Emma introduced us to her Auntie Alice and Uncle Stan – a likeable couple in their late fifties.  Stan was thin and wiry, an engineer working on one of the Mass Transit’s seemingly endless succession of new underground lines.  We immediately hit it off, for I had worked for a subcontractor on the Airport Railway several years before. Stan and Alice had spent much time in Canada before returning to Hong Kong seven years previously, and spoke with pronounced Canadian accents.  They said little as Emma went through the story of how the three girls had been duped by the so-called film-makers.  That had been on Monday evening, but Emma had not discovered the truth until Tuesday morning.  It was now Thursday night.

“They said they would take Leila and Jill back to the hotel and we would have a 9.30 start the next morning,” sniffed Emma, sitting between Monica and me in the back seat of Stan’s Mercedes.  “When I arrived at the Furama I was told they’d checked out the previous afternoon with no forwarding address.  All their luggage was gone.”  A tear welled over from Emma’s eye and slid down her cheek.  “That’s when I rang you, Mon.”

Back at Bilboes Monica and I had had a long discussion about our strategy.  I had insisted on coming with her and she had not objected.  I at least knew the place, and between the three of us I reckoned we could at least cover a few leads.  Now, despite Emma’s close relationship with Jillian, she agreed with us that at this stage we should keep the police out of it.  There were too many loose ends to explain that might result in us all getting deported and thus becoming totally impotent in furthering the matter.  We agreed that there were certain things we had to do on our own.

On the morning of the discovered disappearance, Emma and Stan had visited the office where the three girls had met Edwin Kwan, only to find the place locked and apparently deserted.  The pair had made some discrete enquiries amongst neighbours and had checked the electoral role to see the ownership.  As had now been proven, the place was a front, owned by a holding company.  The neighbours knew it as the property of the Black Dragon Triad, which appeared to own the whole building, if the alluded-to weekly protection racket was anything to go by.  That was another reason to not involve the police at this time, Stan advised.  There was always either a problem with tip offs ahead of police action, or a reluctance to take action in the first place.  It seemed we had everything to gain and nothing to lose as long as we had some lead to follow.

Stan and Alice dropped Monica and me at the YWCA in Kowloon.  I had booked us in there for a number of reasons.  It was in fact no different from a budget hotel, and we wanted somewhere that was central, low profile, and not totally exorbitant.  The Y had come a long way from the old days of being exclusively single female accommodation.  The Hong Kongers, with an eye for a dollar, had converted most of the YW’s and YM’s to budget or even more upmarket accommodation in recent years. 

“Did you notice the name of the street we’re in?”  I asked Monica after we had booked into our double room. 

“No.”  Monica looked puzzled.  “Why?”

“It’s Man Fuk Road.  Appropriate for the YW, don’t you think?”

She smiled – the first time I had seen her do so in the last forty-eight hours.  The strain was starting to show.

“There’s another street in the New Territories called Chik Fuk Road,” I added.

“Which you’re also intimately acquainted with?”

“I have been there, yes,” I admitted with a grin.

*   *   *

We met with Emma in the ‘Y” restaurant for breakfast the next morning.  We had discussed our options and had decided that the only lead we had was to chase Mr Choi, the man with whom Monica had first made contact in Jupiter’s Casino on the Gold Coast.  It was he who had come up with the proposal for Jill and Leila to star in a Cantonese video.  His business card showed him to be a the vice president of marketing for the Shing Loong Corporation, in Jardine House, just near the Star Ferry.

It was typical Hong Kong summer weather as we crossed to the Island on the Star Ferry – hot and sticky, with gloomy low clouds hanging about obscuring the Peak.  The wind was getting up and it buffeted the ferry as we neared the high rises ahead.  It was the forerunner of a typhoon, and I knew things were going to get a lot worse before they got better.  Which seemed to be a pretty good summation of everything at that moment. 

I pointed out Jardine House to Monica as we went across on the ferry.  Jardine was one of the old established trading houses of Hong Kong.  The building was a 40-something storey edifice, but modest by comparison with some of the colossi nearby.  Its distinguishing feature was the use of circular windows, rather than the standard rectangular ones.

“It’s colloquially known as the ‘House of a Thousand Arseholes’,” I told Monica as we stood on deck looking at one of the wealthiest waterfronts in the world.  Then her mobile rang.

“Hello?  Mary?  What is it?  No, we’re on the Star Ferry.   What’s that noise – it sounds like someone swearing.  Trish?  Why, what have you done to her?  Oh Mary!  Can’t I leave you two on your own without you behaving like children?  Let her go, for God’s sake – it sounds like she’s ready to go in to orbit!  Yes all right, Mary, but do as I ask.  Goodbye.”  Monica turned to me with the ghost of a smile.  “Mary says the Horse works really well.  Trish is evidently taking equestrian lessons.”

We did not have time to discuss this apparently strange conversation since the ferry was almost at the dock.  We followed the mass of commuters down the gangplank and into the street outside.

“When we get inside, I want you to let me do the talking.  Our strategy depends on presenting a united front,” Monica said.  “We’ll have to play this thing by ear.  I know Mr Choi, so I have the relationship.  Emma, you’re here to ensure nothing is said that we can’t understand.  Steven, you’re here to look determined and if possible intimidating.”

“Would one out of two do?” I asked.

She put her hand on my shoulder and smiled wanly.  “Sure, Steve.  You do whatever comes naturally.”

*   *   *

We looked at the address board in the foyer.  Shing Loong had offices on four floors, with reception on the forty second. 

“Shing Loong seems to be part of the Dragon Fire empire,” said Emma as we rode up in the express lift. 

“Meaning?” asked Monica.

“Dragon Fire is owned by David Wong – one of the richest men in Macau.  There have been all sorts of stories linking him with triad dealings but nobody has ever been able to prove anything.  They have fingers in property, the Macau casinos, prostitution, you name it.”

“Porn?”

“Of course.”

The reception was predictably plush.  A smartly dressed receptionist asked us to wait in the comfortable armchairs while she made a phone call.  Monica and I had talked about this.  We did not know what sort of reception we would get – the runaround or the denial.  Either way, we had to try, to explore every avenue to find Jill and Leila.

Mr Choi appeared wearing a dark business suit with a sombre tie.  It was the first time Emma and I had met him.  He was tall and slim, his thinning hair slicked back, his eyes framed with gold-rimmed glasses.

“My dear Monica, such a pleasure to see you,” he enthused.  Monica was cool as she introduced us.  He invited us into his office which had enough room for half a dozen Mong Kok families to live comfortably, along with a million dollar view of the harbour.  We sat in three chrome and leather chairs while Mr Choi settled himself on the other side of the polished rosewood desk.

“And to what do I owe this pleasure?”

“I think you know, Mr Choi.  Leila and Jillian have disappeared.” 

This was it, I thought.  This is where we know what the plan will be.  Or perhaps won’t be.

“Nonsense, Monica.  We know exactly where they are.  They are doing the filming as part of our agreement.”

“I would like to see them, please.”

“Certainly.  Please come with me. “  We exchanged guarded looks and stood up to follow Mr Choi through a side door.  Beyond the door was a large boardroom with a granite-inlaid table big enough on which to play several games of ping-pong, crosswise.  Sitting near the end of the table was a young Chinese woman in a black silk blouse and jeans.

“This is Miss Ng,” said My Choi, after introducing us.  “Serina is our best photographer.  She has made many videos and produces photos for some of our best selling magazines. She was in the middle of showing me her latest shots.”  We sat down opposite her, regarding her warily.  Mr Choi sat down between us at the head of the table.  On the table before him was a brown A4 envelope.  He picked it up and slid a bunch of photos on to the table. 

“Have a look through these,” he offered.  “Leila has been absolutely sensational.” 

Monica picked up the photos and leafed through them, with me looking over her shoulder.  I heard her sharp intake of breath at the sight of Leila.  The photos were stark, stunning in their black and white imagery.  The scene was a dingy warehouse, abandoned and desolate.  Leila hung horizontally beneath a bamboo pole in a complex sling of ropes, the light and shadows making striking patterns on her nakedness.  Her arms were bound behind her back and her legs were bent and tied, but also secured to a bamboo pole at right angles to the main one.  Leila’s head hung down, her face obscured by the unmistakable curtain of blonde hair we all knew.  A second photo, in close up, shot from below, showed Leila’s face, eyes closed, her mouth stretched by a white ball gag, a runnel of saliva hanging from her bottom lip.  Her brow was furrowed, as though she was striving to overcome exhaustion.  Beads of sweat stood out on her forehead.  It was almost too much to bear.

There were several photos of this nature.  There were some further terrible shots of Leila upside down being beaten with a flogger.  My heart lurched at this sight, for I remembered her confiding to me once that she hated being inverted in any suspension.  There were more close-ups of the intricate web of ropes that confined her body and secured her limbs. 

I passed the photos to Emma as Monica leafed through a new set, this time in colour.  One showed a solitary figure, hands bound behind her, standing facing a post.  It was a long shot, the figure barely recognisable as Leila.  Beyond was a green swathe of grass in front of a low line of bush with sea beyond and the distant line of hills on the horizon.  It was a startling poignant photo, the prisoner standing alone under a great spreading banyan tree. 

There was another shot, taken in the other direction.  Leila was in close-up in the foreground, staring into the distance, her jaws locked on to a piece of bamboo that was roped around her neck.  She was secured to the post only by some thin twine tied around each nipple and joined around the post.  I could see the tear stains on her cheeks.  Some fifty metres beyond her stood a small group of houses, looking dilapidated and partly over grown.

There were more photos here, too, of Leila impaled on a dildo, riding the equivalent of the plank I had made in Monica’s dungeon, only this time it was of bamboo, obviously flexible and allowing the victim to be bounced.  There were shots of Leila with her feet tied sole to sole, her lovely face distorted with a bamboo ring gag.  I passed the last of the photos to Emma, who, with shaking hands, managed to drop them on the floor.  As she scrabbled after them I looked at Monica who was white with rage.

“You bastard,” she hissed.  “Where is she?”

“Relax, Monica.  Serina here says she is in good hands and working admirably.  We have a lot more filming to do yet.  Let’s not forget our deal.  This is, after all, what the girls came here to do.  Leila is safe and well.”

“And where is Jill?” I demanded, barely able to control myself.  Emma’s face appeared from behind the table, clutching the pile of photos, her distress obvious to all.

“Ah yes, the lovely Jillian.  She is special, isn’t she.”  I could nearly have gone for this smooth arse at this point but Monica’s restraining hand on my arm kept me seated.  For all her self-control I had seen how desolated she had been over the who affair, yet she had stressed to us to follow her lead and to trust her, and this I did, for she had shown herself in the past to be cool under pressure and to have astonishing reserves of courage.  But then again I had never seen her in a situation like this. 

“Serina, play that tape again – the one you showed me before.”  Mr Choi turned to us while Serina got up to operate the large screen TV with the built-in video.  He smiled, sincerely one might have said at any other time.  “You will have to appreciate that this is only a partially edited tape that Serina has brought to show me the progress she has made.  The finished article will be very classy indeed.  Leila and Jillian are such wonderful actresses.  So much realism…” 

The very real bleakness of the warehouse filled the screen, its grimy features broken by sunlight filtering down through translucent panels in the roof.  The camera zoomed in on two figures standing half bent over in a corner of the building.  I saw at once it was Jillian and Leila.  Both girls were still clothed.  Jill wore a short, pale blue skirt and a sky blue blouse with white sandals, while Leila wore a scarlet sleeveless dress with her favourite red boots.  Both had ball gags strapped behind their teeth. 

They were each held in a strappado, their hands bound palm to palm behind them, and, as the camera followed the ropes to pullies above, we saw how the pair were linked.  For one girl to stand up straight and to lower her arms, the other girl’s arms had to go higher.   The pair had obviously worked out a silent system between them, for after a short while Jill bend down and let her hands be raised high above her, while Leila took a minute to stand upright before the positions were reversed.  A close-up shot of Jill’s face showed a sheen of sweat as she concentrated on the load on her arms.

The shot dissolved into something different.  This time Jill was sitting on what looked like a large trunk, her arms bound behind her with copious amounts of rough hemp rope which pinioned her upper arms to her body and made her the thin fabric of the blue silk blouse stretch tautly over her breasts.

There was a man in this clip.  He was tall and well built, and obviously knew his rope work, for he was binding Jill’s legs in a very competent manner.  He disappeared off camera for a few minutes then returned with a discipline helmet that he forced over Jill’s head, ignoring her futile struggles as he laced it up over the blonde hair until it finally disappeared from sight. 

The next shot showed the man lowering Jill into the trunk and packing bags of something around her.  Although the sound was turned right down, there was the sound of frantic mewing in the background that I knew was Leila watching her friend being packaged up.  The final view followed the trunk to a van where the rear doors were opened and the trunk was lifted inside by the big man and another, slimmer guy.  The doors were then slammed shut and the picture went black.

We sat silent and stunned.

“Where is Jill now?”  Monica asked, her voice on the verge of breaking.

“In Macau.  She’s getting to see the world,” said Mr Choi genially.  “No extra charge.”

I wonder how you’d like to see the world from the inside of a trunk, Sunshine, I thought grimly.

“And Leila?”

“Still here in Hong Kong.  For the moment.”

“For the moment?”

“Monica, you must understand these productions take a lot of time,” Mr Choi explained with a gall I could not believe.  “The pair are so good we will most likely do several features.”

“And they will be returning when?”  Monica demanded through gritted teeth.

Mr Choi shrugged and looked at Serina, who smiled in a way that told me not to hold my breath.  It also told me she might end up sharing a trunk with Mr Choi if I had my way.  “Who can say?  We will let you know when we hear from the production crew.”

“And what if I go to the police?”

This time it was Mr Choi who smiled, but the eyes were cold.

“I would think that option through if I were you.  Working in porn, without visas?  Probably involved with triads and drug running?  Hong Kong is not run by the British any more, you know.  Things are returning to the old status quo.  By all means go to the police.  I think you will find yourselves on an aeroplane very quickly.  Sympathies for a couple of missing Gweipoes will be hard to find, you know.  The Chinese have a tradition of long remembering things, and many still harbour considerable resentment against the British for them seizing Hong Kong in the eighteen hundreds.  Our culture goes back a lot further than you barbarians will ever realise.  I suggest you leave here now.  The girls will be returned – eventually, when they have completed the work we require of them.”

Monica stood up, barely under control.  Emma had tears streaming down her cheeks.  I could hardly believe that Monica was going to walk out without a fight, but I knew we had to trust that she still had some cards to play, although for the life of me I could not think what they were.  Here we were up against a corporation backed by the triads, on their own turf.  I put my arm around Emma’s shoulders, taking my lead from Monica and hoping that Emma would not lose control as we followed Monica to the door now held open by Serina.  She gave me a devilish smile as we left the room. 

*   *   *

In the lift Monica turned to us and I could see her struggling to keep her emotions inside her.  But her voice was strong and determined. 

“This is what we’re going to do.  We only have one shot at this.  If we screw up, we may lose Jill and Leila forever.  I have no faith whatsoever that if we do nothing we the girls will be returned.  That arsehole started lying the moment he opened his mouth, and the girl was in it up to her neck as well.  She will be the link.  You can bet your arse she knows where they are.  We’re going to follow her and eventually wring the truth out of her by one way or the other.  Are you okay for this?  Steven?”

“Sure.  We can do it.”

“Em?”

Emma was snuffling into her handkerchief.  “Yes.  I’m sorry.  It was just so awful seeing poor Jill like that… But Mon, maybe this will help…”  We got out at the ground floor and stepped back into a corner.  Emma produced two photos from her purse.  Monica’s eyes widened in surprise.

“You sneaked a couple of photos… Why, Emma?”

“I…I’m not sure, but I thought I recognised the shape of the hills in this one – there is a particular shaped one, and of course the proximity of water is important.  And this one shows the village… He said Leila is still in Hong Kong.  I think we might be able to work out where she is…” Monica and I were both stunned at Emma’s presence of mind, not to say her sleight of hand.   Monica hugged her and I could not pass up the opportunity to join in.  I reckoned it was a long shot, however, and I for one was more than happy to pursue Monica’s plan and beat the whereabouts of the girls out of little Miss Videocam.

We hatched a plan to identify and tail Serina.  We reckoned she had been doing a simple delivery – she surely did not work in the plush offices upstairs.  Somehow that did not seem her style.  We agreed that she would probably not be too long in residence there. 

It was perhaps half an hour before Serina appeared.  It was starting to rain – the prelude to Typhoon Susie, evidently a day or so away from Hong Kong, according to the latest weather reports.  We were watching from behind some shrubs some way from the entrance to the building.  At the emergence of Serina from Jardine House, Emma immediately set out on her tail, for Emma could more easily blend in with the sea of black hair and Chinese faces that filled the footpaths, while we followed a little behind her.  Emma had dialled Monica’s mobile phone as soon as we started tracking Serina, talking to Monica as events unfolded.

“She’s crossing the road,” Monica told me.

“Maybe heading for the MTR,” I said, hurrying to catch up with the mob of people crossing as the lights changed.  Ahead of us was the entry to Central Station, one of the main underground stations on the Mass Transit Railway.  The distinctive MTR logo – a vertical line overlaid with two horizontal semi-circles, that I always thought looked like a stick insect or a run-over possum – was ahead of us. 

We soon found ourselves on a train taking us under the harbour, then north under Nathan Road, up the spine of Kowloon.  Monica and I were in the carriage next to the one carrying Emma and Serina.  Monica still had her phone to her ear.  Thank goodness so many people had mobiles in Hong Kong that the MTR had ensured adequate coverage in the tunnels.  Nearby somebody’s phone rang and a dozen people started groping in their pockets and bags until the ringing stopped.  Monica appeared not to notice, so intent was she on making sure she did not miss Emma’s instructions.

I pointed to the route map above the door.  “If she goes east we could have to change at one of the next three stations,” I warned Monica.  She nodded. 

The change came at the second station, and for two long minutes we lost sight of Emma in the surging crowds but followed her instructions until we emerged on an eastbound platform.  The process was repeated, with Monica and I lurking in the train doorway ready to jump off at a moment’s notice from Emma if her quarry did a runner at a station during the long seconds the train was stationary with the doors open.  More stations passed – Kowloon Tong, Lok Fu and Diamond Hill.

“It has to be the next one, “ I told Monica.  “Any further past this station and it would have been quicker to go another route.  And Choi Hung is where you get off to go over the hills to the east.”

Monica was tense as the doors opened, listening for the word from Emma.

“Go!” she said and we both pushed into the disembarking mob.  There were a number of exits but the plan held and we found ourselves heading up the steps on to Clearwater Bay Road. 

“She’s getting into a taxi!”  Monica said urgently.  “Em, where are you?”

We spotted her and reached her just as she flagged one of the ever-present red and white taxis that filled the streets day and night.  Emma jumped into the front seat and gabbled at the driver as we piled into the back.  I guessed it was the local equivalent of “Follow that cab!”

“Damn,” I said.  “I always wanted to do that!”

“I told him you’d pay a hundred bucks extra if he doesn’t lose the other taxi.”

“Cheap at twice the price,” I agreed.

The driver was an old guy given to sucking breath through his teeth and muttering curses at every second vehicle on the road, when he wasn’t clunking through the gears.  As we climbed over the hill and down into the New Territories I knew our odds were getting better for the roads were limited here and options for turning off were few. 

We turned north on to Hiram’s Highway, leading towards Sai Kung, home of the leisured classes.  The road was narrow and two-laned, prone to landslides in the rainy season, which periodically cut off Sai Kung.  The road followed the coast, twisting in and out of inlets and around headlands, through villages and past new plush townhouse developments overlooking marinas filled with luxury yachts.  Our quarry was a couple of cars ahead, and for all his brusque manner our driver was soon eating out of Emma’s hand – or as much as I could gather, for the singsong tones of the conversation always seemed to bear no relation to whatever was actually transpiring. 

North of the sprawling little township that was Sai Kung, the lead taxi abruptly turned up a side road.  Emma spotted the turn off and directed the cabbie to stop just past it.  The side road looked to be a dead end, maybe a hundred metres long.  Serina’s cab had halted halfway up the hill.  We paid the driver and climbed out, tracking the quarry from behind some trees.  Serina’s cab had stopped outside a single-storied group of houses slightly away from the road.  We watched her go in the front door of the one closest to the road while her cab turned around and drove out past us.

“Bingo,” breathed Monica.  “Well done, team.”

*   *   *
We watched the houses for signs of life, sheltering under the dripping trees as the wind began to increase in strength.  It was Friday, and we were nervous that school kids might shortly be returning home, if any lived nearby.  We had resolved to gain entry and overcome Serina as quickly as possible.  I had done a quick reconnaissance and had got an idea of the nature of the house.    The front garden, like the surrounding area was generally overgrown, and the dwelling appeared to have lost any class it might once have had.  I had skulked through the foliage of the front garden and discovered that although the front door had a peep hole, there was no security grille.  I reckoned if we could get Serina to open the door a crack, we could force our way in.  We hatched our plan accordingly, relying on the assumption that Serina was the only occupant.

At that moment Monica’s mobile rang.

“Hello?  Trish?  No – we’re on to something.  We’re about to lay siege to this bitch who’s kidnapped Leila…  What do you want, Trish?  Listen to what?  Trish what are you doing to her?  Dammit, stop bothering me with this stuff…  Warren did what?  You got screwed by him!  Trish – you and I are going to have words when I get back!  Now stop teasing Mary and let her go!  And stay away from Warren!  Goodbye!”
 
 

Monica was grim faced and did not confide in us what had transpired, other than what we had gleaned from overhearing things.  Monica made as though the phone call had never occurred and led the way up to the house.

With Monica and I pressing our backs to the wall either side of the door, Emma knocked.  There was a brief conversation in Cantonese through the door, with Emma, I guessed, doing her best to sound distraught and desperate for help.  Serina’s first words were probably the equivalent of ‘how the hell did you find me?’ as she opened the door.  Clearly Emma did not present a threat, but the three of us did as we poured through the door knocking Serina to the ground and eventually subduing her in a welter of flailing arms and kicking legs, not to mention abusive screeching Cantonese.  After a minute everything seemed to sort itself out, and I found myself sitting astride Serina’s upper body, my bent knees on her elbows, with one hand gripping her by the hair and the other over her mouth, my fingers hooked under her jaw.  Monica was sitting on her legs, while Emma ripped out the phone cord and searched the immediate vicinity for other means of restraint.  She returned with a roll of masking tape, wrapping several turns of the tape around Serina’s eyes and mouth in an untidy but effective manner.

We turned her on her face, never letting go for a minute, for she had fought like a deranged cat, and I had the scratches to prove it.  Emma bound her crossed wrists behind her with the phone cord, then we hogtied them to her crossed ankles to complete a temporary package.  Serina was still mmphing and trying to yell through the tape as we finally stood up and caught our collective breath.

“Good one, guys,” Monica said, letting the tension ease from her expression.  “Now let’s get into some dry clothes…”

*   *   *
In the hour since we had been in the house we had searched it thoroughly.  We had concluded that a man lived there with Serina – a fact which leant urgency to our task since he might come home at any time. Serina was now naked and bound face forward over the back of a large armchair, her legs spread and her ankles tied to the rear feet of the chair.  The act of disrobing her had been accomplished with a pair of sharp scissors, and her muted complaints had not been heeded.  Emma had translated that Serina was complaining about the clothes being Gucci or Versace or some other such over-priced so-called fashion icon.  Monica suggested she ‘tell it to the marines’.

Serina had a slim body without an ounce of spare flesh, though stopping short of anorexia.  Her skin was smooth and pale, not a line to be seen on her face.  Her breasts were small and pointed, mounds now pressed against the back of the chair in her bent-over position.  Serina’s crossed wrists were drawn high up her back and secured there with a cord running over her shoulders down to the front of the chair.  The tape had been removed from her head, to be replaced with a large black ball gag.  Overcoming the rubber ball had proved difficult for Serina, although muffled grunts and protests still came from the bound figure as we searched her belongings. 

Needless to say the search of the house had been somewhat of a revelation.  The place had only two bedrooms and it was evident that Serina was sharing the main bedroom with a partner, for the second room served as study and a storeroom for her photographic paraphernalia, plus, we discovered, an extensive range of bondage props and devices.  We were not sure whether they were solely for use in her line of work, or whether they were an additional, personal interest.  We all agreed it was probably the latter, if the eyebolts in the ceiling of the living room and bedroom were anything to go by.

We were all wet from our time in the rain and took the opportunity to quickly dry off and change our clothes.  The girls were lucky in that they were of a size where Serina’s clothes would fit them, at least in part.  Monica was obviously a size larger and settled on a sleeveless black dress.

“Bloody Chinese women,” she muttered.  “Thank God for cotton/lycra.”

“You Gweipoes – never happy,” Emma retorted.  “Except that this bitch has no tits.”

“Never happy!”  Monica shot back.  “Hey – nice skirt.”  Emma emerged from the bedroom wearing a black leather skirt that showed off her legs, with a denim shirt on top. 

“At least she’s got a waistline,” Emma admitted grudgingly.  There was more mmphing from the naked figure over the chair.

I had meanwhile found a shirt that was two sizes too big and a pair of baggy shorts that were likewise.  I decided that the figures cut by the two girls were infinitely superior to anything I could lay claim to, and so decided not to contribute to the fashion discussion.

Also in the spare bedroom was a collection of floggers and crops, and it was the nastiest, whippiest of these that Monica selected, waving it in front of the wide-eyed Selena’s face.  Monica was suddenly all scary business.  She squatted in front of the chair and looked into the Chinese girl’s eyes.  Her voice was pitched low and was cold and dispassionate.  It was like a dungeon session at Bilboes, but this time the stakes were infinitely higher, and Monica was not acting.

“Now you listen to me, you little smart-arse.  Two of my best friends are missing.  You know where they are.  I want you to tell me.  It’s that simple.  If you do not tell me, I will whip you until you bleed.  Then I will employ a lot of other measures that will be far, far worse.  Trust me.  I have done this for a living and I know just how to hurt a girl.  Are you with me so far?”  Serina made no sound, glaring instead at Monica with undisguised hatred.  Monica stood up and walked around behind the helpless female, before bending over her.

“Do you know the tune “Happy Birthday”, Serina?”  Again, no reaction.  There was a crack as the crop descended on the bare buttock, followed by a nasal grunt from behind the gag.  It was neither affirmation nor denial.

“All Hong Kong Chinese know it,” Emma volunteered.  “She does.”

“Thank you Emma.  A simple humming of that tune will stop the pain, Serina. You can manage that, even with that nice ball in your pretty little mouth.  As soon as you wish to talk, start humming.”

Thwack!

I beckoned Emma into the spare bedroom.  I was not enamoured with what Monica was going to do to her prisoner – call me old fashioned if you will.  I disliked females getting hurt, though I had got used to their strange ways in the dungeons of Bilboes.  But I accepted it for the sake of Jill and Leila.  Except that something told me Serina was not going to be an easy nut to crack.

“Em, remember you said you thought you recognised that skyline when you sneaked those two photos?  Let’s have a look at them again.”  I had found a map of Hong Kong in the study and wanted to see if we could at least get some idea of where Leila might be held captive.  Emma retrieved the photos from her handbag and put them on the desk while I spread out the map.

“Supposing we assume the photos were taken in the middle of the day,” I said.  “Look at this shadow here – it’s short.  That means it must be pointing roughly north. So this shot of the sea is looking south.  So we’re looking south from land to land across an east-west stretch of water of some size, say several kilometres.  That must be a starter.  And the place is obviously out in the wops somewhere – you don’t leave people tied up like that for all the world to gawk at.”  We studied the map.  There were at least half a dozen such configurations in the intricate coastline that was now the Special Autonomous Region of Hong Kong.

“I think that mountain is Nam Wai Shan,” said Emma, at length.

“Which makes the photo taken from where?” I asked, trying to ignore the sound of leather on flesh and the muffled grunts from the next room.

“Maybe here, somewhere,” said Emma, pointing to the north side of the Tolo Channel. 

“Are you sure?”

“Not a hundred percent, but maybe ninety nine.”

“Hmmm. Still leaves a lot of area.”

“Aw shit!”  The cry came from Monica.  “You little slut!”

We ran into the other room in time to see Serina, her backside striated with crop marks, grinding her pelvis into the top of the chair, grunting and mmphing into her gag.  Monica was standing with her hands on her hips, a look of total frustration and exasperation on her face.

“I cannot believe this!” she exclaimed.  “This bitch has just got herself off on the thrashing she was getting.  She’s a bloody pain slut!”

I took Monica aside, into the kitchen and out of earshot of Serina’s final gasping climax as she squirmed and stiffened against the padding of the chair.  Monica was furious.

“Listen Mon – calm down.  Look, I don’t think you’ll break her like that.  Part of it is Serina, part of it is Chinese.  They can take discomfort – in some forms.  They are stoic in the face of adversity.  It’s their culture.  And remember, a white woman breaking a Chinese – there’s the ‘face’ thing here as well.  Pride and principles and all that.”

“So what are you suggesting, Mr Anthropologist?” she asked sarcastically.  She was clearly displeased, and my words were doing nothing to mollify that displeasure.

“Look.  Serina’s city Chinese.  There are many things here that the locals don’t like.  I’ve seen women afraid to pat cats because they’ve never experienced them at close quarters before.  These people can master the latest in techno devices, but some far more basic things will freak them out.  Here’s what I suggest…”

Ten minutes later Serina was bound in the reverse position, her legs still spread, her glowing backside resting on the top of the armchair, her bound wrists tethered to the rung at the front.  We had wrapped further ropes about her waist and through her crotch, holding her as rigidly as possible and pulling the lips of her pussy apart.  Her face was flushed over the gag and she still glared defiantly at us.  Her body was bathed in sweat in the humid atmosphere inside the room.

I had made a brief foray into the garden, locating the inspection chamber for the sewer outlet from the house and making a rather unpleasant foray beneath the lid.  We had found a large plastic coke bottle in the fridge, emptied it and cut the bottom of it.  With the top removed, the outlet was now inserted firmly in Serina’s pussy, as far as it would go.  Serina’s expression appeared to change slightly from an outright challenge to something approaching uncertainty, even worry.

“Serina, this is your last chance,” Monica said evenly.  “If you do not tell us where Leila is, I will fill that wet little pussy of yours with what’s in this container.”  She waved a small blue Tupperware box.  “I will then tape it up with duct tape, after which we will fill your arse in the same manner.  How would you like half a dozen cockroaches in each of your orifices?” she ended, removing the top from the box and letting Serina view the brown creatures scurrying about .

“Hold the bottle steady, Steve,” Monica ordered.  “I think dropping them in one at a time, to feast on all your juices, before they start to worm their way inside of you, Serina, yes?”  Monica used a pair of chopsticks to grab one of the repulsive insects and hold it over the inverted plastic bottle.

Serina lost the plot at this point, suddenly going berserk in her bonds, screaming in horror into the ball strapped behind her teeth and shaking her head wildly.  Monica appeared to lose her grip on the chopsticks and the cockroach flipped on to Serina’s breast, pausing at the hard brown nipple before scuttling around the side of her waist and escaping on to the chair.  Serina uttered a long wail into the gag and screwed up her eyes.

“Tsk!” Monica tut-tutted.  “I am just so unused to these chopsticks.  It’s so-o-o hard to hang on to things…” She paused with a second insect above the inverted bottle.  “I want to hear ‘Happy Birthday’, Serina,” Monica reminded her coolly.

Serina’s breath was hoarse and laboured as Monica lowered the wriggling insect towards the open mouth of the funnel into the terrified Chinese girl’s pussy.  Serina finally knew defeat, a large drop of sweat sliding down her face as she hummed the magic tune.

Monica undid the gag strap at the back of Serina’s neck and worked the large ball out from behind her teeth.  I kept the coke bottle in place, even though Monica had put cockie number two back into the box.

“Ko Shing!” sobbed Serina.  “Ko Shing!  Aiyaa!  Don’t put those things near me, please!”