Monica's Games 2.30

by Richard Alexander (Gromets Plaza)

(story continues from Monica's Games 2.29)

Chapter Thirty: The Assault Continues

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

My heart did a flip at that moment – fifteen minutes if we screwed up!  Gee thanks – no pressure, guys.  Talk about disarming a ticking time bomb.  Monica and I looked at each other, wondering how the hell we were going to get our clumsy rubber-clad fingers to do keyhole surgery in trying to undo the string on the inside zippers to the tent opening.  Our gloves ran right up past our elbows, and getting them off would be a major operation in the tight suits that were already a size too small.

I must admit I was out of ideas, and the sight of poor Trish only a couple of metres away but untouchable, bound and clamped, was distressing.  It was Monica who finally came to the rescue, seizing the end of one of the fingers of her glove in her teeth and tearing it violently.  Once the penetration was made, the rubber tore quite easily, and in a minute she had the use of the fingers of both hands.

“Very smart,” I said. “You obviously like the taste of rubber in your mouth.” 

She grinned. “Resourceful female, that’s me.”

She operated like a surgeon, delicately retrieving the loop of twine, in which there was just enough slack to pull through between the almost-closed zippers.  Then the long nails made short work of the knot and we were able to open the flap with ease.  Poor Trish was chewing on the ball and whimpered into the gag as I held the balloon and Monica slowly unscrewed the metal clamps that gripped Trish’s nipples.  Trish was making little grunts of pain as the pressure slowly came off and the blood flow returned.

As the second clamp came free, I moved the balloon away and Trish groaned with relief.  Only then could we remove the hat with the nail in it and undo her bonds – at least to a certain extent.  We found the head harness was again locked on, and Trish’s wrist cuffs were padlocked together behind her.  Monica slipped her hand under Trish’s skirt and looked at me.

“Front and back,” she said, lifting the skirt to show the waist and crotch cable locked in place and evidently securing a vibrator and butt plug, which we had activated when I had trodden on the remote outside.  “Front’s running, back is done, I think.”  Monica spoke quickly to her, while gently massaging Trish’s breasts before buttoning up her blouse. 

“Sorry sweetie, we don’t have time to try out a whole bunch of keys right now, most of which are decoys and won’t fit.  We’ll leave them for you while we fetch Emma and Leila, in case you can manage some escapology yourself.  This will be our next stop – be ready to go, as best you can.”

Then we were outside again, gas masks back on, heading left and right to drive Kris and Marilyn back from their forward batteries while Leila and Emma rushed the tent, collected Trish, then the three of them picked their way across the other side of the clearing.  Again, though, we came unstuck, as somebody tripped a wire and there was the shriek of an air horn and Mistress Lynx bearing down on the unfortunate.  This time, however, it turned out to be both Leila and Emma who had been sprayed, and Mistress Lynx took great delight in cuffing Leila’s right ankle to Emma’s left, and linking their arms before cuffing each girl’s wrist cuffs together.

They were still moving, however, with Trish leading the way, still with her wrists locked behind her, while the others stuttered and stumbled behind her, before finally reaching the shelter of a foxhole with a pitched roof of plywood. 

We had followed in a big U-turn by this point, and a second tent was in sight.  It was the same as the first, again sitting alone in a grassy area.  The second leg of the course was a much more open one than the first, and I was worried at how exposed we might be, particularly if the girls were going to be shackled together like this. 

By the time we reached the group in their little shelter, they had managed to get Emma’s gag undone and Trish’s cuffs separated, but both the elaborate head harnesses that Leila and Trish wore, with their integral ball gags, stubbornly refused to be unlocked.

“I’ve tried all the keys,” said Emma, still handcuffed to Leila, “but nothing fits.  Maybe there’ll be something in the next tent.”

I was sure there would be something in the next tent – probably a nasty surprise for us.  We stowed the keys in Monica’s pack then Monica and I set out through the undergrowth, by now really paranoid about trip wires.  We went on a direct route, trying to set off anything that might get in the way, so that the other three could follow in our wake.  Unfortunately this was when Monica activated a balloon, and there was a siren nearby.  What the hell?  Then I understood.

“Your friend has just blown off her hand,” said Mistress Lynx, handcuffing Monica’s wrists behind her back.  “Shouldn’t have been in such a hurry to wreck those nice gloves, my dear.  Fifteen minutes.”

“Fifteen!” I exclaimed.

“Everything’s fifteen on this stretch.  I told you that.”

“You said it was fifteen if we screwed up at the last tent,” I argued.  Mistress Lynx studied her fingernails and I realised I was simply wasting further time.

We jogged towards the tent, with Monica’s gun now stowed in her pack.  I guess we had got a little blasé about our immunity in our suits, which was why having Monica suddenly handicapped was a setback, but we didn’t see the next thing coming, either.  One of us must have trodden on something, for we both caught a sudden shock up our arses that went on for the best part of three seconds, which is an awfully long time, let me say.  It was nearly as bad as we had experienced at the hands of the dreaded Portia and Madam Wong, and it dropped both of us in our tracks.  We ended up curled up foetally, gasping into our masks with the cramping pain that shot through us.  I broke out in a further sweat – if that was possible inside the constricting suit.  It was a different kind of sweat – the one that comes when muscles don’t do what they’re meant to and you know that there could be more where that came from.

The jolts had shocked us in ways other than literally.  It was another aspect we had forgotten, and we did not know what to do about it.  More balloons landed in a flurry as we staggered to our feet, with Monica only managing this with my help, because of her cuffed wrists.  I stayed behind her to protect her exposed hands from any nearby balloon explosion, as we stumbled the final few metres to the tent and the protection of the awning.

Monica squatted down with her back to the tent, while I examined the door flap.  It was padlocked with two locks through the zippers, overlapping the zippers so tightly that I couldn’t see inside properly.  I pushed my mask up and did the same for Monica, before pulling the three bunches of keys out of Monica’s backpack, and laboriously tried out the keys on the locks.  While I was doing this, I called out to Shawnee, whom I presumed to be inside.  I imagined she would be gagged like Trish had been. I wasn’t expecting the gabble of words that came back at me in typical Shawnee fashion.

“Steven?  Is that you? God I’m so glad! This is really uncomfortable – hurry up and get in here – I’ve been like this for hours and hours and it really hurts, cos they’ve got my nips clipped and its painful as hell and –“

“Shawnee?”  This from Monica. 

“Yes?” 

“Unless you have something sensible to say, shut your cake hole.”

“But – “

“Do you want to stay here the rest of the day?”

“No, but –” Monica rolled her eyes at me.

“Shawnee, we can’t find the keys to these locks,” I said.  “Do you know where they are?”

“Well, I have two keys dangling from my boobs.  Would these be the ones?” 

Monica sighed and looked heavenwards. 

“Can you get them to the door?”

“No – I’m tied to that trolley thing that they had Monica on, when she had the concrete on her feet and she got left in the sea, and I can’t move as much as she could, in fact I – “

“So that’s a ‘no’?”

“Uh-huh.”

I looked at Monica and got a tired, blank look back.

“Can’t you move at all, Shawnee?”

“Well I can move my head, and wiggle my toes, and my hands, and of course I can breath, and –“

“All right, Shawnee,” said Monica exasperated. “Now what do we do?” she whispered to me as a water bomb hit the tent and made the whole thing wobble.  That was when I had my moment of inspiration.

“If we can’t take Shawnee to the door, I guess we’ll have to take the door to Shawnee.”  Monica stared at me uncomprehending, as I pulled my mask down and began to dismantle the tent, pulling out the pegs around the base.

The tent was held up by two flexible series of rods that locked into each other to form two arches between the diagonal corners.  Unclipping the supports from the fabric made the tent collapse and the rods fall over.

“Hey! What’s happening?  Why is the tent falling down?  What are you doing?”  The fabric dropped down to form an outline over a form lying prone on the ground, feet sticking into the air.  Shawnee’s shape was clear to see.

“Stop talking and save your breath or you’ll suffocate,” ordered Monica.  “Or maybe we’ll do it for you.”

I gathered the folds of the material and dragged the door flap section over the top of Shawnee, to the accompaniment of interminable questions and demands to know what was going on, in between periodic balloons lobbing in.  These we ignored, for Monica’s exposed but manacled hands were protected, and with our gas masks on, we could not be affected.

Shawnee, however, was another matter, and somehow I had to find those keys and work them through to the outside of the tent through the tiny gap where the two zippers met.  I wound up sitting astride Shawnee – with much protest on her part about how heavy I was – and then giving her breasts an extremely thorough examination through the thin nylon material.  It was a dirty job, but somebody had to do it.  Strangely enough, there was very little protest about my method and technique, despite Monica’s urgings to hurry it up and stop gratuitous fondling.  I took umbrage at this, not least since Shawnee had magnificent breasts, especially for someone of diminutive physique, and such example of mammarian splendour warranted a little manual handling along the way. 

Shawnee didn’t object, as I manoeuvred each key through the tiny gap such that I could grab it, before releasing the clamp from her nipple.  It was only this last operation that provoked an outburst of objection as the blood flowed back through the tender flesh.  When I finally undid the locks and opened the flap, we saw that she was strapped to the red porter’s trolley that Monica had been transported on by Warren.  More specifically, she was secured with heavy plastic cable ties, and there was no way we would get her free without some sort of cutting device, which clearly we didn’t have.

That was when we discovered the next level of the Zubair brothers’ ingenuity, in that one or both had been either working with my stuff or else had been visiting the local engineering workshop.  We found that the axle between the two wheels at the base of the trolley, had been modified so that there were two cams in the middle of the axle, attached to which were two rods that acted like pistons.  One ended in a vibrator jammed into Shawnee’s pussy, and the other ended in a vibrator located halfway up her arse.  The moment we moved the trolley, both vibrators started up, and we were unable to stop them.  More specifically, with each rotation of the wheels, the vibrators plunged in and out over a full stroke.  Shawnee was going to be in for a very interesting ride back to the house.

“This is all very well,” I said to Monica, “but how the hell am I going to get you lot back without ending up with everyone manacled hand and foot?  You’ve got your hands out of commission, and this one’s locked to a trolley totally helpless –“

“Unless she talks them to death,” Monica sniped.

“- and then there’s Leila and Emma locked together, and Trish gagged. This is becoming impossible!  How are we going to get everyone back home without getting splattered?”  I was fast losing my cool with the pressure.  Every time we seemed to be making progress, something else was waiting for us just around the corner.

Monica put her face mask close to mine.  “Steven, just relax.  We can do this.  Maybe I won’t be much help, but we’ll manage.  What we have to do is get everyone under the tent and make like a tortoise, okay?”

Of course.  I had lost it for a moment, when the solution was staring me in the face.  With some difficulty I managed to turn the tent over and eventually ease the trolley out through the opening underneath, which of course started Shawnee off again.  We left her there while Monica and I returned to the other three and – using the body bag as best we could for cover, first took the two manacled girls as far as the tent, making this despite several near misses but otherwise without incident.  Trish, unfettered but for the gag harness, should have been easy, save for a paint bomb that sailed in and splattered the three of us, sufficiently for Mistress Lynx’s siren to sound again like a death knell.  I knew I would never again hear one without thinking of this day. Monica and I had survived the hit, but Trish’s taste of freedom was short-lived as Mistress Lynx  - now apparently running out of her metal bonds – zipped a couple of heavy plastic cable ties around Trish’s wrists behind her and around her ankles.  We were still a few metres short of the tent, and a long way short of the finish line.  I now despaired of finishing at all, for this was turning into a total disaster.  Desperately, as the siren sounded, I grabbed Trish and carried her in my arms to slip her under the nylon tent material as the others raised it as best they could.

“This is a total screw-up!” I gasped.  I was exhausted, sweating and frustrated in the rubber suit and mask.  The corset constricted my breathing and I ripped the mask off in an effort to get a breath of air that did not smell of rubber.  Instead, I could now take in the odours of mud and female scent, crouching under the tent with five girls all bound or restrained in some fashion. 

“We can’t just sit here for fifteen minutes until time’s up,” Monica declared.  “I know this is difficult for you, Steven, but this is what’s going to happen.  I know it will be uncomfortable, girls, but we have to make some sacrifices.  Trish, you’re going to have to ride with Shawnee.”  There was a grunt from Trish, possibly in protest, possibly in acquiescence.  I was not at my most perceptive at that moment, so I could not really tell.

“Trish, you’re going to lie face down on top of Shawnee, though we’ll tie you in place standing up.  We don’t want your hands and fingers getting in the way of those little devices going in and out of her, nor do we want your feet getting caught up with them.  Now, everybody stand up and work as a team.”

This was Monica the Leader at her best, under pressure but coping with a cool head.  She was impressive, and her decisiveness made me lose some of my frustration.  She had a plan, and managed to focus our attention on achieving that plan.  I lifted Shawnee into the upright position in the semi-darkness under the loose tent, then hauled Trish to her feet and manoeuvred her so that she was standing breast to breast with the slave. 

The rope that had suspended Leila from the tree was in my backpack, and Emma managed to get this out, so that I could then bind Trish to the trolley hard against Shawnee.  The rope was long but I worked as fast as I could, wrapping multiple turns around Trish’s legs and body, trapping her bound hands against her skirt and making sure she would not come free.

It was a bizarre way to end the event.  Monica went first, towing one corner of the tent behind her, protecting her cuffed hands under the edge.  We tucked the leading edge around the top of Shawnee’s trolley and I towed her and Trish covered by the material, while the other two managed as best they could like bride’s maids hiding beneath the bride’s veil. 

The tent was plenty big enough, and we came under a renewed final attack from Kris and Marilyn, as they tried to slow us down on the last leg.  They were tiring now, however – as were most of us.  Shawnee was sort of complaining as the vibrators on the pistons pumped in and out, though her complaints soon became unintelligible save the obvious point that she was now getting rapidly worked up.  Monica finally ordered her to be gagged with the ball that Emma had once worn, and which now dangled at her throat.

Shawnee protested briefly as the ball was jammed into her mouth and secured tightly with the strap, and again we stepped up our pace.  Hauling the two girls through the long grass was a real struggle, made worse as Monica and I suffered two further anal plug attacks on the home straight, but somehow managed to keep going.  Speaking for myself I was exhausted by the work I had put in thus far, which had been twice the effort in the constricting rubber suit and corset.  Monica, too, looked all in, and was starting to stumble.

The end was in sight as we reached the crest of the rise behind the house.  Here the yellow barrier tape turned back on itself and prevented the black hooded defenders from pursuing us further, and as we came in sight of the house we realised we were now out of range.  We ditched the tent and I turned  the porter’s trolley round and ran down the hill towards the tank where Megan sat.  Shawnee realised what was happening and her gagged wail came with us, rising in pitch and intensity as we raced down the slope, the spinning axle pumping the vibrators at speed in and out of the hapless slave. 

I suspect Trish’s weight on top of Shawnee also pushed a few buttons, and by the time we stopped Shawnee was off her face, gasping and moaning, her eyes closed and her hands clenching as she slowly snorted her way back to earth.  I left the two of them propped against the big tank as the others slowly joined us, Emma and Leila still hobbled by the manacles linking their ankles and wrists.

There had been a finishing tape between two posts, which Trish, Shawnee and I had broken, but we knew all members had to be across that line before we could dump the still blindfolded Megan in the slime.  She was sitting very still, obviously aware of our presence, as in fact was most of the wildlife within a kilometre range, thanks to Shawnee.  I thought I detected a slight tremble in Megan as I grasped a horizontal bar at the end of the plank, and as soon as the others had crossed the line, heaved downwards and Megan slid into the muddy slime with a shriek.

Mistress Lynx was watching from the crest of the hill, and three bursts on her horn signalled the end of the game.

There was some degree of pandemonium at that point. People were milling around wanting to be unchained, and Megan was complaining about the disgusting stuff she was standing in, while Shawnee was still coming down to earth with a series of grunts.  I was surrounded by four schoolgirls looking muddy and bedraggled and splattered with red paint as though at the end of some gore-fest movie.  Monica and I had our masks off and were leaning on to each other in mutual support, while the swim suited Marilyn and Kris, now carrying their leather hoods, were slowly walking down the hill, looking nearly as drained as Monica and I.  Close behind them came Rashid and Mohammed, talking and laughing.

As usual it took Mistress Lynx to sort us out.  She unlocked the rest of the team’s manacles, but immediately placed them on Kris and Marilyn, locking them to a garden tap some distance away.  Next to be freed were Trish and Shawnee, with a few snips of the scissors through the cable ties and the rope.  Then came Megan, and after untying Megan’s hands, Mistress Lynx helped her out of the tank with a ladder, but promptly handcuffed her wrists behind her.  Around her neck was a ribbon with some more keys, and a couple of these unlocked the harnesses and crotch cables from Trish and Leila.  Mistress Lynx then spoke with the two brothers for several minutes.

“All right, everybody, just so that you know what is going on, here’s what is about to happen.  There’s a lot of work to be done on the course to prepare it for the second round – far more than we anticipated.  As a result, the second round will not happen until tomorrow.  It is essential that the players today remain separate from those playing tomorrow, however, to prevent strategic information being used, like insider trading.  As a consequence, tomorrow’s defenders, Jill and Mary, will remain locked up for the night, as will Megan, separately, since she is to some extent already aware of events of today, though she has yet to see anything first hand.” 

I looked across to where Megan stood beside the tank, looking cold and miserable in her short dress that was covered in slime and clung wetly to her body.  She was still blindfolded and with her hands cuffed behind her she looked wretchedly uncomfortable.

“Monica and Steven – go to the sluice room where you may remove your armour and shower.  I will visit you shortly.  Trish, Emma and Leila – go to your rooms, where you will lock the doors and slide the keys underneath.  Kris and Marilyn will in due course receive a shower and will be locked in one of the guest bedrooms, while Megan will remain in the cells until the second event begins tomorrow.  Shawnee will come around shortly with lunch, but she will be suitably gagged in the presence of the Black Team to ensure she cannot convey any information.  And of course guest room phones will be disconnected from outside lines, in case our visitors have any intention of phoning through their information.  There will be further updates when you have got yourselves all presentable.”

Blown away by all these orders, Monica and I hastened to the sluice room where the promise of a hot shower beckoned.  We had barely got our hoods off when Mistress Lynx appeared.

“You two did very well today.  You’re very resourceful, both of you.  Monica, you should hang on to this one – he has quite good qualities - for a male.” I didn’t know whether to be flattered or annoyed.  To be truthful I was too knackered to care, as I sat down on the bench.  “I think you’ve set a good standard.  So that you know, it took you one hour and fifty-four minutes to complete the course.   Rashid and Mohammed are delighted with the way it went today.”

“I’m happy for them,” said Monica without enthusiasm.  “I just want to get out of this suit.  Where are the keys for the pack straps and the zippers?”

Mistress Lynx appeared greatly amused by this question, smiling broadly, while we looked at her blankly.

“Yes, you didn’t wake up to that one, did you.  The keys were on that first ring you picked up at the cargo net.”

“What? Tell me you’re joking!” Monica was aghast.  “We thought the keys we picked up on route would only fit the hostages! Oh shit!”

“Isn’t it funny how the mindset plays tricks,” said Mistress Lynx.  “Now hurry up and get those suits off and go to your rooms, where you will lock the door and put the keys underneath like the others.  I’ll have some lunch in the meantime and be back to check on you.  And don’t even think about going near Jill and Mary, unless you want to be disqualified.”

She closed the door behind her while Monica and I stared at each other in disbelief.  We had both worked it out together.

“If we had been able to unzip these suits…” Monica said.

“We’d have been able to get these goddamned nipple pads off…” I ended.

“Which means we’d never have had to pratt about with the rope swing.”

“More than that.  We’d have been able to cross the boundary lines and give Kris and Marilyn a real seeing too in their foxholes.  In fact we’d have run the whole thing quite differently.”

Monica looked crestfallen that we had overlooked such a fundamental element.  Then she seemed to have another awful insight.  “My God, what if Megan and Leon realise they can do that?”

“Then we’ll be well and truly up shit creek,” I said with a finality that came with exhaustion.

*   *   *

I think we all slept for much of the afternoon.  It had been a strenuous and stressful morning, and we were all pretty drained.  Shawnee, still wearing her school uniform, which had not had the same rough treatment of paintballs and mud that the others had received, brought lunch around on a tray.  She now wore a white leather head harness and matching ball gag that was locked in place, her plaits hanging out the back of it.  Clearly Mistress Lynx had made her smarten up her act, for now her blouse was properly buttoned up and her tie done up and tucked into the waistband of her skirt, following the gentle curve of her breasts as they strained at the white cotton blouse, which really was a size too small.  Even her shoes had been polished and her black stockings were clean and shiny. 

She was earning her keep today, no doubt having been told that since she had been lying about all morning she should now do something useful, and lunch had been most welcome, delivered as it was on a tray to my room.  Soon afterwards I could here further grunted conversations as she delivered lunch to Leila and Emma in their rooms further along the landing.  I watched a bit of television but ended up snoozing in my comfy armchair.

That evening, after dark, those of us in the accommodation block were allowed to gather for dinner on the verandah.  Monica joined us, as did Kris and Marilyn.  Megan, of course, while participating in a limited way, still had a major role to play the next day, and was accordingly eating dinner locked in one of the cells downstairs, as were Jill and Mary.

Mistress Lynx, Rashid and Mohammed also ate with us, the food having been ordered in, and served by the still uniformed and gagged Shawnee, who was also tasked with serving dinner to Mary and Jill and Megan.  It was a pleasant evening, with the wine flowing liberally.  We made the discovery that Kris and Marilyn had both played softball in college in the States, which explained a certain amount about the accuracy of the fire we had received.  I wondered if Jill and Mary would do as well, but didn’t voice my doubts out loud.  Finally, at ten o’clock we adjourned to bed, while Mistress Lynx and the boys returned to their hotel.

*   *   *

I had barely dropped off – or so it seemed – someone was shaking me awake.  It was Monica, and I wasn’t impressed.

“Monica - what the hell?”  She thrust a pair of jeans at me and pulled the bedclothes back. 

“Shut up and get your trousers on – quickly!”

“That’s what all the women say,” I grumbled, as usual doing what I was told. 

Monica dragged me outside, without even time to get my shoes on.  “Someone’s moving round the house,” she whispered.  “It has to be that American pair.”

“How did they get out of their rooms?”

“I don’t know, but the doors are still locked – I checked.”

“And how did you get out – and in to my room?”

“Don’t be stupid.  I own this place – you think I don’t have spare keys where I can get them if necessary?”  There was a flash of white teeth in the darkness.

“So why are our American friends out and about?”  I was still half asleep and knew the answer as soon as I’d asked the question.

“So they can get to Megan with all the strategic info, of course.  They’ve seen how we did it, and the strategies we used.  If Megan starts off with all that knowledge, and had time to plan something extra, or some way to improve, we’ll be done for.  And if they cotton on to our stupid mistake about the wetsuit keys, we’ll be down the toilet in a major way.”

We crossed the lawn and reached the outside basement door.  Monica pulled out a small ring of keys and a pencil flashlight. 

“I feel like a burglar breaking into my own home,” she murmured as the key turned soundlessly in the lock.  “Master keying has a lot going for it – provided you have the master, of course.”

“Why do you think they never called it ‘Mistress keying’?” I asked.

“Oh shut up,” she hissed.

The night lights were on inside, the low-level illumination lighting the way down the corridor with the cells on each side.  It was easy to find out where the Americans were.  The door into the Post Room was open and as we peered round the opening, we saw Kris and Marilyn with their backs to us, armed with a cane and a flogger, dealing very clinically to Shawnee, who was bound stretched into a star position between the two big posts.  Her arms were pulled high and wide as were her legs, and her blouse and skirt had been removed, leaving her standing only in a garter belt and the black stockings.  Her buttocks were striated from several strokes of the cane, while her back was red from flogging.  She still wore the gag harness locked in place, and was shaking her head and making muffled squealing noises as the beating continued.

“Make it easy on yourself, Shawnee.  All we want is the key to Megan’s cell.  You have to know where they are – you must have taken food to her.  We don’t have time to search the whole house, and quite frankly beating the information out of you will be much more fun.”  Marilyn let loose a flick with the flogger that made Shawnee jerk and again shake her head, her plaits flying as she whined her protest.

“You gonna cooperate?” Kris demanded.  Shawnee again shook her head and moaned in misery.

Monica and I exchanged looks.  I pointed at Kris, who was on the right, and then at Monica, then indicated that I would take on Marilyn.  Monica nodded, and a moment later we charged into the room, catching the pair in rugby tackles round the knees that would have done credit to a Wallaby winger.

Kris and Marilyn were taken by surprise, and while they tried to recover, I used my weight to get an arm lock on Marilyn, while Monica, after a fierce struggle, secured Kris’s hand and wrist in a very painful-looking reverse hold that had her gasping for mercy.  I was impressed, for although I knew Monica and some of the others had practiced self-defence, this went considerably further and smacked of secret wrestling training. 

As I held my position lying on top of a squirming Marilyn, Monica and Kris stood up, Monica keeping a tight, two-handed hold on Kris’s left wrist, bending her hand backwards, before Monica walked her over to the big steel cabinet on the wall.

“Open it!” Monica ordered.  Moving gingerly, Kris turned the handle and swung the door open.  “Handcuffs,” said Monica.  “On this wrist – now.”  Reluctantly Kris took the cuffs off the hook and closed one cuff over the wrist held painfully by Monica.  Monica pushed Kris slowly against the wall, all the time keeping the pressure on her wrist and being aware of every movement her prisoner was making.  It was almost like a ballet, or some form of Tai Chi.  “Now put your right hand behind you.”  With her face against the block work, Kris was just a tad slow in obeying.  She gasped with pain as Monica gave her bent wrist another squeeze, then slowly slid her right hand to the small of her back.  Still maintaining the wristlock, Monica moved Kris’s left arm such that she could click the second cuff closed, leaving the blonde’s hands firmly locked behind her.

Monica dusted off her hands.

“There, now.  That wasn’t so difficult, was it?  No, stay there and study the fine detail of the block laying, while I deal with your friend.”  Monica took a coil of rope from cabinet and joined me, sitting on Marilyn’s legs while she crossed and bound the girl’s wrists behind her.  “Very good, now come with me, Miss.”  We hauled Marilyn to her feet and took her across to one of the posts, and after untying the rope connecting Shawnee’s left ankle to it,  forced Marilyn to kneel, facing the post.  “No, not back on your haunches - up on your knees.  You need to be very friendly with that post.”

Marilyn glared at us but – sensibly – elected to say nothing.  She was clearly a person who recognised the risks and opportunities of her situation, and right then the risks were high and the opportunities were nil.  Monica walked to the cabinet again. 

“Undo her blouse, Steven.  Let’s see what they produce in Texas.”  I squatted behind Marilyn and carried out my instructions, brushing her breasts with my fingers as I undid the buttons while Monica came back from cabinet with some scissors and twine.  She knelt on the other side of the post and smiled at Marilyn.  “Mmm.  Nice pair.  They always say that Texas produces the biggest and best, although I think between Emma and Shawnee, you might have some competition.”  Marilyn remained silent as Monica stroked her breasts and coaxed the nipples into arousal.  They stuck out like little fingertips, and Monica tied a length of twine around each.  Only when she pulled the knots tight did Marilyn gasp and bite her lip at the spasm of pain that obviously got to her.  Clearly, however, the arousal and the binding of her nipples had elicited more than just pain, and I recognised her breathing was faster, though she did her best to appear unconcerned.

Monica passed me a white ball gag.  It was one of the hard rubber ones – the sort which can be worn for a long period once they have been worked behind the teeth, because they do not then expand and put the jaw under a permanent strain.  Marilyn submitted without a murmur, opening her mouth wide to allow the ball to be strapped in place with the minimum of fuss.  She obviously understood the further discomfort that could come from an incorrectly-placed ball that trapped a piece of lip or did not sit properly.

While I buckled the gag strap over the mousy brown hair, Monica tied the two lengths of twine together on the other side of the post, securing the girl in the upright position.  Then it was Kris’s turn.  Kris was rather more feisty, objecting and threatening us with all manner of improbable consequences if we dared pull the stunt on her, and to not even think about leaving them in such a state.  This time it was Monica who did the honours with the gag, forcing it home until the protesting tongue was silenced to the level of grunting and garbling unintelligibly.

Monica then bound Kris’s arms above the elbows, pulling them close together.  Kris was young and flexible and appeared to handle this certainly better than I could have, but once the knots were done, she remained helpless while Monica removed the handcuffs and bound the girl’s wrists with multiple turns of sashcord.

Again I got the blouse-opening job. It was tough work, but some poor bastard had to do it.  Kris’s breasts were smaller than Marilyn’s but were firm like two half mangoes, the pink nipples already erect.

“Oh-ho,” said Monica, squatting down again with two more lengths of twine.  “Looking forward to this already, are we?  Trying to deny me the fun of arousing you?” Kris frowned and mmphed something that was probably unprintable.  Monica squeezed a nipple tightly and the blonde screwed up her eyes and whined plaintively.  “Hold this, Steven,” said Monica, and I dutifully grasped the nipple between thumb and forefinger while Monica secured the twine around it and pulled it tight, and Kris gasped and looked down with wide eyes.  The other nipple was likewise bound moments later, and Kris was manoeuvred into a kneeling position on the opposite site of the post to Marilyn.  Monica talked while she tied the pieces of twine together so that the girls were bound nipple to nipple.

“I’m actually a very understanding person,” she said, almost to herself.  “I could ring Mistress Lynx right now and ask what she wants to do with you.  I’m sure she would be most unhappy with what you’ve done tonight.  I’m sure by the morning you’ll both be very tired, so I’ll let you take it in turns to have a short nap.  Now Kris, you can sit back on your haunches – that’s right – now bend forward as if you’re praying to Mecca.  Very good.  I’m sure you can catch a few winks like that.  Of course you will notice that in that position poor Marilyn is pulled hard up against the post.  At some stage Marilyn will want to have a sleep, so you will have to change positions.  Somehow she’ll have to wake you up.  I’m not sure how she’ll do this.  I guess that’s for you guys to figure out.  I think nipple pulling and a few grunts might do it.  I gather from Megan that you’re not above trying a few stunts on each other back home in the good ol’ US of A, so this might be a good time to practise together.  I think you both look really cute together.  Don’t you think so, Steven?”

“Totally endearing,” I agreed, as the two gagged faces glared at me.

“Just to show what a kind and aware person I am, I’m giving you these two rubber mats to kneel on, since I’m sure the concrete floor will become a little uncomfortable after a while.”  Monica produced two heavy rubber mats of the kind used by gardeners when they are weeding a flowerbed, and we worked them under the two bound girls, before Monica then secured their ankles and linked these with a loose tie to their bound wrists.

“There.  That will stop you wanting to stand up at any stage.  Oh, and since we don’t want you falling asleep too soon, we have a little local speciality for you.”  Monica pulled on a thin latex surgical glove with a snap, and produced a large tube of Finalgon, a fiery muscle balm.  Both girls wore skirts, and while I held Marilyn’s skirt up, Monica proceeded to smear the cream liberally over Marilyn’s buttocks and inner thighs, before coaxing Kris to kneel upright and repeating the procedure.  “Maybe now you’ll both want to stay upright, for you’ll find the hotter your skin gets, the more this stuff burns.  Sitting down will raise the temperature of your cheeks and you’ll soon find out it’s not the most pleasant of positions.  But it’ll settle down in an hour or two.”

She removed the glove and stood up, smiling with satisfaction at the two bound and gagged females now snuggling up to the post with most unhappy expressions on their faces.

“And of course in dealing with your unprincipled, underhanded behaviour, I have not even taken into consideration what you did to poor Shawnee, here.”  Monica motioned to me and I began to undo the ropes holding Shawnee’s other nyloned ankle.  Uttering grateful moans, she drew her legs together and shifted herself more upright. 

We had been so focussed on the American girls that we had not even noticed the two large lead nipple weights that dangled from her breasts, and Monica cupped these in her hands while I undid the pulley ropes that held Shawnee’s wrists high and wide.

“Do these hurt, Shawnee darling?” Monica cooed.  Shawnee nodded, sniffled and whined.  “Would you like them off?”  Another nod and whine.  Monica released both the clips with a sudden movement that made Shawnee scream into the gag.  There was much moaning and crying as her hands came down and she covered her wounded breasts, while Monica unlocked the gag harness.  The ball popped out and Shawnee sobbed softly as Monica hugged her gently.

“Let me guess, Shawnee.  These two rang down for some room service and over-powered you when you came up to deliver it?”

“Y-yes, Mistress.”

“So by rights, since you were so careless, and could have jeopardised this whole competition, I should tie you up and leave you in a very uncomfortable position with these two, for the night.  Would that be fair?”

There was a silence before Shawnee said in a small voice: ”yes, Mistress”.

“I’m glad you agree.  However I think you have suffered for your mistake already, albeit at the hands of these two, and I saw you were doing your best not to give in to them.  So instead I will be generous.  You look so sexy in those stockings that I will let you pleasure me tonight.  Would you like that?”

Shawnee looked up gratefully, her eyes shining.

“Yes Mistress!”

“Very good.  I’m sorry to have interrupted your sleep, Steven.  Thank you for your help – I do appreciate it.  You look quite sexy yourself.  Perhaps another time…  Good night, everyone.  Come, Shawnee.”

*   *   *
 

I was awakened by a knock at the door and the sound of a key turning.  It was Shawnee, again wearing her school uniform, and looking as though she was taking rather a liking to it.  I looked at the clock.  It was eight fifteen – much later than I would normally have slept, which I guess said something about the efforts of the previous day – and night, for that matter.

“Breakfast’s on the table,” Shawnee announced.

“You’re looking very perky this morning.  Did you have a good night with our favourite mistress?” I asked.  Shawnee blushed and went all coy on me.  “Um – the others are on their way.  Mistress Lynx has already taken the Black Team’s hostages up to the course.  Megan and Leon are down in  the sluice room now.”

“Things are happening fast,” I suggested.  “Does Mistress Lynx know about last night?”

“I don’t think so.  Mistress Monica got up at five o’clock this morning and we released the two American girls from the dungeon, and locked them in their rooms again, before Mistress Lynx arrived.  When she came she found things pretty much as she had left them.  Now they’re having breakfast with Monica as though nothing happened.”

“Tsk,” I said.  What was happening to the world?

*   *   *

I needn’t have hurried, for it took the best part of two hours to get the course and the hostages ready.  We saw Jill and Mary appear from the basement door and walk up the rise trailing behind Mistress Lynx.  Both girls wore leather gloves to above the elbow, and thigh boots, which would give them a little more protection from stray shots than the knee-length boots worn by Kris and Marilyn the previous day.  They also wore white swimsuits and white leather discipline helmets, making for a pretty sexy defence force, I thought.

Mistress Lynx finally came for us around nine thirty.

“You may now go up to observe the contest,” she said.  “You two –“ she pointed to Kris and Marilyn – not so fast.  Come here.”  There was an awkward silence, and everyone looked at each other, wondering what was to come.  The American girls walked across to where Mistress Lynx stood at the top of the steps.  “Turn around.”  The older woman, again wearing the yellow raincoat, pulled two ball gags from a shoulder bag.  “Open wide Kris.” 

There was a momentary protest before the blonde submitted to the inevitable, followed by Marilyn.  Mistress Lynx clicked a small padlock through the buckle at the back of each gag strap.  “The reason for this is simple.  You two know too much.  The others have done the hard yards, and carried out their strategy.  Tactics are in the hands of the attackers, and I don’t trust you two not to yell out some advice at a critical moment, or do something equally stupid.  Hence you will wear these for the duration.  Understand?”  The two gagged girls nodded submissively.  “And the same goes for the rest of you.  Any advice or directions to the players and – if I don’t disqualify you – I’ll give you such a flogging you’ll wish you’d never been born.

“Now, Monica.  To the tank, please.  I will secure you there and we can all get on with the game.  Remember, if the Black Team fails to beat your time, I will sound three blasts on the siren and you will be spared a slime dunking.  If not – too bad.  Shall we go?”

We all went down to the lawn and waited while Monica climbed on to the plank and seated herself.  Mistress Lynx climbed up the ladder, positioned a pair of swimming goggles with foam inserts over Monica’s eyes, then bound her wrists and ankles, tying the former to the edge of the tank, so Monica could not reach her head without tipping herself in.  Finally, we followed Mistress Lynx up to the top of the hill.

“You will stay together as a group, and will not get closer than thirty metres of any player.  Clear?” 

“Yes Mistress,” we chorused. 

*   *   *
Things did not begin well for the Black Team.  Perhaps being on unfamiliar territory, Megan and Leon made the mistake of crawling into the shed escape tunnel head first – as one would normally do, not knowing the way it ended up.  As a consequence, they also exited head first as well, straight into the mud pool, while wearing their gas masks.  This put them on the back foot straight away, for they appeared to have major problems with their masks from that point on, both from a visibility and a breathing perspective. In fact, for the first part, Megan put on the reserve one, and Leon – after an argument with Megan – ended up not wearing one at all.

It was not an auspicious beginning, for Leon and Megan had to work as a team, not against each other, and it was evident from the body language that this was not happening.

Down bedside the mud pool Debra was bound tightly to the pole, her arms pulled above her head and straddled over the bar on the butt plug.  Like Emma when she had been in that position, Deb had evidently been manhandled somewhat, if the muddy hand prints on her white blouse and long white socks were anything to go by.

Above, and slightly higher than where we watched the scene from on the right bank, Zara hung suspended in the same manner as Leila had been, no doubt with the vibrator buzzing inside her.  I suspected that this was a position especially selected for her by her two siblings, who seemed to take great delight in her predicament, with Mohammed, as right field linesman, calling out what I took to be derogatory comments in Arabic while grinning broadly at his hapless sister hanging in the air squirming helplessly.

Megan and Leon untied Debra and helped her off the bar together.  Her wrists and ankles remained cuffed and hobbled, and she skated about a bit on the slippery surface beside the mud pool. I was conscious of activity to our right, and saw balloons being lobbed in by both Mary and Jill, from opposite sides of the course.  Unlike the approach used by Kris and Marilyn, when I had been down by the mud pool, our girls weren’t trying to hit the attackers in the hole, whom they couldn’t actually see.  I reckoned instead they were trying to make the ramp as slippery as possible by getting as many water bombs in there as they could before Megan and Leon tried to climb it.

The pair had now worked out that it would take two of them to get Zara down, and Leon was evidently delegated to the top of the bank.  It took him quite a while to get to the top of the ramp.  We couldn’t see into the defile properly, but I was sure it was a longer haul than when I had done it.  Leon appeared out of the cutting looking red-faced and sweating in his rubber suit.  I wouldn’t have put it past Mistress Lynx to have laced the corset extra tight, for I knew she was aware of what he had been up to in his behind the scenes manoeuvring. 

Now he charged over towards us, intent on the rope that secured Zara, tied to the lower bough of the tree.  He was slowing down abruptly however, as the effects of the hidden cable started to have their effect on his nipples, and he began rubbing them the way an animal rubs a wound without knowing what to actually do about it.  It was just as he slowed to a walk approaching the tree that Jill caught him on the shoulder with a paint bomb.  She had been lying in wait in the long grass next to the boundary tape from the moment he had appeared at the top of the ramp.  Unlike the American girls, who had preferred the full on slam-bam approach, Jill was using tactics and cunning, and had taken in the fact that Leon was not wearing his gas mask.

There was a blast immediately behind us from Mohammed’s air horn.  It sounded much louder without the constriction and sound-deadening effect of the rubber hood I had worn yesterday, and we all jumped.  Leon wore a surprised look as he wiped the splattered paint smears from his face and Mistress Lynx rushed up to order him on to the ground.  Obviously a head-shot was a serious offence, for she manacled his ankles and handcuffed his wrists behind him, the linking chains looped through each other to create a steel hogtie for the obligatory five minutes.

Poor Megan, down in the mud pool could not see what had happened, but obviously guessed Leon had screwed up, and began to make her way up the defile.  The black suited figure – this one wearing a gas mask – emerged from the top of the cutting and immediately saw Leon prostrate on the ground like a black seal.  Jill had meanwhile lobbed a couple of flour bombs on to him from very close range, just to further irritate him and leave him coated in mud and flour.  You could almost sense Megan’s exasperation as she strode across him, slowing abruptly as the cable field took effect and she rubbed the mounds that were her breasts under the rubber.

Megan sized up the problem and hauled out Leon’s muddied gas mask from his pack, pulling it roughly down over his head.  She looked over the bank at Debbie, standing by the pool, and waved to her to move into the pool, pointing at Zara and making lowering motions.  Debbie did so with reluctance, firstly given that she was still gagged and with her wrists cuffed and ankles hobbled, and secondly because the muddy water was obviously cold and far more unpleasant than if you were wearing a wetsuit.

The brown slime rose over her shoes and up her long white socks as she gingerly felt her way forward.  In the still morning air I could hear the gagged squeals she was making as the water rose up her thighs, then soaked her skirt and finally discoloured her white blouse until she was immersed up to her breasts, roughly underneath Zara.

By the time Debbie had got that far, Megan had undone the suspension rope and had lowered Zara smoothly down almost to water level.  I could tell that Megan’s nipples were hurting from her body language, and it was evident that she was concentrating immensely hard to get Zara down safely.  This was not helped by a consistent barrage of flour bombs that came from Jill, leaving Megan in a white dusty cloud.   She was too involved in her task to be able to do anything about it, and if she wasn’t so focussed on lowering Zara, I was sure she would be thinking most disparaging thoughts about Leon, lying chained in the grass nearby, and probably thinking equal thoughts about the world in general, for his nips would be suffering all the time he lay there.  Indeed, it had been a most unfortunate place to be gunned down.  I smiled to myself. 

Finally Debra was able to raise her cuffed wrists as Zara’s back entered the muddy water to the accompaniment of more gagged cries.  As she sank further, and buoyancy took hold, Debra lifted Zara’s ankles off the hook to allow her to resume an upright, if distinctly cold position, but sufficient to then unhook her cuffed wrists.  Very slowly, Debra dragged the still-bound Zara back to the shore, obviously taking very small steps because of the hobble chain, and making sure of her placement of each one.

Megan was winding in the rope hurriedly, while Mistress Lynx, who had been hovering nearby looking at her watch, finally stepped in to unlock Leon’s restraints.  He staggered to his feet in time to join Megan as they hurried to the top of the cutting.  Debbie had now got Zara’s ankles untied and the two of them were starting to make their way up the slippery slope.

It was another period where the action suddenly slowed. Megan went to help the chained girls coming up, but ended up falling over and sliding on her arse all the way down to the mud pool, to the accompaniment of hoots of laughter from those of us watching from the top.  It was like something from the keystone cops, though fortunately for Megan she managed to avoid taking out the pair edging their way upwards.  Leon simply sat down and watched the progress of the girls, clearly having convinced himself there was nothing he could do.

Megan, Debra and Zara reached the top almost together, by which time Megan had waved Leon over to pull out the body bag from his pack.  Using this as a shield for the two hostages, they made a dash for the cover of the hole in the wall that led to the crawl beneath the polythene sheets.  It was on this dash that Mary landed a hit on their legs, unprotected by the bag.

The remainder of the course was – to put it mildly – a complete shambles for the Black Team.  Megan and Leon never recovered from the disastrous start and from several wrong decisions they had made at the start.  As a consequence, they never created enough breathing space to properly marshal their forces and plan ahead.  It seemed that there was always one or other of the hostages that remained chained and handicapped the group, with Leon being obliged to carry several of them over short stretches.

They made it through the polythene sheets with much difficulty, having to drag both Zara and Debra through like sacks of potatoes after both had been restrained by Mistress Lynx near the start.  Our only moment of trepidation had been when Megan took the keys at the base of the netting and had freed Zara and Debbie as much as she could, but – as with Monica and me – the thought that the keys might have unlocked their own suits never entered their heads, such was the pressure they were under.  Leila glanced at me and smiled a knowing smile as Megan stuffed the keys into Leon’s backpack without making any attempt to undo the lock at her throat, and we knew at that point that we had got the game in the bag.  Whatever else happened, the onus was on the team in the field.  It was they who would make the stuff ups, if any were to be made.  Things could only get worse.

And they did.  Megan and Leon seemed to have lost the plot, and were so intent on getting through the obstacle course that they had no time to take the attack to Jill and Mary, who continued the bombardment with well-placed missiles.  It took several attempts to get Zara and Debbie over the netting, and we could sense the frustration in the Black Team as twice the hostages were cut down by balloons on the net.  Only then did Megan and Leon realise that the only way they could proceed was to at least neutralise Mary and Jill’s incoming fire, and they managed to do this by pinning the pair down in their foxholes, without scoring any hits, however. 

This interval was long enough to get Zara and Debra over the net and into shelter, although it looked like Zara was showing the effects of the vibrator secured inside her, for she was moving very slowly and all but collapsed in the shelter near the stream crossing.  Debbie managed to hit a trip wire at this point, obliging Megan to leave her position pinning down Mary to go to the rescue, if the game wasn’t to stall for a further five minutes.  That was the trigger for another flurry of action as Megan and Leon both moved forward to find the difficulty facing them with the underground cable crossing their path near the stream, and the fact that they would have to swing across. 

There were more stuff ups as Debra again was hit, and Zara was obliged to make a dash down into the gully, out of sight of Jill and Mary, to cross the pole in a fashion that – like Leila’s effort – saw her almost fall off the pole as she suffered a very noisy and barely controlled orgasm straddling the pole above the stream.

The swinging across was accomplished without too much drama, though poor Debbie got hit again on the run to the pole, and everyone was obliged to wait five minutes until she was freed by Mistress Lynx.  Megan and Leon led Zara to the shelter near the first tent where we assumed Elizabeth would be bound under a big balloon of paint, which Leon then managed to drop on her in his rush to open the tent. 

The fifteen-minute delay was time enough for Debra to catch up, helped and shielded by Megan, such that they all took shelter in the tent while Megan and Leon then scouted forward.  I imagined it was a good thing that some of the hostages’ gags were locked in place, for I was sure there would be some uncharitable thoughts being aired.

The last stretch had not even begun when Mistress Lynx beckoned me over.

“You can go and release Monica, if you wish,” she said.  “The time is up for this lot – not that we’ll be stopping the contest, but there’s no reason Monica shouldn’t savour a taste of her victory.”

I hurried back to the house, where Monica sat motionless on the plank, blindfolded and bound hand and foot.  I splashed a little of the slimy water on her bare legs and she jerked and swore under her breath.

“Who is it?  Who’s there?” she demanded, but with a distinct note of anxiety in her voice as if she expected to suddenly be dumped into the tank.

“Only me,” I said.  “Hansom knight arrives to free bound princess.”

“Bastard,” she said without rancour, and a smile appeared on her face. “Does this mean what I think it does?”

“Yep. Black Team are disappearing down the toilet in a major way, probably still trying to figure out how to get Dianne out of the second tent, while the rest of the hostages are lying chained up over half the length of the course.”

Monica laughed as I climbed up the ladder and untied her wrists.  “Is it really that bad?”

“Imagine Laurel and Hardy in the care of the Simpsons.”

“That bad, huh?” she said, undoing her blindfold.

“Worse.  They dropped the big balloon on Elizabeth.”

“Oh stop it! Don’t make me laugh – I’ll fall in!  Undo my ankles, will you?”

I helped her down and together we made our way up to join the others watching the final stages of the Black Team’s debacle.  Jill and Mary were bombarding the hapless team mercilessly.  They had taken the same route as we had, and had evidently got Dianne out of the tent and were towing it as a group.  Leon was carrying Zara and Megan was carrying Debbie, and Elizabeth was towing Dianne strapped to the porter’s trolley, all under the shelter of the paint-stained tent. 

It appeared that the Black Team embarrassment would not stop, however, as another hit caught the group low down, splattering Elizabeth’s legs.  Leon and Megan had no alternative but to leave her and Dianne under the tent and continue on carrying their chained up hostages.  Under the rules of the game, paint strikes on a hostage did not count while they were immobilised, though they could be transported in this fashion.  Both Zara and Debbie had been manacled into what was now Mistress Lynx’s trademark hogtie, and while being carried face down in this manner by Leon and Megan the hostages could not be slowed down any more by any further hits.  Of course this did not prevent Mary and Jill from making life even more miserable for those on the course with flour and water bombs as the rescuers and hostages struggled to the end of the course. 

Megan and Leon carried the two chained and gagged schoolgirls to the finish line and dumped them beside the tank, much to the amusement of the rest of us who watched with great satisfaction.  Then it was an uphill trudge back to rescue Elizabeth and Dianne from where they lay bound under the tent. 

Megan and Leon were clearly exhausted – I knew the feeling.  Their body language told us they were dispirited and beaten, and the fact that Monica was no longer sitting above the tank but instead was watching them with the rest of the Bilboes team had not gone unnoticed.  The only people who seemed to be getting any enjoyment at all were Zara, who had climaxed several times along the course, and Dianne, who like Shawnee, was strapped to the porter’s trolley and undergoing a very thorough rogering as the last group bumped across the grass and downhill to the finishing line, accompanied by a high pitched gagged wail as a final climax overtook the bound slave.

Jill and Mary came running down from their positions, pulling off their hoods and still managing to look fresh and unmarked in their white swimsuits, gloves and thigh boots.  Then we were all hugging and congratulating each other while the Black Team looked as though they wanted the ground to swallow them. 

“Where are the keys to the gags and the crotch cable?” Megan asked.  “They were supposed to be around Monica’s neck.”

“Well, they were,” Monica said, “but they fell off.  Now they’re at the bottom of the tank.  Maybe Leon will get them for you…”

*   *   *
 
 

06.12.03

story continues in Monica's Games 2.31

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