There are sometimes moments in your life when, on looking back, you recognize that you had turned a corner-that your life had switched tracks to head off in a different, unknown direction.

When I pulled up at the black steel gates between the pale sandstone abutments with the word "Bilboes" discreetly carved into the right hand one, I didn't realize this was just such a moment, nor did I realize the direction I was about to follow was one I barely knew existed. I could not have foreseen that over the next couple of years I was to have adventures of a sort I would never have contemplated in my then innocence. I was about to enter an establishment that would leave me changed, beginning from the moment I came face to face with Monica Armstrong--again.

Evidently, as I was to discover, Monica and I had been to the same junior school, though some years apart. I barely thought about that time over the subsequent years as I spent time doing my building apprenticeship, traveled a bit, then got my own building business up and running--something which took all my time and energy. Then came the crash, the failure of clients to pay, and the collapse of the construction industry that 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 manager.

The message on my answering machine, requesting 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 an old colonial--large and square, with a covered veranda on three sides, and the main floor raised on poles above the ground. This latter effect was partly for coolness and partly to keep crawly insects at a distance. This particular house was perhaps a hundred years old and looked to be in wonderful condition. White with dark green trim, the house showed off its doors and windows of varnished timber. The veranda posts, the ornate filigree work beside each one and the elaborate wrought iron infills to the railings were also painted dark green.

All this stood at the end of a hundred metre long curved driveway shaded by eucalyptus and palm trees--a not-unusual combination in Queensland's semi-tropical climate. It was a very private setting, being probably a kilometre from the nearest neighbor, with the house almost invisible from the road. The road frontage was a thicket of dense foliage with probably all manner of nasty thorns any intruder would have to negotiate, the only break being the gates between the abutting stone walls. 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 meters from the overhanging edge of the veranda. Ordinarily I would have regarded this as heresy, but it had been done so discreetly, and was so well concealed with planting it was barely noticeable. I could not help noting, either, the car parking spaces for half a dozen cars. Once again it had all been done very cleverly, with little spaces tucked between trees and areas of garden.

I climbed out of my ute and paused, just enjoying the tranquility of the place. Somewhere in a distant tree a kookaburra was laughing at the world, while nearby some sort of animal was rustling in the undergrowth. My gaze followed the sound, and I was astonished to briefly glimpse a black figure slip behind a tree. I wondered whether I had seen it properly, for it appeared to be female--dressed in a black top and long tight skirt that might have been made of shiny rubber. But most conspicuously, her head was encased in some sort of black hood. The rustling stopped, and I shook my head, as much in puzzlement as in surprise, before climbing the wide flight of stairs leading to the veranda. I paused briefly at the top, to again search for the mystery figure, but the gardens were still and silent, so I rang the bell, admiring the polished double cedar doors as I stood there.

"Good morning."

I was greeted by an extraordinarily attractive young woman in her late twenties, who introduced herself as Jillian. Her blonde hair curved softly to her strong jaw line and she smiled the most welcoming smile I have had from a client for a long time. I followed her into a spacious reception area. The floors were of polished Tasmanian oak, and all the finishes were in keeping with the era of the house. As a builder I could appreciate quality fittings and hardware--or, more to the point, the money required to purchase such things and maintain them. In between admiring the construction, I could not help but also appraise 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 centimeters 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 library or study, with floor to ceiling bookshelves to the left and right, while the exterior wall opposite had large French doors that opened on to the veranda. Overhead a ceiling fan revolved slowly, while on the wall 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 organized and fastidious.

"Mr Reynolds, this is Monica Armstrong, mistress of the house," Jillian announced, before leaving and closing the door behind her.

Monica smiled. "I thought it was you--just a hunch I had from your advertisement."

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 just touching her shoulders and impeccably styled. Like Jillian, her attire was suited to 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, her skin a smooth cream against the material of the dress.

I must have shown my bafflement, then, and for just a moment, she blushed. "You don't remember me, do you?" It was a rhetorical question, for she went on hurriedly, her words tumbling out in their haste. "We both went to Kenmore State High. You used to play for the first eleven at cricket. You were the opening bowler. You were year thirteen, I was three years behind. I used to go and watch you play. I had a major crush on you." She blushed again, and I felt almost as embarrassed, though I couldn't have said why. "I guess you never noticed the small group of faithful female groupies who used to follow the cricket team around..." She lowered her eyes and seemed distracted. "Of course, we lost touch after you left--not that we ever were in touch..." An awkward silence followed. I was about to make some inane remark when Monica continued in another rush.

"I was hoping it was you, Steven. Even if I had been wrong, I still need a genuine builder. For some reason I feel more comfortable now, knowing it is you. I have some work that may be a little out of the ordinary, but it may nevertheless interest you. I really hope it does." It was almost as though she had got a confession off her chest and now that such a distraction had been aired, the real business could begin. 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. From what she initially told me, it appeared 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 also 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 its 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. I, meanwhile, took in the layout of the place that was to become the centre of a series of unexpected adventures in my life.

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. I had to admit that it had all been done extremely well, given the century-old surroundings. The decor, I was told, was due to Trish, one of Monica's team who evidently used to be 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. This could be partitioned down the middle to create two smaller "waiting rooms" as Monica called them. Next to the living room and moving anti-clockwise around the house was a dining room, a less formal communal room with a large breakfast table, then--also looking on to the rear garden--a modern kitchen, laundry and adjoining veranda. Finally there was Monica's office and a ground floor bathroom. Once again I was immensely impressed with the quality that had been achieved. To the rear, from the veranda, 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 traditional side of the business," she told me, watching me carefully. "All the services I've described are straight, standard, orthodox, call them what you will. But they're a secondary part of what I intend for us here. It's not going to be our core business. 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 opened a discreet door under the staircase, revealing a further stairway leading down into the closed-in section below the house. Monica paused at the top of the stairs. "This is the other side of the business," she told me seriously. "We can cater to many clients here--or at least we will do, when we have it properly fitted out. The area has only recently been enclosed, 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 concrete 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. 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 evidently indulged in this 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 had no first hand experience of such an establishment, I knew what they were about, and, I confess, 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 walls, 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.

The basement was dark, and Monica led the way with a broad beamed torch, choosing to ignore the temporary lights strung at infrequent intervals via a loose cable tied to nails on the exposed joists above. Turning into a black opening in one room, I could hear whimpering coming from the darkness.

"This is Lisa," Monica said, playing the torch on a naked female form that hung suspended in the gloom. "Lisa is one of our regular clients," Monica explained, playing the light again over a suspended woman. I could see a long tail of blonde hair trailing in the dust of the concrete floor from where her head hung backwards, about half a metre clear of the ground. Lisa's ankles had been cuffed to a spreader bar, the ends of which were attached to a single large hook by chains about a metre long. Lisa's wrists, cuffed together in front of her, had also been chained to the hook with a similar chain. The hook was supported on some stout-looking sashcord looping over a pulley, which was in turn chained to an exposed beam. The cord went down to a small hand-winch that had been chained to the base of a supporting post. I shuddered at the makeshift way the system had been installed.

Lisa hung there, slowly revolving in the torchlight. Her head was encased in a black leather hood which only had holes for her nose and the long ponytail. From her nasal moaning I surmised Lisa was well and truly gagged behind the leather. A short silver chain connecting two nipple clamps glinted in the light. With her ankles and wrists in the air, her buttocks and pussy were extraordinarily vulnerable, and Monica swatted her several times on the inside of her thighs with a loose rope end. The girl jerked and whined, the noise rising as Monica slipped her hand between the exposed pussy lips. Lisa began to squirm and shudder, her breath starting to come in rapid nasal panting.

"Mnnh! Mnnh! Mnnh! Mnnh!" she snorted, beginning to struggle and quiver, striving to extract more from Monica's gently tantalizing fingers. Monica laughed pulled her hand away, then spun the helpless figure.

"Not yet, Lisa dear. You still have a long way to go before that. It's better to travel hopefully than to arrive, isn't that what they say?" The prisoner shook her head in a desperate whining plea. Monica took me by the arm and we left the girl slowly rotating on the chain.

"Lisa is a pain slut. I'm sorry--I don't mean to offend you, but she gets off on pain."

"Monica, I work with blokes on building sites. Language isn't an issue."

"And bondage? Lisa pays well for this sort of treatment. They all do. You see what I mean about paying customers?"

"Yes. And I see what you mean by needing someone to make a proper job of your suspension apparatus too," I added. I tried to overlook the fact that whole scene had been an intense turn on, and Mr Willy, my best, most intimate mate, had viewed Lisa's predicament with unabashed interest from an upright position in my trousers.

After the downstairs tour was almost complete, we passed Lisa again on our way back to the stairs. Here Monica paused to pick up a small flogger with multiple leather thongs, and asked me to hold the torch for her. As I did as directed, Monica expertly administered a thorough flogging to the inside of Lisa's thighs and most other accessible parts of her body to the accompaniment of moans rising in intensity from under the leather hood. At one stage I held Lisa's ankle to stop her rotating on the hook, while Monica squatted and with a series of deft wrist movements flicked the thongs on to Lisa's exposed, shaven pussy. The girl jerked and struggled in her bonds, but such resistance was to no avail, and the chains and cuffs held firm. Beads of sweat rolled down her breasts to her stomach, then slid around her flanks to drop to the dusty floor.

I was mesmerized. Mr Willy was rock hard, as much at the sound of Lisa's rising cries as at the sight of this bound female frantically writhing under the flogger. Just when Lisa seemed about ready to scream herself hoarse behind whatever was filling her mouth, Monica stopped the flogging and plunged her fingers into the cleft between Lisa's legs.

Lisa let loose a gagged howl, her head shaking and her body bucking once, then becoming rigid, betrayed only by a succession of tremors that seemed to vibrate through it like an earthquake. The howl died away to become a series of short breathless grunts, as though she was struggling to scream, breathe and climax at the same time. Monica wiggled her fingers a couple of times, eliciting further moans, then withdrew them, watching as Lisa's taut, stiffened body slowly slumped, the nasal noises subsiding into ragged panting.

"Was that nice, Lisa, dear?" Monica asked.

"Urrrrghh..." was all the exhausted form could manage.

"Would you like to be let down?"

"Uh ... huh..."

"It's a shame we can't always have what we want in life, isn't it," Monica said to me, as though Lisa wasn't there. "Come along, Steven."

As she closed the door behind us at the top of the stairs and we emerged into the reception area again, Monica said:

"There was a classic example of the services we provide." She eyed the bulge in my trousers I was unable to hide, and a sly smile flickered across her face.

"And people pay to have the crap beaten out of them like that?"

"It's not as straightforward as that, Steven. You have to understand that every human being is different. Just as we have different likes and dislikes regarding food, books or music, so too we have different sexual preferences. And just as you can't tell me why you like a roast beef sandwich--you just do--so we can't always work out why our bodies behave the way they do. Which is why we have gay people, straight people, bi people, dominants, submissives, whatever. We're slaves to our own desires, Steven. Personally, I think it's God's little joke on humankind."

"Are you just going to leave her there?" I asked, feeling at once excited and uncomfortable, and very definitely out of my element.

"Lisa thinks I am. That's the most important thing. It often doesn't matter what will actually happen, but what the client thinks is going to happen. She has no idea how long she will be left. She'll be on a post-orgasm slide and it'll take her a while to build herself up again. She'll really be hurting now, but I'll send Jill or Mary down to fire her up again shortly. Once you've climaxed, getting a workover a second time can be even more intense. Any questions?" she ended, her face wearing an expression of amusement, as though teasing me to see how shocked I was at what I had witnessed. I tried to remain non-committal.

"I think you might have just answered one--indirectly." Monica arched an elegant eyebrow interrogatively. "When I parked outside, I saw what I assumed to be a girl, in what I assumed to be a rubber outfit ... I only got a glimpse. I thought my eyes were going funny on me."

"What was she doing?" Monica asked.

"Well, nothing really. She seemed to be hiding behind a tree." Monica sighed.

"That's Shawnee, our live-in slave." She saw my own questioning expression. "It's a long story. Maybe later. Suffice to say Shawnee should be weeding the garden, not playing hide and seek with visitors. She'll be sorry, but all in good time. Why don't we talk details?"

We talked all afternoon then over dinner. Monica introduced me to the rest of her "team". Jillian I had already met. She was Monica's right hand, arranging, coordinating and sharing liaison with the clients, but it was Monica who controlled the money, policy, the clientele and the girls. There were four others:

Mary Ramirez was the eldest, perhaps in her mid-thirties, tall and elegant, but with a mean streak, so Monica informed me privately. She was slender with short raven-black hair waving gently behind her ears. Monica said Mary had once been a television reporter before succumbing to the lure of the call-girl money, and she spoke both Spanish and Arabic. I was suitably impressed. Mary was clearly no dumb bunny.

The exotic continued in the form of Emma Cheng, who was Hong Kong Chinese, although she had lived most of her life in Australia. She had long glossy hair nearly to her waist, but unlike most Chinese, she had breasts that any European girl would have died for. I could not help but notice that they bounced nicely when she walked. She came across as demure and submissive, but Monica warned me not to be fooled.

Leila Mackay was a blonde, a little like Jillian, but slightly shorter. She was evidently the youngest of the establishment and had a cheerful, vivacious personality. Again, I was warned, don't be fooled.

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

I stayed for dinner, cooked and served by Shawnee. Still clad in black clinging rubber skirt, top and hood, she clattered on high heels between the dining room and the kitchen, her short steps dictated by the hobble chain between cuffed ankles. It was to be some days before I saw her cute face, and she had nothing to say tonight, evidently on account of some form of packing wedged in her mouth under the hood. I could see enough of her shape to admire the petite waist and prominent breasts, the nipples of which poked erect through small cutouts in the rubber top. A silver chain dangled between tweezer-like clips pinching each pink nub. It was a most erotic sight and I confess to being distracted from the food every time Shawnee walked into the room.

The girls all joined Monica and me at the big dining room table for 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 come across clients and client needs that I could barely comprehend. Monica explained they had to cater to 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. Monica said she wanted to phase out the upstairs work entirely. Most tastes could be catered for by the downstairs team, I gathered, if the money was right. If they didn't have the equipment, they would get it. Which was 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? At the time it had puzzled me, but now it was all falling into place. They wanted a single trustworthy guy to fully fit out their dungeons.

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, and there was much laughter amidst the brainstorming, as anecdotes and experiences popped out under the influence of the wine. I made sketches, drew rough plans and--truth be known--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 did not 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 trial the full extent of all the facilities I want to construct--over a long period of time. You really don't want that, do you?" It was another rhetorical question.

There was no upstairs or downstairs business at Bilboes that night. With the amount of wine I had drunk, I accepted Monica's offer to stay the night. After the girls had retired to their own quarters, Monica showed me to a huge bedroom dominated by an 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. "Discreet, 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.