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Monica's Travels 04

by Richard Alexander (Gromets Plaza)

(story continues from Monica's Travels 03)

Chapter Four – Shawnee In Trouble – Shawnee’s Story

Steven was gone when Monica cut through the tape and allowed me to get groggily to my feet.  I had had a fitful sleep, hampered by the tape, but wrung out by the orgasms and the long day.  Sometimes sleeping in a bound state does weird things to your mind and makes you dream strange dreams.  In this case I did not, but my awakening found me confused as to where I was and what had been going on.

Monica was considerate and caring, and shared the shower with me.  God knows it was big enough for the both of us, and letting her soap me then rub me down with a bath brush was just the best way to come to grips with a warm Hong Kong morning, and just as good was being able to return the favour in her case.

It was late by the time I had returned to my room and put on clean clothes.  The weather looked to be cloudy but comfortable, so I wore a short white dress with a dark green embroidered sash across the front, together with my new white boots.  Perhaps it wasn’t cold enough for them, but I was for some reason so ridiculously pleased with them that I couldn’t resist showing them off.  The others had almost finished their breakfast and gave Monica and me a good razzing when we appeared – a kind of ‘we know what you’ve been up to’ greeting.  Steven was already there, looking as though he had had a quiet and uneventful night, while the others appeared none the wiser as to events.  I certainly wasn’t going to tell them.

We bade goodbye to Monica, Leila, Jill and Emma barely more than an hour later, as the big green Rolls Royce took them away to the airport on a non-stop flight to London.  I was still getting the Hong Kong vibrancy in my head, and to take our minds off their departure Steven promised the rest of us lunch at a cosy pub in Stanley, on the other side of Hong Kong Island.

We took the Star Ferry across to Central, from where a blue and white double-decker bus took us up the winding road across the central ridge of the island and down to the southern side.  I was entranced.  As a born and bred Queensland girl, I had never seen high rises like the downtown skyscrapers, nor the blocks of apartment buildings soaring forty or fifty stories up from the green hillsides, like giant tombstones.  We looked down on a racetrack in the middle of a long valley, before skirting mountains and descending to white beaches of Deep Water Bay and Repulse Bay.  Steven sat with me up the front of the upper deck and laughed as I flinched when low-hanging branches whipped the windscreen.

Finally we reached Stanley Village, where he said even the locals came in search of bargains, though the outlets were predominantly geared to the tourist trade, and we saw several tourist buses parked in the streets leading to the market.  Everywhere there were stalls and shops – all small and flimsy-looking, with many covered by awnings of red, white and blue striped material that seemed to be everywhere.  I had seen it on building sites, and even in the form of large carry-alls, which Steven told me were called ‘Kowloon Samsonites’ by local expats.

“The place is a bit of a rabbit warren,” Steven said, as we approached the market area.   “I suggest we meet for lunch at one o’clock at the George – it’s a pub on the sea front just down that road.  You can’t miss it.  That way, if we split up or get lost we won’t have to go looking for each other, and you girls can hang about in the dress shops without feeling guilty.”

“What makes you think we’d feel guilty?” Trish retorted.  “You’re welcome to come with us.”

“I might find my way to the pub a bit earlier…” Steven said in a half-announcement to nobody in particular.

We lost him soon after that, as we three girls became immersed in the tiny shops selling Chinese silk clothes, paintings, carvings, tee shirts, carved chops of your name in Chinese – it was like an exotic fairyland.  I loved the silk and satin Chinese tops with their high collars, and after the third shop Trish and Mary tired of seeing me try them on, and moved on to more artistic areas.  I persisted, though, but it seemed that big breasts and small waists were not particularly common in Chinese fittings.  I could get one or the other, but not both.  I was pleased when the young man stepped up to me after the fifth shop and said that his uncle’s shop had a much better European-tailored range. 

He looked about twenty, and asked me where I was from as I followed him through the web of alleyways to his uncle’s shop.  We stopped in front of a door that looked not at all like a shop, though he assured me it was the wholesale outlet, where I would get a much better range and price.  Smiling, he opened the door and led the way through into a gloomy building that seemed to close around me, and smelt of cold concrete and mustiness.

It was at that moment when my eagerness and excitement was suddenly replaced by fear and a certainty that not everything was as it was supposed to be here.  More than that, something was in fact terribly wrong, and I was stupid, stupid, stupid… Those were my thoughts as a huge bear-like arm came from behind me and wrapped around my body below my breasts, squeezing the air out of me, while the matching hand pressed a pad over my face, reeking of something that smelt strongly of hospitals.  My final thought was of my own idiocy, and a momentary picture of the others waiting at the pub, before everything went hazy and I passed out after a few kicks that barely constituted a meaningful struggle. 

*   *   *

I had no idea how long I was unconscious.  I do know that when I awoke I was naked and bound and lying on my side.  Something was covering my head – some sort of rubber hood that clung to my face but when I opened my eyes I found there were at least eyeholes.  What I saw, however, scared me witless.  I perhaps would have screamed, but there was tape overlying the hood, binding my jaw closed over some sort of soft rubber filling.  The end result was that I started and half-grunted in fear and surprise. 

“Oh, so our little slave has woken up?”  The soft sibilant voice came from the immaculately made-up face in front of me – Portia! 

“Surprised to see me?” she cooed, with a smile that showed her perfect teeth and gave her the expression of a crocodile inspecting its prey.  “I can see from the way your eyes widen that you are.  That’s good.  I’m pleased.  We’ll be going for a little boat trip shortly, after which you’ll be bait in the trap to catch the rest of your friends.”

She sat down next to me on the old leather sofa on which I lay.  She was wearing her trademark red leather, this time tight trousers and jacket, with high-heeled boots, all matched with the same shade of lipstick and nail polish.  Her complexion was pale and flawless, set off by the jet black helmet of hair and the darkness of her eyes.  She ran a hand down my leg, the nails just touching my skin. I shuddered and tried to squirm away from her, but I had already gone as far as I could.  For some reason I was still wearing my own white boots, now trapped with the ropes binding my ankles.  My hands were roped palm to palm behind me and Portia’s presence meant I was now really scared.

“Monica has very good taste in slaves,” Portia said casually, leaning over to slide a fingernail over my right breast, lingering on the nipple which popped erect as I shuddered.  Portia smiled and toyed with the pink sensitive flesh while I endeavoured to control my shaking.  Somehow it was one thing to be held captive in the Bilboes dungeon, even when Portia and Madam Wong were in charge, but being a prisoner in a strange city on your own was far, far worse.  The hand cupped my breast as if weighing it.

“You white girls are so lucky,” Portia sighed.  “We Chinese rarely have the same physical attributes.  Except, of course for your friend Emma, of whom I am very envious, and with whom I still have a score to settle for the time she spiked our drinks.”  Portia’s voice hardened.  “And yes, I know she is on her way to London.  I know everything that goes on here.  I thought you people would have been smart enough to realise that by now.  I knew the time that you arrived here, and I knew you’d be coming to Stanley.”

I made an involuntary grunt, in surprise as much as for any other reason.  Portia bent her head close to mine and I smelt a trace of an exotic and probably very expensive perfume.  She grasped a nipple and twisted it slowly.  I gritted my teeth and tried not to show the pain I was experiencing.

“You see, my dear Shawnee, we have inside information.  We know your itinerary, and once you started on it, we knew any changes you were making.  I have people everywhere here.  Sooner or later you were going to come to Stanley.  As soon as you hopped on the bus at Central we knew you’d be here.  We know Monica and the two blondes – and of course my dear friend Emma – are flying to London as we speak…” She smiled and corrected herself.  “…As I speak – you won’t be doing much speaking in the near future.  We know when they’ll be landing, and we will be arranging a little welcome committee to take them to their hotel.  Except that it won’t be their hotel.  Madam Wong has influential friends in England.  Don’t think that her power stops in Asia.  Perhaps that will give you something to meditate on as you struggle in your bonds.  But now it’s time to get you relocated where we can have a little more privacy.

“But I’ve been rude.  I should have introduced you to my handyman here.”  I turned my head, not realising, in my somewhat muffled state, that there was another person in the poorly-lit room.  Standing near my head was a big, muscular man who might have been a member of one of the lighter-weight sumo wrestling classes.  “His name is Shek,” said Portia, “which means ‘rock’ in Chinese.”  I eyed him fearfully.  He had closely cropped hair and a thin moustache, but the rest of him – from what I could see outside of the baggy singlet and shorts – was hairless.  He stood impassively, his folded arms like two over-sized baseball bats.

“Shek will be your transport manager for this afternoon,” said Portia, smiling thinly at me.  “Please cooperate with him.  It will be much better for you to arrive in one piece at the other end.  Now I’ll leave you in his hands.  If you do misbehave, Shek has my permission to ream that little back door rosebud, if necessary.  Would you like to see what that means?” I shook my head as best I could, but Shek smiled slowly and undid the drawstring of his shorts, letting them drop to the ground.  I could not help myself making an mmmph of shock at the size of his member, dangling in the fresh air.  I had seen a few around Bilboes, but this mother was b-i-g.  Portia said something in Chinese and he bent to retrieve his shorts, looking me in the eye as he did so with an expression that clearly dared me to put just one foot out of line.

“He will prepare you now,” Portia said, as though I was destined to become a flower arrangement.  “He is skilled with ropes, as you’ll shortly find out.”

And I did.  Shek picked me up off the sofa as though I weighed nothing, and seated me upright on the sofa.  The ropes were not long in coming, as Portia watched with obvious satisfaction.  The ropes were the rough scratchy kind, and they went round the underneath of my thighs and encircling my arms and back, pulling me forward so that my breasts were pressed on my thighs.  Then it was more ropes bending my legs back and tucking my heels into my buttocks as they wrapped round my ankles and pulled me into a tight ball.  I grunted as Shek gave the ropes another strong tug and further knots were tied behind my back, further trapping my bound arms against my torso.  Not content with this, he somehow wove cinch ropes around my ankle bindings and between my knees and body, nearly squeezing the breath out of my body.  I groaned, but could do absolutely nothing as he laid me on my side on the clammy surface of the sofa.

Portia disappeared momentarily from my field of vision, then returned with one of those luggage-on-wheels things.  It was like a small zip-up suitcase on a pull-along frame.  Oh my God, I thought.  Surely she couldn’t mean…

“Got it in one, Shawnee dear,” said Portia brightly.  “You’re going into this, one way or another.  You’ve already shown how flexible you are.”  She must have seen my alarm, for the bag was clearly way too small.  “But before you go in there, you must understand the rules of transport.  We do not want you kicking up a scene.” Like I could even move?

“I know you get very excited sometimes, and even a nice gag can be insufficient for you.  In this instance, even though you will be inside this nice case, I’m sure you could manage a few grunts and moans.  So, we will need to have some control over that.”  She unzipped the case and produced a transparent mask like they have in the ambulances to administer oxygen.  “You’ve seen these before,” she said, “except that this one won’t be held in place by an elastic band.”  I should have figured that out, and sure enough out came the duct tape.  I seemed to have had more than my fair share of duct tape in the last 24 hours, but there was not much I could do to voice my objection as she placed the mask over mouth and nose and taped it in place with several turns of the tape around my head.  I saw then that there were two tubes leading to the mask.

“Very good, Shawnee.  Yes, there’s one tube for the in-air, and one for the out-air.  Each has a little one-way valve.”  Portia held up one end of the clear tube.  “Any problems with you, and we squeeze it closed.  Just like this.”  With a flip of her fingers she folded the tube on itself and held it there.  A moment later I found myself unable to draw breath and the mask began to tighten against my face.  I began to panic, shaking my head and making feeble sounds.

“Difficult without air, isn’t it,” Portia observed disinterestedly, keeping her fingers clamped on the tube.  I struggled weakly against the ropes and my vision began to go grey.  My panic was now in full flight, and I mmphed desperately, pleading with my eyes for air, locking with Portia’s implacable stare.  This was what it was like to die, I suddenly realised, and it was only when I reached that stage that there was an abrupt rush of air that saw me gasping and panting through my nose as best I could. 

“Do we have an understanding now?” Portia asked pointedly.  I closed my eyes and nodded, beaten.

Portia laid the case on the floor and undid the zip fully to peel the top back.  I didn’t see how I could possibly fit in there, until Shek picked me up and laid me diagonally in the case, half-twisting my body and pushing my head down against my knees, before flipping the cover closed and starting to tug on the zipper.  It took a lot of pushing and prodding and distorting the bag into a shape it wasn’t intended, before the zipper finally closed, leaving the two tubes sticking out – or so I presumed, for I was totally immobilised, unable to move a muscle. 

Then I was upright – or at least the case was.  I was in a weird foetal position but at least my head was higher than my feet, even though it was forced into an uncomfortable bent-down position. Now I wished I hadn’t worn the boots, for the extra few inches of heel were forced into my backside, as everything was jammed against everything else. 

Then we were away, bumping down a step and then a further series of bumps as Shek hauled me roughly up a concrete path and more steps.  I had no idea where I was or where we were going, and I was so petrified I could hardly breathe on my own, never mind the further difficulties and potential danger that might come from a blocked air tube.  I suppose I should have been glad I wasn’t someone who reacted to confined spaces or readily hyperventilated.  Monica had taught me how to control my fears, but usually I had been in a situation that would ultimately reach a conclusion, whereas my present position had none in sight.  I was scared and none of my normal routines was enough to get me into sub-space, for the bumping and jerking and the tight confines of the ropes and the case distracted me. 

I pictured an observer’s view of Shek and Portia towing an innocuous-looking wheeled bag down the alleyways of Stanley Market, amongst the bustle and commerce going on all around.  Under the constricting rubber hood I could still hear voices and chatter, and I wondered whether it would even be possible to make sufficient noise to be heard even had the threat of the tube not been there.  Sure as eggs are eggs, nobody would ever think there was a naked bound and gagged girl being towed through their midst. 

At one point the journey halted and I was placed upright for a minute or so, while Chinese voices talked, then I was moving again.  After a few minutes more, the outside sound of people became less and I thought I could make out the noise of the sea and an occasional seagull.  I wondered if we were now on the waterfront where the pub was that we were supposed to meet in.  Maybe we had walked right past Steven and Mary and Trish.  I thought it was maybe too early to have met yet, but I was sure Steven would get there early, and I mentally pictured him sitting at a table outside reading a paper and drinking cider, which I knew was his drink of choice.  Then I figured that perhaps Portia was not coming with me, for I was sure she would not advertise her presence if the others were around.  No, I was now sure it was just Shek and his baggage. 

There were more bumps, and I was heaved up several steps, then there followed a smooth patch of probably concrete with a joint every few steps, before I was manhandled – none too well, I might add – on to what I knew was a boat of some sort, as I could tell from the rolling movement and obvious bumping against a jetty.  This frightened me even more, for the prospect of remaining bound in the case on a pitching boat and then becoming seasick was a horrible thought.

A throbbing vibration started to come through my container, which I felt was now propped against a wall or bulkhead on deck.  Obviously we were starting up, and I was on my way to somewhere that I did not want to be, in a strange country where I knew nobody.  Only then did the enormity of my situation really sink in, and the tears welled in my eyes to finally flow down over the rubber and plastic and tape covering my cheeks.

*   *   *

After perhaps a quarter of an hour I felt the zip being undone.  I was really uncomfortable by then, with the ropes biting into my flesh at wrist, ankle, legs and arms, and my neck was stiff from being pulled down in its awkward position.  I was already losing feeling in my limbs as the blood circulation slowly became more constricted, and my fingers and toes had started to tingle.  Unexpectedly it was Portia who undid the zip.  I had expected that we had left her behind, but such was evidently not the case.  She squatted down on her high heels next to me, holding on to a rail to steady herself against the rolling motion that was starting to become more pronounced.

“I thought you’d like to know, Shek rolled you right past two of your friends sitting outside a pub.  Isn’t that funny?  Neither of them batted an eyelid, so Shek told me.  It was Steven and Mary, so I gather from his description.  Trish must still have been shopping.”  Portia smiled a big beaming smile which under any other circumstances would have banished the aura of maliciousness that she seemed to flaunt most of the time.  “I met the boat by another route, so I missed that little irony, regrettably.  However, I see no reason why I shouldn’t have a little fun now, to pass the boredom of this trip.  Incidentally, we’re heading to Lantau Island, for your information.  A nice little spot called Tai O on the north side.  It will take us a couple of hours, so we may as well be comfortable, wouldn’t you agree?”

I could do nothing but groan softly as I tried to raise my head partially out of the confines of the case.  Portia helped my effort by tipping the case so that I fell out in a bound ball on the deck, trailing breathing tubes after me.  I was grateful when she pulled out a penknife from the pocket of her leather trousers and cut the tape securing the mask to my face.  I had no idea what she might mean by ‘a little fun’, but anything had to be better than being confined in the case. 

She cut the rest of my ropes at that stage, and I was slowly able to unfold my body from its bent position.  My wrists remained bound behind me, and I could see the deep red imprints of the ropes in my flesh as the blood once again started to reach my toes.  I just lay there on the varnished timber deck, trying to get myself together. 

I did not have much time to recover, for Shek was there again, hauling me to my feet.  I was wobbly from the lack of circulation, never mind high heels on a rolling boat.  I looked about me, taking in the nature of the boat and hoping that there might be another boat in the vicinity that would spot a naked bound and gagged female being manhandled against her will.  Fat chance.

The boat was a big wooden launch of some sort, with a large awning-covered rear section and several seats around a fixed table – obviously a space for dining – while a decent sized wheelhouse and cabin made up the forward part of the vessel.  I saw a figure in the wheelhouse, but he had his back to me, and seemed to have no interest in the cargo Portia had brought aboard.  I had time only for a quick glance beyond the railings.  On my right I saw what I presumed to be Hong Kong Island, maybe a mile distant, while on my left there was a smaller island with some massive chimneys towering over it that might have been from a power station.  A quick assessment of the sun’s angle made me think we were heading west – to Lantau Island, wherever that was.

I was steered unsteadily down some steps into what proved to be a surprisingly roomy cabin.  There was a sofa bed along each wall, with a table next to one of them, and a closed door presumably leading into a further forward cabin. Portia followed us and I was allowed to sit briefly on one of the sofa beds, watching unhappily as Shek rigged up a rope at Portia’s direction.  He worked swiftly and seemed oblivious to the rolling and pitching of the boat.  The rope was brown hemp, as thick as my finger, with one end tied to a cleat beside the forward door, then laid on the floor leading back to the rear bulkhead. 

Portia opened a wall cupboard and produced a large dildo in the lifelike shape of a penis, from the bottom of which a large eyebolt protruded.  The rope was threaded through this with a bit of a struggle, for it was a snug fit, and I was made to stand up and position myself facing forward, astride the rope.  Portia picked up the dildo and waved it in front of my face.  It was made of black plastic or rubber, and I reckoned it was as big as most we had available at Bilboes.  Portia spat on to it and rubbed the saliva over the object until it was wet and shiny, before ordering my legs apart and slowly inserting it inside me, working it with obvious relish between my pussy lips.  She did this with one hand, standing and gazing into my eyes as she did so, enjoying my discomfort as the big dong slowly slid inside, though not without some rather pleasurable sensations.

As the phallus finally slid up to its hilt, Shek passed the loose end through my bound arms and pulled it tight around a cleat at about waist height on the rear bulkhead.  Then Portia made me put my legs together while Shek tightened the rope further, so that it tugged upwards between my legs.  She said something to Shek which I took to be a dismissal, for he left the cabin without replying.

At that point the boat lurched, and I instinctively put my left foot out to steady myself, with the result that my crotch was immediately lowered and the rope and dildo was jammed that much further inside me.  I grunted and groaned, struggling to get my feet together so that the pressure was less on my pussy.  I now saw the plan, and wondered anxiously how long the boat trip was going to be.

Portia sat on one of the sofas and crossed her legs, the red leather trousers making a slight squeaking sound as she leaned back comfortably to watch me with obvious amusement.  I discovered the full extent of my predicament in the next few minutes, as I tried to adjust my situation to the movement of the boat. We seemed to be heading into a swell, which meant up and down movement into the waves, which in turn meant me pitching forward and backwards as though I was riding a rocking horse.  Except that in this instance it was a not-very-wide rope between my legs pushing a very filling dong in and out while I staggered awkwardly, trying to keep my balance.

Portia thought my struggles were a real hoot, and pulled a bottle of champagne from a small fridge.  She sipped a glass of bubbly while watching me with an expression of gratification, as the relentless movement continued.  The angle of the rope didn’t help, either.  The forward end of it was secured high up over the door, and the angle of this managed to apply pressure to my clit without too much difficulty.  The rear part, however, was down low, passing between my bound wrists and trapping them low down against my buttocks.

After ten minutes of this I had adjusted to the regular movement of the boat, and that same regularity was starting to instil a rhythm to the big invader that was stimulating my loins.  I knew my fate was inevitable, as I tried to keep my legs together, to lessen the upward pressure, but that was a hopeless task, and I was forced to spread them to counter the sideways rolling.  The fore-and-aft movement I tried to counter with my wrists clamped on the rope, but I could not grip the rope with my fingers, and ended up taking most of the force on the dildo and my clit.

Sure enough, I felt the stirrings begin, and the remorseless warmth that meant an orgasm was on the way.  I was starting to make what – I am told – are my trademark gagged noises when I sense the Big ‘O’ is on the way, snorting and whining as best as I can, when Portia abruptly stood up and produced a pair of nipple clamps from out of the same cupboard as the dildo.  They were chrome-plated spring jaws, and had what looked like weights on them, and all my intentions of an orgasmic take off suddenly went on hold as the pain of these jaws took hold of my nipples.  Portia positioned them very carefully, so the jaws bit vertically while the weighty bits hung downward, giving my poor nips a twist at the same time. 

My new accessories hurt, and I complained as best I could behind the rubber and tape covering my mouth.  Portia let my protests go for about five minutes before again attending to the clamps, this time twisting the bottom section of each so that they suddenly vibrated into life.  Then it was all on again, vibes competing with pain, competing with the thrusting dong going with the boat movement.

Sometime pain weakens my resistance and makes me more sensitive.  Whatever the psychology, a climax rushed on me almost without warning, and I jerked against the ropes, leaning forward to rub my clit on the rope while trying to anchor myself with my bound wrists and not lose my balance totally in the rocking boat.  I was mmphing loudly and humping the rope as the rush hit me and my breathing turned into a ragged panting interspersed with groans, while Portia clapped her hands delightedly. 

*   *   *

That pretty much set the tone for the next couple of hours.  Portia livened things up with several good whippings, using a multi-thonged flogger to artfully decorate my buttocks and breasts.  I was alternately crying and climaxing, it seemed, and any thoughts I had of keeping track of our route by looking out the window fell by the wayside.  Somewhere in my mind I detected a change in direction of the boat, for the movement altered and I found myself shifting from side to side on spread legs.  My pussy by now was ultra-sensitive and tender, and every so often I found myself uttering muffled cries under the hood as the whole thing just became too much to bear.  Of course such objections were disregarded and usually prompted further attention, often with Portia’s fingers, which saw me screaming under the hood, either in pain as she pinched my nipples, or in ecstasy as she played with my clit.

I was drenched with sweat and my whole body was crying out for a break when the movement slowed and I sensed we were coming into sheltered waters.  Portia also seemed to come to her senses, collecting her thoughts and tearing herself away from her plaything. 

“Damn.  I was just starting to enjoy myself,” she said.  She disappeared into the forward cabin and returned moments later with my white dress and a black leather jacket.  She undid my wrists and allowed me to slip my arms through the holes and zip up the front.  I was still straddled on the rope and could do little to resist, particularly since my fingers had lost much of their feeling.  Then she guided my arms into the jacket and zipped that up.  It was tight – made for a smaller figure than mine.  Then out came a pair of handcuffs.

I suppose I should have been grateful for the cold steel of the handcuffs ratcheting shut on my wrists behind me, rather than more tight rope, but I was too fatigued to really consider the pros and cons of it all.  I sensed the boat slowing and nearing some sort of jetty outside.  I couldn’t see much – just pilings and the odd glimpse of sheds or other buildings on top of them.

Finally Portia undid the rope between my legs, and eased the awful pressure on my clit.  The big dildo slid out and plopped on the floor, and Portia pulled the hem of my dress down, as though making a child look her best for a big occasion.  Then she lifted up one of the sofa seats and removed two full-face motorcycle helmets – a red one and a black one, both with stylised flames on them. 

“We’re going for a little ride,” she said.  “Have you ridden a motorcycle before?”  I nodded.  “Good.  That will make things a lot easier.  You will ride behind me.  You will wear this helmet and your wrists will remain manacled.  Shek will be following, so don’t even think about trying anything stupid.  I should also tell you that I am well known around here, and people think twice before crossing swords with me.”

I grabbed the opportunity to briefly sit down, for my legs were going rubbery and the emptiness inside my now very tender pussy made me feel strange.  Portia picked up the black helmet and pulled it down on my head.  It was a snug fit over the rubber hood and all the tape, the firm interior foam now pushing my head restraints tighter against my skin as she pulled the strap hard through the double rings under my chin, then lowered the tinted perspex visor.

The boat bumped against the pilings and Portia grabbed me by the arm, pulling me up the steps to the rear deck.  We were rocking against a set of weed-encrusted concrete steps, and Portia steadied me while I stepped off the boat, before climbing off alongside me.  Shek followed, then the boat moved away and we climbed the dozen steps up to the level of the jetty.

I found myself looking down a channel of grey water lined with houses on stilts.  A number of small boats with outboards were moored at the base of the pilings, with the whole village seeming to be floating four metres above the water on these ramshackle-looking supporting structures.  Nobody seemed to be paying any attention to the launch that was now returning towards the sea, much less the three figures that had disembarked.  At the top a pair of sullen-faced youths stood beside two off-road bikes, and it was toward these that I was steered between Shek and Portia.

The visibility through the tinted visor was not the best, but I was conscious of the looks I was getting from the two youths, whom I presumed had delivered the bikes in anticipation of our arrival.  Again I regretted wearing my white boots and the short dress, and decided that Portia’s adding the black leather jacket had not helped my anonymity, either.

Portia, of course, was no shrinking violet, in her red leather outfit which was now complemented by a pair of matching gauntlets and the helmet she donned to cover her jet black hair.  She shooed away the youths and swung her slender leg over what was obviously her bike – a red Honda – and gestured for me to get on behind.  I swung my leg over the back seat only with some difficulty, managing to grasp the small upright bar behind me with my manacled hands.  The hem of my dress rode right up my thighs and it was only by snuggling up to Portia’s leather-clad backside that I hoped I would not be displaying my little honeypot to the whole village. 

With a smooth opening of the throttle we took off down a narrow concrete pathway between the houses.  Somehow I had always thought of Portia as being a bit ‘soft’ – too fond of the good things in life.  I had not associated her with riding a trail bike, albeit while wearing the most chic of leather outfits.  I still clung on for dear life, though, as we made our way out of the warren of closely-built shanties and shops, on to a sealed road that wound up a valley towards a steep green mountain.  A short way on we turned off the road on to a winding dirt path that led into a wooded area.  Soon we were out of the sun and moving at a crawl through the dappled shade between large trees lining the trail.

The path ended at a wooden gate in a brick wall, half hidden by trees and undergrowth.  Portia halted the bike short of the gate, allowing Shek to pass us, dismount, and open the gate for us to drive through.  It was a two-door gate, wide enough to get a cart through, perhaps, and it opened on to a large walled courtyard, perhaps thirty metres square.  I was surprised at the spaciousness of the compound, for the density of the trees had not suggested the presence of any substantial structure around.  Probably the trees had grown up to overshadow the place in recent years.

The place had an old, unused feel about it, yet it seemed to be in good repair, and there were little things I started to notice that suggested it was not as decrepit as first impressions might have suggested.  Whatever the nature of it, I had a further sinking feeling that I wasn’t going to easily escape.  Portia stopped the bike and I saw Shek locking the gate with a heavy padlock behind us.  The rest of the compound offered little comfort, for the wall was solid and high to the left and right sides, topped with clay tiles.  The wall through which we had passed comprised a long lean-to kind of structure with a tiled roof, under which were the remains of hay bales and some old farm implements and lengths of rusting chains, some hanging from the rafters.  At one end was a large water trough which looked to have been carved out of a single boulder, and gave the appearance of having been there forever. 

What I took to be the living quarters formed the fourth side of the compound, with several doors and windows giving on to the square.  In the middle of the compound was another structure, looking to be newer than the rest.  It was probably the size of a double garage, with a pitched tiled roof supported on a number of solid timber poles, but without any walls.

I climbed off the motorcycle once Portia had dismounted.  She propped the bike on its stand and took off her helmet.

“Welcome to your new home,” she said, removing my helmet to enable me to better view my prison.  “Let’s get you secured, shall we?”

I did not like the sound of any of this, and without thinking I tried to run for the gate, but Portia and Shek grabbed me by the arms and dragged me struggling towards the open-sided structure in the middle of the compound. I don’t know why I struggled as I did. Perhaps it was panic finally setting in.  There was no doubting the futility of it, especially when Shek grabbed a handful of my long hair protruding from the bottom edge of the rubber hood.  The sudden pain brought me to my senses, and I was at once docile and whining as the big hands steered me under the high trussed roof.

In the shadow away from the bright sunlight I saw something that might have been a cart at one stage in its life.  It was like a heavier, less aesthetic version of the pony cart that I had hauled Steven about in, back at Bilboes.  It was perhaps a metre wide by two metres long, with handles like a wheelbarrow at one end, big wooden wheels, and it rested on two legs at the front.  Most ominous, however, were the U-bolts lying on top of the timber planks.

I was hoisted bodily on to the rear of the cart, and instructed to kneel.  I had little choice in the matter, as my legs were positioned half a metre apart with my feet protruding just off the rear edge.  Two of the U-bolts were inserted in holes such that they pinioned my ankles to the boards with the nuts screwed up underneath the cart by Shek.  With this done, Portia obviously felt she could remove my handcuffs, and with them, the leather jacket and my dress.  Naked but for my boots, I was made to lean forward on my forearms, while more U-bolts were placed over my wrists and just in front of my elbows.  By the time they were screwed up, so was I, and it was in this position of supplication that I was left, head down, arse up, while my captors disappeared into the house.

I knelt there and cried, watching my tears form wet spots on the dry dusty boards of the cart.  I didn’t know what my fate was to be, and I wondered what Steven and the others were doing right then.  It was mid-afternoon and at any other time the place could have been described as idyllic, with only the sound of birds in the still warm air.  I thought about all sorts of things – about why I was there, about how I would never disobey any of the others again, and I was unable to avoid thinking about the circumstances of my capture.  The fact that the launch and the bikes had been ready for Portia, and that we had arrived here with no luggage led me to one conclusion.  The whole thing had been set up – planned, not spontaneous.  This was confirmed perhaps an hour later when Portia reappeared.

She remained in her trademark red, but this time she had changed, and carried with her a red leather carry-all.  Shek did not appear, and I had the feeling this was going to be a strictly one-on-one session, perhaps a continuation of that in the boat.  I was glad that Shek was not involved, for the thought of being on the receiving end of him – in whatever form – had to be more scary than Portia.

But such degrees of scariness remained just that – degrees.  I was scared, helpless, and vulnerable, both emotionally and physically, to whatever Portia now wanted to do to me to satisfy her desires.  This time she looked ready for some action, wearing a clinging lycra top through which her aroused nipples poked like accusatory fingertips.  Below this she wore a short leather skirt that zipped down the front, revealing a smooth expanse of leg leading down to the boots that had previously been covered by her trousers.  On each hand she sported a leather glove with the fingers cut out, supplemented by wrist bands and a heavy silver chain at her waist.  Her hair, cut to just short of her shoulders, was clipped up on her head, and she looked all business – mean, nasty and raring to get stuck into little Shawnee. 

Portia put down the bag somewhere behind me, and circled the cart.  I didn’t dare look at her, instead staring at the boards a few inches in front of my face.  She stopped in front of me, and lifted the handles such that I was tipped abruptly backward.  I snorted and mmphed in alarm at the unexpected movement, which made her laugh, as she repositioned the cart with one of the handles touching one of the thick posts that supported the roof. She bound the handle in place with several turns of rope, stepping back and eying the slope of the cart critically after she did so.  The floor of the cart was now at about forty-five degrees - a slope such that the only things preventing me sliding off were the half dozen U-bolts, and most of my weight was now held by these.  It was uncomfortable, and instinctively I tried to lean forward to counter the remorseless force of gravity.

Portia seemed happy with this arrangement and disappeared out of my field of vision.  My next indication of her presence was the thwack of a multi-tailed flogger landing across my rump, which made me jerk.  It was not a really hard strike, but she was clearly working up to that, for there followed a succession of blows that curled around my buttocks on to my thighs and began to tenderise my flesh.  She was proficient with the flogger, for she struck from both sides, forehanded from my left, and backhanded from my right.  I have endured beatings from Monica and others, usually because I’ve misbehaved and have deserved it.  I had the feeling that in this instance Portia was out to make a point, and that point began to sink in as my backside warmed up and I began to squirm against the blows.

She switched tack after a little while, and the strikes began to land upwards, between my legs.  I started to whine, for it hurt, particularly when she landed a good one that reached right through to my still very tender pussy.  The backs and insides of my thighs also came in for punishment, before she switched to a smaller flogger, with fewer, shorter but heavier thongs.  Now things were getting really uncomfortable, and I was grunting and snorting, and occasionally crying out into the rubber wad trapped inside my mouth.  But the beating was remorseless.  Occasionally Portia varied her attack with vicious flicks at my breasts, hanging like ripe mangoes protected only by my rigidly secured arms.  After a few of these, and more attention on the back of my legs, I was crying and sobbing, but Mistress Portia was far from finished. 

She had evidently decided I was sufficiently warmed up, and paused long enough to rub her hands over what must now have been the red, glowing flesh of my buttocks.  I could hear her heavy breathing, and when she walked in front of me I saw her nipples straining against the red lycra of her top with all the intensity that passionate arousal brings.  She cupped my chin and gazed fiercely into my eyes.

“I hope you understand, Shawnee, that you are now mine, to do with as I please.  Am I getting this through to you?”  I nodded, pleading wordlessly for her to stop.  In her hand now was a riding crop, and I did not know how much more of this I could take.  “Think of this as a little initiation, to give you an understanding of how things will be done from now on.  If you fail me, or disobey, imagine a punishment ten times more severe, such that you will be unable to sit down for a week without a painful recollection of your ineptitude.  Is that clear?”  I nodded again and sniffled, the tears running down my cheeks. “Oh don’t be so soft,” she exclaimed.  “You western girls have no fortitude, no pride in your roles.”

She let me go and returned to the rear of the cart, and moments later my backside caught fire as the first blow from the riding crop landed.  I howled into the gag, tugging futilely at the iron bars holding me to the cart.  More blows landed and I writhed, shaking the cart and making muted pleadings for her to stop.  Finally, when I felt I would die, and that my skin must be being ripped to shreds, she appeared in front of me again.

“I will give you two options, my dear Shawnee.  You may take a further twenty strokes from the crop, or you may take twenty strokes up the arse from me.”  I was not thinking at all clearly, and made gagged noises laced with sniffles and sobs to the effect that anything would be preferable to a further beating.

“Very well.  But let me explain that your initiation will not stop here.  Tomorrow I think I will give you to Shek for an hour or so.  Shek likes screwing girls in the arse, especially young pretty western girls, though admittedly he has had little practice on them.  You’ve seen the size of his member, and I suspect that it may prove somewhat difficult for you to accommodate, so I thought it only fair that you get a little accustomed to the process before you have to cope with the real thing.  It is all part of your training, you understand.  If you misbehave, bad things will happen to you.  Today and tomorrow will demonstrate some of those bad things, so you will do well to remember every detail of this punishment, as a preventative against future errant behaviour.  Now, are you ready?”

I was so distraught at what she was saying that I must have objected in a most indeterminate fashion.  She looked at me curiously, then shrugged and disappeared from my view again.  My tears had eased to stifled sobs in the space of a minute or so, and I lowered my head to peer between my legs.  I was horrified at what I saw - a giant black phallus protruding from the now unzipped front of Portia’s skirt. 

Moments later Portia’s hands were laid on my sore and sensitive butt cheeks, and I felt an investigating nozzle of some sort squirt something cold into my butt hole.  Then the hands were controlling my buttocks, and I felt the head of the big dick nuzzling my hole.  I was kneeling on the sloping boards, and did my best to lean forward away from the dong poking between my cheeks, but with my arms pinioned to the boards at the elbows, my movement was limited.  Once I had reached the end of that, I had nowhere to go, and the head of the invader began to penetrate me.

“Urrmph!” I moaned, shaking my head and trying to dislodge the thing.  It was not so much long as thick, and in my panic at having to accept this I was ignoring Portia’s instructions – and my basic training – to relax my sphincter muscles.  Finally Portia’s words sank in, and with my legs held apart keeping my cheeks clenched was not really an option.  Portia pushed and withdrew steadily while I cried and sobbed into my gag, until suddenly, with a momentary piercing pain, the phallus slid home and I groaned in misery.

Now Portia paused, letting me become accustomed to the enormous fullness impaling me, I was panting and sweating, feeling the front of Portia’s pelvis and skirt pressed against my backside, then a slight movement as she slipped her hand between my legs and began to play with my clit, now supersensitive from the rope on the boat and the flogging it had just received.  I jerked at her touch, and as her fingers found their target a sudden warm thrill made me shudder with a sensation that was the opposite of the pain I had just experienced.

When Portia began to move, keeping her hand in place, I became conscious of the increasing passion in her voice, now audible in throaty moans above my own gagged rasping breath.  I reckoned the strap-on she wore had an insert for her, as well, and that for every shove into me, she received one as well.  I figured it would not be like Portia to go through this exercise without a major element of self-gratification.

“Is that tight, little Shawnee?” she hissed, leaning against me and pressing her firm breasts into my back.  “Shek’s is bigger and longer than this.  Imagine how that will feel tomorrow… I think I’ll leave this embedded in you tonight, to make the pain a little less tomorrow…” I wailed and shook my head in protest as another wave of pleasure flooded up from my loins.  Despite my mental denials, I knew what Monica had told me often enough, that pain heightened my receptivity, and that in this case I was helpless against my own body’s mechanisms.

The orgasm crashed over me unexpectedly, seeming to come from nowhere on a final thrust of the big black dong up my arse.  I strained mightily against the iron bands holding me and howled into the rubber filling my mouth, writhing like a dog trying to shake itself after a bath.  Portia kept going, however, humping me mercilessly, her fingers digging deep into the wetness of my love passage.  I was snorting and jerking and grunting continuously, seeing stars as another climax closely followed the first and it was all I could do to maintain my breathing.  I became conscious of a drawn-out cry from behind me, and at once Portia’s movements subsided and she leant against me, her breasts heaving against my back, her arms around me and her fingers letting loose a last few squeezes of my nipples that made me cry out again behind the tape and the rubber in my mouth.

For several minutes we stayed that way, Portia clinging to me, while I could do nothing but feel my legs and arms quiver and tremble, and my arse remaining very aware of the big intruder rammed home inside it.  At length Portia seemed to gather her thoughts. 

“God, I can see why Monica keeps you,” she panted, a slight tremor in her voice.  I was sure I detected a tremble in her legs as well, pressed as they were against my cheeks.  “You and I are going to have such fun together.”  I moaned again in misery.  I did not think I could stand this treatment on a regular basis.

I felt more movement of the big dong being jiggled in my arse, and then the pressure seemed to come off.  There was a sigh of pleasure from Portia, and though the device remained embedded, I sensed that Portia and I were no longer connected.  A minute later she looped a long rope around my waist, tugging the loop tight at my navel and feeding the double cord between my legs, and encircling whatever part of the dildo was protruding, before pulling the tails up through the waist rope at the back and knotting it tightly, such that the phallus was again driven deep inside me.  I groaned as she did this, sensing that I was going to have to bear this intruder for some time to come. 

Portia was not finished with the rope however, nor the discomfort that she had to put me through to make her point.  The rope continued up my back and over my shoulders, knotting between my breasts.  From there she encircled each of my globes with multiple turns as they bulged beneath me, taking advantage of their natural weight to make them swell and distend like two big rock melons.  They were of such nice proportions normally that when hanging below me they did not dangle loosely but rather became a natural extension of my torso, even if they did make me look even more like I’d had a boob job.  Portia now took advantage of gravity to wrap the rope tightly around the base of them before running further turns around my torso, to tie it off behind me.

Portia stepped back and appraised the look she had created. She had now zipped up her skirt which clung to her slim hips as though it had grown on her.  She was evidently satisfied with me, and I gazed at her with the most abject look I could muster, given most of my face was concealed beneath rubber and tape.  They say the eyes are the window to the soul, and I hoped at that moment my eyes conveyed the distraught feeling my soul held.  My expression evidently met with her approval as well, for she clapped her hands delightedly and smiled at me as a person who has just been given a new pet.

Finally she got around to untying the rope around the handle of the cart, and setting it down on an even keel again.  It was nice not to be straining against the steel U-bolts, and even nicer to have them removed from my wrists and elbows.  But before my ankles were released, more shackles appeared from under the cart.  This time it was two heavy iron rings, the first of which – a collar - was closed and locked about my neck.  The second ring wrapped around my wrists and compressed them together when Portia had clicked the padlock closed.  A two-metre length of heavy chain hung from the wrist lock, and I hardly dared to think about what I was to be chained to.

Only then did she remove the last U-bolts over my boots securing my ankles to the cart, before helping me down awkwardly.  I stumbled momentarily for my legs were weak and rubbery from the strain they’d been under, and the broad phallus still jammed in my arse felt unnatural and unsettled my walking.  Portia, of course, had no time for such things, and dragged me by the chain over to where a round beam lay on the ground between two of the posts supporting the roof of the shelter in the middle of the structure.  The beam was really just a log, roughly the size of one the beams of the shelter – about a foot in diameter.  I was made to kneel astride it, which I could do with my knees just touching the ground, but also with my weight squarely on the dildo’s protrusion. 

“Lie on your stomach, arms out in front of you,” Portia commanded, and I obediently lay stretched out, my bulbously restrained breasts either side of the log.  Portia gave me enough slack so that my hands could reach my neck before she locked the loose end of my wrist chain through an eyebolt near one end of the log.  As I lay there, she attached separate long lengths of rope to each ankle and drew them backwards and outwards, finally tying them off to two other posts.  They were not tight, but I suspected I would find sufficient discomfort in them within a short period.

Portia squatted next to me, the skirt drawing tight over her thighs.

“Are you hungry, Shawnee?”

I nodded my head and mmphed affirmatively.  I had been so uncomfortable, upset and sore that I had forgotten the passing of time and the emptiness in my stomach.

“Very well, I’ll find something for you, which you can have if you can free that troublesome mouth of yours.  I shall come back in half an hour.  If you have nowhere to put the food, I shall assume you don’t want it.”  With that she stood up and walked back to the house with an arrogant elegance that I could aspire to but know I would never achieve.

Half an hour?  No wuks, I thought.  Easy-peasy.  I figured I had a reasonable chance at removing the tape and was not particularly worried, until I realised firstly how rigid the iron band held my wrists.  I could not twist them independently the way one could with handcuffs, and I discovered that I had great difficulty in reaching the back of my head because of the shortness of the chain.  I found myself stretched out along the log, pulled towards the anchor point of the chain to create more slack, which of course pulled my feet out more rigidly, which in turn put more weight on my pussy and stomach.  The former was extremely tender after the rope and the flogging, not to mention the going over from Portia’s fingers, and this extra attention was something it did not need.

I tried to concentrate on finding the end of the tape, striving not to give in to panic and to try to rip the whole tape and rubber hood off.  If I did that I would be lost, and I knew it, for the tape would just tighten and become immovable.  It was only after much tedious exploring over every square inch of my head that I finally found the end of the tape, but that of course was only the beginning, for I then had to unwind the multiple turns that had been wound about my head.  And of course all this movement of my arms meant a corresponding movement down below, as my poor clit ground itself against the timber.  The bitch!  She knew this would happen!  I gritted my teeth, biting down on the sponge rubbery thing that had been in my mouth for many hours.  I was just too sensitive down there, and sure enough, after two more turns of tape had been undone, I was suddenly snorting and humping the log for all I was worth, all thought of food and gag removal forgotten as the warm flood erupted like a lava flow and I was crying and mmphing and jerking against the chains and ropes binding me.

When the fire in my loins finally died down, I hastened on with the tape removal, finally pulling the last of it free just as the door to the house opened.  I hauled the clinging rubber hood off in a welter of sweat.  I pried the rubbery object out of my mouth just as Portia reached me.  It turned out to be one of those stress-relief sponge balls – the sort with the little smiley face that you are supposed to squeeze in your hand to relieve stress.  Very cute I thought – not! 

Portia brought with her with a delicious smelling bowl of some sort of rice and meat.  She set it on the ground and sat on the log in front of me, smoothing back my long hair from where it was plastered all over my face.  I felt very unattractive at that moment, but Portia didn’t seem to notice as she slipped a hand under each breast in turn and hefted it, as one might in assessing the ripeness of a cantaloupe.  I made no sound, enduring the tightness and discomfort of the ropes binding them as a necessary evil about which I could do nothing.

“Clever girl,” she said finally, patting my head and putting the bowl into my hands where they rested on the log, as I propped myself on my elbows. My legs were drawn in as best I could manage to take some of the weight, the toes of my boots digging into the packed earth.  Portia stared down at me for a long time, making me very nervous as to what she was thinking, before she finally stood up and returned to the house without so much as a backward glance. 

Carefully I manoeuvred the bowl within my pinioned hands, rotating it so that it was readily accessible to my mouth, before proceeding to eat every last morsel.  This done, I stretched out as best I could, exhausted by the beatings and forced orgasms that had drained my strength and stretched every muscle.  Even as I lay there, I was conscious of the ache from the ropes encircling my breasts and body, and the discomfort of the phallus still bound inside my arse, not to mention the muscles in my legs being sufficiently restrained as to be painful.  Then, despite all this, I must have dozed, succumbing to the cloying heat of the warm afternoon sun.

*   *   *

I awoke to the brutal, searing pain of a thin bamboo cane landing across my buttocks.  As I came to my senses a second blow landed and I screamed, at once trying to sit up and being checked as the ropes on my ankles and the chain on my wrists drew taut.

A third blow landed and I cried out again.

“No, no, please Mistress!  Please – no more!”  Tears were now streaming down my face as the reality of my surroundings flooded back to me.  It was nearly dark, and what had perhaps seemed like just a bad dream was now stark reality.  Overhead two portable fluorescent lights illuminated the fearsome figure of Portia, still in her leather skirt and lycra top, wielding the cane with a hair-raising swishing sound that had always given me the heebies.

She halted mid-swing, and smiled at my tears, before putting the cane down.

“I’ve come to settle you down for the night,” she said, quickly undoing my ankle bonds, then unlocking the chain from the eyebolt.  “Get up, girl!” 

I stood, my bottom on fire from the cane strokes which had reawakened the residual hurt from the previous flogging, and was towed across to the lean-to structure which formed the front wall.  We went to the end where the water trough was, and I was allowed to wash my face and drink.  I swallowed as much as I could, aware of how dehydrated I had become from the exertions I had been put through.  This done, Portia picked up an iron bar about half a metre long and the thickness of my thumb, with a hole in each end.  This she locked in place, one end attached to my collar, the other to my wrist band.  Suddenly I was unable to reach my head or anything above my navel - the level at which the bar held my wrists.  Portia led me to an area of the lean-to which had a layer of straw on the floor and here she bade me lie on my side, so she could wrap the end of the wrist chain a couple of times about my ankles before locking it there.  The shortening of the chain drew my knees close to my wrists, so that I could not now straighten my legs. I was clearly not going anywhere, nor was I to even see where I might go, as she took a leather blindfold down from the wall and buckled it in place around my head and under my chin.  She had no need of locks, for with the throat-to-wrist bar there was no way I could reach my head. 

“Good night Shawnee.  Tomorrow you get to be skewered by Shek.  I told you I’d leave that dildo in place.  You’ll be glad of it tomorrow, when that tight little rosebud of yours has stretched to an appropriate size to be able to accommodate his full size.”

“Oh Mistress please take it out!  I don’t want all night… I need to relieve myself…”

In my blind state I was conscious of the movement of Portia’s boots in the straw near me, and the faint hiss of leather and nylon as she again squatted beside me. 

“Are you telling me what I can and can’t do, Shawnee?”  The voice was soft but menacing, and I knew I had gone too far, but after the water I had drunk I had the sudden urge to pee.

“N-no, Mistress…I didn’t mean…”

“Good.  I would hate to think you hadn’t learned your lesson.”

For a moment I thought I had almost got away with my gaffe but then Portia’s final touch was to place a clothes pin on each tautly extended nipple on breasts which had now become ultra-sensitive and painful from the ropes binding them.  I gasped, and bit my tongue as I was about to implore her not to leave me like this for the night, but I knew this was to be my punishment, and anything I said would only make it worse.  I lay in the darkness and listened to the footsteps fading across the courtyard.

*   *   *

24.02.04

story continues in Monica's Travels 05

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