Winifred's Workshop
Winifred's Workshop

by Van © 2018

Chapter 9

Dramatis Personæ


So... I was naked and elaborately, artistically box-tied in several yards of conditioned hemp rope from the Winifred Wilde Collection.  Also, my hands were encased in locking leather bondage mittens that were incorporated into the box-tie, making me even more helpless.  My quite understandably pouting mouth was plugged by one of Winnie's "standard-damsel-silencer" ball-gags, my barefoot steps hobbled by hemp rope binding my knees together, and with a single-strand hemp rope leash knotted around my neck with the free end in Winnie's right hand.  And, of course, I was still wearing my glasses.

Woe was I!  Poor Molly Schmeck!

I padded behind Winnie, my hostess, superior member of The Club, and captor.  She was still wearing the same pretty, dusky-olive mididress and brown sandal-heels she'd worn to our breakfast date and subsequent hummingbird feeder shopping expedition and looked absolutely stunning!

I was confused (as well as helpless, flustered, and a little horny).  We'd left Winnie's Restrained Meditation Studio behind, but were not headed for her bedroom.  Huh?  In fact, we seemed to be headed for Winnie's kitchen.  She'd said there was something she wanted to show me, but what?  A new waffle maker?  Her George Foreman® Grill?  I'd already seen the 12-inch wok-like frying pan she used to cook pronto paella and stir-fried whatever (and was seriously considering shopping for something similar).  So, what did she want to show me in the kitchen?

We entered the food preparation and casual dining space in question and Winnie led me to a closed door.  I'd noticed the unremarkable portal earlier, but had assumed it led to a pantry, or possibly a broom closet.  Turns out it led to the basement!  I didn't even know Winifred's Lair had a basement.  My bungalow across the street has a basement, and now, as it turns out, Winnie has one too.  Not that it was a stunning revelation or anything.  I just hadn't thought about it.

Winnie clicked on a light switch, untied my knee-bonds, and we started down the stairs.  Why she tied my knees together in the first place I'll never understand.  Does she even know what she's doing?  Obviously, the knee-hobble was so I'd be hobbled, but why did I need to be hobbled?  It wasn't like I was gonna kick her or anything.  But maybe I should kick her.  She's an Evil Rope Genius who takes Erotic Liberties with her tied up, naive, across-the-street neighbors.  By now Winnie had more than earned herself a swift kick!  (Even if she is nice.)  Anyway, we reached the bottom of the stairs, there was a brief pause while I pouted and she retied my knee bonds, and now I couldn't kick her.  I guess Winnie does knows what she's doing.

Then, we started across the basement, and it was a big basement that seemed to encompass the entire footprint of the house.  I noted the usual air conditioner/heat pump, electrical panels, plumbing junctions, water heater, washer and dryer, and a standup freezer.  None of them looked particularly shiny or new, so they weren't what Winnie wanted to show me.  There were also the usual clutter of cardboard boxes and plastic storage tubs with unknown contents, some resting on steel shelves and some on the concrete floor.  Several six-inch steel support columns were strategically placed to support the load bearing beams overhead (or so I assumed), and off to one side I noted a second set of steps leading up to the underside of a slanted steel bulkhead door.

Yes, all of this I noticed, but mostly I continued stumbling after Winnie in naked bound and gagged helplessness.  She led me on across the semi-dark, semi-cluttered, semi-open space to the far side of the basement.  Soon, we were well away from the utilities and laundry area and the stairs leading up to the kitchen were mostly hidden by the shelves, boxes, and bins.

By the way, Winnie's basement was reasonably clean, but it was a basement.  Who has a fastidious basement?  I know I don't.  Anyway, I could feel the grit and dust under my bare feet.  It wasn't too bad, but I knew my soles were now almost certainly filthy black.  Eventually, they'd need a good scrubbing.  I wasn't looking forward to it.  It would tickle, meaning it would tickle unless I did it myself.  Everybody knows you can't tickle yourself.  That's Science.

And then, we approached a solid steel door set in the concrete wall.  It looked commercial, as opposed to residential, and fairly screamed "High Security" with its sturdy steel construction and the formidable lock set in its L-shaped handle.  I hate L-shaped door handles.  They're an open invitation to hungry Velociraptors.

"This place is older than it looks," Winnie explained as she produced a keyring and opened the door.  Beyond was a small, decidedly gloomy space.  The walls, floor and ceiling were more poured concrete.  "One of the previous owners installed a fallout shelter, believe it or not," Winnie said, favoring me with a rather feral smile (which wasn't at all disturbing).  "I've put it to an alternative use."

And with that cryptic remark she led me across the threshold and down what I now realized was a short corridor to another steel, commercial-grade door.  It had no handle, L-shaped or otherwise, but was secured by three heavy-duty sliding bolts.  One was horizontal, and secured by means of a hefty padlock.  The other two were vertical and slid into the ceiling and floor.  Any Velociraptors roaming the neighborhood weren't getting past this door—Gulp!—and anyone inside wasn't getting out.

I watched nervously—No, ya think??—as Winnie unlocked the padlock, drew all three slide-bolts, and opened the door.  Its heavy-duty hinges squealed.  They needed oil.  Did I mention the hinges?  They were heavy-duty hinges.

The space beyond was more poured concrete and was maybe... eight by sixteen feet?  I noticed a rectangular patch in the wall to our left.  The concrete didn't quite match the rest, but it was obviously fully cured and not at all recent.  Also, a small, dimly glowing, circular light fixture was set in the ceiling, directly overhead, and it was the only light.

Winnie pointed at the patch.  "That used to be the shelter's emergency exit," she explained.  "I had the bulkhead door removed and the stairwell filled in."  She pointed up.  "And that used to be the outlet for the shelter's air filtration system.  I replaced it with a sun tunnel that leads up to the underside of a cute little garden globe in the side garden.  That's where we are, by the way, under the side garden.  It's a shade garden, so I'm afraid it never gets very bright down here, even at high noon.  After sunset, of course, it's pitch black."

That was all very fascinating, but I was transfixed by the wall of iron bars completely enclosing the back half of the space!  It was like one those jails in the back of the sheriff's office in a cowboy movie, with closely spaced, thick, vertical iron bars with a couple of horizontal iron cross-braces and a locking, door-size gate in the middle!  The wall and gate were also like a dungeon, of course, so I decided to go with dungeon rather than jail.  Winnie has a dungeon!

I shifted my nervous, blinking gaze from the rather small and cramped looking dungeon cell beyond the bars to Winnie.  "Mrrrk?"

Winnie's smile remained disturbing.  "This is my Private Restrained Meditation Studio," she explained.  "It's quite soundproof.  Once, as a test, I placed a boom-box down here, blasting at full volume.  In the main basement, with the inner and outer doors closed, I could hear nothing.  The same up in the shade garden.  Not a sound.  Not so much as a peep."

"Mrrrk?" I reiterated, but Winnie continued ignoring my urgent, emphatic, and entirely reasonable inquiries.  Also, "Private Restrained Meditation Studio."  Cute.

Winnie led me across the, uh, outer-dungeon ("dungeon-alcove?") to the wall of bars.  I watched as she unlocked the gate and pulled it open.  Its hinges also needed oiling.  Oh-by-the-way, a two-inch grid of heavy wire completely covered the inside of the gate and the rest of the bars.  I'd later be able to confirm that the thick wires were spot-welded in place at countless points in a regular pattern.  A hypothetical damsel incarcerated in the cell would be able to stand at the wall and pathetically clutch the wires, but not the bars—assuming her fingers weren't encased and locked in bondage mittens, of course.

"Mrrrk?"  This time my invitation to conversation was even more urgent and emphatic, but it was still ignored.

Winnie led me into the cell—the dungeon cell—and pointed to the floor.  "Down," she suggested (ordered).

I blinked and once again reiterated my request for additional information regarding my immediate fate (as if it wasn't obvious).  "Mrrrk?"  This time the tone was more like my usual dusgustingly pathetic whine.

Winnie tripped me and I landed on the hard, dusty, concrete floor with a resounding crash.  Okay, she gently but forcibly lowered me to the floor.  I didn't wanna go and tried to resist, but you try being difficult when you're naked, box-tied, knee-bound—"Mrrrf!"—and ball-gagged!  I blinked and watched as Winnie untied my neck-leash, pulled my feet together, and used the rope to bind my ankles.  She also took a cinched ladder-hitch around my feet and finished with a flourish by binding my big toes.  Okay, there was no "flourish."  She was methodical and professional, as always.

"There," Winnie purred as she finished tying the final knot and rocked back on her heels.  She was still smiling, of course.  "You're probably wondering why you've gagged, seeing as how my Private Restrained Meditation Studio is soundproof."

Now that she brought it up...

"Helplessness focuses the mind."

This was a reasonable proposition, of course, but I was distracted by unfolding developments, specifically...

  1. The revelation that Winifred Wilde has a Secret Dungeon!
  2. The fact that I was naked, bound, and gagged in Winnie's Secret Dungeon!
  3. The high probability that Winnie was going to lock me inside her Secret Dungeon!
  4. Woe was I!
Winnie stood, brushed the dirt from her knees, then stepped back and closed the gate.

"Well, enjoy your session," Winnie said as she turned the lock.  I noticed that the same rather substantial key fit every lock we'd encountered since entering the basement.

Despite the dim light, the grid of wires, and the vertical bars, I could clearly see Winnie's Evil and Disturbing Smile.  It was bloodcurdling.  And Winnie was beautiful.  Dimly lit from behind by the sun tunnel, her ginger curls were halo-like.

With a mocking wave of the hand (which included finger wiggling) she spun on her heels and made her exit.  The steel door without an L-handle thudded closed and I heard its three heavy-duty bolts slide home.  "Thunk.  Thunk.  Thunk."  There was a pause... then the outer door closed with a barely audible thud.  I hadn't been able to hear Winnie use her key to lock the inner door's padlock or the lock in the outer door's L-shaped, Velociraptor-friendly handle, but it was a safe bet she had.

My heart pounded, my rope-framed breasts heaved, I panted (and drooled) around my superfluous ball-gag, and my thoughts were entirely predictable.

OMG!  OMG!  OMG!  Etc.

Winifred's Workshop 
 Chapter 9

Once I settled down (sort of) I accomplished one physical task, one mental task, and made a firm resolution.

Struggling and Dirt Distribution.
I wiggled, squirmed, twisted, and rolled around on the dungeon cell's concrete floor.  In the process...
     1. I confirmed that Winnie had done her usual masterful (mistressful?) job of rendering me 100% helpless;
     2. I also confirmed that the floor hadn't received a good sweeping in a very long time, and;
     3. I dirtied a significant portion of my naked, fair-complected, rope-bound body.

Architectural Labeling.
Naming things is important, so...
     1. I decided Winnie's main basement was the Main Basement;
     2. the steel door with the Velociraptor-friendly handle was the Outer Door;
     3. collectively, the spaces beyond were the Dungeon Complex;
     4. the space between the two steel doors was the Dungeon Entryway;
     5. the steel door with the three bolts was the Inner Door;
     6. the space immediately beyond was the Gloating Antechamber, and;
     7. the space behind the bars and gate (my current location) was the Dungeon Cell.

Session Shed-yule-ing.
From now on I would insist that Winnie tell me exactly how long any future sessions were going to last, either before or after stripping myself naked and hanging my clothes in the Hidden Clothes Closet up in the Main Restrained Meditation Studio.  I'm easy either way, but it was getting embarrassing that I kept forgetting to ask until the inevitable gag came out and it was too late.

A word about Winnie's Dungeon Cell, and that word is: "overkill!"

An enraged grizzly bear couldn't have gotten past those bars, assuming in the first place that he or she could have fit himself or herself through the Outer Door, the Inner Door, and the Dungeon Cell Gate.  And what was with the grid of heavy wires?  Properly mounted, it alone would have kept me in the Cell, and the idea that the bars needed protection from little-ol'-me was simply ludicrous.  Like I said, overkill.  The rectangular steel frame supporting the bars was bolted to the concrete in several locations on the left, right, ceiling, and floor, and the gate's lock and hinges were obviously quite solid.  I was impressed... and not going anywhere... and was completely helpless.

Another word, this time about the Dungeon Cell's floor: "warm."

I realized the smooth concrete under my naked, bound, and gagged self was filthy but not cold.  I surmised the Dungeon Complex, or at least the Dungeon Cell, had some form of radiant heating.  A warm floor certainly wasn't the case in Winnie's main basement, but had been the case in Mistress Irene's Playroom.  That made it two-for-two.  Is subfloor heating a de rigueur feature of all contemporary dungeons?  One wonders.

Yet another word: "languishing."

I languished.  What else did I have to do?  I'd languished before, of course.  In fact, by this time I considered myself an old hand at languishing, but most of it had been accomplished up in Winnie's Restrained Meditation Studio.  Granted, to date the sum total of my languishing career had only encompassed a few hours, but I felt like an old hand.  In any case, this was different.  I was languishing in a bona fide dungeon!  Granted, it was a somewhat Modern dungeon, as opposed to a Medieval dungeon with stone masonry and hand-forged iron bars, but it was subterranean, so it qualified!  It was a dungeon!

Woe was I!


Getting back to the languishing, I did.  Time passed.  More time passed.  I filled in some of that time with struggling.  It was something to do.  In the process, I reconfirmed the dirtiness of the floor and became even more convinced that the floor was heated.  I'd started glowing, and the sweat was expediting the dirt redistribution program.  What I could see of myself in the dim, somewhat bluish light of the sun tunnel filtering through the bars and wire grid was increasingly smudged and glistening.  Also, I was now drooling on said floor, despite the solid and slightly-larger-than-usual nature of my ball-gag.  I could feel a small, wet, slimy pool of drool whenever I rested my head on the concrete.  Logically, it wasn't helping me keep my face clean.

I languished for at least an hour, maybe even two, but I was finding it difficult to judge the passage of time.  There were zero external clues.  The glow of the sun tunnel was dim but steady, and I knew sunset couldn't be all that close.  In fact, it was probably currently no later than mid afternoon.  I assumed I'd notice when the sun finally did set and the light faded to nothing.  But Winne wasn't gonna leave me down here that long.  Was she?  Was she??

Finally, after I'd clocked at least two solid hours of dungeon languishing (maybe), I heard the faint sound of what I surmised was the Outer Door opening—"creeeak"—followed by the somewhat louder and unmistakable sound of the Inner Door's bolts sliding back and the door itself opening.  "Snick.  Snick.  Snick.  Creeeeak!"  At that time, I'd squirmed and heaved myself upright and was resting with my bound legs and naked butt on the floor and my shoulders and box-tied arms against the Cell's back wall, and was fully prepared to start visually sending ultra-sharp, exotic, and ethnically diverse imaginary cutlery in Winnie's direction as soon as she crossed the threshold.

Instead, I blinked in wide-eyed astonishment!

Winnie had crossed the threshold into the Gloating Antechamber, as expected.  She was still wearing her pretty, dusky-olive mididress, but had removed her pretty brown sandal/heels and her strong, perfect, freckled feet were bare.  More importantly, she wasn't alone!

So, why was I amazed?  Padding into the Antechamber on Winnie's heels was Micki Booker!  Micki the hot librarian!  And she was naked, elaborately box-tied, her hands encased in leather bondage-mittens, her knees bound, a ball-gag plugging her mouth, and with a rope leash around her neck, the end of which was in Winnie's strong, perfect, freckled right hand! 

One more word: "bazooms."

Micki has bazooms.  Naked Micki was very nice bazooms.  Naked Micki with her bazooms bulging between neat, symmetrical bands and strands of hemp rope has exquisite bazooms.  Not bulbous, floppy, overly big, she's-gotta-have-back-strain-with-those-things bazooms, but perfectly shaped, firm, two-hands-full bazooms.  Tits, jugs, hooters, kahunas, bimbo-bongos, call 'em what you will.  Micki has a nice pair.

I wish I had bazooms like Micki's, but unfortunately I lack the globular volumetrics to qualify for bazoom status.  I have boobs... modest boobs.

I know, I know, I see you shaking your head and asking:  Where have you gone, sweet, innocent, charming, and arguably attractive Molly Schmeck?  What has become of you?  Why are you sitting there on the hard, dirty, albeit comfortably warm floor of Winnie's dungeon, naked, bound, gagged, and leering at naked, bound, gagged, and buxom sexy librarians?  What happened?

I'll tell you what happened.  Curiosity happened.  Seduction happened.  The Club happened.  But mostly, Wicked Winifred Wilde happened.  (Actually, she's very nice.)

Anyhow, I scanned Micki's bondage, noting the details of rope and hitch placement, the bondage mittens of expensive brown leather, and the solid black rubber ball-gag, and reached the conclusion that Micki and I were Bondage Twins!  We'd both been rendered utterly helpless in exactly the same manner with exactly the same materials and accessories!  Our bonds weren't quite the same, as Micki's leash hadn't yet been repurposed as ankle-foot-toe bondage, but not for long.  Winnie unlocked the Dungeon Cell, led Micki inside, Cruelly and Callously forced her to the filthy floor (just like she'd done with me), and quickly, deftly corrected that deficiency.  That is, she untied Micki's leash and tied her ankles, feet, and big toes.  Rope slithered, tightened, and was knotted, and now we were true Bondage Twins.

Then, Winnie shuffled behind Micki, unbuckled her ball-gag, and rebuckled its strap on the first hole.  Next, she forced me to lean forward, away from the wall, reached behind my head, and did the same thing.  And then, while Micki and I struggled to force the mouth-filling-black-rubber-balls from our mouths, she stood, smiled as she brushed the dirt from her knees and the front of her dress, and left!  That's right, she exited the Dungeon Cell and locked the gate behind her!  Then, she strolled across the Gloating Antechamber to the Inner Door and paused in the threshold.

"You girls have fun," she wished us, then closed the Inner Door.  "Screeeee-thud."

We continued working our jaws and trying to expel the slimy balls with out tongues.  They were big!  Micki was the first to succeed, having a few seconds head start.  The ball popped from her mouth, fell as far as its strap would allow, and bounced against her chest (above and centered between her bazooms).  She grimaced, licked her lips, and made her displeasure known.


Too late.  W
e could hear Winnie throwing the bolts.  "Thunk.  Thunk.  Thunk."

I paused in my efforts to unplug my mouth to gaze at Micki.  How unoriginal.  At least she wasn't whining.  I returned to my ball expulsion efforts and succeeded just as we heard the faint sound of the Outer Door closing.  "Thud."

My ball bounced against my chest, I licked my lips and worked my jaw, then Micki and I locked eyes.  Mine were blinking.  Micki's weren't.

Several seconds passed... then I broke the silence.

"Winnie has a dungeon!" I gasped.

Yes, that's right, Molly Schmeck has a keen grasp of the obvious.

Micki smiled.  "She does."

I heaved a sigh and squirmed in my bonds.  Dork! I silently admonished myself.  "Sorry," I muttered.  "Nervous."

"Quite understandable," Micki replied.  Her dimpled smile was quite charming, by the way.  As were her bazooms.

I squirmed a little more.  Micki watched.

"I've figured out why Winnie locked us in these mittens," I announced.  I tried wiggling my fingers for emphasis, but it probably wasn't noticeable.

Micki was still smiling.  "Yes?"

"I've already tried untying one of her 'puzzle knots' with my teeth," I confessed, "without success.  Anyway, with our fingers inside these mittens they're unavailable and we can't untie each other, right?"

"Winnie's knots can be quite intractable," Micki purred.

I heaved another sigh, then pouted.  "Stop it," I muttered.

Micki's smile was unchanged.  "What?"

"I know that smile," I huffed.  "You think I'm naive and adorable.  Stop it."

Micki continued her dimpled, highly irritating smile.  "I'll stop noticing your adorableness when you stop leering at my breasts."

How did I respond?  Time for another visit from Captain Obvious.  My cheeks blushed crimson red, I blinked through my glasses, and my heart pounded.  "Stop," I whined.

Micki chuckled again, then squirmed in my direction.  She really was helpless, like me.  Thankfully, it wasn't a long trip.  And while Micki hadn't yet had time to start glowing like me, her efforts were redistributing some of the dungeon dirt I'd missed to her smooth, firm, rope-dimpled skin.  Also, her bazooms were bobbing.  I ignored my quivering lady bits and watched.  Anyway, it wasn't long before she reached the wall, executed an impressive (and entertaining), rope-impeded, tummy-and-thigh-tensing crunch, and heaved herself up against the wall.  She wiggled close until she was nudging my side.

And then, she planted a warm, wet kiss on my startled lips.  It wasn't deep (with tongue), but was very friendly... and unexpected.

"Micki!" I gasped (in a near whisper).  Unexpected?  Why was Micki kissing me in any way unexpected?  What else did I think she was gonna do?  Anyway, during the kiss her left bazoom had pressed against the side of my right breast, so... that happened.  My quivering lady bits agreed.  It happened.

Then, I did the only logical thing possible: I leaned close and returned the kiss, and this time it was long, deep, and wet, with tongue.

Winifred's Workshop 
 Chapter 9

So... more languishing.  I was still naked and helplessly bound, but at least I wasn't gagged and at least I wasn't alone.  I had an identically naked and bound but not gagged Micki Booker, recognized sexy librarian, to keep me company, and to make out with!

We did.  A lot.  That is, we sucked face and squirmed our naked, dirty, rope-bound bodies together.  Sweaty, rope-dimpled flesh slid against sweaty, rope-dimpled flesh.  The balls of our ball-gag necklaces rubbed together and slid around as our lips smacked and tongues dueled.  Our breasts rubbed and slid in a similar manner.

It was glorious!  And it was frustrating.

Bondage mittens so we couldn't untie each other?  Hah!  Hah, I tell you!  Winnie did it to me so I couldn't play with Micki's bazooms!  Yes, we could squash our sweaty, rope-framed boobs together and play Dueling Nipples, but my hands couldn't squeeze her boobs... and she couldn't squeeze mine!  Wicked, wicked Winifrid Wilde!  And another thing: with our knees lashed together and our fingers and hands mitten-encased, our lady bits were completely unavailable!  They could tingle all they wanted (and mine did), but they were completely unavailable.  I don't know really about Micki's, but my lady bits very much wanted to be available.


Eventually, we tired of making out.  More correctly, we decided to take a breather.  The sun tunnel was still glowing the same as before, meaning it wasn't any dimmer as far as I could tell.  We "relaxed" against the wall, rope-yoked shoulder to rope-yoked shoulder, rope-cinched upper-arm to rope-cinched upper-arm, and hip to hip.  I rested the side of my head against Micki's shoulder.  Somehow, my glasses were still firmly in place.  Good ol' glasses!

"How are you doing, Molly?" Micki inquired.

I heaved a long, melancholy sigh before answering.  "Everybody keeps asking me that," I huffed.  "I'm fine.  Okay?"  I was staring into infinity, not focusing on the bars, wire, and triple-bolted and padlocked steel Inner Door.  I felt Micki turn her head and plant a kiss on my dirty, semi-tousled hair.  She's nice... like Wicked Winnie Wilde.

"We're worried we might be bringing you along too quickly," Micki purred.

I smiled, even though I knew Micki couldn't see it.  "We being the senior members of the Rope Chapter of The Club?"

"We being all the members of the Rope Chapter of The Club," Micki replied, "as well as the Oversight Committee at The Club's World Headquarters."

I could hear the smile in her voice and I continued smiling as well.  "You mean the secret World Headquarters hidden inside the crater of the extinct volcano on that otherwise deserted tropical island?  The one accessible only by The Club's stealth helicopters and nuclear submarines?"

"The same," Micki chuckled.  "But seriously, we want you to be comfortable... so to speak."

"So to speak," I drawled, giving my inescapable and artistically complicated box-tie a perfunctory squirm.

Micki's answer was to kiss the top of my head, again.

We leaned against each other... and relaxed.  More time passed.  We made out a couple of more time ("snogged," as Winnie would say)... but mostly we relaxed.  Eventually, I fell asleep (believe it or not).


Suddenly, I snapped awake!

It was pitch back!  Zero light!  Obviously, as far as the Dungeon Complex's sun tunnel was concerned it was well after sunset!

I heard the screech of the Inner Door opening and surmised the snick of the three bolts being drawn was what had woken me up.  Sneaker-clad feet scuffed across the dirty, unseen floor of the Gloating Antechamber, a key clicked and turned the lock in the Dungeon Cell gate, and whoever had arrived entered the Cell!

"Okay, Winnie," I heard Micki chuckle, "very dramatic.  Mrrrpfh!"

At the same time, someone had popped the ball-gag back in my mouth and was tightening and buckling the strap!  "Mrrrpfh!"  That's right, my reaction was identical to Micki's.  I was now convinced there were at least two intruders, and apparently they could see in the dark!  What the hell?

"Mrrrk!"  Someone had dragged a hood over my head!  It was stretchy, possibly spandex, and while its actual color might have been chartreuse, shocking pink, or international orange, as far as I was concerned it was midnight-in-a-coalmine black.  Then, one of the intruders hefted me onto their shoulder in a fireman's carry!   "Mrmpfh!"  I was being carried away!  And I heard the sound of the various gates and doors behind us squealing and thudding closed behind us, as well as the locks being turned!  We crossed the basement, climbed the basement stairs, and the journey continued!

"Mrrrk."  I'd returned to form.  It was another of my embarrassingly pathetic gagged whines.

I couldn't see anything, and I mean anything!  There wasn't even a faint glow penetrating the stretched fabric.   At least I could breathe.  The hood wasn't airtight, only lightproof, assuming there was any light for it to be proof against.  It was also skintight and was doing a fine job of holding my glasses in place.

The journey continued and eventually we entered a tiled space.  I could tell by the echoes when I shared another of my gagged whines.  "Mrrrf!"  I'd been heaved off my kidnapper's shoulder and deposited on what I realized was a commode.  My knees were untied, I spread my knees as far as my ankle-foot-toe bonds would allow, and... I waited.  Seconds passed, then one of my kidnappers juggled the handle of the commode, dropping a not so subtle hint.  I shivered in embarrassment (and probably blushed under my hood), and eventually managed to empty my bladder.  It hadn't been all that full, but I had needed to go.

And then, the toilet flushed, I was lifted off the commode and back onto the kidnapper's shoulder—"Mrrrf!"—and the other kidnapper used a wet and distressing cool washcloth to reach between my legs and clean my crotch.  I squirmed in distress until I received a slap on my right butt-cheek.  Humiliated and unable to rub my offended posterior, I took the hint, stopped moving, and did my best sack-of-potatoes imitation.

I was carried from the bathroom, there was a brief pause, then I was heaved off my kidnapper's shoulder and landed on a soft surface that I quickly realized was a mattress.  I squirmed and struggled but couldn't prevent my kidnappers from changing my bonds.  They—and I was now convinced "they" meant two and only two kidnappers (with grabby hands)—untied my toe-foot-ankle bonds and lashed my legs in a frog-tie.  I fought like the proverbial tigress (meaning tiger cub), but soon my knees were bent, my shins tied to the backs of their respective thighs, and I was kneeling on the bed (obviously it was a bed) with my knees splayed apart.

And then, more rope slithered, tightened, and was cinched, and a pair of legs—I decided they were legs, specifically the backs of two knees and thighs—were lashed across my frog-tied thighs.  Who the legs belonged to, I had no idea, but whoever they were, their legs had to be widely splayed.  My kidnappers took their time.  More rope slithered and tightened.  Some of it I could feel, and some of it I could only hear.

The end result was yours truly sitting upright on the soft mattress, naked, ball-gagged, hooded, box-tied, frog-tied, and with someone's widely splayed legs resting atop and lashed to my splayed thighs!

Well... this was different.

And then, finally, the hood was jerked from my head.  I shook the head in question to straighten my hair as my blinking eyes adjusted to the dim light, looked down... and screamed through my gag!


Winifred's Workshop 
 Chapter 9


Chapter 8 Թ Chapter 10