Gromet's Plaza Richard Alexander Stories
Monica's Place
by Richard Alexander
© 2002 - Richard Alexander - Used by permission.
storycodes: MF/mf; bondage; bdsm; cons/nc; XXX
Monica’s Place Book 1 of the Monica Chronicles by Richard Alexander
Monica's Place: 15. Dungeons & Dragons by Richard Alexander MF/mf; bondage; bdsm; cons/nc; XXX
Chapter Fifteen: Dungeons & 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."


"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 continues in Chapter Sixteen
All comments welcome at
© R.Alexander 2006

Also by the same author:
§ Monica’s Place
§ Monica’s Quest
§ Monica’s Revenge
§ Monica’s Games
§ Monica’s Travels
§ Monica and the Black Fortress

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