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: 6. Punished (Jillian’s story) by Richard Alexander MF/mf; bondage; bdsm; cons/nc; XXX
Chapter Six : Punished (Jillian’s story)
Part One

I had dragged myself up from a deep sleep only long enough to become aware that something was suffocating me and that I needed to struggle for air, but the cloth over my mouth and nose was drenched in some vapour that I sucked into my lungs sufficient to render me unconscious.

I learned later that this had been the preferred method of attack for Portia’s team as they overpowered myself, then Emma, and Mary.  Trish had been the first, caught unawares by Megan’s feigned sickness.  With Trish out of the action, Megan had opened the gate for Portia and the hired help, and they had in quick succession captured the rest of us, one at a time.  Monica had been next, then the three of us asleep in our quarters, with poor Steven and Leila of course already incarcerated at Monica’s direction.  I did not know where Shawnee was sleeping.  Sometimes she was locked in one of the cells, or simply chained to a convenient post somewhere.

When I came to, I was lying on my back on the cold concrete floor at the bottom of the stairs in the basement, my legs bound at ankles and knees, but with my hands still free.

“She’s waking up,” said a voice.  Faces slowly came into focus and I recognised Megan, bending over me.  “Are you all right, dear?”  she asked, concerned. Hands helped me to sit up as my vision cleared.

“Yes – I what happened?  Why am I -?”  My response was evidently sufficient for my head to be pulled back by the hair, by someone behind me.  My mouth opened involuntarily from the sharp pain, and as Megan grabbed my wrists another hand forced a black rubber ball gag into my mouth.  I fought it, but the person was too strong, working the ball behind my teeth as I mmphed and spluttered in a futile show of resistance.  Only when the strap was pulled tight and buckled at the back of my neck was my hair released and the person controlling my head spoke for the first time. 

“Jillian, my dear little slave…” 

I nearly choked on the gag, so unexpected was the voice and the fear that it instilled.  Portia Tang!  My God!  What was she doing here?  What was happening?  I struggled against Megan holding on to my wrists, but between the two of them they managed to tie my wrists around my already bound ankles, pulling my knees up close to my chin.  Then Portia was in my face, smiling coldly.

“You’ve been a very bad slave, my dear.  I think you’ve forgotten your place totally. You have forgotten that you were given as a gift to Madam Wong, to be her slave to deal with as she saw fit.”  She reached around my neck and I felt the stiff leather of a wide collar being fitted.  She buckled it so that it was snug, verging on being tight, then I heard the click of a padlock.  “That’s better – much prettier.  You look undressed without your collar.  I’ve been so looking forward to catching up with you,” she said, as she knotted a length of rope through the D-ring on the front of the collar.  The crimson fingernails flashed in front of my face, evoking memories of those horror days locked in the cell in Macau learning Cantonese under the threat of the whip and the lash.  She pushed the rope down between my thighs, not wasting the opportunity to slide her finger through my bush, before taking the loose end and pulling it around my ankle bonds.  This drew my neck and ankles closer and I found myself almost unable to move. 

“I have many plans for you, Jillian dear.”  Portia’s voice was smooth as honey.  “I had a lot of time to think about your fate while we were chained up in that light well, and I’ve been pondering further ever since.  It will be so much fun.”  I found myself trembling uncontrollably, so sudden had events unfolded.  “Come, Megan, let’s get this one into her cage.  The smallest one, I think.  She should just fit.“  The pair dragged me across the floor and shoved me sideways into the tiny triangular niche under the stairs.  As this took place I heard a muffled cry which I recognised as Trish.  I could just catch a glimpse of a white skirt, boots and halter top behind the grille of the third niche, before I was pushed sideways against the rear blockwork and Megan went to close the grille.

“No, no – wait.”  Portia was delving into the pocket of her leather skirt.  She produced two evil-looking nipple clamps.  They were like vices of the kind that  should be in a carpenter’s workshop.  We did not use them much because they could crush and bruise a nipple without too much effort.  These ones were like the letter D, with a movable straight bar inside the D which could be closed up by means of a screw at right angles.  Portia swung my legs out from the niche and cupped her hand around my left breast.  She tweaked my nipple and rolled it between her fingers, smiling at me as the damned thing came erect.  I felt the cold steel against my skin as she positioned the jaws of the vice either side of it.  I shook my head and whimpered as she began to screw the two bars closed.  The pressure came on slowly, then there came a wave of real pain.

“Uhh! Uhhh!” I moaned.  She turned the handle another half turn and the pain became terrible.  I squirmed and cried out into the rubber ball.  Another tweak of the handle and I screwed up my eyes in agony.

“That’s one done,” said Portia calmly.  “Now the other.”  I was screaming into the ball by the time she had finished, pleading unintelligibly for her to undo the hateful jaws, but Portia simply laughed.  “Remember the light well…?” she said sweetly, pushing me back into the niche and closing the grille, then clicking a large padlock in place.
 
 

Tears were streaming down my face as I sat there, unable to move with the awful pain coming from my nips.  The vices were heavy, too, pulling down on them.  I heard muffled protests from Trish as my captors disappeared up the stairs, no doubt searching for their next victim.

*   *   *

Within the next hour Mary and Emma were brought into the basement in the same unconscious state as I had been.  Mary had regained consciousness before they had properly secured her, and it had taken a hefty male, whom they called Jenkins, to tie her adequately until they could get her into the last niche, her nightgown being ripped in the process.  Like me, Emma slept naked, and she had wound up bound in the niche next to me.  I wondered what Portia had in store for her, as one Chinese to another.  I had a feeling Em would be in for some special treatment, just like me, although I seemed to be ahead of the field at that moment.

The hours merged into each other.  It must have been in the early hours of Tuesday morning that we had been taken prisoner, and it seemed we were not to be fed in the immediate future, for once Emma had been forced unceremoniously into the niche next to mine, we saw little of our captors.  They did the rounds a couple of times, inspecting the rooms and the equipment in a leisurely manner.  From the little I overheard, by all accounts they were quite impressed.  Portia paused once in passing and squatted down beside me.  I stared at her through the bars and whimpered, pleading as best I could for the terrible ache in my nipples to be reduced, but Portia merely laughed and gave me a nudge with the pointed toe of her boot.

“Should have thought about your actions back in Macau, shouldn’t you, dear,” she said maliciously.  Megan said nothing, but I thought I caught a look of sympathy in her eyes.  “We just need to face the fact that you’re a slow learner.”  Portia sighed dramatically.  “More work for me, but we’ll get there.  We’ll make a good slavegirl of you yet.  Meanwhile, I think it must be lunchtime, Megan.  We must explore the wine cellar further.”

*   *   *

I sat in misery, hungry and uncomfortable, the pain in my nipples acute.  It had been many hours since I had been thrust into the niche with the cell grille locked against me.  The niche was barely wider than my body, with my left arm touching the blockwork and my right being against the steel bars.  I could squirm a little, but my backside had long since gone numb, sitting as I was on a hard rubber pad that at least was better than the cold hardness of the concrete itself.  I could not feel my fingers and toes and my back and neck were aching from the tension between my ankles and the leather collar.  I was sniffling and crying from time to time as I tried to take myself away to Subspace, away from the pain and hurt, but it was not easy to do.  My field of vision was limited to the sloping roof immediately in front of me and the short stretch of corridor with the two holding cell doors opposite.  Behind one of these I knew Steven and Leila were imprisoned.  They would be wondering what was going on, why they had not been fed.  The basement was silent, save for an occasional soft moan of pain or discomfort from the other three prisoners in the niches as they underwent their own private torments.

It must have been sometime after lunch when Megan appeared, crouching down beside my cell with a faint squeak of leather. 

“I shouldn’t be doing this,” she whispered, unlocking the grille and swinging it open.  I had just recovered from another bout of crying and as she reached between my drawn up legs and chest to access the terrible vice jaws gripping my nipples. I whimpered in trepidation.  I screwed up my eyes in pain and bit hard into the rubber ball as she undid the vices by a couple of turns, tugging them to ensure they were still attached but not as severely as before.  I suppose it was necessary but I could not help crying out into the gag, partly from the pulling and partly from the pain as the blood flowed back into the tender flesh.  Then there was the sound of the steel grille closing and the lock clicking shut.

“You’ll survive,” said Megan with a warm smile before she stood up and returned up the stairs overhead.

The pain took a long while to die down, during which time I found myself keening to myself at the unbearableness of it all, but eventually my nips settled down to a dull throbbing.  The discomfort was infinitely better than it had been, but then everything is relative and my nipples still hurt abominably.  But she was right, I would survive.

*   *   *

Such a thought was hollow comfort as the afternoon wore on – not that I could establish any reference for the passing of time.  The only thing lacking in the gloomy corridor outside my tiny cramped cell was the dripping of water and perhaps an inquisitive rat.  As it was, I knew I was not alone, but it was small comfort having three others similarly restrained and gagged only an arms length away, but still out of sight and meaningful communication. 

Perhaps I dozed at some stage.  The next thing breaking the monotony was another appearance by Megan and Portia.  They peered at the four of us, smirking at our helplessness and enforced silence, before turning and unlocking the door to the cell that held Leila and Steven.  I could not see what transpired in the cell, but I could imagine Steven’s shock as Portia appeared.  There was some talking, then the sounds of a crop on bare flesh and a long scream from Leila.  I squirmed for the umpteenth time within the ropes binding my wrists to my ankles, but there was nothing I could do.  A minute later the two women dragged Steven out of the cell, his wrists chained to his collar.  We made eye contact briefly, and I thought he was trying to apologise, so I shook my head as if to say it was unnecessary, for there was nothing anybody could have done.

Poor Steven.  He was so protective of us – kind of like a brother, if he wasn’t so susceptible to our charms when circumstances arose.  One of these days I would get him in the sack without one of us being tied up at the time.  That would be a novelty – but right then such a possibility looked pretty remote.

It was probably another hour later that Megan and Portia appeared again and removed Leila from the cell, hustling her away, like Steven her wrists cuffed to her collar. It sounded like they had relocated her to the Sluice Room.  We had no idea what was happening to Steven, or where Monica was, until some time later they were brought to the now-empty holding cell.  Before they were installed they were made to display their bodies for the benefit of the four of us secured in the niches. 

I was aghast at the sight of Monica and Steven covered with raw red weals from flogging all over their bodies.  Their buttocks were displaying the deep blue and yellow bruising from multiple strokes of the cane and they both had plasters stuck over their nipples.  God knew what these women had done to my friends there.  They looked exhausted and utterly defeated.  That alone was a shock, for I had never seen either in such a state.  They were eventually locked in the cell and the jailors went away.  That little episode as much as anything shook my morale and sent us plummeting even deeper into despair.

Maybe an hour later Megan and Portia returned and opened the grille to Emma’s niche.  Emma was walked unsteadily past me moments later, unable to catch my eye.  She wore leather cuffs at wrists and ankles, and while the latter were free at that moment her wrist cuffs had been locked behind her.

It was evidently my turn next, for Portia’s face came close to the bars as she squatted down to undo the padlock.  She grasped my ankles and swung me through ninety degrees, so that my feet pointed out of the niche, before undoing the ropes securing my ankles and wrists, along with the ankle-collar rope.  My limbs and backside were totally numb at this point, and the release of tension made me fall on my side with a squeal of pain as the two steel vices jerked on my nipples.  Portia produced a multi-thonged flogger with which she began to beat me on my buttocks and legs.  I scrabbled about like a spastic, unable to make my arms and legs work until the blood began to circulate again, making its way past the deep rope indentations at my wrists and ankles and entering regions that had been motionless for many hours. I was squealing and yelping behind the rubber ball, trying to avoid the blows and trying to support the weight of the nipple vices which were swinging about.  After a minute of this Portia grabbed my arm and with the help of Megan locked a leather cuff on each wrist and connected the two behind my back with a further lock.  In doing this they forced me on to my stomach, the steel vices clinking on the concrete and sending more shards of pain through my tortured nipples.  Cuffs were then locked on to my ankles and I was hauled to my feet, the vices continuing to swing, sending a fresh flood of tears down my cheeks.  The pendulums continued as I was marched down the corridor and thrust into the Sluice Room to join Emma and Leila.

The two girls were sitting side by side against the wall, Emma with her wrists cuffed behind her, and Leila with hers connected to her collar in front. I saw that Leila’s chastity belt had been removed and each of their collars had been connected to a ringbolt by a longish length of chain.  This was to be my fate as well, as I was made to sit beside them, having my collar chained up and my ankle cuffs locked together.

“Dinner will be sent down shortly, girls,”  Portia said.  “I’m sure you can make yourselves more comfortable by then.”  Our jailors turned on their heels and left, leaving the door open, perhaps just as an indication of just how much we were at their mercy and just how we could be taunted as to that fact.

We looked at each other for a moment, then Leila got awkwardly to her knees and edged over to me, bending forward to get her hands near the terrible vices still gripping my nipples.  I moaned and cried as she undid the screw on the right breast.  The device clanged on to the tiled floor as pain shot through my nipple with the renewed blood flow.  Moments later the second vice was on the floor and I was leaning back panting raggedly through my nose and making nasal noises of relief and pain.  Meanwhile Leila managed to get Emma’s gag strap undone and pulled it gently out of her mouth.  It popped out with a small burst of drool that ran down Emma’s chin on to her breasts as she swallowed and licked her lips, working her jaw to ease the ache that I was also suffering from.  Then it was my turn, and my mouth was suddenly gloriously unencumbered as the ball and strap fell to the floor, while Em performed the same service for Leila.

Slowly we took stock of our circumstances and told each other in whispers of what we knew, although in fact this was precious little, and was generally comprised those events which we had all seen.  We had no doubt that our movements and words were being monitored via the cctv.  Probably Megan and Portia were sitting in the study laughing at us.

The Sluice Room was L-shaped around the closed off sauna section in the corner, the walls and floor finished in white tiles.  One leg of the ‘L’ ended in a large bath along the end wall, while the longer arm of the ‘L’ had a washbasin, bidet and toilet along the side wall.  It was opposite the bidet that we were all chained by chains which were connected to our collars, allowing us to reach all three bathroom fittings.

One by one we used the loo.  It had been a long day and only the absence of food had made things bearable in this regard.  The process was not easy with out hands cuffed and chained but necessity left us to manage as best we could.  Just after we had performed our ablutions Shawnee appeared with a tray of food.  Shawnee was wearing a long black latex hobble skirt and a rubber hood with holes only for her eyes and nose.  Her wrists were handcuffed.  Her breasts were unfettered and they swayed freely as she shuffled into the room carrying the tray. 

On the tray was a plastic jug of water and a large bowl of spaghetti bolognaise.  The smell of the meat sauce activated our taste buds and sent the saliva rushing in our mouths until we realised the difficulty we were going to have eating it.

“Shawnee, we need some forks or spoons,”  Leila said.  The black hooded head shook and an negative mmphing came from behind the rubber.  Clearly Shawnee had something stuffed in her pretty little mouth.  She turned to go.

“Wait!”  I called.  “Shawnee, please help us!”  Again she shook her head and turned to leave, and we saw the red weals of a beating she had received on her back.  Shawnee now had new mistresses, and it was these who were calling the tune.  It was not something we could blame her for.

We worked out the easiest way to eat was for Leila – who had her wrists cuffed in front, albeit close to her throat – to eat her fill first.  She could manage this relatively easily.  She then proceeded to feed Emma and me a handful at a time, for the bowl was too big to bury our faces in.  It was messy and time consuming, and the sauce seemed to go everywhere, but we didn’t care, so hungry were we.  The bowl was eventually emptied and we drank greedily from the jug, again with Leila’s assistance.  With the food inside us and with our restraints much less severe than at least Emma and I had endured for the last day or so, we felt somewhat better and speculated in hushed tones as to what might be happening to the others and what might be our own fate.  Portia did not seem to be revealing too much in that regard, obviously wanting our imaginations to work overtime.

The Red Devil and Megan turned up shortly after we had finished our meal.

“Look at the mess you’ve made!” she exclaimed, brandishing a thin, whippy cane.  “Leila – clean up the floor at once – with your tongue, girl!” she clarified, as Leila looked at her quizzically, then slipped awkwardly on to her side before rolling on to her elbows.  The white tiles were usually kept spotless by Shawnee, so there was no real hazard involved, but clearly Leila was not doing the job fast enough on the splattering of sauce that is the normal hazard of Italian food, for Portia gave her a thwack on the backside.

“Aargh!” Leila cried, but continued licking - notably faster than before.  Then it was Emma’s and my turn to join Leila.  With our hands locked behind our backs and our ankles cuffed together it was difficult to move around, but the thwacks with the cane soon promoted that as we set about licking the remains of the bolognaise sauce from the white tiles.  My tits were sore and moving on them was uncomfortable, but the cool of the tiled floor gave some little comfort there.  Finally Portia was satisfied, having nudged us with the toe of her boot and the tip of the cane to spots we had missed.

“Very good my little slaves,” said Portia, looking down at where we lay on the tiles. Megan had watched the display of domination with amusement.  “I think we should put you all to bed for the night.  In the morning you will begin your new lives as slaves to the House of Bilboes – or Le Chateau, as it will soon be called.  Tonight, though, we will put you to bed together – a very intimate little arrangement that Megan and I have devised for the three of you girls.” 

Megan left the room and returned moments later with a duffel bag which I knew would contain instruments of restraint and torment for the night ahead.  I wondered how much more of this we would have to endure, reasoning that it could not surely be as bad as the hours I had spent in the tiny niche that day.

“Leila!”

“Yes Mistress?”  We had agreed that we had to address our captors appropriately under the circumstances.

“On your knees.”  Leila worked herself awkwardly into an upright kneeling position. Megan removed the steel collar from around her neck, replacing it with a leather one to match those worn by Emma and myself, then locked her wrists in leather cuffs behind her.  Megan delved into the duffel bag and pulled out a nasty-looking gag rather like a ball gag but with a wide pad over the top and a large penis attached to the outside.  It was normally used for oral pleasuring of a Mistress while keeping a slave quiet. 

“Open wide,” said Megan with a hint of a smile that Leila did not return as the ball was pushed behind her teeth and the pad and strap buckled behind her head.  “Nod your head if you wish to serve me,” Megan ordered, her smile widening as the black rubber penis wobbled up and down.  “Good girl.  All in due course, Leila.”  Megan took her by the shoulders and helped her lie on the floor.  “Emma!”

Two minutes later both Emma and I also sported large black penises emerging from our mouths.  Megan and Portia had cooked up something particularly unpleasant, I was sure.  Next to come out of the duffel bag were three short lengths of chain – enough to just lock around our waists, and three lengths of rope, about a metre long.  These were fixed to the front of our collars, replacing the chains to the wall ringbolt. 

With the preliminaries over, Emma was dragged into the middle of the room and made to lie on her right side, and her cuffed wrists were then locked to her right ankle cuff.  Leila and I suffered a similar fate, and we found ourselves lying in a rough head-to-to triangle. 

It got worse from there.  I was similarly secured, my wrists to my right ankle, and made to lie on my right side.  I was dragged so that my head was close to Emma’s crotch, and Portia threaded the rope from my collar through the front of Emma’s waist chain.  That done, she produced a tube of toothpaste and slathered it liberally over the black member in front of my nose.

“You can guess where this is going, can’t you,” she said coolly.  Megan leant assistance in manoeuvring my head between Emma’s legs .  “Uh-uh – not there – the back one.”  Oh no, I thought!  I found my right cheek resting on the inside of Em’s right thigh as Megan held the left leg up and worked my shaft into Emma’s little brown hole, at the same time as Portia kept the tension on the rope at my throat.  I had no choice but to work the rubber dick all the way in, grateful for the smell of toothpaste overpowering other odours.  Emma was whining and complaining into her own gag as I was forced to push inside her.  I finally found myself with my face buried in Emma’s crack, the top of my head touching her cuffed hands in the small of her back.  The rope now tightened at my collar, holding my throat close to Emma’s pussy as Portia tied it off to the waist chain. 

Then it was my turn for the anal invasion.  Leila had witnessed what had happened and struggled against her captors, but hogtied to one leg left her almost powerless to resist as she was slid across to close the side of the triangle.  Emma was now resting her left leg on my head, not quite knowing where else to put it, and let me tell you there is considerable weight in a woman’s thigh, especially when a human head is in the way.  Someone lifted my own left leg – I could see nothing of proceedings at this point, and I felt the soft touch of Leila’s hair and cheek on the inside of my own right thigh.  Then something was nuzzling my butt hole and the hard rubber penis began to stretch my sphincter muscles.  I moaned at a sudden pain then the member was in and working deeper.  I moaned again and tried to wriggle but I found my head to be immovable and the rest of my body much the same.  Only my left leg had any freedom, and someone was holding on to that. The rope from Leila’s collar to my waist chain was then pulled tight, grooving through my pussy, creating a sensation that I had not anticipated, increasing my respect for Megan and Portia – as if I had not forgotten how the latter had pushed my buttons in Macau, leaving me a grovelling wreck. 

The final closure of the triangle was Leila being impaled by Emma, and there was the predictable groan of fulfilment from Leila as the black rod was worked home up her back passage, and then we were all lying helpless, unable to move, each up the next girl’s arse.

“What a bunch of brown nosers,” said Megan, and Portia hooted with laughter.  As a final act I saw how carefully we had been positioned in the centre of the room, as Megan lowered an overhead pulley and attached each left leg to the hook by a short rope.  It was nothing strenuous, in fact it actually took the weight off the head trapped in one’s rear, and probably made a nice touch to the creation.  I had a momentary dread that they would haul us into some sort of dreadful leg raising position, but such was not the case, for our legs remained roughly horizontal, pointing into the middle of the triangle.

“Sleep well,” said Megan.  “I hope your pillows are comfy.”  Then the door closed and the lights went out.

*   *   *

I don’t think it was the longest night of my life – some of those in Macau were pretty bad.  It was perhaps the most bizarre and at least here I had company.  For the first hour we found out why Portia had smeared the toothpaste on the penises, and it had nothing to do with smelling nice, for the stuff burned inside us.  We all discovered we could move our heads to some small degree – to the extent that a small in and out movement was possible.  We also found that this very movement, provoked by the toothpaste, caused the crotch ropes to move also.

Maybe an hour into the night, prompted by the decrease in toothpaste power and the slow assertion of my crotch rope, I began to work on Emma.  At first there was a little squeal of protest, for Em does not normally take it up the bum.  She does, however, do what I tell her, and she was in no position to fend off my head wiggling, which I now did conscious of the effect of the crotch rope.  It did not take long before Emma was doing some wiggling of her own in response, which soon had its effect on Leila.  It was the classic demonstration of ‘what goes around comes around.’  Or where something comes back to bite you on the bum.  Or a cyclical event.  Or a self-fulfilling prophecy.  Whatever, before long we were all at it, unable to help ourselves and heedless of any watchers on the infrared camera.  Emma came suddenly, stiffening and clamping my head as best she could between her hands and her thighs, making a high-pitched moan as she jerked against her bonds. 

Leila followed almost on top of her, her ragged moans raising to a series of nasal wails as the climax caught her and she struggled and tugged at her own restraints.  Of course that struggling meant the black rod up my bum moved faster and faster, along with the rope, and soon I too pitched over that glorious edge of the Big O.

We lay exhausted, snuffling and panting against the cheeks of each other’s arse.  That was – predictably – the situation as we fell asleep, eventually.

*   *   *

It’s an art to sleep while gagged – one that those of us at Bilboes have mastered through considerable practice, not always voluntary, I might add.  The balls filling our mouths in this particular instance were far from the most extreme – that is the largest – in our arsenal, but at the end of the day no matter how much practice you have, twelve hours – or however long it was – is one helluva long time to be tied up in some positions.  Contrary to many of the B & D books, the body rebels against many such impositions, as does the mind.  It is one thing to be forced into bondage knowing you’re being monitored should anything go wrong.  I had no idea if such was the case with Megan and Portia – I doubted it.  I had a nasty feeling we were on our own and would just have to cope.  Much of the submissive’s behaviour is psychological – both in the desire to be dominated and the methods of dealing with a situation when you are unable to protest to anybody that the pain you are experiencing is real.  You just have to deal with it.

Monica had taught us relaxation methods, ways to physically and mentally relax in the most stringent of positions.  This was perhaps not one of those, by comparison with some I had experienced, nor was it particularly painful, but over the long hours of darkness the lack of movement had insidious consequences as the cold from the tiles crept through our bodies.  I must have dozed on a fairly regular basis, but cramps in my shoulders and right leg woke me frequently.  There were movements and squirmings by the others, too, of course.  Emma had a tendency to snuffle in her sleep, and this seemed to be exaggerated when she had her head up Leila’s arse.  Looking back I can see the funny side, but it wasn’t so apparent at the time.  Every time Leila moved, the rod up my rectum would slide about, usually waking me, and then there was the rope through my clit, which did nothing to calm things down.

The end result was a series of fitful dozings, interspersed by bouts of painful muscles and weird dreams, as usually happens to me when I have some sort of sexual stimulus applied in a period of sleep.  In the early hours of dawn – by my disoriented estimate – I was lying awake, cold and uncomfortable, my jaw hurting and the cramps in my right  thigh where my leg was bent also becoming worse.  There was nothing exotic in this position we had been forced into.  The cold hard reality was that people fart in their sleep and Emma was no exception.  The effect of the toothpaste had long since worn off and life was miserable.  We were being deprived of sleep, deprived of food and worn down by continuous restraint and the application of whip and lash.  Clearly things were going according to plan.

*   *   *

We were so stiff and sore when the lights suddenly came on and Megan appeared that we had no will to resist, even if we had wanted to.  I was the first to be released as the gag strap at the back of my neck was unbuckled and the collar rope was undone.  Dearly as I love Em and intimately as we have known each other, spending the night with my head between her cheeks was not the best experience I had ever had.  I groaned as Megan worked the ball from behind my teeth.

“That dick stays there, Emma!”  Megan said sharply. “Don’t you dare force that out until I say you can – that goes for all of you!”  Megan was barefoot, dressed in a short black latex skirt and a matching short-sleeved zipped top.  She wore nothing underneath it, for I glimpsed provocative flashes of white breast against the shiny black rubber.  Her hair was pulled into a ponytail and she looked all business this morning with a riding crop looped over one wrist.

Leila was the next to be ungagged and I found myself at last able to wriggle freely, save for my left leg still attached to the chain overhead.  I rolled on my stomach, desperate to get some relief from lying on my right side.  This was a more natural position for my bent legs.  Megan undid the lock connecting my wrist cuffs with my right ankle, then undid the lock connecting the wrist cuffs themselves.  I let my arms flop to my side, exhaustion overcoming me and combining with the luxury of being able to move my limbs again.  My relaxation was short-lived as I received two sharp thwacks across the buttocks for my sin.

“On your back!  Hands together in front!  Now!”  Megan seemed to have got out of the wrong side of the bed, which ever one she had slept in.  I suppose I could have objected at that point, but I was too tired and with one ankle still secured to the chain I would not have managed anything.  I struggled over on to my back, my anal muscles straining to keep the embedded penis gag from slipping out.  Moments later my wrists were locked together in front and also locked to the chain attached to my left ankle.  From a moment of wonderful freedom I was now contorted again, three limbs locked to a chain that stopped a foot above the floor.

Shortly all three of us were secured that way, feeling pretty sorry for ourselves, but at least the change of position was welcome, as long as we didn’t have to hold it all day.  Megan did her job carefully, always ensuring that some part of us was secured before unlocking the next point.  She seemed satisfied with the end result and only then did she unlock our left ankles, leaving our wrists still attached to the pulley rope, before hauling on the chain running over the pulley block overhead.  We found ourselves obliged to stand, and did so with much difficulty, easing our punished muscles into more normal positions.  I made the mistake of exclaiming as the pain grew from my leg.

“Where does it hurt?” Megan asked.

“My thigh, Mistress,” I said.  My temerity was rewarded with a hard crack of the riding crop across the offending thigh.  An angry red weal appeared and I bit my lip, trying not to cry out.  Megan continued pulling on the chain, which was designed to lift quite heavy weights only a small distance per pull, and hence it took maybe a minute before we three stood with our hands above our heads, all joined to the main chain.

The pulley block hung from a track attached to the ceiling.  It had been installed with a view to easily transporting suspended prisoners from the Sluice Room to the Sauna and back, and for dunking them in the big bathtub.  Megan gave a few more pulls on the chain until we were all on our tiptoes.

She walked around the three of us, all standing breast to breast facing each other, conscious of our rear vulnerability and exposure. 

“Keep those cheeks clenched, slaves.  Those dicks won’t be the last pains in the arse you’ll have.  Better get used to them.”  She flicked the crop at us, the flap at the end catching each of the six buttocks in turn, just enough to sting.  “Now – into the steam room, if you please.  I don’t want my slavegirls smelling – as you will probably do once those stoppers come out.  Well?  What are you waiting for?  Move!”  Leila was facing the direction we had to go and caught a further swish from the crop across her backside.  As one we teetered on our tiptoes to the sauna, dragging the pulley block along the overhead track.

Inside the sauna Megan let us down just enough so that she could pull our ankles apart and back and tether them to convenient anchor points, making our formation into a kind of pyramid.  Desperately I tried to hold the rubber penis in place as my legs were spread.  That was when Shawnee appeared.

She wore a black rubber catsuit, including a hood, from which her dark hair protruded around the collar.  It was the same hood she had worn last night and I presumed she remained still gagged beneath it.  The suit was tight on her, for although she had a small frame her breasts were larger than those of most girls of her size, and made the rubber top bulge disproportionately.  There was nothing artificial about her breasts – they were delightful to play with and leant themselves to wicked breast bondage which Monica loved to demonstrate.  Shawnee loved it, truth be known.  She was proud of the ‘twins’ as she called them.  Only Emma could rival Shawnee’s endowment, but then Emma had exactly the right proportions for the rest of her physique – just to make us western girls supremely jealous.  Again, Emma loved to have them tied.  Was this a mysterious connection between breast size and submissiveness, I wondered in a flash of irrelevance.

Shawnee’s ankles were hobbled, but apart from that she was relatively free, and armed with several brushes of a rather industrial-looking nature. 

“Shawnee, you may remove the inserts,” Megan ordered.  I felt Shawnee’s hand grasp the ball and strap hanging between my legs and I sighed with relief as I relaxed my anal muscles.  It is extraordinarily hard to retain a smooth dildo in one’s arse, contrary to popular myth.  A butt plug had a natural bulge, but a rod up your bum usually wants to obey the law of gravity and slide out of its own accord.  Keeping it in is a great test of muscles and is one I have used in our gym training program, for it tones up the abdominals and gluteus remarkably well.  Shawnee eased it out slowly, letting my muscles relax around the void it left behind and making sure nothing else came with it.  Good girl, I thought, making a mental note to do something nice for her.  A suitable orgasm while bound to a bench would be good, though just when I might get to do this seemed a long way in the future.

With the inserts removed satisfactorily, we three prisoners were left alone in the sauna, with the door to the Sluice Room closed and locked.  As if we were going to escape – not.  We stood there, our heads close enough to kiss but having to lean forward hanging our weight on the overhead chain because of the position of our feet, with our ankle cuffs tied off to various anchor points at skirting level.  We talked in hushed whispers as the room temperature began to rise and steam issued from behind the wooden grating that comprised one wall.  We concluded that there could be no half measures in any escape.  A failure would mean terrible punishment for those remaining, and even worse for a failed attempt.  We knew we were dealing with professionals, and we knew we had to be careful in even talking about escape, for the cameras that had been installed to provide easy monitoring of clients now provided easy monitoring of us.  Big Sister was watching us.  Our only positive thought was the fact that we had each other for support, and we must rely on this for strength in the face of an adversity which would surely grow worse.

I quietly told the others how Megan had secretly loosened the steel vices that Portia had placed on my nipples, and we speculated on just what Megan’s real agenda was and how she fitted in with Portia – or vice versa.  We reckoned Megan had been hired for her local knowledge and the possibility of incorporating Bilboes into the establishment she currently ran, but it was all guesswork, of course.  We thought she might have a spark of decency in her, although too much exposure to Portia would soon cure her of that.

The temperature crept up and soon the perspiration was running down our bodies as our pores opened up.  Our hair became damp and clung to our heads as the heat began to sap our energy.  After an hour or so the door opened, but it was Portia who appeared, resplendent in a scarlet lycra bikini.  Her hair was drawn back into two pig tails and she carried a flogger with multiple tails perhaps half a metre long.

“Good morning, slaves,” she said with a disdain one might use for some form of insect.

“Good morning, Mistress,” we mumbled to the floor.

“Did we sleep well?”

“Yes, thank you Mistress.”

“Liars.  I sincerely hope it was exactly the opposite.  And you will tell me the truth when I ask it.  Did you sleep well?  Jillian?”

“No Mistress, it was cold and I got cramps.”

“A simple yes or no will do.  I can’t stand whinging slavegirls.  It seems an appropriate time to finish your sauna with a little something to get the blood circulating.  Did you know, Emma, that in Scandinavia after a nice sauna they beat each other with birch twigs and roll in the snow?”

“No Mistress.”

“Well you do now.  Regrettably there are no birch twigs here.  What do you think I should use, Leila?”

“Nothing, Mistress.” 

I groaned inwardly.  Please don’t be clever, Leila, I thought.

“Foolish and insolent girl,” snapped Portia.  “Because of that answer you will all get another ten strokes.  This is punishment for being smart, over and above the appropriate treatment for a sauna.”

Portia’s arm flashed out and a stinging crack landed on my buttocks.  I jumped and tried not to cry out.  Portia moved around us swinging the cat forehand and backhand, the smack of the thongs on wet flesh echoing against the tiled walls.  The blows were directed at all parts of our bodies – legs, buttocks, back and curving around our torsoes to the edges of our breasts.  These shots were then interspersed with upward ones, firstly in the form of flicks between our bodies, that again caught our breasts, and then with shots between our legs, catching our exposed pussies.  We tried not to give her the satisfaction of a response, but it was impossible, and before long we were all jerking and crying out as the blows rained down.  The counting aspect must have become academic – I’m sure Portia wasn’t doing it.  She was having too good a time flicking the terrible thongs this way and that with the practised arm of an expert, laughing as she did so.

She was enjoying every minute of the beating as we writhed and screamed at the impact of the cat.  Portia’s long pigtails swung in rhythm with her arm, and despite the continued pain I had to admire the suppleness of her body and the way her breasts moved under the tight lycra.  If she was not so evil, I could go for her, one part of my brain thought, just before another stinging blow caught me across the rump.

By the time Portia left, her body slick from her exertions, we were in a state of barely controlled sobbing.  Shawnee and Megan appeared a couple of minutes later and Megan turned on a hose while Shawnee got to work with the brushes.  The water from the hose was cold but took some of the heat out of our skin where the thongs had landed, but Shawnee and the brushes prompted us to more howls of complaint and stifled threats to get her one day.  Any thoughts I had of doing something nice for her went out the window as she scrubbed my pussy with a medium bottle brush then – admittedly at Megan’s insistence – attacked my arse with another.  Megan helped with the hose, inserting the nozzle where it had no right to be as I moaned my protests and pleaded for them to stop. 

Water sprayed everywhere and it was easy to see why our tormentors were dressed as they were in the rubber outfits.  We started to roundly abuse Shawnee for her vigour with the brushed but whacks on our butts with the hose from Megan soon shut us up. Shawnee was clearly gagged under the rubber hood, for she made muffled mmphing sounds and was obviously distressed at what she was being made to do to us, as she had to wriggle between the three of us and scrub our breasts and stomachs as well.  When all this was done she rubbed us down and gave our hair a thorough towelling, while Megan practised flicking us with a wet towel. Occasionally aiming shots at Shawnee’s shiny rump under the rubber.  By the time the pair were finished we were red from top to toe, our skin feeling as though it had been left under a blazing sun for a day.  Megan untied our ankle ropes to at least give some respite, and then unlocked my wrists from the central chain.

Worn out and exhausted I was pushed into the Sluice Room where my manacled hands were locked to a ringbolt again above head height. 

“Time to get dressed,” said Megan breezily.  She reached into the now-hated duffel bag and produced three corsets, selecting a white one with pale blue vertical stripes.  “This is pretty,” Megan said.  “It’ll go well with blonde hair and fair skin… although your skin is looking a bit red at the moment.”

I had worn this corset before and found it to be tolerable.  There was an art to fitting a corset – it was called knowing when to stop.  A corset will lose two inches off your waistline quite easily.  After that things start getting just a little uncomfortable.  This one ran from my lower abdomen to the underside of my breasts, the two sides hooking together in front and closing up with laces down the back.  Megan clearly knew her way around corsets and was soon tugging the laces tight across my back.  My waist and torso began to constrict beyond the two inches, and breathing started to require more effort.  I gasped as she put a knee in the small of my back and gave a final yank to the laces before tying them off.  I knew it would get more tolerable as the day went on and my body adjusted, but at that moment it was acutely restrictive and uncomfortable.

Megan picked up the duffel bag again, emptying the contents on the floor this time.  Three pairs of shoes and stockings fell out on the tiles, along with a tangle of straps and an assortment of gags and what looked like steel belts and dildos.  I saw that she must have been going through our rooms, because I recognised the shoes as coming from our own personal wardrobes, where we kept items that were either specially made for us or were particularly sized to suit us, such as with shoes.  I had a pretty good idea where all this was leading, and sure enough I was soon wearing white stockings attached to the corset suspenders, smoothed into place by Megan’s own hands – hands which could not help but stray to my pussy as she pulled the stockings close to my crotch.  The fact that my inner thighs were so sensitive after all the punishment they had received was enough to make me jump, and Megan laughed softly, letting her fingers slide across the skin into the tangle of blonde hair, where they entwined and slid between my labia.  I caught my breath, surprising myself at how soft her touch was and I was barely able to suppress a moan of pleasure.  My own fingers opened and closed as I pulled against the cuffs locked to the ringbolt.  I tried to bring my legs together.

“Uh-uh,” Megan chided, her breath husky in my ear.  “”Keep them apart until I tell you otherwise, slave,” she said sternly. “You hear me?”  To make her point, Megan positioned a knee between my legs and wrapped one hand around my body, while the other did its exploring further.

“Y-yes Mistress,” I stammered, annoyed at the reaction she was getting out of me, but aware how my sensitivity could be heightened after a flogging.  It was something I was not proud of but found it impossible to counter.  I felt the pressure of her breasts through the taut rubber of her top pressing against my back, as her right hand caressed my own breasts, the nipples of which had popped up like little studs.  She squeezed and stroked them further, at the same time slipping the fingers of her left hand further into my pussy, which must have been well lubricated by then if my brain had anything to do with it.  Her lips and tongue caressed my ear and neck and I was trying to squirm down on to her hand as much as my restrained wrists would let me when the door opened and Portia strode in again.  The bikini had gone now, replaced by a long-sleeved dress of crimson lycra that clung to her every curve.  Her trademark boots were also in evidence – four inch heels that clacked menacingly on the tiles.

“What the hell is going on?” she demanded.

Megan barely paused.

“Just getting little Miss Jillian all wound up,” she purred, then stepped back leaving me panting for her to finish what she’d started.

“Was that nice, Jill?”

“Yes Mistress…”

“But…?”

“Could I please have some more, Mistress?”  God I hated myself for saying that but she was sooo-o good.  If you didn’t ask, you didn’t get, I reasoned.

“Let me,” Portia said.  But her idea of ‘more’ was half a dozen hard smacks on my bum with her hand, which sent me bouncing against the wall and pleading for forgiveness.

“Hurry up and sort them out,” Portia concluded grumpily to Megan. “You’ll get plenty of time to play with them once they’re trained properly.”  As she stalked out of the room  I was sure I saw Megan poke her tongue out at the retreating figure.

“Dear me, what a shame.  Looks like you’ll have to do without,” she told me with mock apology.  She held up a pair of white shoes.  “These are yours?”  I nodded and lifted up my left foot as she squatted down to fit it.  The shoes had a four and a half inch heel and were the highest I had.  They were, in truth, quite uncomfortable being worn for more than an hour or two, but the clients liked them.  Megan fitted the other one and I tottered momentarily with the unexpected increase in height.  Then I saw what the straps were that Megan had included in the bag.  She selected two and buckled them in a figure eight pattern around each ankle and under each instep, where they locked, thus making it impossible to remove the shoe without the key. At that point I foresaw a long and uncomfortable day ahead, particularly when she replaced and locked the ankle cuffs she had removed to get my stockings on.

Perhaps a half hour later Emma and Leila were likewise chained to separate overhead eyebolts and wore corsets similar to mine.  Leila’s was black with satin panels and went with the black stockings and heels she was obliged to wear.  Emma got the short straw, wearing the one rubber corset in our store room.  It was thicker than the normal latex – perhaps three millimetres - and was heavily boned with stiff wires.  It was a severe garment which did wonders for Emma’s already curvaceous figure, making her ample breasts highlight a perfect hourglass figure.  Megan had decided that Emma was going to get the full treatment in this regard, however, with black latex stockings and gloves that reached almost to her shoulder.  With her long black hair, however uncomfortable Emma would be, she would look a million dollars for the rest of the day, if a little overheated. 

When Shawnee appeared with a tray of toast and orange juice Megan locked our ankle cuffs together before unlocking the wrist cuffs from the ringbolts.  Gingerly we sat down on the floor.

“Enjoy your breakfast, slaves,” said Megan.  “Better use the loo as well, for you may not get another chance for a long time.”  Then she closed the door.

*   *   *

Part Two
 

It was a long time – maybe a couple of hours - before Megan returned.  We lay on the floor or sat leaning on the wall, still with our wrist and ankle cuffs locked.  When Megan did come back she had changed clothes and wore cut-off jeans and a tee-shirt.  By then we had emptied the tray and emptied ourselves as best we could after scrabbling about in high heels with chained wrists and ankles.  Megan carried with her three ball gags – two black and one white.  It did not take much to work out where these were going, and shortly we were all sporting the rubber balls with the straps locked behind our necks.

With Emma as clothed as much as she was evidently going to be, her ankle cuffs were unlocked and she was made to get on all fours and spread her legs, while Megan lubricated a chrome-plated butt plug and worked it into Emma’s rectum.  Emma squirmed and moaned as this was going on, for the plug was quite large and I empathised with the discomfort she was experiencing.  After some encouragement from Megan that saw Emma’s eyes widen as she suddenly gasped and made a small nasal cry, as the plug evidently slid home.  Emma was breathing as heavily as the tight corset would allow, her breasts heaving with the effort of accommodating the device, while Megan locked on the stainless steel belt that carried the little powerpack in the small of her back.  She connected the wires leading from the pack to the plug and fitted the thin steel crotch strap that also locked the butt plug in place.  This was one of the devices worn by the Kuragin Twins when they had been with us, having their behaviour modified. Megan, standing behind where Emma was still on all fours, picked up the remote and pressed the button. 

Emma squealed into the gag – her cry a mixture of surprise and pain.  Megan must have held the button for a couple of seconds, time enough for Emma to roll on to her side, her hands grasping at the crotch strap as she curled into the foetal position making “Urrgh!” noises of pain through her nose.

“Ex-celle-ennnt!”  Megan drew out the word, clearly delighted with her new toy.  “Leila – you’re next.  Get over here!”  Leila slid across the tiles with fear in her eyes, but got on her knees and allowed Megan to unlock her ankle cuffs and insert the plug.  Much as I hated to see Leila suffer, I was relieved because Megan had brought only two of the devices.  I wondered where the third one was and how much worse would be my undoubted fate... 

Leila, too, had to receive the jolt of electricity up her bum before Megan was satisfied that all was in order.  Leila rolled on the floor with tears in her eyes, snorting and mmming into the gag.  The pain was real, I knew.  Steven had explained that the device worked on the stun gun principle – a small current and a large resistance meant a large voltage.  It was the voltage that hurt but the current that did the damage in an electrocution, he had explained.  Large voltage you could cope with, large current could kill you.  I took his word for it.

Megan fastened three hobble chains between our ankle cuffs and ordered us to our feet.  Leila was still shaky and I leant her my arm as we made our way into the corridor and up the stairs, on to the back verandah where Portia was holding court.  Behind her stood Steven, dressed and apparently unrestrained – a fact which puzzled me – save for a heavy black collar about his neck.

Monica was there also, very much restrained - bound into a yoga position with her legs crossed, impaled on some sort of plug or dildo up her rear passage.  She was gagged and looked very uncomfortable sitting on the steel plate.  The worst thing was a double hook inserted in her nostrils, holding her head up towards the roof.  It must have imposed a terrible strain on her neck muscles as I knew from experience that any prolonged tension such as this took its toll.  The head likes to be either all the way back or all the way forward.  Halfway for any length of time is a painful option.  I was also shocked to see that her nipples had been pierced – something she said she had never wished for – and that they were now adorned with thick stainless steel rings.

At Megan’s direction we all knelt facing Portia, with Monica in front of us so that we were obliged to look at her wrists and elbows bound tightly behind her, half covering the mass of stripes on her back.  The implications of her predicament were not wasted on us. 

“What a delightful little assembly we have here,” Portia drawled, crossing her legs as she swivelled on her seat at the table.  “Let me tell you what is going to happen today.  Leila and Emma are going to be doing the housework.  The kitchen is a mess, the beds are unmade, there is vacuuming, floor scrubbing, washing and ironing to do, not to mention preparation of lunch and dinner.  And when all that is done you can work in the garden.”

As she went through our list of chores I wondered what had happened to Shawnee.

“And in case you’re wondering about your little rubber-encased slave, she is currently in a particularly stringent hogtie upstairs in Monica’s – that is my – bedroom.  I think she’s rather cute, and I intend to have some fun with her in due course.  I intend to have some fun with all of you at one stage or another,” she continued, treating us to a smile that while exposing perfect white teeth did nothing to reassure me that we would also enjoy the ‘fun’.

“Monica here has been taking in the morning sun and breathing deeply in her yoga position, chanting the mantra – or at least the ‘Om’ part of it.  At least I think that was what she was doing.”  Portia laughed maliciously.  “I am now going to let her help Steven, who will be installing an underground cable around this house.  Once it is activated, anybody who tried to cross it while wearing this –“ she held up a collar, “will receive a very nasty shock which may incapacitate them.”  The collar was an lethal looking thing with a box the size of a cigarette packet on the front of it and two prongs about two centimetres long projecting inside the collar.  “It’s intended for dogs, and is very effective in restraining them without fences and modifying their behaviour in cases of excessive barking.  It is adjustable for the proximity of the wire and the size of the animal being restrained.  I think it will prove very amusing.

“That will keep these two busy for quite a while.  Which leaves my darling slave Jillian.”  Portia stood up and walked over to me as I kept my head down and stared at the boards of the deck.  I watched the high heels of her boots pass by me and I knew she was standing behind me.  She stood there for maybe a minute, saying nothing.  I knew something was going to happen and could feel myself start to tremble in the awful expectation.  It came in the form of a sharp poke in my left buttock by something followed by a crack and a piercing pain that seemed to jolt the whole of my left side.  I screamed into the gag and fell over on my side, moaning with the pain that spread down my leg.  I struggled to get my breath back in part due to the gag but also the tightness of the corset.  For a brief moment I nearly fainted.

“That, my dear Jill was a little sampler.”  I turned my head from where I lay on the deck and looked up at her.  The red-clad Mistress of Evil held a two-pronged rod in her hand.  It was perhaps half a metre long and had a box-like grip at the top end.  “This is a cattle prod,” she told me.  “It is also a Jillian-prod, a Monica-prod or anything else I care to make it into.  If you misbehave it will be used on you.  It may also be used on your friends.  Rest assured you will be punished, and very painfully.  Imagine this on your tits along with those shocking plugs up you bum and pussy.  You’d be able to light up the room yourself.  So, do we all understand the situation now?  You will all do exactly as Megan and I say.  We are in total command here and you will obey instantly!  Is that clear to you all?”

“Uh-huh mmssts,” we affirmed fearfully through our gags.  Monica had had her back to me, but even she made noises of clear agreement.

“I didn’t hear you, Steven!” said Portia.  Moments later Steven doubled over gasping and I knew where the third electric plug had gone.  There was also a clink of chain and I saw that his ankles had been cuffed and hobbled.

“Yes Mistress!”  he panted.

“Good.  Megan – take the two house slaves and put them to work.  Oh yes – the two in the dungeon should have some food.”  She addressed her next statement to us. 

“Your friends Mary and Trish are going to begin earning their keep again – with two of Monica’s friends, Warren and Roger.  Good paying customers, I believe.  Oh yes, Monica, that made you sit up, didn’t it.  Your good friend Warren is not above keeping his options open.  I hope you didn’t expect customer loyalty here.  Warren doesn’t care who he gets to shaft – in whatever form that may take.  He and Roger will enjoy Mary and Trish.  They particularly like unwilling but experienced participants – something that makes your girls quite a valuable quantity.  Two masters and two mistress-cum-slaves.  What a fun little contest of wills that could be,” she smirked. “They are down in the dungeon at the moment awaiting our guests’ arrival. They were not saying much.  They were quite restrained, in fact.”  She laughed again at her wit.  “Leila and Emma – you may go.”

The pair scrambled to their feet and hurried inside with a faint clinking of chains, followed by Megan with the black remote sticking out of the back pocket of her cut-off jeans.  Portia turned to her remaining audience.

“Now, who shall we deal with next?  Monica?  You’ve been waiting so patiently for hours.  Perhaps we should attend to you.  Steven, you may untie Monica now.”

I eased myself painfully back into the kneeling position, not wanting to be accused of lying down on the job, with my head down and my locked cuffs resting on my knees.  Steven walked uneasily across to Monica, his hobble chain clinking softly.  His first act was to untie the string from the balcony rail and to gently remove the pronged hook from her nostrils.  Her head went slowly forward with an audible sigh of relief, the black hair falling around her face.  Steven knelt behind her and undid the terrible elbow ropes.  There were many turns and while they had been expertly applied clear of the main blood supply, between them and the multiple wrist ropes, they had constricted her enough such that her hands hand a noticeable bluish tinge.  As the ropes fell away they left deep red indentations in the pale flesh of Monica’s arms.  Then he turned his attention to her legs and ankles.  I could not see these, but I knew the interweaving of rope was complex and thorough, and it took Steven some time to undo the knots and pull each strand from between Monica’s limbs.

She remained almost unmoving, her arms now braced on the floor as she leaned back slightly to give him better access.  Slowly she unfolded her legs with a faint moan from behind the gag.

Megan reappeared at that point, obviously having put Leila and Emma to work. 

“Fetch the duck stuff, will you Megan, dear,” said Portia with a dry smile.  Megan grinned and went inside, to return with a black bundle.

“You may kneel, Monica.  I’m sure it will make a pleasant change for you.  Steven – you might as well do the same – next to Jillian.”

Monica slowly eased herself off the device attached to the steel plate.  I saw that it was a large rubber phallus and must have been quite a painful experience.  She could not suppress a muffled groan as the thing slipped out of her and her aching limbs were made to move again as she knelt in front of us facing the lady in red. 

Portia nodded to Megan who produced a roll of black duct tape from the bundle.  Bending Monica’s left arm at the elbow, she taped forearm to upper arm with the multiple turns of tape, making sure that the fingers were securely taped down, then repeated the process on the right arm.

“On your back,” Megan commanded.  Monica obeyed, awkwardly flopping on her side then rolling over on to her back.  Megan worked a pair of black latex pants over Monica’s legs, then helped her to her feet in order to pull them up to her waist.  They were tight and had a slit through the crotch for an obvious variety of purposes.  I wondered where on earth this was going, but knowing Portia I knew there would be a purpose and it would probably be both devious and humiliating.

The next item from the bundle was a black pvc raincoat.  It was maybe a size or two larger than Monica, but this was evidently necessary since Monica’s taped arms were thrust into the sleeves, the loose ends below the elbows being taped up under the upper part.  Megan now took an open-faced rubber hood and pulled it over Monica’s head, gag and all, positioning it to her satisfaction, then led Monica down the several steps to the back lawn.

“Stay!” she ordered and returned to the table to fetch the last of the outfit.  Poor Monica.  Humilating was not adequate for the description.  Megan buckled a black leather belt around Monica’s waist and hooked up a bungy strap as a crotch rope, running from the front belt buckle to the belt at the back.  Threaded on the strap were two dildos, which were inserted in Monica’s orifices, front and back.  Monica’s arse must have been sore enough from the last position.  Having another insert so soon was unnecessarily cruel, I thought, and with the stretchy strap they would slide in and out as the tension varied.  Portia had thought this one through. 

But the ignominy was not over.  Black rubber swim fins were put on Monica’s feet, and anybody who has tried to walk down the beach in these knows that they leave high heels for dead in terms of sheer awkwardness.  Megan took a two-metre length of thin chain and locked it to a leather cuff around Monica’s left ankle, then threaded it through a ring in Monica’s collar before locking it to a right ankle cuff, after forcing Monica into a squatting position.  The final humiliation was the Daffy Duck mask – black save the white eyes and yellow beak that covered the open face portion of the rubber hood.  Portia clapped her hands delightedly.

“Wonderful!  Daffy Duck!  How funny!  Steven – while you are working, you will have a duck chained to your ankle.  It will be like a ball and chain, except that it will be a duck and chain, hahaha!  It should rid you of any desire to run away.  Try to run, Daffy!”  For a moment Monica did not move, then waddled awkwardly for a few steps, nearly tripping on the big webbed feet.  Megan and Portia thought it an absolute hoot and nearly wet themselves laughing.  I felt so sorry for Monica I could barely watch.

“All right Steven – you may go.  See to him, Megan.”

Megan, stifling her mirth helped Steven up and directed him on to the lawn, where she undid his hobble chain and replaced it with a three-metre length of heavier chain connecting Monica’s collar with Steven’s right ankle cuff. 

“Right, off you go.  You know what needs to be done.  And if I see so much as a small alteration to those restraints, nothing will happen to you, but Jillian and Monica will be severely punished.  Think about that.  Do I make myself clear?”

“Yes Mistress,” said Steven, his tone that of a man who knows when choices don’t exist and the odds against escape are not even worth contemplating.  I watched the man and his duck slowly make their way across the back lawn to a spot where a pick and shovel lay beside a large reel of electrical cable. 

“Better get quacking,” said Megan. Portia nearly spilt her coffee.

The man and his duck obviously had a long day ahead of them.

*   *   *

When Portia had finally calmed herself and the chortles at watching Stephen dig a trench with a black rubber duck at his side had subsided, she turned her attention to me.

“I do like it here on the verandah,” she said.  “Sunny but cool.  I think we’ll deal with you here, Jillian.”  The off-hand way she said it gave me butterflies in my stomach. “You do realise that as far as I’m concerned, your punishment has barely begun.”  It was not even rhetorical – just a statement of fact.  She walked across to where I knelt and stood in front of me.  I was too scared to look at her face, instead staring at the fine red leather of her boots immediately before my eyes.

“Get up!” she barked.  I struggled unsteadily on to my high heels.  They gave me a slight edge in height over her, but her commanding manner made me feel insignificant.  It was the mark of a true Domme, that she could do this, and I could not help myself instinctively obeying, wanting to please her if it meant less hurt and discomfort.

Megan materialised by my side and dragged me back a few paces, under a pulley bolted to one of the roofing beams.  We sometimes did suspensions here, with Monica not being past the odd bit of peer group humiliation herself if somebody had screwed up in a major way.  The was nothing like being suspended and having to watch the rest of the gang eat a hearty meal in front of you.  The pulley actually comprised two blocks, each with two wheels, such that there were five loops of heavy sashcord running between them.  This allowed quite heavy loads to be easily lifted by a single person under the high verandah roof.

Portia locked the connecting link of my wrist cuffs on to the hook of the lower pulley block and stepped back to let Megan haul on the loose end of rope until my hands were above my head.  Portia then attached a spreader bar to my ankles and left me standing on tiptoes while Megan tied off the rope to a cleat on the verandah post nearby.

That’s when I began to get really scared, as Portia gripped my face in one strong hand, squeezing my mouth either side of the ball gag within it.

“The time has come for reckoning, Miss Runaway Slave.  In the olden days they used to flay slaves alive.  Or cut their nipples off.”  I felt her hot breath on my face and knew I was in for something nasty.  “But you have such nice nipples, Jillian…”  She ran her fingers over my breasts, then her tongue, lingering around my nipples just long enough to make them pop up.  She tweaked them hard between her fingers then pinched them with her long red nails.  I whined in pain. 

“Fetch the bullwhip, Megan.”  The bullwhip!  No!  That was just for show! Just to make a client scared, as it was doing for me at that moment.  The bullwhip was not a full-sized version, but had a half-metre handle and a two-metre plaited thong.  It was a fearsome thing and started me trembling when Megan returned with it.

“Having any sort of revolt by a slave is just not acceptable, Jillian,” said Portia, slipping into the most reasonable tone imaginable, as if it was an undisputed fact that did not even warrant discussion.  “Don’t you agree?”  I nodded as enthusiastically as I dared.

“And yet you ran away… Not only did you run away, but you laid hands on your mistresses - and actually chained up your mistresses, forcing them to beat each other and making me screw Madam Wong in the arse.  Do you realise how serious this is and what humiliation this caused?”  Portia’s voice was soft and sensible. I nodded and hung my head, not daring to look her in the eye.  “And I know you were behind it, Jillian.”  Her tone changed. “Oh yes, the others came to rescue you, but rather than leave, you wanted to get your little piece of flesh!”  She gripped me by the hair and pulled my head back.  “You little wretch!” she hissed, her face in mine.  “After all the training I put you through!  You ungrateful worm!  When will you learn your lesson?”  She stepped back a couple of strides and cracked the whip.  It was just a flick, her wrist moving up and then down.  The thong caught me square in the crotch.

“Nnnnn! MMph!” I screamed into the gag as the pain shot through me.  Another flick, this time a fraction closer to the front so that the tip caught me on the lips of my pussy.  “Uurrgh!  Nnnnnnph!” I screamed again, writhing in my suspension, trying to pull my legs together but failing totally, stretched as they were, wide and vulnerable.

“I ought to whip that pussy right off you, you little tramp!” sneered Portia.  “Not so funny now, is it, slave?”  I was in tears from the pain, shaking my head and desperately trying to plead with my eyes.  Another flick.  She was very good, I’ll say that – with hindsight.  Once more the tip flew between my legs and caught me on the cleft between my buttocks. 

“Uuhh!  Uhh!”  I was crying into the rubber ball, my breath coming in grunts and snorts.   I caught a glimpse of Steven making toward the verandah before he collapsed as Megan felled him with the remote, leaving him curled up in the ground.  Monica was caught unawares by his movement and was pulled on to her side.

“Stupid people,” muttered Portia contemptuously.  “What did they think they were going to do?”

I continued to shake my head and bounce from foot to foot with the terrible pain from my crotch.  The agony continued as she slowly walked to a position behind me.  Six more cracks of the whip saw six evenly spaced strikes on my cheeks, each on making me jerk against my bonds and yowl against the muffling rubber ball. I lost all reason as the blows kept landing, while I bucked and grunted and screamed from the pain.  Portia did the job slowly and calculatingly, with the barest of effort.  She returned to the table and sat down, having not even raised a sweat.

“Megan, be a dear and have a look in the study for me.  See if you can find any of those post-it notes.  You know – the little yellow ones…”

Megan returned a minute or so later.  Tears and drool were streaming down my face and I watched wide-eyed with dread as Portia directed Megan where to place the small postage-sized pieces of paper. 

“Three just above her bush, I think – side by side…  What a shame you’re wearing that corset, Jillian.  We didn’t think that through, did we… I could have had four post-its all around your navel.  But you do look good in it.  A couple of inches off your waist and your boobs poking out more… It was no wonder Madam Wong was so please to have you as a birthday present.  You’re quite delicious.  And no wonder she was upset about the manner of your departure… Yes, one on the underside of each tit, Megan… One on the outside, and one on the nipples…  That will do.  I’ll tell you which one I’m going to go for.  It’s been so long since I had such interesting practice.”

I was going frantic by this stage, shaking my head, pleading with my eyes and mmmphing for all I was worth.

“I’d stay still, little Jillian, if I were you,” Portia cautioned, as one might to a five-year old.  I knew she was right, but I could barely bring myself to do it.  I closed my eyes as she said: “Right tit – outside.”  The was a pause then a swish and s biting pain on the outside of my right breast as the whip impacted with my skin.  I screamed then stood there trembling as the fire burned into my flesh.

It was worse than anything I had been subjected to in Macau – although one’s perceptions of these things tends to be somewhat coloured at the time. 

“Are you thinking about Macau, now, Jillian?”  I nodded desperately.  “A bit late, don’t you reckon?”  More nodding.  “Left bush…” Crack!

“Ughnnnnn!”

“Do you regret what you did to myself and Madam Wong?”

Yesyesyesimsorryimsorryimsorry!  Please don’t hit me again!  Nodding for all I was worth.

“Middle paper above the bush…”  Swish-crack!

“Ohhhhnnnnnnnhhh!”

“Don’t wriggle so much Jill dear – it spoils my aim and you’ll end up taking more shots than necessary.  Right nipple..”  No – no – no -!  I squeezed my eyes shut… Swish-crack!

“Aarghnnnnnn!” Ohgodohgodohgod!

I was shaking like a leaf and close to fainting from the pain.  That was when the chimes rang, indicating somebody was at the front gate.

“Ah,” said Portia.  “That must be Warren and Roger – come to check out the new management style.  I’m so glad the goodwill is here to enable continuity of client base.  And young Jillian here is just what we need as an entree for it, although of course Mary and Trish will be the main course.”

In my pain I had forgotten Mary and Trish.  Guiltily I wondered what horrid torments they had been suffering in the basement, since I had last glimpsed them anchored to the blockwork in the niches under the stairs.

Warren and his pal Roger were frequent customers to Bilboes.  None of us really liked them, but they paid up front, and money was not a problem provided they could do what they liked – within reason.  Here Monica had laid down certain rules, the most significant one being no scarring and limited pain.  Both the men were Doms and Warren had is own live-in slave, Christina, who also visited Bilboes on a regular basis.  She was regularly dealt to by us girls while Warren was dealt to by Monica – or was it the other way around?  Monica had always been secretive about her exact relationship with Warren, handling him with kid gloves except when she let him loose on us – which in itself was infrequent.  We suspected she was putting herself on the line rather than letting Warren have his way with us.  We had learnt a little more about him from Trish and Mary, who had suffered at his inventive hands during the time the others were searching for me and Leila in Macau and Hong Kong.

The two men appeared with Megan.  I suppose you could say Warren was quite good looking, if you like your guys to fall into the super smooth category.  Right then I was so stretched and sore that looks were not high on my priority. Warren had dark wavy hair and a faint scar on his left temple.  He had a short, neatly trimmed moustache and was as always impeccably dressed.  Today he wore black trousers and a black open-necked shirt with a small gold crucifix at his throat, and carried one of those aluminium attaché cases that photographers are so fond of. 

Warren was all elegance and arrogance – he and Mary would have made a good pair, except that probably neither could stand to be upstaged by the other.  By contrast, his mate Roger was heavier set but still tall, wearing a checked shirt and jeans tucked into hand-tooled cowboy boots.  He had reddish hair that was close cropped, and he looked as though he hadn’t shaved for a couple of days.  Roger lacked even Warren’s superficial charm, but his demeanour appeared to brighten at the sight of me standing on my toes, legs spread, and arms above my head.

The men both came on to the verandah as though they owned the place. Portia had evidently met them before, and rose to greet them.  Portia smiled and allowed Warren to kiss her on each cheek.  Roger didn’t get the offer, nor did he appear interested, preferring instead to leer at me as I hung there.

“I hope we’re not interrupting anything,” Warren oozed. 

“Of course not – just a little housekeeping.  Would you gentlemen like a beer?”  Megan had appeared with two cold cans of the local brew, Four-X.  The pair took the proffered cans, and while Roger attacked his with enthusiasm, Warren walked across to where I strained in my ropes and ran the icy can up the inside of one thigh, then the other, before turning to my breasts.  With my arms above me uplifting them, and the corset cinching my waist tightly below, my breasts had never looked better, save for the criss-cross of red weals and dark bruises now decorating them. He ran his hand over my flesh  and followed it with the beer can.  I jerked at the cold metal but could do little to get away from it.  Warren stood in front of me, one hand cupping my left breast in a way that promised bad things to come.  He looked me in the eye and smiled a smile that made me quail.

“Is this the one that caused you all the heartache?” he asked as though I was some sort of inanimate object.  Portia nodded.  “Are these here for the purpose I imagine?” Warren queried cheerfully, pointing at the post-it notes still sticking to my breasts.

“Targets,” said Portia simply.  Roger nodded and picked up the bullwhip.

“Mind if I have a go?”

“We’d be honoured,” said Portia. 

I felt a tremor run through my body.  Monica had in the past alluded to Warren as “Mr Whippy”, and we knew it had nothing to do with ice cream. Warren liked whips and had no little skill with them.  This I found out, as Roger plonked himself in the chair between Portia and Megan and began to work his way through the can of beer, ignoring the glasses placed on the table to at least give an air of gentility.  The three of them settled back with relaxed expressions as though the morning was going to pass slowly and pleasantly, with Warren and I to be the entertainment.

I whimpered in fear as Warren cracked the whip, getting the feel for it  and testing its balance in his hand.  There was a momentary distraction from somewhere out on the lawn beyond my field of vision, and I saw Portia’s red-nailed finger press pointedly on the remote control button for several seconds, followed by a second go a couple of moments later.  There was a stifled cry from outside, then things went silent and I knew Steven was doubled up somewhere, trying to overcome the pain that Portia had just inflicted.

When Warren’s pain came it was faster than Portia’s and – just perhaps – less severe because of that accuracy.  I shrieked around the ball in my mouth as the tip struck like a red hot poker, branding my breasts and pussy as the yellow post-its were flipped from my flesh in a series of rapid strikes.  Then it was all over, and my head sagged as the tears ran down my cheeks and I sniffled in uncontrolled misery. 

There was polite applause from the audience as Warren took his seat and cracked open his beer.  By this time Roger had finished his, and had opened the case his colleague had brought.  I saw that it contained several lift out trays of various devices of a bondage nature – chains, locks, instruments of torture, you name it.  It did nothing to lessen my trembling.  Roger ferreted around for a minute and surfaced with two nipple clips, joined with a short silver chain.  He stood up and approached me, his now-empty beer can in one hand and the clips in the other. I squealed in pain as he clipped the first pair of jaws on to one pussy lip, then the second pair on to the other.  That was when I realised he had threaded the chain through the ring pull of the can, which now swung freely between my legs.  Megan laughed and stood up, heading into the kitchen to return with a small shot glass and a jug of water.

“Maybe a shot every ten minutes,” she said, filling the glass then pouring the contents into the can.  Immediately I felt the weight come on the clips and I choked back a moan by biting down on the rubber ball strapped immovably within my mouth.

“You look lovely, dear,” said Megan.  “A drinking man’s slut.”

“Let’s not forget the main event,” Portia reminded the men.  “Subbies are easy enough, but it’s so much more fun when they have to be broken first.  Don’t you agree?”  The men nodded in agreement. “Down in the dungeon we have Trish and Mary awaiting your pleasure.  I think you can rely on their lack of cooperation – I’m told they get quite upset  at being made to grovel.  But then you already know this, to some extent,” she said, to Warren.

Warren smiled at an evident memory. 

“Yes.  It was while they were chasing you in Macau.  Terrific sport.  Mary was most put out.  Such a fighter.  And Trish was fun as well.  Monica’s absence then was quite a change.  We’ll have some fun all right.”

“Do take your time,” Portia said in an ingratiating tone I had not heard before.  “Tell me what you wish to do with them after you leave.  Think long term.  They are yours to do with as you will, as part of the financial package, as you know.  It will be an interesting test to see just how long it takes to break them.”

I couldn’t believe what I was hearing.  Despite my own pain and suffering, the realisation that the takeover of Bilboes was in fact a long term plan was starting to dawn on me.  Talk of breaking Mary and Trish, and financial packages!  The implications began to dawn on me that this was not just some brief revenge raid.  Portia was at her scheming best, and no doubt Madam Wong had her manipulating finger up Portia’s metaphorical backside and was doing a bit of manipulation of her own. 

Jesus!  What was going to happen to us?

*   *   *

 

 

Monica's Revenge continues in Chapter Seven
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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