Sunday morning dawned dull and overcast again, with the threat of rain still hanging about but with the bush smelling damp and luxuriant. It was Sunday paper time, and I was the first to the news, collecting it from the driveway where it was tossed over the fence every day with unerring accuracy. I hoped Sunday was not going to be a repeat of the day before - I had definitely learned two lessons the hard way: firstly, don’t help a slave, unless you want to end up one yourself; secondly, whoever has a slave escape must take his or her place. Talk about the law of the jungle. It definitely added a touch of realism, and an incentive not to rely to wimpy knots. 

It was Trish who joined me first at breakfast. She was looking very relaxed in a red satin gown with obviously nothing underneath. Her hair was tousled but she looked as though the night had not been all work and no play. We chatted as she prepared breakfast, and she sympathised with the treatment I had received.
"How’s Monica? I asked.
Trish laughed, a lovely husky sound that made me smile.
"She should be all right by now, I would expect. She was a very frustrated lady by the time Warren got back at five o’clock last night," Trish said. "Mary does a very special job in not letting her prisoners climax. She takes these challenges very personally, you know."
"Why am I not surprised?" I said wryly. "And how come you know all the details?"
"Nothing’s private in this house - you ought to know that by now Steve. Especially when it’s inhabited by females. Even though we all get on very well together, there’s always the thrill of seeing someone else get punished rather than you. It’s a kind of excitement mixed with envy sometimes, when perhaps you wish it was you on the receiving end."
"You get off on this too?" My surprise must have showed.
"It’s different for a woman, Steven. It’s all about yin and yang, male and female psyches and basic instincts that society has tried to overcome and breed out of us over the years. I think all that is changing now - I think we’re on a reverse trend when people are returning to their true desires."
"It all sounds a bit deep and meaningful for this time on a Sunday morning."
She smiled. "You’re absolutely right. Hullo - here comes Emma with your friend."

It was Christina again. She had changed clothes since I had seen her last, and now wore a stunning black PVC leotard and black calf-length boots to match. Around her neck was locked a wide black collar with a wide strap attached to it that ran down her back. Her arms were folded across her back and her wrists were locked into loops on the belt, one above the other. All up it did not look such an uncomfortable form of restraint, which was probably a good thing, because I suspect Christina had just spent the night in it. She was blindfolded with a leather mask over her eyes, and a large black muzzle-like gag covered her mouth with the strap buckled at the back of her neck over her blonde hair. Through the middle of this muzzle protruded a short rubber tube, about ten centimetres long and a centimetre in diameter.
Christina was made to kneel and her breakfast was placed on the floor in front of her. It looked something like a thick shake, but somehow I thought not.
"Special dietary supplement," Emma explained. "All the vitamins and minerals you need to survive a rigorous day in Monica’s dungeons."
"And to keep trim and shapely at the same time, no doubt," I offered.
"Of course. What more could a girl ask for, right Christina?"
"Mmm," said the gagged figure, in between sucking the liquid through her straw. I felt a little less sorry for her than I did the previous morning, which now seemed so long ago. 

"How’s everyone else going?" I asked.
"Desperate Dennis is trying out your water torture, poor man," Emma said. "He’s standing up, has his hands cuffed behind him, and is getting decidedly twitchy. He still has his rubber suit on, so he won’t be getting the full force of those horrid water drops. Like I did," she added pointedly. 
"Your boss’s idea," I explained. "And Isobel?"
"Isobel spent a very uncomfortable night in the post room. She’s now lying face down with her legs spread either side of a post. Her ankles have been attached to a spreader bar which has been fixed to the post with her legs bent at the knees. Her hands are tied and she’s been pulled into a semi hogtie."
"Nasty," commented Trish. "Whose idea was that? Do I have to guess Mary had something to do with it,"
"Well, it was Mary’s idea, but her shift finished at 9 o’clock and so I had to put it into place when change time came this morning. Mary wanted her to have nipple clamps, since her nips are just off the ground, but I haven’t done that yet. I’d better do that before I get into trouble." 

I decided I’d better keep a low profile as well, and I left soon after, as Christina was finishing the last of her breakfast. In the kitchen was a whiteboard about half a metre high by a metre wide, which was the focus of events happening in the house. It detailed who was booked into which room, who was on monitor duty, when meetings were scheduled and any other information that people wanted to communicate to all and sundry. It served as a much simplified and vastly cheaper version of e-mail. Before I left I scribbled a note that I could use a volunteer at some stage during the day, and that I would be working in the garage. I was beginning to wonder who would be silly enough to volunteer for anything to do with my work, given the experimental nature of it all and the likely discomfort that could await any such volunteer.

Monica had asked me to look at some form of head security that would allow a victim to be gagged and blindfolded by various means, but which would prevent the person from removing them while their hands were free. She had shown me various helmets that were available overseas - custom-made stainless steel things that would probably require a master craftsman to build and an armoured van to deliver the payment for them.

My thoughts had turned to a different sort of helmet however - the type worn on a motorbike - and I had picked up two full-face secondhand versions of different sizes. The intention was to fix a lockable grill on the front and some form of lockable plate underneath that would prevent removal. The two helmets were different sizes, both slightly too small for me. I knew from past adventures on motorbikes that I took a larger size helmet, and reasoned that as the females in the household were the most likely wearers, something smaller would be appropriate. What I needed was a victim - I mean, a helper. I wondered who it would be.

It looked like Jillian had got the short straw. She turned up around ten thirty, with just a hint of trepidation in her expression. 
"What’re you up to?" she asked.
"Come to help me?"
"Maybe."
"Ever ridden a motorbike?"
"Yes."
"Try this on for size, then."
Jillian picked up the silver-coloured helmet and slipped it over her head, tucking her blonde hair behind her ears.
"How does it fit?" I asked
"A tad loose."
"Try the black one."

Like the Goldilocks story this one was just right, which was fortunate, since it was the one I had started working on. I had done the easy part - a grill made out of 5-millimetre fence wire with welded cross wires. The grill was in the same form and acted the same way as the clear perspex visor. Unlike the visor, however, it was riveted to the helmet and could not be moved. Stopping the helmet being removed, while still ensuring some comfort for the wearer was not so easy. The aim was long-term wear. There were no obvious limits to how long this could be worn, other than the restrictions of whatever was underneath.

We talked about it and tried a few things, before eventually using pieces of cardboard cut to templates that formed a pair of shutters closing under the chin. These I created out of two-millimetre steel plate, cutting it to shape then heating and bending the edges so that no sharp protrusion could hurt the wearer. Two hinges welded to the plates then riveted to the helmet, plus a hasp and staple in the centre completed the work ready for a padlock. I finished the job with a couple of foam pads glued to the inside of the plates.

It took a couple of hours, but which time Jillian and I had done quite a lot of talking. She was a smart cookie - a fact I had realised right from the first time I had met her. While she was still technically a "junior" in that she did not have the on-the-job experience of Monica, Mary or Trish, she had savvy and an interest in the business that the others did not have. She had a degree in physical education and had run a gym for several years before falling into the more lucrative call girl racket. With her height and striking facial features she had a sophisticated look that I could see would have made her very sought after. Her taste for bondage had begun then and as her school friendship with Emma had developed into something more physical, so had her interest and passion for the subject. It was only when she had come to work for Monica that she had found an outlet for her hobby. I could see that Jillian was ambitious, and somewhat frustrated at having to take a lower seniority than some of the others, but she was obviously looking to better herself. 

I finished fitting the last rivet and asked her to try it one more time. She slipped it over her head and I closed the two flaps underneath before locking a small padlock through the hasp.
"Comfortable?" I asked.
"Yes."
"Try to get it off - if you’ll excuse the innuendo."
Jillian struggled briefly with the flaps before giving up. She could not reach the strap under her chin, nor could she penetrate the grille with her fingers.
"It’s no good - we’ve done this before. The only way to get it off is to break the lock or the hasp. Can you unlock it, please?"
"I think you should go and show Monica first. She’ll have a key as well."
"Steven!"
"Come on. It’s time for lunch, anyway. I’m starving. I dropped the keys in my pocket and opened the door. "Are you going to join us?" She passed me in the doorway.
"You’re a bastard. Do you know that?"
"Yes ma’am," I said, following her back to the house.

Monica was talking to me again, and was well pleased with the device - so much so that she made Jillian sit with us while we had lunch. We experimented with pushing bits of food through the mesh of the grille, and managed to get one of those bendy straws into Jillian’s mouth. It put a whole new meaning into the expression "liquid lunch". I decided to put a better-placed hole for just such a use when I finished the job that afternoon. In the meantime Monica and I enjoyed a pleasant lunch while Jillian fumed opposite us.

"It’s the last time I volunteer to help," she muttered.
"Be grateful you’re not in a lot worse position," Monica chided. "I’m sure you took great delight in watching me suffer last night, thanks to Warren and Mistress Mary, who refused to let me climax. I could have died of frustration, you realise that. And I blame you for starting it all," she continued, turning to me. She appeared to be serious, but could not hide a sparkle in her eye.
"Oh give me a break," I said. "You loved it! Rumour has it when Warren finally called off the Gestapo, you and Christina nearly went into orbit." Monica blushed and said nothing. "Who needs a man, eh? We come in useful for putting ceilings up and making plumbing work, but you lot seem to manage pretty well without us..."
There was no argument from either of my lunch partners.

I spent the rest of the afternoon working on the second helmet. Monica finally relented and unlocked Jillian’s headgear so I could finish painting the metalwork. I suspect if I had not requested it, Jillian would have been wearing the thing to bed. Both helmets were modified with a straw-sized hole that would allow an intake of fluids if the wearer was not gagged. I also added a screw eye on the top and one on each side, such that the wearer could be easily secured to a wall, post or whatever.

It was mid afternoon when Trish appeared. I was well away in a world of my own at that stage, doing what I loved and with the stereo I had installed going full blast. In this regard I have to confess to being a bit of a classical freak. Not to the exclusion of all other music types, but it was certainly at the top of my preferences. It was obvious that Trish had been there for some minutes before I noticed her. I was in one of my ‘epic’ moods, as I called them – a fixation with things Viking and heroic, usually Germanic and Wagnerian. I had run through Wager’s Gotterdammerung overture (the one with the solo whistling part by yours truly, together with a bit of conducting at key moments) when I became aware of Trish’s presence. She was lounging against the wall with her arms crossed and a faint smile on her face as she watched me.

"Pretty way out music for a builder," she said, as I turned the volume down, somewhat embarrassed. I said nothing, not quite knowing how to respond. "You’re a surprising guy, Steve. I thought I had you sussed, but you still have a few things buried that you don’t make obvious. That last track was pretty neat." 
"Yeah, I agreed. "It always reminds me of the sun setting over icy mountains with the hero and heroine riding off into the distance after the defeat of the Forces of Evil. Sort of evocative, you know."
"Yes, I do know. You’re out of your time Steve. I think you must have been some sort of knight in a past life."
"A knight to remember?"
"Ha ha very funny," but she smiled nevertheless.
"Listen to this, then, just for the opposite side of the coin," I told her, and she sat down on a sawhorse. I took a break from my work and sat down on my workbench, opposite her. I put on the last of Richard Strauss’s "Four Last Songs". As the last notes faded away, Trish looked at me and said warmly: "It’s gorgeous. Terribly sad, yes? Do you know what it’s about?"
"Something to do with an old couple facing the sunset, after many wanderings, troubles and joys, and asking ‘Can this be death?’"
"Pretty deep and meaningful for this time of day," she said. "And for you."
"Yeah. Sometimes you just get glimpses of things," I said, not really knowing how to explain myself and the fleeting revelations of mortality that came but rarely to people of our generation.

Trish was silent, then stood up and idly flipped through the collection of CD’s I kept in a sealed cabinet, away from the dust of my work. I felt we had shared a special moment, which both of us realised, but we were not sure how to proceed. At length she said: "Monica wants to know if you’re any closer to the shaft, yet." I fiddled with some stuff on my bench. I knew what she meant.
"Did she ask you to help me with it?"
"Well, yes, I guess."
"And you don’t mind?"
Trish laughed. "Hell no." Her throaty Canadian accent sent warm fuzzy tingles down my spine. "Steven, I’ve seen and done a lot of things in this business. As long as nobody gets really hurt - I mean apart from all the floggings and so on, which are really just momentary things - I say relax and enjoy it, whatever it may be. I have no secrets. I’m comfortable with my body, and I don’t mind others looking at it."
"You’re very frank."
"No, I’m very Trish. Frank has a couple of hours booked on Thursday night."
"Ha ha. So you know all about the shaft?"
"I’ve experienced it, if that’s what you mean," she said. "But we don’t have one here, and we need one. I brought these for you to try out." She unrolled a small hand towel on the bench. Inside was a collection of half a dozen dildos and vibrators.
"I hope you don’t mean that in the biblical sense."
"No, dummy. For you to incorporate or fit on our version."
"Oh, so it’s our version now?" 
"Of course. I have specific ideas of what needs to be done." 

I set aside the helmet I had just finished painting. Monica had discussed ‘the shaft’ with me before, and I had bought some materials that I thought would do the job. 
"How long will it take?" Trish asked.
"Why? You in a hurry to try it out?"
She laughed. "Au contraire, monsieur. It’s just that I have a date at eight."
"And hate to be late," I added. "Okay. Perhaps two or three hours for the basic item. Are you staying?"
"I’m totally at your disposal."
"You may regret saying that."
"Maybe. Or perhaps I’ll be glad. It may be an experience for both of us."
"I’m sure it will be nothing less..." I said, wondering how much more bizarre my life was going to become.

‘The shaft’ was literally that - an adjustable vertical shaft, usually made out of tube, with one end welded to a steel plate on the floor. On the top of the tube was fixed a dildo or vibrator. A female would be made to stand astride the shaft while it was slid inside her pussy. As she was made to stand straight with her legs together, the shaft was raised a little further until she might even be on tiptoes. The extension was then locked with a screw located halfway down the pole. She would then be unable to raise herself off the toy – in fact would be unable to move anywhere due to the impalement. Standing on the steel base meant the structure itself would likewise go nowhere. On one hand it was fiendishly simple and no doubt could be very painful; on the other, if too much slack was given, a lady could get herself off, without being able to actually get off, if you understand my drift. And Trish had other ideas as well.
"If we make it with different main lengths of shaft, then it could also be used in a kneeling position with your thighs vertical, or perhaps with ankles strapped to thighs."
"You’re devious, you know that?"
"Yep. Many ways to please a lady."
"You’re sick, too."
"Yep. Runs in the family."

We sketched a few ideas on a pad. The basic premise was easy. I had some sheet steel and some galvanised pipes of the sort that sprinkler systems are made from. These come with various couplers, bends and so on, many sizes of pipes fitting snugly inside each other. With my welding gear and oxyacetylene set it did not take too long to fashion the basic platform - a plate of 5-millimetre steel about a metre square. In the centre of this I welded a ten centimetre long cylinder, inside which the main shaft fitted snugly. There was no need to screw this in, since the victim would be unable to lift herself sufficiently to pull it out anyway. The main shaft was around sixty centimetres high, and over this slid a further length of pipe. This was the topmost piece, and was kept in place by a series of holes drilled through the two tubes, such that a locating pin could be pushed through horizontally to secure it. 

The hardest part was working out an attachment for the various toys that would be mounted on top of the device. All of these of course had different diameters and lengths, with some being vibrating and others not. We solved this problem with various diameters of PVC plumbing pipe, from two to five centimetres in diameter. I cut half a dozen lengths, put a cut down the length of each and then used them as sleeves to go over the lower ends of the dildos. I secured these with hose clamps, comfortable with the fact that they would remain rigid. I guess the wearer would do likewise, and might not be as comfortable as I was!

Trish, I have to say, was fascinated by the tools and the construction of it all. She offered suggestions and asked questions which I found most refreshing in a woman, and I took time to explain things. 
She even asked me how I had lost the tip of my little finger.
"Eight-and–a-quarter inch Makita circular saw," I told her. You’re the first to notice that – or at least to say so."
"I have an eye for detail, you know. I spot these little things. Does it still hurt?"
"Not unless you smack the top. The nerves are all bunched together in the new tip. I know all about it if I knock it."
"Better be careful, then, yes?" I grinned back with a dismissive shrug.

Eventually, after we had tried a few toys on the top, and had greased the sliding bits, she said: "I suppose you want me to try it out now?"
I wasn’t sure what to say. This was so outside my field of experience. Half jokingly I said: "I suppose you want the big one?" The one to which I referred to was a stainless steel vibrator, shiny and slightly ribbed, about nine inches long and nearly two across the base.
"Sure, why not."

Trish was wearing an olive green skirt a little above the knee, which she unzipped and dropped in one fluid movement. She wore a cream shirt and black high-cut panties. These also fell to the floor, as she stood there naked from the waist down save a pair of slingback sandals.
I must have blushed. "No need to get embarrassed," she said. "We’re all one big family here."
"Does that make it worse, or just illegal? "
"You’re quick. Here, help me with it, will you."

I slipped the sleeved vibrator over the top of the shaft and watched as Trish gently lubricated it with some jelly and gave herself a dash for good measure.
"This is not something a girl can easily do for herself, of course," she said matter-of-factly. "I’ve tried lots of self-bondage scenarios, but this is really hard. You need books to climb on, then you have to push them away, then you need to be able to climb off at some time in the future."
"You’ve done this by yourself?" I was amazed.
"Yeah. Once it worked, once it didn’t. The first time I was handcuffed and the keys dropped down where I could reach them when the ice melted. Then I could reach a rake to pull the books over to stand on again, to lift myself off."
"And the other time?"
"Similar scenario. But I dropped the damned rake."
"Jesus. How did you get free?"
"Rule number one - always have a back up. I was standing next to the phone on the wall. I had to swallow my pride and call a girlfriend."
"Was she into this as well?"
"Not at the time. She was by the end of the weekend, though," Trish ended with a laugh. I knelt and pulled the pin from the shaft, allowing it to slide slowly upward. Trish grasped the tip of the vibrator and eased it inside her, making small intakes of breath as she did so. I looked at her. Her eyes were closed and she looked to have transported herself elsewhere. The vibrator continued until nearly the whole length had disappeared. Then she stopped and her eyes opened. She was staring straight ahead. Her voice seemed huskier and strained.

"Okay," she said. "You can put the pin in." I twisted the shaft slightly and lined up the two sets of holes before pushing home the pin.
"You all right?" I asked. "How does it feel?"
A slight smile played over her lips and her eyes closed again. "Steven, you really have no idea. I don’t think any description I give will be near the mark."
"Can you get off? Off the shaft, I mean- " I said awkwardly.
"Probably yes to the first question, and no way to the second." The smile widened slightly but the eyes stayed closed.
"You realise we have to give these a thorough testing," I said.
"Your point?"
"We really have to make the circumstances real, to induce real loadings."
"You talk like a test pilot," she laughed.
"No, you’re the test pilot. You’re the one doing the riding. I’m the builder, and I want to push the envelope." I reached down and switched on the switch that dangled down below the vibrator.

"Oh shit! That’s not all you’re pushing! Oh!" Trish’s voice went up an octave and she began to squirm on the shaft. She at once found that she could stand on her tiptoes and gain some small vertical movement, which she began to utilise in earnest. "Wow... Oh godohgodohgod!" For all Trish’s experience I rapidly discovered she was not above letting herself go.

"Sorry, Trish. But as realistic as possible - that was the message." Before she realised it, I had grabbed her wrists and handcuffed them behind her back, pulling them away from where they were stimulating her pussy at the entry of the shaft. I then pulled a bright blue ball gag from a bag on the bench and moved behind her. She saw what was going to happen.
Suddenly the mature woman had turned into a helpless teenager. "You don’t have to gag me - I’ll be good, honest." 
"I know you will, and while you’re bouncing round on the pole I don’t want the place shouted down."

She closed her eyes again. "Maybe you’re right." She opened her mouth and I worked the ball in behind her teeth before buckling the strap over her hair at the back. The final act was to undo her shirt. I knew she was wearing no bra, and my curiosity got the better of me. Her breasts were not big, but not sagging, either - just nice swelling mounds topped with flinty hard nipples that I rolled between my fingertips. Trish moaned with her eyes still closed. She opened them just in time to see me retrieve a pair of nipple clamps from the bag, and approach my helpless captive. She shook her head and grunted through the gag. I think the act of shaking her head only started more fires, for a shudder ran through her body and she closed her eyes again, grinding her teeth into the mouth-filling rubber as the clamps settled on her nipples. 

"I’ll go get Monica for the stamp of approval," I said. "I won’t be long. Or at least no later than eight o’clock..."
I returned with Monica just as it was getting dark - perhaps half an hour later. The garage seemed to have warmed perceptibly and Trish was hot enough to fry an egg on. Her shirt was dripping wet with sweat running freely down her breasts and legs. I guessed it was not all sweat, either. She looked exhausted. Monica looked critically at the shaft, ignoring Trish who was rolling her eyes and trying to say something through the gag.
"Hmm. Good job. That’ll look nice when done up with silver paint." Then her eyes fell to the nipple clamps lying on the floor. "Was Trish wearing these when you left?"
"Yes."
"I thought as much. Look, if you’re going to leave these on, you can’t have hands roving all over the place. Wave your hands, Trish." Trish moved her cuffed hands around to one side and I saw how the right hand could easily have reached the right nipple clamp. No wonder they were on the floor. "How’s it going there, Trish? Okay? Mr Simpson’s cancelled, by the way. You’ve got a free evening and I’ve got his credit card number for the failed appointment. This means you’re able to savour these earthly pleasures to your heart’s content. Steve - change the batteries in the vibrator while I secure these wandering hands." 

As I hastened to do her bidding Trish spluttered and whined into the rubber ball. As the vibrator stopped while I changed batteries, she sagged and panted hard through her nose. Monica looped a piece of cord around the links on the handcuffs and pulled Trish’s hands higher up her back. The two ends of the cord went over Trish’s shoulders then under her armpits before being tied between her shoulder blades, but not before her handcuffed wrists had been pulled up level with the knot.
"See this?" Monica said to me, pointing out the knot. "On most people this knot would be inaccessible, but this tart has been known to get her fingers up that high and undo things, so we go around the block a few times more." In saying this Monica wrapped several turns around Trish’s arms and body, above and below her breasts, before tying it all off in front with a cinch rope between the upper and lower ropes between her breasts. Then it was on again with the nipple clamps.
"Got any rubber bands in this treasure trove?" Monica asked.
"I think so." I pulled a few off some rolled up zip-lock plastic bags of screws and nails.
"Perfect," said Monica. She quickly joined four rubber bands into two pairs and looped each pair on to a nipple clamp. Trish obviously knew what was coming next and was rolling her eyes and shaking her head, uttering plaintive little grunts. God she looked so desirable under those circumstances! 

Monica was now rummaging through the debris on my bench and hunting on the shelves in amongst my jars of fasteners. "Ah." she said. "Just the job. " She unscrewed the top on a jar and pulled out a couple of ten millimetre bolts, about as long as my finger. Deftly she secured these to the ends of the rubber bands and let them bounce gently at the end of their restraints, tugging rhythmically on Trish’s nipples. "Let’s see what that does to her vertical motion capabilities," Monica mused. Then, as a final piece de resistance, she pulled the thin silk scarf from her neck and folded it into a narrow strip. I had accepted the fact that Monica was very much a scarf person. She wore them frequently - an innocent dress accompaniment that had obviously a thousand household uses. This one went over Trish’s eyes to complete her ensemble. "I think you’ll be okay until about ten, Trish. Yes?" Trish shook her head furiously and spluttered into the gag. 

"I’d like those helmets finished tonight if you can, Steve. I have something planned for tomorrow."
"I thought Monday was a day of rest?"
"It is - for most. All will be revealed. Dinner’s in half an hour if you want some." With that she bent and switched on the vibrator again. Trish twitched and shuddered, and the bolts went bouncing on their merry yoyo-like ways. As she went towards the door, Monica beckoned me across. "Let her go when you come to dinner, Steve. There’s nothing like the thought of four hours ahead of you to drive you crazy but it doesn’t need to actually take place. It’s all in the mind." She winked at me. "Trish knows me well enough to realise that I am quite capable of leaving her there for four hours. But I also know her well enough to realise she would probably pass out - she’s that sort of gal. Gets right into it in a big way. She’ll sleep well tonight, though."

I finished the last painting of the helmets to the accompaniment of several orgasms from Trish, all of which were highly demonstrative affairs. I had to say it was a difficult time for me, too. Mr Willy was decidedly unhappy at all the action going on behind him, without his participation. He was definitely suggesting that I give him a hand, so to speak, when I was unexpectedly visited by Mary, just as Trish climaxed, rocking and jerking on the shaft.
"Very impressive, Steve," she said, admiring the device. "And very impressive on your side, too, Trish," Mary whispered in the ear of the captive. Mary then slowly pulled each suspended bolt nearly down to Trish’s waist before letting them go with the effect of a small catapult. Trish wailed into her gag and shook her head in pain as the bolts bounced about once again.
Mary looked at what I had done with the helmets.

"Pretty nifty," she said, with what I took to be genuine appreciation, although I got the feeling with Mary you could never be sure. "Something for our long stayers to look forward to. Ideal for those who can’t stick to a diet." She smiled at her own joke and I had to admit she could be bewitching when she put her mind to it. For a moment she looked almost irresistible, as though the hard shell had suddenly dropped away, leaving a vulnerable woman who did not like to be revealed in front of others. She appeared lost in thought as she contemplated one helmet. The paint was dry on it and she slipped it over her head, feeling how the steel flaps did up. Then she pulled it off, smoothing back her short black hair behind her ears. 

"You’re smart, Steven. Clever with your hands. You know what you’re good at and don’t try to impress people with irrelevancies." I shrugged, not knowing where she was leading. She smiled at me - an extraordinary smile that seemed to open me right up. Then she turned on her heel and walked out, planting a smart slap on Trish’s backside in passing.
"See ya babe. Shafted again eh - life is cruel."

As I finished the last work on the helmet I turned to Trish who had just reached a climactic height and was panting and snorting through her nose. Feeling sorry for her I reached down and turned off the vibrator. She seemed to slump forward - well as much as the shiny prong inside her would allow.
"Fancy some dinner?" The blindfolded figure groaned and nodded.
Gently I pulled the pin from the tubes and let the top section of the shaft drop under its own weight. It did so with a slow sucking sound, some of which was the grease on the shaft, some of which was Trish. She staggered momentarily, clearly weak at the knees. I pulled a sawhorse across and sat her on it, allowing a brief rest.

After a minute I got her to stand again while I dried her sweat-soaked body with a cloth. I dressed her in panties and skirt while she mmmphed into her gag, clearly demanding to know why I wasn’t freeing her bonds, in between a few obvious whinings about the bolts bobbing on her boobs.
"Okay, time to go to dinner," I said.
"Nnnmph!" she protested.
"Yeeph," I said firmly, taking her by the arm and leading her outside. He shirt was still open and soaking wet, with her yoyos still operating, but the weather was warm and pleasant. I had no concern about Trish catching a cold. We walked across to the back verandah. It was Sunday night and the weekend stayers had mostly gone home, to be replaced by a few one-nighters later in the evening. It was a chance for most of us to sit together, except for Emma, in this instance, who was on monitor.

I helped blind Trish up the steps and on to the balcony where the girls sat doing justice to a couple of bottles of chilled white wine. We were greeted by a few raunchy remarks - it was obvious that there was little sympathy for Trish. It was nothing unkind, just an accepted fate that befell them all from time to time. They were just glad in this instance it was happening to someone else. There were also a few cracks about my wanting to be a ‘Master’, and how they had all better watch their steps. I was surprised at a word of praise from Mary.
"This man has got good hands, people. His work is good quality - ask Trish here." Mary reached across and unclipped the nipple clamps. Trish wailed into her gag as the blood slowly returned to her nipples. When the whimpering slowly died to a heavy panting, it was Leila who came over and untied the rope around Trish’s breasts and shoulders, letting her handcuffed wrists down, then gently removed the blindfold and gag. Trish faced a smiling group as I helped her take a sip of wine. 

"Had a quiet afternoon?" Monica asked innocently. "Certainly seemed like it."
"I thought I was gonna die," Trish said, a bit more throaty than usual. Leila returned with a key and unlocked the handcuffs. Trish rubbed her wrists and massaged her breasts before doing up her shirt.
"Are we to assume you consider the shaft a success?" I fished.
"Yes we are, you bastard," she said, glaring at me in mock anger that she just could not sustain. Finally she smiled again. "God I’m glad Mr Simpson cancelled. And as for you, Monica - leave me there until ten o’clock! I knew you wouldn’t."
"You sure protested a lot for someone who was that sure of themselves," laughed Monica.
"I think I’d just gone to another planet at that point..." Trish sighed.

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