Monica's Games 1.5: Cyber Preparation

by Richard Alexander

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© Copyright 2003 - Richard Alexander - Used by permission

Storycodes: F/ff; bondage; slaves; cons; X

(story continues from )

Chapter Five: Cyber Preparation

The following day Monica held a breakfast meeting at Bilboes, and I was surprised to see Dianne present.  She knelt on the deck beside Shawnee, who kept casting glances in her direction.  I had the feeling that Monica had not appraised Shawnee that there might be another slave arriving on the premises.  Shawnee was not exactly able to question the newcomer, nor could she voice complaint – if that was what she had in mind - for she sported a rubber bridle gag strapped in her mouth, a small padlock dangling from the buckle behind her head.

Dianne wore a tight rubber hobble dress that reached to her ankles.  It had long sleeves but cut-outs for her breasts and it was the first time I had seen them in the few days I had worked with her.  They were not large, but rather were gently swelling mounds tipped with pink nipples like the top joint of a finger that jutted erect in the cool morning air.  I could see how they would be a delight to anyone into nipple torture.  Dianne’s feet were bare although her hands were encased in black latex gloves that extended up her forearms under leather cuffs which were joined with a short length of chain.  She was hooded with a rubber helmet that exposed her face and allowed the auburn plait to dangle through a hole at the back.

By contrast, Shawnee was rather more exposed, in a short black pvc skirt that barely covered her rump.  The skirt had a bib front that extended upwards to just cover her breasts before terminating in a halter around her neck.  I could see Dianne looking about nervously, both at Shawnee and the other girls seated down both sides of the long hardwood table.  The girls were – with the exception of Jill, who wore a white leather catsuit, all in casual clothes.  I assumed Jill had an early appointment, for the clothes were not her normal style.

Monica took her place at the head of the table.  It could seat ten, and in this instance I took my seat between Trish and Mary, opposite Emma, Leila and Jill.

“This is Dianne,” Monica announced.  “Stand up, Dianne.”  The rubber-clad figure did so with difficulty in the tight skirt, then stood there under the gaze of the Bilboes clan, looking self-conscious and fidgety.  “As you can see, Dianne is a little rubber slut,” said Monica.  “However contrary to appearances she is not here to have those perversions catered to.  She is here to bring us into the computer age.  Dianne – these are your mistresses while you are here – Mistress Mary, Trish, Leila, Emma, and Jillian.  Steven you already know.  Don’t let their demeanour fool you.  If you make a mistake you will be punished – painfully.  If you do well, you will be rewarded.  You will share a holding cell with Shawnee for as long as you are here.”

Dianne went to sit down again, which wasn’t a smart move.  Monica’s voice went from casual to a sharp version of a school teacher.

“Dianne!  Did I tell you to sit?”  The girl looked at Monica with wide eyes, suddenly fearful, no doubt with the memory of the punishment Monica had meted out to Leon two days previously.  She shook her head, perhaps not trusting herself to speak.

“What?” demanded Monica.  “Did you say something?”

“N-no mistress…”  Dianne stuttered.

“Well you should have done.  I expect an answer to a question, not just a head shake.”  Monica sighed with exasperation.  “Mary, do me a favour?  It seems Dianne has trouble standing up – perhaps she needs a little help.  Can you oblige?”

“Of course,” said Mary, uncoiling her lithe form from the chair and walking over to where Dianne stood with trepidation in her eyes.  Mary was only a little taller than the slave, but the dominance in her bearing and manner was obvious.

The back verandah had become a favourite place for impromptu bondage sessions, not least because of the fact that it was a focal place for the whole household, and anything of any import usually took place here.  It was for this reason that I had installed several pulleys on the exposed rafters overhead, along with some discrete eyebolts in the decking, and had built a narrow cupboard for the storage of restraint items.

Mary took the end of a pulley rope fitted with a heavy clip, through which she hooked the chain joining Dianne’s wrist cuffs.  Moments later she had hauled Dianne’s arms above her head, standing at the end of the table opposite Monica.  Not content with this, Mary took two short lengths of sashcord from the cupboard and bound one to each of Dianne’s ankles, pulling them apart and tying them off to eyebolts in the deck.  This action drew Dianne’s legs taut against the rubber of the skirt, outlining her legs underneath and putting a strain on her leg muscles as they were torn between the two opposite forces of the ankle ropes and the tight pull of the rubber.

Mary returned to her seat while the rest of our eyes rested on the black-clad form now stretched tautly upwards, her head bowed.

“Dianne will be organising the new on-line service from Bilboes,” Monica continued.  “At least she will be if she behaves herself.  Isn’t that right, Dianne?”

“Yes Mistress.”  The voice was barely audible.  There was another sigh from Monica. 

“Speak up, Dianne.  Speak clearly, girl!”

“Yes Mistress,” came the response, louder, but with eyes still lowered. 

“Look at me when I’m talking to you!”  Reluctantly the head came up, the back of the rubber hood pushing against her upper arms stretched out above her.  Monica stood up and strode across to the cupboard.  I thought she was looking particularly fetching in a tan suede skirt and vest over a white blouse, with matching suede boots.  She exuded a purposefulness in her movements as she took a longer length of rope and walked over to the bound figure.

“Clearly Mistress Megan hasn’t been giving you proper lessons in etiquette,” snapped Monica, her voice edged with impatience as she tied one end of the cord to Dianne’s plait and took several paces back to secure the other end to another pulley hanging from a second rafter.  As Monica pulled on the rope, the cord attached to Dianne’s plait tightened and began to pull her head upright.  Her mouth opened and she grimaced as the tightening continued, until her head was wedged between her upstretched arms, at which point Monica tied off the pulley rope.  She moved up behind Dianne and slid her hands around Dianne’s torso, her fingers contacting with the jutting nipples.  Monica gripped them like two cigarettes between her fingers, tugging them gently and squeezing them such that Dianne closed her eyes tightly and made little gasping sounds through her still open mouth.

“Mmmm,” Monica cooed.  “Nice.  I’d be very careful if I were you, Dianne.  These could become quite painful if you fail to perform adequately.”

There was a stifled noise from beside me.  Monica glared at the kneeling figure.

“Did you say something, Shawnee?  Was that a laugh?  Do you find this funny?”

Shawnee, who had indeed managed a snigger of some sort through the bit gag, shook her head and made very negative mumblings.

Monica was evidently having a bad morning, for she gave Dianne’s nipples a fierce twist that prompted a cry, then released them, turning on Shawnee. 

“Stand up!  Fetch me a rope from the cupboard!”  Shawnee did so, and I saw she was wearing impossibly high heeled shoes that must have been awfully uncomfortable, tilting her feet almost vertically as they did.  They were locked on by straps around her ankles with tiny padlocks, and Shawnee tottered across the deck to the restraint cupboard.  She returned with a two-metre length of rope and looked very contrite as Monica lashed the slave’s wrists together behind her and pushed her across to one of the posts supporting the verandah roof.  Monica gripped Shawnee by the neck and pushed her head down the face of the post sufficiently to hook a pulley through the bound wrists.  Moments later Shawnee was bent double, staring at her knees, her neck and shoulders flat against the post and her hands high above her.

Monica lifted the hem of Shawnee’s skirt and flipped it above her waist, exposing the two half moons of Shawnee’s buttocks.  She gave each a hard slap that left a red palm imprint.  Shawnee yelped and whined as Monica returned grumpily to her seat, muttering about slaves who could not be relied upon.

“Now that I have your undivided attention, Dianne,” Monica continued, as though her actions had comprised nothing more than a mild verbal rebuke, “I shall continue for the benefit of the others.”  Her gaze returned to the rest of us around the table.  “The event that occurred at the Citadel with the girl trapped at home was an unfortunate one that we do not wish to experience again.  That’s why Bilboes will be taking a completely hands on approach, with the punters directing things, rather than the other way around.  This way retain complete control of the scenario and can call it off if things get out of hand.”

“What do you mean ‘out of hand’?” Leila asked.

“Let me explain the process from the beginning,” Monica answered.  “The client will decide the scenario as a concept.  He – or she – will advise us ahead of the time of the concept, via email.  He will advise who will be the victim (or victims, plural) and who will take command.  He may direct what everyone wears, what restraints will be used, and what acts will be carried out.  There will even be provision for the client to directly control electrical stimulation, whether it be painful or pleasurable.  Dianne tells me this can be done with some little sliding controls superimposed on the picture on his screen.  With a click of the mouse he can increase the shock treatment or the speed of the vibrator and see an instantaneous reaction from the victim.

“Things could obviously get out of hand through two ways.  Firstly, the bondage could be too extreme, such as neck ropes, or too long a duration.  Since we control these aspects this is not a problem and we can overrule such directions.  The second way would be through over-enthusiasm with the electro-stimulation.  Again, we can short-circuit that – if you’ll pardon the pun – by simply detaching wires.”

“So how to we make money on this?”  Trish asked.

“The plan is that we auction off the control of the scene to the highest bidder.  He with the big bikkies gets to have his fantasy acted out and to push the buttons.  He also gets a video of the whole scene to keep for posterity and to use to wank himself stupid.”

“That’s very unkind,” said Jillian with a half-smile.

“You’re right, Jill.  Most unprofessional of me.  My apologies to all the unsuspecting males of the world.  The other half of the plan is that for a considerably smaller fee the unsuccessful bidders and anybody else who so wishes can view the scene via a password-encoded access.  Their fee may be a fraction of the highest bidder, but they will not have their choice acted out, nor will they have control.  As you know, this business is an intensely personal thing.  One man’s bare foot fetish is anathema to he who gets off on thigh boots.  Such are the strange creatures that we are.”

“And where is all this going to take place?”  This from Trish, displaying her usual pragmatic approach.

“The intention would be to use any of the basement rooms, with the control centre in the Observation Room.  Dianne and Steven will connect the existing camera feeds so that they can be used as part of the broadcast, but there will also be a live camera person for those intimate shots of rope cutting into sensitive parts or mouths drooling around gags, or clothes pegs bobbing on heaving nipples.  Are you getting excited, Emma?” Monica teased.  Emma avoided her gaze but still blushed.  “There will also need to be a person controlling the feed in the OR.”

“It sounds bigger than Ben Hur,” I suggested.  How many people will be involved?” 

“As many as it takes – or as our man wishes to pay for.  The more people, and the longer the scene, the more it will cost.  Bidders will be bidding on a cost per participant per hour basis.  Payment will be up front.”

“And how often will these productions be held?”  Trish again.

“Depends on how well it all goes.  Maybe once a month.  Maybe once a fortnight.  We must not forget our regular clients.”

“It all sounds wonderful,” said Mary, but we could see she was less than enthused. “But just how are we going to let all these people know about this great event?”

“It’s called advertising, Mary,” Monica said with restrained patience.  “We will use a link from the Citadel’s web site, along with a number of other sites that are not in direct competition.  Dianne knows these.  There are also search engines which we shall be connected to.  Dianne will prepare the Bilboes website, along with a full inventory of our gear, as well as personal details.”

“Personal details?” queried Leila.

“Yep.  A page each.  Some nice model-type photos in domme and submissive positions and gear.  I think you have quite a few good shots in our collection anyway, Leila.  Can you dig these out for incorporation by Dianne.”

“Sure.  Steven too?”

“Of course.”  Monica sounded surprised by the question, as though it was taken as read.  She was not half as surprised as I was, but I said nothing.  I would have words with Mistress Monica later.

“You may have to do some modelling of the gear and some display shots.  I want somebody to do this in an organised fashion – Steven, I think.  You’re suitably anally retentive and can be in charge of the photography, and the rest of you can model your favourite outfits.”

“And that’s the extent of the web site?”  I asked.  Monica looked somewhat put out that someone should be questioning her Grand Plan.

“Why, what did you have in mind, oh great guru?”  She could be sarcastic with the best of them when she put her mind to it.

“What about writing about your life here?  Get the punters interested.  You seem to have enough adventures to make a novel or two.”  Monica looked blank for a moment, then, reasonable person that she was, she made her usual executive decision.

“Fine.  Okay Steven.  You’ve just volunteered.  Let’s see what your writing skills are like.  It’s all yours.”


“Yes, Mistress,” said Dianne through gritted teeth.

“You will need to create several pages with the outfits and the arsenals, and appropriate forms so that the bidders can write their little scenarios, identify the players, the time, the outfits, the restraints, the weapons, and – most of all – their bid.  It has to be idiot proof, so there is no room for miscommunication, particularly if we are involved with people for whom English is their second language.  Do you think you can do that?”

Y-yes, Mistress.  Of course.”

“You will also need to set up passwords and payment facilities.”  Dianne made the mistake of trying to nod, found herself unable to move, and repeated her previous affirmative.

“Good.  Any more questions?”  Nobody spoke.  Monica rose and walked to the end of the table where Dianne remained immobile.  “Just as a little introduction to Bilboes, my dear, you will remain here for thirty minutes, reflecting on the task you are about to undertake and the penalty for failure.  I think this reflection is better done in darkness,” she added, pulling a black silk scarf from her pocket and securing it firmly over Dianne’s eyes and around her head and arms.  She knotted it tightly so that it formed a further restraint to the head and arms, as well as becoming a blindfold.  “Now I will be nearby, and I don’t want to hear a single peep out of you until I am ready to release you.  Do you understand?  Not a murmur, not a sigh.  Steven, you may release her in half an hour.  You’re in charge of Dianne and organising the troops.  Go to it.”

“Thanks,” I said, trying not to display the lack of enthusiasm for the task of organising half a dozen females with different schedules to appear in a series of different outfits.  The end result was perhaps something to look forward to but getting there was not going to be easy.

*   *   *

When I returned at the appointed time to release Dianne, she was alone on the verandah.  Shawnee had been released from the post and the other girls had all gone about their business.  As I approached the tautly bound and blindfolded figure I saw that she now wore nipple clips, connected by a silver chain.  Looking closely I saw that the clips were of the small type with serrated teeth, and that they had been released right on the end of Dianne’s nipples.  They were obviously very painful, for the poor girl was gritting her teeth and there were tear stains on her cheeks as she struggled to hold back the noise she desperately wanted to make in reaction to her torture.  Monica’s words were still in her head, however, and for all she knew, in her darkened world, Monica was sitting at the table just waiting for her to fail in her task of silent reflection.

I was slightly puzzled by this whole thing, however, for it did not seem like Monica’s style.  Dianne had not committed a heinous crime that would warrant this painful treatment, and while Monica could be harsh, she was usually fair.  Gently I gripped the clips and ever so slowly eased the pressure.  Dianne made pitiful whimpering noises as the wicked steel teeth came clear, leaving their impressions in the tender pink flesh.  I sensed her body stiffen, if such was possible within the ropes holding her body.

“Ah-ah-ah…” she sobbed softly as I finally pulled the jaws away. 

I removed the blindfold then undid the rope around the cleat, slowly letting her arms down before untying the ropes holding her ankles apart.  Dianne dropped to her knees and sobbed quietly, cupping her hands as though to belatedly protect her breasts.

“Did Monica do this?”  I asked.

“I – I don’t know.  I couldn’t see anything…” 

“Did you hear them?  Was it Mary?”  She was the other likely suspect, I thought.

“No – they didn’t speak.  I don’t know who it was,” she repeated.

“All right, never mind.  Come on we have work to do.”  I helped her to her feet and we went inside, through the kitchen and into the hallway.  I was about to open the door to the stairs down to the basement when I noticed Monica’s study was open.  Monica looked up and raised a questioning eyebrow as I poked my head around the door.

“Sorry – didn’t mean to disturb you.  But… did you put a pair of nipple clips on Dianne recently?”

“No. Why?”

“Nothing important, except that they were particularly nasty ones and right on the tips.  I didn’t think it was your style.”

Monica’s brow furrowed.  “You’re right, it’s not.  Well, not for a little correction like that.”  She caught sight of Dianne behind me and beckoned her into the study.  Dianne entered hesitantly.  “Come here, girl,”  Monica ordered, and made the rubber-clad girl stand with her hands at her side while Monica inspected the proffered breasts.  Dianne gasped with pain as Monica gently fingered the still-visible indentations in the nipples.

“Hmm.  Interesting.  And of course you saw nothing in your blindfolded state, and I suppose they didn’t speak?”

“No Mistress,” Dianne whispered.

A faint smile appeared on Monica’s classical features.  “I will make some discrete inquiries.  Thank you, Steven.”

*   *   *

I left Dianne to play with the computer newly installed in the Observation Room downstairs after we had made a quick recce of the place to establish what cabling was required.  Monica had given me a zipped disk with a collection of photos on it that had been taken over a number of months and featured the best shots of the girls in action.  They were to be used as a basis for the profile of each member of the team.  Dianne was looking through them with interest while I set up drill to make some holes through the wall for the cables.

Dianne was making half-audible comments to herself, the general gist being that they were excellent photos and that sorting out the best was going to be really hard.  I thought I’d better look at them too, since I could use a number of them as demonstrations of various pieces of equipment or examples of outfits generally.

I was totally unprepared for a photo that popped up as Dianne keyed through them.

“Who’s this?” she asked, glancing up to me as I peered over her shoulder.

“You’ll never guess.”

“Okay.  Have I met her?”


The photo was of a dark-haired female wearing a tight black pvc dress with matching thigh-high boots over fishnet stockings.  Her hair was held back behind her ears with two silver clips, revealing two large silver rings in her ears.  She was made up in gothic fashion – dark lipstick, eye shadow, long lashes, and black nails.  Her dress was decorated with chains under each breast and a belt locked closed by a pair of handcuffs. 

Dianne studied the photo as I recalled the month I had spent in forced trans-gendered servitude at Bilboes, more than a year previously.  Dianne enlarged the photo and zoomed in on the face.  Then she looked at me again and disbelief began to creep over her face.

“It’s not…?”


“Really?” Her eyes widened with incredulity.  “God!  That’s amazing!  You look so…”


“Actually… feminine.  Not many guys would get away with that.”

“Thanks.  I think.”

“Was it a fancy dress party?”

“Rather more than that,” I said, “and for rather longer.  But that is all you need to know.  Now get on with your work and I’d better not find that photo advertising my services.”  She lowered her head but not before I had seen the smile.  “I mean that, Missy,” I said as firmly as I could.  “Otherwise you’ll be wearing those pincers on your nipples for a whole morning.”  Chastened by the thought she moved on with her inspection of the photos.

*   *   *

The day was a hotch-potch of start-stop activities.  I set up a table and lighting in the Post Room and here I began photographing our arsenal of whips, canes, floggers, cuffs, clamps, clips, hoods, helmets and inserts.  Shawnee helped me for a while, bringing the items out of the storeroom and taking them back.  She was in a cranky mood and I was glad when Monica dropped in to drag her off on to other duties.

Emma and Leila came by for a time and modelled some of the gear – the dresses and skirts in latex, leather and pvc, accessorised with an assortment of chains, collars and boots.  It was not a quick exercise and by mid-afternoon we were only part way through what was an extensive wardrobe.  At that point I had to return to the practicalities of cabling and camera positions with Dianne, who was still beavering away at the keyboard, apparently undistracted by goings on in the rooms around her.  I personally found these events – normal therapeutic sessions (as Monica liked to call them) for some of our regular clients) – to be distracting in the extreme, especially what was happening in the gym at that moment.  Fortunately that room was not visible from the Observation room, but the cctv monitor was beaming images into the room. 

Jill arrived as I was unreeling some cable.

“Taking a breather, huh?” I asked. 

Jill flashed me a smile.  “It’s hard work, this training business.”  She was dressed in a short pleated sky blue skirt and matching crop top, clearly with nothing underneath.  With her short white socks and sneakers she looked as though she was ready for a quick game of netball.  She also had not a hair out of place that would have indicated any form of recent physical exertion.

I grunted non-commitally .  I’m sure my disbelief was apparent.

“You see those two girls in the gym?”  Jill said to Dianne.  Dianne looked at the monitor and nodded.  “Those two are part of the state rowing team.  They come here as part of their regular training program.”

“They come here to beat the crap out of each other and indulge in a little more than straight training,” I observed.

“Of course, but it’s only possible through your skill and ingenuity in adapting the machines,” said Jill with just enough subservience to not sound tongue in cheek, and to make me wonder if she was taking the mickey. 

“How so?” asked Dianne, at once intrigued.

With a view from slightly off to one side, the monitor showed the girls seated on two adjacent devices in the gym.  One girl, a short-haired blonde, was seated on a bench which formed part of a multi-purpose weight machine, fitted as it was with various pulleys allowing loads to be resisted by arms or legs in different ways.  The other girl, a redhead with her hair tied back in a pony tail, was sawing back and forth on a rowing machine.  It was perhaps no surprise that both were naked and sweat was streaming from their bodies as they strove against the persistence of gravity.

“Our man here,” Jill explained to Dianne, in that confidential way that women have when they pretend that men are not present, “has modified both sets of equipment.  The blonde girl is Barbara.  When she pulls down on the overhead bar, you see the weights raised behind the seat?”


“Well, that’s not all that’s raised.  Actually under the seat, connected to the weights and moving along with it, is a rather large pink dildo.  Pull down with the arms, in goes Mr Dildo.  It’s rather nice to start with, but this is where the problems start.  Of course what you want to do is finish what you’ve started, namely with the Big ‘O’.  The difficulty is that to finish, you usually want things a little faster and harder, except that your arms are getting tireder by that stage.  There is thus a competition between arms and pussy, with brain urging on both.  If she climaxes too quickly, I make her do it again, possibly with increased weights and a bit of a flogging for encouragement.  It’s lots of fun.” 

Dianne laughed.  “And the rowing machine?  Why are her hands tied behind her?  Shouldn’t she be using her arms?”

“Not in this instance,” said Jill.  “This one is Sue, and I’m strengthening her legs, you see – they are equally, if not more important in rowing.  The sliding saddle is connected to the weights, so every time she straightens her legs and pushes back, she is pushing against the weights.  When she releases and bends her knees, she will slide forward for an impalement on a similar device to that which Barbara is getting closely acquainted with.  Neat, huh?”

“Yes.  But why does she have to straighten her legs fully?  Couldn’t she just do quick little pushes?”

“My, you’re a smart cookie, aren’t you,” said Jill, looking down at the rubber-clad girl.  “Not just a pretty face.  You’re exactly right.  However if you look closely, you’ll see a couple of wires coming over the shoulders to some duct tape over the nipples.  With every full push back, a timer switch is re-set.  If the duration between re-settings  exceeds three seconds, she will get a nasty little tingle on her nips.  The same applies to Barbara, as you can see.  Every time the weights reach a certain point – coincidentally equal to full penetration – the switch is re-set.  Otherwise – zapparoony!  Ouch!”  Jill’s amusement was apparent.

I noted the straps securing the pair to their respective benches at waist and ankle, and additional straps locking Barbara’s wrists to the overhead bar.  Jill turned up the volume.  The sound of gasps and grunts of exertion filled the room.

“The first to climax also gets to give the other a good flogging,” Jill added with impish glee.

“These two don’t live together, by any chance?” I asked.

“Well yes, actually,” Jill admitted.

“Thought so,” I said, just as Barbara emitted a howl of mixed ecstasy and exhaustion, followed by a series of expletives as she paused too long in mid pull and obviously brought the pain following pleasure on herself.  Her cries were followed by pleadings for release, while Sue struggled gamely on her rowing machine, abusing her partner roundly in frustration.

“I must go!”  Jillian said, dashing for the door.  We watched as she appeared on the monitor and switched off Barbara’s electro-stimulation before releasing the straps.  The blonde at once eased herself off the machine and picked up a flogger lying on the floor between the two machines.  She was tall and lithe, I saw, with not an ounce of fat anywhere.  Small breasts and a flat stomach with thighs and shoulders that hinted at many years of workouts.  I was sure I wouldn’t have wanted her flogging me, as she let loose a flurry of strokes at her hapless partner.

“Go on!  Pull, you worthless lump of lard! What are you doing girl?  Pull!  Stretch those legs!  Now in!  Doesn’t that feel good?  In – and – out – and - …”

Sue was trying to concentrate on the impalement but was getting distracted by the blows of the leather thongs landing on her back and thighs.  Barbara strutted around the helpless athlete taunting and teasing her while Sue swore back at her with a vexation that only brought more stings from the flogger. 

“I’m switching off the power now,” said Jill finally, and watched as Sue let her body slide forward, knees bent, for the dildo to bury itself in her pussy.  She sighed and wriggled, making tiny back and forth movements that made her breasts jiggle.  Perhaps mercifully, Barbara let her partner indulge in the final climax unimpeded, as Sue finally threw her head back with an exultant “aaaaarrhh!”. 

When Jill released Sue, Barbara hugged her partner in a sweaty embrace that seemed to go on and on.  I turned the sound down again.

Dianne heaved a big sigh.  “Well!  That was good for me, how about you?”

“Ermm…it was all right,” I said, trying to be nonchalant.  “But you know what they say – sex is okay, but it’s not as good as the real thing.”

She looked at me askance.  “You’re weird,” she said with a smile.

“Yep.  They say that as well.”

*   *   *

We were in for a surprise at dinner time.  Dianne was taken by Monica and secured in the dog kennel, her head poking through the front ‘door’.  She was otherwise unrestrained, and looked appreciatively at the meal of moussaka that Emma had cooked for us, a bowl of which had been placed in front of her.  She could reach it with her hands poked through the opening under her chin, although the end result wasn’t particularly elegant to watch.

Emma, Trish and I were beginning our meal when Monica appeared, towing Shawnee behind her with a rope threaded through her collar.  Her arms were taped behind her, forearm to forearm horizontally across the small of her back, with not even her fingers showing under the multiple turns of clear wide sellotape.  I thought this was unusual, for sellotape is not normally used since it is less flexible than the silver duct tape, and consequently less forgiving.  Underneath the shiny surface I could see Shawnee’s white, constricted flesh, her fingers pinched together and her thumbs pressed into the palms of her hands.  Shawnee looked decidedly unhappy.  Somehow I wasn’t surprised.

Monica towed her helpless slave to a point halfway along the verandah where a rope hung from a rafter.  The connecting end of the rope was secured to the rafter via a length of bungy cord perhaps a metre long, while the rope end terminated in one of those clothes hangers with the pair of clips used to hang up skirts and the like.  You didn’t have to be Einstein to see what was coming next, as Shawnee was made to straddle the rope and the two clips were released on to her nipples, the rope disappearing down through her crotch before rising up behind her to its point of attachment to the rafter.  Shawnee winced as the jaws gripped her nipples, but made no sound.  She stood there looking dejected, staring at the floor as Monica spooned some of the moussaka into a bowl and placed it on a small stool in front of the slave.  That was the point at which I noticed Monica was wearing latex surgical gloves.

“Kneel, Shawnee,” ordered Monica in an cold voice that left the girl without choice in the matter.  Awkwardly Shawnee got to her knees, making small whimpering sounds as the rope tautened, extending the bungy rope at one end and pulling down her breasts at the other.  In between, the rope slid into her crotch and up between her buttocks.  “You will eat your dinner as best you can from that position.  The sooner you finish it the quicker you will be released.” 

I wondered about this statement as Monica peeled off the gloves with a snap and sat down opposite me with a satisfied look on her face. 

“Our young slave has been extremely bold today, people,” Monica announced casually, helping herself to some salad.  “I think she is just a little threatened by Dianne.  So much so, that while Dianne was strung up and blindfolded this morning, our little minx did a bit of very painful nipple clipping.  Poor Dianne was under the impression that it was me, and very nearly bit her tongue off trying not to cry out.  I have subsequently explained to Dianne that we do not inflict pain of that nature without just cause.”  She took a mouthful of the moussaka.  “Mmm, Em this is delicious!  I hope Shawnee appreciates it too.  Eat, Shawnee.  Don’t worry – it’s not poisoned.  You saw me eat the same stuff.  Go on, girl, before I take a whip to you.”

Shawnee needed no further urging and grovelled forward on her knees, as the rope tightened further still, the clips pulling her nipples downwards and distorting her large breasts, while part of the rope embedded itself deeper in her crotch.  There was a gasp of pain, half stifled, as she reached the bowl on the stool.  Here she bent her head, shaking the curtain of brown hair clear of the bowl before immersing her face in the food and making all manner of unladylike noises.

“You disgusting, Shawnee,” said Monica to the salad, ignoring our unspoken question concerning the surgical gloves.  It was a minute later that Shawnee raised her head and began to ease her way back from the food, on which she had made only a limited impression. 

“Mistress?”  Her voice was querulous and plaintive.

“What is it?” Monica asked without looking up.

“Mistress, my pussy is hurting real bad.”

“And your arse, too, no doubt?”

“Yes Mistress.”

“In a line from your stomach to the top of your buttocks, I suppose?”

“Yes Mistress.  It really hurts!”

“Must be the Finalgon I smeared all over the rope, I guess,” Monica said off-handedly, still concentrating on her food.  There was a barely audible intake of breath from Emma.  I had experienced Finalgon on my skin and knew it burned like fire.  It was designed to relieve muscle aches, and was bad enough on the skin of an arm or leg.  On the sensitive flesh of a pussy or between the buttocks, it would be very, very painful.

Monica put down her fork and stood up, walking with measured steps to where Shawnee knelt, whimpering with what was clearly only the beginning of her pain.  Monica stood over her like an avenging angel.

“I will only tell you this once, Shawnee.  You will never, ever subject a fellow slave to the sort of thing you did today, again.  Firstly because it is not your place, and never will be.  Secondly because you have no cause for such behaviour.  Thirdly, because it was extreme and unjustified.  If such a thing happens again, you will find yourself out of this establishment, your allowance will be cut off and your life will be a shambles.  Do I make myself clear?”

“Yes Mistress.  I’m very sorry, Mistress.”

“No you’re not, Shawnee.  You’ll be sorry in half an hour, when that cream has really taken hold.  Then you will have understood the pain that you put Dianne through.  I repeat that you will stay there until you have finished your dinner.”

Monica walked back to the table leaving the sniffling girl shuffling miserably towards her bowl of food.  Monica uncorked a bottle of Shiraz and poured us each a glassful.

“Cheers, everyone.  Here’s to the new cyber Bilboes and a world class reputation.”

There was a clinking of glasses and I saw the glimmer of a smile from the occupant of the dog kennel.

“Cheers!” we chorused.

*   *   *

Despite the quality of the food, wine and company, the evening left a bittersweet taste in my mouth through the suffering Shawnee underwent for the next hour.  Monica refused to relent, despite the tears and pleadings from the naked girl as she struggled to eat her meal.  Finally Monica decided the point had been made and permitted Shawnee to stand up and work the offending rope out from her crotch.  It left behind a red line of inflamed skin reaching from her navel to her crotch.  Shawnee’s face was etched with tears and her hair and cheeks blotchy with food. 

“Would you like me to put her to bed?”  Trish asked.

“Yes, thank you Trish.”  Monica whispered some instructions in Trish’s ear before she released the clips from Shawnee’s nipples and led her away.  Fifteen minutes later Trish was back, a smug smile on her face.

“She’s much happier now,” Trish said.  “Cleaner, too.”

“Time to put Dianne to bed, then,” said Monica, releasing the bolt securing the two halves of the kennel roof.  Dianne popped up like a rubberised jack in the box. 

“Come with me, dear,” Monica ordered.  “I hear good reports about your work today.”  Dianne looked shyly at me and I winked at her.  “Excellent.  I want to show that I am fair, and that good work gets rewarded, just as failure gets punished.”

Trish, Emma and I watched, bemused, as Dianne’s shiny butt waggled out behind Monica.

“What’s she up to now?” asked Emma.  “She’s got the devious planning look in her eye.”

“But the smile to go with it,”  I added.  “Something tells me I’m going to have a tired computer lady tomorrow.”

*   *   *

Dianne was indeed a tired but happy camper the next morning.  She tried to pretend to be disgruntled, complaining about her lack of sleep. 

“From what I heard from the night shift you got plenty of sleep once the batteries ran down.”  She poked her tongue out at me.

“Do you know what they did to me?” she demanded.

“Tell me.”

“They made me lie on my back, on that futon in the holding cell.  Monica put this belt on me – with a crotch strap that went under the skirt – after she’d put the vibrator in place, that is.  So I wound up with my wrists cuffed to the belt at my hips and I couldn’t reach the damned vibrator.  And that was only the beginning! 

“When Monica took me into the cell, Shawnee was already there.  You saw her last night – she had her arms taped behind her.  When I joined her in the cell, she was on her back  with her ankles in one of those spreader bars – the steel ones with a sort of leather D-ring, you know?”

“It’s called a bilboes.”

“Really?  Like the house?  So that’s how it got its name?”  She laughed.  “I thought it was a Lord of the Rings rip-off!”

“Came out of Bilbao in the middle ages.”


“So what happened next?”

“Well, after Monica had strapped me up, she put my ankles in the bilboes as well!  Can you believe that?  We were forced to lie there toe to toe, only able to sit up but not to do much else.”

“And then?”

“Then Monica taped up Shawnee’s mouth, turned my vibrator on and left us in the dark.”

“As she does.”

“It was fun, sort of.  Well, of course I got my rocks off pretty quickly.  I got all hot and bothered in my rubber skirt, because I couldn’t reach my crotch with my hands.  So there I was grunting and crying out and generally carrying on while poor Shawnee couldn’t do anything.”

“Except get very frustrated and not be able to express it.”


“That’s Monica’s style all over.  Make the punishment fit the crime.  Reward for Dianne, subtle punishment through deprivation and frustration for Shawnee.  I suspect she was a very unhappy teddy this morning, but she’ll have learned her lesson.”

“Monica is a harsh mistress.”

“Damned right.  I’m glad you picked up on that.” 

“I don’t make the same mistake twice.”

*   *   *

It took the rest of the week to get all the photos taken, all the cables in, and for Dianne to finish off the website with all the different pages and links.  She showed us how she had set up an email address, and how there was a separate section for punters to log in once they had received a password.  More specifically, she explained how the sliding controls worked.  She used an example one morning as we clustered round the screen in the Observation Room.

“What you can see there is the view from the handycam.”  The screen showed a rather jumpy view of the Interrogation Room chair.  Monica reached across the bench and pushed the microphone button.

“Shawnee, hold the damned camera steady, girl!”  In the next room, Shawnee looked petulant but did as she was told, standing there pointing it at the chair. 

“Imagine there’s a scene going on.  Let’s say I’m controlling the filming from here.  I can cut between the Shawnee feed and the cctv feed by pushing these two keys.”  She tapped the keyboard and the picture changed to a wider view from the closed circuit tv high in one corner of the room.

“Down here –“  she indicated a box at the bottom of the picture, “- is where the instructions come in from the punter.  He – or she – will direct what should happen next, although you’ll probably know the general intent of the scene.  What the instructions will indicate will be the fine tuning, like how many strokes punishment, or whether another rope needs to go on somewhere.  This can be announced over the microphone, thus giving the victim the benefit of knowing exactly what is about to befall them, or else it can be announced that there are further instructions.  These will be slipped under the door.  It’ll be rather like picking up a chance card when you play Monopoly.”

“Can I have the envelope please…” Trish murmured beside me.  There was a round of giggles.

Dianne pressed a couple more buttons and four little sliding scales appeared, superimposed on the picture.

“This is where it gets interesting,” she said.  “These four sliders can be controlled by the punter through his keyboard.  You’ll see they each run from one to ten and are  like a virtual version of the sort of lever adjustments you have for air conditioning in some cars.  Except that in this case each is connected to an electrical stimulation.  Underneath each I can write in where it is connected.”  Her fingers fluttered over the keys and the word “Arsehole!” appeared under one slider.  There was more laughter.  “The slider is connected to a small box in the room which Steven has had made up.  It converts the sliding scale to an electrical signal that will beef up the stimulation to whatever is shown.”

“Of course it all has to be properly calibrated, particularly in the case of the TENS Unit,” Monica added.  “We don’t want to do any permanent damage.”

“Very ingenious,” Mary commented.  I could see she was thinking about the possibilities of the system.  I wouldn’t have put it past Mary to hack into the system and push the scales up a few notches herself.  That sort of thing would appeal to her warped sense of humour.

“How will the players know what levels of stimulation are being applied?” asked Jill.  “I know you can see them at the desk in here, but those controlling the action won’t know.”  There was a moment’s silence.

“That’s a very good point, Jill.  We need to know what is going on and to be able to pre-empt anything severe or over-ride it.  I don’t have the answer to that – which is why we’re talking about this at this point.  Any suggestions?  Steven?”  Everyone looked at me.  Monica had a habit of doing this.  Fortunately a virtual light bulb lit up in my brain at that moment.

“Suppose…” I said, the ideas forming as I spoke, “…that on each wire leading to a stimulation device, we had a small group of lights.  I’m thinking a series of ten red LED lights side by side the length of a cigarette.  The more the current goes up, the more lights illuminate.”

“That would work,” said Trish.  “It would make interesting low-light filming with half a dozen attachments…”

“Just like a Christmas tree,” Leila added.

“Can you make something like that?”  Monica asked, evidently pleased with the idea.

“I know someone who can,” I said.  My mate Douglas would see me right.  He loved these challenges, and loved the odd video I slipped him showing the goings on in Bilboes, all on the understanding that it went no further, otherwise he would be the subject of one of them himself. 

Dianne then led us through the various galleries of photos on the website, covering our arsenal of pain-givers, the range of pleasure-givers, and the special outfit department.  Then there came the photos taken from various scenes, and predictably I did feature in a couple, but fortunately my face was either obscured by discipline helmets or angled such that my submissive identity remained unknown.

Not so for Master Steven, however, for there I was in the black leather trousers and vest that Monica had bought for me a year or so ago, but which I rarely had cause to don, for somehow my other duties seemed to take up too much time.  This time I could not dodge the situation and found myself in an elegant rogues gallery between Monica and Trish.  I was not entirely happy about the situation, for I had always found beating the crap out of a beautiful woman somewhat against my principles.

The girls joked about their photos and some complained, although not seriously, that their passports had better ones.  Monica finally brought the lesson to an end.

“Tomorrow we are going to test the system,” she announced.  “Debbie is going to dial up from the Citadel and we will give her the password and patch her through.  Jill and I will be doing the scene, Steven will be on camera and the rest of us can take turns directing under Dianne’s guidance.  Any questions?”  This was Monica at her best, issuing orders that the rest of us just accepted as part of life at Bilboes.  I glanced across at Jill and saw her look just a trifle pensive at Monica’s announcement.  I wondered if it had anything to do with the treatment she had so recently dished out to the Red Team…

*   *   *


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