Monica's Travels 13

by Richard Alexander (Gromets Plaza)

(story continues from Monica's Travels 12)

Chapter Thirteen – Crisis Management

Trish and I looked at each other, momentarily at a loss.  The capture of Mary and Shawnee threw all our plans into confusion.

“Damn!” I said.  “We’ll have to split up again.  You go on without me – do your best to track Monica and keep in touch on the mobile.”

“And you’ll be…”

“Trying to rescue four damsels instead of two,” I sighed.

“If you get yourself caught, I won’t be able to save you from halfway across the Atlantic,” Trish warned.

“I know.  I’m very conscious of that.”

“How will you get there?  Do you want to take the car?”

“I reckon that our dear friend Madam Wong wouldn’t have parked the Land Rover here then disappeared overseas with the key.   Let’s have a quick squiz to see if it’s around.”

It didn’t take long to find the key tucked on the inside of the front tyre. I gave Trish a quick hug and a kiss then climbed behind the wheel.  I think we both felt like secret agents about to take on an impossible mission without the faintest idea where it would lead or how to carry it out.  It was not a nice feeling.

I sprayed gravel heading out of the aerodrome car park, such was my haste to get to this castle where the four girls were now held.  I had to consciously slow down so that I didn’t attract attention at nine o’clock at night.  I didn’t want to have to explain to the local coppers why I was driving the local laird’s vehicle.

I had no map, and it took about three quarters of an hour to retrace my steps to the turnoff to Symonds Yat Hall, then work my way from there to the turnoff to Carreg Cennen Castle.  This road, too, wound up the hillside towards a high promontory dimly outlined against a slightly paler sky.  The road finally stopped at a small parking area in a seclude copse, where in the headlights I saw a sign that announced the castle was off limits to the public pending repairs.  Beside the sign was a dark-coloured BMW that I knew must have been left by Mary and Shawnee. 

I climbed out and inspected the car.  It was locked, and I was about to move away when there was a faint thumping from the boot.  It didn’t take much to work out that the girls had brought along Leon with them as some sort of insurance policy, though it hadn’t really worked out that way.  I knew the BMW had drop-down rear seat backs, so the boot was not totally sealed, and I reckoned Leon would have enough air to survive the night.  I was sure Mary would have left him in a very uncomfortable position, and right then I couldn’t think of anything more appropriate. 

There was a half moon which gave enough light to make out the trail and gradually my eyes adjusted to the darkness.  I climbed over a wooden style and headed through the thinning trees, eventually emerging on to open heathland.  I jogged along, wondering what was happening in the castle, and trying not to think that I was too late.  The heath ended at a grassy field studded with big trees, beyond which rose the massive bulk castle of Carreg Cennen.

I approached it cautiously, and found, to my dismay, that the drawbridge was raised.  From the outer side of the entrance, I could look down into the dark moat waters reflecting the moonlight.  I followed the moat around most of the castle – as far as I could before, that was, until where it ended near the cliffs on the eastern side.  Here the walls of the castle and the cliffs leading down to the moat were sheer and would have offered no encouragement in daylight, much less in the darkness.

I squatted briefly across from the drawbridge, listening for voices, but heard none, nor was there any sign of a light.  I had a mental picture of the girls chained up deep in the dungeon of the castle, and it gave me no comfort.  I had no idea how I was going to get into the castle and rescue them, and reluctantly concluded that whatever I might think up, it wasn’t going to happen at eleven o’clock that night.

Disappointed and frustrated, I made my way back to the Land Rover, passing the BMW on the way and letting loose a hard double thump on the boot that would have woken up Leon, if indeed Mary’s knots had allowed him to sleep.  The drive back to Symonds Yat Hall saw me become more despondent.  A call came through from Trish that the earliest flight to New York that she could make was a five a.m one out of Manchester.  I told her of my findings at the castle.

“Is it time to get the police involved?” she asked.

“Maybe,” I agreed.  “If I can’t come up with something that will keep us out of newspapers and courts and totally screw up everything, maybe that’s what we’ll have to do.  Call me tomorrow.  Good luck.”

*   *   *

With the automatic opener gismo in the Land Rover I was able to drive straight through the front gates to Symonds Yat Hall, and then to open the rollerdoor to the big garage at the end of the building.  The place was in darkness, but the lights came on in the garage with the opening of the door, as I parked the Land Rover next to the Bentley.  I was still fired up after the events of the evening, and on impulse I did some further exploration.  I found the workshop next to the garage and noting the various suits of armour in various stages of dismemberment, I was suitably impressed at the work that went on there with the foundry and the welding gear. 

Back in the main part of the Hall, I discovered what had to be Pearson’s study.  I figured that if I was to find anything useful, this was the place it would be.  I wasn’t quite sure what ‘useful’ actually meant, nor what I was looking for, but the big desk amongst the several suits of armour on their display stands seemed worth a look.  The idea of the police lurked in the back of my mind, along with what explanations I would have to give for driving around in the Land Rover, as well as doing a break and enter job on the local Laird’s heritage-listed residence.

Several of the drawers were locked, and there appeared to be nothing immediately significant in the papers and stuff that were lying about or in the various unlocked drawers, save that I found a spare set of keys for the BMW.  I turned to the bookshelves, some of which contained lever arch files, which perhaps was only to be expected as being a prerequisite in maintaining a place as big as the Hall.  What did intrigue me, however, was a cupboard which opened to reveal a home entertainment system.  This was perhaps in keeping with the comfortable leather armchairs and couch that also occupied the room, but it was the dozen or so video tapes that caught my eye.

They all seemed to be labelled chronologically, and I selected the most recent one, which was dated two months previously.  It opened with a close-up shot of a young woman imprisoned in some sort of cage.  The shot focussed on her head, trapped as it was behind some close-fitting bars made out of riveted iron straps.  She was a brunette, her hair straight and just touching her shoulders.  She was quite pretty, and also quite distressed.  She had been gagged with a rubber bit gag, the strap for which passed through the bars and was buckled outside the cage at the rear of her head.  A close-fitting iron collar had also been fitted around her neck. Her eyes were big and stared at the camera, before darting down as the cage seemed to wobble, then rise.

The camera view expanded and zoomed out, and I saw that the cage in fact trapped her whole body, the iron curves and contours giving her little room to move inside in the standing position she maintained.  Her arms were at her sides, and while not manacled in any way, the prisoner could do little more than flutter her hands since the confines of the cage prevented her bending her arms or reaching through the bars.  I recognised the device now as a hanging cage that was used to display the bodies of convicted highwaymen and other villains, suspending them from a gibbet at a cross roads on a well-travelled route until the birds pecked away their flesh and left only the skeleton in the cage.

This cage appeared to be much more constricting than the original, and was now rising some ten feet off the ground by a pulley on a steel gibbet, fixed to what I now saw was the rear wall of Symonds Yat Hall.  The girl was naked, well-proportioned, and clearly very agitated.  The camera panned away, showing a lovely spring day at the Hall, and a number of knights in armour grouped around the base of the cage.

A close-up of the group followed.  There were four of them, all clad in mail and plate armour with heraldic tunics, and holding their helmets under their arms.  Pearson was the only one I recognised.

The video cut to another scene – this time a view over the rear lawn of the Hall, where a wooden waist-high fence had been set up.  At the ends of this were two mounted knights, one of whom must have been Pearson, judging from the colours on his tunic.  Both riders carried lances and swords, and both wore full helmets that looked a little like upended metal waste bins with slits for the eyes.  The camera wobbled and pointed downwards for a moment, and I saw a finger push a button on a portable stereo that was on the grass beside the cameraman.

There was a blare of trumpets sounded – the kind of fanfare that usually precedes something suitably regal, or at least pompous.  A taped voice – that of Pearson, I concluded – announced:

“My lords, knights of the realm, the challenge has been issued between Sir Gerald of Monmouth and the Earl of Penrhoth, the prize being the woman formerly known as Rachel of Highgate.  Gentlemen, you may commence!”

The words had barely ceased when the portentous tones of Wagner’s “Ride of the Valkyries” began.  Clearly Pearson liked a bit of atmosphere for his little fantasies, as the horses wheeled and began their charge.

The thudding of hooves on the grass overlaid Wagner, and the camera followed the Earl as the two knights closed on each other, lances levelled and shields at the ready.  There was a clash of metal, then they were past each other, neither rider having been successful.  At the ends of the runs the riders turned and recommenced their attack.  Pearson impressed me as being a good rider, well in control, and he was successful in the next encounter, as with a crash his opponent was unseated and landed on the ground with a thump.  I would have thought that a fall from a horse of that nature would have been quite a blow under any circumstances, much less when you could bounce around inside a suit of armour.  Sir Gerald was momentarily still, then slowly began to sit up.  His helmet had been dislodged, and I saw that beneath it he wore a hood of chain mail with an open face. 

He was clearly groggy, for he was still trying to get to his feet when the Earl thundered down on him, slid elegantly off his horse and gave him a shove with his foot that sent Gerald sprawling again.  Then the camera was zooming in for a close up, as Pearson had his sword out and at the other’s throat.

“Do you yield, Sir Gerald?” came Pearson’s voice, slightly indistinct from under the steel helmet.

“I – I do!” gasped the knight on the ground.

“Do you concede that the prisoner Rachel is mine to do with as I please?”

“I do, sir! “

There was clapping from somewhere near the camera as Pearson helped the vanquished knight to his feet and they walked back towards the group.  Then the screen went momentarily blank as it cut jumpily to the next scene.  Rachel stood with her hands chained in front of her, self-consciously facing the camera and trying to cover her crotch, while Pearson approached her with a large padlock in his hand.  She was still gagged with the bridle gag and looked fearful of what he was about to do to her.

“Please raise your hands, my dear,” he said, in manner that oozed congeniality, like a doctor reassuring a patient about an injection.  He took hold of the short connecting chain between the heavy iron manacles and lifted it over her head, locking it to the back of her collar.  The position lifted her arms and elbows beside her head and made her neat breasts rise in a most provocative manner.  Pearson stood back and eyed her appreciatively for a moment, then grasped her by a jutting nipple and towed her a few paces to his left, where a steel contraption stood on the grass.

It was similar to what we knew at Bilboes as “the Shaft”, except this particular version had two dildos, one for the front and one for the back passage.  The double dong was fixed on a single shaft which looked like it could be worked by a jack of some sort, being a small handle at ankle level.  Rachel was positioned over the device and held there by Gerald, who appeared to have recovered from his fall and who was now taking a lively interest in proceedings.

Pearson bent and began to wind the handle, and the twin probes rose up until they were touching Rachel’s crotch.  There they paused momentarily before moving up an inch.  The men checked that the dongs were positioned correctly and encouraged Rachel to wiggle a little, before the metal tip of the front dildo was enveloped by the pink flesh of Rachel’s shaven pussy.  There was more winding of the handle, but this time much more slowly.  Rachel was making plaintive grunting noises for the diameters of the tubes being driven into her were clearly not small, and she struggled to accommodate them.

I thought there was still a little way for the devices to go when Pearson stopped and slid something up from the bottom of the shaft which had been previously half concealed by his body. I saw that it was a metal sheath on the outside of the shaft, perhaps five centimetres long, with a number of sharp metal spikes, about twice that length, radiating from the outside.  Pearson slid this device upwards until the spikes touched the inside of Rachel’s thighs.  She could not see what was happening, but gave a gagged squeal and immediately moved her legs apart. 

Encouraged by this, Pearson raised the spikes further, and with a moan, Rachel opened her legs still further, in the process being obliged to descend further on to the twin prongs.  Pearson gave the spikes one more lift, securing them in place with a small butterfly nut against the shaft.  Rachel now had her feet well apart and was fully embedded on the double plugs, unable to move.  She was making small grunts of discomfort, and the camera took in a slow shot of her legs, from ankle to crotch, where tiny twitchings of muscles could be detected as she struggled to maintain her taut position.  It was a strained posture, for although her ankles were unfettered, she had nowhere to go, nor could she lower her arms without moving her whole body.  From the perspective of a bondage aficionado, it had a simple elegance brought out in a helpless female who now looked wide-eyed with fear at the flogger that Pearson held in his hand.

I fast forwarded the flogging.  There was something about this whole scene that made me uncomfortable.  I had seen enough of subs being flogged to know the expected reaction, and the looks of fear – verging on terror – were not normal, as she squirmed on the impaling dongs and tried to keep her feet apart at the insistence of the spikes persistently nudging her inner thighs. Pearson was thorough in his punishment. The position he had forced on her left her totally exposed, front and back, and after a short while the poor girl was covered in livid red lines as she screamed and howled into the gag, desperately twisting and trying to bend her upper body to lessen the impact of the lash. 

When the beating finally stopped, the camera moved in for a close-up of the damage.  Rachel’s pretty face was streaked with sweat and tears, the two dripping on to her breasts and running down her reddened thong-marked flanks.  She was sobbing into the bit in her mouth, trying to control her breathing, as Pearson and Gerald inspected her as one might a thoroughbred horse.  Then the screen cut to another scene.

It appeared to be later the same morning, judging from the date and time that were still running in the bottom corner of the screen.  There was a panning shot across the jousting field, and at the end of the shot I could see Rachel still impaled on the shaft, but now mercifully no longer the centre of attention.  Instead the camera stopped on a figure spreadeagled on what appeared to be the tall ladder-like rack that we had encountered in the chapel.  It had been brought outside and anchored in place with several ropes attached to pegs driven in the ground.

The camera moved in on the figure bound to the rack.  She was a blonde, her long hair held in place on top of her head with a pair of wooden clasps, while a wide black strap around her neck held a matching rubber ball gag in place between her jaws.  Unlike Rachel, she was partially clothed.  She wore a white peasant blouse which was open to the waist, revealing small but pointed breasts with large pink aureolae, uplifted and perky through the stretching of her arms above and outwards, to where her wrists were bound to one of the rungs of the rack.  She also wore a brown skirt buttoned most of the way down the front, which clung tightly to her thighs and calves because of the way her ankles had been pulled wide and bound similarly to her wrists.

The next section of the video followed the idea of the last, with again the object appearing to be a contest for the services of the bound damsel.  In this instance the Earl did not take part, the contest instead being between the other two men who were named the Marquis Loxley of Sussex and Robert of Pembroke.  I wondered if these were their real names, and whether one really was a marquis, and Sir Gerald genuine knight.  I was starting to get the feeling that there was something illegal and extremely fishy about this whole set-up, and if there was involvement by England’s nobility in a dodgy practice using unwilling females, then there was potential for the excrement to hit the fan and stick there in a major way.

The prisoner in this case was named Susan, according to the announcement at the beginning of the contest, and I had no reason to doubt that this was her real name.  After what she had just seen happen to Rachel, she would surely be feeling great unease, as the two knights clashed in the jousting alley.

The battle went on considerably longer than Pearson’s bout, with both knights ending up slugging it out on foot with swords, before Loxley finally overcame his opponent, and extracted the apparently prerequisite forfeit of the bound girl.  His taking possession of Susan was of a different nature to Pearson’s painful approach.  Loxley was probably in his mid-thirties, and evidently derived more satisfaction out of a sexual conquest than a serious flogging, and he proceeded to deal to the helpless Susan as she lay bound to the rack.  It did not take much to unbutton her skirt and expose the blonde triangle between her legs, then Loxley was away, still wearing his armour and driving his steel-clad legs between the girl’s thighs.  It was not filmed in the same intimate detail as a pornographic movie, but the tossing of the girl’s head and the muffled cries from behind the ball gag obviously leant impetus to Loxley’s humping, and he finally came with a series of deep thrusts that provoked a protracted groan of triumph from him as she clenched her fists and strained against the ropes binding her.  Then the screen went blank.

I thought that was the end of the tape, and was about to switch it off, but it suddenly flickered into life again, this time revealing the interior of a garage that was obviously the one where I had recently parked Pearson’s Land Rover.  The  focus of the scene was a female figure wholly clad in a black latex catsuit.  Her ankles were bound with silver duct tape and her wrists were similarly linked in front of her.  Whoever had done the job on her had also made short work of her mouth, for it was sealed under a number of turns of tape firstly running horizontally around her head and then vertically around her jaw, locking it closed with just a short straw of some sort sticking out.  I could not recognise who the girl was, for all I could see were eyes and nose.  It was only when Pearson referred to her as ‘Rachel’ that I realised she was the pretty brunette that he had given a flogging to. 

According to the time/date indicator showing on the screen, the video had been shot later on the same day that the jousting had taken place.  Pearson and Gerald, now both clad in jeans and casual shirts, were carrying the unfortunate Rachel in a seated position, between them.  She was struggling and mmphing under the tape, and clearly was not happy about what was to be done to her.  They stood her on the floor of the garage beside a large metal box.  I recalled seeing several of these in the workshop next to the garage, earlier, and had briefly wondered what they were for.  Now the sinister purpose started to become apparent.

While Gerald – a black-bearded man in his late thirties – held Rachel in a bear hug from behind, Pearson produced a gas mask which he eventually worked on to Rachel’s shaking head. It was a full-head mask, one of those that almost fully enclose the head rather than being secured with just rubber straps, and it had the round filter piece missing from the front.  It was through this hole that the little straw poked, which was grasped by Pearson and passed through what was obviously an adapted filter, and came complete with two breathing tubes.

“Can you hear me, Rachel?”  said Pearson.  “I would advise you to behave if you want your air supply to continue.  Rachel stopped her struggling when Pearson held up the two ends of the breathing tubes in front of her face and gently squeezed them closed.  Rachel struggled some more, becoming panicky, but with her wrists and ankles bound she could do little, and slowly became limp.  Pearson released the hoses and the rubber-covered breasts heaved as they drew in a huge breath of air.  Rachel got the message – behave, or else. 

As though accepting the inevitable, she allowed herself to be lifted and placed in a sitting position in the box.  It was just wide enough for her shoulders, and her head came up nearly to the top, while her knees remained bent.  Pearson pushed a threaded rod down between her arms and legs and screwed it into place in what must have been a socket in the bottom of the box.  Then he bent over and evidently secured the hoses in place to some sort of outlet, again on the bottom of the box.  His final act was to place a bottle of liquid in her hands and attach a drinking tube to the straw poking through her mask.

The cameraperson moved closer and my heart sank as I saw the girl looking up desolately at the camera – her eyes just visible behind the plastic faceplate of the mask, as she sat there in her tiny cell wondering what was about to happen to her.  The silence of the garage was broken by the powerful engine of the tractor that was parked beyond the box, and which had a front-end bucket loaded with sand, presumably from a pile hidden under a plastic sheet nearby.  Again, I had seen a similar thing in the garage when I parked the Land Rover, but had thought nothing of it.  The tractor moved forward a metre and the bucket tilted over the helpless girl in the box.  There might have been a muffled scream, but it wasn’t audible above the tractor’s engine, as the sand cascaded into the box. 

Rachel attempted to pull her hands to her face, in an instinct of panic, but they were stopped by the vertical rod passing between them, and then it was too late, as the torrent of sand rose to her shoulders and then her head.  Pearson backed the tractor away and turned off the engine.  Only the top of a black shiny head could be seen above the sand.  Here and there small subsidences occurred as the sand found its way into hidden cavities and gradually filled them up, doubtless further immobilising the girl in the rubber suit.  I was aghast at what she must be going through at that moment.

Pearson banged the side of the box a number of times with a rubber mallet, causing the sand to settle further, and then wiggled the vertical threaded rod.  He scraped away the sand from her face plate and peered closely at the girl’s eyes, before squatting and sliding his fingers in the small space under the box.  I figured he was checking the outlet from the air hoses.  He finally stood up and appeared satisfied with everything, before emptying half a dozen shovel fulls of sand into the box until it was overflowing.  Scraping a timber along the top he trimmed off any excess sand so that the top surface was flat and level with the edges of the box, before placing a lid over the top.

The aluminium lid was snug and had flanges extending a few centimetres down each side.  These were expertly drilled and riveted by Pearson, who gave the impression of being very much at home working with tools and machinery.  The final act was to screw a nut on the vertical threaded rod where it poked through a depression in the top of the box.

With this done, Pearson took a felt-tip marker and wrote on the top.  The cameraperson – perhaps with a sense of the dramatic – followed his neat capital letters.
 

 His Highness Prince Abdullah bin Aziz
 As Sulayyil Road
Hafar al Batin
Jeddah
Saudi Arabia

*  *  *

I didn’t investigate any of the other tapes.  I was too stunned at what I had seen, and figured the other tapes were likely more of the same.  I sat in the comfortable leather chair, drinking a sizeable shot of the Earl’s scotch and wondering at the coexistence of modern technology, with its video and home entertainment system, in such an incongruous place as Symonds Yat Hall.  I also wondered about what Pearson was obviously up to his neck in, and what had been poor Rachel and Susan’s fate after they had presumably both left here sealed immovably in aluminium boxes.

I must have fallen asleep there, suddenly exhausted by the events of the day, and how my world seemed to be disintegrating around me, with Trish chasing Monica and Emma in America, and me facing the impossible task of rescuing the others from the fortress of Carreg Cennen. 

*   *   *

I had weird dreams but woke around five a.m with a stiff neck and the solution strangely clear in my mind. 

It was gone nine o’clock when I parked the Land Rover in the wooded car park next to the BMW.  It took me three trips to transport all my stuff to the grassy area outside the castle.  At the end of the first trip I unpacked and erected a tall rectangular tent with the heraldic pennant on top.  It was a couple of metres square at the base, tapering slightly inward and big enough for a knight to stand erect inside and change his armour.  Beside the tent I planted a few standards with different pennants, to add some further colour.  There was no sign of life in the castle, but I forced myself not to be concerned about what might be happening there.

My ransacking of the workshop next to the garage had unearthed the tent and accessories, along with the armour and weaponry I carried with me on the second trip.  The third trip saw me toting a trunk full of restraints and other devices I thought might be appropriate to the circumstances, assuming they did not end up being used against me.  I returned to the car park one final time and unlocked the boot of the BMW.

Leon lay there on his side, whimpering faintly under a layer of duct tape that covered his mouth and eyes.  More tape bound each leg in a bent position, calf to thigh, while his arms were taped together behind him, the tape starting at the fingertips and running up to his shoulders, in a kind of duct tape arm sheath.  It had all the neatness of Mary’s style, but did not end there. 

Leon was lying on his side firstly because of the two crocodile-jawed nipple clips firmly attached to those parts, which constituted a clear incentive not to lie on his stomach.  However attached to each clip was a piece of twine, which led down to Leon’s dick, which in turn appeared to have been splinted between two pieces of dowel.  Again, the splinting was done with duct tape, which entirely covered both the member and also Leon’s balls.  The dowels protruded a couple of inches beyond the tip of his dick, and extended back between his legs to protrude beyond his buttocks, where that end was attached to his taped hands.  With his hands attached to the rear end of the dowels, and the nipple clips attached to the front ends, almost any movement Leon made was going to be very painful.  I suspected the chopstick-like positions of the dowels on either side of his scrotum would also have given him a sleepless night.

In his blindfolded state Leon had no idea who had opened the boot, and he looked exhausted but relieved.  I said nothing, but used a pocket knife to slit the tape at the back of his thighs, so that his legs were freed.  There followed a series of groans and muffled screams of pain as I manoeuvred his legs over the lip of the boot and eventually heaved him upright and out.  He was snorting and moaning and collapsed on his knees when he was clear of the car.  I let him gather his strength, for I figured he had probably just undergone the painful equivalent of being hit in the goolies, which any male will tell you is something to be avoided at all costs.  Aside from that it is hard to describe the debilitating pain that penetrates deep inside you, and Leon would remain unable to describe it until I had finished with him.

I closed the boot lid and hoisted Leon to his feet, at which point I slowly pulled the duct tape off his legs, where it had inextricably bonded with his leg hair.  It was the equivalent of a slow waxing, and Leon screamed like a stuck pig under the tape gag as the tape came away covered with black leg hair.

“Should have thought about the consequences before you pulled this stunt,” I said unsympathetically, speaking for the first time.  Whatever conclusions he might have reached up to that point, the reality dawned on him then – more so when I did another de-hairing job and removed the tape from around his head and over his eyes.  He started to make mumbling noises that were obviously meant to be conciliatory or express contrition, but he soon saw that his chances of a favourable reception were less than nil, and he gave up.

I tied a rope noose around his neck and hoisted the last item of my armoury over my shoulder.  It was the metal shaft and baseplate that I had seen Rachel impaled on and whipped by Pearson on the video.  I had a particular intention for this, and Leon figured highly in my plan.

We trudged through the woods, me leading the naked and gagged man, his arms and genitalia swathed in tape, the weight of the splinted cock tugging on the nipple clips with each step, while he whined and complained pathetically and continuously under the tape.

In the open field in front of the still-raised drawbridge I dumped the metal shaft on the ground.  It was heavy and I had worked up a sweat carrying it.  I should have made Leon drag it, but it would have taken forever.  Now, however, he was going to ride it, just as Pearson had forced Rachel and heaven knew how many others to do.  I dragged him over to the shaft by means of the strings connected to the nipple clamps.  He saw what was coming, but the pain in his nips ensured cooperation.  I had modified the device with the help of Pearson’s oxyacetylene cutting gear.  Whereas previously it had comprised two sizeable iron phalluses, in light of Leon having no appropriate place to accommodate the front one, I had split it down the middle and prised it apart into the form of a vee, which would very nicely hold his splinted dick in place, while he was skewered on the rear prong. 

I positioned him over the device and began to wind it upwards with the handle, prying apart the two dowels to let the rear phallus enter Leon’s butt hole.  He squirmed and moaned as I drove the thing in, at the same time as the split arms of the front dong trapped his taped dick in the vee.  When the whole thing was nearly at its full extent, I stopped and raised the spiked sheath to a point where the points touched the inside of his thighs.  Leon squeaked and shifted his legs further apart, at the same time sinking further on the shaft and into the vee.  He realised the no-win situation he was in, and was burbling as I inched the spikes higher.  He was on tiptoes when I finally locked the spikes in place.  Tears were streaming down his cheeks and he looked a positive mess.

“Are you sorry now?” I demanded.  He nodded vigorously and emphatically, screwing up his eyes as each movement evidently transmitted to all the parts of him that were hurting.  “Is it really painful?” I asked, trying to be consoling.  He moaned in the affirmative.

“Good,” I said, and stalked off to the tent.

In the tent I pulled on a loose coat of chain mail over my jeans and tee shirt. It came down to my thighs and was not exactly authentic medieval costume.  I at once felt awkward and unwieldy and wondered how knights ever fought in suits of armour, if even chain mail felt this weird.  I topped this off with a rather beautiful dark blue helmet with long side flaps and a sort of nose protector that came down to my chin, and had a flap of chain mail protecting my neck.  My last pieces were some chain mail gloves and shin guards.  Clad for battle with sword, shield and portable stereo, I stepped out into the morning sun and walked to the head of the drawbridge, before turning the stereo on full blast with the “Ride of the Valkyries” call to arms.

*   *   *

20.04.04

story continues in Monica's Travels 14

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