by Van ©2012
		Chapter 4

Rory's enthusiasm for the role of Captured Girl Detective had waned by the time Fiona returned to release her from the post.  Her cousin's ropes had been tight and inescapable—even un-shiftable and un-slackenable, she mused, if those are words.  And standing with her shoulders, back, rump, and calves pressed against the hard wood and barely able to even squirm?  The blush left that particular rose pretty quickly.  The hankie, PVC pipe, and rope bit-gag pinning the back of her head to the post and semi-silencing her Desperate Moans had overstayed its welcome, as well.

That said, Rory found herself sort of drifting in her helplessness, not in pain, not even in discomfort (not really), and sort of reveling in her condition.  Her fate was entirely in her Despicable Kidnapper's villainous hands (but she was a Despicable Kidnapper who Rory loved and trusted).  Rory was completely helpless.  She knew it was a game... but she really was bound and gagged and helpless!

It's just like when we played in the woods, Rory reminisced, when we were kids—only more so!  Her childhood games with the Whelan sisters had been just that, childhood games.  This was an adult game—not XXX, boom-chucka-wow-wow Adult, but... grown up.  It was a decidedly kinky hobby, to be sure, but playing at being a Damsel-in-Distress was fun!

Meanwhile, Fiona was busy dismantling her masterpiece of elaborate rope bondage.

"Well, you're still alive," Fiona chuckled as she worked her way through the seemingly countless knots and hitches.  She'd already released Rory's gag.

"I think so," Rory sighed.  "That was... different," she added.

"It's called 'sub-space,' Ginger-Fox," Fiona grinned.

"Huh?  What does Star Trek have to do with it?"

"That place you go to when you're tied up like this," Fiona clarified.  "It's called sub-space."

"I still don't—"

"Submissive-space."

Rory blushed.  "Oh."  The last rope melted away and the Rescued Girl Detective took a tentative step away from the post and stretched.  "Arrrgh."

"I know what will make you feel better," Fiona said as she began untangling and coiling the various lengths of rope.

"A hot shower."

Fiona's smile broadened.  "Even better.  Help me stow all this and I'll show you."

Rory stretched, again, then began helping Fiona coil the ropes.  "What time is it?"

"A little after three," Fiona answered.  "I decided to rescue you an hour early, so all your rope marks will have plenty of time to fade.  Caitlin might get suspicious if you show up for dinner in a burka."

Rory blinked in surprise.  "You guys have a burka?"

Fiona giggled.  "You are such an easy mark, Ginger-Fox."

"Shuddup," Rory huffed, and gave her cousin's arm a weak, teasing punch.

Fiona's remedy for spending most of the day lashed to a post turned out to be a sauna.  Rory didn't even known the Whelan's had a sauna.  She'd already had a more-or-less complete tour of the house and outbuildings (not counting whatever was lurking behind the other mysterious doors in the basement dungeon), but she'd taken the nondescript door in the master bedroom bath—that is, the Momma-Fox bedroom bath—to be a linen closet.  Surprise! It hid a dry sauna, complete with the traditional cedar paneling and floor, two-tiers of benches, a stainless steel electric heater (with lava rocks), a bucket and ladle, and (she assumed) the required ventilation.  What she'd taken for a small mirror mounted on the outside of the door turned out to be a window of one-way glass.  A wave of heat hit Rory when Fiona opened the door.

"Wow," Rory exclaimed.  "It's okay to use it?  Aunt Megan won't mind?"

"We use it all the time," Fiona answered, "whether mom is home or not.  I turned it on before bravely coming to your rescue."

"My hero," Rory huffed.

Fiona smiled.  "Put your Nancy Drew clothes on mom's bed and I'll get the stuff you wore at breakfast."

"Okay."  Rory went to the bed in question, peeled off her bobbysoxer/Girl Detective costume, including her panties, bra, and hair ribbons—stretched again—then padded back into the bathroom.  She opened the sauna door, stepped inside, and the dry heat enveloped her like a blanket.  She sat on the bench—"Yow!"—and immediately jumped off.  The deck boards were hot, but the bench was HOT!

The door opened, admitting Fiona and a wave of cold air.  "I thought I heard a bloodcurdling scream.  Never been in a dry sauna before, Ginger-Fox?"

"No," Rory admitted, rubbing her offended rump

Fiona pointed at the bucket.  "Feel free to wet down the bench.  In fact, I strongly recommend it."

"Logical," Rory conceded.

Fiona chuckled as she closed the door.

Rory followed Fiona's advice, and it worked.  A splash of water was all it took to make the seat butt-friendly.  Minutes passed... and Rory began to sweat... and it felt good!

The door opened, again, admitting more cold air and a naked Fiona.  The grinning redhead was carrying two white, fluffy, folded towels and two plastic bottles of water.  "For a pillow," she explained, tossing a towel to Rory.

Rory caught the towel, then grinned as Fiona twisted the cap off one of the bottles.  "Gimme," she begged, accepted the cold bottle, and chugged a generous mouthful of gloriously cold water.  "Excellent," she sighed.

Fiona had wet the bench opposite Rory and settled her naked rump on the boards.  "None the worse for wear," she observed, visually examining Rory's flushed, shining body.  "No bruises or rope burns, I mean.  No marks that won't fade before Caitlin comes home.  I'm an artist."

"Yeah, a veritable Leonardo Da Villainess," Rory drawled, then frowned.  "Leonard-uh Da Villainess?  Is Leonarda a name?"

"Let it go, Ginger-Fox," Fiona chuckled, then smiled.  "So... one down and five to go."

Rory took another drink, then watched Fiona pour a ladle of water over the lava rocks.  They hissed and a cloud of steam filled the close, hot space.

"This feels good," Rory sighed.

"Doesn't it?" Fiona agreed.  "So, do you want to take tomorrow off?"

Rory paused before answering.  "No, let's go for it."

"There's my brave little Bondage Brownie," Fiona smiled.

Rory rolled her eyes.  "Oh, please."

"Now..." Fiona continued.  "Level one, trial number two.  We don't have a lot of actual costumes.  Girl Detective just about exhausted the inventory.  Besides, cheerleader, police cadet, waitress, upstairs maid...  Even if we had the required outfits, they just don't do it for me, not today, anyway."

"How 'bout 'schoolgirl'?" Rory suggested.  "We talked about that yesterday."

Fiona shook her head.  "Nah.  I'll think of something."

Rory looked around the sauna, savoring the dry heat and the aroma of the cedar.  "Do you guys ever play in here?"  She smiled at Fiona, who was now also flushed and dripping with sweat.  "You know... with rope?"

Fiona shook her head.  "Waaaaay too dangerous, Initiate.  What if I tied you to that bench and forgot you were there?  Too many awkward questions when the EMTs and cops arrive.  Too much paperwork."  Suddenly, her smile broadened.  "I've got it!  You took dance classes, as I recall.  Right?"

Rory nodded.  "I got dragged to class for two years, when I was nine and ten."

"And yet, no career in the ballet."

Rory favored her cousin with a scathing stare.

"Okay, okay," Fiona giggled.  "Me too—I mean us too.  Caitlin and I couldn't wait to get away from the wicked witch who ran the 'Evil Dance Academy.'  We endured three years before mom finally let us quit.  Anyway, I've got some old tights in the closet and lots of leotards."

"Leotards?"

"Yoga."

Rory frowned.  "You do yoga?"

Fiona smiled.  "You should too, Ginger-Fox.  Bondage Brownies need to be limber.  Once you pass the trials—I mean if you pass the trials—I'll give you some lessons."

"Wonderful," Rory sighed, and took another drink.

Day two of "Operation Keep Caitlin in the Dark" was successful (as far as Rory could tell).  Big-Fox came home from work at the expected time, and tonight she was the one that cooked dinner.  And what followed was more or less a replay of the previous evening: small talk, a little TV (with snacks), then off to bed.

There were two new developments:  (1) Caitlin announced she'd received an e-mail from Momma-Fox.  Apparently, there was now some question as to exactly when the planned lecture series at Cambridge would happen.  She said she'd keep them informed of any changes in her itinerary.  (2) Caitlin suggested they go out for brunch on Sunday.  There was a seafood place near the Lewis and Clark campus that had an excellent buffet, as well as omelets to order.  Fiona gave the restaurant an enthusiastic endorsement and they all agreed it was a date.

Also in a replay of the night before, Rory engaged in "tension relief" in the privacy of her bed—again, without self-bondage.  She then drifted off to sleep.

Morning came, breakfast was prepared and consumed, and Caitlin left for work,.  Fiona and Rory cleaned up and then Rory scampered upstairs to change—and yes, she did indeed scamper.  A delicious anticipatory dread was building for the Bondage Brownie Initiate.  Rory couldn't wait to see what Fiona was gonna do to her.  At the same time, a dozen butterflies were staging a modern dance number in her stomach.

And speaking of dance...

Rory stripped and donned a pair of white, footless tights—a sleeveless, camisole-style leotard in a dark, pastel shade of burgundy—and fluffy, salmon-pink leg warmers.  Next, she padded to the bathroom, combed her hair back, and rolled it into the traditional tight bun.  She smiled at her reflection in the mirror, then turned and headed for the kitchen—almost running into her soon-to-be kidnapper in the upstairs hallway.

"I'm saving you the trip downstairs," Fiona explained.  A small duffel bag was slung over her left shoulder.

Rory smiled and assumed First Position, executed a passable pirouette, then ended in Fourth Position.

Fiona applauded politely.  "Not bad, bun-monkey."

Rory frowned.  "Bun-monkey?  We used to call each other bun-heads, but this is the first time I've heard bun-monkey."

"No matter," Fiona giggled.  "We're going up," she announced, pointing at the ceiling, and led her "victim" towards the back stairs.

"Stately Whelan Manor" had an extensive attic, which was hardly surprising in a Victorian house.  It was semi-finished, with plywood sheets covering the floor and sloping ceiling.  Under their feet was a mismatched collection of threadbare, worn carpets.  What illumination there was came from a few widely separated dangling light-bulbs.  In terms of floor plan, it was a complex space, also not surprising given the complexity of the building's roof design.

Fiona led Rory towards a padlocked door.  "This is above mom's bedroom," she explained as she unlocked the padlock, folded back the hasp, and left the open lock dangling from the staple.

"Which is also above the dining room," Rory nodded.  Stacked together, the rooms in question comprised the bulk of a round turret with a conical roof.

Fiona smiled as she opened the door.  The space beyond was indeed conical, as expected, more or less the inside of a plywood tepee.  More old carpet covered the floor and the bottom lens of a light tunnel glowed from above, bathing the room in blue-white light.

"I take it the attic is the legendary lost graveyard of worn out Whelan carpets?" Rory asked, pointing at her bare feet.

"For at least three generations," Fiona confirmed.  "If you're bad, mom makes you drag the vacuum up here.  What a pain."

Rory grinned.  "So, you're up here almost every day?"

"Watch it, Ginger-Fox," Fiona warned, then slid the duffel off her shoulder and let it drop.  "Trial two, level one, rope, not tied to something."

Rory heaved a rather theatrical sigh.

"Don't be like that," Fiona giggled.  "You're a prima ballerina about to be 'sequestered' by a jealous rival.  It's not the end of the world."  She pointed at the carpet.  "On your tummy with your hands behind your back, Ginger-Swan."

Rory settled to the floor, as directed.

"I assume you're familiar with the term hogtie?" Fiona inquired.

"Yes, I'm familiar," Rory sighed.

"Well," Fiona continued, "you're about to become really familiar."

Fiona proceeded to tie Rory's wrists together with her hands palm-to-palm.  "This is braided cotton clothesline," Fiona lectured.  "We give new batches a quick wash with a dash of mild detergent, then tumble it dry on low heat.  That makes it nice and soft and pliant, just the thing for tying up bun-monkeys."

Rory snorted.  "That's so funny I forgot to—Hey!  What are you doing to my thumbs?"

"Tying them together, of course," Fiona giggled, "with cotton utility cord."

Rory sighed as the thin cord was cinched between her thumbs.  "Let me guess—because they're there?"

Fiona chuckled as she tied a series of knots.  "You're gonna fit right in around here, Ginger-Fox."

Over the next several minutes, more cotton rope tightened around Rory's body.  One long coil passed around her upper arms and torso, above and below her breasts, and yoked her shoulders.  Other coils went around her waist and forearms, above and below her knees, and around her ankles.  Fiona took her time, cinching the bondage between Rory's limbs and/or upper body.

"Okay, here we go," Fiona announced, threaded a doubled rope through Rory's wrist and ankle bonds, then pulled out the slack.

Rory grunted as her ankles and wrists came together.  "Do you have to make it so—Hey!"

Fiona had leaned close and put her body into it, pressing with her weight until Rory's wrists and ankles nearly met.  "Hogtie, category two," she explained as she threaded the remaining rope under the rope at the nape of Rory's neck, and tugged.

"Yow!"  The tightening ropes arched Rory's back, significantly tightening her shoulder-yoking and arm-pinning bonds.  Her knee bonds had also tightened.  "What is 'category two'?"

"Wrists less than six inches from ankles, without cross-trussing elements," Fiona explained.  "Category two."

"Cross-trussing?"

Fiona smiled.  "If you insist."  She pulled another coil of rope from the duffel.

"Fi-O-na!"  Rory squirmed as her Cruel Kidnapping Cousin looped the doubled rope around her shins and thighs, rolling and rocking her tightly bundled body as required.  Fiona then cinched the bands between Rory's legs and tied off the separate free ends to her knee and elbow bonds.

"Catlin says hitching the hogtie rope through the upper bonds is enough to make it category three," Fiona explained, "but I disagree."  She pulled another length of cord from the duffel.  "I think it takes more elaborate trussing."

Rory eyed the of cord, nervously.  "What's that for?"  Then, she figured it out and curled her toes—not that it would do her any good, of course.  It was an instinctive reaction.  The Captive Dancer sighed as the cord looped around her big toes, several times, then was cinched and knotted.

"There," Fiona gloated, "that should hold you."

"No, ya think?" Rory huffed.  "Hey!  Watch it!"

Fiona had rolled Rory onto her back and was straddling her body.  "Okay, you're a trussed up bun-monkey," she purred.  "Now, I need to make you a quiet, trussed up bun-monkey."

Rory watched as Fiona pulled a pair of scissors from the duffel, followed by a roll of off-white, three-inch wide, plastic tape.

"Elastoplast," Fiona explained, holding up the tape.  "Nothing but the best for my Ginger-Fox."

"You're enjoying this waaay too much," Rory complained as Fiona pulled a seven inch strip from the roll and snipped it free.

"Yes, being an Evil Villainess does have it benefits," Fiona giggled.  "Now, lips together s'il vous plaît."

Rory sighed and pursed her lips.

Fiona stretched the tape over Rory's mouth, then smoothed it with her fingers.  "I love this stuff," she purred, locking eyes with her helpless "victim."  She smoothed the tape, again, then used an index finger to trace Rory's lips.  "I love the way it adheres to the skin.  It's impossible to loosen with your tongue, and the way I can see the shape of your lips... gorgeous.  It's almost like your lower face has been dipped in latex."

Rory's tummy was tingling.  Okay, the anatomy in question was a little lower than her tummy, but it was definitely tingling.

"Wait 'til you try this with a crotch rope," Fiona purred, then leaned close and planted a kiss on Rory's forehead.  "And wait 'til you try category four."  She returned the tape roll and scissors to the duffel, zipped it closed, then climbed off Rory's bound body, stood, and pulled the duffel strap onto her shoulder.

Category four? Rory wondered.

Fiona answered Rory's silent question.  "Category four is when your gag or hair are included in the hogtie."  Her smile turned deliciously evil.  "Talk about your tautly strung bow."  She strolled towards the door.  "Well... enjoy."

"Mrrpfh!" Rory complained as the door began to close.  She wasn't really in distress (not yet), but mewling through her gag in desperation was the proper thing to do.  The door closed and she heard the hasp engage and the padlock click closed.

Rory squirmed and struggled.  She managed to roll back onto her stomach, but it took three attempts.  "Exploring" the attic room by wiggling across the carpet seemed marginally possible, but what was the point?  Thumb and toe-tied—wrapped in a tight, uniform web of well-cinched rope—gagged with medical tape—Rory knew herself to be one seriously helpless dancer!

Wow!

Fiona stopped off in her mom's bedroom to confirm the status of the home security system.  The bedside alarm console, tastefully concealed as what might easily be mistaken for a quaint music box, confirmed that all the doors and windows were locked, including her workshop and the garage, and that the system was armed.

Next, she went to her own bedroom, closed the door, and deposited the now nearly empty rope duffel in her closet.  She then went to the bed, stripped to the skin, neatly folded her jeans, t-shirt, bra, and panties, stacked them on a straight chair, and placed her sandals on top.

Fiona's iPhone was on her bedside table, but she'd turned off the ringtone.  Incoming calls would go to voice-mail.  If Caitlin tried to call and asked her about it tonight, she'd say she'd been working in the shop all day and had forgotten to bring her phone.  It wouldn't be the first time.

Fiona padded to her writing desk, turned on her laptop, and opened an appliance control program.  She then slid an exquisitely crafted wooden box from under the bed and opened the lid.  (The box was handmade by the supremely talented Fiona Whelan, of course.)  Inside were:

(1) A carefully coiled length of green cord, a pair of small snap-hooks, a key inserted in a locked padlock, and a thumb-sized electromagnet with a coil of thin, insulated wire ending in a pair of color-coded RCA plugs.  Together, they comprised Fiona's time-tested release mechanism.  She uncoiled the wire and inserted the plugs into matching sockets in a control module next to the computer, then unlocked the padlock and placed it on the bed.  She then stood on the mattress and secured the snap-hooks to a pair of tiny, discreet eye-bolts screwed into the ceiling over the bed.  When she was finished, the key was dangling near the upper right corner, almost touching the mattress, and the electromagnet was up near the ceiling above the lower left corner.  She lifted the key to the magnet and it clicked in place, held against the module's steel disk.

(2) Fiona's Hitachi, wand-style vibrator.  A long extension cord was attached, as was a leather thigh-harness.  She lay the vibrator and harness on the bed, uncoiled the cord, and plugged it into a power outlet on the control module.

(3) Four leather cuffs, three with doubled nylon straps threaded through their D-rings, and one with a slightly wider, heftier length of strap with a steel ring at each end.  Fiona passed the straps around the four bedposts and the result was four cuffs waiting to receive her wrists and ankles.  The cuff with the two-ring strap was on the right with the open padlock threaded through the rings.  The other three cuffs were secured around the other three bedposts by their cinched double straps.  All four restraints were the same length, and this was hardly a happy coincidence.  Fiona had put a lot of effort into getting the measurements exactly correct.

(4) A ball-gag with a two-inch sphere of red medical silicon.

Fiona gagged herself, cinching the ball-gag's strap until her cheeks bulged, then padded to the desk and tapped a key.  The control programs were now running and the electromagnet would release the key in exactly two hours, allowing it to swing down to her right hand.

Also in response to the program, the vibrator would turn on and off in a carefully orchestrated sequence.  The timing had been arrived at through a series of scientific experiments, with Fiona and Caitlin as the test subjects.  Several different programs were available, and Fiona had selected a seesaw pattern that would slowly crescendo over a half-hour and always resulted in a thundering multiple orgasm.  The code would then loop back to the beginning and repeat.

A five minute grace period was running, allowing Fiona to complete her preparations.  She quickly double checked the plugs and program settings, then padded back to the bed and flopped onto the mattress.  She buckled on the harness belt, positioned the business end of the Hitachi against her pussy, then buckled the thigh and crotch straps.  Next, she buckled on the ankle cuffs, then lay back and buckled on the not-yet-attached right cuff and the already attached left cuff.  This required some stretching, groping, and fumbling, but she accomplished the task with practiced ease. Three of her limbs were now in a loose spread-eagle.  She groped for the padlock, threaded it through the right strap's terminal rings—and snapped it closed.

Fiona was now on her back in a full spread-eagle, and she would remain that way until the key dropped and she would be able to unlock the padlock.  She tugged on the cuffs and stared up at the ceiling.

Up in the attic, Rory was hogtied and helpless.  She looks so cute in a tight hogtie, Fiona mused.

Fiona squirmed in her bonds.  The inactive head of the Hitachi was nudging her upper labia, just under her clitoris.  Experience told her it was in just the right spot, and there would be nothing she could do to shift it away.  She looked down her body, past her slowly rising and falling breasts (and erect nipples), down her flat tummy, her dark red pubic bush, and to the harness and vibrator.  She confirmed that the Hitachi was on its highest setting.

One time, on another occasion when mom had been away, Caitlin had spreadeagled her just like this, only without rigging the release timer and with the Hitachi set on low.  That had been a very long night of total frustration.  Time after time, just when Fiona thought the magic wand was finally going to send her over the top... the damn program would reset to the beginning and start teasing her all over again, with long pauses relieved only by brief periods of pathetically weak vibration.

I can't wait 'til I get to do that to Rory! Fiona thought—then moaned through her gag and tugged on her bonds in earnest.  "Mrrrf!"

Buzzzzz...

The initial waiting period had finally expired and the Hitachi was doing its thing.

Buzzzzz...

Fiona continued fighting her self-imposed bonds.  Just you wait, Ginger-Fox.  Once you pass your trials, just you wait.  You ain't seen nothin' yet!

Buzzzzz...