THINGS  YOU  NEED  TO  KNOW  ABOUT
		by Van ©2017
		Chapter 8

So... while the chili reheated and Brows readied the tortillas for toasting in the oven, Ragnar's vibratory Viking raid continued.

There I was: naked, hogtied on the rug with Coyote-colored paracord, and gagged with a Nerf™ ball stuffing, Elastoplast® lip-sealer, Coban™ wrappings, and an outer layer of Bronze-colored Duck Tape®; and the target of said raid.  I wiggled, writhed, rolled, and mewled for mercy.  As things would have it, Ragnar's "M" setting was entirely up to the task at hand and I did, indeed, "suffer" a crashing orgasm.

The thing was, even after he'd had his unwashed and scraggly-bearded way with me, he continued looting and pillaging!  That's right, Ragnar continued buzzing away on "M" and refused to stop!  Enough is enough, Ragnar!  Sheesh!  Back in your dragon ship!

Finally, Brows arrived to rescue me.  She was armed with a tray laden with two cold bottles of Sam Adams Light®, a single large bowl of now steaming chili, a stack of warm tortillas, a pair of folded napkins, a single spoon, and a pair of bandage scissors.  She settled to the floor at my side, cross-legged and with the tray within easy reach, then hauled my head and shoulders onto her lap and used the scissors to remove my gag.

Ragnar was still bjørrrrr-ing away on "M," so as soon as Brows plucked the Nerf™ ball from my mouth and tossed it away, I reminded her.

"Turn it off!" I whined, then added for supplemental clarity and emphasis, "Turn it off!  Turn it off!"

"Turn what off?" Brows purred.

"R-Ragnar," I whimpered.

"Oh, Ragnar," Brows chuckled, reached down, slid the merrily buzzing plastic Viking's control from "M" to "L," then smiled.  "How's that?"

"Turn it off, dammit," I pouted.

Brows relented and did so, and Ragnar did, indeed, climb back onto his metaphorical dragon ship and sail home to his fictional base of "Kattegat" and into the metaphorical arms of his first wife, the incredibly HOT shield-maiden Largetha.

"You rat," I accused.

Brows' response was an infuriatingly evil (and cute) dimpled smile and to hold one of the bottles of cold beer to my gag-parched lips.  Heaven!  After that most welcome whistle-wetting, I watched her sample the chili with the spoon.

"Yummy!" Brows pronounced, then reloaded the spoon for my benefit.

The chili was, as expected by me and pronounced by its maker: "Yummy."  The meal continued, as did my Grievously Wronged Damsel-in-Continuing-Distress routine.  Brows enjoyed it all—the chili, the tortillas, the beer, and my theatrical martyrdom.

When the meal was over we had another sleepover.

What?  More detail, you demand?  Okay.

Brows carried the tray with the now empty bowl and beer bottles and used spoons and napkins back to the kitchen and began cleaning up.

What?  Not that much detail?  Just the good stuff?  There's no pleasing some people.

Ragnar's anchoring paracord crotch-harness (with hogtie-frog-tie support moorings) was untied, unwrapped, and disassembled.  Next, my ankle-bonds and frog-tie-bonds were untied and Brows helped me to my feet.  My wrist-waist-bonds and upper-arms-torso-bonds remained intact.  She dragged (led) me to the bathroom, I watched as Brows disrobed, and we completed our evening toilette.  And by "we" I mean Brows, of course, as I was still bound and helpless.  She had to brush my teeth and clean me up after I tinkled, which, by the way, never stops being humiliating (and kinda hot).

And then... she dragged (led) me to the bed, tossed her remaining cache of Gold, Titanium, and Coyote paracord onto the floor, and we made love several times.  The end.

What?  Okay, okay.  Some people.

Brows "forced" me to slither between her splayed legs and Ragnar her pussy with my lips and tongue... then she returned the favor and Ragnared me back... I returned the returned favor... lather, rinse, repeat.  Boobs and nipples were sucked, dental work and tonsils explored by tongues, lips smacked, and there was the usual nuzzling, licking, and nibbling... lather, rinse, repeat.  Then... we fell asleep.

And that's all you're getting.  Give us some privacy.  Sheesh!

As had happened during the night of my first sleepover at Brows' Cabin, the same mysterious stranger with the supremely talented hands (or Brows) untied me during the night, rolled me onto my stomach, straddled my waist and settled some of her weight on my butt, and gave my arms, shoulders, neck, and back a glorious massage.  It was wonderful!  I almost woke up to enjoy it.

The next morning we bounced from bed and took turns in the shower.  Actually, I bounced and Brows staggered.  She doesn't handle mornings as well as I do, never has, and probably never will.

I brewed myself a cup of coffee while Brows was in the shower, then filled and loaded a second reusable pod and topped off the reservoir, readying the machine so Brows could brew herself a cup when and if she ever emerged from the bathroom.  My clothes having already been returned to Checkerspot Meadows by my ever-so-thoughtful mother, I remained in my birthday suit.  The shower stopped and several seconds later the noise of Brow's hand dryer started.  Sipping my coffee, I strolled over to Brows' easel to examine the work-in-progress.

I was really impressed.  Brows had risen to the occasion.  The painting was far from finished but I could already tell this was going to be her best to date (IMHO).

Meanwhile, Brows emerged from the bathroom, made her way to the bedroom area, and began dressing.  She broke with tradition and instead of shorts and work-shirt donned panties, a mini-kilt in a really pretty green and gray plaid, and a white cotton tank top (no bra).  She looked really cute and I made a mental note, adding a similar mini-kilt to my shopping wishlist alongside a Libby-style sundress.

"Morning," we chorused in unison as Brows strolled to the kitchen.

"The machine is all ready," I said.  "Just punch the button."

"Thanks," Brows answered, and began brewing her cup of coffee.  I returned to gazing at the incomplete painting.

"I like your use of the three natural colors," I said when she joined me.

"The paracord?" she inquired.

"Yeah."  We paused to sip our coffee.  "It sort of adds a calming note to the tension of the, uh, captivity."

Brows nodded.  "Next time I might go with something more colorful, like a split complimentary of some sort.  Did you know they make that stuff in colors that glow under black-light?"

"Next time," I chuckled, then took another sip of coffee.  "You mean when hell freezes over?"

"Imagine a tableau with a generally dark background, natural light from one side, and UV light from the other," Brows continued, ignoring my cynicism.  "The interplay of normal light, shadow, and the vibrant, ultraviolet glow of the cords or ropes would be... interesting.  I think I can pull it off."

"Yes," I nodded, still staring at the painting.  "And imagine a dragon, a unicorn, and a giant octopus playing poker, 'cause that's just as likely to happen."

"I need to go shopping for a UV flashlight so I can find some black-light sensitive fabrics for gags and blindfolds."  Her smile broadened.  "Oh!  Oh!  Or maybe mummy-bandages!  Now that would be cool. " Like I said earlier, when Brows wants something, there's no such concept as "no."  It's no use arguing.

"Breakfast?" I suggested.

"Sure," Brows answered, "but I'm out of bacon."

"In that case," I said, "it's off to Checkerspot Meadows."  When in search of breakfast, I always say, follow the bacon.

"Excellent," Brows grinned.  "Maybe your mom still has Libby tied up and is boinking her on the kitchen table."

"Oh, yuck," I shuddered.  "Don't be that gross this early in the morning."

Brows laughed and handed me her now empty mug.  "Put these in the sink while I find my sneakers."

I heaved another sigh and completed my mission while Brows completed hers.  Anklets and sneakers now cladding Brows' feet and nothing cladding mine, we left the cabin and strolled towards the Meadows.

Yes, that's right, it was another Naked Walk of Shame for poor Londyn, only this time I had a chaperon and I wasn't tied up.  I guess you can call it progress.

We arrived at Checkerspot Meadows to find Mom and Libby fully dressed and enjoying breakfast in the form of coffee, bacon, eggs, and potato fritters.  Libby was in her sundress from yesterday but Mom was mixing things up (like Brows).  Instead of her usual long jeans, she was wearing "Daisy Dukes," ultra-short cut-off denim jeans with the hems left to fray.  I believe the name originates from an ancient television series about rural dimwits magically jumping an indestructible red car over various geographical features and obstructing objects.  Also, she was wearing a white cotton tank and no bra (like Brows).

We all exchanged the traditional "Morning!" greetings.  Mom started to rise but I motioned her back down.  "Eat.  We'll fend for ourselves."  I turned to Brows and pointed at the stove.  "Cook," I ordered, then headed for my bedroom.

"Where are you going?" Brows inquired.

"Where do you think?" I called back over my shoulder, "to get dressed."  Once I reached my bedroom I decided to also mix things up and pulled on panties, a pair of hiking shorts, and a short-sleeve, predominantly white, embroidered peasant blouse.  No bra.  Why should my girls be the only ones in the neighborhood tucked into over-shoulder-boulder-holders?

I returned to the kitchen, set two more places at the table, then sat and waited impatiently for Brows to finish cooking.  Libby and Mom had finished clearing their plates but were remaining at the table to sip coffee and keep us company.

"So," I said, smiling sweetly at Mother and her BFF, "did you two have a pleasant evening?"  Libby's cheeks blossomed in a charming shade of rose-pink and Mother favored me with her best Maternal Warning Frown #1, as expected.  "What?" I demanded, the very picture of daughterly innocence.

"Be nice," Brows chuckled as she carried two steaming, mouthwatering, and fully-loaded breakfast plates to the table.

"Oh, that's rich," I laughed, "Brows Magee admonishing me to be nice."

"I'd follow her advice if I were you, young lady," Mom intoned.

Oh no!  Mom had unleashed the dreaded "young lady" appellation!  "I was just being polite," I objected, "inquiring whether my two favorite elderly people had an enjoyable evening."  My emphasis on "enjoyable" had the desired twin effects of intensifying Libby's blush and giving Mother a blush of her own.

Mother glared at me, again, then turned to Libby and smiled.  "More coffee?"  Libby shook her head and Mom turned to Brows.  "I assume once you've finished eating, Bronwyn dear, you'll be going back to the cabin to paint?"  Brows' mouth was stuffed too full to talk so she nodded in the affirmative.  Mom's smile turned back to me and instantly withered into a stony stare.  "As for you, Miss Smartypants, for being such a nosy-parker, report to the living room when you're finished."

Seriously, who says 'nosy-parker' these days?  "Uh, why?" I inquired, but was ignored.  Mom and Libby rose from their chairs, carried their plates and mugs to the sink, then departed in the direction of the living room, no doubt to plan my impending doom.

"Death wish much?" Brows chuckled once we were alone.

"I don't know what you mean," I answered serenely.  Actually, I knew exactly what she meant, but baiting my maternal unit is one of my favorite pastimes and watching Libby blush is always a pleasure.

We continued our meal and eventually, the last crispy, greasy strip of bacon was consumed, the last fork-load of eggs gobbled, the last potato fritter munched, and the last of the coffee slurped.  By the way, if you haven't yet tried preformed and ready-to-cook potato fritters from your grocer's meat or egg counter, you should.  They're yummy.  We cleaned up the kitchen, including Mom and Libby's plates and utensils, of course, then casually...  (Oh.  So.  Casually.)  ...made our way to the living room.

Mom and Libby were waiting, sitting in an easy chair and on the sofa, respectively, and by all appearances having a nice chat.  Mom had Libby's former modeling bonds and pussy-leash from yesterday—meaning Brows' Titanium paracord and hemp rope—neatly coiled and bundled together in her lap. 

"Here you go," Mom said and tossed the bundle to Brows.  "You must tell me where you get that wonderful hemp rope."

"Uh, yeah, sure," Brows responded.  "I'll e-mail you the web site."

"Thank you," Mom said.

"You're welcome," Brows answered.

Seconds ticked by.

"Aren't you going home to paint?" Mother inquired.

Brows looked at me, then at Mom, then at Libby.  "Uh... yeah, sure."

More seconds ticked by.

"I guess I'll go then," Brows said.  "Thanks again."

"Have fun making art," Mom purred.

I rolled my eyes.  Were more inane words ever spoken?  Even Libby was a tad embarrassed.  Brows didn't seem to notice.

Clearly, Brows was torn between wanting to paint and wanting to watch whatever Mother had planned for her wayward daughter, meaning me.  I didn't delude myself that she was hoping to stay and rescue me, of course.  That would be absurd.  Not at all like Brows.  She wanted to leer, take notes, and make suggestions.

Anyway, Brows finally departed and it was just myself, Mom, Libby, and a coil from Mom's white cotton clothesline collection I hadn't noticed until she picked it up from the floor next to her chair.

"Birthday suit," Mom ordered.

My reply was succinct.  "Huh?"

Mom was busy releasing the coil and finding its center, but not too busy to send an admonishing stare in my direction.  It was a very long coil, by the way.

A tried another concise rejoinder.  "Mom!"

"Do it," Mom snapped.

I heaved the required and expected sigh, then divested myself of my shorts, blouse, and panties.

"Floor," Mom ordered, pointing at the carpet in the center of the room.

I modestly covered my breasts with my right arm and my crotch with my left.  Why, you ask?  We all did naked yoga, sunbathing, and skinny-dipping all the time, so why?  Who knows.  It was an unconscious reaction.  Anyway...  "Mother, why?" I whined.

"Libby remains curious about binding techniques and I've agreed to teach her," Mom explained.  "You're my smart-mouth, nosy-parker, volunteer teaching dummy."  She pointed at the carpet, again.  "Floor!"

There it was again, "nosy-parker."  Mom isn't usually so... retro.  Anyway, there was nothing to do but settle to the floor, cross my legs, and look as pitiful as possible.

Mom knelt behind me while Libby watched from the sofa.  By this time I probably don't have to mention that Libby's eyes were just a tad wide, her cheeks rosy, and her entire demeanor... wait for it... adorable.

"Now, this is a simple shoulder-harness," Mother explained, shifting into lecture-mode, "also called a figure-eight-harness."  She looped the doubled clothesline around my shoulders and under my armpits.  The nexus of the figure-eight was between my shoulder blades.  "You then take a hitch to lock-off the tension."  Doubled rope slithered... and slithered... and slithered as she did just that.  Like I said, it was a very long coil.  "Down on your stomach," Mom ordered, and I complied.

"Next," Mom continued, "you bring the ankles together."  She folded my legs back and took a turn around my ankles.  "And pull out the slack, as much slack as is appropriate."  She seemed to think a lot of slack was appropriate as she tugged until my head, shoulders, and boobs left the carpet and my back was in full arch.  I supported my upper-body with my elbows and forearms.  "Take several turns around the ankles," Mom continued, "each time reversing direction."  Mom took three turns, for a total of six individual strands in a neat row binding my ankles.  "I like adding a final cinch between the ankles to tighten things down, just a little."  She did so.  "Then lock it with another hitch."  She did that too.

I managed an interim squirm of my ankles.  The bindings weren't especially tight.  In fact, I would probably be able to cross my ankles if I wanted to, not that it would have done me any good in terms of freeing myself, of course.

"Now," Mom continued, "take the remaining rope back up and through the shoulder-harness to reverse the direction of tension, then pull the arms back."  She did so, meaning she pulled my arms behind my back.  Now the chest-harness and ankle-bonds were taking my full weight.

I considered unleashing another "Mom!" or even a full-blown "Mother!" in protest, but settled on another pitiful sigh.

"Take a locking hitch in the region of the forearms..."  She did so.  "Then tie figure-eight loops around the arms for as many times as the remaining rope allows."  I felt her take three doubled loops, as she had with my ankles.  That meant another row of six neat strands now bound my forearms together midway between my wrists and elbows.  "Or," Mom lectured as she took a hitch to lock the tension, "you can wrap the remaining rope around the hogtie ropes.  That has the virtue of placing the final or key knot even further from the hands." I felt rope slithering around the hogtie ropes away from my arm-bindings and up towards my shoulders.  "In this case, I have just enough left to cinch through the chest harness one last time."

Mom tied the final knot and I began my courtesy struggle.  Yep, it was a hogtie all right.  In fact, it was a semi-stringent hogtie.  The tips of my fingers could just brush my heels.  The thing was, none of it was especially tight, if you don't count the hogtie-ropes between my ankles and the chest-harness, and my wrists weren't bound at all.  That said, I was totally helpless.

"How did you know how much rope to use at any given point?" Libby asked.

"Experience," Mom answered.  From my hogtied position I couldn't see her face, but I could hear in her voice the smug smile curling her lips.  It was infuriating.  I decided to make her suffer gut-wrenching guilt by heaving yet another pitiful sigh.  It didn't work.  Neither did continuing to squirm and thereby demonstrate my pathetic, incapacitated state.

"At this point, she's completely helpless," Mom lectured.

"No, ya think?" I muttered, eliciting a nervous giggle from Libby.

"Hush," Mother admonished, then continued her lesson.  "Additional ropes can be added to bind the elbows together..."  She pulled my elbows together until they touched.

"Mother!" I complained.

Mother ignored my plea but did release my elbows.  "Or," she continued, "you can bind the knees together, bind each thigh to its respective lower leg in a frog-tie, or get as elaborate as you like.  The only requirement is that all knots be well beyond the reach of her fingers and hands.  But right now, just as she is, my Little Princess is helpless.  As the saying goes, sometimes less is more."

Libby nodded in wide-eyed agreement.  She is such a cutie!

"You're a horrible mother," I huffed, continuing my futile struggles, "and if I'm a princess you're the queen of mean."  It was infuriating to have my hands and wrists unbound but my fingers and hands utterly useless.

"Which brings us to the topic of gags," Mother chuckled as she climbed to her feet.  Libby and I watched as she gathered my clothes and strolled towards the bedroom hallway.  "Be right back," she announced, then was gone.

Libby favored me with a nervous smile from her demure perch on the sofa.

Awkward silence.

More awkward silence.

Naked, hogtied, and helpless, I decided to go on the offensive.  "What are your intentions with respect to my mother," I demanded.

Libby blushed, and I mean she really blushed.  It sent a thrill of naked affection through my naked body.

"I-I-I..."  She swallowed before continuing.  "I love your mother," she said finally, then forced a smile and blinked nervously.  "Is that okay?"

I smiled back, letting her off the hook, then blew an errant strand of hair from my face.  "I think she loves you back," I said quietly.

Libby gracefully climbed to her feet and scurried to my side, knelt, helped me roll onto my side, then hauled my head and shoulders onto her lap.  I smiled up at her smiling and blushing face (also her cleavage), then she leaned close and we kissed.  And by "kissed" I mean we shared a brief, warm, polite smooch—not one of your typical Brows/Londyn deep, wet, five minute, no holds barred, lips and tongues wrestling matches.

"Ahem."

Mother had returned.  I think she may have been eavesdropping on us from the doorway 'cause a hint of a blush colored her cheeks.  Like Libby, Mom can also be cute, even when she's in Evil Professor of the Bondage Arts & Sciences mode.

"Here," she said as she tossed something to Libby, "since you're already in position."

I craned my neck and found the something in question was actually two somethings:

(1.) My neatly folded, lightweight, blue and gray scarf, the slightly ratty scarf I'd worn as a gag the last time Mom decided to get frisky; and...

(2.) A pair of panties, and if I wasn't mistaken, they were the pair I'd just removed to become Mother's "volunteer teaching dummy."

Only one response was possible: "Mother!"

"Quiet," Mother responded to my response.  "They're clean.  You barely had time to get them up to body temperature."  She nodded to Libby.  "You know what to do."

Libby blushed.  "Are you sure?" she inquired in a whisper.

"Do as you're told, Dimples," Mom ordered, thereby confirming not only that were they girlfriends, but top and bottom.  Also... "Dimples."  Adorable!

"Sorry," Libby sighed, addressing moi, then prepared the panties for stuffing duty.

"Wait," I huffed, then favored Mom and "Dimples" with my best scathing glower.  "You're a horrible, horrible mother," I said to my maternal unit, then focused my eyeball-lasers on Libby.  "And as for you 'Dimples,' you're no better."  And with that, I accepted the panties-stuffing with as much dignity as I could muster.  And then, Libby used the scarf to give me a cleave-gag... followed by a two-layer OTM gag... then tied a tight square-knot at the nape of my neck.  Very little, if any, of my hair was trapped under the gag.  I shook my tousled blond locks from my face—"Mrrrf!"—then had to repeat the process when Libby dumped me off her lap and climbed to her feet.  Okay, she gently eased me off her lap, but I decided to respond with Virtuous Gagged Fury, anyway.

Mom and Libby stood side-by-side and hand-in-hand and smiled down at me as I glowered up at them.  Daggers... laser-beams... nothing worked, so I tried magic and cast a spell.  Incendio!  Unfortunately, I seem to have misplaced my wand.  Also, I'm a "muggle," or more correctly, being American, a "nomag."

Meanwhile, time passed as Mom and Libby did their best hungry-vultures-eyeing-a-wildebeest-carcass imitation and I did my best naked-hogtied-gagged-and-outraged-damsel routine.  Finally...

"Well, enjoy your day, Londyn," Mother purred.  "Feel free to roll around and explore.  I don't believe I've left anything sharp lying around anywhere.  Everything should be safely tucked away and out of reach, but just to be safe, I'll be closing all the inside doors but the one to your bedroom.  Ciao, darling."

And with that, she led the slightly anxious Libby away.  I heard the sound of the kitchen door closing.  They returned and I watched them disappear down the bedroom hallway.  Shortly thereafter I heard another door close.  I was reasonably sure it was Mother's bedroom.

So... what to do?  I heaved a gagged sigh... then started squirming, twisting, and rolling in the same direction, meaning the bedroom hallway.  My ultimate goal was my own bedroom, as my loving mother had suggested.  Whether or not I'd be able to make it up and onto my bed remained to be seen, but even the attempt was better than spending the day on the living room carpet in a naked, hogtied, and gagged lump.

So... what's a naked, hogtied, and gagged damsel to do?

I wiggled, writhed, rolled, and scrunched my way from the living room to the hallway to my bedroom.  I paused at Mother's closed bedroom door to listen... and could hear a little giggling, gasping, and whispered conversation.  I shuddered at the thought of whatever Mother and Lovely Libby might be doing, but wasn't surprised by the glow of affection warming my heart.  I'd already decided I was glad Mom and Libby were a couple and wished them well... just spare me the details, okay?

Once I finally managed to make my rope-impeded way to my bedroom, the elevated obstacle of my neatly made bed loomed before me.  By the way, vacuuming all the floors at Checkerspot Meadows at least once a week is one of my regular chores.  Please remind me to do a better job.  Also by the way, this is where having even severely limited use of your hands came into play, as well as the ability to cross my bound ankles.  I grabbed the bedspread, spread my knees, and after a few strained, contorted, failed tries—punctuated by falling back down and landing on the carpet with a thud—but I finally managed to squirm and heave my way to the summit of Mount Repose, flop onto the no longer neat bedspread, and roll onto my side.  There I was, glowing (as in sweating), panting, and with breasts attempting to heave.  My hair was a tousled lost cause.

Even though it was still relatively early in the day, I decided to take a nap.

Zzzzzz...

I was awakened sometime later by distant, echoing voices and giggling laughter from elsewhere in the house, probably the living room.  I was pretty sure the chatterboxes were Mother, Libby, and Brows.  Who else could it be?  I couldn't make out any of what was being said, but at one point I did hear Brows gasp "Mrs. Wahlberg!"

Minutes passed... followed by more minutes.  I listened diligently but all conversation had ceased.

And then... it happened!

I heard footsteps thudding in the hallway and Mother appeared at my bedroom door, still rocking her Daisy Dukes and tank top.  Behind her came Brows Magee, then Libby in her pretty blue sundress.

By-the-way, Brows was naked, as naked as I was at the moment.  She was also bound and gagged!

Mother—the logical guess was that Brows' rigger had been Mother—had gone with a mildly sadistic variation of the classic box-tie.  There were the usual horizontal bands of cotton clothesline pinned Brows' arms to her sides, passing above and below her breasts, lateral strands yoking her shoulders, and her arms were folded behind her back, raised, and her crossed wrists lashed together just below her shoulder blades.  Hence my characterization of "mildly sadistic."  Truth be told, for a yogi-damsel like Brows, it was no big thing, but it was unnecessarily stringent.  As if my current condition wasn't evidence enough, Mom was having fun.

I confirmed the full details of Brows' bondage later when I got a chance to see her from both sides.  At the moment, all I could tell was that she was box-tied.  She was also tethered on a clothesline leash with one end loosely tied around her neck with a non-compacting knot and the other in Mom's right hand.

As for Brows' gag, all I could see was what appeared to be the two layers of an OTM gag, like mine.  I considered it a safe bet the other details were also similar, meaning there was some sort of stuffing, then a cleave, then the OTM layers.  It was another lightweight summer scarf, in faded fuchsia, but it must have been one of Mother's.  It certainly wasn't mine and I seriously doubt Libby had sprinted back to her place to fetch a scarf from her collection.

I stared at Brows.

Brows stared at me.

Mother smiled.

Libby blushed.

"Look who decided to commit burglary and spy on her neighbors," Mom finally announced, indicating Brows with a nod of her grinning head.

It was difficult to tell with Brows' gag, but I was reasonably sure she was blushing even worse than Libby.  Also, a naked, bound, and gagged Brows Magee is really cute, especially when she's been caught in the act of being bad.

"She claimed she couldn't concentrate on her painting for more than a couple of hours before she simply had to come and see what I'd done to you," Mom continued.  She untied Brows' leash and pointed to the bed, meaning my bed.

Brows heaved a sad little gagged sigh, padded to the bed, and sat.  This maneuver allowed me to confirm the details of her "sadistic" box-tie.  It also revealed another highly significant fact: Brows' fingers were mummified with black tape!  In fact, they were wrapped, flipper-fashion, in neat, overlapping layers of the dreaded Gorilla Tape®!  Apparently, when Mother captures a clandestine snooper, she doesn't take any chances.

"All the way," Mom added and Brows reclined on her side, facing me.  We locked eyes—Brows and I—and heaved simultaneous commiserating sighs.

Meanwhile, Mother motioned to Libby and she stepped forward.  I hadn't noticed 'til now, but she had two things in her hands: the somewhat depleted roll of black Gorilla Tape® and a box containing a roll of clear plastic Glad® Cling Wrap.

Libby readied a length of plastic wrap from the roll as Mother placed my hands and fingers together, palm-to-palm.

"Mrrrmpfh!" I complained.  I had a very good idea what was coming, but decided to cooperate anyway.  I didn't want a spanking, and despite my hogtied condition, my butt-cheeks were individually vulnerable.

"Hush," Mom purred, then wrapped my fingers, hands, and wrists with the Cling Wrap.  Then, I heard the dreaded riiiip of Gorilla Tape® leaving the roll, and the mummification commenced.  Turn followed tight, partially overlapping turn, with three fully overlapping turns around my wrists.  Then, Mother wrapped my already wrapped wrists to the hogtie ropes with five turns, then continued wrapping my already wrapped hands to the ropes until the all the tape was expended!  Redundant and totally unnecessary?  Yes, there hadn't been much left on the roll to begin with, so why not?

"And that's the end of the Gorilla Tape®," Mother chuckled.  "We'll stick to 3M® products from now on."

Brows and I exchanged another sigh.

Next, Mother did two things:

1.  She reached into the pocket of her Daisy Dukes, produced a black, six-inch cable-tie, and vripped it around Brows' big toes, binding them together.

2.  She doubled Brows former cotton clothesline leash, found the center, and looped it around our waists—meaning both Brows' and my waists.  She then pulled out the slack until our tummy's came together, took a cinch between our bodies to tighten things up, and tied an elegant knot.

Just to be clear, our tummies weren't the only things touching.  We were also thighs-to-thighs and boobs-to-boobs!  At this point, Mom was the only one in the bedroom who wasn't blushing.  We knew we had ample wiggle room, but would wait to confirm that later.  We weren't about to start rubbing skin with Mom and Libby in the room.

Mom tossed the cardboard roll from the expended Gorilla Tape® to Libby.  "Would you wait for me in the kitchen, darling?" Mom purred.  "I'd like to have a private word with the girls."

"Uh, yeah, sure," Libby responded, took one last disbelieving look at the spectacle on the bed... then made her exit, closing the bedroom door behind her.  Okay, we could tell Libby was enjoying the show, but as the novice of the group, it was her place to act amazed.

Mother positioned herself at the foot of the bed where we both could see her, crossed her arms under her breasts, and smiled.  "Now then," she said, "I want you both to know that I'm very happy that you've become a couple."

Wait!  Wait!  Wait!  Hold the phone!  Full stop!  "A couple??"  What the hell did she mean by "a couple??"  Okay, we'd had three sleepovers since Brows invaded and occupied the cabin, but, "a couple??"  That's just nonsense!  Absurd!  Preposterous!  Astronomically silly!  I blinked in stunned amazement.  It was also true.

I focused on Brows and found she was also amazed.  Even gagged I could tell she was astonished... and very cute!

Mother politely waited for us to recover before continuing.  "I wish you only the best.  Who knows where it will lead, but I hope you're both very happy.  Libby feels the same."

We stared at Mother, then at each other, then at Mother.

"And speaking of Libby," Mother purred, focusing on me, "what Libby and I do in private is none of your business."  She shifted her smile on Brows.  "And that goes for you as well, Bronwyn.  Our relationship is strictly off limits."

"Mrrrrf!" I protested.  [Gaglish to English: "Hypocrite!"]

Thanks to her ∆I∆ training, Mother understood me completely.  "A mother has every right to meddle in the love life of her adult daughter," she stated.  "It's a cultural meme."

She had a point.  I hate it when Mom's right.

"Now," Mom added as she turned and strolled to the door.  "I know you two have a lot you'd like to discuss, so I'll leave you to not being able to do it."

And with that clever bon mot, Mother made her exit, abandoning us to our respective hogtied and box-tied and mutually tummy-tied fates.

We stared at the freshly closed door, then each other.

I heaved a sigh... then a chill of dread rippled down my spine, made a leisurely turn though my pussy, and settled in my stomach.  Brows had a glint in her eyes that I didn't at all like.

Help!  I'm naked, bound, gagged, and tied to a naked, bound, gagged, and frisky trickster!

True to form, Brows began rubbing our nipples together and wiggling her thighs, and there was bupkis I could do about it.

We were a couple, all right, but a couple of what?

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Chapter 7

Chapter 9

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