Monica and the Black Fortress

by Richard Alexander (Gromets Plaza)

(story continues from Monica and the Black Fortress)

Chapter Eight  –  Jillian Takes Charge: Jill’s Story

The house was quiet when I returned.  It was two in the afternoon and I felt guilty about leaving Emma tied up in the box.  The poor dear would likely be exhausted, depending on how the random timer had functioned.  It was programmed to go off at between fifteen and sixty minute intervals.  I had been away for four hours.  Emma might have got off a half a dozen times, or none at all, if the bursts had been relatively short, and the fact that I left it on low power.

After hanging up my new purchases in my room, I crossed back to the house and went downstairs.  There was no sign of Mary and Trish, though I could see where they had been active on the new client.  I wondered if they had taken him out for some play in the woods behind the house, for it was unlike them to leave a dungeon in an untidy state.  I could only assume they were outside somewhere, and hurried across to the padlocked box in the corner.  I knocked on the top.

“Anybody home?”  I grinned to myself.

“Mmmmph!” came a faint moan.

I undid the padlocks and lifted up the lid.  There was a groan from the naked and bound figure with the long black hair hanging down from under the leather discipline hood.  Emma slowly eased herself into an upright kneeling position.  I helped her to stand up and undid the ropes cutting into her ankles.  I had left her longer than I intended, and felt a bit guilty about the red indentations into her flesh.  Holding on to her still-bound arms, I steadied her as she climbed unsteadily out of the box.  I had not tied her elbows and wrists so tight that the circulation would be cut off, and this was evident in the healthy colour of her skin.

“Urmmprh!” she said.

“I know.  I’m sorry I was so long.  I’ll make it up to you.”  Emma shook her head.

“Nuurff!  Frmfph rursh urn huree!”

“I know, I should have hurried.  Now, get your pretty arse over here and do as you’re told.”  I pushed her to the whipping bench, trailing wires connected to the transformer at the wall, which had been fed into the box through a small notch under the lid.  I undid the crotch strap sufficiently to remove the vibrator.  It was slick and wet, and the same dampness was all down the inside of Emma’s thighs.  It was obvious she had climaxed a number of times, but she didn’t seem as exhausted as I might have expected.

“Murfff!  Mffmpht!”  She shook her head again, this time more emphatically.  

“Oh come on, I said I was sorry.  I’ll give you a nice something to remember.”  I grabbed the rope that had been around her ankles and tied one end to her left ankle, quickly dragging the rope around the bench before tying her other ankle, leaving her standing there, legs apart.  Emma appeared to get all uppity and cranky at this point, stamping her feet as best she could and generally carrying on.  Sometimes she has her little tantrums when I leave her too long, but I can see through her games.  Em is a very genuine person and will only rarely try to push her luck.  I wasn’t going to stand for any nonsense in this instance.  

“Get up on the bench!”  She looked at me pleadingly, her big dark eyes staring out through the holes in the leather hood as she mouthed something unintelligible.  I couldn’t remember when I’d known her so vocal while being gagged – orgasmic moments aside, that is.  Whatever her circumstances, I wasn’t prepared to put up with backchat.  I grabbed her around the thighs and hoisted her on to a sitting position on the bench.  Her legs were now pulled wider by the ropes, and by the time I had tied a further rope from the back of her waist belt to the far side of the bench, she was unable to get down.  Still she waggled her feet and tried to carry on a conversation from under the hood.  I snapped a padded blindfold on to the studs on the hood, hiding those accusing eyes and placing Emma into a world of darkness, where her senses would be further heightened.

Next I tidied up the wires still connected to the machine and took the setting off ‘random’.  I’d give her something to carry on about.  I set the nipple pads to give her a really good buzz and upped the anal vibrator to full.  Emma squealed and made a series of “Nnnn!  Nnnn! Nnnn!” noises which made me laugh as she tried to close her legs and twist her bound wrists around her body to reach the wires.

“Uh uh,” I told her.  I used the last piece of rope to further secure her wandering hands behind the bench, then sank my own fingers into her crotch.  She was moist and lubricated and let out a long groan as I worked inside her.  Her muscles were tight and gripped my fingers as her breathing began to quicken.  As she panted I watched her gorgeous breasts rising and falling, the nipples covered by the little vibrating pads with their trembling wires leading off to one side.  

Emma’s orgasm was swift and loud, her legs kicking against their restraints as she gave off a protracted moan that seemed to go on for a full half-minute.  But after all the lip she had been giving, she wasn’t going to get off that easily.  I wanted her exhausted, totally wrung out.

I took up a small flogger and began to slap her with it – on the breasts, the inner thighs, and particularly on her pussy.  Emma could get very turned on with a little pain in such a situation, and I have to admit I was getting quite turned on myself.  I moved behind my prisoner and surreptitiously slid my fingers under my skirt to my own crotch.  It felt good, sending warm vibrations up through my loins.  

Putting aside the distraction I returned to flog Emma some more, each blow getting her closer to the next orgasm and provoking a small grunt, though rising in pitch each time.  I knew well when she was about to climax, and increased the intensity of my strokes into a fast tattoo.  It was enough to push Emma over the edge, especially when – as her stifled cries reach a fever pitch – I ground the handle of the flogger into her pussy.  She threw back her head and let out a long cry – the best she could manage around the ball in her mouth, that is.

But I still wasn’t finished with her.  I plugged in a mains vibrator the size of a tennis racquet handle and placed the rounded head gently against the lips of her now swollen pussy.  Emma shook her head and made pleading noises of a desperation that I loved to hear.  Just listening to her helpless gagged cries was making me wetter still.

“I’m going to do this for another hour, Emma Cheng.  I’m going to finish you off and make you faint from your climaxes.  I’m going to make you climax like you’ve never done so before, until you haven’t an ounce of strength left in your body!”

Emma was uttering more desperate pleas and shaking her head frantically.  I knew she could take it, though I rarely pushed her this hard.  In this one instance I let the devil take me and decided to go all the way.  Emma was now drumming her heels against the side of the bench and the muscles on the insides of her thighs were twitching.  The leather of the padded bench top between her thighs was wet with her juices mixed with the sweat which was now pouring off her as she bounced and juggled to the rhythm of the big vibrator.  Her breathing was shot to hell, and she could not now even grunt in time with the application of the vibrator.  Her breasts heaved as I finally ground the head of the vibrator into her crotch and she let out a moan that turned into a protracted squeak, overtaken finally by the need to breathe again.  Like a child in mid-bawl, she seemed to pause, to gather all her strength, then let out a long gagged scream, her body shaking and quivering with this last effort.

She slumped forward, held there by the ropes securing her wrists and waist behind her.  This was too much for me, and I was forced to sit on the box that had recently imprisoned Emma, hike up my own short skirt and apply the vibrator to myself.  While Emma was still gasping and snorting for breath I felt a warm flood rise from my own loins as I worked myself over the device and allowed the flood to rush upward in a private, satisfying moment. 

Emma and I sat there for some minutes in the dungeon, slowly coming down from our highs.  Emma had to be several thousand feet above me, I figured.  My discrete little climax was a small hand grenade between my thighs compared to the multiple warhead that she had just experienced.  I looked at the sensuous curves of her body, the muscles and nerves now starting to twitch more markedly, and realised that the anal and nipple vibrators were still running.  Reluctantly I stood up and crossed the room to the wall switch.  Turning the power off elicited an audible sigh from the bound and hooded figure, and when I undid her ankles she pressed both legs together with another long moan.  She bent slowly forward, as far as her bound arms would allow, all the while making soft snuffling noises as she gradually came back from whatever planet she had been on.

I lifted her legs on to the bench and rolled her on to her side before undoing the ropes on her arms and wrists, and releasing the rope from her waist belt.  Emma rolled on to her stomach and inched her arms out level with her body, then bending them to bring her hands up to her throat, then to the lock on the hood at the back of her neck.  She mumbled something unintelligible while I took out the key and undid first the lock, then the laces up the back of the hood.  The leather was saturated and I released the laces to their fullest extent before gently removing it.  Emma’s eyes were closed and she worked the spongy ball out of her mouth without opening them.  The ball dropped on to the floor in a runnel of saliva.

“Ohhhhh….God….”  she moaned.  Then I saw that down her sweat stained cheeks, tears were flowing.  Her eyes opened and she stared at me in exhausted, utter desolation.  “Mary and Trish – Wayne Bennelli’s taken them…”

*   *   *

We sat on Emma’s double bed, she wrapped in a blanket and me holding her, while I slowly absorbed the horror that she had gone through, to be in turn overlain by a massive guilt at my own self-indulgence and insensitivity.  We both cried, realising that we were suddenly alone, with Monica and Steven and Leila in far-off India.  Despite that, I knew we should call Monica.  We were five hours ahead, which meant it would be late morning on Saturday in India.  Monica had emailed us the previous morning from some posh hotel they were staying at in Agra, even attaching a photo she had taken of the Taj.  I can’t begin to explain how jealous that made all of us when we read that message.  It was all very well for her to be swanning off on a luxury jaunt that would probably lead to nothing but a protracted holiday.

Now I really needed to talk to her.  She’d left me in charge before now, but nothing like this had ever happened.  I needed some moral support, for poor Em was useless at the moment.

The phone rang and rang, as Emma and I watched each other’s expressions change from hope to despair.  There was no answer.  The message bank clicked in, and all I could think of to say was to ask that Monica call me urgently.  I hung up and Emma and I looked at each other.  I felt her need for me to do something.  Emma had always looked up to me, in the three years we had been lovers.  The fact that I was domme to her submissive tells you a little about our relationship in regard to dependence.  I knew it was up to me do take the lead, and it was what faithful Emma was waiting for.  

But, cometh the hour, cometh the man – or woman, I guess.  Dammit, nobody was going to steal Mary and Trish away from me, especially that shit Wayne Bennelli.  The memory flashed back of the late night when I had been working on the accounts in Monica’s study.  It was a warm night and I’d had the French doors open.  I barely heard him creep in, only sensing him at the last minute when something caught me on the side of the head.  I was too dazed to resist while he zipped a cable tie around my wrists and started winding duct tape over my mouth.  

By the time I had come to my senses sufficiently to start putting up a fight it was too late.  Things got knocked over, but I wound up on my back sprawled over the desk, my wrists above my head tied down to one of the desk legs on the far side, while my ankles were also tied wide to the desk legs.  My robe was open and I was defenceless, watching this bastard unzip his fly as he stood over me.

That was when Steven had come through the French doors swinging a length of wood between Bennelli’s legs and pole-axing him.

That had been the start of our unpleasant relationship with this animal.  He had suffered at our hands for three days, then we thought we had got rid of him, only for him to reappear like a bad smell six months later, and give Trish a nasty beating.  Mary and Trish had then sent him boxed up to a Sydney bikie gang and we had not heard of him for a long time.  Now he was back, like some recurring horror movie where the dead refuse to lie down.  And he’d taken two of us with him.

Emma wore a bereft expression.

“Get yourself showered,” I told her.  “We’ve got work to do.”

“Are you going to call the police?”

“Not yet.”

“So what are we going to do?” 

“Look, just go and get cleaned up, Emma!” I waved her away, the irritation showing in my voice.  I was frustrated and trying to think.  Emma gave me a hurt look and went into the bathroom.

I returned to the house and went into Monica’s study.  Here was the central console for the closed circuit television that we used both within the house for monitoring clients, and also for external security.  I located the instruction manual in Monica’s methodical filing system and rewound the tape loop to earlier in the day.  The cameras at the front and back of the house took a photo every ten seconds from their positions mounted high up near the eaves.  The grainy images showed an old Holden Kingswood sedan first parked in the visitors’ car park out the front, with a man stepping out of the car and going up the front steps before he was out of view.  There was no mistaking Bennelli, however, and a cold feeling ran through the pit of my stomach.

A little while later the man returned and drove the car around the back, from where I could pick it up on the rear camera.  There was a brief glimpse of Trish, whom I recognised by her ponytail – discernable above tape wrapped over her mouth and around her head.  Bennelli was holding Trish by both arms, directing her from behind.  She was bound tightly at elbows and wrists and her white pvc dress was open down the front, revealing two weighted nipple clips.  

In the next frame I could see Trish’s legs – now bound at the ankles – being tipped into the boot of the car, followed by several further shots where she was evidently being further secured inside the boot.  The last two shots showed Bennelli returning to the house, with the lid of the boot still open, and a bound figure lying in a foetal position inside.  

After what must have been several minutes Bennelli returned, this time with Mary.  She was wearing thigh boots with high heels, and walked unsteadily as she was unable to see.  Silver duct tape was wrapped around her head, over her eyes and mouth, and her arms – like Trish’s – were bound at wrist and elbow behind her.  She appeared also to have a crotch rope and waist rope in place, presumably securing some sort of insert.  Bennelli pushed the blind Mary in front of him.  He carried a back pack slung over one shoulder which appeared to be quite full, and in one hand he carried a sawn-off shotgun.  

The scene of the abduction of Mary and Trish had been chilling enough until that moment.  When I saw the shotgun a horrid feeling welled up in my stomach, and I watched in dismay as he tipped Mary backwards into the car boot and bound her ankles, before further tying her as she lay on her side in the boot.  The lid came down, and the pack and gun were shoved into the back seat, before Bennelli drove away.  I now understood poor Emma’s shock and horror at seeing all this happen in real time, as she knelt bound and gagged in the box, hoping he would not find her.

Our only chance of finding Bennelli was the car, and to this end the photos were clear enough of the number plate – 483 GZM.  Now all I had to do was trace it, at 5pm on a Saturday afternoon.

I didn’t want to get the police involved just then – not until I had exhausted another avenue.  Involvement with the police was a sensitive subject in our business.  We had police clients who visited on the understanding of complete anonymity.  We could expect no favours from them in asking for help, nor and even less help should one of their unsuspecting colleagues seek to give us a going over, and peruse our records in the process.  I wanted desperately to talk to Monica, but she was obviously too tied up enjoying herself to be bothered answering the phone.  I was going to have to wing this one.

I ferreted through Monica’s secret contacts on her computer, which only she and I had access to.  I did all the accounts for Bilboes and there was little that I didn’t know about.  In some ways it might be called succession planning, though it had never been spoken of as such.  I found the phone number I was looking for and dialled it.

“Is that Shannen O’Donnell?”

“It is.  Who’s this?”

“It’s Jill – from Bilboes.”

“Jill?”  I could almost hear her thinking furiously.  Our first session of treatment on Shannen – initiated at the behest of her family – had ended on good terms, although it had not proved as successful as we had hoped.  We had been obliged to undertake a second, longer treatment, in a more anonymous form, though Shannen would have to have been pretty dumb not to work out that we were behind it again.

Shannen worked for an investigative magazine downtown and had a reputation as being a pretty pushy chick – so much so that the second time she had visited us had been at the request of her work colleagues.  We had forced her to carry out her work while plugged front and back, the plugs activated every time her mobile phone rang.  It went without saying that a reporter’s mobile phone was a pretty essential piece of kit, and rang frequently.  After a week of this Shannen had learned her lesson and had been forced to change the ring tone on her phone, so twitchy had it made her.  It was like a human sexual version of Pavlov’s dog – one ring and watch the girl start to quiver in the expectation of what was about to start up inside her – pleasure and pain.

“Uh… what can I do for you, Jill?” Shannen’s voice was cautious, wary.

“Shannen, I need your help.  Something’s happened – something really serious.”

“Is this another of your little ploys to trap me again?  Look, I’m not stupid – I’ve changed.  Truly.”  Her voice was not only defensive, it was also just a little scared.  

“Shannen, this is not a trap.  We’re a little bit more sophisticated than that.  We like to pounce with no warning, when you least expect it.  You know that.  Mary and Trish have been abducted.  We need help tracking them down.  There might even be a story in it for you.”

 There was undisguised interest in her tone when she replied.  “Tell me more.”

“Can we meet somewhere?  I know it’s Saturday evening and you probably have plans, but this is terribly important.”

I doubted that Shannen could overlook the anxiety in my voice.  She named a place and half an hour later we were sitting in a trendy sidewalk café in Milton.  Shannen was looking very cosmopolitan in a cool fawn strapless dress that showed off her legs and the dark wavy hair falling to her bare shoulders.  She eyed me coolly, no doubt remembering the treatment she had received at Bilboes and trying to recall my role in it.

We exchanged pleasantries and ordered cappuccinos, and she surprised me with her first question.

“Were you part of that set-up where I was kept chained up with only email contact?”

This was the last time we had “trained” Shannen, when she had been kept prisoner for several days in a rented house, observed on closed circuit cameras and deprived of human contact other than by email on a laptop.  Every time she was fed or washed she was made to lock on an eyeless discipline hood before we entered the room, and she never saw who it was that communicated with her and drew some of her more intimate thoughts from her concerning emotional family baggage that had perhaps been cathartic in the end.  She had been kept away from her office, though the persistent unanswered mobile phone calls had continued to activate the vibrator and electrodes embedded within her, and there was nothing she could do to control them.

I nodded in answer to her question.  She smiled ruefully.

“I suppose I had it coming.  It was very cleverly done, I’ll say that for you. I didn’t realise I had so much shit in my head that you guys got out.  Maybe that was making me such a pain in the arse.” She looked at me with her green eyes, and realised I wasn’t smiling at her self-deprecating comment. 

“I’m sorry.  I’m distracting you. Tell me what’s happened.”  Shannen gave me her best journalist’s attention while I gave her the full story of Bennelli and this, our third encounter with him.

“And you haven’t a lot of faith in the police not just because of the business you’re in, but because of how you’ve retaliated in the past.  GBH, assault, deprivation of liberty – looming counter suits for all those things – it reeks of a very messy and protracted court battle.”  She was way ahead of what I’d even considered.

“This is in confidence, you understand.  We can’t afford this to get out to the papers.”

“And here you are talking to an investigative journo.”  I must have shown my dismay.  I was so anxious I hadn’t thought the thing through.  All I could do was look at her pleadingly.  Shannen put her hand over mine.

“Relax, Jill.  I know you people, and what we say here goes no further without your say so.  You’re right, I do have a lot of contacts and despite what you did to me I have a lot of time for you.  And how is that spunk Steven?  Is he still with you?”

Now it was my turn to smile at her.  She and Steven had suffered a protracted and painful punishment, which ultimately turned out to be quite pleasurable during her unanticipated stay at Bilboes, and I think something of a bond had formed between them.

“He’s in India with Monica and Leila.”

“Lucky guy.  Nice guy.”

“He is.”  I couldn’t bring myself to admit I sometimes saw in Steven something special that put him considerably past just the ‘nice guy’ category.

“I’m sorry – I’m sidetracking things again.  Not a good thing, but it’s Saturday and I’m not in my normal business mode.  Look, Jill, this is what I’m suggesting.  I have a contact in the police department who can get us the details on that car.  When they come, the deal is that you take me with you.”

“But we can’t afford to have this spread all over the media,” I protested.

“I know.  Somehow I don’t think that is going to happen.  I give you my word it won’t be from me.  People like this are the scum of the earth and shouldn’t be allowed to get away with a slap on the wrist and walk free on technicalities, which is what seems to be happening too much these days.  In this instance you’ll just have to trust me to look after your interests with whatever story comes to light.  Will you do that?”

“I don’t really have a choice, do I?”

“You can go to the cops, but we’ve talked about those consequences.”

“Very well.  But just remember what we stand for.  Let us down, and we’ll come after you.”  I tried not to make it sound like a threat.  “We do have a nice set of photos of you already.  We can always add to our collection.”

“You’re a smart cookie, Jill.  All right, let’s agree that we have an understanding.  I can live with that.  Let me call my contact.”

She pulled out her mobile phone, dug out a little black address book from her handbag, and made the call.  I could tell pretty much what had transpired when she ended the call.

“He’s on a boat just off Stradbroke Island.  Fishing.  But he’s on duty at 3pm tomorrow.  He can’t do anything before then.  He daren’t ask anyone else to do it for him – they’re very strict about this sort of thing.  He owes me a favour or two, and now I’m calling them in.”

It was my turn to put my hand on hers.

“Thanks, Shannen.  I really appreciate this.  We all do.  This is real scary, and I’m terrified what this monster will do to Mary and Trish.”  Shannen gave me a warm, sympathetic look.

“I understand, truly.  Just be patient.  As soon as I hear something I’ll let you know.”

*   *   *

I didn’t know what to do with myself from then on.  I drove back to Bilboes and tried Monica’s phone again, but she was still not answering.  God, I thought at least she might want to hear from those of us not swanning around the world in luxury.  Some of us were reduced to riding in borrowed cars while she could be out riding elephants and having the time of her life, for all we knew.

Emma and I, normally willing to chat away the time were reduced to doleful silence.  We sat together on the couch and watched a stupid movie before going to bed.  We were so frustrated that we could do nothing.  Emma came to my bed that night, and we lay awake for a long time, simply taking comfort from the presence of each other’s body and sharing the worry.

I suppose I must have fallen asleep eventually.  It’s strange how your mind works when you’re stressed.  I was having weird dreams about Monica and an elephant again, when I seemed to come awake without cause.  It was as though half of my mind had been chasing a solution to the problem while the rest of me slept.

“God I’m stupid!”  I slapped myself on the forehead and turned on the light.  Emma woke up and looked at me, her face palely beautiful amidst a mass of shiny black hair.  “Stupid, stupid, stupid!”

“What is it?”  Emma asked, still fuzzy with sleep.

“Bloody Bennelli!  Remember when he first broke in here and we kept him prisoner for a few days?”

“Uh-huh.”

“What did Monica tell him just before we tied him up in his ute and I drove out to the shopping centre and left him there?”

“Uh… I don’t remember…”

“She told him, Emma, my little sweetcheeks, that if he ever misbehaved again we’d come and get him, that we knew all about him and we knew where he lived.  Remember now?”

Recognition dawned on Emma and her eyes widened.

“Of course!  We had his wallet and drivers licence and everything!”

“Well, we left them in all his ute, but you can bet obsessive old Monica copied everything.  She’ll have records somewhere.  I’m going to ring her now.  It’ll probably be midnight or something in India.  I don’t care if I wake her up.”

I picked up the phone and dialled her mobile, but again I got the message bank.  I frowned.

“Em…”

“Yes?”

“I’m starting to get an uncomfortable feeling about Monica.  I’ve been trying for over twelve hours, and there’s no answer to her phone.”

“Maybe the battery’s flat.  She probably can’t find a suitable power socket to plug in the charger.”

“No, it can’t be that – she’s staying in posh hotels, for God’s sake.  They’ll have every adaptor under the sun.”

“Maybe the Indian telephone system won’t work for her mobile?”

“No – she called us when she arrived – remember?”

Emma was silent, worry now etched on her delicate features.  She crossed her arms over her breasts and stared off into the distance.  I could sense her mood deepening.

“Look, there’s no point in imagining things.  Maybe you’re right.  Maybe she just dropped the damned thing.  Let’s deal with one problem at a time.  Monica would’ve kept Bennelli’s details somewhere.  Let’s go find them.”

We wrapped ourselves in our robes and went outside.  It was still dark as we pattered along the balcony that ran along the bedroom block and crossed the back lawn on the well-worn stone path to the house.  Everything was quiet and it seemed weird to be entering the deserted house without at least the knowledge that Monica was asleep upstairs, or Mary was checking up on some hapless client chained in a cell down in the basement.

But tonight it was just Emma and me, as we turned on the lights in Monica’s study and thought about where she might have stored Bennelli’s details.  I went to the computer.  Monica was even more anal than normal when it came to her computer, and I knew all her passwords – well, most of them anyway.  It wasn’t data she’d have hidden from prying eyes – it was just stuff that she’d store on one or other of the tabs of her address book, and sure enough, there it was, a scanned picture from his driver’s licence.  I swore at myself for missing the obvious the previous day.  Bennelli, Wayne, 44 Highbury Road, Pulleynvale.  

We were driving out there just as the sun was starting to rise, Emma beside me in Monica’s Beemer.  Pulleynvale is further out in the bush than Bilboes, and I wasn’t surprised to find the address to be a somewhat rundown weatherboard house with a large yard and unmown grass.  A white Toyota Corolla of far from recent vintage was parked in the driveway.

We parked the car and looked uncertainly at the place from a hundred metres down the road.  We had not really worked out what to do next.  We could hardly go up and ring the doorbell just to check if it was Bennelli’s address, nor could we skulk around checking out the back yard in broad daylight.  We resolved to keep watch and play things as we found them.

It was an hour before we saw any sign of life.  A couple of lights came on and curtains were opened.  After a while a small boy came out followed by a dog and began to play with a tennis ball in the front yard.  Then the presumed mother called them in.  It was all looking less and less promising.  It all looked a picture of domestic suburbia and was seeming less and less promising by the minute.  Finally I could stand it no longer.

“Stay here, ready to start up in a hurry,” I told Emma.  “I may come running.”

“Be careful, Jill,” Emma said, leaning across to give me a brief kiss.  “Any sign of danger, you get out fast.”

We need not have worried.  There was no danger, but there was no Trish or Mary, either.  The young single mother who rented the place had been in there for only a couple of months.  Before her several students had lived in the house.  She had seen the odd letter for a Mr Bennelli, but had no forwarding address and so returned them to the sender.

We drove home defeated and dejected.  It had been worth a shot, but the fact that it didn’t come off made it no easier to swallow.  We figured a low life like Bennelli would no doubt lead some sort of itinerant existence, and his failure to leave a forwarding address could be as much to stay ahead of creditors as anything else.

The rest of the day crawled past, as we waited by the phone for Shannen’s call.  I re-ran the security tapes, hoping to pick up some clue that I might have missed on the first viewing, but there was none.  The sight of Mary and Trish, bound, gagged and helplessly pushed into the boot of the car only depressed me further.

Come late afternoon, I was sitting in Monica’s study, brooding, and jumped when the phone rang.  

“Yes?”

“It’s Shannen.  I have an address.  It’s down in Windsor Park.  I’ll pick you up in at around three thirty.”

*   *   *

Shannen’s car was a silver Audi, and she was evidently doing very well for herself, either as a result of or in spite of our efforts to get her to be a tad more sensitive towards her fellow members of the human race.  The three of us were whizzing down the motorway, as Shannen explained what she had dug up.

“The car belongs to Linda Bennelli, presumably the younger sister, judging from the date of birth on the registration details.  Don’t know much more than that.”

“Which leaves us a number of possibilities,” I mused.  “Either she is in with him, or not.”

“She might also be married,” suggested Emma. “Which could mean a further person involved.”

“Mary and Trish might be at this address, or maybe the car’s been borrowed,” Shannen chipped in.

We kicked around ideas but could get no further than more supposition as we turned off into the ordinary suburban streets of Windsor Park.  With Emma directing us from the map, we soon found the address we were seeking.  It was an unpretentious single story brick house with a car port out the front.  The small front lawn was mown but the car port was empty.  

We parked the car down the street and walked slowly past the house.  It looked deserted.  The property was not big, with a narrow pathway each side that must lead to a back yard.  The side fences were relatively low, however, and we could see that other than a clothesline and a few citrus trees, the back yard seemed to be singularly uninteresting in providing possibilities for restraining reluctant and probably quite vocal prisoners.

“They’re not here,” I said.  “I’m sure of it.  Just doesn’t look the place.  Too exposed, too close to the neighbours.  Nobody in their right mind would risk it.  Bennelli wants privacy.”

We walked on to a small park a hundred metres down the road and sat on a bench.

“So what do we do?” asked Emma.

“I reckon we wait until dark and break in,” Shannen said.  “Suss the place out and see what evidence there is of our man.”

I hadn’t really considered this, for the idea of breaking in to some stranger’s place was anathema to me, but the thought of doing nothing to help Mary and Trish was an even worse alternative.  I was silent for a minute, trying to get my thoughts in place.  

“Well?” Shannen asked.  She wasn’t pushy about it, but I knew what she wanted to hear, and she wanted it to come from me.

“All right,” I finally agreed.  “But let’s park somewhere else.  That damned Audi of yours sticks out like dog’s balls around here.”  Shannen grinned, and we returned to the car, ending up parking in an undercover shopping centre car park nearby.  We bought some junk food and visited a hardware shop to pick up some gear, before  settling in to wait for nightfall.  

There were no lights in the house as we approached it.  I carried a small backpack into which I had stuffed some restraints before leaving Bilboes.  I had a feeling that they might be needed, depending on who and/or what we might find in residency.  We slipped down the side of the house, through a gate and round the back.  The rear door was located in a recessed porch, shielding us from the view of neighbours.  The door had three glass panels and in the absence of any open windows, we turned to our hardware supplies.  At Shannen’s direction we stuck brown masking tape all over one of the glass panes of the door and gave it a tap with a small hammer we had bought.  The pane cracked and we bashed enough glass out to be able to reach in and turn the key to the door.

The house was dark and silent.  We moved through it together, closing curtains and turning on lights only one room at a time, long enough to check out particularly the two bedrooms for any signs of Wayne Bennelli.  We found none.  The place was tidy, with only female clothes in the closet and the second bedroom was used as a sewing room.  There was food in the fridge, including fresh vegetables.  Shannen found a torch and by the light of this we read the various notes pinned to the fridge with magnets.

“You’d be surprised what a fridge can tell you about somebody’s life,” Shannen said.  “Here’s a roster of some sort.  Look, the King George Pub.  I reckon she works there. I think we can expect her home later tonight, according to this.  Looks like we have to settle in for a few hours.”

We did just that.  We debated a bit about Linda Bennelli’s role in the whole thing.  We figured she was either in it with her brother, knew of his tendencies but said nothing, or else had no idea.  We kicked around options and made some plans, but ultimately we were in limbo until one or other of these outcomes became clear.

Close to midnight, as we sat in the darkened living room, there came the sound of a car pulling up outside.  

“It’s a taxi,” Emma whispered, peeping between the curtains.  “Someone’s coming to the front door.”

The outside security light clicked on and there was the sound of a key in the lock as the taxi drove away.  The door opened then closed, at which point we sprang on to Linda Bennelli.  She was a slight girl - in her early twenties with shortish black hair and a silver stud through her lower lip - and she was no match for the three of us.  She got off a few choice curses and a brief scream as we wrestled her to the ground.  Her furious response was silenced as I forced her head on to the carpet and jammed a ball gag in her mouth.  We had our stuff ready and clicked handcuffs closed, securing her wrists behind her.  Still she struggled and kicked, and we were forced to bind her ankles.  She lay there, glaring at us.  She wore a short black skirt, black stockings and shoes, and a white tailored blouse with ‘King George’ embroidered on the left breast.  Even with the ball strapped in her mouth she continued to mmph angrily at us.

“Where’s your brother?”  Shannen demanded without ceremony.  “We’re not here to rob you.  We just want to know where he is.”

“Fffrb rff!” Linda grunted, her lips curling into what might have been a snarl around the ball.  It was hard to tell if the reaction was to the question or whether she was doing it in principle against the invaders in her house.  Whatever her difficulty in enunciating past the object in her mouth, the intent of her words was evident.

“Dear me,” Shannen said.  “How very unladylike.  I think you might need a little persuasion to help us with our enquiries.”

We had talked about this before, and had decided a bit of nipple torture might be a reasonable start.  We dragged her into the kitchen and tied a rope around the top hinge of the open door, before looping the free end of it through Linda’s handcuffs and pulling her arms up behind her back.  I undid the ankle ropes, turning them into a short hobble – enough to give Linda better balance.  I didn’t want her dislocating her arms by falling over.  Emma undid Linda’s blouse and front-fastening bra, and pulled them back behind her victim’s back, securing them out of the way with a couple of clothes pegs.  Linda had small, pointy breasts and I saw the glint of metal on each nipple.

“Hullo, what have we here?”  I squatted, admiring the small steel bar-bell inserted through each nipple.  “Em, find some string, will you?”  Emma opened a couple of kitchen drawers and came up with a roll of twine.  “Now a bucket, please.”

I tied one end of a short piece of twine around one nipple, behind the bar-bell, while Linda mmphed in high dudgeon, causing a long runnel of drool to slide from the corner of her mouth.

“You need something to catch that, dear,” I said tersely, as Emma handed me a plastic bucket through which I threaded the short length of string before tying it to the other nipple, so that the bucket hung in the middle between her breasts.  Now Linda was starting to get the message, and suddenly saw where it was leading.

“When you want to tell us what we want to know, you can simply hum ‘Jingle Bells’,” I told her, as Emma turned on the tap and filled up a glass of water.  

“Nnnn…” Linda whined, as I took the glass and slowly poured it into the bucket.  “Uhuhuh…” came the next noise, as the bucket steadied and started to tug slightly on the anchoring pins through the nipples.

“She want’s some more,” Shannen told Emma.  “Another glass, please Em.”

I calculated there were an awful lot of glasses of water that could go into the bucket, which would become heavier and heavier – and did just that.  By the eighth glass Linda was crying, her nipples distended painfully, her head down as far as she could get it, but not far enough so that the bucket would touch the floor and take some of the weight.  Another glass went in with a splash and Linda could stand it no longer, letting out a gagged scream and shaking her head in agony.

“Want to talk?” I asked, trying to remain casual and off-hand. “What’s the magic song?”

A tearful sobbing rendition of ‘Jingle Bells’ followed, and I took three thick phone books and slipped them under the bucket to take the weight.  Linda moaned as the weight came off her nipples, but she was still obliged to stay bent over.

“Any shouting or carrying on and the gag goes back in, and another pint goes in the bucket,” I told her.  “Understand?”  The head nodded and sniffled.  I unbuckled the gag and pulled it out.  “Remember what I said and only speak when spoken to. Okay?”  Another nod and a kind of gasping, whispered affirmative.

I sat down on the floor with my back against the door frame opposite her.  I was only a few inches from her head, my legs spread either side of the phone books and the bucket.  I motioned to Shannen and Emma to give us some space.

I took her head gently in my hands, thinking that Shannen’s baseball bat approach had been the wrong way to start a meaningful discussion. 

“Linda,” I said softly,  “we don’t intend you any harm.  Your brother has abducted two of my friends.  I’m genuinely concerned that he will hurt them badly – or worse.”  It was as near as I had come to voicing the unthinkable.  We’ve come here because we know he used your car.  We need to know where he is.”

Linda lifted her tear-stained face and looked at me sadly.

“I... I’m sorry… I didn’t know… I over-reacted.  I’m tired, I didn’t expect people to be lying in wait in my own house… Could you pleased undo this rope – it really hurts my arms…”

I did so, and helped her to sit on a chair, though her wrists remained handcuffed behind her and the twine looped behind her nipple adornments remained in place.

“Thank you…” she gulped and sniffled.

“Wayne came here a month ago.  I hadn’t seen him for six months or more.   He said he wanted to borrow my car.  He’s always intimidated me, ever since we were kids and he used to beat me all the time.  I hate him and don’t ever want to see him again.  He’s been using my car ever since, but I’ve been too afraid to go to the police.  He’s a shit.”

“And where is he now?”  

“I don’t know for sure.”

“Can you guess?  We think he would need to take my friends somewhere quiet – maybe in the country, away from neighbours.  He’ll need privacy for his little scheme.  You can bet it will involve torture and imprisonment.”  Linda’s eyes widened with horror.  “Can you think of anywhere he might go to hide away?”

“Maybe… we have a farm down near Springbrook… We’ll its land, not a farm.  The place used to belong to an uncle, but since he died it’s fallen into disrepair.  My mum and dad are dead and Wayne and I are the only benefactors – not that there was anything to benefit from.  Wayne was the eldest and he spent everything he could lay his hands on – usually on drugs and gambling and a couple of cars which he managed to write off, regrettably without including himself.  That land is about all that’s left, and I’m surprised he hasn’t flogged it as well.”

“Maybe he’s been saving it for another purpose,” I suggested, half to myself.  I leaned forward and undid the string around her nipples.  She bit her lip as I momentarily tightened them before they came free.  “I’m sorry we had to do this to you, Linda.  We didn’t know if you were in this with him.”

“I never want to see the low-life lying little shit,” she said softly and bitterly.  “It’s because of him that I have to make do working two jobs to pay off my house.  Life was almost bearable while he was gone.  Then he’s back demanding money, my car, stealing things from me… Bastard.”

I freed her ankles and unlocked her handcuffs.  She wiped her face on her sleeve and massaged her breasts and nipples, before doing up her blouse.

“Can you describe where this house is?”

“Sure.  How about I draw a map for you?  Will you be able to get my car back?”

“If we can.”

“I am just so sick of taking taxis – it costs me a fortune.”

“We’ll do everything we can.  Promise.”

For the first time since we’d met, Linda smiled.

*   *   *

07.02.05

story continues in Monica and the Black Fortress

o0o