THE LOFT
		by Van © 1996
		Chapter  6

When last we left our heroines Erin and Brooke (or is it our villainesses Erin and Brooke?), they had just popped the tightly bound twins, Nikki and Vikki, into the central cage of the loft's vault and had retired for the night.

You will remember I had agreed to go along with Erin's semi-nefarious plot to enact vengeance on her cousins for what they had done to her while we were "visiting" Aunt Carol's farm, mainly to give Erin her obviously needed closure on the incident, but also because I thought the twins might "enjoy" the episode.  (I hadn't known them very long, but in the time I had spent with them it had become abundantly obvious that like Erin's Aunt Carol, Nikki and Vikki were from the unconventional-fun branch of the family.)

Erin and I had agreed to release the twins in the morning after extracting contrite apologies for having put feather to Erin's feet with malice aforethought.  The twins were only going to be visiting the city for a week, and it would be cruel and unusual indeed if the only part of the city they really got to know was the inside of the vault.  Anyway, I put head to pillow (with visions of tightly bound redheaded coeds dancing in my head) secure in the knowledge that justice was prevailing, all was as it should be, God was in Her heaven (forgive the feminist commercial) and tomorrow was another day.

About two in the morning (actually 2:09 in the expert digital opinion of my alarm clock) I woke from a sound sleep for no apparent reason.  I could hear no unusual sounds, my dark adapted eyes could see nothing amiss in my room—yet I had the feeling that something was not right.

I eased myself out of bed, grabbed the hefty metal flashlight I keep on the bottom shelf of my nightstand and pattered into the hallway.  (I was wearing my usual summer pajamas, panties and a tanktop.)  I tiptoed down the hall and began a stealth search of the loft: flashlight ready but off, walk a few steps, listen a few seconds, walk a few steps, etc.  Erin's room was empty (the bed had been slept in), as were the living room and the kitchen.  The front door was securely locked and bolted.   Where was Erin?

Where else?  I looked down the central hall and noticed a vertical sliver of light from the far end.  The vault door was ajar. I tiptoed to the vault door and quietly eased it open another couple of inches.  Imagine my surprise (shock? chagrin? wonder? all-of-the-above?) at what I beheld!

Erin had been busy.  Most of the twin's "contest" bondage (see previous installment) was intact; but both Nikki and Vikki had been blindfolded with scarves and gagged with silver duct tape.   Vikki's left ankle was no longer tied to the base of a cage bar as I had left it, but was now lashed to the bar about three feet off the floor.  On closer inspection, I noted that her crotch rope had been retied, and was being used to anchor a non-penetrating vibrator (the kind called a "butterfly" I believe) directly over her crotch area.  A cord trailed from the vibrator to a battery pack, and next to that was an empty package that had recently held fresh batteries (the kind that keep going, and going, and going...)  I couldn't hear the vibrator's hum, but from Vikki's writhing and moaning it was obviously turned on—and so was she.

Vikki was getting the best of the situation—by far.  The unfortunate Nikki was lying on her back (and on her bound hands) with her feet firmly lashed with cord, a fiddle-string-taut length of which stretched from between her toes to the far side of the locker. The locker was obviously filled with something heavy, because Nikki's very enthusiastic efforts to lift to the top of a small footlocker. Numerous tight ropes extended from her already joined ankles to the handles on either end of the locker, and her big toes had been tied together with thin it into the air and thereby move the exposed soles of her feet were completely in vain.

Why was Nikki motivated to move her feet?  Erin was comfortably seated on a folded blanket, and was tickling the fool out of them with a long feather!  She was sitting with her back to the door and was totally absorbed in the task at hand.  Erin usually sleeps in the buff, and she hadn't bothered to put anything on before she crept into the vault to extract this extended (and, I hasten to add, totally unauthorized) vengeance.

I confess that I watched this tableau for about two minutes before turning to leave.  I was several feet down the hall when I stopped.  I had had a devilish, supremely mischievous idea.  I carefully put down my flashlight, and tiptoed back to the vault.  So she thought she could renege on our agreement and "torture" her cousins with impunity, making me an unwitting accomplice to her perfidy, did she?  Two could play at this revenge game.

Quiet as a mouse I eased the vault door open until I could slide through.  (The door is perfectly balanced with bearing hinges, and we keep it well oiled.)  Erin had left the keys to the vault and the cages hanging in the cage door lock.  I crept up to the door and with exquisite care pulled it shut.  (The twins were making enough noise and Erin was preoccupied to the point that I probably would have had to bang the door closed to get a reaction.)  I took nearly half a minute to turn the cage door lock.  I could feel the mechanism rotate and the bolt slide, but there was no sound.  I slowly extracted the keys, (taking care that they didn't rattle together), retraced my steps to the vault door, and ever so slowly pulled the vault door closed.  I slowly and quietly turned the vault door lock (I wanted Erin's surprise to be complete) and with a fiendish chuckle returned to my bed.

I woke at my usual time, stretched, noticed the keyring I had left lying on the night stand—and laughed out loud with fiendish glee!  (I try to be good, but there are times I really do enjoy being bad.)  I took an unusually long shower, dressed in my everyday jeans and blouse, ate a very leisurely breakfast, gathered the keys (and a pair of hinged handcuffs) and headed for the vault.

I opened the vault door to find Erin standing at the cage door rattling the bars.

"Brooke! You open this door this instant, you little twerp!" she shouted.  "When I get my hands on you I'll twist your lilliputian neck 'til your eyes pop like, like—"

"Like grapes?" suggested Nikki.

"Like pomegranates?" piped in Vikki.

"'Grapes' is more traditional," I laughed.

Erin had removed the twins' gags and blindfolds and had used several feet of rope each to secure them in standing positions with their backs against opposite sides of the cage.  They seemed none the worse for wear, although they were both in dire need of a shower and shampoo.

"You two shut up," growled Erin, "or I'll tickle you 'til—"

"Your tickling days are over, my dear," I interrupted with a grand theatrical gesture.  "You've had your revenge, and now you will do as I command."  (A little melodramatic, but somehow it fit.)

"Like what?, O Mistress-of-the-Vault," Erin smirked.

I dangled the handcuffs for her inspection.  "Like put on these pretty bracelets, tight and behind your back—so I can open the cage door without getting my (how did you put it?) 'lilliputian neck' wrung."

"You really expect me to do that?" she asked.

"I really expect you to get very hungry and make a mess on the floor sometime over the next several hours if you don't," I answered.

"If you don't, we will." Nikki said.

"Make a mess, that is," Vikki added. "Please Erin, we—"

"—gotta go!" pleaded Nikki.

Erin glowered at me ruefully for several seconds, then smirked, shook her head, and accepted the cuffs through the bars in graceful surrender.

"When ya gotta go... ya gotta go," she mumbled.

She snapped one cuff on her left wrist, reached behind her back and after two tries closed the other around her right.  (Not as easy a task as you might think with hinged cuffs.)  I unlocked the cage door, inspected Erin's cuffs for tightness (they were), and used a stray piece of rope to make an impromptu leash which I dropped over her head and used to tether her to the the cage wall.  I then set about freeing the twins from most of their bondage (a lengthy process).  Finally, their only restraints were wrists crossed and tied behind their backs and ankles hobbled about a foot apart.  I added rope leashes, hobbled Erin as well, and led my coffle of flame-haired beauties to the bathroom.  (A special on Celtic cuties this week! What am I bid? All major credit cards accepted!)  After assisting each to answer the call of nature (I'll spare you the details) we headed for the kitchen where I tightly tied my roommate and her cousins into chairs and prepared a breakfast for three: scrambled eggs with chopped green onions and a little shredded Monterey Jack, cottage fries with parsley and a hint of garlic, orange juice, and hot coffee.  I made my prisoners eat "doggie-style," bending over their plates and lapping up their food as best they could—but I did help them drink their juice and coffee.

"I thought you were on my side, you traitor," Erin groused.

"I was, 'til you got carried away last night.  We agreed to a little bondage and maybe throwing a scare into those two," I nodded at the twins, "not hours of teasing and tickling."

"They did it to me!" Erin exclaimed.

"Aunt Carol—" Vikki started.

"Oh, spare me the 'we were only following orders' routine." Erin retorted.

"But it's true!" Nikki said.  "I won't pretend we didn't enjoy it, but we stopped as soon as you gave us the password."

"Then you came back after dark and teased me all night—'til I screamed—several times."  Erin blushed.  "I was just returning the favor."

"We did nothing of the sort," said Vikki.

"Well one of you did," said Erin.

"Did not!" said Nikki.

"Did too!" said Erin.

"Uh, people?" I ventured diffidently.

"Did not!" said Vikki.

"Did too!" shouted Erin.

"Did not," I said quietly.

Three heads swiveled in my direction and the room was abruptly very quiet.

"It was you?" Erin whispered.

"It was me," I answered.  "I thought you needed some comforting.  I couldn't unlock any of the chains holding you down.  I only wanted to make you feel better... and I sort of got carried away."

"I'll say you did," said Erin, blushing anew.

"I'm sorry, Erin," I said.  Several seconds of awkward silence followed.  Finally Erin sighed and flashed that scampish grin I knew so well.

"You aren't going to make a habit of it are you?" she asked.

"Only if circumstances dictate," I answered.  "Besides—Aunt Carol made me do it!" We all laughed.  I untied my naked roommate, unlocked her cuffs, and we shared a warm embrace.

"I think I'm going to hurl," said Nikki.

"Me too," said Vikki.

Erin and I exchanged knowing glances, stacked the dishes in the sink, and headed for the kitchen door.

"I'm going to take a shower," Erin announced.

"No, just make yourself presentable and we'll go to the club for a swim," I suggested as we headed down the hall.

"Good one!" Erin agreed.  "A swim and a steam would really hit the spot.  That vault floor is hard."

"Hey, what about us?" we heard from the kitchen.

"Brooke?"

"Erin?"

"We said—"

"—we were sorry!"

We set them free ten minutes later, and the rest of the week we all had a lot of fun gadding about town and seeing the sights.  (However, I did sleep with a chair propped under my bedroom doorknob until the twins went back to school.) 

Aunt Carol is a frequent visitor to the loft, staying as our guest when she has business in town.  The twins are sophomores going on juniors, and are still Art History majors.  (Aunt Carol helped them get intern jobs during their last summer vacation at a gallery in another city.)

Under Carol's expert tutelage Erin and I have continued to cultivate our interests in recreational bondage (in a casual, non-obsessive sort of way).  We take turns tying each other up about once a week, and have a friendly competition going to see who can be the most original and creative.  Our rules are simple: the "bindee" is always in charge (role-playing aside), no long term contortion is allowed (nice tight hogties are OK, but not for the whole damn night!), and no air-tight gags unless the "villain" is physically present in the room.  We also always use a safety, even when the "villain" is totally free.  (What if I "gwendolinized" Erin, locked her in the vault, went down to the corner for some frozen yogurt, and was splattered by a runaway truck?  How could I live with myself?)  We always let a friend know whenever we are playing around, and give them a deadline by which we must have called back with the "all clear."   How do you call a friend and tell them you're tying up your roommate and would they please come to the rescue if you happen to get struck by lightning?  You have to have the right friend.

Speaking of friends, to our amazement and delight we found we had a couple from work and the health club who share our interests.  Together we've formed a local chapter of the "Damsels in Distress Society," or "DiDS."  Our current membership includes Erin (our Chapter-President), myself (Secretary), Katie (Vice President), and Robin (Treasurer).  (Nikki and Vikki are honorary DiDS members until they graduate from school and can start paying dues and Carol is the "DiDS Grand Imperial Den Mother.")

Katie works at the same design house as Erin.  She used to be a model, but switched to the management side of the business about three years back.  Katie has an astonishing exotic beauty.  Her heritage is about two parts African and one part European (with a little Cherokee thrown in for good measure).  She has coffee (with a dash of cream) brown skin, fine, curly hair cut shoulder length, high cheek bones, remarkable sloe-eyes, distinctive arching eyebrows, and full lips that always seem to be smiling.  Her figure is slender, but her breasts are larger than those of the average runway model.  (For that reason she did mainly catalog work when she was a professional manikin.)

Erin and Katie are the actual Founding Members of DiDS.  At lunch one day (after some unusually frank and personal "girl-talk" over an unusual second glasses of white wine) they discovered their mutual "terrible secret" and formed the club on the spot.  I was recruited as the third member of DiDS that night.  (Erin invited Katie over for supper and the two of them overpowered me, tied me up with about a mile of rope, gagged me with a rubber ball and some "sports wrap," and proceeded to ignore my feeble attempts to participate while they hammered out the DiDS by-laws.)

Robin is my editor's favorite research assistant.  She has long, straight, dark brown hair with a fringe of bangs nearly covering her forehead, the most amazing ice-blue eyes, and the kind of clear fair skin that never seems to tan no matter how much time she spends in the sun.  Robin's breasts are the largest and fullest in our group, and they go well with her incredible white shoulders, smooth athletic arms and legs, and hourglass waist.  I recruited Robin into DiDS from the steam room of the health club.  (You'd be amazed the sort of stuff that gets talked about in that place.)  At her first DiDS meeting she was initially shy, but really got into the swing of things when Erin and Katie let her tie them back-to-back.  (We left them like that while Robin and I went to a movie.)

Our most recent DiDS adventure was what we called the "Handcuff Lottery."  The whole thing was my idea, and I'm really proud of it.  Here's how it worked.

The four of us each put up enough money to buy a really good (and expensive) ticket to a show we all wanted to see, and to pay for a gourmet dinner in a fancy restaurant afterwards.  We then bought three theater tickets and made reservations for three at the restaurant for the night of the show.  The extra money in the pot meant we could afford box-seats and would be able to order the most expensive items on the menu.  So which of us would be the altruist?  Who would be paying—but not going?

To answer this question we bought four new pairs of handcuffs, the "normal" kind joined by links, not hinges.  We made sure all four opened with the same kind of key.  We also bought four small gift boxes and four key chains.  Three of the keychains had the logo of the show for which we had bought the tickets and the fourth was a cute little miniature pair of handcuffs.  Into three of the boxes we put a handcuff key attached to a logo key chain and into the fourth we put a tiny bell attached to the handcuffs key chain.  The boxes all had cotton packing, so nothing rattled, the bell didn't tinkle, and without an x-ray machine or the services of a psychic you couldn't tell which box held a key and which box held the bell.  We then wrapped each box two times in identical foil gift wrap, each time scrambling the order of the boxes and having a different person do the wrapping.

We made it as random and cheat-proof as possible, and by the time we were finished none of us had the slightest inkling as to which box held what.

The four boxes were then placed in a large envelope, the envelope was sealed, we each signed our names overlapping the edge of the flap and body of the envelope, and the sealed and signed area was covered with clear tape.  Finally, the envelope and the four pairs of handcuffs were locked inside a metal strongbox (Katie was given custody of the strongbox keys,) the strongbox was locked inside the center cage of the vault, with an added chain and padlock securing the cage door (Robin was given custody of the padlock keys,) and the vault itself was locked.  (Of course Erin and I kept the vault keys.)  No one would be tampering with anything until the night of the lottery.  (All these precautions were totally unnecessary—but they certainly added to the drama.)

The day of the big show, we all prepared for a night out on the town.  We each had our hair done, and we had already purchased flashy new outfits especially for the occasion.  Hours in advance of showtime we rendezvoused at the loft with our new evening wear in garment bags.  Next we stripped to our birthday suits and giggling like idiots made our way to the vault.  The vault, cage, and strongbox were each unlocked in turn, the envelope was solemnly inspected for tampering (it passed scrutiny,) and the handcuffs and giftboxes were distributed.  We each withdrew to a different corner of the cage, and set our giftboxes on the floor at our feet.  We then reached behind our backs, and snapped the cuffs around our wrists.  At the count of three we stooped down, picked up our giftboxes, clumsily unwrapped them, and groped inside for the contents.

Three of us found handcuff keys, rejoiced in their good fortune, unlocked their cuffs, and turned to gloat over the fourth.

One of us was dismayed to find not her key to freedom and a fabulous show to be followed by an equally fabulous meal, but a small bell which rang with a mocking jingle.  She cursed her bad luck, affably cursed her friends—and tried to keep a stiff upper lip when her companions descended on her and gleefully prepared her for a very different evening from the one she had been looking forward to just seconds before.

How was she prepared?  First each of her companion's handcuffs were added to the pair she already wore, leaving her wrists encircled in a thick, heavy ribbon of tempered steel bands, like some form of exotic slave jewelry.  Next, a long rope was draped around the nape of her neck to hang on either side of her breasts in front, the ends were passed to the back under each armpit, crossed at the small of her back, pulled to the front on either side across her hips, passed between her legs, over and through the cuffs joining her wrists, around each upper thigh and back to the front.  All parts of the rope were pulled taut, all slack was removed, (remember, there were three pair of hands doing all this), and a square knot was tied over her lower tummy.  The two free ends from the knot were pulled to either side between body and arms and back behind her back, where another knot was tied.  This time one free end was pulled up and through where the rope was crossed at the small of her back, was pulled taut, and was tied off in a flurry of hitches.  The remaining free end was passed down over the handcuffs, directly through her crotch, and was loosely tied to the square knotted rope in front.  Silver duct tape was wrapped around her torso above and below her breasts and around her waist, securing her arms to her sides, and her legs were taped and joined above the knees, below the knees, across the shins and calves, and around her ankles.

Three giggling friends lifted her up to stand on the strongbox in the center of the cage.  Her big toes were bound together with with a piece of thin cord, then two ropes were pulled under the rope at the nape of her neck and stretched to the upper bars at the four corners of the cage.  These ropes were pulled taut and tied off, the strongbox was pulled from under her feet, and she found herself standing fixed in one spot, at the exact center of a giant "X."  Her feet were flat on the floor, but she was unable to move or even lean in any direction.  Similar ropes were added at her upper torso, waist, knees, and ankles, until she found herself caught in a veritable web of rope.  When additional rope was hitched and tightened around and between the various parts of the web, everything became very rigid and taut indeed.  She found she could toss her head, make a few pathetic wiggling motions, and do little else.  She was nearly as rigidly immobile as if she had been bound to a post.  She was gagged with a cunning harness that held a thick rubber bit between her teeth, and kept it there with leather straps that buckled at the nape of her neck and under her chin.  Other straps stretched across the bridge of her nose, over the top of her head, and around her forehead.  The bit was hard and tasted terrible, but she could easily breath through her mouth if need be.

But if air could pass, so could saliva, and she knew that eventually lines of drool would be dripping down her chin and onto her breasts.  Metal rings were solidly sewn into the gag harness at strategic locations, and more of the thin cord that had been used to bind her toes was tied through these rings and into the rope web holding her upright.  Now even head movement was impossible.

Finally, her crotch rope was loosened, the "butterfly" vibrator was positioned over one of her favorite body regions, and the rope was tightly retied.  Strategically placed windings of duct tape were then added around her hips and buttocks to make doubly sure the vibrator wouldn't be going anywhere.  (Some time ago Erin had rewired the vibrator so that it ran off an AC adapter rather than batteries, and using her technical expertise and some odds and ends from her electronics junk drawer she had wired in a rheostat so it could be set to vibrate over a wide range of intensities.  Currently set at its lowest level, it was quivering well below original design specs.  No longer a merrily buzzing prelude to orgasm, but was now the proverbial itch that couldn't be scratched.  It felt good, but it was not enough—not nearly enough.

Her companions kissed several of her available body parts, clucked and cooed in mock sympathy, and made their departures.  The cage door was locked, the lights turned out, and the vault door closed with a loud clang.  Immediately before leaving for their fabulous evening, they would return to the vault to stage an impromptu fashion show for a captive audience of one (how could they resist showing off their new finery?), but for now the unlucky one was left to a foretaste of the long, dark night ahead.

And exactly who was it that was left tied upright in that web of taut ropes? Who was left to feebly struggle in total darkness, gagged and immobile? Who was left to endure hour after hour of tickling, teasing, quivering, vibration—always on the edge, but never to know release?

Was it Erin, my gorgeous, freckled, flame-haired roommate?

Was it Katie, the exotic African princess with the slender neck, pouting lips, and skin like brown satin?

Was it Robin, with her Snow White complexion, cornflower eyes, and full, firm breasts?

Was it Brooke (your obedient author), the charming, ravishingly cute (and modest) munchkin with the killer dimples, quirky smile, and tom-boy hair?

It was———BEEP! Sorry! DiDS by-law number seven prevents me from divulging that information. (It's a club secret.)

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Chapter 5

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