|by Van ©2012
It had been a hell of a year—and
certainly the worst year of Aurora Macy's young life.
Rory's parents were killed in a car crash a month before the
start of the school year, her senior year in high school.
That had been devastating, of course, but with the love and
support of her friends she'd handled it as well as could be
She'd also handled Aunt Belinda and Uncle Malcolm being named as
her guardian in her parents' wills. Her "new Mom and Dad" (As if!) seemed to have
taken parenting and charm lessons from the Dursley's, Harry
Potter's guardians. Rory was convinced that had there been
a room under the stairs at Belinda and Malcolm's suburban
cookie-cutter house, that
would have been her bedroom. In any case, parties, boys,
and all forms of
"unseemly behavior" were strictly forbidden.
And it wasn't as if Rory was anything remotely resembling a
"wild child". She had straight "A"s (or close enough) and
though well-liked by her classmates, even popular, she wasn't a party
animal. She'd done a little dating, but had yet to
experience the joy and agony of a Serious Romance.
The next blow came with the discovery that her parents (her real parents) had been
under-insured and over-leveraged. By the time the probate
dust settled, the house was sold (her real house), and all that was left was seven
thousand dollars and change in a trust account that would be
Rory's on her eighteenth birthday. That, and the silver,
2008 Corolla that had been "Mom's car" were her legacy.
The Corolla's name was "Akira-chan",
and was a nifty set of wheels—when Wicked Witch Belinda let Rory
have the keys.
So, she had nowhere near the scratch needed to go to college,
even though she easily
had the required grades and test scores. Rory didn't even
bother applying to schools or chasing scholarships (like all her
friends). She wasn't depressed, just realistic. She
needed to graduate, get the hell out from under Belinda and
Malcolm "Dursley's" collective thumb, find a job, and start
earning some money. Higher education could wait. It
would have to wait.
Then—a ray of hope.
Just before graduation, a letter from Megan Whelan
arrived. A distant relative, Megan was a tenured professor
of English Literature at Lewis and Clark University. She'd
been a close friend of Rory's mother—and the letter was an
invitation for an explicitly open-ended visit. In short,
Megan was inviting Rory to join the Whelan household!
It was a veritable rising sun
Rory had fond memories of summer trips to the Whelans.
Megan's two daughters, Caitlin and Fiona, were both older, and
they'd treated her like their kid sister for as long as she
could remember. The trio had had tons of fun exploring the wooded acres
surrounding the Whelans' Victorian-style home. To
passersby on the rural road bordering one side of the property,
it was a tangle of second growth forest. They never
suspected that behind a dense, hedge-like screen lay a forest of
mainly cedar and spruce, with a few oaks and broad-leaf
maples. There was also a babbling brook and a grassy
meadow with a Princess' ransom of wildflowers ripe for
garland-making. Equally unsuspected, Whelan Wood was actually Sherwood Forest,
Frontier Wilderness, Never Land, Mirkwood, or Lothlórien,
depending on the Game-of-the-Day.
As the baby of the group, Rory's role was usually (meaning
always) the passive role of Captured Princess—Mohican, Saxon,
Norman, Pirate, or Elven, as required. She'd spent many a
long, lazy, summer day tied to a tree and awaiting rescue; but
never the entire day,
of course. It had always
been great fun and she'd never
been bullied. Yes, the games had been great fun... as well as
Childhood damsel-in-distress fun at the Whelans' had led to
adolescent fantasies of peril and restraint. Nothing
obsessive, of course, just a little innocent fun (that is,
masturbation). Rory would lie in bed and imagine herself
bound, gagged, and about to meet some elaborate and overly
complicated Horrible Demise. Of course, Batman, Indiana
Jones, Harry Potter, Edward, and/or Jacob would save her, just
in the proverbial nick of time. Midnight, solo efforts at
actual bondage with some old scarves and hanks of soft
clothesline were sometimes involved, but not always. She'd
almost broached the
topic of recreational bondage a few times with her girlfriends,
during sleepovers and slumber parties, but had always chickened
out. And as for kinky experimentation with any of her
modest trickle of boyfriends? As if!
Rory announced that she was leaving the day after her
eighteen birthday, the day after her aunt and uncle's legal
obligation as her guardian expired. The "Dursley's"
reaction wasn't quite on
the order of "Don't let the door hit you in the ass on the way
out," but they certainly didn't object.
Anyway... here she was, recent high school grad, eighteen and
counting, all of her worldly possessions in the back of Akira-chan, and tooling
down the Interstate towards the Whelans.
made the turn off the state road and onto the winding, woodsy
driveway that led to "Stately Whelan Manor." Gravel
crunched under the tires, the straight trunks of forest giants
loomed on all sides, a green canopy stretched overhead, and
ferns and rhododendrons bordered the way. She noted a
minor change from her last visit. Short wooden posts
painted in a variety of mellow, subdued, earth-tone colors lined
the roadway, every ten or so yards. All had copper caps,
almost like floppy little hats, and each "brim" protected a
broad, horizontal band of what was probably reflective paint or
tape from the hypothetical rain. Rory realized what they
were. Mushroom road
markers! How cute!
The house finally came into view and she noted another
change. "Oh, wow!" she gasped. Two summers ago, the
last time she was here, the house had worn a shabby, slightly
peeling coat of white paint. Now, she was a Victorian
"painted lady," resplendent in the same colors used for the
mushroom markers. The main body was a pleasing shade of
sage green, with lighter and darker green accents.
Brick-red, mulberry, and a warm gold adorned various elements of
Rory eased Akira-chan
to a stop beside the gate of the picket fence defining the front
garden. Simultaneously, the front door of the house flew
open and a two female figures came running down the garden path,
all smiles and fluttering red hair.
It was Caitlin and Fiona. Rory grinned and returned her
cousins' greetings. "Big-Fox! Baby-Fox!"
Much squealing, laughing, kissing, and hugging ensued.
Both Whelan sisters had fair skin and long, red, naturally curly
Caitlin ("Big Fox") was the oldest and the tallest, with a
quirky smile and green eyes. She was in her late twenties
and held an administrative position on the county government
staff—something to do with number crunching. Rory wasn't
sure of the details.
Fiona ("Baby Fox") had been out of college for one (or was it
two?) years. Her eyes were blue-green, or possibly
green-blue, depending on the light. She was an author of
children's books, with one published and a second on the
way. She also designed, fabricated and sold bird and doll
houses, both in kit and finished form. It wasn't anything
one could call a thriving business, but her products were
carried by several local garden and toy stores.
Rory ("Ginger-Fox," to the Whelans) was actually an inch taller
than Fiona, but her hair was long, fine, straight, and red, as in ginger, as in
strawberry-blond with the emphasis on strawberry. Her eyes
were blue, in all light. Her secondary Whelan nickname was
"Dimple-Fox," in honor of her cherubic smile.
"Where's Momma-Fox?" Rory asked as the sisters helped carry her
stuff from the car. She was referring to Megan, of course,
a.k.a. Professor Whelan. "At school?"
"You know about the trip to the UK, right?" Caitlin asked.
Rory nodded. "Yeah, a three month guest lecture and
sabbatical thing, but—"
"But she's not supposed to leave 'til next weekend," Fiona
interrupted. "Well, they called and asked her to come
early. Some shuffling of the lecture schedule, so..."
"She left yesterday," Caitlin continued. "When the dust
settles in Cambridge, we'll set up a video chat and she can
welcome you, herself. In the meanwhile, you'll have to
make do with us."
Rory grinned and shrugged. "Whatever." She locked
eyes with Fiona... and they squealed and hugged, again.
Caitlin rolled her eyes. Then laughed and joined in.
assigned bedroom was fabulous.
The decor was Victorian, like the rest of the house, but without
being stuffy and overdone, also like the rest of the
house. As an added bonus, there was a signed Fiona Whelan
watercolor framed and hanging on the wall over the dresser, a
cheerful scene of children playing tag in the woods. Rory
had to smile. Caitlin, Fiona (the artist, herself), and an
eight or nine year old Rory were the children in question and
Whelan Woods was the setting.
She'd had a quick tour of the house—a refresher tour,
actually—followed by a leisurely dinner and a great deal of
chatting and catching up.
Rory had stated her intention to start looking for a job as soon
as possible, but the Whelan sisters had pish-poshed that idea
immediately. She'd been encouraged (ordered) to relax for a
week or two. Then, they'd help her find employment.
Now, Rory was in bed—her four-post, canopied, really cool, Victorian
bed. Caitlin would be leaving for work early tomorrow
morning, not to return 'til around five, but Fiona had promised
to give her a more detailed tour of the forest, gardens, her
workshop, etc. Rory had changed into a nightie, a short,
sheer, sleeveless baby-doll with frills and matching
panties. So... sleep.
There was ooooone
little problem. Rory had made a discovery while unpacking.
The dresser and closet had been emptied for Rory's
use, but in the back of the bottom drawer of the dresser she'd
found a small cardboard gift box. They must have missed this,
she reasoned. She opened the box to see what it was—and
It was a set of handcuffs, unlike anything Rory had ever seen.
The object was stainless steel and all one piece, not a pair of
bracelets with a connecting chain. There was a hinge on
one end and a lock on the other. When closed, as it was
now, the halves formed two side-by-side ovals, perfectly sized
and positioned for a pair of petite wrists held together with
hands facing. All of the edges were smooth and rounded,
inside and out, and the thing was heavy.
Rory wasn't really sure what to call it. "Handcuffs"
sounded too... plural. Joined-handcuffs?
Double-manacles? She shrugged. Whatever.
There was a key in the box, and it was without wards, like a
roller skate key. She slid the business end into the
matching slot in the lock and gave it a quarter turn.
There was an authoritative click
and the cuffs popped opened, pivoting freely on the hinge.
She extracted the key, then closed the two halves and they
snapped back together with another click.
"Cool!" She dropped the cuffs and key back into the box
and continued unpacking.
And now she was in bed and ready for sleep... or not.
It was ridiculous, inappropriate, even stupid—but she simply had to try them... or it..
or whatever you called the thing.
All the bedroom lights were out, but the quarter moon shining
through the open drapes provided a soft, blue-white glow
adequate for her purposes. Rory slid from between the
sheets, pattered to the dresser, and opened the bottom
drawer. She opened the box, extracted the cuffs and key,
slid the drawer closed, and returned to bed.
Click. The cuffs opened, ready to capture Rory's
wrists... but the soon to be Helpless Damsel paused, a dimpled,
mischievous smile curling her lips. "Why not?" she
whispered under her breath, set the open cuffs on the
nightstand, then returned to the dresser. She selected a
folded bandana and two scarves, then returned to bed.
She unfolded the bandana, crumpled it into a wad, and stuffed it
into her mouth. It was a close fit. Next, she folded
one of the scarves point-to-point, forming a triangle, then
rolled it into a narrow bandage. This was centered over
the wad and between her lips and teeth, then cinched at the nape
of the neck. She freed her hair from under the scarf,
cinched it again, as tight as she could, and tied it off in a
well-compacted square knot. Rory's experience with such
things might be limited, but she could tell it was a good gag,
in to stay until she untied the knot.
Sitting on the bed, she folded and rolled the second scarf,
crossed her ankles, and bound them together. She had just
enough scarf to encircle her ankles and cinch between them,
once, then tie another square knot. The result was tight
and rendered her legs more-or-less useless. Escape by
hopping would be impossible. Crawling or rolling on the
floor and shuffling on her knees were now her only options.
Rory considered locking her wrists behind her back. That
would certainly be the option favored by a hypothetical
Nefarious Kidnapper, Evil Twin, or Jealous Rival. The
hands-in-front option would render her much less helpless.
In fact, she'd have to pretend
she couldn't simply reach up and pull down her gag or
bend at the waist and untie her ankles. This was an
inconvenient truth often ignored by the directors of movie and
TV melodramas, and it always bugged the heck out of Rory when
she saw it. However—and it was a very big however—the hands-in-front position
left her fingers available for naughty fun. So...
Next time I'll buckle a belt
around my arms and boobs, Rory promised herself.
The moment of truth.
Carefully noting the position of the key on the nightstand, Rory
picked up the cuffs and pulled the covers over herself.
Getting the cuffs closed around her wrists proved more of a
challenge than she thought it would be. Had she gone with
the behind-the-back option, it probably would have been easier,
as she could use her weight to snap the cuffs closed. She
finally rolled over onto her stomach and did much the same
thing, pressing the semi-closed cuffs against her thighs until
the two halves came together and locked.
And that was that.
rolled over onto her back, nestled her Cruelly Gagged head
against her pillow, and decided to go with the "Kim Possible
Scenario," a personal favorite.
She'd loved the Disney cartoon as a kid, identifying with the
ginger-haired cheerleader/secret agent heroine. She'd even
dressed as Kim for Halloween one year, going with the "combat
casual" look of clunky boots, olive-drab cargo pants, low-slung
web belt with "hi-tech gadgets" in canvas pouches (like a small
can of Silly String), a long-sleeve, black t-shirt, and black
gloves. Mom had refused to shorten the t-shirt so as to
bare her tummy—even though Rory and her friends had explained
how this was vital to
the character—but they'd cheated as soon as they left the house
by knotting the shirt at the small of her back. The
costume had been a huge hit at the party, even though she didn't
have an accompanying Ron or Shego.
Anyway... the Kim Possible Scenario.
Kim (Rory) had been captured by Shego, tied up and gagged (Natch) and tucked away in
some isolated locale to keep her out of mischief while Shego
carried out Dr. Drakken's evil plan. Kim (Rory) writhed in
her bonds and mewled (very quietly)
through her gag. Shego had opened the valve on a tank of
some sort of insidious, mind-altering gas—at the conclusion of
the gloating scene and just as she made her dramatic exit, of
course—and the colorless, odorless vapor was doing all sorts of
horrible things to
poor Kim (while Rory's fluttering fingers did all sorts of wonderful things to Rory).
She rolled and struggled, but couldn't get free, and the effects
of the gas (finger fiddling) was getting worse and worse (better
and better). Would Ron and/or Rufus save her in
time? Would Dr. Drakken finally succeed in taking over the
world? And why couldn't Shego go after that bitch Bonnie
Rockwaller for a change?
Finally... inevitably... Kim lost consciousness, and Rory
came... and it was a good one.
She lay in the tangle of covers, nostrils flaring and bosom
heaving as she panted through her gag and basked in the
afterglow. As her breathing and heart rates returned to
normal... Rory closed her eyes.
I'll free myself in a minute,
she decided. In a
opened her eyes.
The moonlight had been replaced by a predawn glow, and she heard
the purr of a car engine receding into the distance. Caitlin going to work, she
realized. She then tried to stretch and instantly
realized—I'm bound and gagged!
The tummy-fluttering wave of panic passed as quickly as it had
come—and she remembered. Idiot! You fell asleep without freeing yourself.
She reached up and pulled down the cleaving scarf, then pulled
the wadded bandana from her mouth. I'm going to have a terrible case
of pillow face, she thought. I just hope Fiona doesn't realize
it's really gag face.
"Idiot!" she muttered under her breath.
She freed herself from the tangled covers, sat up against the
headboard, and reached for the key. All she had to do
Rory realized she'd made a terrible
mistake. She blindly locked the cuffs around her
wrists with the key slot facing up, towards her horrified face,
and not down, towards what were now her almost certainly useless fingers!
With the cuffs holding her wrists together, palm-to-palm, she
couldn't reach the slot. Now that she thought of it, she
might not have been able to reach the slot if the cuffs had been facing the
"right" way. She tried and tried, twisting her wrists and
fluttering her fingers. She dropped the key several times,
but never came remotely close to opening the lock. Not even a contortionist could do
Then, it hit her. Your
stupid mouth, you stupid idiot! She took the key
between her teeth, bit down, and groped blindly for the
slot. The end of the key clicked and slid and clicked
against the lock. The angle was awkward, and her forearm,
cheek, and jaw kept getting in the way. She thought she'd
succeeded in snagging the slot a couple of times, but the key
just wouldn't go in. She kept trying.
After two very frustrating minutes, it occurred to Rory she
might have the groove that ran the length of the key facing the
wrong way. She spat out the key, carefully examined the
configuration of key and slot, then took the key between her
teeth, again. She was sure she had it right, this
time. All she had to do was—
"Rory, are you still asleep?" It was a quiet rap on the
door and Fiona's whispered voice.
"No!" Rory gasped, spitting out the key. "I mean,
yes! I mean... oh god."
The door was open and Fiona had entered the bedroom. She
was wearing cutoffs and a tank-top. After a flash of
surprise, she walked over and stood beside the bed, smiling down
at Rory's disheveled, cuffed, ankle-bound, and mortified form.
"We're all early risers," Fiona explained, "and I remember you
were, too, during your summer visits." She sat on the bed,
took Rory's crossed ankles in her lap, and began untying the
scarf. "I thought I'd ask if I should start breakfast."
"Oh god," Rory gasped, again. Her cheeks, no, her entire face felt like it
was about to burst into flame.
"I thought you'd find the cuffs and ask me about them," Fiona
chuckled. "I never thought you'd play with them."
"Close your mouth, Ginger-Fox," Fiona giggled. "Deep
"I'm okay," Rory muttered. "And I was playing. I
thought I could unlock them, and..."
"You mean you didn't think,"
Fiona smiled, then leaned forward and untied the cleave-gag
scarf still around Rory's neck. "Where's the key?"
"I dropped it," Rory admitted. She reached into the tangle
of covers. "Here it is."
"Got it," Fiona said, snatching the key from Rory's
fingers. She stood and walked towards the door.
"Fiona!" Rory complained.
"How does bacon and eggs sound?" Fiona asked. "I'll get
the bacon started. Come down when you're ready."
"I-I can't get dressed like this!" Rory objected, lifting her
Fiona turned in the open doorway. "Silly Ginger-Fox, it's
just us girls. In fact, it's just you and me 'til Caitlin
gets home." And then, she was gone.
"Oh god," Rory gasped, a third time. "What have I gotten