh,” said Leila, suddenly subdued. Perhaps the thought of the Morals Police was unsettling to her.
“Mr Zubair likes chains and steel bondage where the captive is able to struggle a lot. Lots of struggling, lots of muffled noise, lots of resistance and objection. I’m sure we can rely on you for that, Leila. Nearly as much as Mary will exhibit, probably.” Mary poked out her tongue. “We have a lot of work to do in the next three days. The scenes will take place on Saturday, but unfortunately – due to the time difference – the hours are not pleasant. We’re seven hours ahead of Oman, and in order that our wealthy client can enjoy the fun in the early evening, possibly with a few selected guests present, it will be one o’clock in the morning here when we begin.” There was a groan from the assembly. “I have arranged that Mr Zubair will phone in, so we can all hear him over the PA system during the show.
“This has to go right, people,” Monica said seriously. “There is a lot riding on it. But don’t get stressed out over it. I’m sure we’ll give him a show to remember. And of course you can all have Sunday off and sleep in on Monday as well. I have arranged the bookings accordingly. Oh, and there will be a bonus of a thousand dollars to all participants, and double that to the victims. Trust me, this guy is worth it.”
* * *
There was indeed a heap of work to do. Monica had come up with the idea of audio levels linked to the lights on the inserts, as well as a colour coding to them, so that at low levels the lights glowed green, merging to amber then to red as the high level was applied. And, of course, it was my job to make all this happen, with a quick phone call to my electrical buddy Douglas. We also had to do some preliminary scene-setting filming, just to get the mood right for the main event.
This latter filming was quite fun in itself. Leila and Emma got to dress up as spunks and hang out at Clubbe Max, a very swank establishment in the city. Monica had convinced the management to let us in to do some discrete filming on the Friday night, amidst the partying masses. Leila and Emma had soon knocked back a couple of cocktails and in no time were being preyed upon by leering males.
This was exactly the image we were looking for, of course, and it was not surprising, given their appearance. Leila wore her favourite red knee-length boots with the high heels and the matching red leather mini. Above this was a skimpy halterneck in red lycra which was almost backless. With no bra and the air conditioning turned up, Leila’s nipples showed as dark bumps through the thin material and moved provocatively up and down as she danced.
Not to be outdone, Emma showed her own wonderful figure in a see-through white blouse, which had such a low front that most of the contents were visible as cleavage in any case. Contrasting with this was the short black lycra skirt which showed glimpses of thigh above the top of black stockings leading down to the high heeled patent leather shoes. Emma wore her long hair in two pig tails which made her look like an extraordinarily well-proportioned school girl.
Mary and I did the filming, taking some shots from the mezzanine of our subjects mesmerising various males on the dance floor, and sipping several drinks that had been bought for them by the admirers. Such was the predatory nature of the crowd that it was all I could do to keep Mary beside me, as prowling males continually kept trying to entice her to dance, or more likely to snog in a dark corner.
At midnight Mary and I dragged the reluctant girls out of the place. They were both a bit drunk and seemed to find everything quite hilarious. The final part of the scene was for Mary to film me approaching them further along the street and luring them into the Monica Van, as I still called our Ford Transit.
The last part of the filming took place in a quiet street in the Valley – an area well known for the services that Mary was ostensibly offering. Here Mary was directed to hang out under a streetlight. She had changed from the jeans she wore in the club to a pvc vest and skirt with matching black thigh boots. It was a bit clichéd, but I was sure Mr Zubair in the deserts of Oman would not be too fussy. Mary was all class as she approached the van where Leila managed to concentrate just enough to film the encounter from the passenger side.
“Looking for something, sir?” she purred as though she’d been in the business forever. She wore dark lipstick and had heavily accented eyes.
“What did you have in m-mind?” I stuttered. There was a faint snort from Leila as she tried to keep the camera steady. I wasn’t used to this sort of thing. Mary leaned her arms on the windowsill, flashing a lovely view of cleavage.
“Anything you like,” she said, like a shopkeeper talking to a kid in a sweet shop.
“Maybe we can discuss this in the back,” I suggested. She stood aside to let me get out.
“Okay, hold it,” Leila called, climbing out unsteadily but managing to point the camera in our direction long enough to trail us to the rear of the van. The last shot was one of surprise on Mary’s face as the doors opened ahead of her.
* * *
The Interrogation Room was brightly lit by two big floor lights on stands. I felt uncomfortably hot sitting in a big arm chair off to one side, beside which was a table covered with instruments of restraint and pain, like some bizarre dinner table setting. Debra, director for the night and wearing a headset that was linked to the Observation Room, counted down the seconds until the link was live. It was almost one in the morning, but we were all so hyped by the excitement of what we were about to do that the hour meant nothing.
I was conscious of Monica and Trish standing behind me, loyal soldiers of the cause that they were. For I was the Commander, head of the Morals Police and champion of all things right and decent in society. My trusted lieutenants, Monica and Trish wore identical uniforms of tight fitting black leather bomber jackets over a white shirt and narrow black tie. Black knee boots and a navy skirt to just above the knee completed the outfits, which were topped by navy berets with gold trim. I have always had a thing for women in uniform, and these two did me proud, standing at ease as they were, looking dispassionate in a way that made me glad I was not in the shoes of the victims about to come before us.
Myself, I wore pure black, as befitted a man of supreme power, whose word was absolute. Like the girls, I too wore a tie, something I normally avoided like the plague, but which in this instance seemed to give an added air of authority, with the gold-crowned epaulettes on my shirt taking away the cheap mobster look.
Debra’s hand dropped and I looked into the camera, trying not to imagine the Omani and his friends half a world away watching probably a giant computer screen with the slide bars that would inflict pain and pleasure upon the girls about to be brought into this room. It was a truly interactive event, the best that was possible with the current state of cyber technology, but one which I was sure would be surpassed in the very near future.
I also tried not to imagine all the other people around the world who had bought into the story but who did not actually get to direct the happenings and to move those little slide bars up and down. How many others were watching? So this was what it was like to read the news each night!
“Good evening, Director,” I began, for to all intents and purposes Mohammed Zubair was Director of the Morals police, my boss, and he who paid our bills. There was a slight hiss from the loudspeaker.
“Good evening, Commander.” The voice was cool and measured. Even in those three words I could tell that it was well educated, and not just from the smooth British accent that came through over a slight Middle Eastern inflection. “You have some trouble makers in your custody, I believe?”
I saw Debra look involuntarily at the ceiling speaker, trying to read what this person was like, half a world away. The voice was dispassionate, but not cold. Rather, there was almost a hint of amusement in his words.
“Yes, Director.” I tried to keep my mind on the job, talking to the camera and the invisible watcher. “As you requested, we will demonstrate to you tonight the kind of work we are doing in the city to counter the moral degradation that is taking place. It will be a slow process, but once the word is out we believe society will take heed and amend its values.
“Tonight we actually have three offenders for punishment. We thought it would be appropriate to begin the session by showing you the behaviour which they have exhibited, just so that there is no doubt in your mind of their guilt, and thus there can be no staying of the punishment.”
I pointed to Debra who began the video on the television we had installed for the purpose. I knew the feed would be going direct back to Oman. Jill put down the camera and we all turned to the tv screen.
The film of Leila and Emma was short but skilfully edited. I heard my own voice-over commentary as we watched the girls laughing and dancing and flaunting their wares with the men who could barely keep their hands off. Emma was by nature a touchy-feely girl, and her interaction with Leila was another angle that overlaid an air of sensuality to the clip.
“We saw this pair in the street and followed them to a nightclub,” my voice explained. “As you can see, their dress is extremely provocative and designed to both offend the general public, and to inflame more impressionable younger people.” The camera, positioned on the mezzanine floor of the club, zoomed in on Leila’s nipples bouncing under the thin lycra of her halter top, before switching to Emma’s stunning cleavage.
“We followed them from the club and found them only too willing to be ‘picked up’, expecting, no doubt, a ‘good time’.” The camera showed the pair of them walking unsteadily along the street, arm in arm and just a little tipsy, then talking through the passenger’s side window of the Monica Van, before climbing in.
“You see the kind of attitude these girls have. They are free with their favours and devoid of any virtue that young women of their age should have. They are here tonight and will be brought before you, Director, for imposition of punishment.”
Jillian returned to filming, as I signalled Monica to fetch the first victim. It was Emma, wearing steel cuffs on her wrists, ankles and above her elbows. The cuffs were lined with a thin layer of dense foam and, bolted in place, were very snug fitting. The wrist cuffs were joined with a short length of chain across Emma’s stomach, while her elbow cuffs were linked by a chain across her back, effectively immobilising her arms. Her ankles were connected by a short hobble chain. She was blindfolded and walked unsteadily into the room, still on her black high heels. Her outfit looked somewhat the worse for wear. The black lycra skirt had ridden up exposing the tops of her black stockings, and several buttons on her white blouse had either come undone or had been torn off. It looked as though our Emma had put up a bit of a struggle.
The black silk blindfold had evidently taken much of the fight out of her. She could now sense other people in the room and appeared uncertain and ill at ease. I stood up and walked over to her where Monica held her by a pinioned upper arm. I smelt a faint whiff of alcohol and knew that Monica had persuaded her to have a couple of glasses of white wine before the show. It was a day since we had done the filming, and Monica wanted to get the girls in the mood again, not of gaiety, but preferably uninhibited fear. I knew Emma didn’t drink much, and was susceptible to her emotions when alcohol brought the barrier down.
“Do you know where you are?” I demanded, as Trish grasped Emma’s other elbow and the pair forced the Chinese girl to kneel on the concrete floor.
“N-no,” Emma stammered. “What are you going to do to me? Please don’t hurt me! My father is rich – he’ll pay for me to be released!”
“Stupid girl! Do you people think you can just buy your way out of everything? You parade about like harlots and wonder why the incidence of rape and assault goes up. Illegitimacy, promiscuity, street crime, muggings, drug use… It’s all linked to this sort of irresponsible behaviour. You go out and get drunk and consider yourselves not responsible for your own actions!” I snarled at her. “Then you try to buy your way out!”
“I’m sorry…” Emma whimpered.
“You will be,” I assured her. “On your feet!” Trish and Monica hauled their prisoner to her feet. I picked up a knife from the small table beside the armchair and held it against the white skin of Emma’s throat, while cradling one breast in my other hand. “I should finish you right now. Get you off the streets once and for all. You’re a drain on society!” Emma’s breast felt warm and heavy in my hand. I gave the nipple a sharp squeeze and pushed the cold steel against her skin. She squealed and began to plead for mercy. I moved the knife away and pulled off the blindfold.
Emma’s dark eyes were even wider as she stared fearfully about the room and at her two formidable-looking guards.
“Please don’t hurt me! I didn’t mean anything!”
“The gag,” I said brusquely to Trish. Trish retrieved a broad strap with an O-ring in the middle. Monica roughly pulled back Emma’s head by her pigtails, causing her to look upwards and go “aargh!” as her jaw opened involuntarily and Trish jammed the ring between Emma’s teeth, then buckled it firmly behind her neck as her head was released.
“I orri! Ease ed ee oh!” I was astonished as a tear came into Emma’s eye and slid down her cheek. Jillian had noticed it, too, and came in for a close-up shot. I took the knife and placed it under the last remaining buttons of Emma’s white blouse that hugged her figure, then with a flick I removed the buttons and let the garment fall open. Emma tried to close it with her manacled hands, but could not move them sufficiently. With two further quick movements I slit the material from the collar down the length of the short sleeves, and Monica yanked it clear. In the space of seconds Emma was now naked above the waist, and at once looked more lovely, but vastly more vulnerable.
I snapped my fingers at Trish, making a squeezing gesture with thumb and forefinger. Emma rolled her eyes as she tried to see what Trish was retrieving from the table, and shook her head at the sight of the two small crocodile clips with trailing lengths of string a metre long.
“Ngoh! Ngoh!” she pleaded, as I rolled her brown nipples until they became hard and pointy. “Ngoooohhh!” she wailed as I released the first clip into her flesh. The corrugated teeth bit into the tender skin and Emma cried out. When I released the other one she was panting hard through her open mouth and making throaty noises of pain.
“Just a little warm up, my dear,” I said. “A mere forerunner of the long process to come. Emma screwed up her eyes and shook her head, making a noise that sounded like “gaarhh!”
“Let’s prepare you properly.” I motioned to Monica and Trish and they led her over to a high sawhorse bolted to the floor. Trish pushed Emma’s head and upper body across and down over the horse while Monica grabbed the two strings hanging from the nipple clips and fastened them to the horizontal bar on the far side of the horse at ankle level. Emma made a brief attempt to stand up, but as a surge of pain went through her nipples, obviously decided it was not a wise idea.
Bent double, her butt was now tightly folded over the horse, the hem of her skirt riding up again. I slid it the rest of the way. Emma was wearing a black G-string and stay-up black stockings. Obviously she did not want the tell-tale line of suspenders showing through the clinging material of the skirt. With another couple of flicks I divested her of the G-string, leaving her smooth taut buttocks exposed to the world. Emma moaned as Monica looped a rope around one ankle and pulled it wider until the hobble chain was tight, then took the rope back through the inside of the horse, to wrap around the other end and be tied off to the other ankle. Emma was now fully immobilised, her arms and legs secured and not daring to try to stand up.
I snapped my fingers at Trish and pointed to the table. We had gone through the general routine prior to the start (without confiding in our prisoners) but momentarily I had forgotten what came next. Monica had it all sorted, and being able to snap my fingers at my trusty lieutenants was rather novel, and I enjoyed it. I had a feeling Mr Zubair was accustomed to women scurrying around doing his bidding.
Just as Trish selected a large butt plug with ominous-looking wires protruding from the end the ceiling speaker came alive.
“Wait,” said the deep voice. “Bring in the other one. She must watch her friend’s punishment.”
Interesting, I thought. Mr Zubair had a taste for the psychological angle.
“Fetch the blonde!” I ordered Monica, while Trish lovingly greased the butt plug and waved it under Emma’s nose.
“Ngoooh…” Emma moaned.
“Yeeess…” hissed Trish, slipping a latex-gloved dinger into Emma’s back passage, just as Monica dragged a struggling Leila into the room.
Like Emma had been, Leila was blindfolded, but unlike the fearful Emma, Leila was full of fight and struggled as best she could in Monica’s grip. In fact Leila’s options were strictly limited, for the steel cuffs on her wrists, like Emma’s, had been joined with a short chain, but in Leila’s case her wrists had been pulled back over her head where the linking chain had been locked to the stainless steel collar around her neck. Leila’s elbows thus pointed skyward as Monica controlled her by gripping a handful of hair, and the short hobble chain between the steel ankle cuffs added to her restrictions. Nevertheless she struggled and swore at all and sundry in a most un-Leila-like way.
“Let me go, you bitch! Who the hell are you, anyway? Where am I? What the fuck is going on?”
I reached up between the elbows and pulled the blindfold roughly off her head. She stopped her tirade momentarily, blinking in the harsh light of the floods.
“You have a big mouth, my dear,” I said calmly. “You see what happens to people who cross paths with the Morals Police?” I gestured to the spread legs and taut buttocks of Emma bent over the horse.
“You bastard!” There was still fight in her voice, but the vulnerability of Emma’s stretched, immobile form brought home her own less than ideal position. There was a hesitancy in her voice as she asked: “What are you doing to her?”
“Nothing – yet,” I told her. “However she is about to have this rather large plug rammed up her tight little arse…” Trish flourished the butt plug, greasy with lubricant. There was a moan from Emma. “Then it will be connected to a power source that will become rather unpleasant for her. She will receive another dong up that nice little pussy, and those magnificent tits will also receive a rather shocking treatment. And we might just give her a good flogging while she’s there.”
“You shit!” Leila spat at me in a most unexpected attack. I wiped the saliva from my cheek and walked across to the table, where I selected a whitehead gag – a stainless steel device that could hold a jaw open even better than the gag Emma was wearing. It could make the jaw ache and was in some ways more painful than a ball, on which the wearer could at least bite down.
Trish and Monica held Leila’s elbows apart while I grabbed her nose and pulled her head back, manoeuvring the two horizontal bars between her jaws and in behind her upper and lower teeth. Leila tried to fight but the three of us were too much. I ratcheted the bars apart, forcing her jaw open as she made vocal protests.
“Garrh! Arsid! Ooww!”
“Take that chain, Number One,” I told Monica. “Hitch her to the roof.”
“Yes sir!” said Monica crisply. I was starting to enjoy this. Monica reached up and grabbed the dog clip on the end of a chain hanging just above head height. She tugged on it and the chain ran down through the ceiling pulley with a loud rattle. Moments later Leila’s collar was clipped to the chain and Monica was cranking the winch that abruptly saw Leila stop struggling as the load came on her neck from the collar. By the time her heels were almost ready to leave the ground, Leila had become very still, breathing hoarsely through her open mouth and now trying not to struggle unnecessarily.
Her face flushed pink, complementing the red leather mini and the red lycra halter neck. I moved up close behind her and reached around to grip her breasts in my hands. I could feel the nipples grow hard through the thin material under my fingers, as the rest of her body remained rigid against mine.
“That’s better,” I said. “A bit more civilised, I must say, but of course you only prove my case, namely that you have no manners and no moral code, which is why you are both here. You will have the pleasure of watching your friend’s punishment first, and thinking about how much worse yours will be, for you are clearly the major trouble maker.” I pulled at the bow of her halter neck and the thing came undone, dropping down her front. A quick movement at the back of the waist and the garment fell to the floor.
Leila’s breasts were of average proportions, but with her arms up high her boobs were uplifted and uplifting, taut and perky, the nipples pointing upwards like two little finger tips. I grasped them between my own fingers and squeezed.
“Aaaarrrhhh! Ohhhh!” Leila cried.
“A mere smidgen of what is to come,” I told her, reaching into my pocket and producing two cloverleaf nipple clamps with small lead weights attached to them, which I released on to the ends of her nipples. They dangled there, swinging slightly, while Leila screwed up her eyes with the sudden pain and the breathing through her mouth became a quick, harsh panting. She glared at me but I ignored her, save to stand back and admire the contrasting richness of the red leather of her skirt and boots against the paleness of her strained flesh. I had no doubt that the same flesh would soon be decorated with a few lash marks and bruises, if Monica and Trish had anything to do with it. Leila was not going to earn her extra grand easily.
Trish was meanwhile standing beside the helpless Emma, still holding the plug and looking expectantly at me.
“Feel free,” I said casually. Trish did exactly that, working the big plug hard but not brutally into Emma, who moaned and cried out in her head down position. Jillian closed in on the plug finally sliding home between Emma’s white cheeks so that only the chrome base was visible, with its associated wires dangling ominously. Jill took the camera round to the other side of her friend and dispassionately recorded the woeful expression on Emma’s face as she looked up as best she could, given the strings pulling down on her nipples. Emma’s face was tear streaked and saliva was dribbling steadily from her propped open mouth on to the concrete floor. She whined piteously for the camera, which I reckoned was not entirely put on.
I returned to the table and selected two curved forcep clamps, much like thin curved scissors, but which would remain closed when clamped on an appropriate piece of flesh. The appropriate bits chosen were the lips of Emma’s pussy. She squealed as I attached each one firmly, while Monica connected the butt plug wire and lights and taped them in place running up between Emma’s cheeks to the small of her back, before disappearing back to the console.
I picked up a flogger with thongs about half a metre long and turned to the camera again.
“Director, the first device has been connected, as you can see. Moving the slide bar on your screen with your mouse should activate this device inside the prisoner. It has been fitted with audible and visual indicators, so that the intensity can be witnessed by the privileged few.” I smiled and inclined my head to Leila. She seemed to be rapidly losing her feistiness. “Perhaps you’d like to try it out? I should draw your attention to the fact that there is a cut out if the device remains on high power for too long. Otherwise there is a danger of burnout.” I didn’t elaborate on what might be burnt out. “Perhaps you would like to try it out?”
“Delighted,” said the voice, as one might agree to tasting a newly opened bottle of wine. There was a faint humming and we watched the first of the little green lights come alive where it was stuck to Emma’s back. The humming got louder like the persistent buzz of a bee, and a series of amber lights began to come alive. Emma tried to shift from one foot to another, or to clench her buttocks, but her feet were spread too wide and her body held too tightly against the horse for this to be effectual.
“Aaaarrrr…” she began.
Her protest went up abruptly, along with the humming which turned into a higher-pitched whine like a swarm of angry mosquitoes as the red lights glowed. Emma struggled and cried out louder.
“Owwwww!! Ake it op! Eeese! Aaarggh!”
“Make it stop?” I queried. “Young lady, it’s barely started.” I let fly with the flogger. The tips of the thongs caught Emma on the right buttock. She jerked and cried out as the clips tugged on her nipples. I set up a steady tattoo of blows on Emma’s butt, at roughly one a second. I was amused to see the lights flickering on her back as they fell into the same pattern as mine. Obviously there was some experimentation and there was initially some sort of time lag before the person on the mouse made allowances. By then the red lights were surging with every second blow and Emma was protesting volubly.
I switched my attention to some upward strikes, flicking up between Emma’s spread legs and making the forceps clink and rattle. Emma yowled and Leila began to abuse me in an incomprehensible fashion such that I was forced to bring things to a temporary halt. The Voice intoned from the speaker.
“Our subjects seem to be getting a tad noisy, Commander. It really is awfully distracting. Can you do something about it?”
“Of course, sir.”
I motioned to Monica who took what looked like the screw top of a thermos and bent down to Emma’s inverted mouth. Jill followed for a close up of the insertion of the stopper which was designed to screw inside the O-ring, silencing the flow of complaints. Emma’s throaty “oaahh’s” turned to a muffled nasal “nnnrr”.
“You’re next, Missy,” I told Leila, flourishing a pump gag in front of her face. She looked suddenly very contrite and tried to shake her head, but the proximity of her bent arms and the pressure of the collar on her neck made this difficult. With her mouth held open by the stainless steel bars locked behind her teeth, it was a simple matter to slide the bladder inside her mouth and pump it up.
“Urrmmffh!” she gurgled plaintively.
“That’s easy for you to say,” I told her, and out of the corner of my eye I saw Debra trying to stifle a laugh. “You should have thought about that before you went out on your drunken revels.” Leila whined and furrowed her brow. I gave the rubber bulb another squeeze and watched her eyes widen as her cheeks puffed out.
“Is that to your liking, Director?” I asked.
“Excellent,” said the Voice. “Most satisfactory.” Again I was reminded of the wine tasting. “Perhaps we should see how effective they are?”
“Of course. Number Two, perhaps you’d like to devote some attention to those clamps.” Trish smiled a wicked smile and selected a flogger with four plaited thongs. They were quite heavy and when the first stroke cut upwards to Emma’s pussy she howled into the gag as the clamps yanked on her tender lips. I joined Trish in the application of further blows to the cheeks of Emma’s arse. The lights glowed red and the humming became louder as Emma’s crotch and derriere became the target for a concentrated infliction of pain and she writhed in her bonds, emitting a series of stifled moans between trying to catch her breath.
I signalled Trish to stop and as I did so myself the coloured lights died also. Our benefactor was well attuned to the proceedings, I decided. In rapid succession I removed the two clamps, to further cries from Emma, before slipping my fingers between her pussy lips and feeling the warm moisture of her clit. Emma’s protests suddenly dropped to a deep moan as I massaged the wet nub of her sex. She made abrupt lowing sounds that could nearly have been mistaken for a cow, and quite a happy one, at that.
I turned to Leila. With her jaw stretched wide and her open mouth filled with the black rubber inflatable gag, she looked decidedly apprehensive.
“Your turn, young Miss,” I told her. Her brow furrowed and she made weak noises of protest through her nose. “Fetch the shaft, girls,” I ordered Monica and Trish.
Together they hauled the heavy steel plate with the vertical adjustable steel shaft over to where Leila stood. Looping a rope through one of the anchor points, they pulled it further until it was positioned right beneath the chained girl, obliging her to step on to the plate. The adjustable shaft at this stage came up to the top of her boots. Leila knew what was going to happen to her and she was not happy. Trish undid the red leather skirt and let it drop to the steel plate. Leila wore no underwear, probably surmising that it would come to no good, in much the same way that Emma’s had gone under the knife. Irrespective of that aspect, it did her reputation no favours, and I wondered if she had considered that angle.
“Director, I draw your attention to the fact that this young woman has in fact been roaming the streets not merely displaying her legs in the most provocative way, but apparently ready to have sex with anybody who cared to take even a passing interest.” Leila spluttered and made undignified noises of denial. The squeeze pump bounced on her chest as she did so. “Sorry, I’m not convinced,” I said. “I think that if you’re so desperate to receive something into that love passage of yours, the least we could do is oblige you. Maybe a little aversion therapy is what you need.” Leila made a plaintive squeak as Trish brought over a large chrome insert from the table.
It was a double-header – a twin dildo in a U–shape, that would penetrate both front and back. Each prong contained both a vibrator and external electrodes that would be initially stimulating at low power, then become very painful as the lights went red.
I fixed it to the adjustable shaft and took the wire back to the console while Trish lubricated the prongs and ran her fingers through Leila’s blonde bush. Leila squirmed and made garbled noises as Trish evidently made all the right connections. I stood back and let Trish finish the job, allowing her to slide the double dong upwards until it first nuzzled both entrances, then penetrated barely half a finger length.
There was a faint humming and three green lights lit up on the small light strip dangling beneath the inserts, as both began to vibrate. Trish stopped what she was doing and squatted on her haunches, her skirt tight over rump and thigh, watching the development with interest. The lights remained green, not rising into the amber zone. The vibrations had their effect very quickly, and Leila began to squirm again, but could not lower herself sufficiently to take advantage of the double presence. She shifted from side to side, straining at the chain and steel collar, and making complementary hmmming noises herself. Her eyes closed as she tried to get some pressure on the right spot, but couldn’t quite make it.
“What about Prisoner Number Three?” said the Voice. “Perhaps we could continue with her?”
Leila’s eyes snapped open, and we all saw where the Director was leading. Trish stood up and smiled at me – a smile that recognised a fellow devious mind and approved.
“A fine idea, Director. For this we shall have to go to another room, where we have prepared for Number Three. Can I suggest that we leave these two on manual slow simmer, since your controls will be fully occupied with Number Three.”
“Of course.” The Voice was affable and amenable. “I am in your hands. Please carry on.”
We had not really expected to be switching between the two, but much of this business was being able to be flexible and spontaneously adapt to the client’s needs and ideas. It was not a big deal to disconnect the computer controls from Leila’s machine and set it manually. I did the same for Emma, leaving her with the big plug buzzing away with three green lights. Monica could not resist putting the two forcep clamps back in place, much to Emma’s objection, before looping a string between the two dildos half inside Leila and taking the ends up her front to tie them off to the nipple weights. Abruptly Leila had become as tautly restrained as Emma, with the vibrations and any other small movement transferring on to her pinched pink nubs.
“See ya later, sweetie,” murmured Monica, running her fingers under Leila’s chin, while the blonde mmmphed furiously.
“If you would like to follow me, Director…” I said to the camera, and headed through the door which Trish held open, saluting as I passed her with Jillian and the video camera trailing its cord behind. It was a nice touch, I thought.
We walked some five metres down the corridor, the light on the top of the camera lighting up the grim block walls in glaring detail. Monica was ahead and again I got a salute as we entered the Post Room on the opposite side on the Observation Room. From the OR we could maintain communications to Oman via the PA system, and monitor the picture going out to the world.
In the corner of the room a figure squatted. I could not resist an introduction.
“Here’s one I prepared earlier…” I thought I heard a chuckle from the overhead speaker.
“You shit! Let me go immediately, you fuck! I’ll get Jimmy and the boys round here to fucking do you over!”
Mary was clearly not impressed with her situation and the attitude was not put on, either. Well, most of it. I knew we wouldn’t be seeing Jimmy and the boys, but the rest of Mary’s threats would probably be real. She had been there for perhaps half an hour. She was still clothed as she had been during the street scene, in the black pvc vest and skirt, with the matching thigh boots, but her outfit was complimented now by a yoke made out of two metre-long pieces of steel strip five centimetres wide. These had been fashioned such that they bolted together forming a central circlet for the neck and one at each end for the wrists. Mary was held rigidly in an attitude of surrender.
Ordinarily this would have been demeaning enough for her, but the fact that she had been made to squat and impale her arse on a rather large black phallus had left her furious. Of course she couldn’t do much about it since the phallus was fixed to a steel plate that also carried her weight and a chain from the front of her yoke was locked to an anchor point on the plate, preventing her from rising sufficiently to get off the prong. She was obliged to rest her weight on the high heels of her boots, knowing that should she try to rest on her knees, a further four inches of phallus would be driven up her arse rather abruptly.
Jill moved in for a close-up shot.
“Get that fucking camera out of my face, you bitch!” Mary was not pretending now. She was going right off.
“You seem to have picked up a rather spirited one,” the Voice drawled from the speaker above us.
“Who the fuck is that?” snarled Mary.
“Tsk, tsk,” said the Voice. “This one really should be brought to heel. Please do something about that language, Commander.”
“Of course, sir.” My faithful team were ready as always. Monica had a rather fancy gag in her hand as Trish grabbed two handfuls of Mary’s hair and tilted her head back. The gag comprised a rubber ball fixed on the inside of a stiff clear plastic plate that fitted over the mouth. Attached to the plate were straps that went around the neck and up over the head in the manner of a normal harness. However on the inside of the plate was a thick heavy duty seal, not unlike stiff draught excluder. This sealed around the outside of the lips of a mouth already distended by the ball.
“Wha -! Gerr tha away! Doan you- arrgh! Gurff! Murrrmmf!”
Monica worked the ball right into Mary’s mouth and there was no going back from there. The seal was pressed around her lips and the strap was pulled tight behind her head. The clear plastic over her mouth showed up Mary’s distorted features highlighting the way the seal pressed into her flesh and how her lips were stretched and trapped. Monica tugged the buckle tight under Mary’s chin while Trish held the prisoner’s head still as she tried to struggle. The final straps went either side of Mary’s nose and over the top of her head, and were buckled securely by Trish, who then let Mary go. Mary shook her head and snorted ineffectually, frowning and trying to chew on the ball before casting looks at all of us clearly designed to shrivel us on the spot.
“Much better,” approved the Voice. “Perhaps you can show me what you have in mind to counter such behaviour…”
“Of course. Girls, I think she’s ready to go on the platform.”
Monica unlocked the chain from Mary’s throat and helped her stand. Mary closed her eyes as she slowly eased herself off the big black phallus, making pained mmphing sounds as it slid out of her backside. I noticed her legs were trembling from the effort of rising to her feet in such a fashion. With Monica and Trish holding on to the ends of the yoke, Mary’s struggles were as futile as her attempts to abuse us. When Monica undid the button of Mary’s skirt and it dropped to the floor, leaving her naked below the waist save for the thigh boots, there were further grunts of outrage. Mary was really working herself up into a fury.
Monica and Trish hustled her across the room to a platform I had built on castors, the top of which was padded vinyl. The platform was about a metre and a half square, with multiple cleats and anchor points around the edge. The centrepiece was a length of two-inch galvanised steel pipe sticking up from the middle of it. It was curved backwards, looking like the top half of a longbow, and had two short steel sleeves encircling the bottom of it.
The lower of the two sleeves had a steel cross bar welded to it and both sleeves had butterfly screws that made for easy and rigid positioning anywhere up the length of the pipe. Still resisting, Mary was hauled on to the platform and forced on to her knees, with her back to the curved pipe. While the girls held her steady, I slid the upper of the sleeves up the pipe until it was just behind Mary’s neck, where I screwed the butterfly screw closed so that the sleeve was held rigidly to the pipe. Protruding from the sleeve was a u-shaped anchor point which mated with one on the back of her yoke. With the click of a padlock she was held in place, her body bent backwards and her arms still at the surrender position.
The platform was new, and Mary had never seen it before, much less experienced it. I slid the lower sleeve upwards, so that the cross bar fitted across the small of her back before I screwed it in place. The cross bar would stop her swivelling round the vertical pipe, if she could manage to do that without getting her yoke caught up even more uncomfortably.
But worse was to come for dear Mary. She was bearing her weight on her bent knees, and – predictably – she objected to Trish and Monica buckling straps around each leg, just below the top of the boots. She knew what was coming when a chain was locked to each strap and pulled tight to the edge of the platform, forcing her to spread her bent legs wide. Monica took a short length of rope and joined the insides of the two straps, to take some of the strain and to prevent Mary doing the splits and leaving her hanging on the yoke.
The final piece of restraint was a further chain from one side of the platform to the other, looping around each ankle in the process, further immobilising the prisoner. Mary’s body was now taut against the pipe, only able to pivot slightly about the lock at the back of her neck. Her head was tilted upwards and she had difficulty following what we were up to.
I climbed on to the platform and looked down at her. Mary’s grey eyes stared back and her brow furrowed in anger. Jill climbed up beside me with the camera and took a close up as I slowly unzipped Mary’s pvc vest. I opened the vest and folded the sides wide, running my hands over the swelling mounds that were Mary’s breasts, now thrusting upwards, their nipples demanding attention. I massaged the breasts, hard and thoroughly, watching her expression as I did so. Mary was focussing her anger against me, trying to fight my hands, but all she could do was wiggle her shoulders. I squeezed both nipples and rolled them in my fingers, prompting a sudden nasal complaint. I smiled at her.
“Shall we begin?” I asked innocently.
Mary’s negotiating position, bad to start with, went rapidly down hill from that point. Trish inserted a large chrome butt plug up Mary’s arse, no doubt fresh from the stretching and pain she had endured impaled on the black phallus a few minutes before. The plug had electrodes visible on the outside, and trailed the ominous wires, all of which we showed Mary in considerable detail before the insertion. Mary’s eyes widened and she groaned as the intruder slid home, and she could do nothing but shake her head as I then showed her the matching dildo that was to occupy her front passage.
She shook her head, as best she could, her nasal breathing coming fast and loud as Monica inserted the device none too gently. While she held it there, Trish ran a chain from the left hand end of the cross bar down through Mary’s crotch, around the vertical pipe, returning the same way and locking to the right hand end of the cross bar. This chain not only held the two devices in place, but also locked Mary’s pelvis hard against the pipe.
While Monica connected the wires, I selected a flogger and let fly on Mary’s stretched and vulnerable front. Her breasts and pussy, inner thighs and stomach were ripe for the treatment. I knew the rumours that Mary was able to take – and actually like – pain, almost to the same extent that she was prepared to dish it out, or at least to the extent that there was the chance that it would lead to sexual release at the end of it.
Such was not the case now. Mary was tightly secured and had no idea how long or in what form her punishment would take. She was experienced enough to realise that her very expertise would mean her treatment was likely to be rougher than usual, but this was small comfort as I rained the blows down on her breasts and stomach. She fought the urge to cry out – as much as she was capable of, that is. But before too long she was making nasal grunts with the fall of each blow, her eyes screwed up against the pain.
I halted at length, with Mary’s flesh red and striated, to let Monica and Trish continue with the decoration. This they did by first securing two small vices on Mary’s nipples. Each vice was formed by a hard plastic square with a movable bar inside which was screwed closed on the unfortunate nipple. The bar was made of steel and the side of the square opposite this was also of steel, each piece of metal serving as an electrode, with the aforementioned nipple being the meat in the electrical sandwich, so to speak. The vice-like grip alone would be bad enough, I thought, but the idea of a zap on top of that made the hairs on the back of my neck stand up.
Monica and Trish went about it as though it was all in a day’s work. Mary was a dark horse within the Bilboes team, and more than once she had pushed Monica to the limit. I suspected this would not be the first time she would wish she had been rather more cooperative, especially in regard to her little dummy spit when the parts in the scene had been announced.
I watched as Trish tightened one vice and Monica the other. Mary screwed up her eyes again and whined agitatedly as the tender flesh was trapped between the steel bars. While Trish connected up the wires from the vices to the console, Monica checked the vice that Trish had attached and gave it another half turn - prompting a stifled cry from Mary - before giving both attachments a quick, professional tug. Mary uttered another high-pitched snort.
The final attachment was the clear plastic cup, with the electrodes visible on the inside, that Monica worked under the crotch chains so that it nestled against Mary’s clit. The chained victim tried to struggle but could do little against the insinuating fingers that secured the device in place.
“Director, I believe it is over to you to continue as you see fit.”
Monica, Trish and I stood back to watch, not without some misgivings on my part, I confess. I was still just a tad uneasy about letting some foreigner loose with this remote electrical setup, but Monica had assured me it could be stopped at a moment’s notice if necessary. I had a sneaking suspicion this would have to get pretty bad for Mary before the boss stepped in.
There was a faint humming and at once all five light strips glowed green as the three devices between Mary’s legs and the two nipple vices came alive. Even in her restraints, Mary stiffened, only now evidently realising the full extent of her vulnerability and what was going to happen.
The lights remained on three green for perhaps a minute, then the first amber light appeared simultaneously on the lot. I figured the Director had linked them together with the shift key, and was operating them as one. Sure enough, they all flickered through the amber range, as Mary’s breathing became more laboured, her eyes widening as the lights entered the red range.
If Mary had stiffened before, she became rigid with the onset of the red zone. She began a high-pitched keening that merged into a series of staccato explosions of breath. It had never occurred to me until that moment the difficulty that making any noise and breathing simultaneously can cause. Both are fundamental to the human spirit when pain is inflicted. You hurt, you make a noise. You also breathe. Traditional methods of noise infliction have primarily been repetitive, whether in the form of striking, beating, squeezing or for that matter plain old thrusting in certain orifices. All these methods allow a gasp for breath in between the infliction. Continuous pain does not, especially as the threshold is raised.
Mary was quivering, her hands opening and closing in the steel grip of the yoke. She jerked repeatedly against the lock at the back of her neck which made the steel rattle, but she could only move a little. Her back arched as much as she could, but the chains holding her thighs and feet apart left her precious little scope for this.
The penetrating buzzing of the inserts was overlain by the explosive snorts of Mary. The best she could do was a kind of “Urrrhhn! Urrrhhn! Urrrhhn!” rising in pitch and intensity, which at very least conveyed an urgency and desperation appropriate to her predicament. The red lights dropped down abruptly into the green and Mary’s body seemed to slump. Then, moments later the devices red-lined again, making the chained woman throw herself against the restraints. I had never seen Mary so animated, and I have to admit to some feelings of alarm. While the inserts were not as debilitating as what we had experienced at the hands of Madam Wong, I was starting to have misgivings. Even Mary didn’t deserve this.
I glanced at Monica. As though reading my thoughts she caught my eye and shook her head a fraction as though to say ‘Mary can take this’. She mouthed : “Trust me”.
I had little choice. The lights went green and hovered there. Over the next ten minutes they ventured into the red several times and Mary threw herself against the steel holding her. Her thighs were quivering with the strain and the sweat slid down her body in runnels into the tops of the thigh boots, or else dripped on to the padded black vinyl.
Finally the lights slid back into the green and Mary’s head sagged. She was panting hard, each breath a moan, and beneath the leather harness her jet black hair was plastered against her forehead and neck. Tears were running down her face.
“Perhaps we should leave her for a while,” suggested the Voice, sounding quite pleased, like a dentist after a successful tooth removal. “You may remove the vices, but the other pieces can stay.”
Monica hastened to obey, and released the clamps with an unnecessary vigour that made Mary scream into the gag.
“Oh hush!” said Monica brusquely. “You’re such a wimp.”
Mary’s tear-filled eyes did not respond.
* * *
By the time we got back to Leila and Emma, both were obviously at the height of frustration. The vibrators were humming along merrily in the green, the gentle drone forming a background of white noise in the room, broken only by the low moans of the two captive girls.
Leila looked wide-eyed at us as we entered, pleading wordlessly for some sort of relief. Clearly the tugging of the string on the weighted nipple clips was distracting her somewhat painfully from being able to concentrate on the tips of the two vibrators poking tantalisingly inside her, and she was not happy with the situation. The more she squirmed, trying to make a better contact in her sensitive regions, the more the nipple clips pulled at her sensitive nubs. She mumbled something at me through the inflated bladder in her mouth. I was pretty sure it was uncomplimentary.
“May I suggest a rearrangement of these two, Director?” I asked.
“By all means. I’m sure our prisoners would prefer it, yes?” I could not see Emma’s reaction, but Leila was desperate for a change – anything appeared to be better than the tantalising torture she was going through at that point.
Fifteen minutes later both girls were looking unsure that a change was as good as a rest, as they knelt facing each other a couple of metres apart. Both had now lost their skirts, but Leila still wore her red boots and Emma’s shoes and stockings remained in place. Other than that, they were naked, their arms stretched above them, their wrists chained together. Leila’s wrist cuffs were locked to a chain that ran over a ceiling pulley, back down behind her, through her crotch, across the intervening space and through Emma’s crotch, before climbing to another ceiling pulley and back to lock to Emma’s cuffs. Each girl had been fitted with a steel spreader bar, holding her ankles rigidly apart, with a chain connecting the centre of the bar with the back of her neck collar. This chain prevented them from getting to their feet.
The main chain, however, as well as stretching their arms above them, held a butt plug and vibrator in place in each pussy and arse. The more the girls pulled on their common chain, the more the plugs would be forced inside not just one, but both of them. The plugs had been supplemented by the plastic cups over their clits, and both prisoners now had three light strips taped to the thigh nearest the main camera position. A further strip was taped to each upper arm, with their wires leading down to matching clips pinching nipples on uplifted breasts.
Emma looked a wonderful sight, I had to admit. With her arms hauled above her, her breasts – which looked most attractive under any circumstances – now looked quite stunning. She remained gagged, still trapped in the head harness with the stoppered O-ring holding her jaw wide. She looked very sorry for herself.
The fight had gone out of Leila, too. Her eyes were pleading with anyone who would catch them, as she squirmed uncomfortably on the chain through her crotch. As we admired the victims, all the lights lit up simultaneously, easing into the green with a warm hum. The devices had been joined together in pairs, such that both butt plugs would operate together, and both dildos, for example. Coupled with the vibrations from their clits and breasts, and made more intense by the concerted squirmings each could view the other undergoing, it was not surprising that in the same breath both girls let out a long moan. I reckoned it was one of pleasure, as the vibrations and buzzings combined to act on their vulnerable and sensitive parts.
The lights stayed on green for several minutes, as the girls grew more and more restless. The moaning increased in volume and frequency and we knew something was building up, until abruptly the humming upped in frequency and the lights zipped through the amber into the red. The moans turned to agitated muffled snorts and squeals as the pair struggled in their chains. There was much rattling of these, but the harder they pulled, the more the chain ground into their crotches and the more the invaders between their legs were forced into their inner recesses, sending electrical shock waves into their most sensitive parts.
I looked at Monica as Leila and Emma writhed in the grip of unseen forces. She watched them dispassionately, remaining in control and seemingly unconcerned. Emma had finally overcome her gasping for breath enough to let loose a full blown –albeit stifled - scream, and it was only at this point that I saw a shadow of doubt cross Monica’s face. I caught Trish also looking at Monica, and it was with relief at this point that the lights went green and both girls slumped in their restraints, the sweat running down their bodies as though they had just come from a shower.
Monica gave me a nudge.
“I hope you don’t mind if I take advantage of one of these wenches, Director?” I asked.
“Feel free,” came the languorous Voice. “Why on earth would you not? I think it would be very appropriate. I think the blonde should be the lucky one.”
It almost goes without saying that right through the exhibition to date my buddy Mr Willy was hard as the proverbial rock. Somehow he just could not get used to seeing these women bound and gagged, and today was no exception. This step had been Monica’s idea – all pre-planned, of course. I had been worried that I would get an attack of the nerves, what with a few thousand people (??) potentially watching, but somehow it didn’t feel like that, in our intimate little group in the dungeon. And of course with Leila kneeling astride the chain, her round eyes looking up at me, a man had to do what a man had to do.
I released the valve on the bladder in Leila’s mouth, and pulled it clear with a slurp of saliva.
“Gaahh!” she said, trying to get the taste of rubber out of her mouth, but with her jaws still wedged open by the Whitehead frame. I unzipped my fly and eased Mr Willy out in front of Leila. She shook her head, as much as she was able to, given the tautness of her arms stretched above her. “Ngooooh!” she objected plaintively. I grasped the two wires leading to the electrode clips on her nipples and tugged them upwards. “Ooo! Ooow!” she cried.
“Feeling more cooperative now?” I asked, with Mr Willy ready to impale anything within reach.
“Eth,” she gasped.
Mr Willy slid into the warm wetness that was Leila’s mouth, and her tongue began to do very pleasant things. I sensed, however, the strain that the gag frame was putting on her, for she could not move her lips around my manhood, since her jaw was held open so severely. Gently I released the ratchet several notches, allowing her jaw to close to the extent where I could feel her teeth just touching me. She looked up at me with an expression of relief and gratitude, both of which I was looking for myself, in fact.
Such was Leila’s skill that I was obliged to half withdraw at one stage, just to prolong the process somewhat, for the benefit of the camera. Jillian was on her knees with the camera less than a metre away, but as Leila demonstrated her adroitness I finally succumbed and gripped her by the hair as I exploded in her mouth. Leila gulped and swallowed as best she could, given the restrictions on her mouth. I let her recover her poise before withdrawing, licked clean.
“Excellent,” said the Voice. “Good to see these girls performing a useful function, for a change.”
While all this had been going on, the nipple and butt vibrators had died to one green light, while the two front ones remained at three green. Now Monica picked up a paddle and delivered several hard thwacks to Leila’s backside. It was apparent that the act she had just performed had not been entirely one sided, for she was clearly aroused herself. I wondered what the Director would do. Would he put them through another round of painful torture, or let nature take its course?
There was no movement on the vibrators, which were humming steadily in the green zone, while both girls became more and more agitated. Trish unscrewed the plug in Emma’s gag and the harsh gasping of both girls came through clearly in the stillness of the dungeon as the camera focussed on the pair. I had the feeling that our job was done here and that things were moving on to their inevitable and inexorable climax, both literally and figuratively.
The climaxes arrived almost simultaneously, the girls obviously reacting to each other, their distorted, gagged cries rebounding off the walls as they tugged frantically on their chains in response to the waves of pleasure emanating from the devices jammed hard in their crotches. Leila let forth a loud scream, for the Whitehead was more an access device than a silencing device, while Emma sounded off a series of desperate howls, tossing her pigtails and screwing her eyes closed as she writhed on the chain between her legs.
When they had done, their heads slumped forward, sweat dripping off their chins and running down their breasts, the Voice spoke again, this time addressing the girls directly.
“You two have been found guilty of lewd and unbecoming behaviour.” Leila and Emma raised their eyes to the ceiling speaker with exhausted looks. “You will remain were you are for the next six hours, and continue with the treatment, whereupon you will be released. You may expect far worse should you be detained in the future.” I saw the single light on the nipple electrodes move to three green, but nothing else changed. Emma and Leila had not been a party to the scenario in terms of what was to happen and how long it was to take. The rest of us knew the time scale and we knew that their parts were complete, but they didn’t. Monica had been deliberately vague about that.
“You heard,” I told them sternly. “You will stay here for the next six hours, and we will watch you perform. Perhaps it will deter you from such public performances in future.” Emma looked at me with disbelief, hardly aware of Trish screwing the stopper back in the gag. I stared her down. She then tried to make a protest, suddenly aware that her ability to object had again been seriously curtailed.
“Nnnn!” she whined. Leila was also trying to get to grips with the possibility of six hours of the stimulation in her loins.
“Ngooh! Eeese, ngooh! I arn and it! Eeese! Oannt -
!” That was as far as she got as Monica slapped a length of
duct tape over her mouth and wound it round and round her head, covering
the Whitehead gag and stifling the cries. Leila fought the gag and
her chains and ended on a long wailing moan as we packed up our things
and left the room.
* * *
Mary was as we had left her, immovably secured to the curved pipe. The only thing was that in the intervening half hour was had been away, the devices in Mary’s crotch had been running steadily, and from the look of the film of sweat on Mary’s naked flesh, not to mention the liquid pooling on the black vinyl beneath her, she had probably climaxed several times in that period.
Her eyes were glazed and she seemed barely conscious of us in the room. She seemed to have departed into subspace – to the extent that Proud Mary would ever admit such a thing. Only when Monica seized a flogger and cracked the chained victim half a dozen times across her breasts did Mary seem to come back to reality.
Only then did the Director speak.
“How would you like to stay there for another six hours?” the Voice asked. Mary’s eyes went round with alarm and she emitted a frantic nasal cry that nobody could have mistaken for anything but a negative, regardless of the feeble shaking of the head.
“Too bad,” said the Voice, and the butt plug went to one amber light, though the other two remained at three green. Mary groaned and howled into the gag as Monica let loose with the flogger against her tender reddened breasts with the probably ultra-sensitive nipples.
“Commander, I consider the punishment has been established. You may return in six hours and only then turn this one loose on the streets.”
Mary’s gagged screams were still echoing off the walls when we turned out the lights and closed the door. We knew then that the scene was a success. Just how successful and what it was going to lead to was beyond our limited imaginations at that point in time.
* * *
story continues in Monica's Games 1.8