CHAPTER ONE: THE INITIATION

 

It was perhaps a formative moment in my life, and one in which the true nature of the dark world of Bilboes came home to me. Formative it may have been; outlandish, bizarre, painful and extremely kinky were also adjectives that might have come to mind, if I was not so focussed on the pain and the inability to escape. Here I was, on a Saturday in Brisbane - a day on which I'd ordinarily be strolling through a shopping mall or enjoying a bit of sport - stark naked, chained to a gum tree with a stunning woman named Christina, in the middle of the woods somewhere.

Christina couldn't see, I couldn't speak, and we both had nipples on fire and vibrators buzzing like mad up our orifices. It was just too ludicrous to be credible. But it was real. It was a moment when perhaps the enormity of what I had become involved with should have sunk in, but my reading of the future has never been much good, and right at that moment I was overwhelmed by fierce pain and frustrated pleasure.

 

But I should explain. My name is Steven Reynolds. In my twenty-five-plus years on this earth, I had - until recently - followed a normal progression of life experience. You know - learn a trade, start a business, make a few mistakes along the way but generally go forward, amassing life skills, a bit of money, on the lookout for a partner to share these things with and to expand your horizons through another's perspective on the world. Looking back, I admit I was sexually naïve, both to what was 'out there' and to what my own proclivities would turn out to be.

As we approached the new millennium - in fear of the Y2K bug and the prospect of our digital world turning to shit as the calendar clicked over - I had no idea that a simple decision to answer an advertisement would change my life. I had no clue that it would take me down many dark paths in adventures all over the world with the most amazing group of women. There had been no hint that my walk up the driveway to an establishment whose brass gateway plaque simply stated "Bilboes" was to be a sliding-door moment for me. Over the coming years it was to lead to encounters of the most dire kind, to moments of protracted pain, retribution, desperation, despair and retribution, wrought by villains of the worst, most devious and sadistic kind, each incidence becoming worse in the depravity of the perpetrators.

As I approached the house, all of this was still ahead of me, and I remained blithely ignorant that the next hour was going to alter my life forever, taking me down a dark hole populated with characters both wonderful and terrifying. The very first of these was Monica Armstrong, who contained a touch of both.

Monica and I had been at junior school together, but had not seen each other since then. It had been perhaps 15 years previously when we had each gone our separate ways to different high schools. While I had attended the local state school, Monica - as I later found out - had been sent to a rather expensive boarding school for girls on the outskirts of Brisbane.

We'd been friends at school, but I'd barely thought about her in the intervening years as I got my building business up and running - something which took all my time and energy. Then had come the crash, the failure of clients to pay and the collapse of the construction industry that had cleaned me out. I now worked as a one-man band in the western suburbs of Brisbane, doing small jobs that kept my head above the financial water level dictated by my bank.

As I said, I'd barely thought about Monica Armstrong in the intervening years. The message on my answering machine, requesting that I visit an address on the western fringe of the city to look at doing some alterations to an existing house for a Miss Armstrong, meant nothing at the time.

The house was a graceful old timber Queenslander - large and square, with a covered verandah on three sides, and the main floor raised on poles above the ground. This was partly for coolness and partly to keep crawly insect nasties at a distance. This particular house was perhaps a hundred years old and looked to be in a wonderful condition. It was white with dark green trim to the doors and windows which were of clear varnished timber. The verandah posts, the ornate filigree work beside each one and the elaborate wrought iron infills to the railings were also painted dark green. 

It stood at the end of a hundred-metre-long curved driveway surrounded by eucalypts and various types of palm trees - a not-unusual combination in Queensland's lush climate. It was a private setting, perhaps a kilometre from the nearest neighbour down the road, with the house hidden from the road. The road frontage was a thicket of dense foliage with all manner of nasty thorns that an intruder would have to negotiate, and the only break being the pair of large steel gates between stout abutting stone walls. On one side a brass nameplate simply stated "Bilboes". The gates had opened silently when I announced myself on the intercom. 

I parked in front of the house, noting how at some recent time the underneath of the house had been enclosed with blockwork walls set back a couple of metres from the overhanging edge of the verandah. Ordinarily I would have regarded this as architectural heresy, but it had been done so discretely, and was so well concealed with planting that it was barely noticeable. I could not help noting, either, the carparking for perhaps ten cars. Must be a big family, I thought. Once again it had all been done very cleverly, with little spaces tucked between trees and areas of garden.

I walked up the wide timber steps on to the verandah and rang the bell, admiring the polished double cedar doors as I stood there. 

"Good morning."

I was greeted by an attractive young woman in her late-twenties, who introduced herself as Jillian. Her blonde hair was short and pulled back behind her ears. She had a strong, angular jaw line and smiled the most welcoming smile I have had from a client for a long time. I gave her my business card and followed her into a spacious reception area. The floors were polished Tasmanian oak and the finishings were in keeping with the era of the house. As a builder, I appreciated quality fittings and hardware - or more to the point, the money required to purchase such things and maintain them. In between admiring the construction of the house, I also admired the construction of Jillian, as she led the way down the main hall before knocking on a door to the left, and entering. She was about 180 centimetres tall, her height accented by the sleeveless white dress she wore that stopped halfway down her thighs. Simple brown leather sandals with the straps winding about her ankles completed her outfit - the essence of coolness on what was a sticky humid Brisbane summer day.

I followed her into a large high-ceilinged study, with floor-to-ceiling bookshelves on two opposing walls, while the side opposite the door had large french doors that opened onto the verandah. Overhead a ceiling fan revolved slowly, while beside the door through which I had entered were two wall-mounted television screens. The room had an air of tidiness and order that suggested its usual occupant was organised and fastidious.

"Mr Reynolds, this is Monica Armstrong, mistress of the house," Jillian announced, before leaving and closing the door behind her. It was then that the penny finally dropped. I guess I grinned stupidly, with the realisation that this elegant woman was the slightly gawky girl I had known all those years ago.

Monica smiled. "I thought it was you - just a hunch I had from your advertisement. You always did want to be a builder." She was not just elegant, she was stunning. As she shook my hand I saw she was as tall as I was, her penetrating blue eyes looking directly into mine. The jet-black hair was now shorter - just touching her shoulders and impeccably styled. Like Jillian, her attire was appropriate for the warm weather. A deep emerald-green colour, her dress was short and simple, with a plunging neckline set off by a gold choker collar. Monica's figure had developed since my last memory of her. Her cleavage was a striking cream against the material of the dress.

"I was hoping it was you, Steven." She examined the card that Jillian had passed to her. "Even if I'd been wrong, I still need a genuine builder. I feel more comfortable now, knowing it is you. And what does the 'Z' stand for? Zebedee?" She smiled mischievously.

"Zane. My dad liked cowboy stories - there was this western author called Zane Grey..."

"I hope you don't run a cowboy outfit as well?" She arched an eyebrow above teasing eyes. "Just joking. I have some work that may be a little out of the ordinary, but it may nevertheless interest you." 

 

And that was how the whole thing started. 

Monica was up-front. The house was hers - bought partly with an inheritance and partly through her own earnings, she explained. Her explanation suggested that the place now operated as a high-class brothel, catering only to the well-heeled and powerful figures in Queensland society. Discretion was guaranteed, not just by the staff, but by the fact that a number of Monica's clients would neither like to be publicly associated with the place, nor would they like to see it's services disappear.

Monica gave me a tour of the ground floor and upper storey, sizing me up initially, as though assessing how much to disclose. The house was roughly square in plan, built around a central stairwell with clerestory windows which let in light but were protected from the harsh sun by slatted shutters. There were five bedrooms upstairs, with brass numbers from "1" to "4" on each door. The fifth was Monica's. Each had an ensuite, and each bedroom was decorated differently. In one there was a four-poster, in another a waterbed, and so on. It had all been done extremely well, given the century-old surroundings. That, I was told, was due to Trish, one of Monica's team who had been an interior designer in a past life.

On the main level, branching out to the right off the main reception area at the foot of the stairs was a large living room. Next to the living room was a dining room, a less formal communal room with a large breakfast table, then - looking on to the rear garden - a modern kitchen, laundry and adjoining verandah. Then came Monica's office and a ground floor bathroom. I was impressed with the quality that had been achieved. To the rear, from the verandah, steps led past a jacuzzi, down to a pool that seemed to appear straight out of the jungle, amidst rocks and palms. Beyond that, up a small rise and half hidden by foliage was a small, obviously new building, which Monica referred to as "the girls' quarters".

"All this is, if you like, the "front" - the more legitimate side of the business," she told me, watching me carefully. "All our front services are straight, standard, orthodox, call them what you will. Are you interested in going further? It's not all strictly legal..." She looked at me quizzically.

"Sure," I said. "Lead on." We were standing in the reception area at this point. Monica smiled, and swung a small picture out from the wall. Behind it was a small lever recessed into the wall. It was a little clichéd, but I was still impressed. When she pulled it down, a section of wall beside it swung open, revealing a stairway leading down into the closed in section below the house. "This is the other side of the business," she told me seriously. "We can cater for many clients here - or at least we will do, when we have it properly fitted out. The area has only recently been built, and hasn't been finished. We've been looking round for the right person to do it - someone with the skills to do a proper job, someone who won't rip us off, and someone with absolute discretion. I hope you're that person, Steven. My instinct tells me this may be the case."

Her blue eyes looked at me steadily, then we descended the sandstone steps into the cool gloom. "I told the previous builder this area was to be a combination of wine cellars and a darkroom complex. He didn't care, as long as he got paid. And even then he charged like a wounded bull. I got rid of him before we got to the fit-out stage. Which is where we are now..."

Which is where it all got interesting. What Monica was talking about here was fully equipped dungeons, with racks, cages, chains, pillories, the works. At her previous premises she had indulged in it to a limited degree - limited by space, cost - and noise insulation. With her inheritance she was now gambling on an increase in a very special patronage, catering for a niche market. While I'd not had first-hand experience of such an establishment, I knew what they were about, and the prospect of such varied and interesting work excited me. We walked through the gloomy rooms beneath the house. They were still at the bare blockwork stage - no doors, just the openings in the blockwork, save for an emergency exit in the form of a solid steel exterior door. The ductwork from the air-conditioning system was visible, since no ceilings had been installed. It was a basic, empty shell waiting for a transformation. 

We talked all afternoon and then over dinner. Monica introduced me to the rest of her "team". Jillian Whitford I had already met. She was Monica's right hand - arranging, coordinating and sharing working with the clients - but it was Monica who controlled the money, the policy, the clientele and the girls. There were four others of whom Mary Ramirez was the eldest, in her mid-thirties, tall and elegant, but with a mean streak, so Monica informed me later. She was slim with short raven-black hair waving gently behind her ears. She had once been a television reporter before succumbing to the lure of the call-girl money. 

Emma Cheng was Chinese, although second-generation Australian. Her hair hung past her shoulders, but unlike most Chinese, she had breasts that a European girl would have died for, which bounced nicely when she walked. She came across as demure and submissive, and I learned that this was her inclination.

Leila Mackay was a blonde, a little like Jillian, but slightly shorter. Her hair came just to her neck, and she had a cheerful, pleasant personality. She was the second of the submissives.

Patricia Taylor was the last of the team, tall and brunette, with her hair straight to her shoulders. Trish was also in her thirties - not that she looked it - from Vancouver, where she had first indulged her interior decoration fantasies before turning to the more hedonistic of them. She had the huskiest, sexiest voice I had ever heard. Her laugh was throaty and infectious and I could hardly get enough. But that really went for all of them. Monica certainly knew talent when she saw it. 

I stayed for dinner, cooked, in this instance, by Monica herself. The girls all joined Monica and myself at the big dining room table after dinner, where the ideas poured forth. It was pretty clear that despite the apparent freshness of these girls, at least Mary and Trish were hardened to the darker side of the work, and had encountered client needs that I could barely comprehend.

Monica explained that they had to cater for both male and female clients. Sometimes they were straight, sometimes gay, sometimes dominant, sometimes submissive. Both masters and slaves (sometimes together) visited Bilboes. The girls categorized them into "upstairs" and "downstairs" clients, depending on whether they wanted straight sex or something more elaborate, be it punishment, role-playing, or catering to some sort of fetish. The downstairs team would cater for almost any B&D taste (read 'perversion', if you wish) if the money was right - short of animals or children. If they didn't have the equipment, they would get it - at least, that was the plan. Which was apparently why I was there.

During the early part of what was turning into the longest job interview I had ever had, Monica had quizzed me about my technical abilities. Could I weld? Could I lay bricks and mix concrete? Did I know anything about electrics? They clearly wanted just one trustworthy guy to fully fit out their dungeons, and who perhaps wasn't too concerned about the need for electrical and plumbing certifications.

Over the course of the evening, all manner of ideas came from the girls over several bottles of Cabernet Sauvignon. Entertaining was also something they were adept at. I made sketches, drew rough plans and enjoyed myself more than I had for years. Money, it seemed, was not a major obstacle for Monica. She did not mind spending it, as long as she knew she was getting the best job possible and was getting a fair deal. And I could see a lot of money being spent. I didn't know the extent of the inheritance she had received, but it was obviously not small. 

"You let me worry about the budget," she told me. "As long as you don't rip me off, there'll be no problem. If you do -" she added with a malicious smile, "you'll get to personally experience the full extent of all the devices I want you to construct - slowly, and over a long period of time. You really don't want that, do you?"

"No."

"So, do we have a deal?"

"It will be my pleasure."

Monica licked her lips and gave me an ambiguous smile. "Maybe it will. Or maybe it will be something else..."

There was no business at Bilboes that night, other than our long tabletop discussion. With the amount of wine I had drunk, I took Monica up on her offer to stay the night. After the girls had retired to their quarters, Monica showed me to the bedroom dominated by the ornate four-poster. Much as I would have enjoyed her company further, she let it be known that our relationship - at least at this stage - was to be purely business.

"Why 'Bilboes'?" I asked Monica just as she turned to leave.

"Nothing to do with Hobbits and Middle Earth folk," she told me with a smile. "That's what most people think of, but the spelling is wrong. Bilboes are kind of leg irons - like two D-shackles with a long bar through them. The name came from Bilbao in the sixteenth century."

"Ah," I said. "Discrete, memorable, catchy, but with enough overtones for those in the know. You've thought it all out, haven't you."

"I think so," she said softly, confidently, pulling the door closed as she left.