We were sitting in the shade of an ancient banyan tree in the Old Protestant  Cemetery.  We had done the rounds of the casinos that were the lifeblood of Macau, and had seen the rooms where the minimum bet was half a million Hong Kong dollars.  We had gaped at the size and splendour of the Hotel Lisboa and the crowded smoke-filled rooms seething with gamblers ready to win or lose the equivalent of their life’s savings.  It had all served to take our minds off our impending mission.  But the charm of old Macau and the pizzazz of the new had worn off, and we had wound up in the cemetery seeking some peace and quiet. 

Around us the gravestones of British sailors from the nineteenth century stood serene and untroubled in our mad modern world, heedless of the disquiet we felt at what lay ahead of us.  Immediately in front of us was the resting place of Sir Humphrey Le Fleming Senhouse, “Senior officer in charge of the British Fleet in the China Seas”, who died aged 63 “from the effects of fever contracted during the zealous performance of his arduous duties at the capture of the Heights of Canton in May 1841.”

“Life was so much simpler then,” I said.  “The might of the empire was such that whoever had the biggest guns, ruled, and everybody accepted that.  Might was right.  Captain Senhouse probably had all his life mapped out.  You did your best, won or lost and got on with your life.  Your worries were disease and the odd storm or stray bullet.  No technology, no politics, and you made your own laws with the fleet to back you up.”

“But we’re on our own,” Monica said.  ”What if it all goes wrong?  We could lose Jill forever, never mind what might happen to us… We don’t have a fleet backing us up.”

“We’ve got the Doris H. Bonkers,” I said, with an attempt at levity.

The stress was starting to show.  There were dark smudges under her eyes and I knew she had not been sleeping well.  The Monica we all depended on for leadership and strength was losing it.  Or maybe she was just showing the vulnerability that had been there all the time, carefully hidden behind the dominant façade that so few had gotten to see beyond.

I put my arm round her shoulders and murmured what I hoped were reassuring words.  The truth was we were on foreign territory – taking the fight to the enemy on the enemy’s turf.  I was as worried as Monica but I daren’t let her see it.

*   *   *

Saturday dawned to the rattle of rain on the roof of the boat.  Baz and I had lowered the drop-down clear vinyl sides of the after deck space during the night as the wind had got up and the temperature had fallen from the low thirties to something more bearable but still just as sticky. 

It was a long and tedious day.  None of us felt like going ashore - we were too tense.  We played endless games of cards and Baz, Emma and Kuan and I played Mah Jong.  The rattle of the ivory tiles on the table reminded me of my previous time in Hong Kong and the all night Mah Jong parties that used to take place in the apartment above mine. 

The afternoon drew to a close. The congested harbour continued to be buffeted by squalls off and on as we prepared ourselves for our grand entrance that evening.

Dressed as a Mistress, Serina was to be our entry pass, with Emma to accompany her in a similar role, as her friend.  It made sense that the two Chinese girls would lead, for they knew the language and looked the part.  Monica would be Serina’s slave while I would be slave to Emma.  Both Monica and I still had serious reservations about Serina, and decided that the threat of Tiger blowing the whistle on her to the police was not sufficient incentive.  Monica wanted something more – something immediate – that would keep Serina on the straight and narrow with a warning presence.

I had an idea which I managed to bring to fruition with the help of Baz and a 30-centimetre piece of corrugated plastic hose about the diameter of my thumb.  It was not dissimilar to that used as the outlet for washing machines, and bent easily into a U-shape.  I threaded a piece of stainless steel wire through it, bringing the ends out through small holes in the side about five centimetres from each end.  The pipe essentially formed part of a crotch strap, with the pipe ends to be inserted in pussy and butt hole. The wire continued, front and back, up to waist-level, before turning into a belt which wrapped around the waist and locked at the front once loops had been fitted at each end. 

We tied the naked Serina’s hands together in front of her then lashed them high up to a beam overhead while we tried out the device for fit.  For once she was not blindfolded, and we kept Baz out of the cabin.  Serina protested so much about her treatment that we had to gag her with a rubber ball and strap.  I wanted to get her used to the device and to do this she had to understand how it worked and have confidence that there would be no accidents.  She also had to understand that we would use it if she did not keep her side of the bargain.

When we had worked out where the loops went and had crimped them such that the whole fitting was snug and firmly inserted in each orifice without the possibility of removal, we unlocked the device and let her watch while I put the finishing touches to it.

I cut a small flap midway along the pipe, about three centimetres long and half the diameter.  A short distance either side of this I punched a circle of holes around the circumference, through which I threaded some cotton with the assistance of a blunt needle.  The criss-crossing threads inside formed a barrier, and were tied off outside.  At that point I stuffed three cockroaches inside via the flap and taped it closed.  Serina went a bit bananas when she saw the cockies at first – a performance that was not lessened at the realisation of how proximate they were to her delicate entrances.  Her eyes widened above the gag and she made pathetic little mewing sounds while struggling against her bonds. 

I took a length of thin stainless wire I had obtained from Baz’s comprehensive tool locker, slipped it under one knot of the series of cotton threads and crimped off the wire, while threading the other end of the wire under the other knot and leaving the wire, about two metres long, hanging loose.

“It’s really very simple, Serina,” I told her, although she was way ahead of me.  “Any trouble from you and one of us will yank this line like a parachute cord.  It will tear the cotton threads away and let loose those little monsters crawling up inside you.  The tube will be locked on, so I don’t fancy your chances of extracting the ends in time.  It will all be horrific and very embarrassing.  The game will be up and you will be a laughing stock of the party, never mind whatever else happens.  You will always be the cockroach girl.”

Serina gave me a look that would have disembowelled me with its sharpness had I held it much longer.  “Better get used to it now,” I suggested. We were forced to tie her ankles apart to a broom handle as she attempted to kick like a wildcat.  Then, as the ends of the pipe were inserted into her front and back passages she suddenly became very still, as though any sudden movement might set off this unexploded bomb.

Monica tugged the main wire tight through Serina’s crotch, making sure there was no danger of the pipe becoming dislodged, while Serina whimpered.  The lock clicked shut over her navel, drawing the two wire waist loops snugly together.

“There, said Monica, satisfied.  “Just be very careful not to stand on that pull wire, Serina.  We wouldn’t want things to go off early, would we?”  A tear trickled out of the corner of Serina’s eye as she admitted defeat.  Monica left her standing there for an hour, gently shifting her weight from one foot to the other in time with the rocking of the boat. 

*   *   *

It was getting dark as we worked out what clothing we were going to wear.  Monica and I, as westerners, would be the centre of attention if we did not disguise ourselves.  We thought also it would be bad form to upstage Madam Wong and her new European slave, and so we reluctantly agreed that we would have to wear discipline helmets.  Emma was concerned that most of the proceedings would be in Cantonese, and she and Serina would be expected to address us likewise when ordering us about. 

“You can make up some story about being visiting Aussie Chinese who don’t speak Cantonese,” said Monica.  “I don’t want Madam Wong put out at all.”

“Which is fine until somebody wants to see what you look like under the hoods,” Emma objected.

“Just have to cross that bridge when we come to it.  Maybe lock on the hoods and lose the keys,” Monica suggested.  “I think we will both have to be gagged, just to keep things simple and to avoid cross examination.”

“Hmmmn,” said Emma dubiously as she left us to our dressing up in the forward cabin.  I was thinking much the same thought.

Monica’s first act of preparation was to give me an all-over shave – removing my chest and back hair and that of my legs.  This took a long time and was not easy on the rocking boat.  I had protested at first, but reluctantly conceded that in the first place, as a Chinese from Australia I would not have as much body hair as I did have, and secondly, that which I did have was the wrong colour.  A couple of days previously I had reluctantly dyed my pubic hair black.  It was either that or have it shaved - and I drew the line at that point - but dye was a messy option for the remaining scattering of my body hair.

“We’ll wear the minimum clothing as slaves,” Monica decided, rummaging through the big carry bag of gear we had taken from Serina’s extensive wardrobe.  “This will do for you, Steven.”  She pulled out a complicated–looking black leather harness that appeared to be all studs and rings and buckles. She helped me strip off and put the thing on.  I had sort of got used to some of the things I had been obliged to wear in my service at Bilboes, although driving around Brisbane as slave Stephanie, dressed in black pvc still remained the lowlight of my career.  By comparison this should have been a doddle.  The harness focussed on a central ring in the middle of my chest, with straps over my shoulders around my body and down to join with a waist belt.  Below this, a strap bifurcated around Mr Willy and went between my cheeks to the small of my back. 

“It comes with this neat little leather pouch for your friend,” said Monica with a grin, running her fingernails over Mr Willy, which always made him get excited, just as she knew full well it would do.

“Stop it,” I said, pushing her hand away.  “Don’t start things you can’t finish.”

“Oh but I can!”  She smiled roguishly at me, knowing full well what my reaction would be.  Although it was just the two of us in the forward cabin at that moment, and although it was a tempting suggestion, we both knew it was not the time or place.  Then the moment was passed, and we came back to the world where we had a scary task ahead of us. 

The pouch concealed my friend, clipping into place over him with a series of press studs which would come undone with a sharp tug.

“You’ll have to wear the butt plug too,” Monica said.

“What?  Why?”

“Because they can tell if you’re not.  And if you’re not, you might have something else stuck up it instead.  You might not fancy some of the male slaves.  Or the Masters.”  I was starting to like this whole hairy-arsed scheme less and less.  “You have a choice of large or extra large,” she said, flourishing the two flesh-coloured objects.

“I don’t like the look of either.  What about you?  If I have to wear one, you must as well.”

“Okay.”

“Okay?  Just like that?”

“Sure.  I’ll even let you chose which one you get.”  She held the pair behind her back. “Which hand will you have?”  I pointed to her left hand.  “She produced the smaller plug with a flourish and a resigned sigh.  “Can’t be fairer than that, can I, Steven?”

I reached out for the offending device, then took the larger one.  “It’s all right,” I told her.  “You can be a sizeable arsehole sometimes Mon, but there are certain things a guy has to do.”

She smiled at me gratefully and did not argue.  “Bend over,” she said.  “Always remember – your arse is mine.”

“Haha – very funny.”

“Relax please.”

I did – as much as I was able on a rocking boat.  Even with Monica’s expert lubrication and insertion the final pushing home of the device left me gasping and groaning quietly for a little while afterwards until things had settled down.  Eventually I allowed Monica to pull the crotch strap tighter and buckle it into place behind me.  She ran her fingers over the leather pouch which had become somewhat tighter and fuller.

“Oh ho – that’s why you wanted the bigger one!” 

“Oh shut up.  It just does that – all right?  It has no inkling of what’s going on half the time.  Mr Brain does not always communicate what is happening.”

“Sure Steven.  You don’t have to explain anything to me.  I’ve heard it all before and seen it with my own eyes,” she retorted smugly.

“Good,” I said, pulling on shorts and a tee shirt.  “Because now it’s your turn.”

Monica shed her dress and underwear with a grace that only she could manage.  Her body was lean and taut – possibly more so in light of the stress of the last fortnight.  I was sure she had dropped a kilo or two.  She stood naked in front of me without the slightest embarrassment, which was pretty much to be expected in light of our varied relationship.

“Turn around,” I said, allowing her to bend over the small fixed table, before giving her butt hole a squirt of lubricant then coating the plug.  I worked it in and out, letting her sphincter muscles become used to the stretching the invader caused, before finally thrusting it home.  Monica groaned and stood panting just as I had done, as the base of the plug nestled between her cheeks.

“Now we match,” she finally declared, turning around with a flushed look on her face.  I helped her with a harness a bit similar to mine, except that the upper straps surrounded and emphasized her breasts. 

“Suits you,” I said, returning the favour and pulling her crotch strap tight before buckling it behind her.  She poked her tongue out at me and slipped her dress over the top of the harness.

I elected to wear my Colorado river sandals as being somewhat in keeping with the slave look, while Monica selected a pair of elegant black sandals with low heels and thongs that wrapped around her lower calves.  She managed to look sexy even in her casual dress, I thought.

I was about to leave when Monica said: “Not so fast Mister.  One more thing.”  She held up a heavy black leather collar which she buckled around my neck.  I felt and heard the click of a lock.  “Now me…” She handed me an identical collar and lock, and lifted her black hair clear of her neck while I buckled and locked the collar in place.

“Well done, slave,” she said, giving me that soft encouraging smile that only she could manage in such a situation.

I went on deck and sent Emma down as my replacement in the dressing room.  A short time later she emerged in high heels and black stockings, with a glimpse of garter showing beneath the high hemline of a leather skirt.  She wore a sleeveless black lycra top which showed plenty of cleavage, and complained that “none of the skinny girl’s stuff would fit her,” and how “too many Chinese women had nothing to show for themselves”.  Serina, still tied in the middle cabin was heard to grunt disparagingly.  Nevertheless Emma had found a pair of lace-up leather arm pieces plus a light-weight decorative chain harness that formed a nice overlay to the lycra top.  Like all good Hong Kong girls she carried the latest tiny mobile phone which she slipped into the pocket of the her skirt with barely a disturbance to the outline.

Serina was at last untied and taken forward, to be fitted out by Monica.  Of course she had a wider choice than the rest of us, seeing that the wardrobe belonged to her and Tiger.  Her eyes covered with a bandana, and her wrists cuffed behind her, she finally appeared on deck.   She wore a pair of stiletto-heeled boots that laced up to her thighs, the top part of which was covered by a fringed leather skirt that appeared more like a wrap-around scarf, for the hem sloped diagonally up from right thigh to left hip.  Monica obviously figured bits of plastic tube should not be exposed, nor the cane marks, and I had no idea what other modifications she had managed beneath the skirt. What I could see was the fine stainless wire about her waist, looking like a barely detectable additional piece of ornamentation.

Above the skirt she wore a black pvc waist coat with wide lapels, that zipped down the front.  It, too, showed some cleavage, but nothing like the spectacular scale of Emma.  Her arm adornments were two studded wrist bands which glinted in the light of the swaying deck lamps.

“You all look fantastic,” said Leila, when she finished putting some heavy makeup accents on Emma.  “I wish I was coming.”

“This isn’t a party, Leila dear,” Monica told her gently.

“I know, Mon – I just want to help getting Jill back.”

“I know you do, but we need someone we can trust, who knows us, to keep an eye on things back here.  Baz is wonderful, but you know what we have to do and how we think.  You’ll have my mobile phone and we’ll have Emma’s.  We’ll contact you as soon as things get sorted out.  Okay?”

Her blonde head lowered.  “Yes, I guess so.”

*   *   *

Serina remained blindfolded until we had disembarked from the dinghy at the stone steps on the corniche.  It was dark and had gone eight when the four of us arrived by taxi at the Rua de San Lourenco.  We got out some fifty metres from our destination and paid off the driver.  This time Emma relented and gave him a decent tip.  If his eyes had not ogled Emma and Serina enough at that point, they positively emerged on stalks as he looked at the note in his hand before driving off. 

In the shadow of one of the large trees lining the deserted street, Monica and I stripped off our covering clothes and stuffed them in a small leather bag Serina wore on her back in the Hong Kong fashion style.  The clothes replaced two leather hoods and two ball gags that had been carried in the bag until that point. 

As Serina laced up Monica’s hood and Emma did the same for me, I took the opportunity to pull Emma to one side.

“Em, you realise the biggest problem we have is that there are a number of us.  Added to that, I don’t trust Serina.  She may behave okay – I hope so.  But it’s going to be up to you and me to get Jill out.  I want Serina and Monica out of the place as soon as possible, on their own.  Do you understand?”

Emma’s big brown eyes widened.  “How can we manage that?”

“”Well, you’ll have to do the ground work, but I’m hoping Serina won’t take too much persuasion to leave.  I think she will want to get out at the first opportunity.  You can help her with that – after an appropriately polite length of time, of course.  Sweet talk Madam Wong for all you’re worth.”

“But Monica will never want to leave…’

“Monica will be just a slave, hooded and gagged and if necessary handcuffed and flogged if she fails to behave.  Even she will see that she could jeopardise the whole plan if she rebels and refuses to obey. She could give the whole game away and she’ll know that.  Once you have Madam Wong’s approval, get Serina to take Monica back to the boat and wait for us with Baz.”

“Monica will go ape.”

“Maybe, which is why she might have to remain secured until we come back, if necessary.  And which is why I haven’t discussed this with her.  But you know as well as I do that if five of us try to escape at once – assuming we can snaffle Jill - it will be far more difficult than with three.  Okay?  Never mind Monica – do it for Jill.”

“All right Steven.”  She lowered her head and appeared to take several deep breaths than disappeared behind me to finish lacing the hood.

By this time Serina had locked Monica’s hood and had strapped one of the ball gags in her mouth.  I noticed the ball gag was also locked in place.  Moments later my predicament matched Monica’s, when Emma hauled out a device from Serina’s bag.

“What the hell – “ I started to say, for the gag was not what I had expected.

“It was the only spare we brought,” Emma explained apologetically.  It was like a normal hard rubber ball gag, but instead of a leather strap it had a narrow stainless steel hinged strap.  There were hinges immediately either side of the ball and a further two near the back.  On the back was a sliding ratchet-type lock which looked like the lock on a desk drawer.  I had barely time to realise what I was in for as Emma said “Open wide,” and I did so automatically.  It really was a sad day for independence and self-determination when my instincts were to react in such a way.  Let’s hear it for the Bilboes Training Method…

Emma prised open the mouth hole in the leather hood and worked the ball behind my teeth.  The curved steel straps folded around my neck, ending with a sharp clicking sound as one end slid through the locking mechanism.  The unforgiving nature of the steel made me for once glad that the leather of the hood provided some small cushioning effect.  I was still not at all happy, but there was nothing I could do as Emma slipped the keys into Serina’s bag.  Thus attired, with Serina and Emma towing us slaves with leads clipped to our collars, we marched up to the entrance to Chez Wong.

Serina rapped on the wooden gate and a small panel at face level slid open.  There was an exchange of Cantonese and the gate was swung open by a burly man in a white shirt and black bow tie.  The four of us trooped inside, looking around at the lush gardens spectacularly lit by concealed lighting.  The house, too, was lit up by lights located on the outer side of the moat, which cast flickering water reflections over the white plastered walls.

We walked up the wide flagstoned pathway to the front door.  It was opened by another bow-tied lackey just as we got there.  Emma made us slaves take off our sandals and put them beside others at the door.  We were greeted – or rather Serina and Emma were greeted – by a woman I could only assume was Madam Wong.  She was dressed in a white leather sleeveless dress slit to the waist with a hemline only a short way down her thighs.  Her legs were encased in thigh-high matching white leather boots with heels that added considerably to her petite stature.  Her hair fell in a thick black bob to her jaw line, forming a striking contrast to the white of her outfit.  Despite her small size, she had a presence that oozed authority and power.  She embraced Serina and – after sizing her up – did the same with Emma.  Madam Wong appeared most impressed by Emma’s obvious assets  - in contrast to the usual Chinese figure.  There was some discussion which I took to be complimentary and flattering, judging from the way Emma blushed.  I had never been able to assess from the sound of a Cantonese conversation what might be being said, for even the most approving of comments could sound like an insult with the tones of the Cantonese.  But this time, with all the smiling going on, I was sure I was not wrong.

Behind Madam Wong was another woman, dressed in a figure-hugging red latex cat suit.  I suspected this was Portia Tang, Serina’s friend, judging from the way the pair embraced and the way Emma moved quickly to be introduced and to prevent any sort of intimate conversation that might take place.  Portia had long red nails that matched her outfit and shoulder-length black hair that contrasted with it.  She eyed Emma in a way I had seen before – the look one woman gives another when they are assessing the competition.

While all this was going on, Madam Wong had circled Monica and I where we had been standing in the background.  This was where things could come unstuck and I knew it was a critical moment.  Madam Wong ran her hands over Monica, lingering on her breasts as they stood out, delineated by the black leather straps of her harness. 

Then it was my turn, and the white-painted nails lingered on my own nipples and crotch, while Madam Wong said “Aiyaah…” under her breath.  ‘Aiyaah’ I knew as a wonderful Cantonese exclamation that could mean anything from amazement and wonder, to disappointment and regret.  I did not dwell on its meaning in this particular instance.

Emma intruded at this point in a flurry of Cantonese amidst which I heard the words ‘Monica’ and ‘Steven’.  I imitated Monica and stared at the ground.  Introductions over, Monica and I followed our respective Mistresses into what I assumed to be a formal entertaining room.  It was here that our eyes fell on to the display centrepiece of the room.  Standing on her tip toes, her bound wrists suspended from a steel cantilevered bar, her lovely facial features distorted by a ball strapped behind her teeth, was Jillian.

*   *   *