It was mid-afternoon when Shawnee arrived. She walked into the laundry and stared at me.

"Who the hell are you?" she demanded, removing a thin windcheater. She was barefoot and naked from the waist up, wearing a kind of mini sarong which came only a little way down her thighs.

"Uf aifffe," I told her, not very distinctly, admittedly, through the tape and harness. Shawnee, bless her heart, was not a uni student for nothing.

"Not in here you’re not," she said, clearly put out. "Ironing is my duty. We have an arrangement. Go and be a slave somewhere else!"

"Uh –uh," I said, holding my ground and keeping the ironing board between this aggressive little firebrand and me. Shawnee had always seemed so unassuming when I had seen her around the house on weekends previously. Mind you I could not remember ever having a meaningful conversation with her. When she wasn’t working she was usually chained up somewhere, and invariably had something stuffed in her mouth that prevented much in the way of dialogue. Now she evidently wanted her position of Number One Slave (Ironing) back.

"Look, I don’t know who you are, but I run this place and this is my job, now tootle along elsewhere." She glared at me and jerked her thumb over her shoulder in the direction of the door. I tried to meet her gaze, but my eyes kept returning to her magnificent breasts, which just seemed to be too big for her petite frame. Not that they were excessively huge mammaries or anything like that – just bigger than someone of her stature had a right to have. I shook my head.

"Do I have to throw you out?" she asked coolly.

Again I shook my head and held up the iron as a weapon.

"Look, sister," she said, completely unfazed, "I know judo, and you waving an iron at me means diddly squat. Now put it down before you end up with an iron print on your bum." She grabbed the ironing board and tried to move it away, but I held on to it with my left hand. Since my wrists were joined by a half-metre chain this tended to restrict my options with the iron, and we were in the process of wrestling over the ironing board when Monica appeared in the doorway behind Shawnee.

"I see," she said, and both of us froze, like kids caught smoking behind the bike sheds. Monica was wearing black leather trousers and a black lycra top, and looked very no-nonsense. "You’re in charge, are you, Shawnee? You’re running the place now, I understand… Nobody told me about this." This was extremely like a schoolmistress I once had, who put the fear of God into me as an eight-year old. Shawnee flushed and looked at her feet, which I suspected she couldn’t see because of her statuesque build. Then Monica appeared to become conciliatory. "Very well, since you really like ironing and don’t do a bad job…" Monica picked up some of the stuff I had done. "Mind you, this is nicely presented too. Very good, Stephie. I’m impressed. So it’s decision time. Stephanie – go and fetch the shaft – the one Trish tested that time. It’s down in the Post Room."

Glad to be away from the confrontation, I hastened away, my heels clicking on the wooden floor. I went down the stairs cautiously, aware both of the higher heels and the hobble chain. I knocked on the door to the Observation Room. It was empty. I looked through the one-way window into the Post Room. It was occupied by Trish and another girl whom I had seen before and knew as Lisa. I had been told Lisa was one of the more extremist clients, and from what I had seen before, and saw now, I could well believe it. Trish wore black thigh boots and a short black skirt and halter-top. Her hair was pulled back in a pony tail and she looked the epitome of efficiency and officiousness, strutting around her victim flicking a riding crop. Her victim, Lisa – she of the long blonde hair and lithe body - was suspended upside down by her left leg. Lisa’s left foot was at about head height, while her right foot had been bound to her right thigh, which drooped sufficiently to expose Lisa’s shaven pussy at a very vulnerable height to anyone who wished to take advantage of it.

Lisa’s hands had been pulled up behind her shoulder blades where they were crossed and bound and the rope then attached to her plaited hair, pulling her head back. A wide red leather strap was buckled over her mouth, and from the middle of it hung a tube with a squeeze bulb on the end of it and I knew her mouth was filled with an inflatable gag. On each nipple a clear plastic tube was positioned, which Trish would occasionally flick with the tip of her crop. I had seen these tubes in action, and knew they acted as vacuum tubes, their ends gripping the nipple in a tight band as the air was drawn out by twisting the ends of them.

As I watched, Trish gave Lisa a shove, and she swung to and fro between the posts, turning slowly on her rope. At the end of each swing, Trish flicked an appropriate part of Lisa’s anatomy – which ever happened to be closest. I watched with fascination as the inner thigh, the right foot, the nipple tube and then Lisa’s buttocks all received the treatment. At each stroke a squeal emitted from the captive.

"Now, what about your pussy," said Trish with the menace of a cat eying a mouse caught in a cage. Lisa, red in the face from her inverted position, widened her eyes fearfully and shook her head. That was when Trish flicked the crop at the end of Lisa’s swing. It caught Lisa right on the pussy lips. 

I winced, and Lisa jerked and howled into her gag, her breathing coming in a series of whining grunts. I figured it was probably an appropriate time to make an entrance and went to the next door, knocking and entering as Trish called out to do so. She did not look too pleased to see me.

"Well?" she demanded as though something lowly and distinctly obnoxious had just entered the room. "What do you want?" 

I pointed to the shaft over in the corner.

"For you?" she queried, possibly hopefully. I shook my head. "Pity," she continued. Sometimes you slaves need a bit of discipline. Like Lisa here. Would you like some more, Lisa dear?" Trish ran her fingers over the girl’s crotch. Lisa shook her head and then closed her eyes as Trish’s fingers did some more exploring. Lisa let out a shuddering moan, and the high pitched grunting turned into a moan that wasn’t all pain, I decided. "Well slave?" she said again, as I stood transfixed at the sight. I pulled myself together and clattered over to where the steel shaft and plate stood in the corner. I picked it up and carried it awkwardly out of the room, closing the door on Lisa’s torment behind me.

Monica was waiting for me when I appeared. She had tied a scarf over Shawnee’s eyes and had used another from the laundry basket to cross and bind the girl’s hands behind her back. She pointed to a spot on the floor and I put the device down with a soft clang. Monica took a large butt plug which was sitting on top of the washing machine. It had not been there before, so she must have obviously fetched it in my absence. She attached it to the top of the vertical shaft with a pin through its base, which she locked in place with a tiny padlock, then she undid the clamp at mid-height on the pole and slid the top half down below crotch height. The butt plug received a generous coat of lubricant before Monica manhandled Shawnee into position, her feet apart. Clearly she didn’t know what was planned for her until that point when she felt the cold slippery smoothness of the plug between her cheeks.

"Argh –no! Please Monica!" Shawnee’s hands began to open and close behind her back and she became very tense.

"Who?" Monica snapped."

"I’m sorry – Mistress. Please don’t –arrh! It hurts!"

"Oh shut up and stop whingeing!"

"Oh! Oh! Arrgh! Ohhhhhh…" 

I knew the feeling as the sphincter closed around the narrow base of the plug.

Monica moved the shaft a little higher and Shawnee went momentarily on to her tiptoes, then brought her feet together, on either side of the shaft. Monica tightened the clamp at that point and undid the scarves. 

"Very well slave. You wanted to do ironing, and so you will. You can finish off this pile here. That should take you a few hours and the process should help your posture as well." Monica positioned the ironing board in front of her, made sure she could reach the water and the clothes and was about to leave.

"Mistress! Please don’t leave me like this!"

Monica stopped and sighed and then carried on, beckoning to me to follow. I trotted along behind her into the kitchen where she told me to wait. She disappeared and came back a minute later with a large squidgy-type ball gag.

"Won’t be a moment," she said and went into the laundry.

"You’re a lippy slave girl," she said brusquely. "You know you never talk back to a mistress!"

"But I – urrgrkk!" 

"That’s better," said Monica, emerging with a satisfied look. I glimpsed Shawnee, her mouth and cheeks distorted by the ball and strap buckled tightly in place, glaring at us as I turned to follow my mistress.

"Before you start dinner, you can go down to the store and polish some shoes and boots," Monica told me, handing me a basket she had taken from the laundry cupboard. In it there were all manner of shoe polishes and brushes. "Now be off!"

I went down the stairs and was in the middle of selecting some high-heeled boots when Trish entered the room.

"And what are you up to?’ she demanded, not unkindly.

"Hmmffing hhmpfs," I explained, making a rubbing motion over the boots.

"Excellent. You can come and do mine first, while I keep an eye on Lisa. I just popped in here for a few more clips," she said, rummaging in a shoebox full of clothes pegs, nipple clips and other implements of discomfort.

I followed her back to the Observation Room, eyeing the thigh-length black boots that Trish sported beneath her short skirt.

"Go in there and wait for me," she instructed. I went inside and through the one-way glass saw Trish turn her attention again to the tall blonde, Lisa, who was now bound in a new variation between the two posts. She was now standing upright, which must at least have been some small relief for her. She still wore the red leather pad and strap across her mouth with the rubber tube and squeeze bag hanging down from it and this time her single plait was dangling free behind her. She was standing in a star position, her ankles held rigidly wide by a spreader bar attached to ankle cuffs, and each cuffed wrist pulled high and nearly vertically. I followed the line of the cord attached to one wrist. It went over a pulley suspended from a ceiling joist, then dropped vertically to a bucket of water hanging just above hand height. This in itself wouldn’t have been too much of an imposition, being heavy enough merely to keep constant pressure on the arm in pulling it upwards. But from the handle of the bucket a string ran downwards to about waist height, then curved upwards to Lisa’s breast where it was tied to a nipple clip. Tied on to the string at about five centimetre spacings were a series of marble-sized lead weights. It was only when Lisa moved that I saw the wicked thinking behind it. 

Lisa need do nothing, as long as she could stand the obvious pain in her nipples. The only way to alleviate the weight hanging on them was to haul on the ropes tied to her wrists, to raise the two buckets of water until they also picked up the weight of the lead balls. If Lisa could pull the rope far enough – about thirty centimetres, all the weight of the balls would be removed from her nipples – but of course would be transferred to her arms. Unless, of course, she bent her knees and lowered her whole body. 

This was just what Trish was dealing with at that moment. She had placed a sawhorse between Lisa’s spread legs. The horse had a metal plate lying on top, which was attached by a wire leading off – I presumed – to a battery which I couldn’t see below the window. There was about a handspan clearance between the plate and Lisa’s crotch, which Trish now approached. She held up two metal clips in front of Lisa’s face. Attached to each was a further wire. Trish said nothing, but I had a fair idea Lisa knew what was in the offing. Her eyes widened over the top of the pad covering her mouth and she shook her head in a futile gesture, the squeeze bag flapping wildly. Trish caught it and gave it a pump. Lisa’s eyes bulged, as did her cheeks even further and she immediately stopped her head shaking. Trish said nothing, but bent and attached the metal clamps to the lips of Lisa’s pussy. The woman closed her eyes and moaned with the pain, then opened them as Trish stepped back. At that moment Lisa was standing with her arms half-bent, taking the weight of the two buckets of water with the muscles of her arms. 

Trish turned and left the room, joining me a moment later. I held up the black tube of polish and looked at her inquiringly.

"In a minute," she said, half impatiently, as though I was a distraction to her task. "Watch this. I’ll give her three minutes before those arms get tired and she lets them up again. Then the pain in her nips will be too much to bear, and she’ll use the weight of her body by lowering herself. Until those clamps touch the metal plate, that is. Then we’ll see how good that gag is." She smiled at me – the smile of someone totally focused on providing a client with whatever that client wishes, and who is about to see a carefully thought through plan go off without a hitch.

I stood silently beside Trish who lounged in the reclining office chair, watching the spot-lit figure in the room beyond the window. I could see Lisa trying to gnaw or bite the rubber balloon filling her mouth, but it was too strong and she could not bring her teeth together. Her jaw must have been aching, I decided, and occasionally she would toss her head in frustration, her brows knotted.

She was struggling now to hold the weight of the two buckets with her arms alone. Her biceps were standing out taut and I could see her arms starting to tremble under the strain. At length she let the weight of the buckets straighten her arms very slowly. I heard her breathing – picked up by the microphone in the room – become more ragged, accompanied by a high pitch whimpering, as the six lead balls gradually came to hang completely from each nipple. By that time Lisa was making sharp intakes of breath and whining with the pain. She was not about to do anything suddenly, it appeared, as she slowly put her weight against the ropes and began to lower her body. As this happened, so the buckets ascended again and also took up the load of the nipple weights. 

I was not sure if Lisa knew what lay in store for her through this movement. I guessed she might have had some idea that the two wired clamps hanging from her pussy lips might have a surprise in store, but clearly the nipple pain was her worst problem at that moment. Until the clamps touched the metal plate and closed the circuit, that was.

Lisa jerked and instinctively straightened up with a muffled cry. A moment later there was another stifled shriek of pain as the nipple weights dropped and tugged violently on her tits. Lisa howled into the rubber balloon filling her mouth, screwing up her eyes in agony. She pulled hard with her arms to take up the load, and I wondered how long she would be able to keep up the cycle.

"Pretty inventive, huh?" Trish said rhetorically with a faint smile. "How would you like to try out something like that?" I shook my head vehemently, alarmed. I was also amazed that someone would voluntarily submit to something like that. "Don’t worry – unless you’re a very bad slave, we won’t inflict that on you. That’s something we dreamed up especially for Lisa. Lisa is a special individual. A bit ditsy, with a few weird ideas, but also with a very high pain threshold. She like to push herself, and she likes our inventiveness, and especially because we’re all females here. She doesn’t trust men. I can’t imagine why… But enough of the floor show – get to work on these boots. You’re not here for decoration. I want to see some effort."

Effort was what I put into my work. I spent perhaps fifteen minutes polishing those gorgeous boots – while Trish was wearing them. She responded to whatever I motioned – putting her feet on the desk one at a time while I polished and rubbed the supple black leather until it shone. Trish, of course, enjoyed what must have been quite a pleasurable massage at the same time, for the leather fitted her legs like a second skin. At length she called a halt to the proceedings, deciding that Lisa has reached her limit. The poor girl was shaking with the strain of keeping her arms bent while at the same time taking up some of the slack with her body weight – just enough to not touch those terrible electrodes clipped to her pussy. Sweat was running down her body in rivulets and her hair was matted and damp with the effort. 

Trish removed the metal plate from the sawhorse and unclipped the pussy clips – a move which elicited a groan from Lisa. The rest of the apparatus stayed in place, and Trish then screwed a stubby chrome vibrator to the top of the sawhorse, positioning it so that the tip of it just intruded into Lisa when she was fully upright. Trish turned and left the room, leaving Lisa to impale herself fully on the silver phallus, her eyes closed and a look of relief on her face. As she did so, of course, the weight of the water in the buckets counteracted her own weight, perhaps making the downward motion less positive. Trish returned moments later with two further buckets full of water, and I realised at that point that the weighted buckets were only half full. Trish climbed on to a small stepladder and topped them up. Lisa groaned as the further strain came on her arms and threatened to pull her off her vibrating friend. Trish tossed the remainder of the water over Lisa, who blinked and seemed to gain a second wind. Her efforts to achieve an orgasm were renewed, hindered only by Trish’s well time slashes with the riding crop whenever the prisoner seemed to be getting close to a climax.

After some minutes Trish left Lisa to her own devices, and returned to the Observation Room. I had been so mesmerised by the action unfolding before me that I had forgotten what I was there for. Trish was not happy and set about my backside with the crop, driving me from the room. I retreated to the storeroom where I selected several pairs of boots and shoes and took them upstairs, to clean them in the kitchen when time allowed during the course of cooking dinner.

I cast a glance through the door into the laundry. Shawnee was still there, impaled on the shaft, her gag still locked in place. Clearly I was persona non grata in her life at that moment and I decided to stay out of her way.

After I had prepared and served dinner and cleared the plates away, Monica removed my harness and permitted me to pull the tape from my mouth. I was allowed to eat a meal of soup and bread and butter and a piece of fruit. Being hungry looked like becoming a semi-permanent state for this slave, and I had a sneaking suspicion that by the end of a month I would be finding the corset not nearly so restrictive. By the time all the kitchen had been tidied up and I had finished cleaning the shoes, it was probably nine o’clock. I was feeling tired and a bit run down, which I put down to a lack of food and my strenuous efforts running about the place in a rubber suit for half the day. 

After I had eaten Monica had locked a red ball gag in my mouth, which I thought at the time had been a bit unnecessary. That was before I found out it was my job to feed the prisoners. Tonight there were two paying customers staying the night downstairs, and being Friday night Shawnee was also a guest of the establishment.

Lisa was first on my round, still captive in the Post Room. She was bound cross-legged and with her arms tied in strappado fashion against one of the posts, her wrists and elbows bound with copious windings of sashcord. A further rope ran around her waist with a crotch rope connected to the ropes about her ankles. Two small weights hung from silver clips on her nipples, but the clips were nowhere as severe as those I had seen her suffer earlier in the day. A rubber bit between her teeth had replaced her previous inflatable gag. 

Jillian was in the Observation Room, and I had mimed permission to enter the cell to feed Lisa. Jill waved me in and continued reading her book.

Lisa looked up as I entered with a large tupperware container of minestrone soup, made with my own fair hands. I had also brought a big squeeze bottle full of sports drink, for I knew she would be very dehydrated if what I had seen of her torment was anything to go by. She looked at me as I approached, her green eyes registering that it was someone other than her jailer come to torment her. I saw that her plait had been secured to her wrists which were stretched up and behind her, thus forcing her head to remain upright and keeping her back strained and slightly arched.

I knelt down in front of her and reached around behind her to undo the strap holding the bit gag in place. She smiled weakly and thanked me.

"You must be the relief supplies," she said. Her voice was a husky soprano with a sense of humour underlying it, I suspected. How could you take this punishment without one, I wondered? I removed the lid from the container and held a ladle of soup to her lips. The liquid was hot, but no so much that it burned her lips. She slurped it greedily. "God, I’m starving," she said. "Not only do I get a good seeing to here – I get to lose a few pounds as well." I didn’t think that she needed to lose any weight, but I wasn’t in a position to say so. The most I could do was to run my hand admiringly – I hoped – down the gentle curve of her waist and over the smooth flatness of her stomach. She smiled in appreciation. "Thank you. This soup is delicious. Did you make it? " I nodded. "Clever girl." Would that she knew I was only a rough builder. "I don’t suppose you could slip these clips off," she whispered abruptly, "they’re really hurting now."

"I don’t suppose she could," came Jillian’s voice, seemingly from all around us. "Unless she wants to end up attached to them herself…"

"Oo – oo -I suppose a finger under these crotch ropes is out of the question then?" Lisa asked hopefully with a girlish charm.

"Certainly – if she wants to keep you company for the rest of the night, in a rather extreme position."

"Okay, just thought I’d ask," Lisa said, as though she been asking for a light for a cigarette.

"Hurry it up Stephanie – more feeding and less gabbing, otherwise little Miss Smartmouth is going to go hungry."

I ladled more soup into her mouth and let her suck on the squeeze bottle until she had had enough. Jill finally got impatient and ordered me to regag the prisoner. 

"And no sloppy stuff, either – make it good and tight." I rolled my eyes in apology to Lisa, buckling the strap under the plait. I said goodbye with a small wave before leaving the room. Lisa’s eyes sparkled briefly in response.

My second call for meals on wheels – ‘meals in chains’ might have been more appropriate - was in the holding cell. It was a woman I had never seen before. Jillian unlocked the door and let me in.

"This is Sigrid," she said dispassionately. "She’s the wife of a diplomat. We want a prisoner freed in return for her release with all her fingers and other bits and pieces." The figure on the iron-framed bed moaned in misery. "Do your stuff and leave her the way you found her," Jillian ordered. "Any funny business and you’ll end up hanging upside down from the ceiling." She pushed me into the cell and closed the door behind me with a solid clang.

The woman lay on the bed, her hands crossed and bound behind her back, her legs secured at the ankles and above the knees. She wore a black harness blindfold with large padded leather coverings over her eyes. Unlike most of our inmates, Sigrid was not gagged, nor was she naked. She wore a dark burgundy satin blouse and a grey skirt currently riding up her thighs. Her shoes were on the floor, leaving her black nylon-clad legs shining under the fluorescent light.

"Wh-who’s there?" she stammered.

"Mm-pphmph," I said.

"What?"

"Mm-phf," I explained.

"What?" Then she seemed to realise. "Have you been gagged?"

"Unm-hmm," I confirmed.

"I-I’m sorry. What are you doing here? Where am I? I’m sorry – you can’t tell me, can you…"

I put down the containers and helped her sit up on the bed. She was quite an attractive woman, I decided, despite the upper half of her face being covered with the blindfold. I guessed she was in her mid-thirties, of average height with a tangle of rust-coloured hair reaching down to her shoulders. Her nose and cheekbones were well defined and her lips bore traces of a dark lipstick that must have matched her blouse. 

I removed the lid of the plastic container and let the smell of the soup trigger her olfactory nerves.

"Food!" she exclaimed. "I’m so hungry! What time is it? Is it night time?"

"Uh-hmn."

"Do you work here?"

"Uh-hmn."

"Are you a slave?"

"Uh-hmn."

And so it went on, in a one-sided twenty-questions kind of conversation. Sigrid had been snatched from her home that afternoon, it appeared. I could only assume she was role-playing as much as the girls would have been, but had I not known the setup I would seriously have questioned whether this woman was not in fact being held against her will in circumstances she could not understand.

"Can you ease these ropes on my wrists?" Sigrid asked at length, after I had fed her the soup and let her drink her fill from the plastic bottle. "They’re so tight… my arms are aching…"

"Uh-uh," I said firmly, standing up and gathering my things as there came a rattle of the key in the lock.

"Please don’t leave me!" Sigrid at once became plaintive. "I don’t know what they’re going to do to me, or how long they’ll keep me here…"

I mumbled something and backed towards the door as Sigrid talked to the vacant air in front of her. Jillian opened the door and let me out, leaving the bound hostage alone in the cell on the iron bed.

My last customer was Shawnee. Clearly she had displeased Monica by her attack on me this afternoon, for she was now tethered immovably in the niche under the stairs, her limbs locked to the wall by the U-bolts which I knew to be secured by nuts on the far side. The U-bolts now had a thin foam sleeve over the metal, and held her at ankles, above the knee, wrists, upper arms, neck and mouth, with this last one being in the form of a padded leather bit-gag. She stood, arms slightly apart from her body, with straps connected to eyebolts, running around her waist and above and below her breasts, also held her rigidly against the blockwork. She now wore a shiny rubber catsuit which I supposed Monica had allowed as a concession against the cold of the blockwork wall. I had a sneaking suspicion the poor girl was going to spend the night in that position. 

She rolled her eyes at me and made gurgling noises, but I couldn’t tell if it was relief at seeing the food bearer or anger at my somehow having caused her to be where she was. Putting down the last of the food and drink on the floor, I went behind the block wall and began to undo the nuts on the uppermost U-bar with a spanner hanging on a piece of string. With the nuts removed I was able to push on the ends of the bar which slid through the holes in the wall to the accompaniment of splutterings from the other side.

"I s’pose I’d better be nice to you, if I want to get fed," Shawnee conceded when I stood in front of her again. I nodded, decisively. "Sorry," she said. "It’s just that I’ve had this arrangement here for a while, and I didn’t want anybody muscling in." I shrugged and pushed a lock of her hair out of the way behind her ear. She smiled begrudgingly. It was clear she still didn’t recognise me as the builder guy who had ogled her a number of times as she was contorted in one position or another over each weekend. That is, when she wasn’t simply chained up in a corner somewhere because the girls were too busy to deal with her properly. I shovelled some food in her mouth and she shut up until I had scraped the bottom of the plastic container. Then I let her suck the bottle dry.

"I bet you wonder why I let them do these things to me, huh?" Her voice was a trifle squeaky and matched her normally bubbly personality – or so I was told. "Squeaky" was in fact the nickname given to her by the girls, which was in all manner of things appropriate. I raised my eyebrows at her question and let my hand drop to her crotch. The smooth rubber of the catsuit was like a second skin and presented no obstacle to feeling what lay beneath. Shawnee caught her breath, mouthing a barely audible "oohh". I let my fingers do the walking. She closed her eyes and began breathing in little gasps.

"Mmm?" I asked.

"Ohh…yes…" she whispered, trying to wriggle within the confines of the steel bolts holding her in place against the wall. "Please…yes…" Then I stopped and shoved the bit gag back in her mouth, sliding the arms of the ‘U’ through the holes on either side of her head. Her eyes snapped open, and she tried to work the bit out by moving her head forward, but the U-bolt around her neck permitted very little movement, and I had no trouble securing the gag back in place with the two nuts behind the wall. Then I stood in front of her again, my hand covering her pussy with a firm pressure which elicited a high-pitched moan of pleasure. Gently I massaged and manipulated her crotch, listening to the rapid panting and the rising timbre of her voice. She squirmed and jerked as much as she was able within steel restraints, but this really was precious little. I don’t know what made me do it, but just for fun, as she was ready to transport herself into the place of heavenly explosions, I removed my hand and grabbed both her nipples through the fabric of the catsuit. I twisted and squeezed. Her eyes opened wide and she uttered a shriek that was only partly muffled by the plug in her mouth. 

At that point I picked up my containers and with a little wave I headed for the stairs. It was a dirty, frustrating trick, but sometimes impulse just took over, and I ignored the high-pitched squeals and pleadings coming from the niche as I returned to the kitchen.

There was nobody about as I cleaned up the containers and put them away. I went downstairs again to where Jillian occupied the control room. I made the motion of a pillow with my hands.

"You want to go to sleep?" I nodded. I was starting to feel really crappy, wondering if I was coming down with something. She sighed. "Oh very well. I suppose the clients can survive a few minutes without me." I caught a brief glimpse through the window of Lisa , her feet and wrists held wide by spreader bars, hanging in a face-down horizontal position like a hammock, with weights swaying gently from her nipples. Then I was hustled away to the cell next to Sigrid’s, where my gag was unlocked and I was pushed into the room and the lights turned out. 

"Mary will be your Mistress tomorrow," Jill told me as the door closed. I can hardly wait, I thought without enthusiasm.

So ended another day in Paradise, or was it Purgatory?