The drive the next day was slightly longer into Sydney but was largely a repeat of Saturday.  The traffic was light as we drove down the last stretch of the Pacific Highway through Chatswood and North Sydney to Cremorne, where Monica’s cousin Debbie was a one-woman welcoming whirlwind.

The house was a single storey brick and tile building of the somewhat unprepossessing appearance that was a characteristic of the nineteen fifties so-called style.  It was complete with a matching double garage on the right hand side that had at some stage been connected to the main house with a short enclosed passageway.  In the front was the kind of overgrown garden that came with a rented house, where the occupants are really not that interested in gardening.  Debbie shared the place with a friend, who had gone on holiday, leaving her bedroom vacant for at least one of us.  It was Monica who sorted out the sleeping arrangements, announcing that Jill and Emma would stay in the house with Debbie and the three prisoners.  The fact that there was only one spare bed in the place, namely Debbie’s flatmate’s, and the fact that it was a king size, made it pretty obvious what the arrangement was going to be for Emma and Jill, not that anybody begrudged them their relationship.  The rest of us were booked in at a motel ten minutes walking distance up the road. 

The garage was empty.  Debbie explained that she had no need of a car, since she was able to travel to work by either ferry or bus, and while her flatmate had a car, she had taken it with her.  Which left the garage as a convenient lockup for recalcitrant human baggage.  I backed the van up to the garage and opened the back doors.  While I unloaded my tools from the van, Trish, Jill and Emma removed the three items of human baggage and deposited them in the empty garage. Monica was already there, sizing up the place for anchor points and items that could be turned to the advantage of a good bondage practitioner.  I followed her gaze to the wooden trusses that spanned overhead.  The potential there was obvious.  Monica motioned me over to where she was talking with Debbie.

“Would your landlord mind of we put a few dynabolts into the brickwork?”

“For prisoner restraint?  Of course not.  As long as they’re done discretely and we leave no bloodstains at the end of the day, who’s to complain?”

“Certainly not these three,” I suggested, indicating the two mummies now propped up against the wall, and the dejected figure in the lycra netball uniform and crash helmet.  Trish had already used her initiative and with the help of a stepladder had locked the chain from the top of the helmet around the bottom truss beam, leaving Megan no option but to stand where she was.

As I ferreted around in the boxes of tools and accessories for some dynabolts, Emma and Jill unwrapped first Portia and then Madam Wong.  Both women could barely stand and there was much groaning and whimpering as the butt plugs and vibrators were extracted from what were obviously very sensitive and tender orifices.  Their head bindings were left on as they wobbled inside the house, presumably for a shower.  Monica remained with me and pointed out various key points for anchorages. 

It did not take long to install the bolts, and as I put down my drill I saw that Monica had been working on Megan.  The girl’s mittened hands were now locked to the chain above her helmet and Monica had installed her ankles in a spreader bar, which was part of a collection of equipment that had come down with us.  As I watched, Monica undid the crotch belt under Megan’s skirt and let it drop to the floor, then eased out the vibrator and the butt plug.  Megan was squirming with obvious the sensitivity of her private places while Monica walked behind her and cooed close to her head.

“You should consider that just a warm up, Megan dear.  You really ought to think of other people besides yourself.”  Her hands ran over the tight lycra material stretched over Megan’s breasts.  I could see the outline of the TENS pads under the fabric, leading down to the cable now hanging freely below the hem of her skirt.  Monica’s hands roved over the shiny material in a most sensuous way that made Megan’s mounds heave and shudder as the fingers wandered south and slipped under the nylon skirt.  “It’s all very well for you, Megan. You’ve been getting yourself off all day but none of us have had that pleasure. What about poor Steven here?  He’s been driving for two days and now has to work even more to get a nice place prepared for you to sleep.  Don’t you think you owe him something?”

Where was Monica going with this, I asked myself.  As if in answer, she beckoned me over and indicated that I should have a little tactile inspection of Megan myself.

“Remember that time in Bilboes’ basement when this tart and her mate did those very unpleasant things to us?” Monica asked me.

“How could I forget?”

“We could be very nasty and whip the arse off this one,” Monica said.  There was a whimper from under the helmet.  “Alternatively we could be very forgiving and show Megan that we are human and recognise that people get led astray.  We could instead give her something nice.  What do you think of the merchandise, Steven?” 

I was standing behind Megan, with Monica beside me, both of us outside of the girl’s limited vision under the helmet.  Monica made an obvious hourglass motion to me.  I slid my hands down the smooth, taut sides of Megan’s top, then around her waist and up over her breasts.  I detected little shudders as my fingers strayed over the pads.  Her nipples were straining to become erect, of that there could be no doubt, and that wasn’t the only thing, for Mr Willy had woken up with a vengeance.  I pushed myself against the restrained figure, burying the lump that was Mr Willy in the cleft between Megan’s buttocks.  She moaned softly but could do nothing as my hands found their way under her skirt and down to her wet, swollen labia.  There was a muffled gasp and a jerk as my fingers probed into her pussy.  Monica handed me a battery-powered vibrator.  I slid my fingers against Megan’s clit and tantalised it as her voice went up an octave and her breath began to come in ragged, irregular gasps, interspersed with pleading grunts.

“You see the kind of people we are, Megan?  We’re not vindictive.  We’re normal, reasonable human beings who have nothing against a little fun.  I don’t know whether you’ve had enough yet – I suspect not…” Megan was now trying to squirm and wriggle within her bonds but had precious little scope for this.  When she felt the head of the vibrator against her pussy she began to moan and struggle harder, but she had no chance.  Her efforts to twist her body came to nought as I slipped the device slowly inside her, one hand working her clit and the other winding up the power as the intruder slid home.

Within a minute Megan was straining and tugging at the chain holding her upright.  I wrapped my left arm around her and gripped her right breast, while my right arm cupped her pussy and held the vibrator deep and hard within her.  She reached the inevitable stage of wanting to breathe and cry out at the same time, with the result being a series of moaning grunts, rapidly rising in pitch and speed.  I pushed myself against her, gripping her stretched body so she could barely move, conscious of Monica looking on with a broad smile but also conscious that Mr Willy was getting precious little joy out of the whole exercise. 

Megan abruptly reached a ferocious climax, shaking her chained arms and head and crying out into the tape under the helmet – a cry that merged into a dying series of shuddering moans as her body went limp and she sagged at the knees.  Monica let her hang for a minute then climbed on the stepladder and unlocked the chain from the beam.  I held Megan as she collapsed, and we laid her gently on the concrete floor, her breasts heaving as she fought for air.

“Very good,” Monica murmured to me. “I appreciate your efforts, Steven.  That sort of thing is somewhat unrewarding from your point of view – and mine, for that matter.”  She smiled and rubbed a hand sensuously down the crotch of her jeans. “I think we both deserve a little recreational release tonight, don’t you think?”

*   *   *

We spent the next morning doing what I loved the best – well, after certain other pleasures of the flesh, that is – namely hanging out at the hardware warehouse.  In this instance Trish and I were doing our thing while Emma tagged along to pay for everything with Madam Wong’s credit card.  We had already visited the truck hire company, checked out the truck and remeasured the size of the tray.  Being a builder, having an HGV licence came with the territory – you never knew when you would need it in everyday life – such as driving in the Gay and Lesbian Mardigras…

We did not intend to get the truck until Friday, the day before the parade.  I had decided the double garage was big enough to prefabricate everything inside and then install it on the truck on Friday/Saturday.  This way we would have privacy and not be affected by weather.

We came out of the hardware place loaded up with all manner of cool stuff like steel brackets, big bolts, pulleys and lengths of rope.  Trish had purchased her paint, brushes, heaps of silver foil and a few other things from the craft department and we had ordered the timber to be delivered that afternoon.  Emma had signed for the lot and we had returned to Debbie’s house all fired up over what was going to be a wonderful creation.

Monica and Jill had been busy as well, for when I opened the side door of the garage I found Madam Wong and Portia looking very uncomfortable.  We had agreed that unless by prior arrangement only the side door would be used from now on, because of the possibility that a passer by might consider it unusual enough seeing bound females strung up in a garage to phone the police.

In this particular case, both Chinese women were on their knees on a thin futon that had been rolled out on the floor.  It was where they had slept that night, their hands bound into their crotches, with neck-to-knee ropes that left them in semi-foetal positions.  Monica had reckoned it was all they were capable of after their ordeal strapped to the benches for two days while their front and back passages vibrated or were zapped, depending on the movement of the van.

Their positions now were infinitely more uncomfortable and had a pronounced oriental influence, I thought.  Their forearms had been bound together horizontally behind them with a coarse jute rope which continued with multiple turns around their bodies, trapping their upper arms and cinching around their breasts.  There were further ropes binding their breasts so that they bulged unnaturally, and other ropes that went from behind their necks down through their crotches, splitting the two lines of inserted stainless steel rings.  As if this discomfort was insufficient, the women’s ankles had been bound to their thighs and they were now resting on the points of their knees, half supported by ropes from the overhead beam attached to the bindings behind their shoulder blades with further supporting ropes running forward under their armpits and up to the beam.  Predictably both women sported large ball gags through which they whimpered from the obvious pain of their bindings, not to mention the agony that would be coming from the small steel vices screwed up so as to pinch their nipples.

“This is something similar to what they did to Jill in Macau,” Monica said casually, casting a disdainful glance at the two black-haired women whose heads hung dejectedly.  “The vices are their own – or rather Megan’s.  Jill was on the receiving end of those at Bilboes.  I am a great believer in the philosophy of what goes around, comes around, as you know.

“While we’re waiting for your timber to be delivered, I thought we would give these two a little tickle up on their feet.  I’m sure you remember that from Macau, Steven?”  I nodded, memories of being bound immovably in Madam Wong’s dungeon, having my feet caned, made me shiver.  “I thought Jill would be an appropriate deliverer of the punishment, unless you wish to partake?”

I shook my head.  In fact it had been Portia’s friend, Mistress Nightshade who had beaten the soles of my feet unmercifully, but I still had a personal issue with the infliction of pain in this manner on women.  It was a private reluctance in a case such as this, where there was a decided unwillingness on the part of the recipient, regardless of the justification.  Perhaps if they were paying money for it I might have felt differently.  Whatever the reason, my mixed-up mind was more than happy to leave the job to Jillian.

The two prisoners’ heads had lifted at the sound of what was about to happen to them, and both women made muted mmmphing sounds of protest, shaking their heads briefly, until they found the heavy clamps on their nipples swung about too much, obviously adding further pain to their bound, distended breasts.

Jillian appeared, wearing high black boots and a short, sleeveless leather dress.  Various light chains across the front clinked as she walked.  Around her throat was a thin black collar with studs, and she wore dark makeup which made her more forbidding than I had ever seen her before.

“I think I’ll go and attend to Megan,” Monica announced at that point.  “The poor girl is finally getting a shower and has promised to demonstrate some of her other skills to me,” she said with an arch smile. 

I almost asked her if the previous night – when she had sneaked into my bedroom in the motel - had been unsatisfactory, but I thought the better of it, as she closed the door behind her and left just me and Jill with the two helpless prisoners.

Jill walked slowly round the semi-suspended women.  Their eyes followed her as best they could, the fear in them plain to see.  Jill swished the thin cane a few times through the air.  It made an evil, fearsome sound.  I wanted to unpack the stuff we had bought at the hardware store, but I was conscious that Jill was creating an atmosphere loaded with tension and dread.  It would have been like speaking during a live theatre performance.

I had never seen Jill like this.  She had always seemed to me to be cheerful and warm-hearted, without the mean streaks and deviousness that Monica, Mary and even Trish could sometimes display.  Jill was a complex girl, her bi-relationship with Emma and her switch role within Bilboes had been added to by the demons she had picked up during her period of imprisonment and torture in Macau.

The cane whizzed closer, making the prisoners flinch as it neared their bodies.  Jill stopped in front of them, standing regally on her high heels, gazing dispassionately down at the bound women.  She used the cane to flick the steel vices gripping the nipples of Portia and Madam Wong in turn.  They both squealed and moaned, shaking their heads from the pain.

Jill squatted slowly with a faint squeak of polished leather.  She reached out and lifted Portia’s chin.

“Look at me, Portia,” she said softly.  Her voice was not harsh, but even and controlled, and had an overtone of menace that could not be mistaken.  Portia stared at her captor with red-rimmed eyes.  “Let’s go back in time for a minute.  Do you remember putting those nipple vices on me?”

Portia nodded as best she could.

“Do you remember giving them an extra turn for fun, and leaving them on me all night?”  Another nod and a whimper.  The whimper turned to a high-pitched plea as Jill put her cane down and grasped the vice on Portia’s left breast and gave the handle a slight turn.  The whimper turned to a frantic snorting moan that continued as further pressure was applied to the right nipple.  Tears streamed down Portia’s face as she shook her head in an effort to deny the excruciating pain that was no doubt coursing through her breasts.

Jill continued, oblivious to the moans of pain that were mixed up with Portia’s efforts to breathe and make noise at the same time.  “Do you remember suspending me from that frame on the roof of the house in Macau?”  There were more moans, but they were evidently inconclusive to Jill.  “I want to see you nodding if you remember, Portia,” Jill continued evenly.  Portia nodded again and obviously wished she hadn’t as more pain shot through the crushed nipples.  “You hung me up and left me for hours in the sun.  You beat me there.  You beat me in the light well, and in the dungeon.  Doesn’t it seem reasonable that I should return the favour?”  Miserably Portia shook her head, provoking another burst of pain as the vices swung again.

“No?”  Jill was surprised.  “Why ever not?  You forget who is the Mistress here, Portia.  You are not in a position to request anything.  Had I done such a thing in your dungeon, I would have been punished for it.  Is there any reason why the same should not be done to you?”  Portia sniffled and hung her head, whimpering but making no other positive or negative indications.

“Too bad,” said Jill, in mock sadness.  She sighed.  “I really have no choice in the matter, do I?”  Rhetorical question or not, it got no answer.  Jill moved two paces to her right and squatted on her heels in front of Madam Wong. 

“Do you remember suspending me by my thumbs as the centrepiece of your birthday party?”  Red-eyed, Madam Wong nodded then she too screeched into her rubber ball as Jill tightened the screws on the two vices.  There were more tears as Jill pushed a lock of blonde hair behind her ear, picked up the cane and stood up.

She walked around the two women again, slowly, stretching out their apprehension and fear.  For a moment, setting aside the sharp contrast of her blonde hair on the black leather, I saw a glimpse of Mary coming through – the willowy, haughty, merciless elegance that left her victims in no doubt what was about to befall them.

The first cut of the cane, when it came, was without warning.  It caught Portia across the upturned soles of both feet.  She jerked and screamed into the gag, twisting and squirming within her bonds.  This provoked more swinging of the vices and Portia screwed up her face in agony, making rapid, high-pitched grunts that might have been pleas for mercy. Another stroke and more thrashing about by Portia in the confinement of her ropes.  Her eyes bulged as she uttered a high nasal wail as the pain from her nipples competed for her full attention with the pain from the soles of her feet.  Her hands opened and closed, the fingers fluttering as she tottered about on the points of her knees. 

Tears flooded down Portia’s cheeks as the third blow landed.  Jill had a look of terrible calm on her face as her personal expunging of the memories continued as though I wasn’t there.  I decided that in fact it was appropriate to make myself scarce, and I slipped quietly out the side door.  Jill’s expression worried me, for it almost looked like she had gone off to another place.  I decided to remain outside the door.

I counted a further three muffled screams before the pitch changed and I recognised Madam Wong’s stifled cries.  I counted a further six blows, the pauses between the screams becoming shorter.  They had continued past six, becoming almost continuous when I opened the door.  Jill was in full flight, her attention now split between the two bound figures each desperately trying to get away from the blows to the limit that their suspension ropes allowed, which was minimal.  Both prisoners were screaming and crying into the rubber balls wedged in their mouths and I saw that Jill, too, was crying, her previously calm face now a picture of anger and grief as she lashed out at the now-welted upturned soles.

I grabbed Jill’s wrist as she swung her arm upward for another blow.  She was not even aware of my presence and turned in surprise, then seemed to lose all her ferocity.  Her mascara was streaked and her face crumpled as the tears flowed.

“That’s enough,” I told her quietly as she collapsed into my arms, sobbing.  It seemed that I was the only one not crying, as the continuous sniffling sobs from Madam Wong and Portia mingled with Jill’s tearful outburst as she buried her face in my shoulder.  I held her for a long time as the outburst slowly subsided, then led her out of the garage and away from her nemesis. 

Emma was in the living room. She looked up from the magazine she was readying, an expression of concern on her face as Jill and I entered. 

“Look after her,” I said to Emma. “I think she needs a cup of tea, a good talk and a lie down.  She’s been working some monkeys off her back.  I think she’ll be a lot better for it when she settles down.”

*   *  *

By the time the timber arrived that afternoon, things had indeed settled down, at least as far as the good guys were concerned.  Jill had been hugely apologetic to me but looked much better for her cathartic release.  Monica had evidently been favourably impressed with Megan’s abilities and emerged from the spare bedroom looking flushed and very content with the world.  I had received further compliments from her after Emma had told her the story, and eventually Monica had removed the vices from the prisoners’ nipples, to the accompaniment of much muffled crying.

When Trish and I finally got down to setting up a makeshift workbench and doing the layout for the truck tray and the scaffold, as we called it, things had quietened down all round.  The two suspendees remained bound as before, but without the terrible nipple torture.  They still hung as witnesses to what we were about to build, like condemned men being forced to watch the construction of the scaffold.

Following the events of the morning I was about as laid back as it was possible for me to be and still remain conscious.  I was on good terms with everyone and doing something I loved.  Life didn’t get much better.

*   *   *

Over breakfast the next morning we discussed what we still had to do.  Debbie had gone to work and the five of us sat around the dining room table looking out on a fresh Sydney morning. 

“As far as I’m concerned,” I said, “you can all go off and shop yourselves silly.  I think you all deserve it.”

“But we can’t leave you to do all the work!” said Emma.

“Poor Emma,” Monica said, as one might to a retarded child.  “This is the male speaking.  The male who wants to be left alone to build his mighty construction.  The male who wants to erect a symbol of his manhood and ego.  Do not interfere with these desires, my child.  Learn and understand.” 

“It’s guy stuff,” observed Trish simply.

“Maybe,” I countered defensively.  They always ganged up on me in these situations.  “Why can’t you accept that I’m just being nice to you?”

“We do, Steven,” Jill said, laying her hand on my arm and giving me her most dazzling smile.  “I think it’s a wonderful gesture, and I for one would be happy to drag the others around the fleshpots of Sydney, especially if our Emma is going to be signing the money away.”

“Me too,” said Trish.

“Debbie has told me about the most wonderful fetish shop,” Monica enthused.  “They have the latest in latex body paint and a few little surprises I’m thinking about for our pair of refugees.”

“But what about some help for you, Steven?”  Trish asked, not wanting to leave me short handed, but clearly tempted by the shopoholics.

Which was how Megan came to help me.

*   *   *

I was already getting things sorted out when Monica and Jill began to set things up for our Chinese guests.  Naked and fresh from a shower, the pair were led back into the garage wearing matching rubber hoods with their wrists locked in leather cuffs in front of them.  The hoods were full face with only an opening for the nose, beneath which I could see the bulge of a ball gag through the black rubber. 

Monica had produced a nasty-looking piece of metal pipe with a butt plug attached at right angles at each end.  Monica told me that Mary and Trish had been subjected to the device in Bilboes’ dungeon, so it seemed only fair that our guests experience it as well.  On Monica’s instructions I had attached it with a strap to a piece of twenty centimetre wide plank, which had been laid on several bricks I found lying around.  Madam Wong was the first to be made to sit on a vertical prong, which gave her considerable pain, despite its lubrication, as she was obliged to first squat then ease herself fully on to the thing.  With the first prisoner in place, Portia then had to repeat the performance on her half of the device, ending up back to back with her employer.  Monica then placed their legs out in front of them, on the plank, and produced some heavy-duty cable ties which she threaded together in two pairs.  These went round each pair of legs, just above the knees, locking them tightly to the plank.  It was an ingenious system, for without any further attachments the pair were unable to move their legs or extract themselves from their impalement.. 

Monica’s final act was to tie a cord to each set of wrist cuffs and pull them forward so the arms were stretched out ahead of them, holding them bent as though they were touching their toes. The could be no suggestion of bending the knees under those circumstances.   The cord was then tied off to the end of the plank and I reckoned that before long the muscles in their arms and all down their legs and backs would begin to stretch and ache.

“You can keep an eye on them, can’t you,” Monica said blithely.  “They won’t be any trouble.”  I bet they wouldn’t be.  Not much scope for it when you can’t speak, see or move.

“Sure. Where’s Megan?”

“Emma’s bringing her in now.”

Megan had also been bathed and still wore her lycra netball outfit.  Her nipples were in evidence through the thin fabric and I guessed that Monica must have managed to remove the pads previously fixed there, using some sort of solvent on the superglue.  Megan had been hobbled with a chain at the ankles and a ball had been locked in her mouth.

“Think you can get some work out of her like that?” Monica asked.

“Yes.  Obviously you don’t want her talk to distract me.”

“You’re a soft touch, Steven,” said Monica with a smile.  “You’d probably end up making lunch for her.  Only two meals a day, remember?”

“You’re a hard woman, Monica Armstrong.”

“Didn’t get where I am today by being anything else,” she agreed.  “See you later.”

In truth there actually wasn’t much Megan had to do, aside from hold the end of a piece of timber from time to time, since I didn’t have a decent work bench.  I gave her a pair of ear protectors for when I was using the circular saw, which was quite often, and Megan appeared content to sit on a box, hobbled and gagged, just watching me work.  Given some of the recent treatments she had been through, it must have been almost pleasant.  She was happy to get me a cold drink when I asked for one, and she came back with some biscuits as well.  I think if she could have smiled around the ball in her mouth she would have done so.  As it was she gave me a big-eyed look and managed to appear cute.  So cute that it was almost a come-on.  Almost.  I could not help but notice the close brushing past, the brush of lycra and nylon as she returned to her box, and manage to reveal her legs almost to the crotch as she sat down.

I managed to ignore her until early afternoon.  She had made me lunch of salad and pasta, which I have to say was pretty good, and way past my usual expectations.  By that time I had put together the two main scaffolds.  I should explain that the frame I was going on the truck comprised three sub-frames.  Two of these were identical, shaped like a capital ‘I’.  These would sit upright, crossways on the back of the truck about three metres apart.  The horizontals would span the full width of the tray and the frame would be about two and a half metres high.  Between these, keeping them apart on the centre line was a rectangular frame that would give longitudinal stability.  All three frames were made from doubled up four-by-two’s and had diagonal bracing at each right angle, just like a real scaffold.  The intention was to have Portia and Madam Wong spreadeagled facing outwards, on opposite sides of the truck.  Their wrists would be secured to the outermost top points of the I-frames and their ankles to the lowest points.  To hold things secure we would take the ropes over a pulley at the top points and ratchet it down at the rear of the tray.

I made up the I-frames on the concrete floor of the garage, laying them out on their sides.  This made for less distortion and meant everything could be bolted up without the need for any other support.  By the time I had done the second one, Megan’s boredom was beginning to show.

At afternoon teatime, out came the cold drink and as I rested on her box she decided my shoulders needed a massage.  Then it was the press of her breasts against my back, and before long her hands were down the front of my shirt doing wicked things to my nipples and I had her heavy gagged breathing in my ear.  I wondered whether this was a follow-up to the role-play we had gone through on her first visit to Bilboes, where I had done my evil asylum warden routine (or was it rooting?), or whether she was just getting randy through natural inclination and through having to watch me bending over all the time.  Some women were like that, so I was reliably informed.

“Look, I haven’t finished yet.  I know what you’re up to, young lady, and you’ll have to desist.  In fact you’re obliging me to make sure you do.”

“Urh?” said Megan, widening her eyes at me.  I couldn’t decide whether this was not understanding, or in  fact a dare.  I grabbed a coil of sashcord and ordered her to present her wrists to me.  She did so, with the barest hint of reluctance.  I was sure I could see a sparkle in her eyes.  I doubled the cord and looped several turns around her wrists, cinching them tightly then tossing the rope over the bottom beam of the roof truss.  As I pulled on the ends, so her wrists went up above her until she was fully stretched.  I took the rope down her back and through her legs, pulling the hem of her skirt between her cheeks, and tucking the front hem over her pussy before pulling the rope tight.  She was making little whimpering sounds when I tied off the rope around her waist, leaving her to debate how hard she wanted to tug at the expense of having it forced into her pussy.

Megan made noises of disappointment as I returned to my work, but I couldn’t miss the squirming that now went on as the rope began to work its way deeper into her cleft.  By the time I had done what I intended to do that day, Megan had got herself into a fine tizz, for the rope was clearly getting her excited, but was some way short of doing the job  all the way.

“A bit frustrated are we, Miss?” I asked, putting my tools in the corner.  She nodded reluctantly and looked at me as if butter wouldn’t melt in her mouth.  “So what am I supposed to do about it?”  She shrugged, and if there was ever a misleading shrug, this was it.  “Monica would leave you there for the evening.  You know that.  I think I will too.”

That did it for Megan.  She realised her bargaining position was not strong and finally shook her head and gave me a pleading look, along with some unintelligible pleading noises.

The protests went up a note when I left the garage, but in fact I was only going inside to get  the keys that Monica had left for emergency release.  It did not perhaps qualify as such, but emergency was in the eye of the beholder, I reckoned.  I returned and removed the chain between Megan’s ankle cuffs, while leaving the cuffs themselves in place.  I also undid the rope about her waist.  She uttered a long sigh as I prised it free from her crotch.  The sashcord was wet with her juices and her short nylon skirt also showed signs of excitement in her southern regions.  I kept her wrists as they were, however, tying the loose end of the rope around her wrist ropes in another cinch.

“Has anyone every told you you’d make a really cute netballer?” I asked, running my hands over the swelling of her breasts under the taut material.  She shook her head and closed her eyes at my touch, thrusting herself forward as much as she could with her hands secured above her.  “I reckon you’d do even better as a ballet dancer, however,” I said, squatting to attach another rope to her right ankle cuff.  Her eyes snapped open and she looked at me without comprehension, until I tossed this rope over the beam as well.  Moments later her right leg was starting to go up in the air as I hauled on the rope, which crossed the beam almost directly above her head.  I was conscious of her ability to do the splits and the ease with which she had managed it in the bondage position we had first tried her when she was still nominally a client.

Her leg remained straight while she twisted and maintained an angle that was sustainable, and soon her foot was above her head.  I watched closely for signs of distress – more than normal, that is – but I could detect none.  I was amazed and Megan had broken into a light sweat by the time her right leg was almost vertical, almost tucked against her chest and head in classic ballet style. I roped the loose end to her ankle and she was held there, immobile, unable to move any part of her save her head.  He skirt had slipped back to the top of her thigh, revealing her shaven pussy to the world, and it was here I now put my hand.

Megan closed her eyes again as I cupped her mound and slid first one, then two, then three fingers inside her. Her breathing was strained and shallow, the rate beginning to rise.  Her pussy was tight and obviously sensitive in the position she was now forced into.

“You’re a little slut, Miss Megan,” I whispered into her ear, suddenly withdrawing my hand.  “Coming on to me like that.  Whatever happened to being the mistress in charge?  I should whip that little pink temptation so that you won’t think about using it for a fortnight.” I picked up a riding crop as I said this and Megan’s eyes widened in alarm as she realised that what had been a lovely inviting position had abruptly turned into something terribly vulnerable.  I stroked the pink lips with the end of the crop while Megan trembled from the severity of the position and the fear of what was about to befall her.  With a slight twist of the crop I insinuated it between her labia and began a slow reaming of her love passage, just in the outer folds where the key nerve endings lay.  Megan’s breathing started to become irregular, with short intakes of breath punctuated by faint moans as she closed her eyes.  I pulled the shiny lycra of her top upwards, exposing her breasts, now tense from the strained position she held.  The nipples popped out as the fabric was pulled clear.  They were hard and erect.  I rubbed each between my thumb and forefinger, then traced their outlines with my tongue.  Megan’s nasal sighs were continuing and she still had her eyes closed when I withdrew the riding crop and stepped back, delivering two sharp flicks across the points of her breasts.

Megan let forth a nasal scream and jerked in her bonds, her eyes now wide open and scared.  I let loose another flick to her pussy, not really hard, but enough to provoke a muffled howl. 

“Ten of those, I think, but much, much harder,” I mused, not looking directly at her.  This remark provoked a burst of protest and pleadings.  I saw the glistening of tears in her eyes and knew I could not keep up the pretence.  Whatever Monica said, I would never make a good Master, not while I continued to have scruples.

During this time, I should explain, Mr Willy was very much alive and well and wanting a piece of the action. Seeing naked women taut and bound in Bilboes in the past year had been an education for him, and something he found undeniably attractive.  Having one to himself did not occur that often, and in fact Megan had been the last ‘voluntary’ one in what seemed an age.  I let him expose himself finally to see what sight lay ahead.

“Is this what you want?”  I asked Megan.  Perhaps given that the other option appeared to be a severe whipping, the fact that she nodded vigorously might be taken as a sign of coercion  on my part, but I believe she was truthful – a supposition that appeared correct as Mr Willy slid inside her and she emitted a long, drawn-out sign of pleasure.  In her contorted stance the fit was tight and stimulating.  It took only a few thrusts to take Megan in her heightened state to a climax as she tugged and jerked against the ropes, struggling to breathe in between snorting through her nose.  The performance ended in a rapid  “Urhh! Urhh! Urhh!”, the pause between each becoming longer as the noise became more drawn out, instilled with the softness of exhaustion.

I had yet to peak, myself, and with one hand I undid the rope holding her leg in the air.  She dropped it gratefully, keeping me in place and uttering a protracted groan of relief as the stringency was replaced by the comfort of standing on her two feet again.  The normality of the position seemed to fire up Mr Willy as I held her against me.  After a few more strokes, however, Megan surprised me by abruptly placing her weight on her bound wrists and lifting her legs off the floor to wrap around me in a display of athleticism.  It was all Mr Willy needed, for he did his volcano act with an enthusiasm that this time left me gasping and doing a leg tremble of my own. I crushed the bound girl against me and she made muted sounds of encouragement through the gag.

I held her there for what seemed and age, before we finally disentangled ourselves.  Megan was soaked in sweat as I pulled her top back into a less revealing mode.  Her skirt clung to her thighs in a way that suggested she would need rehydration very shortly.  I was in the midst of refixing her hobble when I heard Monica’s voice.

“Hello, hello, hello, what’s all this then?”  I looked up guiltily, conscious of my own cheeks flushing, as well as the sheen of perspiration on Megan’s face.  “Been playing with the merchandise, have we?”  Monica walked into the garage, ignoring the two hooded figures still stretched on their impaling devices who had been silent listeners to the goings on between Megan and I throughout the day.  I tried to read Monica’s expression, but it remained neutral.  I didn’t know if I was in trouble or not.

“I assume this girl’s arms are hanging from the rafters because she has been uncooperative?”

“Er… yes.  She became very distracting,” I said.  “I had to secure her more appropriately.”  Monica smiled very slightly. 

“Of course.  What else could you have done?  I hope you used that riding crop appropriately as well,” she said, looking down at the crop with the wet stain on the end flap.

“I was obliged to use it,”  I agreed.  “She gave me no choice.”

“Good.  One must maintain standards and keep these girls in their place.  Finish what you’re doing and come and see what we’ve bought.”  She turned on her heel with a flash of teeth and I hurriedly clicked the padlocks in place on Megan’s ankle cuffs.  I was about to go when Megan whined through the gag.

“What?” I asked.  She hhmmphed and inclined her head downwards, raising her right foot as much as she could. 

For all the romanticism you read about the act of making love, you can not escape the end products of such a union, whatever the film producers and Mills and Boon authors would have you believe.  There is always the dreaded ‘wet spot’, and here it was sliding down Megan’s leg, a runnel of little Stevens mixed up in Megan Juice that had made a very noticeable entrance probably right in front of Monica.  I had been caught in the seminal equivalent of ‘red-handed’.   I grinned at Megan and wiped her leg and crotch.

“Sorry,” I said. “Worth it, though, huh?”  Her eyes flashed the affirmative and her lips curled back to show her teeth around the ball in her best attempt at a smile.  She nodded her head vigorously and gave a long sighing “Mmmmmmm”. 

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