King Plymouth (MF+/F+) *NEW* 06/12 *NEW*

[RopeBunny]

Posting two at once, because why not.

Do I need a reason?

On an interested, that's me, interested, note.

Clive.

Wondering whether anyone noticed?

[BlissfulMisery]

This, the non bondage, bondage shoot is the second main thrust- arc -of the story. There's the Kings, leading somewhere, and now this, plus of course all the general run of doing shoots and random asides, such as the hotel mix up.

Of course, cannot forget the random asides

Do enjoy dropping in my little asides and observations

And I enjoy reading them!

-

"How could I not, you dangling yourself."

Not sure if intended, but amusing rope-related pun there

"Stunning."
"You have to say that." Managing a smile, the deafening pulse of my arousal making conscious thought, let alone flirting hard. "Or I'd kick you out."
"Like to see you fucking try." Snort of laughter.

Laid on my side, watching Eastenders of all the fucking- It's lucky I'm bound and gagged, unable to change the channel -things, head resting in Ruth's lap whilst she eats.

Clever of Ruth, lulling Brooke into allowing herself to be bound first before she springs the true horror/punishment on her

Frustrating.

Hilarious.

Bizarre. Ive been ignored, on purpose, but never in this specific casual fashion.

First time for everything! Poor Brooke - the hazards of letting yourself be tied up by a mostly stranger I suppose

Not so much, but I don't say, because despite the bizarre nature of the evenings bondage, I had fun.

And isn't that what counts?

Indeed

-

I'd begun to wake up to the notion of having my own site, had begun to make plans, to consider shoots. And whilst Morgan apparently leaving doesn't stop me pursuing this, it doesn't make it easy, either.

Ah yes the infuriating feeling of starting to warm up to an idea that someone else/circumstances introduce (that you did not originally want to do/consider)... and then the proverbial rug gets pulled and you are left in that awkward mental limbo where you have no idea if you want to continue, but already feel invested, but are not sure if you should keep pouring mental energy into it, or even what you *actually* want to do in the moment now that you are 'free'.

An overly long-winded way of saying, I feel her pain

"Yes, well." About to offer me his hand, the gesture becoming a twitch as he re-evaluates. Smile remaining though, clearly I'm, my rebellion, quite amusing.

Wanker.

Brooke being exactly as nice to him as he deserves

As I said, we're both aiming for the same hits, which is to say Edward is clearly attempting to put me off, to make me uncomfortable. Likely as either payback for my lack of respect, of his position, or to simply remind me of said position, the creaking corporate architecture, towering over me and him at the top. Looking down on us little people.

Unfortunately, for Edward, this is bondage, my world, and I don't get uncomfortable.

Perfect symmetry, really.

"Kinda cute." And with an almost audible ping, the thought arrives, is considered and agreed upon by all present: maybe Clive would like to help me with shoots?

The High Council of Brooke/Plymouth has agreed

He seems, after all, okay. For a nervous person.

Usually there is a reason for nerves. Unfortunately Brooke assumes a benign one in light of lacking (forgetting) key information.

Wondering whether anyone noticed?

Yes.

Will not describe too much to avoid spoiling, but I recall it was from before the accident, so not surprising she does not remember (and indeed you made multiple allusions to the accident, which was obviously an intentional hint).

But basically, a fucking asshole (pardon my language). Even in the most charitable light, someone who cannot be fully trusted.

Although I suppose ironically the 'worst' thing that happened to her on that occasion was actually well after he was out of the picture. Not that he does not share blame in her ending up in that situation, especially given her (at the time) inexperience.

Suppose we will have to see what happens, but I do not see this ending in any non-ugly way (at best, Brooke will probably end up having to confront memories best left forgotten).

[RopeBunny]

Wondering whether anyone noticed?

Yes.

Hoped you- someone, with luck a decent number -would recall Mr Clive, and your description was accurate.

Won't say more, because any relevant details will likely come out in time, within the story.

But so far it certainly seems Brooke has forgotten someone who she really would've been better off remembering.

"How could I not, you dangling yourself."

Not sure if intended, but amusing rope-related pun there

Happy to say that one was deliberate

Laid on my side, watching Eastenders of all the fucking- It's lucky I'm bound and gagged, unable to change the channel -things, head resting in Ruth's lap whilst she eats.

Clever of Ruth, lulling Brooke into allowing herself to be bound first before she springs the true horror/punishment on her

In fairness I used to watch that particular show, not for awhile.

One of those flow moments, was going to go a different way with Ruth/Brooke, and I suppose- second meeting? -I still could.

But what had been written wasn't good, so I deleted back to point X, and went again, and the forced watching of various shows kinda happened

[RopeBunny]

016.

How can you tell you've nailed it?

Six pairs of eyes, gone wide as I walk- strut, can't help it, knowing I'm the current centre of everyone's attention will do that -out, crossing the mostly empty floorspace, rejoining the group.

"Boys." And again, can't help it: the teasing, flirting. Playing with these men, not one of them- aside from Clive, and possibly Edward in some sort of managerial capacity -having a good reason to be here.

Aside from the fact they want to look- perve -over the pretty girl wearing not much, getting tied up.

"How do I look?" Grinning, the lack of any response beyond mumbled compliments. Black steel toed boots, clean, above which miles of tanned leg disappearing into the frayed hem of my faded black denim shorts, cream canvas belt cinched, the end dangling. Halter bikini top, green camouflage each triangular cup barely containing an enhanced F, sideswell visible, breasts pressed tightly together. So. Much. Cleavage.

Hair worn loose, almost my entire library of ink, left side heavy with exposed black designs. Sharks mouth gaping on my belly like half a threat, or a come on, luring you in.

"Here." Edward, holding out an orange hi-vis waistcoat, front zip, size extra small and 'Forestry Commission' printed across the back, logo on the left breast, all official looking and this is a joint enterprise after all.

"If you could."
"Thought the point was exposure?" Taking the item, slipping it on. "What's the point in wearing so little if I'm just covering back up?"
"We sell these." A nod towards the waistcoat, zipped halfway, hugging me at the sides, breasts pushing the front out. Doubt I could fasten the zip any higher?

"Advertising, remember."
"Showing off the goods." Gripping either side of the open waistcoat top, leaning forward to shake my chest at Edward, who blushes, then tuts.

Mad at himself for the slip.

"I remember Eddie."
"Let's begin." A little too slow burying the scowl, thrown gesture out into the room. "Shall we."

Four of the suits, the nameless somewhat unimportant four, retreating a dozen paces, and in one case all the way back to the table. The lowest rank of them, fixing coffee. Edward and me and Clive, left in the middle.

"I didn't know," making conversation, I suppose, "you worked for the Forestry Commission."
"Why would you?" Giving Clive an odd look, frowning harder as he blinks, worried look- like realising a slip up -flitting across his face. "Isn't like we've ever met."

Which comment is greeted by somewhat forced sounding laughter, too hard.

Nervous, still. Must do better.

Largely empty, this warehouse space, but someone with an eye for such things has strategically placed stacked crates on shelving, as background. And in the finished products everything behind me will be blurred, but still recognisable as crates.

V.K Supplies, ready, waiting to ship.

Edward's shoot, that detailed plan I didn't bother to read and so I watch, interested as one by one Clive hoists seven different items up into the air, suspending each from an overhead girder. Roof support, the long dangling ropes having been set up earlier, most likely by using the small adjustable height platform parked over in one corner.

Seven small items, with a slightly off centre gap left, for me.

"How do you want me?"
"The design brief," voice heavily implying I should already know this, "calls for upside down."
"Okay." Figures, one rope, one point of contact and hanging me by only the ankles, if only one point is allowed, makes the most sense.

"Just." Raised eyebrow, like a challenge at Edward. "My ankles?"
"Yes." As though I'm an idiot for even asking.

Turning to Clive, raising an eyebrow and in response he shrugs, knowing smile on his face. Co-conspiritors.

There's a complex pully system rigged above, out of sight, allowing whatever Clive binds to that seventh rope to be raised to whatever level looks most estetically pleasing.

"The camera." Clive, pointing and me beside him, standing quite close. Too close? That easy over-familiarity I tend to slip into on shoots, in life. Nodding at the logic as he explains. "Is there, so I'm shooting this way so."
"So I need to face this way." Turning toward the camera, taking a moment to orientate myself. "Which means." Glancing down at the ground.

Sitting down with my back to the camera, legs pressed together and ankles next to the small puddled coil of that seventh dangling rope. Clive coming around to kneel next to my ankles, second rope in hand, binding me.

Feeling a little beginning tingle as this new person ties me up, feeling the other- suits -eyes on me, watching. Clive binding my ankles together, passing the rope around and between my boots, capturing the foot too, adding stability and sharing out the weight, easier if it isn't only my ankles under strain.

Bringing the dangling rope, passing through between my legs and looping several times, adding multiple knots and I'm happy, feel that small bit safer in his care, to see the care taken.

"I'll guide you up." Still kneeling, looking the question at me. "Let one of the others operate the mechanism."
"Great." Because I don't particularly want to lift myself clear, to have either back or ankles, my head, banging and scrapping the floor. "Thanks."

Slowly I'm raised, smoothly, but the rachet isn't fast. Clive hunkers beside me, lifting my back off the concrete floor whilst I take hold his shoulders. Stepping around behind me, hands shifting as I rise higher, changing grip moving constantly to the next best position to aid me.

Brief contact on my breast, Clive's hand finding the wrong grip, squeezing tightly and sudden release at my indrawn- surprise, the sudden intimate contact, nipple waking up and pussy stirring, forgetting it isn't that kind of shoot -breath. Shifting his hand to above my breast, now resting on the slope of it not the bulked shape.

Letting go as my upward momentum stops, coming around front. Clive's cock now at head height.

Stop it Plymouth.

My breasts within easy grabbing range and my own crotch equally so.

Behave.

Arms, if I were to let them dangle, reaching down with one to check and no, I can't touch the floor, hair a ways off it too. Hanging, my whole self hanging.

Clive stepping back from me, moving to an already set up camera and tripod, the five suits- well behaved good boys, all of them staring -behind him.

Shooting, each shutter click loud in the quiet space. Taking four, glancing back towards Edward, at me before he takes two more and. Fuck it, if Clive isn't going to ask.

"What am I doing with my hands?"
"Excuse me?"
"My hands. Eddie." Waving at him, one of the suits barking laughter at the no doubt comical sight of upside down me saying hello. "How do you want me posed?"
"Well....."

Figures. For all the 'I'm in charge' and 'read the brief' nobody thought about posing me. Nothing beyond the initial- admittedly cool -layout we've now got.

Right.

"Ready?"
"Waiting on you."
"Fuck off." Flipping Clive off, teasing fucker.

Getting to work. Switching poses, holding each long enough for Clive to take two photos, presumably- if he's got any sense, and or skill -one wide angle and one partway zoomed in, because yes Edward's brief called for all this stuff to be hung around me, but there's something to be said for focusing on the model too.

Reaching for the ground, one arm, the other. Both. Repeating each with different facial expressions: amused, confused, open mouth shouting, feigning silent anger at my predicament.

Swinging, amused thoughts: idly wondering which of the suits- Clive? -is enjoying the show, wondering who's rocking an erection? Swinging, pivoting at the waist and eventually managing to grab hold of my leg, angled ninety degrees at the waist, reaching upwards and grasping towards my ankle bindings.

Looking upwards, looking at the camera, mixing my expressions as before.

Flopping back down, body set to swinging and laughing at the helplessness of it all, that I can't stop the pendulum of my body.

"Think you should add more rope."
"To what end?"
"Well." Still upside down, Edward approached, hunkered down so we're eye to inverted eye, and maybe he's enjoying the dynamic, finding some power trip to my being strung up?

Couldn't care less.

"I'm already strung up." Waving at my ankles, high above in the clouds. "Halfway captured, as it were."
"So why not add more?" Thoughtful.

"Exactly." Nodding, belly- already feeling weird due to my position -doing a small flip. "I'm sure marketing can come up with some tag line for it all."
"Yes." Distracted, quick smile. "Carry on then."

"Quite persuasive." Clive, smirking as he wanders over, rope in hand. "Aren't we?"
"When I want to be."
"Didn't talk your way out of the ropes though."
"Didn't want to."
"Could you though?"

Playful, a teasing back and forth. And unlike Edward, Clive hasn't knelt or hunkered, is standing just to my side, close enough he's almost touching me, conversing in low tones.

"Take me home later and find out." Teasing back, not really thinking ahead, just being my natural full speed ahead and damn the consequences self. Turning my head to the side and blowing a quick blast of air at Clive's- right there, less then inches away -jeans clad cock.

"Maybe I will." Stepping in front of me but not backing away, cock now touching my face, rub of denim against my cheek, lips. Reaching down and in the moments it takes to step across to my other side, in the two seconds of blind spot- from Edward and the suits -Clive reaches down, tugging at then letting go the strip of fabric connecting my bikini cups.

Flustered. I'd been, the thought still running from formed thing to my lips, on the verge of slipping my tongue out to lick at his crotch before Clive stepped fully away.

Coming around behind me.

"Any thoughts?"
"What?" Shaking my head, myself. Clearing the brief funk. "Well."

Clive already having grabbed my wrists, lifting both up and placing them together, loosely roped, crossed.

"How much rope do you have?"
"Long length." Biting my lip as he slips the loop tight, wrists pinched by coarse rope. "Plenty, for whatever I reckon."
"Wrists to my waist?" Not asking, not like that, more like I'm offering the suggestion, helping.

"Could wrap it around you." Voice drifting around from behind. "Like a crisscross?"
"Make sure to get my chest."
"Can't squeeze them too hard." Another tight yank at the wrists, binding me whilst we talk. "Or they'll pop out."
"Right." Small laugh, shaking my head.

"Have to bind them tighter at yours then."
"Will do." Reaching around, passing rope left and right at the waist. "Wondering if that's before, or after I lock you in a cage for the night?"
"Before." Voice breaking on the word, despite we're only playing. Pussy gone damp. "Bind me up some, and I'll crawl into the cage for you."
"Nice." Patting my butt. "Something to look forward to."

Having snared my wrists, pinned crossed behind me, Clive proceeds to wrap slowly descending crisscrossing loops around me, nothing like actual bondage, tight, but not particularly effective and something inside is complaining loudly at the fact.

Fucking half loose crap rope if I so much as sneeze it'll all come tumbling off.

Not Clive's fault, no doubt he's aware of Edward, of whatever limits there were on the bondage, no doubt detailed in the folder. Still, though, wrapping me, and whilst they aren't pinched, or squeezed, my breasts are bracketed by rope.

"Got any left?"
"Little." Coming halfway round, dangling about a metre, the two ends each about a metre, in front of me. "Just tuck them away at the back shall I."
"Gag me."
"Sure?"
"Fuck it." Laughing. "Yes, and bollocks to whatever folder crap you were about to say."

To which Clive, mouth half open to say exactly that, laughs.

Gagging me, wrapping rope around my face, pressed- not forced, not super tight but like the rest of the rope, it's still rope, I'm still bound -into my mouth, tied off.

"Listen." Standing in front of me, casting a quick- nervous, guilty? -glance behind towards the suits. "I was just playing, um." Taking an obvious, deliberate step back. Moving his cock away from my mouth. "Before, sorry."

Retreating before I- gagged -can comment. Backing off to the camera, and for the next five minutes Clive shoots close to a hundred photos, whilst I do my bound and gagged best to switch up what few poses I can manage.

"You don't." Slowly lowered to the ground, Clive now leaning over me, removing the rope. The suits gone and I for one am not the least unhappy about that. "Didn't," wriggling, can't help but fidget, enjoying these final moments of bondage, "have to apologise."
"No?"
"I was playing too." Shrugging, Clive nodding. Thoughtful.

"Think they'll use any of the proper stuff?"
"Fucked if I know." Laughing. "Probably breaks ten different advertising standards." Thinking. "At least."
"Ha."
"Felt good to be bound though."
"Yeah?"
"Always does." Just making conversation. "Can't ever seem to get enough of it."
"Right." Still that thoughtful half frown.

At least he, lost to the work perhaps and now he's used to me, perhaps? Whatever the reason, at least Clive isn't jumping at my shadow anymore.

"Not even dinner."
"True." Clothes still in the toilet, standing and freed now, Clive beside me and I'm agreeing, trusting him to know.

"Any plans?"
"Home?" Shrugging. "No work tomorrow, so...."
"Right."
"Not ideal, really."
"No?" Side glancing at me. "What would be ideal, then?"
"Well."

Side glancing back, making the decision, to share.

"All this half bondage gets fucking frustrating." Shaking my head and smiling. "Could use a proper shoot, really. Some real bondage."
"So go home and shoot some self bondage." Offering his idea out there, back and forth. "You've got the equipment, right?"
"Do you?"
"Do I got the equipment?" Nodding back to answer my nod. "Sure, haven't shot much, not particularly rich and models aren't cheap."

Laughing, me joining in.

"But I've got the kit."
"Want to shoot me?"
"I mean." Taking a step away and shivering, almost like a return to being afraid of me. All whilst something dark crosses his face, so fast I'll swear it was imagined.

"You want to come back to mine?"
"If you'll have me?"
"I can't-"
"-Pay?" Smiling as Clive nods. "S' okay. Shoot me, and I'll take the footage. Pay you for the time."
"You'll." Grinning, humour. "Pay me?"
"Why not?" Smiling back. "I'll hire you as a rigger."

Heading to the bathroom to change, pleased, because at least now I- hopefully, depending on the shoot -won't have to spend the late afternoon and evening, a whole long night frustrated and desperate for something real.

[BlissfulMisery]

Hoped you- someone, with luck a decent number -would recall Mr Clive, and your description was accurate.

To be fair it has been literally years. I barely remembered at all (and the hinting helped a lot in jogging the memory).

Happy to say that one was deliberate

In fairness I used to watch that particular show, not for awhile.

One of those flow moments, was going to go a different way with Ruth/Brooke, and I suppose- second meeting? -I still could.

But what had been written wasn't good, so I deleted back to point X, and went again, and the forced watching of various shows kinda happened

Nothing wrong with poking a little fun at yourself

And probably good to let the characters take you where they will. Tends to make the writing a little more authentic, when one does not force ones authorial will upon them too much.

-

So. Much. Cleavage.

Made me laugh, describing it like that

"Here." Edward, holding out an orange hi-vis waistcoat, front zip, size extra small and 'Forestry Commission' printed across the back, logo on the left breast, all official looking and this is a joint enterprise after all.

"If you could."
"Thought the point was exposure?" Taking the item, slipping it on. "What's the point in wearing so little if I'm just covering back up?"
"We sell these." A nod towards the waistcoat, zipped halfway, hugging me at the sides, breasts pushing the front out. Doubt I could fasten the zip any higher?

Good old product placement

"I didn't know," making conversation, I suppose, "you worked for the Forestry Commission."
"Why would you?" Giving Clive an odd look, frowning harder as he blinks, worried look- like realising a slip up -flitting across his face. "Isn't like we've ever met."

Which comment is greeted by somewhat forced sounding laughter, too hard.

Nervous, still. Must do better.

That uncomfortable feeling when you know far more then the character. Not exactly the same obviously, but sort of like the whole 'watching something horrible happen and time seems to slow down'.

"Have to bind them tighter at yours then."
"Will do." Reaching around, passing rope left and right at the waist. "Wondering if that's before, or after I lock you in a cage for the night?"
"Before." Voice breaking on the word, despite we're only playing. Pussy gone damp. "Bind me up some, and I'll crawl into the cage for you."

...And only getting worse.

"Listen." Standing in front of me, casting a quick- nervous, guilty? -glance behind towards the suits. "I was just playing, um." Taking an obvious, deliberate step back. Moving his cock away from my mouth. "Before, sorry."

Well at least he feels *a little* bad about it. Although unfortunately I suspect not enough to prevent whatever ends up happening.

"You want to come back to mine?"
"If you'll have me?"
"I can't-"
"-Pay?" Smiling as Clive nods. "S' okay. Shoot me, and I'll take the footage. Pay you for the time."
"You'll." Grinning, humour. "Pay me?"
"Why not?" Smiling back. "I'll hire you as a rigger."

...And of course the proverbial jaws of the trap spring shut. And what makes it all worse is that it was her idea - a classical tragedy in the making.

No proper plan or even general idea on her part either for the shoot. Just winging it, probably still riding the wave of rebellious feeling that she has been channeling all day so far. All in all, a recipe for disaster.

Wonder exactly when the truth will come out.

Also, do not remember if she has even been suspended upside down like this before, but was certainly different then the usual. Makes sense of course, given the nature of the 'shoot'.

[RopeBunny]

Hoped you- someone, with luck a decent number -would recall Mr Clive, and your description was accurate.

To be fair it has been literally years. I barely remembered at all (and the hinting helped a lot in jogging the memory).

True, which is why I hoped, and wasn't sure, but I'm glad at least some will remember (if you have then logically others have) and there's the hints too. And I'm sure I'll explain his backstory eventually.

"I didn't know," making conversation, I suppose, "you worked for the Forestry Commission."
"Why would you?" Giving Clive an odd look, frowning harder as he blinks, worried look- like realising a slip up -flitting across his face. "Isn't like we've ever met."

Which comment is greeted by somewhat forced sounding laughter, too hard.

Nervous, still. Must do better.

That uncomfortable feeling when you know far more then the character. Not exactly the same obviously, but sort of like the whole 'watching something horrible happen and time seems to slow down'.

Pretty much the vibe I was going for, that the audience knows Clive is bad news, can see the wheels turning, Brooke's slow fall into his clutches, yet she remains oblivious to the danger.

"Listen." Standing in front of me, casting a quick- nervous, guilty? -glance behind towards the suits. "I was just playing, um." Taking an obvious, deliberate step back. Moving his cock away from my mouth. "Before, sorry."

Well at least he feels *a little* bad about it. Although unfortunately I suspect not enough to prevent whatever ends up happening.

Likely not, enough no. Meant to imply second thoughts on Clive's part, hesitation. Because clearly- rubbing himself across Brooke's face -he wants to, but his own- perfect -memories of past interactions are giving him pause.

Also, do not remember if she has even been suspended upside down like this before, but was certainly different then the usual. Makes sense of course, given the nature of the 'shoot'.

Think? She has, can't be sure but feel like I have done a suspension before, in same manner.

[RopeBunny]

017.

Didn't seem any point waiting, Edward- wanker, not going to change my opinion anytime soon -being done with us by three, or fifteen hundred if like me you prefer that sort of timekeeping, and whilst I'm currently free tomorrow, too, that could change.

"Phone could ring at any point." Shrugging, standing outside the warehouse beside Clive, Hayabusa parked next to his light blue sporty looking Ford, like a family car, back doors and a decent boot yet the wheels are chunky, arches flared.

"Won't be too much? Too late?" Still looking at me, occasionally, with something like fear? When he thinks my attention is elsewhere.

"No such thing."
"No?" Managing a smile, spurred on by my own perhaps. "Well," pointing, "I'm that way, about ninety minutes." A shrug, traffic. "Two hours. If you can keep up."
"Ha." And fair enough the car looks fast, but not bike fast.

"Lead the way."
"Right."

Driving in the wrong direction, away from Port West, but it's fine. Still semi buzzing from the photoshoot, despite it being very 'work safe' it was still bondage. Buzzing, feeling high, the rush of feel good only growing as I chase Clive through traffic, slaloming in and out, keeping pace.

Leaving London behind, from town roads to the motorway, swapping the lead once or twice. Playing, until eventually the turn off comes, and we downgrade back to slower roads, a different town.

"Shared," smile lifting the corners of my mouth, what we came here to do and yet Clive doesn't live alone, "house. Clive?"
"Attic conversion is mine." Gesturing at the pointed roof, the obvious windows looking too new for the house. "And besides they're both at work for another few hours."
"Okay." Shrugging, because I don't particularly care, mood I'm in.

Playful, happy to the point of bouncing. I'd almost invite them in to watch.

Locking up the bike, following Clive inside, short corridor with large lounge on the right, kitchen to the left and a toilet on the same side, back garden beyond a closed door. Upstairs, and ignoring the whole floor what looks like two large bedrooms and a bathroom, instead we continue upwards, finding a small landing, what must be a third toilet and opposite, the closed door to Clive's room.

Which he unlocks, gesturing me through first.

A large square, windows across one side, slanted, the whole ceiling slanted to the point you've got to be careful towards the edge of the room. Wooden framed king though nowhere near as fancy as mine, wardrobe and small drawer unit doubling as bedside table, gaming desk underneath one window, nice looking set-up. Pile of blankets and large plush toys, strangely taking up one whole corner.

Closing the door behind us, soft click of the lock engaging as Clive gives it a small push. Turning to face me.

"Give me five minutes to set up, and." Waving at his unmade bed. "Tidy up."
"No need." Reaching in and taking hold the duvet, yanking, pivoting to sweep and toss both duvet and the small pile of clothes into the corner, landing amongst the blankets and whatever else.

"Bind me first."
"That's." Small smile though, tutting and shaking his head, but smiling as I toss my jacket atop my helmet, placed against the wall, well out of the way.

"Not exactly how it's done, Brooke."
"Plymouth." Smile widening, sinking into the zone and. "Fuck procedure." Boots, kicking one then the other off, balancing to get at each sock in turn. "Won't it...."

Waving my hands around, chasing after some excuse, reason. Not wanting to come out and say- admit -to being horny as fuck, still deeply in the zone following this morning, wanting more, and now.

"Angles." Grin of trimuph, the answer coming to me. "Once I'm bound you'll be able to work out the angles better."
"I mean." Looking at his bed, at me. That darkness vanishing off his face, again, as soon as I register it. Me still uncaring, wanting only to be bound and fuck the rest of it.

"I guess?"
"Perfect." Having still been stripping whilst we'd discussed whether I should be stripping, kind of, I toss the final item of clothing onto my newly made pile.

Climbing up onto Clive's bed.

We had discussed this, or rather, having discovered that yes Clive does- occasionally -work as a rigger, producer, I'd thrown out a few ideas, shoots I'd thought up, and Clive had nodded, and voiced an opinion regarding which he liked more.

And now here we are.

Kneeling in the centre, Clive moving around me to work, having to climb up and get back off his bed several times, neither one of us talking whilst he binds me.

And whatever his excuse or reason, for going along with my breach of bondage shoot protocol and proper structure, I'm far too sunk into the zone to form coherent thoughts right now.

Binding each ankle, separately, followed by running the excess of each rope up the bed, reeling in the slack to the point the ropes are tight without actually pulling me after them. Securing each rope to a separate corner bedpost.

Binding my wrists, side by side behind me, a long rope, trailing ends left puddled on the bed as Clive uses another rope to bind my elbows, tight.

Biting my lip to hold in the moan, really fucking into it.

Running the wrist rope slack between my spread legs. Slowly, leaning back, tilting and falling, pivoting until my shoulders and head are resting on the bed, arms out straight, down the middle of the bed, underneath me.

Clive taking the slack and, as with my ankle ropes he reels it, and me in. Pulling to the point the rope is tight, forcing my back to arch and legs to bend, head and shoulders yanked closer to my butt. Binding it off to the bed frame, sealing me into the position: unable to move, can't wriggle either up or down the bed, prevented by the combined ankle and wrist ropes, no slack anywhere, both acting to counter the other.

Pinning me in place. Pussy thrust skyward, breasts humped and pointed, side of my face pressed into the bed.

Naked, vulnerable and exposed. Helpless and so fucking turned on.

"Okay?" Something like amusement, at the state of me, at my willingness or at who knows. Regardless I'm forced to nod, to smile in lieu of talking, because I don't trust my voice. Clive nodding back though, managing to find a serious, business like face.

Moving around the room to set up a camera.

And when his phone rings I actually laugh. Because it's like fate or something, some written rule that whenever Brooke- Plymouth -is bound, for a shoot, someone's phone has to ring. Leon, which is unfortunately, that day was probably the birth of Kira's stalking obsession. Morgan, covering me in graffiti, and now.

"Shit." Hand coming out- I see it, flash of movement making me glance over -of his pocket. "Sorry."
"S' okay." Voice wavering a little. "Do you need to...?"
"What?" Hand dropping back to the same pocket of his jeans, fingering the shape of his phone. "No. I."
"Go on." For some reason feeling the urgency of it, that- in my head and fuck knows why -if the phone stops ringing before Clive answers it, something bad will happen.

"I can't." Even whilst stepping towards his door. "You're...."
"Fine." Shivering and I really shouldn't be making a habit of this good deeds crap, letting people wander off and leave me bound.

Except I'm in that zone, loving the full body tingles: strange place, strange man, helpless. It's- in my head -as though the universe is tipping a hat, giving me permission to spend awhile buzzing in mixed fear and arousal.

A heady combination, intoxicating like all the best drugs.

"Go." Almost like an order. "Please."
"Right." Door open, phone out and still, somehow ringing. "I'll leave this open, shout me if you-"
"-Go already." Laughing, on that high.

Clive doesn't return for- clock on the wall -over an hour, long slender hand passing the halfway point so in actual fact it's closer to two hours then one. By which point far from being mad I've sunk so far down into the hole of submission, of being bound and kept, it's a wonder I can even see daylight.

Strange house, and the door wide open. And Clive has housemates, others who live here, who shouldn't have any reason to wander up to the third floor, and yet my thoughts are constantly wandering down the path of what if they do?

Housemates who aren't- unless they are, how the fuck would I know -even here, and yet every little noise, every creaking floorboard or muted sound, and I'm imagining them returned, coming to find and see me, naked and displayed, helpless.

"Hey." Wandering in, casual, like he hasn't been gone about an hour and change too long, abandoning me which breaks about fifty codes of good practice even with me telling him to. No apology, voiced or even anywhere on his face, acting as though keeping me bound were normal, something he's allowed to do.

Yes, I did say yes, but even so most people would still say sorry upon returning, and the fact he doesn't only ratchets up my arousal some more.

"Hey." Lazy smile on my face from being sunk into the high, flexing my bound body, pushing upwards with my shoulders, breasts heaving and settling, pussy thrusting slightly higher. Eyes drawn to the obvious bulge in the front of Clive's skinny fit jeans. Remembering the warehouse, brush of fabric against my lips.

Only just managing not to lick my lips, and I don't even particularly like boys.

"You didn't shout?"
"No."
"I was," nodding at the door he's just pushed closed, stepping into the room, coming closer, "gone awhile."
"Yes." Fucking forever, actually, and if it was anything else I'd be telling him, asking why and what the fuck. Except, I've spent the time in helpless bondage, sitting, waiting. Buzzing my tits off so to speak.

I couldn't be mad if you paid me.

"If you'd wanted out, you could've shouted."
"I didn't." Eyes still fixed on Clive's cock. "Want out."

"No?" Eyebrows raised, closer still.

"No." The single word coming quiet, but so loaded with meaning.

Flexing again, letting out a breath, becoming a sigh as Clive climbs up to kneel beside me, one hand reaching out, finger tracing the line of my pussy, the slit wet with my arousal.

Breaking another fifty codes of good practice, because we aren't shooting, and even if we were, this agreed shoot wasn't a sex shoot. No touching, no climax. None of which thoughts make it anywhere near my consciousness. Staring up at Clive, looking back down at me, finger stroking up and down the length of my pussy.

Driving me wild.

"I could gag you."
"Yes."
"Take another phone call." Words, tone low, smile on his face like a fucking emperor, smug were I coherent enough to notice. "A longer one."
"I wouldn't mind."
"No." Not a question.

"I'd wait here." Breath coming ragged, everything spiking, the continued attention my pussy on fire, the rest of me yearning.

"Wouldn't have a choice." Leaning in to kiss my nipple, which I stretch towards him, wanting it. "I'm not freeing you."
"Okay."
"Okay?" Amused snort. "You surrendering, easy as that, Plymouth?"
"I'm." Flexing, Clive's finger briefly slipping inside as my pussy shifts upwards, making me sigh. "Quite helpless here."
"Are you though?"

Thoughtful, and after a moment Clive stands, grinning as I whimper at the loss of contact.

Fetching a ring gag, buckling it tightly in place, stepping back.

"I want you to try." Like an adult, tone as though reprimanding me. "For the next hour, fight the ropes, try to escape."
"Dddgggppfffmmmm." Nodding, yes, I'll try.

"Good."

And for awhile, a minute. Standing beside the bed, watching me all whilst I watch back, waiting for him to leave. Because that much has gotten through the drug- bondage -induced haze: Clive will leave, to take a- pretend, no doubt -call, and whilst he's gone I'll attempt freedom.

"Well." Harsh tone, displeased. The word cutting through me, that I've caused displeasure, that I'm at fault and mixed in with the sinking is a shiver of humiliation, to be told off.

"Struggle for me already." Throwing out one arm towards me, telling me to hurry up already. "Bitch." Added like a spit, more displeasure, more shivers chasing from my rock like nipples to my throbbing pussy.

Moaning, nodding. Doing as I'm told. Fighting Clive's ropes, pulling on wrists, wriggling both ankles. Trying to bring my arms up, back, to bend them far enough around to reach either ankle, to work on the knots. Bouncing in frustration- and I don't really want to escape, but I've been told to struggle, am becoming upset at my inability to do a better job.

Clive's ropes proving too tight, can't do more then wriggle, bouncing and shifting myself, F cups shaking left and right, thrusting upwards alongside my crotch. Moaning, glancing at Clive, moaning at him, wanting, craving some form of praise for my efforts. Some acknowledgement for all the sweat running off me.

But instead he leaves. No words, no comment, keeping his expression neutral and walking out, shutting the door.

Only to return. Several times, no warning, the door swinging back open and striding into the room. Munching on a burger, hunger pangs in my stomach at the smell, the ketchup oozing out, dripping. Another time holding a bottle of beer, condensation on the glass sides.

And each time he returns, if I'm not already struggling as the door opens, I'm told off, admonished for slacking. His words of course having the same effect each time, internal heat spiking at the sense of shame, coupled with arousal and frustration, horny as fuck but too helpless to do anything about it.

Welcoming Clive's cock. Stepping back in and no words this time, instead stripping off his jeans and boxers, stepping up to kneel on the bed, beside my head. Grasping me by the hair, lifting and tilting my head at the same time leaning closer, pushing the long skinny shaft of it, already erect, at me.

Ignoring my own pleasure, no attention to spare for my pussy, my nipples. Instead Clive takes control, guiding my face and his cock, fucking my ring gag forced open mouth. Teasing for awhile, just the tip, rubbing it across my face and around my lips, slipping his cock halfway in, then out. Resting it in front of me, waiting. Telling me to lick it.

Grinning at my whimpers, my obedience.

Plunging the full length inside, catching me out, suddenly coughing but he doesn't let up. Pounding at my face, in and out and in, forcing the full length inside, holding it there whilst my eyes water and body squrims. Helpless.

Fucking me until he climaxes, hot and sticky, the explosion running down my throat, swallowing on reflex. Gagging, unused to the taste. Clive withdrawing, waiting until I've licked him clean, more humiliation and he's barely touched me the whole time, yet I'm buzzing so loud, flying so high at this point the smallest touch to my clit and I'd explode too.

No.

Instead I'm freed, only to be cuffed, wrists secured behind with cold, solid steel. Click of the lock whilst I stand docile beside the bed.

"Go sort yourself out." Door open, pointing at the bathroom and from downstairs I hear voices, brief laughter. Normal lives happening and the thought of fleeing, of running never even occurring.

Why would I run? I'm happy, in bondage, control surrendered and no clue what's to come. This is my perfect state.

Returning from a long awkward drink, a pee, and Clive strapping on a ballgag. Another click, locking me in. Assorted stuffed toys and blankets tossed aside to reveal the cage, the ghost of the earlier joke, heart skipping several beats at the sight.

Clive opening the door and I walk in, ducking my head and upper body, the cage small, door smaller, kneeling inside and turning to face Clive, closing and locking the door. Grinning.

Flicking the light off, plunging us all into darkness. And into that shadow realm he speaks.

"Just so you know, Plymouth." Tap of something metal- keys? -against the bars. "I won."

Good thing he can't see my face, can't see me collapse backwards as though punched, from kneeling to sitting on my bare butt, on the thin blanket floor.

Good thing I'm gagged, so he can't hear my gasp. Shock, eyes gone wide.

Something in those words, Clive's voice in the dark. Memories, shards and half formed things but enough.

And suddenly- stomach dropping out the bottom of my world, heart thudding -I know him.

[RopeBunny]

018.

All.

Night.

(Shit)

All.

Fucking.

Night. Locked in a- fucking -cage, calling myself every- fucking -name under the ever- fucking -loving sun. All- fucking -night, locked up and locked in, gagged, naked.

Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck.

Enough, I'll stop. I'll try to stop, to calm my heart and my internal tirade. And it's hard, because I'm mad at myself, fuming despite there isn't much.

Willingly surrendering.

I could've done to prevent this outcome. Ought to be mad at Clive, the wanker. And I am, because of what he concealed from me, and I've only got half of one third- feels like -of the memory. But it's enough.

Something like a convention but for fetish, for kink, dressed up in latex. I can feel- because full body latex covering and me are regular acquaintances -the tight pressure of it, casting my thoughts back. Trussed up and gagged, by Clive, hired to be a companion and at times I have escorted.

Tricked, though. Traded? Clive using helpless me as a means to secure some other girl?

Hazy, only certain of the trick, Clive leaving me bound, walking away.

And there's holes, but I know he tricked me again. I can see a bed, not mine, upon which I'm trussed, gagged next to a girl made of shadows, a slave, and only once helpless was I made aware of the fact, only then, in semi darkness- like tonight, locking me up and his voice, in the dark, triggering -did Clive appear.

Like the worst magician, thinking to claim me too.

Fucking.

No.

Not tonight either. I will not.

Not. Be a slave. I sink, I willingly plummet down into submissive territory, surrendering and asking for more, use me and control me and bind me and I'll still ask for more.

And even now- fucker -there's a part of me thrilling at all this, the trick and the play, Clive succeeding- with help, because I walked right in, I said 'please bind me' and 'no I don't want out' and so on -in making me his. For now. As disgusted and mad as I am, part of me is riding the high of it all, buzzing at what happened, at where I am.

Locked in a cage. Handcuffed. Ballgagged. Naked.

A long uncomfortable night, sleeping in snatches, both because I'm uncomfortable and because I can't slow the run of my thoughts: an insistent voice, the part of me craving this, wanting more and look, the dragon is right fucking there, stopped around the next bend.

I can see his tail, just need to run.

Part of me wants to remain here, to stay submissive, wondering what Clive plans doing next: how does he intend keeping me? At some point, being an adult with a job I'll have to leave, so how does he intend ensuring I come back to him, to the ropes and the cage?

The only reason I'm not sick, stomach calm instead of churning at the taste, the unfamiliar shock of Clives cum, exploding inside my throat, swallowed and- ring gagged, his cock still filling my mouth -what choice did I have? That part of me loving all this is saving me from attempting to throw up whilst strapped into a ballgag.

Luckily, for the- mostly -sensible rest of me, once awake Clive spends close to ten minutes laid on his back, head tilted to stare at caged me in the half light filtering through the curtains. Sat in the cage and it's near impossible to hide, due to the small size.

Barely tall enough to kneel, too short on length and width to lay properly.

So I'm on display, breasts, pussy or at least the strong hint of it, and Clive spends his first moments awake wanking off, slowly, to the sight of me.

Fucker.

Superb actress that I am, that I can be when required- two time Academie Internationale d'art Pour Adultes award winner -I sit, keeping my eyes mostly lowered, being still, playing the perfect submissive. Waiting.

And after a trip to the bathroom the stupid wanker opens the cage, stepping back to let me out. Waiting whilst I stand, stretch.

No, going up onto tip toes, flexing my arms and reaching out behind me, upper body forced to bend forward, breasts thrusting and dangling. None of that was for your benefit.

Except he thinks it is. Reaching out and running an eager, hungry hand across my- offered, he thinks, to him as his right or some dominant crap -breast, harsh squeeze, strength but not much in his grip.

Hard- again, super keen -cock brushing at my pussy lips, feeling my own body waking up.

Turning traitor.

Hearing a moan and not realising it's mine until Clive grins, second hand on my second breast with an equally harsh squeeze, pressing into me, cock rubbing against my pussy, small wiry hairs setting my clit on fire.

Kissing my gagged lips, legs going weak.

"I know what you want." Like a grin, and in answer I- traitor, wrong and wrong and fuck but I'm not in control of myself, it seems -moan.

Finding myself on Clive's bed some- like a jump cut, like I stepped out due to pleasure overload -while later. Still naked, last night's ring gag back, forcing my jaws wide, locked out. Laid on my back, bound arms pinned beneath, rope at wrists and elbows, waist, squeezing and punishing my F cups, roped up, encircled both nipples clamped. Legs bent at the knee, ankles pinned to thighs, each leg spread wide, knees touching- almost -the bed.

Clive half kneeling half laying between them, fucking me.

And the absolute worst part is I'm enjoying it. Real pleasure chasing circuits of me, tingle at the harshly pinched nipples. Clive's thumb rubbing at my clit whilst he pounds in and out, full speed and no prisoners, knowing his stuff but for me it's so new, so few times I've been fucked by a real cock, and maybe only- surely when I was young? -this one time when it wasn't for a shoot, for paid work.

Finishing off with my face, fucking my gagged mouth, pounding some more and my whole self bouncing and shaking. Clive's climax, the hated taste of cum spilling and erupting down my throat, the humiliation of being used, twice, of willingly allowing both occasions.

His climax setting off mine, muffled and choked off screams, body locking out.

Clive using my breasts in lieu of a towel, wiping his cock clean and climbing off the bed. Walking out without a word and soon I hear the muffled sounds of a shower. Left to stew and pant, to lay here in my own and Clive's post orgasm mess. Tied and helpless.

Until he returns, clean and smelling fresh as summer meadows. Wanker. Naked from the waist up, towel wrapping his waist.

Calmed down, by now I'm calm, in control the anger returned with friends in tow, seething below the still surface I'm presenting, laid on the bed, sweaty, the now dried remains of Clive's orgasm feeling nasty on my breast.

And for one, drawn out because he looks down on me and smiles, and for those half dozen skipped heartbeats I'm tensing, expecting him to climb up and go again. Round three and probably we could wind up doing this all day, kept here and fucked and.

Shivering, shouting- internal shouts, like a slap -down the traitor thoughts, that part of me happy to remain, to be Clive's bitch.

"You've." Head cocked, smile and enjoying the view. "Got work?"
"Rrrtttsssss." Nodding, tomorrow but I'm not correcting him. Let me out, and if he knew- remembered, because I did tell him, stupid fucking rope junkie -I was free all day, likely I'd remain here.

And- stupid fucking rope junkie, reaping what I sow and will I learn? -part of me would be quite happy, actually.

Luckily Clive frees me, taking the opportunity of removing the chest ropes to run a hand across my breasts, stepping back and giving me space to shake out numb tired limbs, to slowly climb off the bed.

Space to reset, to build that anger.

And I see him see it, Clive, blinking and taking a step back as I cross both arms below my chest, glare that feels as though I should be burrowing twin holes straight through him.

"Brooke." Backing off a second step, panicked glance at the door and hands coming up. "I...."
"Piece of shit." Spat out, flinching forward, a single aborted step arms coming off my chest, hands bunching to fists but, no.

"Hi," voice mocking, "I'm Brooke."
"I...."
"Hi, Brooke." Staring fire wreathed daggers at him, words spat, disdain overflowing. "I'm Clive, we met before. Twice."

Shouting the word. Because this is three fucking times now, three times trying and mostly succeeding at the warped game of binding and owning me.

Not willing, not now but later. Tonight I'll be in the shower, crying and screaming in equal measure. Annoyed at myself, knowing I'll never change, can't change the core of me. But for someone to best me three times, for me to willingly lay down and accept the trick three times.

"Twice." Feel like it needs saying again. "Feel like you should've led with our somewhat mixed history."
"I'm sor-"

Is about all he gets out before I, anger flaring, having to look at his stupid face, the fuck- which I liked, damn me to hell -all too recent. Surge of hatred too strong to tamp down and I'm in motion, exploding across the distance, right arm coming in swinging and I'm quite strong.

For a girl.

Connecting with Clive's bicep, missing- lucky him -his face, following up with a push and Clive stumbles backwards.

"Dare fucking apologise." Shouting some more and it feels good, to vent. "Like feeling bad will make it all better, after you bound me and fucked me."

"And I liked it." Shivering, the adrenaline coursing through me. "I was having fun but it's all built on lies and crap. It's...." Losing steam, it's all too much effort and surely I screamed at him last time?

Winding down, tiredness like a wave, ready to stop, to leave.

And into my rebuilt sense of calm the stupid wanker speaks.

"You." Glancing up to find half a smile on that stupid mouth. "Liked, it?"
"Fuck off." Across the space again, punching him. "Fuck off." Again, left hand connecting with his belly, having right handed his forearm. "Fuck off fuck off fuck off fuck." Taking a breath, with an effort forcing my momentum to halt, hands falling to my sides like dead weights. Screaming the last word into his face from inches, so loud and so much hatred in my voice. Sound of a door slamming downstairs.

"Off." Breathing, feeling too hot, ill. Needing help. "You don't get to speak, to say words. You stupid fucking arrogant, not even sorry cheating." Crying after all, view gone kaleidoscope patchy, colours mixing.

"Delete the shoot."
"But we didn't eve-"
"-Yesterday's." Screaming the word at him, stopping, taking a step back lest I hit him again. And at some point I'm going to hit Clive and I won't be able to stop.

"Shoot. The ever fucking warehouse. Shoot." Unable to meet my eyes, which is fine. Fucking coward. "I don't ever want to see you again, or to see any connection, in any sense of any place or method, between us."

Taking a breath. Calm.

"I'm giving you an out, because I'm grown up enough to realise at least some of what happened here is on me, that I led you on." Which wouldn't of happened had Clive been honest, but. Layers within layers and I'm tired, just want out. "So." A shrug, casual as though my next words weren't carrying the implied weight they so clearly are.

Because I would, I will.

I've- pretty certain, and isn't that what a gang is -got friends who'll help me bury the body.

"I'm not going to kill you. But."

Drawing out the silence, waiting until Clive looks up, and he- dominant, used to ruling -doesn't want to, but I wait, smile in the face of his half scowl.

"Next time, I will."

Dressing, leaving without further words, and I doubt he'll change, but I'm done, because the next step, were I to do more, is to kill him.

Or at the very least to hit him with the Hayabusa. Nice, satisfying, crunch.

Jeans and tee, jacket, boots and helmet. Messenger bag. Feeling gross beneath, breasts sticky, hair a mess, mouth raw from the missed bathroom routine and stomach empty.

Leaving, Clive actually mumbling something as I pass, pushing on though, not slowing lest I'm forced to ride the bike up three flights of stairs and across his face.

I'm out. Done.

[RopeBunny]

Two chapters, wrapping up Clive's arc within the larger story.

And he won't be returning, because I don't want to make a murderer of Brooke.

Had intended the arc to play out over a longer period, Brooke falling for Clive hard, falling for the lie of him, snared and potentially going full slave, craving him.

But no. I've taken Brooke into slave territory and it never ends well, too deep and too much, it always becomes something I start hating to write.

So, a short arc, ticking boxes and a satisfying ending.

Time to move along, still plenty more for Brooke to do, plenty of potential fun/trouble out there.

[BlissfulMisery]

Think? She has, can't be sure but feel like I have done a suspension before, in same manner.

Suspension, yes, that exact type of suspension, not sure.

Not that it specifically matters. Just something that jumped out at me.

-

"Bind me first."
"That's." Small smile though, tutting and shaking his head, but smiling as I toss my jacket atop my helmet, placed against the wall, well out of the way.

"Not exactly how it's done, Brooke."
"Plymouth." Smile widening, sinking into the zone and. "Fuck procedure." Boots, kicking one then the other off, balancing to get at each sock in turn. "Won't it...."

Even if one is ignorant of the history/context here, reckless even by Plymouth's standards. A desire for rebellion being taken just a little too far (even if understandable why she feels this way in the moment)...

And of course the general problem of setting the wrong tone - she is very much leading the whole thing along, and where one leads others will follow by example (in this case of not caring about 'protocol' or boundaries).

And when his phone rings I actually laugh. Because it's like fate or something, some written rule that whenever Brooke- Plymouth -is bound, for a shoot, someone's phone has to ring. Leon, which is unfortunately, that day was probably the birth of Kira's stalking obsession. Morgan, covering me in graffiti, and now.

Fate... or the invisible hand of the author

"No." The single word coming quiet, but so loaded with meaning.

Really liked that line.

And indeed loaded with meaning - the proverbial trap springing shut (and the tragedy of it is that it is partly by her own actions).

Moaning, nodding. Doing as I'm told. Fighting Clive's ropes, pulling on wrists, wriggling both ankles. Trying to bring my arms up, back, to bend them far enough around to reach either ankle, to work on the knots. Bouncing in frustration- and I don't really want to escape, but I've been told to struggle, am becoming upset at my inability to do a better job.

Again, really like the description here - perfectly capturing the submissive mindset of the moment.

And suddenly- stomach dropping out the bottom of my world, heart thudding -I know him.

The moment of (painful) revelation.

-

That part of me loving all this is saving me from attempting to throw up whilst strapped into a ballgag.

A lot of great descriptive lines in this, but again, really liked this one, very raw.

Shouting the word. Because this is three fucking times now, three times trying and mostly succeeding at the warped game of binding and owning me.

Not willing, not now but later. Tonight I'll be in the shower, crying and screaming in equal measure. Annoyed at myself, knowing I'll never change, can't change the core of me. But for someone to best me three times, for me to willingly lay down and accept the trick three times.

Again, really liked the whole passage, but this part most of all (well 'like' is obviously a mixed term when talking about her going through a genuinely emotionally painful moment, but you know).

The catharsis of the whole tragic setup, where she is (justifiably) pissed at him, but also herself for, well, being who is she. Someone addicted enough to bondage to be willing to go along with things in spite of her own better judgement, were she thinking about it entirely rationally.

Not the first time something like this happened, being the point. She has never *truly* hit rock bottom, but so often it turns ugly (as an addiction is want to do). Endless trauma and tragedy

"You." Glancing up to find half a smile on that stupid mouth. "Liked, it?"

Fuck you Clive.

Layers within layers and I'm tired, just want out.

Poor Brooke.

The sad thing is that this all came out of the stupid 'shoot' - she had prophesized it would end poorly, but obviously was not expecting *this* (not that she is likely to turn out to be wrong on her original predictions either going forward).

-

And he won't be returning

For the better.

So, a short arc, ticking boxes and a satisfying ending.

Short, perhaps, but quite the rollercoaster ride. And brilliantly described.

...still plenty more for Brooke to do, plenty of potential fun/trouble out there.

For her sake, hopefully a little more fun then trouble, at least for a while.

[RopeBunny]

And when his phone rings I actually laugh. Because it's like fate or something, some written rule that whenever Brooke- Plymouth -is bound, for a shoot, someone's phone has to ring. Leon, which is unfortunately, that day was probably the birth of Kira's stalking obsession. Morgan, covering me in graffiti, and now.

Fate... or the invisible hand of the author

Mostly me needing some method by which Clive can abandon Plymouth, and a staged- hand coming out of his pocket as the phone rang, subtle clue that Plymouth noticed but didn't realise the significance of -call works. Only, having had the thought I realised I've done the same before: a tied Brooke and a ringing phone, so decided to let her notice/comment on the fact.

And suddenly- stomach dropping out the bottom of my world, heart thudding -I know him.

The moment of (painful) revelation.

Indeed.

Glad to see you liked t6he chapters, the mini arc within the larger whole. Sure Clive's name will come back up, it has to in regards some things, such as the V.K arc, but I don't expect to actually bring him physically back.

[RopeBunny]

019.

Between Clive's shared house and my apartment sits Daniel's mid terrace two bedroom, not directly between, and not halfway, but, angling the Hayabusa, a decision made as I ride home, stewing, seething.

Depressed and sad.

Detouring to Daniel's house, half a plan forming. Finding them both at home.

"Thank you."
"Hey." Sitting beside me on the Intercity- except they aren't called that anymore, some new looking thing, which I dislike -train, our second with the underground still to go, plus the taxi we'd rode earlier.

"What are friends for." Smiling at me, and I could cry, Daniel and Shauna's friendship, both professionally and privately. Two of the best people I know.

Coffee, and a huge plate of chips, flooded with ketchup, something quick yet hot and filling.

Sustenance, whilst I'd talked, briefly outlining events, such as they are. Staring at my hands and with an effort managing to relax out the balled fists, palms flat on the table, breathing. And, girls talk, so Shauna knows some of what I am, my addiction to helplessness and likely she's shared parts with Daniel, as couples do.

So, they know my- ha, except it isn't funny, really -bind: that it's happened before and will again, except this time, the history, the wilful hiding of the past, snaring me when he nad no right.

This time is different. Worse.

Asking for help, for Daniel's help. Showering and fuck but it feels good to be clean, fresh, minty taste in my mouth. Clean underwear from- a thong, no bra since she's a D to my F but that's okay -Shauna, and tee from my messenger bag, dropping the used- soiled, far as I'm concerned -items in the trash and emerging like a butterfly, renewed.

Finding Daniel in a suit and.

"Didn't even know," on the train, racing towards London, bringing it up, "you owned a suit."
"It's my wedding suit."
"What?" Voice gone up in pitch, surprise and two seats down someone turns to look.

"For a lark." Smiling, fingering the cuff of the navy blue pinstripe jacket, matching trousers and white shirt, blood red tie. "Last year Shauna and me picked out outfits, made half plans."
"Which you didn't share?" Giving him a pointed look and I thought we were friends.

"My dad passed." Grimacing, I put an arm around Daniel, head on his shoulder before letting go, offering comfort because I remember. "And a month after, Shauna's sister broke both her legs in that car wreck."
"Too much going on."
"Too much." Nodding. "So we quietly shelved the plan, and haven't picked it back up. Only, now she's pregnant so-"
"-Shauna's pregnant."

More upward scaling pitch, and another glance from up the aisle whilst Daniel laughs.

"We just found out." Smile, genuinely happy and earning himself another hug. "Thanks." Pressing his forehead to mine as I pull away from the brief kiss to his cheek. "So, I'm going to ask her, later, organise something fast and simple. Get married before she begins to show."
"Before she can't fit into the dress." Nodding, smiling and it's all just lovely.

"Can you be there?"
"Definitely." No question.

"Think she'll ask you to be chief bridesmaid."
"You think?" Frowning, because. "I will, but I don't see much of Shauna, doesn't she have other friends?"
"Sure." Nodding. "But there's this line, between life and porn, and you're the only one of her close girlfriends who crosses that line. So."
"Yeah." Nodding, seeing the sense. No doubt Shauna has girlfriends she's known longer, girlfriends she's closer to, but there's an added closeness between her and me, that we can share this somewhat secret sometime taboo thing. Without judgment.

From Daniel's we'd caught a train, a taxi to my apartment, for clothes and equipment since my stuff travels easier then his, since I mostly store mine in a suitcase anyway, ready to go and it'll be a bitch later, returning my stuff home and at some point taking a train back to Daniel's for the Hayabusa, safely locked in the garden shed.

Back onto a second train, and in London we negotiate the underground, walking the final three quarters of a mile, from station to headquarters.

V.K Supplies.

"Mr Wright." Okay, fine, can't be mad at everyone. "Please."
"Do you have an appointment?"
"No." Breathing, Daniel a calming presence, by my side and on team. "But he'll want to see me."
"Hold please."

Stepping back, waiting, watching Daniel look around the rather bland- by corporate standards -reception. Wondering what his engineering firm building looks like, that I've never visited and have no reason to. Forestry Commission headquarters being a thing alive, plants and sunlight.

"Brooke?"
"Edward." Tight smile as I see him blink, at my use of his proper name. "We need to talk."
"And this is?"
"My rigger."
"Daniel." Who I've never seen do business, grown up stuff before. Hiding a more genuine, happy smile as I watch Daniel step in, shake hands with a confused looking Edward.

Daniel glancing at me as he steps back, small nod. Team Brooke.

"Why don't we talk in my office?"
"Let's." Stopping, throwing a look at me, my sudden spiked, harsh tone. Anger leaking through.

Tamping it down, tight nod and a gesture, Edward leading the way.

"So." Door closed, walking to his side of the desk, gesturing for us to sit opposite. Daniel taking his cue from me, not sitting. "Is there a problem?"
"Nothing I haven't already fixed." Overly calm tone to cover the anger.

"I see." Tapping a couple of keys, waking his desktop and I wait out the tapping, clicking of the mouse, fairly certain of what Edward's doing, what he's searching for.

"I don't," click, tap tap, "seem to have a copy of yesterday's shoot?"
"Good." Don't have to- literally or figuratively, either works for me -burn his desktop, the company servers down. "You won't."

Won't, because I watched Clive- whilst I'd been dressing -wipe his laptop back to factory settings, having first wiped and deleted his whole cloud. Scared of me, his face had said. Scared, maybe, of a repeat of whatever I'd done the last time he bested me, some act I can't remember.

Overkill, wiping the entire laptop, but the unspoken alternative had been to snap it into pieces, drop it in the ocean.

Clive, in my opinion getting off lightly.

"I see."
"Trust me." Deep breath, calm. "You don't."
"Should still have Clive's details on file." Heading for a slap, not looking up so not seeing the snarl twisting onto my face. Edward, playing his stupid corporate games, throwaway casual gesture towards Daniel as he speaks, points scoring and he really shouldn't.

"There's really no need to bring your boyfriend along, I'm sure we can re-book Clive for next week."

Daniel laughing at the mistake, seeing my rage- too late -and opening his mouth.

Too late.

"Fucking." Picking up the nearest chair, steel legs and plush black leather back, seat. Edward flinching and at the last moment I find a small measure of calm, enough to drop the chair as opposed throwing it full tilt towards Edward's closed office door.

Or his head.

"I like girls." Shouting across the desk, letting the words take my anger. "Fucking no good wanker of a cheating if I ever...."

Breathe, Brooke. Daniel at my side, stepped in close one arm around me, rubbing up and down my upper arm. Leaning my head into his shoulder.

Calm.

"No more Clive."
"But?"
"No." Harsh, the word like canon fire, full attack and I will not bend on this. Edward hired Clive, and I'm sane enough to know, that Edward didn't know the history, but that doesn't mean I want to explain it all.

"We'll need," shifting, Daniel giving me room, staying close though, being my good man, "the warehouse. And a couple of hours."
"For?"
"For the shoot."
"With this new rigger?" Waving a pen in Daniel's direction. "Un-vetted."
"I'll vouch for Daniel." More canon. "And since it's me that's being tied, there's nothing to discuss."

"Payment."
"Ha." Like I give a shit, not jumping through hoops, not anymore. "I've already drawn up an agreement with Daniel, to shoot for me, after which time I'll handle the editing."
"But."
"Again." Leaning forward, hands on the desk and I really might have to climb over it and shout in Edward's face. "No. We tried your way, and...."

World gone suddenly, tilted, ground underfoot feels in motion and I stumble, almost going down except Daniel puts a hand to my elbow, steady. There'd been a sudden blast of Clive's smell, seeing his face looming ghost like, fucking smug smile, the victory I didn't even know he'd won.

Reaching up, unawares I am, catching myself having already wiped a hand down one breast, trying to remove the phantom splatter of his orgasm, which- bound, helpless -I'd had to suffer through.

"No more." Finding a normal tone, patting Daniel's hand and he let's go, stepping back. "This is my show now."

To which, luckily because I'm spent, again. Luckily Edward silently nods, picking up his phone and making the call, emptying that second warehouse of staff.

Finding the space largely the same, smaller then the first, stacked boxes and ranged pallets laid out differently and no sign of the complex roof pulley system, which we won't need.

"About that agreement."
"The one we haven't drawn up." Stood side by side, surveying the area, glancing across with a smile to find Daniel nodding, smile of his own and a throwaway gesture, sweeping one arm away.

"You don't have to pay me Brooke."
"Which." Bumping shoulders with him. "Gentlemen like conduct is exactly why I do have to pay you."
"No point arguing?"
"None." Stepping away into the space, still looking around but I take a moment to glance back. "Shauna's a lucky woman."
"So I keep telling her."
"Ha."

Daniel setting off too, his own assessment of the warehouse and we haven't properly discussed the shoot, so for five minutes each of us wanders, occasionally stopping, hunkering down or simply nodding.

"Here?"
"There?" Calling back, raised voices across the distance, echoing like feedback. "Hold on."

Finding Daniel stood in front of boxes, which is expected. What little we had discussed: telling him the shoot was promotional for V.K, and therefore needed to feature obvious cues.

"We could...." Words drying up as, with a clatter the steel roller door connecting this to the larger warehouse begins rising. Edward, ducking slightly, impatient, stepping inside, followed by the other four nameless suits.

Feeling hot, coming in fast as I stare, mouth working. Can't I just be left alone, trusted to do this one thing I'm good at?

Stepping forward as though to war, startled into a full stop as Daniel claps for attention, stepping forward, putting himself in front.

"Gentlemen." Approaching the five suits, eyes roaming across the line of them. "No doubt you've all got really good, impressive sounding reasons to be here, overseeing. But we've got this, so if you could...."

Standing, waiting, and of course none of the annoying fucks moves, let alone leaves.

Right.

"What my very good friend," stepping forward, in motion and patting Daniel's shoulder- thanks, for trying -as I level with him, "is saying, politely. Is fuck off."
"Aren't we," one of the nameless, looking around and finding nodded support, wankers, "required, allowed, to be here?"
"This is V.K property." Edward, chief wanker, not having learned the depths of my rage in his office, actually smiling at me. "Brooke."

Putting out an arm to stop, silence Daniel. Not looking, so possibly he was already letting me lead.

My show, I'd told him on the train. Back me up, but I'll lead the charge.

"Here, then." Yanking tee and bra up in one harsh tugging move, F cups exposed, flopping free and settling. "This what you came here to see?"

The change, from that first shoot to this, my attitude jarring inside, like dropping down one too many gears for an overtake: from teasing and playful to an angry, vengeful Plymouth.

Uncaring.

"Here." Free hand yanking at the canvas belt, pulling open jeans to reveal a skimpy black thong, nothing more then lace. Scowl on my face at odds with the porn star pose, enticing. "Take a photo why don't you."

Glaring at Edward, who- too late, wanker -seems to be waking up to his mistake, underestimating me, thinking himself at the top of this food chain. Yet even as I do, one of the nameless is pulling out a phone.

Oblivious idiot.

Looking up and belatedly seeing my expression, at odds with my pose. Switching my glare to him, daggers, flipping him off with my free hand, small shake at the waist, breasts bouncing side to side. Waiting.

Nodding as the phone is stowed, as they all file out.

Breathing out, finding myself shaking, unspent rage.

Fucking Clive, and I'll be okay. Soon. It was only last night, this morning and I haven't had a chance to process, to relax back into myself.

Work tomorrow, Forestry stuff will help, plenty of trees and a noisy chainsaw to quench my rage.

"Fuckers."
"Quite." Agreeing, Daniel's muttered curse as the shutter lowers, cutting us both back off from the world.

Time for the shoot.

Back at mine I'd changed: fresh jeans, dark blue with lighter patches down the front of each upper leg. Jeans not shorts, because despite deciding not to, I'll probably ride the Hayabusa home later, leave my equipment suitcase with Daniel until I can swing by in the van. Green Forestry Commission works tee, untucked. Boots and lightweight works waterproof.

From the various boxes and crates we source an orange hard hat, black mesh face guard and ear defenders, both raised up onto the hat, away from my head. A thick black belt, worn over the jacket, which I've halfway zipped. The belt contains pouches, sheaths, into which I slot a machete and hand axe, folding a thick pair of white and blue leather gloves over the belt.

All stuff V.K supply.

Lastly a long wooden handled saw, the blade curved, long wicked teeth up the inner- bottom -face, meant for reaching up into higher branches, for cutting when a chainsaw isn't required.

Handing the saw to Daniel, waiting with rope, camera already set up to face a suitable backdrop, pallets scattered across three tiers of shelving, names- V.K most prominent of all -visible.

Binding my wrists in front, crossed so I'll be able to hold the saw. Ankles, after which Daniel runs the long rope crisscross up me, nothing symmetrical, trying to make bondage look like anything but, aiming for something playful, like an accident.

Oops, I seem to be a little tied up and so forth.

Making sure to get the required areas though, rope above and below my chest, cinching the jacket tight, accentuating my F cups, one rope running up between them, lower left to upper right. No gag.

Handing me the saw, stepping back. And for ten minutes we run though a variety of facial expressions, mad to surprised, playfully winking- my favourite -to neutral. Changing up the poses too, bending forward, holding the saw differently.

Daniel moving in for closeups, shots from the waist up, the chest up. Trying a three quarter angle, sideways on.

Close to two hundred photos, which I'll look through later, sending Edward the best half dozen and receiving a short reply, a thanks.

Something like half an apology, reading between the lines.

[BlissfulMisery]

Mostly me needing some method by which Clive can abandon Plymouth, and a staged- hand coming out of his pocket as the phone rang, subtle clue that Plymouth noticed but didn't realise the significance of -call works. Only, having had the thought I realised I've done the same before: a tied Brooke and a ringing phone, so decided to let her notice/comment on the fact.

So practicing a bit of self-awareness/poking fun (And yes the mild irony of my statement makes it even better)

There is a joke to be made in there about you 'letting' Brooke do that too - something about keeping characters on tight leashes and control and such. But I will leave it to the imagination (and the fact that I highly doubt you meant it that way)

-

"Too much." Nodding. "So we quietly shelved the plan, and haven't picked it back up. Only, now she's pregnant so-"
"-Shauna's pregnant."

More upward scaling pitch, and another glance from up the aisle whilst Daniel laughs.

The repeated/escalating 'wait what' moments/reveals

"Is there a problem?"

"Nothing I haven't already fixed." Overly calm tone to cover the anger.

Brooke wresting some control over the situation back - obviously good in a practical sense, given her dislike of the whole commercial concept, but there is a metaphorical aspect to it as well, given everything that occurred. A psychological palate cleansing of sorts that feels good to see/read.

"You don't have to pay me Brooke."
"Which." Bumping shoulders with him. "Gentlemen like conduct is exactly why I do have to pay you."
"No point arguing?"
"None." Stepping away into the space, still looking around but I take a moment to glance back. "Shauna's a lucky woman."
"So I keep telling her."
"Ha."

Almost absurd the contrast from last time, the positivity versus the constant wariness/'competition' with Edward (or should I say 'wanker' )

Again, good to see, for her sake.

"What my very good friend," stepping forward, in motion and patting Daniel's shoulder- thanks, for trying -as I level with him, "is saying, politely. Is fuck off."

...Well it had to be spoiled at least a little. Still, at least it gave her the opportunity to establish some (much needed) boundaries.

Oops, I seem to be a little tied up and so forth.

So cliché/cheesy it wraps back around to being genuinely funny

sending Edward the best half dozen and receiving a short reply, a thanks.

Something like half an apology, reading between the lines.

Seems the re-shoot was a success - in more ways then one.

Probably the most satisfaction she will end up getting from him on that front, I suspect, but far better then nothing.

Overall glad to see the trajectory shift into an upwards direction - I know you did not have any intention of making this into some sort of doom spiral, so not exactly surprising, but as I mentioned the last time, Brooke really needed some of that, given the place she was in.

[RopeBunny]

"You don't have to pay me Brooke."
"Which." Bumping shoulders with him. "Gentlemen like conduct is exactly why I do have to pay you."
"No point arguing?"
"None." Stepping away into the space, still looking around but I take a moment to glance back. "Shauna's a lucky woman."
"So I keep telling her."
"Ha."

Almost absurd the contrast from last time, the positivity versus the constant wariness/'competition' with Edward (or should I say 'wanker' )

Again, good to see, for her sake.

What I was going for here, the whole point and angle of this versus the previous chapters/binding. Daniel versus Clive, opposites, Daniel being the other side of the coin, the good side.

Oops, I seem to be a little tied up and so forth.

So cliché/cheesy it wraps back around to being genuinely funny

Made me smile to write

sending Edward the best half dozen and receiving a short reply, a thanks.

Something like half an apology, reading between the lines.

Probably the most satisfaction she will end up getting from him on that front, I suspect, but far better then nothing.

Most likely.

Pretty certain, all being willing, I'll be doing at least a little more with Edward however this probably is as close to a sorry as Brooke's likely to get.

[RopeBunny]

020.

No excuses.

Reasons, I've got. There's always reasons for doing something dumb: I want to, have wanted to since that first meeting, the blatant flirting, proving- alongside this, tonight -that she wants to, too.

There's Clive, and last time I promise, myself. A name to forget and yet the aftertaste still lingers. And seeing her I saw a chance, something good to banish the bad and the wrong.

In the end we can all only hold out so long.

Sixth sense. I've been an hour back home, declining a final night in the hotel, instead wanting my own bed, my own shower before it. Nine days in one woodland, followed by a call on the actual way home.

Divert, go left and deal with this other Ranger specific problem, please and thank you.

Which- please and or thank you -they didn't say, because they don't have to say, going where I'm told is in the contract, working long strings of days is too. Probably heading for burnout, the four of us and it is a running joke on the Ranger WhatsApp.

Worry about it later.

A further two days there, this second woodland, putting out- imagined, not literal thank fuck -fires, and finally home.

Sixth sense, and partly it's that I saw her: Sarah, sat in her office, a single overhead casting the small space into shadow. Bent over her desk, glancing up as I'd slowed, passing, guiding the Hayabusa home. Late to still be in the office?

Her whole demeanor, pose, screaming depression. But, as with most observations it's a fact noted afterwards, in this case not until I'd stowed the Hayabusa, climbing the stairs up through Panama. Too late, in my tired, worn out opinion, to go back and check on her.

Might not want- to be disturbed -me to anyway.

Music, not ready for bed yet unwilling to let the flatscreen suck me in, something low, mellow. Bass heavy but chilled beats, relaxing on the sofa with a half full glass of vodka orange mix, open bottle and carton on the table.

Can of beer for Arthur, still closed and I can feel the judgement from across the room. Relaxed, naked beneath a criminally short black silk bathrobe, loosely belted, Japanese characters picked out in red, climbing the back. Hair still damp. Not drunk but mellow, a clear plan to slide slowly down into drunk, wishing for no clear reason that I smoked, head back, imagined plumes spiralling upwards.

Remembering those few girls I've dated who smoked, memories of being bound, gagged, watching them relax, watching me and- mostly -smiling. Something dominant leaning about smoking, perhaps?

Idle musings, the slow sink away from rational thought.

Sitting up.

Knowing, the feeling like ice dropped into my belly, small shiver as I turn and stare back through the apartment.

Someone outside the door.

Not afraid, as I stand, licking my lips, glass placed on the table. Something building, anticipation.

Trusting to that sixth sense, opening the door and.

"Fuck." Whispered, taking a step, crossing the threshold from apartment to the small landing, exclusively for this apartment and nobody else- maintenance aside, the access doors opposite -has any business coming up here.

Taking a second step, stopping. Staring.

The landing is rectangular, stairs opening out on the narrow side, my front door to the right, maintenance access left. I put a couple of plants out here, because trees, and green. Ferns, nothing that demands direct sunlight. Both are in the far corner, and are no longer the only decoration out here, because standing across from me, against the wall.

Is Sarah.

She's naked, the curves of her size ten frame revealed, swell of pert D cups tapering to a slim waist, out again at the hips. Lightly tanned, the ghost of pale skin at breast and shaved crotch, lower legs and forearms showing darkest. Unseen before, a solid inked band circling her upper right thigh.

Ballgag in her mouth, the bright red matching painted lips, black leather strap digging in at the sides, plastering blonde hair to her face. And from the set of her arms, angled down and behind she's likely cuffed too, with an assumed- definitely cuffed, those wrists -matching set on her ankles.

Collared, metal. Lifting a hand to my own neck, the phantom weight and feel. Sarah's band is ridged, close to skintight and likely won't have a traditional padlock, a design I'm intimately familiar with. A brown leather lead runs off the front, fixed horizontal D ring, the lead has been threaded around a door handle on the maintenance lift access, passed through it's- the leads -handle and clipped onto the collar.

And with cuffed hands Sarah won't be able to free it.

No evidence of clothes, the whole diorama is impressive, breath catching. A surreal thing to walk out and find. Like- one, of several, because I'm a kinky little rope slut -a fantasy come true.

No clothes. No overnight bag, no shoes or keys, or a phone. The only evidence Sarah did this, the bondage self inflicted as opposed some form of collar derived punishment: is the sign, white cardboard leaning against the wall beside her.

'Brooke.
Please, tonight, help me forget?
Show me a better way x'

Moaning as I approach, long and low, somewhat mornful. Begging, to my tutored ear.

Walking a half lap- the wall, can't do a full circuit -of her, Sarah remaining still, not even tilting her head, patient as I inspect her. Used to this? The collar says most likely, it speaks of ownership, solid metal, not a toy or something done in jest. For better or worse Sarah belongs to someone.

Worse, most likely given her bitterness that evening, our not a date, date.

Why wasn't she collared then? Does it come off, on, depending on her job? Circumstance? Doubtful her owner is some kind of part time deal and is that even a thing? Regardless, that collar is like a huge neon sign, pulsing every colour of the rainbow, flashing letters ten miles high.

Do. Not. Touch.

Except the note, and Sarah's clear annoyance that night, before. Collared, but evidence suggests she doesn't want to be. And besides which my mental defences are down, out of service, because of Clive, because I want to, and she clearly wants to, tonight I don't care about right and wrong.

"Don't suppose." Reaching up to finger the small padlock, locking the ballgag in place. "You've got a key?"
"Gggnnnnsssssttt." Shaking her head as I come back around in front, lips grinning around the ball, teeth visible, digging in.

"Or for these?" Leaning closer to reach around, chest brushing Sarah's chest, tugging on her wrists, secured in tight metal cuffs, the kind with no chain, her ankles being in the more traditional model, linking chain short.

"Keys?" Letting go her wrists, running my hand back up her arm to the elbow, cutting a horizontal line around front, passing across the sideswell of her breast, Sarah sighing. "Or anything helpful?"
"Gggnnnsssttmmmmnnn." Shaking her head, still amused, happy.

"Did you even knock?" The thought occurring, following on. "What if I hadn't come out?"
"Fffgggtttppphh." Shrugging, suppose someone would've found her, and she did see me returning, knew I was home and I suppose at some point I was coming out the front door.

Sarah's nonchalance triggering like feelings in me, submissiveness, content to remain bound indefinitely. On some level used to, or if not certainly mentally conditioned to it: bound, gagged, the duration not your concern or something over which you often have a say.

It could easily be me, collared and tethered, waiting the pleasure of another.

It has been me, and will be again.

The only question is when.

Show me a better way. That last line, leaping off the handwritten sign is what stops me. Blood up, wanting Sarah and the obvious signals of wanting me back. The collar, the blatant submissiveness and I want, need, to ruin her. To own and use her, to bury my own still recent pain.

Except: show me a better way.

"Okay." Picking up the sign, tossing it spinning through my open door. "Well," coming around in front of Sarah, grin emerging, "for a start." Tugging the loosely tied belt open, shrugging off and tossing the robe after the sign.

Sarah's eyes gone wide, watching as I run a hand up each side of me, waist to breasts, circling both F cups and taking hold my nipples, tugging them both awake.

"If you're naked, I'm naked."
"Mmmmffffgggsssttt." As I step in, gripping each of her buttcheeks and pressing myself flat against Sarah, breasts puddled together, and her rubbing gagged lips against mine whilst I kiss back, letting my tongue run and trace the shape of the gag, heat of Sarah's crotch matching mine.

Hugging for awhile, enjoying the smell and warmth of her, flesh to flesh contact, the firmness of her butt. Sarah, softly moaning.

Breaking contact, eventually, and stepping back a pace. Working on unclipping the leash, letting it drop and remain tethered to the door handle. Gesturing inside my apartment.

"Sofa." As Sarah begins hopping, a thing delicious to watch, small measured movements, pausing and then occasionally a half dozen or more rabbit like in succession. Grunting each time, breasts bouncing, ends of her hair flopping.

Following her inside and locking the door, stepping around, briefly pausing to plant a kiss on her cheek.

Sarah finding me already sat, freshly made drink in hand, flatscreen on and music silenced, opening credits of 'Hostel 2' playing, because it was on my watch list, has female bondage and is scary. Perfect.

"Had a hard week." Toasting her with my glass. "So I'm getting drunk, and I'd ask you to join me but...." Waved gesture towards her mouth, brief nod from a paused Sarah, flash of something like annoyance, at a decision removed from her.

Perhaps she'd like to share a drink, but without the key. No.

"Come sit beside me, or lay down, your choice."

Glancing from flatscreen to me: leaning back, one arm across the sofa back the other resting on the arm, glass in hand. Legs spread apart.

Hopping closer, more bouncing as she turns on the spot, lowering down onto the cushion beside me and shuffling closer, small moan- of thanks? -as I drop the arm now behind her, around her, pulling Sarah into me.

Somehow, despite getting drunk which only pushes up the lust, as does the- brutal at times but even so -on screen bondage. Somehow we make it to the end without me destroying Sarah, dragging her into my bed or simply fucking her here.

Which isn't to say I leave her alone. A good portion of the movie is accompanied by my stroking up and down her side, frequent detours towards the breast, running circles of her nipple, or Sarah's inner thigh, ignoring her pussy. Being a tease, but showing her another way, too. Showing Sarah it doesn't have to be sex, fast and hard and no thought for her pleasure.

Showing her attention, making- from experience I can guarantee it -her tingle all over.

Unable to hug me back, to touch or tease me in kind. Helpless by her own making, but Sarah isn't a statue, a doll. Whilst stroking her, my neck is occasionally nuzzled, leaning in to rub her gagged mouth against me. Remaining close, nodding or shaking her head the few times I talk, mostly nonsense stuff: observations on the movie, random crap regarding life.

Getting drunk.

Late, it was most people's- those nine to five office people -bedtime before I answered the door, and now two odd hours later, if we waited a small handful more, Sarah and me could watch the sunrise.

No.

"Are you staying?" Getting up, downing whatever dregs I've got left and turning to face Sarah. "Or...."
"Dddggggssstt mmmggppfffnnss." Utter nonsense, to which I, drunk, nod along. Smiling but managing not to laugh.

"Okay." Going to assume she's staying. Not particularly happy with the alternative: throwing a naked, helpless girl out of my apartment. Anyway. "Come here."

Waiting for Sarah to stand, muffled grunt of surprise as I scoop her up, one arm under her neck the other supporting the knees, carrying Sarah through into my bedroom and half dropping, half rolling her onto the bed.

Using the bathroom, returning to find Sarah shuffled and arranged, laying down one side of the bed. Waiting.

Climbing in beside her, pulling the duvet up over us both and rolling in close, belly to belly contact, planting a kiss on her gagged lips, hugging Sarah into me and.

Falling asleep.

Combination of the drink, the long hard days I've spent working, the bliss of my own bed, my own soft familiar sheets.

Asleep without even realising it.

Dead to the world, zoned out. Waking- no alarm, forgot -late to find Sarah gone, the bed empty.

Sarah's cuffs on my wrists, pinned in front, the natural feel of the pose, arms resting not pinned and forced back, meaning I wake slowly, oblivious to my predicament at first. Her ankle cuffs are likewise around my ankles, ballgag in my mouth.

Sheet of cardboard, her sign? Propped against the empty pillow.

'Morning.
And thank you x
Thought you'd look better in bondage, and I was right. Keys are out on the balcony, underneath a weighted glass, on the patio table.
Have fun x'

Finding a grin, despite the game being played without having asked me first, despite the dry mouth, the slight fog in my head from too much drink and too little food.

Despite the fact I've got to hop, through the apartment and out onto the balcony, which is private. Not that I'd particularly care if it weren't.

Laying back down, no rush to get up, to go in search of keys. Barely knowing Sarah but trusting- proved right when I eventually go looking -her to play fair. Pulling the duvet back over myself, relaxing, enjoying the imposed bondage.

Letting thoughts wander.

[BlissfulMisery]

What I was going for here, the whole point and angle of this versus the previous chapters/binding. Daniel versus Clive, opposites, Daniel being the other side of the coin, the good side.

A welcome reversal/juxtaposition!

-

There's always reasons for doing something dumb

Very true - the problem is they are generally not *good* reasons

Her whole demeanor, pose, screaming depression. But, as with most observations it's a fact noted afterwards

How it generally works - one needs time and space to actually process all the information taken in. Hard to do that while in the thick of things, as it were. Different modes of mental operation entirely.

Also why deep or analytical thinking generally requires 'space', in the sense of not being constantly distracted/worrying about immediate problems. Hence the phenomenon of 'shower thoughts' - a combination of being temporarily isolated from daily demands, and not doing anything that requires active thought.

A surreal thing to walk out and find. Like- one, of several, because I'm a kinky little rope slut -a fantasy come true.

Surreal indeed - the advantages of fiction, I suppose

Doubtful her owner is some kind of part time deal and is that even a thing?

Her question is rhetorical, but yes, definately.

It could easily be me, collared and tethered, waiting the pleasure of another.

It has been me, and will be again.

The only question is when.

Show me a better way. That last line, leaping off the handwritten sign is what stops me.

The proverbial shoe being on the other foot here - appreciate that she made the connection/realization.

Obviously many more follow-ups possible to this, so very curious to see if/where it goes.

Sarah's cuffs on my wrists, pinned in front, the natural feel of the pose, arms resting not pinned and forced back, meaning I wake slowly, oblivious to my predicament at first. Her ankle cuffs are likewise around my ankles, ballgag in my mouth.

Apparently someone was *really* out cold

Pulling the duvet back over myself, relaxing, enjoying the imposed bondage.

Letting thoughts wander.

And speaking of processing... Glad to see she is getting a moment to do that. Certainly plenty of that needed, given everything that has happened in relatively short succession.

A nice cozy chapter to bookend the last few, before what I presume is the inevitable next story arc (or at least the next stage in previous/on-going arcs).

[RopeBunny]

A surreal thing to walk out and find. Like- one, of several, because I'm a kinky little rope slut -a fantasy come true.

Surreal indeed - the advantages of fiction, I suppose

It isn't that surreal things don't happen in reality, it's just that they're rare. Fiction does give the advantage here

A nice cozy chapter to bookend the last few, before what I presume is the inevitable next story arc (or at least the next stage in previous/on-going arcs).

What I thought, was leaning towards with the writing. And there's deeper things at play, Sarah's arc still in motion, but the overall feel is of less extreme bondage, more playful and soft. Cozy is a good choice of word.

And to answer the not a question, question raised at the end there, most likely we're continuing down previously started arcs next, tidying up and drawing together.

[RopeBunny]

021.

Santa Pod, and these last few weeks just the name, even thinking those two words being enough to evoke a shiver, internal squirm. Rush of adrenaline.

The slow build up, approaching the- imagined -line, countdown to unleashed speed.

Wish I'd visited sooner, should of visited sooner and my life, such as it is, isn't that busy but it's easy to overlook and forget. The whole site is scattered with posters, flyers, advertising a pretty full calendar of events: speed in all forms, noise and smoke and fuck you I'm fastest.

Bikes this weekend: Friday evening to Monday morning, three nights camping, two days of the show and it's hard- lack of storage opportunities, lack of space -to bring much on a bike but luckily, for the Three Kings at least, Winston is bringing his pickup, box trailer loaded with parts and tools, truck bed piled high with strapped down and tarpaulin covered packs.

Travelling and sleeping alone. Not upset at the fact, alone is a relative thing here, amongst the massed sprawl of the allocated patch, twenty something odd tents ranging from small to family size, for the three families attending. Bikes and those few cars beside our patch, banner I keep forgetting we own fluttering, raised in the centre of camp.

One in a field of many, other gangs.

Aerial view, looking down from an imagined great height. Santa Pod, actual quarter mile dragstrip in the centre, two wide lanes that narrow alarmingly when you're actually tearing up one, the strip is longer then that measured quarter mile, turn around and space to bleed off speed at the far end, space to stack those lining up behind the start line.

Christmas tree of lights on the line. Raised banking up one side, stadium like seating a short way along the other, administrative building behind the line and a huge tarmac area stretching back and around, covered in stalls, a stage for the music.

Tournament on the strip, but not exclusively. There's time set aside for those who just want to do a run, or five. In amongst the ranks of bikes, cars are in attendance, some modified, couple of old school hotrods.

Hard to find anything- including my Hayabusa -cooler then the sound of a tuned V8 cutting loose.

Jet car, a monster truck. Four drag bikes, watching the racing of which keeps all our egos in check, the strip isn't in constant use, but between ten hundred and eighteen hundred there's usually something happening, or preparing to happen.

Surrounding the strip is grassland, bisected by roads. Fields stretching out, thankfully dry. Cordons have been erected, variously sized spaces allocated to each of the groups, clubs or gangs attending.

And I could easily, happily, spend time explaining and describing the weekend: sights, sounds and smells. But no, instead I'll focus.

On the tournament.

Entrants have already been randomly drawn and organised into slots, stacked down the far left and right side of the sheet. One race, winner to advance by which mechanic the field narrows, halving each time until there can be only two, meeting in the final, the centre of the sheet, which is actually a digital thing, displayed beside the strip on a large outdoor flatscreen.

I've run practice sessions, those King's standing with me, representing. For the past two months, basically any evening I can fit around work we've met.

Under cover of night, because racing, however much fun and whatever good reason you may have, it's still illegal on public roads. Between us all- the Three Kings WhatsApp group -a road was found, someplace away from civilisation, an industrial estate midway between two towns, the main access road of which happens to be a mile plus, running straight.

So, willing volunteers as lookouts, not so much for the police more late night heavy goods movements, which tally around a dozen each hour. Water based paint to mark the start and finish lines, an exact quarter mile apart. Winston and Bobby on the start line, offering advice.

Winston: scrambler racing which you might think isn't the same as drag, and I guess you'd be partially right. However: racing is racing, there's a base skillset and Winston has spent close to ten years honing his craft.

Bobby: who used- twenty plus years ago -to race drag bikes semi professionally, who came off going over two hundred, lucky to if not walk away then to at least retain all movement from the waist up. Phantom itching in his legs, keeping him up some nights. A warning there, Bobby plus my own scars speaking of caution.

Practice, practice. Listening to advice regarding throttle control and weight distribution, how to sit, where to look and what not to focus on. Everything a blur once you travel so fast in such a short span of time, gravity and the wind attempting to wrench you out the saddle. Bobby teaches us how to listen to the scream of our engines, the howl of my Hayabusa, like an angry banshee, come for your soul.

Changing gear by feel, can't spare even a second for the rev counter.

Practice. And I'm fast, speed freak nature only eclipsed by the surrender junkie and rope slut parts of me. But Bobby and Winston teach me- us -how to be fast, er.

Ordering in new tyres, wide and sticky, almost slicks save they are actually road legal. Giving them a half dozen runs down the industrial road before changing back to the used, current rubber. Saving them for the tournament. Winston's pick up and Bobby's van parked up behind the administration building, just two amongst many pit teams, plenty of other groups bringing a trailer or van full of spares and equipment, plus of course the truck and trailer for each pro team.

Winning. Not easily, nothing casual or assured, no chances taken and I certainly don't relax into it. Each race is stomach churning adrenaline at the line, feeling half sick alongside the elation of building power, revving the Hayabusa up, smoke of the burnout, wheeling her back as Winston, Connor or his wife, someone guiding me into position, as I do- when I can -for the others.

Pure indescribable thrill of cutting lose, green on the christmas tree followed by the rising howl of my weapon, splitting the world in two and me, most runs, screaming my own fury and elation to match.

Heart kicking on the second run: hitting a patch of something, back wheel stepping out at something north of a hundred, slight wobble that shakes the whole frame, my frame too. Letting off but not. Not, dabbing the brake, not at these speeds. Brief half seen- blurred, it's all just not real -sense of the other bike, coming level, and then the Hayabusa straightens out and I floor it. Gone.

Carving up the field, making it look easy when it's anything but. Winning and winning again, all the way to Sunday evening.

The final.

"Hey King."
"Wha-" Turning even whilst replying, the voice unfamiliar despite being right here, the middle of our patch of Santa Pod, requisitioned Kings turf and we're all enjoying a barbecue dinner, chopped lumps of pork or chicken, steaks, everything cut and served in pitta breads or baguettes, washed down for most with beer, water for me.

Turning, managing half a word before the world explodes. Stars, like a blinding white flash and something like impact, like someone ran a freight train into my face.

And you shouldn't. Should. Not, and I don't give a fuck, a shit what wrong has been done, what you feel or think, it's just wrong.

If you're a boy, you don't hit girls.

Left eye on fire, can't more then half open it as I sit up, feeling hungover, head swimming and guts churning. Graze that feels like it's bleeding on my right forearm, another across the small of my back. Stones in the grass?

Blinking, taking in the chaos, the wrongness of certain things, with disbelief.

There are six of them. Interlopers, one- presumably the one who hit me -just now back on his feet, blood on his lip. Being held back by another unknown guy whilst Connor looms and eyeballs both across less then a metre, held back by four Kings whilst close to two dozen look on, murder, the will to do serious harm in most of their eyes.

Being helped to my feet by a couple of the female Kings, Connor's wife, Morgan, who I've seen on and off all weekend, whose new boyfriend made it to the third race, who seems quite nice actually except this isn't really the time.

Shaking my head to clear it, wishing- rising nausea, barely holding down my half eaten dinner -I hadn't.

Looking closer, seeing more.

'The Overlords'. Flash of jacket patch as one of them turns, glancing away for brief seconds. Each of the six is, basically.

Each of them has a slave, to put it bluntly.

Behind each male gang member is a girl, collared, leashed. Each girl's wrists are secured at her back, each girl is ballgagged. Varying ages across early to late twenties, two being quite plump, a third like a rake, flat chest and no real curves. The other three ranging between. All six are dressed like sluts, like something to show off, either wearing so little they might as well not bother, or in one case a full spandex one piece that hugs every inch of her size twenty plus frame, unzipped to the point her large breasts must constantly spill out.

And.

Yes, it's weirder still. Because standing behind what I can only assume to be the leader. The point of the small wedge, the wanker who punched me.

Is Sarah.

Refusing to meet my, anyone's gaze. And seeing her, seeing how things stand, for her, pieces suddenly fall into place, the equation at least partially solved.

"Hey." Stalking forward, my speed and perhaps the fact nobody expects me to meaning I manage to push the guy before anyone thinks to stop me. "Fuck face."
"You." Sudden show of strength, managing to yank an arm free, to lunge at me only this time I'm ready, dodging back.

"Slept with my girl. King." The word spat out, following which he actually does, spit, at my feet. Charming.

"She isn't your girl." Raising my voice to match his. Connor and the other Kings looking slightly confused, the collars making everything out of their depth, unsure how to proceed.

"Got her collared don't I." Yanking on the leash, Sarah moaning, stumbling forward a step, looking up and briefly meeting my gaze.

"She's mine."
"Doesn't want to be though."
"Yeah, well." An evil, ugly looking smile. "I bought her, she's mine. So keep it in your pants. King."

It didn't come out of my pants, I could, feel like saying. Because we didn't fuck. But we did cuddle, and I touched her and kissed her. So I cheated, Sarah, cheated. And the wanker therefore had some rights- not punching a girl full in the face rights, but some rights -to be mad. No point saying any of that though, and besides I'm otherwise occupied, surprised at the tossed fact that.

He bought her?

Fuck. There's something here, some level of it all deeper then I've ever been. He really, genuinely, owns her, to hear him speak. And what's worse is Sarah's face, the sadness in the office, the car park, shows it to be the truth, even if she clearly doesn't want it to be.

Whatever means, however it's been done.

She's his.

Turning to walk away, but as he does I see it. Hope.

"Wait."
"Fuck off King."
"You're six-eight."
"Yeah." Turning back to me, voice saying so fucking what. "So?"
"I'm four-three." Reaching up to tug my own armband, bright blue with the numbers picked out in black. "Final two."
"Ha." Grinning. "Good, teach you some fucking manners, King."
"Reckon so?"
"Know so."

Eyeballing each other, not even a flicker from him in the face of my own confidence. Smirking, whilst in contrast my own face is nothing but a sea of pain, left eye still welded half shut.

Plunging in.

"I'll race you for her."
"Fuck off." Sneering, an ugly thing, yanking on Sarah's leash a second time. More posturing. "Ain't falling for your sneaky tricks. King."
"No trick." Voice level, meeting his gaze and look into my eyes, see the resolve there.

He blinks, waits.

"For her." Pointing at Sarah. "I win, I get her. You win-"
"-Yeah." Laughing. "Going to offer some stupid hero shit sacrifice. King?" Looking around, for support and a couple of the others laugh too. "Offering yourself is it?"
"Plus the bike."

Shutting him up, staring at me, and I force down the shiver, the sensation of his eyes crawling all over my obvious porn star curves.

"I'll want it in writing."
"Yeah." Amused, thinks he can win.

Can he?

Am I royally fucking this up, heading towards doom?

"Get some paper then." Smile growing on his face, confidence, real or imagined. "Gotta be on the line in a half hour."
"Time enough." Not taking my gaze off his, damned if I let this wanker think I'm scared, nervous or anything other then equally confident.

"Brooke."
"Just get me paper." Talking without turning. "Connor, please."
"But...."
"This is my world." Tone calm, level, in control. "Trust me, please."
"Well...." Patting my shoulder, and shortly afterwards I've got paper, a pen.

Scribbling something basic, but- holding down the shiver -binding. A year of my life, gone, if I lose. Four evenings, nights a week. Minimum, whatever whole day off I get because even slaves got to work. Signing it all over to him, maybe, if I lose. Watching, fighting- managing -to keep my breathing level as he leans in, scribbling below my promise, adding base facts regarding my- he thinks inevitable -doom.

Caged. Collared. Various ties I'll submit to and- fucking rope junkie traitor doesn't understand the risks body -I can feel myself getting slightly hot, a little aroused at the potential of it all. Surrender, to him, total slavery, not as a game. For keeps.

Sarah if I win, though, a much shorter and simplar paragraph. And regardless of the result we both, eyes locked, verbally agree to stand by what's written. Getting Connor- still frowning, but trusting me -to sign, plus one of the Overlords. Witnesses.

Sarah, the occasional flicked glance, something like sadness on her pretty face, as though she's already seen the future.

Imagined weight of a collar around my neck, struggling to keep my hands down, lest I reach up, rubbing at the phantom feel of it.

Satisfied, we part company, one copy each and heading for our respective bikes and.

I'd like to play up the drama, give some sense of building tension, spend several minutes describing a seconds long race.

Except I win, simple as that. Even with only half vision in one eye and a still pounding head.

I. Win.

The Hayabusa is just too fast, the amount of cash I threw at the remodel, replacing the engine and suspension, almost everything bar the chassis and bodywork. He doesn't fumble, doesn't miss the green light. We leave together, howl of mine drowning out the roar of his, some top spec BMW.

Not even close, and I'll wonder, later, how he even made it so far through the tournament?

Walking to the makeshift podium as though in a dream, adrenaline coursing through me, Kings screaming, shouting, chanting my name in the crowd. Cheers as I step up, receiving a trophy, prize money. And no sign of second place.

Gone, in disgrace or disgust, unable perhaps to look at me, the prize he can't have, and the thing he lost.

Sarah.

Waiting for me afterwards, tethered to the Three Kings banner pole, his copy of our contract on the ground at her feet, torn to angry shreds.

[BlissfulMisery]

It isn't that surreal things don't happen in reality, it's just that they're rare. Fiction does give the advantage here

True. But also true that truth is stranger then fiction sometimes - people do all sorts of ridiculous/irrational (or 'unrealistic') things all the time, both in on the macro scale and the micro scale. All one must do is merely live ones life to see examples of the latter, and to read some history to see examples of the former.

-

And I could easily, happily, spend time explaining and describing the weekend: sights, sounds and smells. But no, instead I'll focus.

Not so subtly 'moving on' with the chapter

In seriousness, enjoyed reading the description.

Bobby: who used- twenty plus years ago -to race drag bikes semi professionally, who came off going over two hundred, lucky to if not walk away then to at least retain all movement from the waist up. Phantom itching in his legs, keeping him up some nights. A warning there, Bobby plus my own scars speaking of caution.

Indeed, it can only take a single instant to change absolutely everything - applicable to more things then just bike racing.

Pure indescribable thrill of cutting lose, green on the christmas tree followed by the rising howl of my weapon, splitting the world in two and me, most runs, screaming my own fury and elation to match.

Again, enjoyed the description here.

It didn't come out of my pants, I could, feel like saying. Because we didn't fuck. But we did cuddle, and I touched her and kissed her. So I cheated, Sarah, cheated. And the wanker therefore had some rights- not punching a girl full in the face rights, but some rights -to be mad. No point saying any of that though, and besides I'm otherwise occupied, surprised at the tossed fact that.

Indeed does not seem like the time for debating the merits of either side...

"I'll race you for her."

...Oh boy.

Not at all surprising, given the setup for the situation, but foolish nonetheless.

"Plus the bike."

In fairness, why would he want a bike that is (if she loses) worse then his (just poking fun, obviously there are other reasons given the rare model )

Caged. Collared. Various ties I'll submit to and- fucking rope junkie traitor doesn't understand the risks body -I can feel myself getting slightly hot, a little aroused at the potential of it all. Surrender, to him, total slavery, not as a game. For keeps.

And speaking of irrational things people do...

Darkly amusing, even though it is a very serious situation.

I'd like to play up the drama, give some sense of building tension, spend several minutes describing a seconds long race.

Except I win, simple as that. Even with only half vision in one eye and a still pounding head.

I. Win.

Feel like this was the right way to handle it. As you mentioned before, not a road you wanted to go down again, and I was expecting something like this.

To be honest had not expected something quite this serious for Sarah, but in hindsight it makes sense. The mention of her being 'sold' makes me think back to Clive too, although it is probably unrelated. Also shifts my thoughts to darker places in general (depressing/infuriating realities of the world), but I do not think that was the intention here/is going to be explored here (but maybe I am wrong). Either way will not dwell on the subject unless it actually does come up.

But overall a very interesting chapter - not the first time Brooke's various worlds have collided, but usually it is her bondage career colliding with her day job, not her personal life with the bike-oriented portion of her life.

[RopeBunny]

Don't usually comment on your replies so soon in fact usually, I wait until I've a new chapter to post but, here I am, online so why not.

True. But also true that truth is stranger then fiction sometimes

True. Certainly there are tales I could tell, not particularly TUGs related, of people doing strange and unexpected things. Of something like a story unfolding in reality.

And I could easily, happily, spend time explaining and describing the weekend: sights, sounds and smells. But no, instead I'll focus.

Not so subtly 'moving on' with the chapter

In seriousness, enjoyed reading the description.

As I do more then once, in this single chapter. Although I've done it in other instances too, and will again.

It isn't- mostly -that I don't want to add description to a thing, it's that the thing isn't wholly relevant to TUGs.

For instance I'd enjoy writing a whole chapter based on nothing more then Brooke working in the woods, not even a hint of bondage. But I won't, because this is a TUGs site, and whilst I'm aware others vary on how much bondage they include per chapter/story, my own preference calls for most chapters to include at least a reference to it.

Huge fan of the quota here in RopeBunny world

"I'll race you for her."

...Oh boy.

Not at all surprising, given the setup for the situation, but foolish nonetheless.

Foolish but no doubt expected, given the lean of the chapter, the build-up.

Or if not, then it was of course the end point I'd been building towards.

Sarah's general hatred of bikes, because her boyfriend/owner was a biker, and she hated him.

Brooke's love of bikes and speed, which caused her to further modify the Hayabusa, even before I wrote in the tournament. Which money spent allowed her to win, to be the fastest on the day.

And as you commented further down, regarding the circumstances of Sarah. Things will be explained and explored, plenty of time for that as we move forward.