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

[RopeBunny]

Almost tempting to do some kind of 'quota based story

Something crazy, making no sense but built around the idea of a 'bondage quota' as a real thing.

Sounds like a fun idea, although my concern would be the longevity of it. (ie, where does it go past the initial 'haha funny')

Probably right, can't imagine it being something I'd be able to run wotj for long, beyond that initial point.

But I have already thought up some ideas, enough that I might have a go.

Maybe.

In the meantime though, can't have Brooke being too self aware, can't be breaking the forth wall.

Although I probably come quite close quite often

Indeed - else she might suffer an existential crisis, learning that she is merely a figment of someones imagination

both could be explained if Sarah thinks me a gym bunny obsessed with her appearance

Nah, entirely wrong kind of bunny

And

"My car." Smiling, amused. "I don't ride."
"Right." Not even with the boyfriend?

Why do I suspect this will be/end up being an ex-boyfriend...

Couldn't possibly say....

But odds are high, I imagine, because if Sarah really does have a boyfriend then that's this particular storyline pretty much dead in the water

Not spoilers of course, because she really could, and I'm going to do a workaround. Or....

And of course yet another callback to what is a pretty old story by this point (time flies!)

Love to see it.

....

And speaking of callbacks, delving *really* deep into the past on that one - the 'original' Brooke/Plymouth story, from what I can remember.

Morgan and Lilly, as you say two callbacks from past stories, and it's good to have that, the fact of Brooke's past, things I can dig up and bring back either as a mention or a full reintroduction to the world.

[RopeBunny]

007.

"Thought you lived in the woods?"
"I did," shrugging, not willing to explain, to tell the long story of Owl to Port West via Carnival, "not for awhile though."
"Right."

Morgan, nodding acknowledgement, walking through to the main room of my apartment, looking around.

Watching her, reminded of Sarah.

The report in my letterbox, next day as promised and considering the fakeness of it- a report that looks official, but isn't, created solely due to my calling out her clearly fake quote unquote inspection visit to my apartment.

Headed paperwork, the company seal of approval. Fancy editing. Various headings below which Sarah had written various comments and observations, and at the bottom a large blank space, for feedback and I really- boyfriend -shouldn't, but- those two open drawers, clearly snopping -I did, comment.

'Regarding master bedroom, wardrobe. Querying what exact hazard was caused, required checking the stacked storage boxes?
Querying too, whether everything within said boxes was found to be within code?'

Grinning to myself, posting the- folded and sealed within an envelope, addressed to Sarah -form through the letterbox of her office, too early for Sarah to be in. Amused, enjoying the developing game, knowing I'm being a bad girl, not caring and besides she started it.

That's my excuse anyway.

Yet to receive a reply, probably scared her off.

Attention shifting back to Morgan, who following a brief WhatsApp exchange has rode here this morning, day off- for me -before a four day placement in Leeds. Biker jacket off, left with her helmet and saddlebag in the kitchen.

What- who, mind out of the gutter Plymouth -is she riding currently?

Staring out the floor to ceiling windows, the terrace, the view beyond. Turning to face me as though sensing my attention. Smiling.

Early twenties, eternally trailing me by a couple of years. An eight like me, toned but gym toned as opposed work toned, the difference there if you look: we both present the same slender profile yet my muscles are more defined, from actual use. E cups, the transformation to Thirteen, Morgan's chest enhanced and her body inked, thirteen silhouetted moths, varying shapes and sizes, climbing her right leg in a lazy spiral from above the ankle and running across her buttcheek, wrapping upwards around her back to come out on the left side, ending underneath the swell of her right breast.

Black ink, streaks of colour as background, green and red like comet trails.

Dark blue jeans and a cropped purple tee, hugging the curves of her. Black hair tumbling, a shaggy cut not my own lopsided dyed blue cascade. Not needing to dress up I simply shrugged on a baggy white 'JCB' tee, failing to hide my breasts, the prow of them pushing at the fabric, outlining the shape. Tee falling low, completely hiding khaki spandex running shorts.

"So."
"So." Waiting for me back, and it's my apartment but she wanted to talk to me, so I wait.

"Right." Flashed smile, coming off the window and sitting on the sofa, a plush four seater, dark orange fabric beside which the armchair, except that's Arthur's seat. "Can we...." Looking at the sofa she's already sat on, up at me.

"Sure." Smile of my own, sitting at the far end, apparent worlds between us, space enough it feels cold. Turning to the side, legs up and folded beneath me, leaning against the sofa back hands in my lap. "So, what's up?"
"Business, up?" Turning, becoming a half mirror of me, one leg out straight booted foot dangling, the other bent underneath. Arms crossed beneath her chest. "Or, life up?"
"I've got all day." A shrug, and I do, so.

Whatever Morgan wants to talk about, I'm good.

"Content."
"It's what we produce." Nodding, waiting.

"Right." A nod, followed by a laugh, a brushing gesture like sweeping something off herself.

"Shall I just cut to the chase?"
"Get to the point?" Morgan nods. "Sure."
"Right." Repeating herself, maybe a little nervous and since all the crap.

Her fault, and I didn't, don't remind her of the fact. Sticking it in neutral, remember?

Since parting ways, since we sat and talked, we don't particularly talk much. We don't hang out, don't go for coffee. Haven't worked together and likely Morgan assumes I won't want to work with or even be particularly close to her.

She's mostly right. Old wounds, and I find it hard to look at her without picturing myself screaming into her impassive face, late one night in McDonald's. Tearing out my heart and offering it, offering everything and Morgan turning away.

I've never felt so crushed, so defeated and torn apart.

"Do you hate me?"
"Is that." Surprising a laugh out of me. "The point?"
"Well, no. But." Letting out a breath.

"I did." Because she'd dried up, gone silent, so I'm talking. "But." A shrug, picking at a nail.

My turn to dry up. And I find it hard to look at her, too, without memories of time spent together flooding in, bound and binding, hugging and being hugged.

I hate her. I want her.

Life is hard, and more then a little fucked up.

"I fucked up." Nothing she hasn't said before, that long talk over drinks and pizza, clearing the air but not my soul, and forgiveness is something, but I'd still needed time. "And probably it's no, but." Trying on a smile, and looking at her I feel similar teased onto my lips.

"Do you still run that store?"
"Mostly no." Holding up a hand as Morgan opens her mouth. "It's there, I just haven't touched it since the purge."
"Purge?"
"The great Purge of nineteen hundred and eighty-seven." Arms spreading wide, bad humour, making up a name on the fly but Morgan laughs.

Once upon a time I decided to run my own studio, I had a name, bought and connected to a personalised email, some old content and grand plans to shoot more. And it worked, for awhile, until one night, upset- mad -at something I went in with an imagined sledgehammer and removed ninety percent of the videos, all but one photoshoot.

"I haven't touched it since."
"But you could?"
"Sure." Dots connecting, small jump eyes darting to Morgan. "With you?"
"Why not?"

Laughing immediately afterwards, the glaringly fucking obvious reasons and I'm laughing too.

And.

You know what.

"Fine." A shrug, fuck it. I'm feeling in a fuck it mood, uncaring and not willing to consider consequences. Just press play and see what happens, deal with the fallout later. "Hold on."
"To what?"
"Fuck off." Tossing a cushion at Morgan as I walk from sofa to kitchen, hunting in drawers until I find paper, a pen.

"Here."
"I, Plymouth." Reading my scribbles off the single sheet. "Promise to share with Thirteen any profits from joint ventures, fifty fifty even split."
"And now you sign."
"And this is." Smile, at the pages- two, exact copies because that's how it's done, since we're doing this -then at me as she signs 'Morgan' next to her stage name, at the bottom and below my own 'Brooke' which is next to Plymouth.

"Legal?"
"Does it matter?" A shrug, and we're kind of friends, and I suppose it does matter.

I just don't care.

"If you withhold my share I'll come kidnap you."
"Like that's a bad thing?" Catching Morgan's tossed cushion, returning fire and we both laugh.

Turns out, Morgan not only came here with the initial offer, but with a shoot in mind, with the costume to execute said shoot. Today.

Now.

Showing her into the third bedroom, empty save a wooden framed double, drawer unit with a dozen year one cacti- a project, grown from seed -atop it. Heading into the master to change, to set up.

"Help me into the...." Turning at the sound of her voice, finding Morgan in the doorway, black latex corset in hand, mouth open but shifting into a smile. "Wow."
"Fuck off." Feeling heat rise up my neck. "No flirting."
"I wasn't." Hands up in pretend surrender. "You do, though."
"Fuck off." Flipping her off, but smiling back.

The nightie is white, and very skimpy. Hem barely covering my crotch, my butt. Sheer design with a scooped- but not much -neckline and thin shoulder straps, dipping low at the back. The fabric hugs my chest, breasts pushing at it, nipples tenting it, and beneath I'm naked.

Morgan too is naked beneath her outfit. Black, the difference between us stark, glaring and that's the point. A latex catsuit, full coverage from neck to wrists and ankles, three way zip running down the front and under, up the back to the base of her spine. The shape of her obvious.

Black thigh high boots are laced up at the front, heels but it's more chunky then extreme, like goth boots.

Latex elbow length gloves, and the corset she doesn't need, but the whole slave dynamic of the shoot requires, will be enhanced by it. Laced up tight whilst Morgan stands, leaning forward gripping a bedpost, grunting as I pull and yank her all over, doing each crisscrossing lace in turn.

"Hood."
"Sure you don't want to wait?" Glancing at the armchair in here, the pile of stuff I've prepared. "I could-"
"No." Shaking her head. "I want to be in the zone." Looking at me, eyes imploring, begging almost and I can see- evidence strongly hinting towards the fact -she's treating this as more then a shoot.

But I've decided not to care, so.

"Okay." On your own head. Consequences and the mood I'm in. "Hold on."

Morgan doll like, compliant, letting me work. Unzipping the catsuit, a little and slipping the hood over her head. Black latex, like the whole outfit, total enclosure only nostril holes and she won't be completely deaf, but she will be blind and silenced.

Tucking her hair down inside the catsuit, lacing up the hood, up the back. Resealing the catsuit, collar running over the neck portion of the hood. Morgan now covered head to toe in black.

"Okay?" Mouth right next to her- covered -ear, pumping up the internal gag via the small tube running out of the valve, the bulb attached.

Morgan nodding, so I add a half dozen more and ask again, and another nod.

Slight change of her mouth within the hood as I continue pumping, being stretched and pushed, cheeks forced at by the ball inflating inside Morgan's mouth.

"Okay?"
"Fffgggsssmmm." A nod, holding up one hand. Stop.

But no, feeling the stir, the Domme within, that rare- for me -beast. Morgan moaning again as I add a half dozen final pumps, one hand half reaching for the pump.

Stopping herself, hand dropping.

Good girl.

Unzipping her crotch, lubing up and slipping the long smooth dildo inside her, not surprised to find Morgan already wet. Sealing the catsuit back up, tucking the dildo's control unit into her corset at the back, to keep it out the way, wire trailing from unit around and inside the catsuit, the small gap in the zip.

Armbinder. Black, Morgan helping, slipping her arms back into the sleeve, which pins them together behind her. Laces to tighten the sleeve, forcing her arms closer and closer, finished off by two belts, each one running over the shoulder and down under the opposite armpit, above the chest. The armbinder enclosing Morgan's hands too.

Helping her onto the bed. A King, wooden framed four poster I had years ago, dismantled and kept in storage the whole time I worked at Owl. Ornate, the frame carved in dips and swirls, the wood dark.

Laying her down, on her belly and fetching the belts, various sizes I use to complete the hogtie like binding of her: ankles, above and below the knees, upper thighs. Above and below her chest, Morgan's waist, all three capturing the armbinder too. A final short belt through between her ankles, buckled after I pass it through the small metal ring on the armbinder tip, below her fidgeting- I imagine -fingers.

Each belt cinched tight, yanked- if I can -one belt hole further then tight, each belt pinching Morgan's body, the shiny blackness of her body like something alien. So fucking sexy and I've never- hard to remember, too many chasms back there -been on the outside looking in, never seen how the submissive looks to the Domme.

Morgan, hogtied. Helpless.

Fidgeting and tensing within the bindings, small movements, no attempt at escape and why would she? This is a shoot, not real, not for keeps.

Helpless.

Willingly, and if this were a normal shoot you'd bind the model and then, last of all you'd slip on the hood. Because you'd need to be able to check with them whilst working, and plus what working- jumping up and down, hand waving furiously -model wants to be gagged ahead of time.

Domme stirring some more, looking down at her on the- my -bed. Watching as Morgan shifts again, stretching herself out within the tight confines of her bondage. Moaning softly, rolling from belly to her side, facing me though she can't know it. Can't see shit through those hoods.

I should- quick spark of jealousy, there and died -know.

And perhaps that's why? Or at least part of why. Seeing her there, bound and clearly loving it, in my- naturally submissive -spot. Morgan, helpless and waiting for the shoot, waiting on me because of course I'll tell her when it's time, time to act, to follow the hashed out script of the shoot.

Waiting.

Laid helpless on my bed, waiting and she.

Domme rising, sharks grin on my mouth, retreating quietly across the room to sit on the armchair.

She can wait, then.

[BlissfulMisery]

Probably right, can't imagine it being something I'd be able to run wotj for long, beyond that initial point.

But I have already thought up some ideas, enough that I might have a go.

Maybe.

In fairness, a story does not have to be long - there is such a thing as short and sweet/not overstaying ones welcome.

-

'Regarding master bedroom, wardrobe. Querying what exact hazard was caused, required checking the stacked storage boxes?
Querying too, whether everything within said boxes was found to be within code?'

Very mean of Brooke - but Sarah kind of deserves it

Early twenties, eternally trailing me by a couple of years.

While I understand the intended meaning/subtext, age gaps do indeed tend to stay exactly the same over time

sitting on the sofa, a plush four seater, dark orange fabric beside which the armchair, except that's Arthur's seat.

and I find it hard to look at her without picturing myself screaming into her impassive face, late one night in McDonald's. Tearing out my heart and offering it, offering everything and Morgan turning away.

I've never felt so crushed, so defeated and torn apart.

Not a fun callback. Was quite the mess of a situation...

Turns out, Morgan not only came here with the initial offer, but with a shoot in mind, with the costume to execute said shoot. Today.

Now.

For someone so unsure how to even start the conversation, she sure was confident this would pan out...

(And of course the quota calls )

Looking at me, eyes imploring, begging almost and I can see- evidence strongly hinting towards the fact -she's treating this as more then a shoot.

...Plymouth would know from experience exactly why this is a bad idea...

But I've decided not to care, so.

But unfortunately for Morgan... see above

Because you'd need to be able to check with them whilst working, and plus what working- jumping up and down, hand waving furiously -model wants to be gagged ahead of time.

...You are absolutely incorrigible, Plymouth.

Domme rising, sharks grin on my mouth, retreating quietly across the room to sit on the armchair.

She can wait, then.

I would say something like 'poor Morgan'... but Plymouth knows a fellow bondage addict enthusiast when she sees one

[Switchgirl]

Once again a Plymouth/ Brooke story that captures me and makes me want more….

Your unique style and Brooke’s strong character juxtaposes with her submissiveness makes your stories the best on this site.

Again, so happy you’ve emerged from the darkness you were in and that you continue to produce such beautiful, sexy and flawed (character-wise) stories….

[RopeBunny]

Probably right, can't imagine it being something I'd be able to run wotj for long, beyond that initial point.

But I have already thought up some ideas, enough that I might have a go.

Maybe.

In fairness, a story does not have to be long - there is such a thing as short and sweet/not overstaying ones welcome.

True. We'll have to see once Plymouth is done, see what direction of story I want to tackle next.

sitting on the sofa, a plush four seater, dark orange fabric beside which the armchair, except that's Arthur's seat.

I do enjoy dropping in my little irrelevant asides

and I find it hard to look at her without picturing myself screaming into her impassive face, late one night in McDonald's. Tearing out my heart and offering it, offering everything and Morgan turning away.

I've never felt so crushed, so defeated and torn apart.

Not a fun callback. Was quite the mess of a situation...

Agreed. But it is relevant, to what floors below, too.

Although I shan't continue to bring it up, because Brooke's right, it's in the past.

Done.

(And of course the quota calls )

That it does.

[RopeBunny]

Your unique style and Brooke’s strong character

Thank you for the comment, the appreciation of my writing style, which I suppose is somewhat unique.

Something I've found and developed, a way of writing I enjoy.

Good to see you here

[RopeBunny]

008.

Watching her.

Morgan, who is Thirteen as I'm Plymouth, dressed up and trussed up for a shoot in my apartment, on my bed.

Thirteen, who is actually still Morgan, technically and the line blurs, is fluid. However because we aren't shooting, yet, it's Morgan I'm watching.

And she doesn't know. Covered head to toe in latex, blind and half deaf, silenced by a pump gag built into the inside of her hood, a gag I inflated beyond what normal comfort would prefer.

Which Morgan made no move to stop me doing, a kind of surrender, her feeling the submissiveness of the outfit even whilst being on the outside, looking in causing my own rare Domme side to rise.

An armbinder, six belts from ankle up through knees and thighs, waist and bracketing that ballooning chest, pushing at the latex, she's hogtied. Helpless.

And here's me taking advantage, doing to Morgan what I secretly wish were done to me every.

Single.

Shoot, overstepping whatever lines in the sand we've drawn. Taking advantage of her helplessness to do as I please.

Sat on the armchair, positioned in the corner, perfect view across to my bed, Morgan laid out on her side, facing me, waiting for the signal that I'm shooting. Waiting, ready to follow the script and seeing her, the slight and subtle cues in the build-up, I felt and- bad girl -followed through on the urge to take advantage.

And now here we are.

Unseen clock ticking, in Morgan's head too and for all that she can't see, she knows I'm ready, dressed and set up. She knows that once bound there's no reason to delay the shoot.

So why haven't I leaned in close, mouth to her- latex hood covered -ear, calling the start?

Small moan, accompanied by a shifting of her bound limbs, arms flexing within the cinched sleeve, pushing at the belts pinning those limbs to her body. Shake of her equally immobilised legs, pulled and bent back into the belt made hogtie.

Moaning some more, unable to stop herself probably, the discomfort and the unknown of being very obviously off script.

That unseen clock, ticking, and I could watch her all day.

Might- bad girl -watch her all day.

Standing, brief foray to the kitchen and returning with my phone. Smirking, feeling like King of the fucking world as I casually circle the bed, finding interesting angles, taking numerous photos of her.

Not for the shoot, for me.

Morgan, possibly sensing, possibly feeling the change in air currents? Head up off the bed and tilting, seeking out what she can't see. One long, low moan and.

"No." Whispering, though she couldn't hear me anyway, shake of my head, still smirking. "It's nowhere near time yet."

Like she heard me anyway? Head flopping down and a short while later Morgan begins struggling.

Impossible to tell if it's frustration borne, simply testing the bindings, or even an attempt at goading me to action. Fighting, working herself up from stretching and tugging all the way to bucking and shaking her hogtied body. Moaning, either trying to escape or trying to entice me to come over there and play with her already.

Breasts shifting within the tight fitting latex, body outlined in perfect smooth detail. Amazing, and so fucking sexy. Crotch thrusting in and out, wire trailing out from the small gap left in the zip, the dildo filling Morgan up, waiting to drive her insane.

For the shoot.

Winding down, eventually, body becoming still, breathing hard through a combination of exertion and arousal because Morgan, like me she's into the bondage on a personal level. Nodding as she stills, acknowledgement of something, that she realises I'm not coming, that she knows there's no escape?

Going still.

Waiting.

And.

Coming back to myself with a bump, finding legs spread wide and feet hooked around the stubby front legs of the armchair, leaning back, breasts exposed and one hand teasing at my pussy, idle cicles of and passes across my clit. Slight pressure.

The bump, a sudden realisation: that I've been doing a form of astral projection, that whilst I can, and have gotten off on control, on being the Domme, using and abusing. I never get even half as aroused in the role compared to being my naturally submissive self. Understanding hitting- feeling it like a slap -me that the whole time, abandoning and enjoying Morgan's discomfort and helplessness, all the while I've been daydreaming myself into her spot, as though I'm floating, looking down at my own struggles.

Twinned with this, shocking me into motion to the point I'm throwing myself at the bed and.

"Are you fucking with me?"
"Wha...." Blinking into the sudden light, jaw only half working. Morgan staring up into the force of my anger, trying to adjust her posture but unable, meeting the immediate resistance of the belts, the armbinder.

Still trussed up.

"Brooke?"
"Are you?"
"Am I...." Clearly lost, or to my inflamed senses, my certainty, playing for time. "What am I doing?"

Trying on a smile, finding some amusement in the fact of her bondage, maybe, or laughing at me?

Anger growing.

"Aren't we shooting?"
"No." Swiping my hand between us, chopping off her comment, her point. Brushing it aside. "Tell me?"
"Tell you, what?" Flexing, small grimace at the discomfort, the tightness and how long has she endured it now? "I don't understand, Brooke?"
"Are you." Stopping, taking a calming breath and lowering my voice yet still kneeling beside her, towering with hands on hips.

Dominant.

"Is this all some kind of atonement shit?"
"Atonement?" Confused, and I'd almost believe her if not that she adds. "For what?"
"I'll get the crop."

For what? For. Fucking what? Atonement, making up for a wrong, like, just to pick something: how about the fact that you cheated on me, dumped me and stamped all over my heart.

Trying to smile at me again like she thinks it's all still a game.

Fucking.

"Wait." Sudden panic rising in her voice as I come back around the bed, climbing up, riding crop in hand the slender blackness of the handle, grip wrapped in slashes of red and the small fold of leather at the tip, black. "Brooke."
"No." Morgan trying to squrim away, completely failing as I reach out and yank her zip- the catsuit has a three way, currently one zip at the neck, sealing it, and two more which were at the small of her back, now over Morgan's crotch, allowing a small access hole for the dildo lead -down, as far as the top of her corset, yanking at one side to pop out a pert E cup.

Which bounces into new found freedom, pleased to see me and the sight raises a quick smile.

"The truth." Trailing the crop tip across her already- traitor, because like me Morgan's into it, all of it -erect nipple. "Morgan."

Timing each of my words with a small swipe of the wrist, little stinging strikes to her nipple.

"Why. Are. You. Bound."
"Because." Breathing hard, swallowing and, if I'm honest, had I been paying attention. Probably she's fast becoming too turned on to care.

"We're doing a shoot." Looking up at me, hopeful. "Right?"
"You don't get gagged early in shoots."

Slap. Morgan biting her lip yet still the sigh of pleasure mixed with pain leaks through. And of course sometimes you do, the power dynamic and some site producers can't resist pushing, attempting to rule over the model, and sometimes- me for instance -they win.

But I'm too sunk into anger to be logical, too set on my course: that Morgan's hiding something, playing me, to care about logic.

"You don't willingly surrender in shoots."

Slap. Harder and she gasps, yet still, looking up at me throughout, and following the strike Morgan pushes out her chest.

Asking for more, which in many ways is answer enough and yet I still don't see it.

"Just be honest." Trailing the crop in a circle around her breast and- doomed, no hope for either of us -fuck but I'm falling into the game too. Enjoying the role, punishment, taking control.

"You came here, putting yourself into this." Running the crop down her latex clad belt bound length. "So I'd want to take advantage."

Running the leather tip across Morgan's lips, her tongue slipping out, licking the instrument of her abuse and as she looks up at me, helpless yet not complaining, something of it all begins to slowly sink in.

That I'm not wrong, but not entirely right either.

"Is that." Smiling, small but growing as she sees my own lips lifting at the corners.

"Can't a girl want to shoot some porn, and." Emphasising the word. "Have a no strings fuck too?"
"Well." Feeling the smile, more natural now, anger withering, buried, feeling the Domme leaving me and I shiver. "When you put it like that."
"I missed you." Attempting to shrug. "And, yes, I do want to shoot content but."
"You decided to dangle yourself for me to hook too."

Laughing, Morgan too. Because by willingly letting me put on the hood, early, she'd clearly been hoping to awaken the playful side of me.

"Right." Shaking my head, crop tossed away, hood back in hand. "Sorry."
"For what?"
"Ha." Fucking surrender junkies, rope whores, though I don't believe Morgan craves it the way I do. More a tool to be used, for her. Surrendering herself as bait, close to certain I'd be unable to resist such a blatant invitation.

The comedy being that I'd mistaken playfulness for trickery, for an attempt at apologising for something no longer relevant. In the past.

Done.

"Let's shoot?"
"Definitely."

Which turns out to be something of an anticlimax, for me though because Morgan- Thirteen now, because we've stopped playing, are actually working if you can even spot the difference -gets a decidedly happy ending, in a shoot she planned.

Do you see the connection?

Hooded, and instead of tucking her hair in I make a high tail, feeding it through between the crisscrossing laces of the hood. Pumping the gag back up, sensible, stopping when Thirteen nods this time and climbing off the bed to fire up the cameras: one to shoot from my side of the bed, full frontal of Thirteen, and a second up high at the foot end, angled down to capture the whole bed.

Climbing back into bed, pulling the duvet up to cover us both and leaning in, kissing Thirteen's gagged lips, just to one side and talking directly into her ear even whilst pulling the dildo controller out of the corset laces, where somehow it's remained despite her struggles.

"Shooting."
"Gggssssffdmmm." A nod, and I roll back onto my side, onto my belly. Feigning sleep.

Counting to a slow fourty, a good minute of 'sleeping' footage, time enough to fade in and still have the beginning as me, asleep. Duvet blocking all but my head and one outflung- towards the camera -arm, Thirteen covered from the neck down, laid on her side facing me.

Waking up, gently tossing the duvet back whilst rolling onto my back, letting the camera see me, nightie barely covering my curves and breasts defying gravity, nipples pointed ceilingwards as I stretch. Hand over my mouth to cover a yawn, letting the smile spread as though today is going to be a good day.

The reason for which beside me, and I roll towards Thirteen, bringing my body in close and running long nails down the shape of her, from shoulder down half her arm, onto her side and down the leg to the knee. Back up. Tracing Thirteen's curves as she stirs to life, waking up and no distress. A small moan, a stretch, pushing herself- breasts leading the way -towards me, welcoming my touch and attentions.

Cupping her breast, leaning in to run my tongue across the latex, back. Licking upwards, across her gagged lips and Thirteen moaning some more. Helpless, shifting and pulling at her bindings, slight hint of frustration: wanting me back, wanting to touch and feel me but unable.

Not allowed, a slave in her rightful place.

Still pressing in close, leaning in to- pretend -whisper into Thirteen's ear, groping her chest even whilst pulling away. Reaching down to switch on the dildo, a vibrator and as the buzzing kicks in, ramping up quickly from slow to intense Thirteen moans louder.

A final kiss and I climb out of bed, stretching right in front of the camera, letting it capture the movement of my breasts, shifting and settling, a teasing flash of pussy as I reach up, back down. Running a hand through my hair, glance back over my shoulder.

Leaving.

Walking out of shot and it's all her now. Thirteen, and I stand beyond, out of frame, watching- professional now -as she works towards and through a climax, body bucking, wriggling and fighting, more and harder as the dildo does it's thing, driving her steadily insane, wave following wave of pleasure she can't stop, can't prevent.

Before the climax, though, I'm back in with a handheld, slow- but not too slow, Thirteen can't see me, can't know how much time I need, won't be purposefully holding back the climax -sweep of her, down the back from head to butt, panning up slightly to avoid her bent and belt pinned legs, making sure to linger a moment on the smooth firmness of her buttcheeks beneath the latex.

Coming around front and doing the same, slow pan across her body, Thirteen's curves perfectly shown off by the tight outfit. Pausing at her head, getting in close so the mic picks up that low insistent moaning. Pausing too at her chest, shift of those E cups.

Leaving. Favoured by the Gods as within a half minute of my clearing the shot Thirteen's orgasm arrives with a vengeance, body straining at her bindings, moans loud enough she'd be screaming were it not for the mouth filling gag.

Shuddering as the pleasure surges through her, an intense thing, feeling a sudden and desperate urge to step forward and join her, or to be her. Small pang of jealousy I can't help, wanting to be where she is now: helpless, climaxing at the whim of another.

Returning as she's coming back down, panting, out of breath and likely an absolute mess inside all that latex. Striding into frame from behind so that Thirteen remains in shot whilst I lean over, powering down the dildo. Running my hand up the length of her, a single kiss on the cheek.

And leaving again, abandoning- that's how we want it to look -her, left still trussed and helpless in her owners bed. Just a toy, nothing more.

[BlissfulMisery]

Thirteen, who is actually still Morgan, technically and the line blurs, is fluid. However because we aren't shooting, yet, it's Morgan I'm watching.

Thirteen or Morgan. Plymouth or Brooke. I like the way this sentence highlights just how fuzzy that line can get under the right circumstances.

So why haven't I leaned in close, mouth to her- latex hood covered -ear, calling the start?

Because you are toying with your 'prey', Plymouth

The bump, a sudden realisation: that I've been doing a form of astral projection

Interesting way to describe it.

"Are you fucking with me?"

You know, as the Domme *you* are supposed to be the one doing the mind-games Brooke

But I'm too sunk into anger to be logical, too set on my course: that Morgan's hiding something, playing me, to care about logic.

Should not be playing dominant while not in control of yourself Brooke. A recipe for disaster. Even genuine punishments in a relationship dynamic should be done in a structured manner, not arising from anger or wrath.

To be clear, I understand what you are doing here, and it does make sense. Seems Brooke has not properly worked through her emotions relating to the breakup. I actually do like the scene - very raw.

The comedy being that I'd mistaken playfulness for trickery, for an attempt at apologising for something no longer relevant. In the past.

Even here, the tension resolved, seems like she is trying to brush it off/laugh it off. She would not have reacted so strongly if there was no underlying/unresolved problem.

Not that she is doing anything wrong here - in the middle of a shoot is not really the time and place to resolve these issues, so better to put it off for later (or you know, never, which is far from ideal but how it often ends up playing out in practice).

And leaving again, abandoning- that's how we want it to look -her, left still trussed and helpless in her owners bed.

Just a toy, nothing more.

Try not to get *too* jealous, Brooke

Interesting chapter, with Brooke doing some confronting of her past. Not sure if there will be a follow-up on this particular plotline, but I did enjoy what you did with it.

[RopeBunny]

Thirteen, who is actually still Morgan, technically and the line blurs, is fluid. However because we aren't shooting, yet, it's Morgan I'm watching.

Thirteen or Morgan. Plymouth or Brooke. I like the way this sentence highlights just how fuzzy that line can get under the right circumstances.

To be fair the line blurs often, whilst writing. The nature of any Plymouth story- lots of TUGs, shoots going too far -almost demands it.

The bump, a sudden realisation: that I've been doing a form of astral projection

Interesting way to describe it.

Was the first way of doing so that occurred, and I liked the imagery of Brooke hanging above the scene, looking down and mentally swapping Morgan for herself.

Overall, the rest of your comments mostly allude to the fact of how the chapter played out, the dynamic of Brooke being a little slow on the uptake of Morgan's actual- hidden -intentions. A strange thing to write, finding the right angles and a decent flow, wanting Brooke to be mad at first, to misunderstand before ultimately realising.

I wanted Brooke to go to far, the role reversal since usually it's others- Morgan amongst them -going too far with her. And having gone over the line, stepping into technically forbidden territory, I wanted her to get mad and go even further in the wrong direction before ultimately the truth dawns.

And they get on with the shoot.

Final part- of this Morgan interlude/section coming up below, likely today. But I'm sure she'll be back again.

[RopeBunny]

009.

Before the awkward dinner.

Everything shut down, Morgan- now -freed of the belts and the armbinder, the hood. Fetching her a glass of water, sitting on the armchair, patient, giving her time to come back up, to stir back to life, sitting and leaning against the ornate headboard and drinking.

"Hungry?"
"Not yet." Looking the question back and I shake my head. No. "So we could...."

A shrug, and we both drop to silence, looking at each other, the room. My own thoughts ranging out around the apartment, seeking ideas and inspiration.

"Thought you'd want a shower first?"
"Little hot." Laughing, me joining in, knowing the feeling. "But, couldn't we use this?"
"The outfit?"
"Seems a shame to put all this on just for one shoot?"
"We could shoot a revenge?" Shiver chasing through me at the suggestion, cutting a little close to the true: that Morgan is owed payback for what I did.

""Right." Shiver to mirror mine, feeling it too. "Sure. Any, um. Thoughts?"
"Hogtie?"
"Could put the hood on you?" Voicing her thoughts, neither of us stopping to think, throwing suggestions out. "Like proof of the reversal?"
"Works." A nod. "Don't fuck me, just...."
"Little light torture?"
"Basically."

Laughing, shivering again and it's a shoot, but a little close too.

Spending five minutes setting up, discussing angles with Morgan, busy getting rope and such together. Quick bathroom break, both of us freshening up, rearranging clothing: settling the nightie back in place, Morgan unzipping the catsuit down to her corset, cleavage on show.

"Okay?"
"Ready."
"Good." Fetching rope, climbing up to join already kneeling on the bed me. "And unlike someone," voice teasing, "I understand the need to hold off on the hood."
"Fuck you." Grinning even whilst placing my arms behind, Morgan crawling around my left side. "Pretty certain you asked."
"Details." Brushing my comment off, grinning back.

Such an easy back and forth, and I'd almost wonder- because she fucking cheated on me -why we broke up.

Wrists, elbows. Arms pinned side by side, tightly, Morgan clearly still subscribing to the correct form of bondage: real, even for a shoot. Not asking if I'm okay, comfortable, taking my small grunts and held breaths as what they are.

Proof of arousal, proof she's doing it right.

Wrists pulled and bound high up, rope looped around each shoulder further yanking my arms back, pushing out my chest. Arms now bent into two sides of a triangle, resembling wings, almost. Morgan further pinning my limbs into the pose, lashing wrists to my waist, hands flat- palms down -against the small of my back, fingers splayed and seeming to reach around each side.

Crawling around the front, still plenty of rope in hand.

Chest, wrapping above and below, professional, expression gone serious no longer playing, making sure to bind me well, both for looks and for effectiveness, wanting my struggles to make for a good shoot.

"I'll be able to...." Demonstrating, and me squirming a little, that I can't stop her. Taking hold one side of my nightie, the thin shoulder strap, running her hand down to the point it hugs my breast and, though she has to feed and guide it the nightie does slip over into the middle, popping an F cup free.

"Good."
"Going to torture my tits?"
"Definitely." Flicking the exposed nipple, moving fast, the pain unexpected, sudden and I gasp.

"Fuuuuuuccck."
"Oops." Laughing. "Sorry."

Leaning in to kiss it, the lightest of touches before rearranging my clothing, covering me back up. Moving on.

Binding each of my legs separately, upper thigh to ankle, forcing them to remain bent.

A crotch rope. Not moving the nightie, instead allowing her bindings to pinch and mess it up around the waist. Adding a well placed knot, pressing directly onto my tender- already awake and gently throbbing -clit, yanking tight, rope disappearing into my buttcrack.

"Enough revenge?" Kneeling in front of me, hands on her thighs legs spread in almost mock symmetry with mine.

"You forgot the hood." Smiling, false bravado, feeling my helplessness now like a physical weight. Morgan, her close enough to touch me proximity and obvious enjoyment of my state. Crotch rope pressing against me, nipples straining at the nightie.

"I'll get to it." Casual wave towards the armchair, her gathered equipment, my approaching torture.

For a shoot.

"But I asked." Looking me up and down, smile as I wriggle, feeling the need to show her a task- binding me -well done. "Is this enough revenge?"
"Not until you've abandoned me."
"Giving me ideas now?"
"Like you need me to."
"True."

I'd abandoned her, for a half hour, or so. Fair turnaround you could say.

Morgan, smile growing after as she no doubt sees the effect our back and forth, my- semi offer -remark and her causal- serious? -acknowledgement have on me: biting my lip, eyes closing for a long moment even whilst subconsciously I'm stretching, pushing my chest and crotch out towards her.

Surrendering.

Somewhere a phone starts ringing, and it takes several rings- just rings, nothing fancy set up for this phone -to realise it's mine.

"I need." Swallowing, nodding out towards the kitchen. "To answer that."
"Yeah?" Raised eyebrow, making no move to help.

How quickly we fall into our roles.

"Works phone." A single nod, feeling the tingle as I add. "Please."
"You've got a phone for porn?"
"Other job." Grimacing as the ringing stops. Morgan smiling, clearly having fun. "I'm basically on call twenty-four seven." Biting my lip, feeling both nipples go hard as rocks. Slipping.

"Please."
"Sure." Reaching out to gently tap my nose, playful. "Not like you're my slave or anything.

Having said which Morgan slides off the bed, returning with my- ringing again -phone. Not, freeing me, instead she crawls up to resume her commanding spot directly in front, flipping the answer to green, engaging speaker phone and holding the phone out towards me.

"Brooke?"
"Here." Eyes flicking from phone to Morgan. "Sorry."
"It's Sandra, Brooke, from headquarters."
"Go ahead boss."

"Boss?" Morgan whispers, smile dancing across her face and.

"Fuck off." I whisper back.

Wrong answer. The call, back and forth, Sandra relaying information I should be writing down, me saying 'hold on, let me get a pen' with a pointed, half pleading look to Morgan, who shrugs and fetches a sharpie from the kitchen.

Writing hotel check in references and names of who I'll be liaising with, police crime reference numbers down on my exposed, bound legs. Capturing everything inside a drawn square.

Which is bad enough, display of power enough to have me gone weak. Added to which Morgan won't stop physically teasing me throughout: running her free- not holding the phone -hand across my bound body, tugging gently but insistently on the crotch rope, trying to force a reaction and me having to clamp my mouth shut whenever I'm not talking lest I moan at Sandra.

Yanking my nightie up, forcing and tugging, pulling, making it nothing more then a bunched band of fabric down around my elbows, ropes preventing her actually removing it. Producing- from the kitchen, bitch, no doubt -a wooden clothes peg, which goes on my already erect and too hard right nipple.

Because Morgan knows- from when we were dating, conversations of old -how I favour and prefer the left side. She knows pegging only the right, if she's only doing one will- bitch -drive me fucking nuts.

Covering my upper arms, breasts and belly in graffiti: 'I heart being Morgan's rope slut' and 'Morgan rules' appearing more then once. 'Thirteen' followed by the is greater then symbol, followed by 'Plymouth' written at least four times. As is 'slave' a frequent visitor to my skin.

Later, at the hotel having not had time to wash before leaving. Not even time for that awkward dinner, which may or may not of been.

Standing naked in front of the mirror, heart beating fast as I stare at myself, at Morgan's work. Spotting 'property of Morgan' written beside my pussy and a large cock, thick and impossible to miss and running the length above my right breast, balls dangling down beside the shoulder. Cum exploding out the bulbous tip, running above my left breast.

The cum is dripping down over my left nipple, because of course it is.

Various gaps are filled with obscenities: c£#t but not blanked out, whore and slut.

Fifteen minutes I'd been on the phone, time enough for Morgan to cover me from upper chest down to wrists and ankles, in black red and green sharpie.

Even my buttcheeks. And, bound, on the phone to headquarters, either one of those a reason I couldn't stop her, forced to sit there and take it, helpless to stop Morgan covering me in whatever her playful imagination spewed forth.

Feeling overwhelmingly horny whilst I sat and half watched, felt the scratch and pressure of the pen all over me. Morgan's half smile whenever out eyes met, playful, enjoying herself at my expense. Taking complete advantage, not asking. Using me the way she- ex girlfriend -knows I crave.

Squirming, unable to stop myself, the heady mixture of helplessness and humiliation rendering me unable to sit still, body fighting to take action, to do something. Prevented by the ropes, and so I'd squirmed, fought to control my breathing, to keep my voice level and normal, mostly succeeding.

Still horny now, waning occasionally throughout the drive West, through Devon into Cornwall. Waning but always there, arousal powered by the knowledge of what's underneath my jeans and tee, works hi-vis jacket, clothing to cover up the abuse Morgan committed on me. Hidden, but I know it's there.

And now, later, a whole afternoon spent dealing with others, working, with others, and all whilst hiding this secret, my skin defiled, the secret truths of me- you could say -written for anyone to see, if I'd only let them.

In my hotel room, door locked. Stripped and staring at a Brooke I don't recognise in the mirror, the ink not faded, the harshness of it all, words following words following obscene pictures, marching all up and down me.

Drinking myself in and cursing work, the Commission and whatever wankers started the fire that's torn through the woodland I've been sent out to. An emergency, don't worry about Leeds, just pack and leave now, for Cornwall.

Go.

Hunting though my hastily packed suitcase, unable to find anything useful, too rushed to pack bondage supplies. Settling on a pair of pants, black cotton with lace trim, hipster style. Stuffing them into my mouth, sealed in place by a khaki canvas belt, too long for my slim waist but I like to leave the end hanging down. Belt wrapped fully twice around my head, yanked until the rough fabric is pressed into my mouth, pants forced deeper.

Knotting it behind, twice. Taking a selfie in the mirror, pussy beginning to throb now and.

'Arrived.' Pinging onto my phone. Carl, a second Ranger and yes it really is that bad, further to travel and he's only just now arrived. 'What room Brooke?'

Messaging him back the number. Almost, nearly and my heart thudding, sudden violence in my chest and ice in my veins. Almost sending Carl the photo of me, gagged and covered in sharpie.

Breathing out, laughing through the gag, the comedown from sudden spiked adrenaline.

Sending the photo to Morgan, being a tease and I'm in that kind of mood. Receiving a swift reply, thanking me for her new phone wallpaper, heart eyes emoji and kisses tacked on and, smiling I respond with a kiss emoji.

Not diving in. I like, love being used, taken advantage of, the rush, chasing the dragon. But through long hard- some of it forgotten, lost to the holes in my head but the echo of it remaining -experience I've come to understand what I don't want is to be owned.

No collar for me, ever.

Knock at the door.

Tearing off my gag even whilst half jogging to the- locked -door, like a teenage girl afraid of being caught with a boy in her room.

"Carl?"
"Brooke?" Shouted back through the door, accompanied by a couple of knocks. "That you?"
"I'm here."
"Have you eaten?"
"Not yet." Thoughts a blur, skin prickling at Carl's proximity, as though he could see through solid wood. See me. "Waiting for you."

Not strictly true. I knew Carl was enroute, and waiting had crossed my mind: a good idea, but in truth I've spent the last half hour or so distracted by Morgan's handiwork.

"Give me five minutes?" Peering through the small peephole, Carl: Blonde hair cropped short and beard to match, average height and big arms. "Dump my shit, I'll meet you downstairs?"
"Five minutes." Cracking the door and sticking a hand into the gap, thumbs up.

Thong, faded blue jeans with black work boots and a black 'Hayabusa' pullover hoodie I paid stupid money to import from Japan, the word picked out across my- straining, always trying to push the material of whatever I wear aside -bust. No tee or bra, going to be too fucking hot as it is but I can't so much as roll the sleeves up.

Fucking, actually laughing even whilst shaking my head, even whilst feeling that throb in my pussy, the state of me.

Dinner leading to drinks, Carl working on that belly, only a slight hump but if he keeps going. Matching him in a two to one fashion, not feeling it but not wanting to be rude, Carl's a colleague, a friend of sorts. A Ranger and we've got a four member WhatsApp group. That warm feeling of belonging.

Retiring late to bed, having kept Carl company throughout the football highlights, a game I care nothing for but friendship keeping me sat, seeking out comments, offering my thoughts and showing an interest, which I see Carl appreciate, nodding a couple of times at some apparent wisdom I dredge up from fuck knows where.

Long soak in the bath, despite bed calling but I need to be clean tomorrow, free of graffiti because tomorrow I'll be working, hard. Sweating and likely down to denim shorts and a small cropped tee.

Five days. Five long days of sun up to sun down, working with minimal breaks, Carl and me earning our somewhat inflated- because of the on call nature, because of other things too, of course -Rangers salary. Dragging out the burnt husk of the van, the source of the fire. Cutting and removing what's left of the dead or dying wood, leaving acres of decimated woodland, scorched earth and only the occasional scattered survivor, and even half of them burned in some way.

Long days, sharing dinners each night, neither of us up for talking but nor do we want to eat alone, Carl retiring afterwards to videocall his wife and daughter, and me plodding zombie like, alone to my room, to shower and zone out in front of the flatscreen, lacking the energy to flirt, to even consider reaching out, to anyone.

Tired, spent. But the task far enough along, after five days that we Rangers can leave.

Heading home to a- promised, ha -four days rest.

[BlissfulMisery]

To be fair the line blurs often, whilst writing. The nature of any Plymouth story- lots of TUGs, shoots going too far -almost demands it.

True.

I wanted Brooke to go to far, the role reversal since usually it's others- Morgan amongst them -going too far with her. And having gone over the line, stepping into technically forbidden territory, I wanted her to get mad and go even further in the wrong direction before ultimately the truth dawns.

And they get on with the shoot.

Final part- of this Morgan interlude/section coming up below, likely today. But I'm sure she'll be back again.

Fair enough, and I did enjoy the scene/what you were trying to do. Brookes somewhat erratic behavior definitely lines up with the unresolved stress/emotions she had/has over Morgan.

-

"Little light torture?"

Enjoyed the absurd casualness of the line, even if it makes perfect sense in context.

Not asking if I'm okay, comfortable, taking my small grunts and held breaths as what they are.

Proof of arousal, proof she's doing it right.

The 'problem' with being tied by someone who knows you a little too well, Brooke

Morgan, smile growing after as she no doubt sees the effect our back and forth, my- semi offer -remark and her causal- serious? -acknowledgement have on me: biting my lip, eyes closing for a long moment even whilst subconsciously I'm stretching, pushing my chest and crotch out towards her.

That exciting uncertainty about what will happen is definitely one of the major attractions of bondage, even if creating that feeling can at times be somewhat contradictory to safety concerns. But as always with bondage, push and pull, give and take...

Which is bad enough, display of power enough to have me gone weak. Added to which Morgan won't stop physically teasing me throughout: running her free- not holding the phone -hand across my bound body, tugging gently but insistently on the crotch rope, trying to force a reaction and me having to clamp my mouth shut whenever I'm not talking lest I moan at Sandra.

Very mean of Morgan, taking advantage of Brooke's 'predicament' like that Really feeding into her exhibitionistic tendencies.

Think Morgan definitely got her revenge

Heading home to a- promised, ha -four days rest.

And well deserved too. Of course knowing how Brooke's life tends to go, those four days might end up being more then a little eventful

[RopeBunny]

"Little light torture?"

Enjoyed the absurd casualness of the line, even if it makes perfect sense in context.

As did I, this section, the Morgan binding Brooke for a second shoot/revenge got re-written several times. Started as a full shoot, almost completely drafted before I decided no, wasn't happy with Morgan's revenge being a carbon copy of Brooke's earlier overstep. And cutting out whatever else I did, attempted, I'm happy with the final piece, the graffiti.

Not asking if I'm okay, comfortable, taking my small grunts and held breaths as what they are.

Proof of arousal, proof she's doing it right.

The 'problem' with being tied by someone who knows you a little too well, Brooke

True, that blurring of the line, doing a shoot yet both knowing the other on an intimate level.

Think Morgan definitely got her revenge

Some of it anyway

No doubt Morgan will be back, and we'll just have to see what happens then.

[RopeBunny]

010.

WhatsApp can get pretty hectic, at times, especially given the wide array of groups I'm in.

Rangers, a group of four. We're all seasoned- different lengths of service, but we all know enough -Forestry workers, but the role is new, the demands are new. Plus it helps to have friends, coworkers suffering- I mean enjoying, obviously -the same over-familiarity with hotels.

I'm in a group of two, with Fayth. We've always talked regularly, distance- her living in San Francisco, a whole ocean between us -preventing us actually meeting as often as we'd both prefer. But following the recent Carnival, her and me in Blackpool, fun times, I received an invite to 'Carnival of 2' from her, the group image being the two of us, bound into a forced hug and attempting not to laugh.

Fun times, of course I joined.

The Three Kings, my biker gang, somewhere in the region of a hundred members, plus or minus ten at any given time in this chat, and rarely quiet for long.

Finally, groups wise because there are anywhere from three to ten separate individual chats occurring at any time, I'm now in 'King of Kings' with Winston- his idea, the name -and Connor. The three of us newly appointed leaders of the gang, which doesn't require much: admin, keeping track of the petty cash account, organising meetings.

And with four days off, possibly and I'm learning not to trust the Commission when it comes to the subject of Ranger availability. But, four days off, so I wasted no time setting up a face to face to face, because it's time we met, and talked.

"We're not changing the name, or the logo, or any stupid sh-" Winston, cutting himself off moments before Connor's attention flicks up, across, delivering a hard stare which likely would've been followed up by a deliberate glance to his four year old daughter, sat at the table with us.

Because she wants to be with the grown ups, apparently. Winston and me smiling as Connor fails to bribe her with cartoons on the large flatscreen. Instead she's sat, serious face, between Connor and me, paper and a variety of coloured pens.

Attempting to copy out my 'Eye of Rah' tattoo, which takes up a good portion of the back of my left hand.

"We're not planning." Starting again, looking around the table at the two of us. "None of us wants to go down that road, make those big changes, right?"
"Even if I did," shaking his head, smiling as his daughter looks up, shaking hers in agreement, grinning back, "half the gang would riot."
"What's riot daddy?"
"Something bad princess."

Which seems enough, and with a nod, a glance to me and reaching out to touch, prod at my ink, she's back to drawing.

"Brooke?"
"Blasphemy." Shaking my head.

Which leads us onwards, where it turns out both the guys have- separately -come up with the same idea: that we do Santa Pod, the bike show.

"Officially."
"What's the difference?"
"There's area's set aside for organisations wh-"
"-Gangs." Smiling, teasing. "Aren't we a gang?"
"Fu-"

Both me and Winston covering our mouths to keep the laughter in, Connor's eyes darting to his daughter, luckily far too engrossed to notice his almost use of a bad word.

"Brooke."
"What." But holding up both hands, I'll be good. "Wasn't me who almost said a bad word."

Connor tutting, but with a smile, following which we borrow- steal -some of the paper, and begin making notes. Santa Pod growing within a half hour from pipe dream to near reality. Winston and Connor.

Who's daughter has moved on from my hand ink to the anime styled motorbike on my left lower back, a sports bike, riden by a bikini clad busty girl, hair streaming out behind, whipped by the wind. Lowered medieval lance in hand. The ink revealed in the gap between cropped tee and jeans, sat with my back to her now, facing Connor.

Who, alongside Winston has a laptop open on the table. The three of us composing an official email to Santa Pod, enquiring over space and availability for the Kings, even whilst simultaneously working on a PDF, which we post to the King's WhatsApp, a first draft of what we're hoping, reaching out to the gang, asking for rough numbers.

Who wants to attend?

The two guys gently teasing me, the only capital K King who owns a proper sports bike, of the three of us, and therefore I'm basically expected to take the Hayabusa down the drag strip.

To enter myself in the knockout tournament.

Santa Pod wasting no time responding, reaching back out the following day, officially, answering questions and asking others in turn. Correspondence, wheels set into motion and our King of Kings chat becoming busy, planning and working out details. Finalising and submitting both the numbers of- officially -attending Kings, and those few willing to enter the tournament.

Including me.

"Just." Running a hand across the Hayabusa as I dismount, outside Sarah's office having rode home from someplace irrelevant, to the grand schemes, seeing her inside, alone. Looking down at the bike having given the lady a wave, removing my helmet. "We'll talk about this. Okay."

This being the tournament. Not Sarah.

Who wrote back, eventually. Stopping in the foyer upon returning from Cornwall, the aftermath of the fire, checking for mail and finding Sarah's response in another corporate headed envelope.

Trust, because none of this is official, and were I a bitch, I could take her 'corporate' invasion of my privacy up the food chain, landing Sarah in trouble. Which obviously I don't, won't. But she barely knows me, and yet is trusting in the game anyway.

Headed paper inside, a single sheet barely half covered. Brief words, Sarah, going for the kill.

'Regarding your queries. Two (2)
- Stacking creates a potential hazard, risk of collapse. Box internal contents required checking.
(Additional note: gags, multiple varieties found, commend use of single box though, lest stack get too high)
- Ropes. Suspect non compliance, below code and weakness present. Attempted strength test failed due to solo nature of test. Suggest owner/occupier helps out with second test.'

I don't think she's a- bondage -rookie. Knowing at least the basics of self bondage, plus the very forward nature of her latest correspondence, Sarah knows her way around ropes, at least to some degree.

The problem, and it isn't really a problem more a point: is that I'm not often in the mood to play long drawn out games. Fun as an extended back and forth could be, Sarah's made her intentions clear, so it's time I respond.

Looking back towards the Hayabusa as I walk towards her office, thoughts elsewhere, dragging them and my attention back to the now.

Managing to tamp the laugh down to a smile as I reach the doors, humour at the fact: not only has Sarah come out from behind her desk, walked around front of it to sit on her actual desk, legs crossed and dangling, the position of them causing her already short black skirt to ride up almost to upper thighs.

Added to which she's opened the front of her white short sleeved shirt, again, clear evidence of having reached in and fiddled with her bra, maximising cleavage, shirt open low enough it only closes below the hump of her D cups. Hands resting on the desk top, small smile as she looks out at me.

Waiting.

"Talking to your bike?"
"You mean your." Ex, forgot to say ex, stupid. "Boyfriend doesn't?"

Brilliant flirting there, Brooke. World class. The automatic comeback, there and out before I had a chance to check it over, thinking myself- bike talk -amongst the Kings. Banter.

Grimace crossing Sarah's face even whilst I mentally pull out a gun and shoot myself.

"There's a Pizza Hut." Attempting to salvage this disaster, waving a hand roughly towards the exit road out of Port West, or towards the moon, where I'd like to be. "Want to meet me there for dinner?"
"And that's," smiling again, something small but amused, "how you ask someone out, is it?"

Awful presumptuous of her, to assume that's why I'm here.

And yes, she's right, but even so.

"Actually I usually distract them with a low cut top." Finding something like my stride, flirting- properly -back. "Wave the canons around a little."
"And I don't need distracting?"
"Think you're doing enough of that for both of us." Pointedly looking at Sarah's exposed cleavage, all that pale skin, shadowed curve of her breasts, pushed together by a pink lace bra.

Sarah glancing down, followed by a pointed look of her own, towards my covered- wearing a black Iron Maiden tee, some kind of nightmare tree imagery stretched across my -breasts.

"I'll wear something revealing for dinner." Causal shrug, as revealing as riding the Hayabusa will allow, which means no dress, and no shorts.

"Seven?"
"Seven." Nodding, clock on the office wall climbing towards five.

Spending close to a minute simply standing, looking at each other, feeling small tingles break out across my chest as Sarah's gaze alights on and off me, looking me over. My own refusing to stray far from her breasts, or those teasingly crossed legs, which remain crossed.

Silence, eyes roaming and tension building into the space, those tingles making it like something I could grasp.

Breaking- her office -contact first, nodding and Sarah's lips lifting into a smile, returning my nod.

Still sat on her desk as I mount the bike, helmet back on and firing her up. Leaving.

Spending almost an hour relaxing in the bath, in lieu of a quick shower, because I've got time. Which I spend repeatedly telling myself, sternly, that I'm meeting Sarah to talk.

Nothing more, just talk, feel out the ground, find out whether she's taken, because I'm not a cheat.

"Just to talk." Telling myself, stood inside the walk in wardrobe, pondering what I should wear to.

Talk.

Settling on a black bodysuit. Like a one piece swimsuit but so much more revealing, thin shoulder straps and a plunging scooped neckline, single strip of fabric around the bust, a strip barely large enough to cover my F cups before it thins out, the bodysuit backless, only wide enough at the front to cover the front, not the sides. Widening to become like a thong, high legged, waistband rising out of dark blue skinny fit jeans.

Boots, jacket and helmet.

Arriving into the car park, and I'm just finishing locking the Hayabusa to a lamppost outside Pizza Hut when Sarah drives by, blip of the horn and a wave which I return. Standing, waiting for her to park and walk over.

White jeans tucked into black knee high slip on boots, a cropped purple 'Animal' tee, kind that hugs the top of a girls chest before hanging off underneath, Sarah's belly exposed.

"So now I'm not worth distracting?"
"You mean this." Doing a couple of small on the spot jumps, nothing more then up onto her toes and back down, enough to set her D cups bouncing, wobbling. And clearly I'm not the only one gone braless.

"Isn't that enough?"
"Sure."

Tutting as Sarah makes a 'come on' gesture, wanting something back after that little display. Tutting, but smiling too, doing a couple of spot jumps for her, F cups bouncing, Sarah's eyes pulled in.

Just talking.

Heading inside and waiting, at the entrance, family of four in front: mum with a young daughter, asking question following question, as kids do, and two mid teens boys who, having glanced up as we walk in behind now can't stop staring.

Swapping knowing smiles with Sarah, the entrance foyer small, especially leaving room for people to use the same doors we're stood beside to exit. Forced to stand close, both of us mostly crammed into a corner and standing like two sides of a square, arms and chests brushing together constantly.

Someone coming in behind, the dad and Sarah stepping closer to give him room, nod of thanks from him even whilst the door behind opens again. Another- and we aren't but even so -young couple and now I'm the one making room.

Pressed against the wall now, Sarah right in front, body pressing close one leg between my slightly spread two. My arm gone around her waist, holding her steady as people are all but brushing Sarah's back to leave. Faces inches apart, smell of her: sweat of a days work mixing with whatever flower scent she sprayed whilst changing.

"So." Grinning at me, voice soft, the illusion of privacy. "Pizza Hut."
"Nowhere better." Grinning back, almost laughing as I overhear the family being told it'll be five to ten minutes wait for a table.

None of the three groups leaving though, Sarah asking the question at me with a raised eyebrow, shake of my head and her nodding agreement.

Ten minutes of delicious torture. Small talk, work and no I don't talk about the Plymouth side of work, sticking to trees because now the dad is having trouble not glancing over at us too. Sarah's easily visible nipples. The all too visible swell and shadowed cleavage depths of my breasts, canons forcing aside the leather jacket, impossible, you might say, not to notice them.

And isn't- porn star -that the whole point?

Ten minutes of Sarah, the closeness of this girl I'm probably not allowed to ruin, or be ruined by, and yet she's right fucking there, physically unable to go anywhere bar pressed close against me.

Hugging me back, using the move to step in closer still, as though it were possible and yet she does. Crotch now pressed to mine, her hand inside my jeans butt pocket, pinned to the wall. Leaning in- several times -to inhale me, face dipping slightly down towards my cleavage.

Finding I've- unconsciously -begun to stroke her lower back, that exposed strip of skin between tee and jeans.

Finally, and it's bad, the fact part of me doesn't want to but finally there's a table, so we can sit down and order.

"Don't say pineapple."
"But without it pizza is just a dead boring waste." Teasing, glancing over the top of the menu at me. "Are we sharing, then?"
"Couldn't eat a whole one if I tried." A shrug, and I have ordered separately before, but it's pointless from my side of the equation.

"Could have a garlic bread too?"
"Cheese?"
"Ideally." Nodding. "Want one of the special crusts?"
"How about...."

Negotiating the order between us, ditching mushrooms without a fight when Sarah pulls a face. Not for everyone, opting for two different kinds of cheese, ham and onions.

Talking whilst we eat, more small talk and it doesn't feel like the right moment to go all deep and ask after Sarah's relationship status, and I'm likely digging a lovely deep hole here, flirting and making frequent eye contact, wearing clothes to show off breasts she might not be allowed to play with later, but it's not as though she isn't flirting back too.

Late, by the time we leave, amongst the last in the restaurant and they've- the staff -even begun cleaning up around us. A shared bowl of ice cream to wash down the two thirds eaten pizza, half the garlic bread.

Stepping out to a near deserted car park, lit from above in patches, the vast expanse of tarmac empty, shops closed and only the occasional car island dotting the space. Group of street racers off in the far corner being the exception, a half dozen modified cars all smooth lines and the promise of speed.

"Not a fan of racers?"
"No. I." Blinking, tearing focus off the far away group and back to Sarah, because I'd been- fucking WRX driving wanker -staring down into my memories. Shivering, letting out a breath. "Sorry."
"All good." Casual shrug, the two of us caught for a moment, outside the now closed and locked doors of Pizza Hut, my Hayabusa to the left, Sarah's car to the right.

Like a decision.

Following Sarah towards her car, something dark blue, no rear doors but not especially sporty. Want to say Peugeot?

Attention still on the street racers, which isn't much of a defence, but it is the truth. Thoughts- fantasies and after all this time and it no longer especially mattering I still can't help the occasional flare of anger. Revenge, Hayabusa blur like off the line, a matt black streak of vengeance, howling into the night all whilst I'm screaming fury inside the helmet, bent low over the handlebars. Speed, winning.

WRX nothing but a fading white lump of uselessness, too slow and fuck you. She's mine.

Isn't, mine, hasn't been and likely will never be. Don't want her to be but I can't help it, the urge to destroy that remembered smugness on his face.

Distracted, following Sarah, who leans back against her drivers door and smiles at me like an invitation I'm not paying attention to, but maybe I smile back? A green light, and what snaps me back is the kiss. Reeled in by her hand grabbing my belt buckle, yanking me against her, locking lips and me largely still on autopilot those first moments, kissing her back.

Returning with a bump, a rush of arousal, finding one of Sarah's hands on my breast, cupping the firm roundness of it, thumb stroking across my already erect nipple and my own hands either side of her body, leaning in pressing my weight onto her.

Grinning into her mouth even whilst we kiss. Blinking as reality asserts itself, pulling- not wanting to -away, both of us breathless, flash of a nipple as Sarah reaches up to pull her tee back down and either it rode up whilst we were grinding or I pulled it up at some point whilst unawares.

"We can't." Being a shit, ruining the moment instead of her, instead of surrendering and letting Sarah ruin me.

"Think we just did." Looking at me the way you would a slice of cake, or in my case a pile of rope. Something you want more of.

"But." Fucks sake, hating myself all whilst knowing it's the right thing, the decent thing. "Your boyfriend."
"Right." Face shutting down, visibly deflating I can almost see the urge to play and fool around- with me -leaving her, eyes dimming.

"I." Small nod, permission or acknowledgement, as I step forward and pivot, leaning back against Sarah's car beside her. "It's complicated."
"Always is."
"I don't want to be." Like talking to herself for a moment, head shaking. Anger flaring up and dying. "But."
"Complicated."
"Fuck." Briefly flaring laughter, no passion or humour in it.

"I want to." Throwing her a line, hope, but likely only making it worse. "But...."
"I get it." Hands stuffed into her pockets, as are my own since what else to do with them, if we aren't allowed to molest each other. "I'd give myself to you, if I was allowed."

Which, I'll return to those words later, tossing and fidgeting in bed, unresolved feelings from an evening spent flirting with no reward, no sex or rope based pleasure. There's something in those words, a tickle of meaning I can't seem to fathom, hiding in plain sight.

Can't see the wood for the trees. Ha.

A last kiss, on the cheek her to me, and a parting hug, so formal it almost hurts, Sarah's breasts purposefully angled to press into my arm, not my still aching- nipples hard, breasts tingling in anticipation -chest.

Saying goodnight, parting ways and I watch her drive off. Stand awhile staring at the street racers, one hand on the Hayabusa's flank, contemplating taking my frustration out on them.

No.

Instead I too go home, avoiding the walk in wardrobe lest I kick the stacked boxes of rope and other fun things I won't allow myself to play with, with Sarah who obviously wants to play with them, and me.

Damn it.

[BlissfulMisery]

As did I, this section, the Morgan binding Brooke for a second shoot/revenge got re-written several times. Started as a full shoot, almost completely drafted before I decided no, wasn't happy with Morgan's revenge being a carbon copy of Brooke's earlier overstep. And cutting out whatever else I did, attempted, I'm happy with the final piece, the graffiti.

Turned out well I think, going the bodywriting angle.

No doubt Morgan will be back, and we'll just have to see what happens then.

Indeed

-

Plus it helps to have friends, coworkers suffering- I mean enjoying, obviously -the same over-familiarity with hotels.

Yes. 'Enjoying'.

"What's riot daddy?"
"Something bad princess."

Which seems enough, and with a nod, a glance to me and reaching out to touch, prod at my ink, she's back to drawing.

Still young enough to accept a non-explanation I see!

Joking aside, adorable

- Ropes. Suspect non compliance, below code and weakness present. Attempted strength test failed due to solo nature of test. Suggest owner/occupier helps out with second test.'

Ah yes the old 'rope strength testing' excuse for asking someone to tie you up - very clever of Sarah

Nothing more, just talk, feel out the ground, find out whether she's taken, because I'm not a cheat.

"Just to talk." Telling myself, stood inside the walk in wardrobe, pondering what I should wear to.

Talk.

Dressing up a lot to 'just talk' Brooke... Sounds like someone is trying to convince themselves

Attention still on the street racers, which isn't much of a defence, but it is the truth. Thoughts- fantasies and after all this time and it no longer especially mattering I still can't help the occasional flare of anger. Revenge, Hayabusa blur like off the line, a matt black streak of vengeance, howling into the night all whilst I'm screaming fury inside the helmet, bent low over the handlebars. Speed, winning.

WRX nothing but a fading white lump of uselessness, too slow and fuck you. She's mine.

Isn't, mine, hasn't been and likely will never be. Don't want her to be but I can't help it, the urge to destroy that remembered smugness on his face.

:/

Bad memories - actually unsurprising that she 'distracts' herself with them, given the ambiguous situation between her and Sarah.

"I get it." Hands stuffed into her pockets, as are my own since what else to do with them, if we aren't allowed to molest each other. "I'd give myself to you, if I was allowed."

Which, I'll return to those words later, tossing and fidgeting in bed, unresolved feelings from an evening spent flirting with no reward, no sex or rope based pleasure. There's something in those words, a tickle of meaning I can't seem to fathom, hiding in plain sight.

At least two possible meanings there... Wonder if Brooke will figure it out (in her defense, Sarah *was* being intentionally vague).

The chapter's theme of Brooke chasing/lusting after 'the forbidden' feels like an apt metaphor for her overall love life/love of bondage. Morose tone, but I enjoyed it very much, given how well executed it was with the pacing and the way Brooke's mind wandered.

As always, interested to see where things go from here!

[RopeBunny]

Plus it helps to have friends, coworkers suffering- I mean enjoying, obviously -the same over-familiarity with hotels.

Yes. 'Enjoying'.

Quite. Not a frequent hotel visitor myself, but I'm aware some are, and it likely drags if you're living out of a suitcase.

- Ropes. Suspect non compliance, below code and weakness present. Attempted strength test failed due to solo nature of test. Suggest owner/occupier helps out with second test.'

Ah yes the old 'rope strength testing' excuse for asking someone to tie you up - very clever of Sarah

Indeed I thought she/I were being quite clever here. Took me awhile to come up with the wording, how exactly for Sarah to flirt back given the fact she's basically invaded Brooke's privacy. Think it works.

Nothing more, just talk, feel out the ground, find out whether she's taken, because I'm not a cheat.

"Just to talk." Telling myself, stood inside the walk in wardrobe, pondering what I should wear to.

Talk.

Dressing up a lot to 'just talk' Brooke... Sounds like someone is trying to convince themselves

Pretty much

At least two possible meanings there...

Sarah's words, the specific choice of them meant as a deliberate tease, little foreshadowing dropped in, which is always fun.

If I'm working far enough forward to know what's coming Unfortunately the flowing nature of my stories means often I can't know for certain where things are headed, beyond one or two major plot points.

Still, all will be revealed of course.

[RopeBunny]

011.

"You know," yawning, casting a somewhat annoyed glance out my floor to ceiling windows, the roof terrace beyond, and beyond that, nothing.

Only fog.

"When you said sleepover, this isn't what I pictured."
"Fuck off." Playful nudge as I pass, shoulder bumping his, pouring myself a coffee because I'll need that internal heat. "You've got a girlfriend."
"True." Smiling back, toasting me with his own mug and fighting off a second yawn.

Guess we aren't all built for early starts.

"But a guy can hope."
"Again." Tutting at Daniel, shaking my head all whilst smiling, because I've always enjoyed our easy companionship. "Fuck off."

Daniel, thirty-one and skinny, eternally messy brown hair and glasses, often smiling. Owner and chief- because sometimes his girlfriend: Shauna, helps out -rigger of Strange Ropes, all one word if you type, search for it. A bondage paysite where all the scenarios are. Strange, basically. For his site I've been tied up and chased through a hedge maze by dinosaurs.

No, really. And yes, it was as fucking awesome slash scary as it sounds.

Other things too. And today, in return for sleeping over last night, for helping me at stupid o clock now, I'll spend the rest of my final day off engaged in one of his shoots.

She's here, Shauna, still sleeping like a sensible person. And Daniel's being a teasing pervert, playing. He didn't really want his girlfriend and me to play lesbian rope games last night, which we didn't, it's simply the easy nature of our friendship, something which has led him to become someone I trust.

Someone I'll always say yes too, no matter how weird or strange the pitched scenario.

However first, this morning. This is all me, Daniel helping out, rigging and shooting for me, something- the end product -I'll be putting out, on my somewhat resurrected bondage pay store.

And to answer the- potential -question: I haven't asked Morgan, my new rope partner, that not legal but still a written promise scrawl we both have copies of, for help because I don't entirely trust her. Asking Morgan, the two of us finding, slipping back into a playfulness close to what we used to share, except. There's that history, something dark in the water, and I feel a tension occasionally there, between us.

I can't say, for certain, that she wouldn't simply leave me bound and gagged all day, which- the thought, the prospect -is both a thrill and a problem.

So, this time, and no doubt I will return to Morgan, or she'll simply turn up again. But today it's Daniel.

Studying the weather since moving in, since stepping out onto the roof terrace, the idea coming to me almost immediately, so strong had been the projected image of it I'd had to grip the terrace fencing to stop myself shivering, lest Sarah see, and ask a question I hadn't- at the time -wanted to answer.

Studying the weather, deep diving into shipping geek websites, people who track and pay attention to such things.

Thick fog, perfect. Stepping out onto the terrace, wood feeling slicked smooth beneath bare feet, everything coated in a fine film of water droplets. Can't see shit beyond the terrace, the pre dawn barely light world lost to a haze of white.

Daniel and me working fast, he fully dressed in jeans and pullover hoodie, puffer jacket, me wearing a baggy tee and nothing more, adrenaline making me shiver as much as the cold. Setting up two cameras, tripods, covering both with rigged tent like builds, keeping the worst of the moisture off.

"Ready?"
"Fuck." Hopping up and down, shaking but I yank off the tee, tossing it towards the closed doors, nodding. "Yes."
"Promise you'll shower, after."
"Yes, dad." A smile, playful, but touched that he cares.

The top floor of Panama, my apartment building is split into half, or thirds technically. One whole side is maintenance, lift shafts and other assorted crap, with the other being a seventy thirty divide between my three bedroom apartment and the attached roof terrace, which looks out west, and south, predominantly toward the nearby container port and docks.

When it isn't foggy anyway.

Around a third of the terrace is covered, a wooden built gazebo, pitched roof and four thick legs, two of which are easily accessible, one of those being up against the terrace fencing.

Which, that corner leg, right up against the fog bank, is where I go stand, pressing back against the rough- damp -wood.

Daniel quickly binding me in place.

Reaching my arms around, Daniel binding wrists together, yanking to bring them tight wood digging in, those unforgiving right angled corners. Shaking through a mixture of adrenaline and the seeping cold, infecting me and I'm used to being outdoors, in all weathers, am used to stripping off in the rain, the cold. Except that's- stripping layers off -because I'm working, building a sweat.

I've never been outside in the cold, naked, unable to warm myself up before.

Stupid- awesome, but fuck me -idea for a shoot.

Ankles, above and below the knees, upper thighs. Taking longer for that extreme look, but it's the vision I'd had: a harsh post tie, something done as apparent punishment, bad girl, bound abandoned in the fog, the cold.

Wrists bound to the post, bound to my waist, all four leg ropes attached to the post.

A crotch rope, harsh, knotted and yanked, yanked some more Daniel following instruction, not being mean nor taking any sort of advantage and to be fair Shauna would kill him. Burying the rope up inside my pussy slit, my buttcrack. Deep enough to be uncomfortable.

Perfect.

For the shoot, obviously, because- rope slut, rope junkie -I'm getting no pleasure out of this.

Ha.

Chest harness, topped by an additional rope running a figure eight circuit of my globe like- in shape and size -F cups, squeezing them tight.

"Okay?"
"Freezing." Teeth chattering, body too immobilised to shake, except my head. "But yes."
"And you're sure?" Making a show of checking his watch, an actual old fashioned dull silver black faced timepiece. "About the timing?"
"No." Nervous, cold laugh escaping, shaking my head. "But the geeks seem to know, so far it's all been checking out. So."

Shrugging, what little the ropes will allow. Daniel nodding in return, trusting me, and it's my shoot besides so.

Gagging me. A full head harness, taking the time to arrange my lopsided hairstyle as he works, making it neat. The gag being a ring, large, black wrapping around solid metal, pinning my jaws wide. Making my mouth like an invite. Something to be used.

And it's only now- stupid, dumb Brooke -too helpless, too late, that I remember that one specific website: like a live constantly updating map, that we could and should of been running since I woke up.

"Okay." Daniel, oblivious as he steps back, to the- right fucking there, under a temporary roof with one of the cameras and we could've used it to run the site alongside all of this -laptop, flicking the control pad. Clicking keys and giving me a thumbs up. "Rolling, Plymouth."

Giving a silent twenty count, slow, a chance for me to do a fade in whilst editing, because I dislike a harsh cut from black straight to action. Remaining still, ropes helping in that regard: too fucking tightly pinned to shake and shiver.

Beginning to moan, quiet like distress, like an abandoned girl asking, begging quietly for help she knows- bad girl, punished -won't come. Casting my head left then right, slowly, every movement slow. Staring out into the solid fog bank not inches away and moaning again.

The alien, scary look of it, a wall of white as though the world ends a half dozen feet off the edge of my terrace. Trickle of real fear in my belly, the helplessness of my bondage working in tandem with the unknown of what I can't see, images conjured all too easily: ghosts and monsters, something bad coming.

Going to take me away.

Unable to stop the struggle urge, and I'd planned to stay still, almost entirely immobilised anyway so what point wriggling? Keep it as the equivalent of decorative bondage, which is a niche thing: bound girls acting as art, something pretty to look at.

But the monster is running rampant now, through my thoughts and I can't stay still. Moaning louder and fighting the ropes, Daniel- barely aware of him only really knowing later, checking over the shot footage -coming in for some close passes with a handheld, focusing on my gagged face, wide eyed terror and helplessness on clear display.

What an amazing- ha -actress, he'll half tease me later.

Close shots of my breasts and pussy, of course. The crotch rope digging up inside me, shift of it as I struggle. F cups bouncing and shifting. The whole of me by now covered in that same thin sheen of water droplets, dripping off my nipples. My lips, water mixing with the occasional spillage as I begin to drool.

Too into the scene to notice the cold anymore, lost to my imagination, even forgetting it's Daniel at times, convinced I did pitch this to Morgan, that hours not minutes have passed, that I'm still out here, the fog erasing any notion of times passage, sky unchanging.

Stuck out here, left out here. Abandoned, like a sacrifice to the monster.

And then- fucking love you geeks -right on cue the foghorn sounds, an in bound ship from China, the COSCO Kaigeng. Radar, and ship to shore radio, and very likely a tug escort too, yet the old ways still stand, blasting the fog horn, sounding a warning as the bulk of it approaches.

Moaning in response, pulling at my ropes in another futile attempt at escape from the- imagined -monster, cold turning my thoughts to sludge, nothing seeming real.

A second blast, which, when I was able to think straight means the ship is entering harbour, passing through the entrance. Or something. Each one long and low, mornful, almost.

And all whilst Daniel films.

No longer fighting, gone still. Worn out and likely- too far gone to notice, playing a dangerous game -too cold to notice. Ropes digging in all over, muscles straining just from the act of being pinned in place, hump of biceps but no six pack, my belly may be toned, flat, but an actual six pack takes work, effort.

And I'm not a gym bunny, I don't care.

At some point Daniel calls a halt.

At some point shortly after he attempts freeing me, finding the ropes wet, shrunk and tightened, knots impossible to loosen. None of which I'm aware of, I'll be told later, over a bowl of steaming soup, hunched at the table. Shivering but happy.

For me, awareness slowly seeps in, feeling and sight, as though the fog outside had slipped inside, me. Finding myself in the shower, steaming water that only feels luke warm at best, the steady stream of it pounding and cascading off my shoulders, rinsing me, slowly expelling the deeply set in cold.

Shauna, dark skinned and curvy, white tee plastered to her, dark enhanced D cups and black nipples visible through the soaked gone transparent fabric. In the shower with me, hugging me close and holding me up until, gradually, feeling returns, consciousness returns to the point I'm able to take back control.

Dangerous, being outside for so long in such cold, wearing fuck all except rope.

But totally- rope whore, uncaring about such silly little concerns as my own safety -worth it.

[RopeBunny]

Posting the next part below, the part two of Daniel, the second shoot mentioned above.

I'm running ahead of myself, story wise, so in part this will help clear up my drafts folder but they kind of go together anyway, the fog surrounded balcony and what's below, the same day, two shoots with the same crew. The chapters were written to be a pair.

(Worth noting, and you'll likely realise as you read, I've taken some liberties with the mechanics of something I'm happy to admit no actual knowledge of. Boris. So please forgive any impossible things, and hopefully it's a chapter worth reading regardless.)

[RopeBunny]

012.

Despite having been here, the apartment, long enough to properly move in, to completely unpack, it's still largely empty.

Four poster king, and a couple of other items aside I didn't have any furniture on moving day. The sofa and armchair, second- double -bed and dining table, three bookshelves. I've bought it all since. Luckily I did already own a large flatscreen, plus a beautiful- expensive, which is why it's beautiful -audio stack system, complete with multi CD changer and vinyl turntable, four chunky speakers.

On the wall are a couple of framed comic artworks, originals from indie publications I found, liked. One of the two, hanging in my bedroom, features three busty bikini clad girls, bound to three wooden posts, in a row on the beach. All three are staring straight out of the frame at you, one an ink heavy goth, one a blonde and the third a darker skinned Asian.

In the main room hangs my Japanese Imperial Navy flag, upon which are written characters I no longer remember the meaning of. Both the flag and an original, quite old Katana hanging on the same wall, were a gift. I think? Staring at either hurts though, trying to forcibly dive into those dark chasms of lost memories.

I don't know who gave them to me, or why, and it sucks.

Truthfully I don't need all this room. One day I might live with someone, but for now it's only me here, and I could've easily parked myself into a one bed. But, the view is amazing, and I happen to like having the space. So, it's perfect.

Three bedrooms in the apartment: the master, complete with ensuite and walk in wardrobe, where I sleep. The- smaller -third, where Shauna and Daniel slept last night, bare furniture: a double bed, drawer unit and some plants. And the second, same size as the master but lacking both wardrobe and ensuite, kept deliberately empty. For shoots.

Daniel, Shauna and me spent early yesterday evening transforming the space into something like an office: bookshelves and a desk, little more then an IKEA table, cheap and useful for shoots, easy to assemble and take down, store. We only need to cover half of two walls, a corner, enough to fool.

Putting five blackout curtains and sheets over the window, and even better for us it's a cloudy, dismal day. Making it so the only light is what we're providing, tripod mounted overheads.

Daniel setting up cameras within the arc of what we've created, two angles, the desk as background and the large floorspace in front.

The crate, on the floor. Wooden, coffin sized but slightly larger across all dimensions. Coffin for a basketball playing rugby player. Constructed of wooden planks, aged and rough textured, long verticals with shorter horizontal fixings at each end and the centre. Locked with a metal clasp and padlock. Shipping labels- fake -attached.

"Like this?"
"Hold on." Out of shot, laptop set up and running a program, control for the thing in the crate, Daniel's latest 'Strange' twist on bondage, which I'm test piloting

Looking up and finding me dressed- I hope -as requested: like an assistant.

"Lose the bra."
"Assistants do generally wear those," smiling whilst reaching inside the half open white shirt, fiddling and pulling out my black bra, the magic trick of doing it without removing my shirt, arms pulled through in turn, "you know."
"It'll get in the way."
"Of your new pet."
"Boris."
"Ha." Shaking my head. And -Arthur -I don't have a leg to stand on there.

Left wearing the white shirt, which hugs my now braless F cups, nipples obvious and tons of cleavage visible since it's open about as low as Sarah's have begun to be.

Brief flash of her face, leaning in to smell my cleavage.

Missing what I haven't, and anyway can't have.

Short black skirt, elasticated waist and an above knee hem. Black thong and matching pull up stockings. Hair tied back and fake black rimmed glasses. Sensible black heels.

Sitting behind the desk, my wheeled gaming chair, laptop- mine -opened but off since the angles won't be able to see the screen anyway. Papers on the desk too, a small pile and a couple of blue folders, pens and pencils in a cup like holder. Trying to make it all look real.

"Ready?"
"Ready." A nod, letting the spasm chase through me, dumping adrenaline because my body knows bondage is coming, and wants me to fight. A natural reaction because you aren't meant to surrender, but this is a shoot, and quite aside from that I'm me, and surrendering is mostly what I do.

Daniel capturing a minute of me at the desk, typing, casting several curious- biting my lip -glances towards the crate. Coming in close with his third camera, making a down then up sweep of me, lingering at my breasts, my face. Biting my lip again, letting out a long breath, like teasing.

Standing, Daniel back out of shot, walking around the desk to peer down at the crate. Hunkering down, legs bent and reaching in, pulling the folded paper from the small clear plastic sleeve, unfolding it, reading aloud.

"Assistant secretary Plymouth, under no circumstances must this crate be opened, by you. The creature contained within is highly dangerous to women, prone to fits of capture and kidnapping."

Glancing down at the crate, running a hand across the rough wood, smile growing on my face.

Folding the letter back up, dropping it into the black mesh metal trash bin, beside the desk.

Standing and walking out of shot, returning after an eight count with a ring of a half dozen keys. Hunkering down again and making a show of not knowing the correct key. Muttering whilst Daniel comes back in for some close ups of my chest, breasts threatening to spill out of the shirt.

Tossing the keys, still attached to the now opened padlock, onto my desk, using both hands to flip the lid up and over, letting it pivot on silent hinges and drop down, out of the way.

Leaning in.

At which point Daniel shuts off the lights, and because the only- blackout curtains, the rooms light off from the beginning -source of light is coming from those tripods. The room, the scene is plunged into total darkness.

Which is how we continue the shoot, let me try to explain.

The built thing inside the crate is remote controlled, partly, but it needs moving and positioning by hand too, it needs help. Two years it's taken Daniel, massive amounts of cash, endless hours building and testing, tearing apart only to build and test again.

The end result being Boris, something straight out of an anime bondage lovers wet dream.

An octopus, of sorts. Eight long tentacles, metal skeleton over which something like latex has been placed, somehow pliable yet still able to grip, to be firm yet with enough give to be cushioning to skin. The tentacles are long, and dark purple.

Each tentacle functions as a separate unit, much like a real octopus which has a brain located in each appendage. Each can be moved and positioned with amazing precision, due to the flexibility of the metal skeleton, a thing made of dozens of joints, Daniel having the ability to choose which sections of each arm to turn ridged, for gripping, which to inflate and by how much.

Basically each time movement is required Daniel flicks off the lights. Off, then on following a three count. After which he'll come in, Shauna helping and the two of them positioning all eight tentacles by way of remote- actual remote, like an RC car -and laptop, but by hand too. Once positioned he'll flick the lights a second time, off then on. And in editing it'll become just one flicker of darkness.

The overall effect something horror like, flashes of me, the creature taking me, all set between these moments of darkness.

For me it's lots of standing around, gone doll like letting Daniel and Shauna position Boris, and me as needed. Followed by a half minute of wriggling and moaning, grunting and squirming in whatever new pose they've created, telling the stop motion story of my capture.

Tentacles exploding out of the crate, one already wrapping my waist, already caught and going nowhere even as the others look poised to attack me from above and down at floor level.

Wrists caught in front, and behind is better, ideal, but despite being long the tentacles aren't that long. Ankles too, both wrapped, the clever nature of Daniel's construction method being each tentacles ability to grip to varying degrees. Each has something like an inbuilt air pump, sacs evenly spaced down the length. Shauna positioning each tentacle in turn, wrapping me, holding the appendage in place, at which point Daniel turns the metal skeleton ridged, inflating the sacs to grip and pin me.

It's all very clever.

In the end I'm wrapped not only at ankles but knees too, waist and wrists, chest, of course. Time spent manoeuvring the spare tentacle so it grips and squeezes one of my breasts, shirt pulled open, a single breast popped free of my bra.

Using a tentacle to gag me, the aforementioned anime wet dream, Shauna carefully inserting the tip down my throat, having loosely wrapped my neck. Feeling the tip tickling at my gag reflex.

The final tentacle positioned in perverted mirror of the one invading my mouth, pushing up inside my skirt, pushing the skirt up, and again being careful, Shauna feeding the tip, lubed up and slippery, inside my pussy.

Which feels really fucking strange. Not bad, but odd, like an inflatable dildo and this tentacle being custom made for the task. Additionally from the other seven the final eight inches are able to revolve, at varying speeds, plus the whole end section vibrates.

Fuck.

Laid down by this point, having gone via stop motion from a standing struggle, hopelessly attempting to pull myself free, and now pulled off my feet and laying beside the crate, wriggling and moaning, words cut off by a questing tentacle.

Even whilst another gropes and squeezes my breast, Daniel managing to affect movement whilst I squrim and moan, managing to have the tip rubbing at my nipple.

And all with the other tentacle pressed and forced up inside, filling my pussy the alien sensation of it.

Wriggling, moaning. Fighting but not too hard because we don't want to break Boris, who can grip, but can't grip the way rope would, can't grip too tightly lest I come to harm.

The whole experience quite trippy, surreal. Very arousing, not least because I've never actually been double penetrated before. The fact of it being a thing, a built machine and not a person gripping me, invading me, it all adds to the thrill of feeling helpless, thoughts once or twice returning to the balcony, those fogged impressions of a monster, now apparently here.

The eventual video ending with my being slowly pulled backwards across the floor, toward the crate, eyes gone wide and head shaking, bucking and kicking, fingers trying to catch a hold of the carpet. Failing.

Daniel, several days later sending me a copy of the finished shoot, and it's really fucking good, the stop motion flashes of darkness, each return to light finding the tentacles moved, ensnaring me more. It works, there's definitely something of the horror to it.

Sending me a second video file too, marked 'not for sale' which contains over twenty minutes of behind the scenes footage, the three of us laughing and teasing whilst we work, sharing the humour of the shoot all whislt Daniel and Shauna variously help Boris wrap me up and molest me.

Good times, with friends.

[BlissfulMisery]

Indeed I thought she/I were being quite clever here. Took me awhile to come up with the wording, how exactly for Sarah to flirt back given the fact she's basically invaded Brooke's privacy. Think it works.

It does indeed

Sarah's words, the specific choice of them meant as a deliberate tease, little foreshadowing dropped in, which is always fun.

If I'm working far enough forward to know what's coming Unfortunately the flowing nature of my stories means often I can't know for certain where things are headed, beyond one or two major plot points.

So doing your best to take the opportunity to take a page from the books of more 'structured' authors - trying to have your cake and eat it too, basically

-

Someone I'll always say yes too, no matter how weird or strange the pitched scenario.

In fairness, Plymouth has a habit of saying 'yes' to a lot of things that she *probably* should not (or, you know, usually it is more like muffled moaning rather then a straight yes )

But I get the intention/what was meant, just poking a little fun.

I've never been outside in the cold, naked, unable to warm myself up before.

Stupid- awesome, but fuck me -idea for a shoot.

Yes, not the *greatest* plan. But also not wrong that it is a pretty cool idea, being tied like that, gazing across the cityscape (well mostly onto the dock). Or I suppose imagining it, given the fog cover.

Perfect.

For the shoot, obviously, because- rope slut, rope junkie -I'm getting no pleasure out of this.

Of course

For me, awareness slowly seeps in, feeling and sight, as though the fog outside had slipped inside, me. Finding myself in the shower, steaming water that only feels luke warm at best, the steady stream of it pounding and cascading off my shoulders, rinsing me, slowly expelling the deeply set in cold.

Quite the risky shoot (and very well described!) Definitely fits Plymouth's preferred style of bondage perfectly - intense, with a hint of peril/danger/uncertainty.

-

Left wearing the white shirt, which hugs my now braless F cups, nipples obvious and tons of cleavage visible since it's open about as low as Sarah's have begun to be.

Focus, Plymouth

"Assistant secretary Plymouth, under no circumstances must this crate be opened, by you. The creature contained within is highly dangerous to women, prone to fits of capture and kidnapping."

Well that is just an open invitation

Basically each time movement is required Daniel flicks off the lights. Off, then on following a three count. After which he'll come in, Shauna helping and the two of them positioning all eight tentacles by way of remote- actual remote, like an RC car -and laptop, but by hand too. Once positioned he'll flick the lights a second time, off then on. And in editing it'll become just one flicker of darkness.

The overall effect something horror like, flashes of me, the creature taking me, all set between these moments of darkness.

Appreciate the fun bit of stagecraft being employed to make the concept work!

Sending me a second video file too, marked 'not for sale' which contains over twenty minutes of behind the scenes footage, the three of us laughing and teasing whilst we work, sharing the humour of the shoot all whislt Daniel and Shauna variously help Boris wrap me up and molest me.

Good times, with friends.

(Worth noting, and you'll likely realise as you read, I've taken some liberties with the mechanics of something I'm happy to admit no actual knowledge of. Boris. So please forgive any impossible things, and hopefully it's a chapter worth reading regardless.)

Will not claim to be an expert on the plausibility of such a thing, but I think you described it in a way where it feels believable/does not tip over that fine line into ruining the verisimilitude of the tale. Definitely an interesting idea, and well executed! Enjoyed reading it very much.

[RopeBunny]

So doing your best to take the opportunity to take a page from the books of more 'structured' authors - trying to have your cake and eat it too, basically

Something like that I do, occasionally manage to plan quite far ahead.

Actually, to be fair I often plan quite far ahead, dropping things into the story. However my flowing style means some of those drops items don't come to pass, that I go a different way.

Quite the risky shoot (and very well described!) Definitely fits Plymouth's preferred style of bondage perfectly - intense, with a hint of peril/danger/uncertainty.

Risky, but thanks, for saying I told it well. As Brooke herself said, this is the idea, the whole reason for the top floor apartment and roof terrace, overlooking a dock.

Other reasons too, other idea's (Sarah's are for instance) still slowly growing, but the fog shoot on the roof was something I loved, really wanted to write.

[RopeBunny]

013.

"Any help." Sweaty from two days spent as ground crew for a hired in tree surgeon, one of the Forestry Commissions posher estates and several of the older specimens- oaks, cedar -had required pruning. Dead wood to remove.

Sweaty because whilst the surgeon had been skyward, self hauled into and around the various trees by ropes.

Such amazing fun, it had looked like: climbing around, chainsaw- still running the whole time mind -dangling off his harness on a long stretch of rope. Must enquire whether I can take a course.

With nobody spare to help, lucky Ranger me got sent out to act as ground crew. Alone, which meant managing the sparse but still present traffic, both vehicle and pedestrian. Cutting and hauling the felled wood with my own, two handed chainsaw, feeding it through the chipper. And all this whilst directing the tree hanging surgeon by two way radio.

Hard work, but when isn't it?

And now, day two wrapping up mid afternoon but I can't drive directly home, dumping the van and I'll unload the equipment tomorrow, first I want a shower. Except first, headquarters called, my presence requested for a meeting with Mrs Castleford.

The top boss.

Fuck.

"Ruth?"
"Brooke."

Fidgeting behind her desk. Ruth is Mrs Castleford's personal secretary slash assistant, and as such has access to the personnel files, including mine, and because- long story, Jeff's fault -the Forestry Commission knows I'm Plymouth.

Ruth knows I'm Plymouth.

It's there in her eyes, a kind of waryness as though I were an unexploded bomb. Which of course I am.

The fidgeting is likely due to nerves, or excitement, that one time I tied her up in the bosses office and left her there. And she liked it.

And I- fuck it, feels like there's something bad waiting for me, in the office, so to cover the sinking sense of doom I reach across, mentally, and throw the lever marked 'flirt' all the way forward.

"You're." Small smile in her voice, and she'd often scowled at me, before the office incident. Judging, but the few times we've crossed paths since it's the waryness instead, frequent quick glances whilst unable to sit still.

Wanting something, but afraid to ask?

Lucky for Ruth today she doesn't have to.

"Sitting." Hands very much retreated to her own side. "On my desk."
"I am."

Still in uniform, what counts for uniform when I expect to sweat, to work hard and therefore wearing too much is a curse. Faded black denim shorts and the dark green Forestry Commission works tee, worn untucked, black steel toed boots and hair tied back. Lots of skin, lots of ink on show. Parked- flirting, being really forward -on Ruth's desk, sat sideways on the corner, next to her monitor with one leg folded underneath me, the other dangling down behind the desk. Body angled side profile to her.

"I don't know why-"
"Doesn't matter." Except it does, of course. I've an idea what's waiting behind the door, but I could be wrong. I hope I'm wrong.

Before the tree surgeon I'd been posted, for eight days, to a wood situated close by a specialist college, the kind I went to. Four times- five day working weeks, so four times spread over the two half weeks I was there, the separating weekend being somewhat quieter -groups of students, led by teachers, came to the woodland for forestry practice, tree felling and thinning, on one occasion for a walk, like a show and tell regarding tree identification, something any forestry student needs to learn.

Unfortunately I was recognised during the walk, a group of three teenage boys, lagging behind, phones out and glancing from small screen to there in real life me a little too often, being a little too obvious as to what they'd found, a connection made.

Spotting that they'd spotted, but what can you- I -do? Not my position of authority and besides I don't care who knows, I'm not embarrassed or awkward in the face of recognition.

Yes, I'm Plymouth, I get bound and gagged, occasionally- if I'm lucky -fucked. What's your point?

Unfortunately, though, the teacher got wind, and decided to come down on the side of my being in the wrong, my very presence apparently a distraction, and he'd be taking the point up with both his own and my superiors.

Likely it didn't help when in response I outlined exactly how many fucks I gave regarding his opinion of my life choices. At which point he lost his temper, and so I lost mine right back, and we had a shouting match.

So, probably I'm about to be disciplined, and not in a good way.

"What are you doing later?"
"I'm." Blinking at her screen, which I can't see and therefore may well contain an hour by hour schedule for Ruth's day. Shaking herself and looking instead at me. "I don't know?"
"Well." No time for a proper flirt, screw it. "I'll be at home all evening. Alone." Except for Arthur, flash of a smile at the humour.

"Just, sitting on the sofa in my lingerie surrounded by ropes, wearing a ballgag." Smile returning, widening as I see Ruth's eyes going far away, lost. Like she's mentally already there.

"If you're interested?"
"I." Visible bump as she returns to her desk, to reality. And has anyone ever been that blatantly forward with her before?

"What?"
"Anytime after eighteen hundred." Taking the pen, scribbling- leaning in to do so, breasts shifting within the tee, pushing at it -my address. "Come tie me up, unless you've got better things to do."
"No. I...."
"Good." Nodding, clicking the pen closed and sliding it down between Ruth's breasts, the exposed cleavage of her v necked purple top. Sliding off the desk at the sound of a lock clicking, Mrs Castleford's door opening.

Time to go face the consequences.

"Good afternoon, Brooke."
"Mrs Castleford." Laura, because I've been in this office before. Both as Brooke and as Plymouth, I've flirted, she's tied me up.

More long stories, a life lived largely in bondage and no- okay some, but that's not the point -regrets.

But today, likely about to be shouted at so it's Mrs Castleford, business, serious face and already half retreating into myself, because I don't actually see what I did wrong, but, I love the job, the Commission, so I'll take the reprimand and won't argue. I'll quietly seeth, inside, whilst outwardly I'll smile and say yes, and thank you for the instruction.

Noticing the other, the rooms third even as he speaks. Sharing the 40 something bracket with Laura, brown hair cropped short, balding, nothing close to the striking autumn red of hers. And yes, Laura has breasts- C cups, a good handful whether you're asking my opinion or not -and of course he doesn't, but they're both of average build.

Laura favouring, looking pretty in another of the dresses she seems to exclusively wear, he in an expensive looking navy suit and pale blue shirt, black tie and posh shoes.

"She'll do."
"Excuse me?" Turning to face him and fuck it, thoughts of meekness, silence, forgotten. Outrage rising, at the tone of his opening remark. As though I'm a cut of meat, something to buy and sell, to discuss as though she weren't right fucking here, an actual person not a commodity.

"Brooke." Mrs Castleford, except screw her too, Laura. Making calming gestures towards me, my obvious tone and hands coming halfway up stance. Spoiling for the fight only half finished with the teacher.

"This is Edward Wright." Standing roughly between us, looking at me and a small nod as I settle, breathing out with her next words. Not anyone connected to the college. Something else, something making no sense.

"The head of V.K Supplies."
"Okay." Going in for a handshake, finding the expected strong grip, momentary pause, slight nod from Edward as he finds mine a close match.

"Laura."
"Brooke."
"Nice to make friends." Nice to come and not be shouted at, but. "But, why am I here?"
"Rope."
"Rope?" Blinking, caught out and wrong footed. V.K, the company name stirring half a memory, glance flicking towards Laura's desk and I can almost see the wooden crate, lid already pried off, Rope neatly coiled and stored inside.

Catching Laura's gaze, smile as she blushes, and I'd been naked when she tied me, when I'd first tied Ruth.

"V.K Supplies." Edward nodding acknowledgement at the truth of my words. "Responsible for roughly one third of Forestry Commission small scale non mechanical equipment." Another flashed glance towards the- imagined -crate. "Including rope."
"Very good."

Tone still implying I'm somewhere in the region of a well trained dog, more faceless number then actual person. Resisting the urge to grind my teeth, or simply leave and fuck whatever this is.

"So." Be professional, Brooke. "I'll do?" Not matching Edwards tone, keeping my own neutral, business. "What will I do, for?"
"Advertising." Small smile, a knowing thing, telling me he knows, that I'm Plymouth underneath these clothes, that I know my way around the pointy end of a camera.

"Victor Kilo wish to seek out fresh markets, both domestic and international, to which end we've agreed on a joint advertising strategy with the Forestry Commission, perhaps our largest client, to date."
"Joint." Looking at Laura. "Advertising?"
"Can't hurt to remind people of our presence."
"And you want me, to...."
"To be the face of this, yes."

Right. Turning my gaze to Edward, who'd spoken, and there's some dynamic in play here, something higher up then this office, something over Laura's paygrade given how little input she's making to this meeting. I'd thought Laura the boss, head of the Commission but maybe there's a board of directors too?

"This a request." Asking Laura anyway, thoughts of her authority here aside. "Or an order? Boss."
"Well." Quick frown, bad news- she thinks, or suspects -coming. "Technically, there's a clause in your contract stating you'll do whatever the Commission requires."
"So long as it's legal." Nodding, unable to help the smile and yes, I did read before signing. "So long as said request is in the best interests of the Commission, and doesn't endanger or...."

Forgot the rest, the small print. Not that it matters. They've asked. Ordered, or rather Edward ordered, it seems, and the Forestry Commission rolled over and said yes, please feel free to take slash use our resident porn star for your advertising campaign.

"Brooke?"
"Right." Forcing the laughter back inside, letting the spasm out, damping it down. "You realise, I hope, that I won't be held responsible."
"For?" Edward, now, looking at me like he doesn't understand, doesn't much care.

Just a number, a box to tick and organise.

"You're asking me to be Plymouth." Gesturing around me. "Here." Tugging at my still sawdust stained tee. "You're asking me to put Plymouth into Brooke's skin, so to speak. To let the porn star out to play in the one place I'm always sensible."

Mostly, sensible. I do realise there are times I've misbehaved as Brooke, on Commission property and inside work hours.

"Yes." Arms spread gesture. So? "And?"
"I just want to be on record." And probably nothing, but even so. "I just want to say, that whatever happens, I warned you here." Looking between them. "At the start."

Edward- predictably -uncaring, and Laura's opinion mattering about as much as mine. Im handed a folder, to take home and read, details, a schedule and of course I'll be freed from any Ranger commitments as and when necessary.

So kind.

Everything starting with a photoshoot, next week. And I'm not so much dismissed as ignored, Edward beginning a conversation with Laura which clearly, blatantly excludes me.

"I'll." Calling out after my rapidly departing back, leaving before I turn around and return, possibly to punch Edward in his smug, imagined superior mouth.

"See you at six."
"Right." Forced stop, but I won't turn, won't take that first step lest I can't stop the slide of momentum from there back into the office. Raising a hand, thumbs up. "Six, Ruth."

Finding I'm smiling, by the time I'm walking through reception and out into late afternoon drizzle. Impending bondage, that I asked for not the kind forced on me, will do that. And fine, sometimes being forced is good too, just not by Mr Edward fucking smug bastard Wright.

Phone ringing as I approach the van, car park halfway empty compared to when I'd arrived, pulling it from my butt pocket and swiping answer, catching a glimpse of 'Morgan' across the screen. Brief grimace crossing my face.

"Morgan."
"Are you avoiding me?"
"No." A little. It's a trust thing: the fact I don't trust Morgan to keep shoots within the pre-agreed lines, don't trust her not to take advantage. And usually someone taking advantage would be a good thing, a great thing, everything I crave.

Except I'm realising that if I know- strongly suspect -I'm about to have my rights to freedom ignored, it isn't any fun.

There's no rush, no thrill to being kept in bondage if I know it's coming.

"Can we meet?"
"Work."
"Yes."
"No." Smiling despite myself. "I meant I'm working."
"No playtime?"
"None." Tomorrow, in fact, but I'm not feeling in the mood to have Morgan sweep in and keep me bound for the whole of my one day off.

Because she almost certainly will. And yes that means I'll have to let her, agree to a shoot where I'm tied.

Which I will.

Because I can't help but doom myself at every chance.

"I could come to your hotel?" Because she knows how it works for me now, the over-familiarity with hotels. "Do an evening shoot?"
"Sure." Shit, feeling a tingle of anticipation even whilst cursing my lack of control. "I'll WhatsApp you the address."
"Cool."

And gone. Leaving me: Edward and his plans for me, Ruth and whatever may come of this evening, and now the looming threat of Morgan. Feeling all sorts of churned up and stuck between thrilled and nervous on the drive home.

[BlissfulMisery]

Actually, to be fair I often plan quite far ahead, dropping things into the story. However my flowing style means some of those drops items don't come to pass, that I go a different way.

The hazards of riding the ebbs and flows of moment to moment creativity

Risky, but thanks, for saying I told it well. As Brooke herself said, this is the idea, the whole reason for the top floor apartment and roof terrace, overlooking a dock.

Other reasons too, other idea's (Sarah's are for instance) still slowly growing, but the fog shoot on the roof was something I loved, really wanted to write.

And of course the roof-gazebo

But yes, fiction, a place where one can design an entire space built around the 'needs' of bondage. Unlike pesky real life where other annoying considerations always seem to get in the way.

And yes, somewhat ironic to be talking about having that sort of freedom while discussing the subject of being in bondage. But as always, the irony is par for the course

-

The fidgeting is likely due to nerves, or excitement, that one time I tied her up in the bosses office and left her there. And she liked it.

Brooke being reminded of the perils of mixing business with pleasure.

So, probably I'm about to be disciplined, and not in a good way.

A very relevant distinction to make, given the subject matter

"Joint." Looking at Laura. "Advertising?"
"Can't hurt to remind people of our presence."
"And you want me, to...."
"To be the face of this, yes."

Darkly amusing that all this is about an entirely different sort of shoot/performance then her usual. And can definitely see her point on exactly how this could end up going poorly for everyone involved (including, unfortunately, for her).

Not in the quote, but can certainly sympathize with her frustration from the surrounding text, both at this being sprung on her, and the way she is being treated as if she has no choice but to say yes. Just because one has a desire to give up power to someone else (in a specific context), does not mean one consents to having it taken/demanded from them, doubly so in entirely different contexts.

Except I'm realising that if I know- strongly suspect -I'm about to have my rights to freedom ignored, it isn't any fun.

There's no rush, no thrill to being kept in bondage if I know it's coming.

Seems someone is getting a little jaded

In seriousness though, I understand the inherent contradiction/irony she is poking at here. Not the first time I have commented on it, obviously, so will leave it at that.

Because she almost certainly will. And yes that means I'll have to let her, agree to a shoot where I'm tied.

Which I will.

Because I can't help but doom myself at every chance.

In her defense, she is in a frustrated and arguably even somewhat vulnerable emotional headspace, so I totally understand this instinct/desire. Giving up control like this, in a context of her choosing, is an indirect way of taking it back from 'Mr Edward fucking smug bastard Wright'. Psychologically speaking, at least.

A bit of a crossroads for Brooke, it seems. Hopefully it ends up turning out well - in a perfect world she would end up with some amount of (proportionate) justice for what was done to her, but unfortunately in pretty much all cases things like this do not have a satisfying or poetic conclusion. Then again, this is fiction, where anything can happen. So there is hope for her yet

(To be clear, not expecting anything to come of this. Just idly musing.)

[RopeBunny]

Darkly amusing that all this is about an entirely different sort of shoot/performance then her usual. And can definitely see her point on exactly how this could end up going poorly for everyone involved (including, unfortunately, for her).

Indeed.

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.

But my two ideas coming into this were the Kings and Brooke being pushed into doing Plymouth work for the Commission.

Actually, to be fair I often plan quite far ahead, dropping things into the story. However my flowing style means some of those drops items don't come to pass, that I go a different way.

The hazards of riding the ebbs and flows of moment to moment creativity

Hazards, but worth the risk of running myself up a dead end. I much prefer my style as it is. Case of find what works for you and run with it.

So, probably I'm about to be disciplined, and not in a good way.

A very relevant distinction to make, given the subject matter

Do enjoy dropping in my little asides and observations

[RopeBunny]

014.

Not gagged. Technically I'm in breach, of a half- not exactly binding, ha, not if you throw out a line without any further discussion of details -promise, but.

But, I am wearing nothing besides some very skimpy lingerie, and I am in my own apartment, surrounded by rope- and other things, because I got a little carried away and yes, I realise all this additional equipment is technically a breach too -and it is eighteen hundred hours.

Sitting, waiting but not impatient. Enjoying the will she won't she game. Ruth not having my number, unless she plunders the employee files, and would she ring or WhatsApp anyway, just to say no?

Music, flatscreen off instead there's an Underworld LP slowly spinning atop the turntable, turned low enough the bass is mostly all you can hear, low murmured words and beats.

Leaning back, relaxed, anticipation building, the delicious feeling of having dressed up for fun and I suppose.

Fleeting thought, small frown followed by a nod.

If Ruth doesn't come- ha -I'll be reaching for my phone, wondering who might be free to come- ha, bad humour, the dirty run of my thoughts, sitting in barely any clothing, waiting to be tied and fucked -take advantage of me.

Eighteen fourty and a- hesitant, barely heard except I'm listening -knock at the front door, because I gave Ruth the entry code for downstairs.

"You came."
"I mean." Smile chased on then off her face by a nervous laugh. "How could I not, you dangling yourself."

To which compliment I smile, pulling the door fully open and letting Ruth in.

"Wow." Stopping, staring as I shut and lock the front door. "Fuck."
"Let's see yours then?" Teasing, but genuinely asking too, and I realise Ruth might be shy, is obviously nervous, but I'm hoping that with the right playful tone, the fact she did actually turn up.

Yes. Somewhat hesitant, but having followed me through to the lounge, curtains still open but honestly who out there can even see us? Still daylight, that stunning view. Having spent a moment staring out, Ruth turns back to face me, and strips. Slip on brown boots and black leggings, purple low scooped long sleeved top. Same rough age as me, but the polar opposite in terms of body shape, well over a twenty, limbs thick and lacking any muscle definition, belly hanging and bloated.

Covered in ink, spread angel wings atop her D cups, right leg a mass of stacked skulls, left thigh circled by a woodland of scary, skeletal trees. Right upper arm host to another skull, and her whole back covered by a dragon, wings spread wide, breathing fire across her left buttcheek. The messy, short black hair making sense now, goth style and no doubt out of work Ruth dresses to match.

Black lingerie, bra and thong. Opposites in this too, me in white. Push up bra, the cups made of semi transparent mesh, split down the middle vertically, shape like an eye, complimented by red lace crisscrossing the gap, nipples purposefully poking through at each side. Paired with white hipster style pants, the eye shaped opening continued, running from waistband to waistband, under and back up, red lace only half concealing my pussy, my buttcrack.

Confidence apparently grown, now we're both half naked, and maybe- crazy thought, but quite possibly true -Ruth expected me to run away, or kick her out given she likely thinks me a ten, and herself lower.

Which is all crap, looks aren't everything. Yes, I've dated and fucked a fair number of skinny and busty girls, but Ruth's size has been- Dorothy, and others -quite a turn on in the past. Looking at her now, being looked at back in turn, Ruth finishing stripping, there's a tingle beginning in my belly, the deep pit of me. All that ink, those super sized curves. She looks stunning.

"Why don't you grab some food, for us?" Not an order, not slipping into a role and I hope not, tonight should be fun and not serious. Please.

Nodding towards the kitchen as she speaks. "I'll find something to watch?"
"Food, like...?"
"Something quick." A shrug. "Hot. Um," quick smile, small- still a little nervous -fidget, "am I staying?"
"Sure." Nodding. "Can't ask you to drive back to wherever home is."

So long as she knows this isn't the start of anything, which I'm sure she does, too much forward playfulness on my part for this to be a proper date. She's had to drive over two hours to get here from headquarters, can't expect Ruth to repeat that, not when I've got a bed. Not when I'm happy to share it.

Nuking a couple of small frozen pizza's, cheese and the other pepperoni. Cutting both into eight tiny- bitesize -triangles. Frowning down at the plate and adding an opened, emptied out bag of Doritos. Two cans of diet Pepsi, and if Ruth wants more she's welcome to raid my kitchen.

Once I'm bound and gagged.

Returning to find South Park on the flatscreen, Underworld silenced and Ruth looking the question at me, to which I nod. South Park is fine. She's sat on the sofa, Arthur left alone, positioned sideways on at one end, one leg up and stretched across the back her other at right angles foot resting on the floor. Thong all but invisible, waistband covered by the folds of her belly.

The invitation, choice is clear. Simple, and would she be upset, offended if I sat down across from her, at the far end of the sofa?

I don't. Instead, plate in hand, cans handed over and Ruth placing both on the low table immediately beside her sofa arm, I sit down in the gap created by her spread legs, leaning back whilst keeping my side pressed against her front, plate on my lap.

Eating, mostly Ruth and that's fine, she doesn't appear to mind the fact of me picking at what she's devouring either, eating half of one pizza whilst she takes the rest, small handful of crisps. And once finished, her still eating but beginning to trail a finger up and down my side, her free hand, reaching around behind me.

Nestling myself in closer, using my own free hand to trace nonsense patterns up and down Ruth's leg and.

"Wait." Putting down her half eaten pizza slice, still several left and a small pile of crisps. "Off me, lay down." Moving even as she speaks, rope in hand by the time I've complied, laying on my belly, scooting down to the far end of the sofa. Tingle returning with force.

Ruth being quick, efficient but not sloppy, nor does she bind me into anything less then a secure and complete hogtie. Wrists, pausing with the second rope wrapped but not yanked around my elbows, pausing.

"It's fine."
"Right."

And I don't turn to look, imagine the nod instead, following which there's a harsh tugging, feel of rope burning across skin as Ruth pulls my elbows together. Pinning my arms completely.

Ankles, crossed which allows my legs to spread apart, should the need arise. Final rope pulling ankles up and around, legs bending and back arching slightly, tied off to my wrists.

"Okay to raid the kitchen?"
"Sure." Nodding, spending the five minutes of Ruth's absence mostly struggling, not especially wanting to get out, quite pleased to discover I can't, but as with any bondage I want, need to know: is it real? Can I- if I wish -escape, or am I truly helpless?

"Still here?"
"Well." Blushing as I look up, caught in the act of actively trying to break out. Ruth- stab of want and lust at the sight -now naked, smiling down at me from beside the sofa, refilled plate in hand.

"Looks like it."
"Guess I'm keeping you."
"Looks like it." Pussy waking up at the prospect, Ruth being naked and my being now confirmed helpless causing a little flutter inside.

"Not that I invited you here for anything other then this." Flexing, rolling halfway onto my side and stretching within the hogtie, pushing out my chest, staring up at Ruth whilst I do, lips slightly parted and eyes half closed, acting, being the submissive she's made me by binding me.

"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.

"Lucky you aren't bound tighter." Popping a crisp in her mouth, crunching it noisily and me waiting, on her. The back and forth of playfulness, teasing and pushing, gently. Or at least that's the game I'm playing, and yes Ruth could quite easily take this further, deeper, but so far she isn't.

Good.

"Or." Waved gesture at my face. "Gagged."
"Sure you'll get around to rectifying that error."
"Fucking right." Another laugh.

"Got a use for your mouth first, though." Almost not coming out, half the sentence a whisper, wanting to push, play, wanting to assume some form of command, of me, but still nervous and unsure.

To be fair we don't exactly know each other.

Sitting back down, same pose, same spread of her legs. Plate held in one hand whilst her other is beckoning me, finger making the come here gesture. Hopeful look on her face, becoming a smile as I begin struggling closer, caterpillar like, flexing and bending, something like crawling mixed in with a side to side flopping motion.

Nipples catching and dragging against the sofa cushions, springing to erect life at the brushing contact, the state of me.

Reaching Ruth, who doesn't actually get to eat any of her freshly acquired food after all, too busy panting, teasing at her own breasts and taking hold my hair, pressing my face firmly against her pussy, tongue working in and out of her slit, pressing against the clit.

Bringing her to orgasm.

"Gag me."
"Gag?" Confused, still somewhat dreamy look on her face. "With...?"
"Ballgag." Nodding, exaggerated gesture, waving my nose towards the red ballgag, black strap. "Buckle it on and I'll lay here awhile, and you can eat."
"Right." Reaching down to stroke my hair. "Okay."

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.

Which leads to another show, and another. On some level forgetting I'm here because the way she hops channels speaks to me of routine, shows Ruth must watch regularly. Not really forgetting me though, because I'm paid occasional attention, stroke of my hair, running her hand down my back or giving the nearest breast a squeeze.

Still, though. Upstaged by a fucking quiz show, Fayth will never let me live it down.

Eventually, fucks sake. Ha. In the end I resort to nuzzling at Ruth's pussy, squirming closer and pressing my ballgag against it, rubbing up and down. Ruth seemingly ignoring or otherwise unaware of me, of the fun she could be having. Or there's some reason we aren't playing anyway?

No smirk, like you'd expect from a natural dominant, someone who willingly ignores you, wanting to build that frustration, wanting you firmly in your place. Ruth isn't smirking, isn't deliberately making me wait on her.

I'll find out, the following morning, making only slightly awkward small talk over coffee. Basically it was the shows, seems Ruth's somewhat of an addict, for certain shows, amd spends most evenings in front of the flatscreen. Glad she came, and definitely she leaves with a smile, some rather strong hints concerning a willingness to play again, please.

However, whether I'd been bound and gagged or not, seems there's fuck all chance I'd of been able to tempt her attention away from the screen.

But that's the next morning. After the event.

Cutting back, and having finished her food Ruth, at the next advert break, of course. And honestly. Using the five minutes of not a show she's obsessed with to stand up, returning the plate to my kitchen and collecting a vibrator from the small collection of things I'd laid out.

Sitting back down in time for the show to come back, and with an effort I resist shaking my head in bemused humour, finding instead my own enjoyment, slipping into my submissiveness and beginning to relish the treatment, meant or not, finding a buzz, a building tingle in the belly at Ruth's choosing a show she's.

Almost laughing behind my gag at the thought: probably Ruth's got this all set on record at home, through her Sky box, just incase work keeps her late or something.

She isn't even aware, I don't think, of the dynamic, which makes it both hilarious and such a turn on. Basically for the following hour each advert break becomes a five, six if I'm- ha -lucky, minute play. All Ruth's attention suddenly focused on me, vibrator pressed to my pussy and her lips locked to my gagged lips, to my nipples. Hands all over me.

And then the music kicks in, and. Gone.

Frustrating.

Hilarious.

Bizarre. Ive been ignored, on purpose, but never in this specific casual fashion. Ruth, and later, in bed cuddled up, talking whilst we stroke and slow build each other towards sex. I get the impression she thought I was genuinely watching the shows too, that I was content to remain hogtied.

Which I was.

That I was interested in the shows.

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?

[RopeBunny]

015.

Morgan no shows, a wall of silence she doesn't call to make plans, doesn't WhatsApp to check my evening availability at the hotel.

Clear evidence for why, for her sudden lack of interest, can be found on the aforementioned WhatsApp, where her profile photo recently swapped out to an image of Morgan and some guy I half recognise as a King, hugging.

It's all to be expected, Morgan's pursuit of bondage as a means of employment, her change to Thirteen and she doesn't show the same level of commitment I bring to Plymouth. And it's fine, her life choices to make, only.

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.

Edward's folder, close to two dozen pages of words and pictures I'm still too rebellious to properly read. Looking at it, let alone touching the folder makes me itchy, skin feeling too small and the sudden urge to fidget.

Resentful, of Edward and his entitled use of power, annoyed at the Commission for letting him have me, use me in whatever ways he deems necessary for V.K Supplies future.

None of this, my growing attitude, is helpful. And I warned them, Plymouth isn't an employee, that part- side -of me is meek, can and often is submissive.

Gets a huge kick out of being put forcibly in her place, left there to suffer.

But not like this. Plymouth isn't employed by either V.K or the Forestry Commission, but it's bondage- however dressed up and rebranded, binding me for a shoot is bondage -they want. And Brooke doesn't do bondage for a paycheck.

Plymouth does.

There's a schedule in the folder, discovered and I've taken a photo of it, added various dates to my wall calendar, twelve months of hot girls posing with some truly monster sized tractors, which- the calendar -was a Christmas gift from Fayth, who teases me about the whole trees angle of my life, but she knows what- pretty girls wearing very little, massive loud machines -I'm into.

A week and change following the meeting, I'm awake and out, early. Chasing the sunrise and speeding along slowly becoming more busy roads. London bound, a warehouse complex, V.K Supplies main distribution hub.

"Eddie."
"Edward."
"I know." Not the best of starts, but having walked into reception, announcing myself to the young man behind the desk, waiting. Edward's appearance some five minutes later, his opening smile and eyes roaming across my- still covered, jeans and unzipped biker jacket, tee -skin. Too much like ownership, looking at me and seeing that invisible number floating overhead.

Just a piece on the board.

Being overly difficult on purpose, no corporate politeness and fuck you.

"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.

"This way."
"Sure." A shrug, being paid here after all, got to play a little nice.

Down a series of corridors, through double doors out into a vast open room, crates and boxes, pallets. Stacks filling tall metal framed shelves and distinctive pathing laid out across the gound in various paint colours: red for forklift, blue for pedestrians.

"Please." Turning to glance at me, pointing down at the blue line running parallel down our right side, similar on the left, the strip between wide enough for single file. "Within the lines at all times."
"Understood." Because I can hate this man and respect the need for safety in the workplace too.

Second pair of double doors leading to a smaller space, a second warehouse and this room half empty. Table set up near the door we came in through, various drinks laid out, huge pot for tea, coffee. Small group of people talking in low tones in the centre of the cleared space, scattering of laughter as we approach.

"Gentlemen." Because it is all men, four in suits with Edward making five, and a sixth wearing blue jeans and a baggy black 'Ford Rallysport' tee. "She's here."

Not bothering to scowl at the various suits, all of whom are smiling at and looking me over the exact same way as Edward, instead I approach the other, quite obviously odd man out, like me. Probably the rigger.

Something in the folder, no name but something about seeking and recruiting outside help for this.

"H-" Flinching as his gaze alights on me, actually backing off a step.

"Hi." Hand out, finding a friendly smile whilst I'm being regarded like a ghost, or a demon from his own personal hell? "I'm Brooke."
"Cl...." Tentative, step forward and reaching for my hand, quick shake and backing off as though afraid I'll bite.

Late twenties, skinny like Daniel, lacking any muscle definition. Clean shaved, light brown hair grown longer on top, parted not quite down the middle, fringe flopping slightly with each movement. Ink up the right arm, some fish based design, swirling colours.

"Is that foreign?" No clue why I've provoked such a reaction, someone I've never met, looking at and acting around me as you would a caged tiger. "Hi." Going again. "I'm Brooke."
"Um." Shaking himself, forcing- it certainly seems -out a smile. "Clive."
"Right."

"You in charge of the bondage, Clive?"
"What?"
"Binding me." Actually stepping back myself, giving Clive room he seems to need, distance from me. Keeping the tone playful, anticipation for the ropes building like a stoked fire in my belly.

"Any chance of a gag too?"
"No it's." Looking around, spotting a backpack over by the table and making towards it. Squatting down and retrieving an exact copy of the folder I've left at home. Standing, turning.

Flinching when he discovers I've followed. Overly friendly, stood too close in most books, except this man will be seeing me naked- won't, but in the moment I've forgotten this isn't normal bondage -soon, will be touching me somewhat intimately soon. All this leads to a general uncaring, on my part, for personal space and the normal rules of body contact.

"It's all in here."
"Didn't read mine."
"No?" Coughing out a laugh. "Well."
"I'm good." Pushing the offered, opened and look it's all right here on this page, folder away, which somehow manages to push Clive back a step too.

Turning to look, behind me now, the five suits: one on his phone, another checking an expensive looking watch whilst two more can't seem to stop staring. At me.

Indrawn breath as I turned, looking back to find Clive, eyes on the left side of my head.

"Bike accident."
"Ouch."
"Ouch." Agreeing, grimace crossing my face. "Worst part is the memory loss."
"Oh?" Sudden interest, complete change in his tone, even leaning in slightly to look.

"There's things." Shaking my head, keeping the anger in check. "Places. People. All lost now, there's holes, and I can't see."
"So you've." Cautious, don't wake the tiger. "Forgotten, um, people?"
"Some people."
"Right."

Nodding, thoughtful look on his face, this strange skinny man. But he seems more relaxed, the following minutes Clive appears less jumpy, around me.

And since we've got to work together, closely, not being afraid of me is definitely a plus.

"Brooke. Clive." Edward, and I suppose we're on the clock, gesturing us over. "If we could begin."
"Sure." Smiling at Clive, who- another step made -smiles back, falling in beside me as we walk back to the suits.

"Got someplace for me to change?"
"There's a toilet set aside." Edward, pointing. "Through that door and second right."
"Great." Nodding, picking my messenger bag up, khaki with a black strap. "So, what do the fine gentlemen at V.K want me to wear?"
"I believe we covered this in the brief."
"Sure." Waving Clive's offered folder away a second time. "No doubt, but let's pretend I didn't read it."

Being difficult, spoiling for a fight.

"Want I should show you some options?" Teasing, being my naturally playful self. "And I'd offer to begin with stripping completely except this is a family show, right?"
"Right." Looking a little hot, and at least two of the other suits looking quite disappointed that I won't be getting naked.

Ha, caught you looking.

"You want me to cover up?" A shrug. Options. "Be a tease?"
"Tease." Actually- one of the unnamed randoms, and no I don't expect I'll be bothering to learn those names -putting his hand up, dropping it quickly and blushing, one of the younger suits. "Um."
"Am I supposed to be working?" Attention on Edward, because he's the boss, although- tease, playing and having fun -I did drop the now blushing suit a wink.

"Yes." Slow nod, thinking, and whatever it is, in that already made and distributed plan of attack. A plan they've likely all read to death, that even Clive has apparently read. No doubt it could be changed?

It certainly appears Edward, at least, is happy to roll with the 'make it up as we go' approach I'm offering.

"The overall effect is that you are, indeed, meant to be working. Brooke."
"Okay. Eddie." Grinning as he tuts. "Well...." Hunkering down, rummaging inside the bag, those couple of outfit variations given I'm already in jeans and boots.

"Could keep the jeans?" Eyes on Edward, and it's like we're duelists. Scoring points only the- his -problem is we're both trying for the same hits.

"Or do you want to see some skin?"
"I think skin," Pausing to nod, "wouldn't hurt to be eye catching."
"Agreed." Pulling out a pair of faded black denim shorts, clean, but I've often worn them to work. Frayed hem on the legs and paired with a cream coloured canvas belt, too long so the end dangles.

"Could pair this with a sports bra?"
"Maybe." Small smile, aiming for my heart, he thinks. "Something with a little more cleavage, a little less coverage."
"Sure." Pulling out a green camouflage bikini top, effortlessly parrying Edward's kill shot, stabbing him instead. "Will this do?"

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.

Wandering off to change, finding the toilet basic, but clean. Empty. Row of three stalls and sinks opposite, someone dragging in a small table, a single chair, places to put my stuff. Helmet on the table and biker jacket over the chair back, door isn't locked- can I even? -but uncaring. Stripping down to my grey hipster pants, pink hem and inverted Y on the front, a parody of old style boy pants.

Facing myself in the mirror and grinning, liking- always -what I see: Plymouth, inked and toned, tanned aside from small triangles across each nipple, similar at the crotch, the permanent outline of a bikini top and small shorts, the least I wear out in the sun, working. Dyed blue hair, lopsided style, shaved on the left, combed to tumble down the back and right side. Those scars, side of the head and a tree banching like trace down the left side, from breast down to knee height.

Battle scars, a life lived. And like bondage, those dark times only making me push harder, faster, the accident did the opposite of putting me off.

Wondering at Clive, staring at my naked self, thoughts turning to the guy who- won't see me naked -will soon bind- but not gag, and we'll see about that -me. Maybe he's a rookie? Experience, but not much, and it'd make financial sense for V.K to hire such, someone who can't command a high fee.

Lucky fuckers getting me for free, Ranger wages, this being- anything but -just another day.

"I should be helpful." Nodding at mirror Plymouth, who agrees. "Besides he's," seesawing a hand, laughing in the quiet empty toilet, because I like girls, but.

"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?

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