THINGS  YOU  NEED  TO  KNOW  ABOUT
		by Van ©2017
		Chapter 9

Eventually, Brows tired of trying (and succeeding) in rubbing our nipples together, trying (and mostly failing) to force my thighs apart with her left knee so she could rub it against my pussy, and nuzzling (with general success) her stuffed, cleaved, and OTM-gagged mouth against my stuffed, cleaved, and OTM-gagged mouth.  More correctly, after several minutes of persistent effort... she'd take a five-minute breather... then try again.  Lather, rinse, repeat.

No amount of mewling, squirming away, or thigh-squeezing on my part could discourage her.  I know I succeeded in conveying my reluctance to participate—I was still preoccupied with processing recent "revelations" about Mom and Libby and Brows and (supposedly) myself—but Brows wanted to play.  Couldn't she just... chill for a while?  But you know Brows.  "No" is an alien concept and "not now" is a difference without a distinction.

Eventually... after something like an hour... the bedroom door opened and Mother reappeared.  She was still wearing the same Daisy Dukes and white tank top.

"For goodness sake, Londyn," she purred as she sat on the bed and pulled a pair of bandage scissors from her hip pocket.  "It's nearly mid-morning.  Are you going to spend the entire day in bed?"

Oh, such sublime hilarity!  Such unmatched raillery!  And by the way Brows was chortling through her gag I could tell she agreed—minus the sarcasm.

Mom sat on the bed and used the scissors to carefully sever the layers of black Gorilla Tape® and clear plastic wrap mummifying my fingers and hands.  This took a while, but eventually she pulled away the severed sheath and once again I could wiggle and flex my now sweaty digits and hands.  Next, she untied the long, single length of white cotton clothesline hogtying my naked body.  This also took a while as she'd taken tension-keeping hitches at regular intervals during the binding process.  Eventually, my hogtie was a thing of the past, as was the second, shorter length of clothesline binding Brows' belly to my own.

I sat up, stretched—which felt very good, by the way—then began dealing with my gag.  By the time I had the scarf untied, unwrapped, and no longer cleaving my mouth, Mother had snipped the cable-tie binding Brows' big toes together, tossed the scissors on the bed, and was making her exit.  The only evidence that she'd ever been there was the tangle of cotton clothesline, the empty cocoon of tape and plastic from which my fingers and hands had emerged, the scissors, and, of course, my freedom.

"Thank you, Mother!" I shouted at the closing door.  "I hate you!"

"You're welcome, Princess," Mom chuckled from the hallway.  "I love you too."

And with that, it was just Brows and myself.  I climbed off the bed and stretched again, groaning, reaching for the ceiling, and arching my back.  I then dropped the empty tape/plastic hand-cocoon in the trash, deposited the used panties (my former mouth stuffing) in the clothes hamper, then went to my dressing table and ran a brush through my hair.  After that I dressed in fresh panties and the same cargo shorts and short-sleeve peasant blouse I'd been wearing before Mother decided to further Libby's education by using me as her bondage training dummy.

So, time to release Brows, right?

Good one!  A real rib-tickler!  Like I'm going to unleash a randy Brows on an unsuspecting world.

And speaking of leashes, I tied one end of the very long clothesline that was my former hogtie bonds around Brows' neck, then led her to the bathroom.  With all that coffee Brows and I had drunk before and during breakfast, it was a good thing Mom had showed up when she did.  I emptied my bladder, then helped Brows do the same.  And two can play the humiliate-the-damsel-with-a-damp-washcloth game.  The problem was, Brows was anything but humiliated when I cleaned her up after her tinkle.  If anything, she was enthusiastic.

Brows.  What ya gonna do?

I dragged my coffle-of-one down the hallway.  Through the open door of Mother's bedroom we noted Libby's sundress and Mom's Daisy Dukes, tank top, and panties neatly draped across the foot of the bed, and as we passed through the living room I noticed Brows' mini-kilt and tank-top neatly draped across the back of an easy chair.

After we entered the kitchen, we could see a naked Mom and Libby through the window, hand in hand with rolled towels tucked under one arm and starting down the trail to the pond.  Obviously they were on a skinny-dipping and/or sunbathing expedition.

I stopped for a water-bottle from the fridge, then dragged Brows to the barn (aka The Londyn Wahlberg Sculpture Studio).  I was in the final stages of refining the design for "Brows' Throne," the oh-so-special chair I'd decided was my next furniture project, and needed to do some last minute fiddling before printing the working plans.

Being a considerate friend, I backed Brows' naked, box-tied (with tape-mummified hands), and gagged personage against the wooden support post that was closest to my worktable and lashed her in place.  I didn't bother untying her leash, just wrapped the clothesline around her body and the post a few times and tied a knot around the level of her knees.  It wasn't what you could call tight, elaborate, or aesthetically pleasing bondage, but she wouldn't be wiggling free and wandering off.

Next, I untied Brows' gag and gingerly plucked a pair of saliva-soaked panties from her mouth.  Big surprise.  Mom had used Brows' own panties to plug her mouth.  I popped the top on the water bottle and held it to Brows' lips.

Brows gulped water... then licked her lips.  "Thanks," she said with a dimpled smile.

"You're welcome," I answered, then placed the bottle on the worktable, pulled away the large cloth I use as a dust cover for my shop computer, and fired it up.

"What ya doin'?" Brows inquired.

"Work," I answered.

"Art?"

I rolled my eyes.  "Yes, art.  I'm designing a chair."

"Excellent," Brows said, squirming and testing her bonds.  "While you tap the keys we can talk about your next modeling gig.  Once I finish the group painting I have an entire series of individual portraits planned for the three of you.  And then will come the pairings, meaning two models at a time."

By this time the computer was ready and it had occurred to me Brows would be able to see the screen from her post at the post.  That wouldn't do.  I picked up the panties and scarf from the table, draped the scarf around my neck, and returned to my captive audience.

Brows eyes were on the slightly damp panties I was carefully compacting into a wad.  "So," she sighed, "no talking?"

"No talking," I confirmed as I stuffed the panties into her pouting but cooperative mouth.  Next, I gave her a tight cleave-gag; but instead of using the scarf's very long free ends to add the now traditional two-layer OTM-gag, I arranged for Brows' suddenly wide and dismayed brown eyes to disappear under a two-layer blindfold.  When I stepped back, Brows was cleave-gagged (with stuffing) and blindfolded from the tip of her nose to her top of her forehead.  Brows shook her muffled and sightless head in a courtesy struggle.  She was very cute like that, by the way, and now the security of my chair project would remain intact.

I returned to the worktable and set to work.  Soon... after something like an hour... I'd finished my parts list (lumber and hardware), cutting plan, and perspective drawings.  Brows and her gagged sighs and rope-impeded squirming were a tad distracting, but I persevered.  I sent the plans to the cloud where they'd be available to the printer in the main house, shut down and covered the computer, then turned and gave Brows my full attention.

It was getting close to lunchtime... but we weren't there quite yet.

Brows wiggled and rolled her shoulders, causing her boobs to shake a little.

I watched... and grinned.  Modeling, eh?  I'd just had a very good idea, but it could wait.  There was no rush.  Brows certainly wasn't going anywhere, and I was having a lot of fun watching her try.

Minutes passed... and eventually... I decided Brows' had been on postal duty long enough.  Also, I was beginning to feel a little peckish.  I untied the clothesline, leaving the neck-loop intact, and led her from the barn to the kitchen.  As I'd also left her gag and blindfold intact, I had to keep her on a short leash and take care she didn't stumble into harm.  Unnecessarily cruel, you say?  Of course.  What's your point?

We entered the kitchen to find Mother at the counter fixing a pair of sandwiches: sliced turkey and Swiss cheese with lettuce and mayo on white bread.  She gave me a questioning look and I smiled and held up two fingers, placing our order.  She went to the cabinet for two more plates.  Mom had changed back into her Daisy Dukes and tank top, by the way.

Libby was sitting at the table with her nose in Mom's iPad.  (I could tell it was Mother's by its pretty periwinkle-blue cover.)  She looked up and smiled, then focused on Brows' blindfold and gasped, "Blindfolds!"  Then, her smile returned and she resumed swiping and tapping the iPad.  Libby was back in her navy-blue sundress.  I assume she was still without panties, unless she'd borrowed a pair from Mom.

There, ya see?  More proof, as if any was needed!  Brows is a corrupting influence!  Before she moved into the cabin I would never have found myself wondering about things like whether or not Libby McDermott was wearing panties.

I settled Brows into a chair then sat next to Libby.  Craning my neck in a manner that grossly violated her browsing privacy, I watched as she maneuvered her way through the Stockroom.com website and perused their blindfold collection.

"Your mother mentioned something called an 'armbinder'," Libby explained.  "I had no idea what she was talking about, so..."  Libby gestured at the iPad.  "She suggested I check it out."

I couldn't help but smile.  Libby was like a kid in a candy store who'd just discovered candy.  "Oh, you're looking for a gift?" I inquired innocently.  "Mom's birthday is coming up in a couple of months."

Mom smiled and continued making our collective lunch.  Libby, on the other hand, blushed.  (I know.  Big surprise.  Libby blushed.)

"And just to be clear," I continued, "is the gift you have in mind an armbinder, or yourself in an armbinder?"

"Londyn," Mother warned.

"Just kidding, Mother," I purred.

"Anyway..." Libby continued.  "There's some, uh, interesting things here... like blindfolds."

"Mrrrpf-rrm-frrf-mmm," Brows suggested.

For Libby's benefit I translated from the Gaglish.  "Isolation hoods."

Libby blinked in question, then started tapping and sliding through the menu.  "Oh."  Her eyes popped wide.  "Oh!"  She stared at the screen in wide-eyed horror (and fascination).  "It... locks on your head," she said in a whisper, "with tiny padlocks."

"I've never tried sensory deprivation," I purred, "but I imagine it would be truly terrifying to be naked, tied up—or maybe laced, buckled, and padlocked in an armbinder—and with one of those things on your head..."  I winked at Mother.  "Imagine... your ears plugged, eyes covered, a ball-gag in your mouth, and your entire head squeezed in a thick, tight, form-fitting leather hood... for hours and hours."

Mother gave me a mild stink-eye.  "Londyn Wahlberg, stop teasing Libby or I'll send you back to the cabin with Brows, only you'll be the one naked, tied up, and gagged."

I shrugged.  "So.. a typical day at Checkerspot Meadows?"

Brows chuckled through her gag, Libby managed a nervous giggle, and Mother continued her warning stare.

"I'm sorry, Libby," I said, giving her hand a pat.

"That's okay," Libby answered with a smile.

"Anyway," I continued, "I'm afraid I have some truly ghastly news."  I nodded towards Brows.  "Our resident painter plans on having us continue modeling for her, individually and in pairs.  She says it's an open-ended series."

Mother and Libby exchanged the appropriate horrified and amused looks.

"Obviously," Mother said as she carried the first two plates to the table, "things are getting out of control."

I scurried to the refrigerator for cans of soda, then on to the pantry for a bag of chips.  "And by 'things' you mean Brows Magee." 

Mother placed the last two plates on the table and sat.  "Luckily..."  Mom gestured at her iPad, now on the table beside Libby's plate.  "Sites are available where we can purchase everything we need to rectify the situation."

"Oh," I added as I ripped open the bag of chips (Tim's® Cascade Style Reduced Fat Sea Salt Potato Chips), added a modest pile to my plate, then passed it to Libby, "like a steel collar and a long chain we can bolt to the cabin wall near the bed."

Mother nodded.  "Also, bars for the windows, thicker, stronger doors, and new locks, all of which would lock from the outside."

"Make the place a prison," Libby added, getting into the spirit of things.

Mother sighed.  "I've always regretted that Checkerspot Meadows doesn't have a basement.  A subterranean dungeon would have been very useful while Londyn was growing up."

"Very funny, Mother," I intoned, then smiled at Libby.  "Your place has a basement," I noted.  "Are you getting any ideas?"

"Londyn," Mother warned (while Libby resumed blushing).  Mom gestured towards Brows.

I took the hint, leaned over and removed Brows' blindfold and gag, then popped the top of her can of soda and held it to her lips.  (Diet Dr Pepper®.  What else would Brows drink?)

"Thank you," Brows said after taking a generous gulp.  "You know I'd escape, eventually," she announced.  "It would only be a matter of time."

"Perhaps, dear," Mother purred, "but there are some impressive steel shackles available that are exceeding difficult if not impossible to remove."

"The ones that require the use of an Allen wrench?" I suggested, and Mom nodded.  I turned to Brows.  "I think you could still paint wearing a full set, including a collar; once you got used to the weight, of course."

Brows ignored my witty observation.  Her attention was on the turkey sandwich on the plate in front of her.

I spared Brows the indignity of trying to take a bite without the use of her hands.  "Yum," she announced as she chewed, smiling at Mother.

"Thank you, dear," Mother purred.

The meal continued.

I very much wanted to discuss with Lovely Libby the possibility of converting at least part of her basement into an actual dungeon, complete with steel chains and a solid door with a barred window and a high-security padlock on the outside, but didn't want to further test Mom's patience.  I had plans for the afternoon, and they didn't include me being the one naked and tied up.  I smiled, engaged in innocuous small talk, and fed Brows and myself.  My mother's turkey sandwiches really are first rate, by the way.

So... what's my fiendish plan?  What Cruel Fate do I have in store for poor, innocent Brows Magee?

Well, if Brows is gonna make us (Mom, Libby, and myself) continue modeling for her, she can model for ME!  Bwa-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha...  That's supposed to be evil, maniacal laughter, by the way.

Anyhoo, once lunch was over and we were cleaning up, Mom announced that Libby and herself would be spending the afternoon at Libby's house, followed by dinner, followed by... whatever.

Libby nodded in agreement (and blushed.)

I announced that Brows would be modeling for me for the rest of the day, and that we'd be fine on our own.  I'd scrounge something for dinner, either here (the Meadows) or at Brows' Cabin.

Oddly, neither Mom or Libby so much as batted an eye when I divulged that Brows was now my model.  What a disappointment.

Her new modeling career was news to Brows, of course, but all she could do was lift a bushy, squirrel-like eyebrow and voice her surprise in unequivocal but well-muffled terms.  "Mrrrf?"  You see, I'd taken the precaution of restoring her gag once we finished eating, and that means her full gag: panties stuffing, scarf-cleave, and two-layer scarf-OTM.

Once Mom and Libby were safely away (and there was no one to rescue poor Brows) I led my naked, bound, gagged, reluctant, but resigned model back to her cabin.  I confess I hadn't entirely thought things through, but one thing was for sure, I wasn't about to sculpt something that involved Mom's white cotton clothesline.  I needed to borrow from Brows' stock of conditioned hemp—and yes, recreational weed is legal in the state of Washington, but none of us indulge... as far as I know.  I meant her conditioned hemp rope, and nothing else.  Anyway, we arrived at the cabin and I let us in.  Yes, I do carry a spare key to Brows' Cabin on my key-ring.

It didn't take long to find my model's hemp stash.  I selected a long coil, we left the cabin, and I began the process of selecting the appropriate setting for what I had in mind.  This took a while and, to her credit, Brows was very patient.  Of course, as she remained naked, bound, and gagged, patience was her best option.

Finally, I found the perfect tree.  It was a rapidly maturing sapling with a perpendicular, straight trunk that stretched to a height of about ten feet before branching.  Also, it was situated against a great natural background—not that I'd be sculpting the background, of course, but general aesthetics are important with things like this.

I smiled at Brows.  Brows smiled at me.  I could tell by the twinkle in her eyes.

"Now," I announced as I took a turn around the sapling with her clothesline leash and pulled her in close until her gagged face was nearly resting against the bark, "I'm going to change your bondage from Mother's clothesline to your very own hemp, and you're going to cooperate, otherwise..."

Smack!

I'd delivered a businesslike slap to her right butt-cheek.

"Mrrrpfh!"

"Yes," I agreed, "that was totally unnecessary.  Now..."  I grinned and shook a finger in her outraged, gagged face.  "I expect you to be the very model of cooperation."

Brows' response was to roll her eyes at my deplorable pun and give an adorable little gagged huff, but she did cooperate.  Nonetheless, I took full precautions as I changed her bonds.  I untied most of her box-tie, leaving just enough of Mom's handiwork intact to let me deal with any rebellion if she changed her mind.  Also, I left her tape and plastic mummified hands and fingers 'til the very last, pulling the bandage scissors from my shorts pocket and carefully snipping them free only when Brows was already a helpless tree-hugger.

So, I went with an elaborate, symmetrical, and traditional tribute to Shibari masters past and present, right?  Wrong!

I made Brows' hemp bonds purposely but deceptively haphazard, as if I had parked her against the tree and lashed her in place while I attended to more pressing business than whatever ultimate fate I had in mind for my naked, nubile captive.  That said, I took periodic hitches and made sure the tension of Brows' bonds was uniform throughout and nothing could shift around.  Like I said, deceptively haphazard.

I tied the anchoring knot above her head, tantalizingly beyond the reach or her lips and teeth, even if she wasn't gagged—looped and hitched rope around her upper body, placing her boobs on either side and up against the bark—lashed her wrists together and to the tree on the far side of the trunk—continued down to include her knees in the composition—then ended by lashing her ankles together but not to the tree.  That meant the final knot, the key knot, was down near the ground and utterly impossible for her to reach.  Bwa-ha-ha-ha-ha-etc.

"All-rightie-then," I chuckled, entering the gloating phase of the program.  "You wait here while I stroll back to my studio and select a chunk of wood so I can begin carving.  That will probably take a while as I'll have to find just the right piece, the one with a captive Brows Magee already inside and waiting to be exposed."

Brows favored me with her best naked, bound, and gagged imitation of Queen Victoria at her least amused, as was appropriate and expected.

"And then," I continued, "I'll have to stop off in the kitchen and pantry to see what we have in the refrigerator and/or freezer that looks good for supper, then carry it and the wood to the cabin—I hope that only takes one trip—then get the meal started if early preparation is required.  And then I can come back and start sculpting."

Brows continually bombarded me with her visual daggers and eyeball lasers, but with no more success than I'd had when our roles (and the ropes) were reversed.  My shields held without requiring Scotty to work one of his engineering miracles and I didn't even have to randomly cycle the shield frequencies.

"Oh, I know!" I gasped with mock (and no doubt highly irritating) enthusiasm.  "I'll borrow your camera and take a few hundred shots of you and your new arboreal best friend so I can work on my new sculpture at my leisure."  I turned and strolled in the direction of the cabin.  "Of course," I called back over my right shoulder, "I'll have to take the time to locate the camera's instruction manual and read it from cover to cover, and locate an empty memory stick I can borrow.  I certainly hope I don't have to drive into town to buy one.  Later, darling!" I added with a half turn, a beaming smile, and a finger-waggling wave... and was gone.

Brows, of course, remained behind.

Actually, I had no intention of leaving Brows hugging that sapling for more than half an hour.  She was in full sun and with her semi-fair skin she might burn.  Rubbing medicinal lotion on her skin was a precaution I planned on taking anyway, once we returned to the cabin, but I had no intention of letting her broil.  Also, I already knew how to operate Brows' camera and where she kept her cache of fresh memory sticks.  Finally, retrieving either food or a chunk of wood from the Meadows was never an option.  Brows had plenty of food stashed away and I'd always intended to work my artistic magic from photographs.

My cunning and/or diabolical plan was to let Brows sweat and snuggle against the tree for a while—all the while thinking that I had left her to burn—then return and take a few dozen snapshots, untie her, and we'd return to the cabin—and that's what happened.

Even though Brows was totally free during the meal prep and consumption, she agreed to let me tie her up afterwards.  I reasoned that it was her turn.  The last time I'd been the one tied up and helpless and now it was her turn.  Also, I threatened to hold my breath until I turned blue and died and she'd have to explain my untimely demise to Mother and the sheriff.  Brows had no counter to such well-reasoned eloquence, so... for once I got my way.

Anyhoo... I tied up Brows, Ragnar the wand-style Viking vibrator got to stage a raid on his supposed owner, and a good time was had by all.

The end.

What's that you say?  How dare I call this a story?  It's just a narrative of four attractive women tying each other up and boinking each others brains out?  Lather, rinse, repeat?  There's no real climax (so to speak)?  No tidy resolution of conflict and/or jeopardy?

First of all, thank you for the "attractive women" comment.  You're very sweet.

Second of all, who died and made you literary critic?

Third of all... shut up!

I made it clear at the beginning that this is the story of what happened when Brows arrived at Checkerspot Meadows to infest inhabit the cabin and that's exactly what I've done.  You want a "real" climax?  Okay.  Fine.  How 'bout this:

Brows' former landlord finally succeeding in tracking her down and dispatched a beautiful female secret-agent-wannabe dressed in a black leather catsuit to exact retribution.  The agent had a striking resemblance to Diana Rigg, so let's refer to her as "Mrs. Peel's Evil Twin" or MPET for short.  MPET used her expertise in judo and karate and/or chloroform to overpower/capture Libby, Mother, and myself—one-by-one and with a great deal of drama and suspense—then stripped us naked, tied us to kitchen chairs, and gagged us with inexplicably effective OTM cloth-gags.  Conveniently, we all regained consciousness at the same time to discover (much to our collective dismay) that MPET had also captured Brows and tied her to the kitchen table, naked and gagged!   Resplendent in her gleaming black catsuit, MPET was smiling her dimpled smile and brandishing a goose feather.  That's right!  She was about to start tickling Brows' bare, rope-bound, struggling feet and wiggling toes!  And we had no choice but to watch!

The tickle-torture went on and on and on with the usual gagged giggling, whining, whimpering, copious sweating, and energetic writhing.  It was... horrible?  Yeah, let's go with "horrible."

But then, after only a couple of hours of exquisite tickle-torture, a masked woman burst in!  She was in her early twenties, had a striking resemblance to Yvonne Craig in her early twenties, and was dressed in a glittery purple and yellow Batgirl costume, complete with cowl, mini-cape, utility belt, and boots.  MPET and the newcomer fought—in an obviously choreographed manner with stiff-handed chops and questionable judo throws—and the Batgirl cosplayer/rescuer prevailed!  The sheriff was summoned, Mrs. Peel's Evil Twin was arrested, she flipped on Brows' former landlord, and they both went to prison.  The Batgirl-wannabe hung around for one quick cocktail, then disappeared into the night.  And all was well at Checkerspot Meadows.

The end.

There, happy?  None of that actually happened, by the way, in case you're the type who are incapable of grasping the concept of SARCASM.

I suppose I could add a few more details, meaning actual details.

Mother replaced her cotton clothesline collection with conditioned hemp and bought Libby a ball-gag for her birthday.  It was a... wait for it... gag gift!  (I slay myself!)

At Christmas Libby reciprocated (and made good on my earlier gift suggestion) and bought Mother an armbinder.

Brows and I agreed it was a very nice armbinder, black leather with locking buckles.  In addition to lacing up the back it had auxiliary straps to bind the wrists and elbows.  I only saw it in use one time when I barged into Mom's bedroom one afternoon, not knowing it was occupied.  It was my turn to do the laundry and I needed to gather Mom's dirty clothes.  Anyway, I caught a glimpse of Libby on Mom's bed, naked, ball-gagged, and wearing the armbinder!  But before I could see more (not that there was much more to see as Mom was also naked), I was ordered to get the hell out and go play in traffic.  I told Brows about it later and she was very amused.

And on that very same Christmas, Brows arrived at the Meadows for Christmas dinner to find that Santa had left a package under our tree with her name on it.  Surprisingly, when she tore off the wrapping and opened the box she discovered her present was not a large lump of anthracite coal, but a stainless steel collar!  It secured by means of a flush-mounted brass padlock and had a steel ring dangling from the front.  Brows was ecstatic, and with my help tried it on immediately.  It was only after she'd had her fill of admiring her collared self in the mirror that she discovered the keys in the bottom of the box didn't fit the padlock!  You should have seen the look on Brows face!  Priceless?  You betcha!

It was at that point that Mother (yes, my mother) revealed that she was Brows' secret Santa and dangled the correct set of keys in front of Brows' astonished face.  She explained that the gift was to make it unquestionably clear exactly who was alpha she-wolf at Checkerspot Meadows (as well as any tributary cabins that happened to be on the property).

Brows pouted and whined and acted positively wounded that Mother Wahlberg would even consider the possibility that such a lesson was necessary.  And oh-by-the-way, could she please be released from the beastly collar immediately, as it was horribly heavy locked around her delicate, swan-like neck and wearing it was so very humiliating?  The batting of big, brown doe-eyes was involved, as was the trembling of lips.  Cute?  I tell ya, I nearly came in my panties (if you'll pardon my French).  Mother, however, being made of sterner maternal-grade stuff, was relentless and refused to release Brows until after sundown.

It turns out the collar fits me as well.  Also, it can be used to chain anyone who happens to be wearing it to Brows' bed.  Go figure.  Anyway...

To no one's surprise, Brows carried through with her dastardly scheme to paint an entire series of Mom, Libby, and myself (singly and in various permutations) and it caused a minor stir in certain corners of the art world.  In fact, her work caught the attention of Maggie Kilborn!

Guest starring as Maggie Kilborn...
Marg Helgenberger

What?  Maggie Kilborn!  The famous artist and Hollywood designer?  The one who sculpts those fantastic bronze statues of tied up women?  Multiple industry awards for movie and TV production designs?  I know you've seen her work, both her sculptures and her entertainment stuff.  Look her up if you don't think it's a big deal.

Anyway, she contacted Brows through her gallery and came to Checkerspot Meadows for a visit!

What.  A.  Nice.  Lady!

And hot?  Don't get me started about all those freckles.  She stayed for a week and watched Brows paint (with me as her naked and ball-tied model chewing on a bandanna-stuffing and scarf cleave-gag, of course) and to watch me work on my carvings.

Maggie also settled into the Checkerspot Meadows/Brows' Cabin routine of running, yoga, skinny-dipping, and sunbathing.  Like I said... freckles.

So.  Many.  Freckles.  {Sigh.}

Maggie keeps herself in amaze-balls shape, by the way, even though she's, you know, elderly, more or less Mom and Libby's age.  And like I also said: hot!

Even better, Maggie offered to mentor me in bronze techniques!  I don't mean the actual casting of bronze figures.  That's what foundries are for.  She offered to tutor me in the lost-wax casting process, aka investment casting, aka precision casting.  At the time my studio wasn't set up for that, other than carving the "sacrificial model" for casting the "master model" required to make the "master mold."  Anyhow, the offer was for Brows and myself to make a return visit to Maggie's studio north of Santa Barbara!  And we did!

That's right!  I was Maggie Kilborn's apprentice!  Well... more like she tutored me for a few weeks, but... WOW!

Anyhoo, a month after Maggie left for home, Brows and I loaded our luggage and Brows' easel and paint box into The Blue Beast (Brow's Prius-V) and drove to Maggie's hilltop, earth-sheltered mansion and studio compound.  (Maggie had already assured Brows that fresh canvases would be available so she wouldn't have to bring any.)

We had a BLAST!  I learned everything I needed to know to start working in bronze when I got home, and if you're familiar with the most recent additions to our catalogs (Maggie, Brows, and myself) you already know that both Brows and yours truly modeled for Maggie—Maggie modeled for Brows—and Brows modeled for my very first bronze, which was cast at the foundry that handles all of Maggie's works.  It really is an artistic partnership, between the sculptor and the foundry, I mean.  So... now I work in wood and bronze!  And it's all thanks to Magie Kilborn!

Well, that's about it.  Life goes on at Checkerspot Meadows and we haven't had to outfit Brows' Cabin with window-bars, more solid doors, or chains... yet.

Mom and Libby are a couple, which is really sweet (as long as you spare me the sweaty details), and Brows and I are also a couple.

There, I said it.  I admitted the obvious.  Yes, Brows and I are in love.

Londyn ♥ Brows.

But let's get one thing straight: I am not Brows' bottom.  Just because I'm the one that winds up naked, bound, and gagged most of the time is neither here nor there.  I'm Brows' model and she needs inspiration, so it's not like it's me being her simpering submissive.  I mean... me?  Londyn Wahlberg?  Submissive?  Get real!

Granted, I can see how an objective outside observer might get that mistaken impression, that I'm Brows' bottom, what with me being a nude prisoner now and then... meaning a lot.  Also, things happen.  For example, Brows ordered herself a French maid costume, one of those black-with-white-lace-trim mini-dresses with a white apron, plunging neckline, and silly white cap?  Why?  I'm not sure.  Halloween was months away.  Anyway, the thing came, but somebody had made an error.  It was too big.  It fit me perfectly, but not Brows.  I wear it now and then and use a feather duster to clean the cabin 'cause it makes Brows laugh, but I'm not her maid.

And speaking of keeping Brows amused—and this is important—if Brows is occupied finding new ways to tie me up and boink my brains out, the rest of the planet is safe.

Ever see that episode of Rod Serling's The Twilight Zone where a guy takes refuge in a castle/monastary during a storm and discovers that the monks are keeping a dude locked up in the dungeon?  They claim he's the devil and they're doing it to protect humanity.  Naturally, the guy thinks the monks are crazy and lets the poor dude go.  Well... surprise, surprise... the "poor dude" is the devil, and the result is WW-II.  "Submitted for your approval..."  What was the title?  Oh yeah: The Howling Man.

Anyhow, that's me and Brows, only Checkerspot Meadows is the monastery and instead of locking Brows in a dungeon I let her tie me up and paint me (among other things).  See?  It's perfectly logical.  It's a dirty rotten job, but somebody's got to do it—and I'm not Brow's bottom!

Well... that's about it.  If anything interesting ever happens around here I'll let you know.

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Chapter 8

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