Monica's Games 1.12: Payback
by Richard Alexander (Gromets Plaza)
(story continues from Monica's Games 1.11)
Chapter Twelve: Payback – Trish’s Story
We were alone in the darkness as Steven switched off the light. I wasn’t thinking clearly, that I freely admit. I was tired, had drunk too much champagne, and now had Mary’s crotch almost touching my nose. Mary obviously was horny as all hell – even I could work that out in my inebriated state. At this point I couldn’t think ahead, I was simply working on one thing at a time – well, two things in this instance: getting Mary off my case and then getting some sleep.
I didn’t think about how we were going to get free – that was too complicated – nor about even finding a better position. Kneeling as I was with my wrists cuffed behind me was okay for what I was about to do, and Mary knew this as she thrust her pussy in my face, making gagged noises that might have been a request but more likely were a direction to get on with it. Who said romanticism was dead?
Mary was wet and eager, and even in my less than coordinated state, it did not take much for her to start on the rise to a climax. I insinuated my tongue into her moist, musky passage, working my way upwards to the folds of her clit, doing little grinding and nipping actions with my teeth that drove her into a frenzy. Then the Big O hit her like a hammer and she forced her loins against my head, while I pushed back. I felt the shudders then the stiffening of her body as she arched backwards and let out a gagged cry before going limp. I found the chain between my own legs was also causing rather pleasant sensations, but figured I wouldn’t get much help in this area from Mary.
It was a couple of minutes before she was sufficiently compos mentis to do anything sensible. We were still attached to the bed by the chain linking our cuffs, but we managed to untangle ourselves such that we could both sit side by side on the bed with the chain linking our wrists now no longer between our legs. Mary was making exhausted sounds through the ball, and after a bit of falling about in the dark I managed to undo the buckle and strap at the back of her neck.
“Bluurgh!” she said as I pulled the ball out. “That bastard Steven! I’ll get him ”
“What – didn’t you enjoy that?”
Mary’s voice softened in the darkness. “Yes, Trish, it was very good. Thank you. You’re very skilled. I’m just slightly surprised that it’s taken me this long to find out.”
“Well don’t think it’s going to be a regular event. I’m only doing it because Steven asked me to.”
“Asked you to? He chained you up so you had no choice!”
“Sure he chained me – us – up, but you gave me no choice!”
Mary sighed. “You’re right. God, I’m exhausted. And how the hell are we going to get out of here?”
I lay back on the big bed. “I don’t know, and right now I don’t care. Steven will have arranged something. I’m too tired and too drunk to prop thinkly – God, must get these lips fixed ”
The room was warm and cosy and soon we were snuggled up like spoons under the covers, albeit with a bit more squirming to arrange chains with the maximum slack. I suppose the fact that we were so unconcerned about our plight was testament to the faith that we placed in Steven and the confidence we had that he would have made some sort of provision for our release, for he was nothing if not resourceful.
* * *
I woke with warm feelings rising from my groin. Mary’s fingers were playing subtle tunes where my crotch was snuggled up to her manacled hands.
“Mmmm ” I said sleepily, opening one eye to see the room lit with the pale light of dawn. I closed it again and concentrated on the exploring fingers. My friend Mary, she was returning the favour, and I let my mind go blank in savouring the erotic ripples emanating from my pussy. It was a delicious awakening, slowly coming to terms with the world and becoming sexually aroused at the same time. Mary knew what buttons to push, and before long I was writhing at her touch, at once becoming so sensitive I felt I could take no more, but also striving for something I could not get enough of, as she teased me, then slackened off. I finally came, arching against her and biting her on the shoulder, which prompted a cry of mock indignation.
“You beast!”
“Sorry,” I panted. “Had to bite on something ”
“Remind me to make sure you wear the gag next time,” she grumbled with mock annoyance. “God, I have to pee. I bring your attention to our situation, Miss Trish ”
We scrambled ungracefully to sit on the edge of the bed again, and then I saw the key that had been shoved under the door that had been invisible to us in the dark. Stretched out at the full length of the chain I could drag the key over to the bed with my foot and unlock the chain. The key fitted both locks, but did not undo the handcuffs. Mary clearly couldn’t wait, and dashed to the ensuite still with her wrists secured behind her.
I stood up and stretched as much as I could. I had that languorous feeling that comes with having sex first thing in the morning, but this was counteracted by a throbbing behind my eyes that I knew was the result of too much champagne. Mary reappeared and together we went to look for the keys to the handcuffs.
We should have realised things weren’t going to be easy. Steven had been up to his usual tricks and the first thing we discovered was the number of internal doors that were locked. I suddenly awoke to the fact that I couldn’t find my clothes, and this realisation was followed by the fact that all the locked doors were bedrooms plus Christina’s walk-in wardrobe.
“The bugger!” I exclaimed, as Mary emerged from an obviously fruitless search of one of several bathrooms.
“What?”
“Not only has he taken our clothes, he’s locked up all the others in the house!”
“We haven’t checked everywhere,’ said Mary, with an element of hope mixed with annoyance in her voice. But checking everywhere didn’t take much longer, and we discovered what our options were. There were two outfits hanging on hooks in the entry foyer, and we weren’t impressed.
“Do you want to be the French maid, or shall I?” said Mary tersely.
“I’ll make Steven into a French maid,” I muttered. “And where are those bloody handcuff keys?”
We searched the lower floor again, then returned upstairs, ending up with Christina and Warren. The poor chap was looking decidedly the worse for wear, now impaled more deeply on the Shaft, with his weight largely hanging from his suspended arms. His head was hanging and he was making snuffling whimpering noises from under the discipline helmet.
“Did you see Steven before he left last night?” I demanded of Christina, conscious of the fact that I was not at my most intimidating, standing there naked and with my hands manacled behind me.
“Yes.”
“Did he say anything about the keys to these cuffs?”
“No, but he was outside for a while on the balcony next door.”
We left her sitting cross-legged on the floor, naked – as everybody now seemed to be in this apartment – and still chained to the door handle, while we explored the balcony.
It formed a secluded area between the bedrooms abutting it, making in effect a small courtyard, with one side open on to stunning views over the Brisbane River. From the 49th floor, there was nothing that could really overlook us, but the glass infills to the parapet railing made the place not exactly private, given the proximity of other nearby apartment buildings, and the fact that Mary and I were both somewhat exposed ourselves.
It was early on Saturday morning, and the first noises of the awakening city were beginning to filter up in the still air as I opened the sliding door on to the courtyard. It was about five metres square, and I saw at once what our dear friend Steven had done with the keys to our handcuffs.
On each side wall of the courtyard, at the outside almost level with the parapet, was a wall light. Spanning between them was a light chain, the ends locked around each light fixing. Locked and dangling from the middle was a further short chain, with a key locked to one end. A solid wooden table had been placed under the key, with a further key lying in the middle of it on top of a note.
“This is the key to the key locked above you. All door keys and other keys are at Bilboes,” I read aloud.
“Oh terrific, Steven, thank you so much,” said Mary. “Yes, we can get ourselves free but only if we bare our arses to the whole of Brisbane.”
“What a sweet, thoughtful guy he is,” I agreed.
While muttering all manner of curses that would condemn Steven to an extremely long an difficult period of torment in hell, or at very least, purgatory, we hauled a chair across to the table and argued who would end up mooning the city. Somehow I ended up losing the argument, which was par for the course with Mary.
The horizontal chain was about a metre from the edge of the parapet and parallel to it. While there was not a real danger of going over the side, there was enough perceived danger to get my knees just a little wobbly, and an early morning breeze up my bum didn’t help matters, as I stood up gingerly on the table. It was big and solid, and at least gave me a steady base, but my situation wasn’t helped by Mary.
“Don’t turn around - no – don’t look down! You’ll get vertigo and fall! At least any one watching won’t recognise you bum if they see you,” she smirked, then the both of us nearly freaked at the sound of a muted roaring from overhead.
“What the -! Oh shit!” I said. I looked up in time to see a giant yellow hot air balloon floating past just a few hundred feet up. Peering over the basket edge were a number of heads which may well have been staring straight down at the two naked women on the penthouse balcony. Brisbane’s weather was such that hot air ballooning over the city in the early morning was a regular event for tourists, and I had done the trip myself, marvelling at the interesting outlook on all manner of things. I had never expected to be on the receiving end of such views, however.
“Oh God!” Mary exclaimed. “Okay, let’s moon them together!”
“What?”
“Well, you don’t want them getting on their mobile phones and saying there are two handcuffed women on level forty nine who are behaving suspiciously, do you?”
“And mooning’s okay?”
“Of course. This is Queensland. You still haven’t got us Aussies figured out yet, have you?”
“Don’t think I ever will, “ I muttered with my head between my knees as we shoved our arses in the air long enough for the balloon to pass over. Was that distant cheering I heard?
“I hope they haven’t got telephoto lenses,” said Mary darkly.
“Do you think you’re that big an arsehole that they could pick you out of a lineup?” I teased.
“Oh shut up and get the wretched key down!”
With the balloon gone I could concentrate on reaching the lock to the handcuff key. By standing almost on tiptoes, and raising my arms behind me, I could just reach the small lock securing the key long enough to undo it, in a sort of voluntary strappado position. I resolved to put Steven in just such a position, and I would guarantee it would not be voluntary.
“And for heaven’s sake don’t drop the damned thing,” Mary warned, as I gratefully climbed off the table with the handcuff key clutched in my fingers. As I set foot on the floor Mary turned her back on me and offered her cuffs for unlocking. I backed against her and managed to get the key into the hole, but it wouldn’t budge the lock.
“I don’t know how to tell you this, Mair, but the key doesn’t unlock your cuffs.”
“What!”
“Try mine,” I said hastily, to forestall the explosion I knew would come. Tetchily Mary took the key and inserted it in my cuffs. Smoothly the manacles slid open and I was at last able to relax my shoulders as my arms swung free. It felt so good, but I did not say that to Mary. Instead I tried the key again, now that I could see what I was doing, but it was clearly a different key required for her cuffs.
“So I have to go home like this? Bugger that! You can go home. I’ll stay here and wait!”
“No you won’t,” I declared. “If I have to be gawped at in public, you can be too. I want some moral support on this!”
We argued our way downstairs where the two outfits awaited us. Steven had at least had the decency to leave our shoes behind, but that was about the only saving grace. The choice between the two outfits he had selected was made easy because of the fact that one was a halterneck maids outfit, and this was the only one that Mary could wear, since her arms were still manacled behind her. This choice did nothing to mollify her temper. The skirt was black pvc, while the overlaying apron was white latex.
“You look lovely dear,” I said, as I helped her on with her high heels. I really think you ought to wear the stockings – they add so much to the costume.” Mary just glared at me and I decided not to push my luck.
My own outfit was also of latex – a hobble skirt to halfway down my calves and a matching long-sleeved top that zipped up the front, and not without some difficulty, I might add.
“It’s all right for you,” I grumbled. “You have that Audrey Hepburn figure whatever you eat. Christina’s clothes fit you okay. Some of us are more voluptuous.”
“Oh stop complaining. It’s rubber, isn’t it? It’s meant to stretch.”
I looked down at the shiny bulge that was my chest and wondered if anyone had ever done any calculations about how much would go into these garments.
We then took pity on Warren and cut him down, extracting the Shaft from his arse to the accompaniment of much groaning that I took to be relief. He had to be supported once his wrists were released and the Shaft removed, then we laid him down face first on the floor, before locking his wrists in a spreader bar so that he lay spreadeagled, but with somewhat more freedom of movement than he had while upright. He was clearly exhausted by the long night in enforced bondage and put up no resistance. We added a chain to his neck locked to a nearby anchor point in the frame, so that even with Christina’s help, he could not get free.
Christina herself was then lectured on her responsibilities and was told that if there was any funny stuff she would end up dangling upside down over the balcony parapet. I felt just a little more assertive in the black latex outfit than I had naked and cuffed as I had been previously, and some of the nagging hangover was starting to make itself felt in my tone with Christina. Suffice to say, the message that I would brook no nonsense or disobedience was well and truly taken in.
Mary and I were like a couple of quarrelling siblings as we went down in the lift and out into the entry court of the complex. Predictably there were the usual joggers and dog walkers and a few early morning coffee aficionados indulging themselves at the street side cafes who gave us somewhat taken aback looks, as Mary trotted after me, her wrists cuffed behind her, while I maintained a fixed gaze ahead, still mentally abusing Steven for the restrictive hobble skirt that made me mince and I’m sure made my backside look big.
As luck would have it there was a dearth of taxis and we had to trot half a klick down Eagle Street, in the heart of the business district, to get to the nearest taxi rank. On the way there a big jet passed over and I wondered if that was Steven and Megan and Monica on their way, no doubt already into the business class champagne. Damn all of them, but while the cat was away, these two rubber encased little mice were going to play.
* * *
Saturday morning was never a lively time at Bilboes, usually since Friday business tended to run on late. In this instance, though, Monica and Steven would have left, and no doubt Jill or Leila would have driven them to the airport, so I was sure someone would be up and about. We asked the driver to wait outside the gate while I skulked down the driveway and tiptoed around the back of the house to the sleeping quarters to get some money to pay for the ride. I had not turned my mind to where Steven might have hidden the keys, and I did not fancy trying to come up with more lies to the others to cover our present appearance. For once, though, I was lucky, for the back verandah was deserted and I reached the door to my bedroom without being spotted. I saw the note and the keys lying on top of my stolen clothes on the bed, immediately I entered the room. Good old Steven. I breathed a sigh of relief before collecting my purse and heading back to the taxi.
Mary was really cranky by the time we returned to the house, despite the fact that her hands were now free. She claimed the taxi driver had been making all manner of lewd remarks as she sat there waiting for me, and had refused to unlock the childproof lock on the door.
“I’d like to get him in a childproof lock,” she grumbled.
“You’ll feel better after a hot shower, dear,” I consoled her.
I realised at that point that Monica’s Beemer was missing, and concluded that whoever had driven her to the airport was not yet back, which explained the quietness of Bilboes. The Van was parked round the back, however, where Steven had left it, and I figured we were going to be needing it for the next stage of Warren’s re-education.
* * *
Two hours later we were back in Warren’s apartment, with things considerably more under control than when we had left.
I felt much more comfortable in my favourite working gear – a short white leather skirt and vest and matching boots. They were stylish and elegant, if I say so myself. Enough heel to give a nice turn to the calf and plenty of ankle support, but not so much that you had to totter about at the risk of falling on your face. These ones laced up the front, almost to the knee, and while they took a couple of minutes to put on, they were dead comfortable. The vest closed at the front on a series of tiny mock padlocks, with enough hint of boob to be provocative, without breaking any laws, and there were no restrictions in swinging a whip arm. I suppose you could say they empowered me; whatever the psychology behind the thought processes, I was looking forward to a further part of the treatment.
Mary wore shiny black leather trousers that hugged her long legs, made longer by her three-inch heels. With a black lycra crop top that clung to her breasts, she managed to show off the figure that we were all envious of, and in the process looked all business. Around her exposed waist was a heavy chain belt with a vertical chain running upwards between her breasts to join a silver-studded collar. The finishing touches were the gothic eye makeup and heavy studded leather wristbands which added an air of menace to her dark form.
We had settled in to the apartment as though we were there to stay, and in a sense, we were. We had wangled the time off while Monica and Steven were in the Middle East, so the Bilboes was in essence on a skeleton staff being run by Jill, Leila and Emma. We, on the excuse of having a week in a luxury resort down on the Gold Coast, were in fact ensconced in a luxury apartment in downtown Brisbane. It didn’t get much better than this, we decided, sitting on the balcony courtyard sipping coffee made for us by Christina, who scurried about looking to our needs.
Christina had been our first point of information, even before we had left the apartment, since we needed the security code to get back in. When we had returned, we had introduced Warren to his new existence for the next week. Now, to the casual viewer from our position, a tall rubber-clad woman leaned on the balcony, arms slightly outstretched, hands resting on the rail. A closer examination would have revealed firstly the outline of a waist-cinching corset under the heavy rubber long-sleeved dress that came down to the knees. The corset stretched through the crotch to compress all Warren’s valued bits, but at the same time had a convenient slit in the arse for insertion of anything we considered to be appropriate. It was a useful prop courtesy of the Bilboes storeroom.
The dress of course hid the butt plug jammed up Warren’s arse, as well. While the crotch of the corset helped, there was nothing securing the plug there but Warren’s commitment that it would stay - a commitment brought on with some motivation in the form of cable ties ratcheted tightly around Warren’s dangly pieces of anatomy. Once he had worked out that they would be tightened rather more so should the plug escape, it became an accepted fact that nothing short of amoebic dysentery would cause the plug to fall out without our say so.
Below the hem of the dress, rubber stockings hid any flesh before they disappeared into size ten shoes with heavy duty straps and four inch heels.
A further study would have shown that the person’s hands were not merely resting on the balcony rail, but were in fact taped there with black duct tape, and the ankles were roped apart, anchored to the parapet posts. The blonde hair that came down to the shoulders hid the flesh-coloured tape that was wrapped over Warren’s mouth and around his head, and which had a nice pair of rouged lips painted on them. Warren was spewing. He had been standing staring at the river scene for several hours, now, in the full sun, and despite the marvellous view, he did not seem enamoured of his position. The practice Mary had carried out with the stock whip on his rubber butt had made him jerk and tug at the restraints, while Mary did everything she could to make the plug drop out, but without success. If Warren had been drained by his night of suspension, he sure would be sweating under the rubber, we reckoned, and to this end we had made a small hole in the tape, just big enough for a straw to be poked through. Christina had kept him rehydrated at our directions.
We made our interrogation of Christina a leisurely affair. We allowed her to wear her favourite corset around the apartment – a maroon satin and lace outfit that would have cost a fair bit, and showed off her generous breasts and narrow waist in a voluptuous fashion. She had pulled her blonde hair back into a ponytail while she served us the lunch she had prepared, and did not seem to object to the ankle cuffs and hobble chain, with the vertical chain running up to a waist loop. She did not even object to the black ball gag that Mary had insisted on, not that Christina was in any position protest. She seemed quite content to fuss about and wait on us, finally clearing the table of the coffee cups and the remainder of the detritus of lunch. That was when we adjourned downstairs, leaving the bound Warren slowly steaming in his rubber outfit.
“I wonder if anybody has looked through binoculars at the blonde in the rubber gear on the balcony,” mused Mary. “Not that you’d see much more than the obvious.’
“They may wonder why she’s been there for 3 hours in the same spot,” I ventured.
“Yes,” Mary agreed languidly, towing the gagged Christina by a rope around the neck. We went into the Warren’s study and Mary seated herself behind the big Tasmanian Oak desk, with its flat screen computer monitor but otherwise pristine top. We sat Christina in a heavy wooden chair and bound her wrists to the arms, then Mary wrapped several coils around Christina’s body, below her breasts, melding her solidly to the chair back, leading the tails of the rope down the back of the chair and looping them through the hobble chain before pulling them tight. Christina looked perplexed by the turn events were taking. It was all probably totally unnecessary, for I was sure we would get plenty of cooperation from her. But Mary seemed to think there was a need for authenticity, and stressed this by working Christina’s nipples into erection and flourishing a pair of bulldog clips from the top drawer of the desk.
“Would you like to wear these, Christina?” she asked, squeezing them open and closed. They made little creaking sounds and I reckoned they would be seriously painful, considering the force which Mary needed to exert on them.
Christina shook her head unhappily and made plaintive noises over the gag. Mary moved across from the desk and moved close to the hapless girl bound to the chair, who tried to shrink away from the opening and closing clips. When Mary abruptly let the steel jaws fasten on to Christina’s nipples, the girl screamed into the rubber ball filling her mouth and struggled violently against the ropes securing her. Her breath was a ragged snorting and desperate garbled pleading as she tried to shake off the agonising biting into her flesh.
I confess I was stunned, for I had not expected Mary to carry through her action with out just cause, and so far Christina had shown every sign of compliance with whatever we asked. Now tears were streaming down her face as she keened into the gag, her eyes signifying a willingness to do anything to make the terrible pain stop.
“Mary! Take them off!” I demanded. Mary glared at me, then deliberately but very slowly squeezed the handles of the clip on Christina’s right breast, gradually easing the pressure until the tortured, mis-shapen nipple popped free. Christina continued to scream into her gag, the cries slowly subsiding to a wracking sobbing as the second clip was removed. Her head hung down now and her body shook as I undid the strap at the back of her neck. I tugged the ball from her mouth and she took a great gasp of air.
“Oh God!” she whispered. “That hurt so much! Please don’t do that again to me! I’ll tell you anything you want – truly!”
“I rest my case,” said Mary dispassionately, studying her nails. “Saves so much time. Now, shall we begin? Are we ready, Christina?” Christina nodded and sniffled some more.
That was a good start. From there we moved into the interesting life of Warren O’Rourke, property developer and self-made millionaire – or so we calculated after having a good poke through his bank accounts. But that was after we found the keys to the desk drawers and the filing cabinets behind the big timber cupboard doors. Talking to Christina, we found that she acted in part as an au pair, cleaner, sex toy, lover, receptionist and arm candy. We explored Warren’s lifestyle, his friends, his hobbies – apart from the obvious – and his obsessions, all the time looking for a weakness. That was when the subject of his old pal Roger came up.
“Slimeball Roger,” I said grimly, after we had been through Warren’s address book, noting contacts and their relationships. Christina knew nothing about many of the business contacts, but knew a surprising amount about some of Warren’s friends. Predictably Roger was one of those with whom she had some experience, although surprisingly Warren had never actually shared her with anybody else.
“He was far more generous with us,” Mary commented bitterly. “I’m surprised you haven’t been on the receiving end of Roger.”
“I have – but only with the whips and floggers,” Christina said. “Roger and Warren like to go to the Brimstone Club to pick up new slaves from time to time. Sometimes Warren brings them back here and I’m locked away while they share their prize, and other times they do their work at the club.”
“Do they now?” mused Mary. “What’s the date today, Trish?”
“Uh the third?”
“Whatever. Point is, it’s the first Saturday of the month – meeting night.”
“How do you know that?”
“I assume from that remark that you have never partaken of the Brimstone club, my dear?”
“Heard of it, of course, but no, never visited. You sound like the voice of experience talking.”
“Ah,” she said, with a wry smile. “Monica and I used to hang out there from time to time in the old days – before Bilboes.”
“Looking for customers?”
“Not always,” she admitted, still smiling. Mary’s smile was such that it transformed her demeanour from the aggressive, dominant image that she normally portrayed, into a soft, feminine person that clearly she took pains to hide. The recollection of trolling for talent obviously brought back happy – or at least amusing memories, and for a short while Mary seemed to go off into Maryland. This time, however, I sensed she was working on something, and I let her have a few minutes to get through it. “Okay, here’s the plan ”
* * *
It was around ten o’clock that night when we pushed the green plastic wheelie bin out of the lift into the basement of the apartment building. Things were well under control now. We had Warren’s security card and the van was safely parked under cover. The basement carpark was well lit but deserted as we pushed the bin over to the Van and opened the rear doors, before up-ending the bin inside. A rubber-clad figure slid unceremoniously on to the floor with a grunt of protest.
The figure was dressed as it had been for most of the day, and now had it’s arms crossed in the small of its back and secured in a black leather sheath, while white cords secured the legs above the knees and at the ankles. The main difference this time was that the head was again encased in a discipline helmet, but this time it was a heavy-duty rubber one. It had small openings for eyes and nostrils only, and in this instance provided tight sealing to a mouth already packed with a rubber wedge and then taped shut. The rubber hood clung to his neck but left enough feminine blonde tresses emerging a few inches down his shoulders to indicate the gender of the wearer. In the interim we had taped over the eyeholes for the complete privacy of our client.
Warren was decidedly unhappy, particularly with the fact that within the arm sheath we had stashed the remote receiver that activated painful electrodes on his nipples under the false boobs that strained against the rubber dress. During the occupation of Bilboes by Portia and Madam Wong, and with the active participation of Warren and his mate Roger, a number of us had been forced to wear these devices but with a debilitating butt plug attached. The only reason Warren wasn’t in the same situation this time was that we wanted his arse available for other purposes. Mary now carried the remote push button in her shoulder bag, and Warren had already had sufficient feel of the effect to have decided that cooperation was in his best interests.
He did not have a big say in anything at this point as I looped a rope around his knees and pulled the ends up the front and over his shoulders where I knotted the rope behind his neck. Mary decided that this was simply not enough, and bent over the black-clad figure lying on its side. She grasped the two trailing ends and pulled them down Warren’s back, threading them through his ankle ropes and hauling them tight before tying them off. Warren now lay like a ball, unable to move save for his head. As a final check Mary reached into her bag and pressed the remote. The figure grunted and made a faint twitch, but that was the best it could manage.
“Don’t want him running off, do we,” said Mary, wiping her hands with a satisfied expression before slamming the doors shut.
* * *
The Brimstone Club was barely more than a kilometre away at the edge of the CBD, its entrance low key beside a computer retail outlet and a car sales yard. Only a small discrete sign on the door gave any indication as to the function the place served, and certainly it gave no hint of the extent of the place as I found after we entered. We had parked in the car yard, as Mary told me that many of the patrons did. She seemed quite at home, greeting the man on door duty like an old friend, and I reckoned she had been here more recently than before Bilboes started up.
I followed her down a long corridor, with Warren tripping along between us, towed by Mary. His lower half was free now, though he still wore the rubber hood, now with the tape removed from the eyes. He clearly knew where he was, and I thought I detected the first signs of panic. His body language was starting to look decidedly jittery as Mary led us through a packed but dimly lit room with a bar along one side.
Most of the patrons were wearing themed clothes – either as dom(me)s or subs, or else they wore casual black clothes. Rock music was coming from a stereo in the corner, and some were dancing in the area closest to this. Away from the music people were chatting, with a number of obvious slaves kneeling beside their masters and mistresses.
Mary opened a door in the corner and we went down a flight of stairs into another corridor, from which further doors opened. These were numbered, and Mary pushed open number three, closing it after we entered. The noise of the party upstairs became a subdued rumble. I looked around at the items of equipment on display.
“This is the original stock room,” said Mary with an ominous smile. The room was bare, with brick walls and a concrete floor. I gazed on the heavy wooden stocks bolted to the floor. “Each room has a particular theme or piece of gear,” Mary explained to me, ignoring Warren. “I’ve booked this one for the night. Let’s get this one set up then go enjoy ourselves.”
The bars with the neck and wrist holes were set at waist height, and after spreading Warren’s legs we anchored his ankles with rope to a couple of convenient eyebolts protruding from the floor, bending him over at the waist. At this stage we removed the arm sheath and locked his wrists and neck in the wooden yoke, slipping our own padlock through the hasp and staple on the end of the big timber baulks and locking them together. Warren was now pinioned at neck, wrists and ankles, the rubber dress stretched taut over his rump.
“Don’t go anywhere,” Mary said before closing the door as we left.
We returned to the upper floor and mingled with the crowd at the bar. Mary was dressed in a leather catsuit with a ‘pull-me’ zipper down the front and a large padlock dangling from it. The weight of the padlock seemed to be slowly undoing the zip, and by the time we had purchased our drinks, the zip was nearly at half-mast, revealing the delicious curves of Mary’s cleavage. She closed the zip slightly, looking at me with a wry smile.
“It’s like a baited hook,” she said.
“I can well believe it,” I agreed, eying the crowd. I felt quite comfortable myself in my knee-high boots and black leather dress. It was sleeveless, but I had accessorised with elbow-length calf leather gloves which I loved dearly. Despite such dress, we barely raised an eyebrow amongst some of the clientele.
Perhaps fifteen minutes later we spotted our quarry as he entered – Roger the slimeball. Mary zeroed in on him and was soon chatting him up. I watched the body language as he was at first slightly perplexed at Mary’s friendly approach, and then he began to react to her vibes. Mary was turning on all her charms and of course Roger – being the total sleaze he was – went for it. I had to admire Mary for this. She was the total professional, ignoring her revulsion for this guy, as she waved me over to join her. Roger’s eyes lit up at my appearance, and my own revulsion surfaced with the memory of his screwing my arse while Warren did the front as I was bound and helpless.
Roger’s eyes mentally undressed me as he leered a greeting.
“No hard feelings, eh Trish?”
“Of course not, Roger,” I said sweetly, mentally adding: “you shithead.”
“Perhaps it’s lucky we’ve run into you,” said Mary.
“Highlight of my month, this place,” Roger smirked. “Never know what will be on offer. Mind you, I didn’t expect to find you two here.” There was that leer again.
“We’re not on offer,” I corrected.
“No, but we might have something you’re interested in,” Mary added.
“Really?” Roger’s interest was clearly piqued. “Do tell.”
“Yes, we have a little guest along here tonight. She’s currently locked up down below. Paid very handsomely to be brought along here to be screwed by a total stranger.”
“Seriously? Any stranger?”
“Yes. We were sure we’d find someone here. Interested?”
“I might be. She’s not a total slag, is she?”
“Of course not. Tight little rump. The rest of her is covered in rubber. That’s part of the deal. You’re not allowed to see each other’s faces.”
“Sounds fair enough,” Roger agreed, his tongue starting an involuntary lip-licking in anticipation.
“Oh, that’s not strictly true,” Mary corrected. “I forgot. She doesn’t want the embarrassment of a meeting under such circumstances, but she would like to videotape the experience. Is that a problem?”
“Course not,” said Roger with obvious bravado. “I can understand that, and I’ll make it a memorable one for her.”
We adjourned downstairs, with Roger’s eager anticipation boosted at the sight of the bent-over rubber clad backside helpless in the stocks as we entered the room. I motioned Roger to silence as I took out the small video camera from my bag and turned it on, focussing on the rubber-clad buttocks and slowly moving to the head of the imprisoned figure, so that I could look Warren in the eye.
“We’ve brought a friend to play with you, my dear” I told the hooded figure, watching the expression in the eyes. “He’s going to give you a right royal rogering, so to speak. Aren’t you, sir,” I added, catching Roger’s eye and nodding that it was all right to speak.
“You’ll enjoy this, love,” Roger said, and at that moment the camera recorded the shock of recognition in Warren’s eyes, as he realised what was about to happen to him. He struggled and tugged violently for a moment, making muffled noises under the hood.
“Would you like me to unlock you, my dear little slave, so that you can meet the person who is going to give you a night to remember?” Mary asked smugly, squatting beside me and looking at the hooded face. We could hear Warren’s breath coming quickly as he realised the dilemma he now faced. Did he undergo the ignominy and total humiliation of being unmasked in public in front of his mate and everyone else, or did he risk what lay ahead and find out the price of our silence?
We could see Warren sweating on the choice, realising that either way there would be horrible consequences which need not end at that moment, but could stretch out indefinitely. The moment was delicious and seemed to linger as I caught it on tape. Finally his eyes closed in resignation and there was a slow sighing of breath as his head lowered.
“It seems our little volunteer is happy for you to give her a very thorough working over,” said Mary, standing up and moving to Warren’s vulnerable rear. Here she rolled back the tight black rubber of the dress to expose the newly shaven flesh above the tops of the black latex stockings. The crotch section of the corset was pulled tightly between Warren’s legs, concealing his boy bits, and Mary prised apart the split rubber that covered the entry to his back passage.
“We have decided that this one is definitely a rear parking girl,” Mary said smugly, while I captured Roger fumbling with his fly in eager anticipation. The man had no couth and didn’t care who was watching. “It’s also the time of the month, which is another reason to only go where no man has gone before. It’s her first time being fucked in the arse, you understand.”
“Well then, it will be an experience for both of us, won’t it,” said Roger, releasing his member for us to see. It was erect and engorged and almost quivering as Mary slipped a spurt of lubricant into the hole under the rubber.
“Be our guest,” Mary said, in the manner of a waitress announcing that a guest’s table was now ready.
Roger could hardly wait, and pulled the two sides of the rubber crotch strap apart, working his way inside without so much as a hint of style. I got a wonderful shot of the expression in Warren’s eyes as his friend unknowingly invaded him. There was a squeak from under the rubber hood and a grunt of enjoyment from Roger. Warren squirmed in protest and I continued filming from the front, able to see both Warren and Roger looking at the camera, but only Warren aware of the outrage that was being done to him.
“How does it feel?” I asked, artlessly, directing my question rhetorically and ingenuously to Warren.
“She’s a tight bitch,” Roger said, unaware of my double entendre. Roger had gripped Warren by the hips and was now stuffing him for all he was worth. There was nothing sophisticated about Roger. He was definitely a wham-bam-thank you Maam person, the epitome of male grossness at its worst. It was examples such as Roger that made people such as Steven suddenly seem so precious, I suddenly realised.
Roger, we quickly found out, was built for speed and not for stamina, for he came quickly, with a protracted groan overlaid on a series of whimpering snuffles and muffled cries from under the hood. Then Roger was out and cleaning himself with some tissues.
“Why don’t we meet you upstairs for a drink in a minute or two?” Mary suggested. “Our treat for a job well done.”
“Sure,” said Roger, obviously proud of his performance. “I’ll be waiting.”
As Roger closed the door, Mary quickly pulled the hood off Warren, albeit with a bit of a struggle, for the thing was infernally tight. The video was still running and we saw Warren’s face in its sweat-stained glory, under a fair bit of duct tape, and still partly concealed by the blonde wig. Mary pulled this off and made Warren look directly into the camera.
“I hope you remember this night for a long time,” she hissed in his ear. “Remember it as a result of what you did to Trish and me. We’ll make sure Roger remembers it, too, don’t you worry. We’ll send him a copy of the tape.” Then she too, turned to the camera and smiled, a humourless, pointed smile as she said: “Hullo Roger. I hope you enjoyed screwing your mate. Mates should stick together, you know. Just as well it wasn’t superglue I squirted up Warren’s arse. Unfortunately for you, it wasn’t just KY, either, but you’ll know all about that by the time you see this. I’m sure you’ll both have a lot of laughs when you tell this story to the guys at the pub. Just think about it before you step beyond the bounds of acceptability next time.”
I shut down the camera as Mary replaced the wig on Warren and undid the lock to the wooden yoke. She lifted the heavy timber clear of Warren, who straightened up with a groan. We each grabbed an arm and bound his wrists palm to palm behind him.
“What’s the hurry?” I asked, aware that Mary had done something she had not told me about. Once again I was not getting the full picture from her. “What was that about the KY?”
“I said it wasn’t just KY. It was a mixture of KY and Finalgon.”
“What?” As I made the exclamation, there was a groan from Warren.
“Starting to burn a little, is it, sweetcheeks?” asked Mary. “You’re really going to know the meaning of ‘burning ring of fire’ very shortly.” She released his ankles and I rolled down the rubber over Warren’s thighs. “I reckon right about now Roger is going to get a very painful experience upstairs. Time for us to make a hurried exit stage left.”
“You cunning fox!” I marvelled, as we hastened out of the room and further down the corridor. There was an emergency exit door at the end and we found ourselves in a side alley with some steps leading up to the car dealer’s yard.
Warren was starting to make uncomfortable noises as we bundled the bound and gagged figure up the steps and into the back of the van, where we hogtied him tightly under the horizontal central handrail.
We climbed into the front and gave each other a high five.
“Now that is my idea of a night on the town,” Mary said with a smile that would have done justice to the Cheshire Cat.
* * *
The rest of that week passed rather slowly and painfully for Warren. We had become very enamoured with the apartment, and it was very comfortable, thank you very much. We had Christina telephone Warren’s office where she was obviously known, and make excuses for him to the effect that he was ill, and that she was looking after him, but the doctor had said he must rest for a week, and resting was pretty much what Warren was doing, albeit in a rather restrained fashion.
Warren spent the time bound in various positions and undergoing not dissimilar treatments to those we were forced to endure during the period of occupation of Bilboes by Madam Wong and her offsiders. It was a cathartic process for Mary and I. Both of us had painful memories – both mental and physical – of how I had been suspended and screwed front and back simultaneously by Warren and Roger, while Mary had been directed to crawl across the room and beg to be collared – the most demeaning action possible for a domme. She had refused stubbornly during my double penetration, but when the cane came out afterwards, and I was still suspended, knees bent backwards and legs spread – that was too much for both of us. Even gagged, I’m sure my screams must have penetrated upstairs. I thought I was going to pass out from the pain as Warren flicked the cane at my pussy, and Mary, herself bound, had relented and grovelled across the floor to plead for a collar and to submit absolutely.
That was just the beginning. We had never talked with the others about what had followed for the next couple of days in the basement, while Monica and company had undergone their own trials at the hands of Madam Wong and Portia upstairs. Warren and Roger obviously thought they had died and gone to heaven, with their own private playthings, while Mary and I thought we had gone in the other direction, with no hope of release.
Oh yes, the memories were there, but we gained strength from the lessons we taught Warren, and from listening to his pleas for mercy and his promises to never indulge in such behaviour again, and slowly our anger subsided as we got drunk and played the karaoke machine. This was perhaps the ultimate torture for Warren, for I couldn’t hold a tune, and Mary wasn’t much better, but we made him listen and watch until we reckoned that when we finally left the apartment, the machine would be the first thing down the garbage chute.
However there was also an ulterior purpose to our treatment, and by the second day we had been through Warren’s drawers and files and studied his bank statements in some detail. We had found the mortgage on Bilboes that had been altered to include Warren’s name as part owner, and we had seen the details of the exorbitant payments that Monica had been making to Warren for the pleasure of not having had the establishment sold out from under her by the bank, when custom had dried up under the threats from Madam Wong. It had not taken much to have this amended again, with Mary doing it through one of her shonky solicitor friends who had been a good customer with rather bizarre tastes. The mortgage had reverted to Monica’s name, along with a cheque for the extortionate interest payments that Monica had been forced to make to keep Bilboes operational during the lead up to the Wong Takeover. Similarly, it had not taken much to persuade Warren to sign both the mortgage amendment and the accompanying cheque – not after we had left him in a cold, damp cell at the Citadel for a night wearing heavy chains and a butt plug that was randomly-set to deliver an electrical jolt every so often. We had even typed out a nice letter on his headed paper explaining to Monica how he had had a change of heart and was transferring the deed back to her name exclusively. We thought it was all wrapped up rather nicely. Monica would have full control of Bilboes again, we would have closure on our issue with Warren, and he could do whatever he damned well liked as long as we sat on the incriminating photos and videos we were taking of his humiliation during our week with him.
After that night, Warren was very cooperative. In truth, the issue of Monica’s mortgage must have been of little financial consequence to him. Rather, it would be a matter of principle, a chance to assert not just his physical dominance over Monica, but also his financial clout. He thus had a hold that enabled him to have his way whenever and however he chose. In Monica’s case, being the strong-willed person she was, Warren’s power over her was even more satisfying for him, and it was this stranglehold we now intended to break, not least with our video of him getting screwed by Roger, as well as a few further clips with variations on the same theme.
It was a pleasant week, once we had got things initially sorted out. Neither Mary nor I had any compunction about what we were doing to Warren, and we made it very clear that if any of this got out, we would come visiting him again and extract an even more painful vengeance.
During this time we kept Christina well secured in Warren’s presence, not so much that we expected her to try to free him, but more so that he couldn’t accuse her of not trying to help him. More than once we left her hogtied beside him, firstly so that she could see the treatment dished out to him but be unable to act, but also to underline the fact that she need not suffer unnecessarily if she did not wish, in the future. The rest of the time we had her cook for us and clean the apartment, duties which she routinely carried out hobbled at ankle and wrist and wearing only her favourite corset. She proved unaffected by the hobbles, probably being well used to them from her time living with Warren, and carried out her duties diligently and with much less lip and complaining than we usually got out of Shawnee, back at Bilboes.
Our final night was Sunday, with Monica due back the following day. We decided to send the video to Roger that day, on the basis that we did not want to be around if Roger decided to contact Warren. We were not sure that he would, for it was likely that the respective embarrassment of the two men could kill their friendship forever. That was certainly what we hoped. We tracked down Roger’s address from Warren’s address book and having copied the tape on to a CD, sent it off to Roger by overnight courier. We both would have loved to see Roger’s face as he watched it, but you can’t have everything in life. Instead, we decided to give Warren a last treat at the Citadel, and took him over there in the boot of his own Mercedes. The Citadel did not yet have as extensive a clientele as Bilboes, nor was it staffed to levels such that all-nighters were common for clients. Notwithstanding this, we had checked the bookings and had ascertained that we would have the place to ourselves.
For the first hour we had Warren in the Black Sack, as we called it. It was a light-duty rubber bag the size of a person, which had been made by a company who made ‘dry bags’, of the sort used for protecting gear on white water rafting trips. This one had an air-tight seal on top and a breathing tube with a snorkel mouthpiece at head height. Also fitted to the top were clamps with which the bag and occupant could be suspended, or at least kept upright, and a connection for the industrial vacuum hose.
Warren was by now exceedingly compliant, and it took very little persuasion to make him obey our every command. He had come to take the sight of Mary tapping a cane against her boot very seriously. For the first hour he remained, standing upright inside the sack, held fast by the vacuum constriction of the rubber as it rigidly moulded his arms to his body and his legs together. He was thus a perfect target for a range of paddles, canes and floggers, as well as the odd contribution from the remote plug up his arse. His breathing was ragged and made woo-woo noises as the blows rained over his body. We knew they were somewhat softened by the rubber, and so felt no remorse at venting what remained of our angst on him.
We had the video camera set up for the next phase, by which time Warren was looking exhausted and sweating as we hustled his chained figure along the corridor to attach him to the overhead chains in the next room. The chains rattled in their overhead pulley blocks as first Warren’s arms went up in the air, slightly spread, then his legs were lifted off as he slipped forward to be suspended face down. He moaned behind the bit gag we had strapped in place. It was purposely not as effective as the ball gags or tape, and we wanted to hear Warren plead for mercy one last time, just as he had made us do.
After the fifth stoke from Mary’s flogger, he was burbling incoherently, which we took to be the required pleas, interspersed with gagged screams as each blow landed. So intent we were on filming the last night of Warren’s punishment for posterity – not to mention insurance – that we never heard the footsteps in the corridor. It was when Mary suddenly stopped in mid-stroke with a look of shock on her face that I turned to see Monica in the doorway, with Megan, Jill and Steven behind her. That was when I knew we had a problem.
* * *
10.07.03
story continues in Monica's Games 2.13
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