The pain from the shock up my arse left me curled in a foetal position on the back lawn.  Monica had been pulled off balance by my own fall and tumbled in a heap beside me.  I was gasping from what seemed like the worst case of diarrhoeic cramps I had ever had in my life, turning my insides to jelly. 

I slowly sat up and through a blur of tears became aware of Megan looking down at me from the verandah.   She said nothing, but waved her upturned finger and shook her head.  The message was clear.  Don’t even think about trying to help Jill.  We all had our crosses to bear, Megan’s expression told me.  Unlike the others, she did not seem to find the situation amusing.  I caught her eye and she seemed to say mind your own business or things will get much worse for everybody.  I looked at Jill’s tautly stretched body hanging from the beam behind Megan and knew, hopelessly, that there was nothing I could do if I didn’t want to end up totally messed up by the terrible device locked inside me.

Monica the Duck was squatting beside me, nuzzling me and making pathetic un-duck like grunting noises of concern.  It would have been hugely funny had I not felt so debilitated by what had just happened. I leaned on her momentarily to steady myself before staggering back to where I had begun to did a trench for the cable.  Behind me I heard the sound of laughter from Warren, Roger and Portia.  There were further cracks of the whip and muffled screams from Jill which I struggled to ignore.  Then the two men went inside and things grew quiet on the verandah.

The trench was only a shallow one, barely below the top thickness of turf.  Every so often I sneaked a glance up at the figures on the verandah.  Portia was sitting at the table working at a laptop computer, while Megan was reading the paper.  Jillian, of course, could do nothing but remain captive, her blue-and-white corseted figure stretched upward, her legs braced apart by the spreader bar.  The blonde head of hair hung forward.  From my position behind her, I could see the gag strap buckled securely over the hair at the back of her neck.  I tried to put the picture out of my mind and concentrate on cutting a neat line of turf slivers across the back lawn, while Monica hopped dispiritedly alongside me. 

It was a warm morning and I soon found myself sweating.  I could imagine how steamed up Monica would be getting under the rubber hood and the pvc coat.  As the work progressed she was able to get into the shade of a large tree fern while I continued digging in the sun.

Perhaps an hour later Megan appeared with Leila in tow.  Megan was the image of the dominatrix on holiday – tight white tee shirt, and cut-off jeans, but evidently unable to leave the job behind, and so was wearing a pair of white knee-length boots.  In fact she looked more like a hooker, but I wasn’t about to say so.  By contrast, Leila still looked yummy in her black satin corset, black stockings and high heels.  The outfit was accessorised with the black ball gag and strap buckled over the blonde hair, and the black leather cuffs locked at ankle and wrist.  Black was definitely in, with the final touch being the heavy black collar at her throat and of course the stainless belt and crotch strap. Her wrist cuffs were locked together and she wore a short hobble chain between the ankle cuffs.  In her hands she bore a silver tray with two plastic bottles of water and a squeeze bottle of suntan lotion.

“You may take ten minutes break,” said Megan.  “There’s been a change of plan.  Portia wants some other things done as a priority.  But first we’ll let you have a drink and some lunch.  Leila – the roll and water to Steven.”  Leila held the tray in front of me and I took one of the bottles of water and the salad roll, trying not to look into her eyes, big and sad over the gag.  Megan meanwhile had removed Monica’s duck mask and her gag. 

“Leila – come here.  You can let the duck drink.” 

Monica said nothing, exercising her jaw briefly before Leila, squatting down, held the top to Monica’s lips and allowed her to drink deeply.  Obviously ducks did not eat as regularly as humans and I did not deem it wise to suggest such.  When I had finished the roll, Megan turned to me and ordered me to get undressed.

“What?” I asked, non-plussed by the turn of events.

“You heard!” she snapped.  “Don’t make me tell you again!” she said, letting her hand hover over the remote in the pocket of her shorts.  I did not need any further incentive. Two minutes later I was standing in my birthday suit.  “You can put your boots on again,” she told me, and I laced my work boots up wondering what was going on.

“Portia likes to look at a naked man working,” Megan explained. “Especially one with his dick under control and his arse available at the touch of a button.  And just to show you what considerate people we are,  we will make sure you do not burn in the sun.  Leila will rub you down with suntan lotion.  Leila – the duck’s been watered enough.  Make sure no part of Steven can get sunburnt.”

Megan forced the gag back into Monica’s mouth and buckled it in place, pulling the duck mask down over her face, while Leila dropped to her knees and commenced to rub the lotion over my legs and through my crotch.  Her wrists were still cuffed, so her movements were limited, but she still managed to reach every part.  Her fingers slipped under the steel belt and crotch wire, making the whole assembly smooth and slippery.  As she did the job around Mr Willy, alas still drooping within his acrylic prison, I reflected that at any other time both of us would have found this process very pleasant, if not quite erotic, and who knew where it might have led.  Leila looked up at me from her supplicatory position and I thought I even detected what could have passed for a smile behind the rubber ball.  There was a momentary mischievous sparkle in her eyes then she turned her attention to where her fingers were sliding smoothly between my legs.

“Enough of that!” Megan said sharply.  “Behave, Leila, you slut.  Steven, lie down on your face and let her do your back.”  I did as I was told, wondering why Leila could not simply have stood up to do it.  Megan used my prostrate position to unlock the chain from my ankle, however,  then remove my discarded shorts before rechaining me to Monica.  I was left in no doubt as to her professionalism.  I was not going to get the drop on her easily.  Like a good jailor she always held an element of restraint in reserve before releasing a limb.

Leila spread the suntan lotion over my back and shoulders then I was allowed to sit up for the front portion.  I had ceased to be embarrassed with this sort of exposure.  I had received worse at the hands of the girls, and compared to what Monica and Jillian were undergoing my trials were nothing.  Leila did the final smearing over my face in an almost tender manner, as though she wanted to kiss me.  Had it not been for the black ball strapped behind her white teeth I might have taken her up on the thought, if her lead up had been indicative of her thoughts. 

I became conscious of Megan behind me, out of my direct line of vision.

“Don’t worry,” I mouthed to Leila.  “We’ll get through this.”  It was all I could think to say.  Her eyes seemed to sparkle again for a moment, then a tear rolled down one cheek and she turned away to retrieve the tray and bottles with greasy hands that could hardly hold them.

“Go back and resume your duties,” Megan told her.  “You two, come with me.”

I followed Megan the twenty metres to the steps at the back of the house, conscious of Monica straining to keep up in her muscle-stretching waddle with the flippers.  Here, near to the verandah steps the grass sloped slightly upwards away from the house, past the swimming pool towards the sleeping quarters we used to occupy, in pre-Portia days.  The lady of that name was sitting at the table still, her lap top open in front of her.  When we appeared, she stopped and pushed up her sunglasses on to her forehead, scrutinising me long and hard and smiling at me in a decidedly predatory manner, before returning to her computer.  Five metres along the verandah Jillian still stood, feet stretched wide, standing on tiptoes, wrists drawn up to the overhead beam.  She did not look up at the sound of our voices.

“We want a pillory here,” said Megan, drawing my attention back to the reason I was  there.  She stamped the high heel of her right boot into the grass and swivelled on it in two places.  It left two holes in the earth about a metre and a half apart.  “Posts this high,” she added, pointing to my neck.  “Have you got the timber for this?”

“I think so, Mistress.  I keep a supply under the balcony.”

“Show me,” she ordered. 

I led the way to the eastern side of the house where I had made some racks under the verandah, which at this point was about chest high to a person standing on the ground.  Here I stored all my surplus timber.  It was out of the weather and handy for whenever it was needed, and with Monica this could often be at a moment’s notice.  I looked at what I had in store, and decided there was ample for the job.  I had some leftover cyprus planking from a deck extension which would do the job.  Cyprus was the best stuff I had found to counter the termite problem that could be a nightmare for homes in Queensland.

“I’ll need my tools, Mistress,” I said.

There followed another walk to the converted garage that served as my workshop.  I was beginning to wonder if the whole thing wasn’t a simple ruse to get Monica all worked up.  She must have been getting hot enough with the latex pants and pvc coat, but the constant waddling must have been making the dildos ooze in and out against the bungy straps holding them in place.  I could only see her eyes through the mask, and I had little enough chance to study them. 

I took down the key from above the door of the workshop and led the way inside.  Mentally trying to list everything I might need for the project, I selected my tools and materials and loaded them into a wheelbarrow, slinging a folding sawhorse on top.  I was about to leave when there was an exclamation from Megan.

“Steven!  Your duck is trying to disgrace itself.”  MY duck?  Why was it mine?  I realised that Monica had not entered the workshop.  I had assumed she was simply trying not to clutter up the place, and the chain linked to my ankle was long enough to make it unnecessary.  She was outside the door, and I emerged to find her squatting astride a small log that had once been destined to be used in a fence through the bush.  My thoughts about her frustration had been on the mark, for Monica was clearly trying to bring herself to a climax.

Megan seemed highly amused by it all, standing watching with her arms crossed.  Before I could move, she closed the door of the shed and locked it, trapping me inside while leaving the chain trailing out underneath the door.  Then she was squatting in front of Monica, while I was only able to watch through the window.  Monica had frozen, not knowing what the reaction was going to be.  For perhaps half a minute Megan stared at her, then smiled without rancour. 

“All right, duck.  If that’s what you want.  Portia needn’t know everything that goes on here.”  Megan stretched out her hand and gave Monica a shove sideways.  With a muffled grunt Monica rolled off the log, her flippers in the air. Megan was on her at once, pinning her on her back and keeping her legs apart with her knees.  Megan had direct access to the twin invaders buried in Monica through the slit in the crotch of the latex pants. 

I was positioned facing Megan with Monica’s head towards me.  Her bent arms banged uselessly on the ground and she could do nothing as Megan began to play with the objects held in place by the bungy cords.  I was looking at another example of Megan’s professionalism here, too, as she strung out Monica with a series of teasing moves that had Monica grunting and flapping in desperation.  Her legs began to pedal like a bicycle and I could hear Megan laughing softly, as one does when one rubs a dog in just the right place to get their hind leg scratching.  Finally she grew tired of the game and let nature take its course, bringing her helpless victim to a bucking, shuddering climax that left her lying prone on her side, shuddering and twitching from her exertions.

The door was then unlocked and Megan appeared with a sly smile. 

“Fuck a duck!  That was fun.  I could almost fancy you now, were it not for the angle of your dangle,” she said, flipping the acrylic sheath housing Mr Willy.  I could almost fancy you, too, I thought, recalling that I’d already had the pleasure.  “Get your stuff,” she commanded abruptly.  “There’s work to be done.  I don’t have all day for this.”

*  *  *

The rest of the afternoon passed quite quickly, as it always does when you have a job that is your focus.  I dug the two holes for the pillory posts and made the posts by bolting a six by one each side of a four by two, (using the old measurements that some of us can’t get away from).  By keeping one side flush I created a vertical channel that the horizontal planks could slide up and down in.  I had poured the last of the concrete around the posts just as the sun began to set.

My work had been watched by Portia for some of the time while she had a late lunch with Warren, Roger and Megan, being waited on by Leila and Emma.  Monica and Jillian got nothing, nor were their bonds eased until I had finished my own work.  The two men had left in mid-afternoon and Portia, too, disappeared for a time.  Our area at the back of the house fell into shadow and I worked on in the cool, watched intermittently by Megan from the verandah as she sat in a chair and read a book.

As dusk fell, Megan summoned me to the balcony.  Shawnee was already standing there, clad mostly in rubber, complete with hood and gag and long hobble skirt.  Megan attached Monica’s chain to a post and ordered me to release Jill from her terrible position.  With the spreader bar removed and the suspending rope undone, Jill could barely stand and collapsed into my arms. At Megan’s direction, and preceded by Shawnee, I carried Jillian down into the basement, her bruised and wealed breasts rubbing against my bare skin.  In the Sluice Room I laid her on a double foam mattress that was a new piece of furniture.  I guessed this was where Jill, Leila and Emma were now spending their nights.  Here I was directed to chain Jill by her collar to the wall and remove her gag.  She coughed and whimpered from the pain in her jaw, and gazed up at me with obvious gratitude, but said nothing. 

“All right – enough of that,” said Megan, interrupting my attempt to establish how badly hurt she was.  “You need a shower, Mister,” said Megan, tossing a pair of handcuffs at me.  Put these on behind your back – and be quick about it!”  Her hand strayed to where the remote protruded from her pocket.  I did as I was told.  Megan was too smart to get close enough to allow me to snatch it.  Hence I ended up handcuffing myself into submission. 

At Megan’s command, Shawnee approached and hesitantly carried out directions, unlocking the belt at my waist and removing the butt plug.  Then she removed the two plasters covering my nipples and new jewellery.  Shawnee was evidently the wash girl, for she proceeded to give me a good soaping and scrubbing, exhorted by Megan to pay particular attention to my new nipple adornment.  These appeared to be healing well, with just a smidgen of dried crusty stuff evident. 

With this done, I was rubbed dry by Shawnee, who was then directed to kneel facing the corner, her black rubber outfit glistening wet.  Megan came across to where I stood.  My skin was bruised and red in places from the previous day’s beatings, but Megan did not appear perturbed by this.  I was sure she had seen worse in her time.   She reached into the pocket of her shorts and pulled out two tiny objects.  As she stood in front of me I saw that they were like tiny barbells. 

“We want to make these holes a little larger,” she said, indicating where the rings penetrated my nipples.

“Why?” I heard myself say.  She frowned and looked darkly at me.  “I mean, why, Mistress?” I corrected quickly.

“The reason is no business of yours whatsoever,” she told me sharply.  “You’ll find out soon enough in any case, now hold still.”  She expertly slipped one end of the shaft through the hole currently occupied by the ring, stretching the opening markedly, then she screwed the spherical end on to the shaft. A minute later I matched.

“All right – back to your cell.”

Now it was my turn to be chained to the wall in the holding cell that Monica and I had spent the last night.  Half an hour later Monica was chained up beside me, still in her duck outfit.

“You may undo the duck,” said Megan from the doorway, and tossed two keys on to the floor as a parting gift.  “One fits your handcuffs, which you may remove.  The other fits one of the duck’s chains.”

I removed my handcuffs, unlocking them only with difficulty.  Then I took off Monica’s mask, gag and hood.  Her hair was dripping from sweat and for a minute she could say nothing while I undid the black coat and eased her taped up arms from the sleeves.  The tape took a long time to undo, for it had bunched up in parts from her exertions and did not come away easily.  When she pulled off the coat runnels of perspiration trickled out from where her knotted sleeves had trapped it.

I checked out the keys.  We have a simple system in Bilboes, using five basic types of padlock, graded by size.  The smallest sort is used to lock cuffs and collars and the like, and is colour coded red.  Then comes blue, green, yellow and white, in order of size.  Except for combination locks and handcuffs (black), one key of each colour would be enough to unlock most padlocks of a particular size one would come across.  In this instance there was a blue and a black key.  How appropriate, I thought, considering our physical condition.  The blue undid the thin chain connecting Monica’s ankle cuffs via her collar.  Megan was one step ahead again, having chained us to the wall with green series locks.  It would not do to have colour-blind people working here, I reckoned.

Monica groaned as she was finally able to stretch out her legs.  She rolled on to her stomach and stretched her arms out along the floor, almost able to touch the toilet with her feet and the end wall with her hands.

 “Oh Jesus, that feels so good!  They were cramping something awful this morning, but you bastards just ignored me!”  I helped her to stand and allowed her to slowly remove the dildos that had occupied her front and back passages for the day.  “God, that’s better!  They were driving me insane this morning, and after lunch – of which I got none, by the way – all that traipsing around the garden was like… it was like something you’ll never experience, Steven.”  There was a faint smile on her lips, between the indentations in her cheeks where the gag strap had been.

“Not sure that I want to,” I said.

“But the tool shed thing was good.  That Megan is at least human.  Shit, she could press my buttons like you wouldn’t believe!  I could have slept half the afternoon after that.  And I would have - if you hadn’t kept walking about and tugging me awake.” She glared at me.

“Sorry.”

She seemed to relent, and sat down on the iron bed next to me, giving me a hug. 

“No, I’m sorry.  I saw what she put you through when you tried to help Jill.  I know what she’s playing at.  Sorry.  I’m just tired and hungry, and cranky and…I don’t know.  Shitshitshit…Everything’s turned to shit…”  The tears came then, as we hugged each other, naked and chained in our cell, and probably watched gleefully by our captors on the closed circuit television.

We talked in whispers, though we were sure that we could be heard.  I told her where I thought Jill, Leila and Emma were being held.  Of Mary and Trish we knew nothing, other than the fact that they had been the boys’ toys for Warren and Roger that day.  That prompted more tears, but I knew Trish and Mary were the strongest amongst us and would take care of themselves.  Monica nodded but I could see she did not really believe me.

Half an hour later Shawnee appeared, overseen by Megan, with a big bowl of stew and some bread and water.  Shawnee was still done up in the rubber outfit.

“I think she’s enjoying this,”  Megan told us.  “She knows it’s for real now.  No escape, no opting out if the going gets tough.  Real true slavery, right Shawnee?” She gave the rubber-clad girl a nudge.  Shawnee grunted what might have been agreement, but her eyes were downcast, not meeting mine or Monica’s. 

We fell on the food and had devoured it just before the lights were turned out.  Naked, exhausted and chained, we finally lay together on the narrow bed wondering what would be in store for us the following day…

*   *   *

Wednesday dawned with the lingering warmth of late summer.  Soon it would be autumn and things would cool down a little, although of course none of this was immediately apparent to me in our cell.  I could not tell what time it was, never mind what day it was and what the weather was doing. 

There was no breakfast this morning – at least not in the cell.  I was made to don the belt and butt plug and lock it in place.  This done, I was caught with a zap which left me on my knees while Megan unlocked the chain from the wall and then towed me upstairs on shaking legs.  Clearly the pre-release zap had a double purpose – to establish that everything was properly connected and to remind me exactly how painful it could be.  There was no doubt in my mind that I was becoming like a Pavlov’s dog, living in fear of the remote and what it did to me. 

I was chained by the ankle to one of the verandah posts where Shawnee brought my breakfast of cereal and a muffin.  At least somebody recognised that work needed energy.

Megan disappeared again with Shawnee in tow.  Today Shawnee wore a rubber cat suit and full face hood, leaving only holes for the eyes and nose.  I suspected she was probably gagged under the lower half of the hood.  Her hair, in a pony tail, poked through a hole in the top.  As she moved there was a tinkle of the chains linking the steel manacles on her wrists and ankles.

There was no sign of Portia at first.  I had barely finished the meal when she appeared.  She wore no makeup, but needed little, in any case, having the archetype Asian complexion that needs little or no enhancement.  She sported her now trademark red clothing, as usual, today being a red leather skirt and a crimson satin blouse that was tailored to her figure.  Her legs were bare save for a pair of medium-heeled sandals. 

By contrast, Megan was all in white today – white leather skirt, the same white boots as the previous day, and a white halter-top with the nipples cut out.  It looked extremely like Trish’s favourite outfit.  Something told me our captors had been doing a little wardrobe robbing.

Portia sat at the table where Shawnee scampered to bring her coffee and toast.  Portia watched me as she ate, as though appraising me for some sinister purpose – or fate.  Her black-eyed gaze made me uncomfortable, as much as being naked and chained did, for that matter.  Combine the two and you have some inkling of how disconcerted I was.  She did not speak during the ten minutes it took to eat her breakfast, while I knelt on the deck and gazed primarily at the boards, noting the odd nail that needed re-punching.  Finally she stood up and disappeared inside, to return a minute later with a cardboard carton which she placed on the table.  I was curious and taken aback when she pulled a rivet gun and a packet of steel rivets from the box, followed by two semi-circular objects made of stainless steel.  She walked over  and handed the steel objects to me. 

“Can you work out what these are?”

I took them and turned them over.  It did not take much to realise what they were intended for.  The two halves would form a circle, the diameter of a neck.  The steel was an inch wide with the top and bottom edge smoothed and one end of each half circle having a small welded plate that overlapped with the opposite end of the other piece.  Through the mating surfaces were drilled three holes, obviously for riveting the two halves together.  At quarter points around the collar were small D-shaped anchor rings that would take a padlock, and at one point there were two larger holes about five centimetres apart on the centreline, about the diameter of a pencil.  Just outside of these were two short threaded studs welded to the outside face, that looked as though something should be screwed to them. On the front of this collar the word “steven” had been engraved in Gothic lettering.  On the rear was the wording “Property of Madam Wong”.

“Well?”  Portia said, a hint of impatience in her voice.

“It’s a collar, Mistress.”

“For…?”

“For me, Mistress.”

“Very good,” she said sarcastically.  “One of the brighter minds of the western world, obviously.  Now you can put it on and we’ll see how good those measurements in your little book are.”

She handed me the riveter, which was like a large crimping tool, and the small plastic bag of rivets.  I took one out and fitted it into the jaws of the tool, while she stood behind me, straddling my shoulders with those long legs and holding the two pieces of collar in place.  She guided the exposed end of the rivet into the hole under my chin and directed me to squeeze the handles.  I did so, and it needed most of my strength to finally snap the rivet in place.  I was signing my own warrant here, and had no idea what implications it would have, but I did not have a lot of choice in the matter.  I could have resisted, but chained to the post with Megan not far away with the remote, I didn’t consider it a smart career move.

Five minutes later all six rivets had been snapped off through the holes and the collar was cold and snug around my throat and the ankle chain had been transferred to the collar.

“Excellent,” purred Portia as she locked the chain in place through one of the D-rings on the collar.  “There is absolutely nothing so pleasing as a newly collared slave.  I am so going to enjoy this morning.”  She sat down at the table and gazed at me with unabashed pleasure.

Megan appeared several minutes later, leading a naked, masked prisoner.  It was Trish, I realised.  Her face was concealed beneath a rectangle of thick black rubber which stretched from her forehead to her chin and wrapped around almost to her ears.  Only an opening for her nose existed, with the rubber held in place by half a dozen straps buckled tightly around her head over her hair and under her chin.  In the position where her mouth should have been behind the mask were a nut, bolt and washer.  I had little doubt that the bolt held a rubber ball or similar gag in place behind the rubber pad in front.  It was not something I had made at Bilboes, so I could only assume Megan was importing some of her own devices from her previous or other current establishment.

While her head and mouth were firmly constrained, the rest of Trish – or her upper body at least was no less secure.  Her wrists were joined palm to palm with a heavy leather strap, with a similar one pulling her elbows together with several loops of leather.  Not content with this, Trish had been bound in a harness made of leather straps.  Two ran over her shoulders, joining a ring between her breasts. From this point a wide strap ran vertically down between her legs and up between her cheeks, to terminate in a tee at a heavy belt that ran around her waist and buckled in front.  Branching out from the front vertical strap were a series of horizontal ones that encircled her torso, locking her arms against her body and buckling up behind her.  With total immobility, silence and blindness above the waist, any restraint for the legs was irrelevant.  I was at least pleased to see that her skin seemed relatively unmarked, in contrast to what had happened to Monica and Jillian.

Trish was made to kneel next to me while Portia fished out two matching halves of her collar, with her name engraved on the front.  Very shortly Trish also wore a snug-fitting collar that identified her as Madam Wong’s property, although Trish did not know it at that stage.

Mary was next, attired identically to Trish, in body harness and face mask and gag.  Soon she, too, was kneeling, bound, blind and silent next to Trish.  Leila and Emma followed, corseted, plugged and accessorised as they had been the previous day, chained at ankle and wrist, and gagged this time with rubber bit gags.  When they had been collared, Monica was brought to the verandah. 

She had still been chained to the wall in the cell when I had been removed.  She now had her wrists crossed and bound high up her back behind her shoulder blades, with the ropes holding them there pulled over her shoulders , between her breasts and through her crotch, before being wrapped around her waist from the rear and tied off.  The more Mon tried to drop her arms, the tighter the ropes would be through her pussy and the more uncomfortable she would be.  I noticed that she now had the rings on her nipples exposed, and like me had an extra barbell shaft through each hole.  She had been gagged with a red ball gag with a protruding eyebolt and looked as though she had come from a recent scrubbing in the Sluice Room.

After Monica’s collar had been fitted,  Jill was bought out.  Predictably she was still experiencing the pointed wrath of Portia, who, I was not surprised to find, had a long memory and would not let a loss of face incident be disposed of lightly.  Had Jill not been the last of our team to appear, I could not have been certain it was in fact Jill, for she wore a white leather discipline helmet with only two small holes for her nostrils, the lacing down the back being supplemented with a strap under the chin and one around the neck.  It would have been a fair guess to suppose that her mouth had been stuffed with something prior to the hood being laced up. 

Her arms had been strapped into a white leather sleeve which had been laced up similarly to the helmet. She still wore the pale blue and white striped corset and white stockings and high heels which were locked on.  I wondered if she had been made to wear these all night. A crotch strap ran from the front to back of the corset and I also wondered what she now had buried inside her.  Her breasts now sported angry bruises and weals from her whipping yesterday and she could only kneel with difficulty in her state to allow me to rivet the last collar on her.

As Jillian settled back on her high-heeled haunches as best she could, Portia surveyed the six bound females kneeling before her.  Three were blindfolded and could only guess at what was happening.  Megan locked a chain on Trish’s collar and ran it through the D-rings on the others to lock the other end on Jill’s.  It was an entirely unnecessary restraint but a very symbolic one.  The rattle of the chain and the tug on the collars brought home our absolute helplessness and dependence on Portia and Megan.  In short, the gesture was not wasted.

Portia stood up from where she had been watching me doing the riveting.  She gazed down at us for a short while before speaking.

“There has been a change of plan, slaves,” she announced.  “Madam Wong is coming earlier than I thought.  Evidently she is so excited by the thought of having you lot at her mercy that she can’t get here fast enough.  Today is Wednesday, for those of you too stupid to have worked out how long it is since you began your life of servitude.  Madam Wong will be here on Friday afternoon.  We have much to do to prepare for her reception then.  Suffice to say, if there is any trouble from any of you, you will regret it.  Each day, one of you will be selected to remain here on the verandah.  If there is any disobedience from anybody, the disobedient slave will be punished, and the one on the verandah will receive twice the punishment.  If more than one person misbehaves, imagine how unpleasant it will be for your colleague here on the verandah.

“So, for the next few days there will be many things to be done, chiefly by Steven.  And let me tell you, if you think you’re restrained now, life will get more difficult, and the consequences nastier, in a very short time.  In the meantime, things will be looking spotless for Madam Wong.  Emma and Leila will continue with the spring cleaning and Emma you will show me your cooking skills.  It will be nice to have someone who understands proper Chinese cuisine.  Mary and Trish will remain in the dungeon at the direction and whims of several clients Megan and I have lined up.  A number of them are from the local Hellfire club, with which you are doubtless acquainted.  They are looking forward to a couple of slaves in dire need of training.

“As for Monica and Jillian…You two are the ringleaders – the cause of all the trouble and embarrassment you have caused for Madam Wong and myself.  You will continue to receive corrective treatment as I see fit.  I think you can be sure Madam Wong will outdo anything I dream up.  Today, Monica will be helping Steven, while Jillian will be picking up where we left off yesterday.  That will be all.” 

Portia unlocked the chain at Jillian’s collar and unthreaded it back to the two masked captives, Trish and Mary.  She turned to Leila and Emma.

“Well?  What are you sitting there for like useless animals?  Go about your duties!”  The pair scrambled to their feet and hurried inside with a clinking of chains and a clattering of high heels on the polished timber and tiles.

Megan helped Trish and Mary to their feet and led them slowly in the wake of Leila and Emma, talking quietly to guide them over the threshold, then steering them through the kitchen.  Monica, Jill and I remained on the verandah.

Portia delved into the box that had held the collars and produced a wide leather belt.  It was heavy and came with a double-pinned buckle.  She squatted down next to Jillian, rolling her first on to her side, to let her legs stretch out, then pulling her back into a seating position.  The wide belt wrapped around Jill’s back, inside her sleeved arms and under her armpits, before being fitted around the back of her knees as her legs were raised into a bent position.  Portia worked the belt tighter, pulling Jill’s knees closer to her chest, which must have been difficult with the effect of the corset.  At length she seemed satisfied, securing the buckle and tucking the loose end of the strap out of the way. 

A further strap secured Jill’s ankles, then she was rolled on to her side again, then on to her knees, with her legs folded up a further stage.  This was easily made permanent with a rope attached to Jill’s ankle straps being pulled back between her cheeks to be secured to the ring at the end of the leather sleeve.  Poor Jill was now strapped into an immovable ball. Portia stood over her and placed the heel of her sandal against Jill’s collar.

“Comfortable, slave?”  A faint moan escaped the leather helmet.  “Good.  You’ll be there for a while.  And just to keep you company, we’ll give you a little entertainment.  She reached down and fiddled about between Jillian’s buttocks.  “Damn! It’s buried so deep I can hardly reach it… There!  Good vibrations, my dear.  Enjoy.”  Then she turned to us – or rather, to me, just as Megan returned from locking up Mary and Trish.  I figured anything that happened to me had to be better than the girls who were now kneeling either on the verandah or presumably in the dungeon, bound and gagged and sightless in their own subspace world for an unknown period, awaiting an unknown fate.

Portia went indoors and shortly thereafter Leila came tottering out on her high heels with the sun screen, obviously with orders to repeat the performance of yesterday.  She made muffled noises around the rubber bit locked between her teeth and motioned Monica to stand up.  Monica, like me, was secured to the verandah post but with enough slack in the collar chain to stand upright.  Leila commenced to smear sunscreen lotion over Monica, rubbing it sensually from her feet up her legs to her crotch. 

Monica looked down at Leila kneeling beside her and mad faint mmphing noises as Leila’s fingers strove to gain access beneath the ropes held tightly in Monica’s crotch.  There was something intensely erotic about Leila’s languid movements as her fingers smoothed the lotion over Monica’s skin, leaving it smooth and glistening.  I guess it’s a guy thing about two women, but in this case, despite the varying degrees of bondage we all endured, it was extraordinarily arousing – for those of us capable of arousal at that moment.  Megan, sitting at the table, watched with amusement, and, I suspect, just a little of the aforementioned arousal herself.

Leila was skilled at what she did.  Her fingers now slid over Monica’s breasts, gently caressing the ringed nipples and ensuring that no area of flesh missed out on the UV protection that was common practice in sunsmart Queensland.  Leila’s application of the lotion was like a massage, and was giving Monica more than just skin protection. I saw her nipples harden and she began to shift from foot to foot, her thighs close together.  Leila moved behind her and began to work on Monica’s back, spreading the oil down to her buttocks, and tugging at the ropes grooving between Monica’s cheeks. Monica began to fold at the waist and bend at the knees as the ropes began to have their effect with the increased lubrication through all points south. 

I was waiting for Megan to step in and stop the whole thing, but instead she let Leila do her thing.  Monica was on the launching pad now, I could tell.  Leila’s touch was extraordinarily gentle but I could see the heat rising in Monica’s cheeks as her breathing began to come faster. For a short while she seemed to try to fight the obvious waves of pleasure arising from her pussy, then clearly she gave it up as a bad idea.  Any embarrassment was being overcome by the irresistible need, it seemed.

“All right!  That’s enough of that!”  Portia had returned.  “Megan, do you think it appropriate for slaves to be getting off under these circumstances?”

“I was going to give it another minute.”

“Another minute and she’d be off the planet.  Get her sorted out, now.  Leila, you may do the same for Steven – I don’t think we’ll have any problems there.”  She looked at me disdainfully.

Megan stood up and unlocked Monica’s chain from the post, fixing it instead to another chain hanging from one of the overhead beams.  Monica was thus unable to bend, or to reach any object that might provide a pressure point on her now well-lubricated pussy. 

Leila motioned me to lie down on my stomach.  I did so, letting her sit on my back as she gave me the treatment that stopped just short of a very pleasant massage.

“That’s very nice,” I told her.

“Hmmk Huw,” she said.  “Hor helhum.  Hoher…”

I rolled over and she straddled my thighs, lathering the stuff over my body.  I was quite capable of doing this part for myself,  but I was not going to turn down this opportunity.  She worked down my face, giving me the big doe-eyed stare that could make her so endearing, before moving down onto my chest.  Here she expressed surprise at the nipple rings and the barbells, flipping them gently.  They did not really hurt, but in fact gave me a strange feeling of arousal again.  Except that such wasn’t actually possible, as she noted again when she got down to my crotch. 

Mr Willy was still firmly locked in his acrylic case, and no amount of fondling and massaging by Leila was going to make any changes down there.  She made little noises of disappointment behind the gag, which at any other time I would have found to be cute.  Now the whole thing was just frustrating, and it was all Monica’s fault.  I hope she thought about my predicament in the time she was about to spend in the hot house. 

“Come, Steven,”  said Megan, from the back steps.

“I wish I could, Mistress,” I replied, struggling to my feet and making Leila slide off on to her butt with a muffled squeal.  Megan smiled as she unlocked the chain from my new collar.

“Very droll, slave.  Leila – get on with your cleaning.  Steven – this way.”

I followed her around the side of the house to my workshop.

“We’re going to be laying that stainless steel wire from the front gate to the front steps,” Megan said.  “Then I can lock slaves on to it to fetch papers and mail or to sweep the driveway, or do the gardening, without supervision.  So you will need whatever tools are necessary for the job.”

The spool of cable was sitting on the floor of the workshop.  I picked it up along with the crimping sleeves and a large pair of bolt cutters and headed down the drive with Megan.

“Can you cut that wire with bolt cutters?” she asked.

“No.  Not without a lot of pratting around.  I’m going to use them for crimping the sleeves.”

“Oh,” she said.

It took me only a minute to crimp a loop around one of the gate posts next to the mail box at the electronic gate, then to unroll it back along the drive.

“Loop it twice around that tree,” Megan said, as we neared the house.  I did so, admiring her perversity at making slaves walk twice around the trunk en route to and from the gate.  “Change of plan,” she then ordered.  “We’ll go right round the back to the back steps.  We have enough wire?”

“Yes, Mistress.”  I continued unrolling and finally reached the back steps.  Here I had to fetch a power lead and my grinder to cut the wire then crimp it around the post at the top of the steps. 

“Excellent,” Megan commented.  “Steven, run out the wire and see how much is left on the spool.’  I did as I was told, stretching the cable from the steps across to the sleeping quarters.  “Perfect,” said the Mistress.  “I want the wire to run from the verandah rail to the building at no lower than two metres above the ground.  You can fix it at the other end wherever you like.  I want it done in ten minutes.”

It was done in five.

“Very good, slave.  In around half an hour a truck will be coming.  It will deliver some poles and bags of concrete mix inside the front gate.  When it’s gone, you and Monica will bring them down here where you’ll install them in the ground like totem poles.  They will need to be sticking out at least two and a half metres, the remainder concreted into the ground.  I know you have a post hole borer in the shed.  Any problems? “

“No, Mistress.”

“Good.  In the meantime you can keep on working on the cable trench.”

*   *   *