Monica's Place: 18. The Rack

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 Eighteen: The Rack

Part One

Jillian surprised me. Perhaps I had expected her to drive to somewhere like Surfers Paradise over an hour to the south, down the Pacific Highway. Instead, after travelling along Coronation Drive and the Riverside Expressway she crossed the Brisbane River and headed east, and some fifteen minutes later I followed her into a suburban car park at Cannon Hill. The car park was full of shoppers and Jill manoeuvred her way to a car park near the perimeter. There were large areas of parking spaces covered by overhead shade structures, but clearly Mr Bennelli would like to enjoy the sun, as it would at least make the ice melt quicker.

I parked beside her and climbed out to look around. The pickup was screened to a large extent by our vehicle, and there was no difficulty in letting down the right front tyre. That would encourage our man to wait for darkness, I thought, and he could spend the rest of the day undoing about a kilometre of sticky bandage – all of which would be very painful. Monica’s M.O. of making the punishment fit the crime, again.

Jill was very quiet on the way home, but seemed to be cheering up. We arrived back at Bilboes at around 1 p.m., to find a formal lunch was in progress on the back verandah. I knew it was on the schedule – a big occasion for Monica with her old friend Warren and some new bloke whom he was bringing along. Monica was holding court at the table, seated between the two men with Mary opposite. I guessed Mary was there as a senior representative of the establishment and I wondered where Trish was. I subsequently found out she was attending to my friend Christina who at that moment was undergoing some sort of workout in the gym. Leila and Emma, I guess as the juniors, were in the kitchen preparing the food and waiting on the table respectively. Both wore high heels and short sleeveless latex dresses. They were identical save for colour – Emma wore white, contrasting with her jet black hair, while Leila wore black, and together they made quite a stunning combination. The garments had high Chinese-style collars with an open panel from the throat down to the navel, revealing much of the wearers’ breasts but stopping short of any nipple flashing.

"Are we enjoying ourselves?" I inquired cheerfully as I entered the kitchen. "Playing a waiting game, I see." Leila poked her tongue out at me while Emma smiled. "You both look very nice – a definite improvement on most waitresses I’ve ever encountered. But don’t you get hot in those outfits? They look very – er – tight," I said, eyeing the shiny rubber stretched over Emma’s buttocks as she bent to wipe a drop of spilt food from the floor.

"They are," said Leila, looking up from where she was stirring a pot of sauce. "But at least they’re short and don’t have sleeves, and they let a bit of air in down the front. It’s the all over ones – the catsuits - that really make you sweat. I mean, they look stunning and all that, but you can lose your fluids in a workout. But of course there are some good points. Latex on the skin is definitely a turn on. You ought to try it some time." She smiled impishly at me.

"Nice shoes," I said, changing the direction of the conversation. "What are they – four inch heels?"

"Four and a half, since you like the old measurements. I’ve worn higher ones, but not much. They may look good, but they’re hell on that timber deck with the little gaps between the planks. We tried to tell Monica, but she still made us wear them."

"Well you both look delicious, and you’re obviously out there to flaunt your wares at the moment – definitely no panty line to be seen." Despite herself, Leila blushed.

"It’s all very well for you to be smart. We’re on eggshells with these two guys. Monica reckons they’re worth a mint – or two mints at least."

"What – the after dinner type?"

"No - money, stupid. We have to wait on them hand and foot with their eyes and hands all over us, while Monica and Mary act like they’re queens of the world."

"It’s a tough job, but someone’s got to do it," I consoled her. "Remember these guys could be paying your wages and Monica obviously wants to impress them. It’s all about getting repeat clients."

"That’s easy for you to say," Emma chided me. "What about the last time Warren was here? Look what happened to you and Christina when you fed her breakfast!" I remembered it well. I also remembered the aftermath, aspects of which were decidedly satisfying.

"But I didn’t know the rules then. Now I’m older and wiser. And remember what happened to Monica afterwards."

"Yes, we all enjoyed that, and that probably explains why you got such a licking at the dungeon photoshoot. You know she doesn’t forget these things easily."

"True. And I think you’re wanted on deck." I looked through the window to where Monica had held up her hand. Emma scurried outside, her white heels click-clicking on the ceramic tiles and then on the timber decking. I watched as Emma bent her head to listen to Monica’s command while a roving hand from Warren’s mate slid up the Chinese girl’s leg and under the tight white hem of her dress. Emma tried to ignore it and concentrate on what Monica was saying, then straightened up and prised herself free of the groper, before returning to the kitchen to take another bottle of champagne from the fridge. Warren’s friend, whose name was Roger, I later learned, had obviously not endeared himself to Emma.

"What’s on the menu?" I asked, again distracted by the way Emma’s backside moved in the tight latex dress on her return to the verandah with the champagne. "Anything spare?"

"It’s escalopes of veal in a red wine sauce, and you keep your grubby hands off," Leila told me firmly as she laid the round slices of meat on four of Bilboes’ best china plates then spooned the sauce over them. Emma returned and both girls took two plates to the table. Roger’s hands couldn’t keep off either of the girls, I noticed, as they passed or leaned over the table to lay down the plates.

"What is it about him?" Leila muttered as she entered the kitchen again. "There’s something creepy about him – he’s a real sleazeball."

"Surely you deal with those all the time?"

"No, strangely enough we don’t. The guys and girls we get here are usually pretty genuine in their needs and personalities. Isn’t that right, Em?"

"Yes," Emma agreed as she collected a pair of serving spoons and bowl of steamed vegetables and retreated outside.

"I can’t put my finger on it but…"

At that moment a movement at the table caught my eye. There was a clatter of cutlery and some exclamations. I looked out to see Emma standing, hands over her mouth, eyes wide in horror.

"You stupid fucking cow!" Roger snarled. He was on his feet, and I saw a boiled potato roll off his lap on to the floor. The front of his white shirt was sprayed with the red wine sauce into which Emma had evidently dropped both of her spoons and the aforementioned potato – from a reasonable height, I concluded, looking at the spray pattern.

Suffice to say no one at the table was amused. Emma, on the other hand, was mortified and stood rooted to the spot until slapped on the cheek by Monica.

"Go and get a cloth, you silly bitch!" she snapped. I was astonished, for I had never seen this side of Monica. 

"No, don’t let her near me!" Roger interrupted. "This is a Versace shirt – she’s done enough damage already. She’ll have to pay for this – and I don’t mean the shirt, either."

"Oh she’ll pay all right, don’t you worry," Monica said through clenched teeth. Then she bent down and spoke to Mary. A faint flicker of a smile crossed Mary’s face and she stood up and walked inside, past me as though I wasn’t there. I liked the look on her face even less than that on Monica’s.

Leila meanwhile had gone to the scene with a wet cloth and order was gradually restored. Emma was still standing there, one hand to her cheek where Monica had hit her. "I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry…" she was saying softly, hardly daring to believe what she had done.

Monica stalked into the kitchen, her face tense with anger.


"Yes maam!" I saluted, then decided taking the mickey was not a good idea.

"Don’t give me any shit! I want you to make something for me, and I want it yesterday! Something very simple – a tray. Thick ply, two inch sides, the whole thing about this by this," she said, stretching her arms to something like half a metre wide by a metre long.

"Big tray," I said non-committally.

"Yes it is a big tray," she snapped back, "and I want a big eyebolt at the front and another at the back, and the whole thing sitting on a couple of cross timbers, a bit in from each end. Got that?"

"Yes ma’am!" When Monica gave orders it was a delight to behold, but I hated her in this mood.

"Well, get on with it then!"

I needed no further bidding, retreating down the stairs to the room I was building my rack in. I passed Mary coming back up the stairs. She grinned malevolently at me and waved a bunch of ropes and straps.

"Play time!" she announced.

I had a feeling Emma was getting deeper into trouble by the minute.

It took me only a quarter of an hour to knock up this basic tray that Monica wanted. I had no idea what she wanted to do with it – I didn’t even want to think about it. By the time I returned to the verandah the punishment session was already underway. 

Poor Emma was now naked, her wrists bound palm to palm behind her and her elbows also lashed together so that they touched. This of course had the effect of making Emma’s lovely breasts look even lovelier, and predictably these had become the receptors of large chromed nipple clamps with which Emma was secured over the balcony railings by two thin pieces of twine attached to her ankles. Any attempt to stand upright would cause the clamps to pull very hard and very painfully on Emma’s nipples. In the meantime she was on the receiving end of a flogger being wielded with determination by Monica, to the satisfied smirks from the two men. Emma wailed and cried, jerking and squirming, but all the while being restricted by the tethers to her nipples.

Monica paused for breath and looked at what I had presented her with. She said something to Mary that I did not catch and Mary took the wooden object from me, and placed it on the deck. Then, as Monica renewed her attack on Emma, Mary disappeared into the kitchen to reappear with a large plastic bin liner which she placed over the top of the tray.

"Emma, you’re a total waste of space," Monica scolded. "I have tried to train you but you can’t even manage a pair of serving spoons. You’re a dirty little slut, and dirty little sluts need to be cleaned up. Mary?"

Mary took the stage with a large tube of toothpaste fitted with one of those nozzles that you get in the hardware store for tubes of sealant. Brusquely she parted Emma’s butt cheeks, inserted the nozzle and gave the tube a solid squeeze.

"Oh god – no – not that, please!" moaned Emma. "No more, please!" That was when Mary – with evident glee – guided the nozzle into Emma’s front passage and gave it another squirt, to more cries of distress from Emma.

"Do shut up Emma, unless you want a mouthful as well!" Monica told her sharply, before squatting down to undo the twine around the Chinese girl’s ankles. Emma straightened up with obvious relief. "I’m tired of your complaining, Emma. You only think of yourself." Monica’s answer to this complaining was to slap a couple of pieces of red duct tape in a large ‘X’ across Emma’s mouth before addressing the hapless girl further.

"Emma you’ve made a real mess here and have managed to ruin a nice lunch. It’s only fair that you should pay for this, and you know my views on the punishment fitting the crime. In this instance you can be the dessert course – the showpiece of the menu. You’ve seen the suckling pig made up? Well picture yourself in the same position…" A big tear rolled down Emma’s cheek and she sniffled, while shifting uncomfortably from one foot to the other as the toothpaste was no doubt itching and burning inside her. "I think a case could be made out for you to be the dessert trolley… Let’s see what we can come up with…"

I watched with a kind of morbid fascination as poor Emma was made to stand on my tray while her legs were bound at the ankles and knees. A rope was knotted around her waist and the tails pulled down between her legs and up at the back to be married to the waist loop at that point. She was then made to kneel, and I knew the leg ropes would be tightening terribly under those strained conditions. This done, Monica and Mary slipped two webbing straps under the tray and over Emma’s back at waist level and high on her shoulders. These straps were the kind you can pick up at Supercheap Auto for a few bucks and they came complete with hold-down ratchets. In short, with a few flicks of the ratchet they would make sure the luggage on your trailer did not fall off during your trip under anything less than a major accident. In this instance, with each tightening click of the ratchet – done ever so teasingly slowly by M and M (Mary and Monica) – Emma was compressed harder and tighter into a ball against the wood of the tray. She was moaning and pleading – for all the good it did her. Then the tightening stopped and Monica straddled Emma, sitting down and grabbing the mane of black hair. In a very short time Monica had plaited it into a single short rope, intertwined with a length of sashcord so the latter became an extension of Emma’s hair. It was then threaded backwards through the eyebolt at the rear centre of the tray.

"Excellent," Monica declared, then with the help of Mary and the two men at the table, Emma-on-a-Tray was deposited on top of the obligatory wheeled barbecue that dwelt on the verandah, like in any good Queensland household. This in turn was wheeled to the table so that Emma faced the centre, between Roger and Monica. Monica was delighted.

"You look real cute, Emma. Just like a little piggy wiggy, except for one thing – piggy wiggys don’t have tape over their mouths. Monica ducked into the kitchen and returned with something yellow in her hand. She ripped the tape off Emma’s mouth none too gently, giving the girl only time for a brief squeal before Monica pulled hard on the cord braided into Emma’s hair. Her head was jerked back, causing Emma to cry out with pain. As her mouth opened involuntarily to it’s fullest extent, Monica jammed the large thick-skinned lemon in place, allowing just enough slack for Emma’s teeth to bury themselves in the yellow peel before the cord was tied off, holding the girl’s head in the strained upright position.

Emma still wore the nipple clamps, but her breasts were now crushed hard against her thighs and any access to her nipples by others was out of the question. Perhaps she was grateful for this, but thinking such positive thoughts is surely difficult in the face of such adversity, and Emma was clearly not following that path. Mary and Monica tried rocking their captive then tightened the ratchets still further while Emma moaned in misery and let further tears trickle down over the lemon.

"Don’t they stick other vegetables in such display animals?" Roger suggested ingenuously.

"You’re absolutely right," said Monica, and again vanished into the kitchen, reappearing with a large zucchini. This was lubricated with the red wine sauce and none to gently inserted into Emma’s rear orifice after the crotch rope had been first loosened then tightened to hold the offending vegetarian intruder in place, half in and half out of Emma’s rear.

"Cheers!" said Monica, and the four around the table clinked glasses. "Adaptability and flexibility – I’m adaptable, Emma’s flexible!"

The lunch was a long one. Leila completed the serving of it with predictable trepidation, lest she end up also as a bound and gagged centrepiece. Monica decided at one stage that Emma needed further adornment, just to keep her attention, and the bound girl was duly annointed firstly with ice cream from the back of her neck down the junction of her pinioned arms and ending at the top of her tautly folded buttocks. Closely following the ice cream along the same route came the sticky toffee sauce, several generous spoonfuls of which were ladled over Emma’s hair. The ice cream melted slowly and ran down Emma’s flanks, mingling with the toffee sauce into a gooey pool in the plastic-lined tray. Not long after the application of the sauce somebody evidently decided Emma needed a change of scenery, and they carried her down to a point under a large gum tree near the pool. I did not at first see the relevance of this exercise until half an hour later, when, despite the tightness of her bonds Emma managed to squirm some more, possibly creating some lubrication against the restraining straps now sodden with sauce and ice cream. I was passing on my way to my room, trying not to look at Emma, but I couldn’t help it. She was clearly distressed, moaning and chewing into the lemon which was now somewhat the worse for wear. Her eyes were screwed up and she mewed plaintively and desperately for help. Something was clearly wrong. I moved closer and to my horror saw ants swarming all over her body.

I guess it was at that point that something snapped in my mind as far as Monica was concerned. I decided, as I released Emma’s straps, heedless of the looks from Monica on the verandah, that it was time Monica was taught a lesson. Emma could not stand, for the circulation in her legs had been severely restricted. I undid the terrible cords and the nipple clamps that still remained in place, and carried her over to the garden hose used to fill the pool. Here I hosed her down as best I could, getting rid of most of the ants, but the toffee sauce was a different matter. Emma was leaning against a tree for support, and I was obliged to carry her again, this time to her room, where I turned on the shower and listened to her little cries of pain as the circulation was slowly restored and normality returned.

I still had to face Monica, but that would be another battle, and I did not intend to even start the opening salvoes until she had calmed down from her no doubt current state of annoyance and desire to have my guts for garters.

I went downstairs later that afternoon and talked with Trish, who was on duty in the Observation Room. My good friend Christina, Slave to Warren and devoted bondagee, had been returned to the Bilboes fold and was now suffering in silence in under the professional supervision of Trish. She looked as lovely as ever, bound tightly as she was to one of the posts in the Post Room, although of course she couldn’t see me through the one way mirror. She had been lashed to the post with coils of sashcord about her waist and criss-crossing between her breasts and over her shoulders. She was naked except for a pair of white knee-length boots and a matching white ball gag on a white strap. It was all in the best possible taste. She had obviously been bound to the post while standing against it, and once her torso had been immovably secured, with her hands crossed and tied behind her, further loops of the cord had been placed around her ankles and these had been pulled off the floor behind her and tied off to an eye bolt sticking out of the back of the post. She was thus hanging from the post, mainly through the friction between her torso and the post itself, solely through the tightness of the ropes about her waist and shoulders. Someone had then positioned one of our dildoes on an extendable shaft under her pussy, with just enough intruding to make her horny as hell but not enough to let her get off. She was clearly not pleased with the situation, tossing her blonde hair and making plaintive grunts of frustration. On her nipples white plastic clothes pegs stuck out jauntily – one on the tip of each and four more in an artistic circle around the areola. 

Her playmate in the room was another blonde with long hair plaited into a single braid. In contrast to Christina, Lisa – for that was her name – wore black. She was kneeling on a platform that Trish and I had designed and built. It was on rollers, about knee-high and around a metre and a half square. It was heavily padded with vinyl and sported a nice selection of rings and cleats around the perimeter for any desired anchorage. Slightly off-centre was a tee-shaped bar made of 50 millimetre pipe. It was adjustable so that the cross-bar could be from half a metre to a metre above the platform. The cross bar was a metre long – ideal for draping elbows, waists or knees over it and securing them in any desired position.

Lisa was tall and very attractive, with a cute nose and big brown eyes. I had encountered her previously, but her head had been encased in a leather hood at the time. In her latest situation, the rest of her face was covered with black duct tape criss-crossing her mouth. She wore a black corset that constricted her waist from hip to the underside of her breasts, which were full and heavy. Black strappy high heels adorned her feet while her arms were confined by a leather arm sheath that ran from fingertips almost to her shoulders, where straps looped around under each armpit. Lisa was kneeling on the platform with her back to the cross bar. Her sheathed arms were hooked over the bar, which reached to the underside of her shoulder blades and the ring on the bottom of the leather sheath had been secured to the base of the vertical bar. This position would have probably been tolerable, except that Lisa’s ankles had been strapped to her thighs, meaning that much of her weight was being carried on the points of her knees. As if this was not bad enough, a rope tethering each knee to a front corner of the platform pulled her legs apart and forward, forcing her to lean backwards and carry her weight on her arms hooked on the bar. This posture was further reinforced by a rope looped around her waist, knotted behind her, then pulled between her legs and out the front, from which point it went out and up over a ceiling pulley, before descending to a bucket near the floor. The bucket was half full of water, no doubt creating a somewhat yielding but continuous taut pressure right through Lisa’s crotch. Not that Lisa was really in a position to see this, since the long braid of her hair had been secured to the base of the vertical bar at the same point as the arm sheath, pulling her head back and obliging her to study the ceiling. Predictably the final ornaments to this complex picture were the two nipple clamps joined with a silver chain, from which dangled a lead weight the size of a walnut.

"Two works of art," I commented to Trish, who looked up from a book she was reading.

She smiled. "Good, aren’t they. They just can’t get enough, these little bondage sluts."

"Some can," I corrected her. "Emma had a hard time with Monica this afternoon."

Trish looked concerned. "How hard?" she asked. I told her.

"Something really has to be done about Monica," I said. "She needs to be taken down a peg – to get her humanity back."

"Did you have something in mind?"

"Maybe. But I can’t tell you. ‘Need to know’, my dear," I said, tapping the side of my nose. "Don’t want you giving away secrets under torture."

I locked myself in the Machine Room for the rest of the afternoon, emerging at dusk for some fresh air. This I did by taking a drive to the Cannon Hill car park. It was dark by the time I got there, and the pickup was gone. Wayne Bennelli was back in the real world with possibly some explaining to do about his absence and his appearance, although whether such explanations would be to his boss, his girl friend, his boy friends or what, I didn’t know, nor did I care.

For the next few days I beavered away on my rack. It had grown into a bit of a monster, physically. Imagine a frame the size of a king-sized bed, now stretch it a bit lengthwise, now make it into a four-poster to ceiling height. Central within the overall frame was a padded vinyl rack, under a metre wide but two and a half metres long – long enough to stretch out on comfortably, I thought. At the end of this were two more padded platforms, ideal for kneeling on. The whole frame was designed to have four people spreadeagled around the perimeter frame with a fifth on the rack in the middle – or at least variations on those themes. Most importantly it should not flex or sway – I wanted something rock solid that would prove immovable against all desperate attempts to escape. This was in fact easily done by fixing four posts from the concrete floor to the underside of the floor joists above. 

While all this was going on, I had gradually made peace with Monica, and had convinced her that a photo shoot for the opening of the Rack was in order – a thought that Monica seemed to quite take to. This was not surprising, given the one-sided nature of the dungeon shoot and the obvious success of that. Little did she know Steven had other plans for this particular photo session.

I had agreed with her that the girls were to be sent down at ten minute intervals wearing the usual collection of exotic outfits. Each girl would be secured in place with the one on the rack itself being the last. This of course meant that the first victim would be in place considerably longer than number five, but in the big scheme of Steven’s Masterplan I did not see this as significant, for they were all going to be there quite a while. I had also prevailed on Leila to lend me her video camera, which I set up on a tripod to record the events as they unfolded. It had not been difficult to convince Monica that there were video marketing opportunities here.

And so it was that the morning began with the appearance of Emma – she of the silky black hair and heavy breasts. She entered the room and gaped at the coils of rope, lengths of chain, sets of cuffs and piles of padlocks that were laid out on the floor. Multiply five bodies by four cuffs and padlocks and you start to accumulate some hardware. This was before we even got to inserts for mouths and other orifices which might or might not get locked in place.

"You must be expecting a party," she said. "Is there a bus load coming?"

"A house load, my dear," I told her, "and you are the lucky first to try out Steven’s new rack and to learn the terrors it holds to all who cross this threshold." She laughed. "You could at least try to be a little bit more apprehensive,’ I grumbled without conviction. "A lot of work has gone into this, you know."

"I can see that. But I really think I’m going to enjoy this, not go running back to Monica."

"You may be right - the latter is definitely more terrifying. Now come over here and try on these darling cuffs."

Emma wore a local cheerleader outfit - a short maroon pleated skirt and a silvery white lycra crop top, which did nothing to disguise her lovely tits. The outfit was finished off with white high heels and she wore her hair in pigtails. She looked considerably more cheerful than when I had last had a close encounter with her. I felt there was now a bond of trust between us, which made me feel pretty good – I guess I’m just a bit old fashioned like that. Emma would have pride of place – at least to start with – on the long side of the rack furthest from the door. 

It did not take me long to fit leather cuffs to Emma’s ankles and wrists and to lock these in place. A metre long heavy chain linked both ankle cuffs once Emma’s legs were spread. This was not so much for immediate purposes as for the longer term - for reasons which will become plainer in time, dear reader. I looped some sashcord through the D-rings on the cuffs and ran it through eye-bolts on the base timber, before running the cords vertically and tying them off at head height. There was again reason for this, which will likewise become apparent. Emma’s legs were now firmly held apart and unable to move either in or out. I locked her wrist cuffs together and told her to raise her hands above her head. Her position, on the far side of the rack, faced the door. Just above head height a horizontal length of 5 centimetre galvanised pipe spanned between the main posts on all four sides. Conveniently, this was just at raised elbow height for Emma’s arms. I looped a further piece of sashcord through the lock joining her cuffs and pulled her wrists back over the pipe, letting her twist them as they descended behind her shoulders. Here they stopped, and from that point I ran the rope down her back, slipping it inside the band of her skirt and running it between her legs to the front. Predictably Emma wore nothing underneath, and predictably my hand lingered. Even more predictably Emma wriggled and began to make soft moaning noises, before I pulled my questing fingers away. Half a minute later two knots were nestling against her pussy under the skirt and the top ends of the rope emerged to wrap around her waist and get tied at the front.

"You can wipe that smile off your face, Emma Cheng," said a voice, totally devoid of any malice and perhaps even suggesting a hint of jealousy. It was Jillian, shutting the heavy door behind her. 

"I want what she’s got!" Jill demanded with the earnestness of a six-year-old and a demure look I found utterly enchanting. Jillian wore a white PVC leotard which ran from a high Chinese-style collar in a narrow strip down between her breasts before encircling her body in a shapely wrap. Suspenders held glistening white stockings that ran down her wonderful legs to end in elegant white strappy high heels. Once I’d regained my composure, which wasn’t always easy, given some of the outfits these girls possessed, I decided I’d brook no nonsense from Jillian.

"You’ll get what’s coming to you, young missy," I told her sternly.

"And like it, too?" she asked coyly.

"Maybe," I reluctantly agreed. "But maybe not. This is Steven’s Chamber of Horror, after all. It’s not Mrs Do-Kindly’s house of pleasure, you know. Don’t try my patience. You’ll soon be in a position where you’re helpless in my clutches!"

"Oh goody. Can we start now?"

Jill was going to do pretty well out of this, since she would end up in a similar position to Emma, opposite her. It did not take long to secure her ankles identically to Emma’s, and to have her cuffed wrists tied vertically to the overhead beam. Again I tied a double cord about Jill’s waist, ran it down the back between her legs and passed it under the long bench to Emma’s side. Here I attached it to the cord running down from Emma’s waist under her skirt, pulling it tight but not too tight. The girls commented on this.

"Hey, dungeon master, these ropes are a bit loose," said Jill, weaving around within her points of restraint.

"Does that mean you can escape?" I asked, taunting her.

"Well… no, but you’re a bit slacker than usual," she said.

"Only fools and children comment on a half-finished job," I told her. Suitably chastised she dropped her eyes and tugged experimentally with a backward thrust of her hips against the rope between her legs. She got a response from Emma with a soft squeak.

"Oi, none of that or you’ll get a whipping you hadn’t bargained for!" I told them sternly, just as Leila appeared in the doorway, camera in hand. 

Leila looked drop-dead gorgeous, dressed not unlike the last photo-shoot in the dungeon. Red was definitely her colour, and to this end she wore the same red latex mini dress that came almost halfway down her thighs. It had a halter neck and an open laced panel between her breasts, the locations of which were confirmed by cut-outs the diameter of tennis balls over her nipples. She wore white stay-up stockings, the tops of which occasionally peeked from the hem of her dress, with the lower extremities of her legs encased in very stylish knee-length front lacing leather boots, sporting four-inch heels. Not content with this, she had rounded off the outfit with thin red latex gloves that stretched to above her elbows. Not surprisingly, everything she wore concealed nothing, instead outlining every curve and fibre of her body.

"You can put that camera over there," I told her. "I’m doing the shooting today." Leila looked disappointed but did as I commanded. 

When I had regained my momentary loss of thought patterns, I soon had her kneeling on the right hand platform at a little below waist level. This was the foot of the rack itself, pride of place on which I had reserved for Mary. Leila was soon secured not unlike Jillian, her wrists cuffed and locked together, and hoisted high above her, the rope looping between the cuffs and over the galvanised pipe spanning between corner posts, from where it was tied to a length of chain that dropped to the base of the rack frame to be padlocked to an eyebolt. She was kneeling extended in this position, that is to say not sitting back on her haunches. I locked cuffs on her ankles over the fine red leather of her boots, linking them with a short hobble chain and then tying the ankles to the edges of the platform.

"Everybody looks very comfortable in here," came Trish’s voice from the doorway as I finished securing Leila.

"We are, aren’t we girls?" I said. A chorus of assent came from the three females in various states of restraint on the rack. "Why not join the fun?"

Trish sauntered into the room as though she owned the place, looking stunning in a pale blue and white striped corset stretching from hip to the underside of her breasts. This was complimented by white PVC thigh boots straight out of "Pretty Woman". In short, she looked every inch the archtype hooker in the first stage of undress. She smiled at me mockingly.

"What’s the matter? Never seen a lady in a corset before?"

How did I get a job like this? I wondered.

"Sure," I said off handedly, but I’m sure I blushed. "Up on the platform please Miss. Assume the position!"

"And what position would that be, sir?"

"Cross-legged and wrists in front."

"Okay. Like this? What’s this hole in the platform for? Its right where… oh. I think I see."

"If you don’t now, you soon will," I murmured.

"Is that a promise?" She smiled wickedly at me. I grinned back as I strapped the cuffs around her wrists and locked them on, then joined them with a further padlock. The locks shut with the crisp click of well-oiled devices. More cuffs on her ankles with a short hobblechain, then I tied them crossed together with several turns of cord. Another piece of cord through the wrist locks and Trish’s wrists were hauled up and backwards over the bar above her, then were pulled down behind her shoulders in the same manner as Emma. Like Emma’s configuration, I ran the rope underneath Trish between her legs, pausing to tie a couple of strategic knots in the front before wrapping it around her waist and tying it off. She looked on approvingly.




"We’ll see how long that lasts," I told her ominously, leering at her.

Predictably Mary arrived late. 

"Is this where the party is?" she asked archly, eyeing the four girls bound to the framework in the centre of the room. I ignored her lateness. The last thing I wanted now was any disagreement.

"It is, Mary, and you’re the guest of honour, of course – the piece de resistance, so to speak. We’ve saved you pride of place on the table."

Mary strode imperiously into the room and circled the rack, observing the four figures in their restraints. She wore a black leather miniskirt and a matching halter top with nipple cut-outs and a few lightweight chains scattered for effect. Further effects were created by her black knee-length boots and gloves which ran to above her elbows.

"This bondage is a bit slack isn’t it?" she said disdainfully, tugging at the cord running from Jill’s overhead pulley through her legs to Emma’s crotch. Both girls caught their breath. "Look at all the slack!"

"I’ll try to do better, Mary," I said humbly. "I’ll take your advice. Would you mind lying down on the table?"

She did so without a second’s hesitation, and was shortly cuffed at wrist and ankle like the others. I only had four cuffs left – I had had to virtually clean out the store room for this exercise, as well as making a bulk purchase of about forty small padlocks which were masterkeyed in various ways. Mary’s ankles were linked with a short hobble chain, as were her wrists, then I secured the ankle cuffs to the foot of the frame. I was glad Mary was wearing boots and gloves, as I had requested of Monica, since this would provide adequate protection to the wrists and ankles in addition to that through the use of the cuffs. It did not take me long to secure her wrists with further ropes. These ran through pulleys at the head of the frame back to a horizontal shaft between the two posts at the foot, beneath where Leila was tethered. On each end of the shaft was a steering wheel I had obtained from a used car yard, and a simple ratchet system for tightening the victims ropes. The use of the pullies made it twice as easy to apply some load to the victim with less input to the wheels.

"Are we ready, yet?" It was Monica, wearing what I had asked of her – a shiny silver catsuit made of heavy rubber. I had seen Trish wear it once and for reasons which will become clear had asked Monica to wear it this time, ostensibly for variety in the photo shoot. She also wore black leather gloves that overlapped the rubber sleeves a short way and outlined her hands against the silver fabric in a strikingly erotic way. As usual she wore her favourite black stilettos, adding to her height and imperious stature.

"Just getting to the interesting part, Mon," I said. "You need to understand how this thing works, and I want all of the rest of you to pay attention as well." There was no disguising the looks of interest on their faces as I explained how it operated.

"It’s all pretty simple, but you have to remember that you can put plenty of tension on through the pulleys, but can easily let it off by removing this ratchet here." I turned the wheel a couple of times to take out the slack. Mary wriggled to spread the load as her arms and legs straightened. "I think we should look at a couple of refinements available with this system, too," I said. Mary made a disparaging remark under her breath that I did not quite catch, so I said to Monica: "Could you please quieten the lady, Mon?" 

Ever obliging Monica selected a large but soft rubber ball and forced it into Mary’s mouth. Rather than use a standard ball gag, the ever inventive Monica then took a strap and wrapped it around Mary’s upper arms, behind her head and across her mouth, thus trapping her arms on either side of her head, as well as securing the ball in place. I had to admire Monica sometimes. Mary now would even have difficulty shaking her head. 

I turned the wheel a bit further, listening for two clicks on the ratchet. Mary’s body was now dead straight with her arms and legs stretched taut. 

"I recall one of my earliest lessons here," I told my wrapt audience. "It was Mary telling us about how and when nipple clamps should be placed." I produced a handful of plastic clothes pegs – the type with a curved rather than a flat contact face, and proceeded to place four around each of Mary’s nipples, in the points of the compass, with one on each now-hard tip. Mary’s composure was starting to go. Her eyes seemed to grow wide in protest with the placement of each peg and she began to make little whining sounds.

"One feature of this rack is that it is hinged in the middle, at the waist. If we turn this little wheel here, there is a jack underneath that will elevate the middle hinged point. You have to be very careful, since we do not want any broken backs. Really not good for business. But good, of course, for stretching the torso and making the skin tighten in all points to the front, as we see now." I had raised the hinged piece by perhaps six centimetres, and Mary’s ribs were starting to become outlined as her waist was lifted. Predictably the flesh tightened around her breasts and her whining went up a notch. Her breath began to come in rapid pants as I gave the wheel another couple of turns.

"Tight enough for you now, Mary?" I asked innocently. Mary’s breathing was punctuated by a high nasal moaning and her eyes were large and pleading. "What do you think, Mon?"

"Impressive," said Monica, with – I think – genuine admiration. I took the camera and began to get some shots of Mary, with Monica standing over her dominating the frame and holding on to the main wheel. Monica could not resist giving each wheel a further twist, which sent Mary into new pleadings. Monica’s response was to flick and tug the clothes pegs while whispering God knew what in Mary’s ear. There was no need to coach any acting out of the victim – the fear on her face was pretty genuine. Such theories about not harming employees who made the money were clearly forgotten in the literal stress of the moment.

Part Two

After some ten minutes of directing shots, both with full floodlights on and in a more gloomy dungeon-like surround, I eased off the centre wheel and let Mary down to an even keel again. She was still breathing as though she had done a hundred metre dash. I suggested Monica should remove the pegs at this point, which she did to the accompaniment of squeals muffled by the rubber ball as the no doubt painful experience of returning bloodflow came about.

"Now for the full show," I told the assembly. I handed Monica four ball gags and asked her to fit them to the remaining ungagged mouths, hers and mine excluded, of course. She did this with purpose, with each girl obediently opening wide for the rubber ball to be inserted and buckled behind the neck.

In the meantime I eased the main ropes on Mary’s arms and tied a doubled-up piece of sashcord around her waist, then led it from the back, under her leather skirt and between her legs, coming up the front and emerging above the top of the leather waistband to slip under the waist loop of cord. Here I tied it, then, standing on the platform I pulled a cord and hook down from where it hung over a pulley in the centre of the upper frame. This I hooked on Mary’s waist rope. Not wanting a lot or argument about this, I removed Mary’s strap around her arms and pulled the soaking ball free, to jam another in place before she could draw breath to protest. This ballgag was of the regular type and buckled tightly behind her head.

That done, I undid the rest of the ropes on her ankles and wrist cuffs, barely giving her a moment to react before I hauled on the pulley and heaved her torso into the air. Mary scrabbled about frantically, pulling her legs up to support some weight on her feet and – after momentarily ending up on her elbows with her wrists behind her, she stretched her arms out vertically beneath her, the linking chain stretching taut across the vinyl padding as her fingers splayed out to take her weight. Her body was now horizontal, some half a metre above the bench, her arms and lower legs like four columns in support, while her head fell back as she cried plaintively into the gag.

"Even more impressive," said Monica as I reached for the camera again.

There was no doubt about Monica’s acting ability – she was a born poser – pouting and snarling at the helpless girls. Every so often I would position her limbs – moving an arm or shifting her closer to her victim then snapping away. After some minutes I pulled her aside.

"I think we should spice things up a little," I said, and I explained to her what I wanted. Monica never blinked an eye and moved across to a table in the corner where I had laid out five "devices" – as I was told they were called by the Brisbane vice squad. Monica selected the first, and largest. It was the seven centimetre rubber dildo in engorged pink, which Jillian had encountered in the dungeon photo shoot.

"Who would like this?" She fixed each candidate with a baleful stare. "Maybe we should leave it until last. Meanwhile, Emma – you’re always the horny one – we should fix you up first." Monica picked up a tube of lubricant that came with a long nozzle of the kind you get in hardware stores for injecting sealant. A squirt of lubricant went up all the orifices on the rack – front and back. I had no intention of any anal insertion, but of course the girls didn’t know that.

Monica dealt with Emma first – a broad chromed dildo worked into her pussy and held there by the crotch rope. Mary followed, with a fat black model with all manner of ribbings and protruding nubs. Trish and Jill both got the shaft – my extendable pipe on the steel base. I had specifically brought these to the rack room for this purpose, and had indicated the intention to Monica. The crotch ropes were superfluous in these cases, since the long chromed vibrators penetrated between each pair of ropes. I watched as Monica positioned the dildo between Jill’s legs and twisted it up inside her. Her hands tightened and she pulled on the overhead ropes, lifting herself on to tiptoes as the invader moved upward inside her. Her breath came in little shuddering gasps before Monica stopped and the helpless Jillian slowly lowered herself on the silver prong. All the time I kept clicking away, alternating now with the video camera, getting some excellent action shots of faces and insertions.

Trish also got a silver dong on the shaft – this one protruding up through a hole in the platform. Trish wriggled and squirmed as the invader penetrated her pussy, oblivious to my in-your-face camera technique. As Monica finished with Trish and turned to the last girl, Leila, the camera caught the widening of her eyes as she realised that the big dildo was destined for her. Monica picked it up and approached her with just the right of menace. I got it all as she positioned the big vibrator on the specially-adapted car jack, and located this between Leila’s spread knees on the platform. Leila tried to squat down on her haunches but could get nowhere near that position, and in any case it would have achieved Monica’s goal had she succeeded.

"Would you like it up the bum instead, little Leila?" Monica hissed in Leila’s ear. Leila, a genuine look of alarm on her face shook her head desperately. "Then you’d better behave, hadn’t you." Leila nodded feigning enthusiasm as Monica began jacking the device upward beneath the tight red dress. There was much squirming as the head of the dildo penetrated Leila. Her whole body tightened and her fists clenched in the cuffs overhead as she struggled to cope with the intruder. Her cheeks coloured and she began to pant rapidly through her nose, closing her eyes and moaning into the ballgag. Just when I was about to tell Monica to stop, she did so, smiling archly at me.

The next step of the set-up was the installation of the nipple torture. I pulled Monica aside again and whispered to her, then I stepped back for a wide shot of the bound team when Monica, a handful of clinking nipple clamps raised high, announced the next stage to the awaiting audience. There was a chorus of gagged groans from the victims. 

I climbed on to the main platform, standing above the helpless and strained Mary who looked up at me with plaintive eyes – quite a change coming from her – or was I just misreading things? Above her I suspended a horizontal wire ring, perhaps the diameter of a basketball – a bit like those ones that form the frame for a lampshade. Monica meanwhile had fastened a nipple clamp on the right tits of Leila and Trish. Attached to each clamp was a long piece of twine, which Monica handed to me. I passed each through the wire ring and handed them back to Monica, who tied one end to Leila’s second clamp now affixed to her left nipple. The second twine was looped through the clamp on Trish’s left breast, and was then in a position for adjustment. Pulling on this twine – which passed through the ring and back to the Trish’s right clamp – produced an even strain on each nipple, but pulled on the ring and produced an opposite strain on both Leila's clamps. Monica, who at once had grasped the capacity for the system, and who had also seen my deliberate slackness in the ropes, now used the leverage to it’s full effect.

"Come on, come on," she said impatiently. "Lean forward – there’s lots of slack there – stick those tits out!" Trish and Leila whined as one, but obediently pushed their bodies forward to counter the pull of the clamps. Monica tied off the twine on Trish’s clamp and together we repeated the process on both Emma and Jillian, keeping the tension on both. Mary was the final one, with her twine going over the centre bar of the wire ring.

"Absolutely first class," Monica said admiringly. "You really do have a talent for this sort of thing." 

"Thank you," I said modestly. "I’d like to do some more stills with you – something a bit more arty. I handed her a riding crop. "Use your imagination while I use mine."

I followed her around the frame, as she let fly periodically at exposed rumps. Every so often I would stop her and position her against the backdrop of the rack before getting further shot. Leila had brought lots of rolls of film and I realised I was thoroughly enjoying myself, although I confess I was mighty tense about what was to come, having plotted it for so long.

"Okay Mon. I want you to stand here facing the rack. Put you hands behind you and hold the crop horizontally. I want a couple of shots from behind you, with the crop the focus. Monica, by now accustomed to my positioning and handling of her limbs let herself be positioned. I stood behind her while she held the crop, her hands just touching as they gripped it. She had no time to react as I clicked the set of handcuffs around her exposed wrists. They fitted perfectly, snapping closed over her leather-encased wrists with a smooth rachetting series of clicks

"What the hell’s this all about?" Monica demanded, turning on me furiously.

I said nothing but pushed her against the wall, fishing in my pocket for the chain with the silver crocodile clips on them. Ignoring her protests I pushed my fingers into the vertical slits in the rubber suit where I knew her nipples to be and teased them out through the openings. They were hard and resistant.

"Steven! Don’t you dare put those things on me! Don’t you –ow! Shit that hurts! Take it off this instant! Leave that other one –ow-owow! Arghh! Shit Steven! You bastard! Take the fucking things off now!"

Still I said nothing, ignoring her hot breath in my face. From my other pocket I pulled the foam rubber ball that Mary had been gagged with in the course of her initial stretching on the rack. It was relatively soft, but also very resilient and larger than the harder ball gags we used. A yank on the nipple chain caused Monica to open her mouth sufficiently for me to make a start on locating the ball there, and with a couple more yanks I succeeded in working the ball wholly inside her mouth. I knew it was actually big enough to stay there of it’s own accord once inside. The victim could close his or her mouth fully, only to have it spring open the moment the pressure was eased, and the ball expanded sufficiently to make it impossible to force out with the tongue alone. All in all it was pretty effective. Suffice to say, Monica shut up immediately, although if looks could kill I would have died an agonising death there and then.

I pulled her across to the only support post in the room, located as it was a couple of metres to the rear of the rack, behind where Emma stood. Here I forced Monica to her knees and looped a chain around her neck, locking it to a protruding eyebolt.

"Ladies – and Monica – I suppose I should tell you what is in store for you today – and tomorrow – and the next day. I will. Soon. The first thing that will happen is that Monica will make a series of apologies to you for various instances of humiliation she has inflicted on you in recent times. She will have a short while to think about this while I have a break. This might help focus her mind a little." I moved across to Monica’s kneeling figure and hung a walnut-sized lead weight on the short chain joining the two nipple clamps. Monica winced and moaned into the rubber ball. "And since I don’t want you reaching round and removing that, Mon, your hands need a little further restraint…" With these words I slipped a rope around the link on the handcuffs and dragged it between her legs, stretching it taut across to the rack.

"Please excuse me for a moment, Emma," I said deferentially, slipping my hand under her skirt and tying Monica’s rope to the crotch rope emerging from between Emma’s buttocks. "Now you can all play together," I told her, patting her gently on the shoulder as one might do with a small child.

"As for the rest of the day, ladies, I’m debating whether to go to the movies leaving you to your own devices – if you pardon the pun – or whether to invite Warren and Roger over to play with you." I watched the looks of amazement and dismay appear on some of the faces, not the least being that on Monica’s. "Or both, perhaps. I think the toss of a coin should solve this quandary." I pulled a fifty cent piece from my pocket and tossed it, letting it land on the concrete floor with a ring that echoed off the block walls. I studied the fall. "Hmmm. Okay. See you all later." I turned and left the room, heedless of all the sudden mmphing and jiggling from the figures on the rack and the brief rattle of handcuffs from the woman chained by the neck.

A week or so previously Monica had bought some leather trousers for me – all part of the long term plan, it seemed, to have me more involved in the ‘active’ side of the business. I had deliberately refrained from wearing them until my plans for this event came to fruition. I had decided that if she was looking for a more dominant Steven, who better than to be the judge first time out than Monica Armstrong. Accordingly, dressed in my new leather strides, my black boots and leather vest, I returned to the fray some fifteen minutes later. I had opted to wear a leather hood, complete with zipped mouth opening, for effect. I was sure it would fool nobody once I opened my mouth, but hey, mind games was what this was all about.

I toyed with changing my voice, and decided that there was no way I would fool anyone, whether a strange Scotsman, Brummie or Canadian turned up to deal with the girls. All of these accents I could do, but not such that it would deceive this lot, given Steven’s departure so soon beforehand. Notwithstanding all of this, I thought it was appropriate that there be at least a little role play, and I decided to revert to my alter ego of previously – the East Ender who had wrought such suffering on poor Isobel.

"’Ullo girls," I said, upon entering the Rack Room again. I stood and surveyed the faces turned towards me, eyes wide over the gagged mouths, wondering what was to happen next. "Well, well, well. Wot a delightful little play-group. Must be my lucky day. All me Christmases come at once. I wonder if I can make you girls do the same…"

I walked slowly around the five females strung out on the rack, eyeing them up and down and letting the silence have its effect, broken as it was only by the clicking of my steel-capped heels on the concrete and the heavy breathing of the prisoners, punctuated occasionally with a barely suppressed whimper. I circled the kneeling Monica, flicking at the lead weight hanging between her breasts and watching as she screwed up her eyes with the pain while her breath came in ragged gasps. I twitched the rope between her legs which was attached to Emma, and smiled to myself as both of them jerked and wriggled. I returned to the rack and gazed down at Mary. I hoped they were all feeling like a class whose members were about to be singled out by a teacher for some very unpleasant punishment. Certainly, nobody wanted to make eye contact.

"You – in the middle! You comfy?"

Mary gazed up at me from where she strained against the rope holding her up around the waist. Her head hung backwards and her arms quivered with the first signs of straining to keep the weight of her body off the waist rope and to reduce the upward pull on her nipples. She shook her head emphatically.

"Uh-un!" came the grunt from behind her rubber ball. I stood beside Emma and let my fingers rove over Mary’s tautly stretched body. Her black leather mini skirt was stretched tight across her thighs as my hand slid gently beneath it, dallying along the smooth skin of her inner thighs. She tried to close her legs, but obviously decided it was a more stable position with them spread apart. As I groped gently around her crotch, I found what I was looking for – a small trailing wire ending in a little plug only a centimetre long. I gave it a slight tug and displayed the loose end where it protruded beyond the hem of the skirt to the watchers all around me. 

"See this, girls?" Even Mary managed to lift her head long enough to look down the length of her body to where I held the end of the red wire. "You’ve all got one exactly like it ‘angin’ out of those devices you’re wearing. All except the stroppy bitch chained to the post, that is. She’ll get somefing much more devious and infinitely longer lasting," I added meaningfully. "No, this wire will be attached to a power supply through a small transformer beneath this table, which will in turn be connected to a little black box – to use a technical term – which will be linked to a microphone. In short, wot you lot can look forward to are a random series of activations of your devices. Over and above that, if you start getting’ too carried away and makin’ too much noise, all the fings come on at once and will stay on for five minutes on full power. Then everyfing gets reset and we start off all over again. And of course this will go on for hours, until you get freed. But that’s another story. In the meantime I thort this one ‘ere could at least demonstrate ‘ow these fings work…" I looked at Mary who rolled her eyes and shook her head, making plaintive grunts. 

"Not too much of the snorting, luv," I cautioned her, "unless you want to go crazy. This rack fing needs to be tested, of course, an’ I’m sure all of you girls pullin’ different ways will give it a good trial." I reached under the bench and selected a matching plug from the small electronic box screwed to the base of the frame. I pulled the end of the plug and wire up to meet with the end trailing from between Mary’s legs and pushed the two small plugs together.

Mary jerked as the vibrator started up inside her. It was on full power already, and the microphone control was not yet operating. I intended for Mary to give a short demonstration while I got the rest of them ready.

"While this one is doin’ the bump and grind," I said, addressing the others, "I fink you should all know ‘ow you’re goin’ to get out of ‘ere. Simply put, the only way you’re going to get out of ‘ere, is when little Miss Clever Clogs over there frees you," I explained, indicating Monica. She glowered back at me. "Let’s fink abaht this for a bit. ‘Oo wos it that did up those balls in yor mouths so tightly, eh? ‘Oo wos it put those clips on the real painful end of yor nips, eh? Well this same person will get you free as soon as she possibly can, except that won’t be easy. The fact is, until she gets you free, she won’t be able to get free herself, because she will need you lot to ‘unt for the keys to unlock ‘er. Its called a symbiotic relationship, right? She scratches your back, you scratch ‘ers – and believe me she is gonna need it.

"Just so you all understand your circumstances, there are three master keys wot will undo your bonds. One will fit the padlocks on those luverly balls you’re all wearin’. One will fit yor wrists cuffs, and one will fit yor ankle cuffs. These three keys will be hidden somewhere in the house and grounds. As will be stroppy bitch’s keys, except they’ll be much harder to find, so she’ll need all the help she can get. And the only way she can free you is to unlock the chains at the back of the blonde bird over there – yes, you, darlin’," I said, nodding at Leila. Nothing else will be within reach – you’ll see the ropes are tied off suitably ‘igh – certainly ‘igh enuf for Miss Stuck-up, when she’s properly restrained. And the key to unlock blondie at the end there will be on the floor somewhere in this room. Simple, right? Except that Miss Stuck-up will be unable to see what she’s doing or hear anything you might tell her. Nor, it goes wivout saying, will she be able to ‘old any form of conversation. Add to that the fact that she won’t exactly be fully mobile, and there are hours of pleasure stretchin’ ahead of everyone." I paused to let the thought of the possibilities sink in to all those present.

"But before I start preparing the star of the day," I looked meaningfully at Monica, "we need to tidy up a few loose ends wiv you lot – namely those sticking down from your love tunnels, right?"

It took me but a few moments to connect a further four wires to those plugs visible below the four splayed crotches. One by one the recipients jumped and began to squirm as the vibrations took hold, then to try to restrain themselves as the tugging on their nipples began, both from their own efforts and from the effects of the others all transferred through the wire ring. I taped a microphone over one of the overhead beams.

"This, girls, is not yet switched on. Wot you’re getting’ at the moment will be switched on to random soon, and in due course you’ll be able to let yourselves go. You see wot I’m doin’ ‘ere?" I took a piece of twine with one end embedded in a small lump of ice, and threaded it through the other twine looping through the wire ring, before connecting it to the ice. "This is a replacement for the wire ring here, only done with twine. It’s joined by the lump of ice, which will melt in due course, freeing the pressure from yor nips." I picked up a pair of bolt cutters and cut the wire ring clear. "Once the ice melts – maybe in an hour or so – you can rattle and rock to yor ‘eart’s content, wivout upsettin’ anyone else, and give this ‘ere contraction a real good testin’. Right? Any questions?"

There were a couple of mmmphing sounds and assorted hmming and grunting noises.

"Sorry girls, you’ll have to speak up – I’m a little ‘ard of ‘earin’. No? Okay. Enjoy the vibes while I deal with ‘er ‘ighness over ‘ere."

I stepped down from the rack frame and admired my handywork. Already the five were squirming as much as they could. Their bodies and legs were stretched in such a way that they really couldn’t get a good purchase to push against their respective intruders or to grind their hips down. Complicating matters was obviously the pain in their nipples with the clamps, and the way these forced their bodies toward the centre of the frame while their wrists and ankles pulled them back. Shit I’m good, I thought.

"Your turn, your ‘ighness," I told Monica, as I unfastened the rope linking her to Emma, then with some difficulty prised out the foam rubber ball from her mouth. It was dripping with saliva and I deliberately wiped it on her hair.

"You bastard," she hissed. "What are you going to do to me?" 

"All sorts of things," I told her in a low voice. "Things which will be even worse if you cause trouble. But first," I announced in my East End twang, for the benefit of the assembly, "madam ‘ere ‘as somefink she wants to say to yer. Doancha sweet’eart!"

"What?" asked Monica sullenly as I undid the chain around the post and pulled her to her feet with a tug on the nipple chain. "Ow! Shit!"

"Now come over ‘ere and tell this cute Chinese chick ‘ow sorry you are for ‘umiliating ‘er the other day."


"You ‘eard." I tweaked the chain again. 

"Ow! I-I’m sorry Emma."

"For what?" I coached.

"For humiliating you in front of everyone when we strapped you on to the tray and left you for the ants."

"That really wasn’t nice, was it?" I encouraged.

"No. I’m sorry."

"Okay, who’s next? The lady in red? I hear she went on a ferris wheel ride and nearly had her nips pulled off…"

"What? Bullshit! I was just- aargh! " I gave Monica a lesson in her own methods.

"Like that?" I volunteered.

"I guess so. I’m sorry Leila – I didn’t mean to hurt you."

We progressed around the frame, with each bound victim getting an apology for some humiliating event Monica had put them through. It seemed she didn’t have to think very hard, especially when I prompted her with "Is that the lot?" There were several events of which I clearly knew nothing, that popped out. I don’t know how much attention the girls were paying, while the vibrators buzzed away, but the thought was there, anyway. Whatever, the nipple clips certainly made Monica pay attention.

At length the apologies were over, although I realised later that I had neglected to elicit one for myself. I doubted I would get the chance again. I took her back to the post, where I again chained her by the neck. Now was the start of the grand Preparation for Monica that I had planned for in such detail. I pulled a tight rubber hood over Monica’s head. It was the sort used by divers and was made of a smooth silicon rubber which covered all of her head except for her face. 

"Open up," I told her. "Pretend yer goin’ diving."

I slipped a diving mouthpiece between her teeth and behind her lips. It had been mostly closed off such that it only had a small hole in the centre, to which was fitted a length of clear plastic tube about half a metre long and with the internal diameter of a drinking straw. That, in fact, was the purpose it was going to serve, for Monica would not be able to take solid foot for at least a couple of days. Then out came the silver duct tape and two eye pads. These I taped temporarily in place while I inserted two walkman earplugs through small vertical slits in the rubber hood over her ears. With the cord trailing down her back, I then commenced the taping of Monica’s head. The duct tape went round and round, covering her eyes and ears, then her mouth, all but the rubber tube. I was careful not to make it too tight, such that it would induce headaches or discomfort in pressing the lips hard against the teeth and mouthpiece. Then there were some vertical turns, locking the jaw closed.

Next came a pair of industrial earmuffs and a stiff plastic orthopaedic collar. Both these devices were positioned and taped in place. Monica’s senses were disappearing one by one, and her head was now held rigidly upright, her silver-taped chin unable to be lowered without an equivalent movement of her entire torso.

The piece de resistance for the headgear was the silver motorbike full-face crash helmet, with the locking plate under the chin. I had removed a section of the inner compressible lining in the vicinity of each ear, so that the helmet could slip snugly over the earmuffs. Monica whined as the helmet was pulled into place, but there was nothing she could do about it. I fed the plastic tube through a hole I had drilled in the front, around the mouth area, then the locking plate was secured under the chin and neck brace, with the padlock snicked and the key in my pocket.

Monica now looked like something from a comic strip or from outer space. But I was not finished with her head yet. In fact the next two days could be called ‘messing with Monica’s head’. Attached to the back of the helmet was a small rectangular aluminium box, riveted to the shell with a reinforced plate on the inside. It was about the size of a small mobile phone, and in fact this was what was inside it – Monica’s phone, in actuality. It was to this that I had connected the cord from the earpieces, such that Monica need miss none of her incoming calls. Not that she would be able to answer them, of course. They would be recorded on the message bank and she would hear them as they happened, but of a response there would be no chance. I knew Monica took all her bookings over the mobile, and I knew she would absolutely get the heebie jeebies with the frustration of not being able to contact customers. I also intended to make a few calls of my own, masquerading as a customer and perhaps leaving the return number of the local cop shop or perhaps the city morgue. I was sure the appropriate ideas would come to me. I could also talk to Monica direct, albeit through leaving messages, and I was confident I could taunt her to total distraction and frustration.

But there was more than this. Monica was always talking on her mobile, to the point of rudeness sometimes. I wanted to at least discourage this a bit, and so I intended linking the ringing tone to the little battery pack that she would be wearing. It was to be one of the ones that the Twins had worn when doing their housework, with Monica standing over them giving them the odd zap. The difference would be that each time the phone rang – and it was set to ring five times before the message bank cut in – Monica would get a zap up the arse via the buttplug she would be wearing until somebody could remove it. Everything was so appropriate, somehow. Aversion therapy could have such interesting results.

Having finally done with Monica’s head, I turned my attention to her body, first removing the nipple clips and chain – none to gently, as was her own style. She jumped and a faint moan came from under the helmet. I undid the neck chain and pulled her to her feet, this time locking the chain to an eyebolt in the post at neck height. 

Monica’s thick latex catsuit was in a single piece with a zip down the front, which I undid in a single movement. I peeled the top part back from her shoulders as much as I could, which had the effect of further pinioning her arms behind her back and tightening the material at crotch level. I pulled a further wire that protruded from inside the rear of the helmet, down her back, and poked it through a small incision in the catsuit in the small of her back. This would connect to the battery pack. I threaded another wire in through the same hole. This would run from the battery pack to the buttplug that Mistress Monica was destined to wear until I decided otherwise. Two more wires followed the same route through the small hole, but led round the front to small donut-shaped pads that I glued to Monica’s breasts with spirit gum. They fitted over each nipple, and were adapted electro-muscular stimulators, which would jive her a little tingle at the same time as the buttplug. They would be undetectable under the rubber, and there would be no way Monica could tell anyone what was going on when the phone rang. I taped the wires in place with more duct tape around her body before giving her suit a light dusting of powder on the inside, pulling it back into place and zipping it up. Powder was pretty much the norm with getting into these outfits, I had been told. Itching powder was not, however. But then I was never one for sticking to protocol. Sticking my head on a chopping block, maybe…

I locked the zip to a small hasp I had fixed to the front of the neck brace, just to ensure no prying hands could remove the suit until I decided. Now for the final arrangements. First there came the aluminium strap that locked about the waist, to which the little battery pack was riveted in the small of the back. All this went in position after I had made the necessary connections with the wires protruding through the tiny hole in Monica’s suit. When the pack was finally in place, no wires were visible, everything being covered by neck brace, helmet, rubber or battery pack. At this point I locked a length of stainless steel chain to the belt, just below the battery pack, while unlocking her neck chain. Taking a convenient overhead rope which ran through a pulley, I tied one end to her handcuffs and pulled her arms high into a strappado, forcing her head down to knee level. This done, I pulled her legs apart and could not resist placing three well-aimed cracks across her buttocks with a thin cane. She jumped and tried to escape, but it was hopeless. There came muffled screams from the helmet – very muffled, I have to say. I parted her legs again and ran my hand through the slit in the rubber between them. She was wet, the slut. 

It was time for her insertions. First came Mr Buttplug – a suitably expansive chromed model, equipped with two electrodes to which the battery wire was attached. Additionally this model came with a bit of tape around its base, under which was the key to the girls’ ballgag padlock. This really did get better and better, I thought, as I gave the plug a coating of lubricating toothpaste and slowly worked it home. Monica knew better than to resist at this point, and consciously relaxed to accept the inevitable. Then came the vibrator in the front passage – a large rubber model equipped with those batteries that were guaranteed to keep going and going and going. It seemed likely that Monica would be doing the opposite.

This was slid home after a squirt of the lubricant gun, then I pulled the chain between her legs and locked it to the front of the metal belt. The finishing touches were two more padlocks, which fitted through protruding eyes on the base of each device and locked on to the chain. This would allow them to be removed individually while the chain stayed in place.

Monica was starting to exhibit signs of discomfort, hopping from one foot to the other. I was nearly finished with her torment, this time slipping a dollop of Finalgon through the vertical slit over each nipple. This was a muscle liniment, and burned like fire for an hour or so – longer if the flesh heated up, and somehow I couldn’t see Monica’s doing anything but that.

Next for attention were her ankles, and for this I needed her on the floor. I lowered her arms from the strappado and forced her into a sitting position on the smooth concrete floor. There was a faint groan as her weight obviously forced the buttplug in further. Better get used to that, I thought, as I fitted leather cuffs to her ankles and locked them on with a short hobble chain in between. Then I locked the cuffs directly together. This latter padlock key would be found first, but Monica’s relief would be short-lived when she discovered that it only separated the cuffs and did not undo the hobble chain. To this end I had numbered all the keys and had a master list in my pocket. In this regard Monica would be secured by nearly a dozen padlocks, while the girls had a further four master keys. 

Carefully locking leather cuffs on her wrists above the steel handcuffs, I released one handcuff, relocking it temporarily to her crotch chain behind her, while locking the leather cuff to the chain in front. Moments later the second cuff was locked to the front of the crotch chain beside the first, and the handcuffs were removed. Monica was ready for action. I let her down on her side and knew that the various medical applications were having their effect, not least the itching powder and the toothpaste up her bum. I had no doubt the firey liniment would soon begin to act on her nipples as well. I hoped she would still be able to cope with the task of looking for the key to free Leila.

"Right-oh, you lot," I said, standing up from the now-squirming figure on the floor. It had taken me nearly twenty minutes to sort Monica out, and the girls on the rack were getting well and truly wound up. So concentrated had I been on Mistress Monica that I had been deaf to the increasing groans and whimpers from the forms on the rack. Whether it had warmed up in the room I wasn’t sure, but the girls had certainly worked up a sweat. Their movements were limited for the moment by the tension on their nipples, but I suspected Emma and Jillian were almost past caring. Emma in fact climaxed as I stood up, her body going stiff with her head thrown back and a muted wail coming from behind the rubber ball. I ducked down beside her and switched off the power to the black box.

As one, the figures slumped and there was the ragged sound of heavy panting. I stood beside Mary, whose body was now trembling on the verge of collapse. I disengaged the nipple clamps which got her attention straight away, then I undid the rope that held her body horizontal. She slumped like a rag doll on the padded platform now slick with sweat from the efforts of the bound women. Hers had been a severe position – too rigorous for her to maintain for the period of time I had in mind. She was too relieved to do anything to resist as I looped the rope instead between her hobble chain and the short chain at her wrist cuffs. Then it was up in the air again – hands and feet together, but in front. I stopped just short of Mary becoming entirely airborne – such that her weight was to some extent supported by her back and shoulders. She would be going nowhere in a hurry but at least it would be a little more comfortable than previously. Even so, the nipple clamps went back, much to the muffled protests from the gagged mouth.

"Now pay attention, you lot," I told them. "You know the drill. When ‘er ladyship on the floor finds the key – which I am placing ‘ere – " I dropped it on the floor behind Trish, "and eventually unlocks the red tart at the other end, then you all get free. To a degree, that is. The rest of yor keys will be ‘idden around the ‘ouse or in the garden. The thort of a bunch of chained and gagged babes searching through the grounds fills me wiv delight, I must say. 

"You may find your own key before those unlocking ‘er majesty there – they may be a bit easier to locate. But fear not, there are plenty of keys to find – it’ll be a real treasure ‘unt. But a few fings to remember. ‘Er magnificence will not take kindly to anybody trying to cut fings off either themselves or off ‘er. That ain’t ‘ow the game is played, is it, and wotever you go through now, if you mess up yor stuff you know it will get back to you later on. And don’t fink of trying to cut Madam’s cuffs off, either, cos I’ve put some stainless steel wire through them, and it’ll end up even more painful for ‘er if that’s all that restrains ‘er. And, of course, ultimately it’ll be more painful for you lot. I reckon she might be in that condition – well, with lessening degrees of restraint, for up to 3 days. It all depends on ‘ow quickly you girls find the keys.

"That’s all. Now I’m going to turn the microphone on, together with the random vibe generator." I bent down under the rack bench and flicked two switches. "Try yor best to test the rack, won’t yer. See yer later. Or then again, maybe I won’t. Tatty bye."

I looked about me at the mute, entreating expressions, the eyes large and pleading above the ball gags stretching mouths wide, bodies straining against ropes and stretched nipples. A muted whimper was heard, but I couldn’t pinpoint from whom. I grinned to myself and stepped back to the door.

"Remember," I said, "ssshh!"

Then I slammed the door behind me.

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