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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 Seven - Christmas Presents

I took the tube of Finalgon and left Monica struggling in the cabin. It was cool on deck, with a gentle breeze from the motion of the ship. I flicked the tube overboard, for while I had had a few drinks, I was still lucid enough to realise two things. Firstly, I was going to have to submit to Monica tomorrow morning – as it almost was already – since a deal was a deal, and secondly, I did not want to be on the receiving end of a worse smearing of the vicious ointment. Monica would be somewhat miffed by the time she got free, to put it mildly. Regrettably I would be the focus of her miffedness, but there was not much I could do about it. Whatever happened, happened, I thought philosophically, though I could at least exercise mitigation measures. Maybe Monica would be too exhausted, but somehow I doubted it.

I leaned on the railings, just enjoying the sensation of the ship ploughing steadily through the sea. There was a light showing at a window further forward, which I guessed was Bradley’s cabin. He was obviously burning the midnight oil. For a brief moment I thought I heard a stifled scream, but it was lost in the swish of the wash along the side of the ship. I listened again, but decided I must have imagined it.

I took my time in getting back to the cabin. I wanted Monica good and riled when I got back. I loitered on the rear of our deck, examining the rich man’s toys – the smaller sports fishing boats and the sea kayaks. There were also the jet skis and the big inflatable sea sled, looking like a black banana with its slightly turned-up nose. Nobody was about – the ship was silent save for the deep thrumming of the engines. I noticed there was now a slight swell, though not enough to break the smooth undulating surface.

I opened the door to the cabin very quietly and closed it behind me. Monica, still gagged and blindfolded, was clearly unaware of my presence, so thoroughly engrossed was she in trying to get the vibrator into the right spot. I sat on the bed and watched her for five minutes, as she pushed the top half of her body forward to make the vibrators slide lower, while forming a valley with her thighs squeezing inwards as best she could. Several times she had the devices almost on her clit, and her moaning from behind the ball got markedly louder. At these times her pelvis would begin to thrust against the vibrators as she tried to get better contact, before the inevitable happened and they slid off to one side or she was unable to continue with the effort to maintain the position. Sweat ran down her face and breasts, with her thighs and stomach glistening wetly under the wrapping of cling film that remained in place. After one intense effort she groaned in frustration and slumped back, uttering incomprehensible mumbles and chewing on the ball. I seized the moment to slide my finger up into her pussy. Monica jumped and squealed into the gag. She was hot enough to fry an egg on, her breasts heaving with the exertion.

My acknowledge presence started off another round of incomprehensible, furious demands or protests – I wasn’t quite sure what they were. I removed the vibrators from around her neck.

“Does Mistress wish to cum?” I asked politely. This set off more invective, so I let her have her say before her head hung and she realised the futility of such a tirade. I asked the question again. This time she moaned softly and nodded.

“Esfh,” she mumbled.

“Really?” Monica moaned her assent, her head rolling back.

I knelt down and placed my head between her legs. Everything was soaking wet as my tongue made contact with her pink, swollen labia, then forced its way between them. Monica thrust forward against me and I knew it would take almost nothing to make her climax. I listened to the rapidly rising tempo of her breathing and judged just when to withdraw and lash her pussy with the small flogger. Monica uttered a stifled scream and flung herself against her bonds, tossing her head from side to side in utter frustration, and again bad-mouthing me.

“Nnnghh-ugh-ugh!” she grunted.

“Just for that rudeness, you shall suffer some more, my dear,” I told her. “Bwu-hahaha!” I released a pair of clothespins on to her rigid nipples, but I suspect she barely noticed them, so hyped up was she. I let her endure some more tickling and breast flogging before tackling the subject again.

“Are you ready to cum, Mistress?” I loved addressing her as Mistress in a situation like this. It was a nice touch that I could ram home to emphasise how the mighty were fallen. Monica was breathing raggedly around the gag.

“Well?” I demanded, flicking the clipped nipple again.

“Esf! Efph! Ease!”

“Tell me you’re a slut.”

“I a hut!”

“I didn’t hear you.”

“I a hut!”

“I’m sorry?”

“I – a – hut!!”

“Oh. Now you can tell me if you’re going to cum. It’s very noisy in here and I need to hear it if I am to continue. You understand?” Monica nodded blindly, as though close to tears of desperation.

I bent again and buried my face in her crotch, licking and sucking her clit. I knew she was on the way this time. I could sense the rapid breathing, the pelvic thrusts, the stiffening of her thigh muscles. Then:

“Ik humming! Ik humming! Ik humming! Arrggh! Oh khod! Hit!”

Monica was not far off being in orbit as I pulled out and came up for some air myself. I thought it all went pretty well, as I watched her slowly subside into a twitching mess. I loved the way her thigh muscles continued to tremble and how the clothespins stuck up jauntily and wobbled about with each gasping breath.

I gave her five minutes before I took to her again. This time I got her started and just as she was starting the climb I jammed the vibrator up her arse.

Monica exploded with an intensity that exceeded the previous climax, letting forth a wailing howl around the ball and heaving her body madly against the ropes binding her wrists and ankles while I struggled to hold the buzzing device in place. Her head tossed from side to side, flinging beads of sweat about. The armchair rocked and despite my having put a towel under her previously, I suspected there would be some inevitable staining, such was the flow of her juices. Monica was past caring, making animal grunting noises as the orgasm slowly died and I slid the vibrator out. I took a piece of rope and looped it about her waist, knotting it behind her and dragging it between her legs before knotting it at the waist in front. Now I undid the ropes securing her to the chair and pulled her forward. She tried to stand but her legs were like jelly and she fell to her knees with a groan.

I untied her elbows to let the blood flow again, while leaving her wrists tied. She was muttering and making barely audible gasps as I rolled her on to her side and bound her ankles. I pulled the clothespins off to a brief protest, then it was on to her stomach and in with the vibrator up the rear passage. Monica bucked and tried to resist, but I used some narrow duct tape to secure it to the crotch rope, half-in, half out. I watched as she tried to eject it, but the rope was far too tight.

“Monica? Can you hear me?” I spoke close to her ear.

“Urrrgh…”

“I’ve put the scissors on the floor somewhere in the room. When you find them, you can cut yourself free. I’m going to bed now. Merry Christmas.”

“Ngohhhhh” she wailed. Well, she’d obviously understood me.

“Any more noise and you’ll be wearing a metre or two of duct tape over that gag, comprendo?”

She grunted miserably and simply lay there, breathing heavily and knowing her trial was far from over.

I left her and retired to the bathroom to shower and refresh myself. With a bit of luck Monica wouldn’t bother me for a few hours.

 

Monica managed to have two further orgasms before I fell asleep. I woke once during the night, to find that the batteries were silent and that she was asleep curled up foetally on her side, still bound and gagged. After that I dozed off again. I was tired myself. This sort of thing could be positively exhausting for a chap.

 

I was surprised I got as much sleep as I did. When I finally felt the coldness of steel closing about my wrist I knew that it must be time to pay my dues. I was lying on my stomach and had the weight of someone on top of me. Opening one eye I looked at the bedside clock. It was gone 10.30 am.

“Good morning Monica. Merry Christmas sweetie,” I said, half into the pillow.

“Merry Christmas yourself!” came the tart reply as the second cuff closed around my other wrist.

“Did you sleep well?” I inquired.

“If you like sleeping on the floor while bound and gagged, then having to crawl about with that wretched vibrator poking in and out of my arse while trying to find the scissors – yes, I slept like a log,” she snapped back.

“But you nevertheless slept,” I persisted.

“No thanks to you.”

“Really? I would have thought it was mostly thanks to me, surely. How many times did you climax?”

“None of your damned business.”

“Oh don’t be like that,” I said, barely able to contain my smirk. “It was my damned business last night. After you tried to scream the house down a couple of times, then carried on even more on the floor… You kept me awake,” I ended lamely, realising that going down this road wasn’t doing me any good.

“Shut up!” Monica ordered. I felt her slide off me and the bedclothes were pulled back. In truth I had been pretty wrung out myself, what with all the exertions involving Monica and Leila. Now the bed was proving wonderfully soft, and I didn’t want to leave its delicious comfort. Right then I didn’t really care what Monica had in store for me – I just wanted to close my eyes and go back to sleep.

Before I managed that, I heard the clink of metal again, and Monica was once more on top of me, this time facing my feet. In front of my face I saw a gleaming patent leather heel attached to a boot that stopped just short of a knee, whence smooth black nylon continued. I turned my head a bit further and was able to see black leather stretched tautly across Monica’s butt as she busied herself with whatever she intended for my legs

When I said I didn’t really care what she had planned, this is not wholly true, and my unease began to manifest itself as I felt the coldness of a steel strip against my flesh as she bent my left leg back, calf to thigh. That was the point that I knew what she was up to, and what I would have to endure.

“Oh Mon, not those!”

“You brought ‘em, Buster!”

“You made me!”

There were two devices I had brought along – or rather, a pair of devices – leg irons more specifically. Made out of three millimetre black steel strip, fifty millimetres wide, each device was shaped to fit around the thigh and ankle, with a short strip between the two where the twin faces of the steel met and could be bolted up.

I felt Monica pull the sprung steel apart and slip my thigh between the open faces, before letting it spring partly back, then fitting my ankle in the remaining opening. On the inside of each circular piece was a thin layer of heavy duty foam – just enough to prevent the limb getting bruised and to provide a snug fit.

With the steel band surrounding ankle and thigh I felt it tighten as Monica screwed up the two wing nuts on the joining strip between calf and thigh. Suddenly my leg was bent and immobilised, not a skerrick of movement other than at foot and hip.

Two minutes later the other leg was similarly disabled. In the short inch or so of flat plate where the strips bolted up, between thigh and ankle, there was a hole in the steel. Through this could be pushed a screwed bar which – when using wing nuts on the inner faces – could be made to keep the bent legs apart. All in all it could be a very severe and rigid device.

In this instance, however, Monica was utilising the second half of the device – a similar strip to secure the wrists. This one sat across my buttocks, the cold of the metal in contrast to the warmth of my skin that moments before had been cosy under the blankets.

Monica eased herself to one side unlocked the cuffs one at a time, relocating them in the two cradles of one of the steel strips, then the hinge closed and the top strip clamped down on them like a yoke. There was the sensation of another screw being tightened and my arms were rigidly anchored, my wrists parallel and a couple of inches apart. Monica climbed off.

“There!” she said testily. “I hope you enjoy it.” I could tell she was cranky. “It’s because of you that we’re late and I don’t have time to do all the things I wanted to do to you.”

“Why is it my fault?” I demanded. “I was asleep. You could have done this hours ago.”

“I could’ve if I hadn’t fallen asleep from exhaustion,” she retorted.

“Again, why is that my fault?” I needled. Monica moved across the room and disappeared into the walk-in closet. There was the sound of zippers being undone and suitcase latches being sprung open. She reappeared a couple of minutes later and stood in front of me, hands on hips. From my immobile position I could still not help but admire the way the leather skirt hugged her thighs and her black-clad legs tapered elegantly into the tops of her boots. Her breasts rose and fell, outlined under a black sleeveless lycra top which pulled in snugly beneath them. She wore wide leather bands on her wrists which somehow seemed to add a more commanding presence. Her hair was pulled into a pony tail and her face looked slightly flushed.

“All right mister, where is it?” she demanded.

“What?” I knew what she was after, and the Finalgon was at the bottom of the sea some twelve hours sailing time away.

She flourished a riding crop and without a by-you-leave strode across and let loose a resounding stroke on the part of my backside that was exposed. I yelped. A flurry of blows rained down as I struggled to protect myself with my hands which were in the general proximity but could no do very much.

“Where’s the damned Finalgon, you bastard?”

“It ran out, so I chucked it overboard,” I protested.

“If it went overboard it was because it was still full, otherwise it would be in the waste basket!” Monica retorted. “Well?”

“Maybe… Ow! Ow! Stoppit!”

Surprisingly, she did, though the sides of my thighs and the cheeks between my bent legs were now burning almost as much as if she had used the stuff. Then she squatted on her heels and smiled wryly at me.

“So you didn’t mind using it on me, but not the reverse,” she said softly. “Sometimes I don’t give you enough credit for forward thinking, Steven.”

“I’ve had a good teacher,” I replied in my wheedliest tone. Her response was to stand up and give me another volley with the crop on the exposed soles of my feet while I jerked and struggled futilely on the bed.

“Ow! Ow! Monica! You bitch!”

Of course that was just what she was waiting for – not that she needed an excuse, but it was always nice to have your victim provoked into doing something that would bring about the next round of punishment.

She was out of view for a minute, then my legs were pushed apart and the cold, slippery nose of a butt plug was pushed between my cheeks.

“Arhhh…” I exclaimed, then decided that more talking was not appropriate as she shoved it in deep, but not so far that it went all the way. I groaned and willed my muscles to relax as she mercilessly pushed it home. There was a burst of pain then the thing was inside, filling and stirring all sorts of interior sensations. I groaned again, as a rope was looped around my waist, and the twin tails were dragged through my crotch, one on either side of my goolies. Mr Willy had decided to arise very early on, possibly at the sight of Monica’s boots and leather skirt in the near proximity of my face.

“I always thought you were a bit of an arse bandit,” Monica said cruelly. In fact I was nothing of the sort. It was just that the girls seemed to love shoving things up there, possibly because I had one fewer hole in which to put things, compared to them. She pulled the ropes through my crack, tugging hard to jam the plug in further, before tying off to the waist rope in the small of my back. I sighed. It was going to be a long day. I had had my own Christmas present early, now it looked like I was going to be one myself. I was reminded of a rude joke about how the Christmas fairy came to be stuck on top of the Christmas tree, but I couldn’t remember the details…

“Fuck off,” I said, without malice, and because I couldn’t think of anything wittier.

“You talk too much,” she told me, and I knew what was coming next. A sponge rubber ball appeared in front of me and obediently I opened my mouth to receive it. There was no point in fighting these things – I had been around long enough to know that. The ball was quite big and filled my mouth. It was of medium softness but of a consistency that I could only keep my mouth closed with difficulty. The moment I let my jaw muscles relax my mouth seemed to spring open.

“Uffft,” I said.

Monica ignored this and the next thing in my field of vision was a rubber hood. Damn, I thought. They were always tight and they made me sweat.

This one was tight all right. Monica had to drag it on by brute strength and I realised it was an inflatable one – two layers of heavy duty rubber. When it finally slipped into place and the eye and nose holes lined up with where they should be, the closeness of the fit around my jaw had definitely clamped my mouth closed over the ball. I knew what was coming next as I felt the attachment of a rubber tube to the little valve that must have been sticking up somewhere on the top. Suddenly the tightness that had been, turned tighter, as the air was forced into the space between the inner and outer skins, increasing the pressure on my head and deadening noise as the air acted as an insulator. All I seemed to hear was the sound of the blood pounding in my ears, as I lay with my head on the side and peered out through the now shrunken eye holes that were barely the size of my pupils.

My senses were dulled after that. I couldn’t hear so well, and my field of vision was limited. Trying to see what Monica was up to was difficult. Monica looked all business, as she reappeared with something that might have been a bag of some sort.

I was dragged on to the floor. This wasn’t an easy action with my legs and arms immobilised, and to her credit, Monica did it very carefully. With rigid iron bands on my limbs, it wouldn’t have been hard to break something. I found myself alongside a big black rubber bag, which looked like a larger version of ones I had seen used previously when I had been white water rafting. Like a big duffle bag, they normally had an opening that was zippered closed and then rolled over a couple of times to keep the contents watertight. This one was perhaps four feet by three and could fit a body, I reckoned. Evidently, so too did Monica.

She disappeared behind me, taking the bag with her, and I felt it opened around my bent legs. She straddled me and began to work the bag up over my body. The bag was heavy and strong and gave off that new rubber scent that comes from such unused goods fresh from the shop. Slowly it enclosed me as she slid the thing under Mr Willy, beneath my stomach and up to my neck. As my knees ended up against the bottom of the bag, so, too, did the opening reach my neck.

“It’s a shame about the Finalgon,” Monica said, squatting on her heels in front of me again. I raised my head to find myself looking directly between her nyloned legs to her satin-covered crotch under the skirt. “I guess we’ll just have to improvise,” she continued, reaching under me to tweak a nipple.

I knew it wouldn’t take much improvisation if that was the way she wanted to go. Whoever had put together the contents of the drawer under the bed for a weekend of bondage fun had made sure all elements were catered for, and the selection of nipple clamps was varied and extensive.

Monica made her decision only after some thought, returning with a pair of a cloverleaf clips linked by a chain and attached to a leather collar by a looped plastic cable tie.

She rolled me awkwardly on to my side, sufficiently to have access to my nipples, and moments later I felt the bite of the jaws on my sensitive flesh. I could tell from her placement that she had located them not too close to the tips of the nipples, which was at once both good and bad. It was less painful, but it meant they would not dislodge easily and could conceivably stay there for a long time. She buckled the collar around my neck, over the base of the rubber hood, then tightened the cable tie so as to place tension on the chain between the clips, checking the angle of my head as she did so. I found could move my head backwards only a little before I felt the painful tug on my nips.

Satisfied with my discomfort, she laid me down on my stomach again, and I felt the presence of the clips beneath me at once. Then the bag opening was closed with some sort of drawstring around my neck, and I was left in my little rubber cocoon as Monica disappeared out the cabin door.

I lay there for five minutes, feeling the slow bite of the nipple clips and futilely testing the steel manacles that held my wrists, ankles and thighs in their remorseless grip. I could move my legs slightly apart before the confines of the rubber bag brought that to a halt. All of this pained my nipples and I was concerned that my restraints virtually precluded any other position than on my stomach.

I was surprised when Monica returned, primarily because she brought with her a porter’s trolley, and for the next five minutes I was manoeuvred on to this, head close to the handles and knees resting on the right-angled base. So this was how I was to be transported. Maybe I wasn’t up to Monica’s level in the forward-thinking stakes just yet.

Out of the drawer came some nylon tie-down straps and pretty soon the trolley and I were inseparable. It was not comfortable, but at least I didn’t have my weight fully on my nipples. The tight straps across my back, buttocks and shoulders ensured I did not slide down and that my knees did not bear too much weight when Monica finally stood me up. She was perspiring ever so slightly, her smooth skin showing a faint sheen. I was under no illusions that I would soon be doing so to a much greater extent – trapped in the rubber hood and the rubber bag. When we got beyond the air-conditioned comfort of the cabin, my rubber confines would begin to turn into a slippery wet encasement.

My face was inches away from the front of Monica’s skirt as she pushed me out of the cabin and into the hallway, the pneumatic tyres rolling easily over the thick carpet. We reached the main stairs and turned, and I heard the faint opening of the lift doors before I was pushed inside.

The lift was quite roomy for what one might have expected, and I guessed it was used to transport food trolleys and other equipment between decks. When Monica stepped back and out the door, my range of vision widened somewhat and I saw two other rubber bags on the floor, with similar balloon-like heads protruding from the necks. One looked as though the person was perhaps sitting cross-legged, while the other was perhaps kneeling. Both bags had been further constrained by neat turns of duct tape around the outside, further limiting any movement of the prisoners.

Monica spoke and I looked up momentarily. It brought a sharp tug on my nipples.

“See you at lunch, kiddies,” she said cheerfully, before the doors of the lift closed and I was left with my two companions to share an unknown and probably not very enjoyable fate.

 

Perhaps half an hour passed, during which time I was left to ponder on the identity of the two of my fellow prisoners. I had reckoned there would be three others – Leila, Kim, and most likely Sebastian, unless Jax decided to keep him as help around the house - or ship. Based on that premise, I figured I was sharing the space with Leila and Kim, though wrapped up in their rubber cocoons it was impossible to tell. Occasional grunts and moans that escaped the three of us were distorted to my ears, beneath two layers of rubber.

At one stage both prisoners became quite agitated as they struggled against their restraints. I recognised the rising sounds of approaching orgasm and knew that they had to have some form of vibrator inserted where it could do the most damage. The first to go was the figure in front of me, which tried to make a series of seated jumps in time with a rising series of snorts that culminated in a drawn out wail. A couple of minutes later the second, kneeling figure got off, her body straining at the duct tape and whatever had secured her inside the bag. The balloon head finally shook out a stifled cry at the end of a run of evocative moans.

From that point on I found myself focussing on my increasingly sore nipples as the presence of the clips slowly became more pronounced. Monica had positioned them at exactly the spot where – every now and then – there would be a sudden burst of pain, which would then die away into a nagging ache.

Of course I could do nothing. I could barely move, and I did not want to event try to struggle in case I upset the trolley and tipped forward on to the bagged figure immediately in front of me. I suppose it was a whole new take on being trapped in a lift. Unfortunately we could not reach the emergency phone for someone to come and free us.

Every now and then one of my comrades would struggle a little – a very little, considering the tape that bound the rubber close to their bodies. I could feel the sweat running down my own skin, the surface between rubber and flesh becoming wet and slippery. I made a few grunts of my own, but this brought no reaction from the other two. The cross-legged one was turned away from me, and the kneeling one was in no position to look up and try to catch my eye. I knew too well that the close, tight-fitting hoods hampered movement and made unnecessary effort an unattractive option.

The lift had remained motionless on our deck for some time, until I sensed motion upwards. When the lift doors opened it was not to indicate our impending release but to announce the arrival of a fourth prisoner, with Jax dragging another rubber bag with a black balloon-like head protruding from the top. She smiled at the three of us, though possibly I was the only one who could see her smug expression, before she lugged her bundle in and the doors slid silently closed behind her. Jax was a strong woman – well built and not someone I would have wanted to be on the receiving end of with a whip in her hand. She had dragged the fourth bag into the lift easily, and now stood between us as we rode to the deck where the dining facilities were.

Monica, Helen and Bradley were waiting as the doors opened, and one by one we packages were removed. The first three were carried bodily and placed on a low circular table in one of two conversation pits, on the port side. Here they were arranged facing the main dining table. I was the last to be removed and was wheeled to a position at the back of the conversation pit from where I would also have an easy view of the table over the top of my fellow prisoners. How considerate, I thought, as Monica used a rope to secure the trolley, so that the slow roll of the boat wouldn’t send me careering across the deck.

Helen had followed Monica’s lead in the clothing stakes, with a sleeveless leather dress in a striking dark aubergine colour. It tapered up from under her arms to a narrow band around her neck, contrasting with her blonde tresses that fell smoothly to her shoulders. Jax was wearing a black kaftan that did not hide her bulky physique.

“Where’s Mary?” Monica asked Jax.

“Bradley told me she was under the weather,” Jax said.

“A touch of mal-de-mer,” Bradley explained. “I bumped into her in the hallway. Not looking too good,” he added.

Monica made a surprised snort.

“Funny, I always thought Mary was tougher than that. It’s strange the little things that can bring you down that you don’t expect. Who’d’ve thought Mary would be prone to seasickness…”

She moved over to the table, which was elaborately set for seven.

“Are we expecting company?” Helen asked.

“Indeed. Mary makes five, if she decides to join us, and shortly our guests should be arriving.”

“Arriving? From where?” Helen gestured to the wide expanse of sea with the odd glimpse of low-lying coastline and the occasional island. I made a concentrated effort to try to work out where we were going, and from the sun and the land I figured it was a safe bet that we were still ambling northwards at a leisurely rate. We had been travelling for nearly 24 hours, which conservatively would probably put us three hundred kilometres north of Cairns.

“Maybe you didn’t notice the helicopter pad on the forward deck,” Jax said smugly.

They all sat down at the table and I took in the expensive silverware, crystal and the perfectly laid places. Jax sat at the head of the table, Monica and Helen to her right and Bradley to her left with his back to me.

“There’s no reason we shouldn’t start with a few entrées,” Jax said. “I’ll let Sebastian earn his keep, I think.” She stood up and walked to one of the bags lying on the table – the one not sporting the external duct tape straps. The ballooned head lifted as she approached. She bent over and let the air from the hood, and slowly it resumed the shape of the head it encased.

Jax undid the neck of the bag and pulled the opening back. Sebastian’s shoulders appeared, his elbows tied together and his wrists attached to his crossed and bound ankles in a hogtie. Jax undid the ropes and pulled the bag clear. Sebastian straightened up stiffly and climbed off the table. I saw then that his back and buttocks were criss-crossed with ugly weals in an assortment of black, blue and faint yellow. Mistress Jax must have been mightily displeased about his performance with Kim the previous afternoon, which she obviously considered a major loss of face.

I noticed, also, that Sebastian sported a waist and crotch belt. As he half turned I saw that his dick had been pulled back between his legs and was somehow secured there beneath the wide strap, while his balls looked engorged and strained as they protruded on either side. All in all it looked very uncomfortable, not to say positively painful, and it wasn’t a surprise to find that he walked somewhat cautiously.

Jax had seated herself again.

“Some wine, Sebastian. What would you like, Monica and Helen? Champagne?” Monica nodded.

“That would be perfect,” Helen said. “Just what one expects in such surroundings.” Jax nodded to Sebastian who disappeared behind the bar. There was the pop of a cork and he reappeared moments later with four slender champagne glasses on a tray. He handed one each to Monica and Helen, then offered the tray to Jax and Bradley.

“Merry Christmas,” said Jax, and the four of them clinked glasses and drank deeply.

“Perhaps we could play with the presents?” Bradley said, his voice sounding far too eager to my ears.

“I think we should wait for our guests to arrive,” Jax demurred, motioning to the still-hooded Sebastian to pass around some hors d’oeuvres. The slave did so, as the four sipped more of their champagne and appeared to generally savour what was clearly the better of the deals on offer that Christmas morning.

It was some minutes later that I first heard the distant throb of a helicopter.

“Ah!” Jax exclaimed, getting up and going to the rail. “Right on time. I do so love punctuality. Don’t you, Monica?” Monica said nothing, but stared at the plate in front of her. Jax looked hard at her, then bustled off forward to the landing pad. The noise of the rotors got louder as the helicopter swooped overhead. I could not see it, but I felt a slight shudder run through the boat as the chopper touched down. The engine did not stop, but idled briefly then wound up again as the guests had obviously disembarked. There was another tremor and the ship seemed to lighten as the chopper lifted off and droned away into the distance.

Jax did not appear immediately. I presumed she was escorting her guests to their quarters – the super luxury cabin above our own. I wondered who they might be that they could warrant such treatment. Jax was clearly not hard up herself, but I got the feeling that these people – clients – were in a league above that.

In my bound musings, however, I sensed that something did not fit. It was one of those barely discernable things that you can’t immediately identify. It was like a hunch, a sixth sense. I looked across at Monica and Helen. Something was not right. Bradley had gone to the rail and was evidently watching the helicopter disappear. Monica and Helen now sat silently, staring towards the stern of the ship – not, it seemed, at anything in particular. They were not looking at the three rubber-wrapped packages, for we were to the right of their line of sight. The fact that they were not even conversing made me curious – and concerned. I might have expected them to be speculating on the identity of the new guests, or to be devising some exotic punishment for us prisoners. But no. The pair sat, hands in their laps, not even finishing their champagne. I wondered where Mary was.

My anxieties became more tangible moments later when Kim appeared, helped herself to a drink and sat down at the table. My brain went into overdrive, though not because of the way she was dressed – in a skimpy royal green bikini with a black edge stripe and a matching sarong. While her looks were enough to stir any red-blooded male, the fact that I had previously assumed her to be in one of the rubber bags in front of me was foremost in my reasoning. Simple arithmetic and a counting of bodies told me the only people unaccounted for were Mary and Leila.

Monica and Helen barely looked up at Kim’s arrival. At once I began to get a cold feeling in the pit of my stomach – the feeling that comes when you realise things are out of control and there is nothing you can do about it. If Mary was one of the rubber packages, then something serious had happened. Nobody forced Mary into a bound submissive’s role without a major fight or a crucial bargaining chip. And what was the matter with Monica and Helen? Had they been drugged?

I knew the answer a couple of minutes later. My heart skipped a beat at the sight of the crimson leather boots with the spiked heels and the matching leather skirt and vest.

“Hello children. Merry Christmas to one and all! I hope this will be my best Christmas ever.” The slightly accented words made my skin crawl, and what had been stifling heat under the rubber skin now seemed to turn to an icy cold sensation that struck deep inside of me. I raised my head and beheld the lithe form of Portia Tang, and behind her, trim and athletic in skin-tight black lycra, Jade Wong.

 

* * *

24.01.06

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

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