Monica's Revenge: 5. Portia Takes Command

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 Five: Portia Takes Command

All the memories came flooding back of the night when I had come face to face with Portia Tang for the first time.  It had been in the foyer of the luxurious Wong mansion in Macau, as Monica, Emma and I attempted to infiltrate a party to rescue Jillian.  Portia Tang, chief Mistress to Madam Wong and purveyor of all things painful, devious and evil in the house, had been there, eying us up and down.  She had been wearing her trademark red then – a figure-hugging latex catsuit – and the sight of the colour on her now gave me goosebumps. 

That particular night we had all been the subject of various party games which involved a greater or lesser degree of humiliation, culminating in our exposure for the interlopers we were. There had followed a severe caning in the dungeon beneath the old Portuguese house, before we had managed to free ourselves and overpower our captors.  My last sight of Portia Tang had been in the light well of the house as the rain fell.  Portia had a large dildo buried up her arse and a strap-on penis buried up her employer’s arse, whom she clasped in front of her by means of her thumbs being cuffed together around Madam Wong’s waist.  Madam Wong in turn had her own thumbs cuffed behind Portia.  Under a head harness securing an inflatable gag, Portia had thrown muffled Cantonese curses at us as we clipped her nipples and locked her thumb cuffs to a heavy chain running through her legs and up behind her.  Her buttocks, at that stage had almost glowed in the dark from the caning her employer had given her – after Portia had first been obliged to do the same to Madam Wong. 

All in all it had not been a happy scene – except for those of us leaving the premises.  We had had no doubt that the process of cutting them free would be tedious, embarrassing and quite possibly a little bit painful.  We certainly hoped so. I had also harboured my own knowledge that the Chinese had long memories, and that loss of face was about the worst thing that could happen to them.  And in this instance it had occurred in a major way.  In truth, I should not have been surprised to see this red devil reappear in my life.

Under the circumstances I might have said something more profound, but the only thing I could utter was:  “Ohhhh shit.”

Leila clutched my arm as best she could.  She had seen the souvenir polaroid we had taken of Portia and her Mistress as we left them, but it did not do justice to Portia’s statuesque beauty.  In the photo, cuffed, gagged and chained, the bedraggled and dripping Portia was a far cry from the haughty oriental girl now fixing us with a steely glare.

“Leila – this is Portia,” I said quietly, struggling to find my voice.

“So this is the other one – the one who waited in the boat…” Portia walked slowly into the room, her high heels clicking loudly on the narrow strip of concrete beside the futon.  She stopped in front of Leila and bent down to lift her up by the hair. Leila gasped and scrambled to her feet, her neck chain pulling through the eyebolt and drawing me backwards until my own collar was jammed against it.  “Another little blonde…” Her voice was dripping with disdain as Leila whimpered at the pain from her hair while trying to stand upright and not strangle herself with the collar and chain.  “I think we will have some fun with you.”  She released Leila abruptly and let her drop to the ground like a rag doll.

Obviously something terrible had happened within Bilboes while we had been incarcerated.  Where were the others?  How had Portia got inside and could now stroll about with impunity?  How had she found us in the first place?  A dozen questions raced through my mind, but I suspected Portia would be the one asking any questions that needed to be asked.

One of my questions was answered – albeit obliquely – moments later when Megan appeared alongside the Chinese girl.  Unlike her previous appearance as a demure first timer, Megan now wore a black leather catsuit with long sleeves and a zip that ran from throat to crotch, and was currently at half-mast, exposing tantalising glimpses of cleavage.  Her russet hair was pulled back into a ponytail and she looked all business, a mean-looking riding crop gripped in her right hand.

“The others are all sorted.  Want a hand?” she asked Portia casually, leaning against the doorframe as though the whole situation was the most normal thing in the world.

“Sure.  You hold him while I deal with Blondie.”  Portia took out a key and unlocked the long chain from Leila’s collar.  Before she could resist, Portia hauled Leila to her feet and snapped one handcuff ring around the chain connecting Leila’s wrists to her collar, then pushed the hapless girl face first against the wall, locking the other cuff through an eyebolt at eye level.  Leila was held in place, cheek against the blockwork, her head tilted up through the shortness of the handcuffs, unable to move from the wall, the soft curves of her back and buttocks standing out against the raw grey of the concrete blocks.  Portia took the riding crop from Megan and delivered two swift blows to Leila’s cheeks.  Leila cried out but could barely wriggle in the grip of the steel.  I moved to intervene, but Megan had the end of my neck chain and dragged my collar down through the floor-level eyebolt again, and there was nothing I could do.

Portia caressed Leila’s buttocks, where the two red marks were starting to appear.  She slipped her fingers through one of the chains holding Leila’s chastity belt and tugged it so that the front shield tightened.  Leila groaned softly.  Pulling the two chains closer together and tightening the shield further, Portia took the padlock that had previously secured the long chain to Leila’s collar and locked the shield chains together, jamming the shield further into Leila’s crotch.

“That’s made an interesting target, Miss Blonde Girl,” Portia said, half to herself, letting the flap on the end of the crop rove around the chains biting into Leila’s exposed cheeks.  I could see her legs trembling as she was almost on tiptoes because of the strain from the handcuffs.

Portia shot off two more cracks with the crop, making Leila jerk and squeal, before unleashing a flurry of blows that provoked a long scream that Leila was unable to hold back.  She was sobbing at the end of it, at which point Portia appeared to lose interest and motioned to Megan to release the chain holding me down.  The two women hauled me to my feet, at which point Portia grabbed the acrylic sheath encasing Mr Willy.

“Have you been a naughty boy?” she hissed at me. “Been doing something with this that you shouldn’t have?  Poking it in the wrong hole, or just playing with it in working hours?”

“Up yours,” I said.  Portia smiled maliciously. 

“No, Mister, it will be up yours. And I hope your little friend is comfortable there, because it may be quite some time before he tastes his freedom again.” 

I avoided her eyes and thought that perhaps he would be better safely locked in his transparent case, rather than having nasty things be done to him.  As the pair bundled me out of the cell there was little I could do other than cast a backward glance at poor Leila left chained to the wall.

Outside in the corridor I was met with the full implication of the misfortune that had fallen on the House of Bilboes.  Under the stairs I had created four blockwork niches of decreasing size with different means of restraint in each.  For the first time that I could remember, they were all occupied at once. 

Standing erect in the tallest niche, hands slightly away from her side and feet slightly apart was Mary.  She wore a silver grey satin nightshirt which stopped at her thighs.  It looked like most of the buttons had been ripped off it, for it hung open to her waist, exposing most of her breasts.  At her waist, wrists, ankles and neck, Mary was anchored to the wall by U-bars that passed through the blockwork and which would be bolted up on the other side.  There was no escape from that niche, without help.  One U-bar would hold a person there; six was making a point, not to mention making life very uncomfortable.  Mary was gagged with a black ball gag that matched her short dishevelled black hair.  Clearly Mary had been taken as she slept, which confirmed my suspicion that it was now nighttime.  She wore a furious expression and made muffled noises at the sight of me, her brows now furrowing in concern.  I think was the first time I ever saw such an expression from her – at least where I was concerned.

In the adjacent niche was Trish.  This particular niche had a barred steel gate that was locked shut, jamming the occupant against the back wall.  The bars were around five centimetres apart, compressing Trish’s breasts against them.  Trish, at least, was dressed, wearing a white leather skirt and halter top with nipple cut outs, and knee-length boots.  I had a feeling she must have been caught while dealing with Megan, for there seemed no other reason for the ‘working gear’.  Megan was obviously the inside agent.  Things were starting to fall into place. 

Trish had slightly more movement than Mary, but like Mary had a ball gag strapped tightly in her mouth.  She rolled her eyes at me and I saw that her wrists and ankles had been bound to the bars.  More movement than Mary, but not much more.  Some kind soul had also positioned a clothes peg on each nipple bulging through the bars.

Emma was in the second smallest niche.  She, too, was naked, her long black hair hanging in a mass around her shoulders and breasts, her wrists cuffed to her ankles in front of her.  This third niche was known as ‘Little Ease’ after an infamous cell in the Tower of London, for it was not large enough for a person to stand up or stretch out in any direction.  After twenty-four hours it would begin to get quite uncomfortable, but I had no way of knowing how long the girls had been locked in their current positions.  Emma’s ankle cuffs had been locked together and her legs had been bound above the knees, thus limiting what might otherwise have been a more accommodating bondage arrangement.  Emma had fallen on her side and stared at me through the grille with big sorrowful eyes.  Evidently there had been a run on ball gags in our storeroom, for she continued the oral fashion statement begun by Mary and Trish.

The last occupant of the four niches was Jillian.  I concluded that her position was the most stringent as a result of her past ‘relationship’ with Portia as the latter’s slave, and clearly Portia had been thirsting for revenge for some time.  The niche occupied by Jill was triangular in shape, roughly the proportions of a person sitting with their knees drawn up, being the depth of a typical human body.  A black triangular grille was locked in place, in case any other restraints were not considered adequate.

Poor Jill, also naked, had had her wrists bound to her ankles with many turns of sashcord. Her ankles and knees were likewise bound and a single rope linked the ankle ties with a heavy leather collar locked on her slender neck, just visible beneath the blonde hair touching it.  She had almost no room to move and her bottom would be going numb soon, if such was not already the case.  I was thankful I had installed the two-centimetre thick black rubber matting in the niches, for in unexpected situations such as these, it would provide at least some relief from the hardness and chill of the concrete floor.

Jill looked at me with pleading eyes above the regulation ball gag and shook her head in  what may have been a mixture of desperation, frustration and despair.  Only then did I see the awful steel vices clamped on her nipples. She screwed up her eyes and whimpered.

The sight of the girls all helplessly gagged and restrained, side by side, plunged me into a deeper sense of hopelessness and fear at where this was all leading.  Monica and Shawnee were the only two not accounted for.  I wondered how much more help Megan and Portia had had in subduing the Team.

With the pair of them gripping me by the elbows I was hustled down the corridor into the Post Room.  Here, one of my questions was answered, for Monica was tightly bound to one of the two wooden posts that gave the room its unofficial name.  Her ankles had been locked into a spreader bar that had been extended as wide as possible with the mid-point of the bar tied to the bottom of the post with rope.  Half a dozen coils of white cord wrapped around the top of each of Monica’s thighs and appeared to join behind the post, thus pulling her legs further apart and making her pussy about as vulnerable as it was possible to be.  More cord pulled her waist hard against the post and further turns about her torso above and below her breasts did the same.  Her arms had been raised above her head and pulled behind the post where they were secured.  This had forced her shoulders back and made her breasts thrust forward.  I looked with amazement at the obvious reason this strained position had been forced on Monica.  Below her nipples thin runnels of dried blood stained the whiteness of her breasts.  Protruding from the nipples were steel rings that had not been there before.  Monica had just had her nipples pierced.

Monica opened her red-rimmed eyes at my entry and a faint moan escaped an inflatable gag filling her mouth, beneath a leather head harness that buckled under her chin, and ran up over the top of her head, leaving a short rubber tube from her mouth dropping to a squeeze bag.  My gaze travelled over her lean body and I saw the red weals on the inside of her thighs that had obviously come from a nasty flogging.

Portia and Megan wasted no time in securing me to the second post.  I could do little to resist, having my legs bound at ankles and knees first, then having these points anchored to the post with the white cord.  Further ties were around my waist and chest before my wrist cuffs and connecting chain were undone and my arms bound behind the post above my head. 

I managed to sneak a look at Megan’s watch.  It showed a quarter to six.  I could only assume it was Tuesday evening - the second day since Leila and I had been imprisoned in the cell.  It had also been twenty-four hours since we had eaten.  I reckoned that the reason for this had firstly been that nobody was able to feed us because everyone had been captured, which meant it must have happened during the night.  Which meant that the girls may have been in the niches all day, and Monica would have had at least twelve hours at the mercy of Megan and Portia in some form or other.  No wonder she looked subdued.  I guessed it was all part of a plan to wear us down and establish clearly who was in charge.  Right at that moment there seemed to be little doubt in that regard.

I suppose I could have abused my captors or questioned them, but somehow this seemed counter productive, for I was not exactly in a position to do anything about any threats.  Instead I decided to bide my time and remain silent.  This, of course, did not stop them from inserting an inflatable gag beneath a head harness matching Monica’s.  It had buckles under the chin, at the back of my neck and on a vertical strap running down the back of my head.  All of these Portia pulled as tight as she could before squeezing on the bag that began to expand the bladder in my mouth.   I had always hated the inflatables, if only for fear that they might block my airway in unskilled hands.  On the rare occasions the girls had practised on me, I felt safe, but this Portia had a manic glint in her eye that gave me the heebies, and my nasal pleadings for her to stop went unheeded until I thought my jaw, cheeks and tongue could not take any more pressure. 

Portia expressed satisfaction with the state of affairs.  As she did so, a knock came on the door and a large burly man poked his head around.

“The slave is chained up, Miss Portia.  Everything else is secure now.”

“Very good, Jenkins.  You may go now.”

So there had been hired help. I suspected he was involved in the kidnapping of Monica and me.  The whole thing was getting worse by the minute.  Portia took this opportunity to appraise us of just how much worse, and looked as though she was enjoying every minute.  Megan lounged against the wall as an interested bystander.

Portia held centre stage and dominated it, pacing leisurely back and forth.

“I’ve waited a long time for this moment, Mistress Monica.”  The irony in her emphasis was not hard to spot.  “Not exactly in charge now, are we?”  She smiled at Monica, who glared back at her from behind the head harness.  “You and your team caused much anguish for me and Madam Wong.  Apart from the time we spent chained up in the light well before the staff found us, there was the even more embarrassing period when one of the security staff had to use the bolt cutters and hacksaw to set us free.  And you know how staff gossip.  Madam Wong was very upset.  And to top it all off you not only stole her birthday present, Jillian, on whom I had lavished such time and energy in training, you also stole her servant, Weiwei, and absented yourselves.  Madam Wong had big plans for selling you to certain establishments on the Mainland.  She would have obtained a good price for you.”

Portia paused and stood in front of Monica, inserting a scarlet fingernail into Monica’s nostril and tilting her head up as far as it would go.  Monica squirmed as much as the ropes would allow as she tried to ease the pressure of the nail.

“Well, Monica Armstrong, things have now changed.  You are no longer Mistress of this house – I am.  And in my absence, Megan here will be in charge.  You may not know it, but Megan now runs The CItadel, on the south side.  Mistress Heather decided that things were a little too intense in the business and has retired.  With a stake in Bilboes as well, Megan will be able to introduce her own staff to run it on my terms.  It will be an interesting exercise, for The Citadel predominantly caters for clients who are submissive, with the result that most of the staff there are dominants.  Here, on the other hand, we will now have half a dozen submissives ready to be taken command of by paying clients.  They will pay big money to do outrageous things to subs who will have no choice in the matter, unlike the voluntary subs you find elsewhere.  I see this as a major step forward for myself, Megan, and the industry generally. 

“And of course Madam Wong will be our benefactor. She will arrive next week, when I have had a chance to put things in order and to educate you all on the roles you are to play.  Madam Wong will of course get a cut of the proceeds, since she is financing the whole deal, in association with Megan as our local representative.  Naturally the money is not such an issue with Madam Wong.  More important is seeing you on the end of the lash again, paying for the trouble you caused in Macau.

“And in case you were wondering about the last few weeks, let me appraise you of our plan.  We followed you and your boyfriend that night in the city, and during the kidnapping, we took the liberty of photocopying your address book, with all your client details. That was the point of it all.  You really should be more careful.  I think you’re one of those people who does not trust computers to look after your private information, mmm?  Too susceptible to the corruption or inadvertent  wiping of a disk?  You may be right, but the carrying of the details in a little black book was stupid, really.  We contacted all of your clients and warned them off with threats of exposure of their activities.  They all bought it.  So your business died.  That has had you very worried, hasn’t it.  Such a shame.  I do so dislike unnecessary suffering – except when I cause it to somebody who deserves it.

“So you loved Megan when she turned up and money was no object.”  She turned to me.  “And Mr Reynolds – such a nice man, I am told, showing Megan all around the place.”  I looked across at Megan, who shrugged her shoulders and grinned at me.  “It was so helpful to know what was here, where you slept, what security systems you have and what benefits this place will bring to us.  It was easy for Megan to plead sick and say the safeword during last night’s session.  It was even easier to overpower poor unsuspecting Trish and to let the rest of us in through the gate.

“It will be nice to have my slave Jillian back, and her friend Emma.  They can practise Cantonese on each other while they serve me.  I’ll enjoy speaking properly again, rather than in your barbaric tongue.  And little Leila can help them in the serving department, when Madam Wong comes here.  Mary and Trish will no doubt be most reluctant to cooperate in their submissive roles, which is why it will be such fun to force them into that capacity.  They will absolutely hate it.”  She laughed, the ringing tones echoing off the dark walls. 

“And as for you two… you are my true prizes.  You are both very special to me, and will have special treatment.  We may even go away on holiday together, once Steven has prepared everything for Madam Wong’s arrival.  Megan tells me you have an extensive workshop, and that she could do with somebody like you at The Citadel.  And speaking of which, I think we should rename this place. ‘Bilboes’ is a bit bland, don’t you think?  Maybe ‘Le Chateau…”  She stared into the distance.  “Yes, it has a nice ring to it –of class and grandeur, even if it doesn’t look like a chateau.  Maybe we can rebuild things a little… Have a gatehouse, perhaps, and one of those drop-down grilles like in the castles.  ‘The Citadel’ and ‘Le Chateau’ – I think they go together.  What do you think, Megan?”

“Sounds good to me,” Megan said easily.  “Somewhere you think twice about entering, and somewhere you don’t escape from easily.”

“We can certainly ensure that is the case.  And you two will receive special treatment to make sure of that very fact.  As I said, it will be such fun.”  Portia was standing in front of me when she said this, and the malicious smile she gave me made my stomach feel like it had turned to lead.  “We may as well start now, I think.”

“You will of course have seen that Monica now sports two rather nice nipple rings.  They’re made of stainless steel and require a special circlip tool to remove them.  Of course they’re only temporary. We have a much better idea for you both as soon as they’re healed.”

Both?  Did this mean what I thought?  Shit! I didn’t want my nips pierced!  Whatever else they said about heightening sensitivity and all that, I did not want the image that went with them, and I particularly did not like the potential they offered for painful anchor points in the environment in which I now found myself.

“Urrn!  Nnmf!” I hmmed through my nose, as if that said it all.

Megan appeared from where she had opened up a small briefcase on a table in the corner.  She wore latex surgical gloves and held a bottle and some cotton wool.  A cool liquid hit my nips as she wiped them with the swab.  I assumed it was some sort of disinfecting or antiseptic solution.  Whatever, it made them stand up, in time to receive further stimulation from Portia’s fingernails before Megan flourished a clamp like a pair of forceps which she snapped on, gripping me just behind the nub. 

It was not the first time my nips had been treated so unkindly, but I did not like the way she flourished an evil-looking needle.  I attempted  to struggle, but the ropes held me quite rigid.  My breathing was coming fast and shallow.

“Relax, Steven,” said Megan.  “People do this all the time.  Slow your breathing;  cooperate and it will be better for everyone.  Just hold your breath when I say so.”  I couldn’t watch this.  I have had a number of needles stabbed into various parts of me in my thirty odd years on Mother Earth, for a variety of reasons, and I’ve never actually seen one of  the injections.  Usually I will be admiring the nurse, the ceiling, my shoes, or anything that distracts me.  In this instance I looked at Monica, tightly bound to the post in the inverted ‘Y’.  I locked her gaze as Megan said “Hold it”, and there was a biting pain in my left nip.  I read sympathy in Monica’s expression – or as much as one could convey with one’s face buckled into a harness and one’s mouth distended unnaturally.  They say the eyes are the window to one’s soul.  At that moment Monica and I were kindred spirits, at the forefront of this assault on our persons, of the very existence of Bilboes and the destiny of those who worked here.  I looked down after some moments to see the shiny stainless steel ring hanging from my nipple, a trickle of blood oozing from the penetration points. 

There was more swabbing then the right nip came in for the same treatment.  Five minutes later I matched Monica.  Portia was delighted.

“Excellent!  We’ll leave you to contemplate your new additions for a while now, and to dwell on the rather unfortunate future that awaits you here in Le Chateau under your new Mistresses.”

They departed, leaving us bound to the posts, facing each other in the glare of the directional downlights.  Monica sniffled, perhaps on the verge of tears, but she held them back.  We stared at each other, trying to communicate but it was impossible.  The snorts and nasal grunts we could manage with our mouths so distended made no sense and we gave up.

*   *   *

A long time passed - I had no idea how much.  My nipples hurt and my jaw ached from the pressure of the gag and harness.  The ropes were sufficient to hold me upright without any effort on my part – even totally relaxing my body left me in the same position, supported in my bonds.  In some ways this was better than positions where one is obliged to maintain a position without support.

Megan and Portia returned looking slightly flushed.

“Just taking care of the others,” Portia said casually.  “We can now sort you two out properly.  I hope we haven’t kept you waiting.”  She smiled coldly. 

The pair turned their attention to Monica, releasing her hands from above and behind the post, only to lock leather cuffs on her wrists and attach these to a heavy steel spreader bar, about the same length as the one holding her ankles apart.  It was a simple matter then to undo the remaining ropes and help her waddle awkwardly to a point midway between the two posts, where the wrist spreader - at this point held at waist level - was clipped to a steel cable running through an overhead pulley.  The cable was in turn attached to a wall-mounted 12-volt winch which I had bought at a ships chandlery.  It was one of my favourite shopping spots – after the hardware discount warehouse, of course.

Then they turned their attention to me.  The did it carefully, in the manner of professionals.  First the wrists – into the cuffs and the spreader bar, then untie some ropes, then attaching the spreader bar to the ankles, then the final release.  At no time did I have a chance of making a break, not that overpowering these two females was really likely to be on. I was savvy enough to realise that any resistance – unless it was a clean escape – would be pointless and would only worsen my treatment.  More particularly, it would most likely make things worse for Monica.  There was no doubt  they had us by the proverbial short and curlies.

They manoeuvred me close to Monica and facing her, at which point Megan produced some pieces of sticking plaster and placed them over our new nipple decorations.

“Don’t want these catching on things just yet,” she said. “Don’t want you infected and sick so that you can’t enjoy what we have in store for you.”

Gee, thanks for being so considerate, I thought.

I was pushed awkwardly against Monica as she stood there, hands attached to the spreader bar at her waist.  My arm spreader bar was clipped to the same loop at the end of the cable, and at the touch of a button by Megan operating the winch on the wall, our arms began to rise, slowly up past our wounded nips and then above our heads.  Megan paused with the cable just as we were starting to move on to our tiptoes.

“What are you doing?”  Portia demanded.

“Just checking wrists are at the right angle with no kinks in the connecting links.”  She inspected our wrist cuffs and tugged a couple of times, while Portia said nothing but was clearly miffed.  I took small comfort from Megan’s action in that here was someone that at least appreciated the limits of the human body and did not want a broken wrist or torn tendon on her plate. 

She returned to the winch and the strain began to come on my arms.  By now Monica and I were literally in each others faces, establishing that the easiest position was with our heads looking over each other’s shoulder, while our bodies nestled against each other.  My nipples hurt as they pressed against Monica’s breasts.  The thrill which the aforementioned pressing would normally have provoked was suppressed by the pain, and in any case Mr Willy was in no mood for taking an active part in anything.

I did not at all like the turn events were taking as we lost contact with the floor.  We were now stretched in a star shape, our arms and legs at forty-five degrees to the ground, every limb under strain, particularly our arms.  We hung there for a minute while Megan and Portia busied themselves with something I couldn’t see behind my back.  I felt the warmth of Monica’s body pressing against mine and this was somehow comforting – the fact that whatever was going to happen to us would be shared. 

When Portia hove into view behind Monica and facing me, I decided I did not really want to share what she had in mind, for in her hand was a cat o’nine tails, with the bunch of leather thongs nearly a metre long.  The first strike made Monica jerk and grunt into her gag.  I had seen it coming, and it scared me half to death, so fearsome did Portia look putting the full strength of her body behind the stroke.  I could not tell exactly where it caught Monica – maybe the buttocks or lower back – but the impact transferred through to me.

Moments later a searing pain caught me on the buttocks as Megan took her turn.  Slowly we began to rotate as our tormentors flailed with their whips.  Megan’s, I saw, was a more conventional flogger – shorter thongs requiring her to stand closer.  The pair obviously considered it a game as the rotation made it harder to be accurate.  It was not long before the stinging thongs were catching us on our backs and thighs as well as our backsides. Portia was not above spraying her shots around deliberately, from shoulders downwards.  Those were the most scary when aimed at Monica, for I could see the lash coming close to my head but could do little to avoid it.  Likewise I could feel Monica flinch when my shoulders were the target.

The pain mounted and we could not prevent grunts and whines escaping from our noses, biting down on the mouth-filling gags as we did so.  The spinning made me close my eyes, but only briefly, for this seemed worse.  We were thoroughly warmed up by the time Portia grabbed my leg to stop the spinning.  I felt like I had been lying in the sun for several hours and had a bad case of sunburn over the backs of my legs, bum and back.

“That was the entrée,” said Portia, and my heart sank.  “You recall what you made me do in Macau?  You made me deliver ten strokes of the cane to Madam Wong.  Not surprisingly  when it was her turn, Madam Wong was very energetic on me.  It think it’s time to return the favour, as I will also be doing to my dear Jillian in due course.  I will have something special devised for her.  In your case, Monica, I think fifteen strokes would be appropriate, now that we’ve got you started.  And your boyfriend can share the delightful pain with you.”

Fifteen!  My brain gave the crow call: “Faaarrk!”  I didn’t think I could cope with this.  But I didn’t have a lot of say in the matter.  I couldn’t move or object.  She could give me a hundred and fifteen and I could still do nothing.  Shit oh dear…

The women selected identical thin whippy green bamboo canes and stood in the same position as before.  Again, I was looking at Portia over Monica’s shoulder while I was to be the victim of Megan, it seemed.  They did a few practice swishes through the air which made a fearful sound reminding me of canings at school.  Portia nodded her head to Megan and they struck  almost simultaneously.

“Urrrgghh!”  Monica and I stiffened and grunted together as the pain cut like a knife through our buttocks.  Another nod, another fiery pain! 

“Mmmmmph!”  My hands were clenched and my whole body was rigid, as was Monica’s.  We moaned as one as the blows continued to fall.  By the time the last three had landed we had both lost our inhibitions and were yowling into the rubber bladders filling our mouths, biting down and struggling with every fibre of our bodies against the confining straps.  Sweat was running from our pores, adding to the pain like salt in a wound. 

When the beating ended we hung there breathing hoarsely and moaning steadily.  Nobody was putting on airs here; the pain was real.  My heart was racing and I could feel Monica’s doing the same. 

“That was just a sample,” said Portia, sounding slightly breathless..  “It is a demonstration that you are utterly within my power and will continue to be so.  From now on, you will behave as proper slaves, addressing Megan or myself as ‘Mistress’.  Is that understood?”  We both nodded.  We had no doubt what failure to comply would mean.  Any humiliation was preferable to more of that pain.  Even proud Monica, with all her high mindedness could recognise that. 

“Any disobedience, rebellion, backchat or reluctance to do as you are told will be dealt with in a similar manner – or worse.  I want you to know that I have barely begun your punishment, and whatever I inflict on you, you may be assured Madam Wong will double the measure.  You have a week to get used to this regime before she arrives.  That will be something to look forward to, mmm?”

Megan let us down slowly.  As our feet came in contact with the concrete floor my legs began to tremble, partly from the strain of being held apart so widely, and partly from the beating.  Monica was worse, for her legs had been in the spreader for much longer.

We stood there exhausted as our captors locked a chain about each of our waists.  Our cuffs were then unclipped from the spreader bar and locked to the waist chains above each hip, and only then were the ankle cuffs unclipped from those spreader bars. 

Being able to stand up freely was a huge relief, although my body was on fire all over.  I had no will left to resist as we were herded out of the room and back down the corridor to the holding cell.  Leila had disappeared from inside, but the other four remained locked in the niches under the stairs.  Portia made us pause and display our scars to the other prisoners.  There were muffled gasps of dismay from the girls at the sight, before we were pushed into the cell and made to kneel on the futon, where first Monica’s then my ankle cuffs were locked together.  On the floor I saw a tray with some bread rolls and a large coke bottle full of water,  just before the lights were turned out and the door clanged shut.

*  *  *

It was an extremely uncomfortable night – if indeed that was the hour.  Wriggling about in the darkness we managed finally to undo release the air valves on the gags and obtain merciful release from the terrible ache that enveloped our jaws.  More wriggling and bumping enabled us to eventually undo the head harnesses and remove the rubber bladders from our mouths and to give vent to our feelings, which were primarily great pain at that moment.  We managed to eat the food that had been left for us, having to feed each other, but the effort involved in all of this was significant, and eventually we lay down to sleep as best we could.  Whether by design or bad luck, having our wrists cuffed to our waist chain gave us little comfort, with the choice of lying on our painfully tender backs or else on our fronts with our newly impaled nipples.  Sitting was almost unbearable, and I wound up on my stomach with the waist chain twisted round, one hand behind me and one underneath. 

Sleep came eventually, but not before the gravity of our situation had sunk in and Monica had finally let herself go and cried on my shoulder  - as best she could.  She was overcome with guilt for what was happening to the girls, as much as anything that was happening to her, and I could do nothing to alleviate this.

“We’ll get even, don’t fret,” I whispered to her. “Just remember, they’re probably watching on infrared right now.  They can monitor everything.  Don’t let them see you like this.  Get angry – get even.”

I hoped Monica would focus on her anger and get her mind on to how to get out of this mess.  She was a strong character, and needed to concentrate on useful and positive things.  If I could keep her on this track, we would all be better off.”

“You’re right, Steven, “ she sniffled. “We have to use our brains.”

“It’s just hard when your bum hurts so much,” I murmured to the darkness.

*   *   *

The next morning – as I eventually found out it was – Portia and Megan opened the cell door.  Portia was in a long-sleeved red lycra dress and boots and wore a scarlet band on her head holding her black hair behind her ears.  A riding crop hung from one wrist by a leather loop.  Megan was dressed in jeans cut off almost at the crotch and a skimpy white sleeveless top that was a size too small or had shrunk since she bought it. 

“Good morning slaves,” Portia said.  When we didn’t answer but merely glared balefully at her, she flew into a rage, striking out with the crop.

“On your knees in our presence, you toads!”  One blow caught me on the back and another on the thigh as Monica and I scrambled to our knees with difficulty.  “I said ‘good morning, slaves!’”

“Good morning Mistress,” we intoned.  I wondered how difficult it was for Monica to get this out.  Megan bent down and unlocked Monica’s ankle cuffs.

“On your feet, slut,” Portia snapped.  Monica got up uncertainly, and was rewarded with a crack on the buttock for being too slow.  Her skin in this area was a mass of bruises from the beating the night before.  “I think the other one needs a reminder of his place, too, Megan.  He needs kneeling practice.”  Megan pulled a length of thin cord from her pocket and squatted behind where I knelt.  She tied one end around the lock connecting my ankle cuffs and passed the other end around my right elbow, across my back, around the left elbow and then pulled it down to my ankles.  I found myself suddenly kneeling erect, my elbows pulled back most uncomfortably and tethered to my ankles, unable to bend forward.

I remained silent as they dragged Monica away and slammed the door, leaving me in darkness once more.  God, how long would I have to hold this position, I wondered, feeling the bite of the thin cord into the flesh of my arms already.

I reckoned it was perhaps half an hour before my question was answered, as Megan reappeared.  Along with her was Shawnee, wearing a rubber suit and wrist and ankle cuffs with connecting chains.  She wore a rubber hood with only eye and nose holes and carried a tray and a shopping bag, both of which she put down beside me at Megan’s direction.  I wondered why she was dressed in this manner.

“I will unlock one of your wrist cuffs and give you the key to the other cuffs,” Megan said.  She picked up the shopping bag and emptied the contents on the floor.  On top of some clothes was the stainless steel belt and powerpack I had shown her some days before.  “You will lock this belt on yourself and insert the plug attached.  Then you will get dressed, you may eat your breakfast, and you will put on these handcuffs, locking them behind your back.  When I next rap on the door, you will kneel facing the corner, demonstrating that the cuffs are firmly locked in place.  Do you understand?”  She eyed me sternly.


“Good.  If you continue to cooperate, we will get along just fine.  Any funny business and you will be sorry, as will your friend Monica, who is currently in a rather uncomfortable position upstairs.  Any misbehaviour by anybody will be most unpleasant for her.  Have I made myself clear?”

“Yes Mistress.”

“Very well.  Later this morning you and I will be going for a ride. Come, Shawnee.”

*   *  *

Breakfast was toast and fruit, which I ate hungrily once I had freed myself from my chains.  Megan had included a small tube of jelly for the insertion of the plug, which I was not looking forward to.  Once the belt was locked on, a plastic-coated stainless steel crotch wire kept the plug in place, each end of the wire locking to the belt.  This was the third, spare, device that I had had made for the Twins, in case there was a failure with the others, which had stainless crotch straps rather than the wire one.  I wondered where the other two were.

I was not in a hurry to dress, for any contact with my tender skin brought more pain, but eventually I was obliged to put on the jeans and shirt and sneakers she had obviously obtained from my room.  Despite the soreness it was nice to be dressed again.  Reluctantly I clicked the handcuffs on each wrist behind my back and settled down to await Megan’s return.

*   *   *

When Megan took me out of the cell the niches under the stairs were empty.  I was about to start up the stairs when Megan must have pushed the button of the remote control on the butt plug.  I gasped and nearly doubled over as the pain hit me like a bad case of cramps.

“That was just a quick test,” she explained casually.  “I wanted to make sure it worked.  Imagine if I kept my finger on the button.”  I didn’t tell her it had an override that would stop the current after three seconds, but I didn’t want three seconds worth, either.  It was the first time I had experienced it personally and I could understand the cooperation it had engendered in the Twins, and the reason for their dramatic change in demeanour.  As aversion therapy it was very effective.  Megan looked me in the eye and said levelly:

“Any trouble from you and I will not hesitate to use this.  Just the slightest excuse.  Do you understand, Steven?”

“Yes Mistress.”  Yes, I really really did.

I followed her out on to the balcony at the rear of the house.  It was earlier than I had thought.  Here Portia was reading the morning paper.  Seated on the deck nearby was Monica. 

She was sitting in a lotus position, that is, cross legged with her feet tucked on top of her thighs rather than underneath them.  I did not know whether she was in to yoga, or how naturally this position had been achieved, but suffice to say it had been achieved somehow, and was being maintained through the application of numerous strands of sashcord around her ankles and thighs.

I noticed that she was also sitting on a galvanised metal plate, around half a metre square.  This plate was one I had made with a special fixing on it to take a variety of butt plugs and dildos, and I was under little illusion that one of these plugs was impaled up her arse at that moment. 

Monica barely looked at me as we emerged on the deck.  Her wrists had been bound palm to palm behind her, and her elbows were likewise constricted with further turns of rope so that they almost touched.  The pull back on her arms pushed her breasts out, and the plasters had been removed from her nipples, leaving the stainless steel rings glinting in the sunlight. 

Monica had a large white ball gag strapped in her mouth and was staring at the roof, primarily because of a two-pronged hook inserted in her nose.  I had seen such a restraint used in Japanese bondage, but it had never been done in Bilboes before.  It was extraordinarily simple, just a small inverted U-shaped piece of wire, barely the thickness of a pencil, with the two ends turned through 120 degrees, to make a couple of hooks.  The ends were no doubt smoothed off, but inserting this into the nostrils – a particularly sensitive part of one’s body – tended to lift the head with little resistance, at the same time encouraging cooperation, if that was needed.  In this instance the hook was attached to a piece of string which was looped over a beam above, then tied off to the balcony rail.  All in all she looked particularly uncomfortable.

Portia ignored us as we stopped by the helpless Monica.

“Take a good look,” said Megan.  “Consider your friend before you try anything silly, and think whether you’d like to join her in a more painful variation.”  I looked down at Monica, her mouth stretched around the rubber ball and her face turned upwards, held there by the hooks.  I could see the remains of tear streaks on her face, but I didn’t know if this was from the nasal distension or something else.

I followed Megan down the steps to the back lawn, where she made me turn while she released the handcuffs, reminding me again, with a press of the remote, of the power she had to inflict pain to my rectum.

“A good Mistress will not harm her slave unnecessarily, but it is necessary that you understand your position.  I consider now that I have made my point, and if you behave yourself no further instruction should be necessary.  Do you agree?”

“Yes Mistress,” I said quickly.

“Good.  We will shortly be going into town to buy some things, amongst which will be some electrical cable and some stainless steel wire.  The first thing you must do is take measurements of where this is to go.” 

For the next thirty minutes we paced around the grounds, measuring the perimeter of the house, the length of the driveway and the bounds of the assault course.  Megan explained that the electrical cable would produce a field that would activate a collar worn by a person should they try to approach the wire. 

“It’s normally used on dogs, to keep them within an area, but I have found them to be very effective on humans, in a modified form.”  I did not like the sound of this.  “You will install the wire in the ground and hook it up – the instructions are very simple.  I gather you can turn your hand to almost anything?”

I was about to suggest that such was not the case, really, but immediate memories of the terrible cramping pain in my arse prompted a submissive affirmation.  The stainless wire which Megan wanted, I had found out, was to stretch between the house and the gate, to enable a person secured to it to fetch mail or a paper or to do gardening without concern that they would wander off.  What scared me about all of this was the evident planning that was going into it, and the long term implications behind it all.

We took Monica’s BMW, with me driving and Megan riding remote in the passenger seat.  The plug up my bum was uncomfortable sitting down, as was the thin box in the small of my back, but not half as uncomfortable as I would be if Megan decided to get a twitchy finger again.  She used the time to pump me for information.  Conscious that our relationship had now changed to a rigidly-defined formal Mistress-slave situation, I was careful and respectful in my replies.  Whatever else I might think of the whole S/M culture, I was not suicidal and knew who held all the cards.  I went along with most of what Monica did on the understanding that I was basically a dumb builder, and as long as their little games did not require me to act a role for longer than a short time, I was happy.  I did not consider myself either Dom or sub inclined, but I had seen enough of the way the system worked to know what to do and to behave according to the cultural norms.  I was not proud when it came to being zapped in the bum.

“How long have you been at Bilboes?” Megan asked.

“A bit over a year, Mistress.”

“You obviously enjoy the work.  Lots of variety, I imagine.”

“Yes, Mistress.”

“You strike me as an interesting person, Steven.”  Megan leaned back in the leather seat and ran her fingers through her hair, luxuriating in the comfort of the Beemer.  She turned towards me.  “You’re pragmatic, intelligent, good with your hands, and you don’t seem too wound up by life.  I hear you played quite a major part in the Hong Kong affair, or so Portia says, from conversations with her friend Serina.  You’re obviously resourceful.  The girls speak highly of you.”  Which girls, and under what duress, I thought, but said nothing.  “I could use someone like you at The Citadel, if ever you get tired of Bilboes – I mean Le Chateau.  Mind you, that will be Portia’s decision, but bear it in mind.  I’m sure you’re good at all sorts of things.”  She laid her hand on my thigh and I caught a flash of white teeth out of the corner of my eye.  “From what I’ve experienced so far – I think that might well be the case, if the Bilboes Psychiatric Ward is anything to go by.”  I smiled – I couldn’t help myself.

“You may smile, Steven, but you don’t realise how hard it is for a Domme to submit to that sort of thing.  We’re used to doing things to people, not having them done to us.  That’s why it will be very difficult for some of your girls – Monica in particular – in the coming months.  She loves to be in control, having things done her way.  She’ll hate what’s ahead of her.”

I didn’t go down the road of asking why Megan was doing this.  Something told me it was not the time, but might be worth an exploration in future.  I suspected Megan had her own agenda, and if she had half a brain she would trust Portia as far as she could throw her.

I parked outside the ships chandlery and went inside, with Megan on my heels.  There was a look of awe on her face at the vast range of gadgets and shiny things that hung from walls or racks over head or were stacked up on shelves.  I showed Megan the winches and stainless steel cable, and all the little crimps and grommets that went with it.  We emerged with a drum of very expensive cable and various attachments to go with it.

“Just how do you cut this stuff?” Megan asked as I put it into the boot of the car.

“I normally use a grinder, Mistress.  The wire is very tough and is made up of a lot of smaller strands.  Hacksaws are difficult and normally make it fray.  Bolt cutters can’t usually get all the way through the individual strands.”

“So that’s why it would be really hard to get remove when close to the skin.  You really are a mine of practical information, Steven. How are your nipples, by the way?”

“Still a bit sore, Mistress.”

“They’ll be like that for a couple of days, then you’ll see the real implications of having them pierced,” she said enigmatically.  “I think they suit you.”

*   *   *

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