Monica's Quest: 12. Trish's story Part 3

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 Twelve: Trish's story Part 3

Part One

The news from Macau had been received in true Bilboes fashion, with Mary and I opening a bottle of champagne and drinking it on the back verandah.  There remained other things that we still had to take care of, however.  It had been over a week since we had taken our good customer Mr Bennelli into care.  And care for him we had, lavishing our best attention on him.  Wayne Bennelli was now covered in welts and rope marks and had learned to truly fear Mary and myself. 

But life went on in Bilboes notwithstanding his presence, while we discussed what should be done to him and with him.  It was Monday, with Monica due back the next day, and I was preparing for an afternoon with one of my regulars, Peter.  Peter was a nice guy, if a little confused.  Whatever his past, he had a thing about schoolteachers and in particular a Miss Sharp.  I didn’t go into the psychology of it all – that sort of thing would only lead to tears and confusement, as Steven was inclined to say.  More to the point it had gone 2.30 and Peter was due soon, and I had just finished donning my Miss Sharp outfit.  And it was pretty sharp, if I said so myself.  Black high heels, black seamed stockings and a short navy skirt that required a rather severe waist cincher to show it off at its best.  Add a white tailored silk blouse and a narrow red tie, my hair pulled into a bun and a pair of spectacles and you get the general (if slightly clichéd) impression.  It was a kind of Wonder Woman in civvies thing.  The accessories would be (in due course) a range of canes and other punishment instruments, for Peter was now visiting a rather more severe school than he had been at as a lad, I guessed.

I was admiring my curves (yes, I am that vain) in the mirror when my mobile phone rang.  It was the courier company I had engaged in our plan to deal with Wayne Bennelli.  That phone call was the start of things going down the toilet on that particular afternoon, as the company advised that its direct shipment to Sydney was leaving a couple of hours earlier than was planned, and could I deliver the box of live turtles at an appropriately earlier time to their depot.

“Bugger!” I said to myself.  So much for an orderly, planned, Monday afternoon.

*   *   *

We had concluded that Wayne Bennelli’s ankle was not in fact broken but had been only badly bruised.  I think we had reached that assessment at one point when, under some encouragement from Mary (which admittedly in other circumstances might have been called ‘duress’) our Wayne had decided he could in fact hobble quite nicely if it meant staying ahead of a bullwhip. 

While I prepared for Peter, Wayne Bennelli was actually resting his injured ankle, located as he was in the dungeon, strapped to the dragon bench.  He had been undergoing rather painful nipple torture when we decided that activity could be concluded in return for removal of the ball from his mouth and the promise to cooperate and be quiet.  He was blindfolded at the time and could not identify the nature of the squeezy drink bottle we put to his lips, and he drank greedily. 

Once again we had had cause to call upon the wonders of technology as we prepared our man for his travel experience.  The wonders in this case were through a Bilboe Baggins Cocktail, or BBC for short – a concoction we had developed that included an appropriate portion of Rohypnol.  Truth be known we had copied the recipe from certain nightclubs on the Surfers Paradise circuit where it was used with rather regrettable consequences on gullible young girls – a practice we would never condone.  Bennelli was fair game, however, and having persuaded him to drink up like a good boy, it did not take long for his head to slump and he was away with the fairies.  Or perhaps – more literally – he very soon would be.

Mary and I had previously discussed his fate long and hard over several bottles of Sauvignon Blanc on the back verandah (such was the stressful life we led in the absence of Monica).  We had reviewed a number of different options and I’m sure had I not been there Mr Bennelli would have been fertilizer somewhere in the bush behind Bilboes, such was Mary’s ‘take no prisoners’ attitude.  We elected not to inform Monica of our executive decision-making, deciding that she would have enough on her mind trying to track down and rescue Jill.

The eventual solution we came up with was that Wayne Bennelli should be sent away somewhere that he would be appreciated and where he would learn what it was like to be on the receiving end – but perhaps with a different flavour to the punishment that had been inflicted on him to that point by the two of us.  Our punishment had been very physical, and to some extent psychological, since several times we had literally scared the crap out of him.  In this instance we decided we wanted something a little more sexually stimulating for him.  That was when Mary suggested the Dykes on Bikes and their male associates the Bi-Bikers, who operated out of Sydney and usually featured prominently in the Gay and Lesbian Mardigras. 

Mary made some enquiries with some old media contacts and it wasn’t long before we had the address of the gang headquarters.  We figured Wayne would be a real hit with them – particularly if accompanied by a suitably descriptive letter detailing his activities and crimes.

To get him down to Sydney was the problem.  It’s all very well what you read in cheap B and D novels, but sending a live person from A to B (never mind from B to D) is something that takes a bit of planning, particularly when the participant is unwilling. 

I wanted Wayne to arrive ready for action, so to speak – naked and kneeling with his arse in the air.  I only wished I could get to see the expressions on the faces of the recipients – not to say Wayne himself - at the grand opening.  But regrettably such could not be the case.  The origin of Wayne would have to remain anonymous – at least between us and the recipients.  I did not think Wayne would have much to gain by blurting out the details of his humiliation at the hands of two females.  In the days following our decision I had been busy in Steven’s workshop, glad of the hours I had ‘assisted’ him there.

So here I was, now having to run around in a tight skirt and high heels like a common labourer – albeit a skilled one experienced in mixing all manner of odd brews, both for internal and external use.  Mary was more sensibly dressed in jeans and skivvy as we accelerated our program to get Wayne ready for delivery.

Our first priority was to instil a degree of silence into him, through the fitting of a mouthguard.  It was the ordinary sort you see rugby players or boxers wearing, available cheaply at a local sports store.  This particular version had been modified slightly.  Firstly it had a hole drilled through the front to allow a straw to be poked through. Wayne would not be getting any solid food for quite a while, since both top and bottom surfaces of the mouthguard were carefully coated with five-minute epoxy glue - sufficient to ensure his teeth were locked on to the mouthguard for however long it took until the glue finally failed.  If that was a month, then so be it as far as we were concerned.  He could shed a few pounds at the same time. 

“Some people would pay good money for this sort of weight loss program,” I said to Mary in the dungeon as we secured Wayne’s head while the glue set.

“Maybe we should suggest that Jill incorporates it in her fitness program with all those nice electrical gadgets in the gym,” Mary agreed.  “Could be a nice little earner.”

As Wayne sat strapped on the dragon bench I mixed up our next concoction – this one courtesy of ocean racing technology.  By the time Wayne’s mouthpiece had set in place, I was ready. 

Fibreglass resin was wonderful stuff.  Just add a small amount of catalyst to the clear treacle-like liquid and stir it up and in a few minutes the stuff had set hard.  Our first target for this application was Wayne’s crotch, where we had wrapped his dick and balls in very sticky elastoplast – the sort that would truly make his eyes water as he tried to disengage it from his pubic hair.  We filled a round plastic container – the sort you get with Chinese takeaways – with the mixed resin and then positioned it under Wayne’s equipment, which was lowered into it and left to set.  We kept the tip of his dick clear of the top, and pointed upward.  We did not want to stop Wayne’s ability to pee, and to make it difficult to direct the flow other than over himself seemed quite appropriate.

The process took ten minutes or so before we were able to remove the container, which had been coated with wax inside to allow it to come free.  The remains hung beneath him like a bizarre pendulum.  Our Wayne was going to be a very uncomfortable boy while he whittled away at the resin.

For the next stage we leaned him forward over a small coffee table on which sat two plastic trays, as long as a forearm and – coincidentally - about the same width and depth.  Wayne’s forearms fitted into them quite nicely and his unconscious form made not a sound as I poured the clear fibreglass resin over his arms up to the top of the trays.  A quarter of an hour later the blocks on his forearms were solid enough that we could remove them from the tray moulds like giant ice blocks.

At this point my master creation became the focal point.  In truth it was a packing case which Steven himself would have been proud of.  I had not hung around in his workshop for hours without learning a lot – some of it about carpentry, as well.  The travel case was like one of those fold-up cardboard houses that we used to cut out from the back of cereal packets as kids, before such a novelty became too mundane in an e-cereal world. 

On all four bottom edges were continuous piano hinges, allowing the sides to fold up or down.  The hinges ensured the floor/side joints would in no way come apart, while making access real easy.  The box would end up around a metre long by seventy centimetres high by – coincidentally – one man-width wide.  It was made of 16-millimetre plywood reinforced at vertical corners with full height steel angles, which would ultimately be screwed in place when the cargo was inside.  When I made stuff, it stayed made – to paraphrase Steven.

The first step in putting it together was to raise the two long sides, which Mary held in place while I fitted a length of 20 centimetre plastic water pipe between them.  This sounds weird, but this large diameter pipe was tough and formed a kind of support under a kneeling man.  It was held in place by three threaded steel rods which passed inside it from one side to the other and screwed up outside the case, also securing the two side walls. 

This done, we were ready for Wayne, and draped him carefully over the pipe, head down, forearms encased in resin now resting flush against the floor of the box.  A few turns of duct tape melded his torso solidly to the pipe beneath his stomach, enabling us to then repeat the resin exercise with his legs, from knees to toes, with the plastic trays staying in place this time.  As the resin was setting on his legs, I drilled through the arm blocks and screwed them rigidly to the floor of the case. 

“I am definitely not dressed for this,” I grumbled, kneeling amongst sawdust and debris from the inside of the case.

“You’re the sexiest-looking chippie I’ve seen for a while,” said Mary.  “You could handle a screwdriver for me any time.”

“Thanks,” I said, making a face at her.

Wayne was breathing easily as we fitted a rigid posture collar about his neck and taped that to a cross timber that I screwed in place at the back of his neck.  His head was thus held firmly in place such that there would be no obstruction to his airways.  A final few strips of duct tape across his mouth ensured that those loose lips of his would not be over-taxed during the journey.

By the time this was done, the leg blocks had set fully and I was able to drill through them and screw them to the floor as well.  No way was Mr Bennelli going to be moving at all.

Our final piece de resistance was in the form of a sudden inspiration from Mary, who wrote in a lovely arc over Wayne’s bruised and striped buttocks: “Mi arsa es su arsa”.

“What’s that about?” I asked her, as she put away the black felt pen, chuckling to herself.

“A little play on words, my dear,” she said smugly.  “Mi casa es su casa – my house is your house.  Old Spanish saying.  Rather appropriate, don’t you think?”

“Very droll,” I agreed, “though probably wasted on the recipients of our package unless they’re as learned as you.”

“Maybe,” she agreed, just as there was a loud ding-dong from the corridor.  It was the relay from our front gate, which we used like a night switch on an unattended phone when there was nobody upstairs to receive the call from the gate intercom.

Mary went out to answer it while I checked the last of the fixings inside the crate before raising the end walls and putting a couple of screws in the holes I had pre-drilled.  There were small air holes in the ends of the case, covered by small metal sections that let the air in but not prying eyes.  Above the holes was a stencilled notice that said “Live turtles, handle with care”.  That was just in case things went thump or grunt during transit, although it was for this reason that we had arranged a direct door-to-door delivery with an overnight carrier making a regular run.  The only problem was that the carrier had now decided to be irregular.

“It’s Peter,” said Mary as she re-appeared.

“Bugger. We’re running out of time.  Can you screw the lid on for me?  It’s all pre-drilled and there are the screws.  I’ll only be a few minutes while I get my boy settled down and in fear of his arse.”

“Sure thing.”

It still took me the best part of fifteen minutes to let Peter in, take him to the post room and tie him between the two timber supporting columns.  He was dressed in school uniform – somewhat of a change from clients wanting me in one, I might add.  I bound Peter’s wrists in front of him then hooked the cinch rope to the overhead pulley between the two posts, hauling them up over his head. I then secured his ankles, legs spread, with stretchy straps wrapped around the posts.  It wasn’t the most imaginative of positions but I was under a deadline.  It was a harsher school than most, perhaps – Peter was in detention, as far as I was concerned.  I blindfolded him and stuck a cane between his legs, in his crotch, and made him hold it there by clenching his buttocks together.  The pull on his ankles from the bungee straps would soon put a lot of strain on his legs and thence his buttocks.  Miss Sharp warned him that dropping the cane would double what he would shortly receive.  I left him with a tantalising grope of his erection bulging through the front of his short pants.

Mary was in a tizz, looking unusually flustered.

“What is it, what’s happening?” I asked.

“I’ve just had a call from Warren – he’s in town and wants to drop Christina off for a few hours and could we take care of her.  As if we have no booking system and nothing better to do,” she complained.

“Your problem,” I said.  “I’ve already got a customer.”

“Who does this guy think he is?” Mary demanded.

“You know perfectly well he’s our best customer and has paid for half the stuff in this room, not to mention that new outfit you bought last week.”

“All right, Miss Smarty Pants.  Look, I’ve done all these screws up.  We need to get this into the van.“

Our distinctive Ford Transit was parked outside the rear door which permitted direct access to the basement of the house.  We had positioned the crate on a small trolley that Steven had used for moving heavy stuff around when he was fitting out the basement.  We wheeled our cargo down the corridor to the door and around about that point our plan began to come unstuck, as the small castors promptly embedded themselves in the gravel pathway outside.

“Shit,” said Mary.

Things got worse as we tried to slide the crate along the gravel and found we could barely move it.  It was neither designed for speed, nor for comfort, I decided, having the handling qualities of a brick.  That was when we heard the ding-dong of the gate intercom again.

“That’ll be Warren,” I said.  “Maybe he can help us.”

“I’m going to get ready for him,” Mary elected and promptly disappeared towards her room.

But it wasn’t Warren outside the gate.

“This is Constable O’Connor,” said the disembodied voice.


“I’m making inquiries about a ute that was found in the bush near here.  I’d like to come in and talk to the occupants.”  Damn! That must be Wayne’s ute! So that was what he’d done with it.

“Ah – it’s not really very convenient at the moment…”

“It won’t take more than a minute or two,” said the voice.  “Just some routine questions.”

“Oh…er…can you park around the back, then?  I have some visitors expected at any moment and I don’t want to alarm them with a cop car by the front door.”

“No problem, Ma’am.”

Ma’am?  How young was this guy?

Shitshitshit!  I pushed the button to open the gate and rushed out the back.  Mary was nowhere to be seen.  The box of ‘live turtles’ sat incriminatingly on the pathway, its cargo mercifully unconscious at the moment, but for how long?  Like we needed the turtles to become frisky just now…not!

“Uh…hullo Constable,” I said as the cop car pulled up beside the van.  Constable O’Connor was tall, blond and quite good looking.  He was also straight out of cop school. 

The questions seemed to go on interminably.  I was conscious of Peter hanging on to his cane, not to mention Wayne probably reviving a metre away and the time ticking on his projected departure time.  And Warren and Christina were due imminently.  I was also conscious that Constable O’Connor was performing a mental undressing of me between each question. 

In between each strip, we established that the ute was yellow and had been discovered by a walker on a track in the bush behind the property.  There had been camping gear in the back of it and it was evident to me that this had been Wayne’s base, even if Constable O’Connor had no grounds for such supposition.  I pleaded total ignorance to everything and thought we were almost finished when Mary appeared. 

The look on Cop Boy’s face as Mary sashayed down the steps and crossed the lawn was worthy of a portrait study, but I saw any chance of a quick release from this inquisition disappearing rapidly.  Mary was dressed in a sleeveless white leather catsuit with matching heels.  The suit design was simplicity itself, displaying a zip stretching from throat to crotch, complete with an ostentatious ring pull that screamed ‘In case of emergency pull me!’  Mary wore it at a level sufficient to display an adequate amount of cleavage that made Boy Cop’s eyes bulge, and I suspected that wasn’t the only part.  I was just thankful she had not plumped for one of her more extreme outfits.

“The Constable was explaining about a ute they found in the bush nearby,” I said.  Mary’s eyes narrowed as she eyed the constable up and down.  He blushed and appeared momentarily confused.  I could almost sense that this time it was Mary doing the undressing.  “I told him it was the first we had heard of it.”

“Uh-huh,” murmured Mary, licking her lips, her eyes never stopping their inventory of the cop.  I was wondering where all this sexual electricity was taking us when the dingdong sounded again through the open door.

“I’ll get it!” I said to nobody in particular and hurried inside past the case, closing the steel door behind me.

It was Warren. 

“Just dropping Christina off,” he said without so much as a greeting.  “Be back tonight some time.  Open the gate, will you?” 

I did so, and hurried upstairs to the front door.  Just as I was about to open it, Shawnee appeared from upstairs where she had presumably been making the beds or dusting.  Her hands were cuffed in front of her and she wore locked leather ankle cuffs connected by a short hobble chain.  Aside from that she was naked except for a waist and crotch chain that I knew would be keeping a butt plug in place, since Mary had been the instigator of her confinement. 

“Mistress – could you please unlock my cuffs – I need to do the ironing.”

“Bugger off Shawnee – I have enough on my plate at the moment.  Go back upstairs and stay there until I tell you!  Go on – now, girl!”  Shawnee looked crestfallen but turned and retraced her steps, the cheeks of her arse moving rhythmically either side of the leather strap disappearing between them.  I should make her run up and down the stairs ten times, I thought evilly.

I had expected Warren to be drawing up at the base of the steps but he was nowhere in sight as I went outside.  I heard the sound of a car departing out on the road and saw a solitary figure shuffling down the drive as the gate closed behind her.  Terrific, I thought.  Warren had done Christina up so she could move at a snail’s pace.  Now I just need Cop Boy to drive out.

Christina approached with awful slowness, not least because of the white latex hobble skirt she wore that clung to her body from ankle to waist.  Above this the top of a white corset was visible.  It stopped just below her breasts, supporting them quite unnecessarily, for Christina had an enviable figure.  Her breasts bounced as she stuttered along, accentuated by the pair of weights clipped to the nipples and suspended from them on what looked like thick rubber bands.  He arms were secured across her back in a white leather sheath that was strapped over her shoulders and between her shoulder blades. Predictably she was gagged with a white rubber ball on a white head harness - Warren was nothing if not anally retentive.  He had probably driven here with Christina in the boot of his Jag.

She seemed to take forever to get to the house.  In the end I was so frustrated that I ran to meet her and began to whip her bum with a green twig I broke off a shrub.

“Get inside, goddammit!  Go on! Move it you slut!”  I really did not want to have to explain this situation to anybody.  Christina hastened as much as she could, not understanding what was going on and making plaintive mewing sounds from behind the gag as the weights bobbed like yoyos from her breasts, up and down with each step.  The latex of the skirt was thin and tight over her buttocks as I let fly unmercifully at the taut target.  She yelped again as I chased her awkwardly up the front steps.

By the time we got inside she was panting furiously through her nose, all the while staring at me with those gorgeous blue eyes that asked what she had done wrong.  I was in no mood to explain as I hastened her down the stairs and along the passage to the Interrogation Room with its single chair and multiple Velcro straps.  It took little time to strap her into place and I was about to leave when the thought occurred to me that Warren would never let her out without some form of insert.  Reluctantly I unstrapped her and made her stand while I rolled the skirt down sufficiently to view her crotch.  Sure enough there was a crotch strap holding a vibrator in place, which I just had to turn on before replacing the skirt and straps.  Christina’s eyes widened and she made appreciative noises from behind the gag.  She also made little plaintive interrogative sounds, casting her eyes down to where the weights still bobbed from her nipples.

“No pain, no gain,” I told her firmly before shutting the door behind me.

When I emerged from the back door I was just in time to hear the cop car drive away.  Mary was just closing the back doors of the van and I saw the crate sitting in the back.

“Oh well done!” I exclaimed, relieved.  “Nothing like a bit of male brute strength, Mary.” 

She smiled enigmatically at me and I noticed she was flushed.  Had it been anybody else I would have put it down simply to the exertion of helping haul a heavy crate into a van, but I knew Mary too well.  Mary loved a challenge.  She also loved toy boys and any chance to undermine authority.

“Mary!  Tell me you didn’t!”  Mary said nothing but unconsciously toyed with the ring on her zipper, pulling it higher to disguise her cleavage.  “You did!  You absolute tart!  You gave him a blow job, didn’t you!”

“He helped with the crate,” she said defensively.  “And didn’t ask any questions about what we were doing shipping live turtles around.”

“Obviously his brain had switched off by that stage and he was on auto,” I said tersely.  “I cannot believe you did this.  And so quickly!  You must be the fastest mouth in the west!”

“Didn’t take much,” she said.  “I think all nineteen years worth came at once.”  She wiped her hand across her mouth and grinned at me.  I could not maintain my stern demeanour any longer and burst out laughing.

“It was his first?”

“Yup.  Just made a man of him.”

“Well I’ll be blowed!”

“No – I’ve already done that bit.  Sorry – come back tomorrow.”

“Ha ha.  Can you take our friend to the depot?  I’m up to my arse with Peter and Christina.  You’ll probably need a bit of a sit-down by now anyway.”

“Sure, no problem.  See you in an hour or so.”

Chapter Twelve: Trish's story Part 3

Part Two

I returned to Peter, calling in on Christina on the way.  The toy that Warren had implanted was having its effect and she was squirming about in the chair, beads of perspiration running down her face as she looked at me with those big eyes, half covered by the white leather of the harness that dropped over her forehead and parted either side of her nose before joining the gag strap itself.  Whatever else you said about Warren, he had impeccable taste in slaves and bondage gear.

“Would you like those nasty clamps off?” I asked considerately.

“Mmmm – mmm!” said Christina, nodding her head vigorously.  That was a mistake because it made the lead weights – sinkers of some sort – bounce again, tugging at her nipples.

“Too bad,” I said.  “They’ll come off when I’m good and ready, and right now I’m having a crappy afternoon so I’m neither – you being part of the problem.”  I could be such a bitch when I wanted to be.  Christina looked woeful and whined piteously.  I knew she had had much worse, however, and could take it.

“Oh shut your noise girl.”  I rummaged in the Quick Fix Box we keep in all the rooms and produced a pair of industrial earplugs and a role of duct tape.  Moments later Christina was blind and deaf as well as silent(-ish).  I could merely have turned out the lights to keep her in the dark, but tape over the eyes is so much more immediate, and you never know who else might be in the room with you.  It’s all in the mind, you know.

Peter, meanwhile, was almost – to coin a phrase – on his last legs.  He was trembling and sweating and his arse was straining with the effort, but the cane was still there.  He nearly collapsed when I removed it and undid the stretchy straps holding his legs apart.  I used the tail from the rope binding his wrists to pull his hands over and down behind his head, feeding the tail between his legs.  It was in this position that I was then able to lead him to the sluice room where a small desk had been set up, together with a blackboard.

I used the sluice room because the white tiled walls and floor held particular institutional connotations for many people, including, I knew, for Peter.  I sat him down at the desk – one of those one piece jobs made famous by the Blues Brothers in their visit to the nunnery – and bound his hands, still pulled behind his head – to the back of the seat.  Christina was settled for a bit – I could now turn my attention to a properly focussed session in the schoolroom.

“You were late today, Peter,” I snapped.  He shook his head but made no sound.  I slammed the cane down on the desktop.  It made a terrible sound and Peter would have jumped a foot if he had been able.  “Your uniform is disgraceful as well.  Look at your tie – not even done up properly!”  I pulled it off to one side and opened his shirt.  “You’re going to get punished, Peter.  And you know why.”  He was breathing heavily, the colour flushing his cheeks as I fastened two clips on his nipples.  The clips were attached to lengths of string which I now tied to a cleat on the front face of the desk.  Peter was going nowhere.  He was panting now, mouthing little ‘ow-ow’ sounds under his breath.

“Any more noise and I’ll shut you up with something rather unpleasant,” I warned him.  He bit his lip but I knew he would need help shortly.  He had a high pain tolerance but he was a big sook about keeping quiet.

That was when the gate intercom ding-donged in the corridor again.  I was really starting to get pissed off.

“Oh for crying out loud!” – which was just what Peter was on the verge of.

I stalked out of the room and pressed the intercom.


“Oh – good afternoon,” said a female voice.  “My name is Deborah Miller.  I’m from the Australian Tax Office.  I have an appointment with Monica Armstrong at 4 o’clock.”

“I’m sorry, but Monica is away at present and won’t be back until tomorrow.”

“That’s unfortunate,” said the voice, “but this appointment has been arranged for a long time and I have to be back in Canberra tomorrow.  Who else can I talk to?”

“I’m the only one here at the moment, and I’m kinda busy.”

“This will only take a few minutes.  I would be most grateful if you could help me out.  I really need to get this matter sorted out.”

“Oh very well.”

I pushed the button that opened the gate.  I was not a happy little vegemite at that point.  My afternoon planning had turned to crap and I disliked that nearly as much as obsessive Monica.  And this time it was she who was upsetting my planning – when she was not even here.

It was also exactly the wrong time for Shawnee to again appear to tell me that she had to do the ironing and could I please unlock her handcuffs.  Right then I did not care about the ironing, nor Shawnee’s whining, and I was not prepared to overlook the fact that she had disobeyed me in not staying upstairs.  Obviously she feared Mary more than me!  I ordered her to wait at the bottom of the stairs while I made a quick visit to the storeroom.  It took me only a moment to grab some items from a convenient shelf.

I returned to Shawnee and – under the pretence of unlocking her handcuffs – placed a padlock through the link between her wrists and drew it down quickly to lock with the hobble chain.

“What are you doing?” Shawnee protested as she was forced into a squat.  “Mary said I had to do the ironing!”

“Stuff Mary, and stuff the ironing!” I said tartly.  “Sometimes you’re a waste of space, Shawnee!  You’re always under foot.“  I locked a chain to her collar and locked the other end to the post at the bottom of the stair rail.  She started to protest further until I buckled a bit gag in place.  Poor girl, she was caught between me and Mary – damned either way.  “Now shut up and stay put!” I ordered.  Shawnee could only gaze at me with plaintive eyes from her crouching position at the foot of the stairs.

By the time I opened the front door, Deborah Miller had parked her car near the foot of the front steps.  I had just had time to gag Peter and had left him to suffer a bit while I dealt with this woman. 

She was dressed somewhat like me – black stockings, high heels and a pinstriped business suit over a white blouse.  Her hemline was rather lower than mine, and I noted her appraising me as she climbed the steps.  She was slightly shorter than I was, her auburn hair below her ears but tucked back behind them.  She was quite attractive, I thought, if one over-looked the power dressing.  Put her in a black slinky dress and she would be quite a stunner. 

She opened her flash leather briefcase and handed me her card.  The embossed ATO with the Canberra address made me uneasy.  Tax people have enormous power and can call on all sorts of rules and regulations that nobody else has recourse to - much less actually knows about or understands - in order to get their pound of flesh.  Monica normally did our accounts and helped us coordinate our tax returns.  We always put our occupation as ‘hospitality worker’, for Bilboes was run as a Bed and Breakfast according to the books.

I ushered her in to the sitting room.

“So how can I help?” I asked, determined to be civil, despite my nervousness and irritation at being interrupted in mid-session.  “I really am very busy.” 

Things went downhill from there.  I freely confess I have no head for figures.  I am a practical girl: colours, fabrics, tools, designs, clothes and battery-powered toys – all these things I understand and can deal with.  Mention double accounting, assets or balance sheets and I lose the plot in two seconds.  Deborah pulled out some papers with columns of figures and predictably I lost it.  It was only when she started talking about the Bed & Breakfast business that I half-way recovered, enough to try to substantiate what I hoped was a convincing business story.  I even offered to show her around.  She jumped on this idea, and at once I led her upstairs to the four guest bedrooms. 

Deborah nodded her head and made the appropriate noises about the colour scheme and how nice it all was.

“And how many bedrooms are there?”


“And what’s your occupancy rate?”

“Uh – well, Monica would have the exact figures…”

“Roughly?  What – eighty percent?”


“You see, by my figures, you would need about two thousand and eighty percent to achieve the kind of turnover Bilboes shows in its tax return.  How do you explain that?”

“I – I have no idea.  Figures aren’t my strong suit.  Not really my department.”  I was acutely uncomfortable of the way this was going and wished even Mary was here for some moral support or at least a diversionary action.

“And what is your department, Trish?”

“Oh, you know.  I help out around the place.  Make the beds, do some cooking and cleaning – all the usual sort of thing.”

“Mmmm.”  She did not sound at all convinced.  “And how many others stay here?” she asked, now that we were on the back verandah looking across the lawn at our sleeping quarters.

“Er – five.”  I couldn’t see much point in stretching the truth here.  She only had to go and look in the windows.

“And what do they do?  Six people and only four guest bedrooms seems a little overkill, don’t you think?”

“Oh, some don’t work here – they just sort of rent their rooms.”

“I see.  So that’s more rent coming in and fewer overheads than I thought.  The picture gets worse, Trish.  And what about yourself – are you a resident in Australia?  You’re American, yes?”


“Oh.  It doesn’t really make much difference to the ATO,” she said dismissively.

“It makes a difference to me,” I responded icily.

“And you’re a resident here?  Officially, I mean?”

“Yes.  For twelve years.”

“You have a stamp in your passport to prove that?”

“Yes.  What are you – tax or immigration?” I demanded.  I was getting increasingly annoyed by this nosey woman.

“Well, I’m tax, but we have strong links with immigration and customs for obvious reasons.  We cooperate with them all the time.”

“That would be a first,” I said.

“I’m sorry?”

“Government departments cooperating.”

She gave me a withering smile.  “I’d like to look at you passport, if you don’t mind.”

“Actually I do mind,” I retorted.  “You came here to investigate Bilboes.  I suggest you stick to your mandate.”  I wondered how she would react to my direct refusal and what sort of hole I was digging for myself with my own lack of cooperation, but she seemed to shrug it off and changed the subject.

“And what’s downstairs?” she asked.  I got a cold feeling in the pit of my stomach.

“Oh – nothing much.”  Well, one naked girl chained at the foot of the stairs, a guy bound to a desk having his nipples elongated, and another female probably into her fifth orgasm by now.  “Cellars and stuff.” 

“I’d like to see them.”  She had walked down the steps on to the back lawn and was making a beeline for the external door to the basement.  I suddenly had a horrible feeling that I had left it open when I last rushed inside to get the gate intercom.  I hurried after her but I was too late and she was already inside, striding along the corridor as though she owned the place, her high heels clacking on the concrete and being added to my own rapid footsteps.  She walked past the door to the room where Christina was probably squirming in her chair, then reached the open area at the foot of the stairs.  There she stopped, a startled expression on her face at the sight of Shawnee squatting, her hands chained to her hobbled feet and the black bit gag strapped in her mouth.  Of the three of us, I don’t know who was most confused at that moment.  I decided at that point that my bridges were pretty much in flames behind me and I should do the best I could.

“Ah.  This is Shawnee.  Shawnee – Deborah, Deborah - Shawnee. “  Shawnee mmphed and Deborah seemed not to know what to do.  How bizarre was this?  I was desperately trying to think of some way to extricate myself but all I could think of was the sound that planes make in war movies when they’re spiralling to earth on fire.

“We have a little sideline work sometimes,” I ventured. 

“Uh-huh?” said Deborah, the incredulity in her voice revealing the unspoken ‘tell me more’. 

I opened the door to the storeroom and ushered Deborah inside.  Her eyes widened at the shelves of devices and racks of fetish wear.

“Holy shit,” she murmured.  “Some sideline!”  She ran her hand over a red latex dress hanging from a rack, that Leila was fond of wearing.  I followed her eyes as she took in the series of hinged pegboards that swung out from the wall as a space-saving measure.  On them hung a range of whips, handcuffs, chains, locks and other impedimenta of restraint.  She took a pair of thumb cuffs, with a metre of chain attached to the central hinge, off a hook and said: “Somebody must have small wrists.  I hope you guys aren’t into paedophilia.”  There was an inference that we were already in enough trouble.

I took the cuffs from her, opened them, and clamped one on her right thumb, and then ratcheted the other half on her left thumb.


“See?  That’s how they work.”

She waggled her hands and tried to slip her thumbs out of the encircling steel bands.  “Okay, I understand.  All right, unlock them.”  I pretended not to have heard.

“They’re not so much just for restraint, but also for control,” I said.  “You asked me what my department was, before.”  I smiled disparagingly at her.  “You’re in it,” I told her flatly.  “And you’ll stay her until I decide otherwise.”

“Yeah, yeah, very funny.  The joke’s over.  Now take these off.”

“I said they were for control.”  I reached between her legs from behind and grabbed the dangling metre of chain, pulling it tight.  Deborah yelped and swore as her hands were pulled downwards to the bottom of her skirt.  I helped her a bit by sliding the hem in the opposite direction.  It rose up her legs with the smoothness of nylon on nylon.   Tugging further on the chain saw her hands nestled uncomfortably in her crotch, unable to move, with her skirt rucked up about her hips, exposing an indecent amount of black-clad thigh.

“Ow – shit! That hurts!  Let me go, damn you!”

“I’d watch my language if I were you,” I said, my mind now racing ahead.  I was in an area in which I felt comfortable now.  Now I was doing the controlling and I felt better for it.  How dare this woman come bursting into the house telling demanding to see passports and account books and every room in the place.  I’d show her just what our little sideline was really all about.

Heedless of her protests, I dragged her backwards out of the storeroom and down the corridor to the Post Room.  She was struggling to walk in reverse on her high heels with her skirt up and her hands down, but the pain from the thumb cuffs encouraged compliance, and after a few paces her concentration on staying upright shut her up, albeit briefly, until I hauled her up against one of the two posts that dominated the Post Room.  Here I wrapped the chain around the post and padlocked it, so that she stood with her back to the post and looked as though she was playing with herself.

“What the fuck do you think you’re doing?” she demanded, getting her breath back, not to mention her indignation.  “I’m an agent of the Australian Tax Office!”

“I don’t care if you’re Scarlet O’Hara,” I said as indifferently as I could.  “Frankly my dear, I don’t give a damn.”  Well, yes, it wasn’t original, and I wasn’t Clarke Gable, but it seemed to sum up just how I felt at that moment.  “Look, I’ve got one client who I should be attending to, one that was dumped on me, a stroppy slave who hasn’t stopped whining all afternoon, and a few other things that you really don’t need to know about.  My afternoon has turned to shit and you’re the last turd floating in the bowl.”  Her eyes widened when she saw my belligerence.

“Look, why don’t we just talk this over,” she said, suddenly conciliatory.

“Easy to say that when you’re on the receiving end, isn’t it, sister?  Sorry, time for talk is past,” I said, rummaging in the Quick Fix Box.  I pulled out an inflatable gag and turned to face her.

“What the hell is that?” she said, her voice uncertain.  “Don’t you bring that near me.”

“I’ve had enough of your yapping, sweetie,” I told her with as much menace in my voice as I could manage.  It wasn’t up to Mary’s standard, perhaps, but it did the trick.  I sidled up to her and gripped a handful of hair, pulling her head back and to the side of the post.  Deborah twisted and tried to struggle but the pain that resulted from the thumb cuffs was too much for her as they provided exemplary control through a single point.

“No - no – I don’t want that in – gurk! Errmph!”  That was as far as she got as I pushed the soft rubber bladder into her mouth, held open by my pulling her head back.  It took but a moment to buckle the strap behind her head over the top of her hair. 

“Ready?” I asked with a taunting smile as I began to squeeze the hand pump that dangled from the front of the leather pad over her mouth.  She spluttered and gurgled as it began to expand inside her mouth.  I watched as her jaw was forced wider and a slight bulge appeared within her cheeks.  She tried to shake her head but the tube attached to the hand pump prevented that.  Her eyes widened and her nasal panting increased in tempo.  I knew just how many squeezes to give the gag – I had tried it out on myself and knew just what any reasonable person could stand, and for how long.

I finally stopped and looked at her as she stood against the post.  I decided there was still a risk that she could fall forward, rotating about her pinioned hands, and so I opted to secure her upper body.  At the same time I reckoned I at least deserved a peak at the underwear the ATO Agents were wearing these days.  I undid her blouse and opened it.  Deborah made objection-type noises and attempted to bring her elbows together in front of her, in a rather pathetic attempt at modesty.  I dealt with this quickly through a short length of rope looped around one elbow, taken around the back of the post and looped through the other elbow, before being pulled tight and secured behind the post.  This had the effect of pulling her arms apart and at the same time tugging on her hands where they were buried in her crotch.  There was more whining as Miss Tax Office tried to make eye contact but I ignored her and undid the front clip of her pink satin bra.  The cups stayed where they were until I persuaded them to reveal their contents and I was pleasantly surprised.  Deborah’s breasts were of medium size, with large brown nipples whose tips stuck up like the ends of two lemons.

“I see,” I said.  “Surely it’s not that cold in here?”  I squeezed one of the nipples and Deborah yelped and screwed her eyes shut.  I evened up the score with a pinch of the other one.  I let my hand linger on the firm flesh of her stomach.  I reckoned my taxes were funding a gym in the ATO office in Canberra, and Deborah was spending quite a bit of time there.

But I was also spending quite a bit of time with her, and it was something I could not afford to do with other customers paying good money to suffer just down the hallway.  I paid a brief visit to the storeroom, returning with two nipple clamps to which were attached small vibrators.  I figured as long as Deb’s hands were lodged in southern regions, she might as well put them to good use.  I wondered what sort of sex life a tax consultant had…

“Try these for size, Miss Tax Agent,” I said, releasing the clamps on to her erect brown nubs.  Deborah groaned as the jaws bit into the tender flesh, then the noise from her throat rose an octave as I turned the small vibrators on, sending tingles through the sensitive, pinched flesh. 

“See ya later, Calculator!” I laughed as I slammed the door on the rising level of mmmphing.

*   *   *

By the time Mary returned it was early evening.  Peter had come and gone, literally in both cases.  I had given him an extra long session since I had neglected him for the first part of the time.  He was returning home with a very sore arse where Miss Sharp had paddled it severely before finishing off his punishment with the cane.  For this treatment he had paid cash.  Humans are such funny creatures.

Things were nearly back to normality in Bilboes – Shawnee was finally doing the ironing, although she had received a hand spanking over Mary’s knee for being so slow about it.  Unfortunately the bit gag remained in place, so she was unable to adequately explain that Mistress Trish had kept her chained to the stair rail for an hour and a half.  But life wasn’t meant to be fair, and certainly not to slaves.  Christina was bound and blindfolded in a hogtie in a holding cell, and would remain there until Warren returned.  I figured the batteries in the vibrator would be nearly exhausted – much as Christina was, really, and I had relented and finally removed the weights from her nipples and the gag harness from her head.  I had even left her a pillow.  By now she would probably be asleep, notwithstanding her somewhat strained position.

I sat with Mary as she recounted her visit to the depot and the transfer of the crate by forklift into the large truck that would deliver it directly to bikie headquarters in West Sydney.  We resolved to keep an eye on the email for the next few days, for we had left an email address ( through which the recipients could contact us to advise safe arrival.  Maybe we would even get a thank you note.

And of course there came the time to tell Mary about the visit from the Tax Office as we again sat on the back verandah testing the liquid contents of Bilboes’ cellar.  I described the chain of events.  Mary’s jaw dropped.

“You did what?  Jesus, Trish!  Monica will go ballistic!  Where is this woman?”

“In the Post Room.  I think she might even be on the verge of having a good time.”

Mary shook her head incredulously and took another gulp of her wine.  “And to think that you ticked me off for getting a little friendly with the local constabulary!  Here you are, going right to the heart of government – the very people who know every detail about our lives – and you take one of them hostage!  Tell me you’re making this up!”


“Yeah – tell that to Monica when she gets back tomorrow.  She’ll do her nut!  I reckon you’ll be hanging upside down from a beam within half an hour of Monica’s return.”

The thought did not fill me with enthusiasm, and Mary was right – Monica was more than capable of such a punishment.

“I’d hide the bullwhip now, if I were you,” said Mary.  This time I couldn’t tell if she was trying to wind me up or not.  Mary put on her enigmatic smile that suggested she would rather enjoy the sight of me swinging in the breeze having my butt whipped.

“What the hell can we do?”  I asked desperately.  “I’m getting really pissed off with these people who keep dropping in here unannounced and messing up my life.  Why do I always have to be on the receiving end?”

Mary shrugged.  “Just lucky, I guess.”

*   *   *

Mary and I talked some more, none of which left me brimming with optimism about my immediate future given the imminent return of Monica and the others the following morning.  I was terribly disappointed that the occasion of Jill and Leila’s return to Bilboes might be one of worry and anxiety rather than the joyful event it should have been.  Monica would be worn out after the long flight, not to mention the stressful time she had had orchestrating the rescue of the two girls.  This really was the last thing she needed.

I had checked up on Deborah after an hour.  The bitch – not content with ruining my afternoon (and probably evening and the whole coming week, if Monica was her usual self) - was getting herself off in a very major way when I gently opened the door and peeked in.  This Tax Agent clearly hadn’t had it for a while, I thought.  Too much time in the gym and not enough in the sack with Mr Immigration Man, or was it Customs and Excise?   Whatever, she had her hands full, this chick.  Hands full and eyes closed, humping herself silly on her cuffed thumbs.  Her hair was matted and sweat trickled down her face, soaking in to the now damp blouse and jacket.  She looked anything but the power-hungry public servant who had arrived at the house a couple of hours previously.  I had brought with me the house camera, designed for use in just such a situation.  I pressed the button but the soft click of the shutter made no impression on the girl bound to the post.

One of the nipple clamps had come off and was on the floor, while the other was barely attached.  It must have been quite painful, gripping as it did the very tip of her nipple.  As if to reinforce my thoughts, Deborah let out a particularly loud groan and shook herself as much as she was able.  The clamp, right at the end of her nipple, flipped sideways and clinked onto the concrete.  The girl let out a squeal that turned into a panting sigh and her hands moved faster under the rucked up skirt until she suddenly stiffened and uttered a long shuddering sigh.  I took another shot, and this time her eyes abruptly snapped open, as if sensing that someone was watching.

“You little slut,” I said genially.  “Don’t you get any in Canberra?”  Deborah flushed bright red and stared at me.  “I’m sure your boss and colleagues will be most interested in what you get up to when you’re away on assignment,” I suggested.  The girl glared at me and mmphed something unintelligible.  I suspected it probably had to do with blackmail and a few other legal angles that would be added to the book they were going to throw at us.  Despite my outward bravura, I suspected that this might be one time when photographic details might not be a good approach when dealing with the might of a government department.

“We have decided you will be our guest for tonight,” I said as confidently as I could.  “Maybe you would like a little time to rest and recuperate from your exertions.”  Deborah frowned at me, but made no sound.

*   *   *

I returned to the post room an hour later.  Deborah had calmed down somewhat, but I suspected she had done a little more handiwork in the intervening time.

“We will have to prepare you to be our guest for the night,” I told her.  “We will jointly decide what to do with you tomorrow.”  In fact it would be Monica doing the deciding, but I thought the group decision sounded more threatening.  I unlocked the chain around the post, which let her hands hang more freely.  Her thumbs were looking red and swollen, so after handcuffing her wrists with a conventional pair of cuffs, I released the two offending digits.  Deborah gave me a look that could almost have been gratitude.

“Shouldn’t have played with yourself so much, then, should you?” I told her in the tone one would use to a small child who has burnt herself playing with matches.  “Maybe we’ll make it a little easier for you now,” I added, undoing the zip at the back of her skirt and letting it fall to the floor.  She wore black satin high cut knickers underneath, over crotchless tights.  The knickers followed the skirt to the floor, but I let the black tights remain.  Deborah was starting to get edgy, wondering what was coming next.  In fact, what was coming next was a large sack made of stiff canvas, along the lines of a straightjacket, that I pulled over her head.  There was a hole in the top for her head, reinforced with black leather around the edges.  The back of the sack unzipped a small way, allowing room for the head to go through the hole, before zipping up to a snug raised leather collar, which locked closed. 

The sack had rucked up on the ropes holding her elbows to the post, so I removed these and allowed the canvas to drop to its full length, nearly reaching Deborah’s crotch.  It was snug fitting and needed to be pulled down hard.  From the front of the bag a wide strap hung down.  This went between Deborah’s handcuffs and her body, back between her legs and through a D-ring at the bottom of the rear hem, before being pulled tight and returning the same route, but this time coming up the front to meet a buckle at her navel.  Deborah’s hands were now trapped by the strap and she was unable to withdraw them inside the bag.  Conversely, the strap drew the bottom of the bag down and with it her hands.  All in all it was a very neat and functional garment.  On the outside it also sported leather loops at waist level with a wide belt through them.  Doing up the belt in this instance further secured any movement in Deborah’s arms beneath the canvas.  Just to keep Deborah fully under control while I worked on her head, I tied the waist belt off to the post, so she would be unable to walk about or fall over.

I undid the strap at the back of Deborah’s neck, but did not immediately deflate the gag pumped up inside her mouth, which would have been impossible for her to expel in any case.  Instead, I fitted a discipline helmet over her now damp and sweaty hair.  This particular helmet could be likened to a world war one leather flying helmet, except that it extended over part of the face, covering the eyes but leaving a hole for the nose and mouth before buckling under the chin.  This sort of hood was idea for incorporating various sorts of gags that could be installed or removed without affecting the integrity of the hood as a whole, but allowing adjustment of the tightness under the jaw, depending on the nature of what was being stuffed into the victim’s mouth.

I let the air out of the bladder in her mouth before buckling the chin strap.  I did not have this strap particularly tight when I extracted the rubber bladder, and as I expected, she was too busy swallowing and moving her tongue about as the strain came off her jaw muscles.  The sensation of relief is always the first and strongest feeling – dominating any urge to complain or cry out.  With her eyes now covered Deborah never saw the mouthpiece with the plastic pipe protruding from the middle, until I forced it between her teeth.  It was a cross between the football mouthguard that Wayne Bennelli was now wearing, somewhere en route to Sydney, and a snorkel mouthpiece.  It was something that Steven and I had developed, which gave the teeth something to bite into, but provided a thick rubber seal between the teeth and lips.  This enabled the lips to be taped shut without undue pressure against the teeth over a long period of time.  The ten millimetre clear plastic tube through the middle was a liquid food route that could be closed off simply by bending it in half and clipping it with a small bulldog clip.

Deborah barely had time to react at this new interloper that was worked between her teeth.  I checked that the seal was sitting properly around her  gums before I pulled the chinstrap tight under her lower jaw and locked it with a small padlock.  The final step in the process was to wind several turns of duct tape around her head, effectively closing her lips around the tube.

Deborah was thus prepared for transport to a holding cell, and I pushed her out into the corridor, steering her with taps of a cane on either buttock or with a prod in the centre.  Even with the torso enclosed in a canvas bag and the head in a leather hood, there was no mistaking that the figure ahead of me was female, for the curve of Deborah’s waistline and buttocks would never be mistaken for those of a male.  That, of course, was before you got to the pale flesh on the inside of her thighs, either side of the hint of the crotch strap that was just visible.  The smooth black nylon leading down to the high heels contrasted totally with the top of her outfit, but nevertheless made a pleasing picture as she tottered, blind and uncertain, down the corridor ahead of me.

I sat her on the bed in one of the holding cells and fitted a hobble chain to her ankles.  I left her there for a few minutes before returning with our standard nutrient drink for prisoners in just such situations, which she drank thirstily through the plastic tube.  I undid the crotch strap briefly to allow her to use the toilet before replacing it and lying her down on the bed for the night.  We would just have to let events take their course when Monica got home the next day.

*   *   *

I have to say I did not sleep at all well that night.  The thought that I might have let an enemy infiltrate Bilboes to the extent that our whole future – that is, not just mine, but Monica’s and the rest of the team – might have been compromised left me anxious and apprehensive.  And of course there was the immediate imminent wrath of Monica.  She would inevitably go apeshit as only Monica could.  I had only seen one fullblown rage but I had witnessed a number of minor incidents.  Monica was totally scary in those situations – cold, controlled but utterly ruthless.  Woe betide anybody who had upset her, never mind put all our livelihoods on the line, as I had just done.

The team was due back early next morning and Mary took the van out to the airport to meet them.  I went down to the holding cell to check on Deborah.  A thought had occurred to me that if I gave her a little more affirmative treatment then she might leave the place with rather more positive memories than if the time had been all bad.  It was a long shot but I couldn’t think of anything else that might even come close to being a ladder out of this deep hole I had dug. 

With Deborah fed and abluted, I undid the waist belt and removed the crotch strap entirely, working her hands up under the bag so that they were in the vicinity of her breasts when I rebuckled the waist belt.  This was another variation that the bag permitted – hands relatively free but unable to mess with head restraints or crotch implants.  With Deborah now prepared, I towed her to the dungeon, and the Horse. 

I put my foot on the saddle end and pushed it down to a point where I could back Deborah up with the saddle between her legs, before I slowly eased off my weight on the beam.  Her ankles were still hobbled, just to make sure there would be no lifting of a leg over the beam at any stage.  This positioning part was the bit that required care in unloading the weight gently, and making sure the lubricated inserts went in the proper places.  Deborah, blind and gagged, sensed what was happening and groaned as the tip of the large ribbed vibrator entered her pussy.  As it continued to slide inside she squirmed at the touch of vibrator number two at the entrance to her arse.  Then it too began to work its way inside her.  She squirmed some more and I could hear her breath coming faster and she began to make little ‘hmmming’ noises.

“You’ll be making more noise than that in a minute, dear,” I told her, not unkindly.  “Just be grateful you don’t have anything buzzing on those nice tits of yours as well.  Now, on your toes – higher – that’s it.  Stay there.”

As Deborah stood at full stretch on her tiptoes, I adjusted the restraining chain so there was about a finger width clearance between her and the saddle.  That would be the position she would have to assume if she was to get any relief from the vibrations from the constant pressure of contact with the saddle.

“Very good dear.  Now settle down and relax.”  Deborah went down on her heels again, making not altogether discomforting sounds as the well-contoured saddle came into contact with her total crotch area and the two vibrators were buried fully inside her.  There was a decidedly contented “mmmm!” from behind the taped mouth.

I switched the motor on at the wall.  A soft humming followed, with a faint shuddering from the end of the beam under the saddle.  An expression of surprise escaped the nose of the captive. 

“It is quite delightful at first, isn’t it,” I suggested.  “I wonder how long you can stand it, when the revs step up and the vibrators peak at the same time.  You can bear down on it – kneel if you want.  Squirm and jump about to your heart’s content Deborah, but you won’t get off it.  You will escape only when I say so.  Enjoy!” 

*   *   *

Monica looked tired when she arrived, which was pretty understandable.  They all looked a bit wrung out, and obviously Mary had blabbed about who was stashed in the dungeon.  After the hugs and kisses all round, Monica didn’t even take time to settle in, before wanting to visit our prisoner.  She gave me an ominous look before following me down the stairs to the basement.  And of course the rest of the team had to follow her.  Let’s make this a really public humiliation of Trish, I thought.

When I opened the door of the dungeon, Deborah was in full flight.  Her legs were trembling and it was clear she didn’t know whether to squat, squirm or stand.  The sweat was rolling down her legs and her hands were jittering all over the place inside the bag, handcuffed as they still were and unable to go any further south than her waist.  As we arrived Deborah threw back her head and let out a long nasal moan that might almost have been categorised as a whinny.  Her body stiffened and jerked as she reeled from the effects of the multiple vibrations.  Then she was up on her toes, and I saw the quivering of her thigh muscles as she snorted “hurrr! hurrr! hurrr!” in an impossible attempt at recovering her composure before the next round of stimulation began to grow.

“Do we conclude from this that the thing works?” Steven asked in a deadpan voice. 

“Urrrrrghhnnnmm!” moaned the figure straddling the saddle as she squatted down in an effort to redistribute the sensations within her loins.

“Looks like eleven out of ten,” murmured Jill.

“Turn it off!” Monica snapped at me.  “What are you trying to do – give her a heart attack?”  Monica was decidedly not amused.  “Take the hood off.”

The room went silent as I undid the tape wrapped around the victim’s mouth and pulled out the mouthpiece, before undoing the chinstrap.  All that could be heard was the gasping and panting as she strove to get her breath back.  I lifted the helmet away from her face and was surprised to find her smiling.  Well, I suppose it wasn’t really a surprise – as I said, it brought a smile to my face, but I had not endured it as long as this girl.  But there was something more to her smile, and I realised she was looking directly at Monica.  I followed her gaze and saw a big grin on Monica’s face.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” said Monica, “meet my cousin Debbie.  Debbie has just done Bilboes…  I should also point out that Debbie is a total slut and she and I have shared many experiences in our wicked youth.  Debbie is the practical joker of the Armstrong clan.  And she works for a similar establishment in Sydney, Patricia, definitely not for the Canberra Tax Office.”

I guess my humiliation was pretty complete at that stage, though not quite in the manner I had envisaged.  The surprise package that Debbie turned out to be was an enormous relief to all of us, as we trooped out of the dungeon, the tribe laughing hugely at my expense.  Monica lingered behind, and I heard the sound of the motor starting up again, then:

“Monica!  Turn that thing off!  Monica!  Where are you going?  Please Mon!  Let me off!  Monicaaaaa…”

“Just another half hour, Debbie dear,” said Monica sweetly as she closed the dungeon door.  “And don’t laugh Trish – you’re next!”

More of Monica & the gang in Monica's Revenge