By the time morning arrived we were both knackered.  The combination of lights and temperature and the fact that Monica could not use the bed had all had an effect.  This was the day that Madam Wong was due to arrive.  This was the day on which things – already at a depressingly low point – would reach their nadir.  Madam Wong would have been waiting a long time for this moment. 

“Come on – get up and put the belt on!”  It was Megan.  She was dressed for business in a black sleeveless leather dress with a zip down the front and two chains hanging across her breasts.  Her elegant  legs were clad in black boots that rose to above the knee in front, but with cut-away sections behind the joint.  On her wrists were wide laced-up leather guards, while a thin leather collar with a small silver pendant encircled her throat.  She had pinned her dark hair back behind her ears , and these sported silver chains dangling from the lobes.  This morning she wore the full make-up – dark lips and heavy eyeliner that gave her a hard, no-nonsense look, the look of someone you would think twice about upsetting. 

I did as she commanded, working the hated plug into my arse and clicking the lock shut which locked the loops of wire together at my navel.  Monica watched me with sad, defeated eyes.  I paused, waiting for the zap to hit, for Megan to test the device.  When it came I was still unprepared for the severity of it.  No matter how you braced yourself, physically or psychologically, the real thing was worse, much worse.  It caught you deep inside, at once making you double up and hold your abdomen, while at the same time fighting for breath and trying to stay on your feet. In short, it was not nice, and it left you with a decided reluctance to undertake any act of resistance, never mind be even capable of it. Just the thought of that pain was enough to moderate one’s behaviour, which, of course, was the whole point of it.  The shock was adjustable, both in terms of duration and voltage, but I had no doubt that I was receiving the maximum.  When we had first devised the punishment for the Twins, we had achieved the behaviour modification we desired without having to resort to this extent.  Thank God I had put a cut-off on the timer.

While I was struggling to get to my feet, Megan entered and unlocked my chain at the wall and picked up the discarded suit, for the cell had just gone through one of its hot and stuffy stages.  Monica watched me with a desolate look on her face and her eyes glistened with tears as my jailor dragged me, stumbling, out into the corridor and slammed the cell door.

Megan said little as we went upstairs.  I reckoned she was getting stressed about this Madam Wong, the wife of a billionaire from Macau, about whom she had heard so much and who was now bankrolling Megan’s ambitions for her own revenge.  It was obviously D-day for Megan, and she wanted things to go well.  Which, coincidentally, entailed absolute obedience from her charges.

I was chained to the verandah post long enough for a gagged Leila to bring me some breakfast, then, suited up as the previous day,  I was led by Megan to the workshop, where we collected the big spool of cable to go in the trench.  The laying of the cable did not take long as I spooled it out around the house and sleeping quarters, then followed the same route to fill in the shallow trench and replace the turf I had removed.

It was a simple matter to run the cable into the workshop, wire a plug on each end and insert these into the proprietary box that served as a transformer and modulator from the mains.  Although the cables ran past outside of the workshop, the door was also on the outside, which meant to access the transformer and switch, a person would have to cross the cable to reach the door.  Access to the switch would was thus denied to anybody wearing the collar.  In short, it looked foolproof. 

Megan gave me a collar from a box.

I looked closely at it. The collar itself was made from a stiff brown acrylic material, and attached to the front of it was a metal box the size of a large matchbox, which was riveted on to the collar.  Protruding through the collar from the box were two prongs about an inch long and the thickness of a pencil.

“Remember this was designed for dogs, not human slaves,” Megan said helpfully,  “You will have to separate the box from the collar, and you will see that it can be fixed over the two threaded studs on your own collar.  Obviously the prongs are too long, and will have to be cut down.  That will be your job for today – to fit the boxes to all the collars you and your friends are wearing.  I have a spare collar her for you to use for trying out the fit.  It may end up on Shawnee.  I will watch you while you do the first one, then, when you know how to do it best, you can move on to the verandah where you can be properly supervised away from all these tools, where I trust you not one iota.  There are too many things here that are sharp or can grind metal.  You will not be left alone with these, be assured of that.”

That was how Megan spelt out the rules of the game to me.  I drilled through the rivets of the flanges of the first box and looked at it as it came away from the collar.  It was covered in a clear plastic with a small plughole for charging purposes.  Otherwise it was completely sealed and looked weather proof, which I guess it had to be if a dog was going to be running around with it on.

The two prongs fitted through the holes left in front of the stainless steel collar, which I had wondered about previously. I saw how the flange of the box would fit over the two threaded studs once I had drilled appropriate holes for them.  It could then be bolted up tight and would need a spanner to be undone.  This was accomplished relatively easily.

The prongs were a different matter.  They were about an inch long and in my case there was very little space between my collar and my throat – perhaps only a finger thickness.  I cut them down and ground and filed the ends into a smooth round bumps.  Trying them out poking them through the holes in my own collar I found them tolerable, pressing as they were into the skin about two inches apart on either side of the throat.  Megan tightened the nuts on the studs so that the box was firmly secured and the stubby prods poked into my skin.

“Now,” she said. “Time to test it.”  She led me outside and perhaps ten metres back toward the house.  I saw Portia standing on the verandah.  Unlike Megan, she was not yet into the swing of things, wearing a demure - for her – long sleeved red dress and shoes that would obviously pass casual inspection at an airport reception for nothing more than a good looking woman, as distinct from an evil-minded Domme with a catalogue of torture plans in her mind. 

“Stay there while I switch the loop on,” said Megan.  “Then you will walk towards me when I tell you to.” 

She disappeared into the workshop and reappeared a few moments later.  I had detected nothing, no tingles or anything to suggest the system was even working.

“Come here, Steven,” Megan commanded, standing on the other side of the line of repaired turf.  I started walking towards her.  I had covered perhaps half the distance when I started to detect the first tremors in my skin, as the beginnings of a current began to be activated through the flesh of my throat.  I slowed, taking one step at a time.  I was still three metres from the wire when it started to get painful.

“Come on, Steven!” Megan ordered.  “Do you want a zap up your arse instead?”

“No, Mistress!  Please, it’s starting to hurt!” 

“Two more paces, there’s a good boy.”  Cajoling now.

I took one, and the buzzing at my throat went up in intensity, along with the pain.  I shook my head and tried to pull the collar away from my skin, but it still maintained contact. I knew I couldn’t take it any longer and had started to turn when Megan hit the remote. 

I collapsed at that point, blood roaring in my ears as my muscles went haywire and I finally managed to crawl away from the terrible fire at my throat, while the pain in my inside slowly subsided.  I lay on the ground, sweating and trembling from the shocks, slowly curling up and making moaning sounds as best I could.

Megan was standing over me.  Distantly I heard hands clapping and focussed long enough to see Portia applauding from the balcony.  Glad you liked the performance, I thought miserably. 

“I think we’ve learned a rather important lesson, don’t you think?” Portia suggested cheerfully.  “The system functions and is very effective.  I don’t think you’ll be doing any long jumps over that,” she said.  I’ll go and turn it off then you can fetch your tools to do the remaining modifications.”

*   *   *

My afternoon was spent on the verandah with a drill and a grinder and a file, using a portable bench vice to modify the remaining collars.  As the day wore on, Megan began bringing the girls out one by one to have their collars fitted.  I was startled to find the girls appearing in markedly different clothes as they were brought on deck. 

Monica was first.  She arrived with her wrists handcuffed behind her and silenced with a red ball gag, but otherwise unrestrained.  The most remarkable alteration from her previous naked state was that she was now dressed as Wonder Woman.  I was momentarily taken aback when she appeared, for she looked stunning. Her hair had been washed and blow-dried and was held back with the distinctive yellow hair band with a red star above her forehead that was the trademark of WW.  She wore the multicoloured strapless swimsuit that was the other trademark – red on top with an orange design over the breasts, and the bottom half in blue with white stars.  The red knee-length boots and wrist guards completed the outfit.

“Ah, here comes Wonder Woman,” exclaimed Megan as Portia steered her along the verandah to where I was working.  Monica glared at her and I was pleased to see a touch of the Monica spirit in her eyes again.  I could hardly take my eyes off her, for her jet black hair fitted the look so perfectly, cascading about her shoulders and contrasting with the pale skin above the bright colours of the lycra swimsuit. 

“Stop goggling and get on with it,” Portia snapped. 

I lifted up Monica’s chin and slipped the first of the boxes into place against the studs on her collar, tightening up the nut on each side with a spanner.  I slid my finger between the collar and her skin, trying to judge how much of a gap there was and how much intrusion the prongs were making against her throat.

She looked at me uncertainly, probably wondering what was being fixed to her collar.  I tried to smile reassuringly, but I don’t think I pulled it off.

“Wha hath?”  Monica garbled around the ball, looking fearfully at Portia.

“All will be explained in due course, my dear Wonder Woman.  God, this is good!”  She turned to Megan who grinned at her.  “This is like being the bad guy in the movies, capturing Wonder Woman.  And in this case” – she turned her gaze on Monica – “you cannot escape.  There will be no superhuman feats from you today.”  Portia laughed as she led Monica down the steps to the first post that I had concreted into the ground.  I noticed Portia had run a length of chain along the ground in a semicircle behind the posts.  The chain was relatively loose, and locked around the first and last posts.  She positioned Monica between the first and second posts to the left of the steps and locked one ankle to the chain before leaving her there.

Jillian was the second slave to appear.  My astonishment at seeing Monica’s new character was equalled when a handcuffed Jill was pushed on to the verandah by Portia. 

“Presenting… Supergirl!” said Portia with a flourish. 

“Excel-lent!” Megan enthused, as Jill, resplendent in a long-sleeved blue lycra top and short red skirt that swirled around her thighs.  Like Monica, she wore red knee length boots, with these ones having a decidedly more fashionable heel to them compared to the comics I had read as a kid.  Emblazoned over Jill’s breasts was the big ‘S’ symbol, while a red cape was fastened at the back of her neck.  The blonde, collar length hair was possibly not quite as long as the Supergirl I remembered, but she could rescue me anytime, I thought.

“So, Supergirl, your powers of kryptonite have deserted you!  Not going to leap of the balcony and fly away?”  Portia taunted her.  She was getting right into her own part.  It would have been fun had it not been so serious.  Jill hung her head and stared at the ground.  A faint runnel of drool slipped around the edge of the red ball gag in her mouth.  Portia was doing her darnedest to match bondage gear with outfit, I noted. 

I gazed into Jill’s brown eyes as I tried to concentrate on fastening the box to her collar.  She had the most expressive eyes of any of the girls at Bilboes. I could have drowned in them had I ever had the chance to getup close and personal with her -   without one of us being tied up at the time, that is.  Jill and I seemed to have a strange interwoven karma that I hadn’t yet worked out.  I tightened the nuts on her collar and touched her cheek lightly .  Her eyes seemed to lighten briefly before Portia took her by the arm and led her down the steps, here to be ankle chained between the second and third posts.

I was wondering who would appear next, and this time it was a change from the comic character to something more contemporary – Trish, as Lara Croft, but without the guns.  She looked very sexy in a tight pale green latex tank top.  I suspect she had a corset on underneath that, for her boobs seemed bigger than I remembered , her waist smaller, and her butt tight in the khaki shorts.  The wide brown belt with the big brass buckle was done up tightly, as were the empty holsters strapped to her thighs.  Behind the black ball gag she wore the most docile expression I had ever seen on her.  She had her hair in a pony tail which rather suited her, I thought, and wore brown hiking boots.  I could see bruises on the backs of her thighs, however, and I knew life had not been pleasant in the dungeons of Bilboes.

I tried to smile at her as I fixed the box to her collar, but unlike Lara Croft, this Tomb Raider appeared to have recognised when she had met her match and knew when to submit to overwhelming forces.  She became the third shackled prisoner in the curve of poles as Portia locked her in the space next to Supergirl Jillian.

I expected Mary next, but I hardly recognised her, or her character.

“Meet Elektra – Ninja warrior!” Portia announced.  Mary’s short black hair had been supplemented with a flowing black wig that swirled about her shoulders.  Her willowy form was clad in a tight-fitting crimson leotard with one shoulder bare, and a length of silk flowing from her waist between her legs, front and back.  Her hair was crowned with a silk scarf wrapped horizontally and trailing behind her, while – as seemed to be the pattern with superhero babes – she wore the almost obligatory red boots to her knees.  The last embellishments were silk bands around her thighs and lycra wrist bands that extended nearly to her elbow.

“Elektra?  Where did you get her from?”  Megan asked. “I’ve never heard of her.” 

I had to admit to being at a loss myself, although Mary certainly looked the part.

“You don’t read comics like Hong Kong Chinese,” smirked Portia.  “Elektra is the sworn enemy of villains and has a somewhat unorthodox method of dealing with them.  She is an assassin - she kills for hire, loves for thrills and leaves destruction in her wake.”

“Sounds like someone else I know,” murmured Megan, just loud enough for me to hear.

Ordinarily I would have thought what an extraordinary likeness Elektra was to Mary from the sound of her temperament.  I could see Mary as an assassin, up to her neck in court intrigue in the palace of some eastern kingdom.  Mary always had another agenda, but she was the best at her skills and used her knowledge judiciously.  Mary was always an opponent to be respected, but I knew that secretly she was not as hard as she made out.  This was a little confidence I shared with her from a time in the past when she had broken down in front of me.  As with Jillian, I felt a tie to Mary, but in a different way.  She was enigmatic, perhaps just like the character she now portrayed.

But the Mary before me now was not the one I knew before.  Like Trish, she was subdued and docile, and as with Trish I saw the marks of beatings on her legs and other exposed parts of her flesh.  Mary did not look me in the eye at all as I connected the box to her collar.  Instead she averted her eyes which in itself shocked me greatly.  Proud and haughty Mary, the Ice Queen, had been dethroned and subjugated, which left me suddenly fearful for the prospects of the rest of us.  Of all the girls, with the possible exception of Monica, I would have thought that Mary and Trish were the strongest, most dominant, and to see them so downcast and submissive troubled me deeply.  Portia took her by the arm and led her on to the grass where she became the fourth victim secured to the long chain.

I could not fail to recognise Emma when she appeared, a shiny black-latexed figure sporting two small cats ears and a tail.  She made a stunning Catwoman, her generous breasts straining at the rubber that then curved in around her waist and hips, before sliding down into the high heeled black boots.  Only the black ball gag was not the normal de-rigeur for the character, its strap disappearing around the back of her half-mask which overlaid the black waterfall of hair.

Contrary to my expectation Emma seemed to be holding up better than some of the others.  She was a natural submissive in any case, and perhaps the change had not been so traumatic for her.  Additionally, she and Leila had been occupied with the chores of the house, unlike the other girls who had been subjected to beatings and long periods of stringent bondage guaranteed to wear down the physical and mental spirit.  I knew Emma’s main worry was over the punishment that had been meted out to Jillian, and the potential for further such punishment with the imminent arrival of Madam Wong.  Now Emma, too, was heading down the steps to join the chain gang amongst the poles.

Leila was the last.  I thought I was immune to surprises, but Portia pulled one last one out of the hat – Leila as Sweet Gwendoline.  Until I had come to Bilboes I had never heard of John Willie, the great bondage writer and artist of the forties and fifties, but Monica had soon educated me through reading a rare edition of one of his works.  Now here was Leila in the flesh, a living example of the art. 

She wore tight black satin shorts and a white satin blouse that was cut to mould to her figure in the style of the fifties, before stretch materials came along.  She must have been wearing a severe corset underneath, for her figure was pronounced and in the cool evening air her nipples were hard and straining against the thin fabric.  From beneath her shorts suspenders were visible, holding up her blacked seamed stockings.  She tottered across the verandah deck on the highest black heels I had ever seen on her.  Like the other girls she was handcuffed and her jaw was distended by a black ball gag on a strap that stood out starkly against her blonde hair.  She looked the epitome of the fifties damsel in distress, in the days before sophisticated sexual expression took hold and devices of sexual torment became bolder and more complicated.

When Leila’s ankle had been locked to the chain, there still remained one space at the end of the semi-circle.  It didn’t take much to work out who was going there.  I was not surprised to be given my costume for the night.  In my mind it was merely a question of which captured and humiliated superhero I was to be.

“Get changed, Spidey,” said Megan, handing me a red and blue costume.  Spiderman!  At least it wasn’t the Incredible Hulk.  Megan unlocked my worksuit from my collar and I removed my work boots, then began to pull on the Spiderman outfit.

It was a one-piece costume, made of lycra.  I wondered if Portia and Megan had bought these or simply hired them.  My guess was the former.  I reckoned they had been made specially.  Portia wanted to put on a show – and a symbolic one at that – for Madam Wong, and with the Wong riches paying for the operation making a few costumes was not exactly going to bankrupt the enterprise.

My outfit was predominantly blue, but with the red and black webbing over the hands, torso, shoulders and head.  My musings as to ‘bought’ or ‘hired’ seemed to be clarified when I wriggled the costume up to my shoulders.  There was a zip up the back, which Megan helpfully did up, and I found at that point that there was a hole cut in the throat of the material for the box on my collar to protrude through.

“Don’t forget the boots,” said Megan, dropping them at my feet.  They were of leather and laced up to just below my knees.  They also fitted quite well, and had red and black web-like painting on them.  As I was finishing tying the laces, sitting on my butt on the decking, I felt Megan’s knees against my back and glimpsed a ball on a strap drop in front of my face and press against my mouth.

I had long since realised the futility of fighting such intrusions when it’s two against one and one of those two has a direct circuit to your sensitive anal regions.  The best thing to do is to accept the inevitable and try to get it installed with as little discomfort as possible.  There is an art to correctly fitting a ball gag, which includes making sure it is properly wedged behind the teeth and that no bits of lip are trapped between strap or ball.  I managed to use my own hand to position the ball with the least discomfort before Megan’s hands buckled it behind my head.  I had no doubt that if Portia had been doing the fitting it would have been at least one or two notches tighter.  Then my hood was pulled up over my face and another zip was done up from the top of my hood down the back to mate with the zip up my back.  I heard what sounded suspiciously like a plastic tie being done up, and I had the feeling that I would be needing a pair of scissors if I was to cease being Spiderman in the near future.

The hood covered my entire face but the eye panels had a thin gauze over them, kind of like a fly mesh.  I could see reasonably well,  and saw the handcuffs come out to secure my wrists behind me for the trip on to the lawn.  They were entirely superfluous, of course.  My recent experience of the collar and the anal plug had conditioned me adequately that afternoon not to want to try anything silly.  Soon I, too, was locked to the chain, joining a cast of characters that had probably never been together before, and which had the potential to save the world several times over.  It was just unfortunate none of us could escape from the handcuffs and ankle chain to commence such a rescue.

The girls were sitting or lying on the ground at this stage.  It was nearly dusk and Portia took the opportunity for a last pep talk.

“I am about to go to the airport to collect Madam Wong.”  Portia could barely contain the delight in her voice at the sight before her and the prospect of putting on a show for her employer.  “She will be very impressed at seeing the Bilboes Superheroes – so full of themselves in Macau – now totally humiliated.  She will no doubt be even more excited by the punishments she will be able to inflict on you in return for your uninspired little effort against us.  You may rest assured that anything you have suffered up until now will seem like a health care treatment compared to what Madam Wong will devise, particularly for you two”  – she indicated Wonder Woman  Monica and Supergirl Jillian at the end of the line.  “Now I will leave Megan to finish preparing you.”  She turned on her heel and swept into the house.