Monica's Travels 01

by Richard Alexander (Gromets Plaza)

Book 5 of the Monica Chronicles by Richard Alexander

Chapter One – Last Orders

Bilboes was buzzing – that was about the best way to describe things.  In the three weeks since we had won the round-the-world trip in the competition against the Citadel, the girls had been talking of little else.  There had been group discussions to sort out where we were going to go and what we were going to see.  Chiefly this discussion was led by Leila, Emma and Shawnee, since they were the least travelled and the most eager.  Travel brochures were strewn about the house, not least on the back verandah, where there had been much earnest planning going on.  The travel agent that Monica used must have thought all her Christmases had arrived at once, what with eight first class round-the-world tickets being ordered.  Her eyes must have been lighting up like a taxi meter.

There had never been any question that we wouldn’t travel as a group.  Monica had committed to closing down Bilboes for a month, with Debra taking time out from the Citadel to live in at Bilboes and do a little ‘consulting’ to special clients.  We were now almost at departure time, but of course the initiatives that were part of the Bilboes lifestyle still kept happening.  On this particular afternoon I had spent time screwing a series of eyebolts into the floor of the back deck and the walls at Jillian’s request, and of course with Monica’s permission, since the house was now fully paid off and totally hers, thanks to winning the Games.

This particular Sunday was the last before we were due to depart in two days time.  Having done my duty by installing the eyebolts, I figured I could at least settle down with the Sunday paper, although the back balcony was perhaps not the best place for this, given that Jill was fussing about with ropes and stuff for whatever she was intending with the bolts, and Mary and Megan were playing Bondage Twister with the respective slaves of Bilboes and the Citadel – Shawnee and Dianne.

Bondage Twister was a game that Monica had once devised in a moment of inspiration - or perhaps boredom - and was like the old game of “Twister”, where participants had to place hands and feet on directed coloured circles on a mat at the throw of a dice.  The original version usually degenerated into an extremely up-close-and-personal form of yoga, where the first person who couldn’t reach their required coloured spot was eliminated.

In the Monica version, the loser would be the first slave who failed to comply with a bondage requirement.  As I sat down with my paper, poor Shawnee was being made to stand on her right leg only, since her left ankle was bound to her left thigh.  It was Megan’s turn to throw, and she referred to a laminated piece of cardboard on her lap, which defined firstly the part to be secured, and then the object it was to be secured to, depending on the number on the dice.  As each limb was secured, it was crossed off the list.  In the event of the each contestant achieving all their requirements, there could either be a play off by seeing who could remain in the position the longest, or else dubious tortures might be devised, not least a flogging or an appropriate stimulation with an electric device.

Both slaves wore only bikinis, while Megan and Mary lounged comfortably in two deck chairs with a bottle of Merlot on the low table between them.  Megan wore a low-cut sleeveless red dress that flowed loosely down her bare thighs. On the deck at her sandalled feet was a wooden chest that contained a varied assortment of restraints and devices.

As Shawnee wobbled, trying not to fall over, Megan dropped a large foam dice on the deck and waited as it bounced to a standstill.

“Three,” said Megan.  “That’s your left wrist, sweetie.  Let’s see what we have to tie it to…” She rolled a second dice.  A five showed up.  “Odd number – something on your right hand side…” A third dice was rolled.  “Six.  Your right ankle.  Left wrist to right ankle.  Oh dear.”  Megan’s wry smile clearly indicated she was anything but upset.  “I just hope your slave is flexible and has a good sense of balance, Mary.” 

“Of course,” said Mary nonchalantly, but gave Shawnee a look that would have convinced most slaves that such had better be the case - or else.  Clearly there was more at stake here than the slaves’ freedom.  More importantly, reputations of the teachers were on the line.

“I’m going to go real easy on you, Mair,” said Megan.  “I could do a tie of wrist crossing ankle, but instead I’m simply going to handcuff the girl.”  Megan pushed her dark brown hair back and picked a pair of steel cuffs out of the box and walked over to where Shawnee was doing her stork impression and looking just a shade uneasy.  “All right, Shawnee, bend over.  Get that tight little butt of yours in the air.”

Shawnee slowly did as she was told, stretching her left hand down towards her right ankle until Megan could click the steel around wrist and ankle.  I could hear Shawnee’s breathing start to become strained in the head-down position.

“Easy peasy,” scoffed Mary, taking the dice from Megan.  Near to where Mary sat, Dianne was looking relatively comfortable with her left wrist pulled up behind her back and secured to her right shoulder.  Mary took a dice and dropped it on the floor.

“One.  My my.  Your mouth, Dianne, is about to be secured – to something.  I wonder what…” Another roll.  “Four – even number – left hand side… Six!  A nipple!  Owch.”

Mary, elegant as always in a tan suede skirt and tight white tee-shirt, eased her slender body out of the deck chair and gazed at Dianne momentarily with a predatory look, before rummaging in the wooden box. 

“Ah, here it is,” she said standing up and displaying a large red ball gag, with a heavy eyebolt sticking out the front of the ball.  “Open wide, Dianne!”  Mary moved behind the hapless slave and with one hand supporting the back of her head, the willowy mistress jammed the ball between Dianne’s lips before working it slowly behind her teeth.  The ball was big, and while softer and with more give than some, it was still no sponge ball, and totally filled her mouth.  Dianne’s blue eyes widened and she made little ‘urrfing’ grunting sounds, her breathing – like Shawnee’s – now becoming just a touch ragged.

But of course Mary, now buckling the strap tight over the auburn hair, hadn’t finished.  Picking a wooden vice clamp from the box, Mary undid the top of Dianne’s bikini and positioned the clamp carefully on the now-gagged slave’s left nipple and deliberately tightened the two butterfly screws, trapping the nipple between the advancing wooden jaws.   Dianne whined faintly behind the rubber ball, but now found life getting even more uncomfortable, as Mary tied a piece of twine to the clamp then threaded the loose end through the eyebolt in the gag.  Then she began to slowly pull, first forcing Dianne’s head down on to her chest, and when her head could go no further, Mary’s continued pressure saw the nipple start to stretch and the breast begin to distort upwards.  Dianne’s breasts were small and firm, and did not have overmuch slack on offer.  Mary at least recognised this, and tied the twine off before the clamp began to be really painful.  Dianne was now very uncomfortable, and was moved to support her left breast with her unsecured right hand, providing some upward pressure to ease some of the obvious pain in her nipple.  This was allowed, as long as the restraint itself was not interfered with.

Mary dropped the dice on Megan’s lap and sat down with a smug look, helping herself to another glass of wine.  I wondered whether Megan would rue the moment she had been too easy in her tying of Shawnee.

Megan tossed the dice on the deck one after another and consulted the matrix on the cardboard.

“Things are starting to get really awkward for you, aren’t they, Shawnee.  At least they will be when I tie your right wrist in place.  Dammit, where’s that gone?”  She said this as she knelt beside the chest and ferreted amongst the ropes and straps and other implements of restraint, before hauling a ratchet pulley from the pile.  The cord was thin and only a couple of metres long.  It was one of the smaller ones you might use for securing a load on a bicycle, perhaps - a simple cord through a pulley with a one-way ratchet. 

Megan tied the pulley end to Shawnee’s right wrist, as she balanced bent over on one leg, her left wrist cuffed to her right ankle, then undid the clips on the slave’s bikini top, such that she was able to pull it free. Shawnee’s full breasts hung free in their full, if partly obscured glory.

“Guess what I’m going to tie the other end to?” Megan asked, squatting down so that she could see Shawnee’s face.

“I… don’t know Mistress,” Shawnee stammered.  Megan produced a nasty looking screw clamp from the pocket of her dress and flourished it in front of Shawnee’s eyes.  Shawnee groaned.  “Oh, no… Please?”

“Sorry, kid – rules is rules.  You wouldn’t want to wimp out on Mistress Mary, now, would you?”  Shawnee was silent, then her breathing became rapid as Megan began to screw the jaws closed on Shawnee’s left nipple.

“Ow!  Ow! Owwwww!  Please – stop! Oh Jesus!”

At length Megan stood up, with Shawnee barely able to control herself, but of course Megan had not finished, for she now took the cord from the pulley attached to Shawnee’s right wrist and trailed it behind the girl’s back and up over her left shoulder, before attaching it to the clamp on the nipple.  Holding the cord so that at first it didn’t pull directly on the nipple, Megan began to tug the free end of the cord.  The ratchet pulley began to click and slowly poor Shawnee was obliged to move her right arm around behind herself and up towards her opposite shoulder blade.

“Come on, girl, get that hand up higher,” Megan encouraged.  Shawnee was grunting with the effort, until finally Megan stopped and released the remainder of the cord, such that the pull from Shawnee’s wrist went directly to the clamped nipple.  Shawnee yelled.

“Yeooww!  Ooooo-ow! Oh God – it hurts!”

“You are such a sook, Shawnee.  Mary – may I gag her? I know it’s not my turn again, but she’s such a whiner.”

“Very well,” Mary agreed.  “She can be very noisy.  But I want a bonus from you in return.”

“Fair enough,” Megan said, hauling a pump gag from the chest and slipping it between Shawnee’s teeth in mid-cry.

“That’s not fair - urmft!  Grmmph!” said Shawnee as Megan quickly squeezed the bulb to inflate the bladder in Shawnee’s mouth so that her cries subsided into a series of moans and grunts, less strenuous than usual, given her bent-over position.

“God, that’s better,” Megan sighed, sitting down again.  “Some slaves have no self-control.  Your go.”

Mary tossed the dice and studied them, then consulted the chart, with Megan watching over her shoulder.  The pair smiled, and I noticed Dianne desperately trying to follow the events with her eyes from her head-down restriction.

“Those legs of yours will have to be dealt to,” Mary said casually, pulling a length of rope from the chest.  “I want you to raise your left foot and cross it over your right leg, just above the knee.”  Dianne did so slowly and unsteadily, every move she made seeming to place more strain on the tie between her gag and her nipple clip. 

Mary swiftly and expertly bound the left ankle in place at right angles just above Dianne’s right knee, so that she, like Shawnee, was then struggling for balance, though able to use her free left arm to balance somewhat.

“Now the return favour,” said Mary.

“No restraints,” Megan clarified.  “That’s going too far.”

“Of course not,” Mary scoffed, producing a large chromed vibrator out of the box.  She slipped her hand down the front of Dianne’s bikini bottom.  “Dear me, your slave’s getting just a touch turned on, Megan.”  Mary pulled the bikini down a few inches and turned the vibrator on, working it slowly into Dianne’s pussy, then easing it in and out several times such that the device was slick with the girl’s juices.  Dianne was breathing hard and making a kind of snorting moan with each thrust.

“You will hold this toy in place with your free hand, on pain of six strokes with the crop if it comes out.  Is that clear?”

“Urgh!” Dianne grunted.

“I don’t understand that sort of noise,” Mary said brusquely.  “If you understand, nod your head.  Well?”

Screwing up her eyes Dianne made a tiny nod, tugging the clip attached to her nipple as she did so, and prompting a whine of pain from behind the ball in her mouth.

Mary sat down again, and the pair sipped their wine as they contemplated the two stretched and uncomfortable girls trying to maintain their balance.

“Time to liven things, do you think?” Megan suggested as they drained their glasses.

“Of course.  What did you have in mind?”

Megan stood up and extracted two thin vibrators from the box, and handed one to Mary.  “Dianne already has her vibrations to keep her happy.  You can leave that toy switched on.  Both can have some vibrations in the backside, though.  The first slave to drop her toy is the loser, and gets whatever punishment might be appropriate.”

Both mistresses lubed the vibrators and pulled the bikinis down sufficiently to slide them into the respective back passages of Shawnee and Dianne, whose cheeks then clenched to hold them in place.

“That should keep them occupied for a little while, Mary observed.  “Dammit, who’s drunk all our wine?”

“You did,” I told her, “you drunken harlots.”

“Now Misten, Lister,” said Megan, then burst out laughing at her words. “Damn.  Must get these lips fixed.”

I tried to settle back to read the paper, having been totally – and understandably – distracted by these goings on, when Monica and Jillian appeared.

“Hullo, what are you two playing at?” Monica directed her question at the two one-legged gagged slaves.  Neither moved or volunteered an answer.  “Tsk.  Some people have nothing better to do with their time.” She moved across and wiggled the base of each vibrator protruding from the two pairs of clenched buttocks.  There was a ‘mmph’ of protest from the two slaves.  Monica turned to me and smiled. 

“Enough of your perving, sir.  Jill needs help with her new idea,” Monica told me.

“I know.  I just put in a whole bunch of eyebolts for her.”

“You mis-understand, oh great handyman.  She needs a volunteer, and all our slaves are otherwise occupied.”

I didn’t like the sound of this.  I had long since learned that volunteering for anything in this establishment was a no-no.

“What about Emma?  Surely she’d be more fun?”

“Gone shopping with Trish.”

“Leila?” 

“On duty downstairs.”

I did my mental list of other possibilities and decided that suggesting either Monica or Mary would have been neither a good career move or beneficial to my health.

“Can’t it wait?” I asked, in a feeble last-ditch attempt at stalling.

“No,” said Monica, in a tone that was final.

I sighed and got to my feet.  Jill linked her arm through mine and cuddled close.  “Thanks, Steven.  You’re such a sport.  You’ll enjoy this - it’s all about exercise.”

“It’s Sunday,” I grumbled.  “I get plenty of exercise.”

“Yes, but the wrong sort.  This is scientifically designed and tested. Trust me – I’m a trained physio, remember?”

“Sometimes I wish you’d stuck to it.”

“The money’s crap,” she said, smiling.  “This is much more fun.”

“But why does this have to be done now?” I complained.  “It’s Sunday afternoon.”

“Because, my dear Steven, we are leaving in two days time, and as you know our R & D department doesn’t stop working just because of such things as holidays. And Monica never sleeps.”

“I thought that was ‘rust never sleeps.’”

“Same thing.  It’s insidious, creeps up on you, costs you money and makes things come apart at the seams.” 

I laughed.  “I’ll tell her you said that.”

“You do, and you’ll die – either by her hand or mine, or both. Now put this belt on.”

The belt was about five centimetres wide, made of heavy leather with a roller buckle. I did it up, noting that it had D-rings on each hip and at the back.  Jill pushed my hands away and did it up a further notch.

“That’s tight.”

“Oh, you’re such a baby sometimes.”

“Now what’re you doing?” 

Jill sighed.  “Do I have to explain everything?”

“Yes.  You know I have an enquiring mind.”

“You know what they say about a little knowledge.”

“I think I’m already past the ‘dangerous’ stage.  I just know this is going to hurt somewhere down the line.”

“Don’t be so negative.  All right, I’ll explain some things while I prepare you.”

“Prepare me?”

“Oh do shut up, or else you’ll be wearing a nice ball like Shawnee.  Just behave yourself and listen.  You know how we do electro-shock gym sessions downstairs?  Well, that’s basically an aerobic workout.  This, on the other hand, is a non-aerobic approach, called Pilates.  Spelt like pirates, but with an ‘ell’, but pronounced pill-ar-teez.”

“Oh.”

“It’s all about stretching the body and limbs.  It’s been around for yonks.”

“A bit like the Rack?”

While she had been talking, Jill had tied a rope to the D-ring at the back of my belt and had stood on a small step-ladder to run this through a pulley attached to the verandah rafter.  At my smart comment I felt the rope tighten as she tied it off to a cleat on the wall of the house behind me.

“Ha ha.  All right, hold out your hands.”

I did so, and over each hand she pulled a leather mitten that tended to squish my fingers together into a point.  Each mitten buckled closed around my wrist while the narrow ends had heavy-duty eyelets with the end of a 2-metre length of rope tied to each.

“Pilates is all about controlling your breathing, stretching your limbs and vertebrae, and making your body more flexible.  At the end of a session, though you won’t be jumping about, you’ll work up quite a sweat.  It’s sort of like yoga, but without the spiritual crap.”

“Jill, I’m shocked at such a statement.”

Jill ignored me and bent down to thread each cord through a pulley fixed to an eyebolt just in front of each foot.

“Now, I want you to put your chin on your chest, and slowly bend over, as though you’re curling your spine, vertebra by vertebra.  No, not just like touching your toes.  Do it properly!”  As I endeavoured to do this, Jill was taking up the slack on the two cords connected to my hands, until I was bent over as far as I could go.  This afternoon seemed to be the time for awkward positions on the back balcony.

“There,” I said, as best I could.  The purpose of the belt was now evident, for the rope attached to it prevented my waist from going any lower as might have happened if I could bend my knees.  I was facing the railing and made as though to stand up, but Jill had a firm grip on the ropes, which she had wound around the rail, thus controlling my attempt at moving easily.

“Can I stand up now?” I asked.

“Don’t be silly.  Look, your hands are miles away from your feet.  Can’t you even touch your toes?”

“No.”

“Then how do you wash your feet, you grubby boy!”

“Not funny,” I grunted.  “I have tight hamstrings.”

“You’ll have to do much better than that.  Take a deep breath, and as you slowly release it, try a little harder to touch your toes .”

I did so, and managed to push my hands down another centimetre or two, and of course the rope tightened by the same amount.  I felt the nerves and muscles down the backs of my legs protesting.

“Very good.  Now breathe in again – slowly – and as you exhale, try a little harder, just a little more.”

“I can’t.”

“Nonsense.  You’ll never know without trying.  Go on.”

Like an idiot, I did as I was told.  Sometimes I’m just too eager to please people.  I managed maybe another centimetre and the rope prevented all movement back.

“One more time.”

“No.”

“Steven…”

“I can’t.”

“There’s no such word!”  This time it was Monica who spoke.  She had come up beside me, and I could see her bare legs and the hem of her blue skirt just in my range of vision.

“I can’t move,” I insisted, but I wasn’t expecting the crack of a riding crop against my taut buttocks that followed that statement of supposed fact.  Suffice to say a moment of slack appeared in the cords which was instantly reeled in by Jillian as the pain of the crop caught me by surprise.

“Ow! Shit!  Monica!”

“I think it works admirably,” said Jill.  “No slacking in my Pilates class.”  She tied the cords to the rail and she and Monica moved away to discuss something out of my earshot, while I remained bent over with the muscles of my legs screaming their protest and quivering like jelly at the unfamiliar strain.  This was so humiliating. That was when Mary decided she just had to dip her own oar in.  The high heels of her sandals clacked along the deck and I felt her hand caressing my backside.

“Mmmm.  Tight buns,” she murmured to Megan, who had followed close behind.  Megan – obviously more than one Merlot to the wind, thought this was hilarious, and joined in the fondling.  I vowed at that point to go out and buy myself some baggier shorts. Sometimes women are just unable to control themselves.  Thank God I didn’t wear the satiny Aussie Rules shorts, I thought.

Megan bent over me as though she was screwing my arse, and I smelt the warm scent of her perfume as she dangled her long hair down over my lowered head.

“Ow!  That makes it worse.”

“Oh dear, poor diddums.”  She reached around and my torso and squeezed my nipples through my shirt..

“Stop it! Jill?  This isn’t part of the treatment!”

“Oh stop whinging,” Jill said, seemingly annoyed at my complaint.  “People will pay good money for this.  And if they get their rocks off while doing an exercise session, how good is that?”

I felt the riding crop again, and this time it was Mary moving it up between my legs and poking it where it shouldn’t be.

“Ow!”

“Would you like to be gagged, Steven?”

“No.” 

“I think perhaps you should be.”

“Uh-uh – not this time, Mair.”  It was Jill coming to my defence.  “He has some more exercises to do, and he needs to focus on his breathing.”

“See!” I said, like a kid.  Mary’s response was to crack me across the cheeks with the crop again.

“All right Mary, stop interfering with the client,” Monica said patiently. 

There was a clatter from the other end of the balcony.  “Looks like one of your own contestants has just dropped a toy,” Monica commented.  “I hope you didn’t have any money on Shawnee.”

“The rat!” exploded Mary. “She’s just cost me a bottle of bubbly!”

“Yay, I win!” gloated Megan, as the pair traipsed back to their slaves.

It gave me little comfort to think my position was better than that of Shawnee, right at that moment.  Suffice to say, as Jill returned and released the ropes on my hands and then my waist, allowing me to stand up, I felt like I had just done a hundred push-ups, so much was my body protesting.  I groaned, and felt a runnel of sweat slide down my chest.

“All right, on your knees,” said Jill, pushing a thin rubber mat for me to kneel on. I did as I was told, suddenly feeling like a weary old man.  “Face the railing and pretend you’re praying to Mecca.”

“It’s the other way,” I said.

“Don’t be smart, or you’ll be conducting the world’s longest prayer session.”  The rope attached to my belt was now tied to an eyebolt on the deck behind me, so that my now-sore backside was resting on my calves.  The mitten cords now went under the lower balcony rail, just above the deck.  “Okay – head down – pray.”

And so it went on.  This time it was my back and arms being stretched as Jill made me breathe in, then as I wooshed out, I was made to stretch ‘just a leetle more…’  Again I was left there while Monica and Jill had mid-exercise discussions, around which point Leila came up the back steps and saw me.

“Since when have you become a Moslem?” she asked brightly.

“Oh shut up.  I thought you were out shopping with Trish.”

“No, we’ve been packing.”  It had been just Monica’s excuse to get me to try out this new idea, I realised.

“Well do something useful and undo the ropes, will you? I’m being pulled apart here.”

“You know I can’t do that,” she said seriously.  “Jill would be most upset.”

“And what about me?”  I tried to say it without sounding whiney.

“What about you?  Whose idea was it to move the trailer in the DreamWorld car park, to make me think I was being taken off to some pound to be left there over the weekend?”  I was starting to realise I was the victim of a revenge conspiracy here.

There was no answer to that, since the others had dobbed me in at the time.

“I’m sorry,” I said, as contritely as I could manage.  Leila’s response was to draw up a chair, open up the Sunday paper and to use me as a footstool.

Jill returned a few minutes later, having finished her discussion with  Monica.

“Leila, what’re you doing?” Jill sounded just a little peeved.

“Getting my own back for the nasty trick this one instigated when I was tied up in the trailer at DreamWorld.”

“Oh.  Yes, he did do that, didn’t he.”  I could detect the amusement in her voice, even though I couldn’t see her face from my position with my head down staring and my navel.  “That reminds me.  He never told me about the bicycle race, that the toy I had to cope with was actually bigger, and vibrated into the bargain.”

“I was sworn to secrecy,” I objected, recalling the race that Jill had had to undertake – and won – as part of the Games against the Citadel.

“That’s all very well, Steven, and while it kept Mistress Lynx happy, it was a nasty shock for me, and you may recall me telling you at the time that I was not very happy.”

“You had a big smile on your face at the end of it, and you made a very noisy finish,” I argued, probably unwisely.  I felt a high heel spike on my back.

“Don’t you think your position is a little exposed, for those sort of statements?”  Thinking more clearly with the presence of the heel, I said nothing. 

“What do you think we should do, Jill?”  I felt the various feet removed from my back as the pair moved some distance away to discuss tactics.  My Sunday afternoon was rapidly going downhill.  Talk about a scapegoat.

They were back soon – at least Jill was.  She straddled my back and bent over me, wrapping her arms under my torso to undo the buttons of my shirt – a task she seemed unable to accomplish without a number of squeezes of my nipples that made me yelp.  She pulled my shirt open and then took the back of it and pulled it up over my head and down my stretched out arms, leaving my back exposed to the world.

“This might be a little painful, Steven, dear, and since Monica is now working on the end of month accounts, we don’t want her disturbed with any carry-on you might make.”

“What are you going to do to me?” I asked, unable to hide the trepidation I felt.  “After all the work I put in –“ Then Jill was down on me again, her weight tugging the rope at my belt even tighter, with her breasts pressing against my back.  Again, her arms were round my body and a black rubber ball was thrust between my lips.  I tried to fight it, to eject it, but my head was pretty much pinioned between my arms and my chest, and after only a second or two, I felt the ball start to expand in my mouth as Jill began to pump it up.  The rubber flattened my tongue and expanded against my teeth and cheeks such that I could only grunt pathetically.

“There.  All quiet on the western front.  Comfy?”

“Uh-uh!” I tried to say in the strongest possible terms, but somehow it didn’t come out right.  Then I was aware of Leila’s sandals in the edge of my vision, and Jill continued.  “You see, Steven, you guys forget what we girls have to go through.  There are certain things you’ll never be able to experience that we have to endure.  It’s all very well you having fun building all these devices, but then we girls are the ones who end up suffering on them.”

I wanted to ask where the problem was with that arrangement, but it didn’t seem advisable or possible just then.

“So we thought perhaps it might be appropriate if we could manage to show you what we have to endure sometimes,” Leila chipped in enthusiastically.  That was when I felt smooth hands pressing something down on my shoulders – something that felt like strips of paper.  Naively I wondered what the hell was going on as the girls wandered off to talk to Mary and Megan at the other end of the verandah, while I knelt, still suffering the death by a thousand nerve stretches.

When they returned I quickly found out the nature of the plan, as there came a searing pain across my shoulders as the paper was ripped away, taking, without a doubt, any hair attached to it.  I yelled unto the rubber filling my mouth, and struggled vainly against the ropes holding me in place.

“Waxing away hair is just one of the things we do to make ourselves look attractive, Steven,” said Leila.  “And you have a lot of nasty unsightly hair all over your shoulders.”  There was another rip and another piercing pain, and another gagged yell from Yours Truly.  My understanding of women took another backward step.  Who would willingly undergo this treatment?

 “We can do your pubes after this,” said Jillian sweetly, and Leila nearly fell over laughing at the thought.  I, on the other hand, wouldn’t have put it past Jill, and I struggled frantically as more hair came away.  My shoulders now had the feeling of acute sunburn, and it was only then that Monica appeared, asking in a mildly interested way what was going on, as though this sort of torture took place on her verandah all the time (although to some extent it did.)

“You’re both very naughty,” said Monica, with a tone that implicitly approved the process.  “And you’ve missed a bit here.”  Rrrrripp!  Arrrgh!

Tears were running down my bulging cheeks now, though fortunately my face was hidden from view.  My appreciation of the stoicism and courage of these females had gone up enormously but I just wanted it to be over.

A hand with long nails caressed my burning skin.

“You’re both very bad, doing this to poor Steven.”  This statement of fact was obviously from Monica, and without a shred of conviction in her voice.  “After all the effort he put in, just about winning the assault event on his own.”  This wasn’t true, but it was nice of Monica to say so.  “It’s as much because of Steven’s efforts that you’re getting this prize, Leila, and don’t you forget it.”  That was all very well, I thought, but what about untying some ropes as a gesture of appreciation?

“I will admit that he does look much more attractive without all that hair, but I’m sure it’s a bit painful.  You should rub some lotion on it now, to make it better and to show there are no hard feelings, children.  When you’ve done that, you must let him go.”  Monica turned on her heel and left, making a sighing noise of the kind that parents do when having to separate squabbling siblings.

I was grateful for Monica’s intervention, and appreciative of the cool balm that Leila was soon spreading over my skin, while whispering provocative statements in my ear, though I would rather have been set free.  All I could do was make little grunting sounds while the hands make a series of caresses around my shoulders, then spread across my chest and played with my nipples in a way that I could not resist, mainly because I had no choice.  Leila draped herself over my back, pressing her breasts hard against my skin and embracing me in a manner that put further pressure on the ropes fore and aft.  It also seemed to squeeze the blood down to my nether regions, and Mr Willy worked himself up into a rock hard state with very little effort, such was Leila’s skill.

Pre-dic-tably – if you’ll pardon the pun – Leila’s hands found their way down the front of my jeans and started to do the most frustrating things.  Kneeling bent over as I was, relief was going to be very difficult, and Leila knew this, being content to tease and tantalise to the sound of Jill’s barely suppressed laughter from an adjacent chair.

Finally it was Jill who called a halt to the proceedings, and released the rope attached to the rear of my belt.

“We’re going to do some more packing now,” she said, and there followed the sound of heels disappearing from the deck as I slowly came upright to find I was alone on the verandah.

I squirmed forward to get some slack on the arm ropes and finally got to my feet, grunting with the effort that came from unfolding limbs unused to such a long period in a compressed condition.  I tried to undo the valve to the inflatable gag, but it was screwed up tightly, and with my hands in the leather mittens I could not properly grasp the tube and the valve knob.  All I succeeded in doing was accidentally squeezing the bulb further, causing the bladder to further inflate inside my mouth, much to my alarm.

Feeling like a fool with the bulb dangling from my bulging cheeks, I tried to undo the knots where the cords from my mittens were tied to the railing, but with my fingers all squished to a point, and my thumbs pressed into my palms, I couldn’t manage it.  I grunted in my frustration.  I tried the buckles around my wrists, but couldn’t work these, either, without opposing digits.  There was obviously some evolutionary irony here, but I wasn’t quite picking it up.

I sat down again, irked at the fact that I was only nominally secured, yet I could not free myself.  Eventually Trish came out of the house and went down the back steps, not seeing my plight until I made a long “mmmph!” to her and banged the railings.  She stopped and looked up at me, then – smiling cheerfully – she returned up the steps and along to where I sat.

“Are we having fun?” she asked.  I grunted as expressively as I could.

“You know the rules about setting somebody else’s prisoners free.”

Yes I did know the rules, but I had been allowed to go free, and did my best to explain this around the bladder that held my jaw now quite painfully jammed open.  Trish squatted on her heels beside me, with the look of a biologist who has found an intriguing new species of animal that she can’t quite identify, and tilted her head to display a puzzled look.

“I could release the valve a little,” she said, half to herself, “but if your excuse is no good, I’ll blow it up bigger.  Okay?”  I nodded, desperately, and finally felt the ache of my jaw disappear as the big rubber bladder deflated in my mouth.

“It’s very simple,” I said.  “Jill left me to free myself, but I can’t do it with my hands this way.  You should have seen what I went through,” I bleated.

“Poor baby,” said Trish, stroking my cheek.  “My – have you been out in the sun? Your shoulders look really burned.  You ought to rub some lotion on them…”

*  *   *

14.01.04

story continues in Monica's Travels 02

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