The Abduction of Monica 13: Close Contact

by Richard Alexander (Gromets Plaza)

(story continues from The Abduction of Monica 12: Pain & Pleasure)

“Who is this Warren O’Rorke that everyone talks about?” Sofiya asked, as we passed through the little town of Huntly on the river.

“It’s a long story,” I said.

“So?  I don’t have to be somewhere.” She sounded like a schoolkid wanting a good yarn. “Tell me this story of yours.”

I sighed.  This would certainly see us to Auckland.

I had first met Warren O’Rorke not long after I joined Bilboes... quite a few years ago now.  At that time Warren had been a kind of Sugar Daddy to Monica.  He was a few years older and pretty well off from various developments he had carried out.  Warren was a Dom through and through, and his money made any request in Bilboes an absolute command.  He had the pick of the girls, and this usually included Monica.

At that time Warren had a regular 24/7 subbie called Christina, whom he left in the care of the establishment while usually he and Monica got it together.  Monica was strange with Warren.  He treated her like a sub, which is the worst thing you can do to a Domme, yet she came back for more.

“Perhaps it was his money,” Sofiya suggested.

“No.  There was more to it than that, although knowing Monica, money figured in there somewhere.”

“Some women are like that.”

“Like what?”

“Treated like crap by man, then come back for more.” Sofiya shrugged. “Have seen it so many times with Russian women.  Not so much Down Under, but still happens.”

“Oh yes,” I agreed. “But we always thought it would be a special man who finally won Monica – someone stronger and more dominant than she is.  We really thought Warren might be the guy, though I never took to him at the time.  We knew he beat her, but she would never admit to it.  It was all a matter of pride.  And regrettably Monica has that in abundance.”

Then there had been an incident in Hong Kong when Jill and Leila were kidnapped by a billionaire’s wife named Jade Wong and her Number One Bitch Portia Tang (See “Monica’s Quest”) .  We had got the girls back and given Portia and Jade a good seeing to, but unfortunately not sufficient to stop their thirst for revenge.  They had wound up in cahoots with Warren O’Rorke and had taken over Bilboes in the ultimate house invasion, with the girls incarcerated at the mercy of Warren and his slimeball mate Roger (See “Monica’s Revenge”).  Warren had even been such an opportunist that he had forced Monica to sign over the ownership deeds of the house to him – not so much because he wanted to run it as a going concern, but because he liked the idea of such an establishment with the dungeons permanently available with occupants for his pleasure.

Suffice to say, we managed to get out of that and sent Jade and Portia packing again, but somehow Warren seemed to slip through the net – until Monica was overseas.  Then Mary and Trish got to him and gave him a week of aversion therapy in his own apartment that would have scared any other sane man off for life. (See “Monica’s Games”)  Personally I think that was when Warren lost it.  Mary and Trish managed to get the house deeds returned and also did a few dirty things within Warren’s bank accounts.

All that came apart because he obviously called in a few favours from the House of Wong. There were various kidnappings when we travelled overseas again, with Warren figuring pretty predominantly in an unholy alliance with a crackpot English lord.  We had escaped their clutches only to pursue Monica to the States before we finally freed her (See “Monica’s Travels”).  Warren, meantime, had been picked up by the English cops and had spent time in the nick there.  He clearly had an obsessive hatred of Monica by that time and spent a year planning his revenge.  Again he had used Jade and Portia to kidnap us on Shark Island (See “Monica’s Justice”) while he and Roger moved into Bilboes again, having his perverse pleasure with Jill, Emma, Trish and Shawnee, who had remained behind.

We had eventually won out on that one, too, but not before Jade had died and Portia had disappeared after a cyclone had hit the island.  Monica, in a triumph of creative computer downloading, had effectively framed Warren and Roger such that they were convicted of paedophilia.  Obviously he hadn’t taken to well to the jail treatment.

It all sounded like a bizarre soap plot, but it was all very real.

Sofiya was gob smacked.

“I thought I had a quite adventurous life with the Russian police...  But you people... you have such adventures!”

“Believe me, I would happily do without the vast majority of them.”

“And you think it’s him again?”

“I know it is.  Without a single doubt.  What scares me is that if he wasn’t unhinged before, he is now.  He’s totally over the edge and likely to do anything.”

“Will he kill your friends?   Does Monica still mean something to him – I mean something that would make him desire her still?”

“I think he’s long past that.  He may still want to screw her senseless, but ultimately he will tire of her.”

“After hundred days?”

“Somehow I don’t think it will last that long,” I said grimly, finally recognising the thought that I did not want to admit even to myself.

*   *   *

Sofiya and I had talked the whole way.  It was one of those moments when there seems so much to say, yet so much to know about the other person.   She told me how she had become aware of her talent and when barely out of high school had found a lost child during a major manhunt.  It seemed that for all their backwardness in some areas, the Russian police had a healthy respect for alternative problem solvers.  It also happened that the father of the child had been a high ranking officer in the Irkutsk police force, and Sofiya had succeeded where the rest of the force had failed.  The father was of the generation old enough to still remember the psychic experimentation that the Soviets had undertaken during the Cold War, and to be aware that such research was still going on in parts of the country.

She had been the subject of a lot of psychological and paranormal testing, and had been enrolled in the police academy in Irkutsk, but with limited success outside of her special field.

“I am not physical person,” she said.

“Really?” I mocked.  “I wouldn’t have guessed.”

“I know is hard to believe. But I’m not.” She sounded quite serious. “Not into sports.  I spent most of time pushing off male colleagues who saw me as easy target.”

“But you weren’t?”

“No. Not mostly.”

Sofiya’s ‘not mostly’ had been her oblique reference to several bad experiences with males in her unit, and it had taken the intervention of her patron, whose child she had found, to have her transferred to the Russian equivalent of the Criminal Investigation Department.  Again, Sofiya had floundered, being forced to prove herself time and again, but often not being taken seriously.  In this time, as she was sidelined from one desk job to another, she had taught herself English.

“Too many police think only if you have muscles and big gun are you genuine.  Women have very difficult job.  Is very hard sometimes.  I wondered what I was doing and why?  It seemed so pointless, da?  You have skills that nobody acknowledges.  I was very depressed.  I did not know what I wanted to do or how to go about it.  I used to go into the forest near the shore of Lake Baikal.  There is a sacred island called Olkhon, on western side, where a few Buriyat people live.  I went there, to a place called Sharman Rock.  Here I make offerings to Tenger and the spirits.  I know that things always happen for reason.  When I return to Irkutsk I hear of businessman kidnapped by local mafia for ransom.  Nobody knows where he is.  But I find him.”

“Did that get you noticed?”

“Yes.  By all the people who it showed up.  All the politics started about what to do with me.  Eventually I managed a transfer to Vladivostok.  I just wanted to get away from it all.  My boss pulled some strings and I end up as foreign liaison person because of my excellent English,” she said proudly.

“Do you miss Irkutsk?”

She sighed softly.

“I miss my mother, sometimes.  I miss my father, but yet I don’t miss him.  Is that weird?  He was a strange man.  I loved him but also feared him – and revered him, I think, because he gave me my talent.”

“But most of all you miss the lake and the forest.”

“Yes! How did you know I was going to say that?  You are very perceptive.” She smiled a smile that cut straight to my heart.  I shrugged.

“Sometimes even I notice the bleeding obvious,” I said.

*   *   *

I had visited Auckland many years before on holiday with some mates, and still had fond memories of the place.  We had spent a few debauched evenings in Karangahape Road, the city’s equivalent to Sydney’s Kings Cross or London’s Soho.  In view of what I had been forced to do to my one coil of rope, I thought a small detour to an adult shop might be productive, for somehow I had a feeling that I would need a few more sessions with Sofiya before we really got anywhere.

I have to confess that this was a concern for me.  Sofiya was not a natural subbie used to this sort of treatment.  Her physique was slight, and with the emotional load that she had taken on during the two sessions I had initiated, I wondered how much she could cope with.  A normal bondage session could be strenuous enough, but I couldn’t even begin to appreciate what she was going through mentally under what must have been bizarre circumstances for her.

This whole energy thing was starting to get under my skin – not in an irritating way, but just in the sense that despite all my scepticism there just might be something to it.  Ordinarily I would have dismissed it as just something dreamed up by one of the seemingly many flawed human beings who got over-dosed on the emotional genes when they were being dished out.  New Age energies were good for explaining odd feelings and sensations in your life that couldn’t be explained any other way.  Religion was the same.  Yet Sofiya professed not to believe in God, and in all other aspects she seemed as sane as I was – not that this supposition came with any guarantee.

We found the right motorway exit amidst the spaghetti junction of flyovers leading to the city centre and after parking the car were soon wandering along the eclectic length of K-Road, as it was known.  It was an odd mix of offices, adult shops, girlie bars and strip joints, mixed in with a lot of Maori, Polynesian and other ethnic retail outlets.  Sofiya seemed happier as we nosed into different shops, none of which had anything to do with our quest there, which I had explained to her.  I think it was just the temporary break from our quest that lightened her mental load and for some reason made her slip her hand into mine.

I picked out the largest adult shop of quite a few choices and we entered through the discrete sliding doors.  I was not sure what I would find in New Zealand – traditionally our Trans-Tasman cousins have always been a little more conservative than us Aussies – Queenslanders excepted.  Each state in Australia had its own variations on what could and could not be sold, and New Zealand would be just the same, I figured. 

In the adult shop Sofiya was quite captivated, I found, after my initial reservations.  I mean, you just don’t bring a girl you hardly know into this sort of place.  But then I thought we were way past that – having gone down a totally different road that you would also not normally go with a girl you hardly knew. 

“Don’t you have adult stores in Russia?” I asked.

“Yes, but not very good ones.  Not that I hang around in them, you know?”  She blushed with embarrassment, which I found quite charming.  “I mean, I have to go into them on police business sometimes, but they are not very nice.  This one has good things, though – many many interesting things.”

I left Sofiya inquisitively examining the myriad of devices and material on display, while I made a quick selection.  I found a pair of handcuffs that didn’t have a quick release mechanism, which is usually the case in these places.  I’ve often wondered at the logic of restraints that can be opened in two seconds simply by the victim pushing a little lever.  Go figure. 

Another good buy was the door jamb cuffs - a set of straps and clips made from tough webbing that would slip over or under a door, behind which it was fastened to a short steel bar which obviously could not pass through the gap at the top or bottom. ‘Turns any door into a bondage playground’ said the package.  I picked out a few more items and dropped them into the basket. They were all discretely packed and paid for by the time I found Sofiya to haul her away from a black satin corset.

“Is very pretty, da?” she said.

“You want me to buy it for you?” I found the thought of her wearing it was particularly attractive.

“You are sweet, Steven.  No, I think I must stay with Monica’s clothes.  Perhaps if we find Monica.  Then, maybe.”

We returned to the car, stopping in on a hardware store for some clothesline to replace the sashcord I had cut to pieces that morning.

“You think you have enough stuff to hold me?  You sure I won’t escape?” Sofiya teased me. “I have powerful strength, you know.  Difficult to restrain, I think.”

I poked my tongue out at her.

“Careful Miss, or you’ll be wearing handcuffs for the rest of the day.”

“Huh. Promises. But then you have to explain handcuffs to police when we get stopped for speeding.”

It was late morning by the time we had rejoined the motorway and crossed the Harbour Bridge.  The Waitemata Harbour was a sparkling blue, sprinkled with the white sails of yachts, but the attractiveness of the scene was lost on us. 

We followed the motorway northwards until it turned into a single lane each way.

“How far should we be going?” I asked Sofiya.

“I think...maybe near here – not so far...”

“Should we stop and settle in?”

“I think that is good idea...”

That was how we came to the Castle Court Motel on State Highway 1 just outside the little town of Wellsford.  It was a pleasant motel with a stand-alone units in a nice garden setting, and while it was perhaps a little unusual for people to be checking in at midday, the lady behind the desk didn’t mind.  I took a double bedroom unit and we settled in.  Over coffee on the small balcony outside, overlooking rolling farmland and patches of forest, we talked about our next move.

“Are you willing to do this again?” I asked Sofiya.

“Of course.  It’s what I do.”

“But never like this before.”

“True.  But it’s not as bad for me as for Monica.  Whatever she feels, I feel only a part of it.  It goes away for me, and I find myself back here with you.  It does not go away for her.”

I couldn’t argue with that.

“Are we getting close?”

“I think so.  Even now, sitting here, I think so.”

I put my hand on hers and we felt like a team, taking on forces we had no alternative but to overcome.  Being with Sofiya made things that little bit more bearable.

She smiled at me and went inside, moving with a fluid grace that I found captivating.  She was so at ease within herself, within her surroundings, that it wasn’t hard to imagine her sitting at the edge of Lake Baikal communing with the spirits.  What was hard to imagine was me having these thoughts and being so accepting of them!

I followed her inside.  She had taken one bedroom and as I closed the drapes and unpacked my bondage gear she reappeared again wearing Monica’s dragon robe.  She looked like something out of a Bacall and Bogart seduction scene, but she would never have realised it herself.  Now the confidence had disappeared and she showed just a little nervousness, her hands fluttering about the tie on her gown.

“Where do you want me?” she asked quietly.  I ignored the double entendres that popped into my head at that moment, for she looked very desirable. 

“Over here,” I said.  She moved across and slid the robe from her shoulders, dropping it to the floor.  Beneath it she wore a black satin bustier that stretched from hip to the underside of her breasts.  She smiled slyly at my surprise.

“Monica has some nice things.  I thought I should try this again.  Do you approve?  It is okay for this?  Should I be naked?”

“It looks stunning,” I told her, with no hint of a lie.  “I’m sure it will make no difference to what you’re about to do.  Now turn around and let me inspect.”  She had done a fair job of tying the laces behind her, but this was the sort of thing that you really needed a second person for.  I undid the laces and began to redo them.  “You see, Sofie, if you’re going to wear one of these, it has to be done properly.  You have such a small waist anyway, it’s hard to get it really tight.”

“But...you are...”

“I know.  This is the way it’s supposed to be.  Trust me, I’ve tied an awful lot of these.”

“But I can hardly breathe,” she complained. “It’s too tight.”

“That’s the way it’s meant to be.  It will ease after a short while – your body will adjust to it and it will even out the pressure points.”

“You have no idea!”

“Oh yes I do.  Aside from working in a house full of females whose every wardrobe contains a selection of these, I have experienced it first hand, myself.”

“What?”

“Long and rather embarrassing story.  Don’t have time for it now.”  I tugged the laces a final time and tied them off in the small of her back.  “Put your hands behind you.”

Sofiya did as she was told and I slipped a double loop of rope around her slim wrists, drawing them together and wrapping several further turns around them, before cinching them and tying them off. 

“Now I want to see how flexible you are,” I said, taking one of my spare belts and looping it around Sofiya’s elbows.  It was a belt I carried frequently when travelling because not only was it soft and supple, it carried belt holes along the entire length. Sofiya grunted softly as I slowly tightened it and her elbows came together behind her until they touched.  I was not surprised at this, for she had told me she practised yoga and there wasn’t an ounce of spare flesh on her.  Sofiya was lithe and supple, that was for sure.

I propelled her gently to the door where I had jammed three of the anchor straps over and under the closed door – one at the top and two at the bottom.  I looped a rope through the top strap and brought it down under Sofiya’s left armpit, across the top of her breasts and under her right armpit, before tying it off at the top strap.  Now at least she was in no danger of falling over.  I made her spread her legs and put a cable tie around each ankle, linking it to each bottom anchor strap.  A little tightening of the top rope and she was unable to move.

“Comfy?” I asked.

“No.  Why do you tie me like this?”

The question caught me off guard.  I had not mulled over the position – it was just something that seemed appropriate, though I could not have said exactly why.

“Are you sensing something, too, Steven?  Have you noticed how two times you’ve tied me have been nearly same as Monica’s bonds?”

“Coincidence,” I said.

“No such thing,” she retorted.  I shrugged.

“I guess we’ll see.  Are you okay, then?”

“Yes, but I think I must be blindfolded.  Is too light in here.  I went into her room and dug around amongst Monica’s clothes, for I had deliberately put in several silk scarves amongst the clothes Sofiya had chosen.  Like my belt, Monica never travelled without such scarves because of the versatile bindings they provided.  I selected a long black one and returned to secure it over Sofiya’s eyes.

“Better?”

“Thank you.”  It had been a while since someone had thanked me for tying them.

“I’m going to sit on the back balcony and read the paper.  If you get into any trouble I’ll hear you,” I told her, gently stroking her arm.  “I’ll be close by.” God, she looked desirable.  Regrettably it was business before pleasure.  I kissed her on the cheek and slipped through the drapes on to the small private balcony, to read the paper.

I had no idea where this was going, for it was daylight rather than night time and we were supposedly close to Monica.  I didn’t know if Sofiya was more receptive during the day or at night.  I didn’t know if she would be able to even utter a sound, ungagged though she was, for such seemed to be Monica’s influence if she herself was silenced.

For a while I tried to keep my focus on the paper but it was a losing battle.  I gazed out over what in any other circumstances would have been an idyllic country scene, but now I had the feeling – the almost certainty – that Monica and Mary were out there somewhere, perhaps very near, undergoing yet another awful torture at the hands of Warren O’Rorke.  My mind went into a sort of daze, I think, until there was a muffled cry from the room behind me.

*   *   *

08.08.09

story continues in The Abduction of Monica 14: Trial by Pleasure - Mary's Story

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