Gromet's Plaza Richard Alexander Stories
Monica's Revenge
by Richard Alexander
bilboes1@hotmail.com
© 2002 - Richard Alexander - Used by permission.
storycodes: MF/mf; bondage; bdsm; cons/nc; XXX
Monica’s Revenge Book 3 of the Monica Chronicles by Richard Alexander
Monica's Revenge: 3. The New Client by Richard Alexander MF/mf; bondage; bdsm; cons/nc; XXX
Chapter Three: The New Client - Part One.

A week had passed since the outing to Southbank – a week with no activity on the customer front.  The girls were all edgy.  Something was going on that we couldn’t understand.  Monica had withdrawn into herself, save for occasional discussions with Jill, who helped her with the accounts.  We knew what the problem was – no customers – but we didn’t know how badly things were really going.  I had never taken a lot of interest in the financial side of the business.  Monica drove a Beemer and always seemed to have the cash for the fitting out I had done in the basement.  While that had taken up a lot of my time and had chewed up a lot of cash, it had obviously not been the end of the cash flow.  There had been the foray to Hong Kong and Macau to rescue Jillian and Leila.  Emma, Monica and myself had cost further airfares, over and above those paid for Jill and Leila.  Every new development, such as the assault course, cost money.  Speaking as a dumb builder, I know that bobcats and concrete pipes and prefabbed sheds cost money.  I could not guess at what expenses the girls ran up with their outfits.  That said, I had never gone in to what clients were paying for our services, either.  I liked the work at Bilboes, I liked the girls, and I liked the steady paid job as compared to running my own company.  So did my bank manager, for that matter.

Just how bad things actually were came home to us when Monica made an announcement at the weekly meeting that Bilboes was in serious strife, and unless we discovered why our business had dried up, there was a serious possibility that we might all be out of work soon.

“I’m happy to forego any pay until things get better,” Jillian volunteered.  “As long as we can afford to eat.”  Monica smiled at her gratefully, and at the rest of us as we joined Jill’s offer. 

“That’s very good of you all, and I appreciate it, and it will help, but unless we turn this slump around, you might never get paid.  And the bank is after me already.”

*   *   *

In short, it was not a happy time.  I was discussing the likelihood of setting up a website with Monica in her study when a new client arrived.  The website idea seemed good, but the expense of doing it was a deterrent.  Up until then there had been no shortage of clients, who usually found us by word of mouth recommendation, which was just how Monica liked it – top service and discrete clients.

“You may as well stay, Steven.  A new client is a bit of a novelty.  You can see the process we have for newbies.”

Jill ushered a young woman into the room.  She was in her late twenties, I guessed, dark brown hair parted in the middle falling to just touch her neck.  On the right hand side a wide rust-coloured highlight was visible.  She had a high forehead and a couple of small beauty spots on the left hand side of her face.  Her eyes were hazel, and she looked nervous – perhaps understandably.  Monica, by contrast, was all warmth and charm.

“Megan – lovely to meet you.  I’m Monica, this is my colleague, Steven.”  We shook hands.  Megan looked me up and down warily, like an antelope wandering near a pride of lions.  She was attractive, I thought, wearing a short black skirt and a white blouse, with matching strappy sandals.  Nothing ostentatious, but enough to suggest some class.  And money, too.  You didn’t come here without it.

We exchanged further pleasantries and Jill brought a tray of tea and cake.  I was glad our budget at least still extended to that. Megan sat in one of the armchairs while Monica took an adjacent one, rather than her usual seat behind the big desk.  Monica was clearly trying to tone down the dominating image she could project from that position.

“Tell me how you heard of Bilboes,” Monica asked.

“I – an acquaintance of mine from Melbourne – Sarah Lloyd – suggested I give you a call.  Well, she’s sort of a friend of a friend, really.  I’ve only recently moved up to Brisbane.  I’ve never really had the courage to try this, but I heard good stories about how accommodating you could be here.”  Megan made an effort to smile, her fingers flitting about, capturing a wisp of hair, then smoothing down the hem of her skirt where it rode up her black nyloned legs.

“Excellent,”  Monica enthused.  “How is Sarah?  I haven’t heard from here for maybe eighteen months.”

“She’s good,” said Megan, still playing with the hem.

“So… Megan.  Have you done this sort of thing before?”

“No…not really.  I’ve read about it.  Sarah showed me some magazines.  It sort of seemed what I’d been looking for, but hadn’t really realised it.”

“I understand.”  Monica was calm and comforting.  “We want to provide the best we can for you here.  We want you to feel comfortable and leave here satisfied.  What we’ll do is this.  Firstly, I’ll give you a form to fill out.  It’s very detailed and may take you perhaps twenty minutes but it’s very important to help us establish what your likes and dislikes are, as well as your experiences and tolerances.  You’d be surprised at how many people come here not really knowing what they’re looking for.  Sometimes it may take a couple of sessions to nail down just what they’re really after. 

“You have to remember that people are very different.  We have some who come here purely for the bondage experience and some for the sexual gratification that may go with it.  We have dominants and subs in the truest form, and we have those that come to indulge a private fantasy that they have long harboured.  And fantasies come in all shapes and sizes.  Some are role-plays, some centre around a particular form of dress or restraint, or maybe some event in their past.  Whatever, we will do our best to get you to come here again.  Repeat custom is what we aim for.  If you come back, we’re obviously on your wavelength.”  Monica let the soft sell roll off her tongue with just the right encouragement and body language, drawing a smile from Megan in return. 

“We’re very discrete, Megan.  We respect your privacy and you need only give us the information you feel comfortable with.  Please don’t be embarrassed about writing this stuff down – believe me, we’ve seen it all before.  There’s not much can surprise us these days.  After you’ve filled out the form, we’ll give you a tour of the facilities.”

Monica handed Megan the form on a clipboard, and gave a copy to me.  I had never seen it before, having come into the household through an oblique route that had started with a refurbishment downstairs. It had then led to construction of various bondage-related devices that I frequently had to test myself, or rather that I was frequently made to test, in the course of being at the mercy of the girls in the process.

Several pages long, the form was interesting and showed a lot of forethought.  In addition to the client’s details – those that they wished to divulge, that is – there was a confidentiality agreement confirming that such details would remain private, and that they would have no contact with other clients during their stay.  After a brief section dealing with any infirmities or illnesses, the questions got down to the nitty gritty – what had the client experienced and what were the turn-ons.  This section started with a thorough exposé of bondage devices and restraints.  Had they experienced a ball gag before?  Never, occasionally, frequently?  What sort of gag did they prefer?  Did they prefer ropes, chains, handcuffs, tape or straps?  Did they like to be whipped, caned or strapped?  If so, how hard?  Had they ever had suspended bondage?  Were they looking for short term, stringent bondage, or longer-term restraint?  We went through the gamut of sexual devices, nipple and pussy torture (for the girls) and CBT for the guys.  It spelt out the fact that Bilboes did not practice bloodletting or disfigurement, that safe words were in use and safety was paramount.

The next big section was the fantasy one.  It ran through a long list of fantasies – the dungeon/prisoner/kidnap victim; the terrorist/hostage; the torture chamber/inquisition and so on.  There was the doctor/nurse thing, the men/women in uniform, the slave/master/mistress; the burglar, and of course the rapist.  This last one was a complex issue, and I saw now why the form was important, for at the end of it the client signed a broad indemnity identifying what was and was not acceptable and absolving Bilboes from anything that went wrong.

I wondered how Megan would react to this form, because I reckoned to many people it would prove daunting, but she seemed to take it in her stride.  It took her a little longer than twenty minutes, however, for she thought long and hard about some of the answers.   Monica helped her in some places, explaining things in more detail, while I slipped into the chair behind the desk and continued a search I had started on the Net to see what website designers were offering.

Finally Megan handed over the questionnaire to Monica and sat back silently.  Monica glanced at it briefly.

“I’d like to go over this in more detail, Megan.  Of course there are no charges until the session actually starts, so we’d like to make the best preparation we can.  When would you be available?  Do you want to begin today?”

“Is that possible?  Now that I’m here…”

“Let me just check my schedule… I’m sure we can fit you in.”  Monica waved me out of her chair and went through the motions of checking the appointments book, which I knew to be sporting a large number of blank pages at that moment.  “Yes… It looks like we can manage a three o’clock.  How long would you like?”

“I – I don’t know… three hours?”

“Three hours is good, but let me ask you this:  is time a problem for you, or is money a problem?”

“Neither, I guess.”

“Excellent.  Let me suggest that you leave the time to us.  Part of our role-playing involves the creation of uncertainty.  When you don’t know how long a session is to be, or how long you may be held in a position, or where it is all leading…”  Monica’s voice trailed off but the intention was clear.  She smiled at Megan.  “It puts a whole new dimension on things.  But remember that you can end or suspend a session at any time, simply by saying the safeword.  Here at Bilboes we have a safe tune – mainly because safe words don’t come out so well when you have a gag stuffed in your mouth.  The safe tune is ‘Jingle Bells’ – sing it or hum it and the session stops.  We do ask that you consider its use judiciously, for using it for a trivial reason may in fact warrant further punishment.”  Monica looked at Megan and raised her eyebrows.  Megan nodded.

“I understand,” she said. 

“Good.  Steven, why don’t you take Megan or a tour of the establishment, while I review her profile in detail.” 

As I ushered Megan to the door, Monica drew me aside and murmured: “You can skip the Sluice Room and the Rack Room, and don’t be in a hurry.  Maybe get her measurements en route.”  Her smile was accompanied by a wink.

*   *   *

Based on her apparent reticence in Monica’s study, I had expected conversation with Megan to be difficult, but she surprised me with her interest in Bilboes.  She wanted to know about the lifestyle, how many girls worked here and where their quarters were.  We moved through the house to the back verandah, where much of the Bilboes communal business took place.  It was a pleasant area, shaded by trees and overlooking the pool, jacuzzi and the separate sleeping quarters across the lawn. 

“We hold our weekly meetings here,” I told her, “to work out scheduling and so on.”

“It’s a lovely setting,” Megan said.  “I wouldn’t mind these sort of working conditions.”

“It’s not all fun,” I said.  “We get all sorts of clients.  Some like having bizarre things done to them, and some prefer doing it to the girls. By and large they’re a pretty good lot, but we have to be careful.”

“Do you have security here?”

“Of course.  There are perimeter alarms and we always ensure everything is locked up.  And you saw how the gate works, with the intercom.”

“Yes.  Where do you control that from?”

“There are three points – one in Monica’s study, one downstairs and one over there.”  I pointed to the wall next to a whiteboard where a small intercom was mounted.  “A press of the button opens the gates after we have interrogated our visitor.”

“Impressive – and very organised.”

“Thank you,” I said, obliquely taking credit for something I had little to do with.  “This might also give you some idea of the predicaments we find ourselves in sometimes.”  I picked up a small photo album the size of a greeting card from the shelf next to the whiteboard and passed it to Megan.  She flipped through the photos, pausing frequently to study them more closely.

“Wow!  Some of these are amazing!  Are these all clients?”

“No, mostly they’re the girls.  We don’t keep photos of clients in there unless they are such that the person can’t be recognised, such as if they’re wearing a discipline helmet for example.  Privacy is very important here.”

“Is this you?”  Megan looked at me with a daring smile.  I peered over her shoulder.  The photo showed me in a hogtie on top of a bar stool, a red ball gag strapped in my mouth and looking very uncomfortable.

“Yes,” I admitted sheepishly.  “I got into a lot of trouble that day,” I said, thinking of the affair with Christina, the slave of our richest client.  “I also got Monica into hot water as well.” 

“So you guys do this amongst yourselves?”

“It’s a feature of daily life here, I guess,” I agreed.  “Monica rules the roost – cross her at your peril and you can bet something nasty will happen to you.  Leila and I already have an unspecified punishment hanging over our heads.  Monica likes to bide her time and surprise you when you least expect it.”

“Please tell me about it!” Megan’s eyes were bright with expectation.  I told her about the assault course and how Isobel had got herself off on the log crossing the stream, and Monica’s assertion that she would never stoop so low as to do it in public.

“Sounds like a challenge if ever there was one,” Megan suggested.

“Leila evidently thought so and managed with a bit of peer group support to con me into joining her as an accomplice.”  I related the story of the concert, ending with Monica humping the lamp post in the middle of a crowd of people.”  Megan thought it was hilarious.

“You people certainly are imaginative.”

“We do our best.  And while we’re here, I should take your measurements.”

“Measurements?”  She was puzzled.  “What for?  Am I being fitted for something?”

“Maybe – in the fullness of time.  It’s standard procedure here.”  I picked up a small indexed notebook from the shelf and showed it to her.  “Everyone is in here – me, Monica, the girls, the clients.  First names or initials only, you understand.  All their relevant measurements are taken so that we can have specific garments or devices made for them, or else we can have some of the equipment set up ready for their session.  Saves a lot of time messing about.”

“Smart.”

“Value adding,” I said glibly.  “It also gives me a database of body shapes to work to when I’m building things, like what is the maximum height any client can reach, or how far can they spread their arms, or what is the maximum body weight.  I’ll have to take yours,” I added apologetically, directing her to a set of bathroom scales.  “I hope you don’t mind.”

Megan laughed.  “No, I’m not like some women.”  She slipped off her sandals and stood on the scales.  “Fifty four kilos – and a half.  Damn.  It’s gone up.”

“I hope you don’t find the rest too embarrassing,” I said, “but it is important.”  In truth it was probably me who was more embarrassed.  For the most part it was routine – height, arm length, waist, bust, hips, wrists, ankles and so on.  Then it was time for the more intimate measurements and I had to ask Megan to lift her skirt.  She did this with a total lack of self-consciousness, revealing a black G-string and a shaven pussy, while I got on my knees to take her inside leg, height to crotch with legs spread, and finally the front to back crotch measurement, to ensure a comfy fit for that popular fashion accessory, the crotch belt.

“Uh – can you put your fingers on your nipples, please?” I asked her as she stood waiting for the next direction.  “I just need to know where they are.”  Then I realised how stupid that sounded.  “I mean exactly,” I added, probably making it sound worse.  Megan laughed and undid her white blouse, exposing two smallish but firm breasts, tipped with erect pink nipples.  I was taken aback by her casualness – it seemed quite different from the demure woman in Monica’s study.

“That exact enough for you?”

“Sure.”  My fingers brushed a nipple as I measured the height of them above the floor.  The flesh was hard.  Megan held my hand against it for a moment, then let go as if nothing had happened. 

“Now I have to get you to do a little stretching,” I told her hurriedly.  Megan’s come-on was unexpected and made me uncomfortable as I concentrated on the last group of measurements.  In very short time I had her kneeling, then stretching as high as possible, touching her toes and finally spreading her legs apart as far as possible, so we could see which of our stock of spreader bars would be most appropriate. 

“I can do the splits if you want,” she said casually, sliding her legs to front and back and sinking gracefully to the floor.  I was impressed, more so as the skirt rucked up to her waist again.  “I can even do this…”  Raising her body slightly she swivelled her hips so that her legs went out to the side, rather than ahead and behind her.  I had thought some of our girls were flexible, but this took some beating.  She held up her hand for a lift and I helped her to her feet.

“Amazing,” I said truthfully.  “Where did you learn that?” 

“I did ballet for a long time.  Yoga helps, as well,” she added, holding my shoulder with one hand while she slipped on her sandals with the other.  “I like to stay flexible.”

“You’re doing well,” I murmured, writing down ‘Can do splits easily; V flexible’ as a final comment in the book. 

The measurement session over, took her down the path across the back lawn to my own room at the end of the accommodation block.

“Not trying to lure you into my room, but you were asking,” I said, opening the door for Megan to look inside. 

“Nice,” said Megan, taking in the queen-sized bed, armchair and tiny bar with the microwave.  It was possible to retreat back here if I sometimes wanted to get away from the all-female atmosphere. 

“And they all live in these rooms?”

“All except Monica, who lives upstairs in the main house.  Next to me there’s Leila,  Emma, then Jill – who you met – then Trish and Mary.”

“Cosy.”

“I like it.”

“And you do what?  Are you a Dom?”

I laughed.  “Me?  No, I’m just an innocent bystander.  Sometimes I wonder what I’m doing here myself.  Monica runs the show – as you would have guessed.  I provide muscle, ideas, building skills, pretty much anything and everything.  I’ll show you the workshop.”

“Do you participate in the sessions?” Megan asked ingenuously, as we crossed the grass to the converted garage that served as my workshop.

“Sometimes,” I admitted.

“In what capacity?”

“Well… Sometimes I provide a little muscle.”

“Is it a little muscle, or are the girls usually satisfied?” she persisted archly.

I confess I blushed.  “Haven’t heard any complaints,” I said.

The workshop was the usual mess of half-constructed projects, the place strewn with chains, leather straps, bits of rope, electrical and welding gear, pieces of steel and odd timber devices.  Megan was clearly fascinated and not a little excited.  I explained some of the devices I was working on before we returned to the house.  A brief trip upstairs showed Megan the four guest bedrooms,  before we descended again and opened the door under the stairs leading down to the basement.

I took Megan into the storeroom first, and she was suitably impressed at the arsenal of punishment instruments, leather and latex outfits, and restraint devices.  On a shelf were also some of our more esoteric devices. 

“What’s this?” asked Megan, holding up a 3-centimetre wide thin aluminium strip with several holes in its length.  Riveted to the middle of it was a small box that had once been a hip flask, from which protruded a thin wire. 

“It’s a belt which gets locked on a person.  There’s a battery powerpack in the box.  It works a bit like a cattle prod, but with a lower voltage, since the contact points are usually up one’s bum or pussy.  It can be set off by remote.  We had two sisters here for training for a couple of weeks – worked wonders on them.”  I showed Megan the chromed butt plug with the electrodes on each side.”

“Sounds painful,” Megan said, her eyes glinting.

“I’m told it is.  But it does encourage cooperation.”

 We tried out a set of handcuffs, and I thought I detected a shudder – or was it a thrill – as I clicked the cuffs on her wrists behind her back. 

“I’m sorry, but you’ll have to do the rest of the tour like this – the keys are all upstairs,” I lied.

“Really?”  Megan clearly didn’t believe me.  She tugged futilely at the restraints, looking plaintively at me but without asking to be released.

We did a tour of the gym, where I explained how the exercise machines were linked to electrical stimulators to encourage compliance and promote activity, and where poor performance could result in a jolt up the bum or elsewhere. We briefly visited the Post Room with its emptiness dominated by the two posts festooned with ringbolts at various levels for all manner of stringent restraint.  This was followed by a quick look in the Chair Room, with the heavy wooden chair bolted to the floor being the focal point in the otherwise deserted room.  I showed Megan the observation room, and explained how safety was paramount, to the extent that we had cctv cameras equipped with infrared capacity in each of the various rooms.  She was clearly impressed.  After a look at the holding cells and the niches under the stairs, the final port of call was the dungeon.

“This is just how I expected it to be!” Megan exclaimed breathlessly.  “It’s like a real dungeon.”

“It is a real dungeon,” I told her.  “Don’t be too keen to end up here.  Take it from one who knows.”  Megan’s excitement dropped off abruptly. 

 “Really?”

“Really.  Trust me.  We should be getting back. “

We emerged in the front foyer area to find the door to Monica’s study closed.

“Are you going to take these cuffs off now?”  Megan asked hopefully, waggling her hands at me.

“I don’t think so, darlin’,” I said, changing my demeanour to one of disinterest and slipping into my best East End accent that I preferred for role playing.  I knocked on the door.

“Come!” Monica sounded at her imperious best.  I opened the door and pushed Megan ahead of me, not quite knowing what to expect, but nevertheless expecting something. 

I was not disappointed.  The heavy drapes had been pulled over the french windows leaving the room in darkness save for two wall lights either side of Monica, who now sat at her desk, her face in shadow.  She had done a quick change and now wore what might have been a man’s suit over a white shirt and black tie.  Standing off to one side were Trish and Emma, the former apparently doing a version of her Miss Sharp schoolmistress character, except this time she wore a white lab coat, black-rimmed glasses and had her hair pulled back in a severe bun.  Emma, beside her, sported a nurse’s uniform, but not one of the short sexy ones in our store.  This was quite respectable, almost fearsome, as were the flat heeled shoes and the nurse’s cap.  Her long black hair was pulled into a ponytail beneath it.  All three were staring at the pair of us as we entered the room. 

It didn’t take much to work out what was going to happen here in one form or another.  I thought quickly.

“Mornin’ Ma’am. I found this one wandering abaht – couldn’t give an adequate explanation of wot she was doin’.”

Monica was all icy haughtiness.

“Well done, Reynolds.  They warned me you were a troublemaker, Miss.  It would appear the normal treatment is not working, and some special therapy is called for.  This is Doctor Richardson, and Nurse Cheng, who will be in charge of your treatment.”  Monica inclined her head towards Trish and Emma who stood impassively.  “You will be detained for two weeks of electrical behaviour modification therapy - or longer, if you fail to show any improvement.”

“What!  You can’t be serious!  I can’t stay that long –“  Megan started to interrupt, but Monica cut her off.

“Oh but you can.  You came here voluntarily and said that time and money were no object.  I have your credit card here and your signed statement requesting treatment.”

“What!”

Another inclination of the head and Trish and Emma moved forward.  Trish had in her hand a head harness with a red ball gag and an integral leather blindfold.  Megan started to turn but I was right behind her and caught her by the arms.  She began to struggle and swear but with the three of us holding her and with her wrists already locked behind her, there was no serious contest.  In fairly short order she had been blindfolded, a fact which immediately calmed her down.  There is nothing like not being able to see what is happening around you to make you think twice about doing something stupid.  By the time Trish forced the rubber ball between Megan’s teeth and buckled the straps tightly under her chin, behind her neck and over her head, Megan was totally helpless, standing there in the study making frustrated grunts into the gag.

“Very good, Doctor.  You may commence when you see fit.  And try to instil some discipline into your staff, while you’re at it.  I’ve been hearing stories about sexual interference with some of the customers by your staff.  They appear to have been taking advantage of restrained clients who are unable to do anything to protect themselves.”

“I’m sure you’re mistaken, Ma’am,” Trish said.  “In any case, some of these people bring it on themselves or else all but go begging for it.  It’s all part of the treatment.”

“You’re walking on thin ice, Doctor,” Monica said tersely.  “There is always the matter of your current registration – or lack of it.”

“Yes Ma’am,” said Trish, steering the three of us out of the room. 

“Miserable old cow,” she said as she closed the door behind us.  “On what she pays us, what other perks can the staff get?  And this one’s nice,” she said, tweaking Megan’s nipple through the material of her blouse.  I noticed her nipples were hard and erect again.  She squealed at the unexpected attack.

“Oh shut up,” said Trish grumpily.  “That’s the least thing you’ll have to worry about, you slut.”

Megan moaned in despair. 

At that point I let them escort Megan downstairs.  Three minders was clearly superfluous to requirements, and Megan was definitely not about to run off anywhere.  Instead I returned to Monica’s study.

The drapes were now open and Monica was looking a bit more like her normal self, if somewhat more severely dressed than usual.

“That went very well, don’t you think?”

“Yes Ma’am,” I agreed, maintaining my character.  She grinned.  “All right – that’ll do.  You did okay.  The cuffs and the entrance were a nice touch.  I’m sorry we didn’t get a chance to prepare things a bit better.  It was all a bit on the run.”

“But it worked.  Am I to assume that Megan has some sort of fantasy about doctors and nurses?” I ventured.  “I thought that was only guy stuff.”

“As to your first question, it’s a yes and no situation.  Not doctors and nurses per se, but she has got this thing about straight jackets and medical equipment.  It’s all here in our questionnaire.”  She flourished the papers at me.  “I never cease to be amazed at what people will admit if you put the right questions to them.  In this case I thought a forced stay in a psychiatric ward - run by Mad Doctor Trish and her evil helper Nurse Emma - might give her something to think about.  As to the second question, girls are also into doctors and nurses, although this is not quite the case here.”

“And what was all that about  your staff taking advantage of patients?  Just what sort of an establishment are you running here?” I demanded with mock outrage.

Monica shrugged.  “You just can’t get good help.  What can I say?  I do my best under the circumstances but I can’t be everywhere.  Between ourselves, Miss Megan would not be averse to a little forced penetration in circumstances where she was unable to do much about it.  She appears particularly fond of anal activity.  And accordingly she ought to be prepared.  Let’s see how things are going.  Pull up a chair.”

Monica switched on one of the two wall-mounted television monitors and a view of the sluice room appeared before us.  On instructions from Monica, I had avoided the sluice room for what I now saw were obvious reasons.  The sluice room had white tiled walls and floor and gave off an overwhelming air of institutionalism with its stainless steel toilet, bidet and washbasin.  All the fittings were industrial looking, including the overhead lifting track that would enable a suspended object to be transferred from the bath through the internal door to the steam room – a small closed off sauna area in the corner of the sluice room.  I watched as Trish and Emma went to work on their prisoner.  Monica’s voice broke into my thoughts.

“And what did you learn about our new customer?”

“I learned she is very flexible,” I told her.

“In what way?”

“She can do the splits sideways.  Something to do with ballet training.”

“Really?”  Monica was clearly impressed.  “I’ve seen it done before, but not often.  Interesting.  I’d like to work that into our play.  What else?”

“Well…” I hesitated, for as a dumb builder I did not consider myself particularly qualified in the area of human dynamics.

“Come on Steve…”

“She seemed to change when we got outside your study.”

Monica was even more interested.

“How do you mean?”

“When she was in here, she was quiet – reserved.  Nervous, I thought.”

“Understandable.  Most of our first time clients are like that.”

“Except that once outside she became quite talkative, wanting to know all sorts of things about what we did and how many of us there were.  Maybe she wants a job here?  I’m sure I even got a come on.”

Monica was thoughtful and said nothing for a minute.

“That’s interesting, what you say.  There’s something about Megan Blake that doesn’t quite click with me.  I can’t put my finger on it, but something doesn’t fit the pattern here.  She had me intrigued by some of her answers to the questionnaire, and that level of intrigue has just gone up a couple of notches after what you’ve told me.”

“What was unusual about her answers?”

Monica chewed on the end of her pen.  “Hard to be specific.  Just little things plus an overall impression.  For example, there are several very detailed questions in some sections of the form – questions which a newbie might not understand.  One of them, in establishing what sort of gags they have experienced and prefer, mentions a Whitehead gag.  It’s not really a gag but an adjustable stainless steel frame that keeps the mouth open.  Basically it’s a medical or dental device.  Few people have ever heard of it but our Megan ticked it as a preference without a second thought.”

“But you said she appeared to be into medical devices and role playing?”

“Correct, but for a first timer I wouldn’t have expected that level of knowledge.”

“Maybe she’s a doctor or nurse herself?”

“She put her occupation down as ‘actress’. And you say she used to be a ballet dancer?  Doesn’t sound too medical to me.  And nurses rarely have fantasies about the area they work it, believe me.  Anything but that.”

“And all of this tells us what?”

“Quick answer is, I don’t know.  But I have the feeling that there’s more to Megan than meets the eye.  And she came on to you?”

“Flashed a bit of nipple and had no inhibitions about my measuring her crotch.”

“I can understand that.”  Monica smiled – the real Monica smile that made everything all right in the world.  “I can’t think of anyone I’d rather have measure mine.  God, you’re blushing!  You are such a soft touch, Steven.  How will we ever make a decent Dom out of you?  It’s no wonder she fancies you.  But once again there’s that change from her manner in here.  I think we have a case on our hands, Doctor Watson.”

“How’s Doctor Trish doing?” I asked, turning in my chair to look at the monitor which Monica could see over my shoulder.

“Just getting started,”  Monica said, turning up the volume with the remote.

Part Two. 

The ball gag firmly strapped into Megan’s mouth had a large eyebolt protruding from the front of it, and it was this that Trish had first utilised to secure Megan, locking it to an overhead pulley then forcing her head upwards to the point where Megan was almost on her tiptoes.  As Emma removed the leather eye patches, Trish pulled some sheets of paper from the pocket of her lab coat.

“Who’ve we got here, Doctor?” Emma asked.

Trish studied the sheets for a moment, squinting at them as if trying to decipher the writing.  “Our patient is… Caroline Thompson, I think it is.  Is that right?”  Trish looked up at the figure standing with her head tilted up staring at the ceiling.

“Uh-uh,” said Megan, with as near a shake of the head as she could manage.

“You’re not Caroline?”

“Uh-uh.”

“Have we got the wrong one?” Emma asked.

“I dunno.  It says Caroline on this form, so as far as I’m concerned, this is her.  These people are always saying they’re someone else, so if the form says we have Caroline, then we do.”  There was some distorted grunting from Megan, who seemed to disagree with what was being concluded.

“What’s her diagnosis?”

“It says here… goddammit why can’t the Director write properly?  She’s either got an anal problem or an animal problem.”

Monica clapped her hands delightedly.  “Nice touch, Trish!  She is just so good in these role-plays!  That will put the wind up our Megan.”

“So what are we treating her for, then?” Emma queried.

“Let’s do both – better to cover our bases, I think.  We’ll sort out the anal stuff, then do the electrical aversion therapy on the animal side.  It would appear she likes it up the arse and is not past getting that from animals.  Grubby little slut.  Is that what you do, girl?”  Trish  was in Megan’s face now in a most un-doctorly way.  Megan was wide-eyed at the course the treatment appeared to be going and was making muffled noises of protest as best she could.

“Nurse, fetch the hose and the brushes.  If she’s like the usual deadbeats they send us, she’ll need a good cleaning, inside and out.”

Five minutes later Megan was getting a thorough hosing down, still with her restricted view of the ceiling.  Trish and Emma now wore white gumboots and clear plastic raincoats over their clothes and had the hose turned up full force as the water blasted over the still-clothed Megan.

“That water should be quite hot,” Monica commented.  “Coldness is okay for a bit of long term torment, but I want to get Megan really worked up, and cold doesn’t do that.”

The water was turned off and Megan stood there, her soaked clothes moulded to her body.  Emma removed the prisoner’s sandals, skirt and G-string, then with Trish’s help undid the handcuffs long enough to remove the girl’s blouse. 

“You won’t be needing these again,” said Trish, briefly opening the door and tossing the clothes into the passageway outside.  Megan protested into her gag.  I suspected that slave Shawnee would be doing a little washing and ironing in the immediate future.

“Nice figure,” said Monica, nodding at the naked Megan.  “But then, you already knew that, didn’t you Steve?” She cocked an eyebrow in my direction.  Then her attention focussed back on the screen.  “Hullo – our girl is into tattoos.” 

Trish had made Megan turn in a circle, clearly for the benefit of the camera, which revealed a number of discrete tattoos on her shoulders and buttocks.  Nothing too dramatic – a rose, a lily and a vaguely Chinese-looking one at the top of her right arm.

“Odd things for a ballet dancer to have,” Monica mused.  “’Curiouser and curiouser,’ said Alice… The plot thickens…”

By the end of the next thirty minutes the doctor and nurse had left no doubt that the tattoos were real, for Megan’s body had been given a thorough scrubbing with an assortment of wicked-looking hard-bristled brushes until her skin was a glowing red.  All the while she had tugged at the rope locked to the eyebolt in her gag as she attempted to get away from the probing hands and brushes.  Her jumping about was curtailed when an exasperated Trish had halted the procedure and loosened the overhead rope before attaching a wide spreader bar to Megan’s ankles.  This had made a considerable difference, but Trish now took the loose end of the pulley rope attached to the gag, raised Megan’s handcuffed wrists behind her and tied the connecting chain to the rope.  Abruptly Megan became immobile for the remainder of the cleansing ceremony, for any tug downwards on her arms pulled hard on her head.

“That’s a hard position,” Monica said, ”but she seems to be handling it okay.  Anything securing the head like that places a strain on the neck – it’s not something most people can manage for too long.”  Aside from a little whimpering, Megan seemed to be coping – focussing on staying still, despite the intrusion of the hose into her lower openings. 

Her protests turned up a notch following the rubbing down with the coarse towel and the insertion of a butt plug attached to an enema bag up her rectum.  With this in place Trish relented on the gag rope, unlocking this from the eyebolt.  Megan’s head dropped with a grateful groan, but Trish merely raised the handcuffed wrists higher  as Megan’s head went down to knee level, to give her a close-up view of the black tube leading to her butt.  The source of the enema was a hot water bottle suspended on a hook on the wall.  I reckoned the bottle contained about two litres, maybe more.  Trish opened the valve and let the liquid flow, squeezing the bottle empty and closing the valve when this was done.

“You will stay there until we return,” Trish told Megan.  “Any leakage and I will whip you arse raw.  Do you understand?”  There was a nod of Megan’s head.  Trish slapped her hard on the buttock.  “I SAID: Do you understand??” 

“Urr! Urr!”  Megan’s bent head nodded frantically.

“Good.  Get used to this.  I’ll soon have that anal fixation sorted out.  An enema morning, noon and night for the next fortnight with a thorough scrubbing, and the largest butt plug I can find locked in place for the rest of the time.  You’ll wish God had never given you that hole to do anything with other than shit!”  Megan shook her head and wiggled her handcuffs futilely.  Trish slapped her hard on the other cheek, making the girl squeal and jerk.

“Be careful, if you don’t want to have a very unfortunate accident.  Come, nurse.  We’ll return in an hour – or two.”  This announcement brought forth more muted protests, but this time I could tell Megan had lost any hope she may have had. 

*   *   *

Trish and Emma came to Monica’s study and for fifteen minutes we held a Megan Council, planning where things were going and what should be done.  Practicalities aside, like us, Trish and Emma had picked up odd vibes about Megan as well.

“It’s like this isn’t her first time at all,” Emma said.  “She’s very resilient and very flexible.”

“So Steven was saying,” Monica noted.  “And guess what she can do?  Side splits.”

“Wow.  That is flexible,” said Trish admiringly.  “Takes a lot of practice from an early age.  But hey – we can really do something with that.  How about…”

*   *   *

Megan was made to hold her infusion for twenty minutes while we schemed and plotted, then it was a further half hour before she was thoroughly cleaned.  In this time she had been placed in a straitjacket which Monica had had adapted to suit her purposes. 

The straitjacket was made of heavy canvas with edges trimmed in soft leather.  Two cut-outs had been introduced to the front of the garment in the form of breast holes, the diameter of a baseball, which allowed access to the breasts and nipples  for ‘treatment purposes’.  Monica’s application of the straitjacket was to wrap the arms behind the detainee, buckling them in front.  She considered it made for a more rigorous restraint, besides opening up the front better for the aforementioned treatment.

The garment also had several D-rings attached at strategic places, which enabled the wearer to be tethered in various positions merely by attaching ties to these D-rings.  In this instance, Megan remained bent over as she had been before, but this time she was secured by a rope from a floor bolt to a D-ring between her breasts, with two further ropes from similar rings at her shoulder blades to overhead pulleys.  It was a far less stressful position than that with her wrists hauled high behind her, in that Megan could actually rest some of her weight on the supporting ropes.  Nevertheless, her feet remained stretched apart by a spreader bar, and the gag and head harness remained in place.

Just before she had closed the door on her patient for the latest torture, Doctor Trish had inserted a well-lubricated butt plug into Megan’s rectum, securing it there with the crotch strap that joined the front and back bottom edges of the straitjacket.  With this in place, the good doctor had clipped a couple of small lead weights to Megan’s nipples and left them dangling beneath her, before taking to the vulnerable buttocks with a riding crop.  Megan jerked and yowled into her gag while the Trish rebuked her for such anal fixations, interspersing the cracks on the cheeks with a well-aimed blow between them, which must have impacted hard on the base of the butt plug.  With her arms pinioned behind her in the straitjacket, and her ankles locked into the spreader bar, Megan did a kind of crazy dance around her anchor points, within the limits of the ropes tethering her. Trish’s final act was to blindfold Megan with a heavy black bandanna, leaving her panting in the darkness under the impression that she would be there for several hours at least.

That was how I found her.  It was like tag team wrestling, with a ten minute break between teams. 

“She’s holding up really well,” Trish told Monica and I in Monica’s study.

“Yes – just a little too well,” Monica agreed.  “There’s no doubt she’s done this before.  Most first timers would have popped the safeword before now.  She’s worked out that she’s in the hands of professionals who know what they’re doing, and she’s comfortable with that.  She’s now just getting off on whatever it is that does that for her. “

None of this helped us with whatever bigger picture that might have existed.  Instead it was now my turn in my role as the unscrupulous hired muscle.

“Can you turn off the cameras?”

“Aw Steven, you’re no fun.” This from Trish with a lewd smile.

“Monica?”

“Oh all right.  After all you’ve been through at Bilboes you’re still shy, aren’t you.  Amazing.”  She and Trish smirked.  “Go on, do your dirty work.  Enjoy.”

*  *   *

Monica was right – it wasn’t like I had any secrets from the girls.  We had all become intimately acquainted through any number of sexual and bondage escapades.  Why the pre-planned screwing of a captive should still make me feel like a performing seal was something for a Shrink to work out, but Monica was evidently happy to accede to my request.  However this approach did make the major assumption that I could in fact trust her.  In most things I would have said ‘yes’.  In this case I had serious doubts, especially with Trish whispering in her ear.

Megan raised her head when I opened the door and switched on the light.  She was still blindfolded and I doubted she could detect the light coming on through the cloth bound over her eyes.  The sightless head looked up in my general direction.

“Urr?” she asked.

I walked across to where she stood and cracked her hard on each buttock so that my hand stung.  She jumped and yelped into the gag, swivelling around the vertical ties securing her to the floor and ceiling.  I stood there as she continued to edge in a circle, trying to get away from where she believed I was.  I moved just enough to let her bump into me with a surprised and fearful grunt.  She stopped abruptly.  I thought I detected a slight tremor in her body as it briefly touched my thighs.

I moved behind her and gripped her by the hips, pushing myself against where the crotch strap held the butt plug deep inside her.  She grunted again and moved forward to the limit of her restraining ropes.  I pushed harder and the grunt turned to a muffled groan.

“I ‘ear you like it up the arse, dahlin’,” I said.  There was no reply, only a more audible breathing that seemed to be almost a pant.  “That’s good, ‘cos that’s where yor gonna get it,” I told her.

Screwing a girl from behind isn’t always as easy as it’s portrayed in print.  There was in this case the basic point that Megan was shorter than I was, and this height difference was exacerbated by the fact that her legs were held apart by the spreader bar which lowered her target area further.  In order to cope with this I had made two small ramps out of timber.  They were only half a metre long and barely a shoe-width wide, but when worked under spread feet they could raise the prisoner’s body by nearly twenty centimetres.  I was quite proud of this simple and very proactive approach, which first required the loosening of Megan’s floor tether, such that I could begin to raise her body.  At first she had no idea what was going on and I was rough with her, prodding and slapping her on the rump until she moved where I wanted.  When I had her at the right height, I again secured her in the head-down position, although this time with her head lower than before.  I removed the crotch rope and slowly worked the butt plug out, replacing it with the nozzle of a tube of cold lubricant, which I squeezed to give a generous burst inside her.

I sensed a tension in her as she tried to clench her buttocks together.  My friend Mr Willy was now in a state of excitement as I unzipped my fly and fitted him with his protective little coat.  He was not exactly a stranger to this approach, but nor was it his usual method of entry. Suffice to say the ramps had been successful and I found Megan’s butt hole lined up like a breach accepting a round of ammunition.  In many respects the analogy was quite appropriate, as I was under instructions to shoot a load into dear Megan.

She squirmed and moaned behind the gag as I worked my way inside her, probing forward then withdrawing.  With each intrusion she stiffened and trembled, leaning forward against the anchoring ropes, now confident that they were not going to fail her.  As I finally embedded myself inside, she bucked against me, her hips rocking and her buttocks clenching around me.  The lubricant was working well and her moaning began in earnest now as I leaned forward between the two ropes holding her at the shoulders, lending my weight on top of her jacketed form.  My presence made her limited movements even smaller, and I reached round underneath her to grab her breasts, a move which elicited a moan of pain as my fingers connected with the weighted clips.

Beneath me I could feel her arms, trapped in their sleeves across the back of the jacket, as she struggled to move any way that she could.  In no time, however, she was moving in and out against me, her breath quickening into moaning snorts.  I confess Mr Willy usually gets pretty turned on by noisy girls, particularly noisy girls whose outlet for such noise has been effectively stoppered, as was the case by the rubber ball behind Megan’s teeth.

I eased back slightly, squeezing her no doubt sore nipples to provoke another stifled cry, before slipping my fingers down to explore her clit. Her pussy was soaking wet and it was clear this girl could handle any pain in the arse I could provide.  I let my fingers do the walking, combining this with a slowly increasing thrusting.  Warp factor Five, said a voice in my head. Damned Star Trek repeats.  I hoped I could induce Megan to see some stars, although I suspect she was already in another universe, for the tide was rising and she began to snort and struggle like mad.  Despite the ropes, despite the canvas straitjacket and my own weight, Megan lost all reason and threw herself against the restraints, her nasal exertions rising in pitch as she thrust back and forth against Mr Willy now impaled within her.  The muffled rising of her voice finally reached a crescendo in a series of gasping snorts that set Mr Willy off in an explosion of his own as I shot forth inside her. 

I was doing a little panting of my own by this stage, but nothing compared to the ragged moaning that Megan was managing.  I withdrew abruptly, prompting a major complaint, but this little exercise was not to be one of romance followed by a relaxed ciggie afterwards.  Megan was here for therapy, admittedly with a certain degree of satisfaction thrown in.

I had just put Mr Willy away when the door opened and Monica strode in.

“What the hell’s going on here?” she demanded.

“Ma’am?”

“”What are you doing here?”

“Er – just tidying things up and putting them away,” I stammered.

“Why is this patient like this?  She has an animal problem, not an anal problem, you fool!”  Monica was really scary when she was like this.  Megan could not see the fire in Monica’s eyes.  “Get out!  Now!  I know what you’re up to and it’s going to end.  As from the end of this week you can work somewhere else.”  Monica squatted down beside the blind and moaning,  trembling figure still standing on the ramp.  “I’m sorry, my dear.  This man has overstepped the mark once too often.” I actually thought I had overstepped it pretty damned well, and the mark had profited accordingly.  Monica removed the nipple weights in a far from gentle movement that brought out more muted crying.  “I’m sorry. These should not have been applied.  Did that hurt?  Shall I rub them better?”  Monica’s fingers caressed and kneaded the exposed breasts while I watched from the doorway and Monica winked at me.  The bent figure of Megan moaned and jerked some more as Monica ‘inadvertently’ squeezed the bruised flesh and apologised again.

“Let’s get you out of here,” she said.  “The doctor got a little confused – she thought you were a different patient.  It happens sometimes.”  Monica undid the floor rope and helped the prisoner stand upright, then unbuckled the cuffs on Megan’s ankles, releasing the spreader bar. Megan’s breasts were still heaving from her exertions and she continued to make muffled noises and rotate her upper body as if to indicate that Monica should now undo the rest.

“Don’t be silly,” said Monica brusquely, re-threading the crotch strap between Megan’s legs and pulling it tightly through to the buckle at the back.  She followed by releasing the ropes on the rear D-rings. “This treatment should not have happened.  Pretend you’re starting again.  This time I’ll ensure you get the right doctor and the proper treatment.  Now come along.”  Monica guided her out of the sluice room and down the corridor, past the niches under the stairs, then left and left again into the Rack Room, while I returned to Monica’s study to watch the continuing performance.  Here I found Trish, Jillian and Leila sitting comfortably with a large bowl of popcorn.

“And the Oscar for best male performance goes to…” said Trish.

“What is this?  The afternoon matinee?” I demanded with mock indignation

“Sure,” said Leila, “and we’re looking at the star.  You stud!”

I should have left at that point, but I knew Monica had more in store for me.  I also knew she had not switched the camera off as she had promised.

“Way to go, Steven,” Jill said gently, her eyes sparkling.

I slid grumpily into a chair, in time to see Monica and her prisoner arrive at the lair of Doctor Mary.

“I thought you were going to do this?” I said to Trish.

“Monica’s playing it by ear.  My learned colleague will continue with the next session,” she replied.

“Poor Megan,” I muttered to nobody in particular.

*   *   *

Emma was waiting beside Mary as Monica removed the blindfold from Megan’s eyes.

“I do apologise for that little mix-up,” Monica purred.  “It seems there was some confusion concerning files.  In fact you should have come here to see Doctor Kostakis for the animal treatment, yes?”

“Huh?” Megan questioned, looking blank and not a little concerned at the great rack that dominated the room like a mutant four-poster bed.  Wearing a lab coat similar to Trish’s, Mary stood inscrutably beside Emma and Megan looked nervously at them both.

“Megan has a fetish about getting screwed by animals,” Monica breezily explained to Mary and Emma.  Megan looked agog at her and made pronounced mmphing noises that could only be interpreted as a rather vociferous denial.  “What we are going to do, my dear, is to practise a little aversion therapy.  It’s very simple.  We show you a picture of an animal that you might be – ahem – ‘attracted’ to, and apply a little pain to your sensitive spots.  Then we may show you a picture of an attractive man – I assume you are straight – “ Megan nodded vigorously – “ and we give you a little positive reinforcement.  That shouldn’t be too difficult, should it?” Monica smiled sweetly.  “A couple of weeks of daily sessions and you’ll forget all about those nasty animal fixations. Yes?”

Megan shook her head and made more muted gruntings of denial and protest, and, seeing that she was ignored, made a run for the door.  Unfortunately this was closed, and not having any hands free, she was unable to turn the knob.  In frustration she tried to get the knob under one of the sleeves, but Emma caught her and pulled her gently across to the rack, murmuring soothing words as one might to a five-year-old who was about to get an injection.

“I’ll leave you with Mary and Emma,” said Monica airily, sweeping towards the door.  “You’ll be quite safe with in their hands.”

“Liar,” Leila murmured beside me.

Mary and Emma hoisted a decidedly uneasy Megan into a seated position on the padded bench that formed the main part of the rack, located as it was within the perimeter of the four big hardwood corner posts that stretched from floor to ceiling.  In the past we had all spent a number of hours in the Rack Room, in various degrees of discomfort, since I had first built the beast.  Now we were about to see Mary demonstrate her expertise on a newbie, and I confess I felt just a little sorry for Megan.

“If she knew anything about Mary, she’d be singing Christmas carols right now,” Jill suggested.  There was a murmur of agreement.

While Mary held her victim with her legs dangling over one side, Emma temporarily bound Megan’s feet to the long plank that served as a low platform down one side of the rack.  With this done, Mary undid the straps on the end of the sleeves and reversed Megan’s arms to the traditional cross-over in front, with the buckle at the rear.  Megan now looked nervous as she was pulled backwards across the padded bench, at right angles to the way a person would normally lie on it.

“Good luck, kiddo,” Jill said.

The bench was wide enough for Megan’s torso and half of her head to be supported while she was now on tiptoes supporting her lower body on the wooden plank.  Mary and Emma slipped ropes through Megan’s arms and bound her body to the bench with multiple loops of sashcord that secured her immovably.  With this task complete, they undid Megan’s ankles and fastened a leather cuff with a long cord attached, to each.  It dawned on Megan what was going to happen to her at this point, as Mary and Emma moved to opposite ends of the rack , each taking with her one of the ropes to Megan’s ankles.  At the head of the rack Emma looped her rope through a pulley and returned it to Mary at the opposite end, who attached it to the windlass shaft, around which the second rope was already wound.  Turning the shaft would now wind both ropes evenly, and it was this which was about to befall Megan.

As Mary began turning the wheel attached to the shaft, Megan launched herself into a flurry of struggles, writhing and fighting the ropes binding her body to the bench, but it was a futile exercise.  Flushed and panting loudly through her nose, she was unable to prevent her legs parting and rising from the plank which they had previously been just touching.  They rose higher, stretching apart parallel with the bench.  They were now halfway towards being level with the bench.  Megan was whining and making pleading noises, looking with wide eyes at Mary and Emma standing impassively at the foot of the rack.  A steady click-clicking came from the ratchet as the wheel turned.  The tension was beginning to show in Megan’s muscles as her legs parted further and were now almost horizontal. 

Mary stopped at this point and moved to stand beside Megan, reaching under her body to undo the crotch strap. Megan raised her head enough to try to catch Mary’s eye, whimpering into her gag, but Mary, predictably, was having none of it.  Mary was without serious competition in being the harshest of the girls at Bilboes, although occasionally Monica might nearly match her when a particularly mean streak came over her.  I also knew that much of what Mary did was a front.  Underneath she was a bit of a softy, although I suspected I was the only one who realised this.  It was a little secret between Mary and I, and I knew my life would not be worth living should I ever suggest she was not the bona fide bitch queen she pretended to be. Suffice to say we all lived in fear of being on the receiving end of Contrary Mary, and we could not help but sympathise with unfortunates such as Megan who wound up in that situation.

Mary strolled around the figure now lying in a kind of inverted ‘T’ position. 

“It appears you’re very flexible, Megan,” she said.  I bet Megan was now wishing she’d never shown me her abilities on the back verandah.  Megan moaned.  Mary took hold of Megan’s right thigh and began to massage it while Emma did the same with the left, loosening it and slowly manipulating it to relieve any strain on the hip joints.  Then Mary turned the wheel for three more notches while Megan’s breathing became more audible and ragged as the ankle ropes tightened further.

“Nnnn!  Nnnn!” she pleaded into the gag, but Mary was unmoved.  Returning to her hapless victim’s wide open crotch, Mary flourished a large chrome dildo and a matching butt plug in front of Megan’s face.  Megan’s eyes widened and she shook her head again, making more muffled noises of objection.  Emma handed Mary an industrial-looking caulking gun containing a nozzled tube of lubricant, which was also displayed to Megan, who seemed decidedly unhappy.

“You can always receive these without the grease,” Mary told her dispassionately.  “I assume you’d rather not,” she added, slipping the nozzle into Megan’s butt hole and squeezing the handle of the gun a couple of times. 

“Ooo – cold!” smirked Trish beside me.

A further shot followed in Megan’s pussy, after which Mary worked the butt plug and dildo into their respective holes as Megan squirmed in her ropes to the little extent that she was able, and that really was about as minimal as it got, I thought.  Mary then showed several wires to Megan, which terminated in small plugs which in turn were inserted in the two devices now located within the helpless woman.

“One of these will do nice things to you,” Mary explained deadpan.  “The other will do ‘not nice’ things.  In addition to the ‘not nice’ things that will be happening up your arse, we have these nice little electrode clips for your nipples.”  The pair of chrome-plated clips with their trailing wires were shown to the victim before they were released on to the erect nipples.  “They have an electrode on each jaw.  Nothing too dangerous, since the current will only travel straight through the nip, but it will be painful enough to be quite unpleasant.  All of this is designed to make you well, you understand.  Remember,” she said, with a sincere smile, “we’re from the Government, and we’re here to help.”

This line prompted a burst of laughter and a round of applause from the audience, which Monica had now joined.

Megan clearly did not find it funny, nor did the TENS machine wheeled into her line of sight provide any comfort.  Megan had the look of someone in a dentist’s chair being told that they were out of anaesthetic and that this was the first time the dentist had tried this particular procedure.

“Now,” continued Mary. “Are we sitting comfortably?  Emma will show you a number of pictures.  Some will be of those nasty animals, which we know you have a rather disgusting sexual fondness for.”  Megan shook her head violently and mouthed incomprehensible noises around the rubber ball.  “We know it’s true, Megan. This much we have been able to deduce from your notes.”  Megan continued to shake her head. 

“And mixed with the animals will be some nice masculine guys, who will give you decidedly pleasurable sensations.  Would you like that?”  Megan did not bother to respond affirmatively, instead closing her eyes and letting her head fall back.  Mary picked up a riding crop and flicked Megan hard in the crotch.  The woman’s eyes opened as she squealed into the rubber filling her mouth, her head jerking up.

“Shutting your eyes will be counterproductive and will result in a very painful pussy whipping.  Do you understand?”  Megan understood all right, nodding furiously.

“Now that I have your undivided attention…” Mary continued, “we shall begin.”  Mary positioned herself behind Megan’s head, where both could see the pictures Emma was about to hold up.

“We had to download these off the Net in a bit of a hurry,” Monica explained to the watchers.  “It would have been nice to have some slides projected on to the wall, but we do the best we can under the circumstances.

“Oh look, a donkey!” said Mary.  Megan jerked and squealed as Mary pushed a button on the TENS machine beside her.  Clearly there was a small shock to certain nipples and a rather vulnerable rectum.  “Nasty donkey,” hissed Mary.  “Nasty, mean unacceptable donkey!  What’s next?  Oh, Alsatian dog!”  Megan jerked and stiffened again, a gurgling moan echoing against the block walls of the dungeon.  “Disgusting, foul, yukky dog!  Urrg!” said Mary.  Megan’s body slumped as the current stopped, leaving her breasts rising and falling as she panted loudly through her nose.

Emma held up a centrefold.

“This one was borrowed from one of Leila’s magazines,”  Monica threw in.  Leila blushed.  “Don’t worry dear, you’ll get it back.  It’s Mister September, I think.”

“Mmm, what a hunk,” said Mary in the basement, as though she’d been listening in.  Megan’s eyes widened then closed as a burst of pleasure arose from her crotch.  She wriggled as much as she could with the sudden contrasting sensation.  “Eyes open!” Mary snapped.  Megan obeyed instantly but continued to exhibit the lingering effect of the pleasure pulse.

The ‘therapy’ continued for perhaps half an hour, by which time Megan’s eyes had become just a little unfocussed.  She was bathed with sweat, her skin shiny and wetness dripping from her crotch.  I caught the signal from Emma to Mary that their patient had had enough. 

“Perhaps we’ll leave it there for today,” Mary said, and the relaxing of Megan’s stressed body was almost palpable.  But her relief changed to alarm as Emma and Mary headed for the door without so much as a backward glance at their victim bound in the stringent position on the rack bench. Megan was making desperate pleading noises for them to untie her, but the pair were gone, slamming the door behind them and leaving Megan in her stretch out immovable misery.

“She is flexible,” Mary commented when she joined us. 

“About as flexible as you are evil,” Monica commented calmly. “You’ve certainly put our Megan off interfering with animals.”

“Is she really into that?”  Leila asked.

“No.”

“So that would explain her protests, then,” Mary said with an amused smile.  “I see.”

“Need to know, Mary; need to know,” Monica elaborated, touching the side of her nose.  “It goes to the putting on of an Oscar-winning performance.”

“Thanks.”

“How long do you intend leaving her there?” Emma queried, inclining her head at the struggling figure on the padded bench.

“She’s still very restless,” Monica said.  “Mary, you did switch off all the current outlets?”

“Of course.”

“And the dildo?”

“Oh.  It may have got turned on as we left…”

“Oh may it?  So our Megan is now well into the throes of some sort of multiple orgasm?”

“Quite possibly.”

Monica did her best to look stern while the rest of us smirked and Mary looked totally disinterested.

“Emma, go and get Megan’s clothes from Shawnee – they should be ironed by now – then release her at an appropriate moment.”

“Before or after she…”

“After, of course, you goose.  You can’t leave her unfulfilled at this stage of the treatment.  At very least we want her going home with a smile on her face.”

*   *   *

Megan’s aversion therapy, while an interesting diversion, regrettably did not herald a renewed influx of clients.  I pursued my investigation of the potential for a website and came up with some figures that  Monica did not like. 

“That’s what it will cost to get up and run, if you want a decent website that will keep people coming back, keep the name of Bilboes in the minds of those who need to know, and will offer new facilities such as cyber training.”

“Cyber training?”

“You know – dial-a-cyber-mistress.  Carry out her instructions via computer-linked camera.  There’s a huge potential here.  We have enough girls to do this twenty four hours a day to paying customers all over the world.  You’ll never have to leave the house.”

“I don’t have to anyway.”

“That’s not the point.  Cuts down on overheads.” 

“But the whole set up will cost this much?” She eyed the numbers on the paper in front of her.

“If you want to do it properly.  I know you have a reputation to uphold.  You’re not a half-way merchant, Mon.”

“Yes,” she said, looking far from happy, holding her chin in her hands. “I like to do things properly – for my sins.  The problem is, Steven, that we just don’t have this sort of ready cash.”

“Borrow from Mr Bank Manager?”

“Mr Bank Manager is already wondering about payments on the Beemer and the house,” she said dismally.

“Sell the Beemer?” I ventured.  Monica glared at me - I might just as well have asked her to sell her child.  “Sorry.”

She thumped the table with her fist in frustration.

“Bugger bugger bugger!”  I had never seen her like this and did not know what to do.

“I’d offer you my own savings, Mon, but they’re paying off my flat.”  She smiled wanly.

“That’s very sweet, Steven, but this is my problem in any case, and I’m going to solve it.  Maybe I’ll pay Moneybags Warren a visit, and relieve him of some.  Maybe we’ll cut a deal.”

“Why haven’t you talked to him before?”

“The sod’s been in the States for the last two months on some business trip.” 

“Which is why we haven’t seen slave Christina.”

“Or had any income from Moneybags himself.  Correct.”

“Ah well, nothing ventured, nothing gained.”  Monica appeared to brighten at the idea.  “Yes, I’ll go and touch up old Warren.  Just you wait.”

 

 

Monica's Revenge continues in Chapter Four
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

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