|by Van © 2018
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
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
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!
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
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
"Well," Winnie continued, "you don't seem to have much of a gag
reflex, so this time we'll use something more... drool
"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
"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
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
Naked. Hogtied. Gagged.
I gave my bonds a serious test, squirming, wiggling, and
writhing on the padded floor. I didn't bother testing the
Naked. Hogtied. Gagged. Helpless.
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
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
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 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,
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...
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
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
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
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
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.
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
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
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,
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.
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
"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
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
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
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 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
"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!