“Mmmmmm…” I murmured, aware now of the soft leather covering my face, but without anything filling my mouth this time.  I did not know who was doing this to me, nor did I care.  I was emerging from a thick soup of strange dreams and exhausting acts that seemed to be in another life.  The hands rolled me on to my back so that my bent knees stuck up in the air.  Fingernails played with my breasts, exquisitely tantalising my nipples and teasing them erect while the southern hands stroked the inside of my thighs and something soft and wet invaded my pussy.

I started to breathe heavily, conscious now of the tape still securing my arms and the uselessness of my taped fingers in their clenched fists.  The fingers continued their work and I could hear muffled whispers in a language I could not understand.  A buzzing started somewhere, the vibrations from which were abruptly transferred to my pussy. I tried to struggle but the two sets of hands were far too strong for my restrained limbs and all I could do was squirm about as the exquisite feelings began to radiate from my crotch.  I moaned under the leather hood and my feeble flailings of my taped arms and legs became involuntary rather than coordinated as the subterranean lava began to spread outward.

I lost the plot at that stage.  These women were good, I’ll say that for them.  I lost it totally, mouthing off incoherently and going to pieces as they pushed all the right buttons between them.  I was their plaything, helpless to resist as they eased off the accelerator than changed up a gear and hit the gas. 

Several times they stepped down a couple of notches, toying with me as I writhed on the brink of a climax.  I could feel the sweat dripping off me and I knew Madam Wong was going to get her revenge.  She was after me for reducing her to the quivering pile of jelly where she could take no more and begged me to desist.  Except this time it was the subtle change, where Jillian was begging for a finish, desperate to slip over the edge and crash off the cliffs into the roaring surf below.

In as much as I was capable of logical thought, I reckoned I had the cliff top in sight when they pulled the plug on me, leaving me to roll about helplessly and impotently on the sheets, searching for something of substance that would allow me to go the last few metres, but in vain.

I slowly drifted down to earth, frustrated and unfulfilled, landing to the sound of girlish cries and laughter and the sound of splashing water from what I presumed was an adjacent ensuite.  One of them returned to me, warm and smelling of soap and cleanliness and exotic fragrance.  The tape was cut from my legs and I was made to stand up beside the bed.  I did so stiffly, for it had been many hours that my legs had been bound in such a fashion.  Had they been ropes I knew I would have got cramps a long time ago, but the tape seemed more forgiving, stretching slightly and spreading the tension over a greater area.

I stood there for a minute or so until I felt a strap fastened to the back of the corset and pulled between my legs.  As this took place a large dildo was inserted in my pussy, to be held in place as the strap was fastened and cinched up tight, attached to the front of the corset. 

“We are all going to have breakfast,” said Portia’s voice in my ear.  “I know you are frustrated and hungry, and you want to go for a pee and have a wash.  Just be glad I am a considerate mistress who is aware of these things.  Of course my being aware of them does not mean you will be accommodated.  You need to be patient.  You also need to show restraint.  By that I mean that if I suspect you are getting off with that little toy inside you, you will be punished for coming without permission.  Understand?”

“Ys Msdrss,” I mumbled ineffectually under the hood.

We walked down to the main dining room again – or so I assumed, since I could not see where I was going.  Portia’s hands guided me down the stairs.  She obviously knew perfectly well that with each step the dildo was working it’s subtle magic and I was getting hot and bothered once more.  The time since the initial warm and fuzzy build-up had not been long, and it did not take much to start me up again.  Portia helped seat me in one of the big leather dining chairs and I caught my breath as the action of sitting forced the device in further.

Portia unzipped the mouth of the hood and fed me intermittently while she and her boss talked in Cantonese.  I squirmed as much as I thought I could get away with, trying to satisfy the desire that now lurked in my body.  The distraction of bits of toast and some sort of milkshake or diet supplement that I sucked through a straw did little to deter me from my immediate fixation.

The breakfast seemed to go on forever until finally the women stood up and I heard footsteps walking across to the window, followed by the sound of drapes being drawn back and french doors being opened.  The voices continued outside, as near as I could guess.  I wriggled on my seat, working it  against the corner table leg until I could slide my crotch against the carved table leg.  Ahhh… Pressure just where I wanted it… God that felt good!  After a few twists and fidgets I got the rhythm going, listening to the voices outside.  Then they faded as I did a rapid gear change into top, thrusting myself furiously against the table.  It was finally happening!

“Jillian!  Don’t you dare!  Stop that at once!”  Portia’s command came too late as I threw myself headlong off the cliff, flying downward into the surging maelstrom below, mewing with delight and crying out as the flood washed over me.  I was snorting and panting and seeing stars when the hands grabbed me and pulled me back on to the chair, slapping me through the hood, but to no avail.  I was hot, flushed and satisfied, my moanings slowly subsiding to a contented gasps under the hood.  I knew I was in trouble but I didn’t care.  Whatever happened to me now would still have been worth it…

*   *   *

“You might think of this as your punishment, Jill, but it’s not.  This is merely a little part of the motivation that we will use to encourage and develop your learning skills.  I want you to remember three important things.” Portia’s voice was calm and reasonable, like a mother patiently explaining something to her child.

I was standing in the dungeon, my arms stretched up and outward at forty five degrees, with the wrist cuffs attached by chains to iron rings hanging from the ceiling.  My ankles were strapped into cuffs rigidly attached to a telescopic spreader bar that was bolted through the middle at a point where the stretch left the insides of my thighs taut and on the verge of extreme discomfort.  My feet touched the floor, but only just.  Abluted and divested of the inserted device that had got me into trouble, I had been standing this way for half an hour now, coming to grips with the task ahead of me in becoming bi-lingual in Cantonese. The discipline helmet was now gone and I could at least communicate with Portia – inasmuch as a slave is permitted to, that is.  Gone too was the waist-cinching corset, but exposed was my body in its naked and vulnerable entirety. 

Portia was in her characteristic red – this time a clinging long-sleeved lycra dress with a plunging neckline and a high hem, set off by a silk scarf knotted about her throat and pvc boots that stopped halfway up her thighs.  Clearly Portia was out to make a statement about who was in charge here.

“Firstly, whatever pleasure you experienced in the bed with Madam Wong and me, plus what you managed at the dining table, can be easily taken away.  The former was a special event in any case.  If I have my way you will not see Madam Wong for a week at least – or until I have instilled some sense into you.  Of course her ladyship may have other designs on you.  I think she is quite smitten with you. She may want to play with you some more, and of course there will be ultimately nothing I can do to prevent that if she sets her mind to it.  However I can suggest a few things that will be just as much fun for her, and infinitely less satisfying for you if she does decide to exercise her rights.

“Secondly, you disobeyed me in the dining room.  You also embarrassed me.  Do you understand that?”

“Yes Mistress,” I said.  “I couldn’t help myself. I’m sorry.”

“I’m sure you are, Jill, but that’s not the point, and it’s too late in any case.  Let me explain something to you.  We Chinese have a cultural thing called ‘face’.  To lose face is a thing no Chinese wants to do.  Losing face in front of family, superiors, juniors – it all carries great importance and such loss of face is like a multiple humiliation and embarrassment combined.  You made me lose face in front of my boss.  You showed me up as not having disciplined you properly, of failing in my job.  I thought our relationship would be a good one, but you have destroyed my trust.  Would you like more time in the light well?”

“No Mistress.”

Portia paused, as if thinking.  “No, you’re right.  I don’t think the light well would be appropriate.  Rather too easy, in fact.  I will devise something more suitable.”  My heart sank.  “That will be something for you to look forward to and to contemplate.  Yes?”

“Yes Mistress.”

“Only then – if I have my way – will you be allowed in Madam Wong’s presence again.  But having understood those two points, you must now understand that what happens to you today has nothing to do with your disgraceful performance this morning.  On Saturday week Madam Wong is having a party for her birthday.  As you will have gathered, she is a little on the kinky side, as are many of her friends.  Don’t believe everything you hear about Chinese prudery.  Your western culture has had a remarkable impact in some quarters of our society.  Madam Wong intends you to be her piece de resistance – a rare and beautiful Gweipo slave who can also speak our language. That is the plan.  So today is about learning, about understanding a language and culture different from your own.  You will concentrate and perform well, or else you will be punished.”

And that was how I came to be in the position that I was.  Not that the position was a punishment – at least not according to Portia.  Rather, it left me wide open for the lash if and when I answered incorrectly.

Portia thought it would be fun for me to learn the numbers one to ten to start with.  She ran me through them several times before I was able to repeat them. 

“Next time you fail to concentrate and get things wrong, you will be able to count the strokes properly as I deal them out to you,” said Portia with a villainous smile.

The day went downhill from there.  To be fair to Portia, she was not a bad teacher.  She interspersed the learning of the words and phrases with little snippets of Chinese history.  She told me that Cantonese was the oldest and purest form of the Chinese language, and how the southern Cantonese-speakers despised the northern mandarin-speakers.  And yet even though they could often not understand each other, they still used the same written language.  Despite myself, I was impressed.

I was not impressed with Portia’s motivational technique, however.  I spent much of the morning stretched in the chains and spreader bar.  My slips in memory and pronunciation were rewarded with whacks with the flogger on my legs or buttocks.  When I made a mistake twice one of my boobs got it.  Three times and a weight was hung on a nipple with my transgression written on a piece of paper taped to the chain.  I had studied French at school but nothing in Mr Warne’s class had ever been like this.  Fortunately I had some language aptitude, but nothing in the French language could have prepared me for the Cantonese Experience, for it is a language comprised of tones, where a single word can have three meanings (all totally unrelated) depending on whether the inflexion is up, down, or neutral.  It drove me crazy trying to distinguish the subtle differences in Portia’s pronunciation.  I shed lots of tears as she beat me unmercifully at times.  For one period I wound up with two weights on each nipple and lost my concentration completely.  After fifteen minutes going over and over my mistakes which hung from my poor boobs while I tried desperately to say the right thing and disregard the pain, Portia finally took pity on me and let me down.

For the next two hours until lunchtime I sat on my sore bottom on the wooden chair.  My hands were strapped to the arms, palms upward, while my feet were pulled back and tied to the rear legs, exposing the soles.  You didn’t have to be a rocket scientist to work out where the next line of encouragement was going to be directed.

At lunchtime Weiwei appeared with a tray of many small sweetmeats and individually wrapped items, some in woven baskets still steaming hot.  Portia introduced me to Yum Cha, the Cantonese answer to a sushi bar.  It was almost pleasant as she fed me with her chopsticks as I sat bound to the chair.  She first told me the name of the dish, then described what it was, made me pronounce it, then I tasted it – if I was game.  Portia said that pretty much the only things on four legs the Cantonese wouldn’t eat were tables and chairs.  Anything with a pulse was fair game.  I didn’t really want to know that.  But the smells emanating from the dishes were mouth watering and I could not help myself eating everything that I was offered.

The afternoon was more of the same.  This time I ended up on the whipping bench for a while, face down, with time face up on the rack tilted against the wall.  Each time Portia would position the whiteboard where I could see it and write phonetic versions of the words while I tried to memorise them.  But by mid-afternoon, stretched out on the rack with two weights again hanging on my nipples, I was in tears and pleading for her to stop.  At this point Portia knew I had had enough for the day and removed the weights.  She had probably had enough as well, for it had been nearly as intense for her.  She turned out all but a single dim overhead bulb as she departed, leaving me stretched on the rack in the gloom.  My only consolation was that it had been a day almost free of gags and blindfolds.  I guess they were somewhat counterproductive in the learning process.

Weiwei appeared after maybe two hours.  I was very tired and had dozed off a couple of times.  On this rack my feet were bound to a wide bar with a little of my weight taken by the angle of the bench itself.  In that sense it was better than my morning standing stretched and virtually unsupported, but not as good as a horizontal rack would have been.  I could really have slept on one of those. 

Weiwei had a bowl of a noodles and vegetables.

“Doh-je sai,” I thanked her tiredly.  Her face lit up in surprise.

“Not many westerners speak out language,” she said.

“Not many westerners have it beaten into them.”  She smiled shyly.  “Have you ever been beaten, Weiwei?”

“Oh yes, many times.  For a while Mistress Joan liked to beat me all the time, then she got tired of it.”

“Mistress Joan?”

“Mrs Wong.  She get very angry if you make any trouble.  Must keep her happy.”

“Is Portia her lover?”

“Sometimes.  She like all things.  Sometimes she like to be tied up, sometimes she tie others.  Sometimes men, sometimes women.  Sometimes she beat them when she is in bad mood.  But only Portia allowed to tie her.”

“And why are you here, Weiwei?  Do you like it here?”

“My sister Kuan also works for Wongs, somewhere else – I don’t know where.  If I runaway something will happen to her.  Wongs run triad – you know triad?” I nodded.  “Very bad people.  They will chop me if I do anything wrong.”  She spoke earnestly, the dim light reflecting in the black pools that were her eyes.   She fed me a mouthful of noodles, using her chopsticks expertly to snare the slithery mixture.  There was silence while I ate.  I wondered whether I could get help from her.  I doubted it, but I would get information.  Little by little I would pick her brains and learn about the house, the layout and the routine.  I decided I would do whatever I could to escape while not endangering her.

*   *   *

I spent an uncomfortable night in my cell.  It was cold and clammy – so different from the warm luxury I had enjoyed in Joan Wong’s bed the night before.  Once again I was bound sufficiently to make life uncomfortable, but not so much that I cramped or was unable to move.  I had to admire Portia’s judgement in this aspect – and to fear it, for she had already showed that she was a good appraiser of my weaknesses and capacity for endurance.  I lay face down, my cuffed wrists locked to the back of my collar with my arms pulled back behind my head.  My legs were strapped at knees and ankles.  She had pulled a blanket over me and I dared not move too much for fear it would slip off and leave me naked and shivering for the rest of the night. 

I was drained and sore.  My breasts hurt but I was pretty much forced to lie face down.  Everywhere else hurt as well, for that matter.  Portia had been generous when handing out the punishment – thighs, calves, buttocks, stomach and back.  Everywhere had received some attention, and of course my poor nipples had been a focus for quite a while.  On top of the beatings, I had been stretched and bound, and my brain had been put under more pressure than I could remember.  So much had happened in the last forty-eight hours that I could hardly believe it had been only two days since Leila and I had been abducted in that Kowloon backstreet.  I was wondering where dear Leila was, what she was enduring, and what punishment Portia had still in store for me, when exhaustion crept up and overwhelmed me, and I slept the sleep of the dead.

*   *   *

I awoke cold and shivering, naked on the mattress.  I had no idea what time it was for my cell was pitch black.  My blanket was on the floor and it was only after an inordinate amount of grovelling about while lying flat on the stone floor that I could get hold of the blanket and eventually work myself back on to the bed holding the blanket like a shawl, with my wrists still tethered behind my neck.  I sat and shivered some more for maybe an hour before the heavy door was unlocked and Weiwei appeared with breakfast.

“Are you my jailor, now?” I asked in between mouthfuls.

“I feed you,” she said simply.  “Not allowed to touch your ropes without special permission.”

“How long have you worked here, Weiwei?”

“Maybe…three years?”

“How many other people work here?” I queried innocently.
She thought for a moment and fed me another spoonful of the gruel-like concoction.  “Two gardeners, a driver, two bodyguards, two other maids, a cook, a butler… I think that is all.”

“Do you live here? “

“Yes.”

“Do the others?”

“Mostly.”

“In this house?”

“No – we have separate rooms at the back.  We walk through the garden to get there.”

That was my start of knowledge gathering for my escape plan.  I did not want to appear too intrusive into Weiwei’s job or the routine of the house.  Softly softly catchee monkey, I decided.

The appearance of Portia, dressed in a tight, high-cut red leather jacket and a leather skirt down to her calves put an end to any intimacies I might have managed with Weiwei.  Portia also wore high-heeled red leather boots that reminded me again of poor Leila, who had been wearing them the last time I had seen her. 

“Jo sun,” said Portia.  Good morning.

“Jo sun,”  Weiwei and I chorused.

“Did we sleep well?” Portia inquired with a honeyed smile as Weiwei ladled the last of the gruel into my mouth and stood up to leave.

“No Mistress,” I said truthfully.

“Gooood,” said Portia, as if I had just stated the opposite.  “So you’ll be wide awake for today’s lesson.  And be glad you only have a morning’s study to deal with today. That’s the good news.  The bad news is that this afternoon has been set aside for your punishment”.  She grinned at me, her teeth white between the red of her lips.  Today she had pulled her hair back to be held behind her ears with scarlet clips.  I gulped, but said nothing.  It was going to be another long and painful day – of that I was sure…

*   *   *

The first part of the morning passed with me bent over in the stocks, my feet held apart by the terrible spreader bar that left me so exposed.  It was a revisit of the previous day’s lessons, and by and large I survived quite well, except for one section where I got totally confused and lost the plot.  I was given ten blows with the flogger, being made to count them in Cantonese. 

Thwack!  “Yat…M’goi lo si…”

Thwack!  “Yi…thank you teacher…”

Thwack!  “Three…thank you teacher…” 

I knew I was going to end up with a phobia about Chinese numbers.

For the second half of the morning my backside was spared as I was bound to one of the timber posts, reciting by rote various phrases and words that Portia wrote on the whiteboard.  Only once did I end up with the weights on my nipples for a blunder that apparently would have resulted in a major faux pas had I said what I did in the presence of guests, as was intended.  By getting my tones wrong I would have evidently seriously embarrassed all concerned. Under other circumstances I would have thought it hilarious, but Portia’s patience with this stupid Gweipo was wearing thin at that point, and I wound up staring at the piece of paper stuck this time to my right breast above the horrid clamp gripping my nipple.  I did not make that mistake again.

*   *   *

After lunch I found myself chained by the neck to a ring in the storeroom, with instructions to get dressed.  Portia handed me a black latex garment and a pair of high-heeled boots and directed me to be ready in ten minutes.  I laid it out and discovered it to be a thin rubber catsuit with opening slits in various strategic places.  I wondered why I would be wearing anything at all, since punishment usually involved nakedness for the better impact of a whip or crop.  Portia was up to something underhand and likely to be very unpleasant, I knew, and I was unable to guess her intentions. 

I struggled into the garment with the help of some talcum powder I found.  The suit was very tight – obviously cut for a Chinese figure, not a big bulky Gweipo.  Just my luck.  So much for off-the-rack shopping in Macau.  The shiny black rubber covered me from neck to ankles, leaving my wrists and feet exposed.  The tightness of it over my breasts opened up the slits just enough for my nipples to be visible – something that I was not at all happy about, but there was little I could do.  I wondered just how much of this was chance and how much had been meticulously planned by Portia.  I consoled myself that at least it was warm, for the coolness of the stone cells seemed to give me a permanent case of goosebumps, and I had no idea what the weather was outside.  Wrapped up inside the suit was a pair of matching gloves, which completed the ensemble.

The boots were tight black leather, maybe a size too small.  They zipped up the inside, stopping just below my knee.  It felt strange having something on my feet after the last two days being barefoot on the stone floors.  The heels were high but with rubber caps on the ends, possibly to protect the polished timber floors I had seen upstairs.

When Portia reappeared she had a red nylon backpack slung over her shoulder.  She handcuffed my wrists behind my back and unlocked the chain from my neck.

“You look very nice,” she said.  “Verrry sexy…” Her tongue licked her lips and she let a red-nailed finger investigate where my left nipple tried to hide within the revealing slit.  I gasped as she squeezed and rolled it against her thumb.  It hardened and the touch of her nails sent a shiver down my spine.  “Blonde hair and black latex,” she murmured.  “Mmmmm…”

Without a further word she slipped a rope around my neck and towed me after her.

We went upstairs to the ground floor, then up the main staircase to the bedroom level.  Here we bypassed innumerable doors set around the balcony overlooking the stairs and climbed a further, smaller set of steps to what turned out to be a door on to a large flat roof enclosed by a chest-high stone parapet. There were a couple of clotheslines and a television aerial here but very little else, save for what looked like a soccer goal made from galvanised steel pipe about ten centimetres in diameter.  It was about three metres square in elevation and stood like a strange sculpture bolted on to the roof surface.  As I got closer I saw that there was a pulley fixed to the centre of the span, over which ran a stainless steel cable leading to a winch bolted to one of the uprights.  My heart sank for I knew I had arrived at the scene of my punishment. 

“Let me show you the view, Jill, while you can still appreciate it,” said Portia genially, taking me by the arm and leading me to the parapet. The house stood on the top of a low hill, and I could see other, similar but smaller houses scattered about amidst more large trees and greenery.  This was obviously the rich part of town.  “See?  From here you can see right up to the central city area.  There’s the Lisboa Casino.”  She pointed to a strange wedding cake-like structure in the distance.  “Beyond that is the bridge to Coloane.”  I saw a slender white arch stretching off into the distance towards a low island in the haze.

“Pretty, huh?  Unfortunately you won’t exactly get to see a lot of it.”

She walked me back to the steel frame and fetched a piece of bamboo about five centimetres in diameter and perhaps a metre and a half long from where a number of such poles were lying in the gutter beside the parapet.  They looked like possible leftovers from some of the ubiquitous bamboo scaffolding that seemed to be everywhere on building sites in the region.  On the other hand they could well have been deliberately placed there for some far more sinister purpose.

“It’s time to prepare you,” she said brusquely.  She slid the bamboo under my arms so it was trapped across my back at elbow level.  Out of her backpack came a half dozen coils of thick sashcord, the first of which she used to wrap about my upper body, over and under my breasts and around the bamboo.  The tails of this rope came over my shoulders to cinch the ropes above and below my breasts into the traditional shinju pattern.  This done, she unlocked my handcuffs and I stood meekly as she bound my folded forearms parallel to and hard against the bamboo.  More ropes followed, around my waist and the bamboo, by which time my upper body had become almost rigid.

All of this must have taken half an hour, for Portia was nothing if not thorough.  She had stripped off her jacket to reveal a red tee shirt underneath and soon the sweat stains were showing in her armpits.  As she finished pulling the last tail through a cinch knot behind me Portia said: “You can see why you’re wearing that nice suit now?”

“Why, Mistress?” 

“Because, oh stupid Gweipo slave, hanging about in the sun will give your fair skin a nasty case of sunburn otherwise.”  I was going to ask what about my head, but decided I had better not.  Portia did not miss the details – that much I had learned in two hard days.

“Take a last look around, Jill dear,” said Portia, reaching into her backpack.  She pulled out what looked like a rubber hood.  “Close your eyes and hold your breath,” she ordered.  I did so as she forced the hood over the top of my head and worked it downwards.  It was of thick rubber and brutally tight.  Only when it was finally in place could I appreciate how it moulded to my face with only two holes for my nostrils.  I had not experienced a hood of this type before.  I felt Portia’s fingers aligning the nostril holes properly then arranging the bottom of the hood around my neck and tucking it in under the latex top.  I flexed my jaw and found I could open it very little.  I shuddered to think what this horrid device would be like over a gag of some description.

“Squat Jill,” came the command out of the darkness, somewhat muffled by the rubber hood.  I eased myself down on my haunches.  The high heels of the boots made it easier to rest my weight on my heels in this position.  I felt rope being wrapped a number of times around my right thigh, just above the knee and knotted there. The same treatment was meted out to my left thigh.  I was puzzled, for there did not seem to be any further attachment, pulling my legs together or apart.

Then came Portia’s fingers again, probing into the slit in the rubber between my legs.  Something nudged my pussy – something pointed and slippery that insinuated its way inside me through dextrous manipulation by Portia.  It was tolerable, I decided, in my slightly spread squatting position.  But there was more… (and it wasn’t the free set of steak knives). 

It was the butt plug that was worked into place next.  I always get skittish with these, I don’t know why.  They have a strange effect on me and I found myself groaning and snorting as Portia slid it in a little more with each push before it slipped in with a momentary pain.  It did not seem as large as the previous monster I had had to wear in the light well.  Regardless, Portia tied a double crotch rope from the cinch between my breasts down, through my crotch, then back up to the knots securing my forearms to the bamboo.  She placed a knee in my back to haul it tight.  I gasped and whined in complaint as the ropes were secured.  Those inserts weren’t going to be coming out, I knew then.

I heard the faint steps of my tormentor moving away, then the sound that might have been the cable being lowered from the pulley above me.  Portia’s voice came through the rubber.

“I will only tell you this once, Jill.  You are a little slut.  A very sexy little slut I will admit, but a slut nevertheless.  You seem incapable of properly controlling your own body.  Additionally, you did not seem to care about embarrassing either yourself or your mistress in that disgraceful display at the dining table. I need to teach you two lessons.  Firstly, you must obey me and not cause embarrassment.  Secondly, you must be able to control your body’s needs.  Do you understand?”  Miserably I nodded my head.  “Good.  We will undertake the first lesson in obedience now.”

I squatted there in the darkness.  It was a warm day and already I could feel myself starting to sweat under the rubber.  It was partly the humidity and partly the fear of what was about to fall upon me.  I could see nothing and hear nothing in my black world.  I had visions of some terrible object about to attack me and my legs started to tremble uncontrollably.  There was a sudden clacking sound and I felt a tension on my upper body as Portia obviously began to wind the handle on the winch, tightening the cable that was now clearly attached to the mass of ropes around my arms and torso.

It felt like everything tightened at once – the ropes holding my wrists, upper arms, torso and most of all the crotch ropes.  But as I felt my breathing become more laboured with the rope tightening, I was lifted from the squat and suddenly my full weight came on to the cable before I had become halfway upright.  I realised Portia had tied each thigh to the outer end of the bamboo pole.  As I left the ground the weight of my legs, unsupported save for the thigh ropes, pulled them wide apart, tethered as they were to the extremities of the bamboo. 

I panicked at that moment as my body leaned forward and as I went on to my tiptoes I thought – irrationally – that I was going to tip over on my face.  I struggled, but found I could barely move.  I could sort of raise my legs a little, but only with great difficulty.  I could waggle and kick them from the knees down, but they were spread apart and such efforts were unproductive other than to register my distress.  I discovered that waving my legs simply added more stress to the ropes and caused the crotch rope to dig deeper.

I moaned and whined under the rubber hood as I felt myself continue to rise then stop and slowly rotate on the end of the cable.  I hung there for perhaps five minutes.  I knew this would be Portia’s way of scaring me - or letting me scare myself, by imagining all sorts of tortures and punishments that could possibly be inflicted on me in such a position. I took comfort from the fact that every square inch of me was covered with rubber or leather, which would protect me to some extent from floggers and paddles.

When the blow struck me I was not prepared for it, despite where my mind had taken me. 

“Arrrggnnnnnnn!” I screamed, in shock.  The rush of air from my mouth momentarily made the rubber helmet bulge.  The fiery pain sank into my tautly positioned buttocks and I knew it was from a cane.  I also knew the rubber skin would do little to protect me against this sort of abuse.

“Yat,” came a dispassionate voice close to my ear. 

Crack!  I screamed again, my breath at once ragged and panting, pleading through the rubber for Portia to stop.

“Yi,” said Portia. 

Crack!  My bottom was on fire.  I jerked and squirmed and kicked, but nothing made the slightest difference.  I was making incomprehensible mumblings.

“Saam,” came the implacable voice. 

Crack!  Scream!  Promise her anything!  Portia I’ll be good I’ll be good!

“Sei.” 

Crack!  Screaming and crying now. Please stop, please stop!

“Ng.” 

Crack!  Wailing under the hood.  Sobbing incomprehensible words.  Then a voice through my agony.

“You soft Gweipos make too much noise.  No discipline.  Need more control.  More focus.  I can help you.”

What?  What was she saying?  What did she mean?  There was a pause in the assault and I thought I felt fingers on the top of the rubber hood.  There came a sort of faint whooshing sound and abruptly the pressure seemed to grow on my head.  Woosh!  Woosh! God, it was an inflatable hood!  No! 

The pressure grew further as I realised now why the hood had been so tight in the first place.  Two layers of rubber – an inner and an outer skin.  Portia was now pumping up the space in between.  My jaw was now firmly clamped shut and any sounds from outside were slowly disappearing as the blood pounded in my ears and the rubber sealed all orifices save my nostrils. 

Crack!  Nnnnnnnnnp!  Mm! Mm! Mm!

“Luk!” Portia’s voice was a distant whisper.

Crack!  My backside was exploding with pain.

“Chat.” Seven.  Look – I can remember my numbers, Mistress!

Crack!  Agony, fire, writhing, screaming, but only nasal pantings coming out…

“Baat.” No more emotion than if counting small change.

Crack!  Kicking, grunting, wailing but no use…

“Gau.” Nine…

Crack!  No more strength…going to die…

“Sap.”  A pause. “Have I made myself clear?”

“Urghn!  Urghn!  Urghn!”

“Good.  You may review your behaviour and consider the error of your ways for the next half hour,” came the whisper next to my ear. “Perhaps you need to harmonise yourself more with the forces of nature around yourself.  Maybe we could start with the wind…” There came a sharp pain as Portia’s fingers tugged at my right nipple through the slit in the rubber.  I felt a brief touch of tongue, then more teasing as the little nub swelled and hardened.  She gave the same expert treatment to my left nip then both were gripped hard by the unyielding jaws of some sort of clips.

“You have a nice silver chain between them,” said Portia.  “It looks really lovely.”  I moaned.  “I am going to hang a pretty set of wind chimes on them.  You can listen to the breeze and think about how much you upset me and embarrassed me.”

A sudden pain in my nipples was followed by a series of faint tinkling chimes heralding the arrival of the wind chimes, dangling from the chain.  I groaned in abject misery, sobbing under the rubber hood, but I knew my Mistress had already gone and there was no hope for any clemency.

*   *   *

The wind was getting a little stronger and I could feel myself slowly twisting and swaying on the end of the steel chain.  Beneath me, hanging from my inflamed nipples the chimes clinked and tinkled, exerting a constant tug on my tortured buds.  The ten strokes of the cane I had suffered had left my bottom burning with pain which did not seem to lessen with the passing of time.  I had sweated a lot in my futile attempts to fight the punishment and I was drained of energy.  I tried to focus my mind elsewhere, to find some mental refuge from the torments of the flesh, which experienced submissives can do, but I could not manage it, so real was the pain in my cheeks and nipples.  I became aware that I was keening softly to myself, a constant whine of pain that somehow eased the torment.  Any physical movement I found would only aggravate the pain, particularly in my breasts, so I dared not swing my legs unnecessarily.  Under the hot sun I grew woozy and my mind finally started to drift away, despite the pain and discomfort. I was nearly into subspace, I reckoned later, when Portia returned and removed the nipple clamps with both hands at the same time.

The pain was like a needle through my poor nips and I screamed again into the rubber, coming back to reality with an agonising jerk.  I was gasping raggedly through my nose as the spasm of pain subsided only slowly.  I continued moaning piteously as Portia took one nipple between her lips and sucked and kissed it gently, then did the same with the other, in the manner of a mother kissing a child’s scratch better. 

I sniffled and sobbed while she whispered cajoling and comforting words in my ear, stroking my bound body through the rubber skin.  The change in her was startling.  It was like a different person, and I was so grateful I just wanted to put my head on her shoulder and cry out all my hurt. I knew she would hold me and comfort me, and all things would soon be healed.  Her voice came to me distant and faint through the rubber of the hood.

“Jill, darling, your punishment is over.  I think you have learned your lesson.  Yes?”  I nodded my head, suffering an attack of incoherent sobs as a small child sometimes does.  “But you still have to deal with the second part of your lesson, that of learning to properly control your body’s urges.  I think you still have trouble with this and we need to make you a better, more in-control person.   Cannot allow a slave to simply indulge her primal urges whenever she feels in the mood.  Is that unreasonable?”  Miserably I shook my head.  I could not argue with the logic, and I had used it a few times on clients myself, not to mention my lovely Emma.

“Good.  I’m glad you understand.  I have a couple of adjustments to make then I’ll leave you to think about your transgressions.”

“Urrgh?”

I quickly found out what the adjustments were.  Firstly I discovered that the butt plug was inflatable when my anal cavity suddenly began to fill.  I pleaded and protested with desperate whines, begging her to stop as I felt I was going to crap myself, but at the same time knowing that the plug was well secured in my hole and would never come loose, especially not inflated as it now was.  The ‘Urr! Urr!’ noises I was making at that moment went up a notch as she then started the vibrator inside the balloon up my arse.  I knew I would disgrace myself at that moment, such were the awful feelings it stirred within my rectum.
Portia’s reaction to that was simply to turn on the other vibrator deeply embedded in my pussy.  She gave me a light shove and I was left swaying in the breeze.

I can barely describe the conflict of sensations I experienced in the next hours.  The cheeks of my backside were still excruciatingly sore from the caning and my nipples were tender and throbbing.  The ropes that cut into my thighs created a constant tension which pulled my legs apart into an uncomfortable equilibrium that strained the muscles of my thighs and hips.  The ropes themselves, wrapped in multiple strands around my arms and body pulled hard on all those points, and were cinched about my breasts as well.  My weight was supported on all of these, plus, of course, those terrible strands through my crotch.  I was blind and deaf and silent, the pressure of the inflatable rubber hood obliterating all three senses while leaving only my ability to smell.  I could not move my lips or jaw, so all-pervasive was the pressure of the rubber hood.  And the final item from my litany of pain was the heat, as I sweated within the clinging latex catsuit. 

Having listed my immediate tortures, I now add the awful inflated butt plug up my rear.  It made me feel like I had to piss and crap at the same time, yet I knew I could do neither.  The fact that the thing had then started vibrating intensified that desperate urge to evacuate, but at the same time created a strange transition path into sensual realms I had not experienced before.  My pussy, as though in a sexual conspiracy, was sending out exquisite spasms of pleasure like ripples on a pond.  The vibrator jammed inside me not only vibrated but somehow seemed to come alive, twisting and turning within, sending me crazy first with frustration as the pain receptors continued to dominate those of the pleasure house.

My brain, in receiving all this varied input was going bananas as well.  One minute I would have a rush of ecstatic vibes from way down south, then the pain of my buttocks would dominate, only to succumb to a powerful urge to go to the toilet again. 

I can’t tell you how long this went on for.  After some while the pleasure vibes began to dominate and I reached my first orgasm, squirming and jerking in my harness and kicking my legs futilely in fresh air, mmphing into the rubber hood.  The pain in my cheeks kicked in there with the extra movement but the Devine Miss O reappeared with a vengeance soon after.  The vibrator up my arse seemed to go in a wild duet with the one in front as number two crashed down on me. 

Things went hazy after that.  I sweated and writhed in my bonds as climax followed climax.  I moaned pathetically, crying into the rubber stifling my mouth, tugging on the ropes and trying vainly to clamp my legs together to stifle the remorseless devices humming steadily in my orifices.

I swung in the wind, turning slowly like a black shiny chicken being grilled over an open fire.  Except in this instance the fires were primarily within.  I did not know if I was visible to any outside viewer, maybe some maid on a nearby house roof hanging out the washing.  Would they do anything, or would they simply know to stay clear of the big house on the hill that was owned by the Wong Dynasty…  Dynasty… Die nasty… my brain wandered down long and convoluted paths towards the gates of delirium.  Somewhere around then I finally gave up the fight.  I began slipping in and out of consciousness, the sound of blood rushing in my ears as I struggled weakly against another climax worming its way into every pore of my body then exploding like a volcano.  It was one eruption too many, and I finally fainted.