by Van © 2018
		Chapter 1

Okay, okay, enough is enough already!  I've had it up to here with people badgering me to tell this story.  Up to here, I tell you!  So... I'll do it, and without editing out any of the juicy bits.  Since it'll be from my point of view I'll use my real name—meaning the name I use for my semi-popular blog and published works (both of them)—but I'm using pseudonyms for the other players (for reasons which will soon become apparent).

So, here we go.

My name is Molly Schmeck, and I'm a recovering nerd and nebbish.  At least, that's how the "Mean Girls" categorized me in high school.  I was a bit of a late bloomer, but by the time I matriculated at Lewis & Clark University I was a ravishing beauty (in a nerdy, nebbishy sort of way).  And I'm being completely objective, of course—not conceited.

I have straight, fine, blondish hair, which I keep short and neatly trimmed.  It oscillates between a pixie and a pageboy, depending on my mood on the day I get my hair cut.  I like it that way.  Low maintenance.  And by "blondish" I mean a very, very light brown or a dark blond, what uncultured people call "dishwater blond."  (I hate that term.) 

Anyway...

I keep myself fit, and I always have.  I was on the track team in high school (not that the Mean Girls gave me any credit for it, of course) and while my best times weren't exactly competitive, I learned to appreciate exercise and have kept at it ever since.  I run at least three times a week, usually four, and do my daily pushups, sit-ups, leg-lifts, and squats.  And while we're on the topic of physicality, my boobs blossomed into spectacular modesty my senior year in high school.  Seriously, my boobs are undeniably... uh... there.  Also, my waist is thin, my tummy flat, and my body-fat index solidly okay.  And I'm not "skinny as a rail" or "gawky."  Not any more, anyway... much.

Also, I wear eyeglasses (which didn't help with the "Nerd!" branding issue).  They're mostly a fashion statement and I don't really need them (except for reading and seeing stuff).

Anyway, I have even features, a dimpled smile, and have been called very cute, even adorable, and on more than one occasion.  I've learned to live with it.

As you know, I write and blog, and after graduation from L&C I've been living off a modest legacy from my deceased grandmother.  I miss you Me-Me!  I also earn money from the occasional freelance writing assignment and bask in the lucrative (meaning paltry) royalties from my first and second novels.  I live in Me-Me's old bungalow.  It's small but comfortable, and the roof won't need replacement for at least ten years, maybe longer!  I have issues with the squirrels that raid the birdfeeder in my backyard, but who doesn't?

As is normal for a writer, I'm curious—meaning nosy—meaning don't know when to mind my own business.  Which brings us to "Winifred Wilde" and how this whole mishigas got started.

Winnie lives across the street, and her place is really nice.  It's a single story Modern structure with a flat roof and redwood siding, nestled in the shade of a grove of cedars and surrounded by rhododendrons.  The really cool features are in the back, namely, a big lawn, more trees, a water feature, a comfortable deck (with a gas barbecue) and an array of feeders with an endless seed and nut smorgasbord for the local birds (and those pesky squirrel)—but I wouldn't learn about her backyard 'til later.

Winnie, herself, I knew.  She's a redhead with freckles and ginger curls, as opposed to a redhead with straight red hair and clear skin, and is short (5' 2").  Also, she's hot, by which I mean she has a shapely figure with more-than-modest-but-not-huge boobs, and killer good looks with striking blue eyes, high cheek-bones, and a friendly smile.  She's British, and has the accent to prove it.  At first I assumed teenage Winnie had had no Mean Girls problems, but I've recently learned that gingers are discriminated against in the UK.  Why, I don't really know and certainly don't understand.  I'll have to ask her about it sometime.

Anyway, ever since I moved into Me-Me's bungalow I'd seen Winnie out and about—gardening, getting her mail, running, etc.—and while we were on a semi-first name basis, we'd never really talked.  And then... I got curious.  You see, I started noticing people, female people, coming and going to and from Winnie's place during the day.  They'd park their luxury sedans or SUVs in her driveway, Winnie would meet them at the door, and then... the visitors would all leave in a couple of hours.

Not that I was peering through my front blinds and snooping on her all the time, of course.

So...  what were they doing in there?  Was Winnie running some sort of business out of her home?  There was nothing overtly sinister about any of the comings and goings, as far as I could tell, but that was the problem, I couldn't tell much of anything.

Finally, by chance, one day we both emerged from our respective abodes attired for jogging.  I took advantage of the coincidence (and it was a coincidence) to offer to accompany Winnie on her run.  I'd finally have a chance to pump her for information (in a neighborly sort of way, of course).  Don't get me wrong.  I wasn't channeling Nancy Drew.  I was curious, and I didn't really try and hide it.  Winnie answered my questions, mostly, but I could tell she was being a little cagey.  She didn't try and hide that, either.  In retrospect, I suspect she was actually stoking my curiosity.

"So... what do you do?" I inquired.

"I'm a lifestyle consultant," she explained (sort of).  "I conduct meditation sessions,"

"Huh?"  (I realized I was doing my deer-in-the-headlights thing and stopped blinking.)  What kind of meditation?  Yoga?"

Winnie smiled.  "Not exactly.  I'll have to show you."

"Okay," I agreed.

Winnie invited me to audit a "session" that was scheduled for the very next day.  So, my cunning trap was set.  I was finally going to get the lowdown on Winifred Wilde!  I love it when a plan comes together!

Winnie had told me to wear something comfortable.  I took that to mean I should be yoga-ready, so the next day I rang her front doorbell at the agreed upon time wearing white sneakers, black stretch pants, and a dusky rose t-shirt over a white sports bra.  I noticed a nice Subaru SUV of some sort (I don't know cars) parked in Winnie's driveway, but it (and its driver) had arrived while I was getting dressed.

Winnie opened her door and smiled.  She was dressed in burnt-olive yoga pants, a moss-green tank-top, and no bra.  (Pokies!)  Her red (ginger) curls were pulled back in a ponytail secured with a black scrunchie, her feet were bare, and she was beaming a welcoming smile.

"Molly," she sighed as she gave me a welcoming kiss on the cheek.  "You look gorgeous."

"Thanks," I responded (blushed).  Gorgeous?  Who, me?  Winnie was the gorgeous one.  Seriously.

Winnie took my hand and led me from the entryway, through her living room, and past a lounge area with a window-wall overlooking her backyard.  This was my first chance to appreciate her Secret Garden, with its cedars, rhodies, flowerbeds, and rocky water-feature.

Oh by the way, as a decorator Winnie has very good taste.  I noted a lot of mix-and-match knickknacks and wall hangings that might have been either the best-of-the-best from Pier 1 Imports® or World Market® or the result of shopping at exotic bazaars around the world.  As for the backyard, it was naturalistic and very nice.  In any case, strolling around and appreciating Winnie's abode would have to wait, and I didn't know it at the time, but I'd soon have much more of an opportunity to gaze at her backyard.

We approached a shoji screen panel that I quickly realized it was a glass door designed to look like a shoji panel.  Winnie slid the door open and I beheld a large room carpeted with yoga-matting and paneled with blonde oak.  One entire wall was glass, with a gorgeous view of Winnie's gorgeous garden.

A woman was waiting, obviously the driver of the Subaru.  She was smiling, was possibly a few years older than myself, and had pretty blue eyes.  Her hair was brown and cut in what might be described a long pixie or a short, tapered crop.  It suited her well, and speaking of suits, she was wearing a long-sleeve, black, turtleneck sweater, gray slacks, and high-heel pumps.  She looked ready for lunch at a bistro downtown, not a "meditation session" or anything vaguely resembling yoga.

By the way, the smiling brunette was gorgeous, unless she turned out to be a Mean Girl (which I doubted).  I liked her already.  Also... didn't I already know her from someplace?

"Molly Schmeck," Winnie said, "allow me to introduce Micki Booker."

Micki stepped forward and shook my hand.  "You're the one that will be auditing my session?" Micki inquired.  "An unexpected pleasure."

Huh?  And then it hit me.  "The library!"

"The library," Micki confirmed.

I'd finally recognized Micki as one of the nice ladies at the county library.  She was a librarian.  Books are like catnip to me, so a large building full of the things with the added bonus of people actually paid to help you appreciate them?  Honey to my bee!  Of course I knew the county library, and of course I recognized Micki... eventually.  In my defense, the context was different and Micki and I had only spoken a few words a few times, usually weeks apart.  I knew Micki, but I didn't know her.  That was about to change.

I looked from Micki to Winnie and back.  "So... meditation?"

"I specialize in Restrained Meditation," Winnie explained.

I admit it.  At this point I started blinking again.  Deer-in-the-headlights.  "Huh?"

"Restrained Meditation is just what it says," Winnie explained (sort of) with a grin.

"Meditation while restrained," Micki added.  "It's easier that way."

I was still confused (and my heart rate was elevated for some inexplicable reason).  "Huh?"

"Freeing the mind from the body is somewhat easier if one surrenders control of said body," Winnie elaborated.  She leaned forward and planted a chaste kiss on my forehead.  "And please, don't say 'huh' again."

I was still doing my dazzled deer routine.  "Okay.  What?"

Winnie and Miki grinned, then Winnie turned, strolled to the corner, opened a panel to reveal a small closet, and returned with a straight-chair.  It was steel, with a padded seat and padded armrests, all in black, and it appeared to be quite sturdy.  Resting on the seat of the chair was a wicker basket about the size of a small trashcan.  Winnie placed the chair behind me, then transferred the basket to the floor.

"Now," Winnie said as she helped me settle into the chair.  (Actually, she sort of gave me a gentle shove, but I cooperated.)  "Micki has agreed to let you observe her session, but I have strict rules for this sort of thing."

"Rules?"

"Have you ever been tied up?" Winnie asked.

Several blinks later I answered (after a fashion).  "H-high school.  B-babysitter.  Neighbor kids.  Cowboys and Indians."

"Were you the schoolmarm or the Indian princess?" Micki purred.

"Schoolmarm, of course," I answered.  With my complexion, not even ten year old boys could pretend paleface Molly was an Indian princess.

"And you didn't freak out?" Winnie inquired.

"Huh?  I mean, no.  It was... play, and they let me go before their parents came home.  Otherwise, I would've gotten fired and we wouldn't have been able to play again."

"That makes sense," Micki chuckled.

"But seriously," Winnie continued, "during Micki's session, I must be the only voice and presence capable of, shall we say, intervention?"

"And so you want to tie me up?"

Winnie smiled and nodded.

Okay.  Full stop.

Question: What kind of normal, talented, arguably attractive, and charming young woman allows herself to be tied up just so she can watch a Restrained Meditation session?

Answer: The curious kind. Curiosity killed the cat, and curiosity got Molly Schmeck tied to a chair in Winnie Wilde's parlor, or yoga studio, or meditation room, or wherever the hell she called the place.

I was in no danger.  Danger wasn't even an issue.  Winnie was nice.  I knew that already, even though I hardly knew her at all.  And as for Micki, she was a librarian.  There's no such thing as an evil librarian.  That would be a nonsequitur, an impossible juxtaposition, like "sycophantic cat" or "cuddly badger."

And so, I let it happen.

We now return to our regularly scheduled narrative.

Seated nervously in the chair—(No, ya think??)—I watched Winnie reach into the basket and produce four rolled bandages.  They were about three inches wide, examples of those elastic bandages they use to wrap sprained joints.  In my experience, most such things are usually "flesh" colored, but these were black.  They closed with a very generous strip of hook-and-pile Velcro, and I continued watching as Winnie placed three of the rolls in my lap, then ripped the closure free from the fourth.  She let it fall open, placed my right arm on the armrest, and proceeded to wrap my wrist in place, stretching the bandage as she applied layer after stretched layer.  She then sealed the Velcro, making sure it had a firm grip along its entire length, which was eight to ten inches!

I twisted the wrist in question, testing the bandage... and the bondage.  It was tight, but not too tight.  Also, I wasn't going anywhere.

Winnie used another black bandage to bind my left wrist to the left armrest.  Now I really wasn't going anywhere.  Next, she used the remaining two bandages to bind my left and right ankles to the outside edges of their respective front chair legs.  I tested all four attachment points, twisting and tugging on my wrists and ankles.  Satisfied that I was helpless, I lifted my chin and locked eyes, first with Winnie—pause—and then with Micki.  Both were smiling, but there was nothing sinister about their curled lips, dimpled cheeks, and sparkling eyes.  Nothing.  I don't know why you even brought it up.

"Are you satisfied?" Winnie asked Micki.

"I am," Micki nodded.

"Then we can proceed," Winnie continued.

I tugged on my wrists, again, and watched Micki stroll to the far wall and open yet another flush-mounted, handleless door, revealing a locker with three or four hangers hanging from a horizontal clothing rail.  Obviously, Micki knew her way around Winnie's place.  She then pulled her turtleneck over her head and hung it on a hanger in the locker, stepped out of her heels, and placed them on the locker floor.  Finally, she unzipped and removed her slacks, hung them up, then removed her bra and panties and hung them up as well. 

To summarize, Micki was now naked.  She ran her fingers through her cropped hair, stretched, closed the locker door, then padded back to our side of the studio.  (I'll go with "studio."  Might as well.  Also, 'Meditation Parlor' sounds pretentious.)

So... naked Micki.  She was gorgeous, which I already knew about her face and figure, but she was also shapely and fit.  Very easy on the eyes (if you're into beautiful naked women).  She had a healthy tan, defined muscles (without being a musclebound gym-rat), full breasts (fuller than mine), and a triangular pubic bush that "matched the drapes," as they say.  (And whoever "they" are, they can be so crass at times.)  Anyway, I was impressed, and confused.

"I'm confused," I confessed.

"Clothing can be a distraction, a hindrance to the meditative process," Winnie purred.  She was serious.  Really.

Micki was completely at ease in her nudity, as was Winnie, her instructor or guru or whatever, so I suppose it was understandable.  But what about me?  I was blushing and nervous and trying to hide it, but my presence didn't seem to concern them.

I'm not a prude.  I'm as comfortable in a locker room full of naked ladies as the next normal, talented, arguably attractive, and charming young woman, but this was different—for me—but obviously, not for Micki or Winnie.

Meanwhile, while I stared at Micki (while pretending not to stare at Micki), Winnie padded to yet another cabinet built into the paneling, opened its double doors, and revealed coil upon coil of brown, twisted strand, smooth-looking rope hanging from pegs set in the back of the cabinet. 

"Gulp."  That was me, of course.

We watched as Winnie selected a few coils—some generous, some not so much—closed the cabinet doors, and padded back to Micki's side.

And thus began... The First Session.

That was my first time watching somebody get tied up.

Don't get me wrong.  I log my share of hours watching movies and TV, and while tying up a female (or the occasional male) character is as common a plot device as a car chase (or the Big Reveal that the boyfriend/husband in a made-for-Lifetime-channel-movie is actually a lying, cheating, murderous weasel), but you never see the actual binding process.  There might be exceptions, but I can't remember one off the top of my head.  Anyway, the bad guy grabs the damsel or points a gun in her direction, they cut to commercial, and when they come back the damsel is bound and/or gagged (usually in a rather perfunctory manner).

Anyway, I was getting my first chance to witness the full procedure of rendering a damsel truly helpless—and it was in the real world and the damsel in question was a naked Micki Booker!

Micki settled to the yoga-mat floor, flowing gracefully into a semi-lotus while Winnie knelt behind her and selected one of the longer coils of rope.  The smiling redhead released the coil's retaining hitch, shook it out, doubled it, found the center, and formed a doubled loop.  For newbies to the topic of all-things-rope (like I was at that time) this is almost always the first step.  From now on I'll just say "she prepared the rope."  Anyway...

Winnie dropped the doubled loop over Micki's smiling head and snugged it tight around her upper arms and chest, above her breasts.  The first loop was followed by a second loop, also above her breasts, leaving a total of four neatly stacked, uniformly tight strands above her breasts.  Next came two more loops, which meant four more strands, and this time below Micki's breasts. 

You might have noticed I keep mentioning Micki's breasts.  Why?  Because they're very nice breasts.  Not huge, bulging, globular boobs, but very shapely, and firm.  At least they look firm.  And not that I was staring at them and blushing or anything.  Okay, I was totally staring at them and blushing, but on with the story.

Winnie tied some sort of retaining hitch behind Micki's back, which required pulling the entire remaining doubled length of the coil through the hitch.  Did you know rope makes a really interesting slithering sound when that happens?  It does.  Next, Winnie looped the doubled rope between Micki's arms and torso, snugging the lower four strands with another hitch, looped the rope up and behind her head, back between her arm and torso on the other side, and——this isn't working.

Describing exactly what Winnie was doing, documenting exactly how she was positioning and tightening each and every doubled inch of rope is not only a pain in the butt for moi, your humble writer, but is probably a pain in the butt for you, my reader.  From now on I'll stick to simply describing the end results, unless some part of the process is critical to the narrative.  There are excellent "academic resources" available that describe and illustrate various methods of tying people up.  If you're in the mood for online scholarship, I recommend Two Knotty Boys and Crash Restraint.

Back to the action!

Winnie tied the final knot, securing that first coil of rope.  Micki's upper arms were now pinned against her torso with bands of rope above and below her breasts and yoking her shoulders, her arms were folded behind her back, and her wrists were crossed, raised a little past the horizontal, and lashed against her spine to the nexus of the other ropes.  I later learned this is called a "box-tie."  Next, Winnie used a second and third coil to execute a "frog-tie."  That is, she lashed each of Micki's folded legs to themselves.  Neat bands of multiple strands encircled her thighs and lower legs and were cinched between her calves and inner thighs.  Finally, Winnie used a fourth coil to tie Micki's crossed ankles together and loop multiple strands behind Micki's neck and back down to her ankles.  She wrapped the remaining rope around itself and tied a final knot.  Micki was now bent forward in a mild crunch, an example of what's called a "shrimp-tie."

To sum up, Micki was still sitting on the mat in a semi-lotus, but now a neat, symmetrical network of flesh-dimpling ropes made sure she stayed that way.  Got it?

I apologize.  I guess I'm channeling the heart-pounding nervousness I was feeling at the time—sitting there—bandage-bound to Winnie's chair—and watching my first "box-frog-shrimp-tie."  Okay, it was just a shrimp-tie, box-tie was the option Winnie chose to bind Micki's upper body, and the frog-tie a technically unnecessary embellishment.  It's not like I'm an expert, of course.  God knows I was a complete novice at the time.  A nervous novice.

Anyway, Micki squirmed and tested her bonds, just as I had already tested my bandage-bonds.  We both watched as Winnie gracefully flowed to her feet, strolled to yet another hidden cabinet, and returned with two black leather items, one dangling from each hand.  They were: (1) a chamois-thin blindfold with an inch-wide buckling strap and a rounded cutout for the wearer's nose; and (2) a ball-gag.  (Even nervous novice Molly could recognize a ball-gag.)  This particular gag's spherical mouth plug was black rubber and about an inch-and-a-half in diameter and its strap about an inch wide.

Still smiling, Micki opened her mouth and accepted the ball-gag's ball, holding her head steady as Winnie buckled the strap at the nape of her neck.  Winnie buckled it tight and Micki's cheeks bulged above the strap.  The gag looked very effective.  Micki continued holding her head steady as Winnie positioned the blindfold over her pretty blue eyes and buckled its strap behind her head.

Micki the naked librarian was now bound, gagged, and blindfolded!

I was... amazed.  And my heart was still pounding.  I watched as Winnie bent at the waist and for several seconds whispered in Micki's right ear.  She then smiled and strolled in my direction.  I continued watching as Winnie bent at the waist, again, reached into the wicker basket that had held my wrist and ankle bandage-bonds, and lifted out a roll of wide, milky-white medical tape and a pair of blunt-tipped bandage scissors.  Her intentions were obvious as she pulled about six inches of tape from the roll and used the scissors to snip it free.  She then returned the roll and scissors to the basket, stretched the strip by its edges between her hands, and smiled.

"Winnie!" I whined.

"Hush," Winnie purred.  "You'll disturb Micki's meditation."

"Winnie!" I whispered.

Still smiling, Winnie pressed the strip against my lips, then used her fingers to smooth it in place, making sure all the adhesive found a good grip.  She also used her finger to press the bridge of my glasses, making sure they were properly in place.

That's right, she tape-gagged me!  And I let her!  Winnie stood in front of me and my chair and smiled.  Actually, she'd never stopped smiling.  I was blinking again.  Later (much later) Winnie told me I was "absolutely adorable" (her words), squirming in the chair and tugging on my bonds, nervous but brave.

"My rules, remember?" Winnie whispered.  "I have to make sure Micki's session is undisturbed."

Uh, okay, I thought.  Like I had a choice.  I suppose I could scream through my gag and really tug on my bonds, but that would be... rude.

Winnie strolled back to Micki and whispered in her ear for several more seconds.  I watched... blinked through my glasses... and listened to my heart thump in my chest.

And then, Winnie turned and left the studio.

That's right, she left!

Needless to say, Micki and I remained behind.

It occurred to me I'd never asked Winnie how long one of her sessions usually lasted.

It turns out a typical Winnie Wilde Restrained Meditation Session lasts an hour, not counting preparation or post-session coffee and/or tea.

One hour!

I sat in Winnie's chair and watched Micki... uh... meditate.  Did I mention Micki's nice breasts?  Actually, all of her is nice, even when she's naked, bound, gagged, and blindfolded.  Go figure.  For me, it was a bit of a revelation.  Naked damsels in distress are cute... or something.  Who knew?

Micki didn't remain totally still.  That is, she wasn't frozen in place like a living statue.  She squirmed now and then, just a little.  Specifically, she rolled her rope-yoked shoulders, flexed her hands behind her back, rocked on her frog-tied legs and naked butt on the mat, and rolled her neck—just a little—now and then.  None of it was enough to make her breasts shake or wobble (much), but she did move.

I did too.  Move, that is.  I was careful not to make any noise, although I'm not sure I could have done anything Micki would have heard.  Of course, I could have hummed, moaned, or even screamed through the tape plastered to my lower face and sealing my lips, but like I said before, that would have been rude.

It was a very long hour.  I was glad Micki was blindfolded.  I could stare at her breasts (and the rest of her) as much as I wanted without embarrassment.  Micki is very beautiful.  But I already mentioned that, didn't I?

Finally...  FINALLY... Winnie returned to the studio.

She smiled in my direction, then padded to Micki, knelt behind her back, and began untying her bonds.  This took a while, and Micki sat there patiently while the coils melted away, one by one.  The blindfold and ball-gag were left for last, and finally, Micki was nude, covered with pink rope-marks, and free.  She stood, indulged in a long, full-length, boob-flattening stretch, then smiled, pulled Winnie into a quick hug, and planted a kiss on her smiling lips.

"I'll brew some tea," Micki offered, then strolled in my direction.

"There are biscuits in the tin next to the fridge," Winnie said as she started coiling the ropes.

"Okay," Micki acknowledged.  She smiled, leaned close and planted a kiss on my slightly sweaty forehead, then gave my head a gentle pat (which wasn't at all condescending and humiliating).  She then turned and padded through the studio door, still naked.  I noted that her pink rope-marks were already less prominent.

As soon as Micki's firm buttocks were no longer available for ogling—I mean as soon as Micki left—I turned back to find Winnie still coiling the scattered jumble of ropes.  This took a while, as she was quite meticulous.  I passed the time by squirming in my seat and tugging on my wrists, but Winnie didn't take the hint.  Instead, the returned the coils to their cabinet, the blindfold and ball-gag to their cabinet, and only then padded in my direction to release me.  (I learned later that Winnie thoroughly cleans and sanitizes sweaty and/or slimy things like used blindfolds and ball-gags between sessions, so don't worry about it.)

Anyway, back to the topic of Winnie releasing me... or not.  She strolled past my chair (and me) to the closet on the far side of the studio where she'd gotten my armchair, then brought over two straight chairs (similar to my chair but without armrests) and a small, circular folding table.  She arranged the chairs and table in a conversation group in my immediate vicinity, then sat in one of the chairs and crossed her legs.

With perfect timing (and very nice breasts), Micki returned to the studio carrying a tray with a complete tea service for three and a plate with a generous pile of cookies (the "biscuits" Winnie had mentioned).  She set the tray on the table, turned, and smiled at me.  "Milk and sugar?" she inquired.

"Mrrrm," I replied, and made a "V" with the index and second fingers of my right hand.

Micki added a splash of milk and two lumps to a teacup, poured in hot tea, and gave it all a stir.  Meanwhile, Winnie reached out and slowly, gently teased back a corner of my tape-gag, then peeled it from my lips and face.  Once this was accomplished, Micki placed the cup and saucer in my left hand, then released the bandage binding my right wrist.  So, while not technically free, I was able to participate in the rather weird tea party.  My ankles and left wrist were still bandage-bound to my chair and Micki was still naked.  So, like I said... weird.

The three of us sipped our tea, nibbled on cookies, smiled, and had a grand old time.  Okay, I was flustered and trying my best to have a grand old time.  They were hazing me and I knew it.  But was all in good fun.  I knew that too.

"So, what do you think of Restrained Meditation?" Winnie innocently inquired.  She was addressing me, of course.

I blushed, then composed an answer in the several seconds it took me to take a slow sip of my tea (which was excellent, by the way).  "Uh," I answered sagely, "it's interesting."

Winnie and Micki chuckled.  We continued chatting, nibbling, and sipping for some time.  I won't bore you with the details as they had little to do with the plot of this story, other than to further establish that Winnie and Micki are nice people—intelligent, witty, and friendly—but mainly because I don't actually remember much of what any of us said.  I was still in a tizzy, or maybe a tizzy-like state.  Anyway, I don't remember.

Eventually, the teapot was empty, the plate of cookies half-empty, and Micki was getting dressed.  Winnie reminded Micki that her next scheduled session was in nine days.  Micki advised me that the library had just received a large shipment of new mystery novels, they were still being catalogued, and I should drop by right away if I didn't want to find myself way down on the reservation lists.  I sat in my chair, blinked, tugged on my still bandage-bound left wrist, and made agreeable noises.  Finally, Micki was fully dressed.  She gave me a farewell kiss on my still slightly sweaty forehead, then made her exit.  Winnie went along to escort her to the front door.

Alone at last!  My chance to escape this den of tea, cookies, and naked bondage!  I ripped open the Velcro closure of my left wrist bandage, extricated my wrist, then freed my ankles.  And then... I began the process of neatly rolling the bandages, my former bonds, restoring them to their original condition so I could return them to Winnie's wicker basket.  It was the polite thing to do, right?  Anyway, this meant I was still sitting in the armchair with two and a half bandages to go when Winnie returned.

"You don't have to do that," Winnie chuckled as she padded in my direction.

"I-I don't mind," I said (meaning whined).  I was still nervous.  I finished rolling bandage number two, then did number three while Winnie deftly rolled bandage number four.

Then, Winnie helped me stand, took my hand, and led me to her front door.

"I know you need time to process what you've seen," she said as we walked, "so I'll let you do that.  We'll talk before you witness your second session."

"Okay," I said, then accepted and returned a farewell kiss on Winnie's front porch (meaning her lips).  "Thank you.  Bye."

"Good bye, Molly," Winnie purred, then eased her front door closed.

I was halfway across the street before it hit me.

My second session?