Gromet's Plaza Richard Alexander Stories
Monica's Revenge
by Richard Alexander
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© 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: 8. Life On The Chain Gang by Richard Alexander MF/mf; bondage; bdsm; cons/nc; XXX
back to Chapter Seven: The Price of Submission (Trish's Story)
 
Chapter Eight: Life On The Chain Gang
Part One

The pain from the shock up my arse left me curled in a foetal position on the back lawn.  Monica had been pulled off balance by my own fall and tumbled in a heap beside me.  I was gasping from what seemed like the worst case of diarrhoeic cramps I had ever had in my life, turning my insides to jelly. 

I slowly sat up and through a blur of tears became aware of Megan looking down at me from the verandah.   She said nothing, but waved her upturned finger and shook her head.  The message was clear.  Don't even think about trying to help Jill.  We all had our crosses to bear, Megan's expression told me.  Unlike the others, she did not seem to find the situation amusing.  I caught her eye and she seemed to say mind your own business or things will get much worse for everybody.  I looked at Jill's tautly stretched body hanging from the beam behind Megan and knew, hopelessly, that there was nothing I could do if I didn't want to end up totally messed up by the terrible device locked inside me.

Monica the Duck was squatting beside me, nuzzling me and making pathetic un-duck like grunting noises of concern.  It would have been hugely funny had I not felt so debilitated by what had just happened. I leaned on her momentarily to steady myself before staggering back to where I had begun to did a trench for the cable.  Behind me I heard the sound of laughter from Warren, Roger and Portia.  There were further cracks of the whip and muffled screams from Jill which I struggled to ignore.  Then the two men went inside and things grew quiet on the verandah.

Megan returned to the verandah and unlocked Monica's neck chain,  hauling her down the steps and positioning her under the overhead wire I had just erected.  At it's lowest point Megan could just reach it with her hand by standing on her tiptoes, and tossed one end of the chain over the wire.  Grasping the two loose ends of chain, she lifted Monica's chin and locked the chain to the ringbolt protruding from the ball in Monica's mouth before stepping back to admire her handiwork. 

It was a simple but quite stringent position.  Monica's neck would soon begin to ache as she fought the upward pull.  Portia, who had just appeared again, was delighted.

'this is good, Megan.  A nice little piece of improvisation.'  The bull whip was still on the verandah from the previous day and my stomach went cold as I saw the Chinese girl pick it up and descend to the lawn near Monica.  Monica looked wild-eyed at the figure in red advancing on her, and began to back away.  She slid the chain a few metres along the wire before the wire became just too high for her to go any further.  She tried to crouch, to make her body a smaller target, but that was impossible.

Portia let fly with the whip.  The tip zinged through the air with a fearful noise and hit the ground just beside Monica's foot.  She jumped, and the wire twanged.  Portia cracked it again, this time the tip flew beside Monica's other side.  Portia was now standing about three metres away from the mid-point of the wire, directing her shots either side of her helpless prisoner, making her run back and forth, chin pulled up, straining to keep her distance from the awful strike of the whip.  Monica didn't know whether to turn her back on Portia, and thus not see where she was aiming, or to face her tormentor and expose her vulnerable breasts and pussy to the flying thong.

Portia was good with the whip.  She grazed Monica a couple of times, but it was the fear factor as much as anything that kept her on the move.  Portia's white teeth were exposed in a smile of pure pleasure as Monica, arms bound high behind her, danced to the ring mistress's tune on the back lawn.   Megan, too, was watching with amusement, while I, momentarily fearful at the sight of the whip, pretended to get on with my trench digging, now believing that at this stage Portia merely wanted amusement rather than punishment.

I glimpsed Emma come out of the kitchen with a tray.

"Coffee!"  Megan called. Portia fired off one more flick then walked across to where Monica stood trembling and wild-eyed.  Portia let her hand stray to where the ropes were embedded in Monica's crotch.

'did that get things going down there?' she asked.  "If you can get yourself off now, Monica, good luck to you."  Something told me the moment for that had passed.

It was more like an hour before the poles arrived.  I had made more progress with the trench, down the west side of the house past the workshop, watched over by Megan who had positioned a director's chair on the balcony to supervise.  Monica had remained head up and chained to the wire, while Jillian, still strapped into a ball, was serving as a footstool to Portia.

The poles were of hardwood, and damned heavy.  It appeared that Monica and I were to be the beasts of burden in carting them from the gate to the back of the house.  I wondered whether Megan had had them dropped at the front gate specifically to give us this exercise, or whether it was simply to keep prying eyes away.

Whatever the reason, I found my steel collar connected by a two-metre chain to the driveway wire. Two minutes later Monica was unlocked from the aerial wire and joined me with the same secure linkage. 

"You two are going to bring the poles here," Megan explained.  "I will mark the locations they are to go with sticks in the ground. Steven, you will have Monica to help you with this, because I don't want you straining a muscle.  But neither of you is expected to have it easy, so Monica's help will be limited – limited to however you can utilise her, that is." 

I wondered what she meant by this but found out soon enough as she disappeared into the house and returned with a discipline helmet.  Monica rolled her eyes at me.  It was to be the last I would see of them for the rest of the day.  The helmet was identical in style to the white one Jillian was wearing, except that this one was black.  I waited while Megan removed the ball gag, replacing it with a soft spongy ball without a strap.  It was like one of those stress relief sponge balls that so-called stressed executives have on their desks, with the little smiley face

Monica had no chance to protest, complain, even utter a word, as the solid rubber ball gag was replaced by the squishy one.  It allowed her to close her mouth fully, while still making it difficult to let any utterances find their way out.  Most commonly the girls used it in conjunction with duct tape or, as in this case, a discipline helmet.  Megan lid it on over Monica's head, pulling her sweat-matted hair out of the way and beginning the process of tightening the laces down the back.  She checked that the nostril holes were properly positioned halfway through the process before doing a final tightening and tying off at the back of Monica's neck, where the raven hair protruded several inches below the edge of the leather, hiding most of the shiny steel collar below that.

Megan locked a chinstrap and neck strap in place with small padlocks, then began to untie Monica's wrists from the hammerlock behind her back.  It took some minutes to undo the complicated web of cords, and when her wrists finally came free, the hooded figure gave a low moan of relief and massaged the red marks  gouged into her flesh.  The cords remained in place over Monica's shoulders leading down through her legs and up her back, where they knotted and encircled her waist.  It seemed these ropes were to stay there, for the loose tails from the wrist ties were wrapped around her torso and looped through the vertical ones in front, to produce a diamond pattern before being tied off.  They did nothing significant in the way of specific restraint, but no doubt would give Monica a fair dose of stimulation where they remained embedded in her crotch.
"Hands out front!" Megan ordered.  Monica obeyed, and Megan locked two heavy leather wrist cuffs in place, connecting them with a short length of chain.

"I really hope you're a good communicator, Steven," Megan said.  "How much use your friend is to you will depend on what you tell her to do and how well you explain things.  Portia wanted to gag you as well.  That really would have made things interesting, but it would also have made it unsafe, so I have refrained from that.  Somebody has to keep a balance around her, but you didn't hear that from me."

'thank you, Mistress," I said, meaning it.  She ignored my comment.

"Well?  Go on, the pair of you.  Get moving, or Portia will be after you with the whip!"

*   *   *

It took us nearly two hours to carry the eight poles and over a dozen forty-kilo bags of dry-mixed rapid set concrete from the driveway entrance to the rear of the house.  In enforcing Monica's silence not only was Megan making the carrying exercise much more difficult for me, but she was also limiting our general communication.  I could not gauge Monica's reaction to my thoughts, nor could I receive her own ideas.  While Portia had the big plan – whatever that might be – Megan had the eye for detail and the canny knowledge of how to control her slaves and to limit communication between them.  She was aware that within our holding cells we could be eavesdropped on, unlike in the open air, and this was the first time Monica and I had been out of earshot of Portia and herself.  Maybe that was the real reason Portia had wanted me gagged, but Megan had at least seen reason in practical terms.

I had speculated on Megan's role.  As best I could guess, she was being offered some sort of deal in running Bilboes as an extension to her existing establishment.  Obviously she was benefiting already in having lured Monica's customers away from her by threats, intimidation or whatever Portia had masterminded.  I suspected Megan might just be having second thoughts about the whole thing, however, given the greater understanding she had now had of Portia and her obsessions.  For that matter, Megan had had more to do with Portia than I had, save for what Jillian had told us had transpired in Macau, and I suspect Jill had left some things unsaid which may have been just too painful or too embarrassing.  How far would Megan go along with the plan?  What effect would Madam Wong have on her actions when she arrived?  What could we expect in the way of punishment from Madam Wong? 

I had a sneaking suspicion that our punishment had only just begun, and that the very work we were now doing was leading up to something nasty.  All these thoughts I voiced to Monica as we slowly traipsed up and down the driveway.  Monica could only make muffled grunts, and I don't think she could hear too well, either.  These points, plus the fact that I had to be constantly telling her to 'move more to the left', 'stop here' or 'bend down and pick up the pole in front of you', meant that there was a limited facility for strategic planning. 

The difficulty was that there was little pattern in our treatment to date.  We had been split up and assigned different tasks in different places.  From our perspective, Monica and I could only rely on each other, and even then we were so effectively controlled and restrained that there was little opportunity for one of us to get the jump on our captors, never mind both at the same time.  I was worried with the impending arrival of Madam Wong in that firstly life would get tougher for us, and secondly there would be another person to overcome should we have an opportunity.  In short, from my point of view, it seemed that unless one of the others could spring a surprise, it would most likely be up to me to do something, with only a slim possibility of help from Monica, who had always been chained up – if not restrained elsewhere - in the brief instances when an opportunity might have presented itself to me.  I still believed such an opportunity would come – in time.  But how long we could survive like this, and what Madam Wong's plans were for us remained high on my list of ticking time bombs.  And above all was the unpleasant thought of what would befall us all in the event of a failed coup.

By the time we had returned to the gate for the fifth pole, we were getting the hang of things.  We had discovered that in putting the two turns of wire around the tree trunk near the house, every time we reached that point we had to go round the tree and duck under the incoming cable twice, before continuing on our way.  While carrying a pole, it meant we had to put it down, do the double circumnavigation, climb under the wire we had just come down, then pick up the pole and proceed again.  In carrying the pole, I took the lead.  On the return journey, I walked behind Monica with my hands on her shoulders, steering her.

We were both sweating heavily under the late summer sun as we reached the gate once more.  I helped Monica to sit down on a large rock.

"How're you doing?" I asked.  She made a non-committal grunt.  Surviving.  "How are those ropes?" I queried, reaching over and slipping my hand through the cords leading down into her pussy.  She made a protesting noise and blindly tried to slap me away. 

'that's all right for you to say.  Some of us here haven't even been able to get worked up, despite all manner of things that have been done to them.  Do you understand me?'  There was a nod – reluctant, glum, regretful, or all of the above.  "On the other hand," I continued, "others amongst us – who shall remain nameless, except that they're not speaking at the moment – managed to make a total exhibition of themselves in getting their rocks off yesterday.  Know anyone like that?"  Another nod.  "I would have thought that, with the offer of a friendly helping hand and a moment's quiet time to assuage those urges no doubt being stimulated by those ropes, that a sensible person would accept what was graciously offered.

Monica reached out her chained hands and laid them on my shoulder, moving them round until she held my face, at which point she pressed her own leather-covered face against mine, in her best attempt at what I presumed was a kiss.  She laid her head on my shoulder and allowed me to slip my hand down her abdomen under the rope.  I helped her on to the ground, allowing her to lie flat and ease any constrictions that might have developed in the cords.  They were greasy and wet where they split her labia, and I knew that was not all due to the sunscreen.  Leila had got Mon wound up this morning and she had not really got over it, despite the episode with the whip.  The walking up and down the drive had made things sensitive and receptive in her crotch and it did not take much to stoke the fire to where Leila had left it. 

Monica tried to help but I just got frustrated with her impeding me so I hooked her chained wrists behind her head and made her keep them there while my fingers slid under the ropes and into her wet passage.  She began to moan under the hood and drew up her knees.  I let thumb explore her clit, which had become swollen and responsive from the ropes, and soon she was tugging hard on the wrist chain as the warm fuzzies began to build inside her.  My other hand toyed with the nipple rings, making her squeal behind the leather and mouth packing.  I tugged them gently and the moaning went up in pitch. Her nips were rock hard around the barbells and rings – I had never known them to provoke such a reaction. A shudder ran through her body and her breathing began to speed up.  I watched her breasts rising and falling faster while continuing to work on her pussy.  She began to moan in time with her breathing, seeming to struggle to do both, then abruptly crashing into an orgasm that make her roll onto her side and draw up her knees.

She was making "Uh! Uh! Uh!" grunts as the climax swept over her and her body jerked and bucked.  The grunts became more drawn out and turned to groans that slowly subsided as she lay against me.  I could feel the trembling in her legs as she curled up into a foetal position and the movement of her breasts slowly settled down.

"You owe me one, Miss," I told her.  'the meter is ticking until this thing comes off my friend.'  I let her hand rest on the inert Mr Willy. 

"Uhrrrmm," she agreed at last, with a faint nod of her head. "Uh-huh."

*  *   *

When the last bags of concrete had been delivered, using a wheel barrow in this instance, the chains tethering us to the driveway wire were unlocked, but instead of being released entirely, they were locked together, leaving us joined at the collars  by a four-metre chain. 

The poles were to be set out in a semi circle around the pillory, which was still incomplete.  I did not like the set out - it smacked of druids and sacrifices and witch-burning.  Monica had the easy part of the work from then on.  She had merely to sit by while I bored the holes with a hand auger, a tedious performance that I interspersed with mixing the concrete and placing the poles.  Before erecting the poles Morag had instructed that four eyebolts be screwed into the tops of them, at quarter points around the edge.  The possibilities for these did nothing to remove my sense of foreboding, nor did a further requirement for a heavy-duty cleat at waist height on the back of each post.

Monica got to turn the hose off and on, helped me with lifting the posts into the holes, and then holding them straight while I shovelled the wet concrete around them.  Lunchtime came and went.  Megan told us we would be fed when the job was done.  In the meantime I contented myself with drinking from the hose and hosing Monica down to her utter annoyance and frustration.  She tried to do the same to me, but couldn't seem to get the direction right.

Finally we were complete.  Monica was taken inside the house – presumably to be fed, while Emma brought me some sandwiches on the back steps.  I had almost got used to being naked at this stage, although I doubted I would ever get used to the plug up my bum and the heaviness and lack of feeling that currently marked the presence of Mr Willy. 

My plight was nothing compared to that of poor Jillian, though.  While Monica and I had been erecting the posts, Portia had tied a cinching rope through the wide belt anchoring Jill's knees to her chest, then had hung the rope on the hook of the overhead pulley and had hauled Jill into a suspended position.  With her centre of gravity being what it was, poor Jill was now leaning slightly backwards, although only a matter of inches above the floor. 

Emma sat with me while I devoured the food.  She looked lovely, clad in the black rubber corset which pushed her breasts up and squeezed her waist in.  Clearly she was not there to keep me company, but to see if there was any way in which she could lend at least moral support for the suffering Jillian was undergoing.  Emma rested on her high heels, squatting on the deck between me and Jill, her cuffed and chained hands gently touching the leather-encased head as it swayed in the breeze.

"Aren't you hot in those?" I asked, pointing to the black latex stockings and gloves that reached nearly to her armpits and trying to divert her attention from Jill.  She nodded. We were sitting in the shade but it was still warmer than it would have been inside, where the air conditioning was running.  She turned her big black eyes on me.  Black was Emma's colour – her hair, her eyes, her clothes, and today, the rubber ball and the strap trapping it in her mouth.  Her pale skin and white teeth made a startling contrast to her outfit.  Her eyes flicked from me to Jill and a tear rolled down her cheek. 

Nobody else was on the verandah at that moment.  Megan had chained my collar to the post again while she was occupied within the house.  I gave Emma a brief hug.

'don't worry,' I lied.  'monica and I are working on a plan.  We'll soon have things sorted out.  We'll get you out of all this – you too, Jill.'  There was a faint moan from under the leather helmet and a creak from the taut ropes and straps holding her body immobile.

"Emmah!" came Portia's voice from inside, followed by a torrent of Cantonese.  Emma brushed her tears aside and jumped to her feet, hurrying into the kitchen, and I was left alone with Jill.  I cradled her head briefly in my hands, hearing footsteps coming nearer inside.  For some reason I kissed the taut leather stretched across her forehead, then stood to return to the steps.

It was Megan.  She unlocked my chain and told me to return to finish off the pillory.   I did not see Monica again that day and finished the pillory on my own, under the watchful gaze of Megan.  The only other event that interrupted the afternoon was the appearance of two men with Portia, about an hour later.  They were well-dressed and came out briefly on to the verandah.  Jillian's suspended form evidently appealed to them and they took their time inspecting her and giving her a few gentle swings, which prompted muffled cries from under the helmet.  Portia let her down at this point, and untied both the cinch rope and the wide strap.  I could hear Jillian's groans as her painfully bound body unfolded into a loose hogtie, for the ring on her sleeve was still attached to her ankle straps.  I could not conceive of being that tightly bound for so long.  I knew the girls were flexible, and could have their elbows touch without too much strain – something that I could barely manage -  but to have it done for such a time worried me.  Monica had once told me that the laced up sleeve spread the load and allowed better blood circulation, but I would still not have wished anything like that on anyone. Jill was moaning as the blood returned to her bent limbs. 

The two men asked permission to untie the rope from the sleeve ring, and Portia nodded.  With this undone, they sat her against the wall of the house and inspected her as prospective buyers might do with a horse.  Her breasts looked good in the corset, pushed up as they were.  Not in Emma's league, of course, but attractive, none the less.  They prodded them and tweaked the nipples.  Jill seemed to exhausted to resist.

Eventually the pair stood up and spoke some more with Portia, who pointed out various aspects of the back yard, me included, and then took them back inside.  I had a fair idea that these were the guys from the Brisbane Hellfire Club that Portia had mentioned earlier.  The Hellfire Club was an S/M club where like-minded people met and exchanged more than just business cards, and I understood there were more than a few opportunities to try whatever S/M kink it was that turned you on, given that the place evidently had its own stocks, St Andrew's cross and various other devices of restraint and torture.  In many ways it was a quite remarkable establishment, given that Queensland had been the last state in Australia, according to many, to enter the twentieth century in terms of a liberal outlook.

The two men were obviously Doms, come to explore the possibilities of Bilboes and the potential of the two newest subs, Mary and Trish, imprisoned in the dungeon in who knew what circumstances.  Portia was wasting no time in building up that side of the business.  I caught Megan's eye and she impatiently motioned me to get on with my work, waving the remote control in ominous fashion.

I did as I was told, fashioning two heavy Cyprus planks of six by two such that they sat neatly on top of one another, then cutting out the holes for the neck and two wrists, to the appropriate size suggested by the Bilboes Book of Measurements.  It was a similar pillory to that in the dungeon, but rather than hinging at one end, this one slid up and down to locations that could be fixed by bolts through a series of holes in the post at each end.  However, once the lower plank was fixed in place, the there was a danger that the upper one – which had to be raised directly upwards – could drop unexpectedly.  I solved this problem with a counterweight at each end running over a pulley.  I made the counter weights from plastic juice bottles filled with water, to get the adjustment exactly right. 

The final touch was to file the edges of the slightly oversize holes and line them with heavy duty padding covered with leather.  I knew from experience that a pillory – like any form of rigid restraint – was very unforgiving.  Necks and wrists became extremely uncomfortable, as did backs and legs as a consequence of keeping one's upper parts totally still.  A two-inch think plank was about as extreme as you could get.

Megan was quite impressed when I had finished with it. She made me try it out – why was I not surprised – at varying heights.  I made sure she understood that once the two planks were locked together, it was not meant to be adjusted with the prisoner in place.  That would be a good way to promote a broken neck.  All in all it was tolerable – at least for the short time I was held in its jaws.  That was when Megan told me she wanted a further pair of wrist holes, outside the existing ones, presumably to give a wider spread option for restraint. 

Daylight was fading when I completed this last requirement, and I was again not surprised to find myself testing it.  It was more of a strain with your wrists held further apart, for because of the thickness of the planks, it was necessary to keep your arms at right angles to the timber, which meant keeping elbows high and out from the body.

I shouldn't have been surprised when Megan dropped down the two hasps and clicked the padlocks closed, locking the top plank to the bottom one, then walked away.  I was bent over at the waist – a decidedly worse position than if the holes had been positioned higher, or even at kneeling height.  My legs were – of necessity – spread, without the need for a spreader bar.  I felt vulnerable and helpless.  Did I call out to be released? How long was the appropriate time to endure this in silence, before reminding Megan of my presence?  What was the correct etiquette under such circumstances?

I could not raise my head sufficiently to see the verandah, such was the snugness of the fit.  I am not saying I have a big neck, but it  was bigger than the girls', should they have occasion to use the device, and something told me this would be the case.

I waited perhaps fifteen minutes, before calling out 'mistress?' a couple of times.  I heard footsteps on the deck then the sound of heels coming down the steps.  My heart sank when the red sandals came into my field of vision.

"Was that you making all that noise?" came the rhetorical question.

"I was only – "

'shut up, slave!  How dare you interrupt your mistress when she's having her dinner!  You will remain here until you are released, which may be tomorrow morning if you carry on like this.  Would you like to stay here all night?'  There was no doubting in Portia's tone that it would be of no consequence to her to do just this.

"No Mistress."

"As Mistress Megan put you here, I will not interfere with her plans.  I will, however, shut you up in the meantime, just so we can eat in peace."

"I'm sorry Mistr – urgh!"

"Open wide – don't fight me, dammit, or I'll whip your arse!  There."  The rubber ball was wedged behind my teeth and the strap buckled unnecessarily tight behind my head, in Portia's usual uncompromising style.  That was me taken care of until further notice.  I guess I now knew the appropriate length of time to leave things until calling out – all night if necessary.

I stared at the ground, and was able to make out little within my field of vision by the lights of the verandah.  I presumed Jillian was still bound and gagged on the deck where she had been propped up with the arrival of the two customers.  I had neither heard nor seen any signs of her relocation.  I wondered where Monica was, and what was being done to Trish and Mary.  I presumed that everyone had been fed in their cells this morning, for nobody – other than myself – had received food on the verandah.  I guessed Leila and Emma were waiting on the two Mistresses at that moment.  Just as I was, but in a different sense.

Probably another hour passed before Emma's high heels and black stockings appeared in front of my eyes.  The gag strap was undone and the ball was pulled from my mouth, while something like a large milkshake with a straw was presented for my inspection.  Emma grunted something unintelligible, and I found myself drinking a delicious fruit smoothie as Emma squatted in front of me.  Predictably, she was still gagged, and her jaw must be aching like anything, I thought, as I sucked greedily and gazed at her divine breasts positioned immediately in my line of sight. 

We had various sizes of ball gags in our store.  Some were more extreme and mouth-filling that others.  Some had slivers off them that allowed them to fit more naturally in the mouth.  Some were hard and some were soft.  With the right selection, I knew a twelve-hour shift was possible, albeit uncomfortable.  With the wrong selection, the discomfort increased markedly, although of course there was nothing one could do about it.  Safewords were evidently not now relevant as far as the staff of Bilboes was concerned.  Megan and Portia were no doubt working on the premise that we were all professionals and should be able to handle anything within reason that came our way.  However it all depended on whose reasoning we were talking about, and I suspected that some of the voices in Portia's head were a couple of sandwiches short of a picnic.

After Emma left with the empty container, it was another half hour before Megan appeared, presumably having enjoyed dessert and a fag afterwards, if that was her want.  Whatever the reason, my back and neck were aching.  Emma had apparently been told to put back the gag but at least she had not made it as tight as before.

I pulled my head out from the holes with a groan as Megan raised the upper plank. 

"Come," she said, turning and heading back up the stairs.  I followed, massaging my stiff neck and wrists as I walked.  I had been correct – Jillian was still sitting propped against the wall.  For the second time in two days I was instructed to carry her downstairs to her cell in the Sluice Room.  She made little whimpering noises as I picked her up and the white leather of her hood rested on my shoulder. 

She was the only one there in the Sluice Room as I laid her on the mattress.

"You will chain her collar to the wall," Megan ordered, 'then you will undo the restraints.'

There were three chains locked to a ring at the base of the wall, all about three metres long – long enough to reach the toilet, and washbasin I thought.  I locked one end of the chain to Jill's shiny steel collar with the padlock Megan tossed down beside me, then rolled Jill on her side while I undid the buckles at her neck and chin, then began on the laces at the back of the hood.  They were devilishly tight and I had to pull half of them clear of the eyelets before I could work the hood off her head.  The blonde, collar-length hair beneath was slick with sweat and Jill's eyes were closed.  I saw her mouth had been taped over with a number of pieces of duct tape, which I peeled away gently. 

She groaned softly but her eyes remained closed as I eased her over on to her stomach.  Undoing the white sheath pinioning her arms was even harder, for what with the constant strain and the sweating that had taken place, the leather had stretched somewhat around her elbows and the laces had become tighter.  When I finally peeled the leather away, the flesh on Jill's arms was deeply indented from the folds and eyelets and laces. 

Even after the removal of the sleeve, Jill's wrists remained strapped together, as did her ankles.  When I finally undid these she remained immobile, breathing shallowly and clearly exhausted.  I was about to undo the crotch strap, which I knew held in an anal plug or vibrator when Megan stopped me with an imperious wave of her finger.

'that's enough!  Hold out your wrists!'

Megan took the strap that had until then secured Jill's wrists and buckled it around my own, before hooking the strap over the shower pulley hook and hauling my arms above my head.  Shawnee appeared shortly after wards to give me a thorough scrubbing down then towelled me dry, and I was ordered back to my cell while Jill slowly showed more signs of life on the mattress.  At one point she had made as though to talk to me, then had realised Megan was still there and had decided better of the idea.

I was shoved into my cell to find a tray of food on the floor and Monica chained to the wall and in a severe hogtie on the bed.  Her right wrist had been bound to her right ankle, and her left wrist to the left ankle before her ankles had been tied together.  She still wore the black leather discipline helmet Megan had laced on her that afternoon, so I could only assume she had been in that state for several hours.  Her whole body was trembling from the strain of being bent like a bow.  Under the leather hood I could hear a faint keening sound as Megan locked a wall chain to my collar then slammed the door closed behind me.

I managed to get my gag strap undone, reaching behind my head with my bound wrists, then undid the wrist strap with my teeth.  Only then could I untie Monica to the point where she lay drained on the bed while I removed the discipline helmet and extracted the wet squishy ball from her mouth.  She looked at me with glazed, exhausted eyes.

"Hi Mon,"  I said. "How was your day?"

The trench was only a shallow one, barely below the top thickness of turf.  Every so often I sneaked a glance up at the figures on the verandah.  Portia was sitting at the table working at a laptop computer, while Megan was reading the paper.  Jillian, of course, could do nothing but remain captive, her blue-and-white corseted figure stretched upward, her legs braced apart by the spreader bar.  The blonde head of hair hung forward.  From my position behind her, I could see the gag strap buckled securely over the hair at the back of her neck.  I tried to put the picture out of my mind and concentrate on cutting a neat line of turf slivers across the back lawn, while Monica hopped dispiritedly alongside me. 

It was a warm morning and I soon found myself sweating.  I could imagine how steamed up Monica would be getting under the rubber hood and the pvc coat.  As the work progressed she was able to get into the shade of a large tree fern while I continued digging in the sun.

Perhaps an hour later Megan appeared with Leila in tow.  Megan was the image of the dominatrix on holiday – tight white tee shirt, and cut-off jeans, but evidently unable to leave the job behind, and so was wearing a pair of white knee-length boots.  In fact she looked more like a hooker, but I wasn't about to say so.  By contrast, Leila still looked yummy in her black satin corset, black stockings and high heels.  The outfit was accessorised with the black ball gag and strap buckled over the blonde hair, and the black leather cuffs locked at ankle and wrist.  Black was definitely in, with the final touch being the heavy black collar at her throat and of course the stainless belt and crotch strap. Her wrist cuffs were locked together and she wore a short hobble chain between the ankle cuffs.  In her hands she bore a silver tray with two plastic bottles of water and a squeeze bottle of suntan lotion.

"You may take ten minutes break," said Megan.  'there's been a change of plan.  Portia wants some other things done as a priority.  But first we'll let you have a drink and some lunch.  Leila – the roll and water to Steven.'  Leila held the tray in front of me and I took one of the bottles of water and the salad roll, trying not to look into her eyes, big and sad over the gag.  Megan meanwhile had removed Monica's duck mask and her gag. 

'leila – come here.  You can let the duck drink.' 

Monica said nothing, exercising her jaw briefly before Leila, squatting down, held the top to Monica's lips and allowed her to drink deeply.  Obviously ducks did not eat as regularly as humans and I did not deem it wise to suggest such.  When I had finished the roll, Megan turned to me and ordered me to get undressed.

"What?" I asked, non-plussed by the turn of events.

"You heard!" she snapped.  'don't make me tell you again!' she said, letting her hand hover over the remote in the pocket of her shorts.  I did not need any further incentive. Two minutes later I was standing in my birthday suit.  "You can put your boots on again," she told me, and I laced my work boots up wondering what was going on.

"Portia likes to look at a naked man working," Megan explained. "Especially one with his dick under control and his arse available at the touch of a button.  And just to show you what considerate people we are,  we will make sure you do not burn in the sun.  Leila will rub you down with suntan lotion.  Leila – the duck's been watered enough.  Make sure no part of Steven can get sunburnt."

Megan forced the gag back into Monica's mouth and buckled it in place, pulling the duck mask down over her face, while Leila dropped to her knees and commenced to rub the lotion over my legs and through my crotch.  Her wrists were still cuffed, so her movements were limited, but she still managed to reach every part.  Her fingers slipped under the steel belt and crotch wire, making the whole assembly smooth and slippery.  As she did the job around Mr Willy, alas still drooping within his acrylic prison, I reflected that at any other time both of us would have found this process very pleasant, if not quite erotic, and who knew where it might have led.  Leila looked up at me from her supplicatory position and I thought I even detected what could have passed for a smile behind the rubber ball.  There was a momentary mischievous sparkle in her eyes then she turned her attention to where her fingers were sliding smoothly between my legs.

"Enough of that!" Megan said sharply.  "Behave, Leila, you slut.  Steven, lie down on your face and let her do your back."  I did as I was told, wondering why Leila could not simply have stood up to do it.  Megan used my prostrate position to unlock the chain from my ankle, however,  then remove my discarded shorts before rechaining me to Monica.  I was left in no doubt as to her professionalism.  I was not going to get the drop on her easily.  Like a good jailor she always held an element of restraint in reserve before releasing a limb.

Leila spread the suntan lotion over my back and shoulders then I was allowed to sit up for the front portion.  I had ceased to be embarrassed with this sort of exposure.  I had received worse at the hands of the girls, and compared to what Monica and Jillian were undergoing my trials were nothing.  Leila did the final smearing over my face in an almost tender manner, as though she wanted to kiss me.  Had it not been for the black ball strapped behind her white teeth I might have taken her up on the thought, if her lead up had been indicative of her thoughts. 

I became conscious of Megan behind me, out of my direct line of vision.

'don't worry,' I mouthed to Leila.  "We'll get through this."  It was all I could think to say.  Her eyes seemed to sparkle again for a moment, then a tear rolled down one cheek and she turned away to retrieve the tray and bottles with greasy hands that could hardly hold them.

"Go back and resume your duties," Megan told her.  "You two, come with me."

I followed Megan the twenty metres to the steps at the back of the house, conscious of Monica straining to keep up in her muscle-stretching waddle with the flippers.  Here, near to the verandah steps the grass sloped slightly upwards away from the house, past the swimming pool towards the sleeping quarters we used to occupy, in pre-Portia days.  The lady of that name was sitting at the table still, her lap top open in front of her.  When we appeared, she stopped and pushed up her sunglasses on to her forehead, scrutinising me long and hard and smiling at me in a decidedly predatory manner, before returning to her computer.  Five metres along the verandah Jillian still stood, feet stretched wide, standing on tiptoes, wrists drawn up to the overhead beam.  She did not look up at the sound of our voices.

"We want a pillory here," said Megan, drawing my attention back to the reason I was  there.  She stamped the high heel of her right boot into the grass and swivelled on it in two places.  It left two holes in the earth about a metre and a half apart.  "Posts this high," she added, pointing to my neck.  "Have you got the timber for this?"

"I think so, Mistress.  I keep a supply under the balcony."

'show me,' she ordered. 

I led the way to the eastern side of the house where I had made some racks under the verandah, which at this point was about chest high to a person standing on the ground.  Here I stored all my surplus timber.  It was out of the weather and handy for whenever it was needed, and with Monica this could often be at a moment's notice.  I looked at what I had in store, and decided there was ample for the job.  I had some leftover cyprus planking from a deck extension which would do the job.  Cyprus was the best stuff I had found to counter the termite problem that could be a nightmare for homes in Queensland.

"I'll need my tools, Mistress," I said.

There followed another walk to the converted garage that served as my workshop.  I was beginning to wonder if the whole thing wasn't a simple ruse to get Monica all worked up.  She must have been getting hot enough with the latex pants and pvc coat, but the constant waddling must have been making the dildos ooze in and out against the bungy straps holding them in place.  I could only see her eyes through the mask, and I had little enough chance to study them. 

I took down the key from above the door of the workshop and led the way inside.  Mentally trying to list everything I might need for the project, I selected my tools and materials and loaded them into a wheelbarrow, slinging a folding sawhorse on top.  I was about to leave when there was an exclamation from Megan.

'steven!  Your duck is trying to disgrace itself.'  MY duck?  Why was it mine?  I realised that Monica had not entered the workshop.  I had assumed she was simply trying not to clutter up the place, and the chain linked to my ankle was long enough to make it unnecessary.  She was outside the door, and I emerged to find her squatting astride a small log that had once been destined to be used in a fence through the bush.  My thoughts about her frustration had been on the mark, for Monica was clearly trying to bring herself to a climax.

Megan seemed highly amused by it all, standing watching with her arms crossed.  Before I could move, she closed the door of the shed and locked it, trapping me inside while leaving the chain trailing out underneath the door.  Then she was squatting in front of Monica, while I was only able to watch through the window.  Monica had frozen, not knowing what the reaction was going to be.  For perhaps half a minute Megan stared at her, then smiled without rancour. 

"All right, duck.  If that's what you want.  Portia needn't know everything that goes on here."  Megan stretched out her hand and gave Monica a shove sideways.  With a muffled grunt Monica rolled off the log, her flippers in the air. Megan was on her at once, pinning her on her back and keeping her legs apart with her knees.  Megan had direct access to the twin invaders buried in Monica through the slit in the crotch of the latex pants. 

I was positioned facing Megan with Monica's head towards me.  Her bent arms banged uselessly on the ground and she could do nothing as Megan began to play with the objects held in place by the bungy cords.  I was looking at another example of Megan's professionalism here, too, as she strung out Monica with a series of teasing moves that had Monica grunting and flapping in desperation.  Her legs began to pedal like a bicycle and I could hear Megan laughing softly, as one does when one rubs a dog in just the right place to get their hind leg scratching.  Finally she grew tired of the game and let nature take its course, bringing her helpless victim to a bucking, shuddering climax that left her lying prone on her side, shuddering and twitching from her exertions.

The door was then unlocked and Megan appeared with a sly smile. 

"Fuck a duck!  That was fun.  I could almost fancy you now, were it not for the angle of your dangle," she said, flipping the acrylic sheath housing Mr Willy.  I could almost fancy you, too, I thought, recalling that I'd already had the pleasure.  "Get your stuff," she commanded abruptly.  'there's work to be done.  I don't have all day for this.'

*  *  *

The rest of the afternoon passed quite quickly, as it always does when you have a job that is your focus.  I dug the two holes for the pillory posts and made the posts by bolting a six by one each side of a four by two, (using the old measurements that some of us can't get away from).  By keeping one side flush I created a vertical channel that the horizontal planks could slide up and down in.  I had poured the last of the concrete around the posts just as the sun began to set.

My work had been watched by Portia for some of the time while she had a late lunch with Warren, Roger and Megan, being waited on by Leila and Emma.  Monica and Jillian got nothing, nor were their bonds eased until I had finished my own work.  The two men had left in mid-afternoon and Portia, too, disappeared for a time.  Our area at the back of the house fell into shadow and I worked on in the cool, watched intermittently by Megan from the verandah as she sat in a chair and read a book.

As dusk fell, Megan summoned me to the balcony.  Shawnee was already standing there, clad mostly in rubber, complete with hood and gag and long hobble skirt.  Megan attached Monica's chain to a post and ordered me to release Jill from her terrible position.  With the spreader bar removed and the suspending rope undone, Jill could barely stand and collapsed into my arms. At Megan's direction, and preceded by Shawnee, I carried Jillian down into the basement, her bruised and wealed breasts rubbing against my bare skin.  In the Sluice Room I laid her on a double foam mattress that was a new piece of furniture.  I guessed this was where Jill, Leila and Emma were now spending their nights.  Here I was directed to chain Jill by her collar to the wall and remove her gag.  She coughed and whimpered from the pain in her jaw, and gazed up at me with obvious gratitude, but said nothing. 

"All right – enough of that," said Megan, interrupting my attempt to establish how badly hurt she was.  "You need a shower, Mister," said Megan, tossing a pair of handcuffs at me.  Put these on behind your back – and be quick about it!"  Her hand strayed to where the remote protruded from her pocket.  I did as I was told.  Megan was too smart to get close enough to allow me to snatch it.  Hence I ended up handcuffing myself into submission. 

At Megan's command, Shawnee approached and hesitantly carried out directions, unlocking the belt at my waist and removing the butt plug.  Then she removed the two plasters covering my nipples and new jewellery.  Shawnee was evidently the wash girl, for she proceeded to give me a good soaping and scrubbing, exhorted by Megan to pay particular attention to my new nipple adornment.  These appeared to be healing well, with just a smidgen of dried crusty stuff evident. 

With this done, I was rubbed dry by Shawnee, who was then directed to kneel facing the corner, her black rubber outfit glistening wet.  Megan came across to where I stood.  My skin was bruised and red in places from the previous day's beatings, but Megan did not appear perturbed by this.  I was sure she had seen worse in her time.   She reached into the pocket of her shorts and pulled out two tiny objects.  As she stood in front of me I saw that they were like tiny barbells. 

"We want to make these holes a little larger," she said, indicating where the rings penetrated my nipples.

"Why?" I heard myself say.  She frowned and looked darkly at me.  "I mean, why, Mistress?" I corrected quickly.

'the reason is no business of yours whatsoever,' she told me sharply.  "You'll find out soon enough in any case, now hold still."  She expertly slipped one end of the shaft through the hole currently occupied by the ring, stretching the opening markedly, then she screwed the spherical end on to the shaft. A minute later I matched.

"All right – back to your cell."

Now it was my turn to be chained to the wall in the holding cell that Monica and I had spent the last night.  Half an hour later Monica was chained up beside me, still in her duck outfit.

"You may undo the duck," said Megan from the doorway, and tossed two keys on to the floor as a parting gift.  "One fits your handcuffs, which you may remove.  The other fits one of the duck's chains."

I removed my handcuffs, unlocking them only with difficulty.  Then I took off Monica's mask, gag and hood.  Her hair was dripping from sweat and for a minute she could say nothing while I undid the black coat and eased her taped up arms from the sleeves.  The tape took a long time to undo, for it had bunched up in parts from her exertions and did not come away easily.  When she pulled off the coat runnels of perspiration trickled out from where her knotted sleeves had trapped it.

I checked out the keys.  We have a simple system in Bilboes, using five basic types of padlock, graded by size.  The smallest sort is used to lock cuffs and collars and the like, and is colour coded red.  Then comes blue, green, yellow and white, in order of size.  Except for combination locks and handcuffs (black), one key of each colour would be enough to unlock most padlocks of a particular size one would come across.  In this instance there was a blue and a black key.  How appropriate, I thought, considering our physical condition.  The blue undid the thin chain connecting Monica's ankle cuffs via her collar.  Megan was one step ahead again, having chained us to the wall with green series locks.  It would not do to have colour-blind people working here, I reckoned.

Monica groaned as she was finally able to stretch out her legs.  She rolled on to her stomach and stretched her arms out along the floor, almost able to touch the toilet with her feet and the end wall with her hands.

 "Oh Jesus, that feels so good!  They were cramping something awful this morning, but you bastards just ignored me!"  I helped her to stand and allowed her to slowly remove the dildos that had occupied her front and back passages for the day.  "God, that's better!  They were driving me insane this morning, and after lunch – of which I got none, by the way – all that traipsing around the garden was like… it was like something you'll never experience, Steven."  There was a faint smile on her lips, between the indentations in her cheeks where the gag strap had been.

"Not sure that I want to," I said.

"But the tool shed thing was good.  That Megan is at least human.  Shit, she could press my buttons like you wouldn't believe!  I could have slept half the afternoon after that.  And I would have - if you hadn't kept walking about and tugging me awake." She glared at me.

'sorry.'

She seemed to relent, and sat down on the iron bed next to me, giving me a hug. 

"No, I'm sorry.  I saw what she put you through when you tried to help Jill.  I know what she's playing at.  Sorry.  I'm just tired and hungry, and cranky and…I don't know.  Shitshitshit…Everything's turned to shit…"  The tears came then, as we hugged each other, naked and chained in our cell, and probably watched gleefully by our captors on the closed circuit television.

We talked in whispers, though we were sure that we could be heard.  I told her where I thought Jill, Leila and Emma were being held.  Of Mary and Trish we knew nothing, other than the fact that they had been the boys' toys for Warren and Roger that day.  That prompted more tears, but I knew Trish and Mary were the strongest amongst us and would take care of themselves.  Monica nodded but I could see she did not really believe me.

Half an hour later Shawnee appeared, overseen by Megan, with a big bowl of stew and some bread and water.  Shawnee was still done up in the rubber outfit.

"I think she's enjoying this,"  Megan told us.  'she knows it's for real now.  No escape, no opting out if the going gets tough.  Real true slavery, right Shawnee?' She gave the rubber-clad girl a nudge.  Shawnee grunted what might have been agreement, but her eyes were downcast, not meeting mine or Monica's. 

We fell on the food and had devoured it just before the lights were turned out.  Naked, exhausted and chained, we finally lay together on the narrow bed wondering what would be in store for us the following day'

*   *   *

Wednesday dawned with the lingering warmth of late summer.  Soon it would be autumn and things would cool down a little, although of course none of this was immediately apparent to me in our cell.  I could not tell what time it was, never mind what day it was and what the weather was doing. 

There was no breakfast this morning – at least not in the cell.  I was made to don the belt and butt plug and lock it in place.  This done, I was caught with a zap which left me on my knees while Megan unlocked the chain from the wall and then towed me upstairs on shaking legs.  Clearly the pre-release zap had a double purpose – to establish that everything was properly connected and to remind me exactly how painful it could be.  There was no doubt in my mind that I was becoming like a Pavlov's dog, living in fear of the remote and what it did to me. 

I was chained by the ankle to one of the verandah posts where Shawnee brought my breakfast of cereal and a muffin.  At least somebody recognised that work needed energy.

Megan disappeared again with Shawnee in tow.  Today Shawnee wore a rubber cat suit and full face hood, leaving only holes for the eyes and nose.  I suspected she was probably gagged under the lower half of the hood.  Her hair, in a pony tail, poked through a hole in the top.  As she moved there was a tinkle of the chains linking the steel manacles on her wrists and ankles.

There was no sign of Portia at first.  I had barely finished the meal when she appeared.  She wore no makeup, but needed little, in any case, having the archetype Asian complexion that needs little or no enhancement.  She sported her now trademark red clothing, as usual, today being a red leather skirt and a crimson satin blouse that was tailored to her figure.  Her legs were bare save for a pair of medium-heeled sandals. 

By contrast, Megan was all in white today – white leather skirt, the same white boots as the previous day, and a white halter-top with the nipples cut out.  It looked extremely like Trish's favourite outfit.  Something told me our captors had been doing a little wardrobe robbing.

Portia sat at the table where Shawnee scampered to bring her coffee and toast.  Portia watched me as she ate, as though appraising me for some sinister purpose – or fate.  Her black-eyed gaze made me uncomfortable, as much as being naked and chained did, for that matter.  Combine the two and you have some inkling of how disconcerted I was.  She did not speak during the ten minutes it took to eat her breakfast, while I knelt on the deck and gazed primarily at the boards, noting the odd nail that needed re-punching.  Finally she stood up and disappeared inside, to return a minute later with a cardboard carton which she placed on the table.  I was curious and taken aback when she pulled a rivet gun and a packet of steel rivets from the box, followed by two semi-circular objects made of stainless steel.  She walked over  and handed the steel objects to me. 

"Can you work out what these are?"

I took them and turned them over.  It did not take much to realise what they were intended for.  The two halves would form a circle, the diameter of a neck.  The steel was an inch wide with the top and bottom edge smoothed and one end of each half circle having a small welded plate that overlapped with the opposite end of the other piece.  Through the mating surfaces were drilled three holes, obviously for riveting the two halves together.  At quarter points around the collar were small D-shaped anchor rings that would take a padlock, and at one point there were two larger holes about five centimetres apart on the centreline, about the diameter of a pencil.  Just outside of these were two short threaded studs welded to the outside face, that looked as though something should be screwed to them. On the front of this collar the word 'steven' had been engraved in Gothic lettering.  On the rear was the wording "Property of Madam Wong".

"Well?"  Portia said, a hint of impatience in her voice.

"It's a collar, Mistress."

"For…?"

"For me, Mistress."

'very good,' she said sarcastically.  "One of the brighter minds of the western world, obviously.  Now you can put it on and we'll see how good those measurements in your little book are."

She handed me the riveter, which was like a large crimping tool, and the small plastic bag of rivets.  I took one out and fitted it into the jaws of the tool, while she stood behind me, straddling my shoulders with those long legs and holding the two pieces of collar in place.  She guided the exposed end of the rivet into the hole under my chin and directed me to squeeze the handles.  I did so, and it needed most of my strength to finally snap the rivet in place.  I was signing my own warrant here, and had no idea what implications it would have, but I did not have a lot of choice in the matter.  I could have resisted, but chained to the post with Megan not far away with the remote, I didn't consider it a smart career move.

Five minutes later all six rivets had been snapped off through the holes and the collar was cold and snug around my throat and the ankle chain had been transferred to the collar.

"Excellent," purred Portia as she locked the chain in place through one of the D-rings on the collar.  'there is absolutely nothing so pleasing as a newly collared slave.  I am so going to enjoy this morning.'  She sat down at the table and gazed at me with unabashed pleasure.

Megan appeared several minutes later, leading a naked, masked prisoner.  It was Trish, I realised.  Her face was concealed beneath a rectangle of thick black rubber which stretched from her forehead to her chin and wrapped around almost to her ears.  Only an opening for her nose existed, with the rubber held in place by half a dozen straps buckled tightly around her head over her hair and under her chin.  In the position where her mouth should have been behind the mask were a nut, bolt and washer.  I had little doubt that the bolt held a rubber ball or similar gag in place behind the rubber pad in front.  It was not something I had made at Bilboes, so I could only assume Megan was importing some of her own devices from her previous or other current establishment.

While her head and mouth were firmly constrained, the rest of Trish – or her upper body at least was no less secure.  Her wrists were joined palm to palm with a heavy leather strap, with a similar one pulling her elbows together with several loops of leather.  Not content with this, Trish had been bound in a harness made of leather straps.  Two ran over her shoulders, joining a ring between her breasts. From this point a wide strap ran vertically down between her legs and up between her cheeks, to terminate in a tee at a heavy belt that ran around her waist and buckled in front.  Branching out from the front vertical strap were a series of horizontal ones that encircled her torso, locking her arms against her body and buckling up behind her.  With total immobility, silence and blindness above the waist, any restraint for the legs was irrelevant.  I was at least pleased to see that her skin seemed relatively unmarked, in contrast to what had happened to Monica and Jillian.

Trish was made to kneel next to me while Portia fished out two matching halves of her collar, with her name engraved on the front.  Very shortly Trish also wore a snug-fitting collar that identified her as Madam Wong's property, although Trish did not know it at that stage.

Mary was next, attired identically to Trish, in body harness and face mask and gag.  Soon she, too, was kneeling, bound, blind and silent next to Trish.  Leila and Emma followed, corseted, plugged and accessorised as they had been the previous day, chained at ankle and wrist, and gagged this time with rubber bit gags.  When they had been collared, Monica was brought to the verandah. 

She had still been chained to the wall in the cell when I had been removed.  She now had her wrists crossed and bound high up her back behind her shoulder blades, with the ropes holding them there pulled over her shoulders , between her breasts and through her crotch, before being wrapped around her waist from the rear and tied off.  The more Mon tried to drop her arms, the tighter the ropes would be through her pussy and the more uncomfortable she would be.  I noticed that she now had the rings on her nipples exposed, and like me had an extra barbell shaft through each hole.  She had been gagged with a red ball gag with a protruding eyebolt and looked as though she had come from a recent scrubbing in the Sluice Room.

After Monica's collar had been fitted,  Jill was bought out.  Predictably she was still experiencing the pointed wrath of Portia, who, I was not surprised to find, had a long memory and would not let a loss of face incident be disposed of lightly.  Had Jill not been the last of our team to appear, I could not have been certain it was in fact Jill, for she wore a white leather discipline helmet with only two small holes for her nostrils, the lacing down the back being supplemented with a strap under the chin and one around the neck.  It would have been a fair guess to suppose that her mouth had been stuffed with something prior to the hood being laced up. 

Her arms had been strapped into a white leather sleeve which had been laced up similarly to the helmet. She still wore the pale blue and white striped corset and white stockings and high heels which were locked on.  I wondered if she had been made to wear these all night. A crotch strap ran from the front to back of the corset and I also wondered what she now had buried inside her.  Her breasts now sported angry bruises and weals from her whipping yesterday and she could only kneel with difficulty in her state to allow me to rivet the last collar on her.

As Jillian settled back on her high-heeled haunches as best she could, Portia surveyed the six bound females kneeling before her.  Three were blindfolded and could only guess at what was happening.  Megan locked a chain on Trish's collar and ran it through the D-rings on the others to lock the other end on Jill's.  It was an entirely unnecessary restraint but a very symbolic one.  The rattle of the chain and the tug on the collars brought home our absolute helplessness and dependence on Portia and Megan.  In short, the gesture was not wasted.

Portia stood up from where she had been watching me doing the riveting.  She gazed down at us for a short while before speaking.

'there has been a change of plan, slaves,' she announced.  'madam Wong is coming earlier than I thought.  Evidently she is so excited by the thought of having you lot at her mercy that she can't get here fast enough.  Today is Wednesday, for those of you too stupid to have worked out how long it is since you began your life of servitude.  Madam Wong will be here on Friday afternoon.  We have much to do to prepare for her reception then.  Suffice to say, if there is any trouble from any of you, you will regret it.  Each day, one of you will be selected to remain here on the verandah.  If there is any disobedience from anybody, the disobedient slave will be punished, and the one on the verandah will receive twice the punishment.  If more than one person misbehaves, imagine how unpleasant it will be for your colleague here on the verandah.

'so, for the next few days there will be many things to be done, chiefly by Steven.  And let me tell you, if you think you're restrained now, life will get more difficult, and the consequences nastier, in a very short time.  In the meantime, things will be looking spotless for Madam Wong.  Emma and Leila will continue with the spring cleaning and Emma you will show me your cooking skills.  It will be nice to have someone who understands proper Chinese cuisine.  Mary and Trish will remain in the dungeon at the direction and whims of several clients Megan and I have lined up.  A number of them are from the local Hellfire club, with which you are doubtless acquainted.  They are looking forward to a couple of slaves in dire need of training.

"As for Monica and Jillian"You two are the ringleaders – the cause of all the trouble and embarrassment you have caused for Madam Wong and myself.  You will continue to receive corrective treatment as I see fit.  I think you can be sure Madam Wong will outdo anything I dream up.  Today, Monica will be helping Steven, while Jillian will be picking up where we left off yesterday.  That will be all." 

Portia unlocked the chain at Jillian's collar and unthreaded it back to the two masked captives, Trish and Mary.  She turned to Leila and Emma.

"Well?  What are you sitting there for like useless animals?  Go about your duties!"  The pair scrambled to their feet and hurried inside with a clinking of chains and a clattering of high heels on the polished timber and tiles.

Megan helped Trish and Mary to their feet and led them slowly in the wake of Leila and Emma, talking quietly to guide them over the threshold, then steering them through the kitchen.  Monica, Jill and I remained on the verandah.

Portia delved into the box that had held the collars and produced a wide leather belt.  It was heavy and came with a double-pinned buckle.  She squatted down next to Jillian, rolling her first on to her side, to let her legs stretch out, then pulling her back into a seating position.  The wide belt wrapped around Jill's back, inside her sleeved arms and under her armpits, before being fitted around the back of her knees as her legs were raised into a bent position.  Portia worked the belt tighter, pulling Jill's knees closer to her chest, which must have been difficult with the effect of the corset.  At length she seemed satisfied, securing the buckle and tucking the loose end of the strap out of the way. 

A further strap secured Jill's ankles, then she was rolled on to her side again, then on to her knees, with her legs folded up a further stage.  This was easily made permanent with a rope attached to Jill's ankle straps being pulled back between her cheeks to be secured to the ring at the end of the leather sleeve.  Poor Jill was now strapped into an immovable ball. Portia stood over her and placed the heel of her sandal against Jill's collar.

"Comfortable, slave?"  A faint moan escaped the leather helmet.  "Good.  You'll be there for a while.  And just to keep you company, we'll give you a little entertainment.  She reached down and fiddled about between Jillian's buttocks.  'damn! It's buried so deep I can hardly reach it" There!  Good vibrations, my dear.  Enjoy.'  Then she turned to us – or rather, to me, just as Megan returned from locking up Mary and Trish.  I figured anything that happened to me had to be better than the girls who were now kneeling either on the verandah or presumably in the dungeon, bound and gagged and sightless in their own subspace world for an unknown period, awaiting an unknown fate.

Portia went indoors and shortly thereafter Leila came tottering out on her high heels with the sun screen, obviously with orders to repeat the performance of yesterday.  She made muffled noises around the rubber bit locked between her teeth and motioned Monica to stand up.  Monica, like me, was secured to the verandah post but with enough slack in the collar chain to stand upright.  Leila commenced to smear sunscreen lotion over Monica, rubbing it sensually from her feet up her legs to her crotch. 

Monica looked down at Leila kneeling beside her and mad faint mmphing noises as Leila's fingers strove to gain access beneath the ropes held tightly in Monica's crotch.  There was something intensely erotic about Leila's languid movements as her fingers smoothed the lotion over Monica's skin, leaving it smooth and glistening.  I guess it's a guy thing about two women, but in this case, despite the varying degrees of bondage we all endured, it was extraordinarily arousing – for those of us capable of arousal at that moment.  Megan, sitting at the table, watched with amusement, and, I suspect, just a little of the aforementioned arousal herself.

Leila was skilled at what she did.  Her fingers now slid over Monica's breasts, gently caressing the ringed nipples and ensuring that no area of flesh missed out on the UV protection that was common practice in sunsmart Queensland.  Leila's application of the lotion was like a massage, and was giving Monica more than just skin protection. I saw her nipples harden and she began to shift from foot to foot, her thighs close together.  Leila moved behind her and began to work on Monica's back, spreading the oil down to her buttocks, and tugging at the ropes grooving between Monica's cheeks. Monica began to fold at the waist and bend at the knees as the ropes began to have their effect with the increased lubrication through all points south. 

I was waiting for Megan to step in and stop the whole thing, but instead she let Leila do her thing.  Monica was on the launching pad now, I could tell.  Leila's touch was extraordinarily gentle but I could see the heat rising in Monica's cheeks as her breathing began to come faster. For a short while she seemed to try to fight the obvious waves of pleasure arising from her pussy, then clearly she gave it up as a bad idea.  Any embarrassment was being overcome by the irresistible need, it seemed.

"All right!  That's enough of that!"  Portia had returned.  'megan, do you think it appropriate for slaves to be getting off under these circumstances?'

"I was going to give it another minute."

"Another minute and she'd be off the planet.  Get her sorted out, now.  Leila, you may do the same for Steven – I don't think we'll have any problems there."  She looked at me disdainfully.

Megan stood up and unlocked Monica's chain from the post, fixing it instead to another chain hanging from one of the overhead beams.  Monica was thus unable to bend, or to reach any object that might provide a pressure point on her now well-lubricated pussy. 

Leila motioned me to lie down on my stomach.  I did so, letting her sit on my back as she gave me the treatment that stopped just short of a very pleasant massage.

'that's very nice," I told her.

"Hmmk Huw," she said.  "Hor helhum.  Hoher…"

I rolled over and she straddled my thighs, lathering the stuff over my body.  I was quite capable of doing this part for myself,  but I was not going to turn down this opportunity.  She worked down my face, giving me the big doe-eyed stare that could make her so endearing, before moving down onto my chest.  Here she expressed surprise at the nipple rings and the barbells, flipping them gently.  They did not really hurt, but in fact gave me a strange feeling of arousal again.  Except that such wasn't actually possible, as she noted again when she got down to my crotch. 

Mr Willy was still firmly locked in his acrylic case, and no amount of fondling and massaging by Leila was going to make any changes down there.  She made little noises of disappointment behind the gag, which at any other time I would have found to be cute.  Now the whole thing was just frustrating, and it was all Monica's fault.  I hope she thought about my predicament in the time she was about to spend in the hot house. 

"Come, Steven,"  said Megan, from the back steps.

"I wish I could, Mistress," I replied, struggling to my feet and making Leila slide off on to her butt with a muffled squeal.  Megan smiled as she unlocked the chain from my new collar.

'very droll, slave.  Leila – get on with your cleaning.  Steven – this way.'

I followed her around the side of the house to my workshop.

"We're going to be laying that stainless steel wire from the front gate to the front steps," Megan said.  'then I can lock slaves on to it to fetch papers and mail or to sweep the driveway, or do the gardening, without supervision.  So you will need whatever tools are necessary for the job.'

The spool of cable was sitting on the floor of the workshop.  I picked it up along with the crimping sleeves and a large pair of bolt cutters and headed down the drive with Megan.

"Can you cut that wire with bolt cutters?" she asked.

"No.  Not without a lot of pratting around.  I'm going to use them for crimping the sleeves."

"Oh," she said.

It took me only a minute to crimp a loop around one of the gate posts next to the mail box at the electronic gate, then to unroll it back along the drive.

'loop it twice around that tree,' Megan said, as we neared the house.  I did so, admiring her perversity at making slaves walk twice around the trunk en route to and from the gate.  "Change of plan," she then ordered.  "We'll go right round the back to the back steps.  We have enough wire?"

"Yes, Mistress."  I continued unrolling and finally reached the back steps.  Here I had to fetch a power lead and my grinder to cut the wire then crimp it around the post at the top of the steps. 

"Excellent," Megan commented.  'steven, run out the wire and see how much is left on the spool.'  I did as I was told, stretching the cable from the steps across to the sleeping quarters.  "Perfect," said the Mistress.  "I want the wire to run from the verandah rail to the building at no lower than two metres above the ground.  You can fix it at the other end wherever you like.  I want it done in ten minutes."

It was done in five.

'very good, slave.  In around half an hour a truck will be coming.  It will deliver some poles and bags of concrete mix inside the front gate.  When it's gone, you and Monica will bring them down here where you'll install them in the ground like totem poles.  They will need to be sticking out at least two and a half metres, the remainder concreted into the ground.  I know you have a post hole borer in the shed.  Any problems? '

"No, Mistress."

"Good.  In the meantime you can keep on working on the cable trench."

*   *   *part two

Megan returned to the verandah and unlocked Monica's neck chain,  hauling her down the steps and positioning her under the overhead wire I had just erected.  At it's lowest point Megan could just reach it with her hand by standing on her tiptoes, and tossed one end of the chain over the wire.  Grasping the two loose ends of chain, she lifted Monica's chin and locked the chain to the ringbolt protruding from the ball in Monica's mouth before stepping back to admire her handiwork. 

It was a simple but quite stringent position.  Monica's neck would soon begin to ache as she fought the upward pull.  Portia, who had just appeared again, was delighted.

'this is good, Megan.  A nice little piece of improvisation.'  The bull whip was still on the verandah from the previous day and my stomach went cold as I saw the Chinese girl pick it up and descend to the lawn near Monica.  Monica looked wild-eyed at the figure in red advancing on her, and began to back away.  She slid the chain a few metres along the wire before the wire became just too high for her to go any further.  She tried to crouch, to make her body a smaller target, but that was impossible.

Portia let fly with the whip.  The tip zinged through the air with a fearful noise and hit the ground just beside Monica's foot.  She jumped, and the wire twanged.  Portia cracked it again, this time the tip flew beside Monica's other side.  Portia was now standing about three metres away from the mid-point of the wire, directing her shots either side of her helpless prisoner, making her run back and forth, chin pulled up, straining to keep her distance from the awful strike of the whip.  Monica didn't know whether to turn her back on Portia, and thus not see where she was aiming, or to face her tormentor and expose her vulnerable breasts and pussy to the flying thong.

Portia was good with the whip.  She grazed Monica a couple of times, but it was the fear factor as much as anything that kept her on the move.  Portia's white teeth were exposed in a smile of pure pleasure as Monica, arms bound high behind her, danced to the ring mistress's tune on the back lawn.   Megan, too, was watching with amusement, while I, momentarily fearful at the sight of the whip, pretended to get on with my trench digging, now believing that at this stage Portia merely wanted amusement rather than punishment.

I glimpsed Emma come out of the kitchen with a tray.

"Coffee!"  Megan called. Portia fired off one more flick then walked across to where Monica stood trembling and wild-eyed.  Portia let her hand stray to where the ropes were embedded in Monica's crotch.

'did that get things going down there?' she asked.  "If you can get yourself off now, Monica, good luck to you."  Something told me the moment for that had passed.

It was more like an hour before the poles arrived.  I had made more progress with the trench, down the west side of the house past the workshop, watched over by Megan who had positioned a director's chair on the balcony to supervise.  Monica had remained head up and chained to the wire, while Jillian, still strapped into a ball, was serving as a footstool to Portia.

The poles were of hardwood, and damned heavy.  It appeared that Monica and I were to be the beasts of burden in carting them from the gate to the back of the house.  I wondered whether Megan had had them dropped at the front gate specifically to give us this exercise, or whether it was simply to keep prying eyes away.

Whatever the reason, I found my steel collar connected by a two-metre chain to the driveway wire. Two minutes later Monica was unlocked from the aerial wire and joined me with the same secure linkage. 

"You two are going to bring the poles here," Megan explained.  "I will mark the locations they are to go with sticks in the ground. Steven, you will have Monica to help you with this, because I don't want you straining a muscle.  But neither of you is expected to have it easy, so Monica's help will be limited – limited to however you can utilise her, that is." 

I wondered what she meant by this but found out soon enough as she disappeared into the house and returned with a discipline helmet.  Monica rolled her eyes at me.  It was to be the last I would see of them for the rest of the day.  The helmet was identical in style to the white one Jillian was wearing, except that this one was black.  I waited while Megan removed the ball gag, replacing it with a soft spongy ball without a strap.  It was like one of those stress relief sponge balls that so-called stressed executives have on their desks, with the little smiley face

Monica had no chance to protest, complain, even utter a word, as the solid rubber ball gag was replaced by the squishy one.  It allowed her to close her mouth fully, while still making it difficult to let any utterances find their way out.  Most commonly the girls used it in conjunction with duct tape or, as in this case, a discipline helmet.  Megan lid it on over Monica's head, pulling her sweat-matted hair out of the way and beginning the process of tightening the laces down the back.  She checked that the nostril holes were properly positioned halfway through the process before doing a final tightening and tying off at the back of Monica's neck, where the raven hair protruded several inches below the edge of the leather, hiding most of the shiny steel collar below that.

Megan locked a chinstrap and neck strap in place with small padlocks, then began to untie Monica's wrists from the hammerlock behind her back.  It took some minutes to undo the complicated web of cords, and when her wrists finally came free, the hooded figure gave a low moan of relief and massaged the red marks  gouged into her flesh.  The cords remained in place over Monica's shoulders leading down through her legs and up her back, where they knotted and encircled her waist.  It seemed these ropes were to stay there, for the loose tails from the wrist ties were wrapped around her torso and looped through the vertical ones in front, to produce a diamond pattern before being tied off.  They did nothing significant in the way of specific restraint, but no doubt would give Monica a fair dose of stimulation where they remained embedded in her crotch.
"Hands out front!" Megan ordered.  Monica obeyed, and Megan locked two heavy leather wrist cuffs in place, connecting them with a short length of chain.

"I really hope you're a good communicator, Steven," Megan said.  "How much use your friend is to you will depend on what you tell her to do and how well you explain things.  Portia wanted to gag you as well.  That really would have made things interesting, but it would also have made it unsafe, so I have refrained from that.  Somebody has to keep a balance around her, but you didn't hear that from me."

'thank you, Mistress," I said, meaning it.  She ignored my comment.

"Well?  Go on, the pair of you.  Get moving, or Portia will be after you with the whip!"

*   *   *

It took us nearly two hours to carry the eight poles and over a dozen forty-kilo bags of dry-mixed rapid set concrete from the driveway entrance to the rear of the house.  In enforcing Monica's silence not only was Megan making the carrying exercise much more difficult for me, but she was also limiting our general communication.  I could not gauge Monica's reaction to my thoughts, nor could I receive her own ideas.  While Portia had the big plan – whatever that might be – Megan had the eye for detail and the canny knowledge of how to control her slaves and to limit communication between them.  She was aware that within our holding cells we could be eavesdropped on, unlike in the open air, and this was the first time Monica and I had been out of earshot of Portia and herself.  Maybe that was the real reason Portia had wanted me gagged, but Megan had at least seen reason in practical terms.

I had speculated on Megan's role.  As best I could guess, she was being offered some sort of deal in running Bilboes as an extension to her existing establishment.  Obviously she was benefiting already in having lured Monica's customers away from her by threats, intimidation or whatever Portia had masterminded.  I suspected Megan might just be having second thoughts about the whole thing, however, given the greater understanding she had now had of Portia and her obsessions.  For that matter, Megan had had more to do with Portia than I had, save for what Jillian had told us had transpired in Macau, and I suspect Jill had left some things unsaid which may have been just too painful or too embarrassing.  How far would Megan go along with the plan?  What effect would Madam Wong have on her actions when she arrived?  What could we expect in the way of punishment from Madam Wong? 

I had a sneaking suspicion that our punishment had only just begun, and that the very work we were now doing was leading up to something nasty.  All these thoughts I voiced to Monica as we slowly traipsed up and down the driveway.  Monica could only make muffled grunts, and I don't think she could hear too well, either.  These points, plus the fact that I had to be constantly telling her to 'move more to the left', 'stop here' or 'bend down and pick up the pole in front of you', meant that there was a limited facility for strategic planning. 

The difficulty was that there was little pattern in our treatment to date.  We had been split up and assigned different tasks in different places.  From our perspective, Monica and I could only rely on each other, and even then we were so effectively controlled and restrained that there was little opportunity for one of us to get the jump on our captors, never mind both at the same time.  I was worried with the impending arrival of Madam Wong in that firstly life would get tougher for us, and secondly there would be another person to overcome should we have an opportunity.  In short, from my point of view, it seemed that unless one of the others could spring a surprise, it would most likely be up to me to do something, with only a slim possibility of help from Monica, who had always been chained up – if not restrained elsewhere - in the brief instances when an opportunity might have presented itself to me.  I still believed such an opportunity would come – in time.  But how long we could survive like this, and what Madam Wong's plans were for us remained high on my list of ticking time bombs.  And above all was the unpleasant thought of what would befall us all in the event of a failed coup.

By the time we had returned to the gate for the fifth pole, we were getting the hang of things.  We had discovered that in putting the two turns of wire around the tree trunk near the house, every time we reached that point we had to go round the tree and duck under the incoming cable twice, before continuing on our way.  While carrying a pole, it meant we had to put it down, do the double circumnavigation, climb under the wire we had just come down, then pick up the pole and proceed again.  In carrying the pole, I took the lead.  On the return journey, I walked behind Monica with my hands on her shoulders, steering her.

We were both sweating heavily under the late summer sun as we reached the gate once more.  I helped Monica to sit down on a large rock.

"How're you doing?" I asked.  She made a non-committal grunt.  Surviving.  "How are those ropes?" I queried, reaching over and slipping my hand through the cords leading down into her pussy.  She made a protesting noise and blindly tried to slap me away. 

'that's all right for you to say.  Some of us here haven't even been able to get worked up, despite all manner of things that have been done to them.  Do you understand me?'  There was a nod – reluctant, glum, regretful, or all of the above.  "On the other hand," I continued, "others amongst us – who shall remain nameless, except that they're not speaking at the moment – managed to make a total exhibition of themselves in getting their rocks off yesterday.  Know anyone like that?"  Another nod.  "I would have thought that, with the offer of a friendly helping hand and a moment's quiet time to assuage those urges no doubt being stimulated by those ropes, that a sensible person would accept what was graciously offered.

Monica reached out her chained hands and laid them on my shoulder, moving them round until she held my face, at which point she pressed her own leather-covered face against mine, in her best attempt at what I presumed was a kiss.  She laid her head on my shoulder and allowed me to slip my hand down her abdomen under the rope.  I helped her on to the ground, allowing her to lie flat and ease any constrictions that might have developed in the cords.  They were greasy and wet where they split her labia, and I knew that was not all due to the sunscreen.  Leila had got Mon wound up this morning and she had not really got over it, despite the episode with the whip.  The walking up and down the drive had made things sensitive and receptive in her crotch and it did not take much to stoke the fire to where Leila had left it. 

Monica tried to help but I just got frustrated with her impeding me so I hooked her chained wrists behind her head and made her keep them there while my fingers slid under the ropes and into her wet passage.  She began to moan under the hood and drew up her knees.  I let thumb explore her clit, which had become swollen and responsive from the ropes, and soon she was tugging hard on the wrist chain as the warm fuzzies began to build inside her.  My other hand toyed with the nipple rings, making her squeal behind the leather and mouth packing.  I tugged them gently and the moaning went up in pitch. Her nips were rock hard around the barbells and rings – I had never known them to provoke such a reaction. A shudder ran through her body and her breathing began to speed up.  I watched her breasts rising and falling faster while continuing to work on her pussy.  She began to moan in time with her breathing, seeming to struggle to do both, then abruptly crashing into an orgasm that make her roll onto her side and draw up her knees.

She was making "Uh! Uh! Uh!" grunts as the climax swept over her and her body jerked and bucked.  The grunts became more drawn out and turned to groans that slowly subsided as she lay against me.  I could feel the trembling in her legs as she curled up into a foetal position and the movement of her breasts slowly settled down.

"You owe me one, Miss," I told her.  'the meter is ticking until this thing comes off my friend."  I let her hand rest on the inert Mr Willy. 

"Uhrrrmm," she agreed at last, with a faint nod of her head. "Uh-huh."

*  *   *

When the last bags of concrete had been delivered, using a wheel barrow in this instance, the chains tethering us to the driveway wire were unlocked, but instead of being released entirely, they were locked together, leaving us joined at the collars  by a four-metre chain. 

The poles were to be set out in a semi circle around the pillory, which was still incomplete.  I did not like the set out - it smacked of druids and sacrifices and witch-burning.  Monica had the easy part of the work from then on.  She had merely to sit by while I bored the holes with a hand auger, a tedious performance that I interspersed with mixing the concrete and placing the poles.  Before erecting the poles Morag had instructed that four eyebolts be screwed into the tops of them, at quarter points around the edge.  The possibilities for these did nothing to remove my sense of foreboding, nor did a further requirement for a heavy-duty cleat at waist height on the back of each post.

Monica got to turn the hose off and on, helped me with lifting the posts into the holes, and then holding them straight while I shovelled the wet concrete around them.  Lunchtime came and went.  Megan told us we would be fed when the job was done.  In the meantime I contented myself with drinking from the hose and hosing Monica down to her utter annoyance and frustration.  She tried to do the same to me, but couldn't seem to get the direction right.

Finally we were complete.  Monica was taken inside the house – presumably to be fed, while Emma brought me some sandwiches on the back steps.  I had almost got used to being naked at this stage, although I doubted I would ever get used to the plug up my bum and the heaviness and lack of feeling that currently marked the presence of Mr Willy. 

My plight was nothing compared to that of poor Jillian, though.  While Monica and I had been erecting the posts, Portia had tied a cinching rope through the wide belt anchoring Jill's knees to her chest, then had hung the rope on the hook of the overhead pulley and had hauled Jill into a suspended position.  With her centre of gravity being what it was, poor Jill was now leaning slightly backwards, although only a matter of inches above the floor. 

Emma sat with me while I devoured the food.  She looked lovely, clad in the black rubber corset which pushed her breasts up and squeezed her waist in.  Clearly she was not there to keep me company, but to see if there was any way in which she could lend at least moral support for the suffering Jillian was undergoing.  Emma rested on her high heels, squatting on the deck between me and Jill, her cuffed and chained hands gently touching the leather-encased head as it swayed in the breeze.

"Aren't you hot in those?" I asked, pointing to the black latex stockings and gloves that reached nearly to her armpits and trying to divert her attention from Jill.  She nodded. We were sitting in the shade but it was still warmer than it would have been inside, where the air conditioning was running.  She turned her big black eyes on me.  Black was Emma's colour – her hair, her eyes, her clothes, and today, the rubber ball and the strap trapping it in her mouth.  Her pale skin and white teeth made a startling contrast to her outfit.  Her eyes flicked from me to Jill and a tear rolled down her cheek. 

Nobody else was on the verandah at that moment.  Megan had chained my collar to the post again while she was occupied within the house.  I gave Emma a brief hug.

'don't worry,' I lied.  'monica and I are working on a plan.  We'll soon have things sorted out.  We'll get you out of all this – you too, Jill.'  There was a faint moan from under the leather helmet and a creak from the taut ropes and straps holding her body immobile.

"Emmah!" came Portia's voice from inside, followed by a torrent of Cantonese.  Emma brushed her tears aside and jumped to her feet, hurrying into the kitchen, and I was left alone with Jill.  I cradled her head briefly in my hands, hearing footsteps coming nearer inside.  For some reason I kissed the taut leather stretched across her forehead, then stood to return to the steps.

It was Megan.  She unlocked my chain and told me to return to finish off the pillory.   I did not see Monica again that day and finished the pillory on my own, under the watchful gaze of Megan.  The only other event that interrupted the afternoon was the appearance of two men with Portia, about an hour later.  They were well-dressed and came out briefly on to the verandah.  Jillian's suspended form evidently appealed to them and they took their time inspecting her and giving her a few gentle swings, which prompted muffled cries from under the helmet.  Portia let her down at this point, and untied both the cinch rope and the wide strap.  I could hear Jillian's groans as her painfully bound body unfolded into a loose hogtie, for the ring on her sleeve was still attached to her ankle straps.  I could not conceive of being that tightly bound for so long.  I knew the girls were flexible, and could have their elbows touch without too much strain – something that I could barely manage -  but to have it done for such a time worried me.  Monica had once told me that the laced up sleeve spread the load and allowed better blood circulation, but I would still not have wished anything like that on anyone. Jill was moaning as the blood returned to her bent limbs. 

The two men asked permission to untie the rope from the sleeve ring, and Portia nodded.  With this undone, they sat her against the wall of the house and inspected her as prospective buyers might do with a horse.  Her breasts looked good in the corset, pushed up as they were.  Not in Emma's league, of course, but attractive, none the less.  They prodded them and tweaked the nipples.  Jill seemed to exhausted to resist.

Eventually the pair stood up and spoke some more with Portia, who pointed out various aspects of the back yard, me included, and then took them back inside.  I had a fair idea that these were the guys from the Brisbane Hellfire Club that Portia had mentioned earlier.  The Hellfire Club was an S/M club where like-minded people met and exchanged more than just business cards, and I understood there were more than a few opportunities to try whatever S/M kink it was that turned you on, given that the place evidently had its own stocks, St Andrew's cross and various other devices of restraint and torture.  In many ways it was a quite remarkable establishment, given that Queensland had been the last state in Australia, according to many, to enter the twentieth century in terms of a liberal outlook.

The two men were obviously Doms, come to explore the possibilities of Bilboes and the potential of the two newest subs, Mary and Trish, imprisoned in the dungeon in who knew what circumstances.  Portia was wasting no time in building up that side of the business.  I caught Megan's eye and she impatiently motioned me to get on with my work, waving the remote control in ominous fashion.

I did as I was told, fashioning two heavy Cyprus planks of six by two such that they sat neatly on top of one another, then cutting out the holes for the neck and two wrists, to the appropriate size suggested by the Bilboes Book of Measurements.  It was a similar pillory to that in the dungeon, but rather than hinging at one end, this one slid up and down to locations that could be fixed by bolts through a series of holes in the post at each end.  However, once the lower plank was fixed in place, the there was a danger that the upper one – which had to be raised directly upwards – could drop unexpectedly.  I solved this problem with a counterweight at each end running over a pulley.  I made the counter weights from plastic juice bottles filled with water, to get the adjustment exactly right. 

The final touch was to file the edges of the slightly oversize holes and line them with heavy duty padding covered with leather.  I knew from experience that a pillory – like any form of rigid restraint – was very unforgiving.  Necks and wrists became extremely uncomfortable, as did backs and legs as a consequence of keeping one's upper parts totally still.  A two-inch think plank was about as extreme as you could get.

Megan was quite impressed when I had finished with it. She made me try it out – why was I not surprised – at varying heights.  I made sure she understood that once the two planks were locked together, it was not meant to be adjusted with the prisoner in place.  That would be a good way to promote a broken neck.  All in all it was tolerable – at least for the short time I was held in its jaws.  That was when Megan told me she wanted a further pair of wrist holes, outside the existing ones, presumably to give a wider spread option for restraint. 

Daylight was fading when I completed this last requirement, and I was again not surprised to find myself testing it.  It was more of a strain with your wrists held further apart, for because of the thickness of the planks, it was necessary to keep your arms at right angles to the timber, which meant keeping elbows high and out from the body.

I shouldn't have been surprised when Megan dropped down the two hasps and clicked the padlocks closed, locking the top plank to the bottom one, then walked away.  I was bent over at the waist – a decidedly worse position than if the holes had been positioned higher, or even at kneeling height.  My legs were – of necessity – spread, without the need for a spreader bar.  I felt vulnerable and helpless.  Did I call out to be released? How long was the appropriate time to endure this in silence, before reminding Megan of my presence?  What was the correct etiquette under such circumstances?

I could not raise my head sufficiently to see the verandah, such was the snugness of the fit.  I am not saying I have a big neck, but it  was bigger than the girls', should they have occasion to use the device, and something told me this would be the case.

I waited perhaps fifteen minutes, before calling out 'mistress?' a couple of times.  I heard footsteps on the deck then the sound of heels coming down the steps.  My heart sank when the red sandals came into my field of vision.

"Was that you making all that noise?" came the rhetorical question.

"I was only – "

'shut up, slave!  How dare you interrupt your mistress when she's having her dinner!  You will remain here until you are released, which may be tomorrow morning if you carry on like this.  Would you like to stay here all night?'  There was no doubting in Portia's tone that it would be of no consequence to her to do just this.

"No Mistress."

"As Mistress Megan put you here, I will not interfere with her plans.  I will, however, shut you up in the meantime, just so we can eat in peace."

"I'm sorry Mistr – urgh!"

"Open wide – don't fight me, dammit, or I'll whip your arse!  There."  The rubber ball was wedged behind my teeth and the strap buckled unnecessarily tight behind my head, in Portia's usual uncompromising style.  That was me taken care of until further notice.  I guess I now knew the appropriate length of time to leave things until calling out – all night if necessary.

I stared at the ground, and was able to make out little within my field of vision by the lights of the verandah.  I presumed Jillian was still bound and gagged on the deck where she had been propped up with the arrival of the two customers.  I had neither heard nor seen any signs of her relocation.  I wondered where Monica was, and what was being done to Trish and Mary.  I presumed that everyone had been fed in their cells this morning, for nobody – other than myself – had received food on the verandah.  I guessed Leila and Emma were waiting on the two Mistresses at that moment.  Just as I was, but in a different sense.

Probably another hour passed before Emma's high heels and black stockings appeared in front of my eyes.  The gag strap was undone and the ball was pulled from my mouth, while something like a large milkshake with a straw was presented for my inspection.  Emma grunted something unintelligible, and I found myself drinking a delicious fruit smoothie as Emma squatted in front of me.  Predictably, she was still gagged, and her jaw must be aching like anything, I thought, as I sucked greedily and gazed at her divine breasts positioned immediately in my line of sight. 

We had various sizes of ball gags in our store.  Some were more extreme and mouth-filling that others.  Some had slivers off them that allowed them to fit more naturally in the mouth.  Some were hard and some were soft.  With the right selection, I knew a twelve-hour shift was possible, albeit uncomfortable.  With the wrong selection, the discomfort increased markedly, although of course there was nothing one could do about it.  Safewords were evidently not now relevant as far as the staff of Bilboes was concerned.  Megan and Portia were no doubt working on the premise that we were all professionals and should be able to handle anything within reason that came our way.  However it all depended on whose reasoning we were talking about, and I suspected that some of the voices in Portia's head were a couple of sandwiches short of a picnic.

After Emma left with the empty container, it was another half hour before Megan appeared, presumably having enjoyed dessert and a fag afterwards, if that was her want.  Whatever the reason, my back and neck were aching.  Emma had apparently been told to put back the gag but at least she had not made it as tight as before.

I pulled my head out from the holes with a groan as Megan raised the upper plank. 

"Come," she said, turning and heading back up the stairs.  I followed, massaging my stiff neck and wrists as I walked.  I had been correct – Jillian was still sitting propped against the wall.  For the second time in two days I was instructed to carry her downstairs to her cell in the Sluice Room.  She made little whimpering noises as I picked her up and the white leather of her hood rested on my shoulder. 

She was the only one there in the Sluice Room as I laid her on the mattress.

"You will chain her collar to the wall," Megan ordered, 'then you will undo the restraints.'

There were three chains locked to a ring at the base of the wall, all about three metres long – long enough to reach the toilet, and washbasin I thought.  I locked one end of the chain to Jill's shiny steel collar with the padlock Megan tossed down beside me, then rolled Jill on her side while I undid the buckles at her neck and chin, then began on the laces at the back of the hood.  They were devilishly tight and I had to pull half of them clear of the eyelets before I could work the hood off her head.  The blonde, collar-length hair beneath was slick with sweat and Jill's eyes were closed.  I saw her mouth had been taped over with a number of pieces of duct tape, which I peeled away gently. 

She groaned softly but her eyes remained closed as I eased her over on to her stomach.  Undoing the white sheath pinioning her arms was even harder, for what with the constant strain and the sweating that had taken place, the leather had stretched somewhat around her elbows and the laces had become tighter.  When I finally peeled the leather away, the flesh on Jill's arms was deeply indented from the folds and eyelets and laces. 

Even after the removal of the sleeve, Jill's wrists remained strapped together, as did her ankles.  When I finally undid these she remained immobile, breathing shallowly and clearly exhausted.  I was about to undo the crotch strap, which I knew held in an anal plug or vibrator when Megan stopped me with an imperious wave of her finger.

'that's enough!  Hold out your wrists!'

Megan took the strap that had until then secured Jill's wrists and buckled it around my own, before hooking the strap over the shower pulley hook and hauling my arms above my head.  Shawnee appeared shortly after wards to give me a thorough scrubbing down then towelled me dry, and I was ordered back to my cell while Jill slowly showed more signs of life on the mattress.  At one point she had made as though to talk to me, then had realised Megan was still there and had decided better of the idea.

I was shoved into my cell to find a tray of food on the floor and Monica chained to the wall and in a severe hogtie on the bed.  Her right wrist had been bound to her right ankle, and her left wrist to the left ankle before her ankles had been tied together.  She still wore the black leather discipline helmet Megan had laced on her that afternoon, so I could only assume she had been in that state for several hours.  Her whole body was trembling from the strain of being bent like a bow.  Under the leather hood I could hear a faint keening sound as Megan locked a wall chain to my collar then slammed the door closed behind me.

I managed to get my gag strap undone, reaching behind my head with my bound wrists, then undid the wrist strap with my teeth.  Only then could I untie Monica to the point where she lay drained on the bed while I removed the discipline helmet and extracted the wet squishy ball from her mouth.  She looked at me with glazed, exhausted eyes.

"Hi Mon,"  I said. "How was your day?"

 

 

Monica's Revenge continues in: Chapter Nine — Superheroes in Bondage

 

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©–2006 | updated - 22.04.17

 

All comments welcome at bilboes1@hotmail.com.
© R.Alexander 2006

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

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