by Van ©2019
		Chapter 4

Monday morning was awkward.  It was also wonderful.  I was nervous and embarrassed and blushing and couldn't stop smiling (like an idiot).

Lucky for me, Logan was ready, willing, and able to take charge.  She woke up, then woke me up with a deep, wet kiss on my sleepy and startled lips.  Then, she ordered me to return my property (clothes and "hobby supplies") to my bedroom while she took a shower.  I obeyed without question.  It was only logical.  Anyway, we quickly settled into our usual Monday morning routine.  I showered as well, then arranged my hair in my accustomed workplace ponytail and dressed in one of my favorite sleeveless dresses (heather gray with navy-blue accents and a matching jacket).  I entered the kitchen to find Logan typically dressed for her workday at The Mansion in a business suit (olive skirt and jacket and a salmon blouse), but today her red curls were loose about her shoulders, framing her smiling face.  She was beautiful.

"Toast?" Logan inquired.  On workdays my usual breakfast is toast or muffins, lo-cal butter substitute, and some variety of fruit preserves.  Same for Logan.

"Yes, please," I answered.  "White."

Logan had already made herself two slices of white toast with lo-cal butter substitute and Black Cherry preserves.  I confiscated one of her slices as she popped two fresh pieces of white bread into the toaster.  I wasn't being criminal.  That's our usual practice when the timing is right.  We share the first two slices while the second pair are in the toaster.  It saves time.  We have weekday breakfast down to a science.

Soon, we were sitting at the kitchen table and munching on our crisp, warm, buttery, and tart/sweet toast and sipping coffee like it was any other Monday.

Only this wasn't any other Monday.  This was post-discovery, post-bondage, post-moisturizing Monday.

I was blushing and embarrassed (and a teeny-tiny bit excited).

Logan was smiling and beautiful and in charge.  I was okay with that.  It sure made my life easier.  All I had to do was sit there, munch my toast, and keep a steadying grip on my emotional equilibrium.

"Okay," Logan said as we both started on our final point-cut toast-halves, "let's agree that there will be no playing on work-nights."

She meant Monday through Thursday, of course, any night we had to work the next day.  That was reasonable.  I nodded, then took a sip of coffee.

Logan smiled.  "And by 'playing' I mean no locking yourself in your bedroom and tying yourself up."

My blush deepened.  Who the heck (pardon my French) did she think she was?  Who was she?  She was Logan.  That's who she was.  My goofy smile managed to assert itself before I could squash it flat and affect an expression of Haughty Disdain.  That didn't mean I couldn't have a little fun, of course.

"Who died and made you Miss Bossy-Pants?" I demanded.

"That's Mistress Bossy-Pants to you," Logan chuckled.  "But seriously, save it for the weekends.  That way, we can 'help' each other."

I pouted and continued the epic struggle of stuffing my goofy smile back in its hole.  I was pouting and goofy-smiling?  Like I said, I was nervous.  Anyway, her proposition (meaning pronouncement) seemed reasonable.  I usually don't play Sbf/Solo-F games on work-nights anyway, so her decree had no practical effect.  Also, as Friday approached, the suspense would be... interesting.

"Well?" Logan demanded as she finished her last bite.

I favored my bungalow-mate with my best disdainful (also blushing and goofy) smile, paused for effect by taking my final sip of coffee, then answered.

"Yes, Mistress Bossy-Pants."

Logan smiled, planted a quick kiss on my lips, then gathered our plates, carried them to the sink, gave them a quick rinse, then loaded them in the dishwasher.  Her lips may have been Black Cherry flavored, and I say "may have been" because my lips and mouth were already Black Cherry flavored so it was hard to tell.

As I returned the margarine tub and jar of Black Cherry Preserves to the refrigerator and helped with the remaining cleanup, it occurred to me that nothing in our "agreement" prevented me from climbing into bed any night of the week and playing with myself.  I'd agreed to forego self-bondage, but not finger-fiddling.  Also, if the belt from my robe and/or a few narrowly folded scarves and/or bandanas from my modest collection managed to capture me at some point, what was a helpless damsel to do?

The week... let's call it Post-Discovery Week One... passed slowly.

Nothing much was happening at work.  We were at a point in the budget cycle where monitoring the paperwork flow and updating spreadsheets is just about all that's happening.  Also, at the moment, nobody on the City Council had a bee in his or her bonnet and was demanding we play what-if games with the current allocations in the hope of furthering one of his or her pet projects, and the same went for the state legislature.  The legal department was busy, of course.  The legal department is always busy.  Anyway, for my coworkers and myself it was bean-counting as usual.

Back at the bungalow, things were also normal.  Actually, there were more displays of affection (kissing) than before, but we didn't discuss what had happened the previous weekend or what might happen (meaning would happen) the coming weekend.  You know the reason I avoided the topic: Bluck-bluck-bluck-bluck.  I was still a big fat chicken.  As for Logan, I assume it was because she was having too much fun keeping her Nefarious Plan(s) to herself and watching me suffer the Sublime Suspense in timid silence.

And I thought I was wicked.

Anyway... Tuesday followed Monday, Wednesday followed Tuesday, etc.  And then (as always happens when "etc." rears its ugly head), Friday night arrived.

I arrived at the bungalow at my usual time to find Logan already home.  In fact, she'd already changed into her weekend-at-home seasonal costume of bare feet, jeans, tank-top, and bra.  I assume she was also wearing panties.  Her red hair was pulled back in a ponytail.

"It's about time," she chuckled, then planted a welcoming kiss on my lips.

"Yes, it is about time," I agreed, glancing at my wristwatch.  I was confirming that this was my normal time for returning home, of course.  I blinked uncertainly (and blushed).  "Uh, so..." I said quietly.  "What sounds good for supper?  Pizza?  Chinese?"  We often order takeout on Fridays.

Logan smiled and took my hand.  "Come with me," she ordered.

I rolled my eyes but graciously allowed myself to be led.  Mistress Bossy-Pants was asserting herself.  What was a big fat chicken to do?

Our destination was my bedroom.  "Strip," Logan commanded.

Well... that was rude (and kinda exciting).  I visually skewered my grinning bungalow-mate with my best visual skewer, then shrugged out of my jacket.  Today's office ensemble was a navy-blue skirt and matching jacket over a white blouse with a pointed collar.  I made it very clear that I was doing so under protest, of course, and out of love for my dear friend Logan (when she wasn't in such a bossy mood).  I stomped to my closet, stuffed my jacket in my going-to-the-dry-cleaners bag... did the same with my skirt... then started unbuttoning my blouse.

"You never answered my question about dinner," I muttered.  "How 'bout Thai?  Shish kebob?  Oh, I know.  Schwarma!"  That sounds good, don't ya think?  Schwarma!"

Logan was grinning and watching as I divested myself of my habiliments.  It was... infuriating.  "Hold that thought," she purred, then made a hurry-up motion.

Infuriating.  I removed my blouse, bra, pantyhose, and panties, dropping each item in my at-home-laundry hamper as it was removed.  Finally, I was nude (and blushing).

Logan took me by the hand and led me from my bedroom.  Or next destination was the bathroom.  "Tinkle and brush your teeth," Mistress Bossy-Pants ordered.

"Brush my teeth?" I demanded, "before we eat?  Are you trying out for dental hygienist or something?"

"Shoo!" Logan chuckled, making the appropriate hand gestures.

I turned and stomped (padded) into the bathroom, slamming the door behind me.  I did, in fact, tinkle, wash my face, and brush my teeth.  I emerged from the bathroom naked, my bladder empty, my frowning/pouting face clean, and my mouth minty-fresh.

"Took you long enough," Logan chuckled, then grabbed my hand and led me to her bedroom.

I cooled my heels near the bed while she retrieved a small cardboard box from her closet and pulled out a pair of... mittens?  They were bondage mitts!  Brown leather (with bronze hardware)!  In fact, the mitts were two different shades of brown, one shade for the hand-and-finger-sheathes and inner wrist-cuffs, and a second, slightly lighter shade for the wrist-cuff outer-straps.  She fit one of the mitts over my right hand, and I found it to be a close fit for my fingers, more-or-less immobilizing them side-by-side and encasing them in smooth, tight leather.  The wrist cuff straps (outer and inner) were also tight, and once the outer-strap buckle was secured, a locking tab (also bronze) folded over the buckle and snapped closed.  It had a tiny keyhole, so I assumed it was some sort of flush-mounted lock.

I examined my now flipper-like and brown leather (with bronze hardware) encased hand while Logan slid the second mitt over my left hand.

Suddenly, it occurred to me that I was letting her do this to me without so much as a pathetic protest.  I corrected my oversight, but it was already too little and too late.

"Lo-gan," I whined.  "Before we eat?"  Now I was busy examining both mitts.  I had to admit they were really beautiful work.  The leather was supple and ever-so-slightly pebbled, and by the smell it had been expertly tanned and finished.  The mitts had to be really expensive.  My black (with chrome hardware) cuffs, collar, and ball-gag are top-of-the-line, but these mitts were luxury bondage goods, Gucci, Coach, or some other exclusive designer (although I didn't see any logos stamped in the leather or cast in the bronze hardware).

"It's okay," Logan chuckled as she returned to the closet, then held up a formal gown dangling from one of those hangers with two clips.  "We're going to a party."

The gown was a very pretty, deep shade of indigo-purple, and it was full-length, sleeveless, and straplesss.  The fabric was velvet or velour—no, it was definitely velour—with a narrow bodice.  The long skirt hung in loose folds, rather than pleats, also—Wait!  What did she say?

"A party?" I demanded.  "I'm not going to a party!"

"Yes you are," Logan chuckled.  "Raise your arms."

I did so, and she gathered the gown in her hands and dropped it over my encased hands.  It fluttered down to its full length, covering me completely.  She then adjusted the gown for a proper fit and zipped it closed behind my back.  It was a perfect fit, and—"Lo-gan!" I whined and stamped my bare feet in outraged frustration.  "I'm not going to a party!"

Logan had returned to her closet and was kneeling in front of me with a pair of black, strap-on pumps with 3" heels.  "Left foot," Logan ordered, ignoring my tantrum.

I lifted my left foot, slid my toes into the shoe, and watched as she buckled its narrow strap around my left ankle.  My right foot was next, and now I was gowned and shod (so to speak).  The pumps were a perfect fit, by the way, like the gown.

"Lo-gan," I whined, then unleashed The Big Guns.  I bit my lower lip and affected my best Tragic Pout... to no effect.

You're probably asking yourself: 'Self, why didn't Anne fight?  Why didn't she really fight?  Why did Anne just stand there and allow herself to be involuntarily gowned and shod (so to speak), and after the prospect of party-going had already been raised?  Why didn't she unleash the awesome power of her kung-fu and give Logan the thrashing she so richly deserved?'

All reasonable questions.  In my defense...

• I'm a big fat chicken, but you already know that.
• She didn't really mean we were going to an actual party.  She probably meant we were going to play dress-up, but we certainly wouldn't be leaving the bungalow.  That was unthinkable!  I was wearing bondage-mittens!
  
• It was a very pretty gown and the same went for the shoes, so wearing them I had to look equally pretty.
  

The first reason is primary.  I am such a colossal chicken.  I'm Chickenzilla.  I could stomp Tokyo flat I'm such a big chicken.  Also... seriously.  A party?  We're going to a party?  Fat chance.

"Sit," Logan ordered, pointing at her bed.  I did so.  Why not?

Over the next several minutes several things happened:

• Logan applied makeup to my face, and it was all the sort of thing I would have chosen for myself and in shades that complemented my complexion and the gown.  The bright red she chose for my lipstick was perfect.  She held up a hand mirror so I could appreciate the result.  I continued pouting, of course, but had to admit she'd done a good job enhancing the natural beauty of my horrified face.
• Logan removed her at-home costume (all of her at-home costume) and dressed herself in a strapless gown identical to my own, only Logan's gown was a stunning shade of forest-green.
• Logan stepped into and buckled on a pair of deep, dark, emerald-green, strap-on pumps.  I noted they went quite well with her forest-green gown.
• Logan then applied her own makeup, squinting into the mirror above her chest of drawers.  She chose coral lip gloss, instead of the red she'd chosen for me, but on her it was perfect.

Logan looked stunning.  It was as if she was taking this whole going-to-a-party farce seriously.  Ha.  Ha.  Ha.  Very funny.

"Up!" she ordered.

I'd been watching from the bed, of course.  I climbed to my high-heel-strap-on-pump-shod feet and watched (sullenly) as she reached back into the cardboard box from which she'd produced the bondage-mitts and pulled out a... super-cuff?  It was the same two-tone brown leather (with bronze hardware) and had a 6" inner-strap and three narrow, evenly spaced outer-straps.  I noted the buckles had the same locking tabs as the mitts encasing my hands.

I shook my head.  "No.  There's no way you're gonna—Hey!—Lo-gan!"

Logan had spun me around, folded my arms behind my back, and was buckling the super-cuff around my forearms!  And I let her.  Bluck-bluck-bluck-bluck.  I really should work on my assertiveness.  Maybe I should read one of Mika Brzezinski's books.  I hear she has good advice for women on the topic.  Anyway, I was now more-or-less box-tied with two-tone leather (with bronze hardware).  Also, I was gowned, shod, and tastefully made-up!  And with red lips!

I blushed as I squirmed, rolled my bare shoulders, complained—"Lo-gan!"—then bit my lower lip and returned to Pitiful Pout mode.  I was bound and elegant!  And I was naked under my clothes!  Don't think I hadn't noted the ominous omission of panties under our indigo-purple and forest-green gowns, respectively.  Both of us were naked under our gowns!  Ominous!

"Lo-gan!" I reiterated.  That's what I meant to say.  What I actually said was "Lo-grrrrf!"  That's right!  She gagged me!  She'd stuffed a thick, soft cloth rolled around a leather strap in my mouth.  It was sort of a combination bit-cleave-gag!  "Mrrrf!"  Logan straightened my hair.  None of my blond locks were trapped under the gag's strap.  She then spun me back around and smiled into my gagged face.

"Wow!  Very pretty!" Logan gushed, then held up the hand mirror so I could "admire" myself.  The rolled cloth was the same forest-green color as Logan's gown, or very close.  The gag's fabric, however, was felt-like, or maybe it was that super-absorbent synthetic material they use for backpacking towels.  And it wasn't just folded and rolled.  It was folded, rolled, and stitched so it couldn't come apart.  I couldn't see the strap, but I'd heard a very quiet sliding click as Logan finished buckling the buckle.  Logic dictates it was the same two-tone brown leather (with bronze hardware) as the rest of my bonds.

Speaking of which, Logan reached back into her box of two-tone brown (with bronze hardware) goodies and produced a double strap thingie.  It buckled around my upper arms, just above the elbows, and bronze clips clipped through the bronze D-rings attached to the mitts and forearm-super-cuff, reinforcing and more-or-less completing the box-tie theme of my bondage.

"Rr-rrf!" I complained.  ("Lo-gan!")

Unfortunately, Logan wasn't done.  She reached back into the box and produced a collar and leash!  Not surprisingly, both continued the two-tone brown leather (with bronze hardware) motif.

"Mrrrf!"

I could do nothing to prevent Logan from buckling the collar around my throat.  The leash dangled down the front of my gown, between my more-than-adequate, indigo-purple, velour cleavage.

Did I mention my cleavage?  I had cleavage.  We both had cleavage.  Our nipples were barely covered and our boobs bulged like pink balloons.

Logan returned the box to her closet, pulled a full-length hooded cape from a hanger, and settled it over my shoulders.  It was the same indigo-purple velour as my gown but was lined with blood-red satin.  She secured the clasp at my throat and raised the generous hood, then returned to the closet, again, and donned a second cape.  Hers was forest-green velour and lined with rust-red satin.  She pulled it on (with an elegant swirl), secured its clasp, and lifted the hood.

She then retrieved the end of my leash from inside my cape and slid its terminal loop over her right hand.  "Party time!" she announced, smiling her best evil (and radiant) smile, and we stepped off.  I had no choice but to follow, of course, being box-bound, cloth-bit-gagged, and collared.

We passed through the bungalow to the kitchen and out the back door to our backyard!  There was a pause as Logan locked the door, and then the leash snapped taut and our journey continued.  Apparently, we were going to a party!

Allow me to rephrase that.

APPARENTLY, WE WERE GOING TO A PARTY!!

Like most places in the suburbs, the bungalow has both a front-yard and a backyard.  Neither is very big and we don't do any gardening.  A commercial landscaping company comes in while we're at work and mows the lawn, clips the bushes, rakes up the debris, etc.  Its all 100% native plants (supposedly) and the result is very pretty.  Very natural.  We like it.  Anyway, we don't do the gardening, which is fine by me.  It's nice to have a place to spread a towel and bask in the sun, I suppose, but neither one of us go in for that sort of thing.  Pale skin.  Anyway, its nice to have the lawn care expenses buried somewhere in the rent where we don't have to even think about it.  As far as I can tell, The Mansion, meaning the mansion where our landlady lives and Logan works, is the same, meaning 100% native species and serviced by the same company.  I suppose its a matter of economy of scale.  Since they're already doing the grounds of The Mansion they might as well do the bungalow as well.  Also...  Uh...

Obviously, I'm nervous even thinking about what happened that night (or that post-twilight/early-evening that was rapidly becoming night).  I'm babbling.  I'll try and control myself.

Anyway, speaking of The Mansion, we were crossing our backyard and it, The Mansion, was our only logical destination!  There's a half-hidden "mini-trail" that connects a corner of our backyard with the dogleg turn in The Mansion's driveway.  The hookup is right after the driveway makes a sharp turn and the trail and driveway are kinda hidden from the street.  Actually, they are hidden from the street, meaning the back half of the driveway and our little mini-trail are hidden, and we would be too, once we reached the trail and were on the driveway.  Actually, in the backyard we were already hidden, not that there was anyone on the street to see us. There's usually nobody strolling around our cul-de-sac after dark.  Also, the direct light from the streetlights was blocked by the trees and the bungalow.  There was enough indirect light for us to navigate the mini-trail and not blunder into the rhododendrons, but...

Obviously, I'm still nervous.  I'll take a few deep breaths.

...  In  ...  Out  ...  In  ...  Out  ... 

Okay, all better.  By the way, the mini-trail-to-the-driveway is the route Logan uses to get to work every morning and return at night (or late afternoon).

Concentrate, Anne!  Concentrate.

...  In  ... Out  ...  In  ...  Out  ...

Anyway, our destination was The Mansion, and I was FREAKING OUT!

"Mrrrpfh!"  I said it quietly, not wanting to attract any attention.  I also planted my 3" heels in the lawn and came to a halt, the leash jerked taut, and I nearly tripped.  I tugged on my mitten-super-cuff-box-tie-bonds and repeated my calm and well-reasoned objections to visiting The Mansion at this particular hour.  "Mrrrpfh!"

Smiling her usual gloating, self-satisfied, and beautiful smile, Logan turned and took a firm grip on the near end of my leash, just under my chin where the leash clipped to the front of my two-tone brown leather (with bronze hardware) collar.

"Settle down, Annie," she purred.  I noted she was also almost whispering.  Maybe she was also nervous about being overheard.  "You know I'd never let anything terrible happen to you.  You'll see.  It's a party.  It'll be fun.  You'll have fun!"

"Nrrr!" I objected, shaking my head.

"Yes you will," Logan chuckled.  "And you've always wanted to meet our landlady, right?"

Not really.  I'd never pumped Logan for information about her employer (the landlady in question), just as I'd always respected her privacy and not asked for details about what she (Logan) did for her (our landlady) all-day-every-day at The Mansion.  Nor had I begged for a meeting with her (our landlady).  I'd never expressed any curiosity on the subject whatsoever.  No special reason.  But then, Logan was equally incurious about my workplace, right?  She was!  And you didn't see me dragging her (Logan) bound and gagged to one of my office parties to meet my bosses and coworkers, did you?

Also, Logan had called me "Annie."  I hate it when people call me "Annie," and Logan knows I hate it when people call me "Annie."

"Anyway..." Logan purred, then planted a kiss on my left cheek, right above my cloth-cleave-bit-gag.  "You'll thank me for this later."  She then turned, the leash snapped taut, once again, and our journey continued.

My heart was hammering and my mind racing.  Obviously, Logan's employer/our landlady had to be into this stuff, meaning bondage.  Otherwise, I wouldn't be bound and gagged and being dragged to The Mansion and a supposed party.  Not even Hoot-and-a-Half-Logan was crazy enough to bind and gag me and drag me to a party at the home of somebody who wasn't into bondage.

So... this was interesting.  Maybe I'd learn something.  Maybe I'd make new friends.  Maybe I'd enjoy The Mansion and get some good decorating ideas.  Was it so bad being bound and gagged and dragged to a party?

YES!!  It was BAD!!

"Mrrrfh!"

"Quiet," Logan chuckled.  "You're embarrassing me."

I was embarrassing HER??

"Mrrrpf!"

As I've already mentioned, both the bungalow and The Mansion are excellent examples of the Arts & Craft style.  The Mansion is something like three stories in height, with a complex, gabled roof and corner towers.  I'm waffling because the roof-line is uneven and the entire structure may be split-level, like a classic suburban Ranch-style house.  I'm no architect.  The Mansion's backyard is on a grand scale.  I couldn't see all of it, but even the side-yard we were currently crossing was at least the size of the bungalow's front and backyards combined.  From what I could see in the dim light, The Mansion's actual backyard was big enough to host a croquet tournament and had a water feature and an Arts & Crafts gazebo.

We crossed The Mansion's side-yard to a set of side-stairs that led up to a porch that ran the entire front length of The Mansion.  We were now adequately lit by the porch lights.  They were very pretty, lantern-type fixtures similar in style to the fixture next to the bungalow's front door, only much bigger.  I took comfort from the fact that nobody was on the street to see us and probably couldn't have seen us anyway.  But there we were, two mysterious cloaked and hooded figures, one in forest-green and the other in indigo-purple, gliding towards The Mansion's front door... mysteriously.

"Mrrr!" I whined as Logan rang the doorbell.

"Bling-blong-bling!"  It was a very melodious doorbell, similar to the bungalow's, only louder and with more chimes.

"Be brave, Annie," Logan chuckled.

Again with the "Annie."  If I wasn't terrified and on the verge of a heart attack I'd have given her a swift kick.

There was a pause... then The Mansion's front door opened and two women appeared.

Both had long, brown, gleaming hair, blue eyes, beautiful features, and trim, shapely, very feminine figures.  I blinked in mortified horror, and surprise.  Make that two copies of the same woman.  They were identical twins!  Or were they?  I thought maybe I could tell them apart.  Fraternal twins?  Anyway, they were definitely sisters, and about the same age, which was... late-thirties? ...forty-something?

"Logan Conroy, you wicked girl," one of the women said.  They were both clearly amused (and beautiful).  Also... "wicked?"  That's my thing.  I'm Wicked Anne!

"What?" Logan objected, the very picture of cloaked, hooded innocence.

"We bought those 'accessories' for you, you scamp," the woman continued, indicating me with a graceful gesture.  Clearly, she was referring to my two-tone brown (with bronze hardware) collar, leash, and cloth-cleave-bit-gag (even though with my hood up she couldn't possibly see the leather strap of my cloth-cleave-bit-gag).  And she couldn't know I was also box-tied under the cloak with more of the same two-tone brown (with bronze hardware) restraints.

"Manners," the second woman stated with amusement.

Logan grinned and gestured at the first woman.  "Kelly, Gabby, allow me to introduce Anne Howell."

"Kelly Travers," the woman said with a smile, then leaned forward and kissed my scarlet and furiously blushing left cheek.  Woman #1 was the one who thought Logan was a "wicked girl" and a "scamp."

Woman #2 stepped forward.  "Gabrielle Parker," she said as she kissed my scarlet and furiously brushing right cheek.  She then took the leash from Logan's hand, draped an arm over my cloaked shoulders, and led me across the threshold and into The Mansion.

I noted that Woman #1 and Woman #2 had different last names, but was still convinced they were sisters, and I'll refer to them as such until presented with credible evidence to the contrary.

They (the sisters) were dressed in really nice outfits—obviously expensive, probably designer label, and possibly tailored—but not formal evening gowns.  Logan the wicked scamp and myself were seriously overdressed.

Kelly was wearing navy-blue 3" heels and a dark-blue pencil-skirt with a black leather belt (with chrome hardware).  Also, a very pretty, dusky-rose, long-sleeve blouse and a tasteful string of pearls.  Very pretty.  I made a mental note to shop for a similar ensemble to wear to work—except for the pearls.  Affordable natural pearls are ultra-tiny and unimpressive, and costume jewelry pearls don't fool anybody.  But come to think of it, cultured pearls aren't that expensive.  Maybe I could club Logan over the head, sell her to a white slaver, and buy myself a nice string.  Do white slavers advertise online?  Maybe medical schools looking for fresh cadavers aren't too picky about their provenance.

I'm babbling again.  Sorry.

Gabby (or Gabrielle) was wearing brown leather sandals, faded designer jeans with a wide, Western-style belt, and a pale blue top (possibly a French-cut t-shirt) under a royal-blue, velour, short-sleeve blouse.  Also, a very pretty (and probably hideously expensive) silver and turquoise necklace graced her throat.  Matching earrings dangled from her lobes.  It was an at-home costume, and probably cost her as much as two or three of my complete office ensembles.

Obviously, Kelly & Gabby were loaded.  The Mansion was my first clue.  Their Friday-night-at-home outfits were the second.  The third was the furnishings of The Mansion.  I looked around as Kelly removed my cape and hung it from a very nice wooden coat rack built into the entryway wall.  It distracted me from the mortified experience of being exposed in all my indigo-purple, sleeveless gown and two-tone brown leather (with bronze hardware) box-tied glory.  I was afraid if I didn't distract myself somehow I'd spontaneously combust and disappear in a puff of blushing pink smoke.

Anyway, The Mansion is a living museum of the best-of-the-best of the Arts & Crafts style.  I read somewhere that built-in or freestanding furniture personally designed by Frank Lloyd Wright had a habit of being very easy on the eyes but hard on the body.  It was High Art, but uncomfortable.  Nothing I could see in the parlors or sitting rooms off the central hallway looked that way to me.

Anyway, Logan had removed and hung her cape, Gabby draped her left arm back across my now bare shoulders, the end of my leash was still in her right hand, and Kelly was leading us down the hallway.  Logan brought up the rear.

The Mansion is big on the inside.  It's also big on the outside, as I've already noted.  Babbling again.  Sorry.

Our destination was a very nice sitting room.  Of course, all the other sitting rooms/parlors we'd passed had also been nice, so I don't know why I'd been led (externally placid and compliant but internally kicking and screaming) to this particular sitting room.

Maybe it was the fireplace.  It was the most magnificent fireplace I've ever seen.  It covered most of one wall and was constructed of closely fitted, rounded, river-washed stones—big, rounded, oddly-shaped river-washed stones.  A lot of trouble had to have gone into finding just the right stones to fit together and make such a fabulous end result.  The mantle was one massive, rough-cut, richly stained timber, possibly some species of oak.  The firebox was almost a fire-room, big enough to roast a small ox, and the required hand-forged iron hardware was already installed, both a rotating spit and a pair of swing-arms for hanging pots or cauldrons.  A small fire was merrily blazing in the center.  Actually, the scale of the fireplace was such that anything but a major bonfire would have looked small.  Let's just call it "a fire."

Gabby sat on an expansive sofa upholstered in gleaming brown leather, then smiled at her sister and held out her arms towards me.  Kelly "encouraged" me to teeter forward and more or less collapse into Gabby's arms.  "Mrrrk?"  Next thing I knew I was sitting on the sofa close to Gabby and her arms were back around me.  And by "close" I mean we were practically snuggling, and by "around me" I mean her left arm was across my shoulders with her left hand resting on my left arm and her right arm across my stomach with her hand resting on my left hip.  It was cozy.  I was shivering, even though the room was in no way cold.  If anything, it was too hot.  Maybe it was the fire, but I think it was because I was blushing from head to toe in mortified mortification.

Meanwhile, Kelly had turned to Logan and was simultaneously frowning and smiling.  It was kind of a smirky scowl, or possibly an amused glower.  Her cheeks were dimpled, her blue eyes flashing, and hands resting on her denim-clad hips.  "Well.  I'm still waiting for an answer."

Logan blinked in apparent incomprehension.  "An answer to what?"

"Why is your little friend wearing accessories we bought for you?" Kelly demanded.

Logan smiled and shrugged.  "Isn't it obvious?  Annie's wearing the Spoiled Princess gown, I'm wearing the Outlaw Princess gown, and I captured her.  Therefore, of course she's wearing 'my' mitts and 'my' harness.  You think Spoiled Princesses stroll around with a bag full of their own matching mitts, harnesses, and gags?  I'm surprised you even have to ask."

Well...  That made perfect sense...  NOT!

Kelly and Gabby exchanged dimpled smiles and shook their heads, then Gabby transfixed Logan with a dimpled, authoritative smile.  "Key," she demanded.

Logan reached down the front of her gown and produced a tiny bronze key on a long, very light bronze chain.  When she'd slipped it down there, I have no idea.  I must have been busy struggling and squirming and freaking out, back at her bungalow bedroom.  Anyway, she handed the key and chain to Gabby, who turned my head and began fiddling with the tab-lock and buckle of my (meaning Logan's) gag.  The strap went loose... came free... and she eased the rolled cloth bit from my mouth.

I worked my jaws and carefully licked my lips.  I didn't want to ruin my pretty red lipstick and was afraid it might have already been ruined by the gag.  I watched as Gabby tossed the gag to Kelly.

"Assume the position," Kelly ordered as she stepped behind Logan.

Logan rolled her eyes, gathered her hair atop her head, when stared at the gag in Kelly's hands as she passed.  "It's wet," she noted.  She was referring to the clearly visible saliva stains where I'd drooled into the forest-green, super-absorbent cloth.

"Yes, it is," Kelly agreed.  "Pity."  She then thrust the rolled cloth-bit into my bungalow-mate's mouth, buckled the strap tight at the nape of her neck, and secured the tab with a locking click.  Kelly then took a step to the side and placed her hands back on her hips, as before.  "Strip," she ordered.

Logan rolled her eyes, again, then reached behind her back, unzipped her gown, slid the gown down and tugged it past her hips, then stepped clear.  She then carefully folded the gown lengthwise... then in half... then deposited it on an overstuffed chair.  She also unbuckled and pulled off her dark-green pumps and deposited them atop the folded gown.

Gabby took over.  "Stand in the middle of the room," she ordered.  I assumed she meant Logan.  Luckily, she did.

Naked and gagged, Logan padded to the position indicated, then stood with her hands behind her back, wrists crossed and resting atop her naked butt, her bare feet about a foot apart, and her gaze lowered to the really beautiful and obviously hideously expensive carpet.  She didn't say anything, of course, as she was gagged.  I noted the rolled cloth cleaving and stuffing her mouth went well with her hair and complexion.  Not surprising, as it was the same color as her former gown.

"Why don't I open some wine?" Kelly suggested.

Gabby's smile widened.  "Excellent idea, Sis."

There!  I knew they were sisters!

Kelly left the room, obviously headed for the kitchen, wine cellar, or wherever they kept the wine.

Logan remained behind, naked, hands behind her back, gagged, and apparently fascinated by the carpet.

I remained snuggled close to Gabby, my heart pounding.  I licked my lips, again.  Wine sounded good.  At the moment, anything cool and wet sounded good.  Or hot and wet for that matter, like coffee or tea.  As long as it was wet.

"I know you have questions," Kelly quietly whispered in my ear.  "When my sister returns, we'll talk."

That was probably a good idea.  I was afraid my voice would crack if I tried talking now.  I responded in the affirmative with a quick nod.

"Wonderful," Gabby purred, then kissed my right cheek.  Needless to say, I was still blushing.  I might never stop blushing.

Gabby turned her smile back to Logan.  "Kneel," she ordered, "and show us you're truly sorry."

Logan went up on her toes and reached for the ceiling in a graceful, full-body stretch; paused... then gracefully knelt on the carpet, leaned forward and gracefully extended her arms and hands towards us until her breasts pressed into the soft pile and her palms were flat on the carpet; paused... then gracefully flowed back into the kneeling position and crossed her wrists behind her back.  She lowered her head and her tousled hair settled over her gagged face like a ginger curtain.  Did I mention she was graceful?  She was graceful.  And naked.  And had put on a show for our benefit.

As I recall, at that precise moment the only thing going through my flustered little mind was:  OMG!  OMG!  OMG!  OMG!  (Pardon my French.)