|Gromet's Plaza - Richard Alexander Stories|
© 2004 - Richard Alexander - Used by permission
|storycodes: FFMM/f; bondage; enema; cocoon; wetpack; nc; XX|
|grometsplaza - www.grometsplaza.cjb.net
Chapter Twenty One – Running Hot and Cold – Monica’s Story
by Richard Alexander
Monica’s Travels Chapter Twenty One – Running Hot and Cold – Monica’s Story
Despite all I had been through, the night passed quickly, and I actually slept. In spite of my bondage, the fact of having my head free of the steel clamp, my neck free of any collar, and - for once - having no devices jammed inside me, seemed almost comfortable. Comfort was, after all, relative. Compared to standing strapped to the frame in the exhibition hall with Emma, or contorted in one of the Earl’s iron contraptions, a straitjacket was like a luxury couch.
I lay on my back on the padded floor, and after some fruitless worrying, I willed myself to relax, and abruptly sleep flooded over me. I woke a few times, but even in the straitjacket, the ability to turn over, or to curl myself into a ball was sufficient to ease some of my aches and pains, and to slip back into the sanctuary of sleep. The room was musty but warm, and even with my arms strapped in place, I knew I could cope. I didn’t think about what might lie before me the next day. Some things are better left alone.
I awoke at some stage in the early morning, I supposed, though the room had no window and no glimmer of light came from around the door. I lay in the darkness, wondering why I was in a mental institution, and what Jade and Portia had to gain in the risk of exposing me to people outside their immediate circle. If I was left unguarded and ungagged, I figured I could explain my circumstances to one of the nurses. How would I come across? How used were they to loonies pretending to be sane? I had not seen any other inmates on my arrival. No doubt it was after meal time and they were all safely locked away. My mind began to work faster at this point, and there was no hope of returning to sleep.
I squirmed myself into an upright position against the wall. It was not an easy act, for the sleeves were buckled very tight behind me, and the jacket was not oversized. The broad crotch strap had worked its way into my pussy and butt crack during the night. My poor pussy was still tender from all it had been on the receiving end of during the last few days, and even in these circumstances still seemed receptive to ministrations. I found it astonishing, but the human body is an amazing thing. The squirming about made the crotch strap groove through my pussy, and suddenly I was wet with anticipation. Just for once, I was my own mistress, not a body being manipulated by the controls of others. Well, this time I was doing the manipulating, and the warm, pleasurable feeling distracted me from the seriousness of my situation.
I rolled on my stomach, lying on my breasts and arms while slowly working my mons against any little bulge I could find in the coarse canvas floor padding. I found that by arching my back and pulling my legs up behind me, I could tighten and ease the pressure of the crotch strap, and it was through these slow and blissful movements that the heat began to mount in my loins and finally – in my own sweet time – I came, groaning with delight as I rocked back and forth, tugging at the encompassing garment that wrapped my arms hard against my body.
When it was over I lay there, breathing heavily, my face flushed under the protective leather helmet. I may have dozed, but it seemed that only a few minutes later the door opened and the light came on, revealing Black Henry and Portia. My brief foray into my own enjoyable distraction died a sudden death, with the realisation of what unknown torture now lay before me.
Portia was dressed in a scarlet pvc catsuit with a high collar and a fuck-me zipper running from throat to crotch. The legs disappeared into knee-length boots with elegant but not overly pointed heels. Obviously today called for practicality over frivolity, and Portia’s approach was evident in the kid leather gloves she wore and the lycra band that pulled her black hair back from her forehead. Today Portia meant business.
Henry, on the other hand, wore the same hospital fatigues that I had seen the previous night. He unlinked the cuffs on my ankles and hauled me to my feet.
“Good morning, Monica,” said Portia. “Did you sleep well?”
“”Mmmn,” I mumbled around the ball still in my mouth and the glue still sealing my lips.
“Too bad. You’ll stay hungry for quite some while. Better get used to it. Come with us.” They stood aside and allowed me to exit from the room, then Henry gripped me by the arm as I emerged in the corridor.
There were no windows here, either, and the time could have been any hour of the day or night, for the dirty, unwavering bulbs continued to give off their dingy light.
We went two doors along to the ablution room I had visited the previous night. Here I was made to sit on the floor while Henry locked a spreader bar to my ankle cuffs. I didn’t like the look of this, even thought the bar was only a couple of feet wide. It was made of heavy steel, but most significantly it had an eyebolt in the middle for a cable, which Henry dragged down from a pulley anchored in the concrete ceiling. The cable ran to a hand-operated winch fixed to the wall, and it was pretty obvious my torment for the day was going to begin in an inverted position. Before this, however, Portia produced the magic tube of solvent and gradually worked my lips apart, allowing me to spit out the sponge ball.
“Better?” she inquired, holding my head in her hands and peering deeply into my eyes. She had that fixated look of someone who is about to engage in some Great Plan, over which they have obsessed for a long time.
I licked my lips carefully. “Yes, thank you Mistress.”
Portia purred with pleasure at this form of address, though her expression told me it would get me absolutely nowhere even approaching her good books. All it got me, instead, was a thick rubber bar jammed between my teeth and strapped behind my head. I wasn’t sure whether it was better or worse than sealed lips, but at least it was a change. I could sure make more noise around it.
Then it was up in the air for dear little Monica, with first my feet, then my legs, then my body rising off the ground as Henry cranked the winch. I rested briefly on my shoulders, steadied by Portia, as the clicking of the ratchet continued and finally I was swinging freely, my head a handspan above the white tiles.
Henry watched intently as Portia unbuckled my crotch strap.
“You sly little wench!” she exclaimed. “You got yourself off this morning! The strap is all wet, and so are you,” she continued, sliding her fingers into my now exposed pussy. I can see we’re going to have to bring you back to earth – so to speak. You’re not here for your own enjoyment, Monica.”
She stepped back and gazed at me, as I slowly turned on the cable, legs apart, body still strapped in the straitjacket.
“You have nice legs, Monica – and a nice butt. Has anyone ever told you that?”
“Ephh,” I mumbled.
“”You butt is so… whippable, I guess. It has such nice curves that just cry out for the sting of the lash, don’t you think?”
“Uh-uh,” I said.
“Are you telling me I may not whip you, Monica?” Portia queried, and I knew I was in trouble. It was another of those unanswerable questions, so I said nothing, knowing any response would be the wrong one. “I see others have had the same thoughts, judging from some of the bruises you’re showing. Oh well, a few more won’t hurt. Well, they will, actually, but no matter,” she ended, chuckling at her own little joke.
She opened the tin trunk that still sat on the bench against the wall, and selected a short-handled whip with a narrow thong tipped with a small knot. I knew this was going to hurt, and she knew it, too. She took the hem of the straitjacket and tugged it downwards towards my head, exposing more of my waist and buttocks and jamming everything up against my pinioned arms in the sleeves.
The first strikes of the whip were barely felt, just a zip of air across my buttocks as Portia started a rhythm going. Zip… zip… zip… Then came contact, a light stinging, a second between each flick, moving up and down my exposed flesh like an irritating insect. The strikes were harder now, sharper, more defined, more cutting. Contact was greater and louder, the crack of thong on flesh sounding loud in the insulated, clinically tiled room. It was starting to hurt, and I was involuntarily flinching from each blow, as the tattoo upped its tempo.
Zing…zing… the whip stung like a line of fire with each contact, and soon the whole of my exposed bottom was ablaze. I was squirming and jerking about on the suspension cable so much that Henry had to hold my ankles to stop me rotating. There was a limit to how much pain I could take without wanting to cry out, as well, and my stifled grunts were now becoming louder cries as I bit into the rubber bar between my teeth and tried to mentally resist the agony of my nerve ends. Portia paused briefly, to replace the single thong with a shorter, multi-thonged flogger, which, while initially not as bad, suddenly became ten times worse as she let fly vertically down on my exposed crotch. The thongs curled between my legs and landed hard on my pussy. Now I was screaming into the ineffectual gag, and I could feel the tightening grip of Henry’s hands on my ankles as my cries obviously aroused him. Having my tortured twat almost in front of his face was obviously his ideal way to wake up in the morning, if the bulge under the white trousers was anything to go by. The job probably didn’t pay much, but clearly had its compensations.
I howled and pleaded ineffectually around the rubber in my mouth, jerking and twisting in my suspension, tugging futilely within the confines of the straitjacket. Sweat was running down my body, making the thongs wet and the impact even more painful. When Portia finally stopped we were both panting, me in amongst an assortment of groans and garbled crying. I had always prided myself on my high pain threshold, but my body had taken such punishment of late, and my poor pussy was so tender that the threshold appeared to have dropped considerably.
Portia had made her point, and had enjoyed herself in the process. I was reduced to a tear-stained mess. When the flogger went back into the tin trunk, my muscles relaxed and my legs would have turned to jelly, had they not been held taut within the suspension. I waited to be let down, but it didn’t happen. Something was going on behind me – preparations that I couldn’t make see, and I had lost my desire to place unnecessary strain on the ankle cuffs, for they were starting to hurt.
I did not have long to wait to find out the next stage of the Let’s Humiliate Monica campaign as a butt plug of some sort began to probe my exposed butt hole. Portia had not bothered to lubricate it, and though it was not big, I was inverted and stretched so that I could not relax my muscles fully, and it hurt going in. I moaned as she pushed it further, the bulbous part suddenly sliding past my distended sphincter muscle with a rush. A moment later I felt the thing expand as someone squeezed a hand pump.
“We want you nice and clean for the next stage,” Portia informed me cheerfully, and I knew with dread that I was about to receive an enema, in the worst position possible. “We have four litres here. That should be enough, don’t you think? A nice mix of bicarb, warm water and olive oil. We’ve even put some nice-smelling stuff in it. Don’t say you don’t get looked after, Monica.”
“Urrgh,” I gurgled, upside down.
“You know you love it,” she said, squatting beside me with a squeak of pvc and stroking my flushed face. “Well, I have enjoyed this. I’ll leave Henry to do the rest, and I’ll be back in an hour to see how you’re doing.”
An hour! Four litres! I knew I couldn’t accommodate that much, but I knew that I would be filled to whatever capacity I could manage. Portia waited while Henry opened a valve somewhere high above me, and I felt the first warm liquid flow into my body. Portia smiled and gave a little wave as she closed the door behind her.
“Enjoin’ yaself, are ya?” Henry grinned. “Never understand how you women pay for this. All this toxin relief and cleansing the body. Good for spiritual healin’, huh? Like being beaten do ya? Each to their own, I guess.” He moved to the door. “Well, we change shift soon. Bob’ll be in to see you through.”
Oh God, I thought. That was all I needed. Greasy Bob, and me helpless and unattended. I wondered what story Henry had been told. Was this really some sort of health spa, or in fact an asylum for incurables, or some bizarre combination of both? I had a feeling I was going to remain gagged for much of the time, if there was a chance of talking to the attendants.
I hung there, the rubber bar clenched between my teeth as the warm intrusive liquid slowly worked its insidious path inside my guts. My belly distended and soon the cramps started. I groaned softly to myself, every now and then trying to ease the discomfort of my position, which resulted in a slow turning on the cable. I glimpsed a large plastic container hanging from a hook on the ceiling, with a clear plastic hose descending to the entry point between my legs. The container seemed to be partly full, and I knew that every little squirm or muscle contraction that I made would mean another thimbleful of liquid would make its way inside of me until I was engorged like a balloon.
When the door opened, it was Greasy Bob, with a smile lit up like a Christmas tree. He walked around me, examining my plight from every angle, running his hands over my swollen belly and pressing firmly. I cried out and he desisted, instead turning to the tin trunk and extracting a vibrator.
“Ngoh!” I protested. “Eesh oant!” But my pleas were futile as he switched the thing on and began to play with my pussy by poking the thing in a little and working it around. Then he used it like a pencil, moving the head across my clit which left me straining and gasping, overcome by all manner of sensations, primarily unpleasant but interspersed with sudden flushes of pleasure that were immediately overwhelmed. I made more gargling whimpers of protest as he pushed the vibrator home inside my pussy, itself tight from the suspension and the swollen flesh all around it.
I shut my eyes and screwed up my face, biting on the rubber bit. I was making a desperate keening noise as the cramps took hold again and interacted with all the intolerable things that were happening to me and about which I could do nothing. That was when Portia appeared again, ordering Bob to desist with a mild rebuke, that told me – and him – that within reason what he was doing was acceptable, but not to the point where it made a mess and spoilt the experiment.
There were hands fiddling with the tubes and several more squeezes that saw the butt plug expand further, much to my vociferous objection. It was probably necessary, however, as I was lowered to the floor and dragged to the toilet bowl, my ankles still in the spreader bar, there to have the butt plug deflate and the whole flood released.
Portia wrinkled her nose and left the room, instructing Bob to keep me there for the next hour. My life had sunk to another low ebb.
* * *
For an hour Bob and I faced each other. My plight seemed not to phase him one bit, other than to prompt him to turn the hose on me half way through the whole humiliating process, soaking the straitjacket and leaving me shivering as my body continued to rid itself of unwanted contents.
When Portia finally returned I was bent double over the pan with Bob having done a further job hosing me down. I was cold and miserable, and was glad to have the spreader bar removed and be towelled down, then led further down the corridor to a room at the end. It was much bigger than the last, but again had white tiled walls and was the hydrotherapy room, if the sign on the door was anything to go by.
Four rectangular pools the size of large jacuzzis occupied the room, with a sort of crane device in the middle such that it could be used to lower people into the water of any of the pools. In this instance one of the pools was filled with what looked like liquid brown mud, presumably of therapeutic variety, while the others contained clear water. In a space along one side of the room was a metal gurney and it was on to this that I was hoisted by Bob and Portia.
I was made to lie on my back, and I was so drained that I put up no resistance. The cold metal felt nice on my poor butt, which I felt must be a mass of weals from the whipping that Portia had given it. Portia slipped a noose over my neck and tied it off to the gurney, making it very clear that any struggling would be to my detriment. I also found that it prevented me from both sitting up and seeing what was happening to me.
I had no choice but to lie there and be aware of the damp strips of sheet that they began to wrap around my legs like pressure bandages, working their way separately up each leg from ankle to groin, stopping every now and then to attach pads or stickers with wires on them, to my skin. The sheets were cold and between Bob and Portia they were made very tight, as one person pulled while the other held the leg, before swapping tasks.
After they had done each leg, the inevitable focus on my groin was not surprising. When Portia held up an Ultimator, I groaned my protest and shook my head. I did not want one of those jammed up my now ultra-sensitive arse, never mind my pussy and clit. I did not think I had the strength to hold out against what this device could do.
My resistance was useless, however, as they each held a leg apart and worked the device methodically into my orifices while I moaned and burbled into the gag. They finally got it in as far as it would go, much to my great discomfort, and at that point wet sheet pads were placed between my ankles and knees, and more sheets were wrapped around my legs, joining them together almost immovably.
When came the time for me to sit up and have the straitjacket removed, I did so without resistance, dully submitting to the inevitable. I had lost all hope of avoiding my fate, and like a limp doll I allowed them to wrap my arms first and then my body. The latter was only done after Portia fastened circular clamps around my nipples, which by then were stiffly erect because of the cold sheets. Several other electrode pads were attached, either side of my pussy, to my buttocks and on my wrists and upper arms. An acrylic neck brace was fitted before I then got the full wrap treatment, turning me slowly into a mummy. At one stage there was a sharp pain in my arm, that might have been a needle of some sort, but I couldn’t turn my head to see what had been done to me.
The process took well over an hour, I reckoned. The pair talked little, other than to make comments on the adjustments needed. When all this was done and only my head remained, Portia pushed two rubber plugs into my nostrils. I reacted as best I could, being forced to breathe around the rubber bar still lodged between my teeth. She unbuckled the strap at the back of my head, and in the time it took to remove the bit and for me to take a breath, a more substantial mouthpiece was lodged in its place.
It was made of clear acrylic and was a bit like the mouthguards you can buy for contact sports. It contained a solid wedge on each side but with a central flat piece that depressed my tongue somewhat, though not so much that I couldn’t swallow. In the middle of the front section was a clear plastic tube about the diameter of my finger, through which I now found myself breathing. There followed a pair of swimming goggles over my eyes and plugs jammed in my ears, then the wrapping of my head began. More strips of sheeting, miles on miles, it seemed, slowly being unwound from pre-soaked rolls, around my head, securing my jaw closed, covering my mouth and nose and criss-crossing around the goggles. Combined with the neck brace, they ensured my head became a rigid part of my body, barely able to move.
Finally it was back on the gurney, and around to the crane device, which held a stretcher-like frame of wire mesh. I was strapped to this and had to wait while all the various trailing electrical wires were connected to wherever they had to go. I was feeling cold in the sheeting and beginning to shiver. The noises of the room and my two captors were only dimly discernable, and I could only make out blurry features of the ceiling and lights above me.
I was swung out above a pool, or so I could only assume, for staring up at the ceiling told me nothing of what was passing below me. Then I began to descend, sensing first the swaying ceasing as the frame touched the water, then a faint lightening of my body as the floatation took effect. I tried to move, but the bandages held me utterly rigid, and I knew instead I had to focus on my breathing and to relax.
I sank beneath the water, experiencing a momentary panic as my swim goggles were covered, and my vision dimmed. Initially nothing seemed to have changed. I still felt cold, but gradually the cold began to intensify, as the bandages absorbed the water in the pool, which was clearly colder than the soaked bandages had been to start with. Minutes passed, maybe longer. I began to shiver uncontrollably, listening to my breath rasp in and out of the breathing tube, and the almost inaudible sloshing sounds from the pool outside my cocoon. I had no idea how long I would have to endure this. Portia had gone to a lot of trouble, and it wasn’t going to be a five minute punishment for me – that was very clear.
I jerked from my thoughts as a jolt of electricity shot through my pussy and up my arse.
“Owwwwwwwwwooooo!” I howled into the breathing tube.
“Are you awake in there?” Portia’s voice crackled in ears. So the plugs were actually earphones… The bitch! God, this was going to be awful!
“Hello, Monica,” Portia’s voice purred. “Testing…testing…”
There followed a horrific series of electrical surges that zapped my nipples and sequentially caused the muscles to spasm in my thighs, arms and legs. At each jolt I enunciated as clearly as I could into the tube the pain that I felt, biting down on the plastic mouthpiece and struggling vainly against the bandages that held me rigidly on the frame.
“We’re going to have a little lesson in history, Monica,” Portia’s voice whispered. At any other time it might have sounded sexy and beguiling. Now it sounded full of menace. “You have no idea how long I’ve looked forward to this moment… How I’ve mentally toyed with which switch to hit in regard to each indignity you’ve heaped on me… Should I start at the beginning, and work back? Or start with the most recent humiliation you and your team have inflicted on me? I wonder how long you can stand what I have in store for you? You needn’t worry about fainting. I have you monitored for body temperature and pulse rate. I can freeze you or steam you, or bring you to an orgasm while your nipples are making you scream with pain. Except that you can’t really scream, can you? You can only make those plaintive woo-woo noises which sound so pathetic, yet funny at the same time.” She chuckled. “This is going to be just sooo… much fun, I’m almost wetting myself in anticipation. And of course Jade will be here later to take you through her own personal history of suffering at the hands of Monica Armstrong…” A sigh of pleasure. “God, this is fun! So – are we lying comfortably? Then let us begin…”
“Let’s go back in time… Let me tell you the most recent indignity your lot put me through. Maybe Jade has told you a little. Let me fill you in, if you’ll pardon the pun. In Hong Kong we have a minion called Shek, who is a big man – that is to say, big of body, and hung like a donkey. He and I had almost pulled off a brilliant entrapment of your team. I had the slavegirl – Shawnee – chained up, and Mary and Trish were bent over in strappaddos that made such wonderful targets of their bottoms, with their heads down and their legs spread.
“Then that interfering handyman of yours turned up, dressed like Lara bloody Croft , and evidently determined to do an Indiana Jones. Yes, he did get the better of me – and Shek, somehow. I wound up tied up on the kitchen table at the hands of Mad Mary, armed with a nasty whip. I had my breasts compressed and my nipples adorned with chopsticks, which Mary took great delight in flicking off with a flogger. Do you know what that’s like?”
I did, actually, not that it mattered in this case. Abruptly the clamps on my own nipples seemed to come alive, and a piercing pain transfixed my left one for about five seconds, before transferring to the right one. I howled with the unexpectedness of it, now realising that my helplessness was the setting to relive all the pain that had ever been inflicted on Portia and Jade Wong, moment by moment. The clamps seemed to ease a fraction, but both remained firm, gripping my flesh sufficiently to maintain an ache, if not a biting pain. Portia’s voice continued, with obvious pleasure that my suffering was giving her.
“After my breasts had been the target, my backside came in for more attention…” And at this point of course pads on my own buttocks – of which I had barely been aware - began to tingle, first with a low vibration, then sharper, turning to discomfort, then a burning pain. I moaned and tried to squirm, but to no avail. I was obliged to lie there and take it, my whole body becoming tense and rigid as the electricity vibrated across my skin. I was making a long keening groan when the power eased off. If I could have slumped, I would have, such was the stiffness that I had worked into my body that was nothing to do with the tightness of the bandages.
I was breathing heavily, gasping in air through the pipe. When Portia began to talk about how she had been tied up and impaled on Shek’s member, and the pair had been forced to walk to the village, I knew what was coming, as the section of the Ultimator buried to the hilt in my backside rumbled into life.
“It took us a long time to get to the village,” Portia explained. “We were both gagged, of course, and Shek enjoyed giving me the most thorough reaming I have ever had, and later complained that he had no choice in the matter. He was still complaining when I whipped his dong such that he could barely touch it for a week. And now, Monica, thanks to the wonders of remote technology, you can experience the sensations for the next half hour – or so – and think about the agony I endured because of your people. I should explain that this was not a simple walk. Shek had to sit down every now and again, and to climb over the odd fallen tree. Each time he did, just when I thought I could accommodate him no further, he would drive inside me another few millimetres. I want you to experience this as well. I will leave you to your thoughts – I do hope you have a vivid imagination!” There was a brief laugh and the sound went dead. Moments later the dim circles that comprised my field of vision turned black, and a steady mechanical thrusting began in my back passage, while the nipple clamps tightened further, and I knew that my time in hell had really begun.
* * *
My imagination was vivid. Unfortunately that is one of the prerequisites of the kind of lifestyle I lead, and why I consider myself quite successful – if indeed you could gauge the pinnacle of success as being helplessly cocooned in a tank of water having unspeakable things done to you. If this was the true measure of success, then I was probably in a league of my own.
While all the action was taking place up my arse and around my nipples, the water seemed to become warmer, and I began to drift in and out of reality. My mind was not functioning properly, but every now and again there was a more extreme movement from the dong inside me, which I took from Portia’s description to represent Shek deciding to sit down for a bit. I was realising dimly that the Ultimator could in fact be programmed, and that it was not restricted to a vibrating or electrical mode, but that it had a significant movement capability as well. There was a screwing motion coupled with an up-and-down, overlaid with the vibrations. It was like a ship encountering different wave patterns, at times rolling, pitching, or corkscrewing. Had I been asked to comment on its effectiveness and been asked to buy one, I would have given it ten out of ten and snapped up a dozen right there and then. Unfortunately, I only wanted it to stop, for the movements were both painful and arousing at the same time.
The picture of Portia, tied naked to the front of this man called Shek, bouncing up and down on his dick as they stumbled down the path to the village was curiously erotic, and I could imagine the gagged noises emanating from them with each step. I wondered if Shek had jogged a bit just to make things really interesting. The net result of all this was that the pain in my nipples had settled to a dull ache, and I found myself curiously aroused by the image in my mind’s eye. I have never been a particularly anal person, though there have been times when the circumstances have dictated otherwise, so I suppose I should not have been surprised in this instance. While the device embedded in my pussy and the part bound hard against my clit remained inert, I was sufficiently conscious of them for their presence to arouse those parts as well. Before I really knew it, my visions of Shek and Portia had started to get me very horny indeed, and with the warming of the water I abruptly found things were happening down south that I couldn’t control, and I had no choice but to let them go. Despite the tightness of the bandages, I had just enough pelvic muscle movement to make the right connections.
The orgasm was brief but satisfying – a rush that saw me make a series of short grunts through the tube – but the downside was that nothing changed, and the machine continued its remorseless movements. The thought then occurred to me that this supposedly pleasurable side of things might be part of Portia’s plan to see just how much I could take. I wondered if she had climaxed herself in the course of her journey of impalement down to the village? Was she an anal kind of girl? I would have put nothing past her.
My mind drifted in and out of a weird variety of images as the Ultimator ground out its rhythm in my back passage. The warm water was now becoming decidedly hot, and I was beginning to feel stifled and flushed under the bandages. The orgasm had done nothing to cool me down, nor had the anal activity.
At some stage the motions finally ceased in my now very tender backside. I was boiling at the time, struggling to stay conscious in the cocoon, my brain playing bizarre tricks on me. I had not been aware of the light coming on, for I had had my eyes closed. Portia’s voice cut through my mental haze like an axe.
“I hope that has led to a little empathy between us Monica. Let me now let you experience a little of what I went through on that wretched flight back from Australia. Imagine you are in a small, stifling room in Nairobi Airport. You have a set of Ben Wa balls trapped inside you and an uncomfortable dildo up your arse. You are hot as hell in a rubber suit that you can’t take off, worn as it is beneath your clothes, and a couple of stuck-on acrylic breast forms prevent you attacking the maddening itching powder on your nipples. That was very imaginative, Monica. Exceedingly so. Of course, if you were Jade, you’d find your teeth locked together, with a neck brace holding your head rigid into the bargain. Imagine all of this for twelve hours. That’s how long you can experience it now. Unfortunately I have to come back then to re-set the timer. I do hope you enjoy your flight. Please relax and if there is anything I or my fellow crew members can do to make your journey more enjoyable, please push the call button – if you can reach it, hahaha!”
There was a thrumming from the vibrator in my pussy and a softer one at my clit, while at the same time the nipple clamps eased but began a faint tingling.
“Ngohhhhhhh!” I screamed into the tube as the lights were extinguished and I was left floating in the inky blackness.
* * *
So began the long and painful journey that Portia and Jade Wong had planned for me. My recollections of it are blurred as I struggled mentally and physically in my black cocoon, fighting to resist the monsters that had invaded my own private nightmare. This was not a nightmare that I could wake up from, nor one that I could run away from or which would ultimately render me unconscious. The physical and sexual stimulation alternately sent me soaring to exhausting heights, then drove me crazy with sensations that at once irritated, then hurt, then numbed my tender parts.
While this was going on, the stifling heat of Nairobi suffocated me, dragging me into torpid depths of lethargy where my will to resist was crushed, and the pain numbed. Then, as though fearing the effects of the Ultimator might be neutralised, the temperature dropped and Nairobi’s overpowering heat was replaced by a bone-numbing chill that heightened the tingling on my nipples and stirred the pain receptors in my brain. Finally the chill became such a searing cold that in my mind I seemed to be tied to the outside of a jet flying high above the ocean in the unsustainable temperatures where pain ceased to be specific but merged into a piercing, all-encompassing hand that gripped my whole body.
Amidst this fluctuating sensory input, my mind wandered into strange realms, where Portia and Jade Wong appeared in a variety of guises. I tried to focus on keeping the pain or the intensity of an orgasm at bay, to try to slip away into subspace, but it was something I had never been able to achieve. Unlike Emma, and to a lesser extent some other subs I had worked with, who could slip into subspace and somehow absorb more of the punishment that was being given to them, I could not. I had ventured into such practices as Tai Chi and Yoga in the past, in an effort to capture some of the spiritual elements, but none of these helped me now, as my imagination at first ran riot, then began to come apart, wandering into illogical mazes peopled by strange hybrid characters from some bizarre asylum.
The hours drifted by in a miasma of pain and ecstasy, drifting from intense heat to frigid cold, with my mind – I’m sure – slipping in and out of consciousness as the various sensations coincided at their extremities.
Many hours later, I gathered my senses at the sound of Jade Wong’s voice, drilling down into my subdued consciousness.
“Monica! Monica Armstrong! Answer me!” There followed a fierce pain through my nipples which caused me to cry out again, evidently the response that Jade was looking for.
“Ah, good, you are with us.” Her voice came smoothly into my ears like someone from another planet. “ Have you enjoyed yourself?”
“Oourrrgh,” I gurgled through the tube.
“Good. I thought I’d tell you that Portia has gone home to calm down, after all the excitement of listening to you suffer for the last few hours. She found it very stimulating, as I’m sure you would like to know. You always were one for providing customer satisfaction. Portia looked very satisfied, I must say. She looked quite drained, in fact. Seeing some people suffer does that to her. It does it to me, in fact. I think Portia came almost as many times as you did, if the damp patch on this chair is anything to go by. Seeing some people suffer is one thing. Seeing you – in particular – undergo this little trial is a quantum leap above the ordinary. I can’t tell you how much pleasure you’re bringing to us. Nor can I tell you how long it will go on for. That’s something for me to know and you to wonder about.” She broke off with a soft chuckle.
“But now, let’s go off on another time trip.” Jade Wong sounded so reasonable, like a psychiatrist gently prodding a reluctant patient to remember some forgotten memory. “Do you recall a time back in Macau… oh, it must be two years ago… Dear me, have we known each other that long? Time flies when you’re having fun, doesn’t it? Of course in this particular instance I wasn’t having fun.” The voice became flatter and harder. “No, in this case I seem to recall that you and some of your friends had gate-crashed my party, and had managed to escape from the dungeon where you should have stayed until I could deal with you properly. And not content with invading my house, you then invaded my bedroom, and dragged myself and Portia out into the light well. Now I’d like you to cast your mind back to that time. It was night – remember?”
The twin circles of light that comprised my view of the room abruptly went out.
“It was also starting to rain. And believe me, rain in Macau can be cold, especially when you’re chained naked in a light well for half the night. Do you feel colder? I hope so, because I’m watching the temperature of your little bath dropping as we speak. But of course cold was just one of my discomforts. Most distressing were those nipple clamps which that lovely blonde of yours – Jill – insisted on locking so painfully in place.”
I would have suggested that after what Portia and Jade had done to Jill, a bit of nipple revenge was the least of her worries, but my circumstances dictated that I should remain quiet, except when the rings on my own nipples abruptly seemed to contract, and I let out a cry as best I could.
“Excellent,” said Jade, over the sudden rapid breathing I was having to do to cope with the fierce pain in my nips. “And not content with this, you fitted dear Portia with a rather large strap on, and persuaded her to stick it where is did not belong.”
As though to underline her point, a jolt of electricity emanated from the dildo up my own backside and I gasped, uttering a moan of dismay.
“But before that, you had the temerity to force Portia to beat me with my own cane, which I’m sure she took secret pleasure in doing, just as I took more obvious pleasure in returning the favour. The point of it was not lost, though, was it? We dommes hate having this sort of thing done to us. We get off on doing it to others, just as I am expecting a long and very enjoyable afternoon coming up. That particular caning was most painful, not to mention humiliating. I’m just sorry I can’t introduce an appropriate level of humiliation for you in this instance, but nobody would recognise you in your present garb. Instead we’ll just have to manage with the pain side of things, and leave the humiliation part until later. But I’ll nevertheless enjoy it very much. Those little pads across your bottom have quite a nice effect when activated in quick succession, which this device can do. It was ten strokes of the cane, that Portia so delightfully gave to me. Perhaps twenty might be the equivalent for you, Monica.”
I was unprepared for what came next, for I could not feel the electrode pads stuck to my buttocks, under the tightly wrapped bandages. At least, I couldn’t feel them until the first surge of electricity shot through them. They had obviously been strung out across my backside in three rows, with three pads per side, per row. I worked this out after the first three ‘strokes’. In the blink of an eye the first row activated, the first pad zapping me to be followed a fraction of a second later by the second, then the third, up to the sixth. The effect was a horrific line of pain wrapping across my cheeks under the bandages. I had never experienced anything quite like it, and despite my restraints I flinched and jerked and bit down on the gag, unable to suppress a scream.
“Count them, Monica,” she directed. It was the oldest command in the book, and it worked a treat.
“Ournn…” I garbled.
My resistance had been lowered through what I had endured over many hours, and with each successive ‘stroke’ I howled out the number through the tube, dimly imagining Jade Wong’s glee at my misery.
“Wen-ee…” I sobbed, my breathing a mixture of gasps and swallows and moans.
“Very nice. Now just pretend you’re gagged and chained up in the darkness and the rain, waiting for your servants to find you in the morning, with your employee’s dick up your arse and your nipples being pinched unendurably. You’ll suffer cramps and generally become very unhappy. See how you enjoy it…”
The earphones went quiet, and as the pain slowly subsided from my buttocks, the dildo up my arse quivered and buzzed uncomfortably, while the cold grew more intense and my nipples ached abominably.
Time passed and I began to keen to myself, as the pads on my arms began to twitch and make my muscles spasm. My tortured body slipped quickly back into the world of forgotten adventures that had now come back to haunt me. Pictures of Jill and Leila bound and tortured as a result of my miscalculation on the Hong Kong video project brought suppressed feelings of guilt flooding back, and the tears stinging my eyes were now those of regret as well as pain. I had tried so hard to make a success of everything I had done, sometimes to the point of over-enthusiasm, in the capitalist quest of the mighty dollar. My rationalisation submerged into a welter of illogical thought processes that only confused me totally, and I found myself back with my nightmares and the monsters that had besieged me over the preceding hours. I was going round and round in a maze of concentric thoughts that led nowhere except to an incomprehensible landscape of delirium.
* * *
Time had no meaning as I gurgled and moaned my pain to a world that wasn’t listening, save for Jade Wong. It lasted for hours and hours, or so I thought. It took several calls from her before her voice finally penetrated my confused brain.
“Monica!” I became aware that the pain had stopped in my nipples and backside, and that the spasms had ceased as the water became warmer. “Portia hasn’t arrived for the next shift, yet, and I have an appointment.” She sounded impatient and not a little put out. “It’s your good fortune that you now get a rest until she arrives. However she has some very nasty surprises, so I’d make the most of the break. I’ll open the rehydration bag in the mean time. We don’t want you passing out through lack of sustenance.” Then the phones went dead.
Dimly my mind registered the memory of having a needle stuck in my arm during the mummification process, and I concluded I had to be on a drip of some sort. Clearly I was to be kept this way for a long time. My bowels were empty from the enema, but with the respite from the pain I realised I needed to pee, and slowly relaxed sufficiently for my bladder to empty itself. The water had stabilised at a comfortable temperature, and to all intents and purposes I could have been drifting in a floatation tank. The absence both of active devices inside me and a constant chill or heat from the water was blissful, and I must have sunk into an exhausted sleep.
Again, I had no idea how long I was unconscious, but I had the feeling some considerable time had passed. Nothing had happened, and all at once I was struck with a horrible thought that I had been forgotten or else Portia or Jade had been called away on other business. How often did people come into this room? What were their instructions regarding the white bandaged person strapped to the frame in the water? How many days might I be there? Suppose a passing orderly simply assumed I was resting between treatments? Suppose all mummies look alike and it was never concluded that it was the same person who had been trapped there for a week? How long would the drip nutrients keep me alive? How would I eventually die?
My thought processes went haywire and I let out a muted “whoo” noise to the darkened room, with no result. I was now convinced that I might be there for days, assuming nobody took a further interest in torturing my helpless body any further. God, what was going to happen to me?
* * *
bondagestories : alexanderstories