Monica and the Black Fortress

by Richard Alexander (Gromets Plaza)

(story continues from Monica and the Black Fortress)

Chapter Eleven  –  The Black Fortress

The elephant lumbered slowly up the approach to the fortress, turning through the three switchbacks before we came to the big stone gate.  Much as I dreaded what we would find inside, at least it would – hopefully – signal the end to the discomfort I was going through on the elephant with the dildo rhythmically thrusting up my arse with each lurch of the animal, and my family jewels being trapped in an equally uncomfortable fashion.  The rain had now increased to a downpour and we were all soaked, the saris clinging to every curve of our bodies, the chill seeping in to our bones.

We passed through the gate – a tall arched opening with just enough clearance for our party, flanked by heavy wooden gates with massive iron bolts poking through in neat rows.  Inside the gate we found ourselves hemmed in between high walls from which it would have been easy for defending forces to attack us, had we been an invading army.  The narrow defile turned on itself as we continued to climb, then passed through a second gate similar to the first.  

Inside the gate the fortress opened out into a big courtyard centred around a large square pool, perhaps twenty metres on a side and edged with a stone balustrade.  The water was dark and looked deep, I had a feeling that this would be more than an ornamental adornment - probably the source of water for the fortress.  Beyond the pool was what appeared to be a black stone cliff, rising five metres or so and topped with further battlements.  I realised that the fort was carved into the mountain in a series of substantial terraces.  Beneath the battlements, at the base of the cliff were what looked like several cave entrances closed off with iron grilles.

The elephant moved across to the left, towards what might be termed a docking station in today’s techno-speak.  There were two high platforms made of stone served by two flights of steps, and after we moved between them, the mahout raised the hinged planks and clicked them back into place beneath our feet.  Beyond the stone platform I noticed the 4WD parked, and looking up, I saw Seeta, Sanjay and Prakash watching us from the first level battlements, under large umbrellas.

I think we all groaned with relief as we could finally now spread some of the awful load on to our legs rather than our crotches.  Our captors descended a set of steps that merged with the platforms, and came to stare at us with amused expressions.

“Did we enjoy our ride?”  Sanjay asked Monica sitting next to me.  Monica didn’t make eye contact, and said nothing, merely staring off to the battlements.  Sanjay ignored the snub and merely smiled.  

“And what about you, my dear,” asked Seeta silkily, staring at me.

“Mrrrph,” I said unhappily.

“That’s a good girl,” she purred.  “Let’s take you inside first, shall we?”  She held out her hand as though assisting a younger sister to climb down.  Not wanting to hang around on the saddle, I swung one leg over the pommel, but my wet sari skirt got hopelessly tangled and Seeta had to free the fabric while tut-tutting softly.

“Dear me, how ungraceful.  I do hope you learn more feminine manners soon.  It might have a big effect on your future.”  She took hold of my upper arm and led me, still uncomfortable on my high heels, up a series of wide curved steps to the battlement level above us.  I cast a glance back at the four girls still sitting disconsolately on their saddles.  Four forlorn sets of eyes looked at me over the top of their veils.  I wondered whether they had worked out that the female with the long black hair, Hindu beauty spot, the nose ring and the narrow waist under the mauve sari, was in fact Steven.  There was nothing to suggest this was the case, but then again we hadn’t actually had much of a discussion.  If they hadn’t worked it out, then they would be still wondering what had happened to me.

Dejectedly I reached the top of the steps and passed out of sight of the others.  The next level was similar to the lower one but without the pool.  Instead there were a series of open-sided pavilions with ornate stone carving on the columns and eaves, and pointed turrets on the roofs.  Between these were tended gardens overshadowed by several large banyan trees. I couldn’t help but marvel at the internal drainage system that somehow seemed to drain away the massive volume of water that the palace must be collecting on its marble and stone surfaces. 

“These are the gardens where the Maharajah’s wives and concubines used to gather in the old days,” Seeta said, as though I was somehow interested.  I saw that above this level was a further one again.  “This will be as far as you’re going, my dear,” Seeta told me, touching me lightly on the cheek through the wet veil, and directing me past the pavilions to another black rock face beyond with further forbidding-looking entrances, some sealed by wooden doors and some by barred grilles.  

One of the doors was open, and it was through this that we passed after squelching across the almost flooded courtyard.  Immediately the hissing of the rain subsided and the atmosphere became hushed and gloomy.  The passageway had been carved out of the rock and was lit by a few dim light bulbs, proof that there must be a generator on site somewhere, for there had been no outside lines leading to the fort.  The passageway widened and we passed a number of rooms dug out of the rock.  From the first one of these three men who might have been guards or some form of security scrambled into the passage and stood to attention.  They wore ill-fitting uniforms that looked like army surplus, but they didn’t appear to carry any weapons other than nasty-looking rattan canes, which I knew the Indian police used for crowd control. 

Seeta conversed briefly with them.  They were obsequious and there was much head waggling in probable agreement with whatever their mistress wanted done.  They looked at me with greedy eyes, and I suddenly understood how a woman must feel to be mentally undressed, but we moved on without their company.  At intervals along the passage were recesses with ornamental weaponry on display – swords, shields, spears and ancient muskets probably liable to explode in your face if used these days.  Two doors further down a man awaited us, standing impassively with his arms folded.  He was big, maybe a little above my height but broad-shouldered and heavy of girth.  In sheer bulk he looked like an Indian sumo wrestler.  He was bald, his bullet-like scalp shining under a bare bulb.  He wore a burgundy tunic over matching pants and a sort of long sleeveless black waistcoat that came down to his thighs.  He smiled at me in a way that convinced me I would not like to argue with him.

“This is Babur.  He will be helping me.”  Seeta didn’t explain what with, but dropped into Hindi and the two had an animated conversation while I stood there in my dripping sari, handcuffed, gagged and anxious.  

They appeared to agree on whatever it was they were discussing, which – I had a sneaking suspicion – was predominantly centred on me.  Babur took the lead and Seeta poked me in the backside with the now-closed umbrella as an incentive to follow him.  I did so, and we moved deeper into the mountain, following the passage that seemed to twist and turn without logic.  I wondered if it had followed an old cave passageway.  There was an oppressive air here.  The walls were damp and slimy, and here and there water entered in small trickles through cracks in the black rock, pooling on the uneven floor before disappearing through further fissures.  Seeta said something to Babur that might have related to the wetness, but he just shrugged and uttered a monosyllabic reply.  Then it appeared we had arrived at our destination.

Babur stopped and swung open a heavy wooden door on our left.  The doorway itself had been formed from cut blocks of stone which had been cleverly integrated with the living rock.  Inside, there was a short passage only a couple of metres long which opened out into a high-ceilinged cavern with a floor that descended steeply from one side to the other away from us, with steps cut into the rock floor.  

To say ‘high-ceilinged’ was not quite correct, since it implied a completeness of ceiling which was not the case.  In this instance the roof rose perhaps fifteen metres above us in a chimney a couple of metres wide that was open to the sky except for a heavy iron grating set into the rock at the top.  The rain poured in like a circular shower in the centre of the cavern, forming a shallow pool which overflowed from the depression under it to run across the floor, then to disappear through what appeared to be a natural outlet at the base of the rock wall.  The place echoed with the rushing water, and it was difficult to hear what Seeta was saying.

Part of the reason for this was that I was only half listening, for I had discovered the fate of the second girl whom we sought.  I recognised Abby Wilkes at once, her pale face staring at me from across the cavern, illuminated by a spotlight as she knelt on what might have been an altar of some sort.

“Here’s one we prepared earlier,” said Seeta with a smirk.  The brunette was naked and was gagged with a red ball strapped in her mouth.  The flat part of the shrine she knelt on was at waist level, and I saw that an element of it was some sort of giant phallus which penetrated her pussy.  Her wrists were bound together above her head and were held there by a rope that ran through an iron ring fixed in the stone roof high above, before descending to be tied off to an iron spike driven into the wall.  I noticed that Abby’s arms were not at full stretch, but still seemed to be supporting her weight somewhat.  It was then that I realised that if Abby released her grip she would slide back and further impale herself on the awful prong.  There was a rope tied about her waist that was anchored back to the base behind her, preventing her rising up to get off the invader.

Seeta gave me another shove with the umbrella across to where the helpless girl knelt.  With her arms raised above her, her ample breasts were lifted and they jutted provocatively, rising and falling with each breath.

“This is Abby,” she said unnecessarily.  “Abby worked with us until recently, when she tried to escape.  Now, any hope she might have had of continuing to be treated as a servant has disappeared.  Regrettably she will probably meet the same fate as your friends.”  Kneeling on the platform, Abby’s head was level with my own as I stood in front of her.  She had wide blue eyes that looked pleadingly at me above the rubber ball strapped between her teeth.  Her cheeks showed the tracks of tears.

Abby, meet…Asha.”  Seeta smiled as she made up a name for me.  “It means ‘hope’ in Hindi, although let me make things very clear to you that it is the most inappropriate name to have in this place.  There will be no hope for either of you.”  Her smile turned cold and the look in her eyes made me shudder.  She reached up and pulled down my veil, revealing the gag strapped in my own mouth.

“Asha, for your benefit, I know that even though you carry the holy spot on your forehead, you are not one of us, nor will you ever be, and so I think it only fair to educate you a little for your future life.  The phallus dear Abby is striving so hard not to receive fully inside her is called a linga. You will see it in many forms in Hindu religious sculptures, most often as a fat rod with a smooth, rounded head, rising up from what looks like a shallow dish with a lip on it.  This is the Yoni, the receiver of the linga, just as Abby’s is now receiving that one, which incidentally, had a carved lotus as the head.  The lotus will stimulate Abby much more than a normal linga, just like the ribbed condom, yes?”  She grinned maliciously at Abby.  “Are you coping with it, my dear?  A little big, perhaps?  I’m sure you’ll accommodate things eventually – within the next day or so.  Asha will now join you here, to keep you company.  It’s a shame you two won’t be able to discuss your painful impalements… This way, Asha.”

I was shunted across the room to another shrine and looked horrified at the big stone phallus sticking up from the top of it.  Seeta made me kneel, then lie face down on the ground beside the shrine, at which point Babur sat on the small of my back.  As if the tightness of the corset hadn’t been bad enough, the little breaths I could take as a result were now all but squashed out of me.  

Seeta dragged a small wooden trunk across to where I lay under Babur.  He was facing my feet and I felt the sodden skirt of the sari, and the petticoat underneath lifted and my buttocks exposed.  They were split by the crotch of the corset which Seeta now unlocked.  My dick and balls spilled out like a jack in the box and I would have gloried in the relief had not Seeta appeared in front of me with what looked to be a very sharp dagger.  

“I’m afraid we’ll have to carry out a little advance operation at this point,” she said, waving the glinting knife in front of me.  The reaction it caused was predictable, for I panicked and struggled, all the while grunting frantically into the ball in my mouth.  Babur continued to sit implacably on me and all I did was exhaust myself, between him, the corset and the gag, so that I could hardly breathe.  Even so, when Seeta knelt over my legs, I was petrified as to what was going to happen.  

I felt a touch of the steel on my buttocks, then heard a kind of tearing sound, and the smooth withdrawing of the rubber dildo that had been thrusting up and down in my arse for most of the day.  I realised Seeta had cut the rear crotch piece away, and I nearly fainted from relief, only managing not to follow up the removal of the device with a little unavoidable removal of my own.  That would not have been a good career move, though my career was looking anything but rosy right at that moment.  

I let myself be rolled on to my back, grimacing as my manacled hands were trapped awkwardly under my body.  Lying as I was, I could still see Abby, kneeling half impaled and hanging on to the overhead rope with her bound hands, trying to support herself.  I guessed that she couldn’t see what was being done to the lower part of me, and was still assuming I was some unfortunate local girl who had fallen into the clutches of Seeta and Sanjay.

There were fingers now doing more unmentionable things to my family jewels, and there was a rattle of things in the wooden trunk before something cold was slid around and above my whole tackle.  There was a click, then another click, and something tightened above my dick and balls, constricting the flesh where they emerged from my torso.  It felt suspiciously like an adjustable long-shanked padlock, of the sort that has two shanks which pass right through the lock itself, with about five lock settings depending on the size of the item around which the shank sits.  

We had such locks at Bilboes, and Trish – in one of my many moments of unsuspecting instruction – had once shown me how such a lock could be secured above the dick and balls.  She had then disappeared with the key and I had been forced to carry on for the rest of the day with my goolies locked up.  It had been bearable, just, and she had had the decency to eventually give me back the keys without my asking for them, though it became clear that everybody in Bilboes had known about my plight even though I had been too embarrassed to mention it.  But that had been a long time ago.  I was older now, and wiser.  So wise that I was now made up as an Indian girl, gagged, handcuffed and was having some seriously heavy metal locked about my most private appendages.

There was some more rattling and what sounded like chains and more fingers going where they had no right to be.  Then I was back on my face, my cheek against the cold damp stone floor.  Babur turned around so that he faced my head and unlocked the handcuffs, swinging my arms out along the floor so that they were stretched out ahead of me, palm to palm.  His weight was enormous and I was seriously struggling for breath.  Seeta appeared with a couple of metres of sashcord and began to weave an intricate web around my wrists, the rope criss-crossing between them in the course of multiple wrapping that left them solidly melded to each other.  Seeta knew her bondage all right.

Then Babur was off me, and I was gasping for air through my nose, and before I realised it, he had lowered a rope from a ceiling ring and Seeta was using it as a cinch to the already solid wrist ropes.  I struggled into a kneeling position, abruptly feeling some sort of weight on my dick and scrotum.  It was uncomfortable and I was apprehensive as to what the pair had done beneath my sari.  Finally I was obliged to stand on my feet as Babur hauled on the rope.  The weight between my legs became heavier and made me gasp.  With my wrists now above my head there was no point in fighting this, but I sure wasn’t about to move anywhere in a hurry.  I could detect the cold pendulum of chains brushing my inner thighs and a faint shaft of pain went upward through my loins.  I grunted unhappily again. 

“It will get worse,” Seeta whispered in my ear.  “But in the long run it will be for the best, for it will make the operation much easier when everything has stretched.  Gives them more room to sew up the wound after removal, and to make…um… alternative arrangements for your… other functions.”

I whined in horror at this, but Seeta took perverse delight in further elaborating on her plans.

“Now we will sit you on the linga.  You will see that this one is conical in shape, starting at the diameter of your thumb, and widening to the size of your fist.  You will be positioned the same as Abby, allowing you to take some of the weight on your arms.  The linga is very slippery, however.  We grease them with pig fat, which makes the Moslem girls truly upset, believe me.  Once your arms become tired, and your thighs can no longer support you in that half-erect position Abby is now holding, you will eventually slide fully on to the linga.  It will be very painful, but will stand you in jolly good stead for when you wish to ply your trade in the streets, for some Indian men have very big linga of their own, and you will need to accommodate them.  You will have many hours on this linga, learning how to stretch your muscles and cope with the pain.  At the same time we will add further weights to your sac which will likewise assist in pulling you down on to the linga.”

At the rear of the stone shrine, which was basically a big block of black stone perhaps a metre by two metres by a metre high, were some steps.  I was prodded up these with the umbrella, feeling a threatening tugging at the chains.  I reached the top step and looked at the linga.  It was smooth, black and glistening with the lubricant they had used.  Another poke and I was forced forward, Babur all the while taking up the slack in the overhead rope.  Seeta was right behind me, and pushed me again, lifting my sari briefly so that the linga disappeared beneath it.  I felt my breathing increase rapidly.

“Take the weight on your arms and kneel down,” Seeta ordered.  She was kneeling behind me now, her hand under my skirts.  Fearfully I did so, conscious of the shaking of my legs as my buttocks touched first her hand then something smooth and cold.  I was almost on my knees, when the tip of the linga slid smoothly into my arse an inch or so.  Some weight was now on my knees, but Seeta at once tied a rope around my waist and then back to an anchor ring immediately behind me.  I knew now that I could not rise up sufficiently to get my torso off the stone prong.  I groaned, as much in resignation of my fate as discomfort.  That, evidently, was yet to come.

After arranging my skirts so that no part of the linga was visible, Seeta climbed back down from the platform and moved around to the front of it.  My knees were almost at the edge, and two chains were now visible from under the fabric of the sari, dangling down the face of the stone platform.  She held in her hands two weights the size of squash balls, but looking as though they were made from iron.  Each had a small hook sticking out from it, and Seeta slowly hung them on the ends of the chains.  At once the pain shot through my loins, like somebody had squeezed my goolies.  It is a terrible feeling that only a guy can know and understand, usually coming about when hit in the balls by anything from a cricket ball to a swinging foot.  It is a nervy penetrating pain like nothing else, and I gasped and moaned, my breath coming raggedly through my nose as my body tried to take in all that was happening to it at that moment, and all the future held.

Seeta was joined by Babur and they both gave me their most pitiless smiles as I squirmed and struggled, then decided such movements only increased the pain.  I closed my eyes and bit down on the rubber ball filling my mouth.

“There’s no reason that you should suffer so much alone, Asha,” said Seeta.  Perhaps we can offer some persuasion to Abby, to accept that monster dick inside her.  Yes?”  I hardly dared open my eyes to see what torture they were going to inflict on the naked girl facing me a few metres away.  Seeta went back to the wooden trunk and handed something to Babur, while she sized up Abby, who looked at her wide-eyed with fear.  Finally Seeta reached up to Abby’s left nipple and screwed some sort of circular clamp around it, from which hung nearly a metre of fine chain which just touched the stone platform.  Abby whined and snorted with pain, but it gained her no quarter, as Seeta turned her attention to the other pink nipple.  A minute later this, too, was trapped in a circular clamp and likewise dangled a length of chain.  The chain was clearly not heavy, but the two iron balls – the same as those weighing down on me – were obviously of substantial weight.  

Seeta eyed the bound girl carefully, as though judging where to hang the weights.  She held her hand up at a height perhaps six inches above the stone platform and looked quizzically at Babur.  He nodded.  Gently Seeta hung the weights on the chains at that point.  Abby cried out into her gag as the heavy balls pulled down on her nipples, distorting her full breasts and causing obvious pain.

“There, Abby.  The sooner you accept that linga fully inside you, the sooner the weight will be taken off those nice breasts of yours.  All you have to do is let go of the rope and ease back down on to your haunches, then everything will be all right.  The same goes for you, Asha.  Well, almost.  Someone will come along and add another weight or two.  That will give you something to think about in the meantime…”

With that, Seeta turned on her heel and strode out of the cavern, followed by Babur.  The door slammed, the sound echoing against the dripping rock walls.  Silence descended, save for the steady hiss of rain on the floor where it came through the opening above us.  We were forsaken in the bowels of an Indian fortress, with not even a sniff of rescue likely.

Abby began to cry, and I almost felt like it myself.

*   *   *

21.02.05

story continues in Monica and the Black Fortress

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