Monica's Games 2.14
by Richard Alexander (Gromets Plaza)
(story continues from Monica's Games 2.13)
Chapter Fourteen: Preparations
It was a week or so before Monica was her normal self again. Yes, there were a few tears along the way, but normal relations were resumed and we were forgiven our trespasses. It had taken a lot of diplomacy and mediation from Jill, in particular, to smooth things over and make Monica come to the party. But it had not been until after we had been left in that strappado for another hour, wondering how long we were going to suffer, that Jill had appeared and had let us down. We had been released and had discussed how best to make our apologies.
From there on it was be-nice-to-Monica week, and with all the right noises between us she gradually came around. Things happened fast, however, with the word that the Zubair brothers would be arriving in three weeks time. At once we had to finalise the events and get all the equipment ready. Monica assumed her usual role of Empress of Bilboes - if not the Universe - and called a meeting in our usual spot on the back verandah. She held court dressed in jeans and a pale blue sleeveless lycra rollneck which made her breasts stand out, and it was evident from the little bump on each that she wore no bra. Perhaps unkindly, I reckoned that it was the build up to this whole competition that was getting her excited.
Besides the Bilboes team, our competition from the Citadel had arrived, led by Megan and Debbie. I knew some of them by sight, recognising Leon and Dianne, a tall blonde with hair to her waist called Kris, and an attractive brunette called Marilyn. Beside them were two others whose names I found out later were Elizabeth and Catherine.
I did not have much time for sizing up the talent, for Monica took the stage. Beside her was a stocky woman in her late forties wearing a dark brown leather skirt and top which hugged her evidently muscular figure. There was no subtlety here, I thought. This woman radiated brute strength and an air that said she was not to be trifled with. Her short hair matched the colour of the leather, and she gazed at us with fierce grey eyes that made me feel like a kid in front of a schoolmistress. Monica introduced her.
“For those of you who don’t know her, this is Mistress Lynx.” The woman surveyed us with a cold stare that brooked no mischief. Somehow I had always envisaged a lynx as a streamlined, svelte creature – quite the opposite from the woman now facing us. “Mistress Lynx knows some of us – she and I have known each other for many years – and she also knows Mary, Trish and Megan well. At our suggestion, Mistress Lynx has agreed to come out of retirement from Sydney to be the sole umpire in these games, and she will be paid jointly by Rashid and Mohammed. If you like, she is also a probity auditor, here to ensure fair play and equal opportunities for each side. Megan and I have agreed that she will run the show, and she will be the reporting channel to Rashid and Mohammad. More importantly, she will be organising the events, in the sense of designing them and laying down the rules. I know she has already had considerable discussions with our clients, so I will hand over to her to brief you.”
“Right people, here are the rules – as far as they exist at present.” Mistress Lynx stood beside a whiteboard screwed to the outside of the wall. “There will be a twelve events.” She began writing on the board. “The first seven will be physical events loosely based on the Olympics, but all will have a twist.” She paused, and let her gaze drift across our faces. “There will initially be two of these events per day, with some held here, some at the Citadel, and some – “ a tight smile flickered across her mouth – “elsewhere. The first events, in simple terms, will be ” she pulled a piece of paper from her ample cleavage, studied it briefly, then turned to the whiteboard and began to write:
1. Swimming 5 points
2. Running 5 points
3. Weight Lifting 5 points
4. Fencing 5 points
5. Cycling 5 points
6. Pony Cart 10 points
7. Walking 20 points
“These events will generally be a one-on-one, with the exception of the cart and the walking, which have greater points as a consequence. Following these will be a quiz worth 10 points ” She wrote this on the board as event number 8.
“The last four events will involve more people and be worth more points. All I will tell you at this stage is that there will be a relay, a Paintball match, a treasure hunt and a competition on the assault course.” She paused again to write these as events 9 to 12. “The points value of these will be ten, fifteen, twenty and twenty.”
“I should formally advise you of the prize that is at stake here. All members of the winning team will each receive a round-the-world air ticket with luxury accommodation and spending money of five thousand dollars.” She paused for dramatic effect, and it wasn’t wasted on the assembled crowd. There was a gasp and a murmur ran through the assembly at the quantum of the prize. This was clearly a serious business. Suddenly there was a major focussing of attention from the contestants. When the buzz had settled down, Mistress Lynx continued, obviously pleased at the stir her announcement had prompted.
“As to the individual events, there will also be a bonus for the winner of each. There will be a prize of two thousand dollars for each individual winner, and a suitable punishment for the loser.”
Another murmur ran through the crowd. Wry smiles appeared as the import of this statement sank in.
“And I’m sure you’re all wondering who will be contesting these events. To make it fair, the contestants will be randomly drawn. Except in some instances where our sponsors have specifically requested certain players, or where the contestants are unable to compete through a total lack of skill – for example, they don’t know how to swim – the draw will be final.” Mistress Lynx glared at the audience, as if daring them to object. “Very good. All right – you two slaves, bring the names here.” There was a movement at the back and Shawnee and Dianne worked their way through the group. Each carried a discipline helmet like an open bag and the pair kneeled together in front of Mistress Lynx, the helmets for her to delve into. I noticed then that Shawnee’s helmet was white, while Dianne’s was black. Mistress Lynx looked down on the pair, clearly enjoying all the attention.
“I will now outline a little of each event, and select the contestant from each establishment who will partake. I should point out at this stage that each team will have a uniform based on black or white. Megan and Monica have decided between them that Bilboes will be the White team, and the Citadel will be the Black Team. I’m sure your team uniforms will be appropriately smart in representing your sponsors,” she added meaningfully, and it was pretty evident that in appointing Mistress Lynx, the Zubair brothers had found a strong representative of their interests.
“The first event will be the swimming. It will be a one-on-one event, ten lengths of the pool here at Bilboes. The difference will be that the contestants will have a certain drag factor to overcome.” There was the smile again – a conspiratorial one that clearly knew details that we would not be privy to for a while. A big hand went into the white helmet.
“The Bilboes contestant will be Leila. Against her will be Kris.” I looked across at Leila. She was smiling, as well she might do, for she was a good swimmer. I had no idea what Kris of the long blonde hair was like. She was slender and toned, and I thought Leila might have her work cut out. My thoughts were interrupted by Mistress Lynx moving on.
“The second event will be a simple foot race, but again with certain weighting issues to be overcome. It will take place here on the back road. The contestants in this will be Emma from Bilboes, and Catherine from the Citadel.” Emma blushed as eyes focussed on her, while an exotic-looking dark-haired girl, whom I took to be Catherine, whispered to her companion.
“The third event will be weight lifting. This will be done on the bench press, which will be specially modified ” – a meaningful smile – “ and which will be located at the Citadel. The contestants will be for the White Team Trish, and for the Black Team Debbie.” I saw a big grin from Debbie as she looked across at Trish, who smiled back.
“On to event number four, fencing, also at the Citadel. Sounds a bit sophisticated, doesn’t it, but I’m sure these people will cope, and they are Mary and Marilyn. Hmmm. M and M’s, eh. I hardly need tell you that these weapons will be particularly modified as well.
“Event five is the bike ride. This will be fun! Out on the open road, from the Botanical Gardens up to the Mount Cootha lookout and back down again. If that doesn’t work up a sweat, I’m sure the modified bikes will.” She chuckled, a kind of throaty, conspiratorial laugh. “And the lucky winners of this option are Jill and Elizabeth.” I saw Jill roll her eyes and catch a similar look from a pretty brunette next to Catherine.
“Now we get to the interesting ones. For this next one, we have pre-determined the contestants. The trotting event will be a time trial on the back road again, this time with the pony cart. Jockeys will be Steven and Leon. Ponies will be Shawnee and Dianne.” An amused murmur went through the assembly. This announcement caught me by surprise, for I had not expected myself to be involved in the front line. I caught Leon looking at me with an expression that was not at all friendly. Predatory was the word that sprang to mind. Shawnee and Dianne were still kneeling in front of Mistress Lynx, and I could not see their expressions.
“The last event in the first part of this competition will be the city walk. Now this will be no stroll, girls, and you’ll all be in it - except the slaves, of course,” she added condescendingly, looking down at Dianne and Shawnee. “These two would be too used to hobbles,” she added meaningfully. “I’m sure the general public along the Riverside walk and the Queen Street Mall will be most impressed. Extra points in this one – for first, second and third. For all you closet exhibitionists, this will be right up your alley.
“That’s the extent of the first round, ladies, gentlemen - and slaves. Now the timetable. Today is Saturday. The games begin in two weeks from today, and your sponsors will be arriving a couple of days earlier to view the preparations. Any questions?”
A hand went up. It was Leon.
“Your role as umpire – can you be bought?” It was intended as a joke, I think, and a nervous titter ran through some of the girls. Monica looked heavenward and Mistress Lynx frowned. Even I didn’t think it was the smartest comment to make, even in fun. I compared it to joking about a bomb in your luggage while passing through American customs.
“Why don’t you try it, sonny? How lucky do you feel?” There was an awkward silence, and Debbie at once jumped in.
“This – er – modified equipment. Will we get to practise on it?”
Mistress Lynx gave Leon a final withering stare and turned to Debbie.
“I intend this be run as fairly as possible. There is also a timetable we have to keep to, so your man Steven will be busy. Is that him over there?” She looked across at me. I nodded. “Hmmm. A sensible male. That’s a change. Well, Steven, you’re going to be working your buns off. There will be a new set of weights delivered to the Citadel on Monday. They, and the set you have here, will need to be modified. Monica knows the requirements. You will do the two one after the other, so that each team can practise. Similarly, there will be three mountain bikes delivered for modification. You’ll only need two for the race, but I’m sure you’ll mess up trying to get it right the first time. Most males do. And there will be the fencing. You will make four mock swords for the contestants to practise with, but the electrics won’t be activated until the day of the event.
“As or the swimmers, runners and walkers, you don’t need anything special to work with. As for your own little event, Steven, you can let Leon and Dianne use the cart on every alternate day. You may even get him to help you with the modifications to the other stuff.”
Yeah, like I was going to let him near my tools and stuff after the trouble he caused with the girl left stranded at Noosa. Leon was not one of your most trustworthy specimens, I had decided some time ago. I didn’t mind doing all the work – at least our girls would have the confidence that it would work properly. And I could see I was going to be a very busy teddy in the next fortnight.
* * *
I was not wrong. Straight after that meeting Monica and Megan took me down to the gym where our weight bench was located. It had been set up with sensors and electro-stimulators to encourage users to keep going, but the girls told me they wanted something different.
“The concept of weight lifting is of one person trying to outdo the other by lifting more,” Monica said, explaining the obvious. “The lifting will be done not as a single weight, but as a series of repeated lifts within a fixed time. For example, they may have to lift twenty kilos twenty times in five minutes. If that is matched by the opponent, then the weight could be increased to thirty kilos ten times in five minutes. There are three variables – the weight, the time, and the number of lifts. Are you with me so far?”
“It’s a struggle, but I’m coping,” I said, realising it came out more flippantly than I meant.
“This is serious, Steven,” Megan retorted, frowning. “There’s a lot riding on this. Now what Monica has described is the straightforward bit. All this lifting will be done by using this bar here.” She indicated the horizontal bar about a metre long that hung suspended above where a person would sit straddling the bench with their back to the vertical part of the frame. Pulling down on the bar would raise an adjustable series of weights behind them. Megan seated herself astride the bench. She wore a short pleated denim skirt and a white tee-shirt, and as she stretched her arms up to grip the bar, her breasts rose under the tee and I watched the tiny nipple bumps push outward against the cotton.
“Stop looking at my tits and pay attention,” she said testily. “This has to be done right. When I pull down on the bar, the weights are raised, as you can see. What you have to do is add an attachment that will similarly raise a dildo into the user’s pussy, through a hole in the bench. Which means you will have to pull the bench apart and modify it accordingly.”
“Also, to avoid the contestants moving about and misaligning holes, there will need to be a butt plug to keep them in position,” added Monica. I nodded. “And both of them will need to be wired for vibrations, along with nipple pads. The intention is not just to make this a physical contest, but a mental one as well. Distractions such as this are one of the things they will have to overcome. Can you make all that happen?”
“Sure. Who do I get to help me?”
“In this instance you get the competitors, which means in this instance, Trish for this one and Debbie for the one at the Citadel, and they can be tailored for these two.” Monica grinned at Megan. “I’m really looking forward to this particular little match-up.”
“And when you’ve done that, I think the fencing swords will be next,” Megan said, swinging her leg over the bench to sit facing me. Monica sat down on a big inflatable ball that some of the girls used for more regular exercise. “The girls will need time to practise with these swords. They need to be light, strong, not sharp, and easily handled. Mon, tell Steven about the electrics ”
After another half hour of instructions I was left to get on with the job. Most of what I had been told was a variation on what I had previously sketched out for Monica and Megan on the long flight home from Oman, but now they had obviously had input from Madam Lynx, and I suspected also from the Zubair brothers. Now it was all suddenly coming to fruition, and there was more at stake than I had realised. It would not be a good time to have my handiwork fail.
* * *
The following days were a blur, working first with Trish and Debbie on the weights, then with Marilyn and Mary on the fencing event. This latter chore had not been as hard as I had expected. Mary had been quite cooperative, in fact, which made me at once suspicious, though probably needlessly so. I had settled on rattan canes as ‘swords’. These were light and strong, and with a steel hand guard and a blunt point, they would be relatively innocuous in terms of causing physical harm. In terms of the more specific nature of the scoring system, they would be ideal.
Marilyn was an interesting character, I decided. She and her friend Kris were both American, from Houston. They were on a long holiday in Australia, doing some unofficial work at the Citadel. They had made contact with Megan through the Net and like so much of the business, their work had become part of the black economy. Now, being in the right place at the right time, they were members of the Citadel team and were to come up against us.
Marilyn was that time of life where men venture to guess her age at their peril. Somewhere between early twenties and early thirties, I decided, opting for the coward’s approach. She was a brunette with an all-American college girl look about her, tempered with an expression that said she would not suffer fools gladly. I thought a match up with Mary could prove rather enlightening.
The mountain bikes were the most complicated of the things I had to make or modify. Much to my chagrin, Mistress Lynx turned out to be right and I ended up making a bit of a mess of the first one, by the time I had experimented with several different seats and gearing for a dildo that would perform the same job as the one on the weight lifting bench. The problem was that the vertical movement was to be linked to the revolutions of the back wheel, which meant the thing was inclined to go mad on a fast downhill run. It was only after some rather interesting experimentation with Jill that I was able to get a gearing sorted to make maximum speed less than a kind of atmosphere re-entry burn up. After the first trial down the gentle slope of the front drive, Jill declared – somewhat peeved - that I should use Shawnee for the remainder of testing and she was not going near the contraption until I had got things under control.
This took a couple more days of testing, and I finally ended up with a seat that was more like a padded crossbar under the buttocks, with the dildo doing the job just in front of that. A strap held the rider in place on the bar seat, just to ensure there was no climbing off in mid-event. I knew I had got things reasonably right when Shawnee refused to get off and spent half an hour peddling back and forth in the driveway with a beatific smile on her face - and this was without the vibrating model. That was when Jill took over, ordering Shawnee back to work in the kitchen and mounting the bike herself.
She wore a short pleated netball skirt that reached halfway down her thighs. It was heavy enough cotton material not to flip up in the wind, but also to allow free access beneath it. I held the bike for her while she eased herself on to the prong. Very gently she started off and I walked with her down the driveway. At walking pace the dildo eased itself in and out slowly, but the vibrating model would prove rather more interesting, even at the slower speed.
She pedalled a little harder and changed gear, moving away from me and heading down to the big sliding gates at the entrance to the drive. Here she did a tight turn and pedalled hard back to me, the piston attached to the rear wheel driving the dildo up and down faster and faster, while Jill bore a look of concentration on her face that now suggested at least a smidgen of enjoyment. By the time she came back a second time she was flushed and muttering under her breath.
“Oh shitohshitohgod!” On the third pass her voice sounded like the Doppler effect, a rapidly rising “aaaAAARRGH ” fading as she zoomed by: “ HHhhgggrrrr ”. There came a squeak of brakes and she ground to a halt, head down and thighs clasped together, her hand pressed hard between them. “Oh! Jesus! Ohhhh ”
I waited until she had settled down and her head hung, her shoulders heaving from the effort.
“Did it work?” I asked innocently.
“Bugger off ” she said, looking at me with a stupid grin. “You’d better start work on the next one ”
* * *
During this period Leon and Dianne had been frequent visitors – supposedly to get used to the pony cart, but he seemed to be hanging about more than I thought was strictly necessary. Mistress Lynx had turned up for the first outing by the pair, and invited Shawnee and I to attend, to lay down the dress rules. In this instance Dianne was turned out in the full gear, starting with laced up black leather thigh boots with four-inch heels and a black latex skirt that just overlapped the tops of them. Mistress Lynx showed how Dianne’s ankles were to be hobbled and how her arms were to be strapped across her back in a leather arm sheath, with the straps running up over her shoulders, then down under her arms and buckled across her back. As I watched Mistress Lynx’s controlling hands tug and pull the straps into place, I recognised the power and experience that this woman had. She knew exactly what she was doing and worked the ropes and buckles with strength and certainty. There would be no escaping from this woman if she did not want you to.
Typically, Dianne wore her usual rubber outfit, in this instance a long-sleeved top with cutouts for her breasts, and a rubber hood with her hair pulled through a hole in ponytail fashion. A large rubber bridle gag was strapped in her mouth, with the controlling reins from the driver passing through rings at each end of the rubber bar before dropping to clips fastened on each nipple. I figured she would have been reasonably happy with the situation until those clips had gone on. Now she gazed at me with wide eyes as a thin runnel of drool ran down from each corner of her mouth.
“You will both dress your slaves identically,” Mistress Lynx warned. “Same type of boots, same size heel and the same butt plug that this one is wearing but you can’t see. I know it’s there, Leon. I know you’ll be using more than just the whip on this one. It’s one of those ones with the remote, isn’t it? Show me, Leon,” she ordered. Leon reached in to his pocket and pulled out a small aluminium remote control, barely bigger than a central locking device on a key ring. He handed it over with a sullen look. Mistress Lynx pressed the single red button. Dianne jumped and struggled in her bonds, hopping from foot to foot and making gurgling noises around the rubber bit in her mouth, her big eyes pleading.
“Hmmm. Effective. This one of yours?” she asked me.
“Looks like it,” I agreed.
“How long does it deliver the jolt?”
“It should cut out after three seconds, then takes about ten seconds to recharge.”
Mistress Lynx pressed the button again and held it down this time. Dianne bucked again, tugging against the straps and whimpering, before slowly doubling over and making breathless gasps of pain behind the rubber bit, as the time clearly ran over three seconds. She sank to her knees and Mistress Lynx released the button, then squatted down beside the distressed rubber-clad girl, stroking her ponytail and crooning consolingly, before helping her unsteadily to her feet.
“Not very user friendly, Leon,” she said, and handed the device to me. “Get it fixed the way it should be – cut out after three seconds.” She glared at Leon, who looked at his feet. “I won’t have unreasonable cruelty as part of this competition, Leon. But I will arrange unreasonable punishment if I think it’s appropriate,” she said meaningfully. The import of her words was not wasted on us. “Now get on with it.”
The pony cart was something I had made a long time before. It had had a practical purpose at the time in transporting concrete blocks around when I was working on some extensions, and Monica had utilised this in a re-education process of one of our clients, Shannen. That had proved very successful, and now the cart was being used again, but for a different purpose.
I showed them how to back Dianne between the shafts of the cart and hitch them to the wide belt around her waist that she would lean into, with a further strap to the shoulder harness.
Leon climbed on to the cart and tugged briefly on the reins through the bit rings. They jerked on Dianne’s nipples and she yelped, leaning against the traces and pulling away smoothly. As they went down the drive, I saw Leon reach for the buggy whip that stood in its holder beside the seat. With a deft flick like an angler casting, Leon landed the tip on Dianne’s rubber-clad backside and she stepped up a gear.
“You’re going to have your work cut out with that one,” said Mistress Lynx, turning a serious eye on me.
“I think you are, too,” I told her.
* * *
It’s funny how things fall out of the woodwork. I hadn’t thought of Shannen for a long time, but the resurrection of the pony cart had brought the Shannen episode flooding back. I was thus astonished when Monica pulled me aside that night and said my services were required.
“In what capacity?” I asked suspiciously.
“Your brawn and your ingenuity. Remember Shannen O’Donnell?”
“Coincidentally, I was thinking of her only today, after we’d got the pony cart going.”
“Life works in strange ways,” Monica agreed enigmatically. “It so happens Shannen is up to her old tricks again. We had a call from the folks at her workplace, via her father, before we went to Oman. Jill has been setting up the plan since then, and now it’s almost ready. Miss O’Donnell is about to suffer two weeks of rather uncomfortable treatment, while continuing with her journalism career as normal. Tomorrow you and I will visit the house where she will live for the next fortnight and prepare it for her occupation. Keep tomorrow free.”
“Jeez, Mon. Like I don’t have enough on the go already, what with all these preparations for the Games. Now you want to take a day out of my schedule.”
Monica laid a hand on my arm and gave me the pleading look that she reserved for special occasions. Usually it was either this or – more likely – the command to do as I was damned well told, under pain of something nasty happening. This time she smiled beguilingly and put on the conspiratorial expression she did so well.
“I know, Sweetie. I know the work you’re putting in, and trust me, it won’t be forgotten. But I need this to be done asap. Look, I’ll even help you myself. Do it for me?”
I tried to be bluff, but failed. “Oh all right.”
* * *
The following day we loaded my tools into my ute and with Monica drove across the city to Tingalpa on the southeast outskirts of Brisbane, stopping off at the Citadel on the way and to pick up Dianne. The pick-up was literal, since she lay trussed up waiting for us in her usual rubber outfit. Megan had conveniently left the slave lying on the floor bound hand and foot, her head enveloped in a blow-up hood. It was not inflated as yet, and it was only after we heaved Dianne over the tailgate that Monica gave the bulb pump a few squeezes to increase the pressure around Dianne’s head.
“Why are we taking her?” I asked.
“We need her IT and electrical skills again,” Monica explained as Dianne was shoved further into the tray and we raised the tailgate and strapped down the cover again. “We haven’t told Dianne. She doesn’t need to know as yet. She has no idea what’s going on – probably thinks it’s all a scene for her benefit, the egotistical little brat.”
“You’re unkind. She’s normally very helpful.”
“When it suits her,” said Monica, disinterestedly.
We drove out through a few scattered estates into a less developed area of open fields studded with groves of gum trees. At Monica’s direction, I turned down a driveway leading to an ordinary looking weatherboard house amongst a scattering of trees. This was acreage country, as the real estate people called it, but this area remained as yet undiscovered by the trendies. It was the domain of a few fancy houses, occasional pony clubs hanging on to their potentially valuable land, and a few plant nurseries.
Monica had not divulged the details of what she wanted, instead telling me that all would be revealed at our destination. This was obviously it, and we pulled up in front of the detached double garage. The place looked just a tad run down, with overgrown grass and the buildings in need of a good coat of paint.
We undid the cover at the back of the ute and dragged Dianne into a sitting position on the tailgate. Here we were well shielded from the road and the sight of a rubber-clad figure whose head looked more like a black balloon would not cause a problem. Dianne was moaning and squirming in her bonds as Monica deflated the hood.
“Is she wearing ” I started to ask, but Monica was ahead of me. She untied the cords around Dianne’s ankles and pulled her upright off the tailgate. Dianne wore nothing on her feet and there was muffled squeal at the contact with the gravel surface. Monica squatted and slid her hand up under the shiny hobble skirt that came down to just below Dianne’s knees. She frowned in concentration then emerged with a slick wet vibrator that hummed faintly.
“Dianne must have a friend in the Citadel,” I suggested wryly.
“Megan’s going soft in her old age,” Monica agreed. “She was the one I asked to arrange Dianne’s availability.” With that comment, Monica turned Dianne around and bent her face down on the tailgate. “Hold her there, will you?” she asked me. I leant my weight on to her shoulders while Monica folded the rope that had bound Dianne’s ankles into a double length and proceeded to give the squirming slave a series of hard thwacks across the black latex stretched over her buttocks. Dianne kicked and bucked but I held her steady, ignoring the plaintive cries from under the hood. Finally Monica paused for breath and let me undo the girl’s wrists. I guided them up to her hood and let her pull the tight-fitting rubber off herself.
Dianne’s sweat-stained face appeared in a welter of spray as she shook her dank auburn hair and pushed it back from her forehead.
“You little slut,” said Monica casually. “You’re here to work, not get your rocks off at every opportunity.” Dianne was still panting and trying to get her breathing under control.
“Someone p-put it there, M-mistress,” she explained breathlessly at the vibrator waved in her face.
“I’m sure they did,” Monica said, then turned and walked up the three steps to the front door. She unlocked the security screen then the front door itself. “Inside, both of you.”
We followed her in to the hallway and down towards the back of the house, ending up in the master bedroom. The house was sparsely furnished, with most of the furniture having seen better days. Monica motioned us to sit on the double bed, while she leaned against a dressing table.
“Dianne, you haven’t met Shannen. Shannen was one of our clients at Bilboes about eighteen months ago. She came to us rather unwillingly, it must be said, courtesy of her father and at the request of her workplace colleagues. She is a journalist, and a damned good one, but she has a bit of a problem getting on with people, and insists on calling a spade a friggin’ shovel. The problem with that approach is that it’s not a good career move.” Monica paced up and down the room, talking more to fresh air than to us. “I thought we’d done a pretty good job on her last time, what with four days of intensive therapy. I really thought it had got through, but evidently that is not the case.” She seemed to bring her thoughts back to us. “What I have in mind is a longer term treatment. A fortnight, in fact. This place will be her new home for that time. She will go to work normally but return here for treatment each night.”
“Why will she come back here?” I asked.
“With a plug up your arse and one up the front, plus nipple stimulators, all able to be activated by remote control from up to half a mile away, this is the first method of persuasion. The stimulation of all three electrodes will range from pleasurable to outright painful. The second point will be that she will be locked out of her house, since we’ll have changed the locks. We will also be in possession of her cash and credit cards, leaving her only with her driver’s licence, car keys and keys to her office.”
“So what’s stopping her pulling out the plugs?”
“Firstly, she will be wearing a corset with the electrodes glued into the cups inside a fine wire mesh. She will not be able to cut the things out, nor remove the corset. Secondly, the plugs will be anchored in place with a crotch strap made from plastic-coated marine-grade stainless steel wire. Is that the right specification, Steven?”
“It is if you want it to be a prick of a thing to cut.”
“Oh it will be that all right. Thirdly, we will monitor her remotely while here, and will do a fair bit of following during the course of the operation.”
“So why won’t she get someone else to help her out?” asked Dianne. Monica looked pained.
“My dear Dianne, you obviously don’t understand this sort of person very well. Shannen does not have many friends, perhaps not surprisingly, given her intolerance of her fellow human beings. She is proud, obstinate, intractable, stubborn, whatever. Having to go begging to someone for help to cut off these plugs embedded in her most intimate parts would be the end of her career once the word got out. No, she will quickly realise that she will have to ride this one out, to keep it concealed from her co-workers. Shannen is too self-centred and obsessed with her own image to sacrifice all that. Her choices will be to escape, or endure. And escape will be a dodgy option, considering the photographic evidence we will have of her.”
“So where do Di and I come in?” I asked.
“There are two parts to this operation,” Monica said, like a general addressing the troops, but missing the swagger stick and the map. “The first part will be control of Shannen at her office, and the second will be control of her here. Jill spent a while finding this house, looking for just the right location, seclusion and how shall we say it lack of class. In short, something very quiet, very ordinary. We’ve rented this place for a month, with the story that we have a writer friend arriving in Brisbane who wants some peace and quiet. I have to say the rental was pretty reasonable.”
“I’m not surprised,” I murmured, looking around at the grotty carpet and décor which had seen better days - but a long time ago. “Can’t be much demand for this.”
“Unless you’re a reclusive tree-hugging commune-with-nature greenie from Tasmania,” said Monica. “Which is how we portrayed the next inhabitant.” I laughed. It was about as far from the trendy in-your-face Shannen as it would be possible to get.
“I want this place secure. There are already security grilles on some windows, and the doors. Comes of living out here in wop-wop. I want this room completely emptied of all furniture. The same goes for the bathroom through this door. I want an anchor point in the middle of the floor here. You can drill through the carpet and put in a U-bolt which will screw up underneath the floorboards. The access to the sub-floor space was another plus here. I don’t want her sneaking a screwdriver in here from work. You see, we will control her by day through the plugs, but of course they have to come out at some stage, hence by night we use physical restraints. I will need a number of eyebolts around the place.
“Which leads me to another aspect. I don’t want any personal contact by any of our team. By that I mean she is not to see us, nor recognise our voices. It’s a psychological thing. I don’t want her striking up a relationship with her captors. She will communicate only by email, and we will remain anonymous, though we will at times be in the same room as her.”
“Sounds tricky,” I said.
“Tsk. Steven, for one as imaginative as you, I’m disappointed. Ever heard of voice scramblers?”
“You mean those things that the bad guys always use in the movies when demanding a ransom over the phone?”
“Those things that sophisticated bad guys use,” she corrected me. “You can buy them over the internet and fasten them on like a throat mike. They can be quite scary, particularly if the victim is hooded at the time and unable to detect how many people are with her in the room, never mind identify their voices as human. Am I starting to paint a picture?
“You see, we must always maintain a hold over the victim. She will come here at the end of each day because she wants the plugs out. They will not come out until she has locked herself to an appropriate anchor point and has locked on a hood. Then we can remove the plugs. Similarly, the hood will not come off and she will not be released from the anchor point until the plugs are locked in place. Comprendo?”
“And you want Shannen to do as much of the locking up as possible?” Dianne ventured. Monica favoured her with a dazzling smile.
“Very good, Dianne. You really are quite smart – sometimes. Part of the treatment is to make the victim practise self-bondage, to demean herself by incapacitating and incarcerating herself with her own hands, without us being present.” Monica paused. “Now you’re going to ask me about verification of the locking mechanism, I suppose?”
“And you’re going to tell me that you want closed circuit television in here, so we can watch and confirm that she has done as she is told?” I ventured.
“I know now why I hired you, Steven. Exactly right, which is why you’re both here. We’ll have a monitoring station in the garage next door, connected to cameras in here and in the bathroom. There will, of course be lots of other aspects of this treatment, not least being the remotely activated plugs she will wear. Dianne, you’ve seen those appliances advertised on television where you dial up and press a code to activate your air conditioner? I want the plug to come on every time Shannen’s mobile phone rings. Which means not only can we activate it, but a random selection of callers can, too. Poor Shannen can’t do without her mobile, but even if she does switch it off, our direct remote will still be able to activate it. Can you arrange that?”
“I think so,” said Dianne, her eyes lighting up at the prospect of the cerebral challenge.
“You mentioned email?” I queried.
“Yes. We will follow the same pattern as the previous treatment where Shannen put down her thoughts on paper. This time we will do it more interactively, with a dialogue by email. I want a laptop set up here, with no net access, just email, and a direct line to us, so that there is just a single icon on the desktop to click which will connect to us directly. Can do, Dianne?”
“Sure, too easy.”
Monica paused and sat on the bed beside me. “I suspect we overlooked something last time. I think there is more to Shannen than meets the eye. I think we have to look a little deeper into her psyche, to see what we can do to ferret out the cause of all this resentment and bitchiness.”
“This sounds a bit psychobabbly,” I suggested cautiously.
“It’s just an idea,” she said thoughtfully. “At the start, I want to get Shannen in isolation for about four days. No distractions, just her and the email. I want her silent and able only to talk to her mistress – which will of course be me. It’ll be a hard road, but worth a go. If we manage a genuine improvement, I have Daddy already signed up to provide a substantial bonus.”
“And when is all this going to happen?”
“Unfortunately we’re under pressure to get some action. We’re late already, in part through my being away and then through having to find and fit out this place. As soon as you guys have done your bit, we’ll do the deed.”
“But we’re ten days away from the Games. Is that enough time?”
“It’ll have to be.” I knew there would be no argument on this one.
* * *
15.08.03
story continues in Monica's Games 2.15
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