Monica's Revenge: 2. Monica Goes Public - Part One

by Richard Alexander

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© Copyright 2002 - Richard Alexander - Used by permission

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

(story continues from )

Chapter Two: Monica Goes Public

Part One

“It was a warning,” Trish said adamantly, tossing her auburn hair back.  She looked relaxed in a short-sleeved camouflage shirt and trousers.

We were sitting on the back verandah the next day – Monica, me, Trish and Mary.  Our abduction was raising all kinds of conspiracy theories, including whether it was in fact a practical joke.  Monica had – most insensitively, I thought – grilled the other girls as to whether they’d been in on it, but with horrified denials and hurt looks being the only result.  I knew they’d never dare, and they knew they’d never get away with it if they did.  We had established it was not a robbery, for nothing was missing from Monica’s bag and my wallet had not been touched, nor had anything been stolen from the van.

“A warning about what?” I asked.

Trish shrugged her shoulders and speculated with the husky voice I found irresistible.  “I don’t know.  What have you two been up to lately that you shouldn’t have?  Who have you got following you from a past life?  What secrets are you hiding?”

“Nothing, nobody and none,” I said firmly.

“Nobody is that boring,” Mary observed.  She was looking just a tad out of place amongst the four of us, sporting her Gestapo uniform with the long black leather skirt, black knee-length boots and tight-fitting white shirt and tie. She looked lean and mean, and I was glad I didn’t have to answer to her for any misdemeanour.  Her peaked cap lay on the table on top of a riding crop, while her black jacket hung over the back of a chair.  I reckoned she had been giving one of our regulars, Isobel, a bit of a touch up.

Monica was thoughtful.  “I think Trish is right,” she said, “though I can’t for the life of me see the point.  There’s no doubt in my mind that whoever did it is in the business.  The bondage was too good, too thoughtful.  And the vibrator and clips were too typical.”

“So who might have it in for you?” I asked. “Have you got enemies?”

“Maybe, but none that I would really identify as such.  In this business you get some funny customers.”

“The practitioners are a bit odd as well,” I remarked.

Mary tucked an errant strand of her short black hair behind her ear. “Speak for yourself,” she said.

“So it could maybe have been a disgruntled customer from here hiring a rival establishment to carry out a hit?” I ventured.

“We don’t have disgruntled customers, Steven,” Monica said firmly.

“I imagine Wayne Bennelli was the ultimate disgruntled customer when he woke up in the crate at the Bi-Bikers headquarters in Sydney,” remarked Trish.

“Paying customers, dummy,” Monica retorted.  “People who break in here deserve what they get, and somehow I don’t think Wayne Bennelli would stop at a simple overnight bondage scenario when he could have had us in some long, slow, torture.  No, there’s something more to this – something we’re missing.”

“What about other competition?” I persisted.  “Just how much is there here in Brisbane?”

Monica took a sip of her wine before replying, then eased herself back in her chair.  “There are more places than you might think, Steven.  We three have all worked in other places before I got the money to set up here.  Some are one-woman outfits, some have several girls, and there’s at least one larger than ours.  Mistress Heather, if I’m not mistaken, Trish?”  Trish nodded. “She’s down on the south side.  Not in our class, of course.  Size isn’t everything, is it girls.”  She smiled.  “Quality and style count for something as well, and I don’t believe we have too much competition in that regard.”

“So it’s not a turf war?” I said.

“I don’t think so.  It’s not like we’re having an ongoing dispute with any of these others.  I get on quite well with some of them.”

“Which leaves us where?”

“A warning that we don’t understand,” Trish concluded.

There was silence around the table.  None of us was particularly happy with that conclusion, but none of us could think of a better explanation.

Jill emerged from the kitchen at that point, also wearing a camouflage shirt and slacks, both seeming a size too small, giving her quite a sexy appearance in the eyes of one who liked girls in uniforms.  She looked fit and tanned from the late summer sun we had recently experienced, her blonde helmet of hair bobbing around her neck as she walked.

“Isobel is about to make her escape,” she announced.  This statement put paid to further discussion and we stood as one to leave the verandah.

*   *   *

Fifteen minutes later we were all in position.  What we were about to try out had originally come from Monica as a variation on the World War II theme that had evolved with Isobel, one of our regulars.  Isobel was into the Resistance in a fairly major way, such that she had spent a number of sessions in the basement at the hands of Mary, our Gestapo Queen, where Isobel endeavoured to resist Mary’s persuasive powers.  Sometimes these were in the form of stringent bondage and painful floggings, while at other times they included some methods of a more pleasurable nature – the carrot and stick approach.  As with all our clients, we were always looking to make their fantasies larger than life, and it was Monica who suggested we should be making better use of the large wooded acreage to the rear of Bilboes for this purpose.  After some discussion we decided that an assault course could be built – something that could provide an extension to the rigours of the electrically-modified exercise machines in Jillian’s gym, with a series of physical tests overseen by the Bilboes staff.  The ease with which the course could be completed could be controlled by the degree of restraint users were forced to endure in the process. 

Of course one thing led to another as the idea developed – not surprisingly, given the high degree of imagination within team members.  It was Trish who had suggested the course could be adapted as part of a fantasy escape for Isobel.  I thought it then needed some real-life encouragement, which was how we got on to the paint ball idea, and which was now why Trish and Jill were wearing fatigues and lying in wait for their hapless victim who would inevitably blunder into their hands.  Beyond that point I was not sure what would happen.

In this instance Monica had left the construction to Trish and myself.  We had decided on certain things that we wanted, while Monica had reviewed the overall plan and safety elements that went with it.  We had spent a week with a small bobcat excavating and installing pipes, posts, nets, pools, paths, poles and tripwires.  Then had come the logistics of controlling the whole thing.  We had built a small tree fort, just big enough for four people, some ten metres up in a large gum tree, from where we could see most of the assault course.  Fifty metres distant was a second observation post that could pick up areas not visible from the first. 

The area of the course was about three hundred metres by fifty, being the rear of the long block, the front of which was occupied by the house.  It was lightly wooded, with some open grassy areas and some areas of long grass and undergrowth, through which ran a stream in a small gully.

Monica and I now stood on the main observation platform, with a pair of binoculars and a small walkie-talkie.  On the second platform was Mary, while Trish and Jill lay in wait in the nearby undergrowth.  Isobel would first have to travel over the assault course, moving away from the house towards the end of the property.  The course ended here, at which point she would follow the track in a U-turn and have to run the gauntlet of Jill and Trish to get back to the house, which represented safety.  Like us, the other girls had walkie talkies, and the odds really didn’t look good for Isobel. 

“Mary told her she was going out for half and hour, leaving Isobel time to think about her answers,” Monica told me.  “She said if Isobel was not cooperative by the time she returned, Mary would hang her upside down, beat her, then use a cattle prod up her bum and battery clamps on her nipples.  Knowing Mary she’s put the fear of God into Isobel, who I’m sure will believe Mary capable of just that.  The idea is that when Leila sneaks in and offers the opportunity of escape, Isobel will jump at it.”

“Who in their right mind wouldn’t?” I murmured. 

“Quite. But then these are people who like pain and bondage, so let’s not bring issues of sanity into it,” said Monica with a wry smile. 

“Of course.  And you are people who like inflicting it, so the less said the better, yes?”

Monica smiled again, but made no comment, instead raising the glasses to her eyes and watching the house.

“Here she comes now.”

I watched as two women appeared over the ridge from the house beyond.  One was the blonde Leila, the other the dark Isobel. Both were dressed in nineteen forties style, but while Leila wore strappy shoes with her flowing floral dress, Isobel wore knee-length black boots.  They were not exactly wartime style, but Monica had decreed that safety was of more importance when there may possibly be the odd snake about, and where there would definitely be the odd tripwire.  The other difference was that Leila had her limbs free, and she was guiding Isobel by the arm.

Isobel had her wrists secured in front by leather cuffs locked together, with similar cuffs about her ankles secured by a half-metre length of chain.  This was longer than the average hobble chain, and would prove somewhat of a hindrance, I suspected, with a tendency to catch on all manner of things.

Monica handed me the binoculars.  I focused on the running pair.  Isobel was running blind, her eyes covered with a black scarf.  A black ball gag was strapped into her mouth and she struggled to keep pace with Leila.  Isobel wore a long sleeved floral dress which flowed to below her knees.  It looked as though it had come in for some rough treatment from Mary, for it was torn in places, most specifically in two vertical rips that showed glimpses of bouncing breasts as she was hustled across the grass.  In amongst the breast flesh I saw silver clips protruding through the tears in the material, with small weights bouncing at the end of the clips.

“They’re locked on,” Monica said, as if reading my thoughts. “Even with a bit of freedom for her hands she won’t be able to get them off.”

“A la Madam Wong?” I queried, recalling our painful encounter in Macau with the local bondage queen there. 

“Yes.  We gained some knowledge from the experience.”

“I expect she did, too,”  I said, recalling the last we had seen of her, chained up painfully in the lightwell of her house with restraints that would have taken a fair (and embarrassing)  amount of cutting free.

“Has the route been cleared of nasties?” Monica asked, changing tack.

“I understand Jill did a thorough trample through the area, and the pipes have been flushed to get rid of any snakes or other inhabitants.” 

“Good,” said Monica.  “That’s one aspect of it which I wouldn’t like.”

“So you’d enjoy everything else about it?” I teased.

“I didn’t say that.”

“You just thought it – I know.”

Leila and Isobel disappeared from sight at that point.  Mary’s voice came over the radio.

“They’re entering the shed now,” she announced.

We could not see the start of the assault course. This particular point of commencement was a prefabricated garden shed of the kind you can pick up at most garden centres.  It was about two metres by one and a half, and in this instance had been half buried in the hillside.  Once a person was locked inside, the only way out was to crawl out through a tunnel, made up initially of  inverted U-shaped concrete channels about seventy centimetres square.  It was no worse than crawling under a table, except that the floor was of dirt and it was pitch black.  We had sealed the shed tightly to prevent ingress of snakes and the like, and the outlet of the tunnel was such that snakes could not enter. 

The concrete tunnel sloped downwards slightly for about five metres, before it changed to a circular section made of sheetmetal ducting, of the type used for air conditioning ducts.  At this point the slope of the tunnel became steeper and steeper until it was nearly vertical.  There was only a short section like this and the outside light would now be visible, such that anybody going down head first would see the mud pool before they let go and dropped into it.  By this time, however, there was no option to go back.  The duct was supported away from the bank with a series of steel struts, ending up like one of those drop-chutes builders use for directing rubbish into a dumpster from a multi-storied building under construction.  Trish and I had had a lot of very dirty fun in testing the thing. After some experimentation to get the consistency of the mud right, and to keep it so, I had resorted to adding some bentonite, a substance used in ground drilling.  Bentonite is like a liquefied clay and is thick and slushy and slimy.  In short, the pool was a mud-wrestler’s delight.

I watched as Leila came into view from behind a tree, to stand watching the pool.  From our position we could just see the duct outlet above the mud hole. Evidently Isobel must have been having second thoughts about escaping, for a long time seemed to pass before there was a sudden wail and a body dropped headfirst from the duct, which was about a metre above the surface. 

Isobel disappeared in a spurt of mud and came up looking like the creature from the black lagoon.  The mud was pretty dense and wasn’t exactly stuff to sink to the bottom of.  In any case, it was barely chest deep directly under the duct, as Isobel found out, and the bottom of the pond sloped rapidly up to the only way out on the opposite side. 

Isobel was spitting and wiping her face and hair with muddied hands as she got her bearings.  I saw that she was wearing swim goggles – a precaution we had decided on.  Not only did they protect eyes from mud and other possible hazards,  but these particular ones were designed for underwater vision, and wearing them topside tended to distort things considerably, which all added to the fun.  In Isobel’s case, rather than the normal rubber headband, they were secured with a buckled strap locked behind her head, and another at right angles, running from her temples under her chin and locking there.

Isobel was now minus her gag.  While this had evidently been locked in place during the escape with Leila, it had apparently not been too tight, for left to her own devices, Isobel had been able to work it free, and it now hung around her neck.  This was again part of the strategy, for we did not want clients choking in mud or water.

Leila kept watch as Isobel scrambled up the steep bank, slipping and sliding back several times on the surface we had recently hosed down for just that effect.  Then, satisfied that the prisoner was all right, Leila turned and headed in our direction.

The mud hole had only one exit route, which was lined with barbed wire, directing the escapee to a small gateway, about a metre square in a block wall twice that size. The gateway appeared to be closed by a black polythene sheet, which had to be pushed aside.  Isobel soon found that the sheet actually stretched back from the gateway, and was secured to the ground such that she was soon obliged to crawl on all fours, and then on her belly, such was the tightness of the sheet.  The polythene sheet, of industrial grade and doubled over for strength, went for nearly fifteen metres, and again we had made sure the ground was nice and muddy underneath.  At the ten metre mark we had overlaid a heavy rope cargo net over the top of the polythene, of the sort used in playgrounds and on ‘real’ assault courses.  From personal experience it was hard enough crawling under the sheet, without the weight of the rope net on top, and I knew the clips and weights locked on Isobel’s nipples would be catching and being tugged repeatedly, but there would be no going back now, and she knew it.

Her bonds would also be causing her some difficulty, for normally under such conditions one would keep one’s arms slightly ahead of one’s face, but I doubted with her wrists cuffed together whether this was an option.  That meant arms and breasts were running interference.  Mmmm, painful, I thought.

Leila joined us on the platform as the lump under the black polythene and netting paused, obviously wondering how long the crawling torture had to continue. 

“How’s she doing?” Leila asked, catching her breath from the climb up the rope ladder.

“About as unfit and out of breath as you are, I reckon,” I needled.

“Don’t be awful to me,” she said, poking her tongue out.  “Mon, make him stop…”

“Now children…”  Monica chided. “Be good or Auntie Monica won’t let you tie each other up and whip the crap out of the other.  Isobel’s doing fine, though she won’t be breaking any records, I suspect.”

“That crotch belt won’t be helping,” Leila said.  “She has a number one front and a number two in her rear.”

“Oh dear,” said Monica, smiling unsympathetically.  “And with all that mud lubricating things too.  I can’t wait for the pole.  You really are wicked, Leila dear.  I don’t know where you get these ideas.  Hullo – she’s made it to the hole.”

Isobel’s head had popped out from the polythene sheet through a hole just near the end of it.  She found herself still under the net, which now rose up above her over a beam supported on two three-metre posts.  Under Isobel was a second net, again going over the top of the beam, sandwiching her between the two.  Climbing this was not difficult under normal circumstances, except for the hamper factor created by the top net.  And except when your hands are cuffed together, your feet are on a hobble chain, and nipple weights keep catching on every strand of the net.  And that was before we got to butt plugs and dildos working around inside you to take the edge off your concentration. 

Isobel struggled up the net, pausing a number of times to untangle the weights as they caught on the ropes, before easing her way through the tight space between the nets as she slid sideways over the beam.  I was sure I heard a cry of pain as she did so.  Nasty clips, I thought.  Then she was down and finally lifted the edge of the upper net to find herself in the clear. 

‘Clear’ was not quite the right word, for it would normally imply some sort of freedom of choice.  In fact Isobel’s path was defined through this part of the course by a barbed wire corridor a couple of metres wide.  Inevitably these enforced guidelines directed her through a couple patches of waist high thistles, which we had utilised, before she topped the rise leading down the gully into the stream. I watch her through the binoculars as she slipped and slithered down the path to the stream.  She looked like a refugee from a mud-room beauty treatment, her once clean dress now a brown mess clinging provocatively to the curves of her body.  I knew the bentonite would be making its way into every orifice, sliding and lubricating.  It would also be inside her boots, squishing between her toes and calves and making walking more difficult. 

The barbed wire strands narrowed at this point to converge on a pole spanning the stream. The stream was about a metre deep and about three metres wide, but any contestant was not going to have the luxury of washing themselves – not without falling off the pole and having a difficult climb up the steep bank.  Isobel paused as if considering her options – not that she really had any choice.  The pole was an old telephone pole about twenty centimetres in diameter – plenty strong enough, but too narrow to walk over.  Poor Isobel had no choice but to sit astride it and inch her way across.  This was where the hobble chain really came into its own, for it meant her feet were bent at the knees and trailing behind her.

“That puts a lot of pressure on your pussy,” said Leila. 

“Have you tried it?”  Monica asked.

“Trish told me.  Apparently she and Steven did a lot of experimentation on it.”

“Oh did you?”  Monica gave me an arch look.

“All in the interests of safety and customer satisfaction,” I said.

“And what about Trish’s satisfaction?”

“You’d better ask her,” I suggested, doing my best to avoid the issue and not go down this road.  Such things always got me or somebody else into trouble.

At that moment Isobel, about to climb on to the pole, slipped on to her backside with a cry that just carried to us.  Obviously her boots, half full of mud and with three-inch heels, were not the best for negotiating steep stream banks that were muddy in their own right.

“I bet that hurt,” said Monica with just a touch of suppressed glee.  “A number two, was it, Leila?”

“Yes, Mon.  Pain in the arse, huh?”

It would have been.  Isobel got up stiffly, trying vainly to massage her bum with her cuffed hands.  She rearranged her dress as best she could, tugging it free from where it had ridden up into her crotch, as she reluctantly contemplated the stream crossing before her.  The end of the beam was buried in the side of the earth bank.  Isobel leaned over the beam at a point where it was around waist height, then slid herself on to the pole, dragging her chained feet up so that they straddled it behind her, held there by the chain draped over the top.

At this point Isobel realised that getting across was not going to be so easy, stretched out on her stomach.  She managed to sit up, with some difficulty, tucking her feet in closed to her arse like a jockey with high stirrups, then tentatively began to work her way forward, sliding her hands a little way then following with her body, then dragging her legs.

It was not hard to see that between the combination of the mud, her limited movement, and the weight of her body pressing down on the dildos embedded inside her, a certain amount of stimulation was going to occur.  Looking at her through the binoculars I surmised that I saw a flush on her cheeks under the streaks of mud, but it was hard to tell.  I could not help but notice the walnut-sized lead nipple weights swinging freely, back and forth, as she inched her way forward.  Her reliance on her hands for support on the beam meant she could not even temporarily relieve the painful tugging on her nipples by supporting the weights in her hands, even for a few moments.

The orgasm caught her about halfway across, I reckon.  It wasn’t hard to tell, even for me, and I’m no expert on women.  In this case Isobel’s forward movements became smaller and she abruptly laid herself facedown on the pole and clasped it as best she could, with her elbows each side.  Her body now slid backwards and forwards against the wood, obviously well-lubricated by the mud.  She managed to pin the weights against the side of the pole with her arms long enough to focus on the climax building inside her, until finally she was humping the pole like one possessed.

“The little tramp,” observed Monica. “Some people just have no shame, carrying on like that in a public place.  You’d never catch me doing that.”

“These things can be arranged,” I murmured, loud enough only for Leila to hear – or so I thought.

“Don’t even think about it, Steven,” Monica said.  “Not if you know what’s good for you and not if you want to see your next birthday from a position of relative freedom.”

“Yes Ma’am,” I acquiesced lamely.  But the seed had been sown.  Would I dare?

Isobel was in the throes of it by now, jerking and arching as the orgasm overpowered her control and she lost her grip in more ways than one – certainly on the pole in any case.  With a shriek and a splash she tipped sideways and fell the metre or so into the stream.

“The original cold water treatment,” smirked Leila.  “Works every time.”  We were all grinning at Isobel’s plight as she stood up somewhat unsteadily and took advantage of the unexpected dip to wash the worst of the mud from her hair and face.  “Trish reckons the water’s not that warm, either,” Leila added.

“She looked like she was plenty heated up,” Monica observed.  “But she’s losing time.  What did you tell her about that?”

“I said she’d have to hurry to beat the guards at the end of the route, who were on lunch break,” Leila said.

“When in fact the guards have no lunch break and will get her no matter how long she takes?”

“Correct, but she doesn’t know that.”

“Too bad.”

Isobel had obviously decided she had better get a move on, for she scrambled out of the water and up the steep bank at the other end of the pole with a most undignified haste, her now dripping wet dress clinging to her body.  At the top of the bank the barbed wire corridor continued again, leading to a series of stepping stones in a wide mud pool. While the pool was barely ankle deep, Isobel had no way of knowing this. The stepping stones were flat and reasonably sized, but they were also just far enough apart such that a person with a hobble chain had to actually jump between each, rather than step.  In all there were six of them, and Isobel crossed the pool with a series of standing jumps, no doubt feeling the hard jerk of the lead weights on her nipples with each landing, for she needed her arms outstretched to gain momentum, and could not protect her tender flesh from the ravages of the weights.  It was a cruel but very effective trick.  I was sure we heard a couple of cries reaching us on the breeze as she completed the pool traverse.

After the pool the barbed wire led her in a gentle U-turn, until she was lined up on a straight run home through relatively open bush and grass.  There was a path through the middle of this, but after the fugitive had been felled several times by trip wires in the first fifty metres, she decided it might be better to stay off this.

That was when I opened up with the battery-powered loud hailer.  It was located some eighty metres from our position in the tree, connected by a cable to a microphone hanging on a nail beside us.  When I first used it, Isobel was less than ten metres from the megaphone and she nearly died at the voice suddenly yelling from a nearby bush.

“Achtung! Achtung!  Prisoner Leroux!  You cannot escape!  You are surrounded!  Give yourself up!”

Isobel dropped into the grass while we chortled at the mortified expression on her face. 

“Hande hoch!” I said in my best German, trying hard not to sound like Sergeant Schultz.  Monica gave me a thumbs up.  “Stand still and surrender!” 

Isobel stayed where she was for about a minute before cautiously raising her head and running in a crouch to the shelter of a nearby tree trunk.  I noticed she had her cuffed wrists crossed so that she could hold the nipple weights while she ran.

“It’s no good hidink behind zer tree, Isobel Leroux.  Give yourself up und zings vill be easier for you!”

“Liar,” Leila murmured. 

I estimated Isobel was only twenty metres from where Jill and Trish were hidden, and she had to pass between them. She continued to make her way forward, slowly this time, probably wondering how much I was bluffing and why she was not being attacked if she was that obvious.  That was when Trish and Jill popped up and opened up with their paint ball guns.

We had purchased a number of these guns with a view to operating a more sophisticated version of the normal war games, in the area we were now watching.  We had checked out the usual paint ball games and found them somewhat lacking in sophistication, not least through the focus on firing as many shots as rapidly as possible.  We were in the midst of finalising our own “bondage paint ball”, where the guns were modified to only fire every three seconds, with every ‘hit’ resulting in a limb being restrained somehow – a sort of ‘bondage wound’. We had done some experimentation with this and it had proved a lot of fun. But in the scenario now in front of us, the guns had been returned to their original rapid rate of fire with the paint ball magazines mounted on top.

This was, of course, another reason why Isobel had the protective swim goggles strapped on. In this instance she was hit by a barrage of red and yellow paint balls that splattered all over her now pretty dishevelled dress.  She fell to the ground in confusion as Trish and Jill emerged from their hideouts and rushed to stand over her.  They looked quite fearsome in their camouflage fatigues, their heads hidden by black balaclavas and the sinister dark green protective face masks normally worn in paintball games. 

Together they grabbed Isobel by the arms and dragged her to her feet, hauling her the last fifty metres through another patch of thistles and into a clearing near the edge of the bush. Here Isobel was prepared for her fate.  Pushed against a tree trunk, her elbows were joined with a rope around the back of the tree, thus immobilising her in one action.  A second rope joined her ankles via the same route, stretching them back around the tree trunk as much as the hobble chain would permit.

One of the masked figures took the ball hanging around the prisoner’s neck and refastened it in Isobel’s mouth, obviously securing it considerably tighter than it had been originally. Then Mary appeared, having left her viewing post, striding imperiously out of the trees into the clearing.  We were too far away to hear the words that were said at that point, but it was evident that the jack-booted and leather-skirted Mary was far from pleased and that Isobel’s attempted escape had been doomed from the start. There was much shaking of the head from Isobel, but I could not see the expression in her eyes because of the goggles still locked in place.

Mary stood before the helpless woman and slowly began to unbutton the bedraggled dress.  It had buttons all the way down the front, and Mary was clearly in no hurry.  She opened the dress to reveal Isobel’s nakedness beneath it.  The woman’s breasts were small and jutting, the nipples turned down from the presence of the clips with their dangling weights.  Mary tugged at the clips far from gently and Isobel’s head jerked.  The breasts heaved in an unfortunate response as she obviously caught her breath in reaction to the pain. 

I watched all this through the binoculars, seeing actions and lip movements like a television set with the sound muted.  With the removal of the dress, which now hung open over Isobel’s arms, still cuffed together in front of her, I could see the glint of sunlight on a steel chain around her waist, with the crotch strap disappearing between her spread legs.  As if registering my observation, Mary let a black-gloved hand drop to Isobel’s pussy and work the secured dildo deeper inside her victim.  Isobel stiffened and her head shook again as she tried to arch herself upward and forward with the movement of Mary’s hand.  Mary continued with the stimulation, driving Isobel to bounce faster and faster on the balls of her feet, making rapid pelvic thrusts before finally shuddering and jerking in the manner of a puppet on a string.

It seemed Mary had in fact been granting the condemned one last wish, for she now pulled a black bandanna from her pocket and tied it behind Isobel’s head, over the top of the goggles, before stepping back.  Mary appeared now to be declaring Isobel had finally gone too far and her time was up.

Unseen, but no doubt sensed by Isobel, Jill and Trish took up their positions a few strides away from the woman bound to the tree.  Isobel was now shaking her head more vigorously and trying to struggle against her bonds as Mary directed the firing squad.  The “Ready… Aim… Fire!” carried to us as the fusillade of paint balls splattered into the naked body of Isobel as she writhed under the impact.

Paint balls sting, which is why players usually wear varying degrees of protection.  Fired from close enough, they can bruise the flesh, but not as much, of course, as a severe thrashing from Mistress Mary.  On this basis it could be argued that Isobel was getting off lightly, as the spurts of red and yellow erupted over her breasts, stomach, thighs and pussy.  Jill and Trish emptied their magazines – a process which took perhaps two minutes, allowing for some judicious pauses to permit the prisoner to undergo a rather slower death than normal.

With this experience hard on the heels of her orgasm, Isobel slumped in her bonds, inasmuch as she could.  Clearly she was physically and emotionally exhausted, a fact rammed home as the three soldiers turned and noisily headed back to the house.  Isobel hardly moved.  The only sign of life was the slow heaving of her breasts as paint ran down her stomach and legs, congealing in a pool on the ground.

“Excellent,” Monica said.  “Leila, why not go and read a book nearby for half an hour before taking our client to the sluice room to clean up. Maybe she’d like some nice treatment after that, or maybe she just needs to sleep it off.  Whatever she wants, okay.”

Leila grinned.  “Sure, Mon.”  then she turned and disappeared down the rope ladder.  Monica turned to me with a satisfied smile.

“Very well, mein Herr.  That was very good.  You are to be commended on your organisation and ingenuity.”

“Danke,” I said, endeavouring to click my heels, but finding this didn’t work in sneakers.  “I think we’ve all earned lunch, nein?”

“Sure, whatever.”

*   *   *

Monica Goes Public Part Two

That night, as I was getting ready for bed, there was a knock on my door.  I opened it to find Leila standing on the deck outside.

“Got a minute?” she asked, with the hint of a smile.

“For you – all night,” I said gallantly.

“A tempting offer, sir, but perhaps not appropriate at the moment.”

Leila came in and sat down in the only armchair, while I seated myself on the bed. 

“How can I help?”

Leila stared at the floor for a moment as if wondering how to begin, but there was more of a smile when she looked up.

“Remember last year when you made Monica into a human chair?”

“How could I forget?  It cost me a rather painful night.”  It also earned Mr Willy a date with an unseen admirer who took advantage of me when I was at my most vulnerable, but the less said of that the better.

“I know.  You also remember you cunningly lured us into thinking the seat was actually our beloved slave Shawnee, thereby encouraging me to draw a bullseye over her bottom?”

“Yeah.  Sorry about that.”

“I was – after Jill and Emma had doped me up on the plane to Hong Kong, then taped my hands together and left me to get myself off at thirty thousand feet.”  I had heard this story twice, once from Jill and the second time from Emma, both in the presence of Leila and Monica, much to the chagrin of the former and the amusement of the latter.

“So you’ve in fact ‘done it’ in public, like Isobel today?”

“Well, yes.  But of course Monica would never do something like that.  Oh no.  You heard her.  Too much decorum has our Monica.”  There was no malice in Leila’s tone – she was too nice for that – but it was not hard to see which road this was going down.  Instead there was the barely suppressed excitement of one about to develop a conspiracy.

“And you’re suggesting…?”

“We should make Monica have a public orgasm.”


“I want to get my own back for what she did to me, when it was totally wrong and unfair.”

“And you didn’t enjoy it one little bit.”

“That’s not the point.  Don’t twist my words Steven!  And the other thing is that I bet the girls a hundred bucks we could do it.”

“What you mean ‘we’, white woman?” I asked, doing my best Tonto impression.

“I mean you and I, my fearless rescuer.”

“Didn’t the Hong Kong affair teach you anything?  You want more punishment?”

“It’s not just a hundred bucks – it’s a hundred bucks from each, against a hundred of mine.  They reckon it can’t be done.  I said you’d manage it somehow.”

“Oh thanks very much.  Drag me in to do your dirty work,” I said, taking very overplayed mock offence.  “Good old Steven.  Let’s get him involved.  A bit more punishment from Monica will do him the world of good.  Very character forming.  And besides, there’s four hundred in it for you if it comes off.”

“I’ll split it with you, of course.”

“The last time I did something like this I wound up as a female slave for a month.  This time I’d have to go into exile.”

“I seem to remember you tried that last time and wound up in a cocoon for your troubles.”

“Yeah, thanks for bringing that up.  I had nearly erased that from my subconscious.”

“Oh come on, Steven, where’s your sense of adventure?”

“It tends to evaporate when there’s a chance I’ll end up suspended from the rafters having my arse whipped.”

“But you’d do it for me?” She turned those eyes on me and gave me the slightest pout of the bottom lip.  God, I was such a soft touch.

“Oh all right.  You know I hate it when you girls go all gooey on me.  But just remember this moment when Madam Monica hangs you up by your tits.”

Leila jumped up with a small exclamation of happiness and gave me a hug.  She smelt nice and I felt the crush of her breasts against me.  Then she was gone and I was left having yet again taken what I knew to be an ill-advised turning at one of life’s cross roads.

*   *   *
The next fortnight was a strange one, characterised by an inexplicable downturn in business.  All our regulars seemed to be going on holiday or be short of cash or have some other excuse.  By the second weekend after the Isobel firing squad, we had experienced a whole week with no clients.  Monica had taken to phoning the regulars and getting a series of evasive answers.  There was nothing we could do about it – you couldn’t force people to come and be spanked.  It was a very difficult commodity to market at the end of the day.

Partly to take Monica’s mind off what appeared to be a rather serious situation, and partly to consummate Leila’s and my plan, I decided to take Monica to a concert again.  After the bizarre experience at the end of the last outing we decided to pay the exorbitant price demanded by the carpark under the concert hall.  But before we got to that stage, plans had to be put into place.

It was a Saturday night – with the usual late night markets and entertainment acts happening at South Bank, near the Concert Hall.  Due to the lack of customers at  Bilboes the girls had decided to come with us to enjoy South Bank while Monica and I attended the concert.  We ate early, and that was when Leila spiked Monica’s drink with a touch of Rohypnol.  Not much – just enough to put her under for a short while. 

“Revenge is sweet,” Leila announced gleefully as Monica’s head fell forward on to her folded arms on the table.  We picked her up under the armpits and carried her into the lounge room, where we laid her face down on the big settee.  Making our life a little easier, time-management Monica was already dressed for the concert, wearing the same shimmering silver creation as on the last outing. 

We lifted Monica’s dress and Leila removed the G-string, working a vibrating egg inside Monica’s arse after lubricating it thoroughly, then buckling on a waist belt with crotch strap.  I crossed Monica’s arms horizontally behind her back and began to carefully tape forearm to forearm with silver duct tape, trapping her fingers as I did so.

“Nobody can accuse us of not being colour coordinated,” Leila said.

“Mmm.  Silver dress, silver tape.  All in the best possible taste,” I agreed.

In the small of her back I taped the battery box that would power these toys as and when I wanted to activate them with the remote.  The box was a slight variation of the training one that we had used on the Twins – two obstreperous teenagers who had been put into our care for a couple of weeks some months previously.  They had worn butt plugs most of the time – the type that awoke with a rather unpleasant shock when activated as a punishment for non-compliance. 

Monica’s control box was similar, except the plastic egg would begin to vibrate and move around.  However there were four small buttons on this remote, not just one, all simple on-off switching devices.  It had been made by my pal Douglas who had in the past proved so helpful and ingenious when we had outlined our plans.  The first button controlled the egg, the second a conventional vibrator, the third a butterfly vibrator and the last activated two small donut-shaped nipple patches.  Too stuck up to do it in public, eh?  We’d see about that.

I ran the single cable down to Monica’s bum, at which point one small wire detached and entered her butt hole to connect to the egg inside her.  The remaining three  wires continued between Monica’s legs, the second and third wires leading to the two vibrators, one inside and one outside Monica’s pussy.

We turned her on to her back.  She made snorting noises but did not wake up.  We had at least an hour before that exciting time, I reckoned, though we had used the minimum dose that we thought we could get away with.  It took only a couple of minutes to get the vibrators in place and tighten the crotch strap so that neither device could work its way free.  The butterfly vibrator nestled against Monica’s labia, with a small protrusion poking between them that would transfer the vibrations straight to her clit.  We secured the vibrator to the crotch strap with a couple of loops of duct tape.  I slipped the remaining wire up under her dress so that it popped out between her breasts.  Leila slipped the straps of the dress off Monica’s shoulders to reveal her breasts, rising and falling gently as she lay there, with no idea what was being done to her.

The final wire split into two at this point, terminating in two donut-shaped pads about four centimetres across with a hole half that size.  On the back was a peel-off, stick-on surface which had small electrical contacts that came into contact with the skin.  The net result, when placed over the nipple, was a stimulating vibration.  They could be used in more extreme situations as well, to create a rather more painful effect.  I tweaked the nipples enough to make them harden.

“She’s horny even when asleep,” Leila commented, before licking and blowing on the pink bids now rising to the occasion. I made sure the surrounding aureola were dry then pressed the pads down so that the tips of the nipples poked through the holes.

“Like corn pads with a difference,” I said as Leila replaced the exposed breasts in their satin receptacles.  The pads were almost invisible under the material.  I smoothed Monica’s dress down her thighs, letting my fingers linger on the smoothness of the fabric. 

“You realise we are in deep shit now,” I told Leila as we stood back to admire out handiwork.  She grinned at me impishly. 

“Gotta get some excitement into our lives.”

“Depends on your idea of excitement,” I said.  “Now check that everything is working.”

“Tits?”  said Leila, holding her fingers on Monica’s breasts like a nurse feeling for a pulse, albeit in a rather non-standard location.  I touched the button on the remote.

“Okay,” she said.  “Clit?”  Buzz.  “Okay.  Pussy?”  Buzz.  “Arsehole?  All present and accounted for, sir.  What a lucky girl is our Monica.  I’m almost jealous.”

“These things can be arranged, you know, Miss.  Except that if Monica had anything to do with your case you’d be a grovelling wreck for a week and would need a holiday to recover.”

“Way to go, huh?”

“No comment.  Why don’t you get her cape?”

Leila disappeared up into Monica’s room and while she was gone I fastened a discrete steel collar around Monica’s throat.  It clicked shut but did but need locking, for Monica would not be able to reach it.  At the front of the collar was a D-ring, there for the thin steel wire with the dog clip I had in my pocket, just in case Monica decided to become uncooperative at any time.

Leila returned with a black cape made of a light velvet material.  It came down to waist level and its high collar fastened below Monica’s throat with three silver buttons, revealing just a glimpse of cleavage.  Monica was put into a seated position on the couch and an ice-cold sponge wiped over her face a number of times, supplemented with some smelling salts.  Gradually she came to.

Predictably she was not impressed with what had happened and began to struggle against the tape binding her arms behind her, before recognising the futility of it and demanding to be let go.  Leila and I were threatened with all manner of punishments before eventually I got tired of it and was obliged to gag her.  I used the biggest rubber ball we had.  It was relatively soft but once behind the teeth was impossible to remove unaided.  In this instance it had a rope loop through it that hung just below her chin.  Monica had spluttered and tried to resist as I worked it into her mouth, but Leila had stood behind the couch and pulled her nose back, obliging her to say “aarh!”, which she did, until the rubber ball slipped behind her teeth and expanded.

“This way, my dear Monica, we don’t leave any nasty gag strap marks on your lovely complexion for the concert goers to wonder at,” I explained.  “Terribly bad form, you know.  One must keep up appearances and separate culture from fun.”  Monica glared at me and made incomprehensible noises from behind her bulging cheeks.

We looped a rope through her collar and secured her to the couch until we were ready to go.  I escorted her down the front steps and into the passenger seat of her BMW, strapping her in tightly with the seat belt.  It was dark and the windows were tinted, so I had no reservations about the gagged female being spotted beside me.  In fact, little of the ball could be seen – only a blackness beyond the slight parting of Monica’s red lips, through which the loop of cord hung.  In case of emergency, pull cord, I thought to myself.  Not quite a safety device.  More like exposure could be hazardous to your health.

Monica was silent through the journey to Southbank, save for some muted mumblings from time to time as she squirmed in her seat, aware of the devices inside her and their potential.  She had worked out what I had in store for her – no fool was Monica.  I suspect she was figuring out her best approach to withstanding the likely sexual arousal that would surely come.

We parked in the secure carpark and I gripped the cord attached to the ball, working it back between her teeth as her jaw distended and her eyes widened.

“Gaah!  You bastard.  I suppose you think this is a huge joke.”  She was angry, but I suspected there was more to her than that.  I detected the hint of a challenge here, and played on it.”

“Scared you’ll fold up, huh?” 

“I’ll outlast your toys, that’s for sure.”

“Good.  I’d like to see that.  If you don’t, I want amnesty.”

“No way.”

“Come on, if you’re so in control.  You survive and you can do anything you want to me.  Give in, and I get off free.  Deal?”

“My dear Steven,” Monica said with a smug look, “I can do anything I want to you at any time anyway.  But okay – deal.”

“Good.  Let’s go.” 

*   *   *

We got there early time enough to parade Monica before the other patrons and take in more than a few appraising eyes and jealous looks.  Time for a glass of wine which regrettably Monica could not share.  She said nothing, trying to look above it all.

“You okay?” I asked.  “You look kind of flushed.”

“Bollocks to you, mister,” she muttered . “And what are we going to hear, anyway?” 

Good old Monica.  Turn up to a concert looking drop dead gorgeous with absolutely no clue what she would be listening to.

“A little Beethoven, some Rachmaninov and some Tchaikovsky to finish.”


“It will be.  Just a nice evening to sit back and enjoy.”

Our seats were a couple in from the end near the front.  I guided Monica to her seat and let her settle.  Hopefully the lack of applause emanating from the Caped Crusader would not be deemed too impolite by the other concert goers. 

The Beethoven came and went.  Beethoven was Beethoven, as always.  Rach’s Second Piano was pretty special, though, played as it was by a Russian with an unpronounceable name.  I let Monica stew by not activating the inserts, letting her mind do the work for me.  I was saving her for something special, although I could not resist hitting a couple of buttons just at the climax of the last movement.  Nothing serious, you understand.  Just enough to provoke a little gasp of surprise and to give her a taste of things to come.  I slipped a sideways glance at her and saw the flush of her cheeks, but outwardly she remained calm.

At the intermission she said little.  I think the quick burst on the clit vibrator had awakened her to just how precarious her position might be.  When we returned to our seats for the second half I discretely connected the wire to her collar.

“Don’t think you might try to do a runner on me,” I whispered in her ear.  “No feigning sickness or anything like that.  You won’t get far with no arms, remember, and it’s a real long walk home.”  Monica pouted then stuck her tongue out at me.

We used to call Tchaikovsky’s Sixth “The Winfield Symphony”, from the days when it was the theme music for Winfield cigarettes - back in the days when you could advertise that sort of thing on television, that is.  At the conclusion of the work the applause died but people remained seated and Monica looked questioningly at me.  I pursed my lips in a shushing way as another piece began.  Was it a groan I heard from Monica, as her head seemed to slump forward.  Whatever else Mon knew or didn’t know about music, she recognised Ravel’s Bolero when she heard it.

I let a minute pass before I turned on the nipple vibrations, to be replaced thereafter by that egg, squirming and vibrating up her arse for a further minute, before being replaced in turn by solo sessions with the other two vibrators.  Monica was beginning to shift uncomfortably in her seat as the rhythm of the music grew in intensity as more instruments joined in the hypnotic beat.  The music became louder and I moved on to the duets – the twin front vibrators, then the egg and the nipple rings.  As the music continued to pulsate, so too did Monica’s inserts, in a variety of trios, now, with the fourth instrument making a fleeting appearance until the final crescendo, when it all came together.  By now Monica was almost bouncing in her seat, her face flushed and her mouth open.  I discretely pulled on the wire to her collar, which ran under the seat arm.  Monica sort of leaned to one side and momentarily pulled herself together, before the last crashing bars, at which point I switched all four buttons off.

As the audience burst into applause the four devices roared into life again for the duration of three encores, while Monica’s squirming in her seat went virtually unnoticed.  I reckoned she was almost at the edge and switched things off again, gesturing that we were now going to leave and for her to stand up and get moving. 

We edged past a couple of still-applauding fans.  Maybe I should have let her come there and then, so the applause would really have been appropriate, but I wanted a little more from Monica Armstrong.  We exited down the stairs and crossed the road into the parklands that were Southbank on the river.  I was walking fast, towing Monica behind me on the wire leash.  Monica wore strappy black sandals with high heels that were definitely not for quick walking, never mind when you have a couple of vibrators doing things to sensitive parts and a vibrating egg up your bum.

“Please, Steven, this is driving me crazy.  Just finish the job, will you?”  There was  - for the first time since I could remember – an edge of panic in Monica’s voice.  “Look – I’m sorry.  You win.  I’ll give you amnesty.  Just put your hand down there to finish the job, will you?  Puhleese?”

I ignored her as we neared the crowded part of Southbank where the Saturday night crowds gathered to watch the fire eaters, jugglers, and showmen, or to browse the market stalls and down a few beers.  I dragged Monica into the middle of the crowd watching a group of four jugglers tossing hefty skittles about, at which point I turned on all four devices and dropped the leash, just to show Monica she was on her own  now.

A look of desperation crossed her already suffused face as she cast about for some help in getting herself over the edge.  The crowd barely noticed the elegant lady in the black cape who moved through them to stand with the lamp post between her and the show.  Nor did they really notice how the woman leaned against the post, her legs either side of the wider, decorative base to the post, rubbing her crotch against the wrought iron corrugations.  They could not tell, amongst the frequent gasps of the crowd and the spontaneous applause, when the woman discretely humping the post finally climaxed, stiffening and shuddering, her head lowered, the curtain of raven hair hiding the gasping and muted cries that I could hear, standing beside her.  Monica was finally leaning against the post, exhausted, when Leila piped up beside me:

“Quite a performance for someone who would never carry on like that in a public place,” she smirked.

“Yes, most impressive,” added Trish, appearing at Leila’s side.  Monica looked up in time to see the smiling faces of Mary, Jill and Emma completing the circle around her.

“You’re dead, Mister,” she said to me.

“Uh-uh.  You gave me amnesty, remember?  Are you going back on your word?”

She became momentarily flustered.  “Uh – no.  You’re right.  I gave you amnesty, but I didn’t give it to Leila.  She’ll do for both of you.”

“Never mind, Lei,” said Trish.  “At least you’ll have the money.  Here’s my hundred bucks.”  She opened her purse and pulled out two fifty dollar notes, while the other girls did the same.  Leila’s demeanour changed at the appearance of the money, and it was obvious she had not intended the bet to be made public.  Monica was outraged – or gave the appearance of being so, anyway.

“You bet money on this?  You buggers!  I’ll get you all for this.”

*   *   *

The only thing I could do at that point was to take Monica home.  We beat the others home but I left Monica to stew for a little while, bound face down on the bonnet of the Beemer, feet spread apart and tied to the ends of the bumper, while a rope from one wing mirror to the other via her armpits kept her head down.  Oh yes, and I was obliged to quieten her down with the ball on the cord.  That was how the others found her when they returned an hour later, parking the van beside the Beemer and emerging to study the bent-over figure screwing the BMW badge on the bonnet.  As the vibrators whirred against her most sensitive parts and she ground her hips against the metal and chrome, Monica was heard to gurgle and mmph some unintelligible things – no doubt threats, but most of the girls had had a few drinks by then and didn’t really care.  Mary even went so far as to take a piece of bamboo to Monica’s vulnerable arse, something which – according to reliable reports – prompted another climax.

It was a rule of Bilboes that nobody interfered with another person’s prisoner unless it was a life-threatening situation.  While it wouldn’t have taken too much to interpret Monica’s mmphing as life-threatening, that description was only to be applicable to the prisoner, not the jailor(s).  Monica’s final indignity was to be freed by our devoted slave Shawnee, who was usually on the receiving end herself.  Shawnee did the untying at my behest, simply because I did not want to be around when Monica came to her senses.  I was at least right about that, for Shawnee spent the rest of the night in Monica’s place, this time spreadeagled on the bonnet.  Maybe I shouldn’t have instructed her to inquire whether Monica had had a satisfying evening.  Suffice to say I slept behind a locked door, and the next day I buried an escape kit in the garden behind the garage.  The kit contained a set of keys, a small bolt cutter and a sharp knife in a waterproof bag.  I did not know how long Monica would take to get her own back, but I knew it would happen, and Leila and I would be looking over our shoulders until such time as honour had been satisfied.

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