The storm was over by the next morning.  No doubt Madam Wong and Portia had spent a sleepless night and were now about to spend a sleepless day, I guessed.

After breakfast, while the two prisoners were taken into the dungeon and presumably attended to by Leila and Emma, Trish and I set the whipping machine up on the lawn.  Portia was brought out first, gagged and blindfolded with several pieces of duct tape over her eyes.  She was still wearing her red leather skirt, now muddied and dishevelled, and was made to lie on the ground between two of the posts.  At Monica’s direction Portia’s wrists, strapped together in front of her, were attached to a rope through the eyebolt at the top of one post, and her strapped ankles similarly secured via the other post.  Simultaneous pulling on these ropes by Leila and Emma, and the subsequent tying of them to the cleats, left Portia in some distress, stretched between the posts and bet like a longbow.  Her stomach remained on the ground, but it was going to be a long and painful morning.

Madam Wong was next to be brought from the basement.  She was gagged and blindfolded similarly to Portia, and was positioned under the bough of a large gum tree, from which a rope was suspended over a pulley.  Like Portia, her wrists were strapped in front of her, and these were hauled above her head until her arms were straight.  Her ankles were strapped together so that she could perhaps hop a little, but no more.  She was now totally naked, her skirt and boots having been removed along with the crotch plugs she had previously worn.

We set up the Whipper on a slight downward angle about two metres away from the prisoner and turned it on.  The rope took a couple of seconds to drag itself airborne as the fan built up speed, then the cord straightened and began to clip Madam Wong over the back of her calves.  She made a gurgled noise that was more annoyance than pain, and hopped a step further away from the flying cord.  We had been prepared for this, and with three long anchor ropes attached to the fan platform, we could tweak its position without having to stop the spinning rope.

We left it there, slapping repeatedly against Madam Wong’s calves while she hopped and twisted and found that she could do nothing more than change the impact point from back to front or side.  In short, at her own behest she would get the most thorough whipping possible over the whole of her body, as every twenty minute a couple of pumps on the airbag would raise the angle of the platform slightly to lift the impact point an inch or two.

Monica was delighted.  She and Jill set up Monica’s laptop and had morning tea on the verandah, making periodic inspections of the whippee to ensure even coverage and, I suspect, to secretly gloat over the downfall of their nemesis.  Gloating was not a trait I normally associated with either girl, Jill in particular, for she did not have a vengeful bone in her body, but in this instance I considered it was part of a healing process, an expulsion of demons which had haunted Jill since her rescue from the dungeons of Macau.

*   *   *

While all this was going on, Trish and I ended up in the workshop again.  This time Trish was dressed for the occasion, in a black tee-shirt that was probably a size too small and a maroon netball skirt.  I was informed that she wore nothing underneath.  This fact was obvious from the little nipple lumps poking through the cotton of the tee-shirt, but not for the lower half.

“Have you got a game on today?” I teased her, pointing to the pleated skirt. ”or are you just going as cheerleader?”  Trish tried to maintain a dignified air. 

“Perhaps you’d like to find another volunteer willing to put her body on the line for your perverted experiments.”

“No, dear Trish, your body will be perfect – as always,” I said gallantly, then rather spoilt it by adding: “I haven’t been able to find anybody else silly enough to undertake such hazardous duties in any case.”  She poked her tongue out at me and tried to look put out. “You look very nice, anyway,” I ended lamely.

“Well thank you, sir.  The skirt is purely practical, you understand.”  She sat down on the plastic cylinder where it was lying on its side on the floor. “You see?  A girl can achieve the object of the exercise but maintain a modicum of decorum without her skirt riding up to her pussy.”

“Spoilsport,” I said.

*   *   *

By the end of the morning we had just about got the system sorted.  There was a suitably sized hole in the cylinder through which the lifelike tip of a suitably sized phallus projected at the bottom of the down stroke, rising some ten centimetres higher on the upstroke.  We had fixed the motor and drive inside the cylinder and mounted the whole device on two timber cross beams that would stop the thing rolling about. On a whim, I screwed four castors to the underside of the beams, allowing the device to be towed on a rope.  Eyebolts were fastened to the front and rear of the cylinder on the top, for securing the rider, with the final touch being a soft foam liner draped over the top with a hole overlaying that in the top of the cylinder.

We had done a dry run, testing the speed control, which was through a small lever inside the cylinder, reached through the front opening. Now was the moment of truth.  Trish lowered herself on to the cylinder, reaching under the short skirt to position the head of the dong inside her.

“Need any jelly?”  I offered, handing her a tube of KY.

“Um… No, I’m okay.”

I grinned at her.  “You’re okay?  You randy tart.  You’ve been thinking about this half the night.  You must be wet as anything.”  Trish reddened.

“Shut up, you.  You’re so mean to me sometimes.”

“Sorry Trish.  I didn’t mean it.”

“Liar.”  Said with a smile it somehow lost its effect.

“”Do we have contact?”

“We certainly do.” 

I switched the motor on.

“Oooo!”  A look of surprise crossed Trish’s face.  The expression turned gradually into one of enjoyment then undisguised pleasure. “Mmmmm.  Niiiice…”   I left it for a minute while she closed her eyes and wriggled slightly.  She had a couple of inches clearance between her knees and the floor, and was resting on the toes of her sneakers.

“Gotta do this properly,” I told her, buckling a leather cuff on each ankle.  She didn’t resist when I looped a rope over the top of the cylinder from one cuff to the other.  “How’s that?” I asked, after her weight had been taken off her feet and now rested totally on her crotch.

“Ohh – even better!”  Her voice sounded just a trifle strained – in a contented sort of way.  She was riding the thing like a horse, holding on to the front eyebolt as one would do to the saddle horn.  I crouched down behind her and reached around, grasping both wrists and freeing her grip, pulling her hands back behind her.

“Ahh – no, no – ooo!  No, really, you don’t have to do that!”  She said it too late as I clicked the handcuffs over her slender wrists and locked the linking chain on to the rear eyebolt.   “Oh God, that is sooo good… But I don’t need my hands locked behind me, please Steven?  Let them go?”  She gave me a doe-eyed look, trying to appear innocent and cute and all those other things that some women can manage.  The flush to her cheeks gave her away as she squirmed again on the cylinder.

“Sorry,” I said.  “This is a proper scientific experiment.  This is a testing process and it’s all about pushing the envelope.”

“Christ, it’s not the only thing that’s being pushed here, Mister!” 

“Is that a complaint?”

“God no!”

“Good.  Now I have to check the mechanism.”  I lifted the hem of her dress and there was the big pink phallus moving in and out of the enlarged lips of Trish’s pussy in a steady rhythmic stroke, in and out once every two seconds.  It looked very erotic, seeing the shaft slide through the hole and up inside Trish, then withdraw almost fully but not quite.  With her weight bearing down fully on her crotch, I doubted she could lift herself off the impaler.

“Can’t a girl have any privacy?” she demanded in mock outrage.

“It’s a terrible job,” I answered, “but somebody has to do it.  Why don’t we speed her up a bit,” I suggested.

“Ohhh – nooo…”

I pushed the little lever inside the cylinder to about half speed.  Trish’s breathing quickened, turning into a pant as she began to breath through her mouth.

“Arrghh!  Oh shit!”

“Working?”

“Jesus Steven – of course it’s bloody working…”

She had her eyes closed now.  The workshop was silent save for the soft chugging of the motor as it relentlessly poked its shaft in and out, in and out.  Beads of sweat were breaking out on Trish’s forehead.

“Is it warm in here, or is it just me?”  I asked of nobody in particular.

“Bastard…” she muttered under her breath, trying to maintain a semblance of calm.

I let the motor run another couple of minutes, before deciding to add to the test loads just a tad.  I did this purely on a personal whim, since Mr Willy had awoken and was expressing disappointment that he hadn’t been invited to the party.  Crouching behind Trish I slid her tee-shirt up above her breasts.

“Hey! What the -!  Steven! Stop that! That’s not fair!”  I cupped her breasts and caressed them, tweaking her rock hard nipples.  “No, please!” she pleaded.  “Don’t…”

“All right,” I said, ever happy to oblige.  I stood up and moved to the front, before squatting and pushing the lever all the way.

“Nooo Steven!  It works!  It works, okay?  Aaaaarh – shit!”  The take off pad was prepared and Trish was away.  “Ohohohgodogodogod!”  With the increase in speed came the predictable climax that had been threatening.  Trish ground her hips and tried to clench her legs together. I saw her hands opening and closing as she tried to bounce off the contraption, shaking and squirming as the orgasm wracked her body and she gasped for breath through a long drawn-out groan of ecstasy.

She sat there panting and gasping, her breasts rising and falling as she hauled in deep breaths.  I dropped the speed down to half again.

“Off - please…” Her pleading was barely a whisper.

“Off?  SIlly girl!  You know how the process works.  It has to be vetted by Monica.”

“Oh no, Steven, please!  Look, it works!  Trust me! Enough is enough… Stop it for me, puhleeese?”

“You look so adorable when you beg,” I told her.

“You bastard!”

“I’ll be back shortly with Monica.”

“No Steven – no!  Please no! Really!  This is just too much for me…”

“Yeah, sure.  See so later kid.”

“Steveeeen…”

I shut the door and wandered across to the house.  Jill was inspecting Madam Wong, who was now starting to make whimpering sounds through the gag.

“How go things this end?” I asked cheerfully.  Jill looked up and gave me a beaming smile.

“Warming up nicely.  You really are clever.  See the red marks?  Thigh to neck and now we’re on the way down again.  And the prisoner is so cooperative – keeps turning around to do the parts we’ve missed.  Quite amazing.”  As we stood there I studied the red-striped flesh of Madam Wong.  The end of the cord was a little frayed now but was impacting nicely and the airbag was obviously working a treat.

“We dipped the end in water,” said Jill cheerfully.  “It makes it heavier and gives it more sting.”  The strikes were on Madam Wong’s left hip now, and she twisted herself to ease the pain on that spot, uttering little grunts with each impact.  She appeared to move too far, however, and one blow caught her near her shaven pussy.  She jerked and cried out into the rubber ball. 

“Hmmn, a bit tender there, is it dear?” asked Jill with what could almost have been real concern.  She moved behind the woman and grabbed her by the hips, manoeuvring her so that successive blows landed in the same spot.  Madam Wong tried to struggle and began to squeal in pain.  Jill was unmoved as her captive squirmed vainly in her grasp.  Eventually she released her grasp as tears were flowing down the Chinese woman’s cheeks.

“Only another two hours,” Jill told her blithely and turned towards the steps.  Our route took us past where Portia was still stretched out in a shallow arch, her feet and hands pulled upwards, her head hanging down and her stomach on the grass.  Somebody had added two nipple weights to her discomfort.  Jill stopped beside the figure and grasped the mane of black hair.

“Are we still comfortable?” she asked pleasantly. Portia’s blindfold stared sightlessly up and she whined pitifully.  She had been crying, not surprisingly. Jill joggled the girl’s breasts beneath her while Portia wailed through the gag.

“Cheer up,” said Jill. “This afternoon will be the Whipper for you.  That’ll make a change.  Bet you wish you’d stayed in Macau, huh?”  She released the hair and the head nodded despairingly.  We climbed the steps to where Monica was working on the computer. She looked up as we approached.

“I need your valued eye to inspect the Jolly Rogerer,” I said.  She laughed.

“So that’s what you call it.  Where’s Trish?” 

“Er – probably mid-climax, I should think.”

“I’m a little busy right now,”  Monica said, after some reflection.  “Would you mind waiting a while until I’ve finished this?”  Her eyes sparkled and I grinned at her.

“Well, I suppose you have priorities,” I conceded.  “I can’t force you to go and look…”

“Sit down and have a nice cup of tea.  I think you’ve earned it.  Hasn’t he, Jill?”

Jill dazzled me again and I gave in.  Sorry Trish – I tried really hard…

*   *   *

By the time I had had a cup of tea Monica was ready to pay a visit to the workshop. Jill came with us and as we crossed the lawn we could hear Trish’s cries quite clearly.  She was calling out to Monica or me or both, or anybody else who would listen.  Nearing the shed the cries for help and release turned to an expletive-filled series of rising exclamations, turning into a long wail of sexual release as another orgasm swept over her.

Monica gave me a look and raised her eyebrows as if to signify how impressed she was.  We opened the door to see a sweat-soaked Trish straddling the Rogerer, shaking from the strain of what was being inflicted on her.

“Monica!” she gasped, barely able to speak. “Dammit, where’ve you been?  Steven you bastard!  Get me off this thing before I go into orbit!”

“Why on earth didn’t you gag her?”  Monica asked me with an expression one uses on incompetent subordinates.

“I wanted to assess the full effect,” I replied, standing my ground.  Monica shrugged.

“Fair enough.  Seems to work all right.”

“You haven’t seen it at full speed.”

“I’d like to.”  Trish began to get very agitated and started pleading for us to turn it off.  Monica sighed and with an inclination of her head to Jill indicated where a red ball gag and strap lay on the bench.  “Jill dear, will you do the honours?  I can’t concentrate with all this chatter going on.”

“No!  No Jill, please don’t!  Just turn it off and let someone else try it!  Monica, you’d really enjoy it!”  There was an edge of desperation in her voice.  “No Jilly, don’t do – urrrrggh!”  Trish, wide-eyed, tried to shake her head clear of the rubber ball that materialised in front of her face but Jill was too experienced as she gripped a handful of Trish’s auburn hair to stop the shaking. At the same time she pulled Trish’s head back, making her involuntarily open her mouth to take the ball. Trish spluttered and fought the rubber invader, but Jill buckled it up without blinking.

The insults and invectives died to a grunting protest.  I lifted Trish’s skirt again to show the pink phallus remorselessly boring in and out of Trish’s love passage.  The plastic member was shiny and slick and the foam blanket around the hole was wet with Trish’s juices.  Her tee-shirt was soaked with sweat and damp patches were now showing on the skirt over her thighs, stomach and in the small of her back. 

The three of us looked down on Trish as she fought the ball and the incessant probing inside her.

“This is how it works, “ I told Monica, crouching down to show her the lever that controlled the speed.  Monica knelt down beside me and Jill leaned interestedly over her shoulder.  “There’s a transformer here, that converts the power from mains to twelve volt.  It can run off a car battery.”

“Or a truck battery?”  Monica asked. 

“A car battery on the back of a truck,” I agreed.  “See?  You just move this lever and the thing speeds up or slows down.  Try it.”

Monica pulled the lever forward and the vertical stroke movement speeded up, as did the nasal complaints from Trish, merging into a long grunting wail. That saw the sudden onset of another orgasm as she humped the cylinder, snorting and grunting and trying to breath at the same time, her breasts bouncing with the effort.  She was making exhausted “Urrgh… Urrgh…” noises as she struggled to regain the little composure she could still muster.  She looked at us balefully over the gag.

Monica eased the lever back so that the motor revs died and the phallus slowed right down.  Trish leaned forward, her head down, her shoulders sagging.  Monica put her hand on Trish’s bare thigh, feeling the trembling that was just visible.

“Very impressive, Steven,” she said, with what I accepted as genuine admiration.

“And you can tow it around, too,” exclaimed Jill, spotting the rope I had tied to the front.  Jill gave it a couple of tugs and Trish jerked forward with a renewed wail.  “We could have races round the verandah!”

Monica, now standing, slid her bare foot inside the cylinder and suddenly the revs went from almost nothing to full on.  Trish jerked upright with a desperate look on her face, struggling frenziedly at her bonds and making a despairing attempt to communicate to us that she could not stand any more of this.  Monica spoke as if Trish wasn’t there.

“Wouldn’t it be interesting to have this and the saddle going side by side.  I wonder which is the more effective?  Maybe we should put some money on it.  I think I’ve just found a suitable position for our guests tonight…”  Then she turned to go.  “You’ve done very well, Steven.  I have another job for you this afternoon. You’d better come along with me.  Trish will be okay for another hour or two.”

As we opened the door I looked back at the helpless figure staring at me in disbelief with pleading eyes.  She finally shook her head in a spray of sweat and screamed her hardest into the rubber ball.

“Nnnnnnnmmmmph!”

Monica closed the door after me.

“Let her have one more then she can sleep it off – if she can make it to her bed, that is.”

*   *  *

Trish wasn’t speaking to me when I let her go, even after I helped her to stand and she had to lean on me all the way back to the house where she collapsed into one of the director’s chairs.  I got her a foot stool and made her comfortable with a nice sandwich and a large bottle of cold drink.  Monica and Jill were there and got the sulky treatment as well.

While all this was going on, Madam Wong was complaining most volubly as the whipping machine was obviously pushing her to the edge.  She was hopping about and crying into the gag, looking for somewhere on her body that did not hurt as much as the other parts, but finding none.  Her flesh was glowing red all over, from neck to knees.  Even the insides of her legs had been given a going over.  Given that the exposure was entirely voluntary it was the most amazing performance.

After lunch Leila and Mary had taken a sobbing Madam Wong down into the basement, to be replaced by Portia. A short time later Monica had asked me to accompany her to the basement.

We went via the outside door, pausing to enter the Observation Room, with its one-way windows into surrounding rooms.  In here we found Mary, dressed in her fearsome Gestapo outfit, with the long black leather skirt, boots, and tight tailored jacket.  On the other side of the glass, in the Interrogation Room, with its sinister heavy wooden chair standing alone in the middle, we found Megan.  She was not in the chair, but was in fact standing.  Her wrists were strapped behind her, horizontally, hand to elbow, and the strap around her forearms was tied to a cord which ran up over a pulley before being anchored to a cleat on the wall.  Aside from this, Megan was otherwise unfettered.  She wore a leather discipline helmet with nostril holes and a zipped mouth opening.  I was informed by Monica that Megan was gagged and had her ears plugged beneath the hood. 

“It’s a rather subtle method of bondage,” Monica explained.  “She has nothing to strain against, no way to rest or relax, as one might when lying on the floor or a bench or tied to a chair or a post.  The rope is too short for her to kneel, and she can’t reach the walls to lean on them.  No sight, no sound… She will be a very tired girl when Mary’s finished with her.”

“And what will you do with her then?”

“That’s an interesting question, Steven.  What do you think I should do with her?  What do you make of young Megan?”

“I think she’s in over her head.  I think she’s become involved with people that she finds she has no way of getting away from – people that are a lot worse than she thought, and who are probably different ethically, if they even get off the ground in the ethics standards, that is.”

Monica looked at the bound figure standing alone in the room beyond the one-way glass, then turned back to me. 

“I think you’re right,” she concurred.  “Sometimes you have quite remarkable insight for someone who calls himself a dumb builder.  What do you think, Mary?”  Mary uncoiled herself from her chair and stood up languidly.

“About what – Steven being a dumb builder or about our prisoner?”

“About Megan,” said Monica with a trace of annoyance.

“For once I agree with Steven,” she said.  “I’ll break her, no problem.  She’s not as tough as she makes out.  It’s all bluff.  Fine when she’s dolling it out, but she hasn’t got the resilience.  She’s got quite a bit of ‘switch’ in her.  Which usually means the Domme side just doesn’t make it up there with the real professionals.”

“Mary has been given the task of obtaining Megan’s life story,” Monica said.  “She is to do it with a minimum of physical pain.  Instead she can use sleeplessness, sensory deprivation, disorientation, deprivation of food, inducement with promises of all manner of things, role play, whatever.  Mary likes psychological games,” she added dryly.  “Megan will remain hooded most of the time and Mary will be her only contact with the outside.  Today’s Monday, Mary.  You have four days to get the full story.  On Friday I want to go with Mistress Megan to visit her establishment.  She will need to be compos mentis for that little outing.

“And let’s not forget we already know quite a bit about our Megan from that form she filled in when she first came here, under the guise of being a client.  I don’t believe she was making too much of that up.  Mary will now adopt the role of interrogator to learn everything she can about Megan, from where she was born, went to school, family, friends, education, work history, career, lovers, whatever.  When we have talked through this we can decide what to do with her in a more informed way. Think that will keep you occupied for a bit, Frau Kapitan?”

Mary smiled – an expression of one who has a purpose and is content with that purpose – and said nothing.  Whatever her crimes, I felt sorry for Megan at that moment. 

I followed Monica out of the room.  We went down the corridor into the dungeon.  Against the wall opposite the door was the still blindfolded and gagged Madam Wong, bound to the parallel bars that occupied most of the wall.  Her arms were outstretched and her feet spread.  Ropes secured her limbs at ankles, knees, the tops of her thighs, waist, elbows, wrists and above her breasts.  That was the beauty of the parallel bars – lots of things to attach body parts to.  Jill was there, looking as though she wished she could add one further rope, probably about Madam Wong’s neck.

Monica strolled over to the blind and silent figure, inspecting the ropes.  Jill had used multiple turns of white sashcord and Madam Wong could do little more than wiggle her fingers and toes and shake her head,

“Nice job, Jill,” said Monica, tweaking a vulnerable nipple that elicited a squeak of pain from the prisoner.  Then Monica faced Madam Wong and cupped her hands over the Chinese woman’s smooth oval mounds that held their flawless profile with her body stretched as it was.  She beckoned to me to approach almost within kissing distance. I did so, and she took her own hands away, grasping mine and putting them in place instead.  Madam Wong’s breasts were firm and youthful.  I wondered what I was supposed to be assessing.  One liners flicked through my brain to the effect that anything more than a handful was a waste, or that boobs should be measured in BSH – British Standard Hands.  So much for my university education.

Just as Mr Willy was starting to wake up in a major way, I was led gently away again, to the other side of the room.  Monica pinched my nipple through the fabric of my shirt.

“Ow!  What was that for?”

“A little reminder of the holes that you and I have in our nips, courtesy of our Chinese friends.  Now it’s payback time.  Here’s what I have in mind…”

*   *   *