Read

Monica's Games 2.13

by Richard Alexander (Gromets Plaza)

(story continues from Monica's Games 1.12)

Monica’s Games – Part 2

Chapter Thirteen: Retribution
 

Trish looked close to tears while Mary looked stoic and resigned.  We were in this together, and being suspended on your tiptoes in a tight little group of three in the basement of Bilboes was about as chummy as you could get.  I could have made some cheery crack about the three musketeers, all for one and so on, but even had I been able to, it would have been a mistake, and I learn from my mistakes.  In that regard this whole business was obviously a very big mistake, and clearly we were all going to learn from it together.

We were not a happy group of campers.  Under normal circumstances being naked myself and in the same room with two naked females in the form of Trish and Mary would likely have been a very happy and productive experience.  In this particular instance we were decidedly subdued, not least since we all had solid rubber balls strapped firmly in our mouths.

We stood in a tight triangle, Mary on my right, with her left breast nuzzling my right nipple, and Trish’s right breast doing the same thing to my left one.  The girl’s faces were only a handspan from my own, but we were all staring up at the roof, our eyes lingering despairingly on the three short cords rising up from the eyebolts screwed into the rubber balls.  The three cords joined together half a metre above our heads, tied to a D-ring, which was suspended over a pulley by a rope that was tied off to a cleat on a nearby post.

My neck hurt from gazing upward, and the gag strap dug in where it was buckled behind my head.  It was a very strained position, and we had been holding it for perhaps half an hour.  Every so often one of us would give a little sigh or grunt as we tried to ease the pain.

The pain also came from our nipples, on which Monica had fastened three pairs of crocodile clips which made slight clinking sounds against each other whenever one of us moved.  They had burned like fire to start with, but the pain had died to a dull ache after a while.  Then it seemed to come to life again, becoming sharper and in surges if you breathed too deeply.  And the sound of our breathing was all that was audible between those occasional sighs and quiet moans.  The Post Room in Bilboes basement was well insulated against sounds going out and sounds coming in.

Monica had secured our arms beside us in a way that suggested worse was to come.  My right arm was attached to Mary’s left by saran wrap, from fingers to shoulder.  Additionally, Monica had wrapped a garden stake, about a metre long, in with the green film like a splint, as if the plastic wrap itself didn’t make things stiff enough.  My left arm was melded to Trish’s right arm and the third pair of arms was dealt with in the same way.  We were attached at the arms like Siamese triplets, and able to do precious little with them.

What suggested that there was worse to come was the fact that the lower end of each garden stake, at about knee level, had a rope tied to it, and each of these ropes trailed upwards over each pair of shoulders and between each pair of heads to join a further D-clip hanging next to the first that held our heads in that awful upward attitude of supplication.  At this stage the three additional ropes hung slack, but they were there for a purpose.

I said we were naked, didn’t I?  Ordinarily the thrill of being pushed up against the sensuous curves of Trish and the lithe, lean figure of Mary would have had Mr Willy standing at attention in expectation of the main event.  In this particular instance Mr Brain had his own ideas of what the main event might be, and he had been only too willing to share them with anyone who would listen, which had dissuaded my buddy from even considering rising to the occasion.  Like the rest of me he evidently wished he could find somewhere to hide.

Monica had left our ankles unbound.  Her bondage was neat and to the point; fastidious and colour-coordinated with the matching white rubber ball gags on the black straps. She had said little while she and Leila had secured us.  We had not resisted, of course.  This was something that had to be gone through to the end.  It was perhaps a punishment, catharsis and closure all in one.  Whatever the psychologists called it, it was undoubtedly going to be very painful.

Then Monica had gone away, leaving us with the futile option of trying to communicate by grunts and whines.  Forced to stare at the ceiling while shifting weight from one foot to the other, it was hard to catch the others’ eyes, but every now and then we made the effort.  I tried to read the expressions of my two partners in crime.  It was not something that I, a mere male, had ever been good at.  I told myself I could see Trish’s regret, the slight furrowing of her brows and widening of her green eyes perhaps conveying apology for what she had conned me into.

Mary’s liquid brown eyes remained enigmatic, only occasionally flickering as a flash of pain shot from the nipples pinched by the cruel steel jaws.  Mary’s focus remained 
on the rope rising from the ball in her mouth.  Mary was off in Mary-space somewhere - her own secret place that was the equivalent of Sub-space when you were not a sub, I reckoned.

All manner of thoughts wandered through my own head, not least why on earth I had let myself get involved in a hare-brained scheme that I knew was stupid from the moment Trish tossed it in my lap.  But I had always had a soft spot for her, and I told myself there were some things a man just had to do, that were ethically and morally right, even if the punishment was the Wrath of Monica.

*   *   *
We had been a while reaching this stage.  At first it had been the individual punishments – the separation from each other and the consequent inability to get our stories straight, as to who – if anybody - was blaming whom.

From that frozen moment in time Monica had taken total control.  Mary and Trish at once had their wrists handcuffed behind them by Megan and Monica.  Clearly there was no point in trying to escape.  Their brief attempts to explain had resulted in ball gags being strapped tightly in their mouths, before Monica had turned her attention to the naked and moaning male figure hanging disconsolately from the chains.  Monica and Megan had lowered him to the floor and undone the leather cuffs, then removed the bit gag from Warren’s mouth.  His unexpected rescue had abruptly put some fire into his demeanour, but this was countered by the ignominious and humiliating position he had been caught in.  With all credibility now gone, Warren had initially been speechless as he grabbed his clothes from where they lay in a pile in the corner, before he made to storm out, deliberately shouldering Monica aside.  As she whirled to watch him exit, he had turned back to her and pointed to me.

“He was in on it, too!”  His voice was high and shaky as he glared at me with a fury that barely seemed to make the grade, given his nakedness.  Then he was gone, and there came the sound of the Mercedes starting up and the squeal of tyres in the main warehouse area beyond the high block walls.

“Megan – I think our friend should join these two,” said Monica grimly, tossing her a length of rope.  It appeared that there were only two pairs of handcuffs forming part of the equipment in the room, so I got the crossed wrists treatment very efficiently from Megan, who had wrapped multiple turns of cord around them and cinched it all tightly behind me.  With the two ball gags in the room’s cupboard already being used, Monica had had the choice of the drooly bit gag that Warren had worn, or a ball skewered on a piece of dowel.  Predictably, this was what I got – a cross between a ball and a bit.  Or was it a bit of a ball?  Whatever, it had been strapped securely behind my head by Megan before I could venture much of any explanation – not that I really had my wits together enough to try to offer one.  I was still astounded at the gall of what Mary and Trish were still doing, a week after we had started it all.

Things had gone downhill from there.  We had spent the night in the Citadel bound hand and foot, our mouths swathed in duct tape which wrapped around our heads, in three very uncomfortable cages barely larger than our bodies.  We had been sitting up, our knees drawn up, our backsides slowly getting numb.  The warehouse was pitch black after Monica, Megan and Jillian had left us and switched off the lights.  The only sounds were occasional sniffles and grunts as we shifted from one uncomfortable position to another.  It did not take a strenuous position to keep us awake.  Cold concrete did the job perfectly, along with the hard steel of the bars digging into our backs and arms.  We could not communicate, even though we shared the same room.  I wished I hadn’t finished the cages before going to Oman, but I knew Monica would only have found something worse.

By the time morning came, we looked and felt like crap.  Jillian and Leila had turned up early with the Van and looked very apologetic about the whole thing.  That said, they had been clearly under orders, and no allowance had been made for fellow workmates as we travelled back to Brisbane hogtied side by side in the back.  With my cheek pressed against the rubber of the floor, I’d stared into the gray-green pools that were Trish’s eyes, a few inches away, peering over the top of the silver duct tape wrapped around her head.  This was not turning into a happy homecoming, and I knew it would be going to get worse.

We had then been locked up for the best part of a day in the niches under the stairs.  At least I had been.  Trish had been the first to be taken away for interrogation somewhere, while Mary stood trapped behind the grille in the blockwork recess, with yours truly in the next door one, my limbs anchored to the wall by the steel U-bolts that poked through the blocks to be bolted up behind.  Did I mention that our clothes had been taken before we went into the cages?  Oh yes, Monica had not let a little matter like that go by unnoticed.  Trish had not come back, and then Mary had been uncaged and hustled away.

I found out later that Monica had used one of my remote rogering devices on Trish and Mary for two hours.  The device was a relatively simple one, consisting of a small electric motor with a vertical shaft.  The motor was mounted vertically on a small bench around knee height, and at the end of the vertical shaft was a wheel about fifteen centimetres in diameter which rotated in the horizontal plain like a small turntable.  Attached to this were two piston-like arms which – being secured to the wheel by a bolt – moved back and forth on each side as the wheel turned, effectively converting the rotary motion into longitudinal motion, with a stroke the same as the diameter of the wheel. 

In simple terms, Monica had bent Mary and Trish transversely over two whipping benches, their arses facing each other and about a metre a part.  The machine had been positioned in between and appropriately sized dildos inserted into both girls, these inserts being attached to the piston rods.  Turn the wheel and one dildo goes in while the other comes out.  Wonderfully simple.

It was something I could understand but could never empathise with.  Being a mere male, the concept of multiple orgasms was something I could dream of but could never achieve without artificial help, not to mention a good rest in between.  I was later told in no uncertain terms by Trish and Mary that an hour of this without respite was exhausting and debilitating when you are unable to move or scream.  Monica had gone at them with the flogger as well, which – according to Trish – actually facilitated several orgasms even faster than they were coming anyway.  Both girls had ended up drained and hardly able to stand, by the time Monica had finished the interrogation. 

Finally it had been my turn.  At least that was what I thought.  Jill had appeared, wearing a green strapless dress that showed off her tanned legs, and had unbolted my wrists and ankles, while leaving one U-bolt still anchoring my neck.  There was precious little I could do as she slid a strap behind me, above my elbows, and buckled it so that my arms were pulled back, before she used a length of cord to secure my wrists with further cord stretched across my stomach.  Only then did she remove the final U-bolt and I was able to step out of the niche. 

The miles of duct tape that had been wrapped around our heads had been removed early that morning, when we were allowed to have a drink, but no breakfast.  The tape had been replaced with a hard red ball which was still in place and which gave me no opportunity to query Jill as to what was going to happen.  When she blindfolded me with a silk bandana I gave up all hope of doing anything of my own volition and was forced to go with the flow.  I figured the final session was about to commence, and I was not looking forward to Monica’s interrogation technique.

Jill led me down the corridor in somewhat unorthodox fashion, holding Mr Willy firmly in her hand and towing me by this method.  Under such circumstances it was probably not surprising that he reacted as he did.

“Mmmm, you naughty boy,” came Jill’s voice murmuring in my ear.  “I think we still have a short while before you’re needed for your session with Monica.  I think we need to have you in a more relaxed state before you go in there. You seem awfully tense, Steven.”

“Urrgh,” I said.

There was the sound of a steel door opening and from the turnings we had taken, I reckoned we were in gym.  This was confirmed as I found myself forced to straddle a low padded bench that I figured was the bench attached to the weights.  Jill made me lie back and with my arms bound the way they were I had little choice.  My legs were bent at the knees and my feet just touched the floor, which was where they were secured, with ropes binding my ankles to a cross bar that one normally hooked one’s feet behind when using the machine.  The bench was just long enough for me, and I felt my head touching the upright post that rose up to carry the pulleys and weights above.

With my ankles bound I clearly wasn’t going anywhere, but Jill wanted to be sure, and moments later more cords criss-crossed my chest to finish the business.  I knew what was coming next.  I knew this was done without Monica’s knowledge, too.  This was Jill taking advantage of me - yet again - probably with the knowledge that Monica was far too engrossed in dealing out punishment to Trish and Mary.  I reckoned she was taking a chance, given the foul mood that Monica was in.  There would be a fair chance that Jill could end up on the receiving end of some punishment herself, if caught in the act.  Not that there was anything I could do about it, of course.  Just as it also seemed that there was precious little I could do to control Mr Willy, who was rampantly erect in response to the handling he had received in the corridor.  I wasn’t complaining, of course, but Jill always seemed to turn up just when I was at my weakest.  I had lost track of how many times she had done this to me.  Okay, yes, they had been very pleasurable experiences, but I considered it really wasn’t seemly for a guy to be taken advantage of in this way.  Well, not as often as seemed to be happening, anyway.

My muted indignation faded as Jill sank down slowly on top of me, pinioning my hands further under the warmth of her thighs and causing exquisite sensations to ripple outwards from my loins. I sighed with pleasure, momentarily forgetting the bigger picture of my predicament.  She tweaked my nipples and I grunted, but it was a playful, not painful tweak, as she bounced just enough to send further waves of pleasure emanating from Mr Willy, now clasped tightly inside her.  I felt the touch of her hair as she bent forward, her face close to mine and the fresh scent of a delicate perfume in my nostrils.  Thank you, Jill, I thought absently, for at least taking my mind off what undoubtedly lay ahead.

My position was not a strenuous one, and allowed a certain amount of responsive thrusting on my part, to which I was decidedly not averse.  Pretty soon we were at it for all we were worth, and I came with a rush, just as Jill peaked on a series of high pitched gasps that left her clutching me with arms and thighs as she fought to get her breath back.  At least she didn’t have a ball strapped in her mouth, which made it twice as difficult on my part, but that’s not a complaint, you understand.  Ultimately it made the wait a little easier when I found myself kneeling – still bound, gagged and blindfolded – outside wherever it was that Monica was doing her thing.

“Just relax,” Jill whispered.  “I’m sorry I have to leave you like this.  I hope that little exercise might be some consolation.”  Her voice sounded warm and genuinely regretful of what was about to happen.  “This is solely Monica’s doing – please understand that.”  This time there was a catch to her voice, followed by receding footsteps as she hurried away, leaving my on the cold corridor concrete.

*   *   *

It really hadn’t been much of an interrogation to begin with.  Monica, dressed in a black leather catsuit, had done all the talking – or yelling, rather.  I reckoned she had lost it.  I sat in the chair in the interrogation room, held in place by the stout Velcro straps while Monica had toyed with the electrodes on my nipples and on Mr Willy.  Of course I could not shed much light on the proceedings, since I had been in Oman most of the time when things were happening, but I would willingly have told what I could – had I not been chewing on a gag, that was.  It was all totally unnecessary, but Monica obviously wanted her day in court.

When she had finally tired of my head shaking or nodding and my gagged affirmatives or negatives, the ball was removed and she had let me have my say.

“I don’t understand the problem,” I said breathlessly, my voice shaking as she had paced up and down, occasionally letting her hand rest on the table beside the electrical box with the knobs that could send a painful jolt into my nipples and nether regions.  I was sweating profusely and that did nothing to diminish electrical conductivity.

“The girls were only doing what they thought best for you.  We know what Warren put you through – both physically and financially…”

“You spied on me!”

“We did not!” I retorted hotly.  “I happened to be down here when you and Warren got off with your little supernatural thing!”  Perhaps it wasn’t the most eloquently-phrased response, for Monica flushed and gave one of the knobs a tweak.  A stab of pain made my nipples twitch and I yelped.

“Then you went behind my back, spied on our best customer and effectively took him off the client list!”  Her anger had not diminished with the time she had had to work on Trish and Mary, and she came up behind me to grasp a handful of my hair, pulling my head back painfully.

“I tried to talk them out of it!” I gasped.

“Didn’t do a very good job, did you?” she breathed in my ear.

“Do you know what they went through at the hands of Roger and Warren?” I countered on a different tack.

“Shut up!” she said, letting go of me and striding over to the table.  “It’s not relevant!  It’s an occupational hazard.”

“It’s a bloody sight more than a hazard –oooww! Monica!” I exclaimed as Mr Willy got a sudden tickle up from the black box.  “Shit!  Look, we all suffered, but Mary and Trish got it really bad!”

“I’m well aware of who suffered!” she snapped.

“Well, remember whose idea the whole thing was – it started with a publicity video, I believe!” I threw at her.  It was a low blow, for ever since Jill and Leila had been kidnapped in Hong Kong we had been trying to get Monica off a guilt trip that had arisen from her belief that she was responsible by having the video made.  And of course the visit of Madam Wong and Portia, ably assisted by Warren and Roger, had been a consequential event some months later.  Like I said, it was a cheap shot, and I paid for it as she twisted both knobs to make me cry out and strain against the Velcro holding me to the chair.  Then the current stopped, and I slumped as much as my bonds permitted.  Then Monica was behind me again, re-strapping the ball in my mouth.

“I can see you’ve been working behind my back not just in Oman, but even before that, “ she hissed, but her voice sound strained and not at all the cool and composed Monica we knew.  I had never seen her like this.  “I’m going to give you a choice.  You can have a month’s pay and leave now, or you can stay and take what’s coming to you – and the others.”

I was stunned.  I dared not suggest that I thought I had had quite enough already, and had tried to blurt out that she could do whatever she damn well wanted.  It came out all garbled, but I’m sure something in my tone had conveyed my intention to her.  Monica had looked at me strangely, with an expression I couldn’t fathom. It was a mixture of resignation and…relief?  I realised at that point that she had mentioned ‘the others’, and I then understood that both Mary and Trish had been given the same choice, with the same result, I figured.

I had exited from the room shaking from the electrical treatment, to be taken to join Mary and Trish bound in the eternal triangle.  These events were inevitably doing an action replay through my mind as we now stood there, our necks and bodies aching, staring up at the cords anchoring the screw eyes in our ball gags as we awaited the Wrath of Monica.

*   *   *

And wrath it was going to be.  I knew this an hour later when the door to the Post Room opened and Monica stalked in.  She had her coal black hair piled up and secured in place with silver clips, and had her face was made up in extreme gothic.  Dark eyes, brooding brows and narrow lips that were almost black. 

Black was the common theme of her outfit, from the black choker collar to the black pvc corset that made her breasts bulge while giving her belly a smooth flat look that in other circumstances would have been extremely sexy.  The black pvc thigh boots emphasised her legs, the spiked heels adding to her height and making the whole greater than the sum of the parts.  Her arms were bare save for two leather wrist bands, and – unusually - there were no accessorising chains anywhere on her body.  A wide silver belt drew attention to the narrowness of her waist and completed a picture of lean ruthlessness.  Monica had once told me that dressing up made her feel empowered, as though drawing on hidden magic that also had the bonus effect of intimidating her victims.  I could not recall seeing her as intimidating and menacing as this.  It was almost as though she had delved into the bottom of her repertoire for something special.

She closed the door with a frightening clang.  The sound echoed against the concrete block walls, before being replaced with the hard clack of her heels as she slowly paced off the intervening distance then circled around us.  We tried to watch her from our heads-up position, but it was difficult, and perhaps more scary not being able to read her expression. She stopped and said nothing for almost a minute.  The silence seemed to grow and hang over us, such that when she finally spoke it was almost a relief.

“It’s time for your punishment, people.  Time for you to regret going behind my back.  Time to regret what you’ve done to Bilboes and time to think about the position we now find ourselves in.  Time to think about the future.”  Her voice was soft, but with an edge to it.  I might even have thought there was a tremor to it, as though she was trying to keep herself under control, but I wondered if this was from anger.  There seemed to be something else there, something in her tone that suggested uncertainty, something that she was trying to hide.

“I suppose I should consider it a plus that you have elected to remain here and submit to your punishment.  Perhaps I should be flattered.  Perhaps you think I will go easy on you as a result…  It’s not going to happen.”  Her voice was now flat and deadpan.  She walked to the cleat that held the rope attached to our ball gags and unwound the white sashcord from it.  The three of us let out a soft collective sigh of relief as the rope slipped through the pulley and we could finally lower our heads. 

We twisted them back and forth to get some play back into our muscles, and had barely done this before we felt a tug on our arms.  Monica was winding the rope attached to them on to a hand winch, and the picture became rapidly clearer as to our fate.

With a rapid clicking of the ratchet on the winch, our arms started to lift up behind us, unable to bend because of the splints bound against them.  Our heads were suddenly in close contact, being forced inwards and down as the strain started to come on our collective shoulders.  It was almost as though we were about to engage in a ménage-a-trois kiss.  I caught Trish’s look of alarm, and now even Mary seemed disconcerted.  I hesitated a moment them moved my head slightly to the left and bent it below Trish’s, accepting the inevitable that we were all going to end up peering between our legs.  The other two followed in quick succession as the pull on our arms continued remorselessly.  Trish grunted with the effort her shoulder snuggled in against mine and her auburn hair fell into the space between us.  I felt Mary’s shoulder against mine on the right, and we struggled to balance the pressures that seemed to be coming on our bodies from all directions in the triangular strappado.

The strappado is a delicate position.  At some point there is a danger of shoulder dislocation as the load becomes more vertical and changes from rotating the arms to trying to lift the body entirely off the ground.  With our arms bound immovably in pairs, unable to twist or adjust as much, that point came earlier, and I wondered if Monica would realise what she was doing.  I was just on the verge of moving from discomfort to real pain when she stopped. 

We were all standing on tiptoes now, though fortunately having each other to lean against and provide some physical support.  I saw the tall black boots walk purposely over to the table in front of the mirror where the electro-stimulation gear was laid out from the last demonstration.  Oh no, I thought, not that!  We were bent double with our arses exposed to anything that Monica thought might be appropriate.

In this particular instance, what she thought appropriate required lubrication, and I suppose we should have been thankful for small mercies as she squeezed dollops of the cold gel into our exposed holes.  Then it was the butt plugs, with their trailing wires back to the inevitable black box on the table.  I did not know which model we were to receive, but it was a fair bet it would not be pleasant. 

Trish was first.  She whined into her gag then her voice went up a pitch in a series of short protests erupting into a brief muted cry before subsiding into a long moan as the device slid home.  Then came Mary.  Mary had her pride, but even she could not suppress the cry of pain and protest as the plug lodged deep within her.  I felt the pressure of her body pushed against me as Monica shoved the intruder in a final movement.  Mary let forth a series of sounds like “Uh! Uh! Uh!” from her head down position beside me.

Then it was my turn.  I tried to control my trepidation as I felt the head of the knob between my cheeks. There was no foreplay from Monica this time, no easing the thing in and out to encourage the dilation of the sphincter muscle.  It was a wham bamm thank you Maam effort.  I knew it was coming and willed my muscles to relax totally but the invasive force still surprised me.  Monica pushed it in smoothly and in one motion.  The pain was brief but intense and I cried out into the rubber ball, biting down as the huge plug drove inside me, filling me with that curious fullness that is at once discomforting and somehow stimulating.

I was panting heavily through my nose, feeling like a dental patient who has just survived the preliminary inspection and knows that the real thing is about to commence, as Monica connected up the wires in a briskly efficient way.

But it was not the electricity we were to feel just yet.  This time it was something much more basic and physical.  Monica retrieved a thin whippy cane from the cupboard.  God, I hated canes.  They were so unforgiving!  Normally a victim would be ‘warmed up’ with a flogger, stimulating the blood flow and accustoming them to rising pain levels, but it appeared such was not to be the fate for the Gang of Three.  In the tradition of the one thrust plug installation, we were straight into the nasty stuff.  Monica sure was pissed off.

“How many do you think you deserve?”  came Monica’s voice, now suddenly with a tremor in it.  “How about twenty strokes?  Could you stand that Trish?”  There was a whine of terror from Trish.  My heart almost stopped.  Twenty strokes was a fearsome thrashing.

“Perhaps twenty five for you, Stephen?”  Monica was standing behind me now her cold hands fingering the cheeks of my bum and playing with the plug.  Then I felt the hardness of the cane running between my buttocks and toying with Mr Willy who tried to shrink upwards even more.  “Of all the people I thought I could trust…”  There was no mistaking the quaver in her voice now.

“You bastard!” she cried suddenly, stepping back and letting fly across my backside.  The pain was a piercing line of fire and made me cry out into the gag.  Then it was Mary’s turn. 

The stroke prompted a muffled scream, followed by another crack and a further shriek from Trish, jerking against Mary and myself under the force of the blow.

There was a pause and through the pain I thought I heard a sniffle that came not from us but from Monica.  Then another blow caught me across the backside, but – painful though it was, it was not as bad as the previous one.  There was another sniffle from Monica that abruptly turned into a sob and the cane dropped to the floor. 

“Oh shit…” said Monica, clearly distressed and trying not to lose control.  “I can’t do this…”  With another sob she turned and ran from the room.

The steel door clanged shut behind her and left the three of us, doubled over, making plaintive grunting noises through our gags…

*   *   *
 
 
 
 
 

05.08.03

story continues in Monica's Games 2.14

o0o