Chapter Two: Leila's Story
I have to confess I was so excited I could barely contain myself on the way to the airport. I had only been overseas once, on a skiing holiday to New Zealand, which somehow can’t match Hong Kong for eastern exoticism. Jill had been to England and done the Kontiki Europe tour thing, but like me she hadn’t been to Asia and was just as excited - although she pretended not to be. She’s like that with me, just because she’s five years older. She tries to be a big sister to me, tolerant of my youthful excesses - or so she’d like to think. Of course I can see through all that.
Emma wasn’t much better at hiding her enthusiasm at returning to her place of birth for the first time since the Handover. While she had grown up in Brisbane, she still had family in Hong Kong and kept in contact with them. She was as buoyed up as any of us.
We sat in business class – Cathay don’t have a first class – and the cabin attendants called us Miss Cheng and Miss Whiting and Miss McKinnon and the champagne started to flow. It didn’t take too much to make us relax and go just a tad silly. I had an empty seat next to me, while Jill and Emma sat across the aisle. There were cool things to explore like the personal videos – movies and games, not to mention enjoying the food and drink that never seemed to stop coming.
Yet for all this, I could not help but think of Emma’s words in the beginning, before we got caught up in the novelty of it all. There was a brief moment when in the midst of our chatter about the future and what might be ahead of us, Emma had said:
“Look, I just want to say one thing, before we all get carried away with this. For all the opportunities, and for all the air of civilisation and normality in Hong Kong, just remember what we are doing is on the edge of legality. And because of that, there could be Triad involvement.”
“You don’t know that,” Monica had countered.
“No, of course I don’t. This could be totally legitimate. It probably is. I just want any decisions to be made by people with their eyes open.”
That was the last we had thought about it. The lure of the City of Light and exotic places had been too much for us, and here we were, winging our way around the world, drinking too much champagne…
* * *
What with the food and the champagne and the excitement I guess I must have fallen asleep. It seemed rather easy to do. One minute I was talking to Jill who had come over to sit next to me, then everything seemed to catch up with me and I was dreaming weird dreams of exotic Asian locations.
I awoke slowly, rising up from the foggy depths of wherever I had been. For a moment I didn’t know where I was, then the sounds of the aircraft got through to my brain, along with a familiar but totally unexpected sensation – a warm, fuzzy feeling from my loins. My eyes snapped open and I became aware of several things simultaneously.
I was covered in an airline blanket, with the seatbelt done up on the outside, tightly across my lap. I couldn’t move my hands, cradled as they were under the blanket. I tugged at them and tried to twist them about, but they had been taped together, one resting in the other. It also felt like my thumbs had been joined with a plastic electrical tie. The final thing that burst upon my consciousness was the insistent buzzing of a vibrator in my pussy. What the hell was going on?
I glanced across the aisle and saw Jill struggling to cover a smirk, while Emma, in the window seat, was curling up trying to stifle her laughter.
“Jill! What the hell are you doing? Get over here!” I hissed.
Jill unfolded herself from the seat and sat down next to me.Gromet's Selfbondage & Mummification Plaza -
“What’s the matter, sweetie?” she cooed. I felt a flush come to my cheeks.
“You know damn well what the matter is! You did this! Undo my hands at once!” Jill lifted the edge of the blanket and looked underneath. I saw my two hands wrapped in duct tape from forearm to forearm like I was wearing a thin silver muffler. I tried to wriggle m y fingers but they were immovable. On the outside of the tape was drawn a round bullseye target with several arrows. Oh bollocks, I thought. Monica was getting her own back on me.
“Monica’s orders,” said Jill with a smile.
“But how- “
“The old Bilboes Roofies Cocktail trick,” she said.
“Roofies? You gave me a roofie? In my champagne? You bugger!” Rohypnol was a common tool for the Bilboes team – a knock out drug that had few side effects and was potent in alcohol. Especially on females not too used to drinking champagne at thirty thousand feet, I thought ruefully, remembering how Jill had plied me with it over dinner.
“Okay, very funny,” I said, now somewhat less demanding. “Monica’s made her point, then. I’ll be good. Now - untie me? Oooo…”
“That nasty vibrator starting to have its effect, is it, sweetie?”
“Ohhh – yes – come on, please…”
Jill looked at her watch. “We’ll be landing in about an hour. I can’t undo you – I need scissors for the plastic tie. Have to wait until we get out luggage.”
“What? You can’t be serious! How can I get off the plane like this?”
“Oh, we’ll work something out. Why don’t you just sit back and enjoy your flight. I think you’ll be able to join the five mile high club, though it’s a shame you’ll be doing it on your own.” She grinned, flicking a wispy lock of blonde hair away from her face. “Unless you want to ask that nice cabin attendant to help you out?” I glared at her. “Or I could ask him for you…?”
“Don’t you dare!”
Jill shrugged her shoulders as if offended and stood up, retreating across the aisle to where Emma was ready to wet herself, so funny did she find the situation. So I was left to my own devices – or rather to one device in particular, buzzing away insistently in my deepest crevice, held there by my G-string. I squirmed and contracted my muscles, trying to expel it, but it only ended up intensifying the sensations rising in waves from my loins. I tried to get my hands down there, but I could not move them past the seat belt, and in any case, bound as they were, I was without fingers and thumbs. How could they do this to me?
I tried to resist it the first time, but it was a losing battle. Clamping my thighs together and doubling over, I gasped and panted until the Big O hit and I squirmed in my seat, stifling a moan and shuddering as the wave broke over me. The blanket fell forward and Jill reappeared beside me to replace it.
“Is your friend all right?” A concerned question from the cute Eurasian cabin attendant.
“Yes – sure. Minor stomach cramps,” said Jill. “She gets them sometimes on aeroplanes – something to do with the lower air pressure.”
“Anything I can do to help?” he asked.
“I don’t know… What do you think, Leila?”
I looked at him and felt myself redden as a drop of sweat rolled down my temple. I shook my head miserably and gasped as another spasm rippled up from my pussy. There was a muffled chortle from Emma.
“It’s okay. She’ll be fine,” said Jill. The man shrugged and moved down the aisle.
“Puhleeese take it out,” I pleaded as Jill mopped my brow with the edge of the blanket.
“No way, honey. Monica’s orders. Em’s the witness.”
I thought we would never get there. I climaxed three times before the landing announcement was made, each time leaving me a gasping, squirming mess. Jillian finally took pity on me and slipped her hand between my wet thighs to turn off the vibrator.
“Aren’t you going to take it out?” I panted.
“Why? What would I do with it then? But I hope you don’t get body searched – that would be embarrassing!” I blanched – the thought had not occurred to me.
“You’ll be there with me,” I assured her. “I’ll be pointing the blame right at you.”
“Pointing what, dear? You won’t be able to point anything until I cut you free. Look – we’re nearly there – you can see the tower blocks!”
As the inexorable vibrations finally died, I slumped in my seat, glimpsing the distant light of apartment blocks. I was barely aware of the touchdown. Thank you Jill and Monica for wiping me out for something I had been looking forward to. Mind you, the wipeout process hadn’t been without its moments, and I had joined the five-mile high club – sort of.
As we taxied to the terminal, Jillian removed the blanket and slipped my coat through my linked arms, rearranging it over the tape. I confess I was sweating as we walked to the immigration hall, with the vibrator – now mercifully inactive – squelching inside me. Emma handed over the three passports and we were stamped through with one-month tourist visas. In the customs hall the other two retrieved our baggage and Jill discretely removed the tape and plastic tie from my thumbs.
“Thank goodness,” I said. “Now I can go to the loo and get rid of this thing inside me.”
“Sorry – family waiting,” Emma said, gripping me by the arm and propelling me towards the customs check. Before I had a chance to protest we were in line and I knew that making a fuss was not a good idea. Somebody was surely going to pay for this ignominy!
It seemed the whole of the Cheng clan had turned up to meet us in the brand spanking new arrivals hall. Even before then, despite my internal predicament, I could not help being overwhelmed at the airy halls and glass walls of this huge building. Emma was now mobbed by a dozen relatives who were introduced to us in a chatter of English and Cantonese. Then we were in the back of a swish grey Mercedes heading for the city. Clearly Uncle Stan and Auntie Alice were not short of a buck or two.
Sitting between us, switching from Cantonese to catch up on family affairs and using English to point out the sights, Emma talked nineteen to the dozen during the ride. I loved the singsong tones of Cantonese, although I had heard many people describe them in uncomplimentary tones usually involving strangling cats.
I only half heard what was being said. It was gone eight pm local time, and sitting back in the leather seat I was entranced by the tall tower blocks across the water as we followed the north coast of Lantau Island. We crossed the two spectacular bridges linking the island with the rest of Hong Kong before joining a maze of freeways canyoning between more apartments followed by glimpses of Hong Kong Island itself – a mass of stunning skyscrapers shimmering across the harbour. I felt like a kid in a sweet shop, goggling at the wares.
We disappeared into a long tunnel, to emerge on the other side of the harbour, threading our way through congested streets to arrive outside the brightly lit Furama Hotel. Emma helped us register and took possession of our passports to keep them safe at her uncle’s place, which was where she was staying. I think Jill was a bit disappointed at Emma not staying with us, given the little holiday that we were about to have before our appointment with Mr Choi in two days time, but family was family, and I was sure the pair would find some time for a little recreation on the king-sized beds before our time was up.
Our rooms had stunning views – I could have sat up half the night just looking at the boats on the harbour. After finally getting rid of the toy inside me I could relax, although I found it difficult to sleep, even though the time was nearly midnight.
I was sitting there staring out over the water when there was a knock at the door. It was Emma.
“Fancy a walk?” she asked. There was something in the way she asked that told me she wasn’t telling me everything.
“Oh, she was a bit tired. Let me show you.” I followed her into the corridor and to the next door along. Emma unlocked it and we entered. The room was lit only by a nightlight and the main curtains were drawn back, revealing a figure silhouetted against the myriad of lights beyond.
The figure half-turned and made a muffled sound. Emma turned on the lights and the figure became more agitated. Jillian was naked, sitting astride a narrow but solid coffee table. Her ankles had been taped to the rear legs and her wrists were secured behind her back with a plastic cable tie. Several pieces of duct tape criss-crossed her mouth. She frowned and mmphed as the light came on, shaking her head.
“Sorry – did I say ‘tired’? I meant ‘tied’,” Emma explained. “Improvisation is so interesting, don’t you think Jill dear? It does make a change to see you on the end of the ropes.”
“Well well well,” I gloated. “A traitor in the midst, huh?” I looked at Emma. Emma simply shrugged and smiled.
“Monica’s orders were carried out,” she said to me. “Obligations have been discharged. Now we can have fun.” She turned to the bound figure. “Leila and I are going out for a bit. We’ll let you admire the view. We can leave the light on and see how many calls the hotel gets in the meantime - yes?” Jillian clearly did not like this and shook her head emphatically. I walked around the prisoner, and it was only when I got in front of her that I saw how thorough Emma had been, for there was also a large strip of duct tape over Jill’s pussy. I bent my head and heard a faint humming. Em had capped off the decoration with two curved hairclips that jutted out from where they were clamped on Jill’s nipples. The clips were plastic, and had nasty little studs on the inner faces of the jaws. I was sure they would be quite painful after a while. Clearly it was easy to include the bondage basics in your luggage – something these two had managed to a tee.
“See you in an hour,” said Emma, while Jill bounced up and down, mmphing her frustration and protest. “I’ll hang this on the door, shall I?” Emma waved a “Please Make Up My Room” sign. Jill’s eyes turned pleading and she shook her head violently again as we turned out the light and shut the door behind us. I watched as Emma then reversed the sign to the “Do Not Disturb” message and hung it on the doorknob.
“Let’s do Hong Kong,” she said.
* * *
Emma’s idea of ‘doing Hong Kong’ was to spend the next half hour drinking white wine in the revolving lounge on top of the Furama, watching the extraordinary view move past our eyes. Emma pointed out the sights and told me about the place until the wine finally had its effect and tiredness began to catch up with me. We parted in the lift, with Emma handing me the key to Jill’s room. I walked along the corridor and knocked on her door, announcing in what I thought was a faintly Chinese accent that this was the maid service come to make up the room. Did I imagine a muffled protest from within?
I opened the door and entered without turning on the light.
“Anyone in?” I continued. “Come to make up the bed, please.”
This time there was no mistaking the stifled complaint from the silhouette in front of the window.
“Who is there?” I asked querulously. “May I turn on light?” More negative grunting. I walked over to the figure and touched Jill on the shoulder, running my fingers down her naked back. “Ohhhh…” I said in mock surprise. Then I couldn’t keep up the pretence any longer and burst out laughing. The truth dawned on Jill and I was treated to a burst of mmming from behind the tape. I turned on the bedside light and squatted beside the bound figure astride the stool. Jill was blushing furiously and not all from surprise and embarrassment at the trick I had played, either. Beads of sweat rolled down her neck and between her breasts. Emma had positioned a towel under her prisoner, but the effect of having her legs pulled apart and back had clearly made it difficult for Jillian to get proper pressure just where she would have liked it. I also suspect that in the hour before Emma had knocked on my door, the pair of them had satisfied their carnal desires in more orthodox fashion. I reckoned my performance on the plane – for all its comic overtones – had made them just the smallest bit horny.
“Getting just a little frustrated, are we?” I cooed, lifting Jill’s chin to look into the big brown eyes. She nodded. “Wish you hadn’t been so awful to me now, don’t you?” Another nod, and a guilty lowering of her lashes. “But you scored with Emma, though, didn’t you. Isn’t that enough for you? You are such a slut, Jill Whiting. Aren’t you?” Nodding again. “Would you like those horrid clips off? You’re like a little nodding dog tonight…” Gently I squeezed the jaws apart and removed the clips. Jill had small nipples and currently they were rosy pink and erect, with a small row of indentations down each side.
I undid the tape on her ankles but left it in place over her mouth and pussy. Grasping her nipples I encouraged her forward along the coffee table as she whined in complaint.
“Stop your grousing, Miss, unless you want to be watching the best view in the world all night.” That shut her up. I snuggled in behind her and slipped my hands around to cup her breasts. My own nipples had hardened and pressed into the damp flesh of her back. Jill had nice tits – not as pronounced as Emma’s but still two delicious handfuls. I tweaked the nipples again and let my fingers slide over the wet flesh as I nibbled her ear lobe. She arched her neck in response and I sensed her breathing start to quicken. For all my annoyance with what she had done to me on the plane, I knew she was acting under orders and I knew she had had a very frustrating time in the last hour, so I had no reservations about giving her what she wanted. While I remain firmly in favour of the male contribution to sex, I am not above a little variety, especially with someone as lovely as Jill. Sometimes I even surprise myself and think I could be jealous of Emma – if she wasn’t so nice as well.
I let my hand stray down Jill’s flat stomach to where the strip of duct tape held the vibrator in place. Jill moaned as my fingers found the hard base of the device under the tautness of the tape. I peeled the edge of the tape back and it came away easily, slick with her juices. I now had access to the vibrator which I positioned against her clit, supplemented with a little delicate finger massage. Jill stiffened and began breathing rapidly. Moments later she was uttering little ‘urh-urh-urh’ noises with each exhalation, and pushing herself against my fingers and the vibrator. She bounced and struggled but I kept my left arm tightly around her, holding her right breast and gently kissing the right side of her neck. Her climax came suddenly and quickly as she jerked and spasmed, grunting and panting behind the tape, before we relaxed and sat there, staring out over the fabulous Hong Kong night.
* * *
The next day was a whirlwind of contrasts and experiences. Emma took us via bus (“much more fun than cable car”) to the Peak, to take in the stunning views over the harbour and Kowloon. It was a picture I had many times seen on postcards and calendars but had never expected to view the scene first hand. We walked along the path around the Peak, watching as the vista unfolded at every curve. Then it was off to Stanley Market by bus along the winding southern shore of Hong Kong Island. Stanley was touristy, a bit kitsch, and a lot of fun. Emma assured us we would come back there before we left, for some serious shopping.
The Emma tour in the afternoon took in a tram ride, a huge aviary and an enormous shopping centre near our hotel. For the evening meal we scorned the hotel dining room for a white-tiled steamy local restaurant in a back street which served more delicious food than any of us could handle. It had been a fabulous day and this time I had no trouble sleeping. The next day the work was to begin. Emma promised to pick us up at ten in the morning.
* * *
We took a taxi to Mong Kok, on the Kowloon side of the harbour. Emma gave the taxi driver directions and got into a loud argument with him as we threaded through the pedestrian-choked streets. The argument continued even after we had arrived, evidently to do with the route we had taken and what he was going to charge us. Eventually honour was satisfied and Emma explained to us with a bright smile that taxi drivers had no respect for passengers, nor did they understand the concept of customer service, and that they were always dishonest and greedy and not to be trusted.
“This is a sort of red light district,” Emma explained. “Not as openly as some other cities, but it’s the centre of a lot of illegal activities. You see those signs?” She pointed to some of the huge overhanging billboards and neon signs above the street. “They advertise ‘love hotels’ and massages and other names that aren’t quite what they seem. Everyone knows what goes on here, except perhaps the gweiloes.”
“The what?” asked Jill.
“Gweiloes – Chinese name for foreigners. ‘Gweipoes’ in the case of females. ‘Long noses’ we call you. We tend to lump you all in the same basket, since you all look the same.” As she said this she turned away, but I could see the smirk on her face. Jill and I looked at each other, two blonde heads in a seething sea of black hair.
We followed Emma as she located the address we had been given. It was what I would call an undistinguished entrance – a narrow flight of stairs beyond an aluminium-framed glass door next to an electrical shop. I followed Jill and Emma up the narrow steps with what had suddenly become an odd feeling in my gut. All the excitement of this place had abruptly been replaced by a sense of disquiet. We were out of our depth here, dependent on Emma in a culture and city we did not know or understand.
At the top of the stairs was a reception area where a bored middle-aged lady gestured us to sit in the shabby chairs after Emma explained the reason for our presence. The sign on the wall behind the lady said ‘Good Fortune Video and Photography Company’ in English, with a lot of Chinese writing beneath.
We waited for perhaps five minutes. None of us said anything. Emma had spoken to the lady in Cantonese and we did not know whether she spoke English. What I had felt coming up the stairs seemed to come back stronger. There was something not quite right about this set up.
A man of medium height and wearing glasses emerged from the office behind reception. I guessed he was in his late thirties, although I always had difficulty with the ages of Chinese.
“Good morning. I’m Edwin Kwan.” His English had an American or Canadian twang to it, and while his manner was affable he was somehow distant. Emma introduced us.
“Where’s Mr Choi?” she asked.
“Ah – Mr Choi works on the Island. He does not deal with this end of the business. He is the backing behind the business, you understand – the money. He is the one paying for your stay here. You are all enjoying the Furama, yes?”
“Jill and Leila are staying there – I’m staying with some family,” explained Emma.
“But it’s lovely,” Jill added. “Please thank Mr Choi very much.”
And what do you do, Mr Kwan?” I asked.
“Call me Edwin, please. I will be directing the video in which you ladies will be starring. Please, come into my office.” He barked something at the receptionist.
Edwin’s office was spartan to say the least. There was a filing cabinet, a desk and three chairs, one of which was Edwin’s. He wheeled it out for Emma while Jill and I took the other two. I looked about. There wasn’t much to see. The walls were bare save for a cheap whiteboard and several large cartons were piled in one corner. The light came from a dingy window which looked as if it gave into a light well.
Edwin perched on the edge of his desk.
“Let me explain how this movie will be made. There is a plot – there always has to be, but it is not always the most original. In this instance you two ladies are tourists who are kidnapped by Triads and forced into prostitution, but only after a fairly rigorous training.”
“You understand what we will and will not do?” Jill asked cautiously.
Edwin pulled open the top drawer of his desk. “I have the contract that Mr Choi signed with Miss Armstrong, which you both also signed.” He flourished the piece of paper. “This is correct?”
“Okay. We will use this as the basis. You will be a big hit here – Chinese men like blondes – very exotic, very western. Look at how many blonde-dyed hairs you see in the street these days.” I laughed inwardly at the grammatical oddity, picturing individual blonde hairs blowing about the streets. I can’t say I’d noticed a lot of blonde locals, but I didn’t want to put him off. “Chinese girls are having plastic surgery to make their eyes more western.” He was interrupted by the receptionist returning with a pot of Chinese tea which she poured into blue and white mugs with little lids on them.
“As tourists you will be filmed shopping and at a couple of tourist spots then you will be kidnapped and your training will begin. We will use some outdoor locations and some indoor ones. I would like to start this afternoon, if that is okay.”
“Of course,” said Jill.
“Good. You will be collected at your hotel at 2 o’clock.”
“What should we wear?” asked Jill, ever the practical one.
“Something bright – dress or skirt. You must stand out in a crowd and show yourselves off well. And no bras. We want to set the scene – give cause for kidnapping,” he said with a smirk. “Remember – despite where you are staying – this is low budget stuff. It is not a Hollywood movie. Mr Choi is careful with his money, and not much comes this way for production expenses.”
* * *
We spent the remainder of that morning sorting through the clothes that we’d brought with us. It was July in Hong Kong – hot and steamy. I like the heat normally, except when the humidity was so oppressive that it makes your hair all lank.
I eventually settled on a simple flame-red sleeveless dress that stopped halfway down my thighs. It was cool and comfortable, and everyone said that red was my colour. I selected my favourite pair of matching boots.
“What are you wearing those for in this weather?” Emma asked. “Crazy foreigner!”
“I like them!” I said defensively. “They’re very comfortable and they match, they’re bright and they show off my legs.”
Jill laughed. “They’re very nice sweetie. Ignore Emma – she’s just jealous that she’s not going to be a Hollywood star.” Emma pouted. “I hope we don’t have to do too much acting,” Jill mused.
“Not much danger of that, I should think,” said Emma, “if most of the local porn movies I’ve seen are anything to go by. You’ll probably have a gag stuffed in that pretty mouth of yours most of the time.”
“Emma, this is not a porn movie,” Jill explained with mock impatience. “This is a bondage and discipline special feature. And in any case, what are you doing watching porn movies, you grubby girl?”
“Vocational training,” Emma declared. “And that looks nice. Shows off your tits.” She was referring to the sky blue silk blouse Jill was trying on with a pale blue skirt.
“Wish I had yours to show off,” said Jill.
“Maybe you can, tonight,” Emma murmured while I pretended not to hear.
We were met in the lobby by Edwin and escorted to a taxi. The trip lasted only ten minutes before we alighted at an imposing building.
“This is Pacific Place,” said Emma. “Lots of nice shops here. This could be fun.”
It was, in a way. Edwin explained that they wanted some general background shots of Jill and I enjoying ourselves. Edwin was nothing if not organised. He gave us each a brand name shopping bag with empty boxes inside, which we carried with us. Later on he gave us a couple more to demonstrate our progress.
Pacific Place was a huge modern shopping precinct under a tall office block. It was clean and open and airy, with multiple mezzanines and the open spaces criss-crossed by escalators. At one end a pianist played on a grand piano, the music echoing around the marble surfaces.
Edwin had two camera operators. They positioned themselves on mezzanine levels and shot us in the throng of people as we window-shopped and went up and down the escalators. At one stage he asked permission from one store manager to film inside his shop, claiming it was for a travel program, and sounding totally plausible. The manager was delighted and was keen to show of his gorgeous antique paintings and teapots. We looked admiringly, trying not to be conscious of the now close-up cameras. Thank goodness it was air-conditioned, for I felt the camera would be showing every pore of my face, so close did it come. At the same time the cold air made our bodies betray us, as our unfettered nipples poked at the thin fabric covering them. The cameras could not help but record those, either, I noticed.
After a couple of hours there, we went to the Jade Market under a flyover on the Kowloon side, with more shots of tourists browsing amongst the stalls. It was a small, intimate little market, predominantly under cover of awnings and very low key. The jade was wonderful and the people friendly, but we bought nothing. Instead Edwin paid the stallholders for the privilege of filming there.
It was dark by this stage and we were hungry and just a little tired. Edwin took us to a restaurant nearby and we spent two enjoyable hours tasting and then stuffing ourselves with Cantonese cuisine and drinking what I reckoned was a rather dubious Chinese wine by the name of Great Wall, although admittedly the third bottle tasted pretty good.
I don’t know what time it was when we left the restaurant. The night was sticky and humid. Edwin wanted to do some shots in the night market nearby, so we duly tramped several blocks and spent more time wandering the jammed precincts of Temple Street, looking at the cheap clothes, pirated cassettes and all manner of garish but fun stuff. The wine had had a decided effect on the three of us, and Jill and I were in rollicking good form, we thought, joking with the stallholders and finding much that was uproariously funny. I explained to Jill that it all added to the character development, and that there was nothing so true to life as two tipsy Australian girls in a foreign country.
As the stalls began to close Edwin explained that he wanted to do the final scene a couple of blocks away. We grabbed a passing taxi and found ourselves in a quiet street between blocks of apartment buildings. It was not an alleyway or anything – rather a deserted residential street that was reasonably well lit.
Edwin explained what he wanted. We were to be walking back to our hotel and become conscious of a van following us at the same pace. It was a white Toyota Hiace with no windows in the rear, which Edwin had evidently pre-arranged to meet us at this place. We followed his directions.
The street sloped slightly upward. We passed the Toyota parked without lights and were about fifty paces in front when it started its engine and the lights came on. It started to crawl up the street very slowly behind us. I gestured to Jill and we quickened our pace. I was conscious of Emma and one of the cameramen on the other side of the street up ahead, while the second camera operator – a woman - filmed us walking towards her. I tried to look nervous, and found it wasn’t hard. The wine had reduced my inhibitions, as well as my coordination, and I found emotions more readily available.
The engine speeded up and we broke into a run, our heels echoing against the buildings. Up ahead, near a streetlight, two men stepped out from a doorway. One was solid and formidable in jeans and a dark tee shirt, while the other, dressed similarly, was short and slimmer.
Edwin called a halt at that point while close-up shots were taken of the two men pulling flick knives from their belts, then the action was on again. Jill grabbed me by the hand and we started to cross the road diagonally away from them, but they moved to cut us off. We halted, looking about. The pair looked frightening and suddenly it wasn’t difficult to act.
We turned to retreat, but the van was almost on us. It came to an abrupt halt with a squeal of brakes and two more men leapt out. Jill and I went in different directions as we tried to elude the four. There was a flash of a knife as one grabbed me by the wrist then had his arm around my throat, the knife hovering an inch from my cheek.
“No noise!” came the harsh command.
Jill saw me caught and hesitated, long enough to be seized herself. Her arm was twisted behind her as we were hauled towards the van. Here Edwin halted the proceedings long enough for the woman with the camera to climb inside ahead of us. It only took a minute, but Jill and I remained locked in our captors’ grips. Then we were bundled into the back of the van, thrown on our stomachs and promptly sat on by two of our assailants while the other two climbed in the front. The engine started and we were moving, as my captor dragged my wrists behind me and proceeded to cross and tie them.
The absence of the knife and the knowledge that we wouldn’t cause a disruptive scene in the street now gave me the encouragement to struggle and protest for the benefit of the camera in the brightly lit interior of the van. Jill joined in, screaming abuse and demanding to be freed, all of which required little motivation under the circumstances. That was when one of the men delved into a brown leather holdall and produced two ball gags threaded on white cotton rope which were forced into our mouths with some muttered curses in Cantonese as we tried to keep our mouths shut. The men were obviously used to this behaviour, for my man grabbed a handful of my hair and yanked my head back without a moment’s pause, jamming the ball behind my teeth as my mouth opened involuntarily. The cord was tied tightly behind my head, which I didn’t like at all, for we normally use straps at Bilboes for ease and comfort.
Comfort did not seem high on the list at this point, for more lengths of rope appeared from the holdall and my ankles were quickly crossed and bound, the tails of the ropes being tied to my wrists in what was perhaps not the most stringent hogtie I’d ever experienced, but certainly very effective. I looked up at the woman on the camera, who had clearly got it all on film and was taking a lingering shot of Jill’s now prone form, emphasised by a hand of one of the men that roved over her legs and buttocks before sliding easily under her skirt. Jill squirmed and mmmphed, glowering at him. His colleague said something sharply to the man, who muttered and withdrew his hand.
By this time we had turned the corner at the end of the road. I had seen the second cameraman filming the struggle and the pair of us being bundled into the van, and I could fully imagine the shot of the van driving off into the night. When we turned the corner I expected us to halt and wait for the other cameraman, Edwin, and Emma. But nothing happened.
We must have travelled for five minutes before I looked at Jill and raised a questioning eyebrow. She nodded imperceptibly, furrowing her brow in concern. I struggled to roll over, and was part way there when a hand seized my breast through my dress and pulled me face down again. I squealed my outrage into the rubber ball, but it sounded pretty weak amidst the noise of the road and the engine. The indifference of our captors and the lack of any cessation to the scene abruptly made a shiver run down my spine and I felt the cold hand of fear grip my stomach. Jill and I had been conned. We’d all been conned – Monica, Emma, all of us. This was no acted scene. This was the real thing.
A tear rolled down my cheek and I looked at Jill, her face pressed into the shabby carpet of the van floor. Her eyes were closed and I could see her hands exploring the ropes in their vicinity – the ropes which held her ankles crossed and her bent legs open. I could also see there were no knots she could reach. These men were good.
They were also smokers. They sat on the floor against the rear doors and chain smoked dispassionately as we drove through the night, two bound and gagged females whose futures were suddenly very, very uncertain.
* * *
I could not see my watch, nor those of any of the other person in the back, but I estimated we must have driven for maybe an hour or so. The bright light in the interior remained on while the air became stuffy with smoke and the smell of five human beings in various stages of restraint, fear, and indifference. We seemed to leave the noise of the city, and to speed up on what may have been country roads. At one stage we climbed over some hills on a twisting, turning road that made me feel sick. The alcohol I had drunk heightened my feelings and my thoughts kept darting about to all manner of terrifying possibilities ahead of us.
As the journey lengthened the shocking realisation occurred to me that we were heading into China! THE People’s Republic of China! I nearly wet myself, such was the powerful and scary image I had of China in my mind – a place where the rule of law was irrelevant, where nobody would speak English and where no one would care what happened to us. How would Monica or Emma ever trace us? I began to sob to the extent that I could through the rubber ball in my mouth. The net result was that my nose ran and tears rolled down my cheeks. Jill looked across at me with her big empathic brown eyes that tried to comfort me but could not.
We finally pulled off the road into a driveway where gravel crunched under the tyres. We halted momentarily and there was the sound of some sort of motorised industrial roller door opening, then closing after we had driven through. I got the feeling we were inside some sort of warehouse, for the floor was obviously smooth concrete.
The engine stopped and the rear doors opened. Our two jailors untied our ankles and the connections to our wrists before hauling us to our knees and half-dragging us out of the van. As the blood returned to our feet we stood unsteadily in the gloom of overhead fluorescent lights, only a few of which were working. The woman with the camera, and the two men who had been in the front seat disappeared towards the door. There was a discussion between the two remaining ones, the smaller, slimmer one evidently being in charge. They each grabbed one of us by the arm and pulled us towards a corner of the warehouse where a partition had been built to create a separate room.
A flimsy-looking plywood door was opened and we were dragged inside. The room was about four metres square, and contained two foam rubber mattresses covered in a gaudy material on the stained concrete floor. The rest of the place was bare, save a bucket half full of water next to one wall. The room was constructed in the corner of the building with outside walls of steel cladding on two sides and the timber partition on the other two. It was all grey and dirty, with light coming from a single fluorescent light suspended from the high roof.
The slim one reached into a corner behind one of the mattresses and came up with a long length of rusty chain, one end of which he locked around Jill’s neck. He ran the other end between the steel corner column and the cladding then locked the other end around my throat. I tried to recoil from the touch of his hands and the cold dirty feel of the chain, but the big man held me still, not missing the chance to grope my breasts when the other had been busy with Jill.
The slim one pointed to the bucket. “Toilet,” he said tersely, then the pair turned and left, locking the door behind them, leaving us standing there, staring mutely at each other. I felt the tears of despair begin again. Jill moved close to me and made little grunting noises, turning her back to me so that our bound wrists touched. I realised what she intended and obediently held my hands steady as she searched for the knots and twisted her body to reach them. That’s when the lights went out and we were left in the pitch darkness.
Because our wrists were crossed the movement was limited, and she could only use one hand at a time. Finally she managed to undo the critical knot and I felt the ropes loosen and eventually I pulled my hands free. I quickly undid the rope securing my gag and extracted the drool-covered ball from my mouth. It took only a minute to free Jill. We hugged each other in the darkness and I literally cried on her shoulder.
* * *
The night passed slowly in the dark recesses of that warehouse. We had no idea if we were still in Hong Kong or if we had slipped across the border somewhere. Jill did her best to reassure me that Monica and Emma would track us down, that we would come out of this all right, but I was not easily convinced. We finally fell asleep in each other’s arms, trying to ignore the discomfort of the chains about our necks.
The grey light of dawn brought another warm, sticky day. There were sounds of life in the warehouse outside our immediate prison. At length the door opened and one of our captors from the previous night deposited two bowls of some sort of gruel on the floor for us and left without a word, despite our entreaties for him to tell us what was happening. We ate the stuff with the small china spoons but it was bland and unappetising.
That was when the slim guy reappeared, this time with another man we had not seen before.
“This man is Mr Tai,” said Slim. “We call him Tiger Tai. By coincidence with his name, he is very good with rope, and he will be looking after you with our photographer for the next little while. You will do exactly what he says, or you will be very sorry. Tiger has been trained in the art of Japanese rope bondage, in which you will spend some time. It is good for white women to learn these oriental arts, and I think it will suit you.”
I studied Tiger Tai. He was a big man – tall and well proportioned, perhaps in his late thirties. I thought it odd that he wore glasses. Somehow it did not fit with a more fearsome image he might have had otherwise. Slim disappeared and Tiger stood looking at us for some moments as we knelt, chained, on the mattress, still in our bright clothes that we had worn for the shooting in the shopping centre that now seemed an age ago.
“Both of you – on your stomachs.”
“What are you going to do to us?” Jill asked, as we reluctantly turned face down on the mattresses.
“You’re to be prepared for inspection.”
“Inspection? By whom? What for? What’s going to happen to us?”
Tiger sighed. “Girls ask so many questions. Always chatter. No wonder we have to shut you up.” He knelt astride Jill and pulled her head back by the hair. It was a gentle movement, not the rough treatment we had been accorded the previous night. Jill tried vainly to protest as he picked up the white ball gag Jill had worn on arrival here and expertly worked it behind her teeth and knotted the rope at the nape of her neck. Her wrists were likewise quickly bound palm-to-palm and cinched in what I recognised as an expert manner. Within another minute I was likewise bound, with a hard rubber ball securely fastened between my jaws.
Tiger unlocked the chains from our neck and helped us to our feet before shepherding us out into the warehouse.
In the daylight I could now get a better look around with light coming through several translucent panels in the roof, as well as from the fluorescent lights, most of which were now operating. I guessed the place was about fifty metres by twenty, the central roofline supported by a steel column on each frame. Much of the interior was taken up with storage of what looked like construction material – scaffolding frames, some sort of dis-assembled crane, large sections of timber formwork and so on. A few vehicles were also parked amidst all of this, including the van we had arrived in.
At the end opposite the roller door, in the corner opposite our partitioned prison, an area seemed to have been left clear, and it was here that a woman was setting up camera equipment and lighting. I recognised her as the video operator who had accompanied us in the van the previous night. Apart from her, the place was quiet and deserted.
Gromet's Selfbondage & Mummification Plaza
“This is Serina Ng,” said Tiger, directing us toward the corner. He pronounced the word as ‘Nnnng’, with the barest hint of a ‘g’. More like the only sound I could make with a ball in my mouth. “Very good photographer.” I got my first really good look at her since the darkness and confusion of the previous night. She was tall and slim – the usual Asian nightmare for western women to compete with – and wore black jeans and a black silk blouse with nothing under it from the look of her. Unlike Emma, who had the Asian body with western breasts, Serina was not over-endowed in the latter department, but nor would she ever have to worry about droop. She eyed us up with a expression that suggested she was looking forward to the morning’s events. Whatever her thoughts, I saw no source of comfort there. “Now,” continued Tiger, “I hope you will do as I say and life will be much more easy for all of us.”
In the corner area there were several coils of rope - some of the white cotton kind that we used at Bilboes and some brown stuff of a much coarser type, that I did not at all like the look of. There was also a nasty-looking steel frame like a huge four-poster bed that looked as if it might have unpleasant ramifications for a couple of bound females. I looked at Jill and she rolled her eyes.
Serina was setting up a tripod and mounting a video camera on it. Beside her on a chair was a Canon SLR with several rolls of film. She said something to Tiger, pointing to the beam overhead. I looked up and my heart sank at the sight of a long rope looped over two pulleys about a metre apart, hanging from a steel beam.
Tiger unhitched the rope from where the two ends were looped over a cleat on a column, then brought one end across to me and attached it to the cinch rope on my wrists. He positioned me under one of the pulleys then located Jill under the other. With a steady pull using only one hand he hauled on the rope and I found myself in a nasty strappado with my arms pointing to the roof and my head to the floor. I grunted my displeasure into the gag. That was when he tied Jill’s wrists to the other end, while she was standing upright.
As he let go of the rope the weight of my arms pulled them down, thus hoisting Jill’s arms upward. The bugger was playing us off against each other over the freewheeling pulleys.
I realised Serina had begun filming as Tiger had started tying. She continued until we had levelled out, both in a kind of half-strappado that did not allow us to straighten out properly but at least was not as bad as my first taste. It was an awkward position in that unlike a normal strappado I could not rest my full weight against it, without pulling Jill into a more severe position. The more I thought about it, the more I realised how devious it was. I had the choice of being able to stand erect and relatively comfortably – but only at the expense of seeing poor Jill bent over with her arms in the air behind her – or else the positions were reversed. The other option was both of us being in halfway house and neither being comfortable. This, I was later to learn, was one of the first tenets of Japanese bondage.
Serina put aside the video and began taking stills of us in various positions and with atmospheric lighting to emphasize the dinginess of the warehouse surroundings. Obediently we took it in turns to stand up straight or to bend over as Tiger directed us, sometimes standing back to back, sometimes facing each other, sometimes side by side. All the while Serina was doing her thing.
I thought she had finished when she finally put the wretched camera down, only to see her start erecting white backdrop sheets for a further round of arty shots. Then she was done, or at least for the moment, anyway, for she departed from the warehouse but left her cameras and gear behind. My arms and shoulders were starting to hurt now. Tiger approached me and pushed my head down again, allowing Jill to stand up. He walked behind her and lifted her skirt above her waist. Jill mmphed in surprise and protest as he slipped his hand under the waistband of her skimpy black knickers and pulled them down. She tried to struggle but he simply pushed her head down, allowing the weight of my arms to pull hers up to the point of equilibrium again. He removed the knickers entirely then smoothed her skirt down again. Jill’s angry and startled expression was replaced by a quizzical look.
“You won’t need these,” he said off-handedly, before turning to me. This time I was the one allowed to straighten up as he lifted the hem of my dress and repeated the undressing process. As though nothing had happened he then took a spare chair and seated himself in the corner to read a newspaper.
I looked at Jill. Her head was level with her waist, her arms, like mine, now at forty-five degrees up from the horizontal. Her sky blue silk blouse was the worse for wear. We had been wearing the clothes for perhaps eighteen hours now, around the markets, then through the struggle, in the van and chained up through the night. The morning was muggy and we were both sweating with the strain we were currently under. Dark patches showed under Jill’s arms and in the middle of her back where the material clung to her body. A line of saliva dropped slowly from the edge of her gagged mouth to pool on the concrete floor.
I felt my red dress also clinging to my body with tiny drops of perspiration running down my temples and down between my breasts. The air seemed stifling. I wondered how long we were to be kept like this. I mmphed softly to Jill, motioning to the rope holding her and indicating her to go down. I watched as she bent down further, forcing her arms up painfully higher, while I eased my back and straightened up again. I counted to sixty, grateful that Jill was prepared to take my suggestion on trust without necessarily realising what I was up to. At sixty seconds I grunted again and bent down myself. Jill at once got the idea.
We continued this way for maybe half an hour, until there was a rattle from the other end of the warehouse and the roller door began to rise. A white Mercedes appeared and drove down the central aisle between the stored equipment. Tiger jumped up from his chair and came to stand beside us.
“Big boss’s man, come to make choice,” Tiger said out of the corner of his mouth. Choice? I thought. What was he talking about? I did not like the sound of this at all.
The car stopped and a tall man got out. He was about thirty with rimless glasses and a long lean face that gave me no comfort. His dark suit was immaculately cut and, like the car, left no doubt as to where this man stood in life’s pecking order. He said something to Tiger who lifted my head and made me straighten up. I squeaked into the gag because Jill was slow in bending down and the sudden move pulled at my arms. Tiger unzipped my dress from neck to hem and pulled it wide. The man smiled coldly and moved across to stand in front of me. He cupped my chin and turned my head slightly from side to side, then ran his hands over my breasts, squeezing each nipple as he went, making me cry out into the gag. He grunted and let his hand drop to my crotch, his finger delving in to my sex. I closed my eyes and squirmed.
Abruptly the finger was gone and the back of my dress was being lifted for inspection before the man turned his attention to Jill. Her skirt was undone and fell to the floor and her blouse was opened for examination. She, too, received the pinch and finger treatment. The man seemed to pause at this point, taking a step back and eyeing us critically as we stood, bent over, our heads lifted just enough to watch him.
“This one,” he said in English to Tiger, pointing to Jill.
* * *
When Dark Suit and his Mercedes had gone, Tiger did likewise. Jill and I looked at each other in misery. What had just happened? What terrible selection had just taken place? I could not stop the tears welling over again.
A few minutes later Tiger was back with Serina and Slim. Tiger was pushing a large trunk mounted on rubber-tyred castors. It was about the size of a small office desk but slightly lower. It was made of aluminium, in much the same way as those cases for camera gear, and was secured with two large lockable clasps. Tiger halted in front of us.
“You two must behave while I prepare you – “ he nodded at Jill “ for travelling to Macau.”
What? I could not believe it. He was separating us! And he was sending Jill to Macau, wherever that was! Jill shook her head wildly and made desperate whining noises from behind the rubber ball wedged in her mouth. I did likewise, terrified for Jill and at being left alone myself. I wanted to say that we would arrange a ransom, if that was what they wanted, but my output was just a series of garbled high-pitched nasal complaints.
Tiger had the answer for our struggles, for he stood behind Jill and pulled on her rope, forcing me back into the doubled over position. He untied the pulley rope from Jill’s wrists and re-tied it around her neck, before stepping back. I tried to straighten instinctively, for my position was so strained, but the rope at once went tight around Jill’s neck and she whined in distress. At once I eased off, but it was so difficult to hold the position without putting any load on the rope.
“You will stay that way while I redo these ropes,” Tiger said. “Any problems from either of you and I will walk away and leave one of you to slowly strangle and the other to do the strangling. Understand?”
“Uh-huh,” said Jill.
“Uh-huh,” I repeated, knowing now that we were in the hands of a master.
I noticed that Serina was filming again. From that point I stared at the ground, or looked between my legs at what was happening to poor Jill. Tiger pulled up her skirt, refastening it about her waist and re-buttoning her blouse. I thought this odd at the time, somehow out of keeping with our predicament and Tiger’s apparent role.
He undid the ropes on her wrists before retying them with her forearms horizontal across the small of her back, left hand touching right elbow and vice versa. For this he used the ugly coarse brown rope that I was sure must be scratchy and uncomfortable. He bound her wrists and then wrapped four turns of rope about her upper body – two above her breasts and two below, pinioning her arms to her body. Securing these ties at her wrists he took the still-long tails over her shoulder to twist and loop between her breasts through the ropes around her body before returning over the other shoulder to be tied at the rear.
“This is called Shinju,” he said to nobody in particular. “In English, the Pearls, because of what it does to the breasts.” He gently cupped each of Jill’s breasts in a big hand. She shuddered, closing her eyes. Abruptly he undid the rope about her neck and allowed me to straighten up. I was trembling with the effort by this time, although it could not have been more than a few minutes that I had had to endure. With a few quick loops he tethered the rope around a cleat on a nearby steel post, while keeping hold of Jill in the other hand.
Serina requested a halt to proceedings at this point, as she snapped off a few shots with the Canon, before returning to the video. Tiger made Jill sit on the ground where he bound her legs loosely above the knees and more tightly at the ankles. This done, he walked to the corner of the warehouse and picked up a black shapeless object. As he returned I saw that it was a discipline helmet, with only a small opening for the nose.
Jill struggled violently, shaking her head and mewing into her gag, but Tiger effortlessly rolled her on to her stomach and methodically worked the leather hood over the lovely blonde hair before lacing it up down the back. Jill appeared to go limp, as though in final recognition that she was helpless and had no say in events that were about to happen to her.
Slim stood up from where he had been relaxing on the trunk watching the show. He opened the trunk and I saw that the sides were perhaps six or seven centimetres thick, made up of some sort of sandwich-type material – a foam layer between the inner and outer aluminium skins. Inside, the box appeared to be filled with what looked like pillows or sand bags. Tiger pulled them out in three armloads and I gathered from the way he did it and the crushing sound they made that they were simply a variety of different sized beanbags. Following the beanbags came a small aluminium box about thirty centimetres on a side, with one face missing and a kind of U- cut out in an adjacent side. Two stiff plastic tubes trailed from the side with the cut out.
Tiger sorted the beanbags into piles and began replacing some in the trunk. The first was one that seemed to cover the whole of the bottom of the trunk. With this in place, Tiger picked up Jill as easily as one might a cat, and carried her to the box. Jill was again squirming and crying, her desperate moans coming from under the helmet, but in her bound state she could do little. Tiger laid her on her back in the trunk then bent over and spoke to her in a low voice that I could not hear. Serina zoomed in for some more still shots.
Jill was motionless. I could see her breasts through the silk of her blouse, heaving in their rope surrounds as she lay on the cushion, her skirt having slid back to her waist and her bound legs hanging over the top of the end panel. She had obviously finally decided that fighting her captors would only get her hurt. Slim made to grope her crotch but was stopped by Tiger’s big hand on his wrist and something said sharply in Cantonese.
Tiger began to methodically pack some more bags around her body before picking up the aluminium box with the tubes. I saw at once how it fitted over her head, obviously to provide protection against the bags that were still to be placed. Tiger secured the tubes inside, evidently poking them through holes in the floor somewhere. Then the remainder of the bags went in, as Tiger folded Jill’s legs down on her, securing her with a single wide strap over her shins that trapped her legs totally. He finished off by removing her strappy sandals and squishing them in beside her.
I watched, tears streaming down my face as the last bags were packed around poor Jill until they were above the level of the walls of the trunk. Tiger squished and prodded them until it seemed he could find no further space to fill, then closed the lid. It did not shut fully, and it was only by Slim sitting on it that Tiger could do up the clasps. I could imagine Jill pressed upon all sides by the claustrophobic bags, unable to move, see, hear or speak beneath the thick layers of insulation and filling, and I lost it at that point, as Tiger began to push the trunk towards the van.
“Nnnnnnnnnmmp!” I screamed into my gag, tugging furiously at the rope that still kept me roughly in one position. I ran at Tiger in my rage but he was out of reach and my arms jerked upwards, pulling me to an abrupt halt. Slim laughed as I screamed again and lashed out but I could do nothing. Serina followed the pair with the video camera still filming, as the heavy aluminium box was loaded into the back of the van and the doors closed. Slim climbed into the front and the van slowly drove away, taking Jill out of my life, leaving me a lonely helpless prisoner in the warehouse.
story continues in Monica's Quest: 3. Leila's Story - Part Three