by Van © 2018
		Chapter 6

By the time I got to the kitchen, Winnie had just finished filling my teakettle at the sink and was putting it on the stove.  I puttered around, opening various cabinets and the fridge and marshaling my tea service and placing everything on a tray.

• "Brown Betty" Teapot—check!
• Cups and saucers—check!
• Moo-cow pitcher full of milk—check!
• Sugar bowl with sugar cubes—check!
• Teaspoons and sugar cube tongs—check!
• A pair of cloth napkins—check!
  

I placed a couple of Twining™ English Breakfast Tea teabags in the teapot and moved everything else to the breakfast nook.  Eventually, the kettle whistled, Winnie filled the teapot, then carried it to the table as well.  We waited for it to steep.  There would be no discussion of anything until the tea was ready.  Civilization has rules.

Then, I realized a critical component was missing, namely, something to nibble on!  How could I forget something to nibble on?  I scrambled back to the cabinets for a small plate and some cookies for myself (the American) and biscuits for Winnie (the Brit).  There was an open package of Keebler® Danish Wedding Cookies, but only a few were left so I opened a bag of Murray® Old Fashioned Ginger Snaps and added some to the plate.

• Plate of cookies/biscuits—check!

By the time I returned to the table, the tea was ready.

"I'll be mother," Winnie purred, and poured tea into the cups.  They already held the correct amount of milk.  I added two sugar cubes to my cup, gave it a stir, and we were ready.

I told Winnie everything that happened the previous night and this morning, but I did most of it in the form of a barrage of badgering questions.  I guess I was nervous.

Did Winnie know that Fern Wu and Libby Locke were a pair of grab-handed kidnappers?  No, she didn't.

Did Winnie know Libby and her seriously gorgeous mother Irene lived in a seriously magnificent mansion?  Yes, she did.

Yeah, well, did Winnie know that that exact same seriously magnificent mansion had a bona fide torture chamber in the basement??  "Do tell!" Winnie gasped.  I did, describing the furnishings of Irene's Playroom in lurid detail.  "My goodness!" Winnie shuddered, then fortified herself with a sip of tea.

Also, did Winnie know Fern, Libby, and Mrs. Irene Locke not only play kinky games, but drag helpless kidnap victims (like myself) into their erotic dalliances?  "You're kidding!" Winnie gasped.

Okay, I laid it on a bit thick, and I realized I wasn't being totally fair to Fern, Libby, and especially Irene (who is seriously gorgeous and was nice enough to mediate my initiation).  I walked things back a little, explaining that it was all in fun and I wasn't really in what you could call... distress.  Winnie sipped her tea, smiled, and listened.  Eventually, I finished my sordid tale and Winnie not only knew what had happened but how I felt about it.  That was a good thing, I suppose, 'cause maybe later she could explain it to me.

And then there was... The Club.  What could Winnie tell me about The Club?

Winnie took a sip of tea before responding.  "Are you quite sure this 'club' of theirs actually exists?  Perhaps it was a jest."

"A jest," I snorted as I sipped my tea.  "Freakin' hilarious.  Absolutely side-splitting.  Of course there's a club."  I heaved a little sigh.  "Isn't there?"

Winnie chuckled.  "I suppose you should discuss it with Irene."

"I suppose," I agreed.

"I like your new cage," Winnie added.

I blinked in confusion, momentarily flashing on the iron cages in Irene's Playroom; then I realized Winnie was gazing through the bay window at my garden.

"Oh.  Yes.  The cage.  Wildbirds Unlimited®.  I think it's different from the one you use."

"It is," Winnie agreed.

"The squirrels hate it."

"Which, of course, is the point," Winnie chuckled.  She reached out and took my hand.  "Are you quite settled now, Molly?"

I blushed.  "Yes," I said quietly, "I'm fine."  Much to my surprise, I meant it.  Tea with Winnie had made things better.  And Winnie had a good point about The Club.  I needed some excuse to talk to Irene again, just on general principles.  Pumping her (so to speak) for information about The Club was as good an excuse as any.

"Brilliant," Winnie smiled, released my hand, then gave it a gentle pat.  "Now..." she paused to refill our teacups.  "I'm afraid I can't allow you to observe any more of my clients' sessions."

I blinked in surprise (meaning alarm).  "Huh?"

"My clients are entitled to their privacy," Winnie explained.

She'd said "prev-uh-cee," in the English manner, instead of "pry-vuh-cee," like an American.  That was cute, but...  No more Sessions in Winnie's studio??  I sipped my tea in devastation.

"You still have things to learn, of course," Winnie continued, "so I suppose I'll have to schedule you a few sessions of your own."

I nodded in agreement, then started blinking again.  "Huh?  I mean... what are your rates?"

"Oh, no-no-no, Molly," Winnie chuckled.  "You're a writer.  It's my creative duty to indulge your curiosity.  There will be no charge."

"But..."  I blinked in mild embarrassment.  "You're running a business... right?"  I sipped my tea.  "I don't wanna be a freeloader."

Winnie smiled.  "I'm waving my usual fee in the interests of friendship and creativity."  She patted my hand, again.  "I'll check my schedule."  (She said "shed-yule."  More Brit-speak.  Very cute.)  "I'll let you know when I have a free appointment slot.  If the time works, I'll pencil you in."

And tie me up, I mused.  I nodded (and listened to my pounding heart).  Out in the garden, the Chickadee and Nuthatch Gang had arrived.  We sipped tea, nibbled cookies and biscuits, respectively, and watched the show.

A few days later I received a call from Winnie.  Our schedules synced, and it happened.

The Fourth Session!
~ or more precisely ~
Molly Schmeck's First Session!
♫ DUN-DUN-DUMMM! ♫

---

It might have been a little forward, but I arrived at Winnie's door at the agreed upon date and time wearing sandals, jeans, a t-shirt (powder blue) and no underwear.  It was the same "trick" Fern had pulled for her session.  Everything was coming off anyway, so why not go commando and save on laundry?  It made me feel like a seasoned veteran (and slightly naughty).

Winnie greeted me with the usual smile and kiss on the cheek, then took my hand and led me to the studio.  Without prompting I strolled to the Hidden Clothes Closet (seasoned, slightly naughty veteran that I was) and disrobed.  Once my sandals were on the closet floor and my jeans and t-shirt hung from hangers, I closed the door and turned to face my smiling ginger hostess.  Winnie's hair was pulled back in a ponytail and she was wearing her Daisy Dukes again, this time under a white tank-top.  I don't know if she did it for me, having somehow sensed my appreciation of the way she looked in cut-offs and a bra-less tank back in my kitchen, but she looked great.  Freckles!  Pokies!  Ginger curls!

I casually padded to the center of the studio while Winnie casually padded to the Hidden Rope Cabinet, made her selections, then padded in my direction.  Did I mention that Winnie's feet were bare?  I don't know if she ever wears shoes at home.  I've never seen her wear shoes at home.  I'm not even sure she owns shoes.  Anyway, Winnie's feet were bare... and freckled.

End result:  When Winnie was finished crafting her magic, I was bound from shoulders to toes.

My upper arms were pinned to my sides in the usual over-the-breasts, under-the-breasts, and yoking-the-shoulders harness; however, my wrists were crossed and tied in front of my body (which was novel) and were part of a crotch-rope-and-waist-encircling-tie that pinned my wrists to my tummy just below my navel.  And oh-by-the-way, this time the crotch-rope was friendly from the very beginning.  It cleaved my labia and butt-cheeks!  One further detail: the upper-body harness arrangement encouraged my upper-arms to squash my boobs together from either side, just a little.  You've heard of a pushup-bra?  Winnie had roped me into a squeeze-harness.

Also, from the waist (and crotch-rope) down, my legs were bound together at mid thighs, just above and just below my knees, across my lower legs at my shins and lower calves, around my ankles, and my feet.  Apparently, it was what's called a "ladder-tie."   Rope was horizontally looped around my legs, cinched between my legs, stretched vertically to the next position, and the process repeated.

Also, grinning her usual gorgeous grin, Winnie had reached behind her head, released the hemp cord binding her ginger curls, and used it to bind my big toes.  And she not only tied my Big Piggies together, but looped the free ends of the cord through the ropes binding my feet and stretched it taut before tying the final knot.

Everything was interconnected, so when I started testing my bonds by rolling my shoulders, twisting my torso, and flexing my legs and feet, my beasts were squeezed a little, my crotch-rope got downright fresh, and my toes lodged formal protests.  It wasn't painful, but the ropes tightened here and slackened there whenever and no matter which way I squirmed; however, none of the ropes loosened or shifted position.

Naked and helplessly bound on the studio floor, I watched as Winnie strolled to the Hidden Blindfold and Gag Cabinet.  Winnie might be short (5' 2"), but jeez-Louise she has nice legs!  Strong.  Freckled.  Anyway... she returned with one of her breather-ball-gags with its hollow mouth-plugging sphere pierced by a dozen holes.

I swallowed nervously as Winnie knelt and hauled my head and shoulders up onto her lap.  "Do you have to gag me right away?" I inquired (whined).  She smiled and popped the ball into my mouth.  "Mrrrf!"  Apparently, she did.  I heaved a ventilated sigh as she buckled the strap at the nape of my neck.

"There," Winnie said, smiling as she straightened my hair with her strong, freckled fingers.  Okay, here's a stipulation for all future references.  Whenever I mention any part of Winifred Wilde's firm, toned, gorgeous little body—except her eyeballs, teeth, lips, palms, or the soles of her feet—assume freckles.  "All tied up and helpless," she purred.

And with that startling revelation, Winnie kissed my forehead, eased me off her lap, gracefully climbed to her feet, then padded to the faux shoji sliding glass door.  She smiled, waved (wiggling her fingers), then pulled the door closed and engaged the latch.  Click!

So... my very own solo session in Winnie's studio.  I squirmed and rolled and further tested my bonds.  Ow!  And that included (unfortunately) my tied toes.

Note to self: Don't try wiggling your toes when they're tied together and tautly tethered to your bound feet.

Second note to self: Never start a session with Winifred Wilde without first inquiring as to exactly how long said session is shed-yuled to take.

Anyway... minutes passed, I finished convincing myself that I was well and truly helpless, then carefully rolled and squirmed until I could gaze out the window wall at Winnie's Secret Garden.  It was as gorgeous as ever, but the Chickadee and Nuthatch Gang were busy elsewhere, perhaps in my backyard.  A robin came swooping through, checked a section of lawn for worms, apparently found none, and left in obvious disappointment.  It was a little late in the day for worms.

And then, I heard the faux shoji glass door unlatch and rumble open.  I rolled over to face said door—and my eyes popped wide in surprise!  "Mrrrfh?"

Irene Locke!  Irene Locke was standing in the open doorway!

Second stipulation for future reference: "Irene Locke" always means "seriously gorgeous Irene Locke."  And that's not "seriously gorgeous for a forty-something Irene Locke," but "seriously gorgeous Irene Locke"—period!

Irene was dressed in a hideously expensive, custom tailored, designer original, stunning outfit: high-heel sandals and an airy, frilly sundress in a rose-red and pale-pink floral print.  Her glorious blond hair was loose around her shoulders in a purposely deceptive riot of carefully coifed curls.  Boy howdy did she look good!

Irene!  My rope-cleaved lady bits tingled in greeting, as did my semi-erect nipples.  I also blushed (much like I'm blushing as I type this).

"Hello, Molly," Irene purred, then stepped forward and walked a slow circle around my prone, naked, bound, and gagged self.  "You certainly are helpless, aren't you."  It was a statement, not a question.

I was.  I blushed, squirmed in my bonds, and this time remembered not to include my toes.

"Winnie has done her usual outstanding job." Irene added as she strolled closer.

I blinked and tugged on my crossed and bound wrists before answering.  "Mrrrpfh!"  ("Yes, outstanding.")

Irene smiled her dimpled smile.  "Oh, Winnie has been wicked."  She was gazing at my rope-cleaved crotch!  "Bound as you are... you can't touch yourself, can you?"

My blush deepened (by which I mean my cheeks approached spontaneous combustion).

Irene gracefully knelt, reached out, and used her right index finger to trace the vertical pair of crotch-rope strands from my bound wrists to my modestly and neatly trimmed pubic bush.  This did not help my blushing and blinking problems.

"And she wasn't nice enough to tie knots in the rope," Irene continued.  "What a tease."

"Mrrrf?"  ("Knots?")  What did she mean by "knots?"

"Yes, knots," Irene confirmed, but didn't followup with an explanation.  She continued sliding her finger slowly up and down my crotch-rope.

"What's all this then?" Winnie's voice demanded from the open faux shoji screen glass door.

Irene and I shifted our smiling and blushing (respectively) faces to the door in question and confirmed that the rest of Winnie had also returned to the studio.  Winnie shook her smiling head, causing her ginger curls to flutter, and strolled to the Hidden Chair Closet, opened its not-so-secret door, and produced the black steel straight-back chair with armrests, my former throne during the First Session (the First Observation Session with Micki, the other First Session).  She placed it in our general vicinity, then placed her hands on her hips.

"You know my rules, Mistress," Winnie stated.

"I do indeed, Mistress," Irene chuckled as she gracefully climbed to her feet.

Mistress?  My blinking gaze shifted from Winnie to Irene, then back to Winnie.  How could they both be 'Mistress?'

Irene spun on her exquisite and fashionable sandals and strolled to the Hidden Clothes Closet, opened the door, and began disrobing!  It didn't take her very long.  Soon her sandals, sundress, and underlying bikini-panties and bra were in the closet and naked Irene was strolling back in our direction.  She gracefully settled into the chair, demurely crossed her legs (right over left), placed her hands on her right knee, and favored us with a coquettish smile.  (Regarding my previous stipulation that "Irene Locke" always includes "seriously gorgeous," when she's naked, add "stunning" and "HOT!")

Meanwhile, Winnie had padded to the Hidden Rope Cabinet.  "Not like that," she scolded.  "Legs to either side and through the armrests."

Irene rolled her eyes and winked for my benefit, then stood and carefully sat back down with her legs spread on either side of the seat and behind the front supports of the armrests in question.  She even managed to do it gracefully!  Needless to say, her knees were now permanently splayed.  The position was the precise opposite of ladylike.  Her heels and insoles were off the floor and her feet resting on her toes and the balls of her feet.  Obviously, her lady bits were on full, complete, and open display!

I blushed, blinked, and tugged on my wrists in acute empathetic mortification and etiquette-related distress.  The rope sliding through my crotch added a thrilling grace note.  Hey!  Don't judge!  Could the situation be more explicit and naughty?  Anyway, cut me some slack.  (Winnie's ropes sure didn't.)

Winnie carried over several coils of brown rope and set to work.  I watched.  Irene smiled serenely and watched me.

End result: Irene was lashed to the chair from shoulders to ankles.  Her feet were now completely off the floor, her ankles tied to the chair's back legs, and her knees to the front armrest supports.  Her formerly voluntary unladylike pose was now rope-enforced and involuntary, and until Winnie untied her, she would stay that way!  Her arms were behind the chair-back with her armpits resting on the top.

From my position I couldn't see the details behind the chair, but from what I'd been able to follow of Winnie's actions, Irene's wrists and elbows were bound in some manner.  As for the front, Irene's upper body was lashed against the chair-back in what I was coming to recognize as a "standard body-harness," but rather that using the harness to simply pin her upper-arms against her torso and/or as a lashing point for her forearms and/or wrists, Winnie had used it to bind Irene to the chair.  So, ropes yoked Irene's shoulders, passed above and below her magnificent breasts, and were interlaced and cinched with various parts of the chair.  Additional ropes encircled her narrow waist and passed vertically through her crotch!

I was impressed (among other things).

And speaking of magnificent breasts, a word about watching a woman with breasts like Irene's being bound to a chair, and that word is: Wow!

As Winnie tightened the doubled strands, she made sure the doubled strands were neatly stacked and had uniform tension by sliding a pair of fingers between each pair of doubled strands and Irene's smooth, tan flesh.  The flesh in question dimpled under the gentle pressure, and Irene's boobs bobbed, ever so slightly.  The boob-bobbing was barely perceptible, but as I was watching closely, I can confirm that it happened.  Also, now and then the exercise "required" Winnie to grasp and lift one of Irene's breasts so she could properly position a doubled strand and accomplish her task.

Winnie smiled and concentrated on her work, but Irene continued gazing at me while all of this was happening.  I could tell that she could tell that I was... appreciative.

The binding and tightening of Irene's chair-and-crotch-rope was also illuminating, meaning stimulating, meaning was causing my own crotch-rope and/or my lady bits to shiver in sympathy.  As for the effect on Irene, her smile never wavered, but I did detect the occasional flinch in her shining blue eyes as things got snug.

So... I was bound, gagged, and helpless on the studio floor.  Irene was bound to the chair but not gagged.  At least I was "free" to wiggle and squirm around the matting, and as long as the faux shoji glass door remained open (and Winnie ignored my efforts) I'd be able to "escape" into the rest of the house.  On the other hand, with her feet off the floor and barely able to squirm, Irene was stuck in the chair.  She might be able to rock back and forth and eventually succeed in tipping over said chair and sending herself crashing to the padded floor, but that would hardly be a positive development.  I was still a novice, of course, but I seriously doubted that landing with a thud would have caused Winnie's ropes to shift in a way that the prisoner-of-the-chair could exploit.  Even I could see that Winnie had crafted yet another inescapable web of bondage.

Winnie strolled to my side, knelt, and once again hauled my head and shoulders up and onto her bare lap, leaving my head resting against the front of her Daisy Dukes.  (See previous stipulation regarding Winnie's skin and the topic of freckles.  Winnie's thighs were firm, smooth, and freckled.)

"Mrrk?" I inquired as Winnie reached behind my head, unbuckled my ball-gag's strap, and rebuckled it on its first hole.  She then plucked the ventilated sphere from my mouth, but before I could wet my lips, she did it for me.  That is, she leaned close and kissed me full on the mouth... deeply and wetly... with tongue!  My cheeks blushed and my heart thumped, but my crotch-ropes very much approved.

Eventually (in only a few seconds, actually) Winnie sat upright and began combing my hair with her fingers.  She was still smiling, of course.  So was Irene.

"Now..."  Winnie lifted her smiling gaze to Irene, then back to me.  "I believe you have something you'd like to discuss with Mistress Irene?"

I blinked and blushed.  (Say what?)  "Huh?"

"The Club?" Winnie reminded me.

"Oh... The Club."

Winnie and Irene exchanged a knowing smile, then Winnie eased me off her lap, stood, and padded towards the door.  "I'll give you ladies some privacy," she purred.  (Again with the "prev-uh-cee.")  She smiled, waved, the faux shoji glass door closed, and the latch engaged with an audible click.

I gazed at Irene.  Irene gazed at me.  We were alone in the studio, naked and bound but not gagged, which meant Irene could answer my questions and I could ask them.  Clever Winnie.  Such a cunning plan.

"Uh..." I stated.  I didn't even make it a question.  Pathetic.

Irene was sympathetic.  She's so sweet.  "Don't be nervous, Molly."

"I'll try," I sighed, then swallowed.  "Tell me about... The Club."

"What do you want to know?"

I sighed again.  "Who are the members?"

Irene's smiled her incredible (and slightly annoying) smile.  "Besides Winnie, Fern, Pumpkin, and Myself?"

Pumpkin was her Mean Girl daughter Libby, of course.  "Uh-huh," I responded.

"The club has many members, Molly," Irene said, "but I won't name names.  You must meet them in person."

That seemed fair.  Prev-uh-cee.  "So... what have I gotten myself into?"

Irene's smile became a dimpled grin.  "Quarter-inch braided hemp."

Apparently, Libby had inherited both her Viking-shield-maiden gorgeousness and her Mean Girl genes from her mother.  "Don't make fun of me," I whined.

"I'm sorry, Molly," Irene chuckled.  "I couldn't resist.  The Club is a group of like minded friends who, on occasion, get together to explore the many aspects of bondage fun."

"Kinky bondage fun?" I inquired (in a pathetic squeak).

"Kink is in the eye of the beholder," Irene sagely observed.

Or somewhere, I silently amended, tugging on my crotch-rope.

"You've been inducted into the Rope chapter," Irene continued.

I blinked several times before replying.  "R-rope?"

Irene nodded.  "There are also Leather, Latex, and Steel chapters. as well as a chapter that's into... Egyptology?"

"M-mumific-cation?" I stuttered.

Irene nodded.  "There is overlap, of course."

"In the bandages?" I squeaked.

"No, Molly," Irene chuckled, "there's overlap in chapter membership."

"Oh, of course," I nodded (and blushed).  "Uh, how much overlap?"

"Many of us have favorites," Irene replied, "but there's significant overlap."

I nodded.  "How big is... The Club?"

"Bigger than you might think," Irene purred, being cagey.

"Membership cards?  Secret handshakes?  Decoder rings?"

Irene laughed.  "None of that.  We're just friends having fun."

"Naked, bound and gagged fun," I muttered.

"In this chapter," Irene agreed.

"Wait!" I gasped.  "What about your dungeon... I mean Playroom?"

"I did say there was overlap," Irene purred.

"Yes, you did," I agreed.  "Are there... ranks?"

Irene smiled and lifted an eyebrow.

"Am I a 'Brownie' or a 'Tenderfoot?'  I heard you and Winnie call each other 'Mistress.'  Is that a rank?"

"Yes," Irene confirmed.  "You're a Baby Bondage Scout.  Winifred and I are both Mistress First Class.  I'm senior, of course."

Obviously, she wasn't serious.  "Stop it," I pouted.  (It was a pretty silly question.  Ranks.  What was I thinking?)  "I take it there's no handbook or collection of how-to pamphlets?"

Irene smiled and shook her head.

"Monthly newsletter?"

"We're very informal," Irene chuckled.

"No kidding," I sighed, squirming in my bonds, which apparently were The Club's dress code.  I racked my brain for a more sensible question.  Nothing.

"Are you all right, Molly?" Irene inquired.

Like I said, she's sweet.  "Yeah," I sighed.  "So... what happens next?  I meet new people?  By which I mean new members?  Other chapters?"

"Maybe," Irene replied, "but perhaps you should gain a little more rope experience and increase your general comfort level."

"That's probably best," I agreed.

"There's no rush," Irene added.  "Take your time.  This is just friends having fun... and we're all very glad you've joined us."

I blushed and nodded.  I guess I owe Winnie a fruit basket... or something.

Suddenly, we heard the telltale click of the faux shoji glass door's latch and the portal rumbled open.  Winnie had returned.

"So," Winnie said as she padded to my side, knelt, and once again hauled my head and shoulders onto her lap, "I assume all your questions have been answered to your complete and total satisfaction?"

"Well, actually," I muttered, "I was wondering if—Mrrrf!"  The ball-gag was back in my mouth and Winnie was buckling the strap.  Big surprise.

Winnie dumped me off her lap.  "Nrrrf!"  (How rude!)  She then gracefully stood and padded to the Hidden Blindfold and Gag Cabinet.  Irene and I watched as she made her selection, closed the door, and padded behind Irene and her chair.  The selection in question turned out to be a jumble of thin black leather straps with steel rings and buckles and an inch-and-a-half black rubber ball.  I couldn't see any breathing holes.

I locked eyes with Irene as Mistress Winnie eased the ball into Mistress Irene's smiling (and now grimacing) mouth, and began buckling and adjusting the straps.  The result was like nothing I'd even seen before.  It was a head-harness, like the things they use to keep a bit in a horse's mouth, only this one was keeping a rubber ball in Irene's mouth.  Straps passed under her chin, to either side of her nose, and across her forehead.  It looked tight and, as Winnie had taken the time to evenly divide and arrange Irene's blond curls, not entirely unattractive.  I guess I was developing a personal bondage aesthetic.  But then, the thing was caging the head and silencing the mouth of the seriously gorgeous, stunning, and HOT Irene Locke.  How could it not be attractive?

Still smiling, Winnie padded to a new Hidden Closet, one I'd not yet seen her visit during previous visits.  She opened the door and wheeled out a steel lab cart laden with... stuff.

At that point, my First Session and my membership in The Club rose to a whole new level!