| by Van ©2012
final exams of Clementine "Clem" Ricci's freshman year at Lewis
& Clark University were over. There may have been an
exam or two left for the unfortunate few, but all of Clem's finals were over,
and so were her roommate's, Gwen Percy. Clem's thoughts
had already turned from academic concerns to their plans for the
Tonight would be the roomies last night in the dorm.
Tomorrow they would turn in their keys and hit the road.
Gwen's parents would be gone for two months on a round-the-world
trip that they'd been planning for years and Gwen had invited
her BFF to spend the summer at her place. Clem had
agreed. After all, it would either be go home with Gwen or
crash someplace else. Clem was an orphan and her closest
blood relatives were on the other side of the country.
Clem smiled as she crossed the main quadrangle, the hub of the
usually bustling campus. It would be a hoot spending the
summer at Gwen's. "Chateau Percy" was a largish, rambling
house surrounded by five acres of woods in a semi-rural gated
community. Clem had been the Percy's guest last
Thanksgiving and found it to be very pleasant and woodsy, cedar
siding, Arts & Crafts colors, and low-maintenance
landscaping that just managed to keep the forest at bay.
Gwen and Clem would have the run of the place for most of the
summer. Also, it had a pool!
Clem's plan was to find a summer job in a nearby town to earn a
little pocket money for the next year, but employment wasn't an
absolute necessity. She was on a full scholarship from the
Salamandras Foundation, the result of having won an essay
contest during her senior year in high school. She'd spend
the summer writing if the job hunt failed.
The main hoot of the arrangement would be Gwendoline Percy,
herself. They'd have at least two months and the privacy
of the empty house to explore Gwen's "special hobby."
This end of campus had already more-or-less turned into a ghost
town. Clem passed only a handful of her fellow
students. She mounted the steps of Nicholson Hall and
paused at the bulletin boards just inside the main entry.
She had zero interest in the clutter of outdated campus activity
posters and flyers. It was the printout of the building's
weekly schedule that held her attention. It confirmed what
she already knew, that the entire building was
deserted—officially. People were always looking for empty
classrooms for studying or class project meetings, but the odds
anyone else was sneaking around were slim and none... not
counting Gwen, of course.
Nicholson Hall was one of the oldest buildings on the L&C
campus and was a bit of an odd duck. Its style was Gothic
Revival, turrets and pointed arches and a complicated roof line,
all executed mainly in red brick. Inside, the wooden
floors and wainscoting were badly in need of refinishing.
The plaster walls' last paint-job had long since faded to a vile
shade of reddish-beige, and a mishmash of very old, mismatched,
and generally uncomfortable desks and chairs passed as
furniture. Historical enough to escape the wrecking ball,
"Old Nick" served mainly as overflow space for any class in the
Humanities Department that didn't require the use of the media
labs in the more modern buildings on the other side of campus
and whose professor didn't have the political pull to book more
comfortable accommodations in a more modern building, most of
which were also on the
other side of campus.
However, Old Nick held a Great Secret—Clem and Gwen's very own
"Room of Requirement."
Months before, looking for an out-of-the-way place to study and
write, Clem climbed the stairs to Nicholson's top floor and
poked around. Down a dirty, dead-end hallway
half-cluttered with broken desks, she discovered a locked
door. To be precise, the door had two locks, a deadbolt and a
padlock on a rusty hasp. The deadbolt was broken.
The main cylinder was still in the housing, but it was loose and
rattled to the touch. The dark patina of the brass padlock
and cobwebs around the door suggested it hadn't been opened for
many years. The story was clear. Someone had forced
the deadbolt, but rather than replace it, University Maintenance
had installed the hasp and padlock, but they'd done a very slipshod job.
The screws securing the hinge side were fully exposed instead of
being shielded under the hinge.
All of this would have been nothing more than a sad commentary
on the poor work ethic of Maintenance in years gone by, except
for one additional detail. Screwed into the upper frame of
the door was a brass plate. It was dark with age but still
legible. "ATTIC 3B NORTH." All the rooms in the
building had similar plates, but they'd been painted over and
long since supplanted by more modern signs of engraved plastic
at eye level.
"ATTIC." Now that
sounded promising. Clem whipped out the small multi-tool
attached to her key chain, unfolded the screwdriver, and
unscrewed the hasp. She opened the door and beheld a very
narrow and steep set of stairs leading upwards. Cobwebs
and dust confirmed long abandonment. She climbed the
stairs and found herself in—big surprise—an attic. The
floor-plan was irregular with lots of alcoves and nooks. A
multitude of trusses and beams crossed overhead. Clem's
best guess was the space encompassed the underside of one of
Nicholson's minor turrets and a series of side garrets.
The unpainted wood had long since turned to gray and the only
natural light came from the small, shuttered windows of a
half-dozen lancet-arched gables. The stairs and door
behind her were the only access.
An old-fashioned turn-key switch was mounted on the wall.
Clem gave it a twist—and the bulbs of three hanging fixtures popped in a shower of
sparks. The bulb of a fourth fixture remained intact,
emitting a weak, orange-tinted glow.
Clem smiled. A new deadbolt lock for the door—one for
which only she would
have the key—a little broom work, some new light bulbs, and an
old futon mattress and she'd have the perfect super-secret
study-nook. Her smile took on a mischievous curl.
The attic was also the
perfect playroom for Gwen.
|Oh, the Humanities!
"hobby" had come to light early in the academic year. On
reflection, it was like something out of one of those sometimes
good, usually bad, but always
predictable self-bondage stories on the internet—not that Clem
spent much time reading such stuff—really, honestly.
Anyway, the middle of Fall Quarter Clem had returned to the dorm
early from an afternoon symposium/discussion group. The TA
had caught a cold and cancelled the session. She unlocked
their door and discovered Gwen in bed. Oh-by-the-way, she
was in her underwear with her ankles and knees bound together
with folded scarves and her wrists scarf-bound in her lap.
A leather belt was buckled around her arms, pinning them to her
sides and compressing her breasts. Finally, a rolled sock
was stuffed in her mouth and held there by yet another narrowly
folded scarf. Her red hair was a tousled mess, her blue
eyes were as big as the proverbial saucers, and her bulging
cheeks bright crimson above the tight gag.
"Oh, great," Clem sighed as she closed the door behind her and
engaged the latch. "Please
tell me you're not pledging Delta Iota Delta." The Delts
were a sorority notorious for perpetrating bondage pranks.
Their "performance art" usually involved duct tape, but
sometimes they expressed themselves in other media—rope, string,
strips of old bedsheets, etc.
"Mrrpfh," Gwen "answered," shaking her head and continuing to
Clem dropped her messenger/laptop bag on her bed and gazed down
at her helpless and very much mortified roommate, hands on her
hips and a sad smile on her lips. "Really?
Self-bondage? Really?" She sat on the bed and pulled
down Gwen's cleave-gag.
Gwen spit out the sock. "Uh... yeah. Sorry."
Clem gazed at her blushing roommate. From the instant
they'd met, the blue-eyed, red-haired, fair-skinned, big-boobed,
gorgeous Gwen had been
an enigma. An obvious boy-magnet but not a party animal—giggly
and fun but not an
airhead—fit and athletic but not
a jock—studious but not
a drudge—rich parents but not
spoiled, Gwen had been difficult to pigeonhole.
Soon Clem came to realize she'd tripped across one of those
dreaded "Life Lessons." Cliques and tribes might be okay
for high school, but eventually, if you were lucky, you matured
and learned to take people one-at-a-time.
Anyway, to be fair, Gwen's tits weren't that big. They were
bigger than Clem's, but far from huge. Actually, Clem and
Gwen were similar in build and shapeliness, if Clem did say so
herself. But while Gwen was undeniably gorgeous (with a
generous side of girlishness), Clem was a brown-haired,
brown-eyed, studious tomboy with a dash of sexy-librarian.
It wasn't a look she cultivated, but her omnipresent glasses,
Noble Roman Nose (Bird Beak, to her less sensitive classmates),
and disinterest in haute
couture disqualified her for the "gorgeous"
designation—and Clem couldn't care less.
"Next time put the other sock on the outside doorknob," Clem
"Now you think I'm a freak," Gwen muttered, blinking back tears.
"I've always thought you're a freak," Clem answered, perfectly
deadpan. "You do this often?"
Gwen squirmed in her self-imposed bonds. "No...
Yes... Not all
"Of course," Clem nodded, then reached out and began untying the
knot of the scarf binding Gwen's wrists. "This isn't very
tight," she noted.
"It's difficult to tie up your own wrists," Gwen explained, then
her eyes popped wide, again. "Oh!"
Clem had given the scarf a serious
cinch, removing all slack from the narrowly folded, double loop
of silk-like polyester. "That's better." She retied
the knot, tucking the free ends under folds in the scarf on the
forearms side of the bondage and well out of the reach of Gwen's
fingers. "Where is
the other—never mind." She reached down and picked up the
mate of the sock-ball from the floor. "Found it.
Hands together, palm-to-palm."
Gwen frowned, but complied. "Uh, what are you gonna...
oh." She watched as Clem slid the sock over her hands and
bound wrists. "Oh."
"Oh," Clem chuckled, then went to her desk, rummaged through the
lower drawer, and returned waving a sixteen-inch
cable-tie. "This should do the trick."
Gwen stared as the milky-white plastic band closed around her
scarf-bound and sock-covered wrists and was tightened with a
firm tug. Vrrrrrip!
She was tied up! She was really tied up! "Uh, guess I'm not the
only freak around here," she muttered.
Clem just smiled back. "Now, if I remember correctly, you
don't have any more classes today. Am I right?"
"I was gonna study in
the library," Gwen answered, watching as Clem untied, tightened,
and retied the scarf binding her ankles, then did the same to
the scarf binding her knees.
"Well, if you're a good girl," Clem purred, "you can study
tonight. If you're a really
good girl, I'll untie you in time for dinner."
Gwen managed a weak (and very
adorable) dimpled smile. "You really don't think I'm a
Clem smiled back, then retrieved the balled-sock. "Like I
said, I've always thought you're a freak. Start making a
mental list of supplies we're going to need to let your freak
flag fly—totally in secret, of course. I'll do the same."
Gwen nodded. "I've already got some stuff."
"Why am I not surprised?" Clem chuckled. "Make a list
anyway." She thrust the sock-ball in Gwen's mouth, then
restored the cleave-gagging scarf. "You're paying for all
of it, of course," she said as she untied, tightened, and retied
the scarf. "It's your
|Oh, the Humanities!
was the first time Clem tied up Gwen. There had been many
times since, about twice a week, sometimes three. They
didn't let it interfere with their academic work and were always careful, making sure
the dorm room door was locked, the probability that someone
would come knocking was as low as possible, and the bondage
quick and easy to remove. It was all "innocent" fun, of
course. No touching (other than what was required to
render Gwen helpless), no vibrators (they never even talked about vibrators),
and the closest they came to nudity was bra and panties (which
in Gwen's case was
pretty damn sexy). Clem was never the bindee, only the binder. Gwen
had offered to let her sample the other side of the equation,
but Clem politely refused. Yes, it was careful, kinky,
But once they found the Room of Requirement, the game got more
Back in the present, Clem climbed the stairs to the top floor,
treading carefully and listening for noise. Other than the
squeak of her own sneakers, she heard nothing, no tapping shoes,
opening or closing of doors, or distant conversations, all of
which was reassuring and not surprising. She rounded the
corner and entered the narrow hallway that led to the door to
ATTIC 3B NORTH—and there was Gwen, sitting on the floor with her
back against said door and reading a book. "I told you not to wait right by the
door," Clem huffed, frowning at her roomie.
Gwen giggled and flashed her trademark dimpled smile. "As
if anyone would think twice if they saw me here." She was
wearing sneakers, jeans, and a t-shirt under a lightweight
hoodie. Clem was similarly attired, although instead of a
hoodie she was wearing one of her
trademark tweed jackets. Gwen batted her blue eyes at her
roommate. "I suppose you can punish me... if you want."
Gwen rolled her eyes, pulled out her keys, and unlocked the
deadbolt. "Get inside," she muttered. Gwen picked up
the small nylon duffel beside her on the floor, gracefully
stood, giggled again (another
trademark) and scampered through the door and up the
stairs. Clem sighed. Gwen always "scampered."
She couldn't help it. She crossed the threshold, closed
and locked the door, then followed Gwen up the stairs. She
did not scamper.
One of Gwen's Christmas gifts to Clem had been the slender but highly informative Douglas Kent's Complete Shibari
Volume 1: Land. They were working their way
through the various ties within, guided by the book's clear
descriptions, clever diagrams, and many truly inspirational
2: Sky, was on order. It dealt with suspension
techniques, but Clem made it clear she didn't consider herself
ready to hang Gwen from the rafters. Maybe the second book
would bring her around.
Gwen sat on the futon mattress in the middle of the floor and
started unlacing her sneakers. "What are you gonna do to
me this time?" she
"That would be telling," Clem chuckled as she hung her
messenger/laptop bag from the large coat hook she'd screwed into
one of sloping rafters near the top of the stairs. She
watched as Gwen finished removing her sneakers, peeled off her
anklets, shrugged out of her hoodie, wiggled out of her jeans,
and pulled off her t-shirt. Her remaining item of clothing
was the black, one-piece, scoop-front, French-cut swimsuit she
wore to swim laps in the Fitness Center pool. The
whisper-thin Lycra clung to her toned, pale body like the
proverbial second skin, especially when wet. Clem
noted—and promptly ignored—the prominent pokies straining the
fabric of the suit's unlined boob coverage. Clem unzipped
Gwen's duffel and pulled out a couple of large, neatly coiled
hanks of rope—white, quarter-inch, braided cotton. Not as
good for their purposes as conditioned jute, but a hell of a lot
cheaper. "Anyway, don't worry," Clem added, "I have a
Executing said plan took something like half an hour. When
Clem finally stood and took a step back, Gwen was bound from
head to toe. Her arms were behind her back. Loops of
doubled rope anchored the bondage, yoking her shoulders and
framing her boobs. Then, a running hitch bound her arms
above and below her elbows and around her forearms and
wrists. The second rope and another running hitch
encircled her upper torso, pinned her bound arms to her body,
and pressed her legs together, dimpling her flesh about every
six inches. The horizontal loops were all doubled, for a
total of four strands each, then cinched between the relevant
limbs and secured with an overhand knot. The two final or
"key" knots were tied at her ankles and just below her
bellybutton. There was no way she could reach the ankle
knot. The leg ropes became punishingly tight if she
tried. The arm-binding rope was hitched between her legs,
pinning her thumbs against her butt. It was impossible for
her to reach the bellybutton knot.
"The double ladder tie," Gwen noted, gazing up at her Dastardly
Clem nodded. "I told you I wanted to try it, but it's way too elaborate for the
Gwen squirmed, testing her bonds, then gave a quiet gasp. "Hey, you tied
knots in the crotch rope!"
Clem smiled. "Did I? The rope must have gotten
"Hah!" Gwen favored her captor with an expression of scathing disapproval.
(She wasn't an English/Drama double major for nothing.)
"We are not amused," she intoned.
"How 'bout aroused?" Clem inquired.
Gwen tried to hide a smile (and almost succeeded). "Shut
"Speaking of which..." Clem unzipped a side pocket of the
duffel and pulled out their single concession to the commercial
bondage industry (not counting Douglas Kent's books): a
ball-gag. Technically, it was a whiffle-ball-gag. The mouth-plug was a
thick-walled, hollow sphere of hard, black rubber riddled with
holes. It was an inch and a half in diameter, although
Gwen was convinced it grew in size the longer it was in her
mouth. It was secured by two straps of black leather, the
first a half inch wide strap that buckled at the nape of the
neck and the second a quarter inch strap that buckled under the
chin. The "small" size of the ball was a concession to
comfort, but the jaw-locking chin-strap forced her to
permanently bite down on the ball and made up for the
deficiency. The breathing holes of the whiffle design were
for safety. "Famous last words?" Clem inquired as she
knelt beside Gwen's head.
"You'll never get away with this," Gwen said earnestly.
"The campus police are already looking for me."
"Yes," Clem purred, "but they'll never find my secret
lair." She thrust the ball into Gwen's "unwilling" mouth
and buckled the straps under her hair and her chin. She
then stood and gazed down at the now bound and gagged
Gwen. "We really should work on our dialogue. We are English majors."
"Mrrfh." Gwen squirmed in the Cruel Ropes binding her body
and forced Piteous Moans past her Cruel Gag, then watched as
Clem crammed her sneakers, anklets, jeans, t-shirt, and hoodie
into the duffel.
"I assume you tinkled before I 'captured' you?" Clem asked as
she zipped the duffel closed, lifted it up, and tucked it in the
rafters near the stairs.
"Nrr-hurr," Gwen answered, nodding her gagged head.
"Well," Clem said, smiling at her Helpless Victim, "I
didn't." Her smile broadened. "I really am getting
good at this, aren't I? The shibari, I mean."
Gwen rolled her eyes and nodded her already saliva-dripping chin
at the tangled nexus of rope between her breasts.
"Okay," Clem chuckled, "that part is a little sloppy. I still can't get
the hang of the double friction-hitch thingie—can't get it to
lay flat. But you aren't gonna be squirming out of any of
this, are you?"
Gwen heaved a Piteous Sigh followed by a Tragic Moan.
"Drama queen," Clem accused, then turned and started down the
stairs. "I'll return for you, say, tomorrow
morning?" That was hyperbole, of course. They both
knew Clem was going to relieve herself and come right back.
Gwen listened to the quiet thud of Clem's feet on the
stairs. There was a pause, then she could just make out the sound of
the door closing. They never banged the door or stomped on
the floor or stairs of the Room of Requirement. That would
be tempting fate. Gwen squirmed in her bondage, flexing
her bound legs, twisting her arms under the ropes encircling her
upper body, and tugging on her bound wrists. This caused
the knotted crotch rope to slide with a gentle sawing motion,
eliciting a delicate shiver
of naughty delight. She
really is getting good, Gwen mused, minor style-point deductions aside.
|Oh, the Humanities!
was a women's restroom on the top floor, but cleaning and
maintenance wise it was low man on the totem pole, so Clem much
preferred the facilities on the second floor. She bounced
down the stairs and used the facilities in question, including
the ancient and very noisy hot air blower to dry her
hands. She made her exit from the bathroom—and
froze. Coming towards her was—"Professor Pappas!"
"I thought I heard someone," the professor said with a happy
smile. Pappas was forty-something with brown hair, brown
eyes, a slender figure, undeniably attractive features, and was
very popular with her students. She was wearing a white
cotton blouse, dark gray skirt, hose, and black pumps with
sensible heels. What appeared to be a rolled set of
architectural plans were rucked under her left arm and an iPad
was in her right hand.
Another not-so-minor detail: Kimberly Pappas was Clem's faculty
Clem gathered her wits. "Uh, I thought I left something
upstairs." She nodded at the ceiling. "In one of the
classrooms. I come here to study."
Professor Pappas was still smiling. "Your finals are over,
Clem nodded. "Uh, yeah, but I was reading—before, when I
thought I lost my jacket—which I didn't—I mean, I found
it." Cool it, you
idiot! she chided herself. Stop acting like you've been
caught doing something naughty—even if you have been caught doing something
naughty. "I'm done here."
Pappas nodded. "I'm verifying the old plans of Nicholson
Hall against the electronic version. This summer we plan
to—" She did a double take and her smile broadened.
"Wait a minute, as I recall, you don't have any plans for the
Clem blinked in surprise. "I'm going to stay at my
roommate's house; but no, not really... not yet."
"This could work out great!" Pappas gushed. "The
Department got a grant from Salamandras International to
refurbish this building. Tentative plans are to knock out
a few walls, add a few more, and create some symposium rooms
with comfortable seating, better-equipped classrooms, lounge
areas for studying, and even a snack bar. Also, Wi-Fi
repeaters, smart boards, the usual hi-tech gizmos that
Salamandras likes. Anyway, I need someone to verify the
furniture inventory, room-by-room."
Clem frowned. "Furniture inventory?"
"Nothing elaborate," Pappas continued. "Room number one—X
number of desks, Y chairs, Z tables—on to room two. I'll
give you an iPad with an inventory app. Type in the room
number, touch the appropriate furniture icon, type in the count,
note how many are usable and how many are
broken—easy-peasy." She started tapping the iPad's
screen. "I'm sure I can—yes, here's the grant agreement—I
can offer you housing and a stipend equal to your scholarship."
"That sounds great," Clem answered. It did sound great, but her
immediate thoughts were on the bound and gagged damsel
languishing in ATTIC 3B NORTH.
"Come to my office and I'll print out the paperwork," Pappas
said, clearing the iPad.
"Okay," Clem nodded. "What time tomorrow?"
"Oh, right now," the professor clarified. "I know it's
getting late, but—I know, we'll formalize the agreement and I'll
take you to dinner at the Faculty Club. My treat."
She turned and started towards the main stairwell, then
paused. "You did
say you were done here."
"Yeah," Clem acknowledged, "sorry." She hurried after the
professor. "Here, I'll take those," she offered, taking
the rolled plans. Gwen
will understand, she thought. I'll be as quick as I can.
The ghost of a wicked smile curled her lips. Of course, I'll leave in her
ball-gag 'til I explain what happened—but she'll understand.
|Oh, the Humanities!