The Abduction of Monica 11: On the Trail

by Richard Alexander (Gromets Plaza)

(story continues from The Abduction of Monica 10: Incarceration - Mary's Story)

The afternoon was a mad dash for the airport.  First there had been the arguments about who was going.  I was adamant that I was going.  Whatever I might have thought initially about Sofiya’s madcap ideas I was starting to think that there was more to this woman than met the eye.  She was equally adamant that she was going, and that I was the one accompanying her.  It all seemed pretty straightforward, I thought, until Paul started rabbiting on about international jurisdictions and stuff like that, and then Trish and Jill wanted to come as well.

By the time we had sorted all that out, and everyone had been pacified, Plan A remained intact.  I threw a few things in a bag, including my laptop and some other requisites.  Anyone looking through my checked-in luggage, might have questioned the number of leather belts there, the bundle of stout plastic cable ties and the duct tape squished in amongst the jeans and shirts.  They might also have looked sideways at the four combination padlocks hanging off various zips on my daypack and wheeled port, not to mention the coil of sashcord in the outside compartment of the latter.  It was checked in luggage, however, and unlikely to show up on an X-ray – not that there was any law against taking rope from one country to another.  It was just something I had in the back of my mind – I had a feeling that I was going to be needing it.

Having come straight from the airport after a flight from Sydney, Sofiya had not yet booked into a hotel, and was carrying her Russian passport with her.  It only remained to pick out one of Monica’s suitcases and pack some of Monica’s clothes for Sofiya.  It seemed we were now going the whole hog, though she stopped short of taking Monica’s toothbrush.

Trish took us to the airport in the Monica Van – as we called our trusty Ford Transit with the high roof and the anchor points and benches in the rear suitable for transporting recalcitrant prisoners.  With Monica’s BMW now written off, we were down to one usable vehicle, most of us not having a requirement for such within the efficient organization that was Bilboes.  We said goodbye with a brief hug and mutual urgings to be careful in whatever we did, then we were queuing at the counter and going smoothly through immigration.

I had been thinking a lot about the events of the night, not least Sofiya’s experience while chained to the bed and the appearance of the stigmata on her flesh.  We had not really had a chance to talk about this in the heat of the subsequent flurry of activity.

“Tell me how you track down people,” I asked her as we sat in the relative quiet of the departure area, watching planes land and take off.  “How do you tune in?” Despite my reservations, I was nevertheless intrigued.  It was the marks on Sofiya’s body that had done it for me.

“It’s hard to describe… My English, you know?” She looked at me earnestly.

“But is it like ghosts?  Do you see people?”

“No, I don’t see people.  I don’t see ghosts, anyway.  Only I sense living people.  It’s like another personality… You feel different first, as energies come…”

“Do you go into a trance?”

“Depends.  Depends on how near I am.  Sometimes is not necessary.  Sometimes yes.”

“Yesterday, when we were watching Emma and Jill...” I pictured Sofiya arching her back, eyes closed, pressing her body against the edge of the bench, a look of suppressed rapture on her face.  “Were you in synch with Emma?  Did you climax?”  I don’t know what possessed me to again ask such a question of someone I barely knew, particularly an outsider to the Bilboes world.

Sofiya smiled, displaying perfect teeth and a warmth that suggested at once a secret, but also a willingness to share, as though she sensed a weakening in my scepticism.

“Maybe,” she said coyly. “Some things a girl doesn’t give away on first date.  Emma was very close.  Very strong passion.  Strong energy.  Like listening to music by standing in middle of orchestra.  No need to tune in – already kind of overwhelming.”  She smiled again.

I had to make the obvious comment.  I was deadly curious, and couldn’t help myself.

“Does that mean that your own… um… experiences – when they occur, are more intense than other women’s?”

“Da. Sometimes I pass out,” she said simply.

“Is that a good thing?”

“Have you ever passed out from too much pleasure, Steven?”  I shook my head. “Da, sometimes is very good thing.  I once had girlfriend who could make me pass out,” she admitted sheepishly.  “Is only so much you can take, I think.”

We were digressing.  I was soon to discover that conversations with Sofiya tended to do just this – dance about all manner of random topics like dodgem cars.  It was though her head contained so many thoughts that they had to be let loose at any opportunity.

“So how do you tune in to someone distant?” I asked again.

“I don’t know,” she said. “Truly.  I sense something from a person’s clothes, I guess – from their things, and then a little of their energy seeps into me.  I sense a change in my mind – like another emotion.  I feel different…” I could see she was struggling for words.  “Imagine you are suddenly feeling angry, right now.  You don’t know what is reason – you just do.  Is not like you.  Is like someone else is inside your head.”

“Like voices?”  I didn’t like where this was going.  You read too much about “voices” in the tabloid crime reports.  It was all very weird.

“No, not like voices, like feelings, like energy, like another personality…”

I didn’t like the idea of split personalities any more than voices.

“But how do you then find these people?”

“Sometimes I see things they see.  Sometimes I have dreams, like I am them.”

“Do you know what they know, or just see what they see?”

“Sometimes both, but not always.  Depends on how strong the bond is…”

“And those marks on you this morning – have you ever had those before?”

“No.  They were big surprise.  Very painful, but okay now.  Nothing left.”  She slid the hem of her dress up to reveal smooth white thigh.  “See?”

Despite my obvious inclination, I tried not to look too closely, conscious of fellow passengers sitting nearby.

“So what do you make of this?” I asked.  “It sounds like you’ve connected with Monica more strongly than with anyone previously.  Would that be right?”

Sofiya nodded solemnly, staring off into the distance.  I waited for her to elaborate.

“I think the circumstances are very special.  I think you and she also communicate.  Perhaps you don’t realize this.  When you tied me – spread-eagled – is that right? And she was tied similarly.  What does that mean?  It means you and she were already connecting.  It made my own connection all the stronger with you being here.  You are special person, Steven.”

“It was just coincidence,” I said.

“No such thing,” Sofiya asserted flatly.  “I’ve said before – things happen for reason.”

“Like God’s will?” I teased.

“Nyet,” she said doggedly.  “I don’t believe in God.   Buryat people believe in Tenger – a sky father, but not as a person.  The world is alive with spirits and souls in every thing and every place.  We all share planet – all part of big swings and roundabout pattern.  A person is born, another person dies.  Someone has happy event, another has sad one.  All about balance.  No change to total energies.  Does that make sense?”

I thought back to my school physics class and some sort of laws relating to the total energy and enthalpy of the universe.  Somehow I don’t think my teacher had quite that in mind.

“Absolutely,” I said.

“Do you believe in God?” she suddenly asked.

“No.”

“I think you and I very similar, Mr Steven Reynolds.  I bet you think I’m crazy.  Maybe I’ll surprise you.”

Maybe you just will, I thought to myself.

*   *   *

The Air New Zealand flight took off on time at 4.25pm, with an ETA in Hamilton of 10.45 at night after the time difference.  We had a pair of seats near the rear of the plane where we could talk, and I found myself drawn in to a conversation that again seemed to go all over the place.  We managed to put Monica aside for a little while and talked of Sofiya’s childhood in Siberia.

“I grew up in small town called Listvyanka.  It is on Lake Baikal – most sacred place in Siberia. My father was Shaman, as you would call him. Kind of mixture of healer, priest and prophet.”

“And your mother?”

“Russian.  She works on the railway as a Provodnitsa – a carriage attendant.  Here, I have photo.”  Sofiya rummaged in Monica’s expensive Prada handbag that she now carried and pulled out a worn picture.  It showed a Sofiya with her mother, dressed in what I took to be the railway uniform – a dark jacket and skirt and knee-length black boots.  There was snow on the ground and the pair were standing in front of a huge red engine that dwarfed them.

“When was this taken?”

“Two years ago, when I returned there on holiday from Vladivostok.”

“Where’s your dad?”

“I don’t see him any more.  He does not live with my mother.  He has returned to forest.” She spoke very quietly.  Even I could pick up a sadness in her voice.

“But he is still alive?”

“Da.  Just not with us. He has gone back to the spirits,” she answered ambiguously.

Dinner was served and we both drank red wine.

“What’s Vladivostok like – the Russian policemen?” I asked.

Sofiya snorted.

“Best thing ever happened to me coming here.  Aussie men are not that sophisticated but they are million times better than Russian men.  Russian men think women are all eye-candy, as you say.  Walk down the streets of Vladivostok and you see miniskirts and beautiful women all on display for men.  That is the reason the women are there. I mean, it is all image, all bling, you know?  All for the men.”

“But you still had a boyfriend?”

“Da.  Big mistake.  Rough sex, all over very quickly.  But I could not leave him – he would not let me.  I was young then – back in the nineties.  I tried to get away but he caught me and beat me.”  I was astonished that someone as intelligent and composed – well, maybe a bit flakey – would let herself get into such a situation, and I told her so.  She shrugged.

“I was young.  Did you never do stupid things when you were young, Steven?” She put her hand on my arm in a curiously tender way, as though seeking my approval.

“What happened to Mr Right?” I ventured.

“Ha.  Got conscripted.  Last heard of in Chechnya.”

I had the feeling that Sofiya was putting on a brave face over something that perhaps had deeper wounds than she let on.

Our conversation edged back to the hunt for Monica – the thought of which continued to lurk in my brain like a shark just beneath the surface of the water.

“I understand how you caught on to New Zealand,” I said, “but how are we going to go further?  It’s way smaller than Australia, but still a huge place to find someone.”

Sofiya was earnest when she spoke.

“I know we can do this, Steven.”

“You mean you can do it.”

“No, ‘we’.  When you chained me to the bed last night, I felt what Monica felt in a way that has never happened to me before.  I felt her pain, I felt her immobility, I had the marks to show for it.  But I felt it because of you – because of the way you had tied me, because of the connection you have with Monica that you do not even know you have.  Between us we can do this – you and I.  You have connection with Monica but also with me.  We are very different, but very similar also.  More similar than you realize.”

“What do you mean?”

“You tell me you are only a dumb builder – a simple soul – a mere male, da?  I know you are just being modest.  You are modest person.  I can see things in you – good things.  Maybe they will come out soon.  Just trust me – we are very alike.  You must go with your instincts and trust in fate.  As I say, things always happen for reason.  You see.  Monica is like radio signal.  Still strong in Australia.  Her room and her clothes and her things – all like big receiver.  Not so many things in New Zealand - but much much closer.  You know principle of radio receiver – you do not need to know mechanics of it.  Trust me, trust yourself.  We will find her.”

Sofiya squeezed my hand.  Somehow the gesture of her small hand over mine was oddly comforting.  I closed my eyes.  This was going to be so hard.

*   *   *

We were the last flight into Hamilton that evening.  I collected our hire car and we drove to a motel a short distance from the airport on the way to Hamilton city. At this point we had no real sense of which direction we should be heading, and it was at this point that I began to sense the enormity of the task facing us.  We literally had nothing to go on.  At a roundabout we could turn north, east, south or west with equal chance of going the right way.

We parked the car right outside our motel room and carried our cases inside.  There was a large double bed and a single one.  I had not really thought about sleeping arrangements with the rush to get here and the focus on Monica.

“You can have the double,” I told Sofiya, hardly thinking.

“No,” she replied firmly. “No bed for Sofiya. You must tie me up again, Steven. Whatever happened last night… It works.” 

Now there was a sentence I had not expected to hear, though I was glad I had.  I had wanted it to come from her own lips, before I suggested it.  We both knew it was inevitable, as some things in this life always are.

“I will go and get ready.”

She disappeared into the bathroom and there came the sound of a shower running.  I looked around the room.  I have found from previous experience that motels and hotels offer precious little in the way of bondage aids.  Armchairs and sofas and beds without headboards, no open banisters or convenient beams across the ceiling.  It was all a bit disheartening.  Sure, you can use a rope around a door hinge, or over the top of a closed door, but I wanted somewhere for Sofiya for the night.  I wanted to push her, now that we were getting close to Monica – or so I thought.

Motels in New Zealand are good in that they typically come with a kitchenette and cooking facilities, and, it follows, a reasonable table and chairs.  In this instance the dining chairs were of solid wood construction with padded seats and backs.  Sofiya would be stiff in the morning but she would get over it.

She emerged from the bathroom wearing Monica’s robe – a white satin one with a red Chinese dragon embroidered on it.  Her hair had been pulled into a long pony tail and made her look even younger and more vulnerable.  For a second I wondered if I could do this.

“Where do you want me?”  She was businesslike, but I thought I detected a catch in her voice.  I pointed to a chair that I had positioned against the closed door to the kitchen.  Hanging over the top of the door was a rope I had put there, the end tied to the handle on the other side.

Sofiya moved to the chair and shrugged off her robe.  She was naked beneath it, save for Monica’s silver collar still locked about her throat.  Perhaps my eyebrows went up.  Certainly my heart skipped a beat, not just because of her beauty, but because of the unexpectedness of her gesture.

“Are you sure you want to do it this way?” I asked gently, as she sat down on the chair. “You want to be tied naked by a stranger in a motel in a foreign country?”

She smiled.

“You may be a strange man, but you’re not stranger, Steven.  I trust my instincts and I trust you.  I know you won’t let me come to harm.”

Her words left me with a curiously warm feeling, and the sight of her nakedness provoked an odd protective instinct.  If I hadn’t realized it before, I was struck by the thought that this woman was very special.  Impetuous, perhaps, but following her natural feelings towards others.

I pulled my eyes away from her body and busied myself with the items I had brought from Bilboes.  If Sofiya was to survive the night without too much discomfort, I would need to be careful what I did.  A long bondage session could be a trial for an experienced subbie, let alone a novice like Sofiya.

Conscious of her nudity, I knelt beside her and taped a sock to each leg of the chair as padding, then I began to wrap duct tape around each ankle, melding them to the chair legs, so that her legs were secured apart.  Her legs were smooth as though just waxed and she smelt nice – a warm, musky fragrance that brought Mr Willy into an uncomfortable state of arousal.

“Give me your wrists,” I ordered, trying not to look her in the eyes.  The problem was – as we males so frequently discover – that the next most likely resting spot when you avoid a woman’s eyes is slightly lower.  Sofiya’s breasts were gorgeous - firm with pink nipples that stood up proud and hard.  It was clear that Mr Willy wasn’t the only thing aroused. 

Sofiya held her wrists out in front of her.  They were small and matched the slenderness of her arms.  I could easily encircle her wrist with my thumb and forefinger.  I sensed a quickening of her breath as I wound multiple turns of the wide tape around her right wrist, holding a ballpoint pen beneath the tape against her skin until I had finished.  When I extracted the pen there was a small space between her skin and the tape which could then be loosened by running my finger around her wrist.  The tape would be unyielding, but there would be no danger of circulation being cut off or her skin being chafed.

Sofiya watched what I was doing with great interest as I repeated the process with the other wrist, then pulled them behind her.  I threaded a plastic cable tie through one tape cuff, then the other, then zipped it closed, pulling her wrists together.  She tugged against her bonds, but there was no way she would be getting out of them.  She pulled some more, letting out small gasps as she tested her bonds, before she smiled ruefully, almost apologetically at me.

“I should have known you were good.”

“I haven’t finished, yet,” I told her, picking up the sashcord.  I used it to secure her firmly to the chair with several turns around her waist.  After knotting it at her navel, I brought the two tails up between her breasts and over her shoulders to hold her upright against the back of the chair.  Not unnaturally, I couldn’t help brushing her boobs, nor could I stop my eyes from straying to the golden bush between her legs.  I was starting to realize that this was going to be a very long night for me, as well as her.

The final touch was to relocate her pony tail from the back of her head to the top of it, then to attach it to the rope hanging over the door.  Sofiya realized now that not only was her body firmly bound to the chair but her head was also restrained.  As soon as she nodded off a tug on her hair would likely bring her awake, although I was not entirely sure of this.

I tied the last knot in the rope and stood back to admire my handiwork.  I do tidy stuff, if I say so myself.  Sofiya’s eyes were wide with an expression that almost looked like excitement, perhaps with a touch of wonder at the novelty of it all.  She looked totally vulnerable and absolutely delicious.  I couldn’t help myself as I knelt beside her.

“Are we sitting comfortably?” 

She nodded, her tongue licking her lips but saying nothing.  I took her right nipple between my thumb and forefinger and rolled it gently.  It was flinty hard and she made little stuttering breaths. I stroked the other breast and her eyes closed in bliss.  My hand strayed across her belly, stoking the fine blonde hair but stopping short of the plunge between her thighs.

“You’re really sure about this?” I asked her.  “It will be a long night if nothing happens.”

She appeared to gather her thoughts and her eyes snapped open as my hand left her skin.

“It will happen, Steven.” Her voice was barely a throaty whisper. “I know it.  Monica is out there.  I’ll be fine.  There will be time and place for your teasing…” She grinned impishly and I stood up.

“Any problems - you only have to call.” Damn, but she aroused protective instincts I didn’t think I had.  “Just yell.  But not so much as to wake the people next door… Okay?”

“Okay.”

I turned off the ceiling light, leaving only the bedside light on as I undressed.  I always slept naked myself, and felt sufficiently coy to keep my back to her, just so she didn’t see what she had started with Mr Willy.  I turned off the light and pulled the covers up.  It was definitely going to be a long night with a beautiful naked woman bound only metres from where I lay.  Chalk up another first for my time at Bilboes.

*   *   *

12.07.09

story continues in The Abduction of Monica 12: Pain & Pleasure

o0o