Monica's Games 1.11: Payment in Kind

by Richard Alexander (Gromets Plaza)

(story continues from Monica's Games 1.10)

Chapter Eleven: Payment in Kind

I should have known that something rather nasty would befall me, but I didn’t expect it quite the way it happened.  The whole thing with Monica and Megan had been at Mohammed’s behest, and yes, I admit it, I did know about the plan way before we got to Oman.  And yes, I did make a few suggestions to Mohammed as to what might ‘happen’ to the girls - in the course of a few emails to him.  Well okay, quite a lot of emails, in fact. You could call it conspiring behind her back, but Monica clearly didn’t understand the cultural politics of the situation.  Or maybe she recognised it but wouldn’t acknowledge that Mohammed was more comfortable doing business with a man than a woman. 

That fact, of course, was why he wanted me to lead the parade in the interactive cyber scene we did with him.  It was also why he emailed me specifically, and asked all the questions he did about some of the narratives I had posted on the website, and worked with me to trick Monica and Megan.  It was why I emailed him details of the girls measurements from our little black book, so that the custom-made manacles and clothing would be ready and waiting for them.  It was why he had me bring the special ‘accessories’ from the Bilboes storeroom, and why Customs had been directed not to be interested in a suitcase containing a nice selection of dildos, inflatable gags, hoods, and other assorted devices.  It was, in short, why I came to Oman with Monica and Megan, namely, to facilitate the deal between the House of Bilboes and the House of Zubair.

Of course the plot had evolved further with our discussions, and the presence of Zara was a bonus of which I knew nothing.  On reflection I should not have been surprised at her inclinations, given her brothers’ interests and their joint participation in such activities from an early age.  But Zara was more than just a willing participant.  Zara was Zara, with the enormous eyes that dared you to test her will and to submit to an experience the like of which I had never encountered before.  She was full of life and exuberance and possessed of skills that took my breath away.  Having sex with her in the pool at Jabrin, knowing that Monica was watching, left me with only a faint touch of an unexplainable guilt, overwhelmed instead by the sheer energy and excitement that Zara exuded. 

I had known about the brothers’ gambling obsessions and the enormous sums of money that changed hands between them, since this was the basis for the business deal that Monica could now pursue on her own.  If Monica hadn’t figured out that Mohammed was playing her off against Megan and Rashid in the course of her torments, well, she certainly knew now.  The two men had been prepared to bet on anything between the girls.  There was ‘how many times Megan could make Monica come during the horse float ride’.  There was ‘who would last the longest in the mud packs and on the camels’.  And yes,  there was a bit of gratuitous, teasing sex thrown in for good measure.  I had no idea who had come out the winner at the end of the day, but I knew the brothers were all fired up at the prospect of a major competition between Bilboes and the Citadel, with the teams led by Monica and Megan respectively.  I also knew it would be major fun working out just what the competition would entail, and which I intended to be a part of. 

I had shown the brothers the potential for their sibling rivalry to expand in the direction of Bilboes and the Citadel, and I knew Monica would add a sharp business edge to the deal, with her usual flair and imagination.  In short, the negotiation of the prize at stake would be her role to nail down.  However I thought that having brought the process to that point, my empathy with the brothers and my unexpected consummation with Zara would have protected me from what I knew would be the wrath of Monica and Megan.  As usual I got that wrong, overlooking the feminine wiles and sisterly camaraderie that had evidently sprung up between Monica, Megan and Zara.  Which was how I came to be in the position I was in.
 

*   *   *

It started when we arrived at the camp.  It was an idyllic spot, situated in the confines of a slight widening of the gorge, where some palms and stunted acacias had taken root in the shelter of the cliffs with the pool providing a source of water.  Salah was there ahead of us, and directed me to one of the four tents that had been set up on the sandy shores of the pool.  I saw Zara go to a second one, while the two girls in their carpet rolls were unloaded and dumped on the ground.  From the shade of my tent opening I watched as Monica was unrolled and made to get unsteadily to her feet.

She stood there for a few moments, naked, her wrists still bound behind her and still firmly gagged with the leather wad in her mouth.  The whiteness of her skin had become a dusty tan which did nothing to diminish the attractiveness of her curves.  She was trying to get her senses together after what must have been a fairly uncomfortable ride, when Zara moved behind her and bound a black strip of cloth over her eyes, before leading her into a third tent, into which Mohammed had disappeared moments earlier.  Two minutes later a naked Megan – also bound, gagged and blindfolded – was led into Rashid’s tent.  I guessed they were about to have their final lesson ahead of release and a reality check.

I wasn’t sure which tent the girls would end up in, following their release and appraisal of the Big Scheme which I had devised along with Mohammed.  I had brought a case of their clothes with me – selected on the advice of Mohammed – along with the bag of ‘accessories’ I had surreptitiously brought from Australia, again at the behest of the brothers.  Evidently inflatable hoods and the like were not readily available in Oman, and I confess to one or two nervous moments before Salah the driver had met us ahead of customs and spirited us through without a second glance.  These cases I had brought into my tent and they were now on the luxurious carpet which gave the place a comfortable feeling of permanency.  There was a pile of blankets in one corner, but it was impossible to tell how many it was meant for.

I watched as the entrances to the brothers’ tents were closed, and decided now would be a good time for a swim, for even in the shade of the cliffs it was very hot.  I helped myself to some fruit and water that had been left in the tent, then changed into my swimming trunks and ventured outside.

After the darkness of the tent the bright sun on the sand hit me with a physical intensity and I lost no time in diving into the crystal waters that formed the pool.  It was about fifty metres across, half in, and half out of the cave overhang, and surprisingly the water was quite cool, evidence of its journey through the deep limestone passages of the surrounding hills.  I floated for a short while, catching fragments of what sounded like muffled cries coming from the brothers’ tents, then all went silent.  I felt just a smidgen of guilt, but knew it was a means to Monica’s ends, and was part of her agenda. She had stated categorically that we were all to do whatever possible was needed to achieve the end objective of securing a major investment from these guys.  I reckoned I had done pretty well and could feel justifiably proud of my efforts.

My self-congratulations were interrupted momentarily by Rashid leading a naked Megan into Mohammed’s tent, then the entry hanging flapping closed behind them.  Things went a bit quiet after that as I cruised back and forth across the pool.  Half of it was in shadow under the overhang of the cave, and I stayed in this shaded part, out of the fierce rays of the sun. 

I was just a little anxious when Monica and Megan appeared from the tent together and headed for the pool, for I had no idea what sort of temper they would be in.  No doubt Mohammed and Rashid had now fully explained exactly what the last couple of days had been all about, and that the mysterious Salim bin Aziz was in fact the pair of them, as they had played the strengths of the girls off against each other.  I hoped that the brothers had had the tact not to disclose who had actually won.

Monica and Megan slowly waded into the water, their skin colour becoming paler and more luminous as the dust vanished.  With the water at their navels they both dived and swam underwater to surface next to me, pushing their hair back from their foreheads as they surfaced next to where I stood in the chest deep water. 

“Is everything okay?” I asked, trying to hide the anxiety in my voice.

“Of course,”  said Monica with perhaps just too much casualness.  “It takes more than a little pain and suffering to push us over the edge, right Megan?”  Megan smiled and nodded her agreement, to my immense relief.

“So you’re not mad at me?”

“A little… piqued, shall we say,” she said wryly.  “Just a tad put out that I wasn’t brought into your scheme.”  She took a step close to me, and I saw her dark nipples were hard and pointy with the coolness of the water.  “I have just done a very lucrative deal with Mohammed,” she said softly, and there was no concealing the excited edge to her voice.  Knowing Monica it was probably this aspect that was arousing her nipples as much as the water.

“Thanks to me?” I ventured.

“Yes – thanks to you,” she admitted grudgingly.  “You bastard.”  This time there was a harder tone to her voice.  “Don’t you ever go behind my back like that again.”

“Steven wasn’t the only one behind your back,” Megan quipped suggestively.

“I seem to remember a lot of stifled crying from your good self -” Monica shot back, “oh she-who-likes-it-from-behind.”  Megan blushed.

We were distracted at that point by Zara’s appearance at the edge of the pool. She wore a white high-cut one-piece costume which contrasted with her dark skin and jet-black hair.  She smiled and climbed on a large rock at the edge of the deepest part of the pool and dived in unhesitatingly with the smooth action of one who could have spent half her life in the water. She appeared like a fish beside us, the water cascading off her hair and the tight swelling of her breasts under the lycra. 

“Are we having fun, girls and boys?” she asked, shooting us a knowing look.

“”Much more so now,” Megan replied with emphasis on the ‘now’.  Zara seemed to reflect for a moment.

“Funny, I seem to recall some garbled cries coming from Rashid’s tent less than an hour ago which I would have sworn were those of someone in the throes of passion,” she said pointedly.

“I wonder who that could have been,” Monica murmured.

“Pot calling the kettle black,” said Megan, splashing Monica furiously as the three girls abruptly launched into a free for all.

I made my escape at that point, heading for my tent, and was just out of the pool when a naked female floored me with a rugby tackle around my knees.  Monica was on top of me as I struggled to fight off the nubile limbs, moments later being joined by Megan.  I suffered firstly from the problem of two on to one, and secondly from my reluctance to fight too hard for fear of hurting them.

These two suffered no such inhibitions, however, and in no time I was on my back with Monica astride my chest holding my arms down and Megan sitting on my knees anchoring the lower half of me.

“Now what are you going to do?” I taunted them.  But Monica had this figured out.

“Zara, have you seen a black samsonite case?  It will probably be in this man’s tent.  Would you mind fetching it?”

Zara, smiling broadly, emerged from the water and scurried up the beach to my tent, to appear moments later lugging the case which contained the ‘accessories’ I had brought from Bilboes.  Monica had obviously remembered the case, and had worked out from the range of items being inserted into her recently that these were not locally available.  Or Mohammed had spilled the beans.  Either way I reckoned I was about to pay my penance.

Zara opened the case and looked at its contents with little surprise, which was perhaps understandable, since she and I had been through them several times in the course of devising treats for Monica and Megan.

“That roll of duct tape will do nicely, Zara,” said Monica.  I groaned.  I hated duct tape.  It was all right for women who shaved every square inch of their body below the head, but for us guys it had a further dimension of pain.

“Is there a problem Steven?” Monica asked sweetly, dangling her breasts in my face as she leaned forward.  I raised my head in an effort to bite one nipple, but she saw me coming and was too quick in moving back.

“That ball first,” ordered Monica, and Zara grabbed a large rubber ball with a cord through the middle of it.  I dreaded this one – it was so big that once inserted it needed the cord in order to extract it.   Zara held my hair with one hand and forced the ball between my teeth.  The ball was of medium density rubber – just soft enough to compress a bit under reasonable effort, such as occurred between two rows of teeth as my jaw was stretched to its limit.  Then abruptly the ball was in, returning to its full size and totally filling my mouth. I whined and complained, my tongue trapped beneath the rubber and my lips distended where my mouth was forced open.  The cord hung a few inches down from the middle of the exposed portion, and such was the size and hardness of the ball that no strap was needed to hold it in place, for there was no way I could remove it other than by tugging it out with some effort on the cord.

“Urrrmmm!” I objected.

“Try to bite my tit, would you?”  Monica smirked down at me.  She looked extraordinary lovely with that playful gleam in her eye, but I knew I was about to receive some serious punishment.

“Close your hand into a fist,” she commanded.  Reluctantly I did so and she released my right arm for Zara to wrap my hand with tape.  So much for the use of my fingers.  “Now bend your arm – that’s right – now Zara, tape his wrist to his upper arm.”  And that was how I rapidly became helpless at the hands of three scheming females.

By the time my left hand and arm were solidly melded together with tape I knew the jig was up and Monica was planning something rather unpleasant for me.  I suppose I shouldn’t have been surprised, for Monica was never one to miss an opportunity to stamp her authority in general - and female superiority in particular when there was a male involved.  Moments later I had lost my trunks and my ankles were being taped to my thighs, leaving me floundering and helpless when Monica and Megan stood up.

“All this messing about in the sun is doing my skin no good at all,” Monica declared.  “Mohammed said you’d brought our clothes, presumably in your tent?” 

“Urrrf,”  I grunted.  Mohammed was only telling half the story, in that I had packed the girls clothes – but as directed by him, which was in fact their working clothes, with little or nothing appropriate for the place we now found ourselves.  I watched as Monica and Megan disappeared into my tent while Zara sat and smiled down at me, stroking my hair and murmuring something in Arabic.  I lay on my back and perhaps predictably her fingers started playing with Mr Willy, and of course there was precious little I could do about it.  I was not at all in the mood for funny stuff, but sometimes he has a life of his own, and soon he was up and about, yielding to the insistent caresses.  My jaw was starting to ache already from the huge ball wedged between my teeth, and I was making pathetic whimpers in the hope that she might take it out.

Around then Monica and Megan appeared, looking decidedly pissed off.  Monica wore a black leather vest , a short black leather skirt, and medium-heeled sandals with thongs that wrapped around her calves.  Megan, meanwhile, sported a  short sleeveless pvc dress and high heeled boots to her knees.

“What the hell did you bring these clothes for?” Monica demanded, squatting down beside me and seizing Mr Willy, who at once went into retreat mode.

“Mmrrf hrmmp mmph…” I gurgled, trying to explain that Mohammed had explicitly specified what I was to pack, and this included no underwear and only the type of clothes such as she now wore.

“Is this another one of your little games, Steven?”  I shook my head desperately and made eye and head movements in the direction of Mohammed’s tent, then looked appealingly to Zara, who had been part of the planning team.  “Dammit, I have nothing appropriate for this place!  I’m not working in a dungeon here!”  No, I thought, that’s what I said, but Mohammed thinks you’re sexy as hell and doesn’t want you covered up unnecessarily.  “Maybe we should look at what else you brought along in your other bag of surprises,” she continued pointedly.  She ferreted in the accessory case and pulled something up out of my line of vision.

“That’s nice,” said Megan, but I couldn’t see what the object was.  “Let’s make him wander off into his own world like we had to under those pots.”

Her hands came down and jammed a couple of industrial ear plugs in my ears.  The plugs were the expanding type and within seconds the girls’ voices had softened to a quiet murmuring.  Then Monica seized hold of the cord hanging from the ball distending my mouth.  Thank God, I thought.  At least she had realised that that particular gag was a very short term thing.  When it popped out after a short painful struggle, I had barely time to catch my breath before a black rubber hood was pulled painfully over my head.

“Aw Monica, no – “ I managed to complain before with a vicious tug it slipped down to my chin and neck and – in contrast to the ball – jammed my jaw closed.  It had no mouth or eye holes, and only small nostril holes with short tubes in them that were located in place.  This was a blow-up hood, I knew, and I hated this, too.  It was tight enough just as it was, sealing up my head in a snug cocoon, further removing my hearing, sight and speech.  When – as happened moments later – someone began to pump up the hood, any residual sounds vanished and the rubber skin tightened with the pressure even further.

The blow-up hood works on the two-skin principle – there is an inner skin and an outer one, with the air pumped in between.  The double skin makes it a tight enough hood in the first place, without any further input, but when the air is pumped in it makes an even tighter seal over the whole head, leaving me in silence and darkness.

“You’d better get out of the sun yourself,” came a way-off distant voice, obviously almost next to the hood.  “Shall we give you some help?”

There was a flurry of stinging smacks on my chest and abdomen, with not a few in the vicinity of Mr Willy which made me jerk wildly, as I struggled to turn over.  I couldn’t go anywhere on my back but managed to end up sprawling on my stomach in the sand.  There were further blows now on my exposed rump, and I guessed the instrument was a riding crop.  I whined and grunted under the hood, awkwardly getting up on to my elbows and then my knees.  I was moving blindly, becoming aware that the stinging blows were directing me, firstly on my right shoulder and then on my left, as I shied away from the impacts like a horse being trained. 

But I knew I wasn’t going up the beach into the shade, instead finding myself at the edge of the water.  Here the blows stopped, and a length of rope was wrapped around my legs and then hands pulled me the last of the way into the pool.  I guessed this must have been Zara, still in her bathing costume.  I panicked at the touch of the water, as I was pulled out from the shore on my back.  The rope was obviously attached to some sort of weight, for I found knees pulled downward, then there followed the tug of something dragging on the bottom.  The hands holding me disappeared and I found myself floating upright, anchored to something – maybe a stone – on the bottom.  The inflated hood kept my head above water, as long as I didn’t struggle, and I sensed the faint movement of water as Zara moved away and left me floating there.

Clearly this was a tit-for-tat effort in return for the oil pool, but at least I knew who my captors were and I did not have a big pole rammed up my arse.  There was no doubt Monica and Megan had had the worst of that one, and I could appreciate that they were just a tad peeved at the situation they found themselves in.  I was sure the three of them would now be planning my punishment in a little more detail, and I was even more certain it was far from over.

*   *   *

Time drifted by as I hung in sort of suspended animation in the water, a black bladder floating in the clear crystal waters.  My head was hot under the rubber, while my body slowly began to be chilled.  It was a weird feeling.  My jaw ached from being jammed closed – a sensation I had not expected – but despite that, I must have dozed, I guessed.  Then came the sound of splashing, managing to penetrate my cocoon of silence, and I knew the next phase of Steven’s punishment was about to take place.

Hands grasped my upper arms and I felt the slickness of woman-flesh against my body as I was dragged out of the water and laid on the ground on my back, while the tape was cut from my legs, and then from my arms.  The girls took great delight in pulling it away slowly, so that I underwent a painful depilation treatment in those places.  I tried yelling in protest but could barely manage a hmmm through my nose.  I thought I detected distant laughter, but the rubber hood was so effective in silencing the outside world I couldn’t be sure.  Maybe I was just imagining it? No, they would be getting their money’s worth, that I was sure of.

 I waited for them to undo the tape from my clenched fists, but nothing happened.  Suddenly I was on my own, with no contact by my captors.  Cautiously I sat up, then got to my feet.  I was blind, silent, deaf and helpless, for though I tried to remove the hood, it was hopeless without the use of my fingers to firstly deflate the thing, and secondly to grip the edge of the rubber at the neck, to pull off the hood.  I made several futile attempts at both of these processes, before giving up in frustration.  I wondered if I could somehow find a stick and poke it under the edge of the rubber, and I recalled a number of the acacia trees had low, drooping branches.  Then I thought maybe I could get a knife or a pair of scissors and cut through the tape, wedging the knife between my knees.  This seemed halfway reasonable, and I knew there was a knife in the ‘accessories’ case, wherever that was.

I had no sense of where I was, however, never mind where the case was.  Everything was just black and hot.  I stumbled about, trying to be rational in my approach, thinking that if I could find the pool, that would be a starting point in orienting myself.  I stretched my arms out in front like a sleep-walker, in case I walked into something, although it must be said my head was very well protected in such an event.

That was when I felt the first sting of a flogger on my backside.  I jumped, and another swat came on my thigh.  Then a paddle landed on my other buttock, followed by what felt painfully like a wet towel flick.  I realised I was in the centre of the three girls who were obviously taking great sport in giving me a good tickle-up, making me jump this way and that in a hopeless attempt to protect myself.  I considered – for a brief moment – sitting down and just letting them get on with it, but figured that would be even more painful.  I dodged and ducked, not trying to avoid what I couldn’t see, but following my own intended plan.

My salvation came when I ran a few steps in one direction and found myself in the water again, and knew that here at least I would be safe from the stinging lashes.  Until, of course they decided to haul me out and secure me in a more permanent position.  And yes, that was exactly what happened.

The arms came out of the blackness that was my silent world and hands once again dragged me from the water, this time stumbling between them up the beach to a point where I was made to bend over what I established to be a tree bough.  Or rather, two roughly parallel branches at around waist height.  I was made to spread my arms wide and these were quickly taped to a bough such that I felt like I was lying face down on a cross, with the horizontal limb running beneath my chest.  The second branch was at my waist, so that I was supported at chest and waist, in a position of the utmost vulnerability, which increased as  ropes were tied to my ankles and my feet were pulled apart, to be secured in a very exposed way.

I was left alone at that point.  This was Monica playing mind games with me, obviously making me think about what I had done to them, and also what was about to happen to me.  I wondered how merciful she would be, but I was not exactly able to influence that attitude.  I was also getting hot, and I decided I must be in the direct sun.  That must also have been part of Monica’s game - the bitch.  Whatever she had in store for me, she was going to do on top of a roasting from Mother Nature.  I thought this was grossly unfair and wriggled as best I could, but I could barely move at all.  My fingers were still taped down, and further tape at wrists, elbows and upper arms attached me solidly to the branch.

I was there for maybe fifteen minutes before the first blow came.  It was a flogger, swatting my exposed buttocks with a rapid series of slashing swipes.  Monica – I assumed – was warming me up for the main event.  I grunted as the assault continued on my thighs and back and arms and calves.  I squirmed and jerked against my bonds, mewing into the rubber hood, but I doubt I could even be heard, so effective did it seem to be as a gag.  My flesh seemed to be on fire by the time the barrage of strikes ceased.  I was tensed up and trembling, and only slowly relaxed as I realised that part of my punishment had finished. 

I should not have been surprised at the next stage, as a thick rubber phallus nosed between my spread cheeks and slowly penetrated my arse.  I had a sneaking suspicion that this was the one Megan had used on Monica in the horse float.  Or rather, this was the one we had made Megan use on Monica.  I did not know how much had turned out consensual in the end, but I do know Monica had got her rocks off several times, whereas I confess it was not something that did it for me.  No, this was punishment for Steven, plain and simple, with possibly a bit of pleasure in it for my tormentor.

I felt the pressure of smooth thighs against my own as whoever it was drove the thing deeper inside me, finally coming to rest nestled against my buttocks.  The dong was big, and I felt engorged inside, convinced I could accommodate no more.  My assailant leant forward and there came the touch of hard nipples on my back and wet hair as female arms hugged me and began to play with my nipples - and with Mr Willy.  Try as I might, I could not resist this totally unfair feminine attack, and Mr Willy was soon at attention and beginning to enjoy life.  The fire that had enveloped my exposed flesh had subsided somewhat to a very warm glow, but this was counteracted by the cool flesh cuddled up to my back.

I was almost convinced that Mr Willy was going to get a jolly out of this after all, when a biting pain shot through my nipples as some form of painful clip was attached to each.  I struggled and moaned in objection, and Mr Willy lost a deal of his optimism at that point.  The teaser who had mounted me, by contrast, released her hold and began to pump my arse in earnest, finally shuddering to a violent stop with what I reckoned was an orgasm of her own, or at least a good imitation of it, before withdrawing abruptly.

I thought she could at least have extracted it with a little more consideration.  Maybe that was the point.  Maybe this was Monica - or  Megan - getting her own back on every man who had ever failed her.  I would never understand the female species. 

I did understand the fact that when whoever-this-was had finished, number two took over, and I got it up the arse all over again.  There were some subtleties, some differences in the fingering, the rhythm of getting thoroughly screwed, and the attention to the clips hanging off my nipples.  I can’t say one was more uncomfortable and painful than the other.  They were each exactly that, but in different ways, save for the fact that number two obviously climaxed with a bucking, shuddering motion that transferred itself through the dong buried inside me, and my gagged objections again went unheeded.

Despite my immobility I was sweating and tensed up, and again I seemed to collapse as the second penetration was withdrawn and all my muscles relaxed.  My arse was sore and tender from the undignified treatment it had been subjected to.  I was now ready for anything else that would at least provide relief from this.  I did not expect the third attack on my unprotected hole, which I decided must be coming from Zara.

I groaned long and loud as the big rubber intruder was pushed into me yet again.  The new alliance between Zara, Megan and Monica must be looking up, and Zara was not one to be left out of the action, it seemed, although if I guessed right, Monica would have been doing all the urging.

Zara seemed a little gentler than the other two, perhaps because she did not have a point to prove.  There were two stinging bursts of pain as my nipple clips came off and smooth hands rubbed my tender flesh.  Then the movements started inside me as heavy breasts rested on my back and delicate hands began to get Mr Willy aroused again.  This time there was no beating back the climax, and moments before Zara shot herself into orbit, I found myself jerking under the inexorable encouragement of Zara’s fingers, and climaxing into fresh air.

This time the intruder was withdrawn gently, and I found myself in a state of exhaustion that made me see stars under the heat and constriction of the rubber hood.  I could do nothing other than just try to regain my breath and feel the sweat insinuating itself between rubber and skin.

My ragged breathing had barely normalised before another intruder was knocking at my back door.  I shook my head and whined what I thought was plaintively.  Enough was enough, girls!  This was getting beyond normal bounds, I thought, as the butt plug was eased inside.  My poor sphincter muscles were well exercised by this time, of course, and while tender, they had at least been stretched such that accommodating the plug was not the effort it sometimes could be.  It slid home and I felt a chain being locked around my waist, led through my crotch and locked at the back.  It looked like my plug was here to stay for a while.

The tape on my arms and the rope on my ankles was released at that point, but I was so strung out I could do nothing other than pull my legs together and let my arms dangle.  I was unable to resist  as something was strapped over my shoulders and torso.  Oh no, I thought, not a bra.  Monica was really going to town on me.  Suddenly I had boobs, heavy and cool, and feeling suspiciously like condoms filled with water.  Then it was a dress of some sort – probably the local costume.  I realised Monica’s retaliation was to take the form of my own idea – the concealment beneath the mask.  Except this time it would not be a woman under the dress.

Finally there was a relaxing of the pressure on my head as somebody unscrewed the valve to release the air from the inflatable hood.  Actual removal was not so pleasant, however, as the tight neck portion was dragged over my head and the thing came free in a welter of perspiration.

Zara was there with a towel, wiping me dry as I gasped for my first full breath in countless hours.  I wasn’t prepared for the sudden appearance of a black rubber ball gag and strap in front of my face.

“Be a good boy,” came Monica’s silken voice from behind me as I opened my mouth instinctively to complain, only to have the thing thrust between my lips and the strap tightened until the ball was securely behind my teeth.  I heard and felt the faint click of a padlock being closed through strap at the back of my neck.  Then – predictably – came the mask, with its flappy fabric-covered board spanning vertically from my forehead to the tip of my nose, then down to past my chin.  I found myself staring through two small eyeholes in the material covering the rest of my face, seeing the world as the local women saw it – partially obscured by the black rudder as it flipped from side to side.  Hands tied the securing strings behind my head, which was then wrapped several times with a thin black scarf, which no doubt hid any remaining trace of my masculinity. 

The girls were laughing and commenting and I felt myself redden under the mask at my predicament.  Only at this point did they undo the tape from my hands, but even as I flexed my fingers a chain was locked about my left wrist, then about my right one, with only a short length between them, followed by a similar restraint between my ankles.

“There,” said Monica, with a satisfied tone.  “Ladies, meet our new serving girl.  It looks like a reincarnation of Stephanie,” she mused, then added: “- before your time, Megan and Zara.  Another life, but a most amusing one.”

*   *   *

We stayed two nights in the wadi by the pool.  I was led into the cave where an Omani girl of perhaps fifteen was cooking over an open fire.  She was either too young to wear the mask, or else she came from outside the local area, and it was not part of the custom.  Whatever the reason, she was evidently told that I was to be her helper.  She spoke no English, but mimed my tasks, whether they be delivering the food to the tents or scrubbing the dishes clean with a mixture of sand and water.  She was delighted to have a helper, and God knew what story Zara had concocted to explain why this woman was chained up and did not speak.  Whatever the explanation, this was how I spent the next two days while the girls romped in the pool or went on wildlife-spotting outings in the cool of the dawn and dusk.   There seemed to be much discussion going on between the five, and I wondered if any of it involved my own fate, or whether it was something more commercial. 

When I was not being utilised for my obvious skills in the hospitality trade, the servant girl locked a chain around my neck and left me alone.  The chain was attached to a large boulder in the cave and it was here that I slept at night or during the heat of the day when everyone else retreated to the shade of their tents.  I was allowed to perform my ablutions twice a day, when the plug was removed, while the gag was taken out only at meal times, on pain of starvation if I dared to speak.  It was not the largest gag I had ever endured, and Monica knew I could cope with it almost indefinitely.  In that regard it is amazing what the human body can put up with, and I was surprised when I managed a reasonable night’s sleep, only to wake up still stuffed at mouth and arse.

On both nights, however, my repose was interrupted by Zara.  I was sleeping the sleep of exhaustion on the first night when Zara shook me awake and unlocked the chain from the boulder.  It was nearly a full moon, with ample light to see our path as she led me out of the camp and further up the wadi.  We stopped in another small open space that looked as though it had once been a pool, but had now dried up, leaving a sandy depression some metres across.  Two shallow holes had been dug here, about half a metre apart.  Zara made me step into one hole, which came up to just over my knees, before she filled it in and stamped the damp sand down around my legs, leaving me trapped.

Moments later she had unchained my wrists in front, only to rechain them behind me and push me backwards on to the sand.  I found my arms dropped into the other hole as I lay on my back while Zara then packed sand around my arms.  I was now thoroughly immobilised, staring at the brilliant starry sky in the utter silence that was the desert night.

In some ways it was this silence that unnerved me.  Zara sat on a rock and did nothing for perhaps ten minutes, just watching me and appearing to take in the enormous sense of solitude.  I was unused to this silence.  In my past experience there had always been the sound of birds, or trees rustling or at very least the sigh of the wind.  Now the total stillness and absence of sound was unsettling and – ironically – seemingly unnatural.

I grunted softly into my gag, which seemed to bring Zara back to the present.  She rose from her contemplation and moved across to where I lay, staring up at her, the moon giving her black hair a shining aura.  Her face was in shadow as she knelt and lifted my dress to expose me, her fingers stroking me gently.  At that point I have to say it did not take much to get me aroused, and even my rather immobile position was not wholly uncomfortable.  I had no objection to make as she lifted her own dress and straddled me, impaling herself slowly such that we let out mutual sighs of satisfaction.

“Monica wouldn’t want me to do this,” she said softly.  “It wouldn’t fit with her punishment regime.”  She gave a little bounce that sent tingles through Mr Willy.  “But life is too short to be taken that seriously, don’t you agree, dear Steven?”  I grunted the best affirmative I could manage under the circumstances, mumbling that such things as gags could be taken a little less seriously as well, but Zara either did not understand or had her own agenda for keeping me silent.

There is a lot to be said for being on the bottom in such a location.  Under Zara’s ministrations I underwent a long and pleasurable experience, which hopefully was mutual.  The dark figure straddling me brought me to a climax under the inky sky only when she had reached two herself, shuddering and gasping hoarsely in the all-encompassing silence.  Her soft cries echoed faintly against the rock walls of the wadi and I was glad I did not have to restrain myself when she finally let me have my head, bucking and jerking under her as if trying to throw her off, which in fact was the last thing I intended. 

She collapsed against me, breast to breast, and momentarily raised my mask to kiss me on the cheeks and on my eyes in an extraordinarily tender gesture that left my quite taken aback.  Only then did she seem to recover herself and become brisk and businesslike, scooping out the sand and helping me to my feet, before I shuffled back to camp behind her.

The following night was a repeat performance, and from the looks I got from Zara during the day I gathered it was to be our own little secret, which I had no complaint about at all. 

There was minimal packing when came the time to depart.  The tents and all that went with them were left behind, presumably to be sent back later by the servants.  Instead it was five camels and me, trailing disconsolately along at the rear.  For this portion of the journey Monica had removed my chains, instead contenting herself with binding my wrists behind me, palm to palm, and draping my dress over my restrained limbs.  To any observer it would simply seem like a local peasant woman, shapeless in her black robes, her face and head hidden by the sinister mask and shawl.  They would not see the ropes binding my wrists, nor the small bag of sand dangling between my legs.  This was attached to a bungy cord which had replaced the chain holding the plug in place.  The plug in turn had been replaced by a dildo, which now slid smoothly in and out, fuelled by the bouncing bag of sand and my walking motion.  I will say this about Monica – she is nothing but inventive, and with each step down the rocky defile the dildo bounced inside me to reinforce this fact.

It seemed a lot longer on the return journey than going up the wadi, strangely enough.  I’m sure it was the opposite for Monica and Megan, who no doubt would have liked to detour by a scenic route, had there been one, for my benefit, if for nothing else.  I discovered when we got back to Jabrin that the trip wasn’t over, however, and we appeared to then be heading back to Muscat.  This time yours truly wound up in the horse float, not surprisingly, arms and feet now outstretched and chained to the sides, with the bouncing bag at rest while the girls showered and changed and I waited in the heat outside, prior to starting the road journey. 

By the time we arrived in the basement of the cliff-top house in Muscat, I understood clearly what Monica and Megan had endured in the course of the ride in the horse float, although I only had a sore arse to show for myself, whereas at least they had managed something a little more pleasurable.  At least that is my justification, your honour, and I’m sticking to it.

*   *   *

We had one last night in Muscat, and a pleasurable one it was for all of us, if the contented looks on the faces of Monica and Megan were anything to go by at the airport the next day.  I confess I, too, had nothing to complain about, finally sharing a bed with Zara in less restrictive circumstances than previous encounters. 

We were heading home a day early, mainly due to a coincidental offer from Mohammed to fly us home in his private jet, which he was sending to Sydney to collect the Australian Federal Trade Minister, who was going to be visiting Oman.  It was a gesture of goodwill – the way things were done here, Mohammed explained.  It would thus be easy for him to have us delivered home en route, he declared.  We weren’t going to complain, nor refuse the generous offer.  A call to Jillian advised her of our arrival time and we looked forward to something different in the way of air travel.

Zara, Rashid and Mohammed all came to the airport to see us off.  We had donated our case of toys to our host, leaving us considerably less encumbered on the return flight.  The Global Express aircraft was the fastest and had the longest range of any of the executive jets, so the pilot informed us.   It only took eight passengers, but in the comfort of luxurious leather seats with computer work stations, satellite phones, the and the most up to date technology.  Two sofas at the rear converted into decent beds, and we got some decent kip at forty thousand feet.

Monica was in ebullient mood on the flight, involved in earnest discussions with Megan across the aisle from me.  For myself, I was content in the knowledge that the trip had been a very successful one, and that despite all that the girls had been through, and despite the fact that Monica laid much of the blame at my doorstep, I now appeared to be firmly in her good books.  She was now hatching something with Mohammed and Megan and Rashid that would involve the brothers coming to Australia in the near future for what I understood was to be a contest between the Citadel and Bilboes, for an undisclosed prize.  I say ‘undisclosed’, but clearly Megan and Monica knew what was going to be at stake, while I, as a mere underling, was treated on a ‘need to know’ basis.  This didn’t bother me, for it was Monica’s show and she would do it her way.  I was there to provide technical advice, and admittedly I was doing a bit of that already.  Monica was giving me all manner of scenarios and challenging me to come up with a competitive situation for each.  Thus passed the flight in a myriad of thoughts and ideas leading to jottings and scribbled designs on airline notepaper.

It was nearly 9 pm when we arrived at Brisbane International after a single stopover in Singapore for refuelling.  Jill met us and there were hugs and kisses all round before we got to the car park, where the Monica Van awaited us.

“Trish and Mary have borrowed the Beemer,” Jill explained apologetically.  “We thought you were coming back tomorrow night, until we got your call, but they’re down on the Gold Coast somewhere and I couldn’t get hold of them at short notice.”

“That’s okay,” Monica smiled.  Monica was generous in allowing others to drive her BMW.  “Its just nice to be home.  I hope someone doesn’t mind going in the back,” she said, looking at me.  “We’ll leave the window open into the front.  We’ll go to the Citadel first,” Monica directed.  “Megan can pick up her car and we’ll go home from there.”

The Citadel looked just like its title as we pulled up to the entry gate and Megan swiped her security card.  The barred gate swung smoothly open and we drove up to the forecourt in front of the warehouse.  Another swipe by Megan and the warehouse roller door began to rise silently like an opening mouth.

“That’s funny,” said Megan, puzzled.  “There are lights on.  There shouldn’t be anyone working at this hour.

“Maybe the lights got left on by mistake?”  Jill suggested.

“Hey – isn’t that Warren’s Mercedes? “ said Monica, as we drove inside and saw the big silver E500 with the ‘Master’ numberplate.  “What’s it doing here?”

“Maybe he’s having a private session,” suggested Jill, but it really didn’t sound very plausible, when Warren had always been a Bilboes man.  Monica shot her a questioning stare and my heart started to sink as I began to suspect what was about to happen.

We stopped outside the door at the end of the corridor that ran along the side of the various bondage rooms.  Monica put her finger to her lips and indicated silence as she eased open the van door and climbed out carefully, then made her way through the entry door.  We followed her into the corridor as there came the sound of a crack and a muffled scream, followed by the faint sound of female voices.  The light could be seen from the second room along, illuminating the roof of the warehouse above the lower level block walls that formed the rooms.

Megan, Jill and I were right behind Monica when she opened the door to the occupied room.  It was one of those tableaux where everybody seems to freeze and stare in shock.  I think I was probably the only one in some way prepared for what I saw.  Certainly Monica, Megan and Jill had no expectation of finding a naked Warren hanging face down, spreadeagled and suspended by chains a metre above the floor.  He was gagged with a rubber bit gag, obviously intended to allow some freedom of expression, and he would certainly have circumvented this in the course of complaining about the numerous marks on his body, not to mention the weighted clamps dangling from his nipples.  There was a chain through his crotch that I suspected would be holding some form of butt plug in place.  He raised his sweat-drenched head in a mixture of disbelief, humiliation and relief at the sight of Monica standing there.

Mary, looking lean and mean in black heels, black sleeveless vest and leather pants, was in the midst of a back swing with a nasty-looking flogger.  She, too, had worked up a bit of a glow, and was stunned by our sudden appearance.  Trish, in thigh boots, a short leather skirt and bra, was frozen midway through tightening one of the pulley chains.  Her mouth dropped open and I had that terrible feeling you experience when you want the floor to open up and swallow you.  I wished I was somewhere else, and that this whole scenario was some sort of nightmare.  It was that moment that the shit had begun its fall from a great height – the moment of realisation that there was nothing I could do to prevent it hitting the fan, and that I, as much as Mary and Trish, would end up in the firing line.

*   *   *
 
 
 

01.07.03

story continues in Monica's Games 1.12

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