Gromet's Plaza Richard Alexander Stories
Monica's Place
by Richard Alexander
bilboes1@hotmail.com | Forum Feedback
© 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: 22. Transfiguration & Enslavement by Richard Alexander MF/mf; bondage; bdsm; cons/nc; XXX

back to Chapter Twenty–One: Escape & Capitulation
 
Chapter Twenty Two: Transfiguration & Enslavement
Part One
8
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.

Part Two
8
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. Her 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 continues in Chapter Twenty–Three: Coming Out

 

You can also leave feedback & comments for this story on the Plaza Forum
©–2002 | updated 22.04.17

 

All comments welcome at bilboes1@hotmail.com.
© 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

If you've enjoyed this story, please write to the author and let them know - they may write more!
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