The Abduction of Monica 1: The Russians are Coming
by Richard Alexander (Gromets Plaza)
Book 8 of the Monica Chronicles by Richard Alexander
My name is Steven Reynolds, and my qualifications for writing this story are merely that I have perhaps known Monica Armstrong the longest of any of the people at Bilboes - if you count the time we knew each other at school, that is.
I’ve been living and working in the Bilboes establishment for a number of years now. Of course the definition of ‘working’ is debatable. I’ve always held that ‘work’ describes ‘anything you don’t like doing’. On that basis, I’ve actually done very little genuine work in my time here, from the moment I began the alterations to the old colonial house that had been christened “Bilboes”, to the time I became fully a part of the outrageous and bizarre events that seemed to comprise the normal day-to-day activities. In the large part these events comprised B&D scenes and activities of an admittedly complicated and devious but nevertheless traditional flavour. There had, however, been extreme and often hairy adventures that had taken us as a team to India, Hong Kong, Oman, England and the US, to name but a few destinations.
In the course of these adventures we had suffered grievously at times, but that suffering had drawn us closer together. Monica had led us with poise and authority and had always brought us home in one piece, which could not always be said for those who had endeavoured to thwart her. I had seen Monica’s confidence and commercial acumen grow as the business had expanded. We had developed a diverse clientele ranging from Chinese Gold Coast high-rollers with kinky tastes to Australian politicians with a penchant for the bizarre. Whatever the fetish, Bilboes could likely provide it, though we stoped short of anything to do with kids, animals and body modification. We agreed that one man’s (or woman’s) perversion was another man’s (or woman’s) kink, and we were all aligned with Monica’s non-judgemental approach. If they could pay, Bilboes could deliver.
Yet sometimes Monica’s business plan seemed to go just a little over the top. There had been the bogus offer to make a film in Hong Kong, that had resulted in Leila and Jillian being kidnapped (See Monica’s Quest) . Then there was the hare-brained scheme to help rescue two abductees in India (See Monica and the Black Fortress). And not surprisingly, all of this had created a few enemies along the way. Sure, some were now dead, some were missing, and some were in jail, while on some we held sufficient blackmail evidence for them not to cause trouble. A number of these villains had been local, a few from overseas, but in my eyes they somehow all held less menace than the Russians.
You hear a lot of stories about the Russian Mafia. I’ve talked to guys who have worked in Russia and the things they told me reaffirmed my intention never to go there on other than the most innocent of tourist trips – and not before I’ve seen a helluva lot of other parts of the world. Even on the news there are all the stories of political suppression, killings and jailings – and these are by the elected officials. What the Russian Mafioso gets up to doesn’t warrant even thinking about. By contrast, we also know that Russia has one of the highest percentages of beautiful women in the world – a fact that leads to people trafficking across Europe and parts of Asia, and a completely disproportionate amount of solicitations for husbands on the internet.
The above rationale, Dear Reader, outlines just a little of the background to my thoughts and reactions when Monica announced that two Russians would be coming to Brisbane to sample a little of the Bilboes B&D services. She did not say as much, but there was just the hint of a possibility of some sort of business partnership if things worked out. Whatever her thinking, we were told in no uncertain terms that whatever these people wanted, it was to be supplied – providing it was within our normal “core business” as she called it (somewhat pretentiously, I thought.)
All this is by way of an introduction as to how Leila and I found ourselves bound together in a walk-in wardrobe having suffered varying torments at the hands of our guests, with further tortures now continuing in their absence. And Monica was nowhere to be found. She was no doubt too busy saying an obsequious farewell to our guests - or banking their cheques, I thought unkindly.
It was dark in the walk-in wardrobe. The door was closed and for a few minutes there had only been the sound of Leila’s and my breathing, with occasional muffled sighs coming from Leila. Our faces were less than a handspan apart, as we knelt like conjoined twins, attached at the mouth and nipples. Stuffed in each of our mouths was a hard rubber ball that was strapped tightly behind the neck. The balls were connected by a bolt through the middle, and while distending our jaws, it meant that our noses were almost touching. As if that wasn’t enough, the rings piercing my nipples had been wired to those piercing Leila’s, while our hands had been bound behind our backs.
This devious method of connecting our bodies meant that we could not simply kneel back on our haunches, but had to kneel ‘upright’. To further ensure this posture was maintained, a rope tied to the overhead clothes hanger bar dropped down and looped around the middle of the double ball gag. To ensure we didn’t stand up, our ankles had been crossed and tied. In short, we were going nowhere, and were now suffering the slow tortuous pains that only the more experienced Dom or Domme could dream up.
Leila, I should explain, had been plugged securely in both front and rear orifices, with both of the plugs connected to an electro-stim device that went through various programmes clearly designed to push all her buttons. In this regard, I, too, had been the less than willing recipient of a butt plug, which – like Leila’s – was held in place with a tight waist and crotch chain locked at the navel. My plug was also connected to the electro-stim.
Unfortunately, the last and most significant device (as far as I was concerned) to have been employed was the cock restraint locked securely on Mr Willy. This was the CB-3000, complete with Points of Intrigue. The CB-3000 was an extremely effective polycarbonate device that effectively denied me any chance of getting an erection. The Points of Intrigue addition was a totally unnecessary (in my view) circular ring that had been included in the contrivance in this instance, the way a washer is inserted between the nut and the bolt. On the inside of the ring, pressing down quite painfully at the mere suggestion of an erection, were three points, which dug into the top of Mr Willy. Never mind the fact that the restraint itself made it impossible to achieve an erection, the Points of Intrigue turned a simply frustrating inability into a painful one.
I was not sure who had decided I had to be on the receiving end of this. I wouldn’t have been surprised if Monica had something to do with it, but such had been Ivana Marchenko’s expertise and familiarity with the gear that she might well have taken total responsibility.
I should explain that Leila and myself had been the guineapigs for our two new clients, while they had thoroughly enjoyed themselves experimenting with the wide range of bondage and other equipment in the Bilboes dungeons.
We had first met the two Russians in Monica’s study.
I was not sure which of the pair was the boss – or if indeed there was one. The male half was called Dimitri Bukin – an athletic man with broad shoulders and a demeanour that suggested he was not to be trifled with. He was in his thirties but looked in good shape. He wore a well-cut suit and tie and managed to get away with it rather more than those Russian politicians who insist on cut-back collars and thick drab ties. His fair hair was cut short – not quite a crew cut and not quite a Number 2 – and his dark eyes conveyed no insight as to his mood, and certainly no evidence of a sense of humour. I was thankful I was not going to be on the receiving end of him – that was, until I met Ivana Marchenko. I was not sure that she would be any better.
I guessed Ivana was in her late twenties – perhaps thirty at the most. Her hair was the same jet black colour as Monica’s but fell straight past her shoulders unlike Monica’s more sophisticated styling. She wore a tightly fitting silvery blouse tucked into a short black skirt, and despite the warmth of the early summer, knee high patent leather boots were an eye-catching addition. They had ten centimetre stiletto heels and exaggerated her slenderness and height. I could not help but notice the gold bracelet, drop earrings, several rings and a heavy matching chain necklace. Everything about her said money, but not much said class, I thought.
As I was introduced to her, I took in the full lips with just a hint of a pout, but most of all it was the eyes that captured my own. They were an unusual shade of deep green, and they narrowed as they looked me up and down. Her smile was one of anticipation rather than warmth.
I guessed why Leila and I had been selected. In my case, I would be there to satisfy Ivana Marchenko’s needs, whims and desires – all of which Monica would have established beforehand with her typically painstaking research and preparation that went with the arrival of new clients. Of course, since I was the only male on a payroll of 7, it was not hard to see why I got the role of test pilot in this case. I had rapidly risen from my first job as Builder, moving on to Device Construction Manager, to Device Testing Officer, and from there it had been but a short leap of faith into the true world of B&D. I would like to say the girls had been gentle on me in my introduction, but that really wasn’t true. I had been given a baptism of fire and from there on had become the (usually) willing participant in all manner of schemes, scenes and customer service (See Monica’s Place). Mostly these were in a Dominant role, but I had done my time as a submissive. In truth, I saw advantages in both, and Monica had reluctantly accepted that I would never be a true dyed-in-the-wool Dom.
At a personal level, I think this was a disappointment to her, for Monica Armstrong liked powerful men. Much as she was a Domme herself, she was still prepared to submit on special occasions to the right man. True, I had had my wicked way with her many times, and we had developed a very special relationship. Conversely, she had extracted her revenge on me many times and I had suffered accordingly.
Professionally, my role as a switch was perfect for Monica and the running of Bilboes. It meant she had an accommodating male body available for any female subbie or Domme client who needed such. I was nothing if not an all rounder, though many were the times when I wondered if there was not a more orthodox way of earning a living.
On this instance, one look at Ivana Marchenko told me I would not be donning my black leather pants to instil some discipline into the Russian woman. No, if anything had to be instilled, it was she who would be the Instiller, and I the Instillee.
It didn’t take a rocket scientist to figure out where Dimitri’s predilections lay, either, as he eyed Leila beside me. Leila was the youngest on the Bilboes payroll, and a submissive through and through. Despite the cute looks bestowed by her deep brown eyes and the honey blonde hair just touching her shoulders, I had seen her take severe pain that ultimately brought her to an orgasm. Leila had a high pain threshold and an ability to slip easily into subspace en route to a climax, almost regardless of what was thrown at her. I knew it had been a long road, but under the experienced direction and nurturing of Bilboes’ three Dommes - Monica, Trish and Mary - she had blossomed into a star performer.
What followed was a day which I had endured more than enjoyed. I had not seen much of what happened to Leila at the hands of Dimitri. Mostly that had been in another room, and the rooms in the Bilboes basement are particularly well soundproofed.
I had spent much of the time blindfolded, with my ears plugged and a gag strapped firmly in my mouth as Ivana satisfied her own lustful urges at my expense. Some of these urges involved paddles and floggers and left my skin feeling like it had a bad case of sunburn. This was a warm up (literally) for both of us, after which I had been strapped on my back on the whipping bench while Ivana rode Mr Willy to several explosive orgasms (hers, not mine). Not for the first time my rehydration sports drink had surely been laced with Viagra. I knew the behaviour of my body, and like most males I was (regrettably) not normally given to an extended performance over a period of hours, yet this is what happened. Monica had been playing around behind the scenes again.
When Ivana was not riding my lower portion, my gag had been removed and – under pain of a further whipping or alternatively, suffocation – I was directed to perform a full oral exploration of Ivana’s pussy as she sat on my face. This was a quite stimulating activity in itself, and if the howls of pleasure she finally gave as she climaxed were a measure of success, I think I did quite well. The only problem was that it was still mainly she who was getting all the enjoyment, and Mr Willy was missing out.
When I was finally dragged up to the bedroom on the first floor, Mr Willy was beaten into submission with a flogger long enough to get the cock restraint locked into place, and more tongue exploration had been demanded. Hands bound behind me, I had done my duty, this time at least lying on a comfortable bed. But of course, that’s when those wretched Points of Intrigue had come into play – something Mistress Ivana was aware of only too well.
Long story short, Ivana and Dimitri had finally tired of their individual play with Leila and myself, and we had been bound together in the walk-in wardrobe. It must have been late in the afternoon by this stage, and my body was aching from the various positions I had been forced to endure and the beatings that had been inflicted on my skin. In fairness, I had climaxed a couple of times, but those were almost accidents when I had finally overcome the pain/pleasure balance that Ivana tried to maintain. She was miffed at this, appearing to see it as a slight that her slave had climaxed without asking permission, and I had suffered further as a result. Ivana was not totally insatiable, but in my quite extensive experience, she was definitely up there with the best. The fact of having me bound and at her mercy was her inspiration to come back for more, to think up something even more devious that would give her more pleasure, while dispensing more discomfort for me.
But Ivana was not your regular Domme, and this was the point that nagged me. It became evident that as well as from her own pleasure, Ivana got off equally from a subbie’s pain. Most subbies who will admit to being pain-sluts are only too happy to receive such. Ivana didn’t care if I was after that or not. She enjoyed the infliction of pain, and did not care about the satisfaction of the sub. This trait put here outside the normal type of Domme and made me uneasy in the extreme – not that I was in a position to do anything about it.
Now, firmly attached to Leila, I sensed Leila’s own exhaustion, but in both our cases, the mere absence of our tormentors did not mean a let-up. The electro-stim was continuing to arouse Leila, and every so often she would go crashing through the barrier to another orgasm. In my case, Mr Willy was firmly locked in his case and pressed hard against Leila’s pussy. I felt every shudder of her body, every trembling of her muscles, every release of the built-up tension. I felt the sweat from our bodies mingle as it ran down between them, leaving our chests, stomachs and groins wet and slippery, before sliding down our thighs to the floor. I could hear Leila’s heavy breathing, her sighs and moans behind the gag rising in pitch and intensity as the waves of pleasure grew and grew, then pushed her over the top in a brief and futile struggle against the ropes pinioning her.
The CB-3000 was really making its presence felt now. As if the vibration of the butt plug were not enough in itself, Leila’s struggles and the intensity of her orgasms were arousing me even more, as did her constant pulling at my nipples and her thrusting against Mr Willy in his prison. I was as frustrated as all hell, and it hurt.
I had lost all track of time. It was probably evening and I did not know how long we had been in this position and how long we could keep this up. Why didn’t somebody come to check on us? Where were the rest of them?
It was a Sunday, and weekends were frequently busy for us. I had seen the roster that Monica always kept updated on the back verandah, and I knew that Mary and Trish would be fully occupied with regular clients, but as Dommes, they were allowed a little luxury in taking a break while their victims lay bound or chained in the dungeons. It would have been nice if they bothered to see how Leila and I fared with the new clients, I thought uncharitably.
And what about Jillian and Emma? Emma was a submissive, and subbies don’t have a lot of choice in things. (Leila and I were testament to that.) If Emma was busy, she would be bound securely somewhere on the receiving end of something or someone. She would not be in a position to help. That left Jill. Jill was a switch, and might be engaged either as a Top or Bottom. Some clients preferred her in one role, some in the other. Right then I had no idea what she was up to, a thought which didn’t provide any comfort to my flagging body. Monica was no doubt brown-nosing with the Ruskies – she’d be no help. Was our absence only going to be noticed at dinner?
Leila’s body shook in a series of shudders that coincided with a tugging at my nipples and a thrusting in my crotch, as she moaned and grunted loudly around the ball in her mouth. She struggled briefly then subsided as the orgasm passed, leaving her panting hard, the warmth of her breathing soft against my cheek.
That was when our dark world suddenly became light with the opening of the door. Shawnee stood there, clad in a red latex catsuit complete with hood and matching red ball gag. Her ankles were hobbled with a short chain and her wrists cuffed in front of her. She clutched a bed sheet in one hand and had a distinct look of surprise on her face.
We all mumbled into our respective gags at the same time. Hopefully the agitated noises made by Leila and me were of sufficient intensity and urgency to get through to Shawnee that all was not well in the wardrobe, and would she please do something about it. She grunted something and shut the door. We grunted back into the darkness.
It took several long minutes before the door opened again. I was starting to think dark thoughts against Shawnee, but I knew she was smart. She’d just completed her degree, after all. Some sort of thing called a Bachelor of Organisational Communication. That was irony for you, since for most of her time here she sported some sort of gag in her mouth making communications just a tad difficult.
She had spent a large part of her student years hanging out at Bilboes, doing washing and ironing and cleaning and getting paid in kind – ending up chained or bound and having rude things done to her, which she absolutely loved. Now, with her degree under her belt, she continued to spend weekends with us, doing the same duties while under some form of restraint. I had no doubt that under the bright red suit there would be a couple of inserts that would periodically necessitate a halt to her duties as she succumbed to their stimulating presence, and she would not be in a position to remove them herself.
Suffice to say, Shawnee had been around the place long enough to know that one did not interfere with the treatment of clients or the treatment of staff by clients. It was one of the rules. One first checked that everything was as it should be, before one interfered, and this was exactly what our dear Shawnee did, returning several minutes later with Monica, just as Leila shuddered and jerked her way to another orgasm as a response to the relentless electro-stim.
Monica was looking fresh and elegant in the short sleeveless green dress with an ironstone necklace decorating her cleavage, and to her credit she had the grace to be apologetic.
“Thank you, Shawnee, you did the right thing. There seems to have been a little oversight in the day’s activities,” she said, kneeling beside us.
A little oversight? There was a bloody great big one, in my book.
Monica turned the electro-stim off and I sensed Leila slump in her bonds, as I, too, welcomed the new quietness in my arse. Monica undid the ropes on Leila’s wrists, then mine.
“Look, I’m right in the middle of something at the moment – something really big. I’m sorry about this. You guys okay?” We grunted something pretty uncomplimentary which she took as assent. “I’ll let you sort yourselves out from here... Sorry – I have to get back...”
She hurried away, leaving with a flash of thigh and a wisp of perfume.
* * *
Unbeknown to us, it was probably at that moment that things had begun to come off the rails. Leila and I had endured the Russians’ attentions for most of the day. Monica was now doing deals - or trying to – the details of which we were unaware. Leila and I were too exhausted and disgruntled at Monica to think beyond our own trials. Even the probably outrageous amount that Monica would charge for our efforts did not mean much at that moment, we were so drained. Yet it was kind of good, in a way. It was like banging your head against a wall – it felt good when it stopped. We would both sleep well that night with a bizarre sense of having provided good customer service.
We did not see much of Monica the next day – Monday – until she announced late in the day that she and Mary were going into the city to meet with Dimitri and Ivana at the Grand Heritage Hotel. No, she couldn’t talk about the deal at the moment, but she would tell all the next day if it came about.
If we had any suspicion that events were slowly getting out of hand, that suspicion turned to full-blooded concern on Tuesday, when we found that neither Mary nor Monica had returned from their meeting at the Grand Heritage, and that no Russians were booked into the hotel.
When I hung up the phone from making the call to the hotel, I looked at the expectant faces of the girls watching me, and we all felt the terrible sinking feeling in the pits of our stomachs. Something was terribly, terribly wrong.
* * *
19.04.09
story continues in The Abduction of Monica 2: Taken! - Mary's Story
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