THINGS  YOU  NEED  TO  KNOW  ABOUT
		by Van ©2017
		Chapter 1

Browyn "Brows" Magee is a scamp, a scalawag, and a rascal.  Whenever Brows is involved in a project, it always seems to go horribly and irretrievably wrong—but not in a bad way—not usually, anyway.  Granted, in the immediate aftermath of the current "Brows Debacle" blowing up in everybody's collective face, the principals involved usually feel differently, but afterwards, when sufficient time has passed, the disaster morphs into an entertaining story everyone shares with their friends for years to come.

It's not that Brows is a bad person.  Far from it.  Brows is a nice person, a very nice person.  Honest!  It's just that things happen whenever Brows is around.  Why, you might ask?  Her college friends had three competing theories:

1.  An invisible space alien and/or supernatural entity of some sort follows Brows around and is the one actually responsible for all of her misadventures.

2.  Brows is secretly a terrible person and delights in actively causing mischief; however, she's very good at covering her tracks, disguising her true intentions, and deceiving her friends into thinking she's not a fiend from hell sent by The Prince of Darkness to torment the living.

3.  Brows is the embodiment of the "Trickster" archetype, the living quintessence of the mischievous, knavish, rule-breaking figure of myth and folklore that in one form or another is the protagonist (or villain) of the Great Cautionary Tales of all world cultures.  Raven, Coyote, Loki, Eshu, the Monkey King... Brows. 

That third possibility seemed logical at the time.  We were in college.  Anyway, Brows was (and is) my best friend.  We both attended Lewis & Clark University (Go Explorers!) at the same time, and we both pledged ∆I∆, the Delta Iota Delta sorority.  Yes, we were both "DiD-sisters."  I was a legacy.  My mom was a DiD-sister.  As for Brows... I think it was inevitable.  ∆I∆ was (and is) justly famous (notorious) for its playful pranks or outrageous shenanigans, depending on your point of view (and whether or not you were one of the "victims" of said prank).  Often, duct-tape is involved.  ∆I∆ goes through a lot of duct-tape.  Duct-tape was a separate line item in our Chapter's monthly housekeeping budget report.  Nationally, ∆I∆ had a wholesale contract with 3M for bulk purchases.

Those were the days.  There was that Brows inspired prank that earned ∆I∆ a reprimand from the Greek Council and nearly got us banned from campus, but that's a tale for another day.  Anyway...

"Brows."

Browyn's nickname was bestowed upon her by one of the "mean girls" at her high school.  It references her ginormous, bushy eyebrows—which she adamantly refuses to pluck—and the sobriquet was meant as a cruel jibe.  Like most things involving Browyn Magee, it went sideways.  In fact, in this case, it solidly backfired.  Brows instantly loved the nickname and insisted that all her friends refer to her as "Brows" from then on.  The mean girl in question was humiliated, which she no doubt richly deserved.

So, Brows has eyebrows—big, bushy eyebrows—grotesque, hairy-caterpillars-crawling-across-her-face eyebrows.  Also, she's incredibly cute, even beautiful.  I've always thought she is, anyway... beautiful, I mean.  Anyway, Brows has a killer figure, smooth, fair skin that takes a semi-decent tan (then burns), very pretty brown eyes, and a quirky smile that lights up the room.  Athletically, she can run me into the ground and used to drag me with her to the campus yoga classes on a regular basis.  Also, she dances like a ballerina... a wacky, hip-hop ballerina, but a ballerina.

Also, Brows is an artist.  Oils.  And she's a very good artist.  She was a Fine Arts major at L&C, and seems to be one of the rare few who actually use their degree after graduation.  Truth be told, I have no idea if the art history and technique classes she endured have any real impact on her work, but I do know she sells a lot of canvasses.  Don't get me wrong, Brow's isn't the latest 20-something phenom taking the Manhattan galleries by storm, but she definitely isn't starving.

What does she paint?  Landscapes, people, the usual.  Not a lot of fruit bowls, and no sad clowns or waifish children with freakishly huge eyes.  I could go on and on about her paintings (also having a B.A. in Fine Arts from L&C), but suffice it to say I know what I like and I like Brow's realistic style.  It reminds me of Andrew Wyeth.

Anyway, Brows has a problem, and by that I mean she has a problem right now, not in general.  She needs a place to live.  Apparently, and I don't know the details, she's getting kicked out of her apartment/studio.  No doubt she threw a party and the police, animal control, and Homeland Security got involved.  I don't know the details.  Maybe she'll explain when she gets here.

That's right!  Brows is coming!  I talked Mom into letting her lease the cabin on the edge of our place.

Who is "Mom," you ask?  And who am I, for that matter?

Mom is an ex-model, and she's gorgeous.  I've been told I'm also gorgeous, but my mom is gorgeous-gorgeous.  Blond hair, tan skin, killer body, symmetrical face, gorgeous!  Did I mention she was a model?  Anyway, Mom made a lot of money in the living manikin business and didn't party and put it all up her nose, like some of her model friends.  She already had the family farm in the wilds of western Washington (about midway between Chehalis and the coast) and a comfortable inheritance from Grandma and Grandpa, so she retired early and spends her time managing her money, basking in the sun by the pond, and cooking gourmet meals with Libby, our neighbor and Mom's BFF.  She also takes trips to visit her other friends and does charity and wildlife conservation work, but mostly she hangs around the farm and watches me work.

So, I'm a farmer, you ask?  No, I'm also an artist, like Brows, but I'm a sculptor, not a painter, like Brows.  I work in wood, doing carvings, both abstract and semi-realistic.  Really, I just reveal whatever is hiding in the wood.  You can't force wood.  I also cobble together the occasional piece of furniture, but I consider them to be functional sculptures and I think my customers agree.  Also like Brows, I'm successful, meaning I manage to sell most of my efforts.  I use the farm's big-old-barn for my studio.  Grandpa had a well-equipped workshop, so I have everything I need.

Am I successful?  Well, yes.  Like I said, my stuff sells... enough for me to pay the rent (if Mom was charging me rent, which she isn't). 

You say I'm also gorgeous?  With blond hair, tan skin, killer bod, and symmetrical face?  The spitting image of my mom, or at least a chip off the same Norse Goddess/Viking Shieldmaiden block?  Stop it!  You're making me blush!  Okay, I am my mother's daughter, but Mom is gorgeous!  I'm only... gorgeous.

Anyway, Brows is coming!  Secure the breakables!  Warn the neighbors!  Update your insurance!  And above all, hide the duct-tape!

Brows' arrival at the family farm (aka Checkerspot Meadows) happened just about like you'd expect.  She pulled up in her overloaded, medium blue, 2013 Prius V, opened the door and climbed out... and we squealed like a couple of four-year-olds on sugar highs at Disneyland and flew into each others arms.  Mom watched with a tolerant smile.  Our next door neighbor and Mom's good friend (and mine too), Libby McDermott, was also present and was also smiling.

We held each other at arms length.

"Brows!" I screamed.

"Londyn-with-a-'Y'!" Brows screamed back, and we hugged and squealed, again.  The Londyn-with-a-"Y" thing dates back to the day we met at Lewis & Clark.  At the time I tried retaliating by calling her Bronwyn-with-a-"Y", but then she told met her nickname was "Brows" and that was way better.

Oh, I've made a hash out of all the names.  Sorry.  I'm Londyn Wahlberg, Mom is Kimberly Wahlberg, and Libby is Libby McDermott—but I already told you about Libby, didn't I?  Sorry.  Anyway...

Mom (Kimberly) led us into the farmhouse.  The word "farmhouse" usually evokes some vaguely Victorian two story dwelling out in the middle of fields of golden grain, but in the case of Checkerspot Meadows, it's an Arts and Crafts catalog home from the 30's nestled in the middle of a grove of cedars and broad-leaf maples.  Mom and I repainted it about three years back in a mix of earth tones, mostly greens and browns, and it more or less fades into the natural background.

Why "Checkerspot Meadows," you ask?  I mentioned Mom's conservation work, and part of it is down home and personal.  There's a prairie restoration initiative adjoining the farm that's jointly run by the county, the state, and the local Audubon Society chapter, and Mom has let them extend their controlled burn and native species replanting program across the property line and onto the old fields.  Libby owns the adjacent land and she does the same thing.

Together, they more than double the size of the project, and several endangered butterfly and plant species are no doubt very grateful, as well as the bluebirds and meadowlarks.  We've never entertained even the slightest intention of actually working the formerly plowed acreage, so why not?  (Also, because of their participation, Mom and Libby were able to negotiate breaks on their property taxes, so it's a win-win all around.)  Anyhoo...

Mom invited Brows into the kitchen and we all had coffee and banana bread.  Brows had been to Checkerspot Meadows before (spring break our junior year) so she already knew the place.  She complimented the new exterior color scheme and we munched bread, slurped coffee, and got reacquainted—or, in the case of Libby, acquainted.  Brows never did explain why, exactly, she was having to move out of her old digs, and it was probably just as well.  The less Mom knows, the less she'll have to explain to our insurance company after Brows destroys the cabin.  (Just kidding.)

And speaking of the cabin, niceties accomplished, I climbed into the passenger seat of Brow's Prius V (nicknamed "The Blue Mini-Beast") and directed her down the quarter-mile of unimproved road that led around the farmhouse, behind the barn, and to the grove of cedars sheltering the cabin.

The cabin is... a cabin.  That is, it's a kit-built, modern log cabin with a raised-seam metal roof.  Mom has never explained why Grandpa put it there, but it's a cozy little place with its own well, power, and septic system, and we keep it in good repair.  Excellent repair, actually.

"Oh, fabulous!" Brows gushed after I unlocked the door and showed her in.  The cabin is furnished with flea market bargains and my earliest efforts at furniture making and I was proud of the "decor."  It's rustic and comfortable, perfect for an artist in search of solitude—or on the run from process servers sent by her last landlord.  (Again, just kidding... I hope.)  Anyway, there's a common room with a stone fireplace, a kitchen alcove, a separate bedroom, and a bathroom with a stainless steel shower stall.

"It's perfect!" Brows exclaimed, pulled me into a hug and kissed my cheek, then headed for the door.  "I'll start unloading my stuff."

"I'll open the shutters," I announced, then set about doing just that.  I'd dusted and swept the cabin the day before, but never got around to the windows.  I went from window to window, slid up the sashes, released the shutters' interior latches, leaned out and folded each shudder against the outside wall until the spring-loaded brackets snapped, then rolled down the screens that would keep the bugs out.  I could see that all the glass needed cleaning.  I kicked myself (metaphorically) for not thinking of it before.  Anyway, the cabin interior was now considerably brighter.

Meanwhile, Brows was coming and going and adding to an ever-growing pile of suitcases and cardboard boxes.  At the moment, she was carrying in three stretched canvases wrapped in a paint-stained drop cloth and bound with stout hemp cord.

I watched as Brows released the knots securing the cords and unwrapped the canvases.  "These are my latest," she explained.  "I'm sure they're dry, but I need to make sure.  I'll touch up any damage before sending them on to the gallery."

I nodded, but mainly I was staring in slack-jawed wonder as she separated the canvases and propped them against nearby chairs and the back of the cabin's old, slightly worn sofa.  Each painting was a nude study of a different female model: a short-haired redhead, a long-haired brunette, and a black-haired, brown-skinned woman who may have been a Latina, or possibly Indian, meaning Indian subcontinent Indian, although she could also have been Native American.  Anyway...

"T-they're all tied up," I whispered.

"Nothing gets past Londyn-with-a-'Y'," Brows chuckled, "that's for sure."

The models were, indeed, tied up.

Painting #1:  The redhead was sitting cross-legged with her arms folded behind her back.  Some sort of natural fiber rope pinned her upper arms to her sides, yoked her shoulders, framed and slightly squeezed her breasts, and linked to her crossed and bound ankles, forcing her to lean forward in a tight crunch.  I believe it's what's referred to as a "shrimp-tie."  I leaned close and examined the curl of the redhead's smiling lips.  "Good job on the freckles," I said.

"Thanks," Brows chuckled, "I felt like Georges Seurat.  Painting freckles can get downright... pointillist."

I nodded, too absorbed at the time to appreciate Brow's post-Impressionist humor.

Painting #2:  The brunette model was lying on her side with her back to the viewer.  Her ankles and wrists were crossed and lashed with more of the same natural fiber rope.  She was also hogtied, with her heels nearly resting on her palms.  Also, her long, chestnut locks were plaited in a ponytail braid that was folded back on itself and lashed to her wrists, pulling her head back.  I could tell she was well and truly helpless.  The key knots were well beyond the reach of her fingers and hands.

Painting #3:  The raven-haired, brown-skinned model was standing with her back against a wooden column with her arms raised, crossed, and lashed to the post.  More rope bound her in place at the waist and ankles.

All three models were fit, curvaceous, and undeniably beautiful.  The rope work was highly professional and inescapable.  Brow's technique was, in my humble opinion, even better than her earlier works, and that was saying something.  I was impressed.

"I'm impressed," I said.

"Thanks," Brows responded (with just a hint of a blush).  "Ever since I started my 'Rope Series,' the gallery has the buyers in a veritable bidding war, and don't even get me started about the print sales."

I nodded, again.

"I'm still deciding how I'm gonna paint you," Brows continued.

I nodded, yet again... then her words registered.  "Wait, wait, what?  Me?"  That last "me" came out as something of a mouse-like squeak.

"You should see your face," Brows chuckled.  "You promised to pose for me a long time ago, remember?"

"Well, yeah," I admitted, "but...  Nude?  Rope?"

Brows was enjoying my distress way too much.  I was thinking, again, how it's so very dangerous to keep her around, not that I'd ever forgotten.  (Again, just kidding.)

I decided I had to put my foot down.  "I am not gonna strip naked and let you tie me up so you can paint me.  No way.  No how.  Not ever."

Brows was studying my blushing, tightfisted, adamant self like I was already naked, tied up, and unable to not be her latest model.  "I think maybe an outdoor setting this time," she purred.  "I'll have to look around and find a suitable sylvan glade."

"Look around all you want," I huffed.  "It's not gonna happen."

"We'll see," Brows said with a truly infuriating (and adorable) smile, then returned to her unpacking.

Brows was our guest for dinner that night (Libby, also), and over the course of the next week, things settled into a routine.  To be more precise, Brows settled into the cabin and became a part of the regular Checkerspot Meadows routine.

Mom and I go running at least five times a week, together and each.  Wait... even I didn't understand that.  I'll try again.  Sometimes we run together, sometimes we run separately, but I run at least five times and Mom runs at least five times.  There, that's clear enough.  Anyway, Libby also runs five times, and now Brows as well.  All of us never run together.  It's either alone or in pairs, randomly, although we don't roll dice or anything.  Anyway... we run.  That's probably all I needed to say.  Sorry.  I'm nervous.

Why nervous?  Brows was gonna tie me up!  Naked!  Duh!

I know, I know, I already told her no, and in no uncertain terms, as in hell no!  The problem is, with Brows, "no" means "not yet" if it's something she really wants... or simply wants... or simply thinks might be a little fun.  I've been down that road before.

So, we ran... nervously, in my case.  There are trails snaking around both our properties, Mom's and Libby's, as well as crisscrossing between and through the various groves of native trees interspersed with broad swaths of native wildflowers and grass.

We also did yoga, especially Mom.  Mom really likes her yoga.  So does Libby.  There's a stretch of meadow in front of the pond where we sunbathe and do yoga.

Oh yeah, the pond.  I forgot to mention the pond.  We also swim, and since the pond is near the house but not any public roads, we usually do it in the nude.  Skinny-dipping.  Why not?  It's just us girls... and the ducks, geese, red-wing blackbirds, and the usual wrens and sparrows.

So... we run, we do yoga, and we swim.  And now, so does Brows.

I was used to finding Mom and/or Libby basking in the sun out by the pond, naked, but now Brows might also be there.

I mentioned that Brows is fit and cute, and that includes a naked Brows slathered in sunscreen.  There is one other thing worth mentioning.  Brows has brows, meaning eyebrows, but she's also "gifted" in the pubic department.  She keeps her thighs and pubic margin neatly shaved, but her "short and curlies" aren't so short, and she has a lot of them.  Yes, Brows is hirsute between the legs.  Mom and Libby and I also have bushes and also keep our pubic margins shaved, but Brows doubles the local pubic hair volume, all by herself.

Don't get me wrong.  It's not like her bush is freakish, just unusually big... or lush.  Truth be told, it's kinda cute, like her brows.  Brows pulls it off.  (Not literally, of course.  Like her eyebrows, no plucking.)

Anyway, about a week after Brows moved into the cabin, I decided I could use a little sun, changed into my birthday suit, tucked a rolled beach towel with my bottles of tanning oil and sunscreen under one arm, and strolled down to the pond.

It was a glorious, sunny day.  Birds were singing, butterflies were fluttering (including a couple of the farm's namesake, the Taylor's Checkerspot), fluffy cumulus clouds drifted overhead, a light breeze was stirring the trees and the cattails... and Mom and Brows were already sunbathing at the pond, stretched out on their backs on their own beach towels, their nude, tan and rather more fair bodies (respectively) glistening with cocoa butter and sunscreen (respectively).  I skidded to a halt and swallowed.  I don't know why my nervousness had suddenly come to a head.  Maybe it was a premonition.

Mom propped herself up on her left elbow and gazed in my direction, shading her eyes with her right hand.  "I'm very disappointed in you, Londyn," she sighed.

"Uh, hello to you, too," I returned as I unrolled my towel and spread it on the grass... beside Mom but on the side safely away from Brows.

"Did you or did you not promise Browyn that you would pose for her?" Mom continued.

"Yes, I did," I admitted as I began slathering myself with oil, "but did she tell me she wants me to be nude?  And that she intends to tie me up?"

Okay, I realized the "nude" objection was ridiculous.  After all, I was standing there naked, talking to a naked Mom and a grinning, naked Brows.  And as for the "tie me up" thing, we were all DiD-sisters.  At school we'd usually worked in duct-tape, but none of us were strangers to bondage fun.  There, the cat's out of the bag.  Just don't tell the National Office that I'm admitting that most ∆I∆ "pranks" are really about the joy of watching female tape-mummies wiggle and writhe.  It's supposed to be a sorority secret.  Anyway, once a DiD-sister, always a DiD-sister.

Mom heaved a sad, dramatic sigh of mammoth proportions, then lay back down and closed her eyes.  "So disappointing," she said quietly.

I glared at Brows.  She'd played the Maternal Pressure card!  Also, she was still grinning her devilishly cute, infuriating grin.  I stuck my tongue out, but unfortunately, Brows didn't go poof in a puff of blue smoke.

"I didn't raise you to go back on your word," Mom intoned.  The ghost of a smile curled her lips.  I knew exactly what was going on.  Mom was throwing me to the wolves... or in this case, to Brows, which was worse.  And she was enjoying every minute of it!  Like I said, once a DiD-sister, always a DiD-sister.

"If she gets carried away and I'm horribly disfigured by rope-burns or suffer permanent joint damage from hideous contortions," I muttered, "It'll be your fault."

"Drama queen, much?" Mom chuckled.

Brows said nothing.  She didn't have to.  The satisfied smile on her smug, impish face said it all.  Brows was getting her way.  Again.  As always.

I sighed and lay back to enjoy the sun... the laughing, maddening, broiling sun.

It happened the next week.  I went to my fate like the brave, stoic heroine of myth and legend that I am.  That is, I managed to meet Brows at her cabin at the agreed upon date and time without requiring further prodding or shaming from Mom and without having to be dragged kicking and screaming.

Resigned to my fate?  Yes.

Nervous?  Hell yes.

Curious... and just a little aroused excited?  None of your business.

Anyway, I dragged myself to the cabin, knocked on the door and entered, and found Brows smiling and sipping a cup of coffee.  She was wearing sneakers, a pair of rather short khaki cargo-shorts, a white cotton tank-top, and a blue denim work-shirt with the sleeves rolled up and the tails tied in front.

I looked around.  Brows hadn't hung any of her paintings or otherwise changed the decor... other than by deploying a few knickknacks and a couple of throw pillows and draping a very pretty, Navajo-style throw over the back of the sofa facing the fireplace.

"Hi," I said, profoundly.

"Hi," Brows countered, fiendishly.

"I love what you've done with the place," I added.

"Nice try," Brows purred, still smiling her infuriating (and adorable) smile.  "Get naked."

"Oh, that's nice," I huffed.  "Take a load off, Londyn.  Let me get you a cup of coffee, Londyn.  Nothing like that, just 'get naked.'  Hah!"

"Do you want a cup of coffee?" Brows purred.

"No," I admitted with a sigh.

"Just as well."  Brows smiled at me over the lip of her mug as she took a sip.  "That way you won't want to tinkle, later on.  You did tinkle before coming, didn't you?"

"Yes," I admitted.  "I tinkled."

"Well?"

I heaved a sigh... tragic martyr that I was... and began unbuttoning by blouse.  It was white cotton.  Very pretty.  One of my casual, lounge-around-the-farm favorites.  I was also wearing a pair of moccasin-style sneakers, stone-washed jeans, bra, and panties... but not for long.  I removed and draped the blouse over the back of a sturdy, straight-back, wooden chair—one of my early furniture-making efforts—then kicked off my sneakers and placed them on the seat.  My jeans were next... then my bra... and finally, my panties.

Naked (nervously naked), I watched as Brows took a last sip of coffee, placed her mug in the kitchen sink, then strolled in my direction.

It was the moment of truth.  I could have turned and sprinted for home, screaming and waving my arms.  Or, I could have hurriedly gotten dressed while Brows watched with mocking amusement, then turned and sprinted for home, screaming and waving my arms; but that would mean being forever and deservedly branded a chicken.  I could already hear Brows.  "Cluuuck, cluck, cluck, cluck!"  Every time we meet from that day forward.  "Cluuuck, cluck, cluck, cluck!"

It would also mean condemning Mom to a life of Profound Maternal Disappointment.  I could already see Mom shaking her head and heaving an endless series of tragic sighs.  "Where did I go wrong?" she would moan, day after day, until she finally took pity on her wayward daughter and/or some other opportunity to torment me presented itself.  I'm not serious, of course.  Mom loves me and I love her, but fun is fun.

Libby would be my only ally at Checkerspot Meadows.  Oh, she'd also give me endless grief, only in a much more lighthearted manner.  Libby is really nice.

The only thing was to grin and bear it; but I failed, miserably, with respect to the grinning part.  I was too nervous.  Brows took my hand and led me to the area in front of the fireplace.  Waiting on the sofa were several bundles of hemp rope.  Or jute rope.  Some form of natural fiber rope, anyway.  Three-strand, twisted, with all the ends neatly and tightly whipped with thread.  Rope.  There was also a low wooden stool, another of my early creations.

"Sit," Brows suggested (ordered), pointing to the stool.  I did so, tucking my legs together and to the right, then watched as she selected a large bundle of rope, released its retaining hitch, doubled it, and found the center.  "Arms folded behind," she ordered, then stepped behind my back.  Again, I complied.  My elbows were now resting in the palms of my hands, left in right and right in left and vice versa and... never mind.  Like I said... nervous.

The doubled loop dropped over my head and was snuggled tight, just above my breasts.  The first loop was followed by a second, also above my breasts.  Now, there were four strands stacked in a neat band and pinning my upper arms to my torso.

I'd already diagnosed her intentions... maybe.  "B-box tie?"

"Yes," Brows confirmed, "a 'b-box' tie."  Two more horizontal loops snugged tight... and now there were four strands above my breasts, and four below.  "Settle down, Londyn," Brows chuckled.  "I'm not going to b-bite you."

I blushed.  It was embarrassing to be this nakedly nervous, especially while naked.  My snappy comeback was quick and devastating, a precision guided missile of sophisticated repartee.  "Shut up."

Brows was still behind by back, but I could feel her smile.  It did not cause me to "settle down"... but I didn't squirm or do anything to impede her progress.

Speaking of which, the four strands below my breasts were cinched between my arms and torso by a pair of strands that also yoked my shoulders and passed behind my head.  It was very much a standard box-tie.  I did notice that Brows was taking her time, repeatedly cinching the rope behind my back and maintaining tension as she worked.  She also repeatedly slid a pair of fingers under the rope bands and against my skin, making sure the strands lay flat, didn't twist or bunch, and were uniformly tight.  I was a good technique, but also held a disturbing element of foreplay.

There, I've said it (or implied it).  Being bound by Brows was a sensual experience.  The slithering, tightening rope, Brow's sliding fingers and gentle hands, her close proximity as she crafted her box-tie composition... sensual.

Brows lifted my hands and crossed my wrists against my spine, just past the horizontal.  More rope slithered, binding my wrists and linking them to the nexus of ropes behind my back.  Again, she took her time, rope slid first in one direction... then the other... and everything was cinched or knotted as she worked.  Finally, a doubled strand was passed under the shoulder ropes at the nape of my neck, then was tightened and tied off.  The tying off part took a while.  Wrapping was involved.

"There," Brows purred.  "It's a start."

I squirmed, twisted my arms, and fluttered my fingers.  I was very impressed by the uniform tension and the surprising... comfort of my situation.  The neat bands just dimpled the skin of my arms and torso, what I could see of it, anyway, and ever-so-slightly squeezed my boobs from above and below.  It was tight, but nowhere near too tight.  Also, I could tell everything would stay exactly where Brows intended, no matter what I tried.  Brows had done a good job.  In fact, she'd done an excellent job.

"Adequate," I conceded, continuing my unenthusiastic squirming.

"Thank you," Brows chuckled, then reached behind one of the throw pillows on the sofa and pulled out a neatly folded cloth and a... puffy, white, ovoid lump?

I nodded at the lump.  "What's that?" I inquired (nervously, of course).

Brows turned the white blob for my inspection.  "I balled up a white nylon and stuffed it down the foot of its mate, tied a tight overhand knot, turned it inside out, tied another knot, turned it inside out—lather, rinse, repeat."

"Nylons?" I asked (meaning squeaked).

"Yes, nylons," Brows confirmed.  "The tricky part is compressing everything and getting the knots flat and tight.  And don't worry, they're clean, also old.  You know I wouldn't stuff a pair of dirty nylons in your mouth."

Now that she was turning the blob in her hands, I could see the final knot, and—"Wait!  What?  My mouth?  That's a g-gag?"

"Yes," Brows confirmed, her lips curled in a sinister, evil, (adorable) smile, "I've decided to add a 'g-gag' to the composition."

"Brows!" I whined.  "Not a gag!"

"Yes, a gag," Brows confirmed.  "You agreed to do this," she reminded me.  "Don't make me call your mother."

I stared at the puffy lump of white nylon in sullen silence.  It was a big lump, something like three inches in diameter, more-or-less a medium size, albino potato, but I could tell it would compress once it was crammed in my mouth.  "You're a horrible, horrible person, Brows Magee," I intoned, then opened my mouth as wide as I could.

Brows stuffed the lump into my mouth, with minor difficulty, then unrolled the cloth and used it as a cleave-gag.  It was more-or-less a very long bandage of stretchy white linen, like a strip ripped from a bed sheet, only it had been hemmed to prevent unraveling and unsightly loose threads.  Tying the cleave-gag was as careful and involved a process as crafting the rope box-tie.  The final result was multiple layers of white cloth tied across my stuffed mouth and between my teeth, tight enough to make my cheeks bulge.  None of my hair was trapped under the gag, and the final knot was at the nape of my neck.

I couldn't see the gag, of course.  There was no mirror, but I'd find out how it looked later, after Brows finished her painting... but let's not get ahead of ourselves.

"Mrrrf!"  I had flinched and yelped through my gag.  Why, you ask?  Brows had grabbed my right boob and given it a squeeze!

"Volume test complete," Brows said with a wink.

"Mrr'fmpm'frrr'mpfh!"  (Gaglish to English translation: "Keep your damn hands to yourself!")  The nerve of some devilishly cute, kidnapping artists!

"Temper, temper," Brows chuckled as she straightened my tousled hair, then went to the sofa, looped a short length of rope through the remaining bundles, then slung the resulting rope bandoleer over her right shoulder.  She gazed at my naked, box-tied, and cleave-gagged self, then nodded towards the cabin door.  "C'mon," she said.

"Mrrf?"  (Gaglish to English: "What?")

Brows' smile turned impish (meaning more impish).  "I told you I was gonna use an outdoor setting."  She walked over and lifted me to my feet, crooked a finger through the ropes below my breasts, and led me towards the door.

As I saw things, I had three options.  One: attempt a backpedaling, squirming resistance.  Two: make a break for it once we were outside.  Three: whine through my gag in a pathetic manner.  I decided on...  Four: march to my fate with the same stoic (nervous) bravery with which I'd entered the cabin.

Chapter 2

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