|| THINGS YOU NEED TO KNOW ABOUT
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
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
"Be careful," I cautioned. She'd nearly caused me to spill
Brows grinned her trademark dimpled grin. "Always," she
purred, then sipped her cup.
"A good hostess," I intoned, "would serve her guest breakfast in
"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
"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
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
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
"We'll talk later," my mom purred, smiling and sipping her
"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.
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
"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,"
"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.
I paused to concentrate on detailing a key breast feather before
replying. "They were implied."
Brows nodded, still smiling. "Anyhoo, I came to borrow
"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.
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
"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
"Did I envision Brows Magee tied to the chair as I made it?" I
stated. "No, I didn't even envision a generic
"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
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
"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
"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
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
"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
I rolled my eyes. "I'm also the union
representative. The International Sisterhood of Life
Models." I raised my right fist. "Solidarity
Brows rolled her eyes. "Power to the Beautiful
People," she chuckled, then smiled at Mom. "Did you tinkle
"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
"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
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
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,
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
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,
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?"
"The ropes?" Mom asked with a grin. "No, Bronwyn is an
"Yeah," I huffed. "Tell us how they feel in ten hours."
"Ten hours?" Libby gasped, then a smile curled her lips.
"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
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
"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
"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
I didn't answer, but I did skid to a halt. "Wait here, I
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
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
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
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
"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
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
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
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.
| Chapter 3