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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 Fourteen - Patricia Doll - Trish's story

By the end of the second night that I had spent chained up in the holding cell in the basement of Bilboes, all manner of thoughts had passed through my brain as to why this had happened to me and where it was all leading. Warren O’Rorke’s unexpected arrival and my capitulation to his taser gun had sparked a myriad of questions, many of which related to the passing of time. When would Monica get back from her luxury sojourn? Why hadn’t there at least have been a phone call? Would Warren have answered it and spun some story? Otherwise the phone would remain on message bank by default if nobody picked it up. When would Jillian and Emma return from visiting Jill’s parents in Sydney? Would they phone first? Had they already done so? When was Shawnee getting back?

I lay on my back on the iron framed bed with its thin mattress, fingering the heavy steel collar locked around my neck and the chain anchoring me to the heavy eyebolt in the wall. Warren had been ultra careful with me in the four days since he had taken control of Bilboes. At no times had he allowed my limbs to be free without some back-up, like the ubiquitous neck chain. He knew that if I tried anything in this state – even if I knocked him unconscious – I could still not get free, since he was always careful to leave the key to the chain lock well out of reach. Warren was a pro. He knew bondage and he knew how to control a girl.

He also knew what he wanted from a subbie – not that I put myself into that category, oh no. Warren’s turn-on was a domme forced into a submissive role. That was where the bastard really got off. A little humiliation for someone not used to it or unable to handle it - someone who would fight back, who would resist in a situation where, as they say, resistance is futile. That was just what he liked. Well, Mr O’Rorke had had as much resistance from me as he was going to get. He didn’t know how patient I could be. I would bide my time, and sooner or later he would make a mistake of some sort.

It had been a long and painful four days. Not one of my better Christmases, though I suppose it could be called one of the more memorable ones. I had been kept bound the whole time, usually with my wrists crossed behind my back. Warren liked women that way, it seemed. I was rapidly becoming an expert on the exact nature of Warren’s likes and dislikes, from bondage positions to the clothing appropriate to someone in those positions.

That was something I suppose I should have been thankful for. Any sort of clothing usually meant some degree of protection from the whip or the cane, or at very least the tightness of ropes. Warren’s favourites were boots and latex, with the result that I had spent much time in a black rubber catsuit with high heeled boots to match. Ordinarily this made me feel as sexy as hell, for when you see yourself in shiny latex in a mirror, there is a look about the slick curves that does something for a girl. In my own case, the normal circumstances in which I would wear such an outfit would be in dealing out a punishment to a deserving sub, where the selfsame outfit imbues one with a sense of power and dominance. It is the icing on the cake, of course, for the dominance must come from within, but sexy clothes make everything worthwhile, somehow.

Seeing myself in the mirror this time, the slick latex clinging to my curves and stretched taut over my breasts was all well and good. As usual the high heeled boots added an extra elegance to my legs, and I’m not just being vain here. In terms of age, I’m the second senior domme in the house after Mary, and – if I say so myself – I reckon I’m wearing pretty well. Put my hair up and a whip in my hand and I’ll scare the pants off any client who might be bound in my presence.

The problem was, admiring my latex-clad figure in the mirror took on a whole new dimension when I was stretched in a star-shape between two posts in the Post Room downstairs, my ankles separated by a spreader bar and my wrists roped and pulled wide and high. With a rubber ball strapped tightly in my mouth and the strategic slits in the costume providing access to my tits and pussy, I was not the figure of dominance I would normally have been.

That had been yesterday morning. I had been forced to watch myself get fucked from behind by Warren, to see his hands coming from behind to grope my breasts and to tease the nipples erect through the slits in the front of the catsuit – white hands and two white sensitive spots against a glistening black surround. More significantly, I had been forced to watch my struggles of resistance come to nothing, my attempts to keep my muscles clenched to prevent penetration amounting to nothing. And when the entry had been forced, heedless of my stifled protests, I had been compelled to see my body slowly succumb to the remorseless thrusting, until I, too, was moving with him, my objections cast aside in the rising heat from my loins.

How I hated myself then for capitulating so easily. I hated Warren, too, for doing this, but mostly I hated myself. At least during the caning I received before this final ignominy, I could focus my rebellion on him alone, as my body cried out under the impact of the cane and the searing lines of agony being drawn on my latex-clad buttocks. Pain was one thing, and it helped me focus on my loathing for this man in a complete and uncomplicated way. How dare he do this to me! Things were simple – he beat me, and it hurt like crazy.

My confusion began when he cast the cane aside. First there was the blessed relief from the blows, though my bottom still hurt with a fire that radiated through the rest of my body. Mixed with the relief was an underlying gratitude that he had not continued, then – after an initial protest – a slow slide down the slope of pleasure as his groping hands found my hidden, vulnerable spots that erupted into unexpected warmth as he teased and tantalised them. My struggling in my ropes was pointless, though I went through the motions as any girl would. In my innermost consciousness I knew what was going to happen. I knew that Warren was good at what he did. I had experienced this before and I knew why Monica – in our early days with him as a legitimate client – had kept him to herself.

When he drove himself inside me and had eventually driven me into a frenzy of sweaty struggling, he forced me to look at myself in the mirror. I saw the shiny black-clad woman chewing on her gag and tugging against her ropes as she climaxed, once, then twice, before her tormentor exploded inside her, then brutally withdrew, leaving her hanging limply.

That had been yesterday. Now I lay on the mattress, running my fingers over the slick latex suit that I still wore. The memory of yesterday – and the other times I had been used in various ways since his arrival – made me flush, and brought a stirring to my loins. I could see why Christina had stayed with him so long. He was a submissive’s delight, provided you could stand the pain that came with the pleasure. But I was no submissive!

He had left me here, chained by the neck to the wall, my wrists handcuffed and my ankles manacled with a short hobble chain. It was unnecessary restraint, but was implemented to enforce his dominance and my helplessness. Every time I moved I would feel the cold steel about my wrists, ankles or neck. I was his to do with as he damned well pleased, and nothing was going to stop him.

The preceding three days had been full of just that – Warren doing to me whatever he wanted. I was truly his Christmas present, a live action figure accompanied by a big house full of accessories with which to encase, adorn or restrain his Patricia Doll. Warren was the bondage devotee equivalent of a kid in a sweet shop – if such a simple metaphor still remains relevant in this day and age, when kids tastes seem to have gone haywire. Everything is now electronic stimulation, and I was no exception. Batteries certainly were included with Warren’s toy.

It had been years since I had been bound continuously like Warren had forced on me. A long time ago I had been bound for forty-eight hours as part of my early training under Mary in Sydney. Part of that had been to get me off the drugs that were screwing me up at the time, and it had not been a pleasant experience. I discovered very quickly that you couldn’t do much in the way of snorting or swallowing stuff without help, and Mary provided none. There had been cold turkey, and a whole lot of unpleasant experiences I associated with those times.

This time it was different. I was towed around by Warren like a dog following its master, every do often being secured to a chair or table leg, or to one of the verandah posts. Sometimes I had been blindfolded, sometimes gagged, sometimes both, just for variety and to amuse Warren, who never seemed to get tired of the game. It occurred to me that he had been dreaming of this moment for a long time – dreaming and planning and obsessing, and I was sure there was a lot more to come, given the range of equipment we kept at Bilboes.

Oral sex on the verandah with a ring gag was evidently a favourite, with Warren the master seated on a wicker lounge while I, the beaten, subservient woman knelt obediently to suck him off while he gripped my hair and manipulated my head over the big engorged dick that he was so confident in using.

Again, I hated him for these moments as he grunted and shot forth into my mouth, while I sucked hard and tried not to choke on the creamy liquid. At such times my clarity of thought left no doubt in my mind – that Warren was a no-holds-barred bastard and no revenge could be too painful for him when the time came – as it surely would.

But then would come the time in Monica’s huge four-poster bed, when, after a hot shower – still bound of course – he would take me and screw me in more civilised and comfortable surroundings, first from the front and then from behind. He liked to have me gagged by some means in such encounters, and was not above using balls, tape or anything else that was to hand. I knew it was all part of his plan to humiliate me and make me hate myself, turning the focus away from him.

Warren was no idiot. A little self-obsessed, maybe, but whatever else his failings, he knew the way a woman’s mind – and a woman’s body – worked. He knew about the Stockholm Syndrome, where the kidnap victims come to love their captors, and he knew that by forcing me to submit, then to listen to my own cries and grunts of pleasure as the warmth flooded over me in a way that I couldn’t resist, he would eventually weaken my resolve. Warren was aiming to turn me into another Christina, accepting of the pain, dependant on the pleasure in a way that only a junkie can understand.

He may have understood women in general, and perhaps have had a justifiably high opinion of his prowess, but he didn’t understand this woman, and the determination I held that he would one day be punished for this.

As I lay there in the darkness of the holding cell I reckoned that for all the discomforts of the chains and manacles, it was better than being tied to the post of Monica’s bed, which was where I had ended up for the two nights, when I had shared the bed with Warren. At least here I was free of groping hands at all hours and the great dick being rammed into me as I lay powerless to resist. This was now my quiet time, my thinking and planning time, and my thoughts kept coming back to when Jill, Emma and Shawnee were due back, and the growing apprehension for their safety that came with those thoughts.

I fell asleep, spending the night restlessly, half awakening in the discomfort of the manacles and collar in a manner that no doubt Warren hoped for. I was dozing when he arrived the next morning – or so I could only presume it to be, for the cell was devoid of windows and I had no hint as to the hour.

“Good morning, Trish,” Warren said breezily.

“Good morning, sir,” I replied dutifully, not wishing to start the day with a flogging for disobedience or lack of respect. Whatever else I might hate about forced submission, I was pragmatic enough to recognise that some pain could be avoided, and you lost nothing in doing this.

“How are we today? Did you sleep well?”

“Yes, thank you sir.”

“Good. Now sit up and put this on.” Warren tossed down a mess of straps beside me, and I saw it was one of the more complicated blindfold/harness gags that we carried. I didn’t ask questions. Much as I wanted to, I had learned in the course of the last four days that it got me nowhere except on the end of a cane or some other such painful consequence. Mind you, being gagged so much of the time left me little opportunity to blurt stuff out, so perhaps it was for my own good.

I sorted out the straps and pushed the black rubber ball into my mouth. Some doms – and dommes – were meticulous in choice of colours for all manner of items of restraint. Warren always chose a rubber ball of the colour appropriate to the situation, in this case a black one to match the black latex outfit I still wore. Monica was the same – fastidious to the point of being anal about colour coordination. In my view, if it filled a mouth and shut them up, it would do.

Now I worked the black rubber ball behind my teeth. Warren knew his stuff and had selected one of the largest ones we had, so that it not only filled the space behind the teeth and compressed one’s tongue, but sufficient of it remained to hold the teeth apart and fully stretch the jaw. This was one I did not want to be wearing too long.

I finally got it in place, adjusting my breathing as I did so, then pulled the vertical strap up either side of my nose and over the top of my head. The strap through the ball went around my neck over my hair and through the first strap before buckling. Then came another vertical one from the top of my head, down past my temples, through a loop in the gag strap to buckle under my chin. The last piece was the eye strap, which clipped on to the first vertical one at the bridge of the nose, and ran around my head, covering my eyes with two foam-lined leather patches before intertwining with the main vertical strap and again buckling at the back.

For the first part of this exercise Warren watched with interest as I struggled through all of this with my manacled hands, which made it difficult to keep certain straps in place while trying to do them up. This seemed to amuse Warren, and he made no attempt to help me as I snorted with frustration up until I had only the blindfold strap to go. After that, of course, I was blind and silent and couldn’t tell what he was doing, except that as soon as my hands dropped to my lap in completion, I felt his hands jiggling the straps and tightening them until there was not a millimetre of slack anywhere, and the ball was jammed that extra bit deeper into my mouth, and my jaw was clamped that extra bit harder on to the rubber.

“Urrmph…” I whined.

“On your knees on the bed,” he ordered. Blindly I worked myself into the directed position, at which point he unlocked the hobble chain from my right ankle and locked the chain instead to the bedframe, before tying my right ankle to the opposite side of the bed. I knew where this was going – some form of doggie-style exercise, with poor Trish now unable to bring her legs together.

Another rope went around the linking chain between the steel wrist cuffs, and this was promptly tied to the top end of the bed, stretching me out like a cat when it wakes up. The last piece of rope went through my collar and was pulled back beneath me down to the bottom of the bed. I was now unable to move forward, because of the collar rope, or backwards because my wrists were secured.

I felt Warren’s hands running over my body, undoing the zippers over my breasts and teasing my nipples through the tightly constricting slits. My nips became rock hard in no time – something I simply had no control over, and yet again hated myself for. Then it was hands down to the crotch and the pull of the zipper from navel to the top of my butt, letting in the coolness of the air to my private parts.

Warren, I had discovered, was at his worst in the morning. Like most males his dick was full and he was not inclined to foreplay. Not that I was looking for it, but I knew what was coming, or so I thought. I was unprepared for the piercing pain of some sort of weighted clip suddenly released onto my right nipple, followed moments later by a matching one on my left, as they dangled freely beneath me.

“Ouff! Owff! Urgh!” I grunted, discovering that every movement I made was telegraphed to the jaws biting into my ultra-sensitive flesh. The searing pain died after thirty seconds as the adrenalin and endorphins kicked in and the hurt slowly decreased to a throbbing ache.

Warren wasted no time in getting on with the job. There was the touch of a nozzle and a cold squirt into my arse. I groaned inwardly, for I knew he was in one of his arse-reaming moods. I could have handled something more conventional at that hour of the morning. I might even have enjoyed it, at a reluctantly-admitted unconscious level, but this I could do without, and Warren had probably decided on it for exactly that reason.

There was the sound of a zipper from a source other than my catsuit, and moments later I felt the head of his dick against my tender butt hole.

He pushed into me without ceremony or any attempt to make it less painful. I gasped around the ball and snorted as the pain of my distended sphincter muscle burst through my defences. Then he was inside, surging back and forth and filling me with his presence. I felt the pressure of my bonds at all points – wrists, collar and ankles as he thrust against me and his arms wrapped around me to again grope my breasts. Surges of pain in my nipples brought stars to my eyes and momentarily took my mind off the hard invader jammed inside me. I snorted and cried out as best as I could.

Warren must have been lying awake thinking about this moment, and it was surprising that he had taken the time to prepare me to the extent that he did. After barely a minute of pumping, he abruptly jammed himself in to the hilt and I felt the warm rush inside as he shot his load with an intensity that saw me moaning with frustration at my bonds and the humiliation he was inflicting on me. Bastard!

To add insult to injury, he withdrew without warning, jamming a large butt plug in place seconds later and zipping the crotch zipper closed albeit with some effort. This prompted an outburst of mmphing protests that I could not suppress. How dare he leave me like this, without even the opportunity for some satisfaction on my part! I shook my head and uttered more stifled complaints, which was not a real bright idea.

“I was going to remove the clips, but seeing how ungrateful you are, they can stay there until after breakfast – mine, that is,” he said with a cheerfulness that was obvious, before he walked out and the door shut with a heavy thud and a rattle of the key.

 It must have been over an hour before he returned, leaving me bound to the bed, blindfolded and able only to grunt to myself as an expression of the pain I had to endure from the wretched clips on my nipples. I had been screwed again and hadn’t even had the satisfaction of getting myself off as part of it. I could not help becoming aroused, either, but there was precious little I could do about it now. I could not even amuse myself, for my pussy was way out of reach from my hands and I could not even rub it on the bed.

After a while the pain subsided as had my arousal, when Warren returned. I was given limited release of the ropes, but made to hobble – still gagged and blindfolded – along the corridor to the sluice room. Here my neck chain was fastened to the wall and my wrist and ankle irons were removed.

“You have half an hour to make yourself pretty. I do like you in rubber, Trish. I think we’ll continue with the theme. Today will be white – for purity.” He laughed. “When you’re washed and dried there is a new outfit waiting for you. I want your wrists cuffed behind your back and your ankles hobbled again. Only then will you get some breakfast.”

There was the slamming of the door and I was at last able to remove the clips from my breasts and undo the tight harness around my head. Glancing at myself in the big mirror that dominated one white-tiled wall of the sluice room, I decided I looked a wreck. At least, my head did. My hair was mussed from sleep and the harness straps, and my face was etched with the imprint of those same straps. The rest of me still looked good in a black latex catsuit, but I needed a proper wash and clean up.

The shower and its accompanying ablutions felt wonderful. Warren had even left some nice shampoo and soap and a hair dryer which did not normally reside in the sluice room, along with some fluffy towels. I felt almost human again when I had finished. I looked at what he had left out – a white latex hobble skirt which came down to my knees and a long-sleeved top with strategic zippers over my breasts. At least he would not have easy access to my pussy, I thought, after putting talc inside the skirt and sliding into it. I struggled into the top and found he had also left a hood for me. It was of open face type with a hole in the top for a ponytail. By the time I had got my hair properly attired through this, I was starting to look like a pony girl – more so when I pulled on the knee-length high-heeled boots that he had also left.

I admired myself in the mirror. The shiny white-clad figure still chained by the collar to a wall ring looked lithe and sexy – if I could allow myself that conceit. Yes, Trish, you still had it. But for how long? What did Warren have in store for me? This sort of situation couldn’t go on forever. There had to be some sort of resolution, and I was sure it would not come about until all the others of the household were likewise enslaved and humiliated, and Warren had proved his point.

I sighed as I locked the hobble chain about my booted ankles then secured my wrists in the handcuffs behind my back, before seating myself on the small stool to await the return of my captor.

Warren was delighted with my new outfit.

“Trish, you’re a sight to gladden the heart on a lovely morning. Do you fancy a spot of breakfast?”

“That would be nice, thank you, sir,” I answered meekly.

He unlocked the neck chain from the wall and I followed him back along the corridor, up the stairs, through the kitchen and out on to the big back verandah, where I was duly chained to one of the posts.

Breakfast was cereal and toast, and I suppose I should have been grateful being waited on as I was. Warren was smart enough not to let me loose in the kitchen with its sharp implements and boiling water. This was the downside of keeping a dangerous slave. He may have had the upper hand, but it was a temporary thing, valid only as long as he didn’t make a mistake or leave me with an opportunity to exploit.

There was no such thing now. I was allowed to sit at the table on my two-metre chain with my hands now cuffed in front to enable me to eat. I could do nothing to escape without access to one of the locks on the chain, and Warren had made a point of showing me where it was being put – in this case in the kitchen, out of sight and certainly out of reach.

Warren put down the paper as I finished my breakfast.
”Ready for action?” he asked. I didn’t know whether it was a rhetorical question, and I dreaded to think what it might mean in any case.

“Yes sir,” I said, anyway.

He retrieved the key to the tether chain and unlocked this from the post, before leading me down the back steps to where several solid posts were concreted into the ground in the middle of the lawn. These had been put there during the brief takeover of Bilboes by Portia Tang several years before, and we had all suffered at these posts as a result. Warren, of course, had been part of that attempted coup, and Mary and I had been cruelly treated by him and his mate Roger in the dungeon at the time.

Monica, never one to condone wasted work, had left the posts in place and they were often used for clients when the weather was suitable. ‘Suitable’ could mean pouring with rain or sunny and hot, depending on what the client was allowed or wished to endure. This morning was a typical Brisbane summer’s day – clear and warm and building to a temperature in the low to mid-thirties, and along with that the usual humidity. I had hoped to at least be left inside – even a windowless but air-conditioned dungeon can be a more comfortable place than outside in the humidity. But of course that was obviously part of Warren’s plan. He knew I would not be an easy mark, and he was going to have to wear me down gradually if I was to become truly subservient. Such a process would mean beatings, sensory deprivation, sexual torture and severe restraint. I knew I could handle these up to a point, but how long would it be before I simply gave in to avoid further punishment?

Now I felt my mental strength start to falter already. Warren’s plan for today involved Trish wearing a tight fitting rubber outfit being secured in the heat and humidity that would sap my energy and reduce me to an exhausted, wrung out wreck in fairly short order.

I hobbled carefully down the steps, hampered by the high heeled boots and hobble chain, not to mention the rubber skirt clinging about my knees and making everything just that much more difficult.  Walking across the lawn the heels of my boots dug into the grass and provided an uncertain platform as Warren led me to the first post. He looped the neck chain around the post and padlocked it in place, leaving very little slack between the post and my collar. That was all he needed to – everything else was window dressing, for Trish surely wasn’t going anywhere from that point on.

There was sufficient length in the tail of the chain for him to then loop it around the post and my body at waist height, locking it there to attach me to the post a second time, then make things worse by locking the connecting handcuff link to the waist chain, so that my hands were anchored at my navel.

Now that I was as secure as I had to be, Warren retreated to the big tin trunk we kept on the verandah for external bondage sessions, and ferreted around inside it. He returned with a collection of straps and devices that told me the morning was going to be a long and frustrating one.

“Open wide, Trish dear,” he said, flourishing a rubber ball on a strap. The ball was white, of course. Good old anal Warren was consistent, at least.

“Do I have to, sir?” I pleaded. “I’ll be good. I promise I won’t make a sound.”

Warren’s amenable manner faded.

“Are you questioning me, Trish?”

“No sir…” I murmured, chastened, opening my mouth for him to jam the ball behind my teeth and buckle the strap behind my head. I didn’t want an unnecessary beating for talking back when I had no choice in the matter. Whatever argument I put up, I was going to get gagged anyway. That was the lot of a slave, and that was the role I was in, like it or not.

His next act was to pull down my skirt from the waist so that it bunched up and trapped my knees like a big rubber band. I sighed when I saw the chrome vibrator come out of his pocket and get threaded on to the crotch strap, which was in turn threaded on to a waist strap. Half a minute later I felt the cold, smooth device slide into my pussy then get secured there as Warren pulled the crotch strap tight and buckled it in place before pulling the skirt back up.

“There!” he said, stepping back and admiring me like a mannequin in a shop window. His equanimity had returned and he looked pleased with himself. “Trish, you look delicious – good enough to eat, which I may do later on, in fact. But first, I thought you might like some good news and a little idea of what pleasures lie in front of you today.” He paused for effect, but in my present state I wasn’t giving anything away, much less indicating any form of interest. “You will be pleased to know your friends are returning this morning – Jillian and Emma.”

Despite my best intentions I must have emitted a small snort of surprise and anxiety.

“They were a little peeved that nobody was answering the phone, and no doubt they will be further put out when nobody meets them at the airport as they requested in the message they left on the answerphone. But they’ll get a taxi and I expect them here in an hour or so.”

My expression must have betrayed me. God, they were walking straight into a trap! “And I’ve asked my good friend Roger to come over to stay a few days to give me a hand. Won’t that be fun!”

Shit! Shitshitshit! Instinctively I jerked against the chains holding me at collar and waist. How dare he do this!

“Nnnnnnnnn!” I wailed into the gag. “Nnn! Nnnn! Nnnnn!”

Warren only laughed, of course, and walked back to the steps, pausing at the bottom to pull a remote switch from his pocket and point it at me. Suddenly there was a thrumming vibration from my loins as the vibrator started up and I knew it was going to be a long hot morning.

 I tried to focus my anger on Warren, to keep at bay the remorseless glow that slowly began to burn into a fire in my crotch. There was no let-up, no easing of the infernal device, no relief that might come with a pause in the humming between my legs. Despite my best efforts, my first orgasm arrived at the same time as Warren’s pal Roger appeared.

Roger was maybe forty-ish, with big, dark hair and maybe Mediterranean blood somewhere back down the ancestral line. He had a thin moustache and the start of a beer belly, and he was most amused by my suffering. By this time I was a sweating mess reaching my first orgasm, which came with the arrival of Roger. I hated his presence as I struggled against the chains and mmphed futilely into the gag as the climax arose and spread from my loins through my body.

I felt the mixture of perspiration and pussy juice running down the inside of my thighs under the rubber skirt, while sweat was also trickling down between my breasts under my top. Roger took pity on me – if you can call it that – as he wiped my face with a handkerchief.

“Warm out here, isn’t it,” he said conversationally, walking around me and admiring my latex-clad body.

“Time to get ready,” Warren told him from the verandah.

Roger retreated to the shade of the verandah and I was left there, feeling like a sacrificial sheep chained up to lure the tiger out of cover. Except in this case I would be luring my friends to their doom.

Fuming, I watched as Roger and Warren busied themselves with what I saw were two taser pistols. The sight of these and the memory of what had happened to me turned my insides over, adding to the mayhem that the vibrator was already causing. I continued to try to keep my concentration, watching the two men as they arranged a wicker sofa and armchair to provide some cover, and supplemented this with a large rug draped over the verandah railing as though it had been given an airing.

Warren pointed the oversized black pistol at me and mimed shooting it, blowing away imaginary smoke and grinning. If I could have poked out my tongue I would have, not to mention given him a piece of my mind, but my tongue was trapped beneath the rubber ball in my mouth, and I could only glare in fury at what he was doing.

There was a distant sound of a car and Warren and Roger at once became alert, listening to what might have been voices. I couldn’t hear that well, partly through the blood pounding in my ears from the last orgasm, and hindered also by the rubber hood covering my ears.

But then there was no mistake, and I could hear the girlish chatter and laughter as Jill and Emma came into view around the side of the house, talking the direct route to our sleeping quarters out the back. Their route would lead right past the post to which I was chained.

The moment their eyes alighted on me and the looks of shock appeared on their faces was the moment I did my best to alert them of the danger.

“Urrrrghhhhh!” I cried, squirming and writhing helplessly in my restraints. I pointed my fingers towards the verandah but with my hands cuffed at my navel this hardly made much of an impression.

Both girls carried sizeable backpacks, not having bothered to put them on since getting out of the taxi. As one they dropped them and hurried towards me.

“NNNNnnnnnn!” I screamed. “Rnnn! Rnnnnn!” Oh for God’s sake run!

It would not have been the first time that they might have seen me tied up in such a predicament, but the fact that I was alone in the house and my very demeanour clearly indicated something was very wrong.

“What happened?” asked Jill, reaching me ahead of Emma.

“Nnnnnnnnmph!” I groaned, helpless as I watched Warren draw a bead on Emma from the verandah. There was a soft pop and Emma gave a short cry as she crumpled on the grass, twitching and gasping.

Jill turned, aghast, seeing her best friend collapse and at the same time seeing Roger fire the second shot from only a few metres away. The tiny darts found their target and Jill, too, fell to the ground, her long legs twitching and jerking as her body tried to come to terms with the massive electrical charge that coursed through it.

Warren and Roger were prepared for this moment and they trotted down the steps each with a couple of coils of rope in their hands. I could only watch helplessly as Warren crouched over Jill and knotted one length of rope about each wrist, then tied the other ends around the bases of the two posts next in the line of five, each around four metres apart. As he pulled the second rope tight Jill flopped on to her back with her arms outspread as the tension came on. She was still only partially conscious, her head lolling from side to side, while beyond her, Emma was suffering a similar fate at the hands of Roger.

The two men left their handiwork at that point and returned to the verandah congratulating themselves with the pssst of two cans of beer being opened. At that point Warren evidently took pity on me and turned off the vibrator, allowing me to slowly get my breathing back to normal as the adrenalin subsided with the crisis over and the battle lost.

 

* * *

22.02.06

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

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