| Chapter 3
So... it was
my second night bound and gagged on my bed with Logan
That sleepsack was something else. I'd never given much
thought to such things, meaning full-body Lycra
encasement-garments. They're only marginal as
self-bondage, as far as I was concerned—or rather, as far as I
knew before Logan revealed the
trick. Anyway, there I was... my naked self squeezed by
multiple layers of taut, stretched, skintight Lycra,
ball-gagged, hooded (Gwen-hooded), and with my black leather
(with chrome hardware) collar padlocked around my neck.
And not incidentally, the key-to-my-freedom was in Logan's
custody and conspicuous by its absence. It was somewhere
at the other end of the bungalow... probably Logan's bedroom.
And then there was the issue of vibrators. Specifically,
the issue of why I didn't make use of them. It was Logan
who had raised the issue, of course, and not me. But
still... the issue had been raised.
So... why didn't I include vibrator(s) in my Sbf/Solo-F
Lying on my bed all helpless, naked, and encased, I gave my
black, shiny cocoon an exasperated struggle, then heaved a
ball-gagged and Lycra-Gwen-hood stifled sigh.
I suppose the "chain defense" was viable. I already
explained why I don't use steel chains when playing Sbf games:
the noise. They clink and clank and the noise might lead
to discovery. Vibrators buzz. That's kind of their
point. And Logan might hear them buzz.
Even I knew that was weak. There are nearly silent
vibrators... or so I've heard... or not heard. I
could experiment until I found one I was "comfortable"
with. No, there had to be another reason.
I suppose I might argue that I was into self-bondage for the
bondage. Crotch-ropes might lead to the occasional orgasm,
but I was in it for the bondage. Who was I kidding.
I counted on crotch-ropes leading to the occasional
orgasm. Still, the argument might go that being a Helpless
Damsel was my primary motivation. It was the
thing I enjoyed the most. It was the point of the
exercise. Orgasms were... secondary?
Peripheral? A pleasant side effect? Yeah, right.
Okay, time to stop rationalizing. There's no viable reason
( or reasons) I couldn't and shouldn't have already engineered
vibratory whoopee into my Sbf/Solo-F macinations. A
wand-style model with its business end lashed firmly between my
legs and pressed against my pussy should be perfectly, uh,
acceptable. Anyway, I simply hadn't gotten around to
it. I had gone so far as to wander down the
appropriate isle at the local Bed Bath & Beyond and
peruse the available product lines, but then I'd picture myself
at the checkout counter (clutching one of those discount coupons
they keep mailing me) and blushing like crazy as the clerk
manning the register gave me a knowing look.
Okay, okay, I admit it. I'm a big fat chicken. Cluck-cluck-cluck-cluck.
Anything, all that was before. This was after. My
Sbf/Solo-F train had been blissfully chugging down the
proverbial tracks—and had been hijacked by Hoot-and-a-Half-Logan
the Notorious Train Robber and was now hurdling down a
side-track towards an unknown destination!
And Logan wanted to talk about it in the morning!
Vibrators! She wanted to talk about vibrators!
I blushed and squirmed and mewled in helpless distress. It
was horrible! The looming discussion couldn't help but be
embarrassing, which was horrible. And there was nothing I
could do about it!
So why worry?
The sleepsack, on the other hand, was a novel form of
helplessness, and it was horrible in a good way.
There was nothing I could do about it either, but it was fun!
There was, however, one teeny-tiny problem: I could squirm like
an inchworm to my heart's content, but my arms and hands were
trapped at my sides and there was no crotch-rope... or strap...
or panel... or anything I could rub my pussy
against. I could (and did) wiggle and squirm and rub my
inner thighs together, just a little, but that only added to the
frustration. There, I said it. Frustration.
I had my precious helplessness, but it wasn't going to lead to
anything, by which I mean it wasn't going to lead to a nice
orgasm. I guess that part of the regime was more important
than I'd previously recognized. Go figure.
I suppose now that formal recognition of the revelation that
Orgasms Are Good was safely in hand (so to speak), I could
rewind the evening's cognitive agenda back to the beginning and
rethink the entire vibrator conundrum. Instead, I went to
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ zzzzzzz ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~
I opened my
eyes. It was morning. It was Sunday morning.
Oh-by-the-way, I was no longer alone. At some point during
the night (obviously, after I'd fallen asleep), Logan had
decided to abandon her own bed and confiscate half of
mine. She was under the covers and snuggled against my
side. I wasn't under the covers. I was
cocooned in Lycra.
I was somewhat surprised I hadn't woken up when she decided to
join me, but apparently being encased in Lycra, ball-gagged, and
hooded made me a sound sleeper. It was kinda sweet that
she wanted to make sure I made it through the night okay—I
assumed that's why she was here—but I had issues.
"Mrrrk!" I wiggled and squirmed and did my best to arouse
(so to speak) my still slumbering bed-partner. "Mrrrk!"
Finally, Logan stretched and yawned and smiled in my helpless
direction. "Mornin', Sweetie," she purred, then sat up,
revealing she was wearing one of her sexy, gauze-thin
nighties. This one was coral-pink. The
key-to-my-freedom was lying on my nightstand and she picked it
up, unlocked, unbuckled, and removed my black leather (with
chrome hardware) collar, then unzipped and pulled the Gwen-hood
from my head.
"Hold your horses," Logan chuckled, then unbuckled my
ball-gag—which actually was her ball-gag, being her
property—and plucked the 1½", hollow, perforated mouth-plug from
my mouth and tossed it on the nightstand next to my collar and
padlock. "Now, what's your rush?"
I licked my lips and worked my jaw before answering. "I
Logan smiled and slowly unzipped the sleepsack's zipper. Ziiiiip...
"When ya gotta go..."
"Shut up," I snapped, shrugging and squirming my way out of the
skintight sheath as soon as the zipper was sufficiently
unzipped, then pulled the sack the rest of the way down my legs,
jumped from the bed, and, naked as an embarrassed jaybird,
stomped (padded) to the bedroom door. "You're a horrible
person," I accused as I made my dramatic exit.
"I try," Logan chuckled in response. She knew I didn't
mean it... much.
I padded to the bathroom (naked as the proverbial jaybird),
emptied my bladder, then splashed water on my face, brushed my
hair, and padded back to the scene of the crime. Logan had
rolled onto her side and, by all appearances, gone back to
sleep. Of all the nerve! I rolled my eyes (and
suppressed a smile).
I needed a shower. I hadn't emerged from my Lycra cocoon
dripping with sweat, not even glistening, but I needed a shower.
Before returning to the bathroom I gazed down at my slumbering
bungalow-mate and former captor, then shifted my gaze to the
flaccid sleepsack. I assumed the thing was washable
(probably on cold/gentle-cycle, and the same went for the
Gwen-hood), but that was Logan's problem.
Shower accomplished (and feeling much refreshed) I returned to
my bedroom to find Logan, the sleepsack, the Gwen-hood, and
Logan's perforated ball-gag missing. My bed was a rumpled
mess, of course. I sighed (repressed that pesky smile,
once again), then dressed for the day in panties, jeans, bra,
and a tank-top. The tank was a natural, undyed cotton
color with a really pretty, semi-stylized image of a Barn Owl
printed on the front—but that's neither here nor there.
I padded to the kitchen and started working on breakfast.
I assumed Logan was taking a shower of her own and/or dressing
and would arrive shortly. As I started brewing the coffee
I decided on French toast and bacon. If Logan wanted
something else, that was just too darn bad. (Pardon my
By-the-way, my version of French Toast is what's sometimes
called "Custard Toast." I don't make an eggwash and dip
the bread, I soak the bread. I give it time
to get thoroughly saturated while I cook the bacon. Then,
I reduce the heat and slowly brown the egg-soaked-bread slices,
making sure they cook all the way through. Custard Toast
is really yummy... and you probably don't care. Your loss.
Logan joined me when I was halfway through cooking the
toast. "'Mornin'," she said (again) as she poured herself
a cup of coffee.
"I'm not speaking to you," I announced with a sullen pout (my
clever stratagem for avoiding the impending Vibrator
Logan smiled and sipped her coffee. "Then how are we gonna
talk about your aversion to vibrators?" she inquired.
So much for that plan. "Shut up," I huffed as I
deposited the last slice of yummy, perfectly prepared Custard
Toast to the plate and carried it to the table. I'd
already set the table for two and the bacon, syrup bottle, and
lo-cal butter substitute tub were already deployed.
"Not to worry," Logan chuckled as she pulled out her accustomed
chair and sat. "There's not much to discuss. I
already know the reason. You're a big fat chicken."
Having reached much the same conclusion myself I could hardly
complain, but that didn't mean I had to like it! "Shut
up," I muttered.
Logan slathered her share of the Custard Toast with butter
substitute, sliced it into bite-size squares, then anointed it
with syrup. "Calm yourself," she chuckled. "I'll
I had to wait to learn what "help" would soon be coming my way
while Logan crammed a fork-load of syrupy yumminess into her
mouth, chewed, and swallowed.
"I have all sorts of fun stuff to show you," Logan
Well... that was... intriguing. I decided to play
embarrassed and hard to get. "Stuff your stuff," I huffed.
Logan guffawed—she has a very feminine, very delicate guffaw, by
the way—then stuffed more toast into her mouth. "I know
you don't mean it," she purred after chewing and swallowing.
I chewed and swallowed... then gulped some coffee before
answering. "What did I ever do to you?"
"Nothing," Logan grinned. "Nothing yet, anyway."
I wasn't following. "Huh?"
Logan smiled and used her fork as a pointer. "I help you,"
she explained patiently, indicating me, "and you help me,"
she added, indicating herself.
Breakfast continued in stunned silence.
that's not entirely true. I didn't have much to say about
much of anything, but by the time our plates were empty and we
were cleaning up the kitchen, Logan had managed to set the
agenda for the rest of the day. And I let her. At
the moment, I was less a clucking chicken and more a timid
little bunny, content to make myself inconspicuous and hope any
nasty predators in the area didn't decide to eat me.
Anyway, the weekend chores were already done, but there was a
little straightening that needed to happen, like making our beds
and putting away any of our respective troves of "hobby
supplies" that were still out and about.
Then, not having had much in the way of actual weekend
exercise thus far, we agreed (meaning Logan decreed) that we'd
take a nice long Sunday hike in the park. And after
that... she was nonspecific. All she'd tell me was she had
a plan to "start redressing the current imbalance." I only
found out what she meant later, meaning much later,
meaning after the hike, a light lunch, an afternoon of reading
and generally vegging out, and dinner.
We decided on tacos, and this time it was "we," a joint decision
and not just Logan. I did the cooking. I'm really
good at mixing a packet of taco seasoning into some ground beef
and chopping lettuce and tomatoes while the meat browns
in a pan on the stove. Logan demonstrated her expertise in
opening packages of shredded "taco cheese" and jars of
salsa and using a bottle opener to pop the caps off
bottles of Sam Adams Light. We should open a restaurant.
We consumed our tacos and emptied our beer bottles, then cleaned
up the kitchen. (My tacos were muy delicioso, by
The moment of truth had arrived and my nervousness
resurfaced. Logan was grinning and confident. It was
"Okay," Logan purred, "I have things to show you, but it's
important you don't think I'm being a tyrant or
"A tyrant?" I inquired. "You mean when you're rendering me
totally helpless and abandoning me to my fate? Why would
that make you a tyrant?"
Logan continued smiling. Apparently, my biting sarcasm had
drifted right over her confident, adorable, and disgusting
little head. "Come with me."
"Hey!" She'd grabbed my hand and was dragging (leading) me
through the bungalow. "Wait here," she ordered when we
reached the bathroom, then went inside and closed the door
"Said the tyrant," I muttered to myself, then cooled my heels in
the hallway and listened as she washed her face, brushed her
teeth, and took a tinkle. That's what I think she was
doing, anyway, based on the sound effects. It didn't take
very long. The door reopened, Logan grabbed my hand again,
then dragged (led) me to her bedroom.
I watched (nervously) as Logan undressed. Huh?
"Okay then," Logan lectured as she pulled her tank-top over her
head, "you're going to do me, just to be fair."
I blinked in stunned amazement as she unzipped and pulled down
her jeans, then found my voice. "Huh?"
"I know you know your way around rope bondage," Logan
continued. "What you did to yourself Friday night was
impressive, and I said so at the time, as I'm sure you
remember." She was now wearing only a bra and panties, but
not for long. Her smile never wavering, she unclasped and
shrugged out of her bra, then pulled down and stepped free of
her panties. "Toe-bondage, ladder-tied legs, crotch-rope
with whoopee-knots, torso-harness... impressive."
"Huh?" I shook my head. "I mean, I do you?
"Why should you have all the fun?" Logan chuckled. "My
point exactly." She was standing there all naked and
smiling her rosy-cheeked smile and... it was disgusting.
Boobs and russet pubic bush. Disgusting.
"Also..." She started ticking off points on her
fingers. "I need to further evaluate your rigging
skills. Ditto with your creativity, empathy, attention to
detail, and capacity for being a diabolical meany."
"I... Uh... W-what?"
Logan chuckled as she dumped her dirty clothes in the hamper she
kept inside her closet. "Anyway, it's my turn, so you have
to do all the work."
Logan grinned. "You decide what to do to me, then you do
it... now." She bounced onto her bed and sat on her naked
rump with her knees bent, the soles of her feet flat on the bed,
and supporting herself with her arms behind her, her elbows
locked, and her palms also flat on the bed. Red hair,
smile, boobs, flat tummy, red bush, knees, feet, pink
I frowned (pouted) and crossed my arms under my bra and
tank-top-clad breasts. "Well... if I have to. Where
do you keep your stuff?"
"A lot of my stuff isn't my stuff. It's on loan,"
Logan explained, "and some of it's kinda complicated.
Tonight it's better if you use your stuff. I'll
On loan? On loan from who? ...or whom? ...or where?
I decided enough mystery was drifting around for one evening and
decided to keep my priorities straight by discussing Logan's
source of "stuff" when she wasn't naked and smiling and
disgustingly cute and wanting me to tie her up. I rolled
my eyes, spun on my heels, and padded to my bedroom.
So... what to do... by which I meant what to do to Logan?
more." Ever hear that one? I'm not sure where it
comes for. Remind me to fire up the Google machine
sometime. Anyway, I decided to keep things simple.
Inescapable? Yes, but simple. I padded to my closet,
found an empty cloth shopping bag, opened my Rubbermaid Sbf toy
box, and loaded it up.
I returned to Logan's bedroom to find things (meaning Logan)
unchanged. She was still naked and waiting on her bed,
smiling, naked, and disgustingly cute.
I reached into the bag and started pulling out black leather
cuffs (with chrome hardware) and tossing them in her
direction. "Wrists and ankles." It was fun being in
charge. I could get used to being in charge.
"Yes, Mistress," Logan said (still smiling). She caught
the cuffs, one-by-one. Then, as ordered, began buckling
them around her wrists and ankles.
'Mistress.' For some reason that made me blush (and
made it necessary to repress a goofy smile that was
threatening to curl my lips). "Flat on your back," I
ordered, once all four black leather cuffs (with chrome
hardware) were in place. And then, taking my bag of
bondage goodies with me, I made my way around the bed, pausing
at each corner to loop a 10ft length of doubled hemp rope
through each of the cuffs' D-rings and form what they call a
"larks head" or a "cow hitch." I then looped the free ends
around the nearest leg of the bed, pulled out the slack (meaning
all the slack), and tied neat, redundant knots down near
That's right. I spreadeagled Logan on the bed! I was
a Cruel Bitch! (Pardon my French... and not
really). I'm not a very convincing Bitch. Anyway, I
left her zero slack, meaning no more than a fraction of
an inch... meaning about an inch and a half. Anyway, she
was stringently spreadeagled on her back, and the key
knots were all several feet away from her fluttering fingers and
wiggling toes. I then went back around the bed, pausing to
snap a padlock through the buckle of each of the four
cuffs. Click. Click. Click. Click.
How 'bout that? Clicking padlocks are sexy.
Logan tugged on her bonds, wiggled and squirmed on her bed, then
turned her head and smiled up at my grinning (and blushing)
I decided a lecture was in order, so I cleared my throat.
"Harrumph. The kidnapped damsel spreadeagled on a bed has
a long history in movies and television," I declaimed.
"So, I've been kidnapped?" Logan inquired, batting her eyes for
"Quiet. 'Mistress' is talking." My grin widened into
a smile and my blush faded. Being in charge was definitely
something I could get used to.
"Sorry, Mistress," Logan said with an overt show of
contrition. I wasn't fooled, of course, but a naked,
spreadeagled Logan pretending to be contrite was very cute.
"The Disappearance of Alice Creed is probably the
penultimate example," I continued. "Also, that episode of
Rizzoli & Isles where Jane is kidnapped by a
"Jane wasn't naked or ball-gagged," Logan noted.
I frowned. "I didn't say she was."
"I'm just saying Alice Creed was naked and ball-gagged," Logan
responded, "meaning Gemma Arterton was naked and
ball-gagged, but Angie Harmon wasn't. And I agree, The
Disappearance of Alice Creed was pretty damn
penultimate. Wouldn't it have been great if Jane
Rizzoli had been naked and ball-gagged? Just
imagine... Angie Harmon... naked, ball-gagged, spreadeagled on
the bed, and hamming it up for the camera while Sasha Alexander
watches via the internet from back at the the police
station. I mean Sasha Alexander playing Maura
Isles and watching via the internet back at the police station,
of course. I'd have already bought the entire series on Blu-ray
if they'd done that. I miss Rizzoli & Isles.
By and large, the murder-of-the-week plots were pretty lame, but
the chemistry between Jane and Maura was—Mrrrpfh!"
Deciding that enough was enough, I'd rolled my eyes, reached
into my bag for my trusty ball-gag, leaned down, and shoved its
black sphere of 1¾" diameter, medical-grade silicon-rubber into
Logan's babbling mouth. I then buckled the black leather
strap (with chrome hardware) at the nape of her neck, under her
tousled red hair. Finally, I snapped a padlock through the
There! I'd fixed her little red wagon.
Also... Wow! That sound is cool when you're
locking something on yourself, but it's really cool
when you're locking something on somebody else... like
Logan. Who knew?
Supremely satisfied with myself, I crossed my arms under my
boobs, again, and watched Logan wiggle, squirm, and tug on her
inescapable bonds. Wow! The ball-gag—my
ball-gag—was causing her to grimace in distress. Okay, I
admit it. She was still smiling. I could see it in
her pretty green eyes. It wasn't actually ruining the
occasion, but it just wouldn't do.
I padded to Logan's chest of drawers and started opening
drawers. I knew what I needed was in there somewhere, but
not exactly where.
"Mrrrf?" That was Logan, of course.
"Chill," I ordered. "We've already established that it's
okay to borrow each others clothes, and this time I'm borrowing
something of yours for you." I continued
rummaging, then—"Aha!"—held up a neatly folded, lightweight,
polyester-blend scarf. It was a really pretty shade of
blue-gray-green, probably called "Eucalyptus," or "Deep Jade,"
or "Rainforest Teal," or whatever by the
manufacturer. Anyway, it complemented her red hair and
Celtic complexion (which was why she'd bought it, of course),
and it was perfect for my nefarious purposes.
Logan watched with amused interest as I let the scarf fall open,
folded it point to point, then continued folding it lengthwise
until I had a narrow, blue-green bandage. Her eyes were
still smiling, but now it was a slightly worried smile.
That's how I saw it, anyway, and that was exactly what I wanted.
"Mrrrmfh!" Logan squirmed and mewled through my ball-gag
as I leaned forward and lowered the folded scarf (slowly, for
maximum drama) towards her eyes. That's right, I was going
to blindfold her! (Insert diabolical laughter here.)
She struggled and tossed her head as I tightened the blindfold
and tied a taut, flat square-knot behind her head.
Strangely, her resistance did very little to impede my
efforts. I tightly covered her desperate green eyes while
maintaining the semi-tousled but photogenic disarray of her red
curls. Either I was unexpectedly good at all this
damsel-handling stuff or Logan was only pretending to
resist. I decided it was probably because I was just that
I took a step back and discovered that... things had changed.
I don't mean the actual physical blindfold, of course.
Before, Logan didn't have a blindfold, and now she did.
That wasn't the change. The change was that my
bungalow-mate and good friend (and possibly best friend)
Logan Conroy had left the bedroom, and in her place was a naked,
spreadeagled, ball-gagged, and now blindfolded beauty that
looked just like her. I crossed my arms under my boobs,
yet again, and watched as she squirmed and wiggled and tugged on
her (my) black leather cuffs (with chrome hardware). The
padlocks clicked and clacked as she tugged on the cuffs, and my
ropes dimpled the edge of the mattress as she struggled.
"Mrrrm." That was a heartbreaking, pathetic whimper on
Logan's part, and for some reason it sent a shiver of, uh, shall
we say... sympathy? Okay, sympathy, down
my spine and between my legs.
Logan has an old easy chair in her room for reading and looking
out the window (during the day, of course). I padded over
and sat, squirmed until I was comfortable, and watched as Logan
continued exploring her naked, spreadeagled, ball-gagged, and
blindfolded captivity. Her breasts wobbled and shook as
Have I mentioned Logan's breasts? They're very nice
breasts. Firm, full, big, but not too big, and in
perfect proportion to her trim but very feminine
figure. At the moment, with Logan flat on her back with
her arms and legs outstretched, they were a little flattened by
gravity, but they could still wobble and shake, and they
did. Her boobs are pale, of course, peachy-pink-pale, and
her nipples coral-pink and (for some reason) were standing
erect. Anyway, I like them... meaning her breasts and
The conventional thing to do in such situations is to let the
damsel stew in her juices for no less than a full hour.
That's how it's done. The naked damsel is locked in a
pillory with a clear view of an array of whips and floggers and
left to contemplate her fate... for a full hour. She's
tied to a chair next to a collection of feathers, torture
instruments, and maybe a cage of crazed gerbils... for a full
So... I should let Logan struggle for a full hour... and then
what? Let her go?
No way. She'd left me to stew in my juices for
the entire night, two nights in a row! No way I was gonna
let her off with a single hour of, uh, languishing? That's
right. It's called languishing. Now I remember.
However, I wasn't gonna leave her like that all night. In
the first place, I'd crafted a pretty stringent
spreadeagle. In the second place, tomorrow was
Monday. I'd have to reset my alarm to go off early so we'd
both hare adequate time to get ready for work.
So... what to do? I watched her weak, pathetic, sensual
struggles for several minutes, pondering my dilemma.
And then... I had an idea... and it was a wicked idea...
and it would change my relationship with Logan forever.
But then, our relationship was already changed, wasn't
it? My lips curled in what I suppose was ... a saucy
smile? I've never been much for saucy smiles, but I was
smiling one now. The idea was just that wicked.
I watched Logan wiggle and writhe for several more minutes.
Did I have the nerve? Would I take our new and improved
relationship that far? Logan tugged on both wrist
cuffs with all her strength... then let herself relax.
Both peachy-pink boobs flopped in response. I remembered
how it had felt when she squeezed my left boob, the time she
intruded on my Sbf bliss back in my bedroom... in the
vague, distant past... Friday night. I remembered my
surprise and alarm and... the thrill that had coursed
through my helpless body.
That made up my mind. But could I carry through with my
Nefarious Plan? Could I be wicked?
Yes, I could be wicked.
I quietly climbed to my bare feet and padded from Logan's
bedroom. I needed to get something.
I returned to
the bedroom logistically prepared to implement my wickedness.
Logan was still on her bed, spreadeagled, naked, ball-gagged,
and blindfolded. That was hardly surprising, of
course. I assume she'd been devastated by my absence but
had consoled herself with pathetic squirming and ineffective
Poor thing. There she was, all helpless and nude... when
suddenly, someone—an unknown person who might be me or
might be some Mysterious Villainess—sat on her bed.
Next, she heard what might be the sound of a jar being opened...
followed by what might be a pair of hands rubbing
together. And then, the unseen hands in question began
gliding across her taut tummy! She flinched at
the cool, silky contact.
The hands were well-lubricated and smooth, and were gliding up
and down her abdomen... and over her ribs... and her
armpits. They paused now and then... there was that
hands-rubbing-together-sound again... then they returned,
continuing to glide and massage and gently knead her naked,
stretched body. And wafting through the air was the faint
scent of... vanilla? Yes, vanilla! The Mysterious
Massaging Villainess was using Logan's very own moisturizing
creme against her! The fiend! The wicked,
That's what I assume was going through Poor Logan's fevered mind
as I thoroughly moisturized her helpless body.
As for me, I reveled in my delicious wickedness.
Thus far, I'd therapeutically lubricated most of Logan's torso
but had excluded her flopping boobs. But now... it was
time. That's right! I moisturized her pale, firm,
ample bosom! I moisturized her boobs ruthlessly!
Including her nipples! (They were still erect, by the
Shoulders, arms, neck, ribs, armpits, boobs (again, just for
good measure)... I moisturized the heck out of Logan's
upper body. (Pardon my French.) And then, I
moisturized her hips, lower tummy, outer and inner thighs, lower
legs, and feet. I even moisturized her toes! All of
them! They wiggled!
You'll note, no doubt, that thus far I had refrained from
moisturizing Logan's pussy. In the first place, it
appeared to be moisturizing itself without any assistance
required. Her labia were flushed and glistening. In
the second place... was I really that wicked? I gazed at
the pussy in question as I re-moisturized her inner thighs and
Yes. I was that wicked.
I replenished the creme on my slippery fingers and set to
work. My intention was to pay at least as much attention
to Logan's pussy as I had her boobs. Logan, my Helpless
Damsel, shivered in her bonds, mewled through her ball-gag,
tugged on her wrist-cuffs, kicked her cuffed feet, and visibly
tensed her thigh muscles.
I didn't have a lot of experience watching bound and gagged
naked damsels work themselves to an orgasmic frenzy (with
help). Yes, I'd watched a few video clips on the internet
(just for Sbf/Solo-F ideas, you understand), but I didn't have a
lot of experience. I was winging it... with my
fingers. I guess I was fingering it, now that I
think about it.
Was I really gonna do it? Was I gonna tease Logan to an
I suppose I could just... stop. But that wouldn't be
wicked, that would be evil! I'm not evil. Wicked
Anne? Sure, I'll answer to Wicked Anne. But Evil
Anne? No way. In other words, I was committed to
continuing (and my ethical position was thoroughly
It didn't take long. I assume it's because my oily fingers
were just that good. It could be that naked,
spreadeagled, ball-gagged, and blindfolded Logan was in a highly
receptive state, but I think it was my fingers. Anyway...
"Mrrrrrrrrrk!" Logan whined through her ball-gag and went
rigid in her bonds. I continued using my oily, talented
fingers. Seconds passed... then she relaxed in her
bonds. I stopped playing with her labia and gave her left
upper thigh an affectionate pat.
I smiled down at my squirming, helpless bungalow-mate. My
smile was goofy. I'm sure you'll agree, I was
entitled. Also, there was no one in the room able to see
Logan gave her wrist-cuffs a jerk.
Poor thing. I guess she thought enough was enough.
I suppose it was. I reached for the key, turned her head
and unlocked her ball-gag, then unbuckled the buckle. She
worked the ball out of her mouth while I untied her left
wrist-rope from the bed-frame... followed by her left
ankle-rope... followed by her right ankle-rope... and finally
her right wrist-rope.
Logan removed her pretty blue-gray-green blindfold, then picked
apart the lark's-head/cow-hitch cinched through the D-ring of
her left wrist-cuff, and pulled the rope through the ring.
This produced a slithering sound that wasn't quite as
sexy as a padlock clicking closed on a cuff or ball-gag, but it
was... interesting? I'll go with interesting. I
smiled and watched as she pulled the ropes from the D-rings of
all her still buckled and padlocked cuffs.
I waited to see how she was gonna respond. Would she be
angry? Was she gonna give me the cold shoulder? I
already knew it wasn't either of those things. She was
smiling. Also, Logan's cuffs (my cuffs) were
rope-free, she was neither ball-gagged nor blindfolded, her
padlocked cuffs weren't attached to anything (except her), and
she was naked... and moisturized.
And then—"Eek!"—she pounced! "Lo-gan!" I complained
as she lunged forward, grabbed my right wrist and left forearm
and pulled me down onto the bed and on top of her! Next
thing I knew, she'd rolled me over onto my back, was
more-or-less sitting on me, and was pulling my tank-top over my
head! "Stop!" I demanded. Her response was to
unclasp and unzip my jeans, roll me over again, reverse her
position, and strip my jeans down my legs! I squirmed and
kicked and flailed my arms, but eventually my bra and panties
were also removed and tossed to the bedroom floor with the rest
of my clothes!
I admit it. I didn't fight very hard. I didn't want
to injure Logan with my nonexistent kung-fu skills. Also,
fair is fair, as the saying goes.
Anyway... now we were both naked. I was on my back, Logan
was straddling my hips, pinning my hands to the bed to either
side of my pouting face, and smiling.
"W-what now?" I whined.
"Talk about your stupid questions," Logan chuckled, then kissed
me... a lot.
I kissed her back. Now I felt wicked and horny...
not that I hadn't been horny before, now that I think about it.
Eventually, one of us got up and turned off the lights.
Now I remember. It was Logan. Logan climbed off the
bed, I complained—"Lo-gan!"—she turned off the overhead
light, then was back on the bed and on top of me, in all her
naked, unseen, vanilla-scented, moisturized glory.