Monica's Place

Monica's Place

A Novel,  By Richard Alexander, email address: bilboes@hotmail.com


Statistics:

Length:  208,000 words, 24 Chapters.

Genre:  B & D erotica

Author's Philosophy:

Believability is the key.  In my view a story should meet certain criteria.  It
should have a plot that is logical and believable.  Events should have causes
and consequences and take place for a reason. 

In this genre there are many stories, often poorly written, that could not take
place since they are unrealistic - and this is before one gets to the realms of
true fantasy.  My writings are about people who live in believable surroundings
and have 'adventures' that could conceivably happen.  These people are not
superhuman, but they are attractive and individual.  The main character, Steven,
has a dry sense of humour that permeates the sections that he writes.  I like to
have fun in writing, which I hope comes through in the rather light-hearted
approach to the storyline as a whole.

B & D has many sides - fantasy, science fiction, or realist, all of which can
cover a range of aspects involving degrees of consensuality, pain and sexual
fetishes.  There exist moral issues and social attitudes that may offend some
people, either through being too harsh or chauvinistic, or even the reverse.  In
regard to these, Monica's Place is not extremist.  It is 'middle of the road'
but readable and enjoyable.

The main characters in Monica's Place (aside from Steven) are female.  They have
their quirks and idiosyncrasies, but they are in general nice people (unlike
some of their clients). This is a book that does not condone rape or
maltreatment of women, nor does it extend into the darker realms of B & D such
as disfiguration, blood letting or the like.  In this regard, Steven has an
uncommonly chivalrous (if at times mischievous and downright devious) attitude
towards the female characters while struggling to understand what he is getting
into at times.  He is somewhat naive in this regard, and frequently ends up
being educated the hard way.

The Plot

Steven Reynolds is a builder. He is in his early thirties, running a one-man
outfit.  When he is asked by Monica Armstrong, the owner of Bilboes, an old
Queenslander house on the outskirts of Brisbane, to do a fitout of the basement,
he agrees, not realising where it will lead.  In the course of building a
dungeon, holding cells and various places of devious torments, he finds himself
drawn into the lifestyle and encountering all manner of clients.  As he and
Monica devise ingenious instruments of bondage and restraint, Steven finds
himself having to test some of them himself, or else assisting Monica to have
them tested by the girls and their clients.  Circumstances develop where Steven
and Monica begin to try to outdo each other in inventing restraint situations
for each other, culminating in a final climax involving the entire staff of
Bilboes being involved in a slow release scenario that roves around Brisbane. 
And what does Steven really feel for the proud Monica, when she is not trying to
outdo him in the humiliation stakes - or vice versa?  That too begins to surface
in the lead up to the final chapter. 

Reactions

The novel has been posted on a somewhat obscure Australian-based web page and,
according to the page host, has attracted more feedback than any other story
ever posted there.  The chapters were posted in groups of six and the author
received numerous emails demanding the rest of the chapters be posted as quickly
as possible so readers could continue with the saga.  The author has not
received any detrimental criticisms - all were most praiseworthy.

"By popular public demand", a second Monica story (Monica's Quest, set primarily
in Hong Kong and Macau) is almost complete.  At around 120,000 words it is not
as long as the first, but has a more cohesive plot and has been deemed 'a worthy
successor' by those who have read the advanced copy and provided feedback for
tightening up and tweaking the story.

*   *   *

Monica's PlaceBook 1 of the Monica SeriesbyRichard AlexanderAll comments would be welcome at bilboes@hotmail.com.(c) 2000Monica's PlaceChapter	1	The InitiationChapter	2	Testing TimesChapter	3	The Customer's Always RightChapter	4	ChristinaChapter	5	Trish Gets The ShaftChapter	6	Contrary MaryChapter	7	The GymChapter	8	The Tardis and the SubmarineChapter	9	Shannen's Story - Day OneChapter	10	Shannen's Story - Day TwoChapter	11	Shannen's Story - Day ThreeChapter	12	Shannen's Story - Day FourChapter	13	The TwinsChapter	14	Shannen Rides AgainChapter	15	Dungeons and DragonsChapter	16	Photo OpportunitiesChapter	17	House CallsChapter	18	The RackChapter	19	Cutting Loose (by Trish)Chapter	20	Death and TransfigurationChapter	21	Escape and CapitulationChapter	22	Transfiguration and EnslavementChapter	23	Coming OutChapter	24	The Final Exam  Monica's Place - A 24-part NovelCHAPTER ONE - THE INITIATION	Monica and I had been at junior school together, but had not seen each othersince then. It had been perhaps 15 years previously when we had each gone ourseparate ways to different high schools. While I had attended the local stateschool, Monica - as I later found out - had been sent to a rather expensiveboarding school for girls on the outskirts of Brisbane.	We had been friends at school, but I had barely thought about her in theintervening years as I got my building business up and running - something whichtook all my time and energy. Then had come the crash, the failure of clients topay and the collapse of the construction industry that had cleaned me out.  Inow worked as a one-man band in the western suburbs of Brisbane, doing smalljobs that kept my head above the financial water level dictated by my bankmanager.	As I said, I had barely thought about Monica Armstrong in the interveningyears. The message on my answering machine, requesting that I visit an addresson the western fringe of the city to look at doing some alterations to anexisting house for a Miss Armstrong, meant nothing at the time.	The house was an old Queenslander - large and square, with a coveredverandah on three sides, and the main floor raised on poles above the ground.This latter effect was partly for coolness and partly to keep crawly insectnasties at a distance. This particular house was perhaps a hundred years old andlooked to be in a wonderful condition.  It was white with dark green trim to thedoors and windows which were of clear varnished timber.  The verandah posts, theornate filigree work beside each one and the elaborate wrought iron infills tothe railings were also painted dark green. 	The house stood at the end of a hundred metre long curved drivewaysurrounded by eucalypts and various types of palm trees - a not-unusualcombination in Queensland's lush climate. It was a very private setting, beingperhaps a kilometre from the nearest neighbour down the road, and it couldbarely be seen from the road. The road frontage was a thicket of dense foliagewith probably all manner of nasty thorns that any intruder would have tonegotiate, and the only break being a pair of large steel gates between stoutabutting stone walls. On one side a brass nameplate simply stated "Bilboes". Thegates had opened silently when I announced myself on the intercom.	I parked in front of the house, noting how at some recent time theunderneath of the house had been enclosed with blockwork walls set back a coupleof metres from the overhanging edge of the verandah. Ordinarily I would haveregarded this as heresy, but it had been done so discretely, and was so wellconcealed with planting that it was barely noticeable. I could not help noting,either, the carparking for perhaps ten cars. Once again it had all been donevery cleverly, with little spaces tucked between trees and areas of garden.	I walked up the wide timber steps on to the verandah and rang the bell,admiring the polished double cedar doors as I stood there.	"Good morning."	I was greeted by an extraordinarily attractive young woman in herlate-twenties, who introduced herself as Jillian. Her blonde hair was short andpulled back behind her ears. She had a strong, angular jaw line and smiled themost welcoming smile I have had from a client for a long time. I followed herinto a spacious reception area. The floors were of polished Tasmanian oak, andall the finishings were in keeping with the era of the house. As a builder Icould appreciate quality fittings and hardware - or, more to the point, themoney required to purchase such things and maintain them. In between admiringthe construction of the place, I could not help but also admire the constructionof Jillian, as she led the way down the main hall before knocking on a door tothe left, and entering. She was about 180 centimetres tall, her height accentedby the sleeveless white dress she wore that stopped halfway down her thighs.Simple brown leather sandals with the straps winding about her ankles completedher outfit - the essence of coolness on what was a sticky humid Brisbane summerday.	I followed her into a large high-ceilinged library or study, with floor toceiling bookshelves on two opposing walls, while the side opposite the door hadlarge French doors that opened on to the verandah.  Overhead a ceiling fanrevolved slowly, while on the wall beside the door through which I had enteredwere two wall-mounted television screens.  The room had an air of tidiness andorder that suggested its usual occupant was organised and fastidious.	"Mr Reynolds, this is Monica Armstrong, mistress of the house," Jillianannounced, before leaving and closing the door behind her. It was then that thepenny finally dropped. I guess I grinned stupidly, with the realisation thatthis elegant woman was the slightly gawky girl I had known all those years ago.	Monica smiled. "I thought it was you - just a hunch I had from youradvertisement. You always did want to be a builder." She was not just elegant,she was stunning.  As she shook my hand I saw she was as tall as I was, herpenetrating blue eyes looking directly into mine. The jet-black hair was nowshorter - just touching her shoulders and impeccably styled. Like Jillian, herattire was suited to the warm weather. A deep emerald green colour, her dresswas short and simple, with a plunging neckline set off by a gold choker collar.I could not help but notice that Monica's figure had certainly developed sincemy last memory of her. Her cleavage was a striking cream against the material ofthe dress.  "I was hoping it was you, Steven. Even if I had been wrong, I stillneed a genuine builder. I feel more comfortable now, knowing it is you.  I thinkI have some work that may be a little out of the ordinary, but it maynevertheless interest you."  And that was how the whole thing started.	Monica was very up-front. The house was hers - bought partly with aninheritance and partly through her own earnings, she explained. I did not gointo exactly what the 'earnings' originated from. Suffice to say the place nowoperated as a high-class brothel, catering only to the well-heeled and powerfulfigures in Queensland society. Discretion was guaranteed, not just by the staff,but by the fact that a number of Monica's clients would neither like to bepublicly associated with the place, nor would they like to see it's servicesdisappear.	Monica gave me a tour of the ground floor and upper storey, sizing me upinitially, as though assessing how much to disclose.  The house was roughlysquare in plan, built around a central stairwell with clerestorey windows whichlet in light but were protected from the harsh sun by slatted shutters. Therewere five bedrooms upstairs, with brass numbers from "1" to "4" on each door. The fifth was Monica's.  Each had an ensuite, and each bedroom was decorateddifferently.  In one there was a four poster, in another a waterbed, and so on. I had to admit that it had all been done extremely well, given the century-oldsurroundings.  That, I was told, was due to Trish, one of Monica's team whoevidently used to be an interior designer in a past life.  On the main level,branching out to the right off the main reception area at the foot of the stairswas a large living room.  This could be partitioned down the middle to createtwo smaller "waiting rooms" as Monica called them.  Next to the living room andmoving anticlockwise around the house was a dining room, a less formal communalroom with a large breakfast table, then - also looking on to the rear garden - amodern kitchen, laundry and adjoining verandah.  Then came Monica's office and aground floor bathroom.  Once again I had to say I was immensely impressed withthe quality that had been achieved. To the rear, from the verandah, steps ledpast a jacuzzi, down to a pool that seemed to appear straight out of the jungle,amidst rocks and palms. Beyond that, up a small rise and half hidden by foliagewas a small, obviously new building, which Monica referred to as "the girls'quarters".	"All this is, if you like, the "front" - the more legitimate side of thebusiness," she told me, watching me carefully.  "All our services here arestraight, standard, orthodox, call them what you will.  Are you interested ingoing further? It's not all strictly legal..." She looked at me quizzically.	"Sure," I said. "Lead on."  We were standing in the reception area at thispoint. Monica smiled, and swung a small picture out from the wall. Behind it wasa small lever recessed into the wall.  It was a little cliched, but I was stillimpressed.  When she pulled it down, a section of wall beside it swung open,revealing a stairway leading down into the closed in section below the house. "This is the other side of the business," she told me seriously.  "We can caterfor many clients here - or at least we will do, when we have it properly fittedout.  The area has only recently been built, and hasn't been finished.  We'vebeen looking round for the right person to do it - someone with the skills to doa proper job, someone who won't rip us off, and someone with absolutediscretion.  I hope you're that person, Steve.  My instinct tells me this may bethe case."	Her blue eyes looked at me steadily, then we descended the sandstone stepsinto the cool gloom.  "I told the previous builder this area was to be acombination of wine cellars and a darkroom complex. He didn't care, as long ashe got paid. And even then he charged like a wounded bull.  I got rid of himbefore we got to the fit-out stage.  Which is where we are now..."	Which is where it all got interesting.  What Monica was talking about herewas fully equipped dungeons, with racks, cages, chains, pillories, the works. At her previous premises she had indulged in it to a limited degree - limited byspace, cost - and noise insulation.  With her inheritance she was now gamblingon an increase in a very special patronage, catering for a niche market.  WhileI had not had first hand experience of such an establishment, I knew what theywere about, and - I confess - the prospect of such varied and interesting workexcited me.  We walked through the gloomy rooms beneath the house.  They werestill at the bare blockwork stage - no doors, just the openings in theblockwork, save for an emergency exit in the form of a solid steel exteriordoor.  The ductwork from the airconditioning system was visible, since noceilings had been installed.  It was a basic, empty shell waiting for atransformation.	We talked all afternoon and then over dinner.  Monica introduced me to therest of her "team".  Jillian I had already met. She was Monica's right hand,arranging, coordinating and sharing working with the clients, but it was Monicawho controlled the money, the policy, the clientele and the girls.  There werefour others:	Mary was the eldest, perhaps in her mid-thirties, tall and elegant, but witha mean streak, so Monica informed me later.  She was slim with short raven-blackhair waving gently behind her ears.  She had once been a television reporterbefore succumbing to the lure of the call-girl money.	Emma was Hong Kong Chinese, although she had lived most of her life inAustralia. Her hair hung past her shoulders, but unlike most Chinese, she hadbreasts that any European girl would have died for.  They bounced nicely whenshe walked. She came across as demure and submissive, but Monica warned me notto be fooled.	Leila was a blonde, a little like Jillian, but slightly shorter.  Her haircame just to her neck, and she had a cheerful, pleasant personality.  Again, Iwas warned, don't be fooled.	Patricia was the last of the team, tall and brunette, with her hair straightto her shoulders. Trish was in her thirties - not that she looked it - and wasfrom Vancouver, where she had first indulged her interior decoration fantasiesbefore turning to the more hedonistic of them.  She had the huskiest, sexiestvoice I had ever heard.  Her laugh was throaty and infectious.  I could hardlyget enough.  But that really went for all of them.  Monica sure knew talent whenshe saw it.			I stayed for dinner, cooked, in this instance, by Monica herself. The girlsall joined Monica and myself at the big dining room table after dinner, wherethe ideas poured forth. It was pretty clear that despite the apparent freshnessof these girls, at least Mary and Trish were hardened to the darker side of thework, and had come across clients and client needs that I could barelycomprehend. Monica explained that they had to cater for both male and femaleclients. Sometimes they were straight, sometimes gay, sometimes dominant,sometimes submissive. Both masters and slaves (sometimes together) visited"Bilboes".  The girls categorized them into "upstairs" and "downstairs" clients,depending on whether they wanted straight sex or something more elaborate, be itpunishment, role-playing, or catering to some sort of fetish.  Most tastes couldbe catered for by the downstairs team, I gathered, if the money was right.  Ifthey didn't have the equipment, they would get it.  Which was why I was there.	During the early part of what was turning into the longest interview I hadever had, Monica had quizzed me about my technical abilities.  Could I weld? Could I lay bricks and mix concrete?  Did I know anything about electrics?  Atthe time it had puzzled me, but now it was all falling into place. They wantedone trustworthy guy to fully fit out their dungeons.		Over the course of the evening, all manner of ideas came from the girls overseveral bottles of Cabernet Sauvignon.  Entertaining was also something theywere adept at.  I made sketches, drew rough plans and - truth be known - enjoyedmyself more than I had for years.  Money, it seemed, was not a major obstaclefor Monica.  She did not mind spending it as long as she knew she was gettingthe best job possible and was getting a fair deal.  And I could see a lot ofmoney being spent.  I did not know the extent of the inheritance she hadreceived, but it was obviously not small.	"You let me worry about the budget," she told me.  "As long as you don't ripme off, there'll be no problem.  If you do -" she added with a malicious smile, "you'll get to trial the full extent of all the facilities I want to construct -slowly, and over a long period of time.  You really don't want that, do you?"	There was no business at "Bilboes" that night, other than our long tabletopdiscussion.  With the amount of wine I had drunk, I took Monica up on her offerto stay the night.  After the girls had retired to their "quarters", Monicashowed me to a huge bedroom dominated by an ornate four-poster. Much as I wouldhave enjoyed her company further, she let it be known that our relationship - atleast at this stage - was to be purely business.	"Why 'Bilboes'?" I asked Monica just as she turned to leave.	"Nothing to do with Hobbits and Middle Earth folk," she told me with asmile.  "That's what most people think of, but the spelling is wrong.  Bilboesare kind of leg irons - like two D-shackles with a long bar through them.  Thename came from Bilbao in the sixteenth century."	"Ah," I said. "Discrete, memorable, catchy, but with enough overtones forthose in the know.  You've thought it all out, haven't you."	"I think so," she said softly, confidently, pulling the door closed as sheleft.	The next day Monica and I studied plans and I drew up lists of material wewould require.  More importantly we programmed the work firstly to suit therunning of the place around her clients' schedules.  Secondly there was apriority to the work to be carried out "downstairs".  Despite my wish to do thewhole area by trade, that is, install all the plumbing first, then theelectrics, and so on, Monica wanted a sequence of rooms to be fully completedone at a time.  The obvious reason for this was to get the rooms up and runningwith paying customers.	"We already have a number of clients waiting from our previous place - thatis waiting for us to get their little perversions teed up," she laughed. Therewas no malice or condescension here.  Monica genuinely enjoyed what she did, andseemed to have no reservations about what might be normal or abnormal. She wasnot one to make judgments, it appeared.	 "Mary and Trish are the main purveyors in the downstairs department. Theother three are only just beginning.  They've been with me for a while on thestraight stuff, but downstairs is a whole new ball game.  Well, perhaps not forJillian and Emma," she added cryptically.  "But at least they're learning to doit properly now.  They're our trainees, and they recognise that they will haveto often learn the hard way...  Let me show you an instance of a client on thewaiting list."  I followed Monica downstairs.  She led the way with a broadbeamed torch, choosing to ignore the temporary lights strung at infrequentintervals via a loose cable tied to nails on the exposed joists above.  Turninginto a black opening in one room, I could hear whimpering coming from thedarkness.	"This is Lisa," Monica said, playing the torch on a pale form that hungsuspended in the gloom.  "Lisa is one of our regular clients," Monica explained,playing the light again over the suspended woman.  I could see a long hank ofblonde hair trailing in the dust of the concrete floor from where her head hungbackwards, about half a metre clear of the ground.  Lisa's ankles had beencuffed to a spreader bar, the ends of which were attached to a large hook bychains about a metre long.  Lisa's wrists, cuffed together in front of her, hadalso been chained to the hook with a metre-long chain.  The hook was on the endof some stout-looking sashcord looping over a pulley which was in turn chainedto an exposed beam.  The cord went down to a small hand-winch that had beenchained to the base of a supporting post.  I shuddered at the makeshift way thesystem had been installed. 	Lisa hung there, slowly revolving in the torchlight.  Her head was encasedin a black leather hood which only had holes for her nose and the long tail ofhair. From her nasal moaning I surmised Lisa was well and truly gagged behindthe leather.  A short silver chain connecting two nipple clamps glinted in thelight.  With her ankles and wrists in the air, her buttocks and pussy wereextraordinarily vulnerable, and Monica swatted her several times on the insideof her thighs with a loose rope end.  The woman jerked and whined, the noiserising as Monica slipped her hand between the exposed pussy lips.  Lisa began tosquirm and shudder, her breath starting to come in rapid nasal panting.	"Mnnh! Mnnh! Mnnh! Mnnh!" she moaned, beginning to struggle and quiver,striving to extract more from Monica's gently tantalising fingers.  Monicalaughed pulled her hand away, then spun the helpless figure.	"Not yet, Lisa dear.  You still have a long way to go before that.  It'sbetter to travel hopefully than to arrive, isn't that what they say?"  Theprisoner shook her head in a desperate whining plea.  Monica took me by the armand we left the girl slowly rotating on the chain.	"See what I mean about paying customers?"	"Yes.  And I see what you mean by needing someone to make a proper job ofyour suspension apparatus too," I added.  I tried to overlook the fact thatwhole scene had been an intense turn on, and Mr Willy, my best mate, had viewedLisa's predicament with unabashed interest from an upright position. 	I was to see more of Lisa in the coming months.  She could usually be reliedupon to be the client in the most stringent position - a regular customer ofMary and Trish's.  I had just been introduced to the world of B & D, S & M, anda variety of other parts of the alphabet.  I had to admit the job prospects justseemed to be getting better and better.		Monica was an amazing person who knew exactly what she wanted, and usuallygot her way.  In designing the layout for "downstairs", she had done a prettygood job, obviously based on previous experiences which I did not ask about. There were something like seventeen rooms downstairs - eighteen if you countedthe caged spaces under the stairs.  All windowless, their walls of solid-filledconcrete block, and with a three and a half metre ceiling, the rooms wereair-conditioned through ceiling-hung ductwork and were able to be cooled orheated at the touch of a dial.	Monica's sequence of rooms to be completed was in fact totally logical,governed by which could be most easily finished, and which would support theknown good-payers.  She aimed to provide the best B & D service in the state. What I did not realise at the time was the degree to which I would becomeinvolved in the whole scheme...	As I become more familiar with Monica's requirements and the scope of work,I relocated to a vacant room in the girls' quarters.  The amount of work facingme was such that I deferred all other calls and jobs for the time being,referring them to a friend who was also a builder, telling him I was on a bigjob out of town.  I returned home once a week to collect my mail, but basicallymy bachelor pad had little to be taken care of in it.	At my new abode, there were six rooms with ensuites and a separate laundryin the block at the rear of the house, beyond the pool.  While Monica had herown room and office in the main house, the girls were independent within theirown quarters, connected as they were by phone to the main building.  Thebedrooms all faced on to a long verandah, and it was here that they oftenlounged about between clients, enjoying the peace and quiet of the idylliccountry setting.  My room was next to Mary's, at the near end of the row. Ishared meals with the girls in the main house, they taking it in turns to cook,all having considerably better than my limited culinary skills.	What I only gradually came to understand, as building work progressed beyondthe more mundane aspects of electrical wiring and plumbing, was that all thebasement rooms had been very carefully thought out by Monica.  Not only therooms themselves, but also their contents.  What I did not appreciate, either,was that any apparatus I designed and made, had to be fully tested.  Since I wasthe largest person in the household - as strong as the average client might belikely to be, I had to build everything with my body in mind as a minimum forstrength requirements.  Being a cautious person, everything was considerablyover-designed, probably able to take Arnie Schwarzenegger at a pinch.  Nobodyescaped from or broke my stuff, I decided.  Ultimately I had to test it, however- to be the guineapig.  Similarly, one of the girls had to volunteer, and allhad to be familiar with the little nuances that Monica and I designed into thesespecial fittings. 	I set up shop in a spare garage next to the house.  This gave me privacy anda place to experiment and put my ideas into practice.  In other words I wasdoing what I loved - creating, experimenting and improving.  And getting paidfor it!  The first downstairs rooms I worked on were very plain cells - holdingcells if you like.  Facing on to the hallway to the right of the stairs, theywere only three metres by one and a half.  This was just enough room for anarrow futon on the concrete floor, and a toilet.  The cells had heavysteel-faced doors and frames set securely into the blockwork, with spy holes inthem and keyed locks.  The walls remained concrete block painted matt black, aswas the fibre-cement ceiling.  Fibre cement is heavy stuff to lift, and eventhough I did it with an airlift - a half metre square platform that could riseup on a telescopic shaft powered by compressed air - it still required theassistance of a second person.  It was Leila who volunteered for this duty, inpart, I think, because she was the most junior and in part because she had mostto do with the storeroom, which was to be my next task.	I liked Leila.  She was probably 24 or so, and still had that fresh-facedenthusiasm that had yet to turn to the cynicism that so often befalls us,especially in such a business that was exposed to the misfits of society.  Leilatold me she was only in it for the money - she had not yet got to the stage ofreally enjoying inflicting pain and humiliation.	"That said," she admitted, "some of it still turns me on, as much as some ofthe other stuff turns me off."	"Do your clients ever get violent?" I asked.	"Very rarely. Firstly, they are generally here voluntarily, although we dohave some slaves that are brought here already restrained, sometimes gagged, sowe can't always get their opinion."  She smiled.  "But we don't go in for realpain - I mean mutilation or anything like that - and what we do is usually withthe client's written permission.  Monica has forms that they have to sign.  Butwhile they're under treatment, we generally keep them well secured - you know,only releasing one hand at a time.  That sort of thing. Mary and Trish taught mehow to do that.  They're really good."	"But don't you get the odd one - maybe a bit drunk, or deciding he didn'tget his money's worth, or whatever?"	"Only very occasionally.  Usually Monica will calm things down, but once ortwice we have had to get physical with them.  We all know self-defence, if theclient starts on us, and we know a few subduing holds as well. Maybe I'll get toshow you some time," she said, a roguish twinkle in her eye.	"I'm not sure I really wish to try you out," I said, from the top of myladder, screwing up the last of the sheets to the ceiling.	It took me the rest of the day to fit the light, with it's recessed perspexcover, the flush air conditioning supply and return grills, and the tiny closedcircuit camera, which could also operate on infrared, in the dark.  This tooktime, with Leila calling out directions from the observation room round thecorner.  The final fittings were several eyebolts screwed into the concreteblocks at strategic points within the room.  There was no mistaking what thesewere for.	Leila also helped me with the storeroom over the next couple of days. Aboutthree metres by four, it was directly opposite the foot of the stairs, with thecorridor running right round it like a moat around a castle.  Off the corridorwere all the other rooms I had yet to work in.  It was in the storeroom I reallystarted to get to grips with what the business was all about.  While I had readabout half of this stuff, there was no substitute for seeing it in the flesh,ready to be used on the flesh.  Leila took great delight in explaining to meabout the different types of vibrators and dildos, and all manner of nippleclamps.  I put up shelves for these, and a variety of hooks on one wall to caterfor chains, handcuffs and whips.  These ranged from flat paddles to floggers, tocat-o-nine-tails, riding crops, canes, and a nasty-looking bullwhip abouttwo-metres long in braided leather.	"It's a cut-down version," Leila explained.  "We really don't have the roomto use a full sized one indoors here, apart from the fact that it does a lot ofdamage to unprotected skin."	There were more shelves for the gags and the blindfolds, the hoods,harnesses, cuffs and ropes.  In the middle of the room I installed a largestand-alone closet, where a range of "garments" were stored.	"All of us use these," Leila explained.  "There are nurses uniforms andmaids uniforms and school uniforms, and even a Gestapo uniform.  Mary uses thatone," she added.  "She's real big on role playing - sometimes she gets reallycarried away and I swear she forgets where she is and who she is...  She can bescary.  We also have these rubber outfits - the hoods, skirts, dresses,catsuits.  Mind you, quite often we make the clients wear them - or they ask to. It's all part of the service.  Each of us girls has our own leather wardrobe,which we keep in our rooms - that's a bit more personal, don't you think? "	Around then was when I first met Shawnee.  Shawnee was a diminutive girl,perhaps barely twenty, with straight brown hair falling past her shoulders and awide-eyed look as though everything she encountered was new and wondrous.  Herbreasts were quite wondrous as well, as I saw when I first encountered her.  Shewas half-naked, wearing only a short wrap-around skirt that barely concealed hercrotch, standing as she was with her bound hands tethered above her to aceiling-hung water pipe in the corridor outside the storeroom.  Standing ontiptoes, she was gagged with a leather pad strapped across her mouth, insidewhich I suspected there was a large object filling all available crevices.  Shelooked at me, with a surprised expression on her face, which I later came torecognise as pretty much normal for Shawnee.  Mind you, I'm sure my expressionwas much the same. 	"Are you okay?" I asked in my naivety.	She nodded, her large, pointy breasts bobbing with the effort.  They lookedtoo big for her petite frame, but stretched as she was, they provided amagnificent display.  	"Is there anything I can do?" I asked, still unsure of the situation.	She shook her head, uttering an "uh-uh" from behind the gag.	Just then Leila clattered down the stairs on her high heels.	"I see you've met Shawnee.  Shawnee, this is Steven.  He's going to bebuilding all sorts of neat stuff for us, so you'll get to try it out as well." The prisoner's eyes seemed to light up and I was sure she would have smiled ifshe could have stretched her mouth a bit further around the object filling it.	Leila explained to me as we continued to where I was working.	"Shawnee's a legacy of Monica's previous establishment.  She's a unistudent, and initially she needed the money she could make by doing housekeepingchores over the weekend - you know, washing the bed linen, ironing and so on. Then she started getting into the B & D stuff and we've reached a differentagreement.  Now she gets paid in kind.  She works hard all day Saturday andSunday, and spends the nights in various uncomfortable positions, depending onwho is available and what space we have.  You'll no doubt bump into her duringthe weekends in odd places."	As part of her duties, Shawnee was sometimes directed to assist me, sincethe girls were frequently at their busiest during the weekends.  Shawnee wasalways a willing helper, but always a quiet one, her mouth invariably beingtaped up or stuffed with something or other.  I got used to the distinctiveclinking of chains on her hobbled ankles as she pattered barefoot about theplace, fetching tools or holding on to the ends of sheets of cladding or othermaterials.  She was not much of a conversationalist in that regard, but she wasintelligent and did as she was told.  Mind you, with the prospect of a severethrashing from Monica as an incentive, who wouldn't have been. I did not knowthat in the distant future I would have a face to face altercation with Shawneeand she would not even recognise who she was yelling at.  Such was theunpredictable nature of life in Bilboes.		The Interrogation Centre comprised four rooms, each roughly four metressquare, laid out in the form of a Tee.  A central room was actually anobservation room, where the girls could sit and observe their victims in thethree surrounding rooms through one-way mirrors. In addition there twotelevision sets, on which the activities in any "play room" in the house couldbe viewed by closed circuit television in both infra red and normal light.  Ithad taken me a while to get the cabling for this sussed out, but it came inkitset form, with relatively easy to understand instructions.  No doubt it camewith a relatively easy to understand price tag as well, but that wasn't myproblem.  By the time all these aspects were multiplied by 18 rooms, Monica wasgoing to have to take a deep breath when she wrote out the cheques.  This closedcircuit television system could allow the girls to deal with several clients ata time in different rooms, and to see without being seen.  There were alsosecurity cameras in the grounds and at the gate, to check on the arrival anddeparture of guests and for security generally.  Monica had two monitor sets inher office, which she often viewed during "sessions".	The Interrogation Centre itself, or the IC as it was known, was all aboutrole-play and mind games.  The doors to the two main rooms used forinterrogation were made of solid core timber faced with sheet steel, with heavysliding bolts and a small eyehole looking in.  The rooms had required little inthe way of structural alteration, keeping the bare concrete floor and theblockwork walls as built.  The ceiling was heavily insulated fibre cement with atextured coating that looked not unlike damp concrete.  Main lighting could comefrom a single bulb of about 25 watts on a short flex that made it all lookextremely seedy, plus there were flood lights to assist the questioning process.		Mary was the main user of these rooms - role-playing was her speciality.	"When the client comes down the stairs, he or she will be blindfolded andhandcuffed," she told me seriously.  "I want them to think they've arrived inthe foulest most feared basement room in the Gestapo headquarters.  They mustforget anything of the outside world.  There must be no hope of getting out,unless they tell me everything."  Mary gave me a look that sent shivers down myspine.	Not content with the still-pristine look of the newly laid blocks andconcrete floor, Mary and I managed, by a number of experiments, to turn the tworooms into damp, grimy, oppressive chambers that even gave me the creeps. Beneath the one-way mirrors, I had installed two pairs of car headlights and anintercom/tape system, the latter having considerable power, with all manner ofsound effects able to be produced.  As an option it could be connected toheadphones that the victim might wear. 	The headlights were directed at the focal point in each room.  In Room 1,this point was a chair, bolted to the concrete.  It was a massive, high-backedpiece, with stout arms and a headrest higher than most people's heads whenseated.  Monica had evidently found it in a second hand furniture shop at abargain price.  It was a simple matter to fit velcro straps to it to secure avictim at wrists, arms, ankles, above and below the knees, waist, chest, neck,and forehead.  Any captive would not be going far.	"I may not use all of these," Mary declared, eyeing the straps,  "but atleast I'll know they're available."	"How do you get people to cooperate?" I asked.	"I know a few holds," Mary said, narrowing her eyes.  "All of us can handlemost difficult situations that might come our way.  We'll show you, soon."   Hersmile made me shiver again.  I hoped 'soon' would rather be later.	I re-covered the chair in vinyl, and revarnished it heavily, so that it waswaterproof.  All rooms had floor drains, and I was told by Mary that water wasan integral part of the role-playing in some circumstances.  What came next wassomething I was not expecting, however.	"I want some electrical gear now," Mary demanded.  "Something that will makethem jump - not hurt them, but make them think they might get hurt. Somethingthat will give them a good jolt, and something that will give them a continuousbuzz, neither of which will be too pleasant.  There need to be clips on the end- different sorts for different jobs, and some sort of control for the voltage. Can you do all that?"	I told her I probably could, but secretly confided in Monica forconfirmation.  "Is this for real? " I asked.	"Sure," she smiled. "Some people get right off on that sort of thing. You'dbe surprised."  And I was.  Despite my misgivings I assembled the equipment.  Itwas run from a battery and battery charger in the Observation Room, with wiresthrough the walls into the two chambers.  I had toned down the current through aseries of resistors, and with some equipment the likes of which I had not usedsince my first (and only) year electrical engineering at University.   I createdtwo sources of torture - a quick fix, not unlike a reduced power stun gun, andan adjustable current that would give a small but continuous buzz.  Late oneafternoon at the end of the first week, I jokingly told Mary the electric chairwas ready for testing.	"Good," she said.  "You can help me test it."	We were in the Observation Room at the time - I had just finished wiring andtesting the apparatus with a megger meter, and had explained to Mary in somedetail how the equipment worked.  I had also had instructions printed andlaminated, to sit beside the controls, to ensure no accidents could take placethrough unfamiliarity with the gear.	"You're not afraid, are you?" she said, teasing me.  "You at least know whatit's all about.  No surprises for Steve. You have to test it, you know.  Part ofyour job description."  It must have been in the small print, I thought.  I suredidn't remember any such thing. 	We went into Room 1 and there was the chair, sitting beneath the single dimbulb.  I sat in it, with a hint of reluctance.  "Shirt and trousers off first,"declared Mary.  I looked at her for a moment, then reluctantly obeyed, taking myboots and socks off in the process.  I had been swimming before and still had mytrunks on underneath.  Again I sat down. With two deft movements Mary secured mywrists with the wide velcro straps that took only a second to do up.  Momentslater there was a strap around my chest and around each of my ankles.	"Now, Steve, you are about to see what real domination is all about. Don'ttake this as anything personal.  I'm just doing my job.  It may seem strange toyou, but you'll get used to it all.  If you last out the contract, it will seemlike routine by the end of it.  You may even begin to look forward to it." Shehad moved behind me as she spoke, out of my line of sight.  "Now open wide..."	"Wha-" I started to say, in my naivety, as a red ball on a strap appeared infront of my face and was jammed into my mouth.  I struggled, trying to close mymouth against it, but Mary had got it halfway in, and was not about to bebeaten.  She pinched my nose and pulled backward.  Under those circumstancesyour mouth seems to open of it's own volition.  I had no option but tosurrender, and felt the hard rubber ball slip in behind my teeth, then thetightness of the strap as she buckled it behind my neck.  Mary knew exactly whatshe wanted.  From a box somewhere behind me, she produced my battery-powereddrill, complete with a 25mm bit. 	She undid my chest strap.	"Sit forward!" she commanded. I was not about to argue - not with her wavingthat thing about. Moments later there came the sound of drilling, and I felt herhand with the drill making an impression in my newly upholstered seat. Bitch, Ithought.  Then I was pushed against the back of the chair and the chest straprefastened, really tight this time.	"Now I want those trunks off," she demanded.	"Mmmph!" I said, not that it made the slightest bit of difference.  With mywrists, chest and ankles secured, I was helpless as she reached around me andworked my swimming trunks down my legs.  This surely was not part of thecontract!  Then, after the velcro had been tightened above and below my knees,my ankles were freed one at a time and my trunks taken away totally.  Then itwas more straps - my upper arms, waist, neck, and finally about my forehead.  Tosay that I couldn't move was an understatement.  I could roll my eyes and make"mmming" sounds, but that was about it.  Here I was, stark naked, gagged andstrapped to a chair by this woman who looked as though she might definitely havea sadistic streak.  But what was most disconcerting was the sight of my willysuddenly rising to the occasion! It was not something that had escaped Mary'snotice, either.  She ran her hand over it with the lightest of fingernailtouches that would have made me jump half a metre, had I been able to move.  Shewas obviously not going to play fair.	"Don't go away," she said, with more than a hint of condescension.  "I'll beback in a few minutes."  Out of the corner of my eye I saw the door close behindher, just after she turned off the solitary light.  There followed the sound ofthe key turning in the lock.  Then it was pitch dark and silent.  I couldn'tbelieve this!  What had I got into?  Was she really only going to be a couple ofminutes?  I squirmed and tried to struggle, but I could barely move.  I guessthis was what testing was all about.  And I guess this was what the wholerole-playing thing was all about.  I tried to imagine being a prisoner in such achamber.  I think it was the uncertainty of my immediate future that was themost fearful of all.	Then the lights snapped on.  Not the single bulb overhead, but the two setsof car lights.  Jesus.  Talk about a rabbit in the headlights.  Talk aboutexposed.  Mary was obviously in the observation room.  Who else was in there, Iwondered?  Were all the girls sizing up their victim?  For some reason thethought of it made Mr Willy grow a little more.  Maybe half an hour went by...	"Prisoner Pierre Lasalle, you are charged with resistance and sabotage.  Whoare the others of your group?  Do you have anything to say?" It was Mary's voiceechoing all round me from the concealed ceiling speakers.  The effect was eerie,made moreso by Mary's sudden - and very good - German accent. 	"Speak!" 	How the hell could I, with this bloody great ball wedged in my mouth!	"This is your last chance before we are obliged to resort to persuasion."	"Mmmph!" I said, unable even to shake my head.  I suddenly realised Marymeant to try out the electrodes on me.  Shit!  The concept of "fair" was noteven in her vocabulary, never mind whatever was in my mythical jobspecification!	Then Mary entered the room.  She was at first just a silhouette between meand the lights.  Only when she moved to the side could I see she was wearing along leather skirt that was slit up the front, over knee-length high-heeledblack boots.  Her tailored black uniform jacket was buttoned tightly over awhite shirt and black tie.  What was really scary was the insignia on the jacket- the four polished silver buttons up the front and one on each breast pocket, awide red armband on the left sleeve, and the double lightning bolts of the SS onthe collar and silver buckle.  Something was both ominous and imperious aboutthe Mary I now saw - I suddenly felt very vulnerable, and the intense look inher eyes told me somehow Mary was right into this role, transported back to aBerlin bunker in the middle of World War 2.	She wore black leather gloves, and once again they caressed my own littlesoldier, who insisted in still remaining at attention.  There was no doubt thatthe uniform had something to do with it - Mary looked sufficiently senior towarrant a salute.  But her touch only made me squirm, as much as I could, and Ifelt a thrill of fear as her shadowed face came inches in front of mine and shewhispered:	"Nobody knows you're here.  Nobody will hear you, or ever find you, if Idon't want them to.  If you don't cooperate you will not leave here alive, andyour passing on will be very slow, and very painful.  You will answer myquestions truthfully.  Do you understand? "	"Mmmp!" I whined	"Too bad," said the husky voice, not disguising the menace.  Mary had adefinite screw loose, I decided.  "Perhaps after some 'treatment' you willreconsider..."	The figure disappeared behind me, and there followed the sound of rummagingabout before she reappeared and slapped two sticky pads - about 50mm square -over my nipples.  Wires trailed off and I recognised them as TENS electrodesused in physiotherapy treatment, and I did not at all like where this was going. What came next was totally unexpected and even more sinister, not to sayuncomfortable.  I found out very quickly why Mary had drilled the hole in theseat of the chair, when something abruptly wiggled through the hole and startedsearching for mine, which was inevitably in close proximity.  I tried towriggle, to avoid it, but I could barely move.  I tried to clench my bummuscles, but a voice hissed in my ear:	"I wouldn't do that if I were you.  It will only make it more painful.  Letit go... lie back and enjoy it..."	Enjoy it?  She had to be kidding!  But I relaxed, and felt the cold intruderslide inside me.  Mr Willy seemed to get a kick out of it - what a giveaway...	I guessed whatever it was, was about two centimetres in diameter, and itseemed to be flexible.  It was bearable, I decided.  Until I felt it start toenlarge...	"Mmmph! Mmp-mmrp!" I tried to tell her, knowing it made no sense whatsoever,and guessing that she knew exactly what was going on.  It seemed to go onforever, filling me in all directions.	"I'm going to leave you now," she said.  I smelt her musky perfume close tomy face.  "I may come along to watch.  I may invite others to participate or itmay all be random and remote.  Say goodbye to your senses. It may be a longnight.  It may be your last..."	She left, and the lights went out.  I was alone in the blackness again,waiting for what might lie in store.  I was scared now.  Despite having workedwith her, I no longer trusted Mary, and tone of her voice left me seriouslywondering how much was the SS officer speaking and how much was the real Mary. Waiting for the unknown was scary.  The sudden tingle across my nipples made mestart.  I felt the current rise slightly, making the muscles quiver.  Momentslater what was obviously an inflatable dildo up my bum began to vibrate.  Ijumped again, or as much as I could, given my bonds.  The thing began with anormal vibration, then began to somehow wriggle about, like a kind of corkscrew- up and down, side to side.  Mr Willy went painfully wild, and so did I,moaning into the rubber ball, for all the good it did me.  The sensations gotfaster and faster, both on my nipple and up my arse. I was squirming andstraining, not knowing if I was trying to stop it, get away from it, or evenenjoy it.  I was sweating by now, from my exertions, but I also suspected Maryhad turned the heating up.	Then abruptly it stopped.  I heard the blood pounding in my ears and thepanting moans through my nose as I pulled in air as much as I could. Thank God,I thought.  Please let me go, Mary.  Then it was wham!  An electric shockthrough the vibrator!  No, please - not that!  I knew the current was minimal -I had made the device myself.  Against a hand it did not amount to anythingmuch.  Inside one's rectum it was a whole new ball game, so to speak.  Thenipple pads started again, this time with more current, so that soon my chestmuscles were doing all kinds of crazy things of their own accord.  Once again, Ihad set the limits on the supply, through judicious use of resistors and thelike, but I was not enjoying this.  The sweat was running freely down my body inrivulets, stinging my eyes as I tried to somehow control my nipples.  Then therewas another jolt inside me.  I felt so utterly helpless and under another'scontrol.  I panicked, tugging with all my might against the two-inch velcrostraps fastened all over me, but nothing budged. My cries went unheeded, withwhines and moans through my nose being the best I could do - not a hope of beingheard!  I had lost all sense of time, staring at nothing in the darkness, withmy own plaintive grunts and groans echoing about the room, as I bit down on therubber ball.  My breath was coming in quick pants now, as my body wentuncontrollable.  Then everything stopped again.	If I could have slumped, I would have, but movement of any sort wasimpossible.  I was almost sobbing when the dim light went on, and the imperiousMary, in her black SS uniform strode into the room.	"Still not prepared to cooperate?" she said contemptuously, looking at me asthough I had emerged from the evolutionary slime.  I whimpered pathetically. "Too bad. As I said before, they'll never find your body."	She disappeared behind me and I felt the straps undone about my neck andforehead.  My head fell forward, little streams of drool running from the edgeof my mouth around the big rubber ball.  At that point the room went dark, assome kind of leather hood was pulled over my head.  Mary positioned it verydeftly, with two holes for my nostrils, then started lacing the thing tightlydown the back of my head.  It did up all the way down to the neck, and then Ifelt a further strap tightened under my chin, and one around my head at eyelevel.  I guessed these would stop my airholes moving about. I was now totallyblind as well as dumb.  A wide collar then went around my neck, with a clinkingsound and the feel of something weighty down between my shoulder blades.	"Time for your last walk," said the accented voice in my ear ominously. Thestraps around my chest and upper arms were undone, and my head was pushedforward. I felt the velcro on my right wrist removed, and decided it was now ornever to make a break for it.  As I was just about to swing my arm to undo theother wrist, it was seized by Mary and twisted expertly behind me. There was asharp clicking sound and the steel of a handcuff circled my wrist, holding itbelow my shoulder blades.  Predictably I had even less chance with the otherwrist, and moments later both were secured behind me, tugging on my collar.	"Very well, your bullet is waiting," hissed Mary.  Abruptly a wailing soundfilled the room, overlain with a shouted voice in German.  "Air raid!"  Maryshouted into my ear.  "Your own people will do the job for me!  You can stayhere for the rest of your life instead, under the bombs and rubble! Aufweidersein!"	I barely heard the sound of the door as the first rumble of bombs started. The explosions got louder and louder, nearly deafening me.  I was still strappedat my waist and legs, with no way to reach the velcro with my wrists pinionedhigh behind my back.  The room seemed to shake with the noise.  In the darknessunder my hood I did not know if the lights were on, off or what was happening. The bombardment of my senses went on for maybe ten minutes, before slowlyabating.  Although my brain told me it had only been a recording, with a verygood sound system, it had been terrifyingly real, given my sensory deprivation.	I was still sitting there, trembling and sweating, when I felt a handlightly touch the skin of my inner thigh.  I lifted my head from my despair, atthe same time Mr Willy did likewise.  The hand was there again.  There was noglove on it.  In the silence after the bombs, I could hear nothing to detectanother's presence.  Then the hands were together, stroking Mr Willy, and I felta female body slowly slide on to mine, slipping back against me.  I did not knowif it was Mary or not.  Mary had been wearing a twill jacket, leather skirt andboots.  This woman seemed to be barefoot, stockinged, and wearing some sort ofsoft, silky dress.  I felt her lift herself against the chair arms and settlesquarely on Mr Willy.  She wasn't wearing underwear, either. 	I groaned in ecstasy through the gag. Mr Willy was hard, hurting anddesperate.  But the straps were still on my waist and thighs, making itimpossible for me to lift my body to meet this angel of mercy.  I was totallyreliant on her movements.  They were very slow and gentle, but graduallybecoming faster.  This was not going to take much, I knew, and just when itseemed the message had got through to send the first load, my angel was gone -just up and left!  The bitch!  I cried out behind the rubber in my mouth, andunder the leather of the hood.  But for all I knew the room could now have beenempty. They were playing games, I knew.  How long could I stand it, and who wasin on the session?		I had no idea how much time passed at this point.  I was sitting in darknessand silence, running through my mind who was behind this teasing. Mr Willy wasmost unhappy.   Why did I wonder if they were actually watching me suffer atthat very moment?  My arms began to ache behind my back, but there was nothing Icould do, other than bend forward at the waist.  I tried this for a bit, butcouldn't get any more comfortable.  I was hot still, and I was sweating.  Theheat seemed to finally overwhelm me, and I must have nodded off...	A bucket full of cold water over my body awoke me.  Somebody was screamingat me in a foreign language.  To my half-conscious brain it sounded likeChinese, but what did I know?  Then there were hands on my body, undoing thestraps and pulling me to my feet.  There were at least two of them, hustling meoutside and a few paces along the corridor.  I had got past caring about beingnaked - I had no choice in the matter anyway.  The inflatable vibrator was stillinside me - there was no way I would be rid of this until somehow it was letdown.  It was uncomfortable, moving inside and causing all sorts of strangesensations.  My captors said nothing as I was pushed into a room I guessed to bethe one on the other side of the observation room.  I knew what was in here -the posts and the suspension apparatus.  Was this never going to end?	I was propelled over to where I knew the posts were.  They were eight-inchpoles supporting the house.  Under the latest refurbishment they now hadeyebolts at various heights and pulleys in strategic locations.  I had no doubtmy captors knew how to use everything.  There was more yelling in Chinese.  Asoft but menacing voice in my ear translated:	"Gweilo, you have offended the people with your behaviour.  The statecommittee has decided you must be punished.  You will receive sixty lashes. Thenyou will be sent to a labour cooperative to truly repent your crimes."  I moanedbehind my gag and shook my head.  More screaming.  "You dare to argue? Onehundred lashes!"  God, would these women really do this?  Just how sadistic werethey? What did their clients expect of them?	Cuffs were placed around my ankles, and they were hauled apart, so I stoodlegs wide apart and feeling just about as vulnerable as I could possibly be. Some sort of bar was then lashed to my ankles, which at least stopped me doingthe splits, but still put a big strain on my thigh muscles.  Next it was mywrists, but at least they were out of those awful handcuffs behind myshoulderblades.  Leather cuffs on my wrists this time, and a front spreader barhere, too, with ropes at each end through the pulleys I had installed two dayspreviously.  The ropes ran through the pulleys to a ratchet system with a wheel,which pulled both arms up equally.  I now found out the system worked perfectly,much to my discomfort.  My arms were at full stretch, and I could hear the clickof the ratchet as the wheel was turned ever so slowly.	Bit by tiny bit I was hauled on to my tiptoes, my legs spread wide and myarms likewise.  I was moaning loudly under my hood now, pleading for them tostop.  They did, finally - I was stretched out as far as I possibly could be,totally unable to move anything other than my head.	Then the whipping began. 	I lost count of the strokes. They seemed to come at me from all directions. There was a flogger with a bunch of leather straps, and a flat paddle.  Theystung, rather than hurt, but the same could not be said for the riding crop,which slashed at my buttocks for variation.  The flogger got me everywhere -chest, legs, arms, stomach.  Fortunately they stayed away from Mr Willy, who bynow was desperately trying to counter gravity by having withdrawal symptoms andwishing he could hide away totally. Several none-too-gentle swats with the cropcame perilously close, striking instead the base of the vibrator that was stillstuck up my bum.  That was decidedly not nice, and I tried to tell them so. Eventually they stopped, and some crazy Chinese voice began whispering in myears.  I did not know if it was Emma or the PA system, but it was pretty scary. I hung there, trying to ignore the burning of my skin which I was sure wascovered with great welts. My wrists and arms were beginning to go into spasm, aswere my thighs and ankles, when I felt the tension released finally.  Thespreader bar between my wrists was gradually lowered, until it ceased to haveany tension, and the bar came to rest in front at waist level.  I felt a broadbelt fastened about my waist and I was pushed from behind without warning. 	Crying out into the gag I tried to stagger forward, but of course my ankleswere still effectively immobile, and I pitched forward, only to be brought upshort by ropes attached to the belt.  I had all but fallen over, and was nowbent at the waist, my hands just touching the floor. I felt tugging at the wristspreader, and had to wriggle to adjust my position, which I soon discovered wasfully bent over, with my wrists out and as far forward as I could get them. Here the bar was secured to one of the conveniently located eyebolts, no doubt. My waist was supported by the leather belt, but my bum was up and my head wasdown. Where was this all going to end?	I thought I had had as much pain as I could stand, but evidently my captorshad more in store for me.  Was this some kind of a test?  Was this Monica's ideaof an initiation?  Was she even behind it or aware of it, or was it the girls'idea?  Had I upset them?  I had thought we all seemed to be getting on ratherwell...	Whoever attached the clamps on my nipples did not think so.  The TENS padshad been removed - only to exchange them for something new and exciting.  Iyelled into the gag, grinding my teeth into the rubber as the piercing pain shotthrough my right and then left nipples.  Seemingly not content with inflictingthis agony, weights were then hung on the clamps, so I could feel them swingingwith every movement I made - not that this was particularly extensive.	The room seemed to be getting very hot now.  Whether this was just becauseof the blood rushing to my head I didn't know.  What I did know was that thevibrator started up again, and so did the whipping - both in the bum region.  Iwas groaning and whimpering into my gag, but nothing seemed to deter thesegirls.  The punishment seemed endless.  My brain was on the verge of shuttingdown, and flashing lights were starting to appear when there were two blindingpains in my nipples and I realised in my agony that the clamps had been removedand that blood was flowing freely again.  The vibration stopped, and arubber-gloved hand eased the offending intruder out from my passage.  In quicksuccession the spreader bars were removed and I all but collapsed, so wobblywere my legs, and so drained was I.  I had no will left to resist as my wristswere handcuffed behind my back and my ankles were hobbled with a short stretchof chain.	I stumbled out of the room, female hands gripping my arms and supporting me. Dimly I was aware I was being led down the hall, and into a holding cell.  I waspushed on to my knees, then gently laid on my stomach on a futon.  A voicepenetrated into my consciousness:	"Somewhere in here you'll find some keys..." and there followed a metallicclink.  Then the door slammed shut.	I lay there for a long time, unable to move.  Perhaps I fell asleep - I hadno way of really knowing what I did.  After maybe an hour, or perhaps two, Idragged myself back to consciousness, remembering the words and the clink ofkeys.  I struggled to sit up, and eventually got into a position where I couldswing my legs about the floor in a sweeping motion.  The room was not big, butin my disoriented state, blind, hooded and gagged, it still took me time to findthe keys.  For a panicking moment I thought it had been a joke, and that I wasjust being teased.  Finally I managed to get the key into the handcuff lock, andit was with such relief that I freed my aching arms.  It took little time to getthe hood unbuckled, and removing this felt just as good, if not better.  It madeno difference to my sight.  I was still seeing stars as the pressure wasrelieved from my eyes, and the room was pitch black in any case.  Not a chink oflight came in around the door.  Whoever put that in had done a good job, Ithought smugly.	I unbuckled the strap from behind my neck and slowly prised the ball outfrom behind my teeth.  My head was streaming with sweat, and my jaw ached.  Butrelief was bliss.  I undid the hobble in no time, before staggering to the doorand banging futilely on it. I had soundproofed it well, too.  There was noalternative but to lie down, and in the warm, comfortable temperature, I fellasleep, totally exhausted.

Monica's Place

CHAPTER TWO - TESTING TIMES


	When I awoke, the light was on, and my clothes were folded in a neat pile
beside me.  I was terribly thirsty, and after dressing quickly, I pushed at the
door and felt it swing gently open. 

	There was nobody about in the bare corridor. I moved to the stairs and
climbed slowly up to the main level.  My body ached all over, although I was not
covered in the welts I expected.  My jaw was stiff, and I had to massage it to
ease the pain.  I had no idea whether it was day or night, nor what day of the
week it was.  The last thing I remembered was that it had been Thursday
afternoon, and I had been trying to get the Interrogation Centre ready for the
weekend, when the dungeon's first clients were expected.

	It turned out to be morning - early.  The sun was streaming in to the
kitchen, and I suspected the girls would not be making an appearance for a
while.  They usually slept in, depending on whether they had had upstairs
clients the night before.

	I helped myself to cereal and savoured the freedom of limbs, while my body
slowly came to grips with the beating it had been through.  A pint of juice
later and I was starting to feel just a little better.

	"How was it?"  Monica's soft voice came from behind me.  I turned.  She
looked just a little tired, but could manage a smile.  She wore a simple short
blue dress to mid-thigh, and the sun left her in silhouette as she stood in the
doorway.

	"I thought I was going to die," I said.

	She laughed.  "You were in very experienced hands."  Memory came back to me
of some of those hands doing terrible things to Mr Willy, and halting just short
of satisfaction.  More than just the hands, too.

	"Were you involved with this?"  I accused her, not too seriously.

	"I was aware what was going on," she answered ambiguously, a faint smile on
her lips.  "I was on watch this morning."

	"On watch?"

	"Our clients are never alone.  Didn't Leila tell you that?  One of the
cardinal rules is never, ever, let the client go unobserved, whether it be
through closed circuit or peep holes, or personally sitting in.  We can't afford
to have a cardiac arrest or a choking on our hands.  I was watching you this
morning, from the IC room. You did very well.  Welcome to the Bilboes
Establishment."  She gave me a warm hug, with a sparkle in her eye.  "I'm sure
this will be a successful partnership..."



	We talked for quite a time that morning until the girls arrived.  Monica
told me she wanted me to make some sort of discipline helmet - something that
could be worn for a long period, but that would be lockable, and would not
obstruct breathing.  It should be able to be worn hands-free with either a gag
or blindfold or both.  I promised I would do some thinking, not knowing exactly
what she had it in mind for.  But then who did, with the enigmatic Monica.

	The girls were all smiles and sympathy over breakfast.  I felt awkward as
hell, but it all seemed to be pretty run of the mill for this lot. 	

	"How did you like your initiation," asked Trish with a husky laugh.

	"You're all a pack of bitches," I told her, trying to sound serious.

	"Is it a pack, or a flock?"   Leila asked ingenuously.

	"It's a pack of hounds so it's a pack of bitches," I told her.  "And don't
be cheeky to your elders and betters."

	"For an elder and better you sure looked well out of it, strung up and
having your butt whipped," Trish said smugly.  I pretended not to hear and
concentrated on buttering my toast.  "It's not a bad butt, though," she
conceded.

	At the end of breakfast, Monica reappeared.  It was evidently time for the
weekly meeting.

	"As you all know, we have our first real downstairs guests tomorrow. Lisa
has been making do, as you know, with whatever we can manage.    The new clients
will be for you, Mary, together with Leila.  The rest of you see the schedule
for upstairs appointments.  Steve will be working today on a little device I
have thought up - it will go in Room 3 - that's that tiny cupboard at the end of
the corridor between the Interrogation Centre and what will be the gym.  It's a
set of headstocks that will immobilise the head, leaving the client sitting or
standing, or whatever we want.  Someone will need to help Steve with this - I
suggest Emma in this instance - it's something she may well like to use.

	Other business: This morning we will have a practice session.  It's Mary's
turn today to demonstrate an interesting position, and to tell us what to look
for and what to avoid in the way of badly placed ropes or how long the client
may be left.  As usual, I want a volunteer.  Emma, Jillian and Leila - get the
cards out and cut."  This was obviously a regular thing, for the cards appeared
in an instant. 

	"This is a weekly feature," Monica explained for my benefit.  "It's good for
the girls in that it keeps them supple and they learn from the more experienced
ones.  Most importantly they get to experience the receiving end of the ropes,
and to understand first hand what it's all about. Strangely enough they even
enjoy it - depending on who is doing the tying and what toys they decide to use,
of course"

	Trish shuffled the cards and slapped them down in front of Emma.  She cut:
queen of diamonds.  Was that a shrug of relief or of disappointment, I wondered? 
Jillian's turn: 4 of spades.  She smiled - again I could not quite work out the
emotion.  Leila rubbed her hands and looked around the table, teasing the
watchers.

	"No sweat," she said confidently, selecting a cut, then changing her mind
and picking again.  She slid the cards across, keeping them face down.

	"Come on, come on!" said Jillian.  "Stop playing to the crowd!"

	Leila turned them over.  Two of clubs.  The girls laughed as one - with
relief but expectancy.  Leila looked resigned, but was smiling as well.  "You
will be gentle with me, won't you, Mary?"

	"Of course my sweet," said Mary. Somehow I had my doubts, and I think Leila
did as well.

	"Very good, team," said Monica.  "Eleven o'clock as usual.  Where, Mary?"

	"Room 6, please."  I saw a faint shadow cross Leila's young face.  Room 6
was the Post Room where I had been star-tied between the two posts, and where I
had installed the pulleys.

	"Anything else?"

	"I have one thing, Monica."  All eyes turned to me.  "Since I'm going to be
making all manner of further devices and instruments of restraint and torture,
it would make sense if we formed a database of both your own measurements and
also those of your clients.  By this I mean height, neck size, waist, head, and
so on."

	"Inside leg?" smirked Leila.

	"Especially inside leg," I said firmly.  "This way you can have various
appliances already set up for your clients before they arrive.  More to the
point, I will then have a range of measurements for which I will have to cater
in making these things.  I think we should have a formal measuring session."

	"Sounds eminently sensible," Monica endorsed. "Spoken like a true anal
retentive.  Tuesday morning - eleven o'clock.  The dungeon should do nicely for
this, yes?"

	"Sure."

	"See you all at eleven, then.  Don't be late, Leila!"

	"No Mistress," was the demure reply. 



	Emma was a willing helper, even though, as with most women in my experience,
she didn't quite empathise with tools and construction techniques.  While we
were working, I asked her what her background was.

	"I was born in Hong Kong," she told me, but my family emigrated to Australia
before the handover back to China, because we feared what the Communists would
do to it."

	"Are you sorry you left?"

	"No, not now, although at first I was unhappy, losing all my friends. That's
when I met Jillian - we were at school together.  I went on to do nursing, and
ran into Jill again later when she became involved in rehabilitation work at the
hospital where I worked.  We kept in touch, and eventually she introduced me to
all of this."

	"So how did you come to be part of this?"

	"I..." she looked at the floor.  I knew I had asked an embarrassing
question.  "Steve, you understand that we're all here because we want to be, but
our motives are different from each other.  Monica is our brain, and also our
little money chest.  She's the one who organises us and comes up with the ideas
that best suit our talents.

	"Mary is an actress.  She loves to humiliate people.  She is basically nice,
but she has this mean streak, you know?  It doesn't matter who she gets to work
on.  Leila will know all about it this morning.

	"Trish is sort of like a mother to us - well, not to Mary, but to the rest
of us.  She seems to have seen it all and done it all, but it hasn't made her
cynical yet.  She still has faith in human nature and doesn't take life too
seriously.  She's always someone I can talk to and know it will go no further.

	"Jillian, as I said, is my friend from school.  She's been doing this for
two or three years, but only since being with Monica has she got into the kinky
stuff.  She's like Mary in that she enjoys dominating people, male or female, in
the dungeon.  She gets right into it.  She's always learning, always
experimenting, looking for something different. She's very ambitious.  She wants
to take over from Monica, one day. I don't think Mon wants to do this sort of
thing forever.

	"And Leila is the youngest of us.  She's so bubbly, but I worry about her
getting into this kind of life.  You have to be so careful, you know?  If it
isn't things like Aids, its weird people getting strange ideas - stalking you or
fantasising about you.  There're so many funny people out there - and not just
men, either."

	"And how does Emma fit in to all this?" I asked cautiously.

	Emma paused before answering.  "You seem like a good person, Steve.  I don't
mind telling you this.  Jillian and I became lovers two years ago.  But it went
further than that.  Jill introduced me to bondage, and I discovered I'm a
submissive.  I like being bound and chained.  I love the feeling of helplessness
and the uncertainty of things that might be done to me.  After she's tied me up,
Jill can drive me crazy and I can't help myself.  I just go to pieces."  She
stopped, blushing.

	I finished screwing down a section of steel angle on to the floor.  As I did
so, there was the sound of voices behind me.

	"Time for our lesson," said Emma, smiling at me.  "Poor Leila."

	"Really?  Don't you wish it was your turn?"

	"Mostly.  But sometimes Mary scares me."

	"I think that's the intention.  She certainly scared me!"

	We entered the Observation Room, along with Monica and Jillian.  Leila and
Mary were already in the Post Room.  Trish was nowhere around. Presumably she
had been there, done that.

	Both women had prepared for the part, I saw.  Mary wore a variation on her
last incarnation as the Gestapo Queen.  This time it was the same boots, sheer
black stockings and a short black leather skirt, topped with a black lycra body
shirt.  She looked all business.

	Leila, on the other hand, looked nothing if not apprehensive.  She wore
nothing more than a white tee shirt and satin maroon running shorts.  She
glanced furtively about, looking at us, although I knew she could not see
through the one-way mirror.  All she could see was a young girl about to become
the victim of something unknown and beyond her control.

	Mary's voice came through as clear as if she was in the room with us.

	"All right, you slut - get those clothes off!"  Her words were sharp and
commanding.

	"What?"  Leila had clearly not expected the full treatment of role-playing.

	"This is part of setting the scene," Monica explained to us.  "Establishing
dominance over the victim and humiliating them through forcing them to do what
they don't want to."

	"But I thought - " Leila started to say.

	"Silence!" snapped Mary.  "You're not able to think!  If a thought so much
as entered your brain it would get lonely!  Now get those clothes off!"

	"But I - " She looked pleadingly at the mirror, but saw only her own
reflection.  "Monica?"

	There was a slap as Mary whacked Leila with a flat paddle.  With sudden
alacrity Leila dropped her shorts and slipped out of her tee shirt.  Underneath
she wore a black halter-neck bikini, obviously intending to catch some time
around the pool.  Somehow I had my doubts as to how quickly that might be going
to happen.

	"Turn and face the wall!"  Mary commanded.  Leila did as she was told.  Mary
seized her by the hair and pushed firmly her against the wall.  "Spread your
legs! " she ordered.  "Hands behind your back!"

	Reluctantly Leila clasped her hands behind her, her face still against the
rough blockwork.  Expertly Mary buckled a wide leather cuff on to each wrist and
locked each in place with a small padlock.  Then she locked the cuffs together
with a larger lock.  The keys were clipped on to a chain around her neck.  She
drew Leila backwards by the hair again, turning to face the mirror.

	"We're now ready to proceed, Monica."

	"Go ahead, Mary, " said Monica into the microphone, "but I want no rope
burns and I don't want Leila too exhausted to work tonight."

	"Trust me," Mary said with a wink that Leila could not see.  "The first
thing I'll be showing Leila, is how tender her nipples are. She thinks she
already knows this, but there are ways and means to demonstrate it.  First we
have to lose the top."

	"No, Mary, please..."

	"Don't be stupid, girl.  We've all seen you naked.  You've seen Steve naked
- it's only fair that he gets a return show."  With that she wasted no time in
pulling a couple of strings that let the halter-top fall away from Leila's
breasts.  They were very nice - not large, but perky - the type that never have
to fear the pencil test.  Leila tried to turn away, but Mary held her shoulder. 
"You face the mirror until I tell you not to, girl!"  Leila complied meekly, her
head downcast.  "Now, you understand what these are for?"

	"Oh no, Mary, not the clamps, please!"

	"Would you like to be gagged, Leila?"

	"No, but please don't put those on me - I have very sensitive nipples!"

	"And we're about to find out how sensitive, aren't we."  Mary held up the
clamps to the mirror.  They were about five centimetres long and not as heavy as
some I had seen in the storeroom.  "The proper thing to do with nipple clamps,
Leila dear, is to put them on when the body is relaxed, like now.  Stay still."

	"I -ow! Ow! It hurts!"

	"Now the other one - there."

	"Ow-ow-ow!  Please take them off!  They hurt awfully!"

	Mary's reply was to pull out a wide leather belt, and to loop it around
Leila's upper arms, trapping them with a single movement.  "You will note that
the belt goes above the elbows, people - less likelihood of stopping the blood
flow there, and much better for tender skin with a broad strap."

	"What about my tender nips!" wailed Leila.

	"Tell me what you feel now," said Mary, slowly pulling harder on the belt,
tightening it until Leila's elbows touched.

	"Ahhhgh!  It hurts more!  You're stretching my tits!  Oh please take them
off!"

	"You're absolutely right, sweetie.  Pulling your arms behind your back makes
your chest muscles stretch, which puts more tension on the clamps.  But there's
more!  Come back here, between the posts - that's right."

	"No, please - what are you going to - oh no, not this, pleeese!"  Mary
knotted a rope to the lock on the cuffs - a rope that went overhead through a
pulley, then down to another pulley at floor level, then up again.  The
arrangement made it very easy for Mary to place the tension on Leila's arms, as
the mistress began to lift her pupil's arms.  Leila was whining now, pleading
desperately.

	"It's hurting even more - please stop, Mary!  My tits are on fire!  Please
take the clamps off!  I'll do anything you want!  Really!  Ow-ow-ow!"  She was
now staring at the floor, bent at right angles, her wrists and arms pulled at 45
degrees above her body.  That was as noisy as she was destined to get.  In the
midst of an 'ow', Mary slipped a ball gag into Leila's open mouth with the
slickness of a true professional.  Leila tried to shake her head, but knew she
was well and truly beaten.  Mary finished off the job with a blindfold of a silk
scarf.  Then she turned to the mirror, taking centre stage and ignoring the
muffled whimperings from the bent figure.  Several more pulls on the rope and it
was tied off to a convenient cleat on the post.  Leila was now bent nearly
double, standing on tiptoes to try and take the strain off her arms. 

	"Leila can do nothing now," Mary told the audience, obviously pleased with
herself. "She has no idea how long she'll be left to suffer like this.  She
doesn't know if I will stick a vibrator up her bum, or maybe up the front way. 
And does she realise what a target she is for a sound thrashing?  She's in
darkness, with only her sense of hearing and the feeling of pain to keep her
company.  She doesn't know what will come next.  Will it be the strap?"  Mary
caressed the tautness of Leila's butt, then abruptly tightened one of the nipple
clamps.  Leila spluttered and moaned, hopping from foot to foot.  "Or will it be
more nipple pain? Leila is now at her most extreme position for nipple pain -
her arms pulling her chest muscles as tightly as possible.  Is it time to hang
weights from them, perhaps?  What do you think, Leila?"  There was a shake of
the head and a moan.  Mary meanwhile had picked up a riding crop and with a deft
flick snapped it against Leila's buttocks.  The girl almost leapt off the
ground, tugging frenziedly against her arms.

	"I said no marks, Mary!"  Monica's voice was harsh and commanding over the
intercom.  "Unless you want to end up like that too - for the afternoon!"

	Mary seemed to collect herself. "Sorry."  She left the room and joined us in
the Observation Room.

	"This place is a business," Monica told her sternly.  "It's a business based
on people.  If those people are hurt, then we all lose money, and the business
won't sustain itself.  Think about that.  My orders were clear."  Monica and
Mary locked eyes, but it was never going to be a contest.  "Have you anything
else to add?"  Monica added, more quietly.

	"Sorry Mon."  Mary turned to Emma and Jillian.  "That strappado is a very
severe position.  Leila is young and supple, as you two are.  But be careful
with your clients.  Most of them will never sustain that.  Leila wouldn't last
more than fifteen minutes, perhaps twenty, but she doesn't know that, because
I'm in here telling only you guys.  It's all about the unknown, the uncertainty. 
I think Steve can vouch for that.  Am I right?"  I nodded.  "Her nips are on
fire and her arms are nearly out of their sockets, but not quite.  Just to show
I'm not a total bitch, it's perhaps time to give darling Leila a little
pleasure.  Is that all right with you, Mon?"  Mary smiled archly.  I wondered
whether the 'pleasure' would be much of an alternative...

	Mary returned to the victim, and untied the pulley rope, slowly lowering
Leila's arms.  I watched as she slowly straightened up, her blind head trying to
interpret the sounds she was hearing.  Mary gave nothing away.

	"You think that was bad, Leila.  It was just a taste of what is still to
come."  Leila shook her head and whimpered trying to plead through the rubber
ball in her mouth.  Drool was now running down her chin and on to her breasts. 
Obviously just to prove her point, with two quick movements Mary slipped the
nipple clamps off.  Leila gave a squeal of pain that even beat the gag, shaking
her head again and moaning through her nose.  "Spread your legs!"  Mary rasped
in her ear.  "Go on - wider!"  Mary rapidly fixed a spreader bar of aluminium
between Leila's ankles.  It was telescopic, with a butterfly nut in the middle
to secure the bar at the desired length.  At each end there was a wide leather
cuff that kept the bar snugly at right angles to the ankles. 

	Leila was moaning almost continuously now, her breath coming in pants
through her nose.  I could see her breasts heaving, and I had to say I was not a
little aroused.  There was something terribly stirring about such a sight,
something primitive and hormonal.  As far as Leila was concerned, she still had
more torture in store for her.  Since being taken down her nipples had been
stung and her legs were now under strain.  There came some relief only when Mary
released the awful strap locking her elbows together.  But then the rope-pulling
started again.  This time it was different, though.  Leila's wrists started to
go up her back, bending at the elbows.  With a few deftly guided nudges from
Mary, Leila's wrist cuffs abruptly slipped inside out, and she found them nearly
up at her shoulder blades.  She whined pitifully, and the raising stopped.  At
least she could still stand upright.  Or maybe that was Mary's point, as she
fastened a wide collar around Leila's slender neck, buckling it around the rope
tied to her wrist cuffs, so that there was now no way that the prisoner could
bend her head forward.  Leila was now unable to move other than perhaps in a
circle centred on her rope, taking waddling steps with great difficulty.  But
she clearly wanted to move as little as possible anyway.

	"I thought this was going to be a little reward?" I asked Monica.

	"Just be patient, Steve.  Mary may be a bit psycho sometimes, but she knows
what she wants."

	I'm sure Monica said this having seen the wide rubber strap that was Mary's
next rabbit from the hat.  Clearly this was not an exercise where you simply
tied somebody up.  Every rope had a purpose - was part of a larger whole.  There
was a master plan - an end goal, and Mary knew exactly what she was doing.  She
hooked the strap to an eyebolt in one post at about shoulder height, then ran
the strap down between Leila's spread legs, and up to be fixed identically on
the second post.  Suddenly the bondage had taken a whole different turn.  Leila
now had a subtle and continuous pressure on her crotch - a pressure then made
tantalisingly more stimulating when Mary hung a flat vibrator around Leila's
neck.  It dangled down as far as Leila's pussy, bumping against the taut black
lycra of her bikini bottom.  The vibrator was about the diameter of a tennis
ball, and its unexpected presence made Leila suddenly tense, wondering what was
going on.

	"It's playtime, sweetie," Mary murmured to her captive.  "What a pity you'll
have nobody here to help you play... But there's lots of time.  You'll have the
whole afternoon.  See you later, babe."

	Mary left the room, slamming the door behind her, and joined us in the
observation room. Mary, Monica and Jillian were grinning hugely.  Emma was not
quite sure, and I could see she perhaps wished she was in Leila's place.

	"She'll be happy there for a while," Mary told me confidently.  The position
is not as stressed as it looks.  Her legs are not so far apart that she's
straining, and that position with the arms is quite okay, as long as you don't
pull the wrists too high.  What you don't appreciate, Steve, is what Leila will
soon be going through.  The vibrator will be just enough to get her horny. 
She'll soon forget about who might be watching. Then she'll start squirming
around trying to get some more pressure on her pussy from the rubber strap, but
the problem she'll have is that she can't bend forward or move away from where
the vertical rope holds her.  Then she'll try to trap the vibrator between her
pussy and the strap, but try as she might she won't be able to.  She can't get
her hands to the vibrator or the rope, nor can she raise or lower the vibrator
any other way.  It's just too low to sit nicely on the strap - it'll keep
sliding off. After half an hour, or perhaps less, she will be as randy and
frustrated as all hell.  That's when we maybe have to give her a little helping
hand.  Or perhaps tell her that she has only another fifty minutes to go. 
Monica makes the call."



	It was difficult working in the corridor outside for the next hour.  The
girls had gone away, with the exception of Emma, who was helping me fit the
headstocks.  Visions of lovely Leila, blindfolded and gagged, squirming on the
rubber strap while trying to achieve an orgasm kept filling my head.  I focussed
on the job only with difficulty, finally getting to the stage where I could get
Emma to try it out.

	It was a very simple concept, but the actual construction was quite
complicated.  Essentially the main part of the device was a pair of horizontal
stocks made from matching six by two's with a hole cut for the neck.  The rear
plank was set at the back of the small alcove.  At each plank end there was a
hole through it, through which passed a screwed rod, which extended from half a
metre above the floor to two metres higher.  These rods I had scrounged from a
demolition store - they were from a building with high-level windows that were
opened and closed by a winding mechanism.  The handles came with the rods, and
were located at the base of them.  Simply put, by winding the handles the planks
could be made to go up and down to suit the neck level of a person sitting,
kneeling, standing, however tall or short they were.  But there was much more to
it than just this.  I positioned Emma standing with her neck in the rear half. 
The front plank slotted against the rear one, and locked with two hasp and
staple locks.  Emma looked decidedly apprehensive, still not understanding
exactly what the end result would be.  At the back of the rear plank was a
vertical block of wood, about 25 centimetres square, faced with a couple of
centimetres of polystyrene.   Two other blocks sat at right angles to this, and
slid against both sides of Emma's head.  They, too, were faced with polystyrene,
but with recesses for the ears.  I snuggled them close against Emma's head, and
tightened them with butterfly nuts.  Emma's head was now nearly immobile, but
she could still move it forward just a tad.  The final nail in the coffin, so to
speak, was a square frame that rotated through a vertical arc around a rod fixed
behind the rear block. I lifted this over Emma's head, and she looked
uncomfortably at the bar across the front of it.  At right angles from this was
a short rod to which was fixed a white ball gag, looking like the big knob on
one of the old-style floor shift gear levers.

	"Open wide, Emma dear," I told her.

	"Do I have to?  How long are you going to leav-"  That was as far as she
got.  The gag sat at the front of her mouth until I started screwing the front
bar down the threaded side rods, thus forcing the gag into her mouth.  It was
something I had to be very careful with.  It was a mechanical method of
tightening, and, unlike a buckle round the back of the neck, was something that
could perhaps put much greater force into the mouth.  I watched until the ball
nestled just behind her teeth.

	"Comfy?" I asked.  Emma whined.  "Can you move your head?  Try for me." She
tried, and managed a small twist within the confines of the three sides of the
restraint.  I tweaked the side wing nuts again, thus making her head absolutely
rigid.  "Now try. Any movement? "

	"Uh uh," was the muffled reply.

	"Now, you can't reach the winding handles can you?"  Emma flapped her hands
in the general direction of the handles, but with her head held rigid, she
couldn't even come close.  "Now, can you reach the gag frame?"  Emma lifted her
hands and managed to reach the frame around the front of the front plank. 
Clearly hands would have to be secured out of range.  That was what bondage was
all about.  "I need to get something to keep your hands under control.  I don't
think I can trust you not to get loose.  I have a problem with people doing that
to me.  Stay here for a minute."

	Emma looked at me with big brown almond eyes, making my heart melt.  If she
hadn't told me she enjoyed this sort of thing, I might have relented.  This was
the first time I had ever tied up a woman, and I had to admit, it was a bit of a
turn on.  But I did not want Emma getting loose for Monica to see.  She might
well be watching on the CCTV even as I turned my back on my captive. 

	I was going to go to the store to get some rope, but in so doing I had to
pass the Post Room.  I could not help myself, rationalising that there would be
some spare restraints in here.

	I opened the door, just in time to see poor Leila going through a little
jumping motion off both feet.  The room was warm and sweat was streaming off her
body.  The silk handkerchief around her eyes was soaked, and her blonde hair was
wet and matted against her neck.  At the sound of the door, she froze.

	"Mmph?" she asked, her voice a high whimper.  "Mmmph mpf?"  There was
desperation in her question, even if I couldn't translate it verbatim. I was
sure it was something like "Who's there?"

	"Shh, it's only me, " I said softly, not knowing quite why I was trying to
be quiet.  Leila suddenly became animated at the sound of my voice, making lots
of moaning noises and trying to express her frustration through the ball filling
her mouth.  I could hear the vibrator humming vigorously still, hanging beside
the rubber strap just near her pussy.  There was no mistaking Leila's desperate
pleading now.  While the circumstances were strange, the intent was familiar to
me.  I took pity on her.  I moved across the room and stood beside her, picking
up the round vibrator.

	"Is this what you want, Leila?"  The girl almost sobbed, nodding her head
imperceptibly.  I pulled at the waistband of her bikini, and let the device
slide down out of sight.  Leila raised her head and gave a high pitched moan of
pleasure.  She began squirming with pleasure while I looked for some rope to
take back to secure Emma.  I found a length and was heading for the door when
another whine from Leila stopped me.  She grunted some more - pleading again.  I
got the impression that things were going to be even worse unless I intervened
again.

	"What's the matter?"  I whispered.  "Nothing to push against?"  She nodded
again.  "Need a hand?"  I asked, sympathetically.  Her voice at once moaned
repeatedly in the affirmative.  I slid my hand down to her crotch.  She was
streaming wet, and I could feel the vibrator through the lycra.  I cupped my
hand against the device and pressed it firmly against her pussy.  Leila squealed
and moaned, her breath starting to come in ragged pants.  I could not resist
licking and sucking on her nipples as they jiggled in front of me.  It took
perhaps only ten seconds until Leila climaxed with a ferocity that left her
wailing into the gag, her body convulsing and jerking uncontrollably in her
bonds.  So fierce was her orgasm that she would have collapsed, I'm sure, had I
not been there.  Reluctantly I undid the rope at her wrist cuffs, but I did not
have the keys for the locks on them to finish the job. But at least she could
now move forward, back or down.

	"I have to go now, Leila.  I'll probably get into trouble, but I couldn't
watch you like this."  Leila gave a couple of muffled squeaks that might have
been thank you, and managed to nuzzle my chest with her head, before I left her,
sagging somewhat on the rubber strap. Now, however, with the vibrator still
lodged in her pants she was able to move towards one of the posts to get as much
crotch pressure as she needed.  How much freer she would get I didn't know.  I
picked up a few more things from Mary's bag of tricks lying nearby, and stuffed
them in my pocket, then closed the door quietly, shutting out the panting sound.

	Emma was still there, wrestling with the nuts on the gag frame, which
fortunately I had tightened with a spanner.  I suppose I could have put lock
nuts on them, but tying Emma's hands was going to be a bit more fun.  I got her
to put them out in front of her, palm to palm, while I bound her wrists with a
number of turns of the white sashcord.  The trailing ends I pushed between her
legs, picking up the pieces at the back.  Emma was wearing khaki shorts and a
teeshirt; I pulled the rope tightly through her crotch, knotting the rope behind
her in the small of her back, then winding the tails around her waist and
knotting them in front.

	"I'm going to get Monica now.  I want you to be ready for her. "  I lifted
Emma's teeshirt, knowing, from the hard points showing through, that she was
wearing nothing underneath.  Emma had lovely tits - much fuller than Leila's,
and quite unexpected on a girl of Asian extraction.  The nipples were hard and
jutting, just asking for a plastic clothes peg to be pinned on each - which I
did. Emma was not expecting it, and squealed into the rubber ball, tugging at
the ropes to try to get her hands up higher, but she had no chance.  I undid the
belt to her shorts and dropped a flat vibrator  - identical to the one
tormenting Leila - down her knickers.  Emma looked at me and her eyes shone.  I
rebuckled her belt and pulled the buckle out of reach of her hands.  I'm sure if
she could have smiled, she would have.  Then I went to find the boss.



	I met Monica coming down the stairs to the basement.  She looked at me
strangely.

	"The headstocks are ready," I told her.  "Emma's trying them out at the
moment."  Monica followed me down the short hallway to where Emma stood, nearly
on tiptoes after I had given the handles a last tweak.  The clothes pegs
quivered on her flinty nipples as she tried to manoeuvre the vibrator inside her
shorts with her hands bound almost between her legs. Her head, predictably,
remained immobile, the ball gag stretching her mouth and holding her tightly.

	"So, you think you know a bit about it all now?"  Monica asked, the hint of
a sarcastic smile on her lips.

	"Did I do something wrong?"

	"Not in the sense that Emma is well secured.  That's good.  And the head
frame is excellent.  You will see what I want to do with it all.  There's a
plastic bucket in the laundry - fill it with water and bring it here, will you?"  
I was back inside a couple of minutes with the bucket.  Monica had been busy in
the meantime.  She had removed the clothes pegs and the vibrator.

	"There's a fine line with some of these things, Steve.  Some situations
demand pure pleasure or pure pain.  Some require a mixture.  This is something
special.  It is something much more insidious than pain - something that
requires a focussing of the mind.  You've heard of the Chinese water torture? 
Isn't it appropriate we have Emma to try it out for us?  The falling drops of
water should be her only contact with the outside world.  Emma will be
blindfolded when we leave.  She'll be in darkness, unable to move, see, or
speak, and there won't be anything to hear.  Nothing to think about except when
the next drop will fall. "

	Monica had hung a rope over a hook I had fixed in the ceiling, precisely
centred over Emma's head.  Monica took a small penknife out of her pocket and,
rolling up her shirtsleeve, pushed it to the bottom of the bucket, where she
twisted and screwed a small hole in the bottom.  Moments later I was holding the
bucket - now tied to the rope - up high while Monica pulled on the rope.  She
hauled it as high as it would go, with the handle touching the hook, before
tying off the rope around a cleat I had fixed, not knowing at the time what she
had had in mind.  I could see her idea now, and so could Emma.  The drips coming
through the hole fell steadily on her head.  It was only a small hole, and the
drips landed around once every five seconds.  Emma rolled her eyes upward and
began to get agitated as the realisation dawned on her that a whole bucket of
water was going to take a long time to empty through one tiny hole.  She moaned
incoherently behind the rubber ball.

	 "Now don't forget those little drops of water, falling, falling down...
Each one will get heavier..." Monica's voice was a whisper now as she pulled two
pieces of silver tape from a roll and taped Emma's eyes closed.  "It's like
listening to a person snore - the intake of breath, then waiting to exhale... 
One drop lands... how long until the next?  Count the seconds... Is the bucket
empty yet?  Each drop pounds on your skull, knocking it's way into your brain... 
How long will you remain sane, Emma Cheng?  Come, Steve. We have work to do."  
She took me by the arm and we turned away from where Emma struggled with the
incessant drip, drip drip from above.

	"You've been a naughty boy too, Steve"

	"What do you mean?"  I asked, not sounding very convincing.

	"Don't try to lie, Steve.  I saw what you did to Leila.  I'm an avid TV
watcher, you know.  There's always something good on one channel or the other."

	"She was going crazy.  I had to do something."

	"And you did.  But let me make this very clear."  She looked at me
steely-eyed.  "I run this outfit.  I decide who does what to whom, and for how
long.  There are reasons behind all of my decisions.  You will not take matters
into your own hands again, understood?"  I nodded.  "I think you're getting
turned on by the whole scene here.  Good, but only when you're ready for it will
you be let loose on other people.  Do I make myself clear?"

	"Yes Mistress."  I meant it to sound sarcastic, but somehow it didn't come
out at all that way.  It sounded kind of...right.

	"Good," she said.  "We will consider your punishment for this disobedience
in due course.  I'll think about it over the weekend.  Now let's see how darling
Leila is getting on."

	She pushed open the door to the Post Room.  Leila had worked her way along
the rubber strap so that she was hard up against the post, which neatly divided
her breasts.  She was still blindfolded and gagged, of course, her legs still
spread by the bar, but the maddening desperation that had been in her movements
the last time I saw her had been replaced by a kind of contended warm fuzzy, as
she slowly rubbed her crotch against the tightness of the strap stretching
between her legs.  So engrossed was she, so lost in her own sensual world, that
our presence took her by surprise.  Monica made her start by suddenly seizing
her hair and jerking her head back.

	"You little slut!  People pay good money here to get special treatment from
you, and you're going to be too tired to offer anything!  Fat lot of use you'll
be tonight."  Monica put her hand down the girl's bikini and pulled out the
vibrator.  "Look at this - it's soaking wet. You're disgusting."  Leila seemed
to be past caring.  I was sure she would be smiling once the gag was removed. 
Monica unhooked the strap from one post, then gave Leila several hard thwacks
with a paddle on her rump, to bring her back to the world of reality.  Then she
undid the spreader bar and removed the sodden silk blindfold from the captive. 
Leila blinked in the light, the look of relief almost palpable as she brought
her legs together.

	"Go and find Mary - she has the keys.  Tell her I said you can be undone."

	"Mmmph! Mmmph!"  Leila spluttered.

	"Well perhaps it's about time you learned to communicate better, since your
mouth is stuffed full so often.  Now go, before I get the riding crop!"  Leila
needed no second bidding, and scampered out the door, her cuffed hands rattling
behind her.

	"That's the entertainment for the afternoon, Steve."

	"What about Emma?"

	"Oh she's okay for a little while yet. She doesn't have a booking for
tonight anyway. So - let's do lunch!"

Monica's Place

CHAPTER THREE - THE CUSTOMER'S ALWAYS RIGHT


	It was a late lunch, just the two of us lingering over a salad and a bottle
of Chardonnay, on the balcony. Monica was charming company when she really
wanted to be.  I had seen already the commanding and demanding side of her. But
I had seen worse in other people, and I had encountered lots of worse clients. 
It was at this stage, that Monica made her proposal.

	"Steve, I've been meaning to ask you something."

	"Fire away," I said, starting to feel very relaxed and comfortable for a
Friday afternoon.  I did not feel at all guilty about not working, seeing as how
I was having a business lunch with the boss.

	"How shall I put this? I couldn't help noticing, when you were testing your
stuff for Mary, that you got very aroused by the whole thing..."

	"Did I?"   I'm sure I went red.  I tried to be nonchalant about it and
studied my drink intently.

	"And what you did to - or for - Leila and Emma this morning, albeit without
my permission and to some degree amateurish, nevertheless was encouraging. Would
you consider becoming involved more seriously?"

	"What do you mean?"  The question caught me off guard.

	"Well, we're half a dozen girls, and - despite Mary's attempts sometimes -
we can't take the place of a male, in certain cases."

	"What are you suggesting, then?" I asked cautiously.

	"There are certain instances where a male member in the team - if you'll
pardon the pun - would prove very... beneficial.  In fact the more I think about
it, the more scope there would be.  I've thought about it in the past, but could
never find the right person. I'll give you an example.  It may surprise you to
know that we get quite a number of women clients.  Some come here of their own
volition.  They may be lesbian, they may be dominant or submissive themselves,
and may simply want a partner to play games with.  Most of the time my team can
accommodate any of these requirements.  There are also women who get left here
as part of their punishment - these women are slaves, and are frequently
punished while their masters are pleasured upstairs."

	"Surely you're not proposing me as some sort of gigolo or stud?"

	"Not exactly.  But as you know we do a lot of role-playing.  Having a male
in the cast would lend a lot more credibility in some cases.  Can you act a
role?"

	"I've absolutely no idea."

	"I'm sure you could.  You'd also look good in leather." Monica smiled.
"You'd make a good master yourself, if we train you properly."

	"Which would do what, in regard my contract?"

	"Nothing specific at the moment.  I'd just like you to think about it, and
maybe wander about downstairs over the weekend and see what goes on.  The
requirement for your services to fit out the downstairs rooms remains, and is
perhaps more urgent than ever.  But there may well be a secondary role during
this, and a longer-term position afterwards, depending on how successful it all
is. Just say you'll consider it. Yes?"  Monica smiled again - her most stunning
smile that totally bewitched me.

	"Only if you answer me one thing - truthfully."

	"Okay."

	When I was strapped to that chair - when Mary was doing those awful things
to me.  Yeah, I'll admit it, I was turned on..."	

	"Hard on."

	"I know.  Was that you who...teased me?"

	"Was it good?"

	"You really are a bitch, you know that?  You just about drove me crazy. "

	"So you'll consider my offer?"

	"Only if you'll finish what you started."

	"Perhaps."  There was that slow, wicked smile again. "But only on my terms."

	"Which are?"

	"You'll find out when the time is right.  And the time is now right to
rescue poor Emma."  I supposed that was the best answer I was going to get at
this stage of the day.



	Emma was as agitated as she could be, given the state of near immobility in
which we had left her.

	"Mmmph! Mmmrrf! Uhhf! NNmph!"  Emma was most vocal, once she heard us
coming. Her roped hands were tugging at her crotch rope, but somehow I didn't
think it was for the erotic effect. She was standing on her tiptoes, her hair
soaked from the water, which had run down her neck and saturated her teeshirt. 
Her nipples were standing out like hard little points, which I'm sure was only
partially due to the dampness.

	Monica lowered the bucket on the rope while I pulled it away from Emma's
head.  The bucket was about half full still.  It had been an hour since we had
left her.  Monica untied Emma's hands, while I wound down the headstocks by a
few centimetres.  Emma was obviously relieved, but still mouthing off behind the
gag. I unscrewed the nuts keeping the front bar in place.  It came free with a
soft plop, and the harsh sound of Emma panting and gasping.  She pulled the tape
from her eyes and gaped at us.

	"God, that was awful!  It was...oh... terrible!  Please don't do that to me
again, Monica!  I know I couldn't take much more.  I'm so glad you came back..."
Emma started to cry.  I undid the butterfly nuts holding the sides of the head
restraint in place, until all that was keeping her there was the headstock
itself. This was unlocked and Emma and Monica hugged each other, while I stood
by feeling awkward.  It was obviously Steve's turn to clean up as Monica led
Emma back upstairs.



	I spent what was left of the Friday getting some orders in with hardware and
other companies.  There was a lot of planning to do to get everything completed
as soon as possible.

	I went to my room early that evening.  The girls were obviously expecting
their guests, and I had made a conscious decision to stay out of the house
during the evenings, in the time I had been there.  At about seven thirty,
however, the phone rang. It was Monica, calling from her office.

	"Steve, there's something I want you to see.  Can you come to my office,
please?"

	She was waiting for me when I arrived.

	"I'll be back shortly.  Watch the TV while I'm out?  You may need to change
the channels to suit the action."

	Mystified by what was going on, I sat down in the big leather chair behind
the ornate old desk.  Monica could be a strange mixture sometimes, but she
managed to blend the style and taste of a bygone age with modern technology. The
television was on, in the discrete cabinet beside the door, showing the
reception area just inside the front door.  Moments later the doorbell rang, and
I saw Monica move into the picture to answer it.  I had barely noticed her
outfit - distinctly nineteen forties, with high heels with toes cut away and a
long floral dress that swirled about her calves.  She had even done her hair
differently, it now being pulled back behind her ears into a roll at the nape of
her neck.

	She opened the door to greet another woman, obviously from the same time
warp, but wearing a tailored black suit over a white silk blouse.  She was tall
and athletic-looking, with long blonde hair braided into two plaits which
wrapped round the top of her head.  I turned up the sound.

	"Bonjour, Mademoiselle," came Monica's voice.

	"Bonjour Michelle.  Is my table ready?"

	"Certainment, Mademoiselle. Un moment, s'il vous plait. Please wait here."

	It had me baffled.  Monica disappeared from the camera frame. The visitor
moved across to study a landscape hung beside the front door.

	"Mademoiselle Isobel Leroux?"

	"Oui?" The woman whirled at the sound of the harsh voice from behind her. 
She had little chance to react further as Monica and Mary were on her, pushing
her against the wall.  Mary was in her dreaded SS uniform.

	"Isobel Leroux, you are under arrest for crimes against the Third Reich,
including sabotage and belonging to the Resistance."  As she hissed these words,
Mary and Monica twisted their victim's arms behind her and Mary clicked the
handcuffs on the woman's wrists.

	"That's a lie!  Who told you that?"  She swung round, her eyes blazing. "Is
this your doing, Michelle?"  she demanded, glaring at Monica.  Monica shrugged. 
"You whore!  You sleep with every Boche officer who comes to your restaurant,
for a few measly francs extra on the bill!"  She launched into a torrent of
invective that made my skin crawl, but which was stifled abruptly when Mary
forced a thick bit-gag between her teeth and buckled it tightly behind Isobel's
neck.  The swearing subsided to muffled mmmphing, but her eyes continued to
fling daggers.

	"Ve must not upzet ze other customers," Mary chided.   "Und now ve are going
for a little trip, the destination of vich you vill probably guess but must not
see."  Mary pulled out a blindfold that looked not unlike those comfort masks
you get on aircraft, except this one was made of black leather and again buckled
snugly behind the victim's head.  Isobel was suddenly subdued.  It is amazing
what the lost of sight does to your balance and sense of security, as I could
vouch for on a personal basis.

	"Danke, Michelle.  Zis person vill not trouble you again."  Assisted by
Monica, Mary manhandled her prisoner out of the front door. I switched channels
with the remote, and saw Monica disappear out of the frame, while Mary helped
Isobel slowly down the front steps. There was the sound of an engine starting
up, and a dark-coloured Ford Transit van backed into view.  It was a late model
version - the one with the short wheelbase but the tall rear cab that looks high
enough to stand upright inside.  It stopped at the base of the steps where the
two women waited.  As Monica got out, Mary opened the rear doors and pushed
Isobel from behind.  Isobel stumbled for a couple of steps then was caught by
Mary just as she reached the van.  Mary turned her round and pushed her again so
she involuntarily sat on the edge of the rear floor. Seconds later Mary had a
strap buckled around Isobel's ankles, and was pushing her inside the van.  By
the interior light I could see Mary looping a rope around the ankle strap and
pulling the woman's feet up behind her, before tying off the rope to the
handcuffs. Isobel was in a hogtie that was going to be quite uncomfortable for
however long Mary elected to keep her thus. 

	The SS officer in the tailored jacket and long leather skirt slammed the
doors to the van and moved to the driver's seat.  As the van disappeared down
the driveway Monica waved at the disappearing taillights, before turning and
smiling up at the camera.



	"They'll be about fifteen minutes," Monica told me when she reappeared.
"Mary's taking Isobel for a drive that will hopefully disorient her, if not fool
her completely. Either way it will add to the illusion. She'll return down the
back track - the unsealed road that customers don't know about. Isobel will
remain blindfolded for as long as Mary sees fit, and there is no reason for her
to know she has come back to the place she started from, since she'll be
entering through the back door."

	"What's she paying for?" I asked.

	"Isobel is a romantic," explained Monica with the hint of a smile.  "She
loves films like Casablanca and the wartime classics.  She craves the romance
and danger, and I guess is seeking it as best she can in today's society, short
of joining the army or being a news reporter in a war zone.  So she travels back
to Paris in World War Two.  Her name is Isobel Leroux, and she is a society lady
who we know is working for the Resistance.  She is going to be interrogated for
three nights and two days.  She will be kept bound or chained, most probably
gagged and or blindfolded, will be sleep-deprived and will be subjected to
various tortures and humiliations.  She will probably be released at the end for
lack of evidence.  That may be before or after we take her into the bush to
execute her."

	I was quite taken aback by the casual way Monica talked about it all.  "How
much did she specifically instruct in all of this?"

	"Nothing, directly.  She filled in one of our standard questionnaires,
identifying what her preferences were, what sort of role playing she preferred,
what sort of bondage she liked, what her fantasies were, and even what her
greatest fears were."

	"People tell you all this?"

	"Oh yes.  First we get them to write it all down, then we get them to sign a
form saying they are in good health, fully aware of what our services entail,
and to absolve us of all responsibility in the event of an accident.  We had
some lawyers write in the fine print, of course.  All care, no responsibility,
best endeavours, client's risk, that sort of thing.  The preference list is
important of course, because it gives us the scope to plan the service for the
client.  It works well."

	"So she's paying for two days and three nights of hell."

	"Yep.  Isobel is actually a very sophisticated and imaginative lady.  She
has a very high paying job, no spouse, and has Monday off to recover.  She'll
need it.  She'll be disoriented, tired, sore, drained, hungry, and somewhat
poorer. She will also have had a number of sexual torments that will drive her
crazy but ultimately leave her well satisfied.  Hopefully the whole weekend will
leave her satisfied."

	"And what else is happening?"

	"Well, we're always pretty busy at the weekend, of course.  You haven't
really been with us long enough to see the patterns, and for that matter we
haven't been running downstairs yet to see how it really works in concurrency
with our upstairs services.  But trust me, weekends are dynamite.  Isobel is
here for the full weekend.  That means round the clock shifts of supervision and
dominating.  I'll be taking the day shifts downstairs with Trish, while Mary
will do the night ones - she's had a good sleep this afternoon.  The other three
are all working upstairs tonight."

	"So do you have other downstairs clients tonight? "

	"A wife is bringing her husband here in about an hour. He will stay the
weekend, too. He'll be a bit easier than Isobel. Not so much elaborate
role-playing. Dennis will arrive ready-packaged  - gift-wrapped in rubber. He'll
be chained up to the wall for most of the first night, with the heating on, and
with regular beatings to keep him awake. I gather Dennis is not past beating his
wife on the odd occasion, and she is not past spiking his beer with a little
concoction I gave her. If we have room, his wife will stay here and partake in
the beatings. Dennis will get fed bread and water, which he will have great
difficulty eating off the floor with his hands bound behind him. Dennis will
become one of our regulars. He's the sort that will get tested on all the nice
devices you're going to build for us, Steve."

	"Sounds like a full-on weekend."

	"It is. There's also a master coming who will bring his own slave for
downstairs treatment while he is pleasured upstairs.  Oh - there's the alarm for
the rear gate. Mary must be coming back." I followed Monica's gaze and saw a red
light blinking on a panel beside the TV. Monica changed channels and a new
picture showed the Transit van sitting on a narrow muddy track in the
tree-filled valley behind the property. At the touch of a button the
ancient-looking gate swung open of its own accord, and the van drove towards us,
then passed out of the picture. "I must go and help Mary set up the first
victim."

	As she headed for the door, I could not help myself. "By the way Mon..."

	"Yes?" She half turned in the doorway.

	"You look sensational. "

	She flushed with genuine pleasure. "Thank you, Steve. And a question for you
- can you do a German accent?"

	She left the question hanging in the air, closing the door before I got a
chance to answer. She was certainly giving me plenty to think about.



	I flipped through the channels looking to find what was happening to Isobel.
I settled on the Post Room as a guess, and sure enough a minute or two later
Monica and Mary appeared in the picture, leading a still blindfolded and gagged
Isobel. She was reluctant, and became even more uncooperative when the girls
positioned her between the posts and fastened a leather cuff on each wrist. The
cuffs were no doubt locked on, and a rope was secured to each. Isobel began to
struggle when the handcuffs were removed, trying briefly to claw at her gag,
before Mary and Monica hauled simultaneously on their ropes and Isobel's arms
shot up into the air in a star position. She was almost off the ground and began
to flail around her with her feet. Things were starting to get interesting when
the doorbell rang. I had no idea who was there, nor who was supposed to be doing
the meeting and greeting business. Monica was still living her life in the
Forties, so I decided I had better do the obvious thing and answer the door.

	I suppose I had been given warning, but I was till not quite prepared for
the couple I found waiting outside. She was a handsome woman of perhaps
thirty-five, dressed in a casual blue denim skirt above the knee with a black
leather jacket and shapely black boots. She had long brown hair which ordinarily
might perhaps have been "too young" for her age, but she definitely got away
with it.  Standing beside her was a tall man - at least I presumed him to be
male from the absence of any bumps bulging beneath the front of the black latex
suit. He was encased totally in this suit, his hands presumably secured behind
his back. The only opening seemed to be two nostril holes in the hood. Around
his neck was a collar, attached to which was a lead that the lady held in her
hand.

	"Hello. I'm Jane Sewell. This worthless piece of trash is Dennis. He belongs
to me. We have an appointment with Monica Armstrong."

	"Ah. Monica's temporarily engaged at the moment.  My name is Steve, I
believe we're expecting you.  Would you please come this way."  I led them into
one of the two waiting rooms that had been created from a large lounge area.  It
was only at this stage that I realised the guy was wearing high spike-heeled
shoes probably a good ten centimetres high, and a sole five centimetres thick to
go with it. No wonder he looked taller than Jane. "Please take a seat and I'll
advise Monica that you're here." Jane sat down gracefully on the wicker lounge,
tugging at the leash. There was a "mmph" sound from the hood. I guessed Dennis
had his mouth full of rubber or something similar. He sank down on to his knees,
close to his wife, and I saw that his hands were manacled behind him.

	I went downstairs and into the Observation Room. Here I saw Mary and Monica
getting to work on Isobel. She was a little more under control now, standing
spreadeagled between the two posts, still blindfolded and gagged. Her smart
black skirt was now torn up the front and her ankles were linked by a wide
spreader bar. Her jacket had been removed and her silk blouse was undone and
open. She wore no bra, nor did she need to, for she had breasts that stood proud
and firm, or at least they did while her arms were stretched tautly above her.
Hanging from them now were metal clamps looking like small scissors, and from
these, small lead weights were suspended by chains. As I watched Mary added a
further weight to each, and I heard Isobel moan through the black rubber bit in
her mouth. It was not a very effective gag - not as effective as tape or a
mouth-filling ball, but then it was not designed to be. Isobel spluttered and
pleaded incoherently. Monica handed a very whippy riding crop to Mary, who
promptly slashed Isobel across the buttocks. She gasped and yelped. Mary
strolled around the front of the prisoner, smiling a smile that could not be
seen by her victim. Mary caressed Isobel's breasts with the little flap on the
end of the crop, toying with and poking at the clamps. More moaning followed
from Isobel, before Mary ripped her skirt further, almost to her waist. I caught
a glimpse of black underwear as the tip of the crop nosed its way into the
vulnerable spot between her legs. Isobel's head shook wordlessly. I observed
Monica watching from one side, her arms folded and with a smug smile on her
face. I was sure it was more than just the sight of another satisfied customer.

	"Now, who are zer members of your resistance group?" Mary whispered in
Isobel's ear, softly persuasive. A shake of the head again. "You realise zis
could be very protracted und painful?  Yes, of course you do. Surely you haf
somezing you vant to tell us?  No?"  Mary's voice was silken and honey-tongued.
I saw her hand reach under the skirt and linger there.  "You're a slut, Isobel
Leroux," Mary said very quietly by with a hint of menace.  "You're as vet as a
cat on heat. You're also as guilty as sin. Und you know what zat means..." 
Isobel looked like she was trembling, as the hand snaked under her skirt again.
There was the merest movement forward in her body - as much as she was able
before the the taut ropes on her wrists pulled her back.  I thought I heard a
whine of frustration from behind the gag.  Without warning Mary flicked the crop
at Isobel's left breast, catching it across the top, above the clamp, with the
strap on the end. Isobel jerked and squealed.

	So engrossed in the byplay was I that I almost forgot what I was there for.

	"Excuse me Oberleutnant," I wasn't really sure what rank Mary was. I made a
mental note to find out.  I didn't want to wind up in the same position as
Isobel by insulting a superior officer.  "My apologies for interrupting zer
interrogation, but zere iss a ein Frau mit ein prisoner in zer upstairs vaiting
room. I vould ask your assistant to assist me vis zem, bitte."

	"Danke schoen Corporal."  Mary was unfazed by my intrusion.  Corporal...
That was a liberty. Mary motioned towards Monica. "You may go to attend to zeese
people. I vill carry on here."  I'll bet you will, I thought.



	"Enjoying yourself?" I asked Monica as she joined me in the corridor.

	"Yes, as a matter of fact.  I bet you were, too," she smirked.  "That wasn't
a bad accent, either.  I think we can find more work for you."

	"Thanks," I said, feigning a total lack of enthusiasm.

	"How are Dennis and Jane?"

	"He seemed rather quiet and restrained, I thought.  She's rather tasty."

	"And married."

	"Yeah."



	We found Mr and Mrs Sewell as I had left them, except that the latter now
had an elegant boot resting on the former's neck as he kneeled beside her.  At
the jerk of the leash he followed his mistress blindly as we led the couple to
the concealed door and then helped the prisoner down the stairs.  This was in
fact not an easy exercise, given the heels the victim was wearing in his dark
world.  It was a situation calling for total trust, but then, when one was
"trussed" as he was, one didn't have a lot of choice, did one?

	Desperate Dennis was taken into the holding cell where I had spent a night,
and I suspected his fate was to be the same.  In short time he was chained
facing the wall, his arms spreadeagled above him, the cuffs connected to
eyebolts which I had personally embedded and tested.  With his legs strapped
together at ankles and above and below the knees, Dennis was going nowhere. At
Monica's direction I fetched a selection of whips and floggers.  I returned just
in time to catch Monica telling Jane that dinner would be ready in half an hour
in the dining room upstairs, and advising her that Dennis would remain fully
supervised at all times via the CCTV.

	We left them to it, with just time to see Jane's eyes light up as she
spotted the two-metre mini-bullwhip. Dennis was going to be one sorry cowboy, I
guessed.  Revenge was no doubt going to be sweet.

	We retraced our steps just in time to be greeted with a further knock on the
door.

	"I do wish people would come at the agreed time," Monica grumbled.

	"I guess you can't always come when you want, in this place," I suggested
wryly.  She laughed and went to open the door, while I returned to her study to
watch further events unfold.

	The guests this time were a handsome couple, he around forty, in a dark
jacket and black poloneck, she considerably younger, in a white silken cape that
flowed around her. She had blonde hair shaped and cut just to the top of her
shoulders, huge brown eyes, and - as I saw when she turned fully to the camera -
an equally huge white ball gag in her mouth.  The man removed her cape and
handed it to Monica, who moved off screen to presumably hang it in the closet. 
I had time to look at this stunning woman who was now revealed in her glory. 
She wore a white corset which she must have had help with to get on.  It
stretched from just above her crotch to the underside of her breasts, which,
under the influence of the device, were magnificent to say the least.  Attached
to the bottom of the corset were several white straps, the widest of which was
tightly pulled between her legs, securing, I suspected, an insert or two.  The
remaining, thinner straps held up her stockings of shiny white nylon that
shimmered under the hall chandelier.  Her arms were secured behind her in a
leather arm sheath (white, of course) that was laced up tightly to her upper
arms, pulling her elbows close together, and was then retained in place with
straps that looped over her shoulders and under her armpits. 

	Monica and the man engaged in brief conversation for a minute then Monica
led the pair through the concealed door and down the stairs to the basement. The
woman, whom I later learned was called Christina, was taken to the second
holding cell. Monica disappeared momentarily before returning with an ankle
spreader from the storeroom. She and the man - obviously Christina's master -
secured the aluminium bar with its leather cuffs to the slave's ankles.
Christina was wearing knee-high white leather boots, with heels I guessed at ten
centimetres. They were not the highest I had ever seen, but I guess it's all a
matter of how long one has to wear them. I had a feeling Christina was going to
be testing hers for quite some time. She looked disconcerted, rolling her eyes
at her master as he adjusted the spreader. I could pick up snatches of the
conversation.

	"...she's used to it... had worse than this... "

	Then came the rope through the pulley, to be attached to the ring at the end
of the arm sheath. I heard a whimper from Christina - a pleading "mmmph" as her
arms began to go up behind her and her body was bent over into a strappado. The
mmmph turned to a more urgent "hmm-hmming" as the man attached two weighted
nipple clamps to her lovely breasts where they protruded over the top of the
corset. Christina's vocal range went up an octave, and there could be no
doubting the pleading in her voice, particularly when her master picked up a
many-tailed flogger and gave her several hard cracks across her rump. She
squealed and pleaded behind the big rubber ball filling her mouth, but could do
little more than shake her blonde tresses and wiggle her body a bit. Evidently
the weights hanging from her nipples suggested this was not a particularly good
idea, and this activity ceased abruptly. Before he left, the man fiddled briefly
in the area of his slave's crotch. Christina's whining changed to a more urgent
moaning, and a higher pitch again.

	"Just changing the toys into top gear," he told Monica with a smile. "It'll
keep her happy for a few hours. See you tomorrow, Tina."

	Christina's moans became decidedly desperate, keening from behind the rubber
ball before the door slammed shut.



	"Thanks for helping out," said Monica, poking her head around the door.
"Warren and I are going to have dinner with Jane. Leila will be in to take over
the night watch shortly.  See you in the morning."

	Sure enough, Leila arrived ten minutes later.

	"Looks like I got the short straw tonight," she smiled. "Gotta stay up all
night and watch TV while others are wining and dining."

	"So who's doing the cooking?" I asked.

	"Nobody. Monica's ordered in from Luigi's. Special delivery. Something to do
with an 'old flame'." Luigi's was the best restaurant this side of the river.

	"Payment in kind?"

	"Something like that. But she's getting in extra plates for you and me."

	"And what are the others doing tonight?"

	"Well, Emma's with a handsome man in Room 3, Jillian has a date for nine
o'clock, and Trish is entertaining one of the local city counselors."

	"And Mistress Mary of the Gestapo is beating the crap out of poor Isobel in
the Post Room."

	"Jawohl mein korporal!" Leila grinned.



	I'll say this for Luigi, even his takeaways travel well.  Leila and I dined
well, albeit while watching Isobel, Dennis and Christina go through their
various versions of pain, suffering and climax.  It was a pleasant evening in
Monica's office, even though Leila could not join me in the bottle of red, since
she was on duty.  It was nearly midnight by the time I went to bed.  Monica's
group had finished their meal and had ventured into the dungeon again for a
short while. Leila made a quick round of the TV channels before I left.  Dennis
was still chained up to the wall, this time with his back to it, while Jane did
very uncomfortable things to his dick.  Christina was in a somewhat less
uncomfortable position, her legs still spread, but now lying on her back on the
futon.  The ballgag had been removed and her mouth was now taped shut with
silver duct tape, as were here eyes.  The door was just closing as we tuned in.
Christina's crotch strap was still in place - I had a suspicion the insert was
there for the night.  Isobel was now in the Chair Room, firmly strapped to the
Chair, also blindfolded and gagged with tape.  Two wooden clothespins stuck out
jauntily from her nipples.  I had a feeling I knew what she was sitting on.

	I retired to my room, taking comfort in the fact that I was at least going
to have a warm, snug bed to spend a night in before waking up to greet Saturday
morning.

Monica's Place

CHAPTER FOUR  - CHRISTINA


	Even though it was a Saturday I found it hard to sleep in.  It was raining
steadily, but it had that nice sort of feeling that comes when you know you
don't really have to go out anywhere.  The walk to the gate to collect the paper
was pleasant under the umbrella, the smell of wet foliage almost overpowering
but invigorating.  I was the only one in the kitchen for a short while, as I
pottered about getting my uncomplicated breakfast of cereal and toast.  That's
when Leila appeared - with Christina.

	Of course I didn't know it was Christina at this moment - not, at least,
until Leila introduced us.

	"Steve - this is Christina. She's going to have breakfast with us."

	"Good morning, Christina, " I said. "Did you sleep well?"

	Christina, I should point out, was at this point relatively unfettered. Her
ankles sported a short hobble chain about a foot long, between the locked cuffs
on her boots, while her wrists were handcuffed behind her. The duct tape was now
gone, and her stunning blue eyes were turned fully on me.

	"I did once the batteries ran down," she said with a rueful smile.

	I noticed the strap from the corset was still between her legs, and I had to
say I felt just a little uncomfortable, although Christina seemed perfectly at
ease, even in her half-naked and highly provocative state. I was sort of at ease
being around Monica's team, but having total strangers parading their breasts
and wearing handcuffs while I was trying to read the Saturday paper was
something I had not quite got to grips with.

	"Christina's just come up for some breakfast, " Leila explained, fixing a
bowl of cereal. She poured milk on it and set it down on the floor. With a
practised ease Christina sank to her knees and put her head down into the bowl.
Leila told me: "I have to get back to the monitors. I'll be back to take her
downstairs soon."

	I watched Christina as her hair began to get tangled around her mouth as she
tried to lap up the cereal with her hands still cuffed behind her back. At
length I could stand it no longer, picking up the bowl from under her head and
setting it on the table. I helped her to her feet.

	"It's okay - really," she said earnestly. "I can do it - it just takes time. 
The deep bowls are the worst..."

	"Don't be ridiculous," I told her.  I took a spoon from the drawer and began
to feed her the cereal.

	"No - please - I'll get into trouble... I'm only a slave - I have to eat
this way, as befits a person of my lowly rank."

	"Nonsense. Want some toast and jam?" Her eyes lit up, giving lie to her
claim that cereal was all she was allowed.  Moments later I was pushing
bite-sized pieces of toast past her lips. That was when Monica and Warren
appeared.  He looked remarkably put out, and I could see the look of dismay on
Monica's face.

	"What the hell's going on here?" Warren demanded. "Monica?" He turned to her
for an explanation. Both wore bathrobes - he a white towelling one with the word
"Hyatt" embroidered on one breast, while Monica's was black satin with Chinese
dragons on it.  Leila appeared in the doorway behind them at that moment.

	Monica grimaced. "I - I'm sorry, Warren - there's obviously been a
communication hiccough between some of my staff."

	"And what are you going to do about it?"

	"Well, obviously they will have to be punished." She moved closer to me and
whispered under her breath: "Steve, run with me on this one, please? This guy is
an important client."

	"But I didn't..." I started to say, but I was cut off by Monica with a
glare.

	"Leila, fetch the emergency bag, at once!"  This was Monica the boss
speaking. Leila disappeared, only to return moments later with a smart looking
briefcase, which, when opened, revealed all manner of bondage gear neatly packed
away.  I knew I was in trouble right then.



	And that was how I ended up in an extremely uncomfortable position,
purposely ignored by the remainder of the girls who appeared for breakfast. 
Normally guests had their breakfast in their rooms or in the dining room, with
the girl responsible for the guest having to prepare these meals. Thus all the
team came through the kitchen, where uncommitted staff had their breakfast at
the kitchen table or the breakfast bar, seated on one of the barstools. There
were four of these and six seats at the kitchen table - plenty of room for the
full roster to assemble when necessary.  But in this instance, two of the
barstools were occupied by Christina and myself, each of us bent into a hogtie,
lying precariously on our stomachs atop a stool.  Monica had been quick with the
rope on me in response to Warren's demands.  I could see she was angry, being
shown up in front of her client.

	"Don't these people know slaves are on a strict diet, and only eat in a
suitable position?"  Warren had ranted as Monica bound my hands palm-to-palm
securely behind my back.  My attempts to explain came to nothing as a bright red
ball gag appeared in my line of vision and found its way into my mouth.  I
spluttered but could do nothing as she buckled the strap really tightly behind
my neck.  Then it was face down over the barstool while my knees, ankles and
elbows were roped and cinched, and the ankle cinch rope pulled tightly to be
tied to my wrists.  I whined plaintively.

	"Oh shut up!" said Monica petulantly.  "How many times have I told you these
things, and still you get them wrong!  You're a waste of space!"

	"Now her!" said Warren, and stayed long enough to see poor Christina wind up
in a similar position, her chains and handcuffs replaced with duct tape, more of
which ended up over her mouth.  Evidently the 'emergency bag' only held limited
quantities of ropes and other goodies.  Everything else got the tape treatment.

	"Come, Monica.  Breakfast first, and we can decide what to do with them." 
The pair left, and I could feel the embarrassment of Leila who had watched it
all.

	"I'm really sorry, Steven," she said.  "There's nothing I can do."



	It was very uncomfortable lying over the barstool, even though it was
padded.  My back ached, and my thighs hurt where they drooped off one edge.  I
looked at Christina, lying across the stool beside me.  She turned her big eyes
on me and perhaps expressed what I took for an apology.  Or was it an "I told
you so?"

	The other four girls appeared at various times during what I took to be the
next hour or so.  All the while my body ached, and I felt acutely humiliated. 
There was sympathy expressed by all except Mary, who looked at us with
particular interest, as though working out some devious punishment of her own.

	My muscles were starting to twitch and cramp.  I glanced at Christina.  Her
head was down and her eyes were closed.  I was sure she was more used to this
sort of treatment than I was, but that sure that didn't make it any better. 
Then Monica and Warren returned.  They were dressed this time, and Monica was
smiling.  It was not a particularly warm smile, at least when she looked at me.

	The bonds securing our wrists to our ankles and those binding our legs were
removed, allowing Christina and me to totter to our feet, our nerve ends
tingling as the blood slowly returned to our cramped limbs.  I had barely
regained my composure when a black silk scarf was wrapped tightly over my eyes
and everything went dark.  I heard Monica's voice whispering next to my ear:

	"Stay with me on this, Steve.  It'll sort itself out soon."

	Why did I not have confidence in this line?  Why did I feel she would next
be saying she'd still respect me in the morning?

	When we had regained our feet, only Leila had been there with Monica and
Warren.  After that point I could not tell who was watching, especially during
what Monica put me through next.  I felt my belt buckle undone, and the next
thing I knew was my arse was in the breeze and Mr Willy was wondering what he
should be doing.  It was as much the uncertainty of the situation, of not
knowing what was coming next, that began to get me aroused.  I couldn't help it. 
Then there was Monica's or Leila's hands on Mr Willy, strapping him into some
sort of sheath, like a short piece of PVC pipe, perhaps, but one that had a
variable diameter, like when you stick you fingers into a roll of paper and
twist it into a tighter cylinder.  That's what somebody slid over my buddy, and
he was not happy.  Nor was I.  I suspect the sheath was secured at that point
with some sort of tie around my balls, so not only was the cylinder not going to
get larger, it was not going to slip off, either.  Mr Willy was definitely in
the discomfort zone now, but it was nothing to what I was about to receive in
the other end.

	I felt my shorts disappear away from my feet, and each ankle was secured
with a cord which easily pulled my feet apart.  I realised I was standing
against the kitchen table, and this was what my ankles were tied to. There was
another rope which was looped through my wrist bonds, and was then pulled up
over my shoulders, either side of my neck, and obviously passed to somebody on
the other side of the table.

	"Bend forward nicely, Steven.  That's a good boy."  Monica's hand was on the
back of my neck, and as the rope took up the strain against my shoulders I had
no choice but to go with the flow.  I tried to protest, but not a lot came out
around the ball in my mouth other than a bit of whining.  I wondered whether
Christina had been blindfolded as well, or if she was watching my full
humiliation.

	The butt plug, when it came, felt huge.  I was not into that sort of thing
at all, I have to say.  A man's arse is his castle, so to speak, and having a
bloody great battering ram penetrate the castle door is not much fun under any
circumstances, especially when you're not used to it.  There was the
lubrication, sure, cold and slimy, but the invader seemed so much bigger than
me!  How the on earth did people manage anal sex?  If this was anything to go
by, the girls must hurt like hell.  My sphincter muscle cried out - as I tried
to do, but the gag limited me only to a few pained splutterings and struggles on
the laminated tabletop.

	"Just relax, Steve," Monica cooed. "Don't fight it.  Accept the inevitable." 
The smooth plastic probed a centimetre further and I moaned in pain.  It felt
like I was being split in two.  Then there was a small withdrawal and a further
push, and again back and forth.  Suddenly there was a sharp pain and a rush as
the plug slid inside fully, and my bum closed around the narrowed shaft.  The
pain was gone, replaced by a fullness that did strange things to Mr Willy - or
would have done had he been able to respond.  The ropes holding me down were
released and female hands tightened a waist harness around me which had a
portion that went from the back down between my cheeks and up the front either
side of Mr Willy, before fastening on the belt.  There was obviously no way my
plug was going to come out in a hurry, although after the pain I had just gone
through, I don't think I really wanted it to just at that moment.  But in the
frontal area, Mr Willy was now well and truly restrained at attention, unable to
shrink or expand, or even move from side to side, strapped as he was firmly
upright against my abdomen.  I really could not believe what Monica was doing to
me.  My ankles were released and pair of scissors cut my teeshirt away. 

	Any more liberties you want to take with my personal possessions, Monica, I
wondered?  Good job it was an old tee.  Then there was a collar, perhaps 5
centimetres wide, buckled around my neck, with the click of a chain or a lead
attached to it.

	"Chain him to that post," Monica directed, "while we deal with the slave."
There followed the sounds of people disappearing from earshot, while I was
pulled none too gently a few steps forward.

	"Have we been a naughty boy?" purred the voice.  My heart sank.  It was
Mary, probably fresh from giving poor Isobel a good caning, screwing or
clamping.  "I think you're in for a rather intense morning."  I could almost
hear the smile in her voice.  Once again my head was pulled down and I felt the
lead tied to the handrail of the balcony so I was again bent over.  I started to
kneel down, just so I could ease my back a bit, but Mary stopped that.  "Did I
tell you to kneel? You stay where I put you, Buster!"  And I did - but only, of
course, after she had tied my legs apart again.  Bitch.  This was just so
humiliating.  As was the sharp slap she delivered on each cheek.

	Suffice to say Monica wasn't entirely happy when she returned from wherever
she had been.  I'm sure Mary's handmarks were still standing out like beacons.

	"Mary, I said chain him to the post.  Did I say spread his legs, bend him
over and beat him?  No! I'm getting tired of this passive aggressive behaviour,
Mary."

	There was no response, but I'm sure there was either a sly smile on Mary's
lips.  Monica untied my neck and ankles, and I was led gently along the
verandah.

	"Now we're at the steps Steven...one...two...three...now on to the path -
this way.  Now we're at the van.  Stop here."

	I was conscious of my nakedness in the open air.  It had stopped raining,
for which I was at least thankful - but there seemed to be precious little else
I had to be grateful for at that moment.  I did as I was told and felt the
bottom edge of the van double doors opening against my shins.  I had never been
inside the van, nor had I really known of it's existence other than when I had
seen Isobel incarcerated the previous night.  I could still not take in the
interior, except by my tactile senses.  Monica climbed past me into the back of
the van.

	"All right Steven - lift your right foot and put it on the step."  I wanted
to tell her it would be much better if I could see what I was doing, but that
would also have been a lot easier if I hadn't had a big rubber ball firmly
strapped in my mouth.  Dutifully I hoisted myself into the back, straightening
up cautiously.  It was in fact quite roomy.  I am barely 170 centimetres tall,
but I could stand upright.  It could have been worse, especially when Monica
pushed me forward.  I edged along, sort of sideways, her hands on my arm, until
I was halted, facing - by my reckoning, the left-hand side of the van.  I was
nudged from behind into a kneeling position, and abruptly found myself at once
in contact with warm flesh and a cold metal bar.  I did not need to be a rocket
scientist to work out that the flesh was Christina's, that I was being pushed
front on to her.

	She provided nice resistance, being about the same height as me, with her
breasts squishing into my chest.  My head was pulled to one side and in the
space of a second I felt our two collars being joined with a clip or padlock.
Her head and face were thus above my right shoulder, while mine were above hers. 
Between us, running horizontally at waist level, was the bar.  I did not know
how this was fixed within the van - I guessed one end would be bolted to the
wall in back of the driver's compartment, with the rearmost end being attached
to a floor-to-roof pole. 

	We knelt there, two prisoners separated only by this bar, our wrists still
bound behind us, and both of us - I assumed, in Christina's case - gagged and
blindfolded.  I could hear Christina's heavy breathing in my ear - but not in
the circumstances I would have preferred, unfortunately.  Monica, of course, was
not finished, as I felt a rope looped about my wrist bonds again, and drawn
between my legs.  I guessed it continued between Christina's, no doubt being
tied off around her wrists.  Suffice to say before it was fastened it was pulled
awfully tight, and I heard a small whimper next to me.  I was almost ready to
whimper myself, as the butt plug was pulled that much tighter.  Not only that,
my abdomen - and Mr Willy, in all his protective armour - was pulled firmly
against Christina.  Coupled with the touch of her hardened nipples, her faint
scent in my nostrils, and the plug doing unmentionable things inside me, Mr
Willy  - not to mention Mr Brain - was sending desperately painful signals to
anybody interested. 

	I heard Monica climb out, close the door and get into the front, after which
there was a murmur of voices and the engine started.  Where on earth were they
taking us, I wondered?  What did they have planned?  God, I hoped Mary hadn't
been part of the think tank.



	It is hard to keep track of time when you are deprived of sight, never mind
when you have a beautiful woman bound hard against you and all manner of
indignities are being inflicted on your body.  We drove slowly initially - I got
the impression we were on a dirt road - but our speed gradually picked up. 
Perhaps we travelled for half an hour - it seemed an eternity to me, mostly
because of the apparently incessant bumps that rubbed Mr Willy against
Christina's crotch.  After a while it seemed that the rubbing was happening of
its own accord, and Christina's breathing began to get faster and hoarser in my
ear.  I found myself moving with her, at times fighting the movement of the van,
at times using it to our advantage.  Occasionally, when we stopped, I'm sure we
kept the van rocking.  Christina's breathing began to rasp, as she panted and
suddenly began hmmming through her nose.  Her movements became abruptly frantic
as she pushed herself against me and stiffened, uttering a high-pitched moan
from behind her gag.  She shuddered and jerked, grunting and snuffling into my
shoulder, before going limp - or as limp as she could.  It was all right for
her.  Mr Willy was going frantic, but he had no lubrication and could not grow
in any direction.  The pain was - in an odd way - exquisite, but what I wouldn't
have given for some sort of relief.  I moaned in frustration.



	We finally stopped, and the rear doors opened.  Our collars were separated
and the rope removed joining our wrists. Hands pulled us to the doors and helped
us down.

	"I'm going to remove your blindfold, Steven.  You're going to have the gift
of sight, and you will be responsible for ensuring Christina gets back safely. 
All you have to do is follow this road in the direction the van is going."  True
to her word, she pulled the black scarf clear and I blinked in the grey
overcast.

	Surrounded by gum trees, we were standing in a clearing through which ran a
narrow dirt track.  Warren was smirking like an idiot, while I glared at Monica. 
But at the end of it all, a walk home wasn't that bad, though I had no idea how
far it was.  I moved towards Christina, seeing her plight for the first time. 
She wore a leather blindfold held in place by a harness of straps that ran over
the top of her head and under her chin.  In addition to this her mouth was
covered by a large cross of duct tape which effectively silenced her.

	"Not so fast, Mister," ordered Warren.  "There are certain formalities to be
undergone first," he said, grinning wider.  Christina and I then had chains
clipped to our collars and were obliged to follow our captors.  I noticed Monica
wore a small insulated daypack on her back, and I had a nasty feeling I was
going to be on the receipt of something inside it.

	We had not far to go in this instance, walking along a leafy path for only a
couple of minutes before we reached another small clearing.  In the midst of
this lay a large fallen tree, and it was to this that we were led.  The trunk
was that of an old ghost gum, nearly a metre in diameter at its largest point. 

	"Straddle it!" Monica snapped.  I obeyed, while Christina, still in her
world of darkness had to be helped on to the trunk, seated in front, her back to
me.  I had no idea what was coming, nor was there anything I could do about it
when it did.  Monica and Warren busied themselves locking leather cuffs about
our ankles and linking them together - my right to her right, my left to her
left.  Next there was another rope about my wrists - I was starting to get a bit
tired of these stretch-out routines - this time pulling my wrists backward.  I
turned my head to watch what Monica was doing, mystified.  She had a large block
of ice - about the size of a beer can, into which was frozen a short length of
chain.  The block of ice was wedged behind a fork in an upward-pointing branch
and the rope tied to the chain.  Then I saw the logic in Monica's thinking.  I
was to be stuck here until the ice melted - it was an automatic release
system...  Christina was treated similarly but differently.  She got the same
treatment with another block of ice from Monica's backpack, but this was
attached to Christina's collar, from a forked branch in front of her.  Her bound
wrists were then secured to her waist with a number of turns of duct tape around
her body that all but enveloped her hands and fingers.  She was thus pulled
forward, while I was pulled back - a situation that obviously wasn't quite to
Monica's liking.  More delving into the bag produced two lengths of fine chain
about half a metre long, with a piece of stretchy rubber at one end of each. 
Also at the end of each was a nipple clamp.  Oh shit, I thought.

	I was first on the receiving end.  The clips gripped my nipples with a dull
pain, and I could not help moaning and hmmming in as much of a protest as I
could manage.  Christina probably felt the clips and chains slipped through her
collar before fastening on to her nipples.  She whined and pleaded behind the
tape and I guess I added my voice to the duet as the rubber stretched and pulled
us closer.  Somehow we had to balance the pain in our nipples against the pain
in our respective arms, necks and backs.

	Warren and Monica stood back and surveyed their handiwork.

	"This little slut got herself off in the van," said Warren.

	"How do you know?" Monica asked.

	"Oh I know all right.  I know the exhausted look, and I can smell her. And
what do you think all that rocking was all about?  They sure as hell weren't
escaping."

	"And what do you suggest?

	"I'm not a mean person, Monica.  If that's what they want, let them have it,
I say. "

	"Sounds fair to me.  You okay with that, Steven?"

	"Mmmph?" I said, not knowing what she meant.  Monica moved over to me and
fiddled about in the pouch confining Mr Willy.  There was an abrupt buzzing in
my arse.  Jesus - the plug was a bloody vibrator!  I tried to protest, but my
spluttering around the rubber ball in my mouth was useless.  Maybe my eyes
widened - I'm sure they did.  I tried to plead with her as I sat there. Our feet
could not touch the ground beneath the trunk, which meant my full weight rested
on the plug in my arse.  But of course I wasn't the only one riding the trunk. 
Warren took great delight in turning on the toys obviously embedded within
Christina, and a high-pitched moan came through her nose.

	"You'll be all right there for a couple of hours - maybe more," Monica said,
flashing her most provocative smile.  "After the ice melts you can find your way
back to the house.  Dinner will probably be ready - maybe we'll save you some. 
Oh, and you've obviously realised you'll be having a bit of difficulty
communicating, so I'll make it a bit easier for you.  She walked over to
Christina and gently peeled off the tape from her mouth.  I heard the sharp
intake of breath from Christina.  "And you can have the pleasure of listening to
her carry on, while you must remain silent.  But you, of course, can see where
you're going, even if you can't tell her about it."  Monica was clearly enjoying
herself.   "And I'm sure you can get your communications sorted out," she said
lightly, turning on her heel and skipping after Warren, who was almost out of
sight beyond a bend in the track.



	I just couldn't believe this.  Here I was, on a Saturday in Brisbane - a day
on which I'd ordinarily be doing my accounts or maybe strolling through a
shopping mall or browsing in a bookshop or enjoying a bit of sport.  Instead I
was stark naked, chained to a gum tree with a stunning woman in the middle of
the woods somewhere.  She couldn't see, I couldn't speak, and we both had
nipples on fire and vibrators buzzing like mad up our orifices.  It was just too
bizarre to be believed.  But it was real.

	I came back to reality.

	"Shitshitshitshit! Oh godogodogod! This is going to drive me mad!" Christina
was squirming and twisting, tugging at the clamps on both our nipples. "Ow!
Owowowow!" she wailed.

	"Mmph! Owmph" I responded.



	Predictably this was going to go on for a long time, and it did.  Christina
could make no sense for a while as the vibrators drove her to the heights of a
couple of serious orgasms.  She jerked and cried and screamed in a most
undignified manner, no doubt sending animal life into flight for miles around,
while I could do little more than hmmm and grunt and moan with even less dignity
as she tugged on the nipple chains.  The nipple clamps, I have to explain, were
perhaps not as bitingly fierce as some I had seen in Monica's storeroom.  They
were like a cross between a bulldog clip and a clothes peg, with the pressure
spread over a big enough area not to crush the flesh.  They did have, however, a
kind of corrugated face on the pressure surfaces that convinced me they were not
going to be pulled off in a hurry, and certainly not without an awful lot of
pain.  Which was not to be confused with what they were currently delivering, of
course!  And naturally, although they were not the most severe around, the
longer they were left on, and the more they were tugged and pulled, the more the
ache in my nipples grew into a full-blown pain.  Christina's antics helped not
at all, as she squirmed and jiggled and kicked against her bonds, at times
trying to bounce herself on the log as if she was riding a horse.  Her nipples
must have hurt like hell too, but she was either more used to it than I was, or
she had greater distractions.  My distractions were most unsatisfying, for
despite all the stimuli Mr Willy was not going to climax, only to beg.



	I lost track of time.  Christina continued to swear and scream and moan but
gradually I sensed her exhaustion begin to take hold, as her breath became
hoarser and her panting more ragged.  I continued to jerk and tug on the rope
restraining my wrists, occasionally casting a glance behind me at the ice block
wedged in the tree fork.  Even this action was not easy, given the strung out
state I was in.  The ice appeared to be melting, but the chain refused to break
free despite my efforts. 



	Eventually the humming inside me began to subside, as, I guess, it must have
done for Christina.  I didn't know if these were the longest lasting super-duper
alkaline batteries on the market or whether they were cheap-and-nasties, but I
was intensely glad to feel the final splutter and then stillness.  We sat still
for a short while, with only the sound of our heavy breathing and occasional
birdcalls breaking the silence of the forest.  At length my companion seemed to
gather her thoughts.

	"I'm really sorry, Steven... I...I never meant to get you involved like
this.  I feel terrible - in more ways than one..."  At least there was a spark
of humour still there.

	"Hmph!"  I said.

	Christina then appeared to come to grips with the situation better than I
expected.

	"One grunt for yes, two for no, okay?"

	"Mph."

	"You can see, right?"

	"Mph."

	"Somehow we're gonna get loose, yes?"

	"Mph."

	"How long? More than an hour?"

	I did a quick guess. How would we know how long an hour was, anyway?

	"Uh-uhf."

	"Okay.  I can live with this.  At least those god-awful vibrators have
stopped.  I couldn't have taken much more.  He's such a bastard, that Warren. 
And your Monica doesn't help matters."  I was unable to explain that she was not
my Monica, and that I would take great pleasure in doing things to her when I
got back.  Christina chattered on heedless of my difficulty of expression,
however.  "I don't know why I stay with him, sometimes. Well, I do.  I mean he's
not short of a buck or two, and he's a damn good lay.  I'm saving up to be
independent, you know.  I work in a bar, sort of part time, and live with
Warren.  The other part of the time I'm usually tied up in his dungeon or having
him do rude things to me.  Which, I have to admit, I adore.  Mostly.  Then he
goes off with other women from time to time, like Monica.  And sometimes I piss
him off by telling him what I think of him on these occasions."  She sighed.  "I
have this problem about not being able to keep my mouth shut at the right time. 
I usually end up having it stuffed with something and locked in place until it
pleases him for me to be released."

	

	We passed the time thus pleasantly enough, with her chattering and me
grunting occasionally.  Typical male-female conversation, really.  I got the
impression that for all her apparent flightiness, Christina was a smart cookie
and knew exactly what she was doing with her life.  It was during a lull in the
life story that I gave another sharp tug to the wrist rope, to be finally
rewarded with the sudden release of tension as the ice shattered and the chain
pulled free of the tree fork.

	"Hhmmm!" I told her in triumph, at once being able to edge close to her
back, taking the strain off the nipple ties and giving her latitude to do
likewise with the rope securing her neck.

	"You're free!" she exclaimed unnecessarily.  "We have to work this out now -
where we go from here, I mean.  I suppose I'll have to guess for you. Should I
move further forward?"

	"Mph."  It was really hard, squirming our way half a metre further along the
trunk, with the dildos driving and squidging inside us.  I grunted "stomph".

	"Can we get off?"

	You've already got off about five times, I thought. You want to do it again?
But the ball prevented my retort.

	"Mph," I said, for I judged the slack on her collar rope was sufficient to
allow this.

	"Which side?"

	"Epph," I said.

	"Oh good, you can sort of talk.  Can you say 'right"?"

	"Aiyph," I said into the rubber ball.

	"Good enough.  What do you want me to do?  How far is it to the ground from
my left foot?  More than three inches?"



	It was a slow process, but we gradually eased ourselves off the giant log,
getting our left feet on the ground and finding ourselves sort of stuck there. 
Eventually I nudged her forward and we cautiously bent forward until Christina
was leaning on the log and I was leaning on her back. Our nipples did not like
this, but it was the only way we could slide our right legs backwards and then
down to the ground, before hauling ourselves upright, as though in some bizarre
slow motion ballet.  Christina was enthusiastic about our progress.  With
further gentle nudging, I moved her away from the log sufficiently for me to get
her neck rope free from the other tree fork.

	We explored our restraints briefly at that point, but I knew we were up
against experts.  Our ankles were chained, and offered no scope for release. The
nipple chain was so short that I could reach neither my clips nor Christina's,
leaving only the undoing of her hands as a possibility.  Alas, I could barely
get this far, twisting against the nipple chain only to find the duct tape about
her wrists, hands and waist was too tight and too complicated to undo.  We were
definitely in for the long haul with this one...



	It was like learning to dance.  Or practising for a three-legged race.  It
also involved a certain amount of falling down, all of which did nothing for our
confidence, but eventually we started to get a rhythm going.  I would grunt with
my "epph" and "aiyph", usually with a varied volume depending on how much I
wanted Christina to vary her direction.  Occasionally I would have to get her to
"opph" when something unusual cropped up - like the gate.  We had reached what I
assumed was the boundary to Monica's property.  It was a wide steel farm gate, a
bit over waist high and hinged at one side.  On either side the wire fence
disappeared off into the scrub. 

	The vehicle track turned into two separate ruts at this point, disappearing
into a wide muddy puddle about four metres across.  There was no way around it. 
On the other side of the puddle the land sloped up sharply in the form of a
steep bank maybe three metres high.  Here the track remained muddy and climbed
up through a cutting in the bank.  That would be a problem in itself, I thought,
because it looked pretty slippery.  But first we had to negotiate the gate.  We
had to back through this, with me opening it with my hands.  That's when we fell
down in the mud.  The gateway had turned to a quagmire - or at least ankle-deep
mud.  I landed on my butt, with the predictable pain where it hurt most. 
Christina landed on top of me and in moments we were covered in the brown stuff. 
At once there was a horrendous stabbing pain in my left nipple, and I realised
the clamp had pulled free.  I moaned with the pain as the blood flowed back into
my punished nipple.

	Christina had detected my cry of pain. "Are you all right?  What happened?
Shit that hurt my boob!"

	"Uh camff cuf reah!" I said.

	"What?"

	I repeated my joyful news, enunciating every word as best I could.

	"I haven't a clue what you're talking about.  Is it something to do with the
tit chain?"

	"Ephh."

	"Really?  Does that help us?"

	You bet it does, I thought - or hoped.  We floundered about for a bit,
realising that without the chains symmetrically on our nipples we could turn
around and maybe undo something.  We decided the only way to really do this was
to stand up, and we eventually managed this with much difficulty.  I could now
manage to twist my body sufficiently to reach the other clip on Christina's
lovely red nipple and release it from its restraint, while the first chain
dangled loose.

	"Owowowow! Jesus shitabrick that hurts!"  She carried on a bit more, but we
realised we were a lot freer for that one little bond disappearing.  We
conferred again, in our current one-sided fashion, and managed to end up back to
back, with our ankle chains crossed.  This was a major step, for although we
were thus pulled closer and more precariously together, I could now properly
reach the tape around her wrists.

	It was not a quick exercise, but I eventually managed to free her fingers
and hands enough for her to attempt to undo my wrist ropes.  Again, it was not
quick, and Christina muttered and cursed under her breath.  Then, abruptly, my
wrists were free!  I turned around carefully, then undid the gag strap buckle at
the back of my neck and prised the rubber ball out of my aching mouth.

	"I'll make Monica wear this, " I said, tossing it on to the grass. "One good
turn deserves another."  It took only moments to remove Christina's blindfold
and the remainder of the tape around her waist and wrists.

	"God that's better!" she exclaimed, blinking her gorgeous eyes in the light,
half-turned towards me.

	"It'll be better still in a minute," I said.  "Excuse me, but I have been
suffering in silence here - and I mean suffering - while you have been getting
off every five minutes.  And getting off rather loudly I might add."  I turned
my attention to the harness between my legs, and was now able to undo the
buckles and ease the restraint holding Mr Willy in place.  I dropped the
vertical straps and was finally able to remove the plastic sheath that so
wickedly constricted him.  It felt so good, and he was not about to relax after
all that stress.

	"Maybe I should do the same," murmured Christina, and began to fiddle with
the straps in front of her.  She sighed and then held up a large dildo before
tossing it on the ground next to her blindfold.  Without a word, we then bent in
unison and evacuated the vibrating plugs we had carried for the last few hours. 
It was a strange feeling I had experienced.  I guessed it was doubly strange for
her.  At least the damned thing came out easier than it went in, I thought.  The
last things to join the pile of devices were our waist belts, collars and the
two nipple chains.  At this point her tossing of the collar was sufficient to
make her foot slip, and we were both dumped in the mud again.  We began to
laugh.  Suddenly life didn't seem quite so unfair, even if our ankles were still
chained together. Suddenly, also, Christina seemed intensely desirable, with
those sparkling blue eyes and Venus-like body glistening with brown mud.  I
could not help myself and I kissed her gently on the lips.  She smiled and
returned the favour.  Mr Willy was at last able to have free reign.

	"Oooh - look at him," said Christina happily.  Not half as happy as he was
at that moment.  From that point it was all on.  I guess we figured after what
we'd been through we deserved a bit of pleasure to go with the pain, and the mud
made a wonderful lubricant  - not that we needed it.  Our coupling - crossed and
chained ankles and all - was brief but satisfying.  We ended up grinning like
idiots but feeling like we had formed a bond of shared suffering and shared
triumph.

	"I suppose we should be getting back," I said eventually.

	"Yeah. I guess we should.  And Steven?"

	"Mmm?"

	"Thanks.  Not everyone would have done what you've done - and I don't mean
this last little lapse."

	"You're welcome," I said.  "I really couldn't think of anyone I'd rather
spend a Saturday morning chained to by the nipples with a vibrator up my arse. 
I suppose it's pretty routine to you?"

	"Not quite..." she said wryly, but I suspected there was a story she wasn't
telling me.



	After a few minutes to gather up our equipment as well as our breath, we
started up the steep track.  Predictably it was slithery and we slipped back
several times before making it to the top.  Here the grass took over the track
to a greater extent.  We were still out of sight of all but the roof of the
house, and I was in full view of Christina's butt when she slipped again and I
fell on top of her.  It was again too much for Mr Willy, who was trying to make
up for lost time.  Admittedly he had help from Mr Brain, to whom Christina was a
very appealing sight.  She giggled as she scrambled to her knees, and I slipped
up against her.  There was no resistance, other than to push back. This time it
was just a little less frantic than the mud pool a few minutes before.  I draped
myself over her and grasped her gorgeous breasts, which, although out of my
sight line were definitely not out of touching range.  She trembled as my hands
gently caressed her flesh, still slick with mud.  Mr Willy needed no
encouragement as he slipped between her legs and she pushed up against me with a
long drawn-out sigh.   This was clearly no time for delicate foreplay.



	I still amaze myself at having done this.  I did not regard myself as
sex-mad, yet here I was in broad daylight, stark naked, in the middle of a
grassy meadow screwing a lady I had only met that morning.  And while chained to
her by the ankles, no less.  Life was bizarre.

	As we moved together Christina began to moan loudly.  I slowed, but she
thrust harder against me. 	

	"Faster! Faster!" she gasped, and ever ready to oblige a lady, I did so. 
She moaned again, then began crying out loudly.  Her noise almost spoilt my
concentration, but fortunately Mr Willy was on autopilot by this time as I
reached a climax and we came together, me (admittedly) not exactly silently, but
Christina with a gasping scream.

	"Are you trying to bring the whole sheriff's posse down on us?"  I panted,
not telling her that her sound effects were in fact quite a turn on.

	"My master often has to gag me," she admitted with a smile. "Sometimes when
I'm not even tied up.  I need something to quieten me down occasionally."

	"I'll say."



	At length we gathered up the equipment and headed off in unison again,
hoping the sound of our climax had not carried to the house.  With luck anyone
would put it down to crows or any other of the myriad of birds that lived in
these bushy parts.  The area was now starting to look familiar, and then the
house appeared through a grove of trees.

	"Christina?"

	"Yes?"  She stopped and I bumped gently into her.  She looked over her
shoulder.

	"What say we get our own back on Warren and Monica?"  I suggested. I could
see her eyes light up as I explained my idea.

	"I'll get into trouble again," she said, not very convincingly.

	"So will I.  But possibly not before Monica does as well," I told her.  "In
any case, you can say I kidnapped you.  We'll cover your tracks.  Don't worry. 
Trust me."

	"Strangely enough, I do," she said with a smile that melted my heart.



	We detoured along the side boundary through more bush.  This sort of terrain
made me nervous, for all sorts of spiders, ticks and the odd snake no doubt
lived here, and my nakedness made it even more uncomfortable. Christina did not
seem phased, however, as we emerged near the garage located across a short
stretch of lawn.  Feeling like a couple of spies or burglars, we watched the
house briefly then decided the coast was clear before doing our jerky hobbled
canter across the lawn to the side door of the garage.  I took the key from a
ledge atop the door and unlocked it.  Inside it was cool and dark.  There were
no windows, and we shut the door behind us and turned on the light. 

	"This is my workshop," I explained.  Looking about at the stacked timber and
makeshift shelves of tools, a few sawhorses, bench clamps, and welding gear, it
was pretty obvious the explanation was unnecessary.  It took me only moments to
unlock the chains from our ankles.  "We have a lot of locks being used," I told
Christina, "but only five different types.  All the keys are master-keyed for
each type, so there should never be a problem with losing keys. I have a set of
keys and locks in here because I use them for trialing things I make."

	"Like what?" she asked.

	"It's probably better you don't know," I said wryly.  "You may end up on the
receiving end one day.  They're usually not my ideas - I just have to make them
work.  The girls are a devious bunch, you know."  I pulled on an old pair of
work overalls that were hanging up, and poked my head out the door.  "No one
around.  Let's make a break for my room."

	We had to make quite a long detour back the way we had come and then towards
the back of the property to get behind the building that served as the sleeping
quarters for all except Monica.  My room was at one end, closest to the steps,
such that all occupants had to pass along the timber planked verandah past my
door.  I guess in this regard it was the last choice of rooms, but in this case
it suited me perfectly, not having to sneak past anybody else's bedroom.  I
figured it must be nearly midday.  After all that had happened to me that
morning I had totally lost track of time and I had no idea what the girls might
be doing on this our first full weekend in business.  I had a shrewd suspicion
Mary would be up to no good with poor Isobel in the Gestapo dungeons, and no
doubt Monica was occupied with Warren.  Jillian, I thought, was on monitoring
duty that morning, probably looking in on Mr and Mrs Sewell from time to time,
while as for Emma, Leila and Trish, I guessed they were concentrating perhaps on
more orthodox pleasures of the flesh.  Would they be looking for us yet, I
wondered?  When would Monica start to worry?  At that point in time it did not
bother me particularly, for I was intending to lie low for at least a couple of
hours and in this instance lying low might be in the most literal sense of the
word.

	We slipped in to my room unseen.  The curtains were drawn and remained so.

	"Hey, cool rooms," commented Christina.  "You're doing okay here."

	The quarters were not unlike a hotel room - self contained bedroom/lounge
with a large queen-sized bed, ensuite, a couple of armchairs, a small
bar-cum-kitchen with microwave and fridge, and good cupboard space.  I was more
than comfortable.  And with a bit of luck was going to get comfortabler...

	I was not wrong.  Christina was now feeling bright and perky - a feature
made more obvious by the time we had washed the last of the mud down the plug
hole and had achieved the golden glow that comes with a long shower.  Wrapped in
my bathrobe, and divested of her white corset and boots for the first time, she
looked even more delectable.  We had obviously formed a bond during the morning
- if you'll pardon the pun - which went further than the brief physical
encounters that had occurred in the bush.  I have to say that the next couple of
hours were very pleasurable, except for a scare she gave me.  I should have seen
it coming, when, mid-screw, Christina decided to scream the place down. 

	I had visions of a film I had once seen where the schoolmistress's nickname
was "Lassie", due to an unfortunate tendency to howl at critical moments.

	"Ssshhhh!" I placed my hand over her mouth.  It halted her briefly but then
she was away again, before I stopped totally. "Christina, we're supposed to be
hiding from the forces of order and discipline, not signalling our presence and
activity to the whole world!"

	Christina looked like she had just returned to Planet Earth, or as though
she had just dropped the collection plate in church.

	"I - I'm sorry..." she whispered.  "Sometimes I just can't help myself.  I
lose my reason.  I'm just very sensitive at the moment - but please don't stop.
Look, you can gag me - I don't mind.  It's better if I have something to scream
into and bite on.  Honestly." 

	The bizarreness obviously wasn't lessening.  I complied, helping her wedge
the rubber ball - the one that I had worn for much of the morning - between her
lips and behind her teeth, before buckling it not too tightly behind her head. 
This of course meant that kissing was not a major attraction, but by that time
we were a bit past that stage.  It nevertheless did the trick.  It got a
thorough working out but nevertheless proved remarkably effective.  Christina
bumped and ground her way to her climax, mmphing and panting behind the rubber
ball, snorting and moaning through her nose before finally stiffening and
hhmmming with a long nasal wail.  When we could both find the strength, the ball
was removed, and we fell into an exhausted sleep.



	I reckon maybe two hours had passed when I was awoken by voices.  They were
not immediately outside, rather between the sleeping quarters and the house.  I
recognised them as Monica and Warren.  Christina was still asleep.  I arose and
padded over to the window, peeping out between the curtains.  Monica and Warren
were arguing.  I could not hear the words clearly, but I suspect we were the
cause of it all. 

	Warren was gesticulating towards the direction we were obviously expected to
have appeared from, while Monica simply watched him with her hands behind her
back.  Then I saw why - they were handcuffed.  She looked like she had been
getting ready to go out, wearing a short maroon skirt and a black silk blouse,
with black tights and shoes.  But Monica wasn't going anywhere, I realised, at
least only where Warren decided she should go.  And this, it seemed, was across
the lawn to the edge of the rockery where there was a garden tap on a solid post
about a metre high.  From our position we were looking side on to the couple as
Monica was made to kneel facing the post.  Warren pulled a piece of cord from
his pocket and proceeded to tie and cinch Monica's ankles, knotting the cord
then looping it around the handcuff chain, before pulling the two ends between
her legs to tie to the tap in front of her.  He then undid Monica's blouse and
opened it to expose her breasts. 

	It was the first time I had seen Monica's figure, and I had to say it was a
lovely sight. She was wearing no bra and was obviously pleading with him not to
do what he was going to do.  Her breasts were not overly large but were firm and
- at that moment - the nipples stood erect like dark little beacons.

	"One of the local rules of bondage," smirked Christina who had sneaked up
beside me.  "If your prisoner gets away, you have to take their place. 
Especially if it's your client who has paid for the service, haha."

	"I expect poor Monica is trying to convince Warren that we have merely been
delayed, and that we will stagger blindly into view within the next minute or
so," I said, grinning.  After all we had been through, this was turning out
better than I had ever hoped for.  Then it was the worst for Monica, as the
nipple chain came out from Warren's pocket and a clip was attached to her left
nipple.  I saw her wince, then watch in mortification as her captor wrapped the
chain around the post and over the tap before releasing the second clamp on to
her right nipple. The shortening of the chain meant that now she would have to
remain upright on her knees, unable to settle back with her thighs on her calves
in a more relaxed position.  It looked at that point as if she said some rude
words, but Warren obviously was satisfied and disappeared from sight round the
front of the house.  Minutes later the Transit van hove into view and drove past
the helpless figure of Monica in the direction of the mudpool at the gate.  I
wondered how Warren would manage the job of opening it.  I was sure that job
must have fallen to Monica previously.

	"Good luck, pal," I muttered smugly under my breath.



	I let a few minutes pass then walked across the lawn to see Monica. I
approached her quietly from behind.

	"Hi, Monica. Whatcha doing?"  Not one of my greatest opening lines, but it
had the desired effect.

	"What - How did you get here?" Then her surprise turned to anger at the
recollection that I was the reason why she was there. "Where's Christina?  Where
the hell have you been?  Do you realise the trouble you've caused?  You should
have been back hours ago!  Now Warren's in a filthy mood and I'm stuck here tied
to a bloody garden tap!"

	"I think he's definitely getting value for money, though," I suggested.
"You're his third victim today."

	"Oh ha ha.  Very funny.  Just get me free, will you!"

	"What?  Oh no you don't.  Not twice in one day."

	"What are you talking about?" Monica demanded.

	"I've already had one hell of a Saturday morning, all because I gave a nice
girl some breakfast cereal.  Look what happened to me then.  Now you want me to
let you loose with the Marquis de Sade due back here any minute.  I'll probably
end up hanging from a tree somewhere!"

	"No Steven, you won't - honest."  There was an abrupt change in her tone.

	"Sure.  So you say now.  Until Mr Moneybags returns in a foul mood because
he can't find his little slave."

	"And where is she?  What have you done with her?"

	"I'm not going to tell you," I said smugly, smiling down at Monica nudging
the post and tap.

	"Steven you bastard!  Tell me!"

	"After what you and your pal did to us this morning?  You must be joking."

	"Steven!"

	"Well, I must be off. Oh yes, I made myself a little personal promise this
morning, in the midst of all the pain I had to endure very quietly."

	"And what was that?" Monica put on her haughty tone, which I really thought
was not a good idea, in her position.

	"I promised myself, Monica, that you would end up wearing the same gag that
I had to put up with."  I fished in my pockets and pulled out the bright red
ball on the strap.  I saw a look of trepidation replace the professed disdain on
her face.

	"No, Steven, please - not that. It will be too embarra-arrh...!"

	That was as far as she got as I grasped her pretty nose and pulled it gently
but firmly backwards, slipping the hard rubber ball between her lips and working
it behind her teeth. Her mouth stretched wider and her eyes did likewise as she
spluttered and then could only hhmmm through her nose. I pulled her raven black
hair away from her face and pulled the strap over the top of it, buckling it
tightly behind her head.

	"Master Warren will be surprised to see his new slave. Unfortunately his new
slave will not see him."

	"Hmmn?"

	I said nothing but pulled out her black silk scarf that I had worn as a
blindfold that morning, tying it securely over her eyes.

	It was now starting to rain very gently.  Monica's silk blouse was beginning
to cling to her body.  I could not resist a final parting shot, but one I meant
most sincerely.

	"I have to go now Mon, but I just wanted to tell you - you have gorgeous
breasts. " I ran the tips of my fingers over the smooth skin, just above where
the clamps gripped the nipples.  She shuddered and moaned in despair, then
jerked as I flicked the two clamps in quick succession.  I tugged gently on the
rope between her legs, then slid my hand gently down her stomach, then down the
outside of her skirt, lingering in her crotch then dallying over her thighs. 
She groaned and hmmed in a way that was almost pleading.  "See ya, sweetie," I
said.  "Say hi to Warren - if he let's you."



	I walked down to the back verandah of the house and went into the kitchen. 
Nobody was about, but I knew business would still be going on.  Monica had told
me weekends were a busy time, and in this particular specialist line various
rooms could be occupied at any time.  This being the case, I knew that somebody
would be monitoring activities, and so I headed to Monica's study.  Jillian was
there, sitting behind Monica's desk doing a crossword puzzle with one eye on the
CCTV screens.  She looked up with a surprised smile at me.

	"Steven!  You're back!  Did you escape?  What happened?  Monica was going
ape!"

	"She's not going anywhere now," I told her with a smile.  "I will tell all
in due course.  For now I need to know if you have any vacancies?"

	"I'm sorry?"

	"Rooms, dear.  Any rooms to let?"

	"Oh.  Well sir, at the moment our very popular interrogation room is
registered to a Mr Sewell."  I followed her gaze to one monitor and saw a hooded
and rubber-suited figure strapped to the interrogation chair which was bolted to
the floor.  Every so often the figure would jerk and struggle futilely. 

	"Any cells available?"

	"We have one available, sir.  Unfortunately it's unfurnished, but we can
offer discount rates.  Our other cell is being used by a Miss Isobel."  I
watched as Jillian switched over channels. Isobel was manacled to the wall, her
hands above her head and her legs apart. She too wore a black bandanna over her
eyes - bandannas were obviously all the rage.   She was naked from the waist up,
her black skirt in tatters.  Sweat ran down her face and breasts, which heaved
as though with some recent exertion.

	"What's she been up to?" I asked.

	"You really don't want to know," Jillian told my slyly.  "I'm not sure who
expended more energy, her or Mary!"

	"Has she divulged all her secrets yet?"

	"No, but she's done a lot of screaming and pleading." Jill grinned.

	"I'd like to book the Post Room. Is that okay?"

	"Certainly sir.  Will that be cash or charge?"  I loved this kid.

	"Put it on the tab, I think.  It will be one of many things I'll end up
paying for later, I think!  And where's the wicked witch of the west at the
moment?"

	Jillian laughed.  "Ze Oberleutnant iss unavailable at ze moment," she said.

	"How come?"

	"She's having a fag out the front."

	"Good.  Don't tell her I'm here.  I'll take my chances.  Keep the channel
turned off the Post room - that way you can plead ignorance to anything that
goes on there."

	"Thanks Steven."

	"No.  Thank you.  I owe you one."



	I headed out the back again, across the lawn past Monica, blindfolded and
gagged, still kneeling against the garden tap.  I wondered how long it would be
before our friend Warren returned.  I suspected he would grow tired of the
search fairly soon and would come back to heap the blame on Monica.  No doubt he
would wonder why her bondage had been enhanced, and he would also wonder about
the sign she was shortly to have around her neck.  I returned to my room, where
Christina was waiting.

	"Get dressed, lady.  It's back into the dungeon with you."

	"Do I have to?" she pouted. "That corset is all muddy."

	"I would strongly suggest you do as you're told," I replied sternly, and she
went to carry out the command.  While she was struggling with her boots and
corset, I cut a piece of cardboard and wrote a small sign, then attached a loop
of string such that it would hang neatly around a victim's neck.  That done, I
helped Christina lace up the corset, tugging the laces tight until the hooks
could be done up.  It must be torture to wear one of these, I thought.  How
times had changed.  Nowadays only genuine pain-seekers wore them, rather than
the entire female population.

	Christina and I left the room, making sure there was nobody about.  We
stopped briefly at Monica, where I motioned to Christina to be quiet.  I hung
the sign around Monica's neck.  Her hair was now wet, as were her skirt and
blouse, which clung damply to her body.  It was not particularly cold, though,
being only late February.

	"You really have been very naughty, Monica, not taking good care of your
guests and their slaves.  This sign says 'Please leave me here all night, so I
will learn from my mistakes.'  I'm sure Wicked Warren will be happy to oblige. 
He ought to be back soon."

	Monica shook her head violently and struggled as best she could against the
ropes securing her to the post.  She also pulled briefly on the nipple chain,
and her initial splutterings and wild hmmming behind the ball gag gave way to a
plaintive whining as I left. In actual fact the sign said 'Please take me to the
Post Room'.  Once again, I was sure Warren would oblige, and I certainly would
not inflict a night of torment tied to the tap on poor Monica.  I wondered what
would be the reaction of Monica and Warren when they found Christina...

	The slave and I went inside the house and tiptoed down the stairs.  I peeked
in the Observation Room but it was empty.  Looking through the spyhole in the
cell door, I saw Isobel still stretched and spread against the wall, motionless
in her world of darkness behind the blindfold.  Mary was nowhere to be seen.

	I led Christina into the Post Room, where I left her briefly while I raided
the storeroom for some 'goodies'.  I had not quite worked out what I intended,
expecting to get some ideas from the assorted devices on the walls and shelves
of the store.  I was not wrong - or rather I was perhaps spoilt for choice.  I
was now starting to get an idea of what one could and couldn't do within the
establishment, both in terms of standards, and also the physical bounds of one's
imagination and the ingenuity of the "device makers".

	"Hands behind your back," I commanded Christina. She complied, and remained
silent as I wrapped half a dozen turns of thick sashcord about her wrists,
securing them palm to palm with several cinches to the wrist ropes.  Next the
room went dark for her as I buckled a heavy-duty padded blindfold over her eyes. 
I did not want her to see what was coming out next from my bag of toys.

	"What are you going to do to me?"  Christina asked. Was there a faint hint
of trepidation in her voice?  She had experienced a lot with me during the
course of the day, but I'm sure she did not know what to expect from me in a
dominant situation such as this.

	"Does a slave normally question her master?" I demanded.

	"No sir."

	"You know better than that, Christina.  You also know what fun it is to wait
in the world of uncertainty, not knowing what delightful torment is going to
come next.  And you also know what happens to girls who talk out of turn?"

	"They get gagged," she said unhappily.

	"Exactly.  Open wide."  To Christina's mouth I expect it felt like an
ordinary ball gag - a hard rubber ball that extended her jaw sufficient to
silence her as I buckled the strap behind her neck.  I had noticed there were
several slightly different sizes of ball in the storeroom, and I guess because I
was a softy at heart I selected one of the smaller ones.  A feature of this one,
however, was the large screw eye that protruded from the front of the ball. This
screw eye was ideal for padlocking to a chain or for securing the gag to a fixed
point with rope or any other method.  In this instance I had taken two identical
gags from the store.  I hoped Warren would see my train of thought.

	I buckled leather cuffs on Christina's arms above the elbows and secured
these together with a short piece of rope. Her arms were going nowhere now, but
the blood would still circulate beneath the wide cuffs.  I put two more cuffs on
her ankles and joined them with a short hobble chain, before ordering her to
squat.  She did so cautiously, probably guessing what was to come.

	This really was getting into the realms of new experiences for me, I had to
admit.  I had had fun with girlfriends and vibrators before, but would not have
seen myself inserting one into a gorgeous woman whom I had only spoken to the
first time that morning, and who was now bound, gagged, and blindfolded in front
of me.  If my mates could only see me...

	I had selected a double dildo - the kind intended for two women face to
face.  Again I was not sure if Christina could recognise the nature of it from
the sensation as I lubricated it and worked it inside her.  Whatever she
perceived, she started making little moans of pleasure as I slid it gently in
and out a few times, just to get her in the mood.  Much as I would have liked to
keep going, I was conscious of time passing and the likelihood of Warren
suddenly turning up.  I buckled a belt about her waist and secured the dildo in
place with a vertical strap that ran from the front down between her legs and
joined the waist belt at the back.  This I pulled tight so that there was no
chance of the thing coming out.  Christina now looked like she had in fact grown
a very nice erect penis, which was ready and waiting for a partner.  With this
in mind I pulled a marker pen out of my pocket and wrote neatly on her chest,
just above her breasts:

	"I'M LONELY.  I NEED A PLAYMATE."

 	I figured this would be enough to give Warren the idea when he hopefully
entered with Monica in tow.  I gripped the erect dildo and waggled it.

	"Do you know what this is, Christina?"

	"Urrr...  epph."

	"Good.  You know that you may be able to push it against something to help
you come?"  She said nothing, perhaps fearing that I might rob her of a
hoped-for pleasure.  "There are two posts here, as you know.  You will be
secured between them, and you may be able to climax by just rubbing your new
extension against one.  Wouldn't that be good?"

	"Epph," she said after a pause.  I suspect she was debating as to whether it
was a trick question.  At this point I undid a rope wrapped around a cleat on
the rear wall, and let the other end of the rope descend from a pulley in the
ceiling midway between the two posts. This rope I secured to Christina's wrists
before pulling it and tying it off at the cleat again.  Christina uttered a
plaintive whine as her arms were lifted up behind her.  It was nothing extreme -
a very gentle strappado, but enough to have her in stooped position, such that
when she tried to reach the post with her new willy, it was going to be not the
easy task she had hoped for.

	"Okay," I said, gripping her by the shoulders and turning her slightly. "You
are now facing one of the posts. I want you to move forward until your little
friend touches the post." She took several small steps, her arms starting to
lift up further, forcing her head lower as she moved forward.   I had judged it
perfectly.  Almost at the end of her progress the top of her head bumped the
post.  "Very good," I said.  "Now see if you can touch the post further down." 
Christina did several pelvic thrusts and managed to touch the post with the very
tip of the dildo a couple of times. At that point she was really stretched,
however, and it was unlikely she could keep it up.  I guessed it might also be a
function of how desperate she became or how long it was before Monica arrived. 
"See?  Pretty easy, eh."  Christina spluttered and mmphed something that sounded
very frustrated.

	"I'm out of here, sweetie. Enjoy yourself.  I'm sure you'll have company
before too long.  Save something for a friend."  Christina made unintelligible
noises into the rubber ball, which I'm sure were not intended to be
complimentary to either my ancestors or me. I decided to quit while I was ahead.



	Warren had returned by the time I reached the back verandah.  He was
standing over Monica, a big grin on his face.  I retreated inside and hurried
upstairs to an empty bedroom at the back.  I was in time to see Monica freed -
well, her ankles and her nipples, that is.  Warren, true gentleman that he was,
helped her to her feet, then proceeded to put the nipple chain back and to lead
his slave towards the house.

	I gave them time to get down to the basement before I ambled back to my
room.  Time for a good book, I decided, after all the excitement of the day.



	I lasted about an hour before curiosity got the better of me and I returned
to the house.  Jillian was still on watch in Monica's study.

	"Any developments?" I asked innocently.

	"Did you expect any?"

	"Maybe."

	"So take a look at this," she said smugly.

	I perched myself on the edge of the desk as she clicked on to the view of
the Post Room. There were three people present.  Two of them, Monica and
Christina, were locked together, face to face, going through a kind of slow
motion waltz.  It was just as I had anticipated.  Monica still wore the
blindfold I had put on her, but her gag had been replaced by one the same as
Christina's - in this instance a blue rubber ball with a stainless steel
screwhook protruding from the front of it.  This had been padlocked to the
screwhook on the front of Christina's gag.  It was literally, 'in your face'
stuff.  Her hair was still wet from the rain, and the silk blouse still clung to
her body, but she was now naked from the waist down.  Like Christina she now
wore a broad waist belt buckled at the front, with a vertical strap from the
back down between her legs and rejoining the belt at the front. This strap held
the other half of the double-headed dildo securely inside her.  Monica's wrists
were still handcuffed behind her, and were pulled up above her waist by a rope
that looped over her shoulders and under her armpits.  This effectively kept her
prying hands away from the belt and strap.  There was just enough movement for
the two women to do what they obviously wanted to do, and they were trying to do
this, thrusting against each other with as much rhythm as they could.  This was
not helped by Christina, whose arms were still secured to the pulley above her. 
Her hobble chain had been removed, giving both of them more freedom of movement
and balance, but whenever they strayed too far from the centrepoint between the
posts, Christina's arms would get pulled up.  They were thus restricted in their
area, and were unable to sit or kneel. I watched them beginning to work up a
rhythm again, grinding their hips into each other, becoming faster.

	The third figure then moved into the picture.  It was Mary.  She was wearing
a short leather skirt, a leather bra and thigh-high boots.  I have to confess my
loins stirred at the sight of her.  She looked magnificent.  She also carried a
riding crop which she smacked smartly on Monica's rump to the detriment of the
rhythm which fell apart.  Christina then received two whacks and tried to get
away, but could not, nor did she know where Mary was as she circled the hapless
pair.

	"Where's Warren?"  I asked.

	"He said he had to go to meet someone in town.  I suspect he's probably
drinking coffee at a trendy cafe somewhere.  His instructions to Mary were not
to let the two climax until her returned."

	"Hoooweee!"  I laughed.  "Life's a bitch and then you die."

Monica's Place

CHAPTER FIVE - TRISH GETS THE SHAFT


	I stayed in that night. There was a good movie on TV, but it seemed like all
the exertions of the day had caught up with me and I crashed out early.  I had
decided to stay away from the house, to give Monica time to get everything out
of her system.  I was still not sure how she was going to react to the whole
incident.  I guess in part that would depend on the client's reaction, and in
that regard I would have thought that Warren had got more than his money's
worth...	

	Sunday morning dawned dull and overcast again, with the threat of rain still
hanging about but with the bush smelling damp and luxuriant.  It was Sunday
paper time, and I was the first to the news, collecting it from the driveway
where it was tossed over the fence every day with unerring accuracy.  I hoped
Sunday was not going to be a repeat of the day before - I had definitely learned
two lessons the hard way: firstly, don't help a slave, unless you want to end up
one yourself; secondly, whoever has a slave escape must take his or her place. 
Talk about the law of the jungle.  It definitely added a touch of realism, and
an incentive not to rely to wimpy knots. 

	It was Trish who joined me first at breakfast.  She was looking very relaxed
in a red satin gown with obviously nothing underneath.  Her hair was tousled but
she looked as though the night had not been all work and no play.  We chatted as
she prepared breakfast, and she sympathised with the treatment I had received.

	"How's Monica?  I asked.

	Trish laughed, a lovely husky sound that made me smile.

	"She should be all right by now, I would expect.  She was a very frustrated
lady by the time Warren got back at five o'clock last night," Trish said. "Mary
does a very special job in not letting her prisoners climax.  She takes these
challenges very personally, you know."

	"Why am I not surprised?" I said wryly.  "And how come you know all the
details?"

	"Nothing's private in this house - you ought to know that by now Steve. 
Especially when it's inhabited by females.  Even though we all get on very well
together, there's always the thrill of seeing someone else get punished rather
than you.  It's a kind of excitement mixed with envy sometimes, when perhaps you
wish it was you on the receiving end."

	"You get off on this too?" My surprise must have showed.

	"It's different for a woman, Steven.  It's all about yin and yang, male and
female psyches and basic instincts that society has tried to overcome and breed
out of us over the years.  I think all that is changing now - I think we're on a
reverse trend when people are returning to their true desires."

	"It all sounds a bit deep and meaningful for this time on a Sunday morning."

	She smiled.  "You're absolutely right.  Hullo - here comes Emma with your
friend."

	It was Christina again.  She had changed clothes since I had seen her last,
and now wore a stunning black PVC leotard and black calf-length boots to match.
Around her neck was locked a wide black collar with a wide strap attached to it
that ran down her back. Her arms were folded across her back and her wrists were
locked into loops on the belt, one above the other.  All up it did not look such
an uncomfortable form of restraint, which was probably a good thing, because I
suspect Christina had just spent the night in it. She was blindfolded with a
leather mask over her eyes, and a large black muzzle-like gag covered her mouth
with the strap buckled at the back of her neck over her blonde hair.  Through
the middle of this muzzle protruded a short rubber tube, about ten centimetres
long and a centimetre in diameter.

	Christina was made to kneel and her breakfast was placed on the floor in
front of her.  It looked something like a thick shake, but somehow I thought
not.

	"Special dietary supplement," Emma explained.  "All the vitamins and
minerals you need to survive a rigorous day in Monica's dungeons."

	"And to keep trim and shapely at the same time, no doubt," I offered.

	"Of course.  What more could a girl ask for, right Christina?"

	"Mmm," said the gagged figure, in between sucking the liquid through her
straw.  I felt a little less sorry for her than I did the previous morning,
which now seemed so long ago.

	"How's everyone else going?" I asked.

	"Desperate Dennis is trying out your water torture, poor man," Emma said. 
"He's standing up, has his hands cuffed behind him, and is getting decidedly
twitchy.  He still has his rubber suit on, so he won't be getting the full force
of those horrid water drops. Like I did," she added pointedly.	

	"Your boss's idea," I explained.  "And Isobel?"

	"Isobel spent a very uncomfortable night in the post room.  She's now lying
face down with her legs spread either side of a post. Her ankles have been
attached to a spreader bar which has been fixed to the post with her legs bent
at the knees. Her hands are tied and she's been pulled into a semi hogtie."

	"Nasty," commented Trish.  "Whose idea was that?  Do I have to guess Mary
had something to do with it,"

	"Well, it was Mary's idea, but her shift finished at 9 o'clock and so I had
to put it into place when change time came this morning.  Mary wanted her to
have nipple clamps, since her nips are just off the ground, but I haven't done
that yet.  I'd better do that before I get into trouble."

	I decided I'd better keep a low profile as well, and I left soon after, as
Christina was finishing the last of her breakfast.  In the kitchen was a
whiteboard about half a metre high by a metre wide, which was the focus of
events happening in the house.  It detailed who was booked into which room, who
was on monitor duty, when meetings were scheduled and any other information that
people wanted to communicate to all and sundry. It served as a much simplified
and vastly cheaper version of e-mail.  Before I left I scribbled a note that I
could use a volunteer at some stage during the day, and that I would be working
in the garage.  I was beginning to wonder who would be silly enough to volunteer
for anything to do with my work, given the experimental nature of it all and the
likely discomfort that could await any such volunteer.

	Monica had asked me to look at some form of head security that would allow a
victim to be gagged and blindfolded by various means, but which would prevent
the person from removing them while their hands were free.  She had shown me
various helmets that were available overseas - custom-made stainless steel
things that would probably require a master craftsman to build and an armoured
van to deliver the payment for them.

	My thoughts had turned to a different sort of helmet however - the type worn
on a motorbike - and I had picked up two full-face secondhand versions of
different sizes.  The intention was to fix a lockable grill on the front and
some form of lockable plate underneath that would prevent removal.  The two
helmets were different sizes, both slightly too small for me.  I knew from past
adventures on motorbikes that I took a larger size helmet, and reasoned that as
the females in the household were the most likely wearers, something smaller
would be appropriate.  What I needed was a victim - I mean, a helper.  I
wondered who it would be.

	It looked like Jillian had got the short straw.  She turned up around ten
thirty, with just a hint of trepidation in her expression. 

	"What're you up to?" she asked.

	"Come to help me?"

	"Maybe."

	"Ever ridden a motorbike?"

	"Yes."

	"Try this on for size, then."

	Jillian picked up the silver-coloured helmet and slipped it over her head,
tucking her blonde hair behind her ears.

	"How does it fit?" I asked

	"A tad loose."

	"Try the black one."

	Like the Goldilocks story this one was just right, which was fortunate,
since it was the one I had started working on.  I had done the easy part - a
grill made out of 5-millimetre fence wire with welded cross wires.  The grill
was in the same form and acted the same way as the clear perspex visor.  Unlike
the visor, however, it was riveted to the helmet and could not be moved. 
Stopping the helmet being removed, while still ensuring some comfort for the
wearer was not so easy.  The aim was long-term wear.  There were no obvious
limits to how long this could be worn, other than the restrictions of whatever
was underneath.

	We talked about it and tried a few things, before eventually using pieces of
cardboard cut to templates that formed a pair of shutters closing under the
chin.  These I created out of two-millimetre steel plate, cutting it to shape
then heating and bending the edges so that no sharp protrusion could hurt the
wearer.  Two hinges welded to the plates then riveted to the helmet, plus a hasp
and staple in the centre completed the work ready for a padlock.  I finished the
job with a couple of foam pads glued to the inside of the plates.

	It took a couple of hours, but which time Jillian and I had done quite a lot
of talking.  She was a smart cookie - a fact I had realised right from the first
time I had met her.  While she was still technically a "junior" in that she did
not have the on-the-job experience of Monica, Mary or Trish, she had savvy and
an interest in the business that the others did not have.  She had a degree in
physical education and had run a gym for several years before falling into the
more lucrative call girl racket.  With her height and striking facial features
she had a sophisticated look that I could see would have made her very sought
after.  Her taste for bondage had begun then and as her school friendship with
Emma had developed into something more physical, so had her interest and passion
for the subject.  It was only when she had come to work for Monica that she had
found an outlet for her hobby.  I could see that Jillian was ambitious, and
somewhat frustrated at having to take a lower seniority than some of the others,
but she was obviously looking to better herself. 

	I finished fitting the last rivet and asked her to try it one more time. 
She slipped it over her head and I closed the two flaps underneath before
locking a small padlock through the hasp.

	"Comfortable?" I asked.

	"Yes."

	"Try to get it off - if you'll excuse the innuendo."

	Jillian struggled briefly with the flaps before giving up.  She could not
reach the strap under her chin, nor could she penetrate the grille with her
fingers.

	"It's no good - we've done this before.  The only way to get it off is to
break the lock or the hasp.  Can you unlock it, please?"

	"I think you should go and show Monica first.  She'll have a key as well."

	"Steven!"

	"Come on.  It's time for lunch, anyway.  I'm starving.  I dropped the keys
in my pocket and opened the door. "Are you going to join us?"  She passed me in
the doorway.

	"You're a bastard.  Do you know that?"

	"Yes ma'am," I said, following her back to the house.



	Monica was talking to me again, and was well pleased with the device - so
much so that she made Jillian sit with us while we had lunch.  We experimented
with pushing bits of food through the mesh of the grille, and managed to get one
of those bendy straws into Jillian's mouth.  It put a whole new meaning into the
expression "liquid lunch".  I decided to put a better-placed hole for just such
a use when I finished the job that afternoon.  In the meantime Monica and I
enjoyed a pleasant lunch while Jillian fumed opposite us.

	"It's the last time I volunteer to help," she muttered.

	"Be grateful you're not in a lot worse position," Monica chided.  "I'm sure
you took great delight in watching me suffer last night, thanks to Warren and
Mistress Mary, who refused to let me climax.  I could have died of frustration,
you realise that.  And I blame you for starting it all," she continued, turning
to me.  She appeared to be serious, but could not hide a sparkle in her eye.

	"Oh give me a break," I said.  "You loved it!  Rumour has it when Warren
finally called off the Gestapo, you and Christina nearly went into orbit." 
Monica blushed and said nothing.  "Who needs a man, eh?  We come in useful for
putting ceilings up and making plumbing work, but you lot seem to manage pretty
well without us..."

	There was no argument from either of my lunch partners.



	I spent the rest of the afternoon working on the second helmet.  Monica
finally relented and unlocked Jillian's headgear so I could finish painting the
metalwork.  I suspect if I had not requested it, Jillian would have been wearing
the thing to bed.  Both helmets were modified with a straw-sized hole that would
allow an intake of fluids if the wearer was not gagged.  I also added a screw
eye on the top and one on each side, such that the wearer could be easily
secured to a wall, post or whatever.

	It was mid afternoon when Trish appeared.  I was well away in a world of my
own at that stage, doing what I loved and with the stereo I had installed going
full blast.  In this regard I have to confess to being a bit of a classical
freak.  Not to the exclusion of all other music types, but it was certainly at
the top of my preferences.  It was obvious that Trish had been there for some
minutes before I noticed her.  I was in one of my 'epic' moods, as I called them
- a fixation with things Viking and heroic, usually Germanic and Wagnerian.  I
had run through Wager's Gotterdammerung overture  (the one with the solo
whistling part by yours truly, together with a bit of conducting at key moments)
when I became aware of Trish's presence.  She was lounging against the wall with
her arms crossed and a faint smile on her face as she watched me.

	"Pretty way out music for a builder," she said, as I turned the volume down,
somewhat embarrassed.  I said nothing, not quite knowing how to respond. 
"You're a surprising guy, Steve.  I thought I had you sussed, but you still have
a few things buried that you don't make obvious.  That last track was pretty
neat."

	"Yeah, I agreed.  "It always reminds me of the sun setting over icy
mountains with the hero and heroine riding off into the distance after the
defeat of the Forces of Evil.  Sort of evocative, you know."

	"Yes, I do know.  You're out of your time Steve.  I think you must have been
some sort of knight in a past life."

	"A knight to remember?"

	"Ha ha very funny," but she smiled nevertheless.

	"Listen to this, then, just for the opposite side of the coin," I told her,
and she sat down on a sawhorse.  I took a break from my work and sat down on my
workbench, opposite her.  I put on the last of Richard Strauss's "Four Last
Songs".  As the last notes faded away, Trish looked at me and said warmly: "It's
gorgeous.  Terribly sad, yes?  Do you know what it's about?"

	"Something to do with an old couple facing the sunset, after many
wanderings, troubles and joys, and asking 'Can this be death?'"

	"Pretty deep and meaningful for this time of day," she said.  "And for you."

	"Yeah.  Sometimes you just get glimpses of things," I said, not really
knowing how to explain myself and the fleeting revelations of mortality that
came but rarely to people of our generation.

	Trish was silent, then stood up and idly flipped through the collection of
CD's I kept in a sealed cabinet, away from the dust of my work.  I felt we had
shared a special moment, which both of us realised, but we were not sure how to
proceed.  At length she said:

	"Monica wants to know if you're any closer to the shaft, yet."  I fiddled
with some stuff on my bench.  I knew what she meant.

	"Did she ask you to help me with it?"

	"Well, yes, I guess."

	"And you don't mind?"

	Trish laughed.  "Hell no."  Her throaty Canadian accent sent warm fuzzy
tingles down my spine.  "Steven, I've seen and done a lot of things in this
business.  As long as nobody gets really hurt - I mean apart from all the
floggings and so on, which are really just momentary things - I say relax and
enjoy it, whatever it may be.  I have no secrets.  I'm comfortable with my body,
and I don't mind others looking at it."

	"You're very frank."

	"No, I'm very Trish.  Frank has a couple of hours booked on Thursday night."

	"Ha ha.  So you know all about the shaft?"

	"I've experienced it, if that's what you mean," she said.  "But we don't
have one here, and we need one.  I brought these for you to try out."  She
unrolled a small hand towel on the bench.  Inside was a collection of half a
dozen dildos and vibrators.

	"I hope you don't mean that in the biblical sense."

	"No, dummy.  For you to incorporate or fit on our version."

	"Oh, so it's our version now?"

	"Of course.  I have specific ideas of what needs to be done." 

	I set aside the helmet I had just finished painting.  Monica had discussed
'the shaft' with me before, and I had bought some materials that I thought would
do the job.

	"How long will it take?"  Trish asked.

	"Why? You in a hurry to try it out?"

	She laughed. "Au contraire, monsieur.  It's just that I have a date at
eight."

	"And hate to be late," I added.  "Okay.  Perhaps two or three hours for the
basic item.  Are you staying?"

	"I'm totally at your disposal."

	"You may regret saying that."

	"Maybe.  Or perhaps I'll be glad.  It may be an experience for both of us."

	"I'm sure it will be nothing less..." I said, wondering how much more
bizarre my life was going to become.

	

	'The shaft' was literally that - an adjustable vertical shaft, usually made
out of tube, with one end welded to a steel plate on the floor.  On the top of
the tube was fixed a dildo or vibrator.  A female would be made to stand astride
the shaft while it was slid inside her pussy.  As she was made to stand straight
with her legs together, the shaft was raised a little further until she might
even be on tiptoes.  The extension was then locked with a screw located halfway
down the pole.  She would then be unable to raise herself off the toy - in fact
would be unable to move anywhere due to the impalement.  Standing on the steel
base meant the structure itself would likewise go nowhere.  On one hand it was
fiendishly simple and no doubt could be very painful; on the other, if too much
slack was given, a lady could get herself off, without being able to actually
get off, if you understand my drift.  And Trish had other ideas as well.

	"If we make it with different main lengths of shaft, then it could also be
used in a kneeling position with your thighs vertical, or perhaps with ankles
strapped to thighs."

	"You're devious, you know that?"

	"Yep.  Many ways to please a lady."

	"You're sick, too."

	"Yep.  Runs in the family."



	We sketched a few ideas on a pad.  The basic premise was easy.  I had some
sheet steel and some galvanised pipes of the sort that sprinkler systems are
made from.  These come with various couplers, bends and so on, many sizes of
pipes fitting snugly inside each other.  With my welding gear and oxyacetylene
set it did not take too long to fashion the basic platform - a plate of
5-millimetre steel about a metre square.  In the centre of this I welded a ten
centimetre long cylinder, inside which the main shaft fitted snugly.  There was
no need to screw this in, since the victim would be unable to lift herself
sufficiently to pull it out anyway.  The main shaft was around sixty centimetres
high, and over this slid a further length of pipe. This was the topmost piece,
and was kept in place by a series of holes drilled through the two tubes, such
that a locating pin could be pushed through horizontally to secure it.  The
hardest part was working out an attachment for the various toys that would be
mounted on top of the device.  All of these of course had different diameters
and lengths, with some being vibrating and others not.  We solved this problem
with various diameters of PVC plumbing pipe, from two to five centimetres in
diameter.  I cut half a dozen lengths, put a cut down the length of each and
then used them as sleeves to go over the lower ends of the dildos. I secured
these with hose clamps, comfortable with the fact that they would remain rigid. 
I guess the wearer would do likewise, and might not be as comfortable as I was!

	Trish, I have to say, was fascinated by the tools and the construction of it
all.  She offered suggestions and asked questions which I found most refreshing
in a woman, and I took time to explain things. 

	She even asked me how I had lost the tip of my little finger.

	"Eight-and-a-quarter inch Makita circular saw," I told her.  You're the
first to notice that - or at least to say so."

	"I have an eye for detail, you know.  I spot these little things.  Does it
still hurt?"

	"Not unless you smack the top.  The nerves are all bunched together in the
new tip.  I know all about it if I knock it."

	"Better be careful, then, yes?"  I grinned back with a dismissive shrug.

	Eventually, after we had tried a few toys on the top, and had greased the
sliding bits, she said: "I suppose you want me to try it out now?"

	I wasn't sure what to say.  This was so outside my field of experience. Half
jokingly I said: "I suppose you want the big one?"  The one to which I referred
to was a stainless steel vibrator, shiny and slightly ribbed, about nine inches
long and nearly two across the base.

	"Sure, why not."

	Trish was wearing an olive green skirt a little above the knee, which she
unzipped and dropped in one fluid movement. She wore a cream shirt and black
high-cut panties. These also fell to the floor, as she stood there naked from
the waist down save a pair of slingback sandals.

	I must have blushed.  "No need to get embarrassed," she said.  "We're all
one big family here."

	"Does that make it worse, or just illegal? "

	"You're quick.  Here, help me with it, will you."

	I slipped the sleeved vibrator over the top of the shaft and watched as
Trish gently lubricated it with some jelly and gave herself a dash for good
measure.

	"This is not something a girl can easily do for herself, of course," she
said matter-of-factly. "I've tried lots of self-bondage scenarios, but this is
really hard.  You need books to climb on, then you have to push them away, then
you need to be able to climb off at some time in the future."

	"You've done this by yourself?" I was amazed.

	"Yeah. Once it worked, once it didn't.  The first time I was handcuffed and
the keys dropped down where I could reach them when the ice melted.  Then I
could reach a rake to pull the books over to stand on again, to lift myself
off."

	"And the other time?"

	"Similar scenario.  But I dropped the damned rake."

	"Jesus.  How did you get free?"

	"Rule number one - always have a back up.  I was standing next to the phone
on the wall.  I had to swallow my pride and call a girlfriend."

	"Was she into this as well?"

	"Not at the time.  She was by the end of the weekend, though," Trish ended
with a laugh.  I knelt and pulled the pin from the shaft, allowing it to slide
slowly upward.  Trish grasped the tip of the vibrator and eased it inside her,
making small intakes of breath as she did so. I looked at her. Her eyes were
closed and she looked to have transported herself elsewhere.  The vibrator
continued until nearly the whole length had disappeared. Then she stopped and
her eyes opened. She was staring straight ahead.  Her voice seemed huskier and
strained.

	"Okay," she said. "You can put the pin in."  I twisted the shaft slightly
and lined up the two sets of holes before pushing home the pin.

	"You all right?"  I asked.  "How does it feel?"

	A slight smile played over her lips and her eyes closed again.  "Steven, you
really have no idea. I don't think any description I give will be near the
mark."

	"Can you get off? Off the shaft, I mean- " I said awkwardly.

	"Probably yes to the first question, and no way to the second."  The smile
widened slightly but the eyes stayed closed.

	"You realise we have to give these a thorough testing," I said.

	"Your point?"

	"We really have to make the circumstances real, to induce real loadings."

	"You talk like a test pilot," she laughed.

	"No, you're the test pilot. You're the one doing the riding. I'm the
builder, and I want to push the envelope."  I reached down and switched on the
switch that dangled down below the vibrator.

	"Oh shit!  That's not all you're pushing! Oh!"  Trish's voice went up an
octave and she began to squirm on the shaft. She at once found that she could
stand on her tiptoes and gain some small vertical movement, which she began to
utilise in earnest. "Wow... Oh godohgodohgod!"  For all Trish's experience I
rapidly discovered she was not above letting herself go.

	"Sorry, Trish.  But as realistic as possible - that was the message." 
Before she realised it, I had grabbed her wrists and handcuffed them behind her
back, pulling them away from where they were stimulating her pussy at the entry
of the shaft.  I then pulled a bright blue ball gag from a bag on the bench and
moved behind her.  She saw what was going to happen.

	Suddenly the mature woman had turned into a helpless teenager.  "You don't
have to gag me - I'll be good, honest."

	"I know you will, and while you're bouncing round on the pole I don't want
the place shouted down."

	She closed her eyes again.  "Maybe you're right."  She opened her mouth and
I worked the ball in behind her teeth before buckling the strap over her hair at
the back.  The final act was to undo her shirt.  I knew she was wearing no bra,
and my curiosity got the better of me.  Her breasts were not big, but not
sagging, either - just nice swelling mounds topped with flinty hard nipples that
I rolled between my fingertips.  Trish moaned with her eyes still closed.  She
opened them just in time to see me retrieve a pair of nipple clamps from the
bag, and approach my helpless captive.  She shook her head and grunted through
the gag.  I think the act of shaking her head only started more fires, for a
shudder ran through her body and she closed her eyes again, grinding her teeth
into the mouth-filling rubber as the clamps settled on her nipples.

	"I'll go get Monica for the stamp of approval," I said. "I won't be long. 
Or at least no later than eight o'clock..."

 

	I returned with Monica just as it was getting dark - perhaps half an hour
later.  The garage seemed to have warmed perceptibly and Trish was hot enough to
fry an egg on.  Her shirt was dripping wet with sweat running freely down her
breasts and legs.  I guessed it was not all sweat, either.  She looked
exhausted.  Monica looked critically at the shaft, ignoring Trish who was
rolling her eyes and trying to say something through the gag.

	"Hmm.  Good job.  That'll look nice when done up with silver paint."  Then
her eyes fell to the nipple clamps lying on the floor.  "Was Trish wearing these
when you left?"

	"Yes."

	"I thought as much.  Look, if you're going to leave these on, you can't have
hands roving all over the place.  Wave your hands, Trish."  Trish moved her
cuffed hands around to one side and I saw how the right hand could easily have
reached the right nipple clamp.  No wonder they were on the floor.  "How's it
going there, Trish?  Okay?  Mr Simpson's cancelled, by the way.  You've got a
free evening and I've got his credit card number for the failed appointment. 
This means you're able to savour these earthly pleasures to your heart's
content.  Steve - change the batteries in the vibrator while I secure these
wandering hands."  As I hastened to do her bidding Trish spluttered and whined
into the rubber ball.  As the vibrator stopped while I changed batteries, she
sagged and panted hard through her nose.  Monica looped a piece of cord around
the links on the handcuffs and pulled Trish's hands higher up her back.  The two
ends of the cord went over Trish's shoulders then under her armpits before being
tied between her shoulder blades, but not before her handcuffed wrists had been
pulled up level with the knot.

	"See this?"  Monica said to me, pointing out the knot. "On most people this
knot would be inaccessible, but this tart has been known to get her fingers up
that high and undo things, so we go around the block a few times more."  In
saying this Monica wrapped several turns around Trish's arms and body, above and
below her breasts, before tying it all off in front with a cinch rope between
the upper and lower ropes between her breasts.  Then it was on again with the
nipple clamps.

	"Got any rubber bands in this treasure trove?" Monica asked.

	"I think so."  I pulled a few off some rolled up zip-lock plastic bags of
screws and nails.

	"Perfect," said Monica. She quickly joined four rubber bands into two pairs
and looped each pair on to a nipple clamp.  Trish obviously knew what was coming
next and was rolling her eyes and shaking her head, uttering plaintive little
grunts.  God she looked so desirable under those circumstances!  Monica was now
rummaging through the debris on my bench and hunting on the shelves in amongst
my jars of fasteners.  "Ah." she said.  "Just the job. "  She unscrewed the top
on a jar and pulled out a couple of ten millimetre bolts, about as long as my
finger.  Deftly she secured these to the ends of the rubber bands and let them
bounce gently at the end of their restraints, tugging rhythmically on Trish's
nipples.  "Let's see what that does to her vertical motion capabilities," Monica
mused.  Then, as a final piece de resistance, she pulled the thin silk scarf
from her neck and folded it into a narrow strip.  I had accepted the fact that
Monica was very much a scarf person.  She wore them frequently - an innocent
dress accompaniment that had obviously a thousand household uses.  This one went
over Trish's eyes to complete her ensemble.   "I think you'll be okay until
about ten, Trish.  Yes?"  Trish shook her head furiously and spluttered into the
gag.  "I'd like those helmets finished tonight if you can, Steve.  I have
something planned for tomorrow."

	"I thought Monday was a day of rest?"

	"It is - for most.  All will be revealed.  Dinner's in half an hour if you
want some."  With that she bent and switched on the vibrator again.  Trish
twitched and shuddered, and the bolts went bouncing on their merry yoyo-like
ways.  As she went towards the door, Monica beckoned me across.  "Let her go
when you come to dinner, Steve.  There's nothing like the thought of four hours
ahead of you to drive you crazy but it doesn't need to actually take place. 
It's all in the mind."  She winked at me. "Trish knows me well enough to realise
that I am quite capable of leaving her there for four hours.  But I also know
her well enough to realise she would probably pass out - she's that sort of gal. 
Gets right into it in a big way.  She'll sleep well tonight, though."

	I finished the last painting of the helmets to the accompaniment of several
orgasms from Trish, all of which were highly demonstrative affairs.  I had to
say it was a difficult time for me, too.  Mr Willy was decidedly unhappy at all
the action going on behind him, without his participation.  He was definitely
suggesting that I give him a hand, so to speak, when I was unexpectedly visited
by Mary, just as Trish climaxed, rocking and jerking on the shaft.

	"Very impressive, Steve," she said, admiring the device.  "And very
impressive on your side, too, Trish," Mary whispered in the ear of the captive. 
Mary then slowly pulled each suspended bolt nearly down to Trish's waist before
letting them go with the effect of a small catapult.  Trish wailed into her gag
and shook her head in pain as the bolts bounced about once again.

	Mary looked at what I had done with the helmets.

	"Pretty nifty," she said, with what I took to be genuine appreciation,
although I got the feeling with Mary you could never be sure.  "Something for
our long stayers to look forward to.  Ideal for those who can't stick to a
diet." She smiled at her own joke and I had to admit she could be bewitching
when she put her mind to it.  For a moment she looked almost irresistible, as
though the hard shell had suddenly dropped away, leaving a vulnerable woman who
did not like to be revealed in front of others.  She appeared lost in thought as
she contemplated one helmet.  The paint was dry on it and she slipped it over
her head, feeling how the steel flaps did up.  Then she pulled it off, smoothing
back her short black hair behind her ears.

	"You're smart, Steven.  Clever with your hands.  You know what you're good
at and don't try to impress people with irrelevancies."  I shrugged, not knowing
where she was leading.  She smiled at me - an extraordinary smile that seemed to
open me right up. Then she turned on her heel and walked out, planting a smart
slap on Trish's backside in passing.

	"See ya babe.  Shafted again eh - life is cruel."



	As I finished the last work on the helmet I turned to Trish who had just
reached a climactic height and was panting and snorting through her nose. 
Feeling sorry for her I reached down and turned off the vibrator.  She seemed to
slump forward - well as much as the shiny prong inside her would allow.

	"Fancy some dinner?"  The blindfolded figure groaned and nodded.

	Gently I pulled the pin from the tubes and let the top section of the shaft
drop under its own weight.  It did so with a slow sucking sound, some of which
was the grease on the shaft, some of which was Trish.  She staggered
momentarily, clearly weak at the knees.  I pulled a sawhorse across and sat her
on it, allowing a brief rest.

	After a minute I got her to stand again while I dried her sweat-soaked body
with a cloth.  I dressed her in panties and skirt while she mmmphed into her
gag, clearly demanding to know why I wasn't freeing her bonds, in between a few
obvious whinings about the bolts bobbing on her boobs.

	"Okay, time to go to dinner," I said.

	"Nnnmph!"  she protested.

	"Yeeph," I said firmly, taking her by the arm and leading her outside.  He
shirt was still open and soaking wet, with her yoyos still operating, but the
weather was warm and pleasant.  I had no concern about Trish catching a cold. 
We walked across to the back verandah.  It was Sunday night and the weekend
stayers had mostly gone home, to be replaced by a few one-nighters later in the
evening.  It was a chance for most of us to sit together, except for Emma, in
this instance, who was on monitor.

	I helped blind Trish up the steps and on to the balcony where the girls sat
doing justice to a couple of bottles of chilled white wine.  We were greeted by
a few raunchy remarks - it was obvious that there was little sympathy for Trish. 
It was nothing unkind, just an accepted fate that befell them all from time to
time.  They were just glad in this instance it was happening to someone else. 
There were also a few cracks about my wanting to be a 'Master', and how they had
all better watch their steps.  I was surprised at a word of praise from Mary.

	"This man has got good hands, people.  His work is good quality - ask Trish
here."  Mary reached across and unclipped the nipple clamps.  Trish wailed into
her gag as the blood slowly returned to her nipples.  When the whimpering slowly
died to a heavy panting, it was Leila who came over and untied the rope around
Trish's breasts and shoulders, letting her handcuffed wrists down, then gently
removed the blindfold and gag.  Trish faced a smiling group as I helped her take
a sip of wine. 

	"Had a quiet afternoon?"  Monica asked innocently.  "Certainly seemed like
it."

	"I thought I was gonna die," Trish said, a bit more throaty than usual. 
Leila returned with a key and unlocked the handcuffs.  Trish rubbed her wrists
and massaged her breasts before doing up her shirt.

	"Are we to assume you consider the shaft a success?" I fished.

	"Yes we are, you bastard," she said, glaring at me in mock anger that she
just could not sustain.  Finally she smiled again. "God I'm glad Mr Simpson
cancelled.  And as for you, Monica - leave me there until ten o'clock!  I knew
you wouldn't."

	"You sure protested a lot for someone who was that sure of themselves,"
laughed Monica.

	"I think I'd just gone to another planet at that point..." Trish sighed.

Monica's Place

CHAPTER SIX - CONTRARY MARY
	

	The weekly meeting was at nine the next morning.  Monday was officially the
girls' day off - a time for resting and relaxing after what may have been a
grueling weekend.  Monica used the whiteboard to outline appointments for the
week and who was doing what to whom.  All this took place around the long
breakfast table.

	"Of most interest to all of you, I guess, is a couple of points.  Firstly
today there will be a bed delivered to one of the holding cells.  It's single,
small and hard - a bit like some of our clients, I guess."  The girls laughed. 
"The point is that this will now enable us to cater a bit better for some of the
overnighters, once Steven has altered it to make it a bit more user friendly. 
We can now address the clients who may wish more emphasis on the
kidnapping-hostage-terrorist scenario, but would actually like to lie on
something rather than a concrete floor.

	"The second event is that Steven will be working in what will become the
gym, during this week.  We hope to have it fitted out by the end of the week,
with a load of gym gear ordered for Friday.  Jillian will of course be in charge
of the gym, and there will be a few alterations needed for the equipment no
doubt.  That will probably be your weekend gone, Steve.  Jill will help you as
much as she can with the work during the week, as will we all, won't we girls?"

	"Yes Monica," was the chorus, taking off a classroom response.

	"And tomorrow, be here at ten o'clock for a measuring up session.  Steven
needs to know your measurements for all the fiendish devices we have to build."

	"All our measurements?" asked Trish wryly.

	"Absolutely every last one," Monica said.  I felt myself blushing.  "So wear
something appropriate, please.  And that just about wraps it up, except for one
aspect - discipline.  I don't like to have to bring this up, because I think
you're all mature enough to know better.  Nevertheless, lapses of discipline
have occurred.  If I make a request, I expect it to be obeyed.  I give orders
for certain reasons, some or all of which may not always be apparent at the
time.  Now, Emma, Jillian - do your job please."

	Our eyes turned to the two named, and I watched them leave their chairs. 
Not knowing what to expect I was surprised when Jillian pulled a pair of
handcuffs from her pocket and snapped them on one of Mary's wrists, then each
girl twisted one of Mary's arms behind her, where the cuffs were secured.

	"What the hell's this all about?" demanded Mary, sitting as she was at the
head of the table.

	"I think you know full well, Mary.  But I'm not going to listen to any more
of your lip at this point."  Monica was icy in her reply.  "Emma - gag her."  It
had obviously all been planned, with Emma and Jillian in on the action.  Jillian
produced a silver-coloured rubber bathing cap which she pulled over Mary's dark
hair, then held one hand under Mary's jaw while Emma used a roll of silver duct
tape to secure her mouth with a wide 'X'.  That was the hard part done.  Emma
then wound the tape around Mary's head, over her mouth, then vertically around
her jaw and over the top of her head.  Mary was very quiet but her eyes were
glaring at Monica as she hmmed through her nose.

	"A couple of instances, Mary.  Firstly, last week Leila was on the receiving
end.  Despite my orders that there were to be no marks, you decided Leila
deserved the crop on her bum at the instruction session.  And on Saturday you
couldn't even chain Steven to a post without putting him in a spread position. 
I have no problem with your actions per se.  I do have a problem in that they
were against my express wishes.  Do you have anything to say?"  Mary's angry
eyes said it all in response to the rhetorical question but she still tried to
grunt behind the tape.  "Just to let you ponder on your situation, Mary, we are
going to let you try out the new helmet that Steven has made.  In this instance,
however, you will be blindfolded before it is secured, and you will be taken
somewhere on the property - somewhere you will know, and will be left to find
your way home.  Enjoy your day," Monica ended with a smile. 

	I looked at Mary.  The fire had gone from her eyes and she looked with
trepidation as Emma and Jillian held two cloth pads over her eyes and taped them
in place with more silver duct tape.  Mary's head now looked like a silver
cocoon, with only her nose showing.  As though to rectify this, Jillian cut off
a final piece of tape and placed it over Mary's nose, leaving only the nostril
area clear.  Monica pulled a 35mm camera from a drawer and took several shots of
Mary.

	"We're starting an album, by the way, girls.  I expect you all to feature in
it in one form or another.  Some of it will be for advertising, some will be a
reminder.  Something like this might end up on the whiteboard for a while.  Very
good.  Now, on with the helmet."  My creation was duly worked over Mary's head
and the steel flaps padlocked underneath.  In her world of darkness and probable
silence under the tap and helmet, Mary was helped from the chair and led
outside.

	She was wearing a simple white skirt which reached halfway down her thighs.
Above this was a royal green blouse of a kind of see-though material on the
arms, with the bodice being a bit less transparent.  This was matched by a pair
of strappy green shoes with low heels.  The rest of us followed at a distance as
Emma and Jillian - each holding one of Mary's arms - led the handcuffed and
helpless prisoner across the back lawn up the rise to the rear of the property. 
This was the direction Christina and I had been taken for our punishment.  I
wondered what devilish scheme Monica had planned.



	Our group followed the trio some two hundred metres, over the crest of a low
grassy rise to where the dirt track cut down through the grassy bank to the
boundary gate in the middle of the mudhole, where Christina and I had finally
freed ourselves. 

	"Let's wait here," Monica told Leila, Trish and myself, and the four of us
settled on the top of the bank.  It had rained overnight, and Monica had brought
a plastic polythene sheet for us to sit on.  This woman went up another notch in
the planning stakes, I decided.  We watched as Emma and Jillian, both barefoot,
led Mary into the water and across the big puddle to the gate.  Jillian opened
this and they proceeded through, before closing the gate behind them.  Jillian
unwrapped a long coil of rope from around her waist under her teeshirt, and
threaded one end through the padlock under Mary's chin.  When it was halfway
through, she tied a knot so that the rope was fixed in place.  The two captors
then unlocked Mary's handcuffs and recuffed her wrists in front, before Jillian
effortlessly vaulted the fence and received the two ends of the rope that Emma
passed underneath the gate.  These were tied to either end of the gate at the
top rail, pulled tight enough so that Mary was bent at the waist with her head
at the level of the top of the gate.  Then I saw the plan.

	It was elegant in its simplicity.  Mary stood facing the midpoint of the
gate on the far side.  She could not reach either end because of the restraining
ropes.  The only way she could undo the ends of the rope was to create more
slack, and the only way she could do this was to go under the gate to free up
the vertical element of the ropes.  I looked at the clearance.  Mary was thin
enough, but I wondered about the helmet.  I estimated the mud and water was over
ankle deep at the gate, and there was probably ten centimetres between top of
water and underside of the gate.  Yes, it probably could be done if Mary turned
her head sideways.

	I saw Emma talking in Mary's ear, obviously explaining the situation. 
Mary's covered head shook, but it didn't do any good.  Emma climbed over the
fence and followed Jillian up the bank to join us for the spectacle.  I
suspected Mary would be unaware of our presence.  We were perhaps twenty metres
away - far enough for our voices not to be heard under the helmet, the cap and
the layers of tape.  Mary was on her own, tethered to the gate in the middle of
a mud pool.

	She spent some minutes tugging on the ropes and trying to reach along the
gate with her manacled hands to see if she could reach the knots, but without
success.  Then came more fiddling with the knot under her chin, but Jillian had
done her job well, and that wasn't going to come undone in a hurry.  The strain
of being bent over then became too much for Mary, and eventually she sank to her
knees in the muddy brown water.  She seemed to shudder as she did so, and I
could sense the realisation of her predicament and the expected solution then
hit home to her.  I wondered how she would do it - frontwards or backwards. 
Typical Mary finally decided to slide under differently, and lay down in the
water parallel with the gate.  She was going under sideways.  The giggling began
as Mary's spotless white skirt was a soaking brown mess within seconds, and as
her back hit the water we all heard the muffled scream under the head
restraints.  The morning was quiet enough for the harsh panting through the nose
to then be audible as the cold shock of the water hit home.

	"Jill - wait down there just in case," Monica said.  "Safety first."

	"Sure."

	We watched expectantly as Mary slid her lower body under the gate.  There
was plenty of clearance for this. Now all she had to do was get the helmet
under.  At least her head would be protected from the cold of the water, I
thought.  Mary seemed to pause and feel about at this point, moving her body
along under the gate.  I realised she was looking for the deepest spot,
obviously in one of the tyre ruts.  She found it and slid the rest of her body
through, up to her chest, before turning her helmet at the last minute and
working it under.  It just cleared, and she surfaced shaking her head
vigorously.  We all cheered and clapped.  The helmeted figure, now soaking wet
and covered totally in a thin coating of brown mud paused and appeared to look
around, trying to locate the source of the sound.  I guessed Mary's humiliation
was complete.

	As Jillian returned to the audience on the top of the bank, Mary struggled
to her feet and felt along the gate.  She could now reach the ends of the rope
and it did not take her long to undo the ends.  Her journey back to the house
could now begin.  She turned her back to the gate and leaned on it, as if to get
her bearings.  Her breasts were now clearly visible through the wet material of
her once green blouse, her nipples standing out hard with the coldness of the
water.  After a moment to recover her breath, she moved forward hesitantly,
slipping and sliding a little as her feet felt out the way forward in the rutted
track.  This part was the easy bit, I reckoned.  Once she got to the top of the
cutting the ground became a grassy meadow, and the track barely existed.  There
was no obvious trail to follow other than to go on one's sense of direction, and
maybe aim for any sounds that might come from the direction of the house, but I
doubted Mary would hear these.

	"I guess I'll have to be getting back to work," I said, standing up.  The
others did likewise, all except for Leila.

	"I'll maybe keep an eye on her," she said quietly.

	"Good girl," Monica approved.  "I appreciate it.  Remember what she did to
you, and no letting her off early.  Not too much coaching, either, unless you
want to try it out."  Monica tried to sound serious, but I'm sure she would
never have done it to Leila.  Mary's punishment was to make a point - primarily
to Mary.  I was sure it would be well taken.

	"How long will you leave her like that?"  I asked Monica as we walked back
to the house.

	"As long as it takes.  Mary needs to be disciplined every now and again. 
She just lets herself get carried away and needs to be brought to heel.  This
will give her time to reflect on her actions."

	"You're pretty amazing," I said with genuine admiration.  Monica nearly
blushed, I'm sure.  "Remind me never to cross you." 

	"I'd have thought you'd've learned that already," she smiled.

	"Yeah.  You're right."



	I began work on the gym.  It was the largest of the rooms downstairs, an
L-shaped space seven metres long on one wall and nine metres on the other
outside wall.  One part was three metres wide and the other section was four
metres wide. I had a plan of what was to go in the room, and it looked like it
was to be a very comprehensive range, although of course at this stage I had no
idea what devious plans the girls might have for converting this gear to more
sinister purposes.

	The walls remained as unpainted blockwork, while In this instance, unlike a
holding cell, the lighting could be surface-mounted.  I reckoned I had perhaps
two days of electrical installation, including the cctv cameras, then another
couple of days painting the ceiling and installing the floor covering. 

	It was dark and gloomy until I set up the floodlights to work by.  Even then
I found I needed a break fairly frequently for a breath of air.  I guess it was
partly this, but also curiosity that saw me having to visit the garage to
collect materials after only an hour.  Curiosity to see how Mistress Mary was
faring. 

	She was clever - I had to give her that. She had obviously reached the top
of the bank via the track, but - instead of trying to pick the direction of the
house - she had turned left and was following the top of the bank.  It was
obviously a slow process, for Mary was very conscious of the drop at her left,
and was treading very slowly parallel with the edge, with every few steps
sliding her left foot out to verify the edge of the bank.  Leila was sitting on
the grass nearby, watching her.

	"How's she going?" I asked softly.

	"Her sense of direction is pretty bad," said Leila.  "I've no idea what she
is doing."

	"I have.  I bet she'll follow the bank round until she hits the fence again
then follow the fence along until she gets near the big gum tree opposite the
garage.  If she makes it that far and can go at right angles to the fence at
that point, she'll reach the garage.  From there it's plain sailing."

	"Maybe."  Leila was clearly dubious.

	I watched for a couple of minutes.  The handcuffed figure under the helmet
was still very wet, and her nipples still stood out like little beacons through
the muddy material that was once a nice blouse, and now clung to her body.  The
sun had come out, however, and it was turning into a hot day.  The smell of
drying foliage was wonderful to take in.  Leila definitely had the better of our
two tasks.



	I returned to my dungeon, and spent another hour running electrical wiring
for overhead lighting.  The basics had already been installed - a single supply
to a pendant light in each room leading from a new distribution board.  Such
work as I was doing was technically illegal in Queensland, since I was not a
licensed electrician.  But such technicalities tended to fade into
insignificance somewhat within the whole concept of the business operation we
were undertaking I decided.  I considered myself more than capable of installing
basic lighting and socket outlets.  I was conscious of the layout that Jillian
wanted for her equipment, and consulted the plans again. 

	There were to be initially five devices in the room, all proprietary items. 
On entering the door, immediately to the left there was to be a stepping machine
- one of those with two platforms for the feet that go up and down like
one-ended seesaws, that give the illusion of climbing stairs - or mountains. 
Next to that would be the rowing machine, with a sliding seat and a handle
affixed to a cord connected to a big flywheel.  Then there was a treadmill - the
electrically powered sort with the moving walkway you had to keep up with. Then
came a strider - one of those things they were always flogging on TV - the sort
that look like cross-country skiing, with your feet and arms working
simultaneously.  Last was a set of weights connected to pulleys.  Jillian had
shown me all the brochures - said she had picked them out herself.  It was
surprising what could be done with them, she had confided to me with a wry
smile.

	I returned to the garage to get some further coils of electrical cable. 
Mary was making progress, albeit slowly.  She had reached the boundary fence and
had progressed some way along it, obviously trying to estimate her distance with
steps taken and trying to guess how far it actually should be.  She had taken
that decision finally, and was feeling her way through the undergrowth in the
general direction of the house now.

	"That was a pretty good guess she made as to when to head for the house," I
said to Leila, who was watching her progress from the lawn.

	"Yes, it was, wasn't it," she agreed.  "I guess she finally got lucky."  I
looked at her and she smiled and winked.

	"You're a real softie, aren't you," I said.

	"Oh, yeah - like you're not?"  The smile was still there.  "I seem to
remember I was about to die of frustration some time last week when some
public-spirited person took pity on me."

	"I wonder who that could have been?"

	"It went by the name of 'only me', and had a deep voice not unlike yours."

	"Ain't life coincidental sometimes," I mused, watching the muddy figure push
her way hesitantly through the foliage, her cuffed hands outstretched in front
of her.  "I still can't figure out what you're doing in this business.  Doesn't
this strike you as being just a tad bizarre?  Like, life on the fringe of
reality?"

	"Sure.  But I don't have a problem with it.  You accept that people are all
different, that we're supplying a service and catering to peoples' needs. It's
capitalism at its best.  The only difference is that the sort of needs these
people have are not recognised by the so-called normal society."

	"I realise that, but look at what's going on here. Look at what happens
outside of the time you spent on the job with clients."

	"So I guess we girls have needs as well, and we indulge ourselves in these
harmless dramas to maintain our pecking order.  As you can see, the punishments
get dealt out pretty even-handedly.  Monica's good like that.  And sometimes
they're not really punishments."

	"What would you call Trish's experience yesterday?"

	Leila laughed.  "I'd call it a self-fulfilled expectation."

	"No kidding."

	"Yeah.  Did Monica really send Trish in to help you, or was Trish just
horny?  She gets that way, you know."

	"I'll tell you, she didn't half get me going as well.  I don't know who got
the worse deal."

	Leila looked at me shyly. "Maybe you should call someone next time it
happens.  Trish says one of the worst things that can happen is to have two
people making love next to you while you're blindfolded, gagged and tied up.  I
wonder what it's like..."

	Was Leila coming on to me?  I wasn't sure, but it definitely had the
potential.  I had not discussed such a thing with Monica, and right now was not
the time and place for such talk, particularly as Mary at that point crashed
into a low branch that knocked her down on her backside.  She was clearly
unhurt, and we both laughed.  Mary got to her feet and staggered a few steps
further, at which point she emerged on to the lawn.

	"I'd better get back to work," I said.  "I think Mary's over the worst of
it. See you later."

	"Sure."



	I guess that over the next quarter hour Mary must have finally reached the
house and made her way around to the back.  When I went up to get a drink from
the kitchen she was just tottering to the back steps.  Monica was waiting with
Leila, and Trish, standing on the bottom step.  Mary bumped into Monica and came
to an abrupt halt.  I saw he head cock slightly and thought I heard an
interrogatory whine.  Mary stretched out her manacled hands and began to run
them over Monica's breasts, face and hair, obviously trying to figure out who
was blocking her path. Monica stood motionless, then took Mary by the links
between the cuffs and led her away towards our sleeping quarters. 

    Just near the steps was a large jacaranda tree, with thick, low spreading
branches. To one of these was fixed a pulley, over which a rope hung with a
spreader bar at the end.  The pulley was some three metres off the ground and
was a double action one - the type that has a separate hook (also with a pulley)
such that the rope travels round each wheel several times. The end result of
this system is that a person is able to lift a much larger weight than normal,
thanks to the wonders of physics and engineering. 

    Mary realised what was in store for her, even though she couldn't see,
especially when Leila and Trish grabbed her wrists while Monica undid the steel
cuffs.  Then it was on with the spreader cuffs - wide leather bands that wrapped
around the wrists and buckled there, tapering upward to where they were fixed to
the bar.  In no time Monica was pulling the rope that saw Mary's hands
stretching above her and wide.  I thought I could hear little grunting sounds as
Mary was stretched on to her tiptoes.  At this point Monica took pity - I
thought - and unlocked the helmet, leaving Mary's head visible - a
silver-wrapped cocoon unable to speak, see or hear properly.  I'm sure Mary was
relieved, at that, but she was no doubt singularly unimpressed when Monica
fastened a spreader bar on to one ankle.  So much so, that she attempted to
kick, and struck Trish on the arm.  Not a wise course of action, I would have
thought, under the circumstances.  Monica and Trish secured the other ankle, and
then Mary was hanging there, spreadeagled in the breeze, before being lifted a
further half metre off the ground. 

	At this point the girls decided Mary needed a wash, and indeed she did,
since her white skirt was still covered in mud and her blouse was plastered to
her breasts.  As the spray from the hose hit, Mary's nipples appeared taut
against the thin fabric and she shook her head to try to stop the game.  But it
was only just beginning.  Trish and Leila stood in front and back of Mary and
began to push her like a swing, then - for variety - made her spin and twist
helplessly at the end of the rope, while Monica played the hard hose spray over
her.  This torture lasted only a minute or so, probably for fear of causing Mary
to throw up in her restricted state.  She was left hanging there for perhaps
five minutes while her wet clothes clung to her body and her taped head hung
dejectedly.  At length the girls lowered their victim until her feet touched the
grass, then held her steady as the spreader bar on her wrists was lowered to
waist level. 

    Once again, I thought her punishment was over, but this time Monica untied
the rope from the spreader bar and tied it around Mary's waist, before removing
any slack and tying it off.  With Leila on one side and Trish on the other, Mary
was made to bend forward until her hands were on the ground. She was left there,
unable to move, with her weight spread evenly between hands and feet, and unable
to push herself upright or to lower herself to the ground.  Mary was obviously
very aware of how vulnerable she was - head down and bum up, unable to move. 
Monica was also aware of it, as she knelt down and pinched Mary's nipples hard. 
Mary squirmed and whined behind the tape, shaking her head and panting hard
through her nose.  Monica lifted the prisoner's muddy skirt and let the hose
play over Mary's exposed butt.  She was wearing a black thong, which left little
to the imagination, and provided a perfect target for a multi-tailed flogger
that Monica had brought with her.

	Thwack!

	"Are we sorry now, Mary?"

	"Mmpph!"

	"Was that a 'yes'?"

	"Mmmph!"

	"I can't hear you. Speak properly!"  Thwack!

	"MMMppphhhf!"

	"You really must learn to enunciate..."  Thwack!

	"Mmmmmnnnnp!"

	"Can you nod?"  Thwack!  Vigorous nodding.  "Are we going to be good?"

	"Mmmhmm!"  Nodding again. Thwack anyway.

	"Good girl.  Would you like some more?  Maybe a cane?"

	"Nnnnnnm!"  Thwack.

	"No.   The cane would be too easy for you.  You like extreme stuff, don't
you.  Remember what you did to Leila?  I'm sure you do.  Leila - be a sweetie
and go fetch the bullwhip."  Monica winked at Leila as she said it. Leila smiled
and remained motionless.  Mary trembled and shook her head frantically, making
pleading panting noises behind the restrictive duct tape.  Monica let her hand
run over Mary's buttocks, squeezing and pinching, then slipping her fingers into
Mary's crotch while Mary moaned incoherently.  "Ah, here comes Leila now. 
You'll like this, Mary.  You're getting wet between the legs already. I reckon
you'll climax within 5 strokes.  What do you think, Trish?"

	"Nah.  Ten at least.  You won't break Mary just like that.  She thrives on
pain - admittedly other people's, but the theory's the same."  Mary was shaking
as the wide spreader bars stretched her limbs and made the muscles twitch and
quiver.  I was sure it was not all physical, though.  Mary was helpless in her
darkened world, waiting for the terrifying bite of a bullwhip across her exposed
and vulnerable flesh.  I know if I'd been in that position I'd have been wetting
myself.

	Mary didn't - to her credit.  Her head raised a touch as Monica finally
undid the waist rope, after letting Mary stew in silence for a further five
minutes.  The girls helped her upright and undid the spreader bars.

	"All right Mary - you're done," said Monica.  "Go back to your room and get
yourself sorted out.  And put something respectable on.  You look like you've
been dragged through a mud pool!"  Monica turned Mary in the direction of the
steps to the sleeping quarters and gave her a shove, before heading back to the
house, followed by the other two.  Leila winked at me over her shoulder. 

	I watched as Mary stopped and tried to find the end of the tape so she could
unwrap it.  Her attempt was fruitless, for the tape had melded itself seamlessly
after all that she had been through in the last few hours under the helmet.  In
total frustration she tried to pull the tape down by inserting her fingers in
the gap either side of her nose.  This did little other than bunch things up
tighter.  Realising the inevitable, Mary stumbled hesitantly forward, feeling
with her feet and hands until she encountered the handrails to the steps.  More
confident from that point, she climbed the three steps to the verandah and felt
her way past my door to her own.  I followed her up the steps at a discrete
distance, waiting until she was inside her room, at which point I leaned
casually on the railing, just in case...  

	My suspicions were well founded, it seemed.  Two minutes later there came
the sound of something crashing and what might have been glass breaking. 
Instinctively I lunged for the door and opened it to see Mary stumbling from the
bathroom.  Her head was still wrapped in tape, and she was sobbing - or it
sounded like it.

	"Mary?"  She stopped still.

	"Hmmn?"

	"What's up?"  She clenched her fists and stamped on the floor in obvious
frustration.

	"Hm cmmn phmmn mm simmns!"

	You didn't have to be a rocket scientist to work out her problem.

	"Okay - just stay where you are. Let me look."  I went into the bathroom,
stepping over the glass that had smashed on the tiles.  It took a bit of
rummaging through all the girl stuff that cluttered the place before I decided
that there were no scissors in the bathroom.  Mary was where I had left her as I
headed into the kitchenette and found a small paring knife in a drawer.  It took
a minute to work my way through the tape in the layers around her head, then to
slowly pull it clear, while Mary snuffled and sniffed.  The rubber bathing cap
came free with the tape, and Mary took a deep breath.  Her black hair was soaked
with sweat which ran down her face.  I thought she might be crying but I
couldn't really tell.  I grabbed a towel and let her hide her tape-marked face
as she towelled her hair.  Eventually her face appeared, and she managed a small
smile.  She suddenly seemed younger, and vulnerable, and for the first time
there was real warmth in her smile.  My previous experiences of it had usually
been when I was about to be on the receiving end of something nasty.

	"Thanks, Steven."

	"You okay?"

	"Yes.  I've had worse."  She managed a wan smile.

	"Really?"

	"Oh sure.  You'd be surprised."

	"Yeah, I probably would."  I looked at her closely.  She was crying.  She
now seemed even more vulnerable.  I brushed away a tear and she got embarrassed. 
Then she appeared to collect herself.

	"I... look - thanks.  You'd better go.  I'm all right now." Then she seemed
to think further ahead.  "And if you say a word about this I'll have it in for
you.  And you know what that would mean!"  There it was again - the wicked smile
that at once warmed me and sent a shiver down my spine.

	"Maybe.  But if you step out of line first - everyone will know about Mary
who couldn't get a bit of tape off her head..."

	"So we're even."

    "Sure.  For now..."

Monica's Place

CHAPTER SEVEN - THE GYM


	I turned up on the back verandah at ten the next morning, not quite knowing
what was expected of me.  I had discussed the matter with Monica a couple of
days previously, making the point that I really didn't have the information I
needed to make the various items of equipment.  I needed a fully representative
range of sizes for people - heights, girths, spreads and so on.  And I needed
the girls to know what measurements they should take from their clients.

	It turned out to be a fun session.  The girls all turned out in their
swimming costumes, and joked while I noted wrist, ankle, thigh, neck and various
head measurements.  Then came the stretching exercises - how high could they
reach, how wide and how tall were they.  Mary took the prize here, closely
followed by Monica, then Jillian, Leila, Trish and Emma.  Inevitably I also had
to do the traditional measurements - hips, waist and boobs.  There was much
teasing and laughter here as well, as Emma surprised everyone.  It was obvious
they had never got this far down to the nitty gritty of actual quantification
before.  I had to say I had overcome my reticence by this time, although half a
dozen giggling unruly females were a definite handful.  The final measurements
were a series of oddballs, but no less amusing.  There was the floor to crotch
with a half-metre and one metre foot spread.  There was the floor to chin in low
and high kneeling positions. Then the floor to waist in the touch-your-toes
position.  There were half a dozen others I would never have thought of and it
was to be some time before their relevance would become apparent.

	I thought we were finished as I closed my notebook. But Monica said: "Not so
fast Mister.  Haven't we forgotten something?"

	"What?"

	"Whose measurements are missing from the book?"  Then it dawned on me. 
There was a very affirmative female chorus and a few more stirring comments and
laughter.  Reluctantly I let Jillian do the honours with my measurements, and I
was forced to stretch wide and high, then bend, kneel, and do other fairly
undignified things while the tape measure was pulled hither and thither and the
catcalls continued.



	I diverted my attentions from the gym for a couple of hours to attend to the
newly arrived bed in the holding cell.  It was indeed as Monica had described it
- narrow and slatted, with a thin futon-type mattress on top, in a thick plastic
cover.  As I had discussed with Monica, I screwed all the slats to the steel
frame, then proceeded to weld some U-shaped lugs to the frame at the corners, on
the sides, head and foot.  Plenty of scope for padlocking and chaining loose
limbs there, I thought.  Finally there were some lugs welded to the bottom of
the bed legs to enable the bed to be bolted to the concrete floor, which I did. 
Whoever was chained to this would definitely be in for the long haul.



	Then it was back to the gym. By the end of the Tuesday I had finished the
wiring for the power and lighting, under the direction of Jillian.  We had
decided to not install a proper ceiling, deciding instead to paint everything
black - including all the air conditioning ducts - and make all this all
disappear by clever use of downlights.  The gym was not a role-playing area like
a cell or the Post Room, and hence we had elected to save considerable time and
expense with our simplified plan.  The paint scheme was remarkably simple, with
black roof and black walls.  It was messy, though, and it took me a full day
with the spray gun, mask and paper coveralls to get the job done, then to keep
an extractor fan going to get rid of the paint smell overnight.  Thursday saw
Jillian and I laying the floor.  This idea was rather neat, I thought.  Monica
had decided to use the dark synthetic resilient material that they are now using
for kids playgrounds around swings and suchlike.  It was about 2 centimetres
thick and came in large tiles about a metre by half a metre.  It had a nice feel
to it as one walked on it, and obviously would give a sense of security to
anyone having to roll around while trying to free themselves (for I had no doubt
that such would be par for the course in the room.)  It was laid down like
carpet tiles on the bare concrete, and had a sticky backing providing enough
tack to keep it in place, but also to be removed if necessary.

	Late on Thursday the equipment was delivered - the stepper, rowing machine,
strider, treadmill and weights.  With the help of the girls we got it all
downstairs into the gym.  The two burly delivery guys couldn't help but ogle at
the array of talent that assembled on the front verandah to take delivery, and
they were decidedly disappointed at not being required to stay behind and
assemble it for their customer.  But no, we did not want them poking about in
our dungeon, thank you.  Instead it was a team effort, mainly between myself,
Jillian, Trish and Leila.  I had to admire the competence that Trish was
starting to display in handling tools.  Unlike most females, who - in my humble
opinion - can't even throw a tennis ball properly, Trish could wield a hammer
with ease, and - with the help of Jillian in reading the assembly instructions -
was soon in the throes of putting the stepper and strider together.  Leila and I
worked on the other three devices, late into the night, and before we retired
the five machines were ready for use.



	Friday was test day, according to Monica's programme.  And when Monica set a
programme, it was achieved, or she would demand explanations.  Things had better
be good, or else there would be ritual sacrifices to come.  I had worked out the
adaptations I had to make to the various assemblies, and had told Monica they
would have to be tested.  Naturally I would need some guinea pigs and had asked
her to arrange volunteers.  This of course would be solely her decision, but she
had made it with the assistance of Jillian, who - with her Phys Ed degree - knew
the limitations we were bound by.  As I began my modifications to the stepper,
early on Friday morning, I wondered who would get the short straw for this
little weight loss exercise.  Monica told me it would depend on who was
available and what the bookings were like.  To be fair to Mon, she recognised
the strenuous nature of some of her team's work, and tried not to overdo things. 
As it was, Emma and Jillian turned up for the christening. 

	The theory behind the training machines was simple.  It was a pain aversion
sort of thing, done with simple switches and a low voltage power supply
connected to what they called TENS units.  These were the muscle stimulators you
get stuck on you at the physiotherapist and generally you needed a doctor's or
physio's reference to obtain them.  Knowing the resourcefulness of Monica I
guess I wasn't surprised at the fact that there were half a dozen of these units
available for the team to use as our ingenuity saw fit.  Some of them we used in
the accepted form, while a couple I had adapted to suit a couple of stainless
steel dildos we had in stock.  Too much slacking on the part of the user and
they would get a little shock - somewhere. 

    The first machine I fixed up was the stepper.  Emma was wearing matching
turquoise lycra bicycle shorts and a crop-top over her well-endowed figure, and
she watched anxiously as Jillian fastened wrist and ankle cuffs in place, then
clipped them to D-rings I had welded to the foot pads and to the side handrails.

	"What do I have to do?" she asked tentatively.

	"Just climb a few steps," Jillian replied, casually.

	"What's the catch?"

	"Don't you trust me, dear?" asked Jillian, all sweetness and light.

	"Should I?  Steven?  What's going to happen to me?"

	"I guess that depends on Jillian," I said.  "She's in charge.  You're in her
hands when you enter this room."

	"So, like I said, what's the catch?"

	"Well, what's incorporated into the stepper are a pair of contacts under the
foot pads. Every time one of the pedals touches the bottom of its range, two
pads will make contact, thus closing an electrical circuit. This will cause a
small shock to be released. How bad it is, how long it's for, and where it is
applied to, are all decisions in the hands of Mistress Jillian.  I hope you
haven't upset her lately."

	Emma swallowed, but said nothing, looking at Jillian who wore a shameless
smile.

	"Now Emma dear, I don't want a lot of argument from you, so I'm going to gag
you.  I know you tend to be a bit over demonstrative from time to time."

	"But I promise - "

	That was far as she got as Jillian held the back of her head and slipped a
red ball into her mouth.  It was on a matching red leather harness and looked
very striking as Jillian expertly pulled the strap either side of Emma's nose
and back over her head, buckling it to the strap already holding in the ball
around her face.  Two further straps went under her chin, crossing over, and
also buckling behind her neck.

	"Comfy?" asked Jillian.

	"Nmmph. Ffmph!"

	"What? After all the times you've had things stuffed in your lovely mouth,
you still haven't learned to enunciate properly. You obviously need more
training."

	"Nnmpffh!"  Emma shook her head vigorously.  Jillian turned to me. 

	"What does the current feel like?"  I gave her two wires with their ends
exposed. 

	"Hold on to these," I said.  She looked dubious.  "It's okay. I've got it
set to minimum.  You'll barely feel a tingle."  She took the wires and held them
gingerly.  "You can use either a stick-on pad or some sort of clip, depending on
where you want to put them," I told her.  "The power is set by this little dial
here - just turn it on a scale of one to ten.  It's on 'one' now.  The duration
of the shock is governed by the length of contact between the pads.  If Emma
came to a total halt and let her weight bear down on the pads, the power would
run continuously until she got going again."  I watched Emma's eyes widen in
alarm.  "I can bypass the pads with this button here, which will also close the
circuit for as long as you hold it down."  I held it down for a second.

	"Oh," said Jillian.

	"Feel anything?"

	"Just a little tingle."  I turned the dial to 'three' and pressed the button
again.  Jillian looked a little startled but held on still.  "I felt that one." 
I moved the dial to six and repeated the procedure.

	"Ow!"  She jerked her arm and let go of one wire. "Okay - enough. I don't
dare ask what 'ten' is like."

	"Let's just say it's an encouragement not to stop," I grinned.  Emma
obviously did not see the humour in it all, and I could detect a faint sheen of
sweat on her forehead, even though she had done no exercise.

	"I guess it's time to go then, sweetie," said Jillian.  "Where would you
like it first?"



	I left Jillian to get on with her experimentation, trying to ignore the
muffled pleadings coming from behind the ball.  I moved on to the rowing
machine.  While I worked on this Jillian came over and borrowed my pliers and
some electrical tape.  She obviously knew what she wanted to do, I decided, and
I didn't offer to help. 

	The rower was a slightly different system.  Unlike the stepper which
produced a shock when contact was made, the rower was set to a countdown timing
system.  The rowing machine was like a spring-loaded flywheel against which you
pulled a handle on a cord.  It was a bit like trying to start a great big lawn
mower, without actually having a motor to turn over.  Instead you slid back and
forth on the sliding seat as though rowing.  In this instance, however, each
time the user straightened his or her legs, contact was made with a small
switch.  This reset a timer, which started on its countdown to delivering a
nasty little jolt.  The user then had, say, two seconds to reel themselves in to
reset a switch at the other end of the slide, before sliding back to reset the
first.  The user was thus sliding endlessly between two switches, constantly
struggling to stay ahead of the timers.  The tension in the flywheel could be
adjusted to provide more or less resistance depending on the mood of the
mistress. The same system would apply to the strider and the weight frame.



	As I worked I heard the sound of the stepper starting up.  Swish-swish,
swish-swish went the steps.  It seemed to be a reasonably easy walking pace.  I
took a break from what I had been doing and walked over to where Emma had begun
her fitness program.  Jillian had refined Emma's restraints.  The Chinese girl
was now blindfolded with a black silk scarf and wore industrial-type earmuffs. 
I guessed she was in a world of darkness and silence, listening only to the
blood pounding in her ears and the sound of her own breathing.  She was moving
well, and I saw that Jillian had a low setting on the pistons that gave
resistance to the weight of the stepper.  Jillian saw my appraisal.

	"I want her to savour this," she explained, smiling mischievously.  "She'll
have a little while before she starts getting tired, and even then I haven't got
the power switched on," she said softly, although I was sure Emma would not have
been able to hear us.  "She may make contact once or twice, and will then wonder
what all the fuss was about or if the system is even on.  Around about then
she'll suddenly find that it is."  I looked at the blindfolded and gagged figure
treading steadily on the machine, her cuffed hands holding on to the rail on
each side.  My sight followed the lines of the wires, and my sympathy went out
to poor Emma.  One wire went up under her lycra top while one wire went down her
bike shorts.  Over the top of these was a wide crotch strap attached to a waist
belt.  Emma's insert was not going to fall out in a hurry. Jillian followed my
gaze.

	"Two of these and one of these," she said, reading my thoughts and holding
up two stick-on pads and a stainless steel dildo.  "Wicked, eh!"

	"Wicked," I agreed, thankful I was not in Emma's place.



	The weights worked on a similar system to the rower, with the user having to
make contact at the upper and lower point of a lift.  The weights were
adjustable from 10 kilos to 90 kilos and could be used for overhead pulling, leg
straightening, arm crunches and a few other variations I did not know the names
for.  I had welded a number of anchor points on to the structure, not quite
knowing how it was going to be used.  Jillian obviously did, since she had been
eyeing up my work and making a few suggestions as the little 'U' lugs were
attached to the frame. 

    I had completed the strider and was nearly finished wiring up the contacts
for the weight frame when I heard the first indication that Emma now realised
the power supply was actually on.  There was a grunt and a yelp and I detected a
noted speeding up of the stepping.  Monica turned up shortly after, smiling
approvingly at Emma steadily stepping in her darkened world.  But Emma was now
starting to flag, and every now and again she would lose concentration as her
weight bore down fully on one of the steps and a jolt was triggered.  I checked
out how it was performing.  The dial was set at 'five' and Emma was getting
tired.  Monica watched for a couple of minutes and slipped the dial up to
'eight'.

	"This won't harm her, I assume," she asked me.

	"Not if it's only a quick one," I said.  "Just make sure she doesn't come to
a stop on it."

    About this time Emma missed her rhythm and the step touched the base.  She
jerked and her hands gripped the rail while a sharp whine escaped through her
nose.  He body was now dripping with sweat, not all of which I suspected was
actually due to the exercise.  She was panting hard through her nose, struggling
to keep going and maintain her stride. 	

    She lasted only a few more minutes before Jillian turned off the power and
stood on the steps to bring them to a halt.  Emma collapsed on to her knees and
hung her head, her lovely chest heaving with the exertion and her legs looking
decidedly wobbly.

    The girls gave her a couple of minutes to recover before removing the ear
muffs temporarily and suggesting that Emma might like a "sit-down" to rest her
legs.  Emma whined in what might have been loosely interpreted as agreement but
was probably closer to a complaint.  Monica and Jillian freed their guinea pig
and walked her unsteadily across to the weight frame.  Focal point of this was
the padded bench and padded backrest that faced towards the door.  Emma was
seated on this and her wrist cuffs were clipped to the overhead bar - just like
a spreader, only movable.  Jillian quickly bound Emma's sweating body to the
backrest and seat with thick sashcord.  She had known exactly where the anchor
points were required and leant her full weight on the bindings, securing Emma
with ropes that made her breasts even more prominent.  Then there was some
obviously unnecessary breast bondage thrown in, but I had to say the bindings
cinched above and below Emma's boobs made for impressive viewing.  The last
piece of security was the tying of Emma's ankles to the vertical lever on the
front of the frame.  Emma's legs were bent over a padded bar behind her knees,
while her ankles were tucked in behind a second padded bar near floor level. 
The intention was for the user to straighten his or her legs to a horizontal
position, against the counter force of the weights.

    Emma was still wired up in the same manner - it looked like she was going to
be in for more of the same.  The loose ends of the wires could be simply
unplugged from the outlet on any of the pieces of equipment and transferred to
another.  I plugged them in to the small box at the back of the weight frame and
signed Jillian it was okay.  Jill had set Emma on only the ten kilo weight,
doing what I would call "pull-downs" with the overhead bar, which hung on a
cable connected to the weights which slid up and down at the back.  It was not a
difficult exercise but I suspected over fifteen or twenty minutes it would get
pretty tiring on the arms.  Nevertheless Emma was away, carrying on her instant
get-fit course under threat of a severe pussy warming and nipple zapping.  That
was when Leila showed up with her camera.

    Monica had obviously arranged this photo opportunity, and Emma was shot in
detailed close-up realism as she pulled rhythmically on her bar.  Monica then
decided Leila's presence could also serve usefully if she partook in a photo
herself.  Despite her protestations, she was in short order secured by Monica
and Jillian on to the strider with ankle and wrist cuffs.  She had clearly not
come prepared for this, dressed as she was in a flowing sky blue halter-neck
dress that ran to mid-thigh and was set off with a pair of white strappy
mid-height summer shoes.  At least her captors had the decency to remove these
as they settled her into place.  Leila was wearing no bra under the dress - a
fact revealed as Jillian undid the back of the halter to gain free access to
Leila's firm young breasts.  A sticky patch electrode was placed over each
nipple and secured even more firmly with duct tape.  Jillian explained how the
system worked and Leila paled.  Then Jillian flourished an inflatable gag on a
strap.

    "No - no Jill!  I'll be good, really.  You won't hear a sound, honest."

    "Very well.  Off you go."  

    "Could you do up my dress please?"

    I couldn't figure out these women, I thought, as Jillian refastened the
halter.  I guess there was a touch of personal disappointment there as well, but
I had to wonder, really, how any form of modesty could be said to exist in this
place.  It wasn't like we hadn't all seen anything and everything each person
had to show...

    Leila began striding back and forth on the two supports like a cross-country
skier, her arms stretching forward as her legs pushed back.  It looked pretty
easy, and I thought Leila was pretty fit.  I wondered how long she would last.
For that matter I wondered how long Monica would last before she decided to
start messing with the controls just to make things interesting. 

    I didn't have long to wait.  Monica picked up the camera and took a series
of shots of Leila.  She then picked up the controller for the power and timing
and taped it to the front of the frame where Leila could see exactly what she
was going to run the risk of. 

    "Are you feeling fit, Leila?" Monica asked with a wicked smirk.

    "No.  How much longer do I have to do this?"

    "Until I say so.  You know that.  You are currently - excuse the pun - on a
power setting of three and a time interval of ten seconds.  In case that hasn't
been explained to you, you have to make ten full strides in ten seconds.  As you
can see I am now altering the timer to 8 seconds, which means you have to
complete each batch of ten strides two seconds quicker.  Better get those legs
going dear."

    "You're a sadistic bitch, Monica."

    "Thank you sweetie.  Would you like Mary to come in and help you truly
understand the meaning of those words?"

    Leila was silent, but there was a noticeable increase in her rhythm.  I
moved away and continued my work, this time on the treadmill.  This device had a
movable walking surface that was powered by a motor, unlike some versions which
rely on a slight incline and the user's natural movement.  This one was your
deluxe version which could presumably get someone running at a reasonable speed. 
It had all the bells and whistles - speed indicator, timer, distance covered and
so on.  All the nice settings that could be used to target a person's
performance.

    "This doesn't have to be too complicated, Steve," Monica said, when I
questioned her.  "Good anchor points for hands and something to stop people
jumping off to one side.  If they want to do a press up and hang on their arms
that's fine - I wonder how long they'll last?  I like the idea of nipples being
attached to the front bar by elastic bands - a nice variable encouragement to
keep up with the machine.  We can set targets, and if they're not met - zap up
the bum or pussy."

    "Sounds good," I agreed. "Every home should have one."

   

    Ten minutes later there was a yelp from Leila.  I could not help but
overhear the conversation as I kept out of the firing line.

    "Ow!  Shit! That stung!  Jill, can't I get off?  The system works!"

    "This is not just about whether the system works, Leila," said Monica in her
condescending tone.  "It's also about how long you can last and what you can
bear in the interim.  Maybe we should speed you up to seven seconds."

    "No don't, please!'  There was a longer silence broken only by the steady
swooshing of the strider and the quiet zoom-zoom of the pulleys as the bar was
dragged down by Emma. 

   

    "The treadmill is ready," I announced.

    "Good," Monica declared.  "A call for volunteers.  Steve?"

    "No thank you very much."

    "Jill?"

    "I need to look after the other two."

    "Okay, we'll toss for it.  All right?"

    "I will if you will," I dared Monica on a sudden rush of impetuosity.  She
stared at me.

    "Very well.  We'll all toss.  Odd man out gets the job."

    We didn't have a coin, so I marked up a large washer with 'H' and 'T'. 
Barring three tosses all the same, the likelihood was that it would be two of
one, with the other being the chosen one.  Jill tossed first.  It was heads. 
Then Monica tossed.  Tails.  This was going to be interesting, I thought, since
I was now off the hook.  I would be siding with one of these two against the
other.  I grinned. 

    "Feeling lucky, girls?"  I flipped the washer and let it land on the
rubberised floor.  It was heads.  Jillian smiled.

    "Come along Monica.  A deal's a deal."

    Monica then appeared to have second thoughts.

    "Hang on.  I have a prospective client coming at noon."

    "That's okay.  We'll stall him for you.  Or I'll see him.  Or maybe we'll
bring him down here to meet you.  You can have a walk and talk session!"

    Monica tried to protest as Jill and I grabbed an arm each.  Under ordinary
circumstances I reckoned she would have been far more obstructionist, not to say
commanding, but in this instance she had gone with the selection procedure.  She
was thus left to make excuses that she wasn't dressed for the part or that she
had other things to do.  Which, of course, we blithely ignored as we locked the
leather cuffs on her wrists and secured them to the frame of the treadmill.  The
fact of the matter was that in all likelihood Monica was telling the truth.  She
wore a black A-line skirt and a white short-sleeved linen blouse, with black
tights and shoes, and looked every inch the professional businesswoman.  Until I
Jillian pulled the raven hair back and slapped several wide pieces of duct tape
over Monica's mouth.  Monica snorted and shook her head.  Her wrists were
attached to the frame at a point perhaps two thirds of the way from the front to
the back.  In order to prevent Monica moving back level with these points of
fixity and maybe pulling the tape off, we decided this ability to move back
should be denied her.  We took her up on her own suggestion.

    I undid Monica's blouse and exposed her breasts with no small pleasure. 
Predictably she wore no bra, (the tart!) and I could not help running my fingers
gently over her tits, stroking the nipples and feeling them harden under my
touch.  Monica groaned and rolled her eyes, trying to back away.  My mind
flashed back to the time I had been strapped to the chair by Mary, and the hands
and other parts that had driven Mr Willy to a frenzy but had refused to
consummate the relationship.  I suspected spunky Miss Armstrong had had
something to do with all of that.  Jill now produced some twine and together we
wound it several times around Monica's right nipple before tying the knot off
securely and repeating the process with the left nipple.  To each of the two
tails of twine we tied a thick rubber band, just to allow some of the tugging to
be absorbed, but also to keep a good tension present.  These we then tied off to
the front of the frame.  Monica's body was now positioned at midpoint on the
treadmill with her arms and wrists pulled somewhat behind her and her tits
tethered to the front.  To stop her simply stepping off the belt I had installed
a sheet of plywood vertically on each side of the belt, such that there was no
platform or any other rail that her feet could end up away from the moving belt. 
Our Monica was going to have to do some pretty precise walking, I decided with
glee, noting also that Jill was having great difficulty trying to be serious.

    "Would you like to do the honours?" I asked Jill, gesturing to the start
button.

    "Why thank you kind sir," she replied, stepping up to the panel fitted to
the front bar between the two pieces of twine.  "May god bless her and all who
walk on her," she said in her best regal impression before hitting the red start
button. 

    The belt began moving and Monica's feet jerked backwards at the same time as
the twine tightened on her nipples and pulled taut.  She squealed behind the
tape as she struggled to catch her footing and get into stride at the same rate
as the machine.  Jillian had set it on at ordinary walking pace, for starters,
but had - deliberately I suspected - neglected to remove Monica's shoes.  I
looked at these and shook my head.  They had ten centimetre quite chunky heels,
but I guess the edge was taken off by the three centimetre soles.  They were
strapped on around the ankle and looked very elegant, but would not be able to
be kicked off, of course.

    We watched Monica for a minute or so as she adjusted her stride to keep the
persistent pulling on her nipples to a minimum, while trying to adjust to the
awkward positioning of her arms behind her.  She tried to ignore us by staring
straight ahead, as we made a few pointed remarks, but I saw the flush rising in
her cheeks.  About then our viewing pleasure was interrupted by a squeal from
Leila.

    "Ow -ow! Shit! That hurt!" Then a plaintive: "Jill-ian?"

    "What's the matter sweetie?"

    "Ah!  My tits just got zapped!  It was really horrible!  I reckon I've done
enough - I've got my exercise for the day!"

    "You poor thing," said Jill, all sympathy.  "You want me to undo those nasty
restraints?"

    "Yes please."

    "You want me to turn off the electrics?"

    "Please."

    "Okay."  Jill turned off the black box.  I have to admit I was almost
disappointed - first in  the show stopping, but also in Jillian.  I had thought
she was a bit more gutsy than that. 

    Silly Steve.  It was then that I realised Jillian had no intention of
letting Leila off so easily, as she moved behind the hapless victim and expertly
installed a white ball gag into Leila's protesting but quickly silenced mouth. 
The gag had a small hole through the middle of it, about the diameter of a
pencil, which allowed the wearer to breath a little better, while still
restricting a flapping tongue.  I suspected that Leila would be needing every
last breath she could manage.  Already she was shaking her head and making
throaty sounds through the small hole as Jillian stepped to the front and
punched the buttons again.  Leila was slow off the mark and didn't make it
before the first jolts stung her nipples.  She yelped through the gag - as much
as she could - then obviously concluded that she would be better off using her
breath to get her speed going.  Jillian smiled mischievously as she lowered the
time interval to five seconds.  Leila was now going almost flat out at two
strides per second and seemed to be only just staying ahead of the zap-o-meter. 

    Around about them there was a wail from Emma who had obviously lost the
battle of the arm muscles and was receiving a buzz or two in the pussy region,
not to mention on her nips.

    "There is no rest in this business," Jillian sighed. "Use your legs, dear,"
she told Emma in the tone one uses on a five year old.  "Give your arms a rest." 
Emma did so, but lost her rhythm in the process, snorting in complaint as the
electricity jolted her tender parts.  Then she appeared to focus again as her
lower legs lifted up and down, up and down.  I had to admit the sight was
impressive as Jill and I stood there admiring our handiwork.  Emma, her body
bound tightly to the bench and backrest, her arms still stretched overhead to
the bar, blindfolded and  ball-gagged was drenched with sweat which dripped in
small pools on to the floor.  Her breathing through her nose was becoming ragged
but Jillian obviously knew the stamina of her friend.

    Beside Emma, looking like a kidnapped office worker, was Monica, silver duct
tape over her mouth and still flashing a glare that occasionally switched to a
plea.  Her open blouse fluttered with the movement as she managed to keep the
tugging on her tits to a minimum.  That was until Jillian upped the speed of the
belt.  Monica's nipples were yanked sharply as she had to suddenly lengthen her
pacing.  Monica truly looked marvellous, striding forth with such purpose, her
breasts thrust forward and the taut lines of her thighs making her skirt slide
up and down with each step.  It was already tight about her thighs and I idly
wondered how restricted she would be if she had to run.  Jill obviously had the
same idea and beefed up the speed again. 

    Monica moaned and protested under the tape.  She was now running for a bus,
and of course girls generally can't run properly in any case.  They always flap
their arms around to the side, although in this case Monica's were definitely
not going to flail in the usual manner.  Her breasts were bouncing wonderfully,
however, the nipples dark and taut within their twine bindings, jerking and
tugging against the front bar.  Monica's feet were now leaving the ground as she
coped with the awkward high heels only with great difficulty.  Her skirt was now
tugging at and straining against her thighs to the extent that her movements
were further restricted.  It was a fine sight, although I'm sure only Jill and I
appreciated it fully.

    We left her to attend to wails coming at regular intervals through the red
ball gag on the strider.  Leila, also not dressed for exercise, had the same
problem as Monica, although she was not hampered by her strappy sandals.  The
top of her halterneck dress was clinging to her breasts with the dampness of
perspiration, while the hem of the dress had ridden right up her thighs with the
length of stride and the speed she was forced to maintain.  Her mop of blonde
hair was plastered down on her neck and forehead as sweat ran in little rivulets
down her body to soak into the blue material.  She was moaning almost
continuously now, and there was no mistaking the pleading look in her eyes, nor
the gratitude as Jill switched off the magic box.  Leila slowly came to a halt,
slumping on to her knees within the confines of the strider frame, her breath
rasping through her nose and the hole in the gag.

    Gently we freed her and helped her to her feet.  I undid the gag strap and
prised the drool-covered ball out of her mouth.  She flashed a smile as best she
could while trying to catch her breath.  Then the three of us turned to Emma,
who seemed to have now gone off on to some other planet, making high-pitched
whining sounds through her nose as she jerked her legs up and down. 
Occasionally she would switch to the overhead bar as a relief but she usually
fluffed the changeover and her body jerked as the current was applied.  Clearly
she was nearly exhausted and Jillian wasted no time in pulling the wires from
the black box.  Despite this, Jill did not communicate with Emma, and it was
only as Emma began to slow that she gradually realised the power had been
switched off and then finally her head slumped forward.  Jillian removed the gag
and kissed Emma on the lips, before freeing the wrists still cuffed to the bar. 
Emma was too wrung out to move and let Jillian unwind the ropes from her body
and legs, before finally pulling off the soaking wet blindfold.  Like Leila,
Emma's hair was wet and plastered down, her lycra gym clothing soaked with
sweat.  It took her a few minutes to recover but eventually we all returned to
the sight of Monica struggling valiantly on the treadmill, her nipples and tits
now coming under some severe punishment .  Her white blouse now sported dark
patches of sweat while her skirt clung to the tops of her black nylon-clad
thighs.

    "Should we make her go faster?" Leila asked no one in particular.  Monica
shook her head desperately, keening through her nose and pleading with her eyes. 
Drops of sweat showered us as her wet hair was flung about. 

    " I think we should all go to lunch, instead,"  Jillian declared and turned
for the door.  This tactic sent Monica into more frantic pleadings.  "Oh really
Mon, you're such a sook!  Look, I'll do a deal with you - I'll let one hand free
but you can do the rest."

    Jillian unlocked one cuff from the frame and pressed the padlock key into
Monica's free hand.  I realised at this point that even with one hand free
Monica still couldn't reach the controls.  She would have to free the other
wrist while still running, or else free her nipples and step backwards off the
treadmill.

    "Who's coming to lunch?"  asked Jill, giving us a wink Monica would not have
seen.  We chorused our approval and headed for the door, closing it behind us,
before moving to the Observation Room and zooming in the CCTV on Monica.  She
had opted to unlock her left wrist cuff but that was not easy.  To get at it
from the front meant she had to twist her body to bring her right hand around to
reach her left.  Doing this put a terrible strain on her breasts which stretched
out in front of her.  Then she tried to reach the left cuff by taking her right
hand behind her, but she really couldn't see what she was doing.  Then she tried
to undo the twine.  I gave her no chance here, nor was she any more successful
trying to pull it off over the nipples.  I guessed they were now giving her
major pain, what with the steady running she had to maintain. 

    Tears were streaming down her cheeks now, as she appeared to identify the
apparent hopelessness of her circumstances.  But such would not have been our
Monica if she had given up at this point.  She realised then that all she had to
do was break the rubber bands to free her boobs, and as this dawned on her, she
acted without hesitation, jerking hard on first one then the other length of
twine, which snapped the buffering rubber bands.  This done, she slid off the
back of the frame and stood, breasts heaving with the exertion, grasping the
frame with her left hand while she pulled off the tape with her right.  There
was more glorious breast heaving as she gasped for air and then managed to free
her other wrist.  It was then that Leila decided to exercise the coup de grace
and came on the intercom.

    "Monica, your visitor has arrived and is waiting for you in reception. 
Thank you."  The look on Monica's face was well worth any trouble that might lie
ahead for us as a result.

Monica's Place

CHAPTER EIGHT - THE TARDIS AND THE SUBMARINE

	Gym workouts began in earnest that weekend.  Because of the nature of the
"sessions", the facilities were of necessity used in short bursts.  One of
Monica's axioms was the need for privacy for clients.  They did not expect to be
embarrassed through being humiliated in front of total strangers. (It did not
seem to matter that our team could strip them, tie them up, beat them and shove
things up their orifices - they would only be embarrassed if someone else saw
them, it seemed.)

    Monica and Jillian worked this angle well with judicious booking time. 
Sometimes clients came in pairs - master (or mistress) and slave, or two women
looking for something different and providing moral support for each other. 
Such an arrangement obviously got a discount, since two were more productive for
us than one.  In the cases of singles, and depending on bookings, we sometimes
had to use either the holding cells or one of the other rooms such as the Post
Room, to store these people between exercise sessions, while others took a turn
in the gym.  Monica hoped to encourage a regular clientele that would come once
or even twice a week for their workouts, in the same way that the rest of the
human race might use a normal gym membership.  Chances are they would come' once
or twice during their workouts, in fact.

    With all this activity going on I could not help but encounter clients in
various stages of discomfort in the course of my own work, as I moved about the
dungeon complex with my materials and equipment.  My next task was to utilize
the area under the stairs, as a short term holding area.  This was relatively
easily done by simply constructing vertical partitions in concrete blockwork
underneath the stairs.  I built in four this way, the interesting feature being
their dimensions. 

    I had discussed the concept with Monica and we had done some testing. The
smallest cell was obviously under the lowest part of the stairs, the sloping
roof of which went from about 70 centimetres above the floor down to nothing. 
The cell was only half a metre deep and was just big enough for a person to
kneel or sit side on to the door with their knees pulled up to their chest.
Within the cell there were a few strategically placed eye bolts for securing
necks and limbs and anything else that needed to be immobilized. The cells had
cage-like doors with vertical bars at 5 centimetre spacings.  All occupants were
in full view except when a black curtain was stretched over the grille and held
in place by a continuous velcro strip around the edge.  Since the cells'
occupants were intended to be bound, or at very least restrained, there was
little chance of them pulling the curtain down, especially since the grille was
set back 10 centimetres from the outside edge of the stairs, which was the line
of the curtains.  And woe betide anyone who dared try such a stunt in any case! 

    The second smallest cell, named "Little Ease" after a similar medieval
version from the Tower of London, was slightly more roomy, but it was of
dimensions such that it was not possible to stretch out any limb.  There was
space for the occupant to turn around but not stand up nor sit down with their
legs extended.  It was seen as longer-term restraint, for up to 24 hours, by
which time the cramped confinement would take its toll.  The last two cells were
the same, and I dubbed these Tardis 1 and 2 in light of their apparent (and
actual) confined space.  However, contrary to the famous Doctor Who time
travelling phone booth, whose interior was dramatically bigger than its
exterior, these two cells looked slightly smaller than a phone booth and in fact
were. 

    They were of adequate size in which to stand up - as wide as a human body,
but only just deep enough for one.  The captive was generally backed in and the
grill was closed.  We had trialed the exact depth such that with most women
their breasts were just a little compressed against the bars.  Due to the lack
of space, even in an unrestrained condition the captive was unable to raise
their arms from their sides.  Which gave plenty of scope for torment through the
bars and playing with nipple clamps and other tools of the trade.  The victim
was neither able to bend their knees nor to turn their heads if a couple of bars
were inserted into strategic holes in the blockwork behind them, such as one bar
just below each ear.  'Simple but effective' was my motto. 

    Again, in this instance, the occupant could be wearing a simple blindfold
and a tape gag but be unable to reach them even with unbound hands.  Monica and
I were really proud of the elegance of it, to tell the truth.  It was a bit like
a modern day version of the famous Iron Maiden, and we resolved to modify the
barred door to take various devices which would be pressed into the various
human orifices or against strategic or tender parts. 

    I made further modifications which included blockwork holes at various
points in line with the insides of the legs, where bars could be placed at right
angles to the grille to restrict the legs further and maintain better access to
vital places.  In the head area I glued a 1-centimetre sheet of dense foam to
the blockwork.  I knew from experience that the head was a hard structure itself
and tended to bruise easily if forced against something unyielding.  With the
foam in place I then constructed some large U-shaped bars from steel the
thickness of my small finger.  I threaded each end and drilled further holes
right through the blockwork.  In one Tardis cavity I extended the foam to cover
the whole block wall at the back and drilled a series of holes in the rough
shape of a human body.

    I had spent the weekend completing the blockwork and foam lining and on the
Monday I installed the steel grilles which I had had made at my friendly local
engineering shop.  It was to this shop that I was to come on a fairly regular
basis for anything that I thought would not conjure up too many questions.

    At our regular Monday morning meeting, Monica detailed Jillian and Trish to
help me.  In fact this really meant Jillian and Trish had the dubious job of
being test pilots.  I was ready for Trish even before I had collected the
grilles.  What I had planned for her did not even need a grille.  Trish was
taken to Tardis 2, which was slightly wider than Tardis 1 - wide enough for the
occupant to have feet maybe half a metre apart and arms perhaps a handspan away
from the hips.  I rocked up with an armload of silver-painted U-bolts, which
Trish looked at with some trepidation.  I explained to them that they were all
numbered and all Jillian had to do was go behind the rear wall and fit the
washers and nuts after I had pushed the U-bar into place.  It was simplicity in
itself.  A prisoner could be held by one U-bar or ten.  They could not get away
or reach the nuts.  The only escape was to rip the bar out with a bit of wall or
to bribe the jailer.  Neither was going to happen in Trish's case since the
first one that went in was fitted with a bit gag that was jammed in her mouth. 
I waited while Jillian screwed up the nuts, watching Trish's wide-eyed
expression for the first sign of unnecessary strain on her jaw. 

    There was no need for the bars to be excessively tight.  That would only
produce bruising which was the last thing anyone wanted.  In this case Trish was
secured at the mouth, which totally immobilized her head, then at wrists, ankles
and around the waist.  It was exceedingly effective and very elegant.  Trish was
wearing only a bikini, as instructed by Monica, and after being pinioned to the
wall looked a divine picture, being unable to create more movement than a bit of
toe and finger wiggling and eye-rolling.  There was a bit of plaintive
spluttering around the bit gag, which really wasn't designed for total noise
suppression the way some of the mouth-filling gags were.  Monica was very
impressed, as was Leila when she turned up to do her photographer's act. 

    Monica, of course, could not walk past a couple of tits without taunting
them, and after bringing Trish's nipples to attention with a bit of delicate
fondling in the southern regions, installed two rather wicked plastic clothes
pegs on the protruding nips through the thin lycra of the bikini top.  Leila had
explained to me early on the various features of different types of clothes
pegs, including their spring force, whether they were plastic or wooden, and the
shape and area of the contact points.  These particular pegs had concave rather
than flat gripping surfaces and could pinch painfully like a thumb and
forefinger meeting nail to nail.  They were the least likely to be pulled off,
and if they did they provided excruciating pain in the process, I was told. 
Installed through lycra gave them more chance of coming off, but the pain would
be none the less.  Trish was clearly not a happy camper and glared at Monica
while trying to say some probably very uncomplimentary things about her. 
Naturally the solid rubber bit distorted her complaints unintelligibly and
merely resulted in two little strings of drool sliding slowly down on to the
nicely filled material of her bikini top.

    "Relax and enjoy, Trish.  You have a free day.  You'll be released in time
for dinner.  Unless we decide to feed you here.  You can probably do without
lunch - you look as though you could lose a kilo or two," Monica said
cheerfully, pinching Trish's tummy.  I knew she was joking - about the weight,
anyway - but Trish just shot a withering look at the boss.  There was nothing
like a cheap shot about weight to get the girls wound up, and Monica was the
world's wind-up expert.

   

    Jillian was dressed in cut-off jeans that left nothing to the imagination,
plus a tank top and sneakers.  She came with me when we went to collect the
grilles from the engineering yard, and her attire predictably almost caused half
a dozen industrial accidents in a very short space of time.  Jillian of course
flashed her wonderful smile and nearly added to the mishaps.

    We loaded the three grilles into the back of my ute and returned to the
place I now regarded as home.  Jill helped me unload the cargo through the steel
emergency door directly into the basement area.  This was how I accessed the
place for the most part, particularly with any form of construction materials,
and my comings and goings were routine to the girls, just as I routinely
encountered bound or restrained clients in the course of my exits and entrances.

    It took us the rest of the day to fit the three barred doors.  They were
heavy and their hinges had to be bolted through the full thickness of the
blockwork.  Both Jill and I worked up a sweat but had the good feeling at the
end of the day that comes with having achieved something productive which we
could display.  Monica of course had to do the final inspection, and pronounced
herself pleased with the result. Jillian was then reluctantly backed into Tardis
2.  It was a snug fit widthwise, with her arms nestling against the sides with
not a lot of room to spare.  I swung the door closed.  It did not leave much
room here, however.  Jill had a couple of finger widths in front of her nose,
but her breasts were cushioning the bars, preventing the door from catching on
the latch.  Monica solved that one with a determined shove and the steel catch
slid home with a solid finality that had an ominous sound.  Jill gasped as the
bars pressed into her boobs and managed to wiggle as best she could to try to
make herself comfortable.  She had nice breasts but they were bizarrely
distorted by the bars running down them and forcing the flesh to protrude
between them.  Monica grasped each nipple through the cotton of the teeshirt and
waggled them until they were central between the bars.

    "Ow! Ow! Monica!"

    "Can you reach the latch?" Monica asked, ignoring the plea.

    Jill wriggled some more, but there was a horizontal bar running across the
grille at waist height, and even though she could get her hands through the
bars, she could not raise them above this level, nor could she rotate her wrists
since the gap was not wide enough.

    Monica poked and prodded and pronounced herself satisfied with the
limitations on Jill's movements.  She produced a piece of rope from her pocket
and bound Jill's wrists together outside the bars.  There was a gap of a body
width between her wrists which were in turn secured to the bars themselves.

    "See you after dinner, Jill.  We'll save you some."

    "How long do I have to stay here?" Jillian asked ingratiatingly, probably
guessing the result.

    "Maybe an hour, maybe the night."

    "Aw Monica!"

    "Be good."  As Monica turned to go there was a spluttering from Tardis 1. 
Poor Trish was still pinioned to the block wall by the u-bars.

    "Of course.  Sorry Trish.  It must've been very boring for you.  Your nips
must be really sore by now."  Monica deftly removed the clothes pegs with two
quick flourishes - an action that elicited high-pitched wails and snorting from
behind the bit gag.  Trish's breasts heaved under the Lycra and she was panting
hard through her nose as Monica pulled down the bottom of the bikini and worked
a large vibrator into Trish's pussy.  She pulled the bikini bottom back into
place and I guessed the material was tight enough that the inserted device would
not be dislodged in a hurry.  I also guessed Trish was in for a late dinner as
well.  The buzzing of the vibrator sounded and Trish closed her eyes and
groaned, but this time it was the sound of pleasure.

    "Any chance of some distraction here?" asked Jillian demurely.

    "You're a slut Jill," said Monica agreeably, before disappearing to the
storeroom and returning with a flat vibrator that she slipped down the front of
Jillian's cut-off jeans.  Jill's eyes lit up.  

    "Thanks, Mon."

    "But remember what goes around comes around," Monica continued, seizing each
protruding nipple and releasing the clothes pegs on to them that had been kept
warm by Trish until a few moments before.

    "Ow! Shit-shit-shit! Those really hurt! Ow- Monica - I didn't ask for them!"

    "And I didn't ask to have the house shouted down, so open wide!"  Jillian
knew better than to argue in her position and reluctantly let Monica push an
inflatable gag between the captive lips.  A few squeezes of the pump and
Jillian's angular jaw began to open further.  She started 'mming' as her cheeks
bulged.  Monica gave a couple more squeezes that left Jill's eyes wide and
pleading while incoherent noises escaped her nose.  It would be a fight for her
attention between the warmth in her loins, the pain in her nipples and the
restrictions to her speech and breathing.

    "Come on Steve.  Dinner."

   

    An hour later I returned, this time with permission to free the girls from
the imprisoning steel restraints.  I went behind Trish's block wall and undid
most of the bolts.  More specifically I undid all of them except those on her
wrists, then returned to the front to slide them out of their holes.  Trish
looked most relieved when the bit was removed from her mouth and worked her jaw
while I freed her ankle and waist.

    "God, that's better," she said at last.  "You gonna undo my wrists?"

    "In due course," I told her.  "How're you surviving?"

    "It was hard work," she said, flexing her neck and legs experimentally. 
"Really hard work.  It's not a strained position, but yet it is.  Does that make
sense?  Anyway, come on, get my hands free."

    "Why, what's the hurry?"

    "You know damn well what the hurry is."

    "Tell me."

    "Because, oh blind one, this vibrator is driving me crazy and secondly
because I have to pee." She shifted from one foot to the other, obviously trying
to get some purchase on the big vibrator still wedged in her pussy and held
there by her bikini pants.

    I moved up against her and stared her in the eyes, my right hand undoing the
front clasp of her bikini top.  The two sides remained in place, held
momentarily by the swell of her breasts until with a little encouragement they
slid to the sides. 

    "Steven, what are you doing? Don't be a bastard."

    "I'm being a helpful bastard - don't knock it."

    "Steven - I -I - oh shit!"  By that time my left hand had found the base of
the vibrator and given it a firm lift, while my right hand confirmed the rock
hard arousal of Trish's nipples.  I sucked them and nibbled them with my teeth
while Trish shuddered and closed her eyes, making short gasps.  Mr Willy was
fully aroused as well by this time, naturally, but he was just going to have to
wait.  Poor Trish had been stuck here all day so it was only fair that she get
something out of it, which wasn't long in coming as with a series of struggles
she thrust her body against me and climaxed with a series of short cries, biting
down on my shoulder while her hands flexed and grasped at thin air within their
steel pinions.  After a minute she began to relax and slumped back against the
wall.  I returned behind the wall, undid the remaining two U-bars and then
pulled them free of her wrists, which appeared surprisingly clear of bruising. 
The bar I had used was ten-millimetre, and I had considered sleeving it with
foam if necessary, but it did not seem to be required at that time.  Trish
pushed herself off the wall and sheepishly did up her bikini top, smiling at me
as she did so.

    "You sure know how to take advantage of a girl, don't you mister."

    "Is that a complaint?"

    "Hell, no.  It was just a long time coming... God, I really do have to
pee... See you later.  'Bye Jill."

    Trish moved off walking with a peculiar waddle that was due, I realised to
the vibrator still being in place.  She was probably afraid to remove it until
she got to the bathroom, I reasoned.  In the meantime, flushed with excitement
of events, I had totally forgotten about Jillian, still trapped behind the
barred gate, her nipples clamped and the inflatable gag stifling any cries.  To
make matters worse, she had had to listen to the sounds of Trish's orgasm from
the adjacent Tardis, which probably hadn't done anything for her own self
control, I thought, being of the understanding that our Jill was a bit
passionate herself.

    "Hi," I said, poking my head around the intervening block wall.  She moaned
and rolled her blue eyes at me pleadingly.  God, she looked so desirable,
trapped as she was, but still clothed.  In some cases I have to say that a
sexily clad girl can often be more arousing than a naked one, without a doubt. 
Jillian managed to make the cut-off jeans and tank top look seem like high
fashion, at least in the bondage world, anyway.

    I took pity on her and gently eased the pressure on the clothes pegs on her
nipples, gradually freeing her of the pressure of the jaws.  She closed her eyes
and moaned again, her breath coming faster through her nose.  After this I
released some air from the gag - enough to ease the discomfort but still not
permit speech.  Jill's hands fluttered where they protruded through the bars and
were restrained by the rope Monica had tied them with.  There was a faint
dampness around Jill's crotch and I put my hand down there where Monica had
lodged the flat vibrator.  It was warm and moist, and I immediately felt the
pressure as Jill pushed forward, trapping my fingers against the bars.  With
some dexterous movement I let my fingers do the walking, and it wasn't long
before Jill was thrusting herself unrestrainedly against the bars, her breath
coming faster and faster. I could not resist myself.

    "You're a slut, Jillian.  Look at you, humping a steel gate.  What are you?"

    "Uh ghut!" she moaned through the gag, her eyes closed, but not pausing in
her frenzied movement.  She climaxed a moment later, uttering a long
high-pitched whine ending in soft gruntings as she turned her head sideways
against the steel bars and shook uncontrollably. 

    I eased my fingers free while Jill remained, trembling and shaking, her eyes
closed and her breath coming in rapid pants and snorts.  It took but a moment to
undo the rope around her wrists and undo the latch to the gate.  It swung open
easily, the bulb on Jill's gag slipping through and banging against her chest. 
With tremulous fingers she undid the valve to the gag and worked it out of her
mouth, bending over and gasping for air for a long time.

    "Jesus," she whispered to nobody in particular, slipping her hand down her
jeans to presumably quell the vibrator.

    "Very impressive," came Monica's voice from behind me.  "I'm glad to see
we've all enjoyed ourselves."  Her tone was mischievous but I still felt guilty,
like someone caught smoking after they said they'd given up.  "Some people get
all the good jobs, eh Jill?"

    Jillian smiled, flushing, but said nothing.  In all the excitement neither
of us had heard Monica come down the stairs, nor had we realised she was not
alone.  Behind her was Emma, her wrists handcuffed in front of her, naked.  At
least I presumed it was Emma.  She wore a leather discipline helmet which was
presumably locked on, via a wide strap around her neck. The helmet had no
openings save for a small triangle where the nostrils were. From the bottom of
the leather strap could be seen a fringe of black hair, and I had little doubt
that those gorgeous breasts, now viewed for the first time in all their glory,
could belong to anybody else but Emma.  She also wore a leather belt about her
waist with a wide crotch strap.  Both were locked in place with small padlocks. 
He ankles were nominally restrained by a hobble chain about a foot long.

    "Emma has volunteered to test 'Little Ease'," Monica told us.  I suspected
it was a kind of involuntary volunteering - the kind that comes from being in
the wrong place at the wrong time.  "Come, Emma dear."  Emma did not respond
until Monica took her by the arm and guided her towards the second smallest
cell.  I suspected Emma had her ears plugged and probably had her mouth taped up
as well, as was Monica's usual style. 

    I watched as Monica guided Emma backwards into the small cell, making her
bend over into the metre-cube.  She helped Emma sit down then pushed her legs
into a bent position before closing the grille and locking it with a padlock. 
Emma lay on her side in a semi-foetal position.  I had put some spare rubber
flooring into all of these cells, left over from the gym flooring.  It was
easier to stand on for long periods and kept the cold of the concrete at bay in
just such a predicament as Emma now faced.

    "She can stay there for the night," Monica told us.  "Let's see what she has
to tell us in the morning about 'Little Ease'.  Good job, Steven.  And you,
Jill."  Jillian blushed again.  "Your dinner's waiting for you upstairs."

   

    The following morning we sat on the verandah and over breakfast discussed
the experience of the cells the previous day.  Trish said it had been very hard
- harder in many ways than stricter bondage where one was more tightly
restrained and could push or pull against ropes or straps.  The steel bars were
unyielding and were difficult to relax against.  She said the hardest part was
not being able to move her head or bend her legs.

    "It's not like being suspended or something where you can just hang in
there.  Any relaxation means some part of you gets weighted down on a steel bar
- mainly your head.  In fact you could restrain someone entirely with that bit
gag.  It really was pretty awful."

    "Except the end?" I queried.

    "Yeah," she admitted.  "The end was okay."

    "Okay?  Your little hands were clenching and unclenching like mad!"

    "All right!  It was a happy ending.  A good ending.  Everyone went away
satisfied.  Is that what you want me to say?" 

    I grinned.  "I guess."

    "I suppose I have to make some sort of endorsement as well?" Jillian asked.

    "Absolutely no pressure," I said off handedly, "but any contribution is
always welcome."  Jillian's blue eyes sparkled briefly.

    "Let's just say I slept well."

    "Any discomfort being behind bars?" Monica asked.

    "No."

    "How long could you have stood it?"

    "I don't know - as long as you can stand still in one place.  At least I
could shuffle my feet a bit and shift my weight and turn my head.  I guess a day
wouldn't be out of the question.  Better than poor Trish's plight."

    Just then Mary turned up with Emma on a leash.  Emma was as I had last seen
her, only now her wrists were secured in the steel cuffs behind her back,
instead of in front of her.  I guessed that this aspect was a Mary refinement. 
Mary tethered her charge to a table leg.  Emma immediately knelt then laid down
on her side, stretching her body out straight with a faint moan of what I took
to be relief or pleasure.  Mary appeared to be in the middle of some form of
client servicing or supervision.  She was dressed in a black PVC catsuit that
left nothing to the imagination.  The outfit included wicked-looking stilettos
and several light chains that clinked when she moved.  From her hip hung a small
ring of keys.  She squatted briefly beside the prone form of Emma and fiddled
with the crotch belt.  A faint buzzing began and Emma stiffened before trying to
curl up in a ball again, as muffled noises came from deep within the discipline
helmet.  She tried to reach the base of her pussy but with the steel cuffs
securing her wrists was unable to do so.

    "It's a bit early for that, isn't it Mary?" Monica commented.

    "I've never known you object to it, whatever the hour," Mary shot back
acidly.  Touche, I thought.  Monica smiled faintly and shrugged.  "Anyway, I
don't have time for nurse-maiding at the moment.  I have a client doing Dracula
impressions from a beam."  She stood up and went back through the kitchen, her
heels clicking on the timber floor.

    "Looks like Mary got out of the wrong side of the bed this morning," Jill
murmured.  Then she bent over Emma with a fond expression on her face.  "Poor
Emma.  I'll bet she's dying for a pee, but being the little tramp that she is
she won't want to miss out on anything.  Can I play, Mon?"

    "Sure.  I just want to find out how she managed last night.  But only when
she's ready, of course," she added quickly. 

    Jillian bent down and tweaked Emma's nipples.  They were hard and pointing. 
Emma groaned and rolled on to her stomach, trying to grind herself into the
floor.  Jillian slipped a sneakered shoe between Emma's legs.  It was
immediately seized upon as Emma's manacled hands grasped Jill's ankle, using the
foot as a solid point to press against.  Jill sat there, smiling tolerantly at
us, the way one would with a child or pet acting up or doing something faintly
embarrassing.

    "She has no shame," Jill said conversationally as the prostrate body
twitched and jerked, the leather-covered head twisting from side to side as the
climax finally came.  Jill nudged the now-prone form in the butt.  "You can let
go of my ankle now, you tart!"  The hands slowly released what looked to be a
seriously tight grip on the ankle.  Little whimpering noises were coming through
the hood as Emma rolled on her side and displayed her heaving breasts.  There
were worse sights to start your day with over an orange juice, I decided.

    Jill unlocked the prisoner's collar using a small ring of standard keys all
the girls carried.  She unlaced the back of the hood and pulled it free.  Emma
blinked in the morning sun, her face flushed and sweating, her hair plastered
down.  She had three pieces of duct tape across her mouth which Jill now peeled
off before unlocking the handcuffs.

    "Good morning Emma," she said.  "Did we sleep well?" 

    Emma looked embarrassed as she saw the audience that had witnessed her
performance.

    "No, thank you.  It was very uncomfortable."

    "How uncomfortable, Emma?" Monica quizzed.

    "It was okay to start with, and I even fell asleep, but after a while when I
tried to shift position it began to get difficult.  You can't straighten your
legs and it's very hard to straighten your waist.  The only way I could do this
was to lie on my stomach, and even then I had my head twisted in a corner.  The
rubber stuff on the floor is okay - I just couldn't straighten.  That was the
problem."

    "That was the point," said Monica.

    "I guess I slept in snatches, but I kept waking up with cramps in my legs."

    "Did you play with yourself to ease the pain," Jill asked slyly.

    "Yes," Emma admitted.  Then she added: "I also heard a lot of banging and
heavy breathing just as we got to the bottom of the stairs last night.  You
wouldn't have had anything to do with that, would you?" 

    Jill said nothing, pretending to be interested in a half-finished mango on
her plate.

    "How long could you have stayed there, Emma?" asked Monica.

    "Maybe the rest of the morning?  I don't know.  Maybe longer.  It was weird
being able to move but not being able to stretch.  It's a different form of
restraint - much more frustrating in many ways than being tied tightly.  Look, I
have to pee.  Save me some breakfast."

    She picked up Jillian's key ring and went inside, while we returned to our
breakfast discussion.  I could see Monica's mind working and wondered what the
result of all this would be.  I was sure I would find out in due course.

   

    The completion of the under-stair cells meant a big increase in our holding
capacity, and it was about this time that activity really did seem to increase
downstairs.  We now had the two holding cells, the under-stair cells, the Post
Room and the Chair Room, plus the gym, to cater for our inventive minds and the
needs of our clients.  The cells under the stairs meant that the two main
holding cells could be used for longer periods, such as for 'kidnap' victims who
might need to be incarcerated for a week while various forms of persuasion were
applied to get them to tell us where the money was, or alternatively for them to
wait while it was 'paid'.  During the following week or so I could not help but
check out the undertstair cells from time to time when I had to go upstairs for
any reason.  Quite often they were occupied with a woman in some form of
restraint.  In this regard I have to say that the majority of Monica's clients
were female, probably on a four to one basis.  I started to see a pattern of
usage of these cells, and saw the smallest cell occupied for the first time.  It
would have been a tight fit in most cases, even with an unrestrained prisoner.

      I saw a brunette whose wrists had been bound in front of her to her
ankles, with her knees drawn up to her chest.  She was jammed in sideways with
little room to move and little ability other than to turn her head.  The trend
with the use of these areas seemed to be to keep the prisoners blindfolded,
rather than use the curtains.  Likewise, prisoners being transported were
usually hooded or blindfolded to avoid unfortunate confrontations with somebody
they just might not wish to see.  This particular girl was gagged and
blindfolded with a complex leather harness sporting a red ball for the mouth and
pads over the eyes.  She was moaning softly and squirming as much as she was
able, which really wasn't a lot.  I guessed she was having to cope with
something rather large up her rectum.  That was at nine in the morning.  She was
gone shortly after lunch, though I didn't know where.  I had other things on my
mind which I tried not to get distracted from.

   

    My focus during this next period was on a room designated the "Sluice Room". 
After descending the stairs, the Sluice Room could be found in the right hand
far corner of the basement.  It was designed as a "cleansing centre", as Monica
put it - somewhere to facilitate the total cleaning of clients in whatever form
of restraint they might be at the time.  I was now starting to understand the
strategy behind Monica's approach, in that what she was creating was an
establishment that could offer a fully coordinated processing of clients,
through holding, cleaning, exercising and 'treatment'.  Alternatively each of
these options could be a specialist treatment in itself.  There was obviously
scope for 'package tours', I decided. 

    Monica and I had discussed and agreed on the layout of the Sluice Room.  It
was to be subdivided into a sauna area about three metres square, as well as
having toilet, shower, bidet and enema facilities.  It would be fully tiled on
the walls and floor and would have several overhead rails for moving immobilized
clients around.  These I had got made by a local sliding door manufacturer, who
also supplied the hangers and wheeled assemblies that would slide along the
rails.  The rails and wheels were top of the range in that they were designed
for heavy industrial folding/sliding doors and could easily take anything we
could load on to them. 

    As one walked into the Sluice Room, at the far end of the left hand side
were a toilet, bidet and basin in a line.  The left-hand far corner of the room
formed the sauna/shower room, while immediately opposite the door would be a
built-in bath about two and a half metres long and a metre wide, stretching from
the right hand wall to the wall of the sauna room.  Entry to the sauna would be
via a full height door.  This was needed to accommodate the ceiling rails which
swept in a gentle S-curve away from the main door, then left through the sauna
door before turning right into the centre of the sauna/shower area itself. 
There was also a rail spur which ran from the first bend to the centre of the
long bath.

    The sauna and bath had been built in blockwork which had been filled with
concrete.  Floor and waste drainage had already been installed and there had
been waterpipes installed previously for the basin, toilet, bidet, bath and
sauna.  All these were plugged outlets on the walls, chased into the blockwork
and rendered over.  There were several other outlets for hose taps.  God knows
what story Monica spun to the plumber who did it all.  Knowing Monica it would
have been something creative and highly plausible.

    I reckoned I had about ten days work in front of me - maybe two weeks.  The
first tasks were the usual ones - ceiling joists and supports for the rails,
plus wiring and other concealed services.  Then came the tiling.  It took four
days and I was heartily sick of white tiles by the end of it.  Most of the girls
helped me when they were off duty, but again it was Trish who perhaps
contributed the most.  Aside from helping me with the work of lugging in the
boxes of tiles, I taught her how to cut them and fix them.  Work became much
less of a chore shared between us.  She turned out to have the female knack of
fitting pieces neatly around protrusions and other obstacles, as well as
finishing off the grouting neatly. 

    With the walls tiled we fitted the ceiling sheeting.  This was waterproof
shower paneling, complimenting the waterproof light fittings and power switches. 
The whole facility was designed to be hosed down from top to bottom if necessary
- much the same treatment as would be meted out to the occupants. 

    A weekend came and went.  Down in the dungeon I lost track of time, being
reminded only by the changing of my partners as the shifts changed. I tended to
work until I got tired and to eat when I was hungry.  Sometimes I forgot that
too, and one of the girls ended up bringing me something.  It was times like
this when I really enjoyed my work - the challenges that arose and then were
overcome.  I fitted the industrial basin, bog and bidet - the three 'B's.  Then
came the focus on the sauna.  On one side I built a slatted wall made of
horizontal three by twos with a wide finger space between them.  In the cavity
behind this was the heating element which could be sprayed with water at the
touch of a button outside.  Predictably there were a number of anchor points on
the slatted frame, as well as elsewhere within the sauna and outside it.  The
other difficult piece of the sauna was the door, which had to have two
drop-sections across the top 15 centimetres, so that the door could open and
close either side of the rail.  To open the door, both hinged sections had to be
lowered with a hooked pole, then the door could swing open beneath the rail.  It
was a heavy door and took three of us to manoeuvre it into place.  Various
rubber seals were then needed to keep steam leakage to a minimum.  Extractor
fans were sited discretely in the external walls to cater for excess moisture,
and somehow I had a feeling there would be plenty of that. 

    The main feature of the whole area was a frame I was to build above the
bath.  It was designed on the lines of a waterwheel, with the axle at right
angles to the long dimension of the bath, supported at one end by a bracket on
the wall, and at the other by an A-frame that stood alongside the outer face of
the bath.  The horizontal axle was slightly above waist height and the whole
thing was of welded, painted pipe.  The bit that rotated was a frame large
enough to take a human body and was made of angle iron which would take a
20-millimetre plywood infill. Logically enough there were cleats and holes
aplenty to allow the secure attachment of a body, which I intended to do using
ratchet straps of the sort used for tying down truck loads.  It took a fair bit
of trial and error, this contraption, not least because the human body tends to
have an odd centre of gravity and which also varies from person to person. 

    On the wall side of the frame a bicycle wheel sprocket was fixed on the
axle. Attached to this was a long bicycle chain driven by a small electric
motor.  I had hoped to use the waterwheel principle, using buckets attached to a
wheel which would fill and empty on one side, driving the wheel round. 
Unfortunately this idea is fine when the wheel is symmetrically loaded, which is
definitely not the case for a human body, which would rotate rapidly for a short
arc, then struggle to move from the vertical position.  Hopefully the motor
would solve this and prevent any backspin at the same time.

    As a variation on the theme the tap would be running in the bath.  Initially
the victim would be rotating in fresh air, with the ends of the frame passing
about a handspan from the bottom of the bath.  Eventually, however, the bath
would start to fill, and the frame would begin to break the surface of the
water.  When full the bath would be about knee deep, which equated to about
chest deep in the inverted position.  There were going to be some interesting
breathing aspects which worried me, although Monica said she had it all planned.

    	"Who's going to test it?" I asked tentatively.

    "Who have you had down here helping you?"

    "Well, Trish mostly, but also Leila, Jill - and Emma."

    "Mary?"

    "Er - no."

    "It's a pretty fiendish device, isn't it," Monica mused to nobody in
particular.  Now I knew who was going to be the first submarine test pilot.  I
also found out about the depth charges Monica had planned.

   

    It was another day before I had all the details worked out.  Monica and I
had spent much of the afternoon in my workshop as ideas developed and we tried
them out with prototypes.  I was amazed at Monica's fertile imagination in such
matters and the frankness with which she talked about the sensations of objects
invading her sex or doing other apparently painful things to parts of her
anatomy.  It was all very clinical, and she said it without a blush.  It was
also, needless to say, somewhat of a revelation to me.  I offered my
contributions wherever I could and together we conjured up a device that we
initially decided should be called the 'pile driver', although on reflection we
thought that the 'torpedo' was more appropriate to a 'submarine'.

    Mary was ambushed in mid-session in the morning.  She was dressed in a thin,
figure hugging black latex suit with high heels.  I noticed the shiny suit had
zips in strategic places, not least down the back, through the crotch and a
vertical one over each breast.  Mary was walked into the room spitting like a
cat.  Her hands were cuffed and she had been blindfolded, which had to have
helped in calming her a bit.  Trish was on one arm and Jillian on the other.

    "Leila's taken over with Mr Butterworth," Trish announced to Monica.

    "What's the problem, Mary?  Afraid you'll miss out on your bonus?  We have
something much more important that we think you should try out."  Mary suddenly
went quiet.  Perhaps it was the relish in Monica's voice that did it.

    I had removed the plywood panel from the submarine's steel frame and the
panel was now laid on a couple of sawhorses.  I figured the securing of a victim
would be much more easily done with full access on all sides.  The plywood panel
had been fitted with a series of quick release straps in roughly the shape of a
human body.  It had also been fitted with a layer of high-density foam - the
kind that is used for sleeping mats by hikers and campers.  In parts this had
been padded further to suit the human profile, not least behind the neck and in
the small of the back.

    We laid Mary on the panel and immediately set about securing her.  Mary was
decidedly unhappy as the straps went around her ankles, above and below her
knees, around her thighs, arms, waist, above and below her breasts, and around
her forehead.  All this was not before Monica had got in and unzipped the access
to Mary's crotch.  Once immobile, Mary became the object of further attentions. 
She swore and complained, such that Monica was obliged to gag her with a couple
of strips of duct tape.  She then undid the zips over Mary's breasts and fondled
and persuaded them to come out to play.  They needed some coaxing, restrained as
they were, and I guess Monica was not particularly gentle in pulling the nipples
to their maximum protrusion.

    We had secured Mary with her legs as far apart as the panel would permit, to
give access to obvious vital areas.  I now produced the piece de resistance that
Monica and I had worked on the previous day.  It was a thick vibrating dildo
about six centimetres in diameter attached to a section of pipe such that it
could slide back and forth on a smaller diameter pipe that fitted inside the
larger one.  The smaller one was nearly a metre long and was attached to two
brackets at right angles, which were screwed to the board between Mary's legs. 
The net result looked like a towel rail extending from the level of Mary's
ankles to the entrance to her pussy, where the dildo, in fully retracted
position, nuzzled a couple of centimetres past the pussy lips.  Extended, the
vibrator had a stroke of about twenty centimetres.  More importantly, it had a
lead weight fixed to the lowest moving portion, and the surface of the dildo
itself had multiple ribs and knobs.  But there was much more.

    Monica temporarily undid the strap at Mary's forehead and removed the
blindfold.  She cradled Mary's head, allowing her to take in the torpedo primed
and loaded between Mary's legs.

    "Mary dear, this is what's going to happen to you.  This plank goes on the
frame you can see over there, over the bath. Mary turned her head to follow
Monica's pointing finger.  When we secure it, the plank and frame - and you, of
course - will rotate very nicely, a bit like a chicken on a spit except end over
end." Mary's eyes widened and she tried to shake her head, mmphing behind the
duct tape.  "Yes, I know it's exciting, but there's much more to experience. 
You see that little device between your legs?  Yes, I know you've had fun with
larger ones before, but I'm sure you haven't had them inserted in quite the same
way.  You see, as you rotate, and your head tilts downward, your little toy will
start to slide into your pussy.  Sure, you can try to keep it out with your
muscle clenching, and I'm sure it will be good exercise for you.  However there
is a big lead weight on the far end of it, so you might have your work cut out
as gravity takes hold." 

    Mary moaned behind the tape.  "But there's more, my sweet.  You will also be
wearing these."  Monica held up two heavy duty nipple clamps linked by a long
section of light chain.  A handspan below each clamp was a lead ball the
diameter of a bottle top. "This chain will also be linked to the far end of your
toy, with the weights initially being carried by the vibrator, before it starts
entering you.  As it progresses downward the weight of the balls will be
transferred to your nipples while the clamps do a flip through 180 degrees and
give you a little twist at the same time.  Pretty neat, eh?  But there's more!" 
It was all getting too much for Mary as she shut her eyes in realisation. "No,
look, Mary.  Your little vibrating friend has a contact device at its base, and
will only operate while the switch is held down.  Now, you see at the far end of
the rail between your legs there is another little weight which also slides down
the rail.  Just in case you get some ideas about keeping your friend at bay by
sheer force of muscle, once you tilt past a certain point this little weight
will slide down and whack the dildo home.  It will also make contact with the
switch, which will start the vibrator and keep it going until you're on the way
back upwards again.  Eventually, as your head rises towards the top, the weight
will slide back down, the vibrator will stop, then slide out as well, and the
weights on your nips will flip back to their original positions."

    Monica looked immensely pleased with herself, and I glanced at Jill and
Trish in time to see looks on their faces that were a mixture of admiration and
obvious relief that they weren't the ones lying on the slab.

    "Oh, one other thing," Monica said offhandedly as she secured Mary's
struggling head back to a position of immobility.  "There's a tap that will
start running shortly, to fill up the bath.  How long can you hold your breath
sweetie?  You'd better start practising, I think."  Mary probably would have
gone ballistic at this point, but the best she could manage was a bit of
squirming, hand clenching and feet waving.  Much of this subsided as Monica gave
further hard tugs on the quick release catches, which pulled the five centimetre
wide straps tighter into Mary's flesh. 

    There was further muffled protesting and much agitated snorting from the
victim, which I had to admit was most unladylike, as Monica fixed the nipple
clamps and chain in place.  That's when the I lowered a pulley from the ceiling
rail, connected it's four chains to the corners of the panel, then eased Mary
into the air.  I have to say the pulley and the rail worked an absolute treat,
and the girls saw how easy it would be to move a restrained figure around the
room, into the sauna, or merely to leave them on tenterhooks, so to speak.

    I positioned the plank on the frame with no difficulty, then bolted it
securely in place, rechecking the whole apparatus and disconnecting the chains. 
Mary was in a horizontal position, ready to start rotating head downwards in an
anticlockwise motion as one looked at the set-up.  She was still mmmning when
Monica looked at me and I nodded.  She flipped the switch to the small electric
motor which hummed into life.  There was a groan from Mary as her head tilted
and the drive chain took up the load. 

    I had adjusted the motor speed to about one revolution per minute,
suspecting that I might have to speed it up somewhat as the water rose and if
breathing difficulties became evident.  The four of us watched intently as
Mary's head dropped and her body tilted to the 45-degree point.  I had
lubricated the slide rail well and I could see the dildo starting to nudge at
her pussy as its weight came to bear.  Slightly after that the top weight
overcame the friction of the rail and slid down to thump into the base of the
dildo, which slid home inside Mary with a rush.  Mary gasped as much as possible
through her nose and uttered a strained cry behind the duct tape, what little of
her body she could move becoming rigid as the big vibrator started up and was
driven to full depth.  Moments after that happened, the weights connected to
Mary's nipple clamp started to slip sideways and downwards, giving those hard
little points a nasty screw before finally flipping to a vertical mode again,
this time pointing towards Mary's head but cruelly twisting and pulling on the
pink rosebuds.  Mary was breathing hard and whining plaintively as she neared
the upside down position.  The blood was now rushing to her head and nipples and
she was flushed from both.  Then her head began to rise again, and she started
to find herself in the face down position.  As this happened the weights on her
nipples swung free from where they had rested against the top of her breasts,
and swung free in the air. 

    There was more muted crying over which the vibrator could be heard patiently
humming away.  Mary was now hanging wholly against her straps, but was still
unable to move, of course. 

    The wheel turned inexorably onwards, and as she neared the ten past seven
position the outer weight slipped backwards and broke contact with the vibrator. 
I wondered what Mary's approach would be to the threatened withdrawal of the
dildo.  Would she try to hang on to it, and how hard would it be for her?

    Monica must've been thinking the same thing, for she took a step closer to
the victim then stepped back, satisfied. 

    "She's trying to keep it," she said smugly.  I could imagine the start of
some muscle twitching in Mary's loins, strained as they were by the straps and
the rubber suit.  Monica knew her stuff, though, for the vibrator had been well
lubed, and it also carried a reasonable piece of lead strapped to the base. 
Monica grinned at me as the invader slipped slowly out and dropped back against
the stop as Mary passed through the 'six o'clock' position before starting
revolution number two.

    "I think we should have a rev counter fitted, in big letters so they can see
it on the way down," said Monica thoughtfully, as the vibrator slid back into
Mary again, being rammed home moments later by the second weight.  Then the
nipple twists...

    "This really is better than I thought possible," Monica exulted, moving
across to the head of the bath and turning on the cold tap.  Mary's muffled wail
was drowned by the splash of water.

    "This is where it really gets interesting, ladies," said Monica.  "But it
also gets serious.  As soon as Mary's head touches the water we'll stop and
prepare her for the next stage.  That means ear plugs, swimming goggles, nose
plugs and breather tube.  Jill, fetch those for me please, and find Emma, too. 
She should be in on this."

    Jillian and Emma returned five minutes later by which time Mary had received
five more inserts and withdrawals.  She was sweating hard, a fact obviously more
to do with her latex clothing and the blood circulation constraints than the
temperature of the room.  The bath was filling up rapidly, so that by the next
inversion Mary's dark hair to her forehead emerged wet.  She was clearly getting
panicky.  Moreso, perhaps when we stopped the motor as she was on her way down
again, but only to fit the swimming goggles, earplugs and noseplugs before
pulling off the tape.  Simultaneously a modified snorkel was pushed into her
mouth with the tube pointing towards her waist, where it was secured with duct
tape.  Then the motor was started again.

    Mary was now able to make more noise - sort of trumpeting woo-woo sounds -
which she did to her maximum ability.  The water had risen while we fixed her
up, and this time she went under up to her nose.  I could just hear the rush of
her gasping above the noise of the water and the low hum of the vibrator.  She
emerged and began to rise.

    "Rule number one when using this," said Monica. "Never leave the client
alone - not for a second.  Sit at right angles to them if needs be, and far
enough away so that they can't see you out of the corner of their eye.  But
never take your eyes off them.  Got it?"  She looked at each girl in turn.

    "Yes Mon," came the chorused response.  "Jill, go take over from Leila - I
want her to understand this too.  But of course remember that the motor can be
slowed down, and the water can be slowed as well.  We've given Mary the
accelerated version, complete with extras.  You want to know your clients pretty
well before you subject them to this.  I happen to know Mary is a complete pain
slut and can take this happily.  Well, perhaps not happily.  There's only one
way she'll take it happily, and that's when I lock the outside weight in place,
so the vibrator stays on.  Watch closely."

    Without stopping the submarine, Monica reached across and twisted a small
locking butterfly nut on the outer weight as Monica's head went under again. 
Perhaps taking pity on her victim she removed the nipple clamps, although she
did this fast enough to make it really hurt, as Mary's wail through the tube
went up an octave.  Finally, after Mary had been round the clock and her head
disappeared into water that now reached past her breasts, Monica turned off the
motor and water simultaneously.  Suspended underwater, Mary's gasping increased
but there was no sign of panic.  Under all the pain and pleasurable sensations
Mary knew enough to trust Monica and knew she would come to no harm.  Once she
had reached that conclusion she surrendered herself to the vibrations coming
from her crotch as the deeply embedded vibrator did its business. 

    Again, the distant voice emanating from the rubber tube went up an octave,
merging from a gasp into a whine then a howl that was warm with pleasure.  Her
hands were opening and shutting while her feet twitched madly in a bizarre
inverted dance.  Monica let the water out and pulled the mouthpiece from Mary's
mouth as the level dropped below her head.

    "Behold, ladies, the submarine is christened," Monica announced.  "May God
bless her and all who come in her."

    "Bitch," said Mary.

Monica's Place

CHAPTER NINE - SHANNEN'S STORY - DAY ONE
   

    They told me to start this under the heading of "Day One".  I don't know
what's going on and I don't like it.  They say I have to describe everything
that goes on - what I see, what I hear and what I feel, who I am, what I'm
like...  It's all like some kind of psychology shit.  They say that because I'm
a writer for Australian Cosmo I should know all about writing - which I do. 
They say I'm not leaving until they see a change in my behaviour.  We'll see
about that.  Anyway, if they want to know the full story, they can have it. 
Like it will do any good.

    My name is Shannen.  I'm 22, 170 cm tall, with dark hair just covering my
ears.  I reckon I'm not too bad looking - enough men have told me so.  I've got
a Masters in journalism, so I guess I must have some brains as well.  Or so I
thought.  I guess if I was that smart I wouldn't be where I am now, writing this
crap.  	

    Where am I?  God this is embarrassing.  But they said if I didn't tell it
like it is they'd start the shocks again, especially that Mary girl - she is
some bitch!  So here I am, squatting at the foot of the stairs into the
basement, in  black stockings, black high heels, a dark maroon skirt that shows
off my legs pretty well, and a white satin blouse.  And no bra of course.  (If I
say so myself, my tits are my best attribute - not huge, but bouncy enough that
men can't resist them, and no problem with the pencil test.  Unfortunately the
bitches in this place seem to like them too - to the extent of placing those
bloody nipple clamps on them - Jesus they hurt!)  So here I am, squatting at the
foot of the stairs, writing this stuff in a bound exercise book resting on my
thighs.  Sound pretty straightforward?  It is. 

    It's also pretty limiting, too, since there is this chain locked around my
waist, with a short side chain locked from each hip to each ankle, which makes
it pretty difficult to stand up.  But that's not the real problem.  The real
problem is that I'm squatting on a piece of galvanised steel plate around half a
metre square.  Sprouting up from it is a fucking great butt plug which is
embedded in my arse.  The fact that I can't rise off my heels means I can't
exactly extract this device, even though my hands are free.  I tried it.  Oh
yes, I can squirm around a bit, and rotate myself in a circle on the plate, but
other than getting screwed in the arse in a big way, Shannen really isn't going
anywhere.  And just to make sure, the locked collar around my neck with its
chain locked to the banister rail would make doubly sure. 

    And it hurts, too - the butt plug, that is.  It's wide and long, and even
though they had the decency(!) to lubricate it, it still fucking hurts,
especially when I lean back a little.  It hurts to the point where I yelled at
them and cried and carried on.  Well, up to a point. 

    There's this huge rubber ball in my mouth that also hurts - it makes my jaw
ache.  The Mary bitch locked it in place with a padlock at the back of the wide
strap behind my head.  I've pulled at it and tried to force the ball out, but
it's impossible.  My mouth may be big, but it's not that big.  Big enough to get
me into trouble, I guess.  It's hard to get any answers in this state.  I don't
know how long I'll be kept like this - I'm told it's until I write what they
want to read.  I'm also told it will be when they know it's the truth.  What a
pack of stuck up sluts!  Talk about arrogant and full of themselves!

   

    So how did I get here?  It's clear to me now that my father is behind it
all.  He was the one who told me about the party here - about the private nature
of it and the big names who would be here.  I suppose I should have suspected
something.  What was in it for him - since when did he owe me any favours?  All
we have ever done in life is argue, but in this instance I guess I was too keen
for the scoop.  Too keen to get one up on my boss and the office competition.

    So there I was, knocking on the door of this place, tarted up in short skirt
and high heels, but looking like a million bucks in all honesty.  It was an
American chick who opened it - thirty something, I guess, but with a husky voice
and a nice smile - or so I thought.

    "Hi!  You must be Shannen.  Come on in.  You're the first.  Why don't you
come and meet Monica - she's organising the do."

    "Sure," I said - ever the gullible one, or was it just sniffing for the
dirt?  I sensed the American chick moving behind me, and didn't quite take in
her words when she said:

    "There's just one formality we have to take care of first.  House rules, I'm
afraid."

    It was all so unexpected when she grabbed one wrist and clicked a handcuff
on it in a fraction of a second, before pulling my other wrist behind me and
snapping the other link on it.  Well, I went right off at that point, so
unexpected was the attack.  I had dropped my handbag on the floor of the entry
hall and found myself propelled into this other room  - a study lined with
bookshelves - where there was this broad sitting behind a desk, smiling at me
and looking ever so up herself.

    "Ah, Shannen.  Thank you for joining us this evening.  Please have a seat."

    I probably said something a little inappropriate at that point, namely like
what the fuck she thought she was doing.  The American was still there, however,
and I was pushed most unceremoniously on to one of those stackable type of
tubular framed chairs - the sort you get at seminars and which are always
uncomfortable after fifteen minutes.  The point about this one was that it had a
gap at the rear of the seat that my handcuffed wrists slipped through very
easily. So easily that Husky Voice had a wide leather belt around my arms and
below my tits before I knew it.  She buckled it really tightly and I found
myself pretty much welded to the chair.  I was perhaps even more vocal, which
may again have been a mistake.  I have a habit of speaking without thinking and
I certainly wasn't thinking too well at this point.  I never saw Husky Voice
coming with the gag until my head was jerked back by a handful of hair.  I
opened my mouth instinctively and this big red ball on a strap was wedged
between my teeth as easy as pie.  Talk about professional.  Then there were
straps going under my chin, around my head and over the top - everything seemed
to be pulled tight at once, making me moan with pain behind the ball.  Then
something clicked behind my head - something I later discovered to be a padlock.

    "That's better. Thank you Trish," said the chick behind the desk.  "Let me
introduce myself.  My name is Monica.  You are our guest for the moment - our
guest for as long as it takes."

    "Wofff?"  I spluttered, shaking my head with incredulity - like I was going
to get the gag out of my mouth - not!

    "As long as what takes?  I hear you ask."  She smiled like oozing golden
syrup.  "You'll have to figure that one out yourself.  I can tell you a few
basic rules, though.  Firstly, you will remain confined while you're here.  If
you misbehave you will be punished, and you will be very sorry.  You are a
journalist, and, I believe, quite a good one, albeit full of yourself.  Your
task, before you leave here, is to document your transition into something more
approaching a human being.  You will record how you came to be here, what you
feel, what you see, what you think, who you meet, what happens to you -
basically everything.  I want to read what you've written at the end of the day. 
It had better be the real thing - any crap and you'll regret it." 

    I heard the door open behind me,  "This is Mary," smiled Monica.  I looked
over my shoulder.  The woman was tall and willowy, with dark hair tucked behind
her ears - an Audrey Hepburn type but with attitude.  She was probably the
oldest of the three and when she smiled at me I felt a shiver run down my spine. 
She wore a black lycra top and a leather skirt to mid-thigh.  "Mary will be your
hostess for today.  Let me tell you Mary is not one to suffer fools gladly. 
More specifically she is glad to let fools suffer - long and hard.  All right
ladies, I think Shannen can be prepared."

    I have to say these bitches were pretty damn good.  A rope was tied to the
links on my handcuffs and passed to Monica.  That's when they undid the belt
around my body and pushed me forward to the desk.  I glared at Monica and tried
to abuse her, but fat chance with all that rubber stuffed in my mouth. 
"Mmmpfh!" sounds pretty non-specific as a threat.  One of the thugs lifted the
rope so it ran over my shoulder and Monica obliged by pulling hard.  I felt my
wrists pulled up near my shoulders and I would have howled with the pain if I
could.  With a bit of squirming I worked my wrists to a less hurtful angle, but
not before I found myself face down on the desk with Monica standing over me
tugging my wrists close to my shoulder blades.

    The dynamic duo were on the ball behind me, however, as my legs were pulled
apart and my ankles tied to the desk legs.  Vulnerable wasn't the word for it! 
Next thing I felt was the cold steel of some scissors as they deftly snipped
away my satin panties - the ones that cost me fifty-five bucks at the most
exclusive shop in town.  Somebody was going to pay for those!  Unfortunately
around that point I had the distinct impression it was going to be me.  My skirt
was lifted and I felt the air around my arse and pussy.  I was wearing black
seamed stockings and a garter belt.  The tops of the stockings were just above
the hem of my skirt - before the A-Team (Arse Team!) hiked it up further.  I had
a suddenly unpleasant feeling I was not going to like what was to happen next. 
This was confirmed as a nozzle of some sort penetrated my butthole and a cold
squeeze of what I assumed to be lubricant shot into my back passage.  I could
not help squirming and whining, which - I freely confess - turned up several
notches when I felt the tip of the butt plug start to enter my orifice.  I
whimpered, I admit.  I have had dicks up my arse before, and I guess it can be a
turn on, but this thing was bigger than I remembered anything before.  Whoever
was doing the job - I think it was the American chick - did it with expert
thrusts, each time penetrating further.  The thing felt so huge I thought my
sphincter was going to split! 

    By now I was panting as though I had run a hundred metres, my body tense and
resisting, and the piercing pain still coming.  I was trying to scream into the
rubber gag, biting down on the ball and screwing my eyes closed.  My cheek was
on the polished desktop, and although it was cool I felt sweat pouring off my
forehead.  The plug felt like it was five centimetres across and still growing! 
Desperately I willed my muscles to relax, for by now I must have been keening
into the gag in a continuous wail.  Suddenly there was a blinding pain followed
by a lessening, and I knew it was inside me, deep and filling, as my anal
muscles closed around the narrow neck of the beast.  I was making pathetic
grunting sounds by now, and I realised I was crying.  God, this was so
humiliating, being bent and spread across a desk and having your arse stuffed
with a huge butt plug!  I am surely going to get someone for this! 

    "You'll have plenty of time to think about your situation," said Monica as I
raised my head while my ankles were untied.  "You now know what it's like to
really get shafted - just as you've done to a dozen people close to you.  And to
before you start screaming (and I use the word metaphorically, given your
present state) assault or deprivation of liberty, think it through.  There will
be lots of nice photos available of Shannen O'Donnell - to your very own
newspaper - if this ever got to court.  Think about what has just taken place
and how people will react to the famous Shannen O'Donnell getting it in the
arse.  You can bet there'll be more photos where that one came from - something
to remember before you start blowing the whistle on this place.  Comprendez?" 

    I must've looked at her blankly until a hand slipped between my legs and
gave the butt plug an almighty lift!  I moaned into the gag and reluctantly
nodded.  I was trembling and hated myself for it.  Bitch.  She'll get what's
coming to her.

    That's when they put those bloody nipple clamps on me and towed me
downstairs into what seems to be some sort of dungeon area.  Those clamps really
hurt! I carried on and pleaded but all the noise seemed to come out the same - a
sort of mmphing and grunting and hmming through my nose.  The pulling on my nips
certainly encouraged me to go with the Mary bitch.  Talk about the carrot and
the big stick - without the carrot.  The big stick was up my arse and made me
walk uncomfortably.  I went down the stairs very carefully.  At the bottom was
this steel plate with some sort of short pipe sticking up about fifteen
centimetres in the middle.  That was where they locked the chain around my waist
and made me squat over this pipe stub.  Mary fiddled about on her knees then I
felt something slide home. Suddenly the butt plug became rigid and fixed
securely to the pipe stub.  Mary then locked a chain around each ankle and
secured them to my waist chain.  I was stuck in a permanent squat!  I mmphed in
a mixture of fear and frustration.

    "See ya later," said Mary, ignoring my pleas and disappearing up the stairs. 

   

    I was left in this state for maybe an hour - I lost all track of time.  Then
the American chick reappeared with this exercise book and undid my handcuffs. 
My hands instinctively flew to the ball gag, to try to remove it.  By this time
I had been drooling steadily and had managed to saturate the front of my blouse. 
But the strap was padlocked behind my neck and no matter how I pulled at any
part, Shannen was not going to get that rubber ball out of her mouth.  I tried
the butt plug and found another padlock down there, my disappointment and
frustration watched by Trish who wore an amused smile at my struggles.

    "Better start writing, hon. You can go to bed when you've finished."

    So here I am.

Monica's Place

CHAPTER TEN:  SHANNEN'S STORY - DAY TWO

    I can't believe what is happening to me here.  If yesterday was bad, today
has been awful.  Monica came down last night and took my writing away.  I guess
that was what started it all.  They let me pee before locking me in a cell for
the night - thankfully releasing my cramping legs but leaving the butt plug in
place and locking it there by sliding the waist chain through ninety degrees and
locking the two loose pieces between my legs under my skirt.  They told me I
would be fed, but that feeding would stop the moment I made any noise
whatsoever. 

    In the cell my wrists were secured with leather cuffs behind my back again
and I was made to kneel on the cold floor.  A bowl of some sort of pasta was put
on the floor in front of me, along with a bottle of water with a straw in it.  I
was told I had five minutes to finish my dinner and the ball gag was unlocked
and pulled out with a sucking sound.  My jaws ached and it was difficult to eat
with my arse in the air and my arms pulled behind me.  I was only part the way
through, interspersing my chewing with quick slurps of water when they came back
and took it all away.  I started to protest which was probably not very smart. 
Trish and Mary sat me on the bed and pulled a black rubber swimcap over my head,
covering most of my hair.  Then they wound about three miles of silver duct tape
around my head, over foam eyepads, mouth and chin, leaving me silent and
blinded.  My wrists were unlocked and fastened to the corners of the bedhead,
then my ankles were roped likewise.  That was Shannen secured for the night, I
thought, until a muffled voice came distantly through the bindings around my
head.

    "You've been very unkind with your writing, Shannen.  Not at all nice or
complimentary.  You realise you'll have to be punished for that." 

    I began to tremble, lying in the darkness, not knowing what was going to
happen.  The pain came instantaneously on each nipple as some form of clip was
released on each one.  I squirmed and moaned, writhing around on the
plastic-covered thin foam mattress, tugging at my bonds, but it was hopeless.  I
could not get my hands anywhere near my tits to try to rid myself of those awful
pincers.  I admit I cried, under the foam eyepads, the tears stinging my eyes. 
I was pleading and begging beneath the layers of tape over my mouth but to no
avail.  At length I guess my thrashings subsided as the pain in my nipples grew
to a dull ache.  I had no idea what time it was - well after midnight I suppose
- but I finally fell asleep, exhausted.

   

    I was awoken after what seemed like no time at all.  Hands were shaking me
and I had no idea where I was or what was happening, other than that when I
tried to move my arms and legs they wouldn't, because of course they were still
tied to the bedframe.  There was suddenly a piercing pain in my nipples and I
moaned and cried into the tape covering my mouth, my breath coming in rapid
pants through my nose.  Those horrid nipple clips had obviously been removed and
the blood was returning to my poor nipples.

    "Shannen! Can you hear me?"  It was the voice of the Mary chick - the Audrey
Hepburn lookalike with the mean streak.  I moaned in the affirmative.  Mary's
voice was low and even.  "We've been reading what you wrote, and also some of
the testimonials we've received about you.

    "You know what, Shannen?" said the voice next to my taped head. "You're full
of shit.  And do you know what that means?  Well?"  I shook my head in my dark
world.  "It means, bitch, that you need to have the shit cleaned out of you. 
You need to be purified, if you like.  You need to have that big mouth of yours
filled with other things that will have a cleansing influence.  And the same can
be said for that tight little arse of yours.  You must also remember that the
things that have come from your mouth have hurt people.  You may be a shit-hot
journalist but you have no respect for people's feelings, and you need to
understand how it feels to be hurt.  Do you understand?"

    I didn't know how to answer.  What did she mean?  Suddenly - perhaps for the
first time - I was really afraid. There was something chilling about this woman
in whose power I now lay totally.  I moaned, hoping it came through somehow as
the appropriate response.

    My wrists were undone, but before I could savour the relief at being able to
bend my elbows again, my silk blouse was stripped off and the wrist cuffs were
joined on a short length of chain behind my back.  My ankles were likewise
released and then joined by a short hobble chain.   I was then pulled to my
feet, my skirt was removed and the chain around my waist and between my legs was
undone. Then that hated butt plug was removed none too gently.  It had been in
all night - or however long I had been there, that is. 

    "I said you were full of shit," said the voice.  "Better get rid of some of
it now."  I was pushed on to the toilet bowl and managed to perform my ablutions
in a kind of contorted way.  I hated the fact that Mary was watching me sitting
there.  Perhaps the fact that I was blindfolded with the tape and could not
actually see her made it bearable.  At least she couldn't see my face redden, as
I'm sure it did. 

    "Would you like some food?" she then asked.  I nodded.  "I'm sure you
would," said Mary.  "Unfortunately we can't always have what we want in life,
can we."

    "Mmnnn?"  Were these people going to starve me?

    "You've  always got what you wanted, haven't you, Shannen - one way or the
other.  Maybe it's a new experience for you to be at the mercy of someone you
have no control over - who has total control over you, in fact.  Puts a new
light on things, doesn't it?"  I said nothing.  I couldn't.

   

    During the night I had managed to rid myself of my high-heeled shoes, since
they were starting to pinch my feet. Invisible hands now put them back on and
tape was wrapped around them to stop any repetition of such obvious rebellion. 
I was naked except for my stockings, garter belt and shoes, my wrists and ankles
chained, and my head swathed in tape.  Shannen was not a happy teddy, and I
suspected things were going to get worse very shortly.

    I was right.  I was walked across the small cell to some sort of frame and
made to bend over it.  It felt like a kind of sawhorse made of pipe, on a small
platform, with a padded bar over which I was bent.  My wrists were unhitched and
a pair of hands grabbed each.  I realised now that there were two jailers in the
room.  The wrist cuffs were secured down near my ankles, but on the opposite
side of the frame, my arms spread at 45 degrees and stretched tight.  Then my
ankles received the same treatment.  The world seemed to go quieter, bent double
like this, save for the increased pounding of the blood in my ears.  At that
point the whole platform, which must have been some sort of wheeled trolley,
began to move as I was transported to where my fate lay. It did not take long. 
There were dimly perceived sounds of heavy doors opening and closing before I
came to a halt.  Then I heard Mary's voice hissing menacingly beside my head.

    "Shannen, it's time for your payback.  For all the hurt you've inflicted on
others, and for what you are about to receive, may the Lord make you truly
thankful."  Things went quiet for a bit.  I felt myself trembling, and tugging
on the cuffs I quickly discovered was futile.  Then the voice was back.  "You're
also a slut, Shannen.  Has anybody ever told you that?  You show yourself off
like a hooker.  You have very nice legs - very shapely.  Nice arse and tits,
too.  But you need to bring a little more decorum into your life - don't you
think?  Maybe you need more encouragement to cover up."

    I was totally unprepared for the searing pain across my left butt cheek when
it came.  I jerked involuntarily on my bonds, a scream stifled by the tape. 
Another slash to my right cheek! I jumped, or tried to.  My restraints held me
tightly bent over the frame.  It felt like a riding crop that was being used - a
burning pain that saw me frantically 'mmming' and making keening sounds behind
the tape.  The strokes continued at random intervals, my butt receiving the full
treatment.  I was by now wailing and jerking like mad in my bonds, having lost
all semblance of dignity or self-control.  I did not count the strokes - the
pain made even that concentration impossible for me.  I thought I would die.  I
thought things could never get worse.  I did not realise the process was to be
carefully extended over several hours in varying forms. 

   

    In rare moments of lucidity Mary's words about my tits, arse and legs came
back to me, usually when those parts were receiving some horrible punishment. 
After the crop on my backside came the flogger on my legs, particularly the
tender insides of my thighs.  Mary also seemed unable to resist the odd flick at
my pussy, which almost made me pass out with the pain.

    During the pauses in my whipping  my own words were thrown back at me - the
words I had written while squatting uncomfortably at the foot of the stairs and
- I admit - abusing those I had encountered in this house. 

    "It's not nice to call people bitches, Shannen.  You shouldn't make threats
in your writing or say bad things about people.  What you wrote last night was
really just like your magazine column, wasn't it - all invective and malice. 
You really should control yourself a bit more.  Perhaps we should do it for you,
yes?"  Thwack!

    "Hmmnn! Hmmnn!" I shook my head despairingly.

   

    And of course it seemed that these people could not leave my tits alone. 
Despite the pain of my legs and backside, the bite into my nipples brought a new
depth of agony as some form of clip was attached to each.  The beating
continued, this time with some sort of flogger, like a flexible ping-pong bat. 
Then it was weights on to the nipple clips which sent me screaming and crying
and burbling behind the tape.  I thought the horror would never end, but of
course it did.  They finally left me alone, the whipping having stopped and the
weights off my nipples, but the clips still on.  I was shaking and trembling,
bent over the frame.  My skin felt as if it must have been flayed away, but at
least I still had my stockings on, for the little protection they must have
afforded me.  I was crying as much as I could, my eyes stinging from the salt
and sweat also running from every pore in the warm cloying atmosphere of my
prison.

   

    At length my tormentors returned.  I was freed from the frame and my wrists
were cuffed behind me.  I was pushed against a solid timber post and a broad
belt was buckled around the pole and my body, just below my tits, holding me
hard against the timber.  My backside and the backs of my legs were
excruciatingly tender, like the worst case of sunburn I had ever had.  Any
contact with the post sent new waves of pain through me, but at least I was now
the right way up, and at least momentarily more comfortable.  I felt the cold
steel of some scissors between the tape and my cheek as my head wrappings were
snipped away.  A stream of perspiration ran out as the tape came away and the
American chick pulled off the rubber swim cap and its accessories.  I blinked in
the bright light, my hair soaking wet and plastered down.  God I must've looked
a mess, not that I cared.  Just to be able to breathe freely and move my jaw was
a wonderful relief. 

    "Now do you know what it's like to be hurt?" Mary asked.  I nodded.  I think
my throat was so hoarse I barely trusted myself to speak.  I was still crying,
the tears running steadily down my cheeks. 

    "You've lost fluid," Trish said.  "We'll have to rehydrate you."  I did not
know what she meant.  Then I saw the harness device that she held in her hand. 
My eyes could not help but be drawn to the red rubber ball on the strap in the
midst of the jumble of leather straps.  I knew now what this meant.  Trish
smiled at me.

    "No...no, please..." I whimpered, not believing how pathetic I sounded.
"I'll be good..."

    "You certainly will, sweetie," said Mary, pulling my head back with a
handful of hair while Trish dexterously worked the ball between my teeth.  I
tried to struggle but it was useless.  One strap went round the back of my neck,
one under my chin, one up past my nose and down the top of my head, and another
encircled my head at forehead level.  Somehow it all buckled tightly and rigidly
at the back.

    "Seeing as how your mouth contains such evil words - if your columns are
anything to go by - it's only appropriate that you mouth is washed thoroughly. 
Put another way, your column sucks, and so will you, now."  She smiled, but it
stopped short of her eyes.  It was like a cat toying with a mouse.  She held up
a clear plastic tube, about half a centimetre across.  I realised it was
attached to the ball currently wedging my jaw open.  She followed my gaze.  "It
goes right through the middle of that ball," she said, "which - incidentally -
suits you.  Red is definitely your colour.  This tube will transport your
mouthwash, which you will have no choice but to swallow.  Consider it to be your
'pride' - it's about time you swallowed that.  And lots of it.  Right?"  She
flicked my nipple clips and I winced.

    Mary draped the tube over the top of my head, so that it ran down between my
eyes before arcing out in a gentle loop to return through the red rubber ball in
my mouth.   She disappeared behind me and I knew she was setting up my next
torture.  Abruptly a green liquid shot down the tube in front of my eyes and
into my mouth.  It was cold and tasted slightly sweet and faintly metallic. 
Thank god it wasn't the mouthwash I was used to.  I swallowed reflexively, but
it wasn't easy, since the ball trapped much of my tongue.  I figured I could
handle it, though.  It could not be worse than the flogging I had just endured -
or so I thought. 

    The liquid kept coming, and I kept swallowing.  After a couple of minutes I
decided I was definitely not thirsty any more, not that my wishes had anything
to do with events.  I started to moan, which isn't easy when you're swallowing
and trying to breathe at the same time.  I shook my head futilely as more time
passed but the liquid kept coming.  Again, not a good idea, as I nearly choked. 
The liquid stopped, then started again after a minute.  It continued in
stop-start fashion for some time and I felt my stomach distending in a most
uncomfortable fashion.  Trish appeared in my field of view and I tried to look
as distressed as I could, which really wasn't difficult since I felt I was
becoming awash with the green stuff.  I kept swallowing but the stuff was
trickling out of the corners of my mouth and running down my breasts.  Another
humiliation to add to Shannen's growing list.  And of course no amount of
panting or "hmmming" made any difference.  Mary and Trish only finally stopped
when they had decided I could not take any more without exploding.

    "That should see you sustained for a while," Trish said sweetly.  "There are
plenty of nutrients in the solution.  Solid food is not something you need to
worry about.   More importantly, it is also a diuretic.  You won't have to worry
about fluid retention for a while, medically speaking.  Physically, the opposite
is the case.  You will not pee a drop until we tell you, unless you want the
last whipping to seem like a gentle tickle."

    They went away for what I judged to be ten minutes, while the full impact of
the liquid began to seep through my system. Poor Shannen was going to get a real
cleansing.  Little did I realise what was to come next.

   

    It was back on to the mobile platform.  I whimpered as I was unstrapped from
the post and led to the pipe framework.  I could now see the structure and the
memories of the whipping were still fresh.  The platform was about a metre
square and had two handles like a wheelbarrow on one end and two small wheels on
the other.  The wheels were off the floor until the handles were lifted, at
which point they made contact and the whole shebang could be trundled off to the
torture chamber.  Life was becoming so convenient.

    I got the treatment again - ankles spread and secured to the frame.  This
time, however, my hands had been cuffed behind me.  They didn't bother freeing
them, instead slipping a rope around the link and pulling it over my shoulders
so that my head went down and my wrists went up behind my shoulder blades.  I
whined into the ballgag as I was bent over the frame, my full stomach making it
more difficult than before.  The rope was tied to the frame where my wrists had
been secured previously, and I knew how vulnerable such a position was.  The
girls picked up a handle each and I watched the floor slide past underneath me. 
Mary could not resist slapping my still raw backside and smirking as I jerked
painfully against the rope.

    They wheeled me into a kind of large bathroom.  It was finished totally in
white tiles on the floor and walls.  On one side was a built-in bath about waist
high with a set of steps up to the lip and some sort of frame like a see-saw
above it.  Opposite it was a toilet, basin and a bidet.  Around the walls were
various eyebolts and obvious securing points which made me shudder.  From my
position I could not see much of what was happening overhead.  I gathered there
was some sort of pulley mechanism as my cuffs were attached to a hook and my
arms were then held half-raised behind me.  My ankles were undone and the frame
was moved out of the way.  Mary briefly let my arms drop, but only sufficiently
to secure a wide leather strap around my elbows, pulling them until they almost
touched, while at the same time cuffing my ankles to an aluminium spreader bar
about a metre long. 

    This was obviously the prelude to the pulley treatment again, but this time,
because my elbows were rigid, I was forced to bend over as my wrists went
higher.  I was gasping and panting through my nose and - I admit freely - making
pathetic pleading noises by the time she stopped, and just before I thought my
shoulders would pop from their sockets.  Then on went the nipple weights again,
swinging merrily from the nip clips in front of my eyes. God they hurt!  Then
came several smacks on my rump, making me jerk really painfully again.  That was
the preparation for whatever else went inside me.  Mary worked her finger inside
my arse and then pushed some sort of plug in, none too gently and without the
benefit of lubricant.  It was not as big as the butt plug I had suffered - or so
I thought until I felt it begin to expand as it was somehow pumped up.  I was
whining still, but I shut up as a paddle whacked my cheeks a couple of times. 

    I thought the pair were merely continuing their butt plug approach from the
night before until Trish asked sweetly:

    "Do you like it hot or cold, honey?"

    "Hnn?" I articulated.

    "Your enema.  Hot or cold?"  Enema!  The import of my situation dawned on
me.  "Never mind.  We'll start with a cold one and get you warmed up later, eh?"
From the tone in her voice she might as well have been asking what story I would
like for bedtime reading.  I could not see behind me very well, other than a
thick black tube looping down and then up to my bum, beyond which two shapely
pairs of legs busied themselves with the details of my suffering.

    I became aware of a sudden chill as a spurt of icy water invaded my rectum
and began filling my insides.  That, plus the copious quantity of green liquid I
had been forced to drink started to give me cramps almost at once.  I tried
shifting my weight from foot to foot, still in my high heels.  I began to squirm
and moan as the cold fluid continued to invade me.  Clenching my buttock muscles
did nothing to stop the inflow as my abdomen enlarged painfully.  Being bent
double meant double the discomfort, too, and even the ache in my arms and the
pains in my nipples could not detract from the icy grip of the enema.

    "I think she's full now," I head Trish say.

    "Full of shit,"  Mary said off-handedly.  "Aren't you Shannen?"  There was a
sharp slap on my butt but I was afraid to move.  "But if you produce it you have
to be able to handle it dear.  You have to stay like that for the next half
hour.  Not spill a drop.  And no help from the plug which will now come out. 
And don't you dare let any go while I remove it or you'll stay like that for the
rest of the day!"

    I clenched my gluteus muscles as the plug was eased out.  I had a dreadful
feeling that I would never hold everything for half an hour.  I wanted to pee
and crap and let everything go, but I was mortally afraid of Mary and Trish and
what they would do to me, never mind the humiliation of it all.  The pair
disappeared from the room, slamming the heavy door behind them.  The air was
warm and humid.  I hung there, feeling the sweat break out and run down my body. 
I shifted from foot to foot - anything to gain some relief from the cramps and
the ache in my tense muscles.  I had once done a bus trip in Spain in the grip
of an attack of diarrhoea, but the memories of that - vivid as I thought them at
the time - paled compared to the concentration and isometrics that I now had to
put into place.  After what seemed like an eternity I knew I was never going to
make thirty minutes.  Coincidentally, that was when the dynamic duo reappeared,
this time wearing black latex body suits.  I have to say they looked stunning,
although at that precise moment I really didn't care.

    "Hold it, Shannen," warned Mary, as she released my ankles, crouching
deliberately in front, I noticed.  Then my arms were lowered and I was pointed
to the toilet to which I tottered, barely making it in time.

    Probably the less said about the next couple of hours the better.  I am now
sitting cross-legged on the floor of my cell.  My ankles are strapped and locked
so that I can't stand up, and these horrid metal clamps are still on my nipples. 
Attached to them are wires that disappear out under the door.  I know from
experience that if I fall asleep before I've finished writing my nipples will
get jolted, which is very unpleasant.  I also know that if I touch the clamps or
try to mess with them something even worse will happen to me.

   

    I am so tired.  The beatings, stretchings and enemas have wrung me out.  I
had maybe four enemas and I must've drunk gallons of the green stuff.  I sat for
hours on the bog and  the room stank.  I was so humiliated.  I found out why
Trish and Mary wore the rubber catsuits.  It was so they could hose me down and
not be bothered about the mess themselves.  In between the enemas I was hung up
and hosed down, with the nozzle inserted in all my private orifices.  They could
not resist flogging me while I was wet, either.  I hurt all over, now.  My shoes
are still taped to my feet, albeit sodden and better shaped to them as a result. 
My stockings are torn and laddered.  I ache everywhere - my jaw, my shoulders,
arms, wrists, ankles... My back, bum and legs feel like they've been under the
tropical sun for a day, and my arsehole is too tender to talk about.  I feel
like I've been reamed.  I guess I have been very thoroughly shafted.  Makes a
change, I suppose from doing it to other people.  And before you ask, no, it is
not nice.

    I don't know what else to say, except please take these clips off my
nipples!

Monica's Place

CHAPTER ELEVEN:  SHANNEN'S STORY -  DAY THREE

    A day has passed since my last entry.  I spent last night bound hand and
foot on a thin mattress on the floor.  They took the metal clips off my nipples
finally but they were so sore I couldn't lie on my front. By the same token my
rear end and the backs of my legs were terribly tender, and besides, when your
hands are chained behind you it is hard to lie on them.  I ended up getting very
little sleep, despite being so exhausted.  They left the light on and while it
made sleeping difficult, at least I could see to go to the loo.  I thought I
would be 'empty' by this stage, but my bowels were in a state of revolt and kept
having spasms at random intervals for the early part of my so-called rest
period.  Hauling myself on to the toilet with hands and ankles cuffed and
chained was not easy, and despite my exhaustion, every such effort seemed to
wake me up a bit and make it harder to fall asleep.  Meanwhile - and probably
not surprisingly - I was feeling really empty and hungry.  Lack of solid food,
the strenuous nature of my punishment, and a lack of sleep were all taking their
toll.

    On top of the physical aspects there was a clicking sound coming from
somewhere that was annoying me.  I wondered if there was a speaker somewhere in
the ceiling and whether they did this just to drive me to distraction.  There
were other cracklings and hissings that suggested this, like an old LP record
when it reached the end of the music.  I began to wonder how skilled these
people were in matters psychological, over and above the physical. 

    The cell became hot and stifling - obviously the heating had been turned up
- and as I lay on my side sweating on the plastic-covered mattress I wondered
where all this was leading.  I was feeling very sorry for myself and confess to
shedding more tears.  It would evidently have been out of character for me not
to have been gagged, but this time it was merely with several strips of duct
tape criss-crossed over my mouth.  It was bearable, but I still sniffed and
snuffled through my nose as the tears rolled down. 

   

    I suppose I must have dozed at some stage.  I know that when the pointy boot
nudged me in the ribs that I was none too rested.  It was the Monica - the one
who obviously ran the place.

    "Good morning Shannen.  I've brought you some breakfast."  She put down a
tray of some sort of cereal mush on the floor beside me.  "You have five minutes
to eat it."  She turned to go and was almost at the door when my frantic
"hmmming" made her turn with a smile.  "Of course.  You want your gag off.  How
silly of me."  None too gently she peeled the duct tape away and left me to my
own devices, kneeling awkwardly trying to lap up the stuff.  I knew it wouldn't
do much towards filling my stomach.  It had milk in it but it nevertheless
tasted odd.  I wasn't going to get caught out, however, so I gulped the mess
down as fast as I could.  A couple of minutes passed after I'd finished, and
while I savoured the ability to lick my lips and work my jaw without having
something stuffed in it, I was feeling decidedly strange.  That's about when I
must've passed out.

   

    I awoke with a predictable feeling of confinement, but with strange new
aspects that it took me a moment to work out.  I figured out that I had been
drugged.  They must've been using that date-rape drug that was gaining such
popularity amongst the more perverted parts of society.

    I found myself lying on my back on the bed in my cell.  (How strange it was
that I now thought of it as my cell!)  My ankles were secured to the lower
corners while my arms were bent at the elbows and secured behind me.  I tugged
at my bonds and concluded that my right wrist was strapped to my left elbow and
vice versa, with a few straps around the forearms to make things snug.  It was
almost comfortable with my arms folded in the small of my back, but I was sure
this would not last long, if my captors had anything to do with it.

    The second thing I found was that I was clothed - after a fashion, although
just what that fashion was I couldn't quite determine.  The first problem was
that I now wore some sort of heavy padded collar which kept my chin up and
prevented me turning my head.  In my current position I could stare upwards,
which wasn't too exciting.  My limitations were further enhanced by some sort of
blinkers which - unlike a horse's blinkers - encircled my eyes in the form of
two tubes.  The device was a bit like wearing truncated binoculars without the
lenses, the result being that I could see little apart from what lay directly
ahead.  Trying to work out my costume was thus almost impossible in my present
state other than by feel. 

    I realised my shoes and stockings had gone.  In place of them were thin -
possibly latex - stockings and what seemed like thigh boots.  The top of my body
also wore latex, I surmised - a kind of long-sleeved leotard ending in rubber
mittens over my hands.  The garment was tight and clinging.  I suspect it would
be warm very soon, too.  What felt like a short rubber skirt appeared to
complete the outfit, coming halfway down my thighs to meet the top of the boots. 
And of course there was my head. 

    Shannen's head appeared to be a favourite creative site these days, and it
was evident that my blinkers and collar were insufficient.  Under these I wore a
kind of rubber hood, but with the face open.  And of course I was gagged - we
wouldn't want poor Shannen running off at the mouth, would we?  But this time it
was a sort of bit-gag, made from a rubber-encased bar about 2 centimetres in
diameter but with a ball-shaped rubber attachment sticking out at right angles
that was embedded in my mouth.  Lying on my back, unable to turn my head, I felt
some drool trickling down from the edge of my mouth around the bit.  Maybe I was
running off at the mouth after all... I did not yet fully understand what was
happening and I didn't like it, but at least I wasn't in pain.  Yet.

    I heard the door open.  Monica appeared, this time with a tall girl with
shortish blonde hair pushed back behind her ears.

    "This is Jillian," said Monica told me cheerfully. "Jillian - meet Shannen."

    "Hi Shannen," said the blonde, centring herself in my extremely limited
field of view.  "How are you?" 

    Oh dear, I thought - another comedienne.  But maybe I shouldn't be thinking
like that... Bad Shannen.

    "Mmmphrrt!" I said.

    "She doesn't say much," Monica explained to the other.  "She used to, but
she's learning that talking out of turn can get one into trouble in quite a big
way.  Isn't that right, Shannen?"  I tried to nod, but not very successfully. 
"You need to be abluted first dear, since you may not have the chance for a
while." 

    They untied my legs and helped me to the toilet, freeing the crotch area of
the leotard in the process. I found out at that point that my boots had ten
centimetre heels on them and I tottered momentarily at the unexpected rise in my
position in the world.  All in all, however, they were not a bad fit, and it
wasn't as if I hadn't worn that sort of heel before.

   

     I sat awkwardly and shamefaced on the toilet while Jillian attached a drink
tube to what I presumed was a small valve in the gag, and allowed me to suck on
a drink.  I don't know what it was but I drank it greedily, feeling very
dehydrated after yesterday.  It tasted like those sports drinks - a mixture of
vitamins and minerals.

    "We're going to take you on a little outing, Shannen," Monica continued
after I had finished.  I was put back on the bed and my ankles secured again. 
"Your lesson yesterday was all about speaking bad things and the hurt that can
result.  Today's lesson is all about using people.  Today it will be your turn
to be used and manipulated by others for their own ends, with total disregard
for your feelings. 

    "Yesterday was also about humiliation.  This theme will continue today.  You
will be required to wear certain devices today, too."  She flourished a
double-headed dildo in front of my face.  I groaned.  My rectum was still sore
and tender from yesterday.  Now they wanted to mess with my pussy as well. "But
first we need to lubricate them," she added, smearing them with a white paste. 
I was in no position to resist, lying there with my legs apart.  I felt the
rubber skirt rolled up again then fresh air on my fanny. Then the dildo was
expertly positioned and the leotard closed over it with some sort of snap
fastener and the skirt was rolled down again.

    My two jailers undid my ankles from the bedframe and fastened a short hobble
chain between them before helping me stand up.

    "Come along dear," said Monica, and they each grasped me by an upper arm. 
Movement was something to be thought about carefully, I quickly discovered, as
the hobble chain limited me to short steps and the blinkers and neck collar made
it difficult to look down.  We went out of the cell and slowly ascended the
stairs.  As I reached the top I began to notice a strange sensation in my arse
and pussy - sort of stinging feeling.  We turned into the study where I had
first met Monica.

    "I thought I'd bring you in here so you can see how stunning you look.  Does
the term 'show pony' mean anything to you?"  The door closed behind us and I was
turned around to face a full-length mirror on the back of the door, where I
beheld myself in all my glory.  I felt myself redden at the sight.  I had
identified most of my outfit, but had not been able to see the red feather plume
sprouting from the top of my hood, nor did I see the big brass ring on each end
of the gag bit, with the leather thong that trailed over each shoulder. Monica's
reference to a show pony suddenly struck home.

    "Wmmft?"  I asked incredulously.  God, if my friends could see me now!

    "Yes, you do look stunning," Monica agreed. "And we really should show off
those lovely tits of yours a bit more. "  I groaned and shook my head, making
the brass rings rattle and my plume dance about.  Monica reached out and pulled
down a zip I had not noticed in the front of the black rubber, over my left
nipple, then repeated the process over the right one.   She parted the rubber
and my little red buds popped into view.  Something had already set them off,
and it didn't take much tweaking by Monica for them to harden further.  I had a
suspicion I knew what was coming next, and I winced with pain as the familiar
metal clips bit greedily into the flinty nipples.  This time, however, I saw
that there was a short silver chain linking the clips.  Attached to the middle
of this was a thin leather strap that dangled to the floor.  

    By this time I was getting flustered even further, and that strange feelings
in my loins and arse had become very noticeable.  It was now a burning, fiery
pain which I urgently wanted to stop, or at least to tell someone about.  I
stamped my feet and keened into the bit gag, snorting as much as I could of my
discomfort.

    "What's the matter, little pony?" asked Jillian solicitously, stroking my
cheek.

    "Mmft hnn ffnrr!" I told her in frustration.  Jillian looked blankly at
Monica.

    "What's she on about, Mon?"

    "I don't know.  I don't understand horsy talk - all this stamping and
snorting.  She acts like she's in pain."

    "Mmmn!" I nodded, or tried to, against the restraining collar that held my
head up rigidly.  I bounced about, keeping my legs together and rubbing my bum
against a heavy chair.  Surely these women could see what my problem was?

    "This is animal behaviour, Mon.  It's all about territory and rubbing her
scent on things."

    "No.  I think it's something more fundamental than that.  Could it be that
toothpaste we put on the dildo?"

    "Yeah, probably."  The pair burst out laughing.  "It'll wear off, Shannen -
in half an hour or so.  We thought you'd better have a little reminder of the
hurt lesson from yesterday, just to reinforce things.  Sometimes little acts can
really hurt deep inside.  Is that a sufficiently cliched description for you to
remember?  Stamp once for yes, two for no."  I just looked at them. 

    "Well?" asked Monica impatiently, twisting my nipple.  Reluctantly I stamped
my foot once.  "Good pony," she said.   Was this the lowest point in my
existence, I wondered?  Was it worse than yesterday, in a different way?  I
thought I'd just gone off the scale.

   

     We walked through the kitchen to a verandah area at the back, where two
other girls and a guy were eating breakfast.  Thank god there was no sign of
Trish and Mary, I thought.  But the guy was something else I hadn't bargained
on.  My embarrassment began to reach new heights.  I was following Jillian, not
really knowing where I was going, and aware Monica was behind me.  I glimpsed
the other three briefly and we were almost past them when my head and body was
jerked to a halt by a tugging on the bit gag.  I realised I was being reined in
by the leads attached to the brass rings.

    "Whoa horsy!" came Monica's voice.  Then there was a tug on one side of the
bit and I was forced to turn to face the three at the table.  "Ladies and
gentleman, allow me to introduce the newest addition to the circus. Leila, Emma
and Steve, this is Shannen O'Donnell, the well-known gossip columnist and
muckraker about town.  Shannen, take a bow, please."

    I stood there, not really understanding, until there was a sharp tug on my
nipples as the third rein - now disappearing back between my legs to the hand of
Monica - pulled remorselessly on my tits, forcing me to bend at the waist.  I
bowed low and held the position until I felt the pressure relax from my tortured
nipples. 

    "Good girl," said Monica warmly, as one would to a puppy that had managed to
roll over on command for the first time.  She announced brightly to the diners:
"Today Shannen is going to learn all about being used by people, which will be
quite a novelty for her, since she is far more accustomed to doing the using. 
Part of the exercise is also to introduce a little humility into her life, which
we will start off doing with a photo opportunity.  The light is lovely at this
time in the morning, and by chance Leila has brought her camera, haven't you,
Lei."

    The youthful blonde sitting at the table reached across to the chair beside
her and produced a fancy looking 35mm Canon camera.  At the same time I felt
hands at the back of my head undoing something and moments later the blinkers
fell away.  In some ways it was a relief but I immediately felt more naked in
that my face was much more recognisable, not to mention ignominiously coping
with a gag stuffed in my mouth.  I felt myself redden even further.

    "Let's start with a few shots on the verandah," suggested Leila cheerfully.
"Mon, can you tether her to the rail please?"

    Monica flipped the reins over my head and looped them around the edge rail
after pulling me into a 45-degree bend.  Leila then proceeded to snap off
several shots at various angles in what I have to say seemed to be a very
professional manner.  My controller then loosed those reins but pulled the
nipple control strap to the front and looped it over a beam before pulling it to
tie on to the railing.  I was forced on to my tiptoes to ease the terrible pain
in my nipples.  Leila seemed to like this pose.

    "That's great!  I can just see the headlines now: 'Shannen is going up in
the world'. 'O'Donnell gets her come-uppance'.  'Up yours, O'Donnell'.  'Party
girl hits new heights'."

    I winced in a mixture of pain and humiliation at the thought.  This was
definitely the low point of my life, I decided.  By now the pain in my loins was
becoming a terrible mixture of heat and itching and - as my bonds were
momentarily released, I found myself rubbing my crotch against the corner post
at the top of the steps leading to the lawn.  I got some relief from the
exercise, but of course Leila recorded the whole thing. 

    "'Horny Shannen appointed to new post'," she announced delightedly.  There
were smirks from the others.

    "Ffrmph," I said, totally frustrated and shamed.  I really wanted to die.

    "After breakfast Steven will show you your duties as garden pony," Monica
announced.  "In the meantime we should put you out to graze, I guess."  She
refixed the blinkers on my head and led me down the steps and across to a garden
tap at the edge of a patch of shrubbery.  Here I was tethered by the nipple
lead.  I sat down awkwardly in the high heels and disconsolately watched the
rest of them eat breakfast.  That of course made me hungry.  I had eaten nothing
yesterday and the mush and tonic drink I had had that morning did nothing to
fill me up.  There was a lot of laughing and talking at the breakfast table, and
I'm sure most of it was about me, if the looks in my direction were anything to
go on.  Again, I felt chastened and subdued, wondering how I had got into this
mess and how long it was going to last.  I live alone and if this had been
instituted by people in the office it was quite likely that someone was making
excuses for my absence.

    Of more immediate concern, the dildo continued to itch and sting for perhaps
another half-hour that I sat there.  For all that, the morning was pleasant and
sunny, although I suspected it would become hotter very soon.  Even now, with my
arms secured behind me and wearing the thin, tight fitting black latex outfit, I
could feel the heat starting to build up.

    At length the guy, Steven, left the table and walked across the lawn.  He
was not much taller than I am, that is around 165 centimetres, and was slim
without being puny.  He was quite attractive in a way.  I am not normally
attracted to the hunky type, and I could not say Steven fell into this category
anyway.  He was about thirty, I guessed, clean-shaven and with thick brown hair
cut quite short.  He wore tan work boots, baggy khaki shorts and a tee shirt
advertising the Hong Kong handover in 1997.  I flushed as he turned his grey
eyes on me.  I had never had a man see me in such an embarrassing state.  A
bunch of women were one thing; a man stirred different feelings that I could not
accurately put my finger on.

    "Okay Princess, you're going to be working for your keep today.  Come with
me."  He undid the nipple leash and helped me to my feet.  At least he had a
spark of chivalry in him, I thought.  He made me walk in front of him, guiding
me by the three reins.  We walked around the side of the house to a garage which
I found had been converted to a workshop.  Inside was a cart, and I saw
immediately where all this was leading.  Was there no end to this?

   

    The cart was about two metres long and a bit over a metre wide - perhaps
two-thirds the size of a small trailer you can rent at a service station.  It
was made of small diameter pipe welded together with a plywood floor, and sides
about half a metre high.  It ran on two bicycle wheels and had a pair of shafts
about a metre long sticking out from the front.  Steve backed me between these
and fastened a wide leather belt around my waist.  A loop hung down each side
through which the shafts fitted and were secured.  A further strap ran between
the shafts around the front of my skirt at crotch level, while another ran
behind at bum level.  I guessed these would stop too much free play with the
shafts in the hip loops.  He buckled a further strap above my breasts and
encircling my upper arms, from which two further straps led back to the cart. 
This would help me getting up hills, he explained matter-of-factly.  Where was I
going to be going, I wondered, alarmed? 

    We tried a few steps.  I was not liking this, but at least it was better
than being arse-whipped and enema-ed as I had been yesterday.  Steve looked a
decent sort of guy - I was sure he did not have the vicious streak that Mary
had.  We emerged from the garage, Steve walking behind and to one side.  It was
easy until that point, which was when he climbed on the front of the cart.  I
felt the weight pulling at my waist and the front of my thighs at once.  He
tugged on one side of the bit gag and I turned obediently and began to pull up
the slight rise en route to the rear of the house again.  I had to lean forward
for this, pulling with my back and shoulders as well as with my thighs.  It was
not easy, but was still manageable and the bike wheels were relatively free
running.  We rounded the corner and hove into view to shouts of encouragement
and applause from the verandah.  I felt myself flushing again, and would have
hung my head if I had been able.

    Monica and Jillian came out to inspect me and were very complimentary to
Steven.  Then Monica wanted to have a ride.  Why did I get the feeling that
things were about to get worse?  Maybe it was women's intuition, but Monica
immediately decided that controlling Shannen by the reins attached to the bit
would not be half as much fun as controlling Shannen by her nipples.  The pair
of them thus undid the reins from the brass rings and threaded the straps
through the rings instead, before attaching them to the nipple clamps.  I
realised what was happening and began whining piteously.  I did not know how
much my poor nips could take of this.  Monica also had a whip, I noticed.  It
was not long - maybe a couple of metres, with a stiff sort of handle for half
the length and a thong on the end.  It looked the sort that would really sting
if used to its full potential. 

    And then we were off.  I was not wrong on any account.  Both Jillian and
Monica climbed aboard, and in moments Monica had me twisting and turning about
the garden, like an animal trying to allay the terrible pulling at my nipples. 
Any slacking and I was immediately flicked across the butt which stung like mad. 
My flesh was very tender from the floggings I had received the previous day and
the rubber skirt was thin enough to give little protection to my arse.  I was
sure in fact that it made a shiny and very tempting target. 

    We tried out some gradual slopes but with two people it was quite a
struggle.  The high-heeled boots with the hobble chain meant I had to take short
little steps and could not get a good purchase, nor could I really see where I
was going because of the limitations of the blinkers.  After ten minutes we
arrived back at the house where Leila insisted on taking some more photos of
Shannen in yet another humiliating position harnessed to a cart.  I was sweating
freely in the rubber suit now, but I didn't think I would get a rest for some
time.  Then it was Steven's turn again.

    "Now that everyone's had their fun, we can get down to the real work. Monica
said the nipple chains had to stay, so I'll be as gentle as I can.  Who knows,
maybe they'll come off by accident without my realising it."  He smiled briefly
and I warmed to him immediately.  We headed off past the garage again and down
the sloping drive to the gate.  I began to panic at the thought of going out on
to public roads, but just before the gate, which was hidden by a bend in the
drive, we halted beside 3 pallets of concrete building blocks.  This was to be
our work for the morning, I gathered.

    It was.  It took several trips to get the loading right, but I eventually
wound up hauling 40 blocks per trip times about 8 trips from near the gate to
the where Steven stacked them at the rear of the house.  There was no hurry
about the operation, and Steven let me suck regularly on the drink bottle. 
After the third trip, when the people had gone from the verandah he removed the
nipple clips entirely and clipped them to the brass rings.  I squealed in pain
as the blood flowed back but for the next hour or two I was grateful that the
constant tugging had finished.

    We returned to the pallets to load the last half dozen blocks and stopped
under the trees.  It was peaceful and shady here and again I was allowed to suck
on the drink bottle.  I was sweating freely now.  The rubber suit was very hot
and I was aching all over. 

    "You look exceptionally sexy in that outfit," Steven said.  "I'll bet
they've fitted you inside and out, too.  Am I right?"  He was standing behind
me, so I couldn't see the expression on his face, but I jumped as I felt his
hand between my legs.  I had been concentrating so much on hauling the blocks
that I had barely realised the fire and itch from the toothpaste had subsided
and that the double-headed dildo had been sweatily insinuating its way inside my
private regions.  I felt his fingers further explore my double invader through
the thin rubber, and I gasped as the device suddenly began to vibrate.  Oh no, I
really didn't need this.

    I moaned and tried to shake my head again, in vain.  Steven just sat down
and watched my frustration as I tried to squat or to gain access to the
maddening vibrator.  I tried to rub my crotch against a tree but it was too
difficult with the cart trailing behind me.

    "Ffmmphg hggmnt!" I pleaded, stumbling in a little circle so I could look at
him resting against a tree trunk.

    "What?"

    "Nnf edd noff iff! Ayff iff owff!"

    "Sorry Princess.  Don't understand." The need to climax suddenly became very
urgent.  Maybe it was a reaction to all the pain I had endured that I now
urgently needed some pleasure, but I just couldn't quite manage it.  I was
getting so close and I was afraid I couldn't quite make it. The thought of
hanging on the edge was almost worse than what I had suffered up to now.

    Steven watched my frustrated antics with an amused grin.  I was just about
ready to kick him when he got to his feet then settled on a large fallen tree
trunk.  He motioned me over to him and put his bent leg between mine, beyond the
hobble chain.  Then he put his hand on his knee and pulled me gently up against
his arm.  It was exactly what I had been craving, and I thrust myself against
his arm with no shame whatsoever.  I barely knew this guy, had not spoken one
intelligible word to him, and yet I was humping myself silly on his arm, panting
and grunting madly through my nose.  Shannen was really surpassing herself as a
slut now.

    I climaxed, wailing into the gag and shaking uncontrollably, ending up
half-draped over Steven's shoulder.  I could barely catch my breath - so much so
that he must've felt sorry for me and loosened the strap holding the bit in
place sufficiently to pull the rubber piece out of my mouth.  I couldn't believe
my luck.  I panted and gasped and shuddered a few last times while the vibrator
continued to whirr inside me.

    "Oh shitshitshit!" I gasped.  "Turn it off before I pass out!"  Steven
groped in my crotch until I felt the vibrating subside and finally stop.  I
stood there for several minutes, too exhausted to speak, just trying to catch my
breath.  That had actually been sooo good!  At length I settled down enough to
ask if there was a chance of something to eat.  I didn't want to seem
ungrateful, but I really was starving.

    "I'll ask the boss when we get back - which is what we should be doing now. 
And for that I'll have to put your gag back in and the clips on."

    "Oh no - you don't have to - glurg!" I started to say, before the black
drool-covered ball was back between my teeth with the strap done up tightly
behind my head.  Then came the nipple clamps again and I still couldn't help
moaning.  My nips weren't getting any more accustomed to them over time.  And
then I was tottering up the driveway with the last of the blocks and Steven
sitting in the cart.

   

    By the time Steven had unloaded the blocks I was sweating like a pig.  Part
of it was the labour of hauling the cart, part was standing in the sun, and no
small proportion was due to the orgasm sustained at the bottom of the drive. 
The double penetration still in my crotch and arse did nothing to settle me
down, and I wondered what horrors lay ahead of me when Monica reappeared.  She
looked at me strangely.

    "I think Shannen needs cooling down, Steven.  A horse should get properly
cared for and should not be allowed to be overheated."  And that was how I wound
up face down in the swimming pool. 

    First Jillian and Steven had removed my boots after unhitching the cart.

    "We don't want to ruin these," Jillian had said.  Their removal was some
relief, but the latex stockings still held all the heat and sweat within them,
and clearly they were staying on.  Steven produced a board about a metre and a
half long by ten centimetres wide.  This went between my legs like a splint, and
about a mile of duct tape was wound round my legs, making them pretty well
immovable.  The blinkers came off and so did the whole head harness and bit gag. 
It was a blessed relief, but only a momentary one, for the next thing I knew a
dive mask was fitted to my face and a snorkel breathing tube popped into my
mouth.  I realised then what was going to happen.  Just to make sure, a couple
of turns of tape went round my head and the mouthpiece. 

    "You've had a small taste of people using you this morning," Jillian said. 
What did she mean by 'small', I wondered with trepidation?  "Something you also
need to understand is about dependency.  People depend on you, and when you let
them down the consequences can be disastrous, or merely just upsetting.  You are
now dependent on us.  You are about to be more dependent on us, maybe to the
point of your very life.  Remember that.  Think about it before you act rashly."

    Another piece of timber appeared, about the same size, and this was tied
across my back, on top of my strapped forearms.  I did not understand what this
was for until Jillian and Steven each picked up an end and carried me easily to
the pool.  I tried to struggle but I could barely move. My legs and arms were
held rigidly still; I could only move at the hips and in my upper body, since
the collar was still in place.  I could "woohoo" a bit through the snorkel but
it sounded pretty silly, not to mention unintelligible.

   

    Then we were in the water.  I was lowered gently, feeling my legs rising up
as my body pivoted around the timber crosspiece.  Then my face was in the water
and I tried not to panic.  I had been snorkelling before and I remembered to
breathe deeply and calmly.  The supporting hands gradually let me drift and I
realised I was not going to sink or drown. I was pretty buoyant what with the
bits of timber.  The cold of the pool made itself felt on my face and the tops
of my thighs above the stockings and up to my crotch.  The rest of me, swathed
in the latex rubber, remained untouched directly by the water, although the
pleasant coolness felt nice after what I had been through.

    I floated there, with the sounds of the lapping water murmuring in my ears. 
I tested the extent of my movements, and found I could make a small porpoise
movement by bending at the waist, but my lower half was too buoyant with the
board between my legs and I dared not put my head any deeper than necessary. 
The crosspiece acted as a kind of outrigger that prevented me from turning over,
and I had to say I was impressed that this whole thing seemed to have been
thought through.  That said, I did not know how long I was to be left like this. 
The sun was hot on my upper body and I thanked god I was wearing the rubber suit
or I would have been fried like a lobster.  My breathing through the tube kept
accumulating spit in the bottom, which every so often I had to suck back up. 
Only my breathing and the occasional water noise disturbed my floating and
studying the bottom of the pool. 

    The thought that I could be left all night was not comforting.  Had they
forgotten about me?  Did they really mean to teach Shannen a lesson?  I could
not escape and if anything went wrong I could even drown.  I tried not to think
about that and to focus my thoughts on the sensory outlets available, which were
really not many.  I got a helluva shock when Leila dived into the pool and
appeared grinning underneath me.  She was wearing a white one-piece which showed
off her taut young body very nicely.  Unfortunately she was carrying two small
bags, which, with a bit of dexterous manoeuvring, she proceeded to hang on the
clips still attached to my nipples, before disappearing.  I did not know what
was in them.  They were about the size of tennis balls and I suspected they held
sand or lead shot, for they pulled my tits down and painfully distorted them,
totally destroying any pleasurable sensation I might have got from my immersion. 
I made more plaintive noises through the tube and was rewarded with distant
laughing.  I suspected I would not have been able to stand the pain in my nips
had those weights been hung out of the water.  At least they were pulling
straight down, rather than twisting the clips as happened when you were standing
up and the weights hung down your chest.

    Time passed.  I don't know how long it was.  The pain in my tits subsided to
a dull ache and I might even have dozed off.  These guys were not so shit hot, I
decided.

   

    A couple of splashes aroused me from my reverie.  Leila and Jillian were
back, dragging me through the water by the crosspiece.  The dragging provoked
further pain in my nipples as the drag increased, but not as much as when they
lifted me clear of the water when they climbed on to the shallow 'beach' at one
end.  Gone was the buoyancy contribution of the water to the little bags hanging
from my tits and the loads seemed to double in weight.  Two saw horses were set
up on the grass and I was lifted so that the crosspiece spanned between the two,
leaving me hanging like a seesaw. The top of me was heavier than the bottom,
fortunately, and I tilted head-down until those horrid bags touched the ground. 
By this time I was howling into the mouthpiece and panting and moaning for
relief from the agony on my poor tits. 

    It was all to no avail as they left me suffering there for perhaps a quarter
of an hour, at which point they returned and did as I had requested, this time
removing the whole clip off each, which sent me wailing in further agony as the
blood returned and they expanded to their normal non-compressed shape.  I was
crying inside the mask by now and the faceplate clouded up with my tears.  I was
sobbing uncontrollably by the time they took off the mask and snorkel - so much
so that they had to let me quieten down before a white ball gag could be
installed in place of the snorkel.  I was still sniffling and dribbling as they
undid my legs and allowed me to stand up, albeit shakily.  Then the crosspiece
was removed and I was escorted to the verandah.

   

    On the verandah was the hated square of steel plate on which I had squatted
while impaled on the butt plug at the bottom of the stairs.  This time it had a
longer shaft attached to it, nearly a metre high made of 3-centimetre pipe, with
a short bar sprouting out horizontally about halfway up.  I was made to kneel
astride the horizontal bar with the vertical pipe behind me.  Then it was out
with the duct tape again and after about thirty turns of the stuff around my
body from above my breasts to the bottom of my thighs I was effectively locked
to the structure like a mummy.   Monica appeared again.  Why did here presence
always seem to presage something bad?  She squatted in front of me.

    "I told you today was about using people, Shannen.  Sometimes you can use
them in ways they may understand, and sometimes it may be in ways totally
unexpected by them."  I made no comment (how could I?), but the thought did
cross my mind about a few people I had manipulated from time to time. 
Unfortunately this time I was the one being manipulated - physically, at least,
as they then decided to pull my ankles up as tightly as possible behind my butt
and tape my feet in place with more turns around my thighs and midriff.  This
left me half on the points of my knees and half on the horizontal rod through my
crotch.  To say it was painful was an understatement - and I suspected it would
be getting a lot worse.

    "Using people can mean different things, Shannen.  Today you're going to be
the focus of attention.  You like that, don't you.  You will be the head of the
table.  Literally.  In fact you will be the table itself, period."  As she
spoke, Steven and Jillian appeared carrying two semi-circles of painted plywood,
with smaller semi-circles cut out in the centre.  You didn't have to be Einstein
to work out that my neck was going through the middle of this thing. 

    I was installed as the centre of attention with the joint between the two
halves running front to back of the helpless centrepiece.  Immediately in front
of me, two small bolts protruded upward through the wood, the use of which I did
not understand. Under each half of the table there was a kind of padded support
which sat on my shoulder, but there was still some degree of "tiltability" of
the table top, which was a bit over a metre in diameter.   

    Monica, Steven, Jillian and Leila sat down around me and proceeded to ignore
me while they talked of all manner of things, not the least being the running of
the place, which I was starting to become just a little intrigued about. 
Journalistic instinct, I guess.  Drinks came out and a selection of cheeses and
meats and crackers were put on the table.  Suddenly I had to start balancing the
thing, which was not easy as plates were passed around and people insisted in
cutting cheese with more force than needed.  Monica had warned me -
unnecessarily - what might happen if I managed to spill anything.  When a bare
foot began playing with my pussy I guessed it was her, judging from the smirk
she wore and the way she deliberately avoided my eyes.


    The presence of all the food was driving me mad.  I had barely eaten for two
days, and when pizza appeared I thought I would go crazy.  At length pity was
taken on me and the gag was removed. 

    "Hungry?" asked Jillian.

    "Yes."  She pushed a piece of pizza across the top of the table.  It sat in
front of my mouth where, because of the collar, I could not quite tilt my head
far enough to reach it.  I felt the tears welling in my eyes.  This was so
unfair.

    "Don't waste good pizza on a table ornament, Jill.  Get rid of those scraps
you don't want."  I was accordingly fed with the bits of crusts, olives and
other stuff that people didn't want.  "She makes a good waste disposal device,
doesn't she," said Monica.  "Mind you, she's used to muck-raking and delving
amongst the dregs.  It's quite appropriate."

    "And she must be thirsty as well," said Jillian with a knowing smile that I
did not like the look of at all.  That's when I found out what the bolts were
for.  Jillian disappeared and returned with a huge plastic penis-shaped thing,
complete with balls.  It was about five centimetres in diameter and perhaps
twenty centimetres long in the shaft, with goolies the size of tennis balls.  At
the base of the shaft was a circular steel clamp fixed to a metal stand, in
which there were two slotted holes, allowing it to be secured at any point to
the two protruding bolts.  Jillian fitted the object so it sat just in front of
my mouth, while she screwed the bolts finger tight.  "Now, open wide," she said
cheerfully.

    "No - no it's too big - I can't - urglurgg!"  That was as far as my
protestations went.  Somebody grabbed my nose and pulled my head back, obliging
me to open long enough for the pink head to slip between my teeth.  The hand let
go and I was unable to resist as Jillian gleefully worked the huge member into
my mouth.  I was glugging some more and I'm sure my eyes were bulging.  The
audience found it all hugely amusing.  She stopped just before my gag reflex cut
in.  I was now unable to move my head at all, impaled as it was by this device
that was now bolted in place.  I bit down on it - something I had occasionally
wanted to do on a real one but had never dared.  It gave somewhat.  It was made
of stiff but yielding plastic, in all aspects just like a real donger but
without the hair on the balls.  Instead this had another feature.  A hand came
into my field of view holding a squeeze pump - a round orange rubber bulb with a
hose that ran into it from below the table and then ran out to the back of my
new mouth decoration.  Oh no, I groaned inwardly.

    "What would you like to drink?" Jillian asked innocently.  "Some 96
Chardonnay?  Or are you a good girl and stay off the plonk? Maybe some juice? 
Or maybe some special brew?"  I tried to say that I didn't want anything, thank
you, but it came out as a series of mppfhs and grunts.  I saw the pumping start
but nothing happened for about twenty seconds.  Then the member hardened, just
before a spurt of something thick erupted in the back of my mouth.  I swallowed
as best I could, which is very difficult when your tongue is partly trapped
under a huge dick.  The stuff kept coming and I tried not to let my imagination
run away over what it was I was swallowing.  It tasted sort of like vanilla, and
was thick and creamy.  Monica appeared.  I gazed at her with pleading eyes.

    "Shannen," she said, "you really suck!" There was laughter from the others. 
Very funny, haha. 

    "I'm sure this won't be the first time you've milked something for all you
can get!" added Jillian.

    "And I bet it won't be the last," Leila finished.  I closed my eyes, wishing
the ground would swallow me - an unfortunate comparison, under the
circumstances.  Was there no end to this ignominy?  Evidently not.  That was
when Monica disappeared under the table, and moments later I felt those cursed
vibrators start humming in my arse and pussy. 

    "Mmgh! Gurk! Fffrk!" I tried to splutter.  I felt the sweat roll down my
forehead and face. 

    "Just like a sixty nine, right Shannen?" grinned Monica.

    "Maybe," suggested Jillian.  "But then, sex is okay, but it's not as good as
the real thing."  I didn't get the joke.  I thought I couldn't cope with the
explosion in my mouth as well as that in my loins.  How much of this stuff did
they have - a bucket of it?  It started coming faster than I could swallow,
filling my mouth to bursting, spurting out each side of the plastic invader and
running down my chin.  I started to gag and choke and the pumping stopped,
leaving me swallowing frantically and breathing just as frantically through my
nose.  I caught up with the backlog and managed to control my choke reflex,
snorting loudly as I did so.  But the vibrations kept on coming.  I realised all
four of my tormentors were now sitting right in front of me and someone was
playing with my tits as well.  I flushed even further under their scrutiny and
their broad smiles only an arm's length away.  The cessation of activity in my
mouth left me no alternative than to be aware of and focus on the sensations
rising like fire from my loins.  I knew I couldn't fight it and at that stage -
after what I had just been through - I really didn't want to. 

    The trembling rose through my body and I yielded to it, suddenly jerking and
grunting as loudly as the penis gag would permit, arfing like a seal and
probably spraying my audience.  My eyes were closed and the comments from the
four in front of me fell on deaf ears under a red haze that swamped my brain. 
With my arms pinioned across my back and my lower torso and legs secured to the
pole there was little I could move, other than to wobble the table somewhat.  I
was snorting and no doubt making all manner of undignified noises as the
explosion went off, until finally I began to come in to land, not caring whether
my undercarriage was down or any of the passengers strapped in.

    The word "smile" penetrated my brain, and I opened my eyes to face Leila and
that damned camera.  It was the end to a perfect day.

   

    Things really didn't get any better from here for the rest of the evening. 
I was so glad to get off my aching knees as it got dark and I was untied.  The
horrible penis gag was removed and the table top was taken away.  I was allowed
to stand again - oh bliss, oh joy.  Alas, with it getting dark someone decided
that dinner by candlelight would be nice.  That was how I came to be hanging
upside down from a couple of pulleys attached to the verandah beams next to the
table.  They used wide foam-lined cuffs on my ankles, but that made it no more
pleasant.  My ankles were nearly a metre apart, while my head was almost at
floor level.  They had taped my mouth very securely, as usual, and my arms were
in the same position they had been that morning. 

    What was the most humiliating of all was the fact that Mistress Monica
wished to use poor Shannen's arse and pussy as candlestick holders.  Evidently
God had not quite intended them for such usage, since they were not quite at the
right angles for the candles to be vertical.  This accordingly required much
adjustment by Leila - evidently considered the artistic one in the group - to
soften the candles to get just the right curve on them so that they finished in
an upright state.  And of course in order for this to happen, Shannen had to be
firstly exposed in her most private places, and secondly have the current
residents removed.

    The plug came out with much groaning from me and a noisy slurping sound,
which drew appropriate comments from those nearby.  Then there were a series of
trials with the candles sliding into - and out of - my exposed orifices.  These
candles, I hasten to say, were not small.  Some would say they were
appropriately sized to their locations, but whatever the view, they made my eyes
water.  Fortunately Leila used lubricant, and made sure the end product was well
and truly inserted to an adequate depth.  I probably could have pushed them out,
but I didn't dare. 

   

    Night had fallen and the candles were lit both in Shannen and on the table. 
A few moths flittered around me to time, and of course the inevitable comment
came about the fact that now I really had a fire between my legs.  As dinner
proceeded the wax dripped remorselessly on to my bare skin, provoking little
yelps of pain from behind my taped up mouth.  I was extremely uncomfortable and
my ankles and hips ached from the load on them.  Dinner passed with agonising
slowness and I was starting to feel the heat on my inner thighs as the candles
burnt lower. 

    Every so often a hot rivulet would run down my butt crack or wind up doing a
wax job in my pussy hair.  At one point Monica produced a couple of nipple
clamps with small silver chains attached, just to add to my misery.  She
discovered that with a "gentle" pulling on the nipples, Shannen could be made to
swing backwards and forwards.  That was all I needed.  I was crying now and the
flames seemed to be getting closer to my bare skin.  Crying upside down is
pretty bizarre and I'm sure I made a pathetic sight. 

    That's when they encouraged me to eject my two intruders, which I managed to
do finally with some difficulty.  Fighting gravity didn't help.  I was let down
at that point, and here I am back in my cell, writing again.  Thank God my arms
are finally free - they are stiff and sore, and so is the rest of me, especially
my poor nips.  Probably because of this they're making me sleep on my stomach
tonight.  My rubber suit is off at last and I was given a cursory (but at least
hot) shower, albeit with my hands manacled above me.  My ankles are now tied to
the lower corners of the bed and my wrists are loosely manacled to the top.  I
am able to write with difficulty but I can't stretch my hands close enough to my
head to do anything about the tape over my mouth.  But at least my poor tortured
pussy and butt are free from intrusions.  I'm so tired I can barely scribble -
my body is just totally wrung out.  I don't know why they want this stuff.  I
guess that 's all for now.  I have to sleep...

Monica's Place

CHAPTER TWELVE: SHANNEN'S STORY - DAY FOUR

    Day 4.  At least I think it is.  Today I was woken from darkness by Trish,
wearing a short-sleeved black lycra leotard and a maroon skirt of the same
material, which clung to her thighs and butt. She was dressed to kill in black
tights and boots.  Unfortunately the look she gave me suggested that I was to be
the victim.  My wrists were crossed and bound behind me and my ankles were freed
only long enough to perform my ablutions.  Then it was on with a hobble rope
while a rope connecting my crossed wrists was pulled tightly through my crotch
before being secured around my waist.  I was still half-asleep, with no idea
what time it was.  It seemed like the middle of the night.  The tape was pulled
from my mouth most unceremoniously and a sort of padded ring was forced upright
between my teeth, secured by a wide strap around the back of my neck.  It had
the effect of holding my jaw open while not trapping my tongue.  I found I could
almost talk, even if I couldn't form some consonants very well.

    "Ot are oo ooing?  Ot's aaening?" I asked.  Trish was obviously grumpy and
her response was to screw a kind of tight-fitting cork into the mouth ring. 
That shut me up pretty effectively.  My muscles were protesting as I was pushed
out of the cell ahead of a riding crop that Trish did not hold back from using. 
She pushed me down the corridor outside, which was lit only by red nightlights
near floor level.  At the end of the corridor she opened a door and I was shoved
inside.  I looked around.  It was some sort of observation or monitoring room, I
reckoned, with windows on 3 sides, but there was only darkness beyond.  Trish
pushed me on to a chair and turned to glare at me.

    "You still haven't learned, have you?"

    "Unnh?" I said.  She pulled some pages of writing out of the waistband of
her skirt and flung them at me.  I recognised them as my scribbles from last
night.  I had no idea what she was on about.

    "You haven't learned that things you write get other people hurt - other
people who have tried to be kind to you, to make your life a bit easier."  My
blank look must have still shown through.  "You don't think about what you do,
Shannen.  You don't think things through or consider the consequences.  Your
description of your time with Steven yesterday.  He took pity on you first by
leaving your nipple clamps off for much of the time and then by letting you have
a brief bit of pleasure with the vibrator and then having the gag out.  And of
course you have to blab about the whole episode!  Who do you think reads this? 
Monica, of course!  You ought to know by now that what Monica says, goes.  Her
word is law in this house.  Steven is a lovely guy - we all have a soft spot for
him.  Unfortunately he's now suffering for your stupidity."

    With a dramatic flourish she switched off the light in our room and flicked
another switch.  The room next door came into focus.  A single light bulb
illuminated a solitary figure in the centre of the room. 

   

    My heart sank.  Central to the room were two solid timber posts about the
thickness of a man's thigh.  Standing between them was Steven, motionless. His
arms appeared to be bound behind him, and he was held in position by the same
diabolical method that I had suffered in my forays up and down the drive.  A
thin rope was tied to a stainless steel clamp on each nipple, which ran through
a brass ring at each end of a bit gag before being tied off high up on each
post.  Steven could not turn his head or move in any direction without an
opposite reaction being transmitted through those cruel clamps.  He was
blindfolded with a harness sporting two eyepads, and his ankles, placed about a
metre apart, were chained to the posts.

    "He's been there for nearly two hours," Trish told me.  "It isn't difficult
to overpower someone at three in the morning when he's asleep.  And it's all
because of you, Shannen."  I swallowed.  "Now you're going to make it up to him. 
It will be up to you to figure out how - that's your problem.  But just so you
remember why he's there, it's only fair that you should experience what you
missed out on yesterday while you were doing your pony show."  She reached into
a drawers and pulled out a pair of those horrid adjustable clamps that look like
miniature nut crackers. I tried to back away but she grabbed me fiercely by the
hair and placed the evil implements on my nips.  I was whining away into my gag
as the pain began, but I upped an octave when she hung a lead ball the size of a
walnut on each.

    She pushed me to the door and thence to the adjacent room.  There she pulled
the plug out of my ring gag and left me to my own devices.  Freed of much of my
speech restriction I begged her:

    "Ease ake ees oh!  Ey ur o uch! O ease ish!"  By that time I was weeping
with the pain and talking to the back of the closed door.  Sniffling and sobbing
I turned to Steven, who was now standing more alertly, trying to work out what
was going on.  I moved towards him, whimpering as the weights swung from my
tortured nipples. As I got closer I realised that he wore the exact gag I had
worn the previous day.  Somebody obviously had a penchant for irony.  I then
noticed something behind him, and saw to my dismay that he was impaled on a rod
bolted to the floor.  About a metre behind him the rod was fixed to a floor
plate, and extended at 45 degrees before terminating in - I suspected - a nasty
butt plug.  Secured by the ankles and nipples he was unable to move.  I also
noticed, aghast, that a wire was taped to the rod and disappeared into the butt
plug.  I could now see that his hands had been crossed and bound high between
his shoulder blades, the supporting ropes looping over his shoulders, under his
armpits to return and be tied to the wrists again.  Steven was stretched taut
and immobile.  He was breathing hard, but I couldn't hear that above my own
racket.

    "O e-en! I o orri! Eerri I anh!  I e-er ort..." It probably made no sense at
all to a listener. God, what could I do?  I was standing, trying to think when
there was a faint humming and Steven jerked suddenly, making a high-pitched cry
through his nose.  He was brought up short by the nipple clamps and I knew at
that point that the butt plug inside him was somehow being zapped with
electricity. There was another hum, another strangled cry and more jerking. 

    In desperation I moved across to the rod and looked at the wire.  At the
lower end it disappeared into a hole in the floor.  In the hope of pulling it
free, I squatted, trying to get hold of it, but my hands were pulled too tightly
into my bum and I couldn't reach down far enough.  Reluctantly I sat down with a
thud, screaming as the heavy weights tugged hard on my nipples.  But at least I
was down.  I grasped the wire and pulled, crying out again as the weights swayed
and bounced, but the wretched thing would not come loose.  My only other hope
was to pull it out from the butt plug, hoping that it was the usual cheap
Chinese equipment made for speed not for comfort or durability.  I struggled to
my feet again, tears still streaming down my face while I made incomprehensible
noises through the ring.  I straddled the rod and backed up its length until I
reached the upper end of the wire.  I bumped Steven gently, eliciting a muffled
grunt.  His skin was dripping with sweat.  God I felt awful.  I had never
thought I could cause this sort of thing to happen to another human being, much
less be forced to witness it.  I grasped the wires and pulled with my whole
body.  It came free, as the same time as the lead weights tried to go into
orbit. 

    I screamed again and hunkered down on my haunches, trying to support the
balls on my thighs - anything to relieve the agony of my nipples.  I sobbed and
cried from the pain, fully aware of what he must have gone through against the
terrible spasms of the electricity.  How could these people do this to one of
their own?  How could I possibly make this up to him?  What had Trish been
suggesting?  Think, Shannen, think!

    I wondered if somehow I could free him.  I stood up again, very slowly this
time, groaning as the weights took hold.  I moved around to the front of him. 
His ankle cuffs appeared to be locked on and the chains padlocked to the posts. 
Not much future there.  Maybe I could get the nipple clamps off somehow...  I
moved up against him, feeling the warmth of his body and finding myself unable
to help admiring the slender but muscular body.  We were about the same height
and I backed against him to see if I could reach the clamps with my hands. 
Alas, bound as they were, my hands could get no higher than waist height, while
at the same time giving me a charge on the rope between my legs.  As I dropped
my hands from straining, I could not help brushing his dick.  It seemed to react
momentarily, leading me to caress it gently.  Perhaps my hands were at least in
the right place for something.  In no time, it seemed, Steven was aroused and I
was surprised, to say the least, at what he had to show, but it was still very
awkward with my hands crossed and tied as they were. 

    The solution was obvious, I suppose, but the thought of more pain was
something that I recoiled from.  Gingerly I turned around and moved my tongue
over his nipples where they were trapped in the jaws of the clamps.  I wished I
had use of my own jaws and teeth so that I could perhaps remove those terrible
devices.  I licked some more, eliciting a groan from him and feeling his
hardness between my own legs.  But this groan was something different, and
suddenly I became as randy as all hell.  If only this damned rope wasn't
embedded in my crotch.  I thrust against him, trying to ignore the pain in my
breasts.  I knew it wasn't going to work this way, but his dick was like a
flagpole that I couldn't ignore.  I squatted again, finally getting on my knees
with much distress, but finding the object of my desire rigid in front of me. 
Carefully I put my mouth over it, finding it just fitted inside the ring with
nothing to spare.  Steven groaned again and the whole game was on. 

    It goes without saying that this was the most careful but painful act of its
kind that I have ever carried out.  Now, I consider myself pretty good at most
things I attempt, and this is one of them.  Steven was incredibly aroused,
however, straining in every muscle yet barely able to move.  As he approached a
climax his hips began to move, and I knew at the same time that he must be
getting screwed in the arse in a major way.  Not that that was necessarily a bad
thing, of course, but each to their own.  He came with a ferocity I couldn't
believe, as I half gagged on the ejaculation into my mouth.  It seemed to be
Shannen's week for mouthing off.  I felt the heat rising from the ropes in my
pussy and reckoned I was not so far off it myself.  As he shuddered and jerked I
think we both felt the terrible hurt in our nipples, which in this one instance
seemed to heighten every sensation such that we both groaned desperately through
our respective mouth fillings, before everything gradually subsided.  I had not
succeeded in my quest, and in fact knew that Steven would now be feeling a
heightened pain in his nipples as the blood retreated from his spent loins to
return to the points of agony.  His moans told me I was right.

    I stood up slowly, only now wondering if I could use his hands to any
advantage.  I moved behind him and nuzzled up to his back, realising as I did so
that he could reach the tormentors hanging from my tits.  It was difficult for
him with his hands pointing upward but eventually I managed to manoeuvre one of
the clamps between his fingers. He squeezed the grips and the hated object
slipped to the floor while I gasped and cried as the pain knifed through my
breast.  Gritting my teeth into the ring I repeated the process and screamed as
the other one fell away.  I was crying again, big sook that I was.  So much for
Shannen the hard girl.  But I was on a roll now.  I turned around and nuzzled
the back of my head against his hands.  After several goes he managed to undo
the buckle of the gag, but so solidly was it wedged behind my teeth that I had
it turn around again for him to tug it out.  I don't think I have ever been so
relieved in my life - relieved that I could close my jaw, relieved that I my
breasts were no longer being tortured, and relieved that I could say I was sorry
to Steven.  

    The most immediate thing I could do was to now use my teeth to rid Steven of
the nipple vices, which, after several (no doubt painful) attempts, I managed. 
He was now able to move much more freely, and more importantly, was able to bend
over, albeit unable to ease himself off the terrible butt plug.  But bent over
as he was, I could then reach his gag and blindfold harness, along with the
ropes binding his wrists and arms.  It took a few minutes to undo these, after
which he returned the favour to me, undoing my wrists and allowing me to remove
the teasing rope through my pussy. 

    About this stage, as we now talked in whispers, comforting each other and
apologising, I noticed he was growing hard again.  We were oblivious to Trish or
anyone else who might be watching as I hugged Steven and wrapped my legs around
his body, supporting myself on the dreadful rod behind him.  I must have
climaxed a couple of times in as many minutes, ignoring the ache in my tits as
they pressed into his chest and his arms encircled me.  In my selfishness I
blotted out the fact that he was still impaled himself, just as I impaled myself
on him.  It was one of those fierce, intensely physical, rampaging moments when
the world disappears and you both loose yourselves in hoarse cries and a mixture
of pain and pleasure so great you think you're going to die.

    I was crying again - but I couldn't help myself and it had nothing to do
with the pain.  Then Trish appeared, smiling this time and unlocking Steven's
chains.  She whispered something to him and after he gingerly disengaged himself
from the plug he picked me up and carried me to one of the upstairs bedrooms. 
It was stunning in decoration but I was too exhausted to notice.

   

    I have no idea what the time is now.  It's perhaps late afternoon.  I slept
most of the day in the gorgeously soft bed, then luxuriated in the old fashioned
bath in the ensuite, amidst a host of oils and fragrances.  This was obviously
the lighter side of the business in the house.  Food had appeared on the bedside
table sometime during the day, which I scoffed - I was so-oo hungry.  What a joy
it was to be freed of fetters and gags and intruding devices.  That said, I
found a wide variety of the latter in the bedside drawer, and with the memory of
the episode with Steven an exhausted blur in some far-off dungeon, I confess I
tried out several of the toys.  And of course there was the obligatory story
line to run, so here I am, writing for the first time without being contorted
into some uncomfortable position.

    I sense the end of the ordeal.  And of course at such a denouement there
always has to be a moral.  I'm not one for cliched endings.  In this case it's
pretty simple.

    Dear All,

    		Thanks.  Point taken.

    					Shannen.

    Postscript by Steven:


    We waved goodbye to Shannen that evening.  She was wearing the same black
high heels she had arrived in, which were now somewhat the worse for wear.  The
rest of her clothes had long since died.  She looked stunning in simple emerald
green sheath dress that Monica donated.  Monica told me with a grin that Shannen
was also wearing a crotch strap with a vibrator fitted.  More specifically, the
buckles were locked on with two small combination locks, the vibrator was
operating and could not be turned off, and the belts were threaded through with
a stainless steel trace from a fishing tackle shop.  In short, it was not
something you would be able to cut off without the right hardware, which it was
doubtful Shannen would have in her no doubt trendy apartment.  The combinations
to the locks were being delivered by express post, I was told.

    Shannen was looking just a little flushed as she gave me a lingering kiss
before descending the front steps to her car. 

    "You really are a pack of bitches," she said with a smile.  "Maybe I'll come
back for a visit sometime."

Monica's Place

CHAPTER THIRTEEN - THE TWINS

	During the time Shannen had been with us I had done more work, this time in
a small room next to the Sluice Room.  Monica was in one of her experimental
moods again, buoyed by the success of the submarine.  I needed all sorts of
stuff for what was to be called the Lift Shaft.  Neither of us knew how well it
would work, or even if it would end up serving a purpose other than another
holding cell, but Monica was in an expansive mood, so who was I to argue.

	It took me the best part of a week to complete the lift shaft.  The first
day was the day I encountered Shannen - crouched at the foot of the stairs one
evening as I started a late shift.  She was quite a stunner, but looked somewhat
out of place in a short maroon skirt and white satin blouse, squatting on her
haunches in high heels, scribbling in a notebook.  Monica had told me about her,
but I was curious anyway.  She wore a bright red ball gag on a head harness,
locked at the back of her raven hair, and was restrained in her position by a
waist chain and two vertical lengths secured to her ankles.  I realised from her
position on the steel plate with the upright pipe stub that she must be impaled
on a butt plug.  From the sound of her character I suspected it would be one of
the larger-sized, ribbed or knobbed ones, given Monica's gift for the
appropriate.

	Shannen stopped writing and glared at me over the top of the ball gag and
mmphed something incomprehensible as I paused to study her.  I shrugged and
headed for the Lift Shaft.


    The Lift Shaft was something Monica had once experienced in an art gallery. 
A completely enclosed box about two metres square, it was finished on floor and
ceiling with plain mirrors.  Running vertically down the walls were black and
silver stripes painted about 3 centimetres wide.  The effect was unnerving in
that on entering and closing the door (painted to match the walls) you had the
impression of hanging in some sort of shaft which stretched out to infinity
above and below.  It was a variation on the hairdressers mirrors placed in front
and behind, where you could look at an infinite number of your own heads
disappearing into the distance.  In the case of the shaft, while there were an
infinite number of "you's" standing with your back(s) to the wall looking very
vertigo-prone, there was also enough shaft still to fall down such as to take
away the sense of reality.

    My own idea for the shaft was to have low wattage neon lights running
vertically up the walls- enough to create the same sense of perspective as the
stripes, but also to allow some special effects. Over the face of the lights,
which were mounted on a matt black background, I fitted clear perspex sheets to
prevent any damage.  The floor and ceiling were mirror glass, with the former
also covered by perspex.  In the corner I fixed a solid timber post with the
usual eyebolts mounted in a variety of positions.  At the base of this was a
triangular 'ledge', extending about a foothold out from the post - a ledge just
big enough to stand on. To a victim secured upright and unable to look down to
their feet, they would seem to be teetering on a ledge of a lift shaft and would
not be distracted by being able to see several dozen other versions of their own
faces peering up or down at them. The 'door' opened just beside the post, like a
window opening in a building, where you could push someone on to the ledge and
shut the window behind them.

    There were a number of role playing variations on this.  The noise of the
traffic from the speakers behind the post, the feel of fresh breezes from the
aircon, the insidious whispering of the voice saying "don't fall... don't
fall..." Or should it be "don't jump?"  Maybe we would make penalties for people
who did fall... Maybe we would make the ledge get smaller and smaller.  This was
one little experiment that Monica and I had kept very secret.  The basics were
straightforward enough but the finer nuances - the recordings, the sound
effects, the lighting patterns, cctv and so on - had taken a lot longer than I
expected. 

    "Isn't this getting into the realm of the esoteric?" I had asked Monica one
evening as we sat on the floor in the room tinkering with various patterns in
the wall lights.  "I mean, it's not exactly inflicting pain on anyone.  Isn't
that what you're into?"

    Monica had smiled in the dim light of the vertical tubes.  "Yes and no,
Steve. We may use it for a little psychological warfare with some of our
victims.  If we want them to divulge the name of their contact or the number of
their bank account we may decide to use this as a different approach.  An hour
locked in here with the strobe light going could produce interesting results. 
Different people react differently, of course.  As I said before, if all else
fails it can be a holding cell."

    "So who are you going to use for testing?"

    "I think everyone."

    "Including you and me?"

    "No, there's no point.  We know too much about how it works and we will have
done our own experimentation anyway."

    "Sounds a bit like sex," I said.

    Monica smiled again.  "Is that a come on?"

    "Do you want it to be?"

    "All in good time, Steve.  Work to do first."

   

    Emma was the one we had selected to be our first guinea pig.  She was
perhaps the most impressionable, along with Leila.  Emma was called to Monica's
office where I was waiting with her.  Emma was off duty and wore a simple white
blouse and a denim skirt.

    "Emma, we have a little test for you."

    "Another one?"  Emma looked somewhat apprehensive.  Understandable when it
was Monica doing the offering.

    "Yes.  I think you will find this interesting, though."

    "When?"

    "Now.  Come over to the desk and put your hands behind you."  She did, and I
ratcheted a pair of handcuffs on her slim wrists, then slipped an airline
blindfold over her head.  On its own it was a pretty tame blindfold and could
probably come off with little effort, which was the whole point of it in this
instance.  I reached round with a black ball gag on a strap and held it against
her lips.  Obediently she opened her mouth as I worked the ball behind her teeth
and fastened the strap snugly behind her head, locking it in place with a small
padlock.  I realised it was the first time I had legitimately secured any of the
girls and Mr Willy found it quite arousing.

    "Now bend over," commanded Monica, "and spread your legs."  Here Monica took
over and pulled down Emma's satin panties sufficiently to work a well-lubed
multi-purpose butt plug into Emma's rear.  Emma groaned as the invader filled
her although I noticed at that stage that Monica hadn't turned it on as yet,
instead holding on to the thin wire now trailing from Emma's orifice.  Monica
pulled up the panties and the three of us then trooped downstairs, with Monica
and I holding on to Emma's arms, past Shannen still squatting at the foot of the
stairs, impaled on the butt plug.

    "How goes it, Shannen?" Monica asked cheerfully.  "Life can be such a pain
in the arse sometimes, can't it?"

    Shannen glared at us over the red ballgag and spluttered something
incomprehensible.

    "Ignore her, Steven," Monica ordered in an utterly stuck up toffeed voice. 
"She has no manners and no upbringing. "

    "Yes Ma'am," I said obediently.

    Once at dungeon level we spun Emma around and led her around in varying
directions, hoping to confuse her senses just a bit, before leading her to the
open door that doubled as the 'window' in the Lift Shaft.

    "You're going to have to stand still for half an hour, Emma," whispered
Monica in her ear.  "If you make it, we'll let you out.  To make it easier you
may remove your blindfold once you're in the shaft.  You will be standing on a
ledge.  Do not step off the ledge under any circumstances unless you want a long
drop."

    I left Monica to guide Emma into the shaft and went to the Observation Room
where I switched the CCTV to the channel containing the view of the Lift Shaft. 
The camera was positioned discretely in the upper corner opposite the ledge. 
The shaft was dark until light flooded in from the opening 'window' and Monica
guided the blindfolded and gagged figure of Emma on to the small corner ledge. 
I saw Monica tie a piece of string to the blindfold elastic and jam it in the
door as she closed it behind Emma.  Switching the camera to infrared I could
make out Emma standing still for a few moments, then, becoming aware of the
tension on her blindfold she twisted her head and felt the covering to her eyes
come loose.  With more twisting the blindfold slid free.  At that moment it
meant little to Emma, still standing in the darkness.  That was when I switched
on the lights.

    The first light setting we had was only a dim glow, but it was enough to
obviously scare Emma.  It was sufficient to illuminate the seemingly endless
shaft extending above and below her, as she stood, frozen in the corner on a
tiny ledge.

    "Nnnmmph!"  she exclaimed behind the rubber ball in her mouth.  The sound of
her breathing could be heard as it quickened and merged with the distant noise
of traffic.  I turned the air conditioning up a notch.  I knew it would be
playing over Emma's body like a cold night breeze thirty stories up.  Perhaps
not what you might expect in a lift shaft but enough to disorient.  The lights
were the vertical neons we had arranged, giving the perception of walls dropping
endlessly into the distance.  Beneath the white material of her blouse the
nipples on Emma's full breasts stiffened like the rest of her body.  Logic had
not taken over yet - Emma was running on her sensory input only, not thinking
about the fact that what she was seeing wasn't possible in the house where she
had been moments earlier.

    Monica joined me in the Observation Room a moment later, as Emma tried to
press herself further into the corner, her breasts rising and falling rapidly as
she strove for self control.  The ledge was small enough such that she couldn't
look directly down, since she barely had enough room to stand straight.  Try it
some time, with your heels against the wall.  Especially if you have a wonderful
figure like Emma's you have no chance of seeing past your toes.  She could look
upwards, but again I had put a false triangular ledge against the ceiling that
blocked her view of a hundred Emma's extending off into infinity, all with looks
of terror on their faces, their eyes wide over the ballgags strapped tightly
between their jaws.

    Emma tried shutting her eyes, but that didn't work.  For some reason that
seemed to make it worse.  Monica reached over the desk and flicked a switch,
which I knew was connected to a low voltage supply that most rooms had.  I had a
fair idea what it was powering in this instance. Emma's eyes, shut at that
moment, flew open wide.

    "The vibrator is starting to make itself felt," said Monica smugly.  "Let's
see how distracting it is.  I happen to know Emma has a rather sensitive little
butt-hole."

    Emma was indeed distracted.  She was clearly scared to step off the ledge,
but it was so small that she could not bend her knees even without the danger of
toppling forward.  We gave her five minutes of the butt vibrator before Monica
turned the lights off in the shaft and we watched Emma twist and sweat in the
blackness, under infrared.  Then Monica turned the UV strobe on.

	That was probably what freaked Emma.  Strobe lights are disconcerting enough
at the best of time, when everything seems to go in slow motion.  I guess when
you're standing on a ledge halfway up a seemingly bottomless shaft and not sure
of your balance, strobe lights are the last thing you need.  Under the lights,
thin vertical white lines on the wall streaked off into the vanishing points of
the shaft, while Emma's white blouse showed up like a lighthouse.  Her eyes were
wide and staring over the gag and we could hear her breath coming in pants, in
between muffled cries through the gag.  I watched her breasts heaving as she
fought to control herself.  Monica, always one to go the last yards, touched
another button.  I knew this sent a burst to the TENS electrodes embedded in the
vibrator.  In other words Emma got a nice little shock up her arse.  That was
enough to push her over the edge, physically, if not emotionally, as she
twitched forward enough to upset her balance and send her stepping forward into
space.

	The fact that she was only a step above the floor avoided any injury. 
Monica turned all the lights on at that point and Emma was left standing in the
middle of the brightly lit shaft with lots of other Emmas disappearing into the
distance above and below her.  Tears were streaming down her face and she looked
totally bewildered as she suddenly saw through the entire illusion.

	"I think you had better go and give comfort to your employee," I said wryly.

	Later that evening Monica called me to her study.

    "Are you available?" she asked.

    "Are you asking me on a date?" 

    She laughed.  "Not the sort you're thinking of.  At least not tonight,
anyway," she added enigmatically, arching an eyebrow at me.  "No, we have an
assignment.  We need to pick up a couple of packages from the Gold Coast."

    "Packages?"  Why was I wary?

    "Yes, the two-legged kind.  All the girls are busy, so I need an extra pair
of hands.  This is something a bit special."

   

    And that was how we came to be driving the Transit van down the Pacific
Motorway that night.  It was about an hour's drive from Bilboes to Surfers
Paradise on the Gold Coast south of Brisbane.  They had been doing up the
motorway for a couple of years now and traffic had obliged to slow as it snaked
between kilometres of concrete barriers.  Now the four lanes each way were
finally complete.  It was plenty of time for Monica to give me the lowdown on
our assignment for the night as I drove, following her directions as navigator.

    "Pytr  is a Russian who came to Australia in the sixties," Monica told me. 
"He did okay for himself, investing a lot in property in Surfers and the Gold
Coast and making a killing in the boom times as a result.  His wife was killed
in a car accident about ten years ago.  He has two daughters - Natasha and
Tanya.  They are the packages."

    "How old, and why?"

    "Just turned eighteen - no longer minors, if that's what you're thinking. 
They've finished school but still live at home and make life absolute hell for
the old boy who has no idea how to handle them.  They've had a succession of
offences as minors but Mr  has managed to keep them out of detention until now,
not least through paying hefty fines and pulling lots of strings.  I have to say
that in that regard he is thought highly of and has lots of influence in the
local community.  But now the girls are evidently into drugs and walking the
streets, or at least that's what they threaten if Pytr doesn't hand over cash
for their habits.  There's no doubt he loves them dearly, but he's at his wit's
end as to what to do with them.  They have no jobs nor any real inclination to
get them, although they're very smart.  The sort who do well without really
trying.  They've got grades that would make most uni's grab them at the first
chance, but there's no motivation."

    "And we're going to give them some?"

    "Absolutely.  A little lesson in the realities of life, so to speak."

    Or unrealities of life, I thought.

   

    The area around Surfers Paradise was not my cup of tea.  Miles of tower
blocks along the beachfront, lots of arcades, malls and swanky shopping, filled
with tourists and more than a few strip joints.  Surfers was where all the
"schoolies" came at the break up of school at the end of the year - the place to
be seen, the place to be cool.  Also a place to do drugs, get drunk, get laid
and get thrown in the nick.

    Around Surfers were the suburbs built along the man-made canals - a kind of
little Miami.  Huge houses backing on to private jetties with cabin cruisers
moored.  As we started turning through the suburban streets, Monica got on her
mobile phone.

    "Mr Karagin?  Monica Armstrong.  We're about two minutes away from your
house.  We'll see you shortly."

    We pulled up outside a high-walled property, the street frontage of which
must've been at least fifty metres.  Tall palm trees rose behind the wall,
obscuring any glimpse of the house.  I leaned out of the window and pushed the
buzzer of the intercom box.  There was no answer.  Instead the massive iron
grilled gate rolled open, revealing a concrete drive sweeping in a broad curve
around to a triple garage at the left of a two-storied very modern-looking
house.

    We followed the driveway round and parked under the big porte cochere
outside the front door.  The night was balmy and cool - Queensland at it's best. 
As we drew up, the door opened and a short but well-built man emerged to greet
Monica.  She introduced me to Mr Kuragin and we shook hands then went inside. 
Immediately inside the front door was a large reception area with a gorgeous
indoor pool in a granite surround and a tinkling of water where it flowed gently
over rocks into the lily-filled pool.  I had barely time to take in the opulence
of the surroundings before we followed our host through the house to the rear
where we found our two "packages" in what I took to be the television room. 
Both girls appeared to be asleep - one on the leather sofa and one in a big
leather armchair.

    "Roofies," Monica explained.  I must've looked blank.  "The drug.  Rohypnol. 
Sometimes known as Roofies.  Guaranteed to put you out of action for a few hours
and waking up wondering what the hell went on and why are you here.  Very
helpful in our business for transporting unwilling clients - until they started
putting various colourizers in it to make your drinks turn blue or whatever. 
I've still got a supply of the good stuff - odourless and tasteless. 
Sleepy-byes time.  I sent down a couple of doses for Mr Kuragin to drop in their
drinks at the appropriate time.  Hence the short notice."

    I looked down at the two girls and realised for the first time that they
were twins.  They were blondes, with similar haircuts - shortish, but enough to
cover their ears or to be tucked behind them.  Facially they were remarkably
similar - a fact made moreso by the fact that they had obviously been to the
local body piercer.  One girl had a stud in her left nostril and a ring in her
left eyebrow while the other was the mirror image.  I could see one exposed ear
with three silver rings in.

    "This one is Natasha," said Mr Kuragin, his voice heavy with sadness. 
Natasha wore a yellow tee shirt emblazoned with the word "FUCK" across the
front, not hiding a remarkably voluptuous figure.  Charming child, I thought.
She also wore cut off jeans and was slouched on the sofa. Monica walked across
to her and wrote a large 'N' on the unconscious girl's forehead with a biro.

    "Gotta tell them apart somehow," Monica said to me.

    Tanya wore a green lycra skirt that clung to her hips and thighs and was
topped with a cut-down singlet that was at least a size too small, for Tanya,
too, was exceedingly well endowed.  Monica did the honours again with the pen,
leaving a large 'T' on Tanya's forehead.

    "They will be all right?" Mr  Kuragin was clearly worried.

    "Absolutely sir.  I understand we've been recommended to you by a good
friend, Mr Fischer.  I hope the result with his daughter is of interest to you."

    "Ah, yes, such a transformation."  Mr Kuragin's weathered face with its
bristling black moustache cleared momentarily, the worry lines disappearing as
he smiled at the thought.  "If you can do something like that it will be a
miracle.  I...I just don't know what to do with these two - they used to be such
lovely children.  But since their mother died..."

    "How long have they been unconscious Mr Kuragin?" asked Monica, obviously
heading him off at the pass before things got too maudlin.

    "An hour, maybe."

    "Good.  Let's get them settled in the van.  Steven, can you manage one or
should we do it together?"

    Tentatively I hauled Tanya to her feet and got her over my shoulder in a
fireman's lift.  She was no lightweight, but I'd carried heavier things around a
building site before now.  Monica led the way outside and opened the back doors
to the van.  I had not seen inside it before now.  My only other experience had
of course been when Christina and I had been transported into the woods, bound
kneeling nipple to nipple.  Mr Willy stirred at the momentary recollection
before I turned my attention to the task at hand.

    Inside the van there were two narrow padded benches - one along each side. 
Vertical in the centre was a steel pole from floor to ceiling with a horizontal
rail half a metre off the floor fixed to the pole, with the other end screwed to
the back wall of the cab.  Two horizontal rails like towel rails were fixed to
the ceiling, one above each bench while the wall above each bench was a made of
timber slats much the same as the interior of a moving van, i.e. with lots of
points for restraining 'packages'.

    We laid Tanya on her back on the bench and I noticed the multitude of
quick-release straps that could be easily secured over a prostrate body. We put
these to good use, explaining the obvious to Mr Kuragin - that we didn't want
any harm to come to the girls during the road journey.

    Ten minutes later Natasha was laid out on the other bench, wide straps
across her body at ankles, thighs, waist and above her breasts.

    "I will report to you in one week, Mr Kuragin," Monica told him. "I expect
it will take at least two for the conversion back to normality, though.  Part of
that time, as we discussed, would be simply to keep them away from drugs.  To
any of their friends they've simply gone to visit relatives in Sydney, yes?"

    "Yes," said the man sadly.  "Here is some of their music that you asked
for."  He handed Monica a plastic bag that rattled with the sound of plastic CD
cases. "They play them night and day - it drives me crazy.  But please be gentle
with them.  They are all I have in the world."  (Apart from a couple of
Mercedes, a twenty-metre luxury launch and several hideaway retreats in the Gold
Coast Hinterland, I thought unkindly.)

    We shook hands and were soon on our way through the dark suburbs.  We had
only been driving a couple of minutes when Monica directed me to turn down what
looked like an industrial cul-de-sac.  It was only a hundred metres long, with a
few large trees and lined with warehouses and small factories.

    "What's up?" I asked.

    "Our two packages will be if we don't do a proper job of the packing,"
Monica said.  We climbed out and re-entered the back of the van, closing the
doors behind us.  Monica switched on secondary overhead lights that gave us
plenty of light to see our charges still unconscious on the benches.

    "I must admit I thought you were letting them off lightly," I remarked.

    "Not good PR for someone to see his daughters strapped down they way they
will be now," Monica said.  "It would smack of some sort of sadistic conspiracy
involving gratuitous bondage.  Whereas you know full well that everything I do
has a purpose."  I could not tell if she was joking or not.  "But you're
absolutely right.  I was very gentle with them.  It's the last bit of gentleness
these two will have for a while.  Their lives will become a living hell for the
next week, at which point - assuming the message has sunk in - it will gradually
ease off towards some form of normality.  Or as normal as it ever gets at
Bilboes," she grinned at me.

    I helped her make the twins more secure.  Their wrists were strapped
separately to the frame of the bench while further straps were secured across
their bodies and pulled tight.  Monica opened a small trunk the size of an army
surplus ammunition box and pulled out a roll of duct tape.  I noticed as she did
so that the inside of the box was lined with foam rubber and that the box held a
collection of ropes, handcuffs, chains and padlocks. Monica expertly applied
three pieces of tape criss-crossed over Tanya's mouth, then a strip over each
closed eye.  Yellow foam earplugs were stuffed into Tanya's ears before the
final touch of a long piece of tape across the forehead and down under the
bench.  As far as I could see Tanya was totally immovable.  Monica passed me the
tape and two more plugs and I did the same to Natasha, giving her a bit of a
push to make sure she was well and truly snug. Then we returned to the cab.

    "All that would have seemed a bit of overkill to Mr Kuragin," Monica said,
stating the obvious.

    "So what is he expecting?" I asked.

    "Probably something like a cross between a strict boarding school, a detox
ward and a health farm.  Suffice to say he will see the end product, not the
means of achieving it."

   

    We had passed through the city area and were heading into the western
suburbs when the cops stopped us.  It was a routine random breath testing check
but I have to confess I was nervous as I blew into the machine.  Monica reckoned
the twins had another hour's kip left in them but I was waiting for the squeaks
and grunts that might come from the two gagged females strapped tightly to the
benches in the back.  I doubted they would be heard in any case, just as I
doubted they could shift their weight sufficiently to rock the van enough to be
noticed.

	Notwithstanding all that, I was happy to be on my way again. It didn't pay
to drink and drive in Brisbane, but I was sure it paid even less to transport
bound and gagged women about the city.  I don't think even Monica would come up
with a suitable excuse for such a situation.

	We arrived at back Bilboes at around midnight.  I parked around the back by
the emergency door and opened this while Monica undid the rear doors of the van. 
When I returned she showed me how the benches unclipped from the frame and two
handles slid out from under each end of the bench, enabling it to be picked up
like a stretcher without disturbing the occupant.  This was very neat, I
thought, and said so to Monica.

    "Trish's idea.  She's nearly as handy as you in that area."

    "I know," I agreed.  "I'm more impressed each day."

    "So is she," Monica said, "but you didn't hear that from me."

    We carried our two unconscious burdens inside and deposited them on a pair
of sawhorses in the Sluice Room.

    "Thanks Steve - that's really great.  I'll get Jillian on to these two now. 
I'll take over from wherever she's got up to with their current clients. 
Tomorrow it will be Mary and Trish."

    "Mary and Trish are going to work on them? You must have big plans."

    "We're getting paid an awful lot of money for the taming of these two
shrews.  Mary and Trish are the best at what I have in mind."

   

    I had not had time to eat that evening so I spent some time heating up some
leftovers in the kitchen and watching a late night movie.  The mission to the
Gold Coast had got my adrenaline going and I didn't feel like sleeping.  At the
end of the movie I went downstairs to see how things were progressing.  Monica
was in the Observation Room with Jill who looked stunning in a black PVC corset
with a leather miniskirt barely concealing the tops of the seamed black
stockings she wore.  Around her throat was a stylish black leather choker.

    "Wow," I said admiringly.  "And I thought you were only into sporty stuff." 
Jill smiled with just a hint of colour coming to her cheeks.

    "We're all very versatile," Monica offered.  "As you can see.  I'm just
checking up on Shannen at the moment."  I followed her gaze to the CCTV screen. 
It showed the scene in one of the holding cells.  Shannen was chained to the
bed, spread-eagled, cuffed to the frame at wrists and ankles.  At least I
presumed it was Shannen, since her entire head was swathed in silver duct tape
with only a dark opening for her nose.  She still wore her black high heels and
maroon skirt, which had now ridden high up her thighs, displaying her black
nylon-clad legs in spectacular fashion.  The white satin blouse was undone to
reveal her firm breasts which each sported a plastic clothes peg. 

    "She's asleep, I think," said Jill.

    "How can you sleep like that with clothes pegs on your tits?" I asked
wonderingly of nobody in particular.

     "You can take a lot of things if you're tired enough," Monica said.  "She's
also got that big butt plug still up her bum.  It's locked there and will stay
there until morning.  I really do hope she comes to her senses.  I think she
could be quite a nice person if only she gets a grip on herself."  Monica
switched off the monitor and switched on the light in the Post Room, which up
until then had been in darkness.  Looking through the one-way glass I saw the
two helpless figures bound to the posts facing each other, the little I could
see of their faces being wide-eyed and tear-streaked.

    Natasha and Tanya were secured in identical fashion - mirror images almost. 
They were both naked and hung semi-suspended against the two posts in the room,
facing each other.  They each wore a rubber hood but with the face open, clearly
to enable each to watch the other.  Over the top of the hood was an elaborate
harness securing a ball gag deep in their mouths - one red ball and one white. 

    I had drilled a number of 12 millimetre holes in the posts to enable big
bolts to be inserted wherever necessary.  These bolts could serve two purposes -
either for securing something to the post, or to simply stop rope sliding up or
down.  In this case it was the latter.  There were two bolts protruding from the
rear of the posts - one at about two metres high and the other at waist height. 
The former served as a hook over which the wrists of the prisoner were hung,
above the head and behind the post.  Around each waist was a wide belt with a
crotch strap drawn tightly between the legs.  On each side of the waist belt was
a large D-ring, and through these were drawn a number of turns of white sashcord
that welded the prisoner to the post, looping behind it above the second bolt
protruding from the timber.  The same bolt also served to secure the victims'
feet.  Their ankles were locked in leather cuffs which had been drawn back such
that the legs were bent double via the knees and hips, as the ankle chains were
hooked over the same waist bolt at the rear of the post.  It was a very strained
position I realised.  The twins were suspended by their wrists, waists and
ankles, but the presence of the post pushed the waist forward while pulling the
arms and legs back. 

    The most obvious effect it had was the prominent thrusting out of the girls'
breasts which were truly a wonderful sight to behold.  Clearly they were a
visible asset at the best of times, but the arching of the body left them
thrusting forward in a 'take me' attitude that I suspected the twins would
surely regret and wish they had mammary attributes of lesser proportions.  Most
noticeable of all, however, was the fact that each nipple was pierced with a
gold ring.  I guess that might have been expected, looking at the ears and
noses, and again I reckoned the nipple piercing might be an idea that they would
wish they had not gone through with.

    I noticed also, as I took in the finer points of the strict bondage, that
over each nipple the girls now sported TENS patches - with a cutout for the tip
and the ring - a donut-shaped stick-on patch the diameter of a golfball.  These
were the sort used by physiotherapists and others of the medical profession, and
I had done some work with a mate recently in adapting these for the new purpose
they were to serve. 

    Thin wires hung from the patches and were joined by wires trailing from the
crotch strap.  The wires ran across the floor to a point below our window that
was out of sight.

    "We've hooked up the wires like you told us Steve," said Jillian," but we're
not sure about the new gear you have here."

    The 'new gear' was some stuff I had had adapted by a mate called Douglas who
was a bit of an electrical nerd.  He ran an electronics shop and I had used him
from time to time on some of my building projects when something a little out of
the ordinary was required.  Doug loved nothing better than to be asked to come
up with a particular device that might be an adaptation of existing technology.

    This particular adaptation began with a common or garden CD player - in this
case a five-stacker.

    "It's really simple," I explained.  "Monica told me about the twins'
situation a while ago, although no specifics were mentioned.  One of the
problems was that these two girls were driving their father and the
neighbourhood mad with their music, so we thought there might be a good case for
some aversion therapy.  Basically, you start the CD player and away it goes. 
The sound remains turned off in here, but the girls can hear it through the
headphones under their hoods." 

    I started the CD player and looked up in time to see the expressions of
surprise on the faces of Natasha and Tanya.

    "The volume level is shown on this meter here, and all you have to do is
decide the baseline trigger level, which you input here."  I looked at the level
the music was playing at and punched in a figure about three quarters of the
peak volume.  "Every time the volume peaks above this level, it sends a signal
to this little black box next to it." I indicated a device the size of a modem
on the desk next to the CD player.  "This in turn sends a small charge out to
the ladies."

    "Ingenious," Jillian said admiringly.  "Is this one of your ideas or
Monica's?"

    "Just how perverted do you think I am?" I asked with a touch of fake
umbrage.

    "It was my idea, but this man made it work," Monica clarified.  "I think
it's brilliant."

    "But there's more," I continued.  "You see, I reckon the whole thing about
such a situation is the 'unknown'.  These girls will know their music backward
sideways and - suspended.  So they will expect their punishment, after a short
learning curve.  What this little box does is create a random cycle so that
every peak is sent to a different receptor - wherever you devious women have
hooked up the wires to.  There is also a 'blank' in there as well, that is
occasionally when the peak is reached, no signal is sent at all.  Just to
confuse the issue, you see, so there is no pattern and they never know what's
coming next.  And to make matters more interesting, the CD playing sequence is
set to 'random', so it will switch from one track on one CD to a randomly chosen
track on another."

    "Never be predictable," said Monica, "unless you really want them to fear
what is still to come.  We'll get on to that tomorrow."

    "And finally," I finished, "the level of voltage is set by this knob here. 
It's limited in the jolt it can deliver, since we're obviously not out to harm
the girls, and they'll be getting quite a few of these over a long period. At
the moment it's set at fifty percent, which gives a one-second buzz.  Who wants
to try?"

    "Allow me," said Monica.  "Where do I switch on?"

    "Here," I showed her, first turning the volume within the Observation Room
up so that we could identify when things were happening.  Monica flicked the
switch and we watched the volume meter intently as the thud of punk rock burst
into the room.  I tweaked the volume down a bit, and decided that maybe we would
be doing society a bit of good in this particular therapy case.

    As the volume meter crept over the baseline a small red light on the black
box flashed and one of the bound figures stiffened, her eyes widening.  Her
breasts heaved and then subsided, but I could sense fear in her eyes and her
breathing quickened as she suddenly realised what was happening.  The red light
winked again and the same figure stiffened again.  I began to wonder if
something had gone wrong, when moments later the opposite twin jerked in her
chains, her legs widening then squeezing the post between them.  I did not know
how long they had been conscious after the drug had worn off, but they were
certainly very awake now.

    "Dare I ask where you have inserted these wires?" I inquired of Jillian.

    "Obviously there's one on each tit, and one to those new butt plugs you
adapted, and one connected to a stainless steel dildo in each pussy."

    I did a mental calculation.  Four tits, two twats and two butts plus a blank
made a one in nine chance of any orifice or protuberance getting zapped when the
volume peaked.  It gave just under a fifty percent chance of either twin getting
zapped.

    "Jill, Steve, could you go see that everything is functioning properly
please? And don't forget your masks.  I want to add to the fear at this stage by
not letting them know what a bunch of pussies they're dealing with."

    "Aren't we the ones dealing with a bunch of pussies?" I suggested.  Monica
laughed and handed me a black ski mask with holes for the eyes and mouth.  Jill
pulled on a black leather mask which seemed like three quarters of a discipline
hood, covering her head down to her ears and her face down to her mouth.  It was
pretty menacing, I thought.

    We left the OR and entered the Post Room.  It was quiet except for the very
faint tinny sound of the earphones under the rubber hoods.  I put my head up to
each hood to check the ear pieces were all working and that the girls could hear
properly.  All seemed okay - I could just make out the sound above what was now
rapid breathing by Natasha and Tanya.  I held my hand on each of four breasts in
turn - some people have all the tough jobs.  The flesh quivered and wobbled as
the girls strained in their bonds.  I noticed the twins had tattoos on each
breast - one had a small red rose on one boob and a red tulip on the other.  The
second twin had a white rose and a white tulip. As my hand lingered, every so
often I would get a painful little buzz through the pad around the nipple and
the breasts would heave in a most stirring manner.  Of course this was always
accompanied by a lot of frantic wide-eyed 'mmphing' and head shaking and
pleading looks from the big blue eyes as tears rolled down her cheeks past the
head harness and the jaw-stretching ball.  A string of drool trickled down from
each corner of the gag and slid slowly down the firm, upraised breasts. These
eighteen-year-olds certainly had wonderful bodies.  Jillian was checking out the
girls' more sensitive areas and likewise confirmed that everything was in
working order.

    Jillian spoke into the ear of the red flowered girl.  "You should be
comfortable here for the night, Natasha - nothing to do but listen to your
favourite music, nice and loud."  The twin shook her head in despair, making
plaintive mewing sounds from behind the red ball gag.  Now I saw the
significance of the red and white gags - either Jill or Monica had an eye for
detail.  "Enjoy the party," Jill said, as we closed the door behind us.

   

    Back in the OR, Monica asked me: "I know it's late Steve, but remember you
said the system could also be used with live sound?"

    "Sure.  You just need a mike and you plug it in here instead of the CD
player."

    "Good.  I want to try that tomorrow.  In the meantime we should get some
sleep.  Jill will do the night shift.  I have plans for these two tomorrow."

    "I'll bet you do," I thought, but asked: "Do they know that yet?"

    "No.  As yet they have no idea where they are, why they're here or how long
they will be kept.  I want to scare them shitless for the first 24 hours -
really give them something they won't forget, with the promise of more to come
if they don't behave.  Likewise I want them to think about the possibility that
far worse punishments might await them for an indefinite period of time  - just
let their own minds do all the work for a bit and create the worst possible
scenario.  For what Mr Kuragin told me, they're not without imagination. 
Anyway, think about what I want and see how many microphones we might have.  I
want to use feedback from the twins to create more zaps.  See you in the morning
Jill."

   

    Monica and I went upstairs leaving Jill in the gloomy quiet of the basement
overseeing her suffering charges.  Monica briefly outlined what she wanted
before we parted.  It was gone 2 a.m. and I was suddenly overcome by tiredness. 

    I awoke at seven - an hour later than usual - and breakfasted alone on the
verandah.  Monica was in her study already, looking impossibly fresh and rested. 
She filled me in on events.

    "Mary and Trish have just come on duty," she said.  Mary is dealing with
Shannen at present.  Watch."  She switched channels on the monitor and I
realised we were looking at the Sluice Room.  Poor Shannen was bent over a
portable frame I had made out of 40 mm steel pipe, welded together in the form
of a sawhorse and mounted on a small trolley that enabled it to be moved from
room to room.  The horizontal bar of the horse was padded with foam covered with
vinyl designed to cushion the body to some extent.  Shannen was naked except for
her high heels, stockings and garterbelt.  Her wrists and ankles were spread
wide and chained to the legs of the horse while her head was still cocooned in
duct tape as I had seen it the previous night. Mary was giving her a very heavy
talking to, interspersed with accurate slashes with a multi-tailed flogger about
the backs of her thighs.  Shannen would definitely not be a happy teddy.

    "Meanwhile, back at the ranch..." said Monica.  "Why don't we go and visit
the twins in person?"

    We went downstairs to the OR in time to see Trish dealing with the one of
the twins - the one with the red flowers on her tits. 

    "That's Natasha," said Monica, by way of explanation. Trish was wearing a
form-fitting black latex catsuit, complete with gloves and high-heeled
calf-length boots, all of which glistened under the lights.  She had piled her
shoulder-length hair on top of her head and now wore a soft leather mask
somewhat bigger and more evil than the Lone Ranger's, and definitely looked all
business.   

    Natasha's ankles had been let down but her feet were now hobbled with a
short length of rope, while her waist bonds had also been released.  At some
stage during the night Jill had secured both head harnesses to the posts as
well.  Maybe it was to prevent strain on the neck, maybe it was to add a further
restriction on movement.  Natasha's harness was now undone totally and the gag
was popped out.  The girl tried to say something, which I guess would have begun
with 'who', 'why' 'where' or 'what', but she never got the chance.  Trish's
expertise was such that with a finger under the jaw she was soon winding duct
tape around Natasha's head over the top of the rubber hood.

    "Change of gag?" I queried.

    "Eases the jaw," Monica explained.  "They've had a long stint with the balls
- their jaws will be aching painfully at the moment.  The other reason is
they're going to be upside down in a minute.  Duct tape is much kinder in that
position.  You've no doubt noticed we also generally use it if the client has to
sleep.  Less obstruction of the airways and longer duration."

    "Oh," I said, suitably enlightened.

    Trish moved behind the post where Natasha's arms were still held high with
the chain looped over the protruding bolt, and with deft movements freed both
wrists, pulling them down then pushing Natasha away from the post and letting go
of one wrist.  Natasha instinctively tried to run, but the short hobble almost
saw her lose balance.  Then she tried to claw at her tape gag with her free hand
before Trish was on her like a cat and immediately grabbed the free wrist,
clipping the cuffs together with well-practised expertise.

    "Impressive," I murmured.

    "She's good," Monica agreed.  "A pleasure to watch, don't you think so?"

    "Absolutely," I said.  Mr Willy thought so to, but I didn't let Monica know
his opinion.

    Natasha was at once under control again as Trish pulled her away from the
post with mincing little steps, then had her turn to face the post.  She secured
a strap tightly around Natasha's elbows until they almost touched, making the
girl's already prominent breasts thrust forward even further.  I wondered what
was coming next until Trish looped a rope over another protruding bolt at the
two-metre level on the post - a rope which was then attached to the short chain
between Natasha's wrist cuffs.  Trish then began hauling and Natasha's arms went
up in the air behind her.  She began making more grunting and mmphing noises as
he head went down at an equal rate.  Trish pulled on the rope with one hand and
guided her prisoner with the other - pushing her head down further and further
and making her take tiny steps towards the post, until eventually Natasha was
bent double and her arms were pointing vertically, hard up against the post. 
Trish left a little slack in the rope before tying it off to a cleat.

    "Eighteen year-olds are wonderfully supple," Monica murmured, half to
herself.  "Don't you think so, Steve?"

    "I can't really remember," I said. 

    She smiled.  "I'll bet you can."

    It took only a moment for Trish to replace the hobble rope with a spreader
bar, with the widening of her ankles lowering her body and taking up the slack
in the overhead rope.  With Natasha's head, shoulders and arms against the post
Trish removed the elbow restraint, replacing it with a couple of turns around
Natasha's body, between her breasts and waist, and looping around the post.

    "She really is an artist, our Trish," said Monica admiringly.  "There's no
excess with her.  Everything is minimalist but absolutely functional.  Natasha
won't be able to move anything except her fingers and head.  And talk about
exposed!" 

    It took another ten minutes before Trish had Tanya similarly bound to the
post, head down, staring between her legs at her twin sister on the opposite
post.  Then Trish picked out a wicked looking cane that made the hairs stand up
on my neck as she swished it through the air.  I had terrifying visions of my
time at high school where caning was the normal method of discipline.  "Go and
fetch the cane!" was the dreaded expression for anyone caught doing wrong. 
Looking back I supposed it didn't do me any harm and one had to say that
discipline was pretty tight.  Maybe if everything hadn't become so politically
correct today's youth might be a little more considerate of the rest of society. 
So much for the soapbox, I thought.  The twins were now about to find out the
hard way.

    Monica spoke into the microphone.

    "Natasha and Tanya.  You have been brought here because of your attitude. 
You probably have a dozen questions as to where you are, who we are, how long
you're here and why you're here.  The first two points are irrelevant.  How long
you're here depends entirely on you.  It could be six days, six weeks or six
months.  Nobody knows where you are, or what you are experiencing.  Your father
thinks you are at a kind of health retreat.  He is probably enjoying his first
worry-free peace and quiet for a long time.  As to why you're here..." Monica
managed to get a terrible steely menace into her voice.  "I think you both know
the answer to that question.  You have an attitude problem.  You have a drug
problem.  You are devoid of pride in yourselves and your capacity to achieve. 
You are unacquainted with the notions of responsibility and accountability for
your own actions.  This is the first of your lessons here. 

    "You are here because of what you have done and the trouble you have caused. 
You will remain here until you realise this and can offer a suitable reform plan
that will allow you to contribute to society.  Until such time you will be
punished for your misdeeds and your attitude.  If you cause trouble, or try to
escape, it goes without saying that the punishment will become more severe and
more prolonged.  If you were to disappear entirely, perhaps even that would not
be a bad thing..." She left her voice hanging in mid-air, heavy with inference. 
By God she certainly scared me.  "Proceed with the punishment," she ordered.

    The cane fizzed through the air and caught Natasha squarely across both
cheeks of her backside.  The girl screamed behind the tape sealing her mouth,
the sound coming out in a long "Nnnnnnmmff!" followed by moaning and mewing
through her nose.  Her hands twitched and she tried to hop from foot to foot to
no doubt ease the burning pain that was probably searing into her flesh.  Her
breath came fast and ragged, a series of pantings mixed with drawn out groans.

    "That was a small example of what is to come.  Now it is Tanya's turn." 
Trish moved over to the helpless bent-over form secured to the post.  Tanya's
eyes widened with fear.  Seeing what had just happened to her sister no doubt
was going to heighten the experience.  She shook her head in desperation,
struggling hopelessly against her bonds, making "Nnnn! Nnnn!" noises from behind
the silver duct tape covering the lower half of her face.  Her body was
trembling and her hands clenching open and shut when the next stroke hit in the
same place as on Natasha.  Again the screaming moan through the nose, the eyes
screwed shut in pain and the frantic gasping for breath.

    There was a period of perhaps a minute where Trish stood out of sight of the
girls and Monica said nothing.  The silence was broken only by the sobbing of
the girls in their helpless positions of vulnerability.

    "That was merely a small sampling of what you can expect.  Can you imagine
fifty strokes like that?  You would be brought back to consciousness each time
you passed out from the pain, so that you could receive more.  It could go on
for days." Monica paused to let her words sink in.  "I haven't yet decided how
many you will receive.  But I want you to consider your plight.  I want you to
remember the ache in your arms and back, the bite of the rope about your body
and wrists, the strain in your legs, but most of all the helplessness and
vulnerability you feel and the futility of escape.  I want you to ponder on why
you're in this position and decide if it was all worth it.  And I will tell you
one more thing.  There is more where this is coming from.  Don't ever think that
it will be over once you leave here.  We will seek you out and find you, should
you err further.  You can't hide from us.  We have resources that will track you
down and you will feel the lash across your flesh whenever we decide you may
deserve it."  Monica paused then commanded: "Continue."

    Trish walked into the field of view of both girls as they stared between
their legs, terrified.  Trish slashed the air several times - a fearsome sound
designed to reach the very depths of their psyche.  She stopped then, as though
trying to decide which tempting uplifted bottom would feel the pain first.  Then
she walked out of sight, circling the helpless pair, the heels of her boots
clicking menacingly on the concrete in the darkness beyond the small circles of
light that lit up the prisoners.

    "She would have made a wonderful actress," I whispered, awed by the
performance.  Then things went totally silent and I lost Trish in the darkness. 
Until, sneaking forward on tiptoes she let fly with the cane across Tanya's
rump, leaving a vivid red weal about two fingers width above the first.

    Tanya's muffled scream and the sobbing that followed echoed off the cold
concrete block walls.  Trish vanished into the darkness again.  Impressed as I
was with the performance the pain being inflicted on the helpless girls made me
uncomfortable, regardless of their misdemeanors.  I obviously did not have the
internal fortitude for the hard side of this business, I decided.

    "You won't forget what I need for this afternoon," said Monica, as I turned
to go.

    "It's all just about ready now.  Just give me a call when you're ready."

    I turned and closed the door behind me as a fourth crack sounded followed by
a muted wailing and sobbing.

Monica's Place

CHAPTER FOURTEEN - SHANNEN RIDES AGAIN

	I spent the rest of the morning sorting out various bits and pieces that had
been demanding my attention.  Monica requested my presence shortly after lunch,
again in the Observation Room.

    "Stage two," said Monica, inclining her head towards the Post Room. 
"They've been fed and watered - after a fashion, and they're raring to go
again," she grinned.  I followed her gaze and saw that Emma had taken over the
discipline session.  I had not seen her in this role and she looked stunning,
wearing black leather boots that came halfway up her thighs and a black pvc
corset that lifted and displayed her cleavage most provocatively.  She wore a
novelty rubber Halloween mask that transformed her face into that of an old
crone.  It certainly wouldn't do much for the Twins' dreams when they returned
home.

    Emma was putting some finishing touches to Tanya - she of the white ballgag. 
Tanya was being secured to match her sister, who was loosely but ingeniously
fastened to one of the posts.   Both girls were still naked but for the wide
black waist and crotch belts, the latter no doubt hiding a dildo and butt plug,
if the two wires hanging down between their legs were anything to go by.  Each
girl sported black leather wrist and ankle cuffs, with chains joining them
behind the post.  Their ankles were chained in such a way that their feet were
secured almost alongside the post, leaving them on the point of falling forward
but not quite there.  The wrist chains were not particularly tight, leaving a
little room for hands to fly about but not so much that they could reach or
interfere with any knots or attachments.  I wondered if they could crouch down,
if they tried.  Their rubber hoods had been removed and standard ball gags
installed.  Their hair was damp and matted and their cheeks were tear-stained. 
I could see angry red weals on the backs of their legs and buttocks.  Clearly it
had been a painful learning experience thus far.

    It was difficult to see if the looseness of the restraints was a relief for
the twins.  They looked subdued and miserable. Emma finished chaining Tanya's
ankle cuffs and checked the round TENS pads that still encircled the girls'
nipples with their gold rings.

    Monica had explained what she wanted, and then asked that I give Emma a
hand.  I donned my ski mask and entered the room with a two buckets, one
half-filled with water.  This one was the same one we had used on Emma for the
water torture, and temporarily had a piece of tape over the hole in the bottom.

    Emma was busy with a long piece of string when I entered.  She tied one end
to Natasha's right nipple ring and then threaded the other end through Tanya's
left ring then Natasha's left ring then tied the string off to Tanya's right
nipple ring, putting just a light tension on the string.

    "Okay?"  she asked Tanya softly.  Tanya's eyes widened above the gag, not
knowing what was to come.

    "Nnnmp!" she said, shaking her head in fear.

    "Don't worry, sweetcakes," said Emma, cupping Tanya's chin and giving her a
light kiss on the nose. 

    As Emma was doing this, I reconnected the twins TENS wires to the main
outlet feeds from the black box in the control room.  This provoked a lot of
hmmming and pleading noises from the pair, which I pointedly ignored.  I then
fixed each twin with a small headset with a microphone, like those worn by
receptionists or Telstra operators.  I settled these snugly on their heads and
held them in place with a sports headband.  The mikes were positioned just in
front of the balls wedged behind their teeth.

    I set up a second mike on a small tripod stand midway between the girls, as
Emma hoisted the plastic bucket of water on a pulley fixed to the roof midway
between the two.  The tape had been removed from the hole and water was slowly
dripping out. 

    The final touch was the second plastic bucket which was hung at mid point
over the three spans of string linking the girls' nipple rings.  It was at that
point that they saw the plan, and both began to moan and plead, twisting their
arms and shuffling their feet as much as their chains would let them. I returned
to the Observation Room with Emma.

    "Young ladies, if I could have your attention please," Monica commanded
sharply into the microphone.  "Let me explain your situation.  Firstly, as you
have no doubt worked out, the water from the top bucket will be dripping into
the bottom one over the next few hours, making the load on your lovely nipple
rings heavier and heavier.  You should consider the purpose and usefulness of
these rings both for now and in the future.  They hold endless possibilities -
at least for what we have in mind!  But you will also notice the other little
extras we have added. 

    "You will be pleased to know you need not endure any more of your favourite
music.  There will be no more shocks from that music.  Instead they will
originate from two other sources - dripping water supplemented by your own
music.  In short, the sound of the drop of water landing in the lower bucket
will be picked up by the microphone on the stand.  It may or may not trigger a
little zap to a randomly selected part of you.  On the other hand, any noise
made by either of you - grunts, squeaks, moans, whatever, will definitely
trigger a zap.  It may be to the one who made the noise, or it may be to the
other.  That's all.  Enjoy your afternoon."

    Monica turned the lights down to leave the captives in two pools of light in
a darkened room.  Then she flipped the switch to set the system in motion.

    For a while nothing happened, although the incoming sound meter from the
bucket was registering each drip as a flick of the needle. 

    "Is it working?"  Emma asked.

    "Wait," I said, having the utmost confidence in my mate Douglas the
electrical geek.  At the fifth drop a red light winked on the black box and
Natasha stiffened and jerked, letting out a plaintive cry from behind her red
ball.  The green light winked immediately followed by the red light and Tanya
went rigid and moaned.  The sequence happened several times in quick succession
until the girls slowly realised that if they were to save themselves pain they
must control their voices.  At length the grunting and cries were held back, and
the two stared at each other in miserable silence, their bodies occasionally
spasming and trembling as a little zap struck.  Their eyes screwed up in such an
instance then opened to let another tear slide down the cheek.  All we could
hear was the heavy breathing which I had expected and allowed for in the setting
of the sound levels.  The girls still struggled with their bonds, trying to get
their hands around to reach the nipple rings.

    We watched for perhaps ten minutes before Monica said to Emma:  "Time for
the finishing touch, I think, Em."

    Emma disappeared next door, and was visible moments later fixing a small
bell to each wrist and ankle cuff.

    "Good luck." She whispered into Natasha's microphone.  Natasha rolled her
eyes as a shock caught her in an intimate location.  She twitched and grunted
before she could help herself, and suddenly the bells tinkled at her wrist
cuffs.  Moments later Tanya's wrist cuffs were also tinkling, as both girls were
unable to control their spasming bodies.

    "How long can they go on like this?" Emma asked as she returned, a look of
concern on her face as she took the mask off.

    "Under an all out spasm they will receive two minutes worth, given that it's
spread between the two girls and their different receptors," I told her.

    "Then what?"
  	"It cuts out for five minutes whenever a certain dosage is reached,
regardless of how long that takes to be achieved."
	Poor Natasha and Tanya were well on their way to that two minutes when I
left, their bodies twitching and stiffening, their cries unable to be suppressed
by the rubber balls.  Rather them than me, I thought thankfully.


    After tea that night, before retiring to my room, I checked with Emma how
things had gone with the Twins.  Emma was getting ready to finish in the
Observation Room.

    "They're very tired and sorry for themselves," she told me.  "They're very
sore but will probably sleep all right, despite their current predicament."

    "I reckon they've had a current predicament all afternoon," I said wryly. 

    Emma laughed.  "They're now in the cell next to Shannen. Look."  She
switched channels on the monitor.  I saw two forms lying on the floor.  There
was no bed in this cell, just a large vinyl covered mat on the floor - the sort
they have in gyms for gymnastics.

    "What have you done to them this time?" I asked.

    "Not a lot at all," Emma said matter-of-factly.  "They're wearing full
inflatable rubber hoods with no eye holes or mouth opening, although they're not
actually gagged.  The hoods are tight enough so that it's impossible to make any
sense with one on.  Believe me, I've tried it.  And they're in mummy bags - made
out of heavy latex with a heap of straps around the outside.  They're not
actually tied up inside, but they can barely move - I know that from experience
too," she added ruefully.  "I've spent the night in one and you can bet these
two girls are going to be very hot and sweaty in the morning.  It's all part of
lowering their resistance and tiring them.  We'll wake them up a few times
during the night as well.  Then tomorrow they'll get the full steam treatment in
your new sauna in the morning, and I understand Monica has scheduled them for a
'double torpedo in the afternoon'."

    "What lucky girls."

    "Aren't they just."  We watched for a few minutes as the shiny black forms
periodically twitched and rolled on the floor, bumping into each other and
looking like they were trying to communicate, head to head.

    "They'll have no chance of that," Emma told me, anticipating my thought. 
"Once they're pumped up, the hood restricts your hearing.  All you can hear is
blood pounding in your ears, especially since we stuck earplugs in, first.  And
to talk is impossible.  The pressure holds your jaw and lips closed very
effectively."

    "And how's our intrepid journalist?"

    "She's resting peacefully."  Again the change of channels to the cell next
door.  Shannen was also lying on a PVC mat on the floor, naked. Her wrists
ported leather cuffs and were chained together behind her back, while her ankles
were likewise secured.  She was gagged with several strips of black duct tape
across her mouth and her eyes were closed although the light remained on.  She
lay on her side, her body showing red marks on her legs and buttocks.  As we
watched she rolled on to her stomach and a low moan of pain was heard through
the microphone in the cell.

    "Bad girls should get used to wearing nipple clamps during the day, don't
you think?" smirked Emma.

    "Absolutely," I agreed.  "I hope everybody has a pleasant evening.  See you
tomorrow."

   

    The next morning I was sitting down to a late breakfast with Leila and Emma
when Monica and Jillian appeared, urging a prisoner ahead of them.  I assumed it
was Shannen, although I could not really see her face and the other times I had
seen her she has been gagged in different ways.  This time the situation was no
different but she was still an extraordinary sight.  She wore black thigh-high
leather boots that had been laced up tightly along the full length.  Above these
she was dressed in black shiny latex - a short skirt reaching to the top of her
boots that clung sensuously to her thighs and buttocks. Above this was a
long-sleeved latex top with a high neck that merged with a rubber hood. 
Shannen's harms were folded and secured behind her back, and her hands were
covered in rubber mittens that would have made any form of finger usage
impossible.  Over her head she wore a bridle harness of sorts that secured a
rubber-sheathed bar in her mouth, which I suspected concealed a mouth-filling
gag as well. On top of this were blinkers which clearly limited her field of
view.  The whole get-up was topped off with a feathered plume attached to the
top of the head harness.  I wondered if she had been able to look at herself in
a mirror.

    She was controlled by Monica via a thin leather rein attached to a brass
ring at each end of the bridle bar, enabling her head to be twisted and directed
in either direction.  The front of Shannen's rubber top was split by two
vertical zippers - one over each breast, and these had been exposed as Monica
obviously deemed appropriate.  Attached to each pink nipple atop the swelling
orbs protruding through the rubber was a chrome nipple clamp, the two joined by
a thin chain.  Attached to this was a third rein which disappeared between
Shannen's legs to be held by Monica.

    Monica introduced us to Shannen and made her take a bow.  Shannen obviously
did not know what was going on yet or how she was expected to perform, for a
performance was clearly what was expected of her.  As Monica pulled on the third
rein Shannen realised the only way she could reduce the sharp pain in her
nipples was to bend in the downward direction.  This she did, holding the bow
until she felt the tension release.

    Leila, our official photographer, had brought her camera to the table, and
it was for this purpose that Monica then removed the blinkers.  It showed of
considerably more of Shannen's face, and despite the black bar hiding her mouth,
I thought she was very attractive.  I had never read any of the articles she had
written, but she did not look the sort of person to be vindictive - not now,
anyway.  She looked exceedingly sorry for herself in this instance, her face
flushed red with humiliation. 

    While we finished our breakfast Shannen was secured in a variety of
positions for Leila to take some suitably incriminating and outrageous photos. 
First it was bent over and secured by the reins to the railing, then stretched
by the nipple chain with the rein slung over a beam.  Here Shannen was on
tiptoe, trying to take the strain off her nipples, her eyes screwed up and
whimpering while Leila shot all the angles.  When released the ponygirl
surprised us - well me, at least - by deciding to rub her crotch against a
railing corner post.  The rest of the girls laughed. 

    "Toothpaste on the vibrator," Jillian murmured to me.  "Itches like crazy
once the stinging stops."

    Then it was off to the garden with Shannen - once again wearing her blinkers
- where she was secured to the garden tap by her nipple chain for a few final
photos.

    "You know that cart you made recently?" Monica asked me.

    "The one I use behind the ride-on mower?"

    Yes.  Remember I asked you to adapt the handles so it could be pulled by a
person?"

    "Yes."

    "Well this is the person who is going to pull it.  This is your pony.  She's
the one who's going to help you shift those concrete blocks from the end of the
driveway."

   

    It was evident that before any shifting of blocks was done the pony would
have to be properly trained.  After I had finished my breakfast I walked over to
where Shannen knelt and undid the nipple rein securing her to the tap.  I helped
her to her feet and led the way to my workshop where the cart I had built stood
inside the main door, beside the ride-on lawn mower.  I had originally built the
cart to be towed behind the mower, making it useful for carting garden rubbish
to the compost heap - a task I sometimes did as well as my construction
activities.  Then Monica had wanted it adapted and I had modified it according
to her specifications.

    I backed Shannen between the shafts and secured them via the waist belt and
hip supports, then fastened further straps about her upper body.  And I have to
say it was a very attractive upper body.  She had big green eyes which looked at
me woefully from the blinkers.  Her breasts were not big but were prominent
through the confining rubber slits in the latex top. I stood behind and to one
side, before urging her out of the garage and around the side of the building. 
At that point I climbed on the cart, and watched with interest as Shannen was
forced to lean forward, taking the strain on her legs and waist as well as with
the harness connected to her upper body.  She had got the hang of it by the time
we turned the corner within sight of the back verandah, when a chorus of rather
unkind comments and applause emerged.

    At this point Monica wanted to have a turn - like a kid with a new toy, I
thought.  But of course Monica wasn't satisfied with the rein arrangement as it
was currently.  The third rein was dispensed with entirely, while the two reins
connected to the brass rings on the bit were rearranged so the reins ran through
the rings, before being secured to the nipple clamps.  This was going to be a
very painful morning for Shannen, I thought.  Unfortunately it looked like I was
going to be the one doing a lot of the inflicting of it.

    Monica and Jillian took Shannen for a spin around the garden.  There was no
doubt it was hard work for Shannen, made moreso by the impossible demands for
speed and manoeuvring that Monica demanded, reinforcing her directions with
flicks of a short but lethal-looking whip to Shannen's black and shiny rear end. 

    They returned to the steps in time for Leila to take further photos of the
sweat pouring off Shannen as she stood still, panting, her breasts heaving
through the slits in the rubber.  She was indeed a stirring sight.  Then it was
time to work.

    It took much of the morning to shift the three pallet loads of blocks from
where they had been delivered inside the front gate to the rear of the house.  I
intended to use them for the construction of a small outdoor cell with an open
roof.  It would be something that would absorb the full heat of the sun during
summer, or the full fury of a deluge, which in Brisbane's climate could be any
time of the year.  It would be less than a metre square but at least two and a
half high.  It would also be very claustrophobic.

    The work of transporting the blocks was hard for Shannen.  The morning was
warm and humid so I made sure she drank plenty of water, as I stopped on a
regular basis to let her sip some mineral water through a small valve in the
gag.  After about the third trip the back verandah was empty, so I decided
Shannen could be relieved of the nipple clamps which were obviously causing so
much distress to her.  The job she had to do and the manner in which it was to
be done seemed to me to be punishment enough.

    Late in the morning we were almost ready for the last run, but I decided a
rest was in order.  I was sweating nearly as much as Shannen, since I had been
doing all the loading and unloading of the concrete blocks.  I sat down in a
shady patch around the bend in the driveway and let Shannen wait quietly under
the trees.  It occurred to me then that any good pony should receive a reward
for a job well done, and I told Shannen so.  I suspected she was implanted with
a vibrator that could be activated with a twist of the base, if Monica had
followed her usual modus operandi.  Steadying Shannen with one hand on her waist
belt I felt under the thin rubber skirt and found the base of the vibrator
protruding through the fixing in the crotch strap.  I turned it on and wound it
up fully.  Shannen's eyes widened and she started to shift her weight from one
foot to the other.  I did not need to be Einstein to work out that the
groundwork had already been done, as the invader had insinuated itself deeply in
her pussy through the straining she had done in pulling the cart all morning. 
Now it seemed she only lacked something solid to rub her pussy against to
complete the reward I was giving her. 

    She was panting hard and making little mmph sounds through the gag, the
sweat rolling down her face and the look of frustration becoming more and more
apparent.  Finally I beckoned her over to where I was sitting on a fallen tree
trunk, just as she looked as though she was about to take off into orbit.  I
placed my left hand on my knee and straightened my arm, providing a sloping
surface for her.  She trotted up to me and I slipped my left foot over her
hobble rope and pulled her against my arm.  The thin black latex of her skirt
felt good against my skin, as did the heat from her pussy as she jammed herself
up against my shoulder, her eyes now closed, humping herself blissfully
oblivious to everything else.  Her breath became more ragged and her grunting
more strenuous.  I could feel the damp sweatiness as the rubber material slid
over my arm and against the skin of her thighs.  There was a musky scent in the
air which was nothing to do with our outdoor location.

    Shannen finally climaxed - an orgasm that seemed to go on and on as she
bounced against my body, rattling the shafts of the cart and snorting furiously,
her grunts having changed to a high-pitched mewing as she fought her bonds and
shuddered to a standstill, her leather-clad legs locked against mine.  I could
feel the trembling of her body and heard the desperate sucking of air through
her nose.  Concerned, I stood up and undid the bit gag, prising it out of her
mouth with a slurping sound followed by a huge intake of air.  She leaned
against me, her breasts quivering in the most gorgeous way, her eyes closed, and
her black-clad body doing all the right things for Mr Willy.  He would have been
more than happy to do battle at that point, but I knew I had probably already
deviated from Monica's strategic plan.  Shannen had barely time for a series of
swearings as she struggled to gain control of her breathing, before I thrust the
soaked leather packing back into her mouth and buckled the bridle in place
again.  She looked at me with her huge green eyes with an expression at once
grateful, sorrowful and promising of more. 

    She was definitely not impressed when I turned off the vibrator and told her
the nipple clamps would have to go on again for appearances on the final run
back to the house.  She screwed up her eyes as the chrome-plated clamps bit into
her blood-engorged rosebuds, and a small tear slipped out of the corner of her
eye.  I wiped it away gently and suggested that it really was time to get going.

   

    The next time I saw Shannen, she was taking a swim.  I had completed
unloading and had returned the cart to the shed by that time and was about to
head downstairs to stand in on a double torpedo on the Twins.  Watched by Leila,
who sat in a white bathing suit on the edge of the pool, Shannen was floating
immovably in the water, her legs splinted by a board between them, secured by a
mile of duct tape. Across the middle of her back was another board, roped around
her waist, which enabled easy transport of her by a person lifting each end of
the timber.  Shannen still wore the black latex top, hood, skirt and mittens,
although the thigh-length leather boots had now been removed, leaving only the
thin black latex stockings.  She looked like some form of strange black fish
lurking on the surface, with only the snorkel pipe detracting from that
likeness.

    "Watch her carefully," I said to Leila.

    She smiled.  I hoped she didn't think I was trying to give her orders - I
was just concerned about the potential for mishap in Shannen's position.  But
Leila wasn't the type who could take offence at anything.  An eternal optimist
she was one of those rare individuals who seemed to make the best of any
situation they found themselves in.  And of course even in my short time at
Bilboes, Leila had definitely found herself in some "situations".

    "You're not going soft on us are you Steven?" she teased.

    "I bet you ask that of all the guys," I shot back.  She laughed, and I left
her to her lifeguard duties.

   

    Meanwhile, down in the dungeons...  Our heroines Natasha and Tanya had been
lashed to identical submarine boards sitting on saw horses.  Monica and I had
discussed how to do this and had decided that securing the victims away from the
submarine frame was the easy way, and separate boards that could be bolted in
place one at a time, back to back, was the way to go.  It looked like Emma and
Trish were doing the honours this time, with Emma in her spunky corset
continuing from where she had left off in the morning, only now the old crone
face had been replaced by that of Minnie Mouse.  Trish complemented the
situation with a Daisy Duck mask while I had selected a Goofy mask from our
store.  They looked incongruous, and probably the Twins would never be able to
watch a Disney cartoon again, after today.  Yet there was also something
frighteningly sinister about the three faces fixed in frozen smiles as they
subjected these helpless females to such painful torment. 

    Trish looked all business in a rubber skirt clinging tightly across her
thighs and a matching bra which I considered most appealing.  She wore black
stockings and snug rubber boots that reached midway up her calves and strangely
had been fitted with three-inch heels.  A victory for both elegance and
pragmatism, I decided.  Once again she had pinned her auburn hair high on her
head and a pair of elbow-length black latex gloves rounded off the no-nonsense
impression.  In contrast to these two I looked totally out of place, not to
mention under-dressed.

    "We'll have to see about getting you some leather pants," Trish whispered in
my ear.  "I could quite fancy you in them."  I could not tell if she blushed,
and I hoped she could not see my reaction either.  I walked over to where the
pair of hapless girls lay on the boards.  They had been strapped down tightly
again, much as Mary had been in the trial.  The only changes from Mary's ordeal
were twofold.  Firstly, they would get penetrated in the arse as well as the
pussy, and secondly there would be no getting their rocks off at the end of the
ordeal.  That was the theory, anyway.  A further difference I noticed was that
the breasts of the victims had also been bound - with sashcord as distinct from
the quick release straps that held their limbs and bodies immobile.

    "Do you like it?" asked Emma, obviously noting my admiring gaze.  "My friend
here is responsible for that," she said, inclining her head towards Trish.  It
was a further sign of Trish's expertise with rope.  The girls' breasts had been
bound identically and were now standing vertically and bulging, each boob
wrapped with several turns of the white cord that made the flesh swell and
distend, the blood rising to the nipple.  Atop the nipples the little gold rings
stood like tiny ferris wheels upright on giant onions.  The white and red flower
tattoos just above the nipples appeared to have enlarged as a result of the
constrictions of the rope.  Above and below the breasts were further turns of
cord around the torso.  These had then been cinched together either side of the
breasts and in between them.  The girls' breathing now seemed more pronounced
with the tight strictures around their chests which moved their nipples through
more exaggerated arcs.

    Both girls were - predictably - naked, and both wore their usual white and
red ball gags strapped tightly behind their necks.  These gags had clear plastic
air tubes the diameter of a finger penetrating the centre of the balls.  The
tubes ran to waist level, being taped in place at various points.  The Twins'
heads had not yet been secured in place, and they appeared to be taking a great
interest in their surroundings and what was about to happen to them, if their
wide eyes were anything to go by.

    "Time for the insertion, Doctor?" smirked Trish.

    "Certainly Nurse," I responded, picking up a torpedo slide that I had
recently modified in my workshop.  It worked on exactly the same premise as the
one Mary had so willingly tried out, except that this one carried an anal dildo
as well.  It was slightly smaller and driven by a separate weight, but otherwise
was intended to work in exactly the same fashion as its larger front entry
counterpart.

    Trish worked the two vibrators so that the heads of them were just inside
Tanya's target orifices, at which point Emma and I fitted the bolts and
tightened the nuts which secured the torpedo brackets to the board.  I noted
that the torpedoes were well greased and watched as Trish slid each one home to
the full extent of its stroke as dictated by the body of the victim.  Tanya's
eyes appeared to widen even further and she gave off a series of gasping throaty
moans through the tube.  Her breath started coming in rapid pants when Trish
tested the on-off switches and left the intruders on while setting the
slide-limit screws.  This would prevent harm from coming to the girls by
over-penetration.  Mary had reckoned that after the initial setting things had
loosened up even further as the body reacted to the stimulation.  Trish slid the
two dildoes back and forth a couple of times, adding a further squirt of
lubricant.  This elicited more protest from Tanya, who jerked her body the few
millimetres that the strapping allowed and tossed her head wildly.  We quickly
removed the 'looseness' from her bonds and Emma produced two nipple weights. 
These were lead balls the size of a walnut and Emma tied one each on Tanya's
nipple rings.  Tanya watched with increasing horror, but I'm sure she still had
not realised the extent of her trial.  Emma left about ten centimetres of slack
in the string, giving plenty of scope for the weight to swing through an arc as
the girls did the same.  Finally we strapped Tanya's head securely against the
padding on the board after first plugging her ears and nose with rubber plugs
and taping her eyes shut with duct tape.  Five minutes later Tanya and her board
were lying horizontally, bolted to the frame of the 'submarine'.  She was making
little "urgh-rgh!" noises through the tube as we turned our attention to
Natasha, who had of course seen the whole process of securing her sister. 

    Natasha struggled as best she could as we repeated the securing ritual, but
with each struggle or jerk, the straps were notched tighter and her movements
gradually subsided to immobility.  At length Natasha was ready for fixing on the
submarine.  Emma turned the electric motor on.  There were more glugging throaty
noises from Tanya as her head began to tip down and she slowly rotated such that
after a few seconds the weights slid down the shaft and drove the dildoes into
her crevices.  This did not happen simultaneously - something to do with the
size of the weights and the friction of the rails, I guess.  As it turned out
the pussy invader acted first, its smooth lubricated length sliding inside Tanya
in a motion that brought forth a groan as the vibrator was activated.  About two
seconds later the anal plug was driven home to the accompaniment of a
high-pitched cry through the tube.

    At the same time the nipple weights slid around the tautly bound breasts
under the influence of gravity as Tanya neared the vertical inclination with her
head down.  Then she was past that and was held entirely by the taut fastenings
of the straps.  At this point of course the nipple weights swung entirely free
and there was more groaning into the air tube as the little lead balls
oscillated freely beneath Tanya's boobs, tugging on the gold rings.  At length
she was horizontal under the rotating frame, and Emma turned off the power while
we manoeuvred Natasha on to the upper side of the frame.  It took several
minutes, while of course during the whole time Tanya was getting a clearly
unfair advantage of getting a total buzz in her arse and pussy.  Unwilling to
give one twin the advantage over the other, much less the opportunity to
actually start enjoying her plight, I slid the weights back just enough to break
the contacts.

    Then they were off again, slowly rotating end over end, secured in place
head-to-toe, every thirty seconds or so the weights sliding down with successive
muffled thumps which drove the dildoes deeper into their orifices, while on the
opposite side of the board they would be sliding out under their own weight.  At
the same time the nipple rings would come under strain, as the weights would
drop twenty centimetres to the opposite side of the breasts.  The throaty cries
would come in quick succession from both sides of the board, redoubled as the
water was turned on.

    "You're not bad - do you realise that?"  said Trish.

    "What do you mean?"

    She crossed her arms and looked at me appraisingly - or as appraisingly as
Daisy Duck was capable of under the circumstances.  "You get away with these
things with a certain panache.  What you've done here has a sort of elegant
simplicity about it.  Like gravity itself.  You obviously haven't got round to
the perpetual motion concept yet, but I wouldn't put it past you." 

    "I'll remember that next time I have you skewered and helpless on the shaft. 
That'll be the time to try the new long life batteries I will have invented."

      "Gee thanks," she said.  "I can't wait."

    " I have other things to do.  Be good."

    "You're kidding."

   

    It took me a couple of hours to make up Monica's latest device - a
floor-mounted butt plug for the post room.  This was a bit like the adjustable
shaft I had tried out on Trish, except it was mounted a metre behind the poor
soul who was to receive it and had a pivot at each end.  The lower pivot allowed
the shaft to be tilted up or down, then could be secured with a butterfly nut. 
There was a sliding extension just like the original shaft, and at the top end a
butt plug could be mounted, angled and secured, again via a pivot and butterfly
nut.  The whole assembly was screwed to the floor and a wired installed to
connect to the butt plug for the dreaded bum zaps.  Monica obviously had it in
for somebody.

   

    The day was warm and languid, and I emerged from the dungeon on to the back
verandah in time to see poor Shannen - still clad in her black rubber outfit -
being dragged from the pool by Leila and Jillian.  They rested their burden on a
couple of saw horses, the cross-timber spanning between the two so that Shannen
- in her splinted and semi-rigid bondage looked like a strange black seesaw.  I
noted that she wore nipple clamps connected to what looked like small bags of
sand.  Her balance with the board across her waist was such that her upper body
weighed slightly more than her lower half, with the result that she tilted
head-downwards until the weights touched the ground.  She hung there for perhaps
fifteen minutes, making gurgling noises through the snorkel pipe she still wore
taped in place within her mouth.

    In the course of making several trips to and from the workshop, I saw
Shannen divested of her leg splint and the bar across the back of her waist.  By
the time I was returning to the house for the fourth time, Jillian had finished
securing Shannen on another of my variations on the shaft.  Shannen was on the
points of her knees, her upper and lower legs and her torso all melded to the
main shaft - which extended to just below her neck - by about a mile of duct
tape.  Jill asked me to help her with the tabletop - another device Monica had
dreamed up and I had made to her specifications.  It comprised two lightweight
pieces of semi-circular plywood with a neck hole in the middle.  The pieces
fitted like a yoke and were steadied by steel supports that sat on each shoulder
of the person providing the main support for the top.  Shannen's snorkel had
been replaced with a few temporary pieces of duct tape over her mouth and she
looked at me pleadingly as Jill and I screwed the wing nuts closed to secure the
top in place.  I smiled as comfortingly at her as I could, mouthing the word
"sorry".  She seemed to accept this.  She obviously had no idea what was coming
next.

    A few of the others - Monica and Leila and Emma - appeared, Monica with a
bottle of New Zealand Sauvignon Blanc to which I have an admitted partiality. 
From that point what was left of the afternoon dissolved into a relaxed
discussion of all manner of things, interspersed with some tasty nibbles, the
sight of which obviously had an effect on the rubber and tape-clad head of
Shannen, sited only a whiff away from the food. Monica pushed some right under
her nose, but with the tape on her mouth she could do little but close her eyes
in frustration.  Then the pizza arrived and we tucked in with gusto, again, to
the obvious distress of Shannen.  At length Monica suggested Shannen should at
least get to dispose of the leftovers.  Jill pulled the tape off the victim's
mouth and began to feed it with the pizza crusts, cheese rinds and other bits
that had either fallen on the ground or that nobody wanted.  Nobody asked
Shannen whether she liked anchovies or olives or whether she was a vegetarian. 
Nor did she have a chance to protest when it was suggested that she would
probably be thirsty after all that, and she should be rewarded accordingly. 

    That's when the giant penis gag was produced - a huge replica in
flesh-coloured plastic about six centimetres across and perhaps twenty long.  It
came complete with balls and a hand squeeze pump, the idea being that it could
be filled with a particular liquid to suit one's particular fantasies.  If your
idea was sucking off a huge dick but you hated the taste, then fill it with
chardonnay or cappuccino, or whatever your heart (or taste buds) desired.

    In this case we had made a slightly thick vanilla milkshake - thick enough
to have a creamy slightly stiff texture, if you'll pardon the pun.  There was a
reservoir of half a pint as well as what was contained in the member itself. 
Poor Shannen, who had no idea what was going on or what new indignity was about
to be inflicted on her, quailed at the sight of the member.  It was clamped to a
sliding steel base plate such that when the latter was bolted to the table top,
the dick slid forward into the victim's mouth as far as one desired, at which
point it could be locked in position with another wing nut.  It was obviously
important for the victim not to choke on something this big, and I knew there
was no way very much of the member would go inside Shannen's mouth, particularly
with her head level as it was.

    Shannen fought the entry of the thing, gasping and protesting and trying to
keep her mouth shut, which was very difficult and ultimately futile as Monica
gripped Shannen's nose and pulled her head back.  Once halfway in there was no
more resistance to the giant dick. Shannen's jaws were obviously stretched to
the limit and her eyes were also appropriately wide at the acknowledgement of
the huge thing filling her mouth.  It was made of soft plastic, but when Monica
started pumping its contents the member seemed to harden with the pressure of
the pumping.  Poor Shannen's swallow reflex began as she tried to keep pace with
the giant ejaculation that was occurring in her mouth.  The difference was that
the volume of this one was about fifty time that of a normal spurt session.  It
must have been incredibly humiliating as the liquid filled her mouth and oozed
around the edges of the gag.

   

    Finally Monica eased off the pumping and Shannen caught up with the
swallowing, her face red from the effort.  Notwithstanding the end of the
swallowing, Monica was not going to remove the gag from Shannen's straining
jaws, that much was clear.  Shannen was destined to stay as she was, taped
immovably to the steel shaft and supporting the table top - now rigidly fixed
via the giant pink member wedged in her mouth - until Monica decided otherwise.

    It was one of those gorgeously balmy Brisbane evenings that slowly merged
into night, punctuated by the incessant chirp of crickets and frogs in the
surrounding bush.  We sat around the table talking and getting through another
bottle of Sauv Blanc.  Shannen was inevitably the butt of many jokes and I
couldn't help but feel sorry for her.  I thought her humiliation was complete
and her ordeal over when Monica directed that the tabletop be removed and the
prisoner untaped.  This took several minutes and there was no denying Shannen's
relief as the gag was extracted from her mouth.  There were deep teeth marks in
the plastic - I thought it was a good job it was not a real one.  She did not
seem fazed when several strips of tape were applied to her mouth.  I think the
mere fact that her jaws were closed made it a delicious treat.

    She was obviously not happy about what came next, however.  Her arms were
still folded and bound behind her, as they had been all day.  She was laid on
the verandah floor, her legs spread and then hauled upside down by ropes
attached to ankle cuffs.  She protested as much as she could behind the tape as
Leila and Jill bent their backs to the ropes running over the two pulleys fixed
to the roof beam, before tying them securely to cleats.  Shannen swayed in a
figure 'Y' in the gentle evening breeze, her face becoming redder as the blood
found its way to her head.

    Monica rolled the rubber skirt up (or was it down?) to Shannen's waist,
exposing the crotch belt that lurked beneath and extracted the two inserts with
loud sucking sounds accompanied by moaning from Shannen.  One could almost
believe she had gotten fond of them.  Then came a period of trial and error as
Leila, at Monica's direction, fashioned two long and very thick candles into
works of art ultimately protruding from Shannen's front and back passages,
providing a leg-bisecting light that was indeed most artistic.  Monica finished
off the living sculpture with a nipple chain clipped to Shannen's bulging
rosebuds with a pair of wicked alligator clips.  Shannen moaned and cried as
Monica swung her victim lazily back and forth by tugging on the chain.  Tears
rolled down Shannen's temples.  I was sure crying upside down was a most awkward
exercise - something our bodies had not really been designed for.  (Like, they
had been designed to hang upside down with candles jammed in their orifices?)

    We eventually finished grazing on leftovers well into the evening.  Shannen
was lowered to the deck before the candles burned down far enough to burn her
tender parts or melt the rubber of her stockings, and was taken away for her
nightly incarceration.  God knows what Monica's next devious torture would be
for her - there was no predicting the wiles of that woman.

    I had some final tools to take down to the dungeon, so I called in on Emma
in the Observation Room, just to see how the twins were doing. 

    "Where are they now?" I asked her.

    "Oh, their preliminary punishment is over," Emma explained.  "They've
survived the hard part - and believe me, an hour going round and round on the
submarine was hard.  After that they got another whipping from Mary, but they're
now safely tucked in bed upstairs."

    "Really?  Unrestrained?"

    "No, of course not.  Be sensible.  They have separate bedrooms and each was
chained in the bath for an hour - enough time for them to thoroughly clean
themselves.  Each is now chained to a four-poster by the neck.  Their hands and
feet are cuffed and their mouths are taped, but aside from that they can
luxuriate in a soft bed for the first time for a few days.  Tomorrow the
training begins."

    "The training?"

    "Yes - they have to at least learn a bit of civilized behaviour and to do
useful things about the house.  They've tasted the worst that could befall them,
now they're experiencing a little of the upside, as a taste of what exists,
although they will be back in the cells tomorrow night.  Tomorrow they will be
sweeping and cooking and cleaning and that oven must get a good scrubbing.  Do
you want any clothes washed and ironed?"

    "I'll let you know."

    I said good night to Emma and returned upstairs.  Monica and Trish were
sitting at the table, talking and studying at some pieces of paper.  They looked
at me strangely as I bade them good night.  I shrugged, mentally.  A strange
race, female humans...

   

    I came awake in the middle of the night with a great weight crushing me face
down into the bed.  Invariably I sleep on my stomach, and my awakening at this
point left me in complete confusion as to what was happening - at least for a
few seconds.  My immediate realisation was that someone was sitting on top of
me, at which point I recognised the voices of Monica and Trish.  A moment later,
as I tried to move, I realised further that both my wrists had been bent up
between my shoulder blades and one of the girls was busily strapping them
together, crossed at right angles.  There was a pillow lying loosely over my
head, which had blocked out most of the light from my bedside lamp they had
used.  I tried to struggle, but with someone sitting in the small of my back on
a soft bed and my wrists now secured it was damn near impossible.

    "What the hell's going on?" I demanded, trying to keep calm.

    "You've been a bad boy," came Monica's icy reply.

    ""What are you talking about?"

    Monica did not answer immediately and my thought processes were distracted
as the pillow was removed and my head was pulled back by the hair.  I had barely
time for a gurgling exclamation while trying to adjust my eyes to the light when
something black and bulbous was thrust into my opened mouth and worked inside so
that it thoroughly packed down my tongue.  I realised it was the bridle gag that
Shannen had worn the previous day.  The mouth packing was a large leather plug
filled with some sort of stiff but resilient material.  As the straps were
tightened behind my neck the rubber-sheathed bar was pulled between my teeth
which further expanded the packing.  I grunted plaintively, still trying to
focus my eyes and my thoughts and to work out what time it was.  I caught a
quick glimpse of the radio alarm clock on the bedside table: three thirty in the
morning.  What sort of inhuman hour was this for the girls to be getting up to
their tricks, and what had I done?  That was the last I saw of anything before a
padded leather blindfold on a harness was strapped in place about my head.

    The pressure on my back eased as whichever female it had been got off.  I
struggled to sit up and was helped by two pairs of hands.  Sitting on the edge
of the bed I felt more ropes on my body.  They looped under my crossed and bound
wrists then rose - one over each shoulder - before ducking under my armpits and
returning horizontally to be secured at my wrists again.  This was repeated
several times and culminated with a few turns around my upper arms and body.  At
the end of it all my arms were totally immobile.

    I should also point out that I normally sleep naked, as I was tonight. In
this sort of weather it is the most comfortable.  I should also state that at
3.30 in the morning Mr Willy is not averse to a little nocturnal arousal whether
I am awake or not.  In this I know I am not unusual.  Sometimes there is little
I can do about such things, and unfortunately this was one of such time.  I sat
there, my arms bound, gagged and blindfolded, and Mr Willy shot up like an
extension ladder.  This of course caused enormous amusement to Monica and Trish,
and Monica's formerly cold tone softened in direct proportion to Mr Willy's
hardening.  Soft hands began caressing me and I found it difficult to keep a
focus on my thoughts.  When a warm mouth engulfed Mr Willy I thought I was going
to take off, but the ministrations stopped just as I was getting on to the
launch pad, to the accompaniment of whispers and stifled sniggers.  I groaned in
frustration.

    "We shall have to curb this lust of yours, Steven.  As I said before, you
have been disobedient.  We've read Shannen's report of her ordeal yesterday. 
Unfortunately it was not as much of an ordeal as it should have been, mainly
because somebody left off her nipple clips for half the morning and let her jerk
off for a lunchtime treat.  She even got to have her gag taken out. 
Unfortunately somebody will now have to make up for that lapse in punishment. 
That's why you're wearing the gag she should have had on without respite. 
That's also why you're going to be wearing the same nipple clips."  Moments
after she said this, I felt the brief touch of cold steel on my nipples then the
biting pain as the jaws of the clips gripped my tender flesh.  I gasped and
whined plaintively into the mouth packing, but little sound came out except for
the pitiful mewing through my nose.

    I felt the chains on the clips threaded through the brass rings at each end
of the bar running through my mouth and at once I was totally controllable
through trying to avoid the awful pain from the tugging at my nipples.  There
was no doubt it was an incentive to behave and I now fully understood poor
Shannen's plight the previous day.

    I needed no persuasion to stand up and move forward to the door.  I
obviously knew the layout of my room and the building itself, but that doesn't
really give you confidence if you're not used to being blind.  I had faith that
my captors would not let me deliberately walk into anything, and they seemed to
direct me with precise tugs to ensure this would not happen.  There were
occasional directions like "step down" or "step up" and I felt the sensation
under my bare feet as the surface changed from wood to grass to wood again as we
made our way over to the main house.  Despite my cooperation I was nevertheless
the subject of repeated flicks of what I thought was a riding crop, and I also
concluded that the treatment was coming from Monica.  The avoidance of such pain
had left behind the bizarreness of walking about naked with two women just as it
had also made Mr Willy forget his earlier experiences and ambitions.

    I mentally tracked our progress as we crossed the back verandah, passed
through the kitchen, down the hall, then descended the stairs to the basement. 
We turned left at the bottom of the stairs then right a few paces further
onwards.  I knew we were in the Post Room.  Female hands locked leather cuffs
about my ankles and pulled my legs apart before obviously chaining the cuffs to
the posts.  I realised at that point whom the butt plug on the shaft was
destined for, and why Monica had wanted it installed in such a rush. 

    I was made to bend forward as the huge invader was worked painfully into my
butthole, filling me uncomfortably.  I was then stood up and I could feel the
rigidity introduced as the various sliding and pivoting points were screwed
tight with wing nuts.  I was now rigidly impaled on a device of my own
installation, secured in a tripod formed by my legs and the steel rod fixed to
the floor.  I protested futilely with a series of grunts, but of course it made
not the slightest difference.  I could feel myself starting to sweat and my
breathing rate rising.  I could still move above the waist, but not for long -
not once the two reins on the nipple clips were attached high up to the posts. 
The slightest twist of my head or movement of my upper torso brought instant
retaliation to my nipples.  It was simple, effective and, I guess, somewhat
ironic.  Monica obviously thought so, anyway.

    I could detect movement around me as I stood there, unable to move.  There
was the soft but menacing click of high heels on the concrete - a single pair
only.  I had a nasty feeling Monica was about to get close up and personal with
me.  There was the sound of a snap and the tingle of air near my naked buttocks. 
I trembled as much as my bonds let me.  Then came the wicked pain as the
six-tailed flogger bit into the left cheek of my backside.  I jerked
involuntarily and regretted it immediately as my nipples fired up and the giant
butt plug made its rigid presence felt.  More clicking of heels, a silence then
another snap and another burning pain, this time on my right cheek.  I grunted
into the gag.  Crack again, this time the leather thongs stitching firey lines
of pain across both cheeks.  I steeled myself, trying not to move at all costs,
since my impalement and nipple tension only made things worse.  I lost count of
the strokes I received, suffice to say that I was thinking nasty things about
Monica Armstrong at that point and resolving that I would definitely get my own
back, in good time.  In the meantime I had to content myself with effusive but
very muffled protests into the packing in my mouth.

    Then the footsteps trailed away and the door slammed.  No explanation, no
apology.  Monica was gone.  Steven was left on his tod, bound, gagged,
blindfolded and chained to a couple of posts by his nipples in a dark basement
room.  Stuff of nightmares, I thought. Things had really bottomed out.  Or so I
thought.  That was when a jolt of electricity zapped me through the buttplug. 
This time I really yelled, biting vainly on the leather filling my mouth.  I
jerked head and body, both of which were a bad idea and were brought up short in
a split second.  Shit, I thought, how much of this was I going to have to
endure?

    I had no conception of the passing of time.  I was conscious only of the
deathly silence save my own breathing and the pain in my nipples and arse.  The
strain of standing with my legs stretched apart made the insides of my thighs
begin to quiver but there was no chance of my falling - not hung by the nipples
or with a great plastic dick up my bum.  I was tired and not a bit disoriented,
but any possibility I might have had of dozing was negated by a random zap up
the bum.  I tried timing the jolts but lost track.  Perhaps it was every five
minutes, or maybe every ten.  My neck and back began to ache with the necessity
of standing so still.  I tried to focus my mind on other things, like plotting
the downfall of Monica Armstrong.  Such a downfall was bound to be slow and
painful.  Unfortunately such a train of thought inevitably brought me back to my
own predicament and the particular pain I was undergoing at that point in time.

    Maybe two hours passed, interspersed with zaps that made my body spasm and
jerk in a manner I could not control, such that the pain from my nips was
aggravated each time.  Was she going to make me stand her all morning, or all
day?  Who was doing the zapping, I wondered?  How many people were in the
Observation Room watching me suffer?  Were they laughing, or did I perhaps have
some sympathetic, if silent, supporters, who dared not question Monica's
authority.  Maybe Monica was also getting at me for the time I had left her at
warren's mercy when she had been chained to the garden tap then later impaled on
a double dildo with Christina.  Who could tell how the minds of these women
worked?  Never under estimate their power for revenge, I told myself balefully.

    After an eternity or two I heard the door open again.  There was a scuffle
of steps then the door slammed again.  There was another person in the room.

    "O e-en! I o orri! Eerri I anh!  I e-er ort..."

    The words sounded garbled.  It was Shannen, and I guessed she wore some sort
of gag, for her speech seemed devoid of consonants.  She was quite plainly
distressed at seeing me, mind you I was not exactly chuffed at my circumstances
myself.  Distress seemed to be pretty normal for this place.  I did not know
quite what was to happen next, for I could not see Shannen nor understand
whatever restrictive plight she might be in.  The next thing I knew was I got
another jolt up my arse, eliciting a high pitched moan through my nose.   I
heard the sound of hoarse breathing moving around behind me - it was as if
Shannen was inspecting me.  I hoped she enjoyed what she saw.  There was another
burst inside me that made me jerk on the nipple clamps and brought forth more
nasal protests.  Shannen was doing something behind me.  There was a noise and a
cry of pain from her, but I did not know what had happened.  The rod attached to
the butt plug began to shake and the invader in my bum wriggled painfully.  I
moaned as it was jerked about, like someone was climbing up the rod.  Then there
was a sudden pain and the feeling of a wire sliding out of my back passage.  Had
she somehow disconnected the supply?  Surely we were under observation, and
surely there should've been another jolt by now?  I began to hope against hope. 
There was another cry of pain, and although I was sure nobody else was in the
room with Shannen, I wondered what torture she was undergoing.  Had they wired
her with the remote zappers I had been working on for the twins?  I had not
shown those to anyone yet - probably just as well.  Maybe Shannen wore Monica's
trademark nipple weights, or some other terrible infliction.  Shannen was
sobbing with obvious pain now, her breath coming in throaty gasps.

    I followed her sounds as she moved around in front of me.  I felt the warmth
of her body as she gently pressed back against me.  She was naked, and I felt
her hands - crossed and bound behind her, low down at her waist - explore my
body in an effort to reach my own nipple tormentors.  Try as she might, however,
even bent over, she could not lift her hands high enough to reach them. 
Meanwhile, the relief of having the electrical shocks stop together with the
caress of her hands had woken up Mr Willy.  I did not think this was
appropriate, given my circumstances, but at this hour of the morning Mr Willy
often does not consider such niceties as appropriateness or etiquette.  The
hands caressed him again and he responded further, the little bugger.

    Then they were gone.  She turned and pushed her body gingerly against mine. 
I felt the cold steel of metal balls and her nipple clamps clinging to her tits
as she moved closer to me.  I heard the gasp of pain this exercise caused then
felt her lips on my own nipples, her tongue working around my own imprisoning
devices.  She appeared to have a ring gag on - the kind that makes it impossible
for the wearer to close his or her mouth, while still allowing the tongue to do
certain things and to permit a limited amount of semi-comprehensible speech.

    She licked my nipples some more, eliciting a further groan from me, and
prompting Mr Willy to really get interested.  This time the groan was almost one
of pleasure, however.  She thrust against me, straddling Mr Willy and clutching
him between her thighs.  All manner of sensations flooded through me - pain,
pleasure, confusion, you name it.  There was a rough sensation of rope through
her crotch and I realised any sort of consummation of this exercise was futile
in our present state.  That was when - after some pretty heavy thigh-oriented
foreplay, she withdrew and obviously knelt in front of me.  That was when Mr
Willy found his way through the ring gag into Shannen's mouth.

    What was going on?  Shannen was bound and gagged, as I was, yet here was she
giving me a blowjob in the most bizarre circumstances.  Whose idea was all this,
I wondered?  Was it rehearsed, or an ad-lib performance?  Was it Shannen somehow
trying to apologise or make it up to me, or was it masterminded by Monica? 
These thoughts flashed before me briefly before the rationalization faded and
the physical demands of Mr Willy took over.  The pain in my nipples somehow
merged with the rising force in my loins, spurred on as it was by Shannen's
ministrations, and I have to say that she was very, very good, despite the
handicaps we both laboured under.  I climaxed with remarkable speed and force,
and for a moment the insistent pain in my nipples and that of the plug in my
arse receded into the background with the persuasions of Shannen's tongue. 
Then, of course, reality flooded back with redoubled pain as the blood returned
in the weird way it does after a climax.  I groaned with the sharpness of it.

    As we both caught our breath, me panting through my nose and Shannen gasping
through her ring gag, she moved around behind me and began to nuzzle my back,
standing astride the bar holding the buttplug.  I realised she was seeking to
access my hands.  They had been tied, crossed, between my shoulder blades and
were somewhat numb, but I felt a clamped nipple thrust against my open palm. 
With some difficulty I managed to grip the clamp and squeeze the ends free of
its prey.   Shannen moaned and sobbed with the pain but nevertheless thrust her
other breast against my fingers and allowed me to release the second clamp. 
Again, it was with much sobbing and crying and was quite understandable in my
biased opinion. 

    After a minute to recover she turned around and worked the back of her head
against my hands, allowing me with some difficulty to undo the straps of the
buckle holding her gag in place.  The ring did not pop out at that point but
required considerable persuasion by pulling on the strap, to come loose.

    Shannen was at once all apologies, once she had worked her jaw a bit and
found her voice.  She returned to my front and managed to work her teeth such
that after a couple of tries she got one nipple clamp off me.  The attempts hurt
like hell, as did the blood flow returning, and it was a good thing I was still
gagged.  Shannen was devastated and profuse in her apologies for my pain, but
reluctantly continued her attempts which culminated in the terrible pain of the
removal of the second clamp.  This time I was able to writhe and twist in an
effort to deal with the agony of my nips which had been clamped for at least a
couple of hours and had had all manner of tugging imposed on them.

    The release of these clamps did make life more bearable, not least since I
could now bend over.  Shannen could now reach my head harness straps and
buckles, which she managed to get undone at length as I bent almost double to
allow her access.  Then she went to work on the ropes around my chest and arms
and, eventually, my wrists, which came free after about ten minutes.  This done,
I could return the favour and undo Shannen's ropes around her wrists and through
her crotch.

    We finally hugged each other - two human beings who had undergone some very
personal and very painful shared experiences.  Her body was hard and warm, and I
suppose it was natural what came next.  Shannen tried to undo the butterfly
clamps on the rod holding the buttplug, but they were done up too tightly. 
Notwithstanding this, events progressed pretty much uncontrollably at that
point, as Shannen wrapped her body around mine, impaled on Mr Willy as I was
impaled on Mr Buttplug.  But again, such minor inconveniences faded into
insignificance compared to the presence of the supple form entwined with mine. 
The surroundings of the Post Room disappeared, along with the ache in my legs,
nipples and other parts of my anatomy as we gave vent to our passions as much as
we could under the circumstances. 

    After it was over, Shannen was crying softly and still trying to apologise. 
That's when Trish appeared out of the darkness and began unlocking the chains on
my ankles and undoing the wingnuts on the buttplug rod.

   

    Shannen was finally ensconced in one of the upstairs bedrooms - the one with
the big four poster and the very feminine decoration.  Not my personal idea of
interior decor, but then, I didn't use it.  I wound up sharing an early
breakfast with Trish and swapping home truths on the back verandah.  We were
both amazed at the transformation that had come over Shannen.  Trish tried to
tell me that I had played a part in it.

    "Are you suggesting that I've been conned by Monica again?"

    "Not totally. Monica saw what was there between you, fostered it and finally
ignited the flame.  It was not her idea, but being the opportunist she is she
grabbed it with both hands."

    "So did Shannen," I said with deliberate double entendre.  Trish laughed.

    "You're so refreshing," she said.

    "I don't feel very refreshed," I retorted.

    "I'm not surprised."  She smiled.  "No hard feelings?"

    "How could I harbour a grudge against you, Trish?"

    "And Monica?"

    "Monica's a different story which hasn't yet reached its climax," I said
thoughtfully.  "The author is still working on the plot."

Monica's Place

 CHAPTER FIFTEEN - DUNGEONS AND DRAGONS

	For the next two weeks, while my focus was on the extensive fitting out of
Mary's dungeon, Monica was also not far from my thoughts.  I'm not a vindictive
person, and I could also understand the need for Monica to maintain order. 
Nevertheless I was beginning to object to her high-handed and draconian
authority - a fact made moreso by the testing of the various items of equipment
that now followed as Mary and I slowly fitted out the Dungeon.  The Dungeon was
almost the last major room in the basement to be fitted out, and it was to end
up fully equipped with all manner of stocks, pillories, horses and assorted
frames for the testing of human endurance.

     I was assisted in my endeavours by Mary and (to a sporadic and limited
extent) the Twins - Mary, because she was Dungeon Mistress Designate, for lack
of a better title, and the Twins as part of the next stage of their education. 
In fact the three females supposedly came as an item, since Mary was nominally
in charge of seeing to their aforementioned education.  In reality Mary was off
educating other clients for considerable periods, which meant that other members
of the Team also carried out the Twins' supervisory roles, with Trish as usual
being in the thick of the action.  Trish was turning into a real tool girl, if
that isn't an inappropriate double entendre.

     For the first three or four of days after I started on the Dungeon I saw
little of the Twins in the basement.  They were in fact upstairs, learning all
about Housework - how to vacuum, sweep, mop floors, clean ovens and windows, and
even cook and serve meals.  I encountered the pair frequently in that capacity
and it appeared - at least superficially - that their treatment over the first
few days of captivity had put the fear of God into them.  The thought of having
to go for another submarine ride, or be subjected to a whipping by Mary or to
face other extreme punishments, was still fresh in their minds.  This was not to
say, however, that they were spared various incentive plans, whether these be
different forms of 'aversion therapy' or even positive reinforcement. 

     In the former case, their behaviour modification was accomplished by a
couple of devices I had been working on for some time with the help of my old
electrical mate Doug.  We had devised a small power pack that was charged up
from the mains, then could be strapped on to a person and activated by a remote
control of the sort used to turn a wall-mounted air conditioner on or off.  It
had a range of about seven metres, as we established by trial and error, much to
the Twins' discomfort.  The powerpack was about the size and shape of a small
hip flask, made of aluminium and fastened around the waist on a rigid aluminium
belt about five centimetres wide.  The pack was normally worn in the small of
the back where the belt was bolted in place with lock nuts.  The belt also had
numerous holes which made it ideal for restraining chains of all types, which
was exactly what the girls were now wearing regularly.  Also attached to the
belt was an aluminium crotch strap much like a chastity belt, which held a
buttplug securely in place.  You didn't have to be a rocket scientist to work
out where the wires went and where the shock was administered to any
transgressor.  Monica was delighted with the device.

     While they were on domestic duties, the Twins were attired appropriately
for the job.  Such attire could depend on Monica's whims, or alternatively
whoever was delegated the job of supervision.  While on duty in upstairs, the
pair generally wore waist-cinching corsets in either red or white - red for
Natasha and white for Tanya.  (This now seemed to have become the accepted way
of telling them apart.)  The corsets lifted their already well-endowed breasts
and exposed them magnificently, while at the same time keeping nipples ready for
any passing member of the household to check the state of the radio knobs with a
twist or a tweak.  Alternatively they became convenient locations to hang things
on.  Monica thought it was cute to make them wear a 'to do' list of chores
clipped to each nipple.  The clips came off when the chores were done.  Mary, on
the other hand, thought it even more amusing to hang from each nipple clamp a
wire with half a dozen small lead sinkers on it - one for each job they had to
perform.  When the job was done, a ball was removed.  The girls were left in no
doubt that the weights would double if there were any short cuts taken or if
poor Quality Control was in evidence. 

     Predictably, with the movement required in the course of their duties, the
Twins were going to experience a bit of pain, so it was generally accepted that
they would have to be gagged all the time.  They sported an assortment of head
harnesses as a result, although sometimes it was just a plain ball - the
minimalist look, as Trish called it.

     To compliment their outfits the pair often wore long rubber hobble skirts. 
Black, shiny and tightly clinging, these skirts stretched from waist to ankle
and allowed them to take only very small steps.  They made running impossible,
stairs difficult, and kneeling awkward.  On all fours, they made tempting
targets for a riding crop.  The aluminium crotch strap went beneath the skirt,
which was secured at the top with a small padlocked chain rather like a pyjama
cord.  Without rolling the garment all the way up to the waist, the wearer was
effectively denied access to any action between her legs.

     The girls always were cuffed and chained at the wrists.  Sometimes it was
wrist to wrist, sometimes wrists to waist or to a neck collar.  Usually this had
to do with their task for the day.  Occasionally Monica decided to get really
nasty and get them to do something like clean the skirting boards using small
bottle brushes jammed into the middle of their ball gags. I reckoned the head
movement required for this must have been enormously tiring and made harder when
your hands are chained to your waist with only a very short leash. 

     I observed that crawling was near impossible in the tight hobble skirts,
and as a result they had to pull themselves along with their legs together. 
They overcame this quite ingeniously by kneeling on reversed fluffy bathmats,
doing a polishing job on the Tasmanian oak floors at the same time. For the
skirting board cleaning affair the girls did not wear weights on their nips,
instead having the TENS pads connected to the backpack.  Monica personally
supervised this, obviously having nothing else to do for that morning.  She was
doing a 'Mary' in this case, wearing tall leather boots and a black dress and
striding about imperiously with two remotes in her hand.  Viewed from floor
level she would have been an intimidating sight as she inspected the Twins' work
regularly and occasional squeals came from behind the gags when poorly cleaned
areas were spotted.

     By the end of the first week the house had undergone a major spring
cleaning, and Leila had been given the job of teaching the Twins to cook.  Leila
was a good cook and quite well organised.  In an effort to circumvent the
communication problem through the Twins' usually having their mouths filled with
one thing or another, they carried small pads and pens, usually clipped to a
nipple chain but tucked into the waist of their skirts.  Too much stuff dangling
from nipples was deemed by Leila to be a health hazard in the kitchen.  Nobody
wanted gravy dripping off a dangling nipple chain.  Coupled with the notepads
were a series of short questions, such as what would the person like for
breakfast, or was there anything else they wanted.  For the most part,
interrogative grunts or hums were adequate to ask whether they could now remove
the plates from the table.

     The cooking lessons were by no means straightforward, nor were the attempts
at serving at the table.  Leila eventually scrapped the hobble skirts,
substituting short maids skirts (still in shiny black rubber) with a white
apron, and high-heeled shoes that were locked on the waitress' feet.  There were
a couple of disasters, both on the cooking and waitressing fronts, and the Twins
learned resulting lessons the hard way. They also learned that any punishment
would descend upon them together, regardless of who screwed up.  It was all
designed to foster a spirit of cooperation and in this regard seemed remarkably
effective.

    

     While all this was going on, I was merrily working on the decoration of the
dungeon.  Monica wanted this to be as much like the real thing as possible -
whatever that might be.  We had discussed this very notion and concluded that we
were after a damp and dingy feel, which we achieved with an appropriately damp
and dingy cement wash, streaked with grey and brown, over the concrete block
walls.  Like the gym, the Dungeon was to have no suspended ceiling - instead the
roof would be painted black, along with all the services suspended there. 
Lighting was to be minimalist again, except for spotlights on specific pieces of
equipment, which would shed little light elsewhere.  The Dungeon was the third
room visible from the Observation Room, and we wanted the effect for each
apparatus to be of a single device adrift in a sea of darkness, populated by
other vague and menacing instruments of torture.  Mary asked for some small
spotlights on various places around the wall where she wished to hang her
floggers and chains.  We surmised that at some stage in the future we might
actually construct some featured instruments of torture like thumbscrews,
branding irons and anything else that would be suitably gruesome but which we
had no intention of using.  Maybe even a skeleton hanging by its wrists in the
corner...

     Much of this basic stuff I needed little help with, and I could usually
find someone to feed a wire through a conduit or pass me light fittings while I
stood on top of a ladder.  As I said, Trish was always willing, if she wasn't
already busy helping a client see the light elsewhere with some none-too-gentle
persuasion.

    

     The equipment for the Dungeon was a different matter.  There were two
different types.  There was the "traditional" dungeon stuff - pillories, stocks,
a St Andrews Cross, and so on.  The problem with much of the real dungeon
hardware was that it actually did damage to the clients, which really wasn't
what we were there for.  Repeat business does not feature highly on a client's
wish list if they emerge with a dislocated shoulder as the result of the first
experience of our service.  After a while the hospitals in the area would start
asking questions, as well. Consequently the branding irons and red-hot coals
were to be used purely for visual effect. 

     And then there was the more updated apparatus.  This took into account the
intention not to leave too many marks, as well as the evolution of technology
and the specific type of services we provided. In due course I was to build
several types of "horse", which would provide various forms of discomfort.  They
would range from something like a vaulting horse (to which a client could be
bound face down or face up), to single planks on edge.  It was these planks
which were the most painful, and which also came in several varieties.

     All of the plank 'horses' were supported the same way. On each of two
timber posts supporting the main structure of the house, I screwed a vertical
U-shaped steel channel section about 2 metres long.  The channels faced each
other and had a series of holes at 20mm centres drilled through each side over
the full length, through which a bolt could be located to support the plank. 
The plank itself fitted between the two channels and was able to be hoisted by a
pulley at each end.  I made three planks, each about two and a half metres long,
i.e. the distance between the two posts, and with different 'riding' surfaces.
Mary had guided me in their profiles, with the worst being a 5 centimetre thick
plank with the corners only lightly chamfered to take off the sharpness.  This
we called the "Number One". The second plank ("Number Two") was 7 centimetres
thick with smoother edges, while the third was the same width but with a
vinyl-covered foam pad along the top.  Each of the horses had recesses in the
top for pussy and butt inserts to be fixed and each plank could carry two
riders, if such was required.  I wondered who was going to be the test pilot.  I
hoped this would be one experiment Steven could be excused.

     Monica consulted her schedule when I asked the question.

     "I would say Emma and Jill would be most appropriate.  They've no clients
in the mornings this week, so they can be tested first thing.  Make it as
scientific as you like."

     "Meaning?"

     "All the usual stuff - ratings after ten minutes, twenty minutes, whatever. 
Find out if it's worse with legs back or forward, hands up or down. "

     "Sounds complicated," I said.

     "It's not.  Mary knows all the combinations but I doubt whether anyone has
done a serious analysis of the pain, before."

     "So do we have to wear white coats or what?"

     "Whatever you like, Steven," Monica laughed. "It'll be more than poor Emma
and Jill will be wearing, you can bet on that."

    

     She was right there.  The following morning Emma and Jill were astride
Number Three - this plank being the least offensive of the three.  Mary and
Monica and I had debated the ways and means of our scientific study and had
concluded that going the worst case first might make the affected body areas
unreasonably tender when it came to the softer options.  We also debated serious
issues as to whether the girl's legs should be pulled out to the side and
secured, put in spreader bars, pulled up behind them, or whether they should be
left standing on tippy toes.  All these aspects apparently put different angles
on which part of the crotch took the most punishment.  And what did we do with
their arms? Again, so many options, of which the worst would be a strappado that
tilted the body forward over the tenderest part - or so I was reliably informed. 

     Then there was the issue of how long to leave them.  Monica decided on a
quarter of an hour each time, administered in three sessions over three days. 
Scientific results would include details of pain and how much longer they might
have been able to stand the test.  You would have thought we were investigating
a world break-through in virus identification, the way Monica and Mary talked. 
I was glad I was just a working stiff, a rather appropriate expression given the
circumstances I seemed to find myself in.

     Jillian wore a white tee shirt and a short, flowing dark blue skirt.  Her
ankles had been put into leather cuffs secured at the end of a spreader bar and
her arms had been crossed and secured behind her.  Emma wore a sleeveless black
dress and evidently nothing underneath. She had her arms secured in identical
fashion to Jillian, and was astride the plank facing her. Emma was slightly
shorter than Jill, but by the time Jill had had her legs stretched wide and Emma
was forced to stand on tip toes as Mary and I hoisted each end of the plank via
two small winches fixed to the posts, each girl was soon bearing down firmly on
the padded plank.  We had gagged each with a simple ballgag since we did not
want a blow by blow series of complaints.  The pair had been impaled on
buttplugs fixed to the top of the plank which had gradually penetrated them as
we had winched the plank higher, prompting a series of muffled moans from behind
the gags as their rear passages were made to distend and absorb the plugs.  Now
they stood, exchanging mournful looks with each other and us. 

     I busied myself with my next construction - a piece of equipment not
dissimilar from a vaulting horse but in fact more like an over-sized saw horse. 
It was designed for someone to lie on, face down.  In this regard it was more
geared up for a woman, having breast-holes cut in the top, and it also had a
face hole like a physiotherapist's bench.  The idea was for the arms and legs to
hang down the sides where they could be secured to the legs of the horse,
leaving the butt and crotch wide and exposed for a sound thrashing and the tits
ready to have anything hung on them that might be suitable.  It was well padded,
and in fact was quite comfortable, until someone tied your ankles and wrists,
that is.

     I was well into my work on this when I became conscious of plaintive
'mmphing' sounds from the plank and realised that Jillian and Emma were still
standing there, impaled on the plank and starting to show the strain.  I looked
about for Mary - I was starting to get reluctant to take matters into my own
hands.  My judgement had already shown to be somewhat lacking and I had suffered
the consequences.  Mary was absent with no forwarding address, it seemed, and
the girls had already been on the horse over twenty minutes.  Uh-oh, time for
Steve to make a decision, and once again I couldn't restrain my compassionate
nature.

     Gently I let the plank down, releasing the pulley at each end a little at a
time.  Jill and Emma groaned as they eased themselves off the butt plugs and
stood, waiting for me to free them.  I had almost completed this when Mary
returned.

     "Who said these two could be released?" she demanded.

     "They've had their fifteen minutes," I said.  "More than that, in fact."

     Mary spat the dummy.  "I'm in charge here.  I'm the one who decides when
they should be released."  Jillian and Emma looked at each other but said
nothing, both smoothing down their clothes and deciding that it was time they
were somewhere else.

     Mary's anger was directed at me but I didn't know why.  I was only going on
what Monica had decided.  I didn't know what was getting up Mary's nose but I
wasn't going to argue with her.  I shrugged and turned back to my work on the
whipping horse.  Mary stormed out of the room in a huff.

    

     I spent the rest of the day completing the whipping horse and constructing
a large St Andrews cross.  This was like an elongated X, about two and a half
metres high.  The cross itself was pretty basic - two pieces of 150 by 75
notched together at the intersection then secured with a steel plate behind the
junction.  On the front side there were two small blocks that the victim could
stand on, one on each bottom leg, which gave enough space for each heel.  Then
there were a series of wide straps which went at ankle, knee, waist, below the
breasts, then wrist, forearm and upper arm.  All that was straightforward.  The
purpose of the cross was to rotate like a propeller, however, exposing all parts
of the body for ease of access for whatever punishment was meted out.  It was
this mechanism that took most of the time - the welding of a shaft to the back
of the centre plate, and supporting this on a triangle support.  This culminated
in a bearing immediately behind the timber cross, with the other end of the
shaft supported in a wall-mounted bearing half a metre further back.  The whole
lot rotated slowly with a small electric motor of the same sort we had used on
the submarine.  I worked until late that night, finishing it off, and by the
time I ventured into the Dungeon the next morning Jillian and Emma were already
riding the horse, with looks of distress on their faces. 

     This time both were naked, and were secured face to face.  I saw that the
Plank was the Number 2 version, identified by the large red '2' painted on each
end.  I had no doubt what would befall the pair tomorrow.  The girls' wrists had
been hauled up above them on a pulley, while their ankles had been pulled up
behind them, almost level with the top of the plank, where they had been joined
with a rope passing across the timber.  They wore matching ball gags which were
linked with a bolt through the middle - very much eyeball to eyeball stuff. 
Neither girl could turn her head - the rigidity of the balls, the bolt and
straps saw to that.  But I could see big eyes looking at me and I heard the
whimpers coming from the pair.  A further restraint - a wide belt - encircled
the two waists and had the appearance of joining the pair like Siamese twins,
their breasts flattened against each other and caught mid-kiss.

    

     Natasha and Tanya were also there.  Both wore PVC maids' outfits with high
collars but which exposed their breasts through holes in the top.  Natasha - she
of the red ballgag - was standing in a corner, legs held apart by a wide
spreader bar, with her wrists drawn tautly above her in suspension cuffs.  Her
sister was strapped face down on the padded whipping horse.

    

     "How long have they been there?"  I asked Mary, gesturing to Jill and Emma.

     "Only just started," she said off-handedly.  There was a muted whining from
the pair, which seemed to up an octave at that statement.

     "Are you sure?" I asked suspiciously.

     Mary glared at me.  "Are you calling me a liar?" she demanded.

     "No," I said.  "I just think your sense of time gets a little warped
sometimes."  That wasn't the only thing about Mary that was a little warped, as
I had decided some time ago.

     "So go and complain to Monica, and see where that gets you," Mary dared,
with a challenging smile.  I turned away, mouthing "sorry" to the pair on the
horse.  I had no doubt that any complaint to Monica would firstly produce no
good result.  Secondly it might double the time the girls spent astride the
plank, and thirdly it might land me in some equally painful position.

     "And what have the dynamic duo been up to?" I queried, changing the
subject.

     "This bitch decided to spill orange juice over Monica's dress.  Not a good
career move, do you think?"

     "No," I said, pitying the pair that were about to regret in a big way what
was probably an innocent mistake.

    

     I started work on a pair of 'Spanish Stirrups', made from 5mm steel strip,
40mm wide.  Spanish stirrups were another delightful idea brought to you by
those nice people from the Inquisition.  Imagine a person standing up, then bent
through ninety degrees at the waist.  The main bar of the stirrup spanned
between ankles and neck.  At the bottom end there were two cuffs which held the
ankles.  All the cuffs on this version were thick leather, compared to steel, as
they would have been on the original.  At the neck there was a further cuff that
formed a collar here.  At about breast level there were two cuffs connected to
the main bar, which took the wrists.  Once secured, the prisoner was unable to
stand or move in any way.  They could be left in this position until they fell
over, risking serious neck injury, or they could be laid down.  I had no doubt
nobody would be risking the former in this dungeon, not even Mary.

     I was halfway through this work when I looked at my watch, prompted by
further moaning from Jill and Emma as they struggled to ease the very obvious
discomfort they were going through.

     "Mary!" I said sharply.

     "What?"  Mary was in mid-stroke, working with a cane on poor Tanya.  The
girl was squirming as much as she could on the padded bench, but I had to admit
this wasn't very much.  Mary had heightened her pain with two lead weights that
hung from Tanya's breasts which poked through the purpose-built holes in the top
of the bench.  Tanya was squealing through the rubber ball and making lots of
high-pitched 'mmph' noises with each stroke of the cane.  While her buttocks
were still covered by the tight black PVC of her outfit, I had no doubt that the
cane would be very heavily felt.  Natasha, meanwhile, had had her stretched
condition enhanced with the 'shaft", upon which her butt had now been impaled.

     "It's time to set Emma and Jill free," I said.

     "The hell it is.  They can wait until I've finished here."

     "Knowing you that will be at eleven o'clock tonight and then only because
your arm's got tired."

     Mary glared at me again.  "When I've finished," she repeated.

     "Mary," I said patiently, "they've been on the plank half an hour since
I've been here.  Either you let them go or I do."

     Mary appeared to lose interest in the discussion.  "Suit yourself," she
said, letting loose a ferocious thwack on the taut PVC of Tanya's rump.  Tanya
jerked and stiffened in her bonds, the tit-weights swaying and her hands making
fists as she strained her legs and arms held rigidly by the leather cuffs down
the sides of the horse.  A muted scream came from the head held facedown in the
bench hole.

     I moved over to the bound forms of Emma and Jill.  Unsure how best to
release them, I decided to lower the plank first, a little at each end.  As I
did this I saw once again two large vibrating plugs appear from their butts as
their weight was transferred to their wrists and ankles from their pussies.  As
the plugs came clear I lowered the plank at a greater rate.  By the time it
reached the floor they were able to put their feet on the ground and take their
weight off their wrists.  Gently I undid their waist belt and the gag straps
buckled tightly behind their heads.  There had been no gentleness here from
Mary, no loose fastenings or staff concessions.  It was her domain and she let
anyone know it who came in.  Their faces were streaked with tears they had been
unable to prevent and even with the straps undone it seemed Mary had picked
balls which were the maximum size for their jaws, such that they needed to be
physically prised out. 

     I undid their wrist cuffs instead and left them to loosen the balls.  This
done, the pair hugged each other - the blonde, short-haired Jillian and the
dark, long haired Emma, each sobbing quietly as they comforted their partner. 
They said nothing, but Jill gave me a fleeting smile as they left the room,
walking awkwardly.  It was a smile of gratitude for which I in turn was
grateful.  I had a suspicion I had not heard the last of this.

     By the end of that day I had made good progress on a combination set of
stocks.  Again, these were like the plank in that they fitted in between two
channels - on each face of a post.  One of the posts was the real thing -
actually supporting part of the house - in fact it was the other side of one
which also supported the Plank.  I had added a dummy post a metre away at right
angles and the stocks were able to slide up and down in the groove like a
guillotine.  There was one set for ankles - the set which was technically the
stocks in the true sense of the word - which would require a person to be lying
on the floor, or sitting up, perhaps.  Or else on their backs with their knees
up and their ankles horizontal... 

     Then there was the set for the neck and wrists.  Again, technically, this
combination was called a pillory, but like the Plank this could be positioned at
any suitable height, held in place by pins through holes in the channel which
would secure top and bottom halves of the stocks.  It could be at shoulder
height, requiring a slightly subservient bowing position, or it could be lower,
necessitating a very uncomfortable bending from the waist.  Definitely not good
for a bad back.

     I had the company of the Twins for much of the day.  After Tanya had
suffered on the whipping bench it was Natasha's turn and the two exchanged
places.  After that they were put on to the Number 2 Plank, their arms stretched
above their heads but still able to stand on tiptoes to relieve some of the
pressure on their crotches.  Why Mary did not make them suffer something more
severe I don't know, but they nevertheless spent the whole morning stretched
tautly over the plank, alternating their weight between their crotches, arms and
legs.  Every so often a moan would come from behind a rubber ball as one of them
tried to take the strain off some painful part to mitigate their suffering. 
Mary seemed preoccupied, coming and going on other activities and barely
bothering with the Twins. 

     Around lunchtime Monica appeared and let the pair down, confining them to
hobble chains and wrist-to-waist chains, telling them to go upstairs and prepare
lunch.

     "I want to do a full photo shoot here in the Dungeon," she told me.  "When
will it all be ready?"

     "I could do with another full day," I told her.  I still have the dragon
bench, the rocking horse and the parallel bars to build - probably 2 more days."

     "Good.  That'll give Jill and Emma time to rest up before they go on Number
1 Plank."

     "You realise Mary has been having them on there longer than the fifteen
minutes you decided on?"

     "I'm well aware of that."  I should have realised there was little that
went on that Monica didn't know about.  Silly Steven.  "Mary's just going
through a cranky patch at the moment.  Nothing that won't sort itself out.  If
it doesn't, I'll sort her out."

     "As long as somebody else doesn't do it first," I said off-handedly.  She
looked at me strangely.

     "What do you mean by that?"

     "Nothing.  Well, I guess everyone has their point of no return - the point
at which they decide enough is enough."

     "All right, point taken.  I'll keep an eye on her.  Maybe we can organise
something for the photo shoot."

     "That would be good," I agreed. 

     I wondered what the devious Monica would come up with.

    

     For the next two days I was kept busy with the various devices the girls
had ordered.  I built a floor to ceiling set of parallel bars against one wall. 
The bars were made of 30mm timber dowels, set a handspan apart, although I had
no time to varnish them to the finish I wanted before the photo shoot.  It was a
solid structure, ideal for tying victims to in all manner of contorted poses.  I
had the place to myself during these two days, obviously at Monica's direction,
in order to get the work done.  I had to admit it was easier without the
distraction of some moaning babe bound into an impossible position undergoing
unspeakable tortures devised by Dungeon Mistress Mary.

     The dragon bench was a pretty straightforward contraption, designed to give
maximum exposure to all the vulnerable parts.  Somewhat like a chair, it had
separate supports for each leg of the occupant, such that the legs were widely
parted and then strapped to the supports.  These supports were fixed to one of
the posts supporting the house, such that the victim's hands could be pulled up
above their head or over their shoulders so their forearms could point downwards
but then be secured to the post.  It was quite a strained position, I decided,
especially when there was a deliberate gap left for access to the crotch area. 
I embellished this area with a car jack - the bottle type that has a shaft that
is levered upwards.  The top of the shaft I adapted to take a variety of the
Bilboes collection of vibrators and dildos.  Somebody was going to have fun with
this.

     The seesaw was an interesting experiment.  Something that Monica (who
else!) dreamed up, it literally consisted of an mini seesaw, with the occupied
end being a narrow padded seat about 10 centimetres wide, through which there
were two holes.  Predictably (or should I say 'pre-dick-tably'?) through these
holes poked two dildos of whatever diameter, texture and length you cared to
have inserted in the user.  The main beam of the seesaw was a couple of metres
long, counter-weighted at the opposite end with some sandbags, which could be
removed or added to, depending on how heavy the user was.  The whole device was
powered by the same sort of dinky little motor that I was starting to find more
and more uses for, that we had used on the Submarine and the St Andrews Cross. 
The difference in this case was that it had an off-set shaft on the main drive
wheel, so that instead of merely turning something around, it converted the
circular motion into a longitudinal (in this case up and down) motion. 

     My main problem was slowing it down so that the user did not suffer harm in
undergoing the fastest rogering in history, but I managed this through stepping
down the power and putting a reduction gearwheel in the process.  All in all I
was pretty proud of this by the time I had finished. 

     Of course there were other embellishments.  The user could sit upright,
strapped to a vertical backrest like on a chopper bike.  Alternatively they
might be made to lean forward with their wrists tied to the bench in front of
them.  Likewise, ankles could be hauled up behind them, or pulled out in front
and tied to the beam.  Either way they bore down fully on the padded seat and
were at the mercy of the mechanical invaders.  I wondered who would have the
honour of trying this one out.  Monica had promised that the photo session would
be a major test run of quite a few of the devices.  I looked forward to this
with a mixture of trepidation and eagerness, hoping like hell that nothing would
go wrong.

     The only other device that Mary wanted finished ASAP was what she
ungraciously called the "Reamer".  In essence it was very simple - a small bench
hinged at the wall on one side.   The hinge was about waist height, but the free
side was able to be raised and lowered through two ropes on pulleys.  The bench
was padded and was the size of a short ironing board, designed to have the
occupant kneeling facing the wall.  As a further accessibility feature, the
ankles of the prisoner were secured to branching timbers that made both front
and rear passages easy to access.  Someone wanting to give a helpless victim a
severe reaming in either hole merely had to lower the free side to exactly the
right height and pump away.  It was late evening and I had almost finished this
when Trish came in. 

     "Whatcha making now?" she asked in that incredible throaty voice that sent
shivers up my spine - of the nice kind.  I explained how it worked.

     "Can I try it?"

     "You want to be strapped down?"

     "Sure.   You want to test these things don't you?"

     "Okay," I said dubiously.  But I guessed Monica would require a 'volunteer'
anyway.  It might as well have an unofficial test with a real volunteer, I
thought.

     "How do I get on?"

     I lowered the bench until it was level, then helped her on via a stool. 
The platform sagged as the ropes took the weight and stretched.  Trish kneeled
forward and grasped the two steel handles I had secured to the end nearest the
wall, for just that purpose.  I buckled the two straps around her wrists,
securing them firmly to the bench.  She wore a simple black cotton lycra dress,
sleeveless and stretching to mid-thigh.  I realised as she bent forward that she
wore nothing under it. Trying to stay focussed I pulled more straps over the
back of her calves, behind the knees, and at her ankles.  Her feet, meanwhile
hung over the end of the two spread supports.  As she knelt back, further straps
were pulled tight over her thighs and then over her back and over her forearms,
gradually welding her immovably to the bench.  To prove this, I let the ropes
loose slowly, until Trish hung like spider woman on the wall.

     "Wow!" she gasped. 

     "Going anywhere?" I asked.

     "Not likely.  I can hardly move! Pull me up?"

     I wound the pulley crank and Trish slowly tilted up to a near-level
position again.

     "Wanna try this out properly?" Trish asked in her 'come hither' voice.

     "What do you mean?" I couldn't see her face, hidden behind the curtain of
chestnut hair.  Was she saying what I thought she was?

     "Come on Steven, how much clearer do I have to be?  You built this for a
purpose - you'd better test it properly!"

     I slipped my hand beneath the hem of her dress and confirmed the absence of
any underwear.  I also confirmed a pronounced wetness between her legs.  My
fingertip movement brought froth a low moan from Trish and I felt her body
tremble slightly in her bonds.  In the silence of the dungeon I her breathing
became heavier and more rapid. 

     I leaned over her rigidly secured body and whispered in her ear: "Are you
really sure about this?"

     Trish nodded her head but was silent for a moment. Then she said "But I
need a gag, Steven - I don't trust myself."

     "But -"

     "Just do it! Please? Quickly.  God, I'm so horny!"

     I didn't ask if it was me or just the hormones, instead slipping a red ball
gag in her willing mouth and buckling it under her hair.  I quickly turned out
the lights - all except a distant one in the corner of the room, so I would not
trip over any of the torture machines in my path. Trish's kneeling, bound form
hunched on the bench in the gloom. I stroked her taut rump and slid the hem of
her dress up, running my fingers over the softness of her skin.  A small whimper
escaped the rubber ball.

     "You okay?" I whispered in her ear.  Her head nodded vigorously.  "You
don't want me to leave you to think about this for an hour or two?"

     The thought did not appeal to her at all, I decided, as the dark hair
flailed in a very clear negative.  There were some splutterings as well that I
could not specifically translate, but I got the gist of the meaning. 

     Mr Willy was by now into the mood as well, and the thought of teasing Trish
with mind games for a while did not appeal to him either.  I let him out of his
confinement and he nuzzled up to Trish's pussy.  She stiffened at his touch and
squirmed at the fleeting contact.  I pre-empted his entry with a yellow pages
tour - letting my fingers do the walking.  Trish was now getting decidedly
worked up, and I could not help but think she wanted the main event before any
entrees.  This did not really seem fair, since part of the idea was to test the
device properly.  To this end I cranked the free end up higher, until my victim
was pointing at about 45 degrees head down.  This brought Trish's pussy just to
my head level, and I let Mr Tongue have a fair old rummage at that point. 
Technically I have to say it passed this aspect with flying colours - the bench,
that is.  It was very comfortable for me - no stiff neck or awkward contortions,
just pussy for dinner. 

     By the time Mr Tongue had been satisfied Trish was squirming like crazy and
giving the straps a thorough work out. She was also giving the ballgag a testing
too, grunting and whining something terrible.  I could see why she had insisted
on it.  I gave her a short breather, letting my fingers wander through her hair
and wiping the sweat off her brow.  Then I lowered the bench to Mr Willy height,
sensing the expectation in Trish's body, not to mention in Mr Willy himself. 
But before I gave her what I hoped would be the coup de grace, I decided Trish
should not be so impatient for some things in life.  She squealed as the dildo
slid into her butt - the squealing then being replaced by some rapid breathing
and burbling as I started the vibrator.  I had decided this bench was not being
called the reamer for nothing, and it was only fair that it should be tested
properly.  As I slid it in and out of her butthole I could see her feet
quivering and twitching in the half-light of the dungeon.  They remained one of
the few appendages with any movement.  Not to take the testing lightly, however,
I checked each of the straps and tightened the odd one a further notch.  Trish
was moaning steadily now.  She turned her head and looked at me with enormous
brown eyes when I hissed in her ear:

     "I'm going to leave you with the butt-reamer now, perhaps for an hour,
perhaps for two.  You can test the straps to your heart's content.  Then I'm
going to send Monica down to check you out."

     I guess that had the right effect because Trish shook her head vehemently,
making all sorts of unintelligible sounds behind the rubber ball.  I ignored her
and secured the vibrator in place with a few pieces of strategically-placed duct
tape.  Then I noisily crossed the room to the door as Trish's complaints went up
an octave, at which point I stopped and selected a flogger from a hook on the
wall.  I opened and closed the door noisily, before tiptoeing back to the bound
form, which was still squirming and whimpering quietly on the bench. 

     The stroke when it came was meant for surprise rather than pain.  I used
the flogger just once, but with the best force I could muster.  I was not into
beating up women, but I reasoned a single stroke of the multi-thonged flogger
would liven up Trish's butt nerves quite nicely.  And the surprise had the
desired effect. Trish's head jerked up and her whole body stiffened as a muffled
yelp escaped from behind the rubber ball in her mouth.  I left the butt vibrator
in place and then I was inside her. She began to make rocking movements, forward
and back, to the limited extent that she could within the straps.  The plaintive
noises of a few minutes previously, when I had threatened to leave her there,
were now replaced by more vocal sounds of contentment - deep, throaty and
pleasurable.  I have to say that the pleasure was felt equally by Yours Truly as
Trish's tightly confined limbs clamped around Mr Willy.  In that regard the
"Reamer' was a truly ergonomic invention - for the male, in any case.  Pussy on
a plate, so to speak. 

     I lost track of Trish's climaxes - they sort of merged into a squirming,
struggling mass of bound female who had decidedly lost control, and eventually I
did the same.  Some minutes passed before I regained composure sufficiently to
begin releasing Trish.  She barely moved as the straps were undone, eventually
climbing awkwardly to the floor and pulling her dress down. She worked the gag
out of her mouth and smoothed her hair which was by now slick with perspiration. 
In the low light of the dungeon I could still see the sweat running down her
legs and arms and soaking her dress.  It was a minute or two before she caught
her breath.  Around then we kissed - slow and langorous as becomes two people
well sated.  Then she turned and left, with just a whispered "thanks" and a
smile I would have died for.

     I did not know what to make of the whole episode.  Was this a serious
approach by Trish?  I was very fond of her - moreso than all the others, I had
to admit.  Had we crossed a boundary here, or was this all in a day's work and
part of the job description?  I slept like the dead that night, but not before a
few quizzical thoughts wandered through my brain in the drowsiness preceding
total oblivion.

Monica's Place

CHAPTER SIXTEEN -  PHOTO OPPORTUNITIES

     	When I arrived at the dungeon at eight o'clock that morning I found the
photoshoot was in full swing.  Dominating the scene - in both the literal and
metaphorical senses - was Monica.  It was the first time I had really seen her
in full regalia, so to speak, dressed as she was in a black leather bra, short
leather skirt and thigh-high leather boots which laced up the front.  A part of
my mind considered that she must have started dressing a long time before she
arrived here, if the boot laces were anything to go by.  Dangling from the bra
were several light chains, while heavier ones encircled her waist and supported
a ring of keys.  Her raven hair had lately been cut to a severe pageboy style
just touching her shoulders and her smouldering eyes and eyebrows had been
heavily accented.  She wore leather gloves and was carrying the two-metre
bullwhip when I entered. 

     The room was well lit, this time.  Leila was doing her photography thing,
shooting off like a pro with her fancy looking 35mm Canon.  Leila herself looked
pretty hot, too, wearing a red latex minidress with matching red calf-length
boots.  The dress had lacing over the cleavage but had cutouts for her nipples,
and clung to her body like the proverbial second skin, stretching tautly across
her thighs and rump.  There was no hiding anything beneath that material, I
decided.

     As I entered, I took in the two other figures in the room.  They were
considerably less mobile than Leila and Monica.  The first was Jillian, bound
tightly to the dragon bench, her torso rigidly upright, her legs spread wide and
her wrists pulled back over her shoulders and bound to the post.  Jillian was
dressed as a nurse - or rather, undressed as a nurse.  She wore a short white
nurse's uniform that buttoned down the front.  In this instance only the button
at the waist was done up while the top half was pulled open to expose her
breasts and held there by the torso ropes securing her to the post.  These wound
around her body above and below her boobs and were cinched between the breasts
and on each side.  Below the waist the dress was again spread apart, draped over
her horizontal thighs which were bound to the supporting frame.  Under the dress
she was naked except for white stockings and white high heels.  Her ankles were
similarly bound to the frame.  She was topped off with a small nurse's cap and
had her mouth well taped with a splash of red duct tape.

     My immediate reaction was that the one time I had been in hospital I had
never seen any staff as stunningly sexy as Jill now appeared.  Maybe it was just
the high heels that did it for me.  Who knew the way a man's mind worked?  With
her arms pulled back over her shoulder, Jill could not help but thrust out her
breasts making them vulnerable for any passing tormentor.  Currently they
sported a pair of red clothes pegs, sitting at a jaunty angle.  But it was at
her crotch that the whole focus of the scenario lay.  Here a small car jack had
been positioned - one of those bottle-type ones the size of a wine bottle with a
short lever that would be pumped to provide the extension.  Attached to the
extension was a large dildo - one of the biggest I had seen in the storeroom. 
Perhaps seven centimetres in diameter and still displaying perhaps thirty
centimetres of shaft, it was an engorged pink colour and the top part was
embedded in Jillian's pussy.  I made eye contact with her and she looked
pleadingly at me.

     "Good morning Steven," said Monica pleasantly.  "Do you like our first
photo shoot?  We're nearly done with Jill - she's been really good.  Very much
the consummate actress.  Leila - a couple more shots as I give the pump another
tweak."

     Leila came across with the big Canon while Monica picked up a metre-long
section of pipe lying nearby.  I wondered what she intended to do with this
until she slipped one end over the handle of the jack, then I realised.  Under
normal circumstances this would have given her a lot more leverage - if she was
jacking up a tonne of car, that is.  As it was, with a bit of overacting from
the participants it made for a visually shocking but intensely striking
photograph.  I did not, however, know how much of the monster was embedded in
poor Jillian.  Monica posed for photos leaning with exaggerated strength on the
pipe, before finally advancing the giant dildo perhaps a couple of centimetres. 
Jill's eyes widened and she groaned behind the tape.  I had the feeling that
this was realism rather than any acting ability.  Jill shook her head in a vain
effort to persuade her tormentor to provide some relief.  Monica was immune to
the entreaties, however, and flicked the clothes pegs as the camera flashed
again and Jill screwed up her eyes as the painful jaws bit into her nipples.

     "Let's leave Jill to review her situation for a bit," suggested Monica.  As
we walked away I heard the rapid intakes of breath as Jill struggled to adjust
to her worsened situation.

     The fourth figure in the room was Emma, bound tightly but artistically to
the parallel bars.  I had been so transfixed by the stage setting involving
Jillian that I had overlooked the figure hanging suspended like a puppet on the
far wall.  It was evident that Monica had instructed exactly what was to be worn
and what 'look' she wanted for the photo shoot.  Clearly she was covering as
broad a range of fantasies as possible.

     Emma wore her hair in two pigtails and looked much younger - real Asian
schoolgirl stuff.  By contrast she wore a white corset which cinched her waist
between navel and the underside of her breasts, plus white stockings and shoes,
and long white satin gloves.  Her outfit was completed by a large white ball gag
that stretched her jaws wide, and which was impaled by a steel screw eyebolt. 
She was bound with her arms in the position of surrender, and her legs wide
apart - thighs horizontal and lower legs vertical.  She looked like a marionette
that had been hung on a wall after a performance.  Except that I suspected
Emma's performance was just about to begin.  She looked at me with big eyes - an
expression at once perhaps fearful, anticipatory and hopeful.

     Emma's legs were stretched almost 180 degrees apart - a position I was
amazed at and I was sure must place her under some stress.  She was secured with
multiple loops of white sashcord at her wrists, elbows, shoulders, above and
below her breasts, her waist, the top of her thighs, her knees and her ankles. 
It had obviously not been a quick exercise to position her like that and it
seemed to not yet be complete.  Monica turned her attention from Jillian and
proceeded to cinch the ropes either side of Emma's breasts, making them bulge
magnificently.  I had never ceased to be fascinated by Emma's breasts - so
incongruous did they seem on the slim Chinese girl.  Her breath came faster as
Monica tugged on the ropes and Leila went in for the close-ups.  I saw Monica's
finger slip down and run through Emma's shaven pussy, coming away slick.

     "You're incorrigible, Emma," Monica murmured.  "I guess we'll have to do
something to keep you happy."  She produced a long chrome dildo with an eyehole
in the base, through which Monica threaded a thin crotch rope that was hanging
down from behind Emma like a tail.  She pulled the rope up to the screw eye
protruding from Emma's white rubber ballgag and tied it off, but not before
making certain adjustments.  With Emma's chin right down on her chest, the dildo
intruded a small way into Emma's pussy.  With her head lifted as high as it
could go the dildo was almost entirely inside the girl, held there by the
tautness of the rope.  I figured the smoothness of the dildo and Emma's widely
stretched position would mean her vaginal muscles would have difficulty holding
the invader in place.  Repeated head nodding and straining against the rope
would no doubt do the job, however - for as long as she could keep it up.  The
fact that the dildo was narrow might make it more difficult to obtain a
satisfactory orgasm.  I wondered what Emma's stamina was like and how she felt
at that task that lay before her.  She mumbled something incomprehensible from
behind the rubber ball.

     "No Emma, I'm not going to turn it on yet - not until I'm good and ready,"
said Monica blithely.  Emma tried to mouth something - whether in a pleading or
uncomplimentary tone was far from clear.  Monica pinched the girl's right nipple
and held it while Emma whined with pain.  "Are we going to be good?"  Emma
nodded and the dildo slid up and down.  "Happy now?"  Emma nodded again and her
eyes closed as the nodding continued for a totally different reason.  Monica
released the nipple but Emma seemed not to notice.

     "I see Emma's hanging around again."  It was Trish, who had entered the
dungeon unnoticed.  She looked at Jillian who squirmed on the giant phallus
impaling her.  "Mmm, nice job Mon.  Very artistic.  Stunning, in fact."  Jillian
moaned and glared at Trish.  "You look lovely hon," she said, stroking Jillian's
cheek and running a fingernail around the tape sealing the victim's mouth.  "You
definitely picked the wrong career -- nursing could have really done something
for you."

     "Or to you," I suggested.

    

     Trish was dressed for the office, or so it seemed.  She almost looked out
of place amongst the exotic attire - or unattire - gracing the dungeon. She had
pulled her hair back into a bun and now wore rimless glasses.  I did not know
whether they were real or merely borrowed, but it made her look every inch a
school marm.  Mind you, it was a school marm with some pretty decent legs, I had
to admit.  She wore a white satin blouse with a maroon tie and a dark blue
jacket and skirt.  The skirt was really short, exposing long black stockings and
a hint of garters at the top of them, with high black stilettos at the other
end.  She caught my admiring glance and smiled - a secret kind of smile
reflecting our encounter the previous night.

     "Trish is another of our fantasies this morning," said Monica,
unnecessarily.  "She's also going to be doing the testing of your seesaw,
Steven."  I was looking at Trish when she said this, and saw a faint look of
uncertainty cross her face.  Something in Monica's voice was enough to make us
both uneasy.  "You can strap her in place, Steven.   Hands over shoulders to the
frame, please, legs out straight."

     "Yes Mistress," I said with a hint of sarcasm.  She looked at me keenly. 
Maybe it wasn't such a bright thing to say, I thought - about a second after I'd
said it.

     Trish moved across to the seesaw plank.  It had a padded seat 20
centimetres wide with a steel upright frame at one end with a padded backrest. 
Trish seated herself and lifted those magnificent nylon-clad legs on to the
plank.

     "You have to be positioned over the hole," I told her.

     "And how do we do that?" she asked archly.

     "I take this little pointy thing here..." I picked up a small dildo and
slid it through the hole in the plank "...and you make sure it has somewhere to
go."  Trish smiled and wriggled herself slightly until I felt the resistance
ease.  She hiked up her skirt to reveal split panties over her garter belt, with
the head of the dildo poking into her pussy.

     "Very sweet," she said.  "Very comfortable.  Do go on."

     I strapped her ankles and knees to the padded plank then tightly secured a
wide strap around her waist, locking her to the backrest.  Watched by Monica I
strapped Trish's wrists together and with a cinch rope pulled them back over her
head and down behind her shoulders until I could wrap the rope around a cleat at
waist height on the backrest.

     At this stage I should state that the seesaw was not yet properly located
in regard to its height and vertical movement.  It was not connected to the
driving motor and was sitting roughly level.  I then carted several sandbags and
positioned them as a counterweight opposite Trish, occasionally releasing the
lock to see how the whole thing balanced.

     "Surely I can't weigh that much?" Trish chided with mock horror.  She
seemed to be enjoying the whole exercise.  At length I was satisfied that the
seesaw would operate with very little effort.  Monica had watched the whole
thing with interest.

     "How much does it go up and down?" she asked me.

     "About twenty centimetres," I said, indicating with my hands.  Monica
looked thoughtful.

     "Excellent.  Leila - first shots."  Leila of the red latex minidress and
boots squeaked into position and took several shots of Trish as she sat, testing
her bonds.  I was confident that she wouldn't be going anywhere.  When Leila was
done, Monica moved in to start rearranging things.  First there was a black ball
gag to be jammed into Trish's mouth, then a bit of hair mussing and some more
photos. 

     Monica pulled Trish's jacket wide and undid the satin blouse, leaving the
tie in place but opening the blouse to expose Trish's breasts.  I imagined I
could hear Trish's breathing quickening under Monica's deft handiwork.  She
hiked Trish's skirt up further - Trish was definitely looking somewhat the worse
for wear by now.  Then the bun came undone and the cascade of hair fell about
her face.  She looked questioningly at Monica as the dominant woman stared down
at her prisoner.  Monica squatted beside the seesaw and retrieved the small
chrome dildo I had used to position Trish.

     "What the hell's this?" she said quietly to Trish.

     "Hhnnh?" said Trish.

     "This piddly little thing..." Monica stared hard at Trish then gripped both
nipples, pulling herself to a position close up and personal in front of Trish's
face.  "You coped with something much more fulfilling last night, didn't you,"
she hissed softly.  "You like it from behind, don't you.  And never mind about
the clientele.  Can't you get enough?  Maybe this will cure you a bit of your
problem.  She picked up another dildo, again chromed, but much larger than the
first and with ribs.  Trish's eyes widened and she shook her head, making
spluttering noises behind the gag.

     "Oh yes, Trish dear.  Let's see how you enjoy this.  You have no clients
booked for the next couple of days, so you can really enjoy yourself!"

     Monica slipped the big silver phallus into the socket and pushed home a
locking pin that kept the device in place.  She then removed the restraining
hook that kept the seesaw from moving and pulled Trish's end down until the
dildo passed through the hole.  At this point she undid Trish's knee straps and
slipped her hand between the helpless woman's legs, obviously locating the big
phallus in Trish's warm wet passage.  Trish moaned and closed her eyes, a thin
film of sweat suddenly visible on her forehead.  Leila was there again with the
camera as the knee straps were done up tightly again and Trish began to look
less confident and more vulnerable.

     "Steven! Get this contraption going."

     I was not entirely happy about this.  I looked across at Trish but she met
my eyes and nodded imperceptibly.  Reluctantly I hooked up the vertical rod to
the counter-weighted end.  It was at the lowest point of its movement, while
Trish's end was at its highest.  The up-down motion took about five seconds top
to bottom and began as smoothly as my trials had indicated.  I had included a
small speed control next to the motor, but I did not explain this to Monica. 
Something made me nervous about her behaviour.  Trish groaned as she sank down
on the big silver dildo.  Then it was up again...and down...  Her eyes closed,
she squirmed and pulled on her bonds, but futilely.  I was mesmerised by the
sight, so much so that I totally failed to react when Monica and Leila grasped
me by the arms and handcuffed my wrists behind me.  It was a setup.  Trish and I
had been well and truly sprung.

     "You surely didn't think I wanted you here just to ogle at the girls and
tighten the odd strap or two, did you?" Monica asked rhetorically.  She smiled
at me with an expression that made my spine tingle.  "No sir, you get to be part
of the whole experiment and the photo session.  Won't this be fun?  You and
Trish - obviously so keen on each other you can't pass up an opportunity for a
bit of cut and thrust - will get to have your own starring roles."  I glanced
over to where Trish was being slowly impaled again as the seesaw beam descended
on to the phallus rising through the hole.  Her eyes were wide and she made a
faint whining noise behind the ball gag.

     Then I was pulled away and positioned behind the pillory.  I too, went
through the ritual of being gagged.  The model for today was a black head
harness with matching ballgag, worn here by Steven, looking very sorry for
himself and wishing he hadn't succumbed to a moment of loin lust and given Trish
that rogering last night.

       After the main strap had been buckled tightly around the back of my neck
by Monica, there were more straps being tightened under my chin then pulled back
across the top of my head and connected to the first strap.  The creation was
finished off by one around my forehead which linked with the one over the top. 
And that about summed it up - over the top, that is.  Monica located my neck in
the semi-circular lower half of the headstocks and tied it there - obviously a
temporary measure.  I was standing reasonably straight at this stage while the
two of them held my wrists and the handcuffs were undone.  Then my wrists were
in their little niches and the top half of the pillory closed over them with a
snug 'thunk' followed by the finality of two heavy padlocks snicking shut
through the hasp and staple on each face of the blocks.  Monica released the
now-unnecessary rope about my neck.

     "Are we comfortable?" she asked in her best saccharin voice.

     "Nnnphf!" I said, glaring at her.

     "Don't be impolite, Steven," she chided.  "You're not in a position to be
smart."

     Monica's comment was reinforced by hands that removed my lower articles of
clothing, beginning with my sneakers and ending with me butt naked from the
waist down. Regrettably, Mr Willy was at full attention - a fact that was not
surprising considering the amount of naked woman flesh in tight confines he had
been forced to watch in the course of the morning so far.  Notwithstanding that,
I did not like the direction in which my own confinement was progressing.

     As if in support of this theory, Monica and Leila removed the pin at each
end of the frame supporting the headstocks and began to lower them.  Not
unnaturally, I found myself obliged to go down with them.  Before long my head
was at waist height and I was in the position of having to make some serious
decisions about life.  I could try to kneel, but my neck really was too high for
that.  Or I could just bend my knees - yeah, like how long would I last in that
strained position?  My only real alternative, I decided, was to spread my legs
wide and try to hold out as long as I could.  This I did, allowing my back to
remain horizontal while my legs formed a triangle with my feet a metre apart.

     Clearly this was just what Monica had in mind.  Ever the helpful person she
was, she fixed a spreader bar to stop my feet sliding even wider apart.  And to
doubly ensure immobility, my ankles were tied to two handy eyebolts in the
floor.  Steven was very well secured and very vulnerable now - a position made
moreso as Leila undid my shirt and pulled the open ends around my back before
buttoning them behind me.  My nipples were already getting the jitters, even
before she ran her fingernails lightly across them. 

     I looked around the room.  From my position I could see Trish immediately
in front of, and facing me, slowly being raised and lowered on the seesaw.  Her
eyes were closed and her breasts were heaving rhythmically, but much more than
normal.  Every now and then she would shudder and squirm as the dildo slid into
her then slowly withdrew.  Beyond her Jillian was still impaled on the giant
phallus, bound tightly to the dragon bench with her elbows high and her breasts
jutting pointedly, surmounted by clothes pegs on the nipples.  Off to the left
poor Emma hung, bound to the parallel bars, moving her nodding her head as her
vibrator also slid in and out.  This was the scene that greeted Mary as she
entered the room.

     "Oh shit," I thought. Mary was dressed in a shiny black latex catsuit that
looked as though it had been sprayed on her tall willowy frame.  I was not
exactly sure how she got it on - there appeared to be no obvious openings other
than at wrists, ankles, neck and tits.  The latter holes were big enough to
permit a portion of Mary's mounds to be on display, and I thought I also
detected a slit in the crotch region.  I watched, fascinated as she first walked
around Jill, Emma and Trish, caressing a thigh, tweaking a nipple or flipping a
clothespeg.  Then she bore down on me.  Like a possum caught in the glare of
headlights I was helpless to do anything.  She transfixed me with her stare
while I watched the sinuous display of muscle under the black skin-tight outfit
moulded to her body.

     "Steven..." Her tone sent a chill of fear through me.  "Have we been a
naughty boy?  I hear you've been poking about where you shouldn't have," she
smirked.  "It's really not nice to be poking about - perhaps being poked
yourself might teach you a lesson...?  Can I, Mon?"

     "Sure, why not?  What did you have in mind?"

     Mary strolled elegantly over to Monica and whispered something in some
detail in her ear.  Monica looked at where I stood, bent over and helpless, and
smiled at me, like a cat.  After that all was quite except for the stiletto
heels of Mary's black polished shoes click-clacking on the concrete floor as she
moved behind me.  Then my arse was invaded by something long and thin that began
to enlarge as Mary started pumping up the inflatable buttplug.  It seemed to
grow and grow inside me, filling me and making my butthole appear to be
splitting in two.  I wiggled my bum and squirmed from side to side, whining into
the rubber ball wedged in my mouth and making pained "mmpf!" sounds until at
last I heard the pumping stop and I felt fingers unscrew the bladder and tube
from a valve obviously sticking out from my rear.  I kept my head down now,
staring at the floor and not wanting the other girls to see my pitiful state. 
That, of course was not what Mary and Monica had in mind. Mary was beside my
head and after a moment fiddling with my harness she hauled on a strap which
brought my head up with a snap.  I found my head was held rigid, the top
strapped back to the top board of the headstocks, and I was staring straight at
Trish as she went up and down.  Her eyes were open and I thought I saw a tear
slide slowly down her cheek, although whether this was because of her own
predicament or out of regret for mine, I did not know.  Mary was far from done,
of course.

     She walked into my field of view and held up two nipple clamps.  They were
metal, with little teeth, and joined by a shiny chain.  I tried to shake my head
and to plead with her, but it only came out as a pathetic whining through my
nose.  She locked eyes with me and smiled that chilling smile I had come to
fear.  Then she was gone and I felt the searing pain first in one nipple and
then in the other.  I whined again and tried to struggle some more, but what was
the point?

     "Not a good idea to waggle about, Stevie babe," came Mary's sibilant
whisper next to my ear.  She had the knack of sending shivers right along the
length of my spine.  Then she was in front of me again, this time with a small
lead ball on a short chain.  Oh shit, I thought, not those.  She was gone again
and there followed the aggravation of the pulling on my nipples as the lead ball
was slung on the chain joining the two clips.

     My breathing was coming in rapid pants at this stage as I struggled to get
to grips with the ferocious burning in each nipple.  Then, in the midst of the
fire I felt Mary's deft fingers fluttering around Mr Willy.  There followed the
touch of her hair against my belly as Mr Willy was engulfed by Mary's mouth.  I
have to say at this point that Mary's mouth was exceptionally skilled - as I
found out in the next few minutes.  I was at once overwhelmed with the most
exquisite sensations, which she evilly interspersed with fierce tugs on the lead
ball.  Then, for a few minutes she ceased the latter action, in time for me to
start to get up a head of steam, although this was difficult, secured nearly
immobile as I was.  I could just about feel the sap start to rise, so to speak,
when the wonderful tongue and lips were abruptly gone, leaving me panting with
frustration.  Mr Willy was then lassoed by a thong of some sort, which was then
tied to the lead ball with sufficient tension to give pain to both ends. 

     Then Mary hove into view again, this time wielding a thin bamboo cane about
a metre long but with the flexibility of a fishing rod.  This was Mistress
Whippy, I told myself in an unwarranted excursion into the realm of black
humour.

     "Ready to accept your punishment, Stevie babe?"

     "Nnnph!" I whined, for all the good I knew it would do me. 

     The first crack was a shock as the bamboo curled right around my buttocks. 
I jerked wildly, as much as I could.  This was in fact only a sort of sideways
swivel, which merely tugged harder on the two nipple clips.

     I yelped into the rubber ball.  Then came the second thwack - a horrible
air-cutting swish followed by a line of fire just below the first.  Mary was
obviously good at this.  The third caught the end of the buttplug, as did the
fourth.  By this time my breath was coming in ragged gasps in between muffled
pleading and other undignified noises from behind the gag.

     I received six of the best, as they used to say at school before the whole
issue of corporal punishment became politically incorrect.  There was nothing
politically incorrect about cat-suited Mistress Mary dealing out her own
punishment and I wondered how much more of this I could take.  Not that I had a
choice.  My bum was on fire and my other parts were not far behind in the
ignition stakes.  Mary gave me a parting tug on whatever was hanging out of my
butt.  It went barely noticed in the heat of my rear end as a whole.

     That's when the three females appeared in front of me to survey my misery -
Leila, Monica, and Mary in between them.  Mary looked particularly smug, smiling
at me mockingly.  That was also when I saw a nod from Monica and as one she and
Leila grabbed Mary by the wrists and had them handcuffed behind her back before
she could even struggle.  Mary glared at them, but did not protest.  I guess it
was par for the course in the dungeon - swings and roundabouts, so to speak.

     "On your knees, Mary" commanded Monica imperiously.  Mary stared her in the
eye, daring her to do something about it.  Monica did nothing, other then to
signal slightly to Leila who, grabbing a handful of Mary's hair, quickly had her
on the floor, held rigid, trying to ease the pain.  As Mary opened her mouth in
a wide 'O' with the pulling on her hair, Monica stuffed an object into her mouth
and began pulling something over her head.  It was difficult to see everything
from my rigid position.  There was a flurry of bodies and limbs before Leila
stood back and Mary was exposed, wearing a black latex hood that matched her
catsuit.  It had holes for her eyes and nose, but where a mouth-hole might have
been a rubber tube emerged which was connected to a squeeze-bag.  I guessed Mary
was about to experience one of those inflatable gags.  It couldn't have happened
to a more suitable candidate, I decided almost cheerfully.

     She was hauled to her feet.  Monica stood in front of her.  I had the
feeling Mary was about to get a severe bollocking.

     "Mary," said Monica deliberately, "over the last few days you've
over-stepped the mark a number of times.  I don't know what I have to do to get
this through to you.  I do not want the girls pushed beyond their limits.  Maybe
you have a higher pain threshold than they do.  Maybe you're more experienced. 
But you should also be a better judge because of that experience.  In any case
we're now going to review your own tolerance and see how well you hold up.  The
most important feature of this review is that it will give you time to consider
the error of your ways and to come to terms with the fact that if you break the
rules again something even worse will befall you.  You should spend some time
trying to think of exactly what could be even worse..." Monica let her words
hang in the air.  Then: "You're going for a ride on Number One Plank."

     Mary's eyes widened and she shook her head vehemently, which wasn't a good
idea, for the squeeze-bag flailed about and caught Monica across the cheek. 
Monica reddened and seized Mary by the nipples, at which point the prisoner
froze abruptly.   She was again forced to her knees while Leila bound her elbows
tightly together with a dozen turns of thick white sashcord.  Her elbows
pinioned and touching, Mary was helpless while the handcuffs were removed and
her wrists were bound in similar fashion with more sashcord.  These bonds were
cinched, with a tail of cord left hanging.  Then Mary was marched over to where
the Number One Plank was secured about half a metre off the ground, resting on a
locating pin in the channel at each end.  I could watch the scene relatively
easily as it was to the right of my field of vision, but not to the extent that
I had to turn my head to watch Mary get her desserts. 

     Trish had also perked up a little as Mary was made to straddle the plank. 
For an instant when Monica and Leila were not blocking my view, I saw the two
prongs jutting ominously from the top of the plank, jammed into the recesses I
had made for them.  The one closest to me was a large scarlet-coloured dildo
with all manner of ribs and knobs.  It was thick and long and was obviously
going to be very filling.  Behind it was a thinner, matching one, and I saw
wires leading from both.  Mary was going to get the full Works Burger.  Sticking
horizontally through the middle of one of several holes in the beam, half a
metre in front of the dildos was an adjustable aluminium spreader bar with a
leather cuff at each end.

     Leila attached the loose end of the wrist cinch rope to a rope hanging over
a ceiling pulley and pulled on it enough to abruptly lift Mary's arms
horizontally behind her.  Then Monica and Leila started on raising the beam,
controlling a pulley at each end.  As the first prong nudged Mary in the pussy
she shrank back, as much as she was able with her hands pulled up behind her,
uttering little muffled noises.  Her captors tied off the pulley ropes
temporarily and Monica moved lazily up to the captive.  She bent and fiddled at
Mary's crotch, while Leila pulled her forward by the nipples.  I saw Mary
suddenly go up on her toes - as if she could really get any higher off the
ground than her stilettos allowed.  There was a little cry followed by rapid
panting from Mary.  Monica stepped back and I saw a handspan of the scarlet
dildo still protruding from Mary's crotch, where it disappeared through a slit
in the rubber.   Mary was starting to get just a little excited and noisy, so it
was not surprising that Monica decided it was a good time to quieten things down
a bit.  Monica gave several pumps on the squeeze bag and Mary's muffled
pleadings subsided into gurgles.  Several more pumps and Mary's eyes widened,
pleading.  Her cheeks were bulging and she was making whimpering noises through
her nose.  Monica gave the gag a further squish then disconnected the squeeze
bag, leaving the tube hanging loose, before turning her attention back to the
beam pulleys.  Up it went again, slowly, while Mary squirmed and jiggled as the
big dildo gradually impaled her.  Then it was prong number two, which Leila
lined up through the rear of the crotch slit.  Then more raising of the beam. 
Mary's eyes widened even further, if that was possible, as the two invaders
filled her totally, then the beam began to press against her crotch until she
was standing on tiptoes, making mewing sounds through her nose.

     Leila got a nod from Monica and hauled further on Mary's wrist rope. 
Mary's head went down as her wrists went up to about 45 degrees to the
horizontal.  The piece de resistance came as the two girls lifted an ankle each
and fastened it to the spreader bar.  Mary complained pitifully, as much as the
mouth-filling gag let her.  Her whole weight was now borne on the plank, her
legs horizontal and stretched wide.  But Monica was still not satisfied and
adjusted the spreader bar so that it extended even further.  Mary was now as
taut as a bow, barely able to move except perhaps her head. 

     Negating that was Monica's final triumph. She squeezed and kneaded Mary's
breasts where they poked through the holes in the rubber suit.  The holes were
somewhat smaller than Mary's breasts, and were not designed for the whole
mammarian protrusion to be exposed.  The rubber thus acted like a clamp or
stricture around the base of each breast.  Mary moaned as Monica then flourished
a pair of shiny nipple clips of the crocodile variety and installed them to the
accompaniment of muted squeals from behind the rubber mask.  The clamps were
connected by a short silver chain, to which Monica now tied the rubber tube from
Mary's mouth, but only after pulling her head down and stretching the tube. 
Mary could not now raise or turn her head, and even the act of keeping it still
imposed tension on the clips biting into her nipples.

     "Behold the mighty are fallen," declared Monica, stepping back from the
black clad figure stretched and bound rigidly on to the plank.  Mary moaned
pitifully.  "How do you fancy a morning there, thinking about a worse fate,
Mary?"

     Mary tried to shake her head but decided it was not a good idea, as no
doubt piercing pain would have shot through her nips.  I would have smiled had
my mouth not been equally filled.

     "Leila - I think a few more pictures would be in order," Monica ordered, "-
for the album, Mary, you understand."  She smiled mockingly in the direction of
Mary's suffering immobile form.

    

     The scene was starting to take on a more and more surreal atmosphere, with
four bound females plus myself, all in some form of punishment or ordeal.  Leila
busied herself with the camera and the dungeon blinked intermittently with the
flash, while the whine of the battery charger competed with the sniffles and
whines of us, the victims of the whole photo shoot.  Leila's approach was
merciless - in your face kind of stuff, literally.  Close-ups of vibrators
entering and emerging, of wide eyes and saliva dribbling from around mouths
stuffed with rubber.  Her shots, of course, could not convey the sounds of the
victims, the suppressed moans, the attempted movements to try and ease the pain,
or indeed the pain itself.

     Leila completed the assignment and looked questioningly at Monica.

     "Your turn, sweetie," the mistress said.  "You get to try out the cross." 
Leila looked worried. "Relax - it will only be for a little while - just long
enough for the last of the roll.  Come on, I haven't got all day."               

     Leila crossed to the frame which I knew to be locked in place with a bolt
to prevent it turning unexpectedly.  She wore a decided look of trepidation as
she mounted the two foot-blocks and stood, legs splayed and her hands at her
sides, waiting for Monica. 

     "Aren't we forgetting something?" Monica asked.  Leila looked at her and
saw Monica dangling a bright red ball gag in one hand.  "Well?"  Leila
reluctantly stepped down and walked slowly over to Monica.  "Here you are dear. 
Put it on, please."  Leila worked the rubber ball into her mouth and buckled the
red strap behind her head. You had to admire Monica's colour coordination -
Leila looked absolutely stunning in her red latex dress and boots, and the red
gag and strap against her blonde hair really finished her presentation.  "Very
good," cooed the mistress of the manor.  "You look very nice.  Now turn
around..." Monica stopped her mid-turn and tightened the gag strap by a further
notch.  Leila made gurgling noises before she was pushed towards the cross frame
again and once more mounted the two blocks fastened to the base of the legs. 
This time Monica quickly buckled the heavy straps around each ankle then above
each knee and around Leila's slender waist before pulling the holding bolt free. 

     The cross was powered by the same type of small electric motor that had
driven the "submarine".  Unengaged, the motor put up minimum resistance and the
whole cross could be turned by hand. 

     "Hold tight Leila dear," ordered Monica.  Leila gripped the D-shaped
handles screwed to the top of each 'arm' of the X, just before she started to
rotate.  There was a series of squeals from behind the red rubber ball as the
girl felt her weight come on the various straps until she was upside down and
her face began to match the colour of her clothing.  Monica stopped the rotation
there long enough to secure another strap tightly above Leila's breasts and
further ones around her wrists and upper arms.  Then it was back to an upright
position for dear Leila, now looking even more unhappy.

     But of course if anyone had thought that Monica would stop at that point
they were not living in the World According To Monica.  That's when she brought
a spreader bar out and tied it securely underneath the two foot-blocks that
Leila was nominally standing on.  This puzzled me until Monica ducked out of the
room to reappear moments later with a wooden pole bearing a large vibrator fixed
to one end.  Predictably it was bright red, as was Leila when she saw what was
to befall her.  She shook her head and made predictable pleading noises, while
Monica predictably ignored them as she hiked up the hem of the red dress and
worked the device into Leila's pussy.  Leila rolled her eyes and uttered a
series of nasal grunts as the big phallus was lodged inside her.  Monica then
lashed the lower end of the pole to the spreader bar where the two crossed,
before smoothing down the tautly-stretched hem of Leila's dress.  

     "And so that you and the viewing public here know exactly what's going on,"
Monica continued cheerfully, "I should point out that the vibrator you are now
encompassing so effortlessly is controlled by this pull switch here," she said,
lifting a short length of string hanging down from beneath the shiny hem of
Leila's dress.  "It's just like the old bathroom light pull cord, but rather
more sensitive.  It will operate through this small lead weight that slides up
and down the pole here.  With each revolution you make the weight will at some
stage slide back down the pole with sufficient force to turn your little helper
on.  Or off, as the case may be.  You will have one revolution to enjoy the
sweet pleasures before it will be switched off again long enough for you to
become desperate for its resurrection.  What fun it will be for all within
earshot... 

     "And talking of which, we must not forget your lovely nipples, my dear -
why should the others have all the interesting experiences?  Here are two nice
plastic clothes pegs - in red you will note.  You will also note the long length
of string attached to each, of course..." Leila whimpered as the jaws were
fastened on each nipple where they protruded through the cutouts in the red
latex.  Monica stepped away, trailing the two lengths of string which she
wrapped around each side of a column a couple of metres in front of her
prisoner, at about waist height, leaving some slack in the string.  "A few turns
on the cross and the string will start twisting together.  Tighter, and tighter. 
You will think your nipples are going to be pulled off and the pain will be
exquisite before the clips finally slip off."  Poor Leila must've wondered what
she had done to prompt Monica into such a devilish mood.

     Since she had been strapped to the seesaw, Trish had seen me, Mary and
Leila all bound immovably in position.  She must have been sliding up and down
for at least half an hour, and it was at this point that Monica stopped the
movement of her prisoner.

     I heard the sigh from behind Trish's gag.  Monica said nothing as she undid
the straps around Trish's legs and waist together with the cinch rope holding
her wrists behind her shoulders.  Trish lifted her wrists back over her head
with an awkward movement and slid her feet to the floor.  Monica motioned her to
stand and she did so carefully, sliding herself gingerly off the big chromed
phallus with a faint groan.  She stood up, trying to brush the mussed hair away
from her face with her still bound hands. Monica took hold of the cinch rope and
dragged Trish out of my field of view.  There was movement and noises behind me
and I felt the inflatable dildo collapse inside me and then be extricated none
too gently.  Just as I thought I was about to be released from the ordeal, a new
weapon invaded me.  This was clearly your hard, regular buttplug, now available
in gigantic Steven size, which he did not like at all. 

     It seemed to be huge, although my poor hole had at least been primed for
receipt.  It nevertheless felt strange and was abruptly waggled inside me.  I
had a suspicion there was somehow a good part of it still sticking out, even
though it had been pushed home past the widest part.  I suspected this was one
of those double-ended jobs...  My thoughts were confirmed as I felt the warm
moist backside of Trish thrust against mine.  The buttplug took a bit of
punishment at that point as Monica made Trish wriggle and bounce as the other
end of the implement worked its way inside her.  I heard Trish panting and
whining and I was not above a bit of that myself.  Trish's buttocks seemed to
tighten at that point and I guessed she was being made to bend over, probably
having her hands tied to something.  There was more jiggling and I found out
afterwards that Trish's ankles had been spread with a bar and her wrists secured
to the bar.  Then there was the sensation of more rope, as Monica bound my right
thigh to Trish's left and her right to my left, in the process pulling a few
strands through our respective crotch areas.  There was a squeal from Trish
which I found out was the nipple clamps going on.  These were then tied off to
poor Mt Willy with a couple of strings between our legs.  Mr Willy, of course,
was already attached to my nips, and we were a very uncomfortable pair indeed.

     "You make a lovely couple," Monica mocked.  "Such a close relationship." 
She picked up the camera and proceeded to shoot off more shots of the ignominy
of Trish and me.  Then she grabbed her whip and cracked it with a ferocity that
scared me.

     "Listen up now people!   The photo session is done.  Almost.  It was okay,
but I really want a bit more animation.  I will have to make a few adjustments -
bear with me."  With that ominous statement Monica moved over to where Emma
hung, roped to the parallel bars.  "A little encouragement for you, Emma," she
said softly.  Emma looked up at her with big hopeful eyes - an expression that
was rewarded as Monica switched on the vibrator that was poised half in and half
out of Emma's pussy.  Emma groaned with pleasure and lifted her head, the rope
attached to the eyebolt in her ball gag pulling the vibrator deeper inside of
her.  She shuddered and closed her eyes.

     Then it was Jillian's turn.  God knows what sort of batteries powered the
monster that she was impaled on, straddling the car jack.  I heard Jill's
quickening of breath above the faint buzzing of the device and her muffled
squeal from behind the tape as Monica gave the giant phallus another nudge
deeper into Jillian.

     Leila's fate was already known.  A simple flick of a switch and the big
cross slowly began to turn.  After about five seconds, when Leila was nearly
upside down, there was a movement as the weight slid down the pole between her
legs and activated the vibrator under her dress.  By that point the slack in the
stings on the nipple clips was starting to be taken up and I could hear her
breath starting to come in rapid pants.

     Mary, predictably, was also to be on the receiving end, and I saw Monica
fiddle with the little box I had devised for use on the Twins to administer
shocks to them.  Clearly Mary wasn't going to be getting much in the pleasure
department.  I watched as the black-clad figure suddenly stiffened and jerked -
well, as much as she could do.  Her leg muscles went rigid and her hands
clenched, and she made the mistake of lifting and trying to shake her head. 
This, of course made the tube from the inflatable gag pull hard on her nipple
clamps and a muted cry of pain came from the rubber-filled mouth behind the
mask.  There was more ragged breathing and a high-pitched nasal whining as she
fought the obvious waves of pain from her crotch and nipples, not to mention the
terrible tension that must have been building up in her arms and legs.  It
appeared to mean nothing to Monica, who strolled across to where Trish and I
were joined at the arse like bizarre Siamese twins.

     "And now you two.  What should I do here?  A problem shared is a problem
halved - is that what they say?  I think you and Mary should all share the same
problem."  And with that she returned to the box in front of Mary, trailing a
further small electrical wire, which she plugged in to a second socket in the
box. 

     For a moment there was nothing, then a jolt shot up my bum that made me
jerk and splutter into the ball packing my mouth.  The fact that Trish
experienced exactly the same reaction at the same moment made us sway in unison
like two people in a pantomime animal suit.  It was probably only the fact that
my neck and wrists were clamped in the immovable headstocks that stopped us from
falling in a heap.  I felt Trish's thighs and butt move against mine and heard a
muffled wail from behind me as the electricity zapped us once more.  There was a
flash of light and I realised Monica was taking pictures again.  This time there
was no doubt she was getting the animation she desired. 

    

     Monica took her time with the photographic session - perhaps the emphasis
should be on the "graphic" part.  By the time she was finished with all the
players I was starting to think that perhaps Monica Armstrong should also become
a participant in the Great Game, as they used to call Central Asian political
manoeuvring at the turn of the century.  I was not above a little political
manoeuvring myself, although right at that moment the physical manoeuvres of
Trish and myself were perhaps uppermost in my mind, as the device implanted in
us went mercifully quiet for a couple of minutes.  That of course, was all part
of the suspense and fear of the unknown that Monica was so good at.  The
Mistress of the house - of all she surveyed at that particular moment - stood at
the door and gazed about her with a look of satisfaction at the six helpless
people suffering variously the throes of extreme pleasure and pain.  That's when
she opened the door, switched off the light and plunged us into darkness,
slamming the door behind her.

    

     Probably none of us knew how long we remained in the pitch-blackness.  With
the loss of our sight our hearing became more attuned to the sounds of
suffering.  Muffled cries were set against a background humming of Jillian's and
Emma's vibrators, interspersed with that of Leila for one revolution at a time. 
This latter sound was preceded by a soft clunk as the weight swung down and
activated the switch.  Leila's high-pitched panting would being moments after
that as the vibrations kicked in.  She was caught up in the limited time she had
to fully absorb the pleasures on offer, while at the same time the plastic
clothes pegs on her nipples were no doubt drawing inexorably tighter as the pair
of strings twisted round each other.  In a seemingly random fashion I heard
Jillian and Emma climax, their muted grunts and nasal panting also going up an
octave or three as sparks were obviously exploding within.

     There were certainly sparks of a different kind exploding within Trish,
Mary and Steven.  Not nice.  We squirmed and bucked reactively and unavoidably,
which only made it worse, tugging on our poor nipples and making us utter
garbled squeals and meaningless splutterings.  Poor Mary no doubt could barely
squirm, tied so stringently was she.  I could make out a nearly constant keening
sound which came from the black void in her direction.

    

     By the time Monica finally returned and bathed the room in light I was
slippery with sweat, as was my twin behind me.  I could feel the sweat running
down our legs while the double-headed dildo made slurping noises as we still
insisted in trying to escape from its ministrations.

     Monica was only with us briefly.  She smiled and made some very
complimentary comments concerning whether we were all enjoying ourselves and how
she hoped we were having a good time.  She particularly suggested that Mary,
Trish and I take note of our predicament and remember the sensations for future
use.  I took her at her word and vowed she would one day also experience
something equally devilish.

     Then she undid Jillian's wrists.  Jill was red in the face with her heaving
breasts slick with perspiration.  Monica left us at that point, leaving Jill to
work the rest of her ropes free and slowly prise herself off the enormous
phallus that continued to vibrate. 

     Finally she stood up, wobbly on her red high heels, and slowly pulled the
tape from her mouth, taking the first deep breath she had been able to for quite
some time.  In a strange reflection of modesty and embarrassment, Jill buttoned
the nurse uniform, now sporting dark patches of perspiration, and smoothed her
hair behind her ears.  She looked around as she did so as though to see who most
urgently needed help in their release, for clearly that was what Monica had
intended.

     I thought initially that given Jillian's relationship with Emma, the latter
would be the next recipient of freedom.  It did not take a rocket scientist to
work out that Emma was quite happy for the moment, however, her eyes closed and
head nodding slowly, transported away on some other planet.

     Jill's decision appeared to be made for her by a slowly mounting whining
from Leila that abruptly rose an octave.  She was heading into another head-down
rotation and the two plastic clothes pegs on her nipples were starting to really
bite and distend the flesh as the strings twisted further with each turn of the
cross.  Leila's panic rose a notch as did her - albeit muffled - volume.  The
pegs were obviously slipping, now biting near the tip of the nipple itself.  She
began to wail - a nasal keening pleading desperately for someone to take the
terrible pain away.  Jill moved in a rush to the helpless figure strapped to the
cross.  Leila's eyes were wide and streaming tears as she panted and moaned
through her nose while her nipples were pulled further and further at right
angles to her body.  Jillian dodged the strings and lunged for the offending
pegs, seizing them quite dexterously and removing them in a quick movement, just
as they were about to pull off of their own accord.  The agony that would have
come from such an event was averted, but Leila screamed into her gag at the pain
of the blood rushing back into the tortured nips. 

     It took Jillian a few moments to find the switch for the motor, and then to
wait while Leila came upright again.  By the time she did she was crying and
sniffling.  Jill undid the straps on Leila's limbs and body, leaving Leila to
work the red rubber ball from her mouth and to free herself from the vibrator -
currently in operational mode - under her red latex dress.  Leila did all of
this slowly and awkwardly.  Her complexion matched her outfit, not least through
the inversions she had suffered, and she climbed down from the cross awkwardly,
wiping her face with the back of her hand.

     It was Leila who came to free Trish and myself, while Jillian waited for
Emma to moan and squirm her way through a final tumultuous orgasm, before
finally hanging limp in her bonds.

     Leila understood priorities and the first things that came off were the
dreaded nipple clamps.  She removed these slowly and gently, thank goodness. 
Nevertheless Trish and I both moaned into our gags as the circulation returned
to the tender parts and my desire for revenge on Monica clicked over a further
stop on the revenge-ometer.  Then Leila undid my head harness, which had held my
head rigid against the top headstock.  The headstock itself was then unlocked
and my wrists and upper body were gloriously free.  While I worked the rubber
ball out of my mouth and pulled off the straps about my head, Trish's wrists
were released from the tie to the spreader bar and she, too, was able to stand
upright.  As we did so the double plug objected and we were obliged to bend
forward somewhat to work it free with much squelching.  My end came free first,
leaving Trish with what looked like a banana sticking out of her bum, trailing
the wires back to the black box.  I smiled at her, still gagged and legs spread,
while Leila undid her  wrists.  I could not fully read Trish's expression,
distorted as it was by the ball still strapped in her mouth, but I could not
mistake the relief component.

     I eased my aching limbs and watched as Jillian helped a wonky Emma down
from her position as a wall hanging on the parallel bars.  Emma was pretty out
of it, but wasn't complaining, it seemed.  Trish was now free and Leila was
about to start on the latex clad figure on the plank, when Jillian stopped her.

     "No, not yet," Jill said.  "Monica's instructions. "She has to stay there
for the rest of the afternoon."

     "What!" exclaimed Leila.  "She won't manage that!"

     "Yes she will," said Jill firmly, who now had her back to the taut figure
moaning on the plank.  Mary was thus unable to see Jillian's broad wink, but the
rest of us were.

     "Oh," said Leila.  "I guess if that's what Monica wants..."

     We started to leave, all of us walking stiffly.  There was a muted howl
from deep behind the rubber mask and the inflatable gag filling Mary's mouth. 
She tried to squirm, but that obviously hurt all over and she moaned in despair
as we trooped out the door and Jillian switched off the light, leaving Mary in
darkness to ponder her fate.

Monica's Place

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN - HOUSE CALLS

     The dungeon photo shoot had been a big success, although I had to say I had
seen better ones of me.  To say they made me blush would be a considerable
understatement, but then most of the girls looked somewhat flushed in their
individual shots as well.  Funny, that.	

     Two days after the shoot Monica and I took the Twins home.  Monica reckoned
they were reformed characters now - demure and obedient, with definitely a new
respect for authority.  They were given no warning that they were to return
home.  Monica had been dropping all sorts of dire hints to the effect that they
were here for the long term and they had better get used to it.  There were
references to their much improved cleaning and cooking abilities, but also
implied suggestions that they could be sold to a deserving household and master. 
The evening that a dose of knockout was put into their drinks was no different
from any other.  After that it was a case of dressing them in the clothes they
had arrived in, nearly a month previously, and lugging them to the van.  There
was no doubt they had shed a kilo or two, which wasn't surprising considering
all the sweating they had done in various rubber clothing about the house.

     Returning them was straightforward, and Mr Kuragin seemed happy to see them
back.  We left them propped on the lounge chairs as though nothing had happened. 
When they awoke it would indeed be like nothing had happened, except for the
tiny stainless steel padlocks that would now be hanging from the rings through
their nipples.  I wished I could have been there to see their faces when they
awoke.

    

     After the success of the dungeon I turned my attention to what I saw as my
most challenging creation yet.  All dungeons have a rack, but it is usually
intended for one person only.  In this instance I had decided it would be a
frame that could take the whole household if necessary, in various positions. 
The difference was that this time Steven would not be involved in the testing. 
This time Steven would be in the director's chair and Mistress Monica was going
to have a starring role.

     I was getting right into my work now, going through until quite late at
night as I was inclined to do when on a roll.  I refused to let anyone see what
I was making and retained an air of mystery about the whole thing, working as I
was in the last vacant room, next to the holding cells.  The girls said jokingly
that there had been complaints from the cells' inhabitants about the noise at
night and how they couldn't sleep.  I asked what had been the result of the
complaints.  Predictably enough the complainants had received sound thrashings
for their trouble.

     It was on one of these evenings that there was a muted banging on the door
to Machine Room, as I called it.  I looked at my watch - it was after eleven.

     "Who is it?" I queried.

     "It's me!" came Leila's voice.  "Steven, open up, quickly!"

     There was something in Leila's voice that made me ignore my previous
prohibitions on visitors.  Leila sounded frightened.  I opened the door.  She
was almost shaking, her face ashen.

     "What is it - what's happened?" I asked, gripping her arms.

     "It's Jill - she's - I was on duty in the Observation Room and I flicked
through the channels, just checking on our guests.  I went to the camera in the
study by mistake - there's a man there - a burglar or something!  He's attacked
Jill!"

     "What?  How come there was no alarm?"

     "I - I don't know... maybe she left the balcony doors open 'cause it's so
muggy... But we have to do something!"

     "What's he done to her?"  I asked, feeling a chill run down my spine.

     "He must've overpowered her.  He was tying her to the desk - God knows what
he's going to do next!  What should we do?"

     I looked at the frightened eyes and decided it was not something we could
afford to waste any time on.  I grabbed a piece of dowel timber about the size
of a baseball bat, from the debris that littered the room, and headed for the
door with Leila hard on my heels.  The corridor outside and the stairs were lit
only by low level nightlights.

     We crept up the stairs, conscious of which ones made the creaks, before
easing open the concealed door at the top.  The hallway was again dimly lit by
nightlights.  Just past the reception area, on the opposite wall was the study
door.  We tiptoed up to it.  I could hear a man's voice, muffled by the thick
walls and heavy door, and could not make out what he was saying.  I thought I
could also hear an occasional but muted female noise.  I tried the door handle,
ever so gently.  It was locked.  I motioned to Leila and we moved carefully
through to the kitchen and out on to the verandah that wrapped around the house.

     It was dark outside, the air heavy with humidity and the night awash with
chirping frogs and other nocturnal creatures.  Edging along with our backs to
the wall we reached the corner of the house.  I poked my head around the corner
Iand saw that on this side of the house, light from the study flooded on to the
verandah through the French doors and the large windows each side. 

     I crept up to the windows.  As I got nearer I could hear the man's voice
more distinctly.  There was considerable laughing, the sound of which made the
hairs stand up on the back of my neck. 

     Peering through the glass I was stunned by what I saw.  I knew Jill
sometimes stayed up late working on accounts, and I supposed this had been one
of those instances.  She was bound half across the desk, bent backwards away
from the windows.  She was almost naked, except for a peach-coloured satin robe
which lay open underneath her.  Her legs were spread wide, each ankle tied to
the leg of the desk.  Her wrists, secured with one of those heavy duty cable
ties from which there is no escape other than by cutting, had been pulled above
her head so that she was stretched back over the desk.  I assumed her wrists
were tethered to the base of the desk on the other side.  Jill had been gagged
with a few turns of duct tape wrapped around her head in untidy fashion.  There
were red marks on her body and her eyes were wide and staring, tear stains on
her cheeks.  The study was a mess, with stuff all over the place.  Jill had
evidently put up a bit of a fight. 

     The man had his back to me.  He was a bit taller than me and solidly built,
with black hair that seemed to sprout from every patch of skin I could see.  It
was clear what his intention was as I saw his hands going through the motions of
undoing his belt.  Jillian went frantic, struggling to get free and shaking her
head wildly.

     I am not a violent person by nature.  I will avoid a fight if given any
opportunity to run - that's my philosophy as a rule.  This time something in the
philosophical department didn't quite match the situation and I reacted without
thinking, deciding in an instant that dirty pool was the order of the day. 
Realising in a moment that my opportunity and probably courage would be gone, I
flung myself through the half-open French door and swung my piece of wood as
hard as I could.  Between his legs.  Some little piece of logic had told me that
the moment the guy dropped his trousers I wouldn't get a clear shot, and there
was no way I was going to take on this guy by any means other than unfair and
one sided.

     The bloke dropped like a falling tree, crumpling into a pain-wracked foetal
position, his hands clenched tightly to his groin in agony, a stream of oaths
and invective coming from him in between moans of anguish.

     I moved while my andrenalin was still flowing and before I got the shakes. 
I was not used to this sort of thing.  Leila appeared by my side and together we
freed Jill's ankles and found some scissors to cut the tie at her wrists and the
tape from her face.  Jill hugged Leila and the pair retreated to a sofa, tears
flowing freely.  I was left looking after the body.

     I rolled the guy over.  He was heavier than I expected and much heavier
than any of the girls I had had occasion to manhandle.  He groaned and swore at
me, his eyes screwed shut with the pain which only a guy can understand.  Beside
the desk was a plastic bag containing a couple of rolls of silver duct tape and
a packet of electrical ties.  He must've been a Boy Scout - he was definitely
"prepared".  I pulled a couple of the ties free and dragged his wrists behind
him, securing them tightly.  He offered almost no resistance - what little he
could manage went out of him when I poked him in the goolies again with my
stick.  He was white-faced and looked ready to throw up.  His eyes remained
closed tightly in pain and I decided instinctively that this was a good state of
affairs, and made sure of it by wrapping a couple of turns of tape around his
head as a blindfold.  To finish the job I joined a couple more plastic ties and
pulled them tight about his ankles.

     I moved over to where the girls sat on the sofa.  Jillian had almost
regained her composure but was still sobbing occasionally as the shock wore off. 
It came home to me the difference between the controlled circumstances of
bondage and sexual play with people you trusted compared to exactly the same
thing without volition.

     "Leila, go and fetch Monica - wherever she is," I said gently.  "I think we
need another pair of hands, too - whoever's available."  I did not see Jill
being much use for the rest of the evening.

     Leila scurried off while I sat with Jill. 

     "Thanks, Steven," she said simply, but said little more after that.  She
had wrapped the satin robe tightly about her and held her arms clasped across
her breasts.  I felt hopelessly awkward and didn't know what to do other than
hold her against me in the best gesture of comfort I could think of.  She didn't
resist and it was in this position we were found when Monica and Trish appeared,
some minutes later.

     Monica and Trish knelt down beside Jillian.

     "Are you okay, Hon?"  Jill nodded, making that jerky sniffling sound that
kids sometimes do after a bout of crying.  "You go off to bed, sweetie," said
Monica.  "Have tomorrow off and come and talk to me.  Do you want one of us to
go with you?"

     "N-no, I'll be okay.  What are you going to do with ...him?"

     "Never mind about that.  We'll sort that out in the fullness of time and in
the calm of the morning.  Go now."  Jill turned and left the room.

     "Where's Leila? I asked.

     "She's gone back to the Observation Room," Monica said.  "We can't have our
clients neglected."

     "I think we've got another client, now," Trish suggested, looking at the
prone form still groaning and muttering beside the desk.

     "Thanks for what you did, Steven," Monica told me, looking into my eyes. 
"I really mean that.  Leila told us about it - that was really something."  I
blushed and looked at Trish who smiled at me.

     "What are you going to do with Bozo here?"  I asked, changing the subject.

     "I'm not sure, yet," Monica mused.  "There are a lot of aspects to this
that have to be considered, and I want to talk about it with the girls tomorrow
over breakfast.  But for now, I think Trish's right, and we've got ourselves an
extra guest for the night.  Help us get him downstairs, will you?"

    

     It was gone midnight when we returned to the study.  Downstairs Bozo was
curled up foetally again in one of the holding cells, bound hand and foot and
still wearing the tape over his eyes.  We had debated over a gag but the sight
of his pain-wracked face had suggested it was not wise at this stage of the
game, just in case he did decide to barf.  He was also naked now, and we were in
the process of going through his wallet and other items in his pockets.

      "That was smart thinking with the blindfold, Steven," Monica said.  "I
presume Jill is the only one of us he has really got a good look at, and I
intend to keep it that way.  We need to carefully consider where we go from
here."

     "Name's Wayne Bennelli," I said, spreading the contents of the wallet on
the table.  There wasn't much - a drivers licence, a few receipts, twenty-five
dollars and some change and that was about it.  No credit cards, no photos, no
library cards or other good citizen identification.  I guess the guy wasn't into
that side of society if he preferred to rape defenceless women for kicks. 
Monica held up a set of car keys.

     "Steve, why don't you do a bit of scouting - see if you can find what these
belong to.  I'd like to get the area cleared as soon as possible.  We may decide
to hang on to Mr Bennelli while he helps us with our enquiries, and I want to
cover any leads.  If you find his car, park it round the back."

     "And be careful," Trish added.  "He may have friends".

     "Exactly," Monica agreed.

     "Somehow I don't think so," I ventured.  "I don't believe this guy would be
up to what he tried if he had an accomplice hanging about."

     "Nevertheless, do be careful.  And see if you can find out how he got past
the alarm, and if it's working."

    

     I had no doubt the guy was alone, and I had to admire Monica's calm in
dealing with the crisis.  I suspected Mr Bennelli was going to regret his
indiscretion. 

     Outside in the cool of the night I walked down the drive, letting my eyes
become accustomed to the darkness.  The driveway was empty and the infrared
light was visible atop the gates.  I over-rode the setting with the masterkey
and slid the gates soundlessly open.  A short distance up the road, half hidden
under a tree, was a Ute, which strangely enough fitted the keys I had in my
hand.  It had seen better days - a state of affairs in which I suspected Mr
Bennelli would soon include himself.  I started the engine, turned into the
driveway and drove to the rear of the house.  There was no point in looking for
access points at this time of night, I decided.  I suspected our Wayne had
fought his way determinedly through the bushes, to reach the house, but daylight
would determine that, and whether I needed to lay a bit of barbed wire in the
middle of the undergrowth.  In the meantime I was looking for a good night's
sleep.

    

     The breakfast meeting the next morning was spirited, to say the least. 
Jillian was not there, which was probably a good thing.  There were all manner
of suggestions as to what to do with Wayne Bennelli, ranging from castration, to
the police to an unmarked hole at the back of the property.  Monica made her
position very plain.

     "There will be no police.  While there may be the odd member of the
constabulary who frequents these premises on a business footing, we cannot have
any straight coppers snooping around and possibly closing us down."

     "So what are you suggesting?"  Emma asked.

     "Fortunately, due to Steven's prompt action and then his quick thinking,
not only has our bully boy been taken out of the play, but he saw none of our
faces, except for Jill's.  I think he's about to learn a lesson he will never
forget - one that will give him nightmares, and which will leave him with
something tangible to remember us by."

     "So what will stop him reporting us to the cops?" Leila said.

     "You forget the video, sweetie.  You also forget the photos of the
indignities that he will suffer in the next few days, and you forget that by
Thursday we will have checked out his house, his friends, his job - if he even
has one - and we will know all-l-l about him.  Certainly enough to scare the
shit out of the little fucker.  Blackmail is the name of the game, and we have
the goods if we need them."

    

     My first job that morning was explained to me by Monica after breakfast.  I
couldn't believe what she was asking, but, hey, what the hell.  I'd get it
sorted out, one way or the other.  I had a contact through my business in the
stainless steel trade.  This certainly would be a special order, wanted ASAP,
and definitely on a "need to know" basis.

     By the time I returned from my outing to the stainless manufacturer, where
I had invented a cock and bull story (more the former than the latter) about
what I wanted this device for, Mr Bennelli was undergoing the first of what were
to be a number of rather severe sessions, with a considerable degree of
scariness thrown in.

     I entered the study, where Jillian sat at Monica's desk, watching the CCTV
monitors.

     "What's on?" I asked, moving across and perching on the edge of the desk
beside her.

     "Monica's going to give our friend the fright of his life," said Jill
quietly.

     "And you're not involved?"

     "Mon doesn't want me involved - she thinks it better if I stay out of it."

     "Smart girl, our Monica.  You okay, now?"

     "Yes.  Thanks to you, of course."

     "'Tweren't nuthin, ma'am," I drawled, embarrassed.  I turned to the
screens.  The active one was in the tiled Sluice Room where the submarine and
sauna were.  What I saw was scary all right.  All the girls were there, all
wearing their most ferociously severe outfits - black leather and high heels,
with not a few chains jangling - and all wore masks.  The masks were the same -
a white distorted grinning face derived for the "Scream" films from the Edvard
Munch painting "Primal Scream".  Poor old naked Wayne looked like he wanted to
do just that - scream.  He was kneeling in the middle of the sauna room, side on
to the camera, his ankles perhaps half a metre apart and secured by a spreader
bar while his hands were bound behind him.  A large black ball gag was strapped
tightly in his mouth and his eyes were wide with terror.  Not surprisingly,
since in front of him, nestled against his crotch was a large chopping block
that normally resided in the garden.  Wayne's dick was secured to this by what
looked like a U-bracket of the type used to fix pipes to walls.

     "Looks like somebody has been into my workshop," I commented.

     "I believe Trish may have had something to do with that," said Jillian,
with a ghost of a smile.

     "You're not going to cut the thing off, surely?" I said, horrified.

     "No, silly, though our man thinks he is about to be 'Bobbited'!"

     Monica took the floor, dressed in a tight leather catsuit.

     "Wayne Bennelli you have been found guilty of attempted rape.  There's only
one way to make sure this never happens again.  Use it wrongly, and you lose
it."

     Wayne shook his head desperately and made lots of grunting noises through
his nose, while trying to pull away from the chopping block, but his pecker was
well secured by the bracket screwed to the block.  His organ had been stretched
to perhaps ten centimetres long, although given the chance it would probably
recoil like a rubber band and disappear from sight, I surmised.  I noticed there
was also a lot of dark discoloration in the groin area. Poor guy - not, I
thought.

     "Number One, bring the selection of instruments," Monica commanded.

     A figure in a short black leather skirt and leather bra came forward.  It
wore a black satin cloak with a hood that gave it a distinctly menacing
appearance when combined with the white grimacing mask.  I reckoned it was
Leila, as I caught a glimpse of blonde hair against the hood.  She carried a
black cushion and gave it to Monica, who set it down on the tiled floor.  On the
cushion were a large carving knife, a small handsaw, a pair of secateurs, and a
hatchet.

     "What is your choice, ladies?" asked Monica with a darkness in her voice. 
"Number One?"

     "Slow and painful.  The saw."

     "Number Two?"

     "The saw."

     "Number Three?"

     The axe."

     "Number Four?"

     "The axe."

     "A tie, ladies.  My casting vote is the axe, because I am at least humane
in my punishment.  I do not believe there is a case for unwarranted cruelty.  Do
we have the cauterisation gear?"  Leila wheeled a small portable barbecue closer
to the action, and I saw several pokers on the flames, glowing white-hot. 
Monica picked one up and moved it closer to Wayne's terrified face, before
returning it to the barbecue.  Then she picked up the hatchet.

     "Are you ready for your punishment, you little turd?" Monica hissed in his
ear.

     I was thinking I would probably have shit myself in his position, and as
Monica raised the hatchet high Wayne did just that, venting his bowels and
bladder - as much as he could with his dick screwed down to the chopping block. 
The girls recoiled with exclamations and Monica brought the hatchet down,
embedding it in the wood a couple of fingers breadth away from Wayne's pecker. 
Wayne continued to pee, the steaming stream flowing over the block and on to the
floor.  Monica stood up abruptly.

     "That just goes to show what a little shit you are, Wayne Bennelli.  You're
a piece of crap - a low life that belongs in some cesspit somewhere.  Number
One, hose down this mess - and the source of it - and leave him to sweat a bit. 
After you've had lunch, of course.  Things will only get worse from here on, Mr
Bennelli." She turned imperiously and stalked out of the room, followed by the
rest of the girls.  I watched as the prisoner bent forward over the block as
though he was to have his head chopped off.  Wayne was momentarily relieved - in
more ways than one.  The door to the sauna was slammed and I saw a black-gloved
hand turn on the heating.  I didn't know how long they intended to leave him,
but I reckoned it was soon going to get pretty unpleasant in there.

    

     Monica joined us in the study.

     "What did you think of the performance?" she asked with a grin.

     "Pretty impressive," I said.  Jill did not comment and excused herself.

     "Is she all right?" I asked.

     "I think she will be.  She's strong, but a little shook up at present. 
That nasty little shit will regret it, and will leave here a changed man - you
can be sure of that," Monica told me grimly.  I was about to leave when she
stopped me.

     "Steve, I have a rather unusual request for you."  I stopped and waited. 
"Do you remember Isobel?"

     "Well-heeled and into all manner of fantasy stuff?"

     "That's the one.  She's got a scenario planned for her home - or rather she
has suggested one in broad outline, with the details to be filled in by us."

     "Us?  Who 'us', white woman?"

     "You and me."

     "Explain."

     "She wants a sort of home invasion thing - could be a burglary, could be
something more imaginative.  It involves a rape - hers, of course.  She wants
you."

     "Me?  She's never even met me."

     "She's seen you and heard about you."  For a moment I was speechless.  The
concept had totally floored me.  "She's watched you through the cameras when she
and I were having a little heart to heart one day in here, as she told me what
she was looking for.  I told her about you, what you were like, of the high
esteem I held you in.  I think she took a fancy to you."

     "You want me to ...rape her?  You're kidding!"

     "It's pretend rape, Steve.  I have a signed letter requesting it and
there's five hundred bucks in it for you as a bonus.  You understand this is not
something I normally do, but the situation is a little different, I'm sure you
will agree.  And then there's always the safeword, even when she's gagged - the
humming the little tune thing.  That's her last resort, and all bets are off if
that happens, of course."

     I sat down on the sofa.

     "Can I think about it?"

     "Sure.  No pressure.  But if you decide 'yes', tomorrow's the night."

    

     And that was how I came to be skulking in Isobel's garden with Monica that
Friday night.  The house was a small replica Queenslander - built recently with
modern materials and wiring, but retaining the two storey look with a balcony on
the front upstairs --the traditional indoor-outdoor living style.  The place was
in darkness as we ascended the front stairs and found the key under the third
pot plant to the left, just as we had been told.  It was gone two in the morning
and the neighbourhood was hushed.  The house was shielded by large Alexandra
palms, which gave some semblance of privacy to the balcony and windows, while
the adjacent properties had more trees to screen the neighbouring houses
further. 

     Monica opened the door gingerly, not knowing if it would squeak or not.  It
moved without a sound and we slipped inside, pulling our ski masks down over our
faces.  We closed the door behind us and tiptoed along the polished timber
hallway, the torch lights on our headbands identifying the rooms as we passed. 
We reached what was obviously Isobel's bedroom.  The door was open and a figure
was sleeping in the big double bed.  Isobel was on her back, one arm flung
across the pillow, the other under the duvet.  It was just as Monica and I had
hoped for in the scenario plan we had devised.  Monica slipped off her small
daypack and pulled out a roll of duct tape and a leather strap.  Carefully she
tore off a couple of strips of the wide silver tape and laid one over the other
in a shallow 'X'.  As a team we pounced on the sleeping form, Monica slapping
the tape across Isobel's mouth while I threw myself across her body, pinning her
arms.  She awoke with what must have been a hell of a fright, her eyes wide and
confused in the half-light provided by our torches.  Our priority was to keep
Isobel quiet, and while I held her trapped under the covers, Monica lifted the
victim's head and wrapped several more turns of duct tape around it.  All the
while Isobel was mmmphing and fighting and bucking but her head-shaking stopped
the moment Mon grasped a handful of hair.  Isobel squirmed under the covers, but
my weight was too much for her.  Monica then pressed a strip of tape over each
of the victim's eyes, which elicited some more moans from behind the tape.

     Our prisoner now being effectively silent and blind, we turned her on her
front and pulled the covers back, each of us holding on to a wrist.  Isobel wore
a royal blue satin nightshirt that came down to her thighs, with nothing
underneath.  Her struggles died as we strapped her wrists together then pulled
off our ski masks. Monica fashioned a short hobble with a piece of rope around
Isobel's ankles and we hauled her out of bed, snorting and panting through her
nose.

     All this had been done without a word between Monica and me.  For the
purposes of our scenario Monica would do none of the talking, the intention
being to make Isobel think that there were two men, and to this end Monica also
wore heavy leather gloves.  I had told her to "think male, think rough".  She
had said she didn't think she was capable of stooping to such levels and I
didn't pursue what I knew would have been a no-win argument.

     "'Ere Mick, lets tie 'er to the door 'andles while we check out the room." 
I had adopted as my alter ego a London East End accent, just to give a bit of
character.  "Over 'ere, slag!" I commanded, and we half dragged poor Isobel to
the bedroom door, forcing her to kneel with her back to the edge of it.  I
turned the light on, then Monica and I each took an elbow and lifted them as
high as they would go, tying them off to the door knobs each side of the door
with more rope from Monica's day pack.  Monica then undid the hobble and we
repeated the process with Isobel's ankles, drawing them upwards until she was
kneeling most uncomfortably with the strain on her knees and elbows, her wrists
still bound behind her.

     "Right you little slut, where's yor money then?"  I demanded.  Isobel shook
her head, mmphing into the tape.  I reckoned she still had some fight left in
her.  I undid the buttons to her satin nightshirt to her waist, where they
stopped.  "Look, darlin', I ain't got time for messin' abaht."  I slipped my
hand inside her nightshirt and ran it over her breasts.  Her nipples were hard
and rigid.  She was a little bondage slut!  I squeezed the aforementioned
nipples and twisted them.  She squealed and moaned, but shook her head again.

     "Come on Mick - let's sort aht this place.  She's gotta keep the goods 'ere
somewhere.  Find 'er 'andbag."

     The two of us went to work with a will, making far more noise than was
necessary, just to give the impression we were tearing the place apart.  We
opened drawers and cupboards and generally had a good sticky beak at everything
that was Isobel's.

     " 'Ullo, what've we got 'ere?  The little scrubber is a bondage nut, Mick.
" I had just opened a drawer in the bottom of the big free-standing dark oak
closet that dominated the room.  There was a pile of bondage magazines neatly
stacked in one half of the drawer while in a plastic lift-out box was an
assortment of straps, chains, handcuffs, gags and other bondage accoutrements. 
"Well well well.  So you like this, do yer darlin?  Maybe you'll be happy
hangin' there for the rest of the night.  Maybe moreso with somethin' hangin' on
them luvly tits of yours."  I moved back to where Isobel was balanced on her
knees and placed two nipple clips I had found in the drawer, on her pointy nubs. 
Isobel shuddered and moaned more loudly.  "That should keep yer awake while we
'ave a bit of a butchers around the place," I told her, breathing nastily in her
ear.

     I had also found a video camera in the drawer, and showed it to Monica. 
She smiled and took it from me, before taking some long lingering shots of the
bound Isobel.  Monica motioned me to put my ski mask back on, and I dutifully
tortured her nipples some more, before running my hand through her crotch.  She
was wet, and squirmed like mad, whining into the tape over her mouth.

     We exited the bedroom and explored the rest of the house, then discussed
what our next plan of attack would be.  Monica, as usual, was full of ideas, and
we decided to take advantage of two features of the place.  Firstly there was an
internal stairway down to the garage under the house, complete with a nice open
balustrade with lots of solid posts supporting the rail - ideal for tying people
to.  Secondly, as is often found in Queenslanders, instead of a door into the
living room, there was a lintel with a sculpted wooden grille above it, in other
words a nice beam, again, perfect for securing helpless prisoners to.

    

     We returned to the bedroom and roughly untied Isobel from the door handles. 
She was still reluctant to talk, it seemed, so we dragged her by her bound
ankles, face down along the length of the hallway, her satin nightshirt riding
up around her waist.

     "Abaht time yor floor got a good polishin', darlin," I told her. "You
really ort to spend more time doin' yor housework.  Look at the state of these
stairs!  I bet you'll find a bit of dust 'ere on the way down!"  Monica followed
behind with the video camera going.

     I tied a length of rope around the ankle ropes and we eased Isobel over the
edge.  She was crying and whimpering into her gag, not knowing what was going on
as we gently let out the rope until she was sliding down the stairs face first,
while we slowly paid out the rope.  She went down 11 steps, no doubt counting
every one as her body stiffened each time her tits passed the edge of the tread. 
Of course she was still wearing the nipple clamps, and what a performance she
put up as her boobs slipped down in a series of stuttering bumps.  No doubt the
nightshirt was pulling all which ways as well, and poor Isobel complained
bitterly as she rolled and squirmed, trying to ease the pressure on those clamps
with each step.

     "We're gonna pull this place apart now, and we'd better find something or
you'll be there until someone finds you!" I told her.  We went into the living
room which was next to the stairs.  Isobel had a good stereo, which of course
had a tape deck, and into this we placed a cassette we had recorded at Bilboes. 
It featured the sound of things breaking, being pushed over, cupboard doors
opening, muffled curses and general noises of mayhem and wreckage.  Mon and I
supplemented this with lots of heavy walking about.  It went on for about
fifteen minutes, buy which time we considered we had thoroughly trashed the
place.  I wondered what Isobel would make of it - how far did she think we would
go?

     "I dunno where the twat's hidden it," I said loudly to Monica.  "I say we
just take the good gear and go - the stereo, computer, camera and video, I
reckon."  We followed this statement with periods of silence, tramping down the
hallway, opening the front door and going up and down the front steps.  Not
enough noise to arouse the neighbours, but enough to give it all a bit of
authenticity.

     Then we tramped down the stairs to the bound figure lying face down near
the bottom step, her ankles half a dozen steps higher up.  Isobel was red in the
face with her head being the lowest extremity - what little of her face we could
see under the duct tape, that was.  She was sweating freely and her hair was
damp and matted.  I jingled something near her head.

     "Found yer car keys dahlin'.  Reckon we can make a bit on that little
Mitsubishi of yours under the house.  Mick's gonna take care of that.  And I'm
gonna take care of you."  As I traipsed up the stairs again and Monica exited
through the door at the bottom with the keys in her hand, Isobel started mewing
and squirming with renewed frenzy.  There was the sound of an engine starting up
and fading as the car disappeared out the front drive.  Again I wondered what
was going through Isobel's mind.  Were there sneaking doubts that it was all for
real - that her darkest fears were coming true?  Was her fantasy turning into a
nightmare, or was she still acting out her role?

     I hauled her slowly back up the steps.  There were more moans and cries as
her clipped nipples caught at each tread nosing before pulling free.  The satin
nightshirt was again around her armpits by the time she reached the top, panting
hard through her nose and whimpering with the pain in her tits, no doubt.  I
stood her up and heaved her over my shoulder, picking up the video camera and
walking back to the living room.  Here there was a large black leather armchair. 
I stood Isobel facing the rear of it while I undid her ankles then bound them
one to each chair leg.  I took the length of rope that had previously suspended
her down the stairs and threaded it through her wrist ropes, pulling an end over
each shoulder and forcing her head down over the chair in a strappado, while I
tied the ends of the rope to the handle of the open door.  I positioned the
video camera on a nearby table, getting a semi-frontal angle on the blindfolded
and gagged woman bound over the chair back.   Isobel was now ready for business.

     I was glad Monica wasn't there to watch what I was about to do.  I did it
with reluctance - the gentleman in me in conflict with the request from both
women.  Life sure was strange.  I pulled Isobel's nightshirt up, exposing the
lean thighs and buttocks.  I slipped a hand through her crotch.  There was no
denying the wetness, nor the moaning mmphing sound from the head buried on the
other side of the chair.  Removing the belt from my jeans I let loose a thwack
across her buttocks with the leather.  Isobel jerked and yelped into her gag.  I
repeated the strapping a number of times, bring a rosy glow to her cheeks and
the backs of her thighs.  By this time she was struggling and squirming and
beginning to grind her hips into the cushioned leather top of the chair.

     "Are yer hot, yet, darlin'?" I whispered in her ear, letting my hand linger
in the wetness between her thighs.  "Yes, you are...  Enjoy the rest of the
night, them... see yer later," I said, and left the room.  There was frantic
mmmphing from the chair.

     I walked down the hallway to her bedroom, heedless of the muffled pleadings
coming from the living room.  I opened one of Isobel's drawers and found a thin
pair of socks.  Then I turned my attention to her toy drawer in the large
wardrobe and retrieved a pair of leather wrist cuffs and several devices that
took my fancy.  I had a quick flick through Isobel's magazine selection, and I
confess by the time I had done this, the thought of Isobel bent helplessly over
the chair had got Mr Willy quite worked up - not that he had exactly been
dormant since we had arrived. 

     I returned to the bound figure and slipped a chrome dildo into Isobel's
pussy.  She grunted and squirmed, her panting increasing abruptly in speed and
volume when I turned it on.  It took less than thirty seconds before Isobel
abruptly stiffened her back, arching her feet and grinding into the leather as
she climaxed with a long protracted moan.  I decided Isobel was not going to get
away that easily, and I slipped the chrome dildo out, replacing it with a black
rubber one about twice the size.  It was embedded nearly full depth, and not
without some effort, squashed as her pussy was against the cushion.  Meanwhile
the chrome device went up her rear, accompanied by more squirmings and
strainings and mewing through the tape.  I switched both vibrators on.  Isobel
jerked as if she had been electrocuted, hmm-hhming and snorting as the
vibrations took hold.  She tugged desperately against the ropes but clearly she
wasn't going anywhere and was forced to submit to the incessant stimulation. 
The next climax took slightly longer but was more ferocious in its intensity. 
Isobel was lost to the world and her body slumped, damp and sweating, over the
chair at the end of it.

     I left the twin invaders whirring in place for another five minutes.  She
was on the climb again, her whimperings turning to a pleading whine as her body
betrayed her again.  I tried to judge the rise of her excitement, before
abruptly removing both inserts and following this with a number of sharp slaps
with the belt.  Then I decided to finish the job myself.

     Isobel was wet and tight, pushed as she was against the chair.  The fact
that a monstrous black phallus had recently been removed from her passion tunnel
seemed to make no difference to her voracity.  She bucked and strained against
me as I pinned her to the chair, driving hard into her depths.  She was panting
and keening continuously beneath the tape over her mouth, now, the intensity
rising in pitch and volume.  Being the gentleman that I was I endeavoured to
extend the activity, and it was probably fifteen minutes before I finally
succumbed to the tightness of Isobel, but not before she had orgasmed a couple
more times.

     When I untied the ropes from the door handle Isobel didn't move, other than
to let her arms flop against her back.  I undid her ankles and hauled her to her
feet.  She was like a limp doll, and again I slung her over my shoulder,
accompanied by slow groans and much heavy breathing.  I carried her into the
hall and dumped her unceremoniously face down on the floor.  There were more
muffled cries and a scraping sound as the chrome nipple clamps clunked on the
wooden floor.  Leaving her there momentarily I returned to the kitchen and
fetched a couple of large ice cubes from the freezer box, which I slipped inside
one of the socks I had borrowed from Isobel's drawer.  I tied the sock to a
short length of rope which I then secured to the open-styled lintel halfway down
the hall, so that the sock hung at head height.  Then I locked a small padlock
around the sock and above the ice.  When the ice blocks melted the padlock would
drop.

     I freed Isobel's wrists of the rope then locked the leather cuffs on them. 
Taking the long piece of rope I threaded it through each cuff and pulled the two
ends between her lower legs, just above the ankle ropes.  Pulling on the two
ends none too gently, I forced Isobel into a hog tie.  She groaned and protested
as her back arched and there were again the heavy sounds of the clamps against
the floor.  I lifted the ends of the long rope and threaded one through the
padlock hanging above her, before pulling further and tying the two ends
together. Her arms were now pulled back with her hands touching her ankles as
she lay on her stomach.  The knots to the ankle ropes were on the front,
however, and I knew she could never reach those. 

     I retrieved some of the devices I had borrowed from her drawer, and worked
a vibrating dildo and butt plug into place.  She was a bit more awake now,
perhaps aware of what potentially lay in store for her.  I slipped another piece
of rope around her waist, tied it in the form of a belt then worked the two
loose ends back underneath her, before pulling them through her crotch and
tethering them at her waist.  That would keep the two inserts in place.  Then I
turned the vibrators on.  Isobel shuddered and began to moan.  I fetched the
video camera from the living room and set it up on the floor a couple of metres
from the helpless figure, then turned it on.

     "'Ow long do yer think it will be before someone comes lookin' for yer,
dahlin'?"  I hissed in her ear.  "How long can yer cope with those things up yer
bum and twat?  New long life batteries, yer know.  Maybe we'll give it
twenty-four hours before we let the coppers know.  If we don't forget, that is. 
But just so you get a bit of enjoyment, and to show I'm not an 'ard man, let's
take those little pliers off, eh?"

     Isobel hardly had time to react to my suggestion before I lifted her up and
rudely pulled off the two nipple clamps.  She screamed into the tape, shaking
her head and mmmphing with the instantaneous pain.  This continued as I let her
back down, trapping her abused breasts under her, to bear some of her weight.

     "See yer, dollface," I said cheerfully.  Enjoy yer weekend.  Hope someone
finds yer before the coppers."

     Isobel made a final attempt to do something - I'm not quite sure what.  The
face with the tape over the eyes and mouth turned itself blindly to where I was,
backing towards the front door.  There was a plaintive whine from under the duct
tape and she shook her head again, squirming in her restricted position and
getting nowhere.  There were more whines and pleadings and muffled pantings
before I shut the front door behind me.

    

     I breakfasted late the next morning, not surprisingly.  Monica was there as
well.  She had parked Isobel's car around the corner from her house having left
the keys in the letterbox, and had picked me up as I emerged having done my
dastardly deed.  Now, over a leisurely Saturday morning breakfast, she told me
of my next assignment.

     "We're going to get shot of that little turd Bennelli today," she said
matter of factly, toying with a plate of freshly cut rock melon and banana.

     "What did you have in mind," I asked cautiously.

     "I'd like you and Jill to drive down to a suitably frequented area and park
his pickup there.  Jill can drive the pickup and you can take the van to bring
the her back."

     "And...?"

     "And nothing.  That's all you have to do.  Mr Bennelli will be bound in the
back of the pickup, under the tarpaulin.  He will know he is in a public area,
and when the ice securing his ropes has melted he will eventually get free.  He
will know that, too.  He will also know that the pickup will have a flat tyre,
and that he is not just going to climb out and drive away without fixing it.  He
will be in a semi-naked state and not know either where he is or where his
clothes are.  He may well have to lie under the tarp for what looks like being a
hot afternoon, until it gets dark and the people go home.  I suggest a nice
national park or a shopping centre car park, possibly well south of the river,
since he lives on the north side.  Make sure you park in the sun, of course."

     "That goes without saying," I murmured into a slice of pineapple. "What did
you mean about 'a semi-naked state?'  That sounds a little soft for you."

     "You won't think so when you see him prepared," she said.

    

     Monica was right - as usual.  After breakfast we went down to the post room
where Bennelli was strung up in a star shape between the two posts.  The Return
of the Mummy was the first impression that sprang to mind, given the bandages
wound around his body.  As I got closer I saw that they were not ordinary
medical bandages but wide adhesive elastoplast strips.  The poor bastard would
go through agony trying to remove it as every body hair came with it.  Monica
saw my initial reaction.

     "Yes, he's going to suffer, just as he made Jill suffer, and he'll suffer
by his own hand, as well.  God knows what else he's been up to in his no doubt
sordid life up till now, but I'm sure this is going to put some things to
rights."

     I looked closely at his plight.  The flesh-coloured elastoplast was wound
around his head covering his eyes and mouth with a couple of turns tightly in a
vertical loop under his jaw.  There were further windings spiralling around each
arm, leg, and the full length of his torso.  Given the amount of hair on his
back and chest the removal was certainly going to make his eyes water.

     Still untouched were his buttocks and groin.  On the former I could see a
number of blue stripes that could only have come from a whippy cane.  Mary and
Trish were attending to the final touches.

     "This little stainless steel device which you had made goes on here," Trish
showed me.  The "device " was in fact a small tube some 3 centimetres long and
the diameter of a soft drink bottle screw top. With some difficulty she had
worked the guy's dick through it.  Over the outer end of the tube were two
welded pieces of U-shaped rod that the tip of the dick snuggled up against. 
Effectively it made a nice little cage for this dickhead.  Enough to piss
through but not enough to cause trouble with. On top of the tube was another
ring with its opening at right angles, and through this was threaded a U-bolt
about 3 centimetres wide between the straights.  These prongs were pushed
backwards, either side of the guy's scrotum, where a stainless plate with two
holes in it was placed behind it, over the U-bolt straights.  Both legs of the
U-bolt were threaded, and the nuts were now being screwed up, tightening the
cross plate.  I watched with a kind of morbid fascination as the scrotum bulged
and agitated whimpers came from behind the tape across his mouth.  Trish gave
each nut a couple more turns then stopped.

     "I've already lubricated the threads with superglue.  I'll now give them
another coat and apply a couple of lock nuts hard against the first two.  We are
going to have fun getting this off, aren't we," she said sweetly into the
bandaged ear. "You little shit," she ended, off handedly. The figure mmphed and
shook its head.

     "You will observe that any erection with this on will be very difficult, if
not unachievable.  The ring and U-bolt will also be very uncomfortable and
difficult - but not impossible - to remove.  He will almost certainly need some
help, and may have difficulty asking for it.  How embarrassing!  Not only having
this done to you, but by a bunch of women, with photographs of it taking place! 
The photos being in a safe location, of course - just for insurance purposes."

     As a coup de grace an over- large butt plug was inserted none too gently up
the guy's arse.  He squirmed and cried into the tape.

     "Don't be such a big sissy," said Mary, giving the device a final shove. 
"You don't mind sticking your ugly prong into women, but you carry on the moment
someone does it to you.  Now you know what it's like, and I suggest you take
time to think about the consequences of your actions in future."

     The plug was then taped into place with more elastoplast between the legs,
in the butt crack and all over the pubic hair, with a few turns around his now
armoured dick as well.  I was not surprised to see a wire hanging down from the
anal intruder.  Trish saw my gaze and tugged hard on the wire.  The bound form
flinched and squirmed. 

     "This little device will be attached to a battery," Trish told the
blindfolded figure.  "It will be governed by the accelerator of the vehicle in
which you will be travelling.  Idling at the traffic light you'll probably feel
nothing.  Overtaking you'll know all about life in the fast lane.  I just hope
your chauffeur is not heavy footed, and does not decide to drive to Sydney over
the weekend."  She smiled at me then pulled me aside.  "I make that statement
confident in the expectation that you can create such an electrical
arrangement."

     "Anything's possible," I conceded.

    

     It took me about an hour to fix the control linked to the accelerator on
Bennelli's pickup.  The battery was a small one but after prolonged exposure it
would be enough to be profoundly irritating to one's anal cavity, I reckoned. 
This work done, the mummified figure, wrists handcuffed behind its back, was led
out to the pickup.  To the accompaniment of muffled pleadings and complaints, it
was pushed into the back of the open tray, over the tailgate, and bound
spread-eagled within the four walls of the tray, the ropes connected to the
convenient cleats that would shortly also secure the tarpaulin cover.  Before
this happened, the cable connected to the butt plug was run into the cab and
connected to the sliding contact switch that I had rigged up under the
accelerator.  The girls gathered to see the final stages.  Monica made a speech
to the helpless figure.

     "Mr Bennelli, I want you to listen very closely to what I have to say.  You
are a piece of excrement, who ideally should be deposited in a septic tank and
left to decompose.  The fact that you will survive this invasion of our
household is not true justice.  You have been caught in the midst of a horrific
assault, and you must suffer for it.  In this instance it is our justice, and
you must be aware of a number of things.  Remember what we have done to you, and
be aware that we can do much more.  We know where you live, who you are and what
you do.  If we so much as get a sniff of you, we will come after you, and what
you are now suffering is nothing to what you will suffer then.

     "Be aware that we have recorded all your indignities, just as we have
records of your crime on closed circuit TV tapes.  Any attempt to involve the
police or your friends will be highly embarrassing for you.  You will be the
toast of the tabloids.  And you should know that we have police friends in very
high places, as well.

     "In case you haven't figured out what is going to happen to you, let me
tell you.  You will be driven to a place and left as you are.  In a few hours a
block of ice will eventually melt and release you.  You can then drive home -
once you've fixed the flat tyre you will have.  As you know, the ride will be
shocking - shocking your arse, that is.  Your disgusting vehicle will be driven
by the girl you tried to rape.  How far and how fast you end up travelling
depends entirely on her.  If she decides to take an outback tour of Queensland,
I for one would not blame her.  Your fate is now in her hands, and you'd better
think about all those things in life like mercy and forgiveness.  You will be
left in a populated carpark and I would suggest you keep quiet until your ropes
come free.  You would have some very embarrassing explanations to offer if you
make too much noise. That's all I have to say, other than to leave you with a
couple of parting gifts..."  With these words Monica leaned into the rear of the
pickup and clipped two crocodile clips on to exposed nipples - the only parts I
could see not covered by elastoplast other than the hands and feet.  The figure
jerked and cried under the tape, writhing as much as it could do - which wasn't
much, of course - on the floor of the tray.  Following that symbolic act, the
girls lashed the black vinyl tarpaulin over the top, looping the securing rope
through the rows of cleats around the four sides.

     Jillian climbed in the cab and started the engine, revving it a couple of
times to get the feel of it.  There were smiles all round and possibly imagined
yelps from under the tarp.  I climbed into the van and prepared to follow her,
wherever her desire for revenge took her.

Monica's Place

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN - THE RACK

     Jillian surprised me.  Perhaps I had expected her to drive to somewhere
like Surfers Paradise over an hour to the south, down the Pacific Highway. 
Instead, after travelling along Coronation Drive and the Riverside Expressway
she crossed the Brisbane River and headed east, and some fifteen minutes later I
followed her into a suburban car park at Cannon Hill. The car park was full of
shoppers and Jill manoeuvred her way to a car park near the perimeter.  There
were large areas of parking spaces covered by overhead shade structures, but
clearly Mr Bennelli would like to enjoy the sun, as it would at least make the
ice melt quicker.

     I parked beside her and climbed out to look around.  The pickup was
screened to a large extent by our vehicle, and there was no difficulty in
letting down the right front tyre.  That would encourage our man to wait for
darkness, I thought, and he could spend the rest of the day undoing about a
kilometre of sticky bandage - all of which would be very painful.  Monica's M.O.
of making the punishment fit the crime, again.

    

     Jill was very quiet on the way home, but seemed to be cheering up.  We
arrived back at Bilboes at around 1 p.m., to find a formal lunch was in progress
on the back verandah.  I knew it was on the schedule - a big occasion for Monica
with her old friend Warren and some new bloke whom he was bringing along. 
Monica was holding court at the table, seated between the two men with Mary
opposite.  I guessed Mary was there as a senior representative of the
establishment and I wondered where Trish was.  I subsequently found out she was
attending to my friend Christina who at that moment was undergoing some sort of
workout in the gym.  Leila and Emma, I guess as the juniors, were in the kitchen
preparing the food and waiting on the table respectively.  Both wore high heels
and short sleeveless latex dresses.  They were identical save for colour - Emma
wore white, contrasting with her jet black hair, while Leila wore black, and
together they made quite a stunning combination.  The garments had high
Chinese-style collars with an open panel from the throat down to the navel,
revealing much of the wearers' breasts but stopping short of any nipple
flashing.

     "Are we enjoying ourselves?" I inquired cheerfully as I entered the
kitchen. "Playing a waiting game, I see."  Leila poked her tongue out at me
while Emma smiled.  "You both look very nice - a definite improvement on most
waitresses I've ever encountered.  But don't you get hot in those outfits?  They
look very - er - tight," I said, eyeing the shiny rubber stretched over Emma's
buttocks as she bent to wipe a drop of spilt food from the floor.

     "They are," said Leila, looking up from where she was stirring a pot of
sauce.  "But at least they're short and don't have sleeves, and they let a bit
of air in down the front.  It's the all over ones - the catsuits  - that really
make you sweat.  I mean, they look stunning and all that, but you can lose your
fluids in a workout.  But of course there are some good points.  Latex on the
skin is definitely a turn on.  You ought to try it some time."  She smiled
impishly at me.

     "Nice shoes," I said, changing the direction of the conversation. "What are
they - four inch heels?"

     "Four and a half, since you like the old measurements.  I've worn higher
ones, but not much.  They may look good, but they're hell on that timber deck
with the little gaps between the planks.  We tried to tell Monica, but she still
made us wear them."

     "Well you both look delicious, and you're obviously out there to flaunt
your wares at the moment - definitely no panty line to be seen."  Despite
herself, Leila blushed.

     "It's all very well for you to be smart.  We're on eggshells with these two
guys.  Monica reckons they're worth a mint - or two mints at least."

     "What - the after dinner type?"

     "No - money, stupid.  We have to wait on them hand and foot with their eyes
and hands all over us, while Monica and Mary act like they're queens of the
world."

     "It's a tough job, but someone's got to do it," I consoled her. "Remember
these guys could be paying your wages and Monica obviously wants to impress
them.  It's all about getting repeat clients."

     "That's easy for you to say," Emma chided me.  "What about the last time
Warren was here?  Look what happened to you and Christina when you fed her
breakfast!"  I remembered it well.  I also remembered the aftermath, aspects of
which were decidedly satisfying.

     "But I didn't know the rules then.  Now I'm older and wiser.  And remember
what happened to Monica afterwards."

     "Yes, we all enjoyed that, and that probably explains why you got such a
licking at the dungeon photoshoot.  You know she doesn't forget these things
easily."

     "True.  And I think you're wanted on deck."  I looked through the window to
where Monica had held up her hand.  Emma scurried outside, her white heels
click-clicking on the ceramic tiles and then on the timber decking.  I watched
as Emma bent her head to listen to Monica's command while a roving hand from
Warren's mate slid up the Chinese girl's leg and under the tight white hem of
her dress.  Emma tried to ignore it and concentrate on what Monica was saying,
then straightened up and prised herself free of the groper, before returning to
the kitchen to take another bottle of champagne from the fridge.  Warren's
friend, whose name was Roger, I later learned, had obviously not endeared
himself to Emma.

     "What's on the menu?" I asked, again distracted by the way Emma's backside
moved in the tight latex dress on her return to the verandah with the champagne. 
"Anything spare?"

     "It's escalopes of veal in a red wine sauce, and you keep your grubby hands
off," Leila told me firmly as she laid the round slices of meat on four of
Bilboes' best china plates then spooned the sauce over them.  Emma returned and
both girls took two plates to the table.  Roger's hands couldn't keep off either
of the girls, I noticed, as they passed or leaned over the table to lay down the
plates.

     "What is it about him?" Leila muttered as she entered the kitchen again. 
"There's something creepy about him - he's a real sleazeball."

     "Surely you deal with those all the time?"

     "No, strangely enough we don't.  The guys and girls we get here are usually
pretty genuine in their needs and personalities.  Isn't that right, Em?"

     "Yes," Emma agreed as she collected a pair of serving spoons and bowl of
steamed vegetables and retreated outside.

     "I can't put my finger on it but..."

     At that moment a movement at the table caught my eye.  There was a clatter
of cutlery and some exclamations.  I looked out to see Emma standing, hands over
her mouth, eyes wide in horror.

     "You stupid fucking cow!" Roger snarled.  He was on his feet, and I saw a
boiled potato roll off his lap on to the floor.  The front of his white shirt
was sprayed with the red wine sauce into which Emma had evidently dropped both
of her spoons and the aforementioned potato - from a reasonable height, I
concluded, looking at the spray pattern.

     Suffice to say no one at the table was amused.  Emma, on the other hand,
was mortified and stood rooted to the spot until slapped on the cheek by Monica.

     "Go and get a cloth, you silly bitch!" she snapped.  I was astonished, for
I had never seen this side of Monica. 

     "No, don't let her near me!" Roger interrupted.  "This is a Versace shirt -
she's done enough damage already.  She'll have to pay for this - and I don't
mean the shirt, either."

     "Oh she'll pay all right, don't you worry," Monica said through clenched
teeth.  Then she bent down and spoke to Mary.  A faint flicker of a smile
crossed Mary's face and she stood up and walked inside, past me as though I
wasn't there.  I liked the look on her face even less than that on Monica's.

     Leila meanwhile had gone to the scene with a wet cloth and order was
gradually restored.  Emma was still standing there, one hand to her cheek where
Monica had hit her.  "I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry..." she was saying softly,
hardly daring to believe what she had done.

     Monica stalked into the kitchen, her face tense with anger.

     "Steven!"

     "Yes maam!" I saluted, then decided taking the mickey was not a good idea.

     "Don't give me any shit!  I want you to make something for me, and I want
it yesterday!  Something very simple - a tray.  Thick ply, two inch sides, the
whole thing about this by this," she said, stretching her arms to something like
half a metre wide by a metre long.

     "Big tray," I said non-committally.

     "Yes it is a big tray," she snapped back, "and I want a big eyebolt at the
front and another at the back, and the whole thing sitting on a couple of cross
timbers, a bit in from each end.  Got that?"

     "Yes ma'am!"  When Monica gave orders it was a delight to behold, but I
hated her in this mood.

     "Well, get on with it then!"

     I needed no further bidding, retreating down the stairs to the room I was
building my rack in.  I passed Mary coming back up the stairs.  She grinned
malevolently at me and waved a bunch of ropes and straps.

     "Play time!" she announced.

     I had a feeling Emma was getting deeper into trouble by the minute.

    

     It took me only a quarter of an hour to knock up this basic tray that
Monica wanted.  I had no idea what she wanted to do with it - I didn't even want
to think about it.  By the time I returned to the verandah the punishment
session was already underway. 

     Poor Emma was now naked, her wrists bound palm to palm behind her and her
elbows also lashed together so that they touched.  This of course had the effect
of making Emma's lovely breasts look even lovelier, and predictably these had
become the receptors of large chromed nipple clamps with which Emma was secured
over the balcony railings by two thin pieces of twine attached to her ankles. 
Any attempt to stand upright would cause the clamps to pull very hard and very
painfully on Emma's nipples.  In the meantime she was on the receiving end of a
flogger being wielded with determination by Monica, to the satisfied smirks from
the two men.  Emma wailed and cried, jerking and squirming, but all the while
being restricted by the tethers to her nipples.

     Monica paused for breath and looked at what I had presented her with.  She
said something to Mary that I did not catch and Mary took the wooden object from
me, and placed it on the deck.  Then, as Monica renewed her attack on Emma, Mary
disappeared into the kitchen to reappear with a large plastic bin liner which
she placed over the top of the tray.

     "Emma, you're a total waste of space," Monica scolded.  "I have tried to
train you but you can't even manage a pair of serving spoons.  You're a dirty
little slut, and dirty little sluts need to be cleaned up.  Mary?"

     Mary took the stage with a large tube of toothpaste fitted with one of
those nozzles that you get in the hardware store for tubes of sealant. 
Brusquely she parted Emma's butt cheeks, inserted the nozzle and gave the tube a
solid squeeze.

     "Oh god - no - not that, please!" moaned Emma. "No more, please!"  That was
when Mary - with evident glee - guided the nozzle into Emma's front passage and
gave it another squirt, to more cries of distress from Emma.

     "Do shut up Emma, unless you want a mouthful as well!" Monica told her
sharply, before squatting down to undo the twine around the Chinese girl's
ankles.  Emma straightened up with obvious relief.  "I'm tired of your
complaining, Emma.  You only think of yourself."  Monica's answer to this
complaining was to slap a couple of pieces of red duct tape in a large 'X'
across Emma's mouth before addressing the hapless girl further.

     "Emma you've made a real mess here and have managed to ruin a nice lunch. 
It's only fair that you should pay for this, and you know my views on the
punishment fitting the crime.  In this instance you can be the dessert course -
the showpiece of the menu.  You've seen the suckling pig made up?  Well picture
yourself in the same position..." A big tear rolled down Emma's cheek and she
sniffled, while shifting uncomfortably from one foot to the other as the
toothpaste was no doubt itching and burning inside her.  "I think a case could
be made out for you to be the dessert trolley...  Let's see what we can come up
with..."

     I watched with a kind of morbid fascination as poor Emma was made to stand
on my tray while her legs were bound at the ankles and knees.  A rope was
knotted around her waist and the tails pulled down between her legs and up at
the back to be married to the waist loop at that point.  She was then made to
kneel, and I knew the leg ropes would be tightening terribly under those
strained conditions.  This done, Monica and Mary slipped two webbing straps
under the tray and over Emma's back at waist level and high on her shoulders. 
These straps were the kind you can pick up at Supercheap Auto for a few bucks
and they came complete with hold-down ratchets.  In short, with a few flicks of
the ratchet they would make sure the luggage on your trailer did not fall off
during your trip under anything less than a major accident.  In this instance,
with each tightening click of the ratchet - done ever so teasingly slowly by M
and M (Mary and Monica) - Emma was compressed harder and tighter into a ball
against the wood of the tray.  She was moaning and pleading - for all the good
it did her.  Then the tightening stopped and Monica straddled Emma, sitting down
and grabbing the mane of black hair.  In a very short time Monica had plaited it
into a single short rope, intertwined with a length of sashcord so the latter
became an extension of Emma's hair.  It was then threaded backwards through the
eyebolt at the rear centre of the tray.

     "Excellent," Monica declared, then with the help of Mary and the two men at
the table, Emma-on-a-Tray was deposited on top of the obligatory wheeled
barbecue that dwelt on the verandah, like in any good Queensland household. 
This in turn was wheeled to the table so that Emma faced the centre, between
Roger and Monica.  Monica was delighted. 

     "You look real cute, Emma.  Just like a little piggy wiggy, except for one
thing - piggy wiggys don't have tape over their mouths.  Monica ducked into the
kitchen and returned with something yellow in her hand.  She ripped the tape off
Emma's mouth none too gently, giving the girl only time for a brief squeal
before Monica pulled hard on the cord braided into Emma's hair.  Her head was
jerked back, causing Emma to cry out with pain.  As her mouth opened
involuntarily to it's fullest extent, Monica jammed the large thick-skinned
lemon in place, allowing just enough slack for Emma's teeth to bury themselves
in the yellow peel before the cord was tied off, holding the girl's head in the
strained upright position.

     Emma still wore the nipple clamps, but her breasts were now crushed hard
against her thighs and any access to her nipples by others was out of the
question.  Perhaps she was grateful for this, but thinking such positive
thoughts is surely difficult in the face of such adversity, and Emma was clearly
not following that path.  Mary and Monica tried rocking their captive then
tightened the ratchets still further while Emma moaned in misery and let further
tears trickle down over the lemon.

     "Don't they stick other vegetables in such display animals?" Roger
suggested ingenuously.

     "You're absolutely right," said Monica, and again vanished into the
kitchen, reappearing with a large zucchini.  This was lubricated with the red
wine sauce and none to gently inserted into Emma's rear orifice after the crotch
rope had been first loosened then tightened to hold the offending vegetarian
intruder in place, half in and half out of Emma's rear.

     "Cheers!" said Monica, and the four around the table clinked glasses. 
"Adaptability and flexibility - I'm adaptable, Emma's flexible!"

    

     The lunch was a long one.  Leila completed the serving of it with
predictable trepidation, lest she end up also as a bound and gagged centrepiece. 
Monica decided at one stage that Emma needed further adornment, just to keep her
attention, and the bound girl was duly annointed firstly with ice cream from the
back of her neck down the junction of her pinioned arms and ending at the top of
her tautly folded buttocks.  Closely following the ice cream along the same
route came the sticky toffee sauce, several generous spoonfuls of which were
ladled over Emma's hair.  The ice cream melted slowly and ran down Emma's
flanks, mingling with the toffee sauce into a gooey pool in the plastic-lined
tray.  Not long after the application of the sauce somebody evidently decided
Emma needed a change of scenery, and they carried her down to a point under a
large gum tree near the pool.  I did not at first see the relevance of this
exercise until half an hour later, when, despite the tightness of her bonds Emma
managed to squirm some more, possibly creating some lubrication against the
restraining straps now sodden with sauce and ice cream.  I was passing on my way
to my room, trying not to look at Emma, but I couldn't help it.  She was clearly
distressed, moaning and chewing into the lemon which was now somewhat the worse
for wear.  Her eyes were screwed up and she mewed plaintively and desperately
for help.  Something was clearly wrong.  I moved closer and to my horror saw
ants swarming all over her body.

     I guess it was at that point that something snapped in my mind as far as
Monica was concerned.  I decided, as I released Emma's straps, heedless of the
looks from Monica on the verandah, that it was time Monica was taught a lesson. 
Emma could not stand, for the circulation in her legs had been severely
restricted.  I undid the terrible cords and the nipple clamps that still
remained in place, and carried her over to the garden hose used to fill the
pool.  Here I hosed her down as best I could, getting rid of most of the ants,
but the toffee sauce was a different matter.  Emma was leaning against a tree
for support, and I was obliged to carry her again, this time to her room, where
I turned on the shower and listened to her little cries of pain as the
circulation was slowly restored and normality returned.

     I still had to face Monica, but that would be another battle, and I did not
intend to even start the opening salvoes until she had calmed down from her no
doubt current state of annoyance and desire to have my guts for garters.

    

     I went downstairs later that afternoon and talked with Trish, who was on
duty in the Observation Room.  My good friend Christina, Slave to Warren and
devoted bondagee, had been returned to the Bilboes fold and was now suffering in
silence in under the professional supervision of Trish.   She looked as lovely
as ever, bound tightly as she was to one of the posts in the Post Room, although
of course she couldn't see me through the one way mirror.  She had been lashed
to the post with coils of sashcord about her waist and criss-crossing between
her breasts and over her shoulders.  She was naked except for a pair of white
knee-length boots and a matching white ball gag on a white strap.  It was all in
the best possible taste.  She had obviously been bound to the post while
standing against it, and once her torso had been immovably secured, with her
hands crossed and tied behind her, further loops of the cord had been placed
around her ankles and these had been pulled off the floor behind her and tied
off to an eye bolt sticking out of the back of the post.  She was thus hanging
from the post, mainly through the friction between her torso and the post
itself, solely through the tightness of the ropes about her waist and shoulders. 
Someone had then positioned one of our dildoes on an extendable shaft under her
pussy, with just enough intruding to make her horny as hell but not enough to
let her get off.  She was clearly not pleased with the situation, tossing her
blonde hair and making plaintive grunts of frustration.  On her nipples white
plastic clothes pegs stuck out jauntily - one on the tip of each and four more
in an artistic circle around the areola.

     Her playmate in the room was another blonde with long hair plaited into a
single braid.  In contrast to Christina, Lisa - for that was her name - wore
black.  She was kneeling on a platform that Trish and I had designed and built. 
It was on rollers, about knee-high and around a metre and a half square.  It was
heavily padded with vinyl and sported a nice selection of rings and cleats
around the perimeter for any desired anchorage.  Slightly off-centre was a
tee-shaped bar made of 50 millimetre pipe.  It was adjustable so that the
cross-bar could be from half a metre to a metre above the platform.  The cross
bar was a metre long - ideal for draping elbows, waists or knees over it and
securing them in any desired position.

     Lisa was tall and very attractive, with a cute nose and big brown eyes.  I
had encountered her previously, but her head had been encased in a leather hood
at the time. In her latest situation, the rest of her face was covered with
black duct tape criss-crossing her mouth.  She wore a black corset that
constricted her waist from hip to the underside of her breasts, which were full
and heavy.  Black strappy high heels adorned her feet while her arms were
confined by a leather arm sheath that ran from fingertips almost to her
shoulders, where straps looped around under each armpit.  Lisa was kneeling on
the platform with her back to the cross bar.  Her sheathed arms were hooked over
the bar, which reached to the underside of her shoulder blades and the ring on
the bottom of the leather sheath had been secured to the base of the vertical
bar.  This position would have probably been tolerable, except that Lisa's
ankles had been strapped to her thighs, meaning that much of her weight was
being carried on the points of her knees.  As if this was not bad enough, a rope
tethering each knee to a front corner of the platform pulled her legs apart and
forward, forcing her to lean backwards and carry her weight on her arms hooked
on the bar.  This posture was further reinforced by a rope looped around her
waist, knotted behind her, then pulled between her legs and out the front, from
which point it went out and up over a ceiling pulley, before descending to a
bucket near the floor.  The bucket was half full of water, no doubt creating a
somewhat yielding but continuous taut pressure right through Lisa's crotch.  Not
that Lisa was really in a position to see this, since the long braid of her hair
had been secured to the base of the vertical bar at the same point as the arm
sheath, pulling her head back and obliging her to study the ceiling. 
Predictably the final ornaments to this complex picture were the two nipple
clamps joined with a silver chain, from which dangled a lead weight the size of
a walnut.

     "Two works of art," I commented to Trish, who looked up from a book she was
reading.

     She smiled.  "Good, aren't they.  They just can't get enough, these little
bondage sluts."

     "Some can," I corrected her.  "Emma had a hard time with Monica this
afternoon."

     Trish looked concerned.  "How hard?" she asked.  I told her.

     "Something really has to be done about Monica," I said.  "She needs to be
taken down a peg - to get her humanity back."

     "Did you have something in mind?"

     "Maybe.  But I can't tell you.  'Need to know', my dear," I said, tapping
the side of my nose.  "Don't want you giving away secrets under torture."

    

     I locked myself in the Machine Room for the rest of the afternoon, emerging
at dusk for some fresh air.  This I did by taking a drive to the Cannon Hill car
park.  It was dark by the time I got there, and the pickup was gone.  Wayne
Bennelli was back in the real world with possibly some explaining to do about
his absence and his appearance, although whether such explanations would be to
his boss, his girl friend, his boy friends or what, I didn't know, nor did I
care.

    

     For the next few days I beavered away on my rack.  It had grown into a bit
of a monster, physically.  Imagine a frame the size of a king-sized bed, now
stretch it a bit lengthwise, now make it into a four-poster to ceiling height. 
Central within the overall frame was a padded vinyl rack, under a metre wide but
two and a half metres long - long enough to stretch out on comfortably, I
thought.  At the end of this were two more padded platforms, ideal for kneeling
on.  The whole frame was designed to have four people spreadeagled around the
perimeter frame with a fifth on the rack in the middle - or at least variations
on those themes.  Most importantly it should not flex or sway - I wanted
something rock solid that would prove immovable against all desperate attempts
to escape.  This was in fact easily done by fixing four posts from the concrete
floor to the underside of the floor joists above.

     While all this was going on, I had gradually made peace with Monica, and
had convinced her that a photo shoot for the opening of the Rack was in order -
a thought that Monica seemed to quite take to.  This was not surprising, given
the one-sided nature of the dungeon shoot and the obvious success of that. 
Little did she know Steven had other plans for this particular photo session.

     I had agreed with her that the girls were to be sent down at ten minute
intervals wearing the usual collection of exotic outfits.  Each girl would be
secured in place with the one on the rack itself being the last.  This of course
meant that the first victim would be in place considerably longer than number
five, but in the big scheme of Steven's Masterplan I did not see this as
significant, for they were all going to be there quite a while.  I had also
prevailed on Leila to lend me her video camera, which I set up on a tripod to
record the events as they unfolded.  It had not been difficult to convince
Monica that there were video marketing opportunities here.

    

     And so it was that the morning began with the appearance of Emma - she of
the silky black hair and heavy breasts.  She entered the room and gaped at the
coils of rope, lengths of chain, sets of cuffs and piles of padlocks that were
laid out on the floor.  Multiply five bodies by four cuffs and padlocks and you
start to accumulate some hardware.  This was before we even got to inserts for
mouths and other orifices which might or might not get locked in place.

     "You must be expecting a party," she said.  "Is there a bus load coming?"

     "A house load, my dear," I told her, "and you are the lucky first to try
out Steven's new rack and to learn the terrors it holds to all who cross this
threshold."  She laughed.  "You could at least try to be a little bit more
apprehensive,' I grumbled without conviction.  "A lot of work has gone into
this, you know."

     "I can see that.  But I really think I'm going to enjoy this, not go
running back to Monica."

     "You may be right - the latter is definitely more terrifying.  Now come
over here and try on these darling cuffs."

     Emma wore a local cheerleader outfit - a short maroon pleated skirt and a
silvery white lycra crop top, which did nothing to disguise her lovely tits. 
The outfit was finished off with white high heels and she wore her hair in
pigtails.  She looked considerably more cheerful than when I had last had a
close encounter with her.  I felt there was now a bond of trust between us,
which made me feel pretty good - I guess I'm just a bit old fashioned like that. 
Emma would have pride of place - at least to start with - on the long side of
the rack furthest from the door. 

     It did not take me long to fit leather cuffs to Emma's ankles and wrists
and to lock these in place.  A metre long heavy chain linked both ankle cuffs
once Emma's legs were spread.  This was not so much for immediate purposes as
for the longer term - for reasons which will become plainer in time, dear
reader.  I looped some sashcord through the D-rings on the cuffs and ran it
through eye-bolts on the base timber, before running the cords vertically and
tying them off at head height.  There was again reason for this, which will
likewise become apparent.  Emma's legs were now firmly held apart and unable to
move either in or out.  I locked her wrist cuffs together and told her to raise
her hands above her head.  Her position, on the far side of the rack, faced the
door.  Just above head height a horizontal length of 5 centimetre galvanised
pipe spanned between the main posts on all four sides.  Conveniently, this was
just at raised elbow height for Emma's arms.  I looped a further piece of
sashcord through the lock joining her cuffs and pulled her wrists back over the
pipe, letting her twist them as they descended behind her shoulders.  Here they
stopped, and from that point I ran the rope down her back, slipping it inside
the band of her skirt and running it between her legs to the front.  Predictably
Emma wore nothing underneath, and predictably my hand lingered.  Even more
predictably Emma wriggled and began to make soft moaning noises, before I pulled
my questing fingers away.  Half a minute later two knots were nestling against
her pussy under the skirt and the top ends of the rope emerged to wrap around
her waist and get tied at the front.

     "You can wipe that smile off your face, Emma Cheng," said a voice, totally
devoid of any malice and perhaps even suggesting a hint of jealousy.  It was
Jillian, shutting the heavy door behind her. 

     "I want what she's got!" Jill demanded with the earnestness of a
six-year-old and a demure look I found utterly enchanting.  Jillian wore a white
PVC leotard which ran from a high Chinese-style collar in a narrow strip down
between her breasts before encircling her body in a shapely wrap.  Suspenders
held glistening white stockings that ran down her wonderful legs to end in
elegant white strappy high heels.  Once I'd regained my composure, which wasn't
always easy, given some of the outfits these girls possessed, I decided I'd
brook no nonsense from Jillian.

     "You'll get what's coming to you, young missy," I told her sternly.

     "And like it, too?" she asked coyly.

     "Maybe," I reluctantly agreed.  "But maybe not.  This is Steven's Chamber
of Horror, after all.  It's not Mrs Do-Kindly's house of pleasure, you know. 
Don't try my patience.  You'll soon be in a position where you're helpless in my
clutches!"

     "Oh goody.  Can we start now?"

     Jill was going to do pretty well out of this, since she would end up in a
similar position to Emma, opposite her.  It did not take long to secure her
ankles identically to Emma's, and to have her cuffed wrists tied vertically to
the overhead beam.  Again I tied a double cord about Jill's waist, ran it down
the back between her legs and passed it under the long bench to Emma's side. 
Here I attached it to the cord running down from Emma's waist under her skirt,
pulling it tight but not too tight.  The girls commented on this.

     "Hey, dungeon master, these ropes are a bit loose," said Jill, weaving
around within her points of restraint.

     "Does that mean you can escape?" I asked, taunting her.

     "Well... no, but you're a bit slacker than usual," she said.

     "Only fools and children comment on a half-finished job," I told her. 
Suitably chastised she dropped her eyes and tugged experimentally with a
backward thrust of her hips against the rope between her legs.  She got a
response from Emma with a soft squeak.

     "Oi, none of that or you'll get a whipping you hadn't bargained for!" I
told them sternly, just as Leila appeared in the doorway, camera in hand.

     Leila looked drop-dead gorgeous, dressed not unlike the last photo-shoot in
the dungeon.  Red was definitely her colour, and to this end she wore the same
red latex mini dress that came almost halfway down her thighs.  It had a halter
neck and an open laced panel between her breasts, the locations of which were
confirmed by cut-outs the diameter of tennis balls over her nipples.  She wore
white stay-up stockings, the tops of which occasionally peeked from the hem of
her dress, with the lower extremities of her legs encased in very stylish
knee-length front lacing leather boots, sporting four-inch heels.  Not content
with this, she had rounded off the outfit with thin red latex gloves that
stretched to above her elbows.  Not surprisingly, everything she wore concealed
nothing, instead outlining every curve and fibre of her body.

     "You can put that camera over there," I told her.  "I'm doing the shooting
today."  Leila looked disappointed but did as I commanded. 

     When I had regained my momentary loss of thought patterns, I soon had her
kneeling on the right hand platform at a little below waist level.  This was the
foot of the rack itself, pride of place on which I had reserved for Mary.  Leila
was soon secured not unlike Jillian, her wrists cuffed and locked together, and
hoisted high above her, the rope looping between the cuffs and over the
galvanised pipe spanning between corner posts, from where it was tied to a
length of chain that dropped to the base of the rack frame to be padlocked to an
eyebolt.  She was kneeling extended in this position, that is to say not sitting
back on her haunches.  I locked cuffs on her ankles over the fine red leather of
her boots, linking them with a short hobble chain and then tying the ankles to
the edges of the platform.

     "Everybody looks very comfortable in here," came Trish's voice from the
doorway as I finished securing Leila.

     "We are, aren't we girls?" I said.  A chorus of assent came from the three
females in various states of restraint on the rack.  "Why not join the fun?"

     Trish sauntered into the room as though she owned the place, looking
stunning in a pale blue and white striped corset stretching from hip to the
underside of her breasts.  This was complimented by white PVC thigh boots
straight out of "Pretty Woman".  In short, she looked every inch the archtype
hooker in the first stage of undress.  She smiled at me mockingly.

     "What's the matter? Never seen a lady in a corset before?"

     How did I get a job like this? I wondered.

     "Sure," I said off handedly, but I'm sure I blushed.  "Up on the platform
please Miss.  Assume the position!"

     "And what position would that be, sir?"

     "Cross-legged and wrists in front."

     "Okay.  Like this?  What's this hole in the platform for?  Its right
where... oh.  I think I see."

     "If you don't now, you soon will," I murmured.

     "Is that a promise?" She smiled wickedly at me.  I grinned back as I
strapped the cuffs around her wrists and locked them on, then joined them with a
further padlock.  The locks shut with the crisp click of well-oiled devices. 
More cuffs on her ankles with a short hobblechain, then I tied them crossed
together with several turns of cord.  Another piece of cord through the wrist
locks and Trish's wrists were hauled up and backwards over the bar above her,
then were pulled down behind her shoulders in the same manner as Emma.  Like
Emma's configuration, I ran the rope underneath Trish between her legs, pausing
to tie a couple of strategic knots in the front before wrapping it around her
waist and tying it off.  She looked on approvingly.

     "Nice."

     "Comfy?"

     "Sure."

     "We'll see how long that lasts," I told her ominously, leering at her.

     Predictably Mary arrived late.

     "Is this where the party is?" she asked archly, eyeing the four girls bound
to the framework in the centre of the room.  I ignored her lateness.  The last
thing I wanted now was any disagreement.

     "It is, Mary, and you're the guest of honour, of course - the piece de
resistance, so to speak.  We've saved you pride of place on the table."

     Mary strode imperiously into the room and circled the rack, observing the
four figures in their restraints.  She wore a black leather miniskirt and a
matching halter top with nipple cut-outs and a few lightweight chains scattered
for effect.  Further effects were created by her black knee-length boots and
gloves which ran to above her elbows.

     "This bondage is a bit slack isn't it?" she said disdainfully, tugging at
the cord running from Jill's overhead pulley through her legs to Emma's crotch. 
Both girls caught their breath.  "Look at all the slack!"

     "I'll try to do better, Mary," I said humbly.  "I'll take your advice.
Would you mind lying down on the table?"

     She did so without a second's hesitation, and was shortly cuffed at wrist
and ankle like the others.  I only had four cuffs left - I had had to virtually
clean out the store room for this exercise, as well as making a bulk purchase of
about forty small padlocks which were masterkeyed in various ways.  Mary's
ankles were linked with a short hobble chain, as were her wrists, then I secured
the ankle cuffs to the foot of the frame.  I was glad Mary was wearing boots and
gloves, as I had requested of Monica, since this would provide adequate
protection to the wrists and ankles in addition to that through the use of the
cuffs. It did not take me long to secure her wrists with further ropes.  These
ran through pulleys at the head of the frame back to a horizontal shaft between
the two posts at the foot, beneath where Leila was tethered.  On each end of the
shaft was a steering wheel I had obtained from a used car yard, and a simple
ratchet system for tightening the victims ropes.  The use of the pullies made it
twice as easy to apply some load to the victim with less input to the wheels.

     "Are we ready, yet?"  It was Monica, wearing what I had asked of her - a
shiny silver catsuit made of heavy rubber.  I had seen Trish wear it once and
for reasons which will become clear had asked Monica to wear it this time,
ostensibly for variety in the photo shoot.  She also wore black leather gloves
that overlapped the rubber sleeves a short way and outlined her hands against
the silver fabric in a strikingly erotic way.  As usual she wore her favourite
black stilettos, adding to her height and imperious stature.

     "Just getting to the interesting part, Mon," I said.  "You need to
understand how this thing works, and I want all of the rest of you to pay
attention as well." There was no disguising the looks of interest on their faces
as I explained how it operated.

     "It's all pretty simple, but you have to remember that you can put plenty
of tension on through the pulleys, but can easily let it off by removing this
ratchet here."  I turned the wheel a couple of times to take out the slack. 
Mary wriggled to spread the load as her arms and legs straightened.  "I think we
should look at a couple of refinements available with this system, too," I said. 
Mary made a disparaging remark under her breath that I did not quite catch, so I
said to Monica:  "Could you please quieten the lady, Mon?" 

     Ever obliging Monica selected a large but soft rubber ball and forced it
into Mary's mouth.  Rather than use a standard ball gag, the ever inventive
Monica then took a strap and wrapped it around Mary's upper arms, behind her
head and across her mouth, thus trapping her arms on either side of her head, as
well as securing the ball in place.  I had to admire Monica sometimes.  Mary now
would even have difficulty shaking her head. 

     I turned the wheel a bit further, listening for two clicks on the ratchet. 
Mary's body was now dead straight with her arms and legs stretched taut.

     "I recall one of my earliest lessons here," I told my wrapt audience.  "It
was Mary telling us about how and when nipple clamps should be placed."  I
produced a handful of plastic clothes pegs - the type with a curved rather than
a flat contact face, and proceeded to place four around each of Mary's nipples,
in the points of the compass, with one on each now-hard tip.  Mary's composure
was starting to go.  Her eyes seemed to grow wide in protest with the placement
of each peg and she began to make little whining sounds.

     "One feature of this rack is that it is hinged in the middle, at the waist. 
If we turn this little wheel here, there is a jack underneath that will elevate
the middle hinged point.  You have to be very careful, since we do not want any
broken backs.  Really not good for business.  But good, of course, for
stretching the torso and making the skin tighten in all points to the front, as
we see now."  I had raised the hinged piece by perhaps six centimetres, and
Mary's ribs were starting to become outlined as her waist was lifted. 
Predictably the flesh tightened around her breasts and her whining went up a
notch.  Her breath began to come in rapid pants as I gave the wheel another
couple of turns.

     "Tight enough for you now, Mary?" I asked innocently.  Mary's breathing was
punctuated by a high nasal moaning and her eyes were large and pleading.  "What
do you think, Mon?"

     "Impressive," said Monica, with - I think - genuine admiration.  I took the
camera and began to get some shots of Mary, with Monica standing over her
dominating the frame and holding on to the main wheel.  Monica could not resist
giving each wheel a further twist, which sent Mary into new pleadings.  Monica's
response was to flick and tug the clothes pegs while whispering God knew what in
Mary's ear.  There was no need to coach any acting out of the victim - the fear
on her face was pretty genuine.  Such theories about not harming employees who
made the money were clearly forgotten in the literal stress of the moment.

     After some ten minutes of directing shots, both with full floodlights on
and in a more gloomy dungeon-like surround, I eased off the centre wheel and let
Mary down to an even keel again.  She was still breathing as though she had done
a hundred metre dash.  I suggested Monica should remove the pegs at this point,
which she did to the accompaniment of squeals muffled by the rubber ball as the
no doubt painful experience of returning bloodflow came about.

     "Now for the full show," I told the assembly. I handed Monica four ball
gags and asked her to fit them to the remaining ungagged mouths, hers and mine
excluded, of course.  She did this with purpose, with each girl obediently
opening wide for the rubber ball to be inserted and buckled behind the neck.

     In the meantime I eased the main ropes on Mary's arms and tied a doubled-up
piece of sashcord around her waist, then led it from the back, under her leather
skirt and between her legs, coming up the front and emerging above the top of
the leather waistband to slip under the waist loop of cord.  Here I tied it,
then, standing on the platform I pulled a cord and hook down from where it hung
over a pulley in the centre of the upper frame.  This I hooked on Mary's waist
rope.  Not wanting a lot or argument about this, I removed Mary's strap around
her arms and pulled the soaking ball free, to jam another in place before she
could draw breath to protest.  This ballgag was of the regular type and buckled
tightly behind her head.

     That done, I undid the rest of the ropes on her ankles and wrist cuffs,
barely giving her a moment to react before I hauled on the pulley and heaved her
torso into the air.  Mary scrabbled about frantically, pulling her legs up to
support some weight on her feet and - after momentarily ending up on her elbows
with her wrists behind her, she stretched her arms out vertically beneath her,
the linking chain stretching taut across the vinyl padding as her fingers
splayed out to take her weight.  Her body was now horizontal, some half a metre
above the bench, her arms and lower legs like four columns in support, while her
head fell back as she cried plaintively into the gag.

     "Even more impressive," said Monica as I reached for the camera again.

    

     There was no doubt about Monica's acting ability - she was a born poser -
pouting and snarling at the helpless girls.  Every so often I would position her
limbs - moving an arm or shifting her closer to her victim then snapping away. 
After some minutes I pulled her aside.

     "I think we should spice things up a little," I said, and I explained to
her what I wanted.  Monica never blinked an eye and moved across to a table in
the corner where I had laid out five "devices" - as I was told they were called
by the Brisbane vice squad.  Monica selected the first, and largest.  It was the
seven centimetre rubber dildo in engorged pink, which Jillian had encountered in
the dungeon photo shoot.

     "Who would like this?"  She fixed each candidate with a baleful stare.
"Maybe we should leave it until last.  Meanwhile, Emma - you're always the horny
one - we should fix you up first."  Monica picked up a tube of lubricant that
came with a long nozzle of the kind you get in hardware stores for injecting
sealant.  A squirt of lubricant went up all the orifices on the rack - front and
back.  I had no intention of any anal insertion, but of course the girls didn't
know that.

     Monica dealt with Emma first - a broad chromed dildo worked into her pussy
and held there by the crotch rope.  Mary followed, with a fat black model with
all manner of ribbings and protruding nubs.  Trish and Jill both got the shaft -
my extendable pipe on the steel base.  I had specifically brought these to the
rack room for this purpose, and had indicated the intention to Monica.  The
crotch ropes were superfluous in these cases, since the long chromed vibrators
penetrated between each pair of ropes.  I watched as Monica positioned the dildo
between Jill's legs and twisted it up inside her.  Her hands tightened and she
pulled on the overhead ropes, lifting herself on to tiptoes as the invader moved
upward inside her.  Her breath came in little shuddering gasps before Monica
stopped and the helpless Jillian slowly lowered herself on the silver prong. 
All the time I kept clicking away, alternating now with the video camera,
getting some excellent action shots of faces and insertions.

     Trish also got a silver dong on the shaft - this one protruding up through
a hole in the platform.  Trish wriggled and squirmed as the invader penetrated
her pussy, oblivious to my in-your-face camera technique.  As Monica finished
with Trish and turned to the last girl, Leila, the camera caught the widening of
her eyes as she realised that the big dildo was destined for her.  Monica picked
it up and approached her with just the right of menace.  I got it all as she
positioned the big vibrator on the specially-adapted car jack, and located this
between Leila's spread knees on the platform.  Leila tried to squat down on her
haunches but could get nowhere near that position, and in any case it would have
achieved Monica's goal had she succeeded.

     "Would you like it up the bum instead, little Leila?" Monica hissed in
Leila's ear.  Leila, a genuine look of alarm on her face shook her head
desperately.  "Then you'd better behave, hadn't you."  Leila nodded feigning
enthusiasm as Monica began jacking the device upward beneath the tight red
dress.  There was much squirming as the head of the dildo penetrated Leila.  Her
whole body tightened and her fists clenched in the cuffs overhead as she
struggled to cope with the intruder.  Her cheeks coloured and she began to pant
rapidly through her nose, closing her eyes and moaning into the ballgag.  Just
when I was about to tell Monica to stop, she did so, smiling archly at me.

     The next step of the set-up was the installation of the nipple torture.  I
pulled Monica aside again and whispered to her, then I stepped back for a wide
shot of the bound team when Monica, a handful of clinking nipple clamps raised
high, announced the next stage to the awaiting audience.  There was a chorus of
gagged groans from the victims. 

     I climbed on to the main platform, standing above the helpless and strained
Mary who looked up at me with plaintive eyes - quite a change coming from her -
or was I just misreading things?  Above her I suspended a horizontal wire ring,
perhaps the diameter of a basketball - a bit like those ones that form the frame
for a lampshade.  Monica meanwhile had fastened a nipple clamp on the right tits
of Leila and Trish.  Attached to each clamp was a long piece of twine, which
Monica handed to me.  I passed each through the wire ring and handed them back
to Monica, who tied one end to Leila's second clamp now affixed to her left
nipple.  The second twine was looped through the clamp on Trish's left breast,
and was then in a position for adjustment.  Pulling on this twine - which passed
through the ring and back to the Trish's right clamp - produced an even strain
on each nipple, but pulled on the ring and produced an opposite strain on both
Leila's clamps.  Monica, who at once had grasped the capacity for the system,
and who had also seen my deliberate slackness in the ropes, now used the
leverage to it's full effect.

     "Come on, come on," she said impatiently. "Lean forward - there's lots of
slack there - stick those tits out!"  Trish and Leila whined as one, but
obediently pushed their bodies forward to counter the pull of the clamps. 
Monica tied off the twine on Trish's clamp and together we repeated the process
on both Emma and Jillian, keeping the tension on both.  Mary was the final one,
with her twine going over the centre bar of the wire ring.

     "Absolutely first class," Monica said admiringly.  "You really do have a
talent for this sort of thing."

     "Thank you," I said modestly.  "I'd like to do some more stills with you -
something a bit more arty.  I handed her a riding crop.  "Use your imagination
while I use mine."

     I followed her around the frame, as she let fly periodically at exposed
rumps.  Every so often I would stop her and position her against the backdrop of
the rack before getting further shot.  Leila had brought lots of rolls of film
and I realised I was thoroughly enjoying myself, although I confess I was mighty
tense about what was to come, having plotted it for so long.

     "Okay Mon.  I want you to stand here facing the rack.  Put you hands behind
you and hold the crop horizontally.  I want a couple of shots from behind you,
with the crop the focus.  Monica, by now accustomed to my positioning and
handling of her limbs let herself be positioned.  I stood behind her while she
held the crop, her hands just touching as they gripped it.  She had no time to
react as I clicked the set of handcuffs around her exposed wrists.  They fitted
perfectly, snapping closed over her leather-encased wrists with a smooth
rachetting series of clicks

    

     "What the hell's this all about?"  Monica demanded, turning on me
furiously.

     I said nothing but pushed her against the wall, fishing in my pocket for
the chain with the silver crocodile clips on them.  Ignoring her protests I
pushed my fingers into the vertical slits in the rubber suit where I knew her
nipples to be and teased them out through the openings.  They were hard and
resistant.

     "Steven! Don't you dare put those things on me!  Don't you -ow! Shit that
hurts! Take it off this instant!  Leave that other one -ow-owow! Arghh! Shit
Steven!  You bastard!  Take the fucking things off now!"

     Still I said nothing, ignoring her hot breath in my face.  From my other
pocket I pulled the foam rubber ball that Mary had been gagged with in the
course of her initial stretching on the rack.  It was relatively soft, but also
very resilient and larger than the harder ball gags we used.  A yank on the
nipple chain caused Monica to open her mouth sufficiently for me to make a start
on locating the ball there, and with a couple more yanks I succeeded in working
the ball wholly inside her mouth.  I knew it was actually big enough to stay
there of it's own accord once inside.  The victim could close his or her mouth
fully, only to have it spring open the moment the pressure was eased, and the
ball expanded sufficiently to make it impossible to force out with the tongue
alone.  All in all it was pretty effective.  Suffice to say, Monica shut up
immediately, although if looks could kill I would have died an agonising death
there and then.

     I pulled her across to the only support post in the room, located as it was
a couple of metres to the rear of the rack, behind where Emma stood.  Here I
forced Monica to her knees and looped a chain around her neck, locking it to a
protruding eyebolt.

     "Ladies - and Monica - I suppose I should tell you what is in store for you
today - and tomorrow - and the next day.  I will.  Soon.  The first thing that
will happen is that Monica will make a series of apologies to you for various
instances of humiliation she has inflicted on you in recent times.  She will
have a short while to think about this while I have a break.  This might help
focus her mind a little."  I moved across to Monica's kneeling figure and hung a
walnut-sized lead weight on the short chain joining the two nipple clamps. 
Monica winced and moaned into the rubber ball.  "And since I don't want you
reaching round and removing that, Mon, your hands need a little further
restraint..."  With these words I slipped a rope around the link on the
handcuffs and dragged it between her legs, stretching it taut across to the
rack.

     "Please excuse me for a moment, Emma," I said deferentially, slipping my
hand under her skirt and tying Monica's rope to the crotch rope emerging from
between Emma's buttocks.  "Now you can all play together," I told her, patting
her gently on the shoulder as one might do with a small child.

      "As for the rest of the day, ladies, I'm debating whether to go to the
movies leaving you to your own devices - if you pardon the pun - or whether to
invite Warren and Roger over to play with you."  I watched the looks of
amazement and dismay appear on some of the faces, not the least being that on
Monica's.  "Or both, perhaps.  I think the toss of a coin should solve this
quandary."   I pulled a fifty cent piece from my pocket and tossed it, letting
it land on the concrete floor with a ring that echoed off the block walls.  I
studied the fall.  "Hmmm.  Okay.  See you all later."  I turned and left the
room, heedless of all the sudden mmphing and jiggling from the figures on the
rack and the brief rattle of handcuffs from the woman chained by the neck.

    

     A week or so previously Monica had bought some leather trousers for me -
all part of the long term plan, it seemed, to have me more involved in the
'active' side of the business.  I had deliberately refrained from wearing them
until my plans for this event came to fruition.  I had decided that if she was
looking for a more dominant Steven, who better than to be the judge first time
out than Monica Armstrong.  Accordingly, dressed in my new leather strides, my
black boots and leather vest, I returned to the fray some fifteen minutes later. 
I had opted to wear a leather hood, complete with zipped mouth opening, for
effect.  I was sure it would fool nobody once I opened my mouth, but hey, mind
games was what this was all about.

     I toyed with changing my voice, and decided that there was no way I would
fool anyone, whether a strange Scotsman, Brummie or Canadian turned up to deal
with the girls.  All of these accents I could do, but not such that it would
deceive this lot, given Steven's departure so soon beforehand.  Notwithstanding
all of this, I thought it was appropriate that there be at least a little role
play, and I decided to revert to my alter ego of previously - the East Ender who
had wrought such suffering on poor Isobel.

    

     "'Ullo girls," I said, upon entering the Rack Room again.  I stood and
surveyed the faces turned towards me, eyes wide over the gagged mouths,
wondering what was to happen next.  "Well, well, well.  Wot a delightful little
play-group.  Must be my lucky day.  All me Christmases come at once.  I wonder
if I can make you girls do the same..."

     I walked slowly around the five females strung out on the rack, eyeing them
up and down and letting the silence have its effect, broken as it was only by
the clicking of my steel-capped heels on the concrete and the heavy breathing of
the prisoners, punctuated occasionally with a barely suppressed whimper.  I
circled the kneeling Monica, flicking at the lead weight hanging between her
breasts and watching as she screwed up her eyes with the pain while her breath
came in ragged gasps.  I twitched the rope between her legs which was attached
to Emma, and smiled to myself as both of them jerked and wriggled.  I returned
to the rack and gazed down at Mary.  I hoped they were all feeling like a class
whose members were about to be singled out by a teacher for some very unpleasant
punishment.  Certainly, nobody wanted to make eye contact.

     "You - in the middle!  You comfy?"

     Mary gazed up at me from where she strained against the rope holding her up
around the waist.  Her head hung backwards and her arms quivered with the first
signs of straining to keep the weight of her body off the waist rope and to
reduce the upward pull on her nipples.  She shook her head emphatically.

     "Uh-un!" came the grunt from behind her rubber ball.  I stood beside Emma
and let my fingers rove over Mary's tautly stretched body.  Her black leather
mini skirt was stretched tight across her thighs as my hand slid gently beneath
it, dallying along the smooth skin of her inner thighs.  She tried to close her
legs, but obviously decided it was a more stable position with them spread
apart.  As I groped gently around her crotch, I found what I was looking for - a
small trailing wire ending in a little plug only a centimetre long.  I gave it a
slight tug and displayed the loose end where it protruded beyond the hem of the
skirt to the watchers all around me. 

     "See this, girls?"  Even Mary managed to lift her head long enough to look
down the length of her body to where I held the end of the red wire.  "You've
all got one exactly like it 'angin' out of those devices you're wearing.  All
except the stroppy bitch chained to the post, that is.  She'll get somefing much
more devious and infinitely longer lasting," I added meaningfully.  "No, this
wire will be attached to a power supply through a small transformer beneath this
table, which will in turn be connected to a little black box - to use a
technical term - which will be linked to a microphone.  In short, wot you lot
can look forward to are a random series of activations of your devices.  Over
and above that, if you start getting' too carried away and makin' too much
noise, all the fings come on at once and will stay on for five minutes on full
power.  Then everyfing gets reset and we start off all over again.  And of
course this will go on for hours, until you get freed.  But that's another
story.  In the meantime I thort this one 'ere could at least demonstrate 'ow
these fings work..."  I looked at Mary who rolled her eyes and shook her head,
making plaintive grunts. 

     "Not too much of the snorting, luv," I cautioned her, "unless you want to
go crazy.  This rack fing needs to be tested, of course, an' I'm sure all of you
girls pullin' different ways will give it a good trial."  I reached under the
bench and selected a matching plug from the small electronic box screwed to the
base of the frame.  I pulled the end of the plug and wire up to meet with the
end trailing from between Mary's legs and pushed the two small plugs together.

     Mary jerked as the vibrator started up inside her.  It was on full power
already, and the microphone control was not yet operating.  I intended for Mary
to give a short demonstration while I got the rest of them ready.

     "While this one is doin' the bump and grind," I said, addressing the
others, "I fink you should all know 'ow you're goin' to get out of 'ere.  Simply
put, the only way you're going to get out of 'ere, is when little Miss Clever
Clogs over there frees you," I explained, indicating Monica.  She glowered back
at me.  "Let's fink abaht this for a bit.  'Oo wos it that did up those balls in
yor mouths so tightly, eh?  'Oo wos it put those clips on the real painful end
of yor nips, eh?  Well this same person will get you free as soon as she
possibly can, except that won't be easy.  The fact is, until she gets you free,
she won't be able to get free herself, because she will need you lot to 'unt for
the keys to unlock 'er.  Its called a symbiotic relationship, right?  She
scratches your back, you scratch 'ers - and believe me she is gonna need it.

     "Just so you all understand your circumstances, there are three master keys
wot will undo your bonds.  One will fit the padlocks on those luverly balls
you're all wearin'.  One will fit yor wrists cuffs, and one will fit yor ankle
cuffs.  These three keys will be hidden somewhere in the house and grounds.  As
will be stroppy bitch's keys, except they'll be much harder to find, so she'll
need all the help she can get.  And the only way she can free you is to unlock
the chains at the back of the blonde bird over there - yes, you, darlin'," I
said, nodding at Leila.  Nothing else will be within reach - you'll see the
ropes are tied off suitably 'igh - certainly 'igh enuf for Miss Stuck-up, when
she's properly restrained.  And the key to unlock blondie at the end there will
be on the floor somewhere in this room.  Simple, right?  Except that Miss
Stuck-up will be unable to see what she's doing or hear anything you might tell
her.  Nor, it goes wivout saying, will she be able to 'old any form of
conversation.  Add to that the fact that she won't exactly be fully mobile, and
there are hours of pleasure stretchin' ahead of everyone."  I paused to let the
thought of the possibilities sink in to all those present.

     "But before I start preparing the star of the day," I looked meaningfully
at Monica, "we need to tidy up a few loose ends wiv you lot - namely those
sticking down from your love tunnels, right?"

     It took me but a few moments to connect a further four wires to those plugs
visible below the four splayed crotches.  One by one the recipients jumped and
began to squirm as the vibrations took hold, then to try to restrain themselves
as the tugging on their nipples began, both from their own efforts and from the
effects of the others all transferred through the wire ring.  I taped a
microphone over one of the overhead beams.

     "This, girls, is not yet switched on.  Wot you're getting' at the moment
will be switched on to random soon, and in due course you'll be able to let
yourselves go.  You see wot I'm doin' 'ere?"  I took a piece of twine with one
end embedded in a small lump of ice, and threaded it through the other twine
looping through the wire ring, before connecting it to the ice.  "This is a
replacement for the wire ring here, only done with twine.  It's joined by the
lump of ice, which will melt in due course, freeing the pressure from yor nips." 
I picked up a pair of bolt cutters and cut the wire ring clear.  "Once the ice
melts - maybe in an hour or so - you can rattle and rock to yor 'eart's content,
wivout upsettin' anyone else, and give this 'ere contraction a real good
testin'.  Right?  Any questions?"

     There were a couple of mmmphing sounds and assorted hmming and grunting
noises.

     "Sorry girls, you'll have to speak up - I'm a little 'ard of 'earin'.  No? 
Okay.  Enjoy the vibes while I deal with 'er 'ighness over 'ere."

     I stepped down from the rack frame and admired my handywork.  Already the
five were squirming as much as they could.  Their bodies and legs were stretched
in such a way that they really couldn't get a good purchase to push against
their respective intruders or to grind their hips down.  Complicating matters
was obviously the pain in their nipples with the clamps, and the way these
forced their bodies toward the centre of the frame while their wrists and ankles
pulled them back.  Shit I'm good, I thought.

    

     "Your turn, your 'ighness,"  I told Monica, as I unfastened the rope
linking her to Emma, then with some difficulty prised out the foam rubber ball
from her mouth.  It was dripping with saliva and I deliberately wiped it on her
hair.

     "You bastard," she hissed.  "What are you going to do to me?"

     "All sorts of things," I told her in a low voice.  "Things which will be
even worse if you cause trouble.  But first," I announced in my East End twang,
for the benefit of the assembly, "madam 'ere 'as somefink she wants to say to
yer.  Doancha sweet'eart!"

     "What?" asked Monica sullenly as I undid the chain around the post and
pulled her to her feet with a tug on the nipple chain. "Ow! Shit!"

     "Now come over 'ere and tell this cute Chinese chick 'ow sorry you are for
'umiliating 'er the other day."

     "What?"

     "You 'eard." I tweaked the chain again.

     "Ow!  I-I'm sorry Emma."

     "For what?" I coached.

     "For humiliating you in front of everyone when we strapped you on to the
tray and left you for the ants."

     "That really wasn't nice, was it?" I encouraged.

     "No.  I'm sorry."

     "Okay, who's next?  The lady in red? I hear she went on a ferris wheel ride
and nearly had her nips pulled off..."

     "What?  Bullshit! I was just- aargh! "  I gave Monica a lesson in her own
methods.

     "Like that?" I volunteered.

     "I guess so.  I'm sorry Leila - I didn't mean to hurt you."

     We progressed around the frame, with each bound victim getting an apology
for some humiliating event Monica had put them through.  It seemed she didn't
have to think very hard, especially when I prompted her with "Is that the lot?" 
There were several events of which I clearly knew nothing, that popped out.  I
don't know how much attention the girls were paying, while the vibrators buzzed
away, but the thought was there, anyway.  Whatever, the nipple clips certainly
made Monica pay attention.

     At length the apologies were over, although I realised later that I had
neglected to elicit one for myself.  I doubted I would get the chance again.  I
took her back to the post, where I again chained her by the neck.  Now was the
start of the grand Preparation for Monica that I had planned for in such detail. 
I pulled a tight rubber hood over Monica's head.  It was the sort used by divers
and was made of a smooth silicon rubber which covered all of her head except for
her face. 

     "Open up," I told her. "Pretend yer goin' diving."

     I slipped a diving mouthpiece between her teeth and behind her lips.  It
had been mostly closed off such that it only had a small hole in the centre, to
which was fitted a length of clear plastic tube about half a metre long and with
the internal diameter of a drinking straw.  That, in fact, was the purpose it
was going to serve, for Monica would not be able to take solid foot for at least
a couple of days.  Then out came the silver duct tape and two eye pads.  These I
taped temporarily in place while I inserted two walkman earplugs through small
vertical slits in the rubber hood over her ears.  With the cord trailing down
her back, I then commenced the taping of Monica's head.  The duct tape went
round and round, covering her eyes and ears, then her mouth, all but the rubber
tube.  I was careful not to make it too tight, such that it would induce
headaches or discomfort in pressing the lips hard against the teeth and
mouthpiece.  Then there were some vertical turns, locking the jaw closed.

     Next came a pair of industrial earmuffs and a stiff plastic orthopaedic
collar.  Both these devices were positioned and taped in place.  Monica's senses
were disappearing one by one, and her head was now held rigidly upright, her
silver-taped chin unable to be lowered without an equivalent movement of her
entire torso.

     The piece de resistance for the headgear was the silver motorbike full-face
crash helmet, with the locking plate under the chin. I had removed a section of
the inner compressible lining in the vicinity of each ear, so that the helmet
could slip snugly over the earmuffs.  Monica whined as the helmet was pulled
into place, but there was nothing she could do about it.  I fed the plastic tube
through  a hole I had drilled in the front, around the mouth area, then the
locking plate was secured under the chin and neck brace, with the padlock
snicked and the key in my pocket.

     Monica now looked like something from a comic strip or from outer space. 
But I was not finished with her head yet.  In fact the next two days could be
called 'messing with Monica's head'.  Attached to the back of the helmet was a
small rectangular aluminium box, riveted to the shell with a reinforced plate on
the inside.  It was about the size of a small mobile phone, and in fact this was
what was inside it - Monica's phone, in actuality.  It was to this that I had
connected the cord from the earpieces, such that Monica need miss none of her
incoming calls.  Not that she would be able to answer them, of course.  They
would be recorded on the message bank and she would hear them as they happened,
but of a response there would be no chance.  I knew Monica took all her bookings
over the mobile, and I knew she would absolutely get the heebie jeebies with the
frustration of not being able to contact customers.  I also intended to make a
few calls of my own, masquerading as a customer and perhaps leaving the return
number of the local cop shop or perhaps the city morgue.  I was sure the
appropriate ideas would come to me.  I could also talk to Monica direct, albeit
through leaving messages, and I was confident I could taunt her to total
distraction and frustration.

     But there was more than this.  Monica was always talking on her mobile, to
the point of rudeness sometimes.  I wanted to at least discourage this a bit,
and so I intended linking the ringing tone to the little battery pack that she
would be wearing.  It was to be one of the ones that the Twins had worn when
doing their housework, with Monica standing over them giving them the odd zap. 
The difference would be that each time the phone rang - and it was set to ring
five times before the message bank cut in - Monica would get a zap up the arse
via the buttplug she would be wearing until somebody could remove it. 
Everything was so appropriate, somehow.  Aversion therapy could have such
interesting results.

    

     Having finally done with Monica's head, I turned my attention to her body,
first removing the nipple clips and chain - none to gently, as was her own
style.  She jumped and a faint moan came from under the helmet.  I undid the
neck chain and pulled her to her feet, this time locking the chain to an eyebolt
in the post at neck height. 

     Monica's thick latex catsuit was in a single piece with a zip down the
front, which I undid in a single movement.  I peeled the top part back from her
shoulders as much as I could, which had the effect of further pinioning her arms
behind her back and tightening the material at crotch level.  I pulled a further
wire that protruded from inside the rear of the helmet, down her back, and poked
it through a small incision in the catsuit in the small of her back.  This would
connect to the battery pack.  I threaded another wire in through the same hole. 
This would run from the battery pack to the buttplug that Mistress Monica was
destined to wear until I decided otherwise.  Two more wires followed the same
route through the small hole, but led round the front to small donut-shaped pads
that I glued to Monica's breasts with spirit gum.  They fitted over each nipple,
and were adapted electro-muscular stimulators, which would jive her a little
tingle at the same time as the buttplug.  They would be undetectable under the
rubber, and there would be no way Monica could tell anyone what was going on
when the phone rang.  I taped the wires in place with more duct tape around her
body before giving her suit a light dusting of powder on the inside, pulling it
back into place and zipping it up.  Powder was pretty much the norm with getting
into these outfits, I had been told.  Itching powder was not, however.  But then
I was never one for sticking to protocol.  Sticking my head on a chopping block,
maybe...

     I locked the zip to a small hasp I had fixed to the front of the neck
brace, just to ensure no prying hands could remove the suit until I decided. 
Now for the final arrangements.  First there came the aluminium strap that
locked about the waist, to which the little battery pack was riveted in the
small of the back.  All this went in position after I had made the necessary
connections with the wires protruding through the tiny hole in Monica's suit. 
When the pack was finally in place, no wires were visible, everything being
covered by neck brace, helmet, rubber or battery pack.  At this point I locked a
length of stainless steel chain to the belt, just below the battery pack, while
unlocking her neck chain.  Taking a convenient overhead rope which ran through a
pulley, I tied one end to her handcuffs and pulled her arms high into a
strappado, forcing her head down to knee level.  This done, I pulled her legs
apart and could not resist placing three well-aimed cracks across her buttocks
with a thin cane.  She jumped and tried to escape, but it was hopeless.  There
came muffled screams from the helmet - very muffled, I have to say.  I parted
her legs again and ran my hand through the slit in the rubber between them.  She
was wet, the slut. 

     It was time for her insertions.  First came Mr Buttplug - a suitably
expansive chromed model, equipped with two electrodes to which the battery wire
was attached.  Additionally this model came with a bit of tape around its base,
under which was the key to the girls' ballgag padlock.  This really did get
better and better, I thought, as I gave the plug a coating of lubricating
toothpaste and slowly worked it home.  Monica knew better than to resist at this
point, and consciously relaxed to accept the inevitable.  Then came the vibrator
in the front passage - a large rubber model equipped with those batteries that
were guaranteed to keep going and going and going.  It seemed likely that Monica
would be doing the opposite.

     This was slid home after a squirt of the lubricant gun, then I pulled the
chain between her legs and locked it to the front of the metal belt.  The
finishing touches were two more padlocks, which fitted through protruding eyes
on the base of each device and locked on to the chain.  This would allow them to
be removed individually while the chain stayed in place.

     Monica was starting to exhibit signs of discomfort, hopping from one foot
to the other.  I was nearly finished with her torment, this time slipping a
dollop of Finalgon through the vertical slit over each nipple.  This was a
muscle liniment, and burned like fire for an hour or so - longer if the flesh
heated up, and somehow I couldn't see Monica's doing anything but that.

     Next for attention were her ankles, and for this I needed her on the floor.
I lowered her arms from the strappado and forced her into a sitting position on
the smooth concrete floor.  There was a faint groan as her weight obviously
forced the buttplug in further.  Better get used to that, I thought, as I fitted
leather cuffs to her ankles and locked them on with a short hobble chain in
between.  Then I locked the cuffs directly together.  This latter padlock key
would be found first, but Monica's relief would be short-lived when she
discovered that it only separated the cuffs and did not undo the hobble chain. 
To this end I had numbered all the keys and had a master list in my pocket.  In
this regard Monica would be secured by nearly a dozen padlocks, while the girls
had a further four master keys.

     Carefully locking leather cuffs on her wrists above the steel handcuffs, I
released one handcuff, relocking it temporarily to her crotch chain behind her,
while locking the leather cuff to the chain in front.  Moments later the second
cuff was locked to the front of the crotch chain beside the first, and the
handcuffs were removed.  Monica was ready for action.  I let her down on her
side and knew that the various medical applications were having their effect,
not least the itching powder and the toothpaste up her bum.  I had no doubt the
firey liniment would soon begin to act on her nipples as well.  I hoped she
would still be able to cope with the task of looking for the key to free Leila.

     "Right-oh, you lot," I said, standing up from the now-squirming figure on
the floor.  It had taken me nearly twenty minutes to sort Monica out, and the
girls on the rack were getting well and truly wound up.  So concentrated had I
been on Mistress Monica that I had been deaf to the increasing groans and
whimpers from the forms on the rack.  Whether it had warmed up in the room I
wasn't sure, but the girls had certainly worked up a sweat.  Their movements
were limited for the moment by the tension on their nipples, but I suspected
Emma and Jillian were almost past caring.  Emma in fact climaxed as I stood up,
her body going stiff with her head thrown back and a muted wail coming from
behind the rubber ball.  I ducked down beside her and switched off the power to
the black box.

     As one, the figures slumped and there was the ragged sound of heavy
panting.  I stood beside Mary, whose body was now trembling on the verge of
collapse.  I disengaged the nipple clamps which got her attention straight away,
then I undid the rope that held her body horizontal.  She slumped like a rag
doll on the padded platform now slick with sweat from the efforts of the bound
women.  Hers had been a severe position - too rigorous for her to maintain for
the period of time I had in mind.  She was too relieved to do anything to resist
as I looped the rope instead between her hobble chain and the short chain at her
wrist cuffs.  Then it was up in the air again - hands and feet together, but in
front.  I stopped just short of Mary becoming entirely airborne - such that her
weight was to some extent supported by her back and shoulders.  She would be
going nowhere in a hurry but at least it would be a little more comfortable than
previously.  Even so, the nipple clamps went back, much to the muffled protests
from the gagged mouth.

     "Now pay attention, you lot," I told them.  "You know the drill.  When 'er
ladyship on the floor finds the key - which I am placing 'ere - " I dropped it
on the floor behind Trish,  "and eventually unlocks the red tart at the other
end, then you all get free.  To a degree, that is.  The rest of yor keys will be
'idden around the 'ouse or in the garden.  The thort of a bunch of chained and
gagged babes searching through the grounds fills me wiv delight, I must say. 

     "You may find your own key before those unlocking 'er majesty there - they
may be a bit easier to locate.  But fear not, there are plenty of keys to find -
it'll be a real treasure 'unt.  But a few fings to remember.  'Er magnificence
will not take kindly to anybody trying to cut fings off either themselves or off
'er.  That ain't 'ow the game is played, is it, and wotever you go through now,
if you mess up yor stuff you know it will get back to you later on.  And don't
fink of trying to cut Madam's cuffs off, either, cos I've put some stainless
steel wire through them, and it'll end up even more painful for 'er if that's
all that restrains 'er.  And, of course, ultimately it'll be more painful for
you lot.  I reckon she might be in that condition - well, with lessening degrees
of restraint, for up to 3 days.  It all depends on 'ow quickly you girls find
the keys.

     "That's all.  Now I'm going to turn the microphone on, together with the
random vibe generator." I bent down under the rack bench and flicked two
switches.  "Try yor best to test the rack, won't yer.  See yer later.  Or then
again, maybe I won't.  Tatty bye."

     I looked about me at the mute, entreating expressions, the eyes large and
pleading above the ball gags stretching mouths wide, bodies straining against
ropes and stretched nipples.  A muted whimper was heard, but I couldn't pinpoint
from whom.  I grinned to myself and stepped back to the door.

     "Remember," I said, "ssshh!"

     Then I slammed the door behind me.

Monica's Place

CHAPTER NINETEEN - CUTTING LOOSE  (BY TRISH)

 	In the course of this chapter you will see how I come to be doing the
writing.  I decided to put down exactly what happened after Steven walked out on
us that Wednesday morning, on the grounds that anything he wrote would be
conjecture, and he really had no idea what he put us through.  Don't get me
wrong - Steven is a lovely guy.  Dependable, you know?  Decent.  That's the
word.  I nearly said predictable, but he really is anything but that. 

    He left us all hanging from the frame after the little performance with his
phoney London accent.  In fact it wasn't bad.  If I didn't know it was him I
could've been quite concerned.  But that goddamned electronic box of his...
well, yes, it did drive us crazy.  The bastard.

    Its funny how you get all screwed up about the passage of time in those
situations.  It seemed like half a day that we lurched from one orgasm to
another.  The box would activate on one of us, and there she would be -
struggling to stay under control, under the apprehensive gaze of the rest of us,
wondering if she was going to let any sound escape.  Emma and Leila were the
worst offenders - both had a predisposition to throw their heads back with a
nasal whinny - something no ballgag will ever fully contain.  Then suddenly it
would be on for all of us.  And of course never mind about just the sounds we
weren't supposed to make - we weren't meant to move either.  Those wretched
nipple clamps held us together, such that when we were all being vibrated to
hell and back our struggles were magnified as we tugged against the nipple
restraints in some mad kind of epileptic rhythm - all pulling in different
directions at once.  I think at one stage it went for four full cycles, with
each time somebody giving vent to their feelings.  And with the pain in our tits
as well as those wild feelings coming from down below that seemed to flood
through our bodies, it was almost impossible to be quiet.  The combination of
pain and pleasure was starting to become unbearable.

    I was sure Steven had turned up the heating as well, since that was typical
of his subtlety, for we were all sweating freely, with perspiration making our
hair damp and running down out bodies. 

    I was in the midst of a solo performance myself when the ice holding us
together by the tits finally gave way and the twine fell free.  This took a lot
of the pain away, as our poor nips were no longer stretched, but the ache
continued.  And with every orgasm it seemed that the blood rushed back to our
confined and clamped nipples and hurt even more.

    I wondered how long we could stand this torture.  Where was Steven now?  Was
he watching on the CCTV?  In the midst of our trials we sometimes momentarily
forgot about poor Monica, apparently randomly rolling about on the floor. 

    When Steven first left the room Monica had rolled about wildly, as though
her very body had been on fire.  We had seen the toothpaste but did not realise
what he had done with the Finalgon on her nipples and the itching powder.  It
must have nearly driven her crazy, trapped in the rubber suit having no idea
what was going on, but knowing she had to find a key somewhere in the darkness,
with no help from anyone.  Every now and then she would stop, and we could see
her breasts heaving with exertion through the skin tight suit.  If we thought we
were hot, no doubt she was worse.  We despaired of her ever reaching the key,
which was behind and below me.  She kept heading off in different directions. 
Then, in the midst of one pause, she abruptly stiffened and jerked, her body
spasming into a foetal position.  The spasming lasted perhaps ten seconds, at
two-second intervals, then she lay on her back again, her breasts thrusting
against the rubber.  Her hands tried to reach the slits over her nipples, but
they could not, nor could she do anything about the devices that Steven had
obviously chained and locked inside her.  After several seconds Monica appeared
to have some plan, and rolled like a silver cylinder in the opposite direction
to where she had been going.  This rolling fetched her up against the rack
frame, behind Emma.  Her she stopped, obviously recovering her breath, then she
slowly swept her chained legs around in a series of semi circles, feeling for
keys.  She started moving along the frame towards Leila, but halted abruptly,
succumbing to another series of jerks and foetal spasms.  I was starting to get
alarmed, and I looked across at where Leila knelt, wearing her favourite red
latex mini-dress, beyond the half-suspended Mary.  Mary had her eyes closed and
her head hung back.  Clearly she couldn't see as much as the rest of us, and the
exertions in the various positions she had endured before Steven left - even
before the infernal vibrators had started up - had drained much of her strength. 

    Leila -at the opposite end of the frame, caught my look, and her big eyes
also registered concern, but there was nothing we could do.  Emma was suffering
from a solo session with the vibrator, and at that moment gave in and let go
with a long "Nnnnnmmp!" as an orgasm wracked her body.  Of course the microphone
picked that up and at once my silent contact with Leila disappeared as the great
pink monster embedded inside her vibrated into life and her hands clenched as
she closed her eyes and endeavored to control the waves of passion clawing up
her body.  I, too, was on the receiving end, but at least now we could move with
some more freedom, as our nipples were unfettered.  We could now rock and sway
and jerk like a collection of demented marionettes, each dancing to our own
tune.  I don't know whether this made it better or worse, but at least the pain
in our nips was less.  I tried to haul myself off the prong impaling me, but
instead I only succeeded in making matters worse as I ended up bouncing up and
down on it and climaxing amidst a desperate effort to remain silent.  Thoughts
of terrible tortures that Steven would suffer focused my thoughts in between
such moments of oblivion.

    By the time we managed with a concerted effort to stay silent for five
minutes, in spite of all provocation, I realised that Monica was nowhere to be
seen.  Craning my head I perceived a pair of shiny rubber-clad legs beneath and
behind me.  She was almost on to the key, which was fitted with a large  key
ring (Steven thought of everything, it seemed.)  I looked questioningly at
Jillian, standing tautly in an inverted 'Y'.  Jill, in her white PVC leotard,
strained at her bonds to see what Trish was up to, and as there came a faint
rattle of the key ring - fortunately not enough for the microphone to detect,
Jill's finger and thumb formed an 'O', registering 'contact'.  We all smiled a
little around the balls wedged in our mouths, I guess, at that moment.  Whatever
else Monica was suffering, she had somehow found the key, and now knew where she
had to go.  She recognised she was at the short end of the frame and followed it
down the long side, to the rear of Jillian, moving in a slow sitting fashion,
pulling her legs up and sliding her bum along the floorin a series of bumps and
wriggles.  That wasn't easy in high heels, and I suspect she was experiencing a
regular reaming in her arse as whatever insert she wore was forced in and out
with each wriggle of her bottom.  Having her hands chained in front made this
mode of travel difficult in the extreme, and she was clearly exhausted by the
time she turned the corner on to the short side behind Leila. 

    Leila's overhead rope had a chain on the lower end, which locked to an
eyebolt.  It was this which Monica eventually undid, but not before she had
undergone another spasm attack, and had been obliged to lie on her side to
enable her hands to reach the eyebolt and padlock.

    I was barely conscious of her progress at this point, because Mary had just
let forth a wail as she quivered and jerked on the suspension rope, and the
terrible vibrations befell us all at that moment.  I had my eyes closed and was
on the verge of giving in again to the pleasure machine embedded in my pussy
when there was a new noise - the clink of chain and the muffled cry of triumph
from Leila. 

    I opened my eyes in time to see Leila lowering her arms from where they had
been stretched over the horizontal bar.  Her wrists were still cuffed together,
and she twisted and turned to untie the ropes holding her spread, cuffed ankles
to the padded bench.  All the while, of course, the pink monster buzzed
relentlessly inside her, and finally - just as she undid the last rope -
overcame her.  She sank a couple of inches further, her fettered hands clasping
her pussy through the taut red latex hem of her dress, and then bounced in a
climactic rhythm oblivious to all around her.  Moments later, obviously becoming
aware of the pain in her nipples, she slowly released the terrible clamps from
her breasts, screwing up her eyes and mewing with pain as the blood returned. 
Then she eased herself off the great monster dildo and climbed stiffly and
awkwardly down from the bench.

    Practical girl that she was, she switched off the dreadful black box under
the rack, which left us able to moan and whine at will.  In a short time she had
undone all the ropes stretching us to the rack frame, but our relief was short
lived.  We had known what Steven had done in hiding the keys, but the reality
had been lost somewhat in the climactic few hours - I had no idea how long it
had actually been.  Now, here we were - five girls all still chained at the
ankles with greater or lesser hobble chains, our wrists still cuffed in front,
and still with these hard rubber balls wedged behind our teeth, holding our
mouths open and denying speech other than unladylike nasal grunts.  Monica lay
on the floor still, clearly exhausted (yeah - like we weren't?)  An examination
of what Steven had done to her left little in the way of options.  She was
chained up in a most thorough way, with little we could do until we found these
bloody keys.

   

    I took stock of the situation.  Mary lay on the padded rack bench.  I had
the feeling that she was not much better off than Monica.  With a grunt and a
look I led the way out of the Rack Room up to the kitchen.  Here I wrote on the
white board on the refrigerator with the marker pen: Leila & me: outside; Jill
upstairs; Emma downstairs.  Priority: bathroom - get towels - get dry - stay
warm.  Somehow I had the feeling that our troubles were only just beginning. 
How hard would it be to find a dozen keys?  How well had Steven hidden them? 
How long were we going to have to suffer?

   

   

    Outside it was a gorgeous Brisbane afternoon.  The sky was a cloudless blue
and the air had now shrugged off the morning chill.  Having said that, running
about almost naked, except for a corset which only covers that between pubes and
tits isn't my idea of fun.  I decided to at least go and get a skirt that I
could put on over the lower half of my nakedness, and, leaving Leila looking
under flowerpots on the back verandah, I went down the steps on to the pathway
leading to our sleeping quarters.  That was when I saw it - the little yellow
plastic duck in the middle of the swimming pool.  What the -?

    I entered the area enclosed by the green pool fence and slowly it dawned on
me that I had found the first key.  It dawned on me equally soon after this
revelation exactly what Steven had done. 

    The pool is rectangular - about waist deep at the shallow end and up to my
neck at the deep end, and surrounded by the aforementioned fence.  Stretched
across it at ground level, secured at each end to a fence post, I found a thin
stainless steel wire, of the kind used for fishing traces.  It was one of
Steven's favourite ideas - something light and inconspicuous, yet unbreakable
and a real pain to try and cut through with a hacksaw or anything except big
bolt cutters.  Somehow I had the feeling that any form of tools would be well
and truly locked up in his tool shed, if they were even on the premises. 

    I tugged at the wire.  It was about a metre from and parallel with the edge
of the deep end, and I could see a key hanging below the yellow duck, which was
tied to the wire in the middle of the pool.  The bastard!  Someone was going to
have to get wet to get the key.  It was late autumn, and while Brisbane autumn
and winter are cool and sunny, they are not for swimming, and the pool had not
been used since Easter.

    I turned to where Leila was fossicking about on the verandah.

    "Hhhhnnnm!"  I cried, making as loud a noise as the ball permitted.  Leila
looked up and I waved her over.

     Ten minutes later, joined by Mary and the other two and armed with a couple
of beach towels we thought would not have been used until the next summer, we
worked out who was going to get the key.  To me there seemed to be little
choice.  Mary, Leila and I all had on leather boots, which could not come off
until the ankle cuffs were removed.  I had no intention of ruining my best white
thigh boots for some male's whim.  Which left Emma and Jillian.  Jill, wearing
her white pvc leotard needed both wrists and ankles free to remove it, and I did
not want her getting cold if she could not remove a soaking wet outfit.  Which
only left Emma, with her cheerleader's skirt and lycra crop top.

    I pointed out the duck and the key.  Emma looked at me and I pointed to the
water.  She shook her head, indicating cold and indicating I should be the one. 
I pantomined the logic about clothes and leather boots and so on, interspersed
with commanding grunts.  Emma was adamant until I seized her by the hair and
propelled her to the edge of the pool.  Here Jill removed Emma's wrap-around
pleated skirt and we dragged the halter-neck top over her head.  Recognising the
futility of resistance, Emma took off her white high heels and slowly entered
the water at the shallow end, carefully going down the steps, hobbled as she
was, wearing only white stockings and looking quite a sight.

    She squealed and carried on as the water rose against her body, all the time
her protests and complaints muffled by the red rubber ball buckled tightly in
place.  Wading down the length of the pool she finally reached the key.  The
water was up to her neck as she gripped the key, her action followed by a muted
wail of dismay.  She held up the key and I saw that it was threaded on to a loop
in the main wire, with the loop having been closed with a crimping device.  The
awful truth dawned on me that that key was going to stay there.  Which had to
mean two things - firstly it was probably the key to our wrist cuffs - or maybe
the gags - and secondly that we were all going to have to get wet if we wanted
to be free.  The bastard, I thought again! 

    I motioned to Emma to try undoing her cuffs. It worked but it really left us
with little progress having been made.  Why did I have the feeling suddenly that
Steven was watching the whole show?

   

    Emma went to her room wrapped in a towel to have a hot shower and a change
of clothes.  I put on a long denim skirt over the top of my corset and a halter
top that I had to get Leila to do up for me, since I could not reach behind with
my fettered wrists.  Really Steven, this was taking things too far.  And so far
we had only found one key, and that effectively had been in plain sight.  It was
now gone two o'clock and I was beginning to get hungry.  We redoubled our
efforts, with once again Leila and myself turning our attention to the exterior.

    I tried to put myself inside Steven's mind.  Clearly he was out to make
things difficult for us.  We would all have to get wet.  What would he do with
the ankle cuffs I wondered?  Then I thought, he'd make us walk as far as
possible to get the key.  I headed off to the gate, noticing that Steven's
pickup was not parked in its usual position, but despite that, I had the feeling
of being watched.

    Sure enough, in the letter box was another key.  But again, this key was
secured by a piece of crimped stainless steel wire. It hung a metre above the
ground.  I tried it out in the padlock behind my neck, but it clearly did not
fit.  Which meant it could only be for the ankle cuffs.  The swine, I thought. 
Nothing was simple.  My hobble was only half a metre long - there was no way I
could get the key to the lock, or vice versa.

    More time was taken up now, with the five of us hobbled and gagged girls,
four of us also with our wrists cuffed together, all walking down to the gate. 
As we reached it a car passed, causing us to duck behind the abutting wall. 
God, we must look a sight, I thought.  We now had to lie on our backs to get our
ankles up to the key, which duly unlocked the ankle cuffs.

    This was a great relief, in one way, since we could now go ahead and release
our wrist cuffs, but in doing this we would have to enter that icy pool. 
Nevertheless, in a very short while, divested of our footwear and most articles
of clothing, we stepped into the icy water - or so it seemed anyway.  Leila, in
her red latex minidress, and Jill, in her white pvc leotard, were obliged to
leave their clothes on, while the rest of us waded naked down the length of the
pool.  We were watched by Emma, who was now fully dressed in designer jeans and
teeshirt, but still sported her red ball gag.  Talk about from the ridiculous to
the sublime.  There was much squealing and carrying on from behind our own
well-secured gags as the water reached our crotches then our breasts, then our
necks as we reached the deep end of the pool.  Here we finally freed ourselves
of the wrist cuffs and retreated to the luxury of hot showers and clean clothes,
heedless of poor Monica still chained, gagged, deaf and blind lying in darkness
on the Rack Room floor.

    I was sooo-o cold that the shower was like heaven, but I was nevertheless
obliged to have it while still sporting the goddamned ball gag.  My jaw was
aching by now - I had been wearing the ball for nearly six hours.  Good old
Steven had indeed woven a piece of that same stainless steel wire in and out of
the leather strap, and there was no way I could cut through that.  It was when I
picked up the soap in the shower that I saw Steven's note: "Roses are red;
violets are blue; up in the air is something for you."

    Lousy poem, I thought.  What the hell was he talking about?  So now we were
having a treasure hunt, were we?  Clues and all that.  What fun.  I looked
around me and up at the ceiling, but nothing struck me as obvious.

    Dressed in a denim skirt again with a black skivvy, I went outside and
almost immediately saw what I thought the note meant.  Shit.  Hanging from a gum
tree outside the back verandah, perhaps five metres up in the air, a large block
of ice hung suspended over a fork in a branch.  It would have been invisible
from the verandah, but it was clear as day from the sleeping quarters.  I ran
down the walkway outside the bedrooms, nearly colliding with Jill as she
emerged.

    "Mmmph!" I said urgently.

    "Umph?"

    "Mmmph!" I said, pointing to the ice.  Jill stared, then we headed for the
tree.  The ice was secured by a length of chain, the end of which had been
frozen in the ice.  Where had he done this? I wondered.  He must've hidden it
under a bunch of stuff in the chest freezer.  The lower end of the chain was
padlocked around a branch at head height.  I tugged on the chain, but it
appeared to be somehow wedged at high level.  In any case, I would never pull
the big ice block - about the size of a football - through the fork.  The only
way to get the key down - for I was sure there was a key embedded in it - was to
climb up... But no, the branch was too thin.  Nobody in their right mind would
risk going there.  There had to be another way. 

    Mary, Emma and Leila joined us and we studied the problem.  It was Jill who
came up with the solution.  It was too high to beat with sticks or anything as
unsophisticated as that.  I checked the garage that served as Steven's workshop,
but it was locked tight as a drum.  No help there.  When I came back, Jill had
got the garden hose and was hosing the ice.  I did not need a physics degree to
know that an ice block under a running tap will dissolve a helluva lot faster
than a block sitting in the open air.  Years of playing with ice block timing
devices had taught me that.

    Was there no end to Steven's ingenuity?  He seemed to be one step ahead all
the time.  We had to get these gags off and start thinking about freeing Monica.  
We left Jill with the hose and went inside, once again splitting into areas to
go hunting - Leila outside, Emma upstairs , Mary in the basement and me on the
ground.

    We hunted for perhaps half an hour - in vain.  What had the bastard done
with those keys?  I had given the living room the once over - looking under
cushions, chairs, knick-knacks, all to no avail, when Jill appeared.  Tears were
rolling down her cheeks - and she was still gagged.

    "Hnnn?" I asked.  She held up the key and shook her head, pointing to the
white ballgag still wedged behind her teeth.  Oh god, I thought.  I had been
certain that this key would unlock those padlocks at the back of our necks.  I
had hung my hopes on having this wretched ball out of my mouth and being able to
speak again.  That shit Steven was playing mind games with us again.  I embraced
Jill and we made comforting noises to each other through our gags.  I wiped her
eyes and motioned her downstairs.  If the key wasn't ours, then at least we
could make a start on poor Monica.

    Poor Monica was sitting propped up against the wall when we arrived.  She
was motionless, her silver skin-tight suit showing signs of wear where it had
been dragged around the floor.  I shook Monica, then tried out the key in the
readily accessible padlocks, but it worked in none on her wrists, head or
ankles.  Nor did it work on the waist belt or the vibrator.  There was only one
choice left.  Jill and I hoisted Monica to her feet and carried her over to the
rack, draping her face down on the padded bench, with her feet still on the
floor.  The padlock holding the buttplug was visible between the cheeks of her
arse, and it too has obviously suffered in Monica's seated journeys around the
Rack Room.  But the key fitted.

    Gently we eased out the offender.  Monica groaned under all her headgear,
but she had the presence of mind to relax her bum muscles.  The plug was big and
I removed it as gently as I could.  It was then I noticed the tape around the
narrow part at the base, and the outline of another key underneath the tape. 
The plug itself was attached to two wires, which disappeared inside Monica's
rubber suit, presumably to the battery pack.  On each side of the plug were
electrodes, and I realised we had found the cause of Monica's foetal spasms.  
We managed to cut through the wires with a pair of scissors and after a quick
wash of the plug we peeled the tape away.  Hoping against hope, I tried the key
in the padlock at the back of Jill's neck, and exulted as the lock popped open. 
Jill did the same for me and within a minute we were laughing and crying
together, such was the relief at being able to move our jaws and speak again.

    A short time later all five of us were much happier.

    "Fancy hiding the gag key there," said Leila.  "Is Steven suggesting that we
are arse kissers?" 

    "He can kiss my arse when I get hold of him," Mary muttered.

    "It doesn't help us with Monica," I said.  "Not a lot, anyway."

    "We should get her upstairs to bed," Jill suggested.  "At the very least we
should be making her comfortable.  And we should get some fluids into her - she
must've sweated an awful lot rolling round the floor in that suit, all taped up
under the helmet.  Obviously Steven left that plastic tube sticking out so she
could drink.  I don't think that helmet is coming off for a while.  I'll get
some sports drink from the fridge"

    Four of us carried Monica upstairs and laid her on the big king sized bed in
her room, while Jill went for some refreshments.  She was back moments later, a
broad grin on her face. 

    "I found another one," she said, holding up the top to the sports drink
bottle, from under which hung a small padlock key.

    "Well done!" I said.  "Steven is just too smart, sometimes.  Sooner or later
he's going to slip up.  Come on - which lock does it fit?"

    It was all a bit of an anticlimax, really.  In fact it fitted the lock
linking her ankles, not making a major impact on her restraints, since her feet
were still hobbled, but at least she was mobile enough to go to the loo or move
about, even if she couldn't communicate.

    "How do we make her understand she has to drink?" asked Emma.

    "Easy," I said. "Monica will figure this out.  I blew into the tube
protruding a handspan from the lower part of the helmet, then tugged on it a
couple of times.  I put the end of the tube into a glass of the liquid and was
not surprised to see the fluid disappear up the tube.  Monica was no slouch -
she would figure out what had to be done.  Unfortunately so had Steven.

    We left Monica on the bed.  She could only lie on her back, such was the
restriction of the neck brace, so we left her propped up on some cushions.  It
was now dark outside, so any more explorations in the garden were out of the
question.  We hunted around the house until nearly midnight, exploring every
nook and cranny we could think of, but to no avail.  At length we returned to
Monica, somewhat disconsolate and made sure she was settled for the night.  This
meant helping her pee first, which was not easy with the dildo still in place,
but it could not be helped.  We bedded her down and Leila volunteered to sleep
with her, just in case.  Monica, her hands still chained near her crotch and her
head still blind, deaf and dumb, unable to move within the neck brace, lay rigid
on her back.  She was still clad in the rubber suit locked at the neck, and
still with her high heels locked on, connected to the ankle cuffs with silver
chains.  I was about to bid the pair of them good night when Monica suddenly
jerked upright, her hands clenching and unclenching. 

    She swung her legs over the side of the bed and bent double, her body
shaking and jerking.  Then she was still, save for the rapid rise and fall of
her breasts under the tautly-stretched rubber.

	I didn't know what to make of it, given that the offending buttplug had been
removed, as Monica slowly flopped back on the bed, rolling on her side away from
me.  Leila lay beside her, stroking the rubber-clad figure with a tenderness I
was sure Monica could sense through her imprisoning suit.


    I returned to my room.  Despite all the exposure we have to bondage it still
takes it out of you.  Being strung up for four hours trying not to give in to an
orgasm, then letting it run wild through your body and being unable to help
yourself is pretty draining.  Then there had been the hunt for keys, the
freezing pool and having to wear that damned ball in my mouth for a couple more
hours after getting free - I was shattered.  I got undressed and crawled between
the sheets.  That was when my body touched the coldness of steel and I realised
I had found another key.  Bloody Steven.  First there were notes in my shower,
then keys in my bed.  Was nothing private?

    I returned wearily to Leila and Monica, and we found it was the key that
unlocked the ankle cuffs and Monica's shoes.  I supposed it meant a somewhat
easier night for her.  I knew I would have no trouble sleeping, anyway.

   

    The morning dawned bright and clear again, with enough chill in the air to
make a jumper a necessity.  Leila had helped Monica downstairs and the pair now
sat at the kitchen table, Leila helping Monica drink through her tube.

    "How was your night?" I asked Leila.

    "Pretty broken," she said.  "Every so often - usually just after I'd gotten
off to sleep - Monica had one of those fits.  All up we didn't get much sleep."

     I joined the pair, settling down to my usual weetabix, without which my day
doesn't really begin.  That's not an advertisement, just a reconciliation that
old habits die hard, I guess, or perhaps it's merely a sign of premature old age
and the onset of a routine you can't do without.

    Whatever the reason, I saw how it had played a part in this great game we
were trapped in, as I crunched down on something hard and metallic, and spat out
another key.  The bugger was now hiding them in breakfast cereal!  Was there no
end to this guy's ingenuity, I thought, with - I admit - genuine admiration.

    We tried out the key on the stiff-necked rubber-clad figure seated between
us.  There was a faint groan of relief from under the helmet as we found the key
undid the padlock holding Monica's wrist cuffs to the crotch chain.  Her cuffs
were still joined, but at least now she had some degree of freedom for her hands
and arms.

    This degree of freedom seemed to bring new life to Monica, imprisoned though
she still was.  At once her hands flew to the slits over her breasts, and after
much groping inside these she withdrew two small donut-shaped sticky pads
connected to wires.  Leila's mouth fell open.

    "I had no idea!" she said.  The thought had never occurred to me, either,
and clearly poor Monica had been undergoing periodic nipple shocks through the
night - certainly not a process designed to give a girl a lot of beauty sleep.

    The removal of these was obviously a huge relief to Monica, but was not the
end of her problems.  She could now reach the base of the dildo still chained to
the crotch chain and embedded within her.  Despite her efforts there was no
chance of removal of this without the key.

    I have to say this for Mon, she was on the ball.  She at once mimed that she
wanted to write something, and we brought her pen and paper.  Despite her cuffed
and locked wrists, she wrote legibly, even if she could not see what she was
writing:

    1 squeeze yes 2 squeezes no - ok?

    I squeezed her arm.

    Mobile phone on helmet - Steven phones up - sets off shocks - so do other
callers - ok now.  S will phone to tell where next key is. Ok?

    I squeezed her arm again.  So that was what it was all about.  This guy was
so devious.  Not only was he giving Monica a random electrical treatment at his
whim, but any other caller would be doing likewise.  What would this do to her
love of her mobile phone, I wondered?  As Monica scribbled on, I learned that
her message bank had taken all these calls and that I had to access it to deal
with the callers.  She gave me her code and I spend the next hour dealing with
customers and explaining that Monica was unwell at present  - it was only with
difficulty that I refrained from saying she was a bit tied up.

    Monica was a bit happier, although there was a somewhat anti-Steven element
in her scribbling.  She could at least go to the loo on her own - albeit with
difficulty - and could hold a glass of liquid and drink it unaided

   

    The next call from Steven came mid-morning.  Monica scribbled down something
about a stake out at the south gate.  The only south gate I could think of was
the vehicle gate over the rise at the rear of the property where Mary had
undergone somewhat of a trial in the mud beneath it.  This sounded a likely fun
area for Steven, I thought ruefully.

    Leila and I took Monica by the arms and helped her walk the couple of
hundred metres to the gate.  I wondered how Mon was coping with the chain
through her crotch.  We arrived at the gate and found the rain of the previous
week had left the place in its usual state of being a muddy waterhole.  In the
middle of the pool, just this side of the gate was the top of a wooden stake,
barely protruding out of the muddy water.  The Steven signature - a key on a
very short piece of crimped stainless steel wire was visible.

    "Shit," I said, without rancour.  "I guess its time for mud wrestling."

    "I wish it was summer," Leila added.

    We both took off our shoes and Leila took off her jeans.  I was wearing a
twill skirt that stopped above my knees, and I hoped the mud would not be that
deep.  Still holding Monica by the upper arms we edged slowly into the pool.  By
the time we reached the stake the muddy water was halfway up my calves.  It was
cold and the bottom was gooey enough such that my feet sank nearly ankle deep. 
I shivered while Leila and I muttered rude things about Steven's ancestry under
our breaths.

    We reached the stake and saw that the wire was only a fingerlength long. 
The guy was really going to make Monica get down on her knees for this one.

    We helped Monica to kneel, prompting muted squeals from under the helmet as
we guided her hands to the key.  I had a feeling she might know which locks
these were for.  I was right about that and I was right about Steven's devious
mind.  According to his message, the key actually unlocked the vibrator and the
neck brace.  The first lock could only be released by Monica almost having to
impale herself on the stake.  Having undone the lock she stood up unsteadily and
withdrew the dildo slowly.  I imagined the odd, empty feeling it could sometimes
leave, but I had never had one chained in place for a day.

     Trying to unlock the neck brace meant we had to support Monica as she tried
to lie face down on the surface of the water, to get her chin near the top of
the stake.  That was when Leila slipped and fell on her bum, leaving me holding
the full weight of Monica, which I couldn't.  We all ended up soaking wet and
covered in mud, which I'm sure was just what Steven had hoped for.  Our
incantations against him doubled while we struggled to get the front of Monica's
neck brace in approximately the same vicinity as the key.  We ended up having to
lie her in a reclining position on her side, supported on one elbow while we
undid the lock.  There was a groan of relief from the prisoner as the stiff
plastic collar came free and Monica could actually turn her head for the first
time in twenty four hours.

    "Bastard!" Leila and I kept repeating, as we walked back to the house.  My
skirt was sodden and coated in mud.  It clung to my legs in a horrible slimy
way, and we had no option but to hose each other down in the garden before we
went anywhere near a shower, so filthy were we.  The water was predictably icy,
as were our thoughts towards Steven at that moment in time.

    We went down into the basement to the white tiled room where the sauna was. 
The girls had taken to using this room for its more normal purpose on a regular
basis, and we wanted to use the shower hose in here where there was more space. 
Soon Leila and I were naked with Monica still encased in her rubber suit.  While
the neck brace had been removed, and with it the lock holding the zip to the
catsuit, the fact that Monica's wrists were still cuffed and she still wore the
waist belt and crotch chain meant the rubber suit was not about to come off just
yet.  It did not stop us opening it up part of the way down the front and giving
Monica and each other a good soaping, bringing one bright spot into the day.

    "We should really take advantage of this," I said to Leila, and within a
minute we had slipped a rope through Monica's cuffs and hoisted them above her
head, looping the rope over a convenient wall hook and tying it off.  For the
next fifteen minutes we gave Monica as good a cleaning as we could, inside and
out - well, as much as the silver rubber catsuit permitted.  And in fact it
permitted quite a lot, what with the fore-and-aft crotch slit, which allowed the
intrusion of all manner of objects, such as soap, then fingers, then mouths, and
finally the meanest, ribbiest vibrator we could find.  The crotch chain was
still in place, but it proved no hindrance to slipping things past it, front and
rear.  Leila delighted in this torture of Monica that had the latter squirming
and jerking, helpless against the wall.  Even under the layers of tape we could
hear the moans and faint gasping through the small plastic tube protruding
through the front of the helmet.

    Monica could barely stand by the time Leila's and my tongues had finished
with her.  But the thought occurred to me, why should Monica have all the fun? 
Leila and I were both more or less still fully clothed at this point, having
decided it was easier to get the worst of the mud off us and our clothes while
still wearing them.  I could not resist helping Leila off with hers, and then
soaping down her back, which, of course, led to her repeating the favour and the
soaping going a bit further.

    Leila had a lovely body.  Her breasts were not large, but they were taut and
firm and still endowed with the bloom of youth.  I had no real idea what
experience she had with other women outside of our business, but I suspected
soon that it was pretty reasonable.  The girls - with the exception of Jill and
Emma - while strongly hetero, often displayed bi-tendencies, and the sight of
another attractive woman was enough to give us the hots sometimes.  I was a firm
believer in letting the occasion dictate the action. 

    We had left the vibrator wedged in Monica's pussy - held there by the crotch
chain, as she strove desperately to dislodge the device as further orgasms
wracked her body.  Leila and I were indifferent to Monica's struggles by then,
being totally engrossed in less restricted struggles of our own.  Leila's tongue
found all my buttons and I found myself flopping on the soapy tiles like a
stranded fish, gasping for air.

    The two of us lay side by side for some minutes, oblivious to the wrigglings
and moaning still going on with the slick-skinned helmeted figure stretched up
against the wall.  Finally Leila looked at me and grinned: "I suppose we really
should let her down..."

    "You do it," I told her, still striving to make my legs stop trembling.

   

    It was late afternoon when the next call came.  Monica had spent the time
resting in a deck chair on the back verandah with a pad and pen beside her,
making blind notes as  phone calls came in.  I dealt with these while Leila went
to have a nap, since she was working that night.  The other girls also had
commitments but we continued to search for further keys when we had time. 

    The weather turned cool with a front blowing in during the afternoon, which
caused external activity to cease as the rain started to fall.  Monica appeared
not to notice, cocooned as she was in her dark, rubber-encased world.

    I had woken up to the fact that I could in fact communicate with her via the
very phone that Steven was using, although this was limited and time consuming. 
I had to wait for five rings before I could speak, and then there was only a
minute for a message to be left.  While I kept Monica up to date about what we
were doing, I decided to be at least a little pro-active.  I tried phoning
Steven on his mobile and at an address I found in Monica's little black book in
her desk.  There was no answer from either number.  When Emma appeared, I asked
her to stay with Monica while I went to visit Steven's house, on the off chance
that the bastard might be sitting up watching television with a beer in his
hand.

    I found the house given as his address in Monica's book.  It was a town
house in New Farm, only seven minutes from downtown Brisbane.  It was nothing
fancy - one of three two-storey brick units with a garage between each.  Neat
and tidy, and not a bad part of town, but there was no answer when I knocked. 
The garage was shut tight and there was no sign of Steven's pickup.  So much for
that idea.  I returned to Bilboes and used the phone to update Monica. 

    "Do you want me to go out and buy some bolt cutters?" I asked, before
hanging up.  Monica shook her head and wrote 'No!' in big letters.  I guessed it
was a matter of pride with her that she did not consider herself beaten by any
bondage that a mere man could inflict on her.  In any case, I suspect we both
had the feeling that Steven would not prolong the test to the extent that Monica
suffered any real harm, other than to her dignity.

    The next phone call came in the early evening.  It was blowing a howling
gale by that time, and I was sitting with Monica in her room watching the news
on TV.  Monica stiffened as the call obviously jangled inside her helmet.  Then
she wrote down: 'Sleeping qtrs - under verandah - Jill's rm'.  Damn him, I
thought.  Why did it have to be another outdoor one?  It was dark and pouring
with rain, and under the verandah of all places.  How were we going to find a
key there? 

    I led Monica downstairs and fetched the best torch we had and an umbrella,
under which the two of us sheltered while making our way to the sleeping
quarters at the back.  The verandah outside the bedrooms was sheltered by the
roof overhang, but the rain was blowing at such an angle that the open boards of
the deck - and the crawlspace under it - were soaking wet.  We went into my room
and I considered how we were going to find a key under the deck. 

    There was barely half a metre clearance under the walkway.  The clear space
was blocked by a board that was screwed to one of the posts at one end and the
stair stringer at the other.  Lying in the grass was a screwdriver. I could only
hope Steven had made the key sufficiently visible to be found easily.  Given
that he had obviously planned for the recovery to happen in darkness, I could
only assume that he had thought of such.  He had been ahead of us in every other
instance so far, so why change the habit of a lifetime, as they say.  No doubt
he had also secured the damned thing to something as well, so I would be forced
to make Monica do the crawl as well.  There was nothing for it, I decided.  It
was going to be dark, wet, and restricted.

    I went to my room, removed my clothes and pulled on a rubber wetsuit.  It
was my own and one of the older types of true heavy rubber, rather than the
neoprene of today, left over from early years of diving.  I pulled on the hood
that came with it, along with mitts and a pair of old sneakers.  I was not happy
about groveling in the wet under the deck - a nice place for snakes, spiders,
and who knew what, although perhaps the rain might send them somewhere drier.

    Monica was obviously going to share my experience, and I was concerned that
she would be dragging her body through the mud and getting all sorts of unwanted
stuff caught up in her crotch chain.  I thought of a raincoat, but she could not
get her cuffed hands through the sleeves, and so eventually I put her into a
pair of my old jeans.  They were a size bigger than her, I knew , annoyed that
she kept so slim, but they would at least keep the worst of the ground away from
her most private of parts.

    We returned to the end of the verandah, outside Steven's room.  Here, with
the benefit of the coach light mounted on the verandah post, I unscrewed the end
of the board blocking access and swung it vertically out of the way.  Then I
guided Monica on to her knees and together we squeezed into the space under the
deck.  I was glad none of the other girls had seen me.  We get into some pretty
way out gear sometimes, but of course it's all in the line of duty.  Running
about in a wetsuit in the garden at night in one's own time would no doubt draw
a few comments.

    There was in fact less room than I thought.  The joists supporting the
decking planks were deep, and we had to worm our way underneath them.  I do not
consider myself particularly big-breasted, but I am glad they were no larger
under these circumstances.  It was like the typical escape-under-the-
barbed-wire scene from a movie, and while Monica is slimmer than I am, her
helmet meant we had to scrape a hollow under each beam to get through. 

    The ground was muddy with all the rain, although some scrappy weeds and
stuff were growing here.  I shone the torch from side to side, trying to shut
out the wet and cold and concentrate on what I was doing.  Monica struggled on
bravely beside me, her cuffed hands handicapping her such that she had to almost
pull herself along on her tummy with her hands pressed into the dirt.

    It took us perhaps fifteen minutes to reach the end of the end of the deck,
outside Jillian's room.  It had to be the furthest room, of course, I thought. 
You have to get value for your money, Steven, by making us crawl as far as
possible.  Bastard, bastard, bastard!

    I found the key.  I was right.  He'd looped it and crimped it around a
joist.  Probably did it simply by temporarily removing one of the planks.  So
easy.  Monica crawled blindly up beside me, and I tried out the key in all
remaining locks.  The only one it worked on was the wrist cuffs, unlocking as it
did the cuffs themselves and the lock joining them.  It looked like Monica was
in for another night with the crotch chain still in place.

   

    I spent the night with Monica this time, after sharing her shower first. 
With the crotch chain on she still couldn't remove the rubber suit, and although
she could roll it down to her waist, she obviously found it more comfortable to
leave on, albeit with the front zip undone.  Monica's bed was a king size, and
her room was one of the biggest in the house.  It was a nice place to sleep, and
snuggled up to the slick silvery catsuited figure, with the storm raging outside
was not the worst way to spend the night, even though she clearly awoke several
times with the phone going.  I wondered how long it could last before the
batteries finally ran down. 

    Morning arrived and the storm had passed.  We had almost finished breakfast
when Monica's head cocked as the phone obviously rang, and she felt about for
the pad and pen.  She wrote: Front gate - across road- path.

    "Shit," I groaned to nobody in particular.  "Now he's taking us outside."

    Jill volunteered to come with me, and together we led the silver figure,
still looking like a power ranger comic hero, down the driveway and up to the
gate.  We opened this just enough to ease through and stood there, checking the
road for traffic.  We were about fifteen kilometres from downtown Brisbane, but
we might as well have been in the country.  The surroundings to Bilboes were
eucalypt forest, generally fairly open with low underbrush and long grass.  It
was a wonderful place, provided you weren't too paranoid about snakes and the
possibility of bushfires.  Traffic on the road, at 8.30 on a Friday morning was
minimal - certainly not such as to make crossing the road unseen a real
difficulty.  Nevertheless we didn't want any trouble with nosey motorists.

    I spotted the small pathway across the road and the three of us trotted
quickly across the asphalt into the cover of the bush.  How much far would
Steven take us, I wondered?

    We could not mistake the path - I had been along it myself quite a few times
in the course of local bushwalks.  We followed it up towards a ridge, all the
while looking for some sign that Steven might have left telling us where the key
was hidden.  The grass and trees were still dripping from the storm and before
long the legs of our slacks were soaking wet.  This, of course, was not a
problem for Monica. 

    After fifteen minutes of fairly slow going we came to a side path to the
right.  Here there was a small piece of red tape around a sapling.  Attached to
this was a small fragment of silver rubbery material, much the same as the
outfit Monica still wore.  Jill and I looked at each other and decided this was
the path to follow.

    "But this leads back to the road," Jill said.

    "So?"

    "Yeah, why not.  It'd be just like him."

    And it was.  The path was a longer route, and it took us nearly half an hour
holding on to Monica to get back to the road.  Just before the path emerged from
the bushes we came upon the small calling card pinned to the tree.  It said
"Instant Mobile Locksmiths".

    "Ha-de-ha." I said. "It's gotta be around here somewhere," I decided,
scrabbling in the grass around the tree.  Sure enough, wired to the base of the
tree was the key.  We figured this was the key to the dreaded crotch chain
locks, and Monica was obliged to sit down with her legs spread, facing the tree,
then working herself up to it so that her waist was touching the trunk.  There
was just enough slack in the wire for us to unlock the front lock, which held
both the waist and crotch chains.  I could almost hear Monica's sigh as the
chain slid free and she could ease out the offender that had been tormenting her
for nearly two days.

    Then Jill said: "Trish, have you noticed that the card is dry?"

    I followed her gaze to the card on the tree.  She was right.  I realised the
implication.

    "He's around here somewhere, isn't he," Jill said, half to herself.  "He's
watching us."  We stood still and looked around, but no other human was visible. 
Only the sounds of the birds broke the wet stillness of the bush.

    "Let's go back," I said.  "This is starting to give me the creeps."

    We turned for home, emerging from the path only fifty metres up the road
from where we had first entered the bush.  "He had to make us go tramping for an
hour, didn't he, only to end up where we started," I fumed.

    "It's no good getting up tight," Jill said with the maddening calm that she
could sometimes manage unlike the rest of us.  "I think it'll be over soon - as
and when Steven decides it suits him."

    "I know," I agreed.  "It just annoys me that he's been so much smarter than
us."

    "I wonder how much Monica has repented of her wicked ways," Jill said with a
smile.

    "I wonder how much she's planned a terrible revenge," I retorted.

   

    We were sitting in the kitchen, Monica now wearing clean clothes but still
trapped inside her helmet when the last call came.

    Monica wrote: 'Phone book'

    "Phone book?" asked Jill.  "What does that mean?"

    "Something obvious," I said.  "I bet it's so obvious that none of us thought
to look there. Like what?"

    "K for key?"  Jill suggested.  I grabbed the white pages from beside the
phone next to the fridge and looked up "key".  Nothing.  I thumbed through the
whole white pages without success.  Jill did the same with the two volumes of
yellow pages.  Nothing.  We looked at each other, puzzled.

    "The study!" I said with a burst of inspiration.

    Again, nothing in the white pages, but there, in the yellow pages, taped to
the Instant Mobile Locksmith's van, was the last key.

    I took it into the kitchen where Monica sat expectantly.  With a satisfying
click that only a bondage devotee can know and love, the lock under the helmet
popped open and we could lift it clear.  It came away trailing wires that went
under the industrial earmuffs taped to her head.  Only now did we properly see
what Monica had suffered for the past two days.  We cut the tape away and
removed the earmuffs, revealing the wires leading through the small slit at each
ear location.  Monica prised out the earplugs and we could now clearly hear the
plaintive "mmmphing" noises she had obviously been making.  The tube now stuck
out from the swathe of tape encircling her head, which we slowly cut away,
peeling it off the rubber hood underneath.  At length the mouthpiece was able to
be extricated from behind her lips, and the foam pads came away from her eyes.

    Her face was covered in lines from the tape, as she slowly pulled the hood
from her head.  The outlines of it were deeply ingrained around the edge of her
face, and her hair was matted and soaking wet.

    "Welcome back, honey," I said.  "I hope you'll be a good girl in future..."

Monica's Place

CHAPTER TWENTY - DEATH AND TRANSFIGURATION

 	
	It had been nearly a week since I had watched Trish and Jillian help the
rubber-suited figure that was Monica cross the road, on their way back to
Bilboes after the crotch chain had been freed.  I had decided the time was
opportune to take a break at Surfers Paradise, an hour to the south of Brisbane,
and had rented an apartment there for the period.  It had been an exhilarating,
if somewhat exhausting couple of days keeping Monica and the team in their
various degrees of restraint, and I felt I needed a rest.  Waking up at all
hours to phone bogus or genuine messages through to Monica's message bank had
caused me some lost sleep.  Additionally, the continued tension of making sure
that keys were the right ones and were where they were supposed to be, and that
nothing untoward happened, all helped to leave me drained.  The girls clearly
had no idea how difficult it was for me coordinating the whole exercise. 
However a few days of walks along the beach and people-watching amongst the
Japanese tourists had cleared the cobwebs away physically, but had left a less
clear picture mentally.

    During all this I could not help but think: had I done the right thing in
trying to teach Monica Armstrong a lesson, or had I overstepped the mark
totally?  I was now beginning to wonder whether I had a future at Bilboes -
whether I dare show my face again.  It was after I had returned to my flat in
New Farm that the doorbell rang, and I answered it to find Jillian standing
there.  It was mid-morning and the early winter chill had nearly been replaced
by a warm sunny day.

    "Hello Steven," she said.

    "Are you the dove of peace, or the harbinger of evil?" I asked wryly,
standing aside to let her enter.

    "Depends on your point of view, I guess," she answered enigmatically.

    She wore a white linen skirt just above the knee, white sandals with thongs
wrapped around her ankles, and topped off with a dark blue ribbed jumper.  It
was evidently still cold sufficiently outside to warrant such clothing, for
Jill's nipples stood out as hard little lumps through the material of the jumper
which clung to her curves in a most appealing way.  She carried a white leather
shoulder bag which she deposited on the couch.

    "Monica wants you back," she said simply.

    "Under what terms?"

    "What do you think?"

    "Yeah, silly question, I guess," I said.  She smiled slightly.

    "Look, Steven, you can make this easy or hard.  Monica wants you back, and
so do we - but for different reasons."  She paused and looked at her feet
uncomfortably.  "Frankly, we like having you around - it breaks up the bitchy
female environment.  We have a soft spot for you, I guess, and if I'm honest
with myself I have to say me especially, after what you did for me that night. 
So I'd - we'd like you to come back."

    "And if I don't want to?"

    "I really hoped you wouldn't ask that.  Perhaps you should look at this,"
she said quietly, pulling Leila's video camera from her bag.  It was one of
those small ones with the flip-out screen to enable instant replays.  It was set
to display date and time superimposed on the picture, as I found out when Jill
switched it on and handed me the earplug that was connected to the sound outlet.

    The tiny LCD picture flickered into life before me.  I watched the scene
unfold with a sinking feeling.  It began with a close-up of Emma's face.  Her
eyes were taped over with two pieces of duct tape and I could see at once that
she was in the dreaded headstocks I had installed in the basement next to the
back door, many months before.  I also saw that the video was dated only half
and hour before, that same morning.  Poor Emma was no doubt under torment even
as I watched the video.

    The camera panned back, taking in the steel bar holding the gag fixed in her
mouth, and the clamps holding her head rigid.  Trickles of damp ran down her
forehead and cheeks and I knew Monica had the bucket of water in place again. 
As the panning continued and I could see the rest of Emma, I knew Monica would
really never change, and I had been naive to expect such.  Emma was in a
terribly stringent position in the headstock recess, balanced on the points of
her knees with her ankles taped to her thighs.  Her knees had been pulled wide
and were bound to the vertical rods that raised and lowered the headstock.  Her
body was rigid, stretched vertically by the wooden planks locked about her neck. 
She was naked, of course.  Monica needed the nude body for effect - something
she did so well, such as with the wires trailing from the prisoner out of camera
range.

    Emma's arms were behind her, presumably crossed and bound.  Beneath her was
the steel plate that was regularly used to fix a dildo or vibrator.  In this
instance I could see the base of a large chrome dildo upon which Emma was
evidently impaled with the device firmly implanted in her arse. 

    Emma was obviously under considerable strain.  Her body was stretched to its
limit, and her lovely breasts quivered with the effort of maintaining the
position.  Attached to the nipples were small clips which were in turn attached
to the wires leading off camera.

    That's when I head Monica's voice in my earpiece.

    "Good morning Steven.  As you now know, we would all like you to return to
the fold.  Emma, in particular, is anxious for your agreement, so that she can
regain her freedom.  At the moment she is undergoing the water-torture, in a
device for which you can personally take much of the credit.  The difference
this time from last, of course, is firstly that since Emma is kneeling, the
drops have much further to fall, and land on her pretty head with considerably
more force.  The second point is that on every fifth drop I shall push the
button on one of these little black boxes that you made for us."

    Great, I thought.  Lay all the blame on my doorstep.  Get Steven totally
guilt-ridden, so he'll have no choice.

    The camera tilted down to where a box sat on a chair, a couple of metres
from the helpless figure in the recess.  A hand was poised above a small button.

    "Are you counting the drops, Emma?  Starting from now: one... two...
three... four... five!"  The finger pushed down on the button and Emma jerked
and spasmed as much as she was able, which was in fact very little.  Her body
trembled while her arms quivered behind her and a high-pitched keening wail came
from deep behind the gag jammed in her mouth. 

    "Are we counting again Emma? ...Three ...four... five!"  Again the finger on
the button and the helpless jerking as electricity was sent through her nipples
and up her rectum.  I handed the camera back to Jillian.  She looked
disconsolate.  I knew she and Emma were close, and it was obvious they had been
partnered in this exercise for exactly this reason.

    "She's still there," said Jill.

    "What do I have to do to stop this?" I asked.

    "Come back with me," she said quietly.  "As soon as you're ready, I have to
phone Monica."

    "As soon as I'm ready?"

    "I have to handcuff you.  Will you do it?"

    I sighed, and held out my wrists.  Jillian picked up her bag and pulled a
pair of handcuffs from it.  She clicked them carefully over my wrists.  "You're
a nice guy, Steven.  I really do appreciate this," she said with a grateful
smile.  "I have to make you a little more secure, though, for the moment."  She
delved into her bag again to retrieve a leather collar which she buckled around
my neck, then with a single padlock through the chain between the cuffs lifted
my wrists and locked the cuffs to a D-ring on the collar. My hands were now hard
up underneath my chin.

    "Is this really necessary?"

    "I'm afraid it is," she said seriously.  "I have strict instructions on what
I must do."  I didn't like the sound of this.  I knew I would never come to harm
with Jill, but she was obviously being pressured by Monica through Emma.

    "Oh no, not that too," I groaned, when Jillian produced a red ball gag on a
strap out of her bag.

    "Sorry," she said apologetically.  "Open wide." 

    She worked the big ball behind my teeth as gently as she could, and did not
buckle it nearly as tightly as Monica or Mary might have done.  As if to correct
any misunderstanding she said:  "You know I might have to tighten it before the
others arrive."

    "Huh?" I expostulated as best as I could.

    "Someone's coming around to help with the transport," she explained.  That
was when she delved into that terrible bag again and came up with a piece of
rope that she threaded through my collar, drawing the two long tails together
and pulling me gently back to the banisters just near the front door.  The ropes
went around a post at head height then down the stairs to be secured to the
bottom post - a point way out of my reach.  Well, that was me secured pretty
easily.  What a total capitulation, I thought.  What an absolute sucker.  God,
but I was pathetic sometimes in the hands of an attractive woman.

    Jillian picked up the phone and dialled what was obviously Monica's number.

    "Mon?  Yes, he's going to come back.  He's secured.  Will you please let
Emma go?  Let me talk to her!  Hello?"  There was a pause.  "Em?  Are you okay? 
You're loose?  Hello?  Monica?  Thank you... Okay, what now?"  The look of
relief was palpable on Jillian's face.  "Okay, I'll do that.  When will you be
over?  Okay.  See you then."  She turned to me.  "I have to prepare you properly
now.  Emma's okay, thank goodness."  With that, she disappeared out the front
door, closing it behind her before I had a chance to utter a plaintive 
"Hnnmff?"

    She was back a couple of minutes later, a small backpack slung over her
shoulder. 

    "I should have told you," she said apologetically with a genuineness I saw
through at once.  "We want you naked."

    "Huhf?"

    "After what you did to us? Why on earth not?" she smiled at me bewitchingly. 
That was just before I found myself naked from the waist down as my trousers
were dropped and removed along with my sneakers and socks.  Then it was my
teeshirt, and another one bit the dust at the hands of the Bilboes team as
Jillian cut this one away from my body.  It was admittedly easier than trying to
get it off any other way.

    "Now here's what's going to happen, Steven.  We have to transport you across
town, and we don't want anything to happen to perishable goods, so Monica has
instructed that you be wrapped up properly."  She reached into the backpack and
pulled out a large roll of cling wrap.  I groaned inwardly.  "But first, because
it is still a little cool, we need to make sure you keep warm - at least in some
parts."  This time the bag yielded a pair of surgical gloves which Jillian
snapped on like she had done a hundred times before, then flourished a tube of
Finalgon.  This liniment she rubbed generously on my nipples and backside.

    The plastic film was the pale green stuff used to wrap the daily newspaper
before it was tossed over the fence by the deliveryman in the morning.  It was
strong and very clingy, and I had seen more than a few rolls of the stuff lying
about in the storeroom at Bilboes.  I knew what it was used for, and now I was
obviously going to have a first hand experience.

    She started with my torso just below the armpits, and wound it round my
body, pulling it tight and continuing down to the top of my thighs, before
winding it back up again.  I found at once my breathing was already constricted
by the tightness of the clinging plastic.

    "Now your left arm," she said briskly, unclipping the cuff from that wrist. 
Resignedly I let her have her way.  There was probably no way I could escape
from the way she had tied me to the rails anyway, but I really had no
inclination to resist Jillian. 

    She wound the film around my arm from shoulder to hand, wrapping the fingers
tightly so that I could not move them, before then binding my arm to my side
with further turns of the plastic around my body.  Then it was the turn of my
right arm.


    At that point Jillian disappeared outside again, to reappear with a long
plywood board in roughly the shape of a coffin, with two cross timbers
underneath at about neck and knee points.  She placed the board spanning between
the seats of two kitchen chairs, then unfastened my collar and led me over to
the plank.  She helped me lie down on it and I knew what I was in store for at
this point.  There was no sense in fighting it, of course.  I could only go with
the flow, and a couple of minutes later my torso was immovably melded to the
plywood from neck to groin.  At this point she lifted my legs one by one and
wrapped them carefully in the green plastic, before binding them together with
more film, and then marrying them to the board.  Before doing this she placed a
piece of polystyrene under the lower part of my calves, down to the ankle.  I
wondered what this was for until I discovered she could now tilt my feet
downward and secure them like a ballet dancer doing an en point.  I was not
happy, and I was becoming unhappier as the heat built up around my backside and
nipples where the Finalgon had been applied.  The skin and nips felt like they
were on fire - the whole of my buttock area was burning as though from a
thorough flogging.

    All of this only left my head unwrapped, and I would need to have been
really dumb to expect such a state of affairs to continue.  Predictably enough,
Jill placed foam pads over my eyes before taping them in place with duct tape. 
The ball gag was then removed, but before I could even establish how long my
torture was to last, something was inserted in its place.  With a shock I
realised it was the mouthpiece I had made for Monica for her two-day endurance
feat.  This alarmed me, because two days being more or less mobile with access
to a bathroom was one thing.  The same period immobilised in a plastic cocoon
was a different ball game entirely.  Not that I got a chance to discuss this. 
The mouthpiece was wedged in place and my lips and jaw were taped around it.  I
could feel the plastic tube dangling somewhere around my chin.  This was as
embarrassing as going to the dentist, where I always seemed to encounter a
gorgeous assistant who had to view me with all manner of undignified instruments
stretching my mouth and hanging from it.

    Jill placed a piece of foam padding under my head before wrapping it in all
directions.  After each pass over my nose she snipped away enough of the film to
leave my nostrils clear, before making the final turns about my head that pulled
it rigidly against the foam pad and the board.  I was now totally immobile.

    "Wriggle for me," she said, the way one might ask a child to test a shoe in
a shoe shop.  I tried to move, in vain.

    "Come on Steven - try properly!"  I did, desperately, making a faint noise
through the tube in my mouth.  That wasn't a great idea.  I verified the fact
that I couldn't move a muscle, and resulted in my tube being bent double and
sealed off.  Not content with this, Jill then planted her spread hands on my
stomach and abdomen and wrapped a few further turns around me.

    Then the game seemed to change.  In the midst of the burning pain in my
nipples and buttocks, I felt some of the plastic being cut away from my groin
area, and questing fingers playing with Mr Willy, prising him free of the
clinging film.  You cannot be serious, Jill, I thought.  I was surprised at her,
firstly because I thought she had an exclusive relationship with Emma.  While I
knew she was bi-sexual, I had not thought she harboured such thoughts towards
me.  And quite what she thought I could do in my present situation, I did not
know.  I was sure Mr Willy would not be in the mood for it, given the firey
baptism that was taking place elsewhere.  I really should have known better. 
What an amazing thing the blood supply is, the way the body diverts it for more
aesthetic uses.  Before I knew it Mr Willy was at attention, victim of Jillian's
dexterous hands then her even more skilled mouth.  These attentions lasted for
perhaps ten minutes before Jillian hoisted up her skirt and eased herself on top
of me.  She must have rubbed some sort of lubricant on the plastic, for she had
no trouble moving against me, and I found myself erupting in time with her,
feeling her body stiffening and shuddering against me, then her head lowered
down next to mine.

    "Mmmm, that was good," she said huskily next to my ear.

    "Mmmnnp!" I complained.

    "You stud," she murmured.

    "You bitch!" I said, but it came out as "ynn bnnff!"

   

   

    Amazingly Mr Willy was still upright when the next visitors arrived.  These
turned out to be Mary and Monica.  Oh God, I thought wearily.  It had to be
these two, didn't it.

    "Hello," said Monica, obviously eyeing up my plastic-encased form with the
flagpole on top.  "Who's been a naughty girl then, Jillian?  Messing about with
the merchandise?"

    I would swear Jill blushed at that point, though of course I couldn't see
her. 

    "The devil made me do it, Mon," she said.  "I couldn't help myself." 

    "Understandable..." Mary murmured, running long fingernails down Mr Willy in
a move that nearly made me split the plastic. 

    "We have a suitable mode of travel for you, Steven," Monica told me.  "Mary,
can you and Jill please fetch the coffin?" 

    Coffin?  What the hell was she playing at?


   

    While the other two were outside, Monica picked up the phone and dialled a
number. 

    "Hello? Instant mobile locksmiths?  Yes, I want the locks changed on my
house please.  Yes, the tenants have left and I want to make sure there is no
problem in the future.  What time can you come round?  Okay, someone will be
here at three o'clock."  She gave the guy my address then hung up.

    "You won't need to come back here for quite a while, Steven, so there'll be
no point in even thinking about it.  Ah, here's the coffin." 

    I couldn't see what was going on, but my abrupt questioning "mmphh?"
produced an answer.

    "Steven, we toyed with what to do with you.  The prevailing opinion was that
you were dead meat after that stunt you pulled, although I have to admit you did
it extremely well.  So, dead meat you shall be.  We have a coffin here, and we
have even hired a hearse.  You can't see us, but Mary and I have dressed up
especially for your funeral in our best Little Black Dresses, just like
professional undertakers - but with more class, of course.  We had the coffin
specially made.  You'll find you fit it nicely, but with a rather interesting
twist.  Girls?'"

    That was when I felt myself picked up, one on each side and one at the foot
of the plank, and I was moved a metre or so off the chairs, presumably to where
the coffin was.  The 'twist' was that I was abruptly flipped over, to my initial
dismay, but of course it made no real difference for I was still immobile and
trapped.  The board was lowered and the two cross pieces on the board must have
fitted in some sort of rebates in the coffin.  Mr Willy bumped against the
bottom of the coffin with a sharp thump, which immediately had the desired
effect.  I was now far too preoccupied to need blood supply down there.  Then
came Monica's voice again, fainter now.

    "We are going to screw on the lid now Steven and we'll take a drive to the
cemetery, where you will be interred.  We want to play body snatchers, so the
plan is to come and dig you up tonight.  We reckon there's enough air in the
coffin to let you last that long, if you breathe slowly." 

    There was a muffled thump and the sound of steel being screwed into wood,
then a sudden series of movements upwards, sideways and a bumpy procession
forwards, before I was plonked down on what I imagined as the tailgate of the
hearse.  What the hell would old Mrs Kostakidis in the flat next door think?  I
thought I heard voices but they were now distant and so indistinct I could not
decipher the words. 

    "Mmmppphhh!  Mmnnpph!"  I cried, but it was hopeless in my wooden box under
layers of that plastic.

    Shit oh dear, what on earth had I got myself into now?

   

    I had no idea how long I travelled in that totally immobile position,
wrapped upside down like a suspended, high-tech version of Tuthankhamun.  Maybe
it was half an hour or so.  There were occasional traffic noises, then the sound
of tyres on gravel and then possibly on grass.  Then the coffin was being
removed again and man- (or should I say woman-) handled out of the hearse,
before coming to rest somewhere.  There were voices and then came music. 

    That was subtle, I thought, listening to the distant melody.  It was
Strauss's Im Abendbrot, the final of his 'Four Last Songs'.  Trish had been in
on this, I knew at that point.  She knew my taste in music and she knew what
could even now bring a bit of a lump to my throat.  There followed Samuel
Barber's Adagio for Strings, the hauntingly sad music that had become legend
since being played at JFK's funeral.  Monica was playing mind games, and
unfortunately, given my present helpless position, they were having an effect. 
Then came the sound of Strauss's "Death and Transfiguration", with its rolling
chords that promised a new life beyond the grave.  Oh yes, Monica was excelling
herself, I thought.

    The coffin began to move again, this time I knew it was downward.  There was
a slight jar as it came to a stop.  The music had become fainter and abruptly
began to be overpowered by a noise that sent chills down my spine - the sound of
earth thudding on the lid of the coffin.  This sound intensified, then faded
away, as did the music, and I knew finally that I had been buried alive.

    Lying immobile and sweating in my plastic cocoon, the only sound was my
breathing, and I was worried about the air supply.  What if something happened
to the girls on the way to dig me up?  What if they had a car accident?  How
long could I last?  My mind began to play tricks.  Was the air getting staler? 
Was it becoming harder to breathe?  Such thoughts only increased my heart rate
and sweating. 

    So this was what total silence was like.  It was scary.  Was this what it
would be like to die?  Dying was not something I had thought about often.  I had
certainly not contemplated anything like this, buried alive in plastic wrap.  It
was not dignified.  I wondered who would miss me.  Perhaps the girls, but as for
the rest of humanity there would barely be a ripple to show the passage of
Steven Reynolds.  I guess I had left behind some nice houses that would serve
their owners well for many years to come, but who of those owners would
recognise this contribution?

    I became morbid over the passage of hours, wishing I had done more in my
life.  I also became more and more jittery.  Attempts to call out were
predictably useless, given the mouthpiece taped securely in place under the
windings of plastic.  My eyes stung with sweat but still I could not budge in
the plastic wrapping holding me tight. I guess I must have dozed eventually, for
I awoke in confusion and panic as to where I was and what had happened.  Then
the sound of dirt being scraped away penetrated my foggy brain and there was the
sound of shovel against wood. 

   

    I was scarcely aware of events after that.  I didn't know if it was day or
night, nor could I feel anything except a rush of cold air in the vicinity of Mr
Willy.  There were voices, Monica's, Jillian's and Mary's amongst them.  My
brain was not functioning clearly, a fact which was not helped by subsequent
events.  I felt myself being removed from the coffin and a voice said:

    "We need to get some fluid into him quickly - he's very dehydrated."

    Then I felt a tug on the tube connected to the mouthpiece and some cool,
sweet liquid reached my mouth.  I vaguely guessed it must be one of those sports
drinks that the girls were always using, and I sucked at it greedily.  It tasted
wonderful as I realised how thirsty I was.  Then things started to go a bit
blurry again, and I realised there had been something in the drink considerably
more powerful than any restorative sports drink.  That was the final act in the
death of Steven Reynolds.

   

    When I regained consciousness I had no idea of how much time had passed.  I
felt strange - both mentally and physically.  My mind was fuzzy and the lack of
a focal point in time and space left me confused.  I did not know where I was,
nor what day it was, nor whether in fact it was day or night.  My mind was
surfacing from strange dreams of being buried alive, of being helpless and
unable to see, speak or move, or react to what was happening to me. 
Claustrophobic images of coffins, the sound of portentous music, then falling
earth, and ultimately silence, lingered in my head.  Mixing it up with these
hangovers from a bad dream were the strange physical sensations that I had to
focus on individually to understand.

    I was lying on my side, and I immediately felt my wrists crossed and bound
behind me.  The ropes were snug and cinched and I could move them very little. 
There were ropes binding my legs above the knees and at the ankles as well. 
Predictably they were well secured, properly cinched and with little movement. 
What felt like several layers of duct tape was plastered over my mouth.

    My eyes focussed on the dark painted blockwork immediately in front of me
and it slowly came to me that I was lying on a futon in one of the holding
cells.  That was the first thing that I took in.  Straight after that I realised
to my astonishment that I was dressed as a woman.

    Coming straight after my strange, almost transcendental, dream-like
experience in the coffin, my mind rebelled at this thought, but it was
inescapable.  I wore a rust-coloured linen skirt and a white, long-sleeved silk
blouse, somewhat the worse from my lying on the floor.  My legs were encased in
black stockings with black strappy sandals buckled on my feet.

    I struggled into a sitting position against the wall, shaking my head to rid
myself of the lock of auburn hair that flopped down in front of my eyes.  Damn
it - I was now sporting a mop of hair that hung down to my shoulders!  I shook
my head violently in an effort to dislodge it, but all that did was totally
obscure my view with more tresses.  Snorting stray hairs clear of my face I
eventually tossed them clear and looked down at myself, becoming aware as I did
so of what Monica had done to me, and the fact that it went considerably beneath
the fashionable exterior.

    I had boobs, for one thing.  Yes, fair dinkum breasts, or so I surmised.  My
chest felt tight and constricted.  Something was obviously being supported here,
and it wasn't two pairs of balled up socks.  No, they were strangely real, and I
was sure I could see a couple of nipple-like points through the silk of the
blouse.  Beneath them my torso was tightly constrained in some sort of corset. 
It might have been rubber or something similar - I couldn't tell.  It made
breathing difficult, but I had to admit it dispensed with any hint of stomach
bulge that might have been present.  Oh yes, this was a much slimmer Steven - so
much so that there was actually a waist line, as delineated by the belt of the
skirt, pulled in to match the corset's profile.  But that was not the end of my
troubles.  They had done something with Mr Willy as well.  From the bottom of
the corset there appeared to be a front and back flap that were joined
underneath.  Somehow Mr Willy had been pulled back where he could do no harm -
could do nothing, in fact.  What happened when I wanted to go for a pee?  Or a
crap, for that matter, because shifting my bum as I leaned against the wall made
me all too aware of the butt plug sitting snugly in my arse.

    This really was too much!  Just what did Monica think she was playing at? 
As I took stock of my situation, the possibilities for potential humilation
began to dawn on me.  That was when the key turned in the lock and Jillian
appeared.  She was wearing a simple white shift dress, and I did not know if it
was now the day after I had been taken from my flat, or whether the change in
clothes was unrelated.

    "Mmnph!" I said. "Hhnp mmp pft!"  It was all good unintelligible stuff.

    "Ssh!" she said needlessly, kneeling down beside me, her head close to mine. 
I smelt a hint of a sweet perfume.  "Look, I'm not even supposed to be here,"
she whispered earnestly.  "I've only come to tell you what is going on.  I'm
sorry, there's nothing else I can do - Monica and Mary will kill me if they find
me here.  You know the thing with Emma was a hoax, of course?"

    "Hnnn?"

    "No, I didn't know either - I fell for it totally.  Emma was only in the
headstocks long enough to take the video.  There were no electric shocks and she
wasn't even tied up properly.  That dildo didn't go up her, either.  But it
wasn't her fault.  It was either that option or the real thing...  I'm sorry,
Steven...  But then, you're not Steven any longer."

    "Hhuh?"

    "I'm telling you this to help you play the part, to avoid being on the wrong
end of punishments, you goose!  Listen, this is all a big role play.  Your name
is Stephanie, and you've just been kidnapped by an extremist group, who're
demanding a ransom.  I don't know what's going to happen, but let me tell you,
the better you play your part, the easier it will be for you.  And let me tell
you a few other things before you find out for yourself the hard way.  Those
breasts of yours are surgical prostheses, designed to look and behave just like
the real thing.  The difference in your case is that they've been fixed with
superglue, as has that lovely head of hair of yours.  You see, while you were
out of it, you were completely shaved and depilated - legs, chest, arms, face,
head, the works.  You won't be doing any shaving for a while Steve - I mean
Stephanie. "  There was a faint trace of a smile. 

    "And before they glued your breasts on, they put a donut electrode over each
nipple - just like you did to Monica.  These were wired to the black box you
have below your goolies. You can probably feel it there.  And of course your
dick has been secured out of the way, complete with its own little plastic
extension tube.  Yes, you can go for a pee, but you'll have to do it sitting
down - just like a girl."  This time she did smile, probably at the look of
growing horror I must have been showing at that point.  "The wires are covered
by the corset, which - incidentally - has done wonders for your figure and has
taken several inches off your waist.  Monica wanted all your clothes to fit
nicely, you see.  And of course the wires are also connected to your butt plug,
just like the device you made for the Twins, and it can be activated at the
touch of a remote button.  The difference is that this isn't your normal Tens
electro-muscular stimulator.  This is made from one of those collars they use on
barking dogs, and it can give quite a jolt.  You thought the Tens was bad...  
You see, it's all about turning the tables, sweetie, making you understand what
it's like to be a woman."  She pushed my hair back from my face and tucked it
behind my ears.  "Oh yes, you can now wear proper earrings - the pierced sort." 
She tugged at what were obviously rings through my ear lobes, and a sudden pain
shot through them.  This really was the last straw, I thought disconsolately. 

    "You look pretty special, actually, Stephie.  I hope this extremist group
isn't too rough on you, like cutting off fingers or something.  Maybe they'll
just sell you into slavery..."  She stood up and smoothed down her dress,
looking down at me with an expression into which I hoped I read genuine concern. 
She started to leave, then turned back.  "Oh yes, I should warn you, you'd
better think about your voice.  Deep-voiced women do not go down well.  If you
want to survive this role with your arse and nips intact, think high and husky. 
I must go now - I'm really sorry for this - I think things have got a little out
of hand."  She returned to me and kissed me gently on the forehead, then was
gone, with only the sound of the lock and a faint trace of perfume in the air
lingering behind her.  I sat there, bound and helpless, aghast at what had
happened to me, and wondering where it would all lead.  Superglue, for God's
sake!

   

    I sat there for some time, contemplating the fine paint job on the block
walls.  The cell was the one without the bed, only the futon on the floor and
the toilet.  Sitting with my back to one wall I could almost touch the opposite
wall with my feet.  It was oppressive in the stark light of the overhead
recessed light.  Various eyebolts protruded from the wall at different heights
and now looked considerably more ominous than they had done at the time I had
installed them. 

    That time now seemed long distant.  Events and relationships had certainly
moved on since then.  What had started as a friendly competition between Monica
and myself, albeit unspoken, had turned into something new and different.  The
stakes had been raised considerably.  After her confinement for two days, I
wondered what Monica had in store for me, or rather for Stephanie, now kidnapped
by evil forces and held for ransom, bound and gagged and wired for torture, in
this windowless cell.  I wondered if my family would pay it...

   

    I must have been almost dozing when I was jolted awake - literally - by a
fearsome pain in my nipples and up my rectum.

    "Nnnnnmph!"

    A tall figure stood over me, with another standing just behind.  Both wore
jeans, work boots and bulky sweaters.  Both also wore black balaclavas with
holes for their eyes.  Both looked very forbidding, particularly from my
position.

    "Don't think you're goin' ter get much sleep, sweetheart," said the first. 
It spoke with an Irish accent and despite the deeper tone, I guessed it was
Monica.  She gave me a shove with her boot and I fell over on my side.  The butt
plug moved disconcertingly.  She squatted down and undid the ropes around my
ankles and knees, then dragged me upright again before pulling a black bag over
my head.  I felt two pairs of hands grasp me by the arms and haul me to my feet.

    "Hhhrmp hrrn hrrmng?" I demanded, trying to struggle or at least put up some
sort of token resistance, as a kidnap victim might.  It wasn't a very wise thing
to do as the shocking pain in my arse and nipples made me falter and nearly
double up.  My sandals had probably two-inch heels which made walking strange
and uncertain for me anyway.  What had happened just then, combined with my
disorientation made things even worse.

    "Shut up girlie!" said the voice to my left.  It was hard and cruel and was
probably Mary.  "Dere's  more where dat came from."  Her Irish alter ego was at
least as good as her German one, I concluded, moments after reaching a
conclusion that resistance was futile, as the bad guys were always saying.

    I stumbled along between my captors, feeling the strange sensations of my
new body - Stephanie's body.  This was the hairless version, the one where
materials rubbed on skin with strange sensations, with stockings encasing legs,
breasts that joggled in slow motion, and a strange tightness around my torso and
crotch.  Walking in the sandals took some getting used to.  They seemed to fit
reasonably well, and were held on by a strap round the ankles, but the extra
height made for weird walking.  How did women manage with higher heels than
this, I wondered?

    Despite having walked these corridors a thousand times, I found it easy to
lose my bearings, particularly after they had turned me around a few times.  We
seemed to walk for quite some distance, twisting and turning.  There came the
sound of a solid door opening.  I never realised until then how forbidding such
a noise could be.  It was the steel-on-steel sound that held overtones of
deprivation of liberty and awful things in store over a long period to come.

    I was pushed backwards and found myself on a chair - the one where I had had
my first not very pleasant experience at the hands of the Gestapo. My butt plug
forced itself upwards as I sat down abruptly and I could also feel the outline
of a small object between my legs under my goolies, as Jillian had described. 
That would be the battery and receiver for the remote signal.  I was pulled
backwards in the chair and the heavy velcro straps were tightened around my body
below my breasts and around my ankles and thighs.  I had begun to sweat on the
way here, and I felt a fresh wave break out with the memory of what had happened
before.  The hood was pulled off, leaving errant strands of hair hanging about
my face.  A hand smoothed it back.

    I looked about me.  The single overhead bulb lit the room with a dull light. 
The place looked like a room in some deserted warehouse where any number of
nefarious deeds may have taken place.  A couple of metres away a video camera
was standing on a tripod, pointed straight at me.

    "Roight, girlie," said a figure.  "You're gonna be a movie star now.  You're
gonna make a movie for your folks.  You're gonna tell them t'ree t'ings.  First,
you'll say you're okay, but you're wired up for electric shocks.  Secondly, if
the money doesn't come, they'll start getting bits of you in the post.  T'irdly,
dey have 24 hours until 3p.m. tomorrow.  Got dat?"  I nodded.  "Now I'm gonna
take the tape off.  Don't try anyting funny with yer voice to send a message to
your folks.  I want Stephanie Markham's normal voice, if you please, Miss," came
the command, followed by the ominous "...or else!"

    The tape was pulled none-too-gently from my mouth.  I licked my lips,
tasting the gum residue.  A figure moved behind the camera and a little red
light winked on top of it. 

    "Okay - say yer piece!"

    "It's...m-me," I stammered, not judging at all well how it would come out. 
I tried to make my voice sound different but obviously not very well.  My nips
and arse jolted with a zap of electricity.

    "Aargh - shit!"  I exclaimed.

    "How many of dese do you want to make you voice higher?" demanded the
figure.  "If I want to hear Barry White I'll go find him.  When I want to hear
Stephanie Markham I expect you to comply.  Do I make myself clear?"

    "Yes!" I gasped, suddenly finding an extra octave.  "I'm sorry..."

    "Roight.  Shall we try again?"

    It took another couple of zaps before Stephanie Markham's faint and somewhat
husky voice made its way on to the tape.  One of the masked figures ripped open
an onion under my nose and before long tears were streaming down my cheeks as I
sniffled through my plea.

    By the end of it all my blouse and skirt were soaked with sweat at the fear
of another bolt of electricity if I did something wrong.  I made no resistance
at that point when a bit gag was shoved into my mouth and buckled tightly behind
my neck.  Then it was on with the hood again and the stumbling walk back to my
cell.

    Here I was backed against the wall and my feet locked to a spreader bar,
after which my hands were untied and leather cuffs locked on and joined
together.  Predictably my hands ended up above my head secured to an eyebolt. 
The hood stayed on and there was the sound of a door slamming and being locked. 
Stephanie was obviously not going anywhere for a while.

    

     After the emotional, physical and temporal demands of the last few hours I
was feeling the strain, and hunger was not the least of my problems.  So I hung
there, becoming more aware of my new body with the passing of the hours.  My
scalp itched where my new head of hair was joined.  My chest no doubt would have
been itching as well, if my nipples hadn't been so sore.  Then there were my
pubes.  I had no doubt they were totally bare like the rest of me, and there was
no doubt they itched like mad.  I tried to squirm, to rub the tightness of the
corset against the area, but it was no good.  My skirt rode up my thighs and my
now hairless thighs seemed to pick up every little movement of linen against
nylon against flesh.  And my ear lobes throbbed.

    All that was before I could get past the taste of rubber in my mouth, the
pain in my wrists stretched above me, or the strain in my legs stretched apart
on flimsy heels I had never worn before.  Stephanie was not liking being
kidnapped.

   

    The arrival of my jailors was heralded by another burst up my bum and into
my nipples.  I groaned through the gag, but it was a high pitched groan this
time - a nasal whine that I was sure was truly Stephanie-like.  There followed a
blessed relief as my arms were let down and the hood was removed.  I blinked in
the harsh light.  The two balaclavas were there again.

    "On the floor!" commanded one.  My brain was getting a bit fuzzy now, and
what with the Irish accent I was starting to be unsure which was which. 
Awkwardly, with my ankles still locked to the spreader bar, I got to my knees.

    "On your face, rich bitch!"

    I eased myself forward, lying with my cuffed hands under my chest.  It was
the first time I had been able to feel my breasts and I was surprised how
lifelike they seemed.  It also appeared I was stuck with my nipples in a state
of permanent excitement!  I was aware of something on the floor next to me, then
my keepers were gone. 

    I raised my head, not understanding what was happening.  On the floor was a
plate with a portion of a French loaf on it and a plastic bottle of water.  I
managed to undo the bit gag strap behind my head and fell upon the bread and
water ravenously.  Bread and water was a bit of a cliche, I thought.  Monica
must be losing her touch.  But I was not knocking it.  I ate while lying propped
on my elbows, expecting at any moment that the balaclava twins would return. 
After devouring the food and drink I decided perhaps it was an advantageous
moment to try having a pee.  I supposed I had nothing to lose, even if they did
come back.

    It wasn't easy with my ankles still spread, but I managed to sit on the
toilet.  Then came the weird exercise of releasing my muscles and seeing what
would happen.  Mr Willy felt most unnatural, facing the rear, and I half
expected to wet myself, but there was the sound of water in the bowl and a
feeling of constrained, slower release, which I decided I could live with.

    Having succeeded with this, I could now examine my clothes in more detail. 
Beginning under my skirt, I saw that my black stockings were suspender free,
held up by some sort of rubberised top.  Then I saw the nature of the corset I
wore.  It too was of rubber. Maybe three millimetres thick and flesh-coloured,
it was obviously closed up at the back, where I could not reach with my cuffed
hands.  Beneath my crotch, incorporated in a little pocket was the dreaded black
box that had been causing me so much grief.  Just behind this I felt a small
padlock that joined the front and back crotch flaps.  All this left me with the
rather obvious conclusion that it was not a garment I was going to be getting
out of in a hurry.

    I undid my blouse, perversely curious to get a look at what sort of tits
Monica had given me.  I wore a black bra.  Now I'm no expert, but I thought it
was rather stylish - simple and understated, without being frumpy.  Satin with
the barest hint of lace, and a front loader, to boot.  I undid the clip and
gazed down at my breasts.  It was the strangest feeling as I cupped them in my
hands.  They were an extraordinary match to my skin colour, and given the
absence of hair and the fine feathering of the rubber at the edges, they all but
merged seamlessly with my chest.  Under them I found the wires that disappeared
down the top of the corset that stopped just under my boobs.

    As boobs went, I thought they were not bad.  Not overly large, with enough
wobble to be interesting.  I had always thought I could never have been a woman,
simply because I'd end up spending half the day playing with my tits.  Well,
Stephanie, now was your chance... At the tip of each was a little nipple,
lifelike in everything except their ability to retract.  I suspect Monica had
been enhancing things with a little silicone of her own, courtesy of my plumbing
sealants in the workshop.  I cupped my hands around them.  They actually felt
good, soft and squidgy but with enough weight and resilience.  A nice fit - two
hands full.  Anything else was a waste, as the old chauvinist saying went.
Without the support of the bra they tugged at my chest, and I experimentally
tried to pull the edge of one free.  Not a chance.  I wondered what sort of
solvent could be used on superglue.  But it wasn't like I was just trying to
wipe some stuff of my hands.  These babies were seriously stuck on me. 
Resignedly I did up my bra and buttoned up my blouse.

    My hands wandered up further, tentatively touching my hair.  I held a lock
in my thumb and forefinger and examined it.  It was a nice auburn colour, not so
much different from my own.  I touched my forehead and found that whoever had
done the shaving had left me my eyebrows - to a degree, anyway.  They felt
tender, and I guessed someone had been active with a pair of tweezers.  My new
hair was likewise married to my scalp immovably with superglue.  It hung down
just to my shoulders where it seemed to have a slight inward curl.  A fringe
came down to my eyebrows.  It all felt very strange and unfamiliar.  Finally
there were my ear lobes, and sure enough these were sporting small sleeper
rings, with little encrustations of dried blood.  This was all too weird for
words.

    I sat there for a while, experimenting with my voice.  I did not like these
shocks up my arse and the only way around it seemed to be to make my voice
somewhat less masculine.  It wasn't easy, and I have to say I felt pretty stupid
sitting there talking to myself.  I was sure Monica was having a giggle to
herself, the bitch, if she was watching television in her study.  It wasn't easy
with the voice.  It's one thing to put on an accent, but another to keep it even
while raising it an octave or two.  I ended up soft and husky, much of the time,
although I found that talking as one might to a child, asking rhetorical
questions, tended to aid the focus.

    At length tiredness overcame me, and I almost nodded off where I was.  I
ended up on the floor, on my back, my legs still spread and shackled to the bar,
but at least my arms were relatively free and my face was unencumbered.  Thus I
slept.

   

    I awoke with the weight of a body on top of me, pinning my arms to my body. 
A pair of hands was working a hard red rubber ball impaled with an eye bolt,
into my mouth.  I spluttered and tried to resist - a move which was predictably
futile.  The ball was forced between my teeth and my head was lifted while the
strap was buckled behind my neck.  There followed a further strap buckled under
my chin and one dragged either side of my nose and over the top of my head to
join the neck strap at the back.  It was my two hooded friends again, now
undoing the cuffs on my ankles.  I groaned with relief as they came off and my
thigh muscles were eased.  Then it was over on to my stomach, while my wrists
were re-cuffed behind me and I was hauled to my feet.  Another black bag over my
head and off we trooped without a word of explanation.

    The bag was removed in Mary's dungeon.  I did not like it here, since my
last experience in the pillory.  When the bag came off my head I saw that I was
not alone. 

    "This is Jan," said one of my captors to me.  Then, turning to the bound
woman: "Jan, meet Stephanie.  She has a rich father as well.  Unfortunately for
young Stephie, however, it appears Daddy doesn't value her too highly and needs
more persuasion to part with some of his millions.  You would do well to watch
and learn, and to hope your old man is more cooperative."

    The woman was wore a simple fawn-coloured linen dress.  It was sleeveless
and buttoned down the front, outlining her breasts and waistline before becoming
loose and flowing to her knees.  Jan was a brunette, with high cheekbones and
big almond eyes.  Her mouth was hidden by a wide leather pad strapped in place
behind her head.  I knew that behind the pad was a large ball filling her mouth. 
Her hair was about the same length as mine, but held back by a tortoiseshell
comb above each ear.  Jan was positioned like a ballet dancer, her cuffed wrists
stretched to a pulley above, with her right ankle attached to a second pulley
two metres further across the ceiling.  The rope held her leg out straight and
slightly above the horizontal, pointed to a distant spot on the ceiling.  She
was touching the floor only with the tiptoes of her left foot.  It was a very
severe position and Jan was obviously under stress, her eyes large and pleading
above the gag.  I tried to offer what I imagined was a look of sympathy, between
two prisoners destined to share a similar fate.

    The video camera had been set up again and it was obvious I was to be the
star of the day.  I was pushed across towards the Plank.  Oh no, I thought, and
started to resist my captors, but the two of them were more than a match for me
with my wrists cuffed behind my back.  A quick jolt to nipples and rectum soon
sorted Stephanie out.  Reluctantly I straddled the plank which was winched up
until it just touched my crotch. 

    I had noticed some new holes, about the size of a 20 cent piece, had been
drilled through the plank, behind me, and the purpose of these quickly became
apparent.  They were in a fan pattern, and it was over these that my hands were
secured by means of those nasty plastic ties that electricians are so fond of. 
One tie ran through each of the five holes, looping over a finger on each side
and being drawn tight.  When they were all secured I was in a semi-rigid
position with a hand flat on each side of the plank behind me, obliging me to
lean backwards somewhat.  A few more turns of the winches made the plank lift
under my arse and thrust the butt plug home even further as I was forced on to
tiptoe.  My ankles were then tied together, just to stop any attempt to swing a
leg over.  I whined into the rubber ball, making the sound as feminine as I
could.

    "Something wrong, Stephanie?"  asked one of my captors.  "There will be in a
minute, anyway." 

    With that ominous statement a medium sized pair of bolt cutters was
flourished in front of me.  The penny dropped at once, and my horror was not
acting, nor was that of Jan, balanced only a few metres away.  I shook my head,
making spluttering nasal noises into the gag.

    "Let us be clear, Stephie.  Your old man was supposed to cough up half a
million bucks.  So far there's been a big fat zero.  Which simply means he needs
a little persuasion.  Like receiving a finger tip in the mail."

    The speaker activated the video then walked around to my left side and
behind me, to be joined by the second figure.  The plank was now between them
and where Jan hung.

    "We'll start at the little finger this time," the voice said, "and we can do
a further one every couple of days."  I began to whimper, although I now
realised the effect they were looking for.  The tip of my left little finger was
already missing from a past circular saw accident.  I suspected I was about to
see a little slight of hand - pardon the pun - for Jan's benefit.  All that
didn't stop me carrying on as though the worst was about to befall me, though. 
When it actually happened, however, I really didn't need to act.  At the moment
the jaws of the bolt cutters snapped closed, two things happened to me.  The
first thing was the jolt of electricity through my rectum and nipples.  It was
not as powerful as previous ones, but it was longer, perhaps five seconds in
duration.  A moment later I received a hard crack across the end of my little
finger, straight on the raw nerve ends under the repaired skin.  Acting went out
the window at that point as I stiffened and jerked under the electricity,
howling into the gag with the pain from my finger.  What I didn't see was the
spurt of red stuff from a small plastic bag the girls had taped to the rear of
the plank, out of Jan's line of sight.  At the same time one of them caught a
fake plastic portion of finger in a 'blood-soaked' clear zip-lock bag.  I was
too busy trying to writhe in agony during this time to see the bag put on the
floor while some bloody bandages were wrapped around my finger and hand.

    I felt the plastic ties being snipped and my only reaction was to tightly
grip my injured finger in my other hand.  It appeared in front of me wrapped in
the aforementioned bloody bandages but I took little heed of these.  The pain
was real enough.  I looked at Jan.  She was white-faced, her eyes big and
staring, shaking her head and whimpering in disbelief.  My ankles were undone at
this point and the plank was dropped and I was led away, panting and whining
from the pain.

   

    Whether it was out of sympathy for me or for some other reason, I was left
relatively unencumbered on the return to the cell.   A bowl of some sort of stew
and a bottle of water awaited me on the floor.  This time my wrist cuffs were
linked by a short chain which was locked at mid-point to a waist chain, and my
ankles were joined with a short hobble chain.  My captors walked out with barely
a backward glance, leaving me to remove my head harness and gag.  Before the
door closed, one of them tossed a key in my direction. 

    There was no doubt I was glad the gag had been in for the ten minutes before
the cell door slammed for I would have yowled the house down with the pain.  By
the time I got the ball out of my mouth I had calmed down considerably, but my
finger was throbbing like crazy.  I pulled off the 'bloody' bandages and
examined it, but other than some redness at the tip, it looked okay, as I had
suspected it would.  I had banged it before from time to time, and I knew what
the reaction would be, but that still didn't make it any better when it
happened.

    I examined the key, wondering what it could be for.  I tried it in the cuff
locks, then realised it must fit the lock under my crotch.  I was right, and
moments later I experienced the wonderful relief as the front and back flaps
hung loose, as did Mr Willy.  Mr Willy was in fact somewhat enhanced with a
piece of clear plastic tube which also appeared to be glued on in some way, as I
found out when I tried to remove it.  This really was going too far! 
Nevertheless the hanging loose felt so good after maybe a day of constriction. 
Not only that, I could get that awful butt plug out and perform some bodily
functions.  The plug was attached by wires from inside the corset, and after
cleaning it as best I could I let it hang, unseen, beneath my skirt.

    It was clear that I was being rewarded for cooperation, but I was too tired
to debate my turning into a Pavlov's dog, performing to the whims of my masters. 
I remained a captive, chained in a cell awaiting my fate.  The subtleties and
hidden agendas of my captors were beyond me at that stage, so having eaten the
food, I promptly fell asleep on the mattress.

Monica's Place

CHAPTER TWENTY ONE - ESCAPE AND CAPITULATION
      

    "I want you to put this on," said Monica, handing me a double-ended dildo.

    "How can I?" I said.  "I don't have a pussy."

    "Yes you do."

    "Don't be ridiculous."  This seemed a bizarre conversation to be having
around the breakfast table, but the others appeared to be totally disinterested.

    "Go on - you'll enjoy it."

    "But Monica -"

    That was when she lifted up the hem of my skirt, pulling it up to my waist. 
And there, for all the world to behold, was a lovely brown furry patch.  I was
astonished, and let Monica's questing fingers find their way into the entry of
my new acquisition.  I blushed then surrendered to the feelings of pleasure.

    "Now, put it on...put it on..."

   

    "Put it on!"  The voice was not Monica's, but deeper and harsher.  My
strange dream dissolved and I opened my eyes to see the terrible black ski mask
with the two menacing eyeholes in front of me.  The ball gag on the harness was
being shaken in front of my face.

    "Are you deaf, girl, or just thick?"

    Reluctantly I took the harness and worked the ball behind my teeth, then
fastened the buckle under my hair behind my head.  I did up the strap under my
chin and then pulled the last one over the top of my head.  I was trying to find
the connecting buckle by feel, but my hair kept getting in the way.  Abruptly
the hooded one slapped my hands away with a gesture of impatience and fastened
the strap, pulling the buckle I had done up another notch tighter.  I winced,
and my heart sank as I felt a small padlock being fitted and snapped closed at
the back.

    "All right, hands together at the front!"  I did as I was ordered and my
leather cuffs were removed before my hands were bound palm to palm with a length
of white sashcord.  After a few turns round my wrists the rope was cinched and a
couple of long tails were left trailing.  I didn't like the potential that these
provided for anyone with an imagination.

    "On all fours girl - hurry up, we haven't got all day!"  I did so
reluctantly, knowing what had to come next.  Sure enough Mr Butt Plug was pushed
home expertly, being worked in heedless of my muted protests, in and out until
the bulge slipped past my dilated sphincter.  Then it was Mr Willy's turn to be
manhandled, along with the rest of my personal bits down there, being pulled
backwards so that the extension tube obviously poked through a hole in the back
rubber flap, which was then secured to the front one with the small padlock I
had undone and left lying on the floor.

    I was hauled to my feet and made to stand while one of the figures put
several layers of white sticking plaster over the tip of my left little finger,
along with a dash of red stain.  I had to admit it looked very effective, bound
as it was against the longer little finger on my right hand.  After that it was
the usual routine.  My short hobble chain was removed, although the cuffs were
left on, and the horrid black bag was placed over my head before I was steered
out of the cell.

    My destination was again the dungeon, but this time it appeared I was to be
the witness.  Jan was already present, but the circumstances were dramatically
different.  She was naked, straddling the plank as I had stood the day before -
or whenever it had been.  She was secured the same way, pulled backward with her
fingers held by plastic ties through the holes in the plank.  Her ankles were
held apart by a spreader bar and she wore a crotch and waist strap, with
presumably one or two devices inserted in the relevant passages.  Her hair was
pulled back into a pony tail and she wore a white ball gag on a harness the same
as mine.  Like mine, a large chromed eyebolt poked through the rubber ball.

    Jan had been crying.  She was plainly scared of what was going to happen but
could do nothing.  She was standing on tiptoes, trying to relieve the pressure
that must have been driving the dildo or dildos deeper inside her.  She was an
attractive woman or around thirty, perhaps, her looks showing through despite
the tearstains on her cheeks.  She sported a nipple clamp on each breast, from
which hung a small weight.  Her breasts were not big, but seemed larger due to
her body being tilted backwards.  They were best described as mounds, the size
of the smaller part of a rock melon sliced vertically at a third of its
thickness.

    I looked at her in her distress and my heart went out.  Here was a woman who
had entered into a role-play and who obviously now wished she hadn't.  She
believed she had seen a finger amputated already and now feared she was in for
the same horrific fate.  It had all gone terribly wrong, but she was helpless to
do anything about it.  She was immovably secured to the plank, her arms held
rigidly, while the rest of her body was stretched to try to ease the pressure of
the dreadful plank against her crotch.

    My bound hands were flourished in front of Jan's face, her expression
becoming more terrified as she saw my bandaged little finger and how it was
obviously shorter than the one on my right hand.  Then I was dragged
unceremoniously to the pulley where Jan had been secured the last time, and the
two tails trailing from my wrist bonds were knotted and looped over the hook on
the end of the pulley rope.  Then it was up on tiptoes for Stephanie, too.

    "Where's the friggin' video camera?"  one of the hoods demanded of the
other.

    "I dunno.  Wasn't it bein' used upstairs? "

    "And we need a new tape for it."

    "So why're you tellin' me? Go find it."

    "And where're the friggin' bolt cutters? What are we supposed to use, a saw? 
Would you like your finger sawn off, girlie?"  Jan shook her head in abject
misery and snuffled over the gag.

    "Bob was usin' 'em down by the gate on dat fencin'.  Probably left 'em
dere."

    "Shit.  I s'pose I'll have to waste my time huntin' t'rough half the garden
now.  I hope dey don't get rusty.  Wouldn't want you to get blood poisoning,
now, would we girlie?"  Another tear rolled down Jan's cheek.

    Then they were gone, leaving us to ponder the fate about to befall us.

   

    I cast a look of pity across to where Jan balanced, straining, astride the
plank.  She caught my eye, and at that moment I suppose her look of pleading
made up my mind that enough was enough, and that Monica's little game had gone
too far.  I concentrated my thoughts on how to get free, but my wrists were
bound far to tightly and the knotted tails were beyond my reach.  I caught Jan's
eye again and with her head she motioned back past me, with a "mmning" sound.  I
twisted myself on my toes and saw what she was looking at  - a small stool
nearly a metre away.  It was used by the girls to hook victims' arms over hooks
on the posts.  I stretched my right foot out but it came up short.  In
desperation I balled my hands into fists and swung myself on the pulley rope.  I
decided I never wanted to be fully suspended, given the weight of my body under
those circumstances, but I nevertheless managed to snare the stool with the heel
of my shoe.  Panting with the strain I dragged it back and regained my feet,
then clambered on to it.  It was just high enough for me to reach the hook on
the pulley rope and to lift the knotted tails off.

    I looked around for something to cut the rope around my wrists and spotted a
Stanley knife on the floor near Jan.  Obviously it was there to cut the plastic
ties on her fingers when they released her.  As a first priority I slowly
removed the two weighted clips from Jan's nipples, while she cried into the gag. 
I decided it would be easier to free Jan's fingers first and let her untie my
wrists, and within a minute we both had our hands free.  I released her ankles
from the spreader bar then helped her off the plank.  She groaned with the
release of the pressure on her crotch strap and we turned our attention to that
and our gags.  They were all locked on, and that was when I discovered I had
been caught with my own cleverness.  The straps through the balls and the waist
and crotch straps were all threaded through with stainless steel wire, to
prevent just such unauthorised cutting, just the tactic I had employed against
Monica and the girls.

    "MMmph!" I told Jan, motioning with the knife against the barely visible
wire and shaking my head.  She moaned, but there was nothing we could do.  I
gestured to her that we had to leave there, and fast.  She nodded, but then
mimed the issue of her lack of clothes.  I grabbed her by the hand and we ran
for the door, sneaking a look outside before easing into the corridor.  I
paused, listening for footsteps but the basement was silent.  Quickly we moved
to the storeroom door and slipped inside.  We had precious little time, but I
knew Jan had to have some sort of garment and something on her feet if we were
to succeed in reaching the outside world.  Jan halted in awe at the racks of
clothes, and shelves full of all manner of gags, hoods and restraints.  Without
waiting for her assent, I tossed her a black dress.  It was sleeveless and made
from cotton lycra, and I knew it would fit her.  She pulled it over her head
while I rummaged in the shoe department.  Here the choice was limited, and I saw
no point in Jan heading off in four-inch stilettos - she would be better off
barefoot.  I found a pair of black boots - mid-calf ones with only a three-inch
heel that laced up the front.  I decided that they would at least give her some
support and would be better than nothing.

    She pulled them on and I showed her how to wrap the laces around her ankle
and tie them quickly, rather than waste time threading them through holes.  We
were out of there in less than two minutes, Jan now clothed and looking quite
sexy, although I couldn't tell her, of course.  It was clear she had not taken
me to be anything other than a female, and I had concluded that things were
better left this way at present.  We moved down the corridor to the back door to
the basement.  This was the steel emergency exit door, and it opened smoothly as
I tugged on it. 

    I had no idea what I expected the day to be like outside - dark or light,
fine or wet.  My sense of time passing had been totally destroyed by hours in a
coffin and confinement in a windowless cell with the lights kept on.

    I guessed it was about four in the afternoon.  I was now becoming more sure
of myself in that escape was the best thing I could do for my own situation as
much as Jan's, although I had no clear plan as to what I was going to do next. 
My overwhelming thought was to get away from the house with its cameras and
probable guards.

    We emerged on to the narrow pathway that served as access, and moved into a
bushy stretch of garden flanking the house.  I was making for my toolshed at the
end of the stretch of bushes, towing Jan behind me.  I was nervous as hell, as
the implications of what I was doing slowly sank in.  Monica would go ape!

    We turned off the path and headed through the undergrowth of broad-leaved
tropical plants.  It had obviously been raining during the day for the foliage
was wet and soon my skirt was wet and clinging to my thighs.  I did not notice
the dampness of my blouse except in the sleeves, because of the rubber corset
underneath.  It made free movement and regular breathing difficult through the
continuous constriction on my abdomen and chest up to the underside of my
breasts. 

    The toolshed loomed ahead of us.  My first priority was to try to cut the
gags and crotch strap loose, and I hoped against hope that the toolshed would be
unlocked.  We approached it cautiously.  There was no light under the door and I
assumed it was unoccupied.  Alas, my fears were confirmed and the door was
locked tight.  I pointed at the door and shook my head to Jan.  Her doe eyes
betrayed her feelings, although I did not know if she realised what I had
intended. 

    We moved away from the building, and after a quick check, we scurried hand
in hand across the lawn to a further dense patch of garden near the boundary and
away from the house.  Here we crouched in a thicket of ginger plants and caught
our breath.  Not only was my breathing constricted by the corset, but it was
also impeded by the rubber ball strapped in my mouth.  We were both panting
through our noses and it took a couple of minutes for this to settle down.  I
squatted against the trunk of a bottle palm on the layer of pine mulch that
permeated the well-kept gardens.  I helped Jan undo her bootlaces and fit them
properly, then I tried to communicate the plan to her.

    I signed that we should wait another hour or so, until dusk had fallen, then
try for the cars.  I assumed Jan would have a car, and while we would have a
problem with keys, if we could find any of the cars unlocked, I would hotwire
it.  The gate would open automatically to an exiting vehicle, and we would be
home free, although where home was I was not now so sure.  If Monica had been
true to her avowed intent to change the locks on my flat, I would be unable to
get in there, either. I had been kidnapped in my birthday suit, and most of what
I owned was still in my flat - clothes, ID, money, you name it.  I settled down
with my back against the base of the palm and gestured for Jan to join me.  She
snuggled up against me, sitting on my skirt now taut between my thighs, and
leaning back against me.  I 'mmmned' an interrogative 'okay?' and she affirmed
this with a gentle sigh. 

    Why was it that two women could do this touchy thing, but not two guys? 
After a few minutes Jan began to get restless, and I remembered she was still
wearing the crotch strap.  Her hands had strayed under the hem of her dress and
I realised she was taking advantage of a little slack in the strap, working her
insert in and out.  A climax was no less than she deserved after what she had
been though, I thought. Sure enough, eyes closed and working up to it, she
finally stiffened and let loose a series of soft grunts leading up to a high
pitched moan of pleasure, her body shuddering and squirming in gratification.  I
have to admit it was a turn on, but a frustrating one, given my current persona
and the current position of Mr Willy.  Jan must have sensed my frustration and
let her hand stray down under my skirt, forcing me to gently stop her.  She
looked quizzically at me, and I shook my head, trying to convey regret in my
eyes and indicate that for whatever reason it was just not to be.

    As we sat in the gathering gloom I thought about my predicament and
remembered that I had left some clothes and other things in my old room in the
sleeping quarters.  There would at least be something other than the now
dishevelled skirt and blouse I still wore.  Jeans and a loose shirt would have
to be an improvement, and maybe I could find something for Jan to ward off the
cold and possibly the impending rain.

    I motioned for Jan to stay where she was and indicated I would be gone for
ten minutes or so.  She looked alarmed, shaking her head and making concerned
"mmmph" noises until I calmed her and crossed my heart to indicate I would be
back no matter what.

    It was becoming darker.  The sky was overcast and threatening more rain,
with the occasional drop finding its way on to the foliage.  I pushed my way
through the undergrowth, heading towards the rear of the property along the
boundary, before doing a quick sprint across the open ground to the small patch
of trees and bush behind the sleeping quarters.  From here I edged my way around
the end of the building until I reached the three steps at the end of the
balcony, under which I had hidden one of Monica's padlock keys what seemed an
age ago.

    There were no lights on.  I tiptoed up the steps and along the few metres to
my door, it being the first in the row.  It opened without a sound.  It was just
light enough inside to see that the place was tidy and ready for a new occupant,
just like a motel room.  There was nothing of my stuff to be seen.  I checked
the wardrobe.  There were clothes inside all right, but not mine.  A range of
dresses and skirts hung up but my old jeans and shirts had gone.  It looked like
someone new was moving in.  I did a quick reconnaissance of the bathroom and
kitchenette, but could find nothing that would help my plight.  As I moved back
through the bedroom, I caught sight of myself for the first time in the mirror. 
I suppose it is human nature to examine one's reflection and to see oneself in
the best light.  I was surprised at what I saw - my feelings a mixture of
surprise, discomfort and yet with a strange element of gratification.  I tucked
my blouse in and realised the effect that the rubber corset had - there was a
definite waistline that some women would quite happily have accepted from a
plastic surgeon.  The blouse, with its high Chinese-style collar fitted me
snugly, and the rust-coloured skirt clung to my hips with more than just the
wetness from outside.  My legs were smooth and shiny in the nylon stockings and
the heels of my shoes gave my legs a look that could have turned heads in cafe
society. 

    My hair was somewhat mussed, and I couldn't help smoothing it down and
pushing it into a more manageable look.  It was perhaps slightly coarser than my
own, and didn't seem to absorb water the way one's own hair would do in a
downpour.  The only aspect marring my passable appearance was the red ball gag
and the black leather harness locked about my head. Reluctantly I slipped back
outside and retraced my steps.

    It was now almost completely dark and a light drizzle was starting to fall. 
I was surprised I had sighted no posse in pursuit, and that fact worried me.  I
suspected they were lying in wait somewhere, but at least we now had the cover
of the night.  I made my way back to the bottle palm, pushing my way cautiously
through the dripping leaves.  My blouse was now soaking wet and I was beginning
to feel the chill above my corset. 

    The hollow at the base of the palm was empty.

    "Hhnnn?" I said softly.  "Hhhnn?"  Shit.  Where had she gone?  I was sure
she wouldn't just wander off, and a feeling of alarm began to flood through me. 
If something had happened to Jan, it meant they were on to us - to me - to this
place...  I decided it was time to do a runner.  There was no point in hanging
about to be caught - I was either going to make it to the cars or head for the
road on foot and somehow take my chances, although that option really didn't
appeal.

    I poked my head out between a couple of bushes, scanning the lawn between me
and the car park area.  The cars were scattered through a series of small car
parking areas discretely placed amidst large trees.  The area was lit by low
voltage bollard lights at waist height.  In the diffused light from these, under
the dripping trees the place looked deserted.  That was when I thought I saw a
figure standing still and erect in front of two cars.  I froze, but could not
make out the details.  Moments later I knew exactly what I was looking at when
the headlights of one of the cars snapped on and Jan was fully displayed like
the bait in the trap she obviously was. 

    She stood, motionless, turned half in my direction with her head tilted
back.  Someone had tied a cord to the eyebolt in the ball gag and tossed the
other end over a low branch before securing it to the bumper of the car with its
headlights blazing.  The lights were directed away from me and I knew I must
still be in shadow.  Jan was now the centre of attention.  Her hands were bound
or cuffed behind her and some sort of collar was about her throat.  I suspected
her arms were hammer-locked up behind her shoulders and attached to the collar,
so rigid was her stance.  I remained where I was, not knowing what to do or what
my hunters might know of my whereabouts.

    "Stephanie, we know you're out dere.  You wouldn't want your new friend to
get hurt, now, would yer?"  The voice reached me, amplified by a small
battery-powered megaphone.  "Come on out before we have to get nasty."

    My instinct told me they hadn't seen me and I could still make it to the
gate unseen.  Using the cars was now out of the question, but I could still
reach the road and flag down a passing car.  And eventually get the gag out of
my mouth, at which point the explanations would have to start.  Where did I want
to go, I would be asked?  My house would be locked up and I had no key.  I had
no money and no access to it.  What had happened?  Here I was dressed as a
woman, and not just on my way to some fancy dress party.  Instead I had pretty
real breasts and hair glued on with superglue and a corset locked in place.  It
all made for a pretty interesting explanation...

    "You've got t'ree seconds...two...one...  Okay.  Have it your way."

    A dark figure strode up to where Jan stood, almost on tiptoes, obviously
trying to ease the tension in her neck.  The figure pulled the shoulder straps
of Jan's dress down to her elbows and exposed her breasts.  Stepping back I saw
the swish of the flogger and heard the thwack as the many tails of the implement
landed across her breasts.  I caught the high pitched whine of pain through the
gag.  A second stroke was landing as I scrambled out of the undergrowth and ran
over to the figure to grab the arm about to swing for a third time. 

    As I did so, I was in turn grabbed myself by two more figures who
materialised out of the darkness, and who twisted my arms behind my back,
forcing me to my knees.  There was the click of steel as handcuffs were locked
on my wrists.  Then I, too, was secured like Jan, with a leather collar around
my neck and my wrists pulled up in a hammerlock behind my shoulder blades before
being connected to the collar.  It was an acutely painful position, with the
steel of the handcuffs biting into my wrists.  Without a doubt it was guaranteed
to make one cooperative.

    "You girls are in deep shit," the rough voice through the balaclava was full
of menace.  "I wouldn't want to be in your shoes for anythin'..." 

    Jan and I exchanged looks of misery.

   

    That was how we came to be together in the Rack Room, kneeling face to face
in the middle of the padded rack platform.   It was obviously going to be a big
togetherness thing - the two kidnappees sharing the same fate.  To this extent
they had padlocked the eyebolts in our gags together, so I was left to stare
into Jan's deep brown eyes, from a distance of four inches away.  I could feel
the occasional stir of air as she breathed heavily or sighed behind the gag.  We
could only look elsewhere through a concerted joint head movement. 

    Our wrists were securely bound with coils of sashcord overhead and attached
to the central beam at the top of the rack frame.  The rope was in sufficient
quantity not to totally stop circulation, but the fact that our arms were
stretched upwards did not exactly promote the bloodflow to the fingers.  The
knots had been well cinched and were way out of reach at the beam.

    In order to prevent us standing up we had been made to kneel 'upright', that
is with our lower legs flat on the bench and our upper legs vertical.  Our
ankles had been tied in position to the bench.  This was one point that I found
interesting - my ankles had been tied together while Jan's had been tied apart. 
Needless to say we were in full body contact from groin to fingertip.

    Once they had got us in that position one of our captors had given us a
painful thrashing with the flogger that they had used on Jan outside.  This time
our breasts were protected and instead it was our backs, butts and the backs of
our legs that took the brunt.  Poor Jan, I should explain, was now naked again. 
They had taken offence at her unauthorised wearing of the boots and black dress
from the store room, and had stripped them off her without a by your leave.  I
was once again in a position of being in intimate contact with a naked woman and
unable to respond, due to Mr Willy being otherwise confined.  Notwithstanding my
actual lack of opportunity, I had of course been presented as being totally in
touch with my feminine side, if you get my meaning.  The more I got into the
role, the more impossible it seemed to get out of it.  In this apparent
relationship I was simply digging myself a bigger and bigger hole with an
identity I could never retreat from.

    The flogging had lasted nearly half an hour, I guessed.  I was still wearing
my blouse and skirt which were wet from the rain, and clung to my back and
thighs under the onslaught of the flogger.  For all the protection they gave
they might just as well not have been there, although compared to what Jan must
have been going through, I was thankful for small mercies.  On the other hand,
my rubber corset gave my lower torso some degree of protection.

    They had eventually left us there, with the lights still on.  Jan's face was
tear- streaked and I imagined her back and legs were probably red and raw from
the cat.  I had seen it used many times, and despite the apparent vigor with
which it was used, the end result was frequently less horrific than would have
been experienced with, say, a riding crop or a cane. Both of these could leave
deep weals and bruising, whereas the flogger tended to dissipate its full force
over a larger area.

    At length Jan's snuffling stopped and she seemed to accept her situation as
the pain eased somewhat.  After a time she squirmed slightly, and I remembered
(for I could not see below her chin) that she still wore the crotch strap.  Oh
well, anything for a bit of relief from the tedium of being bound to a beautiful
naked woman, I thought, and managed to edge my legs a fraction closer to her -
close enough for my own crotch to provide a little pressure on hers.  She
responded to the touch.  Jan raised her eyes and looked into mine.  Whether she
saw me as something other than my appearance suggested, whether she saw past my
alter ego, I couldn't tell, but I was sure I saw a spark of gratitude there.  If
I could not offer her sisterly comfort, at least I could assist with something a
little more physical.  Coordinating our movements carefully, we moved against
each other as best we could, which wasn't easy, given our stretched positions. 
It took some time, but Jan finally closed her eyes and her breath began to come
in ragged pants, moving up a gear from a soundless exhalation to one overlain
with a soft moan with each breath.  She began to move faster, straining at the
limits of movement imposed by our bound wrists and ankles, and by the
coordination necessary through being almost joined at the mouth.  Her breasts
thrust hard against mine and when the climax finally came it was prolonged and
untrammelled in a way I did not think possible.  Her body stiffened as though
she was being electrified (and I certainly knew all about that!)  and she let
loose a long drawn out wail from behind her gag.  Her eyes were screwed tightly
shut and I felt the rush of her breath and the splutter of saliva as she then
jerked with all her being on the ropes and shuddered for nearly a minute.  Her
body continued to tremble and quiver for perhaps a couple of minutes after that,
while her eyes remained closed and her mind was obviously in some far off place. 

    At length she opened her eyes and gazed into mine as a drop of perspiration
rolled down her temple.  He eyes were bright and her breathing took some time to
settle down, but there was no mistaking the glow in her being that came from her
orgasm.  God, I wished I could make love to this woman if this was what she was
like with a passive vibrator inside her!

   

    We lost track of time after that.  Our bodies struggled with the exhaustion
of the ordeal we had been through, both mentally and physically.  Our hands
gradually grew numb and our eyelids became heavy.  We both nodded off at stages,
I'm sure, but my mind was starting to play tricks on me, and the fact that the
eyebolts of our gags were locked together made it difficult to get comfortable. 
Then our captors returned.  One of them eyed the sweat-streaked Jan and ran a
hand up her inner thigh. 

    "You little slut! Clearly we can't leave you two with any sort of movement
whatsoever.  Let's see how you enjoy a hogtie for the rest of the night."

    Which was why we found ourselves side by side on the floor in the holding
cell, only this time they removed the futon.  We had enjoyed only a brief
respite as our wrists were undone and the circulation returned, only to be
restricted again as our wrists were crossed and bound behind us, matching our
ankles.  A rope was bound around my shoulders - across my back, under my armpits
and then meeting again behind my neck.  This served as the fixing point for a
further rope from my wrists which were pulled upwards into a position behind my
shoulderblades with the connecting rope then run over the shoulder harness
before being attached to my ankles.  At that point pressure was applied forcing
my arms upward, my shoulders together and my ankles towards them, in a horrid
version of a hog tie eliciting groans from me due to the severity of the
position.  I realised with my knees splayed apart I would have no hope of
rolling on to my side, and I knew I was stuck with lying face down.  Or face up,
in fact, as they then decided even being able to move my head was too good for
me.  I felt fingers force a further rope behind the main gag strap behind my
neck.  This rope was drawn tightly and attached to my ankles, pulling my head
back through the main gag strap and also the one over the top of my head.  I
whined and tried to protest as the ball was forced deeper into my mouth and the
straps cut into my cheeks. 

    Then it was Jan's turn to undergo the same punishment, and fifteen minutes
later we were lying there face to face, unable to move, our bodies and heads
straining against the bonds that held us taut as longbows.  Not content with
this, our kidnappers appeared to like the idea of his linked at the mouth, and I
had been dragged unceremoniously into a position where my gag eyebolt overlapped
Jan's, and these had been bolted together.  Unlike on the rack, we were now
unable to move our heads at all, up, down or sideways.  Our chins were nearly a
foot off the floor and our backs were bent into a cruel arch.  Tears again
welled in Jan's eyes and I wondered how long we would be able to withstand such
punishment to our bodies.  At least I still had my clothes and the corset as
protection, whereas Jan lay on her stomach, her firm breasts flattened against
the cold concrete.

    "Lets see yer get off like that," was the throwaway comment as the hooded
pair left us to our own devices in the small oppressive cell.

   

    I was sure they turned up the heating after that.  The strain of trying to
withstand the pressure of the ropes and straps was something I had never
experienced before to anything like the same degree.  In the past I had always
been secured to something, but here my body was fighting itself.  We lay in
silence save for the ragged sound of our breathing.  Saliva drooled out of the
corners of our mouths and we were unable to prevent it.  The concrete was cold
beneath us while the rapidly warming air, combined with the constant strain
inflicted on our muscles made sweat start to break out.  I watched a bead of
perspiration make its way down to Jan's eyebrow, then slowly seep into her eye. 
She was powerless to shake her head or otherwise redirect the salty liquid, and
she blinked and screwed up her eyes as it obviously stung.

    We became intimately familiar with every detail of the other's face, every
pore and line, every faint blemish and imperfection.  Not that there were a lot
of those in Jan's complexion, which was untouched by time, it seemed.  I
wondered how my own face was standing up under scrutiny.  I had once grown a
beard, which was light brown in colour and I was not prone to five o'clock
shadow to any major degree.  Notwithstanding that I suspected my body had been
the object of a major depilatory process which no doubt would have included my
face.  I somehow suspected I would have very little shaving to do in the
immediate future.

    Our silence was broken only by occasional sniffling or groans from both of
us, as we struggled to fight off cramps and muscle spasms.  Maybe half an hour
passed, maybe longer.  It certainly seemed like forever.  There came the echoing
sound of the key in the lock and one of the hoods returned.  The figure squatted
down beside us and undid the bolt joining our gags, before releasing the neck
rope on Jan.  The ropes on her ankles and shoulders followed.  Jan made no
effort to move, simply letting her wrists down behind her and turning the side
of her face to rest on the concrete, her eyes closed.

    "I've got news for you," the figure told her.  "Your old man has coughed up. 
We're gonna let you go." 

    Jan's eyes snapped open and she looked up with disbelief.

    "Hhmnni?"

    "Yep."  The hooded figure helped the naked girl to her feet, brushing the
dust and dirt off her breasts and stomach with obvious relish, the fingers
lingering around the crotch strap.  "All right, come on, let's go."  Jan was
tugged by the arm but she stopped abruptly.

    "Hhoon hnnann urr?"  Jan demanded unexpectedly, inclining her head towards
me, still bound immovably on the floor.

    "Her?  Don't you worry about her.  Another finger or two and her old man
will front up with the goods.  If he doesn't we have an option on her as a
slave.  It's simply a business decision of when we stop removing bits compared
to the value of a more or less intact slave."

    "Hhnnn!" Jan cried, as best she could, struggling in the grip of her jailer.

    "Listen, girlie," said the voice, suddenly harsh and cold.  "You should cut
your losses while you're ahead.  Don't worry about this tart.  She'll be happy
there for the rest of the night."

    Then she was gone, the door clanged shut and I was left alone.  The light
went off and for the second time at least I thought I would die, so tautly was I
bound.  Surely they couldn't leave me here for the whole night?  I was barely
coping up to this point.  This seemed to be the sort of bondage you'd only
inflict on a devotee or a contortionist.  The scariest thing was there was
nothing I could do about it, absolutely nothing.  The concept of whether I could
withstand this punishment was irrelevant - I had to.  It was as simple as that. 
I recalled Monica's advice the time Trish had been impaled on the shaft in my
workshop - making her think she was going to be there for hours and hours, when
the contrary was the case.  That was my only ray of hope and I clung to it,
sweating in the darkness while my muscles stiffened and my body ached from head
to toe.  My jaw and neck were amongst the most painful parts, stretched as they
were, but my back and arms also rebelled at the punishment inflicted upon them. 
The blood was struggling to reach my extremities and both my fingers and feet
were in the last stages of numbness.  I shut my eyes and groaned with the strain
of trying to ease the worst bits. 

    That period was, I think, one of the most desperate bondage regime's I was
ever to experience in terms of utter helplessness in regard to how long I could
withstand the strain.  I nearly cried when the light came on, perhaps fifteen
minutes later and Jillian appeared.  She knelt down beside me, clicking her
tongue in sympathy with my plight, then undoing that dreadful rope holding my
head back.  I moaned with relief as I let my body straighten out and allowed my
head to lie against the cold concrete of the floor.  I was drenched in sweat and
utterly drained.  Just having that one rope released made such a difference. 
Jill's nimble fingers undid the ropes around my ankles and wrists and removed
the rope shoulder harness.  I just lay there, unable to even to make the effort
to remove the gag harness from my head, although this was still locked on, of
course. 

    Jill helped me to sit up and propped me against the wall.  Then she squatted
down in front of me and looked at me directly.

    "Steven, I want you to listen closely to what I have to say."  I made an
effort to focus on her face while tugging futilely at the gag.

    "Mmmph!" I complained weakly.

    "Yes, in a minute." She waggled a couple of keys at me.  "Steven, the kidnap
is over.  It's decision time.  I told you we wanted to have you back.  Monica is
happy with that, but of course it had to be on her terms.  You have two options
- you can finish with Bilboes and go home now, as you are.  I'll drive you home. 
Or -" she paused.  "Or, you can continue here, but you have to stay here as
Stephanie the slave for a month."

    "Hnnr?  Hn mmnph?"

    "Yes, a month. That would mean you would have the same role as the Twins did
for a while - cooking, cleaning, laundry, gardening and so on, and probably a
bit of home handy woman stuff as well."

    "Hmmn?"

    "You would remain as Stephanie, dress as Stephanie, talk and behave as
Stephanie the slave and do the bidding of all who required it.  Failure to do as
you were told would result in punishment, of course."

    I shook my head.  "Uh uh."

    "We thought you'd say that."  She smiled for the first time.  "So the girls
talked it through and we made a bet with Monica.  We bet Monica five thousand
bucks you would make it through the month."

    I was gob smacked and didn't know how to react.  "Urr?" I said.

    "We each put up a grand of our monthly wages against five grand from Monica. 
If you fail, we all end up a grand poorer and Bilboes loses an asset, I guess. 
If you win, you get to keep the five grand as a bonus, courtesy of Monica."

    I shook my head again, but this time in wonderment.  Five grand was a lot of
money and I could really use such a sum to pay off a few debts.  My bank manager
would be very pleased, but he could never find out how I earned it.  And I was
still not sure if I could do this.

    "There are some conditions, however."  Why was I not surprised.  "We're not
allowed to help you or show any favoritism that we might not do to any other
slave.  We can be punished for that, and for any flagrant breaches of etiquette
we can be fined a hundred bucks a time - all of us for the indiscretion of one,
that is.  Ten mistakes and the bet is lost totally.  Do you understand?"

    I nodded.  She handed me two keys.  One of these is for the gag and one is
for your crotch lock.  You can have a quiet night's sleep and then I'll come to
see you in the morning and we'll take it from there.  Sleep tight Steven - or
Stephanie."

   

    It was some many hours later that the light came on, followed shortly
thereafter by the clank of the key in the lock.  I had been away in the land of
the dead, exhausted by the events of the night before, but I awoke with a start
as the key turned.  The proposal, bet, call it what you like, made by Jillian
came rushing back to me.  I had tried to consider it before I fell asleep, but
it had been a losing battle.  I didn't know if I could manage a month as
Stephanie, always on my guard against letting my cover down.  What would they be
getting me to do?  I did not know if I could face the girls in this guise. 
Doing it when I had no choice, and when my captors had been likewise
role-playing was one thing, and that had only been for a very short time.  Doing
it every day, all day, interacting directly with the girls in their everyday
life was something different - something I didn't know if I could pull off, or
face, for that matter.  Yet a part of me did not want to leave this lifestyle
and these people.  Another part of me said the money made it worthwhile, and a
further voice pointed out the faith the girls had in me in putting their own
money against Monica's. 

    I think it was that aspect which decided the matter for me - it was the fact
that they were prepared to justify their faith in me with their own money.

    The door opened and Trish walked into the cell.  I had been expecting Jill
or Monica and Trish's presence surprised me.  She stopped and smiled at me as I
scrambled to my knees on the mattress.

    "And what is your name, my dear?"

Monica's Place

CHAPTER TWENTY TWO - TRANSFIGURATION AND ENSLAVEMENT


    The meaning behind Trish's words was obvious.  I hesitated momentarily
before taking the plunge.

    "It's... Stephanie..." I said awkwardly.

    Trish's smile brightened.  I sensed it was from genuine pleasure at my
decision and my continued presence in the house, rather than any anticipation at
the fate which lay ahead of me.

    "Excellent.  Well, over the next couple of hours I am going to explain to
you your duties here and the rules you must obey.  You will be treated like any
slave serving in Bilboes.  You will be punished if you disobey or fail to carry
out orders properly, and will receive no special treatment from anybody. 
Between you and me - and this is to go no further - we're very pleased at your
decision and the chance we have to win this bet with Monica.  But you'll have to
do the hard yards. 

    "This morning you'll be shown how to behave.  A different girl will be
responsible for you each day.  She will decide what you wear and what tasks you
will perform, and she will be responsible for your behaviour.  Any disobedience
will reflect badly on her and she may also share your punishment, which I'm sure
you would not wish.  You will address us as 'Mistress' and will not speak unless
spoken to or unless it is required as part of your task.  Before you go upstairs
you will be washed thoroughly.  Your corset will come off once a week, but other
times you must wash with it on.  Since it will be secured at the back, you will
have no option in the matter, and one of the girls will be required to help you
remove and replace it for your weekly full shower.  Is that clear?"  I nodded. 
"Is that clear?" she repeated, a sudden sharp edge to her voice.

    "Yes Mistress," I said.

    "And for the next couple of hours you will disregard the instruction only to
speak when spoken to.  You will speak as much as possible and will tell me
everything you have experienced - as your alter ego - so as to train that
terrible voice of yours into something more acceptable.  You will also be taught
to walk and deport yourself properly in high heels - something you have not been
too successful at so far.  Is all this clear?"

    "Yes Mistress," I said, trying to control my wavering voice.  I was still
struggling to believe I was doing this, and my friendship with Trish didn't make
it any easier.

    "Your butt plug will be removed each evening, and you will reinsert it each
morning, prior to commencing work.  You will perform your ablutions based around
this cycle.  If you misbehave you may find yourself wearing it for somewhat
longer periods.  At all times the electrodes will remain connected to your
nipples and your plug when it is in place.  I suppose you've noticed that the
plug can be disconnected from the battery, as can the nipple electrodes."  (I
hadn't, and the plug still hung below my crotch.)  If there is any time they
should be connected and are not, you may expect the severest of punishments. 
Your battery will be changed each morning.  Are you with me so far?"

    "Yes Mistress."

    "Very good.  You will wear the clothes assigned to you by whoever is in
charge of you each day.  If you are well behaved you may get to make your own
selection, but don't expect to be wearing trousers for another month.  Your
duties will include cleaning, cooking and laundry, work in the garden and also
some 'special tasks'. " Trish said this with a peculiar smile that hinted at
something vaguely unpleasant.  "All right - it's time for your shower - you
stink.  Has anyone told you that?"

    "No Mistress." 

    "Well you do.  And you look as though you've slept in those clothes for the
last couple of days.  Don't you understand this place has a reputation to uphold
and appearances to maintain?"

    "Yes Mistress."

    "Then hold out your hands."  I obeyed and had moments later found myself
restrained by the cold steel of handcuffs on my wrists. "Now stand up.  Oh, I
see we haven't discovered the connections between the plug and the power pack." 
Trish sighed and knelt between my legs.  Moments later she stood up again with
the plug in her hands.  "I do hope you display a little more resource,
Stephanie.  I hate dumb slave girls, really.  They take up so much time and
energy..."

    And we headed off to the sauna room.

   

    In the sauna room my handcuffs were temporarily removed and I was made to
take off all my clothes.  It was the first time I had really been able to
examine my rubber corset and breasts.  They were all done in a very tasteful
flesh colour which on first glance almost looked real.  The breasts were
slightly pendulous - firm but with a wobble around the permanently hard rosebud
nipples - and I inwardly thanked whoever had chosen them from the catalogue, or
wherever they had come from.  The edges were well and truly glued down,
providing an almost seamless transition to my own flesh.  Protruding from the
underside were the two wires obviously linked to the Tens patches that were
fitted over my nipples before the prostheses were glued in place.  I tentatively
picked at the join between rubber and skin, only to have my hand slapped down by
Trish, although not before I had reached the inevitable conclusion that I was
stuck with these tits for the foreseeable future, it seemed.  Trish glared at
me.

    "Don't even think about it," she warned.  "Now face the wall and put your
hands behind your head."

    I did as I was told and both felt and heard the snick of wire cutters as
something was released behind me.  Trish waved a small section of steel crimp in
front of me.

    "That's what keeps your waistline in," she told me.  "The corset can't be
removed until the crimped stainless steel wire is cut.  A nice idea.  One of
yours, I believe."  I said nothing, but felt the pressure start to ease as Trish
unthreaded the wire from what I presumed were eyelets down the back, until at
last I was able to breathe normally again as the garment dropped at my feet.  Mr
Willy hung down sadly, impaled into a piece of clear plastic tubing, also
secured with superglue, I guessed, from the immovable feel of it.  It was
clearly going to be a long and frustrating month.

    Trish took away my clothes, leaving me handcuffed to a bolt in the wall for
an hour or so while the heating was turned up.  I sweated freely as the
accumulated dirt and grime of the last few days worked its way out of my pores. 
My skin felt strangely sensitive, which I attributed to the new absence of hair,
the same sensation of absolute nakedness a guy feels after shaving off a
moustache and experiencing the weird unfamiliarity of a bald upper lip.  Only
this time it was all over... 

    She returned at one point and gave me a light whipping with a flogger.  It
certainly got my skin tingling and my protestations only drew more punishment
until I got my intonation sufficiently high to obviously sound half believable. 
I began to have more doubts as to whether I could do this. 

    Then it was a hose down with cold water, which was only marginally less
unpleasant than the flogging, and again I yelped and protested.  Finally Trish
took me back to the outer room where I towelled myself down.  On coat hangers on
a hook were some fresh clothes.

    "Time to get your shape back," Trish ordered, holding up the flesh-coloured
corset.  Reluctantly I held it in place while Trish attached the electrical
wires, secured the back of it under my shoulder blades, then threaded a new
stainless wire through the eyelets.  In the short time I had luxuriated in the
sauna, I had forgotten how tight the thing had been, and I could not help myself
protesting as she put her knee in the small of my back and tightened each
crossover in turn.

    "Unless you want to wear a ball in your mouth for the next twenty four
hours, I would suggest you learn to accept certain things and behave like a
proper slave girl," Trish said grimly, pulling harder.  "The only reason you
have not been punished for the display you have put on so far is that it is
still your training period.  After lunch you're on your own, and will have to
take the consequences of your actions."  Before long Mr Willy was back in
harness and the butt plug was securely up my arse and connected to a new
battery.  I should not have been surprised at the sudden pain in my nipples and
bum.

    "Ow-ow-shit!" I exclaimed.  "What was that for - Mistress?" I added hastily.

    "Just testing everything is in working order," Trish said dismissively. "And
a little reminder of what punishment awaits you if you misbehave.  Now, get
dressed."

    I picked up the clothes.  There was a pale grey long-sleeved blouse which -
I had to admit - fitted snugly to my curves.  It was double-breasted with two
rows of small silver buttons and a scooped neckline.  The navy skirt was also a
close fit, with the hem halfway down my thigh.  Trish obviously noticed my
surprised at how well the clothes fitted.

    "They're made to measure," she said off-handedly.  "You're a passable size
12 with your waist in that corset.  You should be flattered."  I put on a pair
of black stockings, again with stay-up tops.  Remaining on the floor was a pair
of shoes that I looked at with some trepidation.  They were black with a closed
in toe and heel and an ankle strap, but the heel that was perhaps eight
centimetres high.  It was not a stiletto, but looked dangerous enough for the
wearer.  Monica did not like stilettos being worn unnecessarily upstairs,
because of the damage they could do to the polished timber floor.  I picked up
one shoe and examined it.  The area of the heel was about the size of a fifty
cent piece and with a rubber sole - large enough to give some support, but not
so chunky as to be ugly.  Gingerly I slid my stockinged feet into them and
buckled up the strap.  They seemed to fit quite well.

    "Size nine, wide fitting," Trish explained.  "Not too hard to find.  Now
stand up and walk."  It made me think of Lazarus being raised form the dead.  I
suppose in a way it was a new incarnation, with the Stephanie model
metamorphosing from the Steven of old.

    I got to my feet and tottered a few steps, wondering how on earth women
managed this - and why.  Trish helped me initially than, as I got the feel of
the shoes she concentrated on my posture and balance.  This was achieved with
the help of a long cane with a short thong on the end which flicked my butt - or
whichever part happened to be transgressing at the time. 

    "Walk tall, for heaven's sake!" she exhorted.  "Just try to look elegant. 
Don't swing your arms so much.  Think of a model on the catwalk.  Try to glide -
don't move your head and straighten your shoulders..." Did women have a gene
that did this for them, I wondered?  Surely this wasn't something you learned -
it had to be part of their DNA, a sort of bonus in lieu of not being able to
program a VCR.  Flick!  Ow, that stung.

    It took me maybe half an hour of this, combined with a few sitdown periods
before Trish considered me ready.  That was not the way she described me,
however.  Instead I 'would have to do', since she 'didn't have all day to waste
on a dull witted slave girl.'  Charming.

    "All right, against the wall, face first, hands behind your back."  What
now, I wondered.  A length of sashcord came out and my wrists were crossed and
bound firmly.  Moments later I also sported an elegant red ball gag.  "Now walk
to the dungeon - without swinging your arms, of course," she added
sarcastically.

    Monica was already in the dungeon.  I was directed over to where the plank
was fixed at waist height.  Oh no, I thought, not that, please...

    "So, how is our new slave girl progressing?" asked Monica, without a hint of
mockery, as though it was totally business as usual.

    "Oh, she's a bit slow.  She'll take a bit of training.  But that said, we've
seen worse."

    "Hmmn.  I hope she can cook," Monica mused absent-mindedly.  "All right,
let's get on with this.  Bend over the plank, girl."

    "Hnnn?" I said, not understanding.

    "I told you she was a bit slow," Trish said, forcing my neck over the plank
none too gently.  I was held there with the plank just above my breasts, as
Monica bound me in place with a couple of metres of white cord.  Once again I
had the feeling of vulnerability that was beginning to become a regular
occurrence.

    "As part of your period of service in this household you are required to be
identified as a slave," Monica said.  "We do this by fitting you with a collar. 
In this case it is very stylish - made especially for you from polished
stainless steel.  She held the thing low down in front of me, so that I could
see it from my head down position over the plank.  It was a single piece of
stainless steel about two centimetres wide, with slightly rolled top and bottom
edges.  On the front was a small U-fitting, obviously for locking a chain to,
and in this instance sporting a tiny decorative silver padlock.  The collar was
a single piece of steel, but was highly polished such that it could almost pass
as a piece of jewellery.  I tried to work out how it could be secured.  At each
end there seemed to be a slight rebate, where the two ends could overlap but
remain the same overall thickness, thus presenting a seamless finish.  There
were two small holes which I guessed would line up through the two rebated
portions, but beyond that there appeared to be no fixing method.

    Monica pulled the two ends apart.  The metal was stiff and it took some
effort on her part to get the ends far enough apart for my neck to fit between
them.  They sprang back as she released them and I felt the smooth coldness of
the steel against my skin.  I couldn't see what they were doing beyond that
point, although as Trish pulled my hair clear of the back of my neck I sensed
the ends of the collar butting up to each other.  Then there were some more
metallic sounds, a grunt from Monica and a sharp cracking sound and a jerk on
the collar.  It sounded vaguely familiar, and then was repeated.  I thought
about the two holes and fixings that might go through them.  Then the thought
struck me - the collar had been riveted on!  Jesus, what sort of rivets had
these two females used, and how the hell would I get the thing off?  Had they
thought it through?  Stainless steel like this wasn't the sort of thing you cut
through with a hacksaw in five minutes, never mind the fact that you had a
rather exposed neck underneath it.  Nor did you drill out a rivet without a
serious danger of drilling out a carotid artery as well.  Things were not going
well for Stephanie...

   

    After my collaring I was released from the plank and my gag and ropes were
removed.  My protests about the collar were cut short by a warning from Trish. 
She locked leather cuffs on my wrists and joined them by a short chain, then did
the same for my ankles.  I was then taken by Trish to the ground floor bathroom
near the main entry.  By this time I was starting to realise the implications of
what was happening to me, and the apparent permanence of my collar put a new
perspective on my position.  It brought home to me in an unexpected way that I
was now the property of the household and I should do what I was told without
argument, if I was to get through the whole ordeal with the minimum
inconvenience and maximum dignity.  I made no further complaint, deciding to be
a model slave and look for some sort of good behaviour remission.

    In the bathroom Trish sat me down in front of the vanity unit.  I fingered
the stainless steel collar.  There was perhaps a finger-thickness space between
the collar and my neck, and I could not help but appreciate the stiffness and
permanence of it.  My questing hands confirmed it had indeed been riveted, and
when I turned it round I saw the small blank rivets protruding at the rear. 
Getting it off was going to be quite a challenge.

    "Pretty, isn't it," Trish said, not missing my obvious concern about the
removal of it.  "It shows you truly are a slave - property of this house."  Her
words sent a chill down my spine.  Was Monica going to be true to her word?

    We spent half an hour going through the basics of makeup.  It was something
I had not even considered as part of my new life, and I did not particularly
take to it like a duck to water.  I have never liked a lot of makeup on women,
nor did I fancy it on myself.  Having said that, none of the girls of the
establishment wore much makeup - at least to my untrained eye.  What they did
wear was carefully and expertly applied to enhance their natural features, and
this was the way Trish approached Stephanie's new look.  She told me about the
depilatory treatment I had received, and showed me what I now had to apply to
minimise rash and to cover any signs of unwanted maleness.  With practised hands
she converted Steven's hairless face into something that could almost pass for
attractive, if I say so myself.  It was a strange feeling seeing Stephanie
emerge with brushed hair held in place by two clips behind the ears.  The
sleeper earings were now visible, which Trish replaced with larger gypsy-type
earings of silver, which made a striking match with my collar.  Trish applied a
pale lip gloss which, she told me, would last at least all day, regardless of
how many things were stuffed into my mouth in the time.

    Finally we emerged from the bathroom.  It was nearly midday by the clock in
the entry hall and I was starving, not having had any breakfast.

    "You will now make lunch," Trish told me, leading the way into the kitchen,
while I followed with a tinkle of chains.  We went through on to the back
verandah where Leila, Emma, Jillian and Mary were lounging in various chairs.

    "Girls, this is Stephanie, our new slave girl for the next month."  Four
pairs of eyes looked at me and I did not know how to react.  I blushed and
stared at the floor.  I didn't know what to expect - perhaps laughter or
ridicule but there was none of that.  Indifference was probably the best word
for it.  I was conscious of their gazes, but they were expressions of
detachment, assessing the capability and likely difficulties of a new animal
requiring training. Trish introduced them by name, as though I had never seen
them before.  I avoided eye contact and said nothing, studying my nylon-clad
feet which were now beginning to hurt in the high heels.

    "Very well.  Come Stephie, into the kitchen."

   

    I made a salad for lunch and managed to serve it without incident, feeding
myself in the process as the opportunity arose.  The presence of the cuffs on my
wrists and ankles made movement awkward, and the high heels did nothing to help
the situation.  I felt both physically and psychologically awkward, although the
girls - to their credit - studiously ignored me, the way one might disregard the
presence of a waitress in a restaurant.

    During the afternoon it was instructions on changing linen, making beds and
tidying the various rooms upstairs that had been used during the night -
preparing them the way one would do in a high class hotel.  Trish was very
particular about this and threatened me with dire consequences if I got things
wrong. 

    Dinner was usually prepared by the girls on a roster system, depending on
who was available, and assuming no convenient slave was around to relieve them
of the chore.  In this regard I suspect my presence would make quite a change
for them, as had the Twins when they had been in residence.  There was a process
in place whereby the main course was written on the notice board the day before
and those who wanted to partake put their name underneath it during the course
of the day.  Some of the girls were particular about what they would or wouldn't
eat, and sometimes they preferred to have a light snack.  Unless it was a
special occasion, the food was generally plain but wholesome, although Leila was
a bit of a whiz.  My culinary skills were adequate but not excessive, I have to
say.  I could fend for myself and could get by with the basics.  A bit of a
stir-fry with a cook-in sauce was usually passable.  My experiences in sharing
flats and living alone had often obliged me to learn things I might otherwise
not have bothered with.  In this particular instance I figured I could manage a
spaghetti bolognaise without too much trouble.

    Things actually went reasonably well.  Mary, Trish and Monica were the only
ones present, and on tasting my creation I reckoned it was in this instance
rather better than just passable.  By the time I was clearing the plates away I
had reached the view that I had mastered the high heels and the hobble chain. 
That was when I started to take a step away from the table and my upper body
kept going while my feet stayed behind, the hobble chain caught on something.  I
hit the floor amidst the breaking of crockery.  I looked back in time to see
Mary shifting her feet beneath the table.  Why did I suddenly have the feeling
that my accident was in fact not one?  I caught Mary's eye and also caught the
challenge in it - the look that dared me to say something, to swear or to accuse
her.  There was what might be termed a pregnant pause, broken finally by a sigh
from Trish as I slowly got to my feet and began collecting the broken bits of
plate.

    "Before you say anything, Mon, yes, there will be a punishment.  I had hoped
for better, I agree.  Good slaves are so hard to find.  There's so much
training." 

    I glared at Mary, who favoured me with a wintry smile, then turned away.

   

    My punishment turned out to be a night in "Little Ease", the confined space
beneath the stairs, with only a small blanket to lie on.  It was impossible to
stretch out in any direction, and this, coupled with the cold concrete left me
exhausted the next morning.  Trish had cuffed my hands behind my back, which
made things doubly difficult, and my discomfort was further exacerbated by the
thought that Monica was to be my mistress for the next day.

   

    It was in fact Leila who woke me early the next morning.  I guess I must
have dozed off at various points during the night, but my body was stiff and
sore.  Leila led me to the sauna room and after unlocking my cuffs gave me the
key to my crotch lock.  She left me alone to perform my ablutions.  I took off
the skirt, blouse and stockings I had worn since the previous morning and
showered as best I could wearing the corset.  The water inevitably found its way
between the heavy rubber and my skin and was to stay there in tiny pockets for
most of the day, occasionally working its way out at unexpected moments.  Leila
had told me she would leave my next change of clothes ready for me when I had
finished.

    I luxuriated under the hot water, easing my aches and pains and enjoying not
having any form of restraint on my wrists and ankles, knowing such freedom was
likely to be brief, if Monica was to be true to form.  As I emerged from the
shower and towelled myself down,  I saw the clothes Monica had selected for me,
hanging from a hook on the wall.  Latex rubber.  I should have guessed.  Why did
I suddenly suspect that this was to be the day when Monica settled old scores
for the two days she had been confined in her rubber catsuit?  At this moment I
rather wished I had not made several recent decisions that had led me to this
point in my life...

    Reluctantly I lubricated the butt plug which hung from the crotch strap and
worked it inside me before making sure the wires were connected between the
battery and the plug and nipple pads.  I was tempted to bypass this process, but
the thought of what would happen if Monica pushed the remote button and I did
not react accordingly - and the punishment that would surely follow - scared the
hell out of me.  I was slowly becoming used to the butt plug, but the strange
sensation of fullness when it was first in place still left me with mixed
feelings.  I worked Mr Willy into place and closed the crotch lock, reflecting
on the irreversible finality the sound of the closing lock always had. 

    Then I turned my attention to my outfit for that day.  It seemed I was again
wearing black stockings, and having put these on I looked over a thin black
rubber hobble skirt. After I struggled into it, I found it came down almost to
mid-calf.  It was shaped to my contours and was equally tight over its full
length.  Significantly it made movement of my knees and thighs difficult, and
any sort of stride longer than a short step was virtually impossible.  I was now
experiencing at first hand what the Twins had gone through, and I thought the
need for ankle cuffs and a short hobble chain - also awaiting me - was somewhat
excessive, given the tightness of the skirt around my knees.  Nevertheless I
squatted down and put on the same high heels I had worn yesterday, then locked
the black leather cuffs about my ankles, feeling the tight restricting grip of
the rubber about my backside and thighs as I did so. 

    Then came the top.  This was white, again in rubber, long-sleeved with a
high collar.  Again, it was a real struggle getting into this, even with the
assistance of the talcum powder Leila had left.  The rubber caught at odd places
and I had to tug and twist it until it was finally tolerable.  I was sure I
looked like some sort of penguin, as I worked the neck of the rubber top
underneath my stainless steel collar.

    I was eyeing myself critically in the mirror when Leila poked her head round
the door. 

    "Aren't you finished yet?"  Her tone was detached and critical - quite
unlike the warm funny girl I knew in a past life.  "And what about those," she
said, pointing to the leather wrist cuffs I had overlooked in my struggle with
the rubber.  She breathed an exasperated sigh and locked the cuffs securely
around my wrists, linking them with a short chain.  "Come on, upstairs, there's
work to do before Monica takes charge of you."

    Leila took me again into the upstairs bathroom and sat me in front of the
mirror, where again I got the makeup treatment to cover any male blemishes that
might have appeared.  She handed me a bowl of cereal.

    "Eat your breakfast then go and prepare everything for the girls - you know
what to do.  I'll be back in fifteen minutes and I want to see the buffet ready,
and don't forget to fetch the newspaper.  When you've done all that you can
sweep the verandah."  With those instructions she turned and left without a
backward glance. 

    I wolfed down the cereal, realising how hungry I was, then set about
preparing the table for breakfast.  This was usually a help-yourself affair,
with a choice of cereals, toast, yoghurt juices and so on.  I completed this,
then headed down the drive to fetch the paper.  It was at this stage that I
realised how awkward the hobble skirt made me feel, and how difficult it was to
walk.  The hobble chain between my ankle cuffs was almost superfluous, given the
binding nature of the rubber from my calf to my waist.  The top, too,
constricted me, over and above the effect the corset had underneath.  The
tightness of the top flattened my breasts somewhat, but made the little false
silicone nipples stand out like there was an icy wind blowing.  I had found that
walking with the hobble on under normal conditions meant that one had to be
positive in taking a step, so that the chain would swing forward and not get
caught.  Using this technique with the rubber skirt was made so much harder
since the skirt resisted each step.  Every step was thus that much harder and
more tiring.

    The day was bright and clear with the promise of a hot day ahead.  Spring
was not far away and the air was beginning to warm even in the stillness of the
early morning.  I retrieved the paper and made my way back up the winding
driveway to the house.  Nobody was about so I found a broom and worked my way
around the outside of the house sweeping the verandah clear of gum leaves and
other detritus from the surrounding trees.  By the time I reached the kitchen
again Monica and Leila were having breakfast and I was sweating in my rubber
outfit. Monica caught my eye and beckoned me over.  I stood before her
uncomfortably as she looked me up and down thoughtfully.

    "Hmmn," she mused. "Yes, it works well," she told Leila, as if I wasn't
there.  "Nice outfit, well chosen if I do say so myself."  Then the focus
returned to me.  "Today you have a special job, Stephanie.  Somebody has been
very careless in leaving some wires around the place.  It will be your job to
remove these."  I must have looked blank.  Monica stood up, reached into a paper
bag on the adjacent chair and emerged with two ball gags.  My expression must
have given me away.  "Now I want no complaints, Stephie.  Any carry on and
you'll be still wearing one of these at bedtime, and you'll be really hungry
into the bargain.  Now, which one would you like - the hard one or the soft
one?"  Not used to such a choice I wondered what Monica was up to.  Was she
really giving me a choice or would she use the one I didn't pick?  I didn't know
how long I would have to put up with the thing, and while the soft one was okay
for short periods and allowed more freedom in opening and closing the mouth, the
constant pressure to keep one's mouth open wider than was comfortable could make
one's jaw really tired. 

    I motioned to the soft one.  "That one please, Mistress," I said.

    "It's a shame we can't always have what we want," Monica sighed with a
smile, picking up the hard white ball on the strap.  Reluctantly I opened my
mouth and let Monica work the ball behind my teeth, congratulating myself on
out-guessing Monica's psychology if only just this once.  The hard ball, once
in, at least did not keep trying to expand.  Monica buckled the strap behind my
neck under my hair and I heard the click of a small padlock closing.

    Then her hand was in the paper bag again, this time bringing out a small
hacksaw barely bigger than my hand.  Not understanding what was going on, I
watched as she padlocked the handle to my stainless steel collar by a six-inch
chain.

    "Urrr?"  I said.

    "That's easy for you to say," Monica commented smugly.  "You, my dear, are
about to atone for deeds in a past life," she said, and with this cryptic remark
she led me by my cuffed wrist down the back steps and through the gate into the
pool enclosure.  That was about when I saw the plan.  Sitting in the pool still
was the yellow rubber duck that I had placed there what seemed like ages ago
when I put Monica through her two-day torment.  Now, it seemed, the chickens -
or rather the duck - had come home to roost.

    "Yes, you've got it in one, Stephie," said Monica, her voice oozing
sweetness.  "I want that wire removed.  You will have to cut it off with the
hacksaw, and of course you will have to remove the hacksaw from your collar, to
which it is inconveniently padlocked.  And guess where the key is?"  I rolled my
eyes and groaned, and was rewarded with a sharp zap to my nipples and arse, as
Monica's finger surreptitiously pressed the button on the remote she had
concealed in her hand.  "Less of your theatrics, Missy," she commanded.  "Now
get to work.  And when you've done that one, you can get the one under the
verandah, and there's a nasty stake in the ground up by the back gate that needs
to come out," she said with a steely glint in her eye.

    Reluctantly I slipped off my shoes and walked carefully over to the edge of
the pool.  Going up and down steps in the hobble skirt was not easy, and I went
down the steps cautiously holding on to the handrail.  The water, predictably
for winter, was freezing - well, maybe 15 degrees C, which is freezing for
Brisbane.  At least I was now glad of my rubber clothing, for though it was thin
at least it kept the water actually off my skin.  The tightness of the skirt
meant it acted like a diving bell, trapping a pocket of air between my legs,
which I hoped would remain there as long as I remained upright.  I glanced up at
Monica, who stood like an Empress surveying her lowly subject, arms crossed
imperiously at the edge of the pool. 

    Slowly I made my way down the length of the pool, my breath coming raggedly
through my nose at the coldness of the water.  I found myself making small
'mmmning' noises to myself as a kind of release from the discomfort.  I was
almost at the wire, and the water was just reaching my neck when the buoyancy of
the air trapped in my skirt became too much, and my feet left the bottom of the
pool.  At once my head went under while my feet rose up with a rush of air like
a giant fart.  I guess it would have been funny had I not had a rubber ball
jammed in my mouth, which meant a major difficulty in gasping for air.  In
desperation I grabbed for the wire stretched across the pool just ahead of me
and grasped it with my hands, pulling my head above water.  It was a scary
moment and I surfaced just in time to see the look of alarm on Monica's face. 

    Snorting and trying to breathe at the same time, I fought down my urge to
panic and hung on to the wire, letting my feet drift down to the bottom of the
pool so I could once again stand properly.  I struggled to get my breathing
under control and eventually summoned up the courage to glare at Monica with as
much ire as I could, given my predicament.  Eventually I focussed sufficiently
to grab the key and unlock the hacksaw from my steel collar, before turning and
slowly retracing my way back to the pool steps.

    I was now thoroughly wet in all the places the rubber was not touching my
skin.  My movement created little voids and seemed to suck water into nooks and
crannies which made me cold and uncomfortable.  My hair hung all over the place
and I pushed it out of my eyes as I emerged from the pool like some sort of Lady
of the Lake - but without the glamour.  Having seen that I was not going to
drown, Monica was heading back to the verandah.  She stopped momentarily and
cast a glance in my direction.

    "Hy aggh?" I asked hopefully, pointing to the rubber ball wedging my jaw
apart.  Monica smiled and shook her head, as though there really was nothing she
could do.  Then she gestured to the wire and made a sawing motion.  Reluctantly
I sat down in the sun, my back against the fence, and began sawing...

    It took about ten minutes to get through the wire with the little hacksaw. 
I turned my attention to the other end of the wire around the fence post on the
opposite side, noting as I sat there sawing that most of the girls had now also
turned up for breakfast, and more than a few looks came my way, along with a few
smiles at my plight.  I wondered if they were remembering their own experience
in the pool, which I had watched from the cover of the undergrowth, unbeknown to
them.  I recalled Emma's naked entry into the pool, only to find that the key
under the rubber duck was for the wrists cuffs, and was fixed there, thus
requiring them all to take an involuntary swim.  Yes, what went around
definitely had come around again.

    I finally cut through the wire, having at least got myself warm in the
process.  I stood up and coiled up the wire, dragging in the rubber duck and the
attached key.  Bearing this I left the enclosure and approached the girls on the
verandah.  Before I had even reached the bottom step, Monica said:

    "No, don't come up here.  Put it down and get the key out from under the
deck now," in the same tone one would use for a small child bringing a flower to
show her mother when she should have been doing something else.  There were more
stifled smiles amongst the girls.

    I turned disconsolately and retrieved my shoes from the pool enclosure.  I
wondered whether there was any point to me wearing high heels for my grovel
under the decking, but decided it had to be better than stockinged feet.  Making
my way up the gentle slope to the steps leading up to the balcony outside the
girls quarters and my old room on the near end, I saw that the board across the
space under the steps was still only screwed at one end.  The screwdriver lay in
the grass where Trish must have left it when she and Monica were gaining access
on that night nearly three weeks ago.  Some people were just so untidy.  I
noticed the tool was starting to rust, so I picked it up and left it on the
step.  I would have to put it back in my shed when I got the chance.

    I swung the plank through a half circle and crouched down.  That was the
moment when I discovered first hand what the Twins had previously found out when
they were cleaning floors and skirtings - if walking is difficult in a hobble
skirt, crawling is almost impossible.  The rubber gripped me around the knees
and made movement difficult in the extreme.  I ended up worming my way under the
steps using my forearms and elbows, with a little help from my toes as my legs
dragged out behind me.

    There was at least enough light under the deck, with the morning sun
streaming through the slats on the outer wall, and between the deck planks. 
Obviously it was a bit less intense than when Monica and Trish had had to
wriggle through the mud in the rain and darkness.  Maybe I was getting off
lightly, I thought.

    The exertion of sliding along on my stomach through the tight space under
each bearer left me breathing raggedly around the gag by the time I got to the
post where the key still hung, secured by the thin stainless steel wire.  I was
resting here, letting my heart rate subside when I heard the sound of heels
click up the steps, walk along the deck and disappear through a door.  A minute
later the door opened again and the shoes re-emerged on to the deck.  From where
I was and where the sound came from, I guessed the owner of the shoes to be
Mary.  The shoes paused and then came closer, until they were overhead.

    "I don't hear any sawing going on," said Mary's impatient voice. "We're
having a little rest, are we?"  This rhetorical question was followed by a burst
of pain in my nipples and rectum.  I gasped and spluttered into my gag, trying
to contract into a foetal position, but there was no chance in such a confined
space.  Another, longer zap followed, which left me clutching my breasts as
though it could stop the piercing pain in my nipples.

    "NNNMPH!" I moaned, my body trembling and twitching, my breath rasping
hoarsely through my nose.

    "Well get on with it!" came the imperious voice as the footsteps strode
away.  In desperation I gripped the little hacksaw and set to work on the wire. 
What with the crawl up to the wire, the electric shocks and the cutting, I had a
good sweat up by the time the wire parted.  I slipped it through my wrist cuff
then squirmed around on my tummy to worm my way back to the steps.

    I was almost there when I realised a second surprise awaited me.  Somebody
had screwed the board back in place over the opening.  The steps had open risers
so I could see the screwdriver was not where I had left it.  I thrust my cuffed
hands under the board, feeling about on the grass to see if it was there, but in
vain.  I was trapped in a wooden prison.  Desperately I looked about.  On one
side was the blockwork of the building itself, while the far end and the outer
face were closely boarded slats, leaving only the steps and the boarded up
access space.  I squirmed about, trying to get some weight against the board,
but there wasn't the space and I was too constricted in my rubber outfit.

    "Hhmmmn!"  I called futilely.  "Hhhmnp!"  I looked out the gap above the
offending board and could see the faces involved in animated conversation on the
back verandah beyond the pool.  I waved my hands through the gap, but if anyone
saw me they said nothing.  I did this for a few minutes before finally deciding
there was nothing to do but wait until one of the girls came my way and grab her
by the ankle.

    Time passed while I sweated under the boards.  I was dirty and muddy after
the pool episode and then the good grovel through the dust.  Maybe Monica wanted
me to reflect on my transgressions - assuming she knew about the board being
screwed up.  Well, Monica, consider me very reflective.  What if she didn't
know?  I reckoned Mary had probably screwed up the board out of spite.  When
would Monica start looking for me?

    My question was answered when I saw Monica's slim legs striding across the
lawn towards me.  Her tone was exasperated.

    "What is the matter with you?  Must I watch you every moment?  Why are
slaves always so incompetent?  How did you get locked in here? " 

    I gurgled a reply to each of the questions, each reply in fact sounding
pretty similar to the previous one.  I shut up abruptly at the sharp tingle in
my poor nips and up my arse.  Monica, squatting down, unscrewed the end of the
plank and let me drag myself out.  She stood up, hands on hips looking
irritated. 

    "Get up," she said.  "You're a waste of space.  "Now go up to the back gate
and dig out the stake that some fool put into the ground there, before someone
drives over it."  She thrust a small trowel at me that had been lying in a
nearby flowerbed.  "Go on - what are you waiting for!"  Her had held the remote
buzzer and I needed no second bidding, scrambling to my feet and tottering up
the grassy rise in my high heels.

    "And no slacking - or else!" she threatened with a parting shot.

   

    I started up the grassy rise and on reaching the top saw that the area
around the back gate - the scene of my first coupling with Christina, and of
Mary's tussle with the gate itself - had dried out considerably since my last
view of it.  That had been from a nearby copse, watching Trish and Leila and
Monica thrashing about in the muddy soup that it then was.  The weather since
then had generally been pretty dry, as Brisbane winters tended to be, and
coupled with the strong westerly winds that arose in July and August, the
conditions had led much of the surface water to evaporate.  What was left now
appeared to be a stiff brown gel, which I approached with some trepidation.  In
the middle of it all was the wooden stake I had driven into the ground, still
with the key on the steel wire through a hole in the timber.  Being the anally
retentive individual that I was, I had made what I intended to be a pretty good
job of it with a sledgehammer.  Regrettably I did not consider that I was going
to have to remove it under quite the circumstances I now found myself in.

    I made my way down the steep stretch of track cut between the grassy banks
of the ridge and tentatively tested the consistency of the mud.  The surface had
dried a little, leaving a crazed pattern, but underneath it was soft and oozy. 
I took my shoes off and gingerly took steps towards the spike.  Hobbled as I was
by the skirt and the ankle cuffs, it perhaps wasn't surprising that I was
tentative, and even less surprising that I fell over.  My stockinged feet got
exactly zero grip in the slick mud and I wound up flat on my face.  After that
it was a simple grovel across to the stake, except that - as I had already found
out - you couldn't crawl in a hobble skirt.  So once again I was reduced to
trying to worm my way through the mud on my belly.  And this wasn't as easy as
it sounded.  Unlike my experience under the deck, here I couldn't even get a
proper grip with my hands and elbows, and much of my effort resulted in a
fish-like waggling that made very little impact, except to re-liquefy some of
the mud into a more porridge-like texture.  This then worked its way between my
legs and up my thighs inside my skirt.  Everything was now squelching and
sliding against each other.  My breasts were buried and the mud was sticking to
my rubber top like shit to the proverbial blanket, not to mention starting to
get in my hair.  I was at length reduced to using the small trowel like a canoe
paddle, digging it in and pulling myself the five metres or so to the stake.

    Using the stake I managed to pull myself into a kneeling position and from
this angle I set to work on removing the piece of wood.  I had banged it in
probably half a metre, and it took some digging to loosen sufficiently to get
out.  I was obliged to stand up to get sufficient purchase to pull it clear of
the mud, and it took three goes to do this, each occasion ending with me flat on
my back making frustrated 'mmning' sounds around the rubber ball in my mouth. 
In the last instance I went down at the same time as the stake came free with a
rude sucking sound. 

    The grovel back to firm ground was slightly easier using the trowel in one
hand and the stake in the other.  I finally stood up breathing hard through my
nose.  I pushed a muddy lock of hair out of my eye with a muddy hand and looked
down at myself.  Here and there bits of my white top showed through the mud, but
basically I was now an all-over brown colour, looking like a refugee from a
mud-wrestling championship.  Monica was certainly getting her own back.

    

    They had all finished breakfast when I returned to the house, and the
verandah was deserted save for Trish tidying up some things.  She took one look
at me and struggled to restrain her composure.

    "Don't you come anywhere near here in that state," she warned.  "You're
disgusting.  Go and finish what Monica told you to do, then you can think about
washing."

    I dropped the stake and the key at the foot of the steps and trudged around
to the front of the house.  I knew I now had to go up the track over the road
and recover the key that was wired to the tree trunk.  I would have been
hesitant enough had I been clean, but in the state I was at present the thought
of venturing beyond the gate filled me with dread.  As I rounded the corner at
the top of the drive I saw Mary's figure near the gate, where she was obviously
getting the morning mail.  I don't know what made me do as I did, other than the
realisation of what a mess I must have looked.  Anyway, I decided it was time to
get my own back on Mary, if just for a moment.  I knew it would cost me, but I
couldn't help myself, as I hid behind the trunk of a large ghost gum.  It was
childish, I know, but the look of pure fright on her face as this mud-covered
ogre-like creature jumped out in front of her, doing a sort of feeble nasal
grunting was worth the effort.  It was unfortunate that I couldn't jump very
well with my hobbled feet, but the effect was achieved. 

    "You smart bitch!" Mary glared at me.  "How dare you!  Clearly you haven't
understood your place on the evolutionary ladder yet.  I'll make sure Monica
sorts you out.  You're lucky she's in charge of you today.  But maybe I'll ask
for you tomorrow..." She became thoughtful.  "Yes, I think I can make time for
you in my busy schedule."  She smiled, but there was no warmth in it.  "Now go
about your business you little slut!"

    I scampered down the driveway, sniggering inwardly.  The look on Mary's face
really had been worth it.

    The gate represented an obstacle as much symbolic as real.  I spent another
ten minutes sawing through the wire attached to the letter box, the key on which
had locked the girls' ankle cuffs.  The next stage was a bit scarier, though. 
Outside was the big wide world with real cars and real people going about their
lives, not expecting to see a mud-covered girl in a hobble skirt sporting wrist
and ankle cuffs and a ball gag trying to cross the road.  What would I say if
someone stopped?  What could I say, for that matter - not a lot, really.  Not at
first, anyway.  How quickly could I cross the road?  Why did the prisoner cross
the road, I thought irrelevantly, but I couldn't think of a snappy answer.

    I pressed the release when I could hear no cars and slipped through the
gate.  Bilboes is located in a quiet part of the world, with no other houses
visible.  Traffic is not too heavy and at this hour, mid-morning I did not
anticipate a problem.  Feeling like a very vulnerable part of the local wildlife
I scuttled across the tarmac with the odd clink of chain before diving into the
undergrowth.  Running was totally weird in these shoes.  It was no wonder women
ran funny, I thought, with hands flaying out at the side.  How could they run in
heels?  The natural heel-to-toe action was impossible - you ended up running on
tiptoes.

    It took twenty minutes or so to reach the tree.  The wire and key were still
there.  I rested for a bit before starting sawing through the stainless steel. 
I hoped fervently that no little old lady would be walking her dog in these
parts.  I could handle what was done to me behind the walls of Bilboes, but the
thought of having to explain my predicament to some member of the general public
did not appeal to me at all.  I recalled the (probably apocryphal) story of a
female flight attendant who flew from London to Paris after leaving her
boyfriend tied up in her flat.  When circumstances delayed her in Paris she was
obliged to phone the London police to go and let him out.  I doubt the
relationship lasted...

    I returned the way I came, knowing it brought me back opposite the Bilboes
gate.  It was then I realised that I had no way of getting back in without
somebody opening the gate to me.  I hurried across the road and pressed the
speaker button, hoping it was someone like Leila or Trish who might have pity on
me.

    "Hello?" said the voice.  Shit, it was Contrary Mary.  I bet she had figured
this out for herself.

    "Plmmnf Mmmph, lmmf mmf mmph!"

    "What?  I can't understand.  Say again?"

    "Mmmnph!  Ffmmnf plmfh!" I swore at her.

    "Sorry, not today."  There was a click and the voice went dead.

    "MMMPH!" I howled, then realised how exposed I was, locked outside the great
sliding gates.  In my skirt and with hobbled ankles I had no chance of climbing
them.  I could only hope to find some way through the thicket that formed the
remainder of the front boundary.  I soon found that in the middle of this
overgrown jungle, in amongst thorny vines and clinging creepers, there was a
wire fence.  It was old, only waist high, but with barbed wire at all levels.

    A car came past and I dropped into the undergrowth, my heart pounding.  This
could yet be highly embarrassing.  Then I realised I still had the little
hacksaw, and again engaged in what was becoming a pretty regular activity.  I
cut the bottom strand and wormed my way under, only getting hooked twice on the
strand above.  Once through I kept getting my ankle cuffs tangled and falling on
my face.  Barbs tore at my exposed legs and at the rubber.  Monica wasn't going
to like what I was doing to her outfit.  But that was Mary's fault.  I lost
count of how many times I fell down before I finally emerged in the driveway,
trailing bits of foliage from my hobble chain and wrist links.  Exhausted, I
staggered around the rear of the house and plopped down at the base of the back
steps, catching my breath before hosing myself down under the garden hose, as I
decided would be most prudent.  That was where Monica found me, and proceeded to
give me a right royal bollocking.  Look at myself.  Look at the state of my
outfit.  Did I think these clothes were cheap?  Had I no pride?  I spent half my
morning dossing under the deck and the other half making a complete mess of
myself.  Blah blah blah.  Maybe I shouldn't have rolled my eyes.  I mean there
wasn't much I could do to express myself, and while that was one thing I could
do, it really wasn't the right time or place. 

    That was why I found myself standing on my tiptoes, arms stretched above me,
my cuffs tied to a rope that went over the bough of a handy jacaranda tree. 
That was how I got a really good hosing down, then a thorough whipping with the
same hose.  I twisted and turned, yowling into my gag, but Monica was clearly
pissed about the rips in my outfit. She didn't seem to worry about the flesh
inside it, though, and I got zapped on the nipples and in the arse in between
the beatings, which left me sweating and exhausted.  Monica left me hanging out
to dry out for half an hour in the sun, watching the members of the household go
about their business.  

    She finally let me down with a further tongue-lashing and an admonishment to
go into my cell and change my clothes.  I had had no chance to explain myself,
and how I came to be trapped under the deck, nor how I got locked outside and
what I had to do as a result.  But there was nothing I could do about it. 
Somehow I did not think that dobbing Mary in would be a good career move in any
case.

    The change of clothes Monica had left out for me was infinitely more
comfortable than the rubber skirt and top.  At least with the latter outfit,
however, it had kept the mud out of my corset and I didn't have to endure that
oozing about my nether regions until my next proper shower. 

    I unlocked my wrist and ankle cuffs with the keys she had given me, and did
the same with the hated ball gag.  My jaw ached from the strain it had been
under and all the exertions I had been through. I didn't get a key to the crotch
lock, though, and Mr Butt Plug remained resolutely in place.  This time I was
evidently to revert to my lackey role, in a white tailored long-sleeved smock
that reached nearly to my knees.  There were two white ribbons which I assumed
were for my hair.  Someone had hung a mirror on one of the eyebolts in the cell
and it was with total unfamiliarity that I pulled my hair into two pigtails and
tied them there with the ribbons.  Under my smock I wore white stockings this
time, and white shoes similar to my last pair, but this time probably two
centimetres higher and with a narrower heel.  They looked somewhat incongruous
with the smock, being better suited to a long gown, I thought.  But on the
whole, I had to admit, not bad.  There were replacement cuffs for my ankles and
wrists, and I duly locked these on, before reporting to Monica upstairs with the
debris from my morning's efforts.

    I was allowed to eat lunch, sitting on the back step, then Monica taped over
my mouth with several strips of duct tape, before fastening a harness over my
head and locking it in place.  It was made of white leather and completely
covered my mouth and chin, with straps either side of my nose and over the top
of my head, which joined with the neck strap and others up the sides of my head. 
At least it was better than the ball, and I was not about to complain, even if I
could have.

    For the first part of the afternoon I cleaned my rubber outfit and the
cuffs, which were left to dry, after which I did my rounds of the upstairs
bedroom linen and washing generally.  I was then directed to the laundry where a
massive pile of ironing and folding awaited.  Here I started and began working
my way through the pile.  Some of it was the girls' own, while much of it was
household linen and some outfits from the storeroom.  Monica warned me to take
care with all of it, unless I wanted my own backside ironed in a different way. 
Fortunately, being a halfway competent bachelor, I had done more than my share
of ironing in my life, and it was hardly a novelty.

    It was mid-afternoon when Shawnee arrived.  She walked into the laundry and
stared at me.

    "Who the hell are you?" she demanded, removing a thin windcheater.  She was
barefoot and naked from the waist up, wearing a kind of mini sarong which came
only a little way down her thighs.

    "Uf aifffe," I told her, not very distinctly, admittedly, through the tape
and harness.  Shawnee, bless her heart, was not a uni student for nothing.

    "Not in here you're not," she said, clearly put out. "Ironing is my duty. 
We have an arrangement.  Go and be a slave somewhere else!"

    "Uh -uh," I said, holding my ground and keeping the ironing board between
this aggressive little firebrand and me.  Shawnee had always seemed so
unassuming when I had seen her around the house on weekends previously.  Mind
you I could not remember ever having a meaningful conversation with her.  When
she wasn't working she was usually chained up somewhere, and invariably had
something stuffed in her mouth that prevented much in the way of dialogue.  Now
she evidently wanted her position of Number One Slave (Ironing) back.

    "Look, I don't know who you are, but I run this place and this is my job,
now tootle along elsewhere." She glared at me and jerked her thumb over her
shoulder in the direction of the door.  I tried to meet her gaze, but my eyes
kept returning to her magnificent breasts, which just seemed to be too big for
her petite frame.  Not that they were excessively huge mammaries or anything
like that - just bigger than someone of her stature had a right to have.  I
shook my head.

    "Do I have to throw you out?" she asked coolly.

    Again I shook my head and held up the iron as a weapon.

    "Look, sister," she said, completely unfazed,  "I know judo, and you waving
an iron at me means diddly squat.  Now put it down before you end up with an
iron print on your bum."  She grabbed the ironing board and tried to move it
away, but I held on to it with my left hand.  Since my wrists were joined by a
half-metre chain this tended to restrict my options with the iron, and we were
in the process of wrestling over the ironing board when Monica appeared in the
doorway behind Shawnee.

    "I see," she said, and both of us froze, like kids caught smoking behind the
bike sheds.  Monica was wearing black leather trousers and a black lycra top,
and looked very no-nonsense.  "You're in charge, are you, Shawnee?  You're
running the place now, I understand...  Nobody told me about this."  This was
extremely like a schoolmistress I once had, who put the fear of God into me as
an eight-year old.  Shawnee flushed and looked at her feet, which I suspected
she couldn't see because of her statuesque build.  Then Monica appeared to
become conciliatory.  "Very well, since you really like ironing and don't do a
bad job..." Monica picked up some of the stuff I had done.  "Mind you, this is
nicely presented too.  Very good, Stephie.  I'm impressed.  So it's decision
time.  Stephanie - go and fetch the shaft - the one Trish tested that time. 
It's down in the Post Room."

    Glad to be away from the confrontation, I hastened away, my heels clicking
on the wooden floor.  I went down the stairs cautiously, aware both of the
higher heels and the hobble chain.  I knocked on the door to the Observation
Room.  It was empty.  I looked through the one-way window into the Post Room. 
It was occupied by Trish and another girl whom I had seen before and knew as
Lisa.  I had been told Lisa was one of the more extremist clients, and from what
I had seen before, and saw now, I could well believe it.  Trish wore black thigh
boots and a short black skirt and halter-top.  Her hair was pulled back in a
pony tail and she looked the epitome of efficiency and officiousness, strutting
around her victim flicking a riding crop.  Her victim, Lisa - she of the long
blonde hair and lithe body - was suspended upside down by her left leg.  Lisa's
left foot was at about head height, while her right foot had been bound to her
right thigh, which drooped sufficiently to expose Lisa's shaven pussy at a very
vulnerable height to anyone who wished to take advantage of it.

    Lisa's hands had been pulled up behind her shoulder blades where they were
crossed and bound and the rope then attached to her plaited hair, pulling her
head back. A wide red leather strap was buckled over her mouth, and from the
middle of it hung a tube with a squeeze bulb on the end of it and I knew her
mouth was filled with an inflatable gag.  On each nipple a clear plastic tube
was positioned, which Trish would occasionally flick with the tip of her crop. 
I had seen these tubes in action, and knew they acted as vacuum tubes, their
ends gripping the nipple in a tight band as the air was drawn out by twisting
the ends of them.

    As I watched, Trish gave Lisa a shove, and she swung to and fro between the
posts, turning slowly on her rope.  At the end of each swing, Trish flicked an
appropriate part of Lisa's anatomy - which ever happened to be closest.  I
watched with fascination as the inner thigh, the right foot, the nipple tube and
then Lisa's buttocks all received the treatment.  At each stroke a squeal
emitted from the captive.

    "Now, what about your pussy," said Trish with the menace of a cat eying a
mouse caught in a cage.  Lisa, red in the face from her inverted position,
widened her eyes fearfully and shook her head.  That was when Trish flicked the
crop at the end of Lisa's swing.  It caught Lisa right on the pussy lips. 

    I winced, and Lisa jerked and howled into her gag, her breathing coming in a
series of whining grunts.  I figured it was probably an appropriate time to make
an entrance and went to the next door, knocking and entering as Trish called out
to do so.  She did not look too pleased to see me.

    "Well?" she demanded as though something lowly and distinctly obnoxious had
just entered the room.  "What do you want?"

    I pointed to the shaft over in the corner.

    "For you?" she queried, possibly hopefully.  I shook my head.  "Pity," she
continued.  Sometimes you slaves need a bit of discipline.  Like Lisa here. 
Would you like some more, Lisa dear?"  Trish ran her fingers over the girl's
crotch.  Lisa shook her head and then closed her eyes as Trish's fingers did
some more exploring.  Lisa let out a shuddering moan, and the high pitched
grunting turned into a moan that wasn't all pain, I decided.  "Well slave?" she
said again, as I stood transfixed at the sight.  I pulled myself together and
clattered over to where the steel shaft and plate stood in the corner.  I picked
it up and carried it awkwardly out of the room, closing the door on Lisa's
torment behind me.

   

    Monica was waiting for me when I appeared.  She had tied a scarf over
Shawnee's eyes and had used another from the laundry basket to cross and bind
the girl's hands behind her back.  She pointed to a spot on the floor and I put
the device down with a soft clang.  Monica took a large butt plug which was
sitting on top of the washing machine.  It had not been there before, so she
must have obviously fetched it in my absence.  She attached it to the top of the
vertical shaft with a pin through its base, which she locked in place with a
tiny padlock, then she undid the clamp at mid-height on the pole and slid the
top half down below crotch height.  The butt plug received a generous coat of
lubricant before Monica manhandled Shawnee into position, her feet apart. 
Clearly she didn't know what was planned for her until that point when she felt
the cold slippery smoothness of the plug between her cheeks.

    "Argh -no! Please Monica!"  Shawnee's hands began to open and close behind
her back and she became very tense.

    "Who?" Monica snapped."

    "I'm sorry - Mistress.  Please don't -arrh!  It hurts!"

    "Oh shut up and stop whingeing!"

    "Oh! Oh! Arrgh! Ohhhhhh..."

    I knew the feeling as the sphincter closed around the narrow base of the
plug.

    Monica moved the shaft a little higher and Shawnee went momentarily on to
her tiptoes, then brought her feet together, on either side of the shaft. 
Monica tightened the clamp at that point and undid the scarves.

    "Very well slave.  You wanted to do ironing, and so you will.  You can
finish off this pile here.  That should take you a few hours and the process
should help your posture as well."  Monica positioned the ironing board in front
of her, made sure she could reach the water and the clothes and was about to
leave.

    "Mistress! Please don't leave me like this!"

    Monica stopped and sighed and then carried on, beckoning to me to follow.  I
trotted along behind her into the kitchen where she told me to wait.  She
disappeared and came back a minute later with a large squidgy-type ball gag.

    "Won't be a moment," she said and went into the laundry.

    "You're a lippy slave girl," she said brusquely.  "You know you never talk
back to a mistress!"

    "But I - urrgrkk!"

    "That's better," said Monica, emerging with a satisfied look.  I glimpsed
Shawnee, her mouth and cheeks distorted by the ball and strap buckled tightly in
place, glaring at us as I turned to follow my mistress.

   

    "Before you start dinner, you can go down to the store and polish some shoes
and boots," Monica told me, handing me a basket she had taken from the laundry
cupboard.  In it there were all manner of shoe polishes and brushes.  "Now be
off!"

    I went down the stairs and was in the middle of selecting some high-heeled
boots when Trish entered the room.

    "And what are you up to?' she demanded, not unkindly.

    "Hmmffing hhmpfs," I explained, making a rubbing motion over the boots.

    "Excellent.  You can come and do mine first, while I keep an eye on Lisa.  I
just popped in here for a few more clips," she said, rummaging in a shoebox full
of clothes pegs, nipple clips and other implements of discomfort.

    I followed her back to the Observation Room, eyeing the thigh-length black
boots that Trish sported beneath her short skirt.

    "Go in there and wait for me," she instructed.  I went inside and through
the one-way glass saw Trish turn her attention again to the tall blonde, Lisa,
who was now bound in a new variation between the two posts.  She was now
standing upright, which must at least have been some small relief for her.  She
still wore the red leather pad and strap across her mouth with the rubber tube
and squeeze bag hanging down from it and this time her single plait was dangling
free behind her.  She was standing in a star position, her ankles held rigidly
wide by a spreader bar attached to ankle cuffs, and each cuffed wrist pulled
high and nearly vertically.  I followed the line of the cord attached to one
wrist.  It went over a pulley suspended from a ceiling joist, then dropped
vertically to a bucket of water hanging just above hand height.  This in itself
wouldn't have been too much of an imposition, being heavy enough merely to keep
constant pressure on the arm in pulling it upwards.  But from the handle of the
bucket a string ran downwards to about waist height, then curved upwards to
Lisa's breast where it was tied to a nipple clip.  Tied on to the string at
about five centimetre spacings were a series of marble-sized lead weights.  It
was only when Lisa moved that I saw the wicked thinking behind it. 

    Lisa need do nothing, as long as she could stand the obvious pain in her
nipples.  The only way to alleviate the weight hanging on them was to haul on
the ropes tied to her wrists, to raise the two buckets of water until they also
picked up the weight of the lead balls.  If Lisa could pull the rope far enough
- about thirty centimetres, all the weight of the balls would be removed from
her nipples - but of course would be transferred to her arms.  Unless, of
course, she bent her knees and lowered her whole body. 

    This was just what Trish was dealing with at that moment.  She had placed a
sawhorse between Lisa's spread legs.  The horse had a metal plate lying on top,
which was attached by a wire leading off - I presumed - to a battery which I
couldn't see below the window.  There was about a handspan clearance between the
plate and Lisa's crotch, which Trish now approached.  She held up two metal
clips in front of Lisa's face.  Attached to each was a further wire.  Trish said
nothing, but I had a fair idea Lisa knew what was in the offing.  Her eyes
widened over the top of the pad covering her mouth and she shook her head in a
futile gesture, the squeeze bag flapping wildly.  Trish caught it and gave it a
pump.  Lisa's eyes bulged, as did her cheeks even further and she immediately
stopped her head shaking.  Trish said nothing, but bent and attached the metal
clamps to the lips of Lisa's pussy.  The woman closed her eyes and moaned with
the pain, then opened them as Trish stepped back.  At that moment Lisa was
standing with her arms half-bent, taking the weight of the two buckets of water
with the muscles of her arms. 

    Trish turned and left the room, joining me a moment later.  I held up the
black tube of polish and looked at her inquiringly.

    "In a minute," she said, half impatiently, as though I was a distraction to
her task.  "Watch this.  I'll give her three minutes before those arms get tired
and she lets them up again.  Then the pain in her nips will be too much to bear,
and she'll use the weight of her body by lowering herself.  Until those clamps
touch the metal plate, that is.  Then we'll see how good that gag is."  She
smiled at me - the smile of someone totally focused on providing a client with
whatever that client wishes, and who is about to see a carefully thought through
plan go off without a hitch.

    I stood silently beside Trish who lounged in the reclining office chair,
watching the spot-lit figure in the room beyond the window.  I could see Lisa
trying to gnaw or bite the rubber balloon filling her mouth, but it was too
strong and she could not bring her teeth together.  Her jaw must have been
aching, I decided, and occasionally she would toss her head in frustration, her
brows knotted.

    She was struggling now to hold the weight of the two buckets with her arms
alone.  Her biceps were standing out taut and I could see her arms starting to
tremble under the strain.  At length she let the weight of the buckets
straighten her arms very slowly.  I heard her breathing - picked up by the
microphone in the room - become more ragged, accompanied by a high pitch
whimpering, as the six lead balls gradually came to hang completely from each
nipple.  By that time Lisa was making sharp intakes of breath and whining with
the pain.  She was not about to do anything suddenly, it appeared, as she slowly
put her weight against the ropes and began to lower her body.  As this happened,
so the buckets ascended again and also took up the load of the nipple weights. 

    I was not sure if Lisa knew what lay in store for her through this movement. 
I guessed she might have had some idea that the two wired clamps hanging from
her pussy lips might have a surprise in store, but clearly the nipple pain was
her worst problem at that moment.  Until the clamps touched the metal plate and
closed the circuit, that was.

    Lisa jerked and instinctively straightened up with a muffled cry.  A moment
later there was another stifled shriek of pain as the nipple weights dropped and
tugged violently on her tits.  Lisa howled into the rubber balloon filling her
mouth, screwing up her eyes in agony.  She pulled hard with her arms to take up
the load, and I wondered how long she would be able to keep up the cycle.

    "Pretty inventive, huh?" Trish said rhetorically with a faint smile.  "How
would you like to try out something like that?"   I shook my head vehemently,
alarmed.  I was also amazed that someone would voluntarily submit to something
like that.  "Don't worry - unless you're a very bad slave, we won't inflict that
on you.  That's something we dreamed up especially for Lisa.  Lisa is a special
individual.  A bit ditsy, with a few weird ideas, but also with a very high pain
threshold.  She like to push herself, and she likes our inventiveness, and
especially because we're all females here.  She doesn't trust men.  I can't
imagine why... But enough of the floor show - get to work on these boots. 
You're not here for decoration.  I want to see some effort."

    Effort was what I put into my work.  I spent perhaps fifteen minutes
polishing those gorgeous boots - while Trish was wearing them.  She responded to
whatever I motioned - putting her feet on the desk one at a time while I
polished and rubbed the supple black leather until it shone.  Trish, of course,
enjoyed what must have been quite a pleasurable massage at the same time, for
the leather fitted her legs like a second skin.  At length she called a halt to
the proceedings, deciding that Lisa has reached her limit.  The poor girl was
shaking with the strain of keeping her arms bent while at the same time taking
up some of the slack with her body weight - just enough to not touch those
terrible electrodes clipped to her pussy.  Sweat was running down her body in
rivulets and her hair was matted and damp with the effort. 

    Trish removed the metal plate from the sawhorse and unclipped the pussy
clips - a move which elicited a groan from Lisa.  The rest of the apparatus
stayed in place, and Trish then screwed a stubby chrome vibrator to the top of
the sawhorse, positioning it so that the tip of it just intruded into Lisa when
she was fully upright.  Trish turned and left the room, leaving Lisa to impale
herself fully on the silver phallus, her eyes closed and a look of relief on her
face.  As she did so, of course, the weight of the water in the buckets
counteracted her own weight, perhaps making the downward motion less positive. 
Trish returned moments later with two further buckets full of water, and I
realised at that point that the weighted buckets were only half full.  Trish
climbed on to a small stepladder and topped them up.  Lisa groaned as the
further strain came on her arms and threatened to pull her off her vibrating
friend.  Trish tossed the remainder of the water over Lisa, who blinked and
seemed to gain a second wind.  Her efforts to achieve an orgasm were renewed,
hindered only by Trish's well time slashes with the riding crop whenever the
prisoner seemed to be getting close to a climax.

	After some minutes Trish left Lisa to her own devices, and returned to the
Observation Room.  I had been so mesmerised by the action unfolding before me
that I had forgotten what I was there for.  Trish was not happy and set about my
backside with the crop, driving me from the room.  I retreated to the storeroom
where I selected several pairs of boots and shoes and took them upstairs, to
clean them in the kitchen when time allowed during the course of cooking dinner.

	I cast a glance through the door into the laundry.  Shawnee was still there,
impaled on the shaft, her gag still locked in place.  Clearly I was persona non
grata in her life at that moment and I decided to stay out of her way.

	After I had prepared and served dinner and cleared the plates away, Monica
removed my harness and permitted me to pull the tape from my mouth.  I was
allowed to eat a meal of soup and bread and butter and a piece of fruit.  Being
hungry looked like becoming a semi-permanent state for this slave, and I had a
sneaking suspicion that by the end of a month I would be finding the corset not
nearly so restrictive.  By the time all the kitchen had been tidied up and I had
finished cleaning the shoes, it was probably nine o'clock.  I was feeling tired
and a bit run down, which I put down to a lack of food and my strenuous efforts
running about the place in a rubber suit for half the day. 

    After I had eaten Monica had locked a red ball gag in my mouth, which I
thought at the time had been a bit unnecessary.  That was before I found out it
was my job to feed the prisoners.  Tonight there were two paying customers
staying the night downstairs, and being Friday night Shawnee was also a guest of
the establishment.

    Lisa was first on my round, still captive in the Post Room.  She was bound
cross-legged and with her arms tied in strappado fashion against one of the
posts, her wrists and elbows bound with copious windings of sashcord.  A further
rope ran around her waist with a crotch rope connected to the ropes about her
ankles.  Two small weights hung from silver clips on her nipples, but the clips
were nowhere as severe as those I had seen her suffer earlier in the day.  A
rubber bit between her teeth had replaced her previous inflatable gag. 

    Jillian was in the Observation Room, and I had mimed permission to enter the
cell to feed Lisa.  Jill waved me in and continued reading her book.

    Lisa looked up as I entered with a large tupperware container of minestrone
soup, made with my own fair hands.  I had also brought a big squeeze bottle full
of sports drink, for I knew she would be very dehydrated if what I had seen of
her torment was anything to go by.  She looked at me as I approached, her green
eyes registering that it was someone other than her jailer come to torment her. 
I saw that her plait had been secured to her wrists which were stretched up and
behind her, thus forcing her head to remain upright and keeping her back
strained and slightly arched.

    I knelt down in front of her and reached around behind her to undo the strap
holding the bit gag in place.  She smiled weakly and thanked me.

    "You must be the relief supplies," she said.  Her voice was a husky soprano
with a sense of humour underlying it, I suspected.  How could you take this
punishment without one, I wondered?  I removed the lid from the container and
held a ladle of soup to her lips.  The liquid was hot, but no so much that it
burned her lips.  She slurped it greedily.  "God, I'm starving," she said.  "Not
only do I get a good seeing to here - I get to lose a few pounds as well."  I
didn't think that she needed to lose any weight, but I wasn't in a position to
say so.  The most I could do was to run my hand admiringly - I hoped - down the
gentle curve of her waist and over the smooth flatness of her stomach.  She
smiled in appreciation.  "Thank you.  This soup is delicious.  Did you make it?
"  I nodded.  "Clever girl."  Would that she knew I was only a rough builder. 
"I don't suppose you could slip these clips off," she whispered abruptly,
"they're really hurting now."

    "I don't suppose she could," came Jillian's voice, seemingly from all around
us.  "Unless she wants to end up attached to them herself..."

    "Oo - oo -I suppose a finger under these crotch ropes is out of the question
then?"  Lisa asked hopefully with a girlish charm.

    "Certainly - if she wants to keep you company for the rest of the night, in
a rather extreme position."

    "Okay, just thought I'd ask," Lisa said, as though she been asking for a
light for a cigarette.

    "Hurry it up Stephanie - more feeding and less gabbing, otherwise little
Miss Smartmouth is going to go hungry."

    I ladled more soup into her mouth and let her suck on the squeeze bottle
until she had had enough.  Jill finally got impatient and ordered me to regag
the prisoner. 

    "And no sloppy stuff, either - make it good and tight." I rolled my eyes in
apology to Lisa, buckling the strap under the plait.  I said goodbye with a
small wave before leaving the room.  Lisa's eyes sparkled briefly in response.

   

    My second call for meals on wheels - 'meals in chains' might have been more
appropriate - was in the holding cell.  It was a woman I had never seen before. 
Jillian unlocked the door and let me in.

    "This is Sigrid," she said dispassionately.  "She's the wife of a diplomat. 
We want a prisoner freed in return for her release with all her fingers and
other bits and pieces."    The figure on the iron-framed bed moaned in misery. 
"Do your stuff and leave her the way you found her," Jillian ordered.  "Any
funny business and you'll end up hanging upside down from the ceiling."  She
pushed me into the cell and closed the door behind me with a solid clang.

    The woman lay on the bed, her hands crossed and bound behind her back, her
legs secured at the ankles and above the knees.  She wore a black harness
blindfold with large padded leather coverings over her eyes.  Unlike most of our
inmates, Sigrid was not gagged, nor was she naked.  She wore a dark burgundy
satin blouse and a grey skirt currently riding up her thighs.  Her shoes were on
the floor, leaving her black nylon-clad legs shining under the fluorescent
light.

    "Wh-who's there?"  she stammered.

    "Mm-pphmph," I said.

    "What?"

    "Mm-phf," I explained.

    "What?"  Then she seemed to realise.  "Have you been gagged?"

    "Unm-hmm," I confirmed.

    "I-I'm sorry.  What are you doing here?  Where am I?  I'm sorry - you can't
tell me, can you..."

    I put down the containers and helped her sit up on the bed.  She was quite
an attractive woman, I decided, despite the upper half of her face being covered
with the blindfold.  I guessed she was in her mid-thirties, of average height
with a tangle of rust-coloured hair reaching down to her shoulders.  Her nose
and cheekbones were well defined and her lips bore traces of a dark lipstick
that must have matched her blouse. 

    I removed the lid of the plastic container and let the smell of the soup
trigger her olfactory nerves.

    "Food!" she exclaimed.  "I'm so hungry!  What time is it?  Is it night
time?"

    "Uh-hmn."

    "Do you work here?"

    "Uh-hmn."

    "Are you a slave?"

    "Uh-hmn."

    And so it went on, in a one-sided twenty-questions kind of conversation. 
Sigrid had been snatched from her home that afternoon, it appeared.  I could
only assume she was role-playing as much as the girls would have been, but had I
not known the setup I would seriously have questioned whether this woman was not
in fact being held against her will in circumstances she could not understand.

    "Can you ease these ropes on my wrists?" Sigrid asked at length, after I had
fed her the soup and let her drink her fill from the plastic bottle.  "They're
so tight... my arms are aching..."

    "Uh-uh," I said firmly, standing up and gathering my things as there came a
rattle of the key in the lock.

    "Please don't leave me!" Sigrid at once became plaintive.  "I don't know
what they're going to do to me, or how long they'll keep me here..."

    I mumbled something and backed towards the door as Sigrid talked to the
vacant air in front of her.  Jillian opened the door and let me out, leaving the
bound hostage alone in the cell on the iron bed.

   

    My last customer was Shawnee.  Clearly she had displeased Monica by her
attack on me this afternoon, for she was now tethered immovably in the niche
under the stairs, her limbs locked to the wall by the U-bolts which I knew to be
secured by nuts on the far side.  The U-bolts now had a thin foam sleeve over
the metal, and held her at ankles, above the knee, wrists, upper arms, neck and
mouth, with this last one being in the form of a padded leather bit-gag.  She
stood, arms slightly apart from her body, with straps connected to eyebolts,
running around her waist and above and below her breasts, also held her rigidly
against the blockwork.  She now wore a shiny rubber catsuit which I supposed
Monica had allowed as a concession against the cold of the blockwork wall.  I
had a sneaking suspicion the poor girl was going to spend the night in that
position.

    She rolled her eyes at me and made gurgling noises, but I couldn't tell if
it was relief at seeing the food bearer or anger at my somehow having caused her
to be where she was.  Putting down the last of the food and drink on the floor,
I went behind the block wall and began to undo the nuts on the uppermost U-bar
with a spanner hanging on a piece of string.  With the nuts removed I was able
to push on the ends of the bar which slid through the holes in the wall to the
accompaniment of splutterings from the other side.

    "I s'pose I'd better be nice to you, if I want to get fed," Shawnee conceded
when I stood in front of her again.  I nodded, decisively.  "Sorry," she said. 
"It's just that I've had this arrangement here for a while, and I didn't want
anybody muscling in."  I shrugged and pushed a lock of her hair out of the way
behind her ear.  She smiled begrudgingly.  It was clear she still didn't
recognise me as the builder guy who had ogled her a number of times as she was
contorted in one position or another over each weekend.  That is, when she
wasn't simply chained up in a corner somewhere because the girls were too busy
to deal with her properly.  I shovelled some food in her mouth and she shut up
until I had scraped the bottom of the plastic container.  Then I let her suck
the bottle dry.

    "I bet you wonder why I let them do these things to me, huh?" Her voice was
a trifle squeaky and matched her normally bubbly personality - or so I was told. 
"Squeaky" was in fact the nickname given to her by the girls, which was in all
manner of things appropriate.  I raised my eyebrows at her question and let my
hand drop to her crotch.  The smooth rubber of the catsuit was like a second
skin and presented no obstacle to feeling what lay beneath.  Shawnee caught her
breath, mouthing a barely audible "oohh".  I let my fingers do the walking.  She
closed her eyes and began breathing in little gasps.

    "Mmm?"  I asked.

    "Ohh...yes..." she whispered, trying to wriggle within the confines of the
steel bolts holding her in place against the wall.  "Please...yes..."  Then I
stopped and shoved the bit gag back in her mouth, sliding the arms of the 'U'
through the holes on either side of her head.  Her eyes snapped open, and she
tried to work the bit out by moving her head forward, but the U-bolt around her
neck permitted very little movement, and I had no trouble securing the gag back
in place with the two nuts behind the wall.  Then I stood in front of her again,
my hand covering her pussy with a firm pressure which elicited a high-pitched
moan of pleasure.  Gently I massaged and manipulated her crotch, listening to
the rapid panting and the rising timbre of her voice.  She squirmed and jerked
as much as she was able within steel restraints, but this really was precious
little.  I don't know what made me do it, but just for fun, as she was ready to
transport herself into the place of heavenly explosions, I removed my hand and
grabbed both her nipples through the fabric of the catsuit.  I twisted and
squeezed.  He eyes opened wide and she uttered a shriek that was only partly
muffled by the plug in her mouth. 

    At that point I picked up my containers and with a little wave I headed for
the stairs.  It was a dirty, frustrating trick, but sometimes impulse just took
over, and I ignored the high-pitched squeals and pleadings coming from the niche
as I returned to the kitchen.

    There was nobody about as I cleaned up the containers and put them away.  I
went downstairs again to where Jillian occupied the control room.  I made the
motion of a pillow with my hands.

    "You want to go to sleep?"  I nodded.  I was starting to feel really crappy,
wondering if I was coming down with something.  She sighed. "Oh very well.  I
suppose the clients can survive a few minutes without me."  I caught a brief
glimpse through the window of Lisa , her feet and wrists held wide by spreader
bars, hanging in a face-down horizontal position like a hammock, with weights
swaying gently from her nipples.  Then I was hustled away to the cell next to
Sigrid's, where my gag was unlocked and I was pushed into the room and the
lights turned out. 

    "Mary will be your Mistress tomorrow," Jill told me as the door closed.  I
can hardly wait, I thought without enthusiasm.

    So ended another day in Paradise, or was it Purgatory? 

Monica's Place

CHAPTER TWENTY THREE - COMING OUT


    It was Jillian who woke me again the next morning.  Clearly she had been on
the night shift and was looking forward to getting her head down.  It did not
seem like I had been asleep long.  I  had a headache and was feeling lousy and
had not slept well on the thin futon on the concrete floor.  It seemed like it
was barely five o'clock or some other ungodly hour - not that I could tell - and
this was much earlier than I had been woken in the past.

    "What time is it?" I asked as I followed her down the corridor, the butt
plug bouncing between my legs under the white smock.

    "It's a quarter to five - not that it's any business of yours, slavegirl,"
Jillian told me with a curtness that I found hard to accept coming from her.

    She opened the door to the sluice room and waved me inside.

    "The keys and your clothes are hanging up.  Wash yourself, have your cereal
and make yourself presentable, then go up and get breakfast ready.  You'll make
sure everything is inserted, connected and locked on properly, if you know
what's good for you.  Mary will be most unhappy otherwise.  You can leave the
keys where you find them.  When you've set the breakfast things you can rake the
leaves off the driveway.  And don't spend too long in the shower.  I'll be back
in fifteen minutes with a whip if you're not out of here," she said tersely.

    The door slammed behind her.

    I stripped down to my corset and luxuriated briefly under the shower.  My
feeling like shit did not get any better after I had washed and fed myself. 
There was now a mirror on the wall here, and it looked like becoming Stephanie's
regular changing room.  I had dreaded what Mary might have had in store for me
to wear, but in fact I was pleasantly surprised.  I had visions of tight
-fitting rubber skirts again, but in this instance it was a short pleated maroon
netball skirt with a long-sleeved silver lycra top with a roll collar that
slipped under my stainless steel one.  I had wondered why I always seemed to
wind up with long sleeves and had concluded that my arms might be slightly too
muscled for female credibility. 

    In this instance my shoes were to be replaced by white knee-length boots
with a three-inch heel.  I had never worn these before, and it was only with
some difficulty that I got them on.  They zipped up the inside, and while very
snug fitting, gave me much more support than the more open strappy-type of shoe
I had worn to date.  With flesh-coloured stockings I decided I didn't make such
a bad cheerleader, given that this was the clear intention.  The outfit was
relatively comfortable and the skirt swished pleasantly against my thighs.  I
concluded that at least my costume would be endurable and unrestrictive.

    The final touch was again two ribbons that I tied around my hair in pig
tails, before getting down to the final business of self-bondage that would
leave me helpless to the whims of Mistress Mary.

   

    To aid my endeavours there was a brief note in a girlish hand.  I worked out
the gag harness myself.  It was made of narrow black leather straps with a white
hard rubber ball.  The straps went up either side of my nose and over the top,
as well as under my chin and round the back, all locking into place. The leather
cuffs on my wrists and ankles were standard, but in addition there was a chain
which locked about my waist, and which sported a small ring above each hip. 
According to the note I was to connect my left ankle cuff to my left wrist cuff
with a chain running through the left ring, and then a similar process for my
right wrist and ankle.  I did all this in a kneeling position, and when I stood
up I noticed - apart from the fact that my head was spinning somewhat - that the
chains were just long enough so that my wrists were held snugly at the rings on
my waist chain.  To do anything at all with my hands I had to bend my knees or
raise an ankle.  Cunning old Mary, I thought miserably.  By such a simple
restraint she was going to make my life exceedingly difficult and uncomfortable.

    I found I could walk all right, however, and made my way upstairs to prepare
breakfast.  This was my first problem - reaching things on high shelves.  I had
to kneel on one of the breakfast bar stools in a most ungainly way, bringing up
one ankle behind me like women do in the films when they're being kissed.  I
began to realise why I had been woken early and I was not happy about it. 

    It took me much longer than normal to lay the table and put out the rest of
the juice, cereal and fruit, but I still had time before the first of the girls
appeared, and I knew I had better get on with the raking of the driveway.

    This turned out to be a horrible task, for I could not use my arms properly
and I tried all manner of ways of doing the job halfway decently.  I
experimented with kneeling and doing a series of semi-circular sweeps.  This
hurt my knees, so I tried just walking with bent knees, which I found both
tiring and inefficient.  I finally managed to do a bit by just dragging the rake
with the top end under my arm and controlled by one hand.  It was only
marginally better than the other two methods and I was feeling headachy and
frustrated when Mary caught me unawares with a surge through the butt plug and
the nipple pads.

     She had sneaked up on me in her bare feet with the remote in her hand.  I
almost collapsed with the unexpected pain of the current, instead sinking to my
knees and complaining loudly behind the rubber ball. Mary wore a dark navy satin
bathrobe that came down to her ankles, and she smiled down at me.

    "I'm pleased to see you were a good girl and put everything where it should
go," she said.  I could not tell her that a proper mistress would never use
punishment on a slave unless there is a good reason for it.  "Get up, girl, and
come with me."

    I stood up and followed her, letting the rake drop in a flowerbed.

   

    Mary led the way down to the basement and my heart sank as we entered the
dungeon.  What torment did she have for me in here, I wondered, looking with
trepidation at the Plank and the headstocks.  I wondered whether Mary still had
it in for me since I had surprised her on the driveway yesterday. 

    She moved over to the whipping bench that had a face hole and breast holes. 
Beside the bench on a small stool was an open shoe box containing various oils,
it seemed.

    "Have you ever given a woman a massage?" Mary asked somewhat
condescendingly.  I nodded.  Who hadn't?  Mary handed me a plastic bottle of
oil.  "Well, get on with it, then."

    "Hmmph hnpft?"  I asked, waggling my fettered hands by my sides.

    Mary sighed.  "Must I explain everything to you?  Look, it's very simple. 
You will climb up here and kneel astride me.  Then you will have plenty of chain
to use." 

    I nodded dumbly again.  Whatever I had caught was starting to catch up with
me.  I felt hot and clammy, and it was nothing to do with Mary dropping her robe
to climb naked on to the bench and lie face down, her face and breasts fitting
comfortably into the padded holes.  With difficulty I climbed on to the stool
and then on to the bench, carefully straddling her naked thighs.  One thing
about Mary, when she was given a slave for the day she didn't waste time on
housework.

    I gave Mary a thorough workout, rubbing her from neck to toe, missing not a
spot of her flesh.  I was rewarded with contented sighs mixed with detailed
directions.   Mary had a lean, smooth body - a remarkable body, in fact for
someone who I guessed would not see 35 again.  She certainly was infinitely more
content that I was, for my exertions coupled with the limitations of the chains
were making me flush and sweat uncomfortably.

    At length Mary turned over and commanded I now repeat the process on the
front of her body.  Under normal circumstances I would have been happy to
oblige, but I was beginning to feel decidedly light-headed.  Notwithstanding
this I soldiered on, working my way down over the tight mounds that were her
breasts, with the nipples standing up perkily, though not hard.  I bypassed her
crotch and began to work upwards from her feet, all the while trying to ignore
the runnels of perspiration sliding down into the top of my corset and merging
at my groin and behind my knees.  The tightness of the stockings and the lycra
top did nothing to help my predicament, and my early satisfaction with my
cheerleader's outfit was rapidly decreasing.

    I had almost reached the top of Mary's inner thighs when she slowly sat
upright.  She looked me in the eye and ordered me to get down from the bench.  I
did so, carefully, unsure of my balance now. 

    "Are you all right?" she asked, though her voice betrayed no concern.  I
shook my head.  "You look very flushed."  She beckoned me to her and reaching
into the shoebox pulled out a small key, with which she unlocked my gag harness. 
She popped the ball out of my mouth and I worked my jaw up and down.

    "Mistress..." I began.  "I don't feel very well..."

    She gave me a withering look and eased herself on to the edge of the bench. 
"On you knees, girl.  Now."

    "But I - arrgh!"  The jolt caught me across the nipples and through the butt
plug.  I sank to my knees.  My hands were trembling, I noticed.  I was where she
wanted me, anyway, for she caught me by the pigtails and pulled my face down to
her pussy.  It was exactly at the right height, and I really had no choice in
the matter from that point.  I figured this was part of the master plan that
Mary had in store for me - muff diving and eating pussy was one thing, but not
when your dick was secured to the point where it could not physically move. 
Mary was playing her games of torment again, but this in this instance her
timing was off.

    Nevertheless, I let my tongue do the walking this time, flirting with her
clit, teasing it with all manner of suggestions as to what might await it, then
flickering away to other parts.  Mary was getting really steamed up and was
hanging on to my pigtails so that I could barely breathe.  Her pussy was
dripping, but so was I. 

    I decided at that moment that I was experiencing a recurrence of the malaria
I had picked up whilst holidaying in northern Thailand, two years before.  It
had been an unpleasant experience, and the doctor had said it might reoccur on a
regular basis or perhaps not at all.  God, what a time to come to this
conclusion, head buried in a pussy!

    Things began to go blurry at that point.  I knew I was feverish and the
sweat poured off my face mixing with Mary's juices.  I licked frantically while
Mary tried to pull me inside her, it seemed.  Somewhere off in the distance I
could hear someone who might have been Mary gasping and crying.  It could have
been me for that matter but I didn't have the energy or the breath.  Everything
was going faster and faster and I was on autopilot well and truly.  Mary's slim
legs were now locked around my shoulders while I tugged vainly at the chains
connecting my ankles and wrists.  There was a final scream from somewhere and I
fell backwards, both of us ending in trembling, quivering foetal heaps. 

   

    That was about all I remember.  Several days after the event Monica had
delighted us all by playing a tape of the event, more for the purposes of
embarrassing Mary than for reminding me of my last conscious moments.  Mary had
endured the ribbing that went with the screening with a gracious smile,
announcing to all and sundry at the end of the performance that they should not
knock it until they'd tried it.  From that point on there seemed to be a
competition to look after the lowly slavegirl Stephanie, who had suddenly won
new admirers in the playground.

   

    But that was before a couple of days disappeared from my life.  I awoke in
Monica's room.  More specifically, I finally became aware of where I was, in
Monica's room.  I was told I had awoken several times but had been delirious. 
Leila was there when I came back to reality.  She told me the full story as I
sat up in Monica's bed sipping some soup she had brought.  I was naked under the
covers, my corset removed, but to all intents and purposes I was still slavegirl
Stephanie, with my shoulder-length hair and silicon-tipped breasts.

    "It was Emma who figured out you had malaria, somewhat assisted by your own
ramblings," Leila said.  "Mary nearly freaked out.  Whatever you did to her left
her nearly incoherent, you little tart!"  She grinned impishly.  "I was in the
Observation Room and I have to admit I enjoyed the TV show.  Until you
collapsed, that is.  Mary was mortified and Monica was horrified - absolutely
devastated."  Leila became suddenly serious.  "She had you brought into her bed
- here - and has looked after you herself since then.  That was on Saturday -
it's now Monday.  She slept here with you, kept you cool with cold flannels and
warmed you with her own body when you started shivering."  Leila dropped her
eyes.  "I probably shouldn't be telling you all this.  Mon will kill me if she
finds out - and I'll kill you if you tell her!" she said with mock fierceness.

    "So it's a question of who gets to whom first?" I suggested mischievously.

    "Don't even think about it!" she shot back.

    "Did you call a doctor?"

    "Yeah, we'd explain that away easily, wouldn't we?  Not!  A hairless guy
decked out with false tits, his willy in a plastic tube and with a glued-on head
of hair - I don't think so.  No, Emma called in a favour and we persuaded you to
take some tablets.  You had a cold shower a couple of times to get your
temperature down, and eventually your fever subsided.  You've slept for the last
twenty-four hours.  Do you remember any of it?"

    "Not much."   I had hazy recollections of staggering about the place, of
feverish dreams and a body-chilling cold that seemed to go on forever.

    "You realise what you've done?" - that impish smile again.

    "What do you mean?"

    "Duh!  You've got Monica naked in bed with you - for two nights - and you've
had a naked shower with her!"

    "Oh bollocks," I said disconsolately.

    "Never mind," she said, patting me on the arm.  "Only three weeks servitude
to go."

       

    Mary appeared not long after Leila had left. 

    "How are you feeling?"  It was perhaps the first time I had ever heard Mary
express genuine concern.  She sat down on the bed and smiled at me with a look
that made my heart thump.  She looked as though she hadn't slept for a week.

    "Better than you, from the look of you," I said gently, still trying to
retain my alter ego.

    "Such impudence would normally earn a whipping," Mary said with a faint
smile.  "If I wasn't so pleased to see you conscious again, I'd consider giving
you one, but I'm glad to be lenient in this instance.  At least we aren't on
camera here, and I feel I must be candid."  I raised an eyebrow.  "Look, maybe I
was taking advantage of you - I don't really think that's an issue.  You're a
slavegirl whose purpose is to be taken advantage of.  But while we're on the
subject, I don't mind admitting that what you did with your tongue was arguably
one of the best experiences I've ever had.  I don't know who taught you that,
but by God, you're good."  I blushed but said nothing, although I'd be lying if
I said it was the first such compliment I had ever received.  "I suspect your
ability hasn't gone unnoticed..."

    "Thank you, Mistress.  I'm sorry I was not at my best."

    "Well, when you are, girl, I want to be there with you.  But as I was
saying, while I have every right to take advantage of your skills, I was lax in
not looking after your health and welfare. "  She looked at me with an
expression I could only interpret as tenderness.  "Will you forgive me?"

    There was nothing put on about Mary's question.  She seemed so different
from the Gestapo Queen I had seen so often, dominating her charges and the other
girls alike.  Here was another side to her that took me by surprise.

    "Of course, Mistress."

    She reached out and cupped my chin, then leaned over and kissed me briefly,
on the lips.  She held my gaze for a second with a warm look that that made me
weak.  I didn't know what to say, and used the opportunity of our respective
positions of slavegirl and mistress to avert my eyes and not speak until I was
spoken to.

    Mary, as collected as ever, simply smiled and touched my hand.  I'm sure she
saw my confusion and left me to decide for myself what it all meant.

    "Get well soon, Stephie.  We have unfinished business to take care of."

   

    Monica showed up half an hour later.  If Mary looked rough, Monica looked
decidedly rougher, her hair tousled and grey smudges under her eyes.  She sat
down on the bed facing me.  For a moment we didn't say anything, then she asked
how I was feeling.

    "Okay," I told her.  "Thanks to you."

    "How much do you know?"

    "Just about everything, I think," I admitted uncomfortably.

    "Who told you?"

    "I can't say, Mistress."

    "Are you refusing a direct order?"  Monica's voice was soft and teasing.

    "I promised I wouldn't on the grounds that she'd kill me, Mistress."

    Monica smiled.  "And I wouldn't?"

    "It's not much of a choice..."

    "I know it was Leila - she can't keep quiet unless you stuff something in
her mouth.  And I'll probably do that to her anyway..."

    "I'm very grateful, anyway, Mistress.  Can I get up now?"

    "Don't be silly, girl.  You've just had a temperature of nearly forty
degrees.  You're to stay here until I tell you otherwise, now you get some rest. 
I can't tell you how pleased I am to see you back with us..." Monica's voice
trailed away and her eyes got kind of glittery.  She turned away.  "I think I've
got something in my eye," she said abruptly and retired to the bathroom.  She
returned a couple of minutes later, looking somewhat more composed.

    "I want you to just rest.  We can't have our favourite slavegirl going
delirious on us. "  She fluffed the pillows around me and straightened the
bedclothes.  "Is there anything you want?"  I shook my head, not trusting myself
to speak.  Then she did a Mary - bending down and kissing me on the lips.  But
this was no passing peck.  This was a full-blown tongue down the throat job that
lingered - and was returned, I admit - until Monica broke off breathlessly and
stood up, turning and departing with a sudden quick movement.  She left me
baffled and confused, but glowing with a warmth that had nothing to do with my
recent fever.

   

    I fell asleep again, waking in time for dinner, brought to me on a tray by
Leila.  She wore a stringent harness gag strapped to her head, which covered her
mouth with a large black pad.  From the angle of her jaw I suspected her mouth
was packed with a large plug of some description.  She glared at me and mmphed
something that I'm sure was not very ladylike as she plonked the tray down on
the bedside table and flounced out.  Monica had obviously been true to her word
in dealing with tattletales.

    Night fell and I dozed, not knowing how long I was to have the benefit of
Monica's wonderful big bed.  The room was dark when I felt someone slip under
the covers behind me.  It was Monica, and she was naked.  Her hand found its way
under my arm and rested on my stomach as we snuggled up like spoons nestled in a
drawer.  Her breasts pushed against my back and I heard a whispered 'good night'
in my ear.

   

    Monica was gone when I awoke the next morning.  Breakfast was on the bedside
table and I indulged myself, spending the day flipping through the channels of
the television - a real one in this instance - and dozing in the peacefulness of
Monica's haven.  Leila appeared twice during the day, and it was evident she had
still not forgiven me, nor had Monica forgiven her, since she still sported the
harness gag and still made disapproving mmphing noises at me.  Trish, Jillian
and Emma all called in during the day and I began to feel much improved,
although their attitude to me appeared to be uncertain, as though they could not
decide if I was still Slavegirl Stephanie or Steven who had had a near brush
with a serious illness.

    I was feeling considerably better by that night, and I was awake when Monica
appeared, turning on a low nightlight when she did so.  I remained still, with
my eyes closed until I felt her naked body slide next to mine as she again
performed her spoon imitation.  Her flesh felt deliciously cool and I could not
resist sliding my hand back between her legs.

    "Oh - we're awake, are we?" Her voice was soft with pleasant surprise.  I
turned myself on to an elbow and decided to see what her approach was going to
be when I did some kissing of my own.  It was not at all the way I had intended
it to be in various scenarios and fantasies I had entertained in the past few
months as I had contemplated getting a little more intimate with Monica
Armstrong.  Our breasts touched and then our mouths, and we kissed long and
deeply, exploring each other's mouths and tongues. 

    As we broke apart she said:

    "I can only assume you are at least physically improved, if not mentally. 
How dare you take such a liberty with your mistress in this manner!"  Her voice
was reproving but without conviction.  I was taken aback, forgetting momentarily
the role I had to continue for several weeks yet.  It was only later, when I
thought about it, that I realised Monica was still playing her game, tantalising
me with her nakedness and knowing that I could not respond properly while Mr
Willy was still captured in his plastic tube.  And that was the truth of it.  Mr
Brain could certainly respond, but the tube remained tight and restricting and
physically painful in such circumstances, not to mention mentally frustrating.

    "Very well," she continued.  "If you just cannot contain yourself any
longer, perhaps a pussy meal will satisfy you.  More to the point, it had better
satisfy me."

    And that was how I came to be on my knees at the side of Monica's bed, my
tongue tasting the moistness of her pussy and exploring the inner crevices of
her sex.  I varied the approach with some finger exploration over her breasts
and into her rapidly lubricated front passage.  I was in no hurry, and decided
that two could play at the teasing game.  Monica lay back and moaned with
pleasure, her breath starting to become more ragged.  She clutched my hair and
pulled my head forward whenever I slackened the pace.  Her first climax came
with a suddenness that caught us both by surprise and she stiffened and jerked,
her whole body becoming rigid as she let out a low drawn-out cry. 

    But that was just the appetiser, I decided.  If I was going to be exploited
like this I would make her plead for mercy.  Multiple orgasms, I had learnt,
could sometimes be a case of too much of a good thing in certain women,
depending on their capacity - and, of course, my own stamina.

    I expected Monica to be no pushover, with a sexual capacity appropriate to
her occupation.  In this instance I was not a paying customer and she was not
concerned with any gratification a lowly slavegirl might achieve.  And in fact
the only gratification I would achieve would be from leaving her in an exhausted
heap on the bed.

   

    It took a lot of work, I will confess.  By the time I pinned her down with
her legs in the air and her hands flapping weakly, I knew I had her on the run. 
She was red in the face, her hair matted with sweat and her breath coming in
irregular pants.  She had ceased to be intelligible and instead was uttering
exhausted whimperings interspersed with a high-pitched keening that occasionally
went off the scale as a climax enveloped her.  Which was not to say that it was
all one-sided.  My jaw and tongue were decidedly the worse for wear.  The former
was aching and the latter felt fuzzy.  I had alternated with my fingers and
changed hands.  I had teased the erogenous zones from her feet to her ears and
from arse to pussy.  It was a battle of wills until one of us gave in.  Monica
was hanging on to the bedhead by this stage, making mewing noises that sounded
as though she had almost lost her voice.  Finally her hands pushed my head away
and tried to cover her sex, which by now was engorged and no doubt ultra
sensitive. 

    But I wasn't finished, much as I would have liked to have been.  I was not
normally given to any form of sexual endurance, but in this instance I wanted to
make a point with Monica.  I was not quite sure what that point was, or even if
it was purely one-upmanship, but I desperately wanted to have the last say, in
whatever form it might take. 

    At that point I slipped my hands under Monica's bent knees and reached
around to grab her wrists and pull them to her sides, pushing my tongue into her
wet pussy yet again.

    "No...no..." Monica gasped, trying to close her legs against my head and
tugging weakly against my grip on her wrists, her hands clenching and
unclenching.  But I wanted one more climax out of Mistress High-and-Mighty.  It
was a headstrong Steven thing, albeit something I am not predisposed to, except
on rare occasions, and this, I had decided, was definitely one of them.  As I
licked and sucked on her clit Monica began to arch her back and try and shake me
off.  Her requests for 'no more' became pleadings, then incoherent ramblings as
she finally dissolved in a series of howls that I was sure would have the
household banging on the door, although maybe they were used to this particular
type of noise.  I kept going, almost at the end of my own energy.  Monica fought
me with her last strength as the orgasm caught her with a final intensity that
left us both quivering and prostrate, sweat pouring from our bodies.  It was
pure physical exhaustion that made for a mutual ceasefire, for I knew I couldn't
manage any more, nor could Monica take it. 

    I was gasping for breath, my jaw verging on cramp and my mouth full of the
taste of Monica's juices.  Monica was on her side, her hands clamped between her
thighs, moaning continuously to herself, her eyes tightly closed.  I hauled
myself on to the bed and collapsed beside her.  She opened her eyes and looked
at me long enough to utter the word "Bastard..." but there had been the hint of
a smile behind her gaze.

    "Bitch," I managed as a weak retort, before we both fell asleep.

   

    I never heard any alarm go off.  I awoke briefly during the night to find
Monica snuggled against me with her arm draped over my body.  When I came to in
the morning we were both still lying on top of the covers where we had died,
except that Monica was shoving me with her foot.

    "It's very obvious you're well again," she said.  "Get your stuff together
and go down to the sluice room and resume your duties.  The holiday's over."

    "But Mon - "

    "What!"  Her half-awake state became fully awake, as did mine, when I
realised I had used the wrong term of address. 

    "Mistress, I mean - "

    "You heard - go down at once and don't you dare question me!"

    The pre-dawn light was barely filtering through the curtains as I clambered
off the bed.  I still felt drained by the intensity of our efforts the previous
night, but I had to admit I had slept well.  My jaw still ached and I wanted to
clean my teeth, but that could all wait.  Beside the bed on the chair was the
flesh-coloured rubber corset I had not worn for three days.  I squeezed into it
as best I could in the gloom, feeling the now-familiar dangling butt plug
hanging down and the tightness about my hips.  I could not do it up properly
around the waist - for that I needed help, for it was far too constricting and
awkward to reach the back laced wire.  I headed for the door, halting as Monica
called out to me.

    "Stephie?"

    "Yes Mistress?"

    "Thank you for last night.  It was... quite something."

    "You're welcome, Mistress."

    "We must do it again some time - under different... circumstances."

    "Yes Mistress," I said, feeling a warm glow of pleasure and satisfaction
steal over me."  I opened the door to leave.

    "Oh, Stephie..."

    "Yes Mistress?"

    "I am concerned that what I shall call your... 'talent' may be exploited,
given your current position in this household, and the advantage that Mary has
already taken of you.  You will appreciate that you could prove to be somewhat
of a distraction to the girls and you might even affect the services we provide. 
I'm afraid that apart from meal times or special occasions requiring my
permission, you will now have to remain gagged during all waking hours."

    "But-but-"

    "That's all.  Now get out of here."

   

    As I descended the stairs into the basement I reflected that my desire for
scoring points over Monica had backfired on me.  Far from gaining points I had
made life considerably more difficult for myself and I would be undergoing
rather more discomfort than I might have anticipated.

    There were only nightlights on in the basement.  The place was dark and
gloomy, and somebody with a black sense of humour was playing some church music
over the PA system.  By 'church' music, I mean what sounded like a bunch of
monks indulging in a morbid chant that echoed down the corridor.  I suppose it
could have been very pleasant and restful under other circumstances, but here in
the bowels of the old house it held eerie overtones of the supernatural. 

    I should have guessed that Trish was behind it.  Only she had a sufficiently
warped sense of taste to come up with an idea like this.  I knocked on the door
of the Observation Room and poked my head around the door.  She was dressed for
the part in a long flowing black dress with heavy Gothic makeup, looking like a
medieval version of Cruella de Ville.  I looked past her to the view of the
dungeon, where a woman, her long dress in tatters and one breast exposed, stood
against the wall, her wrists chained above her head.  I saw that Trish had
adjusted the lighting to spotlight on a few of the more abhorrent (if not
actually functioning) instruments of torture within that den of torment.

    "Well?"  Trish demanded haughtily. 

    "I'm going to get ready in the sluice room, Mistress," I said.

    "And why are you telling me this?"

    "I'll need some help with my corset please, after my shower."

    "Oh, very well.  I'll be along in a short while."  Then her tone changed. 
"Was that Monica I heard trying to scream the house down last night?"  She was
trying not to smile.

    "Maybe," I said cautiously.

    "So she had what Mary had, to paraphrase a well known movie line..."

    "And she says I have to remain gagged during all waking hours, from now on,"
I told her.

    "What a miserable spoilsport," Trish sighed.  "So we will just have to wait
for your coming out ceremony at the end.  But I'll still have a go at her for
breaking the sound barrier.  Well, don't just stand there - run along and have
your shower."

   

    I had forgotten how tight the corset was until Trish got going on the wires
at the back of it.  It was high-cut at the hips but pulled in tightly at the
waist, all the way up to the underside of my silicone breasts.  It took Trish
nearly fifteen minutes of tugging and pulling before she was satisfied with the
end result.  Being the experienced campaigner she was, she had lashed my wrists
to an eyebolt on the wall slightly above head height, and had strapped a ballgag
in my mouth before she started reshaping my body.  The heavy flesh-coloured
rubber gradually compressed my waist and abdomen as she worked the stainless
steel wire through the eyeholes with two pairs of pliers before finally crimping
the ends together with a crimping tool.  I was panting and groaning the whole
time as my body stiffened and the act of breathing became more difficult.  I had
found from experience that over time one got used to wearing the cincher, and I
was sure I had lost weight over the previous week and the time I had been ill. 
Notwithstanding that, Trish was merciless in tightening the garment, and I felt
to all-confining stiffness grow from pelvis to chest.

    Mister Butt Plug was back in position again, wedged up my arse with Mr Willy
pulled back in an attempt at a mid-groin meeting, before the front and back
flaps of the corset were stretched tight, clipped together and locked. 
Stephanie was now secured for the day.

   

    Things were relatively normal for the next week or so - or as normal as this
House of the Bizarre ever could be.  I was not happy at being gagged all the
time, and tried to tell people, but it was a kind of Catch-22 situation and I
didn't get very far.  Leila, Emma and Jillian were kind to me in that they used
duct tape instead of filling my mouth with things.  In order to make sure the
tape remained undisturbed when I was on my own, such as when I had to weed the
garden or rake the drive, they took to writing over the tape and part of my
cheeks, in the manner of a signature over two matching halves.  Except that a
signature would have been too easy.  Instead they had to write things like
"Crime scene - Do not cross tape" or "Danger, explosives".  These were some of
the more acceptable ones.  Some of the others evoked howls of laughter, much to
my shame, and I sometimes had to go in search of a mirror to then decipher -
backwards - what they had written.

    My tasks during that time were fairly mundane - cleaning the house from top
to bottom, washing, ironing and making meals.  I was also given some outdoor
tasks such as gardening and painting the filigree woodwork around the verandah. 
I enjoyed this latter task, which Jillian arranged for me.  She let me wear
sneakers, flesh-coloured stockings, a short denim skirt and a teeshirt for this
activity, which made a pleasant change from the previous day.  In this instance
Mary had had me in a black latex catsuit  - complete with hood and inflatable
gag - on my knees weeding the garden for two hours.  I had sweated like a pig
and was mighty glad when time came to retreat indoors to prepare a meal.  Emma,
following Jillian, allowed me the same clothes as Jill had, in order to finish
off the filigree work.

    At length It was Monica's day again, and surprisingly I found myself wearing
a black sleeveless cotton lycra dress that reached the regulation length halfway
down my thighs, over the top of a thin white skivvy, black stockings and heels. 
I say 'surprisingly' because Monica and Mary were not past trying to outdo each
other in how to make life particularly trying for me.  In this instance I
wondered what Monica was up to, for on this particular day there was no gag and
there were 'accessories'.  I now sported two large silver rings instead of the
sleeper earings, plus a stainless steel bracelet on each wrist and a loose chain
at the waist instead of a belt.  She had further confused me by getting Leila to
give me a manicure, the result of which was that I now sported pretty snappy
silver fingernails.

    "You look very nice, Stephie," Monica told me, eyeing me up and down and
making me turn around.  "Good," she declared finally.  "Today you can go into
the big wide world and accompany Jillian when she goes shopping."

    I was horrified at first.  It was one thing walking about in short skirts
and bondage attire behind the cloistered walls of Bilboes, where eccentricity
and oddity were the norm, and I now accepted this.  But to go outside into a
world of strangers who would look askance at me was another matter.

    Jillian was - as usual - warm and understanding.  "Relax - you look great. 
Nobody will ever know," she said as we climbed into the Transit van.  "Stephie,
you look every inch a female, even close up.  You don't have much of an Adam's
apple anyway, and the skivvy and your collar cover that.  You makeup is
immaculate and your figure is enough to make guys turn their heads, never mind a
few women.  You even walk properly now, and your voice is excellent.  You always
did have a way with it, Herr Korporal," she said, smiling her infectious grin
and reminding me of my first interaction with Gestapo Queen Mary.  She patted my
hand.  "Trust me.  Relax.  Enjoy the morning. We're just two girls out shopping. 
I might even overlook your lowly position and buy you a cup of coffee when we
get there."

    "Were are we going?" I asked, as we turned right out of the driveway. 

    "Indooroopilly Shopping Centre," she said. 

    My heart sank.  Indooroopilly was one of the larger shopping malls in
Brisbane - three floors of all manner of shops and usually crowded with people. 
I was not looking forward to it at all.

   

    Jillian, in these circumstances, seemed to find it hard to maintain her
dominating role, and by the end of the morning we were gossiping like old
girlfriends.  I kept looking about, surreptitiously seeking the furtive,
sidelong glance in my direction, the odd look or the pointed finger and
whispered comment, but there was none.  I followed Jillian about as we bought
stuff for the house and Jill indulged herself with a new dress.  I still found
it hard to be at ease waiting for her to try it on in the changing room, hoping
that nobody would speak to me as I pretended to browse amongst the dress racks
outside.  I jumped when a voice at my elbow asked if I needed any help.  I
blushed and stammered a 'no thanks', my voice nearly failing me.  The young
woman eyed me strangely for a moment then broke into a smile. 

    "That's a really neat collar you have there - where did you get it?" 

    "Uh - I... it was specially made," I said hurriedly.

    "It's really cool.  How does it come off?"  This was getting hard.

    "Ah - it doesn't.  It's like one of those rings you get at a piercing place. 
It's kind of permanent."

    "Wow."  Her eyes lit up in wonder.  Then Jillian appeared in time to rescue
me.

    "Come Stephie.  Time to go."  I mumbled goodbye to the sales girl and
hurried out behind Jill.  True to her word she bought coffee and cakes and I
told her of my experience. 

    "See," she said.  "You coped easily.  Nobody would ever suspect.  You're
just like one of us now."

   

    Several days later I found another surprise for me as I reported to the
sluice room for my morning ablutions.  Emma had been on night duty and let me in
to the room.  I showered and found her waiting as I stepped out to dry myself. 

    "Your butt plug is being changed today," she said.  "Monica's orders."

    I didn't like the sound of this.  I didn't like the sound of anything that
involved Monica and my backside.  Usually it involved some form of treatment
that I would object to.  Emma squatted down behind me and fiddled with the
rubber flap that hung down, to which the plug was attached.  After a minute or
so she straightened up and told me to carry on.  I tried to examine what I was
now going to be subjected to, but it was really hard given the way it was
fastened to the back flap of the corset.

    "Stop playing around and get on with it!" Emma ordered me, irritated. 
"Unless you want me to insert it without any lube!"  This I decidedly did not
want, and promptly busied myself inserting the device.  It felt no different
from the previous one - round and filling and oddly discomforting and
stimulating at the same time.  The only thing I could discern that was different
was a kind of knob or button that protruded through a hole in the flap but which
did not really sit up proud.

    I pulled the flaps together and locked them.  That was when I found out what
I was to wear.  It was not that the clothes were particularly daring or bizarre
- I had certainly worn worse in this regard.  It was in fact the opposite. 
Today's wardrobe was a pale grey silk blouse that showed off my curves pretty
well, over the top of a black leather skirt that was perhaps a shade shorter
than usual, but very stylish.  Flesh-coloured stockings and black leather boots
that stopped just below the knee completed the outfit.  I had to admit the
leather felt very good.  Why was it women got to wear all the good stuff in the
course of everyday life?  A guy wearing leather trousers was usually viewed as
either a poof or a poser.  It was the first time I had worn the boots.  They
were three-inch heels but much more comfortable than the shoes I had worn to
date because of the extra support they offered all around my foot.  Someone had
also done their measuring well, for they fitted snugly and were soft and supple
with the zip up the inside.  For a first wear, they were much more acceptable
than many male shoes that I had found took time to break in.  By now I was
reasonably used to the height of the heels and this did not bother me, for they
were not stiletto, nor were they those ugly chunky things that often go with
thick soles and are devoid of any style whatsoever.  All in all, I was pretty
impressed.

    When I was dressed and had eaten, Emma did my makeup and produced the large
earings and bracelets that I had worn previously.  This time she pulled my hair
back behind my ears and clipped it in place with two silver clips.  My final
accessory was a black shoulder bag.  I was intrigued, and at the same time a
little concerned, which - on the basis of long experience - I believed I had a
right to be.  Emma would tell me nothing, although whether it was because she
didn't know or whether she just wouldn't tell, I wasn't sure.

    In the absence of instructions I prepared breakfast in the usual way and
waited for Monica to appear to give me directions.  Jill and Trish appeared for
breakfast and wolf-whistled me, which made me blush, I am ashamed to admit.

    "Who's the new hot chick?" Leila asked Trish when she saw me.

    "Some smart-looking office tart," Trish said.  "Must be after the Managing
Director for promotion."

    "Got an interview, have you dear?" Leila teased.  I stuck out my tongue -
something that had been specifically denied me of recent days - and ignored them
until Monica had arrived and finished her breakfast.

    "Nice tits," Trish murmured, and I was conscious of the snug fit of the silk
blouse making my silicone nipple protrude like tiny hillocks on a grey mound.

    "Come, Stephie," Monica told me, looking at her watch. "We don't want to be
late."

    "Are we going somewhere, Mistress?" I asked as her heels clicked down the
hallway.  I was beginning not to like the idea already.

    "Just for a little drive, dear," she said, leading the way down the front
steps to where her BMW was parked.  "Get in."

    Fully expecting to have to climb into the boot or some other such trial, I
walked around to the passenger door with lingering trepidation, before climbing
in beside her.  Monica ignored all my questions as we drove out of the gate and
headed into town.  It had gone eight o'clock and the morning rush-hour was just
beginning.

    At this point Monica began to do a little 'rat-running', as the practice is
known of dodging down side streets to avoid major bottlenecks and queues.  I had
a vague idea where we were going - heading towards the downtown area of
Brisbane, roughly parallel with Coronation Drive which takes the brunt of the
western traffic.  I finally got my bearings as we stopped just short of an
intersection with Coronation Drive and pulled in to the kerb. 

    "Here's where you get out, Stephanie," Monica ordered in her no nonsense
voice.

    "But - why, Mistress?"

    "Purely to indulge me, Stephie," she said with an enigmatic smile.  "All you
have to do is walk back to Toowong down Coro Drive, where I'll meet you at the
High Street Brasserie on the corner opposite the Royal Exchange.  That should be
clear enough.  You know where I mean?"

    "Yes, but -"

    "Look, I don't have time to discuss this.  Now get out and start walking." 
I opened the door and started to get out, still not really understanding.  I had
both feet outside and with my back to her at that point, when she stopped me
with a hand on my arm.

    "Wait," she said abruptly.  "Stay there and bend forward to touch your toes. 
I did so, wondering what was going on and thankful there was nobody walking
past.  Monica's hand slid under my leather skirt and her fingers moved between
my buttocks.  There was a sudden jerk and my buttplug began to vibrate.  I sat
up with a start and the vibrations stopped.  I looked at Monica who was grinning
with pleasure.  "You may go now, Stephie.  Your plug has a small plunger on it,
you see.  Stand up and the plunger moves outwards and closes the circuit.  Sit
down and you close it and it stops.  It was held in place by this small pin
which I now have."  She waved something that looked like a split pin.  "I might
see my way to putting it back when you get to the cafe.  You will walk along the
footpath opposite the river, and you will be watched.  Any deviations and you'll
be punished.  You have thirty minutes.  If you're not at the cafe by ten to
nine, I'll be gone.  It's a helluva long walk to Bilboes," she said with a
smile.  "But then the way you look, you should have no problem picking up a
lift."

    I was halfway deciding to swing my legs back into the car and telling her to
go to hell when her other hand touched the button on the remote nestling on the
seat beside her.  I felt the familiar jolt through my nipples that left me
gasping with the pain.  I had not been punished for a couple of days and the
sensation reminded me there had to be better options.  Obediently I got out of
the car and slung my bag over my shoulder, heading, reluctantly, for Coronation
Drive.

   

    It didn't take long to realise what Monica's plan was.  She zoomed past me,
turned right at the lights on Coro Drive and headed west against the main
traffic flow, towards Bilboes.

    Coronation Drive, as I said, takes most of the inbound traffic from the
west.  It runs alongside the Brisbane River and is two lanes inbound for about
half its length.  Widening was currently in progress with construction work
making the usual mess.

    It was a glorious spring morning, and of course in spring a young man's
thoughts turn to... well, sex, women, whatever.  And not just a young man's
thoughts, either.  Pretty well every male with a pulse appeared to consider me
fair game.  I had a two, maybe three-kilometre walk alongside virtually
stationary rush-hour traffic, not to mention probably a quarter of that through
a mess of dug-up footpaths and pedestrian detours around holes in the ground. 
Oh yes, Monica had really outdone herself this time.

    And of course here was Stephanie, dressed, if not like a hooker, at least
like the office tart most likely to succeed.  I stepped out along the street
doing my best to ignore the whistles and comments coming from the trucks and the
construction workers.  It wasn't as if I was unaccustomed to the language - I
had worked on a building site most of my life.  But jeez it was different when I
was the object of it all.  I was sorely tempted to retort or at least give them
the finger, but I knew from experience that that would only cause more comments.

    As well as the guys in the trucks there were all the looks from the cars. 
Perhaps they didn't give me the verbal razz, but I could feel their eyes
following me as I walked.  And all the while the buzzing in my arse was really
starting to get...irritating...frustrating...whatever.  In desperation I sat
down in a bus shelter, and thing stopped as the plunger was pushed in.  Maybe I
could have improvised something to hold it in, but squirming about with my hand
up my skirt during rush-hour on Coro Drive was not going to help the situation. 
I was conscious of the time, too.  I did not want to end up hitching a lift
home.

    Possibly the best moment came when amidst all the ogling I was attracting,
some fool rear-ended another car just as they crawled past me.  I continued
walking, ignoring the blaring of horns that followed the collision and the
raised voices in my wake.  Silly bastards, I thought, perhaps ignoring the times
I had been distracted by a pretty girl to the extent I had nearly rammed the car
in front myself.

    The crawling traffic had now almost ground to a halt as I continued on
blithely  ignoring the confusion behind me, the leather of the skirt taut
against my thighs as I focused on my ultimate destination.  I just wished my
blouse was not so tight.  My silicone nipples bobbed up and down like balls on a
trampoline - as if I didn't have enough to show off.  There were few people on
foot in this stretch.  Most walked along the pedestrian precinct beside the
river, on the opposite side of the road.  Here were the fitness freaks, the
joggers, cyclists and ordinary people walking to work beside the river amidst
the trees and gardens.  You'd have to be crazy to be dressed like a slutty
office worker and to walk this side of the road.

    The walk seemed to take forever.  The sun was over my left shoulder, and
what with the exertion, the looks I was getting and the strange buzzing in my
arse, I was beginning to perspire.  It had been nearly three weeks since my new
breasts and hair had been glued to my skin.  My own hair was now starting to
grow back underneath, I thought, and was making the glue itch.  Monica said
humans ended up with new skin every month or so, and that the attachments would
gradually come loose, just like when your skin peels after a bad case of
sunburn.  I didn't know what to believe, but the discomfort I felt suggested
something might be happening. 

    Surprisingly my feet didn't bother me the way I thought they might.  The
supple leather of the boots was snug and supporting, but I still had trouble
with the heels.  How the hell could women run in these things?  They stiffened
up the calves in a line I had to admit I had long admired in women.  But
actually experiencing it was another matter.  I guess that was what Monica had
in mind to teach me.  It was well done, but not very subtle.  I thought it was
somewhat wasted on me, for I had never been particularly chauvinistic and had
always got on well with the girls.

    I passed the modern low-rise office blocks where the big construction
contractors lived, then on past the new modern apartment complex under
construction.  More builder's labourers took me for an easy target.  I ignored
the ribald comments but felt myself flush, nevertheless.  Bastards.  So much for
the sophisticated Aussie male.  Past the Regatta hotel, fortunately devoid of
patrons on the front verandah at this hour, then into the final stretch past the
library and the local pool, but still past bumper to bumper cars.  Again I had
to sit down in a bus shelter to relieve myself of the interminable vibrations
inside me.  I had only just done this when a bus hove into view and I was forced
to move on again.

    More pedestrians now - uni students and commuters going to Toowong station
and the big shopping centre under the blue glass tower.  I turned the corner and
saw Monica reading the paper outside the brasserie a hundred metres away.  I
began to hasten my steps as I saw her start to fold up the paper and look at her
watch.  I broke into a run, and discovered again just why it was that women run
funny.  I dared not call out to her - not trusting my voice under such
circumstances.  Thankfully she spotted me just as she put the paper down. 

    I was flushed and perspiring when I reached her.  I knew my blouse must show
dark stains under the arms and my hair was less than perfect.  Life could be so
unflattering sometimes.

    "Hello Stephie," said Monica, totally cool calm and collected.  She leaned
back casually in her chair and let her eye rove over my flustered state.  "It's
good to be one of the girls, isn't it," she said with a smile.  "Sit down and
put some weight on that little insert of yours.  It must be giving you hell,
dear.  Let me get you a coffee, and then we can discuss a little project I have
in mind..."

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

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