Our first reaction was a mixture of amazement at such a stunning sight, mixed with an overwhelming relief that despite her predicament we had found Jill and she appeared to be all right.  As I looked more closely I saw that her bondage was simple but very effective and very painful, for she had both big toes bound together with thick twine, and the same had been done to her thumbs.  In order to take the weight off her thumbs, which were turning a dark blue colour, she was obliged to stand on her tiptoes, which in turn placed tension in her toes.  The cinching twine from her thumbs was trained over the pulley on the horizontal bar to drop behind the foliage to somewhere it was presumably secured.

Jill’s head was down and her eyes were closed, and I could see tear stains on her cheeks.  Her legs were quivering from the strain and I could hear tiny whimperings escaping from behind the black ball on the matching strap.  I glanced at Emma as Madam Wong and Portia stopped beside us.  Emma appeared to be struggling with her emotions as she stood there gazing at her lover.  There was an animated conversation between the Chinese women, which seemed to be along the lines of how pretty the Gweipo looked and what a wonderful display she made.  Emma appeared to pull herself together and tried not to look at her friend. 

I got the impression that we were the last of the guests to arrive, for there was a knot of people on the patio beyond the french doors, and Madam Wong now evidently decided that everybody had seen her prize, for she ordered Portia to undo the display centrepiece.

At the release of the tensioned cord on her thumbs Jillian groaned and opened her eyes.  Clearly she had been away in subspace somewhere, trying to shut out the pain and hurt.  The knot of people in front of her initially did not register as unusual until she focussed on Emma, trying to look indifferent and in control.  It was perhaps fortunate she was gagged, for Jill’s eyes widened in astonishment and a muted squeak escaped from behind the ball.  Emma deliberately turned away while Jill lowered her arms and could finally stand flat on the platform.  She obviously grasped the situation quickly, for she looked hard at the hooded figures that were Monica and myself and evidently worked out the next logical step.  She recognised Serina as well, which may have confused her somewhat, given that the last she had seen of Serina was during the photographic session she had been through with Leila at the warehouse.  What was Serina now doing in the company of Emma, with Monica trailing on a leash behind her?  I was sure Jill would figure it out.

The tears streamed down Jill’s face as Portia cut the thumb and toe twine, but Portia gave her no time to recover, ordering her hands behind her back where they were promptly handcuffed.  For Jill, however, I suspect anything was better than the awful display she had been part of.  My heart went out to her as she turned to leave with Portia and I saw terrible weals and bruises across Jill’s buttocks and the backs of her thighs.  I heard a sharp intake of breath from Emma but I jerked my lead to distract her attention.  Madam Wong said something to Portia, who marched her limping captive away, while we guests and slaves followed Madam Wong towards the other party animals. 

We passed through a large drawing room perhaps a dozen metres square, with a high ceiling and punkah fans.  The decoration was all Portuguese Colonial, or so it seemed to my untrained eye.  Ornate cornices and ceiling plasterwork, old paintings and lots of over-stuffed chairs and settees that looked uncomfortable.  Double doors in the opposite wall mirrored the doors through which we had entered, while to the right two pairs of french doors opened on to the patio where happy partygoers mingled.

The patio was about half the size of the drawing room, over hung with large trees decorated with strings of tiny lights.  The patio was edged with a stone balustrade over which I caught glimpses of still water shimmering under the garden lights.  At the outer corners of the patio were two poles topped with the electric version of old fashioned carriage lights.  The most noticeable thing about the light poles was the fact that a naked woman was tied to each, her wrists pulled back over her head and knotted together around the pole.  Such was our first impression of the fun times ahead with these people.

I have to say it was a bizarre mixture, though of course I should not have been surprised.  There were eight others there – three doms and four slaves, one of whom was male, and who belonged to the only domme.  All were Chinese, which presumably meant that conversation would not be too taxing for Monica and me, irrespective of the balls still lodged securely in our mouths.  We two slaves were directed to kneel in a corner with the male slave and one of the females, while Madam Wong introduced Emma and Serina.  The doms were quite taken with the pair, I surmised, although the two slaves secured to the poles were the real centre of attention.  There was much laughter and chatter between those able to do so, while Monica and I knelt on the flagstones and sized up the opposition.

Next to us was a little runt of a man, maybe in his late thirties, wearing a complex strap harness somewhat more involved than my own.  He wore a head harness with a bit gag  and he did not look at us, instead staring steadily at the ground.  Beyond him was a pleasant looking girl with a long ponytail.  She was naked and also wore a rubber bit gag.  She glanced shyly at us then looked down guiltily as we two hooded figures returned her stare with unabashed curiosity. 

I studied the other two naked women who were the object of the group’s attention.  One was slightly overweight, with short hair and slightly pendulous breasts, while the other was your typical Chinese beauty – slim, long coal black hair, and not a lot up front.  They were undergoing a treatment I had heard Monica refer to as whiplash.  Each girl held a coiled up whip in her mouth, while clothes pegs were applied to various parts of her body.

There was much chatter amongst the dom(me)s, and after a couple of minutes I realised what was going on, in that they were betting against each other.  Emma told me later that the first slave to lose the whip from her mouth was the loser and of course her master or mistress also lost face.  The incentive to make the slave lose her grip was pain, albeit of the non-blood-letting type.

The clothes pegs were wooden, and I suspect the jaws had been adapted with a little discrete filing to give a smaller contact area and a larger sensation – if you could use that euphemism.  They were placed five at a time, each group of five being joined by a string with a short tail hanging free.  This game, also known as ‘zipper’, was characterised firstly by the application of the pegs and then by the removal of them through jerking of the strings, so that the pegs popped off the flesh like a zipper being undone.  This was particularly the case where a lot of pegs were joined by a single string.

While this was going on, I eyed the other ‘guests’ – for we slaves could not be said to fall into that category.  Two of the three men were dressed casually in dark slacks and black shirts, while the third wore leather pants and a matching waistcoat.  It seemed that dress standards for Doms were less showy than those for the female equivalent, with the only Domme wearing a tight pvc skirt and halter-neck, which I thought made her look more slutty than dominant.  She had short hair barely covering her ears and a look of fierce concentration as the pegs were placed on the helpless bound slaves.  I had a feeling that Miss Halter-neck was Mistress over the Runt next to me.  Something in their appearances suggested an appropriate match.

Of the two non-leathered Doms, one was a large man with a hairline moustache who could have been a lightweight sumo wrestler in another life.  I pitied the slave who wound up on the receiving end of his wrath for he was built like the proverbial brick shithouse and I was sure it wasn’t all flab under the clothes.  Had he worn leather, I would have surmised at least two cows would have met their maker in order to properly clothe him.

The one who had visited the leather shop was definitely into image projection, if the additional black leather wristbands and assorted studdery on his waistcoat were anything to go by.  He had longish hair and was probably in his mid-thirties, and obviously had an eye for gold if the medallions around his neck were an indication.  I thought he looked more like a refugee from the set of Grease.

The last man was perhaps forty and going bald, but he did not appear to have too many illusions about himself.  He was the most restrained of the group and I suspected the most experienced, for the others seemed to defer to him whenever he wished to say something.   In my mind I made up names for the group:  Sumo, Baldy, Grease and Halter-neck, and their charges Runt, Ponytail, Plump and Waif.

I watched as Serina and Emma mingled with the others.  Emma was sticking close to Serina, who periodically shifted her weight and tugged down on the hem of her skirt.  I guessed those nasty plastic inserts were still worrying her, together with the thought of what life would be like if those cockroaches found their way out. 

A waitress appeared – at least I momentarily took her for that.  She was wearing a pale silver satin cheongsam – or what had once been such, for it had been re-tailored quite beyond what the original intent had been.  The high collar was still there, but it was half hidden beneath a stainless steel collar of a type that I had also had intimate experience with in one of my past misadventures.  The front of the dress had two holes cut for the girl’s breasts to project through, although truth to tell this girl was pleasantly though not overly endowed in this area.  The dress was slit not just to the thigh but to the waist, and it was evident that she was naked beneath it.  Her hair hung down her back, almost to her waist, in a single braid.

She shuffled in demurely on bare feet and I saw her ankles sported steel cuffs which were linked by a thin hobble chain.   She carried a tray with a glass of champagne on it, but the mode of transport was not the usual one, for the girl’s wrists were handcuffed behind her.  The tray was positioned at her waist, the back edge attached to a belt while the front edge was supported by two chains, the top ends of which were clipped to her nipples with nasty looking silver clamps.  One could only hope she had to carry no more than one drink at any time. 

I looked closely at her, thinking that there was something familiar about her. Never let it be said all Chinese look alike, for they come in all shapes and sizes, just like us Gweiloes.  Then I realised where I had seen her before – or rather the family likeness.  This must be Weiwei, Kuan’s sister.  Another piece of the jigsaw fell into place and another target was identified.

My attention was diverted from Weiwei by a cheer from the guests in the plump girl’s corner, where it appeared that the clothes pegs had finally run out.  Both girls now looked like human porcupines, with the wooden pegs sticking out in weird patterns from all parts of their bodies, from their upper arms, winding down their torsoes, into their crotches and down their inner thighs.  Their breasts had been a major focus of attention, now being covered in whorls of pegs that looked like a bizarre art form.  Both girls still had their whips clamped in their mouths, but were looking decidedly apprehensive, as Portia blindfolded first one, then the other with silk scarves.  I guessed this was to deprive them of the ability to anticipate which string of pegs was to be ripped off each time, with the surprise element being as big a feature as the pain itself.

The plan now was simple enough.  A string of pegs was ripped from each girl alternately, with the guests taking turns to pull the trailing strings, in whatever area took their fancy.  Baldy had taken charge of a white board that Portia had hung on a hook on the wall, and looked to be organising the bets.  While there was no money changing hands, I assumed there would be a reckoning at the end of the night.  Madam Wong and the three men appeared to be the main participants.  The board was soon covered in a series of characters with numbers alongside them. 

One by one the peg strings were ripped off.  The participants did this in an irregular way, trying to catch the girls off guard.  The plump girl appeared to waver when two successive pulls removed the pegs from directly across each nipple, but it was the thin girl who was caught by a particularly nasty removal that came up her thigh and included the final two on one of the lips of her pussy.  These were pulled off by Madam Wong with a nasty sideways movement which brought an uncontrollable gasp from the bound victim and a vain head movement to try to retrieve the cat which fell from her lips.  There was much laughing and what appeared to be commiserations for Baldy, and I surmised that the thin girl was his slave.  I guessed she would be in for a bit more punishment when he got her home.

The action was interrupted by the appearance of Jill at that moment.  She was dressed identically to Weiwei, except her cheongsam was black with a gold trim.  Like Weiwei’s it had holes for her breasts, which supported a tray my means of the wicked-looking clamps.  Her hands were similarly cuffed behind her but her ankles were free, and I have to admit the black satin against her pale skin and blonde hair looked quite stunning.

My opinion was obviously mirrored in the murmurs of appreciation from the guests – murmurs which continued as Jill moved amongst them with her tray of hors d’oeuvres offering them to the guests and telling them what each one was, in Cantonese. 

Madam Wong was nothing if not a showperson.  The effect of a gorgeous blonde Gweipo bound as a centrepiece had been impressive enough.  Now this same slave moved amongst them talking to them in their own language.  Much kudos for Portia and Madam Wong, who basked in it as though the sun had come out, smiling and nodding depreciatingly.  Emma took a small pastry from the tray and smiled at Jillian, her expression seeming to say: “just hold on, we’ll get you out.”  Jill lowered her head and tried not to look at her friend.

The plump girl had been untied from the lighting pole and had been directed to kneel next to the girl with the ponytail, while the thin girl remained bound, with only her blindfold removed and the remainder of the pegs staying in place.  I assumed this was part of her punishment and I wondered what was next on the agenda.  My thoughts were addressed as Madam Wong walked over to stand in front of the kneeling slaves.  The white leather boots with the tall heels lingered in front of each of us, like a general inspecting her troops, or more likely looking for volunteers.  The boots paused in front of me, then moved on to the hooded figure of Monica, next to me.

“This one,” said Madam Wong, poking Monica with the toe of her boot, before moving back to the other end and picking out the girl with the ponytail.  The pair of them were taken from my sight at that point and I was obliged to continue kneeling, unable to see what was going on, for perhaps ten minutes, while the guests chatted amongst themselves and poor Jill and Weiwei circulated with more drinks and nibbles, the trays still supported by the clamps on their nipples.

At length Emma gave me a nudge with her foot and murmured: “Turn around.”

I did so, and was able to look through the gaps between the stone balusters supporting the parapet coping, on to the scene beyond.  The view gave out on to the ornamental moat that seemed to encircle the house, one edge against the building, the other winding in and out of islands or patches of the luxuriant garden foliage.  Our balcony was only a metre or so above the water, and only half that above the surrounding garden.  About five metres away the water narrowed to a width of perhaps two metres in a small incursion into the garden.  The edges at that point were formed of flat rock platforms – the kind of place one would feed goldfish from, perhaps.

Monica and the girl with the ponytail stood facing each other on opposite rock ledges.  I was looking at them from side on, and I could see that both had their wrists handcuffed behind them.  A chain had been locked to Monica’s handcuffs and fed between her legs, across the water to be locked to a chain connecting Ponytail’s two nipples.  This chain was anchored by two nasty-looking crocodile clips.  The reverse also applied, with a nipple chain between Monica’s clamped breasts linked by a separate chain to the other girl’s handcuffs, via a passage through her crotch.

Behind Monica stood Serina, while behind her opponent stood the greasy guy in the leather trousers.  Obviously there was more to this game than which girl got wet.  There was major face saving on the line. 

“The one who pulls the other into the water wins,” Emma said softly. “Whoever goes into the water has to be rescued by their Master or Mistress.”

Looking at the two girls, already tensed, I decided that this was going to be a rather painful process, and I was glad it was them and not me.  Baldy was now doing the rounds and taking bets.  I don’t know who I’d have put my money on – this sort of thing was way beyond my experience.  Both girls were of a similar build, and while Monica was considerably better endowed than the Chinese girl, I could not guess how this would affect the outcome.  Was it better to have bigger, more flexible boobs, or smaller tauter ones?  Size or pertness?  Nope, this was not a road I would go down – the girls could debate this themselves.

There was the sound of a whip cracking.  It was Madam Wong signalling the start of the contest.  The strain was immediately apparent.  Each girl was positioned only a few inches from the edge of the water, giving them precious little room to concede.  It was a new version on arm wrestling, and I was glad Monica wore the discipline helmet, for I could imagine her features contorting under it, and the picture made me decidedly unhappy.

I could see the Chinese girl’s face clearly, illuminated by one of the many lights positioned about the garden to light up the trees.  She was totally focussed on her opponent, trying to lean back but unable to.  The chains were quivering between the two girls, their breasts elongating from the tug of the clips firmly gripping in their nipples.  Whines of pain came from behind the gags – it was hard to tell who was doing more of it.  The Chinese girl’s face was screwed up with the pain and I could see her gritting her teeth on the bit gag. 

The guests were spurring their choices on in raucous Cantonese, but I’m sure both were oblivious to the cries, such was their concentration.  The night was sticky and warm, and the sweat was running freely on both contestants’ bodies as they struggled for an advantage.  Without knowing the nature of her opponent, I did know that Monica possessed an iron will and a determination matched by few other females I have encountered.  She was also calculating under pressure, as I had seen before.  I wondered how long the two could keep it up, and just watching the strain on those nipples made me wince.  Tears were streaming down the face of Ponytail, and I suspect there might have been a few under the black leather hood with its fringe of black hair at the base.  It looked as though it was not so much who could gain the physical lever to overcome the other, but who would weaken first from the pain. Something was going to have to happen soon to break the impasse. 

That something came from Monica, who slowly began to bend at the knees.  With hindsight it was an obvious move, for it lowered her centre of gravity, and the Chinese girl did not realise what Monica was doing until it was too late.  When she was almost in a squatting position Monica had the ability to give herself a shove backwards with her bent legs.  It must have hurt like hell but the girl with the ponytail had no answer for it, and tumbled forward, falling into the water in an ungainly splash.

The water was barely a little more than knee deep, but the girl emerged snorting and coughing into the gag.  She was clearly in distress and a pause seemed to descend on the watchers as we waited for her master to do something.  Mr Leatherpants seemed reluctant, however, to get the aforementioned garment wet.  No doubt they had cost him a fair chunk of money, but that would be nothing compared to having to jump into the water for the sake of a mere slave.  What happened next, however, astonished me, for in fact it was Emma who appeared beside Leatherpants and stepped off the rock ledge, wading the few steps to the girl who was now doubling over trying to breathe and cough at the same time.  Emma unbuckled and removed the gag with a swift movement and allowed the dripping girl to gasp and cough until she eventually regained her breath sufficiently to climb out with Emma’s help.  The others applauded Emma as she climbed out, for it was an unwritten law that the welfare of a slave is the responsibility of his or her master or mistress.  Clearly Leatherpants’ actions had not gone down well and he had in fact lost more face than if he had jumped in himself. 

Serina returned with Monica – now minus those terrible clips – to the patio, where Emma was replacing the high heels she had slipped off prior to getting wet.  The bottom of her leather skirt was slightly damp but she evidently dismissed any suggestion that she remove it. 

It wasn’t hard to guess that I was to be next up on the entertainment roster for the evening – something I was dreading, based on performances to date, all of which involved a degree of pain.  Emma bade me stand up and follow her down the steps to a small paved area in the midst of the spectacular garden.  The Runt and the woman in the halter-neck and pvc skirt were there already.  Emma took the key to the gag from Serina’s backpack and undid the lock at the back of my neck.  She removed the gag from my mouth but clicked the steel shut again so that it hung loosely around my neck.

“This is a race,” she said simply.  “If you win, I get to give a beating to the little guy.  If you come second, she – “ Emma indicated Mistress Halter-neck – “gets to give you a beating.  In that case I won’t be able to do anything to help you, Steven.  Those are the rules.”

I worked my jaw.  “Where do we race to?”

“Around the house and back here.  Follow the chalk marks on the pathway.”

“That’s it?”

“Uh-huh.  Except for the apple.”

“The apple?”

“Yes.  You have to carry an apple on a spoon in your mouth, a bit like the egg-and-spoon race.  If you arrive without the apple on the spoon, you pay a penalty of five seconds.  Okay?”

“Sure.”

That was when I saw the fine print in the fact that the apple had a hole cored through it, and threaded through this hole was a thin chain about two metres  long, which ended in two serrated clips of the kind Monica had so recently endured.  What was it about Madam Wong and nipples, I wondered?

Emma towed me to the starting line and stuck a large dessertspoon in my mouth.

“Put it between your back teeth,” she instructed.  “Clamp down on it and keep your head steady.”  She balanced a large granny smith apple on the spoon in as steady a position as possible, while I tried to keep my head still as her hands, carrying the crocodile clips, went out of my range of vision.  I felt the momentary touch of cold steel against each nipple before the bite of the teeth in to my flesh made me jump sufficiently to upset the apple.  I caught it as it fell, just before the load would have impacted on my nips.

“Oh yes,” Emma added as an afterthought.  “That sort of thing is not allowed.  It encourages cheating when people are out of sight.  Hands behind back, please.”  I replaced the apple gingerly and did as I was told, feeling the snap and ratchet of handcuffs about my wrists.  “When the apple’s off, it stays off,” Emma said.  “That adds a more tangible penalty than just the five seconds.”

Damned right, I thought. Things would be decidedly unpleasant with a nipple-borne granny smith banging about between your knees.

I turned my head slowly, moving a pace or two to get the feel of how stable the apple was.  I noticed it obstructed my vision of the ground ahead, but otherwise seemed reasonably steady if I kept my head level.  I looked across at the Runt and his Mistress.  She returned my stare with a look that seemed to say that she would take great pleasure in giving me a thorough thrashing.  The Runt was now lined up beside me, and before I realised it, Madam Wong had chanted “Saam…Yee…Yat…” then had cracked a bullwhip which almost made me drop the apple straight away.

We were off, with the little man marginally ahead as I tried to work out how fast I could go, while still watching for the chalk arrows on the path.  I was again conscious of the butt plug up my arse.  It moved disconcertingly with my own motion and I wondered if my opponent had something similar to contend with.  Up until now in the slow walk and kneeling mode I had been able to ignore it.  Now it was making itself felt in a distracting way I could have done without. 

I increased my pace, my eyes trying to watch the ground while my brain tried to keep my head steady.  Rounding the first corner I found my longer strides had me just in front as the pathway began to wind in and out of little pockets of garden, with sidetracks branching off at intervals.  We crossed a main path that I suspected might lead from a back entrance to the back gate.  Here the lighting was not so good.  At the second corner I reckoned I was maybe a couple of metres ahead, verging on a jog, almost. 

We were travelling anticlockwise around the house and momentarily the pathway veered away from the house as we approached the third corner, swinging wide through a large thicket of rhododendrons. I could not hear my pursuer now as the path swung back towards the front entry to the house.  That was when I suddenly saw him emerge off a side path to my left and scuttle across the main driveway towards the last corner. He was perhaps six metres ahead of me!  The little bugger had taken a short cut, which meant he had either done this before or been told about it.  Bastard!

I accelerated into the last corner in a bid to catch him and of course that led to my disaster when a twig coming out of the half-light made me flinch just enough to upset the apple cart, so to speak.  I grunted with the pain as the apple dropped and tugged hard on the steel jaws fastened to my nipples.  Knocking it with my knees didn’t help as I came in sight of the finishing line.  I realised I would never catch him, and had slowed to a disconsolate and painful walk by the time I reached Emma.  She took the spoon out of my mouth but made no attempt to remove the clips.

“The bastard took a short cut!”  I hissed to her.  “And take these bloody clips off, Em!”

“Shhh,” she whispered.  “Don’t make a scene or I’ll be forced to gag you again and you’ll get no dinner.  The rule is that losers stay in their losing gear for half an hour after the end of the game.  And I will not bring up the short cut at the risk of upsetting everyone – especially Madam Wong.  I’m sure I can get her to let us stay the night.”

I did not argue as she led me - still handcuffed and still with that wretched apple banging about my knees - after the other guests.  I looked at Halter-neck as I passed.  She was watching me with an predatory look that sent a shiver down my spine.  She tapped a riding crop against the skirt stretched tautly across her thigh and licked her lips.  It was an expression that crossed the cultural and language divide.  She was going to have me for a long and painful accounting session, I knew. 

We passed through the drawing room through the other french doors to the dining room, where a large round table set for eight awaited us. I say ‘us’ but in fact it was ‘them’ rather than us slaves who got to sit at the table.  Us mere mortals got to kneel beside our masters and mistresses, on the marble floor.  I was starting to get just a trifle sick of cold flooring.

Emma waited until Madam Wong had selected her seat and promptly sat next to her, inserting herself between Serina and the hostess, while Portia took the seat on Madam Wong’s right hand side.  I found myself on my knees between Monica and Jill, in circumstances that were sufficiently bizarre to be up there with some of the more weird situations I had found myself in since joining the Bilboes team.  We all still had our wrists cuffed behind us from our exploits, but at least the girls had pain free nipples.

The dinner was in the tradition of all Chinese banquets – a multitude of courses that seemed to go on forever.  Emma discretely lowered her chopsticks beside her chair to feed me tasty morsels, as did Serina to Monica.  I guessed she was starting to see Monica as an insurance policy for the future. 

The Cantonese chatter carried on endlessly and I lost count of the courses at around number eleven.  At an early stage Emma undid the clips from my nipples after some intensive lobbying by me.  She was talking nineteen to the dozen with the hostess – I had never known her to be so loquacious, for she was normally quite reserved.  Clearly she was buttering up Madam Wong, who seemed quite taken with her.  But I could follow none of the conversation and had to be content with gazing at the various pairs of legs under the table or attempting to lighten mood by making faces at Jillian and Monica. 

It was only when Weiwei shuffled in with the brandy that my waning spirits revived.  Weiwei still wore the hobble chain, cheongsam and displayed her bare breasts, but was now permitted to carry the dishes in her hands.  With the brandy came a pause when a huge birthday cake was wheeled out for Madam Wong, and then guests sang ‘Happy Birthday’ in Cantonese.  The Chinese loved birthday parties for they meant an excuse to eat and drink and have a good time.  Most of all they meant giving presents, regardless of how well one might know the birthday person.  Before the cutting of the cake, Portia stood up and made a brief announcement, which I reckoned was something to the effect that Jillian had something to say.  Jill stood up, still handcuffed, between where Emma and Madam Wong sat.  All eyes turned to the blonde, who blushed with the attention before making a speech in Cantonese.  She did so with what appeared to be some fluency – not that I was qualified to judge – and she seemed to do really well until near the end when she must have got something wrong, for there was a snigger from the audience and I saw Emma briefly bury her head in her hands.  Jill carried on bravely and finished to hearty applause, but I had a sneaking suspicion that some damage had been done.  I glimpsed Portia at the end, and it was clear she was furious.

Jill returned to the floor beside me and Madam Wong made a speech in response, which provoked much laughter.  She was evidently quite a wit.  Then it was time to return to the drawing room where Weiwei brought round more drinks.  I saw Emma and Serina in earnest conversation and hoped it was the finalisation of Serina and Monica’s departure.

But before anybody left, however, it seemed Madam Wong had some more entertainment up her sleeve.  Emma whispered in my ear:

“You’re going to give Madam Wong a little birthday present.”

“What?”   She explained it to me.  I was aghast.  “You’re kidding!  In front of everyone?”

“Yes.  I’ve made a bet with Joan – told her how good you are.” Oh, so it was Joan, now, and volunteering Steven’s services without so much as a by your leave.  “But don’t think you’ll be on your own.  Joan has volunteered Jill for me.”  There was a huge smile on Emma’s face.  “It will be a race, to see who comes first – literally.”  She grinned.

“So what do I do, let Jill win?”

“Of course not, silly.  Just do your thing.  If Joan climaxes second, the kudos goes to Jill, and thus Joan.  If she climaxes first, well, the hostess gets a nice birthday present and walks away with a smile on her face.  Either way, we insinuate ourselves further.”  She looked inordinately pleased with the arrangement.  That was all right for her.  She was getting back together with her Jill while Yours Truly was doing all the hard work.

Madam Wong turned around a large sofa and pushed it against the wall, then gestured for Emma to join her.  They made a striking pair – Madam Wong in her white thigh boots and split leather dress, and Emma in her black cleavage-showing top and skirt with black stockings and high heels.  The pair positioned themselves so they could lean on the back of the sofa and waved Jillian and myself over to take our places.  This time we got cushions to kneel on.

I knelt down in front of the Chinese woman, between the white leather boots that stretched halfway up her thighs.  Jill did likewise in front of Emma.  I caught her eye and she winked at me.  Both recipients raised their skirts to show us the target areas, and I saw that mine was clean-shaven, which was perhaps a good thing, considering my limitations under the leather hood.  I heard the hostess give the usual countdown, but without the whip crack this time.  After that I had a mouth full of pussy and sort of lost track of time.  Whoever won this, I wanted to at least give a halfway decent account of myself to cement our relationship with Madam Wong as part of the plan. 

As I said, I lost track of time, so intent was I on what my tongue was doing.  Madam Wong had me up under her skirt and in no time my head was trapped between the booted thighs and held securely by her hands.  Whether she intended to deliberately suffocate me I don’t know, but I was in no doubt that the quicker I brought her to a climax the more chance of I had of surviving without permanent brain damage through oxygen deprivation.  It was quite a motivation, with the situation not helped by a certain amount of blood that went to Mr Willy of its own accord, adding to blood loss up top. 

I had never had a satisfactory answer for that phenomenon – exactly where did the blood come from that caused an erection?  Did that mean the bigger your dick the more some other part suffered from blood loss?  Did this in turn lend credence to the big dick, small brain myth?  In the midst of suffocating in Chinese pussy, my hands cuffed helplessly behind me, I became dimly aware of some yelling somewhere in the distance.  Trapped in the leather hood, which in turn was held tightly by thighs and hands, my senses were focussed on the pink morsel before me, in the interests of self-preservation. 

It came as a surprise when I was released abruptly and Madam Wong doubled over, her hands in her crotch and squeezed between her thighs.  She was moaning and trembling and uttering some phrase under her breath, shaking her head as she did so.  I was busy gasping for air myself, only then becoming aware of Jill also sitting back on her haunches with an exceedingly flushed look, while Emma did a performance not dissimilar to Madam Wong’s.  It wasn’t hard to work out that Jill would know all the buttons to push to get Emma pretty revved up, and she obviously hadn’t lost her touch.

There was applause from others present but I barely heard it.  Madam Wong and Emma embraced and it was declared a tie by popular public demand.  After all that effort I thought it was appropriate to have a bit of a rest  - a sentiment Madam Wong breathlessly endorsed.  Except that Jill and I were the ones excluded from such a break.  Our problem, it seemed, was over-enthusiasm - if the flush in Jill’s cheeks and the bulge of Mr Willy in his leather pouch were anything to go by.  Madam Wong made us stand together, side by side.  We were pretty much the same height, Jill and I, and our hostess ran her fingers down to my crotch before rippling away the pouch from its stud attachments.  Of course Mr Willy popped out to inspect the audience, who were evidently as delighted as I was embarrassed.  I felt the heat rising to my face, but again the blood was coming from somewhere that had no effect on my mate.  I was sure I was the same colour as Jill, but thank God I still had the leather hood on.  Madam Wong asked a question of the audience, which was greeted by loud cheers and urgings.  Emma appeared looking nearly as flustered, and I wondered if things weren’t getting just a tad out of hand.  God, now what did we have to do?

“You have to do three circuits of the room,” said Emma.

“What do you mean?’ asked Jill.

“As…er…as a couple…” Emma said awkwardly. “I mean…coupled…  Without climaxing…”

Oh shit, I thought.  This was getting out of hand.  Before I knew it Baldy had got the whiteboard out again and the characters and numbers were appearing at lightning speed.  Welcome to Macau, Asia’s gambling capital, where even live sex shows can be wagered on. 

Jill looked shyly at me, while Mr Willy went into overdrive as Mr Brain sent some weird and not entirely unpleasant signals to the deep south.  Emma nudged me up to Jill and made me bend at the knees as she eased Mr Willy inside Jill.  It goes without saying that no lubrication was needed.  Jill was hot and wet and fired up by her performance with Emma.  I straightened slowly, feeling my buddy sliding smoothly inside.  Jill shuddered as I reached full embedment.  We were standing face to face, listening to each other’s rapid breathing.  Like me – as I later found out – she was wondering how on earth we were going to complete three circuits of the room without one of us climaxing, so aroused were we.  Portia appeared with a length of white cord which she tied about our waists, pressing Jill’s breasts, with their nipples as hard as flint, against my chest, leaving us nowhere to go but together.

I lead her off, moving ever so slowly, carefully, conscious again of the butt plug doing things that tended to be remarkably complimentary to those coming from the front end.  I had not made love to Jill before – not in a truly consensual fashion, anyway.  The nearest instance had been when I had been bound to a plank and Jill had taken wicked advantage of Mr Willy rising up like a missile launcher while I had been helpless to do anything.  I had been unable to object, mainly because my mouth had been full of rubber ball. 

Since then I had harboured periodic secret fantasies about Jill, as was perfectly natural, but the opportunity had never arisen and we had remained good friends instead, for I had no desire to interfere with her relationship with Emma. 

Until the day before she had left for Hong Kong, of course, when she had scored again, as I had lain helpless and blindfolded on the vaulting horse on the verandah, not knowing who was taking such exquisite advantage of me.  This made it two nil – a decidedly unfair situation I thought.

Now, here I was, in a room full of mostly strangers, my hands cuffed, with the beautiful Jillian impaled upon Mr Willy, who thought all his Christmases had come at once.  Except that they weren’t allowed to come.  Nor were we.  Life was…what?  Cruel?  Ironic? Bizarre?  I plumped, as usual, for ‘(d) – all of the above’.

We managed one circuit, moving to an unheard music.  The room seemed to have expanded and I had lost the awareness of the audience.  Jill had her eyes closed and I was conscious of her scent – a mixture of the lingering frangipani perfume and a more basic, raw muskiness that did nothing to settle Mr Brain down. 

By the time we had somehow completed the second circuit we had settled into a rhythm of movement that – practical as it was for covering the floor like a slow motion version of Ginger Rogers and Fred Astaire – threatened to lead down another path.  It has been said, tongue in cheek, that Methodists frowned on sex standing up because it could lead to the sin of dancing.  Here the reverse was rapidly becoming the case.  Mr Willy was moving, moving, as was Mr Butt Plug, while Mr Brain was suddenly thinking… house plans, times tables, cricket teams – anything to distract from those delicious feelings arising from my loins.  I tried to ignore the movement of Jill’s nipples in the vicinity of my own, which – like hers, I suspected – were super-sensitive after the treatment they had received in the last few hours.

We reached the end of the third circuit.  I had decided that nobody had said anything about coming during the forth, but Portia was too quick, whipping the waist rope away and forcing me to withdraw.  I did so with a groan of exquisite pleasure that I could not suppress and that was echoed from Jill, who squatted down and stared at the floor while the guests sorted out their bets and laughed and commiserated with each other.  Frustration was just too inadequate a word. 

“Cover yourself up!” snapped Emma, somewhat peeved, I thought, as she reached down and replaced the studded pouch over Mr Willy.  I had a distinct suspicion Emma was jealous, although she could hardly complain after the thorough tonguing that Jill had given her only minutes before.

The end of the floorshow seemed to be the signal that the night was over, and the guests began to say their farewells to Madam Wong.  I saw Serina prise Monica’s mouth open and jam a ball gag through the hood opening while the other guests were accompanying Madam Wong to the door.  Serina slipped the leash on Monica’s collar and dragged her away, leaving Emma and myself still in the drawing room.  I glimpsed Monica’s eyes wide through the eyeholes of the hood, for she had not been appraised of the plan.  Serina obviously asked permission of Madam Wong to keep the handcuffs, for they stayed in place as she embraced the hostess and towed Monica towards the front door.  Monica’s head turned to look at us again, but this time the look was of anger.  Or was ‘fury’ a better word?  I saw Emma give a little wave.  Keeping Monica in the dark was like carrying out a coup.  Woe betide the plotters if it did not work out.