Winifred's Workshop
Winifred's Workshop

by Van © 2018

Chapter 7

Dramatis Personæ


Okay... status report:
Talented, arguably attractive, and charming Molly Schmeck.
Naked.  Ball-gagged (with breathing/drooling holes).  Bound from shoulders to toes with her crossed wrists in front.  Upper-arms squeezing boobs together from either side.  Fingers fluttering and hands useless.  Crotch-ropes cleaving labia and butt-crack.  Big toes tautly tethered to foot-bonds.

Seriously gorgeous, stunning, and HOT Mrs. Irene Locke.
Naked.  Head-harness-gagged (without breathing/drooling holes, but drooling anyway).  Bound to Winnie's arm-chair with her knees splayed and arms behind the back.  Lashed to the chair from shoulders to boobs to waist to crotch to knees to ankles.

Freckled, ginger-haired, undeniably attractive, diminutive (5' 2"), and exotically British Winnie Wilde.
Resplendent in Daisy Dukes and white tank-top (with pokies).  Not gagged.  Not bound.  Smiling and in charge.  Wheeling a steel lab cart in our direction.

Chickadee and Nuthatch Gang.
Absent.  Not looting the birdfeeder in Winnie's backyard/Secret Garden.
Now that everybody's up to speed, let's talk about the cart our hostess was wheeling towards Irene and myself.

As previously mentioned, the cart was steel and it had two shelves.  The top shelf held some sort of electronic component about the size and shape of a desktop printer.  Whatever it was, the thing had dials, switches, indicator lights (all dark), and numerous places to plug in... uh... plugs.  Everything was neatly labeled, but the distance was too great for me to be able to read the tiny print.  The bottom shelf held a collection of translucent plastic bins and boxes.

Winnie wheeled the cart between Irene and myself, then turned to face Irene and the chair.  With the cart and Winnie's body in the way I couldn't see much of what she was doing.  She'd stooped and lifted something from one of the plastic bins, plugged what I think was a USB plug into the top-shelf's electronic component thingie, then turned back to Irene and... started doing something.  Like I said, the cart and her body were in the way (and her freckled legs and denim-clad rump were somewhat distracting).  Anyway, it was all very mysterious and technological.

Finally, Irene rolled the cart a few feet to the side and out of the way and my eyes popped wide.  I could see what she'd done!

Winnie had deployed what was unmistakably a wand-style vibrator, similar to the vibrator Irene had used to expedite my initiation into The Club back in the bedroom of her seriously magnificent mansion!  The vibrator's doorknob-like business end was pressed firmly against Irene's rope-cleaved lady bits, and was held in place by what appeared to be a couple of thin, stretched bungee-cords clipped through Irene's waist and crotch-ropes!

Irene was gazing down at the wand.  I was gazing up at Irene (and the wand).  Meanwhile, with the male end of a very long power cord trailing from the back of the component thingie in Winnie's right hand, she padded in the direction of the paneled wall opposite the window wall, stooped, and plugged the plug into a power outlet.  Irene and I swiveled our gagged heads, locked eyes, and heaved simultaneous sighs.

"Since Molly is new to our happy-fun-time-rope-activities," Winnie purred as she padded back to the cart, "I'll forgo the TENS pads and pneumatic nipple suckers."  She flipped a switch and several red LED indicator lights on the component began glowing.

I blinked in confusion.  I wasn't sure what the "TENS pads" she'd mentioned might be.  Irene probably knew, but she was gagged (like me) and unable to explain.  I also noted that Irene didn't appear to be terribly upset, but her head-harness-gag made the fine nuances of her expression a little difficult to read.  In any case, "pneumatic nipple suckers" was pretty self-explanatory.

Winnie smiled in my direction as she flipped open the component's lid, revealing it to be a flat-screen hinged on one side, like the screen of a laptop computer.  Text was scrolling down the screen from top to bottom.  Once again, the distance was too great for me to read anything.  Eyes on the screen, Winnie's fingers fluttered and I heard the sound of keys clacking.  I couldn't see it from the floor, but obviously the thing had a keyboard.  Apparently satisfied with her efforts, Winnie folded the screen and smiled at her guests (or clients, or victims, or... whatever).

"Well, enjoy your session, Molly," Winnie said to me, "and enjoy watching Irene enjoy her session."  With that, The diminutive ginger goddess winked at Irene, turned, and padded to the faux shoji glass door, and made her exit.  "Click!"  (That was the door latch engaging, of course.)

Once again, Irene and I locked eyes.  The situation was... unique.  (Unique for me, anyway.)  Irene turned her gagged head to the cart.  I did as well.  The only sign that anything was happening was the red LED lights that seemed to be blinking on and off with no apparent pattern.

So... what was happening?  What had Wicked (but Undeniably Nice) Winnie done to poor Irene?

Please.  Isn't it obvious?

Irene flinched in her bonds when the vibrator suddenly began to buzz.  The wand was either exceeding quiet or was set on low power (or both), but I could definitely hear it, even over the pounding of my heart.  Irene was squirming a little, but was otherwise serene (sort of).  Apparently, the wand was on low power.

An hour later, nothing had changed... other than the fact that I was glowing (meaning was covered in a film of sweat), my slightly squeezed breasts were heaving, my nipples were pointing, and a few strands of my dark-blond hair were plastered across my face.  Also, my glasses really needed cleaning.  My heart was pounding, but that wasn't a change.  And I won't even bring up my gag-induced drooling or the slimy state of both my chest and the valley between my squashed breasts.  It was disgusting, so I won't bring it up.

As for Irene, she was also sweaty, panting through her gag, and afflicted with an acute case of acutely pointing nipples.  She also had a gag-induced drooling problem, but her case was less severe than my own.  The ball plugging her mouth was solid, without ventilation/drooling holes, and may have been slightly larger.  Nonetheless, her chin and chest were dripping with spit.

The vibrator was the overriding issue, of course, meaning Irene's overriding issue.  I was just tied up on the floor.  Nothing was buzzing my crotch.  My crotch-ropes did slide back and forth a little whenever I moved, but the pair of hemp strands weren't buzzing.  So, why was I in such a pathetic, glistening state?  It was a byproduct of my empathetic, sympathetic, bound-gagged-and-unable-to-help (meaning help Irene, not the vibrator) state of compassionate, commiserating rapport.

Anyway, in the course of the last hour the wand had continuously varied its power setting and timing.  Yes, that's right, it was a smart vibrator, and the component-thingie on the cart was its brain!

Mad Science!

Now, Molly Schmeck knows her way around a keyboard.  I even know a few function keys and keyboard shortcuts.  That said, the only hacking I do involves kitchen knives and vegetables.  That said, it was now obvious that Winnie's cart-thingie was an actual computer and was running an actual computer program!  Winnie Wilde, Evil Technological Genius and/or Consumer!  Was there an Evil Technology chapter of The Club?  And where did Winnie buy her fully programmable iDiddler?  Does the company have a website?  A catalog?  Smartphone apps?

Anyway, I could tell Irene was in a bad way... a very sweaty, panting, repeatedly-aroused-and-rearoused bad way.  I suppose being diddled by Winnie's machine probably started out as fun. (It had certainly looked like fun from my naked, bound, and gagged perspective.)  In any case, the iDiddler system seemed to have good timing.  I hadn't seen Winnie attach any medical-type sensors to monitor Irene's heart-rate, breathing, galvanic skin response, or arousal state (if there's such a thing as a medical sensor for arousal state), so I don't think the program was responding to actual feedback from Irene's increasingly sweaty and helpless body.  It was probably just a simple program, which meant whoever had done the actual coding had good timing.  Irene had cum repeatedly... then had been allowed to recover... then the buzzing would resume and she'd cum again.  I could tell.  Poor Irene "suffered" many, many orgasms... meaning five.  I counted five.  The buzz and rest intervals were irregular and unpredictable.  Like I said, good timing.  Poor Irene!

And speaking of good timing, the faux shoji glass door clicked, slid open, and Winnie reappeared, still rockin' her Daisy Dukes and white tank-top.

"Mrrrrm!" I exclaimed, rather frantically nodding my gagged head in Irene's sweaty, depleted direction.  This caused my sweaty boobs to flop a little, despite being squeezed together.  My slightly damp hair did the same thing, except for the strands still plastered across my face.

"She does look pretty pathetic, doesn't she?" Winnie purred as she padded to the iDiddler machine, flipped up the screen, and tapped a few keys.  The vibrator abruptly stopped in mid-buzz.  The LEDs on the front panel still glowed, but they'd stopped blinking.  The screen display had gone blank, but I could see a flashing cursor.  Our ginger hostess (and Very Nice Evil Technological Genius) then folded the screen, padded to Irene and her chair, and began untying her bonds.

That took a while.  I lay on the padded floor in my bonds, tried (and failed) not to drool, and watched.  Unknotting and unraveling all that rope took a while.  Unbuckling the head-harness-ball-gag's many buckles was trivial by comparison.

Eventually, Irene was rope and head-harness-ball-gag free and Winnie was helping her extricate herself from the chair.  My sweaty, panting, Viking-shield-maiden-queen was nowhere near as graceful getting out of the chair as she'd been while getting into it.  Also, her tan, curvaceous, perfect body was crisscrossed with rope-marks, as well as dripping with sweat.  However, Irene was recovered enough to pull Winnie into a tight hug and plant a deep, wet kiss on her lips.  Winnie returned both the embrace and the kiss.  I watched.

They came up for air, but were still hugging.

"Sauna?" Irene inquired.

"Ready," Winnie confirmed.  "I assume you'll be indulging in a little horrible revenge at some point?"

Irene smiled.  "Count on it," she purred, then gently clutched a handful of ginger curls and the kiss resumed.  I watched.   'Horrible revenge?'  Irene was gonna tie up Winnie??

They came up for air, again.  "However," Irene purred, nodding in my helpless direction, "let's not discuss such things in front of our Baby Bondage Scout."

"Oh, 'Baby Bondage Scout,'" Winnie giggled, smiling at my blinking self.  "That's adorable."

I stared daggers at my hostess.  I hate being called "adorable."  Okay, it's nice to be doted on and Winnie is nice, but still.

Hand in hand, Irene and Winnie turned and padded from the studio.  The faux shoji glass door rumbled closed, the latch clicked, and I was alone in the studio.  Sigh!  Obviously the two Mistresses were heading for the sauna.

Also obviously, my session wasn't over.

Winifred's Workshop 
 Chapter 7

I languished in Winnie's Restrained Meditation Studio forever and ever!  Nearly half an hour!  It was horrible!  Even the Chickadee and Nuthatch Gang had abandoned me!  Not even the squirrels came onto Winnie's deck to stare through the window-wall at my naked, helpless body and gloat!  Woe was I!

The only things I had to occupy my time were (1) my rope bonds, (2) my ventilated ball-gag, (3) the sight of Irene's former throne, the black steel armchair with its disorderly tangle of hemp ropes, and (4) the wand-style vibrator that was resting on the chair's padded black seat.  It was still plugged into the front panel of Winnie's iDiddler computer, which was still plugged into the wall.  Woe was I!

Eventually, my heaving breasts stopped heaving and most of the sweat on my well-roped body had dried.  I continued drooling, of course, my hair remained being a disorderly mess, and my glasses hadn't cleaned themselves.  So, I was fine... other than the fact that I was suffering from AAD (Acute Arousal Disorder) and CTS (Chronic Tingling Syndrome).

That's right.  I was horny.

What had I gotten myself into?  Naked?  Tied up?  Gagged?  Forced to watch Irene (naked, tied to a chair, and gagged) undergo repeated diddling by Winifred Wilde's Insidious iDiddler?  When would it be my turn?  And what else did the future hold?

Don't get me wrong.  I wasn't actually desperate that Winnie come back and either use her Horrible Machine on me (or use the wand by hand), only... hopeful?  It was only logical, right?  What else could Winnie have in mind?  Woe was I!

As the saying goes, all suspenseful languishing interludes come to an end.  Irene and Winnie breezed back into the studio.  Both were naked and smiling, with damp hair.  Winnie knelt at my side and began untying my bonds, starting with my cord-tied toes.  She paused to pull her hair back and use the cord to tie her ginger curls in its former ponytail, then started on the ropes.

Meanwhile, Irene was getting dressed.  She took her time, apparently not in any particular hurry and watching as Winnie undid her handiwork.  Of course, it still didn't take Irene very long to don her bra, panties, sundress, and sandal-heels, no matter how much she dawdled.  So, fully clothed, she strolled to her former Throne of Rope Bondage and iDiddler Torment and began neatly coiling her former bonds.  She returned the coiled rope to Winnie's Hidden Rope Cabinet, the head-harness-ball-gag to the Hidden Blindfold and Gag Cabinet, then lifted the vibrator from the chair's seat, coiled its cord, and placed it on top of the iDiddler Machine.

By this time, Winnie had finished untying my bonds.  More correctly, she was as finished as she intended to be.  My feet, ankles, legs, crotch, and upper body were free, but my wrists were still crossed and bound in front, and several feet of rope dangled from my wrist bonds!  "Mrrrm!"  Oh, that's right.  The ventilated ball-gag was still plugging my mouth!  "Mrrrm!" ("Winnie!") I reiterated, stamping my right foot.  This caused my no longer squeezed together boobs to bob, further signaling my outrage.

"You poor thing," Irene purred as she stepped behind my outraged, naked self and reached for the buckle of my ventilated-ball-gag.  "With your permission, Mistress?" she inquired, apparently (obviously) addressing Winnie.

"By all means, Mistress," Winnie chuckled.

Irene unbuckled my gag, rebuckled the strap on its first hole, then spun me around, plucked the disgustingly slimy ball from my disgustingly slimy mouth, and pulled me into a tight hug and a deep, wet kiss.

I endured this, uh, outrage for several outrageous seconds (ignoring the tingling between my legs).  Apparently, I was experiencing an unexplained resurgence of the teasing effect of my former crotch ropes.  Is "phantom crotch-rope" a thing?  I also ignored the way my bound hands were pressed against the light, frilly fabric covering Irene's upper thighs, lower tummy and, uh, other anatomy.

Finally, our lips parted.

"You poor thing," Irene reiterated, smiling and combing my hair with her fingers.

"Enough," Winnie chuckled.  The free ends trailing from my crossed and bound wrists were in her right hand and she gave them a firm tug.  Simultaneously, Irene released her hug and spun me around.

"Hey!" I complained as Winnie turned and padded to the open faux shoji glass door, taking my naked, wrist-bound, and ventilated-ball-gag-necklace-wearing self with her.

"Hush," Winnie purred.  "Sauna."

"Oh," I said quietly.  I could hear Irene behind us, following in our wake.

We made our way to the tiled space with the shower and sauna.  Winnie dragged me (okay, led me) to the shower and reached for the handle of the pull chain.

"Wait," Irene purred, spun me around, and kissed me again.  (And once again I experienced inexplicable crotch-rope aftereffects.)  Kiss.  Long.  Deep.  Wet.  Finally, we came up for air.  "Thank you for letting me observe your session," she purred.

I blinked and smiled an unabashedly goofy smile.  "Uh, sure.  My pleasure," I responded.

"Oh," Winnie chuckled, "it was your pleasure.  I must have loaded the wrong program."

"Shut up!" Irene and I simultaneously snapped, then giggled.

Irene gave me another kiss, this time a quick smack on the lips, gave our smiling, ginger hostess a similar kiss, then spun on her heels and made her exit.  "Later!" she called back over her shoulder... and was gone.

I heaved a sigh, then shrieked when Winnie tugged on the handle and triggered the shower.  "Eeeek!  Winnie!"

Winnie said nothing, made sure I was thoroughly wet, then led me into the sauna.  Needless to say, the air inside the cedar-lined chamber was dry and hot.  I idly tugged on my wrists as Winnie used the sauna's bucket and ladle to wet down a generous section of upper-tier cedar bench, then helped me step up and sit.  The heat felt good, and I knew it would help my rope-marks fade away.

"All right then," Winnie said.  "Enjoy the sauna.  No more than ten minutes."

My response was instantaneous and succinct.  "Winnie!"

Winnie leaned forward and kissed my left nipple—she was too short to reach my lips—then spun on her bare heels and retreated to the sauna door.

"You're leaving me?" I whined.

Winnie smiled with her hand on the door's cedar handle.  "I already had my sauna with Irene," she explained, then
opened the door and passed through.  "Remember, no more than ten minutes!" she reiterated, then closed the door behind her.

I watched in abject and increasingly sweaty and overheated horror as she waved at me through the door's glass window... and was gone.

"Winnie!" I belatedly whined in a pathetic near-whisper.

I heaved a sigh and tugged on my bonds.  The breather-ball-gag was still around my neck in necklace mode and my wrists were still crossed and bound with conditioned hemp.  And, of course, my former leash, the free ends dangling from my wrist-bonds that Winnie had used to drag (lead) me from the studio to the sauna, were still there.  Winnie hadn't used them to tie me to the bench and/or tie my ankles together, so I was "free" to leave the sauna whenever I so chose.  I suppose it was a safety thing.  I didn't yet know The Club's formal rules (assuming The Club actually had formal rules), but had figured out that the first rule had to be Safety First.  Abandoning a bound and helpless fellow club member (or anyone else) in a hot sauna would be taking a stupid risk.  A trivial stupid risk, yes, with Winnie being free and able to come to my rescue, but a stupid and unnecessary risk, nonetheless.  Anyway, that was how I saw the logic of the situation.

I examined my wrist bonds in detail (and sweated).  The knot or hitch or whatever you call the neat, asymmetrical nexus of tightly compacted hemp securing my bonds was... a neat, asymmetrical nexus of tightly compacted hemp.  I suppose I could use my teeth to pry the thing apart.  I glanced at the window in the sauna door.  Mistress Winifred was nowhere to be seen.  It's a prisoner's duty to escape, of course, so I did.  Or more precisely, I tried.

I used my teeth, lips, and tongue (mostly my teeth) to attack the... let's just call it a knot, okay?  After much diligent effort—okay, after about thirty seconds—I gave up.  It was a puzzle-knot.  What obviously had to be the key knot—the knot that had to be untied for me to free myself—apparently wasn't.  I suppose if I'd kept at it I eventually would have stumbled upon the compacted loop of rope that would loosen and start yielding results, but why bother?

I heaved another sigh and added Evil Rope Genius to Winnie's list of titles.  Nice Evil Rope Genius.

Anyhoo...  I sweated.  A lot.  My rope-marks more-or-less faded.  I was thirsty.  Something in the general neighborhood of ten minutes passed.

I heaved yet another sigh, awkwardly coiled my wrist-bond-leash-ropes and clutched them in my left hand, and made my flushed, sweaty, overheated exit from the sauna.  I stepped under the shower and pulled the handle with my right hand.  The cold water felt good!  I got myself thoroughly wet, meaning wet with water.  I was already wet with sweat.  Or had been wet with sweat.  Now, I was just wet.

I looked around for a towel, but none were in evidence.  I found what was probably a linen closet, but it was an empty linen closet.  So, hair dripping wet, the rest of me dripping wet, my glasses dripping wet, I went looking for Winnie.  Oh no!  I'd drip all over her floors!  What a pity!  I went looking for Winnie.

Winnie was in her kitchen, wearing her hunter-green cook's apron (and only her hunter-green cook's apron), and working on some sort of stir-fry.  I carefully ignored the way the loops and free ends of the bow securing Winnie's apron strings waist trailed down and/or caressed her firm, dimpled, freckled butt-cheeks.

"There you are!" Winnie said brightly.  "I was about to come looking for you.  She turned her left cheek in my direction.  "Come give us a kiss."

Knowing I probably looked like a wet hen, I glowered and stepped forward.  I gave her a sullen peck on the offered cheek.  "Untie me," I demanded, offering my bound hands.

Winnie turned and continued cooking.  "The session isn't over," Winnie responded.

I started to say something... but instead heaved an exasperated sigh, stamped a foot, and stomped (padded) to the breakfast nook.  There was already a place setting for one in the form of a placemat, napkin, two Chinese teacups, a pair of chopsticks resting on the arched back of a cute little ceramic fox, and a tall, clear glass of icewater with a straw.  I sat and immediately commenced sucking on the straw.  Glorious!  I really had been parched.  I sipped slowly enough to avoid brain-freeze, but did develop a mild case of sudden-onset-mouth-freeze.

Meanwhile, Winnie finished cooking, turned off the stove, and transferred the steaming, delicious looking and smelling contents of the wok to a largish bowl and carried it to the nook.

Scoot," Winnie ordered, I did so, and she sat next to me—and by next to me, I mean right next to me!  Our hips touched.  Our upper-arms touched.  The outsides of our upper-thighs touched.  Winnie was right next to me!  She was up against me!  My heart started pounding again.

Winnie used the chopsticks to stir the contents of the bowl (noodles, veggies, chicken, shrimp, and beef), lifted up a small, steaming portion, blew on it a little, smiled, and presented it to my pouting lips.  I grudgingly listened to my growling stomach, paused to give my hostess a two second dose of resentful stare, then accepted the first bite.

I chewed and swallowed.  "Delicious," I conceded.

"Thank you," Winnie purred.

The meal continued.

"I forgot the tea!" Winnie exclaimed, squirmed away, stood, padded to the island in front of the stove, then returned with a really pretty teapot that matched our teacups.  She resumed her former seat (and our intimate skin-to-skin intimacy), and poured tea into the cups.

Winnie made sure I got my fair share of the stir-fry.  She even replenished my icewater after I'd sucked out all the liquid and all that was left was ice.  She was the perfect hostess... except for the not untying my wrists part.  The tea was different.  It was also delicious, but was different from the Twinnings® English Breakfast Tea Winnie usually served me and I served her.  I suppose I could have inquired as to the brand and/or origin.  I might also have asked for the ethnic origin and accepted name of the stir-fry, but I didn't.

I was still horny, and my pouty, resentful act was an act... or half an act.  And the continuing contact with Winnie's warm, firm, freckled skin wasn't helping.  I had my bound hands in my lap, but with every motion of our bodies—as Winnie fed me the stir-fry, or she fed herself, or I leaned forward to sip my icewater, or Winnie lifted her cup and sipped her tea—our thighs and arms slid together, at least a little.  It was... disconcerting.

Finally, the food was gone and the meal was over.  Winnie stood, cleared the table, and began cleaning up the kitchen.

          Hummingbird maleI would have helped, but, you know.  Bondage.  I looked out the bay window to find things were getting darker.  It wasn't exactly dusk, but the sun was definitely dipping towards the horizon.  The Chickadee and Nuthatch Gang was still AWOL.

Suddenly, I caught a flash of motion, craned my neck, and for the first time realized that Winnie had a hummingbird feeder dangling from a hook set just under the protective edge of the bay window's roof.  The feeder wasn't very far away and it had a visitor, an Anna's Hummingbird male!  He had an iridescent green and mottled white body, an iridescent purple/red head, and was tiny and so cute!  I gasped and froze in place.  I knew hummers can be skittish and I didn't want to scare him away.  He drank and drank and drank, tanking up on nectar for the coming hours of darkness.

"Hummingbird!" I gasped.

Winnie had finished her cleaning and removed and hung up her apron.  She smiled and slowly, carefully eased into a position to look up over my shoulder.

The Anna's male continued drinking for a few more seconds, paused to look around... then zoomed across the yard and disappeared.

"I didn't know we had them around here," I sighed.  "I mean, I never see them.  I know we're supposedly within their
range, but I didn't know they were here."

"I take it you don't have a feeder?" Winnie asked.  I shook my head.  "I get Anna's and Rufous hummingbirds," Winnie continued, "and Anna's year round.  I firmly believe the saucer design of feeder is best," she stated.  "They're easy to take apart and thoroughly clean.  Pretty, elaborate feeders you can't disassemble are mold farms waiting to happen.  I have two identical feeders and change them out at least once a week, when I replenish the nectar.  One quarter-cup of white table sugar to one cup of water.  I use a little less sugar and a little more water, to compensate for evaporation."

"No red dye?" I inquired.  "I thought you were supposed to use red dye."

Winnie shook her head.  "Totally unnecessary.  The red color of the feeder is quite sufficient to attract visitors."  She beamed a smile in my direction.  "That does it.  I'm taking you to the Wildbirds Unlimited® store tomorrow, and the second feeder is on me."

Naked Winifred Wilde lecturing me about hummingbirds was kinda hot.  I couldn't help but smile.  "Okay," I conceded.

Winnie's expression grew serious.  "This is a solemn commitment, Molly," she intoned.  "We're near the edge of the Anna's year-round range.  If you start feeding our little flying jewels, you have to promise to keep feeding them, especially during Winter, and that includes making sure your feeder doesn't stay frozen on cold days.  That's not much of a problem around here," she added, "only a handful of days per year, but it does happen.  If you wake up and your feeder is frozen, all you have to do is swap it out for an unfrozen feeder, bring the frozen feeder inside, and let it thaw.  On especially frigid days you might have to do it more than once.  Anyway, you have to promise."

I stood and took a step away from the breakfast nook, raised my crossed and bound hands, and opened my right palm.  "I solemnly swear."

"Brilliant," Winnie grinned, gave me a quick kiss, then headed for the doorway leading deeper into the house.  As she'd also taken a firm grasp on my wrist-bond-tether, I was pulled forward—"Eeep!"—and had no choice but to follow.  Where we were going, I had no idea.

Okay, I had an idea, but didn't actually know, and was too nervous to ask.

Winifred's Workshop 
 Chapter 7


Chapter 6 Թ Chapter 8