Monica's Games 2.26
by Richard Alexander (Gromets Plaza)
(story continues from Monica's Games 2.25)
Chapter Twenty Six: Concrete Evidence
I thought Mistress Lynx was going a bit far with the last of the ties for the bondage relay. A strappado is bearable for a limited time, but I figured this was going to be rather more than a short-term position. She had done Megan first, wrists and elbows bound and pulled up hard above her. There were no half measures with this woman, this I knew from hard experience in the past. Yet Megan and I had both experienced this, and we had still agreed that Mistress Lynx was the best person for the job. Most experienced – yes; fairest – possibly; most imaginative – highly likely; most devious – absolutely without a doubt.
All the girls had said how disconcerted they had been by the unexpected rule changes and changes of direction, but I told them that flexibility was the key to winning. Not that we had been doing much of that lately, and now I was being made to discover exactly how flexible I was, myself. In this instance it was in the physical sense – very physical, in fact. When I saw what happened to Megan, I felt the butterflies rise in my stomach.
Five years previously I would have thought nothing of the strappado, but your outlook changes and perhaps my body was starting to match my mind in becoming a little more risk sensitive. I have found myself shying away from the more dodgy scenes that once wouldn’t have bothered me, although I see those same traits in the likes of Leila and Emma. But now, with Megan head down across the way, and the others all bound in difficult positions, I had no choice in the matter.
The hood went on first, and I didn’t like it. It was a long time since I had worn one, and it was as I remembered them – hot, devilishly tight, and jamming your jaw shut. It was a struggle getting it on, but at least I was allowed to adjust it myself. Then it was into the hands of fate – or Mistress Lynx, in this case. Multiple turns of cord around my wrists and that was Monica secured for the duration. There was no way I would be escaping from this woman’s bondage. I did not like the ropes above my elbows, either – at least, not to the extent that she forced my elbows to actually touch. Again, five years ago I could have coped with this easily, but now my mindset and body set did not deal with it quite so well. I felt the cinch knot tugged tight as my arms were finally secured, my shoulders pulled well back, which of course made my tits stick out, and Mistress Lynx could not resist giving my nips a pinch and a grope. I moaned under the tight rubber, for all the good that did.
Then it was bend over time, and I groaned again as my arms were dragged upward while my head went down. This was hard, but it got harder, for just as I was adjusting to the strain, the ropes were tied to my ankles and my feet began to be pulled apart. As this happened, my body was lowered, and further loading came on to my arms. I was making mmming noises of protest and was beginning to be seriously concerned at the pain in my arms when the movement stopped as my ankle ropes were tied off to saplings. My legs were at forty-five degrees, and my heels were digging in to the soft earth. Using an ankle spreader bar, in this position you can still wander about a bit, and you can put some of the outward leg strain on the bar. But with no bar to stop your legs opening further, and no scope for repositioning a little beneath your arms, this position was much harder.
A distant voice came through the rubber hood.
“You see, Monica, you can still do it. You just need the practice. We’ll leave you until the cavalry arrive, shall we?” Mistress Lynx’s firm hand roved between my outstretched legs and cupped my pussy, then tugged at the heavy lock that kept the butt plug embedded in my arse. “You look a real picture, Monica, though perhaps missing a couple of adornments.”
Oh no, I thought, please – no more! But the strong fingers were rousing my nipples through the stretched lycra of my top, and moments later there was the bite of nipple clips through the material into my tender flesh. I screamed as much as I was able to, which came out as a muted squeal.
“Don’t worry, we’ll go and put a pair on Megan as well,” came the comforting voice, which then faded as she began inflating my hood. The pressure increased on my head as the rubber of the inner lining was tightened against my skin. Outside sounds faded under the assault of blood roaring in my ears, and I forced myself to focus on my breathing.
Then she was gone, and I was left there, unable to move a muscle, head down and battling the ache of my shoulders, the dull throbbing in my nipples and the pains of the rope cutting into my flesh.
* * *
I knew I was going to have to dredge up my time as a novice subbie and see if I could follow my old path to subspace, to get through this one. The thought of Megan undergoing similar torment across the way was some small consolation in my dark, immobile, painful world. It was going to take a long time for everyone to get back to the house and then commence the race.
I was astonished when – just as I was starting to go through my focussing routine – I felt the loosening of the rope holding my arms up. But it was true, and I was released – at least to the extent that I could stand up.
“Hmmm?” I said. Was this Steven? Surely time could not be up just yet. Had something gone wrong, or was this another of Mistress Lynx’s little diversions. I didn’t know, and had no way of assessing what was going on, other than to be incredibly grateful for the relief I now experienced as my ankles were now freed. Unsure of what was happening, I stood up properly, seeking guidance.
“Hrrn-hn?” I ventured, trying to establish whether this was Steven. There was no response that I could here, but I felt hands removing the ropes from my ankles. One of those ropes found its way around my neck at that point. Not tightly, you understand, but on a slipknot that suggested compliance would be a good idea. A tug, and I quickly got the idea that I was to follow this person.
We walked for perhaps two minutes, with every now and then a firm hand steadying me over a difficult bit. I sensed that we were on the road again, and put my faith in my feet, picturing the road I was walking along as though it was a smooth tarmac surface. This sort of worked, and while the tightly laced leather from ankle to thigh gave me comfort and support, the four-inch heels did not really help things.
Then we stopped. I raised my head trying to pick up any sound that would tell me what was going on. To the best of what I could work out, we had been walking away from Bilboes, which was further puzzling me. I wanted the clips off my nipples, for they were hurting, what with the bouncing my boobs had been doing under the crop top. I made the most indicative noises I could manage, thrusting my breasts forward and joggling them, but this only hurt more, and nothing seemed to happen. I was suddenly starting to become uneasy about this whole thing.
At that point I was picked up by strong arms and deposited in what I knew instantly was the back of a van or station wagon, where ropes quickly bound my ankles together. I could do nothing to resist, and the rope around my neck was then tied to my legs above the knees, leaving me immovably held in a foetal position, where any attempt to straighten out would lead to strangulation. A further rope joined my ankles to my wrists, leaving me absolutely helpless. A sheet of plastic was thrown over me and there was a final thump as the back door came down and I was left lying in my own little chamber of darkness.
The car started up. It was smooth and quiet, from what I could hear through the hood. In fact I felt more through my body – the scrunch of tyres on gravel, the distant hum of asphalt, the occasional bump of a pothole. I tried to mentally track where we were going, and what was happening to me, but the pain in my nips and the need to keep my knees up close to prevent strangling tended to distract me. I was now convinced of the seriousness of my situation and the need to concentrate. One lapse and I could die – of this I was in no doubt.
All manner of possible abductors sprang to mind, which started to freak me out. Had Madam Wong and Portia resurfaced? Was Wayne Bennelli on the loose again? Had Warren ignored the threat of the video that Mary and Trish had made of him? Several older, pre-Bilboes episodes appeared out of my mental woodwork that scared me even more. A shrink would have had a field day with my mind at that moment.
We drove into some sort of underground garage, I figured, from the slow speed, the different noise and the sharp turns. Finally we parked, the engine was switched off, a door opened and closed, and I was left alone.
I tried to struggle, briefly. I tried to thump on the inside of the car but my fingers and arms were going numb from the tightness of the ropes, and I was lying on my side facing forward, making it impossible to move without that terrible rope tightening around my neck. I would have cried at that point, had I been able to. It was only with the strongest of willpower that I pushed back my emotions to stay in control. Must stay in control. Monica must always be in control. Must breathe
* * *
It was perhaps only fifteen minutes later that the car door opened and shut and the engine started up again. Then we were out of the garage and away through what had to be the streets of the city. Maybe half an hour more and we were turning into a gravel drive, then stopping soon after. There came the sound of the boot opening and hands undid the neck to knees and ankle ropes, and I was hauled out.
I stood unsteadily, conscious of the jaws still fastened on my nipples, and I could not help whining for them to come off, but it was in vain. I was led across the gravel and up some steps, and suddenly I felt there was something familiar about where I was. It dawned on me that I was in the House of Coventry, where we had kept Shannen, for I recognised the musty smell of damp and old furniture. With the triggering of the memory, the layout of the house fell into place, but so did the purpose we had hired it, namely to keep somebody in a secure environment, long term.
The next thought that came to me was again, who the hell was doing this to me? Only Steven, Jill and I knew about the place - and course, Shannen. God, had she hired some hit man to kidnap me and get her own back?
Whoever it was led me into the bedroom where Shannen had tapped out her many emails to me and Steven in the next-door garage. I knew where every anchor point was, and I knew what was happening when I was made to sit on the floor and my legs were spread and my ankles roped to those very anchor points I had made Steven install.
I lay on my back, painfully aware of the bonds at my elbows and wrists. My captor took a couple of pillows and arranged them under me, but would make no concessions as to releasing any bonds. Hands lifted my skirt and I thought I heard a cry of frustration when he tried to remove the crotch cable, but instead discovered how snugly embedded it was within my pussy. Clearly, having gone to this trouble, he was not about to give up easily, and so it turned out, for I felt fingers tying a wire or something similar to the cable after tugging it hard between my buttocks to create some slack. The tugging drove the butt plug further inside me, if that was possible, then the wire was tied off so that my pussy was clear for entry.
It was when he lay on top of me that I had my second flash of identification, and I knew it was Warren doing this to me, for I knew his expensive aftershave. There was no doubt in my mind now. I still hadn’t worked out how he had found out about this place, but I knew it was him, and the incident with the vibrators on the city walk also fell into place at that moment.
“Hrrrr-hrn!” I tried to shout at him, but it was futile under the all-encompassing tightness of the rubber hood. There came a piercing pain as the nipple clips were removed one by one, then my top was pushed up. I felt his hot breath on my breasts and his tongue on my nipples, and I cursed myself for the way they popped up erect again. Whatever Warren had done to me in the past, and I had to admit I had wound up in some seriously weird situations with him, he had always managed to arouse me such that I would forget whatever in dignity or humiliation he was in the process of inflicting on me. I could not help myself, and I had the rapidly evolving feeling that the same thing was about to happen again.
I felt the familiar wetness in my pussy, and the equally familiar feeling as his member drove into me. This time there was no foreplay. Somehow I had not expected it. It was strong and insatiable and commanding, and I could do nothing but receive what was coming to me. I felt the fullness of him inside me, coupled with the butt plug doing things from the rear, and knew that I was a slave to my own carnal and chemical desires, for within a minute I felt the rapid build up of forces I could not control as an orgasm surged up and exploded inside me. I was moaning and struggling as best I could, but while it was a futility I recognised I could not help my actions.
Warren took no notice of my climax but continued thrusting, hell bent on his own little fantasy that no doubt had a submissive and helpless Monica at the very centre of it. He was like a wild man, in a way that I had never experienced before, and I could not suppress the rising force of another orgasm that came upon me, not so violently this time, but leaving me weaker and more vulnerable to his movements, until I finally succumbed to him a third time, as he exploded inside me and I passed out.
* * *
I must have been out for only a few seconds, I’m sure. It was the hood, I’m sure, that just got a tad too much for me. It wasn’t Warren, let’s be clear on that – I was definitely not accustomed to fainting under male attention.
I lay there for some minutes, snorting and trying to recover. My heart was pounding and my head seemed like it was going to explode. I did not know what Warren was doing, until I felt my ankles released and I was hauled to my feet. My legs were totally wobbly and I could barely stand, but I was now hauled off down the hallway again, outside, and across the gravel to the garage. I was aware that we entered through the side door when my heels began clicking on the concrete.
Warren manoeuvred me against some sort of steel frame structure, lifting my legs to step over something, or into something – I could not be sure. I could feel steel pipes running up past my buttocks and crossing my back at elbow height. The heels of my boots clinked against metal, and I suddenly had the feeling that I was on one of those porter’s trolleys. Warren pulled my arms clear of the pipes so that the pipes were between my torso and arms. Then ropes were being pulled tight against my thighs and around my body, securing me to the frame above the knees, at the waist, and below my breasts. Further ropes locked my ankles together and I was starting to wonder what he was playing at.
My suspicions were confirmed as I was abruptly tilted backwards and wheeled a few paces where more ropes seemed to secure the trolley upright to something more substantial, so there was no possibility of it – and me – moving or falling over. I heard faint sounds, like scratching or scraping, maybe shovelling, and suddenly something cold and heavy was dumped on my feet. I smelt a harsh dry smell that at once sent shivers down my spine, for I realised that Warren was casting my feet in concrete!
I went wild at that point, throwing my weight against my bonds and mmmphing beneath the rubber hood, but the ropes were too well tied and the trolley had been well secured in expectation of just such an episode. More concrete was shovelled in to what must have been some sort of box structure that I had stepped into, and which rested on the base of the trolley. I felt the cold heaviness slowly rise around my feet and ankles, trapping them in their bound position. An odd part of my brain registered outrage at what was going to destroy my best white thigh boots, never mind what might happen to the person inside them.
The concrete rose to around the top of my calves. I tried to manage even a miniscule shuffle, to create some space around my feet, but all that seemed to do was compact the stuff into the air pockets that might otherwise have existed. I wondered how long wet concrete took to set, and came to the conclusion that this stuff was hardening very quickly. A few strokes of the shovel to flatten the stuff off and then I was left alone while other sounds came and went.
I was despairing, for something in this clinical approach from Warren was unlike anything he had ever pulled before, and I had to admit I had been on the receiving end of a few of his little schemes and scenes. Not all of them had been pleasant, though some of them had been decidedly so, and all of them had been lucrative. This whole situation I was facing was the result of the interfering of Mary and Trish – and Steven. Whatever their intentions, it wouldn’t have happened if they had kept their noses clean. But the other part of my mind told me it went back further than that, and that the fault lay with Monica in organising that stupid video that caused Jill and Leila to be kidnapped in Hong Kong, and Madam Wong and Portia to try to bankrupt me. I might as well have laid the blame with Mum and Dad for conceiving me in the first place.
All manner of thoughts flashed through my mind as the concrete slowly set around my lower legs. Some thoughts were rational, some were fleeting glimpses of the panic I now felt but desperately tried to repress. What was Warren planning? He came up with some shit-scary plans sometimes, and I was certainly shit-scared this time. His last effort with the supernatural in the basement had blown my mind, and just about everyone else’s who had unwittingly seen it, evidently. Warren was a loose cannon at times, and I had seen his library of supernatural books which gave me the heebies. I had a nasty suspicion that his treatment at the hands of Mary and Trish might just have been enough to push him over the edge.
He had always had an ego problem. It was more than just the typical male thing. He had the wealth, the goods, and the power over women. He and I went back away, and we had had some dingdong battles of will in the past. I now had the feeling that a line had been crossed, and that he had been pushed too far. I was frightened for my life, I realised.
I had no idea how long I stood there, before I felt hands on the trolley undoing the securing ropes and again I was tilted backwards, to be wheeled out through what must have been the opened main door. I was nearly horizontal as I was pushed up a ramp and obviously in to the back of the station wagon, where I was laid down, still on the trolley. My feet were now well and truly locked into the concrete block. It felt like wearing two enormous ski boots that were joined to each other. There was the sound of other pieces of steel being placed beside me, before the plastic sheet went over me again and the rear door was closed. Moments later we were on our way, to whatever fate Warren had in store for me.
* * *
We drove for maybe an hour, I can’t be sure. I had the feeling that we were heading north of Brisbane, for I thought at one stage that I detected the succession of road joints that go with the passage across the Story Bridge. It was irrelevant to me, really. I was in somebody else’s hands for him to do with me whatever he decided. I had no say in the matter – but this was a step above any bondage game. This was now serious and I was horribly scared.
At some stage we slowed after turning through what I figured to be a succession of urban streets. Then came a transition on to a gravel or sandy road, and five minutes later we came to a stop. The rear door of the station wagon opened and the valve on my hood was opened. The decrease in pressure over my head and face brought an enormous sense of relief, and I was quite astonished when the hood was pulled roughly off me in a spray of sweat. I had barely had time to recognise the silhouette of Warren’s head against the interior light, and draw in a gasp of air before he jammed a ball gag between my teeth and buckled it tightly behind my head. Then for the first time he spoke.
“I want you to see this,” he said softly. “I want you to see what is going to happen to you.” He smoothed my hair down away from my forehead. It was soaked in perspiration and I must have looked a total wreck. Warren was evidently less critical in his view.
“You really are a very beautiful woman, Monica. Have I told you that before?” I shook my head. “How remiss of me. But then our relationship has always been of a more pecuniary nature, hasn’t it. What you pay is what you get, yes? You pays your money and you takes your choice. Let the buyer beware Well, my dear Monica, in this case it is the seller who must beware, for as you sow, so shall ye reap. There are just so many good clichés for this occasion.”
He climbed out of the back and placed two planks of wood as ramps down to the ground, and as I was wheeled down, I could look down to see my white thigh boots disappearing into a large block of concrete cast to just below my knees. I looked around, but there was no light anywhere. We seemed to be in forest somewhere, but I could also hear the sea very near.
Grunting with the effort, Warren hauled me on the big-tyred trolley across to a white sandy path showing faintly in the light of a three-quarter moon. I smelt the scent of pine needles and salt as I was dragged down the path past some picnic tables, on to a small sheltered area of beach. This was not surf beach, and I knew we must still be facing Morton Bay, protected by the big offshore islands of Morton and Stradbroke. To the left there was a scattering of mangroves, while to the right the bay curved around into a low headland. I thought I detected a light or two there, that might have been a streetlight or a house, but it was a long way distant.
“You and I, Monica, are going for a little swim,” said Warren, and there was something cold in his voice that scared the crap out of me. “The difference is that I will be wearing a wet suit, and I will be coming out of the water. You, on the other hand, have that delightful outfit which might be just a trifle chilly, but which will be irrelevant after the water finally reaches above your nose.”
Warren made this statement so casually, that the very words seemed to convey more horror. He continued as though he was having a conversation over a cup of tea concerning the state of the property market.
“It’s near as dammit low tide now. You will have five hours perhaps, before the water starts overtopping you, depending on just where I leave you. I’ve been here before, and I know the tide levels. It will be a slow death, one that you will see coming and have plenty of time to regret your actions and those of your subordinates.”
Warren had stripped naked and was climbing into a wetsuit. The beach was an idyllic setting for any other circumstances than the awfulness that was now unfolding. He walked back to the car and returned with two lengths of steel pipe, each maybe three centimetres in diameter and a couple of metres long, and a length of chain. If I had been feeling cold before, my blood seemed to turn to ice when I saw the chain he carried so casually over his shoulder.
He leaned the trolley backwards and wheeled me down the firm, hard sand, into the water. It was a dead calm night and the waves were coming in as bare ripples. I felt the first chill touch as it lapped over the concrete against my boots. The tongues of these were fully sewn in, and while this helped protect me from the cold, it would not be long before the leather became saturated and the coldness began penetrate my flesh. Not that this was a big factor in the capital nature of what was about to happen.
I was mmphing and struggling as best as I could, but Warren ignored me as he pushed me deeper and close to the mangroves. Tucked in close to a large tree, he stopped, just as the waves were about to reach the tops of my boots, halfway up my thighs. At this point he eased me off the trolley, the way you would a tall piece of furniture, except in my case it involved undoing some of the ropes and pulling me bodily to one side. I was petrified that I would fall over, and that the ball gag would effectively cause me to choke, but Warren’s strong hands were sure in their movements, even to the extent of tugging the waist strap to force the butt plug deeper into my arse again. Then he was clear, taking the trolley back to the beach with him, before returning with the lengths of pipe and the chain.
“This pipe, my dear, slides through the base of your block of concrete. One goes front to back, the other goes sideways. I’ve left a couple of holes for them, you see. The purpose is to stop you falling over before your time is due. They’re like outriggers. I don’t want you struggling and tipping yourself up.” So saying, he squatted down and fiddled about in the water, presumably sliding the pipes home, not that I could tell from my position, but I could make out the gleam of his teeth as he then stood up with the self-satisfied smirk he so often used when I was helpless within his control.
“Your final accoutrements, my dear Monica,” he said, flourishing the heavy chain and a couple of equally daunting padlocks. Warren liked to use big words and anything foreign-sounding that he considered gave him an element of sophistication. He proceeded to lock one end of the chain snugly around my neck, and the other to a mangrove root. The locks made audible and ominous clicks above the gentle lapping of the water.
“I will now take my leave of you, Monica.” He was at once serious. “It was fun – a good screw for old time’s sake, then the grand finale which you are about to undergo. I’m off overseas tomorrow for several months. I shall be long gone when they find your bones, assuming they ever do. All that will be left will be those lovely boots of yours stuck inside the concrete. I suppose that will prompt a few questions, but that’s life, eh. Or death, in your case.
“I would have loved to have had you and Trish and Mary all lined up here, just to show that you cannot manipulate me as easily as you think. I should also tell you that while you were all enjoying your outdoor bondage today, I did a little rifle of your study. You really should be more security conscious, though I guess that is the least of your worries now. I have retrieved the video tapes your employees so maliciously took of me, which is why I am comfortable in leaving you to your fate. You will have a few hours to ponder on what might have been before you go under. It’s funny, but your death is such a metaphor for your life. ‘Out of her Depth’ would be such a good epitaph for you.
“And as for me, I had always liked putting a woman on a pedestal, but putting one actually in a pedestal is far more satisfying. Goodbye, Monica.” In a surprising gesture, he kissed me on the gag before sloshing ashore, leaving me shocked and dismayed at my awful fate.
* * *
It was weird without the support of the trolley. My feet were rooted to the spot, leaving me able to lean backwards, and to a lesser extent in any other direction. My arms and shoulders were aching and my fingers had all but gone numb with the tightness of the ropes at my wrists and elbows. I screamed at Warren over my shoulder as he walked slowly up the beach into the darkness of the trees, but the scream came out as a frustrated moan through my nose. God, this was unbelievable!
Five minutes later there came the sound of a car engine starting and disappearing into the distance. I was alone with the lapping waves, staring out to sea and watching the tide as it remorselessly swished about my legs. At that moment I fell into the black pit of despair, devoid of hope in the face of the certainty that the black tide would ultimately engulf me.
Over the next few hours the water rose, first reaching the top of my boots and running down inside them, then reaching the hem of my skirt and slowly saturating this, leaving it wet and clinging to my thighs. In due course the coldness reached my crotch, then crept up to my navel. It was cold, but not icy. The real iciness had already gripped my heart at the thought of what lay ahead.
Perhaps another hour, and the level rose around my breasts, causing the nipples to harden, regardless of the hopeless situation I found myself in. Then it was up to my throat and I was starting to tilt my head back. This was it. The first little waves lapped against the ball still strapped hard between my aching jaws and I wept at the ignominious end that was about to befall me, adding my own small salt contribution to the vast resource of Mother Ocean. Alone in the dark sea, I sobbed my heart out at so many things that would now never be realised.
* * *
27.10.03
story continues in Monica's Games 2.27
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