by Van ©2019
		Chapter 3

So... it was my second night bound and gagged on my bed with Logan in charge.

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 scooting-around-the-bed-with-something-tied-to-the-zipper 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 repertoire?

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.  Sue me.

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 sleep.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ 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.

"Mrrrf!"

"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 gotta pee."

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 French.)

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 Discussion).

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 help."

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 cheerfully volunteered.

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.

Actually, 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 way.)

The moment of truth had arrived and my nervousness resurfaced.  Logan was grinning and confident.  It was disgusting.

"Okay," Logan purred, "I have things to show you, but it's important you don't think I'm being a tyrant or anything."

"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 behind her.

"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?"

"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."

"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 toes...  Disgusting!

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 wait here."

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?

"Less is 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 the floor.

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) face.

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 effect.

"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 deranged stalker."

"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 buckle's tongue.

Click! 

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 good.

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 she struggled.

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 her nipples.

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 hour.

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 struggling.

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.

"Mrrrk?"

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.

"Mrrrk!"

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, wicked fiend!

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 way.)

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 lower tummy.

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 actual orgasm?

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 rationalized).

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.

Wicked!

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 my goofiness.

"Mrp!"

Logan gave her wrist-cuffs a jerk.

"Mrp!'

Poor thing.  I guess she thought enough was enough.

"Mrp!"

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.