Monica's Justice - Captives of Shark Island

by Richard Alexander (Gromets Plaza)

(story continues from Monica's Justice - Captives of Shark Island)

Chapter Nine - A Quiet Christmas - Trish's Story

Christmas Day was a strange one, waking up alone in Monica’s big bed. Bilboes was silent, devoid of the usual chatter and laughter that pervaded it for much of the time.

It was a glorious Brisbane summer’s day, slowly coming alive with the sound of birds and the promise of a quiet, relaxing time spent lazing around the pool. In truth, while I missed the other girls – and Steven – I was looking forward to the time by myself.

I had never been big on the whole Christmas scene. Since I came to Australia from BC – a lot of years ago – I had become accustomed to the idea of a Christmas associated with barbeques, beaches and sultry temperatures. Since my first Christmas in Australia I had never spent another in Vancouver, and had never shared another Christmas with my family. The thought of flying all that way at peak holidays to a cold, miserable winter had been enough. I spoke to my folks on the phone – a change from my regular emails – but I was here in Oz to stay, and the absence of family was nothing unusual.

Monica and the rest of the Bilboes team were my family now, and in that respect it was perhaps unusual to spend the celebration apart. But I didn’t really mind. Monica was living the high life somewhere, and Jill, Emma and Shawnee were taking the chance to celebrate with their own families. I didn’t blame them at all, and I could now luxuriate in the peace and quiet that would enable me to settle down with a good book for a few days, sleeping in until whenever I wanted and generally being decadent as it suited me.

I had been working on some garden edging using Steven’s tools. I was a bit of a tomboy in this regard, but Steven and I had had a lot of fun working together on various projects, and I knew he trusted me to use the drop saw or any of his other gear. On this particular morning I had started early, driving in some half metre four by two posts along the edge of a garden bed ready for some hardwood sleepers to fit behind them. It was a little beautification project I had been planning around the base of the back verandah, ahead of bringing in some more topsoil and establishing some native plants. Now, as the sun rose and the humidity grew, I had called a halt, had a naked swim in the pool then had taken a shower.

I put on a short strappy tennis dress in pale green that showed off my legs and would be cool and comfortable. I remained sufficiently vain to eye up my reflection in Monica’s full length mirror. My body still looked trim, my auburn hair shiny and lush, my breasts perky enough to turn heads in the street. True, I wouldn’t see thirty again, but I could still get attention when I wanted to.

 

I was deep in a Robert Ludlum novel on the back verandah with a tall iced coffee beside me, when the chimes for the front gate sounded. I had no bookings for the day – indeed, I had no bookings for a whole week. Conscious of our new security arrangements, I went into Monica’s study to view the cctv monitor. There was a small courier van parked at the gate with a familiar-looking logo I had seen around town. The driver wore the traditional shorts, brightly coloured polo top and cap as he stood beside the speaker mounted on the abutment beside the big steel gates.

“Yes?” I said into the intercom.

“Merry Christmas. I have a delivery for Patricia Taylor,” he said.

“Oh. Who from?” Curiosity got the better of me and I racked my brains as to who might be sending me something.

“It’s from Vancouver – someone else named Taylor. Family, I presume.”

“I’m opening the gate – drive up to the front steps.”

I stood on the top step as he pulled up and got out. He didn’t look at me but went straight to the rear of the van. I thought he had nice legs and a trim body, though I couldn’t see his face beneath the cap. He emerged with a parcel the size of a shoe box.

“Just leave it on the bottom step,” I told him. I was taking no chances. Any sign of something funny and I was ready to bolt inside. That showed how paranoid I had become over the prospect of Warren O’Rorke having turned up in town again, possibly with plans in store for us. Even though I was excited at the prospect of a parcel from my folks, I was still being careful.

At least I thought I was, until the driver came around from where he had been half-concealed behind the open van doors, and raised both hands in the classic pistol shooter’s stance, holding some form of object in front of him.

I stared aghast, not fully taking in what was happening. The thing looked sort of like a gun, but not quite. I saw his face for the first time and it looked familiar yet unfamiliar. I instinctively turned to flee from this threat.

I had barely taken a step towards the open front door when my body collapsed under me. I couldn’t comprehend what was happening as I blacked out momentarily and hit the verandah floor with a thump. I gasped for breath, for my lungs didn’t seem to be working properly and my limbs were going into spasm. The comparison of a freshly landed fish flashed through my brain as I flopped about and finally lay still.

My senses were not functioning properly. I was seeing flashes of light and I couldn’t focus, while my limbs flesh were tingling and occasionally twitching. I tried to cry out but my voice wouldn’t work.

Time had stopped but I was dimly aware of the man that I knew yet did not know bending over me. Sensation was slowly returning to my limbs as he pulled my dress off over my head, leaving me in my bikini, but only briefly, for moments later I was lying naked on the smoothness of the lacquered floor boards. I could do nothing as he bound my hands behind me, palm to palm, looping the cord swiftly around my wrists and cinching it tightly into place. My ankles were next to be secured while I was unable to resist with even the feeblest of struggles.

I was like a sack of potatoes as he slung me over his shoulder and carried me into the house. I sensed the strength in the lean muscled body as my brain struggled to deal with input overload, gasping for breath and absorbing the returning feeling to my muscles, while trying to identify this intruder who I instinctively was certain I knew.

The man said nothing during all of this, walking down the hall, through the kitchen and on to the back verandah like he knew the place. He dumped me on my side on the big slatted table around which we had had so many team meetings and good times. It was only then, as my muddled brain was slowly starting to collect itself and the man spoke, that my situation was made clear as a giant penny dropped in my mind.

“Merry Christmas, Trish.”

This was Warren O’Rorke.

 

He disappeared out the front again, leaving me lying bound on the table, my thoughts whirling through the implications of my plight and how I had fallen into this trap. I had been so careful, yet the lure of a present from home had been just too much. Warren knew me, as he did all of us at Bilboes, and knew enough of my history and Canadian ancestry to come up with the Christmas present story.

He had either changed his voice when he spoke into the intercom, or it had distorted it sufficiently that I didn’t recognise it. Or both. I now realised he shaved off his moustache and looked as though he had also shed a few kilos, presumably started by a prison regime in England where we had last seen him heading quite some time ago. Now he was back, with one big axe to grind, starting with me as the stone on which to sharpen his tool.

I worked out that he had used a taser on me. I had heard about these devices, but had never seen them in action. I suspected they were illegal in Australia, and thus difficult to obtain, for I had never heard of them being used here by criminals. Obviously Warren had his contacts, or maybe he had just ordered it on-line. However he had obtained one, it had been brutally effective on me.

I lay there, feeling the tingling and quivering in my muscles slowly subsiding and my breathing gradually come under control. The immediate import of what had befallen me slowly sank in. Emma and Jill were in Sydney for four more days, while Shawnee was with her parents for an unknown time. The others were with Monica at their secret destination – wherever that was – for probably a week at least. I was a prisoner in a house filled with devices made specifically for bondage and torture, at the mercy of a man extremely qualified and skilled in using them. More significantly, this man had a particular grudge against me – a grudge borne of certain things I had done to him myself or in conjunction with the others, a consequence of which had been the time he had spent as a guest of Her Majesty. History was now turning the full circle, and I was Warren O’Rorke’s Christmas present to play with as he wanted, without likelihood of interruption in any shape or form.

There was a distant sound of the van – presumably Warren parking it in a less obvious place – then the closing of the front door and more footsteps. Warren now stood beside the table looking down at me. The cap was gone, and so was the fluorescent yellow courier’s polo neck shirt. The familiar body was now evident – the trim pecs, the dark curly hair over the flat stomach. Missing, too, were Warren’s previous trademark gold medallions worn around the neck.

His black hair was shorter now, and he had aged, though his body looked in good shape for a man who wouldn’t see forty again. The absence of the moustache made him look different – younger, but not enough to distract from the wrinkles at the corner of his eyes. The last year or so had changed him, and the smile he now bestowed on me did not have the humour that he had once brought as a bonafide client of Bilboes before his involvement with Portia Tang and Jade Wong and everything that had happened from there.

He said nothing, just smiled down at me for a long moment, then busied himself opening a bottle of wine and pouring a glass, which he put on a small table beside one of the deck chairs.

With the familiarity of one who knew his way around Bilboes, he opened a discrete wooden trunk that doubled as a spare seat against the wall of the house. The trunk contained a handy assortment of ropes and other devices for use on the verandah when we had such sessions here. The location was ideal, with a convenient range of anchor points from the overhead rafters to the balcony railings, the fence around the Jacuzzi and pool, or even the numerous trees that leant shade to the area.

Warren examined the contents of the trunk and selected some things the details of which I couldn’t see. Finally he turned his attention to me.

“So, Trish, how have we been?”

It was one of those situations for which no book of etiquette prepares you. A female, lying naked, bound hand and foot on a big wooden table, is faced with an ex-client to whom she has done some rather nasty things that have resulted in a prison term for him. True, he started it, but when he is the one holding the rope this is hardly the polite thing to bring up. Add to this the unlikelihood or rescue and the prospect of a prolonged period of extreme restraint and who knew what, and you understand the awkwardness of the situation. I was under no illusions of what lay ahead of me. It was a question of what degree, for how long, and what could I possibly do to mitigate this?

“I’m well, thank you, Warren…” My voice sounded hoarse and shaky, my words inane. I wanted to scream at him, to tell him to let me loose this instant, but I had been in the business too long and knew Warren too well to doubt where this would get me. Punishment was second nature to Warren and was just as applicable whether it be a domme or a sub who had fallen into his clutches. I could expect little mercy, though perhaps if I cooperated…

“I’ve thought about you a lot, Trish,” Warren continued casually as though we were having a friendly conversation over a cup of tea. He took a length of white sashcord and wrapped several turns around my legs, above the knees, cinching the bonds snugly. More cord was produced and this went around my right arm, above the elbow, then the left, drawing them together. I was still lying on my side, and pulling my arms tight made my breasts stick out further. I desperately wanted to ask him what he intended to do to me, but somehow I couldn’t get up the nerve to express myself, afraid of what the answer would be.

He offered no hint as to my fate, busying himself with the ropes in the expert way that I remembered. Whatever else I might think of him, Warren was a skilled bondage artist, and despite my dominant proclivity, I could not fail to sense my pulse quickening as the ropes slowly immobilised my body with each turn.

Warren doubled a further rope and looped it around my waist, threading the tails through the loop at the small of my back and pulling it tautly between the cheeks of my butt before tying several knots in it. I knew these would be strategically located over my pussy and clit, and it heralded a little of the treatment I might be in for. He slid the ends of the rope through that encircling my waist before pulling it hard and tying it off.

When he rolled my on to my stomach I let loose an exhalation of breath as my breasts were pushed flat on the table and the knots were pressed into the tender parts of my crotch. When he delved into the trunk again and reappeared with a harness gag I saw my last chance of pleading for some sort of deal or compromise, but I realised a moment later that I had missed my chance.

“Warren – wait – let’s work something out! Tell me what you want – urgh! Mrrmfh!”

Damn, I thought.

Warren pulled the strap around my head, trapping my hair as he buckled it snugly at the back, before taking the split strap that ran either side of my nose and tugging this tight up and along the top of my head, buckling it there to a matching strap from the rear.

I now recognised this gag – you get to know the capabilities of most of the toys around the house during the course of inserting them in orifices or attaching them to different parts of people’s anatomy. I chewed on the ball in my mouth. It was big and filling – what we would call a medium – halfway between a soft sponge and a hard rubber ball. It was the most effective in ordinary use, but was made doubly so by a third strap that ran from the top, down past my temple, under my chin then up the other side to buckle at the top again. Warren tugged the adjustable buckle and the strap tightened under my jaw, causing me to clamp down on the ball.

“Mmmmm!” I protested, which came out as a muted nasal whine.

Warren was clearly enjoying himself. More rope, this time linked to the elbow ropes, taken down through a loop in the ankle ropes, and … back to – oh God, no! Warren anchored the rope at the back of the harness gag, hauling me unmercifully into a tight hogtie.

“Urrrgh!” I moaned as my head went back. Any attempt at movement through my arms, legs or head transferred the tension into all the other linkages. I could barely move, and stared pitifully at my captor as Warren collected his glass of wine and sat down at the head of the table right in front of me.

Having said that, while he was in front of me, I was in fact staring at the ceiling, and that was obviously not to Warren’s liking. He wanted to look me in the eye, to see me suffer – as I figured out when he found yet another rope and tossed it over a verandah beam. He raised my bound knees up so that I tilted forward like a rocking chair, my head coming down so that I was looking horizontally. I felt my knees attached to the dangling rope so that I was anchored in that position, and I knew that my torment was just beginning.

Now satisfied that he had me about as helpless and immobile as possible, Warren again sat down, with a self-satisfied smile.

“My dear Trish, this really is the best Christmas present. You have no idea what I have in store for you and how long I have thought about this.” He sipped his wine. “Of course I didn’t know exactly how things would turn out after Monica and her little group went off into the other arm of our trap.

“No, you don’t know about that, do you?” He grinned. “I can tell by the way your eyes widened. Monica will be having a little Christmas reunion with your good friends Portia and Jade.”

Portia and Jade? Oh Jesus! What was going on?

“Yes, I thought that would get your attention. But we can discuss that a little further later. Let’s talk about you and me some more.” Warren settled himself more comfortably into the chair and crossed his legs. “Let’s think about the last time we crossed paths… In England was it? No, wait - that was just a near miss. I owe your friends for that one - Mary and Steven, and Jill and Leila. You’d already skipped off to America after Monica, I recall. So I suppose I can’t blame you – directly. Do you know what it’s like to be welded inside a suit of armour, with a great dildo stuck up your arse and your dick taped up inside a steel sheath?”

I had to admit I had been in some difficult situations, but in this instance, Warren’s took the cake. I could have said something like: “gee, that must have been quite uncomfortable,” but all I could manage was “urrrgh!” The very effort of making a noise was so painful with my head pulled back and my body arched.

“That, of course, got me time in the Scrubbs, my dear Trish.” Warren’s eyes narrowed. “Once they learned what I was in for, after the tabloids had got hold of it all, life was not pleasant, let me tell you. Let me also give you my assurance that life for you, from this moment on – and your friends – will be equally, if not more, unpleasant.” He took another swallow and stretched back in the chair.

“You know, Trish, I actually think our last meeting was in my apartment. It must be two years ago now – but who am I to measure time or harbour grudges? Nevertheless, it was a very prolonged experience – and a painful one, I might add. I seem to remember that was when Monica was overseas with Megan and Steven, visiting your Arab friends. Do you remember?”

I did, and the thought did not make me any happier. In Monica’s absence Mary and I had extracted our revenge on Warren for the treatment he and his mate Roger had inflicted on Mary and I during the takeover attempt by Jade Wong and Portia six months prior to Monica’s trip to Oman. We had been caught red handed by a returning Monica and had suffered accordingly, with Monica still wanting to keep Warren on the client books. Of course, Monica herself had paid later on for her stubbornness, kidnapped by Warren during the games organised by Mistress Lynx, and then in England.

“It was for a week, I think, that you and Mary occupied my apartment and kept me at the mercy of your sick imaginations.” Warren’s voice was now hard and sibilant.

“Not content with that, you dressed me as a rubber slave and dragged me off to the Brimstone Club!” He stood up. “You managed to con stupid Roger into believing I was a willing arse subbie and persuade him to screw me. You bitch!” Warren tugged at the ropes connecting my gag, ankles and arms, pulling them tighter. I snorted and moaned in pain. My body rebelled against the ropes and the gag was pulled deeper into my mouth. He yanked the crotch rope tighter and the knots ground against my pussy and clit. I thought he was really going to lose it, then, but at once, as though realising that I was helpless in his power, he seemed to relax, realising that he could savour my pain and discomfort at his leisure.

“Nevertheless, we did have some good times, didn’t we, Trish?” The question was rhetorical, but I still had to rack my brain to think of any such ‘good times’. Roger and Warren were doms, and for much of their legitimate time as clients of Bilboes they interacted with the subs, namely Emma and Leila, and sometimes Jillian. But things had changed at some time along the way, as Monica became more involved, and then became Warren’s favourite. We never knew what was quite going on between the two. Some of the girls thought that Warren

One time Steven and I had caught Monica and Warren having a session in the dungeon, and we had shamelessly watched through the one-way glass of the Observation Room. Things had got very heavy and very spooky, with Warren doing weird stuff with chants, lighting and not a bit of sleight of hand. At one stage we were positive he was going to commit some sort of satanic blood-letting while Monica was tightly stretched in a spreadeagle, and we had then found the door of the Observation Room inexplicably locked and the intercom not working. By the time we got out, only a minute or two later, the pair had disappeared, and none of us had the guts to question Monica about it. Suffice to say she had evidently enjoyed the encounter, if the gagged noises she had been making were anything to go by.

I, too, had experienced Warren’s sexual prowess, and I could not deny that the man was good – when he didn’t get too sadistic about the whole thing. Now, it seemed, he had to remind me.

“Do you remember when Monica was in Hong Kong? That was when you and Mary and Shawnee were left minding the fort, so to speak. I really fancied a bit, and spoke to Mary, and she conned you into being a subbie. Remember?” He came into my field of vision and grinned at me.

Yes, I remembered. Mary had not so much conned me into being a subbie as taken advantage of a moment of weakness to restrain me when my guard was down. I wound up with inflatable splints on my legs and arms, unable to do more than flop about helplessly. That was when she had announced that Warren was paying a visit. I had been whipped and thoroughly – but not unpleasantly, I admit – screwed. I had taken some consolation in that Mary had ultimately wound up being bound by Warren in an even more uncomfortable position in a wardrobe, and I had got the satisfaction of letting Monica hear her cries for mercy over the phone.

“That was a most enjoyable day - and for the record, you were very good, Trish. One of my better conquests, if I may say so.”

I was not a conquest, arsehole! I wanted to shout at him, but the my struggles against the harness only pulled the ball deeper into my mouth and I knew I had to be focussed if I was to get through this.

“I’ve fantasized about you often, since then. You see, Trish, you’re one of the more experienced ones here. You, Mary and Monica. Experience counts for a lot, you know. Oh sure, the younger ones often struggle and resist more physically, but resistance by a skilled domme is something else, don’t you think?” His face was now in mine, and I could smell the wine on his breath. I furrowed my brow – it was the best expression of disgust I could manage. It only provoked another smile. Warren was evidently having a good time.

“I think it’s time to start to savour the pleasures I have thought about for so long. Don’t you?” His voice oozed superciliousness.

I had almost reached the end of my endurance in the tight hogtie. I have endured hogties often enough before, but the attachment of a rope to the head harness makes the restraint ten times worse, as you struggle to breathe and to swallow, and the pain in your neck becomes agonising. I could only hope that Warren– being the bondage veteran that he was – would know this as well.

When he untied the suspension rope from my knees I rocked backwards on the table, my weight going from my breasts to my stomach and crotch with the painful knots again embedding themselves in my pussy. I realised at that point that having had my legs partly supported was actually marginally less severe than the unattached hogtie. Back in this position it seemed that my predicament was even worse. I started to struggle, unable to convince myself not to panic. The cardinal rule of bondage is to remain calm and focussed, but twenty years of B&D was not enough to save me this time. The gag pulled at my mouth, widening it and forcing the ball deeper. I felt myself wanting to swallow, as the rubber sphere worked itself towards that dangly part of the soft palate that causes the gag reflex. Breathing was becoming difficult, now. Something was becoming constricted and I could hear my breath wheezing in my throat. In the hogtie there was no way I could take the load off the ropes, for the combination of my legs, arms and head all pulling against each other was something I could not decrease.

Just when I thought I was about to faint, the pressure was suddenly gone, as the single connecting rope was undone at the back of my harness. I slumped forward, flat on the table, snorting and grunting with the effort of what I had just survived. I closed my eyes and groaned, my cheek against the cool timber, uncaring of what my tormentor might now be up to.

Warren was now standing on the table above me. I did not look up – the effort it required was too great. He was doing something with more ropes over the rafters, I was sure. He climbed down and I felt my ankles and knees untied, before a rope was wound around my left ankle and tied off. Moments later it started to go up in the air as Warren tugged on the supporting rope over the rafter. Two minutes on and the other ankle was similarly secured. My ankles were now wide apart, my legs pulled upwards so that they did not touch the table. I lay on the table – in contact from my crotch to my cheek, but my body still arched through the elevation of my legs.

A further rope from the rafter was connected to the cords at my wrist, and predictably my arms began to go up in the world. This position was like a cross between a hogtie and a strappado, and I began to feel very exposed as my hands went almost vertical, putting a cruel twist into my shoulders.

Warren retrieved a rubber-tailed flogger from the trunk and began to systematically lash all over my back and legs. The rubber tails were heavier than the leather ones and hurt like the blazes. I yelled into the gag, writhing on the table as much as my bonds permitted while the flurry of blows rained down on my exposed buttocks, back and thighs. It is sometimes surprising how much movement you can manage when you think you are immovably restrained, and while I managed a bit in this case, I could do nothing to protect myself.

Warren varied the attack with a thin stinging cane which he flicked on to the soles of my feet, while I yowled and cried unashamedly. The cane came down in fiery streaks across my backside, before he swapped it for a riding crop which laid down tongues of pain anywhere that the other torture implements had missed. The knotted rope was still tight through my crotch, but provided little protection for the blows that fell in this area.

I was making pleading grunts and wailing sounds when Warren finally stopped. My skin was on fire – a mass of burning agony that made me see stars as I lay on the table, struggling to pull air into my lungs. I was barely conscious of Warren in front of me, pulling the table towards him until my crotch was suddenly hanging off the end.

I wailed again, thinking he was going to pull it out from beneath me entirely.

“Nnnnnn!”

But Warren had something else in store – something he had obviously been saving up. The knotted crotch rope was abruptly removed and Warren was standing between my legs, his dick driving into my pussy without a by-your-leave. I guessed that I had just experienced Warren’s idea of foreplay.

Warren was well endowed, as the euphemistic saying goes. Not only that, he was skilled in using his endowment. He knew enough to have activated my adrenalin and lymphatic system with the flogging ahead of the main event, and while I abhorred the extreme pain, I could not help but recognise the increased sensitivity of my whole body during the second round, as he thrust deeper inside me. I could feel the rapid stirrings of an orgasm starting to rise and knew I was helpless to do anything about it. My limited pelvic movements were enough to betray me, along with the rising pitch of my grunts. I thought things were on an evitable course for climax when he leaned forward and slipped his hands under my breasts – which up until now had been mercifully free of his attention – to fiercely squeeze and twist my nipples. I screamed into the gag, so unexpected was this attack, and at once my rising climax diminished.

Warren let go of my nipples and leaned back, laughing.

“Were we on the way, Trish? What a shame. You will climax only when I decide, you slut. And when you do, you will ask permission. Do you understand?”

I said nothing, which was a mistake. A hard hand slap down on my raw buttocks made me yelp.

“I said: Do you understand?”

“Errrph,” I moaned.

“Yes what?”

“Errph er,” I snivelled. He slapped me again.

“Good girl,” he said, pumping harder. “When you climax you will say “’I’m cumming and I’m a slut!’ Is that clear?”

“Errpf er,” I moaned again.

I felt it coming again, and so did he, reaching down to torment my nipples again. This time the element of surprise was gone. I knew it was coming and was prepared for it – but only for the pain. My body suddenly had a mind of its own and the orgasm crashed over me amidst a wave of sensations from my nipples and crotch. I had no time to ask permission much less identify that I was a slut into the bargain. I saw lights and closed my eyes as the warmth flooded up from my loins and I bit down on the gag, crying out as I did so.

I did not think about the consequences – there was no time. Under such circumstances logic and reason play little part in your actions. While a lot of men think with their dicks, women aren’t immune from the power of their own sexual needs and predilection.

As the sparks cleared from in front of my eyes I was conscious of Warren’s engorged dick being abruptly pulled clear of my dripping pussy. He said nothing but suddenly penetrated my arse and thrust inside without warning.

I gasped around the ball in my mouth, making a mmmming sound at the unexpected pain as my sphincter muscles were given no chance to get used to the new invasion. The thrusting increased in rapidity and I knew that this time it would be Warren’s turn. My body was a whirl of sensations, the aftermath of my climax, the pain from the beatings and the sudden ambush of this big invader up my back passage.

Warren was beset by no such distractions. He knew exactly what he wanted and exploded inside me in a series of long spurts with accompanying sound effects that told me in no uncertain terms what he thought of me and that I ought to be enjoying this, given my lowly status in life.

I was shaking and quivering when he withdrew and briefly disappeared inside the house, presumably to clean himself up.

I heard him return, followed by the sound of chairs being moved around on the verandah. I was too exhausted to even try looking at what he was up to. Any hope I might still harbour of escape would surely be dashed at what he was now planning for me. I knew I would shortly find out about it in detail, but I didn’t have the strength to take it in at that moment.

Warren said nothing when he finally returned his attention to me. I was grateful when he let my arms down. The blood began to return to my fingers with a tingling feeling, but I had no strength to prevent him buckling a heavy leather cuff around each wrist and clipping these to a steel suspension bar over a metre long. My arms flopped down on the table when he had finished while he untied my ankles.

He hauled me to my feet, which now hurt from the caning they had received as my weight came on them. I could hardly stand, so unsteady was I, but it didn’t really matter to Warren. I found myself sitting on the deck as he gripped the spreader bar and dragged me backwards across the verandah, the floor boards bumping painfully against my bruised and welted bottom. I protested feebly before the eyebolt in the centre of the bar was clipped to some sort of pulley attached to one of the rafters.

Out came another spreader bar, this one matching the one supporting my arms, along with matching cuffs which were buckled about my ankles. Next came the dangling knotted crotch rope, which had remained loose about my waist while Warren had screwed me. The rope ran around my waist, through the loop at the back, down through my crotch and passing under the waist rope at my navel. The knots were back in place, and the ends of the rope now went down to be tied to the centre eyebolt of the ankle spreader. I didn’t like the look of this at all.

Warren disappeared behind me and I was left to briefly contemplate my new predicament. Then my arms were going up, and with them the rest of my body as I was hauled to my feet by the pulley. I realised at this point that my legs were bent, and as I came erect I was unable to straighten them without the crotch rope tightening.

The pulley halted as I reached the point where I was on my tip-toes, the rope tight through my pussy and buttocks, my arms rigid above me. Warren came back in to my field of view and looked at me with a satisfied expression.

“Remember what I said?” he reminded me. “You were to ask permission to climax and to tell me when you were cumming.” I hung my head. There was nothing I could do. I mumbled an apology, which came out as an incomprehensible gurgle. His expression hardened. “Too bad, Trish. Obedience is what I demand. Failure in this means punishment.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out a pair of rubber-tipped clips. I whined my apprehension but to no avail as he squeezed the jaws open and pushed one on to each nipple. My breath came more rapidly as I struggled to cope with the pain. They were not as severe as some of those we have in our arsenal, but I knew they would get worse with time. I also knew that time would come much sooner as his pocket then gave up two lead wights which he hooked on to the clips. My breasts were pulled downward as the nipples distended under the weights and I made pitiful noises that brought forth a run of drool down between my boobs.

He went behind me again and I felt the tug of the pulley.

“Nnn! Nnnnnmm!” I pleaded as my feet left the floor and the knotted rope tightened further, embedding itself into my crotch.

“I’m going to have a shower and enjoy the remainder of my Christmas Day,” he said. “Merry Christmas!”

“Nnnnnnnuuuuurrrrrmmmph!” I screamed with my last ounce of strength.

* * *

31.01.06

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

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