Monica's Justice - Captives of Shark Island

by Richard Alexander (Gromets Plaza)

Book 7 of the Monica Chronicles by Richard Alexander

Chapter One – Fatal Encounter
 

Sometimes in life the most innocuous things lead to the most exciting outcomes – or the most miserable.  On the Saturday night that we went to the Brimstone Club I had no idea of the extraordinary chain of events that would eventuate in the following weeks, nor the peril in which we would find ourselves.

The Brimstone Club is located in Spring Hill, an area on the fringes of Brisbane’s CBD which is rapidly becoming the focus of developers building fancy townhouses for the café latte set.  Truth to tell, the Brimstone Club’s premises is probably not long for this world, for it occupies prime land, attached as it is to a four-level public car park building.  It’s future was not exactly at the forefront of our minds on this particular Saturday evening, however.  It was the second to last gathering before Christmas, and the Christmas ‘lead-up’ was just starting to make itself felt.  The weather was turning warm heading for another hot Brisbane summer, and people were starting to think of holidays and time on the beach. 

Trish, Emma and I were waving the flag for Bilboes, networking and just having fun with the Brisbane B&D crowd.  Whatever the ultimate fate of the Brimstone Club building, it was not deterring the club’s members, and it was clear the membership would outlive any issue with the premises. 

It would be a shame, nevertheless, to lose the place to a wrecker’s ball.  The Brimstone Club had an attractive seediness that added to the atmosphere inside the stark walls.  It was a warren of smaller rooms in one part with a large bar area out front that served as the main meeting point.  The place was obviously doomed, for nobody seemed to want to rent it the rest of the time, presumably while negotiations and designs on its future were hammered out.  We could only enjoy the grimness of its walls until such time as the demolition contract was let.

On this evening, I stood propped at the bar sipping a bacardi and coke and surveying the assembly.  They were always an interesting crowd.  Some I knew, most I didn’t.  A mixture of dominants, submissives and switches, they came in all shapes and sizes and in all manner of attire.  The dominants usually opted for the traditional black, sometimes accessorised in various ways with chains and studs.  The subbies were more varied, frequently having no choice but to submit to the whims of their custodians, and frequently being obliged to appear in some form of restraint.

Looking across the room I could see Trish and Emma at the centre of a group of mainly males, and this was not surprising, for the pair were quite eye-catching.  Trish had her auburn hair clipped up in a sophisticated style that was highlighted by makeup that was severe enough while stopping short at gothic.  She wore a dark green leather catsuit that she had borrowed from Monica, and then had griped at the fact that it was a size smaller than she was used to.  The result was that Trish was all curves, all woman, her cleavage enhanced by the zipper at half-mast, and she looked sexy as hell in her high heels.  Every so often I could hear her husky laugh carry from the group, with the soft Canadian accent still detectable in snatches of conversation.

Emma, as though by contrast to the vivacious and pre-eminent Trish at the centre, stood demurely behind her, her long black tresses in a pony tail that hung down past her shoulder blades, her head bent submissively and her hands behind her back.  They were there for a reason, of course, namely that Emma’s wrists were connected by stainless steel handcuffs that matched the shiny steel collar around her slender neck. 

Emma was a genetic throwback.  We had discussed the concept many times on the back verandah at Bilboes, usually fuelled by a bottle or two of wine.  The rest of us had concluded that somewhere in Emma’s apparent Chinese ancestry there was a white man – or woman – whose genes had given Emma her wide eyes, above average height and larger than average breasts.  These attributes, combined with her smooth Asian complexion and glossy black hair gave her a stunning beauty that most men – and a good many women – found impossible to resist.  Emma’s demure, submissive nature was also an attraction, particularly for dominants who got off on Emma’s own reaction to pain and bondage itself.  Emma had been fortunate to end up in a relationship with another of the Bilboes team, Jillian, and in truth it was Jill who had brought Emma out of the closet and into the fold, if you can pardon the mixture of metaphors. 

Emma took no part in the conversation, other than to respond briefly when spoken to.  At Trish’s suggestion, to add a little variety to the gathering, Emma had been dressed as a nurse, in a short-sleeved uniform that zipped down the front and stopped at the top of her thighs.  Add to this white stay-up stockings and white high heels, and I had to say she was unlike any nurse I had ever encountered in a hospital, but who was I to argue?  The zipper was partly undone, revealing the delicious swell of her breasts, while the white nurse’s cap contrasted attractively with her black hair. 

Even though I had known Emma (and in more than just a platonic sense, I will concede) for more than three years, I still found her nature both charming and disarming.  To all appearances she was meek and pliable, yet she showed resilience and resourcefulness when times got hard, and more than once I had been surprised by the inner strength of both her mind and body.

“Emma looks delightful tonight, does she not?”

I turned at the husky voice and found Helen standing next to me.  Mistress Helen, to give her due title, was clad in a rather severe outfit that perhaps didn’t fully qualify as B&D, but which would certainly draw some looks around the office – a black leather pencil skirt that clung to her thighs, black stockings and high heels, a figure-hugging white blouse and a narrow black tie.  Her dark hair was pulled back into a bun while clever makeup made her full lips thinner and her eyes darker.

“Hullo Helen,” I said.  “Haven’t seen you for a while.”

Helen Langford was Monica’s solicitor, and looked after Bilboes’ interests in the legal sense.  Perhaps not surprisingly, Helen shared similar interests to Monica, which I understood was how she had come to have Monica as a client.  Well, that plus the fact that she was smart – Monica didn’t employ fools.

 “How’s the Porsche going?” I asked.  Jealous?  Me?

“It’s going well, thank you Steven.  How’s the torture business?”

“Keeps me in honest work,” I said.  “How’s your own torture business?”

“You mean Kim, or the law firm?”

Helen had a subbie named Kim in a relationship that I understood went beyond that of Mistress and slave, since they worked at the same law firm.  I had not met Kim, who was Helen’s secretary, with Helen being a partner in the firm, but Monica had told me a little of their circumstances.

“Yes,” I said ambiguously.  She laughed.

“Okay, I guess.  Is Monica here tonight?”

“Nope, just the hired hands.  Anything a mere minion can do for you?”

Helen looked momentarily uncertain, as though weighing up how much to tell me, then looked across at where Trish was holding court with Emma in discrete attendance.

“Emma makes a lovely nurse, doesn’t she,” Helen commented. 

“Enough to make you want to wrap her up and take her home to play with,” I said.  Helen sucked pensively on the tip of her index finger. 

“You guys do a lot of role playing, don’t you,” she said.

“Role playing, torment, whipping, extreme orgasms, fetish play – all the usual stuff,” I said casually.

“I’d like to hire you guys, but perhaps not along quite the usual lines.”

“You’d better talk to Monica, then.” Cop out, Steven, but I knew better than to start making arrangements on Monica’s behalf.  I was in no doubt who was the boss of Bilboes.

“Yes, I had. And thinking about what you people do has given me an idea.  I need to think about things even more. I shall come and see Monica on Monday.  You may tell her that.  Now I must get back to Kim – she’s in a back room having her cute little arse reamed by a gentleman of mutual acquaintance.”

Whatever else Helen had in mind vanished from my thoughts around about then, as a face from the past appeared in front of me.

“Hello Steven.”

The figure was clad in one of the few non-black outfits in the room, this being a white, heavily boned corset complete with suspenders and white stockings.  The corset was a complete and in some ways demure affair, covering breasts and crotch, before leading the eyes down the silky smooth nyloned legs into the white patent knee-length boots with their spiky heels.  Around the neck was a two-inch white collar with a small padlock at the throat, slightly obscured by the curtain of soft blonde hair that fell to the tops of her shoulders.

“Christina!  God, how long has it been?”  The blue eyes smiled up at me and she stretched on to the tiptoes of her boots to give me a fleeting kiss.

“Too long,” she said softly.  “I saw you over here and had to come and say hello.  I don’t normally come here, but… Well, circumstances have changed.”  She paused, flicking her hair back with long perfect nails.  Christina was a stunning girl, and our relationship went back to my early days at Bilboes, when both of us had been rather harshly treated by her master Warren O’Rorke - and Monica. 

It was a brief little escapade, however Monica and Warren’s relationship had continued, ultimately leading to a number of adventures that had culminated in a showdown in a ruined English castle. The outcome of that had seen Warren wind up in the slammer in England for complicity to kidnap, as well as a few other transgressions. In the process of all of this, Christina and I had shared some very carnal and very enjoyable moments.  She had to be one of the sexiest slaves I had ever come across.

“I have a new master,” she was explaining, dragging me from my momentary reverie.  “We don’t normally come here, but in this instance I spotted you and thought I should renew old acquaintances.”  She smiled bewitchingly. 

“It’s wonderful to see you again,” I told her, meaning every word.  “This won’t get you into trouble, will it – I mean, chatting up strange men?”

“Not if I’m quick.  He does get a bit jealous, it’s true.  But overall, he’s not too bad.  But what I really wanted to ask was: did you know Warren’s back in town?”

“What?” 

No, I hadn’t known, and a little shiver went down my spine.  Until now Warren had been out of sight and out of mind, presumably enjoying the comforts of Her Majesty’s Brixton establishment or wherever he had been incarcerated.  It was, I suppose, the ultimate - and appropriate - restraint for one into such areas of interest. 

“Yes, he’s been back a couple of months.  I suppose since you weren’t aware of it, he must have been keeping his distance, and he obviously hasn’t made contact.  Perhaps it’s not surprising.”

“As long as he keeps not making contact, I don’t mind,” I said.  “So what have you been doing in the meantime.”

“Looking after his flat and his affairs, mainly.  I made myself indispensable, but then I also met this other master I told you about, and… well a girl has certain needs that can’t be readily fulfilled on one’s own.” She smiled shyly.  “One thing led to another, and… well, I guess I’ve changed hands.  Warren seems okay with it.  He should be.  I’ve looked after his stuff and I now know an awful lot of secrets about his business.  He didn’t have much choice but to let me go on my terms, which, I might add, included a nice little bonus for a job well done.”

“I’m glad,” I told her, as a man in his mid-forties slid in beside Christina.  He had a dark close-cropped goatee beard and when he spoke it was with a faint European accent that I could not isolate.

“Good evening.  Christina, are you going to introduce us?”

“Oh.  I’m sorry, sir.  I didn’t see you.  Steven, this is Jorge Santos – Steven Reynolds.” She pronounced his name as ‘Hor-hay’, and I presumed his ancestry to be Spanish.

“Delighted,” he said shaking hands. “People call me George – the Jorge makes them uncomfortable.” He smiled.  “Do I understand that you work with Monica Armstrong?”  I nodded. “Ah.  It all fits into place.”  I wondered what Christina had been telling him.  “Your talents are one of the reasons we have come along here tonight.  I don’t normally frequent this place, but I understand you’ve been doing demonstrations of various – ah – devices you’ve been making?”

“Uh – yes.  It was a bit of a hobby, but now it’s got a mind of its own and people seem to expect it as part of the evening’s show.”

“It’s the only reason some of us come here,” said another voice.  I turned to see a striking redhead standing next to me.

“My name’s Tara,” she said.  I was not used to women being so forward with me, but it had to be said the Brimstone Club was somewhat unusual in its clientele. 

“You realise your little inventions – and you - are the only reason some of us come along to these gatherings,” she added.

“I, for one, shall be looking forward to it,” Jorge said, running his eyes appraisingly over the new arrival, before clipping a leash to Christina’s collar and excusing the pair of them.  “I’m sure we will see you again in the near future, Steven.  I suspect I might be placing an order or two, from what I hear of your construction talents.”

I watched as the tightly-encased hour-glass shape of Christina was led away.  She looked back over her shoulder and flashed a smile at me before they disappeared into the crowd.

“She fancies you,” said Tara.

Why is it that some women seem to see themselves as all-knowing microscopes on a man’s private thoughts?  The fact that Tara was probably right was beside the point, but for a moment I was irritated firstly because she had seen what I was probably trying to avoid, and secondly that she had the temerity to voice it.

“Would I be right in suspecting she had reason to look at you that way?” 

Well, yes, we had rutted like animals in the middle of a mud puddle, I had been forced to gag her in the midst of a more normal process of love-making, and I had shagged her silly while she was bound in her master’s flat, none of which she had seen fit to complain to anyone about, least of all me, or her master of that time.

“I don’t know what you mean,” I said defensively, feeling my cheeks flush.  Some women are just too insightful for their own good.

Tara just shrugged and smiled, taking no offence.  Her expression carried a guileless flirtation that stopped just short of fluttering the eyelashes. I had seen Tara – or Mistress Tara as she would probably be known to most of her clients – at previous gatherings here, but had never spoken to her.  She was probably in her early thirties and when I had bought her a drink we had begun chatting. 

She wore a sleeveless black lycra top with a high collar and a cut-out front panel trimmed with leather that provided a distracting view of her pale cleavage.  Below a silver chain locked about her waist was a slightly flared black leather skirt that displayed matching areas of smooth bare flesh leading down to black pumps with four-inch heels.  While I make no pretence of being a good judge of women, I thought this one had indefinable class written all over her. 

“So what device do you have for us today, Steven?” 

“Uh – the device?  Oh.  Sorry.”  I had lost my train of thought entirely.  Some women do that to me.  Also, the idea of Warren being back on the scene had unsettled me.  I had to pass this news on to Monica, just so she would be prepared - whatever that might entail.  “It’s a little pleasure machine that can be used a number of ways.  I don’t want to spoil the fun of the demonstration, though.”

“So you’re a bit of a tease as well, are you?”  She looked at me, a hint of mischief in her grey eyes.

“I guess so.”

I had to admit Monica had seen the potential in some of the little inventions I had devised for Bilboes and its occupants.  Once I had got the place up and running with the equipment and fitout that Monica had wanted, she had persuaded me to do a little demonstration one night at the Brimstone Club, and since then it had seemed to become a regular event.  Both slaves and dominants would try out some of my creations, either on themselves or each other.  There seemed to be no shortage of volunteers, and as my immediate involvement had eased off within the Bilboes establishment, so my production requirements had grown as orders for my work began to come in.  I soon found that I had somewhat of a name around B&D circles as being a source of good quality bondage gear – so much so that I had been forced to produce a brochure with all my creations outlined in gory detail, along with (usually) Leila or Emma photographed trying them out.  Good old Monica, never one to miss the opportunity of marketing Bilboes as a sideline, while pushing my wares. 

It was all very flattering, I guess, and I was only human, after all. I guess Monica’s marketing was what Tara had been referring to in her reference to my inventions attracting customers to Brimstones.

A bell sounded from the end of the bar before I had time to rebut Tara’s suggestion further, and with the bell a hush came over the gathering, where perhaps fifty people were assembled.  A man in his forties, dressed in black slacks and a black teeshirt, mounted a low stage that ran along one side of the room.  The stage was of concrete and was about waist high and a couple of metres wide, a legacy of some past life of the building.

“Ladies and gentlemen, if I could have your attention, it’s time for this month’s demonstration from our favourite handyman – Steven Reynolds.” 

He began to clap and the others joined in.  I felt a flush of embarrassment.  While I loved the experimentation and construction aspects of my work, the marketing was a concept foreign to me, and getting up in front of a crowd to extol the virtues of my abilities only made me uncomfortable.  My first attempt at this had been a bit of an embarrassment, and the girls had felt sorry for me, and so from that time on usually Trish or Mary had done the rah-rah bit, as I called it.  They were the two stalwarts of our team who came along to the Brimstone, though frequently with one of the subs in tow.  Today it was Trish doing the honours. As she mounted the steps ahead of me, her buttocks tautly eye-catching in the green leather catsuit.

“Thank you everybody,” she said, as the applause and wolf whistles died away.  Trish displayed the poise and confidence that I lacked in front of an audience, and while I was grateful for this support, it also seemed to provide free rein for gentle insults to come my way.

“Today we have a nifty little device which our man here –“ she waved at me “ - has concocted from the strange recesses of that thing that passes for a brain.”  She grinned at me. I moved to a table under which was a large box, which I opened before taking out the contents and placing it on the table. 

It looked like a cross between a bucket on wheels and a child’s pedal car. The ‘bucket’ part lay on its side, made of heavy duty rigid 50cm pvc pipe and bolted to a steel cradle a couple of inches clear of the ground.  There were small movable wheels at the front and fixed ones at the back, the whole thing being powered by a battery-driven electric motor housed within the pipe and directed by a radio-control joystick in the manner of model aircraft.  Also driven by the motor, and operating in direct proportion to the speed, was a reciprocating vertical shaft, to which was attached a chrome plated dildo which poked up through the top of the pipe.

At the front and back of the frame were U-shaped handles rising above the level of the top of the pipe, which could be used to carry the device, and which also allowed the user to hold on to it as it moved.  Several cleats were bolted to the vehicle at strategic points, for reasons which would become obvious to the audience very soon.

“Steven, please explain how your little Moon Rover works.”

“Uh – it’s quite simple, Trish.”  I picked up a couple of lengths of four-by-two timbers I had brought for the demonstration, and between the two of us we lifted the Rover and slipped the timbers underneath it, so the wheels were clear of the table.  I picked up the radio control and flicked the power switch.  The motor hummed into life with a whine and the back wheels began to turn.  As they did so, the dildo began to move up and down through the hole, its stroke around a handspan long.  I had geared the motor down, do that it took a number of wheel revolutions to induce one full stroke of the dildo. 

There was a murmur from the crowd and muffled laughter as I swung the front wheels from side to side with the controls, and alternately revved up and slowed down the speed of the wheels and piston.  Technicalities aside, you didn’t have to be too bright to see the possibilities of this.

“You can also over-ride the radio controls and achieve exactly the same effect by dragging it along behind someone,” I told them, and again, I could see the possibilities slipping into their imaginations.

“Demo!”  somebody called out.  The call was taken up by others:

“De-mo!  De-mo!  De-mo!”  For a brief moment I felt like a rock star whose fans were demanding an encore.  Trish gave me a winning smile and assumed the position of a magician’s assistant after he has pulled off an astonishing trick.  When the noise subsided, she said:

“We’ll do a little trial in the car park next door, if you would like to make your way to the top floor via the stairs…”

This wasn’t the first time we had used the top floor of the car park as a demonstration area, though usually we required less space and somewhere a little more private.  The area was overlooked by several apartment blocks – though none was close – and a suite of offices, mercifully dark at this hour on a Saturday night.

Trish and I carried the Rover out on to the concrete of the open parking area, which was lit by a couple of fluorescent bulkhead lights on the outside wall of the stairwell.  Emma, still handcuffed, had followed us, and had in turn been followed by the rest of the crowd, the first of them no doubt getting an eyeful en route, for Emma was plainly naked under her dress.  This was further evident as Trish pushed her to the front after we had set the Rover down and the crowd had gathered around. 

I off loaded my small daypack and unzipped it to extract several short ropes.

“Emma!  Get you pretty butt over here!” Trish ordered.  Emma obeyed, standing with her legs apart above the Rover.  She knew the routine and gently lowered herself until she was seated astride it, while Trish arranged the white dress so that nothing was going to be trapped where it shouldn’t.  Emma squirmed down further, eliciting a low sigh as the dildo, looking like a missile emerging from its silo buried itself inside her.  She smiled happily and gave me a look which suggested I could now do my worst.

Trish and I each took a rope and secured Emma’s ankles, pulling her stilettoed feet backwards, clear of the concrete, before tying them to a cleat on the top of the pipe.  Emma’s weight was now almost fully borne on her crotch.  We pulled her cuffed wrists further back and lashed them to the U-shaped rear handle. 

“In the interests of the neighbours I’m afraid we will have to gag our dear Emma,” Trish said, extracting a white rubber ball gag on a strap from the daypack. 

“I’m sure you’ll be only too happy to give these people a full description afterwards – once you’ve got your breath back – won’t you dear?  Open wide.”  Emma did as she was told, as Trish worked the ball into the captive’s mouth and buckled the strap behind her head.  “Comfy?”

“Uh-huh.”

I wasted no further time and started up the Rover. It moved off jerkily, for the floor was a bit uneven, but soon it had picked up speed and was whizzing around the open parking area at sufficient speed for the breeze to blow the hem of Emma’s dress back, revealing her shaven pussy clamped down hard on the pipe.

“Urrrrghhhh…” said Emma into the ball as she completed a drive-by then did a U-turn for a return.  This time I took it much more slowly, and I could see her trying to squirm down harder, to grind into the pipe.  She was staring ahead, her large eyes ignoring the audience, instead focussing on some distant point. 

“Urgh – urgh – urgh…”  Had the Rover been able to go faster I was sure I could have produced a Doppler effect, like that of a police car siren as it passes you. Emma was now trying to make siren noises of her own, which was exactly the reason Trish had gagged her.  I steered the car to where Trish stood and halted it, long enough for Trish to further unzip Emma’s uniform and expose her breasts, which were rising and falling magnificently in time with the grunts coming from her gag.  Then she was off again, the grunts rising to a higher pitch as the speed of the Rover was translated to the speed of the piston pumping up and down inside its rider.

“Go Em!”  Trish called, and several more pointed comments were heard.  I brought Emma in for a slow fly-past, then another U-turn before a flat-out sprint which really did produce the right result, in a drawn-out cry that would have been a scream but for the ball clamped between her teeth.

“Ohhhhhggggghhhhhaaaahhh….”

By the time I brought her in for a landing, her breasts were heaving and the nipples were like two rock-hard pointers in the cool night air.  When we removed the gag she was fully occupied gasping for air, and perhaps this was as good an endorsement as any verbalised comment.  Her thighs were quivering as she stood up, and Trish helped her to a nearby seat where she collapsed as her mistress zipped up the dress.

“Anybody else want a ride?” I jested.  “Motor or human power – take your pick.”  I had not really expected anyone to take up the offer.  Slaves are there to be made a spectacle of – most other people perhaps prefer their kicks in more private fashion.

“I’d like to try the product of your skills,” came a voice that I recognised as that of Tara.  She stepped forward to a ripple of applause, then turned to the crowd.  “I want some muscle power, however,” she added, her voice sharpening as though disclosing the true nature of her personality.  “Who will lend me a slave?”

“Sure, take Nigel,” said a butch-looking woman, thrusting a hapless man ahead of her.  Solid and stocky, he was in his late thirties, his upper body devoid of hair.  He obviously didn’t have much choice in the matter for his wrists were already manacled in front of him and he wore a leather discipline helmet that matched his leather shorts.  There were mumbling noises coming from under the hood, but nothing intelligible.  The black-haired woman nudged him again with the toe of her boot.

“Nigel!  Get out there and do as you’re told!”

Nigel appeared to have little stomach for resistance, and meekly allowed Tara and Trish to anchor a rope from each upper arm to the front U-bar on the Rover.  Tara, fully in control of the situation sidled up to me with a whip she had borrowed from someone.  It was a small stockwhip, perhaps a couple of metres long.  I was glad I wasn’t in Nigel’s place.

“I’m looking forward to this,” Tara told me with a sly smile.  “If Emma’s little performance is anything to go by, you must be quite good with your hands…” 

She left the double entendre hanging there as she stepped across and straddled the Rover, and I realised as she slowly squatted down that she, too, had to be wearing no underwear beneath the leather skirt.  She caught my eye and smiled again, then turned her attention to her position.  There were two rubber footrests that folded down, which I had cannibalised from a motorbike, and which Tara, shedding her high heels, was able to hook her feet over instead of having them tied back.

“Comfy?” I asked, in much the same way I had inquired of Emma. 

“Ohhh yes,” she murmured huskily, then appeared to focus her mind on the immediate necessity of getting moving.  Holding on to the front U-bar with her left hand, she dextrously flicked the whip at the hapless Nigel’s backside.

It was immediately apparent that human power did not offer quite the same smoothness of acceleration that the electric motor did.  Tara uttered a small cry as Nigel shot off like a startled hare.  His bulk created enough inertia that Tara must have received quite a thrust on take-off, and her first exclamation continued in short gasps as they galloped the length of the car-park, further away than Emma had been, and getting a good head of speed up in the process.  Nigel didn’t need much incentive to keep going, but every few seconds Tara nevertheless caught him on the rump with the whip. 

That was on the first run.  By the time they had managed a hairy U-turn and were on the second pass, Tara was hanging on with both hands, a fixed expression on her face that suggested further whipping was unnecessary, or so I thought until the third run, when Tara now lashed out and exhorted the slave to go “faster! faster!” Then the whip abruptly dropped and Tara howled as though at the moon, her head rising then dropping as she clung on to the U-bar with both hands.

Nigel staggered on until the end of the car park, by which time Tara was tugging on both ropes and pleading that he stop.  He did, at that point, the Rover’s momentum causing it to bump into the back of his legs.  Both figures came to a standstill and both pairs of shoulders bent and heaved from their respective stages of exhaustion.  While the crowd clapped then headed back to the bar, I took my time walking to the Rover.  Tara was only just unhooking her feet when I arrived.  She looked up at me, red-faced but clearly impressed.

“Wow,” she breathed.  “You sure know how to give a girl a ride, sir.”

Mistress Tara was about the best advertising you could hope for, and I got several orders that night – certainly enough to go home with Trish and Emma in a pleased frame of mind.  I would have enough work to keep me happily productive for the next couple of weeks, and I slept well as a result.

After lunch the following day, however, my complacent mood was shattered when Monica called me into her study.  She was seated at her desk, looking coolly elegant in a pale green silk dress that contrasted sharply with the raven hair that fell just past its collar.  She turned her blue eyes to me as I entered and tried to ascertain her mood.  There was a trace of a frown on her forehead - an indication that she was perturbed.  It was not a state of mind usual for her, and it was then I saw the man also present, who had been standing near the side bookcase.

“Come in, Steven,” Monica said quietly, adding to my own unease.  “Steven, this is Paul, Paul Bowden.  Paul is married to my aunt – my late aunt.  He also works for CID.”  She let the words hang in the air.  I shook hands with the man and sat down.  He was in his late fifties – big, broad-shouldered and balding and he looked at me with interest.  I didn’t know what was going on, and an awkward silence lingered until there was a knock on the door and Mary and Trish appeared.

There were further introductions, with the newcomers appearing equally puzzled by their summons.  Trish was evidently having Sunday off, for she wore a cotton wrap over a bikini, and I had seen her sunning herself by the pool earlier.  Mary, on the other hand, looked as though she had been interrupted in mid-flight in the basement dungeons, in her much-reprised role as the Gestapo queen. 

“I’m sorry to drag you away, Mary,” said Monica.  “I hope the client is not too inconvenienced.” 

Mary shrugged, her expression evincing little concern for the hapless individual who was suffering at her hands. “No, she’s happy to hang around for the moment.”  I could imagine a wide variety of circumstances that might fit what Mary’s idea of hanging around might be, none of which I would find particularly pleasant, but which the clients of Bilboes paid good money to receive.

Mary sat down next to me on a sofa, crossing one high-heeled, booted leg over the other beneath the knee-length black leather skirt.  Unconcerned at the pregnant atmosphere in the room, she straightened her tie and brushed some specks of dirt from her starched white shirt.

While Paul looked uncomfortable, Monica broke the silence.

“Let me just start by saying I’ve known Paul for many years – since I was a little girl, in fact.  He knows what we do here, and is happy with a quid pro quo.”

“In regard to what?” I asked.

“Advice, information, understanding,” Monica replied.  “Like now.  Paul hasn’t told me why he’s here, yet, but I gather something bad has happened in the B&D community, and I want you three – as my senior staff – to be aware of the issue and to maybe assist.  Paul?”

Paul looked at us for a moment then went across to the French doors behind Monica and stared out at the garden. 

“Come around behind the desk and look at the monitor screen,” Monica said to the rest of us.  “Paul has some photos he wants to show.  Paul?”

Paul took a deep breath. “I can tell you that this is not pleasant, but I need some help with it.  The police were called to a church in Hawthorne this morning, when it was opened up by the minister in preparation for the service.  This is what he found.”

He pushed a button on the small wireless electronic notebook that lay on the desk, and the flat screen monitor of Monica’s computer leapt into a stark picture.  There was a collective gasp from the four of us clustered close together.

The picture was somewhat indistinct, taken from some metres away - a naked figure held in a vertical spreadeagle, her arms and legs stretched out like a starfish.  Her ankles were anchored by white ropes to points outside the picture frame, and her wrists were pulled high and similarly anchored beyond the range of the camera.  The figure seemed to sag within the ropes, and surely the head would have drooped but for another rope wound into the long red hair holding it upright via a vertical tie to some point above the victim.  Beyond the wrist ties, the hands drooped lifelessly.

A black ball gag was strapped between the woman’s teeth, and vivid red weals were visible all over her body – the obvious result of a severe beating.  The face was indistinct in the picture, but most striking, however, was the addition of several turns of black rope horizontally around her torso and breasts, and several similar turns about her neck, dropping down to disappear through her crotch then presumably up her back..  The horizontal and vertical black rope gave the effect of a sinister cross imposed on the body.

As the others made noises of horror, I had a sudden chill of recognition – a premonition confirmed in the next photo – a close-up. 

“Oh God – it’s Tara!”

“You know her?” Paul voiced the thoughts of the others.

“I…I met her at the Brimstone Club last night… She…”  I stopped.  The room fell silent and I felt Monica’s comforting hand on my shoulder as I stared at Tara’s wide grey eyes frozen in death, with her lips drawn back around the rubber ball and the black rope tight about her throat.

Trish was also making small noises of disbelief. 

“What…what do you know about this?” she asked in a faltering voice.

“It seemed pretty clear there was a B&D element involved, which is why I came straight to Monica.  She’s been of assistance to us before.” 

I looked at Monica sideways, but she avoided my gaze. 

“I didn’t come here with the expectation that you would know the deceased,” Paul continued.  “This puts a whole new slant on my queries.  What I can tell you is that we believe the victim died in the early hours of this morning from strangulation.”  He pushed a button on the notebook to get to the next picture.  It was taken from the rear and showed a close-up of the knot where the vertical and horizontal ropes crossed.  Thrust through the knot was what looked like a cut-down broom handle, hanging like a big winding key against Tara’s bloodied and bruised flesh. 

“It appears that by turning the piece of wood, the ropes tightened around the neck and torso, ultimately causing strangulation,” Paul said.  “I should also tell you that two devices had been inserted into the victim prior to the vertical ropes being put into place.”

“Oh Christ…” I murmured.  The thought of the ropes tightening about Tara’s neck while at the same time driving plugs or dildos deeper inside her, and compressing her breasts as she fought for breath, was an awful image in my mind.

“We’ve obtained a snatch of film from a security camera at the service station next door, which I’ve also had downloaded to the notebook.”  A moment later there was a grainy image of a man and a woman walking along the street.  It was a stuttering clip, lasting only a few seconds, but there was no mistaking the high heels, leather skirt and sleeveless top of Tara.  She was walking slowly beside a man, her body shielding a good view of him.  He carried what looked like a sports bag, and appeared to be holding Tara by the upper arm.

Paul replayed the clip several times, while we watched silently.  There was something about the way Tara walked that I found odd, but I couldn’t exactly put my finger on it.  Her arms hung limply by her sides and she seemed to walk without animation.  Then the clip stopped.

“I’m going to have to ask you all some questions…” Paul said.

The mood was sombre on the back verandah that evening.  The four of us had knocked off a couple of bottles of wine while the other girls stayed respectfully quiet, letting us come to grips with Tara’s death, for although we did not really know her, the immediacy and the horrific nature of it had deeply unsettled us.
But amidst the gloom there were a number of unanswered questions - aspects of the murder that we could not understand. 

“What’s with the church?” Trish said.  “Why commit a murder in a church?”

“And the black rope… That’s not off the shelf stuff,” I said. 

“It has to be making a point,” Monica suggested.  “Black against the skin – a contrast in the form of a cross.  Hence in the church.”

“Hence – why?” I asked her.

“I don’t know.  There just seems to be some sort of logic – some sort of symbolism.  You know – cross, church.”

“Not to mention the popular perception of some sort of perversion being dealt with in a holy place,” I added.

“You think this guy is some sort of religious nutter?” Trish asked.

Mary, in particular, was thoughtful. “You know,” she said to nobody in particular.  “I’ve seen that rope tie before.”

“What?” 

“The rope cross – with the stick to tighten them at the back.”

“You’re kidding!”

Mary said nothing for a full half minute, staring at her wine glass with her fingertips pressed to her temples, as if trying to recall something from her past.

“It was in Sydney… at Dark Castle, I’m sure. Pre-Monica.  Pre-Trish.  Maybe seventeen or eighteen years ago.  There was this guy…  He had several sessions with one of the subs at the Castle and nearly killed her.  Oh, she was sort of into asphyxiation and strangulation – you know, making the climax more intense.  It’s not unusual, but has to be done with care.  This guy – and I only heard this second hand – left her in a similar position while she struggled and fell unconscious.  She almost died.  Hospitalised and the client was never seen again.  But the rope tie was much discussed at the time amongst the girls.  God, the more I think about it, the more similar it sounds.  She was plugged with vibrators front and back, her breasts bound – all designed to send her over the edge, heightened by the difficulty breathing.”

“Could it be the same person?” I asked.  “How old would he be now?”

“I don’t know.  I never saw him.  I think he was in his late twenties then, which might put him at close to forty-ish now.”

“But if it was him, what’s the motive here and why no other instances up to now?”

“We don’t know that there haven’t been,” Trish cautioned.

“Maybe he’s been out of the country?” I suggested.

“I think we’re overlooking something here,” Monica put in.  We looked at her.  Monica had an ability to cut to the fundamentals sometimes that left us clear why this was her business and we were “the staff”.

“How did Tara – presumably an experienced domme – come to be in this position in the first place?  Rule number one in this business – be careful of your clients.  And why does a domme consent to be bound?”

“She had to know the guy,” I said.

“I’m not so sure,” Monica mused.

“Then answer your own question.  Why would a domme consent to be bound by a stranger – and in a church of all places?”

“Even if she knew him, that last bit is a difficult part to explain,” Monica said.  She was right, and we were no closer to a solution.  What we didn’t know then was that this bizarre and horrific death was not to be the last…

*   *   *

25.10.05

story continues in Monica's Justice - Captives of Shark Island

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