Monica's Place: 7. The Gym

by Richard Alexander

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© Copyright 2002 - Richard Alexander - Used by permission

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

(story continues from )

Chapter Seven: The Gym

I turned up on the back verandah at ten the next morning, not quite knowing what was expected of me. I had discussed the matter with Monica a couple of days previously, making the point that I really didn’t have the information I needed to make the various items of equipment. I needed a fully representative range of sizes for people - heights, girths, spreads and so on. And I needed the girls to know what measurements they should take from their clients.

It turned out to be a fun session. The girls all turned out in their swimming costumes, and joked while I noted wrist, ankle, thigh, neck and various head measurements. Then came the stretching exercises - how high could they reach, how wide and how tall were they. Mary took the prize here, closely followed by Monica, then Jillian, Leila, Trish and Emma. Inevitably I also had to do the traditional measurements - hips, waist and boobs. There was much teasing and laughter here as well, as Emma surprised everyone. It was obvious they had never got this far down to the nitty gritty of actual quantification before. I had to say I had overcome my reticence by this time, although half a dozen giggling unruly females were a definite handful. The final measurements were a series of oddballs, but no less amusing. There was the floor to crotch with a half-metre and one metre foot spread. There was the floor to chin in low and high kneeling positions. Then the floor to waist in the touch-your-toes position. There were half a dozen others I would never have thought of and it was to be some time before their relevance would become apparent.

I thought we were finished as I closed my notebook. But Monica said: "Not so fast Mister. Haven’t we forgotten something?"


"Whose measurements are missing from the book?" Then it dawned on me. There was a very affirmative female chorus and a few more stirring comments and laughter. Reluctantly I let Jillian do the honours with my measurements, and I was forced to stretch wide and high, then bend, kneel, and do other fairly undignified things while the tape measure was pulled hither and thither and the catcalls continued.

I diverted my attentions from the gym for a couple of hours to attend to the newly arrived bed in the holding cell. It was indeed as Monica had described it - narrow and slatted, with a thin futon-type mattress on top, in a thick plastic cover. As I had discussed with Monica, I screwed all the slats to the steel frame, then proceeded to weld some U-shaped lugs to the frame at the corners, on the sides, head and foot. Plenty of scope for padlocking and chaining loose limbs there, I thought. Finally there were some lugs welded to the bottom of the bed legs to enable the bed to be bolted to the concrete floor, which I did. Whoever was chained to this would definitely be in for the long haul.

Then it was back to the gym. By the end of the Tuesday I had finished the wiring for the power and lighting, under the direction of Jillian. We had decided to not install a proper ceiling, deciding instead to paint everything black - including all the air conditioning ducts - and make all this all disappear by clever use of downlights. The gym was not a role-playing area like a cell or the Post Room, and hence we had elected to save considerable time and expense with our simplified plan. The paint scheme was remarkably simple, with black roof and black walls. It was messy, though, and it took me a full day with the spray gun, mask and paper coveralls to get the job done, then to keep an extractor fan going to get rid of the paint smell overnight. Thursday saw Jillian and I laying the floor. This idea was rather neat, I thought. Monica had decided to use the dark synthetic resilient material that they are now using for kids playgrounds around swings and suchlike. It was about 2 centimetres thick and came in large tiles about a metre by half a metre. It had a nice feel to it as one walked on it, and obviously would give a sense of security to anyone having to roll around while trying to free themselves (for I had no doubt that such would be par for the course in the room.) It was laid down like carpet tiles on the bare concrete, and had a sticky backing providing enough tack to keep it in place, but also to be removed if necessary.

Late on Thursday the equipment was delivered - the stepper, rowing machine, strider, treadmill and weights. With the help of the girls we got it all downstairs into the gym. The two burly delivery guys couldn’t help but ogle at the array of talent that assembled on the front verandah to take delivery, and they were decidedly disappointed at not being required to stay behind and assemble it for their customer. But no, we did not want them poking about in our dungeon, thank you. Instead it was a team effort, mainly between myself, Jillian, Trish and Leila. I had to admire the competence that Trish was starting to display in handling tools. Unlike most females, who - in my humble opinion - can’t even throw a tennis ball properly, Trish could wield a hammer with ease, and - with the help of Jillian in reading the assembly instructions - was soon in the throes of putting the stepper and strider together. Leila and I worked on the other three devices, late into the night, and before we retired the five machines were ready for use.

Friday was test day, according to Monica’s programme. And when Monica set a programme, it was achieved, or she would demand explanations. Things had better be good, or else there would be ritual sacrifices to come. I had worked out the adaptations I had to make to the various assemblies, and had told Monica they would have to be tested. Naturally I would need some guinea pigs and had asked her to arrange volunteers. This of course would be solely her decision, but she had made it with the assistance of Jillian, who - with her Phys Ed degree - knew the limitations we were bound by. As I began my modifications to the stepper, early on Friday morning, I wondered who would get the short straw for this little weight loss exercise. Monica told me it would depend on who was available and what the bookings were like. To be fair to Mon, she recognised the strenuous nature of some of her team’s work, and tried not to overdo things. As it was, Emma and Jillian turned up for the christening. 

The theory behind the training machines was simple. It was a pain aversion sort of thing, done with simple switches and a low voltage power supply connected to what they called TENS units. These were the muscle stimulators you get stuck on you at the physiotherapist and generally you needed a doctor’s or physio’s reference to obtain them. Knowing the resourcefulness of Monica I guess I wasn’t surprised at the fact that there were half a dozen of these units available for the team to use as our ingenuity saw fit. Some of them we used in the accepted form, while a couple I had adapted to suit a couple of stainless steel dildos we had in stock. Too much slacking on the part of the user and they would get a little shock - somewhere. 

The first machine I fixed up was the stepper. Emma was wearing matching turquoise lycra bicycle shorts and a crop-top over her well-endowed figure, and she watched anxiously as Jillian fastened wrist and ankle cuffs in place, then clipped them to D-rings I had welded to the foot pads and to the side handrails.

"What do I have to do?" she asked tentatively.

"Just climb a few steps," Jillian replied, casually. 

"What’s the catch?"

"Don’t you trust me, dear?" asked Jillian, all sweetness and light.

"Should I? Steven? What’s going to happen to me?"

"I guess that depends on Jillian," I said. "She’s in charge. You’re in her hands when you enter this room."

"So, like I said, what’s the catch?"

"Well, what’s incorporated into the stepper are a pair of contacts under the foot pads. Every time one of the pedals touches the bottom of its range, two pads will make contact, thus closing an electrical circuit. This will cause a small shock to be released. How bad it is, how long it’s for, and where it is applied to, are all decisions in the hands of Mistress Jillian. I hope you haven’t upset her lately."

Emma swallowed, but said nothing, looking at Jillian who wore a shameless smile.

"Now Emma dear, I don’t want a lot of argument from you, so I’m going to gag you. I know you tend to be a bit over demonstrative from time to time."

"But I promise - "

That was far as she got as Jillian held the back of her head and slipped a red ball into her mouth. It was on a matching red leather harness and looked very striking as Jillian expertly pulled the strap either side of Emma’s nose and back over her head, buckling it to the strap already holding in the ball around her face. Two further straps went under her chin, crossing over, and also buckling behind her neck. 

"Comfy?" asked Jillian.

"Nmmph. Ffmph!"

"What? After all the times you’ve had things stuffed in your lovely mouth, you still haven’t learned to enunciate properly. You obviously need more training."

"Nnmpffh!" Emma shook her head vigorously. Jillian turned to me. 

"What does the current feel like?" I gave her two wires with their ends exposed. 

"Hold on to these," I said. She looked dubious. "It’s okay. I’ve got it set to minimum. You’ll barely feel a tingle." She took the wires and held them gingerly. "You can use either a stick-on pad or some sort of clip, depending on where you want to put them," I told her. "The power is set by this little dial here - just turn it on a scale of one to ten. It’s on ‘one’ now. The duration of the shock is governed by the length of contact between the pads. If Emma came to a total halt and let her weight bear down on the pads, the power would run continuously until she got going again." I watched Emma’s eyes widen in alarm. "I can bypass the pads with this button here, which will also close the circuit for as long as you hold it down." I held it down for a second.

"Oh," said Jillian. 

"Feel anything?"

"Just a little tingle." I turned the dial to ‘three’ and pressed the button again. Jillian looked a little startled but held on still. "I felt that one." I moved the dial to six and repeated the procedure.

"Ow!" She jerked her arm and let go of one wire. "Okay - enough. I don’t dare ask what ‘ten’ is like."

"Let’s just say it’s an encouragement not to stop," I grinned. Emma obviously did not see the humour in it all, and I could detect a faint sheen of sweat on her forehead, even though she had done no exercise.

"I guess it’s time to go then, sweetie," said Jillian. "Where would you like it first?"

I left Jillian to get on with her experimentation, trying to ignore the muffled pleadings coming from behind the ball. I moved on to the rowing machine. While I worked on this Jillian came over and borrowed my pliers and some electrical tape. She obviously knew what she wanted to do, I decided, and I didn’t offer to help. 

The rower was a slightly different system. Unlike the stepper which produced a shock when contact was made, the rower was set to a countdown timing system. The rowing machine was like a spring-loaded flywheel against which you pulled a handle on a cord. It was a bit like trying to start a great big lawn mower, without actually having a motor to turn over. Instead you slid back and forth on the sliding seat as though rowing. In this instance, however, each time the user straightened his or her legs, contact was made with a small switch. This reset a timer, which started on its countdown to delivering a nasty little jolt. The user then had, say, two seconds to reel themselves in to reset a switch at the other end of the slide, before sliding back to reset the first. The user was thus sliding endlessly between two switches, constantly struggling to stay ahead of the timers. The tension in the flywheel could be adjusted to provide more or less resistance depending on the mood of the mistress. The same system would apply to the strider and the weight frame.

As I worked I heard the sound of the stepper starting up. Swish-swish, swish-swish went the steps. It seemed to be a reasonably easy walking pace. I took a break from what I had been doing and walked over to where Emma had begun her fitness program. Jillian had refined Emma’s restraints. The Chinese girl was now blindfolded with a black silk scarf and wore industrial-type earmuffs. I guessed she was in a world of darkness and silence, listening only to the blood pounding in her ears and the sound of her own breathing. She was moving well, and I saw that Jillian had a low setting on the pistons that gave resistance to the weight of the stepper. Jillian saw my appraisal.

"I want her to savour this," she explained, smiling mischievously. "She’ll have a little while before she starts getting tired, and even then I haven’t got the power switched on," she said softly, although I was sure Emma would not have been able to hear us. "She may make contact once or twice, and will then wonder what all the fuss was about or if the system is even on. Around about then she’ll suddenly find that it is." I looked at the blindfolded and gagged figure treading steadily on the machine, her cuffed hands holding on to the rail on each side. My sight followed the lines of the wires, and my sympathy went out to poor Emma. One wire went up under her lycra top while one wire went down her bike shorts. Over the top of these was a wide crotch strap attached to a waist belt. Emma’s insert was not going to fall out in a hurry. Jillian followed my gaze.

"Two of these and one of these," she said, reading my thoughts and holding up two stick-on pads and a stainless steel dildo. "Wicked, eh!"

"Wicked," I agreed, thankful I was not in Emma’s place.

The weights worked on a similar system to the rower, with the user having to make contact at the upper and lower point of a lift. The weights were adjustable from 10 kilos to 90 kilos and could be used for overhead pulling, leg straightening, arm crunches and a few other variations I did not know the names for. I had welded a number of anchor points on to the structure, not quite knowing how it was going to be used. Jillian obviously did, since she had been eyeing up my work and making a few suggestions as the little 'U' lugs were attached to the frame. 

I had completed the strider and was nearly finished wiring up the contacts for the weight frame when I heard the first indication that Emma now realised the power supply was actually on. There was a grunt and a yelp and I detected a noted speeding up of the stepping. Monica turned up shortly after, smiling approvingly at Emma steadily stepping in her darkened world. But Emma was now starting to flag, and every now and again she would lose concentration as her weight bore down fully on one of the steps and a jolt was triggered. I checked out how it was performing. The dial was set at ‘five’ and Emma was getting tired. Monica watched for a couple of minutes and slipped the dial up to ‘eight’.

"This won’t harm her, I assume," she asked me.

"Not if it’s only a quick one," I said. "Just make sure she doesn’t come to a stop on it."

About this time Emma missed her rhythm and the step touched the base. She jerked and her hands gripped the rail while a sharp whine escaped through her nose. He body was now dripping with sweat, not all of which I suspected was actually due to the exercise. She was panting hard through her nose, struggling to keep going and maintain her stride. 

She lasted only a few more minutes before Jillian turned off the power and stood on the steps to bring them to a halt. Emma collapsed on to her knees and hung her head, her lovely chest heaving with the exertion and her legs looking decidedly wobbly.

The girls gave her a couple of minutes to recover before removing the ear muffs temporarily and suggesting that Emma might like a "sit-down" to rest her legs. Emma whined in what might have been loosely interpreted as agreement but was probably closer to a complaint. Monica and Jillian freed their guinea pig and walked her unsteadily across to the weight frame. Focal point of this was the padded bench and padded backrest that faced towards the door. Emma was seated on this and her wrist cuffs were clipped to the overhead bar – just like a spreader, only movable. Jillian quickly bound Emma’s sweating body to the backrest and seat with thick sashcord. She had known exactly where the anchor points were required and leant her full weight on the bindings, securing Emma with ropes that made her breasts even more prominent. Then there was some obviously unnecessary breast bondage thrown in, but I had to say the bindings cinched above and below Emma’s boobs made for impressive viewing. The last piece of security was the tying of Emma’s ankles to the vertical lever on the front of the frame. Emma’s legs were bent over a padded bar behind her knees, while her ankles were tucked in behind a second padded bar near floor level. The intention was for the user to straighten his or her legs to a horizontal position, against the counter force of the weights.

Emma was still wired up in the same manner – it looked like she was going to be in for more of the same. The loose ends of the wires could be simply unplugged from the outlet on any of the pieces of equipment and transferred to another. I plugged them in to the small box at the back of the weight frame and signed Jillian it was okay. Jill had set Emma on only the ten kilo weight, doing what I would call "pull-downs" with the overhead bar, which hung on a cable connected to the weights which slid up and down at the back. It was not a difficult exercise but I suspected over fifteen or twenty minutes it would get pretty tiring on the arms. Nevertheless Emma was away, carrying on her instant get-fit course under threat of a severe pussy warming and nipple zapping. That was when Leila showed up with her camera.

Monica had obviously arranged this photo opportunity, and Emma was shot in detailed close-up realism as she pulled rhythmically on her bar. Monica then decided Leila’s presence could also serve usefully if she partook in a photo herself. Despite her protestations, she was in short order secured by Monica and Jillian on to the strider with ankle and wrist cuffs. She had clearly not come prepared for this, dressed as she was in a flowing sky blue halter-neck dress that ran to mid-thigh and was set off with a pair of white strappy mid-height summer shoes. At least her captors had the decency to remove these as they settled her into place. Leila was wearing no bra under the dress – a fact revealed as Jillian undid the back of the halter to gain free access to Leila’s firm young breasts. A sticky patch electrode was placed over each nipple and secured even more firmly with duct tape. Jillian explained how the system worked and Leila paled. Then Jillian flourished an inflatable gag on a strap.

"No – no Jill! I’ll be good, really. You won’t hear a sound, honest."

"Very well. Off you go." 

"Could you do up my dress please?"

I couldn’t figure out these women, I thought, as Jillian refastened the halter. I guess there was a touch of personal disappointment there as well, but I had to wonder, really, how any form of modesty could be said to exist in this place. It wasn’t like we hadn’t all seen anything and everything each person had to show…

Leila began striding back and forth on the two supports like a cross-country skier, her arms stretching forward as her legs pushed back. It looked pretty easy, and I thought Leila was pretty fit. I wondered how long she would last. For that matter I wondered how long Monica would last before she decided to start messing with the controls just to make things interesting. 

I didn’t have long to wait. Monica picked up the camera and took a series of shots of Leila. She then picked up the controller for the power and timing and taped it to the front of the frame where Leila could see exactly what she was going to run the risk of. 

"Are you feeling fit, Leila?" Monica asked with a wicked smirk.

"No. How much longer do I have to do this?"

"Until I say so. You know that. You are currently – excuse the pun – on a power setting of three and a time interval of ten seconds. In case that hasn’t been explained to you, you have to make ten full strides in ten seconds. As you can see I am now altering the timer to 8 seconds, which means you have to complete each batch of ten strides two seconds quicker. Better get those legs going dear."

"You’re a sadistic bitch, Monica."

"Thank you sweetie. Would you like Mary to come in and help you truly understand the meaning of those words?"

Leila was silent, but there was a noticeable increase in her rhythm. I moved away and continued my work, this time on the treadmill. This device had a movable walking surface that was powered by a motor, unlike some versions which rely on a slight incline and the user’s natural movement. This one was your deluxe version which could presumably get someone running at a reasonable speed. It had all the bells and whistles – speed indicator, timer, distance covered and so on. All the nice settings that could be used to target a person’s performance.

"This doesn’t have to be too complicated, Steve," Monica said, when I questioned her. "Good anchor points for hands and something to stop people jumping off to one side. If they want to do a press up and hang on their arms that’s fine – I wonder how long they’ll last? I like the idea of nipples being attached to the front bar by elastic bands – a nice variable encouragement to keep up with the machine. We can set targets, and if they’re not met – zap up the bum or pussy."

"Sounds good," I agreed. "Every home should have one."

Ten minutes later there was a yelp from Leila. I could not help but overhear the conversation as I kept out of the firing line.

"Ow! Shit! That stung! Jill, can’t I get off? The system works!"

"This is not just about whether the system works, Leila," said Monica in her condescending tone. "It’s also about how long you can last and what you can bear in the interim. Maybe we should speed you up to seven seconds."

"No don’t, please!’ There was a longer silence broken only by the steady swooshing of the strider and the quiet zoom-zoom of the pulleys as the bar was dragged down by Emma. 

"The treadmill is ready," I announced.

"Good," Monica declared. "A call for volunteers. Steve?"

"No thank you very much."


"I need to look after the other two."

"Okay, we’ll toss for it. All right?"

"I will if you will," I dared Monica on a sudden rush of impetuosity. She stared at me.

"Very well. We’ll all toss. Odd man out gets the job."

We didn’t have a coin, so I marked up a large washer with ‘H’ and ‘T’. Barring three tosses all the same, the likelihood was that it would be two of one, with the other being the chosen one. Jill tossed first. It was heads. Then Monica tossed. Tails. This was going to be interesting, I thought, since I was now off the hook. I would be siding with one of these two against the other. I grinned. 

"Feeling lucky, girls?" I flipped the washer and let it land on the rubberised floor. It was heads. Jillian smiled.

"Come along Monica. A deal’s a deal."

Monica then appeared to have second thoughts. 

"Hang on. I have a prospective client coming at noon."

"That’s okay. We’ll stall him for you. Or I’ll see him. Or maybe we’ll bring him down here to meet you. You can have a walk and talk session!"

Monica tried to protest as Jill and I grabbed an arm each. Under ordinary circumstances I reckoned she would have been far more obstructionist, not to say commanding, but in this instance she had gone with the selection procedure. She was thus left to make excuses that she wasn’t dressed for the part or that she had other things to do. Which, of course, we blithely ignored as we locked the leather cuffs on her wrists and secured them to the frame of the treadmill. The fact of the matter was that in all likelihood Monica was telling the truth. She wore a black A-line skirt and a white short-sleeved linen blouse, with black tights and shoes, and looked every inch the professional businesswoman. Until I Jillian pulled the raven hair back and slapped several wide pieces of duct tape over Monica’s mouth. Monica snorted and shook her head. Her wrists were attached to the frame at a point perhaps two thirds of the way from the front to the back. In order to prevent Monica moving back level with these points of fixity and maybe pulling the tape off, we decided this ability to move back should be denied her. We took her up on her own suggestion.

I undid Monica’s blouse and exposed her breasts with no small pleasure. Predictably she wore no bra, (the tart!) and I could not help running my fingers gently over her tits, stroking the nipples and feeling them harden under my touch. Monica groaned and rolled her eyes, trying to back away. My mind flashed back to the time I had been strapped to the chair by Mary, and the hands and other parts that had driven Mr Willy to a frenzy but had refused to consummate the relationship. I suspected spunky Miss Armstrong had had something to do with all of that. Jill now produced some twine and together we wound it several times around Monica’s right nipple before tying the knot off securely and repeating the process with the left nipple. To each of the two tails of twine we tied a thick rubber band, just to allow some of the tugging to be absorbed, but also to keep a good tension present. These we then tied off to the front of the frame. Monica’s body was now positioned at midpoint on the treadmill with her arms and wrists pulled somewhat behind her and her tits tethered to the front. To stop her simply stepping off the belt I had installed a sheet of plywood vertically on each side of the belt, such that there was no platform or any other rail that her feet could end up away from the moving belt. Our Monica was going to have to do some pretty precise walking, I decided with glee, noting also that Jill was having great difficulty trying to be serious.

"Would you like to do the honours?" I asked Jill, gesturing to the start button.

"Why thank you kind sir," she replied, stepping up to the panel fitted to the front bar between the two pieces of twine. "May god bless her and all who walk on her," she said in her best regal impression before hitting the red start button. 

The belt began moving and Monica’s feet jerked backwards at the same time as the twine tightened on her nipples and pulled taut. She squealed behind the tape as she struggled to catch her footing and get into stride at the same rate as the machine. Jillian had set it on at ordinary walking pace, for starters, but had – deliberately I suspected – neglected to remove Monica’s shoes. I looked at these and shook my head. They had ten centimetre quite chunky heels, but I guess the edge was taken off by the three centimetre soles. They were strapped on around the ankle and looked very elegant, but would not be able to be kicked off, of course.

We watched Monica for a minute or so as she adjusted her stride to keep the persistent pulling on her nipples to a minimum, while trying to adjust to the awkward positioning of her arms behind her. She tried to ignore us by staring straight ahead, as we made a few pointed remarks, but I saw the flush rising in her cheeks. About then our viewing pleasure was interrupted by a squeal from Leila.

"Ow –ow! Shit! That hurt!" Then a plaintive: "Jill-ian?"

"What’s the matter sweetie?"

"Ah! My tits just got zapped! It was really horrible! I reckon I’ve done enough – I’ve got my exercise for the day!"

"You poor thing," said Jill, all sympathy. "You want me to undo those nasty restraints?"

"Yes please."

"You want me to turn off the electrics?"


"Okay." Jill turned off the black box. I have to admit I was almost disappointed – first in the show stopping, but also in Jillian. I had thought she was a bit more gutsy than that. 

Silly Steve. It was then that I realised Jillian had no intention of letting Leila off so easily, as she moved behind the hapless victim and expertly installed a white ball gag into Leila’s protesting but quickly silenced mouth. The gag had a small hole through the middle of it, about the diameter of a pencil, which allowed the wearer to breath a little better, while still restricting a flapping tongue. I suspected that Leila would be needing every last breath she could manage. Already she was shaking her head and making throaty sounds through the small hole as Jillian stepped to the front and punched the buttons again. Leila was slow off the mark and didn’t make it before the first jolts stung her nipples. She yelped through the gag – as much as she could – then obviously concluded that she would be better off using her breath to get her speed going. Jillian smiled mischievously as she lowered the time interval to five seconds. Leila was now going almost flat out at two strides per second and seemed to be only just staying ahead of the zap-o-meter. 

Around about them there was a wail from Emma who had obviously lost the battle of the arm muscles and was receiving a buzz or two in the pussy region, not to mention on her nips. 

"There is no rest in this business," Jillian sighed. "Use your legs, dear," she told Emma in the tone one uses on a five year old. "Give your arms a rest." Emma did so, but lost her rhythm in the process, snorting in complaint as the electricity jolted her tender parts. Then she appeared to focus again as her lower legs lifted up and down, up and down. I had to admit the sight was impressive as Jill and I stood there admiring our handiwork. Emma, her body bound tightly to the bench and backrest, her arms still stretched overhead to the bar, blindfolded and ball-gagged was drenched with sweat which dripped in small pools on to the floor. Her breathing through her nose was becoming ragged but Jillian obviously knew the stamina of her friend.

Beside Emma, looking like a kidnapped office worker, was Monica, silver duct tape over her mouth and still flashing a glare that occasionally switched to a plea. Her open blouse fluttered with the movement as she managed to keep the tugging on her tits to a minimum. That was until Jillian upped the speed of the belt. Monica’s nipples were yanked sharply as she had to suddenly lengthen her pacing. Monica truly looked marvellous, striding forth with such purpose, her breasts thrust forward and the taut lines of her thighs making her skirt slide up and down with each step. It was already tight about her thighs and I idly wondered how restricted she would be if she had to run. Jill obviously had the same idea and beefed up the speed again. 

Monica moaned and protested under the tape. She was now running for a bus, and of course girls generally can’t run properly in any case. They always flap their arms around to the side, although in this case Monica’s were definitely not going to flail in the usual manner. Her breasts were bouncing wonderfully, however, the nipples dark and taut within their twine bindings, jerking and tugging against the front bar. Monica’s feet were now leaving the ground as she coped with the awkward high heels only with great difficulty. Her skirt was now tugging at and straining against her thighs to the extent that her movements were further restricted. It was a fine sight, although I’m sure only Jill and I appreciated it fully.

We left her to attend to wails coming at regular intervals through the red ball gag on the strider. Leila, also not dressed for exercise, had the same problem as Monica, although she was not hampered by her strappy sandals. The top of her halterneck dress was clinging to her breasts with the dampness of perspiration, while the hem of the dress had ridden right up her thighs with the length of stride and the speed she was forced to maintain. Her mop of blonde hair was plastered down on her neck and forehead as sweat ran in little rivulets down her body to soak into the blue material. She was moaning almost continuously now, and there was no mistaking the pleading look in her eyes, nor the gratitude as Jill switched off the magic box. Leila slowly came to a halt, slumping on to her knees within the confines of the strider frame, her breath rasping through her nose and the hole in the gag.

Gently we freed her and helped her to her feet. I undid the gag strap and prised the drool-covered ball out of her mouth. She flashed a smile as best she could while trying to catch her breath. Then the three of us turned to Emma, who seemed to have now gone off on to some other planet, making high-pitched whining sounds through her nose as she jerked her legs up and down. Occasionally she would switch to the overhead bar as a relief but she usually fluffed the changeover and her body jerked as the current was applied. Clearly she was nearly exhausted and Jillian wasted no time in pulling the wires from the black box. Despite this, Jill did not communicate with Emma, and it was only as Emma began to slow that she gradually realised the power had been switched off and then finally her head slumped forward. Jillian removed the gag and kissed Emma on the lips, before freeing the wrists still cuffed to the bar. Emma was too wrung out to move and let Jillian unwind the ropes from her body and legs, before finally pulling off the soaking wet blindfold. Like Leila, Emma’s hair was wet and plastered down, her lycra gym clothing soaked with sweat. It took her a few minutes to recover but eventually we all returned to the sight of Monica struggling valiantly on the treadmill, her nipples and tits now coming under some severe punishment . Her white blouse now sported dark patches of sweat while her skirt clung to the tops of her black nylon-clad thighs.

"Should we make her go faster?" Leila asked no one in particular. Monica shook her head desperately, keening through her nose and pleading with her eyes. Drops of sweat showered us as her wet hair was flung about. 

" I think we should all go to lunch, instead," Jillian declared and turned for the door. This tactic sent Monica into more frantic pleadings. "Oh really Mon, you’re such a sook! Look, I’ll do a deal with you – I’ll let one hand free but you can do the rest."

Jillian unlocked one cuff from the frame and pressed the padlock key into Monica’s free hand. I realised at this point that even with on hand free Monica still couldn’t reach the controls. She would have to free the other wrist while still running, or else free her nipples and step backwards off the treadmill.

"Who’s coming to lunch?" asked Jill, giving us a wink Monica would not have seen. We chorused our approval and headed for the door, closing it behind us, before moving to the Observation Room and zooming in the CCTV on Monica. She had opted to unlock her left wrist cuff but that was not easy. To get at it from the front meant she had to twist her body to bring her right hand around to reach her left. Doing this put a terrible strain on her breasts which stretched out in front of her. Then she tried to reach the left cuff by taking her right hand behind her, but she really couldn’t see what she was doing. Then she tried to undo the twine. I gave her no chance here, nor was she any more successful trying to pull it off over the nipples. I guessed they were now giving her major pain, what with the steady running she had to maintain. 

Tears were streaming down her cheeks now, as she appeared to identify the apparent hopelessness of her circumstances. But such would not have been our Monica if she had given up at this point. She realised then that all she had to do was break the rubber bands to free her boobs, and as this dawned on her, she acted without hesitation, jerking hard on first one then the other length of twine, which snapped the buffering rubber bands. This done, she slid off the back of the frame and stood, breasts heaving with the exertion, grasping the frame with her left hand while she pulled off the tape with her right. There was more glorious breast heaving as she gasped for air and then managed to free her other wrist. It was then that Leila decided to exercise the coup de grace and came on the intercom.

"Monica, your visitor has arrived and is waiting for you in reception. Thank you." The look on Monica’s face was well worth any trouble that might lie ahead for us as a result.

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