Monica's Travels 07

by Richard Alexander (Gromets Plaza)

(story continues from Monica's Travels 06)

Chapter Seven – Birth of a Domme

In the ferry on the way back to Kowloon we finally switched off the phone call to Portia’s newly installed pussy-phone and rang the travel agent to rebook our flight to London.  There was one leaving that evening, via Frankfurt, and we were now going to be on it, hoping the detour might throw anybody off the scent.  It would see us in London three days ahead of our planned itinerary, which just might give us an edge over Madam Wong and whoever else was involved.

We also examined Portia’s address book, which Trish had taken the liberty of borrowing in the course of a rummage through Portia’s belongings.  Most of it was in Chinese, and we struggled to make sense of the little that was in English.  Despite the beatings from Trish and Mary, Portia had denied all knowledge of where Jade Wong would be in England, other than volunteering her mobile phone number and the strange expression “Simon’s Yattall”.  This had us baffled, and despite our best efforts, we came up blank in our joint attempts to crack the code.

“We must also ring Megan,” Trish said.  “If Leon is involved in this whole thing, the sooner we deal with him the better.”

It was a two-hour time difference between Hong Kong and Brisbane, and Megan was sipping a drink in some riverfront bar when we caught her on her mobile.

“Don’t give me that crap about working up new business,” Trish teased.  “Is he good looking?”  A pause, and Trish smiled.  “Look, sweetie, sorry to bother you, but this is important.  All sorts of things have happened in the last day, which I won’t go into.  We need to know where Leon is.  Is he still working at the Citadel?”  Trish’s brow furrowed as she listened to the answer.  Then she seemed lost in thought.  “What?  Yes – sorry, I’m still here.  Look, if you get any inkling of where he may be, be sure to ring me, okay?  It’s really important.  What? They’ve left too? God, the Citadel must be pretty under strength, then.  You should be chatting up future employees, not clients.  Oh.  I see.  Okay.  Look, we’re just about to dock – this call is costing a fortune, I suspect.  I’d better go.  Let us know if you hear anything – anything at all. Bye.”

Trish closed the flap on the phone and looked at the three of us.

“Leon’s done a runner.  Megan doesn’t know where.  And Kris and Marilyn are heading off back to the States.”

“That doesn’t leave too many at the Citadel,” Mary observed, “especially with Deb looking after Bilboes.”

“No.  Only Megan, Catherine and Elizabeth – and that smart slave, what’s-her-name.  Dianne.”

“But Leon… That worries me no end,” Trish mused, half to herself.  “He was the first link in this whole debacle.  He knew our itinerary.  He short-circuited us during the Games.  He’s been the fly in the ointment every time.”

“He’s had it in for Monica ever since she publicly humiliated him at the Citadel,” I said, and told the others what had transpired after Leon had screwed up with a remote bondage session, and I had had to make a mercy dash with Dianne to Noosa, to free a young client.

“Some more pieces fall into place,” Mary reflected.  “But not enough to see what the jigsaw is, yet.”

*   *   *

We had little time back at the hotel, but fortunately enough for me to shed my alter-ego, Stephanie - as the others had taken to calling me on the way back.  Getting the corset off was a major relief, as was shedding the boobs and the long hair.  I had time to ditch the replica pistol - which I had forgotten about – in a rubbish bin, to shower and pack and then we were on our way to the airport, via separate taxis to Kowloon Station and different trains.  It was a risky strategy, for it exposed us individually, but we minimised it by travelling as unconnected pairs.  Shawnee took the first taxi, and I followed immediately behind her in a second, keeping my distance in the station but boarding the same train.

It was a relief when we were finally reunited in the departure lounge after checking in separately on the Cathay Pacific flight.  Shawnee was bitching about her collar setting off the metal detector again.

“They wanted to take it off, but I told them it wouldn’t come off, but they didn’t believe me!” she complained.

“And you expected what?  Special consideration for being a subbie who packed her brain with her luggage?” Mary sniped.  “We told you to leave it at home, but oh no, Shawnee knows best.”

Shawnee was silent.

“Now girls,” I said reasonably.  “It’s a long flight.  Let’s not make it any more tiring than it will be anyway.”  It was nearly ten o’clock.  “I wonder how our friends are going now?  I don’t reckon that ice would have melted until at least six o’clock, by which time it was getting dark.”

“I’d love to have seen the pair of them stumbling down the path to the village,” Trish put in.  “I reckon Portia would have had at least three orgasms by then.  And I’d be surprised if the phone hadn’t become water-logged – or juice-logged – and died as a result.  Then they’d have to find help to get free and then marshal their forces.”

“I still won’t be happy until we’re on that plane and off the ground,” I said uneasily.

*   *   *

An hour later we were airborne, with Trish and I sitting together across the aisle from the other two, slowly relaxing into the big leather seats with the help of a couple of indecently strong rum-and-cokes and a welcome dinner.

“You know, despite all that went on today, I’m still not tired,” Trish said.  “Well, yes I am, but I don’t think I could sleep.  I keep thinking about Monica.”

“I know what you mean.  Too many things going round my head.  Especially that Simon’s Yattall thing.”

Trish was silent for a little while, as the cabin lights dimmed and the passengers prepared to sleep.

“Suppose you tell me more about how you came to be mixed up with Monica,” I suggested.  “It was just starting to get interesting on the last flight.”

“I suppose it’s better than counting sheep…” Trish smiled in the gloom.

I had no idea where things would lead when Monica rolled up on our doorstep.  Mary and I had been living and working together for a year at that stage, and – it may surprise you – but we got on pretty well.  We complemented each other, I guess – different skills and all that.  I’d stayed clear of drugs, thanks to threats from Mary, and the certainty of what would happen to me if I betrayed her faith in me.  Business was okay.  Then this cocky, confident nineteen-year-old showed up and said she wanted to be a Domme.

Mary was out at the time, and I invited Monica into the kitchen for a cup of coffee while we waited for Mary to return from her outing.  I had met a few weird and wonderful people since joining Mary in her profession, but even at this stage I sensed there was something different about this Monica.  She had a determination, an inner fortitude that at the time I could not specifically put my finger on.

Mary appeared only a couple of minutes later.  She wore a short black lycra dress with long sleeves and heavy eye makeup that made her look severe and uncompromising, and we began again.  Mary was unsympathetic to Monica’s statement that she wanted to become a Domme.

“Why?” Mary demanded.

Monica was unfazed by Mary’s bluntness.

“I was born to it.  I just need to know the technicalities.”

“You’ll need to know more than that,” Mary contradicted her. “So why have you come to see me?”

“I hear you’re one of the best. Or worst – depending on which end of the whip one looks from.”

I tried not to smile at that.  This girl had a silver tongue and even at her tender age knew how to get her way.

“Hear from whom?” Mary quizzed.

“Oh, I made a few inquiries.  Who was the best Domme around and who would be the best teacher.  I asked Susannah at Salon Kitty’s and Kirsten at the Blue Grotto – amongst others.  You know.  Your name was the one that kept coming up.”

Mary said nothing for a minute, busying herself putting some groceries away.

“Where are you from?” 

“Brisbane.”

“Oh God, a banana bender,” Mary sighed. “How long have you been in Sydney?”

“A week.”

“And how long do you think you’ll stay here?”

“As long as it takes.”

“And how long do you think that will be, for you to learn the trade?”

For the first time I noticed a faint hesitation by the girl.

“A month, maybe.”

“A month.  Okay.  You think I can teach you all there is to this business in a month, even though it’s taken me eight years to get where I am, and I’m still discovering stuff I didn’t know.”

“I’m a fast learner,” Monica declared confidently. “I’ve studied lots of magazines since I’ve been in Sydney.”

“And what about when you were in Queensland?”

“Oh.  Uh… we actually can’t get them up there.  I saw one or two, but mostly I’ve been researching down here.”

I was watching Mary through this encounter, sensing her impatience with this starry-eyed idealist, and wondering how she was going to deal with it.

“Can you handle pain?  You must understand it if you’re going to inflict it,” she said flatly.

“Of course.”  Was there a momentary hesitation?  I wondered what stories she had heard about Mary’s non-nonsense attitude.

“Good.  Now let me tell you a few things Miss -?”

“Armstrong.  Call me Monica.”

“Very well, Miss Armstrong.  Here are the conditions. You should know that I don’t normally take on training of novices except under exceptional circumstances, and I have yet to decide whether you qualify.  Now, a few things about becoming a novice.  Firstly, it will not happen in a month, nor a year, but maybe less than two.  In this time, if I so choose, you will become a novice, but you will be a sub to me for at least the first year.  You will experience the pain that you may one day inflict on others.  You will experience the ropes and the stringent positions that you will one day impose on others.  Am I getting through to you?”  

For the first time Monica looked uneasy, but swallowed and nodded her head.

“You will experience the long term restraint, the hours deprived of sight, sound and speech, deprived of movement and touch as the circulation slowly fades from your fingers.  You will be encased in tight garments and made to perform outrageous acts on strangers who will pay for your services.  You will be used by them and submit to them.  You will feel the bite of the whip and the flogger, and learn the way into subspace so that one day you will be able to guide others there.”  Mary stood over Monica and stared hard into her eyes.  I didn’t know what effect she was having on the young girl, but by God she was scaring me.

“A mistress must understand her subjects and what they are feeling, and how to control them both physically and mentally.  She must know when to strike with the cane and when to provide a soft caress.  She must have medical knowledge and initiative, flair and imagination, physical strength and sensitivity.  Have you thought this whole thing through?  This is a major career move, and let me tell you, people who waste my time invariably only do it once and regret it for a long time afterwards.  My friend here will tell you I do not suffer fools gladly, nor do I forgive readily.  Am I right?”  Mary looked at me for confirmation.  I nodded, gravely.  Another lie.

“Now, the more relevant points.  Do you have any medical condition?  And don’t even think of lying to me in front of a witness.”

“Not that I know of.”

“No bad back, heart condition, asthma, epilepsy, drug addiction?”  I thought the last one was a pointed shot, but said nothing.  Mary was quite within her rights to ask such things.

“No.”

“Do you have a safe word?”

“Uh…no.”

“All right, if you get to a stage where you want out, you will hum ‘Jingle Bells’.  I doubt that you will be able to sing it, since your mouth may be full.  But be warned, you had better have something pretty serious to tell me when you invoke it.

“Now you will leave here, and if you are truly sure that this is a road you wish to go down, you may return here at six o’clock tomorrow night.  There is a small room upstairs with a mattress on the floor that you may use for as long as you remain here.  Have I made my point?”

“Y-yes,” said Monica, now looking decidedly uneasy but trying to maintain her nerve.

“Yes what?”

“Yes…Mistress?” 

“Very good.  Maybe you’re not as slow as you look.  All right.  You may go.”  

Without a second glance, Mary walked out of the room as if Monica ceased to exist.  I showed her to the door.  Monica said nothing until I let her out, when she whispered in a shaky voice:

“See you tomorrow…”

*   *   *

The following night she turned up precisely at six o’clock.  I let her in and made her stand in the hallway as I tired a black silk scarf over her eyes.  She did not question the procedure, but allowed herself to be led into the big room that served as the dungeon.  Mary was waiting, wearing a black leather catsuit that hugged her willowy form, the legs of which disappeared into knee-length high heeled boots.  The catsuit had a zip down the front and a heavy silver chain at the waist, but was otherwise unadorned.  Monica wore black stockings, a short white skirt and a revealing sleeveless pink top that was also essentially backless save for a series of straps criss-crossing from her shoulders to her waist.  It was plainly evident she wore no bra under it.

I guided Monica to the centre of the room then stepped away.  Mary was leaning against the old fireplace, and remained there without saying a word.  Neither Monica or Mary moved for at least five minutes, while the air seemed to get heavier within the room.  For the first time I sensed a little of Monica’s inner strength, as she understood that she was on trial, and that any sign of impatience would be punished.  She realised that self discipline would become her greatest ally if she could control it, and that patience was an essential commodity if she was to complete this trial, for that was what it was.  She was in no doubt that what she was about to encounter – in whatever form it came – would be an enervating, draining experience, a trial of physical and mental strength that would make or break her ambition.  I wondered if this was the real reason she had chosen Mary – that there was some personal, higher-order agenda that only Monica knew about.  It would not be the last time I would find myself wondering this, over the following years.

After perhaps five or six minutes, in which time Monica did not move a muscle, Mary eased herself away from the wall, and slowly walked around the motionless, blindfolded girl.  The floor in the room was timber, and the noise of Mary’s heels must have seemed loud to one deprived of sight.  Finally Mary spoke.

“Remove your top.  Everybody here would like to see what you have to hide – or show off.”  Her voice was flat and expressionless, that of one with only a cursory interest in a product on offer.  The reference to “everybody” was a casual throwaway line designed to unnerve a new recruit by making them think they were perhaps the focus of a room full of people.

Unfazed, Monica unbuttoned the pink top and slipped it off.  It dropped to the floor and we were able to gaze admiringly at the statuesque figure that was revealed.  Monica’s breasts had the uplifted firmness of youth, the erect pink nipples displayed with a mixture of casualness and almost arrogance.  Monica was clearly proud of her body, and with good reason, for her flesh was tanned and her muscles trim.  She had the look of a dancer, with poise and presence overlaying the classical goddess figure.

“Now lose the skirt,” Mary commanded quietly.  With a single movement Monica undid the zipper at the side and the skirt slid to the floor, revealing a white satin G-string barely covering a dark, delicately trimmed thatch of pubic hair, and a narrow garter belt holding up the stockings.  “Take two steps forward.”  Monica did as she was told.  She was wearing white high heels that leant an attractive curve to her thighs and calves as she stepped clear of the fallen garments.

“Kneel,”  said Mary.  Monica did so, in a fluid movement that could have suggested she had done it all her life.  She sat on her heels, her legs apart and her hands resting, palm up, on her thighs.  Mary looked across at me and raised her eyebrows.  “You will count to fifty,” Mary told Monica quietly.  “When you reach that number, you may remove the blindfold.  You will be alone.  You may use any of the equipment in this room for your next task.  You will be required to place yourself in bondage.  You will have no idea how long you may be required to maintain that position.  I will assess your effort with due regard to imagination, stamina, and the risk you are prepared to take that I might keep you in that position all night.  I will take note of your flexibility and what shall we say… your familiarity with and use of accessories.  And of course it goes without saying that if you can escape from it, you will fail.”

I followed Mary out the door.

For various reasons, we had not had much time to talk about Monica since she had first appeared the previous day.  Only now did we sit down at the kitchen table and take stock of the young acolyte in the room next door.

“What do you think?” I ventured, wondering at Mary’s pensive silence.

Mary looked up suddenly, as though coming out of a reverie.  She smiled, and seeing Mary smile was a wonderful feeling, for a full Mary smile came rarely, so self-restrained was she normally.  

“Trish, this sort of thing happens very, very rarely.  Believe me, I’ve a nose for these things.  I don’t mean these wannabe Dommes turning up – we’ve all seen them.  They want a quick power trip without the hard work, and never have the drive or the self-belief to lift themselves out of the gutter.  But every once in a while…”  She stopped and shook her head as though she couldn’t quite believe what she was saying.  “I feel like one of those Buddhist monks who has just discovered the new Dalai Lama.  Trish – this one is special.  I can feel it.”  Then, just as suddenly her mood hardened.  “And if you repeat any of that to a single soul, I will tie you up and whip your arse bloody.  Do you understand me?”  Mary could always unnerve me when she put her mind to it.  I simply nodded, and she relaxed.

“I think a nice cup of tea is in order.”

*   *   *

With a mixture of anticipation and curiosity we opened the door into the dungeon.  In contrast to the way we had left it, the place was now illuminated by candles.  Before I even saw Monica I knew this was an impressive start.  I tried to imagine what a nineteen-year-old would be feeling, visiting Sydney for the first time and meeting with an imposing woman who might yet prove to be her mentor.  But far worse than that, Monica was on trial, having to expose her body and soul to someone she did not know, except by fearsome reputation.  She would be nervous, excited, apprehensive.  Possibly sexually aroused.  It would be the culmination of many hours of thought and fantasizing.  I wondered what thoughts were going through her mind as she heard the door opening.

Monica was in the corner, facing us, like the centrepiece of some strange shrine.  She had used a small lamp – the only illumination other than the candles - to spotlight her position, seated on the floor, her legs spread wide.

Centrepiece to her restraint was the ankle spreader bar.  It was a telescopic one, and could open out to 1.2 metres.  Rarely had I experienced this extent of leg spread, for it was terribly hard on the hip joints.  The ends of the bar had curved metal pieces on rockers that fitted against the inside of the ankle, and to which were fixed broad ankle straps.  It gave a rigidity to the bar, preventing it from slipping round behind or beside the ankle.  The extent of expansion was controlled by holes through the two straight bars, one of which slid inside the other.  Simply line up the holes and stick a long-shank padlock through them and voilá.  Instant access to all points south.

Monica had gone the whole hog.  Either she was out to impress or else she had misjudged things.  If the latter, she would find out soon enough.  The lock through the bar was on the last set of holes, and Monica’s black stockinged legs rested on the wooden floor in a wide vee.  She had locked on a pair of wrist cuffs, and was now bent forward, the cuffs joined by a short chain to the padlock in the middle of the bar.  It was a stringent position, given the spread of her legs, and I could see the arch of her vertebrae as she bent forward at the waist, her head down and her face hidden by the curtain of black hair.

Over the top of the hair was the narrow strap of a head harness, and as Mary and I approached, we saw that the harness held a ball gag and padded leather blindfold in place.  I wondered momentarily why she did not look up at our approach, until I realised that the ball gag she had used was the one we had with an eyebolt protruding from it, and through this ran a chain connecting two cloverleaf clips fastened on her nipples.  Any attempt to raise her head would immediately tighten the clips and exacerbate whatever discomfort the clips were already causing.

Mary squatted beside the still figure, listening to the heavy breathing, then none-too-gently massaged Monica’s breasts.  Monica moaned softly but otherwise appeared to make a concerted effort to stay in control.  Mary’s hand dropped between Monica’s legs, and felt around briefly.  There was a momentary humming sound that came from the base of a vibrator touching the floor, then it faded again as Mary pushed it back in place.  She held up her hand towards me and I saw the shiny wetness on her fingers.  She grinned.

“You’ve done well, Monica.  You are indeed very secure, and – I might add – very flexible.  I wonder how long you can survive in that position…”  Her voice was heavy with implication.  “Trish and I are going out for a while, but you’ll be quite safe – we’ll lock the door before we go, so nobody can get in to molest you.  In the meantime, just so you can properly focus on what will hopefully be a little journey to the edge of subspace, we will fit you with these industrial earmuffs, which should stop all those distracting outside sounds.  I imagine that after the first half hour those clips will become quite painful, and of course you will be unable to move your head without making things worse.  Your neck will begin to ache and your hips will be on fire, if they aren’t getting that way already.”  Mary removed a set of padded earmuffs from a nearby wall peg.

“You see, Monica, this is the only way you can fully understand what people will experience who put themselves in your hands.  It is the only way you can relate to how long you leave them, and appreciate the raging pain that comes from a wrongly placed rope or a joint that is pushed to its limit.  You will come to understand that the body is an interconnected structure, and that the pain in your tits will cause pain in your neck, and in your back, which will also be affected by your arms and your legs.  The pain will become worse, while at the same time the warmth in your loins will become more pronounced.  When you first climax, the pain will be forgotten, but as the flush of orgasm dies, the pain will double, or triple.  But you will have nowhere to go.  Nobody will hear you as you try to enunciate a cry for help beyond that ball strapped in your mouth.  You will have no idea of the passing of time.  To all intents and purposes, in your world time will stop.  I don’t know how long we’ll be gone.  Is there anything you wish to communicate?  Any little ditty you wish to hum?”

Mary paused, standing over the chained, stretched figure.  Monica remained motionless, save a faint shudder that may have been the first intimation of an orgasm, or may simply have been a sudden pain from nipples squeezed cruelly by the clips.  Mary bent and released the earmuffs on to Monica’s head.  Again she shuddered, but no sound escaped the gagged lips.

Mary pointed to the door and we left the room, closing the door with enough force that the vibrations would carry to the sensory-deprived girl.  In the hallway, we opened and closed the outside door, then at Mary’s signal, we removed our shoes and tiptoed out the back to the kitchen.

“She’ll be okay for a little while,” Mary said.  “What do you think?”

“Ambitious,” I suggested.  “She’s going to regret that leg spread.”

“Mmmn.  Neat, though.  Thoughtful.  I’m not disappointed – yet.  I think I’ll sneak in and read a book.  Let’s see where the next hour leads.  Join me?”

We crept silently back into the dungeon and settled ourselves in a corner.  Monica was – predictably - immobile, and only the sound of her breathing – now noticeably heavier, could be heard.  Every so often there was the faint clink of the chain as Monica tried to adjust the position of her hands stretched out in front of her, or tried to squirm into a slightly different position to ease the pain in her legs.  These movements were accompanied by a muted grunt and a pained exhalation of breath.  

We had been sitting there for about ten minutes when Monica began to get more restless.  She tried to pull on the wrist chains, and to bend her legs, but they wouldn’t do so.  There was a clear and rapid agitation in her movements, and I knew what was happening.  Her breathing abruptly turned into a rising series of moans as an orgasm brewed in her loins and abruptly exploded, leaving her snorting and writhing in her confinement, tugging frantically against her chains and making little bouncing movements on the floor.  Her head bobbed and shook, tugging fiercely on the chain linking the nipple clips as she snorted helplessly, unable to repel the waves of pleasure and pain sweeping over her.  Mary looked up from her book with a satisfied smile, then resumed reading.

I wondered how long Mary would leave her charge alone.  Every so often she would tiptoe across to inspect the suffering girl, before sitting down again.  Monica climaxed twice more in the next hour, by which point her muscles were trembling, and the moaning had became continuous.

Mary motioned to me and we crossed to the prisoner, crouching down together and simultaneously unclipping a nipple each in a single movement.  Monica raised her head and screamed into the rubber ball filling her mouth, her nasal cry merging into a series of urgh – urgh - urgh! noises, then subsiding into plaintive sniffles.  She could now ease her neck, and Mary now unlocked the spreader lock, sliding the bars together so that the ankle distance was perhaps half what it had been.  

Monica groaned with relief, but it was short lived, as the lock was back in place and she found her wrists still anchored to the middle of the bar.

“Urrrh?” she grunted interrogatively to those she couldn’t see.

“She thinks it’s over,” chuckled Mary.  “Silly girl.”

I helped Mary drag the grunting figure across the floor to a point under a cable pulley, where we attached a hook to a welded ring on the centre of the spreader bar.  Monica, of course, could not see what was happening, and was clearly perturbed at what lay ahead, especially when her feet and wrists began to go up in the air as I cranked the hand winch.  Moments later she was hanging upside down, her head back, twisting slowly on the end of the wire.  Mary removed the ear muffs.

“I hope you didn’t think this little test would be over already?  My dear girl, this is only the beginning.  But just hum a little tune any time you want and you can go home and nothing more will be said.”  She paused, but the inverted figure was conspicuously silent.  “Nothing to say for yourself?”  The head harness shook negatively and several drops of perspiration fell to the floor.

“Good,” said Mary.  “Then we’ll continue.  Have you ever experienced electro-stimulation?”  Another shake of the head.  “My, my.  This is going to be a learning day, isn’t it.  Trish, would you be so kind?”  Mary pointed to Monica’s head and the way it lolled backwards.  I knew it would be a strain on her neck to try to keep her head upright, and with the ball gag still strapped in her mouth, there was the possibility that breathing could be a problem.  I threw a quick loop of rope around a D-ring on top of the harness, then tied it off to the spreader bar as Monica gurgled and struggled briefly in her bonds.  

Ten years ago, before electronics became more sophisticated and devices became smaller, a TENS machine was quite bulky, and so it was at Mary’s place.  It was the size of a briefcase, and sat on a wheeled trolley that we used to use in the dungeon.  Mary attached an anal probe to the machine.  The probe was not unlike a larger version of the thermometer you stick into a roast turkey to tell when it’s done, except that in this instance it had an electrode on each side and could provide an very interesting, exciting or painful stimulation, depending on the level of current.

Mary motioned to me to remove the blindfold, which could be done without affecting the harness holding the ball in Monica’s mouth.  Monica’s eyes blinked as she slowly focussed on her surroundings.  Mary held the probe up in front of Monica’s face.

“Have you ever used one of these, my dear?” Mary asked, her voice almost deferential, as a waitress would ask if Madam required cream and sugar.  Monica’s eyes widened at the sight of the shiny metal with the two wires attached to the base.  She shook her head with the obvious inference that she did not particularly want to become acquainted with it.

Mary ignored the slight and reached down to slide the cold metal probe into Monica’s very exposed butt hole, tying it there with a waist and crotch rope.  Monica grunted and squirmed but there was precious little she could do about it when I turned the power on just sufficiently to produce an erotic tingle up Monica’s arse, while the vibrator she had originally put in place continued to do its work.  I suspected this Monica was sufficiently prepared that she had probably found the new long life batteries we kept on a shelf.  She was starting to look just a little anally retentive, with preparation and organisation being paramount in her life.

Not that there was anything wrong with that in this line of business.  Rather, it was a decided advantage if bad things weren’t to happen through lack of planning.  As for the anal retentive thing, right then Monica was anally retaining the buzzing probe, which Mary supplemented with two nipple clips with further small vibrating weights.  Monica moaned – a moan that became louder and more prolonged as Mary slid a couple of fingers against the captive clit.  It appeared that Monica was just a little sensitive in this area, for she squealed into the gag and jerked in her bonds, before seeming to consciously relax and accept the inevitable.  

Monica’s eyes closed and she began to make ‘hmmming’ noises of pleasure, her breathing becoming heavy and noisy.  Mary gestured me to pick up a cane and I knew what was going to happen.  We waited a minute or two as Monica built up a full head of steam, as the sensations from her loins began to reach breaking point.  Finally, as she began a series of rapidly-rising gagged cries, Mary removed her fingers and spun the dial on the TENS, turning the pleasurable tingling into a painful buzz, while I dealt two fierce strokes of the cane to the tautly stretched buttocks.  Monica howled and writhed, her body swinging and twisting on the cable, the threatening orgasm abruptly consigned to mere hopeful memory.

Monica was starting to learn the control of pleasure and pain – the hard way.  It was a process that continued for another hour of teasing and torment that saw her on the brink of climax any number of times, but always Mary and I would drive her back from the edge with some serious pain that ultimately saw the tears flow.  But they were tears of frustration, we knew.  There was a toughness to this girl that I had not seen in the clients Mary and I had worked on together.  Monica was not reduced to weeping through pain alone.  When we lowered her legs and stretched them wide again, Mary gave the firm, uptilted breasts a thorough whipping with a multi-tailed flogger, but Monica bit into the rubber ball and somehow suppressed the urge to cry out.

Only when Mary finally tired of the torment did she ask if Monica wanted to climax.  The dark hair nodded almost imperceptibly as though Monica only had enough energy for one more thing.  Mary unhooked the vibrating nibble clamps and rubbed Monica’s breasts in a way that was at once a grope but also sensual and apologetic for the hurt the same fingers had inflicted.

The perspiration was running off the prisoner in rivulets by this stage, and Monica ‘s head was hanging from fatigue.  The TENS was turned down to a gentle stimulation and Mary sank to her knees to press her mouth to Monica’s clit.  In a matter of seconds Monica exploded with an energy I did not think she had left in her.  She tried to kick and twist and scream into the rubber ball.  Her eyes were screwed shut and I don’t think she quite knew what was happening.  Mary gripped her buttocks with both hands and went for Monica’s clit again, letting her tongue and teeth drive Monica to new heights of ecstasy as she strained at the cable holding her arms above her, and the spreader bar anchoring her ankles.  Her muted cries reached a high nasal scream before Mary decided the young recruit had experienced enough for one day.

When we finally let out the cable that held her wrists above her, Monica subsided on to the floor like a sack of potatoes.  She made not even a token effort to resist as Mary removed the crotch rope and the inserts.  We turned Monica on her front as though dealing with a dead body, and this one did not even murmur as Mary worked a well-lubed butt plug in place, locking a waist and crotch chain in place.  Monica’s leather cuffs were removed and replaced by a rigid single steel cuff that secured both wrists in front of her, and was then locked to the crotch chain.  A pair of steel manacles with a minimal hobble chain replaced the spreader bar, while the ball was removed and a discipline helmet with a blindfold was laced up over Monica’s sweat-soaked black hair.  She seemed barely aware of what was happening, as we dragged her to the cell under the stairs and laid her on a mattress there, before locking the grilled door.

*   *   *

That was Monica’s initiation.  Mary reckoned she hadn’t seen stamina and determination like it in her years in the business.  While Monica had physical limits just like the rest of us, her high pain threshold was remarkable, but made more so by her courage and determination not to be dominated.  Despite her position of acolyte to Mary, and while she was eager to please, I could sense that Monica would never be broken or lapse into a truly submissive role.  What we were seeing was a concession to the training, a nominal compliance that was obligatory if the bigger objectives on Monica’s agenda were to be achieved.

Monica spent the first week living in the cell under the stairs.  Mary kept Monica hooded and wove some pretty scary scenarios in her presence.  Whatever Monica thought, she wasn’t letting on.  She remained cuffed and hobbled with steel fetters and the butt plug remained in place.  When clients were entertained or dealt to, Monica was gagged and brought out to listen to the session but was unable to speak or watch.  I was impressed the way Mary was making Monica begin by focussing on her sense of hearing and letting her imagination work.  Given that so many of our clients did receive training and ‘treatment’ in a blindfolded state, Mary was obviously making a point to her new recruit.

After a week Monica was finally allowed out and began a more normal existence upstairs on a single mattress in Mary’s room.  There were only two bedrooms in the house, and Mary’s being the master – or should I say ‘mistress’ bedroom, it was the only one with sufficient room for a floor mattress.  Exactly what went on in there with the door closed, I could only guess at, but suffice to say, Monica was a model student, and it wasn’t long before she was partaking in the sessions.

“I can’t imagine Monica as a subbie,” I said.  Trish’s words were fading off against the hum of the engines in the darkened cabin.

“She’s not.  As she said, she was born a Domme.  We realised that soon enough. “  Trish paused and yawned.  “Can I rest my head on your shoulder?”

I pushed the arm rest back into the recess and a minute later Trish was asleep, snuggled up against me, as the plane droned across Central Asia and I wondered where Monica was right then.

*   *   *

20.03.04

story continues in Monica's Travels 08

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