The Abduction of Monica 7: Bound Meditation
by Richard Alexander (Gromets Plaza)
(story continues from The Abduction of Monica 6: Collar and Tie)
We returned to the store room, and I think Sofiya was starting to look at its contents with a new understanding. I guided her over to a series of drawers.
“Turn around,” I instructed her. “Put your hands behind your back.”
To my surprise, she did as she was told. No questions, no arguments, no buts. I opened the drawer and selected a pair of Smith and Wesson hinged police cuffs. These were not your toy cuffs available at the local adult store. They were the real thing, and permitted far less movement than cuffs with a linking chain.
I locked the first cuff around Sofiya’s wrist, the ratcheting sounding loud in the quiet store room. Her arms were very slender, matching her petite frame. The cuffs catered for such individuals, however, and moments later her other wrist was secured snugly in the encircling steel. I heard a slight intake of her breath as the cold steel locked her arms in place. She gave a tug, sensing at once the rigidity and finality of the manacles. Her head dropped, as though concentrating fully on the restraints and the unfamiliar immobility of her arms. She twisted her wrists but found there was no give, nor could she work her hands through the metallic tightness around her wrists. Accepting defeat, she turned and gazed at me with those grey-green eyes that briefly seemed to show all manner of emotions – momentary fear, excitement, acceptance, understanding and a touch of defiance. Her smile was brave and faintly amused, causing me to shake my head in bafflement.
“Don’t tell me this is the first time you’ve ever been handcuffed.”
“Of course not. We have training sessions. We run self-defence classes. These are good cuffs.”
“But you’ve never experienced their usage in these circumstances,” I pushed.
“No…” she admitted.
“They’re not coming off for a long while.”
Sofiya shrugged – more bravado, I decided.
“What are you going to do to me?”
“Whatever I want. Whatever I deem appropriate.”
She said nothing. I wondered how much of my own bravado she believed. Here she was, in a strange house filled with bondage gear and run by people who whose lives revolved around its use. She had professed to be able to communicate with peoples’ energies, to find people based on these. She ostensibly wanted to get inside whatever residual Monica Energy remained in the house. If all this was true, then she would have to do it under the rules of the house, and in my book the only way for a newbie to experience the lifestyle was under restraint.
Having said that, there was something about this Russian woman that unsettled me. Despite obviously being well-thought-of in the police force, she had a vulnerability and an openness that seemed all wrong for the work she was doing. Her slight frame and trusting expression gave her the appearance of someone you would want to protect, not subject to the rigours of bondage. There was a difference between tying up a total stranger who visited us with that understanding and expectation, and a complete innocent. I felt almost apologetic as I pulled out a stiff black leather posture collar.
It was the smallest one we had. Sofiya’s neck was long and slender under the mass of ash blonde hair. I slipped the collar about her throat, savouring her smooth skin as my hands encircled her neck. ‘Fragile’ was another word that popped into my head. I snugged the collar into place and buckled it almost to the last hole.
Fragile and innocent. I knew I could be a bad judge of character sometimes, but this was how Sofiya seemed to me. Fragile, innocent, and totally in the wrong job.
The collar forced her chin up and I turned her to me to inspect the positioning of it. She was now incapable of twisting her head at all. I looked at her face and saw that the vulnerability I had glimpsed before was now heightened by the stiff leather holding her head in its rigid position. I also saw the look of compliance and trust.
I clipped a leash to the ring on the front of the collar and led her out of the store room and up the stairs, back to the main floor, giving her time to move in the high heels that she was clearly not accustomed to. We turned left to the main entry vestibule then climbed the next set of stairs to the bedrooms on the first floor. Monica’s room was here, along with four other guest rooms whose décor varied from Minimalist to Over-the-top, designed to supplement the austere dungeons in the basement with something a little more comfortable (though not always so to a hapless subbie).
Monica – as proprietor and owner of Bilboes – was the only person who actually slept in the house. It was into her room that we now went.
We had the entire floor to ourselves. Monica’s room was as fastidiously neat and tidy as it always was – a place for everything and everything in its place. I could say that Monica had impeccable taste, but in fact much of the décor had been chosen by Trish, who had nevertheless got Monica’s tastes exactly right. The big king-size bed had contemporary polished wooden post and rail headboard, matched by a low board at the foot of the bed with similar posts that offered every opportunity to secure a reluctant subbie for the night. Concealed under the crisp overhanging duvet were eyebolts at strategic places around the bed frame where a chained slave could be locked securely to attend Mistress Monica when her whim dictated.
To the left was the balcony opening out above the verandah looking across the front garden. To the right was the huge walk-in wardrobe and ensuite, all done in smart but neutral colours. Two distinctly Swedish-looking chairs and a large, low table dominated the space in front of the bed.
I turned on the lights, for it was getting dark outside. I felt like an intruder here, knowing what Monica was suffering… wherever she was being held. This was going to get very personal, and would be particularly outside my comfort zone.
“Sit on the table,” I ordered Sofiya. “Now kick off the shoes.” She did so. “Now get right on it – cross legged.”
Sofiya eased herself into a cross-legged position without the least effort, as one might who practised yoga or the like. I crossed to the walk-in wardrobe and opened a cupboard that I knew would have Monica’s person playthings. I knew this, because I had installed it for her in my early days at Bilboes, before my role as handyman had been subsumed by a different job description. It was like a much smaller version of the store room, with floggers, rope, handcuffs, gags and other items of restraint and torment hanging on hooks or sitting on shelves.
I took a length of rope, doubled it over and returned to bind Sofiya’s crossed ankles, dragging the tail of the rope beneath her and attaching it around the handcuffs. She would be going nowhere. I removed the leash and stepped back to look at her. It was a very pleasing sight, I have to admit. I have an eye for attractive women, and some attractive women look even more desirable when placed in immovable bondage. Sofiya wriggled a little, but it was clear she had little movement.
She looked at me expectantly, as if to say “now what?”
I walked to a wall where a picture of Monica hung. It was a black and white one I had taken myself, as part of a brochure we had made up for the establishment. Monica stood with a severe expression, her hair pulled back into a pony tail, her arms crossed, standing slightly at an angle to the camera. The picture stopped at her waist, but the deep cleavage of pale skin against a tight sleeveless dress, the heavy silver waist chain and the black leather wrist bands all told a story. A coiled whip was clasped in one hand and her expression dared anyone to challenge her authority. I placed the picture on the table in front of Sofiya, and crossed to the bedside table where a second photo stood in a polished wooden frame.
It was one of the whole Bilboes team, taken on the front steps. Monica was seated in the middle, on a step higher than the rest of us, her hand resting on my shoulder. It was a totally different view of Monica Armstrong – poised, smiling, content with her ‘family’. I set that down beside the first photo.
“Does that give you sufficient basis to focus your mind, Sofiya?” I asked.
“Yes,” she answered softly, a faint smile playing on her lips.
“Are you comfortable? You may be here a long time.” I was saying all the wrong things. A subbie had no right to be comfortable. It was not about her feelings or comfort, but I was still uneasy over the fact that Sofiya was in fact not a sub. She was a novice vanilla cream who had strayed across the tracks into the bad side of town. For some reason I did not want her to be put off by a bad experience. Perhaps I was unconsciously recalling my own reluctant initiation into the strange world of B&D, years before, when I had been conned into testing some of the devices I had created.
I shook the memory from my mind. I was being too soft on this woman. She was here to experience B&D, to mind meld with Monica, or whatever this crazy woman did.
“Would you like to be gagged, Sofie?” I don’t know why I was asking. I had decided to do it anyway. I don’t know why I called her Sofie, for that matter.
“Uhhh… I don’t – “
I never knew if she was going to say she didn’t want the gag, didn’t care, or didn’t understand the question. Standing behind her I briefly gripped her nose and pulled her head back in a single movement, slipping a ball gag behind her teeth before she realised what was happening. It wasn’t a big one – not one of those that you have to work in behind the teeth with a bit of a struggle, and which is just as hard to get out. This was a small one – enough for a beginner, and improved on by the presence of the posture collar, which prevented her jaw from dropping.
Again I slid my hands under her wondrous hair and buckled the strap not too tightly.
“Spit it out!” I commanded. Sofiya rolled her eyes and attempted to work the bright red ball from where it filled and stretched her mouth.
“Hrrm harnnnt!” she grunted.
“Good.” I dragged a chair across in front of her and positioned the two photos higher, propped on a cushion, directly in her line of sight. “Now you can think of Monica. Monica’s room, Monica’s clothes – her picture, her furniture, her taste… whatever you want. Monica is suffering -somewhere. Perhaps this will help you get in the mood.”
My voice was harsh - perhaps unnecessarily so, for reality had returned the moment the immediacy of securing Sofiya was over. Back came the reason why I was going through this charade. Well, good luck to her. I hope she enjoyed communing with a couple of photos for a few immobile hours.
* * *
The mood was quiet and sober at dinner that night. Leila had cooked and as usual had produced an exceptional meal, but none of us were in the mood for compliments or banter. The emailed movie we had seen that morning weighed heavily on us, together with the thought of what might lie ahead tomorrow – and what Monica might be enduring at that moment.
There was little small talk, and perhaps in my mind I had pushed the image of the bound and gagged Sofiya away, as something that reminded me of Monica’s plight. It was only at the end of the meal as Emma cleared away the plates that Trish quietly asked me what was happening with our guest.
“I suppose I should take her some dinner,” I said.
“She looks like she won’t eat much. Wouldn’t be surprised if she’s just a tad anorexic,” Trish commented.
“That’s unkind. She has a lovely pair of knockers,” I countered.
“That’s all you men ever think about. But yes, she does. Maybe she’s just naturally skinny.”
“Maybe you’re just naturally jealous.”
“Maybe she fancies you,” Trish said with a sly smile.
“What? Where did that come from?”
“We women can tell these things. We can see chemistry in action.”
“Jeez. Next time you’ll be telling me our energies are in synch.”
“They are.”
“Give me a break, Trish. Having one New Age convert in the house is bad enough. All this stuff about energies…”
Trish shrugged.
“You might be surprised. Don’t close her out, Steven. You heard what she said. Men have different energies. We’re all depending on you to help her with this, to not confuse her with conflicting female presences.”
“I’m always confused by conflicting female presences,” I grumbled. “Some things never change around her.”
I got up to put together some leftovers. I had no idea what Sofiya ate. Some women were picky. I would not have been surprised if this one was a full-blown vegetarian Vegan, given to eating only pine nuts and lettuce leaves. I was not sure if chicken fettucini would meet her dietary requirements.
When I re-entered Monica’s room, nothing had changed. Sofiya still sat motionless, her eyes fixed in a strange stare, not acknowledging my presence until I waved my hand in front of her face. She seemed to come back from somewhere – some other place that her mind had been. Maybe it was subspace, I thought. It would not have surprised me.
It turned out that chicken fettucini was acceptable to our guest. I removed the gag and collar, and re-cuffed her with her hands in front so that she could eat, albeit with a little difficulty.
I made no enquiry as to how her psychic travels were going. I saw no reason to play up to the pitch she was making, and she offered no comment. She thanked me for the food and slowly ate it, making no comment on its acceptability. Her mood seemed to have changed since I left her. She had become more pre-occupied, more introspective.
“Do I spend night here?” she asked at length.
“Of course. How else can you commune with Monica?”
“I sense disapproval, Steven. You don’t believe in what I do.” It was a statement, not a question. I felt embarrassed.
“Look, Sofiya… You have to understand a little about me. I’m just an ordinary guy, yes? You know how we guys are – we’re not big into sensitivity and feelings and empathising with people. We’re insensitive creatures. I know I’m emotionally retarded at times.”
That made her smile.
“No, you’re not. You just have to dig a little deeper. It’s all there – you just hide it. I think if I get you drunk I find out all feelings you hide.”
“I doubt it,” I said, though she could have been right.
“Do you love Monica?”
The question took me by surprise.
“Of course. I love all the girls. They’re my family. We’re each other’s family.”
“That wasn’t what I mean. I mean really love Monica. Not family thing.”
I shrugged. It was a question I had asked myself before now, notwithstanding any views on the relationship that Monica might have had.
“I don’t know. Depends what you mean by love. Where does infatuation stop and love start? How do you detect it? How do you measure it? I don’t get blinding chemical reactions that make my knees go wobbly.”
“I will have to get you drunk,” she affirmed. “You know love when you can’t stop thinking of someone. When you heart leaps when you see them after a day or two away. When you get a text from them, or an email. When you know they’re thinking of you. When they smile at you. It just happens. Your heart beats faster, maybe your hands shake a little. You surely know this?”
Sofiya’s talk was making me uncomfortable. At one time I thought I loved Monica, then had gradually come to realise that while we might have a special relationship, I was not going to be the one who swept her off her feet. Rather, I was the one she could depend on, who would help her out, who would satisfy her sexually when the moment demanded it. It was a special sort of love, I thought. It was the incestuous sibling love you had when you were not siblings.
“You talk too much,” I grumbled. She raised her eyebrows at me but said nothing. “You know that if you were a real subbie I’d have you walking around here naked in chains.”
“Is that what you’re going to do?”
“No. I don’t think it would be right for you. If you’re going to do what you say, you need to focus on Monica, while understanding what she’s going through. I think it might encourage a connection.”
I actually didn’t think so at all, but she seemed to accept the idea. I untied her ankles and removed the cuffs to allow her to use the bathroom, since she wouldn’t get the chance for the rest of the night. While she was there I raided Monica’s wardrobe.
Sofiya returned and stood demurely before me, hands clasped in front of her like a nervous schoolgirl. I pointed to the clothes I had dumped on the bed.
“Take off the dress and put those on.”
She looked down at the pile on the bed and sorted through them.
“Are you going to watch me?” she asked, a strange awkwardness in her voice.
“What’s the matter? Are you ashamed of your body? The other girls saw you dressing.”
“Women are one thing…” she said hesitantly. “I hardly know you.”
“Like I said, are you ashamed?”
“No… I…” She realised I was not about to leave, and turned her back on me, slowly unbuttoning the dress and letting it slip off her body. Her pale skin was smooth as paper in the light from the two bedside lamps. Her figure was boyish to the extent that she had no bum to speak of, and were it not for her gorgeous breasts that I could see in the mirror beyond her, she could almost be called waif-like. How someone as petite as this could be accepted into the Russian police force I had no idea. Perhaps there really was something special here.
She wore a black satin bra and panties that I was sure were also Monica’s. She filled out the former remarkably, while the latter still passed muster.
“How does this go on?” she asked, not looking at me but holding out a corset in a flurry of laces.
“Don’t tell me you’ve never worn one,” I said, getting up from my chair.
“I only have two dresses in my wardrobe,” she said. “No corsets.”
Oh dear, I thought. A tomboy. Perhaps that explained a bit. I moved in behind her and took the corset from her. It was black with satin panels and stretched from hips to the underside of her breasts, lacing down the back. With her small waist and body I could nearly tighten it to its full extent once the thing was in place. Sofiya gasped as I yanked on the laces. I pushed her over to the door.
“Hold on to the handles,” I said, then tugged again. Sofiya gasped as the breath rushed out of her mouth.
“Is too tight!” she complained.
“How tight do you think the ropes will be on Monica tonight?” I snapped at her. She went silent. I fastened leather wrist bands on her slender wrists – something else that was almost too loose. She pulled on a shiny black lycra dress with long sleeves and a short hemline that showed off her legs. I pulled the zipper up the front to the scooped neck, unashamedly savouring her cleavage and the subtle scent of Monica’s perfume. That only left the patent black boots.
“I have to wear those?” she asked in a whisper. “ Look at the heels. Too high.”
I didn’t answer and she sat down gingerly on the bed, conscious of the tight steel boning of the corset squeezing her waist and chest and restricting her movements. She quickly discovered how difficult it was to reach her feet, as she tried to slip the left foot into the boot.
It was probably a size too large, but it would not matter. The heels were at least twelve centimetres, and narrowed to a point. There were laces down the front but zips up the side, which Sofiya finally managed to get closed only after much gasping and pausing to catch her breath. Finally she completed the exercise and sat there, panting. The boots came right up to her knees, encasing her lower legs in the lustrous black leather.
“You look very sexy,” I said.
“I can’t stand up,” she complained.
I grasped her wrists and pulled her to her feet. She tottered and grabbed my arm.
“Is crazy!” she asserted. “How do women walk in these? Why?”
“Because they look hot,” I said simply. “You look hot.”
She stopped and stared at me, then smiled.
“Really?”
“Yes. But this isn’t a beauty parade,” I continued. “Stand still.” I took a heavy silver collar of Monica’s from the bedside table where I’d put it. It could almost have been taken for a piece of jewellery, for it was more decorative than functional. For the second time that evening I lifted Sofiya’s hair and slid a collar around her neck, locking it at the nape.
I kissed her on the forehead. She beamed, then yelped as I pushed her back on the bed. “Spread your arms and legs.”
It took me five minutes to chain Sofiya spreadeagled to the bed, making the most of Monica’s strategically-placed eyebolts. I did not chain her tightly, for she would be here all night. I left her a little slack, but she would still be stiff and sore in the morning.
She looked up at me from the bed, arms and legs spread in a wide star. I could have done anything to her right then and she would have been powerless to prevent it. I confess the swelling mounds of her breasts under the tight black lycra gave me a long pause for thought, but the look of trust in her eyes brought out my old fashioned values that many people would consider a blot on my lifestyle. It was simply that Sofiya was not a ‘player’ in this world, but an innocent who had wandered into a garden where strange things happened to people and different rules and customs were observed. Where most clients would have expected – or even desired – to be taken advantage of under such circumstances, our lives at that moment were involved in bigger things.
Hugely tempting though the helpless Sofiya was, we were supposedly engaged in a nutty psychic search for Monica. I chose to leave her untouched at that moment - manacled to Monica’s bed, in Monica’s clothes, in Monica’s room… If this didn’t invoke the spirits, nothing would.
* * *
08.06.09
story continues in The Abduction of Monica 8: Connection
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