THINGS  YOU  NEED  TO  KNOW  ABOUT
		by Van ©2017
		Chapter 6

After she finished diddling me, I decided to preempt Brows' sleeping location decision.  I'd "suffered" a nice orgasm and Brows had climbed off the bed, apparently to scamper into the bathroom and wash her hands.  I remained behind, helpless in Mother's cunningly tied clothesline-kimono-harness-hogtie and gagged with my pretty blue and gray summer scarf (with blue bandanna stuffing).  My jeans, panties, blouse, and tank top remained in slightly sweaty dishabille.

Actually, taking a nap wasn't an actual choice.  It simply happened.  ...  But it was a brief nap.  I came awake to find Brows untying the hogtie/kimono-harness portion of my bondage.  Ah-hah!  This was my chance!  I played possum while she pulled my blouse and tank top back and/or over my head and down my arms until the bunched garments were stopped by my crossed and bound wrists.  She'd have to untie said wrists to get them all the way off, and then... I'd pounce!  Revenge would be mine!

"You know," Brows said in an amused voice as she sorted out the former harness/hogtie rope by doubling it, finding the center, and forming a loop.  "Libby and I had an interesting conversation as I released her from my bed and showed her the procedure for tying a basic box-tie."

Obviously, Brows knew I was awake and faking post-orgasmic depletion.  "Do tell," I responded.  My actual response was more like "Mrrrmpfh," of course, but I think she understood.

"I explained how a person doesn't have to be a strong, cunning, ninja-warrior like myself," she continued, "to control an already helpless captive, even a tall blond shield-maiden like yourself."

Brows is fit and athletic, for a pixie, but she's no ninja.  However, I did appreciate the "tall blond shield-maiden" compliment.

"The trick is to never grant your captive enough freedom for her to mount an effective resistance."

I heaved a long-suffering sigh.  Brows was making her point by using the former hogtie rope to bind my elbows together—and as it was just her and me and no newbies like Libby were present to be frightened by her ruthlessness—when I say together, I mean together.  Brows was in mean-girl mode.  My elbows were touching, and would remain touching until she untied them.  She'd taken at least a dozen carefully compacted and neatly stacked doubled turns before taking the final cinch, so the pressure was evenly distributed from my elbows to halfway up my upper-arms.  I figure I'd be able to take it for at least, oh, say... fifteen minutes before the agony set in?  Okay, an hour, possibly two.  I'm just glad Brows isn't really a mean-girl.

I heaved another sigh as she untied my wrists, pulled my blouse and tank-top free, then re-tied them, this time with my hands palm-to-palm, with thumb involvement and the key knot tied through my elbow-bonds.  She then untied my ankles, stripped my jeans and panties the rest of the way down, tugged them free, then used the ankle-rope to tie a nice dogie-leash around my neck.

Nude, bound, gagged, and leashed, I sat on the rumpled bed (now with wet-spot) and watched as Brows cleaned up, and by the gross overstatement of "cleaned up" I mean she tossed my rumpled clothes in the general direction of my closet.  She then took hold of my leash and pulled me to my bare feet.

"I've made my decision," she announced.  "We slept here last time, so we'll go back to the cabin this time."

It was hard to argue with such logic, especially with a folded bandanna stuffed in your mouth and multiple layers of scarf cleaving said mouth and tightly covering your lower face.  I agreed, as best I could.  "Mrrrfh."  Not that my opinion mattered, of course.

So, we were off.  Brows dragged me by her leash in a complete circuit of Checkerspot Meadows, checking to make sure all the windows were down and latched and the front door was double-locked.  Mom had made the abysmally poor decision of giving Brows a spare key, "in case of emergencies," so we could exit through the kitchen door and Brows could double-lock it from the outside.

What was Mom thinking?  Didn't she realize the dangerous situation she'd created?  Now, Brows could sneak into the Meadows at any time of the day or night and kidnap people (meaning me).  I'd have to put my foot down and make her take back the key at the first opportunity.  That assumes I ever returned from Brows' Cabin and wouldn't be spending the rest of my days as Brows' prisoner, by which I mean her naked whoopee-slave, of course.

Anyway, now that Checkerspot Meadows was secure, we strolled down the road to the cabin (or padded, in my case).  Woe is me!  What would be my fate?  And how could I get Brows to untie my elbows as soon as possible?

As we entered Brows' Cabin it occurred to me that I'd just completed a naked round trip.  That is, I'd done my Naked Walk of Shame from the cabin to Checkerspot Meadows the morning after my modeling gig, and now I was making a Naked Walk of Captivity from the Meadows back to the cabin the afternoon of Libby's gig.  Granted, the events were days apart, but in terms of naked sojourning I'd come full circle.  What it meant, I had no idea.  Probably nothing.  But I did think about it.

Most of the hemp rope Brows had used to spread-eagle Libby was still on the bed.  Some had made the trip to the Meadows and on to Libby's place and was probably still binding Lovely Libby, but the majority was a tangled mass on the bed.  Brows' paint stand and easel were still set up, of course, and she dropped my leash and made a beeline for the canvas.  She unwrapped her brushes, added fresh globs of paint to her palette, and set to work—or rather, resumed work.

Naked, wrists and elbows tied behind my back, gagged, and my leash dangling between my breasts, I watched Brows dab away.  As I've already said, she's good.  She's very good, and her current painting-in-progress of Libby-of-the-bed was amazingly good (IMHO), and it was only half-finished.  And by half-finished I mean there was still some white-space in the background and Brows would be fussing with the thing for days to come.

My masterpiece, by the way, meaning Brows' depiction of yours truly, was finished and already at the gallery that handled most of her paintings.  I call it "The Martyrdom of Saint Londyn Under the Pagan Oak," but Brows had decreed that it enter her catalog under the title "Londyn #1."  She was almost done tinkering with Mom's painting ("Kimberly #1") and it would be following mine later in the week.  I assume her current work is "Libby #1."

I continued watching Brows work.  It occurred to me that the "#1" designations were a little... ominous.  It suggested she thought there would be #2's, #3's, etc.  Ominous.

It also occurred to me that my elbows were still roped together.  I casually padded to Brow's side and suggested that she might want to do something about it.  "Mrrrpfh."

Brows continued painting.

"Mrrrpfh!"

She was deepening the shadows under Libby's left leg with delicate dabs and blending strokes.

"Mrrrpfh!"

Brows heaved a sigh, cleaned her brush, then stood, faced me... and sighed again.

"Mrrrpfh!" I repeated, then turned my back and wiggled my elbows— Ouch! —or tried to wiggle them anyway.

Next thing I knew Brows was hustling me to the bed— "Mrrrpfh?" —and shoving me onto the mattress on my stomach (and boobs).  I landed with a bounce and my hair fluttered and covered my gagged face.  By the time I'd rolled onto my left side and tossed my head to clear my eyes, Brows was lashing my ankles together with a coil of hemp rope.  I watched as she tied the long free ends to the foot-board, down near the floor.

"Mrrrpfh!"

Brows then tied the end of my leash to the headboard.  It wasn't long enough for her to tie the knot down below, but with my wrists (and elbows) tied behind my back and limited slack in both the ankle-rope and leash, it didn't matter.  She then turned and returned to her painting.

I'd already tried appeals to common decency, threats of retribution, reminded her that we were ∆I∆ sisters, and preached that she'd be rewarded in Heaven for her kindness, all without the desired result.  That left pitiful begging and a heartbreaking display of abject misery.

"Mrrrpfh!"

Surprisingly, it worked.  Brows returned to the bed, rolled me over onto my boobs, and untied my elbows.  "Mrrr."  It felt good.  My wrists were still bound, of course.  So... ankles tied together and to the foot-board, leash tied to the headboard, wrists behind my back, and only enough slack to roll a little.  I was helpless.

I heaved another sigh and watched as once again Brows returned to her painting.

"Nrrrfh."  [Gaglish to English: "Thank you."]

"You're welcome," Brows muttered.  (All DiD-sisters are fluent in Gaglish.  We take classes.)  She never took her eyes off her painting of Libby spreadeagled on the bed, the very bed on which I was currently naked, bound, and gagged.

Brows continued painting.

I continued languishing.

It looked like this was gonna take a while.

It did take a while, but eventually either Brows was satisfied (for now) or her muse got bored.  A third possibility was that her stomach was growling.  I know mine was.  It was growing late in the day and we'd both foregone lunch for the pleasure of yours truly getting ravished on her bed back at the Meadows.

Dinner was grilled sausages, lightly toasted buns, caramelized onions, sauerkraut, stone-ground mustard, and some exotic roasted red peppers relish Brows found someplace.  I don't know what you call the sausages, exactly, but they were delicious!  Despite having been in the area only a limited time, Brows had already located the smokehouse and shop of the butcher who serves the local hunters.  I think the brats or tubular-steaks or whatever they're properly called were a mix of venison, elk, and pork, with a generous portion of garlic, some spices, and not too much black pepper.  Anyway, like I said, delicious!  We washed them down with bottles of Sam Adams Light.  Brows likes Sam Adams.  So do I.

So, another humiliating meal being hand fed by a grinning, gloating Brows Magee?  Surprisingly, no.  When the brats (lets go with 'brats') were on the grill and most of the prep well underway, Brows untied me... completely!  I hurried into the bathroom, took a tinkle, washed my face and hands, then hurried into the kitchen to help.  We ate al fresco at the picnic table just outside the cabin's side door.  I was still naked, of course, but I was... Londyn Unbound!

Anyhoozle... we chatted and sipped beer, devoured garlicky, greasy sausages-with-all-the-fixin's, and chatted.  Meanwhile, the sun was threatening to set and warned us that it wasn't going to wait while we lounged around and stuffed our faces, but Brows had a plan.  (Brows always has a plan.)  She ducked back into the cabin and returned with a really pretty candle-lantern.  Black iron, hand-forged frame, wavy glass globe, and with a big ol' triple-wick candle inside.  Pretty.  It was also an adequate, albeit limited, solar substitute.  How much light do you need to stuff sausages in your brat-hole, anyway?

I broached the topic of Brows' future artistic endeavors.  I was trying to determine whether I needed to update my passport and make a run for the Canadian border (abandoning Mother and Lovely Libby to their fates).  It turned out Brows had an an idea for her first ever group portrait.  I was curious, of course (and terrified), but all she said was that she was still doing online research for the proper "equipment" (which didn't sound ominous at all, of course) and that was it.

Brows did mention that she was counting on my help talking Mother and Lovely Libby into cooperating.  She did ask, but it was clear she simply assumed I'd not only acquiesce to some unspecified artistic doom for my maternal unit and her BFF, but would be her active co-conspirator.  She knew me too well, but that didn't mean I couldn't exact a price.  After all, I was betraying both my mother and a good and kind friend.  The least Brows should expect was that I'd want to turn a profit of some sort.

As we finished the last of the sausages and sipped the last of our beers, I presented my ultimatum.

Brows was amused.  "Fat chance," she chuckled.  "I'm the top, remember?  Fat chance."

I was not amused.  "In the first place," I intoned, "you are not the 'top'."

"Am too," Brows countered.

"Am not," I replied, stating the obvious.

This went on for a while.

"Am too."

"Am not."

"Am too."

"Am not."

Etc.

Finally, I broke the cycle (which you must agree is not something a "bottom" would have done).  "And in the second place," I continued, "lump it or leave it."

Brows smiled at me for several seconds... sipped the very last of her beer... then finally answered.  "Well then... I guess I'll lump it."

Victory was mine!  Also Exquisite Revenge and long overdue Righteous Retribution!  (See also Just Comeuppance... but not Just Desserts.  We were too full for dessert.)

"So," you ask, "what happened?  Please elaborate and elucidate!"  Well, since you ask so nicely...

I helped Brows clean up after the meal.  It didn't take long.  An increasingly faint but detectable caramelized onions odor would probably linger in the kitchen for an hour or so, but it was tolerable.

So.  What to do?  How to spend a pleasant evening at Brow's Cabin after a superb meal?  Hmmm...  'Tis a conundrum...  NOT!

"Get naked!" I barked in my best Wicked Dominatrix manner.

Brows smiled but managed not to laugh in my face.  She also complied.

Meanwhile, I was sorting out that portion of Brows' conditioned hemp damsel restraining rope collection that had remained in the cabin and not made the trip to Libby's house.  As for the three glaringly white coils from Mom's cotton clothesline stockpile, I neatly coiled them together and tossed them towards the front door.  I'd decided to go with the aesthetic elegance of a single medium, namely, hemp.

Soon the other component of my composition had divested herself of all habiliment and was awaiting my pleasure (so to speak).

Did I mention that Brows Magee is beautiful?  I think I did, but allow me to add that she is also CUTE, as in Sally Fields as Gidget cute, young Meg Ryan cute, and Batgirl-era Yvonne Craig cute.  She has this feisty but feminine tomboy thing going that's simply amaze-balls!  Her personality helps.  If this was Advanced Dungeons and Dragons made real, she'd be a Human Thief with maxed-out Charisma.  Maybe an Assassin-Thief, but one that refused to kill people so got herself kicked out of the Guild.  Anyway, naked Brows was shiveringly delectable, in looks and everything.

"What about you, Londyn?" you ask.  "What's your natural AD&D character?"

Aw, you're so sweet.  I'd be a truly formidable Human Fighter (shield-maiden) with maximum Charisma, Comeliness, Strength, Dexterity, etc., etc.) and with the humility to match.  Mom would be The Queen (also max. everything) or possibly a minor female deity.  And Libby?  Libby would make an outstanding Cleric.  I know when she smiles at me... I feel a little healed.  (Okay, I know—vomit—but Libby is nice.)

Back to the scene!

Again, imagine slithering doubled strands of conditioned hemp and Brows' progressive loss of freedom to your heart's content, but I'm dispensing with the hitch-by-hitch account.

The final product was Brows Magee, naked, her wrists tied together in front, arms raised, and wrists tied behind her head to the back of a Kikkou (diamond-hitch) body harness.  Also, her knees were bent and her ankles lashed to her thighs, frog-tie fashion.  Needless to say, the key knots, in fact all knots, were well beyond the reach of her fluttering and groping fingers, but I'll say it anyway.

Also, I know that with this kind of bent-arms-wrist-tie you need to make sure the damsel can't squirm her head through her arms, thereby getting her wrist-bonds within range of her lips and teeth.  This can be handled by really pulling her wrists back and making everything super tight, but I handled it the other way, by binding her upper arms together several inches apart behind her head.  There would be no head-squirming escape for Brows Magee.

As for a gag... for the moment, no gag.  I had plans for Brows' smiling lips and sassy tongue.

Brows' courtesy struggle took the form of her squirming on the bed, doing her best turtle-trapped-on-its-back imitation.

"Impressive," she said as she ceased her fruitless "struggles" and smiled up at me with her dimpled smile.

I gazed down at my captive, standing beside the bed with my arms folded under my breasts.  "Thank you," I purred.  Mom taught me to always be polite.  She never explicitly discussed naked, inescapably bound friends you intend to ravish and "force" to ravish you in her etiquette lessons, but I thanked Brows for her compliment, nonetheless.

"Now," I continued, "you're probably wondering why I've tied you in this fashion with your arms raised and your armpits so very, very vulnerable."

"Actually," Brows purred, "I sort of figured it out."

"Don't interrupt me when I'm gloating," I pouted.

"Sorry," Brows chuckled.  "Pray continue."

"Now I've lost my train of thought," I sighed, then my smile returned (and I dialed the sinister up to eleven).  "Now I remember.  Vulnerable armpits."  I flexed the fingers of my left hand into a credible imitation of feline claws and inspected my neatly manicured nails.  "I'm going to tickle you nonstop until dawn," I explained, perfectly deadpan, "pause for breakfast, then tickle you some more, possibly until..."  I raised an eyebrow.  "Noonish?"

Brows' smile faltered, or maybe she caused it to falter, knowing that was what I expected (and wanted).  "I'll scream," she stated.

"Inevitably," I agreed.  "But way out here, miles from nowhere in the Deep Dark Woods, with no one to hear you but your tickle-torturer and the local wildlife, what good will it do?"  I climbed onto the bed, took hold of the headboard, then positioned my knees to either side of Brow's torso with my knees nudging her armpits and my pussy hovering directly above her devilishly cute face.

"Oh no!" Brows sighed, still smiling and squirming in her bonds.  "You fiend!  You're going to tickle my lips with your pussy!"

I almost lost it.  It was close.  "Shuddup!"  I snapped (and giggled).  "Now, I'll give you one chance to earn an undeserved reprieve from your tickle-torture sentence.  Give me the crashing multiple orgasm of all crashing multiple orgasms and I won't tickle you."

Brows smiled up at my flushed labia and dark-blond bush, flat tummy, slightly hanging breasts, and evilly smiling (and breathtakingly beautiful) face.  "You won't tickle me... at all?"

"Oh, sweetie," I chuckled, "of course I'm going to tickle you, eventually, and if your desperate pleas, breathless giggling, and pitiful screams get to be too much, I've got your panties and my scarf ready to remedy the situation.  Your panties are really sweaty, by the way, no doubt from all those hours on that hard stool while you were painting."

Brows heaved a sigh.  "Well, don't tickle me 'til I'm insane, okay?  I've still got works of art to finish... and start."

"That's all up to you," I purred, then lowered my pussy an inch closer to her smiling lips.

Brows took her clue, licked her lips, extended her tongue and reached for her goal... and reached... then craned her neck, lifted her head, and tried again.  Finally, she rested her head on the mattress and stared daggers at yours truly.  I was pleased to learn that Brows' visual daggers were as ineffective as my own.  "Well... get it down here!" she huffed.

I smiled a truly oily smile.  "I never said I'd make it easy for you," I chuckled.

Brows arched her back, did her best to lift herself with her bound elbows, extended her tongue to full length, and this time managed to lick my labia.

"That's a good girl," I said with a shiver.  I let her strain and struggle to continue making lingual/labial contact for several entertaining seconds, then lowered myself until my increasingly wet pussy was within reach—but I made sure it wasn't within easy reach.  I still made her work for it.

"So," you ask, "what else happened during the night?  Did Brows manage to give you that crashing multi-O?  Did more orgasms follow?  Did you do her?  Did you flip a somersault into the 69 position and do each other?  Did you tickle Brows unmercifully?  Did you suck face between activities?  All of the above?"

You have a vivid (and perverse) imagination.  In a word, yes... except for the somersault part.  That would have been dangerous.  Anyway...

I awoke at dawn, smiled, sat up in bed, stretched...  and gasped in dismay!  "Gasp!"  I'd fallen asleep and failed to untie poor Brows!  She was still helplessly bound in the same turtle-on-its-back position!

Ever the Brave Little Damsel, Brows smiled up at me.  "Morning," she said with her brave little smile, then squirmed her brave little naked body.

"Oh, golly, sorry!" I gushed, rolled her over onto her stomach and began untying her bonds.

"Golly?" Brows chuckled, her mirthful inquiry was muffled by the rumpled sheets, but I managed to understand.  "Who says 'golly' these days?"

"Okay," I huffed.  "Shit!  Anyway... sorry."

I completed the task of untying Brows... which took a while... then watched as she stretched and awkwardly climbed from the bed.  I could almost hear her joints creak.  "I forgive you," she purred as she kissed my lips, "but you owe me."

"I know," I acknowledged with a sigh.

Brows stretched again, then pointed to the bed.  "I guess we ought to change those sheets," she said.

"No, ya think?" I quietly agreed.

"And by 'we' I mean 'you'."  Brows turned and headed for the bathroom.  "Strip the bed and coil all that rope while I take a shower," she ordered.

"Who died and made you queen?" I huffed, gazing at the rumpled bedclothes and tangled hemp.

"Who left me tied up and writhing in agony all night?" Brows countered.

"Uh, that would be me," I admitted, then turned back just in time to watch the bathroom door close.  Seconds passed... and I heard the sound of the shower running.  Well, I guess inconsiderate villains get what they deserve, which in this case was naked maid duty.

By the time I had the hemp rope neatly coiled and the bed stripped and the sheets stuffed into one of the pillowcases Brows emerged from the bathroom squeaky clean and toweling her short hair.

"That will do," Brows decreed.  "Now, go cook us some breakfast."

"Don't I get a shower?" I demanded.

"No," Brows chuckled, "but you can take a tinkle if you have to.  And wash your hands.  Who knows where those things have been?"

"Very funny," I huffed, then stomped into the bathroom where I did, indeed, wash my hands, then relieved myself, brushed my teeth with Brows' toothbrush, brushed my hair with Brow's hairbrush, and emerged to find Brows fully clothed in her usual uniform of sneakers, shorts, and work-shirt with the sleeves rolled up and the tails tied in front.

"Bacon, fried eggs, and toast will be fine," she said, "and make me a cup of coffee."

"Yes, Your Majesty," I muttered, and set to work.  Actually, I made two cups of coffee, carried one to Brows, then set about orchestrating the rest of the most important meal of the day.

Brows sipped her coffee, strolled over to her easel, and stared at her work-in-progress: Libby spreadeagled on the bed.  No doubt she was mentally cataloging the zillion dabs of paint she would start adding to the canvas as soon as breakfast was over and I returned to Checkerspot Meadows.

Bacon, fried eggs (with soft yokes), and toast don't take all that long to prepare.

"Remember," Brows said as we consumed my culinary triumph, "you're going to help me convince Libby and your mom to take part in the group composition."

"I know," I mumbled around a bite of toast, "and I will."

Finally, meal over and kitchen cleanup complete, Brows retrieved my mother's three coils of white cotton clothesline, released a coil, and began the ritual of finding its center and forming a loop.

I watched with nonchalant interest.  Whatever did she have in mind?  What do you think she had in mind?  What does Brows Magee always have in mind?

"Brows!" I whined in complaint as she spun me around, dropped the loop over my head and shoulders and cinched it tight, pinning my upper arms against my sides.  Next, the twin horizontal strands above my breasts were joined by twin horizontal strands below my breasts... followed by the usual shoulder-yoking and between-the-arms-and-torso cinching strands.  Standard box-tie harness.  Then, she readied coil #2, lifted my hands until they were between my shoulder blades, and lashed my wrists together.  That's right, I was in a hands-palm-to-palm reverse-prayer box-tie, the sadistic version of the box-tie.  The rope was easily long enough for her to include my thumbs and hands in the bondage, so, of course, being Brows, she did.

"I said I was sorry," I whined.

"I know," Brows said as she readied coil #3, "and I forgave you.  What's your point?"

"Meanie," I muttered.

Brows decided coil #3 was best used as a crotch-rope.  First, she passed the doubled rope through my elbows and tied a non-compacting knot.  Just to be clear, my elbows were now joined, but nowhere near being pulled together.  It was just an anchor for one end of the rope.  She then took a turn around my waist, dove between my legs to part my butt-cheeks and labia, went up and under the waist rope in front, tugged until the waist-rope formed a "V", then tied a quick knot.

"Big.  Blue.  Meanie."  I had to say something.

Significant double free ends of rope remained, so she took a hitch through the horizontal strands above and below my boobs, tugged until they formed an "X," tied a knot, then separated the two strands, passed them to either side of my neck, tied the final knot at the nape, then dealt with the remaining excess.  Wrapping was involved.

"There," Brows said as she stepped to the front and beamed her best dimpled smile.  "You're almost ready to begin your walk of shame."  (Obviously, the Naked Walk of Shame issue hadn't been lost on Brows Magee.)

I watched as she found the makings of the gag Mother had bestowed on her naked and bound daughter yesterday.  Soon, the folded blue bandanna was back in my mouth and the blue and gray summer scarf was cleaving said bandanna and said mouth and tightly covering my lower face.  Brows was "considerate" enough to make sure my long, tousled blond locks were free of the scarf and able to drape themselves across my now well-silenced countenance.

Brows strolled to the door and held it open.  "Home to Mommy," she said brightly.

Daggers.  Lots and lots of frustratingly useless daggers.

Finally, I stomped through the door, it closed behind me, and I started for home.  It was another fine summer morning.  The clouds were adrift in a cerulean sky, birds were singing, and at one point I passed a bunny-rabbit doing its best to defoliate the meadow.  It was disgustingly cute.

I arrived at Checkerspot Meadows to find it locked up tight.  Apparently, Mother was still at Libby's place, no doubt enjoying an elaborate gourmet breakfast after a long night of...  Let's not go there.  I knew where the spare key was hidden, but in my reverse-prayer box-tied condition, it was inaccessible.

Anyway, I cooled my bare heels (and bare everything) in one of the Adirondack chairs near our picnic table and barbecue grill for at least an hour.  Finally, Mom appeared, fully dressed in the same clothes she'd worn yesterday.  She gasped, managed (more-or-less) to not have a giggling fit, then cooed sympathetic noises, led me inside the house, and untied me.

I was finding it very easy to feel zero guilt about having promised Brows that I'd help her maneuver Mom into agreeing to a group portrait with Libby, very easy.

I finally got my morning shower.  Afterwards, I changed into my usual sneakers, jeans, and tank top, then went to my studio (the barn) and stared at the almost finished screech owl I was still carving.  I remained in something of a huff, and didn't quite trust myself to do the fine-work required to finish detailing the feathers.

Finally, I went to my worktable, took down a sketchbook, rummaged in a drawer 'til I found a pencil, and started sketching a new chair.  I christened the tentative design "Brows' Throne," and as chairs go, it was... specialized.  There would be a pair of ankle stocks under the seat and a set of wrist stocks in the back.  Also, a wooden worm gear would allow the adjustment of the height of the chair-back.

So... the chair's occupant (Brows) would sit in the normal (even for Brows) manner, then would be tricked and/or cajoled into placing their arms behind the chair back.  Her (Brows) wrists and ankles would be locked in the appropriate stocks and the gear turned to stretch her (Brows') arms full length, thus rolling back her (Brows') shoulders and causing her (Brow's) breasts to stick out prominently and provocatively.  And, of course, with her (Brows') legs folded under the seat and locked in the stocks, her (Brow's) bare feet would be completely off the floor.

This would require some ergonomics.  The goal was immobility, not discomfort.  Additional straps and/or stocks?  Hmm...  No, sometimes less is more.  I like the elegant mental image of a totally helpless but perfectly comfortable occupant (Brows).  A slot in the seat for a vibrator?  Maybe.  An actual gap in the seat for pussy access?  Also maybe.

This would be my first blatant piece of bondage furniture.  The Perfect Bondage Chair currently elevating the decor of Brow's Cabin was accidental bondage furniture (or, as Brows suggests, subconsciously designed bondage furniture).  So... would I actually make it?  Maybe...  I could at least fiddle with the design.  But if I did make it, it would be elegant and beautiful, a work of art.  Solid and completely functional?  Yes, but elegant and beautiful.

I tore the sketch from the sketchbook and wandered into the house, intending to refine and 3D model the preliminary design on my desktop computer.  I passed through the kitchen and found that Libby had arrived.  She was dressed in one of her running costumes: trail-runners and anklets, stretchy Lycra shorts, and a sports bra.  The color scheme was navy with neon-green accents, Seahawks colors.  Go 'Hawks!

"Londyn!" she gushed, then came over and gave me a quick hug and a kiss on the lips.  "Are you okay?  Your mother told me Brows was mean to you."

"She'll survive," the mother in question chuckled as she joined us in the kitchen.  She'd changed into a costume similar to Libby's, only Mom's shorts were baggy and her color scheme was heather-gray with powder-blue accents.

"Thanks for the motherly concern," I growled.

"You're welcome, dear," Mom laughed, then planted a kiss of her own on my pouting lips.  Libby was also laughing (a little).  Mother then stated the blindingly obvious.  "We're going for a run.  Want to come?  We'll wait for you to change."

"No thanks," I said.  I waved the folded sketch in my hand.  "I'm inspired.  Gotta model a new chair."

"All right, then," Mom continued.  "We'll be back in time for lunch.  Join us?"

"Sure," I agreed as they exited the house, went to the picnic table, and began their stretching exercises.  I watched them for a while.  They smiled and chatted as they did their arms-rolls, torso-twists, and hamstring-stretches.  Then, just as I was turning to leave, Mom stopped in mid stretch and, still chattering away, pantomimed having her hands reverse-prayer bound behind her back.  Obviously, she was demonstrating and explaining the exact manner in which she'd discovered me waiting outside the house.

Libby gasped in dismay, then they both giggled like schoolgirls and resumed stretching.

Okay!  That did it!  All guilt evaporated.  Brows wanted my help luring them back into her ropes?  Brows would get my help luring them back into her ropes!  I could hardly wait to see "Kimberly & Libby #1" blossom onto canvas.  A better title would be "The Hideously Cruel & Nightmare Inducing Martyrdom of Saints Kimberly & Libby While Saint Londyn Points & Laughs," but it would be Brows' painting.

Anyway, I could hardly wait.

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Chapter 5

Chapter 7

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