|by Van © 2018
So, I was
dragged kicking and screaming (or stumbling but otherwise
cooperative) down the central hallway of Winnie's Modern,
tastefully decorated Secret Rope Bondage Lair (meaning her
house). While not a seriously magnificent mansion, like
Stately Locke Manor, Winnie's place is very nice (like its owner
and occupant). At the moment, however, I was somewhat
preoccupied and not really able to actively appreciate the
furnishings and decor.
Also, everything was somewhat dimly lit. None of the lamps
or overhead lights were turned on and the only available
illumination was from early evening indirect light shining
through various windows in adjoining rooms. Fortunately,
it was enough for us to navigate. Yes, the sun was definitely
setting, right on shed-yule. I assumed the Anna's
hummingbird male we'd watched feeding back in the kitchen was
safely in his chosen roosting spot. And now, apparently, I
was on my way to my chosen roosting place... and I
wasn't the one doing the choosing!
I was naked! My wrists were crossed and bound in
front! My ventilated-ball-gag was dangling around my neck
but not in my mouth. The free ends of my wrist-bonds were
in Winnie's hand and acting as my leash! Winnie was also
naked, but she wasn't bound and no gag of any kind was dangling
around her neck or plugging her smiling
Our destination turned out to be Winnie's bedroom.
(Imagine my gobsmacked stupefaction!) We passed through
the generous, tastefully decorated space just quickly
enough for me to appreciate the general decor and
Winnie's queen-sized platform bed... then entered the attached
bathroom. It was tiled (another stunning
development) and had both a full bathtub and a shower alcove, as
well as the usual washbasin and commode. Winnie has really
nice towels. More Native American blanket designs.
She told me later they're from Pendleton®.
Of course by this time I was an old hand at having a member of
The Club "assist" me with my evening toilette. Fern Wu had
scrubbed my face, brushed my teeth, and used a wet washcloth to
clean up my crotch after my evening tinkle in the attached bath
of Irene's bedroom. And another time... Okay, that
was the first and only time anything like that had ever happened
to naive, inexperienced, flustered little Molly Schmeck.
Anyway, it was happening again! And this time
Winnie Wilde was doing the honors.
I blushed beet red and blinked repeatedly as Winnie ran me
through my bedtime routine. She even took the time to
gently brush my hair, which had been a tousled mess after my
post-sauna shower and had long since air dried. She also
cleaned my glasses. Finally! What a
sweetie! She wasn't sweet enough to untie my wrists, of
course, but still, what a sweetie! At least I wasn't
gagged. My ventilated-ball-gag remained in necklace mode.
I considered haranguing my hostess with a host of
questions. What was gonna happen next? When would I
be allowed to go home? Once I deploy a hummingbird feeder
of my own, how soon should I start seeing the tiny
jeweled wonders in my backyard? Instead, I
endured being groomed and pampered in sullen silence. My
heart was pounding again, but not as strongly as it had been
before. Also, my breathing was deep and even. I'd
come to realize that simply being a member of The Club was
something of a low-grade aerobic workout. Either that or
the stress was going to be the death of me.
Anyway, our evening ablutions complete, Winnie led me back to
the main bedroom. I watched, tugging on my wrist bonds
(and considering making a run for it) as she turned down the
bed. In short order the bedspread and the underlying light
blanket and top-sheet were neatly folded down. Also,
Winnie had stacked a pair of pillows in the middle of the
mattress. I looked at the pillows, shifted my puzzled
(worried) gaze to Winnie's smiling face, then back to the
pillows. "W-what?" I started to ask, but was preempted
when Winnie padded in front of me and lifted the ventilated ball
of my ventilated-ball-gag.
"Open," my ginger hostess ordered.
My whining response was immediate but unoriginal.
Winnie thrust the ball into my unresistant but pouting mouth,
spun me around, tightened and buckled the strap, then spun me
around again. Smiling a stunning cute but highly
irritating saucy grin, she kissed my left nipple ("Mrrrk?") and
led me towards the bed and the ominously waiting pillows.
Soon, I was on my back with my butt balanced on top of said
pillows. I suppose I could have offered greater resistance
(meaning any resistance), but didn't want to be
rude. After all, Winnie was being nice enough to help me
negotiate the Secret Rituals of The Club (at least I assumed
that's what she was doing), so I cooperated... in a shivering,
whimpering, pathetically nervous sort of way.
I realized Winnie had produced more hemp rope from somewhere and
was preparing a coil for use. And then, still grinning the
same saucy grin, she pounced like a fox! Actually, acting
with her usual methodical competence, she set about using the
rope to tie me to the bed.
End result: I was soon semi-spreadeagled in place, bound
in a "Y" configuration with my butt (and neighboring anatomy)
elevated about a foot above the plane of the mattress. My
crossed and bound wrists were stretched above my head and tied
to the head of the platform. My legs were widely splayed
and my ankles looped, hitched, and tied in elaborate,
non-compacting rope cuffs. Obviously, the bed-frame's two
lower corners and the center of the top had convenient but
unseen lashing points at the required positions. My
fluttering fingers were useless. The trailing ends from my
wrist-bonds, my former tether-leash, stretched to the dimpled
edge of the mattress and disappeared, meaning any knot or knots
were somewhere down below. Semi-spreadeagled?
Y-eagled? I didn't know the proper jargon for my condition
then, and I still don't. I just knew I was helpless.
I wasn't quite as stretched as Libby had been on the rack in her
mother's playroom/torture chamber, but it was close
enough. My limbs and body had less than an inch of wiggle
room in any direction, and my normally modest boobs were
flattened and even more modest. Oddly enough, the
position seemed to have no effect on my nipples. They were
still able to point without difficulty, and they did. Go
figure. And oh-by-the-way, my lady-bits were on full
display! Meanwhile, naked Winnie Wilde—smiling her
dimpled smile, her blue eyes sparkling, her arms comfortably
crossed under her not stretched and flattened boobs—was
standing at the foot of the bed and quite obviously enjoying the
I was mortified (and horny as hell). I blushed and tugged
on my bonds. Woe was I!
And then... Winnie went on her hands and knees and climbed onto
the mattress! I watched with wide, blinking eyes, as she
settled into a semi-lotus between my legs with her folded legs
tucked under my splayed and bound thighs! She placed her
open hands on my upper thighs—her right palm on my left upper
thigh and her left palm on my right upper thigh—and her smile
morphed into a textbook saucy grin.
"Mrrrk?" It was a whining, tragically pathetic question,
but Winnie answered it anyway.
"I was informed by two different sources that you were fortunate
enough to watch Fern Wu use her tongue to entertain Irene,"
Winnie purred. "Correct?"
My immediate response was to blink about a dozen times.
Apparently she was talking about a bound but far from helpless
Fern licking Irene's lady bits, and the only people in the
bedroom had been Fern, Irene, and myself, so who was she talking
about? (That's how rattled I was. Obviously the
"two different sources" were Fern and Irene.)
Winnie gave my left thigh a semi-businesslike slap. Smack!
"I asked you a question, young lady."
I flinched when the slap landed, then nodded my gagged head and
answered. "Urf!" (Correct!")
"Good girl," Winnie chuckled, then licked her lips—which I
didn't find at all disconcerting. "Now, as your
superior and guide to the Mysteries of The Club, it's my duty to
provide proper, careful instruction, so pay close attention."
She leaned close, pursed her lips, and blew on my lady bits!
"Mrrrf!" I tugged on my bonds and shivered in alarm
(meaning arousal). My horniness had reached a new
level and Winnie's warm breath blowing across my crotch was
clearing the metaphorical ash, causing my metaphorical coals to
glow, and causing my actual, physical pubic bush to stir.
It was downright poetic! Anyway... "Mrrrf!"
And then, Winnie used her lips, teeth and tongue to titillate
and tease my poor, defenseless, most intimate anatomy! It
was horrible! I tried my best to resist, but I was
semi-spreadeagled and gagged! What could I do? Oh,
the horror! The horror! The horniness!
Like the iDiddler computer system Winnie had used to entertain
Irene back in the Restrained Meditation Studio, Winnie herself
had very good timing. She wouldn't have had any
difficulty whatsoever licking, slobbering, and nibbling me to a
quick orgasm, but she didn't. She took her time. She
slowly brought me to the cusp of ecstasy... then backed
off and let me rest... then did it again! And again!
Repeatedly! Repetitively! Relentlessly!
Eventually, I was sweating like the proverbial horse, writhing,
tugging on my bonds nonstop, and panting through my
ventilated-ball-gag! My eyes were clenched tightly closed!
As the old saying goes, all exquisitely timed cunnilingus
sessions come to their inevitable climax. It did.
And I did.
For several seconds Winnie let me bask in the afterglow and
recover... which turned into a minute... then two. I
panted and relaxed in my bonds, as best I could, then opened my
eyes, focused on my "superior" and tried to muster an angry
glare. I didn't have it in me. I don't know
precisely what the gagged expression I was beaming in her
smiling direction looked like, but I suspect "exhausted and
goofy" probably covered it.
Winnie gently caressed my inner thighs. "Wasn't that fun?"
I nodded my gagged head, then realized what I'd done and, again,
tried to muster a properly outraged response. Again, I
"Well then," Winnie said, pausing to lick her lips, "let's do it
And she did!
Again, she carefully orchestrated her cunnilingual
efforts. Again, I was impressed and took careful and
detailed mental notes. That is, I squirmed and sweated and
my thoughts were limited to endless repetitions of OMG-OMG-OMG!
Orgasm number two wasn't quite up to the benchmark of number
one, but it was good.
So was number three, which happened several minutes later after
another all-too-brief rest period.
After that, I slept. That is to say, I passed out.
I awoke the
next morning naked—except for the ventilated-ball-gag once again
around my neck in necklace mode—and unbound, tangled in a snarl
of warm sheets, and with my head buried in a soft pillow.
I raised my head, looked around, and blinked. My glasses
were missing. So was Winnie. I managed to locate my
glasses on the right nightstand, untangled myself, reached out,
and put them on. Still no Winnie.
I yawned, stretched, then padded to the bathroom. One
tinkle, drink, and face-wash later, I returned to the bedroom to
find Winnie had also returned, and she was carrying a tray with
a complete tea service to a pair of easy chairs in front of the
bedroom's picture window. She was wearing a terrycloth
bathrobe in yet another Native American blanket pattern.
It was in shades of jade-green and coyote-brown and really
complemented Winnie's ginger curls and freckled
complexion. I was impressed. So were my lady
bits. They were tingling.
"Good morning," Winnie wished me.
"Good morning," I wished her. I let her deposit the tray
on a small table between the two chairs, then padded over,
pulled her into a tight embrace, and planted a long, wet kiss on
her smiling lips.
Winnie returned both the hug and the kiss.
Eventually, we came up for air. Winnie lifted a folded
throw from one of the easy chairs, let it fall open, and draped
it over my shoulders. It was yet another Native American
pattern and used the same brown and jade-green colors as her
robe on a heather-gray background. It was wool, but was
neither scratchy nor excessively heavy. The morning air
was a tad on the cool side, so I pulled it close.
"Sit," Winnie suggested, indicating the easy chair. I did
so as she settled into the matching chair, then watched as she
poured tea into a pair of teacups. Again, she was being
"Thank you," I purred, accepting a cuppa with milk and two
"You're welcome," Winnie smiled.
We sipped our tea. I'm usually a morning coffee kinda gal,
but Winnie's brew really hit the spot.
I glanced through the window. The Chickadee and Nuthatch
Gang was having breakfast, flitting to and from Winnie's feeder
and the trees and bushes of her Secret Garden.
"So," Winnie said quietly, "did I get it right?"
I blushed, delicately, and took another sip before answering.
"I'm not very experienced with oral techniques," I conceded,
"Not that, you silly goose," Winnie chuckled. Then, she
sipped her tea and grew more serious. "I'm usually a good
judge of people, but it would be awkward, indeed, if I misjudged
the... shall we say... receptivity of my next door
neighbor to intimate tomfoolery. Very awkward.
So..." She sipped again. "Did I get it right?"
I smiled a slightly naughty smile. "No," I said quietly,
"you got it wrong."
Winnie's face fell. "Oh. I'm so sorry, Molly.
"I'm your across the street neighbor," I purred, "not
your next door neighbor."
Winnie favored me with a wry, dimpled, pouting smile.
"Silly goose," she muttered, then sipped her tea.
I sipped my tea as well, then smiled. "You got it right,"
"You don't hate me?"
I could see the worry in Winnie's gorgeous blue eyes and didn't
have the heart to prolong the game. I carefully set down
my tea and saucer, climbed to my feet, then carefully settled
into Winnie's lap, snuggled close, making sure my pretty Indian
blanket throw remained over my shoulders, then planted a kiss on
her smiling lips. She'd had time to set down her cup and
saucer before I arrived, so no tea was spilled.
Lips smacked and tongues swirled. It was another long,
wet, deep kiss. Oh-by-the-way, I reached under Winnie's
robe with my left hand and gently squeezed her right breast.
This went on for a while. The tea got cold. We
shared the shower. We got clean. We got dry.
We kissed now and then. Finally...
"Go get dressed," Winnie suggested (ordered), "then scamper
home, check your mail, then get properly dressed and
scamper right back."
"Oh, yes, Mistress," I responded gravely, "but I refuse
to scamper. Is it okay if I prance?"
Winnie's response was to grab hold of and jerk away the towel
I'd wrapped around my now naked, freshly scrubbed, and dry body,
then used the towel to deliver a resounding snap to my left
"Go!" she ordered.
"Ow!" I complained, but scurried to carry out my ginger hostess'
commands. "What am I getting properly dressed for?"
I shouted back as I padded to the Restrained Meditation Studio
and opened the Hidden Clothes Closet door.
Winnie had followed, still wearing her gorgeous robe.
"Breakfast," she explained, "then shopping."
"Okay." I donned my jeans, powder-blue t-shirt, and
sandals. "Where are we going for breakfast?"
"No place too fancy," Winnie responded, "but wear a
pretty dress. I like the way you look in a pretty dress."
I blushed, grinned, planted another quick kiss on her smiling
lips, then hurried to complete the rest of Mistress Winifred's
I decided to
wear a spaghetti-strap, halter-top sundress, The fabric
was buttercup-yellow with a zillion tiny black and white
blossoms. Together with a pair of white, open-toed,
high-heel sandals, I think I met Winnie's "pretty"
criterion. And once I arrived at Casa Wilde, Winnie
agreed. She'd decided on a dusky-olive, button-front
midi-dress with half-sleeves and a plunging neckline. It
was slightly longer than my sundress but showed nearly as much
skin and she looked GREAT! Her choice of footwear was
similar to my own, but her sandals were natural brown in color.
We took Winnie's Subaru® Forester™ (in Sepia Metallic Bronze) to
a really charming seafood restaurant. It's one of the few
establishments on the waterfront that serves breakfast every day
(and brunch on Sunday). We sat in a booth with a
magnificent view of the flowing waters of our local branch of
Puget Sound and the distant Olympic Mountains and watched the
sailboats, mostly with their sails furled, putter past.
Winnie had a seafood omelet (with mornay sauce), hash-browns,
and an English muffin. I enjoyed pan-fried Pacific
oysters, cubed and fried potatoes, scrambled eggs, and white
toast. Also, tea for Winnie and coffee for myself.
Everything was delish!
Afterwards, we went to our local Wild Birds Unlimited® store for
some serious hummingbird related shopping.
I decided on a three-hole, eight ounce saucer-style feeder, the
same model Winnie uses, and as promised, she bought me a second
feeder so I could change them out with only a few seconds of
unavailability for any potential hummingbird visitors. I
also purchased a screw-hook and a twelve-inch S-hook to hang the
feeder station under the eaves of the roof near my Home
Office. I'd be able to watch the action both from the desk
and office chair where I do most of my browsing, blogging, and
writing, and from the easy chair and hassock where I
sprawl out and do a lot of my reading.
I also purchased a cute little "nectar port brush" specifically
sized and designed to quickly and easily scrub out the nectar
ports of the feeder during the cleaning process. "Nectar
ports" are, of course, the holes in the middle of the lid's
plastic flowers through which the hummingbirds dip their bills,
extend their long, forked tongues, and lap up the artificial
nectar. And even if you diligently scrub your feeder in
hot, soapy water, mold can grow in the ports if you don't scrub
them out as well (or so Winnie and the Wild Birds
Unlimited® store clerk explained).
Finally, I bought a Nectar Bottle, a Nalgene® bottle colored a
transparent, ruby red. Of course, you can use any old
container to mix and store artificial nectar, but I figured
whenever I opened my refrigerator I'd see the bright red color
and be reminded whether or not I was keeping to my
change-out-the-hummingbird-feeder shed-yule. That was my
rationale, anyway. Okay, I bought it because it was pretty
and I didn't already have something I could use to store
nectar. Sue me. It was pretty.
Anyway, I'm sure you find my account of my entry into the
Wonderful World of Hummingbird Feeding to be quite fascinating,
but you're probably wishing I'd get on with the good stuff and
are wondering what happened when Winnie and I finally got
Well, first of all, Winnie brewed some tea in my kitchen while I
cleaned and dried my new feeders and mixed some nectar (one part
table sugar to four parts water). We then gathered the
required hand tools and ladder and installed the feeder.
With Winnie's help I found the perfect spot with respect to
view-from-inside and rain protection.
There. The deed was done. And you still don't
care, am I right? Gotcha!
So, we were back in my home office and enjoying the view of my
new feeder, waiting for my first hummingbird visitor and sipping
tea. Winnie (being my guest) was in the easy chair and I
was in my office chair.
"So, Molly," Winnie said, then took a sip of tea.
"Yes, Winnie?" I prompted, then sipped my own tea.
"Do you have plans for the rest of the day?"
It was just a little after noon, we'd skipped lunch, breakfast
having been unusually heavy for both of us, and I was slightly
behind in my blogging and writing; but Winnie looked so cute in
that cute dress with her cute freckled legs crossed and a sunny
smile on her cute face, so HELL NO did I have plans for
the rest of the day!
"Not really," I answered casually (so very, very casually).
Winnie's smile widened, she set down her cup and saucer, took my
cup and saucer from my hand and set it down as well, then took
my hand, stood, and lifted me from my chair.
"Come with me," Winnie ordered.
"Huh?" I inquired (profoundly).
She still had hold of my hand, so I had no choice but to be led
from my Home Office, out my front door (pausing to lock it, of
course), then across the street to Winifred's Lair.
Winnie led me
to her Restrained Meditation Studio (No, really??),
finally released my hand, then closed and latched the faux shoji
glass door behind us.
I stared at Winnie. My heart was thumping and my eyes were
threatening to blink.
Winnie smiled back at me, utterly serene.
"Well?" Winnie said after several seconds.
"Huh?" I gasped. "I mean... Oh... Okay." I
hurried to the Hidden Clothes Closet, unbuckled and removed my
sandal/heels, and started fumbling with the closure of my
sundress. Winnie waited patiently (smiling her beautiful,
dimpled, and in this case sphinx-like smile) while I changed
into my birthday suit and hung up my clothes. I closed the
closet door, swallowed nervously, and padded over to join her in
the middle of the room.
"Wait here," Winnie ordered (dramatically), then strolled to yet
another of her studio's Hidden Closets/Cabinets, opened the
door, and returned with a pair of... brown leather mittens?
She tucked one mitten under her left arm, then fit the other
over my right hand. It was medium-weight, high-grade
leather in a rich, lustrous brown. The oval-shaped
hand-covering was stitched around the outside edges and riveted
in two places, with only a shallow cavity within. That
meant I had to hold my hand flat so she could slide it in
place. I could just barely wiggle my fingers. Making
a fist was utterly impossible. The mitt included an
integrated wrist cuff padded with creme-colored chamois.
It secured by means of slots in the cuff that closed over a
steel D-ring. Then, a secondary, much narrower strap slid
through the D-ring and was secured with a steel buckle that
locked by means of a barrel-style key, and if you weren't Winnie
and didn't have that key, the mitten was on to stay.
I allowed my left hand to be locked into the second mitten, and
now both my hands had been turned into brown leather
flippers. Flexible phlanges? Opposable thumbs?
Not Molly Schmeck! Not anymore!
"Wow," I said in a near whisper, turning my encased hands and
examining my new accessories. They looked expensive.
I gave the leather a delicate sniff. They smelled expensive.
I lifted my gaze to Winnie. "Leather Chapter?" I inquired,
referring to the supposed Leather Chapter of The Club.
Winnie smiled and nodded. "On loan from Irene's
collection. I only use them for those occasions when I
don't want my clients to feel tempted to perform unauthorized
modifications of my rope designs."
I nodded gravely and returned to examining the mitts. I
noticed each mitten had a steel D-ring bracket riveted to the
fingertip region, suitable for attaching straps or, I suppose,
as lashing points for rope or cord.
Again, I locked eyes with Winnie. "Unauthorized
what-did-you-say?" I inquired.
"You'll see," Winnie chuckled, then turned and strolled to her
Hidden Rope Cabinet.
I watched as she selected a few coils of hemp rope, closed the
cabinet door, and returned. I also watched (nervously) as
she dropped all the coils to the floor but one and prepared it
End result: When the proverbial dust settled I was in a
very elaborate, very intricate box-tie. My arms were
folded behind my back with my forearms and mitten-encased hands
horizontal and rope wrapped around my forearms from mitten-cuff
to mitten-cuff. Paired strands of rope pinned my upper
arms against my sides, yoked my shoulders, framed and
crisscrossed between my breasts, and encircled my waist.
There was no crotch-rope. In my limited experience,
box-ties always include at least a few cinches to link the
various elements together and tighten things up, and this one
was no exception. However, this particular example of the
form had two or three times the usual complications.
Doubled strands passed over and under each other in a
symmetrical, almost macrame-like web.
All of this took a while, more than half an hour. I waited
patiently (and with increasing helplessness) as rope slithered
and slid, hitches tightened, and free ends were wrapped and
knotted. Winnie had incorporated the D-ring/brackets in my
mittens in her composition, so my encased and helpless hands
were encased and even more helpless. Can you say
overkill? I knew you could.
I was still standing as Winnie crafted her box-tie masterpiece,
and remained so as she used a coil of hemp to bind my legs
together just above my knees. She then took her final
coil, looped it around my neck, and tied a non-compacting
knot. That's right, my steps were hobbled and I had a
I squirmed, wiggled, twisted at the waist, rolled my rope-yoked
shoulders, and generally tested my bonds. Winnie watched
for a few seconds, smiling her Evil Smile, then strolled to her
Hidden Gag and Blindfold Cabinet.
"So far," Winnie purred as she strolled back, "you've
demonstrated a pretty normal gag reflex." A black ball-gag
dangled from her right hand. "So... I think it's safe for
you to graduate to one of my standard-size damsel-silencers."
"Huh?" I said profoundly, blinking for emphasis. "Can we
talk about this?" It was a pathetic whine. I'm not
proud of it.
Winnie's answer was to stuff the ball in my mouth, spin me
around, and secure the buckle at the nape of my neck. I
took that as a "no," meaning we couldn't talk about
it. The ball was solid, reasonably hard, and definitely not
ventilated. It was also a little bigger than my
previous gags. I suspected the mouth plug was the size of
the ball on the head-harness Winnie had used yesterday to
silence Irene before her iDiddler ordeal. The strap was
tight. The ball was in to stay. "Mrrrpfh!" I
complained. My knee-bonds prevented me from stamping
either foot to further signal my displeasure.
Winnie smiled as I tested my bonds and pouted around my new
"standard-size damsel-silencer" ball-gag.
"So very pretty," Winnie purred, then reached out and cupped my
rope framed breasts.
"Urrk?" My eyes popped wide. She started toying with
my nipples. I started blinking (as usual).
"Absolutely adorable," Winnie added.
"Mrrrm!" I complained. It was another whine instead of the
intended huff. I still found myself unable to
present a properly outraged façade.
Winnie released my boobs and grabbed the end of my rope
leash. "Come," she said with an evil (and stunningly
gorgeous) smile, "I have something to show you." She spun
on her heel and headed for the door. My leash snapped taut
and I stumbled in her wake.
"Mrk!" I was protesting her rather cavalier treatment of
my naked, bound, and gagged self, as well as demanding to know
where we were going and what she was so anxious to show
me. (I can be quite concise and to-the-point when
Winnie ignored me. She unlatched and opened the faux shoji
glass door, and our journey continued.
Woe was I!