THINGS  YOU  NEED  TO  KNOW  ABOUT
		by Van ©2017
		Chapter 7

So... Mom and Libby naked and tied up and posing, meaning wiggling and squirming and mewling through tight gags, as Brows paints their picture...  I was totally on board.

The next day, after a light breakfast, I changed into running clothes (Lycra shorts and sports bra, both black) and jogged over to Brows' Cabin.  I had two goals:

Goal #1: Talk Brows into going running with me.  She'd probably been fussing away at "Libby #1" nonstop since she last saw me (naked, bound, gagged, and beginning my second Naked Walk of Shame from the cabin to Checkerspot Meadows).  I remembered it like it was only yesterday, which it was.  Anyway, she probably needed to take a break and a run would be good for her.

Goal #2: Begin staff work on "Operation Elders," the maneuvering of Mother and Lovely Libby into Brows' ropes.  I assumed maps, diagrams, PERT charts, logistical timetables, tactical simulations, and differential calculus would be involved.

When I arrived at the cabin Brows was painting away, as expected.

It took a while for me to talk her into goal #1, but when I want to be I can be persistent and persuasive.  Also, a real pest.  Eventually, Brows heaved a sigh, cleaned her brushes, and went to the bedroom area to change.  Having fair skin prone to sunburn, she preferred a little more coverage than Nordic Goddesses with glorious tans like Mother and myself.  I watched as she squirmed into a pair of calf-length Lycra running tights (black with gray and pink accents), a neon-pink sports bra, and a somewhat baggy, faded-pink, French-cut t-shirt.

As for goal #2, Brows shook her head and remarked that we weren't planning the invasion of Poland so I should just "chill out."  And in any case, she had a handle on it, whatever "it" was.  She refused to share any details.  This was totally unacceptable, of course, and I demanded I be included in all of her devious machinations.  She refused.  Imagine.  It's not like she was in charge, or something.  After all, we'd already settled that whole top/bottom "controversy."  Nonetheless, she refused.  Imagine.

Anyway... we ran.

Over the next few days various permutations of Mother, Libby, Brows, and myself ran, swam, sunbathed, and practiced yoga.  This usually happened in pairs, but yoga classes had become a group affair (so to speak).  By the way, we cut down on the laundry by practicing our asanas (yoga poses) in the nude.  I just thought I'd mention it.  Anyway, there were lots of opportunities for Brows to interact with my maternal unit and/or her BFF.

The idea of Brows enlarging her artistic horizon by painting something with more than one figure arose.  I don't know how or exactly when Brows broached the topic with Mom and Libby (having been callously frozen out on all of Brows' plotting), but the concept crept into our collective conversation and Mother and Libby encouraged Brows to do just that, meaning enlarge her horizons.

Next, casual discussions of when Mother and Lovely Libby would be available to assist Brows in said enlargement began.  Again, I wasn't involved.  I simply noticed when it had become "a thing," and not even a questionable thing, but a given thing.  It magically became an established fact that Mom and Libby would again be modeling for Brows.

There was no rush, of course.  Brows was busy and they were busy and everybody had all the time in the world.  I remarked that I was also busy, but was ignored.

By the way, I was busy.  I finished the screech owl carving and sent it to my gallery.  It sold quickly for a nice chunk of change.  Meanwhile, I worked on the new chair design.  It was still just a 3D model in my computer, but I refined the details and started shopping for suitable wood and hardware.  Actual construction would begin... in the future.  I also started a carving of a sly weasel.  I think Brows was the inspiration,

Anyway...  Days passed...  Stuff happened...  And none of it seemed to have much to do with getting Mom and Libby naked and tied up, not as far as I could tell, anyway.

There was, however, the incident of... The Mysterious Box.

Brows' mail is delivered to Checkerspot Meadows as Brows' Cabin isn't recognized by either the county or the USPS as a legitimate address.  The same goes for UPS, FedEx, etc.  Anyway, the postman delivered a box addressed to Brows from a company named "Paracord Galaxy."  It was about 9" x 20" x 16" (not that I measured it or anything) weighted about ten pounds (maybe more) and the contents moved around a little (very little) when I gave it a good shake.

Mom noticed me aggressively noticing the package.  "Stop that," she scolded, then smiled.  "That's the third package she's received this week," she added.

"Two other packages?" I asked.  "All like this?"  I hadn't been aware.

"No, not like this," Mom answered, "and for being such a busybody, you can take Brows her mail.  Remind her she's eating with us tonight.  Burgers on the grill.  Libby is bringing her yummy potato salad."

I heaved a long suffering sigh.  "Yes, Mother."  I placed the rubber-banded envelopes and catalogs that were Brows other mail atop The Box, then obediently fulfilled my duties and responsibilities as a duly deputized mail-Sherpa.  And, apparently just to make the entire exercise even more bothersome, when I got to the cabin Brows thanked me politely but refused to divulge the contents of the box, open said box, or tell me anything about the other shipments she'd received earlier in the week.  She confirmed that they were all related to "model wrangling," but the details were classified.  Hah!

Anyway, at dinner that night, around mouthfuls of bacon cheeseburgers and yummy potato salad, we established a firm date and time for the group modeling session.  I announced that I would accompany Mom and Libby to the cabin, and everybody paused to stare at me for several seconds as they chewed their food.  I guess I'd stated the obvious.  Of course I'd accompany them to the cabin.  Anyway...

Neither Mom or Libby seemed particularly nervous or curious, and I didn't want to jinx the plan (whatever it was) by seeming overly eager; but, as the saying goes, this was gonna be good!

So, despite Brows having totally squandered my graciously offered free expert services as her co-conspirator, Operation Elders was solidly on track, a rolling juggernaut of doom for my maternal unit and her unsuspecting BFF.

The appointed day arrived... followed by the appointed time... which was mid afternoon.  Brows had decreed that that was when the light would be right for what she had in mind.  Libby arrived at the Meadows dressed in one of her pretty sundresses, this one navy-blue with white floral accents.  Mom and I were in jeans and cotton blouses.  Mom's was a really pretty shade of faded plum and mine was—who cares?  It was a blouse.  Let's get to the cabin!

We did.

Brows greeted us with the usual smile and admonition that if we needed to tinkle, now would be the time.  Actually, I did need to tinkle, so I did.  That means I missed Mom and Libby divesting themselves of their vestments, but when ya gotta go...

I noticed that both models had come prepared, meaning commando.  Their clothes (sandals, sundress, sneakers, jeans, and blouse) were already neatly folded in two stacks side-by-side on the sofa, but no underwear was in evidence.  I made a mental note to borrow one of Brows' shopping bags and abscond with said clothing once both targets were bound, gagged, and I tired of watching them writhe and squirm and Brows paint.  The thought of Mom and Libby making out was still yucky, but the mental image of the pair making the Naked Walk of Shame hand-in-hand was priceless!

Brows flung back a fleece throw on her bed and revealed three neat piles of neat coils of braided nylon cord in three different colors: golden tan, gray, and light brown.  She selected a tan coil, beckoned to Mom, and began the ritual of releasing the coil, finding the center, and forming a loop.  "550 paracord," she lectured, "braided nylon around a twisted core, three-sixteenths of an inch in diameter.  That's a little more than four-point-five millimeters for the metrically inclined."  She turned Mom around, crossed her wrists behind her back, and set to work.  "The company calls this color 'Gold,' which I find descriptive but not exactly imaginative.  I would have called it Desert Sunset Golden Tan."

The coil was very long, and Brows took eight to ten doubled turns around both Mom's wrists and her waist.  And that means the vertical turns around her wrists, the horizontal turns around her wrists and waist, and the multiple cinches between her wrists and between the small of her back and her wrists.  Eight to ten doubled turns!  Every time!  The final knot was tied up and away from her fingers and the knot and its minimal free ends carefully tucked into the "Gold" bindings.  Apparently (obviously) you can do that with paracord when used in this fashion.

Brows stepped back and, given all the coils of Gold paracord remaining on the bed, Mom executed what I assumed was an interim courtesy struggle.  And to be clear, the twenty or so strands of her bindings were not neatly stacked but formed a bundle with uniform tension.  In my expert opinion (if I do say so myself), it was inescapable... also kinda pretty... in a sinister sort of way.

Meanwhile, Brows selected a gray coil of identical length, readied it for action, and smiled at her second model.  Libby had been watching her BFF (with benefits) test her golden bonds with the appropriately delightful and anxious wide-eyed wonder, then realized she was up and turned her back to the artist-in-residence.

"This color is 'Titanium,' which I find to be an entirely satisfactory description," Brows purred.  Doubled paracord slithered and tightened, and soon Libby was bound in an identical fashion to Mother.  Her courtesy struggle was equally ineffective (and entertaining).

Next, Brows selected a coil of the third color of paracord, light brown, and readied it for use.  She turned to me... and sighed in exasperation.  "Well?" she demanded.

"Well what?" was my clever comeback.

I swear, up to that very moment it hadn't occurred to me that I was personally included in her devious project.  I mean, I can count to three and there were three of us and three different colors of paracord on the bed, but I assumed she was going to continue binding her two models using the three colors, mixing and matching and composing a chromatic symphony with three earth-tone notes.

Brows shook her head.  "Well... get naked," she ordered.  "You're holding things up."

I blinked in stunned surprise (or a reasonable facsimile thereof).  "Me?"  I turned to Mom and Libby for moral support, of course, and received none.  Zero.  Zip.  Nada.  Both favored me with sad expressions.  I was familiar with Mom's "Where did I go wrong?" disappointed frown, but this was my first exposure to Libby's "I thought she was such a bright girl" expression.

There was nothing I could do—other than run screaming all the way into town and beg the sheriff to take me into protective custody.  I heaved a sigh of my own... and began unbuttoning my blouse.  Soon there were three neat stacks of clothing on Brows' sofa, mine being the one with the bra and panties on top.

Naked as a jaybird (or Mom and Libby), I turned my back on Brows and she began the laborious process of giving me wrist and waist bonds identical to her other two models.

"You're a snake," I hissed as the paracord slithered and tightened.

"I try," Brows chuckled.  "This color is 'Coyote,' by the way."

"You're one of those, too," I muttered.  All too soon, I was bound in a manner identical to my fellow models.

Seriously, I didn't see it coming.  Okay, I'm an idiot.  It's a wonder I can feed myself without stabbing my face with my fork.  Anyway...

You may have guessed, as I'd already surmised, that Brows was far from finished binding her three models, and you would be correct.  Once again, I'll spare you the hitch-by-hitch.  Except for paracord color, the final result was identical for the three of us.

1.  Wrists crossed and lashed to the waist, with cinching hitches (I believe the technical term is "frapping") between the wrists and the small of the back.

2.  Upper arms lashed to the sides with the cords passing below the breasts and frapping between the arms and torso on either side.

3.  Ankles crossed and lashed together.

4.  Knees bent and thighs lashed to the lower-legs, frog-tie fashion.

5.  Multiple cords joining the wrist and ankle bonds, enforcing a semi-stringent hogtie.

And... that was that.  All the bindings were like the initial wrist-and-waist cords, something like twenty individual strands for each and every element with all knots tucked away and hidden.  We were, in a word, helpless, collectively and individually, each with her very own pretty color of bindings.  This aesthetic continued as Brows moved on to...

The Great Gagging!

Brows placed an open cardboard box on the floor, sat cross-legged beside it, heaved one of her model's head and shoulders onto her lap, smiled sweetly and exchanged a few whispered remarks with said model, then set to work.  First was Libby, then Mother, and finally, myself.  Yes, Londyn gets to go last.  Londyn gets to watch so she'll know exactly what's coming.  What a surprise.

First, Brows compacted an orange Nerf™ ball and stuffed it into Libby's apprehensive but cooperative mouth.  Next, she cut a strip of Elastoplast® tape from a roll and stretched and plastered it over her lips and lower face.  After that, she took three stretched turns of "flesh"-colored Coban™ wrap around Libby's head, covering the lip-sealing tape but making sure none of her brown locks were trapped under the tight layers.  And after that, she reached back into the box, produced a roll of Duck Tape® and repeated the tape-mummification process, neatly and smoothly covering the Coban™ tape completely.

It turned out Brows had a different color of tape for each of us, to go with each of our differently colored paracord bonds.

	"Gold," for Mother.	"Chrome," for Lovely Libby.	"Bronze," for moi.

"I really surprised you?" Brows whispered with a grin when she'd finished with Mother and it was finally my turn.

I stared up into her infuriatingly cute face.  I didn't bother with daggers.  I think I'm selling my dagger collection.

"Bite me," I huffed.

Brows' smile widened.  "In front of Libby and your mother?" she inquired sweetly.

My answer was a truly scathing eye roll.  I opened my mouth and accepted my Nerf™ ball, held still for the Elastoplast® that followed, and lifted my head cooperatively as the Coban™ and then the Duck Tape® layers were applied.  And then, I was unceremoniously dumped off Brows' lap— "Mrrf!" —and she stood and put away her box of model-gagging supplies.

Duck Tape®.  I told you earlier that ducks are nasty creatures.  This is more evidence.

Anyway, next came...

The Great Arranging!

Brows already had her stool, paint stand, and easel set up, and we were more-or-less in position in a naked, bound, and gagged gaggle on the big oval braided rug covering the wooden floor in the center of the cabin's designated living room area—emphasis on the "less" part of more-or-less.

Our beloved artistic genius heaved and dragged us closer together, then continued dragging us a few inches this way, a few inches that way, then a few inches another way, then yet another way, pausing between efforts to sit in her stool and gaze at her tentative tableau of three naked, bound, and gagged females—emphasis on "tentative."

Brows took her time.  She was in no particular hurry.  She even worked up a bit of a sweat, poor dear.

In the end, we were arranged as follows, from the artist's point of view:

1.  In the back, Libby on her left side with her splayed knees to Brows' left and her gagged head to the right and resting on the floor as she gazed up at the ceiling.

2.  In the middle, Mother on her right side with her splayed knees to Brows' right and her gagged head to the left and resting on Libby's right thigh.

3.  In the front, yours truly in the same position as Libby but with my head resting on my mom's knee.

Having seen the finished painting, I can tell you our three bodies were in a "semi-jumbled zigzag," closer here, further apart there, with various of our body parts in contact or nudging various other body parts.  Also, all of our boobs, pubic gardens, and pussies were more-or-less on display—emphasis on "more."

I squirmed for comfort, garnering an instant artistic rebuke.

"Stop that!" Brows barked, frowning as she busily sketched away on the formerly blank canvas with a soft pencil.

I glowered in her direction.

"Unfortunately" Brows continued in a conversational manner, "I can't seriously start painting for at least another hour."  She waved towards the western windows.  "The angle of the sun isn't quite right."  She resumed sketching.  "It took less time than I thought it would to get you guys ready," she explained with a grin, "about one hour less.  Anyway... don't move."

I heaved a sigh.  Just great.  Not even a "please don't move."  I had no idea whether Mother and Libby were equally steamed, but I had a premonition that by the time we were out of Brows' paracord, they would be.

So...  Brows sketched for a while, then loaded her palette and began painting.  At first it was all broad strokes.  I couldn't see the business side of the canvas from my helplessly bound and gagged perspective on the rug, of course, but I could tell she was filling in the background and establishing the basic form of the figures (meaning our figures).  The announced hour of waiting for the light to be right passed, then Brows picked up the pace.  Now she was establishing the shadows and shading, both of the background and on the bodies of her models.  This occupied an additional hour.

And then, I finally got to see Brows' new camera, which technically was no longer new.  She cleaned and wrapped her brushes, then scampered to a closet and returned with said camera, already attached to a tripod.  We watched, doing our best to ignore our increasingly sore muscles, as she quickly positioned the tripod next to her stool, deployed the tripod's legs, then focused the camera on us, her magnificently beautiful and beautifully restrained models, and started snapping pictures.

Brows paused in her photography to scurry to her models and arrange a few locks of our hair into slightly different positions.  She also took the occasion to give my left breast a gentle squeeze.  That was for no artistic purpose, of course, it was just Brows being Brows.  She then hurried back to her camera and took several more pictures.  Eventually, satisfied that she had sufficient reference photos of "Kimberly, Libby, & The Other One #1," she pulled the camera's memory stick, placed it next to her laptop computer on the writing desk, then returned the camera and tripod to the closet.

And then, we were released—NOT!

Brows went back to painting and continued for an additional hour!  However, as the photographic stage of Brows' process was over, we felt free to move around "freely," and we did so.  We remained in the same general positions, but wiggled, wriggled, writhed, rocked our bound bodies, and made what are generally referred to as "comfort motions."

That said, several of my muscle groups had already filed formal grievances with my central nervous system, threatening to go on strike (meaning cramp) if conditions at the workplace didn't improve.  I assumed Mom and Libby had similar anatomical issues.  It was the not having been able to roll around and squirm that was the issue... that and being hogtied with a mile or two of paracord.  Anyway, being able to move a little helped.

And while we were squirming and wiggling, Brows began muttering to herself under her breath.  In the stillness of the increasingly dark cabin, we could hear her quite clearly.

"Yes, yes, yes..."  "Tension."  "Balance."  "Light."  "Harmony."  That sort of thing.  It was very irritating.

Finally, Brows took one long last look at her tableau of three helpless damsels—naked, hogtied, tightly gagged, and squirming on her rug—and smiled.  "Thank you ladies," she purred.  "This is going to be one of my best."  She then began the process of untying us, and since I'd gone last she untied me first, right?  WRONG!

Brows dragged Mom a few feet to one side and began untying her.  She started with the hogtie cords, then worked her way from Mom's ankles-bonds... to her frog-tie-bonds... to her upper-arm-torso-bonds... and finally her wrist-waist-bonds.  Then, using careful, delicate snips with a pair of bandage scissors, she severed, then peeled away the various layers of Mother's gag.  Finally, she plucked the orange Nerf™ ball from Mom's mouth and they kissed.  I don't mean they started making out, of course, because, you know, yuck, but it was a real kiss.

Then, Brows took Mom by the hand, helped her to her feet, and they strolled to the kitchen sink.  Brows filled a glass with water, handed it to Mother, and watched as she drank.  After that, they stood side by side, smiled and gazed at the remaining two bound and gagged naked models across the room, and held a whispered conversation.  I couldn't hear a word they were saying and I assumed it was the same for Libby.

It felt very good to finally be able to squirm and wiggle whichever way I wanted (within the limits of my paracord hogtie, of course) and from her rolling and hogtied stretching it was obvious that Libby felt the same way.  However, the predatory smiles Brows and Mother were sharing as they continued their quiet conversation (and nefarious plotting) was unsettling.  And I assumed Libby felt the same way about that, as well.

Finally, Mother strolled to Libby, knelt on the rug, and began untying her hogtie cords.  I stared at the cord-marks on Mom's skin.  I could see tiny indentations matching the braiding of the paracord sheathing, but my educated guess was that the marks would fade without leaving behind any bruising or red-marks.  Brows' paracord bindings had been plentiful and collectively tight, but the individual strands had been deceptively loose—and that's had been in the case of Mother and still were in the case of Libby and myself.

Meanwhile, Brows had strolled away and returned with a single coil from her conditioned, three-strand, hemp rope collection.  She released the retaining hitch on the coil, then smiled at Mother.  "Are you sure about the knots?" she inquired.

Mom paused to lock eyes with her BFF... then shifted her smile to Brows.  "She's ready," she announced.

Brows shrugged, then tied five closely spaced figure-eight knots near one end of the rope.  I knew what they were for, obviously, Brows and Mother knew what they were for, obviously, but I don't know if Libby knew what they were for.

They were for Libby.

Mom had finished un-hogtying, un-frog-tying, and un-ankle-binding her BFF, then accepted the hemp rope from Brows.  She rolled Libby onto her stomach (and breasts), then slid the short end of the rope around the multiple cord frapping of Libby's waist-waist-bonds and tied a neat knot.  Next, she passed the rope between Libby's legs, rolled her onto her back (and butt), passed the rope under her waist paracords, made sure the rope was positioned to properly cleave her BFF's butt-cheeks and labia—paused for an Evil Smile—then pulled out the slack with a firm tug.

Libby's blue eyes popped wide above her tight Chrome duck-tape-gag.  "Mrrrpfh!"  (Gaglish to English: "Oh, that's what the knots are for.")  I'm reasonably sure this was Libby's first experience with a crotch-rope, and I'm 99.9% sure this was her first experience in front of witnesses (other than my loving mother).  Her blush and gagged expression were priceless.

Brows and I gazed with quiet reverence (involuntarily quiet reverence, in my case).

"Up," Mom ordered, stood, and used the end of what was now Libby's hemp crotch-rope-leash (with knots) to "help" her to her bare feet.  "Wait here," she purred, dropped the "pussy-leash," then strolled to the sofa, shrugged into her blouse, and began buttoning the buttons.

Brows went to the kitchen, then strolled to the sofa with a "Collegiate Blue" and "Action Green" cloth shopping bag bearing the Seahawk's emblem.  Go 'Hawks!  Mom donned her jeans and sneakers as Brows stuffed the remaining clothes (mine and Libby's, dammit!) into the bag, then handed it to Mom.

"Thank you," Brows said.

Mother's reply was another kiss and a sincere, "You're most welcome, Bronwyn."  They strolled to the two remaining bound and gagged models (upper-body-bound, gagged, and standing, in the case of Libby and still hogtied and gagged on the rug in the case of moi).  Mom retrieved the end of Libby's leash and the three of them strolled towards the front door, leaving me to languish in bound and gagged misery, of course.

Brows and Mother shared yet another disgusting kiss at the open door.  "Take care of my Little Princess," Mother purred, smiled and waved in my glowering direction, and they were gone. 

Sunset was in the process of happening and it was getting dark.  They'd make it back to the Meadows without difficulty, but if Mom intended to push on to Libby's house, she'd probably stop off for a flashlight.

Brows waved goodbye, then closed the door and turned the deadbolt lock.

So... another tethered Naked Walk of Shame for Lovely Lilly.  And if there was any lingering doubt that my maternal unit and Libby were now playmates, it had just vanished in a puff of Titanium, Chrome, and hemp colored smoke.

Brows strolled in my direction and smiled down at her remaining model.

While Brows had been busy painting, I'd been busy with the tasks of not moving and mounting multi-megawatt lasers inside my eyeballs.  I now used them to burn Brows into a pile of villainous ashes.  Unfortunately, the lasers proved just as ineffective as my visual daggers.  Friggin' laser beams!

"Alone at last," Brows chuckled, then stooped and started gathering the piles of loose Gold and Titanium paracord littering the rug, as well as the makings of Mom's former Gold Duck Tape™, Coban™, Elastoplast®, and Nerf™ ball gag.  "After I clean up," she announced, "I'll cook us a nice dinner."  And with that, she strolled to the bed and began coiling Mother's bonds and placing them next to the remaining coils of Gold, Titanium, and Coyote coils of paracord that hadn't been used to bind her three models.

How much of that stuff did she buy? I wondered.  I also wiggled, squirmed, and rolled around on the rug (see also writhed, wriggled, and thrashed) making up for lost time.  I didn't bother attempting to engage Brows in conversation, even if she is fluent in Gaglish.  What was the point?

My stomach grumbled.  Food sounded good, and I very much hoped it would be something requiring minimal preparation.  I heaved a huge sigh... then closed my eyes, resolving to take a quick nap before dinner.

No such luck.  No nap for poor, pathetic, helpless Londyn.

Brows grabbed another coil of Coyote paracord, then opened the bottom drawer of her nightstand and pulled out... a wand-style vibrator, with attached extension cord!  And then, grinning like the fiend from the lowest pit of hell that she is, strolled in my direction and knelt at my side.

"Mrrrpfh?" I politely inquired, as if I didn't know exactly what was coming.  I was embarrassed to ask, but I did.  "Mrrrpfh?"

Brows answer was to give me a few seconds to visually examine the torture device in her hands.  Torture device, you ask?  Yes, torture device.  Context matters.  I knew I was in for torture.  Not torture torture.  The other kind, the OMG!—OMG!—IT FEELS SO GOOD!—MAKE IT STOP! kind of torture.  Anyway, it was a wand-style, three-speed model, and while I couldn't see the brand markings, I could tell it wasn't a close corporate relative of Bruce (my electronic best friend back in my bedroom); however, the design was similar.  It had the same rounded, doorknob-like business-end clad in gray rubber, narrow neck, and gracefully streamlined plastic body.

I locked eyes with my captor and silently pleaded for my person and virtue to be respected and preserved.  A little late, you chortle?  Yes, but I pleaded anyway.  And don't be so judgmental!

Anyway, Brows managed not to laugh.  She did, however, release the hitch securing the coil of paracord, position the vibrator's rubberized head against my pussy, and set to work lashing it in place.  A little flipping and rolling of my semi-helpless, weakly squirming body was required, but all too soon I had a crotch-rope of about twenty individual cord strands cleaving my butt-cheeks and firmly anchoring the vibrator in place.  And by "firmly" I mean the damn thing squashed my poor labia and gave every indication it would like nothing better than to crawl inside my vagina and get to know me really well.  Next, Brows used the remaining paracord to lash the power cord end of the thing to my frog-tie and hogtie-bonds.  Finally, the remaining free ends were expended in a flourish of wrappings and hitches... and it was all over but the plugging in of the long power cord and its added extension cord... which she did.

A courtesy struggle was in order, for politeness sake, so I did my best to squirm, twist, roll, and do any and everything I could think of to dislodge my new friend.  I did succeed in slightly varying the pressure against my pussy as I struggled, but I knew that was not going to be helpful once the thing was turned on.  In fact, it would supplement the process of getting me turned on.

"Now," Brows said once my efforts to dislodge the vibrator had subsided.  "I have a mess of my famous chili in the fridge waiting to be reheated.  Also, tortillas to toast once the chili's nice and hot, so..."  She reached down and slid the wand's control from "OFF" to "L."  It immediately began buzzing.

I shivered, squirmed, and gave my new eyeball-laser-beam stare one more try.  Nothing.  The vibrator still buzzed, my paracord bonds remained inescapable, my multi-tape-gag remained effective, and Brows didn't turn into a crispy critter.  There is no justice.

Brows smiled and used her fingers to comb the strands of long, flaxen hair that had fallen across my beautiful face and tuck them behind my ears.  What?  No, I'm not conceited.  No mirror was available, but I could tell from Brows' expression that I was a fetching damsel-in-vibratory-distress.

"You look so beautiful like that," Brows purred, "helpless, bound, gagged, and being entertained by Ragnar."

There, see?  I told you so.  I'm fetching.

That said, apparently I wasn't fetching enough, because she was subcontracting my pre-dinner entertainment to "Ragnar."  Which brings me to my next point: "Ragnar?"  Brows had named her electronic friend "Ragnar?"  She has a thing for the show Vikings?  Understandable.  I do too.  Maybe she's planning on buying Ragnar a battery-powered son and naming him "Ivar the Cordless."  Anyway, I'm sure you agree, "Bruce" is a much better name for a friend you keep in your nightstand drawer.  Okay, okay, "Ragnar" is cool, and it's sooo Brows.

Brows leaned close, kissed my forehead, which by now was glowing and probably tasted a little salty, then planted a wet one on my triply-taped lips.  Then, lips curled into a particularly sly, mischievous grin, she reached down and slid Ragnar's control from "L" to "M."  Yarg!

"Mrrrf!" I complained as Brows stood and sauntered away to the kitchen area, seductively (infuriatingly) swinging her hips.  Ragnar's "M" setting was formidable.  I'm sure his "H" would be even worse (meaning better), but "M" was probably going to be enough to get me off... eventually.

Anyway, I wiggled in my bonds, panted through my nostrils, ignored my heaving breasts and pointing nipples—did my best to ignore Ragnar—and watched as Brows pulled a largish Tupperware® tub from her refrigerator and dumped its contents into a medium-large saucepan on the stove.  It looked like leftover chili for two, like she promised.  Any decent chili, and Brows' chili is more than decent, is as good or better as leftovers.  My tummy growled in anticipation... and my poor, mildly squashed pussy purred.

As for Ragnar, he only had one thing to say: "Bjørrrrr..."  I think that translates from the Old Norse as "Buzzzzz..."

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Chapter 6

Chapter 8

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