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Monica's Travels 23

by Richard Alexander (Gromets Plaza)

(story continues from Monica's Travels 22)

Chapter Twenty Three –  LA LA Land

The worst thing about flying east to west is that you tend to land at around the same time you’ve taken off.  It is therefore later by your body clock and you have to go through the same hours all over again.

We had not had much sleep on the plane, and it was close to midnight when we got through to the arrivals hall, in time to see Trish and a beautiful dark-skinned woman hug each other with squeals of delight.  This was Louise, it seemed, all legs to her armpits and model looks.

“Where are you staying?” she asked.

“At the Raffles L’Ermitage.”

“Wow!  You’ve sure come up in the world!  That place is pricey!”

In the bus sent by the hotel, we heard some of Louise and Trish’s escapades in Dark Castle, while Louise heard a little more of our pursuit of Monica.  It was extraordinarily nice of her to come out to meet us at such an ungodly hour, and she insisted on meeting us again for breakfast at nine the next morning, where we would see what we could come up with in the way of a plan of attack for whatever road we chose to explore next.

The hotel was towards the north of LA, and I couldn’t help noticing we were travelling along Santa Monica Boulevard for some of the time.  I nudged Emma and pointed out the sign.  Emma nodded pensively, but said nothing, and it was clear that the fame of such a well-known street was secondary to the fate of Monica in Emma’s mind.

The hotel was about as top class as you could get, and once again I was grateful that Mohammed and Rashid were paying the bills, though it seemed we were getting precious little benefit out of any of this.  Everywhere we turned, the forces of darkness seemed to be conspiring against us.  Now, as I tumbled into the luxurious bed, I wondered what nasty surprises would be waiting for us the following day.

*   *   *

Over breakfast the next morning we got down to business.  Louise had sunglasses pushed up on her head and wore a tennis dress that contrasted wonderfully with her coffee-coloured skin.

“The address of Jade Wong’s place is in the San Fernando Valley – the other side of the Santa Monica Hills,” she said.  There was a momentary silence around the table as another reference to Monica fell out of the blue.  I didn’t know what to make of this – not that I’m superstitious or anything.  Was it karma, serendipity, or a bad omen?

“I think we should take a look and see what the place is like,” I suggested.  “Until then we won’t know what we’re up against.”

“Sounds reasonable,” Trish agreed.  “Do you have a car, Louise?”

Louise laughed.  “God, who doesn’t here?”  Trish looked sheepish.

“Jade will know we’ll follow her,” Mary said.

“But will she know that we have her address?”

“Only if Marilyn tells her.  She could phone with a warning,” Emma suggested nervously.

“Not until she gets free,” I said.  “I think she’ll have a few difficulties, not to mention embarrassing predicaments to overcome first.” 

“The earliest she could be free might be about now, though,” persisted Emma. “She could still phone.”

“If she had the number,” Mary corrected, pulling out her own handbag and producing the little green address book.  My bet is that it’s unlisted.”

“It might be already on her mobile phone,” Trish said.

“Thought of that,” said Mary, flourishing a mobile that obviously wasn’t hers.  The others were clearly impressed.

“I reckon she’s still too organised to leave everything to just a book,” Emma said stubbornly.

“Maybe something like this?” Mary offered, dropping an electronic organiser on the table.  “And I cleaned out her email contacts on her laptop, too, before you ask.”

“Hey, you guys are good!” enthused Louise.

Despite Mary’s obvious forethought, we all agreed that time was of the essence, and were soon heading up the San Diego Freeway in Louise’s big Toyota RAV. 

“So how is the B&D scene here?” Trish asked. 

“Great!  You name it, we have it!  I work for a place called the Spider’s Web.  It’s discrete, high class, all manner of clients.  Good fun.  I still think about the Sydney days, though.  We had good fun there, too.  I was sorry to leave there.”

“Why did you?” I asked.

“Oh, you know.  I was just passing through.  No proper work permits.  Trying to make a crust when you’re young and unsettled.”

“Sounds like you, Trish,” I murmured.

“Mmm.  We were a few of a kind in those days.”

We turned left on to the Ventura Highway and a short while later, with Trish navigating from the passenger seat using the street directory, we turned off heading up a steep-sided canyon.

“Exclusive area,” commented Louise.  “Lots of rich folks live up in these canyons. Privacy and exclusivity. Easily protected – except when the fires come.  Then you’re a goner.”

I looked up at the scrub-covered hillsides and imagined how a bush fire could channel through the canyon and take out everything in its path. 

The road went for a couple of kilometres, past high-walled enclosures and tall hedges, with just the tips of the roofs showing over the top.  At the end of the road, where the canyon walls narrowed, there was a high stone wall that seemed to stretch right across the canyon.  Beyond a pair of tall iron gates was a two-storey house made of grey stone with an orange tile roof.  It looked vaguely Spanish, but not quite.  A sort of would-be, could-be, but didn’t quite make it.  A concrete driveway ran in a big circle under mature cypress trees, to pass under an entranceway at the front, then return to the gate with a side road to a triple garage connected on the end of the house to the right.

We looked around the area, noting that the walls also served as the boundaries for two adjacent properties, equally well secured.  Beside all the gates I noticed there was a video intercom and overhead cameras.

“I don’t think we’re going to break into this one easily,” I said.  “Not by force, anyway.”

“Ah, but maybe by stealth,” suggested Trish.  “Supposing Jade Wong had some stuff sent from BondCon?  Supposing Marilyn sent her some stuff?  Couldn’t we get in with a courier van?”

“Hey, I can fix you up if that’s what you wanna do,” Louise offered, turning the car around and heading back the way we had come.  “I’ve some clients in the movie business.  At the Spider’s Web we make up fantasy scenes all the time, and they’re always happy to help out.  They work in the props department.  We can get anything   - delivery vans, uniforms, you name it.”

“We’ve still got the problem of the video intercom and the cameras,” Mary said. “Unless it’s the butler who answers, Jade or Portia will recognise any of us.”

“I’ll help,” Louise volunteered brightly.  “I used to work as a delivery person.  Okay, it was flowers, not FedEx, but the theory’s the same.”

“You’ll do this?” asked Trish. “You’re wonderful, Louise!”

“You’re welcome.  Always happy to help the good guys.”

*   *   *

Louise was true to her word, and was soon calling up favours on her mobile phone as we drove back to the hotel where she dropped us.  It seemed that we had barely had time for lunch when we were summoned to reception.  Louise was waiting for us, wearing a peaked cap, a khaki shirt and shorts and desert boots.  Outside was a van that might once have been a FedEx van, but now sported the logo of “Parcel Express”.

“Jump in,” she said, opening the back door.  “Sorry about the seating – it was the best I could do at short notice.”

“It’s fine,” I said, climbing on to the double foam mattress that had obviously been slung hurriedly inside.

“I’ve brought some stuff from work, as well,” she said, opening a cardboard box to reveal a couple of sets of handcuffs, some rope, duct tape and some cable ties.  “You never know what might come in handy.”

There were no windows in the back, and the trip was hot and uncomfortable, but I was sure it wasn’t as uncomfortable as whatever Monica was going through.  The four of us lay on the mattress in the darkness, me curled up against Trish, and she doing provocative things with her hand in my crotch.  I was well and truly aroused by the time we made the distinctive turn off from Ventura highway.  I would have recognised it even if Louise hadn’t banged on the back of the cabin and yelled it out to us. 

We were now going much slower up the winding road in the canyon, and eventually stopped, with the engine idling.  There was the noise of the driver’s door opening and Louise climbed out.  There came the faint sound of her voice as she talked over the video phone.  Then she was back inside.

“We’re in, guys,” she called, slipping the engine into gear and driving slowly up the driveway to the front door.  Here we stopped and the engine was turned off.  Louise got out and there came further sounds of voices.  It was a male voice talking to Louise.  She was walking back slowly, engaging this person in conversation, to let us know that he was male, there was only one of him, and whatever else we could glean through the walls of the truck.  He sounded middle aged, possibly Chinese, which would make sense, for his English was heavily accented.

We were standing beside the doors when Louise opened them, at once giving the guy a push from behind so that he stumbled into our arms.  Between the four of us we hauled him into the van, burying his head into the foam mattress to stifle his cries.  It took only a few seconds to handcuff him and while I bound his feet Mary and Trish wrapped duct tape around his mouth.  Moments later he was securely hog-tied and lying prone on the floor, obviously wondering what had happened to his day.

The front doors were of polished vertical timbers – two narrow doors about three metres high.  One was standing open and I stuck my head around cautiously.  To the right a curved staircase went upstairs to what I presumed would be bedrooms.  I motioned Mary and Emma to go up there.  Treading warily, Trish, Louise and I fanned out through the rest of the ultra modern house.  It was furnished in exquisite style, with modern pieces of sculpture and art, elegant furniture and the latest in sound and video technology.

We met at the far end of the house where the living room led out on to the pool deck, which curved around a big kidney-shaped pool. Still there was nobody in sight.  Beyond the pool were two separate buildings, that looked as though they might be music or painting studios, or possibly work-out rooms.  Again they were architecturally designed, half-built into the hillside beyond, with wooden sliding doors.  I skirted quickly round the pool, while the others waited, watching me from the house.  Feeling like a spy or a swat team leader, I skulked up to the first building realising only as I got closer that it had no windows.  The walls were white washed plastered blockwork, and the door was made of horizontal timber bars about two inches square, with an equal gap between them.  Behind the closed door was a glass screen, but the place appeared unlit and deserted.

My heart began to beat faster, and I made motions to the others that the place was empty.  More cautiously, now, I approached the second building.  Here the barred wooden door was in place but the glass screen behind it was open.  I could hear Portia before I saw her, for she was perched atop a young Chinese man, who was bound on his back on a whipping bench, his ankles and wrists pulled together down each side, while Portia, wearing a short clinging red lycra dress that had ridden up around her waist, was standing with her feet in stirrups humping on the guy’s dick for all she was worth. 

Predictably he was gagged, and his struggles were ineffectual given the way he was tied, but it was Portia who was making all the noise and doing all the work, and she was heading rapidly towards a good, solid sound barrier-breaking orgasm.

I signalled to the others to join me, but quietly, and they had all crossed the pool deck just as Portia sounded off with a long drawn-out wail, ending with her bent forward over the bound prisoner.  She was gasping and panting and making little self-satisfied grunts of pleasure as we slid back the door and invaded the dungeon.

Portia was taken totally by surprise.  She was still coming down from her trip to orgasm land as we hauled her off her stud’s still rigid member, and she hardly knew what was happening to her.  Moments later she was on the floor with most of us sitting on her, while Mary took a quick inventory of the restraint equipment available to us.  There was plenty of rope, and it was with a piece of this that Portia’s wrists were crossed and bound behind her, and she was hauled to her feet, snarling like a cat.  Her dress slid back down her thighs, but there was no disguising the damp patch in the crotch.  I wasn’t sure what Portia was most upset about – being captured, or being caught in the middle of her little game.  The gagged young man still tied to the whipping horse, and still possessed of an impressive erection, gazed bewildered at the crowd of people who had suddenly invaded the room.

“I suggest we put her in the next door building for the moment,” I said.  “Emma, I think we might need you to talk to our man here.”  I don’t know why I jumped to this conclusion – it was just a hunch I had.  As Trish and Mary hustled Portia outside, she screeched something in Cantonese at the prisoner.

“What did she say?” I asked Emma.

“She said he was to keep his mouth shut or she would cut off this –“ she indicated the still erect penis “– and shove it down his throat.”

The man looked suitably frightened as Emma unbuckled the ball gag and removed it.  She asked if he spoke English, but he looked blankly at her.  Then she spoke to him in Cantonese, and at once he brightened and a gabble of words came forth.  I waited for a pause.

“Em, hear what he has to say, but don’t untie him yet.  We need to know what’s going on here, so we can make plans.  Learn all you can.  Tell him we’re here to help.”

“Are we from the Government?” she teased me with a smile.

“Not yet.  But we have friends there.”

“Okay.”

As Emma and the prisoner conversed, I had a quick look around the room, which obviously doubled as Portia’s – and presumably Jade’s – ‘playroom’.  It was bigger than it looked from the outside, going further into the hillside than I had thought.  It might have been intended as a studio of some sort, or possibly a self-contained apartment, though there was no kitchen as such, only a toilet and shower.  Aside from the whipping bench, there were several pulleys drilled into the concrete ceiling, and eyebolts fixed to the wall, with a large wooden trunk open to reveal a pile of ropes, chains and floggers.

Next door, in what turned out to be an identical building, the decoration was a little more advanced, with – in addition to the anchors and pulleys of the previous room – a stout timber pole spanning from floor to ceiling.  There was also what looked like a saw horse with a large dildo sticking up from it, and a sloping board with associated pulleys that would make a passable rack.

Portia was now secured to the wall by a chain around her neck locked to an eyebolt.  It gave her almost no room to move, and any such movement had been further decreased by a spreader bar that had been secured between her ankles.  She now stood against the wall, legs apart, her dress stretched tautly across her thighs, glaring at her captors.

“Where’s Jade?” Trish was asking as I entered, sounding entirely reasonable..

“Up yours,” Portia snarled.

Trish sighed with the patience of one used to having to deal with recalcitrant clients but still prepared to be civil – up to a point.

“Portia, you recall our little altercation in Hong Kong – on Lantau Island?”  Portia’s body language suddenly became less aggressive and she averted her eyes.  “You recall the kitchen table, chopsticks on your nipples, a rather severe whipping from Mary, and then an uncomfortable trip to the village bouncing along with your big friend’s dick up your arse?”

Portia mumbled something that might have been an affirmative.

“We can go down this road again, if you like.  You’ll tell us what we want to know now, just as you did then.  Now what’s it to be?  When will Jade be back?  Where’s Monica?”

Portia was about to answer when there was a fearsome crack from just behind us.  Mary had found a stockwhip in a cupboard, and her snapping it had made us all jump.  Portia went pale and suddenly she couldn’t tell us enough.

“Monica’s in a place not far from here.  It’s a sort of movie set.  Jade’s there now.  I have to return at six o’clock to take over from her.”

“How can we get in?”

“There are lots of people there during the day.  Night time is better.  There’s one security guard in her area – the asylum.”

“The asylum?”

“It was built for a movie set in a loony bin.  It has all the stuff for the way they used to treat patients in the old days.”

“What sort of stuff?”

“Electrical treatments and the like.”

“What?”

“You know – across the temples.”

“Tell me you’re kidding!” Trish demanded, nearly losing it.  “You’re going to do this to Monica?”

Portia shrugged.  “Jade talked about it.  I’m sure she wouldn’t.  I think she intended to keep Monica here for a long time, as a kind of pet.  There was a container delivered last week and put out the back.  She was going to have this fitted out as a cell.”

“A container?  But you have two perfectly good dungeons here already,” I suggested.

“They serve other purposes,” she said, disdainful of my comment.  “A container will be considerably less comfortable, and will fluctuate nicely in temperature between day and night.”

“Does Jade own this house?”  Mary asked.

“We’re renting it for a few months.  It makes a change from the humidity of Macau.”

There was a pause. 

“Where is this movie set?”  This question came from Louise, who had been standing in the background.

“It’s up near Stone Canyon Reservoir.”

“Half an hour’s drive,” Louise elaborated.  “One way in, one way out.  I went there once on a tour.  Quite impressive.  Quite secure, too.”

I inclined my head to the others and we left Portia to her own company, but not before Mary had a chance to slip the straps of Portia’s dress down her arms to uncover her breasts and release a couple of plastic clothes pegs on to Portia’s nipples.  Portia stifled a cry and bit her lip, closing her eyes as the pain took hold. 

“Think on that while we consider what to do with you,” Mary whispered.

*  *   *

We were sitting on the white leather furniture beside the big open fireplace when Emma joined us a few minutes later.

“What did you find out, Em?” Trish asked.

“Well,” said Emma, sitting down in a big armchair and arranging her skirt neatly across her legs, “it seems that Jade and Portia have not quite gone by the books in some things.  The guy’s name is SK Chan – “

“’SK’?” asked Louise “What kind of name is that?”

“It’s Chinese English when they can’t think of an English English name,” Emma explained.  “They do it in India, as well.”

“Oh.”

“Anyway, not to put too fine a point on it, SK is an illegal immigrant.  Came on a tourist visa and has overstayed.  Doesn’t speak English much.  Got hired by Jade through the Chinese network which always exists here.  Illegal means cheap wages, or in this case almost none.  He was hired ostensibly to be the gardener, but Portia likes to use him as her slave.  She feeds him Viagra and beats him when it pleases her.  Of course he can’t run away – nowhere to go.  He says he spends more time chained up than in the garden, but he’s quite philosophical about it.  We Chinese are like that sometimes.

“He also told me about the butler, or whatever you want to call him.  His name is Foo Hah.  He’s Fukienese, and came with the house.  Apparently the owner is Chinese and as I said, it’s all done through the network.  Mr Foo doesn’t like Jade or Portia, but at his time of life, he’s not about to pack in this job, particularly when most of his money goes to his family back in China.”

“Isn’t it funny how those with the most are the least generous or the most stingy,”  said Trish.

“And what’s your opinion of Messrs Foo and Chan?” I asked.

“I think they’d be happy to work for us, on the understanding that we allegedly force them to do so on the same basis that Jade and Portia have done,” Emma said, indicating that she’d already canvassed this idea with SK Chan.  “Of course we really should set them free…”

“I think we can do that, just as soon as we’ve worked out just how we’re going to get to Monica,” said, and there was a murmur of agreement from the others.  “Okay, who has an idea?”

*  *   *

It would have been quite reasonable of Mr Foo to be profoundly upset at having been gagged and hogtied and left in a van for the best part of an hour.  Truth be known, it took a bit of sweet-talking by Emma, with whom he quickly became besotted, not to mention with the other girls after they had made profuse apologies.  Emma explained to Mr Foo and to SK Chan the circumstances whereby we came to be taking over the Wong household, and we quickly discovered we had two willing aides, provided they could be seen to be doing such under duress.  SK was happy to be spared his services to Portia and Jade, and was delighted to be left to get on with looking after the garden and the pool.  Likewise, Mr Foo was happy making pots of Chinese tea and offering to serve the girls in any way possible.

We established that Jade Wong was supposed to be relieved by Portia at six o’clock at the asylum, for the continuation of treatment of Monica.  When we heard what was being done to her, it was only with great restraint that we decided not to invade the place like a marauding army and probably to have the security force let loose on us as a result.  That seemed a sure way to become persona non grata, to make a name for ourselves, and to have Jade and Monica slip through the net once again.  In this instance we considered that softly softly would catchee monkey. 

In the meantime Louise drove some of us back to the hotel, from which we checked out, to now check in at Chez Wong.  There were plenty of bedrooms upstairs, and we soon made ourselves at home.  By six thirty, we figured Jade would be returning home, disgruntled, and demanding to know why Portia had not relieved her.

When Jade opened the front door, she was greeted by the sight of Portia – still in her red clinging tennis dress – bound tightly to a chair in the middle of the marble-floored vestibule.  Portia sported a matching red ball gag, with her ankles pulled back and roped to her wrists behind her – a position she had been in for most of the afternoon.  Jade had barely time for a startled gasp when I crept from behind one of the big ornamental trees outside the front door and slipped inside behind her, slamming the door enough to make her jump.

She spun round, then caught sight of the rest of us coming from different doorways.  She sprang at me like an enraged animal, scratching at me and forcing me to grab her wrists, then having to avoid getting kicked in the goolies.  It was not fun, and I was grateful for the girls coming quickly to my rescue.

We had discussed exactly how we were going to handle this, and had decided that Portia was the weak link of the two – specifically that she was not just an employee, but we suspected she harboured considerable feelings for her mistress, such that she would opt for mitigation of pain to Jade Wong as being the preferred choice, despite what her mistress might say.

By seven o’clock there had been tears already – tears of frustration, of fury, of pain.  Portia was still bound to the chair, having been carried outside to watch her mistress being ritually humiliated.  Jade now naked, sat on the sawhorse we had found in one of the outhouses, with the integral dildo firmly jammed up her backside.  Her ankles had been tied to her thighs, such that her full weight was resting on the horse, which had a narrow ridge down its length – sufficient to be very uncomfortable to the rider.   Her wrists had been tied in a nasty reverse prayer position behind her shoulder blades, which Mary had decided on.  The horse itself was positioned near the pool, under an overhanging arbour, to which we had fastened a pulley, over which a cord now ran, with one end supporting two empty jerry cans of about ten gallons each.

The other end of the cord was attached to two cords encircling the base of Jade Wong’s breasts.  It had not been an easy task to bind them so, for they were not large, and the ropes had tended to slip off, until Mary had taken charge and managed to have the ropes tighten in one-way slip knots, so that the breasts bulged like baseballs.  Jade Wong, gagged with an inflatable gag, was already in distress, simply through the tightening of the breast ropes.  She had now been tied securely to the horse with a rope around her waist, and had understood very quickly the purpose of the jerry cans.

“As these containers start to fill up with water,” Mary was explaining to Portia, as though her mistress was in some other room, “your dear employer’s boobs will begin to be pulled upwards.  Bear in mind that she is tied to the horse, so she will remain impaled on the nice big dong you guys saw fit to fix to it, no doubt intending to try it out on Monica.  The ropes will tighten further on her breasts, and ultimately, given two hundred pounds of water, she will probably end up hanging by her tits.  She is clearly not happy about this already, so in an hour or so, she will be really quite upset.  We’ll start the water running as you approach the movie set.  It’s an incentive for you not to dally, or to try anything stupid.  You’ll report in every ten minutes.  Failure to ring in will mean the water flow increases.  It‘ll be stopped when you check in that your mission has been successful.  Any silly stuff and your mistress will really be needing a nip-and-tuck, and I would imagine you will, too, if you screw up.”

It was a no-win situation for Portia, and she knew it.  If she went along with us, Monica would slide from their clutches, and Jade would be seriously pissed off.  If she failed to comply, it would result in a prolonged and painful process for them both, with probably the same ultimate result, though just delayed.

“So it will be cooperation?” Trish demanded.  Portia nodded her head miserably, not looking at the tautly bound figure on the sawhorse grunting furiously into her gag.  “Good.  Then we can get on with things.”  Trish squatted to undo Portia’s ankles, helped by Emma.  All right, bend over.”  Portia made a mmphing query as she was hauled to her feet and made to bend over, her head down near her knees, her wrists still bound behind her.  Mary produced a stainless steel butt plug that looked more like a small mortar shell and handed it to Trish while Emma hiked Portia’s dress up around her waist.  The mortar shell glinted in the overhead lights with a sheen of gel, and Portia uttered a gagged protest as Trish shoved the bulbous nose into her puckered rose bud, working it in and out in a far from gentle manner, until it abruptly slid in up to the hilt.  Portia groaned and slowly straightened up as Emma buckled a waist belt and crotch strap in place, tugging the latter hard so that Portia was forced on to her tiptoes. 

“Does it work, Mary?”  asked Trish.  Mary had a small garage-type remote in her had and pushed the button.  Portia jumped and staggered, jamming her legs together and collapsing on to her knees, moaning piteously into the red ball still strapped in her mouth.

“That should bring home the reality of what will happen to you if there is any funny business,” Trish told her in no uncertain terms.  Portia rolled on to her side and snorted her distress.

*   *   *

We traveled to the movie set in Louise’s Toyota, with Portia hogtied on the floor in the back, under the feet of Trish and Emma.  We left Mary looking after Jade, just to reinforce the threat that existed if Portia decided not to cooperate.  The arrangement was not totally satisfying, for Mary was chafing at the bit to track down Monica, and being delegated to nursemaiding Jade Wong was a bit like leaving a drunk in charge of the brewery.  It evidently had the right effect on Jade, however, for I saw the fear in her eyes as Mary stood by with the hose, inserting the end into one of the jerry cans and starting the water.

As Louise had said, it took half an hour to drive to the set.  Outside there was a big parking lot with only a scattering of cars.  It was now completely dark and only a few lights were on inside the perimeter fence, which was guarded by a security patrol at the gate.  We parked between the main lights and untied Portia, removing the gag as we did so.  We had agreed that Portia, Trish and myself would go inside.  One person would be needed to keep an eye on Portia, and one would be needed to deal with Monica.

I was nervous as hell as we approached the little security hut beside the gates.  Portia showed a pass and signed us in.

“These people are with me,” she said.  “We’ve come to pick up a colleague.”

“Sure, have a nice evening,” said the guard, returning to the small portable television that murmured away inside the shed.

We walked down a street that might have been 1930 Chicago.  It had been raining lightly and the asphalt shone in the light from old fashioned street lamps.  A vintage Ford with running boards was parked under one of the lights, but nobody else was around.  We reached an intersection and somewhere off to the right the sound of hammering and a circular saw could be heard.  Turning left, Chicago lasted for another fifty metres, then the road abruptly became a gravel driveway that ran around a garden planted amongst well established trees.  Looking back, we could see that the buildings we had just walked between were in fact only facades, supported by structural flying buttresses behind them. 

Ahead of us, beyond the garden and dimly lit by twin coach lamps outside the entrance, was a building that could have been straight out of One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest.  Somehow this looked to be more than just a façade, and as we grew closer it became more brooding.  Outside the front entrance was a rusty ute, which Portia said belonged to Bob, evidently some sort of minder.

“He should be the only one here,” she explained.  “Though normally he would have been relieved by Henry for the night shift, by now.”

This statement made me uneasy.  It meant there could be another person showing up which we would have to deal with.  Already we were prepared to deal with one, if the need arose.  I had a sock weighted with sand as a cosh in my pocket, and Trish wore a small back pack containing our emergency restraints.  She was talking to Mary on the mobile phone as we approached the front entrance.

“Mary says the first water container is a quarter full,” Trish told Portia.  “Mary says ‘hi’ and Jade says ‘mmmph’.”  Trish grinned and Portia looked pale in the light of the two entry lamps.

We pushed open the doors and entered what might have been a morgue.  Nobody was about and the place was cold and institutional.  It was like walking on to a building version of the Marie Celeste, with the detail complete even to the notice boards with their fading pieces of paper.

Portia led us straight over to the elevator opposite the doors and pushed the button.  It took a minute to arrive, during which time we were all starting to feel considerably more nervous.  I could sense it in Trish, and certainly Portia was as jumpy as a cat.

The elevator opened on to a gloomy corridor on the floor below, opposite which was a glass-fronted office.  Portia frowned at the empty office.

“Bob’s not here,” she said, stating the obvious.  We peered through the glass and saw an open porno magazine on the desk.

While none of us said so, suddenly we began to get a bad feeling. 

“Which room is she in,” Trish demanded.  Even Portia broke into a run as we headed down the eerily quiet corridor, stopping sharply before a heavy door with a spyhole in it and the label “Hydrotherapy Room”.  I peered through the spyhole and took in the four pools and the crane device.  In one of the nearest pools a white mummified form was just visible in the water, strapped to a suspended frame.  A man in hospital fatigues was fiddling with the controls on a black electrical box, twisting and turning knobs as though he was playing a computer game.  Portia had explained – with some persuasion – the treatment that they had been dishing out to Monica, but somehow this didn’t prepare me for what I now saw.  The figure in the water – Monica - while strapped down and encased in bandages, was somehow managing to make the water surface tremble and lap at the edge of the pool as she struggled fiercely and desperately against the electrical impulses and whatever else was happening inside her body, bound in the bandages.

The door opened to my touch, and the cosh was in my hand as we charged into the room.  The intention was that we use Portia to infiltrate alongside Bob, but this idea went out the window when I saw what he was doing.  Keeping an eye on Portia was momentarily forgotten as I leapt at Bob, swinging the cosh as I did so.

I had never used a cosh on anybody before, and I had no idea how hard to hit or what effect it would have.  All I knew was that this guy had to be stopped, and I hit him behind the ear in a fit of rage that surprised even me.  Bob had a surprised look on his face as he went down, copping another bang on the head from the side of the pool upstand in the process, before he collapsed in a heap at our feet.

Trish grabbed Portia by the arm and pushed her towards the controls of the crane.

“Get her out!” she snapped, and Portia needed no further urging.  I dragged Bob out of the way and saw, as I did so, a straitjacket lying on a bench beside the wall caught my eye.  From the story we had beaten out of Portia, I suspected this had been worn by Monica, and it seemed only appropriate that Bob should experience the pleasure as well, so I began stripping him of his hospital fatigues.  By the time Monica was unstrapped from the frame I had the jacket half on Bob, but stopped long enough to help Portia and Trish slide the soaking cocoon on to the gurney.  At that point I used a couple of cable ties to secure Portia’s wrists behind her, looping her arms through one of the cables on the suspended frame.  While Trish and I were otherwise occupied, I didn’t want her doing a runner.

Trish already had the surgical scissors out of her back pack and was snipping away the bandages from Monica’s head.  Finally we peeled some back and could cut the strap from the swimming goggles underneath.  Her eyes were closed, but blinked open as we called her name.  The blue irises glazed over with tears and she made pathetic woo-ing noises through the tube.  I almost felt like crying myself, so relieved was I to see her after these terribly fraught days chasing her halfway around the world.

My eyes blurred a little, and I turned back to deal with Bob and the straitjacket, while Trish continued the cutting of the bandages.  I buckled the straps up tightly behind him, pulling them as tight as I could, then gagging him with a black rubber bit gag, which I found under the straitjacket.  He was starting to come round, groaning at irregular intervals, but right then I had little sympathy, and my thoughts were on one thing only.

As I stood up, Trish was removing the last of the bandages on Monica’s head, trying not to cut her hair in the process.  She was as pale as death and I held her head while gently working the mouthpiece and tube from between her lips.  She coughed slightly but made no move to speak.  I had never seen her like this and it scared me, particularly the empty intravenous drip with the tube that led into her arm.  What had these bastards been doing to her?

Trish cut further down, exposing the rigid acrylic neck brace that had held her mouth closed and prevented her from turning her head.  I undid this and removed it, and Monica appeared to breathe a little easier.  As Trish continued snipping, opening up the bandages like a chest incision, Monica’s breasts were exposed, revealing two steel nipple clamps connected by wires.  Carefully I massaged the taut flesh and managed to ease the clamps off.  Monica groaned.

Trish worked quicker now, slicing down from the stomach to ankle, and pulling off the outer layer of bandages, freeing the individually bandaged limbs and exposing more pad electrodes and an Ultimator wedged firmly between her legs.  I was disconnecting wires and pulling off pads while Trish removed the bandages from Monica’s arms.  Her skin was cold and clammy and I was becoming more and more nervous about her well-being. 

I worked the big vibrator and plug out as gently as I could, moving her legs apart on the gurney to facilitate this.  Still attached to several wires, the device came clear and again Monica groaned, but did not open her eyes.  She looked completely exhausted, and seemed to have lost weight. 

We had brought some clothes – a leather jacket and jeans and a pair of sneakers, not knowing quite what state we might find her.  As Trish cut the last of the bandages on Monica’s legs and removed the drip, I pulled Monica’s clothes from the backpack and began to work her arms into the jacket.  Her head was lolling, but momentarily she seemed to come to, and opened her eyes.  I put my hands either side of her head and stared into her face.

“Monica…” I whispered urgently.  The blue eyes seemed lost somewhere, but then appeared to focus.  She smiled, just a little, and I knew she had at least recognised that she was now amongst friends.  I kissed her softly on the lips and hugged her, hoping a little of the warmth of my own body might be transferred.  For a moment I was lost in my own fears, before I became conscious of Trish – inconspicuously practical, pushing Monica’s free arm into the jacket.

“I hate to break up this reunion, but we need to move,” Trish murmured urgently.  “Bob’s friend is late and may be here at any minute.”

I drew a breath and together we pulled on Monica’s jeans and sneakers.  As I was doing up the laces, I saw Trish pick up the Ultimator and bend over the prone figure of Bob, and expertly lifting one naked leg, work the butt plug home with a brutal efficiency.  She reached into the back pack and extracted a couple of cable ties, which she used to secure his penis to the front dildo, before pulling the crotch strap of the straitjacket tight and activating a couple of switches on the control box.  Several lights came on green, and after turning a couple of knobs, two of the lights turned to red, and Bob began to groan again.  Trish slipped a couple of cable ties around his ankles, anchoring them snugly together.

“Bravo,” I said, but Trish was already pulling the backpack on and cutting the cable ties on Portia’s wrists.  “You’ll have to carry Mon,” she said unnecessarily, but I had already grasped that requirement.  I hefted her in my arms, astonished at how light she was.  Trish pushed Portia towards the door, shepherding me ahead of herself.  Trish now seemed to have taken control, somehow sensing that I was too concerned for Monica to be thinking clearly.  As we moved back down the corridor, I heard her talking on her mobile phone to Mary.

“Sorry we’re late.  It was a bit more complicated than we expected.  Yeah, she’s okay – we hope.  Steven’s carrying her out now.  Only have to get past the security guard.  How’s the breast enlargement going?  Uh-huh.  Okay.  Talk to you soon.”

“You’d better play it down the line from here, Portia.  Your mistress is now supporting a whole container of water – must be a hundred pounds or so.  Mary say’s she’s almost lifted off the horse.  Imagine what twice that load would do?  Not a good time to play any tricks, I would suggest.”

Trish’s point was well taken, and Portia hurried quickly to the elevator, pushing the button impatiently for the door to open.  She was waiting as we caught up, dragging the expanding grille closed behind us.  Here Trish stopped, reopening the grille and dashing across the passage into the glass-fronted office.

“Come on!” I called, irritated and impatient.  “What’re you doing?”

Trish reappeared, a determined look on her face.  “Disconnecting phones,” she said.

“Sorry.  Good thinking.”

She put her hand reassuringly on my arm and smiled at me.  “Hang in there.”

We had exited on the ground floor and were about to go through the main doors when there was a flash of headlights from outside and the sound of tyres on gravel.

“Jesus!” whispered Trish.  “It must be Henry!  This way!”  She grabbed Portia by the arm and we slipped behind the reception desk, couching down and waiting in the semi-darkness, Trish gripping Portia around the neck with one arm and sealing her mouth with the other.  The whites of their eyes seemed unnaturally large in the gloom, and we all momentarily held our breath as there came the sound of the front door opening.  Monica stirred in my arms and I held my own hand over her mouth, but her eyes remained closed and she was silent.

There came the sound of footsteps echoing across the vestibule floor, then the elevator door opening and closing.  We gave it five seconds, then hastened out from behind the desk and out the front doors into the night.

It had started raining again – just a very light drizzle. 

“Go!” Trish said to me.  “Start running!  You too!”  This to Portia.

I was not about to argue as I saw Trish turn towards the two old cars parked at the foot of the steps.  She opened the front door to Bob’s ute, leaned inside, then pulled out.  I figured she was looking to see if the keys were in it, which was something that had not occurred to me. 

By now I was across the gravel and jogging across the central grass reserve, this being the most direct way across the circular approach to the building.  There was a thud behind me of a second door closing, but no sound of an engine starting up.  A minute later, Trish ran up alongside. 

“Even here they don’t leave their keys in them,” she panted.  “But thanks to the miracle of scissors, they won’t be going anywhere in them, even with keys.”

“What?” I asked, not quite with it.

”Cut the ignition wires,” she grinned.

“You’re good,” I told her.

“How’s Mon?”

“Not good…”

“”Y..yes I am…”

The voice was barely audible, but the eyes glittered open in the light from a distant street lamp.

“Thank God,” I breathed.

“Steven… I’m cold…”

“I know, sweetie… Just hold on.  We’ll be warming you up in a minute – promise.”

We had reached the 1930 Chicago buildings, and turned into the street.  I was mentally wondering how long it would take Henry to find Bob, release him, and come to the conclusion that we might still be around.  Somehow I figured Bob and Henry might not be the mobile phone types.  I did not expect they had that big a circle of friends, but I could have been wrong.  Of more importance was how we were going to get Monica past the guard without him getting too suspicious about the body in my arms. 

The security hut was about fifty metres past the end of Chicago Road, hidden until that point by a slight dogleg in the road.  We kept to the side of the road that shielded us the most, and before we reached the limit of our cover, Trish was again on the phone, talking to Emma in the car.

“We’ve got Monica – no, she’s very weak.  We need you to cruise up to the gate and wait there for us – you’ll see us in a minute or two.”

I had put Monica down on her feet, scared that she would collapse on me, but she managed to stay upright, albeit wobbly and leaning on me.

“Mon – honey – we have to walk out of here.  It’s only fifty metres.  Can you manage it?”

“Only… if you hold me…”  Her voice was faint and sounded like it was half asleep.

“Portia and I will go together in front, to block his vision” Trish said quickly.  “Let’s go, now.”

It was the longest walk of my life.   It felt like something from the Cold war – the spy interchange on a bridge at the border, or some other such ridiculous scenario – but suddenly very real.  The drizzle gave everything an indistinct appearance under the floodlight at the gate and our footsteps sounded eerily loud on the wet tarmac.  I held Monica tightly, supporting her with my right arm around her waist and the other holding her left arm around my own.  We reached the gate and Portia signed us out.  The guard didn’t want to come out in the wet, and it was only ten metres beyond to Louise’s Toyota.  We had just moved away from the hut when there was a distant shout from behind us. 

I don’t think the guard heard it, since he was inside the hut with his portable television set, but we heard, and saw a figure running towards us at the end of Chicago Road.  At that point I swept Monica into my arms and we made a bolt for the Toyota.  Emma already had the doors open.  Trish thrust Portia inside, on to the floor, while Monica and I hauled ourselves into the back.  Emma was in the front and Trish was closing the other back door as we started off, even as the guard emerged from his hut to see what the shouting was all about.

By then it was too late, though, as we roared off into the night with our prize.

*   *   *

18.09.04

story continues in Monica's Travels 24

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