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Monica's Justice - Captives of Shark Island

by Richard Alexander (Gromets Plaza)

(story continues from Monica's Justice - Captives of Shark Island)

Chapter Four - Stalkers

The Sunday morning following the kidnapping and ultimate return of Kim to her mistress dawned fine and humid, presaging another sticky Brisbane summer’s day. Monica had told us at dinner the previous evening that Helen had been very impressed with our little operation and the attention to detail that had been evident. It appeared that Kim was now forgiven, though I suspect Helen still harboured doubts as to the reason for the emails to Mistress Jax. Monica said that Kim had finally admitted them to Helen, but had claimed they were part of a surprise Kim was arranging for her, and would not comment further. Helen was prepared to go along with this for the moment, but had threatened Kim with fierce retribution if there was any compromise of her company’s confidentiality and integrity. I was sure Kim was a sensible enough girl to accept that such a consequence was likely not worth the promised price she would end up paying. I, for one, would not be in a hurry to cross swords with Mistress Helen – not when she could arrange a kidnapping and a going-over like Kim had received. If Helen really didn’t like you, then… It wasn’t something to even think about as I lay in bed, savouring the early morning sounds of the bush that surrounded Bilboes.

I was only half awake, and it was much later than I normally stay in bed, even on a Sunday. Somewhere nearby a magpie was chortling and warbling in competition with a couple of minahs, and in the distance a kookaburra’s laugh suggested that the world was really a highly amusing place. For a moment I wished I was sharing this moment with someone. An image of Monica flashed across my mind – Monica astride me in the tent the previous night, her head arched back, raven hair a wild tangle, beads of perspiration trickling down the smooth skin of her breasts in the harsh glare of the fluorescent camping light. What had prompted that little encounter, I wondered?

My relationship with Monica was by far and away the oddest I had ever encountered, even if I disregarded the often bizarre situations that came about through working at Bilboes. Monica was a very complex lady – and that’s putting it diplomatically. She saw herself as a domme through and through, and when you added to this innate inclination a sharp business mind and an organising skill that at times bordered on the anal, you have some idea of the way she made things happen. In my humble opinion, Monica’s problem was that she had trouble letting go of this role. If I was a psychiatrist, I reckoned that I’d have enough material for at least the first three volumes of a thesis – and that’s before I got on to the life stories of the rest of the girls. Of course, having said that, I’d have to include a chapter or five on myself.

But getting back to Monica… I suppose that putting things simply, her desire to control things regrettably extended to her love life, as I could testify from the number of times when we had had sex in what in other circumstances would be called less than consensual. Frequently it meant my not being able to move a muscle, though admittedly occasionally I had reversed the circumstances - which had elicited no complaint (once she was finally able to speak, that is.)

The previous night had been one of our rare unfettered encounters, and I certainly had nothing to complain about it. Occasionally these instances arose when Monica seemed to want something more than the physical side – when she let her guard down just enough for me to slip in and peer around at the unseen elements inside her head that she showed to nobody else (or so I liked to believe.) Monica seemed to struggle with her humanness – not wanting to be seen as weak, or fallible, or vulnerable to human defects such as compassion or sorrow. The responsibility she took upon herself in our many adventures had been obvious, though few had seen the effect this responsibility had had on her at the time.

Mind you, there were other times when I had suffered what seemed to me to be unnecessarily at Monica’s hands – as had happened that very week to me and Shawnee

. Whether you interpreted this display as a need for Monica to demonstrate her power, whether it was genuine marketing to clients (put that on your income tax expenses form!) or whether it was just Monica needing to get something out of her system, I didn’t know. As with most things in life, chances are it was not any single cause but a mixture. Of course I was not in any position to analyse Monica - I knew my limitations. I would need help to go down that road. And whatever the answer, I knew I would have my own little payback at some stage. I could be very patient when I wanted to be.

Of all the other girls, Jillian was probably the closest to Monica, even though Trish and Mary had known her longer. Jill was the smartest, the most business-minded after Monica though she did not have Monica’s ruthlessness, nor her occasional tendency to take risks. Jill was clearly being groomed to run the business, at very least from a management point of view, and as such had access to most of the company secrets, even though Trish, myself, and to a lesser extent, Mary, might be considered as Monica’s advisors.

Jill had a very gentle side, and because of her stable relationship with Emma was often seen as a good and uninvolved listener in any instances of personal problems. Jill and I had had long talks from time to time, not infrequently about Monica and me. I had asked her where she thought Monica was coming from, and was there a future relationship there. I think Jill had tried to let me down gently.

“You’re too nice a guy for Monica,” she had told me once, then had hastened to explain herself. “Look, don’t get me wrong, because we all love her, but she’s simply not right for you. You’re too easy-going. Monica needs somebody to dominate her totally, or to submit totally. That’s why she kept Warren O’Rorke to herself. He was a bastard, but Monica is usually so controlling, that every so often she had to be controlled herself – fighting it all the way, of course. She looks on you as a valued friend and confidant, Steven. I think you should keep it like that. Let her have her way with you every now and again, but stay friends. Let her talk to you. She needs an outlet for all the weird stuff she has bottled up. Sometimes it’s just best not to ask questions. Trust me.”

And I did, despite Monica once telling me that Jill had the hots for me, and despite a bizarre series of encounters with Jill over time, all of which might have pointed to a conflict of interests or a secret agenda on Jill’s part. My gut feeling told me that Jill and Emma were an item, and that wasn’t going to change. Ultimately, Jill was another I wanted to keep as a friend.

I thought back to our adventure in India, just six months previously, where Monica had come on to me to the point where I thought something major was about to happen, only for it to stop just short of the ‘C’ word – either from her or from me. We had all come near to being killed in that little jaunt. In some ways it was like getting drunk – you could do and say things that you might regret, if only because sometimes they were too close to the truth. Yet when I thought about other strange male/female relationships I figured ours wasn’t quite as weird as all that.

Just before I got too deep and meaningful with myself, my ruminations were halted by further noises from outside. There were voices – indistinct, then a sort of muffled squeal and the sound of laughter. All further contemplations were shelved as being too hard and likely to lead somewhere I didn’t want to go. Instead I climbed out of bed and padded to the window. The sight before me was enough to make me quickly dress and go out on to the covered walkway that ran along the front of the sleeping quarters, in order to get a better view of the proceedings. Shawnee was obviously in trouble again, though I was not sure with whom. Trish and Jillian were the ones organising what might have been retribution, punishment or just plain old fashioned fun.  

A naked Shawnee was face down on the ground beneath a large gum tree, her bound wrists stretched out above her head. Jill was sitting on top of her, facing her feet, while Shawnee bucked and squealed and protested and Trish bound her left ankle to her left thigh over what looked like a trapeze bar. The right ankle and thigh were already secured and it didn’t take Trish long to expertly wrap multiple coils of sashcord around the left leg, to similarly immobilise it.

The trapeze bar was something I had set up some time previously. It was exactly what it sounded like, except that it had was controlled by a single pulley that allowed the adjustment of both supporting ropes together, allowing easy raising and lowering. It was the easy raising that Shawnee experienced now, as Trish began to wind the handle on the ratcheted drum that was secured to the trunk of the tree, while Jill guided the protesting Shawnee such that her face did not leave a furrow in the grass as her legs lifted off the ground. Mary appeared beside me, wearing an elegant long black satin robe that looked very fetching against her pale skin. The morning breeze was enough to highlight two nipple bumps against the taut shiny material.

“I think we should move house,” she said sleepily. “The neighbourhood has obviously gone to the dogs. You can’t even have a decent Sunday morning sleep-in without some unruly element causing trouble.”

“I blame it on the younger generation, myself,” I agreed.

“I’m sure Trish would be delighted to hear you include her in that category,” Mary said with a wry smile.

I adopted a posh English accent.

“It all comes down to the young people of today – not enough discipline, what! They should be stripped naked and whipped within an inch of their lives.”

“I absolutely agree, dahling,” Mary drawled. “I do hope that’s what we’ll be seeing here. It all becomes so tiresome. One can only do one’s best, and what thanks does one get? Tsk!”

“Does one know what this naked young strumpet is being punished for?”

“I believe it has to do with being late with dinner preparation earlier in the week,” Mary suggested, gazing imperially down on the trio as a Roman empress might have done in the colosseum.

“Damned, good thing!” I harrumphed. “What’s the world coming to? No idea of standards, these people! This is how we lost the empire, you know – people being late with dinner! Gad, I’ve a good mind to take a whip to the trollop myself!”

“You’d never have the nerve – you’re just a big softie,” Mary said in her normal voice and I gave up all other pretences.

“Hmm, maybe,” I conceded. “Damn, am I that transparent?”

“My dear Steven – we’ve worked with you for three years,” Mary said gently, putting her hand on my arm in what I took as a gesture of consolation. “I think we have a pretty good idea of your capabilities.”

I sighed. “So I still don’t meet your standards after all this time?”

“Au contraire, Mon Cher. As the mission statements are fond of saying, you frequently exceed our expectations, and you still have the capacity to surprise us.” She smiled at me with a frank warmth that Mary rarely revealed. I felt myself blush.

“Is Shawnee really being punished for that?” I asked, wanting to pursue something a little less personal.

“So I understand. Rumour has it she was pleasuring herself down in the gym, instead of attending to her duties.” She arched an eyebrow interrogatively at me as if daring me to deny it.

“Oh,” I said. Monica was playing games again, looking for an excuse to give Shawnee a further punishment, it seemed. I wondered what Shawnee had done to upset her – if such was the case.

We watched as Shawnee was now swinging freely in an inverted position, knees bound over the bar, arms and hair hanging down. She was complaining quite volubly, asserting that it was not her fault and that apparently I was involved and Monica knew this and ultimately Monica had made her do this, and in any case she couldn’t be in two places at once and the whole world was against her. This was Shawnee at her best, blaming everybody else and pleading to the gods for justice in an unfair world. Of course the diatribe resulted in a predictable end, as Jillian appeared with a bridle gag – a rubber bit with a ring at each end – that she slipped between Shawnee’s teeth and buckled behind her head. The stream of complaints decreased in volume and intelligibility, though not in continuity.

Mary and I watched as Trish and Jill hammered two stout posts into the lawn about a metre apart, on the line the trapeze would follow when swinging. The posts stood about a metre high and the nearest was about two metres away from where Shawnee hung facing it. I looked at Mary and she was obviously as puzzled as I was as to what was going on here.

Trish ducked inside the nearby pool enclosure and returned with the long extendable pole that normally was used for cleaning the pool with a net on the end. She and Jill now taped a large chrome vibrator on the end of the pole and then tied it securely across the face of the two posts, but only after Shawnee’s arms had been pulled towards them at full stretch, at which point the vibrator just touched the dark thatch between Shawnee’s legs. The last part of the set-up was to attach a rope to the nearest post then tie it to the cinch rope at Shawnee’s wrists. Jill and Trish stepped back to look at their handiwork, while Shawnee continued to utter gurgled protests.

“You look sweet,” said Jill.

“Quite yummy, in fact,” added Trish, stepping alongside the helpless girl and burying her fingers in Shawnee’s bush. “Mmm,’ Trish continued. “We’re going to have such fun, here.” Jill moved to the other side of Shawnee and began to caress her breasts, while Shawnee squirmed under the insinuating fingers and tried to fight off the attacks. That was when she discovered the first of her problems, namely that the rope linking her wrists with the nearest post prevented her from raising her arms anywhere near her chest, let alone her vulnerable pussy. Trish worked on this last area, alternating tongue and fingers as Shawnee clearly began to get more and more worked up. Even up on our little viewing walkway, Mary and I could sense the heat building up in Shawnee. We had seen it many times before – myself at very close quarters, in fact. It was not surprising that when Shawnee was just about to explode Jill pinched her nipples before she and Trish stepped back. Shawnee uttered a wail and glared at the pair.

“That’s all you get from us,” Trish told her. “Anything else you want you have to manage yourself. I think you’re getting off very lightly with this punishment.”

Shawnee stared at her and made a garbled exclamation. She tugged at the rope tied to the post and realised that she could swing forward, and it dawned on her how the pole and the vibrator were intended to work.

“Arrrgh! she complained, then slowly began to pull on the connecting rope. As her arms stretched out and her body began to swing forward and line up with them in the direction of the post, so too did her pussy approach the buzzing vibrator. At the end of her reach, as she strained with her arms straight towards the post, she could just make contact with the vibrator. She managed to hold the position for nearly ten seconds, making small jerks to try to heighten contact for her now-sensitive and aroused pussy.

It almost seemed like she made some progress, as her complaining became replaced by muffled grunts of exertion, before her arms tired and she slid back with a gurgle of frustration.

“Nearly as good as your exercise in the gym,” Jill told her, before turning and retiring to the back verandah with Trish.

“Fancy some breakfast, Ma’am?” I asked Mary, gallantly offering her my arm.

“Delighted, sir,” she said, slipping her arm through mine, and together we traipsed along the walkway and across the lawn, to join the others.

By the time I’d got part way through as much of the Sunday paper as I’d been able to lay my hands on in the face of stiff competition, Shawnee’s strength had faded in inverse proportion to her frustration. During the process, Mary and I had roundly castigated Jill and Trish as being callous and unfeeling, in putting the poor girl through such a trial. Shawnee finally hung exhausted, her body shiny with the sweat of her exertions, her breasts rising and falling – albeit in the reverse direction from normal – as she uttered gagged complaints to anybody who would listen.

We on the verandah had very little choice, and it was finally Jill who weakened and ventured down the steps to extend the pole with the vibrator on it so that it buried itself in Shawnee’s clit without her having to stretch and strain to reach it. Jill returned to the table while the rest of us were treated to a series of satisfied “Urgh! Urgh! Urgh!” snorts and grunts as Shawnee

could finally assuage her frustrations. The cries culminated in a long drawn-out scream that must have disturbed all wildlife within a fifty metre radius of the house.

“Next time use a proper gag,” Mary said, peering over the top of the newspaper at Trish and Jill. “Some of us like our Sunday mornings to be peaceful.”

Shawnee was still there fifteen minutes later, but had climaxed at least twice more. Now she appeared to be begging for the device to be removed, though she was meeting with little response from the verandah. Leila and Emma had now joined us, and the relaxed feeling that came of a Sunday morning without commitments on a warm summer’s day was infecting us all.

That was until Monica appeared in the doorway, clad in black jeans and white teeshirt. I looked up and was surprised to see her cousin Debrah and Megan close behind her. Debbie and Megan ran what had once been our competition – an establishment called The Citadel, based in a converted warehouse on the other side of Brisbane. At one stage Megan had been close to taking over Bilboes with the support of Monica’s adversaries from our Hong Kong adventure – Portia Tang and Jade Wong – but Monica had ‘turned’ Megan and made her an ally. Bilboes now worked in partnership with The Citadel, sharing resources and with Debbie embedded in the organisation acting as manager. I frequently did work for them as well as Bilboes, but I had not been there or seen the two girls for some time.

For a moment, when I saw the three in the doorway, I felt Sunday was about to get better, but I quickly realised that all was not as it should be, and the others saw it, too. The three were pale and distressed. Both Debbie and Megan’s eyes were red from crying, I realised, and Monica’s appearance suggested she wasn’t far from such herself.

“Mon!” Jill was the first to react, standing and putting a hand on Monica’s arm. “What is it? What’s happened?”

The three moved on to the verandah and stopped at the table. After a long silence, Monica seemed to sum up her strength to speak.

“There’s been another murder. Catherine’s dead.”

There was a collective gasp from the rest of us as we took in this bombshell. Megan and Debbie now had tears running down their cheeks and dropped into spare chairs, as did Monica. Nobody spoke, waiting form Monica to elaborate.

Like everybody else, I was stunned. Catherine was one of the girls who worked at The Citadel and whom – like most of them – I saw on quite a regular basis, depending on when I was needed there. She was a most likeable girl – quiet and thoughtful, but a lot of fun when she had a couple of glasses of wine in her. She was athletic and had competed against Jillian in the cycle race a couple of years previously, when we had staged the Great Games between the two establishments.

“It seems to be the same person that killed Tara,” Monica said, her voice sounding dry and trembling. “She was found in a church this morning, strangled.

Over the rest of the day we pieced together further details of the killing, and the shock of losing someone close began to sink in. The fact that we would never see Catherine’s smiling face again cast a terrible pall over the group. Aside from the immediate loss, there was the sudden scary knowledge that there was a psychopath out there who was targeting what appeared to be very specific victims. It was evident that all the girls were in danger, in light of the circumstances surrounding Catherine’s death.

Catherine had died in the Church of the Holy Sepulchre – a small and very quaint heritage-listed church about ten minutes drive from The Citadel. Catherine, it seemed, had had the night off from work, and had presumably picked up the killer somewhere else. Monica’s uncle, detective Paul Bowden, had visited and had talked with Monica and myself and Mary again. We had gathered in a group with Megan and Debbie in Monica’s study, where we had tried to determine Catherine’s last movements. We were shown photos of Catherine’s body as it was discovered in the church.

The circumstances were similar, and probably would have been identical but for the structure of the church. In this instance, instead of being bound in the shape of an ‘X’, Catherine had her wrists bound overhead, with a tail from the cinch rope taut over the bottom beam of an exposed truss then tied to a doorhandle nearby. Her ankles had been stretched apart and ropes anchored them to adjacent pews. Once again black ropes wound around her torso immediately above and below her breasts, while a number of vertical ropes arose from her crotch to wrap around her neck before disappearing down her back.. A photo from the rear showed how a wooden pole had been inserted under the ropes and turned so as to slowly tighten them from pussy to neck and around her torso.

The photos revealed the weals and striations that came from a severe whipping and caning, her cries stifled by a black rubber ball strapped tightly between her teeth. Like Tara, she had been plugged front and back with vibrators and clearly her death had been a slow, lingering one, possibly heightened by forced orgasms and certainly by painful tortures. Her black hair was dishevelled and mussed by the gag strap and probably by brutal hands. In the photo her head hung forward, her eyes closed, her face looking pallid and swollen.

There were close-ups of the knots and bonds used, which Mary confirmed were likely the same in both cases, but that seemed to be a given. This was no copycat killing, for the specific details of Tara ’s death had never been released to the press. There was no doubt whatsoever in our minds that both killings were the work of the same person.

“Were there any signs of a struggle?” I asked.

“Not that we can ascertain as yet,” Paul said. “Of course you can see what she suffered in the church - and we can’t tell if any of that occurred in the course of a struggle - but in terms of fingernail residue, for example, there is no evidence of scratching or clawing. All her nails seem to be undamaged.

“She had to have been drugged,” Mary said.

“That would appear a distinct likelihood,” Paul agreed, “assuming the modus operandi is the same. We’re looking around the area for security cameras on service stations etcetera, but unfortunately this church is a little more residential than the previous one, and there don’t seem to be any obvious leads of that sort. We’ll certainly be looking for Burundanga in her bloodstream.”

“But think about this for a moment,” I said. “In order to drug her, he has to make her drink something. Which means she had to know him.”

“Unless she just picked him up in a pub,” Mary put in. “I don’t remember her being a pub girl.”

“She’s not, usually,” Debbie said. “Maybe occasionally.”

“Boyfriend?” asked Paul.

“No. It can be a bit awkward in this business, sometimes. The money is too good to leave behind too early in life, and most guys are not that keen on their girlfriends doing that sort of thing.”

“Which comes back to the likely theory we have that it’s someone in the business,” I said.

“Suppose that’s the case. Could he know Catherine through her work?” Paul asked. I knew what was coming next. “I’ll need to see a complete list of clients.” Monica groaned. This was a disaster, and could do untold damage to the business.

“Is this really necessary, Paul?”

“Monica, two people are dead, including one of your friends. Do you want me to ignore a pile of potential leads? You’re lucky it’s me looking after the case instead of a few others on the force who would be only too pleased to see you all shut down.”

“Bloody rednecks,” Mary muttered.

Monica shook her head. “I’m sorry. You’re right. Everything seems to be happening at once, and it’s all bad… Look, Paul, I’ll get the stuff together, but we’ll do some prioritisation on it first, yes? There’ll be a bunch of subbies who would be incapable of this sort of thing.”

“We may have to look at them all, Monica,” Paul said gently.

“I know, but at least we can minimise the damage.”

“If it was someone who knew her through The Citadel, wouldn’t there be some record of it?” I suggested. “You have cctv in all the dungeons just like we do – I should know, since I installed it.”

“Did Catherine mention any plans she had?” Monica asked Megan and Debbie. Megan shook her head, but Debbie looked thoughtful.

“I thought she did. I thought she said she was going to a pub somewhere, but I can’t remember where. I wasn’t paying much attention. It was just one of those gossip things that you overhear…”

“If it wasn’t a client, then where else would she meet people? Would she go to a pub just on the off chance?” Paul asked.

“No,” Debbie said with certainty. “If she went to a pub it would be to meet someone specific,” Debbie said. “And anyway, the fact that both she and her killer are both into bondage would be just too much of a coincidence.”

“Debbie’s right,” Monica agreed. “There was no accidental meeting. This guy stalked her. He’s into bondage – definitely a dom.”

“And scarily like the guy I encountered in Sydney all those years ago,” Mary added, “if only I could remember something more.”

“So – he either met her through work… or…?”

“What about the Brimstone Club?” I said, with a sudden inspiration. “ Tara was killed just hours after the monthly meeting, where she’d been present. Did Catherine ever go there?”

“You’re right!” This from Megan. “She and slave Dianne went along there last time.”

“So did Emma, Trish and I,” I replied. “I don’t remember seeing her, but I was distracted, it was dark, and there were lots of people there.”

“Dianne was done up in a discipline helmet – you wouldn’t have even recognised her,” Megan said. “Cathy had an ability to merge in with people without stealing the limelight.”

I could see that Paul was now very interested.

“So there may be a definite link here. Monica – I’m putting a hold on the need for your records – but only for now. I want you to get them ready for me. If Catherine was approached by somebody from the club, I’d expect it to have been covert, that is, not through work. I’ll need to check her phone records first and see what comes from that, and we can take it from there.” He stood up and put his hand on Monica’s shoulder in a gesture of sympathy. “I’m really sorry to be visiting again in such circumstances, but I do appreciate all your help. If there’s anything else you remember that may be of use… Well, you know my number.”

That week was a very sad and stressful one for us all. Christmas was only a fortnight away, and a whole series of things had descended on us. Only two weeks after the death of Tara , we were now burying Catherine, with the knowledge that a killer was on the loose and possibly looking to target the girls. Our unease was made worse by the news that Warren O’Rorke was back, though nobody had seen any sign of him, and we certainly weren’t about to go looking – not with the likelihood of provoking some sort of ugly confrontation. Instead we held a group meeting and Monica announced that she intended to close Bilboes over the Christmas-New Year period.

Traditionally, Christmas and New Year was a surprisingly busy period for us. Many clients had holidays and – rather than go away to sit on a beach somewhere – they would book into Bilboes for a concentrated period of incarceration, submissive labour, and strenuous regimes that involved harsh exercise and not a little torment. Not surprisingly, it was a lucrative time because of the long-stayers, and the cancellation of this period was not taken lightly.

This would be the fourth Christmas I had spent with the girls – I had to pinch myself to realise how quickly time seemed to have passed and how much had happened. Most surprisingly, we as a group of individuals had remained together as a group and took strength from our work and our adventures. Traditionally we had had our own Christmas on 6th January, after all the hubbub had died down and most businesses had made some semblance of being up and running in the new year. It was also Monica’s birthday, which seemed as good a reason as any to take time off.

The other matter that had arisen that determined our decision was a surprising outcome from the kidnapping of Kim. Helen had phoned Monica to say that she had finally found out the story behind Kim’s behaviour. It turned out that Mistress Jax, Kim’s previous mistress and previous employer, was doing some entertaining on a luxury yacht, somewhere up on the Barrier Reef. Jax, too, had been present for our latest presentation at the Brimstone Club, and had invited Helen and Kim, plus myself and Monica and two others from the team to join her and a few wealthy participants on the yacht leant to her by a client. The offer proved to be just the thing to trigger a complete re-think of our Christmas plans.

I should explain that most people think of Christmas as being at very least a family affair and often a highly religious festival. I suppose we at Bilboes were a bit of an unorthodox collection in both of those respects. None of us was particularly religious. Mary boasted the staunchest religious upbringing, with her Spanish background, but had subsequently claimed to have completely lapsed. I think she, Monica and Trish – being the most worldly, perhaps – had espoused any religious pretence. They had been through some tough times in Sydney before they had teamed up in coming to Brisbane , and in those times they had experienced the ugly side of life. That said, we had all experienced the ugly side of life at some stage or other even in the time since I had joined the team. Leila came from an abusive relationship – only Jill and Emma seemed to have had anything like a normal upbringing.

In terms of family, when Monica made the announcement of the offer received from Helen, there was an immediate scramble to change arrangements. Emma and Jill immediately opted to visit their families in Sydney , delighted that things had turned out this way. Shawnee was staying with her family anyway, and had intended leaving on holiday in a couple of days anyway. That only left Leila, Mary and Trish to fight out the last two places on the yacht.

Leila immediately got one of these, since we knew we would have to keep the balance between domme and sub. Trish and Mary tossed for the final place and Mary won. This meant that Trish got the house-minding duties, for there was no way we could leave Bilboes unattended. Truth be known, life on one’s own at Bilboes with its garden, pool, big screen television and pretty much anything else one wanted would be a pleasant interlude for anybody, and I think Trish was rather looking forward to time on her own without the chatter of other females. She was the sort of optimistic person who would immediately convert the disappointment of missing out on a trip on a luxury yacht into the benefit of a peaceful time in pleasant surroundings instead.

Out of the families of Leila, Mary, Trish, Monica and me, Mary’s family had gone to Spain for their Christmas to visit relatives, not that Mary saw anything of her mother and father anyway. Trish’s family was in British Colombia and heard from her via email and the odd phone call, while Monica’s parents were both dead, her father having passed away from cancer just before Bilboes had been started with the inheritance. Like Monica, I had also lost my father, though at a much younger age. That drama had long since passed and my mother had returned to her native New Zealand . We were not close, but she would get a Christmas phone call from me in all likelihood. Leila’s parents were divorced and lived on the Gold Coast. She had nothing to do with either, and all we could surmise through occasional hints she dropped was that her childhood had been very unhappy and she simply wanted to leave it behind.

As a consequence of these circumstances, most of the team took comfort in sharing Christmas with each other, amongst friends. It was as good as it got.

With the arrangements finally decided, Monica finished off the meeting.

“Steven, I want security beefed up here - now. Do whatever you have to do to make this place really safe.  I want Trish to be comfortable that nobody is going to get inside the grounds, much less the house, without her knowing about it.”

I nodded, then as we broke up to attend our business, Monica motioned me aside.

“You understand about the yacht, do you? Our roles, that is?” She looked slightly apologetic.

“What do you mean?”

“Well…” she sighed. “It was assumed that you would be coming as my submissive, with Mary and Leila being the other pairing.”

It was my turn to sigh. I am not a natural submissive, though I confess I can get a little turned on by the role sometimes. But then tying up women can also be a major turn-on, so I’ll have to stick with my claimed role of ‘switch’. Unlike most of the girls I don’t find major emotional release through the role-playing. I’m not a control freak, whether being controlled or directing. I guess I’m a kind of go-with-the–flow-and–do-whatever’s-necessary freak.

“Oh all right. I suppose it’s hardly the first time, and I know I can’t expect you to be a sub. But just be gentle on me, okay?”

Monica gave me that grateful, bewitching smile which adorned with her twinkling blue eyes told me everything would be just fine.

With our Christmas mapped out, we could now all make our respective preparations. Mine were perhaps more complicated than the others, in that my first priority was to make Bilboes much more secure. I did some investigation on the net and a week later the detection capabilities of Bilboes had been considerably beefed up. I was still concerned that there were chinks in the armour, however. Monica was less concerned.

“I know the difficulties we have,” she told me, when I gave her an update. “We’re surrounded by bush and trees, all of which are populated by animals of various sizes. I accept that anyone who was really determined could burrow through the undergrowth at some point and at very least get close to the house, but what you’ve done is make the options much harder from there, and I’m happy with that. You’ve done well, Steven. We can’t ask more than that. The difficulty will be getting people to remember to use the alarm system, and to make them understand how it actually works.”

In truth, I thought I’d done a reasonable job – at very least in making the approaches to the house more troublesome. We had full video at both front and back gates, and now had a number of photoelectric detectors at various bottlenecks and tracks. The trouble with Bilboes was exactly as Monica had said. The place was surrounded by scrub and bush, which made it almost impossible to protect, particularly at the rear of the property, short of putting up an electrified fence. I had at least made the front and the two side boundaries - as far back as the sleeping quarters – a little more problematic for an unwelcome visitor with barbed wire buried in the bush along with sheathed electrified wire that, if cut, would set off an alarm. The weakness lay at the rear of the house, where the access was just too extensive to protect. There were motion sensors along the dirt road to the gate at the back, and an alarm on the gate. There were also motion sensors within the grounds now, particularly picking up the sleeping quarters and the verandah of the house. The windows and doors were alarmed, and I figured I had done the best I could. Anybody making it this far would have to be very clever and very persistent, and I hoped they would be deterred by not knowing what might await them further.

One of the difficulties was that actual alarm monitoring was set up in the main house. This meant that to properly monitor any intrusion, it had to be done from there. The truth was – as so often is the case – that the real difficulty in making the system work was the human element. We ran Bilboes 24 hours a day quite frequently. Thus, people came and went between the detached sleeping quarters and the house itself. It also meant that rosters were irregular and that different people were on duty at different times. In short, there was no obvious simple way to rationalise the system to suit the inhabitants.

We finally opted for a full display on the cctv, which could be monitored from Monica’s study and the Observation Room downstairs. I included small wireless cctv cameras in each room in the main house, connected to the central electronic data storage. This was expensive, and I suppose overkill, but Monica could afford it, and I wanted to take no chances with Trish being by herself.

The cctv did not require constant monitoring, so we supplemented it with a wireless alarm connection which could be kept beside anybody’s bed. This would detect the alarm and wake a person, but they would have to get to the monitor to identify where the problem was. It was the best I could manage in the time available.

Having got all the security out of the way, we then came to the issue of what to take on holiday and how to take it. By this I don’t mean tossing a few things into a suitcase, which was essentially what the girls had to do. It was fine for Monica, Leila and Mary to agonise over which party dress to take with them (though I suspected they might end up in slightly different dress mode than evening frock). I was the one charged with bringing a display of goods selected from our catalogue. With only a week to go until Christmas day, we received further news that clarified our requirements. Helen had advised Monica that a selection of my handicrafts had been requested, with specifics picked out from our home-printed catalogue. Not all of these were available off the shelf – mostly I made them to order – and on Monica’s instructions I got my arse moving to fill in the missing pieces.

We had been told that we would be collected on the morning of Christmas Eve, and that transport arrangements had been made. Helen said she had seen a picture of the yacht and it had left her quite gob-smacked, but she would say no more than that. We decided that bondage gear was best transported in samsonite suitcases, particularly the steel pieces, and I used hand-cut foam inserts to limit the weight of them overall. It seemed odd making a tailored foam cut-out the way one might for expensive camera gear, then setting a pair of solid steel manacles into the cushioning.

Ultimately, Monica did most of the selection, with the key pieces being a steel yoke with attached cuffs, a telescopic back brace, and two different sets of ankle and wrist manacles designed for maintaining absolute rigidity in different positions. These went into two suitcases, with a third being full of leather restraints which were obviously not as heavy. My only reservation was that – notwithstanding the presence of other subbies – Leila and I would probably end up on the receiving end of most of these. That was fine for her – she got off on that sort of thing. For me it was not always quite so clear cut…

The remaining days flew by – days spent making various items that Monica deemed appropriate for what looked like being a Christmas Bondage Party with the opportunity to do further marketing to powerful people. The focus we now had was just what was needed to take our minds off the deaths of Tara and Catherine.

Jill and Emma departed for Sydney , and Shawnee left for her parents’ place on the Sunshine Coast , leaving just the four of us intending party-goers plus Trish. I suspect that as the time got closer Trish was getting just a little peeved at what she was missing out on. Having a quiet and peaceful Christmas by yourself at Bilboes was one thing. Living the high life on a luxury yacht – a life which evidently necessitated new wardrobes for all concerned , including me – was something different. I confess I was surprised when Monica appraised my one and only suit and promptly donated it to the Salvation Army, before sending me into town with instructions to buy a decent suit that would not let the team down.

Just before lunch on the morning of Christmas Eve we were ready as directed. By ‘directed’ I mean that for the previous twenty-four hours we had endured Monica going through endless checklists and updates of checklists. We had had impromptu meetings and discussions on everything from the appropriateness of rubber garments, to the appropriateness of Leila’s new evening gown. In all of these we had received guidance from Helen, who – through Kim – was our contact point with Mistress Jax, the organiser. Monica had moved into obsessive overdrive and had dragged me into the fashion discussions. I had been adamant that I knew next to nothing - and that what I did know could not be relied on. I had dobbed in Trish instead and had fled to my workshop. It had all been very stressful.

The final outcome – for all the stress involved – was that we were all present and correct when the white Mercedes van came down the driveway between the trees. In fact, ‘van’ was clearly the wrong word for the 12-seater ‘limbusine’, as I was informed this vehicle was. It was like a stretch limousine but with headroom, as I found out when the side door opened silently and we saw Helen and Kim – each with champagne glass in hand - toasting us from the comfort of the continuous luxurious white leather sofa-style seats that ran along the side opposite the door before curving around at each end. There was a collective gasp - me included, I admit. This was so beyond my experience.

The uniformed chauffeur introduced himself as Jeremy and said he would do anything he could to make our journey more pleasant. I was about to caution him that such a statement was quite a dangerous one to make in such company, but he was already busy stacking the suitcases in the baggage space when the witty retort finally occurred to me. By the time the luggage was secured, the four of us had joined Kim and Helen, and Trish was looking positively green with envy. Jeremy joined us long enough to explain how the two interior television sets were controlled, and how the karaoke, DVD, surround sound and smoke machine worked. We had already worked out the bar ourselves, with a little help from Kim, and by the time the door closed, we were wishing Trish Merry Christmas and waving farewell with our primed glasses.

Jeremy had informed us that the trip would take about an hour to the airfield, where a chartered plane would be waiting.

“Woohoo! How good is this!” Leila exulted, with the enthusiasm of a ten year-old.

“Leila!” Monica admonished. “Decorum, please.” Leila looked chastened but could still not repress her contagious smile. She and Kim exchanged conspiratorial subbie glances like schoolgirls caught with a note from a boyfriend.

The side door closed with a quiet thump and Kim was directed to pour champagne for the rest of us. I noticed that she wore a stainless steel collar similar to the ones Leila and I now wore, and I figured Monica had been conspiring with Helen behind the scenes. I was not overly fond of my collar, though the girls loved theirs. This was the difference between male and female, shanghaied and true submissive, I figured. Ultimately I didn’t mind the snug feel of the made-to-measure metal around my throat, with the smooth curves and the little welded D-rings that padlocks so readily might fit. If it made Monica happy, I’d go with the show.

We were heading southwest, and by the time we reached Archerfield Airport forty-five minutes later the karaoke was going and I had managed to even get some smoke effects working. Personally, I think karaoke is Emperor Hirohito’s revenge for Hiroshima , for the Japanese can be far more subtle about some things than we Westerners give them credit for. Notwithstanding this, most of the girls actually did quite well, and it turned into a fun way to travel. We were all in high spirits on this day before Christmas with the prospect of a nice little cruise on a luxury yacht ahead of us and the champagne did nothing to dispel this atmosphere.

At Archerfield we drove right on to the tarmac and up to an executive jet. Our uniformed chauffeur opened the door and we were passed on to the uniformed pilot standing beside the steps to the plane. He greeted us cordially, and I heard him advise – or perhaps query – with Helen the fact that he had been told no in-flight steward was needed. He seemed apologetic in this regard, since it was obviously unusual, but I suspected Leila and Kim would be getting to do a bit of servicing – on an as-required basis.

The plane was a Falcon 2000, so I discovered – not that it made much difference to me. It had twin jets at the rear, 10 armchair-like seats, thick carpeting and subdued lighting. We were soon settled in to the luxurious, soft chamois leather seats and our man – who turned out to be the co-pilot – went through the safety features, then the bar features, then the stereo and movie features. He showed us where the microwave was, the library, and how the karaoke operated.

“Woohoo – more singing!” Leila, of course.

“Thank you for you attention, ladies – and sir. If there’s anything else we can do for you, please just press the buzzer on the arm of your seat. Our flying time to Cairns will be just over two hours.” He gave me a look that happens from time to time, and I smiled back. I knew he was thinking: ‘What do you have to do to end up the only guy along with five gorgeous women?’ My unspoken reply was ‘Eat ya heart out, mate.’ It was a question I had never worked out a satisfactory explanation for.

“ Cairns !” said Helen, as the co-pilot closed the cockpit door behind him. “The Barrier Reef! I’ve never managed to make it there before.”

It turned out none of us had, and the trip seemed to be getting better by the minute.

We took off smoothly and settled back to watch the coastline slide past below us as we headed north. I often struggled to appreciate how big Australia was, when you could fly for 2 hours at 800 kilometres an hour and when you looked at a map it seemed you’d only moved a small way up the coastline.

As I’d expected, Leila and Kim were now appointed official and politically incorrect air hostesses. They were responsible for serving food and more champagne, while I was given charge of the technicalities of the karaoke again. Fuelled by the champagne, Kim and Leila did a surprisingly good rendition of Cyndi Lauper’s classic ‘Girls just wanna have fun’, which – after Helen and Monica had put their heads together – brought the request (order) for an encore. This time Monica selected the song – Alanis Morissette’s ‘Hand in my pocket’. All of us looked at her a little blankly – except Helen – and I knew that Monica was again playing one of her little tricks, when she and Helen each produced a remote control from their handbag, pressed the button, and slipped it in the pocket of their respective skirts.

Leila and Kim groaned, and I knew they must be wearing vibrators and crotch straps of some sort. Today Leila wore a short sleeveless dress of white linen, exposing plenty of smooth flesh and making her a sight I did not tire of. Kim, too, displayed her long legs beneath a simple pale blue dress with short sleeves and a neckline that exposed some delicious cleavage.

“You may climax if you wish,” Monica told the pair pleasantly, but my suggestion would be that it would be better not to be the first. Is that clear?” Both girls nodded unhappily, looking at each other and realising they were now in competition, and that their mistresses were similarly involved in a little game of one-upmanship. I wouldn’t have been surprised if they’d had a little bet on the side.

The song was considerably less animated that the previous one, since the two subbies realised that too much dancing was Not A Good Thing. After they had been made to serve more drinks and some food – all without apparent succumbing to the vibrations, they were made to sit on the floor side by side. I, of course, like Mary, had been enjoying the show, but Monica was not about to have me abstain from the entertainment. In this instance I had enough champagne inside me so that my natural reluctance was overcome and I was cajoled into taking the microphone.

My impression of Phil Collins’s ‘I Can’t Dance!’ was quite well received, except that towards the end I noticed Leila and Kim getting more and more fidgety. “I can’t dance, I can’t talk – the only thing about me is the way I walk… Checking everything is in place – you never know who’s looking on…”

By the end of the song, the pair on the floor were squirming and finally Leila gave a little gasp and a squeak, before thrusting her hands between her thighs and rolling on to her side in a foetal position and letting out a further series of muted moans. Monica sighed and gave Helen a gesture of defeat.

“Good slaves are so hard to get,” Helen agreed, just as Kim, now certain that she was in the clear, rolled the other way and let forth a long moan. “I guess that makes it one-nil.”

Monica nodded ruefully.

“Steven, be a dear and get us some more champers…”

We dined on smoked chicken breast and caviar, though I passed on the latter, since I’ve always thought it to be grossly over-rated. Two hours seemed to pass in the blink of an eye, and almost before we realised it we were dipping low over blue waters and glimpsing green-clad hills as we touched down at Cairns Airport .

There was no doubt about the fact that we were in touristland as we boarded another limo and drove into town. I had spotted aircraft belonging to Japan Air Lines and Cathay Pacific as we were taxiing, and once outside the terminal there were tour buses galore. People were here to visit the Great Barrier Reef , go fishing for big game, visit tropical forest reserves and generally lie back and relax in the tropical north.

There had been no champagne on the drive through Cairns , mainly because Monica thought we had had enough, and in any case, there was plenty to see and the journey was barely twenty minutes. We saw heaps of hotels and holiday apartments as we drove through the downtown area, past the flash casino and down to the marina. Here the luxury continued. Leila and Kim were somewhat subdued until our driver pulled up on the wharf and we exited alongside what appeared to be a big game fishing launch, about forty feet long, complete with flying bridge.

“I’m impressed – again,” said Mary as we walked down the gang-plank at the direction of a white-uniformed nautical-type gentleman. The organisation that had gone into our travel was staggering. As we waited on the deck of the launch while our luggage was brought aboard, I spoke to Monica.

“Do we have any idea who’s organising all of this? Surely Helen must know?”

“Apparently not. I’ve asked Helen, she’s grilled Kim, who in turn has asked Mistress Jax, but after all that we’re none the wiser.”

“I suggest we just lie back and think of Brisbane ,” said Mary with another glass of champagne in her hand. I took her slight unsteadiness to be due to the gentle rocking of the boat against the wharf. “Let’s not go down the path of gift horses this close to Christmas.”

“You heard the lady,” Monica said, sounding just slightly slurred herself.

It was mid-afternoon and the air was warm and cloying as we finally untied from the dock and headed out through the channel to the open sea. Our skipper had told us our destination was about an hour away, so we settled back on the plush cushions, helped ourselves to yet more snacks, and let the deep thrumming of the twin diesels lull us into contented daydreams.

Shortly before four we saw something on the horizon which I took to be an island, for there were a number of low lying islands on this the inner side of the reef. As we came closer I realised this was our destination.

My idea of a private yacht invariably features sails, though this had none. A hundred foot vessel I reckoned was a pretty good sign of wealth without being too flashy about it, and would certainly fit the bill of a private yacht. This ship was at least twice that size – a long, streamlined three deck affair of shining white paint and black tinted glass. Even in our decent sized launch, we were dwarfed as we cruised up to this magnificent vessel.

A tall, regal-looking blonde lady in a long black dress was standing on the rear diving platform as we pulled up alongside. Behind her and on the main deck level, stood two men - one about fifty, his wavy hair showing the first touches of grey, and the other in his early twenties with a dark stubble and close-cropped hair.   Kim and Helen were first out, embracing the woman and introducing us as we climbed aboard the mother ship. The woman smiled at us, her eyes glittering with an expression that for some reason made me uneasy.

“Hullo – I’m Jax. Welcome to ‘Aussie Rules’.”

 
 
 
 

04.01.06

story continues in Monica's Justice - Captives of Shark Island

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