"It’s… Stephanie…" I said awkwardly.

Trish’s smile brightened. I sensed it was from genuine pleasure at my decision and my continued presence in the house, rather than any anticipation at the fate which lay ahead of me.

"Excellent. Well, over the next couple of hours I am going to explain to you your duties here and the rules you must obey. You will be treated like any slave serving in Bilboes. You will be punished if you disobey or fail to carry out orders properly, and will receive no special treatment from anybody. Between you and me – and this is to go no further – we’re very pleased at your decision and the chance we have to win this bet with Monica. But you’ll have to do the hard yards. 

"This morning you’ll be shown how to behave. A different girl will be responsible for you each day. She will decide what you wear and what tasks you will perform, and she will be responsible for your behaviour. Any disobedience will reflect badly on her and she may also share your punishment, which I’m sure you would not wish. You will address us as ‘Mistress’ and will not speak unless spoken to or unless it is required as part of your task. Before you go upstairs you will be washed thoroughly. Your corset will come off once a week, but other times you must wash with it on. Since it will be secured at the back, you will have no option in the matter, and one of the girls will be required to help you remove and replace it for your weekly full shower. Is that clear?" I nodded. "Is that clear?" she repeated, a sudden sharp edge to her voice.

"Yes Mistress," I said.

"And for the next couple of hours you will disregard the instruction only to speak when spoken to. You will speak as much as possible and will tell me everything you have experienced – as your alter ego – so as to train that terrible voice of yours into something more acceptable. You will also be taught to walk and deport yourself properly in high heels – something you have not been too successful at so far. Is all this clear?"

"Yes Mistress," I said, trying to control my wavering voice. I was still struggling to believe I was doing this, and my friendship with Trish didn’t make it any easier.

"Your butt plug will be removed each evening, and you will reinsert it each morning, prior to commencing work. You will perform your ablutions based around this cycle. If you misbehave you may find yourself wearing it for somewhat longer periods. At all times the electrodes will remain connected to your nipples and your plug when it is in place. I suppose you’ve noticed that the plug can be disconnected from the battery, as can the nipple electrodes." (I hadn’t, and the plug still hung below my crotch.) If there is any time they should be connected and are not, you may expect the severest of punishments. Your battery will be changed each morning. Are you with me so far?"

"Yes Mistress."

"Very good. You will wear the clothes assigned to you by whoever is in charge of you each day. If you are well behaved you may get to make your own selection, but don’t expect to be wearing trousers for another month. Your duties will include cleaning, cooking and laundry, work in the garden and also some ‘special tasks’. " Trish said this with a peculiar smile that hinted at something vaguely unpleasant. "All right – it’s time for your shower – you stink. Has anyone told you that?"

"No Mistress." 

"Well you do. And you look as though you’ve slept in those clothes for the last couple of days. Don’t you understand this place has a reputation to uphold and appearances to maintain?"

"Yes Mistress."

"Then hold out your hands." I obeyed and had moments later found myself restrained by the cold steel of handcuffs on my wrists. "Now stand up. Oh, I see we haven’t discovered the connections between the plug and the power pack." Trish sighed and knelt between my legs. Moments later she stood up again with the plug in her hands. "I do hope you display a little more resource, Stephanie. I hate dumb slave girls, really. They take up so much time and energy…"

And we headed off to the sauna room.

In the sauna room my handcuffs were temporarily removed and I was made to take off all my clothes. It was the first time I had really been able to examine my rubber corset and breasts. They were all done in a very tasteful flesh colour which on first glance almost looked real. The breasts were slightly pendulous – firm but with a wobble around the permanently hard rosebud nipples - and I inwardly thanked whoever had chosen them from the catalogue, or wherever they had come from. The edges were well and truly glued down, providing an almost seamless transition to my own flesh. Protruding from the underside were the two wires obviously linked to the Tens patches that were fitted over my nipples before the prostheses were glued in place. I tentatively picked at the join between rubber and skin, only to have my hand slapped down by Trish, although not before I had reached the inevitable conclusion that I was stuck with these tits for the foreseeable future, it seemed. Trish glared at me.

"Don’t even think about it," she warned. "Now face the wall and put your hands behind your head."

I did as I was told and both felt and heard the snick of wire cutters as something was released behind me. Trish waved a small section of steel crimp in front of me.

"That’s what keeps your waistline in," she told me. "The corset can’t be removed until the crimped stainless steel wire is cut. A nice idea. One of yours, I believe." I said nothing, but felt the pressure start to ease as Trish unthreaded the wire from what I presumed were eyelets down the back, until at last I was able to breathe normally again as the garment dropped at my feet. Mr Willy hung down sadly, impaled into a piece of clear plastic tubing, also secured with superglue, I guessed, from the immovable feel of it. It was clearly going to be a long and frustrating month.

Trish took away my clothes, leaving me handcuffed to a bolt in the wall for an hour or so while the heating was turned up. I sweated freely as the accumulated dirt and grime of the last few days worked its way out of my pores. My skin felt strangely sensitive, which I attributed to the new absence of hair, the same sensation of absolute nakedness a guy feels after shaving off a moustache and experiencing the weird unfamiliarity of a bald upper lip. Only this time it was all over… 

She returned at one point and gave me a light whipping with a flogger. It certainly got my skin tingling and my protestations only drew more punishment until I got my intonation sufficiently high to obviously sound half believable. I began to have more doubts as to whether I could do this. 

Then it was a hose down with cold water, which was only marginally less unpleasant than the flogging, and again I yelped and protested. Finally Trish took me back to the outer room where I towelled myself down. On coat hangers on a hook were some fresh clothes.

"Time to get your shape back," Trish ordered, holding up the flesh-coloured corset. Reluctantly I held it in place while Trish attached the electrical wires, secured the back of it under my shoulder blades, then threaded a new stainless wire through the eyelets. In the short time I had luxuriated in the sauna, I had forgotten how tight the thing had been, and I could not help myself protesting as she put her knee in the small of my back and tightened each crossover in turn.

"Unless you want to wear a ball in your mouth for the next twenty four hours, I would suggest you learn to accept certain things and behave like a proper slave girl," Trish said grimly, pulling harder. "The only reason you have not been punished for the display you have put on so far is that it is still your training period. After lunch you’re on your own, and will have to take the consequences of your actions." Before long Mr Willy was back in harness and the butt plug was securely up my arse and connected to a new battery. I should not have been surprised at the sudden pain in my nipples and bum.

"Ow-ow-shit!" I exclaimed. "What was that for – Mistress?" I added hastily.

"Just testing everything is in working order," Trish said dismissively. "And a little reminder of what punishment awaits you if you misbehave. Now, get dressed." 

I picked up the clothes. There was a pale grey long-sleeved blouse which – I had to admit – fitted snugly to my curves. It was double-breasted with two rows of small silver buttons and a scooped neckline. The navy skirt was also a close fit, with the hem halfway down my thigh. Trish obviously noticed my surprised at how well the clothes fitted.

"They’re made to measure," she said off-handedly. "You’re a passable size 12 with your waist in that corset. You should be flattered." I put on a pair of black stockings, again with stay-up tops. Remaining on the floor was a pair of shoes that I looked at with some trepidation. They were black with a closed in toe and heel and an ankle strap, but the heel that was perhaps eight centimetres high. It was not a stiletto, but looked dangerous enough for the wearer. Monica did not like stilettos being worn unnecessarily upstairs, because of the damage they could do to the polished timber floor. I picked up one shoe and examined it. The area of the heel was about the size of a fifty cent piece and with a rubber sole – large enough to give some support, but not so chunky as to be ugly. Gingerly I slid my stockinged feet into them and buckled up the strap. They seemed to fit quite well.

"Size nine, wide fitting," Trish explained. "Not too hard to find. Now stand up and walk." It made me think of Lazarus being raised form the dead. I suppose in a way it was a new incarnation, with the Stephanie model metamorphosing from the Steven of old.

I got to my feet and tottered a few steps, wondering how on earth women managed this – and why. Trish helped me initially than, as I got the feel of the shoes she concentrated on my posture and balance. This was achieved with the help of a long cane with a short thong on the end which flicked my butt – or whichever part happened to be transgressing at the time. 

"Walk tall, for heaven’s sake!" she exhorted. "Just try to look elegant. Don’t swing your arms so much. Think of a model on the catwalk. Try to glide – don’t move your head and straighten your shoulders…" Did women have a gene that did this for them, I wondered? Surely this wasn’t something you learned – it had to be part of their DNA, a sort of bonus in lieu of not being able to program a VCR. Flick! Ow, that stung.

It took me maybe half an hour of this, combined with a few sitdown periods before Trish considered me ready. That was not the way she described me, however. Instead I ‘would have to do’, since she ‘didn’t have all day to waste on a dull witted slave girl.’ Charming.

"All right, against the wall, face first, hands behind your back." What now, I wondered. A length of sashcord came out and my wrists were crossed and bound firmly. Moments later I also sported an elegant red ball gag. "Now walk to the dungeon – without swinging your arms, of course," she added sarcastically.

Monica was already in the dungeon. I was directed over to where the plank was fixed at waist height. Oh no, I thought, not that, please…

"So, how is our new slave girl progressing?" asked Monica, without a hint of mockery, as though it was totally business as usual.

"Oh, she’s a bit slow. She’ll take a bit of training. But that said, we’ve seen worse."

"Hmmn. I hope she can cook," Monica mused absent-mindedly. "All right, let’s get on with this. Bend over the plank, girl."

"Hnnn?" I said, not understanding.

"I told you she was a bit slow," Trish said, forcing my neck over the plank none too gently. I was held there with the plank just above my breasts, as Monica bound me in place with a couple of metres of white cord. Once again I had the feeling of vulnerability that was beginning to become a regular occurrence.

"As part of your period of service in this household you are required to be identified as a slave," Monica said. "We do this by fitting you with a collar. In this case it is very stylish – made especially for you from polished stainless steel. She held the thing low down in front of me, so that I could see it from my head down position over the plank. It was a single piece of stainless steel about two centimetres wide, with slightly rolled top and bottom edges. On the front was a small U-fitting, obviously for locking a chain to, and in this instance sporting a tiny decorative silver padlock. The collar was a single piece of steel, but was highly polished such that it could almost pass as a piece of jewellery. I tried to work out how it could be secured. At each end there seemed to be a slight rebate, where the two ends could overlap but remain the same overall thickness, thus presenting a seamless finish. There were two small holes which I guessed would line up through the two rebated portions, but beyond that there appeared to be no fixing method.

Monica pulled the two ends apart. The metal was stiff and it took some effort on her part to get the ends far enough apart for my neck to fit between them. They sprang back as she released them and I felt the smooth coldness of the steel against my skin. I couldn’t see what they were doing beyond that point, although as Trish pulled my hair clear of the back of my neck I sensed the ends of the collar butting up to each other. Then there were some more metallic sounds, a grunt from Monica and a sharp cracking sound and a jerk on the collar. It sounded vaguely familiar, and then was repeated. I thought about the two holes and fixings that might go through them. Then the thought struck me – the collar had been riveted on! Jesus, what sort of rivets had these two females used, and how the hell would I get the thing off? Had they thought it through? Stainless steel like this wasn’t the sort of thing you cut through with a hacksaw in five minutes, never mind the fact that you had a rather exposed neck underneath it. Nor did you drill out a rivet without a serious danger of drilling out a carotid artery as well. Things were not going well for Stephanie…

After my collaring I was released from the plank and my gag and ropes were removed. My protests about the collar were cut short by a warning from Trish. She locked leather cuffs on my wrists and joined them by a short chain, then did the same for my ankles. I was then taken by Trish to the ground floor bathroom near the main entry. By this time I was starting to realise the implications of what was happening to me, and the apparent permanence of my collar put a new perspective on my position. It brought home to me in an unexpected way that I was now the property of the household and I should do what I was told without argument, if I was to get through the whole ordeal with the minimum inconvenience and maximum dignity. I made no further complaint, deciding to be a model slave and look for some sort of good behaviour remission.

In the bathroom Trish sat me down in front of the vanity unit. I fingered the stainless steel collar. There was perhaps a finger-thickness space between the collar and my neck, and I could not help but appreciate the stiffness and permanence of it. My questing hands confirmed it had indeed been riveted, and when I turned it round I saw the small blank rivets protruding at the rear. Getting it off was going to be quite a challenge.

"Pretty, isn’t it," Trish said, not missing my obvious concern about the removal of it. "It shows you truly are a slave – property of this house." Her words sent a chill down my spine. Was Monica going to be true to her word?

We spent half an hour going through the basics of makeup. It was something I had not even considered as part of my new life, and I did not particularly take to it like a duck to water. I have never liked a lot of makeup on women, nor did I fancy it on myself. Having said that, none of the girls of the establishment wore much makeup – at least to my untrained eye. What they did wear was carefully and expertly applied to enhance their natural features, and this was the way Trish approached Stephanie’s new look. She told me about the depilatory treatment I had received, and showed me what I now had to apply to minimise rash and to cover any signs of unwanted maleness. With practised hands she converted Steven’s hairless face into something that could almost pass for attractive, if I say so myself. It was a strange feeling seeing Stephanie emerge with brushed hair held in place by two clips behind the ears. The sleeper earings were now visible, which Trish replaced with larger gypsy-type earings of silver, which made a striking match with my collar. Trish applied a pale lip gloss which, she told me, would last at least all day, regardless of how many things were stuffed into my mouth in the time.

Finally we emerged from the bathroom. It was nearly midday by the clock in the entry hall and I was starving, not having had any breakfast.

"You will now make lunch," Trish told me, leading the way into the kitchen, while I followed with a tinkle of chains. We went through on to the back verandah where Leila, Emma, Jillian and Mary were lounging in various chairs.

"Girls, this is Stephanie, our new slave girl for the next month." Four pairs of eyes looked at me and I did not know how to react. I blushed and stared at the floor. I didn’t know what to expect – perhaps laughter or ridicule but there was none of that. Indifference was probably the best word for it. I was conscious of their gazes, but they were expressions of detachment, assessing the capability and likely difficulties of a new animal requiring training. Trish introduced them by name, as though I had never seen them before. I avoided eye contact and said nothing, studying my nylon-clad feet which were now beginning to hurt in the high heels.

"Very well. Come Stephie, into the kitchen."

I made a salad for lunch and managed to serve it without incident, feeding myself in the process as the opportunity arose. The presence of the cuffs on my wrists and ankles made movement awkward, and the high heels did nothing to help the situation. I felt both physically and psychologically awkward, although the girls – to their credit – studiously ignored me, the way one might disregard the presence of a waitress in a restaurant.

During the afternoon it was instructions on changing linen, making beds and tidying the various rooms upstairs that had been used during the night – preparing them the way one would do in a high class hotel. Trish was very particular about this and threatened me with dire consequences if I got things wrong. 

Dinner was usually prepared by the girls on a roster system, depending on who was available, and assuming no convenient slave was around to relieve them of the chore. In this regard I suspect my presence would make quite a change for them, as had the Twins when they had been in residence. There was a process in place whereby the main course was written on the notice board the day before and those who wanted to partake put their name underneath it during the course of the day. Some of the girls were particular about what they would or wouldn’t eat, and sometimes they preferred to have a light snack. Unless it was a special occasion, the food was generally plain but wholesome, although Leila was a bit of a whiz. My culinary skills were adequate but not excessive, I have to say. I could fend for myself and could get by with the basics. A bit of a stir-fry with a cook-in sauce was usually passable. My experiences in sharing flats and living alone had often obliged me to learn things I might otherwise not have bothered with. In this particular instance I figured I could manage a spaghetti bolognaise without too much trouble.

Things actually went reasonably well. Mary, Trish and Monica were the only ones present, and on tasting my creation I reckoned it was in this instance rather better than just passable. By the time I was clearing the plates away I had reached the view that I had mastered the high heels and the hobble chain. That was when I started to take a step away from the table and my upper body kept going while my feet stayed behind, the hobble chain caught on something. I hit the floor amidst the breaking of crockery. I looked back in time to see Mary shifting her feet beneath the table. Why did I suddenly have the feeling that my accident was in fact not one? I caught Mary’s eye and also caught the challenge in it – the look that dared me to say something, to swear or to accuse her. There was what might be termed a pregnant pause, broken finally by a sigh from Trish as I slowly got to my feet and began collecting the broken bits of plate.

"Before you say anything, Mon, yes, there will be a punishment. I had hoped for better, I agree. Good slaves are so hard to find. There’s so much training." 

I glared at Mary, who favoured me with a wintry smile, then turned away.

My punishment turned out to be a night in "Little Ease", the confined space beneath the stairs, with only a small blanket to lie on. It was impossible to stretch out in any direction, and this, coupled with the cold concrete left me exhausted the next morning. Trish had cuffed my hands behind my back, which made things doubly difficult, and my discomfort was further exacerbated by the thought that Monica was to be my mistress for the next day.

It was in fact Leila who woke me early the next morning. I guess I must have dozed off at various points during the night, but my body was stiff and sore. Leila led me to the sauna room and after unlocking my cuffs gave me the key to my crotch lock. She left me alone to perform my ablutions. I took off the skirt, blouse and stockings I had worn since the previous morning and showered as best I could wearing the corset. The water inevitably found its way between the heavy rubber and my skin and was to stay there in tiny pockets for most of the day, occasionally working its way out at unexpected moments. Leila had told me she would leave my next change of clothes ready for me when I had finished.

I luxuriated under the hot water, easing my aches and pains and enjoying not having any form of restraint on my wrists and ankles, knowing such freedom was likely to be brief, if Monica was to be true to form. As I emerged from the shower and towelled myself down, I saw the clothes Monica had selected for me, hanging from a hook on the wall. Latex rubber. I should have guessed. Why did I suddenly suspect that this was to be the day when Monica settled old scores for the two days she had been confined in her rubber catsuit? At this moment I rather wished I had not made several recent decisions that had led me to this point in my life…

Reluctantly I lubricated the butt plug which hung from the crotch strap and worked it inside me before making sure the wires were connected between the battery and the plug and nipple pads. I was tempted to bypass this process, but the thought of what would happen if Monica pushed the remote button and I did not react accordingly – and the punishment that would surely follow – scared the hell out of me. I was slowly becoming used to the butt plug, but the strange sensation of fullness when it was first in place still left me with mixed feelings. I worked Mr Willy into place and closed the crotch lock, reflecting on the irreversible finality the sound of the closing lock always had. 

Then I turned my attention to my outfit for that day. It seemed I was again wearing black stockings, and having put these on I looked over a thin black rubber hobble skirt. After I struggled into it, I found it came down almost to mid-calf. It was shaped to my contours and was equally tight over its full length. Significantly it made movement of my knees and thighs difficult, and any sort of stride longer than a short step was virtually impossible. I was now experiencing at first hand what the Twins had gone through, and I thought the need for ankle cuffs and a short hobble chain – also awaiting me – was somewhat excessive, given the tightness of the skirt around my knees. Nevertheless I squatted down and put on the same high heels I had worn yesterday, then locked the black leather cuffs about my ankles, feeling the tight restricting grip of the rubber about my backside and thighs as I did so. 

Then came the top. This was white, again in rubber, long-sleeved with a high collar. Again, it was a real struggle getting into this, even with the assistance of the talcum powder Leila had left. The rubber caught at odd places and I had to tug and twist it until it was finally tolerable. I was sure I looked like some sort of penguin, as I worked the neck of the rubber top underneath my stainless steel collar.

I was eyeing myself critically in the mirror when Leila poked her head round the door. 

"Aren’t you finished yet?" Her tone was detached and critical – quite unlike the warm funny girl I knew in a past life. "And what about those," she said, pointing to the leather wrist cuffs I had overlooked in my struggle with the rubber. She breathed an exasperated sigh and locked the cuffs securely around my wrists, linking them with a short chain. "Come on, upstairs, there’s work to do before Monica takes charge of you."

Leila took me again into the upstairs bathroom and sat me in front of the mirror, where again I got the makeup treatment to cover any male blemishes that might have appeared. She handed me a bowl of cereal.

"Eat your breakfast then go and prepare everything for the girls – you know what to do. I’ll be back in fifteen minutes and I want to see the buffet ready, and don’t forget to fetch the newspaper. When you’ve done all that you can sweep the verandah." With those instructions she turned and left without a backward glance. 

I wolfed down the cereal, realising how hungry I was, then set about preparing the table for breakfast. This was usually a help-yourself affair, with a choice of cereals, toast, yoghurt juices and so on. I completed this, then headed down the drive to fetch the paper. It was at this stage that I realised how awkward the hobble skirt made me feel, and how difficult it was to walk. The hobble chain between my ankle cuffs was almost superfluous, given the binding nature of the rubber from my calf to my waist. The top, too, constricted me, over and above the effect the corset had underneath. The tightness of the top flattened my breasts somewhat, but made the little false silicone nipples stand out like there was an icy wind blowing. I had found that walking with the hobble on under normal conditions meant that one had to be positive in taking a step, so that the chain would swing forward and not get caught. Using this technique with the rubber skirt was made so much harder since the skirt resisted each step. Every step was thus that much harder and more tiring.

The day was bright and clear with the promise of a hot day ahead. Spring was not far away and the air was beginning to warm even in the stillness of the early morning. I retrieved the paper and made my way back up the winding driveway to the house. Nobody was about so I found a broom and worked my way around the outside of the house sweeping the verandah clear of gum leaves and other detritus from the surrounding trees. By the time I reached the kitchen again Monica and Leila were having breakfast and I was sweating in my rubber outfit. Monica caught my eye and beckoned me over. I stood before her uncomfortably as she looked me up and down thoughtfully.

"Hmmn," she mused. "Yes, it works well," she told Leila, as if I wasn’t there. "Nice outfit, well chosen if I do say so myself." Then the focus returned to me. "Today you have a special job, Stephanie. Somebody has been very careless in leaving some wires around the place. It will be your job to remove these." I must have looked blank. Monica stood up, reached into a paper bag on the adjacent chair and emerged with two ball gags. My expression must have given me away. "Now I want no complaints, Stephie. Any carry on and you’ll be still wearing one of these at bedtime, and you’ll be really hungry into the bargain. Now, which one would you like – the hard one or the soft one?" Not used to such a choice I wondered what Monica was up to. Was she really giving me a choice or would she use the one I didn’t pick? I didn’t know how long I would have to put up with the thing, and while the soft one was okay for short periods and allowed more freedom in opening and closing the mouth, the constant pressure to keep one’s mouth open wider than was comfortable could make one’s jaw really tired. 

I motioned to the soft one. "That one please, Mistress," I said.

"It’s a shame we can’t always have what we want," Monica sighed with a smile, picking up the hard white ball on the strap. Reluctantly I opened my mouth and let Monica work the ball behind my teeth, congratulating myself on out-guessing Monica’s psychology if only just this once. The hard ball, once in, at least did not keep trying to expand. Monica buckled the strap behind my neck under my hair and I heard the click of a small padlock closing.

Then her hand was in the paper bag again, this time bringing out a small hacksaw barely bigger than my hand. Not understanding what was going on, I watched as she padlocked the handle to my stainless steel collar by a six-inch chain.

"Urrr?" I said.

"That’s easy for you to say," Monica commented smugly. "You, my dear, are about to atone for deeds in a past life," she said, and with this cryptic remark she led me by my cuffed wrist down the back steps and through the gate into the pool enclosure. That was about when I saw the plan. Sitting in the pool still was the yellow rubber duck that I had placed there what seemed like ages ago when I put Monica through her two-day torment. Now, it seemed, the chickens – or rather the duck – had come home to roost.

"Yes, you’ve got it in one, Stephie," said Monica, her voice oozing sweetness. "I want that wire removed. You will have to cut it off with the hacksaw, and of course you will have to remove the hacksaw from your collar, to which it is inconveniently padlocked. And guess where the key is?" I rolled my eyes and groaned, and was rewarded with a sharp zap to my nipples and arse, as Monica’s finger surreptitiously pressed the button on the remote she had concealed in her hand. "Less of your theatrics, Missy," she commanded. "Now get to work. And when you’ve done that one, you can get the one under the verandah, and there’s a nasty stake in the ground up by the back gate that needs to come out," she said with a steely glint in her eye.

Reluctantly I slipped off my shoes and walked carefully over to the edge of the pool. Going up and down steps in the hobble skirt was not easy, and I went down the steps cautiously holding on to the handrail. The water, predictably for winter, was freezing – well, maybe 15 degrees C, which is freezing for Brisbane. At least I was now glad of my rubber clothing, for though it was thin at least it kept the water actually off my skin. The tightness of the skirt meant it acted like a diving bell, trapping a pocket of air between my legs, which I hoped would remain there as long as I remained upright. I glanced up at Monica, who stood like an Empress surveying her lowly subject, arms crossed imperiously at the edge of the pool. 

Slowly I made my way down the length of the pool, my breath coming raggedly through my nose at the coldness of the water. I found myself making small ‘mmmning’ noises to myself as a kind of release from the discomfort. I was almost at the wire, and the water was just reaching my neck when the buoyancy of the air trapped in my skirt became too much, and my feet left the bottom of the pool. At once my head went under while my feet rose up with a rush of air like a giant fart. I guess it would have been funny had I not had a rubber ball jammed in my mouth, which meant a major difficulty in gasping for air. In desperation I grabbed for the wire stretched across the pool just ahead of me and grasped it with my hands, pulling my head above water. It was a scary moment and I surfaced just in time to see the look of alarm on Monica’s face. 

Snorting and trying to breathe at the same time, I fought down my urge to panic and hung on to the wire, letting my feet drift down to the bottom of the pool so I could once again stand properly. I struggled to get my breathing under control and eventually summoned up the courage to glare at Monica with as much ire as I could, given my predicament. Eventually I focussed sufficiently to grab the key and unlock the hacksaw from my steel collar, before turning and slowly retracing my way back to the pool steps.

I was now thoroughly wet in all the places the rubber was not touching my skin. My movement created little voids and seemed to suck water into nooks and crannies which made me cold and uncomfortable. My hair hung all over the place and I pushed it out of my eyes as I emerged from the pool like some sort of Lady of the Lake - but without the glamour. Having seen that I was not going to drown, Monica was heading back to the verandah. She stopped momentarily and cast a glance in my direction.

"Hy aggh?" I asked hopefully, pointing to the rubber ball wedging my jaw apart. Monica smiled and shook her head, as though there really was nothing she could do. Then she gestured to the wire and made a sawing motion. Reluctantly I sat down in the sun, my back against the fence, and began sawing…

It took about ten minutes to get through the wire with the little hacksaw. I turned my attention to the other end of the wire around the fence post on the opposite side, noting as I sat there sawing that most of the girls had now also turned up for breakfast, and more than a few looks came my way, along with a few smiles at my plight. I wondered if they were remembering their own experience in the pool, which I had watched from the cover of the undergrowth, unbeknown to them. I recalled Emma’s naked entry into the pool, only to find that the key under the rubber duck was for the wrists cuffs, and was fixed there, thus requiring them all to take an involuntary swim. Yes, what went around definitely had come around again.

I finally cut through the wire, having at least got myself warm in the process. I stood up and coiled up the wire, dragging in the rubber duck and the attached key. Bearing this I left the enclosure and approached the girls on the verandah. Before I had even reached the bottom step, Monica said:

"No, don’t come up here. Put it down and get the key out from under the deck now," in the same tone one would use for a small child bringing a flower to show her mother when she should have been doing something else. There were more stifled smiles amongst the girls. 

I turned disconsolately and retrieved my shoes from the pool enclosure. I wondered whether there was any point to me wearing high heels for my grovel under the decking, but decided it had to be better than stockinged feet. Making my way up the gentle slope to the steps leading up to the balcony outside the girls quarters and my old room on the near end, I saw that the board across the space under the steps was still only screwed at one end. The screwdriver lay in the grass where Trish must have left it when she and Monica were gaining access on that night nearly three weeks ago. Some people were just so untidy. I noticed the tool was starting to rust, so I picked it up and left it on the step. I would have to put it back in my shed when I got the chance.

I swung the plank through a half circle and crouched down. That was the moment when I discovered first hand what the Twins had previously found out when they were cleaning floors and skirtings – if walking is difficult in a hobble skirt, crawling is almost impossible. The rubber gripped me around the knees and made movement difficult in the extreme. I ended up worming my way under the steps using my forearms and elbows, with a little help from my toes as my legs dragged out behind me. 

There was at least enough light under the deck, with the morning sun streaming through the slats on the outer wall, and between the deck planks. Obviously it was a bit less intense than when Monica and Trish had had to wriggle through the mud in the rain and darkness. Maybe I was getting off lightly, I thought.

The exertion of sliding along on my stomach through the tight space under each bearer left me breathing raggedly around the gag by the time I got to the post where the key still hung, secured by the thin stainless steel wire. I was resting here, letting my heart rate subside when I heard the sound of heels click up the steps, walk along the deck and disappear through a door. A minute later the door opened again and the shoes re-emerged on to the deck. From where I was and where the sound came from, I guessed the owner of the shoes to be Mary. The shoes paused and then came closer, until they were overhead.

"I don’t hear any sawing going on," said Mary’s impatient voice. "We’re having a little rest, are we?" This rhetorical question was followed by a burst of pain in my nipples and rectum. I gasped and spluttered into my gag, trying to contract into a foetal position, but there was no chance in such a confined space. Another, longer zap followed, which left me clutching my breasts as though it could stop the piercing pain in my nipples.

"NNNMPH!" I moaned, my body trembling and twitching, my breath rasping hoarsely through my nose.

"Well get on with it!" came the imperious voice as the footsteps strode away. In desperation I gripped the little hacksaw and set to work on the wire. What with the crawl up to the wire, the electric shocks and the cutting, I had a good sweat up by the time the wire parted. I slipped it through my wrist cuff then squirmed around on my tummy to worm my way back to the steps.

I was almost there when I realised a second surprise awaited me. Somebody had screwed the board back in place over the opening. The steps had open risers so I could see the screwdriver was not where I had left it. I thrust my cuffed hands under the board, feeling about on the grass to see if it was there, but in vain. I was trapped in a wooden prison. Desperately I looked about. On one side was the blockwork of the building itself, while the far end and the outer face were closely boarded slats, leaving only the steps and the boarded up access space. I squirmed about, trying to get some weight against the board, but there wasn’t the space and I was too constricted in my rubber outfit.

"Hhmmmn!" I called futilely. "Hhhmnp!" I looked out the gap above the offending board and could see the faces involved in animated conversation on the back verandah beyond the pool. I waved my hands through the gap, but if anyone saw me they said nothing. I did this for a few minutes before finally deciding there was nothing to do but wait until one of the girls came my way and grab her by the ankle.

Time passed while I sweated under the boards. I was dirty and muddy after the pool episode and then the good grovel through the dust. Maybe Monica wanted me to reflect on my transgressions – assuming she knew about the board being screwed up. Well, Monica, consider me very reflective. What if she didn’t know? I reckoned Mary had probably screwed up the board out of spite. When would Monica start looking for me?

My question was answered when I saw Monica’s slim legs striding across the lawn towards me. Her tone was exasperated.

"What is the matter with you? Must I watch you every moment? Why are slaves always so incompetent? How did you get locked in here? " 

I gurgled a reply to each of the questions, each reply in fact sounding pretty similar to the previous one. I shut up abruptly at the sharp tingle in my poor nips and up my arse. Monica, squatting down, unscrewed the end of the plank and let me drag myself out. She stood up, hands on hips looking irritated. 

"Get up," she said. "You’re a waste of space. "Now go up to the back gate and dig out the stake that some fool put into the ground there, before someone drives over it." She thrust a small trowel at me that had been lying in a nearby flowerbed. "Go on – what are you waiting for!" Her had held the remote buzzer and I needed no second bidding, scrambling to my feet and tottering up the grassy rise in my high heels.

"And no slacking – or else!" she threatened with a parting shot.

I started up the grassy rise and on reaching the top saw that the area around the back gate – the scene of my first coupling with Christina, and of Mary’s tussle with the gate itself – had dried out considerably since my last view of it. That had been from a nearby copse, watching Trish and Leila and Monica thrashing about in the muddy soup that it then was. The weather since then had generally been pretty dry, as Brisbane winters tended to be, and coupled with the strong westerly winds that arose in July and August, the conditions had led much of the surface water to evaporate. What was left now appeared to be a stiff brown gel, which I approached with some trepidation. In the middle of it all was the wooden stake I had driven into the ground, still with the key on the steel wire through a hole in the timber. Being the anally retentive individual that I was, I had made what I intended to be a pretty good job of it with a sledgehammer. Regrettably I did not consider that I was going to have to remove it under quite the circumstances I now found myself in.

I made my way down the steep stretch of track cut between the grassy banks of the ridge and tentatively tested the consistency of the mud. The surface had dried a little, leaving a crazed pattern, but underneath it was soft and oozy. I took my shoes off and gingerly took steps towards the spike. Hobbled as I was by the skirt and the ankle cuffs, it perhaps wasn't surprising that I was tentative, and even less surprising that I fell over. My stockinged feet got exactly zero grip in the slick mud and I wound up flat on my face. After that it was a simple grovel across to the stake, except that – as I had already found out – you couldn’t crawl in a hobble skirt. So once again I was reduced to trying to worm my way through the mud on my belly. And this wasn’t as easy as it sounded. Unlike my experience under the deck, here I couldn’t even get a proper grip with my hands and elbows, and much of my effort resulted in a fish-like waggling that made very little impact, except to re-liquefy some of the mud into a more porridge-like texture. This then worked its way between my legs and up my thighs inside my skirt. Everything was now squelching and sliding against each other. My breasts were buried and the mud was sticking to my rubber top like shit to the proverbial blanket, not to mention starting to get in my hair. I was at length reduced to using the small trowel like a canoe paddle, digging it in and pulling myself the five metres or so to the stake.

Using the stake I managed to pull myself into a kneeling position and from this angle I set to work on removing the piece of wood. I had banged it in probably half a metre, and it took some digging to loosen sufficiently to get out. I was obliged to stand up to get sufficient purchase to pull it clear of the mud, and it took three goes to do this, each occasion ending with me flat on my back making frustrated ‘mmning’ sounds around the rubber ball in my mouth. In the last instance I went down at the same time as the stake came free with a rude sucking sound. 

The grovel back to firm ground was slightly easier using the trowel in one hand and the stake in the other. I finally stood up breathing hard through my nose. I pushed a muddy lock of hair out of my eye with a muddy hand and looked down at myself. Here and there bits of my white top showed through the mud, but basically I was now an all-over brown colour, looking like a refugee from a mud-wrestling championship. Monica was certainly getting her own back.

They had all finished breakfast when I returned to the house, and the verandah was deserted save for Trish tidying up some things. She took one look at me and struggled to restrain her composure.

"Don’t you come anywhere near here in that state," she warned. "You’re disgusting. Go and finish what Monica told you to do, then you can think about washing." 

I dropped the stake and the key at the foot of the steps and trudged around to the front of the house. I knew I now had to go up the track over the road and recover the key that was wired to the tree trunk. I would have been hesitant enough had I been clean, but in the state I was at present the thought of venturing beyond the gate filled me with dread. As I rounded the corner at the top of the drive I saw Mary’s figure near the gate, where she was obviously getting the morning mail. I don’t know what made me do as I did, other than the realisation of what a mess I must have looked. Anyway, I decided it was time to get my own back on Mary, if just for a moment. I knew it would cost me, but I couldn’t help myself, as I hid behind the trunk of a large ghost gum. It was childish, I know, but the look of pure fright on her face as this mud-covered ogre-like creature jumped out in front of her, doing a sort of feeble nasal grunting was worth the effort. It was unfortunate that I couldn’t jump very well with my hobbled feet, but the effect was achieved. 

"You smart bitch!" Mary glared at me. "How dare you! Clearly you haven’t understood your place on the evolutionary ladder yet. I’ll make sure Monica sorts you out. You’re lucky she’s in charge of you today. But maybe I’ll ask for you tomorrow…" She became thoughtful. "Yes, I think I can make time for you in my busy schedule." She smiled, but there was no warmth in it. "Now go about your business you little slut!"

I scampered down the driveway, sniggering inwardly. The look on Mary’s face really had been worth it.

The gate represented an obstacle as much symbolic as real. I spent another ten minutes sawing through the wire attached to the letter box, the key on which had locked the girls’ ankle cuffs. The next stage was a bit scarier, though. Outside was the big wide world with real cars and real people going about their lives, not expecting to see a mud-covered girl in a hobble skirt sporting wrist and ankle cuffs and a ball gag trying to cross the road. What would I say if someone stopped? What could I say, for that matter – not a lot, really. Not at first, anyway. How quickly could I cross the road? Why did the prisoner cross the road, I thought irrelevantly, but I couldn’t think of a snappy answer.

I pressed the release when I could hear no cars and slipped through the gate. Bilboes is located in a quiet part of the world, with no other houses visible. Traffic is not too heavy and at this hour, mid-morning I did not anticipate a problem. Feeling like a very vulnerable part of the local wildlife I scuttled across the tarmac with the odd clink of chain before diving into the undergrowth. Running was totally weird in these shoes. It was no wonder women ran funny, I thought, with hands flaying out at the side. How could they run in heels? The natural heel-to-toe action was impossible – you ended up running on tiptoes.

It took twenty minutes or so to reach the tree. The wire and key were still there. I rested for a bit before starting sawing through the stainless steel. I hoped fervently that no little old lady would be walking her dog in these parts. I could handle what was done to me behind the walls of Bilboes, but the thought of having to explain my predicament to some member of the general public did not appeal to me at all. I recalled the (probably apocryphal) story of a female flight attendant who flew from London to Paris after leaving her boyfriend tied up in her flat. When circumstances delayed her in Paris she was obliged to phone the London police to go and let him out. I doubt the relationship lasted…

I returned the way I came, knowing it brought me back opposite the Bilboes gate. It was then I realised that I had no way of getting back in without somebody opening the gate to me. I hurried across the road and pressed the speaker button, hoping it was someone like Leila or Trish who might have pity on me.

"Hello?" said the voice. Shit, it was Contrary Mary. I bet she had figured this out for herself.

"Plmmnf Mmmph, lmmf mmf mmph!"

"What? I can’t understand. Say again?"

"Mmmnph! Ffmmnf plmfh!" I swore at her.

"Sorry, not today." There was a click and the voice went dead.

"MMMPH!" I howled, then realised how exposed I was, locked outside the great sliding gates. In my skirt and with hobbled ankles I had no chance of climbing them. I could only hope to find some way through the thicket that formed the remainder of the front boundary. I soon found that in the middle of this overgrown jungle, in amongst thorny vines and clinging creepers, there was a wire fence. It was old, only waist high, but with barbed wire at all levels.

A car came past and I dropped into the undergrowth, my heart pounding. This could yet be highly embarrassing. Then I realised I still had the little hacksaw, and again engaged in what was becoming a pretty regular activity. I cut the bottom strand and wormed my way under, only getting hooked twice on the strand above. Once through I kept getting my ankle cuffs tangled and falling on my face. Barbs tore at my exposed legs and at the rubber. Monica wasn’t going to like what I was doing to her outfit. But that was Mary’s fault. I lost count of how many times I fell down before I finally emerged in the driveway, trailing bits of foliage from my hobble chain and wrist links. Exhausted, I staggered around the rear of the house and plopped down at the base of the back steps, catching my breath before hosing myself down under the garden hose, as I decided would be most prudent. That was where Monica found me, and proceeded to give me a right royal bollocking. Look at myself. Look at the state of my outfit. Did I think these clothes were cheap? Had I no pride? I spent half my morning dossing under the deck and the other half making a complete mess of myself. Blah blah blah. Maybe I shouldn’t have rolled my eyes. I mean there wasn’t much I could do to express myself, and while that was one thing I could do, it really wasn’t the right time or place. 

That was why I found myself standing on my tiptoes, arms stretched above me, my cuffs tied to a rope that went over the bough of a handy jacaranda tree. That was how I got a really good hosing down, then a thorough whipping with the same hose. I twisted and turned, yowling into my gag, but Monica was clearly pissed about the rips in my outfit. She didn’t seem to worry about the flesh inside it, though, and I got zapped on the nipples and in the arse in between the beatings, which left me sweating and exhausted. Monica left me hanging out to dry out for half an hour in the sun, watching the members of the household go about their business. 

She finally let me down with a further tongue-lashing and an admonishment to go into my cell and change my clothes. I had had no chance to explain myself, and how I came to be trapped under the deck, nor how I got locked outside and what I had to do as a result. But there was nothing I could do about it. Somehow I did not think that dobbing Mary in would be a good career move in any case.

The change of clothes Monica had left out for me was infinitely more comfortable than the rubber skirt and top. At least with the latter outfit, however, it had kept the mud out of my corset and I didn’t have to endure that oozing about my nether regions until my next proper shower. 

I unlocked my wrist and ankle cuffs with the keys she had given me, and did the same with the hated ball gag. My jaw ached from the strain it had been under and all the exertions I had been through. I didn’t get a key to the crotch lock, though, and Mr Butt Plug remained resolutely in place. This time I was evidently to revert to my lackey role, in a white tailored long-sleeved smock that reached nearly to my knees. There were two white ribbons which I assumed were for my hair. Someone had hung a mirror on one of the eyebolts in the cell and it was with total unfamiliarity that I pulled my hair into two pigtails and tied them there with the ribbons. Under my smock I wore white stockings this time, and white shoes similar to my last pair, but this time probably two centimetres higher and with a narrower heel. They looked somewhat incongruous with the smock, being better suited to a long gown, I thought. But on the whole, I had to admit, not bad. There were replacement cuffs for my ankles and wrists, and I duly locked these on, before reporting to Monica upstairs with the debris from my morning’s efforts.

I was allowed to eat lunch, sitting on the back step, then Monica taped over my mouth with several strips of duct tape, before fastening a harness over my head and locking it in place. It was made of white leather and completely covered my mouth and chin, with straps either side of my nose and over the top of my head, which joined with the neck strap and others up the sides of my head. At least it was better than the ball, and I was not about to complain, even if I could have