by Van ©2019
		Chapter 2

Knock-knock-knock! → My bedroom door.

"Anne?  Are you okay?" → Logan.

No, I wasn't okay.  In fact, I was → fReAkIng OuT!!

I was also lying on my bed, naked, bound, and gagged!

By way of review: my big toes were tied together with an 18" length of 3mm coyote-brown nylon cord—my body was tightly bound from ankles to shoulders in a cinched and hitched web of many, many feet of natural, conditioned, 6mm hemp rope—my wrists were cuffed and padlocked behind my back in black leather cuffs with chrome hardware—my neck was wearing a padlocked, black leather collar with chrome hardware (for no particular reason)—and my mouth was plugged by a 1¾" black ball of medical-grade silicon rubber attached to a black leather strap with chrome hardware that was padlocked at the nape of my neck!

I wasn't ready to receive visitors!

Also, I was suffering the symptoms of what I assumed was a low-grade coronary and was doing my frantic best to escape from what I had purposely designed to be completely inescapable bondage!

"Mrrrrr!"  That was a pathetic and purposefully very quiet whine, not permission for Logan to enter.  Unfortunately...

Clickity-click-clunk.  Something metallic was fiddling with my bedroom door's lock!

The bungalow's bedroom and bathroom doors have "privacy locks."  You press a button on the inside doorknob to lock others out (such as, for example, Logan) and yourself in.  However, in case of emergency, there are small holes on the outside of the doorknobs for the insertion of a special "L"-shaped key to release said locks.  Actually, it's more like a peculiar Allen Wrench than a typical key.  Anyway, obviously, that's what Logan was doing!

"NRRRRR!"

That was a ball-gagged SCREAM, my attempt to politely deny Logan entry.

Logan entered anyway!

She flipped on my overhead light and I could see that she was wearing a very pretty, very skimpy, very flimsy babydoll nightie with matching (and clearly visible) bikini panties.  The manufacturer probably called the color something like "Misty Jade" and it definitely complemented her red hair and Celtic complexion.  Her feet were bare.  This was par for the course for bedtime at the bungalow.  Logan goes for sexy and I go for utilitarian, meaning panties and a tank-top or t-shirt... when I'm not naked, bound, and gagged.

"My-oh-my, what have we here?" Logan chuckled as she smiled (in a sinister manner) and nonchalantly padded towards the bed, swinging her hips (and the rest of her clearly visible and only technically clothed body).

I stopped struggling and blinked in surprise.  (My heart continued pounding.)  Logan wasn't surprised?  She wasn't screaming?  She wasn't rushing to my rescue?  She wasn't frantically dialing 911 to report a home-invasion and/or kidnapping-in-progress?  I was naked, bound, and gagged, and she was... CASUAL ABOUT IT??

"I thought it was one of those nights," Logan continued.

Huh?  At the moment, that was about the limit of the level of sophistication of my thought processes.

"Yeah, that's right," Logan purred, "I've known about your deep, dark, kinky little pastime since about a month after you moved in."

That was something like... three years ago?  "Mrrrk?"

"No, it was two months after you moved in."  Logan sat down on the bed and smiled up at the dangling key.  "You were at work, I was rummaging in your closet for a pair of shoes to borrow, and I discovered your secret stash of rope and bondage gear."

I frowned in Righteous Outrage.

"Don't be like that," Logan chuckled.  "We'd already formally agreed it was okay to borrow each others clothes, and by the first time I looted your closet you'd already worn my favorite sandals twice."

Fair enough.  I transitioned from Righteous Outrage to Profound Disappointment.  Logan remained unmoved.

"Very clever timing apparatus," she purred, turning her head and visually tracing the fishing line from the key to the fishing weight and across the bedroom to the "innocent" decorative box on my Ikea shelves.  "And your attention to detail is most commendable.  I see the various lengths of fishing line all snap together with tiny little spring-clips, you appear to have tied everything with proper knots, and you used heat-shrink tubing to seal the knots.  Belt and suspenders, as the saying goes, and very neat and tidy.  Well done."  She reached out and cupped my right breast and gently squeezed.

Allow me to reiterate.

She reached out and cupped my right breast and gently squeezed!!

"MRRRK!"

"Don't have kittens," Logan chuckled.  "I'm just being friendly."  She slid a pair of fingers under the strands of rope passing under my breasts and gave it a gentle tug.  "I'm also admiring your rope-work.  Again, well done."  She rolled me over and examined my cuffed wrists.  "Yes... very secure... but something is lacking."  She stood and padded to my closet.

Heart pounding, my cheeks and ears (and possibly boobs) blushing, I resumed struggling and watched with great interest as she lifted the lid of my Rubbermaid self-bondage toy-box, rummaged inside, then padded back to the bed with one of my remaining 15ft bundles of hemp and a second 18" length of 3mm brown cord!

"Mrrrf?"

And then... she rolled me onto my stomach and tied my elbows together!

Just to be clear, when Logan was finished my elbows weren't physically touching.  They weren't jammed together.  In fact, they were three or four inches apart; but they were most definitely bound, encircled by eight or more neatly stacked individual strands of hemp that were cinched between my elbows and hitched through the upper-body-harness I'd tied on myself.  Considerable rope remained, so she used it to lash my forearms to my waist-bonds and link my wrist-cuffs to my butt/pussy-cleaving crotch-rope!  She tied the final knot up between my elbows!  That particular knot was the only knot behind my back, but it might as well have been on the far side of the moon as far as my fingers were concerned.

Logan then took a step back and watched (smiling) as I explored my enhanced bondage.  Tying my elbows together (or close together) was something I'd never been able to do for myself with any degree of satisfaction.  But now, Logan had done it for me!  I could tell immediately that if she left me like this, when three hours expired and the key dropped, I would almost certainly not be able free myself.

I rolled onto my side, mustered the appropriate outrage, and glowered up at my... captor?  "Mrrrk!"  Actually, my expression was probably more of a wounded pout than a glower.

"That's better, don't you agree?" Logan purred, then used the second 18" length of cord to tie my thumbs together!  She also looped the free ends around my hands (which, of course, were now palm-to-palm and destined to stay that way until she untied me), and tied the final knot somewhere between my lashed-together forearms and lashed-together elbows.  Talk about overkill!

Finally... the thing I dreaded most but knew had to be coming happened!

Logan reached up, unclipped the length of fishing line bearing the key to my freedom from the tiny little ring on the bottom of the fishing weight, held it by the end of said fishing line, and gave it a mocking, teasing little shake for my benefit.

This isn't good, I decided, blinking up at the flopping key and Logan's chillingly evil (and beautiful) smile.

"Well, have fun," Logan wished me, leaned down and kissed my slightly sweaty forehead, then spun on her bare heels, padded to my bedroom door, blew me an air-kiss, and turned off the overhead light.  "We'll talk in the morning," she promised.  "G'night!"  She then pulled the door closed... and was gone.

I remained behind... alone, lying on my bed... naked, bound, gagged... and helpless... for real!

Eventually, the electronic timer of my cleverly engineered release system would reach the three hour mark and turn itself off, thus releasing the eye-bolt and steel plate, and the fishing weight would drop several inches.  As for the key to my freedom, it would be at the other end of the bungalow in the custody of The Evil Logan and not within the reach of my now cord-bound-and-no-longer-able-to-untie-anything fingers.

I was well and truly screwed (so to speak).

So... this was the very first time in my entire life that I'd ever been truly, inescapably bound and gagged with my fate completely in the hands of another person!

Granted, after I'd refined my techniques and moved into the bungalow, I was always inescapably bound and gagged during my Sbf/Solo-F sessions (if I did it right), but I was the one who'd done the binding and gagging and I was the one who'd set the 100% reliable release-timer, so my fate was still in my hands, right?

This was different.  This was very different.  My fate was completely in Logan's hands!

Also granted, Logan was my friend and bungalow-mate and not a serial killer, human trafficker, or alien sent to earth to collect human specimens for study (and/or probing).  The point was, however... she wasn't me!

And you'd think this sort of thing would be the underlying fantasy of my self-bondage sessions made real and therefore better, right?  Not so much.  Go figure.  I'd already experienced one orgasm immediately prior to Logan letting herself in, but I could tell that the chances of any more, uh, "fun with bondage" had departed with the key.  I wasn't freaking out anymore, but I definitely wasn't aroused.  I had too much to think about.

Unfortunately, the knotted crotch-rope cleaving my post-orgasmic, hyper-stimulated pussy hadn't gotten the memo.  As I rolled on the bed and squirmed in my bonds for comfort, the crotch-rope continued sliding back and forth (meaning continued sawing back and forth) like nothing had happened.  I did my best to ignore it.

So... with regard to the big picture... what now?  Obviously, things had changed.  As already mentioned, I wasn't worried that Logan was going to keep me her prisoner forever.  Maybe she'd give me a little time to roll around and squirm, then return and set me free.  Maybe she'd return, like... right now.  I stared across the nearly dark bedroom at my closed bedroom door, waiting for Logan to reappear.  She didn't.

So, was I in for the night?  Maybe.  Sigh.  Probably.  That meant I'd have plenty of time to think.

Items on my cognitive agenda for the rest of the evening were:

My feelings.  Upon Logan's unexpected and uninvited arrival, my emotional response could be summed up with a single word: MORTIFIED!!  But then, I realized I might be freaking out but Logan wasn't, and I calmed down and felt better.  I was still embarrassed, or course, but... Logan already knew about my hobby?  Wow.  Also... Logan knew how to rig a good elbow-tie?  Logan was a rigger?  Feelings aside, that was important, but I didn't have enough information.

Logan's feelings.  How the hell could I know anything about that?  Obviously, she had experience with... something... but what?  She'd promised we'd talk in the morning (which was another hint that I was in for the night), so I guess I'd have to put the topic of "Logan's feelings" on hold 'til then.  Bummer.

Figuring out a way to escape.  That wasn't gonna happen and I knew it.

I heaved the required Melodramatic Sigh...  sigh... and closed my eyes.  I figured I might as well get some sleep... while naked, bound, gagged, and helpless.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ zzzzzzz ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

"Mrrrfh?"  I opened my eyes.  "Mrrrfh!"  OMG!  I was naked, bound, and gagged!

"Morning, sweetie."

That was Logan!  Oh... that's right... I was naked, bound, and gagged.  Now I remembered.  I'd done it to myself (mostly).

It was morning.  The drapes were open and the Venetian blinds up and sunlight was streaming through my bedroom windows.  Logan had rolled me onto my tummy and was fiddling with my bondage.  Specifically, she was untying my crotch-rope, separating my wrist-bonds from the formerly crotch-cleaving knotted rope, then retying the rope somewhere behind my back and up near my elbows.  My crotch was now liberated, but my wrists were still bound, as well as my thumbs and hands.

All the while, Logan smiled and chattered about how it was going to be a really nice Saturday, as prognosticated by the Weather Channel app on her iPad.  She was wearing a variant of her usual weekend-at-home uniform: jeans, tank-top (with bra), and bare feet.

I was still only half awake, but I was alert enough to wonder why Logan wasn't untying me completely but was untying selected ropes and retying the resulting free ends.  My legs were next, but this time she untied and unhitched my legs all the way down to my ankles, then untied my ankles, then untied my big toes.  So, my legs were free (like my crotch), but I was still inescapably bound from the waist up—"Mrrrk!"—and still ball-gagged!  I was also still collared (for no particular reason).

Smiling sweetly (meaning evilly) Logan used one of the tangle of 15ft ropes on the bed to put the D-ring on the front of my collar to use for its first time ever.  She tied one end of the rope through the D-ring, giving me what was obviously a hemp leash.  She then encouraged me to sit up, plant my bare feet on the floor, and stand.

"Hut-hut-hut!"

That's what you say to your camel when you want him or her to do something, right?  I was now embarrassed and humiliated, as well as naked, bound, gagged, and leashed.

"Off we go," Logan added as she stepped off.  I decided I didn't want to start my day with a semi-strangulation, so I quickly followed.  My blond hair was a tousled mess, but I managed to shake most of it out of my face as we padded to the bathroom.  Logan's red hair was neatly brushed and pulled back in a ponytail enforced by a black, fabric-covered elastic.

We entered the bathroom and Logan planted my butt on the toilet.  She then crossed her arms under her bra and tank-top covered chest and waited.  I ignored her smiling face, cotton-covered boobs, lightly freckled forearms, and blushed, fidgeting on the cool wooden seat.

"Well?" Logan inquired after a few seconds.

I continued blushing but glared in response.

"When ya gotta go, ya gotta go," Logan stated.

Cliché?  Yes, but when she's right, she's right.  Still blushing, I ignored Logan's looming presence and somehow managed to empty my bladder.

Logan flushed the toilet, then I was back on my feet and Logan was using a wet washcloth to scrub me clean between my legs!  I assume my mother used to do that for me when I was a toddler, but I don't really remember.  It was certainly the first time Logan had ever done it for me.  The least she could have done was let the water run a while so it could warm up a little before wetting the washcloth.  The damn thing was cold!  Anyway, Logan picked up my hairbrush and began gently brushing my hair.  That took about a minute... and felt good.  She left it loose about my rope-yoked shoulders and framing my ball-gagged face.

Then, it was out the bathroom door and through the house to the kitchen.  She plunked my naked ass in a kitchen chair, untied the 15ft hemp leash from my collar, then doubled the rope, looped it under the chair's seat and across my thighs, and lashed me in place, tying off the free ends through my waist-ropes in front.  I lifted my chin and stared daggers at my disgustingly smug (and attractive) bungalow-mate and captor.

"I'll cook breakfast," Logan announced.  "We can talk while I feed you.  How 'bout pancakes?  I feel like pancakes." 

She didn't wait for a reply (seeing as how I wasn't in any condition to make one), but turned and set to work.  By happy coincidence, I was fine with pancakes.

I noted that the "feed you" thing suggested she wasn't going to untie me until at least after breakfast.  Also, it was obvious that Logan had a plan, meaning she was in charge and knew what she wanted to make happen.  That was probably a good thing, 'cause I was in no position to meaningfully influence the morning's events.  I heaved the latest in a long series of ball-gagged sighs... Sigh... and watched Logan tackle the culinary task at hand.

Logan can cook.  She's no foodie, but she can cook.  So, she didn't find pancakes, syrup, bacon, orange juice, and coffee much of a challenge.  Breakfast was delicious.  I remained naked and tied to the chair, but Logan fished "the key to my freedom" out of her jeans pocket, unlocked and removed my ball-gag, then held a small glass of orange juice to my lips.  Needless to say, after all those long, dark hours of being ball-gagged, it was most welcome.  Then, she pocketed the key—Darn!—sat in the chair next to mine, cut up and poured syrup on my big stack of pancakes, then stuffed a fork-load of syrupy goodness into my mouth.  I chewed and swallowed. 

As the meal continued Logan also ate, so I suppose that made the diminishing contents of the plate our pancakes.  Not to worry.  She made sure I received my fair share.  Logan was a kind and considerate kidnapper.  I was content to chew and swallow (and glower) and put off any discussion of the fate of naked prisoners (such as myself) until we'd had our fill.

Finally, food consumed, I watched as Logan loaded the used mixing bowl, glasses, plates, and flatware in the dishwasher, then washed the fry-pan and cooking utensils at the sink.  She then refilled her coffee mug, sat back down next to me, and smiled.

"Untie me," I demanded (my opening move).

"Nope," Logan parried, then sipped her coffee.

I tried again.  "Now!"

"Nope."  She held up her mug, offering me a sip.

I shook my head.  I was sufficiently caffeinated.  "Untie me."

"I like your boobs," Logan said (out of nowhere).  "It's nice to finally get a really good look at them."

I blushed.  "Stop it," I muttered.  We were bungalow-mates, but neither of us paraded around the bungalow naked.  We wore robes on our way to and from the bathroom and while we did sometimes shower and change at our gym, I'd never noticed her staring at me, nor had I stared at her.  And then there was the issue of Logan's habit of wearing skimpy nighties to bed.  I'd seen her in nothing but a layer or two of sheer, flimsy fabric.  Logan also has nice boobs... and based on her russet pubic bush (as seen through her nightie and matching panties), she's a natural redhead (not that that was ever in question).

"Seriously," Logan continued, sipping her coffee again, "they're very nice.  Full.  Not overly large.  Firm but reasonably bouncy without being floppy.  I approve."

My cheeks were crimson and my blush was approaching spontaneous combustion.  "Untie me."

"Not 'til we've talked about a few things," Logan purred.

"Like what?"

Logan sipped her coffee, then pointed to the mug.  "You sure you don't want some?"

"Like what?"

Logan set her mug down on the table.  "First of all, you obviously have excellent engineering skills.  Your electromagnetic timer is impressive, but it's stupid to rely on any timer, by which I mean only a timer.  You should have a 'designated safety,' someone who will come to your rescue if, meaning when, something goes wrong.  I'm perfectly willing to fill that role.  I hate the thought of you naked, bound, gagged, and unable to free yourself."  She picked up the mug and took another sip.  "Actually, that's kinda hot, but you know what I mean."

"Lo-gan!" I whined (and blushed).

Logan grinned.  "Don't you ever tie yourself up again without letting me know about it and telling me what time you want me to come charging to the rescue."

Having Logan as backup was a reasonable proposal, now that the self-bondage cat was out of the bag.  "Uh... okay."  Still blushing, I managed a weak smile.  "I was embarrassed," I said in a near whisper.  "That's why I didn't tell you about my... hobby.  I was embarrassed."

"Oh, Sweetie, I know," Logan chuckled, then leaned close and planted a chaste kiss on my lips.  "Now that that's settled..."

I squirmed in my bonds (nervously).  "Yes?"

"You should know that I, myself, have some small experience in the bondage arts and sciences," Logan continued.

"I already figured that out," I huffed.

"When?"

"Last night," I responded, "while you were lashing my wrists to my crotch-rope and binding my thumbs."

Logan's smile broadened.  "Anyway, I'm more than willing to share my technical expertise.  I also have access to a few toys you might find interesting."

I blinked in confusion (mild confusion).  "Huh?"

Logan patted my knee.  "You'll see."

"Uh... I don't know," I said quietly.

Logan grinned.  "Well, take your time and think about it."  She climbed to her feet, carried her mug to the dishwasher and added it to the load, dropped a detergent pod in the appropriate slot, closed the door, threw the latch, and turned it on.  "I'm gonna do the laundry," she announced, then headed for the kitchen door.

"Wait!  Untie me!  Lo-gan!"

Too late.  She was gone.  I heaved the required Exasperated Sigh, then gave my bonds a perfunctory squirm.  The dishwasher was making its usual preliminary gurgling noises.

"Dammit!"  (Pardon my French.)

Like I said before, Logan is a hoot-and-a-half.

Logan left me lashed to that stupid chair for the full length of the dishwasher cycle... and several minutes beyond.  Meanwhile, she gathered our dirty laundry and carried it all to the basement for washing and drying.  And once the washer was going down below, she ran our vacuum over the floors of the bungalow.  The door to the basement door is in the kitchen, so I had many opportunities to petition for release as she came and went, cheerfully performing all the usual weekend chores and ignoring me completely.  All my sincere (and increasingly ticked off) entreaties fell on apparently deaf but clearly amused ears.

Finally, late in the morning, Logan released me.  She untied the rope holding me in the chair, helped me to my bare feet, grabbed my ball-gag and the open padlock from the kitchen table, then led me through the bungalow to my bedroom.  She then turned me around and began untying my cord and rope bonds.  Finally!  She untied my thumbs and hands, unlocked the padlock joining my wrist cuffs, and tossed it on the bed.  Then, she untied the elbow-bonds she'd tied last night.  And then, she turned and strolled to the bedroom door.  "You're welcome," she chuckled as she made her exit, closing the bedroom door behind her.  That's right, she was leaving me in my bedroom with the majority of my upper-body-bonds intact!

"Hilarious," I muttered under my breath, then set to work.  Soon (meaning after a great deal of wiggling and squirming effort), I managed to free myself.  That left me naked but with the leather collar still padlocked around my neck (for no particular reason).  Also, my leather wrist cuffs were still padlocked around my wrists.  That's right, Logan had taken the key with her!

"Freakin' hilarious," I huffed (pardon my French), then set to work coiling and properly stowing the ropes and cords in my Rubbermaid self-bondage toy-box, along with my ball-gag and the single open padlock that had formerly locked my wrists together.

I have a backup key to all the padlocks, but in a fit of cleverness I'd dropped it in a decorative glass jar, added a couple of hundred glass marbles, then filled the jar to the top with honey.  It rested on a lower shelf of my Ikea bookshelves.  If I ever found myself self-bound but, for some reason, unable to use the primary key to free myself, I'd be able to use the key in the jar; but only at the cost of making a sticky mess.  Truth be told, I never intended to need a backup key, but I'd read enough Sbf/Solo-F literature to know that you're supposed to use something like the honey-jar-trick to discourage the use of said key, so I'd done it.  It was dramatic.

Anyway, I decided to take a more straightforward approach to regaining cuff and collar free status.  I donned my robe (lightweight terrycloth in a very pretty shade of pastel red that's sort of a dusky-rose-pink), then stomped (padded) through the bungalow, looking for my prankster-bungalow-mate.  I found her on the back porch, comfortably reclined on a lounge chair and reading a book on her iPad.

"Key!" I demanded, holding out my right palm.

Logan smiled, then pulled the key—my key—from her pocket.  "C'mere," she chuckled.

I padded forward and she unlocked the padlocks securing the buckles of my wrist-cuffs... then handed me the now open padlocks... but not the key.

"What about the collar?" I demanded.

"I think it's cute," she explained.

"Lo-gan!" I whined, stamping my bare right foot.

"Consider it your penance for indulging in unsafe self-bondage," she purred.  "In further penance, you're required to wear your robe all day, and nothing else, and tonight I'm going to show you a really cool self-bondage technique you've probably never tried."

"What?" I demanded.  "What technique?"

"You'll see," she chuckled.  "Now, shoo.  I'm reading."

"Lo-gan!"

She ignored me.  I stamped my foot, again, then stomped (padded) from the porch.

Hoot-and-a-half my ass!  Logan was being a pain-in-the-butt!  (Pardon my French.)

I decided to risk taking a shower while still wearing my collar.  Afterwards, I used first a towel and then my blow-dryer to dry my body, hair, the collar, and the collar's padlock.  After that, I found my cute little spray can of WD-40 (with its folding, cute little red straw attached to the spray-cap), and spun the collar around so the padlock was facing the front.  Then, working from my reflection in the bathroom mirror, I carefully spritzed a little oil into the padlock's keyhole, using a tissue to catch the excess.  I then turned the collar back around.  It looks better with the D-ring in front.  And then, while I was at it, I padded back to the bedroom and oiled my entire padlock collection.  I figured I might as well.

Anyway, the rest of our bungalow Saturday passed without incident.  I remained my robe-clad, collared, and understandably resentful self and Logan remained fully-clothed and gloating.  Lunch was followed by a long, lazy afternoon, which was followed by dinner, which was followed by a couple of hours of TV watching.  And then, it was time for bed.  Logan ordered me to visit the bathroom and conduct my usual evening toilette, then meet her in my bedroom.  Not having much choice, I did so.

Logan was still dressed in the same jeans and tank-top she'd worn all day.  I watched (nervously) as she unrolled something on my neatly made bed.  It was... an exceedingly lightweight sleeping bag?  Whatever it was, it appeared to be shiny black Lycra-spandex, was the general shape of a human body, and...  Oh!  My neurons had finally clicked and made the connection.  It was a "sleepsack"—the bondage kind—not the cute, cuddly little fleece things in pastel prints they make for infants.  I was savvy enough to know about such things (meaning I'd seen them on the internet) but this was my first real-world encounter.

"Sleepsack," Logan stated.

"Sleepsack," I agreed.

"This particular sack is layered with different weights of Lycra fabric," Logan lectured.  "And it's cut from a really well-designed pattern.  The stitching is smooth, flush, and reinforced.  Once inside you won't feel any seams.  You'll also find it has a really snug fit.  Super strong and very secure." 

The sleepsack's zipper was open, so I could see the fabric was black, inside and out, and there were sleeves sewn into either side of the main sheath.

"But... how do I use it for self-bondage?" I asked.  "If I can zip myself into the thing it can't be that secure."

Logan's smile broadened.  "I all depends on how you do it.  I'll walk you through it... so to speak." 

The fob of the sleepsack's zipper, which ran up the front from navel to throat, was clipped to one end of a long, narrow length of nylon webbing.  The other end of the webbing was hitched and cinched around the top rail of my headboard.

"Robe off and on the bed," Logan suggested (ordered), giving the taut bedspread a pat.

I swallowed my pride and obeyed.  (I was curious.  Sue me.)

Next—and finally—Logan unlocked and removed my collar and set it and its padlock on my bedside table.

"Slide your feet inside and start pulling it up," Logan instructed.

I pointed my feet and did so, then tugged and pulled until my legs were tightly encased and the sack was up and over my hips.  I pulled it a little higher, inserted my left arm in the interior sleeve and my left shoulder in the top, then wiggled and squirmed until I could capture my right arm and shoulder.  The zipper was now zipped up to just above my navel and the webbing hitched to the headboard was semi-taut... which meant it was also semi-slack.  I had wiggle-room.

"Fold your legs and squirm down to the foot of the bed," Logan said.

"I get it," I responded.  "The webbing will pull the zipper the rest of the way up."

"Correct," Logan nodded.  "Then, you squirm back to the middle of the bed.  The webbing will still be there, of course, and you'll be stuck inside the sack and able to wiggle and squirm to your heart's content.  Finally, when you decide you've had enough, you spin on the bed 180° 'til your feet face the head, then squirm down to the foot."

"Thus unzipping the zipper enough to wiggle out of the sheath," I added.  I executed the squirm-down-the-bed maneuver, the webbing snapped taut, and it did, indeed, zip the zipper up to the top of the sleepsack's collar.  I was now completely encased in stretched Lycra all the way up to my chin.  The sleepsack's neck was like a turtleneck, by the way, or rather a mock turtleneck in that it wasn't folded back on itself.  I scooted back up the bed and the webbing went slack.  More squirming confirmed that the zipper would remain zipped until I reversed direction and repeated the maneuver.

And then—being a "hoot-and-a-half"—Logan smiled, reached down, and unclipped the webbing from the zipper's fob!

I blinked in surprise and alarm (see also betrayal).  "Lo-gan!"

"Be right back," Logan promised (warned), and scurried from the bedroom.

I writhed and rolled and shrugged and squirmed and did everything I could think of to wiggle my way out of the sleepsack.  Logan was right in that I couldn't feel any seams and the thing was tight.  My skin slid back and forth against the smooth fabric as I struggled against the sheath encasing my body.  It was... disconcerting... especially with respect to my nipples—which, for some reason—were erect.

Logan returned with a small cardboard box in her hands.  "Miss me?"

"Not even a little."  I pouted, then gave the sleepsack one last squirm and went still.  I blew a few errant blond strands out of my face and mustered my most scathing glare.

"You gotta admit it's pretty good bondage," Logan purred, "but only marginal as self-bondage.  I don't think anyone's ever come up with a reliable timed release method for getting out of sleepsacks."

I stared up at her, then heaved a sigh and shrugged my Lycra-encased shoulders.  I opened my mouth to agree (even though I hadn't had much time to ponder the problem) when—"Mrrrf!"—Logan crammed a ball-gag in my mouth!  Of all the nerve!  She lifted my head and buckled the strap at the nape of my neck and under my hair.

My ball-gag was still on my nightstand.  The ball-gag in my mouth was Logan's.  Its mouth-plugging sphere was smaller than the 1¾" medical silicon rubber ball of my gag, possibly 1½", and while mine was solid, Logan's was hollow and perforated by several round openings.  In other words, it had breathing holes.

I stared daggers, mewled in outrage—"Mrrpfh!"—and watched as she reached back into her box of tricks and pulled out two items: (1) a hairbrush, and (2) a black Lycra hood!  I continued complaining—"Mrrrf!"—as she brushed my hair, gathered it together, and passed it through a reinforced opening in the top of the hood, then stretched and fit the rest of the hood over my resentfully staring and ball-gagged head.

It was one of those "Gwen hoods," the kind with a large, oval-shaped opening in the front that leave the wearer's nose, cheeks, eyes, and entire upper face exposed to the top of the forehead.

Logan made sure the hood perfectly gripped my head as she zipped it closed in the back, then stretched the hood's collar section over the sleepsack's collar.  My neck was now doubly encased in multiple layers of Lycra.  And then, adding insult to incarceration, she picked up my black leather collar (with chrome hardware) from my nightstand, buckled it around my neck and over the Lycra double coverage, and secured it with the padlock!

"Now," Logan said, smiling down at my Lycra-encased and utterly helpless body.  "I suggest you stay on the bed during the night, but if you want to roll onto the floor I suppose it's your prerogative."  She reached out and squeezed my Lycra-encased left breast.  "Of course, I suppose I could always fetch a few coils of your rope and lash you to the bed, just to be sure.  Do you want me to do that?"

I stared up at my captor/bungalow-mate, blinked a few times, then shook my ball-gagged and hooded head.  "Nrrrf."

"You'll stay on the bed?" she purred.

I nodded (and glared).

"Good girl," Logan chuckled, leaned close, and kissed my forehead.  "Enjoy playing with the sleepsack," she wished me.  "I'll see you in the morning."

I watched as Logan stood and padded to my bedroom door.  Then, as she'd done last night, she blew me an air-kiss.  Infuriating!

"We still have a lot to discuss," Logan said, "such as why you don't have any vibrators in your toy-box or the bottom drawer of your nightstand.  G'night."  And with that, she turned off the overhead light and closed the bedroom door.

"Mrrrf?"  That was my belated reaction to the "vibrators" hand grenade Logan had casually tossed into the bedroom before abandoning me to my Lycra-encased fate.