But life went on in Bilboes notwithstanding his presence, while we discussed what should be done to him and with him.  It was Monday, with Monica due back the next day, and I was preparing for an afternoon with one of my regulars, Peter.  Peter was a nice guy, if a little confused.  Whatever his past, he had a thing about schoolteachers and in particular a Miss Sharp.  I didn’t go into the psychology of it all – that sort of thing would only lead to tears and confusement, as Steven was inclined to say.  More to the point it had gone 2.30 and Peter was due soon, and I had just finished donning my Miss Sharp outfit.  And it was pretty sharp, if I said so myself.  Black high heels, black seamed stockings and a short navy skirt that required a rather severe waist cincher to show it off at its best.  Add a white tailored silk blouse and a narrow red tie, my hair pulled into a bun and a pair of spectacles and you get the general (if slightly clichéd) impression.  It was a kind of Wonder Woman in civvies thing.  The accessories would be (in due course) a range of canes and other punishment instruments, for Peter was now visiting a rather more severe school than he had been at as a lad, I guessed.

I was admiring my curves (yes, I am that vain) in the mirror when my mobile phone rang.  It was the courier company I had engaged in our plan to deal with Wayne Bennelli.  That phone call was the start of things going down the toilet on that particular afternoon, as the company advised that its direct shipment to Sydney was leaving a couple of hours earlier than was planned, and could I deliver the box of live turtles at an appropriately earlier time to their depot.

“Bugger!” I said to myself.  So much for an orderly, planned, Monday afternoon.

*   *   *

We had concluded that Wayne Bennelli’s ankle was not in fact broken but had been only badly bruised.  I think we had reached that assessment at one point when, under some encouragement from Mary (which admittedly in other circumstances might have been called ‘duress’) our Wayne had decided he could in fact hobble quite nicely if it meant staying ahead of a bullwhip. 

While I prepared for Peter, Wayne Bennelli was actually resting his injured ankle, located as he was in the dungeon, strapped to the dragon bench.  He had been undergoing rather painful nipple torture when we decided that activity could be concluded in return for removal of the ball from his mouth and the promise to cooperate and be quiet.  He was blindfolded at the time and could not identify the nature of the squeezy drink bottle we put to his lips, and he drank greedily. 

Once again we had had cause to call upon the wonders of technology as we prepared our man for his travel experience.  The wonders in this case were through a Bilboe Baggins Cocktail, or BBC for short – a concoction we had developed that included an appropriate portion of Rohypnol.  Truth be known we had copied the recipe from certain nightclubs on the Surfers Paradise circuit where it was used with rather regrettable consequences on gullible young girls – a practice we would never condone.  Bennelli was fair game, however, and having persuaded him to drink up like a good boy, it did not take long for his head to slump and he was away with the fairies.  Or perhaps – more literally – he very soon would be.

Mary and I had previously discussed his fate long and hard over several bottles of Sauvignon Blanc on the back verandah (such was the stressful life we led in the absence of Monica).  We had reviewed a number of different options and I’m sure had I not been there Mr Bennelli would have been fertilizer somewhere in the bush behind Bilboes, such was Mary’s ‘take no prisoners’ attitude.  We elected not to inform Monica of our executive decision-making, deciding that she would have enough on her mind trying to track down and rescue Jill.

The eventual solution we came up with was that Wayne Bennelli should be sent away somewhere that he would be appreciated and where he would learn what it was like to be on the receiving end – but perhaps with a different flavour to the punishment that had been inflicted on him to that point by the two of us.  Our punishment had been very physical, and to some extent psychological, since several times we had literally scared the crap out of him.  In this instance we decided we wanted something a little more sexually stimulating for him.  That was when Mary suggested the Dykes on Bikes and their male associates the Bi-Bikers, who operated out of Sydney and usually featured prominently in the Gay and Lesbian Mardigras. 

Mary made some enquiries with some old media contacts and it wasn’t long before we had the address of the gang headquarters.  We figured Wayne would be a real hit with them – particularly if accompanied by a suitably descriptive letter detailing his activities and crimes.

To get him down to Sydney was the problem.  It’s all very well what you read in cheap B and D novels, but sending a live person from A to B (never mind from B to D) is something that takes a bit of planning, particularly when the participant is unwilling. 

I wanted Wayne to arrive ready for action, so to speak – naked and kneeling with his arse in the air.  I only wished I could get to see the expressions on the faces of the recipients – not to say Wayne himself - at the grand opening.  But regrettably such could not be the case.  The origin of Wayne would have to remain anonymous – at least between us and the recipients.  I did not think Wayne would have much to gain by blurting out the details of his humiliation at the hands of two females.  In the days following our decision I had been busy in Steven’s workshop, glad of the hours I had ‘assisted’ him there.

So here I was, now having to run around in a tight skirt and high heels like a common labourer – albeit a skilled one experienced in mixing all manner of odd brews, both for internal and external use.  Mary was more sensibly dressed in jeans and skivvy as we accelerated our program to get Wayne ready for delivery.

Our first priority was to instil a degree of silence into him, through the fitting of a mouthguard.  It was the ordinary sort you see rugby players or boxers wearing, available cheaply at a local sports store.  This particular version had been modified slightly.  Firstly it had a hole drilled through the front to allow a straw to be poked through. Wayne would not be getting any solid food for quite a while, since both top and bottom surfaces of the mouthguard were carefully coated with five-minute epoxy glue - sufficient to ensure his teeth were locked on to the mouthguard for however long it took until the glue finally failed.  If that was a month, then so be it as far as we were concerned.  He could shed a few pounds at the same time. 

“Some people would pay good money for this sort of weight loss program,” I said to Mary in the dungeon as we secured Wayne’s head while the glue set.

“Maybe we should suggest that Jill incorporates it in her fitness program with all those nice electrical gadgets in the gym,” Mary agreed.  “Could be a nice little earner.”

As Wayne sat strapped on the dragon bench I mixed up our next concoction – this one courtesy of ocean racing technology.  By the time Wayne’s mouthpiece had set in place, I was ready. 

Fibreglass resin was wonderful stuff.  Just add a small amount of catalyst to the clear treacle-like liquid and stir it up and in a few minutes the stuff had set hard.  Our first target for this application was Wayne’s crotch, where we had wrapped his dick and balls in very sticky elastoplast – the sort that would truly make his eyes water as he tried to disengage it from his pubic hair.  We filled a round plastic container – the sort you get with Chinese takeaways – with the mixed resin and then positioned it under Wayne’s equipment, which was lowered into it and left to set.  We kept the tip of his dick clear of the top, and pointed upward.  We did not want to stop Wayne’s ability to pee, and to make it difficult to direct the flow other than over himself seemed quite appropriate.

The process took ten minutes or so before we were able to remove the container, which had been coated with wax inside to allow it to come free.  The remains hung beneath him like a bizarre pendulum.  Our Wayne was going to be a very uncomfortable boy while he whittled away at the resin.

For the next stage we leaned him forward over a small coffee table on which sat two plastic trays, as long as a forearm and – coincidentally - about the same width and depth.  Wayne’s forearms fitted into them quite nicely and his unconscious form made not a sound as I poured the clear fibreglass resin over his arms up to the top of the trays.  A quarter of an hour later the blocks on his forearms were solid enough that we could remove them from the tray moulds like giant ice blocks.

At this point my master creation became the focal point.  In truth it was a packing case which Steven himself would have been proud of.  I had not hung around in his workshop for hours without learning a lot – some of it about carpentry, as well.  The travel case was like one of those fold-up cardboard houses that we used to cut out from the back of cereal packets as kids, before such a novelty became too mundane in an e-cereal world. 

On all four bottom edges were continuous piano hinges, allowing the sides to fold up or down.  The hinges ensured the floor/side joints would in no way come apart, while making access real easy.  The box would end up around a metre long by seventy centimetres high by – coincidentally – one man-width wide.  It was made of 16-millimetre plywood reinforced at vertical corners with full height steel angles, which would ultimately be screwed in place when the cargo was inside.  When I made stuff, it stayed made – to paraphrase Steven.

The first step in putting it together was to raise the two long sides, which Mary held in place while I fitted a length of 20 centimetre plastic water pipe between them.  This sounds weird, but this large diameter pipe was tough and formed a kind of support under a kneeling man.  It was held in place by three threaded steel rods which passed inside it from one side to the other and screwed up outside the case, also securing the two side walls. 

This done, we were ready for Wayne, and draped him carefully over the pipe, head down, forearms encased in resin now resting flush against the floor of the box.  A few turns of duct tape melded his torso solidly to the pipe beneath his stomach, enabling us to then repeat the resin exercise with his legs, from knees to toes, with the plastic trays staying in place this time.  As the resin was setting on his legs, I drilled through the arm blocks and screwed them rigidly to the floor of the case. 

“I am definitely not dressed for this,” I grumbled, kneeling amongst sawdust and debris from the inside of the case.

“You’re the sexiest-looking chippie I’ve seen for a while,” said Mary.  “You could handle a screwdriver for me any time.”

“Thanks,” I said, making a face at her.

Wayne was breathing easily as we fitted a rigid posture collar about his neck and taped that to a cross timber that I screwed in place at the back of his neck.  His head was thus held firmly in place such that there would be no obstruction to his airways.  A final few strips of duct tape across his mouth ensured that those loose lips of his would not be over-taxed during the journey.

By the time this was done, the leg blocks had set fully and I was able to drill through them and screw them to the floor as well.  No way was Mr Bennelli going to be moving at all.

Our final piece de resistance was in the form of a sudden inspiration from Mary, who wrote in a lovely arc over Wayne’s bruised and striped buttocks: “Mi arsa es su arsa”.

“What’s that about?” I asked her, as she put away the black felt pen, chuckling to herself.

“A little play on words, my dear,” she said smugly.  “Mi casa es su casa – my house is your house.  Old Spanish saying.  Rather appropriate, don’t you think?”

“Very droll,” I agreed, “though probably wasted on the recipients of our package unless they’re as learned as you.”

“Maybe,” she agreed, just as there was a loud ding-dong from the corridor.  It was the relay from our front gate, which we used like a night switch on an unattended phone when there was nobody upstairs to receive the call from the gate intercom.

Mary went out to answer it while I checked the last of the fixings inside the crate before raising the end walls and putting a couple of screws in the holes I had pre-drilled.  There were small air holes in the ends of the case, covered by small metal sections that let the air in but not prying eyes.  Above the holes was a stencilled notice that said “Live turtles, handle with care”.  That was just in case things went thump or grunt during transit, although it was for this reason that we had arranged a direct door-to-door delivery with an overnight carrier making a regular run.  The only problem was that the carrier had now decided to be irregular.

“It’s Peter,” said Mary as she re-appeared.

“Bugger. We’re running out of time.  Can you screw the lid on for me?  It’s all pre-drilled and there are the screws.  I’ll only be a few minutes while I get my boy settled down and in fear of his arse.”

“Sure thing.”

It still took me the best part of fifteen minutes to let Peter in, take him to the post room and tie him between the two timber supporting columns.  He was dressed in school uniform – somewhat of a change from clients wanting me in one, I might add.  I bound Peter’s wrists in front of him then hooked the cinch rope to the overhead pulley between the two posts, hauling them up over his head. I then secured his ankles, legs spread, with stretchy straps wrapped around the posts.  It wasn’t the most imaginative of positions but I was under a deadline.  It was a harsher school than most, perhaps – Peter was in detention, as far as I was concerned.  I blindfolded him and stuck a cane between his legs, in his crotch, and made him hold it there by clenching his buttocks together.  The pull on his ankles from the bungee straps would soon put a lot of strain on his legs and thence his buttocks.  Miss Sharp warned him that dropping the cane would double what he would shortly receive.  I left him with a tantalising grope of his erection bulging through the front of his short pants.

Mary was in a tizz, looking unusually flustered.

“What is it, what’s happening?” I asked.

“I’ve just had a call from Warren – he’s in town and wants to drop Christina off for a few hours and could we take care of her.  As if we have no booking system and nothing better to do,” she complained.

“Your problem,” I said.  “I’ve already got a customer.”

“Who does this guy think he is?” Mary demanded.

“You know perfectly well he’s our best customer and has paid for half the stuff in this room, not to mention that new outfit you bought last week.”

“All right, Miss Smarty Pants.  Look, I’ve done all these screws up.  We need to get this into the van.“

Our distinctive Ford Transit was parked outside the rear door which permitted direct access to the basement of the house.  We had positioned the crate on a small trolley that Steven had used for moving heavy stuff around when he was fitting out the basement.  We wheeled our cargo down the corridor to the door and around about that point our plan began to come unstuck, as the small castors promptly embedded themselves in the gravel pathway outside.

“Shit,” said Mary.

Things got worse as we tried to slide the crate along the gravel and found we could barely move it.  It was neither designed for speed, nor for comfort, I decided, having the handling qualities of a brick.  That was when we heard the ding-dong of the gate intercom again.

“That’ll be Warren,” I said.  “Maybe he can help us.”

“I’m going to get ready for him,” Mary elected and promptly disappeared towards her room.

But it wasn’t Warren outside the gate.

“This is Constable O’Connor,” said the disembodied voice.

“Er…yes?”

“I’m making inquiries about a ute that was found in the bush near here.  I’d like to come in and talk to the occupants.”  Damn! That must be Wayne’s ute! So that was what he’d done with it.

“Ah – it’s not really very convenient at the moment…”

“It won’t take more than a minute or two,” said the voice.  “Just some routine questions.”

“Oh…er…can you park around the back, then?  I have some visitors expected at any moment and I don’t want to alarm them with a cop car by the front door.”

“No problem, Ma’am.”

Ma’am?  How young was this guy?

Shitshitshit!  I pushed the button to open the gate and rushed out the back.  Mary was nowhere to be seen.  The box of ‘live turtles’ sat incriminatingly on the pathway, its cargo mercifully unconscious at the moment, but for how long?  Like we needed the turtles to become frisky just now…not!

“Uh…hullo Constable,” I said as the cop car pulled up beside the van.  Constable O’Connor was tall, blond and quite good looking.  He was also straight out of cop school. 

The questions seemed to go on interminably.  I was conscious of Peter hanging on to his cane, not to mention Wayne probably reviving a metre away and the time ticking on his projected departure time.  And Warren and Christina were due imminently.  I was also conscious that Constable O’Connor was performing a mental undressing of me between each question. 

In between each strip, we established that the ute was yellow and had been discovered by a walker on a track in the bush behind the property.  There had been camping gear in the back of it and it was evident to me that this had been Wayne’s base, even if Constable O’Connor had no grounds for such supposition.  I pleaded total ignorance to everything and thought we were almost finished when Mary appeared. 

The look on Cop Boy’s face as Mary sashayed down the steps and crossed the lawn was worthy of a portrait study, but I saw any chance of a quick release from this inquisition disappearing rapidly.  Mary was dressed in a sleeveless white leather catsuit with matching heels.  The suit design was simplicity itself, displaying a zip stretching from throat to crotch, complete with an ostentatious ring pull that screamed ‘In case of emergency pull me!’  Mary wore it at a level sufficient to display an adequate amount of cleavage that made Boy Cop’s eyes bulge, and I suspected that wasn’t the only part.  I was just thankful she had not plumped for one of her more extreme outfits.

“The Constable was explaining about a ute they found in the bush nearby,” I said.  Mary’s eyes narrowed as she eyed the constable up and down.  He blushed and appeared momentarily confused.  I could almost sense that this time it was Mary doing the undressing.  “I told him it was the first we had heard of it.”

“Uh-huh,” murmured Mary, licking her lips, her eyes never stopping their inventory of the cop.  I was wondering where all this sexual electricity was taking us when the dingdong sounded again through the open door.

“I’ll get it!” I said to nobody in particular and hurried inside past the case, closing the steel door behind me.

It was Warren. 

“Just dropping Christina off,” he said without so much as a greeting.  “Be back tonight some time.  Open the gate, will you?” 

I did so, and hurried upstairs to the front door.  Just as I was about to open it, Shawnee appeared from upstairs where she had presumably been making the beds or dusting.  Her hands were cuffed in front of her and she wore locked leather ankle cuffs connected by a short hobble chain.  Aside from that she was naked except for a waist and crotch chain that I knew would be keeping a butt plug in place, since Mary had been the instigator of her confinement. 

“Mistress – could you please unlock my cuffs – I need to do the ironing.”

“Bugger off Shawnee – I have enough on my plate at the moment.  Go back upstairs and stay there until I tell you!  Go on – now, girl!”  Shawnee looked crestfallen but turned and retraced her steps, the cheeks of her arse moving rhythmically either side of the leather strap disappearing between them.  I should make her run up and down the stairs ten times, I thought evilly.

I had expected Warren to be drawing up at the base of the steps but he was nowhere in sight as I went outside.  I heard the sound of a car departing out on the road and saw a solitary figure shuffling down the drive as the gate closed behind her.  Terrific, I thought.  Warren had done Christina up so she could move at a snail’s pace.  Now I just need Cop Boy to drive out.

Christina approached with awful slowness, not least because of the white latex hobble skirt she wore that clung to her body from ankle to waist.  Above this the top of a white corset was visible.  It stopped just below her breasts, supporting them quite unnecessarily, for Christina had an enviable figure.  Her breasts bounced as she stuttered along, accentuated by the pair of weights clipped to the nipples and suspended from them on what looked like thick rubber bands.  He arms were secured across her back in a white leather sheath that was strapped over her shoulders and between her shoulder blades. Predictably she was gagged with a white rubber ball on a white head harness - Warren was nothing if not anally retentive.  He had probably driven here with Christina in the boot of his Jag.

She seemed to take forever to get to the house.  In the end I was so frustrated that I ran to meet her and began to whip her bum with a green twig I broke off a shrub.

“Get inside, goddammit!  Go on! Move it you slut!”  I really did not want to have to explain this situation to anybody.  Christina hastened as much as she could, not understanding what was going on and making plaintive mewing sounds from behind the gag as the weights bobbed like yoyos from her breasts, up and down with each step.  The latex of the skirt was thin and tight over her buttocks as I let fly unmercifully at the taut target.  She yelped again as I chased her awkwardly up the front steps.

By the time we got inside she was panting furiously through her nose, all the while staring at me with those gorgeous blue eyes that asked what she had done wrong.  I was in no mood to explain as I hastened her down the stairs and along the passage to the Interrogation Room with its single chair and multiple Velcro straps.  It took little time to strap her into place and I was about to leave when the thought occurred to me that Warren would never let her out without some form of insert.  Reluctantly I unstrapped her and made her stand while I rolled the skirt down sufficiently to view her crotch.  Sure enough there was a crotch strap holding a vibrator in place, which I just had to turn on before replacing the skirt and straps.  Christina’s eyes widened and she made appreciative noises from behind the gag.  She also made little plaintive interrogative sounds, casting her eyes down to where the weights still bobbed from her nipples.

“No pain, no gain,” I told her firmly before shutting the door behind me.

When I emerged from the back door I was just in time to hear the cop car drive away.  Mary was just closing the back doors of the van and I saw the crate sitting in the back.

“Oh well done!” I exclaimed, relieved.  “Nothing like a bit of male brute strength, Mary.” 

She smiled enigmatically at me and I noticed she was flushed.  Had it been anybody else I would have put it down simply to the exertion of helping haul a heavy crate into a van, but I knew Mary too well.  Mary loved a challenge.  She also loved toy boys and any chance to undermine authority.

“Mary!  Tell me you didn’t!”  Mary said nothing but unconsciously toyed with the ring on her zipper, pulling it higher to disguise her cleavage.  “You did!  You absolute tart!  You gave him a blow job, didn’t you!”

“He helped with the crate,” she said defensively.  “And didn’t ask any questions about what we were doing shipping live turtles around.”

“Obviously his brain had switched off by that stage and he was on auto,” I said tersely.  “I cannot believe you did this.  And so quickly!  You must be the fastest mouth in the west!”

“Didn’t take much,” she said.  “I think all nineteen years worth came at once.”  She wiped her hand across her mouth and grinned at me.  I could not maintain my stern demeanour any longer and burst out laughing.

“It was his first?”

“Yup.  Just made a man of him.”

“Well I’ll be blowed!”

“No – I’ve already done that bit.  Sorry – come back tomorrow.”

“Ha ha.  Can you take our friend to the depot?  I’m up to my arse with Peter and Christina.  You’ll probably need a bit of a sit-down by now anyway.”

“Sure, no problem.  See you in an hour or so.”