THE ADVENTURES OF
		by Van ©2017
		Chapter 2

Our destination was the pond, aka the Sunbathing Pond, aka the Swimming Hole, aka Duck Central.  To be more precise, it was a stately oak off to one side of the grassy meadow in front of the pond.  It was a sunny day.  Fluffy white cumulus clouds drifted across a cerulean sky, swallows soared or wafted in the light breeze, banking and swerving to capture the occasional winged insect and ruin its day.  Birds (other birds) were singing, including red-winged blackbirds, whose "O-ka-leeee!" territorial song is quite pleasant... the first ten-thousand times you hear it.

Anyway, Brows led my naked, box-tied, and gagged self to the more-or-less bare ground shaded by the oak tree's canopy.  She'd made fiendish preparations.  To wit...

Her stool, paint stand (with built-in box for her brushes, paints, rags, etc.), and easel were deployed with a clean stretched canvas clamped in place, everything required to capture and immortalize my captured and mortal self.

A tiny space, no more than a square foot, had been carefully cleared of all miscellaneous twigs and forest debris, exposing a smooth, flat patch of pristine dirt.

The clear spot was directly under one of the oak's massive side-branches and also under a large brass ring dangling from the branch about ten feet in the air and supported by multiple strands of neatly wrapped rope identical to my bonds.  Additional strands of rope passed through the ring and limply hung, waiting to capture any passing damsels that might wander their way.

I'll spare you the detailed blow-by-blow (or in this case, hitch-by-hitch) account of the rigging process and cut to the chase.  By the time Brows was satisfied, I was balanced on the toes of my left foot with my right leg bent at the knee, tucked against my right upper-body, and lashed in place, with multiple vertical and diagonal strands of ropes making sure I was going to stay on that exact spot.  The vertical supporting strands passed through the ring overhead.  The diagonals stretched from junction-points on my upper-body box-tie bonds or my tucked half-frog-tie/half-ball-tie and either up to other branches or down to exposed roots.  The vertical strands were there to fight gravity and the diagonals to keep me from twisting and turning.

My left leg was completely rope-free, and other than Brow's Cunning Web, it was my sole means of support—or rather, the toes thereof.  My left sole (like my left heel) wasn't on the ground.  Truth be told, I found I could simply hang in the ropes and be perfectly comfortable (for now), but Brows explained that the tension in the muscles of my left leg and foot was important to the composition, so, good artist's model that I was, I kept by toes firmly planted on terra firma.  Also, she warned that if I decided to swing in the ropes and "monkey around," she'd use a willow switch to make me pay.  Apparently, Brows was a stern taskmistress and brooked no nonsense from her models.  I knew she was kidding, of course, and the fact that she'd actually cut a fresh willow switch and it was leaning against the side of her paint stand was neither here nor there.

Good rigging takes time, and when the rigger in question is an artist as concerned with the aesthetics of the excess rope as the actual bondage binding her long-suffering model, it really takes time... like an hour... or most of an hour.

So... there I was... tied up and "suffering" and gagged.  My Brave Retorts and Pathetic Pleas went unvoiced.  O the tragedy!  The ropes creaked now and then, every so slightly, as the gentle breeze stirring the oak's leaves and allowing dappled sunlight to play across my bound, naked skin and also, ever so slightly, lifted the branch, and...

Okay, that last bit is total bullpucky.  The branch supporting my bound self was too hefty to stir in anything less than a freakin' hurricane, much less a "gentle breeze," but there I was.

Oh-by-the-way, Brows had been thoughtful enough to capture most of my hair and tie it in a tight bundle with one end of a rope, stretch the rope up, slightly off to one side and over a separate branch, pull out the slack, and then tie it off.  This was for my "added comfort," she explained, for head support.

And then, she planted a kiss on my left cheek (face cheek), patted by right cheek (butt cheek), then planted her cute little ass on her stool and began to paint... and paint... and paint... and paint.

She hadn't captured all my hair, of course, and the strands she'd missed kept blowing around in that infernal "gentle breeze."  It wasn't hot enough for me to sweat... much... but a few of the more persistent strands found some excuse to plaster themselves to my gagged face, and I could do nothing about it.  Also, flies were buzzing around.  Thankfully, they were few and far between and none were overly inquisitive or of the horse or deer fly varieties, which are known to bite.

Another hour passed.

Brows painted and I posed.  Not a word was spoken.  Brows was concentrating on her work and I was gagged, so... no conversation, clever or otherwise.

Another hour.

At some point I decided enough was enough and did the only thing a Heroic Damsel like myself could do under the circumstances.  I took a nap.

I dreamed I was a kidnapped princess being held captive by an evil hobbit with huge, grotesque eyebrows.  Okay, that's more bullpucky. I didn't dream anything, not that I recall, anyway.  I dozed in the summer heat, enjoying the shade of the stately oak and trapped in the tight embrace of Brow's perfidious ropes.  And then...

"I don't believe it.  She's actually asleep."

Oh, great, I thought, Mom's here.  I distinctly remember thinking that: Oh, great, Mom's here.  I opened my eyes and confirmed the presence of my loving mother, and standing next to her was Libby!  Both were dressed for a summer jog in the woods in anklets, trail-runners, baggy running shorts, and sports bras.  Their blond and brown tresses, respectively, were pulled back in ponytails and they were showing a lot of tan, smooth, glowing skin.  They were also smiling, obviously enjoying the sight of their daughter and best friend's daughter, respectively, naked, bound, gagged, not quite hanging from a tree, and being painted by Brows.

This brought to the fore a heretofore unrealized consequence of allowing one's self to be bound, gagged, and not quite hung from a tree: it makes it impossible to crawl under a rock and hide when one's maternal unit and our neighbor-friend unexpectedly pop up.  All I could do was blush, and I did.  And when they stepped forward and began gently examining my bonds—all the while smiling their dimpled smiles and cooing sympathetic claptrap like "Oh, you poor thing!" and "Ah, look how helpless she is!"—it didn't help.  It felt like my cheeks (face cheeks) were about to spontaneously combust!

"Do you mind?" Brows muttered.  "I'm workin' here."

"Oh, sorry, darling," my mom purred, then abandoned her daughter to cruel fate and stepped behind Brows to admire the work-in-progress.  Libby planted a kiss on my left cheek (face cheek) and joined her BFF.

"Very nice," Mom intoned.

"Very," Libby agreed.

Yeah, frikkin' wonderful, I silently fumed.

Mom and Libby watched as Brows continued to paint.  I continued languishing in the cuddly squeeze of Brow's ropes.

"You aren't going to have to do this to her again, are you?" Mom inquired.

Finally, some motherly concern!

"You mean before finishing this canvas?" Brows inquired, and Mom nodded.  "No, in the first hour I more or less memorize the important details as I pencil in the scene and start on the figure.  After that, I only need the occasional reference glance."

The first hour?  The first freakin' hour?  "MRRRPFH!"  I screamed through my gag and fought my bonds with all my strength—not that it did me any good.  I kicked by left leg and swung back and forth in the ropes (a little).  My hanging breasts bobbed and swayed (probably) and my scalp complained as I repeatedly tugged against my "head support."

"We seem to have upset her," Mom chuckled.

"Hey!  Settle down!" Brows ordered, glaring in my direction.  "Don't make me use the switch."

"Is she okay?" Libby asked in a whisper loud enough for me to hear.

At least somebody gives a damn about poor, suffering Londyn! I remember thinking.

"She's fine," my Loving Mother chuckled.  Like I said earlier, once a DiD-sister, always a DiD-sister.  "And she'll be even better once Brows takes pity and unties her," Mom continued, "which will be soon, right?"

"Huh?" Brows asked.  She was concentrating on some detail, probably something in the background that had nothing to do with poor, bound and gagged me.  "Oh, yeah, sure."  She painted for a few more seconds.  "Soon, I promise."

"Well..."  Mom planted a kiss on the top of Brow's head.  "We better get back to our run before we cool down too much."

"Yes," Libby agreed, "before we cool down."

Traitors! I fumed.

They turned and jogged away, but didn't get far before Brows grinned at me and started cleaning her brush.

"I haven't decided how I'm going to paint you!" she shouted back over her shoulder.

Mom and Libby skidded to a halt and turned to stare at Brow's back.

"Say what?" Mom inquired (demanded).

Brows gave me a saucy wink.  "How I'm going to have you pose!" Brows clarified.

"And by 'you' you mean Kim, of course!" Libby shouted, nodding at her blond BFF and my Mother Dearest.

"You plural!" Brows shouted, "as in you and you!  As in both of you!"

Mom and Libby exchanged an amused glance.

"Good luck with that!" Mom shouted, then they turned and jogged away.

I watched Mom and Libby cross the meadow, their ponytails swinging as they ran, and disappear into the trees.  Mom and Libby, each the subject of a canvas of their own, naked, gagged, and bound in some inescapable manner?  I decided I was okay with that.

Meanwhile, Brows was packing up her paints and brushes and folding her stool and paint stand.  She then released the clamps holding the canvas in the easel and carried it away... and by "it" I mean the canvas... and by "away" I mean she was abandoning me!

"Mrrrpf?"

"I'll be back," Brows called back over her shoulder, "for the rest of my stuff."

"I squirmed in my bonds and stared daggers at Brow's back as she disappeared in the direction of the cabin, and did not appreciate being verbally lumped in as a part of her "stuff."

Meanwhile, out on the pond, a male red-winged blackbird clung to the side of a swaying cattail, gripping the stalk with his tiny black feet, and reminded the world of his perpetual and total territorial hegemony over this particular stretch of pond... as he had, on a regularly recurring basis, for the past several hours.

"O-ka-leeee!"

"MRRRF!" I screamed.  (Gaglish to English:  "SHUT THE FRAKK UP!")

Like the rest of the uncaring universe, the stupid bird ignored me.

It took a total of four trips for Brows to return the area under the oak to its original pristine condition.

The first trip, as already noted, was to transport the canvas back to the cabin.  We wouldn't want to smear the fresh paint of Brow's precious masterpiece-in-progress, now would we?

The second trip was for her stool, paint stand, and easel.  The stool and stand were already folded.  The easel met the same fate, and then she bundled everything together into a surprisingly compact, eminently manageable, but strange-looking backpack.  Obviously, it was all part of a system.  Brows hefted her studio-away-from-studio onto her shoulders and carried it off. 

The third trip was for me?  Oh no.  The third trip was for the brass ring hanging from the tree and all the frakkin' rope.  Actually, not all the frakkin' rope.  She finally released me from my not-quite-suspended predicament, but left my box-tie bondage (and gag) intact and added a leash.  She looped one end of a rope around my neck and tied a non-compacting knot—giving me an excellent opportunity to stare into her smirking face and growl through my gag—then tied the other end to an exposed tree root off to one side.

Next, I watched Brow's scramble up the oak's trunk in a very monkey-like fashion, shimmy out on the branch under which I had semi-dangled, and begin untying the ropes supporting the ring.  This took a while as she'd put a lot of effort into looping and wrapping the rope and tying an aesthetically pleasing knot, and now it all had to be untied and unwrapped.  Finally, the rope and ring landed in the dirt with a thud, Brows briefly swung from the branch, further establishing her simian credentials, then dropped, also landing with a thud.

Next came... The Great Coiling.  I continued watching (and glowering) as Brows sorted all the various tangled strands of hemp rope by length, which took a while, then carefully, neatly, uniformly coiled each and every individual strand, one-by-one.  She then laid the coils out in order of size, passed the single remaining uncoiled rope through the bundles, added the brass ring, then looped and tied what amounted to a pair of hemp straps.  She lifted her impromptu damsel-restraining-kit knapsack onto her shoulders, then strolled in my direction.

I waited for her to untie the end of my leash and lead me back to the cabin, but instead, she grinned, used the neck end of the leash to pull me close, and planted a kiss on my glowing forehead.

"I got things to do," she announced, "but I'll be back."

And with that... she left!  That's right, she left!  She abandoned me—box-tied, gagged, and tethered in place under the shade of the oak!

"Mrrrf?"  I didn't believe it.  I stamped my left foot in the dust (causing my rope-framed boobs to bounce), then gave well-muffled voice to my supreme displeasure.

"NRRRMMMFFF!"

Brows didn't even look back.  She just kept walking, swinging her tight little buns in her tight little shorts as she strolled back to her abode, no doubt already thinking about her many unspecified "things to do" and not her bound and gagged best friend!

"MRRRF!"

She was gone.  I didn't believe it.  Brows was gone.

The fourth trip—the might-as-well-bring-Londyn-along-while-I'm-at-it trip—was on hold.

"O-ka-leeee!"

I turned and stared daggers at the blackbird out on the pond, thinking avicidal thoughts.  I pondered trekking into town (once I was rope-free and fully clothed) and purchasing a shotgun—possibly a fully automatic, belt-fed shotgun, if such things are legal—then heaved a sigh and sat on the ground—then immediately stood back up and looked around for a place less infested with roots, twigs, and pebbles.  I noticed a comfortable-looking spot next to the oak's trunk within range of my tether.  I carefully walked the three paces required, planted my naked butt on the dry, dusty ground, and settled my box-tied arms and back against the rough bark.

Of course, I wasn't really thinking about blasting my vociferous avian friend into a pink cloud of black feathers.  In the first place, killing songbirds is against the law.  In the second place, another territorial tyrant would inevitably take his place, and shotgun shells are expensive.  And in the third place, once the Elite Commandos of the local Audubon Society chapter got wind of my blackbird murdering ways, they'd probably do something really despicable to me... like kidnap me and deliver me to Brows.

I considered taking another nap.  I was still considering it when I fell asleep.

I didn't dream this time either, and I awoke to find it was late in the afternoon.  By this time I'd been naked, tied up, and gagged for most of the day and was ready for a change.

Also, I'd managed to roll around in the dirt and grind some of said dirt into my slightly sweaty skin and was in dire need of a shower.

Also, the reason I'd woken up was standing three feet away and smiling down at me with her adorable, dimpled, EVIL smile.

Also... I was pissed off!  "Mrrrpfh!"

"Temper, temper, young lady," Brows chuckled.  "Just look at you.  What a mess."

Daggers.  I stared all kinds of daggers in Brow's smug direction, including Bowie knives, stilettos, dirks, those curvy things I believe the Malaysians call a kris...  daggers.  Brows deflected them one and all, even the lethal kukri, the trademark blade of the Ghurka warrior.  By the way, those things spin quite nicely when you throw them (or in this case stare them) but even they bounced off the impervious, invisible armor that was Brow's gloating demeanor.

"Such a dirty girl," Brows sighed.  "Just look at all that grubby skin.  Lucky for you, the perfect solution is close by."

With that (and much to my surprise) Brows pulled a small bottle of spring water from the hip pocket of her cargo short-shorts and set it aside, then stripped to her pale, smooth, EVIL skin.  As the striptease continued, I quickly recovered from my surprise and resumed visually dispatching blades in her direction, still without effect.

Soon, Brow's sneakers, anklets, shorts, tank top, work shirt, and panties were in a neatly folded stack.  She stretched her sylph-like body, reaching for the oak's green canopy, arching her back and flattening her boobs.  She then stooped, nimbly untied the root end of my tether/leash, helped me to my feet, spun me around, and started untying my gag.

This was a very welcome occurrence, of course.  She unwound the cleaving cloth, then turned me around and plucked the ovoid ball of wadded and folded nylons from my mouth.  At this point, we were face-to-face and her bushy beaver was within easy range of either of my grubby knees; however, the bottle of water was back in her hands and she was twisting off the cap.  I decided to forgo kicking her in the muffin basket—for now.

Brows took a swig from the bottle, grinned, then held it to my very thirsty lips.  I drank and drank.  In fact, I emptied the bottle.

"I haven't decided what I'm going to do to you once you untie me," I said as Brows restored the cap to the empty bottle and tossed it next to her clothes, "but it's going to be epic.  Hideous.  Ghastly.  Medieval."

"Well then..."  Brows leaned close and planted a kiss on my pouting lips.  "Guess I better not untie you."  Still smiling the same dimpled, I'm-in-charge smile, she turned and sauntered in the direction of the pond.  The end of my leash was back in her hand, so I had no choice but to follow.

"Medieval," I warned as we approached the water's edge.  "I may have to build something, like a rack or a horse or one of those elaborate, slowly descending pendulum blade mechanisms, but no worries, I'll keep you bound and gagged in a box 'til it's ready, no matter how long it takes."

Brows looked back at me over her right shoulder, still smiling.  "As if your mom would let you," she purred.

She had a point.  "Shut up!" I growled.

By this time we were entering the water... and I have to admit it felt very good.  The bottom drops off about ten feet from shore and soon we were swimming.  More precisely, Brows was side-kicking in a slow circuit around me and I was floating and treading water.  Like I said, it felt good.

The blackbird had made a strategic withdrawal to the far side of his territory once it was clear we intended to invade his sovereign waters, but I could still faintly hear his call.

"O-ka-leeee!"

Seriously, I don't know why the ducks put up with it.  Ducks seem nice enough and nothing is cuter than a duckling, but as a group they're nasty waterfowl.  During the mating season bachelors are known to chase after unwary females and, to put it delicately, not take no for an answer.  In the avian world, "quack" probably translates as some sort of filthy slur.

Anyway, I don't know why the web-footed fiends don't gang up on red-winged males and persuade them to shut the frakk up!  Maybe the ducks know exactly how irritating the constant racket can be and let it happen to torture the other life forms in the neighborhood, like me.  As previously mentioned, ducks are nasty.

"Hands!" I objected.  Brows was using hers to make very sure the dirt was washing away from my naked, bound, squirming and kicking body.

"Settle down," Brows chuckled.  "Ever have beer can chicken?"

"What?" I responded.

"But you've heard of it, right?" Brows continued.  She was also continuing to run her hands over my wet, defenseless body.  "You take a whole chicken and prop it upright with a half full can of beer up its butt and roast the whole shebang either in the oven or on the grill with the hood down.  'Beer steam' infuses the meat.  Some people use fruit juice or cola, but I like a nice lager."

"Fascinating," I huffed.  "It sounds... perverted"

"No, delicious," Brows chuckled.  "Anyway," she continued, "since you're spending the night I decided to fix something nice.  That's why it took me so long to remember to come back and get you.  I had to rub the bird with oil and spices, then fire up the grill, let it get hot, then start the bird roasting.  And before that I had to take your clothes back to your place and tell your mom that we're gonna do a sleepover."

"Wait, what?" I demanded.  "What am I gonna wear?  I mean, who says we're doing a 'sleepover?'  I mean...  Brows!"

"To answer your questions in the order in which they were submitted," Brows purred.  "Nothing but rope—I say—and yes, I am Brows."

At this point, it occurred to me that I wasn't totally defenseless and planted a kick between Brow's scissoring legs.  The drag of the water significantly slowed my leg and weakened the blow, of course, but my shin thudded against her pussy with the precision of a modern torpedo.  Brows giggled and we grappled, or rather she grappled.  Being box-tied, all I could do was squirm and kick and thrash my legs.  I also giggled.  Brow's fingers were dancing across my ribs and she was easily evading most of my efforts to land a repeat muffin-kick.

Soon, we were both laughing and shrieking.  I tried swimming away, but Brows still had a tight grip on the end of my leash so I never got far.  Also, she repeatedly ducked underwater... I'd tread water in a slow circle, ready to evade the coming onslaught... then Brows-the-submarine-tickle-monster would strike from the watery depths.

Eventually, we both decided we'd had enough.  I floated on my back and bound arms, Brows floated beside me, and we watched the clouds drift overhead.  Minutes passed.

Finally, Brows led me to shore, we emerged from the water, and padded to the oak.  Brows used my former cleave-gag to tie my former nylon stuffing, the empty water bottle, and her folded clothes together, then tucked the resulting bundle under her right arm.  We departed for the cabin with a naked, wet Brows in the lead and my naked, wet, box-tied self bringing up the rear, a coffle of one.

"Epic," I warned.  "And you'll never see it coming."

"I'm quaking," Brows chuckled.

"And dripping," I purred, my eyes on her firm, pale behind, striding legs, bare feet, and strong, straight back, imagining her bound with rope and awaiting my pleasure.  I was also dripping, and my hair was a sopping mess with a goodly number of tangled strands plastered to my face.  "Epic.  Epic and Medieval."

Brows didn't reply, but even with her back to me I could tell she was smiling.

Brows didn't bother getting dressed once we got back to the cabin.  I guess she wanted to keep me company in my brazen nudity, or something.  Anyway, we both remained naked (not counting my box-tie ropes).

It turns out "beer can chicken" is delicious.  It's also greasy—not excessively greasy, not compared to any other kind of properly roasted chicken, but it is greasy—especially when Brows is doing the feeding and she isn't too concerned about getting said grease all over your lips, mouth, and lower face.  Brows, of course, was fastidious, making repeated use of a napkin to dab her smiling lips.  I could tell she was enjoying my unladylike messiness.  There was also the added complication of the Ranch dressing from the garden salad that dribbled down my chin and dripped onto my boobs.  The accompanying beverage was Sam Adams Light, but neither of us allowed so much as a drop of that Divine Nectar to go to waste.

Anyway, once the chicken was reduced to bones, the salad devoured, and two beer bottles ready to be recycled, Brows used a damp washcloth to deal with what she called my "excessive grubbiness."

"That was good," I conceded as she scrubbed my face... then my breasts.

"Thanks," Brows answered absently.  She was concentrating on getting my right nipple dressing-free... and it was concentrating on popping erect so the washcloth would have maximum effect.

"You should try it with a dark beer," I suggested, ignoring the abrasive caress of the wet terrycloth.

Brows shook her head.  "I have tried it.  You'd think it would be good, but it's strange.  Anyhoo..."  She tossed the washcloth onto the table, helped me stand, and led me to the living room/lounge area.  "Sit," she ordered, pointing at the sofa.

I heaved a tragic, long-suffering sigh and planted my keister on the soft cushions.  "Untie me," I demanded for the umpteenth time since returning to the cabin.

Rather than comply with my eminently reasonable request, Brows did the opposite.  She tied me up some more!  Specifically, she used a long length of hemp to bind my ankles together.  She also took the added precaution of including the soles and insteps of my feet and my big-toes in the bondage.  This was cruel and unusual and so I wouldn't be able to hop around without punishing my feet, especially my toes.  Kangaroo-hopping back to Checkerspot Meadows and the rescuing arms of my mother was now totally out of the question.  Typical.  Too much is never enough for Brows Magee.

I watched Brows clean up after the meal.  Her naked, perfidious self was the most entertaining thing in sight as she hadn't bothered to turn on the TV and I didn't have the energy to hop around in what would no doubt be a toe-torturing search for the remote.

I know what you're thinking.  Any normal person would continue begging for release to relieve the agony of my hours of bondage.  Also, I should be wracked with worry about Brows' ultimate intentions.  In the first place, normal is overrated.  In the second, Brows knew how to tie a "comfortable" box-tie and I keep myself in good, flexible shape.  None of her ropes bunched or bit into my skin.  I wasn't in distress... yet.

And as for worry, I knew Brows.  Brows is a pussycat.  A mischievous, puckish, exasperating pussycat.  Or maybe a fox.  Or a monkey.  She's some kind of trickster animal.  Anyway, I was helpless but not in any sort of danger.  And as for my virtue... I wasn't scared... much.

I remember cuddling with Brows when we were still in school.  We were taking the same Art History class and were studying together for the midterm exam.  We were both fully clothed (gym shorts and tank tops over panties and bras) and Brow's arms were duct-taped behind her back,  To be precise, her fingers, hands, and arms were shrouded in a stretched pair of knee-socks, her arms folded behind her back, and then taped together, forearm-to-forearm.

I suppose I should explain.  We were in "DiD-House" (the ∆I∆ Sorority Residence), "fun with duct tape" was (meaning is) the trademark ∆I∆ specialty (meaning obsession), and we were constantly exploring new and clever ways to expand said specialty (obsession).  Granted, a duct-tape-box-tie isn't all that new or clever, but practice makes perfect.  Why Brows on this particular occasion?  Why not Brows on this particular occasion?

Anyway, Brows was in my lap, I was paging through art books and holding them so we could both see the color plates.  We were quizzing each other on the artists and their works, as distorted through the prism of the academic opinion of the assistant professor who was teaching the course.  We were also sharing a bowl of popcorn (or was it something else?) and slurping diet sodas.  I was doing all the feeding and drink holding, of course.  With her arms bound, all Brows could do was play baby-bird to my mommy-bird.

Now I remember.  It was popcorn.  Pop Secret®, with EXTRA BUTTER.  What?  The sodas were diet, and diet cancels out EXTRA BUTTER.  Everybody knows that.  Anyhoo...

It was a late night session and we were tired.  Eventually, things got silly and we decided to reenact the spaghetti scene from Lady and the Tramp, only with popcorn.  With Brows' head face-up in my lap I'd hold a kernel of popcorn between my teeth, lean down... and deliver it to Brow's grinning mouth.  This amounted to a popcorn kiss, of course, and things got very giggly.  At that point, Dorothy Schmaling (blue eyes, brown pageboy, nerd glasses, and a real sweetie) stuck her head in and told us to "Get a room!"   That's when we totally lost it.

We passed the midterm easily, and that was the extent of my snuggling (and kissing) experience with Brows Magee... until tonight.

Once the kitchen was clean, the trash outside in the racoon-proof receptacle, and the dishwasher running, Brows sauntered into the living room, planted her keister next to my keister... smiled... then pulled me into a tight hug and planted a long, wet kiss on my frowning lips.

I returned the kiss for several seconds (just to be polite)... then sputtered and squirmed.  "Mrrrpfh!"

"What?" Brows inquired, then kissed me again.

Again, I waited until propriety allowed me to reassert my Righteous Indignation.  "Mrrrf!"

Brows came up for air and raised an eyebrow (a big, bushy, squirrel-like eyebrow) in inquiry.

"First of all, keep your lips and tongue to yourself," I intoned.  "Second of all, untie me immediately.  Third of all, let me get some rest.  You've been torturing me all day with your cruel and excessive bondage and I'm tired and sore."

"Hmm, let's see," Brows purred.  "No... no... and not until you agree to help me capture your mom."

"And by capture, you mean..."

"On canvas, of course," Brows chuckled.  "Also, in ropes."

"Insane monster," I accused (and suppressed a smile).  "What kind of a daughter would I be if I agreed to help you capture my mom?"

"What kind of a DiD-sister would you be if you didn't?" Brows countered.

I stared at Brows in disgust.  I hate it when she's right.  Maternal affection is one thing, but participating in a ∆I∆-worthy prank is something else.  "What about Libby?" I asked.

Brows grinned.  "One model at a time," she purred, and we resumed kissing.

We did a lot of kissing that night.  A lot of kissing.  Also, one-sided cuddling, caressing, and teasing.  At first it was lips and tongues, but then necks, breasts, shoulders, tummies, and thighs participated.  I was somewhat frustrated in my efforts, thanks to Brows' ropes, but gamely struggled to keep up my end of things.

Eventually, Brows untied my feet, we adjourned to the queen-size bed, and things got serious.  I remained Brows' helpless prisoner, so was unable to resist when she ordered me to spread my legs and she had her wicked way with me.  For politeness sake I returned the favor.  In my defense, who knew what sort of hideous things Brows would do to me if I didn't at least try to match her orgasm for orgasm.

And after that... we fell asleep.  Devising a clever stratagem for luring my mother into Brows' clutches would have to wait 'til morning.

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Chapter 1

Chapter 3

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