Monica's Games 2.22

by Richard Alexander (Gromets Plaza)

(story continues from Monica's Games 2.21)

Chapter Twenty Two: Steven a la Carte

Day Three

Afternoon Event: Pony Cart
White Team: Steven and Shawnee
Black Team: Leon and Dianne
Points at Stake: 10
Start Score: White Team: 20 Black Team: 5

I reckoned we were doing pretty well by the afternoon of the third day, with Jill’s win in the cycling.  We had won four out of five and we were starting to feel good about ourselves.  The girls had been making some noises about how Mistress Lynx had been springing last minute rule or equipment changes on them.  I denied all knowledge of this.  Well I had to, really, but with things like the dynamos on the bikes it was rather difficult to hide the evidence.  The only defence I could really muster was that I had been so busy I had not got around to telling them.  It was pretty lame, but faced with the ire of Mistress Lynx if I blabbed, compared to that of Jillian – in the bike case - it wasn’t much of a contest.

One thing that had got me concerned, however, was Mary’s complaints about the shocks – firstly in the course of the match, and secondly when she was making her way home.  There was only one way that could happen, and I confess it was something I had overlooked  - namely that while the waist units had been geared up to be triggered by closing the circuit with the strike of a sword on the target, they remained still controllable by the original remote control for which they had first been designed.  This was the only explanation for what Mary described when she was finally ungagged.  That was after dinner on Day Two, for it appeared that whoever lost an event was going to miss out on the following meal, under the iron hand of Mistress Lynx.

Mary had made the mistake of being just a tad voluble after she had been released.  Instead of keeping it to herself, she had seen fit to let the whole world know.  At that stage we had finished our meal and Mistress Lynx had removed the helmet and tape from Mary’s mouth, to be told in graphic and accusatory detail just what she had been subjected to.  It had not been a good move.  A sensible person would at least have waited until their arms had been freed.  Not Mary – shooting from the lip again.  Mistress Lynx (and even I had figured this one out) would take no nonsense and would not allow herself to lose face in front of her sponsors.  Her response was to grasp Mary’s nose and pull her head back, forcing a vary large red ball gag between her teeth and buckling it over the rubber hood still in place.  If Mary had been pissed off before, now she was furious and mmphed her objection in great detail.  Which was why she had spent the rest of the night chained to the verandah post.

In response to Mary’s outburst, Mistress Lynx had made a point of her own, which gave me cause for concern myself.

“Let me explain my role, people,” she said sternly, eyeing us up and down as we sat at the tables over the empty plates.  “My job is to ensure that there is a level playing field to begin with.  It is to make sure that you are both wearing identical equipment, that it is fitted properly, and that the start and finish take place appropriately.  What happens between the beginning and the end is over to you people.”  This certainly caused several whispers between bent heads.  “I’m not going to lecture you on ethics and fair play.  You can decide what these games are all about.  But let me remind you of the old proverb – he who lives by the sword, dies by the sword.  One of life’s great maxims is that whatever path you choose, don’t get caught out.”

Her words had run around my head since then, and I had the distinct impression that the Games were going to turn in to something a lot more serious than a friendly competition.  We had talked amongst ourselves and agreed that we would have to be on our guard a lot more.  We had stopped short of open warfare, since we did not know for sure who was responsible, but a search of the house revealed one of the remotes was missing, so regardless of who the actual thief was, it seemed a pretty sure explanation for Mary’s torment.

Elizabeth had finally arrived back at Bilboes after being made to ride a circuitous route of some ten kilometres back from Mt Cootha.  Mistress Lynx had given her a map of the route and Elizabeth had been made to answer several questions pertaining to it, such as what colour was the house at number 44 Sylvan Road, and so on, just to prove she had been there.  The poor girl looked a total wreck when she arrived at the end of lunch.  She had no doubt stopped frequently along the way, and I understood that the route had involved several of the hillier suburbs in the west.  It just didn’t pay to lose these events, I decided. 

Now it was my turn.  I, too, had joined the lycra brigade, in shiny white bicycle shorts and short-sleeved top, but otherwise I was relatively unencumbered.  Shawnee was the one done up as the show pony, and looked to be loving every minute of it, in her borrowed white leather thigh boots with the four inch heels.  She had spent the previous evening polishing everything, even the white latex skirt and long-sleeved top that she now wore.  Everything squeaked when she moved, and her heels clattered like hail on a tin roof.  She was now trussed up ready for the race, her arms crossed horizontally in a leather sheath behind her and secured tightly in place by Mistress Lynx.  This time there was to be no mercy from me, in that – like Dianne – she would be controlled by the reins over her shoulders and connected to crocodile clips on her nipples via the rings at each end of the big rubber bit gag strapped in her mouth.  Shawnee’s breasts were full and voluptuous, belying her petite body.  Latching on to those nipples was a set up that guaranteed obedience.  Her head was covered with a white latex hood that had a hole in the top for her hair which now trailed like a feathered plume and added a nice touch.

Shawnee’s ankles were hobbled, and I knew under her skirt there was a butt plug held in place with one of the stainless steel crotch belts that had been used in the fencing event.  Somehow, the missing remote had mysteriously reappeared so that both Leon and I had one to control our respective steeds.

Because I had not had time to build a second pony cart, this event was to be a time trial, taking place down the back road again.  Because there were two people in each team, the event was worth double points, but I wasn’t going to let this extra pressure phase me.

The start point was at the front gate, with the route leading up the drive and past the house, then up the back lawn, over the crest and down through the mud pool.  Monica was not happy about that aspect as far as Shawnee’s boots were concerned, but she couldn’t really object.  After that it was down the track to the main road, turn around at the gate, hoping that nobody was driving past, then return to the back verandah.

I had won the toss and decided that Leon could go first.  I figured I would rather be chasing a target than setting one.  We gathered as a group at the front gate and watched while Dianne, clad in her black latex outfit, was hitched up to the pony cart.   Mistress Lynx checked Dianne’s harness and gear and tested the remote, with the predictable squirming and objecting from Dianne.  This time it cut out after three seconds, as it was supposed to, but Dianne was still left trembling and breathing heavily.  Then Mistress Lynx cracked her whip and started the stopwatch, and Dianne leaned into the traces. 

We followed the pair up the drive.  It was easy at this stage, but on reaching the grass Dianne was soon straining to haul the cart up the slope to the crest.  Here she slowed to a walk, leaning forward and struggling to maintain her footing in the smooth-soled thigh boots, never mind the problems caused by the hobble chain.  Leon was cracking the riding whip and catching her on the backside with painful regularity.  It was a huge struggle for Dianne to make the top of the crest, and we all cheered her effort when she finally managed it, with not help from the abuse poured on her by Leon, presumably under the guise of encouragement.

It was about two kilometres to the road, with the total length of the course being around four and a half kilometres.  It was a hard course, although the road was level.  Pulling a cart in high heels, latex and hobble chain was a tall order for the fittest of people, and I felt sorry for both Dianne and Shawnee.

The toughness of the course was evident by the time the pair finally reappeared above the ridge and stumbled down to the finish line by the back steps, Dianne looked shattered.  She managed to hang on long enough to be unharnessed before collapsing on the ground.  Megan removed the girl’s gag and nipple clips and said something to Leon that I couldn’t catch, but it was clear from her expression that she was displeased with the way her slave had been handled.  Monica saw the exchange as well, and gave me a meaningful look.  I shrugged.  What was I expected to do if we were going to win the thing?

I had my own stopwatch and knew what the target was, now.  After some quick maths, I reckoned I had the rough times I needed to beat at the quarter and halfway points.  I just hoped Shawnee was up to it. 

We went though the same rigmarole with Mistress Lynx checking everything and testing the butt plug remote that saw Shawnee squeal like a stuck pig as the jolt went through her arse.  She glared at Mistress Lynx before I pulled her back to be fitted in to the harness.  Then the whip was cracking and we were off, racing up the drive then following the same abrupt slowdown as we hit the grass and poor Shawnee staggered as she tried to maintain her momentum.  I willed her on, testing the remote on the butt plug with a brief press of the button.  I hadn’t been intending to use it, but the effect was so dramatic I thought it was a good thing to have up my sleeve - at least I wouldn’t die not knowing.  Shawnee squawked and threw herself against the traces and we made the top rather more quickly than I expected. 

That was the hard part.  From there on it was downhill and on the flat.  I wanted Shawnee to conserve her energy for the next twenty minutes or so, and this we did, through the mud pool and out along the back track.  I checked my watch as we reached the halfway mark at the junction with the main road.  Mistress Lynx had driven there and was making sure we rounded the marker as we were supposed to.  She watched with folded arms, her expression giving away nothing, as we manoeuvred around a rock in the middle of the road that served like a buoy in a yacht race.

By my watch we were a smidgen ahead of what we needed to be, but I knew Shawnee would tire on the way home.  There would be the final slosh through the mud pool and the stagger up the hill that I had to allow for in conserving Shawnee’s energy.  The cart was light and the racing bike wheels ran smoothly along the track, but at the point I had marked as three quarters of the distance, I reckoned we were fading, and urged Shawnee to pick up the pace.  She did her best, but with the mud pool coming into view, I felt compelled to give her a burst with the remote.  It had the desired effect as she yelped in protest but picked up the pace.  I watched her buttocks shifting under the white shiny latex, and I could hear her grunting with the effort as we charged into the mud pool.  Beyond this, I glimpsed a group of people cheering us from the grassy crest, but I did not have time to identify individuals before the pool was on us.

Just before we reached the pool I sensed something was wrong.  It wasn’t to do with Shawnee, rather, it was a faint stutter in the cart, turning to a wobble, and moments before it happened I realised that the left hand wheel was coming loose. 

Stopping the cart wasn’t an option, for things happened too fast as we drove into the mud and the effect of it gripping the wheels was enough to finish the job.  In a tumble of limbs and traces we were both thrown in to the sloshy brown stuff.

*   *   * 

Predictably, that was the end of the event.  Within a very short time Shawnee and I were bound in the dungeon.  Mistress Lynx had taken charge, and once we had been hosed down and I had been stripped, we were led, me handcuffed and Shawnee still bound in her latex, to the basement.  I don’t know whether our punishment was premeditated or not, but suffice to say I wound up bound spreadeagled on the St Andrews cross.  The irony of this was that the cross was more like a wheel, given that it was mounted on a pivot to allow it to turn on its central axis.

Shawnee had been dealt with first, her bit gag replaced with a complex head harness that blindfolded her and anchored a large ball gag in her mouth, stretching it wide.  The rest of her bonds had remained, her arms remaining pinioned in the sheath behind her back.  Broad ankle suspension cuffs had then replaced her hobble as Mistress Lynx dragged down a steel wire from one of the overhead winches. 

Shawnee whimpered as she was made to lie on the ground while the wire was hooked to her cuffs, then the ratchetting of the winch began and first her legs, then her body rose slowly, until her head finally swung clear of the floor.  Muddy water ran out of the thigh boots and was then caught in her crotch and held there by the tautly stretched latex skirt.  Shawnee was decidedly unhappy, and I felt for her, considering it was probably my fault that she was now suffering.

But of course she was obviously not going to suffer alone.  This I knew as I had submitted to be gagged with a hard rubber ball and then blindfolded with an eyeless leather discipline helmet laced tightly down the back of my head.  I was made to stand on the small foot platforms on the cross, each barely big enough for half my foot.  It was hard to balance there until Mistress Lynx pulled the thick leather belt around my waist, melding me to the cross.  After that came the heavy straps at ankles and above the knee.  She had made me hold on to the handgrips and had turned me through a hundred and eighty degrees, buckling more straps around my wrists and upper arms.  The final piece de resistance came with a large butt plug which was installed none too gently up my arse and roped in place against the wooden cross. 

Then my world had gone topsy-turvy as the electric motor had started up and I slowly began to turn.  It was dark and silent, for I could hardly hear the motor under the leather hood.  I did not know if Mistress Lynx was still there in the dungeon with us, nor what was going to happen next.  I was wondering about this briefly when there was a rush of pain through my arse as the butt plug came to life.

“Urrrrnhh!”  I snorted over the gag.

It lasted only a second, but I caught a grunt of pain from Shawnee at the same time.  I had a suspicion of what was to come next, and sure enough, as I completed another revolution there was the piercing pain again.  Mistress Lynx had somehow rigged the remote button to be pushed each time the cross rotated, bringing Shawnee and myself closer together through the shared experience of mutual pain.  However much as I liked Shawnee, when she wasn’t throwing a dummy spit, I really did not want to forge a relationship with her under quite these circumstances.

I lost track of time, but it did not seem very long when I sensed someone else in the room.  There was what sounded like the click of heels and the electric motor stopped while I was in the upside down position.  I wondered what the hell was going on when there was a biting pain of something being clipped first to my right nipple and then to my left.  I made garbled objections around the ball under the hood, but I might as well have tried to send an email for all the difference it made.  Then the motor began again and the footsteps disappeared.

Round I went again, now with the electrical jolt to my innermost private place added to through the pain to one of my outermost vulnerable areas.  I found that not only were my nipples clipped, but weights had been attached to the clips – weights which flipped back and forth with every rotation, tugging my tender flesh this way and that.  I was pretty unhappy about the whole situation, as was Shawnee, judging from the whining and grunting that was coming from where she hung.

I thought this was rather severe punishment compared to some of the others, given that our failure was through a fault not of our own.  For I was now convinced that someone had removed the split pin that held the left wheel on – or at least far enough for it to work loose the rest of the way.  Wheels did not fall off my creations by themselves.  I suppose I should have checked the thing properly after Leon had used it, and the more that I thought about it, as I turned like a chicken on a spit, the more I reckoned I knew who the culprit was.  Things were starting to fall into place, and I knew we would have to watch our backs.

But in the meantime I continued to revolve, the blood rushing alternately to my feet, then my head.  I wondered whether Shawnee had it any better, and decided in balance that she had it worse.  More to the point, how long would we have to suffer such unreasonable punishment.

Somebody finally appeared.  I had no idea who it was, but something was happening when the rotation stopped, and with it, the terrible jolts brought about by whatever connection the cross was making with the remote control.  Then there came a smacking sound – the sort that might be mad from a paddle on taut flesh – or taut latex – and Shawnee was struggling to cry out against the gag strapped in her mouth.  I was sure that being upside down didn’t help, either.  She received perhaps ten or twelve swats with whatever the implement was, before I heard the ratchet of the overhead winch again and knew Shawnee was being lowered to the ground, but I could hear no speaking and could not work out what was going on.  Was this the start of another phase, or had we suffered enough?

The next clue I had was when the cross shuddered and began to tilt, so that I found myself tipping backwards from the standing position.  The cross was fixed between two giant timber posts with a pin through the base of them where they were attached to the floor.  This gave us the opportunity to lower the posts so that they lay flat on the ground, by means of a block and tackle attached to the top of the posts.  There was the rattle of chain as I descended to a horizontal position.  I figured that even though I wasn’t getting released – as I decided was the case – lying flat had to be a hundred times better than being upside down then upright, then upside down…

With the cessation of the turning, and getting into a more bearable position, my body relaxed and I realised how absolutely tense and keyed up I had been.  My muscles had been frozen solid as I tried to counter the shifting forces coming on my body, to the point where exhaustion swept over me like a wave.

For a brief moment I thought I might be freed, as the nipple clamps were removed quickly, causing another burst of pain, but there were no movements to undo the straps anchoring me to the cross.  Rather, Mr Willy became the focus of some unexpected attention as soft lips closed over him and began to do very pleasant things.  It was such a contrast to the punishment that I had been receiving that I found myself making incoherent noises of pleasure, in between trying to make questioning sounds to whoever was doing this to me.  Of course the ball stuffed inside my mouth and the leather hood pulled tightly over that prevented anything recognisable coming out other than grunts and snorts, but I’m sure I at least conveyed the message that while this was extremely nice, I would rather be free.

Mr Willy was erect and throbbing now, with the lips and tongue having been supplemented by clever fingers that began to induce blissful sensations as I squirmed and struggled against the straps.  Then there came the body.  There was a hint of smooth silky material that might have been a white lycra skirt, my imagination decided, followed by a smooth inner thigh that slid over mine and a pair of hands that rested on my chest.  The body laid over me and I felt the taut outline of breasts held captive in lycra lying on my chest and after some adjustment and wiggling, Mr Willy was captured between the straddling legs and guided into a warm wet passage.

My mind was being assailed by a number of sensations and thoughts, and the uppermost was who was doing this to me.  The answer came as I caught a hint of perfume and knew at once that this was Jillian, my sexual Nemesis, who unerringly seemed to seek me out in my moments of captivity and take advantage of me.  I did not care, now.  I was content with the situation and groaned with pleasure as she sank down on top of my rigid member.  I thought I heard a little moan of pleasure from her, too, but she was playing her silent part to the end, doing her best not to divulge her identity. 

Unlike some instances where she had used me, in this case I could at least raise my hips enough to encourage the participation of Mr Willy, for there is nothing so frustrating as not even being able to manage a thrust or two yourself, however minimal that may be. This time I could at least contribute to the action, and before a few seconds had elapsed we were at it like dogs in heat, and I scored a small victory in at least eliciting some muted gasps from her as she pumped up and down on my bound body.

She knew when I was on the way, for my snorting and grunting began to rise in rapidity, pitch and volume – inasmuch as it was possible while I was trying to breath and cope with the ball filling my mouth at the same time.  I felt Jill’s movements become faster in tune with mine, and finally, as the hot crescendo rose inside me, I jerked and strained with all my strength at the straps restraining me, crying out into the gag and clenching my fists against my bonds.  Moments before I exploded, spurred by the momentum we had reached, Jill uttered a drawn out cry that left me in no doubt as to her identity.  I came with the last energy I possessed, my world dissolving into stars and flashing lights in my brain as I loosed all my strength in a vain effort to free myself and embrace this woman doing such wonderful things to my body.

Then Jill was lying on top of me.  In between the blood pounding in my ears and the sound of my own nasal moans, I heard Jill’s ragged gasps close to my head where she lay against me.  It took us several minutes to recover, and in that time her fingernails played with my tender and very sensitive nipples.  I could not have taken much more of that, and fortunately I think Jill was the same way, if the breasts heaving against my chest were anything to go by.

And then it was over, and I had not even had a cuddle to mark its passing.  The warmth of the body was gone, but a brief couple of movements saw the straps undone at my right wrist and arm, and I knew our punishment was over.

*  *   *
 
 
 
 

12.10.03

story continues in Monica's Games 2.23

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