| Chapter 4
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
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?
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
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?
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
"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
I examined my now flipper-like and brown leather (with bronze
hardware) encased hand while Logan slid the second mitt over my
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
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
"Lo-gan," I whined, then unleashed The Big Guns. I
bit my lower lip and affected my best Tragic Pout... to no
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.
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
- 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.
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
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
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
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)
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
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!!
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.
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,
Obviously, I'm still nervous. I'll take a few deep
... 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
Concentrate, Anne! Concentrate.
... In ... Out ... In ...
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
Also, Logan had called me "Annie." I hate it when people
call me "Annie," and Logan knows I hate it when people call me
"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
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!!
"Quiet," Logan chuckled. "You're embarrassing me."
I was embarrassing HER??
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 &
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...
"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
"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
"What?" Logan objected, the very picture of cloaked, hooded
"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
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.
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
"Why is your little friend wearing accessories we bought for you?"
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 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,
"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,"
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
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
"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
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.)