Monica's Place: 13. The Twins

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 Thirteen: The Twins

During the time Shannen had been with us I had done more work, this time in a small room next to the Sluice Room. Monica was in one of her experimental moods again, buoyed by the success of the submarine. I needed all sorts of stuff for what was to be called the Lift Shaft. Neither of us knew how well it would work, or even if it would end up serving a purpose other than another holding cell, but Monica was in an expansive mood, so who was I to argue.

It took me the best part of a week to complete the lift shaft. The first day was the day I encountered Shannen – crouched at the foot of the stairs one evening as I started a late shift. She was quite a stunner, but looked somewhat out of place in a short maroon skirt and white satin blouse, squatting on her haunches in high heels, scribbling in a notebook. Monica had told me about her, but I was curious anyway. She wore a bright red ball gag on a head harness, locked at the back of her raven hair, and was restrained in her position by a waist chain and two vertical lengths secured to her ankles. I realised from her position on the steel plate with the upright pipe stub that she must be impaled on a butt plug. From the sound of her character I suspected it would be one of the larger-sized, ribbed or knobbed ones, given Monica’s gift for the appropriate.

Shannen stopped writing and glared at me over the top of the ball gag and mmphed something incomprehensible as I paused to study her. I shrugged and headed for the Lift Shaft.

The Lift Shaft was something Monica had once experienced in an art gallery. A completely enclosed box about two metres square, it was finished on floor and ceiling with plain mirrors. Running vertically down the walls were black and silver stripes painted about 3 centimetres wide. The effect was unnerving in that on entering and closing the door (painted to match the walls) you had the impression of hanging in some sort of shaft which stretched out to infinity above and below. It was a variation on the hairdressers mirrors placed in front and behind, where you could look at an infinite number of your own heads disappearing into the distance. In the case of the shaft, while there were an infinite number of "you’s" standing with your back(s) to the wall looking very vertigo-prone, there was also enough shaft still to fall down such as to take away the sense of reality. 

My own idea for the shaft was to have low wattage neon lights running vertically up the walls– enough to create the same sense of perspective as the stripes, but also to allow some special effects. Over the face of the lights, which were mounted on a matt black background, I fitted clear perspex sheets to prevent any damage. The floor and ceiling were mirror glass, with the former also covered by perspex. In the corner I fixed a solid timber post with the usual eyebolts mounted in a variety of positions. At the base of this was a triangular ‘ledge’, extending about a foothold out from the post – a ledge just big enough to stand on. To a victim secured upright and unable to look down to their feet, they would seem to be teetering on a ledge of a lift shaft and would not be distracted by being able to see several dozen other versions of their own faces peering up or down at them. The ‘door’ opened just beside the post, like a window opening in a building, where you could push someone on to the ledge and shut the window behind them. 

There were a number of role playing variations on this. The noise of the traffic from the speakers behind the post, the feel of fresh breezes from the aircon, the insidious whispering of the voice saying "don’t fall… don’t fall…" Or should it be "don’t jump?" Maybe we would make penalties for people who did fall… Maybe we would make the ledge get smaller and smaller. This was one little experiment that Monica and I had kept very secret. The basics were straightforward enough but the finer nuances – the recordings, the sound effects, the lighting patterns, cctv and so on – had taken a lot longer than I expected. 

"Isn’t this getting into the realm of the esoteric?" I had asked Monica one evening as we sat on the floor in the room tinkering with various patterns in the wall lights. "I mean, it’s not exactly inflicting pain on anyone. Isn’t that what you’re into?"

Monica had smiled in the dim light of the vertical tubes. "Yes and no, Steve. We may use it for a little psychological warfare with some of our victims. If we want them to divulge the name of their contact or the number of their bank account we may decide to use this as a different approach. An hour locked in here with the strobe light going could produce interesting results. Different people react differently, of course. As I said before, if all else fails it can be a holding cell."

"So who are you going to use for testing?"

"I think everyone."

"Including you and me?"

"No, there’s no point. We know too much about how it works and we will have done our own experimentation anyway."

"Sounds a bit like sex," I said.

Monica smiled again. "Is that a come on?"

"Do you want it to be?"

"All in good time, Steve. Work to do first."

Emma was the one we had selected to be our first guinea pig. She was perhaps the most impressionable, along with Leila. Emma was called to Monica’s office where I was waiting with her. Emma was off duty and wore a simple white blouse and a denim skirt. 

"Emma, we have a little test for you."

"Another one?" Emma looked somewhat apprehensive. Understandable when it was Monica doing the offering.

"Yes. I think you will find this interesting, though."


"Now. Come over to the desk and put your hands behind you." She did, and I ratcheted a pair of handcuffs on her slim wrists, then slipped an airline blindfold over her head. On its own it was a pretty tame blindfold and could probably come off with little effort, which was the whole point of it in this instance. I reached round with a black ball gag on a strap and held it against her lips. Obediently she opened her mouth as I worked the ball behind her teeth and fastened the strap snugly behind her head, locking it in place with a small padlock. I realised it was the first time I had legitimately secured any of the girls and Mr Willy found it quite arousing.

"Now bend over," commanded Monica, "and spread your legs." Here Monica took over and pulled down Emma’s satin panties sufficiently to work a well-lubed multi-purpose butt plug into Emma’s rear. Emma groaned as the invader filled her although I noticed at that stage that Monica hadn’t turned it on as yet, instead holding on to the thin wire now trailing from Emma’s orifice. Monica pulled up the panties and the three of us then trooped downstairs, with Monica and I holding on to Emma’s arms, past Shannen still squatting at the foot of the stairs, impaled on the butt plug.

"How goes it, Shannen?" Monica asked cheerfully. "Life can be such a pain in the arse sometimes, can’t it?"

Shannen glared at us over the red ballgag and spluttered something incomprehensible.

"Ignore her, Steven," Monica ordered in an utterly stuck up toffeed voice. "She has no manners and no upbringing. "

"Yes Ma’am," I said obediently.

Once at dungeon level we spun Emma around and led her around in varying directions, hoping to confuse her senses just a bit, before leading her to the open door that doubled as the ‘window’ in the Lift Shaft.

"You’re going to have to stand still for half an hour, Emma," whispered Monica in her ear. "If you make it, we’ll let you out. To make it easier you may remove your blindfold once you’re in the shaft. You will be standing on a ledge. Do not step off the ledge under any circumstances unless you want a long drop."

I left Monica to guide Emma into the shaft and went to the Observation Room where I switched the CCTV to the channel containing the view of the Lift Shaft. The camera was positioned discretely in the upper corner opposite the ledge. The shaft was dark until light flooded in from the opening ‘window’ and Monica guided the blindfolded and gagged figure of Emma on to the small corner ledge. I saw Monica tie a piece of string to the blindfold elastic and jam it in the door as she closed it behind Emma. Switching the camera to infrared I could make out Emma standing still for a few moments, then, becoming aware of the tension on her blindfold she twisted her head and felt the covering to her eyes come loose. With more twisting the blindfold slid free. At that moment it meant little to Emma, still standing in the darkness. That was when I switched on the lights.

The first light setting we had was only a dim glow, but it was enough to obviously scare Emma. It was sufficient to illuminate the seemingly endless shaft extending above and below her, as she stood, frozen in the corner on a tiny ledge.

"Nnnmmph!" she exclaimed behind the rubber ball in her mouth. The sound of her breathing could be heard as it quickened and merged with the distant noise of traffic. I turned the air conditioning up a notch. I knew it would be playing over Emma’s body like a cold night breeze thirty stories up. Perhaps not what you might expect in a lift shaft but enough to disorient. The lights were the vertical neons we had arranged, giving the perception of walls dropping endlessly into the distance. Beneath the white material of her blouse the nipples on Emma’s full breasts stiffened like the rest of her body. Logic had not taken over yet – Emma was running on her sensory input only, not thinking about the fact that what she was seeing wasn’t possible in the house where she had been moments earlier.

Monica joined me in the Observation Room a moment later, as Emma tried to press herself further into the corner, her breasts rising and falling rapidly as she strove for self control. The ledge was small enough such that she couldn’t look directly down, since she barely had enough room to stand straight. Try it some time, with your heels against the wall. Especially if you have a wonderful figure like Emma’s you have no chance of seeing past your toes. She could look upwards, but again I had put a false triangular ledge against the ceiling that blocked her view of a hundred Emma’s extending off into infinity, all with looks of terror on their faces, their eyes wide over the ballgags strapped tightly between their jaws.

Emma tried shutting her eyes, but that didn’t work. For some reason that seemed to make it worse. Monica reached over the desk and flicked a switch, which I knew was connected to a low voltage supply that most rooms had. I had a fair idea what it was powering in this instance. Emma’s eyes, shut at that moment, flew open wide.

"The vibrator is starting to make itself felt," said Monica smugly. "Let’s see how distracting it is. I happen to know Emma has a rather sensitive little butt-hole."

Emma was indeed distracted. She was clearly scared to step off the ledge, but it was so small that she could not bend her knees even without the danger of toppling forward. We gave her five minutes of the butt vibrator before Monica turned the lights off in the shaft and we watched Emma twist and sweat in the blackness, under infrared. Then Monica turned the UV strobe on.

That was probably what freaked Emma. Strobe lights are disconcerting enough at the best of time, when everything seems to go in slow motion. I guess when you’re standing on a ledge halfway up a seemingly bottomless shaft and not sure of your balance, strobe lights are the last thing you need. Under the lights, thin vertical white lines on the wall streaked off into the vanishing points of the shaft, while Emma’s white blouse showed up like a lighthouse. Her eyes were wide and staring over the gag and we could hear her breath coming in pants, in between muffled cries through the gag. I watched her breasts heaving as she fought to control herself. Monica, always one to go the last yards, touched another button. I knew this sent a burst to the TENS electrodes embedded in the vibrator. In other words Emma got a nice little shock up her arse. That was enough to push her over the edge, physically, if not emotionally, as she twitched forward enough to upset her balance and send her stepping forward into space.

The fact that she was only a step above the floor avoided any injury. Monica turned all the lights on at that point and Emma was left standing in the middle of the brightly lit shaft with lots of other Emmas disappearing into the distance above and below her. Tears were streaming down her face and she looked totally bewildered as she suddenly saw through the entire illusion.

"I think you had better go and give comfort to your employee," I said wryly. 

Later that evening Monica called me to her study.

"Are you available?" she asked.

"Are you asking me on a date?" 

She laughed. "Not the sort you’re thinking of. At least not tonight, anyway," she added enigmatically, arching an eyebrow at me. "No, we have an assignment. We need to pick up a couple of packages from the Gold Coast."

"Packages?" Why was I wary?

"Yes, the two-legged kind. All the girls are busy, so I need an extra pair of hands. This is something a bit special."

And that was how we came to be driving the Transit van down the Pacific Motorway that night. It was about an hour’s drive from Bilboes to Surfers Paradise on the Gold Coast south of Brisbane. They had been doing up the motorway for a couple of years now and traffic had obliged to slow as it snaked between kilometres of concrete barriers. Now the four lanes each way were finally complete. It was plenty of time for Monica to give me the lowdown on our assignment for the night as I drove, following her directions as navigator.

"Pytr is a Russian who came to Australia in the sixties," Monica told me. "He did okay for himself, investing a lot in property in Surfers and the Gold Coast and making a killing in the boom times as a result. His wife was killed in a car accident about ten years ago. He has two daughters – Natasha and Tanya. They are the packages."

"How old, and why?"

"Just turned eighteen – no longer minors, if that’s what you’re thinking. They’ve finished school but still live at home and make life absolute hell for the old boy who has no idea how to handle them. They’ve had a succession of offences as minors but Mr has managed to keep them out of detention until now, not least through paying hefty fines and pulling lots of strings. I have to say that in that regard he is thought highly of and has lots of influence in the local community. But now the girls are evidently into drugs and walking the streets, or at least that’s what they threaten if Pytr doesn’t hand over cash for their habits. There’s no doubt he loves them dearly, but he’s at his wit’s end as to what to do with them. They have no jobs nor any real inclination to get them, although they’re very smart. The sort who do well without really trying. They’ve got grades that would make most uni’s grab them at the first chance, but there’s no motivation."

"And we’re going to give them some?"

"Absolutely. A little lesson in the realities of life, so to speak."

Or unrealities of life, I thought.

The area around Surfers Paradise was not my cup of tea. Miles of tower blocks along the beachfront, lots of arcades, malls and swanky shopping, filled with tourists and more than a few strip joints. Surfers was where all the "schoolies" came at the break up of school at the end of the year – the place to be seen, the place to be cool. Also a place to do drugs, get drunk, get laid and get thrown in the nick.

Around Surfers were the suburbs built along the man-made canals – a kind of little Miami. Huge houses backing on to private jetties with cabin cruisers moored. As we started turning through the suburban streets, Monica got on her mobile phone.

"Mr Karagin? Monica Armstrong. We’re about two minutes away from your house. We’ll see you shortly."

We pulled up outside a high-walled property, the street frontage of which must’ve been at least fifty metres. Tall palm trees rose behind the wall, obscuring any glimpse of the house. I leaned out of the window and pushed the buzzer of the intercom box. There was no answer. Instead the massive iron grilled gate rolled open, revealing a concrete drive sweeping in a broad curve around to a triple garage at the left of a two-storied very modern-looking house. 

We followed the driveway round and parked under the big porte cochere outside the front door. The night was balmy and cool – Queensland at it’s best. As we drew up, the door opened and a short but well-built man emerged to greet Monica. She introduced me to Mr Kuragin and we shook hands then went inside. Immediately inside the front door was a large reception area with a gorgeous indoor pool in a granite surround and a tinkling of water where it flowed gently over rocks into the lily-filled pool. I had barely time to take in the opulence of the surroundings before we followed our host through the house to the rear where we found our two "packages" in what I took to be the television room. Both girls appeared to be asleep – one on the leather sofa and one in a big leather armchair.

"Roofies," Monica explained. I must’ve looked blank. "The drug. Rohypnol. Sometimes known as Roofies. Guaranteed to put you out of action for a few hours and waking up wondering what the hell went on and why are you here. Very helpful in our business for transporting unwilling clients – until they started putting various colourizers in it to make your drinks turn blue or whatever. I’ve still got a supply of the good stuff – odourless and tasteless. Sleepy-byes time. I sent down a couple of doses for Mr Kuragin to drop in their drinks at the appropriate time. Hence the short notice."

I looked down at the two girls and realised for the first time that they were twins. They were blondes, with similar haircuts – shortish, but enough to cover their ears or to be tucked behind them. Facially they were remarkably similar – a fact made moreso by the fact that they had obviously been to the local body piercer. One girl had a stud in her left nostril and a ring in her left eyebrow while the other was the mirror image. I could see one exposed ear with three silver rings in.

"This one is Natasha," said Mr Kuragin, his voice heavy with sadness. Natasha wore a yellow tee shirt emblazoned with the word "FUCK" across the front, not hiding a remarkably voluptuous figure. Charming child, I thought. She also wore cut off jeans and was slouched on the sofa. Monica walked across to her and wrote a large ‘N’ on the unconscious girl’s forehead with a biro.

"Gotta tell them apart somehow," Monica said to me.

Tanya wore a green lycra skirt that clung to her hips and thighs and was topped with a cut-down singlet that was at least a size too small, for Tanya, too, was exceedingly well endowed. Monica did the honours again with the pen, leaving a large ‘T’ on Tanya’s forehead.

"They will be all right?" Mr Kuragin was clearly worried.

"Absolutely sir. I understand we’ve been recommended to you by a good friend, Mr Fischer. I hope the result with his daughter is of interest to you."

"Ah, yes, such a transformation." Mr Kuragin’s weathered face with its bristling black moustache cleared momentarily, the worry lines disappearing as he smiled at the thought. "If you can do something like that it will be a miracle. I…I just don’t know what to do with these two – they used to be such lovely children. But since their mother died…"

"How long have they been unconscious Mr Kuragin?" asked Monica, obviously heading him off at the pass before things got too maudlin.

"An hour, maybe."

"Good. Let’s get them settled in the van. Steven, can you manage one or should we do it together?"

Tentatively I hauled Tanya to her feet and got her over my shoulder in a fireman’s lift. She was no lightweight, but I’d carried heavier things around a building site before now. Monica led the way outside and opened the back doors to the van. I had not seen inside it before now. My only other experience had of course been when Christina and I had been transported into the woods, bound kneeling nipple to nipple. Mr Willy stirred at the momentary recollection before I turned my attention to the task at hand.

Inside the van there were two narrow padded benches – one along each side. Vertical in the centre was a steel pole from floor to ceiling with a horizontal rail half a metre off the floor fixed to the pole, with the other end screwed to the back wall of the cab. Two horizontal rails like towel rails were fixed to the ceiling, one above each bench while the wall above each bench was a made of timber slats much the same as the interior of a moving van, i.e. with lots of points for restraining ‘packages’.

We laid Tanya on her back on the bench and I noticed the multitude of quick-release straps that could be easily secured over a prostrate body. We put these to good use, explaining the obvious to Mr Kuragin – that we didn’t want any harm to come to the girls during the road journey. 

Ten minutes later Natasha was laid out on the other bench, wide straps across her body at ankles, thighs, waist and above her breasts.

"I will report to you in one week, Mr Kuragin," Monica told him. "I expect it will take at least two for the conversion back to normality, though. Part of that time, as we discussed, would be simply to keep them away from drugs. To any of their friends they’ve simply gone to visit relatives in Sydney, yes?"

"Yes," said the man sadly. "Here is some of their music that you asked for." He handed Monica a plastic bag that rattled with the sound of plastic CD cases. "They play them night and day – it drives me crazy. But please be gentle with them. They are all I have in the world." (Apart from a couple of Mercedes, a twenty-metre luxury launch and several hideaway retreats in the Gold Coast Hinterland, I thought unkindly.)

We shook hands and were soon on our way through the dark suburbs. We had only been driving a couple of minutes when Monica directed me to turn down what looked like an industrial cul-de-sac. It was only a hundred metres long, with a few large trees and lined with warehouses and small factories.

"What’s up?" I asked.

"Our two packages will be if we don’t do a proper job of the packing," Monica said. We climbed out and re-entered the back of the van, closing the doors behind us. Monica switched on secondary overhead lights that gave us plenty of light to see our charges still unconscious on the benches.

"I must admit I thought you were letting them off lightly," I remarked.

"Not good PR for someone to see his daughters strapped down they way they will be now," Monica said. "It would smack of some sort of sadistic conspiracy involving gratuitous bondage. Whereas you know full well that everything I do has a purpose." I could not tell if she was joking or not. "But you’re absolutely right. I was very gentle with them. It’s the last bit of gentleness these two will have for a while. Their lives will become a living hell for the next week, at which point – assuming the message has sunk in – it will gradually ease off towards some form of normality. Or as normal as it ever gets at Bilboes," she grinned at me.

I helped her make the twins more secure. Their wrists were strapped separately to the frame of the bench while further straps were secured across their bodies and pulled tight. Monica opened a small trunk the size of an army surplus ammunition box and pulled out a roll of duct tape. I noticed as she did so that the inside of the box was lined with foam rubber and that the box held a collection of ropes, handcuffs, chains and padlocks. Monica expertly applied three pieces of tape criss-crossed over Tanya’s mouth, then a strip over each closed eye. Yellow foam earplugs were stuffed into Tanya’s ears before the final touch of a long piece of tape across the forehead and down under the bench. As far as I could see Tanya was totally immovable. Monica passed me the tape and two more plugs and I did the same to Natasha, giving her a bit of a push to make sure she was well and truly snug. Then we returned to the cab.

"All that would have seemed a bit of overkill to Mr Kuragin," Monica said, stating the obvious.

"So what is he expecting?" I asked.

"Probably something like a cross between a strict boarding school, a detox ward and a health farm. Suffice to say he will see the end product, not the means of achieving it."

We had passed through the city area and were heading into the western suburbs when the cops stopped us. It was a routine random breath testing check but I have to confess I was nervous as I blew into the machine. Monica reckoned the twins had another hour’s kip left in them but I was waiting for the squeaks and grunts that might come from the two gagged females strapped tightly to the benches in the back. I doubted they would be heard in any case, just as I doubted they could shift their weight sufficiently to rock the van enough to be noticed.

Notwithstanding all that, I was happy to be on my way again. It didn’t pay to drink and drive in Brisbane, but I was sure it paid even less to transport bound and gagged women about the city. I don’t think even Monica would come up with a suitable excuse for such a situation.

We arrived at back Bilboes at around midnight. I parked around the back by the emergency door and opened this while Monica undid the rear doors of the van. When I returned she showed me how the benches unclipped from the frame and two handles slid out from under each end of the bench, enabling it to be picked up like a stretcher without disturbing the occupant. This was very neat, I thought, and said so to Monica.

"Trish’s idea. She’s nearly as handy as you in that area."

"I know," I agreed. "I’m more impressed each day."

"So is she," Monica said, "but you didn’t hear that from me."

We carried our two unconscious burdens inside and deposited them on a pair of sawhorses in the Sluice Room.

"Thanks Steve – that’s really great. I’ll get Jillian on to these two now. I’ll take over from wherever she’s got up to with their current clients. Tomorrow it will be Mary and Trish."

"Mary and Trish are going to work on them? You must have big plans."

"We’re getting paid an awful lot of money for the taming of these two shrews. Mary and Trish are the best at what I have in mind."

I had not had time to eat that evening so I spent some time heating up some leftovers in the kitchen and watching a late night movie. The mission to the Gold Coast had got my adrenaline going and I didn’t feel like sleeping. At the end of the movie I went downstairs to see how things were progressing. Monica was in the Observation Room with Jill who looked stunning in a black PVC corset with a leather miniskirt barely concealing the tops of the seamed black stockings she wore. Around her throat was a stylish black leather choker.

"Wow," I said admiringly. "And I thought you were only into sporty stuff." Jill smiled with just a hint of colour coming to her cheeks. 

"We’re all very versatile," Monica offered. "As you can see. I’m just checking up on Shannen at the moment." I followed her gaze to the CCTV screen. It showed the scene in one of the holding cells. Shannen was chained to the bed, spread-eagled, cuffed to the frame at wrists and ankles. At least I presumed it was Shannen, since her entire head was swathed in silver duct tape with only a dark opening for her nose. She still wore her black high heels and maroon skirt, which had now ridden high up her thighs, displaying her black nylon-clad legs in spectacular fashion. The white satin blouse was undone to reveal her firm breasts which each sported a plastic clothes peg. 

"She’s asleep, I think," said Jill.

"How can you sleep like that with clothes pegs on your tits?" I asked wonderingly of nobody in particular.

"You can take a lot of things if you’re tired enough," Monica said. "She’s also got that big butt plug still up her bum. It’s locked there and will stay there until morning. I really do hope she comes to her senses. I think she could be quite a nice person if only she gets a grip on herself." Monica switched off the monitor and switched on the light in the Post Room, which up until then had been in darkness. Looking through the one-way glass I saw the two helpless figures bound to the posts facing each other, the little I could see of their faces being wide-eyed and tear-streaked.

Natasha and Tanya were secured in identical fashion – mirror images almost. They were both naked and hung semi-suspended against the two posts in the room, facing each other. They each wore a rubber hood but with the face open, clearly to enable each to watch the other. Over the top of the hood was an elaborate harness securing a ball gag deep in their mouths – one red ball and one white. 

I had drilled a number of 12 millimetre holes in the posts to enable big bolts to be inserted wherever necessary. These bolts could serve two purposes – either for securing something to the post, or to simply stop rope sliding up or down. In this case it was the latter. There were two bolts protruding from the rear of the posts – one at about two metres high and the other at waist height. The former served as a hook over which the wrists of the prisoner were hung, above the head and behind the post. Around each waist was a wide belt with a crotch strap drawn tightly between the legs. On each side of the waist belt was a large D-ring, and through these were drawn a number of turns of white sashcord that welded the prisoner to the post, looping behind it above the second bolt protruding from the timber. The same bolt also served to secure the victims’ feet. Their ankles were locked in leather cuffs which had been drawn back such that the legs were bent double via the knees and hips, as the ankle chains were hooked over the same waist bolt at the rear of the post. It was a very strained position I realised. The twins were suspended by their wrists, waists and ankles, but the presence of the post pushed the waist forward while pulling the arms and legs back. 

The most obvious effect it had was the prominent thrusting out of the girls’ breasts which were truly a wonderful sight to behold. Clearly they were a visible asset at the best of times, but the arching of the body left them thrusting forward in a ‘take me’ attitude that I suspected the twins would surely regret and wish they had mammary attributes of lesser proportions. Most noticeable of all, however, was the fact that each nipple was pierced with a gold ring. I guess that might have been expected, looking at the ears and noses, and again I reckoned the nipple piercing might be an idea that they would wish they had not gone through with.

I noticed also, as I took in the finer points of the strict bondage, that over each nipple the girls now sported TENS patches - with a cutout for the tip and the ring – a donut-shaped stick-on patch the diameter of a golfball. These were the sort used by physiotherapists and others of the medical profession, and I had done some work with a mate recently in adapting these for the new purpose they were to serve. 

Thin wires hung from the patches and were joined by wires trailing from the crotch strap. The wires ran across the floor to a point below our window that was out of sight.

"We’ve hooked up the wires like you told us Steve," said Jillian," but we’re not sure about the new gear you have here."

The ‘new gear’ was some stuff I had had adapted by a mate called Douglas who was a bit of an electrical nerd. He ran an electronics shop and I had used him from time to time on some of my building projects when something a little out of the ordinary was required. Doug loved nothing better than to be asked to come up with a particular device that might be an adaptation of existing technology.

This particular adaptation began with a common or garden CD player – in this case a five-stacker.

"It’s really simple," I explained. "Monica told me about the twins’ situation a while ago, although no specifics were mentioned. One of the problems was that these two girls were driving their father and the neighbourhood mad with their music, so we thought there might be a good case for some aversion therapy. Basically, you start the CD player and away it goes. The sound remains turned off in here, but the girls can hear it through the headphones under their hoods." 

I started the CD player and looked up in time to see the expressions of surprise on the faces of Natasha and Tanya. 

"The volume level is shown on this meter here, and all you have to do is decide the baseline trigger level, which you input here." I looked at the level the music was playing at and punched in a figure about three quarters of the peak volume. "Every time the volume peaks above this level, it sends a signal to this little black box next to it." I indicated a device the size of a modem on the desk next to the CD player. "This in turn sends a small charge out to the ladies."

"Ingenious," Jillian said admiringly. "Is this one of your ideas or Monica’s?"

"Just how perverted do you think I am?" I asked with a touch of fake umbrage.

"It was my idea, but this man made it work," Monica clarified. "I think it’s brilliant."

"But there’s more," I continued. "You see, I reckon the whole thing about such a situation is the ‘unknown’. These girls will know their music backward sideways and – suspended. So they will expect their punishment, after a short learning curve. What this little box does is create a random cycle so that every peak is sent to a different receptor - wherever you devious women have hooked up the wires to. There is also a ‘blank’ in there as well, that is occasionally when the peak is reached, no signal is sent at all. Just to confuse the issue, you see, so there is no pattern and they never know what’s coming next. And to make matters more interesting, the CD playing sequence is set to ‘random’, so it will switch from one track on one CD to a randomly chosen track on another."

"Never be predictable," said Monica, "unless you really want them to fear what is still to come. We’ll get on to that tomorrow."

"And finally," I finished, "the level of voltage is set by this knob here. It’s limited in the jolt it can deliver, since we’re obviously not out to harm the girls, and they’ll be getting quite a few of these over a long period. At the moment it’s set at fifty percent, which gives a one-second buzz. Who wants to try?"

"Allow me," said Monica. "Where do I switch on?" 

"Here," I showed her, first turning the volume within the Observation Room up so that we could identify when things were happening. Monica flicked the switch and we watched the volume meter intently as the thud of punk rock burst into the room. I tweaked the volume down a bit, and decided that maybe we would be doing society a bit of good in this particular therapy case.

As the volume meter crept over the baseline a small red light on the black box flashed and one of the bound figures stiffened, her eyes widening. Her breasts heaved and then subsided, but I could sense fear in her eyes and her breathing quickened as she suddenly realised what was happening. The red light winked again and the same figure stiffened again. I began to wonder if something had gone wrong, when moments later the opposite twin jerked in her chains, her legs widening then squeezing the post between them. I did not know how long they had been conscious after the drug had worn off, but they were certainly very awake now.

"Dare I ask where you have inserted these wires?" I inquired of Jillian.

"Obviously there’s one on each tit, and one to those new butt plugs you adapted, and one connected to a stainless steel dildo in each pussy."

I did a mental calculation. Four tits, two twats and two butts plus a blank made a one in nine chance of any orifice or protuberance getting zapped when the volume peaked. It gave just under a fifty percent chance of either twin getting zapped.

"Jill, Steve, could you go see that everything is functioning properly please? And don’t forget your masks. I want to add to the fear at this stage by not letting them know what a bunch of pussies they’re dealing with."

"Aren’t we the ones dealing with a bunch of pussies?" I suggested. Monica laughed and handed me a black ski mask with holes for the eyes and mouth. Jill pulled on a black leather mask which seemed like three quarters of a discipline hood, covering her head down to her ears and her face down to her mouth. It was pretty menacing, I thought.

We left the OR and entered the Post Room. It was quiet except for the very faint tinny sound of the earphones under the rubber hoods. I put my head up to each hood to check the ear pieces were all working and that the girls could hear properly. All seemed okay – I could just make out the sound above what was now rapid breathing by Natasha and Tanya. I held my hand on each of four breasts in turn - some people have all the tough jobs. The flesh quivered and wobbled as the girls strained in their bonds. I noticed the twins had tattoos on each breast – one had a small red rose on one boob and a red tulip on the other. The second twin had a white rose and a white tulip. As my hand lingered, every so often I would get a painful little buzz through the pad around the nipple and the breasts would heave in a most stirring manner. Of course this was always accompanied by a lot of frantic wide-eyed ‘mmphing’ and head shaking and pleading looks from the big blue eyes as tears rolled down her cheeks past the head harness and the jaw-stretching ball. A string of drool trickled down from each corner of the gag and slid slowly down the firm, upraised breasts. These eighteen-year-olds certainly had wonderful bodies. Jillian was checking out the girls’ more sensitive areas and likewise confirmed that everything was in working order.

Jillian spoke into the ear of the red flowered girl. "You should be comfortable here for the night, Natasha - nothing to do but listen to your favourite music, nice and loud." The twin shook her head in despair, making plaintive mewing sounds from behind the red ball gag. Now I saw the significance of the red and white gags – either Jill or Monica had an eye for detail. "Enjoy the party," Jill said, as we closed the door behind us.

Back in the OR, Monica asked me: "I know it’s late Steve, but remember you said the system could also be used with live sound?" 

"Sure. You just need a mike and you plug it in here instead of the CD player."

"Good. I want to try that tomorrow. In the meantime we should get some sleep. Jill will do the night shift. I have plans for these two tomorrow."

"I’ll bet you do," I thought, but asked: "Do they know that yet?"

"No. As yet they have no idea where they are, why they’re here or how long they will be kept. I want to scare them shitless for the first 24 hours – really give them something they won’t forget, with the promise of more to come if they don’t behave. Likewise I want them to think about the possibility that far worse punishments might await them for an indefinite period of time - just let their own minds do all the work for a bit and create the worst possible scenario. For what Mr Kuragin told me, they’re not without imagination. Anyway, think about what I want and see how many microphones we might have. I want to use feedback from the twins to create more zaps. See you in the morning Jill."

Monica and I went upstairs leaving Jill in the gloomy quiet of the basement overseeing her suffering charges. Monica briefly outlined what she wanted before we parted. It was gone 2 a.m. and I was suddenly overcome by tiredness. 

I awoke at seven – an hour later than usual – and breakfasted alone on the verandah. Monica was in her study already, looking impossibly fresh and rested. She filled me in on events.

"Mary and Trish have just come on duty," she said. Mary is dealing with Shannen at present. Watch." She switched channels on the monitor and I realised we were looking at the Sluice Room. Poor Shannen was bent over a portable frame I had made out of 40 mm steel pipe, welded together in the form of a sawhorse and mounted on a small trolley that enabled it to be moved from room to room. The horizontal bar of the horse was padded with foam covered with vinyl designed to cushion the body to some extent. Shannen was naked except for her high heels, stockings and garterbelt. Her wrists and ankles were spread wide and chained to the legs of the horse while her head was still cocooned in duct tape as I had seen it the previous night. Mary was giving her a very heavy talking to, interspersed with accurate slashes with a multi-tailed flogger about the backs of her thighs. Shannen would definitely not be a happy teddy.

"Meanwhile, back at the ranch…" said Monica. "Why don’t we go and visit the twins in person?"

We went downstairs to the OR in time to see Trish dealing with the one of the twins – the one with the red flowers on her tits. 

"That’s Natasha," said Monica, by way of explanation. Trish was wearing a form-fitting black latex catsuit, complete with gloves and high-heeled calf-length boots, all of which glistened under the lights. She had piled her shoulder-length hair on top of her head and now wore a soft leather mask somewhat bigger and more evil than the Lone Ranger’s, and definitely looked all business. 

Natasha’s ankles had been let down but her feet were now hobbled with a short length of rope, while her waist bonds had also been released. At some stage during the night Jill had secured both head harnesses to the posts as well. Maybe it was to prevent strain on the neck, maybe it was to add a further restriction on movement. Natasha’s harness was now undone totally and the gag was popped out. The girl tried to say something, which I guess would have begun with ‘who’, ‘why’ ‘where’ or ‘what’, but she never got the chance. Trish’s expertise was such that with a finger under the jaw she was soon winding duct tape around Natasha’s head over the top of the rubber hood.

"Change of gag?" I queried.

"Eases the jaw," Monica explained. "They’ve had a long stint with the balls – their jaws will be aching painfully at the moment. The other reason is they’re going to be upside down in a minute. Duct tape is much kinder in that position. You’ve no doubt noticed we also generally use it if the client has to sleep. Less obstruction of the airways and longer duration."

"Oh," I said, suitably enlightened.

Trish moved behind the post where Natasha’s arms were still held high with the chain looped over the protruding bolt, and with deft movements freed both wrists, pulling them down then pushing Natasha away from the post and letting go of one wrist. Natasha instinctively tried to run, but the short hobble almost saw her lose balance. Then she tried to claw at her tape gag with her free hand before Trish was on her like a cat and immediately grabbed the free wrist, clipping the cuffs together with well-practised expertise.

"Impressive," I murmured.

"She’s good," Monica agreed. "A pleasure to watch, don’t you think so?"

"Absolutely," I said. Mr Willy thought so to, but I didn’t let Monica know his opinion.

Natasha was at once under control again as Trish pulled her away from the post with mincing little steps, then had her turn to face the post. She secured a strap tightly around Natasha’s elbows until they almost touched, making the girl’s already prominent breasts thrust forward even further. I wondered what was coming next until Trish looped a rope over another protruding bolt at the two-metre level on the post – a rope which was then attached to the short chain between Natasha’s wrist cuffs. Trish then began hauling and Natasha’s arms went up in the air behind her. She began making more grunting and mmphing noises as he head went down at an equal rate. Trish pulled on the rope with one hand and guided her prisoner with the other – pushing her head down further and further and making her take tiny steps towards the post, until eventually Natasha was bent double and her arms were pointing vertically, hard up against the post. Trish left a little slack in the rope before tying it off to a cleat.

"Eighteen year-olds are wonderfully supple," Monica murmured, half to herself. "Don’t you think so, Steve?"

"I can’t really remember," I said. 

She smiled. "I’ll bet you can."

It took only a moment for Trish to replace the hobble rope with a spreader bar, with the widening of her ankles lowering her body and taking up the slack in the overhead rope. With Natasha’s head, shoulders and arms against the post Trish removed the elbow restraint, replacing it with a couple of turns around Natasha’s body, between her breasts and waist, and looping around the post.

"She really is an artist, our Trish," said Monica admiringly. "There’s no excess with her. Everything is minimalist but absolutely functional. Natasha won’t be able to move anything except her fingers and head. And talk about exposed!" 

It took another ten minutes before Trish had Tanya similarly bound to the post, head down, staring between her legs at her twin sister on the opposite post. Then Trish picked out a wicked looking cane that made the hairs stand up on my neck as she swished it through the air. I had terrifying visions of my time at high school where caning was the normal method of discipline. "Go and fetch the cane!" was the dreaded expression for anyone caught doing wrong. Looking back I supposed it didn’t do me any harm and one had to say that discipline was pretty tight. Maybe if everything hadn’t become so politically correct today’s youth might be a little more considerate of the rest of society. So much for the soapbox, I thought. The twins were now about to find out the hard way.

Monica spoke into the microphone.

"Natasha and Tanya. You have been brought here because of your attitude. You probably have a dozen questions as to where you are, who we are, how long you’re here and why you’re here. The first two points are irrelevant. How long you’re here depends entirely on you. It could be six days, six weeks or six months. Nobody knows where you are, or what you are experiencing. Your father thinks you are at a kind of health retreat. He is probably enjoying his first worry-free peace and quiet for a long time. As to why you’re here…" Monica managed to get a terrible steely menace into her voice. "I think you both know the answer to that question. You have an attitude problem. You have a drug problem. You are devoid of pride in yourselves and your capacity to achieve. You are unacquainted with the notions of responsibility and accountability for your own actions. This is the first of your lessons here. 

"You are here because of what you have done and the trouble you have caused. You will remain here until you realise this and can offer a suitable reform plan that will allow you to contribute to society. Until such time you will be punished for your misdeeds and your attitude. If you cause trouble, or try to escape, it goes without saying that the punishment will become more severe and more prolonged. If you were to disappear entirely, perhaps even that would not be a bad thing…" She left her voice hanging in mid-air, heavy with inference. By God she certainly scared me. "Proceed with the punishment," she ordered.

The cane fizzed through the air and caught Natasha squarely across both cheeks of her backside. The girl creamed behind the tape sealing her mouth, the sound coming out in a long "Nnnnnnmmff!" followed by moaning and mewing through her nose. Her hands twitched and she tried to hop from foot to foot to no doubt ease the burning pain that was probably searing into her flesh. Her breath came fast and ragged, a series of pantings mixed with drawn out groans. 

"That was a small example of what is to come. Now it is Tanya’s turn." Trish moved over to the helpless bent-over form secured to the post. Tanya’s eyes widened with fear. Seeing what had just happened to her sister no doubt was going to heighten the experience. She shook her head in desperation, struggling hopelessly against her bonds, making "Nnnn! Nnnn!" noises from behind the silver duct tape covering the lower half of her face. Her body was trembling and her hands clenching open and shut when the next stroke hit in the same place as on Natasha. Again the screaming moan through the nose, the eyes screwed shut in pain and the frantic gasping for breath.

There was a period of perhaps a minute where Trish stood out of sight of the girls and Monica said nothing. The silence was broken only by the sobbing of the girls in their helpless positions of vulnerability.

"That was merely a small sampling of what you can expect. Can you imagine fifty strokes like that? You would be brought back to consciousness each time you passed out from the pain, so that you could receive more. It could go on for days." Monica paused to let her words sink in. "I haven’t yet decided how many you will receive. But I want you to consider your plight. I want you to remember the ache in your arms and back, the bite of the rope about your body and wrists, the strain in your legs, but most of all the helplessness and vulnerability you feel and the futility of escape. I want you to ponder on why you’re in this position and decide if it was all worth it. And I will tell you one more thing. There is more where this is coming from. Don’t ever think that it will be over once you leave here. We will seek you out and find you, should you err further. You can’t hide from us. We have resources that will track you down and you will feel the lash across your flesh whenever we decide you may deserve it." Monica paused then commanded: "Continue."

Trish walked into the field of view of both girls as they stared between their legs, terrified. Trish slashed the air several times – a fearsome sound designed to reach the very depths of their psyche. She stopped then, as though trying to decide which tempting uplifted bottom would feel the pain first. Then she walked out of sight, circling the helpless pair, the heels of her boots clicking menacingly on the concrete in the darkness beyond the small circles of light that lit up the prisoners.

"She would have made a wonderful actress," I whispered, awed by the performance. Then things went totally silent and I lost Trish in the darkness. Until, sneaking forward on tiptoes she let fly with the cane across Tanya’s rump, leaving a vivid red weal about two fingers width above the first.

Tanya’s muffled scream and the sobbing that followed echoed off the cold concrete block walls. Trish vanished into the darkness again. Impressed as I was with the performance the pain being inflicted on the helpless girls made me uncomfortable, regardless of their misdemeanors. I obviously did not have the internal fortitude for the hard side of this business, I decided.

"You won’t forget what I need for this afternoon," said Monica, as I turned to go.

"It’s all just about ready now. Just give me a call when you’re ready."

I turned and closed the door behind me as a fourth crack sounded followed by a muted wailing and sobbing.

story continues in