Plymouth: damsel for hire (FM+/F+) *NEW* 17/07 *NEW*

[GreyLord]

Could anyone ever tire of Plymouth?

[RopeBunny]

Could anyone ever tire of Plymouth?

Well I'm hoping not

[BlissfulMisery]

Can't help myself the naming is something I really enjoy thinking up.

Can tell

-

But Kira isn't technically a model, so it's okay to cross the line into intimacy. If it helps her relax.

Nor do I outwardly react beyond an audible- for the camera's, I swear -sigh as, having pulled away Kira bends slightly, planting a kiss atop the breast she just groped.

Uh-huh, Plymouth, whatever you say...

And yes, it is decent of me to remain bound, beyond the remit of the shoot.

And of course my being an obsessive rope slut, craving bondage like plants crave the sun, has nothing to do with it.

Stop laughing, don't you remember: porn is supposed to be serious business.

Of course

A lot of... lets say 'justifications' on her part throughout the entire chapter

Discarding the train though, useless and- right now -irrelevant, and by the time we finish I've forgotten anyway.

Supposed to be 'train of thought'? Or just thought?

Different lives, as I said. Kira isn't a model, so I'd helped her.

Nothing more.

While the rest of the chapter was generally fun/lighthearted, I will admit, this last bit has an entirely different tone (not a bad thing to be clear, I like the shift). Maybe me reading too much into it, but it feels wistful/melancholy, Brooke regretting/bemoaning the fact that there was not more to it. Could have been, perhaps, a small spark that could have grown, but was never given the opportunity. The problem, I suppose, with her line of work, the potential for fake intimacy to blur the line into something that feels a little more real.

Or to put it another way, as much as one might consciously separate business from pleasure, sometimes our emotions/subconscious can have a life of their/its own.

Great scene overall - I particularly liked the 'start and stop' nature, plus the general slow pace/build-up. Made it feel very organic/realistic/immersive.

[RopeBunny]

Discarding the train though, useless and- right now -irrelevant, and by the time we finish I've forgotten anyway.

Supposed to be 'train of thought'? Or just thought?

No, in this instance it is supposed to be 'train.' Although yes train as in 'train of thought' but writing it as I did, above, I felt it worked in shortened form.

Though possibly not

Things don't always translate well from my head onto the page.

While the rest of the chapter was generally fun/lighthearted, I will admit, this last bit has an entirely different tone (not a bad thing to be clear, I like the shift). Maybe me reading too much into it, but it feels wistful/melancholy, Brooke regretting/bemoaning the fact that there was not more to it.

Regarding the end.

Well.

The trouble here is: if this were an already completed story you'd- hopefully -keep reading, and therefore in around five (I think? ) chapters time it'd make sense.

But instead this whole thing is being trickle fed, so it doesn't come across well.

Because by the time things happen you'll of forgotten the end lines/Brooke's musings here.

It's foreshadowing basically. For Brooke all she's done is help, but, that doesn't mean Kira saw things the same way.

[RopeBunny]

008.

"Looks better." Casting a professional eye across the halfway transformed space. "Good."
"Ddfffsssppppmm."
"Yes." Taking a step to the side and turning, adjusting my view of the world to include Foxe. "You look good too."

Finally, after what felt like a protracted back and forth, a series of 'look here I'm free but damn it I'm not' mixed in with a heavy dose of teasing and flirting. Verbally playing with each other across the miles by way of the phoneline. Eventually I just said fuck it one evening, half threatening half promising to wake up before sunrise, to climb atop my Hayabusa and gun it north.

Which I did.

And, having arrived, having gotten over my shock as Foxe giggled, the flirting continued with a welcoming ease, none of the potential awkwardness given how abrupt our parting had been.

There was me, tutting at the state of her garden, the riot of it, Brooke rebelling at such disregard for basic plant care.

There was Foxe, playful, lifting up her dress and pulling aside her thong to prove by way of a shaved pussy that, actually, she has been taking care of trimming duties.

Shaking my head, looking around at the mess as Foxe stepped closer, running a hand up my arm and giving my bicep a squeeze. Commenting, all innocent, that if I wanted to I could bind and gag her, do something about her and then show off my muscles.

All innocent. Stoking the fire.

Casual wave of her hand as I, rightly, pointed out the overlooking houses left and right, Foxe's being a mid terrace.

"Abandoned." Shrugging. "And he's in prison for at least another five years. So." Turning to me, mouth lifted in a smile and a small shiver at what's to come. "What's stopping you?"

What indeed.

"There." Gesturing, having dragged her reclining metal framed garden chair onto the patio, setting it so the centre and leg portion are level, the upper third tilted slightly. "If you'd care to lay down."
"Well." Passing me a whole bundle of rope, freshly retrieved from her bedroom. "Since you asked so politely."

Warm, but cloudy. A muggy and oppressive day that promises thunder later. The shock, my surprise on arrival had been to find Foxe not only shrunken from a fourteen down to a twelve, still curvy only with less extra weight on her upper legs and belly. Added to which, having apparently been saving for 'fucking ages' she'd greeted me, all cheeky smiles and sporting a pair of bouncing new D cups.

Out of her dress now, because apparently despite being outside we've got privacy, Foxe is wearing, barely wearing a bikini. Black tie side thong bottoms, the triangle criminally small, paired with a lime green tie side top that appears to be better suited to her B's then the new supersized D's, which are spilling out around the sides and tops, cleavage pressed together between the small triangles.

Laying on her back, staying still. Letting me work.

Legs spread, bound at the ankles to the frame low down on either side. Coming behind her and kneeling, behind the chair bringing Foxe's arms around, wrists just about meeting so I bind them crossed in place.

Foxe gasping at the strain of the position, but not complaining and if she did I wouldn't listen. Because this is how we played last time. For keeps.

More rope on her knees, lower legs now following the line of the frame, increasing both the level of Foxe's restraint and spreading her legs wider. Following up, adding a last rope around her chest, above and below, preventing further movement binding upper body to frame left and right.

Lastly a ballgag.

"You're going to be here hours."
"Yes." Small squirm, voice gone far off and despite she's looking at me Foxe's eyes are with her voice, far away.

"And I'll be working." Trailing the gag up her belly, over the hump of one enhanced breast. "Too busy to pay you any attention."
"You're going to abandon me."
"Yes." Ballgag having reached her mouth, I run it across right to left, Foxe flicking out her tongue, licking the rubber ball as it passes. "You'll be helpless, and ignored."
"O." Swallowing, fighting off a shiver of dumped now useless adrenaline.

A fight reflex when it's far too late.

"O, kay."
"Any last requests?"
"A, kiss." Blinking up at me, Straining briefly against her ropes, chest and crotch pushing upwards. Offering, wanting. "Please."

Which, easily carried away on the thrilling rush of power, of dominance and control. One kiss quickly lengthens and stretches, Foxe responding, kissing me back. Moaning and struggling uselessly, stilling as I carefully climb onto the chair, laying myself on her, shrugging off my tee and bra, legs kicking and arms working to pull down and kick off my jeans and hipster boy pants.

Naked, still kissing I begin rubbing myself against her, one hand a fistful of her hair, pinning Foxe's face to the chair back, kissing her still whilst my other works over her closest breast. Latching onto the already erect nipple, teasing and flicking, pinching at it, tugging.

Enjoying how she moans, how her body responds beneath me.

Sliding my hand lower, pulling aside the tiny thong, little more then a strip of fabric. Foxe quickly beginning to pant, no doubt the bondage giving her arousal a flying start as I begin working over her pussy and clit. Bending, tilting my head to suck on and lick at her nipples, to nip with my teeth.

Locking my lips to hers as Foxe climaxes, swallowing her now muffled scream of pleasure. Helpless body bucking and rocking, pushing uselessly against the ropes.

A contented sigh as she opens wide for the ballgag, seeming to settle back into herself as I adjust her bikini, covering breasts and pussy.

Slipping my jeans and pants back on, tee but not the bra. One last long glance at Foxe before I get to work.

Becoming genuinely lost to the task myself, Brooke rising, the Owl Wood within taking over, Foxe's garden becoming a series of tasks, a checklist to be moved through methodically: repair the mower, tackle the grass, remove the bramble and lastly trim whatever shrubs are left alive within the tangle of spike covered weeds.

Somehow, which you'd think would be impossible, but I frequently forget Foxe is even there. Am genuinely surprised a couple of times, glancing up finding her either watching me or staring at the slowly turning white to grey to darker grey towards black cloud filled sky. Still far too warm.

As per the threat though I ignore her, no acknowledgement beyond lingering glances as I take occasional breaks, becoming sweaty and stained, arms suffering several long jagged cuts from the brambles, the sting and brief bleeding of which don't slow or stop me, I'm used to this after all: hard physical work.

Finally coming back to Foxe, talking to her, the work half done but I can't do more, which would require new plants and possibly painting the fence and.

And.

So on.

Over five hours she's spent bound and gagged, without protest. Being good, being the submissive she plays on camera, that she mostly prefers aside from those rare and random dominant flare ups.

Freed, helping her stand.

"Bath?" Looking me up and down, running a careful hand across my scar covered arm. "Look like you need it."
"Think we both need it?"
"Good." Nodding, the decision made.

Taking turns, swapping out who's behind, who leans on and washes who. Splashing water everywhere as washing turns to more, hands exploring heads bent around and tilted to kiss.

From the bath to a somewhat furious sixty-nine on the bathroom floor, Foxe pinning me from above her legs pressing my arms flat to the wet tiles, her hands pinning my ankles wide her pussy mashed into my face. Licking me even whilst I'm unable to do anything except plunge my tongue into her, barely able to breath throughout, gasping, my unbound helplessness only serving to excite me more.

Back in the bath, after which, dried off and changed into fresh clothes we dodge the beginning rain, still only light. Walking to the local pub for food and drink.

To talk. Foxe asking after my proven skill at all things plants, amazed when I explain my other non bondage life.

Talking, the hours passing and soon it's last orders despite we've only had one each, too wrapped up in talking, in staring at each other to care or remember to drink. But, last orders, time to leave. Getting soaked in the rain and accompanying thunder, rumbles loud enough the storm front must be close.

And by unspoken agreement Foxe now gets her revenge.

Stripped and dried off, again, clothes hung but no way they'll be dry tomorrow, I'll have to wear my grass stained jeans home. No words, Foxe had asked in the pub, wondering aloud at the rules of my staying over, that, based on earlier was it now her turn?

Yes.

Which means a sleepsack, something Foxe had custom made some years ago for a shoot with a- luckily -size ten model. Laying it down on the bed whilst I look on, tingle of want and the slight buzz of what's coming mixing, fidgeting until she's ready for me. Excited.

Climbing up onto the bed, slipping by pure accident. Giggling and Foxe, smirking having to help me up. Both of us naked, because of the storm and Foxe, still helping, seemingly unwilling to stop touching me and besides I want her to. Touch me.

Laying down atop the opened sack, inside it, the whole made from a slightly stretchy matt black material. Ankles slipped, guided- Foxe -inside the snug bottom, feet forced side by side, legs likewise, and to my left and right lie the open halves of the sack, coming up to my neck and at shoulder height on each side there's a small opening, into which I slide each arm in turn, finding a snug sleeve.

Each sleeve serving to pin my arms in place, preventing any attempt to force them out of the sack, because first I'd have to force them out of the sleeve. And it's all too fucking tight.

Feeling the pinch, nothing painful but an awareness of my limbs and body being gently yet firmly pressed, squeezed as Foxe zips the sack closed, from ankles to the base of my breasts, sleeved arms now pinned at my sides.

Lacing the sack up next, black crisscrossing cord running the length of the zip, Foxe yanking tight at each set of holes making the sack pinch and squeeze more. Becoming sluggishly aware of something pressing against my pussy and upper thighs, but too distracted to mention or worry about it.

A second, shorter zip and length of cord seals closed the sack from above my breasts to the top of my neck, pressing against and flush to the underside of my head. Although before sealing this part Foxe fits me with a hood, tight fitting and covering my whole head, lacing up at the back the only opening being for my mouth, the hood extends down my neck, meaning the sack seals above it, making the hood to sack transition appear seamless.

Blind now, half deaf, aware by feel alone that Foxe is adding a half dozen belts: ankles, below then above the knees, waist, below then above my chest. Each one further pinching and constricting me.

Zip. Laces. Belts. Three complete layers, impossible to escape. I'm completely sealed in, body forced and pinned straight as a plank of wood, only my F cups and mouth left exposed.

A mouth Foxe gags, the sudden invasion of a rubber ball catching me off guard, mouth opening on- surrender junkie -reflex only to squeal as I feel the ball forcing my jaws wide, becoming a whimper as my head is jerked around, feeling the gag buckled tight.

Feeling suddenly vulnerable, heart rate spiking, squirming, helplessness hitting me like a dropped anvil, like a physical weight comes the awareness of how little I can do, of how much control Foxe has over me.

Laying still, waiting for the inevitable kiss or contact, for Foxe's hands or lips on my nipples. Will she be gentle?

Brief spasm, a dump of fear into my system at the ghost like imagined feel of metal clamps biting down on my tender and exposed nipples. And, she could, easily. Foxe could clamp me and leave me to suffer. All. Night.

Far from annoyance, though, the thought is bringing in its wake only a throbbing want of pleasure to my pussy. That I've willingly placed myself in this tight helpless bondage, that Foxe could take complete advantage of that, up to and including torture as foreplay.

Which she proved expert at last time.

Poised. Waiting, becoming slowly aware of the muffled sound of someone- Foxe -gently snoring.

Fucking, what? But of course unfortunately for me the fact of her falling asleep brings with it a fresh round of tingles and more adrenaline surging, more thoughts I can't banish: abandonment, that I now have to wait for her to wake up.

And eventually I manage to drift off, content but really fucking horny.

Waking with a start as something I belatedly realise must be, has to be a wand vibrator linked by cord to the wall, some kind of fancy timer function plug.

An alarm clock of sorts and fuck me, from relatively peaceful slumber to awake and being insistently buzzed right at my core. Legs attempting to kick but I'm belted and laced tightly straight, unable to easily bend so instead it's more a wave like spasm chasing down and up from my crotch. Letting loose a moan, blinking behind the hood shutting off all sense of time.

The vibrator is clearly turned all the way up, taking no prisoners, no calm and slow build-up instead straight to eleven and me, bound, gagged, helpless with no way to avoid the attention. Add to this how horny I already am just due to being bound and gagged, and it doesn't take long.

Only there's no respite, no backing off or shutting down of the wand, only the buzzing which fills my world.

My second orgasm follows almost immediately on from my first. The third coming- ha -not long after, helpless to prevent the vibrator from working me over, unable to stop myself from enjoying the attention, plus of course the bondage.

And yet three in such quick succession has me tender, has me hopelessly squirming to try and move my pussy lips off the wand, to remove it from the position of being lodged inside.

Which of course I can't. Moaning turns to whimpering, begging.

Sudden contact, Foxe's hand lazily sliding across my breasts, finding and tracing patterns around the nipples and, becoming desperate I begin to buck and fight at the impossible to escape sack. Loudly imploring Foxe to help, to save me from more forced orgasms.

Begging. Muffled and garbled, impossible to speak clearly but my tone is unmistakable.

Begging. Please.

No. And her unspoken but obvious refusal, continuing to tease and play with my breasts, pushing me towards and through a further two shaking and screaming climaxes, of course her dominance of me plays a big part in making those final two orgasms somewhat larger and more intense.

Freeing me then, and after a shared breakfast I need to leave, Owl wood and life beckons. We don't say any kind of final goodbye, but nor do we attempt making firm plans and for me casual is best, at least where Foxe is concerned.

Because I've had a relationship to the intensity we two seem to generate, each of of us feeding off the other, a vicious loop which sucks you in and refuses to spit you back out. A dangerous thing and I'm just about sensible enough to know that, despite strong urges to the contrary, I don't want to do it again.

I guess, in that case we'll see what the future brings.

[El_llama]

Haha loved this. Weirdly tender!!

[RopeBunny]

Weirdly tender!!

I can see that angle

Thanks for commenting.

[BlissfulMisery]

No, in this instance it is supposed to be 'train.' Although yes train as in 'train of thought' but writing it as I did, above, I felt it worked in shortened form.

Though possibly not

Things don't always translate well from my head onto the page.

Fair enough. Just sounded strange when reading it.

The trouble here is: if this were an already completed story you'd- hopefully -keep reading, and therefore in around five (I think? ) chapters time it'd make sense.

But instead this whole thing is being trickle fed, so it doesn't come across well.

Because by the time things happen you'll of forgotten the end lines/Brooke's musings here.

It's foreshadowing basically. For Brooke all she's done is help, but, that doesn't mean Kira saw things the same way.

Ah. So I suppose I did over-interpret it. Not ideal that you basically felt the need to 'spoil' one of the upcoming chapters, but I understand the desire to clarify (and honestly it is not exactly much of a spoiler - the details matter far more then the broad strokes anyways).

-

There was me, tutting at the state of her garden, the riot of it, Brooke rebelling at such disregard for basic plant care.

Tut tut indeed - a true crime against horticulture!

"You're going to abandon me."
"Yes." Ballgag having reached her mouth, I run it across right to left, Foxe flicking out her tongue, licking the rubber ball as it passes. "You'll be helpless, and ignored."

Feels a bit 'unfair' that Plymouth gives Foxe exactly what Plymouth herself is craving

Climbing up onto the bed, slipping by pure accident. Giggling and Foxe, smirking having to help me up.

Not the only time you've done this, but always enjoy these sorts of 'realistic touches' that nod at the fact that in practice, everything does not always go perfectly smoothly.

Brief spasm, a dump of fear into my system at the ghost like imagined feel of metal clamps biting down on my tender and exposed nipples. And, she could, easily. Foxe could clamp me and leave me to suffer. All. Night.

Well, in fairness, would be a bit dangerous (at best) to wear clamps all night. But obviously that is not how one thinks in the moment when one is so tightly bound and vulnerable as Plymouth is right now. Fear/excitement/nerves take hold, as you so eloquently describe.

Because I've had a relationship to the intensity we two seem to generate, each of of us feeding off the other, a vicious loop which sucks you in and refuses to spit you back out. A dangerous thing and I'm just about sensible enough to know that, despite strong urges to the contrary, I don't want to do it again.

Ahh seems our heroine is indeed learning and growing from past experience

Joking aside, a good decision to cut herself off - there is such a thing as too much of a good thing, especially given her personality.

Overall a great mix of playfulness punctuated by completely organic feeling bursts of intense passion. Unplanned, in that 'ideal' way where it all just perfectly works out despite as said, being entirely unplanned. And of course a wonderfully intense ending - Plymouth being vividly reminded that there are ways to be 'tortured' without any pain being involved

Loved it!

[RopeBunny]

It's foreshadowing basically. For Brooke all she's done is help, but, that doesn't mean Kira saw things the same way.

Ah. So I suppose I did over-interpret it. Not ideal that you basically felt the need to 'spoil' one of the upcoming chapters, but I understand the desire to clarify (and honestly it is not exactly much of a spoiler - the details matter far more then the broad strokes anyways).

A shame yes, and I did think about not, but wanted to explain and besides, as you say it isn't much of a spoiler, giving away one small detail whilst still the how and so forth remain unknown.

Climbing up onto the bed, slipping by pure accident. Giggling and Foxe, smirking having to help me up.

Not the only time you've done this, but always enjoy these sorts of 'realistic touches' that nod at the fact that in practice, everything does not always go perfectly smoothly.

As I like adding them. Honestly no clue how regularly I slip some 'realism' into a story, but totally agree that it helps

Well, in fairness, would be a bit dangerous (at best) to wear clamps all night.

True, but most likely I've written similar into stories before. Artistic license or whatever, doing things with the characters technically too dangerous or things just impossible to do in reality.

Glad you loved it, and yes, baring a change of heart/direction I don't expect to be using Foxe again here. Went down this road: diving deep into the slave aspect of bondage, I've done this before with Brooke/Plymouth and whilst I'll likely dabble on the edges, I've no desire to go into collar territory again.

[RopeBunny]

The Wedding.
Day one, arrival.

Jennifer, my oldest friend. Over thirteen years since a small group of us met, thrown together that first somewhat daunting day, following which we marched through Everest Comprehensive together.

Born into money, not fuck you rich, but rich enough to own a summer house in France, for bills to be barely a dent in the family income.

Rich enough to hold the wedding, to her comes from money too, soon to be Mr, in a posh hotel overlooking a Scottish Loch, to hire two luxury coaches so all but a scattering can travel to and from in comfort and style.

I happen to be one of the scattered, long since moved away from our old stomping grounds, somehow managing to arrive into the small car park just as the coaches are disembarking.

People already staring, the Hayabusa isn't quiet, stacked with power beyond the factory standard and I'd been enjoying the twisting country roads. Howling up through the gears before hastily kicking back down as the concealed turnoff all but sprung out of hiding, bike slewing left still shedding speed.

A matt black bird of prey, swooping in.

Drawing even more- swear I can feel the growing attention like an itch -eyes as my helmet comes off, dyed blue hair shaken loose. Engine a low angry growl at idle, stretching, arms flung wide head back letting loose a yawn born of finally no longer having to focus. Jacket front opening wide, canons thrusting, attempting escape from the tight still halfway zipped leather.

Flash of inked- a sharks mouth, jaw bones and teeth, gaping wide my belly button the centre -and tanned belly as jacket and cropped yellow tee ride up.

Managing not to laugh as I catch someone, halfway down off the coach steps and therefore with a commanding raised view, actually leaning slightly forward.

Climbing off the now silent Hayabusa, helmet slotted to rest on a handlebar. Friendly pat becoming a caress, tracing the luminous green character on the fairing as I hunker down to unstrap a single saddlebag.

"Brooke?"
"Now there's a familiar voice." Standing, turning and already smiling before I see her, knowing it's her. Tilting my head to one side, regarding the known stranger freshly off the coach, loosely holding hands with the future Mr, half smiling back at me.

"Hello Jenny."

Colliding with me moments later, pulled into a fierce hug that crushes the air from my lungs, freeing one arm to hug her back and leaning in.

Stepping back and placing me at arms length, casting a critical eye over all the changes.

It was Jennifer who accompanied me to the first shoot, both of us giggling and her equally nervous despite it being my shoot. Yet in the roughly five years since, work- and other commitments -swallowing us both up, drifting apart whilst still remaining close friends, exchanging letters and phone calls, seeking advice or just company.

Just a voice is sometimes enough.

And whilst she's: blonde, curvy, that same easy smile I've missed. Jennifer hasn't changed, an older version of the schoolgirl I remember. Me, though.

Alternative, you could call my look, if you cared and I don't. The point is: tattoos and dyed hair are nothing unique, nor is a year round tan. But my ink is on the heavy side, and purposefully stacked down the left, and F cups- enhanced canons that seem to defy gravity -are somewhat large for such a thin frame as mine.

Combined with the purposefully lopsided cascade of blue I don't exactly blend in.

Good thing I don't want to, don't care who looks.

But, all these changes Jennifer has heard, read about but hasn't seen: the ink, the hair cut and styled to expose my biker scar, my large porn star breasts, because I am.

"That's a very sly smile Brooke."
"Sorry." Not sorry, I can't think about porn without thinking about bondage, without smiling.

"Different." Nodding, to herself, the brief flash of shock long gone.

"Blame the work."
"Which work?" Poking first my chest, followed by a quick one fingered jab to my toned stomach. Playful.

"Ha." Grinning at Jennifer's humour as she smiles back. "It's good to see you."
"You too." Pulling me into another hug. "Thanks for making the trip, and." Brief glance back towards the coaches, everyone off, half of them loitering, looking lost whilst those few apparently in the know are heading towards reception.

"Sorry I couldn't divert the coach."
"Wouldn't expect it." Shaking my head, reaching out to pat the Hayabusa. "Besides, mostly flew here."
"Flew here," giving me a look, "carefully."
"Yes. Okay." Spoilt by my continued grin. "I flew, carefully."
"Fuck off." Giving me a small shove, laughing as I push back, darting clear and a small wave as she returns to the future Mr. The slowly moving line inside.

Collecting saddle bag and helmet, Hayabusa locked to a post I set off to follow.

From the looks, inside and out the hotel likely began life as a castle, but a modern take on such, less battlements and moats more imposing buildings built on hills. A Lord gazing down on the peasants. I'm up on the third floor, the converted roofspace which means one slanted wall and a high ceiling, my window built out from the inwards leaning wall. The room, the hotel screams money.

I feel somewhat out of place. But, fuck it.

With an hour until the boat I freshen up: a shower to wash the road off me and fresh lingerie, a matching plunge bra and hipster pants set, pink lace in abundance on both items the fabric portion being grey. Black Converse- because they take up so little room and I only wanted to bring one bag -hightops and a clean pair of faded blue skinny fit jeans, small rips climbing each upper leg in true designer fashion.

White cropped 'JCB' tee I blagged back whilst negotiating the order for Fastracs to replace the Commissions aging fleet, company logo splashed across my F's, straining. King's jacket, since it'll be windy on the Loch.

Checking myself in the mirror, left turn right turn. A nod, a smile. And out I go.

The Wedding party isn't large, two coaches yes, but luxury, which translates to less then half the usual seating, large flatscreens and a fully stocked kitchen in back. All told there are roughly thirty of us 'youngsters' descending the switchback wooden stairs, the quickest way from hilltop to sea level, whilst the roughly half dozen actual adults remain behind to enjoy a well cooked meal.

Just as well, because what's waiting for us, tethered to and bobbing against the small pier is less a boat, more a.

"Goddamn pleasure barge." I exclaim, taking in the sight of it on approach, loitering near the back not knowing anyone here bar Jennifer, and not wanting to monopolise her time.

And besides which I'm comfortable inside my own head, and despite looking like it, my body could be described as screaming for attention, I'm actually not. Not desperate for nor seeking to be the centre of anyone's world.

Would be nice, though.

Best guess is a fishing boat, once. There's a long flat deck with the bridge rising at the back, whilst four cranes, two per side look slightly lost and empty without the expected strung out nets. The whole vessel has been renovated though, changed.

Hull painted a striking blue, the bridge remaining white and possibly that's all due to some kind of maritime regulation? The deck no longer has those large trapdoors though, now just a solid flat expanse with a roof only marquee erected up at the bow, beneath which a DJ is busy flicking switches, powering up and testing.

Below deck what used to be fish holds have been converted into toilets, a large kitchen out of which, tonight, a constant stream of burgers- chicken or beef -and pulled pork is being served. Not to mention the vast quantities of alcohol.

The cranes are simply poles now, stripped of hooks and lines, of nets. Instead all four are rigged with banks of lights which pulse in every colour of the rainbow, in time to the thumping fast bass the DJ spends most of his time spinning. Speakers too are rigged, the boat deck is ringed by them, a wall of sound pointed inwards.

'Showgirl Lola' is painted on the boat's side, a name that draws a smile, clever.

"Sounds like an old term."
"Is it?" Blinking back to myself, the world, focusing on the girl talking to me.

"Feels like something I'd read in a fantasy novel." Dropping into step with me having drifted back and away from the group in front. "Something set in some parody of the old days." She grins. "Pleasure barge sounds like a brothel, but floating."
"Is that what's below deck?" Grinning back, playing the game, whatever it is. Playing and or flirting, not sure which yet.

"Not sure I bought any cash."
"Not sure they'll be any men to buy down there." Stepping closer and slipping her arm through mine. "Brothels tend to be guys paying for girls."
"Tend to be?"
"S' what I've read." A shrug and a smile, playing too? I glance over, assessing.

Younger then me, possibly not yet twenty but hovering around that zone. Curvy, like a sixteen or higher, C cups and belly pressed against the thin fabric of a white dress with the expected plunging neckline, a dark red hoodie worn unzipped and black Adidas on her feet. All the girls I've spotted have opted for proper shoes, because fuck attempting to balance, let alone dance in heels whilst on a boat, on the water.

Brunette curls tied back off her face, the tips dyed pink, and some kind of ink on her lower right leg.

"Can't say I'm particularly interested." Meeting her gaze, still playing so why not make my preferences clear. "In men."
"Is that right?" Looking me up and down, quite obviously it feels like. Certainly blatantly enough to cause a small internal shiver. "Are you bride or groom?"
"Bride. Childhood friends."
"Groom." A shrug. "Younger sister."

"Dorothy."
"Brooke."
"Well, Brooke." Up onto the boat now, Dorothy letting go of me, stepping away. "Try not to get sold into brothel slavery won't you."
"I'll." Laughing, to hide the happy flip flop in my belly her words, the thought caused. Behave. "Try. But if I do, I'll be sure to tell you which room."

Bold, and the playfulness is automatic with me, something- flirting -I find it hard to switch off. Dorothy laughing at my parting comment though, wagging a finger as though admonishing me, licking her lips at the same time as though genuinely interested. Tempted even?

Brief shudder as the boats engines pick up, the skeleton crew casting off, Showgirl Lola reversing into the turn, making for the Loch proper.

And the party swelling all around, swallowing me up.

Dancing. Too busy dancing to consider getting drunk. Outer layers discarded enmasse as our combined heat rises, letting the beat wash over and move me, and it doesn't matter who I'm dancing with, which group or even occasionally Jennifer. Strangers cease to be such when all you care about is the music.

Dorothy and her.

Fucking?

Boyfriend? Occasionally glimpsed. Dorothy and some man who seems like her personal shadow anyway. Except sometime later, at some stage during the mad craziness of thumping bass and people. At one point she's there, here, dancing with me and him nowhere in sight. Dancing, close with me body half pressed to mine one leg between my two. Grinning.

Fucking tease.

Plenty of kissing, sometimes becoming more hands snaking up inside tops or rubbing at the front of jeans, coaxing the erection. Not me though, I make no moves and, the ever vanishing Dorothy aside non are made towards me.

Showgirl Lola making for and docking at the pier sometime around ten, likely due to noise laws since there are a scattering of houses around the Loch, plus the hotel itself and noise has a way of carrying across open water.

Back up the wooden stairs we troop, relatively sober me at the back, half watching and amused, occasionally helping those who stumble. Jennifer seeking me out in reception, a somewhat sloppy very drunk kiss to my cheek, happy and I smile back, wave her and the future Mr.

Joshua, must remember.

Waving them away, wandering back to my own room.

[BlissfulMisery]

True, but most likely I've written similar into stories before. Artistic license or whatever, doing things with the characters technically too dangerous or things just impossible to do in reality.

Cannot disagree that it can be fun to imagine

And to be fair my response was more aimed at Plymouth's emotions/thoughts around the idea, rather then it happening (since, you know, it did not actually happen anyways).

Glad you loved it, and yes, baring a change of heart/direction I don't expect to be using Foxe again here. Went down this road: diving deep into the slave aspect of bondage, I've done this before with Brooke/Plymouth and whilst I'll likely dabble on the edges, I've no desire to go into collar territory again.

Fair enough!

-

I like how you described Brooke in detail upon her arrival, mostly because it does a good job of demonstrating how *others* see her, since in the scene in question, people are quite literally staring, so it fits well/creates a sort of mixed perspective, if that makes any sense.

It was Jennifer who accompanied me to the first shoot, both of us giggling and her equally nervous despite it being my shoot. Yet in the roughly five years since, work- and other commitments -swallowing us both up, drifting apart whilst still remaining close friends, exchanging letters and phone calls, seeking advice or just company.

Obviously the whole chapter is sort of a callback to the very beginning of this series of tales, but I like the retrospective of sorts. Makes me think back on everything that Brooke has been through in those five years.

And besides which I'm comfortable inside my own head, and despite looking like it, my body could be described as screaming for attention, I'm actually not. Not desperate for nor seeking to be the centre of anyone's world.

Feels like you picked the wrong line of work for that, Brooke. Or I suppose *Plymouth* picked the wrong line of work

Jennifer seeking me out in reception, a somewhat sloppy very drunk kiss to my cheek, happy and I smile back, wave her and the future Mr.

Joshua, must remember.

Amusing how it took her that long to remember his name - Brooke really was just there for Jennifer and the party

Waving them away, wandering back to my own room.

Why do I suspect Dorothy will be making a (re)appearance?

[RopeBunny]

Obviously the whole chapter is sort of a callback to the very beginning of this series of tales, but I like the retrospective of sorts. Makes me think back on everything that Brooke has been through in those five years.

Quite the ride and yes, I used Jennifer specifically because of her presence at the beginning. Of course there's plenty of fun I can create at a wedding but it gave me the excuse to include her, too.

And besides which I'm comfortable inside my own head, and despite looking like it, my body could be described as screaming for attention, I'm actually not. Not desperate for nor seeking to be the centre of anyone's world.

Feels like you picked the wrong line of work for that, Brooke. Or I suppose *Plymouth* picked the wrong line of work

true.

Why do I suspect Dorothy will be making a (re)appearance?

Well....

Not yet, but it'd be silly/rude not to schedule a meeting between them

[RopeBunny]

The Wedding.
Day one, into night.

My room, plush and comfortable.

Where I can't settle, and certainly can't sleep. Too wired, despite it being hours ago part of me still feels as though I'm riding, that long enjoyable haul north, throwing the Hayabusa through the curves, letting the miles disappear in a blur of speed.

Prowling the confines of my room, staring out the window, but even opening it, even sitting on my bed and flicking through channels on the flatscreen, nothing seems capable of backing down the high.

"Fuck it." Jacket back on, key but ignoring the phone, I leave.

Finding the hotel bar, still open but sparsely populated, doors out onto a patio area closed but unlocked, so freshly ordered beer in hand outside I go. The space deserted, taking my pick of pub beer garden style wooden benches, sitting so I'm leaning back against the table section, gaze cast across the stunning nighttime view spread out before me, almost no light pollution the sky a sea of stars and below it the actual sea. Loch, like a dark gently rippling chasm.

Unfortunately the sparsely populated bar is sparsely populated by wedding guests. Guys, and I've no fucking clue how many singles there are attending Jennifer and Joshua's ceremony, but I am aware that weddings tend to be viewed as a popular place to get laid.

And I guess, somehow, my being out here all alone must equal some kind of silently made invite for the guys to try their luck, with me. As though the apparently invisible dam holding anyone- Dorothy aside -back from approaching me on the boat, no longer exists. And I'm now, it appears and no I don't understand it either.

But I'm now fair game.

Shame, for them, I'm only interested in girls.

"I'm supposed to tell you," the voice, female, is enough to have me glancing round. I'd been bracing for yet another guy having already politely but firmly turned down three offers.

"We're closing."
"Right." Picking up my pint and staring down into the dregs puddled at the bottom, shrugging and downing them. Grimacing at the taste as I stand. "You need me to leave."
"If you want."
"If I...?"

Blinking, confused.

"Don't you need to lock up?"
"Already done." Patting the glass bottles in her hand against a set of keys attached to a loop on her jeans.

Why is she holding bottles?

"Want some company?"
"Don't you need to," words failing me, making a slotting something into something from above gesture. "Punch out?"
"Boss said he'd do it." A shrug, waving the bottle at me. "Want some company?"

Do I?

Around my age, long blonde hair constantly caught and teased by the wind, no different to my blue mane. Plump, easily a size twenty plus, belly and what look like E cups pressed tight against a short sleeved white shirt, open low enough the cups of her white lace bra are clearly visible.

Feeling something wake up, small throb in my crotch because she couldn't be allowed to show off so much whilst on shift, which means the display is for my benefit.

Jeans equally tight on her thick legs, and yet despite being obviously overweight she's striking, pretty.

And, remembering now. At the bar I'd been served by a guy, an older guy. Tall and lean, a sliver haired fox. But she'd been there too, cleaning glasses and hovering. Looking at me, I remember, small quick smile as I'd glanced her way, catching her looking yet she hadn't looked away.

Interested, in me.

"Please." Turning back around, having gestured to the empty half bench beside me. Brief scent of strawberry as she passes in front, wafted on the breeze. Sitting down, close but not touching, not being forward. Handing over a bottle, having- quite professionally it has to be said -spun the caps off both.

"Thanks."
"Only water." Clinking hers against mine. "Figured," nodding to herself, "you've been on that party boat, probably you need something to flush the system."
"Right."

Or, wrong. So far I'm a pint on Showgirl Lola, plus a second here, virtually nothing to flush, but: she's bought me a drink, and unless I'm suddenly crap at reading this stuff, she's interested.

Which is, kinda nice. Definitely something worth letting play out.

"What do you suppose is out there?"
"Water." Pointing with her bottle. "There's a town." Sweeping the same hand across right to left. "And a fuck ton of trees."
"Fuck. Ton?"
"It's an accurate measurement." Playfully nudging me, brief contact. Showing interest. "Look it up."

"I meant though," my own sweeping point accompanied by a frown because: I'm unsure now why I started this, small talk yes, good, but wouldn't it of just been easier to ask how her day has been?

Or to comment on the weather?

Silly girl.

"Out, there. The stars and shit."
"You mean like." Glancing at me, perhaps wondering, like me: what the fuck? "God, aliens and monsters?"
"Definitely." Giggling. "Sorry."
"S' all good." Clinking bottles with me again, and for awhile we drift into silence, each taking occasional sips of water.

"Do I lose points for admitting I know who you are?"
"Who I...." Slow, really slow, Plymouth.

"Oh?"
"Yeah I." Stopping, staring at me, at my mouth slowly splitting into a huge grin. "What?"
"You've watched me." The whole idea both hilarious and a sudden massive turn on, that she's sat there. Once? Often? Watching me bound and gagged on a screen somewhere. "You." Shuffling closer, nudging her side. "Like me."
"Is that," trying on a smile, aiming and succeeding at matching my casual flirting tone, "should I not be admitting how much I love seeing you in tight bondage?"

Coming closer as I beckon her, leaning in and I meet her halfway. Kissing, tang of vodka on her tongue from somewhere.

Feeling the moment tilt, the small rapidly closing window of I could pull back, walk away.

Not surrender to a- another -stranger. A nasty habit I should probably, for my own health, quit.

Probably not.

Snuffing such annoying and uninteresting thoughts, brushing them off as I stand, holding out a hand which she takes, standing too.

Back to my room, where. Aware that weddings tend to be viewed as a popular place to get laid.

And yes I am a walking contradiction, unsure if I even wanted it- sex, fucking -and yet coming prepared all the same.

Closing the door and whilst she stands, fidgeting eyes roaming the space but always returning, to me. Crossing the room and from the depths of the saddlebag, which I'd left out clothes in favour of, pulling free the rolled Tesco shopping bag, which I shake out onto the bed.

Smiling as her eyes go wide, staring at the rope and various things I bought.

Just because of maybe you understand.

Eyes remaining like twin circular pools, wide and unblinking, as I strip naked, clothes pulled and yanked off, tossed to the four corners. Revealing myself to her and feeling strange, as I do, knowing she's already seen this, seen me.

It's a big kink filled world, out there. So many different things, so many boxes to tick or cross out depending on your unique set of preferences. And I switch, sometimes. Brooke is always happiest as a submissive, but Plymouth occasionally works a shoot in the dominant role, and so I can, switch.

But I'm happiest as a submissive. And one of the boxes I tick is the buzz I get from being naked when the other girl is still fully clothed, just one dynamic amongst many in the realm of power play.

Crossing the room and she's like a rabbit, caught in the headlights of my bouncing with each step F cups, eyes tracking my approach, blinking as I stop before her.

"Hi."
"Um." Struggling to look me in the eye, to tear her gaze off my breasts. "Hi."
"I thought you'd like me naked."
"Well." Brief laugh. "Yes?"

"Do I have to strip, um. Too?"
"Only if you want." Not delving into the why, that I like her clothed. Not wanting to spoil the growing mood, buzz. Hoping she'll remain dressed.

And with a shrug, small tingle of pleasure in my belly, she does.

Staring, but nothing more, and maybe she's inexperienced, with girls, or bondage.

Maybe she's- ha, I wish -starstruck.

"Here." Deciding to he helpful, to get things rolling by way of showing she's got my permission. To touch. Taking hold her wrists I place each hand atop each of my F cups, slipping my hands down atop hers and gently squeezing before letting go.

"I...."
"Nice?"
"Yes." Another brief laugh, nerves. "I mean." Increasing the pressure, slightly. "Fuck."
"Do you know how to tie me up?"
"What?" Too loud, surprised enough to drop her hands and step back.

"Really?"
"Definitely." Nodding, teasingly beckoning her back, and, when she's close again I slip both hands down into her jeans butt pockets, pulling her into contact with me. "Would you like to?"
"Kind of a silly question." Managing a smile, seeming to of found some composure, one of her hands back on my breast, the other tracing up down lines on my back.

Stroking me, which feels like bliss.

"Well." Leaning in for a kiss, something drawn out, wet. Coming away smiling.

"Why don't you then?"
"Now?"
"Sure." Stepping backwards out of her embrace, nodding whilst gesturing at the ropes. "Anything you feel up to doing, carry on."

She isn't inexperienced.

Nervous enough, or it might just be politeness, but I'm frequently asked throughout the binding if I'm okay? Is it too tight? Is she allowed to do x and y?

Yes. No. And please, carry on.

And I get it, you're supposed to check in, to keep an eye on your submissive, to not simply do as you please and treat them as you would a toy or a doll.

Unfortunately I like, thrive and crave being treated like a toy or a doll.

But she doesn't know that, and if I tell her it ruins the point. Giving someone permission to ignore your feelings takes away the buzz of having them ignored.

Knows what she's doing though. Ten minutes and I'm laid on the bed, on my side trussed into a back arching hogtie, ballgag filling my forced wide mouth and dull metal clamps pinching both nipples.

Wrists and elbows pinned behind. Legs pinned together in four places: ankles, below and above the knees, upper thigh. Having lubed up- I offered to suck on both, because I'm a slut. Making eye contact, kneeling on the bed already with my arms bound, sucking on each in turn as she fed them to me -a dildo and butt plug, both have been inserted, and both are held in place by a crotch rope.

Ankles bound to elbows, my hair caught and bound in rope, tied off to my ankles too. Big toes tied together using one of the laces out of my Converse.

Clever girl.

Putting on a show whilst she, with my permission, films on her phone camera, walking around the bed, mouth and eyes wide as I moan and flex, struggling, looking her in the eyes often. The whole situation making me very horny, bound and plugged, front and back, the twin invasion a constant felt thing, digging in deeper each time I move and wriggle a certain way.

Getting herself in shot, putting her back to me and lifting the phone, footage of us both, me the bound submissive in the background.

Taking, I think, several photos too, coming to lay beside me, shuffling closer until she's, on her back and I'm- with a small wriggle to be helpful -pressed up against her.

More photos, phone held up high pointing down. Smiling into the lens.

Closing down the app and tossing the phone, shuffling- mattress rocking and shifting with her bulk -and rolling until she's facing me. Brushing stray hair off her face.

"So." Reaching forward, stopping and almost dropping her hand onto the mattress, but not. Instead she completes the move, taking gentle hold of a nipple clamp, not so gently tugging at it.

"Gggsssstttttt." Like a hiss, of pleasure though as my nipple lights on fire.

"Well." Glancing behind, at her phone? "It's been fifteen minutes now, or something. Guess I let you go?"
"Mmmnnndddd." Shaking my head, which due to the bondage causes my whole upper body to shake.

"No?" Still holding my clamp, another playful yet harsh tug. Smiling at the hiss this provokes. "Does this mean, what." Leaning in, kissing my gagged lips, pressing herself fully against me hands on my butt, mashing us together.

The kiss going on and on, beginning to dry hump me, my nipples twin spots of fire, throbbing constantly at the pressure of being squashed between us whilst still clamped, and I'm moaning through the ball filling my mouth even as she's moaning back.

Pausing, pulling away long enough to yank off my gag, to free each nipple.

"Thanks." You didn't have to, but thanks.

"Can I keep you hogtied though?"
"Yes." Grinning. "If you're not done with me, then of course."

Grinning back, shuffling closer, back for more.

Kissing, a two way event now all whilst she's reaching down, tugging with one hand at my crotch rope, causing me to whimper and buck within the tight hogtie and I can tell she's loving it: the control, making me her puppet, dancing on command.

But not letting me climax, bringing me close, kissing and yanking, leaning down to tease at my nipples. But denying me the ending.

Toying with me, enjoying the control.

Climbing off, having strapped the ballgag back in place first.

Standing, looking down and smiling at me, wriggling and stretching on the bed, pushing my body out at her. Moaning, asking for more.

Asking to cum.

Please.

And for a moment, the barest hint of movement, slight tilt of her body one foot halfway lifted. It's like she's going to leave? To tease, or torment, to straight up abandon me in bondage as part of some fantasy in her head.

For a moment, but long enough to set my pulse racing, to stop my breath, everything going still. Will she? Hoping, secretly hoping and I don't have a fucking clue what I'll do, afterwards. But overcome by the rush of the near certainty I'm about to be abandoned, I don't care about after.

I only want her to leave, to go ahead and fucking do it.

Pausing, standing and watching me, for a moment. Flicker across her face then gone.

Returning to the bed, to me. Shedding clothes as she comes.

[BlissfulMisery]

Quite the ride and yes, I used Jennifer specifically because of her presence at the beginning. Of course there's plenty of fun I can create at a wedding but it gave me the excuse to include her, too.

Always ideal to have more then one reason for including something

Well....

Not yet, but it'd be silly/rude not to schedule a meeting between them

Yes, it would be rude indeed, lest it turn into a Chekov's Chit-Chat situation

-

Prowling the confines of my room, staring out the window, but even opening it, even sitting on my bed and flicking through channels on the flatscreen,

Feels like that sentence was lost in editing - should have probably been something like 'staring out the window, but not opening it, even sitting on my bed...'

Either way the double even and the 'but' do not really make sense here. But it is a minor thing.

And I'm now, it appears and no I don't understand it either.

To be fair, I also do not understand this sentence

Maybe should be 'I am now', but even that does not completely make sense in context.

But nitpicking sentence structure aside, seems Plymouth's reputation precedes Brooke (not the first time to be fair).

Not surrender to a- another -stranger. A nasty habit I should probably, for my own health, quit.

...

Snuffing such annoying and uninteresting thoughts,

Have to agree with Brooke there - on both counts

Back to my room, where. Aware that weddings tend to be viewed as a popular place to get laid.

Appreciate the repetition/symmetry from/to earlier!

It's a big kink filled world, out there. So many different things, so many boxes to tick or cross out depending on your unique set of preferences...

...But I'm happiest as a submissive. And one of the boxes I tick is the buzz I get from being naked when the other girl is still fully clothed, just one dynamic amongst many in the realm of power play.

Again, not wrong on both counts...

But she doesn't know that, and if I tell her it ruins the point. Giving someone permission to ignore your feelings takes away the buzz of having them ignored.

And yet again, not wrong there either... Brooke is apparently in quite the kink philosophizing mood in this chapter.

And for a moment, the barest hint of movement, slight tilt of her body one foot halfway lifted. It's like she's going to leave? To tease, or torment, to straight up abandon me in bondage as part of some fantasy in her head.

For a moment, but long enough to set my pulse racing, to stop my breath, everything going still. Will she? Hoping, secretly hoping and I don't have a fucking clue what I'll do, afterwards. But overcome by the rush of the near certainty I'm about to be abandoned, I don't care about after.

I only want her to leave, to go ahead and fucking do it.

Captures the moment well - the spike of anxiety and excitement, the 'will she won't she', the mix of uncertainty and complete helplessness.

Overall a fun mix of mean and nice from... well the person who from what I can remember did not actually give their name (a fact that certainly did not bother Brooke much )

Makes perfect sense too, with her not wanting to step over any lines, and yet obviously wanting to take full advantage of the opportunity being afforded (and our fortunate heroine).

[RopeBunny]

Mostly the mistakes are down to two rewrites, and one complete change regarding the bondage used

My fault, but stuff easily gets lost in the mix when so much is being changed.

Twice.

Back to my room, where. Aware that weddings tend to be viewed as a popular place to get laid.

Appreciate the repetition/symmetry from/to earlier!

Purposefully done, so I appreciate your noticing

Overall a fun mix of mean and nice from... well the person who from what I can remember did not actually give their name (a fact that certainly did not bother Brooke much )

Liked this, as an idea whilst writing. She doesn't give her name, nor is she asked. Deliberate on my part, keeping her a total stranger.

[RopeBunny]

The Wedding.
Day two, morning.

It takes me a moment. Waking up, stretching and halfway through realising I am. Stretching, that I can. Realising on the back of my discovered freedom that: I'm alone.

"And I didn't even ask your name." Shaking my head, laughter bubbling up, out. Amused but not embarrassed, no blush nor thoughts of how slut like I've just been: to meet a girl and bring her back to my- hotel room -bed, to fuck without knowing her name.

I had fun, she had fun. What else is there?

Checking my phone, both for the yet to- it's early -wail alarm, and as an automatic waking up reflex. Checking for messages, both Plymouth and Brooke related. Finding neither, and since it is still early, not quite eight, I sink back down into the expensively soft mattress, arms stretched out left and right, toes pointed muscles tensed a low satisfied moan escaping my throat.

Letting myself remember.

The weight of her atop me. Having asked, again with the asking and I can't tell her not to without spoiling the moment.

Telling her she doesn't need my permission would kill the buzz of her taking, not asking for that permission first anyway, so I keep quiet.

Asking, and yes she can bind me differently. Naked now her curves properly revealed, the thickness of limbs at upper arm and leg, the fullness of her breasts, below which a rounded belly hangs out.

A large girl, stunning, and there's another kink box ticked relating to her size being a kind of dominance in itself, that for all my muscle she could still, quite easily overpower me, if she wished.

Part of me silently begging for her to try, to succeed.

Having kept me gagged whilst switching the hogtie for a stretched down the length of the bed tie, arms and legs pinned together, dildo and plug still invading, laid on my back.

Climbing atop me, the weight of her a delicious felt thing, thick legs either side of mine and the hump of her large belly pressing down as she leans forwards, E cups dangling like forbidden- because I'm gagged -fruit.

Rocking, sliding her pussy back and forth across mine, the stubby hairs: like a short dirty yellow landing strip. The roughness of them grating across my roped pussy lips, coarse texture driving me wild, lighting me up.

Removing my gag, but only that, and yet before I can do more then take a half dozen deep breaths, jaw grateful for the release of tension. Not giving me a chance to talk, instead taking hold her breast and rubbing it across my lips, grinning as I dart forward, mouth open tongue flicking out. Attempting to catch a taste of her.

Teasing me. Working me over. Controlling every aspect of the sex whilst I lay bound and helpless beneath her naked bulk, occasionally wriggling uselessly, still attempting to fight free of her too tight too well done bondage.

Reaching down, supplementing her dry humping of me with an insistent tugging of my crotch rope, each yank pressing on both dildo and plug, forcing both to slide in out inside me, deeper each time, the double penetration something I'm not used to, leaving me gasping.

Horny, desperate, helpless.

The climax rolling over me like a wave, drowning beneath the sheer fucking goodness of it, whole body tingling like numbness. And in the aftermath tiredness creeps up, and I'm too content, too mellow to fight it off.

Too wasted and happy to care about what might happen after I pass out.

Waking to find myself free.

The- doing the right thing of course you free the captive before leaving -bitch.

Out of bed, no shower, yet, instead I throw on yesterday's underwear: the pink lace and grey fabric matching set, slipping on a shades of green and khaki camouflage dress- thin straps and mostly backless, deep scooped neckline the bust somewhat elasticated, slightly flowing beneath down to an above the knees hem -and smoothing the material down.

Quick check in the mirror, small grimace at the fact I look like someone who got almost no sleep, someone who hasn't showered.

Someone who spent the night fucking.

Smell like one too.

Fuck it, grabbing phone and key, there's some kind of wedding breakfast, a chance to mingle pre ceremony happening in about an hour. Feet jammed into Converse, bending to lace them up and I could use some fresh air first, a brisk walk to clear my bondage and sex fogged head.

Opening the door, walking out and colliding with Dorothy, who bounces off me at an angle and winds up inside whilst I'm now outside, in the corridor.

Both of us blinking, confused.

"What?"
"Oh. Brooke." Smiling, somewhat shyly. "Hey. Um." Stepping aside but not leaving. "Come in, please. It's your room after all."
"Right?"

Stepping in and shutting the door, frowning at Dorothy, who grins back, too wide.

"I came looking for you." Each room, at least my room, has a short narrow corridor from doorway to room proper, wardrobe on one side, bathroom door on the other. We're standing in it now, Dorothy leaning back against one wall me standing close to the other, arms crossed, the lack of space putting us quite close together.

"Last night."
"I, see." Smirking, thoughts flashing to what I'd been doing not a handful of hours ago, last night. "Thought you'd of been busy with...?"

Waving a hand, fucked if I know his name but they'd seemed pretty close.

"Ex." A shrug that explains nothing, a pause that equally explains nothing? "I came looking. I even knocked, where were you?"

Somehow only now registering my not a smile, smirk, and her comment, asking after my location, eyes flicking automatically to the bed my smirk growing. Dorothy's gaze, her head turning to follow mine and.

"Oh...." Pushing off the wall and wandering, dreamlike into my room. Stopping beside the bed and stooping, coming back up holding a still semi knotted length of rope.

Which I, somehow only now register the fact my room is littered with discarded ropes and the ballgag.

Dildo resting tip down in an empty water glass, real classy Plymouth.

"Too busy being kidnapped to answer the door," twirling the rope, "was it?"
"Well...."
"You could've kidnapped me?" Something like a challenge in her tone, smiling and a raised eyebrow. Teasing, but a challenge too.

"You weren't here." Meeting her teasing with- feigned -casual indifference. A shrug, stepping suddenly forward causing Dorothy to flinch, eyes widening at my eyeblinked proximity, taking the rope from her un-resisting hand.

"Well I'm." Shiver chasing down off her shoulders, looking me in the eyes. "Here now. Brooke?"

Tone like a question, offering.

Be rude to say no surely?

Unlike me, the Hayabusa severely restricting my luggage allowance everyone else has packed properly with plenty of choice. Dorothy included, and best guess the small bra like semi hugging top and matching small grey drawstring shorts is what she wore to bed, something you could- just about -wander the corridors in, but not appropriate outside.

The top has thin shoulder straps and a crisscross pattern at the back, a strip of rectangular fabric at the front, only enough to cover her C cups. Elastic across the bottom and top, the rectangle loose within but tight enough to show the shape of her breasts, which dangle freely, bouncing and shifting with each movement.

Me already partway hypnotised by it all.

Belly sticking out beneath, slightly swamping the waistband of her shorts. And on second thoughts the whole ensemble is a little on the skimpy side.

Not that I'm complaining, Dorothy, in my opinion looks great. Sexy.

"Oh, I thought...."
"Thought?" Behind her, Dorothy's arms placed- by me -horizontally at the small of her back, where I've already wrapped and bound them, wrist to inverted pressed one against the other wrist. Her voice, slight waver stopping me.

"Okay?"
"I." Brief squirm, tugging her arms in separate directions and shaking her upper body. Achieving nothing bar making her breasts bounce. Enticing. "I thought you'd tie me to the bed. Or...."

I wait, pausing, long trailing ends of the rope still loosely in hand.

"Don't people get tied to beds?"
"They do." Flashed montage of recent events and it's a good thing Dorothy can't see me grin. "Little boring though."

Liar.

"Boring?" Tone saying she doesn't believe me, that the bed is, surely, all there is when kidnapping- bondage -is what's happening. "Well. Um. I'll...." Another squirm, more bouncing C cups, more failing to escape. "Okay." Taking a deep breath, shivering. "Right."
"Okay?"
"Yes."
"Good."

Stepping in close, behind. Reaching around and passing the rope from right to left side, using my free hand to guide and place it across the top of Dorothy's breasts. Passing the rope through my earlier wrist bindings, using the height to yank her wrists upwards, to better pin them against her back.

Dorothy gasping, fingers wriggling but she doesn't protest, so I continue.

A second pass, left to right and below this time, making it snug up underneath the overhang of her breasts and back around, more binding to keep things tight. Using the excess rope up, feeding through between body and arm, up and around behind her neck to plunge down and through the other side. The overall effect, of the now completed tie being her arms are comfortable yet bound, her breasts nicely pinched and squeezed.

Remaining behind I step in, close enough to pin Dorothy's already rope pinned arms between us, feeling her questing fingers grasping at my now squashed- except given the size and nature they never really are -F cups. Reaching around, left and right, hugging her into me.

Dorothy leaning back, head tilted to rest on my shoulder, a contented sigh as I begin tracing patterns across her exposed and rounded belly, my other hand gently cupping a rope squeezed breast.

"This." Voice low and mellow. "Is nice."
"Only." Finding a nipple and gently tugging at it through the fabric, liking the way her breath catches. "Nice?"
"Sorry I." Shifting, upper body moving within the ropes, hands flexing. "Can't think of anything better." Letting a small laugh escape her throat. "Little distracted."

And- no rush -my hand has finally made it from Dorothy's belly to the waistband of her shorts, plucking at the fabric, one finger scratching beneath and her squirming each time I do, sighing and moaning.

Enjoying every moment of being my plaything it would seem.

Other hand still working over her breasts, light touches, teasing but in a good way, and maybe in another ten minutes we'll end up on the bed, Dorothy's shorts off and my tongue being put to good use.

Except my traitor alarm, that I forgot to cancel. The room suddenly filled by a rising wailing siren, breaking whatever spell had been keeping Dorothy docile, because with a jolt like waking from a trance she begins squirming.

Actually fighting the ropes as though afraid.

"Can you." Stepping forward, breaking contact and breathing faster, something like panic. "I. Um...."
"Sure. Yes." Stepping in, not even the briefest of pauses.

Not even for a half of one second do I contemplate anything other then helping.

Ropes off, and even as I'm unwinding the final loops from around her wrists Dorothy is shaking herself free, already moving, almost running towards the door.

Casting a glance behind her, and my heart sinks to see the panic on her face, as though genuinely scared she'd find me stalking after her.

Rope in hand.

"Um." Lingering a moment, one hand on the door handle, blinking at me. Shiver chasing through her. "I."
"I'll see you at breakfast." I haven't moved, am standing hands held at my sides, an un-threatening pose and I don't have a fucking clue, right now, what's got her so spooked. But I don't want to make it worse. "If that's okay?"
"Breakfast." Nodding, eyes darting left and right. "Yes. Right."

Finding a smile for me from somewhere, as she steps back, watching me, looking into the room as the door swings shut, possibly still expecting a last minute lunge.

"Well." Talking to the empty room, glancing down at the rope in my hand, beginning, without looking to untangle and properly coil it up. "That was all kinds of different."

[BlissfulMisery]

Mostly the mistakes are down to two rewrites, and one complete change regarding the bondage used

My fault, but stuff easily gets lost in the mix when so much is being changed.

Twice.

Fair enough, figured it was something like that.

Liked this, as an idea whilst writing. She doesn't give her name, nor is she asked. Deliberate on my part, keeping her a total stranger.

Does quite a bit to not-so-subtly hint at Brooke's current mood/attitude

-

and there's another kink box ticked relating to her size being a kind of dominance in itself, that for all my muscle she could still, quite easily overpower me, if she wished.

Mmm, while it is certainly not *required*, there is definitely an extra psychological element that comes with being physically outmatched/overpowered. Part of why it can be fun at times to try to 'resist' one's bondage, to get that more visceral experience.

The- doing the right thing of course you free the captive before leaving -bitch.

Indeed, *very* rude of her

"Ex." A shrug that explains nothing, a pause that equally explains nothing?

Hmm...

Except my traitor alarm, that I forgot to cancel. The room suddenly filled by a rising wailing siren, breaking whatever spell had been keeping Dorothy docile, because with a jolt like waking from a trance she begins squirming.

Actually fighting the ropes as though afraid.

Oof. Could definitely visualize that description. Very jarring to be so suddenly 'woken' from a submissive mental state especially into a completely different, far less enjoyable state.

"Well." Talking to the empty room, glancing down at the rope in my hand, beginning, without looking to untangle and properly coil it up. "That was all kinds of different."

Indeed.

Seems like Brooke inadvertently hit upon something. Not sure if we will find out exactly what, but I do suspect a conversation between them will be forthcoming. And I do have my guesses based on Dorothy's specific reaction...

[RopeBunny]

The- doing the right thing of course you free the captive before leaving -bitch.

Indeed, *very* rude of her

Can't say whether what follows, below, is what you were expecting.

But I didn't see the point in drawing this aspect out, best to let the girls talk now, after which I/we can move on to more TUGs fun

[RopeBunny]

The Wedding.
Day two, time passing.

Keeping her distance from me, at breakfast. Dorothy isn't there when I walk into the separate- private -dining room assigned to our wedding party, and by the time she does appear I'm already sat at a full table, it having become so after I'd sat down.

Am infact by that point involved in a lively three way cars versus bikes debate with two guys, friends who, from the high level of joshing and playfulness to their back and forth it seems they've had this debate several times.

An M3, the E36 model apparently and yes, it does look lovely: sleek and fast plus like my Hayabusa there's a long list of aftermarket modifications. Numerous photos are offered up, the yellow bodywork striking. Stacked against which is a Ducati racer, tweaked though not to the same levels: sports exhaust and a tune up. White, and fast.

But not- modified -Hayabusa fast. Yes, the M3 makes more power, but my bike weighs almost nothing in comparison. And we joke, and talk around the fact, but once it becomes clear- to them -that I do know how to handle the rocket I sit astride, both are good, polite enough to admit defeat.

Into which we all laugh, because yes it matters, but also, it doesn't.

Trying, the biker, to coax, convince his wife- sat beside him -to take some lessons. And honestly I was helping, becoming quite animated whilst describing the sheer thrill and rush, the freedom of a bike. Unfortunately though most of my good works becoming undone when she notices the scaring, like a broken tree branch climbing my left leg, bisecting the Lighthouse tattoo partially on show.

And I'm brave- stupid -enough to climb back on, to- stupid, definitely stupid, ha -actually go out and replace my wrecked bike with something even faster. But from her face, I'm not sure the prospect of wiping out is something she'll be able to get over.

Spotting Dorothy's arrival whilst debating in good spirits, our eyes meeting and I get a smile, an offered thumbs up which I return, smiling back.

Wearing black leggings, the wet look shine catching the lights, these paired with a white England football shirt, that 'three lions' badge pushed forward by the swell of her breasts, the fitted shirt tight on Dorothy's curves.

Pink tipped hair again tied back, making her way towards tables set up along the far wall, self service and I debate going in for a refill on my juice but no. I'll settle for a smile and patience.

Dorothy, as mentioned keeping her distance, not approaching and busy when I make to leave, not wanting to step in and disturb when I'm not entirely sure what to say.

How best to approach the fact of liking her, so far, yet not understanding the sudden panic and her spooked aftermath.

The ceremony isn't until late afternoon, and it isn't yet eleven, so. The coaches are on hand to run everyone around to the far side of the Loch, to a woodland, a non Commission woodland should you be wondering.

As I had.

We all had the chance, in the run up to the wedding, to pick, to specify a choice between quad bikes or horses in relation to how you'd like to go trekking.

I've never cared about horses. Horsepower, not horses.

"Hello there."
"Hello." Not having arrived by luxury coach, there's no space on said luxury coach, coaches, for me. Which means swapping my dress out for yesterday's road worn jeans and yellow cropped tee, boots and King's jacket, helmet.

Sat astride the Hayabusa, watching everyone board the coaches and suddenly here's Dorothy, sneaking in from the side, under my radar.

"I." Hands stuffed into the pockets of an unzipped dark blue lightweight waterproof, still wearing football shirt and shiny leggings, looking at the helmet resting atop the Hayabusa's fuel tank, my hands holding it in place. "Don't have a helmet."
"No." Did she want to ride? With me? "And I don't carry a spare."
"Don't have a cool jacket either."

Leaning slightly to peer at the back, helpful me tilting to better show her the patch, those looming chess pieces.

"Got to join a gang to get a cool jacket."
"No." Blinking at me. "Shit?"
"No shit."
"So you're?"
"A King." Feeling the swell of pride, my second family. "Yes."
"Fuck." Nodding, looking impressed and I doubt she actually knows the Three Kings by name, probably doesn't actually know anything specific regarding biker gangs, excepting what's portrayed in movies. But still.

"You horses?"
"Quads."
"Oh." Frowning, stepping back and looking slightly upset but we're out of time. Both our attentions caught by the realisation that everyone saving the final few have boarded, and it's time to leave.

Following the coaches, a single four wheel drive following me, a single estate car bringing up the rear.

"Good thing you bought your helmet."
"It." Confused, because yes I opted for quads, but we won't have to wear protection. Because it's private land, and I doubt we'll be allowed- pity -to race.

Looking up to find Jennifer approaching, realising, replaying her words and spotting the teasing tone, noting her grin.

"It is?"
"Seems you've made quite the impression." Joshua, more a smile then a grin, but like his soon to be Mrs there's amusement on his face.

And he's as expected, by the way. A prom King to Jennifer's blonde curvy Queen. Joshua is tall, managing to be both lean and muscular, somehow, messy dark hair and a perfectly trimmed goatee. The same easy going temperament in them both.

A perfect match, basically, and I'm happy for her. For them.

My confusion doesn't last beyond check in, as the wedding party splits, goodbyes exchanged and off we go towards paddock or garage, both buildings a fair size and more then enough horses, or quad bikes to go around. No doubt they cater to larger groups then ours, corporate bonding and all that.

Plenty for everyone, yet some few are choosing to share.

Apparently including me?

"Is this." Dorothy, unexpected but now Jennifer's grin and Joshua's comment making sense, feeling something warm sprout inside to find her, stood in front of me, fidgeting eyes constantly glancing off me, mostly focusing on the oil stained concrete. "Do you...?"
"Definitely." Half zipping my jacket and buckling the lower belt, leaving the second- neck height, at the top -open. "I'd love some company."
"Brilliant." Managing to properly look at me now, grinning.

"And I'm definitely not hiding any rope." Trying it, aiming to tease, to gently push. Wanting to know if she's here for what I think, hope she is. Dorothy's eyes flashing briefly wide in response, a nervous giggle before clamping a hand over her mouth.

Small blush.

"No?"
"Promise."
"I," taking a step closer, biting her lower lip and finding a flirty tone from somewhere, "maybe I should check you?"
"Check," raised eyebrows, matching her dropped voice, like a husky whisper, "me?"
"To be sure."
"Maybe if we find a secluded spot I'll sneak away from the group and park up." Winking, pure flirting. "Strip for you."

Which earns me another blush, her eyes zeroing in on my thrusting- because the half zipped jacket is tight -F cups.

Overly loud throat clearing, from the staff it turns out as the both of us turn to look, somewhat guiltily. Breaking up the fun because it's time for that mandatory safety briefing.

This is a quad bike. Watch how I start, stop it. Easy, yes? Waiting for the mandatory nodding, all of us being good sheep, me and a couple of the guys- looking around, spotting -managing to bury smiles. Watch me drive the quad bike. Slowly. Note the slowly, we don't want any of you.

Doing a brilliant job of spotting the trouble maker within his ranks, looking specifically at gang jacket, Hayabusa parked outside almost screaming speed even whilst sat still and quiet. Looking at me, small flashed smile at my semi joking yet okay I understand the rules tipped salute.

Watch me stop, and so on. Useful to maybe two thirds of the people here, judging by how interested our group looks. Nothing I need though, which is lucky since I spend most of the five minute briefing somewhat intoxicated by the scent of Dorothy, standing too close for friendship, not quite close enough for partners.

Just the smell of her: lavender. Just the corner of my eye sight of her chest lifting and falling, a little fast in mirror of my own as she too, it appears, is equally succumbing to my scent and proximity.

And not yet having showered what do I smell of? The woods, gas and oil off the bike?

What does bondage smell like?

Can't talk whilst we're trekking. Not because either one of us is gagged.

Get those thoughts out of the gutter, Plymouth.

No. Dorothy being behind me, combined with the noise of the quad, a throaty beast even at twenty odd miles an hour. We're sharing red one-zero-seven, all the quads stamped across the right flank, blue and black machines, a solitary yellow and a handful of other reds too.

Strange to be on a saddle but not having to balance the machine beneath. Strange, too, for one who almost entirely rides solo to feel and be aware of Dorothy behind, like a sixth sense the felt presence of her. And at these speeds- slow, so very slow -she doesn't have to hold on, to me, but occasionally does so anyway.

Testing the waters, whilst we can't talk Dorothy sets about feeling- quite literally -out my level of interest.

Leaning in, bike rocking as she shuffles closer and feeling Dorothy press close against me, hands coming around left and right. Holding on as though we were doing five times the speed. But then her right hands drops, the left remaining safe, approved fashion, but her right hand dipping, finding the exposed slash of skin between jacket and jeans waistband.

Using one finger to gently stroke my skin a half dozen times. And again, just as if confirming I wasn't imagining the fact. Slow deliberate scratches across my toned stomach.

And sliding back, letting go.

Returning, sometime later and the whole trek is uphill downhill, across fields and through the occasional waterlogged ditch, which of course quickly becomes a game of who can throw up the most spray. All of us with mud splattered legs and Dorothy laughing behind as I gun it each time. Happy.

Feeling her shift back in, sometime later. Hands once again coming around to grip, so, letting go the handlebar I take hold of her right hand and reposition it atop my stomach, patting it before letting go.

Brief squeeze, increased pressure as she pulls into a proper hug. Brief shiver as I feel her lips plant a small kiss on my neck.

And for the remainder of the ride it's occasionally an effort to focus on the winding path ahead, Dorothy's hand driving me slowly crazy, very rarely pulling away now, almost constantly pressed against me, hands around my body. One of which is often doing things that were we going faster I'd definitely have to tell her not to.

Stroking my stomach leading eventually, either getting bored of the repetition, becoming bolder, more teasing. Maybe she's horny? Scratches dipping lower, plucking at my jeans, slipping inside and finding the elastic of my hipster pants, which she teases at, gently snapping and rubbing her finger just above.

Drifting higher too, snaking up inside my jacket, being pretty fucking- and I'm not complaining, but still -bold. Only twice, but each time Dorothy manages to burrow up inside both jacket and tee, finding the lace on the underside of my bra cup, stroking it but going no higher despite my nipples budding and desperate for attention.

Teasing, playing and taking advantage, knowing full well that because I'm in control of the quad, I'm somewhat powerless to do anything back.

Almost, the thought hitting like a lightning strike, jolting deep in my core, pussy instantly damp at the revelation: it's as though I'm bound, helpless, Dorothy in control and me her captive.

"I spoke to Jenny." Stopped in a clearing high up one of many hills, commanding views all around and this is clearly a spot picked so we can all enjoy it. Everyone off the now silent bikes, Dorothy standing beside me, both of us looking out, two of only six girls here, amongst close to eighteen men. Including Joshua, the horse quad divide occurring largely as you'd predict.

"Okay." Nodding without turning, small tingle rushing through me because it's here, now. Dorothy wants to talk. No more flirting, no teasing. Serious business.

"About me?"
"About you." An answering nod I half see, not looking.

"And?"
"And she said you live a life of three parts." Watching Dorothy put out a hand, raising each finger in turn as she- correctly -names those things I care about the most. "Bikes, trees."

Brief pause, a small flashed smile I just about catch.

"And bondage."
"Well." Shrugging. "She isn't wrong."
"No." Hands back in her pockets, my own likewise and in my case it's to prevent waving them around. Or doing something silly like trying to hold Dorothy's hand.

"I've seen the bikes." Shake of her head. "Bike."
"Falcon."
"Falcon?"
"It's a Hayabusa." Letting a smile come out, letting passion enter my voice. "A series one, kinda a God bike."
"God." Almost laughing. "Bike?"
"It's rare, and stupidly fast." A nod. "I got lucky and found one in pieces, rebuilt it with custom parts. Hayabusa means Falcon in Japanese."
"Right."

"Trees?"
"Saving the most interesting til last?" A small flirt and I can't help it, glancing to the side and hoping. Dorothy's answering smile a good sign.

"Wanted to work with trees since forever."
"Alongside getting tied up for cash."
"Can't a girl have two dreams?" Smiling, because there'd been no venom from Dorothy, a slight playfulness and I guess we're flirting after all.

"I work for the Forestry Commission, single managing a woodland south of here."
"Just you?"
"Prefer it that way." Too used to my own company. Nobody to manage, nobody to manage me.

"Guess that explains how stupidly fucking in shape you are." Laughing, maybe trying to disguise the compliment. But smiling as she sees me blush. And it takes a lot to get me blushing, but a genuine compliment will do it.

"And you really enjoy it?"
"I really do."
"What if you could only do one though?"
"Ouch." My turn to laugh, shaking my head. "Not sure that's a choice I ever want to make."

"You love the bondage too, then?"
"Did my first shoot at eighteen." Letting what I do remember- the accident wiping away far too much - surface, liking most of what I see. "And I haven't looked back."
"All fun and calm waters then?"

"Oh." Frowning at my grimace, because no. Lessons I should've learned but haven't, and won't.

"It's." Breathing out, letting go the shiver. "Fine." Smiling at her, see, I'm okay. "Everything has bumps."
"Bumps?"
"Can't always avoid the rough water."
"Like my ex."

Right. The ex, from Showgirl Lola or are there more?

Don't push, let her speak.

"I'm." Letting out a breath, turning to face me and- tamping down on the thrill of the fact -taking my hand in hers. "Sorry about panicking."
"Don't be." Giving her hand a squeeze. "I'm sorry if I overstepped."
"You didn't." Smiling. "I kinda asked." Quick laugh. "Dared you to do it. And it was great. Amazing. Only."

Waiting. Small encouraging smile as our eyes meet. But waiting. Patient.

"The guy on the boat." Grimacing. "Total asshole, but he's my brothers friend, and Joshua doesn't see it."
"See what?"
"He's controlling." Shaking her head. "Not bondage or anything. He just. Doesn't give a shit about your feelings. You know?"

Nodding as I nod, quietly pleased she hasn't walked, stumbled down the same dark paths I've frequented.

"So. Trust is something I'm not good with."
"Understandable." Biting my lip, and despite how could I know, I feel bad. "Maybe I went too far."

To which Dorothy actually laughs, and it warms me to see the effect, like lifting the mood, restoring.

"I've never done beyond wrists cuffed to the bed before."
"I've got cuffs."
"Yeah?" Flirting now, which feels good. I've told and she's told, and it seems we both still want in.

In some fashion.

"On you?"
"On me?" Thinking fast, patting the waistband of my jeans. "Only the canvas belt."
"Which I'll bet you could easily bind me with?"
"If you let me."
"If I," thoughtful, "let you?"
"I can behave."
"Well maybe."

Small shiver, my heart flip flopping as it recognises dumped adrenaline, tamping down that automatic flight reflex. Surrendering.

"Maybe I don't want you to behave?"
"No?"
"It was new, but." Coming around to properly face me, her other hand finding my butt, gripping the firm cheek. "I was having fun, before."
"Before you weren't."
"So maybe next time let me bind you. Or," an easy shrug, spoilt slightly by the shiver, "bind me tighter. So that if I feel like running." Quick kiss to my neck. "I can't."

And gone, some kind of psychic shit, Dorothy skipping away even as I'm turning to look, at her. Even whilst the guy in charge calls time, saddle up and let's go home.