THINGS  YOU  NEED  TO  KNOW  ABOUT
		by Van ©2017
		Chapter 4

We were into the third hour of Libby's first experience as a helpless damsel-in-distress.  The topic of emptying one's bladder with one's wrists duct taped behind one's back had already come up, as I'd expected, and had been thoroughly discussed.  Libby refused my kind help, glowered but otherwise ignored my refusal to set her free, and accomplished the task entirely on her own.  Remember, at the time she was wearing that pretty salmon-pink sundress and panties (at least I assume she was wearing panties), so while accomplishing the mission entirely on her own was possible, it had to have been awkward.  I waited patiently for her to emerge from the bathroom, and when she did, she accused me of being a horrible person.  I agreed.  In the role of her Nefarious Kidnapper I was, indeed, a horrible person.

We lounged around the living room until noon, then Libby offered to make us something for lunch.  This would have required my freeing her, of course, so it was out of the question.  I made us lunch, in the form of sandwiches (sliced turkey, Havarti cheese, lettuce, tomatoes, and mayonnaise on oat bread).  I ate my sandwich, fed my captive hers, and we shared gulps of diet soda.  I was the perfect (albeit nefarious) hostess.

After lunch, Libby continued glowering and sighing and complaining, but we both knew that all she had to do to regain her freedom was make it clear in unquestionable terms that enough was enough.  She didn't. 

Anyway, Libby was content to let the experiment run its course, so I offered to expand the experience into a "full Nancy Drew."  I explained that this would require binding her ankles together, giving her a nice gag, and locking her in the guest bedroom.  Her response was less than enthusiastic, and while I was detailing the gag options (cleave, over-the-mouth (OTM), OTM plus cleave, tape (with or without stuffing), cleave plus tape)... it happened.

The front door flew open and my mother stormed in.  She was still naked (as I'd stolen her clothes before departing Brow's cabin) and appeared to be slightly peeved but otherwise okay.  There were no visible rope or gag-marks on her tan, perfect body or tan, perfect face.

"Londyn Antoinette Wahlberg!" she intoned, standing before me with her hands on her hips and her beautiful face in an angry (but still beautiful) scowl.

Just to be clear, my middle name is not "Antoinette."  Mom only calls me that when she's about to chop off my head.  Anyway...

"Londyn Antoinette Whalberg!" she intoned, "you're a mischievous, clothes-stealing ragamuffin and deserve a serious spanking."

That wasn't so bad.  A spanking (even a serious one) is much better than decapitation.  "What?" I responded, smiling politely, trying not to laugh, and innocently batting my eyes.

"Wipe that impudent smirk off you face," Mom continued.  (That was fair.  My smile probably was pretty impudent.)  She focused on Libby, who was sitting in an adjoining easy chair and doing an even worse job of trying not to laugh, then walked over, took hold of Libby's right shoulder and turned her to the side until she could see her tape-bound wrists, then glowered at me, again.  "And why have you done this to Libby?" she demanded, "and don't you dare tell me 'because she's there' or I will spank you."

This caused both Libby and myself to finally lose it.  Mom resumed her hands-on-hips pose and waited patiently (meaning impatiently) while we chortled and guffawed (see also snickered).

"I'm helping her psychologically prepare to be Brow's model," I finally managed to explain.  "You taught me to always be helpful to friends in need, didn't you Mother?"  I smiled innocently, batting my eyes again for added effect.

Mom rolled her eyes, gently lifted Libby to her feet, and led her towards the back of the house.  "You can tell me if she's lying while I get dressed," she said to her BFF, then paused in the doorway to point at me.  "Stay!" she ordered.

"Yes, Mother," I said sweetly, sitting in my easy chair with a smile on my innocent, obedient lips, my legs together and demurely tucked to one side in a properly ladylike manner, and my hands gracefully resting on my knees.

Mom shook her head and led Libby away.  Obviously, their destination was Mom's bedroom.

We keep a stack of catalogs on a side table, adding to the top as they arrive in the mail and recycling from the bottom once everybody has had a chance to see them.  I selected the latest Crate & Barrel and started thumbing the pages.  I was looking forwards to my soon to be fully clothed (and not really angry) mother's return so I could quiz her about what had happened at the cabin.  I was particularly curious (and a little peeved) about why she was home so early.  What had it been?  Four hours?  That was nothing.

Mom and Libby returned to the living room in only a few minutes.  I'd finished perusing the Crate & Barrel and was starting on a Restoration Hardware catalog.

Mom was now wearing a sundress, similar to Libby's but in a striking shade of cadet-blue that went well with her blond hair, tan skin, and blue eyes.  Her feet remained bare.

Libby was dressed the same, in that her pink dress and sandals were unchanged.  Also, her wrists were still bound with Gorilla Tape® behind her back.  As far as I could tell, she was taking it well, meaning being bound and technically helpless in the presence of her BFF—or rather in the custody of her BFF.  I don't know what happened in the bedroom, of course, whether or not Libby asked (begged) my mom to free her, but it hadn't happened.  I'm thinking she probably sat on the end of Mom's bed and watched as my maternal unit dressed herself... and enjoyed the show.  Her features were a little flushed (maybe) and that goofy dimpled smile was back on her face.

"So," my mom said as they strolled in my direction, "I believe you said she called it 'the full Nancy Drew,' right?"

"Uh, yeah," Libby confirmed.

It was only then that I noticed the numerous coils of white cotton clothesline in Mom's right hand.  "Mom?" I asked uncertainly.  "Hey!"  Mom had snatched the catalog from my hands and tossed it back on the side table, grabbed my right wrist, lifted me to my feet, and spun me around.  "What are you doing?"  Actually, it was abundantly obvious exactly what she was doing.  She'd positioned my hands palm-to-palm and was binding my wrists together!

"Hush," she admonished as she wrapped, cinched, and knotted my wrist-bonds.  "Now," she said to Libby, who was standing close by and watching the process of my loss of liberty with amused interest, "note the position of the key knot, between the wrists and away from the fingers."

"Why are you leaving all that extra rope?" Libby asked, indicating with a nod of her chin the twin, approximately two-foot strands of braided cotton rope that dangled from the knot in question.

"That will become clear in a moment," Mom responded, then shook out a second coil of clothesline, doubled it, and began finding its center.

Oh wonderful!  Libby must have confirmed that the reason for her Gorilla Tape® bondage was, indeed, curiosity, Mom had offered to continue and expand the lesson/demonstration, and I, apparently, had been volunteered in absentia as her teaching aide/practice dummy!

I made my attitude and opinion instantly and unequivocally clear.  "Mom!"

"I said hush," she admonished me again.  "You're a clothes-stealing ragamuffin and are being punished."

"Oh," I pouted, "as long as you've got a reason."  Rope was tightening around my upper arms, just above my elbows, and the elbows in question were being pulled firmly together.  "Ow!"  Time to unleash the big guns.  "Mother!"

Mom continued her lecture.  "As you can see, Londyn is flexible enough for her elbows to touch, but—"  She loosened the initial loop until my elbows were four inches apart.  "—such a bind gets old very fast and is unnecessarily cruel."  She added several more wrappings, then cinched the whole shebang several times between my elbows.  They ended up about two inches apart, which, apparently, Mom considered necessarily cruel.

"Look at how it makes her breasts stick out," Libby noted.  She seemed to be having little trouble getting into the spirit of the exercise.  Oh-by-the-way, before lunch I'd removed my blouse and returned it to my room, so at the moment I was wearing sneakers, jeans, panties, a tank top, and no bra.  My sweater puppies were, indeed, prominent, and I had a noticeable pair of pokies.

"Yes," Mom agreed, then hitched the free ends of my wrist-bonds through my elbow-bonds and tied a tight knot.

"Oh, I see," Libby said.  "Now she can't possibly untie herself."

"Exactly," my mother confirmed as she readied a third coil of clothesline for use.

Libby watched (smiling her goofy grin) as Mom tied a chest-harness, meaning tight horizontal loops that passed above and below my embarrassingly prominent breasts with a cinching loop that yoked my shoulders.  She incorporated my elbow bonds in the tie, so all three ropes were now interconnected.

Coil number four was used to bind my lower arms against my waist and to act as a crotch-rope.  Everything was cinched and tight, and the crotch-cleaving strands were hitched through my wrist-bonds, then passed up and through the elbow-bonds/chest-harness nexus before being tied off.

Needless to say, my arms were now tightly pinned to my torso and were utterly useless.  Libby was impressed, and said so.

"I'm impressed."  She was blushing again, and absently tugging on her Gorilla Tape® wrist-bonds.  Maybe flustered-but-in-control best describes her demeanor.  She frowned and walked a slow circle around my semi-helpless self, and I say semi-helpless only because I could still kick if so inclined, which I wasn't.  "I read all the Nancy Drew books as a girl," Libby said, "meaning the classic titles, not the modern tween novels, and I don't recall Nancy or her friends ever being this tied up."

"She has a point, Mother," I agreed.

Mother's smile was chilling—beautiful, but chilling.  "We'll call this the deluxe full Nancy Drew."

Before I could come up with a rejoinder more clever than "Hey!" Mom had a firm grip on my hair and was dragging me (okay, leading me) from the living room.  Libby followed.

Our destination was, of course, my bedroom—NOT!

Checkerspot Meadows has a total of five bedrooms.  There's a largish master bedroom with an attached master bath, which is Mom's—two smaller but very comfortable bedrooms, one of which is mine and the other designated as the official guestroom—and two even smaller bedrooms, one of which is the reserve guestroom and the other our designated "box room."  It has no furniture and we use it to store the overflow junk from the garage.  It gets cleaned about as often as the rest of the house, but is half-filled with a clutter of cardboard boxes and Rubbermaid® storage tubs.  Mom keeps pressuring me to make shelves to hold the stuff and I counter by telling her to go through all that crap (except for mine, of course) and throw most of it away.  So far, it's a standoff.

"Mother!" I complained as she plunked me down on the hardwood floor, knelt, pulled my feet together, and began binding my ankles.  Libby watched.  She also watched as Mom expended more clothesline to bind my legs together just above the knees... then just below the knees.  This was followed up by another tight and well-cinched band of rope around my thighs, and yet another around my shins and calves.  My legs were now bound together at five places, counting my ankle-bonds but not my lower-arm-waist-crotch-rope.  Mother Dearest could give Brows lessons in the too-much-is-never-enough department.

And she wasn't done!

"Hmm... not enough," Mom announced as she climbed to her feet, turned, and strolled out the door.  "I'll be right back," she called from the hallway.

Libby was still smiling that incredibly cute, goofy, and increasingly irritating grin.  Seconds passed as she visually inspected my bound and helpless condition.  "That looks tight," she said, finally.

My petulant response was uninformative but succinct.  "Shut up."  But she was right.  It was tight.

Just then, Mom returned, knelt at my feet, untied and removed first my sneakers, and then my anklets.  I noticed that she'd brought with her three things: (1) a replacement pair of sneaker laces, still bundled together in their paper wrapper, (2) a neatly folded bandanna of the traditional blue-with-white-decorations variety, and (3) a neatly rolled ACE™ bandage.  I had a good idea what was coming, but didn't give Mother the entertaining satisfaction of listening to me whine, beg, and/or complain.

We watched (myself with the stoic demeanor of a Brave Damsel-on-Distress and Libby in adorable, wide-eyed wonder) as Mom used one of the new shoelaces to tie my big toes together, ending with a pretty bow, which she doubled for added security.  She then rolled me onto my stomach—"Oof!"—and did the same to my thumbs, only this time she first used a square-knot, then tied the final bow somewhere in the neighborhood of my elbow-bonds, well-away from my groping, fluttering, and now even more useless fingers.

"Now, young lady," my loving mother said as she rolled me over and positioned my thoroughly bound body with my shoulders and glowering head resting on her lap.  "Tell Libby you're sorry you taped her wrists behind her back," Mom ordered as she unfolded the bandanna and crumpled it into a loose wad.

I shifted my angry stare to Libby, who has still wide-eyed (and adorable).  "Sorry," I muttered.  "I should have used rope."

Mom chuckled and stuffed the bandanna into my cooperative but scowling mouth.  She then took two tight turns of ACE™ bandage through my now well-stuffed mouth as a cleave-gag and stuffing-retainer, then tied a square-knot at the nape of my neck and under my hair.  She then stretched the still very long free ends of bandage around my head from both sides, covering my lower face from chin to nostrils and crafting a tight, multi-layered OTM-gag.  The final square-knot was also tied at the nape of my neck and under my hair, which was now a blond, tousled mess badly in need of a good brushing.

Mom eased me off her lap and I executed the required and expected courtesy struggle as she gracefully regained her feet, brushed the dust from her knees, and straightened her sundress.  Libby continued her adorable Stare of Amazement.

"And there you have it," Mom purred, "one super-deluxe full Nancy Drew... or it will be once we make our exit and lock the door."

Libby's response was a whispered "Wow!"

Mom took her BFF by the elbow and led her from my soon-to-be box-room prison.  "No one will find you here, 'Nancy'," Mom gloated.  "We're going into River Heights to establish alibis, but will return in several hours to dispose of you permanently."

I stared daggers, my full collection, but Mom proved as impervious to my visual cutlery as had Brows Magee.  As for Libby, I spared Libby.  She was adorable.

"Remind me to buy a deadbolt lock for this door the next time we're in town," she added, then closed the door in question.

I listened as she turned a skeleton key in the lock, then, together with her tape-bound BFF, strolled away.  I heaved a sigh and settled in to wait for my eventual rescue (or disposal), and wondered what Mom would be making for dinner.  I also considered turning her in to the Washington State Department of Child Welfare once I was free, but...

A.  I'm no longer a child.

B.  As far as I knew it had been a long time since Mom got a chance to pull a ∆I∆-worthy prank of this caliber and I could tell she was having a blast (as was Libby), and...

C.  Mom is an expert with ropes, at least as good as Brows Magee, and I wasn't in what I felt justified in calling distress.  Of course, the floor was hard and Mom could have been nice enough to let "Nancy" roll around and languish atop the comfort of her own neatly made bed just down the hall, but I wasn't in distress... at the moment.

Hours passed as Nancy struggled and squirmed, bravely fighting Mrs. Curuthers' cruel ropes and tight gag.  She could only hope George and Ned were looking for her and would find her before the wicked old lady and her unscrupulous housekeeper returned and she ended up in a shallow grave down by the river, or entombed alive in one of the caves down by the river, or locked in an old trunk and tossed into said river, or met some other river-related demise.  Whatever.

Many long hours passed.  Okay, something like two hours and fifteen minutes.  Then, I heard one set of footsteps in the hallway, the key rattled in the lock, the door opened... and standing in the threshold was none other than Brows Magee.  An infuriatingly cute smile dimpled her cheeks and curled her lips, and she was resplendent in the same sneakers, cargo-shorts, and work-shirt with the sleeves rolled up and tails tied in front.  Also, her hands were on her hips in a disgusting (meaning stunningly cute) Peter Pan pose.

Great, I remember thinking as I heaved a well-gagged sigh.  The arrival of Brows meant it was in no way a sure thing that I was being rescued.  More likely, Brows was batting for the opposing team.

My worst fears were realized.  Well, not my worst fears.  Nothing horrible happened down by the river.  We don't even have a river.  We do have a pond, of course.  Anyway...

"You're in big trouble, Londyn-with-a-'Y'," Brows chuckled as she knelt on the floor and untied my big toes, ankles, etc., etc., all the way up to my thighs.  My upper body remained tightly and elaborately bound (including my crotch and thumbs).  She then dragged my head and shoulders onto her lap and into the same position Mom had used to apply my bandanna-stuffing-bandage-cleave-OTM-gag.  Brows was now using it to un-apply said gag.

"What did I do?" I demanded as she plucked the bandanna from my mouth (meaning besides taping my mom's BFF's wrists behind her back).  Actually, I worked my jaw, attempted to lick my dry lips, and then croaked "What did I do?"

"Hold that thought," Brows purred and helped me to my bare feet.

"Brows!" I complained as she tied one of the longer tangles of white cotton clothesline around my neck in an impromptu leash, then led me from the box-room.

Our first destination was the bathroom, where Brows filled a glass with water and held it so I could drink, then brushed my hair.  Luckily, I didn't need to go.  If I'd asked (begged), Brows almost certainly would have untied the crotch-rope, pulled down my jeans and panties, and watched as I blushed and did my business; however, it was not at all a sure thing I'd get them back (meaning my panties and jeans) when the deed was done.  I probably would have gotten the crotch-rope back, of course.  Brows is Brows.

Our second destination was the kitchen.  A delicious aroma filled the air which I tentatively identified as Mom's always excellent pot roast (or possibly her always excellent beef stew).  Both Mom and Libby were present, sitting side-by-side in straight chairs.  Libby's wrists were unbound, but I noticed her eyes were a little red and puffy as if she might have been crying.  Mom was using rubbing alcohol and a cotton-ball to clean the residual adhesive goo from Libby's visibly pink wrists.

"Gorilla Tape?" Mom demanded.  "You used Gorilla Tape?"

I blinked in mild surprise.  "Obviously.  Do we have any other kind of duct tape around here?"

"I have a roll of silver 3M in my bedroom," Mom responded.

I blinked, again.  "You do?  Why?"

"Never you mind!" Mom growled (and blushed), then pointed at Libby's wrists.  "I sliced through the tape, but before I could tell her not to, she jerked her wrists free."

"Ouch!" I gasped.  I could see why her wrists were a little red.  That had to have hurt and would have inevitably ripped out all the arm-hairs that had been unfortunate enough to be under the tape (not that Libby has hairy arms, of course).

"She didn't know any better," Mom continued.  "She didn't know to wait for me to peel the tape away slowly."  That wouldn't have saved any wrist-hair, but would have been less painful.

"Well, whose fault is that?" I muttered.

"Yours!" Mom and Brows chorused in unison.

As Mom continued dealing with the rest of the overly enthusiastic Gorilla Tape® adhesive, Libby managed a brave smile.  "I'm okay, Londyn," she said.  Even in minor distress (and milking it for all it was worth), she was adorable.

Brows leaned close and whispered in my ear, "I can't believe you're buying this."

I blinked, again.  "What?"  Then, Mom and Libby exchanged a quick glance and I realized a smile was threatening to curl poor, much-put-upon Libby's brave lips.  I was being played... or semi-played.  I was the one responsible for the use of Gorilla Tape® and Libby's wrists had suffered depilatory trauma, but that didn't mean I should let everybody act like I was the one who was totally responsible.  The problem, of course, was that I was the one who was totally responsible.

I padded to the end of my leash (which Brows allowed) and planted a kiss on Libby's lips.  "I'm sorry," I whispered, then kissed her again.

Now Libby was definitely smiling, and so was Brows.

Mom, however, wasn't through with me.  "Never use any kind of Gorilla product on bare skin," she admonished, "or I'll give you a full-body demonstration of their hair-removing properties."

"Yes, Mother," I responded, by eyes properly downcast and gazing at my own bare feet,

"Yeah," Brows added, gesturing at Libby.  "Next time, wrap her up in plastic wrap from head to toe, then use Gorilla Tape®."

Libby's eyes popped wide.  "What?"

Mom shook her head, put the cap back on the alcohol bottle, then put it away and disposed of the used cotton balls.  "As punishment, young lady," she decreed, "you will remain tied up until further notice."  She focused on Brows.  "She's in your custody, Bronwyn."

"Yes, Mrs. Wahlberg," Brows acknowledged.  Brows was disgusting.  Butter wouldn't melt in her mouth, as the saying goes.

"Mom!" I complained.

"Hush," Mom ordered, then pointed at the chair she'd just vacated.  "Sit."

I heaved a sigh and planted my jeans-clad and clothesline-cleaved rump in the chair still warm from my mom's rump.

Brows looped the end of my leash through the top of the chair-back and tied a slipknot, then beamed at my cruel mother.  "I'll set the table," she offered.

"Such a well-mannered and considerate child," Mom purred, then kissed Brow's forehead.

Libby smiled, I rolled my eyes, and Brows set about the task of setting the kitchen table for four.  Mom went to the refrigerator and started pulling out the makings of a mixed salad.

I turned to Libby.  "I really am sorry," I said.

"I know," Libby answered, "and I really am okay."

I nodded in response, then suppressed a smile.  "I didn't know you were such a drama queen," I added.

Libby's smile widened.  "And I didn't know you were such a sadistic little witch," she countered.

There was a brief pause... and we both laughed.

Libby left her chair.  "I'll do that," she offered, relieving my mother of her salad prep responsibilities.

"Thanks," Mom smiled.  "It's time to let the roast start resting."  (You always let a roast, joint, whole bird, or any big chunk of cooked meat "rest" to let the juices redistribute before slicing.)  She went to the side counter and used a potholder to carefully lift the lid from our Crock-Pot®.  The aroma in the kitchen more than doubled.

"Yummm!" we chorused in unison.  My initial diagnosis of pot roast was confirmed.

Brows continued setting the table, Libby continued the salad prep, Mom went rummaging for a pair of meat-forks to lift the roast out of the Crock-Pot and onto a cutting board, and I continued languishing.

Mom's pot roast was delicious.  Mom's pot roast is always delicious.  She makes her own gravy from the pot drippings.  The veggies from the bottom of the Crock-Pot were also delicious, as was the salad, the sliced French bread, and the reasonably priced Washington Cabernet.  I was fed my share of the feast by Brows and all in all it was a pleasant dinner... even if one of the participants was trussed up in a tight package with several yards of cotton clothesline.

I tried steering the conversation to the topic of what had happened at Brow's cabin after Libby and I left.  I wanted to learn why Mom got home so quickly, after what I considered to be only a very short interval, but was rebuffed.  More innocuous topics were discussed instead.  Sure, why not!  I was in the proverbial doghouse, having abused poor Libby's wrists with my Evil Gorilla Tape®.  Why not ignore naughty little Londyn?

Anyway... excellent food, excellent companions, and I didn't learn anything about how Mom escaped from Brow's clutches so early.  On the bright side, I didn't have to help with the cleanup afterwards.  That was the singular virtue of being tied up by my mother, the object of Libby's amusement, and relegated to Brow's custody.  I got to sit, watch, and start digesting my meal while everybody else made quick work of returning the kitchen to Mom's spotless standards.

Once that was done, we adjourned to the living room and watched some TV.  Brows and I snuggled (innocently) on the couch, Mom and Libby settled into easy chairs, and we watched an episode of Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D.  I remained tied up, of course, with the end of my leash in Brow's hand.  We all agreed that the new season of Agents is a significant improvement over the last—Daisy (aka "Quake," played by Chloe Bennet) is super cute—Simmons (Elizabeth Henstridge) is absolutely adorable and could have given Emma Watson a run for her money as Hermione Granger—and May (Ming-Na Wen) is both scary and hot.

Once the show was over... Libby yawned.  Mom suggested we call it a night, then announced she'd be escorting Libby home, just to be sure she was okay, and that we shouldn't wait up.

My response was profound.  "Huh?"

Goodnight wishes were exchanged, along with goodnight kisses, but my sage inquiry went unanswered.  I had two issues: (1) Libby suddenly needed help finding her way home?  And... (2) what, exactly, did Mom mean when she said "we" shouldn't wait up?  Who was "we?"

Mom and Libby made their exit, then Brows abandoned me in the living room, announcing that she was going to lock up.  I waited while Brows threw the deadbolts on the front and kitchen doors... turned off most of the lights... then returned to the living room and we were alone.

Oh, that "we."

Smiling her best dimpled smile, Brows helped me to my feet, took hold of the end of my leash, and led me to my bedroom.

"So," I said, "I guess it's another sleepover."

"I guess," Brows confirmed, then began untying my crotch-rope.  Next (and maintaining the same smile) she unbuttoned and unzipped my jeans, then peeled them down my legs.  My panties followed, and my costume was now four coils of white cotton clothesline and a white cotton tank top.

Brows took hold of my leash, pulled me in close, and planted a kiss on my lips, and by "planted" I mean she sucked on my mouth like it was a juicy peach and explored my tonsils with her tongue.  I did my best to return the favor.  Then... she came up for air, grinned, let my leash fall through her fingers to the end, and led me to the bathroom.

The untied, dangling ends of the crotch-rope slapped the backs of my knees as we walked.  "So," I huffed, "this is how it's gonna be?  Whenever I'm tied up and helpless you're gonna spend the night?"

"And have my wicked way with your helpless body," Brows confirmed.  She plunked me down on the commode and waited while I emptied my bladder.

"First at the cabin," I continued as she cleaned me up with a damp washcloth, "and now in my own house?"

"In your own bed," Brows confirmed, then brushed my teeth, helped me rinse and spit, then washed my face.  "Off we go."

I was led back to my bedroom.  Brows pulled down the covers, forced (meaning allowed) me to recline, then tied the end of my leash to the headboard.

"We should have talked about it," I groused.  "It's been... how many days since I was your model?  More than a week.  Untie me and I'll check my calendar."

"We'll check in the morning," Brows chuckled.  "We'll also talk about relationships in general and particular."  She untied the tails of her work-shirt, unbuttoned the top buttons, then shrugged it off.  "And tomorrow, we'll have even more to talk about."

I lay on my side on the bed, helpless in my tight, elaborate bonds, and watched as Brows continued stripping.  Soon, her clothes were neatly folded and stacked on a chair and she was totally nude.  She stretched... then scampered out the door.  Oh, that's right...  She needed to visit the Little Damsel's Room for her evening toilette.  I heard the faint, wet sounds of the commode flushing... followed by the sink running.  Obviously, Brows had left the bathroom door open.  Silence returned, there were several seconds pause... and finally Brows returned.

"We have to keep this quiet," I said as Brows climbed into bed.

"In case Libby and your mom decide not to do a sleepover of their own and your mom comes home early?" Brows purred.

A delicate shudder rippled through my rope-bound body.  The thought of Mom and Libby naked and making out was... was... let's go with "disturbing."

"Shut up," I snapped, "and... yes."

Brows' grin widened.  "Don't worry, I have it all figured out."

I watched as she sat up, gathered all the pillows, including the one she pulled out from under my head— "Hey!" —and arranged them in a pile against the headboard.   She then scooted back, rested her back against the soft mass, spread her legs, and smiled.

"You do me first, several times," she elaborated with a grand and graceful gesture towards her splayed legs and crotch, "and then I'll do you, at least once."

My going second, or rather, my getting diddled second, meant it was more likely I'd be the one trying my best not to yodel when Mom came home early, if Mom came home early.  "How does that solve our noise problem?" I inquired.

Brows held up a sloppily rolled ACE™ bandage.  "I made a side trip to that horrible room with all the boxes where the bad guys locked away Nancy Drew," she explained.

My smile faded.  "Where's the bandanna?"

"You mean the disgusting, saliva-soaked, blue bandanna they stuffed in poor Nancy's mouth?"

I ignored Brows clever repartee.

"I left it back in the room," Brows chuckled, "but not to worry, my panties are right over there."  She pointed to her folded clothing.  The panties in question were on the top of the stack.

I affected a petulant pout.  It was difficult.  My natural inclination was to giggle.  "I'll be quiet," I gravely promised.

"Oh, you will," Brows agreed.  "You'll be very quiet.  I'll make sure of it.  Now..."  She repeated her languid, crotch-indicating gesture.  "Hop to it, or more precisely, slither to it."

I lost my battle not to giggle, squirmed and rolled between Brows' splayed legs, and did, indeed, slither to it, the "it" in question being my house guest's hirsute pussy.

"You're a horrible, horrible person, Brows Magee," I intoned, then set to work.

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Chapter 3

Chapter 5

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