"I know how to cause

by Van ©2017

Chapter 5

Dramatis Personæ


As happened during my previous sleepover with Brow's, back at the cabin, sometime in the early morning I was untied by an unknown, kind, and considerate stranger (or Brows).  In any case, when I awoke at the crack of dawn I was rope-free and clad only in my white cotton tank top.  I sat up in bed, stretched, and noted the tangle of white cotton clothesline half on and half off the bed, as well as the ACE™ bandage next to Brows' disgusting, crumpled, and saliva-soaked (my saliva) panties.  Brows was still sharing the bed, of course, and was naked and unconscious with her limbs akimbo.

I heaved a sigh of truly tragic proportions worthy of what I realized was a colossal about-to-be-missed opportunity.  There was a naked, unsuspecting Brows, sprawled on her stomach next to everything required for me to take my Fully Justified Righteous Revenge on her naked, unsuspecting, perfidious body... and I couldn't do it.  Mom had either come home during the night or would be home at any moment.  If she walked in and found Brows hogtied or ball-tied and/or suspended from the exposed rafters of my bedroom it would be awkward to explain.

Okay, Mom would have understood perfectly (being a DiD-sister), but she still would have made me untie her and would have taken her side (or been neutral, at best) when Brows took her counter-revenge (or tried to, anyway).

So, no immediate revenge.  Instead, I executed plan B by smacking Brows on her right butt-cheek, one time, then climbed from bed and peeled off my tank top.

"What was that for?" Brows demanded in a bleary-eyed, half-awake manner.

"Because," I explained sagely.  "Also, I'm going first in the shower."

"Some hostess you are," Brows muttered as I made my exit.

Minutes later—squeaky clean, my hair dry (90%), and ready to face the day—I padded back to my bedroom.  A naked Brows (still half-asleep) passed me in the hall and her semi-somnambulant state allowed me to plant another smack on her derriere with impunity.

"Hey!" she complained, but continued shuffling like a zombie towards the bathroom.

I considered hiding her clothes once I returned to my boudoir, but instead, dressed for the day in sneakers, panties, jeans, a different tank-top, and a cotton blouse.  I did steal Brow's panties, but only so I could cleverly hide them in my hamper to be laundered and returned at some future date.  Brows could either go commando or steal a pair of my panties.

Fully dressed, I went to the kitchen and began preparations for breakfast.  I decided on pancakes and bacon—and coffee, of course.  Coffee was my first priority.

By the time the bacon was sizzling and I was beating the pancake batter, Brows staggered into the kitchen dressed in her sneakers, cargo-shorts, and work-shirt.  Whether her status was commando or panties-thief was unclear, and frankly, I wasn't that interested.  Coffee made her human (or more human-like) and we chatted while I finished preparing breakfast.

Halfway through the meal, I finally got my answer as to how Mom got back to Checkerspot Meadows after such a brief interval (IMHO) as Brows' model/damsel-in-distress the previous day.  At that point two things happened:
1.  I exploded in a fit of righteously indignant rage.

2.  Mom walked in the door, finally returning from escorting Libby home (and whatever happened afterwards).
Why rage, you ask?  It turns out that just before moving into the cabin, Bows purchased herself a nice digital camera, and the day of Mom's big chair-tie modeling gig—after her usual hour of painting and memorizing every visual detail of her model (and her predicament)—Brows used said camera to take several HD reference photos of Mom (and her predicament) for later use if required—and then—SHE UNTIED HER!

Just to be crystal clear... after one stinking hour of my mom being tied to the chair, Brows snapped a few pictures with her fancy new camera, THEN UNTIED HER!  And what happened during the three additional hours that passed before Mom finally decided to stroll home and read me the riot act for stealing her clothes?  Mom sat around the cabin, sipped coffee, watched Brows paint, and THEY chatted about my childhood.  No doubt she spilled all my juiciest pre- and post-pubscent secrets!  ARRRRRGH!

Mom demanded to know what had my fur on end.  I pointed at Brows, made several inarticulate but very expressive animal-like noises, then stomped from the kitchen—immediately returned to grab my fork, the plate with my remaining pancakes and bacon, refilled my coffee mug—then re-stomped from the kitchen.  I finished breakfast in my room in sullen self-exile.

The issue, of course, was that Brows didn't see fit to use her fancy new camera to snap reference photos of me when I was semi-suspended under the oak out by the pond, and didn't untie me after my first hour of modeling agony.  I was already mad about the hour thing, of course, but her non-use of her camera was further evidence that she let me suffer in her tight, exquisitely tied ropes ON PURPOSE for all those hours and hours and hours!

I resolved to never ever ever forgive her (meaning Brows) and to never ever ever speak to her ever ever ever again!  It was now stunningly clear that Brows Magee is a horrible, horrible, horrible (feel free to insert additional horribles) person and NOT my BFF!

That lasted less than an hour.  Brows showed up at my bedroom (where I was still doing my Achilles-sulking-in-his-tent routine), knocked on the doorjamb, and entered.  She was the very picture of a contrite, ashamed, and remorseful waif.  I ignored her completely, of course, seething in my righteous anger.

Brows explained that she hadn't used her new camera on me because she hadn't yet read the entire booklet that came with it and wasn't sure she'd be able to take good photos of my semi-suspend, fully nude, and fully roped loveliness.  I didn't buy it for an instant.  Who buys a cool new toy and doesn't figure out how to use it immediately?

Next, she casually mentioned that during my absence she'd gotten Mom to confess that she had, indeed, spent the previous night at Libby's place.  Brows hadn't gotten Mom to explicitly state that she also spent the night in Libby's bed, but did manage to finagle several strong hints to that effect.

Solid, incontrovertible proof that Mother Dearest and Adorable Libby were now a romantic item?  Wow!  Screw that camera shit!  This was way too cool to waste with sulking, pouting, and brooding, no matter how justified or satisfying.  Okay, the Mom/Libby Affair was rumor and innuendo, not fact, but who cares?

"Wow!" I gasped, instantly coming out of my shell.  Brows and I giggled like gossiping school girls.  "By the way," I added, "I forgive you for your inexcusable abuse of my innocent, trusting self."

"What inexcusable abuse?" Brows inquired, but I ignored the question and we went back to discussing the cosmic ramifications of Mom and Libby being in love.

And in case you're wondering if I really forgave my BFF her camera-less perfidy...  To quote the old Klingon proverb: "Revenge is a dish best served cold."  Of course I was gonna get Brows back... somewhere... sometime... somehow.

 Chapter 5

As previously mentioned, the days before Mom's Great Chair-Tie Adventure she was cool, calm, collected.  She didn't overtly fret and worry about what Brows was gonna do to her and was no fun at all.  What a bummer.  That's the down side of bondage pranks between DiD-sisters: there's always at least some level of nonchalance.

Libby, on the other hand...

The days before her scheduled modeling gig at Brow's Cabin were a hoot and a half.  Mom and I were very careful not to play things up, but we didn't have to.  Libby kept trolling for intel about Brow's intentions, efforts which slowly escalated into downright begging and cajoling.  She was adorable.

And whenever Brows was around, Libby watched her every move, like a sparrow casually hanging out with a falcon.  Brows was enjoying the show as much as us Wahlberg Girls, but would tell her soon-to-be model nothing, only reassure her that she'd be perfectly comfortable and the end result would be a truly magnificent work of art about which, as the model, she'd be eternally and justifiably proud (if the artist did say so herself, which she did).

I know, I know, we're terrible people for letting poor Libby stew in her juices and suffer like that, but at least Mom and I had an excuse in that we had absolutely no idea what Brows had in mind for poor Libby.  Brows, of course, had zero excuse.  Brows is a terrible person.

Anyway, to quote Oscar Wilde: "The suspense is terrible.  I hope it will last."

Libby wasn't really suffering.  Nervous?  Yes.  Suffering?  No.  We could tell.  The four of us chatted, shared meals, went jogging, sunbathed down by the pond, kept to our yoga routine, made trips to town, and all the while Libby was adorable and nervous.

And then... The Big Day arrived!

Mother and I entered Brow's Cabin with Libby in tow.  All three of us were in sneakers, jeans, and blouses.  Mom and I were there for moral support, of course, and not simply to rubberneck and leer while Brows tied up poor Libby.  Okay, we were totally there to rubberneck and leer while Brows tied up poor Libby, just like Libby and I had enjoyed watching Brows bind Mother to the Perfect Bondage Chair.  The PBC was still present, by the way, having been absorbed into the cabin decor.  It was tucked against a wall and waiting to receive its next unsuspecting victim, but was not a part of Brow's current intended composition.  The focus of said composition was obvious, however, and it was...

The Bed!  Brow's very own, neatly made, queen-size bed!

Facing the bed were Brow's stool, paint stand, and easel with fresh canvas.  I noted that the pristine, tautly stretched canvas was in landscape mode, clamped in place with the long side horizontal.  Oh-by-the-way, the dreaded serpentine coils of conditioned three-strand hemp rope were neatly arranged on the floor off to one side.

Meanwhile, Brows, dressed in her usual sneakers, shorts, and work-shirt, ignored Mother and myself completely, made a beeline for Libby, and gave her a welcome-to-my-parlor kiss.  "Hey," she said (to Libby).

"Uh, hey," Libby answered (with a nervous blush).

Mom and I exchanged a knowing smile.  Adorable.  Libby was adorable.  What?  Okay, okay, I won't mention it again.  Consider it a given.  The air was 21% oxygen, the gravity was earth-normal, and Libby was adorable.  There, satisfied?

"Did you tinkle?" Brows asked her model.

"Huh?" Libby responded, and her blush deepened.  "Uh, no."

Brows indicated the cabin's bathroom door with a graceful gesture.  "Be my guest."

Still blushing, Libby strolled to the bathroom, entered, and closed the door.

Now we had Brow's attention.  "Good.  Hi.  Now..."  She selected a coil of rope from her cache and released its retaining hitch.  "I've figured out a way to put Libby more at ease," she explained as she found the rope's center and formed a loop.  "You two strip and I'll tie you up.  That way Libby won't be the only one."  She smiled brightly.  "Sound like a plan?"

Mom and I exchanged a knowing grin.  It was a plan alright, a Brows plan.

Mom turned to me.  "If I hold her, do you think you could peel her out of those clothes without ripping anything?"

I shrugged.  "That would be up to her, the critical variable being how hard she struggles.  Hogtie?"

"Extreme hogtie," Mom nodded.  We both smiled and examined Brows like she was... someone we were about to strip naked and hogtie.

"Extreme," I agreed, perfectly deadpan, "with big toe involvement.  A pity her hair's so short."

"No problem," Mom purred.  "We'll use her gag."

"Yes," I nodded, "toes-to-gag hogtie."

"Toes-to-gag-to-crotch-rope hogtie," Mom elaborated.

"With everything as taut as a fiddle string," I agreed.

Brows smiled back as we discussed bundling her into a super-tight, super-uncomfortable, super-naked package.  She knew we were kidding.  "So... no naked captive audience?"

"Not gonna happen," Mom chuckled.

I shook my head.

"Spoilsports," Brows sighed just as Libby emerged from the bathroom.  "Pardon me while I pounce," she whispered quietly, let the rope fall from her hands, then turned and sauntered towards her model.

"Never a dull moment with that one around," Mom whispered to me.

"You just now noticed?" I whispered back.

Meanwhile, Brows had planted another kiss on Libby's lips and was leading her towards the bed.  "You know I have the utmost respect for all my models," she said, "right?"  Obviously, she really was trying to put Libby at ease.

Libby nodded.

"Undress for me, please," Brows said quietly.

We watched while Libby did just that.  It didn't take long.  It turned out Libby had followed my mother's example from when it had been her turn and had arrived at the cabin sans underwear.  Soon, Libby's jeans were neatly folded, as was her blouse, and both were in a neat stack with her sneakers on top.

Once Libby was nude...  (Three guesses as to whether or not Libby was blushing, and the first two don't count.)  ...Brows helped her recline on her back on the taut bedspread and set to work.

Again, I'll spare you the hitch-by-hitch and cut to the chase.

When Brows finally stepped back from the bed, Libby was on her back in a full-stretch, barely-able-to-wiggle, four-point spread-eagle!  Only her wrists and ankles were bound, but she was really helpless.  A pair of multi-strand sets of rope stretched from each lashing point, one vertical and the other horizontal.  Here, I'll make you a diagram.  It's from the point of view of a mouse in the rafters looking down:








That should do it.  What?  You wanted actual art?  I'm a sculptor.  Anyway, the vertical ropes were either stretched up to the headboard or down to the footboard and the horizontal ropes stretched to either the left or right side-rails.  In all cases the terminal knots were tied down near the floor.  All the ropes were taut, not taught enough to dimple the mattress, but Libby had zero slack.  She was four-points-stuck and going nowhere at 2.5 mach.

Okay, it was a spread-eagle, big whoop.  It wasn't like this was my first experience with a spread-eagle.  (Far from it.)  It's just that Brows had done a really good job, and the lack of diagonal lines other than Libby's outstretched limbs was a really nice feature, artistically speaking.  Also, while Libby was in full stretch, she was pinned in place but not really stretched, not like she'd have been if she was on a torture rack.

And speaking of Libby...  In more breaking news, Libby was beautiful.  The pose flattened her breasts, but not totally.  Libby has sufficient volume of boobilage for her girls to maintain at least some portion of their natural globularity even when she's spreadeagled.  Her muscles were defined, her skin tan and smooth, and between her legs...  Let's just say Libby's pussy would have inspired Georgia O'Keeffe to paint her best orchid ever.  (That's an Art joke.  You're welcome.)

So... there she was, except for one remaining minor embellishment.  Brows planted another kiss on Libby's lips (the lips on her face), them stretched a wide strip of Elastoplast® medical tape, the off-white variety, and pressed it in place.  Libby was now naked, spreadeagled, and tape-gagged.  Her lips (the ones on her face) stood out in three-dimensional relief, but were now sealed.

Mother and I smiled and gazed at Libby's weak, pathetic courtesy struggle.  It was more like a courtesy wiggle.  I noticed that Mom's face, especially her forehead, had taken on a charming glow.  I decided not to mention it.

Meanwhile, Brows' butt was already on her stool and she was sketching away with a soft pencil.  Mother and I continued our appreciative stares.  Libby continued her laughably inadequate "struggles."

Seconds passed... turned into a minute... then two.

Finally, Brows paused and frowned in our direction.  "You're still here," she noted, then went back to sketching.  "Get out."

I took Mom by the elbow and led her to the cabin door.  We both paused in the threshold to blow kisses to the Prisoner of the Bed, then made our exit, abandoning Libby to the tender mercy of Brows Magee.

"You forgot to steal Libby's clothes," I noted after about a dozen steps.  "I'll wait here while you go back."

Mom favored me with her best Mother-is-not-amused stare.  "I'm beginning to think that bullshit they taught me about humane child-rearing practices in prenatal class really was bullshit."

"Spanking?" I inquired with a grin.

"You deserve it," Mom purred.

"You'll have to catch me first," I noted, then sprinted for home.  Mom was in hot pursuit.  "Don't forget to tell Brows to e-mail you copies when she gets around to taking reference photos with her new camera!" I called back over my right shoulder.

"Two spankings!" Mom shouted back.

 Chapter 5

We arrived at Checkerspot Meadows panting and laughing.  Having formulated a clever plan to preempt any spanking (or spankings) I scampered into the kitchen and started brewing a pot of coffee.  Mom was still in pursuit, but when she saw what I was doing she sighed and walked away.  Huzzah!  My strategy had succeeded!  Total victory was mine!

It turned out my triumph was premature.  The coffeemaker's reservoir was full, fresh grounds were in the reusable filter and it was in position, the clean (well, rinsed) carafe was also in position, and I'd just hit the "Brew" button when Mom returned to the kitchen.  Without preamble she grabbed my arms, spun me around, and began binding my crossed wrists behind my back with a length from her white cotton clothesline collection.

"Mother!" I complained.

"Quiet," Mom ordered.

I took the occasion to test my bonds, but Mom had done a good job (again).  The key knot was well away from my groping, fluttering fingers.

"This is mean," I huffed.  "Hey!"  Mom had sat in a kitchen chair and pulled me down across her lap, face down and denim-clad rump up.  She held my bound wrists to the side and out of the way with one hand, then rained stinging, painful blows on my left butt-cheek with the other.  "Ow!"

Truth be told, the "painful blows" were little more than taps and the "rain" consisted of only six drops... or slaps... or whatever.

"That's one spanking," Mom announced, then repeated my punishment on my right butt-cheek.  I suppose you could call it punishment.  "And that's two."  She lifted me off her lap, stood, then went to the cupboard and took down two clean mugs.

I pouted and did my best to comfort my denim-covered, pink and tingling butt-cheeks with my bound hands.  Okay, I pouted and pretended my denim-covered butt-cheeks actually were pink and tingling or that I had an actual reason to pout (other than my wrists being bound).  Also, I managed not to giggle.

Meanwhile, the coffeemaker finished its cycle and Mom filled the two mugs.

"We ought to get a single-cup machine," I suggested, "like Brows."  (I do my best to be a diligent consumer.)

Mom shook her head.  "This one is fine, and those coffee pod things are absurdly overpriced and constitute an unconscionable environmental burden."

"All that extra plastic going to landfills," I agreed, "but that's why we'd use reusable pods, tiny versions of the plastic and metal mesh filter we're already using.  We can keep the current machine for groups and parties, and besides... hot cocoa!"

Mom sipped her coffee.  "Hot cocoa?"

"They sell specialty drink pods in addition to different blends of coffee," I explained, "including cocoa.  Double chocolate?  Salted caramel?  Marshmallow?  Single cups whenever you want!  No muss, no fuss, no cleaning burnt sludge off the bottom of the pot!"

"I'll think about it," Mom chuckled, then held the second mug to my lips so I could take a careful sip.

Now...  By this time you know enough about us Wahlberg Girls and what goes on at Checkerspot Meadows to know that Mom doesn't tie me up on a regular basis.  In fact, before Brows moved into the cabin, it had been... years?  Months, for sure.  Anyway, here I was, playing coffee-sipping baby bird to Mom's coffee-serving momma bird with my hands tied behind my back.  Something was up, possibly another Nancy Drew incident, and I had a pretty good idea why.

Mom was horny.

There, I said it.  The sight of her BFF, and now (apparently) her new BFF-with-benefits, all naked and lashed to Brows' bed, had her frustrated and aroused.  So why was I her bound prisoner?  Collateral damage.  Mom needed to work off her nervous (horny) tension, and what better way than to tie up her daughter and spank her butt?  Anyway, I decided to go along.  That was an eminently sensible plan, of course, since I'd already tried and failed to untie myself.

We made small talk and sipped (or were served) coffee, then lounged around the living room.  We avoided the topic of what was happening at Brows Cabin.  I could tell Mom was still hot and bothered and didn't want to exacerbate her condition (and thereby escalate my captivity).  Anyway, I remained Mom's bound prisoner and apparently would remain so until her BFF returned from Brows' Cabin.  Illogical?  Ya think?  But what's logic got to do with anything?

An hour passed... then an hour and fifteen minutes... then an hour and a half.

Finally, Mom decided enough was enough.  She stood, strolled into her bedroom, and returned with her iPhone.  She'd already placed a call and was waiting for the other party (Brows?) to answer... then sighed and gave up.  Almost immediately the phone made that weird gleek noise that sounds like a frog swallowing a croak and signals an incoming text.  I watched, idly tugging on my bound wrists, as Mom read the message... then thumb-tapped a reply.  Gleek!  Tap-tap-tap...  Gleek!  Tap-tap-tap...  The cycle repeated a few times with Mom's smile growing ever more sinister, or so I imagined.  It turned out my imagination was dead on.

Finally, texting complete, Mom pocketed her phone and pulled me to my feet.  "Come," she ordered, and dragged me to my bedroom.

Like I had a choice.  "What's going on?" I demanded.  "What was all that texting?"

Mom plunked me down on my bed, then knelt at my feet and removed my sneakers, followed by my anklets.  "Hostage negotiations," Mom answered.


"Hostage negotiations," Mom reiterated.  "I've convinced Brows to release Libby in exchange for a ransom."

"Ransom?" I asked (meaning whined).

Mom was leaving the bedroom.  "That would be you," she explained, then shouted from the hallway.  "Stay put!"

I sat on my bed and tugged on my wrist bonds, again.  I considered making a run for it, but knew I wouldn't get far.  Even if I made it out of the house, I was now barefoot, Mom wasn't, and we're both good runners.  I might be able to maintain a decent lead, at least for a while, but my feet would pay the price.

Just then, Mom returned with more coils of clothesline in her hands.

"Mom!" I complained (whined).  I was dragged to the middle of my bed, then Mom crossed my ankles and bound them together.  Next, she tied a kimono-style chest-harness, one that encircled my chest above my breasts and yoked my shoulders but didn't pin my upper-arms to my sides.  I continued to whine, bitch, and moan (see also whimper) but was ignored.  Mom rolled me onto my stomach, passed the long free ends of the chest-harness through my ankle bonds, up and back through the the chest-harness, then pulled out the slack.

"Ow!"  I complained.  Okay, it didn't hurt, but I was supposed to complain.  It was expected.  The still somewhat long remaining ropes were passed back down to my ankles, through my wrist-bonds, back to my ankles, then up to the harness.  More slack was removed.  "Mom!"  All possible slack was removed.  "Mother!"

The mother in question had tied the final (key) knot through the shoulder-yoking harness-ropes at the nape of my neck and was climbing off the bed.  In case you had trouble following all that, I was now in a stringent, back-bending hogtie.  I turned my head and watched Mom rummage through my chest of drawers.  "This is mean," I noted.

Mom was intent on her search.  "Where do you keep your...  Never mind.  Found 'em."  She returned to the bed with two items: (1) a lightweight summer scarf in pale shades of blue and gray, and (2) a neatly folded blue and white bandanna. 

Before I could do more that stare in wide-eyed alarm and open my mouth to sputter another complaint (which I knew would be ignored), the already folded bandanna was folded again, then thrust in said mouth.  The scarf followed, first as a cleave-gag through the fold in the bandanna to keep it in place, then from either side as a multi-layered OTM-gag.  It was easily long enough, and enough fabric remained for Mom to tie a nice, tight square-knot at the nape of my neck and under my hair.  It was an old and slightly ratty scarf, which is probably why Mom chose it to gag her lovely daughter... that and the way the colors complement my eyes.

So, hogtied (meaning really hogtied) and well-gagged, there I was, rolling on my bed while my mother watched.  Courtesy struggle?  Yes, but if I could have freed myself, I certainly would have.  Role-playing as a kidnap victim?  That I could live with.  But role-playing as the ransom payment?  That was not to be endured (unless you happen to be bound and gagged, of course).

"Mrrrrpfh!" I complained, rolled onto my side, and stared daggers at my smiling mother.  I really do need to get better daggers.  My present collection is frakkin' worthless.

"Now," Mother purred, "wait here."  And with that clever and helpful suggestion, she left.

"Mrrrrr!"  My well-muffled complaint sped after her and was ignored like all the rest.

The bedroom door closed and there I was, alone, helpless on my bed, well-gagged, and left to languish in an agonizing hogtie—meaning a stringent-but-nothing-a-practicing-yogi-like-myself-couldn't-handle hogtie.

 Chapter 5

I languished in Mother's cruel cotton for more than an hour.  Wait.  "Cruel cotton."  That's just lame.  It sounds like a line of hipster t-shirts that only come in black.  Granted, my bonds were 100% cotton clothesline, but "cruel cotton?"  Sheesh.  Anyway...

I languished on the bed (that's better) for more than an hour.  Then (finally) heard the thudding footfalls of an approaching herd in the hallway.  My bedroom door opened... and a herd of three entered: Mom, Libby, and Brows Magee.  All three were dressed (or undressed) as when last I'd seen them; however, Libby's conditioned hemp rope ensemble had been rearranged.

Libby's upper-body was now bound in a classic, traditional, Mark-I, plain vanilla box-tie.  That is, her arms were folded behind the back and a neat harness of ropes passed above and below the boobs, yoked her shoulders, and pinned her upper-arms against her sides.  A box-tie.  Then, she turned slightly and I caught a glimpse of her wrist and forearm bondage.  Said wrists and forearms were horizontal and pressed together and her rigger (Brows, obviously) had neatly wrapped them in hemp coils from her left wrist to her right elbow and (consequently) her left elbow to her right wrist.  I guess it was a French-vanilla box-tie.

Also, a rope leash was tied around Libby's neck with its far end in Brow's hand.  Her lips and most of her lower face were still Elasoplasted.  (Is that a word?)  Libby was otherwise naked and looked a little worried, or maybe a little excited, or maybe both.  She was absolutely ador-  Oops!  I almost used the "A-word."  Libby was delightful.  Also cute-as-a-bug and kiss-on-sight precious.

"As you can see," Mom said to Brows, indicating the bed and yours truly with a graceful flip of the wrist, "your ransom payment, as requested."  She then held out her hand, expectantly.

Brows took a second or two to leer at my captive condition, then placed the end of Libby's leash in Mother's hand.  "It's been a pleasure doing business with you," she purred.

Mom smiled, planted a kiss on Brow's cheek, then gave Libby's leash a gentle tug.  "We'll be at Magnificent McDermott Manor," she announced, and led the naked and now "freed" hostage away.

"Magnificent McDermott Manor" is Libby's place, of course.  Libby and I, the two prisoners, had time to exchange one quick gagged, commiserative look of the utmost pitifulness, and then the old folks were gone and it was just Brows and myself... and Brows was grinning down at me like I was a surf and turf dinner and she hadn't eaten in a week.

I'd already tried staring daggers.  Daggers didn't work.  A different approach was called for.  I squirmed in my maternally-applied bonds, batted my eyes, and whimpered through my maternally-applied gag.

Brows rolled her eyes and sat on the bed.  I thought I might be detecting a hint of a blush coloring her cheeks, so maybe my Frightened Damsel routine had found a chink in her villainous armor.  As it turned out, not so much.

"All mine," she gloated.  I swear, if Brows had a long mustache she'd have twirled it.  She reached out and gently tugged on the fabric of my blouse.  "It was nice of your mom to leave you so nicely gift wrapped... doubly gift wrapped if you count the ropes and your clothes.  Mother Wahlberg can tie a mean hogtie, can't she?"

I revived the tactic of staring daggers, with predictable results.  I also growled through my gag—  "Mrrrrpfh!"  —and squirmed in my "mean hogtie."

"Now," Brows continued.  She shifted from tugging on my blouse to twirling a long lock of my blond hair between her fingers.  "I have a decision to make.  Specifically, will we be spending the night at Checkerspot Meadows? ...or at my cabin?  And it's my decision 'cause you'll remain my helpless, tied up prisoner the whole time, regardless."

Okay, Frightened Damsel had failed.  Visual daggers had failed.  I decided to ignore Brows completely, by which I mean really ignore her.  Maybe the psychic energy of my complete and total indifference would make her vanish in a puff of brimstone-scented smoke.  The problem, of course, was that would leave me hogtied and gagged on my bed until Mom returned in the morning... after a night of naked whoopee with Libby.

In the first place, Mom and Libby making naked whoopee?  Yuck, with a side of shivering revulsion!  In the second place, hogtied this tight all night?  Bummer!  I did the only sensible thing and heaved a gagged sigh that would have broken the heart of any normal person.  Unfortunately, the only normal person in the room was myself.

Meanwhile, Brows was busy unbuttoning the buttons of my blouse.  Her obvious targets were my sweater puppies.  She finished dealing with the buttons and tugged the front of my blouse to either side, sliding it off my shoulders and as far as Mom's kimono-harness clothesline bonds would allow.  However, my boobs had a second line of defense in the form of my tank top.  Hah!  Take that!

Brows could have simply taken a firm grip and ripped the tank top asunder.  The problem was, that would cross the line into what the Bible calls "the rending of garments," which is not only rude but quickly gets expensive.  Instead, she decided to lay siege to my twin forts by tunneling.  That is, she slid her left hand under my tank top, took a firm (but gentle) grip on my right breast, and squeezed.

This went on for a while, with both my right and left breasts getting attention, as well as both nipples.  She then unbuttoned and unzipped my jeans, tugged them down as far as my splayed and bent knees would allow, then did the same with my panties.  I struggled and squirmed and did my best to protect my virtue.  That is, I pretended to resist Brows' efforts and protect my virtue.  My "struggles" were energetic, but my attempts to roll away, flex my legs, or lift my hips were poorly timed and only seemed to expedite the process.  Go figure.


Brows embraced me from behind, reached around my helpless, hogtied body, and began caressing my now naked pussy and dark-blond bush with her right hand.

"Do you own a vibrator?" Brows whispered in my right ear.

I shook my head and moaned through gag.  "Nrrr!"  That was I baldfaced and well-muffled lie, of course.  I own a Hitachi HV260 Vibratex Magic Wand®.  His name is "Bruce" and he's cunningly hidden in the bottom drawer of my chest of drawers (with convenient extension cord already attached) where Brows would never find him... or would find him somewhat easily if she only bothered to look.  Anyway, I was gagged and unable to betray Bruce.  He was on his own.  Run, Bruce, run!

"No vibrator?" Brows chuckled.  "We'll have to make another trip to Bed, Bath, & Beyond®."

What? I remember thinking.  I was distracted.  Brows' hand was still sliding and slithering and her fingers were probing and prodding... gently, of course.  She was good.  Not as good as Bruce, but Brows was good.

"There's no rush," the Bruce substitute in question purred.

"Mrrrrf!"  [Gaglish to English: "Speak for yourself."]

"I'll decide whose bed we'll be sleeping in later."

Oh.  That.  Sleeping.

I continued squirming and writhing, then decided to add sweating and being somewhat overheated to the mix.

Brows continued diddling poor, innocent, bound and gagged moi and, I assume, contemplating the sleeping location options.

 Chapter 5


Chapter 4


Chapter 6