That night, as I was getting ready for bed, there was a knock on my door.  I opened it to find Leila standing on the deck outside.

“Got a minute?” she asked, with the hint of a smile.

“For you – all night,” I said gallantly.

“A tempting offer, sir, but perhaps not appropriate at the moment.”

Leila came in and sat down in the only armchair, while I seated myself on the bed. 

“How can I help?”

Leila stared at the floor for a moment as if wondering how to begin, but there was more of a smile when she looked up.

“Remember last year when you made Monica into a human chair?”

“How could I forget?  It cost me a rather painful night.”  It also earned Mr Willy a date with an unseen admirer who took advantage of me when I was at my most vulnerable, but the less said of that the better.

“I know.  You also remember you cunningly lured us into thinking the seat was actually our beloved slave Shawnee, thereby encouraging me to draw a bullseye over her bottom?”

“Yeah.  Sorry about that.”

“I was – after Jill and Emma had doped me up on the plane to Hong Kong, then taped my hands together and left me to get myself off at thirty thousand feet.”  I had heard this story twice, once from Jill and the second time from Emma, both in the presence of Leila and Monica, much to the chagrin of the former and the amusement of the latter.

“So you’ve in fact ‘done it’ in public, like Isobel today?”

“Well, yes.  But of course Monica would never do something like that.  Oh no.  You heard her.  Too much decorum has our Monica.”  There was no malice in Leila’s tone – she was too nice for that – but it was not hard to see which road this was going down.  Instead there was the barely suppressed excitement of one about to develop a conspiracy.

“And you’re suggesting…?”

“We should make Monica have a public orgasm.”

“Er…why?”

“I want to get my own back for what she did to me, when it was totally wrong and unfair.”

“And you didn’t enjoy it one little bit.”

“That’s not the point.  Don’t twist my words Steven!  And the other thing is that I bet the girls a hundred bucks we could do it.”

“What you mean ‘we’, white woman?” I asked, doing my best Tonto impression.

“I mean you and I, my fearless rescuer.”

“Didn’t the Hong Kong affair teach you anything?  You want more punishment?”

“It’s not just a hundred bucks – it’s a hundred bucks from each, against a hundred of mine.  They reckon it can’t be done.  I said you’d manage it somehow.”

“Oh thanks very much.  Drag me in to do your dirty work,” I said, taking very overplayed mock offence.  “Good old Steven.  Let’s get him involved.  A bit more punishment from Monica will do him the world of good.  Very character forming.  And besides, there’s four hundred in it for you if it comes off.”

“I’ll split it with you, of course.”

“The last time I did something like this I wound up as a female slave for a month.  This time I’d have to go into exile.”

“I seem to remember you tried that last time and wound up in a cocoon for your troubles.”

“Yeah, thanks for bringing that up.  I had nearly erased that from my subconscious.”

“Oh come on, Steven, where’s your sense of adventure?”

“It tends to evaporate when there’s a chance I’ll end up suspended from the rafters having my arse whipped.”

“But you’d do it for me?” She turned those eyes on me and gave me the slightest pout of the bottom lip.  God, I was such a soft touch.

“Oh all right.  You know I hate it when you girls go all gooey on me.  But just remember this moment when Madam Monica hangs you up by your tits.”

Leila jumped up with a small exclamation of happiness and gave me a hug.  She smelt nice and I felt the crush of her breasts against me.  Then she was gone and I was left having yet again taken what I knew to be an ill-advised turning at one of life’s cross roads.

*   *   *
The next fortnight was a strange one, characterised by an inexplicable downturn in business.  All our regulars seemed to be going on holiday or be short of cash or have some other excuse.  By the second weekend after the Isobel firing squad, we had experienced a whole week with no clients.  Monica had taken to phoning the regulars and getting a series of evasive answers.  There was nothing we could do about it – you couldn’t force people to come and be spanked.  It was a very difficult commodity to market at the end of the day.

Partly to take Monica’s mind off what appeared to be a rather serious situation, and partly to consummate Leila’s and my plan, I decided to take Monica to a concert again.  After the bizarre experience at the end of the last outing we decided to pay the exorbitant price demanded by the carpark under the concert hall.  But before we got to that stage, plans had to be put into place.

It was a Saturday night – with the usual late night markets and entertainment acts happening at South Bank, near the Concert Hall.  Due to the lack of customers at  Bilboes the girls had decided to come with us to enjoy South Bank while Monica and I attended the concert.  We ate early, and that was when Leila spiked Monica’s drink with a touch of Rohypnol.  Not much – just enough to put her under for a short while. 

“Revenge is sweet,” Leila announced gleefully as Monica’s head fell forward on to her folded arms on the table.  We picked her up under the armpits and carried her into the lounge room, where we laid her face down on the big settee.  Making our life a little easier, time-management Monica was already dressed for the concert, wearing the same shimmering silver creation as on the last outing. 

We lifted Monica’s dress and Leila removed the G-string, working a vibrating egg inside Monica’s arse after lubricating it thoroughly, then buckling on a waist belt with crotch strap.  I crossed Monica’s arms horizontally behind her back and began to carefully tape forearm to forearm with silver duct tape, trapping her fingers as I did so.

“Nobody can accuse us of not being colour coordinated,” Leila said.

“Mmm.  Silver dress, silver tape.  All in the best possible taste,” I agreed.

In the small of her back I taped the battery box that would power these toys as and when I wanted to activate them with the remote.  The box was a slight variation of the training one that we had used on the Twins – two obstreperous teenagers who had been put into our care for a couple of weeks some months previously.  They had worn butt plugs most of the time – the type that awoke with a rather unpleasant shock when activated as a punishment for non-compliance. 

Monica’s control box was similar, except the plastic egg would begin to vibrate and move around.  However there were four small buttons on this remote, not just one, all simple on-off switching devices.  It had been made by my pal Douglas who had in the past proved so helpful and ingenious when we had outlined our plans.  The first button controlled the egg, the second a conventional vibrator, the third a butterfly vibrator and the last activated two small donut-shaped nipple patches.  Too stuck up to do it in public, eh?  We’d see about that.

I ran the single cable down to Monica’s bum, at which point one small wire detached and entered her butt hole to connect to the egg inside her.  The remaining three  wires continued between Monica’s legs, the second and third wires leading to the two vibrators, one inside and one outside Monica’s pussy.

We turned her on to her back.  She made snorting noises but did not wake up.  We had at least an hour before that exciting time, I reckoned, though we had used the minimum dose that we thought we could get away with.  It took only a couple of minutes to get the vibrators in place and tighten the crotch strap so that neither device could work its way free.  The butterfly vibrator nestled against Monica’s labia, with a small protrusion poking between them that would transfer the vibrations straight to her clit.  We secured the vibrator to the crotch strap with a couple of loops of duct tape.  I slipped the remaining wire up under her dress so that it popped out between her breasts.  Leila slipped the straps of the dress off Monica’s shoulders to reveal her breasts, rising and falling gently as she lay there, with no idea what was being done to her.

The final wire split into two at this point, terminating in two donut-shaped pads about four centimetres across with a hole half that size.  On the back was a peel-off, stick-on surface which had small electrical contacts that came into contact with the skin.  The net result, when placed over the nipple, was a stimulating vibration.  They could be used in more extreme situations as well, to create a rather more painful effect.  I tweaked the nipples enough to make them harden.

“She’s horny even when asleep,” Leila commented, before licking and blowing on the pink bids now rising to the occasion. I made sure the surrounding aureola were dry then pressed the pads down so that the tips of the nipples poked through the holes.

“Like corn pads with a difference,” I said as Leila replaced the exposed breasts in their satin receptacles.  The pads were almost invisible under the material.  I smoothed Monica’s dress down her thighs, letting my fingers linger on the smoothness of the fabric. 

“You realise we are in deep shit now,” I told Leila as we stood back to admire out handiwork.  She grinned at me impishly. 

“Gotta get some excitement into our lives.”

“Depends on your idea of excitement,” I said.  “Now check that everything is working.”

“Tits?”  said Leila, holding her fingers on Monica’s breasts like a nurse feeling for a pulse, albeit in a rather non-standard location.  I touched the button on the remote.

“Okay,” she said.  “Clit?”  Buzz.  “Okay.  Pussy?”  Buzz.  “Arsehole?  All present and accounted for, sir.  What a lucky girl is our Monica.  I’m almost jealous.”

“These things can be arranged, you know, Miss.  Except that if Monica had anything to do with your case you’d be a grovelling wreck for a week and would need a holiday to recover.”

“Way to go, huh?”

“No comment.  Why don’t you get her cape?”

Leila disappeared up into Monica’s room and while she was gone I fastened a discrete steel collar around Monica’s throat.  It clicked shut but did but need locking, for Monica would not be able to reach it.  At the front of the collar was a D-ring, there for the thin steel wire with the dog clip I had in my pocket, just in case Monica decided to become uncooperative at any time.

Leila returned with a black cape made of a light velvet material.  It came down to waist level and its high collar fastened below Monica’s throat with three silver buttons, revealing just a glimpse of cleavage.  Monica was put into a seated position on the couch and an ice-cold sponge wiped over her face a number of times, supplemented with some smelling salts.  Gradually she came to.

Predictably she was not impressed with what had happened and began to struggle against the tape binding her arms behind her, before recognising the futility of it and demanding to be let go.  Leila and I were threatened with all manner of punishments before eventually I got tired of it and was obliged to gag her.  I used the biggest rubber ball we had.  It was relatively soft but once behind the teeth was impossible to remove unaided.  In this instance it had a rope loop through it that hung just below her chin.  Monica had spluttered and tried to resist as I worked it into her mouth, but Leila had stood behind the couch and pulled her nose back, obliging her to say “aarh!”, which she did, until the rubber ball slipped behind her teeth and expanded.

“This way, my dear Monica, we don’t leave any nasty gag strap marks on your lovely complexion for the concert goers to wonder at,” I explained.  “Terribly bad form, you know.  One must keep up appearances and separate culture from fun.”  Monica glared at me and made incomprehensible noises from behind her bulging cheeks.

We looped a rope through her collar and secured her to the couch until we were ready to go.  I escorted her down the front steps and into the passenger seat of her BMW, strapping her in tightly with the seat belt.  It was dark and the windows were tinted, so I had no reservations about the gagged female being spotted beside me.  In fact, little of the ball could be seen – only a blackness beyond the slight parting of Monica’s red lips, through which the loop of cord hung.  In case of emergency, pull cord, I thought to myself.  Not quite a safety device.  More like exposure could be hazardous to your health.

Monica was silent through the journey to Southbank, save for some muted mumblings from time to time as she squirmed in her seat, aware of the devices inside her and their potential.  She had worked out what I had in store for her – no fool was Monica.  I suspect she was figuring out her best approach to withstanding the likely sexual arousal that would surely come.

We parked in the secure carpark and I gripped the cord attached to the ball, working it back between her teeth as her jaw distended and her eyes widened.

“Gaah!  You bastard.  I suppose you think this is a huge joke.”  She was angry, but I suspected there was more to her than that.  I detected the hint of a challenge here, and played on it.”

“Scared you’ll fold up, huh?” 

“I’ll outlast your toys, that’s for sure.”

“Good.  I’d like to see that.  If you don’t, I want amnesty.”

“No way.”

“Come on, if you’re so in control.  You survive and you can do anything you want to me.  Give in, and I get off free.  Deal?”

“My dear Steven,” Monica said with a smug look, “I can do anything I want to you at any time anyway.  But okay – deal.”

“Good.  Let’s go.” 

*   *   *

We got there early time enough to parade Monica before the other patrons and take in more than a few appraising eyes and jealous looks.  Time for a glass of wine which regrettably Monica could not share.  She said nothing, trying to look above it all.

“You okay?” I asked.  “You look kind of flushed.”

“Bollocks to you, mister,” she muttered . “And what are we going to hear, anyway?” 

Good old Monica.  Turn up to a concert looking drop dead gorgeous with absolutely no clue what she would be listening to.

“A little Beethoven, some Rachmaninov and some Tchaikovsky to finish.”

“Nice.”

“It will be.  Just a nice evening to sit back and enjoy.”

Our seats were a couple in from the end near the front.  I guided Monica to her seat and let her settle.  Hopefully the lack of applause emanating from the Caped Crusader would not be deemed too impolite by the other concert goers. 

The Beethoven came and went.  Beethoven was Beethoven, as always.  Rach’s Second Piano was pretty special, though, played as it was by a Russian with an unpronounceable name.  I let Monica stew by not activating the inserts, letting her mind do the work for me.  I was saving her for something special, although I could not resist hitting a couple of buttons just at the climax of the last movement.  Nothing serious, you understand.  Just enough to provoke a little gasp of surprise and to give her a taste of things to come.  I slipped a sideways glance at her and saw the flush of her cheeks, but outwardly she remained calm.

At the intermission she said little.  I think the quick burst on the clit vibrator had awakened her to just how precarious her position might be.  When we returned to our seats for the second half I discretely connected the wire to her collar.

“Don’t think you might try to do a runner on me,” I whispered in her ear.  “No feigning sickness or anything like that.  You won’t get far with no arms, remember, and it’s a real long walk home.”  Monica pouted then stuck her tongue out at me.

We used to call Tchaikovsky’s Sixth “The Winfield Symphony”, from the days when it was the theme music for Winfield cigarettes - back in the days when you could advertise that sort of thing on television, that is.  At the conclusion of the work the applause died but people remained seated and Monica looked questioningly at me.  I pursed my lips in a shushing way as another piece began.  Was it a groan I heard from Monica, as her head seemed to slump forward.  Whatever else Mon knew or didn’t know about music, she recognised Ravel’s Bolero when she heard it.

I let a minute pass before I turned on the nipple vibrations, to be replaced thereafter by that egg, squirming and vibrating up her arse for a further minute, before being replaced in turn by solo sessions with the other two vibrators.  Monica was beginning to shift uncomfortably in her seat as the rhythm of the music grew in intensity as more instruments joined in the hypnotic beat.  The music became louder and I moved on to the duets – the twin front vibrators, then the egg and the nipple rings.  As the music continued to pulsate, so too did Monica’s inserts, in a variety of trios, now, with the fourth instrument making a fleeting appearance until the final crescendo, when it all came together.  By now Monica was almost bouncing in her seat, her face flushed and her mouth open.  I discretely pulled on the wire to her collar, which ran under the seat arm.  Monica sort of leaned to one side and momentarily pulled herself together, before the last crashing bars, at which point I switched all four buttons off.

As the audience burst into applause the four devices roared into life again for the duration of three encores, while Monica’s squirming in her seat went virtually unnoticed.  I reckoned she was almost at the edge and switched things off again, gesturing that we were now going to leave and for her to stand up and get moving. 

We edged past a couple of still-applauding fans.  Maybe I should have let her come there and then, so the applause would really have been appropriate, but I wanted a little more from Monica Armstrong.  We exited down the stairs and crossed the road into the parklands that were Southbank on the river.  I was walking fast, towing Monica behind me on the wire leash.  Monica wore strappy black sandals with high heels that were definitely not for quick walking, never mind when you have a couple of vibrators doing things to sensitive parts and a vibrating egg up your bum.

“Please, Steven, this is driving me crazy.  Just finish the job, will you?”  There was  - for the first time since I could remember – an edge of panic in Monica’s voice.  “Look – I’m sorry.  You win.  I’ll give you amnesty.  Just put your hand down there to finish the job, will you?  Puhleese?”

I ignored her as we neared the crowded part of Southbank where the Saturday night crowds gathered to watch the fire eaters, jugglers, and showmen, or to browse the market stalls and down a few beers.  I dragged Monica into the middle of the crowd watching a group of four jugglers tossing hefty skittles about, at which point I turned on all four devices and dropped the leash, just to show Monica she was on her own  now.

A look of desperation crossed her already suffused face as she cast about for some help in getting herself over the edge.  The crowd barely noticed the elegant lady in the black cape who moved through them to stand with the lamp post between her and the show.  Nor did they really notice how the woman leaned against the post, her legs either side of the wider, decorative base to the post, rubbing her crotch against the wrought iron corrugations.  They could not tell, amongst the frequent gasps of the crowd and the spontaneous applause, when the woman discretely humping the post finally climaxed, stiffening and shuddering, her head lowered, the curtain of raven hair hiding the gasping and muted cries that I could hear, standing beside her.  Monica was finally leaning against the post, exhausted, when Leila piped up beside me:

“Quite a performance for someone who would never carry on like that in a public place,” she smirked.

“Yes, most impressive,” added Trish, appearing at Leila’s side.  Monica looked up in time to see the smiling faces of Mary, Jill and Emma completing the circle around her.

“You’re dead, Mister,” she said to me.

“Uh-uh.  You gave me amnesty, remember?  Are you going back on your word?”

She became momentarily flustered.  “Uh – no.  You’re right.  I gave you amnesty, but I didn’t give it to Leila.  She’ll do for both of you.”

“Never mind, Lei,” said Trish.  “At least you’ll have the money.  Here’s my hundred bucks.”  She opened her purse and pulled out two fifty dollar notes, while the other girls did the same.  Leila’s demeanour changed at the appearance of the money, and it was obvious she had not intended the bet to be made public.  Monica was outraged – or gave the appearance of being so, anyway.

“You bet money on this?  You buggers!  I’ll get you all for this.”

*   *   *

The only thing I could do at that point was to take Monica home.  We beat the others home but I left Monica to stew for a little while, bound face down on the bonnet of the Beemer, feet spread apart and tied to the ends of the bumper, while a rope from one wing mirror to the other via her armpits kept her head down.  Oh yes, and I was obliged to quieten her down with the ball on the cord.  That was how the others found her when they returned an hour later, parking the van beside the Beemer and emerging to study the bent-over figure screwing the BMW badge on the bonnet.  As the vibrators whirred against her most sensitive parts and she ground her hips against the metal and chrome, Monica was heard to gurgle and mmph some unintelligible things – no doubt threats, but most of the girls had had a few drinks by then and didn’t really care.  Mary even went so far as to take a piece of bamboo to Monica’s vulnerable arse, something which – according to reliable reports – prompted another climax.

It was a rule of Bilboes that nobody interfered with another person’s prisoner unless it was a life-threatening situation.  While it wouldn’t have taken too much to interpret Monica’s mmphing as life-threatening, that description was only to be applicable to the prisoner, not the jailor(s).  Monica’s final indignity was to be freed by our devoted slave Shawnee, who was usually on the receiving end herself.  Shawnee did the untying at my behest, simply because I did not want to be around when Monica came to her senses.  I was at least right about that, for Shawnee spent the rest of the night in Monica’s place, this time spreadeagled on the bonnet.  Maybe I shouldn’t have instructed her to inquire whether Monica had had a satisfying evening.  Suffice to say I slept behind a locked door, and the next day I buried an escape kit in the garden behind the garage.  The kit contained a set of keys, a small bolt cutter and a sharp knife in a waterproof bag.  I did not know how long Monica would take to get her own back, but I knew it would happen, and Leila and I would be looking over our shoulders until such time as honour had been satisfied.