by Van ©2019
		Chapter 9

Okay, even I have to admit Logan and I were adorable.  Naked, ball-gagged, hugging... adorable.  It was disgusting.

There we were, naked, locked in The Sisters sinister dungeon, and forced to cuddle together in terror!  By which I mean we were in Kelly's gigantic Arts & Crafts bedroom, which was in no way a dungeon, and I had no idea whether or not the bedroom door was even locked.  And no one was forcing us to cuddle.  We were cuddling 'cause we wanted to cuddle.  But we were naked... and we were adorable.

To further refresh your memory, our spherical, 1¾", silicon-rubber gobstoppers were identical, except for color.  Mine was baby-blue and Logan's was pastel-green.  And both of the black leather ball-gag straps were secured by cute little heart-shaped padlocks.  And Logan was further silenced by the presence of the stainless steel obedience collar locked around her neck, supposedly ready to shock her throat if she even tried to speak.  Also, Logan's ginger locks were restrained in a loose ponytail by the periwinkle-blue hair-ribbon (with big, bouncy bow) that had been part of my former Sweet Gwendoline costume.  On the other hand, my luscious blond locks were unrestrained, as was my ability to force inarticulate noises past my rubber mouth-plug.

We hugged for a while.  On my part, I was feeling very pleased with myself for being kind and wonderful and forgiving Logan for being such a foxy trickster.  As for Logan, I have no doubt she was feeling deeply ashamed and eternally grateful that I had forgiven her for being such a foxy trickster.

And then... finally... we released the hug and stood facing each other, naked, ball-gagged, thirsty, and needing to empty our bladders.  At least I was and did, meaning was thirsty and needed to go.  Apparently, Logan agreed, 'cause she nodded towards a closed wooden door that was not the door to the hallway, took my hand, and led me in that direction.

As expected, the door opened to reveal Kelly's gigantic and luxurious bathroom suite: two washbasins, a commode, one of those Japanese-style soaking-tubs (with a nice view of a side-garden through a bay window), and a large, open shower alcove with the biggest shower-head I've ever seen set in the alcove ceiling and over the drain.  Seriously.  That thing was the size of a garbage can lid.  The suite was fully tiled, of course, and the decor was—wait for it—Arts & Crafts, but executed with a light color palette.  Like I said, gigantic and luxurious.

I let Logan use the commode first.  As far as I knew, she'd been tied in that chair in the main bedroom since before The Sisters "helped" me get ready for bed in the guest bathroom so they could have their wicked ways(s) with my naked body... at least three times.

Once it was my turn and my bladder and I were availing ourselves of the commode, Logan padded to one of the washbasins, turned on the "Cold" tap and started the water running, then opened the mirror-cabinet and pulled out a plastic drinking bottle with a curved plastic straw protruding from its screw-cap.  She unscrewed the cap, filled the bottle, restored the cap, then deftly inserted the tapered end of the straw in the right corner of her ball-gagged mouth and squeezed what was no doubt a cool, generous, and refreshing squirt of water into her ball-gagged mouth.

Wow.  Go figure.  Kelly's bathroom came equipped with exactly what was needed to quench the thirst of a ball-gagged damsel!  Also, Logan already knew about it.  Obviously, this wasn't her first rodeo, not that I was entertaining even an inkling of a notion that this was her first rodeo.

Thirst slaked, Logan refilled the bottle and set it on the counter next to the washbasin.  She then turned to face me, bowed, and indicated the bottle with a graceful but silent two-handed gesture.  (Ta-dah!)

I rolled my eyes, flushed the john, then stood, padded to the washbasin, and quenched my thirst.

Meanwhile, Logan had removed her periwinkle-blue hair ribbon and draped it over a towel rack, padded to the shower alcove, and began programming what appeared to be its touch-screen digital control panel.  That's right, Kelly's shower had (and apparently needed) a touch-screen digital control panel!  Talk about fancy!  And the fact that Logan didn't have to puzzle out the display's menu was more evidence of rodeo experience.  With a final tap of the screen, the shower head began emitting a modest monsoon.  Logan padded to my side and took my hand, then dragged me into the alcove and under the water.

This was the first time I'd taken a shower with someone else... simultaneously... mutually.  And the girl's showers in high school, college, and health clubs don't count.  There might be more than one naked female present on such occasions, but all present were busy running soapy hands and/or washcloths over their own naked, wet bodies, not others, and certainly not mine.  Logan and I were soaping and scrubbing each other!  It was shockingly intimate, but at that point, I didn't give a rodent's heinie.  We were both dirty and needed to get clean... myself especially... after my night of being wickedly had by The Sisters (at least three times).

Eventually, with the help of dabs of bodywash and shampoo and the enthusiastic creation, distribution, and redistribution of floral-scented suds, we were clean.  This was followed by a leisurely rinse requiring manual diligence to ensure no soap suds were lingering in our various anatomical nooks and crannies.  Next, we dried ourselves off with a pair of thirsty, gigantic towels, and that included our hair.  We finished the process by sharing Kelly's handheld blow-dryer, then shared her brush and comb set to complete primping our ginger and blond tresses.

Finally, we were ready to face the day... if you can call being naked and ball-gagged "ready."

It occurred to me we could do something about the naked part.  I padded back into the bedroom with Logan close behind.  There was yet another closed door that wasn't the door to the hallway, and I correctly surmised it was the door to Kelly's walk-in closet.  And of course Kelly would have a walk-in closet.  All rich people have walk-in closets.  It's a baseline requirement of being rich.

Anyway, I opened the door, noted the racks of shoes and clothing, then padded to a built-in chest of drawers, opened the top drawer, and sure as shootin', found rows of neatly folded panties in a kaleidoscope of mostly pastel colors.  I reached for a salmon-pink pair—and the drawer very nearly slammed shut on my fingers!

The drawer-slamming culprit was Logan, of course.  I turned and glowered at my bungalow-mate.  "Mr-rrr!" ("Lo-gan!")

Logan shook her head, took my right hand, and led me from the closet, across the bedroom, towards the bedroom door, opened the bedroom door, and led me down the hallway.

Obviously, experienced rodeo clown that she was, Logan already knew the Sunday dress code at The Mansion.  With respect to herself and myself, clothing wasn't optional, it was forbidden.

It was only then that I remembered that last night Kelly had promised that tomorrow I'd be witnessing "mean" stuff, meaning mean mean stuff; and last night's tomorrow was today's today!

My eyes widened and I skidded to a halt!  "Mrrrk!"

Logan smiled (mostly with her eyes), did a half turn while maintaining her grip on my right hand, then used her free hand to deliver what she probably thought would be a reassuring squeeze to my shoulder.  We locked eyes, I blinked a few times, Logan continued her ball-gagged smile... then she turned and once again led me down the hallway.

I suppose I could have at least tried to resist, but...

• That boat had sailed, the horses had left the barn, the chickens had come home to roost, and... whatever.
• Neither one of us were in a position to demand, propose, or discuss options, Logan especially.

Anyway, I didn't resist.  I let myself be led.

Our destination was—big surprise—the kitchen.  It was time for breakfast.  I just hoped the key or keys to our cute little heart-shaped padlocks were on the menu.

The Sisters were present.  (Another big surprise.)

Kelly was wearing sandals, jeans, a tank-top, and no bra.  (Pokies!)  Except for the absence of a pretty and hideously expensive blouse over the tank-top, it was the senior sister's usual weekend-at-home costume (as far as I knew).

Gabby, however, was wearing nothing but a very pretty cotton robe.  It was predominately sky-blue, but with navy-blue, heather-gray, milk-white, and dark-red stripes, chevrons, and tiny diamond-shaped blocks.  It was another blanket pattern and may have been Mexican, but in any case, it was very pretty and complemented Gabby's baby-blue eyes.  And while I admit I had no objective evidence either way, if forced to guess I would have said Gabby that wasn't wearing panties underneath.  It seemed logical.

"The girls are here," Kelly announced, smiling broadly.  She then stepped forward and pulled me into a warm embrace.  Kissing and squeezing was involved, mostly on Kelly's part.  I did hug her back, but mostly I blushed, stood there, and ignored the delicate thrill of, uh, "acute embarrassment" quivering between my legs.

Gabby had been whisking eggs in a bowl, but she quickly set it down, stepped forward, and hugged and kissed Logan.

"My brave little Annie," Kelly whispered in my ear, then The Sisters swapped.  That is, Gabby directed Logan into her big sister's arms, Kelly directed myself into her little sister's arms, and it was round two of good morning hugs and kisses.  It was also round two of mortified blushing and tingling sensations between my legs.

The Sisters released us and returned to whisking eggs and sipping coffee.

And speaking of coffee...  Logan and I padded to the coffeemaker, stared at the half-full glass pot of steaming hot, brown, morning ambrosia—then at The Sisters—then at the pot—then at The Sisters.  Lather-rinse-repeat.

"Precious," Gabby chuckled.  "Like a couple of house cats eyeing an empty food-dish."

"Don't be mean," Kelly chuckled as she set down her mug and headed in our direction.  "That's my job this morning."  She reached down the front of her tank-top and produced a cute little heart-shaped key that had been dangling on a gold chain between her breasts.  She then stepped behind me and unlocked the cute little heart-shaped padlock securing my baby-blue ball-gag.  And then...

Three guesses as to whether Kelly re-secured the strap's buckle on the first hole.  Of course she re-secured the buckle on the strap's first hole.  Kelly then plucked the baby-blue silicon-rubber gobstopper from my mouth, turned to Logan, and unlocked her pastel-green ball-gag and re-secured its buckle on the strap's first hole.

And then—"Oh!"—Kelly turned back, pulled me into another hug, and kissed my now ball-gag-free mouth.  I'd been busy performing the usual post-gag exercise of working my jaw and licking my lips, but now Kelly was doing it for me.  That meant that once Logan plucked the pastel-greed ball from her own mouth, she had to work her own jaw and lick her own lips.

Serves her right.

The downside of Kelly's kiss was it gave Logan first crack at the coffee pot.  I watched from the corner of my eye (still busy tongue-wrestling with Kelly) as Logan opened a cabinet, selected a pair of glazed, handmade mugs from a shelf (one rust-brown and olive-green and the other cobalt-blue and granite-gray), and poured coffee into the cobalt-blue and granite-gray one.

Needless to say, I was torn between two issues:

1. Continuing to hug and kiss a curvaceous, fit, tan, very beautiful, 40-something woman who was half of the team of curvaceous, fit, tan, very beautiful, 40-something women who had ravished my helpless body last night (at least three times), or;
2. Pouring and enjoying my own first cup of morning coffee.

Like I said... torn.

Kelly made the call for me by completing her detailed oral examination of my teeth, tongue, and tonsils, releasing the hug, gently grasping my upper arms, turning me to face my bungalow-mate, and giving me a gentle push.

I padded the two short steps to Logan, ready to shove her aside and pour myself a mug of coffee... when Logan redeemed herself and was reinstated as my Best Friend Forever by handing me the cobalt-blue and granite-gray steaming mug of coffee, unsipped!

Yum!  It was delicious!  It really hit the spot!  It was coffee!

Meanwhile, Gabby had completed her egg-whisking and was moving on to other tasks.  Obviously, she was in charge of cooking Sunday breakfast and it turned out scrambled eggs were not on the menu.  Eventually, we were treated to:

• Diced, oven roasted potatoes (with a little diced onion, Sea Salt, and a hint of garlic).
• Eggs Benedict (English muffins, Canadian bacon, poached eggs, and hollandaise sauce).

That's why Gabby had been whisking eggs, she'd been making hollandaise sauce from scratch!

Breakfast was delicious, and Logan was an especially huge fan of Gabby's culinary efforts.  I couldn't help but smile as Logan shoveled a full helping into her mouth, then graciously accepted seconds.  Either she was a much bigger fan of Eggs Benedict than I'd never suspected, or she was really hungry.  Remembering that Logan had been tied to a chair in Kelly's bedroom and had therefore missed last night's chicken dinner, I decided to put my money on hungry.  Poor Logan.

Don't look at me that way.  I know she's a foxy trickster responsible for all my... uh... woes, but I'd already forgiven her.  She was my best friend and bungalow-mate, and most importantly of all... Logan was a Bringer of Coffee!

So... we ate Eggs Benedict and made small talk.  More precisely, we ate Eggs Benedict, drank coffee, and Kelly, Gabby, and I made small talk.  Thanks to the obedience-collar, Logan was mute.  The topics of discussion were:

1. Comparing restaurants in town that we enjoyed;
2. Gardening.

It turns out The Sisters frequent restaurants I've always wanted to try but can't really afford, as well as some really nice places that I can afford.  No surprise there.

As for "gardening," with respect to The Sisters, that meant landscape design, with others doing the actual work and maintenance.  And with respect to the natatorium/greenhouse, it meant more or less the same thing.  They had the fun of planning things out and the enjoyment of the results, but without the toil of making it all real.  I have zero interest in any kind of horticulture.  Who has the time?  Also, my thumbs are not green.

Being ungagged but still obedience-collared, all Logan could do was shovel food into her mouth, chew, swallow, and listen.  Poor Logan.

Also, what had happened in Kelly's gigantic bed last night was most assuredly not discussed.  Maybe we'd talk about it later.  Maybe not.  Anyway, I wasn't about to bring it up.  (Bwack, bwack, bwack, bwack.)

Something else I wasn't about to bring up was exactly how "mean" things were going to get once breakfast was over.

And then breakfast was over.

We carried our plates to the sink, then—"Oh!—Gabby planted a kiss on my startled lips, took Logan by the hand, and led her away.  "See ya soon!" the junior Sister called back over her shoulder as the kitchen door swung closed.

"C'mon, Annie," Kelly said with a smile.  "Let's get this place clean."

I blinked, then swallowed.  "Uh... okay."

And we did, by which I mean we cleaned the kitchen.  Soon the plates, mugs, flatware, and everything else that was dishwasher safe was in dishwasher, we'd scrubbed the rest at the sink and it was all drying in the dish rack, and then wiped down the counters, stove-top, and table.  Mission accomplished!

So, I assumed, it was now the Moment of Truth, and I was right.

I watched (nervously) as Kelly retrieved a blue nylon gym bag from where it had been lurking in the corner in a sinister and suspicious manner.  She placed it on the kitchen counter, unzipped a side pocket, reached in, and pulled out—[cue ominous music]—a pair of latex gloves.

Huh?

They were milky-white, the kind worn by medical types and police people while they save lives and examine crime scenes, respectively.

"Sit, Annie," Kelly offered (ordered) as she pulled out a chair, then sat in the neighboring chair.

Being a big, fat, curious chicken, I had no choice but to comply.  I planted my naked butt in the seat and watched as Kelly helped me don the gloves.  Of course, donning the gloves would have been difficult if I hadn't been more than compliant.  Active cooperation was required, and truth be told I did most of the work.  Soon, the deed was done and I was wearing a pair of skintight, milky-white, latex gloves.

Next, Kelly reached back into the side pocket and produced a roll of gray duct-tape.  I think it was duct-tape.  In any case, it wasn't your usual Home Depot/Lowe's Hardware duct-tape.  It was fabric-based, and had a strong adhesive, which I could tell by the effort required for Kelly to pull a long length from the roll, but was a little more stretchy than normal.  I watched with rapt attention as she took hold of my right hand, encouraged me to make a fist, then tightly, neatly, mummified the hand.  It disappeared under multiple overlapping layers of tape... and then she did the same thing to my left hand... and I let her.

My heart was hammering and my throat dry.  Why did I let her render my fingers and thumbs utterly useless?  Uh... I don't know.  Because.

Now that it was far too late, completely moot, and in no way open to debate, I complained.  "Kel-ly!" I whined, pouting and biting my lower lip for added effect.

"It's so you can experience being completely helpless, darling," Kelly explained (sort of).

"Completely?" I whined.

"Completely," Kelly confirmed, then unzipped the gym-bag's main compartment, reached inside, and pulled out a coil of ¼" nylon rope!  Its color was... cadet-blue?  I think that color is called "cadet-blue."  Anyway, the rope was a muted blue-gray and a little more more blue than gray.

"Are you going to be a good girl?" Kelly inquired as she released and unraveled the coil, found the center, doubled it, and prepared it for use.

"Huh?" I muttered, staring at the rope.  "Uh, yeah, sure."  My heart was still hammering, but my throat was no longer dry.  I figured I might as well be good.  As the saying goes, in for a penny, in for a pound.

Kelly set to work and the task at hand—making me "completely helpless"—took something like fifteen minutes.  The end result was another box-tie.  Multiple cadet-blue bands yoked my shoulders, pinned my upper-arms to my torso, and passed above and below my breasts.  And this particular example of the form was elaborate, with interwoven paired strands and more lateral elements than "usual."  However, in my now completely helpless opinion, this box-tie was also a little more "mean" than usual.  Kelly had raised my mummified hands past the horizontal, crossed my wrists, and lashed them against the back of the harness just below my shoulder blades!  It didn't hurt (for now), but it most definitely was... stringent.

And Kelly wasn't finished!  She encircled my waist with multiple strands, dove between my legs to give me a labia and butt-cheek cleaving crotch-rope (with pussy-knots), then linked the result to the rest of the box-tie so it acted as a lower anchor for the harness, just as the shoulder-yoke acted as an upper anchor.  One other detail: a diamond-shaped rope-frame pressed against my tummy with my belly-button in the center.  It was cute... I suppose.

My heart was pounding (still) and I had to admit that from the crotch up I was, indeed, "completely helpless," as well as a Shibari/macramé work of art!  Kelly's Shibari/macramé work of art!

"Kel-ly," I whined, blinking, blushing, and weakly squirming in my bonds.

"Hush," Kelly chuckled, then indicated the chair, again.

I sat (ignoring the intimate nudge of the knotted crotch-rope) and focused on my smiling (hot) hostess/handler/rigger.

"I want to make sure you to understand something very important about our games in general," Kelly purred, "especially today."

I nodded (and managed not to start blinking again).

"We're all fans of tight, inescapable bondage, as you're well aware," Kelly continued.

No duh, I thought (but somehow managed to keep my snarkiness to my box-tied self).

"The idea is to render the bottom in the scenario completely helpless," Kelly lectured.

I nodded, gravely—then frowned.  "Wait.  Bottom?"

Kelly chuckled.  "Let's leave a discussion of psycho-sexual dynamics for another time," she suggested.

"You brought it up," I pouted.

"So I did," Kelly purred, then stood, stepped behind my chair, and—

"Kel-ly!  No!  Mrrrmpfh!"

—popped my baby-blue ball-gag in my mouth, buckled the strap at the nape of my neck, under my hair, then locked the buckle with the cute little heart-shaped padlock!

I tossed my head in a vain attempt to restore order to my beautiful blond tresses, then glared at my hostess/handler/rigger as she sat back down.

"Now I can complete my lecture without interruption," Kelly purred.  "I want you to understand that while we all believe in tight bondage and complete helplessness, even when it's our turn to be the one on the bottom, there are definite rules, and rule number one is: Do no harm.  No unsightly rope-burns or bruises, no sprained joints, and above all, no bloodletting.  Understand?"

I nodded my ball-gagged head.  I've always been a big fan of not doing harm, especially with respect to myself and the people I love.

"Good," Kelly smiled.  "This morning you're going to witness some 'mean' things, like I promised, but always remember that no matter what you see, there will be no lasting harm to the bottom.  Do you believe me, Annie?"

I nodded again.  I did believe her.  Really.  I was still debating whether or not I should be terrified, but I believed her.

Still smiling, Kelly and nodded, then unzipped another side-pocket of the gym bag and reached inside.

My eyes popped wide.  Kelly had pulled out a second stainless steel obedience-collar!  It was identical to the one that had rendered Logan involuntarily mute!  "Mrrrf?"

"Don't have kittens, Kitten," Kelly chuckled, then her smile turned coy.  "And don't think we didn't notice Red calling you 'Kitten.'  We did, and Gabby and I agree: Logan is 'Red,' our adorable new friend Annie is 'Kitten,' and that's all there is to it."

I made a mental note to get furious and rant about being labeled with the nickname"Kitten" at my first opportunity, but at the moment I had more serious concerns, like the open collar with blunt copper contacts on the inside on either side of the throat region that was approaching my neck!  "Nrrr!" I complained, knowing it might be my last chance to vocally complain about anything for the immediate future.

Kelly closed the collar around my neck—Click!—and it was a perfect fit, a tight fit.  It really was a choker.  Luckily, it was neither all that heavy nor overly tight.

Meanwhile, Kelly sat back down in her chair, reached back into the same side-pocket of the gym bag, and pulled out a now familiar wand-style remote control.

I watched (wide-eyed) as Kelly tapped the remote's keys and entered a numerical code.

"You'll find that initially the collar's 'encouragement' to refrain from making unnecessary noise is more irritating than painful," Kelly purred.  "It more or less tickles, and only if you persist in trying to speak does it increase in intensity and becomes an actual shock.  I'm afraid that is painful, but only a little."

I was blinking, of course, and panting.  I realized my rope-framed boobs were bobbing, so I guess I was panting.

"Go ahead," Kelly suggested, "give it a try."

I continued blinking, then shook my head.

Kelly's smile turned disturbingly evil (or evil-ish).  She gently gripped my right nipple between her thumb and forefinger.  "Would you like me to provide a little incentive?"

I blinked and shook my head, again, then swallowed behind my baby-blue ball-gag... readied myself as best I could... and conducted the suggested (ordered) test.

"Mrr-uuk!"

The collar did tickle!  And it was unpleasant!  And I didn't want it to happen again!  And I certainly didn't want to test the supposed tickle-becomes-a-shock feature by conducting a prolonged test.  A shiver of distress quivered through my completely helpless body.

"Almost ready," Kelly said, then unzipped yet another of the gym-bag's side-pockets and produced a wide roll of off-white Elastoplast tape and a pair of stainless steel bandage scissors.

That's right!  She gave me the same ball-gag/Elastoplast/obedience-collar super-gag-combo Logan had worn last night in the bedroom!  I don't know if my lips and the protruding part of my ball-gag stood out in three-dimensional cuteness, the way Logan's lips and gag had stood out, but it was a safe bet.  If I hadn't been double-gagged and obedience-collared, I would have asked Kelly to take me to a mirror so I could check.

"Now," Kelly said as she returned the scissors and roll to the side-pocket and zipped it closed, "I haven't tied your legs because we have a little walking to do."  She stood, slung the gym-bag over her shoulder by its carrying strap (with shoulder pad), and started for the kitchen door.  She then turned and paused.  "Are you coming, Kitten?"

I blinked and tugged on my bound wrists.

Kelly was smiling her evilish smile again.  "I have a telescoping cattle-prod in this thing," she said, shrugging her shoulder to indicate the gym-bag.  "You aren't going to make me fish it out and use it, are you?"

No.  I wasn't.  I definitely wasn't.  I stood and padded in her direction.  She opened the kitchen door so I could pass, and our journey began to... wherever we were going.