| Chapter 2
Knock-knock-knock! → My bedroom door.
"Anne? Are you okay?" → Logan.
No, I wasn't okay. In fact, I was → fReAkIng OuT!!
I was also lying on my bed, naked, bound, and gagged!
By way of review: my big toes were tied together with an 18"
length of 3mm coyote-brown nylon cord—my body was tightly bound
from ankles to shoulders in a cinched and hitched web of many,
many feet of natural, conditioned, 6mm hemp rope—my wrists were
cuffed and padlocked behind my back in black leather cuffs with
chrome hardware—my neck was wearing a padlocked, black leather
collar with chrome hardware (for no particular reason)—and my
mouth was plugged by a 1¾" black ball of medical-grade silicon
rubber attached to a black leather strap with chrome hardware
that was padlocked at the nape of my neck!
I wasn't ready to receive visitors!
Also, I was suffering the symptoms of what I assumed was a
low-grade coronary and was doing my frantic best to escape from
what I had purposely designed to be completely inescapable
"Mrrrrr!" That was a pathetic and purposefully very quiet
whine, not permission for Logan to enter.
Clickity-click-clunk. Something metallic was
fiddling with my bedroom door's lock!
The bungalow's bedroom and bathroom doors have "privacy
locks." You press a button on the inside doorknob to lock
others out (such as, for example, Logan) and yourself in.
However, in case of emergency, there are small holes on the outside
of the doorknobs for the insertion of a special "L"-shaped
key to release said locks. Actually, it's more
like a peculiar Allen Wrench than a typical key. Anyway,
obviously, that's what Logan was doing!
That was a ball-gagged SCREAM, my attempt to politely deny Logan
Logan entered anyway!
She flipped on my overhead light and I could see that she was
wearing a very pretty, very skimpy, very flimsy babydoll nightie
with matching (and clearly visible) bikini panties. The
manufacturer probably called the color something like "Misty
Jade" and it definitely complemented her red hair and
Celtic complexion. Her feet were bare. This was par
for the course for bedtime at the bungalow. Logan goes for
sexy and I go for utilitarian, meaning panties and a tank-top or
t-shirt... when I'm not naked, bound, and gagged.
"My-oh-my, what have we here?" Logan chuckled as she smiled (in
a sinister manner) and nonchalantly padded towards the bed,
swinging her hips (and the rest of her clearly visible and only
technically clothed body).
I stopped struggling and blinked in surprise. (My heart
continued pounding.) Logan wasn't surprised? She
wasn't screaming? She wasn't rushing to my
rescue? She wasn't frantically dialing 911 to report a
home-invasion and/or kidnapping-in-progress? I was naked,
bound, and gagged, and she was... CASUAL ABOUT IT??
"I thought it was one of those nights," Logan
Huh? At the moment, that was about the limit of the
level of sophistication of my thought processes.
"Yeah, that's right," Logan purred, "I've known about your deep,
dark, kinky little pastime since about a month after you
That was something like... three years ago?
"No, it was two months after you moved in." Logan
sat down on the bed and smiled up at the dangling key.
"You were at work, I was rummaging in your closet for a pair of
shoes to borrow, and I discovered your secret stash of rope and
I frowned in Righteous Outrage.
"Don't be like that," Logan chuckled. "We'd already
formally agreed it was okay to borrow each others clothes, and
by the first time I looted your closet you'd already worn my
favorite sandals twice."
Fair enough. I transitioned from Righteous Outrage to
Profound Disappointment. Logan remained unmoved.
"Very clever timing apparatus," she purred, turning her head and
visually tracing the fishing line from the key to the fishing
weight and across the bedroom to the "innocent" decorative box
on my Ikea shelves. "And your attention to detail is
most commendable. I see the various lengths of
fishing line all snap together with tiny little spring-clips,
you appear to have tied everything with proper knots, and you
used heat-shrink tubing to seal the knots. Belt and suspenders,
as the saying goes, and very neat and tidy. Well
done." She reached out and cupped my right breast and
Allow me to reiterate.
She reached out and cupped my right breast and gently
"Don't have kittens," Logan chuckled. "I'm just being
friendly." She slid a pair of fingers under the strands of
rope passing under my breasts and gave it a gentle tug.
"I'm also admiring your rope-work. Again, well
done." She rolled me over and examined my cuffed
wrists. "Yes... very secure... but something is
lacking." She stood and padded to my closet.
Heart pounding, my cheeks and ears (and possibly boobs)
blushing, I resumed struggling and watched with great interest
as she lifted the lid of my Rubbermaid self-bondage toy-box,
rummaged inside, then padded back to the bed with one of my
remaining 15ft bundles of hemp and a second 18" length
of 3mm brown cord!
And then... she rolled me onto my stomach and tied my elbows
Just to be clear, when Logan was finished my elbows weren't
physically touching. They weren't jammed together.
In fact, they were three or four inches apart; but they were
most definitely bound, encircled by eight or more neatly
stacked individual strands of hemp that were cinched between my
elbows and hitched through the upper-body-harness I'd
tied on myself. Considerable rope remained, so she used it
to lash my forearms to my waist-bonds and link my wrist-cuffs to
my butt/pussy-cleaving crotch-rope! She tied the final
knot up between my elbows! That particular knot was the
only knot behind my back, but it might as well have been on the
far side of the moon as far as my fingers were concerned.
Logan then took a step back and watched (smiling) as I explored
my enhanced bondage. Tying my elbows together (or close
together) was something I'd never been able to do for myself
with any degree of satisfaction. But now, Logan had done
it for me! I could tell immediately that if she left me
like this, when three hours expired and the key dropped, I would
almost certainly not be able free myself.
I rolled onto my side, mustered the appropriate outrage, and glowered
up at my... captor? "Mrrrk!" Actually, my
expression was probably more of a wounded pout than a glower.
"That's better, don't you agree?" Logan purred, then used the
second 18" length of cord to tie my thumbs together! She
also looped the free ends around my hands (which, of course,
were now palm-to-palm and destined to stay that way until she
untied me), and tied the final knot somewhere between my
lashed-together forearms and lashed-together elbows. Talk
Finally... the thing I dreaded most but knew had to be coming
Logan reached up, unclipped the length of fishing line bearing
the key to my freedom from the tiny little ring on the bottom of
the fishing weight, held it by the end of said fishing line, and
gave it a mocking, teasing little shake for my benefit.
This isn't good, I decided, blinking up at the flopping
key and Logan's chillingly evil (and beautiful) smile.
"Well, have fun," Logan wished me, leaned down and kissed my
slightly sweaty forehead, then spun on her bare heels, padded to
my bedroom door, blew me an air-kiss, and turned off the
overhead light. "We'll talk in the morning," she
promised. "G'night!" She then pulled the door
closed... and was gone.
I remained behind... alone, lying on my bed... naked, bound,
gagged... and helpless... for real!
Eventually, the electronic timer of my cleverly engineered
release system would reach the three hour mark and turn itself
off, thus releasing the eye-bolt and steel plate, and the
fishing weight would drop several inches. As for the key
to my freedom, it would be at the other end of the bungalow in
the custody of The Evil Logan and not within the reach
of my now cord-bound-and-no-longer-able-to-untie-anything
I was well and truly screwed (so to speak).
So... this was
the very first time in my entire life that I'd ever been truly,
inescapably bound and gagged with my fate completely in
the hands of another person!
Granted, after I'd refined my techniques and moved into the
bungalow, I was always inescapably bound and gagged
during my Sbf/Solo-F sessions (if I did it right), but I
was the one who'd done the binding and gagging and I was
the one who'd set the 100% reliable release-timer, so my fate
was still in my hands, right?
This was different. This was very different.
My fate was completely in Logan's hands!
Also granted, Logan was my friend and bungalow-mate and not
a serial killer, human trafficker, or alien sent to earth to
collect human specimens for study (and/or probing). The
point was, however... she wasn't me!
And you'd think this sort of thing would be the underlying
fantasy of my self-bondage sessions made real and therefore better,
right? Not so much. Go figure. I'd already
experienced one orgasm immediately prior to Logan letting
herself in, but I could tell that the chances of any more, uh,
"fun with bondage" had departed with the key. I wasn't
freaking out anymore, but I definitely wasn't aroused. I
had too much to think about.
Unfortunately, the knotted crotch-rope cleaving my
post-orgasmic, hyper-stimulated pussy hadn't gotten the
memo. As I rolled on the bed and squirmed in my bonds for
comfort, the crotch-rope continued sliding back and forth
(meaning continued sawing back and forth) like nothing
had happened. I did my best to ignore it.
So... with regard to the big picture... what now?
Obviously, things had changed. As already mentioned, I
wasn't worried that Logan was going to keep me her prisoner
forever. Maybe she'd give me a little time to roll around
and squirm, then return and set me free. Maybe she'd
return, like... right now. I stared across the nearly dark
bedroom at my closed bedroom door, waiting for Logan to
reappear. She didn't.
So, was I in for the night? Maybe. Sigh.
Probably. That meant I'd have plenty of time to think.
Items on my cognitive agenda for the rest of the evening were:
feelings. Upon Logan's unexpected and uninvited
arrival, my emotional response could be summed up with a
single word: MORTIFIED!! But then, I realized I
might be freaking out but Logan wasn't, and I calmed
down and felt better. I was still embarrassed, or
course, but... Logan already knew about my hobby?
Wow. Also... Logan knew how to rig a good
elbow-tie? Logan was a rigger? Feelings aside,
that was important, but I didn't have enough information.
I heaved the required
Melodramatic Sigh... sigh... and closed my
eyes. I figured I might as well get some sleep... while
naked, bound, gagged, and helpless.
Logan's feelings. How the hell could I
know anything about that? Obviously, she had experience
with... something... but what? She'd promised we'd talk
in the morning (which was another hint that I was in for the
night), so I guess I'd have to put the topic of "Logan's
feelings" on hold 'til then. Bummer.
Figuring out a way to escape. That wasn't gonna
happen and I knew it.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ zzzzzzz ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~
"Mrrrfh?" I opened
my eyes. "Mrrrfh!" OMG! I was naked, bound,
That was Logan! Oh... that's right... I was naked, bound,
and gagged. Now I remembered. I'd done it to myself
It was morning. The drapes were open and the Venetian
blinds up and sunlight was streaming through my bedroom
windows. Logan had rolled me onto my tummy and was
fiddling with my bondage. Specifically, she was untying my
crotch-rope, separating my wrist-bonds from the formerly
crotch-cleaving knotted rope, then retying the rope somewhere
behind my back and up near my elbows. My crotch was now
liberated, but my wrists were still bound, as well as my thumbs
All the while, Logan smiled and chattered about how it was going
to be a really nice Saturday, as prognosticated by the
Weather Channel app on her iPad. She was wearing a variant
of her usual weekend-at-home uniform: jeans, tank-top (with
bra), and bare feet.
I was still only half awake, but I was alert enough to
wonder why Logan wasn't untying me completely but was untying
selected ropes and retying the resulting free
ends. My legs were next, but this time she untied and
unhitched my legs all the way down to my ankles, then untied my
ankles, then untied my big toes. So, my legs were
free (like my crotch), but I was still inescapably bound from
the waist up—"Mrrrk!"—and still ball-gagged! I was also
still collared (for no particular reason).
Smiling sweetly (meaning evilly) Logan used one of the tangle of
15ft ropes on the bed to put the D-ring on the front of my
collar to use for its first time ever. She tied one end of
the rope through the D-ring, giving me what was obviously a hemp
leash. She then encouraged me to sit up, plant my bare
feet on the floor, and stand.
That's what you say to your camel when you want him or her to do
something, right? I was now embarrassed and humiliated,
as well as naked, bound, gagged, and leashed.
"Off we go," Logan added as she stepped off. I decided I
didn't want to start my day with a semi-strangulation, so I
quickly followed. My blond hair was a tousled mess, but I
managed to shake most of it out of my face as we padded to the
bathroom. Logan's red hair was neatly brushed and pulled
back in a ponytail enforced by a black, fabric-covered elastic.
We entered the bathroom and Logan planted my butt on the
toilet. She then crossed her arms under her bra and
tank-top covered chest and waited. I ignored her smiling
face, cotton-covered boobs, lightly freckled forearms, and
blushed, fidgeting on the cool wooden seat.
"Well?" Logan inquired after a few seconds.
I continued blushing but glared in response.
"When ya gotta go, ya gotta go," Logan stated.
Cliché? Yes, but when she's right, she's right.
Still blushing, I ignored Logan's looming presence and somehow
managed to empty my bladder.
Logan flushed the toilet, then I was back on my feet and Logan
was using a wet washcloth to scrub me clean between my
legs! I assume my mother used to do that for me when I was
a toddler, but I don't really remember. It was certainly
the first time Logan had ever done it for me. The
least she could have done was let the water run a while so it
could warm up a little before wetting the
washcloth. The damn thing was cold! Anyway,
Logan picked up my hairbrush and began gently brushing my
hair. That took about a minute... and felt good. She
left it loose about my rope-yoked shoulders and framing my
Then, it was out the bathroom door and through the house to the
kitchen. She plunked my naked ass in a kitchen chair,
untied the 15ft hemp leash from my collar, then doubled the
rope, looped it under the chair's seat and across my thighs, and
lashed me in place, tying off the free ends through my
waist-ropes in front. I lifted my chin and stared daggers
at my disgustingly smug (and attractive) bungalow-mate and
"I'll cook breakfast," Logan announced. "We can talk while
I feed you. How 'bout pancakes? I feel like
She didn't wait for a reply (seeing as how I wasn't in any
condition to make one), but turned and set to work. By
happy coincidence, I was fine with pancakes.
I noted that the "feed you" thing suggested she wasn't going to
untie me until at least after breakfast. Also, it was
obvious that Logan had a plan, meaning she was in charge and
knew what she wanted to make happen. That was probably a
good thing, 'cause I was in no position to meaningfully
influence the morning's events. I heaved the latest in a
long series of ball-gagged sighs... Sigh... and watched
Logan tackle the culinary task at hand.
cook. She's no foodie, but she can cook. So, she
didn't find pancakes, syrup, bacon, orange juice, and coffee
much of a challenge. Breakfast was delicious. I
remained naked and tied to the chair, but Logan fished "the key
to my freedom" out of her jeans pocket, unlocked and removed my
ball-gag, then held a small glass of orange juice to my
lips. Needless to say, after all those long, dark hours of
being ball-gagged, it was most welcome. Then, she pocketed
the key—Darn!—sat in the chair next to mine, cut up and
poured syrup on my big stack of pancakes, then stuffed a
fork-load of syrupy goodness into my mouth. I chewed and
As the meal continued Logan also ate, so I suppose that
made the diminishing contents of the plate our pancakes.
Not to worry. She made sure I received my fair
share. Logan was a kind and considerate kidnapper. I
was content to chew and swallow (and glower) and put off any
discussion of the fate of naked prisoners (such as myself) until
we'd had our fill.
Finally, food consumed, I watched as Logan loaded the used
mixing bowl, glasses, plates, and flatware in the dishwasher,
then washed the fry-pan and cooking utensils at the sink.
She then refilled her coffee mug, sat back down next to me, and
"Untie me," I demanded (my opening move).
"Nope," Logan parried, then sipped her coffee.
I tried again. "Now!"
"Nope." She held up her mug, offering me a sip.
I shook my head. I was sufficiently caffeinated.
"I like your boobs," Logan said (out of nowhere). "It's
nice to finally get a really good look at them."
I blushed. "Stop it," I muttered. We were
bungalow-mates, but neither of us paraded around the bungalow
naked. We wore robes on our way to and from the bathroom
and while we did sometimes shower and change at our gym, I'd
never noticed her staring at me, nor had I stared at her.
And then there was the issue of Logan's habit of wearing skimpy
nighties to bed. I'd seen her in nothing but a layer or
two of sheer, flimsy fabric. Logan also has nice boobs...
and based on her russet pubic bush (as seen through her nightie
and matching panties), she's a natural redhead (not that that
was ever in question).
"Seriously," Logan continued, sipping her coffee again, "they're
very nice. Full. Not overly large.
Firm but reasonably bouncy without being floppy. I
My cheeks were crimson and my blush was approaching spontaneous
combustion. "Untie me."
"Not 'til we've talked about a few things," Logan purred.
Logan sipped her coffee, then pointed to the mug. "You
sure you don't want some?"
Logan set her mug down on the table. "First of all, you
obviously have excellent engineering skills. Your
electromagnetic timer is impressive, but it's stupid to rely on
any timer, by which I mean only a timer.
You should have a 'designated safety,' someone who will come to
your rescue if, meaning when, something goes
wrong. I'm perfectly willing to fill that role. I
hate the thought of you naked, bound, gagged, and unable to free
yourself." She picked up the mug and took another
sip. "Actually, that's kinda hot, but you know
what I mean."
"Lo-gan!" I whined (and blushed).
Logan grinned. "Don't you ever tie yourself up
again without letting me know about it and telling me what time
you want me to come charging to the rescue."
Having Logan as backup was a reasonable proposal, now that the
self-bondage cat was out of the bag. "Uh... okay."
Still blushing, I managed a weak smile. "I was
embarrassed," I said in a near whisper. "That's why I
didn't tell you about my... hobby. I was embarrassed."
"Oh, Sweetie, I know," Logan chuckled, then leaned close and
planted a chaste kiss on my lips. "Now that that's
I squirmed in my bonds (nervously). "Yes?"
"You should know that I, myself, have some small
experience in the bondage arts and sciences," Logan
"I already figured that out," I huffed.
"Last night," I responded, "while you were lashing my wrists to
my crotch-rope and binding my thumbs."
Logan's smile broadened. "Anyway, I'm more than willing to
share my technical expertise. I also have access to a few
toys you might find interesting."
I blinked in confusion (mild confusion). "Huh?"
Logan patted my knee. "You'll see."
"Uh... I don't know," I said quietly.
Logan grinned. "Well, take your time and think about
it." She climbed to her feet, carried her mug to the
dishwasher and added it to the load, dropped a detergent pod in
the appropriate slot, closed the door, threw the latch, and
turned it on. "I'm gonna do the laundry," she announced,
then headed for the kitchen door.
"Wait! Untie me! Lo-gan!"
Too late. She was gone. I heaved the required
Exasperated Sigh, then gave my bonds a perfunctory squirm.
The dishwasher was making its usual preliminary gurgling noises.
"Dammit!" (Pardon my French.)
Like I said before, Logan is a hoot-and-a-half.
Logan left me
lashed to that stupid chair for the full length of the
dishwasher cycle... and several minutes beyond. Meanwhile,
she gathered our dirty laundry and carried it all to the
basement for washing and drying. And once the washer was
going down below, she ran our vacuum over the floors of the
bungalow. The door to the basement door is in the kitchen,
so I had many opportunities to petition for release as she came
and went, cheerfully performing all the usual weekend chores and
ignoring me completely. All my sincere (and increasingly
ticked off) entreaties fell on apparently deaf but clearly
Finally, late in the morning, Logan released me. She
untied the rope holding me in the chair, helped me to my bare
feet, grabbed my ball-gag and the open padlock from the kitchen
table, then led me through the bungalow to my bedroom. She
then turned me around and began untying my cord and rope
bonds. Finally! She untied my thumbs and
hands, unlocked the padlock joining my wrist cuffs, and tossed
it on the bed. Then, she untied the elbow-bonds she'd tied
last night. And then, she turned and strolled to the
bedroom door. "You're welcome," she chuckled as she made
her exit, closing the bedroom door behind her. That's
right, she was leaving me in my bedroom with the majority of my
"Hilarious," I muttered under my breath, then set to work.
Soon (meaning after a great deal of wiggling and squirming
effort), I managed to free myself. That left me naked but
with the leather collar still padlocked around my neck (for no
particular reason). Also, my leather wrist cuffs were
still padlocked around my wrists. That's right, Logan had
taken the key with her!
"Freakin' hilarious," I huffed (pardon my French), then set to
work coiling and properly stowing the ropes and cords in my
Rubbermaid self-bondage toy-box, along with my ball-gag and the
single open padlock that had formerly locked my wrists together.
I have a backup key to all the padlocks, but in a fit of
cleverness I'd dropped it in a decorative glass jar, added a
couple of hundred glass marbles, then filled the jar to the top
with honey. It rested on a lower shelf of my Ikea
bookshelves. If I ever found myself self-bound but, for
some reason, unable to use the primary key to free myself, I'd
be able to use the key in the jar; but only at the cost of
making a sticky mess. Truth be told, I never intended to
need a backup key, but I'd read enough Sbf/Solo-F literature to
know that you're supposed to use something like the
honey-jar-trick to discourage the use of said key, so I'd done
it. It was dramatic.
Anyway, I decided to take a more straightforward approach to
regaining cuff and collar free status. I donned my robe
(lightweight terrycloth in a very pretty shade of pastel red
that's sort of a dusky-rose-pink), then stomped (padded) through
the bungalow, looking for my prankster-bungalow-mate. I
found her on the back porch, comfortably reclined on a lounge
chair and reading a book on her iPad.
"Key!" I demanded, holding out my right palm.
Logan smiled, then pulled the key—my key—from her
pocket. "C'mere," she chuckled.
I padded forward and she unlocked the padlocks securing the
buckles of my wrist-cuffs... then handed me the now open
padlocks... but not the key.
"What about the collar?" I demanded.
"I think it's cute," she explained.
"Lo-gan!" I whined, stamping my bare right foot.
"Consider it your penance for indulging in unsafe self-bondage,"
she purred. "In further penance, you're required
to wear your robe all day, and nothing else, and tonight I'm
going to show you a really cool self-bondage technique
you've probably never tried."
"What?" I demanded. "What technique?"
"You'll see," she chuckled. "Now, shoo. I'm
She ignored me. I stamped my foot, again, then stomped
(padded) from the porch.
Hoot-and-a-half my ass! Logan was being a
pain-in-the-butt! (Pardon my French.)
I decided to
risk taking a shower while still wearing my collar.
Afterwards, I used first a towel and then my blow-dryer to dry
my body, hair, the collar, and the collar's padlock. After
that, I found my cute little spray can of WD-40 (with its
folding, cute little red straw attached to the spray-cap), and
spun the collar around so the padlock was facing the
front. Then, working from my reflection in the bathroom
mirror, I carefully spritzed a little oil into the padlock's
keyhole, using a tissue to catch the excess. I then turned
the collar back around. It looks better with the D-ring in
front. And then, while I was at it, I padded back to the
bedroom and oiled my entire padlock collection. I figured
I might as well.
Anyway, the rest of our bungalow Saturday passed without
incident. I remained my robe-clad, collared, and
understandably resentful self and Logan remained fully-clothed
and gloating. Lunch was followed by a long, lazy
afternoon, which was followed by dinner, which was followed by a
couple of hours of TV watching. And then, it was time for
bed. Logan ordered me to visit the bathroom and conduct my
usual evening toilette, then meet her in my
bedroom. Not having much choice, I did so.
Logan was still dressed in the same jeans and tank-top she'd
worn all day. I watched (nervously) as she unrolled
something on my neatly made bed. It was... an exceedingly
lightweight sleeping bag? Whatever it was, it appeared to
be shiny black Lycra-spandex, was the general shape of a human
body, and... Oh! My neurons had finally
clicked and made the connection. It was a "sleepsack"—the
bondage kind—not the cute, cuddly little fleece things in pastel
prints they make for infants. I was savvy enough to know
about such things (meaning I'd seen them on the internet) but
this was my first real-world encounter.
"Sleepsack," Logan stated.
"Sleepsack," I agreed.
"This particular sack is layered with different weights of Lycra
fabric," Logan lectured. "And it's cut from a really
well-designed pattern. The stitching is smooth,
flush, and reinforced. Once inside you won't feel any
seams. You'll also find it has a really snug
fit. Super strong and very secure."
The sleepsack's zipper was open, so I could see the fabric was
black, inside and out, and there were sleeves sewn into either
side of the main sheath.
"But... how do I use it for self-bondage?" I asked. "If I
can zip myself into the thing it can't be that secure."
Logan's smile broadened. "I all depends on how you do
it. I'll walk you through it... so to speak."
The fob of the sleepsack's zipper, which ran up the front from
navel to throat, was clipped to one end of a long, narrow length
of nylon webbing. The other end of the webbing was hitched
and cinched around the top rail of my headboard.
"Robe off and on the bed," Logan suggested (ordered), giving the
taut bedspread a pat.
I swallowed my pride and obeyed. (I was curious. Sue
Next—and finally—Logan unlocked and removed my collar
and set it and its padlock on my bedside table.
"Slide your feet inside and start pulling it up," Logan
I pointed my feet and did so, then tugged and pulled until my
legs were tightly encased and the sack was up and over my
hips. I pulled it a little higher, inserted my left arm in
the interior sleeve and my left shoulder in the top, then
wiggled and squirmed until I could capture my right arm and
shoulder. The zipper was now zipped up to just above my
navel and the webbing hitched to the headboard was semi-taut...
which meant it was also semi-slack. I had wiggle-room.
"Fold your legs and squirm down to the foot of the bed," Logan
"I get it," I responded. "The webbing will pull the zipper
the rest of the way up."
"Correct," Logan nodded. "Then, you squirm back to the
middle of the bed. The webbing will still be there, of
course, and you'll be stuck inside the sack and able to wiggle
and squirm to your heart's content. Finally, when you
decide you've had enough, you spin on the bed 180° 'til your
feet face the head, then squirm down to the foot."
"Thus unzipping the zipper enough to wiggle out of the sheath,"
I added. I executed the squirm-down-the-bed maneuver, the
webbing snapped taut, and it did, indeed, zip the zipper up to
the top of the sleepsack's collar. I was now completely
encased in stretched Lycra all the way up to my chin. The
sleepsack's neck was like a turtleneck, by the way, or rather a
mock turtleneck in that it wasn't folded back on
itself. I scooted back up the bed and the webbing went
slack. More squirming confirmed that the zipper would
remain zipped until I reversed direction and repeated the
And then—being a "hoot-and-a-half"—Logan smiled, reached down,
and unclipped the webbing from the zipper's fob!
I blinked in surprise and alarm (see also betrayal). "Lo-gan!"
"Be right back," Logan promised (warned), and scurried from the
I writhed and rolled and shrugged and squirmed and did
everything I could think of to wiggle my way out of the
sleepsack. Logan was right in that I couldn't feel any
seams and the thing was tight. My skin slid back
and forth against the smooth fabric as I struggled against the
sheath encasing my body. It was... disconcerting...
especially with respect to my nipples—which, for some
Logan returned with a small cardboard box in her hands.
"Not even a little." I pouted, then gave the sleepsack one
last squirm and went still. I blew a few errant blond
strands out of my face and mustered my most scathing glare.
"You gotta admit it's pretty good bondage," Logan purred, "but
only marginal as self-bondage. I don't think
anyone's ever come up with a reliable timed release method for
getting out of sleepsacks."
I stared up at her, then heaved a sigh and shrugged my
Lycra-encased shoulders. I opened my mouth to agree (even
though I hadn't had much time to ponder the problem)
when—"Mrrrf!"—Logan crammed a ball-gag in my mouth! Of all
the nerve! She lifted my head and buckled the strap at the
nape of my neck and under my hair.
My ball-gag was still on my nightstand. The
ball-gag in my mouth was Logan's. Its
mouth-plugging sphere was smaller than the 1¾" medical silicon
rubber ball of my gag, possibly 1½", and while mine was solid,
Logan's was hollow and perforated by several round
openings. In other words, it had breathing holes.
I stared daggers, mewled in outrage—"Mrrpfh!"—and watched as she
reached back into her box of tricks and pulled out two items:
(1) a hairbrush, and (2) a black Lycra hood! I continued
complaining—"Mrrrf!"—as she brushed my hair, gathered it
together, and passed it through a reinforced opening in the top
of the hood, then stretched and fit the rest of the hood over my
resentfully staring and ball-gagged head.
It was one of those "Gwen hoods," the kind with a large,
oval-shaped opening in the front that leave the wearer's nose,
cheeks, eyes, and entire upper face exposed to the top of the
Logan made sure the hood perfectly gripped my head as she zipped
it closed in the back, then stretched the hood's collar section
over the sleepsack's collar. My neck was now doubly
encased in multiple layers of Lycra. And then, adding
insult to incarceration, she picked up my black leather collar
(with chrome hardware) from my nightstand, buckled it around my
neck and over the Lycra double coverage, and secured it with the
"Now," Logan said, smiling down at my Lycra-encased and utterly
helpless body. "I suggest you stay on the bed during the
night, but if you want to roll onto the floor I suppose it's
your prerogative." She reached out and squeezed my
Lycra-encased left breast. "Of course, I suppose I could
always fetch a few coils of your rope and lash you to
the bed, just to be sure. Do you want me to do that?"
I stared up at my captor/bungalow-mate, blinked a few times,
then shook my ball-gagged and hooded head. "Nrrrf."
"You'll stay on the bed?" she purred.
I nodded (and glared).
"Good girl," Logan chuckled, leaned close, and kissed my
forehead. "Enjoy playing with the sleepsack," she wished
me. "I'll see you in the morning."
I watched as Logan stood and padded to my bedroom door.
Then, as she'd done last night, she blew me an air-kiss. Infuriating!
"We still have a lot to discuss," Logan said, "such as
why you don't have any vibrators in your toy-box or the
bottom drawer of your nightstand. G'night." And with
that, she turned off the overhead light and closed the bedroom
"Mrrrf?" That was my belated reaction to the "vibrators"
hand grenade Logan had casually tossed into the bedroom before
abandoning me to my Lycra-encased fate.