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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"What – the after dinner type?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Surely you deal with those all the time?"

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

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

"I can’t put my finger on it but…"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Steven!"

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

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

"Big tray," I said non-committally.

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

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

"Well, get on with it then!"

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

"Play time!" she announced.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Did you have something in mind?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Oh goody. Can we start now?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"And what position would that be, sir?"

"Cross-legged and wrists in front."

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

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

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

"Nice."

"Comfy?"

"Sure." 

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

Predictably Mary arrived late. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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