A week had passed since the outing to Southbank – a week with no activity on the customer front.  The girls were all edgy.  Something was going on that we couldn’t understand.  Monica had withdrawn into herself, save for occasional discussions with Jill, who helped her with the accounts.  We knew what the problem was – no customers – but we didn’t know how badly things were really going.  I had never taken a lot of interest in the financial side of the business.  Monica drove a Beemer and always seemed to have the cash for the fitting out I had done in the basement.  While that had taken up a lot of my time and had chewed up a lot of cash, it had obviously not been the end of the cash flow.  There had been the foray to Hong Kong and Macau to rescue Jillian and Leila.  Emma, Monica and myself had cost further airfares, over and above those paid for Jill and Leila.  Every new development, such as the assault course, cost money.  Speaking as a dumb builder, I know that bobcats and concrete pipes and prefabbed sheds cost money.  I could not guess at what expenses the girls ran up with their outfits.  That said, I had never gone in to what clients were paying for our services, either.  I liked the work at Bilboes, I liked the girls, and I liked the steady paid job as compared to running my own company.  So did my bank manager, for that matter.

Just how bad things actually were came home to us when Monica made an announcement at the weekly meeting that Bilboes was in serious strife, and unless we discovered why our business had dried up, there was a serious possibility that we might all be out of work soon.

“I’m happy to forego any pay until things get better,” Jillian volunteered.  “As long as we can afford to eat.”  Monica smiled at her gratefully, and at the rest of us as we joined Jill’s offer. 

“That’s very good of you all, and I appreciate it, and it will help, but unless we turn this slump around, you might never get paid.  And the bank is after me already.”

*   *   *

In short, it was not a happy time.  I was discussing the likelihood of setting up a website with Monica in her study when a new client arrived.  The website idea seemed good, but the expense of doing it was a deterrent.  Up until then there had been no shortage of clients, who usually found us by word of mouth recommendation, which was just how Monica liked it – top service and discrete clients.

“You may as well stay, Steven.  A new client is a bit of a novelty.  You can see the process we have for newbies.”

Jill ushered a young woman into the room.  She was in her late twenties, I guessed, dark brown hair parted in the middle falling to just touch her neck.  On the right hand side a wide rust-coloured highlight was visible.  She had a high forehead and a couple of small beauty spots on the left hand side of her face.  Her eyes were hazel, and she looked nervous – perhaps understandably.  Monica, by contrast, was all warmth and charm.

“Megan – lovely to meet you.  I’m Monica, this is my colleague, Steven.”  We shook hands.  Megan looked me up and down warily, like an antelope wandering near a pride of lions.  She was attractive, I thought, wearing a short black skirt and a white blouse, with matching strappy sandals.  Nothing ostentatious, but enough to suggest some class.  And money, too.  You didn’t come here without it.

We exchanged further pleasantries and Jill brought a tray of tea and cake.  I was glad our budget at least still extended to that. Megan sat in one of the armchairs while Monica took an adjacent one, rather than her usual seat behind the big desk.  Monica was clearly trying to tone down the dominating image she could project from that position.

“Tell me how you heard of Bilboes,” Monica asked.

“I – an acquaintance of mine from Melbourne – Sarah Lloyd – suggested I give you a call.  Well, she’s sort of a friend of a friend, really.  I’ve only recently moved up to Brisbane.  I’ve never really had the courage to try this, but I heard good stories about how accommodating you could be here.”  Megan made an effort to smile, her fingers flitting about, capturing a wisp of hair, then smoothing down the hem of her skirt where it rode up her black nyloned legs.

“Excellent,”  Monica enthused.  “How is Sarah?  I haven’t heard from here for maybe eighteen months.”

“She’s good,” said Megan, still playing with the hem.

“So… Megan.  Have you done this sort of thing before?”

“No…not really.  I’ve read about it.  Sarah showed me some magazines.  It sort of seemed what I’d been looking for, but hadn’t really realised it.”

“I understand.”  Monica was calm and comforting.  “We want to provide the best we can for you here.  We want you to feel comfortable and leave here satisfied.  What we’ll do is this.  Firstly, I’ll give you a form to fill out.  It’s very detailed and may take you perhaps twenty minutes but it’s very important to help us establish what your likes and dislikes are, as well as your experiences and tolerances.  You’d be surprised at how many people come here not really knowing what they’re looking for.  Sometimes it may take a couple of sessions to nail down just what they’re really after. 

“You have to remember that people are very different.  We have some who come here purely for the bondage experience and some for the sexual gratification that may go with it.  We have dominants and subs in the truest form, and we have those that come to indulge a private fantasy that they have long harboured.  And fantasies come in all shapes and sizes.  Some are role-plays, some centre around a particular form of dress or restraint, or maybe some event in their past.  Whatever, we will do our best to get you to come here again.  Repeat custom is what we aim for.  If you come back, we’re obviously on your wavelength.”  Monica let the soft sell roll off her tongue with just the right encouragement and body language, drawing a smile from Megan in return. 

“We’re very discrete, Megan.  We respect your privacy and you need only give us the information you feel comfortable with.  Please don’t be embarrassed about writing this stuff down – believe me, we’ve seen it all before.  There’s not much can surprise us these days.  After you’ve filled out the form, we’ll give you a tour of the facilities.”

Monica handed Megan the form on a clipboard, and gave a copy to me.  I had never seen it before, having come into the household through an oblique route that had started with a refurbishment downstairs. It had then led to construction of various bondage-related devices that I frequently had to test myself, or rather that I was frequently made to test, in the course of being at the mercy of the girls in the process.

Several pages long, the form was interesting and showed a lot of forethought.  In addition to the client’s details – those that they wished to divulge, that is – there was a confidentiality agreement confirming that such details would remain private, and that they would have no contact with other clients during their stay.  After a brief section dealing with any infirmities or illnesses, the questions got down to the nitty gritty – what had the client experienced and what were the turn-ons.  This section started with a thorough exposé of bondage devices and restraints.  Had they experienced a ball gag before?  Never, occasionally, frequently?  What sort of gag did they prefer?  Did they prefer ropes, chains, handcuffs, tape or straps?  Did they like to be whipped, caned or strapped?  If so, how hard?  Had they ever had suspended bondage?  Were they looking for short term, stringent bondage, or longer-term restraint?  We went through the gamut of sexual devices, nipple and pussy torture (for the girls) and CBT for the guys.  It spelt out the fact that Bilboes did not practice bloodletting or disfigurement, that safe words were in use and safety was paramount.

The next big section was the fantasy one.  It ran through a long list of fantasies – the dungeon/prisoner/kidnap victim; the terrorist/hostage; the torture chamber/inquisition and so on.  There was the doctor/nurse thing, the men/women in uniform, the slave/master/mistress; the burglar, and of course the rapist.  This last one was a complex issue, and I saw now why the form was important, for at the end of it the client signed a broad indemnity identifying what was and was not acceptable and absolving Bilboes from anything that went wrong.

I wondered how Megan would react to this form, because I reckoned to many people it would prove daunting, but she seemed to take it in her stride.  It took her a little longer than twenty minutes, however, for she thought long and hard about some of the answers.   Monica helped her in some places, explaining things in more detail, while I slipped into the chair behind the desk and continued a search I had started on the Net to see what website designers were offering.

Finally Megan handed over the questionnaire to Monica and sat back silently.  Monica glanced at it briefly.

“I’d like to go over this in more detail, Megan.  Of course there are no charges until the session actually starts, so we’d like to make the best preparation we can.  When would you be available?  Do you want to begin today?”

“Is that possible?  Now that I’m here…”

“Let me just check my schedule… I’m sure we can fit you in.”  Monica waved me out of her chair and went through the motions of checking the appointments book, which I knew to be sporting a large number of blank pages at that moment.  “Yes… It looks like we can manage a three o’clock.  How long would you like?”

“I – I don’t know… three hours?”

“Three hours is good, but let me ask you this:  is time a problem for you, or is money a problem?”

“Neither, I guess.”

“Excellent.  Let me suggest that you leave the time to us.  Part of our role-playing involves the creation of uncertainty.  When you don’t know how long a session is to be, or how long you may be held in a position, or where it is all leading…”  Monica’s voice trailed off but the intention was clear.  She smiled at Megan.  “It puts a whole new dimension on things.  But remember that you can end or suspend a session at any time, simply by saying the safeword.  Here at Bilboes we have a safe tune – mainly because safe words don’t come out so well when you have a gag stuffed in your mouth.  The safe tune is ‘Jingle Bells’ – sing it or hum it and the session stops.  We do ask that you consider its use judiciously, for using it for a trivial reason may in fact warrant further punishment.”  Monica looked at Megan and raised her eyebrows.  Megan nodded.

“I understand,” she said. 

“Good.  Steven, why don’t you take Megan or a tour of the establishment, while I review her profile in detail.” 

As I ushered Megan to the door, Monica drew me aside and murmured: “You can skip the Sluice Room and the Rack Room, and don’t be in a hurry.  Maybe get her measurements en route.”  Her smile was accompanied by a wink.

*   *   *

Based on her apparent reticence in Monica’s study, I had expected conversation with Megan to be difficult, but she surprised me with her interest in Bilboes.  She wanted to know about the lifestyle, how many girls worked here and where their quarters were.  We moved through the house to the back verandah, where much of the Bilboes communal business took place.  It was a pleasant area, shaded by trees and overlooking the pool, jacuzzi and the separate sleeping quarters across the lawn. 

“We hold our weekly meetings here,” I told her, “to work out scheduling and so on.”

“It’s a lovely setting,” Megan said.  “I wouldn’t mind these sort of working conditions.”

“It’s not all fun,” I said.  “We get all sorts of clients.  Some like having bizarre things done to them, and some prefer doing it to the girls. By and large they’re a pretty good lot, but we have to be careful.”

“Do you have security here?”

“Of course.  There are perimeter alarms and we always ensure everything is locked up.  And you saw how the gate works, with the intercom.”

“Yes.  Where do you control that from?”

“There are three points – one in Monica’s study, one downstairs and one over there.”  I pointed to the wall next to a whiteboard where a small intercom was mounted.  “A press of the button opens the gates after we have interrogated our visitor.”

“Impressive – and very organised.”

“Thank you,” I said, obliquely taking credit for something I had little to do with.  “This might also give you some idea of the predicaments we find ourselves in sometimes.”  I picked up a small photo album the size of a greeting card from the shelf next to the whiteboard and passed it to Megan.  She flipped through the photos, pausing frequently to study them more closely.

“Wow!  Some of these are amazing!  Are these all clients?”

“No, mostly they’re the girls.  We don’t keep photos of clients in there unless they are such that the person can’t be recognised, such as if they’re wearing a discipline helmet for example.  Privacy is very important here.”

“Is this you?”  Megan looked at me with a daring smile.  I peered over her shoulder.  The photo showed me in a hogtie on top of a bar stool, a red ball gag strapped in my mouth and looking very uncomfortable.

“Yes,” I admitted sheepishly.  “I got into a lot of trouble that day,” I said, thinking of the affair with Christina, the slave of our richest client.  “I also got Monica into hot water as well.” 

“So you guys do this amongst yourselves?”

“It’s a feature of daily life here, I guess,” I agreed.  “Monica rules the roost – cross her at your peril and you can bet something nasty will happen to you.  Leila and I already have an unspecified punishment hanging over our heads.  Monica likes to bide her time and surprise you when you least expect it.”

“Please tell me about it!” Megan’s eyes were bright with expectation.  I told her about the assault course and how Isobel had got herself off on the log crossing the stream, and Monica’s assertion that she would never stoop so low as to do it in public.

“Sounds like a challenge if ever there was one,” Megan suggested.

“Leila evidently thought so and managed with a bit of peer group support to con me into joining her as an accomplice.”  I related the story of the concert, ending with Monica humping the lamp post in the middle of a crowd of people.”  Megan thought it was hilarious.

“You people certainly are imaginative.”

“We do our best.  And while we’re here, I should take your measurements.”

“Measurements?”  She was puzzled.  “What for?  Am I being fitted for something?”

“Maybe – in the fullness of time.  It’s standard procedure here.”  I picked up a small indexed notebook from the shelf and showed it to her.  “Everyone is in here – me, Monica, the girls, the clients.  First names or initials only, you understand.  All their relevant measurements are taken so that we can have specific garments or devices made for them, or else we can have some of the equipment set up ready for their session.  Saves a lot of time messing about.”

“Smart.”

“Value adding,” I said glibly.  “It also gives me a database of body shapes to work to when I’m building things, like what is the maximum height any client can reach, or how far can they spread their arms, or what is the maximum body weight.  I’ll have to take yours,” I added apologetically, directing her to a set of bathroom scales.  “I hope you don’t mind.”

Megan laughed.  “No, I’m not like some women.”  She slipped off her sandals and stood on the scales.  “Fifty four kilos – and a half.  Damn.  It’s gone up.”

“I hope you don’t find the rest too embarrassing,” I said, “but it is important.”  In truth it was probably me who was more embarrassed.  For the most part it was routine – height, arm length, waist, bust, hips, wrists, ankles and so on.  Then it was time for the more intimate measurements and I had to ask Megan to lift her skirt.  She did this with a total lack of self-consciousness, revealing a black G-string and a shaven pussy, while I got on my knees to take her inside leg, height to crotch with legs spread, and finally the front to back crotch measurement, to ensure a comfy fit for that popular fashion accessory, the crotch belt.

“Uh – can you put your fingers on your nipples, please?” I asked her as she stood waiting for the next direction.  “I just need to know where they are.”  Then I realised how stupid that sounded.  “I mean exactly,” I added, probably making it sound worse.  Megan laughed and undid her white blouse, exposing two smallish but firm breasts, tipped with erect pink nipples.  I was taken aback by her casualness – it seemed quite different from the demure woman in Monica’s study.

“That exact enough for you?”

“Sure.”  My fingers brushed a nipple as I measured the height of them above the floor.  The flesh was hard.  Megan held my hand against it for a moment, then let go as if nothing had happened. 

“Now I have to get you to do a little stretching,” I told her hurriedly.  Megan’s come-on was unexpected and made me uncomfortable as I concentrated on the last group of measurements.  In very short time I had her kneeling, then stretching as high as possible, touching her toes and finally spreading her legs apart as far as possible, so we could see which of our stock of spreader bars would be most appropriate. 

“I can do the splits if you want,” she said casually, sliding her legs to front and back and sinking gracefully to the floor.  I was impressed, more so as the skirt rucked up to her waist again.  “I can even do this…”  Raising her body slightly she swivelled her hips so that her legs went out to the side, rather than ahead and behind her.  I had thought some of our girls were flexible, but this took some beating.  She held up her hand for a lift and I helped her to her feet.

“Amazing,” I said truthfully.  “Where did you learn that?” 

“I did ballet for a long time.  Yoga helps, as well,” she added, holding my shoulder with one hand while she slipped on her sandals with the other.  “I like to stay flexible.”

“You’re doing well,” I murmured, writing down ‘Can do splits easily; V flexible’ as a final comment in the book. 

The measurement session over, took her down the path across the back lawn to my own room at the end of the accommodation block.

“Not trying to lure you into my room, but you were asking,” I said, opening the door for Megan to look inside. 

“Nice,” said Megan, taking in the queen-sized bed, armchair and tiny bar with the microwave.  It was possible to retreat back here if I sometimes wanted to get away from the all-female atmosphere. 

“And they all live in these rooms?”

“All except Monica, who lives upstairs in the main house.  Next to me there’s Leila,  Emma, then Jill – who you met – then Trish and Mary.”

“Cosy.”

“I like it.”

“And you do what?  Are you a Dom?”

I laughed.  “Me?  No, I’m just an innocent bystander.  Sometimes I wonder what I’m doing here myself.  Monica runs the show – as you would have guessed.  I provide muscle, ideas, building skills, pretty much anything and everything.  I’ll show you the workshop.”

“Do you participate in the sessions?” Megan asked ingenuously, as we crossed the grass to the converted garage that served as my workshop.

“Sometimes,” I admitted.

“In what capacity?”

“Well… Sometimes I provide a little muscle.”

“Is it a little muscle, or are the girls usually satisfied?” she persisted archly.

I confess I blushed.  “Haven’t heard any complaints,” I said.

The workshop was the usual mess of half-constructed projects, the place strewn with chains, leather straps, bits of rope, electrical and welding gear, pieces of steel and odd timber devices.  Megan was clearly fascinated and not a little excited.  I explained some of the devices I was working on before we returned to the house.  A brief trip upstairs showed Megan the four guest bedrooms,  before we descended again and opened the door under the stairs leading down to the basement.

I took Megan into the storeroom first, and she was suitably impressed at the arsenal of punishment instruments, leather and latex outfits, and restraint devices.  On a shelf were also some of our more esoteric devices. 

“What’s this?” asked Megan, holding up a 3-centimetre wide thin aluminium strip with several holes in its length.  Riveted to the middle of it was a small box that had once been a hip flask, from which protruded a thin wire. 

“It’s a belt which gets locked on a person.  There’s a battery powerpack in the box.  It works a bit like a cattle prod, but with a lower voltage, since the contact points are usually up one’s bum or pussy.  It can be set off by remote.  We had two sisters here for training for a couple of weeks – worked wonders on them.”  I showed Megan the chromed butt plug with the electrodes on each side.”

“Sounds painful,” Megan said, her eyes glinting.

“I’m told it is.  But it does encourage cooperation.”

 We tried out a set of handcuffs, and I thought I detected a shudder – or was it a thrill – as I clicked the cuffs on her wrists behind her back. 

“I’m sorry, but you’ll have to do the rest of the tour like this – the keys are all upstairs,” I lied.

“Really?”  Megan clearly didn’t believe me.  She tugged futilely at the restraints, looking plaintively at me but without asking to be released.

We did a tour of the gym, where I explained how the exercise machines were linked to electrical stimulators to encourage compliance and promote activity, and where poor performance could result in a jolt up the bum or elsewhere. We briefly visited the Post Room with its emptiness dominated by the two posts festooned with ringbolts at various levels for all manner of stringent restraint.  This was followed by a quick look in the Chair Room, with the heavy wooden chair bolted to the floor being the focal point in the otherwise deserted room.  I showed Megan the observation room, and explained how safety was paramount, to the extent that we had cctv cameras equipped with infrared capacity in each of the various rooms.  She was clearly impressed.  After a look at the holding cells and the niches under the stairs, the final port of call was the dungeon.

“This is just how I expected it to be!” Megan exclaimed breathlessly.  “It’s like a real dungeon.”

“It is a real dungeon,” I told her.  “Don’t be too keen to end up here.  Take it from one who knows.”  Megan’s excitement dropped off abruptly. 

 “Really?”

“Really.  Trust me.  We should be getting back. “

We emerged in the front foyer area to find the door to Monica’s study closed.

“Are you going to take these cuffs off now?”  Megan asked hopefully, waggling her hands at me.

“I don’t think so, darlin’,” I said, changing my demeanour to one of disinterest and slipping into my best East End accent that I preferred for role playing.  I knocked on the door.

“Come!” Monica sounded at her imperious best.  I opened the door and pushed Megan ahead of me, not quite knowing what to expect, but nevertheless expecting something. 

I was not disappointed.  The heavy drapes had been pulled over the french windows leaving the room in darkness save for two wall lights either side of Monica, who now sat at her desk, her face in shadow.  She had done a quick change and now wore what might have been a man’s suit over a white shirt and black tie.  Standing off to one side were Trish and Emma, the former apparently doing a version of her Miss Sharp schoolmistress character, except this time she wore a white lab coat, black-rimmed glasses and had her hair pulled back in a severe bun.  Emma, beside her, sported a nurse’s uniform, but not one of the short sexy ones in our store.  This was quite respectable, almost fearsome, as were the flat heeled shoes and the nurse’s cap.  Her long black hair was pulled into a ponytail beneath it.  All three were staring at the pair of us as we entered the room. 

It didn’t take much to work out what was going to happen here in one form or another.  I thought quickly.

“Mornin’ Ma’am. I found this one wandering abaht – couldn’t give an adequate explanation of wot she was doin’.”

Monica was all icy haughtiness.

“Well done, Reynolds.  They warned me you were a troublemaker, Miss.  It would appear the normal treatment is not working, and some special therapy is called for.  This is Doctor Richardson, and Nurse Cheng, who will be in charge of your treatment.”  Monica inclined her head towards Trish and Emma who stood impassively.  “You will be detained for two weeks of electrical behaviour modification therapy - or longer, if you fail to show any improvement.”

“What!  You can’t be serious!  I can’t stay that long –“  Megan started to interrupt, but Monica cut her off.

“Oh but you can.  You came here voluntarily and said that time and money were no object.  I have your credit card here and your signed statement requesting treatment.”

“What!”

Another inclination of the head and Trish and Emma moved forward.  Trish had in her hand a head harness with a red ball gag and an integral leather blindfold.  Megan started to turn but I was right behind her and caught her by the arms.  She began to struggle and swear but with the three of us holding her and with her wrists already locked behind her, there was no serious contest.  In fairly short order she had been blindfolded, a fact which immediately calmed her down.  There is nothing like not being able to see what is happening around you to make you think twice about doing something stupid.  By the time Trish forced the rubber ball between Megan’s teeth and buckled the straps tightly under her chin, behind her neck and over her head, Megan was totally helpless, standing there in the study making frustrated grunts into the gag.

“Very good, Doctor.  You may commence when you see fit.  And try to instil some discipline into your staff, while you’re at it.  I’ve been hearing stories about sexual interference with some of the customers by your staff.  They appear to have been taking advantage of restrained clients who are unable to do anything to protect themselves.”

“I’m sure you’re mistaken, Ma’am,” Trish said.  “In any case, some of these people bring it on themselves or else all but go begging for it.  It’s all part of the treatment.”

“You’re walking on thin ice, Doctor,” Monica said tersely.  “There is always the matter of your current registration – or lack of it.”

“Yes Ma’am,” said Trish, steering the three of us out of the room. 

“Miserable old cow,” she said as she closed the door behind us.  “On what she pays us, what other perks can the staff get?  And this one’s nice,” she said, tweaking Megan’s nipple through the material of her blouse.  I noticed her nipples were hard and erect again.  She squealed at the unexpected attack.

“Oh shut up,” said Trish grumpily.  “That’s the least thing you’ll have to worry about, you slut.”

Megan moaned in despair. 

At that point I let them escort Megan downstairs.  Three minders was clearly superfluous to requirements, and Megan was definitely not about to run off anywhere.  Instead I returned to Monica’s study.

The drapes were now open and Monica was looking a bit more like her normal self, if somewhat more severely dressed than usual.

“That went very well, don’t you think?”

“Yes Ma’am,” I agreed, maintaining my character.  She grinned.  “All right – that’ll do.  You did okay.  The cuffs and the entrance were a nice touch.  I’m sorry we didn’t get a chance to prepare things a bit better.  It was all a bit on the run.”

“But it worked.  Am I to assume that Megan has some sort of fantasy about doctors and nurses?” I ventured.  “I thought that was only guy stuff.”

“As to your first question, it’s a yes and no situation.  Not doctors and nurses per se, but she has got this thing about straight jackets and medical equipment.  It’s all here in our questionnaire.”  She flourished the papers at me.  “I never cease to be amazed at what people will admit if you put the right questions to them.  In this case I thought a forced stay in a psychiatric ward - run by Mad Doctor Trish and her evil helper Nurse Emma - might give her something to think about.  As to the second question, girls are also into doctors and nurses, although this is not quite the case here.”

“And what was all that about  your staff taking advantage of patients?  Just what sort of an establishment are you running here?” I demanded with mock outrage.

Monica shrugged.  “You just can’t get good help.  What can I say?  I do my best under the circumstances but I can’t be everywhere.  Between ourselves, Miss Megan would not be averse to a little forced penetration in circumstances where she was unable to do much about it.  She appears particularly fond of anal activity.  And accordingly she ought to be prepared.  Let’s see how things are going.  Pull up a chair.”

Monica switched on one of the two wall-mounted television monitors and a view of the sluice room appeared before us.  On instructions from Monica, I had avoided the sluice room for what I now saw were obvious reasons.  The sluice room had white tiled walls and floor and gave off an overwhelming air of institutionalism with its stainless steel toilet, bidet and washbasin.  All the fittings were industrial looking, including the overhead lifting track that would enable a suspended object to be transferred from the bath through the internal door to the steam room – a small closed off sauna area in the corner of the sluice room.  I watched as Trish and Emma went to work on their prisoner.  Monica’s voice broke into my thoughts.

“And what did you learn about our new customer?”

“I learned she is very flexible,” I told her.

“In what way?”

“She can do the splits sideways.  Something to do with ballet training.”

“Really?”  Monica was clearly impressed.  “I’ve seen it done before, but not often.  Interesting.  I’d like to work that into our play.  What else?”

“Well…” I hesitated, for as a dumb builder I did not consider myself particularly qualified in the area of human dynamics.

“Come on Steve…”

“She seemed to change when we got outside your study.”

Monica was even more interested.

“How do you mean?”

“When she was in here, she was quiet – reserved.  Nervous, I thought.”

“Understandable.  Most of our first time clients are like that.”

“Except that once outside she became quite talkative, wanting to know all sorts of things about what we did and how many of us there were.  Maybe she wants a job here?  I’m sure I even got a come on.”

Monica was thoughtful and said nothing for a minute.

“That’s interesting, what you say.  There’s something about Megan Blake that doesn’t quite click with me.  I can’t put my finger on it, but something doesn’t fit the pattern here.  She had me intrigued by some of her answers to the questionnaire, and that level of intrigue has just gone up a couple of notches after what you’ve told me.”

“What was unusual about her answers?”

Monica chewed on the end of her pen.  “Hard to be specific.  Just little things plus an overall impression.  For example, there are several very detailed questions in some sections of the form – questions which a newbie might not understand.  One of them, in establishing what sort of gags they have experienced and prefer, mentions a Whitehead gag.  It’s not really a gag but an adjustable stainless steel frame that keeps the mouth open.  Basically it’s a medical or dental device.  Few people have ever heard of it but our Megan ticked it as a preference without a second thought.”

“But you said she appeared to be into medical devices and role playing?”

“Correct, but for a first timer I wouldn’t have expected that level of knowledge.”

“Maybe she’s a doctor or nurse herself?”

“She put her occupation down as ‘actress’. And you say she used to be a ballet dancer?  Doesn’t sound too medical to me.  And nurses rarely have fantasies about the area they work it, believe me.  Anything but that.”

“And all of this tells us what?”

“Quick answer is, I don’t know.  But I have the feeling that there’s more to Megan than meets the eye.  And she came on to you?”

“Flashed a bit of nipple and had no inhibitions about my measuring her crotch.”

“I can understand that.”  Monica smiled – the real Monica smile that made everything all right in the world.  “I can’t think of anyone I’d rather have measure mine.  God, you’re blushing!  You are such a soft touch, Steven.  How will we ever make a decent Dom out of you?  It’s no wonder she fancies you.  But once again there’s that change from her manner in here.  I think we have a case on our hands, Doctor Watson.”

“How’s Doctor Trish doing?” I asked, turning in my chair to look at the monitor which Monica could see over my shoulder.

“Just getting started,”  Monica said, turning up the volume with the remote.