Gromet's Plaza Richard Alexander Stories
Monica's Revenge
by Richard Alexander
© 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: 13. The Citadel by Richard Alexander MF/mf; bondage; bdsm; cons/nc; XXX
Chapter Thirteen: The Citadel
Part One

The storm was over by the next morning.  No doubt Madam Wong and Portia had spent a sleepless night and were now about to spend a sleepless day, I guessed.

After breakfast, while the two prisoners were taken into the dungeon and presumably attended to by Leila and Emma, Trish and I set the whipping machine up on the lawn.  Portia was brought out first, gagged and blindfolded with several pieces of duct tape over her eyes.  She was still wearing her red leather skirt, now muddied and dishevelled, and was made to lie on the ground between two of the posts.  At Monica’s direction Portia’s wrists, strapped together in front of her, were attached to a rope through the eyebolt at the top of one post, and her strapped ankles similarly secured via the other post.  Simultaneous pulling on these ropes by Leila and Emma, and the subsequent tying of them to the cleats, left Portia in some distress, stretched between the posts and bet like a longbow.  Her stomach remained on the ground, but it was going to be a long and painful morning.

Madam Wong was next to be brought from the basement.  She was gagged and blindfolded similarly to Portia, and was positioned under the bough of a large gum tree, from which a rope was suspended over a pulley.  Like Portia, her wrists were strapped in front of her, and these were hauled above her head until her arms were straight.  Her ankles were strapped together so that she could perhaps hop a little, but no more.  She was now totally naked, her skirt and boots having been removed along with the crotch plugs she had previously worn.

We set up the Whipper on a slight downward angle about two metres away from the prisoner and turned it on.  The rope took a couple of seconds to drag itself airborne as the fan built up speed, then the cord straightened and began to clip Madam Wong over the back of her calves.  She made a gurgled noise that was more annoyance than pain, and hopped a step further away from the flying cord.  We had been prepared for this, and with three long anchor ropes attached to the fan platform, we could tweak its position without having to stop the spinning rope.

We left it there, slapping repeatedly against Madam Wong’s calves while she hopped and twisted and found that she could do nothing more than change the impact point from back to front or side.  In short, at her own behest she would get the most thorough whipping possible over the whole of her body, as every twenty minute a couple of pumps on the airbag would raise the angle of the platform slightly to lift the impact point an inch or two.

Monica was delighted.  She and Jill set up Monica’s laptop and had morning tea on the verandah, making periodic inspections of the whippee to ensure even coverage and, I suspect, to secretly gloat over the downfall of their nemesis.  Gloating was not a trait I normally associated with either girl, Jill in particular, for she did not have a vengeful bone in her body, but in this instance I considered it was part of a healing process, an expulsion of demons which had haunted Jill since her rescue from the dungeons of Macau.

*   *   *

While all this was going on, Trish and I ended up in the workshop again.  This time Trish was dressed for the occasion, in a black tee-shirt that was probably a size too small and a maroon netball skirt.  I was informed that she wore nothing underneath.  This fact was obvious from the little nipple lumps poking through the cotton of the tee-shirt, but not for the lower half.

“Have you got a game on today?” I teased her, pointing to the pleated skirt. ”or are you just going as cheerleader?”  Trish tried to maintain a dignified air. 

“Perhaps you’d like to find another volunteer willing to put her body on the line for your perverted experiments.”

“No, dear Trish, your body will be perfect – as always,” I said gallantly, then rather spoilt it by adding: “I haven’t been able to find anybody else silly enough to undertake such hazardous duties in any case.”  She poked her tongue out at me and tried to look put out. “You look very nice, anyway,” I ended lamely.

“Well thank you, sir.  The skirt is purely practical, you understand.”  She sat down on the plastic cylinder where it was lying on its side on the floor. “You see?  A girl can achieve the object of the exercise but maintain a modicum of decorum without her skirt riding up to her pussy.”

“Spoilsport,” I said.

*   *   *

By the end of the morning we had just about got the system sorted.  There was a suitably sized hole in the cylinder through which the lifelike tip of a suitably sized phallus projected at the bottom of the down stroke, rising some ten centimetres higher on the upstroke.  We had fixed the motor and drive inside the cylinder and mounted the whole device on two timber cross beams that would stop the thing rolling about. On a whim, I screwed four castors to the underside of the beams, allowing the device to be towed on a rope.  Eyebolts were fastened to the front and rear of the cylinder on the top, for securing the rider, with the final touch being a soft foam liner draped over the top with a hole overlaying that in the top of the cylinder.

We had done a dry run, testing the speed control, which was through a small lever inside the cylinder, reached through the front opening. Now was the moment of truth.  Trish lowered herself on to the cylinder, reaching under the short skirt to position the head of the dong inside her.

“Need any jelly?”  I offered, handing her a tube of KY.

“Um… No, I’m okay.”

I grinned at her.  “You’re okay?  You randy tart.  You’ve been thinking about this half the night.  You must be wet as anything.”  Trish reddened.

“Shut up, you.  You’re so mean to me sometimes.”

“Sorry Trish.  I didn’t mean it.”

“Liar.”  Said with a smile it somehow lost its effect.

“”Do we have contact?”

“We certainly do.” 

I switched the motor on.

“Oooo!”  A look of surprise crossed Trish’s face.  The expression turned gradually into one of enjoyment then undisguised pleasure. “Mmmmm.  Niiiice…”   I left it for a minute while she closed her eyes and wriggled slightly.  She had a couple of inches clearance between her knees and the floor, and was resting on the toes of her sneakers.

“Gotta do this properly,” I told her, buckling a leather cuff on each ankle.  She didn’t resist when I looped a rope over the top of the cylinder from one cuff to the other.  “How’s that?” I asked, after her weight had been taken off her feet and now rested totally on her crotch.

“Ohh – even better!”  Her voice sounded just a trifle strained – in a contented sort of way.  She was riding the thing like a horse, holding on to the front eyebolt as one would do to the saddle horn.  I crouched down behind her and reached around, grasping both wrists and freeing her grip, pulling her hands back behind her.

“Ahh – no, no – ooo!  No, really, you don’t have to do that!”  She said it too late as I clicked the handcuffs over her slender wrists and locked the linking chain on to the rear eyebolt.   “Oh God, that is sooo good… But I don’t need my hands locked behind me, please Steven?  Let them go?”  She gave me a doe-eyed look, trying to appear innocent and cute and all those other things that some women can manage.  The flush to her cheeks gave her away as she squirmed again on the cylinder.

“Sorry,” I said.  “This is a proper scientific experiment.  This is a testing process and it’s all about pushing the envelope.”

“Christ, it’s not the only thing that’s being pushed here, Mister!” 

“Is that a complaint?”

“God no!”

“Good.  Now I have to check the mechanism.”  I lifted the hem of her dress and there was the big pink phallus moving in and out of the enlarged lips of Trish’s pussy in a steady rhythmic stroke, in and out once every two seconds.  It looked very erotic, seeing the shaft slide through the hole and up inside Trish, then withdraw almost fully but not quite.  With her weight bearing down fully on her crotch, I doubted she could lift herself off the impaler.

“Can’t a girl have any privacy?” she demanded in mock outrage.

“It’s a terrible job,” I answered, “but somebody has to do it.  Why don’t we speed her up a bit,” I suggested.

“Ohhh – nooo…”

I pushed the little lever inside the cylinder to about half speed.  Trish’s breathing quickened, turning into a pant as she began to breath through her mouth.

“Arrghh!  Oh shit!”


“Jesus Steven – of course it’s bloody working…”

She had her eyes closed now.  The workshop was silent save for the soft chugging of the motor as it relentlessly poked its shaft in and out, in and out.  Beads of sweat were breaking out on Trish’s forehead.

“Is it warm in here, or is it just me?”  I asked of nobody in particular.

“Bastard…” she muttered under her breath, trying to maintain a semblance of calm.

I let the motor run another couple of minutes, before deciding to add to the test loads just a tad.  I did this purely on a personal whim, since Mr Willy had awoken and was expressing disappointment that he hadn’t been invited to the party.  Crouching behind Trish I slid her tee-shirt up above her breasts.

“Hey! What the -!  Steven! Stop that! That’s not fair!”  I cupped her breasts and caressed them, tweaking her rock hard nipples.  “No, please!” she pleaded.  “Don’t…”

“All right,” I said, ever happy to oblige.  I stood up and moved to the front, before squatting and pushing the lever all the way.

“Nooo Steven!  It works!  It works, okay?  Aaaaarh – shit!”  The take off pad was prepared and Trish was away.  “Ohohohgodogodogod!”  With the increase in speed came the predictable climax that had been threatening.  Trish ground her hips and tried to clench her legs together. I saw her hands opening and closing as she tried to bounce off the contraption, shaking and squirming as the orgasm wracked her body and she gasped for breath through a long drawn-out groan of ecstasy.

She sat there panting and gasping, her breasts rising and falling as she hauled in deep breaths.  I dropped the speed down to half again.

“Off - please…” Her pleading was barely a whisper.

“Off?  SIlly girl!  You know how the process works.  It has to be vetted by Monica.”

“Oh no, Steven, please!  Look, it works!  Trust me! Enough is enough… Stop it for me, puhleeese?”

“You look so adorable when you beg,” I told her.

“You bastard!”

“I’ll be back shortly with Monica.”

“No Steven – no!  Please no! Really!  This is just too much for me…”

“Yeah, sure.  See so later kid.”


I shut the door and wandered across to the house.  Jill was inspecting Madam Wong, who was now starting to make whimpering sounds through the gag.

“How go things this end?” I asked cheerfully.  Jill looked up and gave me a beaming smile.

“Warming up nicely.  You really are clever.  See the red marks?  Thigh to neck and now we’re on the way down again.  And the prisoner is so cooperative – keeps turning around to do the parts we’ve missed.  Quite amazing.”  As we stood there I studied the red-striped flesh of Madam Wong.  The end of the cord was a little frayed now but was impacting nicely and the airbag was obviously working a treat.

“We dipped the end in water,” said Jill cheerfully.  “It makes it heavier and gives it more sting.”  The strikes were on Madam Wong’s left hip now, and she twisted herself to ease the pain on that spot, uttering little grunts with each impact.  She appeared to move too far, however, and one blow caught her near her shaven pussy.  She jerked and cried out into the rubber ball. 

“Hmmn, a bit tender there, is it dear?” asked Jill with what could almost have been real concern.  She moved behind the woman and grabbed her by the hips, manoeuvring her so that successive blows landed in the same spot.  Madam Wong tried to struggle and began to squeal in pain.  Jill was unmoved as her captive squirmed vainly in her grasp.  Eventually she released her grasp as tears were flowing down the Chinese woman’s cheeks.

“Only another two hours,” Jill told her blithely and turned towards the steps.  Our route took us past where Portia was still stretched out in a shallow arch, her feet and hands pulled upwards, her head hanging down and her stomach on the grass.  Somebody had added two nipple weights to her discomfort.  Jill stopped beside the figure and grasped the mane of black hair.

“Are we still comfortable?” she asked pleasantly. Portia’s blindfold stared sightlessly up and she whined pitifully.  She had been crying, not surprisingly. Jill joggled the girl’s breasts beneath her while Portia wailed through the gag.

“Cheer up,” said Jill. “This afternoon will be the Whipper for you.  That’ll make a change.  Bet you wish you’d stayed in Macau, huh?”  She released the hair and the head nodded despairingly.  We climbed the steps to where Monica was working on the computer. She looked up as we approached.

“I need your valued eye to inspect the Jolly Rogerer,” I said.  She laughed.

“So that’s what you call it.  Where’s Trish?” 

“Er – probably mid-climax, I should think.”

“I’m a little busy right now,”  Monica said, after some reflection.  “Would you mind waiting a while until I’ve finished this?”  Her eyes sparkled and I grinned at her.

“Well, I suppose you have priorities,” I conceded.  “I can’t force you to go and look…”

“Sit down and have a nice cup of tea.  I think you’ve earned it.  Hasn’t he, Jill?”

Jill dazzled me again and I gave in.  Sorry Trish – I tried really hard…

*   *   *

By the time I had had a cup of tea Monica was ready to pay a visit to the workshop. Jill came with us and as we crossed the lawn we could hear Trish’s cries quite clearly.  She was calling out to Monica or me or both, or anybody else who would listen.  Nearing the shed the cries for help and release turned to an expletive-filled series of rising exclamations, turning into a long wail of sexual release as another orgasm swept over her.

Monica gave me a look and raised her eyebrows as if to signify how impressed she was.  We opened the door to see a sweat-soaked Trish straddling the Rogerer, shaking from the strain of what was being inflicted on her.

“Monica!” she gasped, barely able to speak. “Dammit, where’ve you been?  Steven you bastard!  Get me off this thing before I go into orbit!”

“Why on earth didn’t you gag her?”  Monica asked me with an expression one uses on incompetent subordinates.

“I wanted to assess the full effect,” I replied, standing my ground.  Monica shrugged.

“Fair enough.  Seems to work all right.”

“You haven’t seen it at full speed.”

“I’d like to.”  Trish began to get very agitated and started pleading for us to turn it off.  Monica sighed and with an inclination of her head to Jill indicated where a red ball gag and strap lay on the bench.  “Jill dear, will you do the honours?  I can’t concentrate with all this chatter going on.”

“No!  No Jill, please don’t!  Just turn it off and let someone else try it!  Monica, you’d really enjoy it!”  There was an edge of desperation in her voice.  “No Jilly, don’t do – urrrrggh!”  Trish, wide-eyed, tried to shake her head clear of the rubber ball that materialised in front of her face but Jill was too experienced as she gripped a handful of Trish’s auburn hair to stop the shaking. At the same time she pulled Trish’s head back, making her involuntarily open her mouth to take the ball. Trish spluttered and fought the rubber invader, but Jill buckled it up without blinking.

The insults and invectives died to a grunting protest.  I lifted Trish’s skirt again to show the pink phallus remorselessly boring in and out of Trish’s love passage.  The plastic member was shiny and slick and the foam blanket around the hole was wet with Trish’s juices.  Her tee-shirt was soaked with sweat and damp patches were now showing on the skirt over her thighs, stomach and in the small of her back. 

The three of us looked down on Trish as she fought the ball and the incessant probing inside her.

“This is how it works, “ I told Monica, crouching down to show her the lever that controlled the speed.  Monica knelt down beside me and Jill leaned interestedly over her shoulder.  “There’s a transformer here, that converts the power from mains to twelve volt.  It can run off a car battery.”

“Or a truck battery?”  Monica asked. 

“A car battery on the back of a truck,” I agreed.  “See?  You just move this lever and the thing speeds up or slows down.  Try it.”

Monica pulled the lever forward and the vertical stroke movement speeded up, as did the nasal complaints from Trish, merging into a long grunting wail. That saw the sudden onset of another orgasm as she humped the cylinder, snorting and grunting and trying to breath at the same time, her breasts bouncing with the effort.  She was making exhausted “Urrgh… Urrgh…” noises as she struggled to regain the little composure she could still muster.  She looked at us balefully over the gag.

Monica eased the lever back so that the motor revs died and the phallus slowed right down.  Trish leaned forward, her head down, her shoulders sagging.  Monica put her hand on Trish’s bare thigh, feeling the trembling that was just visible.

“Very impressive, Steven,” she said, with what I accepted as genuine admiration.

“And you can tow it around, too,” exclaimed Jill, spotting the rope I had tied to the front.  Jill gave it a couple of tugs and Trish jerked forward with a renewed wail.  “We could have races round the verandah!”

Monica, now standing, slid her bare foot inside the cylinder and suddenly the revs went from almost nothing to full on.  Trish jerked upright with a desperate look on her face, struggling frenziedly at her bonds and making a despairing attempt to communicate to us that she could not stand any more of this.  Monica spoke as if Trish wasn’t there.

“Wouldn’t it be interesting to have this and the saddle going side by side.  I wonder which is the more effective?  Maybe we should put some money on it.  I think I’ve just found a suitable position for our guests tonight…”  Then she turned to go.  “You’ve done very well, Steven.  I have another job for you this afternoon. You’d better come along with me.  Trish will be okay for another hour or two.”

As we opened the door I looked back at the helpless figure staring at me in disbelief with pleading eyes.  She finally shook her head in a spray of sweat and screamed her hardest into the rubber ball.


Monica closed the door after me.

“Let her have one more then she can sleep it off – if she can make it to her bed, that is.”

*   *  *

Trish wasn’t speaking to me when I let her go, even after I helped her to stand and she had to lean on me all the way back to the house where she collapsed into one of the director’s chairs.  I got her a foot stool and made her comfortable with a nice sandwich and a large bottle of cold drink.  Monica and Jill were there and got the sulky treatment as well.

While all this was going on, Madam Wong was complaining most volubly as the whipping machine was obviously pushing her to the edge.  She was hopping about and crying into the gag, looking for somewhere on her body that did not hurt as much as the other parts, but finding none.  Her flesh was glowing red all over, from neck to knees.  Even the insides of her legs had been given a going over.  Given that the exposure was entirely voluntary it was the most amazing performance.

After lunch Leila and Mary had taken a sobbing Madam Wong down into the basement, to be replaced by Portia. A short time later Monica had asked me to accompany her to the basement.

We went via the outside door, pausing to enter the Observation Room, with its one-way windows into surrounding rooms.  In here we found Mary, dressed in her fearsome Gestapo outfit, with the long black leather skirt, boots, and tight tailored jacket.  On the other side of the glass, in the Interrogation Room, with its sinister heavy wooden chair standing alone in the middle, we found Megan.  She was not in the chair, but was in fact standing.  Her wrists were strapped behind her, horizontally, hand to elbow, and the strap around her forearms was tied to a cord which ran up over a pulley before being anchored to a cleat on the wall.  Aside from this, Megan was otherwise unfettered.  She wore a leather discipline helmet with nostril holes and a zipped mouth opening.  I was informed by Monica that Megan was gagged and had her ears plugged beneath the hood. 

“It’s a rather subtle method of bondage,” Monica explained.  “She has nothing to strain against, no way to rest or relax, as one might when lying on the floor or a bench or tied to a chair or a post.  The rope is too short for her to kneel, and she can’t reach the walls to lean on them.  No sight, no sound… She will be a very tired girl when Mary’s finished with her.”

“And what will you do with her then?”

“That’s an interesting question, Steven.  What do you think I should do with her?  What do you make of young Megan?”

“I think she’s in over her head.  I think she’s become involved with people that she finds she has no way of getting away from – people that are a lot worse than she thought, and who are probably different ethically, if they even get off the ground in the ethics standards, that is.”

Monica looked at the bound figure standing alone in the room beyond the one-way glass, then turned back to me. 

“I think you’re right,” she concurred.  “Sometimes you have quite remarkable insight for someone who calls himself a dumb builder.  What do you think, Mary?”  Mary uncoiled herself from her chair and stood up languidly.

“About what – Steven being a dumb builder or about our prisoner?”

“About Megan,” said Monica with a trace of annoyance.

“For once I agree with Steven,” she said.  “I’ll break her, no problem.  She’s not as tough as she makes out.  It’s all bluff.  Fine when she’s dolling it out, but she hasn’t got the resilience.  She’s got quite a bit of ‘switch’ in her.  Which usually means the Domme side just doesn’t make it up there with the real professionals.”

“Mary has been given the task of obtaining Megan’s life story,” Monica said.  “She is to do it with a minimum of physical pain.  Instead she can use sleeplessness, sensory deprivation, disorientation, deprivation of food, inducement with promises of all manner of things, role play, whatever.  Mary likes psychological games,” she added dryly.  “Megan will remain hooded most of the time and Mary will be her only contact with the outside.  Today’s Monday, Mary.  You have four days to get the full story.  On Friday I want to go with Mistress Megan to visit her establishment.  She will need to be compos mentis for that little outing.

“And let’s not forget we already know quite a bit about our Megan from that form she filled in when she first came here, under the guise of being a client.  I don’t believe she was making too much of that up.  Mary will now adopt the role of interrogator to learn everything she can about Megan, from where she was born, went to school, family, friends, education, work history, career, lovers, whatever.  When we have talked through this we can decide what to do with her in a more informed way. Think that will keep you occupied for a bit, Frau Kapitan?”

Mary smiled – an expression of one who has a purpose and is content with that purpose – and said nothing.  Whatever her crimes, I felt sorry for Megan at that moment. 

I followed Monica out of the room.  We went down the corridor into the dungeon.  Against the wall opposite the door was the still blindfolded and gagged Madam Wong, bound to the parallel bars that occupied most of the wall.  Her arms were outstretched and her feet spread.  Ropes secured her limbs at ankles, knees, the tops of her thighs, waist, elbows, wrists and above her breasts.  That was the beauty of the parallel bars – lots of things to attach body parts to.  Jill was there, looking as though she wished she could add one further rope, probably about Madam Wong’s neck.

Monica strolled over to the blind and silent figure, inspecting the ropes.  Jill had used multiple turns of white sashcord and Madam Wong could do little more than wiggle her fingers and toes and shake her head,

“Nice job, Jill,” said Monica, tweaking a vulnerable nipple that elicited a squeak of pain from the prisoner.  Then Monica faced Madam Wong and cupped her hands over the Chinese woman’s smooth oval mounds that held their flawless profile with her body stretched as it was.  She beckoned to me to approach almost within kissing distance. I did so, and she took her own hands away, grasping mine and putting them in place instead.  Madam Wong’s breasts were firm and youthful.  I wondered what I was supposed to be assessing.  One liners flicked through my brain to the effect that anything more than a handful was a waste, or that boobs should be measured in BSH – British Standard Hands.  So much for my university education.

Just as Mr Willy was starting to wake up in a major way, I was led gently away again, to the other side of the room.  Monica pinched my nipple through the fabric of my shirt.

“Ow!  What was that for?”

“A little reminder of the holes that you and I have in our nips, courtesy of our Chinese friends.  Now it’s payback time.  Here’s what I have in mind…”

*   *   *

Part Two

Monica’s request got me thinking and I spent an hour in my shed doing some experimentation before returning to the basement.  Jill was in the observation room watching Mary do a grilling of Megan and evidently keeping an eye on Madam Wong.

“Care to be the artisan’s assistant?”  I asked.

“Delighted,” she said, giving me her bewitching smile that always seemed to make me blush.  Considering the things she had managed to do to me when I was incapable of resistance, compared to the one and only time I had got my own back, it was a pretty bizarre relationship we had developed, and even stranger that nobody had caught us actually at it.  For the moment – unless Jill had been pillow talking to Emma -  it remained our own little secret.

I explained to Jill what I had been tasked to do and what I needed to be done, and we made our way into the dungeon.  Madam Wong, still bound to the bars, raised her head at the sound of the door opening and our footsteps crossing the concrete floor.  Neither Jill nor I spoke.  We had decided to add just a little uncertainty to the process.

Jill let her fingers begin to explore the helpless woman’s body, slipping in and out of her pussy and lightly caressing her breasts.  In no time the pink nipples were erect and hard, and were made more so as Jill nibbled at them and teased them with her tongue.  Madam Wong began to breathe heavily, her breaths tinged with soft moans of pleasure. At my signal Jill stepped aside to allow me to smooth a piece of plastic cling film over each breast, smoothing it down over the plump flesh and ensuring it clung tightly to the hard, pointing nipples that stood proud of the surface.  Madam Wong had small, pink areolae and nipples that were high, almost as much as a fingertip. I gave them each a final tweak as the plastic stuck to the flesh, eliciting a shudder from the prisoner.

The next step was to mix up a batch of builder’s bog – a rapid-hardening paste from a tin which was made to harden by the addition of a chemical hardener.  There was an art to this.  What I was trying to achieve was a workable impression of Madam Wong’s boobs, with the nipples erect.  To do this I needed her upright, since women’s breasts tend to go odd-shaped in the prone position, unless artificially supplemented. In the vertical position, the use of pourable materials would not work, leaving me to use a paste. Builder’s bog can set in a matter of minutes if too much hardener is used, and can become unworkable in half that time.  When hard, it has the consistency of wood, able to be drilled, sawn and sanded.  In this case I had to mix and place the stuff as fast as I could, with Jill’s fingers keeping the nipples erect by judicious manipulation down below.

I pasted the goop on with a spatula.  It did not matter what the outside looked like – it was the inside form that was important. Madam Wong grunted at the feel of the paste on her boob, but could do little except wonder what we were up to, I guess.  It took me about two minutes to cover her right breast with the stuff, then the same time to mix up a second batch.  Five minutes later she had two rough pink covers over her breasts, looking rather like someone had splattered her very accurately with a couple of small plates of pink whipped cream.  I gave Jill the thumbs up and we returned to the Observation Room for a quarter of an hour to let the bog harden.

“What will you do with it now?”  Jill asked.

“The next step is to remove the stuff intact, so that we have two moulds of her boobs.  We then use these moulds to cast positive replicas of her tits.  I’ll probably do that with clear resin.  When that is done, I’ll use the replicas to cast another covering over them, again in clear resin.  These will be about a centimetre thick and will perfectly fit over her breasts with the nipples erect.  They’ll be like a cross between something from Barbarella, Boadicea’s armour, and your most provocative female robot.”

“The point being…?”

“The point being, my dear,  a tit-for-tat response –if you’ll pardon the pun - for the injuries she inflicted on me and Monica in the same area.  You see, these will fit so exactly they’ll be like a second skin.  And they’ll be stuck there with superglue, remaining until the skin eventually exfoliates in a month or so. For that time she’ll have exceedingly heavy tits, not to mention tits that are totally insensitive, are so uncomfortable that she can’t lie face down, and that stick out like something Madonna might have dreamed up.  They will have permanent and very pronounced bumps on them, indicating a continuous state of arousal, which, of course, will be exactly the opposite of what she is really able to feel.”

Jill sat there open-mouthed.  “Don’t tell me – Monica thought this one up.”

“You’re so perceptive, Jill.  Yet another attribute for your CV, over and above your ability to take advantage of helplessly bound males as the urge seizes you.” This time it was Jill who blushed. 

“I haven’t heard any complaints,” she murmured, avoiding my eye.

“Hardly possible at the time, and not really likely afterwards,” I said.

Jill looked through the one-way glass at Mary.  She had removed Megan’s hood and the tape from her eyes and was obviously shouting at her.  We had the microphones turned off, but it was plain what was happening, and I was glad I did not have to face the Gestapo Queen in this mood.

“Should it be hard now?”  Jill asked.

“What?” I was only half concentrating.

“The bog-stuff, silly.  What did you think I meant?”

In the circumstances, after the close encounter with Madam Wong, and the view of the naked Megan getting the treatment, Mr Willy had raised his head and I wondered if Jill had noticed. 

“Oh,” I said. “Yeah, she should be done by now.”

*   *   *

Removal of the moulds turned out to be easier than I expected, and sure enough there was a perfect impression of a breast inside each one, albeit with faint cling wrap fold lines that could be sanded out in the positive moulding stage. 

Waxing the inside of each mould and pouring clear acrylic resin into each was straightforward.  We had plenty of the stuff lying around since Trish and Mary had bought far too much at the time when they had dealt to Wayne Bennelli while the rest of us had been in Macau.  Before long I had two perfect breasts lying on my work bench, the nipples stiff and upright.

I had wondered how best to create the “add-ons”, as I called the two pieces which would ultimately be glued to Madam Wong.  I wanted to do them in resin, since it had fluid properties that would enable a very close fit, rather than the rough builders bog.  Eventually I opted to used the bog moulds again, partially filled with resin, then with the acrylic breasts pushed down into the moulds keeping a thickness of about a centimetre away from the moulds.  It worked a treat, with the surplus resin dribbling over the top of the mould before the stuff finally set.  Pulling off the mould and extracting the acrylic tits left me with two ‘add-ons’, again in clear plastic.  I spent the rest of the afternoon painting concentric circles on them in black and white.  Who said builders weren’t artistic.

Monica was delighted and insisted we try them out at once.  Madam Wong was still bound to the bars, but was sporting the two terrible steel clamps that Portia had applied to Jillian when she was first imprisoned in the smallest niche under the stairs.  The Chinese woman was sobbing and moaning into her gag and as Monica roughly unscrewed the clamps Madam Wong shook her head violently and screamed  into the rubber ball.

Since we required her nipples to be erect, Monica had then to do a bit of cajoling in the pussy area, which brought forth more moans, this time of pleasure, but mixed with pain as Monica coaxed the nipples erect again.  Jill was looking in on the procedure as well, and thought it a huge joke the way I had painted the enhancements.  They fitted perfectly like moulded armour and gave Madam Wong a strange sixties look from the days when psychedelica ruled the fashion industry.   Monica tapped them with her knuckles.  Madam Wong, still unable to see what was happening, made a plaintive noise.

“Very good,” said Monica to me. “You really are a talented person.  We won’t put them on just yet.  We don’t want to hide those luscious nips too soon. There’s so much more pain they have to experience.” Madam Wong sobbed some more and further runnels of tears slid down from under the blindfold.

“Jill, it’s time for the operation,” Monica ordered.  Go and fetch Emma and Portia, please.”

*   *   *

I didn’t ask the details of what Monica had in mind, but suffice to say when I returned to the dungeon an hour later to collect some tools I had left there, both Portia and Madam Wong sported new adornments of a rather permanent kind, for both had had their labia pierced.  Emma was tidying up the sterilising equipment and was preparing to leave.

Madam Wong had not moved from her spread position on the wall bars, while Portia had been brought in and bound face up on the whipping bench.  Her legs had been parted and bent backwards down the sides of the bench, the ankles roped to an eyebolt.  Her arms had similarly been pulled forward down the sides and secured to the same anchor point.  Portia’s mouth was taped closed with multiple turns of duct tape wrapped around her head.  I could see the damp tear courses on her cheeks and from the corners of her eyes. 

“What do you think of my handiwork?” Emma asked.  I looked closely at Portia’s crotch and saw four small stainless steel rings inserted through each pussy lip in a neat row.

“You did this?” 

“With help from Monica and Jill.  What goes around, comes around, you know,” she said seriously.

“It’s very tidy,” I commented, noting that Madam Wong was now similarly adorned.  As we left and I closed the door behind us, Emma said:

“Those rings will eventually give them a nice little erotic thrill over and above whatever else they do to themselves down there.  However, in the meantime, if they were to be locked closed, that might tend to inhibit such erotic thrills, wouldn’t you think?”

“Much like certain inhibiting devices that were locked on to Leila and me?”

“And just as difficult to remove without the right tools.”

“So the plot sickens?”


*  *   *

With the success of Madam Wong’s breast enhancements, Monica wanted a pair for Portia as well, so the following day was in part devoted to a repeat performance.  For the rest of the week I was busy most of the time working on designs for the float with Trish. She was the artistic one of the team and between us we worked out our materials list and spoke to Debbie in Sydney.  Trish must have been in a forgiving mood, for she had got over her stint on the Jolly Rogerer and was on speaking terms with me. 

She was also on speaking terms with Debbie after the latter had convinced Trish the Tax Office was about to bust Bilboes while Monica and the rest of us had been in Macau.  At the time Trish had got her own back by putting Debbie through a long period squirming and climaxing in my specially designed saddle, but not before Debbie had worried the hell out of Trish with the whole bogus scenario and Trish had been convinced she had betrayed the whole team.  Of course Monica had seen it as a great joke, and had returned the favour by forcing Trish to endure two hours in the saddle as well. 

In the short time that Debbie had stayed with us immediately after the prank, she and Trish had become firm friends.  Debbie worked as a freelance in a similar sort of establishment in north Sydney, and was now our point of contact for the entry of the Bilboes float in the Mardigras.  We had spoken to her and ascertained the dimensions of the truck we were hiring, and hence what our limitations were on the scope of the project.  We had then marked out the dimensions of the tray of the truck on the lawn and experimented with various layouts.

While all this was going on, Portia and Madam Wong were undergoing various torments in the dungeon.  I was beginning to think the Mardigras, for all its national and international exposure and resulting humiliation (if we had our way) would be light relief after the physical torture that our guests would be experiencing in the basement.

With two exceptions, I was not required to be involved in concocting these devious trials.  The first of these was to fasten two of the stainless steel collars that we had worn, around the necks of Portia and her employer.  As Emma had said, ‘what goes around, comes around’, and in this case it was quite the case, literally.  However Monica – as always – wanted to go one step further.  After I had drilled out the remaining rivets of a couple of collars and re-riveted them around the prisoners’ throats, Monica wanted to preclude the possibility of easy removal, and insisted that I weld them such that they could not be easily drilled out.  Stainless steel welding is a difficult art, and not one that I claim to be proficient at.  In this instance I compromised and deposited a glob of weld on each rivet, which would make it a real bugger to remove by drilling.  This process was not without its difficulties, and I had to make sure the necks and heads of the prisoners were well protected.  This was readily solved with leather discipline helmets, which just might have been purpose-designed for the situation.

The pair were decidedly not happy with the circumstances now forced on them, particularly when the little zapper power boxes were bolted on to the collars.  The women were released on to the back lawn with their wrists tied behind them at that point, where Monica and Jill spent an evidently enjoyable half hour chasing the pair about with bullwhips, snapping them at their arses. Again, the buried cable proved its stopping power as more than once the pair blundered into its zone of influence.

My second involvement in the revenge process came a day later when Monica asked me to make a couple of what she called ‘back plates’.  There were very quick to make, using a jig saw and some 16-millimetre plywood. Essentially they consisted of a piece of ply shaped like a rough hourglass to match a woman’s body.  Tight straps fastened it to the victim’s back, under the armpits and around the body above and below the breasts. Further straps hugged the waist and came through the crotch around the top of each thigh.

“It does wonders for posture,” Monica enthused as the boards were strapped to Madam Wong and Portia, and their wrists were cuffed to a ring at the bottom of the board on each side.  The pair were given some food in bowls on the back lawn.  All they had to do was to figure out how to eat it.  Both made the mistake of trying to bend forward from a kneeling position, which was impossible. They wound up on their faces in the grass and found it impossible to get up again.  They could roll on to their backs or sides, but the total inflexibility now forced on their spines left them unable to get to their feet.  They spent the afternoon that way, their restrictions made more discomforting by having to dodge further whips and through sporting rather weighty nipple clips.

*  *   *

While all this was going on, Mary had been doing a particularly thorough job on Megan. By Thursday night the poor girl was in an exhausted sleep and we had as good a picture of her background as we could ever hope to obtain. Monica had been doing some background checks with her friends under some official guise of being a bank wanting character references from her friends.  She had pieced together her life story and found that Megan Blake in fact had an accounting degree from the University of Queensland, and had decided that figures on paper were pretty dull when you had a suppressed urge to get off by beating the crap out of people who were prepared to pay for it, and to occasionally lighten things by having the reverse done to you. 

Megan had evidently dabbled in this, working part time as an accountant for the Citadel, her establishment on the south side of the river, and one thing had led to another – more specifically to Megan buying out the business.  She had a head for business and had soon turned a marginal operation into a very profitable one.  It was a slightly larger enterprise than Bilboes in terms of staff, but did not have live-in accommodation like ours.  It sounded quite different, in fact, and my curiosity was piqued when Monica said we would be paying a visit to the Citadel the next morning, personally guided by Megan.

Where Megan had gone wrong, it seemed, was in the fact that while she was a good judge of what constituted a good business opportunity, she was not so hot in judging the characters that presented that opportunity.  In this particular case, when she had been approached by Portia with dollars up front to act as a partner with local knowledge in what amounted to a joint venture, the dollar signs that came with siding with a billionaire’s wife with an unlimited budget were too large to resist.  To Megan it was just another business takeover, and since Bilboes was both a rival to hers and had the potential to substantially increase her turnover through a merger, the opportunity was too good to go past.  Add to this assets – people and property – which would be incorporated into Citadel Corp for next to nothing, and you had a thick layer of icing on the already very nice looking cake.  Megan was clearly lured by the prospect of taking the tangible assets, while Portia and her employer had the satisfaction of total humiliation of their nemesis, namely one Monica Armstrong.

Since she had arrived at Bilboes and seen the approach taken by Portia and Madam Wong, Megan’s scruples had begun to surface and she now bitterly regretted her actions.  I was told that this regret had been expressed time and again, not always under direct duress, but frequently loudly and usually with tears.  Our Megan Blake was a very unhappy teddy and the uncertainty of her fate was evidently weighing heavily on her mind.  I wondered exactly what fate Mistress Monica was dreaming up for the unfortunate inhabitant of the Interrogation Room.

*   *   *

Citadel Corp was in a semi-industrial part of Bulimba, bordering the Brisbane River.  Much of Bulimba is now becoming trendy, centred around the al fresco dining and cinemas of Oxford Street, yet just a kilometre away is an area of warehouses, small manufacturers and fabrication businesses on land which evidently has yet to be classed as residential, for it will be worth a mint once that happens.

Citadel Corp was a low three-storey warehouse.  Its walls were of concrete and the roof of a dark green steel.  The perimeter had been landscaped with high hedges but here and there the chain link fence with the barbed wire on top was visible. 

Monica swung the BMW into the entry gateway with an automatic gate.  She punched in the code Megan instructed from the back seat where she sat beside me.  She was wearing black leather pants and a long sleeved lycra roll-neck of dark green that hid any marks that might have been evident.  I did not know if this was the case, nor did I really want to.  Megan looked tired and pale, like someone caught up in a nightmare that seemed to offer no way out.  I had seen the remote activation module sitting on the seat beside Monica and I had a fair idea that Megan would have that evil zap plug embedded in her arse, just waiting for her to try something silly.

As the steel gate swung open, a roller door began to rise in the building five metres beyond.  I was struck with the realisation that this was where Monica and I had been taken during our first kidnapping, and where we must have waited while our captors rifled Monica’s bag and black book. 

There was no obvious personnel entry point other than a small door alongside the roller door. There was no reception sign, no front office.  It was all very strange, with the words “Citadel Corp” hanging in heavy gothic lettering above the roller door, black and silver against the grey of the concrete wall.

Inside the building it looked like a typical warehouse, lit by bright orange lights hanging from the roof.  It had been some sort of manufacturing plant at some stage, for along each of the long walls, high up, was a crane rail, with a gantry crane spanning the full width of the warehouse which I guessed at being around thirty metres.  The building was perhaps twice that in length, one side being subdivided by a high wall that ran centrally down the length of the building.  The area we now drove into was obviously the car park, with painted car park spaces separated into “Mistresses” and “Slaves” .

Without asking, Monica pulled in to a Mistress space and got out, followed by Megan and myself.  Megan led the way to a door made like a portcullis and pressed a buzzer.  Moments later the door unlatched as somebody must have pushed a button inside.  I noticed a small cctv camera on the wall above the door.  Immediately below it was a welcoming quote which read:

 “I will show you something different from either 
Your shadow at morning striding behind you
Or your shadow at evening rising to meet you: 
I will show you fear in a handful of dust. “

“T.S.Elliot,” said Megan noticing me reading it.  “It’s from ‘The Waste Land’.”

“Scary,”  I commented.

“I hope so.”

Inside we found ourselves in a bare office with what looked to be very uncomfortable wooden benches on two of the walls.  The room was gloomy, lit only by a single low wattage unshaded light.  On the opposite side to the entrance another door, with a sign above it, the Gothic lettering on it reading:  “Abandon hope all ye who enter…” 

Beside the door was a high counter, with windows above it.  One of these slid open as we approached.  A young woman with severe gothic makeup and black straight hair looked down at us.  I reckoned the floor behind the counter must have been at least half a metre higher than where we stood, thus automatically giving the receptionist – if that was what she actually was – a natural height advantage.  The severe creature smiled at Megan, the sudden change in expression making her suddenly seem human.

“Megan!  We thought you’d given up on us!  How’s the Special Project going?” 

There was a moment’s hesitation before Megan smiled back. “It’s going well, thanks Caroline.  What’s happening this morning?”

Caroline consulted something in front of her.

“It’s quiet at the moment.  Mr Hickson’s in three, with Ann,  Bryan’s got a bungie in two and Mr Jeffries is on display.”

“Fine.  Any problems while I’ve been away?”  The girl shook her head.  “Good.  I have to go to Sydney tomorrow and I should be back next weekend.  I’m just showing a couple of potential clients around.”  She indicated us with a nod of her head.

Megan seemed a little more at ease in familiar surroundings.  She moved to one side of the room and I was astonished to see a large erect penis protruding through a hole in what looked like a steel plate half a metre wide running full height up a section of wall.  At chest level there were two smaller holes with strings running through them.  At the free ends were two brass bells each the size of a plum.

“This is our display,” Megan explained.  She fingered the member which abruptly stiffened and made as if to withdraw, prompting a jingling of the bells as the strings were tugged together.  She spat in the palm of her hand and gave the protruding phallus a gentle massage.  I thought I could hear moaning from the other side of the wall, but it was very faint.  She worked her speed up a little then stopped abruptly and seized a small multi-tailed flogger where it hung on a nail next to the steel panel, and gave member several rapid blows.  The bells jiggled and clanged and there was more muffled protesting but the object of the blows did not withdraw.

“He’s gagged with a ball that is locked to a u-bolt welded to the steel, on the other side,” Megan explained.  “He can’t withdraw, partly because of that, but also because there are two sharp needles on a stand immediately behind him.  Any backward movement and he gets jabbed in the bum.  He has no idea who is doing things to him, and we encourage passing staff to give things a grope, fondle, suck, smack, whatever they like.  He has no idea what will come at him when.  And although exposed to other visitors, his identity remains concealed.  It’s humiliation without exposure.”

“Clever,”  Monica commented.  “I like it.”

Megan led the way up a set of stairs, past a balcony and door at first floor level, and up to a point above where I thought the second floor to be – if there was one.  We emerged from the stairwell through a door on to a catwalk suspended close to the roof.  When I got my bearings I realised it was some sort of maintenance access way running along the length of the building above the gantry crane, which spanned from wall to wall just below it.

The steel-framed access way was over a metre wide and had been carpeted.  We walked a few metres and I saw that this side of the warehouse had been divided into a series of rooms and that as we walked along the access way we could look down into each of these rooms in turn.

“The first one is the cyber area.  We have two consoles set up there to do cyber interaction,” said Megan.  The room was at first floor level, open to our view and set up like an office with two workstations with computer monitors, while the rest of the area was more like an airport waiting lounge.  It was all very modern and comfortable.   “It also serves as a relaxation area for the girls when they’re off duty.”

The next room turned out to be more typical of the remainder.  It was about five metres wide, being half the spacing of the warehouse steel frames, by ten metres long – about a third of the total building width.  By Bilboes standards it was huge, and gave ample scope for all manner of improvisation and innovation, I thought.  The walls were full a full two stories high, made from plastered blockwork, imprinted and painted very effectively to look like large sandstone blocks.  The concrete floor had likewise been recoated and imprinted to give the impression of being a flag-stoned dungeon floor.  At the level of our catwalk, there was a steel ‘ceiling’ of bars.  Various pulleys hung from this and I could see several timber planks laid on top of the bars, presumably for access to lights which were positioned just below the bars, and also to position pulleys and ropes.  The whole effect was one of an enormous chamber, very brooding and overpowering.  In this particular one there was much dungeon equipment, rather like our own, including a rack, a St Andrew’s cross, stocks and several whipping benches.  I thought all that was missing were a few flaming torches in lieu of the lights.

The second ‘room’ was constructed exactly like the first, but was essentially bare, except for more suspension facilities, most of which were cleated off to the side walls.  It was more like a training room for circus acrobats.  At that moment it was occupied by two people, one female and one male.  The female was naked, save for a solid-looking leather strap harness, not unlike a parachute harness, supported as it was at the shoulder straps with the supports attached to a short horizontal bar just above head height.  This bar was in turn was connected to a beam at roof level by bungy cords, which left the victim – since that was what she appeared to be – suspended just above floor level. 

We stopped and watched the pair.  The girl was blonde, her long hair in a pony tail.  She hung in the harness, her eyes covered with a leather blindfold and her hands tied behind her.  The man was heavyset, dressed in black leather trousers and a black tee-shirt.  His hair was thinning on top and ran down into a trimmed brown beard.  As we stood there, he flicked at the girl with a riding crop.  She yelped and twisted in the harness, her reaction making her begin to swing.  The man grabbed her by the hips and pulled her downwards until her feet were on the floor and her knees bent.

“Aaaaahhh!” she exclaimed.  This was followed by a further, shorter series of “oo’s” and “aahh’s” as he let her go and  she bounced up and down like a yoyo.

“Large dildo inside her,” Megan commented casually, explaining the sound effects.  “Very effective and very frustrating when you can’t get any purchase on anything and don’t know which way you’ll be bouncing next.”

The girl’s exclamations were starting to speed up, and she began to launch into a series of profanities that ended in “ohgodohgodohgod…”  The man gripped her by the nipples at that moment, prompting a shriek as she came to an abrupt halt. 

“You need to be taught a lesson in nice talk, my dear,” said the man.  “If you can’t talk politely, you shouldn’t be allowed to talk.”

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, please let me have some more, Master…”  The man let her hang there for a minute as she squirmed in the harness, trying to continue what had obviously been started.  “What are you doing?” she asked timorously, sensing his movement behind her.

“Shutting you up,” he said, “ -not that it’s any of your business what I do.”

“No!  I’ll be good!  I’ll be – urf! Gurk!”  Her pleading turned to splutterings as the man pulled her head back by the pony tail and forced a large red ball gag behind her teeth, then buckled the strap behind her neck.  He followed this with a series of strokes of the crop across her backside that made her jerk and bounce, her untethered legs swinging about wildly as she yelped nasally into the rubber ball with each blow.  I moved close to Monica where she stood apart from Megan.

“Did that girl sound like anyone we know?” I whispered in her ear.

“Yes…It did.  Refresh my memory.”

“Pain slut Lisa?”

“My God – you’re right,” she murmured.  “Hmmm.  This makes things more complicated.  Well spotted.”

We moved on along the catwalk, Lisa’s muffled moans and cries drifting about the rafters as she bounced about on the bungy. 

“The sound carries upwards,” Megan said, “but not much gets through the walls.  The rooms are surprisingly well insulated from each other.”

The third room immediately caught my interest, not least through the soft hiss of a vacuum pump.

“What’s going on here?” asked Monica, obviously intrigued.

“Vacuum play,” said Megan.  “Part of the installation that was here when the place was first converted was a vacuum pump and compressed air system.  Apparently they’re pretty standard in a place like this involved in mechanical engineering. The great thing about the vacuum system is that it is really powerful and can sustain that pressure.  Kirsten is quite good at this.”

We stood there and watched as a young dark-haired woman knelt on a table.  She was naked but not restrained in any way.  In her mouth was a plastic pipe protruding from some sort of mouthpiece, a bit like the adapter snorkel mouthpieces we sometimes used at Bilboes.  The pipe stuck straight out from her mouth and she looked with some trepidation at what was about to happen to her.  This was a complete envelopment in a large plastic bag, on which she knelt. 

The enveloping process was being done by a girl wearing a black leather catsuit and improbably high heels.  Her auburn hair was pulled back into a pony tail and she wore a half-mask covering the upper part of her face.  She was all business as she pulled the top edges of the clear plastic bag up over the head of the victim and tied the top closed with a couple of cable ties, after inserting a rubber hose that was connected to a steel pipe fixed to the wall.  Having sealed her charge in, the brunette picked up a small knife and made a hole in the plastic for the mouth pipe to stick through, then taped the plastic against the pipe to seal the joint.

”Ready, Jo?” she asked.  There was a nodding from the plastic bag.  Kirsten picked up the rubber hose and opened a small screw valve on it.  At once the air was sucked out of the plastic bag, pulling the plastic tightly against the kneeling figure, drawing the loose folds into crevices between limbs and outlining every curve and bump.

Kirsten prodded the figure.  It seemed to have lost all flexibility, almost as though it had been turned to stone.  Carefully she laid the woman on her side.  There was no movement from the figure – every limb remained transfixed by the force of the vacuum and the restraining power of the plastic.

“Okay?”  Kirsten asked.

There was a faint “wooo” from the pipe in Jo’s mouth.

“Every done this?” Megan asked.  Monica shook her head. 

“I’ve read about it, but never had the equipment.  Very impressive.”

“It’s amazingly effective.  You can hardly move a muscle.  Totally scary the first time.  Quite freaky, in fact.  It can be a struggle to breath, although the lungs are very strong muscles.  Any position you like – its like instant freezing.  The pressure inside the bag is unexpected.  Add a vibrator or two and things can get quite intense.  We’ve also got the compressed air, as I said, but haven’t worked out quite how to deal with that yet.  It’s a bit harder than the vacuum, and could potentially do more damage.”

We lingered a few minutes as Kirsten moved close to the bagged figure on the table and began to torment it with a pair of clamps placed over the plastic on nipples and then a series of warm-ups with a riding crop.  The figure heaved and tried to struggle as much as it could, but it was pretty futile in the enveloping clasp of the heavy plastic.

Elsewhere within the room there was another table, the size of a double bed, padded and fitted with numerous restraining straps, while in the corner were three steel cages.  One was perhaps a metre and a half on a side – high enough for most people to nearly stand up in, and certainly to move around a bit.  A second was barely larger than a kneeling person, and looked as though it would be extremely uncomfortable, while a third was circular, perhaps half a metre in diameter and the height of a person.  It hung from a cable connected to a winch on one of the steel columns.  These people were clearly investing serious money in some of their gear.

Monica was already moving on to the last room of the line.  Here the high walls had stopped although there were a further three bays yet to be used and the access way continued to the end of the building. The interior of this last ‘room’ had been subdivided.  For the length of one long wall there was an open corridor we could look down on, running at right angles to the access way.  The remainder of the space had been split into three smaller rooms.  They were closed in by ceilings at around three metres, considerably lower than the main dividing walls, and all we could see were the tops of the joists and the lighting fixtures as they poked through the ceilings themselves.

“These are holding cells and other, more intimate rooms, such as you guys have,” Megan explained.

Beyond the last full height blockwork wall the access way continued.  It was not a place for a person afraid of heights, perched as we were ten metres above the concrete floor.  We looked briefly over this area, noting a few cars parked there, evidently for staff parking.  It was all a very cosy set-up.  Near to the first car were what had obviously been vehicle inspection pits.  Monica looked thoughtfully at them.

“They’d make very good below-ground cages,” Megan said, evidently reading her thoughts, for Monica merely nodded.

“All right,” Monica said eventually, turning to face us and the way we’d come..  “I’ve seen enough.  We can go now.”

Megan, realising the guided tour was over, at once became less loquacious and meekly asked Monica: “What are you going to do with me?”

“Oh don’t worry, Megan, I have plans for you,” Monica told her, at once condescending and conspiratorial.  “They involve a return to Bilboes and a trip to Sydney, after which things may get better for you.  In the meantime I need to be convinced that you entered this whole business in a naive but greedy moment, not understanding the seriously twisted minds you were getting involved with.  I think you’re making progress on that score.  Tomorrow you will be with us when we drive south and you will have a long time for thinking about what you need to do to be a little more convincing.  Before we leave tomorrow I will make you a proposition, which you would do well to consider before answering,” she continued enigmatically.  “Now it’s time to return, and don’t forget, dear Megan, that I have the remote which you and your friends enjoyed so much in tormenting poor Steven here, not to mention Leila and Emma.  And you, of course, have the plug buried in your arse.  If you haven’t worked it out already, my sweet, I do not like my staff being abused, so I suggest you watch your tongue on the way out, just to keep everybody happy.  Shall we go?” 

*   *   *


Monica's Revenge continues in Chapter Fourteen
All comments welcome at
© R.Alexander 2006

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

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