When Megan had visited again with the intention of spending a night with us, the first shift had fallen to me.  Monica had stressed the need to cultivate Megan’s favour and to ensure she was pushed to her limits but no further.  Monica wanted her to leave exhausted, exhilarated and thirsting for more.  Of course, that was the intended outcome for most of our clients, but never before had we been so close to the breadline and dependent on every willing victim we could lure through the doors.

It was nearly midnight when I returned to the dungeon from a spell of keeping watch on Megan through the closed circuit tv.  I was wearing one of my favourite working outfits – the white leather skirt, halter top with the nipple cut outs, and knee-length boots.  It was all very comfortable in the air-conditioned basement of Bilboes.  Not so sticky that one got too much of a sweat when wielding a whip. 

By contrast, the victim had been left naked, impaled on two dildos on the plank.  I wanted her worked up and well awake.  The small hours during the night are the times when it is sometimes hard to keep a prisoner awake, much less focussed.  They get tired and tetchy and have been known to fall asleep in the darnedest of positions.  I’ve done it myself, for that matter.  But cold water, ice cubes, stimulation and a good old-fashioned thrashing can be remarkably effective at sustaining a prisoner’s interest.

Megan’s position on the plank was a variation on a theme.  Her ankles were held apart by a spreader bar that allowed the balls of her feet to just touch the floor.  Standing upright, Megan had just enough clearance between her crotch and the top edge of the plank for one to slide a finger in, as I had personally ascertained.  The front and rear dildos were fastened in small recesses in the plank and were embedded sufficiently that there was no way Megan could climb off them with her legs spread the way they were.  In that position alone she was comfortable and secure. 

But being on the plank was not about being comfortable.  Being on the plank was all about discomfort, about praying for one’s Mistress to release one.  That said, and contrary to popular fiction, the concept of riding a severe plank for a day at a time was not a realistic possibility without serious damage to the victim.  Depending on the plank dimensions (and Bilboes had three different ones, graded three to one in order of severity and discomfort) and the position of the victim, a couple of hours was normally the maximum we would consider appropriate.  On the Number One plank, in a severe position, half an hour would have most girls in a good degree of agony and walking bow legged for an hour afterwards.  Believe me, I’ve been there, done that.  It was days before I could have sex and survive it with a smile on my face.

But in Megan’s case, I had made alternative arrangements, leaving her with room to move and a choice as to which part of her anatomy she wished to bear the brunt of her punishment.  In this instance, while standing upright she was in no particular discomfort.  The problem was that she couldn’t stand upright, since her wrists were separated by a spreader bar which passed underneath the plank itself, which was of course supported at each end by a solid timber column.  The depth of the plank beneath which the wrist spreader ran meant that with the bar horizontal, Megan was obliged to bend forward with her outstretched arms, such that her breasts were nearly level with the top of the plank.  This was a hard position to maintain, because it set up a strain on the back.  Her alternative was to lean forward and lie along the plank, or to drop one arm and raise the other, so that the spreader bar was vertical.  This enabled her to stand up relatively straight.

Both these positions were uncomfortable, the first because it placed a lot of weight on the pussy, and the second because it placed an uneven strain on the arms and body.  However given ordinary circumstances, the former was probably preferable, and so I thought I would make a few additions to the plank and its occupant. 

The first addition was a half-meter long board rigidly fixed at right angles to the top of the plank, so that any girl lying along it would find her boobs resting on this board.  To make sure of this, I drilled two holes in it, one near each end, through which I ran two weighted strings, each of which was tied to a Megan nipple.  Lying down on the job allowed the two lead weights to just rest on the floor. The disadvantage of this position was that I had driven a couple of dozen nails upwards through the plank in the area surrounding each hole.  They protruded about a centimetre, and were reasonably close together, but would still become very uncomfortable in a short time.  It was a variation on the old bed of nails trick, but with a rather more tender part of the female anatomy.  Having the small lead weights hanging from one’s nips would have been bad enough, but the only relief from the weights was to rest one’s tits on these pointy pieces of steel. 

In short, it was Hobson’s choice, and Megan appeared most unhappy about the whole thing. It seemed she just couldn’t get comfortable, didn’t know where to put her arms, couldn’t get her boobs comfy, and the invaders in her arse and pussy were driving her to distraction, especially when I upped the vibrations.  Of course she couldn’t exactly express any of this since I had installed the inflatable gag in her mouth, held there by a complex web of straps about her head, with the squeeze bag removed and the tube tied in a knot away from loose hands.  She had been there an hour when I returned to check her out in person.

I slipped into the room quietly, unseen because Megan was facing away from the door.  She was just peaking as I entered, having given in to the need to rest her weight on the nail support, and was now rocking back and forth on the two phalluses embedded inside her.  With the movement, her weight bore down on her pussy and her breasts, and she was making soft moaning noises, though whether from pain or pleasure was hard to say. That was the point – the mixture of each that left one oscillating from one extreme to the other.

But I recognised the signs of the first warm rush coming up from her nether regions as the rocking began to speed up and her hands began to flutter, the arms in the spreader bar jerking about as though seeking something solid to grab for support.  Her arms began to reflexively bang and rattle the bar against the underside of the plank.  Any pain in her boobs was clearly being forgotten as Megan’s breathing began to get faster and more ragged while she strove to keep up her air intake around the rubber gag filling her mouth.  As she moved backward and forward in a more pronounced fashion I caught glimpses of the buzzing rubber shaft sliding in and out of her butt hole.  Then the climax caught her and she abruptly stiffened then tried to buck herself off the plank, driving the devices in and out with a frantic burst of energy, heedless of the way her breasts were pressed into the nails of the cross-plank.  Her breathing became part of the grunting noise that was coming from her nose, finally upping pitch into a muffled scream, before dying away into a long groan of pleasure that in turn merged into ragged panting moans.

I allowed her to stay there for several minutes, listening to her breathing subside in intensity, and imagining how the pain would now be returning as her blood supply slowed and returned to other parts of the body not immediately concerned with sexual fulfilment.  She grunted a couple of times to herself, obviously coming back to the realities of her predicament.  That was when I let fly across her backside with the thin, whippy cane I had brought with me. 

It was just one stroke, but well-aimed and taking Megan totally by surprise. She screamed into the rubber gag and jerked upright, pulling her breasts clear of the supports, and obviously taking the load of the weights on to her nipples again, not to mention sitting up squarely on the two devices inside her.  All in all it was about as good an effect as I could possibly have hoped for and I was well pleased.

Megan looked at me over her shoulder, tears now running down her face, her cheeks and jaw distended by the inflated bladder in her mouth. 

“Urrrmph! Urrmphh! Mpphrph!” she moaned.  Her breasts were covered in deep pointed indentations from the nails, but there was no blood.  I was about to let go another flick at her when I heard the unmistakeable humming of “Jingle Bells”, our safeword.

The safeword is not something any of our clients use lightly.  They know the consequences if it is just a rope that is a bit tight.  It had better be serious or else.  Megan began to make weird choking noises and I dropped the cane to undo the relief valve in the gag tube.  The air rushed out with a faint woosh while I quickly unbuckled the straps behind her head and under her chin.  I pulled the harness and bladder free and as she gasped for breath I unclipped her wrist and ankle cuffs from the spreader bars.  It only took less than perhaps twenty seconds, and I had a momentary heart flutter as Megan gripped the plank and gasped for air, unable to say anything as I lowered one end of the plank sufficiently for her to ease herself off the twin prongs impaling her, then undid the slip knots of twine from her distended nipples.

She climbed off the plank with a groan and seemed to stagger a little toward the wall, leaning against the big steel cupboard in which we kept the dungeon arsenal of restraint gear.  I caught up with her, holding her by the shoulders as she lowered her head.  There was more gasping and a kind of retching.  I have to say that I was very concerned, and the thought that I had somehow upset our only customer made me almost sick myself.  How was I going to tell Monica?  I would have to do some damage control, and fast.

“Megan?  Megan, can you talk?  What can I do?”

I never saw the elbow coming.  It never even occurred to me.  All our vague reservations about Megan had long been forgotten in the excitement of getting on the job again. Now Megan clasped her hands together and swung an elbow into my stomach that dropped me to the floor, winded.  It was totally unexpected and I lay there just trying to get my breath back, gasping desperately, as one does.  I was barely aware of the cupboard door opening beside me and my wrists being pulled behind me.  There followed the sharp clicking of plastic cable ties as a couple were zipped tight around my crossed wrists.  I was still on my stomach panting when my ankles received the same treatment.

By contrast, Megan was now in full control of herself, not to mention me.  I had barely got my breathing halfway normal when she squatted over me and pulled my head back by the hair.

“Gg-aaarh!” I said, just before the ball gag was worked in behind my teeth.  Then the grip on my hair ceased and the strap was pulled tight and buckled behind my head, trapping my hair. 

“I hope you noticed I chose a white ball,” Megan said cheerfully.  “Have to coordinate with that nice outfit of yours.  Anyway, be good – I have to go meet a friend. “

What the hell was going on here?

“Uurmmph! Frrkfphsp!” I demanded, totally unreasonably. 

“It doesn’t concern you,” said Megan, squatting down and lifting my head briefly with a hand cupped under my chin.  “Get used to a new way of life now.  From here on we’re giving the orders.” 

We?  What was she on about?  She stood up.

“I must go and get dressed – get into the mood.  This is so exciting!”  Megan turned to go, then bent down and whispered to me:  “And thanks for the session on the plank.  You’re very good.  That was the most demanding and exciting thing I’ve had for quite a while.  Remind me to do the same thing for you some time – I’m sure there’ll be lots of opportunities.”

Then she was gone, and I was left lying on my stomach bound painfully with those horrid plastic ties.  My mind was whirling.  I could not work out what was happening.  Something was afoot - something which had an ominous feel about it.  I rested my cheek against the cold concrete and chewed on the rubber ball as I tried to get comfortable.  I had no illusions that I could get free.  The only way to escape from the thick ties we used was to cut them, and I knew there was nothing in the vicinity with which to do this.  Megan was smart, too.  In crossing my wrists and securing them with two criss-crossing ties she had left me very little movement, and what I little I did have was painful because of the ties cutting into my flesh.  To all intents and purposes my arms were useless, and the fact that she had bound my ankles crossed in the same manner meant I was forced to keep my knees bent back towards my backside in order to keep my ankles at right angles.  If she had then tied my ankles to a belt, or even to my wrists, it might have even been more comfortable, but as it was my legs continually tried to straighten, with the inevitable pain from the ankle ties.  At least my boots took up some of the tension, I thought, latching on to the only optimistic aspect I could find.

I must have dozed.  I said before that I could manage it in bizarre situations.  Add another one to your list, Trish.  I was woken by a nudge in the ribs from a booted foot.  It was Megan again, now wearing a black leather catsuit with the zip open to the waist and her hair pulled back into a ponytail. It was now obvious to me – as we had suspected – that Megan was no stranger to the world of B & D, nor was she simply a curious subbie.  No, she was all Domme, and although she looked all business, the woman next to her looked twice as scary, I thought, as I turned my head and gazed up at the figure in a similar catsuit, but this one made of clinging red latex.  I had a nasty feeling I already knew this person with the long black hair and the flawless Asian complexion.

“Trish, I’d like you to meet Portia.  Portia, this rather helpless individual is Trish.”

“Pleased to meet you, Trish,” the woman purred, squatting on high heels alongside me and lifting my gagged face so that I could meet her black eyes.  She flicked her hair back over her shoulder and studied me with an expression I could only put down to disdain.  “This is one of the dominant ones?” she asked Megan.

“Yes. The other is Mary, whom we’ll meet shortly.  I think we’ll have a lot of fun with both.  I’m sure they’ll make excellent subs.  It will take time, and they’ll hate it, but we’ll win in the end.”

Subs!  I squirmed and made muffled noises of protest, which drew sniggers from my captors.

“Better get used to it, dear,” said Portia, her voice like honey, but chilling at the same time.  “No more whip wielding for you. Welcome to the toy box, where you simply get played with.”  There was a snip and my ankles came free as the plastic tie was cut.  I straightened my legs with relief, then was hauled to my feet with one woman dragging me up by each arm.  They hustled me into the hallway and down the corridor to the niches under the stairs.  A minute later I was jammed against the back wall of Number Three, my boobs pressing against the grille as it was locked closed.  My wrists had been freed from the plastic tie, but only because my captors couldn’t quite get the gate shut with my hands behind my back. That’s how much room there was for me.  Instead, more plastic ties appeared, this time securing my wrists to the bars down near my thighs, and doing the same for my ankles, after they had been parted as much as the niche permitted.  Portia’s final act was to tease my nipples erect where they protruded through the cut-outs in my halter top, between the vertical bars, and release a plastic clothes peg on to each nub.  It was not the worst torture they had experienced, but I had no doubt that after an hour or two they would make their presence felt.

*  *   * 

Over the next hour I saw my friends appear one by one as Portia and Megan methodically captured the occupants of Bilboes.  Of course their task was made so much easier by the fact that Leila and Steven were already chained up in the holding cell, coincidental victims of Monica’s reprisal for the Southbank exhibition.

Monica had been first – or so I worked out.  There had been the sounds of people descending the stairs over my head, but I could not see what was happening.  From the subsequent imprisonment alongside me of Jill, Mary and Emma, the first noises had to be Monica being subdued and taken down the corridor to a fate I dared not think about.  Portia seemed every bit as devious and ruthless as the perception I had drawn from the girls’ descriptions of the events in Macau.  I was now seeing the planned retribution being worked on us one by one.

Jillian was the first, dragged in semi-conscious to be brought round on the cold concrete floor, at which point she was bound, wrists around bent legs, and thrust into the smallest niche, where Portia took great delight in screwing some wicked-looking nipple vices in place.  Jill’s muffled cries echoed against the walls but I knew there would be no mercy coming from Mistress Portia, not after what the Bilboes team had done to her.  Portia was clearly in her element and loving every minute of what was obviously a carefully planned operation of revenge.

Mary followed Jillian, fighting like a cat as whatever means they had used to overcome her had not fully taken effect.  They had to use a large stocky man to help control her as she was bolted to the wall in the niche next to me.  There would be no escape for Mary, not with at least half a dozen steel U-bolts anchoring her rigidly and uncomfortably against the blockwork. 

Emma was the last captive, cuffed wrists to ankles and bound at the knees, stuffed into the smaller niche on my left.  The place now fell quiet, save for the stifled moans of Jillian who was obviously suffering badly from the vices imprisoning her nipples. Then the lights went out.

*   *   * 

It was probably the longest night of my life.  Notwithstanding that I was tired and uncomfortable, there was the glaring fact that I could not escape – the takeover of Bilboes by the Red Devil Portia and here offsider Megan, and the uncertain fate that now lay before us.  Those were the thoughts that ran through my mind as I stood in the darkness, in my cramped niche.  Trapped as I was by the bars of the grille I was supported to some extent, and as my head lolled against the bars I must have dozed again.  At intermittent stages I awoke, my knees and ankles aching from the continued strain of being unable to move, yet still having to support most of my weight.  I slipped downwards a little until my knees were jammed against the grille. 

That position was more painful but eventually I drifted off again, only to be woken yet again by the insistent ache in my nipples where the clothes pegs still held fast.  I tried moving from side to side to try to get the pegs to flip off, and eventually succeeded, but not without a bit of pain.  It was evidently nothing compared to what poor Jill was undergoing, however, if the muted moans of pain were anything to go by, interspersed with sniffles and sobs that she could not stifle.

Sometime later, after a series of half-remembered dreams that somehow seemed to merge with reality, the lights came on and our captors reappeared.  I reckoned in hindsight it must have been around midday.  But it was only another sneering inspection,  a checking of bonds, locks and chains, then we were left to our own imaginations again, envisaging the worst that could happen to us.  Of course, Portia found the clothes pegs on the floor and picked them up, eyeing me calculatingly but saying nothing. She didn’t have to, in this instance.  Instead she disappeared in the direction of our storeroom and returned with what we called the ‘tubes’.  I groaned inwardly.  Short of the type of vice Jillian was experiencing, which had the capacity to crush a nipple if over-tightened, these were the next worst item in our nipple arsenal.

A tube was just that – a clear plastic tube that was relatively soft at one end , which was open, thickening and becoming stiffer at the opposite end, inside which was a plunger which could be withdrawn up the tube by turning a knob on top.  The tube was about the length and thickness of a person’s finger, and Portia knew exactly what to do with it as she first kneaded my right nipple into erectness, then twisted the tube so that the open end enveloped the fleshy nub totally, making a snug fit, with the tip of the nipple just touching the plunger inside.  It was then a simple matter to simply begin screwing the knob on the end.  As the plunger withdrew, a vacuum was created, drawing a little more of the nipple into the tube, then, when this limit had been reached, the flexible open end began to contract around the flesh like a mouth, as though to bite it off.

It was a long time since I had experienced the tubes, but I had not forgotten the pain they caused.  At first it was a soft sucking sensation, not overly unpleasant.  Then there was a pressure which slowly turned to pain. Portia held my gaze as she steadily turned the knob.  My breathing began to come faster, then, with the first real stab of pain I was unable to hold back a faint groan.  Portia smiled and kept on twisting the knob.  The pain abruptly became excruciating and I was whimpering into my gag as the plastic opening contracted, as though to sever the sensitive piece of flesh from my breast.  My hands were clenching by now as I tried to squirm away, but of course I could barely move.  I shook my head the little I was able and finally could not hold back a scream.  Portia gave me a final turn for luck then a quick tug, which saw the tears well out down my cheeks as the agony increased beyond what I thought I could bear.

But I knew I was going to have to endure twice as much, as the other nipple received the same deliberate treatment, with the same merciless and amused expression on the face of my tormentor.  By the time she had finished with that my eyes were screwed shut and I was trembling with the pain and my inability to express my despair or even to move.  I shook against the bars and screamed into the rubber ball, biting down and sniffling, heedless of the tears and drool that ran down the front of my white leather halter top, and wondering in a fleeting moment of clarity why I had ever had those cut-outs made.

The agony eventually subsided slightly to merely a fierce piercing pain, and then to a simple throbbing ache.  All of these were quite enough to stop me falling asleep again.  I had learned the hard way that Portia was not one to be trifled with, and seemed not to have a merciful bone in her body.

Several more hours  passed, and by this time – aside from the pain in my nips -  I was busting for a pee and mightily hungry into the bargain.  No doubt the others were, also, and they were probably in more stringent positions than I was, but it was many more hours before the next visit.  Only then was the door to Steven and Leila’s cell opened, and I heard the shocked reactions from inside.  Minutes later Steven was dragged off down the corridor, possibly into the Post Room, I guessed, trying to judge from the sounds.  Some time later Megan returned for Leila, to lead her off to another form of incarceration.  Again there was a long period of quiet, during which I strained to hear any noises from further down the corridor.  I knew Megan and Portia were still downstairs, for nobody had gone back up.  It could only mean they were giving Steven and Monica a working over.

My suppositions were proved correct when Monica and Steven were returned to the holding cell.  They looked much the worse for wear, with both sporting plasters over their nipples.  What had these people done to them?  Portia made the prisoners stop in front of us and turn around for our benefit.  Mon and Steven were both silenced with inflatable gags, held in place with our most complicated and restrictive head harnesses.  Their wrists were locked to waist chains and their bodies were covered by a pattern of whip or cane marks.  A chorus of gagged shock and protest came from the four of us in our niches at the awful sight, before the pair were locked in the holding cell.

After that we were dealt with in quick succession, with first Emma and then Jillian being removed from their niches and hustled down the corridor to what sounded like the sluice room.  Poor Jill could hardly walk, so tightly had she been tied, and I glimpsed the awful vices dangling from her nipples as Portia beat her with a flogger, heedless of her muffled cries of distress as she tried to ease the weight of the swinging clamps.

Then it was Mary’s turn.  It was easy to resecure a prisoner when they have U-bolts fastening their body to the wall at ankles, wrists, waist and neck.  Only one bolt is needed, and the victim has no choice but to cooperate for they have no way to escape.  I could not see exactly what was happening, because of the intervening wall, but it did not take long to remove Mary - now blindfolded with a scarf and with wrists handcuffed behind her back - and guide her a few paces down the corridor to the second holding cell, beside the one now occupied by Monica and Steven.  Mary looked unsteady on her feet, and clearly the enforced rigidity of her restraint had taken its toll.

When their attention turned to me, I saw no pointing resisting.  These two were too canny to let me get away with anything in any case, making me shuffle out as the grille was opened, then similarly blindfolding me and handcuffing my wrists behind my back before freeing my ankles.  I, too, was led down the corridor, into the same cell as Mary, where my ankles were chained together and I was left sitting on the iron-framed bed alongside Mary.  The door closed and we were left alone to free ourselves as best we could of our restraints. 

With some difficulty we prised off each other’s blindfolds and I unbuckled her gag, the ball making a soft plop as it was puled out from behind Mary’s teeth.  We had been gagged for many hours and my jaw ached from the strain.  I proffered my neck for her to return the favour, but she shook her head.

“In a minute,” she said, working her jaw and hopping the two steps to the toilet – the only other item of furniture in the room.  I sympathised with her need and was right behind her, grunting and whining in complaint as my own hops made my breasts bounce and the tubes reactivate the painfully gripped nipples.  Only when I had finished and hopped back to the bed did Mary consent to help.

“I’m going to leave the gag in until I’ve removed those tubes,” she explained ever so logically and considerately.  “It’s for your own good and my ears.”

She was right, of course.  The tubes had a fine thread which required a lot of turning, and with Mary having to do this while leaning forward with her hands cuffed behind her back, it took a while, and was not a smooth operation.  As the blood returned so too did the piercing pain and I whimpered and snuffled into my gag, screwing up my eyes and chewing on the ball at the agony of release.  At last one tube dropped to the floor, then the other.  Tears were streaming down my cheeks when Mary finally pulled the ball from where it had been wedged solidly.  I laid my head on Mary’s shoulder and cried some more, hating myself for being so pathetic.  Mary made consoling noises and pointed out something which I had missed – a tray of food under the bed. 

She sat on the floor and dragged it out and we feasted awkwardly on salad rolls and some fruit, holding each item behind our backs for the other to eat.  It was not graceful, but we didn’t care.

We talked desultorily, well aware that we might be listened to and watched.  We described how we were each captured, and speculated on where it was all going, but of course it led us nowhere.

“Damned if they’re going to make a subbie out of me,” Mary declared under her breath.

“Ssshhh,” I whispered.  “That will only make them more determined.”

“Bollocks to them,”  Mary said.