Monica's Games 2.29

by Richard Alexander (Gromets Plaza)

(story continues from Monica's Games 2.28)

Chapter Twenty Nine: Final Assault

Day Ten

Assault Course
White Team: Monica, Steven, Jill, Leila, Emma, Mary, Trish and Shawnee
Black Team: Megan, Leon, Debra, Kris, Marilyn, Elizabeth, Zara and Dianne
Points at Stake: 20
Start Score: White Team: 50 Black Team: 66

The next two days were nominally rest days, and for a change we could sit back and watch Rashid and Mohammed do their preparation.  The fact that the brothers had made their money in construction was evident in the way they worked, as they hired a small bobcat and a posthole borer and had a load of stuff delivered from the local hardware warehouse. 

All this stuff was happening over the crest of the ridge at the back of the place, so we could not see what modifications were taking place to our assault course.  Megan’s team was kept away from Bilboes all together, while our team had had the riot act read to us by Mistress Lynx.  We were forbidden to go anywhere near the place on pain of disqualification, and there was far too much at stake to risk that. 

Our time was not spent idly, however.  Mistress Lynx explained the preliminary rules of the game to us the morning after our win in the Treasure Hunt. 

“The fundamental premise is to recover hostages,” she said.  “Four school girls have been kidnapped; a team of two must rescue them, under fire.” 

“Does that mean school uniforms again?” Emma asked. 

“For four lucky girls, yes,” Mistress Lynx agreed. 

“Cool,” I said.  I got a series of frowns in response.  “What? I thought you looked really cute yesterday.” 

“All right, so you’ve got a thing about schoolgirls,” Mistress Lynx said with a vague air of disapproval.  “You’ll have four of them to rescue tomorrow.” 

“I will?” 

“Yes, you and Monica are the Swat team.  Armed and armoured.  But it will have to be a team effort.  You will have to get through the course as fast as you can, free the hostages, escape, and drop wicked Mistress Megan in a vat of slime to end the game.  Three blasts on the siren by me will then signal the end of the game.” 

“I’ll enjoy that,” Monica said. 

“Just as she’ll enjoy doing the same to you.” 

“You’ve accounted for six,” Jill said.  “There are eight of us including Shawnee.” 

“Very good, Jill.  I can see why you do the accounting. Shawnee will be involved.  I would expect she will be one of the hostages, but that will be Monica’s decision.  As I said, you will be under fire, from two of the opposition.  Similarly, when it is their turn, two of you will be acting as defenders, attacking from forts along the edge of the course.  It will be Monica’s choice as to who the two defenders are against the Black Team. 

“Defenders will be armed with paint guns and balloon bombs.  The balloon bombs will contain a number of different things.  There will be a limited volume of paint bombs.  These will incapacitate a hostage for a few minutes – think of them as stun bombs – or for such time as the Umpire – that’s me – sees fit.” 

“Only the hostages are affected?” Monica asked. 

“Correct. The Swat team will be armoured and armed.  As long as they keep their skin covered, they will be okay.  Paint on the skin will constitute a stun. You will understand your armour in due course, closer to the time.” That sounded ominous, I thought.  Anything Mistress Lynx was keeping from us had to be something to be wary of. 

“Additional to the paint bombs, there will be slime bombs, and water bombs, and anything else you may wish to try, as long as it can go in a balloon, is biodegradable and isn’t likely to cause harm if it gets on the skin.  You will need my approval for anything non-standard.  Approval which will not be unreasonably withheld, I might add,” she said with a sly smile. 

That had been the start of two days of ballooning and concocting things.  Mistress Lynx had given us ten litres of red paint and dozens of packets of balloons, and had left us to it, our limitation being only that the ten litres of paint was the limit for that.  How big our bombs were, was up to us. 

We approached our task very scientifically, at least to start with.  Monica held a throwing contest, firstly to see who was the best, and secondly to work out what sized bombs were most suitable.  I’ve always reckoned that girls can’t throw, and most can’t.  It’s the same with running – they always tend to wave their arms out to the side.  Throwing is much the same – the shoulder movement is somehow wrong.  It always comes out woosy.  There are exceptions.  Jill was pretty damned good – a legacy of women’s cricket, she said – as, it turned out, was Shawnee.  Mary was reasonable, apparently from time playing softball, but the rest were the usual girlie throwers. 

Monica was faced with the decision of who were to be the defenders.  Jill was the athletic type and was a first choice.  Shawnee might have been a second choice, but Mary threw a hissy fit and declared that there was no way in the world that she would be tarted up in a school uniform to be tied up and abused while some little slave got off scot free and had the fun of chucking stuff at the Black Team. 

That was how Jill and Mary came to be the defenders. 

We decided that the best size of projectile was about the size of a tennis ball, though we wound up with some bigger ones of the non-paint variety.  The paint was too valuable to waste, and we figured that by the time we had split the contents between two defenders and several forts along the route, it would be in a limited supply. 

After that we brainstormed the contents of the other-than-paint bombs.  Flour bombs we learned were allowed, and Trish came up with a slime recipe that was amazing stuff.  Using heaps of cornflour and green food colouring, the stuff could be moulded almost like a jelly, and as long as you kept kneading it, it was almost solid, but left in the hand, it would fall apart and ooze through the fingers. 

After two days we had built up a pile of ammunition – red balloons for the paint, green for slime, paper flour bombs, and anything else was filled with water.  The balloons were everywhere, gathered into piles as best we could without breaking them.  There were plastic crates full of them, and in the end we hired a trailer again, so that we could store them in layers and transport them easily up the ridge to the assault course.  Occasionally there were accidents, but we hoped the majority would stay together long enough to be used effectively. 

*   *   * 

Late on the afternoon of the day before the event, the attackers and defenders were accompanied to the site by Mistress Lynx and the Zubair brothers.  In our case the attackers were Monica and myself, with Megan and Leon being the Black Team’s.  The defenders for us were Mary and Jill, while we would be up against the two Americans, Kris and Marilyn. 

We walked alongside the course, noting various modifications that had been made to the original.  On each side, at various intervals, were plywood walls about a meter and a half square, each with a window in it.  These would be the ‘forts’ behind which the defenders would secret their ammunition and could shelter from return fire.  They were staggered at intervals alongside the course, which was about fifty metres across.  This meant that by following a zigzag down the course, you could theoretically keep a maximum distance from each fort, though you would still be just within range of a good arm. 

On the course itself, there appeared to be some fox holes and miscellaneous bits of pipe and pieces of ply, such that there was shelter from incoming fire. 

“Let me fill you in on some more details,” Mistress Lynx.  “Firstly, your armour.  As I have said before, the attackers will be immune to incoming fire provided they keep fully covered.  Each pair of attackers will be equipped with three gas masks – one each for them, and a third for the hostages.  Let me advise you that stink bombs mat be on the menu, so you will need them anyway, but they will also protect your faces.  They will also be hot and will limit your vision and hearing, and consequently communication. 

“There will be other little devices that may go off around the course which I shall control, and about which I shall say nothing further.  Each attacker will carry a paint ball gun plus as much ammunition as they can handle. 

“The defenders will move from fort to fort where their stores of ammunition will have been placed before the start.  There will be yellow barrier tape running along the perimeter of the course, to define how close the defenders can come to the attackers.  That tape applies to the defenders only.  The attackers may venture outside it if they wish. 

“The defenders will not be armoured at all, save for goggles to protect your eyes.  You will, however, have the forts for protection.  Each fort comes with a foxhole a short distance behind it.  Defenders will also be armed with paintball guns and similar quantities of ammunition. 

“The hostages will be secured at various points, either chained or tied or both.  You will see that there are also two tents on the way.”  Mistress Lynx pointed out the tops of two square silver structures poking up through the bushes.  “There will be a prisoner in each of these, but beware, they may be booby-trapped.  There will be some cardboard defenders which you would be advised to take out before entering.” 

Wow, this was getting serious, I thought. 

“The keys to the hostages’ locks will generally be available somewhere on the route, where required.  Where a hostage is freed but subsequently hit, she will be chained up again until I deem it time for release.  Hostages may not be disabled until they have been initially freed from whatever they are attached to, like a post, or tree or whatever. The attackers will have to transport disabled hostages as best they can, depending on the circumstances and what material is available to help them.  I must point out that defenders can be disabled in the same way, so defenders bear that in mind. 

“There will be a morning game and an afternoon game.  The non-participants in the morning game will not be allowed to watch, since this might give them a tactical advantage.  However those that have completed their game may watch the second game.  However, there will be no communication at the interval between any morning players and the afternoon players. 

“That basically covers the players.  The route will be similar to what you are used to, commencing from the shed, through the chute to the mud pool, up the bank, under the sheets, over the net frame, along and over the stream, down to the end of the property, then through a U-turn and back to the house.  The game will cease when all attackers and hostages have crossed the line and the opposing captain is dunked in the barrel of slime.  In simple terms, the fastest team to complete the course, wins.  In the case of the team attacking second, should you exceed the target time, the opposing captain may be released before you get to the finish.  Any questions?” 

“What do defenders wear, Mistress?” Jillian asked. 

“Based on directions from Mohammed and Rashid, you were to wear swimming costumes only, but we have elaborated on that.  You may wear boots, gloves and hoods, if you so wish, and of course everything must be in team colours.  These latter accessories will be nominated armour and will protect you from return fire.  Hits on your costumes and skin of course will count towards immobilising you.  Should this happen, I will halt the game and deal with you myself.  Mohammed and Rashid will be acting as linesmen, and I will be able to talk to them on the radio headsets. 

“The only thing to do now is to toss the coin to see who starts first.”  Mistress Lynx pulled a fifty-cent piece from a tiny pocket in her skirt and flipped it high.  “Call, Monica.” 

“Heads.” 

The coin landed in the dirt and we bent over it eagerly. 

“Heads it is.  What’s your decision?” 

“We attack first,” said Monica decisively. 

*   *   * 

The only problem with going first was that it meant an early start, but against that was the fact that we would be able to watch the second round of the fight – or at least some of us would.  We had had a big team talk after Mistress Lynx’ briefing, discussing tactics and roles and strategies.  By the end of that session we were fired up and nervous as hell. 

In the morning, Mistress Lynx – seemingly tireless and indefatigable – was there early to lock up Jill and Mary in one of the basement cells, for the duration of the morning.  Only Megan, Kris and Marilyn turned up for the morning session, being the captive opposition leader and the two defenders.  They had had the same idea as us, towing a trailer load of balloons with them. 

Monica and I watched as the minibus disappeared over the crest of the hill to off load their cargo, while Mohammed and Rashid led out the four hostages.  Trish, Emma, Leila and Shawnee were dressed in their school uniforms – the white tailored blouses with maroon ties and skirts, finished off with black shoes and stockings.  Emma and Shawnee, with their long hair, each had two plaits, while Trish and Leila again sported ponytails.  What made them look even sexier was the fact they all had their wrists handcuffed behind them, and were being towed along by Rashid who held a chain that was locked around the girls’ necks as they followed him in single file up to the crest of the rise and out of sight. 

“There go our hostages,” said Monica unnecessarily. “God, Steven, I’m nervous as hell.  I’ve got butterflies doing cartwheels in my stomach.  There’s so much hanging on this event.  You know that whoever wins out of Megan and myself, we get the mortgage of either the Citadel or Bilboes paid off by the losing brother?”  I was astounded.  I had had no idea Monica had negotiated such a thing. 

“But they’re both in your name, surely, after you reached the agreement with Megan in Sydney, after the Madam Wong debacle.” 

“Yes, but you have to take risks to make money.  Megan and I agreed that if I won, Bilboes would be paid off by Rashid, and if she won, the Citadel would be paid off by Mohammed, and would revert to her ownership.” 

I put my arm round her shoulders – something I was not used to doing, and probably Monica was not used to having done. 

“Look, we’re gonna cream these guys.  You and I are going to go out there and take those American girls out of play and rescue our team, and dunk Megan in the slime.  Just stay focused and get that determination of yours up.”  Monica smiled gratefully at me as Mistress Lynx and Megan appeared walking down from the crest of the hill.  Megan wore a short black skirt and blouse and sandals, and looked otherwise as though she might be off for a spot of shopping, were it not for a large pvc water tank that stood on the lawn at the base of the steps leading up to the back verandah, towards which the pair headed. 

The tank was circular, about two metres in diameter, and contained a slimy mixture of mud and green food colouring.  Across the top rested a stout plank, with a metre-long steel bar screwed at right angles across each end.  Pulling down on the bar would tilt a person seated on the plank into the goo below, which was about chest deep. 

I saw that Megan had her wrists handcuffed in front, and as they reached the tank, Mistress Lynx undid one of the cuffed wrists and attached the empty cuff to the tap protruding from the base of the tank. 

“You will wait here until I’m ready for you,” she told Megan, now obliged to sit on the grass beside the tank.  “Now you two,” she continued, coming up the steps to where we stood watching events. “Down into the sluice room, if you don’t mind.” 

The sluice room, all white tiles and chrome fittings, was as close to a changing room as we would get in Bilboes.  There was a slatted bench against the wall, and hooks for clothes, and it was here we got our first inkling of what the modern day kinky Swat team would be most likely to wear.  Mistress Lynx had two large plastic carry boxes sitting on the bench ready for us, and beneath this were two day packs. 

“Right, naked please.  Now.” 

We didn’t need a second bidding, and soon I was standing naked next to Monica, our feet on the chilly tiles and Monica’s nipples like two little switches standing out ready to be turned on. 

Mistress Lynx delved into one of the boxes and pulled out two stainless steel collars.  “These have your names on them,” she said with a sly smile.  “I believe they were presents from an admirer.”  Monica furrowed her brow in disagreement but said nothing as the older woman clicked the collar about her neck and locked it shut with a small padlock.  We had had the collars modified since they were first riveted on us at Madam Wong’s direction, and now we had bad memories of the experiences we had undergone.  I was next to feel the cold steel against my skin, and sense the lock snicking closed under my chin. 

“Now your boots,” said Mistress Lynx, hauling two pairs of black gumboots out of the box.  They were snug fitting and came up to the tops of our calves.  Whatever else happened, we were at least not being asked to storm the fortress dressed in high heels.  “And gloves,” she added, handing us two pairs of heavy-duty black latex gloves.  These came up to past our elbows, and I wondered where all this was leading. 

Her next surprises, like a magician pulling a rabbit out of a hat, were two black neoprene wet suits.  “Things are going to be very messy out there,” she said, and for once I agreed with her.  This seemed to be an eminently sensible approach - for a change. 

My favourable assessment lasted less than a minute, and first began to flag after I had struggled to pull the legs on over the boots.  I managed it, but the boots – already very snug, tightened with the constriction of the neoprene over the top. By the time I had hauled the suit up to my hips, I was convinced it was at least one size too small.  I saw that Monica, too, was struggling. 

“Having difficulty, are we, Monica?” 

“I think it’s perhaps a size too small, Mistress,” Monica said breathlessly. 

“Perhaps you’ve put on weight,” Mistress Lynx sniped.  “All right, stop there, both of you.  You obviously need some help with your armour.  Monica, over to the wall, holding on to the coat hook.”  Monica moved a few steps to the wall and raised her hands to grip the hook.  I liked the way her breasts lifted when she did that, and evidently so did Mistress Lynx for out of the magic box this time came a rubber corset that stretched from hip to underside of those self-same breasts.  Monica groaned – a soft sighing sound of resignation as the garment was hooked closed at the front and then Mistress Lynx began the process of lacing it tightly down the back. 

“Breath in, Monica, for God’s sake!” snapped the Mistress imperiously.  Monica was flushed and her breath was coming in pants as the strong arms pulled hard at the laces before eventually tying them off.  “Good, that’s much better.  Now you shouldn’t have so much problem doing up your suit.  Turn around and let me see.”  Monica turned, and even with the wetsuit hanging from her hips, she looked like an Amazon, her breasts now lifted regally and her already slender waist having lost a few inches more. 

Then it was my turn, and reluctantly I too, was subjected to the indignity of developing an hour-glass waist.  I had not been subjected to this torture since my initiation into Bilboes, where I had worn one for days at a time, and female attire on top, but that is another story.  This time it was a breathtaking experience again, and I was astonished at the strength in Mistress Lynx’s hands and arms, as she pulled the cords tight down my back. 

“There,” she finally announced.  “It does wonders for your posture.  Now let’s see if you can get these little toys in.” 

The ‘little toys’ were two chrome plugs, perhaps eight centimetres long and three in diameter, with a bullet heads and a narrow waist near the opposite ends.  Thin wires trailed from them and I did not like the look of this at all. 

The plug was cold but of a size that slid into my back passage and lodged relatively easily – if such a thing is ever ‘easy’.  When it was in place, Mistress Lynx took the wire from mine and threaded it through a hole in the wet suit in the small of my back.  At the same time she placed annular pads around my nipples, with further wires leading to the hole in the wetsuit.  If I had had any doubts up to then that we were going to have an awkward time, they were dispelled at that point. 

“You may now do up your suit,” she said.  I did as I was told, but the corset and the rubber gloves made my movements very difficult, with the gloves tightening further as I squeezed my arms through the sleeves and finally shrugged the top over my shoulders.  Mistress Lynx zipped up the front with a flourish and locked the zipper to my collar with a thin loop of wire. 

Monica was next, shrugging herself fully into the suit which counteracted the uplifting effect of the corset by producing a smooth and very provocative curve from breasts to waist to hip.  Mistress Lynx pulled out two hoods from one of the boxes and tossed them to us.  They were of heavy black latex, rather than the neoprene wetsuit material, with full face cut-outs, and it was only with some difficulty that we got them in place, not least since out hands were encapsulated in the rubber gloves.  I could see already that we were going to have trouble undoing knots, and the thought that had gone into this game was becoming evident already.  Mistress Lynx had to tidy up the fitting of our hoods, working the neck under our steel collars to give a snug overlap with the wetsuit. 

“You will both have these packs,” she said, indicating two small back packs.  She picked up one and emptied the contents on to the floor.  Two gas masks fell out, accompanied by a paintball gun wrapped in plastic and a bunch of paintball ammo magazines.  The second pack contained the same, but with some sort of bag instead of the second gas mask. 

“The third mask will be needed for at least one stretch of the course,” she said.  “The bag is a body bag, and will provide protection for a hostage, or will allow one to be dragged or carried if they are incapacitated.”  She unfolded the pvc bag and showed how it unzipped, before then rolling it up again. “There are more magazines in the boxes here, if you want them.  Now load up the packs and put them on.  I suggest you keep your guns out.” 

We did as we were told, struggling awkwardly into the harnesses of the packs.  I wound up with the two-mask pack, which was light enough, but added to my increasing feeling of restriction and awkwardness.  Mistress Lynx stood in front of me and clicked the chest strap closed that connected the two main shoulder straps.  She then locked the strap closed with a small padlock.  My awkwardness factor was raised another notch, for I realised that I couldn’t access my own pack, nor could Monica get to hers after Mistress Lynx had locked her strap closed beneath her breasts.  We would now be dependent on each other to get fresh ammo, or to retrieve articles from either pack. 

“I see you’ve worked out the implications of a single little lock,” said Mistress Lynx with an amused smile.  “I told you this would be a team event.  Now hold still while I make the connections here.  I neglected to tell you that in the bottom of each pack is a receiver that I am connecting to those wires inside your suit.  Nothing new for you, I’m sure, but it might just surprise you when it happens.”  I felt her fiddling around behind my pack, tugging at the wires that ran down between my buttocks and up to my nipples. 

She emerged into my field of vision with a small screwdriver in hand, and I watched her then screw the terminals of Monica’s wires to a pair of wires protruding from a hole in the bottom of the pack. 

“There!  My, don’t you two look lean and mean!  Just like a couple of navy seals.  Let’s go and see how the others are doing.” 

We followed her out into the corridor and through the basement exit door, feeling unwieldy and stiff in our close-fitting suits.  I certainly did not feel lean and mean.  I felt tightly constricted and uncomfortable.  What was more, I was starting to get a unexplained, rather warm feeling around the buttock area. 

It was now gone eight o’clock, I reckoned, with the day turning into a cloudless into a cloudless sunny one, ideal for running around in rubber suits and rescuing hostages, or getting your arse shot off, as the case may be.  On the other hand, it was nice for sitting around doing nothing, which was what Megan was now heavily involved in, seated as she was the plank above the tank of green mud. 

“Fancy a mud facial?”  Monica called.  Megan poked out her tongue in our general direction.  She couldn’t catch our eyes because of the black bandana that had been used to blindfold her.  She sat at right angles on the plank, her ankles bound and her sandalled feet dangling inches above the mud.  Her wrists had been also tied in front of her, with the tail of the cinch rope tied to an anchor point at the top of the tank wall in front of her.  Her wrists were resting on her knees, and it was apparent that any attempt to try to remove the blindfold or even scratch her chin would probably be enough to topple her off the plank. 

“Mud bath, you mean,” I rejoined.  Megan stuck her nose in the air and tried to ignore us.  Truth was, she looked far more comfortable than we were. 

We followed Mistress Lynx up to the crest of the hill and to the little tin shed half buried in the hillside.  From the inside of this led a tunnel of sorts made with inverted U-shaped concrete drainage units, that allowed an escape of sorts, albeit straight out the back and down into the big mud pool.  From there on we would have to fight our way out.  Mistress Lynx seated us on the dirt floor and pulled out a pair of handcuffs, locking my left wrist to Monica’s right. 

“I’ll slip the key under the door when it’s time to go.  That way we won’t have you jumping the gun. Good luck.”  Then the door slid shut and there was the sound of a padlock going through the hasp and staple on the outside. 

We sat in silence for a minute. 

“Well, another fine mess you’ve got us into,” I said with an attempt at cheerfulness.  In the darkness inside the shed I could sense Monica’s reluctant smile but also her nervousness. 

“I don’t know about you,” she said, but I’m getting a really uncomfortable feeling on my arse.  I think Mistress Lynx has done the dirty with some Finalgon.” 

“Yeah, me too.  Bum cheeks and inner thighs – she must have smeared the stuff on the inside of the wetsuits, but of course we couldn’t detect it with our gloves on.  It’s starting to feel like a bad case of sunburn.” 

“And it’ll get worse before it gets better.  She always seems to be one step ahead, dammit.  It is so irritating.” 

“Which is why we have to do some forward planning.  We need to anticipate better.” 

“Like what?” 

“Well, just think about what happens when we get out of here.  We go down the chute, right?” 

“Uh-huh.  Into the mud pool.” 

“We’ll have to go down feet first, on our stomachs, otherwise we’ll get hooked up on our backpacks.” 

“And we should keep things clear of the mud, like our masks.  I’m sure they won’t work if they’re covered in mud.” 

“Now you’re thinking properly.”  I squeezed her hand.  “We’ll beat the system yet.” 

*   *   * 

We must have been in there for half an hour.  It grew steadily warmer, and we were sweating in our wetsuits and rubber gear.  We identified the problems we would have with mud and with the rubber gloves hampering our fingers.  We mentally went through the course as we knew it before Mohammed and Rashid had gone to work on it, working out how we would communicate and how we would overcome known obstacles.  We fed off each other’s thoughts, and the synergy grew, though somewhat hampered by the burning now well underway in our buttocks and thighs.  We were forced to kneel, rather than sit, to take the extra pressure of our butts, which heated things up even further. 

Finally there was a bang on the door and something dropped through the thin slit at the edge which gave us the miniscule light inside.  We scrabbled about and found the key, but had great difficulty in picking it up from the flat ground.  Eventually Monica succeeded and unlocked the handcuffs, stowing them in my pack.  We had decided that we would keep an eye out for anything that conceivably be useful, just like those computer games where the hero undertakes a quest.  Unfortunately we did not expect to find cloaks of invisibility or magic swords along the way.  As it was, our packs were stuffed with paintball ammunition and our masks, and we would need to stick together to access the stuff when we needed to. 

I led the way, backing into the tunnel that was the exit from the shed.  It began through a series of inverted concrete sections, with the clearance one would find under a desk.  This part was okay, until it narrowed and became a series of downward-sloping sheet metal ducts.  At this point I could no longer go on all fours but was obliged to worm my way backwards.  It was pitch dark and not a little claustrophobic, and the tightness of the suit and corset was hampering me.  I could hear and sense Monica scrabbling down the tunnel just above me. 

At last the gradient reached the point where gravity began to take hold, and I could let myself slide gradually down.  The neoprene was quite smooth against the metal duct, however, and I lost my grip just near the bottom, exiting in a splash of slushy mud that saw my head momentarily go under as I staggered on the slippery bottom. 

The muddy water was only chest deep on me and I had only just moved away from under the outlet when there was a cry and a huge splash next to me as Monica touched down and surfaced, spluttering and gasping.  It took us a moment to both collect our senses, and I was conscious of the fact that we were in the open without our masks, but nothing seemed to have happened.  I felt like the Anzacs landing at Gallipoli, expecting any minute for a rain of missiles to drop down from the surrounding banks. We had expected to emerge into a hail of balloons and water bombs, but the place was eerily silent.  It gave us at least the time to wipe the mud from our faces and take in our surroundings. 

The mud hole was steep-sided, the only way out being up a difficult ramp opposite the chute.  I say difficult because it was both steep and from the look of it, freshly watered to make it slippery as hell.  To the left of the base of the ramp was a small area that might almost have qualified as a muddy beach.  Here we saw our first hostage – Emma. 

A heavy pole about two metres high had been concreted into the ground.  Halfway up it a short section of the same timber had been fixed horizontally, and Emma had been seated straddling this. Her wrists were cuffed together and had been pulled over her head with a rope that led to the top of the pole, where it was tied to a bolt.  Multiple ropes had been then used to tie Emma’s arms and torso to the pole, passing above and below her breasts and then being cinched between them.  Emma’s white blouse was stained with muddy hand prints, and it was evident that the brothers had had fun with her while tying her in place.  The ropes created a provocative bulge of her breasts under the taut material of her blouse, and her nipples had obviously been too much of a temptation, for two steel clips were projecting jauntily from where they had been fastened through the blouse. 

Her feet were drawn up under the short skirt and I suspected they were connected with a short hobble chain passing over the horizontal timber on which she was seated. 

Emma had a red ball gag strapped in her mouth and was looking wide-eyed at us.  In the still morning air we could hear a faint whimpering, possibly from the pain of the clips, until she managed to incline her head and we followed her gaze. There, suspended from the bough of a great gum tree, almost directly overhead and some ten metres above us, Leila rotated slowly, suspended from a rope. 

“Oh shit,” Monica breathed, and we both felt that the ambush was being set, and wondered what we were not seeing. 

Poor Leila had been cuffed at wrist and ankles, and it looked as though all four cuff connections had been hooked over a large D-ring which was tied to the end of the suspending rope.  Leila was facing upwards, her wrists and ankles pulled together in front of her.  We could see she had some sort of head harness on, the black of the straps standing out against the blonde pigtails, and this harness also seemed to be attached to the D-ring by a rope that supported her head and stopped it lolling backwards. 

That was when we first saw activity from the defenders, as a black leather hood appeared over to our left, beyond the top of the bank.  It was a fair distance away, and possibly out of range.  But the first incoming fire came from the right, from somewhere we couldn’t see, in the form of a water bomb that splashed down about five metres away.  I looked at the hooded figure and saw it signalling to the other unseen defender, and a further bomb splashed down a little nearer. 

“Cunning,” I said to Monica.  “We’re only in range of the one on the right, but she can’t actually see us because of the overhang of the bank.  They’re range finding with water bombs.” 

“Time for the masks, and time to get into action!” 

We quickly pulled a mask each out of the other’s mud-soaked pack and pulled them on.  If we thought things had been difficult up until then, they just got doubly so, for with the straps tight and the limited vision offered through the mask, our senses were dulled even further.  Everything smelt of musky rubber, and with an inner seal around my nose, cheeks and chin, the harsh breathing through the valve and filter was something I would have to deal with as well. 

“I always said you look cute in rubber,” I told Monica, by way of discovering how effectively we could communicate.  Clearly I communicated adequately since she thumped me on the arm.  We pulled out our paint ball guns and waded for the shore like a miniature version of the D-day landings. 

“I think we should split up, “ Monica said quickly.  “I’ll get Emma free while you take care of poor Leila – she looks very unhappy.  Signal if you need me.” 

Monica moved left, wading out of the mud pool to where Emma was straddled and bound to the post, while I began to make my way gingerly up the steep slippery ramp.  It was a defile of sorts, high walls and a narrow path.  I was expecting at any moment to see the masked defenders standing on either side, but I remembered the barrier tape that defined how close they could come to us. 

But that, of course, didn’t stop them lobbing a few blind shots in the direction of the ramp, as I found out as a water bomb burst a few metres ahead of me.  I was out of sight, so they were firing blind, but they knew I was in here somewhere.  I pushed on, like a first time skater on ice, and when a pair of bombs landed right next to me I slipped, and slid on my face halfway back again.  This was indeed serious, and if we ended up having to drag Emma up for any reason, we could be in real trouble. 

I struggled up the slope again – the original slippery slope, it seemed – trying to ignore the water bombs that continued dropping in random fashion.  This time I made it to the top and gratefully crawled on to the grass.  I stuck my head up and looked around, spotting Rashid and Mohammed on opposite sides of the course, watching the unfolding of events with obvious interest. 

Another bomb landed very close and I looked up to see the blonde girl, Kris, appear from behind one of the plywood forts about thirty metres away.  I knew it was her, for the long straw-coloured hair hung down from under the black leather hood.  She wore a black one piece swimsuit and leather gloves and knee length boots, intended to make the best of the limited protection allowed.  It wasn’t going to stand up to my paintballs, however, and I went for her, gun blazing. 

Kris saw me coming and realised she was in trouble, and turned to retreat beyond the fort, presumably to the dugout beyond.  That was when I caught her with a couple of paintballs on the back of her thighs.  I figured at that point I was going to finish her off for good, or at least make sure she was out of the action for a while.  Two things happened simultaneously at that point.  Firstly, there was a loud siren-like noise and the stocky figure of Mistress Lynx in a bright yellow raincoat and matching boots emerged from behind a bush with a hand-held air horn powered by an aerosol can.  Secondly, while Kris and I continued on our escape and pursuit, I suddenly felt a sharp tingling in my nipples as I neared the yellow barrier tape – a tingling which turned to a pain and brought me abruptly to a halt and then put me quickly in reverse. 

I sat down a few metres away, out of range of the cable I now knew was buried under the tape.  The devious old bitch had anticipated this whole thing, and we now knew that frontal attack on Kris and Marilyn would only have a limited effect.  Mistress Lynx was hastening over to Kris and slapped a pair of steel manacles around her booted ankles, then gave her a gentle push that sent her sprawling as she found her feet did not do what she intended. 

“Five minutes!” shouted the yellow coat and the horn shrieked again, which I took to be the resumption signal. 

I did a U-turn around to the right, heading around the edge of the bank above the mud pool, towards the big gum tree over whose bough poor Leila was suspended.  She was still perhaps five metres above the ground, although hanging way out over the mud pool.  The rope supporting her was tied with several turns around a lower branch.  As I neared the gum tree I started to feel the tingling in my nipples again, and saw that the yellow tape passed just on the other side of the tree trunk, which was in turn close to the edge of the bank above the pool. 

As I neared the tree I could see Monica struggling with the ropes on Emma, and she didn’t seem to be making much progress.  She appeared to be out of sight of the opposite defender, Marilyn, whom I could see from my position.  She was tossing water bombs haphazardly over the edge from her fort behind the yellow tape, but they were mostly going wide.  Monica looked up and saw me, and I signalled for her to get back in the pool, for the only way we could free Leila was to lower her into the muddy water. 

Leila turned her head as best she could within the head harness that was attached to the big D-ring.  She looked very uncomfortable, hanging with her hands and feet essentially bound together, high in the air.  The maroon skirt had slipped down her thighs and exposed a black suspender belt holding up her stockings.  I thought it a shame that the school I went to never let the girls dress like that. 

I was sure she was scared, and I couldn’t blame her.  I pulled my mask off and smiled reassuringly at her, knowing that I had only a limited time until Kris was released and the bombs began again, and also in terms of how much pain I could stand in my nips as I approached the tree trunk. 

I was making ow-ing noises under my breath as I reached the tree and began work on undoing the knots.  They were complicated and my hands being trapped in the rubber gloves did nothing to help matters.  All the while the wretched pads buzzed and tingled around my nipples in a most distracting and painful way.  I shot a glance over to Leila, who was watching me from her semi-inverted position in a most apprehensive way, and I could hear little mewing sounds coming from her.  Monica was now in the middle of the pool again, and I checked the defenders area in time to see Mistress Lynx undoing the manacles on Kris’s ankles.  I had time to pull the mask back in place before recommencing on the knots. 

The first incoming water bomb hit me just as I got the knots undone.  It was followed by a flour bomb and everything began to get very difficult.  I’ll say that for Kris – she had a good arm, and for me to admit that is high praise.  She could get very close to me here, but she was wary of the gun.  By the same token, she could not affect me with any of her armoury, other than make things bloody difficult for me.  I needed both hands to hold on to the rope that lowered Leila, and could not return fire.  Kris began to get more confident and came closer, hitting me repeatedly with all sorts of stuff.  I think she realised that while she could not disable me, she could possibly blind me with a mix of flour, water and paint if it got on my mask, and it was starting to. 

The rope holding Leila was wrapped three times around a low branch, and it was this sensible piece of tying that enabled me to control Leila’s descent to the mud pool.  I turned my back on Kris to shield my face from the barrage and watched as Leila finally reached the water level and slowly sank into it, the brown muddy water soaking into her skirt and blouse.  Monica supported her as the suspending rope became slacker and she was able to finally unhook Leila’s ankles from the D-ring.  Leila sank down in the water uttering high-pitched gagged squeals as the cold water closed over her breasts.  Monica quickly unhooked Leila’s wrists and the cord from the head harness and then began to haul Leila back to the bank. 

I wasted no time in reeling in the rope and slinging the coil over my shoulder, for I was sure we would need it to get up the ramp.  At the same time I slid my gun off my shoulder and waited until Kris appeared next time with her hands full of balloons that she had been carrying from the nearby fort.  This time I caught her by surprise and splattered her swimsuit with half a dozen shots, the white paint blossoming on the black lycra material.  Immediately there was the shriek of the siren, and Mistress Lynx was scurrying into action.  This time – perhaps in recognition of the severity of the injury, two lots of manacles appeared from the deep pockets of the yellow raincoat, and Kris lay locked in a rather painful steel hogtie, her handcuffed wrists locked through the linking chain of her manacled ankles. 

“Five minutes!”  Shriek! went the siren.  I thought it was at least worth ten, but I wasn’t going to argue with the Yellow Mistress – not unless I wanted a taste of steel restraint myself, and I reckoned I had quite enough to deal with at that moment. 

I hurried back to the top of the ramp and slid the full length on my arse.  That was actually quite fun, and I figured maybe one hot day we’d all participate.  I wooshed to a stop in the pool itself and splashed my mask clear of as much of the crap that had landed on it as I could.  This made it blurry but it was the best I could do. 

We were out of sight of Marilyn and while Kris was still hogtied, Monica and I could remove our masks briefly. 

“Leila’s wrists are still chained,” Monica said, ”and so are Emma’s – and her ankles.  I can’t get her off the damned pole.  I think she’s sitting on a plug.” 

“Can’t she tell you?” 

“That’s another thing – both gags are locked on, and there’s no sign of the keys.” 

“Oh bollocks.  This is going to be fun.  That ramp’s like a skating rink.” 

“First things first – help me with Emma.” 

Emma the schoolgirl was sitting astride the short cantilevered pole, and I could see her cuffed wrists were locked together in front of her now.  The horizontal pole stopped just forward of her crotch, so she had nothing to rest her hands on to lever herself upwards.  She looked at me wide-eyed and frustrated. 

She was seated at slightly greater than waist height, so I stood with my back to her and lifted her cuffed wrists over my head in a kind of piggy back.  Monica moved behind me to lift Emma’s feet clear and to guide us. 

“Okay – Emma, pull yourself upwards – I’ll help you.”  Emma’s arms tightened about my neck and I felt the pleasurable press of her breasts into my back.  Emma made panting ‘uh-uh-uh’ sounds in my ear as she strained to lift herself. 

“Oh yes – nice big plug – here it comes!” said Monica, as though watching the birth of a live animal.  “You can do it Em – there!”  Emma uttered a long drawn out sigh, probably matching the long drawn out plug, while Monica lifted her hobbled ankles off the bar.  Slowly I squatted – another thing I found difficult in the corset – and let Emma’s feet touch the ground. 

“Erngk –oo,” she gurgled around the ball in her mouth.  I removed her arms from around my neck and considered our predicament.  I caught a glimpse of a yellow figure at the top of the bank near the big tree and guessed it was almost time for Kris to be released.  Emma stood beside us, her white blouse straining against her figure, with a number of muddy hand prints in an artistic arrangement around her breasts.  This had been overlain with a wet muddy concoction from the back of my suit, which included flour and slime from some of the stuff I had been hit with by Kris. 

Leila was standing in the sun nearby, shivering.  Her uniform was saturated with brown mud, with her skirt clinging to her black nyloned legs, and her blouse plastered to her breasts.  At least she had her ankles free, though the ball strapped in her mouth as part of the head harness was still locked in place and the leather cuffs on her wrists were still connected. 

“I think we’ll have to haul Emma up in the body bag, though we may get Leila up between us if we all three go at once,” I said. Monica nodded. “We ought to prepare Emma now, hook her up to the rope and then the rest of us go up.  I think there’s a shelter not too far from the top where we can stash Leila.” 

Nobody seemed to object to this plan, so we hauled out the body bag and zipped Emma into it, leaving a small opening for her to breathe. 

“It’s all right for some,” Monica said. “They get to lie around while other do all the work.” 

“Hear that?” I asked, nudging the bag with my foot. 

“Urrgh,” came a muffled voice from the bag. 

I tied the end of my coil of rope to an eyelet on a corner of the bag and the three of us set off up the slope, with Monica and I once again in full battle gear, our faces fully covered.  Around half way up the incoming started, primarily water bombs, since the defenders couldn’t see us and were again firing blind.  We struggled to stay upright, and though Leila fell over once we managed to hold her up and make the top.  At that stage it was a different story, since we were in the open and were exposed on both flanks.  We picked out a temporary refuge – a piece of the plastic pipe the paintball players had been subjected to – and hustled Leila through the long grass, finally thrusting her into the pipe as we shielded her with our own bodies.  Paint bombs were amongst the missiles now, and both Monica and I got a little bloodied, but fortunately Leila was inside the pipe. 

“Let’s take them out!” fumed Monica as a water bomb caught her squarely on the back of the head. 

“No, not yet,” I said.  “We’re not vulnerable at the moment.  Wait till Emma and Leila have to cross open ground, then we’ll bottle them up.” 

Monica saw the logic and we hurried back to pull Emma up the slope.  It took a lot of heaving and sliding but once we got her going, she slid up on a film of mud without too much drama.  We decided it would be just as easy to then drag her the rest of the way to the pipe where Leila was lying.  I took this opportunity to look around. 

Ahead of us a line of coiled barbed wire cut across our path from each side, directing us into a narrow gap in the middle, which was largely blocked by a two metre square block wall with a small doorway in the middle at the base.  Beyond this – if things hadn’t changed too much – was a heavy polythene sheet, underneath which we would have to crawl to get to a heavy cargo net, and we would have to then climb up over a frame, sandwiched between two nets.  This was going to be fun if we couldn’t get Leila and Emma’s wrists free. 

We did a quick scout of the area and found no keys, then returned to our hostages. We elected to take Emma first, leaving Leila in the safety of the pipe while hauling the body bag over to the wall, where a flurry of bombs splattered around us.  Here, too, Mistress Raincoat appeared, keeping a close eye out for injuries, but not so close that she was in the firing line. 

The system was slightly different from before in that now there were two polythene sheets – an upper and a lower one.  Whereas before we had been crawling on the ground, now the lower sheet – with its leading edge buried – was the floor, and we would have to wriggle between the two. 

I was through the opening and under the sheet and was helping to slide Emma through the door when I noticed the first wisps of what looked like white smoke seeping out between the black polythene sheets.  I raised my mask momentarily and caught a whiff, and immediately recognised a termite bomb.  Somebody had activated the thing under the sheet.  Maybe it had been the defenders, or maybe it had been booby trapped such that I set the thing off.  Whatever the cause, it made me backtrack hurriedly, and I dragged the third mask from Monica’s pack, undoing Emma’s bag and helping her get the thing on over the gag still strapped in her mouth.  She mmphed and complained but realised the necessity for it when she caught a breath of the evil smelling smoke.  I hoped she wouldn’t cough and choke on the ball. 

That done, Monica joined me and we bumped and crawled sweatily through the darkness under the sheet, towing poor Emma by the corner of the body bag.  We discovered in the close confines of under the plastic sheet that somebody had squirted oil or something similar between the plastic sheets.  While this made it easy to slide Emma’s bag across, it made it near impossible to get a purchase, and I found myself floundering about like a turtle on ice.  Eventually I managed to scramble through while trailing the rope behind me, and pulled Emma through from the far end, where I popped up between the two cargo nets. 

Monica appeared beside me, her black wetsuit now slick with mud and oil.  We undid Emma sufficiently to get the mask off her, then zipped her up again, as missiles began to burst over us as the balloons and flour bombs hit the cargo net, fragmenting in a spray of liquid and debris.  They were coming from two forts forward of the line of barbed wire, which meant the only way we could get at them was to get over the nets ourselves, first.  This was going to get really hard, I figured, conscious of Mistress Yellowcoat lurking just on the other side of the nets.  One slip here and somebody would end up handcuffed to the net as a sitting target.  It was only then that I noticed the ring of keys tied with pink cotton to the net. 

I pulled them free and waved them at Monica, before unzipping the body bag enough to hand them to Emma.  Monica crawled beside me. 

“We’ll have to go back for Leila,” I said, butting my mask up against hers to make communication a little better.  “We need to get both girls free – at least their ankles, anyway – if we’re going to get them over the net.  And we need to take out those two defenders while they do it.” 

Monica looked around as another flour bomb smacked into the net, showering us with its contents in a fine haze.  The place was becoming more like a real battlefield every minute. 

“We can only get at those forts from the other side of this net – from the open ground.  Which means the girls will have to make it over by themselves.  I’ll keep Emma protected until you get back.” 

“No, I’ll need you as extra protection for Leila – there’s too much open ground.” 

I dived under the plastic sheets again, squirming my way through the darkness towing the mask and rope with me, sensing Monica hard on me heels.  The going was really hard, and I could feel the tightness of the corset draining my strength as I fought against the restricting tightness and limited breathing. 

Leila was still in the pipe where we had left her.  We could see the blonde hair and black leather of the head harness and gag beyond the cuffed wrists just inside the top of the pipe, as she lay in a diving position. She did not look up as Monica and I squatted down beside the pipe opening, but she was squirming and grunting into the gag strapped between her teeth.  Monica raised her mask and squatted down beside the pipe. 

“Leila!  Stop it, you little slut!”  She looked at me in frustration.  “You know they’ve locked a vibrator inside her?  No doubt she couldn’t quite get it off while she was hanging up in the tree, but the moment she has a few minutes to lie down quietly, she’s away!” 

Leila opened her eyes and looked at us seemingly only half-comprehending what was going on.  With her arms outstretched in front of her, she couldn’t  get them down to where she was obviously experiencing rather extreme sensations, and was reduced in consequence to trying to grind her pelvis into the pipe, and to do so without bending her legs or being able to thrust with her feet on the smooth pipe wall.  I imagined it to be quite a frustrating experience.  Monica was furious. 

“Leila – in a minute we are going to haul you out of there and run for that hole in the wall.  If you screw up I’ll make your arse so sore you’ll think Mistress Lynx is the gentlest being on the planet .  Do you understand?” 

“Urgh,” Leila groaned, without stopping her squirming.  Monica took the gas mask and pulled it over the top of Leila’s head harness, tightening the straps a little more than necessary, I thought, before looping the rope through the lock linking the bound girl’s cuffs. 

“When I count to three, you will come out of that pipe like a cork and run with us to the wall,” Monica ordered, pulling her mask into place.  “One, two…three!” 

We dragged Leila out of the pipe in a single movement and sandwiched her between us as we sprinted for the hole in the wall.  I suppose we must have looked quite a sight, two figures in black rubber suits and masks gripping the arms of a blonde school girl whose pigtails poked out through the straps of a gas mask.  As we ran a trail of bombs splattered in our wake, and I heard Leila’s protests go up a notch as obviously the stimulation between her legs rose to a peak.  When we thrust her through the hole and under the polythene, she simply curled up in a foetal position and thrust her cuffed hands down into her crotch. 

Monica went straight after her, pushing and slapping the younger girl and forcing her to squirm through the confines of the plastic sheets.  I was close behind Monica and we emerged together, leaving Leila just under the edge of the plastic, clear of any bursting balloons.  She returned to her foetal position and shuddered, tensing and squeezing her thighs together, and uttering a muffled wail of ecstasy that was all but stifled by the ball and the mask. 

“She’s enjoying herself so much I think I’ll make her wear the headgear for a day,” Monica grumbled to me. “Now how the hell are we going to get these two over the net without getting creamed?” 

“We’ll have to get over ourselves, keep the opposition pinned down and let these two fend for themselves, I guess,” I suggested, as a water bomb sprayed us.  “Emma?  Have you made any progress?” 

“Flurgh!” said the voice from the body bag, and a pair of hands appeared momentarily.  We unzipped the bag and slid Emma under the edge of the polythene sheet next to Leila, where she could better access her ankles safe from the barrage.  The termite bomb seemed to have exhausted itself and Emma could breathe relatively freely without the mask. 

“Right, you two,” Monica ordered brusquely.  “Steven and I are going over the net, which will take us a couple of minutes.  We will then try to take out the defenders – or at least keep them occupied long enough for you to get over the net and into whatever shelter you can find on the other side.  It looks like there are some structures that you can hide in. If we can pin the Black Team down long enough, you may be able to go right down the course.  There should be no reason we can’t keep popping them once they’ve been secured the first time. 

“And remember – every minute counts, so I want to see some serious effort put in here.  When you run, go hard!  When you climb, think monkey!  Your ankles are priority, Emma, then Leila’s wrists.  If you have time to get your gags out, well then good, but you are not to linger when you get the word to go.  Understand?” 

“Erph,” said Emma. 

“Urrgh,” said Leila, but she was still only half with us. 

“And if you dally any further playing with yourself, Leila McKinnon, I will sit you on a fucking machine for a whole morning until you have cried yourself hoarse and your pussy feels like its on fire.  Am I clear?” 

‘Urrmmph,” Leila moaned unhappily as Monica roughly removed the gas mask and handed it to me to stuff in her back pack.  We had no idea if we would need it again. 

“Lets go,” I said pulling Monica away from a further berating of her hapless underlings. 

We climbed the net with great difficulty, having to help each other untangle our packs and masks and guns.  It was seriously hard and hot work in the warm morning sun, and the tightness of the corsets left us gasping by the time we reached the top and wormed our way over the bar sandwiched between the two nets.  None of this was made easier by the stuff landing on us, which now seemed to be predominantly flour bombs.  I figured that Kris and Marilyn had decided that trying to hit our two escapees in their position under the edge of the polythene and beneath the netting was too hard, and knowing they could not harm us in our armour, they were just going to make things as difficult as they could.  The flour bombs saw us having to move in a cloud of dust.  It was like smoke, and was both distracting and physically difficult as the stuff became a mess where it mixed with water from the other missiles.  I had been partly conscious of the plug in my arse up to that point.  Now, lifting my legs upward and straining my muscles, I felt it move around more, and I felt vulnerable because of it.  It was there for a reason, but I didn’t know what that was.  No doubt Mistress Lynx would unveil her plan in the fullness of time. 

Monica and I hit the ground together, exiting from the clutches of the cargo nets into an area of low bushes and long grass.  Monica went left and I went right, once again hunting down Kris. 

She was hiding behind the plywood fort cut-out, hurling missiles at me for all she was worth.  I charged her and had only taken a few steps when something caught my ankles and a spray of red paint erupted from just in front of me.  Bloody hell, I thought.  Somebody had put trip wires out!  I looked around briefly and found the remains of a balloon by the base of a small shrub, in a mess of red paint.  Beside it was a rat trap fixed to the ground, and it was evident that some sort of spike had been fixed to it, that had burst the balloon when I had activated the trap with the trip wire.  Mistress Lynx was becoming more devious, and the thought of what might lie in wait for Leila and Emma was suddenly uppermost in my mind. 

I wasted no time on worrying about this, however, as another flour bomb smacked into my leg.  This kid was a good shot – for a girl, that is.  But she saw me coming again and hesitated an instant.  I was conscious of Rashid watching closely from beyond the yellow barrier tape that marked the edge of the course, and I glimpsed Mistress Lynx hovering nearby as well. 

Kris’s black leather hood popped up in the window of the fort as I ran at it, and I loosed off a burst from the paint gun.  The white paint balls popped against the plywood and some splattered over the black leather, but that didn’t count, of course.  But it put the wind up Kris and she decided that discretion was the better part of valour, turning and high-tailing for the dugout behind the fort.  By the time I felt my nipples starting to tingle painfully I was almost at the tape, and past the plywood I could see the hooded head peering at me from the foxhole some twenty metres away.  I took a few shots at her, but they were not accurate at that range. 

Behind me, there was a blast on Mohammed’s air horn, as Monica scored a hit on Marilyn.  I saw the black rubber-suited figure standing near the fort on the opposite side, with the yellow raincoat hurrying across to deal to the wounded defender.  Moments later there was a cry of “five minutes” from Mistress Lynx and Monica waved her arms at the two faces just visible under the cargo nets and plastic sheeting. 

Emma emerged first.  I was pleased to see she had found the key to her ankle cuffs, but the ball gag was still locked in her mouth.  She tackled the nets spiritedly, her long plaits swaying as she hauled herself upwards.  Leila was right behind her, and she too had not managed to find the key to her head harness, though her wrists were now uncuffed.  They could have been two schoolgirls in the playground, simply having fun and showing off.  True, they were both well developed girls for such an innocent activity, and the balls wedged between their jaws tended to make the scene somewhat more bizarre, but there was an element of cuteness about it as well, although I’m sure neither Leila nor Emma would have taken kindly to that description. 

I wondered how far they would get, and how long Monica and I could hold off the defending forces.  Monica was in the position that the moment Marilyn was uncuffed, she could be shot again by Monica.  It was a situation that could theoretically go on indefinitely, giving Leila and Emma time to make their way down the course.  I just wished I had managed to nail Kris as well, but at least I was keeping her in check. 

I returned my gaze to Kris, and saw her looking as if to make a dash out of the fox hole, possibly down the boundary to the next fort.  I fired and missed again, but she retreated back into the hole.  That’s when I heard the siren, and saw Mistress Lynx hurrying to where Leila had evidently run into trouble.  I groaned under my mask.  Now we were really in the poo.  Monica and I had reached a sort of Mexican stand-off with Kris and Marilyn.  Mistress Lynx was bending over Leila who lay on the ground.  Then, having attended to her, she called “Five minutes!” and there was another blast on the horn. 

I gestured for Monica to go and help Leila and Emma, while I stood guard over Kris.  It was the only choice we had at that moment.  As soon as Marilyn got free we would be under fire again.  I watched the progress of Monica and the other two, while trying also to keep Kris pinned down.  Every so often the black leather hood would appear above the top of the fox hole and I would shoot at it.  Then Monica was at my side, her gas mask pushed up on her head.  She looked hot and flustered and a bead of perspiration ran down her cheek. 

“Leila’s got her legs taped up!  They’ve booby trapped the place with trip wires! She’s too heavy for me, and I don’t want Emma caught in the open trying to help. Can you manage Leila on your own if I take over here?” 

I left her and raced over to where Leila was lying on the ground.  I saw that her right ankle had been taped over her left knee in a most awkward position with many turns of duct tape, and her hands had now been cuffed together again and chained around her neck. Her black stockings were smeared with red paint where the balloon booby trap had exploded against her legs.  Emma was a short way off, picking her way carefully forward towards a section of large diameter concrete pipe lying on its side that obviously offered some sort of safe haven. 

I pushed my own gas mask up so I could see properly, since the clear section was now smeared with flour and paint.  Getting hit on the head with a missile was a chance I would have to take.  I picked up Leila in my arms and gave her a reassuring smile.  Her cuffed hands were tugging futilely at the chain around her neck, trying to reach the vibrator between her legs. 

“Still going, huh?” I asked sympathetically. 

“Uh-huh,” she said plaintively, her eyes wide under the complicated straps of the head harness. I hefted her a couple of times gently, just for the hell of it, and she grunted and squealed softly in protest, then I set off carefully through the long grass, looking for concealed wires and any other traps.  I could see the route that Emma had followed and hoped she would see things better than I did. 

Over to my right came a popping that suggested Monica was keeping Kris’s head down, while up ahead Emma was squatting beside a concrete pipe section that was big enough for two people to crouch in. 

“What’s up Em?” I asked, puzzled as to why she wasn’t taking cover. 

“Urh oon!” she said around the ball in her mouth, pointing inside the pipe.  Sure enough, a big red balloon was hanging inside, secured with wire through a small hole.  It was blown up far larger than  a normal paint bomb, but since it did not have to be thrown, this was obviously designed to make a greater splatter effect.  I looked around and spotted Mistress Lynx trotting along nearby.  She was certainly getting her exercise.  She signalled to Mohammed on the left flank and I knew he would then be unlocking Marilyn’s restraints to resume the attack on us. 

I deposited Leila on the ground beside the pipe but clear of the opening, and broke a branch from a small tree nearby, before pulling down my mask and poking the pointed stick at the balloon.  It burst with a bang, spraying red paint about the inside of the pipe.  I wiped the vision plate of my mask as best I could and looked queryingly at Mistress Lynx, while indicating if it was okay for Leila and Emma to go inside.  The yellow coated figure nodded, but I could only feed Leila in backwards, because of the way her ankle was bound. 

With these two safely stowed, I stood up to see what had happened to Monica.  She was running towards us, occasionally stumbling in a spray of red mist, pursued by a flurry of missiles from the fort she had just left.  She was out of breath when she halted, her breasts heaving and stretching the neoprene of the wetsuit. 

With both Emma and Leila out of harm’s way, Monica and I scouted ahead to check out the low rise that led down to the stream beyond.  Just near the rise I started to feel a tingle in my nipples again, and I realised that a cable had been buried right across our tracks, just over the ridge.  Ahead there were several big trees on either side of the stream, with a rope swing that I had built at one stage on a hot afternoon when we had been messing about in the water in a most undignified manner.  I now saw that the swing had been lengthened and was tethered to the other side. 

“There’s no way I’m going to try and cross that cable,” I said.  “Even three metres away it feels like your nips are on fire.”  Monica nodded in glum agreement as a balloon thudded down nearby.  “They obviously want the girls to get across - or at least one of them - and swing the rope back to us.” 

The only way the girls were going to get across was the dreaded pole which spanned the stream at the bottom of the gully. 

“Have you noticed that the boundaries and the forts are further back from the stream here?  Monica said.  “I don’t think they’re in line of sight of the pole, which means anyone on the pole would only have a random chance of being hit.” 

“I reckon you’re right,” I said, after a moment’s consideration.  “Which means… we have to rush Emma up here and over the top to get over on the pole and swing the rope back to us, by which time Leila’s five minutes should be up.” 

That was the plan, anyway.  Talk about winging it.  Monica told Emma what was going to happen and we prepared her as best we could, then rushed up the slope as a threesome, while Leila still grunted and squirmed in frustration inside the pipe.  It was a bit like the Battle of the Somme – over the top and all that.  In this case Monica and I went with her as far as we could, then stopped to let her make the last ten metres or so metres down the slope to the stream.  She was in full view at this point and that was where the balloon full of paint caught her on the shoulder. 

She took a further step or two before the siren sounded, and Emma was forced face down on to the muddy slope, with Mistress Lynx on top of her, cuffing left wrist behind her to right ankle and vice versa. 

“Bollocks!” I said. 

“Five minutes must be up for Leila!” Monica shouted to Mistress Lynx, who looked at her watch and grudgingly came back with us to the pipe to cut through the tape binding Leila’s legs, then unlocked her cuffed hands.  Leila tried to put them down between her legs but Monica slapped them away. 

“Don’t even think about it, my girl!  You come with us and get your pretty arse on to that pole and across the stream, then you swing the rope back to us.  You’ll be out of sight of the Black Team when you’re down there, but first you’ll need to zigzag to the pole.  Understand?” 

“Uh-huh,” Leila nodded. 

“Right, let’s go!” 

We ran at the crest again, jinking from side to side.  I saw a balloon coming in and deflected it with my arm so that it landed on the ground with a splat.  We reached the top and let Leila go ahead on her own.  She weaved down the slope, past the prone, chained Emma and reached the pole across the stream. 

The pole was an old timber telephone pole about six metres long and fifteen centimetres in diameter.  It was a brave person who tried to walk along it under normal circumstances, never mind when incoming water bombs might lead to an early dunking.  On the far side of the stream was a line of barbed wire, which the pole crossed, so any fall would mean a repeat performance on the pole – there was no quick way across. 

I looked at the fall of balloons now, and the number had subsided, for clearly neither Kris nor Marilyn could see the pole and the blonde schoolgirl now working her way hesitantly astride it. 

“If she so much as pauses for a second I’ll tie her across it and whip her arse,” said Monica under her breath.  Unfortunately Leila couldn’t hear her, for halfway across the pole it all became too much for her as she was sliding herself forward.  Clearly the vibrator and the act of sitting astride the pole worked their magic finally, and there was nothing poor Leila could do to stop the rush from her loins, and she tilted forward clutching the pole and humping it for all she was worth.  We could just make out a series of gagged cries as the girl clung exhausted to the pole, at which point a furious Monica began flinging handfuls of mud at the inert figure.  After what seemed a long time, Leila raised her head and wearily squirmed her way along the rest of the pole to finally stagger off at the other end.  Only then, without the pressure between her legs, did she appear to pull herself together, and headed up the far bank to the big gum tree where the rope swing was tied. 

As she approached it, she obviously came into view of Kris and Marilyn, and the barrage began again, but Leila was too quick this time, ducking behind the trunk and undoing the swing.  The rope had a piece of wood tied to the end, on which one sat, and Leila raised this above her head and swung it as hard as she could.  I grabbed it as it came over and got astride it, feeling the timber bar push the plug harder up my arse.  Just another reminder from Mistress Lynx that it’s still there, I thought.  I lunged forward down the bank and there was a brief explosion of pain in my nips as I flew across the buried cable to land – quite elegantly, I thought – on the other side.  I swung the rope back to Monica, just as Mistress Lynx appeared on the crest and walked down to where Emma was still face down in the mud. 

By the time Monica was across, Emma had been released, and I was conscious that yet another five minute interval had passed.  This whole thing was taking up a lot of time, and I wasn’t even sure if we were past half way yet, in terms of tasks we had to  perform and traps we had to overcome.  I knew I was getting tired in the corset and suit, and I was sure Monica would be the same. 

We had a brief time to catch our breath and check out the next section while Emma worked her way across the pole and Leila hid in the bushes at the base of the trees.  We were nearly at the end of the first length of the course, and I knew we would now be about to do a big U-turn. 

We set off in a series of short spurts, Monica and I leading the way as we zigzagged to a series of small shelters that had evidently been scattered for our protection.  A couple of these were merely plywood ‘tents’ that Leila and Emma could just squeeze into, while others were hollows in mounded dirt piles, roofed with dead wood.  Monica and I set off a few more trip wires on the way, but somehow our two escapees remained unscathed.  I reckoned Kris and Marilyn were getting a bit tired now – as we all were – for their aim was getting worse, though it’s hard to hit a running figure anyway, unless they’re really close. 

We were funnelled by lines of barbed wire at the end of the first leg, and it was here that Monica fell into a bear trap – a two metre deep hole that had been covered with netting and grass.  The excavated material had been used to make a shelter, just on the other side, and it was to this that we were heading.  We were forced to get Emma and Leila to the safety of the shelter first, then waste precious time while I returned to help extricate Monica from the sheer-sided pit. 

A short distance beyond the pit and the shelter, in a clearing beyond a clump of trees was a silver tent.  It was quite big, and we figured either Trish or Shawnee would be inside.  I was wary of the whole set-up, and stopped abruptly when Monica touched my arm as we neared the trees.  Off to one side, beyond the yellow tape that marked the boundary, was a cut-out silhouette – one of those typical ones that are used for target practice.  In this case, someone with a sense of humour had painted a black mask over the head with white slits for eyes, and had added a black bikini covering a substantial bust.  I looked around and saw a similar one beyond the left hand boundary.  I also realised that there was a fort very near each cut-out. 

“What do you think they mean?” Monica wondered. 

“They’re targets,” I said.  “We have to knock them over.” 

“Why?” 

“Dunno, but I bet there’s a purpose to them.” 

“I think we should press on,” she said. 

“Give us ten seconds to check one out,” I said.  As we moved closer I could see that a string led from the silhouette to something hanging over a branch above us. 

“It’s a trap,” Monica declared. 

“No – its more keys.  We’ll have to knock out the target to make the keys fall down.” 

“Then there’ll probably be the same on the other side – I’ll check it out.” And then she was gone, her lean black figure moving through the bushes with a grace that she still exhibited even in our state of tiredness. 

The fort was just in front of and to the side of the figure, and the first balloons were coming at me before I got in range with the paint gun.  Already my nipples were starting that nasty ominous tingling again, and I loosed a burst at the target.  They fell short, and by the time I got close I had been caught by a couple of water bombs which was starting to irritate me, and my nips were really hurting.  I finally finished off the magazine with a long burst which took out the target and then splattered the fort and Kris through the window.  The target went down and something clinked on the ground behind me, at the same time as there was a shriek from Rashid’s siren and Mistress Lynx was hurrying to slap the cuffs on the wounded defender. 

The fallen object was a bunch of keys threaded on a pink piece of ribbon, easily discernable in the grass.  I left the boundary and hurried back to where Leila and Emma were sheltering.  Monica was arriving at the same moment, also with a bunch of keys. 

“Look what I’ve got,” she said to Leila, waving them at the gagged girl.  Leila made as if to grab them, but Monica pulled them away.  “Not so fast, Miss.  We may need these for whatever lies in wait inside that tent up ahead.  You’ll have to stay silent a bit longer.” 

“Uff iz ur-ing!” Leila complained, pointing to her jaw stretched around the ball and secured with the straps. 

“I don’t care if it is hurting,” said Monica, who had long ago obtained her degree in gagged subbie-talk. “Stop thinking of yourself all the time. You’ve been lucky enough to get your rocks off this morning, while the rest of us have been struggling to get you out of this predicament, and we have even had to wait while you went through a leisurely exercise in self-gratification on the pole over the stream.  Right now, you can stay gagged until I decide otherwise.  Steven, I think we should see who the next poor soul is that we have to rescue.” 

I wasn’t about to argue with Monica in this mood.  I shrugged helplessly at Leila and she whined pitifully in response, then I set off behind Monica into the trees. 

We circled around the silver tent sitting in the long grass in the clearing.  The yellow boundary tapes ran through the trees and we could see Marilyn stalking us on the left, while Kris was still resting in her bonds.  Mistress Lynx was likewise shadowing us.  The whole set-up smelt of a trap, I decided. 

The tent was quite a large one, perhaps three metres square like a cross between a dome and a pyramid, with a zipped up door at the front.  In front of it was a square canopy that stuck out horizontally to create a shady vestibule or shelter from the rain while you were entering the tent door.  The awning was supported by two poles and guy ropes. 

I trod very carefully on an oblique approach to the front door, ignoring the odd balloons that were still coming in, but now without serious purpose.  When I was almost at the tent, I felt my foot tread on something hard under a layer of loose grass.  At once there was a muffled squeal from inside the tent, and I halted, scrabbling in the grass to find what I had trodden on.  It turned out to be a square of plywood, beneath which was a remote control which had obviously triggered a painful shock to the occupant of the tent.  Even now, we could hear a series of rapid grunts and ragged, hoarse breathing as the pain was evidently continuing.  I pushed the remote button again and there was a sigh from inside the tent, and I knew we had found Trish. 

Even with the cessation of the remote influence, I was suspicious.  As I moved close to the entry, I heard more protests from inside – the intense garbling that comes when somebody tries to talk around a rubber ball stuffed hard in their mouth.  It is different from the noises of pain that are often heard.  This incoherent sound was a mix of frustration and alarm, rising in pitch and intensity.  Gingerly we moved under the awning, where we at least had some protection from any bombs coming our way, and knelt at the door and gratefully pulled our masks off. 

There were two zippers, both drawn up to the top.  Delicately I prised them apart just enough to see inside.  The gagged whines rose to a frantic pitch that told me something was seriously amiss inside.  I peered through the gap and saw Trish sitting cross-legged on the floor, facing us.  Her ankles were cuffed and tied together with rope, which was then tied to her neck in a loop.  Her wrists were obviously secured behind her, and as we had concluded, a large black rubber ball was strapped in her mouth via a head harness.  The harness had a strap under the chin and ones that ran either side of her nose to join in a front-to-back one over the crown of her head.  A further horizontal one ran around her head at the level of her temples.  Atop her head she wore a small dunces hat, more like the kind you have at a birthday party, from the top of which poked a short pointy nail. 

It was not difficult to see where all this was leading, for I have neglected to say that Trish’s blouse had been opened and her nipples sported cruel square steel screw clamps, joined by a thin chain.  This was being pulled upwards by a thin string that rose to the roof of the tent and through a wire loop normally used for hanging a light.  In this instance the string went downward again to support a large red balloon, obviously full of paint, and tugging very painfully on Trish’s nipples. 

She stared at me, wide-eyed, and made whining sounds while trying to indicate something with her head.  I followed her gaze and saw that the wire loop at the top of the tent was in fact held there by a pin, which was connected to the zippers.  A pull on either zipper and the pin would be pulled, with a balloon-load of red paint dropping on to the top of Trish’s head. 

“Tricky little situation, isn’t it?”  Mistress Lynx’s husky voice said, from where she had crept up to join us.  “Mess up this and that poor schoolgirl gets exploded so thoroughly she’ll be chained to the tent for fifteen minutes.” 

In any other circumstances Trish’s problem would have been funny.  Now it seemed like we had run into a dead end. 

*   *   * 
 
 

20.11.03

story continues in Monica's Games 2.30

o0o