THINGS  YOU  NEED  TO  KNOW  ABOUT
		by Van ©2017
		Chapter 3

Sometime during the night, after I'd passed out from the exhaustion of a busy day and post-orgasmic lassitude, whatever shred of human decency remaining in Brows motivated her to finally untie me.  I don't remember it happening, but I do remember briefly waking up to find myself face down on the bed with Brows (I assume it was Brows) kneeling astride my back with her rump resting on my rump and giving my arms, shoulders, and back a thorough massage.  Before I could protest this gentle and muscle-relieving outrage (or even say "Thank you!") I drifted back to sleep.

I awoke at first light and extricated myself from the tangled sheets and the sprawled limbs of the still slumbering Brows.  I then quietly padded into the bathroom, relieved myself, splashed water on my face, and ran Brow's brush through my hair.  A glance out the window confirmed that the sun was still below the trees, but the sky was brightening fast.  I padded into the kitchen and prepared a cup of coffee.

Soon after moving into the cabin, Brows mounted an expedition into the wilds of Bed Bath & Beyond®, dragging me along, and purchased herself one of those fancy-pants single cup coffeemakers.  The heating element of her former four-cup drip machine had finally given up the ghost.  Apparently, the move to the cabin had been too much for the poor thing.  I repeated the coffee-making procedure and started a second cup brewing.  Why, you ask?  Brows had yawned, stretched, climbed from bed, and padded into the bathroom, mumbling something that was probably "Morning!" as she nearly stumbled into the left doorjamb.

"Morning," I answered, sipping my coffee.  I considered expropriating one of the sheets from the bed as an impromptu toga, but decided I'd look ridiculous... more ridiculous than my current nudity, anyway.

The second cup of joe was ready by the time an also ridiculously naked Brows emerged from her brief toilette.  I handed it over and she took the opportunity to plant a kiss on my unprepared lips.

"Be careful," I cautioned.  She'd nearly caused me to spill my coffee.

Brows grinned her trademark dimpled grin.  "Always," she purred, then sipped her cup.

"A good hostess," I intoned, "would serve her guest breakfast in bed."

"I quite agree," Brows chuckled, then returned to the bedroom, stooped and retrieved the tangle of rope that I assume had been my former box-tie from the floor, doubled it, and found the center.  "Now," she said as she returned to the kitchen, "there's this really cool Kinbaku idea I've been wanting to try.  The arms are raised and pulled back behind the head and the legs are spread and—"

I realized where this was leading, gulped the last of my coffee and placed the empty mug in the sink, then headed for the cabin door.

"Hey, wait!" Brows objected.  "We need to discuss capturing your mother, remember?"

"Later," I said as I made my exit.

"You're no fun!" Brows chuckled as the door closed, and I was free and clear... totally naked, free and clear.  And thus began...

Londyn Wahlberg's Naked Walk of Shame!

It really was a nice morning.  The birds were melodiously greeting the dawn (but I wasn't close enough to the pond to hear more of the red-wing blackbirds' territorial posturings), a narrow band of light mist hung in the air a couple of feet above the dew-dampened meadows, and the clouds of the eastern sky glowed in shades of rose-pink and gold.  The air was cool enough to raise a few goosebumps but wasn't quite what I felt justified in calling cold.  A doe and two fawns were browsing in the distance and raised their heads to watch me pass.  (It may have been my imagination, but I think the mother deer was being a little judgmental.)

As I carefully picked my barefooted way down the road from Brow's cabin to Checkerspot Meadows, I reflected on the events of the previous day, and especially the previous night.  It had been fun, and had certainly taken my relationship with my BFF in a new direction.  Maybe I should have stayed for breakfast so we could talk about it, but somehow I knew I would have wound up wound up in Brow's ropes and would be lucky to make it back to the Meadows by lunch... or even dinner.

As for discussing how to capture my mom... I felt no particular need to rush into that.  Maybe I'd drop by the cabin later (keeping a sharp eye out for tripwires, hidden trapdoors, and other booby traps), so Brows and I could discuss it.  With any luck I'd make it out fully clothed and unbound.

Anyway, after a pleasant but chilly stroll, I arrived home to be greeted by my fully clothed and smiling maternal unit.  She kissed my lips, bade me a good morning, then ordered me to take a nice hot shower while she cooked breakfast.  (As if I needed to be ordered.  I was just short of shivering.)

Clean and dry (including my hair) I emerged from the bathroom, got dressed in my bedroom, and returned to the kitchen, ready to face the day in sneakers, jeans, a tank top, a peasant blouse, and (for the moment) a cotton cardigan.  I was also ready to face my mom's most excellent Greek breakfast frittata (eggs, feta cheese, baby spinach, dill, and scallions).  I though I was also ready to face my mom's amused grilling, but as it turned out... not so much.

"So," Mommy Dearest purred as she shoveled a generous portion of the steaming, crispy-topped, custard-like yumminess from the cast iron skillet and onto my plate, "You didn't tell me you and Brows were that close."

"Mom!" I complained.  Even though the topic at hand was adult, I felt like I was five.  I blushed, picked up my fork, and sampled the frittata, all the while under the focused beam of Mom's dimpled, knowing smile.  "Uh, truth be told," I finally admitted, "I didn't know.  Or we didn't know.  Or... this is good."

"Don't change the subject," Mom chuckled, then sampled her own portion.  "I don't want you toying with Brow's affections," she said, still smiling.

Oh, that was rich.  Was she concerned about my feelings?  No.  She was worried about how I might mistreat poor, vulnerable little Brows Magee!  I couldn't help but scowl, but didn't otherwise reply.  I knew what she was doing.  She was trying to get a rise out of me, but I wasn't going to let her get my goat.  (And speaking of goats, the feta cheese was excellent.)

I continued eating.  "You're a horrible mother, Mother," I intoned as I shoveled the last of my frittata into my mouth and carried my plate to the sink.  "I'll be in the barn."

"We'll talk later," my mom purred, smiling and sipping her coffee.

"A horrible, horrible mother," I added as I stomped from the kitchen.  I was kidding, of course, and Mom knew I was kidding, just like I knew she really was worried about me... and Brows, too.  Well, not "worried," per se.  More like enjoying the show.

I think that was when I resolved that I would, indeed, help Brows immortalize my darling mother in oils on canvas.... naked and helpless in coils of conditioned, three-strand, twisted hemp.  She deserved it.  Also, once a DiD-sister, always a DiD-sister.

About mid morning, who should breeze into my barn studio but Brows Magee.

I was working on a carving of a western screech owl.  It was roughly the size of a football and only semi-realistic; however, I was doing my best to replicate the tree-like pattern on a real screech-owl's feathers.  It was far from done, but I could already tell it was going to work.

Brows was wearing sneakers, a different pair of khaki cargo shorts, and another work-shirt, this one a gray and green plaid with its long sleeves rolled up and the tails tied in a knot in front.

"Hey," Brows said, grinning her typical grin as she examined the owl I was freeing from the maple.

I continued working.

"I said, 'Hey'," she reminded me.

"I don't talk to evil munchkins who strip me naked, tie me up, keep me tied up, then diddle me silly and make me diddle them back," I pouted.

"Firstly," Brows countered, still concentrating on the owl-in-progress, "you stripped yourself.  Secondly, you were my model, and models help their artists realize their creative vision.  It's what they do.  You have no more right to complain about being tied up than that chunk of wood has about being hacked into the likeness of an owl."

I ignored the "hacked" remark.

"And thirdly," Brows continued, "how, exactly, did I 'make' you diddle me back?"

"With dire threats of hideous torture," I huffed.

"Dire threats?"

I paused to concentrate on detailing a key breast feather before replying.  "They were implied."

Brows nodded, still smiling.  "Anyhoo, I came to borrow something."

"I assume you mean my mother," I said.  "If you can talk her into posing for you, she's all yours."

"I already did," Brows replied, "and she is."  She turned and walked to the back of the barn, to the area I keep the things I haven't yet sold (and/or might not ever sell).

"You already did what and she's what?" I asked.

"I already talked her into being my model," Brows explained, "therefore, she's mine.  I stopped by the house before coming here and won her over by cleverly getting her to talk about what it was like to be a fashion model, then maneuvered the discussion into how being an artist's model is similar."

I rolled my eyes.  "And how, exactly, is stomping down a runway with a scowl on your face and dressed in some ridiculous outfit 'similar' to posing in the nude?"

"There, see?" Brows chuckled.  "You're also intrigued, just like your mom.  Ah, here it is."

I put down my carving knife and frowned.  Brows had removed a dust cloth from a chair and was carrying it forward.  It was one of the first pieces of furniture I made after returning home from school.

"Leave that alone," I ordered.  It's a good chair, and for an early effort it's very good, if I do say so myself, but I have no intention of ever selling it.  The design isn't original.  I'd stumbled upon a photo of a more-or-less identical chair in a design book and liked it.  Like I said, it was when I was just starting out and I hadn't yet awakened my personal furniture muse.  I wasn't exactly guilty of plagiarism, or more correctly art forgery, or even more correctly furniture forgery, but it wasn't my brainstorm so I didn't feel right about trying to sell it.  Anyway...

It's what I suppose is classified as a "ladder-chair," but it's more-or-less a regular straight chair with the back and seat sawed vertically in half and the two pieces put back together using a series of regularly spaced dowels but leaving a two-inch gap.  The seat is perfectly comfortable, albeit well-ventilated, as is the back.  I really like the way it turned out, but, like I said, it's not a Londyn Wahlberg original.

"Don't tell me you didn't see it while you were making it," Brows chuckled as she carefully positioned the chair a few feet in front of my frowning face (and the half-finished owl), then plunked her ass in the divided seat.

"See what?" I huffed.

"It's the perfect bondage chair, of course," Brows laughed, then placed her hands behind the chair-back, spread her knees, and placed her ankles against the outside edges of the chair's front legs.  She wiggled in place, as if bound by invisible ropes.  "Seriously, this wasn't in your mind when you made it?"

"Did I envision Brows Magee tied to the chair as I made it?" I stated.  "No, I didn't even envision a generic damsel-in-distress."

"I see," Brows chuckled, continuing to struggle against her imaginary bonds.  Apparently, the imaginary strands of conditioned hemp were too tight, too many, too well placed, and the imaginary knots beyond the reach of her fluttering fingers.  She remained pretend-helpless.  Finally, she stopped struggling, apparently resigned to her imaginary fate, and grinned.  "The subconscious is a mysterious thing, isn't it?  You made yourself the perfect bondage chair... and didn't even know it.  Go figure."

Now that she mentioned it, the thing looked like it was a pretty damn good bondage chair, or would be if ever put to that use.  "Well," I conceded, "I suppose we could try it out... see if it works."

"Of course it'll work," Brows chuckled.

Meanwhile, I'd casually strolled to a nearby cabinet, opened a drawer, and casually grabbed a handful of milky-white plastic cable-ties, the hefty, twenty-four inch kind.  I then casually strolled behind Brows and the chair (my chair) with the ties casually tucked and hidden behind my back in my right hip pocket.  And then... I pounced!

Before Brows realized what was happening (I suppose), I lifted her hands into what was more-or-less the box-tie position, closed a cable-tie around her wrists and one of the chair-back's spacer-dowels, and vripped it tight!

Is "vrip" a word?  It is now.  The lexicon has been in need of a new word ever since the invention of the plastic cable-tie, something to capture the distinctive sound of a tie vripping tight.  "Vrip!"  A hidden talent!  I can craft onomatopoeias with the best of 'em!  Who knew?

"Hey!" Brows complained, tugging on her wrists.  It was her own damn fault, of course, for being so cute and for being in the perfect pose in the perfect place at the perfect time.  Anyway, I had her!  Two more ties vripped closed, binding her left and right upper arms to the left and right halves of the chair-back, respectively.  I followed up with two more ties, binding her ankles to the chair's front legs.  She was now in what was more-or-less a comfortably seated box-tie-chair-tie with her knees splayed.

Brows could have kicked and complained while I did the nefarious deed, of course, but... (A) I am a cunning, skilled, and no doubt very intimidating predator; (B) Brow's was caught totally unawares; and (C) Brows Magee is a good sport.  Always has been.  Once a DiD-sister, always a DiD-sister.

Anyway, once all five ties were in place, binding Brows to the chair in my clever five-point tie, she commenced her "courtesy struggle."  The long free ends of the tightened ties shook and swayed as she squirmed and tugged on her bonds.  I suppose I could have found a pair of Grandpa's wire-cutters and trimmed the ends, but I was enjoying watching them shake and sway as she desperately fought the ties for her freedom.

"That really is a damn good bondage chair, isn't it?" I noted (gloated), "don't ya think?"

"I already said so," Brows huffed.  "Release me, you villainous blackguard!" she demanded.

"Villainous blackguard?" I laughed.  "What have you been reading?"

"Nothing special," Brows answered, then blasted me with the awesome power of her most devastating Pathetic Pout.  "What are you going to do to me?" she demanded.

By way of answer I smiled, strolled to various cabinets and shelves, and assembled what I call a "shamwow-cleave-gag."  I folded a small, hideous-orange, super-absorbent towel in half, then tightly rolled it into an hideous-orange, super-absorbent cylinder with a cable-tie passing through the middle.  I then stepped behind Brows and the chair, thrust the cylinder into her mouth, and vripped the cable-tie tight at the nape of her neck to keep it there.

Brows let me do it, of course, being a courteous and cooperative damsel-in-distress.  Remember, I'd let her bind and gag me only the day before, so it was only fair.

I stepped back to the front of the chair, crossed my arms under my boobs, and smiled (meaning gloated).

Brows lifted her chin and stared at me with her big, brown, doe eyes.  She was SO DAMN CUTE like that, with her squirrel-like cheeks bulging above the big ol' super-absorbent gag in her mouth and helplessly vripped to my bondage chair.  It was all I could do not to giggle and dance in place like a toddler on Christmas morning.  SO DAMN CUTE!

"Now," I said after about thirty seconds of watching her wiggle and pout, "think about ways to tie-up my mom while you test the chair and watch me work.  I'll help you carry it back to the cabin when I'm done for the day."

And that's what happened, but not in that time frame.

We did take a break for lunch.  I went to the house and made us a couple of sandwiches, grabbed two cans of diet soda, then returned to the barn, removed Brows' gag and we made companionable conversation while we ate.  And by that I mean she moaned and complained as I smiled, fed her, and gloated like crazy.  Afterwards, I restored her shamwow-cleave-gag (expending a seventh cable-tie in the process), then went back to work.

As it turned out, a test was a good thing.  The chair had been solidly constructed (by a supremely talented and skilled but inexperienced carpenter), but it creaked a little when Brows struggled her hardest.  I fixed the problem with a few long, strategically placed, and countersunk wood-screws.  Afterwards, I dabbed filler-putty in the screw-holes and sanded them smooth once they dried.  I also used my hand-router to round off all the outside edges of the chair-back and seat, then sanded and stained the entire chair.

That meant we couldn't move it to Brows' cabin for nearly a week, but now it was an even better bondage chair.

Anyway, the delay meant Mom had several days in which to fret and worry about what Brows was going to do to her.  However, and much to our joint disappointment, my maternal unit gave no indication whatsoever that she was in any way concerned about what was going to happen to her when it finally became time for her to be Brows' model.

Meanwhile, we (meaning Mom, Libby, Brows, and myself) jogged and did our yoga and swam in the pond and sunbathed, and Mom acted like she didn't have a care in the world.  She was no fun at all.

So... at the agreed upon date and time, Mom, her loving daughter, and Libby trooped down the road, knocked, and entered what we all were already in the habit of calling "Brow's Cabin."

Mom was dressed in her usual sandals, jeans, and a very pretty cotton blouse.  I was similarly dressed in sneakers, jeans, and a French-cut, powder-blue T-shirt.  Libby, however, was in sandals and a short, very pretty, salmon-pink sundress.  I don't know why Libby had decided to go all girly-girl for the day, but she was showing a lot of tan legs, arms, shoulders, back, and cleavage,  Very pretty. I need to find a dress like that.

"My model has an entourage," Brows chuckled as she gave Mom a welcoming peck on the cheek.

"What self-respecting supermodel doesn't have an entourage?" I noted.

"I was never a supermodel," Mom purred, "just successful."  She indicated Libby and myself with a graceful gesture.  "Libby is just curious, and that one" (meaning me) "is my chaperon."

Libby was curious and blushing... and looking very pretty.

I rolled my eyes.  "I'm also the union representative.  The International Sisterhood of Life Models."  I raised my right fist.  "Solidarity forever."

Brows rolled her eyes.  "Power to the Beautiful People," she chuckled, then smiled at Mom.  "Did you tinkle before coming?"

"Please," Mom purred as she walked to the sofa facing the fireplace and began unbuttoning her blouse.  "I am a professional."  She removed the blouse, folded it neatly and placed it on the sofa, then removed her sandals and unbuttoned, unzipped, and peeled off her jeans.  Having made the decision back at Checkerspot Meadows to go commando for the occasion, she was now nude.

Brows smiled as she examined my mother's forty-something body.  "Excellent," she purred.

I rolled my eyes, again.  As if my mom's bod was a mystery to any of us.  We all skinny-dipped and sunbathed and did yoga together.

"Thank you, Bronwyn," my mom purred.  Then, gracefully swinging her hips, she strolled to the Perfect Bondage Chair (PBC) and sat.  It was her obvious destination, as Brow's easel, stool, and paint stand (all over a canvas drop cloth to protect the cabin floor) were deployed facing the chair, which was placed in an open area and carefully arranged with the stone fireplace, the half-cord of split wood stacked nearby, and a corner of the sofa as background.

I've always been proud of my mother.  She was without question the most beautiful and unquestionably cool of all the mothers in any of the schools I attended when I was a kid.  Perfect body, perfect skin, perfect hair, perfect cheekbones, perfect lips, perfect blue eyes...  Mom was and is... perfect.  Her boobs are also perfect.  She claims the girls have started to sag a little, but I don't agree, not at all.

Oh-by-the-way, several coils of what had to be the exact same rope Brows had used to bind me were arranged in a neat row on the floor near the PBC.

"I'm brewing coffee for the entourage," I announced, and strolled into the kitchen area.  By the time I'd brewed two cups of java and was handing one to Libby, the show was underway.

Again, I'll spare you the blow-by-blow (hitch-by-hitch) and cut to the result.

Mom was in a sitting box-tie with her arms folded behind the chair-back with her knees splayed and her ankles tied back to the base of the chair-back.  Her toes and the balls of her feet were her only contract with the floor.  Her wrists were bound together with the rope also looped around one of the spacer-dowels in the chair-back.  The traditional box-tie ropes pinned her upper arms to her sides, passed above and below her breasts, and yoked her shoulders, but as with the wrist bonds, Brows had incorporated the spacer-dowels.  There were also knee-ropes, or more accurately, just-above-the-knee-ropes.  They passed under the chair-seat but were hitched to the front spacer-dowel.  As with my semi-suspension under the oak, all of the excess rope was wrapped and tied off in elegant knots.

Also—and it was a major also—there was a crotch-rope!  As with the other bonds, spacer-dowels were involved.  Only a single pair of rope strands cleaved my Mom's labia and dark-blond pubic bush.  Most of the rope cinched her waist against the chair-back and made sure her butt remained in the seat (as if there was any question).

Now, you might be asking yourself...  Self, what kind of daughter stands passively by and watches a devilishly cute trickster-artist rig a pussy-cleaving crotch-rope through her mom's hoo-haw?  This kind.  Moi.  Londyn Wahlberg.  I could tell Mom wasn't in any distress, the crotch rope wasn't that tight (not where it counts, anyway) and was there to bind her in place, not titillate.  It was a "necessary" part of the composition.  Also, I was mesmerized and unable to intervene.  That's my excuse, anyway.

And speaking of mesmerized, Libby was blushing and sipping her coffee, possibly sweating a little, and staring in wide-eyed, transparent wonder.  I had firsthand experience with Brows Magee's "rope foreplay," but this was Libby's first exposure to her slithering strands of ropes, sliding fingers, her skillful use of tension-retaining hitches, and her crafting of clever, unreachable, inescapable knots.  It was a feast for the eyes (and is an even better experience).  Also, the object of Brows' attention was Libby's BFF... her blond, tan, perfect BFF!

At one point I caught Brow's eye and indicated Libby with a surreptitious nod.  Brows smiled and winked.  Mom also caught the exchange and blushed, ever so slightly, which caused me to blush.  Libby was oblivious throughout, her eyes on the ropes framing my mom's breasts... which were tightening, ever-so-slightly... then loosening, ever so slightly... with every breath as the perfect breasts in question rose and fell, ever-so-slightly.

Finally, Brows grinned at her now thoroughly helpless model.  "I think that will be adequate," she purred.

Mother executed a detailed but pathetically inadequate courtesy struggle, blew an errant strand of blond hair from her face, and returned Brows' grin.  "Adequate," she agreed.

"Wait here," Brows said, then scurried to the bedroom.

Libby and I took the occasion to step forward and examine Mom's bonds, both visually and by touch.

If you think there was any prurient element to my fascination with my mother's naked and chair-bound condition—shame on you!  I'm an artist, and mom is beautiful, and Brow's rope-work was amazing, and so was my magnificent PBC.  Also, I'm a DiD-sister, so there was a strong aficionado aspect.

"You're beautiful, mother," I sighed as I ran the tips of the fingers of my right hand along the ropes pinning her left upper arm to the chair.

"Thank you, Pumpkin," Mom purred.  "You were beautiful under the oak, out by the pond."

This caused me to blush, and I leaned forward and planted a kiss on my mother's forehead.

And speaking of blushing, Libby's cheeks were bright red and her expression was one of distant fascination.  "Does it hurt?" she whispered.

"The ropes?" Mom asked with a grin.  "No, Bronwyn is an expert."

"Yeah," I huffed.  "Tell us how they feel in ten hours."

"Ten hours?" Libby gasped, then a smile curled her lips.  "You're teasing."

"Yeah, yeah, she's teasing," Brows agreed, then waved us back.  She had returned with something in her two hands, which she held for our inspection.  "I refined your 'Shamwow' idea," she explained.

We (mother, daughter, and BFF) stared at what was obviously some sort of cleave-gag waiting to be thrust into Mom's mouth and tied at the nape of her neck.

"I took a pair of towels," she lectured, "one the size of a small washcloth and the other a little smaller, placed them on top of one other, folded them point to point, then rolled them tight and pushed them down a stocking.  I had to experiment to get the cleaving part nice and thick but with the tapered ends short enough so as not to interfere with tying the knot."  Both the super-absorbent towels and the overlying nylon stocking were a light shade of blue.

Mom's lips curled in a coy smile.  "You didn't say anything about a gag, Bronwyn," she purred.

"No, I didn't," Brows agreed, then thrust the gag into Mom's mouth, made sure it was well back and clutched between her teeth, then hitched the ends of the stocking at the nape of her neck.  "There," she sighed, made sure none of Mother's hair was trapped under the stretched nylon, then tied a really tight square-knot.

I have to admit, it was a nice cleave-gag.  It filled Mom's mouth and her cheeks bulged above the stretched nylon and its thick, super-absorbent core.  It was also visually compelling.  Thick, tight, and blue.  Blue like Mom's eyes.

"That should do," Brows said, then smiled at Libby.  "Help me out," she requested.  "Give her right nipple a pinch and let's see if we get a rise out of her."

Libby blinked in horror, her eyes darting from Brow's smiling face, to her BFF's gagged (and smiling) face, to the nipple in question.  Then, she realized she was being teased, blushed, and tightened her hands into tight fists.  "Stop it!" she huffed.

Brows chuckled, Mom and I shared a knowing smile, Libby scowled and blushed, then Brows strolled to her stool, opened the drawer in the paint stand, and selected a soft pencil.  "Everybody out!" she barked, then winked at my mom.  "Everybody able to get out," she clarified.

That would be us," I said, took Libby by the hand, and led her to the cabin door.

Brows was busy sketching the general scene on the formerly pristine canvas and Mom was busy being naked, bound, and gagged.

"She'll be okay," Libby whispered as we took one last look, then closed the door and started down the road to Checkerspot Meadows, "won't she?"

"Of course," I chuckled.  "Brows doesn't bite."  That wasn't quite true.  Based on that previous night's experience, Brows didn't bite, but she definitely nibbled.  She'd nibbled on me, anyway, and I'd nibbled back, but there was no way...  A delicate shiver rippled down my spine, disgust at the very thought of my mom and Brows Magee making out.  "She'll be fine," I reassured Libby (and myself).

"Those ropes are tight" Libby said quietly, giving my hand a gentle squeeze.

"They are," I agreed, "but Brows knows how to make them comfortable.  You'll find out."

Libby snatched her hand away.  "What?  No!"

I couldn't help but smile.  "C'mon," I chuckled, bumping her hip with mine as we walked.  "You know you're next."

"Hah!" Libby barked, folding her arms under her breasts.  "As if I'd let that little rascal tie me to a chair."

"I doubt if she'll use a chair," I said.  "Brows never repeats herself."

"What do you think she'll do?" Libby demanded.  She really seemed worried (or maybe intrigued).

I shrugged.  "Who knows?"

"Well," she continued.  "It's not gonna happen, whatever it is."

I didn't answer, but I did skid to a halt.  "Wait here, I forgot something."

Libby watched as I turned and sprinted back to the cabin.  "Londyn?" she called after me.

"Be right back!" I shouted back.

"Don't mind me," I said as I reentered the cabin, hurried to the sofa, made a quick bundle of Mom's jeans, blouse, and sandals, then scurried back out the door.

Brows ignored me completely, busy expanding and defining her sketch.

Mom, however, marked my passage with a furious gagged scowl.  "Mrrrf!" she complained.

I blew her a kiss from the doorway, eased the door closed, then sprinted back to Libby with Mom's clothes tucked under my right arm.

Libby realized what I'd done, of course, and one of her trademark goofy smiles curled her lips and dimpled her cheeks.

What?  Why are you looking at me that way?  Why should I be the only Wahlberg to experience the Naked Walk of Shame from Brow's cabin to Checkerspot Meadows?

Libby didn't feel like going back to her place and I didn't feel like working in the barn, so when we got back to Checkerspot Meadows we kept each other company.  It wouldn't be the first time Libby had hung out at our place and we were both worried about Mom.  Well... not "worried," per se, but Mom was on both of our minds.

"There's no way I'm gonna let her tie me up," Libby said for the twentieth time since we'd returned to the house.  We were in the kitchen drinking more coffee, and just to be clear, I hadn't brought up the topic of Libby being Brows' next victim model nineteen times, not even once.  Libby was worried about her BFF's present and her theoretical future.  She was adorable.  (Also, very pretty in that pink sundress.)

"You know being tied-up and helpless isn't that bad," I said, "depending on the context, of course."

"And how would I know that?" Libby demanded.

"C'mon'," I chuckled, "everybody's been tied up.  Cowboys and Indians?  Cops and Robbers?  Robin Hood verses the Sheriff of Nottingham, with a side of Maid Marion tied to a tree?  I know you have two older brothers."

"When we were little, my brothers could barely tie their shoes," Libby huffed.  "Yes, we played games and I was always the damsel-in-distress, but it was... symbolic."

"Putting aside the topic of cultural gender memes," I purred, "I assume you mean they always did a technically inferior job of tying up their baby sister?"

"Always," Libby confirmed.

I suppressed a sinister smile.  I'd just had a fiendish idea, something fiendishly clever and fiendish in general!  "That's your problem, then," I intoned.  "Not having ever had the actual experience, you imagine the worst."  I rummaged in one of the junk drawers.  "I can help you with that."

"What?" Libby demanded. "How?"

I found what I'd been looking for, a roll of two-inch, black duct tape.  Actually, it was most of a 1.88-inch by 12-yard roll of black Gorilla Tape®.  (Gorilla Tape®.  Tough, reinforced backing.  Weather resistant shell.  Double-thick adhesive.  For the Toughest Jobs on Planet Earth™.)  Libby flinched as I ripped an eighteen-inch length of tape from the roll.

"Okay," I ordered, "stand up, hands behind your back, and interlace your fingers."

Libby stared at me with open mouth and eyes as big as saucers.  "Huh?"  Like I said: adorable!

"Stand up," I reiterated patiently, "hands behind your back, and interlace your fingers."

Still visibly flustered, Libby physically complied but verbally objected.  "No!  Don't you dare!"

I dared.  A quick, semi-tight turn around her wrists was followed by a slightly tighter second turn... and then by tight third, fourth, fifth, and sixth turns.  Overkill?   Maybe.  I was careful to take a firm grip on the tape near her wrists whenever I pulled more from the roll.  I knew from experience that it hurts if the damsel's wrists take the full pressure of getting more tape.  Don't let it be said that Londyn Wahlberg isn't a thoughtful and considerate villainess.

I considered continuing down and mummifying Libby's fingers and hands, but, you know, baby steps.  Libby was a novice.  I ripped the tape free from the roll, smoothed the end, then returned the roll to the drawer.  Enough remained to secure at least a half-dozen more Libbys.

Meanwhile, Libby tugged on her now inescapably tape-bound wrists.  "Ow," she complained, "it hurts when I do that."

It was a slow pitch precisely across the plate and in the exact center of the strike-zone.  "Then don't do that," I purred.

Libby paused in her futile struggles to grace me with an even stare, then went back to exploring her helplessness.  Gorilla Tape® really is good stuff.  She-Hulk might have been able to burst free from similar bonds, but poor little Libby McDermott?  Not a chance.

"More coffee?" I inquired (innocently) as Libby continued tugging on her taped wrists.

"I guess," she answered.

I refilled her mug, then my own.  The carafe was still about a third full.  I sipped my coffee, then held Libby's mug to her lips.  As far as I knew this was at least her third cup of the morning, and I knew that sooner or later (and probably sooner) she was going to need to use The Little Damsel's Room.  Her options would be to beg for me to set her free (which I wouldn't do, explaining that it would ruin the exercise), ask me for help pulling down her panties and cleaning up afterwards (unlikely), or awkwardly attempt the process herself, despite her wrists being taped together behind her back.  Of course, I'd let her have her privacy if she chose option three, but the mental image was already entertaining.

"See," I said after several seconds of watching her futile struggles, "it's not so bad being a helpless prisoner in the clutches of a supremely talented artist, now is it?"

Libby favored me with another We-are-not-amused moue.  "I don't know why I let you do this," she muttered.

"Curiosity," I answered.

We settled in to wait for Mom's return from Brow's cabin.  I wasn't sure when I'd dig out our pair of bandage scissors and release Libby.  It depended on how long Brows decided she required my maternal unit's services as her model.

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Chapter 2

Chapter 4

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