Monica's Justice - Captives of Shark Island
by Richard Alexander (Gromets Plaza)
(story continues from Monica's Justice - Captives of Shark Island)
Chapter Three - Kidnaps R Us
The result of Helen’s disruptive visit was that we came to be sitting in Monica’s Beemer the next morning at six thirty, while a trim female jogged down the steps of an old turn-of-the-century cottage in Red Hill, not far from downtown Brisbane. Red Hill was to a certain extent what its name suggested – a compact, hilly area of steep narrow streets and old houses that were slowly losing their character as they fell apart, while the land value skyrocketed. They were an investor’s dream, returning reasonable rent while attracting high capital gain. They suited inner city workers who could walk to work and had no need of a car or garage space. Evidently Kim was just such a renter. We were here to identify her and check out the lie of the land.
She was followed down the front steps by a brunette of around the same age – probably in her late twenties. They were dressed for jogging – Kim wearing a short netball skirt and light blue tee-shirt, and her friend in a grey tracksuit.
The pair paused at the gate of the overgrown garden, and the body language told us they were debating which route to follow. Trish passed me a pair of binoculars. I focused on the two figures. Kim had ash blonde hair tied with a blue ribbon into a long ponytail. She looked a nice girl, smiling and chatting with her presumed flatmate, for such were her circumstances as Helen had described them.
Her figure was quite athletic, I thought, as the two girls began to jog towards us, breasts moving with a rhythm that no sports bra could fully disguise – fortunately for us males. It was brisk enough at this hour for nipple bumps to be straining against the cotton material in what I thought was a most pleasing way.
“No sign of rope marks that I can see,” I observed, my eyes running down the smooth bare legs and arms. “Uh-oh – better get ready to duck down.” The girls were still fifty meters away, but then turned down a side street and were gone.
“Looks simple enough,” Monica said. “Think you’ll be able to handle her?”
Monica had told us that she had once met Kim – albeit briefly – at the Brimstone Club, and as a consequence she could not be involved in the kidnapping herself. Trish, Mary and I, all unknowns to Kim, were the K-team.
“Sure,” said Trish.
“Easy peasy,” Mary agreed. “This place is perfect to nab her on the way home. Hopefully not too many people, and dark and secluded as well.”
“Shame about the flatmate,” Trish commented. “Without her we could have gone straight into the house. Won’t she get suspicious when Kim doesn’t turn up after we grab her ?”
“We’ll do it this Friday,” Monica said. “Helen will ring the flatmate and say that Kim is working late and then will go to Helen’s place straight from work, so the flatmate shouldn’t expect to see her for a couple of days. That’s more than enough time to find out what’s going on from our prisoner.”
We waited for half an hour until the pair returned from the same side street. Kim’s tight tee-shirt was showing dark patches of sweat on her back, and as the pair passed through the front gate I could again admire our target. I couldn’t believe the twists and turns that my handyman job sometimes followed. As though echoing my thoughts, Trish observed:
“Do you know that in New York you can pay a group of guys to kidnap you and film the event on video? Five thousand bucks it costs.”
“And what else do you get?” I asked.
“I don’t know. I saw it on one of those alternative travel shows. They broke into this guy’s apartment, wrapped him up in duct tape and carried him off in a van, before holding him captive tied to a chair for a bit.”
“What, no whipping, suspension or forced climaxes?” Mary queried disparagingly. “Sounds like money down the drain if you don’t even get a decent climax out of it all.”
“Not much fun being an all guy thing, either,” Trish said. “Talking of money, I assume we’re getting paid for this?”
“You betcha,” Monica confirmed. “Oh, there may be a small discount, as one domme to another, but I personally take great pleasure in charging lawyers at an exorbitant rate. Helen can afford it, if you go by the car she drives.”
“You drive this Beemer,” I reminded her.
“Hey, its second hand. And not up there with a new Porsche 911 Turbo.”
“She has one of those?” I whistled. “She knows her cars.”
“Ohhh yes. A bit of a petrol head is our Helen.”
“If I was Kim, I’d stick with Helen – Porsches aren’t that easy to come by.”
Three of us – myself, Trish and Mary - were back there on the Friday night around seven pm. It was cool but fine – typical Brisbane winter weather – and also dark. The street was not well lit, but the neighbourhood was a peaceful and well-established one, evidently not a hangout for kids on drugs or hooning cars. It was quiet, and we parked the Monica Van – as I called the Ford Transit – under a large tree that overhung the footpath in a position equidistant between the nearest streetlights.
Helen had phoned Monica when Kim had left work, and Monica had in turn phoned the three of us sitting in the van. Trish positioned herself at the top of the hill so that we would have advance notice of Kim’s appearance. We even had a description of what she was wearing from Helen, in case we might be tempted to kidnap the wrong person. How incompetent did she think we were, I wondered? Long leather skirt, black knee-length boots, emerald green blouse and black leather jacket Trish hurried back to tell us Kim was on the way.
Wearing a very feminine and unthreatening pink dress (admittedly borrowed from Leila’s wardrobe), Mary squatted down beside the wheel of the van with the jack and wheel brace lying on the footpath, while Trish and I crouched motionless in the darkness of some bushes at the base of the tree. Kim would have to pass between us and Mary.
Her heels came tapping softly on the pavement. Mary was fiddling about with a torch as though looking for something. Kim stopped as she drew level.
“Have you lost something?” Kim’s voice sounded slightly foreign, with an accent that might have been French, or at least European.
Mary looked up and smiled gratefully.
“Yes, I’ve dropped one of the wheel nuts – the tire was flat and I had to change it, but now I can’t find the last nut ” Kim was clearly impressed at Mary’s evident ability.
“You changed the tire yourself?”
“Of course.” I didn’t believe Mary had ever done such a thing in her life, though I would never suggest that to her face. I could believe it of Trish, but not Mary, but then Kim didn’t know Mary the way I knew her. “Would you mind holding the torch for a moment?”
“Of course.” As Kim squatted down beside Mary, holding the small key-ring size torch - that was the moment when Kim’s fate was sealed. Trish and I were only two steps behind the crouching figure, and it took only a second for us to grab her by the arms and hold her there, trapped in a half-squat that made it impossible for her to run. Mary was just as fast, rising in a fluid motion to grab the blonde tresses and haul Kim’s head back with one hand, while stuffing a sponge ball into her involuntarily opened mouth.
It was done clinically and quickly. Surprise and overwhelming strength – the key elements in any battle. Mary quickly had two strips of duct tape over Kim’s mouth then we hustled her into the back of the van and slammed the doors. In under ten seconds it was all over Red Rover - at least as far as any subsequent passer-by might be concerned. Sure, the van rocked a little as Trish and I pushed our prisoner face down on the floor of the back cabin and strapped her crossed wrists together behind her back. We discovered she was wearing tasteful leather gloves as well – I reckoned our Kim had a little leather fetish going. It was something we could oblige her with, as Trish dragged a black leather discipline hood over the blonde mane and began to lace it up while the figure struggled and grunted under us.
With the hood in place we breathed easier and bound her booted feet to her thighs with further heavy straps. Kim still squirmed against her bonds, uttering muffled moans from beneath the hood. It had a zippered mouth and a snap-on blindfold that effectively shut out the world from her senses.
Mary started the engine, obviously having put the last wheel nut back in place, and we drove off, Trish and I grinning at each other as partners in crime, sitting on the benches with our feet resting against the bound and gagged girl on the floor. This must be okay if a lawyer had asked us to do it
We said nothing on the drive back to Bilboes. Monica had briefed us on how Kim was to be handled, and as per most of Monica’s scenarios and role playing, uncertainty was the key. At that moment Kim would be pretty scared and wondering what was going on. Retaining and fostering that doubt was essential, and letting her lie there, with no voice contact and no clues as to where she was being taken, was part of the process. Even when they could be heard above the noise of the engine, her gagged interrogative pleas met with no response from either of us.
Monica had hinted that she might take part in the interrogation, confident that while Kim might recognize her face, she would not recognize her voice with the voice distorter on. The plan was that Kim would remain hooded until further notice, and that Mary would lead the interrogation. Without the sense of sight, Kim’s fear would build on not knowing where she was or who we were. Monica wanted to give the impression that we were business rivals of one of Helen’s clients, and the punishment we would have to dish out to Kim would have to reflect this. To this end it would have to be focused on the extraction of information and not on any techniques that might lead to sexual gratification, for Monica had suggested that Kim might be susceptible to sexual fulfilment through pain.
We took the back road to the house. It meant bypassing the front drive and continuing up the main road for a couple of kilometres before turning off on a disused track that meandered through the bush before eventually ending up over the ridge from Bilboes. We followed the track until we were nearly at the boundary fence, at which point we stopped and Mary turned the engine off. I opened the rear doors.
The bush was silent and still, the light from inside the back of the van creating a small pool of illumination amidst the encroaching darkness. Trish unstrapped Kim’s legs, rolled her on to her back and pushed her towards the open doors. I hauled her out and watched her stand unsteadily on the high heels of her boots. She managed an unhappy muffled squeak from under the hood.
“Shut up,” I told her roughly. Trish and I both had powerful torches, and with these we could identify a narrow track leading off to the right. Taking Kim’s arms we set off through the bush as Mary drove the van away. Tonight was going to be a little out of the ordinary, and in many ways I was quite looking forward to it. Monica had wanted to keep Kim right away from Bilboes, to make the kidnapping seem like a more ad hoc affair, and to further this perception we were all going to spend the night in the bush.
We walked for a couple of hundred meters, before emerging into a natural clearing where the bush gave way to rocky ground. To one side there was an exposed rock face rising up in a small cliff, down which a small stream cascaded. We could hear it in the darkness, but Monica and I had reconnoitred the place earlier that day and had made our preparations. A tent was already set up with air beds and sleeping bags, firewood had been collected and a fire was ready to be lit. There was a small battery-powered fluorescent camping light that gave adequate illumination for us to carry out the next stage of our preparations. All this was for Trish’s and my benefit, of course. Kim would have a much more uncomfortable night.
Monica had decided to wear Kim down by depriving her of sleep first, with the real interrogation beginning the following morning. To achieve this, all we would have to do would be to secure Kim for the night and keep an eye on her. In the course of our preparations the previous day I had drilled five anchor bolts into the cliff face – two at ankle level, two at waist level, three meters apart, and one above head height. From these dangled chains, at the end of which were single manacles, made from separated handcuffs.
It took a matter of seconds to push Kim back against the smooth granite and ratchet the manacles closed around her leather-clad ankles. This left her with her feet about half a metre apart. Nothing too strenuous, but after a few hours in her high heels it would become far worse. We undid her wrists and taking one each, we clicked the manacles closed about them so that she stood with her arms pointing at forty-five degrees to the ground. Again, nothing too stringent, but by morning she would be very, very stiff and tired. The final touch was a leather collar attached to the last chain above her head. The rock wall was angled back very slightly so that she could lean on it, and dressed as she was in leather jacket and skirt, we figured she would gain some protection from the cold for a short while. After that it would slowly creep into her bones but not so much that she would end up with hypothermia.
All the while she was being secured Kim was making pathetic little grunts that might have been pleas to know what was going on and what was happening to her. She had tried to jerk her wrists free briefly as we had unstrapped them, but she had no chance, and now all she could do was tug on her unyielding chains to quickly discover that she had precious little freedom of movement.
Trish and I stepped back and shone our torches on the hooded figure chained to the rock. She yanked hopelessly against her restraints, lifting her gloved hands and trying to reach the hood, then finding she couldn’t, nor could she even reach her body with either of her chained wrists. There was some jerking of her legs but with the same result. Kim was a sensible girl, though, and it took little time for her to realize she was very securely restrained, and even had she been on the end of only one chain, the effect would have been the same – no escape. In this instance the chains were there for a purpose, however.
Trish and I moved to where the tent had been set up on a small flat area some meters away, and she hauled the air beds out of the tent while I started the fire. The dancing flames soon illuminated the little clearing and the helplessly chained girl off to one side, and I took out some sausages and put them on the steel grilling plate over the fire. It wasn’t long before the aroma of cooking meat was hanging in the cool night air. I popped the cork on a bottle of red wine and was just preparing for a pleasant evening under the stars when there was a noise in the bushes nearby and a torchlight came into view. It was Monica.
“Change of plan,” she told us softly, out of earshot of the prisoner. “Trish, we’ve had a late request for an overstay – Jan has the day off tomorrow and wants to stay overnight. She needs a good session in the dungeon – keep her up until she’s exhausted, then Holding Cell Number 1, or maybe under the stairs, depending on how she’s coping. Whatever you see fit. The other girls are all rostered on tomorrow, and you can hand over to them then. Can you deal with that, Sweetie?”
Trish sighed. “I was so looking forward to a night camping out. I haven’t done it since I was a kid in BC.”
“I know. I’m sorry, but there’s nobody else.”
“Sure. Okay, Mon.” Trish was always easy-going. I wondered if Monica didn’t take advantage of her sometimes.
“I appreciate it, Trish. I’ll make it up to you.”
“Good. Maybe we’ll have to do this again – the camping out, I mean.”
“We will. Good idea.”
“See ya.”
Trish disappeared along the path and soon the torch had been swallowed up in the blackness. I was sitting on an air bed poking at the fire to the accompaniment of the sizzling sausages as Monica sat down beside me.
“Poor Trish will miss out on this excellent cuisine,” she teased.
“Mock not, oh ye of little faith,” I retorted, “unless you want to simply watch me stuff my face while you go hungry.”
“Okay, okay,” she conceded, her eyes flashing laughter. “I brought a peace offering.” It was then that I noticed the bottle of wine she carried in a plastic bag.
“Now we have two,” I said, indicating the one Trish had already opened. “Oh dear. Well, we’ll need something to keep us warm.”
“Yes, we will, won’t we.” She smiled meaningfully.
Kim’s treatment had not yet properly begun, and while Monica held the light and looked on critically, I placed a small plastic carry box on the ground in front of the chained girl. In the box there was a purpose made switch connected to a battery, and from this I unrolled two wires that ended in wooden clothes pins with metal faces on the inside of the jaws, to which the wires were linked. Kim struggled while I undid her leather jacket. Her struggles were limited, for she could barely move her legs and arms much, nor her head - all of these movements causing the chains to rattle and bringing home to her the hopelessness of her situation. She whined as I undid her blouse and felt the fullness of her breasts beneath.
She was wearing a half-cup bra, and rather than be bothered with the back fastening, I dug and prised her breasts partly over the top of the bra such that her nipples were accessible. Kim was getting more agitated now, her breathing becoming more rapid and her tits rising and falling sharply, which I admit I found particularly attractive. She made little grunting noises of protest as I released a clothespin on to each pink nub, which had become hard and erect through the course of my ministrations.
With the battery connected to the clothespins, she would receive a sharp shock right through each nipple the moment the switch was closed. The small lever-switch itself was screwed to a board to which the battery was also fixed, and was spring loaded into the ‘off’ position using a rubber band. I tied a piece of fishing line to the switch and tugged it briefly.
Kim jerked and uttered a muffled squeal, a shudder running through her body that turned into a conscious effort to shake her torso, as if she might free herself from the clutch of the clothes pins. I looked up at Monica and could see her smile in the harsh fluorescence of the camping light.
I ran the fishing line through three further small eyebolts fixed to the rock, so that the line ran upwards beside the prisoner, then passed through an eyebolt above her head. From here the line dropped, and I tied it off to the top of Kim’s discipline hood with her head upright. Any movement forward by her head meant that the line tightened to complete the circuit and her nips would receive a jolt. I moved her head slowly forward, and just before she reached the limit of the chain on her collar, she suddenly stiffened and there was a stifled scream from under the hood. I held her head for a moment, maintaining contact while she struggled and jerked, before I let her go. She was snorting and her breathing was harsh, the clothespins bobbing up and down under the open blouse. Monica motioned to me to do up the buttons. I obeyed, wondering why women ever decided to have buttons that did up the reverse way to men. Probably all to do with the Mars and Venus stuff, I decided.
We moved back to the warmth of the fire.
“That should keep the little tart happy for the night,” Monica said.
“I don’t know about happy, but it’ll keep her awake,” I agreed. Every time she started to nod off and her head lolled forward, she would come awake with a zap of electricity coursing through her tits. Monica’s idea, of course. As usual, I just had to make it work.
After that, things started to go just a little off the rails, not that I was complaining. We watched Kim at the edge of the circle of firelight as we ate our sausages wrapped in fresh bread and butter, topped with tomato sauce, and drank our wine. Before we knew it, one bottle was empty and we were well into the second. The fire died down and Kim merged into the blackness. We hardly knew she was there, save for the odd clink of chain and a gagged whimper every now and again. I suspected she had a few hours to go before sleep started to overwhelm her. Until then she would remain awake and alert enough not to prompt a jolt through her nipples.
We, on the other hand, were succumbing to the wine – or rather Monica was. I had never seen her like this before, and I began to suspect it was perhaps the fact that we were away from the house and prying eyes. Monica seemed to be drinking two glasses to every one of mine, and before I knew it, we had begun making out. Cuddling closer by the fire turned into a very friendly grope by Monica, which in turn became a kiss.
When I looked back on this moment, I tried to find a rationalization behind Monica’s behaviour. She later blamed it all on the wine – and, of course, on me. But women do that – it’s part of their psyche. In my time at Bilboes, there had always been something about Monica that had attracted me in a way different from the others. My time had not been without its compensations, albeit that they had been a mixture of pleasure and pain. I had experienced such encounters with a number of clients, not least Christina, Shannen and Isobel, and had managed a quiet tryst or two with all of the other girls. I was sure that in fact these had probably not been as secret as I imagined, for Monica invariably knew everything that went on in the house. Yet despite all these distractions, and the sight of naked and bound girls being a common instance in Bilboes, Monica had often remained somewhat aloof.
Over several years and various adventures with Monica, I had often wondered if this was the long-past crush coming to the fore. She had admitted to such on our first meeting, referring to our high school days when I had hardly been aware of her and her group of friends tagging along with the first eleven cricket team, to gawp from the boundary. We were – at least I was – too focused on the game to take much notice of these juniors, but I had since come to know that Monica was not one to be easily put off.
But Monica possessed attributes that set her apart from the rest of the team – not least an inscrutability and an ability to conceal her true feelings. Add to this her commanding presence, her innovation and intelligence, and you had quite an intimidating female on your hands. Or rather on my hands, for that was now the situation.
We kissed deeply, a wet tonguing interspersed with gasps for air as passion took hold of us. Sure, the wine had something to do with it, at least on my part. I become somewhat less inhibited just before I get sleepy, and I was just at this relaxed stage that I wasn’t going to question why Monica was all over me in this instance, without having even to tie me up first. The subtle smell of her perfume was in my nostrils as her breasts pressed against me, and my hands riffled through her black silky tresses. She wore a zippered woollen jacket against the cool night air, and in no time this was open, and I had established that under her blouse she wore no bra. Her nipples were two hard protrusions straining at the fabric as our scrabbling fingers undid the buttons on both our shirts. She was unusually clumsy and laughing as she dragged my pants off, clearly well loaded from the wine and past being decorous.
The fire still gave off enough warmth to take the edge off the night coolness, such that we were soon naked on the air mattress. Monica’s skin glowed with a lustre that I found irresistible. Her muscles were smooth and taut and her breasts were of such firmness that a bra would have been superfluous. I momentarily recalled my first view of them, a long time ago, when I had attached clamps to them and left her for Warren O’Rorke to find, chained by the nipples to the garden tap.
It had taken a considerable time for her to forgive me for that, though I considered at that moment that we were at least all square. They had lost none of their charm since I had last seen them in their glory.
I ran my hands down her slender waist. My own muscles – one in particular – were also taut and rigid, and Monica stroked this gently, before bending forward to engulf Mr Willy in the warmth of her mouth. I shuddered uncontrollably in the delicious feeling that surged through me, and couldn’t suppress a long groan of pleasure. Monica giggled and did inflammatory things with her tongue that stoked the fires in my loins.
Then she was on top of me, impaling herself slowly, half-withdrawing, then sinking down to the hilt, to the accompaniment of a drawn-out sigh. She leaned forward, her weight pressing on my upper arms, as though holding me down. I had the feeling that Monica liked to be on top, and right then I wasn’t about to suggest otherwise. I made as if to buck her off, arching my pelvis and thrusting further inside her. She gasped, then giggled, shaking her hair in my face and moving from side to side so that her erect nipples just brushed my chest while she squirmed and contracted her muscles around Mr Willy.
It was all on from there. Kim was in darkness, but no doubt she could hear us. Most of the wildlife within fifty meters would have heard us, come to that. It was not romantic sex; rather, it was fun and passionate and – if I do say so myself – quite athletic. I wondered what Kim was making of the sounds that reached her, and whether the subbie was getting horny as well. For that matter, I fleetingly wondered what to make of Monica’s sudden come-on, myself, before deciding that it was a philosophical matter that was best left until morning.
Once again I realized why customers came to Bilboes – those that were into something rather straighter than standard B&D, that is. Monica was skilled in her trade, and managed to provoke me into a couple of passable explosions which I think were equally pleasurable for her. You could never tell with girls today, but I had never had any complaints in the past. Exhausted, and with Monica now suffering from a more pronounced lack of coordination, we crawled into the tent and curled up into the two sleeping bags. They didn’t zip together and it was too cold to remain outside them.
By the same token, we didn’t have to do all the cuddle thing and any post-mortem stuff about how good it had been. Monica was past that, anyway. I have to confess I was surprised. I had never seen her lose control like that before, in any facet of her management of Bilboes. I fell asleep wondering – not for the first time - just what it was that made Monica Armstrong tick.
I slept soundly, my subconscious only occasionally penetrated by muffled shrieks that could only have come from the figure chained to the rock suffering from shocks across her nipples. When I awoke, Monica was gone. I realized that fact in the first moments, as the tent was being shaken and Mary poked her head inside. Monica’s sleeping bag had been cast to one side and a pair of black satin panties were caught up in it. Mary looked at me with a sly expression.
“I thought you were here to be taking care of the prisoner. It seems somebody has turned this into a little rendezvous of a very dubious nature,” she said. Her tone suggested she couldn’t make up her mind quite how this knowledge might be exploited.
I, of course, was still somewhat befuddled by sleep and the fuzzy memory of Monica arching her back above me and crying out with pleasure as we bounced on the air mattress in the flickering firelight. It took me a moment to gather my thoughts and realize I was naked in my sleeping bag under Mary’s accusatory gaze.
“Bugger off, Mary. I assume you’re here for a purpose, so go and get the fire going.”
Mary would not normally have taken this sort of order, nor, perhaps, would I have dared to give it to her, but in this instance she merely smiled like that cat and who’s had the proverbial cream. She retreated, letting the flap fall behind her, while I collected my scrambled thoughts and prepared to start a typical day of torturing helpless female kidnap victims.
After her night chained to the rock face, and having obviously suffered repeated nipple zaps to keep her awake, Kim was weak and shaky on her feet. The muscles in her legs were trembling through her inability to bring them together or to change her position to any real extent. She was making soft whimpering noises from under the hood as the early sun shone on the blonde hair falling on the shoulders of her leather jacket. Not only would she be tired, but she would be cold and hungry as well.
Mary cut the twine attached to the top of the hood, though not before tugging on it sufficiently to induce a stifled wail which ensured that the girl was fully awake. I unlocked the chains on Kim’s ankles, while Mary did the same with her wrists and disconnected the neck chain from the eyebolt, so that it remained as a leash, dangling down Kim’s front. I turned the prisoner to the cliff face and held her still while Mary handcuffed Kim’s gloved hands behind her, at which point we finally removed the clothespins on her nipples. Mary did this with a single flourish, which again prompted a cry of pain.
“I suppose you want a piss,” Mary demanded unsympathetically. There was a sniffle and a nod from the blind head, then Mary towed her away into the bushes, pulling her by the chain attached to her collar.
The fire was going well when they returned, the pale smoke from the gum wood mingling with the dewy freshness that rose from the grassy clearing as the sun gained strength. Memories of the night with Monica were flooding back now, and I wondered where she was, though right then I knew I should be concentrating on the next stage of the interrogation.
Mary took Kim to one side and locked the neck chain to a tree, forcing the girl to stand. Kim’s clothes were then removed – the long leather skirt, the leather jacket, blouse and underwear. Mary was obliged to undo the handcuffs briefly during this, and while Kim might have been able to so something with her hands, the neck chain ensured she could not escape and we further controlled her by gripping her wrists during the removal of her jacket and blouse.
Finally her gloves came off, leaving the girl standing naked except for the black hood and boots and sheer black stay-up stockings that stopped several inches short of her shaven crotch. She was now shivering and whimpering even more, her tiredness gone for the moment, replaced again by fear and uncertainty as to where she was, who we were, and what was going to happen to her.
The ball in Kim’s mouth had a short cord through it, such that it could be removed when the mouth opening was unzipped. This I did, reaching my fingers through the opening to grasp the cord. It was saturated with the girl’s saliva, and when I pulled hard, the ball compressed past her teeth and popped through the opening in the hood. Kim swallowed and moved her jaw several times. She was about to ask her first question when Mary shoved a cold sausage in place of the ball.
“This is your breakfast,” I told Kim. “I’m sure it’s not the first case of hide-the-sausage you’ve played, only this one you can eat.”
Kim bit off a piece and ate it hungrily, and the rest of it disappeared in quick time, following which we let her suck on a squeeze bottle of water. Perhaps feeling encouraged, she was about to start on the questions when the ball was roughly pushed back into place and the mouth of the hood was zipped up to the accompaniment of gagged noises that might have been complaint, protest, questions or all of these.
Mary, Trish and I had prepared the site the previous morning, part of this process being for the next stage of the interrogation proper. On one edge of the clearing was a fallen gum tree, its trunk a couple of feet in diameter in one part. Here, on the upper face, were now screwed two acrylic plugs, strategically placed to impale Kim front and back, and waiting to be connected to the battery that had electrified Kim’s nipples during the night.
Mary unchained the girl and led her across to the fallen tree, making her step over it then take small steps backwards until she was standing astride the two plugs. Between Mary and myself, we now forced Kim downwards, kicking her booted feet wider so that she slowly sank on to the plugs, accompanied by stifled gasps and rapid breathing, as she struggled to accommodate them inside her. Finally she lost her balance slightly and sank on to them with her full weight, a movement which elicited a cry of pain from under the hood.
A foot or so behind Kim, a branch rose up from the smooth grey trunk, and Mary tugged the prisoner’s cuffed hands back to tie them to the branch, her hands either side of it. Kim was now arched back uncomfortably, her breasts thrusting forward. Mary and I took a leg each and removed the fancy leather boots before tying a rope around each ankle and then joining them behind the branch. The ropes pulled Kim’s feet off the ground, leaving her weight fully supported on her thighs and crotch, impaled as it was on the two plugs. Tying the ropes to the projecting branch left the soles of her feet facing upwards, and I smiled to myself as Mary ran a long fingernail across one vulnerable foot, making it twitch. With her feet now secured, Kim was bent like a bow, and the position alone would soon start to debilitate her further. If she hadn’t worked it out by now, Kim would soon know she was in serious trouble.
I relocated the battery from the cliff face to the tree trunk and settled myself on a rock a couple of metres from Kim’s right side. Mary, dressed in jeans and black tee-shirt, looked relaxed as she picked up a flogger with thongs a couple of feet long and slapped them experimentally on the trunk just in front of Kim. The helpless girl winced at the loud crack and the rush of air past her projecting breasts.
Mary straddled the trunk just in front of Kim and gripped her by the nipples, squeezing them and twisting them hard. Kim whimpered.
“Now, Kim,” said Mary. “We know who you are and what you do, and we want you to help us.”
“Hnnn?” came the noise from under the hood. I wondered how much of Mary’s statement came as a surprise to her.
“Kim,” Mary’s voice was reasonableness itself, “I want to you to tell me why you’ve been emailing and seeing Jacqui Burnett.”
Kim was silent.
“We know you’ve been doing it, Kim. Feeding confidential information to a rival company, more specifically a previous Mistress, is guaranteed to get you into a lot of trouble.”
Kim made a noise from under the hood that might have been interrogatively wanting to know what the hell Mary was talking about, or it might have been a denial. Whatever it was, I jabbed the switch connected to the battery and held it there for a second.
“Uhhhhnnn!”
Kim stiffened and tried to writhe, but her impalement on the two plugs screwed to the tree trunk held her firm. She uttered another snorting gasp.
“What was the information, Kim? How long have you been doing this?”
The particular plugs we were using had two settings – an electrical jolt and a vibration mode. There was no doubt in this instance which setting they were set to as I flicked the switch again and the pulse shot into Kim’s insides.
“Nnnnn! Nnnnn!” She squirmed and a huge shudder wracked her body as she tugged against the bonds securing her. With the cessation of the current Kim might have slumped, but she was secured too rigidly to have any leeway at all. Her breasts were heaving as she struggled for breath, moaning into the ball beneath the hood.
Mary climbed off the trunk and flexed her arm with the whip again.
“We know you’ve been seeing Mistress Jax recently.” This was a lie in that we had no idea. The hooded head shook vehemently, but Mary ignored it. I thought it was a shame that she didn’t have her Gestapo uniform on, but it would have been wasted on Kim in her blindfolded state.
“Don’t give us that, you little shit!”
Mary let loose with a full swing of the flogger, catching Kim across the breasts, just beneath her erect and quivering nipples. Kim screamed into the gag. Another swish, and another. Mary wasn’t in the mood for answers just then. This was a serious warm-up with the flying leather thongs catching the helpless girl on her stomach, thighs, and crotch. While I was thankful I was only an observer, I did not take pleasure from this. Mary’s day was just beginning, and no doubt this figured as a bit of brisk morning exercise – all in a day’s work. To my more conservative upbringing, it was something I had never quite got used to, and I knew Monica sometimes despaired of exploiting my potential as a strong-armed dom.
Kim was crying now, her skin glowing bright red under the lash, her sobs escaping from the leather hood interspersed with sniffles and moans of misery.
“Was she good to you, Kim? Did she use the ropes and the whip on you as well? Was that why you missed the weekend with your real mistress? Yes, we know about those little habits as well. We know all about you, and why you suddenly had to start wearing those boots and the long skirts and long sleeves to work. They were to hide the ropes marks, weren’t they! God, you’re transparent!”
I confess at that point I hadn’t looked to see whether Kim did indeed have bruises on her wrists and ankles that might have come from overzealous rope play, nor had I done an inspection for other tell tale signs. It was a bit late, now, firstly because our own ropes encircled her wrists and ankles, and secondly because Mary’s beating was causing a myriad of bright weals to spring up on all the exposed areas that she could reach.
“We know you like to be on the end of a good hiding, Kim. We know how wet that little pussy of yours gets when you’re helpless and when you know something rather delicious is going to happen to you. But it’s a bit different now, isn’t it. You know you won’t be freed until you tell us the answer, and if that doesn’t happen, you’ll be left her to die alone in the bush.”
Mary nodded at me and I gave Kim a two second jolt. She screamed again, shaking her head and making incomprehensible garbles in to her gag. Mary had picked up a riding crop and set to work on the soles of Kim’s feet. I frowned at her, shaking my head to suggest that she was being overzealous, but she ignored me, while Kim’s feet twitched and tried to evade the flurry of blows.
That was when I heard a noise in the bushes nearby, and Monica appeared on the path with Helen close behind her. She had her blonde hair pulled into a bun and a concerned expression as she took in the scene.
The pair came up beside me and Monica laid a hand on my shoulder indicating that I should not use the current any further. She caught Mary’s eye and made an unzipping movement across her mouth. Mary understood, and paused to unzip the mouth of the hood, gripping the cord on the ball and pulling hard so that it popped out through the opening. Kim was crying and burbling.
“I didn’t I didn’t I didn’t I’ve never been back to her my mother was sick please don’t hit me again I don’t know anything about what you’re saying ” There was another flood of tears and Kim’s pleas dissolved into incomprehensible sobs.
“You little bondage whore! You’d sell your soul for a taste of the lash and a good screw. Your real mistress will kick you out when she finds out what you’ve been up to!” Mary spat at her. “You’ll be out of a job and so will she – courtesy of you when we spread the word about you sleeping with the opposition and tattling company secrets. Your only hope is to tell us what we want to know. So what have you told them? Answer, bitch!” Mary let loose with the crop twice in quick succession. The blows were expertly judged – the little flap on the end of the crop flicking across each vulnerable pink nipple. Kim screamed, the sound - less restricted now - echoed against the cliff before dissipating into the trees.
“No! I swear! I haven’t done anything! You have to believe me!” Again she dissolved into sobs. I saw Helen make a movement and whisper something in Monica’s ear. Monica drew her hand across her throat, the gesture directed at Mary.
“You’re a worthless little slut!” Mary spat at her. “Perhaps you’ll think about telling the truth after an hour or two in the sun. If that doesn’t work, well maybe the foxes will get to gnaw on your bones ”
Mary’s words chilled me, and I could imagine how they would sound to a helpless girl impaled and bound immovably to a tree deep in the bush, with no hope of rescue. It had the makings of a horror story of the sort that the tabloid headlines feast on.
“We’ll pack up the camp and maybe ask you again later today. Maybe.”
“No! Please! You must believe me! I’ve not seen her! I haven’t done anything! Please let me go ” Kim’s voice trailed off in misery. Mary ignored her, and while Helen and Monica moved away to talk in low voices out of earshot, Mary and I began to pack up the camp with plenty of banging of utensils and all the noise that could reasonably be made to convey our intentions. Kim continued to call out pleadingly for us not to leave her.
It took us half an hour to carry the stuff back to the dirt trail where Monica had parked my ute, in which she had obviously brought Helen. I suspected Helen may have stayed the night, but I wasn’t going to go there in making assumptions as to what may have transpired in such a stay at Bilboes.
While Mary sat in the ute I made one last foray to the campsite. Helen was now sitting astride the tree trunk, as though in thought, silently studying the striated body of her subbie. I saw that the battery and switch mechanism were beside her, and that the device had been turned from power to vibration. I had a feeling that while Kim remained tied, she was in for some more treatment, but it would be of a gentler, more pleasurable nature. I didn’t know what story Helen and Monica would have concocted to explain Helen’s appearance when she finally decided to reveal her presence, then release Kim. Maybe there would have been an anonymous phone call. Whatever the story, I didn’t really care. Helen and Kim were just two more clients of Bilboes, paying good money for reasons I felt no need to go into. Monica came up to me.
“How are we feeling this morning?” I asked.
“Like a bear with a sore head,” she grumbled.
“You were quite something last night,” I told her. She looked at me with an expression that passed from initial embarrassment to something decidedly sterner.
“So were you,” she murmured. Then, more forthrightly, almost primly, she said: “And if one word of this gets out, there will be severe repercussions. I am not in the habit of having people get me drunk and take advantage of me. Please remember that in future – or else.”
She walked away while my jaw was still hanging slackly and I took in
the injustice of life.
22.11.05
story continues in Monica's Justice - Captives of Shark Island
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