Monica's Place: 1. The Initiation

by Richard Alexander

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© Copyright 2002 - Richard Alexander - Used by permission

Storycodes: MF/mf; bondage; bdsm; cons/nc; XXX

Book 1 of the Monica Chronicles by Richard Alexander

Chapter One:  The Initiation

Monica and I had been at junior school together, but had not seen each other since then. It had been perhaps 15 years previously when we had each gone our separate ways to different high schools. While I had attended the local state school, Monica - as I later found out - had been sent to a rather expensive boarding school for girls on the outskirts of Brisbane.

We had been friends at school, but I had barely thought about her in the intervening years as I got my building business up and running - something which took all my time and energy. Then had come the crash, the failure of clients to pay and the collapse of the construction industry that had cleaned me out.  I now worked as a one-man band in the western suburbs of Brisbane, doing small jobs that kept my head above the financial water level dictated by my bank manager.

As I said, I had barely thought about Monica Armstrong in the intervening years. The message on my answering machine, requesting that I visit an address on the western fringe of the city to look at doing some alterations to an existing house for a Miss Armstrong, meant nothing at the time.

The house was an old Queenslander - large and square, with a covered verandah on three sides, and the main floor raised on poles above the ground. This latter effect was partly for coolness and partly to keep crawly insect nasties at a distance. This particular house was perhaps a hundred years old and looked to be in a wonderful condition.  It was white with dark green trim to the doors and windows which were of clear varnished timber.  The verandah posts, the ornate filigree work beside each one and the elaborate wrought iron infills to the railings were also painted dark green. 

The house stood at the end of a hundred metre long curved driveway surrounded by eucalypts and various types of palm trees - a not-unusual combination in Queensland’s lush climate. It was a very private setting, being perhaps a kilometre from the nearest neighbour down the road, and it could barely be seen from the road. The road frontage was a thicket of dense foliage with probably all manner of nasty thorns that any intruder would have to negotiate, and the only break being a pair of large steel gates between stout abutting stone walls. On one side a brass nameplate simply stated “Bilboes”. The gates had opened silently when I announced myself on the intercom. 

I parked in front of the house, noting how at some recent time the underneath of the house had been enclosed with blockwork walls set back a couple of metres from the overhanging edge of the verandah. Ordinarily I would have regarded this as heresy, but it had been done so discretely, and was so well concealed with planting that it was barely noticeable. I could not help noting, either, the carparking for perhaps ten cars. Once again it had all been done very cleverly, with little spaces tucked between trees and areas of garden.

I walked up the wide timber steps on to the verandah and rang the bell, admiring the polished double cedar doors as I stood there. 

“Good morning.”

I was greeted by an extraordinarily attractive young woman in her late-twenties, who introduced herself as Jillian. Her blonde hair was short and pulled back behind her ears. She had a strong, angular jaw line and smiled the most welcoming smile I have had from a client for a long time. I followed her into a spacious reception area. The floors were of polished Tasmanian oak, and all the finishings were in keeping with the era of the house. As a builder I could appreciate quality fittings and hardware – or, more to the point, the money required to purchase such things and maintain them. In between admiring the construction of the place, I could not help but also admire the construction of Jillian, as she led the way down the main hall before knocking on a door to the left, and entering. She was about 180 centimetres tall, her height accented by the sleeveless white dress she wore that stopped halfway down her thighs. Simple brown leather sandals with the straps winding about her ankles completed her outfit - the essence of coolness on what was a sticky humid Brisbane summer day.

I followed her into a large high-ceilinged library or study, with floor to ceiling bookshelves on two opposing walls, while the side opposite the door had large French doors that opened on to the verandah.  Overhead a ceiling fan revolved slowly, while on the wall beside the door through which I had entered were two wall-mounted television screens.  The room had an air of tidiness and order that suggested its usual occupant was organised and fastidious.

“Mr Reynolds, this is Monica Armstrong, mistress of the house,” Jillian announced, before leaving and closing the door behind her. It was then that the penny finally dropped. I guess I grinned stupidly, with the realisation that this elegant woman was the slightly gawky girl I had known all those years ago.

Monica smiled. “I thought it was you - just a hunch I had from your advertisement. You always did want to be a builder.” She was not just elegant, she was stunning.  As she shook my hand I saw she was as tall as I was, her penetrating blue eyes looking directly into mine. The jet-black hair was now shorter - just touching her shoulders and impeccably styled. Like Jillian, her attire was suited to the warm weather. A deep emerald green colour, her dress was short and simple, with a plunging neckline set off by a gold choker collar. I could not help but notice that Monica’s figure had certainly developed since my last memory of her. Her cleavage was a striking cream against the material of the dress.  “I was hoping it was you, Steven. Even if I had been wrong, I still need a genuine builder. I feel more comfortable now, knowing it is you.  I think I have some work that may be a little out of the ordinary, but it may nevertheless interest you.”  And that was how the whole thing started. 

Monica was very up-front. The house was hers - bought partly with an inheritance and partly through her own earnings, she explained. I did not go into exactly what the ‘earnings’ originated from. Suffice to say the place now operated as a high-class brothel, catering only to the well-heeled and powerful figures in Queensland society. Discretion was guaranteed, not just by the staff, but by the fact that a number of Monica’s clients would neither like to be publicly associated with the place, nor would they like to see it’s services disappear.

Monica gave me a tour of the ground floor and upper storey, sizing me up initially, as though assessing how much to disclose.  The house was roughly square in plan, built around a central stairwell with clerestorey windows which let in light but were protected from the harsh sun by slatted shutters. There were five bedrooms upstairs, with brass numbers from “1” to “4” on each door.  The fifth was Monica’s.  Each had an ensuite, and each bedroom was decorated differently.  In one there was a four poster, in another a waterbed, and so on.  I had to admit that it had all been done extremely well, given the century-old surroundings.  That, I was told, was due to Trish, one of Monica’s team who evidently used to be an interior designer in a past life.  On the main level, branching out to the right off the main reception area at the foot of the stairs was a large living room.  This could be partitioned down the middle to create two smaller “waiting rooms” as Monica called them.  Next to the living room and moving anticlockwise around the house was a dining room, a less formal communal room with a large breakfast table, then - also looking on to the rear garden - a modern kitchen, laundry and adjoining verandah.  Then came Monica’s office and a ground floor bathroom.  Once again I had to say I was immensely impressed with the quality that had been achieved. To the rear, from the verandah, steps led past a jacuzzi, down to a pool that seemed to appear straight out of the jungle, amidst rocks and palms. Beyond that, up a small rise and half hidden by foliage was a small, obviously new building, which Monica referred to as “the girls’ quarters”.

“All this is, if you like, the “front” - the more legitimate side of the business,” she told me, watching me carefully.  “All our services here are straight, standard, orthodox, call them what you will.  Are you interested in going further? It’s not all strictly legal...” She looked at me quizzically.

“Sure,” I said. “Lead on.”  We were standing in the reception area at this point. Monica smiled, and swung a small picture out from the wall. Behind it was a small lever recessed into the wall.  It was a little clichéd, but I was still impressed.  When she pulled it down, a section of wall beside it swung open, revealing a stairway leading down into the closed in section below the house.  “This is the other side of the business,” she told me seriously.  “We can cater for many clients here - or at least we will do, when we have it properly fitted out.  The area has only recently been built, and hasn’t been finished.  We‘ve been looking round for the right person to do it - someone with the skills to do a proper job, someone who won’t rip us off, and someone with absolute discretion.  I hope you’re that person, Steve.  My instinct tells me this may be the case.”

Her blue eyes looked at me steadily, then we descended the sandstone steps into the cool gloom.  “I told the previous builder this area was to be a combination of wine cellars and a darkroom complex. He didn’t care, as long as he got paid. And even then he charged like a wounded bull.  I got rid of him before we got to the fit-out stage.  Which is where we are now...”

Which is where it all got interesting.  What Monica was talking about here was fully equipped dungeons, with racks, cages, chains, pillories, the works.  At her previous premises she had indulged in it to a limited degree - limited by space, cost - and noise insulation.  With her inheritance she was now gambling on an increase in a very special patronage, catering for a niche market.  While I had not had first hand experience of such an establishment, I knew what they were about, and - I confess - the prospect of such varied and interesting work excited me.  We walked through the gloomy rooms beneath the house.  They were still at the bare blockwork stage - no doors, just the openings in the blockwork, save for an emergency exit in the form of a solid steel exterior door.  The ductwork from the airconditioning system was visible, since no ceilings had been installed.  It was a basic, empty shell waiting for a transformation. 

We talked all afternoon and then over dinner.  Monica introduced me to the rest of her “team”.  Jillian I had already met. She was Monica’s right hand, arranging, coordinating and sharing working with the clients, but it was Monica who controlled the money, the policy, the clientele and the girls.  There were four others:

 Mary was the eldest, perhaps in her mid-thirties, tall and elegant, but with a mean streak, so Monica informed me later.  She was slim with short raven-black hair waving gently behind her ears.  She had once been a television reporter before succumbing to the lure of the call-girl money. 

 Emma was Chinese, although second-generation Australian. Her hair hung past her shoulders, but unlike most Chinese, she had breasts that any European girl would have died for.  They bounced nicely when she walked. She came across as demure and submissive, but Monica warned me not to be fooled.

 Leila was a blonde, a little like Jillian, but slightly shorter.  Her hair came just to her neck, and she had a cheerful, pleasant personality.  Again, I was warned, don’t be fooled.

 Patricia was the last of the team, tall and brunette, with her hair straight to her shoulders. Trish was in her thirties - not that she looked it - and was from Vancouver, where she had first indulged her interior decoration fantasies before turning to the more hedonistic of them.  She had the huskiest, sexiest voice I had ever heard.  Her laugh was throaty and infectious.  I could hardly get enough.  But that really went for all of them.  Monica sure knew talent when she saw it. 

I stayed for dinner, cooked, in this instance, by Monica herself. The girls all joined Monica and myself at the big dining room table after dinner, where the ideas poured forth. It was pretty clear that despite the apparent freshness of these girls, at least Mary and Trish were hardened to the darker side of the work, and had come across clients and client needs that I could barely comprehend. Monica explained that they had to cater for both male and female clients. Sometimes they were straight, sometimes gay, sometimes dominant, sometimes submissive. Both masters and slaves (sometimes together) visited “Bilboes”.  The girls categorized them into “upstairs” and “downstairs” clients, depending on whether they wanted straight sex or something more elaborate, be it punishment, role-playing, or catering to some sort of fetish.  Most tastes could be catered for by the downstairs team, I gathered, if the money was right.  If they didn’t have the equipment, they would get it.  Which was why I was there.

During the early part of what was turning into the longest interview I had ever had, Monica had quizzed me about my technical abilities.  Could I weld?  Could I lay bricks and mix concrete?  Did I know anything about electrics?  At the time it had puzzled me, but now it was all falling into place. They wanted one trustworthy guy to fully fit out their dungeons.

Over the course of the evening, all manner of ideas came from the girls over several bottles of Cabernet Sauvignon.  Entertaining was also something they were adept at.  I made sketches, drew rough plans and - truth be known - enjoyed myself more than I had for years.  Money, it seemed, was not a major obstacle for Monica.  She did not mind spending it as long as she knew she was getting the best job possible and was getting a fair deal.  And I could see a lot of money being spent.  I did not know the extent of the inheritance she had received, but it was obviously not small. 

“You let me worry about the budget,” she told me.  “As long as you don’t rip me off, there’ll be no problem.  If you do -” she added with a malicious smile,  “you’ll get to trial the full extent of all the facilities I want to construct - slowly, and over a long period of time.  You really don’t want that, do you?”

There was no business at “Bilboes” that night, other than our long tabletop discussion.  With the amount of wine I had drunk, I took Monica up on her offer to stay the night.  After the girls had retired to their “quarters”, Monica showed me to a huge bedroom dominated by an ornate four-poster. Much as I would have enjoyed her company further, she let it be known that our relationship - at least at this stage - was to be purely business.

“Why ‘Bilboes’?” I asked Monica just as she turned to leave.

“Nothing to do with Hobbits and Middle Earth folk,” she told me with a smile.  “That’s what most people think of, but the spelling is wrong.  Bilboes are kind of leg irons - like two D-shackles with a long bar through them.  The name came from Bilbao in the sixteenth century.”

“Ah,” I said. “Discrete, memorable, catchy, but with enough overtones for those in the know.  You’ve thought it all out, haven’t you.”

“I think so,” she said softly, confidently, pulling the door closed as she left.

The next day Monica and I studied plans and I drew up lists of material we would require.  More importantly we programmed the work firstly to suit the running of the place around her clients’ schedules.  Secondly there was a priority to the work to be carried out “downstairs”.  Despite my wish to do the whole area by trade, that is, install all the plumbing first, then the electrics, and so on, Monica wanted a sequence of rooms to be fully completed one at a time.  The obvious reason for this was to get the rooms up and running with paying customers. 

“We already have a number of clients waiting from our previous place – that is waiting for us to get their little perversions teed up,” she laughed. There was no malice or condescension here.  Monica genuinely enjoyed what she did, and seemed to have no reservations about what might be normal or abnormal. She was not one to make judgments, it appeared.

“Mary and Trish are the main purveyors in the downstairs department. The other three are only just beginning.  They’ve been with me for a while on the straight stuff, but downstairs is a whole new ball game.  Well, perhaps not for Jillian and Emma,” she added cryptically.  “But at least they’re learning to do it properly now.  They’re our trainees, and they recognise that they will have to often learn the hard way...  Let me show you an instance of a client on the waiting list.”  I followed Monica downstairs.  She led the way with a broad beamed torch, choosing to ignore the temporary lights strung at infrequent intervals via a loose cable tied to nails on the exposed joists above.  Turning into a black opening in one room, I could hear whimpering coming from the darkness.

“This is Lisa,” Monica said, playing the torch on a pale form that hung suspended in the gloom.  “Lisa is one of our regular clients,” Monica explained, playing the light again over the suspended woman.  I could see a long hank of blonde hair trailing in the dust of the concrete floor from where her head hung backwards, about half a metre clear of the ground.  Lisa’s ankles had been cuffed to a spreader bar, the ends of which were attached to a large hook by chains about a metre long.  Lisa’s wrists, cuffed together in front of her, had also been chained to the hook with a metre-long chain.  The hook was on the end of some stout-looking sashcord looping over a pulley which was in turn chained to an exposed beam.  The cord went down to a small hand-winch that had been chained to the base of a supporting post.  I shuddered at the makeshift way the system had been installed. 

Lisa hung there, slowly revolving in the torchlight.  Her head was encased in a black leather hood which only had holes for her nose and the long tail of hair. From her nasal moaning I surmised Lisa was well and truly gagged behind the leather.  A short silver chain connecting two nipple clamps glinted in the light.  With her ankles and wrists in the air, her buttocks and pussy were extraordinarily vulnerable, and Monica swatted her several times on the inside of her thighs with a loose rope end.  The woman jerked and whined, the noise rising as Monica slipped her hand between the exposed pussy lips.  Lisa began to squirm and shudder, her breath starting to come in rapid nasal panting.

“Mnnh! Mnnh! Mnnh! Mnnh!” she moaned, beginning to struggle and quiver, striving to extract more from Monica’s gently tantalising fingers.  Monica laughed pulled her hand away, then spun the helpless figure.

“Not yet, Lisa dear.  You still have a long way to go before that.  It’s better to travel hopefully than to arrive, isn’t that what they say?”  The prisoner shook her head in a desperate whining plea.  Monica took me by the arm and we left the girl slowly rotating on the chain.

“See what I mean about paying customers?”

“Yes.  And I see what you mean by needing someone to make a proper job of your suspension apparatus too,” I added.  I tried to overlook the fact that whole scene had been an intense turn on, and Mr Willy, my best mate, had viewed Lisa’s predicament with unabashed interest from an upright position. 

I was to see more of Lisa in the coming months.  She could usually be relied upon to be the client in the most stringent position - a regular customer of Mary and Trish’s.  I had just been introduced to the world of B & D, S & M, and a variety of other parts of the alphabet.  I had to admit the job prospects just seemed to be getting better and better.

Monica was an amazing person who knew exactly what she wanted, and usually got her way.  In designing the layout for “downstairs”, she had done a pretty good job, obviously based on previous experiences which I did not ask about.  There were something like seventeen rooms downstairs - eighteen if you counted the caged spaces under the stairs.  All windowless, their walls of solid-filled concrete block, and with a three and a half metre ceiling, the rooms were air-conditioned through ceiling-hung ductwork and were able to be cooled or heated at the touch of a dial.

Monica’s sequence of rooms to be completed was in fact totally logical, governed by which could be most easily finished, and which would support the known good-payers.  She aimed to provide the best B & D service in the state.  What I did not realise at the time was the degree to which I would become involved in the whole scheme...

As I become more familiar with Monica’s requirements and the scope of work, I relocated to a vacant room in the girls’ quarters.  The amount of work facing me was such that I deferred all other calls and jobs for the time being, referring them to a friend who was also a builder, telling him I was on a big job out of town.  I returned home once a week to collect my mail, but basically my bachelor pad had little to be taken care of in it.

At my new abode, there were six rooms with ensuites and a separate laundry in the block at the rear of the house, beyond the pool.  While Monica had her own room and office in the main house, the girls were independent within their own quarters, connected as they were by phone to the main building.  The bedrooms all faced on to a long verandah, and it was here that they often lounged about between clients, enjoying the peace and quiet of the idyllic country setting.  My room was next to Mary’s, at the near end of the row. I shared meals with the girls in the main house, they taking it in turns to cook, all having considerably better than my limited culinary skills. 

What I only gradually came to understand, as building work progressed beyond the more mundane aspects of electrical wiring and plumbing, was that all the basement rooms had been very carefully thought out by Monica.  Not only the rooms themselves, but also their contents.  What I did not appreciate, either, was that any apparatus I designed and made, had to be fully tested.  Since I was the largest person in the household - as strong as the average client might be likely to be, I had to build everything with my body in mind as a minimum for strength requirements.  Being a cautious person, everything was considerably over-designed, probably able to take Arnie Schwarzenegger at a pinch.  Nobody escaped from or broke my stuff, I decided.  Ultimately I had to test it, however - to be the guineapig.  Similarly, one of the girls had to volunteer, and all had to be familiar with the little nuances that Monica and I designed into these special fittings. 

I set up shop in a spare garage next to the house.  This gave me privacy and a place to experiment and put my ideas into practice.  In other words I was doing what I loved - creating, experimenting and improving.  And getting paid for it!  The first downstairs rooms I worked on were very plain cells - holding cells if you like.  Facing on to the hallway to the right of the stairs, they were only three metres by one and a half.  This was just enough room for a narrow futon on the concrete floor, and a toilet.  The cells had heavy steel-faced doors and frames set securely into the blockwork, with spy holes in them and keyed locks.  The walls remained concrete block painted matt black, as was the fibre-cement ceiling.  Fibre cement is heavy stuff to lift, and even though I did it with an airlift - a half metre square platform that could rise up on a telescopic shaft powered by compressed air - it still required the assistance of a second person.  It was Leila who volunteered for this duty, in part, I think, because she was the most junior and in part because she had most to do with the storeroom, which was to be my next task.

I liked Leila.  She was probably 24 or so, and still had that fresh-faced enthusiasm that had yet to turn to the cynicism that so often befalls us, especially in such a business that was exposed to the misfits of society.  Leila told me she was only in it for the money - she had not yet got to the stage of really enjoying inflicting pain and humiliation. 

“That said,” she admitted, “some of it still turns me on, as much as some of the other stuff turns me off.”

“Do your clients ever get violent?” I asked.

“Very rarely. Firstly, they are generally here voluntarily, although we do have some slaves that are brought here already restrained, sometimes gagged, so we can’t always get their opinion.“  She smiled.  “But we don’t go in for real pain - I mean mutilation or anything like that - and what we do is usually with the client’s written permission.  Monica has forms that they have to sign.  But while they’re under treatment, we generally keep them well secured - you know, only releasing one hand at a time.  That sort of thing. Mary and Trish taught me how to do that.  They’re really good.”

“But don’t you get the odd one - maybe a bit drunk, or deciding he didn’t get his money’s worth, or whatever?”

“Only very occasionally.  Usually Monica will calm things down, but once or twice we have had to get physical with them.  We all know self-defence, if the client starts on us, and we know a few subduing holds as well. Maybe I’ll get to show you some time,” she said, a roguish twinkle in her eye.

“I’m not sure I really wish to try you out,” I said, from the top of my ladder, screwing up the last of the sheets to the ceiling. 

It took me the rest of the day to fit the light, with it’s recessed perspex cover, the flush air conditioning supply and return grills, and the tiny closed circuit camera, which could also operate on infrared, in the dark.  This took time, with Leila calling out directions from the observation room round the corner.  The final fittings were several eyebolts screwed into the concrete blocks at strategic points within the room.  There was no mistaking what these were for.

Leila also helped me with the storeroom over the next couple of days. About three metres by four, it was directly opposite the foot of the stairs, with the corridor running right round it like a moat around a castle.  Off the corridor were all the other rooms I had yet to work in.  It was in the storeroom I really started to get to grips with what the business was all about.  While I had read about half of this stuff, there was no substitute for seeing it in the flesh, ready to be used on the flesh.  Leila took great delight in explaining to me about the different types of vibrators and dildos, and all manner of nipple clamps.  I put up shelves for these, and a variety of hooks on one wall to cater for chains, handcuffs and whips.  These ranged from flat paddles to floggers, to cat-o-nine-tails, riding crops, canes, and a nasty-looking bullwhip about two-metres long in braided leather.

“It’s a cut-down version,” Leila explained.  “We really don’t have the room to use a full sized one indoors here, apart from the fact that it does a lot of damage to unprotected skin.”

There were more shelves for the gags and the blindfolds, the hoods, harnesses, cuffs and ropes.  In the middle of the room I installed a large stand-alone closet, where a range of “garments” were stored. 

“All of us use these,” Leila explained.  “There are nurses uniforms and maids uniforms and school uniforms, and even a Gestapo uniform.  Mary uses that one,” she added.  “She’s real big on role playing - sometimes she gets really carried away and I swear she forgets where she is and who she is...  She can be scary.  We also have these rubber outfits - the hoods, skirts, dresses, catsuits.  Mind you, quite often we make the clients wear them - or they ask to.  It’s all part of the service.  Each of us girls has our own leather wardrobe, which we keep in our rooms - that’s a bit more personal, don’t you think? “

Around then was when I first met Shawnee.  Shawnee was a diminutive girl, perhaps barely twenty, with straight brown hair falling past her shoulders and a wide-eyed look as though everything she encountered was new and wondrous.  Her breasts were quite wondrous as well, as I saw when I first encountered her.  She was half-naked, wearing only a short wrap-around skirt that barely concealed her crotch, standing as she was with her bound hands tethered above her to a ceiling-hung water pipe in the corridor outside the storeroom.  Standing on tiptoes, she was gagged with a leather pad strapped across her mouth, inside which I suspected there was a large object filling all available crevices.  She looked at me, with a surprised expression on her face, which I later came to recognise as pretty much normal for Shawnee.  Mind you, I’m sure my expression was much the same. 

“Are you okay?” I asked in my naivety.

She nodded, her large, pointy breasts bobbing with the effort.  They looked too big for her petite frame, but stretched as she was, they provided a magnificent display. 

“Is there anything I can do?” I asked, still unsure of the situation.

She shook her head, uttering an “uh-uh” from behind the gag.

Just then Leila clattered down the stairs on her high heels.

“I see you’ve met Shawnee.  Shawnee, this is Steven.  He’s going to be building all sorts of neat stuff for us, so you’ll get to try it out as well.”  The prisoner’s eyes seemed to light up and I was sure she would have smiled if she could have stretched her mouth a bit further around the object filling it.

Leila explained to me as we continued to where I was working.

“Shawnee’s a legacy of Monica’s previous establishment.  She’s a uni student, and initially she needed the money she could make by doing housekeeping chores over the weekend – you know, washing the bed linen, ironing and so on.  Then she started getting into the B & D stuff and we’ve reached a different agreement.  Now she gets paid in kind.  She works hard all day Saturday and Sunday, and spends the nights in various uncomfortable positions, depending on who is available and what space we have.  You’ll no doubt bump into her during the weekends in odd places.”

As part of her duties, Shawnee was sometimes directed to assist me, since the girls were frequently at their busiest during the weekends.  Shawnee was always a willing helper, but always a quiet one, her mouth invariably being taped up or stuffed with something or other.  I got used to the distinctive clinking of chains on her hobbled ankles as she pattered barefoot about the place, fetching tools or holding on to the ends of sheets of cladding or other materials.  She was not much of a conversationalist in that regard, but she was intelligent and did as she was told.  Mind you, with the prospect of a severe thrashing from Monica as an incentive, who wouldn’t have been. I did not know that in the distant future I would have a face to face altercation with Shawnee and she would not even recognise who she was yelling at.  Such was the unpredictable nature of life in Bilboes. 

The Interrogation Centre comprised four rooms, each roughly four metres square, laid out in the form of a Tee.  A central room was actually an observation room, where the girls could sit and observe their victims in the three surrounding rooms through one-way mirrors. In addition there two television sets, on which the activities in any “play room” in the house could be viewed by closed circuit television in both infra red and normal light.  It had taken me a while to get the cabling for this sussed out, but it came in kitset form, with relatively easy to understand instructions.  No doubt it came with a relatively easy to understand price tag as well, but that wasn’t my problem.  By the time all these aspects were multiplied by 18 rooms, Monica was going to have to take a deep breath when she wrote out the cheques.  This closed circuit television system could allow the girls to deal with several clients at a time in different rooms, and to see without being seen.  There were also security cameras in the grounds and at the gate, to check on the arrival and departure of guests and for security generally.  Monica had two monitor sets in her office, which she often viewed during “sessions”.

The Interrogation Centre itself, or the IC as it was known, was all about role-play and mind games.  The doors to the two main rooms used for interrogation were made of solid core timber faced with sheet steel, with heavy sliding bolts and a small eyehole looking in.  The rooms had required little in the way of structural alteration, keeping the bare concrete floor and the blockwork walls as built.  The ceiling was heavily insulated fibre cement with a textured coating that looked not unlike damp concrete.  Main lighting could come from a single bulb of about 25 watts on a short flex that made it all look extremely seedy, plus there were flood lights to assist the questioning process.

Mary was the main user of these rooms - role-playing was her speciality. 

“When the client comes down the stairs, he or she will be blindfolded and handcuffed,” she told me seriously.  “I want them to think they’ve arrived in the foulest most feared basement room in the Gestapo headquarters.  They must forget anything of the outside world.  There must be no hope of getting out, unless they tell me everything.”  Mary gave me a look that sent shivers down my spine. 

Not content with the still-pristine look of the newly laid blocks and concrete floor, Mary and I managed, by a number of experiments, to turn the two rooms into damp, grimy, oppressive chambers that even gave me the creeps.  Beneath the one-way mirrors, I had installed two pairs of car headlights and an intercom/tape system, the latter having considerable power, with all manner of sound effects able to be produced.  As an option it could be connected to headphones that the victim might wear.

The headlights were directed at the focal point in each room.  In Room 1, this point was a chair, bolted to the concrete.  It was a massive, high-backed piece, with stout arms and a headrest higher than most people’s heads when seated.  Monica had evidently found it in a second hand furniture shop at a bargain price.  It was a simple matter to fit velcro straps to it to secure a victim at wrists, arms, ankles, above and below the knees, waist, chest, neck, and forehead.  Any captive would not be going far.

“I may not use all of these,” Mary declared, eyeing the straps,  “but at least I’ll know they’re available.”

“How do you get people to cooperate?” I asked.

“I know a few holds,” Mary said, narrowing her eyes.  “All of us can handle most difficult situations that might come our way.  We’ll show you, soon.”   Her smile made me shiver again.  I hoped ‘soon’ would rather be later.

I re-covered the chair in vinyl, and revarnished it heavily, so that it was waterproof.  All rooms had floor drains, and I was told by Mary that water was an integral part of the role-playing in some circumstances.  What came next was something I was not expecting, however.

“I want some electrical gear now,” Mary demanded.  “Something that will make them jump - not hurt them, but make them think they might get hurt. Something that will give them a good jolt, and something that will give them a continuous buzz, neither of which will be too pleasant.  There need to be clips on the end - different sorts for different jobs, and some sort of control for the voltage.  Can you do all that?”

I told her I probably could, but secretly confided in Monica for confirmation.  “Is this for real? “ I asked.

“Sure,” she smiled. “Some people get right off on that sort of thing. You’d be surprised.”  And I was.  Despite my misgivings I assembled the equipment.  It was run from a battery and battery charger in the Observation Room, with wires through the walls into the two chambers.  I had toned down the current through a series of resistors, and with some equipment the likes of which I had not used since my first (and only) year electrical engineering at University.   I created two sources of torture - a quick fix, not unlike a reduced power stun gun, and an adjustable current that would give a small but continuous buzz.  Late one afternoon at the end of the first week, I jokingly told Mary the electric chair was ready for testing.

“Good,” she said.  “You can help me test it.”

We were in the Observation Room at the time - I had just finished wiring and testing the apparatus with a megger meter, and had explained to Mary in some detail how the equipment worked.  I had also had instructions printed and laminated, to sit beside the controls, to ensure no accidents could take place through unfamiliarity with the gear. 

“You’re not afraid, are you?” she said, teasing me.  “You at least know what it’s all about.  No surprises for Steve. You have to test it, you know.  Part of your job description.”  It must have been in the small print, I thought.  I sure didn’t remember any such thing. 

We went into Room 1 and there was the chair, sitting beneath the single dim bulb.  I sat in it, with a hint of reluctance.  “Shirt and trousers off first,” declared Mary.  I looked at her for a moment, then reluctantly obeyed, taking my boots and socks off in the process.  I had been swimming before and still had my trunks on underneath.  Again I sat down. With two deft movements Mary secured my wrists with the wide velcro straps that took only a second to do up.  Moments later there was a strap around my chest and around each of my ankles.

“Now, Steve, you are about to see what real domination is all about. Don’t take this as anything personal.  I’m just doing my job.  It may seem strange to you, but you’ll get used to it all.  If you last out the contract, it will seem like routine by the end of it.  You may even begin to look forward to it.” She had moved behind me as she spoke, out of my line of sight.  “Now open wide...”

“Wha-” I started to say, in my naivety, as a red ball on a strap appeared in front of my face and was jammed into my mouth.  I struggled, trying to close my mouth against it, but Mary had got it halfway in, and was not about to be beaten.  She pinched my nose and pulled backward.  Under those circumstances your mouth seems to open of it’s own volition.  I had no option but to surrender, and felt the hard rubber ball slip in behind my teeth, then the tightness of the strap as she buckled it behind my neck.  Mary knew exactly what she wanted.  From a box somewhere behind me, she produced my battery-powered drill, complete with a 25mm bit.  She undid my chest strap.

“Sit forward!” she commanded. I was not about to argue - not with her waving that thing about. Moments later there came the sound of drilling, and I felt her hand with the drill making an impression in my newly upholstered seat. Bitch, I thought.  Then I was pushed against the back of the chair and the chest strap refastened, really tight this time. 

“Now I want those trunks off,” she demanded.

“Mmmph!” I said, not that it made the slightest bit of difference.  With my wrists, chest and ankles secured, I was helpless as she reached around me and worked my swimming trunks down my legs.  This surely was not part of the contract!  Then, after the velcro had been tightened above and below my knees, my ankles were freed one at a time and my trunks taken away totally.  Then it was more straps - my upper arms, waist, neck, and finally about my forehead.  To say that I couldn’t move was an understatement.  I could roll my eyes and make “mmming” sounds, but that was about it.  Here I was, stark naked, gagged and strapped to a chair by this woman who looked as though she might definitely have a sadistic streak.  But what was most disconcerting was the sight of my willy suddenly rising to the occasion! It was not something that had escaped Mary’s notice, either.  She ran her hand over it with the lightest of fingernail touches that would have made me jump half a metre, had I been able to move.  She was obviously not going to play fair.

“Don’t go away,” she said, with more than a hint of condescension.  “I’ll be back in a few minutes.”  Out of the corner of my eye I saw the door close behind her, just after she turned off the solitary light.  There followed the sound of the key turning in the lock.  Then it was pitch dark and silent.  I couldn’t believe this!  What had I got into?  Was she really only going to be a couple of minutes?  I squirmed and tried to struggle, but I could barely move.  I guess this was what testing was all about.  And I guess this was what the whole role-playing thing was all about.  I tried to imagine being a prisoner in such a chamber.  I think it was the uncertainty of my immediate future that was the most fearful of all. 

Then the lights snapped on.  Not the single bulb overhead, but the two sets of car lights.  Jesus.  Talk about a rabbit in the headlights.  Talk about exposed.  Mary was obviously in the observation room.  Who else was in there, I wondered?  Were all the girls sizing up their victim?  For some reason the thought of it made Mr Willy grow a little more.  Maybe half an hour went by...

“Prisoner Pierre Lasalle, you are charged with resistance and sabotage.  Who are the others of your group?  Do you have anything to say?” It was Mary’s voice echoing all round me from the concealed ceiling speakers.  The effect was eerie, made moreso by Mary’s sudden - and very good - German accent. 


How the hell could I, with this bloody great ball wedged in my mouth!

“This is your last chance before we are obliged to resort to persuasion.”

“Mmmph!” I said, unable even to shake my head.  I suddenly realised Mary meant to try out the electrodes on me.  Shit!  The concept of “fair” was not even in her vocabulary, never mind whatever was in my mythical job specification!

Then Mary entered the room.  She was at first just a silhouette between me and the lights.  Only when she moved to the side could I see she was wearing a long leather skirt that was slit up the front, over knee-length high-heeled black boots.  Her tailored black uniform jacket was buttoned tightly over a white shirt and black tie.  What was really scary was the insignia on the jacket - the four polished silver buttons up the front and one on each breast pocket, a wide red armband on the left sleeve, and the double lightning bolts of the SS on the collar and silver buckle.  Something was both ominous and imperious about the Mary I now saw - I suddenly felt very vulnerable, and the intense look in her eyes told me somehow Mary was right into this role, transported back to a Berlin bunker in the middle of World War 2.

She wore black leather gloves, and once again they caressed my own little soldier, who insisted in still remaining at attention.  There was no doubt that the uniform had something to do with it - Mary looked sufficiently senior to warrant a salute.  But her touch only made me squirm, as much as I could, and I felt a thrill of fear as her shadowed face came inches in front of mine and she whispered:

“Nobody knows you’re here.  Nobody will hear you, or ever find you, if I don’t want them to.  If you don’t cooperate you will not leave here alive, and your passing on will be very slow, and very painful.  You will answer my questions truthfully.  Do you understand? “

“Mmmp!” I whined

“Too bad,” said the husky voice, not disguising the menace.  Mary had a definite screw loose, I decided.  “Perhaps after some ’treatment’ you will reconsider...”

The figure disappeared behind me, and there followed the sound of rummaging about before she reappeared and slapped two sticky pads - about 50mm square - over my nipples.  Wires trailed off and I recognised them as TENS electrodes used in physiotherapy treatment, and I did not at all like where this was going.  What came next was totally unexpected and even more sinister, not to say uncomfortable.  I found out very quickly why Mary had drilled the hole in the seat of the chair, when something abruptly wiggled through the hole and started searching for mine, which was inevitably in close proximity.  I tried to wriggle, to avoid it, but I could barely move.  I tried to clench my bum muscles, but a voice hissed in my ear:

“I wouldn’t do that if I were you.  It will only make it more painful.  Let it go... lie back and enjoy it...”

Enjoy it?  She had to be kidding!  But I relaxed, and felt the cold intruder slide inside me.  Mr Willy seemed to get a kick out of it - what a giveaway... 

I guessed whatever it was, was about two centimetres in diameter, and it seemed to be flexible.  It was bearable, I decided.  Until I felt it start to enlarge...

“Mmmph! Mmp-mmrp!” I tried to tell her, knowing it made no sense whatsoever, and guessing that she knew exactly what was going on.  It seemed to go on forever, filling me in all directions.

“I’m going to leave you now,” she said.  I smelt her musky perfume close to my face.  “I may come along to watch.  I may invite others to participate or it may all be random and remote.  Say goodbye to your senses. It may be a long night.  It may be your last...”

She left, and the lights went out.  I was alone in the blackness again, waiting for what might lie in store.  I was scared now.  Despite having worked with her, I no longer trusted Mary, and tone of her voice left me seriously wondering how much was the SS officer speaking and how much was the real Mary.  Waiting for the unknown was scary.  The sudden tingle across my nipples made me start.  I felt the current rise slightly, making the muscles quiver.  Moments later what was obviously an inflatable dildo up my bum began to vibrate.  I jumped again, or as much as I could, given my bonds.  The thing began with a normal vibration, then began to somehow wriggle about, like a kind of corkscrew - up and down, side to side.  Mr Willy went painfully wild, and so did I, moaning into the rubber ball, for all the good it did me.  The sensations got faster and faster, both on my nipple and up my arse. I was squirming and straining, not knowing if I was trying to stop it, get away from it, or even enjoy it.  I was sweating by now, from my exertions, but I also suspected Mary had turned the heating up.

Then abruptly it stopped.  I heard the blood pounding in my ears and the panting moans through my nose as I pulled in air as much as I could. Thank God, I thought.  Please let me go, Mary.  Then it was wham!  An electric shock through the vibrator!  No, please - not that!  I knew the current was minimal - I had made the device myself.  Against a hand it did not amount to anything much.  Inside one’s rectum it was a whole new ball game, so to speak.  The nipple pads started again, this time with more current, so that soon my chest muscles were doing all kinds of crazy things of their own accord.  Once again, I had set the limits on the supply, through judicious use of resistors and the like, but I was not enjoying this.  The sweat was running freely down my body in rivulets, stinging my eyes as I tried to somehow control my nipples.  Then there was another jolt inside me.  I felt so utterly helpless and under another’s control.  I panicked, tugging with all my might against the two-inch velcro straps fastened all over me, but nothing budged. My cries went unheeded, with whines and moans through my nose being the best I could do - not a hope of being heard!  I had lost all sense of time, staring at nothing in the darkness, with my own plaintive grunts and groans echoing about the room, as I bit down on the rubber ball.  My breath was coming in quick pants now, as my body went uncontrollable.  Then everything stopped again. 

If I could have slumped, I would have, but movement of any sort was impossible.  I was almost sobbing when the dim light went on, and the imperious Mary, in her black SS uniform strode into the room. 

“Still not prepared to cooperate?” she said contemptuously, looking at me as though I had emerged from the evolutionary slime.  I whimpered pathetically.  “Too bad. As I said before, they’ll never find your body.”

She disappeared behind me and I felt the straps undone about my neck and forehead.  My head fell forward, little streams of drool running from the edge of my mouth around the big rubber ball.  At that point the room went dark, as some kind of leather hood was pulled over my head.  Mary positioned it very deftly, with two holes for my nostrils, then started lacing the thing tightly down the back of my head.  It did up all the way down to the neck, and then I felt a further strap tightened under my chin, and one around my head at eye level.  I guessed these would stop my airholes moving about. I was now totally blind as well as dumb.  A wide collar then went around my neck, with a clinking sound and the feel of something weighty down between my shoulder blades.

“Time for your last walk,” said the accented voice in my ear ominously. The straps around my chest and upper arms were undone, and my head was pushed forward. I felt the velcro on my right wrist removed, and decided it was now or never to make a break for it.  As I was just about to swing my arm to undo the other wrist, it was seized by Mary and twisted expertly behind me. There was a sharp clicking sound and the steel of a handcuff circled my wrist, holding it below my shoulder blades.  Predictably I had even less chance with the other wrist, and moments later both were secured behind me, tugging on my collar. 

“Very well, your bullet is waiting,” hissed Mary.  Abruptly a wailing sound filled the room, overlain with a shouted voice in German.  “Air raid!”  Mary shouted into my ear.  “Your own people will do the job for me!  You can stay here for the rest of your life instead, under the bombs and rubble! Auf weidersein!”

I barely heard the sound of the door as the first rumble of bombs started.  The explosions got louder and louder, nearly deafening me.  I was still strapped at my waist and legs, with no way to reach the velcro with my wrists pinioned high behind my back.  The room seemed to shake with the noise.  In the darkness under my hood I did not know if the lights were on, off or what was happening.  The bombardment of my senses went on for maybe ten minutes, before slowly abating.  Although my brain told me it had only been a recording, with a very good sound system, it had been terrifyingly real, given my sensory deprivation.

I was still sitting there, trembling and sweating, when I felt a hand lightly touch the skin of my inner thigh.  I lifted my head from my despair, at the same time Mr Willy did likewise.  The hand was there again.  There was no glove on it.  In the silence after the bombs, I could hear nothing to detect another’s presence.  Then the hands were together, stroking Mr Willy, and I felt a female body slowly slide on to mine, slipping back against me.  I did not know if it was Mary or not.  Mary had been wearing a twill jacket, leather skirt and boots.  This woman seemed to be barefoot, stockinged, and wearing some sort of soft, silky dress.  I felt her lift herself against the chair arms and settle squarely on Mr Willy.  She wasn’t wearing underwear, either. 

I groaned in ecstasy through the gag. Mr Willy was hard, hurting and desperate.  But the straps were still on my waist and thighs, making it impossible for me to lift my body to meet this angel of mercy.  I was totally reliant on her movements.  They were very slow and gentle, but gradually becoming faster.  This was not going to take much, I knew, and just when it seemed the message had got through to send the first load, my angel was gone - just up and left!  The bitch!  I cried out behind the rubber in my mouth, and under the leather of the hood.  But for all I knew the room could now have been empty. They were playing games, I knew.  How long could I stand it, and who was in on the session?

I had no idea how much time passed at this point.  I was sitting in darkness and silence, running through my mind who was behind this teasing. Mr Willy was most unhappy.   Why did I wonder if they were actually watching me suffer at that very moment?  My arms began to ache behind my back, but there was nothing I could do, other than bend forward at the waist.  I tried this for a bit, but couldn’t get any more comfortable.  I was hot still, and I was sweating.  The heat seemed to finally overwhelm me, and I must have nodded off...

A bucket full of cold water over my body awoke me.  Somebody was screaming at me in a foreign language.  To my half-conscious brain it sounded like Chinese, but what did I know?  Then there were hands on my body, undoing the straps and pulling me to my feet.  There were at least two of them, hustling me outside and a few paces along the corridor.  I had got past caring about being naked - I had no choice in the matter anyway.  The inflatable vibrator was still inside me - there was no way I would be rid of this until somehow it was let down.  It was uncomfortable, moving inside and causing all sorts of strange sensations.  My captors said nothing as I was pushed into a room I guessed to be the one on the other side of the observation room.  I knew what was in here - the posts and the suspension apparatus.  Was this never going to end?

I was propelled over to where I knew the posts were.  They were eight-inch poles supporting the house.  Under the latest refurbishment they now had eyebolts at various heights and pulleys in strategic locations.  I had no doubt my captors knew how to use everything.  There was more yelling in Chinese.  A soft but menacing voice in my ear translated:

“Gweilo, you have offended the people with your behaviour.  The state committee has decided you must be punished.  You will receive sixty lashes. Then you will be sent to a labour cooperative to truly repent your crimes.”  I moaned behind my gag and shook my head.  More screaming.  “You dare to argue? One hundred lashes!“  God, would these women really do this?  Just how sadistic were they? What did their clients expect of them? 

Cuffs were placed around my ankles, and they were hauled apart, so I stood legs wide apart and feeling just about as vulnerable as I could possibly be.  Some sort of bar was then lashed to my ankles, which at least stopped me doing the splits, but still put a big strain on my thigh muscles.  Next it was my wrists, but at least they were out of those awful handcuffs behind my shoulderblades.  Leather cuffs on my wrists this time, and a front spreader bar here, too, with ropes at each end through the pulleys I had installed two days previously.  The ropes ran through the pulleys to a ratchet system with a wheel, which pulled both arms up equally.  I now found out the system worked perfectly, much to my discomfort.  My arms were at full stretch, and I could hear the click of the ratchet as the wheel was turned ever so slowly. 

Bit by tiny bit I was hauled on to my tiptoes, my legs spread wide and my arms likewise.  I was moaning loudly under my hood now, pleading for them to stop.  They did, finally - I was stretched out as far as I possibly could be, totally unable to move anything other than my head. 

Then the whipping began. 

I lost count of the strokes. They seemed to come at me from all directions.  There was a flogger with a bunch of leather straps, and a flat paddle.  They stung, rather than hurt, but the same could not be said for the riding crop, which slashed at my buttocks for variation.  The flogger got me everywhere - chest, legs, arms, stomach.  Fortunately they stayed away from Mr Willy, who by now was desperately trying to counter gravity by having withdrawal symptoms and wishing he could hide away totally. Several none-too-gentle swats with the crop came perilously close, striking instead the base of the vibrator that was still stuck up my bum.  That was decidedly not nice, and I tried to tell them so.  Eventually they stopped, and some crazy Chinese voice began whispering in my ears.  I did not know if it was Emma or the PA system, but it was pretty scary.  I hung there, trying to ignore the burning of my skin which I was sure was covered with great welts. My wrists and arms were beginning to go into spasm, as were my thighs and ankles, when I felt the tension released finally.  The spreader bar between my wrists was gradually lowered, until it ceased to have any tension, and the bar came to rest in front at waist level.  I felt a broad belt fastened about my waist and I was pushed from behind without warning. 

Crying out into the gag I tried to stagger forward, but of course my ankles were still effectively immobile, and I pitched forward, only to be brought up short by ropes attached to the belt.  I had all but fallen over, and was now bent at the waist, my hands just touching the floor. I felt tugging at the wrist spreader, and had to wriggle to adjust my position, which I soon discovered was fully bent over, with my wrists out and as far forward as I could get them.  Here the bar was secured to one of the conveniently located eyebolts, no doubt.  My waist was supported by the leather belt, but my bum was up and my head was down. Where was this all going to end?

I thought I had had as much pain as I could stand, but evidently my captors had more in store for me.  Was this some kind of a test?  Was this Monica’s idea of an initiation?  Was she even behind it or aware of it, or was it the girls’ idea?  Had I upset them?  I had thought we all seemed to be getting on rather well...

Whoever attached the clamps on my nipples did not think so.  The TENS pads had been removed – only to exchange them for something new and exciting.  I yelled into the gag, grinding my teeth into the rubber as the piercing pain shot through my right and then left nipples.  Seemingly not content with inflicting this agony, weights were then hung on the clamps, so I could feel them swinging with every movement I made - not that this was particularly extensive.

The room seemed to be getting very hot now.  Whether this was just because of the blood rushing to my head I didn’t know.  What I did know was that the vibrator started up again, and so did the whipping - both in the bum region.  I was groaning and whimpering into my gag, but nothing seemed to deter these girls.  The punishment seemed endless.  My brain was on the verge of shutting down, and flashing lights were starting to appear when there were two blinding pains in my nipples and I realised in my agony that the clamps had been removed and that blood was flowing freely again.  The vibration stopped, and a rubber-gloved hand eased the offending intruder out from my passage.  In quick succession the spreader bars were removed and I all but collapsed, so wobbly were my legs, and so drained was I.  I had no will left to resist as my wrists were handcuffed behind my back and my ankles were hobbled with a short stretch of chain.

I stumbled out of the room, female hands gripping my arms and supporting me.  Dimly I was aware I was being led down the hall, and into a holding cell.  I was pushed on to my knees, then gently laid on my stomach on a futon.  A voice penetrated into my consciousness:

“Somewhere in here you’ll find some keys...” and there followed a metallic clink.  Then the door slammed shut.

I lay there for a long time, unable to move.  Perhaps I fell asleep - I had no way of really knowing what I did.  After maybe an hour, or perhaps two, I dragged myself back to consciousness, remembering the words and the clink of keys.  I struggled to sit up, and eventually got into a position where I could swing my legs about the floor in a sweeping motion.  The room was not big, but in my disoriented state, blind, hooded and gagged, it still took me time to find the keys.  For a panicking moment I thought it had been a joke, and that I was just being teased.  Finally I managed to get the key into the handcuff lock, and it was with such relief that I freed my aching arms.  It took little time to get the hood unbuckled, and removing this felt just as good, if not better.  It made no difference to my sight.  I was still seeing stars as the pressure was relieved from my eyes, and the room was pitch black in any case.  Not a chink of light came in around the door.  Whoever put that in had done a good job, I thought smugly. 

I unbuckled the strap from behind my neck and slowly prised the ball out from behind my teeth.  My head was streaming with sweat, and my jaw ached.  But relief was bliss.  I undid the hobble in no time, before staggering to the door and banging futilely on it. I had soundproofed it well, too.  There was no alternative but to lie down, and in the warm, comfortable temperature, I fell asleep, totally exhausted.


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