Monica's Place
CHAPTER TWENTY FOUR - THE FINAL EXAM
Several days passed before I was allowed to work on Monica's project.
Her 'little project' was a modification to the Ford Transit van. It was pretty
simple in effect - much the same as we had installed for our unfortunate
intruder's utility. Monica was planning something big - something big enough to
warrant half a dozen outlets in the back of the van that would connect with
vibrators presumably locked in place. What was she thinking of, I wondered?
Kidnapping a netball team?
It took me a full day to link a cable from the cigarette lighter power
source to the accelerator pedal, which would control the power supply, then
under the floor to a splitter box on the floor of the rear cab. From this the
cable split six ways, ending in plugs which would mate with, and be locked on to
cables leading to the vibrators themselves. The cable was a multi-cored one,
and served a dual purpose. Monica, at her devious best, wanted to be able to
provide a jolt to a butt plug when the ignition was turned on. I accomplished
this by tapping another core into the ignition light, which only carried low
voltage but enough to give a little buzz under the right circumstances.
When I was ready, Monica helped me do the testing. Like me she was
dressed for practicality, not glamour. I had been allowed my favourite denim
skirt and a teeshirt for this work, and Monica wore likewise. The difference
was that she had a small black cable hanging from beneath the hem of her skirt.
More importantly for me, I was unfettered and had my freedom of speech -
a reward, I was told, for my hard work and diligence. I showed her how the plug
on her cable mated with one of the six coming from the box on the floor, and how
it locked in place with a small padlock through two shaped metal surrounds at
the ends. I climbed into the cab and opened the window between the front and
back sections, then started the engine. I had not expected Monica to be
voluntarily wearing a butt plug, but evidently she was, for there was a little
cry of surprise from behind me. The engine was not needed to operate the
vibration system, other than to prevent a drain on the main battery, but the
revving of the engine would give me an idea of what the receiver might be
experiencing. However the vibrating would not start until I plugged the cable
into the lighter socket.
"Ready, Mistress?" I asked through the window.
"Go ahead."
I pushed the plug home into the socket and was rewarded with a low sigh
of appreciation from the rear. I revved the engine and the noises increased
into a steady hum of pleasure. I didn't need to be told the device worked.
We tested all six outlets, by the end of which time Monica had worked up
a considerable sweat and I was ordered to finish the job orally. We were both
flushed and perspiring by the time the van stopped rocking, but only one of us
was satisfied as usual. It was a situation that was to eventuate a number of
times in the next few days as Monica summoned me to her bedroom on several
occasions. It appeared to be her intention to be increase my frustration level,
not to mention - more specifically - the frustration level of Mr Willy. On
these occasions Monica would usually be too tired to throw me out and I would
end up chained to a bed leg for the night.
But time was passing and eventually the day of my release from servitude
dawned. I wondered what Monica had in store for me - I knew it would not pass
without some event of significance taking place.
It began unusually, in that nobody came to let me out of my cell at the
normal ungodly hour. The door remained locked but my body clock told me it was
later than usual. It was a Tuesday, traditionally the slowest of days for the
girls, and one on which they frequently went shopping or just relaxed around the
pool.
I was starting to get hungry when Monica finally let me out and took me
down the hall to the sluice room for my shower. The space where my outfit for
the day normally hung was empty. I followed my usual routine of ablutions and
had eaten my cereal before Monica turned up with my clothes. My second
indication that something unusual was up was when Monica made me wear the butt
plug with the plunger - the one that vibrated unless I was sitting down or the
retaining pin was in place. This revelation was followed by the sight of my
ensemble for the day. I should have seen it coming, I suppose. First there had
been the regular wardrobe to go shopping with Jill, then the office tart for the
Coronation drive foray. Now this.
'This' was a black PVC dress with short sleeves and a high hemline. It
zipped up the front with a chrome zip ending in an ostentatious 'pull me down'
ring just above my boobs. A light chain was fixed around the waist of the
dress, culminating in a pair of handcuffs which formed part of the 'belt' in
front. There were two ornamental loops of chain hung below each breast, adding
to the dominant appearance of the dress. Next there were fishnet stockings
which I had thought a bit passe, but then the whole getup was passe if it came
to that, given the thigh boots that followed.
Monica watched with a slight smile as I pulled them on and slid the
zipper up the inside of the leg. They were of black leather, slightly stiff but
fitting snugly. As with all my clothes Monica had obviously gone to a lot of
trouble and expense in obtaining my measurements and having things custom-made.
No doubt they would be worn by other customers in due course, but I could not
help but be flattered by the efforts she had made for this exercise.
My final accessory was a pair of black latex gloves that stopped at my
biceps, almost meeting the sleeves of the dress. Fixed to the top edge around
my upper arm was a thin nylon filament of fishing line that Monica threaded up
my sleeve, across my back and down the other sleeve, where it was securely
knotted through a tiny eyelet at the top of the other glove. This was obviously
going to stop me removing the gloves without permission. The gloves fitted like
a second skin and between the smell of leather and latex I became quite
enamoured of my new look, although I was filled with dread at the thought of
whatever she might have me do.
Monica sat me down in front of the mirror at this point and did my hair
and makeup. My hair was held in place with two black combs - one on each side -
exposing the large silver rings through my ears. My makeup was decidedly gothic
- false lashes, dark eyelids and highlights and dark lipstick with more accent
on my cheek bones. My silver fingernails became black ones before she left me
without a word, locking the door to the sluice room behind her.
I waited for perhaps an hour, sitting on a stool in the sluice room and
occasionally pacing up and down, the high heels of my boots echoing against the
white tiled walls. The lighting was harsh and bright in this particular room,
and the large mirror that had been installed since my 'conversion' was the
object of much attention from me. My transformation still fascinated me in a
bizarre way I cannot really describe. I looked at the person in the mirror and
saw quite a spunk who would certainly deserve a second glance in the street.
Then in the blink of an eye there was almost visible a guy peeping through the
shiny veneer of PVC, leather and makeup. All in all, however, I came to the
conclusion that I did not scrub up badly and was a worthy ambassador for the
female species - if that was what I wanted to be.
I got bored very quickly, however, and regardless of whatever she might
have planned for me, I was pleased when Monica returned. She beckoned me and I
dutifully followed her up the stairs and into the entry hall, then outside on to
the front verandah. The Ford Transit van was waiting at the bottom of the front
steps, its rear doors closed, the painted out windows like a pair of sightless
eyes hiding who knew what inside.
"You're going on a journey today, Stephie," Monica told me. I said
nothing, dreading what this 'journey' might be. "You might call it a 'quest'."
We reached the bottom of the steps and she turned to face me, standing with her
hand on the handle of the rear door to the van. "Today, as you know, is your
last day of enforced servitude to this house..." I noted her emphasis on the
word 'enforced'. "It seems appropriate that you finish up your time with such a
quest, and it is similarly appropriate that the object of your quest is to save
the five lovely maidens who have risked their cash to keep you here. I refer of
course," she said, pausing dramatically, "-to the Bilboes Birds!" Monica turned
the handle and swung the doors open. I stared open-mouthed at the five women
tightly secured in the back of the van.
When I had thought - half jokingly to myself a few days previously - that
Monica might intend kidnapping a netball team, I had not realised how close to
the truth I had come. A netball team had been the only appropriately female
sport that sprang to my mind, and now I was faced with the five girls all
attired identically in the vibrant black, yellow and red lycra uniforms of the
Queensland Firebirds. All attired identically - and all restrained identically
as well.
They sat - Trish, Leila and Jillian on the left and Emma and Mary on the
right - facing each other on the benches which had once borne the bound twins
Tanya and Natasha. Their backs were to the wall which consisted of wooden
slats, much the same as are found in furniture trucks and which are used for
securing objects being transported. In this particular instance the objects
were five beautiful females, all sporting identical red ball gags and all with
their eyes taped closed with silver duct tape. I had to hand it to Monica, she
was exceptionally neat and artistic in her bondage, with no messy ropes, nothing
unnecessary or discordant in her creations.
The wrists of each girl were strapped together and locked with a padlock,
which also locked on to a chain looped around a wooden wall slat above their
head. Their arms were thus held tautly above them, while their torsos were
secured to the slats with broad webbing belts at waist level and above their
breasts. In the event of a crash they would not be moving very far.
Their feet, sporting white socks and trainers, were secured equally
neatly. Adjacent ankles were strapped together and padlocked, while 'free'
ankles at the ends of the row were chained to convenient eyebolts in the floor.
The girls were going to find it very difficult to squeeze their thighs together
- as they were wont to do - without fighting each other, I reckoned.
The uniforms themselves were no doubt a touch of class. The sleeveless
tops were of shiny black lycra while the flaring skirts were of nylon, decorated
with stylised red and yellow flames rising up from the hem. Leading out from
under each hem I saw a cable, which led into the central black box screwed to
the floor immediately behind the front wall. Each cable was connected and
locked in place with a small padlock.
The atmosphere inside the van was tense and quiet - a feeling of
expectancy that came from the five helpless blind and silent women awaiting
their fate and trying not to think about how devious Monica could be.
"How did you-"
"Get them to cooperate? Simple. I told each one we had a special client
who fancied an outing with a netballer in her spunky outfit. Once I had the
wrists strapped that was the end of the problem. They all seemed happy enough
to get their uniforms, but they're not so sure about it now. Are you, girls?"
she said, raising her voice and directing it into the van. Five faces turned
toward us, their movements restricted by the arms held high on each side of
their heads. Emma was closest to me and I watched a tiny runnel of drool slip
off the red ball strapped between her teeth and slide down on to the taut
material covering her breasts, where it left a dark stain. Nobody made a noise.
"Aren't they lovely," smirked Monica. "I've nearly finished preparing
them. Wait her, dear." She climbed inside and picked up what looked like a
child's water pistol. With deft accuracy she proceeded to squirt the girls on
their breasts and watch with satisfaction as the little lumps of their nipples
hove into view pushing at the tight fabric. Monica completed the job with
nimble fingers, urging the hard points to complete their erectile processes
while making little murmuring sounds of encouragement. What the girls could not
see was the box of small clips she had on the floor in front of them. She
showed me one of them. They were smaller than a clothes peg, made of steel and
with nasty-looking serrated edges. I didn't have to be a rocket scientist to
understand that they were only big enough to be clipped on the very end of the
nipple. This was not looking good for the girls. Monica started pinning at the
far end - Jillian, then Leila then Trish, followed by Mary and Emma. There were
whines and whimpers as the tiny jaws bit through the fabric into very tender
flesh and slowly settled in to grip like vices. Breathing became louder and
ragged as they sought to limit the movement of their breasts by making their
breaths as shallow as possible, but they couldn't keep it up. Not content with
this Monica linked opposite girls' clips - Jillian's with Mary's, Leila's with
Emma's - with joined rubber bands, placing a constant tension on them, which was
heightened by a weight hanging from the midpoint on each connecting stretch of
rubber. Trish having no opposite number had her clips connected to the wall
slat on the opposite wall instead. There were more ineffectual pleadings and
nasal complaints from behind the rubber balls.
"They still have no idea about what we've installed in this van," she
said smugly. They're in for such a fun day. You girls just don't know how
lucky you are," she told them in no uncertain terms. "A day out getting
chauffeured around, lots of orgasms and other fun things. Poor Stephanie here
will have to do all the hard work - the driving and the thinking. You see,
girls, you're all going on a treasure hunt. At each location there will be a
key, which will undo one girl - mostly. And there will also be instructions as
to where the next key is. I Hope Stephie is smart enough to free you all...
And you're to be back here by 4pm, Stephie, or else you won't win your freedom
and the hand of a fair maid." She smiled demurely, then slammed the door and
locked it, slipping the key in the pocket of her dress.
"You'll get the duplicate when you solve the first puzzle," she told me.
I followed her around to the driver's side where she held the door open
for me. She handed me an envelope.
"Here are your first instructions. A couple of little pointers first,
though." She leaned past me and plugged the cable into the lighter socket.
There was at once a muffled noise from the rear through the intervening window.
"Don't think you can just unplug this now. I smeared it with contact glue and
it's in there for good. The only way you can stop it is to unlock the
individual connections or cut the wires. And heaven help you if you do that,"
she said ominously. "But, sweetie, just in case there is an emergency, the
master key is in the glove box, which has been sealed with sealing wax and my
thumb print. You'd better have a good reason before you break into that, let me
tell you.
"So, there you are. Off you go. Enjoy your day out." I climbed
reluctantly into the driver's seat, not trusting myself to say anything. I was
about to close the door when Monica stopped me.
"Wait a minute - lean over to the passenger seat..." I did so and felt
the familiar vibrating in my rectum as she removed the retaining pin from the
butt plug plunger. Monica gave me a dazzling smile as I straightened up in my
seat and the buzzing cut out.
"One more thing." She reached into another pocket of her dress and
pulled out several five dollar notes. "You'll probably need these. People may
be expecting them." She pushed them down my cleavage.
"What people?" I asked, suddenly alarmed. "Where?"
"Oh, you'll figure it out." She gave me a dazzling smile. "Have a nice
day." Then she was gone, up the front steps and into the house.
I settled in the seat, feeling the filled sensation as the butt plug
moved in unison. Opening the envelope Monica had given me, I read:
T is for Trish and T is for trains
T's for Taringa and all it contains;
At the station in life wherever it be
Ask of the Master to sell you the key.
I stared at the verse and wondered what the hell I had got myself into.
I had never been very good at this sort of thing. I was going to read it out to
the girls, but decided that wouldn't be a lot of use to them, other than to
frustrate them even further through their being unable to communicate in any
way. That was when I noticed the street directory on the floor on the passenger
side. I picked it up and opened it at the Taringa page. Taringa is a suburb en
route to the city near where Monica had picked me up after my slutty walk along
Coronation Drive. I knew it only to drive through, but now realised that it had
a railway line running through it. I thought that would be a good start, so
decided to head for the station in Taringa.
The van had evidently been parked in its current position over night and
did not start with the first turn of the key. In my momentary preoccupation
with my quest I forgot that the ignition was connected to the wire giving nice
electric shocks to the girls butts. There were muffled squeals through the
sliding window as the engine failed to start first time. Then I over-corrected
and gave it too much gas, no doubt causing a surge through the vibrators
embedded in five pussies. I sighed. It was going to be a long, tiring day.
The morning was warm and sultry, with the promise of a storm in the
afternoon if the weather boffins were to be believed. That was when I
discovered more tampering by Monica. She was so into the little things that I
couldn't believe it. She had removed the window winder handles and had
obviously disconnected the air conditioning if the cut wire hanging down below
the console was anything to go by. It was also going to be rather hot work,
quite evidently.
Yet another thing I discovered as I bumped out of the driveway was that
Monica had also done something with the remote controlling my nipple pulses, for
as we lurched forward on to the tarmac a sharp jolt caught me unawares through
my nipples. The bitch! There really was no end to her deviousness. This gave
me a further impetus to locating this first key, which must be the one to the
back door. Once inside I could at least lessen the discomfort for all of us.
As I drove into town I was conscious of my foot on the accelerator and
the level of vibration it would be causing in the back. There was also the
issue of any bumps or potholes that might send a jolt through my nips. I was
also mightily aware that I was dressed as a woman, driving without my licence
and had five women bound, gagged and blindfolded in the back. Woe betide me if
I had an accident. That would be major shit flying in major embarrassing
directions, I decided. What media headlines that would make! I didn't even
want to think about having to explain my way out of that one, and I was
surprised Monica had gone so far.
It was perhaps seven or eight klicks from Bilboes into Taringa. It was
nine thirty by the clock in the van as I swung into a small steep culdersac
leading down to Taringa Station. That was when the bloody remote triggered
again. Obviously the angle of the vehicle down the hill had somehow caused a
contact to be made and for the next twenty seconds my nipples were stabbed with
pain in a series of irregular bursts as contacts must have bumped against each
other. Desperately I swung the van into a driveway and paused as the piercing
jolts stopped. I waited for a few moments, letting my heart and breathing
settle down. I couldn't leave the van there - it had to be either parked facing
up the hill or down. Cautiously I backed into the road again, pointing the rear
of the vehicle down towards the mesh fence separating the end of the road from
the rail line beyond. Then it started again!
Hurriedly I backed the van against the kerb, all the time swearing under
my breath, then I exited in a hurry as though a swarm of bees was after me,
running the few paces to the opposite side of the road and out of range of the
remote. I stood there, looking about and - seeing that nobody was around -
rubbing my breasts to try to ease the pain.
The morning rush hour was over and the street was empty of pedestrians.
I wondered what my hasty exit and consequent breast fondling must have looked
like to the inhabitants of the low-rise office block outside which I had parked.
Quickly I crossed to the driver's door again and locked it, feeling the pain in
my nipples rise as I did so, before retreating again.
I walked the hundred metres or so down a concrete path parallel with the
railway line to where the ticket office stood on stilts straddling the lines.
That was when a train pulled in and a dozen people got out. It was too late to
hide now. I reached the short flight of steps up to the level of the ticket
office just as the passengers were coming down. Yes, I got stares and I felt
myself flush despite my best efforts at pretending I was invisible.
My high heels clacked across the metal floor outside the ticket office.
I really had no idea what I was looking for. The verse had mentioned trains,
Taringa, a station and tickets, so I figured I had to be somewhere close. Then
there was that stuff about asking the Master. It all sounded a bit Zen for my
liking. I hung about until the people had gone, looking at the various notices
and searching for inspiration, aware of the five girls in the back of the van in
the sun.
That was when I spotted the sign above the door "Station Master's
Office." Clink - the penny dropped. Ask the Master. Maybe he was holding
something for me. Was this why Monica had given me the money? Was this to be
pattern of the day? God, I hoped not. I wondered if the buzzing in my arse was
audible to others...
I moved over to the small glassed in ticket window. There were two men
in the room beyond sorting tickets and counting change from a coin-operated
machine. The younger one looked up and goggled at me.
"Can I help you - er- Maam?"
"I'd like to speak to the Station Master, please," I said, trying to keep
my voice level and husky as I'd learned to be the best means of disguising my
gender.
"Er... sure... Brian, you're wanted."
The older guy was going bald and wore those half-glasses that sat on the
end of his nose. He pushed them back at the sight of me, all chains and black
PVC filling his window.
"Yes Maam?"
"I was wondering..." I began, then stopped. "Look, I'm on a kind of a
treasure hunt, and I suspect you might have something I have to collect." I saw
a glimmer of understanding in his expression.
"Like an envelope?" he offered with a faint smile.
"I think so."
He moved out of my sight for a moment and reappeared with a plain white
envelope which he slid across the counter.
"Did the lady who left it indicate the price?" I ventured.
"We agreed that five bucks would cover storage fees," he suggested with a
wink.
"Good," I said, reaching down into my cleavage and extracting a note.
His eyes bulged slightly as he followed my movements then picked up the bill.
"Thank you very much," I said.
"The pleasure's all mine, I'm sure," he commented. I turned and walked
away, feeling two pairs of eyes riveted on my rump as I beat a retreat back to
the van.
There were two keys and another note inside the envelope. The first key
was to the back door of the van, and I heard moans of relief as I opened it,
letting the breeze enter, albeit briefly. I hauled myself inside and closed the
door. I did not want anybody poking their head in while I was working there.
Quelle embarrassment that would be.
The pain in my nipples was up to speed again, and I immediately saw the
problem. Monica had rigged up two remotes so that the buttons faced each other
with a gap of some ten centimetres between them. The remotes were held apart by
wire and one was taped to a vertical bar. In between them hung a lead weight on
a string. Too much angle forward or back caused the weight to rest against the
button. The bitch, I thought, at the same time admiring the fact that a woman
could be so technically ingenious. I crawled along the floor in front of Mary
and Emma, ignoring their wails as I accidentally caught the rubber bands
stretched between their nipple clips and those of Jill and Leila. I was more
concerned at that moment about the intense pain in my own poor nips. I Pulled
out the weight from between the remotes and sat down on the floor, leaning
myself on the dividing wall behind the cab, catching my breath and once again
massaging my breasts.
It took me perhaps ten minutes to bring a modicum of relief to the poor
transportees. First I had to unhook the rubber bands and weights that kept the
clips under constant tension where the jaws locked into the tips of the girls'
nipples. Clutzy me, I again knocked the ties joining Jill and Mary's clips,
these being the rearmost. A stifled wail of pain was the result. I apologised
in a whisper, gently undoing the rubber bands then peeling away the tape from
Mary's eyes. She looked at me then down at the clips, imploring their removal
with whimpers from behind the rubber ball strapped in her mouth. Slowly I eased
the jaws of the clips apart, while Mary screwed her eyes shut with the pain as
the blood returned . A tear escaped from the corner and trickled down her cheek
while breathing came in rapid but shallow panting.
With Mary's clips removed I did the same for the others, whispering
comforting words in their ears as I gently opened the fearsome jaws and detached
them from the black shiny material and their imprisoned flesh. Immediate
priorities dealt with, I removed the remainder of the duct tape from the girls'
eyes, but that was really as far as I got. Predictably, I found, the ball gags
were all locked in place, as was everything else except the waist and chest
straps, and they were there for safety as much as anything else. At least I
would be able to free Trish, I thought, and have an ally in solving the
remainder of the quest.
Five pairs of eyes were on me as I unlocked Trish's ankle restraints with
the second key. At once she and Leila squeezed their legs together with a
muffled sigh of relief at being able to at last react to the buzzing that had
gone on inside them. I unlocked Trish's cable and separated the two ends,
before freeing her raised wrists and helping her undo the two webbing belts.
She bent her head forward, pulling her hair clear so I could see to access the
padlock holding the strap and buckle snugly at the back of her neck.
"Oh shit," I breathed. "It's a different lock! Bloody Monica!" Trish
and the other girls moaned. I was still on my own. Whatever ideas the girls
might have about the clues, they would not be able to communicate them. Just to
make sure, I tried the key in a random selection of the remaining locks, but to
no avail. The girls looked at me, mute suffering on their faces. Trish
massaged her breasts and nipples with the palms of her hands, then did the same
for the others. It was a touching scene, almost sexual in its simplicity. I
wished I could have joined in.
I took a deep breath and picked up the envelope from where it had fallen
on the floor, and extracted a piece of notepaper.
"J is for Jillian..." I read. A little snort of triumph came from that
direction.
"J is for Jillian and for he of the ladder,
Now healthy and content by the sea.
In the park, beneath where you eat
Is the key."
I looked around me. "Anybody got any ideas?" I was greeted by blank
looks. I read the verse again.
"Heyfumfph!" said Leila suddenly. "Hefumfph a-er!"
"What?" She repeated her statement, but I had no idea what she was
trying to say. She waggled her hands where they were strapped together above
her head and wriggled, frustrated, tears welling in her eyes. We stared at her
as she mumbled her idea a third time, but it only served to confuse us further.
She stamped her feet in vexation.
"All right, this is what we're going to do. Monica thinks she's beaten
us, but she hasn't. We'll stop at a stationery shop and I'll buy a pad and pen.
You may not be able to talk, Leila, but you can still write, yes?" Her eyes
brightened and she nodded emphatically. There was at once a decidedly more
cheerful atmosphere in the van.
I started up again and crawled up the hill in low gear, trying to ignore the
initial yelps from the back which turned into low sighing moans from only four
throats now. Poor Trish could now only sit there helplessly and watch her
friends suffer. I turned left into Moggil Road and found a newsagent a few
hundred metres along the road in a small shopping centre.
Once again I steeled myself for the odd looks as I walked in and selected
a pad and pen and paid for it with another five dollar note out of my cleavage.
The buxom woman behind the counter didn't know what to make of me. I gave her
my most winning smile and said
"Modelling job," which seemed to make everything all right. That was
when I spent a dollar of the change on an instant scratchit ticket, just to piss
Monica off. I paused in the doorway and checked the card, scratching the stuff
off with a coin. Maybe my luck was turning, for I made ten bucks on the deal,
which I blithely announced to the girls as I climbed in to the van again. I
passed the pen and paper through the dividing window to Trish and waited while
she held the pad for Leila to awkwardly scratch a word on. The word was
'Jacob'.
I was puzzled momentarily, then it fell into place.
"Of course," I exclaimed. "J is for Jacob. Jacob's ladder - from the
bible. And Jacob's Well. It's a long drive, girls - I hope you're up to it..."
Jacob's Well was a small hamlet perhaps an hour to the south, down the
Pacific Motorway and at the end of a country road which led to the sea, or more
accurately one of the maze of river inlets in the area. I had never been there,
but an inspection of the street directory confirmed my intentions and showed a
bit of green next to the river.
The journey was quite straight forward, following Coronation drive, scene
of Stephanie's earlier performance, over the Brisbane River and down the new
motorway. I cruised at the maximum of 110 kph on the new stretch, after
checking with Trish that the girls could cope with it. Every so often I would
hear a sudden moaning rising rapidly in pitch and culminating in a muffled
series of cries. When we finally turned off the motorway on to a service road I
pulled over near a bridge and stopped, leaving the engine idling. There was no
traffic around and I opened the back door to let some air in. The four bound
girls were sweating freely, with probably only a part due to the warmth of the
cabin.
"Trish, take off your shoes and socks please," I said, forgetting for a
moment the Mistress/slave relationship. Puzzled, she did so, and I took the
socks from her. "Keep watch," I told her, then I slid awkwardly down the bank
of the small stream that ran beneath the bridge. It was muddy at the bottom and
my high heels sank ankle deep as I reached out to wet the socks. I fell on my
knees but struggled back to the van somewhat the worse for wear, but with two
wringing wet socks.
Trish's quizzical expression changed to one of thankfulness when she saw
my intention. I handed them to her and waited while she cooled down the faces
of the prisoners and sponged their exposed flesh. There were murmurs of
gratitude from behind the rubber balls.
"Okay to go on?" I asked. They nodded.
We cruised across flat land with fields of green sugar cane bordering
both sides of the road until we eventually came to the small suburb of Jacob's
Well. I followed my nose, looking for some direction to the water. Essentially
the road ran out at Jacob's well, terminating at the yacht club. Here there was
a park bordering a gravelled area with a clubhouse and launching ramp for small
craft. I did a circuit of the area and wound up at the park. There were a few
people about - earlybirds come for a picnic. Now what, I thought?
I was sure we were in the right place - in the park, by the sea. Then
Trish pointed through the window at a picnic table.
"Ehhool!" she said emphatically. Table?
"The place where you eat..."
This was easy, I decided, stopping the van and getting out. I walked
over to the picnic table and bent down to look underneath the table. Nothing.
I scoured the area around the table but with no more success. Looking around I
realised there were perhaps half a dozen tables, scattered in amongst the gum
trees, one or two already occupied by families. Bollocks, I thought. Which one
would the devious Monica choose? Probably the farthest. Or would she think
that I would think that? Or would she think that I would think that she would
think...
Monica was playing mind games again. I did the rounds, inspecting those
unoccupied tables without success. Reluctantly I approached a table occupied by
a a young couple with a toddler. The woman was attractive and blonde, and
looked distinctively nervous at my approach. The bloke couldn't keep his eyes
off me.
"I'm sorry to trouble you," I said as matter-of-factly as I could, "but
I'm involved in a treasure hunt. I'm looking for an envelope that might be
hidden underneath the table. Do you mind if I check it out?"
The guy simply goggled and gestured. The woman said:
"Why are you dressed like that?"
"See that van?" I asked.
"Yes?"
"There's a television camera inside and they're filming me. It's
complicated and all part of a dare, you see. All part of this new
fly-on-the-wall stuff."
"Are we on TV, then?" she whispered, suddenly conspiratorial.
"Yep," I whispered back, squatting down to look underneath the table.
There, pinned to the wood was an envelope. "Aha," I said in triumph.
"Can we look in the van?"
"I don't think that would be a good idea," I told her.
"Barry's very interested in cameras," she went on.
"I'm sorry - I really don't think the team would like it. They're very
private people. Thanks for your cooperation. I have a deadline to meet.
Goodbye."
It was starting to heat up again in the back when I returned with the
envelope and ripped it open in front of the girls. I took out the key and
unlocked the cable and straps holding Jillian. Again, the key did not fit the
lock holding the ball gag wedged behind her teeth, but she was grateful to have
her freedom of movement back. The other three secured girls remained rigid
against the slats of the van, the black lycra of their uniforms absorbing the
sweat now running freely down their arms. Their hair was becoming matted, and
Trish again used her damp socks to wipe their faces and skin.
I read the next note aloud.
"E is for Emma - " A pleased snort from the Chinese girl.
"E is for Emma, but not for hotel.
After Emma's betrothal comes a ceremony as well.
And then a reception in public you see,
And here lies the answer, here lies the key."
I kid you not, this really had me stuffed. It was a strange sight inside
the van. We kept the door closed as we pored over the verse. Five girls in
shiny netball uniforms, all gagged and three still secured to the wall. Unable
to talk Trish and Jillian scribbled down ideas and held up the pad for others to
look at. There was a lot of spluttering and grunting going on until we finally
focussed on the word 'hotel' and kicked some names around. It was Leila who got
it again - her tethered hands awkwardly writing "the Marriot". Marry,
reception, it all fell into place. The key was at the reception in the Marriot.
Damn, another public performance, I thought, starting the van again to
the squeal from only three packed mouths this time.
It was a hot drive back to Brisbane. The sun was overhead but a dark
squall front was rolling in from the west. The clock on the dash said it was
almost noon and I figured I would have a bunch of hungry females in the back by
the time this little quest was over.
The Marriot had only recently been completed in downtown Brizzie.
Standing near the old Victorian Customs House on the riverfront, it offered only
a tiny area for dropping off guests out the front.
"You girls had better be real quiet," I hissed through the window.
There's a hotel dork in uniform who might get suspicious if there's too much
moaning going on. I'm sorry, but I'll have to turn the engine off and lock the
doors." There was a collective sigh from behind me.
"I'll just be a minute," I told the dork as he stared at my outfit. "I
have to collect something from reception."
"But maam..."
I ignored him and strode into the marbled foyer like I owned the place.
Unfortunately a group of American tourists all seemingly called Martha and Ernie
were milling at the desk in a cloud of nasal complaints. I eased my way through
them, noting how they pulled away as they saw the outfit of the intruder and
conveyed their displeasure in scarcely less vocal whispers, still designed to
carry all the way across the foyer.
I was hot and hungry myself by this time. The PVC was clinging to me and
my arms were sweating inside the latex gloves. I was not in the mood for
pleasantries.
The girl behind the desk looked at me, not knowing how to react, probably
wondering if this was Candid Camera or maybe a test from the management.
"Can I help you?" she asked - politely, to her credit.
"Yes. I believe you may be holding an envelope for me, probably left
yesterday by another lady."
"Was she a guest?"
"I really don't know."
"What name would it be under?"
"Ah - Reynolds - Stephanie Reynolds."
She turned away and opened a drawer which obviously held some sort of
indexed dividers. Then she looked up.
"No, I'm sorry, there's nothing here."
"Anything under Armstrong - Monica Armstrong?" I suddenly felt a hollow
in the pit of my stomach as my confidence began to vanish.
"I'm sorry, nothing there either."
I was baffled. Baffled and not a little concerned. I had three girls
bound and gagged in the van which was itself being looked on unfavourably by the
doorman outside. What did I do now? It had all seemed to fit together so well.
I was sure we were in the right place. The girl's voice interrupted my
desperation.
"I'm sorry?" I said.
"You could try the concierge over there." She pointed out his desk.
"Thank you."
I edged through the Americans trying to quell the rising panic that was
starting to churn through my insides.
The concierge was a man of forty something who obviously thought that I
should never have been let in the front door, but whose training was far too
ingrained to ever let himself say such a thing.
"Good afternoon Madam," he said, with a trace of emphasis on the last
word.
I repeated my request and watched him delve into his own drawer beneath
the counter. In unhurried fashion he pulled out a beige envelope and laid it
deliberately on the marble surface. A tip was obviously expected, and I could
see him wondering from where - with my pocketless PVC dress clinging to my body
- might I produce this. I turned half away from him, with as much demureness as
I could manage, and undid the zipper of my dress a few centimetres - enough to
let me slip a hand in between my breast and the PVC, to where a couple of
five-dollar notes still nestled. I had been sweating as much as any of the
girls, but it had run between my breasts and down into my corset. The interface
between the false breasts and the material of the dress was relatively
unaffected.
Zipping up the dress I swapped the envelope for the note and walked out,
my heels clacking on the marble. The place seemed much quieter than when I had
entered - even the Americans had lowered their voices and I could guess the
reason for it all.
The clouds had rolled in and the city was starting to look dark, even
though it was only early afternoon. The temperature had dropped with a few
spits of rain in the air. The Dork was hovering around the van, looking
agitated. While the rear doors had windows, they were lined with reflective
film and it was impossible to see inside. If he had been able to see in, then
he would really have had something to be agitated about. I ignored him and
climbed into the cab, trying also to ignore the muffled yelps from the rear as I
started the engine.
"Sorry girls, this isn't the time or place. Trish?"
The dividing window slid open fully and the mane of tawny hair trapped by
the gag strap appeared. I passed her the envelope and pulled out of the Marriot
parking bay.
"As soon as we find a quiet spot we'll look at the next instructions."
Five minutes later I parked near the botanical gardens, and leaving the
engine running I stuck my head through the window into the back. Emma had now
been freed, leaving only Mary and Leila still bound. Trish handed me the note.
"L is for Leila, cuddly in her way,
A sight for the tourists on any given day.
Parked amongst many, alone in a tree,
Look often and upwards for here lies the key."
I must have looked blank, for then Trish thrust the pad through the
window. Amidst scribbles and crossings out was a circle in which was written -
Lone Pine - Koalas - trees. Jeez, as if the Americans hadn't been bad enough,
we would now have to show hordes of Japanese tourists what sex-mad Australians
got up to in their spare time.
Lone Pine was one of the tourist attractions of Brisbane - a wildlife
park only ten klicks from the city centre in the leafy western suburbs close to
the river. It was to this place that busloads of visitors plied every day to
have their photos taken with cuddly koalas, kangaroos and other assorted and
diverse wildlife.
The rain was becoming heavier now as I retraced our route back along
Coronation Drive. I was starting to have a real affinity for this road, I
thought. What happy memories it would convey to me in the years to come. By
the time we had reached Lone Pine car park the rain was drumming steadily on the
roof.
I switched off the engine and climbed out, scuttling quickly to the rear
doors and climbing in with the girls.
"Well?" I asked. "It's a big area. Where do I start? Don't make me go
and ask at reception again, please."
Trish took the note and circled the word 'parked' with an arrow to the
words 'car park', then wrote 'up in a tree'.
"Have you seen the size of the car park?" I asked.
Leila wrote 'Size isn't important' and the girls sniggered as much as
they were able from behind their gags. 'We'll help', wrote Jill. I guessed it
was gloomy and wet enough so that people would be more concerned about dashing
for their cars than to look at the crazy netballers wandering amongst the trees
in the rain, never mind the fact that they all had large red balls strapped in
their mouths. It was taking a chance, but it might save a lot of time, given
the area of the car park, which merged into a large surrounding grassed area
with picnic tables. Throughout the whole area were scattered mature trees of
various sorts, including an avenue of conifers flanking the main entrance
driveway.
I led the team of Trish, Leila, Emma and Jill into the rain now
blanketing the city. It was cold and dispiriting as we divided up the area
between us. There was a large car park, perhaps a quarter full, with trees
located at random places throughout. I elected to search this area, simply
because of its proximity to the general public. Fortunately the coach park was
located elsewhere, and we were in fact spared the death by a thousand cameras
from the Japanese tourists.
I scoured the trees, looking for something - though I was not quite sure
what - but to no avail. Every so often I looked across at the wet black shapes
a hundred metres distant amongst the thicker patches of trees and those lining
the entry road. That was when I saw Emma waving to me.
I ran across to where the others had gathered at the base of one of the
large conifers that lined the road in to the place. Typical of Monica to choose
the most exposed location, I thought.
"Urrgh ur," said Emma pointing to a zip lock bag tied to a branch about
three metres in the air. How did Monica get it up there, I wondered. She
must've come down here with a ladder. Then the solution hit me - if Monica had
come her with a ladder, she would have come here in the van, in which case the
height of the van's roof itself would have been sufficient.
"Bus coming!" I said. "Look away or hide!" The girls, now drenched and
shivering in their black skirts and tops averted their faces from the passing
curious looks of a Japanese tour bus. "Let's go back to the van," I suggested.
It was snug in the back of the van, but we had nothing to dry ourselves
off with. Mary and Leila, while still bound, were at least dry and warm, unlike
the rest of us. My thigh boots were now sodden and sloshy, and while the dress
did not exactly absorb water, enough had gone down my neck and cleavage to make
me as cold and uncomfortable as the girls whose skirts now clung to their
thighs.
I started the van and drove it on to the grass under the trees. Here I
stopped, leaving the engine running with the heater going. Unlike the air
conditioner this seemed still to work. Trish, with her sneakers on, volunteered
to climb on to the roof to retrieve the bag. I boosted her on to the top of the
cab with an admonition to be careful with the slippery metal underfoot. She
stood up very gingerly, but was easily able to reach the bag. I caught her as
she slid down off the cab with a grunt from behind her rubber ball.
We sat, trying to warm ourselves in the rear of the van while Jillian
unlocked the straps holding Leila, who groaned with pleasure at the release of
her limbs and the cessation of the vibrations inside her. I wished I could say
the same, for the batteries in my implant kept going and going and going, every
time I stood up. I read the final message from Monica:
'M is for Mary, whom you have to Admire,
She's sometimes a bother but always a trier.
She's cut for this work, in a Minute you'll see,
So Central to all and there is the key.'
Leila was ahead of us, circling the words with a capital letter. She
must have been good at cryptic crosswords, I decided - something I had never
understood. There was some mmming and glugging with a few splutters between
them. Trish and I cuddled each other to get warm and let the others get on with
their deliberations. Finally Leila showed me the finished product. 'Admire'
was circled with an arrow to 'At Myer', with a further arrow to 'Central'. I
was with her thus far - Myers downtown department store. I was not liking the
look of this. There was another circle around 'cut' and 'minute' and 'key',
with three arrows down to 'Mr Minit' key cutters.
"In the Myer Centre?" I asked. Leila nodded vigorously. I sighed.
Here we went with another trip along Coro Drive. Monica had even spaced the
locations out so as to deliberately prolong the agony for the girls - and
particularly for Mary. I might have guessed that she would be last on the list.
I drove into town along what was fast becoming a well-worn route. The
Myer Centre was a multi-level department store-type mall smack in the middle of
the CBD. On one side it faced on to the newly revamped Queen Street Mall, which
had become a favourite hangout for all manner of trendies and pretty much anyone
into people watching. There was a bunch of cinemas within a block of the Myer
Centre and dozens of restaurants. In short, Monica had deliberately picked
Brisbane's most frequented pedestrian precinct, just to give me a last
opportunity to make a fashion statement or whatever it was I was doing. Add to
this the fact that it was school holidays and I really was not a happy little
vegemite.
I intended to park underneath the Myer Centre, to make as little as
possible of the visit to Mr Minit in the public gaze. This seemed like a good
plan until I came to a screeching halt at the entrance to the underground park.
Trish poked her gagged face through the window and said "Hhhrr?"
"Height restriction," I told her in disgust, pointing to the sign and the
hanging bar. I knew there was no way the Transit van with its high rear cabin
would ever fit under the bar. "Bollocks," I sighed. "Now I'll have to find
some other car park and walk miles to get there. In the rain. Oh joy."
My prediction wasn't quite as bad as I had anticipated. I found a park
in a vacant lot temporarily designated as parking after a bit of cruising around
the area. I was temporarily distracted at one point when - with all the
acceleration and slowing and changing of gears, Mary decided to climax with a
struggle that rocked the van. When I finally parked and turned off the engine I
peered through the window into the back. She was sitting with her eyes closed
and legs together, rocking and keening to herself, quivering with the effort she
had expended.
"Hopefully this is our last stop," I told them.
"Hnn unn!" said Leila, which I took to be "Good luck."
It was still raining but I found I could walk most of the two blocks
under cover of the verandahs that covered most of the footpaths. I was
decidedly not looking at my best, although I'll say this for PVC, it does wear
well in the rain. My arse was sore from all this getting in and out activating
the plunger, and the vibrator showed no sign of letting up. My boots were cold
and clammy, as I was, and there was no shortage of odd looks from people. If
this was Fortitude Valley, an area well known for its street walkers, I would
probably have hardly warranted a second glance. Mind you, I would probably have
had an awful lot of offers from potential clients.
Parking where I had done, I was obliged to walk along a good length of
street that crossed the Mall at right angles, through the busiest spot in the
whole thing. Here there were not just odd looks, but a good number of comments
as well. That said, there were plenty of other odd looking specimens of the
human race there as well, so I didn't see why I should necessarily have been
singled out.
Mr Minit was just past MacDonalds in the Myer centre and I found it
without trouble. A spotty-faced herbert was behind the counter.
"I believe you have something for me," I said.
"Like what? A key to unlock your handcuffs?"
"An envelope," I told him patiently, but not feeling at all patient.
"Maybe," he relied, eying me up and down. "What's it worth?"
"Five bucks."
"And a free pass to your establishment?" he leered.
"So you fancy getting your balls strung up and your arse whipped, do
you?" He flushed and reached under the counter, producing an envelope.
"Price has gone up," he said flatly. "Ten bucks - forgot about the GST."
I did my rabbit producing act and produced the last two notes from my
cleavage, much to his delight. At that moment I actually had a desire to do
what I had suggested to this little punk, but figured it was not the best time
and place to make a scene, so I snatched the envelope and left. Mary would not
be impressed if I failed to come back with the key, nor would the others with
their gags still locked in place.
I could not get out of there fast enough, retracing my steps through the
pedestrians and youths hanging out in the Mall with their smart cracks about
whips and chains ringing in my ears.
The girls were pretty happy to see me when I returned and tore open the
envelope to produce two keys, one of which freed Mary's bonds and the other
which undid the locks on the gags. Poor Mary had been bound for the best part
of four hours and the others were all vastly relieved to free their obviously
aching jaws of the ball gags. In less than a minute five red rubber balls on
matching straps were lying on the floor of the van and the girls were massaging
their jaws and talking nineteen to the dozen. I had not appreciated what the
deprivation of speech meant to them.
I drove home with Mary beside me. She was strangely quiet and reserved.
"Are you happy at your release today?" she asked after some time.
"I guess."
"You guess?"
"It's been an interesting experience in life. I think I understand you
all much better now."
"You'd already done better than most men," said, with sudden warmth in
her voice. "It's been a lot of fun for us, despite everything, and we're glad
you made it through. Maybe now you can enjoy yourself a little more fully."
I returned her smile. "It has been one of my more frustrating months," I
admitted.
Monica was waiting for us at the front door with towels. There was much
mock abuse and wry comments, but I could detect a genuine note of concern in
Monica's voice as she herded the girls out the back and ordered them into the
jacuzzi, uniforms and all, letting them pause only to take off their sneakers.
I was given the same treatment.
"What about the dress, Mistress?" I asked.
"Just the boots, Stephie. The dress will be fine. Here's the pin to
your plug, now get in the pool. You look frozen to the bone. I had no idea it
was going to rain today. I'm sorry you had to get so wet."
And that was how we came to be sitting in the hot tub under the overhead
shade cloth, more or less fully clothed, with Monica serving us champagne and
snacks. The warmth flowed through us as we laughed and chattered and the
alcohol took over. Suddenly all wrongs and injustices were righted.
After a half hour soak Monica suggested that our clothing was perhaps
inappropriate and that we should do something about it. As I climbed out she
enveloped me in a big towel and shunted me away from the house, along the worn
path across the back lawn to the sleeping quarters.
"I think it's time you had your old room back," she offered, leading the
way up the steps and opening the first door. It had been over a month since I
had been in the room on the night I had tried to escape with Jan. That night I
had found a wardrobe half-filled with women's clothing and I had wondered who
was then using the room. Now, when Monica opened the wardrobe I recognised the
clothes as the ones I had been wearing during my period of slavery.
"You can keep these," she said lightly. "You never know when you might
feel like dressing up for a night on the town with the girls." Alongside them
were a lot of my own clothes.
"I think I'd like to get back to normal for a bit," I told her. "This
whole gender change thing has given me a lot of weird dreams. Sometimes I don't
know if I'm Arthur or Martha."
"Or Steven or Stephanie?"
"Exactly."
"You did really well," she said, her voice softening. "I didn't think
you would make it - I truly didn't."
"I guess it was a rather extreme version of getting in touch with my
female side..." I observed wryly.
"Tell me honestly - did you enjoy it? Any of it?"
"Well, I have to say, you girls do get to wear some really cool clothes,
and yeah, it did have its moments. The worst part was the frustration of the
whole thing. There I was with two lovely tits to play with, but nothing else!"
Monica laughed, her eyes flashing in a way I found quite captivating.
"We need to free you up properly. Let me cut the wires on your corset."
I saw, laid out on the dressing table, a pair of wire cutters, scissors, a
scalpel and some lotions of some sorts in several bottles. "It may take a
little time to remove your accessories," she said, "and we may need some help."
I removed the shiny PVC dress and hung it up in the closet. My fishnet
stockings went in the laundry basket. Monica cut the crimped wire at the base
of the corset and handed me the key to the crotch flaps.
"Can you manage the rest yourself?" she asked. I nodded, and on impulse
held her face and kissed her, hard and on the mouth. She responded, then broke
free with a flustered look - perhaps the only time I had ever seen such,
possibly because it was a rare occasion when she was not calling the shots.
"I-I must check on the girls," she said, smoothing her hair with her
hands. "Come and join the party as soon as you're ...yourself." Then she was
gone.
I undid the padlock holding the flaps closed and worked the wires loose
at the back before retiring to the bathroom to ease that infernal butt plug out.
The feeling of freedom and relief as the garment dropped to the floor was
wonderful, almost euphoric. I ran a shower and then concentrated on my hair,
breasts and Mr Willy.
It was the latter area that gave me most concern. I immediately chopped
the excess length of clear plastic tube off, which would allow me all my normal
functions except an erection. I had noticed, however, that over the last week
or so my breasts had started to come loose at the edges, and constant picking at
the flesh-coloured rubber had resulted in a separation from my skin. I had
been reluctant to pursue this activity for fear of being found out and having
the things glued back again. It gave me hope, however, that in the course of my
skin's natural regeneration that the bond was breaking down, and this I now
found to be the case. It took me perhaps twenty minutes to remove my lovely
tits intact. Most importantly I could then peel away the two donut-shaped
electrode pads that encircled my nipples and which had caused me so much grief.
My hair had started to grow somewhat under the rubber boobs, whereas the
surrounding skin had suffered another depilatory process halfway through my
sentence. All in all, while the outlines were evident, it was not too bad after
I had used some of the lotions and solvents to remove the last of the glue.
My head had fared in much the same way. The wig was manufactured on a
net, which had been glued to my naked scalp. My own hair had in fact grown
through this net in the course of a month and the net itself was well advanced
in coming free, such that with a little persuasion I was able to remove it with
little detriment. The month's growth of hair concealed the glue tracks that
would otherwise have been evident.
It was only Mr Willy that really concerned me. I reckoned I could slit
the clear plastic pipe form the outermost end, but I was worried that there
might still be a fair bit of adhesion to what was a very sensitive part of my
anatomy.
It was a delicate operation, I freely admit, sitting on the floor of the
shower with scissors, scalpel and solvents. It proved to have a most remarkable
sobering influence on the champagne I had previously drunk. It was harder in
some ways than the boobs had been, simply because Mr Willy could be a bit of a
coward when such dangerous implements were floating about, and he consequently
lacked the smooth face of skin to separate the plastic from. Nevertheless,
after some delicate surgery, he was finally free, and again I luxuriated under
the shower, giving my various parts the best wash they had had in a month.
It was till raining and nearly dark when I emerged. The girls were still
in the Jacuzzi, but now wearing their swimsuits. I joined them and more
champagne went down. Pizzas had just arrived and I was the focus of attention.
I had left in my sleeper earings which the girls thought particularly hip, but I
still had on the stainless steel collar. I had still not decided how I was
going to get it off - if at all. At that point in time, however, I was not at
all concerned about it, so pleased was I to have my body back and functioning
properly. I had lost half a dozen kilos during my period of servitude, and the
girls reckoned it had done me a treat. They said they liked my new stainless
steel punk image.
I was halfway through about my fifth slice of pizza when I realised
Monica was not there. I asked where she was.
"She was called away," Mary said, "but she left this for you." It was
an envelope with my (male) name on it.
"Haven't I had enough of Monica and her envelopes today?" I asked of
nobody in particular. Sitting on the side of the pool I tore it open and stared
at the cheque for five thousand dollars. The girls were quiet, all watching me
and smiling.
"Thank you," I said simply. "It means a lot to me what you did - the
faith you had in me."
"It was fun," said Leila simply.
"Our absolute pleasure," Mary added.
"Yours, anyway," Trish said to her slyly, and I felt myself colour with
the recollection of Mary and myself in the dungeon.
Time seemed to slip past and I felt myself becoming wrinkled like a
prune. At length we decided to call it a night. The day had been long and
stressful for all of us, and bed seemed very inviting. I climbed out and
received a goodnight kiss from Leila, Emma and Jillian. Mary and Trish stood by
as the other three headed for their rooms.
"What?" I asked, in response to their appraising looks.
"We lied," Mary said. "Monica was otherwise detained, which is why she
wasn't here. Come with us. Lead on MacTrish."
I followed the two of them up the stairs and along the corridor to
Monica's bedroom. Trish knocked on the door.
"Are you decent, Mon?" There was a grunt from the other side. Trish
pushed the door open.
I was stunned by the sight of Monica stretched out naked and spreadeagled
on her bed, her wrists and ankles secured by sashcord to the corners in a wide
star shape. The room was unlit save for the light from a dozen candles on the
dresser, the bedside tables and a bookcase. Most conspicuously, a candle burned
low on each of Monica's breasts, located over nipple in the centre of radiating
runnels of solidified wax that ran down the sides of her breasts. Some had run
on to the bedclothes while some had congealed between those lovely mounds.
Monica was gagged with a complex harness gag, but was not blindfolded. A
large vibrator had been jammed into her pussy using a pole braced back to the
foot of the bed. On her stomach was written in felt pen:
"Welcome Back Steven!"
Monica slowly turned her big luminous eyes towards me. The room seemed
deathly silent and I could hear the hum of the vibrator inside her.
"We'll be off, then Steven," said Trish gently. "You're happy to let
Steven have his way with you, Monica dear? "
Monica slowly inclined her head up and down.
"Uh-huh," she moaned, and I knew it was a moan of anticipation, and
nothing else. As if in response, I could feel Mr Willy stand at attention and
demand an audience.
"Thanks girls," I whispered, closing the door behind them.
The End
