|| THE ADVENTURES OF
destination was the pond, aka the Sunbathing Pond, aka the
Swimming Hole, aka Duck Central. To be more precise, it
was a stately oak off to one side of the grassy meadow in front
of the pond. It was a sunny day. Fluffy white
cumulus clouds drifted across a cerulean sky, swallows soared or
wafted in the light breeze, banking and swerving to capture the
occasional winged insect and ruin its day. Birds (other
birds) were singing, including red-winged blackbirds, whose
"O-ka-leeee!" territorial song is quite pleasant... the
first ten-thousand times you hear it.
Anyway, Brows led my naked, box-tied, and gagged self to the
more-or-less bare ground shaded by the oak tree's canopy.
She'd made fiendish preparations. To wit...
Her stool, paint stand (with built-in box for her brushes,
paints, rags, etc.), and easel were deployed with a clean
stretched canvas clamped in place, everything required to
capture and immortalize my captured and mortal self.
A tiny space, no more than a square foot, had been carefully
cleared of all miscellaneous twigs and forest debris, exposing a
smooth, flat patch of pristine dirt.
The clear spot was directly under one of the oak's massive
side-branches and also under a large brass ring dangling from
the branch about ten feet in the air and supported by multiple
strands of neatly wrapped rope identical to my bonds.
Additional strands of rope passed through the ring and limply
hung, waiting to capture any passing damsels that might wander
I'll spare you the detailed blow-by-blow (or in this case,
hitch-by-hitch) account of the rigging process and cut to the
chase. By the time Brows was satisfied, I was balanced on
the toes of my left foot with my right leg bent at the knee,
tucked against my right upper-body, and lashed in place, with
multiple vertical and diagonal strands of ropes making sure I
was going to stay on that exact spot. The vertical
supporting strands passed through the ring overhead. The
diagonals stretched from junction-points on my upper-body
box-tie bonds or my tucked half-frog-tie/half-ball-tie and
either up to other branches or down to exposed roots. The
vertical strands were there to fight gravity and the diagonals
to keep me from twisting and turning.
My left leg was completely rope-free, and other than Brow's
Cunning Web, it was my sole means of support—or rather, the toes
thereof. My left sole (like my left heel) wasn't on the
ground. Truth be told, I found I could simply hang in the
ropes and be perfectly comfortable (for now), but Brows
explained that the tension in the muscles of my left leg and
foot was important to the composition, so, good artist's model
that I was, I kept by toes firmly planted on terra firma.
Also, she warned that if I decided to swing in the ropes and
"monkey around," she'd use a willow switch to make me pay.
Apparently, Brows was a stern taskmistress and brooked no
nonsense from her models. I knew she was kidding, of
course, and the fact that she'd actually cut a fresh willow
switch and it was leaning against the side of her paint stand
was neither here nor there.
Good rigging takes time, and when the rigger in question is an
artist as concerned with the aesthetics of the excess rope as
the actual bondage binding her long-suffering model, it really
takes time... like an hour... or most of an hour.
So... there I was... tied up and "suffering" and gagged.
My Brave Retorts and Pathetic Pleas went unvoiced. O
the tragedy! The ropes creaked now and then, every
so slightly, as the gentle breeze stirring the oak's leaves and
allowing dappled sunlight to play across my bound, naked skin
and also, ever so slightly, lifted the branch, and...
Okay, that last bit is total bullpucky. The branch
supporting my bound self was too hefty to stir in anything less
than a freakin' hurricane, much less a "gentle breeze,"
but there I was.
Oh-by-the-way, Brows had been thoughtful enough to capture most
of my hair and tie it in a tight bundle with one end of a rope,
stretch the rope up, slightly off to one side and over a
separate branch, pull out the slack, and then tie it off.
This was for my "added comfort," she explained, for head
And then, she planted a kiss on my left cheek (face cheek),
patted by right cheek (butt cheek), then planted her cute little
ass on her stool and began to paint... and paint... and paint...
She hadn't captured all my hair, of course, and the
strands she'd missed kept blowing around in that infernal
"gentle breeze." It wasn't hot enough for me to sweat...
much... but a few of the more persistent strands found some
excuse to plaster themselves to my gagged face, and I could do
nothing about it. Also, flies were buzzing around.
Thankfully, they were few and far between and none were overly
inquisitive or of the horse or deer fly varieties,
which are known to bite.
Another hour passed.
Brows painted and I posed. Not a word was spoken.
Brows was concentrating on her work and I was gagged, so... no
conversation, clever or otherwise.
At some point I decided enough was enough and did the only thing
a Heroic Damsel like myself could do under the
circumstances. I took a nap.
I dreamed I
was a kidnapped princess being held captive by an evil hobbit
with huge, grotesque eyebrows. Okay, that's more
bullpucky. I didn't dream anything, not that I recall,
anyway. I dozed in the summer heat, enjoying the shade of
the stately oak and trapped in the tight embrace of Brow's
perfidious ropes. And then...
"I don't believe it. She's actually asleep."
Oh, great, I thought, Mom's here. I
distinctly remember thinking that: Oh, great, Mom's
here. I opened my eyes and confirmed the presence of
my loving mother, and standing next to her was Libby! Both
were dressed for a summer jog in the woods in anklets,
trail-runners, baggy running shorts, and sports bras.
Their blond and brown tresses, respectively, were pulled back in
ponytails and they were showing a lot of tan, smooth, glowing
skin. They were also smiling, obviously enjoying the sight
of their daughter and best friend's daughter, respectively,
naked, bound, gagged, not quite hanging from a tree, and being
painted by Brows.
This brought to the fore a heretofore unrealized consequence of
allowing one's self to be bound, gagged, and not quite hung from
a tree: it makes it impossible to crawl under a rock and hide
when one's maternal unit and our neighbor-friend unexpectedly
pop up. All I could do was blush, and I did. And
when they stepped forward and began gently examining my
bonds—all the while smiling their dimpled smiles and cooing
sympathetic claptrap like "Oh, you poor thing!" and "Ah, look
how helpless she is!"—it didn't help. It felt like my
cheeks (face cheeks) were about to spontaneously combust!
"Do you mind?" Brows muttered. "I'm workin' here."
"Oh, sorry, darling," my mom purred, then abandoned her daughter
to cruel fate and stepped behind Brows to admire the
work-in-progress. Libby planted a kiss on my left cheek
(face cheek) and joined her BFF.
"Very nice," Mom intoned.
"Very," Libby agreed.
Yeah, frikkin' wonderful, I silently fumed.
Mom and Libby watched as Brows continued to paint. I
continued languishing in the cuddly squeeze of Brow's ropes.
"You aren't going to have to do this to her again, are
you?" Mom inquired.
Finally, some motherly concern!
"You mean before finishing this canvas?" Brows
inquired, and Mom nodded. "No, in the first hour I more or
less memorize the important details as I pencil in the scene and
start on the figure. After that, I only need the
occasional reference glance."
The first hour? The first freakin' hour?
"MRRRPFH!" I screamed through my gag and fought my
bonds with all my strength—not that it did me any good. I
kicked by left leg and swung back and forth in the ropes (a
little). My hanging breasts bobbed and swayed (probably)
and my scalp complained as I repeatedly tugged against my "head
"We seem to have upset her," Mom chuckled.
"Hey! Settle down!" Brows ordered, glaring in my
direction. "Don't make me use the switch."
"Is she okay?" Libby asked in a whisper loud enough for me to
At least somebody gives a damn about poor, suffering
Londyn! I remember thinking.
"She's fine," my Loving Mother chuckled. Like I said
earlier, once a DiD-sister, always a DiD-sister.
"And she'll be even better once Brows takes pity and unties
her," Mom continued, "which will be soon, right?"
"Huh?" Brows asked. She was concentrating on some detail,
probably something in the background that had nothing to do with
poor, bound and gagged me. "Oh, yeah, sure." She
painted for a few more seconds. "Soon, I promise."
"Well..." Mom planted a kiss on the top of Brow's
head. "We better get back to our run before we cool down
"Yes," Libby agreed, "before we cool down."
Traitors! I fumed.
They turned and jogged away, but didn't get far before Brows
grinned at me and started cleaning her brush.
"I haven't decided how I'm going to paint you!" she
shouted back over her shoulder.
Mom and Libby skidded to a halt and turned to stare at Brow's
"Say what?" Mom inquired (demanded).
Brows gave me a saucy wink. "How I'm going to have you
pose!" Brows clarified.
"And by 'you' you mean Kim, of course!" Libby shouted, nodding
at her blond BFF and my Mother Dearest.
"You plural!" Brows shouted, "as in you and you! As in both
Mom and Libby exchanged an amused glance.
"Good luck with that!" Mom shouted, then they turned and jogged
I watched Mom and Libby cross the meadow, their ponytails
swinging as they ran, and disappear into the trees. Mom
and Libby, each the subject of a canvas of their own, naked,
gagged, and bound in some inescapable manner? I decided I
was okay with that.
Meanwhile, Brows was packing up her paints and brushes and
folding her stool and paint stand. She then released the
clamps holding the canvas in the easel and carried it away...
and by "it" I mean the canvas... and by "away" I mean she was
"I'll be back," Brows called back over her shoulder, "for the
rest of my stuff."
"I squirmed in my bonds and stared daggers at Brow's back as she
disappeared in the direction of the cabin, and did not
appreciate being verbally lumped in as a part of her "stuff."
Meanwhile, out on the pond, a male red-winged blackbird clung to
the side of a swaying cattail, gripping the stalk with his tiny
black feet, and reminded the world of his perpetual and total
territorial hegemony over this particular stretch of pond... as
he had, on a regularly recurring basis, for the past several
"MRRRF!" I screamed. (Gaglish to English: "SHUT THE
Like the rest of the uncaring universe, the stupid bird ignored
It took a
total of four trips for Brows to return the area under the oak
to its original pristine condition.
The first trip, as already noted, was to transport the canvas
back to the cabin. We wouldn't want to smear the fresh
paint of Brow's precious masterpiece-in-progress, now would we?
The second trip was for her stool, paint stand, and easel.
The stool and stand were already folded. The easel met the
same fate, and then she bundled everything together into a
surprisingly compact, eminently manageable, but strange-looking
backpack. Obviously, it was all part of a system.
Brows hefted her studio-away-from-studio onto her shoulders and
carried it off.
The third trip was for me? Oh no. The third
trip was for the brass ring hanging from the tree and all the
frakkin' rope. Actually, not all the frakkin'
rope. She finally released me from my
not-quite-suspended predicament, but left my box-tie bondage
(and gag) intact and added a leash. She looped one end of
a rope around my neck and tied a non-compacting knot—giving me
an excellent opportunity to stare into her smirking face and growl
through my gag—then tied the other end to an exposed tree root
off to one side.
Next, I watched Brow's scramble up the oak's trunk in a very
monkey-like fashion, shimmy out on the branch under which I had
semi-dangled, and begin untying the ropes supporting the
ring. This took a while as she'd put a lot of effort into
looping and wrapping the rope and tying an aesthetically
pleasing knot, and now it all had to be untied and unwrapped.
Finally, the rope and ring landed in the dirt with a thud,
Brows briefly swung from the branch, further establishing her
simian credentials, then dropped, also landing with a thud.
Next came... The Great Coiling. I continued watching (and
glowering) as Brows sorted all the various tangled strands of
hemp rope by length, which took a while, then carefully, neatly,
uniformly coiled each and every individual strand,
one-by-one. She then laid the coils out in order of size,
passed the single remaining uncoiled rope through the bundles,
added the brass ring, then looped and tied what amounted to a
pair of hemp straps. She lifted her impromptu
damsel-restraining-kit knapsack onto her shoulders, then
strolled in my direction.
I waited for her to untie the end of my leash and lead me back
to the cabin, but instead, she grinned, used the neck end of the
leash to pull me close, and planted a kiss on my glowing
"I got things to do," she announced, "but I'll be back."
And with that... she left! That's right, she left!
She abandoned me—box-tied, gagged, and tethered in place under
the shade of the oak!
"Mrrrf?" I didn't believe it. I stamped my left foot
in the dust (causing my rope-framed boobs to bounce), then gave
well-muffled voice to my supreme displeasure.
Brows didn't even look back. She just kept walking,
swinging her tight little buns in her tight little shorts as she
strolled back to her abode, no doubt already thinking about her
many unspecified "things to do" and not her bound and
gagged best friend!
She was gone. I didn't believe it. Brows was gone.
The fourth trip—the
might-as-well-bring-Londyn-along-while-I'm-at-it trip—was on
I turned and stared daggers at the blackbird out on the pond,
thinking avicidal thoughts. I pondered trekking into town
(once I was rope-free and fully clothed) and purchasing a
shotgun—possibly a fully automatic, belt-fed shotgun, if such
things are legal—then heaved a sigh and sat on the ground—then
immediately stood back up and looked around for a place less
infested with roots, twigs, and pebbles. I noticed a
comfortable-looking spot next to the oak's trunk within range of
my tether. I carefully walked the three paces required,
planted my naked butt on the dry, dusty ground, and settled my
box-tied arms and back against the rough bark.
Of course, I wasn't really thinking about blasting my
vociferous avian friend into a pink cloud of black
feathers. In the first place, killing songbirds is against
the law. In the second place, another territorial tyrant
would inevitably take his place, and shotgun shells are
expensive. And in the third place, once the Elite
Commandos of the local Audubon Society chapter got wind of my
blackbird murdering ways, they'd probably do something really
despicable to me... like kidnap me and deliver me to Brows.
I considered taking another nap. I was still considering
it when I fell asleep.
I didn't dream
this time either, and I awoke to find it was late in the
afternoon. By this time I'd been naked, tied up, and
gagged for most of the day and was ready for a change.
Also, I'd managed to roll around in the dirt and grind some of
said dirt into my slightly sweaty skin and was in dire need of a
Also, the reason I'd woken up was standing three feet away and
smiling down at me with her adorable, dimpled, EVIL smile.
Also... I was pissed off! "Mrrrpfh!"
"Temper, temper, young lady," Brows chuckled. "Just look
at you. What a mess."
Daggers. I stared all kinds of daggers in Brow's
smug direction, including Bowie knives, stilettos, dirks, those
curvy things I believe the Malaysians call a kris...
daggers. Brows deflected them one and all, even the lethal
kukri, the trademark blade of the Ghurka warrior. By the
way, those things spin quite nicely when you throw them (or in
this case stare them) but even they bounced
off the impervious, invisible armor that was Brow's gloating
"Such a dirty girl," Brows sighed. "Just look at all that
grubby skin. Lucky for you, the perfect solution is close
With that (and much to my surprise) Brows pulled a small bottle
of spring water from the hip pocket of her cargo short-shorts
and set it aside, then stripped to her pale, smooth, EVIL
skin. As the striptease continued, I quickly recovered
from my surprise and resumed visually dispatching blades in her
direction, still without effect.
Soon, Brow's sneakers, anklets, shorts, tank top, work shirt,
and panties were in a neatly folded stack. She stretched
her sylph-like body, reaching for the oak's green canopy,
arching her back and flattening her boobs. She then
stooped, nimbly untied the root end of my tether/leash, helped
me to my feet, spun me around, and started untying my gag.
This was a very welcome occurrence, of course.
She unwound the cleaving cloth, then turned me around and
plucked the ovoid ball of wadded and folded nylons from my
mouth. At this point, we were face-to-face and her bushy
beaver was within easy range of either of my grubby knees;
however, the bottle of water was back in her hands and she was
twisting off the cap. I decided to forgo kicking her in
the muffin basket—for now.
Brows took a swig from the bottle, grinned, then held it to my very
thirsty lips. I drank and drank. In fact, I emptied
"I haven't decided what I'm going to do to you once you untie
me," I said as Brows restored the cap to the empty bottle and
tossed it next to her clothes, "but it's going to be epic.
Hideous. Ghastly. Medieval."
"Well then..." Brows leaned close and planted a kiss on my
pouting lips. "Guess I better not untie you." Still
smiling the same dimpled, I'm-in-charge smile, she turned and
sauntered in the direction of the pond. The end of my
leash was back in her hand, so I had no choice but to follow.
"Medieval," I warned as we approached the water's edge. "I
may have to build something, like a rack or a horse or one of
those elaborate, slowly descending pendulum blade mechanisms,
but no worries, I'll keep you bound and gagged in a box 'til
it's ready, no matter how long it takes."
Brows looked back at me over her right shoulder, still
smiling. "As if your mom would let you," she purred.
She had a point. "Shut up!" I growled.
By this time we were entering the water... and I have to admit
it felt very good. The bottom drops off about ten
feet from shore and soon we were swimming. More precisely,
Brows was side-kicking in a slow circuit around me and I was
floating and treading water. Like I said, it felt good.
The blackbird had made a strategic withdrawal to the far side of
his territory once it was clear we intended to invade his
sovereign waters, but I could still faintly hear his call.
Seriously, I don't know why the ducks put up with it.
Ducks seem nice enough and nothing is cuter than a duckling, but
as a group they're nasty waterfowl. During the
mating season bachelors are known to chase after unwary females
and, to put it delicately, not take no for an answer. In
the avian world, "quack" probably translates as some sort of
Anyway, I don't know why the web-footed fiends don't gang up on
red-winged males and persuade them to shut the frakk up!
Maybe the ducks know exactly how irritating the constant
racket can be and let it happen to torture the other life forms
in the neighborhood, like me. As previously mentioned,
ducks are nasty.
"Hands!" I objected. Brows was using hers to make very
sure the dirt was washing away from my naked, bound,
squirming and kicking body.
"Settle down," Brows chuckled. "Ever have beer can
"What?" I responded.
"But you've heard of it, right?" Brows continued. She was
also continuing to run her hands over my wet, defenseless
body. "You take a whole chicken and prop it upright with a
half full can of beer up its butt and roast the whole shebang
either in the oven or on the grill with the hood down.
'Beer steam' infuses the meat. Some people use fruit juice
or cola, but I like a nice lager."
"Fascinating," I huffed. "It sounds... perverted"
"No, delicious," Brows chuckled. "Anyway," she continued,
"since you're spending the night I decided to fix something
nice. That's why it took me so long to remember to come
back and get you. I had to rub the bird with oil and
spices, then fire up the grill, let it get hot, then start the
bird roasting. And before that I had to take your clothes
back to your place and tell your mom that we're gonna do a
"Wait, what?" I demanded. "What am I gonna wear? I
mean, who says we're doing a 'sleepover?' I
"To answer your questions in the order in which they were
submitted," Brows purred. "Nothing but rope—I
say—and yes, I am Brows."
At this point, it occurred to me that I wasn't totally
defenseless and planted a kick between Brow's scissoring
legs. The drag of the water significantly slowed my leg
and weakened the blow, of course, but my shin thudded against
her pussy with the precision of a modern torpedo. Brows
giggled and we grappled, or rather she grappled.
Being box-tied, all I could do was squirm and kick and thrash my
legs. I also giggled. Brow's fingers were dancing
across my ribs and she was easily evading most of my efforts to
land a repeat muffin-kick.
Soon, we were both laughing and shrieking. I tried
swimming away, but Brows still had a tight grip on the end of my
leash so I never got far. Also, she repeatedly ducked
underwater... I'd tread water in a slow circle, ready to evade
the coming onslaught... then Brows-the-submarine-tickle-monster
would strike from the watery depths.
Eventually, we both decided we'd had enough. I floated on
my back and bound arms, Brows floated beside me, and we watched
the clouds drift overhead. Minutes passed.
Finally, Brows led me to shore, we emerged from the water, and
padded to the oak. Brows used my former cleave-gag to tie
my former nylon stuffing, the empty water bottle, and her folded
clothes together, then tucked the resulting bundle under her
right arm. We departed for the cabin with a naked, wet
Brows in the lead and my naked, wet, box-tied self bringing up
the rear, a coffle of one.
"Epic," I warned. "And you'll never see it coming."
"I'm quaking," Brows chuckled.
"And dripping," I purred, my eyes on her firm, pale behind,
striding legs, bare feet, and strong, straight back, imagining
her bound with rope and awaiting my pleasure. I was also
dripping, and my hair was a sopping mess with a goodly number of
tangled strands plastered to my face. "Epic. Epic
Brows didn't reply, but even with her back to me I could tell
she was smiling.
bother getting dressed once we got back to the cabin. I
guess she wanted to keep me company in my brazen nudity, or
something. Anyway, we both remained naked (not counting my
It turns out "beer can chicken" is delicious.
It's also greasy—not excessively greasy, not compared
to any other kind of properly roasted chicken, but it is
greasy—especially when Brows is doing the feeding and she isn't
too concerned about getting said grease all over your lips,
mouth, and lower face. Brows, of course, was fastidious,
making repeated use of a napkin to dab her smiling lips. I
could tell she was enjoying my unladylike messiness. There
was also the added complication of the Ranch dressing from the
garden salad that dribbled down my chin and dripped onto my
boobs. The accompanying beverage was Sam Adams Light, but
neither of us allowed so much as a drop of that Divine
Nectar to go to waste.
Anyway, once the chicken was reduced to bones, the salad
devoured, and two beer bottles ready to be recycled, Brows used
a damp washcloth to deal with what she called my "excessive
"That was good," I conceded as she scrubbed my face... then my
"Thanks," Brows answered absently. She was concentrating
on getting my right nipple dressing-free... and it was
concentrating on popping erect so the washcloth would have
"You should try it with a dark beer," I suggested, ignoring the
abrasive caress of the wet terrycloth.
Brows shook her head. "I have tried it.
You'd think it would be good, but it's strange.
Anyhoo..." She tossed the washcloth onto the table, helped
me stand, and led me to the living room/lounge area.
"Sit," she ordered, pointing at the sofa.
I heaved a tragic, long-suffering sigh and planted my keister on
the soft cushions. "Untie me," I demanded for the
umpteenth time since returning to the cabin.
Rather than comply with my eminently reasonable request, Brows
did the opposite. She tied me up some more!
Specifically, she used a long length of hemp to bind my ankles
together. She also took the added precaution of
including the soles and insteps of my feet and my
big-toes in the bondage. This was cruel and unusual and so
I wouldn't be able to hop around without punishing my feet,
especially my toes. Kangaroo-hopping back to Checkerspot
Meadows and the rescuing arms of my mother was now totally out
of the question. Typical. Too much is never enough
for Brows Magee.
I watched Brows clean up after the meal. Her naked,
perfidious self was the most entertaining thing in sight as she
hadn't bothered to turn on the TV and I didn't have the energy
to hop around in what would no doubt be a toe-torturing search
for the remote.
I know what you're thinking. Any normal person would
continue begging for release to relieve the agony of my hours
of bondage. Also, I should be wracked with worry about
Brows' ultimate intentions. In the first place, normal is
overrated. In the second, Brows knew how to tie a
"comfortable" box-tie and I keep myself in good, flexible
shape. None of her ropes bunched or bit into my
skin. I wasn't in distress... yet.
And as for worry, I knew Brows. Brows is a pussycat.
A mischievous, puckish, exasperating pussycat. Or
maybe a fox. Or a monkey. She's some kind
of trickster animal. Anyway, I was helpless but not in any
sort of danger. And as for my virtue... I wasn't scared...
I remember cuddling with Brows when we were still in
school. We were taking the same Art History class and were
studying together for the midterm exam. We were both fully
clothed (gym shorts and tank tops over panties and bras) and
Brow's arms were duct-taped behind her back, To be
precise, her fingers, hands, and arms were shrouded in a
stretched pair of knee-socks, her arms folded behind her back,
and then taped together, forearm-to-forearm.
I suppose I should explain. We were in
"DiD-House" (the ∆I∆ Sorority Residence), "fun with duct tape" was (meaning
is) the trademark ∆I∆ specialty (meaning obsession), and we were
new and clever ways to expand said specialty
(obsession). Granted, a duct-tape-box-tie isn't all that
new or clever, but practice makes perfect. Why Brows
on this particular occasion? Why not Brows on
this particular occasion?
Anyway, Brows was in my lap, I was paging through art books and
holding them so we could both see the color plates. We
each other on the artists and their works, as distorted through
the prism of the academic opinion of the assistant professor who
was teaching the course. We were also sharing a bowl of
popcorn (or was it something else?) and slurping diet
sodas. I was doing all the feeding and drink holding, of
course. With her arms bound, all Brows could do was play
baby-bird to my mommy-bird.
Now I remember. It was popcorn. Pop
Secret®, with EXTRA BUTTER. What? The sodas
were diet, and diet cancels out EXTRA BUTTER. Everybody
knows that. Anyhoo...
It was a late night session and we were tired. Eventually,
things got silly and we decided to reenact the spaghetti scene
from Lady and the Tramp, only with popcorn. With
Brows' head face-up in my lap I'd hold a kernel of popcorn
between my teeth, lean down... and deliver it to Brow's grinning
mouth. This amounted to a popcorn kiss, of course, and
things got very giggly. At that point, Dorothy Schmaling (blue
eyes, brown pageboy, nerd glasses, and a real sweetie) stuck her
head in and told us to "Get a room!" That's when we totally lost it.
We passed the midterm easily, and that was the extent of my
snuggling (and kissing) experience with Brows Magee... until
Once the kitchen was clean, the trash outside in the
racoon-proof receptacle, and the dishwasher running, Brows
sauntered into the living room, planted her keister next to my
keister... smiled... then pulled me into a tight hug and planted
a long, wet kiss on my frowning lips.
I returned the kiss for several seconds (just to be polite)...
then sputtered and squirmed. "Mrrrpfh!"
"What?" Brows inquired, then kissed me again.
Again, I waited until propriety
allowed me to reassert my Righteous Indignation.
Brows came up for air and raised an eyebrow (a big, bushy,
squirrel-like eyebrow) in inquiry.
"First of all,
keep your lips and tongue to yourself," I intoned. "Second of all,
untie me immediately. Third of all, let me get some rest.
You've been torturing me all day with your cruel and excessive bondage and
I'm tired and sore."
"Hmm, let's see," Brows purred. "No... no... and not until
you agree to help me capture your mom."
"And by capture, you
"On canvas, of course,"
Brows chuckled. "Also, in ropes."
"Insane monster," I accused (and suppressed a smile).
"What kind of a daughter would I be if I agreed to help you
capture my mom?"
"What kind of a DiD-sister would you be if you didn't?" Brows
I stared at Brows in disgust. I hate it when she's
right. Maternal affection is one thing, but participating
in a ∆I∆-worthy
prank is something else. "What about Libby?" I asked.
Brows grinned. "One model at a time," she purred, and we
We did a lot of kissing that night. A lot of
kissing. Also, one-sided cuddling, caressing, and
teasing. At first it was lips and tongues, but then necks,
breasts, shoulders, tummies, and thighs participated. I
was somewhat frustrated in my efforts, thanks to Brows' ropes,
but gamely struggled to keep up my end of things.
Eventually, Brows untied my feet, we adjourned to the queen-size
bed, and things got serious. I remained Brows' helpless prisoner,
so was unable to resist when she ordered me to spread my legs
and she had her wicked way with me. For politeness sake I
returned the favor. In my defense, who knew what sort
of hideous things Brows would do to me if I didn't at least try
to match her orgasm for orgasm.
And after that... we fell asleep. Devising a clever
stratagem for luring my mother into Brows' clutches would have
to wait 'til morning.
| Chapter 2