Chapter Twelve: Preparations
It was Sunday and Monica and I breakfasted late with the sound of the magpies and the odd kookaburra echoing through the trees. Monica was wearing a pale green blouse and a denim skirt. I could see that under the blouse she wore no bra, and the heavy pendulums of the padlocks in her nipples strained against the fabric.
“I hope our captive friends are enjoying the wildlife,” she said, digging into a piece of rock melon. “God, I’m so hungry.”
“Yeah. Enforced diets are not something to enthuse over, especially when nasty things are being done to you. Damn, my back’s sore. I got Shawnee to rub some lotion on it but sunburn really hurts.”
“I could have done that for you,” I said. She smiled. It was the first time I had seen her relaxed for a long time. Her eyes had the old sparkle in them again. “You’re looking much better,” I said, and I couldn’t resist a final dig: “and that collar really suits you.”
I got the bite I was looking for. She poked out her tongue and gave me a squinty glare, screwing up her face.
“Yeah. I’m still thinking about paying her back for that. Can we get them off easily?”
“The boxes on the front will come off okay as soon as I get my tools.” I could have done it the previous night but everyone had just wanted to get to bed – except for the late night graveyard shift. “I’ll have to drill the rivets out in the drill press. It’ll be tricky but do-able.”
“I knew you’d work something out.” She laid her hand over mine. She looked adorable. “That can be your task for today. Afterwards, I have a couple of things you might like to consider building – I know how you like those jobs.”
“Have you found the key to these damned padlocks?” I leaned across and gave her nipple adornment a nudge. She smiled again.
“No, I haven’t looked yet. But at least she had the decency to use proper stainless steel. They’re well made.”
“You might not be saying that if we can’t unlock the things. Have you ever tried to cut stainless steel – in a delicate location?”
“Hmmn. So we’d better hope the keys are in her luggage?”
She unbuttoned the top two buttons of her blouse and looked down inside.
“They’re kind of nice, though, aren’t they.”
“Kind of weighty, too.”
“Yes,” she sighed. “Unfortunately, that’s the drawback. But erotic, and kind of stimulating, do you think?”
“Very, until somebody grabs hold of them in the throes of passion.” I was thinking of my most recent experience that very morning and hoped Monica did not pick up on my gaff. She eyed me speculatively but did not comment on my oblique reference.
“So, are you going to keep your piercings – the holes, I mean?” I asked.
“I think I will. They’re there now. Maybe I’ll replace these with something a little less ostentatious.”
“Like smaller padlocks?”
She laughed. “Steven you clearly don’t understand the finer points of wearing bras and getting the no-bump look. Maybe a nice discrete pair of rings. But then again, your idea does have merit in certain circumstances. Perhaps I’ll get two pairs made – matching pairs. Could you cope with that?”
“I’d like that.”
“Good – so would I. This whole business has brought us closer, don’t you think?”
“Yes,” I agreed, suddenly feeling guilty about how close I had been to Leila that very morning. I changed the subject as best I could. “Have you thought any more about Madam Wong’s punishment?”
Monica’s eyes narrowed. “Ohhh yes. I have indeed. Mary and Jill have made some suggestions to me this morning and I have a few little ideas floating about my head that just need time to properly incubate. I think Madam Wong will be very sorry she made this trip out here.
“Now you tell me, do you think you could make a whipping machine?”
* * *
The main task of the day appeared to be divesting ourselves of the stainless steel collars. Removal of the power boxes was easily accomplished with a spanner but the riveted collar was different. Trish – always ready to join me in the toolshed – volunteered to be the guinea pig.
“Are you feeling brave?” I asked her as we set up the drill press.
“With you are the controls? Hell no – I’m ready to wet myself!”
“Careful, tramp! I might just pull too hard on the lever. Then we’ll have to put a bolt through that pretty neck of yours to fill in the hole I’ve drilled and to hold your head on.”
“Haha – very funny. Seriously, is it dodgy?”
“You’re the one who will have to return the favour by doing it to me,” I told her. “It’ll be okay if you keep your nerve. Bondage can get just a little bit serious sometimes, can’t it.”
“Permanent restraint does have its drawbacks when it’s later required to be temporary,” she agreed. “Reality doesn’t always fit the theory.”
The drill press was already bolted to the workshop bench, and it was simple enough to adjust it to the height where Trish could rest her neck and collar on the base plate.
“Feels like I’m in a guillotine,” she said uncertainly.
“Trust me, Marie Antoinette, you’ll survive this time.”
I turned the collar around so that two of the rivets were on top at the back of her neck. She had pulled her hair up and tied it out of the way with a couple of clips, while I slipped a matchbox-sized piece of 5mm steel between her neck and the collar.
“You realise if this goes wrong I’ll probably drill through your spine and you’ll be a paraplegic?”
“Shut up, damn you!” There was amusement but also an edginess in her voice.
The rivets were in fact of soft steel, but still needed some pressure on them. Trish held her collar steady with both hands while I applied gentle force to the lever that pulled the drill bit downwards. With a soft grinding sound the bit gouged out the rivet easily before coming up against the piece of steel beneath the collar.
“Easy peasy,” I said. “Move slightly this way for the second.”
Moments later the second rivet was drilled out and I could pull the two halves of the collar apart sufficiently to free Trish’s neck, while bending the other riveted connection in the process. Trish stood up and rubbed her neck, then planted a kiss on my cheek.
“My hero! Now let me return the favour.”
“Have you got a licence to use one of these?”
“Nah – I get experience on the job. I always learn from my mistakes.”
“Yeah – like surgeons bury theirs.”
“Quiet – you’re making me nervous. Now put your head on the block…”
* * *
One of the things I liked about Mon was the unexpected little challenges that would get tossed at me. A whipping machine. What next – an automatic rogering device? Well, I guess that wouldn’t be so far from where we’d already been.
My experimentation predictably led me down to the local Bunnings Warehouse. Bunnings was a huge place which I knew intimately and where Monica had a well-used account. Occasionally Trish had come with me and together we would look at all manner of hardware items on offer and devise uses for them hitherto uncontemplated by the manufacturers. It was always an exciting exercise.
On this particular occasion Trish and I strolled down the lengthy aisles and eventually returned home with the largest pedestal fan we could find plus an inflatable air bag used for jacking up cars in soft sand. The fan was over half a metre across the blades and – of course – made in China, which appealed to my perverse sense of irony. Removing the grille from the blades was easy, as was mounting it horizontally on a sawhorse as a temporary platform. I now had something that went round and round – all I needed was an attachment to deliver a stroke.
Which wasn’t as easy as it sounds. We tried it with a cane, which tended to stop the rotation entirely, upon impact. A whip worked better, but in fact the best was a piece of heavy cord, which, by the time it had made a full revolution, was streaming out nicely along the radius line of the fan. It impacted well on the tree we used as a target, then picked itself up again to be ready for the next stroke by the time the fan had rotated through the circle again. It was not in the league of severe impacts, but it wasn’t intended for that. It was meant to wear a person down by repetition.
Having got the basics worked out, we secured one end of the sawhorse with some pegs into the lawn, such that the other end could be raised, and under this went the small inflatable air bag, with the tube to the foot pump leading out of range of the rotating cord. Now we had the possibility for vertical adjustment to the impact level.
“Any volunteers?” I asked Monica after Trish and I had set the device up on the back lawn. This was always a dangerous question, for anybody within earshot ran the risk of being co-opted into the activity as an unwilling participant.
“There will be tomorrow,” said Monica, clearly impressed with the device. “I can’t wait. So what are you doing with the rest of the afternoon?”
“Er… reading a book?”
“No – I don’t think so. Could you make a rogering machine?”
“You’re having me on!”
“No, seriously. Something a girl can sit on and have done to her as she would do unto others – if she was a guy, that is, and the others were girls, of course. Well, you know what I mean. Kneeling would be a good position. Astride something… Trish, help me here. Rather, help Steven.”
“He does need help,” she admitted.
“Thanks,” I said.
“You know what I mean,” Monica explained cryptically then went inside. Trish and I looked at each other and sat down to scribble our designs on some pieces of paper. I reckoned it beat working for a living.
* * *
That afternoon I performed the ritual de-collaring on the remaining Bilboes personnel, while mulling over in my head various options for ‘The Jolly Rogerer’ that Trish and I had talked about.
Monica was the last to have her collar removed and in truth looked the better for it. There was something about her demeanour – maybe pride or commanding presence - that clashed with the steel encircling her throat, whereas in the case of Emma, for instance, the collar enhanced her looks. Monica looked like a caged animal, chafing to be freed, whereas Emma looked at home and comfortable with the situation. As the old Yorkshire saying went, “there’s nowt so queer as folk.” We were surely all different.
After I had removed Monica’s collar, she asked me to come into her study with her. On the desk were two small keys. She began to undo my shirt buttons and opened it enough to have access to my nipples. I realised she had found the keys to the padlock, and let her have a little fun kissing and tantalising my nips before removing the locks. There was no doubt that my buds were supersensitive now, although Monica’s skill was pretty good anyway. I was starting to pant and Mr Willy was up and about when she finally unlocked the padlocks and slipped them out.
“Which is better, in or out? – as the bishop said to the actress,” she asked.
“Um – they’re both kind of nice – in the present circumstances,” I said.
“They are, aren’t they.” Her voice was warm with the promise of better things in store. She smiled archly at me and held the two locks in her hand. “I think I’ll look after these – keep them safe for Ron.”
“Later Ron, dummy.”
“Can I take yours out?” I asked, wanting to go further down the road she had started.
“Too late,” she said, opening her blouse just enough to show a glimpse of bare, unadorned nipple.
“You are such a tease, Monica,” I complained. She just laughed.
“Never mind. Good things come to those who wait. Have a look at this. Much more important.”
Puzzled, I sat beside her as she turned on her computer.
“See these?” she said. “Our visitors have been busy on the email. What a great thing it is. We can see all Madam Wong’s communications with Mr Wong. Not that there are many of them. She seems a pretty independent lady, given only to asking for more money and being left to do her own thing.” Monica paused and looked deep in thought. “You know the great thing about email?”
“You betcha. You have no idea who is on the other end. Miss Jones may actually be Fred Smith.”
“Or Jade Wong may be Monica Armstrong?”
“Sometimes you and I are like-minds, Steven.”
“The old email disinformation trick?” I suggested.
“Exactly. It’s leading me somewhere, but I haven’t quite got the picture in my head yet. It’s like an image that won’t quite crystallise.”
“You want a global picture.”
“You want something that will be bigger and grander and more widespread than any of the small-minded humiliations heaped on us so far.”
“Where are you going with this?” She asked, looking at me curiously and at the same time hopefully.
“You want Madam Wong and Portia on National Television – or even better, international television.”
“You’re kidding. You’ve got something in mind, haven’t you.” A slow smile spread over her face. She became like a little girl being told there was a special surprise awaiting her. “Come on, tell me!”
“What’s the date today?”
“The nineteenth of February. Why?”
“What’s the date in two Saturday’s time?”
She looked at the calendar. “Ummm… the second of March. Why?”
“Big event then?”
“Jesus, I don’t know. Come on Steven, stop leading me on.”
“Sydney,” I said. “International television. Beamed live all over the world…”
“What…?” Her face lit up with sudden realisation. “My God! You’re a genius! The Mardigras! How perfect!” She grabbed me and gave me a long lingering kiss that was only interrupted by a knock on the open door. Jillian stood there looking just a little apologetic.
“Sorry – I can come back…”
“Jill! Come in and let me tell you about this wonderful mind in our midst.” That was when I blushed even more. “How would you like a trip to Sydney and a chance to be in the Mardigras, with Madam Wong and Portia as Exhibits A and B on a Bilboes float?”
* * *
I was surprised at how quickly Monica caught the idea. I had barely formed it in my own mind when Monica had leapt on it and wrestled it to the ground, now embellishing it and letting her flights of fancy go wild. We discussed it as a group over dinner and the ideas came out. Everyone was enthusiastic. We also discussed the condition in which to return our two Chinese captives to their homes, but nobody could come up with a workable plan that would guarantee safe arrival at the other end. Boxes and crates and all sorts of self-contained systems were floated, but there were too many ifs and buts and potential delays that might mean life-threatening situations that we could not risk.
I had been sitting silent through all of the proposals that were being dumped on the table as the fourth bottle of Shiraz was emptied. There was something else lurking at the edge of my mind that I was trying to nail down. Monica noticed and shushed everyone.
“The Brain is working – quiet please. Tell us your thoughts, oh great one.”
“Not if you’re going to make fun of me,” I said with mock petulance. She put her hand on my shoulder and leaned close. Her subtle perfume lingered in my nostrils.
“Sorry Steven. Maybe we can help?”
“I was just thinking… Let me work this through… Supposing we accept the fact that we have to send them back in the normal way, that is, by flying.” There was a reality check of nods around the table. “Given that situation, we would ideally like to make it as long and uncomfortable a trip as possible, yes?” More nods. “Okay. The two key words – ‘long’ and ‘uncomfortable’. Deal with them individually. ‘Long’ suggests this to me… and it’s made without reference to airline schedules, but how about this as a flight to Hong Kong: Brisbane, Perth, Nairobi, …um…Bombay, Calcutta, Bangkok, Hong Kong.”
There was silence, then laughter from round the table.
“I should stress that we ought to get the airlines with the worst service available. Too bad Aeroflot or Bulgarian Airways don’t operate in these parts.”
“But surely she could just change the tickets at the first place she lands?” This from Emma.
“Not if she has no money and the tickets are unable to be altered. And of course with no money she’ll be dependent on airline food. No books to read, and at the end of it a series of intimate encounters with some of the more interesting transit lounges of the world. Somehow I can’t see Madam Wong or Portia cadging off fellow passengers while waiting for a delayed flight in Calcutta Airport.”
“I love it,” said Jill.
“Good,” Monica told her. “You’re in charge of plotting a suitable route for them.”
“But who’s paying for the tickets?” she asked.
“Madam Wong is,” I suggested. “She must have a credit card here – or five.”
“Ah – nice touch,” said Monica, smiling.
“Emma, you look Chinese enough to pass for a Wong,” I suggested.
“Thanks very much,” she said, poking her tongue out at me.
“Don’t be like that. It means you get the honour of spending the Wong kind of money.”
“Girls, you should consider what compensation Madam Wong ought to pay, for pain and suffering. But I do think we should stop short of having six Ferraris parked in the driveway.”
“I do admire your mind, sometimes,” Monica said to me. “It’s not quite as twisted as I would like, but you’re getting there. What do you have in mind for the ‘uncomfortable’ part of the trip?”
“You expect me to think up everything for you? Hey, you’re the females here. You’re always on about ‘girl things’. You girls can work this one out yourselves. Just remember there are metal detectors at airports.”
“Steven’s right on both points.” Monica agreed. “We can dream up something for our captives, girls. No rush. This can be thought out over time.” She rubbed her hands together. “God, I’m looking forward to this!”
“What about Megan?” I ventured.
“Ah yes. Miss Megan is another matter entirely, which we shall consider in the fullness of time. But tomorrow, we start our revenge.” She raised her glass.
“Revenge!” we echoed.
* * *
“Mary, after breakfast I’d like you to take a walk to visit our friends.” Monica was holding court at the breakfast table. It was Monday morning and Portia, Megan and Madam Wong would have completed their second night in the bush without food or water. The two Chinese would no doubt be totally unfamiliar with the Great Outdoors, and with luck the sounds of the Australian bush would have freaked them suitably. As for Megan, I had my doubts that the treatment would be so successful on her. Megan was a local, familiar with the local ways and so-called culture. I did not believe she would think us capable of killing her. In contrast, the other two came from a society of different values, and they had already inflicted severe punishment on Jill in Macau. Their lifestyle and principles – if any – were such that they may well consider us capable of what we were claiming.
“Make sure they are alive, have a chat with them and of course you may be as scathing and belittling as you wish – and, of course, as only you can.” Mary nodded her head and smiled in acknowledgement of what nobody else would have considered to be a compliment. “You may decide to take a bottle of water with you, and perhaps pour it on them or beside them, or simply leave it there with them, assuming their mouths are still properly taped up. I’m sure you can dream up some appropriately psychotic mind games.”
“Some people get all the good jobs,” Jill said, trying to look put out.
“You, my dear Jillian, will never reach Mary’s heights, I’m sorry to say,” Monica enlightened her. “You’re too nice. Instead you can help me with the accounts. By that I mean how much money have we lost through these meddlers, and how much are we going to claim back on Madam Wong’s credit cards.”
* * *
Trish and I were on the scrounge again, after we had spent time working out our Jolly Rogerer device.
“How do you think Mary will go?” I asked Trish as we drove across town to a car wreckers yard.
“She’ll think all her Christmases have come at once,” Trish replied, in a quiet voice. “Steven, you have no idea what they did to us in the dungeon, and how I felt when you finally escaped Madam Wong’s clutches on Saturday night. Being able to let down my arms that time was the most glorious feeling in the world.
“They played Mary and I off against each other. We were ready to do any humiliating thing they asked. Now they’ll get a bit of their own medicine. Mary is very good at that psychological stuff. She’ll put all sorts of images in their minds that’ll scare the shit out of them. I wouldn’t be surprised if she digs the graves a bit deeper and suggests they might like to try them out while still alive.”
* * *
We arrived at a car wreckers yard, where after a bit of searching and kicking ideas around we found a suitable windscreen wiper motor. This would give us the right order of speed, the adjustability, and the size that we were looking for.
Afterwards came the transformer to bring the voltage down to twelve volts from the mains, before we wound up at Bunnings again, this time looking at a large cylindrical plastic storage bin. It was made rigid plastic about forty centimetres in diameter and twice that in height. Overall it was about the size of a typical rubbish bin used by the local council and had two curved opening doors on the side. When nobody was looking, Trish laid it down in the aisle and sat astride it.
“Comfortable?” I asked. She bounced on it, and it seemed strong enough.
“Very.” She grinned at me. “Bags to be first to try it.”
“I already had you pencilled in for that, you tramp.”
* * *
We arrived back at Bilboes in time for lunch, which Leila had prepared. We had two guests for lunch – Madam Wong and Portia. Both were bound cross-legged on the verandah deck, their wrists and elbows tied tightly behind them. They both still wore their white and red leather skirts and tops which now looked decidedly the worse for wear. Seated as they were, the skirts had ridden up their thighs and I saw the glint of stainless steel through their crotches, and guessed that they were now on the receiving end – if you’ll pardon the pun – of the butt plug zappers.
The duct tape had been removed from their mouths but they were now blindfolded with black bandannas. They looked like prisoners of war from Planet Fetish. Shawnee was feeding Portia spoonfuls of some sort of stew. Both captives looked anything but defiant.
We joined the rest of the girls for lunch, and conversation was trivial, totally ignoring the two bound women sitting on the floor nearby.
“Where’s Megan?” I whispered to Leila.
“Oh – hanging about downstairs somewhere, quiet as a mouse.” I didn’t need to have this euphemistic description expanded.
“Have you finished feeding time at the zoo, Shawnee?” Monica asked as Shawnee stood up. Today she was back in her usual role, bare-breasted, wearing a short pvc skirt and hobbled at the ankles.
“Yes, Mistress,” she said.
“Very good. Give them one last drink of water, because it might be some time before they get another.” Shawnee placed a straw between Madam Wong’s lips and watched as she drank greedily, then the process was repeated for Portia.
“You may gag them now, Shawnee. Remember, I shall check your work, so make sure the straps are tight.” Shawnee smiled and picked up a red ball gag on a matching strap.
“Of course, Mistress.”
There was obviously no need for Monica’s instruction, for Shawnee worked the ball behind Portia’s teeth and provoked some spluttering protests as she buckled the strap very tightly behind the Chinese girl’s head, then did the same for Portia’s boss. The pair sat silently as we finished our lunch, at which point Monica addressed them directly for the first time since I had arrived.
“Now listen to me, you two despicable pieces of excrement. This afternoon you’re going to be given a little test. It is, in fact, a race. Whoever comes last will have a very unfortunate punishment inflicted on them. This punishment is still a couple of weeks away, but let me suggest to you that it is something that would be best avoided at all costs. It will, of necessity, only happen to one of you, but while not permanent, it will be long lasting, very humiliating, and somewhat painful. If I were you I would use every endeavour to avoid this punishment. Do you understand me?”
The two blindfolded and gagged heads nodded in unison. What would they be thinking? For that matter, what was Monica thinking? I recalled tossing to her the details of the ‘uncomfortable’ part of a possible homebound flight for the pair. Was this something to do with it?
* * *
All this, as I found out was a prelude to The Great Race – a contest between Portia and Madam Wong over the assault course. Which was how Trish, Leila and I came to be up in the main treetop viewing platform. Monica had explained the circumstances to us. Not only was this a race between Portia and Madam Wong, but there was a side bet between Jillian and Monica as to who the victor would be. Monica had picked Madam Wong, while Jill had picked Portia. To make matters more interesting, Monica and Jill would accompany their favourites – though not through the mud and obstacles – and spur them on with some motivating little zaps to the butt plugs. These were not to be the debilitating jolts that we had received, but little urgings that would encourage the contestants to move just a tad faster.
Emma and Mary hustled the prisoners up the slope to the tin shed that was normally the start of the course. However because the duct out of the shed was only big enough for one, and we didn’t want to start a major fist fight inside it, the contestants would be shoved down the bank into the mud pool together.
Their bonds had been modified from when I had seen them at lunch. Both women had lost their tops, although they still wore their short skirts, which I thought was rather an attractive picture. Their wrists were locked into leather cuffs which were joined in front of them, and their ankles were likewise secured with hobble chains. Steel clips had been locked on their nipples, replicating the torment I had been forced to endure in Macau. It gave me great satisfaction to observe this aspect, particularly the nut-sized lead weights attached to them..
On their heads they wore plastic swim goggles and the ball gags remained in place.
“If they remove the goggles they lose five seconds,” Leila told us. “If they have to undo the gag they lose thirty seconds. There are also two more lead weights to be collected and locked on to the clamps at two red-flagged points.”
“My, my, doesn’t Mon make an interesting scenario,” Trish mused. “She must have thought about this all day yesterday.”
“Oh, and they have rather large vibrators embedded in their pussies as well – the steel crotch strap has a double purpose,” Leila enthused.
“Oh dear,” Trish smiled. There was clear admiration in her voice. “How very distracting and confusing. Pain and pleasure, all mixed up in a race with some very nasty – but totally unknown – consequences for the loser. Monica really is good at this.”
Emma and Mary stood behind the two prisoners at the top of the steep slope down to the mud hole, while Monica and Jill watched from the top of the opposite side. Then Portia and Madam Wong were off and racing – or rather sliding down the bank into the mud pool with a slurpy splash. It had not rained for a little while and there had been separation within the pool, with a thin liquid layer on top and the sticky, gluggy stuff on the bottom.
The mud came nearly up to their breasts and moving through it was clearly difficult – certainly more so than if it had merely been water. Portia, slightly larger framed than Madam Wong, looked the stronger of the two as she pushed her way through the sticky substance, clawing her way up the other bank. The mud stuck to her like thick porridge, coating her skirt and body with a gooey texture that must have been very uncomfortable given her inserts.
Monica and Jill were shouting at their charges from the top of the bank and I suspect Madam Wong was starting to get some electrical incentive from Monica to quicken her pace. However as Portia was halfway up the bank her strappy sandals came adrift and she lost precious seconds removing them entirely. Madam Wong, who two days previously had decided on her knee-length boots, now found them perhaps more appropriate to her predicament, and managed to pass Portia by the top of the bank.
It was Madam Wong who led the sprint to the hole in the block wall and through this under the tautly-stretched black polythene sheet. Moments later there were two lumps wriggling their way along under the plastic, while Monica snapped the bull-whip on both raised backsides.
There was some kicking and scrabbling starting as Portia caught up with her boss as Madam Wong’s dishevelled head popped out of the hole in the polythene into the space between the two cargo nets that ran up over the beam. Here there was space for both to climb side by side, but minor hindrances like cuffed wrists, hobbled ankles and dangling nipple weights tended to slow down the climbing process. Add to this a large vibrator whirring inside, and a butt plug which every now and then tingled painfully, not to mention a rival alongside looking to trip you up at every turn, and you understood the meaning of ‘stress’.
Portia was clearly the more athletic of the two, and made it over the top of the beam first, after planting a bare foot on Madam Wong’s head and shoulder in the process of overtaking. This was definitely a no-holds barred race.
At the bottom of the net was the first red flag as the pair came into an open area lined with barbed wire on two sides. Portia grabbed the two lead sinkers and padlocks that were on the grass at the base of one flag and locked them on to her nipple clips while on the move. She held the weights with her crossed hands to protect her strained and tortured nubs from the constant tugging.
As she scrambled down the bank of the stream beyond, Portia saw the two choices she was faced with – crossing on the pole, or going via the water and the steep and slippery bank on the far side. She opted for the pole, taking her time to manoeuvre herself astride it.
“Remember when Isobel did this?” Leila nudged me in the ribs.
“Yeah. I remember Monica said she would never climax in public, and I also remember all the trouble you got me into as a result of that little scheme of yours.”
Leila pouted. “It was fun, though – getting Mon to get off at Southbank – wasn’t it!”
“Yes,” I admitted with a wry smile at the thought. “But somehow I don’t think we’re in for a repeat performance today.”
The effort involved thus far, with their breathing hampered by the balls strapped in their mouths, was clearly having an effect on Portia and Madam Wong. Porta was going very slowly across the pole, almost lying down and working herself along slowly, her hobble chain straddling the pole behind her as she spread her weight between her cuffed hands and her pussy with its crotch strap and the vibrator inside her.
Madam Wong, also holding on to her own extra nipple weights, waded into the stream. She slipped and fell a couple of times on the smooth slimy bottom, but as she neared the steep bank she caught up with Portia sufficiently to reach up and push one cuffed foot off the log. Portia scrabbled to maintain purchase, but sudden pain in her nipples and her inability to grip with her cuffed hands saw her land in the water near her employer.
“Evens again, huh,” murmured Trish as both women struggled to gain purchase up the steep bank that some thoughtful person had wetted down recently. “This is getting real interesting.”
Portia made it to the top of the bank first, probably getting better purchase in her bare feet. Both women were now partially washed from the stream, with the worst of the mud off their lower bodies. Just beyond the bank was the second red flag point, and once again Portia was first to lock two more weights to her nipples.
“Never thought I’d see the day, “ Leila marvelled. “We should have put a few more red flags down.”
Ahead of Portia was the second mud pit with the widely spaced stepping stones that necessitated proper jumps by hobbled individuals, each time having to check that hobble chains were clear. Portia had negotiated three of the six jumps by the time Madam Wong had added her weights and reached the edge of the pond. We could hear Portia’s gagged cry of pain as she was obliged to swing her arms to get momentum for the jump, while placing a terrible load on her tortured nipples on take off and landing.
That was when Madam Wong, in a moment of either desperation or insight decided to check the depth of the mud and found it was only calf-deep. With a sudden renewal of strength, probably aided by Monica and the remote, she waded headlong through the pool, catching Portia as she did her last jump.
From that point it was all on, in the last sprint to the tape that somebody had strung between two trees near our viewpoint. Portia and Madam Wong were trying to trip each other and bashing through the undergrowth like a couple of grunting wildcats. Their energy was dropping however, and with fifty metres to go they were almost exhausted, sucking in air through their noses as best they could, knowing that if they removed the gag a thirty second penalty would apply that they could not hope to recover.
While they slowed to little more than a staggering jog, Monica and Jill were close behind them, remotes in hand, spurring them on. Both contestants jerked and made pitiful muted exclamations as they tried to stay ahead of their tormentors. In the end it was Portia’s superior fitness and strength that saw her over the line five metres ahead of Madam Wong, at which point both collapsed on the ground, groaning with pain and the effort they had put in.
There was to be no relief from that, however, for Monica and Jill hauled them roughly to their feet and backed them against a tree the thickness of a telegraph pole. It took only a minute to bind them back to back, with the pole in between, tied to each other at the elbows and ankles, with the weights locked to their nipples pulling them in a downward distortion.
Jill said something to the pair of them as she and Monica walked back to the house and we climbed down from our observation post. I guessed she was reminding them of the terrible night she had suffered wearing the steel vices in the tiny niche under the stairs. I was sure the message would have got through.
* * *
With the matinee floor show over, Trish and I retired to the workshop to play with our toys – or, more specifically, to build a new one. The windscreen wiper motor was a very simple thing, with a rotating shaft which would normally be connected to a rod or lever that would convert the circular motion to a lateral motion. This was exactly what I needed.
Trish had brought with her a selection of dildos that might represent the end of that lateral motion, specifically a device that would go up and down through a hole in the top of the plastic barrel, into a human hole positioned astride it.
The basic motor and driving rod guides took quite a while to get right, and it was early evening before we had got the these basics actually operating. At this point we had a phallus going up and down, with enough force to be irresistible and to do the job for which it was intended. We agreed to continue with the manufacture the next day and adjourned for dinner.
Monica announced progress over dinner. It was a cooler evening and looked like rain. Portia and Madam Wong had evidently been fed and watered recently, for they were now bound to two of the posts on the back lawn. Whoever had done the bondage had made a lovely job of it. I thought the style was probably Monica or Mary or both. Lots of white sashcord held each body to the poles, their wrists crossed and bound behind them with multiple turns around ankles, thighs, waist, and above and below the breasts. These latter ropes had been cinched either side of and between the breasts, making them bulge out provocatively. A thick collar encircled post and neck, melding them immovably in position. They were in the glare of the lights and I could see striations all over their bodies, particularly breasts and stomach and thighs that suggested we had missed seeing a rather severe flogging while we had been in the workshop.
Both figures wore rubber hoods with only nostril holes showing. I assumed the wearers were well and truly gagged, and probably had their ears and other orifices plugged as well, knowing Monica’s style and thoroughness.
Monica updated us as we ate a delicious pasta cooked by Shawnee.
“Girls – and Steven – here is the plan for the next two weeks. Broadly speaking it is in two parts. We have some preliminary work to do first, here at Bilboes. This includes resurrecting client contacts, wearing down our guests, arranging flights, recovering finances and preparing for relocation to Sydney. The move will happen over the weekend. We will leave Saturday morning, taking the Beemer and the van. Unfortunately, somebody will have to stay behind to mind the house. The people I need with me will be Jill and Emma because of your relationship with the prisoners, and Steven and Trish to do the float for the parade. Unfortunately, Leila and Mary, that means you guys miss out. I’m sorry, but that’s the way it is.”
Leila looked decidedly upset, while Mary remained impassive.
“It does mean you’ll see us on TV,” said Monica, at which point Leila appeared to brighten, “and it means Mary will continue with the rehabilitation of Megan.” I reckoned Mary had already worked this one out and had concluded that this was probably a better bargain in any case.
“We’ll stay overnight somewhere appropriate and arrive late Sunday in Sydney. This is the second part. We’ll be dossing down with my cousin Debbie in Cremorne – she of the Tax Office fame. She owes me a lot of favours. She’s arranging a truck for us to go in the parade. Steven and Trish – you’d better work out what you want in the way of materials and email her the details so it’ll be there when we arrive. Money is no object, of course. Madam Wong is paying for the lot. I want a really evil gothic dungeon. Steven will be driving the truck, while the rest of us will be in our most provocative finery. And the prisoners will be on the receiving end of something suitable to be shown on international television. All ideas are welcome.
“We will have one week from arrival next Sunday night to the parade on Saturday week. Any questions?”
“No Monica,” we chorused.
* * *
When I went to bed that night the rain had started as a late summer storm swept in from the west. There was a good deal of thunder and lightning, and I decided I would not like to be bound immovably to a post wearing a rubber hood. Monica had, as I suspected, plugged the prisoners’ ears, which was perhaps a good thing in the circumstances, since they were destined to be outside in the thunder all night. I figured that while in some cases being bound as rigidly as that would at least allow you to relax against your bonds and probably doze, in this instance they would be too cold and wet.
Shame, I thought, climbing under the covers.
* * *
story continues in Monica's Revenge: 13. The Citadel