Monica's Games 2.18

by Richard Alexander (Gromets Plaza)

(story continues from Monica's Games 2.17)

Chapter Eighteen: Emma Runs Amok

Day One

Afternoon Event: Foot Race
White Team: Emma
Black Team: Zara
Points at Stake: 5
Start Score: White Team: 5 Black Team: 0

After what I had seen Leila undergo during the morning, I was dreading the afternoon event.  Mistress Lynx was obviously as devious as they came, although no doubt she had lots of help from Monica and Megan and the two brothers.  I was happy that Leila had won, but in so doing she had had to endure so much.  I didn’t know if I could do the same. Another nasty surprise that had lain in wait for us was the fact that the losers appeared to be in line for further punishment after the event.  Poor Kris was now impaled on The Shaft, her hands bound behind her, on the back verandah.  Mistress Lynx considered the treatment appropriate to the ‘crime’ of ejecting the butt plug in the pool, and challenged her to repeat the exercise with the large dildo now jammed up her arse.  Kris, silenced with a large ball gag, had been unable to reply, and had turned disconsolate eyes on the rest of us during lunch.

I had been too on edge to eat, so concerned was I now about the upcoming event.  Zara looked a strong person, a child of the desert culture, whereas I had grown up in Hong Kong, where athletic ability and physical fitness are neither the same priority nor as easily achieved in the crowded urban environment.

Zara was stunning in the black uniform of the Citadel.  Her dark tresses were pulled back into a loose ponytail, like mine, and although mine reached almost to my waist, I often wished I had hair like European girls, instead of my ordinary straight black hair that looked the same as every other Chinese girl who hadn’t entered a hair salon.  I suppose Zara wasn’t truly European, though.  Her big Arab eyes and olive skin also made me jealous, although I was secretly of the opinion that my boobs were nicer.  From somebody’s wardrobe they had obviously found a pair of black knee boots which fitted her.  They were the lace-up sort, and I reckoned despite the three inch heels on both Zara’s and my footwear, they were likely to be essential if we had to go through coarse grass or thistles.

We were standing with Mistress Lynx about a kilometre down the back road that led into the property from the rear, through the bush.  Mistress Lynx had driven us there in the Monica Van, and here, watched by Mohammed and Rashid, Zara and I were to be prepared for the race back to the house.

Zara, it had to be said, was not in a good mood, since being dobbed in by her brothers the previous evening.  Now, here she was, totally unprepared and expected to run a race in strange conditions.

Not that I was really prepared, either.  Jill had been making me do a lot of running, usually chasing me with a whip after having tied my hands and done other nasty things that she periodically subjects me to, and which unexplainably make me go weak at the knees.  Maybe that would give me an edge, for as sure as anything I knew Zara and I would have painful things done to us, and I was sure she was at least physically stronger than I was.  Spending your life riding camels or however she had grown up had to be more athletic than going to St Agnes Catholic School in Kowloon.

At least this time it seemed we were to be allowed to retain our uniforms, unlike poor Leila and Kris, but that didn’t make things any more acceptable to Zara.  She was clearly furious with her brothers, and continued to spit what sounded like very nasty insults at them in Arabic.  They just watched and grinned as Mistress Lynx opened the suitcase that I suspected was to become her trademark. 

The first thing to come out was a heavy rubber bit gag, and Zara was the recipient. 

“You’re lucky I don’t strap a big ball in your mouth,” said Mistress Lynx casually, as she pulled the strap tight behind Zara’s head.  “You have a bad mouth, girl.  Maybe your brothers ought to practise this more often.”  Mohammed and Rashid smirked, barely managing to control their laughter, while Zara fumed.  I was next, the rubber bar pulled behind my teeth, stretching my mouth wide.  I felt the cold steel of the big metal ring at each end of the bar pressed against my cheek as Mistress Lynx buckled the strap at the back of my head.  It was uncomfortable, and while allowing you to breath better than a ball gag, a bit gag always made me drool like crazy.  It was all very embarrassing.

Mistress Lynx next buckled a wide belt around Zara’s waist and leather cuffs on her wrists.  I saw that the belt had D-rings at three and nine o’clock, and it was to these that Zara’s wrist cuffs were locked.  Next it was ankle cuffs and a hobble chain about a foot long.  I now saw that the race was going to take a little longer than we might have anticipated.  Five minutes later I was similarly attired.  The belt was tight and I quickly found that no amount of tugging or contorting would enable my fingers to reach the belt buckle.

“Now we get to the fun part,” said Mistress Lynx with more than a touch of amusement in her voice.  “Emma, come over here.”  I did as I was told, seeing how far I could step before the hobble chain pulled me up.  Mistress Lynx tied a three metre long piece of heavy white sashcord to the belt at my navel, and, measuring carefully, tied a further knot in the cord just where it would press against my clit.  Immediately below this, she threaded the rope through the ring at the bottom of a large vibrator.  I groaned inwardly, for I had a low tolerance to this sort of stimulation.  This was just the sort of thing that Megan would have suggested, for there were precious few secrets amongst the girls regarding preferences and weaknesses.

Mistress Lynx tucked the rope under the waistband of my skirt and pulled it through between my legs, then up under the waistband at the back and over the belt, so that it hung down like a tail, with slack still between my legs.  She squatted in front of me and I felt the smooth coolness of lubricant jelly before the invader slid smoothly between my pussy lips.  It was turned on then off again several times.

“Seems to be working.  Is that nice, Emma?”  She stood up and grinned at me, then pulled the rope tight through the belt behind me, jamming it up between my buttocks and forcing the vibrator home and the knot against my sensitive parts.  I sighed, in part from the pleasure it gave, in part from the ordeal I knew to be ahead.  Turning around, I saw her tying the loose end to a small sack about the size of a squashed football.  She gave it a nudge with her foot and I realised it was a sandbag.  The plot became clear.  This was what I would have to tow throughout the race, and deal with the reaction in my crotch as best I could.

But Mistress Lynx was not finished yet.  I should have realised that it would have been too simple like this.  The next thing to come out of her suitcase was something that sent a hill down my spine – the steel collar that Portia had had made for each of us, complete with electro-shock unit at the throat.

“I’m told you will remember this, Emma?” said Mistress Lynx with evident amusement.  She moved to put it on me, but I shied away, such memories did it convey.

“Uh-uh,” I protested.

“Don’t be awkward, girl,” said Mistress Lynx through clenched teeth as she grabbed my ponytail and forced me down on my knees.  Her strength was considerable, and with my wrists locked to the belt there was nothing I could do as the hated stainless steel collar clicked shut about my neck.  Mistress Lynx hauled me to my feet and looked me in the eye.  “Any more trouble from you, Emma, and you’ll be under a much more severe handicap.  Just so you know, this receiver at your throat will not hurt you there but will get you somewhere rather more tender, namely here.”  She pinched both my nipples hard.

“Owwgh!” I spluttered around the rubber across my tongue.  She ignored me and delved into the awful case again, coming up with a short wire, one end of which plugged into the receiver at my throat, with the other end dividing and ending in two sticky pads.  Mistress Lynx pulled my crop top up and slid the wire down between my breasts, sticking the pads in pace over the nipples then doubling up with duct tape so that each breast had a big silver ‘X’ across it.  Then she pulled the top back into place, smoothing down the shiny fabric with a totally unnecessary attention to detail.  “These are very nice, Emma,” she cooed, holding one in each palm as though weighing them.  “You’re a very lucky girl.”

“Hnk you rstrss,” I said, dribbling down the front of my top.

“Very good.  Now you, Zara.  Boys, stop teasing your sister!”  She glared at the Zubair brothers who looked suitably chastened.  Five minutes later Zara was also sporting an insert in her pussy and a rope tail tied to a sandbag, plus a collar and nipple pads, which had likewise elicited protests similar to mine, much to the further amusement of her brothers.

“Now Zara, you may not have come across this little device before,” Mistress Lynx said, indicating the electronic receiver at her throat.  “That little box will make your nips rather painful if you get too close to a source emitting the right frequency.  I can give you a little demonstration, since you have never experienced this, and Emma may have forgotten.”  Before I could run, she had retrieved a small remote control and pressed the button.  The pads on my nipples at once vibrated, rising to an abrupt point at which they became very painful.  Mistress Lynx moved close to Zara whose hands fluttered in their restraints at her waist and she uttered garbled squeals through the bit in her mouth, as she backed against the van, only to find herself between her brothers, who grabbed an arm each.  Mistress Lynx brought the remote closer and Zara screwed up her face before uttering the best scream she could manage around the rubber gag.  Then the pain stopped.  Mistress Lynx looked at me. 

“You remember now, don’t you, Emma.  No need to remind you any further?”  I was pathetically grateful for this merciful ending, and I shook my head to reinforce that presumption.  “In case you’re wondering, there will be occasions when such frequency sources will become apparent during the race and you may have to make choices as to where you go at those points.  It all helps to make the race just a little interesting.  But the race is also meant to be a pleasurable experience as well, so come here, both of you.”  We did as we were told and let her turn on the vibrators inside of us with her big fingers.  At once the warm sensations began to flow and the familiar reactions of my nerve endings began.  “The finishing line is on the lawn at the back of the house,” said Mistress Lynx.  “So get going – now!”  With that, she switched on the remote and the terrible nipple pain began again. 

I was caught off guard because I thought there would be something a little more formal by way of a starting procedure, but evidently such was not to be the case, and Zara sprang away like a frightened rabbit, only to come back to earth abruptly as the weight of the sandbag pulled the rope tight through her crotch.  I sort of did the same, but a little more gently, and felt sashcord tighten between my buttocks as the weight of the sandbag came on, then there was a further tightening through my crotch.  This pulled the vibrator deeper into my pussy and the knot harder against my clit, prompting quite delicious sensations.

I leaned forward against the dragging sandbag.  It weighed perhaps five kilos, but the friction made it seem like more.  I experimented with my movement, and found that the hobble chain made it impossible to run properly, limiting me to a kind of shuffle verging of a trot.  I realised another reason why we had been obliged to wear our boots, this being the constant tug of the cuffs at our ankles.  That was the good side.  The bad side was that high heels do nothing for your speed and not a lot for your balance, either.

My initial experiments to determine the limits of my restraint were not helpful in catching Zara, who was already twenty paces ahead down the road.  I struggled after her.  The road was only a vehicle’s width through low scrub with lots of brambles and other nasty growth.  The road surface was uneven and I would have been much more sure-footed in a pair of sneakers, but that was clearly not to be our lot.  To add to our discomfort, while it had rained quite heavily recently, the day was cloudless and hot, and after only fifty metres my top was dark with sweat and the nylon fabric of the skirt was starting to cling to my thighs.

The road twisted and turned as it had been constructed as a path through large gum trees, which at least gave some intermittent shade.  The bends in the road meant that Zara was soon almost out of sight, and I knew I was in trouble, for she was clearly stronger and faster than I was. Already the motion of the vibrator inside of me and the pressure of the knot outside was making it difficult to stay focussed.  I was beginning to feel a warm surge start to rise within my loins when I rounded a curve to see an orange line down the middle of the road.  The line was about ten metres long and ended in a tee with another line crossing the road at right angles.  As I got closer I saw that the line was in fact an electrical cable, and I felt the first tingles in my nipples that told me this was an emitting cable that was being picked up by the receiver at my throat.  Even a few metres away the sensation under the duct tape on my breasts was unpleasant, and I wondered what alternatives I had.

The cable divided the road at a narrow point with brambles lining either side.  It seemed impossible to go around, until I saw two marker posts, one each side, at the start of the longitudinal cable.  On the right side the marker was tied with a white ribbon, while the left one had a black ribbon.  A few steps closer and I saw there was a side path leading off the road.

The pain in my nips had become quite uncomfortable at this point, but had at least shifted the focus from the distracting warm sensations from my crotch.  I realised that the choice was to proceed with the pain over some distance, to actually cross the ‘bar’ of the tee, or to outflank it on the side path.  I heard a rustling in the bushes to my left and saw Zara’s head momentarily bob up as she forced herself along the side track. 

The pain at that moment left me little choice.  I had seen the effects on people trying to cross the cable when we had been held prisoner by Portia and Madam Wong, and while those had been through application of the pain to the more vulnerable throat area, the effects on my nipples were bad enough.

I turned off the track at the white ribbon and at once found myself in a thicket of bushes on a narrow trail that had been only recently cut with a slasher.  It was easy enough to follow, but still a struggle to push through in places.  In some spots the slasher had been used sparingly, leaving branches to slap against my breasts and thighs, and to scrape against my arms where they were anchored to my waist belt.  The drag of the sandbag increased as it caught on roots and shrubs and while the nipple pain died, my crotch was soon under attack again.  I abruptly discovered a further little trap, as I tripped on a piece of fishing line that someone had tied across the path at ankle height.  So that was the plan!  Tripwires!  Not content with dragging a sandbag through bushes, I had to step over trip wires as well.

I ploughed on, and the constant drag of the rope in my crotch had the effect I had feared – in a sort of arse-about-face way – as the stimulation to my clit and pussy finally overtopped the level I could withstand and I collapsed in a gasping heap amongst the bushes.  I scrabbled to get my fingers to my crotch but I could not reach, and I found myself lying on the ground squirming about in a totally undignified fashion.  The orgasm welled up and finally exploded as I moaned and closed my eyes to the leafy green view at path level.  This was so embarrassing, but at least my friends could not see me. 

Jillian would know, of course.  She always knew if I’d had a little session by myself.  I must have been as transparent as glass.  It had only been a brief pleasurable moment in the big scheme of things, and I knew that unless Zara was more susceptible than I was to such temptations, I would have lost further ground.

The side track lasted perhaps fifty metres, and when I emerged back on the road I was scratched and sore and frustrated from dragging the damned sandbag through half the foliage, never mind trying to dig myself face first into the ground.  Zara was maybe eighty metres ahead of me now, and I was close to despair.  I only realised at that point that Zara was not dragging her sandbag – she was carrying it!  You fool, Emma!  Why hadn’t I thought of that!  God, I was so mad.  Maybe Zara would be disqualified, but nobody had said we had to drag the damned thing.  I squatted and picked up the bag by the top where the rope was tied.  At once the pressure was off my crotch along with the terrible urge to succumb to those wonderful sensations that were starting to arise again.  If Zara was to be penalised, then we both would be, but I had no chance without copying her tactics.

Predictably, carrying the bag made running a lot less difficult, if not actually easy, for the hobble chain still controlled the size of my steps.  I scuttled down the track after Zara, focussing all my energy in trying to catch her.  I knew we would be getting close to the back gate into Bilboes, with its muddy pool and big steel gate.  Zara disappeared from view again and when I rounded the next bend I saw a wide open gate but no Zara.  Beyond the gate and the mud pool, the road rose steeply up a bank before topping a grassy crest on a final run down to the back of the house.  I knew Zara could not have got up the crest that fast, and wondered what had happened to her.

As I neared the gate I saw the orange cable again, this piece stretched from one gate post to the other under the muddy water, forming a painful electronic hurdle.  The alternative to this had to be another detour, and it was then that I saw Zara making her way towards me on the far side of the fence to my right.  I saw that she had detoured up the fence line to climb over a style about fifty metres away, and was now heading obliquely to rejoin the path as it climbed up to the crest.

At that point I knew I had no option.  If I was going to get ahead of her I had to cross the wire, and I ran at it as though it was an invisible wall I had to smash through.  I did my best to ignore the pain that grew moment by moment as I stuttered up to the gate and into the mud that came up to my ankles.  When I reached the gate opening my nipples were on fire and I was keening and panting and drooling around the rubber bit jammed in my mouth.  I did not care who saw me, and only then did I become conscious of heads appearing at the top of the slope.  I suppose there was yelling and shouting, but I couldn’t really take it in.  The piercing pain in my breasts was all that motivated me.  I just wanted it to stop.  I crossed the wire in a rush, but caught my heel on it as I did so and crashed down in the sticky mud which had the consistency of porridge.  I could not break my fall with my pinioned hands and so twisted as best I could to land partly on my side. 

Things happened in a crazy uncoordinated way from that point.  I was scrabbling on my knees with mud plastering my uniform and running down my breasts inside the crop top.  I was spitting out mud and conscious of it all over me, on my face and in my hair.  As I staggered to my feet my skirt clung horribly and had turned from white to brown.  All the while my hands were flapping about and I was struggling to stay on my feet.  Wetness was trickling into my boots, and the cold mud on my breasts did little to stem the terrible pain in my nipples.  I was desperate to get away from the cable and did so in a most uncoordinated fashion – or so Jill told me later.  I was barely conscious of Zara flying towards me from the right, as I started up the rise towards the crest.

Swimming into my field of vision I saw the faces of Monica and Jill and Leila and the others.  Mouths seemed to open and close in a kind of slow motion.  So Chariots of fire was real, after all!  I stumbled over the ridge with the blood pounding in my ears as I struggled to retain my grip on the now very muddy sand bag.  I was only a couple of paces ahead of Zara as the ground was suddenly downhill and I gave in to the glorious forces of gravity and raced downhill, stumbling and tripping and almost losing my balance, before finally doing just that as I broke the tape stretched between two of the large anchor posts still standing in our lawn from the days of Portia and Madam Wong.

I could make no sense of the world for about two minutes after that, so exhausted was I.  Jillian helped me to my feet and hugged, me, mud and all.  Mistress Lynx was there, removing the gag and unlocking my wrists.  I spat out mud and slowly caught my breath, only then realising what a wreck I looked.

“You’ve been getting off on the way, haven’t you!” said Jill, grinning.  “Emma Cheng, you really are something else.”

*   *   *

It went without saying that we had a celebratory dinner that evening.  The stage had been set, it appeared, that both teams would dine together each evening for the duration of the games.  The seating was generally as before, with Monica, Megan, Mistress Lynx and the Zubair brothers at their own table, while the two teams had their own table.  What was to become part of the tradition was the fact that the losers would be waiting on the tables, and it seemed that their dress would at least in some way reflect the event that they had failed at.

Much to Mohammed’s amusement, Zara was reduced to waiting on the White table, plus his own.  Rashid also found some humour in the situation, although perhaps less so since his team was down by two events to none.  Zara had not been allowed to change and consequently bumped about the verandah in her boots and uniform, dragging the sand bag after her.  She remained hobbled and still wore the rubber bit gag which left a dark wet line of drool soaking into the black lycra stretched over her breasts.  While her hands were now free, the collar remained at her throat, and every so often one of the diners at Mohammed’s table would amuse themselves by operating the remote to see if they could make Zara drop whatever she was carrying, as the receiver at Zara’s throat picked up the signal and sent a spasm of pain to her nipples.

My own nipples were still very tender after the treatment they had received during the course of my event.  I was sitting next to Leila, who likewise was suffering from Tender Nipple Syndrome, after her ordeal in the pool that morning.  Her opponent, Kris, was now dressed the same as Zara, in skirt and lycra top with black boots over which the hobble and ankle cuffs were fitted.  Beneath the hem of her skirt I could see two sponges wobbling about on strings, as once more her labia were being tormented.  Someone had dipped the sponges in water, and she left a steady  trail of drips wherever she went.  She walked slightly awkwardly, and I found out this was because she was also sporting a large butt plug which responded to the same remote on the head table.  Kris too, was gagged with a rubber bit buckled into her mouth, and like Zara the blonde had a large wet patch on the material over the top of her breasts.

As the main course was completed, Mohammed stood and tapped on a glass for attention.  Silence descended on the group, only to be broken as Mistress Lynx pressed the button on the remote.  There was a simultaneous gagged moan from both Kris and Zara, but nothing was dropped.  A snigger ran through the two teams, led by our side because we were victorious in this instance, whereas the Black team were nervously smirking in that at least as individuals they were not getting a jolt to the nipples or up the backside.

“Ladies and gentlemen…” Mohammed’s voice was deep and had a lovely hint of accent that couldn’t be placed.  No wonder Monica was besotted with him.  I thought he was very sexy – we all did, for that matter - and his brother too.  “Firstly I would like to thank you all for your hospitality and for a very enjoyable day.  I would like to congratulate the winning team, which just happens to be my team.”  He paused, and we at the White table gave ourselves a big cheer.  “The White team is now ten points up, to the Black team’s big, fat, zero.”  He laboured over the last three words, laying his hand consolingly on Rashid’s shoulder as he did so.  “However tomorrow is, of course, another day.  I congratulate Mistress Lynx on her imaginative handiwork today, and look forward to even more exciting events tomorrow, when we move to the Citadel for the next rounds.”

*   *   *

20.09.03

story continues in Monica's Games 2.19

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