by Van © 2018
		Chapter 3

I don't know how long we were in the sauna.  We chatted about various innocuous topics that had nothing to do with either Restrained Meditation or preventing squirrels from emptying birdfeeders—actually, Winnie and Fern did most of the chatting—but finally we were all grossly overheated, dripping with sweat, and had had enough dry heat.  I noted that Fern's rope-marks had faded to nothing, and those parts of my pale anatomy that I could see (once we showered and I put my glasses back on) had also recovered from Winnie's ropes.

Anyhoo... wrapped in towels, including our hair, we padded to Winnie's kitchen, our hostess opened a bottle of wine, and Fern and I watched as Winnie cooked a rice dish of some sort.  I think it was paella, or some variety thereof, but I know authentic Spanish paella takes hours to prepare.  Whatever Winnie was cooking came together very quickly.  It had sausage, shrimp, ham, mushrooms, the usual vegetables, and I could definitely smell saffron, so let's call it "pronto paella."

You may be wondering why we didn't get dressed.  I certainly was.  Technically, Winnie did get dressed, in that she removed her towel-wrap and immediately replaced it with a hunter-green cook's apron with spaghetti-thin straps.  The color went well with her freckles and red hair, which she pulled back into a scrunchy-enforced, riotous ponytail of curls.

As for Fern, she actually undressed.  She removed her towel-wrap and sat on a stool sipping wine and watching Winnie cook, naked!  She also found a hairbrush someplace (she really does know her way around Winnie's place) and ran it through her now more-or-less-dry long, straight, raven-black hair.

I sat there with my towel tightly wrapped around my otherwise naked body, sipped my wine, and spoke when spoken to.  I wasn't unfriendly.  I smiled and laughed at the occasional witty remark or wry observation, but was more-or-less a wallflower.  At one point Fern handed me the brush and I restored my pageboy-like coif to its usual charming normalcy.

The pronto paella was delicious, as was the mixed salad Winnie whipped up to accompany it, as was the second bottle of wine she opened at some point.  I made a mental note to bring a bottle with me the next time I observed a session.

And there it was.  Winnie never actually gave me a formal invitation to observe a Third Session, not that night, but I was hooked.  I wanted to see more.

The meal consumed, we helped Winnie clean her kitchen, then Fern and I returned to the studio and finally got dressed.  The three of us exchanged hugs and kisses at the front door, then Fern drove away (I didn't look twice at her car) and I crossed the street and let myself into the bungalow.

I confess I was a little tipsy.  I'm not a big wine drinker.  Likewise beer and mixed drinks.  Anyway, I got undressed, climbed into bed, and drifted off to sleep.  I was too tired to do anything else.  Naked bondage and meeting new friends takes a lot out of a girl.  Who knew?

Winnie and I decided to sync our running schedules, so three times during the next week we jogged together.  She still hadn't said anything about a Third Session, so finally, midway through our third run, I did.  Actually, I was cunning and clever, after a fashion.  I inquired (casually, very casually) if she thought there was anything more I needed to see to fully understand her Restrained Meditation business.  Actually, strike the cunning, clever, and casual bit.  I was pretty blatant, but I'd gotten tired of waiting and couldn't take it anymore, so brought it up myself.

Winnie smiled and stated that, yes, there was more for me with respect to Restrained Meditation.  She promised to consult with her clients who had sessions scheduled for the next few days and get back to me.  She did, and did.  That is, she consulted her clients and called me.  A client had agreed to let me observe.  The specified date and time fit my busy schedule, which means I made it fit my busy schedule, which brings us to...

The Third Session!
♫ DUN-DUN-DUMMM! ♫

---

At the appointed day and time I crossed the street to Winnie's house, rang the doorbell, and she let me in.  As had been the case at the start of the Second Session, the empty driveway told me Winnie's unknown client hadn't yet arrived (unless she'd walked, or taken a cab, or Uber, or had been dropped off by a friend, or... something).  Yep.  I was nervous again.  Wouldn't you be nervous?  Of course you'd be nervous.  So don't be so judgmental.  Anyway...

After the usual polite hugs and kisses Winnie accepted my gift of a reasonably priced bottle of red wine—(It had a pretty label so I assumed it was good.)—and we made small talk as Winnie led me to the Meditation Studio.  She was wearing a French-cut, jade-green t-shirt, a pair of light-gray stretch pants, and no bra.  (More pokies!)  Her ginger curls were loose about her shoulders.  I was wearing a daisy-yellow summer dress, sandals, bra, and panties, but not for long.  Without prompting I strolled to the Hidden Clothes Closet and stripped.  That is, I divested myself of my clothing.

And while I was removing and hanging up my clothes, I noticed something was different about the studio.  A triskelion hoop of gunmetal-gray steel dangled from a steel chain dangling from a steel-lined hole in the exact center of the ceiling and about six or seven feet off the floor.  The steel-lined ceiling hole had probably been there all along (meaning during sessions One and Two), but the chain and triskelion had not.  The hoop itself was about eighteen inches across and looked to be quite sturdy.

What's a triskelion, you ask?  A triskelion is a figure made of three identical curved limbs or branches arranged radially in an equilateral triangle from a common center.  And "limbs" can be quite literal.  The symbol of the Isle of Man is a triskelion of three disembodied human legs.  Why?  You'll have to ask the Manx (people from the Isle of Man).  I'm sure it made sense at the time.

Anyway, triskelions can be quite complicated, three spirals meeting in the center, three elaborate Celtic knots meeting in the center, three what-have-you's meeting in the center, but this one was rather simple: three slightly curved steel bars meeting in the center and enclosed in a circle of steel.  It dangled from the ceiling, like I said, and was something like eighteen inches across.

Okay, that's what it was.  As to why it was there, I had no idea and Winnie didn't volunteer.  I'd find out later.

At the moment I was busy watching Winnie pad to the Rope Cabinet, open the double doors, select five coils of brown rope, close the double doors, and pad in my direction.

Gulp!  Five coils?

"Uh, no chair?" I observed/inquired/squeaked.

"Not this time, Molly," Winnie purred, then dropped all the coils to the floor but one.

I watched, nervously—Gulp!—as she prepared the coil for use, spun me around, and tied my wrists behind my back.  I bit my lower lip (nervously) and shifted my gaze out the window-wall to Winnie's Secret Garden.  The Chickadee and Nuthatch Gang was in town, and the mixed flock was flitting to and from the surrounding trees and bushes and were casually, systematically looting her birdfeeder.

Cutting to the chase, I eventually found myself hogtied on the floor and bound at the wrists, ankles, just above the knees, and just above the elbows.  She'd used the fifth (and longest) coil to yoke my shoulders and armpits in a simple harness, loop the remaining rope through all my other bonds (except my knees), and enforce the actual hogtie.  Everything was well-cinched, connected, and the final knots tied between my shoulder blades.

I tugged on my bonds, twisted and squirmed, and confirmed that I was, for the third time, Winnifred Wilde's naked prisoner.  (Okay, only the second time I was naked, but it was the third time I was her prisoner.)  Then, I gulped again.  Gulp!  After watching me struggle for a few seconds, Winnie had padded to her Gag and Blindfold Cabinet, and was returning with a gag dangling from her left hand.  I didn't get a good look at the thing, but it was more than a simple ball-gag.  She settled to the floor, close to my hogtied self, dropped the gag, then gently lifted and comfortably settled my head and shoulders onto her lap.

"I know you had issues with the ventilated ball gag I used last time," she purred, combing and straightening my hair with her fingers.  "Drool issues."

"Uh huh," I answered gravely, gazing up at her smiling, freckled face.

"Well," Winnie continued, "you don't seem to have much of a gag reflex, so this time we'll use something more... drool containing."

"That's okay, Winnie," I said (my heart thumping and eyes blinking), "I don't mind if—Mrrpfh!"

Again, cutting to the chase, the gag was technically a ball-gag, but its spherical mouth-plug was a three-inch ball of medium-density latex foam.  Winnie'd given the foam a firm squeeze to compact it before cramming it into my mouth, but by the time she'd finished buckling the strap closed at the nape of my neck, the horrid thing had re-expanded and was now filling my oral cavity to capacity, more-or-less!

And that brings us to the "drool-containing" feature.  It took the form of a black rubber (or latex) form-fitting panel that cupped my chin, covered my entire lower face, and had an inch-wide band that stretched across the bridge of my nose, further anchoring the mask-like thing.  Winnie secured it with two rubber/latex straps and steel buckles, one above and the other below the ball-gag section's leather strap, and... I was gagged.

"Mrrrk!"  Boy, howdy was I gagged!

"There," Winnie grinned, then leaned close and unscrewed a small metal cap in the front panel of the drool container.  It came free and dangled from a thin, short, steel retaining-chain and I had a breathing hole.

"Mvvvrk!"  Now a little air whistled through the tube that apparently (obviously) pierced the center of the gag's mouth-plug whenever I tried to speak.  As a silencer, the contraption's effectiveness was reduced, but it was still more than adequate.  Any comments, remarks, and complaints (or screams) I cared to share would be confined to the studio, probably even if the faux shoji glass door was wide open.

"There," Winnie said as she stood and stretched, "all ready for the arrival of my client."  She glanced at her wristwatch.  "I finished a little early, but a brief interlude of wait-time is better than having to rush, don't you agree?"

I lay on my side and stared up at my hostess/captor.  Great, now she's messin' with me, like she messed with Fern during her session.  Luckily, the gag's nose band or retainer or whatever you call the thing wasn't interfering with my glasses.  In fact, it was helping them remain in place.  I stared daggers at Winnie (it seemed like the thing to do) and blinked my displeasure.

Still smiling, Winnie turned and padded to the studio door, gave me a friendly wave (with wiggling fingers), then crossed the threshold.  The door rumbled closed... and I was alone in the studio.

Naked.  Hogtied.  Gagged.

I gave my bonds a serious test, squirming, wiggling, and writhing on the padded floor.  I didn't bother testing the gag.

Naked.  Hogtied.  Gagged.  Helpless.

After careful consideration, I decided I didn't like the leather and latex face-mask-ball-gag.  It covered my mouth and hugged my lower face the way a latex swim-cap would hug my cranium.  It wasn't exactly uncomfortable, in that wearing the thing wasn't an actual ordeal, but I didn't like it.  The First Session tape-gag was easy by comparison.  As for whether the Second Session spit-dribbler would be better that the Third Session face-mask-ball-gag, the jury was still out.  So far, it was containing the saliva that was no doubt soaking into the mouth-filling foam ball, but I suspected I might start dripping spit through the breathing tube at some point in the future.

And speaking of The Third Session, after several minutes the faux shoji glass door rumbled open, Winnie returned to the studio, and she was accompanied by a truly striking twenty-something blonde.

Whoever she was, she was taller than Winnie (but then, who isn't?) and gorgeous, model gorgeous, with smooth, firm, tan skin, blue eyes, full lips, a killer bod (to coin a phrase) and dark blond hair something like my own.  She was wearing a very pale blue, really nice sundress—probably designer, probably expensive, possibly tailored—and a matching pair of high-heeled, open-toed sandals—also probably designer and expensive.

And gorgeous?  She might have been a Viking Shieldmaiden or Norse Princess in a previous life.

As she approached, strolling at Winnie's side, I noted the way she smiled down at my naked, hogtied, gagged self, and my Mean Girl radar returned a tentative ping!

That was grossly unfair to the blond stranger, of course.  I'd only just "met" her, and—

"Skinny little nerd, isn't she?" the blonde purred in a lilting, alto voice.

Ping-ping-ping!  Mean Girl!

"Libby, be nice," Winnie admonished her client.  I assumed the blonde was her client.

"But it's true," the blonde responded.  Her smile was infuriating... and gorgeous.  "And look at her pasty skin."

PING!  Mean Girl!  If this was high school she'd be Head Cheerleader and Queen of the Mean Girls.  If it was college, she'd be the snooty, condescending President of the local chapter of the Beta-Beta-Bitch sorority.

Winnie giggled, sighed, and shook her head, then leaned forward and gave my head a gentle pat.  "Don't be offended, Molly," she sighed, then indicated the bitch—I mean blonde—with a graceful flip of the wrist.  "Molly Schmeck, allow me to introduce Libby Locke, who, despite her limited people skills, is actually a very nice person."

"I am?" the blonde inquired with a dimpled smile.

"Make that nice," Winnie purred, "as opposed to very nice."

I looked from Winnie to Libby, and back.  Was that "nice" in the conventional, non Mean Girl sense, or "nice" in the way Winnie had promised to make Fern's hogtie nice?

Meanwhile, Winnie was pointing at the Hidden Clothes Closet.  "Go," she ordered.

With a truly infuriating (gorgeous) smirk, Libby strolled to the closet, opened the door, and proceeded to divest herself of her overpriced, stylish, Mean Girl habiliments.

Okay, I admit it.  I was being unfair.  I didn't really know Libby Locke, and even Mean Girls are people... allegedly.

Oh-by-the-way, fully clothed Libby was gorgeous, but naked Libby was gorgeous!  Her body—legs, butt, abdomen, boobs, arms, neck, face—were perfect.  She could have been a swimsuit model.  I later learned Libby Locke made her living as a model, but to this day I don't know if she's ever done a swimsuit spread (so to speak).  Also, another all-over tan.  Another nude sunbather.

Without further ado, Winnie padded to her Hidden Rope Cabinet, selected several coils of rope, then padded to the center of the studio, under the dangling triskelion.  Libby padded over to join her, and bondage happened.

Once again, I'll cut to the end result.

Libby's arms were now raised above her head and folded back with her crossed wrists behind her head.  Tight, neat bands of cinched rope made sure they stayed that way, binding her wrists and upper-arms, yoking her shoulders, and passing under her armpits and across her chest, and it was all part of an elaborate harness of rope that crisscrossed her entire torso.  (More about that later.)  Her left leg was folded and lashed to itself in a frog-tie, and her right leg was folded across her left thigh in a... half-semi-lotus?  Anyway, her right ankle and foot were lashed across her left upper-thigh.

Naked and helpless, Libby lay on her back on the soft mat and smiled (meaning smirked) as her ginger-haired captor padded to the wall, opened a small hidden panel—I had come to realize the walls of the Meditation Studio are riddled with hidden panels, closets, and cabinets—and pressed a button.  An unseen motor somewhere above the ceiling hummed, and the triskelion lowered on its chain to within three feet of Libby's bound body.

Winnie returned to Libby, rolled her over onto her stomach, and began threading rope through the triskelion and various parts of her bondage.  This took a while.  Winnie then gracefully stood, returned to the panel, and pressed another button.  The motor hummed and this time the chain shortened, apparently rolling onto an unseen drum, and Libby lifted into the air.  Next, Winnie returned to the center of the room and tested the tension of Libby's suspending ropes.  She made a few minor adjustments, then wrapped all the remaining rope around itself, finishing off her "art installation" with several complex, aesthetically pleasing knots.

I lay on my side and blinked in amazement... gagged amazement.

Libby was hanging from the triskelion by her wrists, right knee, left ankle, and three different places on the torso harness, finally revealing its purpose.  Her weight appeared to be evenly distributed between the various vertical or diagonal rope bundles.  As far as I could tell, Winnie had done a splendid job of engineering.  Every ounce of Mean Girl weight appeared to be evenly distributed.  As for Libby, as far as I could tell she was happy, in that she wasn't grimacing or complaining.  As her pièce de résistance, Winnie added a ball-gag (solid, no breathing holes), then bundled and bound Libby's hair and linked it to the triskelion (to support Libby's head, I suppose).  And the deed was done.

I continued blinking and staring in amazement (or something).  Of course, if Libby was a Mean Girl, she deserved such a dangling, tightly bound fate on general principles.  Still, in my novice opinion, Winnie had gone whole-hog-villainess on the gorgeous blonde.  I decided to give Libby the benefit of the doubt and reclassify her as a fellow naked, bound, and gagged captive of The Evil Winifred Wilde (who always has been and always will be a very nice person).

Apparently satisfied with her handiwork, Winnie smiled at Libby, turned her head and smiled at me, then padded to the faux shoji glass door, pulled it open, crossed the threshold, and pulled it closed behind her.  This time I was sure I heard the sound of the latch being engaged.  Click!

So... we were alone... naked, bound, gagged, etc., etc.  I stared up at Libby.  Libby stared down at me.  She may have been smiling.  Either that or her expression was the sort of grimace that usually accompanies a tightly buckled 1½-inch ball-gag.  The distance was too great for me to tell if her gorgeous blue eyes were smiling.  Nice breasts, I thought, staring at the slightly pendulous boobs in question.  Libby's nipples didn't have rings.  She did have a pierced bellybutton, however.  The post had what was probably a diamond setting.  I could see it sparkle and flash as she wiggled and squirmed.  Libby was gorgeous.  Gorgeously helpless.

Minutes passed... and it occurred to me Winnie hadn't told us how long The Third Session would last!  Libby might know, but she was in no position to tell me, nor was I in a position to ask.  So... it would last as long as it lasted.  How's that for a stunning insight?

After something like fifteen minutes, from the corner of one eye I noticed movement out in the Secret Garden.  I turned my head... and both eyes popped wide.  Winnie was padding across the grass, nude, except for a pair of sunglasses.  She had a rolled towel under her left arm and a bottle of sunscreen in her right hand.  Her red curls were coiled in a tight bun.  I watched (as did Libby) as our hostess/captor unrolled the towel and arranged it on the grass.  It had a very pretty Native American blanket pattern, predominately turquoise and with sky-blue, rust, and gold accents.  She then reached for the sky in a full-body, boob-flattening stretch, picked up the sunscreen, and began applying it to her arms, torso, neck, face, breasts, thighs, butt, legs, etc., etc.  I suppose Winnie's back might be a problem for her.  If she'd returned to the studio and untied me, I would have been more that happy to help her lubricate her spinal area from neck to butt-crack, but Winnie's strong, clever hands seemed to be managing without me.  She then reclined full-length on her the towel, face up, placed her arms at her sides, and basked.

It was now abundantly clear exactly how Winnie had come by her millions and millions of freckles... not that it was ever that much of a mystery.

So...  Winnie basked out in the garden... I wiggled and squirmed on the mat... and Libby hung out.

Gags, especially effective gags, have a way of putting the kibosh on casual conversation, but in the case of The Third Session, they were more or less superfluous.  After all, what do you say to a gorgeous, naked, rope-bound, possible (probable) Mean Girl who's dangling from the ceiling?  "Nice day for it?"  "Think it's gonna rain later?"  "How 'bout that Winnie?  It's the freckles and the ginger curls, am I right?"  Even if I wasn't hogtied on the floor and also naked, it would have been awkward.  Anything I said would have been inane and an easy opening for a biting, catty comeback.  I suppose it was just as well we were both gagged... effectively gagged.

Winnie sunworshiped for something like a half hour (fifteen on each side), then folded her towel and returned to the house.

The Chickadee and Nuthatch Gang had been visibly agitated.  First, they'd had to cool their heels in the branches while they got used to the sight of the giant, bipedal, fur-less mammal broiling in the sun near their feeder.  And after finally working up the courage to ignore Winnie's glistening, oily/sweaty presence and getting back to the serious business of emptying said feeder, had to do their panic-and-flee routine all over again when she packed up her towel and departed.  Some gorgeous, curvaceous, naked gingers have absolutely no appreciation of avian sensibilities.  The backyard twitterfeed was full of complaints.  "Chickadee-dee-dee!" [Chestnut-backed Chickadee alarm call.]  "Awnk-awnk-awnk!"  [Red-breasted Nuthatch alarm call.]  We could faintly hear the ruckus, even through the glass of the window-wall.  I could hear it, anyway.  I don't really know about Libby.

A half hour later, Winnie returned to the studio and released Libby from her Flying Pretzel Bondage.  That's what I'd decided to call it, anyway.  By the way, Libby has gorgeous armpits.  I didn't even know one could have gorgeous armpits.  It was disgusting.  And once Winnie finished untying the ropes, Libby had rope-marks.  That wasn't exactly unexpected, nor was the fact that once I was untied I also had them.

The remedy was the same as before: Winnie's sauna.  That was where I learned that Libby was a professional model, and it turned out that if she was a Mean Girl, she was a recovering Mean Girl.  Winnie was right.  Libby was nice, once you penetrated her gorgeous façade (so to speak) and got to know her.  I realized my Mean Girl radar might need calibration.  After all, if I'd been told I was gorgeous all my life (and I actually was gorgeous), I might have become a member of the Mean Girl clique and spent my formative years tormenting the local nerds.

Anyway, Libby left immediately after the sauna and once again Winnie insisted I stay for dinner.  After gorgeous and nice Libby departed, I helped Winnie cook the marinated and dismembered parts of a chicken on her backyard grill.  There was a delicious potato salad to go with the bird, and we ate out on her back deck (much to the mild annoyance of the Chickadee and Nuthatch Gang, a Steller's Jay, and a few Dark-eyed Juncos) and I had a really good time.  Winnie was quickly becoming (had already become) a good friend.  I invited her to my backyard next weekend for burgers and hotdogs (or maybe brats), and she accepted.

Oddly (I suppose) we didn't discuss The Third Session, the possibility of a Fourth Session, or Restrained Meditation in general.

And speaking of meditation... we didn't... or hadn't... meaning Libby and myself, while back in the studio.

Much later, upon reflection, I realized that Libby hadn't seemed to do much of anything in the way of meditation.  She hadn't closed her eyes and hovered serenely in Winnie's ropes, like one might expect.  In fact, she'd spent the entire hour systematically exploring her bondage, twisting and tugging and by all appearances actually trying to free herself.  That's what it had looked like to me, anyway.  Micki had meditated during The First Session (I think), but now that I think about it, Fern had also wiggled and squirmed during most of The Second Session, like Libby.

Could it be that Fern and Libby had been in it for the Restrained part of the exercise, as opposed to Meditation?  But that was just... silly... wasn't it?  I decided I'd have to think about it some more.

Anyway, the sun set (not unexpectedly), I browsed and blogged a little, watched an episode of the new show Instinct on CBS (off my DVR, actually), then hit the sack (resolving not to dwell on the memory of naked Libby hanging in her bonds, or naked Winnie basking in her backyard, of sweaty/naked Libby and Winnie in the sauna).  That was my cunning plan, anyway.

I used the Little Girls' Room, changed into a variant of my usual pajamas (panties and a powder-blue, long-sleeve, button-up-the-front sleep-shirt with a Peter Pan collar), had removed and placed my glasses on the nightstand, and was about to crawl between the sheets—when my front doorbell chimed.

"Bing-bong!"

At this hour?  I put my glasses back on, donned a seersucker cotton robe (thin blue and white vertical pinstripes), stepped into a pair of pink fuzzy slippers, and flip-flopped to the bungalow's front hall.  I peered through the peephole in the door and beheld—Fern Wu and Libby Locke?  What the hell?  Both were smiling.  I turned the deadbolt lock and opened the door.

"Molly!  Hi!" Fern gushed, then leaned close and kissed my dazed lips.  (The rest of me was also dazed.)

"Hi!" Libby added, then both of them sort of... let themselves in.  That is, Fern eased past me as Libby also gave me a welcoming kiss, this time a peck on the cheek, and also eased past me on the other side.

"Uh," I said profoundly.  I managed not to blink in confusion, almost.  "Why are you—?"

"We're here to invite you to a party," Fern explained.

"A sleepover at my place," Libby added.

"It's come-as-you-are," Fern continued, then looked me up and down with a critical smile.  "However, you should lose the robe."

"And the slippers," Libby agreed.

"Wait, wait, what?"  Now I was definitely blinking.

"It's a sleepover and an initiation," Fern elaborated.

"But... initiation?"  Needless to say, I wasn't up to speed.  Apparently, I was receiving an impromptu invitation to a party of some sort.  "Mrrmpfh!"  Also, I was being kidnapped!

Libby had her right hand over my mouth and her left arm was pinning my elbows together behind my back!  Meanwhile, Fern had pulled a black ball-gag from the side-pocket of the messenger bag slung over her shoulder!  She popped the ball into my outraged mouth and buckled the strap at the nape of my neck.

Oh-by-the-way, both of my guests/kidnappers were dressed in sneakers, black jeans, and black hoodies.  Their ensembles were very... kidnappy.  I don't know why I hadn't noticed it before.

Anyway, we were in my front hallway, Fern had already closed the front door (so there were no witnesses from the street) and now they tugged my robe off my shoulders, stripped it from my sleep-shirt-clad body, pulled coils of thin black cord from Fern's bag, and lashed my wrists together behind my back and my elbows a couple of inches apart, also behind my back (obviously).  I was now gagged and helpless, and they set about making me even more helpless.

I fought like an enraged tigress, of course, but it didn't do any good.  Apparently, as far as Libby and Fern were concerned, and for all practical purposes, I was a cranky kitten.  For some time I'd been meaning to take a self-defense class but never got around to it.  Anyway, my resistance was futile.

Oh-by-the-way, during the process I was also divested of my slippers and the top three buttons of my sleep-shirt had come undone (with help from Fern).

So, when the proverbial dust settled, I was ball-gagged, bound at the wrists and elbows, and a harness of cord pinned my upper arms against my torso, passing above and below my breasts, and yoking my shoulders.  Also, a cord encircled my waist and forearms, was cinched between my waist and forearms, then passed between my legs and pressed my bound wrists against my butt!

This was my first experience with what I later learned is properly called a "crotch-rope."  It wasn't tight enough to be intrusive, but it was certainly... impolite.

So, there I was, in my own entryway, gagged, bound, helpless, barelegged, and barefooted.  "Mrrrmpfh!"  What else could I say?  I watched as my obviously well-trained and rehearsed kidnapping team found my keys (cunningly hidden in a heavy, decorative glass dish on the entryway side-table next to my purse), led me out onto the porch, pulled the door closed, fumbled with my keys, and locked the deadbolt.  They then led (dragged) me down my front walk to a black SUV waiting at the curb.

The sun had long since set.  The streetlights were on, but the street was otherwise dark.  Also, it was late enough that any of my neighbors who might have felt inclined to take an after-dinner walk had long since returned home and were probably in bed.  In short, there were no witnesses to my abduction.

I was hustled into the SUV's back seat, Libby climbed in beside me, secured my lap-belt, then settled in next to me and secured her own.  Meanwhile, Fern climbed behind the wheel, secured her lap-belt, started the engine, and we were off.

My heart was hammering and I was squirming in my seat.  My bare feet and legs were cold.

Apparently, Libby noticed.  She smiled, reached out and rested her left hand on my right thigh.  "It isn't far," she purred, then focused on Fern.  "Turn up the heat, would you?"

"Sure thing," Fern answered, then fiddled with the dashboard controls until air started blowing through the vents.

I continued squirming, ignored Libby's warm hand (which was still resting on my thigh), and stared out the window.

I'd been kidnapped!

I was bound and gagged, skimpily dressed (and showing cord-framed cleavage), and was being spirited away into the dark night by a Mean Girl and a Trickster!

Go figure!

Wow!