Took some time, me time no writing. And I feel better for it.
But here I am, back.
-------
A Brooke/Plymouth tale, equal favourite of all my creations, alongside Kayley, who is the Rope Bunny too.
Website Migration Update
I moved the website to a new host, which I think will be more tolerant of the content this website hosts. Nevertheless, I do want to take a moment to remind everyone that the stories and content posted here MUST follow website rules, as it it not only my policy, but it is the policy of the hosts that permit our website to run on their servers. We WILL continue to enforce the rules, especially critical rules that, if broken, put this sites livelihood in jeapordy.
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JUST A SMALL ANNOUNCEMENT TO REMIND EVERYONE (GUESTS AND REGISTERED USERS ALIKE) THAT THIS FORUM IS BUILT AROUND USER PARTICIPATION AND PUBLIC INTERACTIONS. IF YOU SEE A THREAD YOU LIKE, PARTICIPATE! IF YOU ENJOYED READING A STORY, POST A COMMENT TO LET THE AUTHOR KNOW! TAKING A FEW EXTRA SECONDS TO LET AN AUTHOR KNOW YOU ENJOYED HIS OR HER WORK IS THE BEST WAY TO ENSURE THAT MORE SIMILAR STORIES ARE POSTED. KEEPING THE COMMUNITY ALIVE IS A GROUP EFFORT. LET'S ALL MAKE AN EFFORT TO PARTICIPATE.
King Plymouth (MF+/F+) *NEW* 06/12 *NEW*
Prologue.
Feels as though one, or both of us should be angry, upset.
Feels as though one, or both of us should be arguing.
"Don't you think?"
"What?"
"Right." Laughter bubbling out, the exact opposite of anger and that's good, following which I put down the water bottle, flopping back to lay beside Dorothy, giving me a somewhat interested look. Waiting for an explanation.
Dorothy's logic. The subject broached over dinner last week, cast out between us as something she'd already thought out, feeling the shape of it and now offering the facts. The basic premise: that she'd been offered and wanted to accept a position overseas, a year long absence.
Dorothy's thoughts, her decision being that we shouldn't wait, for each other, that she was still young, and that whilst there was love, growing slowly between us, if she was leaving for adventures on foreign soil she didn't want the added stress of a long distance relationship.
Logic, and the problem was, I could see her point. Young, perhaps at twenty too young to commit. And I didn't want long distance either, didn't want to survive on the occasional video or other call.
Wondering at her, at the what and where, the who of Dorothy's days and weeks.
So, we'd talked. Several conversations which largely amounted to my agreeing, seeing her point and maybe I am old enough to commit, to settle down, but I won't hold her back. Dorothy sacrificing for my happiness isn't an option.
But even so.
"It just feels like I should be arguing." Reaching out to run fingers down Dorothy's flank, the curves and roundness of her, breasts and belly. Dorothy's body almost the polar opposite of mine, plump, thickness at limbs and belly and her hair only dyed at the tips.
Making- my traced contact -her sigh, making her squirm within the tight hogtie.
"Or you should."
"If I argued," wriggling closer, breasts and belly flopping with each forward burst of movement, and I'll miss this. Her, there's something intoxicating about Dorothy's bulk, how damn sexy those curves look wrapped and trussed in tight ropes.
"You'd only gag me." A cheeky grin, blowing me a kiss and there's still love, the slow burning embers of our shared desire. "Again."
"True." Having watched and enjoyed her struggle, I close the distance, shifting until my F cups are brushing against her smaller yet still pert C's, leaning in for a kiss.
And as goodbyes go, it isn't bad.
Feels as though one, or both of us should be angry, upset.
Feels as though one, or both of us should be arguing.
"Don't you think?"
"What?"
"Right." Laughter bubbling out, the exact opposite of anger and that's good, following which I put down the water bottle, flopping back to lay beside Dorothy, giving me a somewhat interested look. Waiting for an explanation.
Dorothy's logic. The subject broached over dinner last week, cast out between us as something she'd already thought out, feeling the shape of it and now offering the facts. The basic premise: that she'd been offered and wanted to accept a position overseas, a year long absence.
Dorothy's thoughts, her decision being that we shouldn't wait, for each other, that she was still young, and that whilst there was love, growing slowly between us, if she was leaving for adventures on foreign soil she didn't want the added stress of a long distance relationship.
Logic, and the problem was, I could see her point. Young, perhaps at twenty too young to commit. And I didn't want long distance either, didn't want to survive on the occasional video or other call.
Wondering at her, at the what and where, the who of Dorothy's days and weeks.
So, we'd talked. Several conversations which largely amounted to my agreeing, seeing her point and maybe I am old enough to commit, to settle down, but I won't hold her back. Dorothy sacrificing for my happiness isn't an option.
But even so.
"It just feels like I should be arguing." Reaching out to run fingers down Dorothy's flank, the curves and roundness of her, breasts and belly. Dorothy's body almost the polar opposite of mine, plump, thickness at limbs and belly and her hair only dyed at the tips.
Making- my traced contact -her sigh, making her squirm within the tight hogtie.
"Or you should."
"If I argued," wriggling closer, breasts and belly flopping with each forward burst of movement, and I'll miss this. Her, there's something intoxicating about Dorothy's bulk, how damn sexy those curves look wrapped and trussed in tight ropes.
"You'd only gag me." A cheeky grin, blowing me a kiss and there's still love, the slow burning embers of our shared desire. "Again."
"True." Having watched and enjoyed her struggle, I close the distance, shifting until my F cups are brushing against her smaller yet still pert C's, leaning in for a kiss.
And as goodbyes go, it isn't bad.
001.
"Basically the developer's a fucking idiot."
"Basically." Not outright agreeing, because how- the fuck -would I know? More a case of keeping the conversation going, not wanting Sarah to verbally stumble, lose her stride.
Glancing at me now, flick of blue eyes beneath a blonde fringe. Gauging me, am I taking the piss?
No, which she apparently sees, because following a brief nod, onwards. Eyes and attention- both of ours -back to the scale plan laid out under glass, Sarah standing on one side me the other, houses and roads in miniature.
A new development: Port West.
"Probably shouldn't be sharing, but." A shrug, uncaring as she leans in, elbows resting on glass as I shift to mirror her. Conspirators, plotting.
Slim framed, a ten to my eight, dancing through the same mid twenties bracket, young and- feeling -invincible. Unstoppable. No- visible -ink on her, whilst even in jeans and biker jacket, cropped tee you can see my intentions, a personal war against symmetry, the battleground my body, ink purposefully stacked and parading down the left side. Sarah's D cups straining the fabric of her short sleeved white shirt, no match for my enhanced F's, but then who is?
Outside of porn.
Thursday afternoon, an hour until close, chosen purposefully with expectations of finding not only an empty showroom, which it is, but a bored salesperson too, which, perking up now, but Sarah had been half slumped behind her desk when I'd walked in.
Too bored, or possibly even sleeping, woken by my arrival, the Hayabusa announcing me in it's usual harsh tones.
Showroom to myself, a bored- end of the week, almost closing -salesperson likely more ready to talk openly, so far, yes.
"There's a rush on to build, government level and suddenly every empty strip of land is a worksite, or will be." Pausing to glance out the window, the half built development I'd ridden carefully, slowly through to get to Sarah's small garage sized office.
"Some sites, locations are more suitable though."
"Not here?" Rhetorical, given the face she's pulling. And given I actually quite like Port West, the location, the layout, I brace for the tidal wave of doom Sarah's likely to spill, because she's in the mood to let slip her corporate secrets.
"Well. First off we're next to the docks."
"Which is bad?"
"Noise. Smell." Ticking off the points, wiggling her third finger. "Plus this close to the water. This close to any body of water the whole location is officially classed as a flood plane. Prone to flooding."
"And." Raised eyebrow, doing a far better job of keeping my own hand hidden, masking my interest. "Is it?"
"Fuck no." Laughing, me smiling in response.
"But the law says anything within X miles or metres of water will flood, and so we have to price accordingly." Pulling another face, as though the loss of bank were affecting her own personal fortune. "Which means selling at a loss, compared to these same builds on similar, elsewhere."
"Still." Finding a smile, something welcoming and we're back in salesperson mode. "What can I interest you in today, Brooke?"
Tempting, it never stops being tempting, these lines I keep being thrown. And yes partly it's my fault, Brooke, the eternal flirt, no shame and confidence for days. All of which is Plymouths fault, the- bondage -porn star within, lurking, always looking for an excuse to play.
Standing across from me, slim, tanned, smiling just enough to be friendly beyond the professional, shirt and black skinny fit trousers combination hugging the shape of her. What interests me today? Well, since you asked.
Except no, I can behave. Might not want to, might not like to, but I'm here for serious things, not to see how Sarah would look ballgagged.
"What do you have?"
"For sale, built, or for sale currently within phase two?"
"For sale, ready for occupancy."
"Right." Already back at her desk, walking to and behind it whilst enquiring after my specifics.
Must like, or at least be interested enough in, to try bondage.
Okay, I'll behave.
"Got a couple from the affordable housing plot." Sorting through a folder, pulling out papers. "Zulu eight, ten and...."
"No."
"Not affordable?"
"Affordable." My bad humour earning a smile. "But not interested."
"Right." Papers slipped back, sorting. "Well."
"What about here?"
Glancing up, squinting, the distance and I'm tapping a nail directly above one particular section of Port West, which when built will be quite a sprawling development.
"The apartments?"
"I've lived in houses." With mum, the cottage at Owl. Good times, but. "Fancy a change."
"Well...." Thoughtful, like searching for the right- corporate -words, hunting that sale and maybe I am just a looker, just wasting her time. Or maybe not?
"Change can be good."
"Indeed." Tapping the glass again, peering down, God like, from above. "So, what apartments are built, and unclaimed?"
A week since my meeting at Forestry Commission headquarters, since I signed the contract, returning to an employer who, amongst other favourable points had been willing to accept my double life.
Willing to let me be Plymouth, a model, a porn star working exclusively in the niche field of bondage. Something I'm good at, something I love.
Something I've won awards doing.
Owl Wood was Forestry Commission, my last role within the company, management of the whole site being my sole responsibility. They'd offered it back, a return to familiar territory and I was tempted, but declined, wanting a new challenge.
A fresh start.
But not yet. First, today, having found the correct keys- a half dozen, collected on a large lime green carabiner -Sarah leads the way outside, luckily wearing slip on workman boots, and me in black knee high lace ups, essential for the Hayabusa. So neither of us slips in all the mud.
"Can I ask?"
"Sure." Walking side by side, Sarah looking across, running a hand down the side of her face whilst speaking, tracing the line of my scar, the leftside of my head, hair cut purposefully short, the right side and back kept long, dyed blue like a tumbling ocean, an alternative style.
"Bike accident."
"Oh." Glancing behind, and we've already turned corners but she's looking back- roughly -towards my Hayabusa, my weapon of choice. "My boyfriend has a bike."
"Cool." Steel door snapping shut, and for all she'd delivered the point without any apparent enthusiasm my response is a mirror. No emotion, the abruptness of stopping myself flirting.
Because she's taken, and I'm not a bitch.
"Going to be four blocks." Gesturing as we approach the apartments, the two blocks completed, half of the third rising skeletal from the ground. "But we've only got available units in Echo."
"Echo?"
"The tallest." Pointing at the seven story, which- remembering the scale plan -will be flanked and half circled by two five and one four story block.
"Eight apartments per level, one bedroom layout, on floors two through five." Hand gestures to aid her explaining. "Ground floor is four two bedroom layouts, plus gardens, the four times two bed repeated up on six."
"Gardens?"
"On." Looking at me, smile growing slightly at my innocent smile.
Okay, maybe still a small amount of flirting.
"No." Shaking her head. "No gardens up on six, Brooke."
"Pity." Nodding upwards. "What about seven?"
"A single three bed." Pointing. "Note the slight drop in roof height?" Looking at me, nodding once I've nodded. "Half of seven is one apartment, the other is maintenance, lift gears and other assorted crap I'm not able to remember."
"I see."
Standing awhile, and like a good salesperson Sarah waits, not pushing, not asking. Waiting.
"Is seven available?"
"It." Nodding. "Is. But...."
"But?"
"Well." Small fidget, grimace crossing her face. "Might be a prudent moment to discuss funds."
"Funds."
"Price only goes up with each floor." A shrug, like she's sorry. "I'd hate to show you something beyond your means?"
Asking, not saying she can't. Won't, but making me aware, offering me an out, or the chance to state my level of commitment, so to speak.
"How much is the penthouse listed for?"
Sarah tells me, and I don't blink, but she does, at my nodding thoughtfulness. At my concealed 'thank fuck' for that- by law but not actually -flood plane, lowering prices. Blinking again as I suggest taking a closer look, re-evaluating me, perhaps.
Inside Echo, which is actually named 'Panama' after the canal, most of Port West, the roads and apartments having shipping themed names, each of the ground floor flats have individual front doors, because they have gardens. Therefore inside is a lobby, mailboxes for apartments five through forty-one, stairs heading upwards and a lift.
We take the lift, Sarah automatically calling it down, not asking.
"Lift only rises to six." Pointing out the fact, the lack of a 'seven' for either of us to push. "Instead."
Doors opening, on cue and we step out, finding the main lobby, stairs coming out beside the lift and doors, left and right with signage pointing out which apartments are where. Sarah taking the lead, through to the stairs, and climbing the final switchback to seven.
Where there's no exit door, only a smaller then the other lobbies carpeted square, forty-one being the one door here that's- locked double doors opposite, presumably for the lift room, and whatever else -relevant. Sarah muttering, finding the right key on her third attempt, swinging the door open and gesturing me through first.
Leaving me to wander, backing off, letting the apartment speak either positively or negatively for itself.
South and west facing, placed and angled to catch the afternoon and evening sun, perfect for friend to trees me, my growing collection of houseplants. Two of the bedrooms are large, the master identifiable by it's ensuite, plus a small walk in wardrobe. The third bedroom isn't small, just smaller. Second, main bathroom complete with probably the largest bath I've ever seen, claw foot and white, easily long enough to lay down in. Mirror across one whole wall, from waist- sink -height up.
Kitchen you could put a good sized table in, with a wide arch leading through to the lounge, every room here is large, the designer making full use of the fact this three bedroom occupies roughly- a little less, Sarah had commented in the lift riding up -same floor space as four one bedrooms take up below. Double glass doors open up to a roof terrace, a third of which is covered by a wooden framed gazebo, open sides but a solid roof to keep off the rain.
And the view.
Scattered cloud, and a slight breeze, and the idea of being up here in strong winds or thick fog, a storm, far from terrifying the notion is exciting.
There's a smell, and noise though both are somewhat background, and to me- lover of engines, fascinated by the workings of things -it's all a plus. Noise and smell emanating from the container port, seven floors up giving me the perfect view: across the development and a small strip of scrubland, small distance from me to the ports two story wooden razor wire topped fence, equally tall chainlink like a second barrier beyond. From up here I can see it all, trains shunting in the attached yard, cranes loading and shifting, behind them, looming, a large ship at dockside.
And beyond that the blue of water, out towards- eventually -the ocean. The whole vista captivating.
"Can see I've misjudged you." Settling beside me at the terrace railing, like a waist high fence of metal and wood, and I smile because yes, Sarah has, because some of us love the smell of oil and fuel, the noise of heavy machinery at work.
Smile spreading, slightly, as I glance to the side, at her, noticing the- definitely a deeper v now, definitely more cleavage -wider opening at the neck of Sarah's shirt. She's opened it low, far enough down I can clearly see the entire shape of her pink bra cup, breasts nestled within. Flirting? Attempting to charm a sale?
Doubtful she's- boyfriend -interested in me, but that chest is impressive, her shirt moulded, revealing the exact shape of the push up bra.
"Any thoughts, Brooke?"
"Some." Several, none of which are relevant to the apartment we're supposed to be discussing. "It's amazing, of course."
"No no." Shaking her head, smiling. "You're supposed to pick holes in it, make a big deal of the port right fucking there." Waving a hand at the offensive- to her, I suppose -piece of awesomeness. "You're supposed to be knocking the price down, not surrendering your wallet."
Bemused, half frowning at my sudden laugh, her word choice amusing me, so close to my usual train of thought.
"Here." Pulling out and unfolding the single printed sheet from inside my biker jacket. "It's perfect, so I'll take it."
I'm not rich, but. Three Carnivals, plus the fact that, Hayabusa aside I've never splurged money, never been one for material possessions. Even my not so recent holiday to America was part working, a series of shoots across the country, bondage jobs, meaning I ultimately made more then I spent traveling.
Added to which all the time I worked at Owl, the cottage was Forestry Commission owned, part of the site. Like a perk, no rent, no mortgage, almost no bills.
Not rich, but I've saved considerably, enough to afford over fifty percent of the asking price as a deposit, my new job, the salary allowing a mortgage on the rest. The letter I'm handing to Sarah proof of the fact.
The bank manager, saying yes.
"Okay." Reading, nodding. "Excellent." Handing me back the letter. "S' good to find someone actually prepared for once."
"Anything else I can help you with," gesturing around, and I'd gone back to leaning on the railing, enjoying the view. Sarah leaning too, only she's facing the apartment, back slightly arched against the rail.
Showing off that chest, thrusting it upwards and is this flirting?
"Before we head back and fill in the papers?"
"I'm good." Unless you want to be an angel and go chase up some rope, stand over there against one of the gazebo legs, let me bind you to it, see how much better the terrace looks with a little decoration.
Looking at me, tilting her head for a different- better -angle, trying to see my thoughts and she probably wouldn't like the run of them. And besides she's got a boyfriend, so.
"Just the apartment."
"What?"
"Oh." Little laugh escaping, that I spoke. "Nothing."
"Right." Giving me another quizzical look, before shrugging, leading the way back.
"Basically the developer's a fucking idiot."
"Basically." Not outright agreeing, because how- the fuck -would I know? More a case of keeping the conversation going, not wanting Sarah to verbally stumble, lose her stride.
Glancing at me now, flick of blue eyes beneath a blonde fringe. Gauging me, am I taking the piss?
No, which she apparently sees, because following a brief nod, onwards. Eyes and attention- both of ours -back to the scale plan laid out under glass, Sarah standing on one side me the other, houses and roads in miniature.
A new development: Port West.
"Probably shouldn't be sharing, but." A shrug, uncaring as she leans in, elbows resting on glass as I shift to mirror her. Conspirators, plotting.
Slim framed, a ten to my eight, dancing through the same mid twenties bracket, young and- feeling -invincible. Unstoppable. No- visible -ink on her, whilst even in jeans and biker jacket, cropped tee you can see my intentions, a personal war against symmetry, the battleground my body, ink purposefully stacked and parading down the left side. Sarah's D cups straining the fabric of her short sleeved white shirt, no match for my enhanced F's, but then who is?
Outside of porn.
Thursday afternoon, an hour until close, chosen purposefully with expectations of finding not only an empty showroom, which it is, but a bored salesperson too, which, perking up now, but Sarah had been half slumped behind her desk when I'd walked in.
Too bored, or possibly even sleeping, woken by my arrival, the Hayabusa announcing me in it's usual harsh tones.
Showroom to myself, a bored- end of the week, almost closing -salesperson likely more ready to talk openly, so far, yes.
"There's a rush on to build, government level and suddenly every empty strip of land is a worksite, or will be." Pausing to glance out the window, the half built development I'd ridden carefully, slowly through to get to Sarah's small garage sized office.
"Some sites, locations are more suitable though."
"Not here?" Rhetorical, given the face she's pulling. And given I actually quite like Port West, the location, the layout, I brace for the tidal wave of doom Sarah's likely to spill, because she's in the mood to let slip her corporate secrets.
"Well. First off we're next to the docks."
"Which is bad?"
"Noise. Smell." Ticking off the points, wiggling her third finger. "Plus this close to the water. This close to any body of water the whole location is officially classed as a flood plane. Prone to flooding."
"And." Raised eyebrow, doing a far better job of keeping my own hand hidden, masking my interest. "Is it?"
"Fuck no." Laughing, me smiling in response.
"But the law says anything within X miles or metres of water will flood, and so we have to price accordingly." Pulling another face, as though the loss of bank were affecting her own personal fortune. "Which means selling at a loss, compared to these same builds on similar, elsewhere."
"Still." Finding a smile, something welcoming and we're back in salesperson mode. "What can I interest you in today, Brooke?"
Tempting, it never stops being tempting, these lines I keep being thrown. And yes partly it's my fault, Brooke, the eternal flirt, no shame and confidence for days. All of which is Plymouths fault, the- bondage -porn star within, lurking, always looking for an excuse to play.
Standing across from me, slim, tanned, smiling just enough to be friendly beyond the professional, shirt and black skinny fit trousers combination hugging the shape of her. What interests me today? Well, since you asked.
Except no, I can behave. Might not want to, might not like to, but I'm here for serious things, not to see how Sarah would look ballgagged.
"What do you have?"
"For sale, built, or for sale currently within phase two?"
"For sale, ready for occupancy."
"Right." Already back at her desk, walking to and behind it whilst enquiring after my specifics.
Must like, or at least be interested enough in, to try bondage.
Okay, I'll behave.
"Got a couple from the affordable housing plot." Sorting through a folder, pulling out papers. "Zulu eight, ten and...."
"No."
"Not affordable?"
"Affordable." My bad humour earning a smile. "But not interested."
"Right." Papers slipped back, sorting. "Well."
"What about here?"
Glancing up, squinting, the distance and I'm tapping a nail directly above one particular section of Port West, which when built will be quite a sprawling development.
"The apartments?"
"I've lived in houses." With mum, the cottage at Owl. Good times, but. "Fancy a change."
"Well...." Thoughtful, like searching for the right- corporate -words, hunting that sale and maybe I am just a looker, just wasting her time. Or maybe not?
"Change can be good."
"Indeed." Tapping the glass again, peering down, God like, from above. "So, what apartments are built, and unclaimed?"
A week since my meeting at Forestry Commission headquarters, since I signed the contract, returning to an employer who, amongst other favourable points had been willing to accept my double life.
Willing to let me be Plymouth, a model, a porn star working exclusively in the niche field of bondage. Something I'm good at, something I love.
Something I've won awards doing.
Owl Wood was Forestry Commission, my last role within the company, management of the whole site being my sole responsibility. They'd offered it back, a return to familiar territory and I was tempted, but declined, wanting a new challenge.
A fresh start.
But not yet. First, today, having found the correct keys- a half dozen, collected on a large lime green carabiner -Sarah leads the way outside, luckily wearing slip on workman boots, and me in black knee high lace ups, essential for the Hayabusa. So neither of us slips in all the mud.
"Can I ask?"
"Sure." Walking side by side, Sarah looking across, running a hand down the side of her face whilst speaking, tracing the line of my scar, the leftside of my head, hair cut purposefully short, the right side and back kept long, dyed blue like a tumbling ocean, an alternative style.
"Bike accident."
"Oh." Glancing behind, and we've already turned corners but she's looking back- roughly -towards my Hayabusa, my weapon of choice. "My boyfriend has a bike."
"Cool." Steel door snapping shut, and for all she'd delivered the point without any apparent enthusiasm my response is a mirror. No emotion, the abruptness of stopping myself flirting.
Because she's taken, and I'm not a bitch.
"Going to be four blocks." Gesturing as we approach the apartments, the two blocks completed, half of the third rising skeletal from the ground. "But we've only got available units in Echo."
"Echo?"
"The tallest." Pointing at the seven story, which- remembering the scale plan -will be flanked and half circled by two five and one four story block.
"Eight apartments per level, one bedroom layout, on floors two through five." Hand gestures to aid her explaining. "Ground floor is four two bedroom layouts, plus gardens, the four times two bed repeated up on six."
"Gardens?"
"On." Looking at me, smile growing slightly at my innocent smile.
Okay, maybe still a small amount of flirting.
"No." Shaking her head. "No gardens up on six, Brooke."
"Pity." Nodding upwards. "What about seven?"
"A single three bed." Pointing. "Note the slight drop in roof height?" Looking at me, nodding once I've nodded. "Half of seven is one apartment, the other is maintenance, lift gears and other assorted crap I'm not able to remember."
"I see."
Standing awhile, and like a good salesperson Sarah waits, not pushing, not asking. Waiting.
"Is seven available?"
"It." Nodding. "Is. But...."
"But?"
"Well." Small fidget, grimace crossing her face. "Might be a prudent moment to discuss funds."
"Funds."
"Price only goes up with each floor." A shrug, like she's sorry. "I'd hate to show you something beyond your means?"
Asking, not saying she can't. Won't, but making me aware, offering me an out, or the chance to state my level of commitment, so to speak.
"How much is the penthouse listed for?"
Sarah tells me, and I don't blink, but she does, at my nodding thoughtfulness. At my concealed 'thank fuck' for that- by law but not actually -flood plane, lowering prices. Blinking again as I suggest taking a closer look, re-evaluating me, perhaps.
Inside Echo, which is actually named 'Panama' after the canal, most of Port West, the roads and apartments having shipping themed names, each of the ground floor flats have individual front doors, because they have gardens. Therefore inside is a lobby, mailboxes for apartments five through forty-one, stairs heading upwards and a lift.
We take the lift, Sarah automatically calling it down, not asking.
"Lift only rises to six." Pointing out the fact, the lack of a 'seven' for either of us to push. "Instead."
Doors opening, on cue and we step out, finding the main lobby, stairs coming out beside the lift and doors, left and right with signage pointing out which apartments are where. Sarah taking the lead, through to the stairs, and climbing the final switchback to seven.
Where there's no exit door, only a smaller then the other lobbies carpeted square, forty-one being the one door here that's- locked double doors opposite, presumably for the lift room, and whatever else -relevant. Sarah muttering, finding the right key on her third attempt, swinging the door open and gesturing me through first.
Leaving me to wander, backing off, letting the apartment speak either positively or negatively for itself.
South and west facing, placed and angled to catch the afternoon and evening sun, perfect for friend to trees me, my growing collection of houseplants. Two of the bedrooms are large, the master identifiable by it's ensuite, plus a small walk in wardrobe. The third bedroom isn't small, just smaller. Second, main bathroom complete with probably the largest bath I've ever seen, claw foot and white, easily long enough to lay down in. Mirror across one whole wall, from waist- sink -height up.
Kitchen you could put a good sized table in, with a wide arch leading through to the lounge, every room here is large, the designer making full use of the fact this three bedroom occupies roughly- a little less, Sarah had commented in the lift riding up -same floor space as four one bedrooms take up below. Double glass doors open up to a roof terrace, a third of which is covered by a wooden framed gazebo, open sides but a solid roof to keep off the rain.
And the view.
Scattered cloud, and a slight breeze, and the idea of being up here in strong winds or thick fog, a storm, far from terrifying the notion is exciting.
There's a smell, and noise though both are somewhat background, and to me- lover of engines, fascinated by the workings of things -it's all a plus. Noise and smell emanating from the container port, seven floors up giving me the perfect view: across the development and a small strip of scrubland, small distance from me to the ports two story wooden razor wire topped fence, equally tall chainlink like a second barrier beyond. From up here I can see it all, trains shunting in the attached yard, cranes loading and shifting, behind them, looming, a large ship at dockside.
And beyond that the blue of water, out towards- eventually -the ocean. The whole vista captivating.
"Can see I've misjudged you." Settling beside me at the terrace railing, like a waist high fence of metal and wood, and I smile because yes, Sarah has, because some of us love the smell of oil and fuel, the noise of heavy machinery at work.
Smile spreading, slightly, as I glance to the side, at her, noticing the- definitely a deeper v now, definitely more cleavage -wider opening at the neck of Sarah's shirt. She's opened it low, far enough down I can clearly see the entire shape of her pink bra cup, breasts nestled within. Flirting? Attempting to charm a sale?
Doubtful she's- boyfriend -interested in me, but that chest is impressive, her shirt moulded, revealing the exact shape of the push up bra.
"Any thoughts, Brooke?"
"Some." Several, none of which are relevant to the apartment we're supposed to be discussing. "It's amazing, of course."
"No no." Shaking her head, smiling. "You're supposed to pick holes in it, make a big deal of the port right fucking there." Waving a hand at the offensive- to her, I suppose -piece of awesomeness. "You're supposed to be knocking the price down, not surrendering your wallet."
Bemused, half frowning at my sudden laugh, her word choice amusing me, so close to my usual train of thought.
"Here." Pulling out and unfolding the single printed sheet from inside my biker jacket. "It's perfect, so I'll take it."
I'm not rich, but. Three Carnivals, plus the fact that, Hayabusa aside I've never splurged money, never been one for material possessions. Even my not so recent holiday to America was part working, a series of shoots across the country, bondage jobs, meaning I ultimately made more then I spent traveling.
Added to which all the time I worked at Owl, the cottage was Forestry Commission owned, part of the site. Like a perk, no rent, no mortgage, almost no bills.
Not rich, but I've saved considerably, enough to afford over fifty percent of the asking price as a deposit, my new job, the salary allowing a mortgage on the rest. The letter I'm handing to Sarah proof of the fact.
The bank manager, saying yes.
"Okay." Reading, nodding. "Excellent." Handing me back the letter. "S' good to find someone actually prepared for once."
"Anything else I can help you with," gesturing around, and I'd gone back to leaning on the railing, enjoying the view. Sarah leaning too, only she's facing the apartment, back slightly arched against the rail.
Showing off that chest, thrusting it upwards and is this flirting?
"Before we head back and fill in the papers?"
"I'm good." Unless you want to be an angel and go chase up some rope, stand over there against one of the gazebo legs, let me bind you to it, see how much better the terrace looks with a little decoration.
Looking at me, tilting her head for a different- better -angle, trying to see my thoughts and she probably wouldn't like the run of them. And besides she's got a boyfriend, so.
"Just the apartment."
"What?"
"Oh." Little laugh escaping, that I spoke. "Nothing."
"Right." Giving me another quizzical look, before shrugging, leading the way back.
Fact is, wrote myself into a hole with that last story 
A good story, if I'm allowed to say so, and I'm happy with how it flowed, with the ending. Why shouldn't Brooke be happy?
But. As I've discovered before, I tend to suck at writing deep relationships in stories, can't ever see me writing any kind of wedding or happily ever after.
So Dorothy had to go, but in a manner that didn't hurt Brooke, which I feel has been achieved? Parting on good terms, both girls happy and striding off into the future.
And me free to write a ton more flirting and bondage hijinks, something Brooke/Plymouth does so well
A good story, if I'm allowed to say so, and I'm happy with how it flowed, with the ending. Why shouldn't Brooke be happy?
But. As I've discovered before, I tend to suck at writing deep relationships in stories, can't ever see me writing any kind of wedding or happily ever after.
So Dorothy had to go, but in a manner that didn't hurt Brooke, which I feel has been achieved? Parting on good terms, both girls happy and striding off into the future.
And me free to write a ton more flirting and bondage hijinks, something Brooke/Plymouth does so well
I think your me time was a success. This seems fresh but familiar. I hope we see more of Sarah. Yes, best tied to the gazebo.
A List of my stories:An Unlikely Savior Completed
Spy Task Force Completed
Tale of an Archer Completed
The Bandit Scout on Newhome updated 05/30/23
-
tickletied84
- Centennial Club
- Posts: 504
- Joined: 7 years ago
- Location: Scotland
Fresh, exciting, yet familiar! Welcome back Plymouth - looking forward to reading more of her adventures.
Hope you're well!
Hope you're well!
Given I've set it up, mentions of a boyfriend and yet the obvious- opening her shirt, showing off the goods
-flirting, I'm sure Sarah will be back.And thanks, definitely feeling better.
Well put
and what I hope for, that familiarity.And yes, I'm well thanks.
-
BlissfulMisery
- Centennial Club
- Posts: 414
- Joined: 3 years ago
Always important to do that. And glad to see you back!RopeBunny wrote: 1 month ago Took some time, me time no writing. And I feel better for it.
But here I am, back.
-
A good summary, I feel. One of those awkward 'it is no-ones fault but it still feels wrong' situations.
Indeed Brooke is cursed - by the fact of being a character in a bondage story and therefore needing to constantly go through trials and tribulations for plot reasons
Really liked this sentence - gets the mood of the scene across in a succinct way.RopeBunny wrote: 1 month ago "Probably shouldn't be sharing, but." A shrug, uncaring as she leans in, elbows resting on glass as I shift to mirror her. Conspirators, plotting.
Tut tut... Get a hold of yourself, Plymouth. It is only the first chapter, after allRopeBunny wrote: 1 month ago Except no, I can behave. Might not want to, might not like to, but I'm here for serious things, not to see how Sarah would look ballgagged.
This whole section (not just the quoted bit) is a strangely compelling bit of negotiation/verbal play/mild flirting.RopeBunny wrote: 1 month ago Asking, not saying she can't. Won't, but making me aware, offering me an out, or the chance to state my level of commitment, so to speak.
Ahh yes the rare and elusive penthouse terrace gazeboRopeBunny wrote: 1 month ago Double glass doors open up to a roof terrace, a third of which is covered by a wooden framed gazebo, open sides but a solid roof to keep off the rain.
(nothing wrong with it, just a funny mental image)Rich enough for a penthouse with too much space for one person, apparently!
To be fair, I think it is less you being 'bad' at it, and more the inherent difficulties of writing a gripping story in the environment of a 'proper' stable relationship. Great to actually be in, but not so ideal for providing the constant twists and turns and drama required of a serialized, somewhat adhoc story.RopeBunny wrote: 1 month ago But. As I've discovered before, I tend to suck at writing deep relationships in stories, can't ever see me writing any kind of wedding or happily ever after.
So Dorothy had to go, but in a manner that didn't hurt Brooke, which I feel has been achieved? Parting on good terms, both girls happy and striding off into the future.
And yes, a split that does not end with Brooke heartbroken or mourning is a pleasant change of pace, given her history
Definitely plenty of that in this chapter!RopeBunny wrote: 1 month ago And me free to write a ton more flirting and bondage hijinks, something Brooke/Plymouth does so well
As always, curious to see what you have planned.
Thanks
Probably part of it here, part of the reason I can't/don't want to write close prolonged intimacy, a lomg term relationship.BlissfulMisery wrote: 1 month ago
Indeed Brooke is cursed - by the fact of being a character in a bondage story and therefore needing to constantly go through trials and tribulations for plot reasons
The way I write is TUGs heavy, because that's what I enjoy writing. Love the dialogue, the random crap I often throw in that has no bearing on the story direction.
But I love the TUGs too, and they come easier if there's no relationship. Brooke is easier to write if she's single.
BlissfulMisery wrote: 1 month agoTut tut... Get a hold of yourself, Plymouth. It is only the first chapter, after allRopeBunny wrote: 1 month ago Except no, I can behave. Might not want to, might not like to, but I'm here for serious things, not to see how Sarah would look ballgagged.
Start as I/she means to go on...?Something I'm aware of, on both counts, and totally a case of artistic license, doing what I want and ignoring what should be realistic.BlissfulMisery wrote: 1 month ago Ahh yes the rare and elusive penthouse terrace gazebo
Rich enough for a penthouse with too much space for one person, apparently!
Wanted Brooke in a penthouse apartment, new territory. But yes a three bedroom in the sky won't be cheap, hence the port and flood plane angle, the knocked down pricing and I'm- fairly
-certain there's some truth there?Not that it matters, not in a story, not so much.
The gazebo. Simply explained by my wanting a pole/post of some kind up on the roof
For obvious reasons
002.
In six days, I start the new job. And in three I move into the apartment, the Commission having given me time, a month to sort various issues: the lack of somewhere to live being highest priority.
First though, today, the old job.
Although, but actually first: this.
"It's like," shaking his head, stood on the far side of my Hayabusa, like a physical divide, "you aren't meant to fuck with God."
"She isn't standard." Patting the fairing, matt black smoothness. Shaking my own head. "Ship sailed years ago."
Which Bobby knows, because we talked it over on the phone, a conversation we've just repeated, almost word for word, in person.
And here's the thing, Bobby's point. Suzuki produced the original- series one -Hayabusa in ninety-nine, and for various reasons it swiftly attained a status akin to Godhood amongst the biker community, so very fast, so much- too much? Never -power. The fact of the series one becoming increasingly rare, years passing and Suzuki updating, series two and so on, each successor somehow less.
The ninety-nine Hayabusa isn't the fastest, but it still maintains and provokes that same awed reaction in places, and some within those same places believe, firmly and adamantly that God should not, can not be bettered.
So don't try.
However. The but in all this, and my counter point. I found this particular God, or Falcon, because Hayabusa means falcon, in pieces. Someone had blown the engine, and sold the bike for spares. Someone else had subsequently attempted a rebuild, only achieving a respray of the fairing, a sourcing of nothing useful, before part exchanging what still amounted to a bare shell.
Which is where I came in, stage left and jaw on the actual floor. Love at first sight, despite the complete lack of over half the original engine, the exhaust, suspension. A shell.
But fuck me I could almost feel it vibrating from across the room, calling to me, softly, whispering dark secrets and promising unrivalled speed.
In order to rebuild the ninety-nine I'd had no choice but to use aftermarket parts. Desecrating God.
And now, with a major service due, more work then I can accomplish with my own knowledge and tools, I've decided why not take everything up another notch. More power, more speed.
Scars on my left leg and side itching, ignored.
"I know." Hands up, surrender as he had on the phone, otherwise what point my coming here. "Just...."
"I know." Nodding, my own half surrender, because I happen to agree, but with regards my Hayabusa it's a mute point. "Can we talk spec, Bobby?"
"Sure Brooke." Smiling now, running his own hand down the fairing, a caress much like you'd do to a lady, taking in her curves. Enjoying the shape of her. "Come into the office, let's fire up the web and see what the Japanese are offering."
An hours lively debate, discussion. My wishlist versus Bobby's knowledge of what can, what shouldn't be done. Leaving the Hayabusa behind, deposit paid, timescale agreed.
Catching two trains, a taxi, heading the wrong way, further from- temporary -home, heading to work.
Bondage modelling. A job, but for me somewhat of a lifestyle choice too, because I enjoy it. Love it, the tight ropes and the struggles. The helplessness. Mostly I work with, shoot with female's, but the industry is male heavy at least on the site owner front. So it's a balancing act.
I don't seek out female sites due to safety- ha, and I'll get around to explaining at some point -concerns, it's solely down to the fact I prefer, date women. On that front I'm not overly attracted to men, and therefore if I'm getting bound and gagged, isn't it nice to find my- pretend -captor sexy?
"Plymouth." Smiling, gesturing me inside. "You made it."
"No thanks to the railway." Shaking my head and stepping through the door. "Sorry again Ted."
"All good."
Ted, because I prefer to work female's sites but don't dislike working with men. Added to which I haven't worked a shoot in close to a year, for various- Carnival -reasons, and Ted's request, his choice of shoot is good, simple.
A perfect first step back in, spoiled by a cancelled train, a half hours wait for the following service, twice as busy so an hour spent standing.
Luckily Ted's schedule could accommodate my lateness.
"Bathroom."
"Great." Contract signed, payment transferred, I head upstairs, leaving Ted to finish setting up in the lounge. Closing the bathroom door but not bothering with the lock. I'll shortly be bound and gagged, helpless, completely at Ted's mercy.
Think his walking in on me here isn't really a concern, in light of that.
Some shoots, a rare few I- the model -pick my own outfit, sometimes within a specified range. Some shoots I'm naked, and so it doesn't matter, and some the site owner has already bought or otherwise prepared something. This time though, it's my own outfit, which following a discussion, my sending a half dozen photos, Ted chose this one.
A nightie, except not really. Or at least not the kind you'd wear to bed. Something to tease, something leaning heavy on the kink.
Black mesh, fishnet design with gaps between the crisscrossing strips of fabric large enough to slip a couple of fingers through. Tee style high neckline and long sleeved, the material elasticated so it moulds and hugs my figure, every curve, every detail picked out. The hem is short, barely covering my butt and beneath I'm naked, no bra or thong, having arranged the various gaps so both nipples are poking through.
Blatant, nothing left to the imagination, all my ink on show. Lighthouse perched atop a rock and sailing through clouds on the outside of my left leg, chained mermaid in side view on the left arm. Sharks jaws, gaping wide just the bones and teeth, surrounding my belly button. A sports bike, anime style bikini clad rider, busty with hair flying back on an invisible wind, medieval lance lowered as she races across my left side lower back.
These four- perhaps my major ink pieces -and more. Left side awash with the blackness of it.
Back into the lounge, finding Ted ready, waiting. Sitting myself down in the single wooden chair, placed in the rooms rough centre, sofas to the back and side, large flatscreen in front.
Small wriggle, getting comfortable, releasing the tension and I don't get nervous before a shoot, don't worry at the fact of being bound by a stranger. The tension is sexual, not fear but arousal, because I'm into it, but need to at least try and remain calm.
Until Ted calls action anyway.
Simple wooden chair, four legs and no arms, a low back of solid wood, dark red seat cushion.
Rope, which I'd always choose if asked. Ted securing my wrists and elbows behind, pinned tightly together the low chair back allowing me to press against it, my arms dropped down and that panel of wood between. Binding my wrists to a crossbeam running between the two back chair legs, binding my chest too, rope above and below to squeeze my F cups, pinning me further to the chair.
Ankles, each one tied high up to a rear chair leg, forcibly spreading my own legs wide, nightie riding up and stretching open, shaved pussy completely on display.
Ted, kneeling in front of me, wand vibrator in hand and I'm so exposed, so completely and totally helpless now. He could do anything.
Instead he follows the plan, obviously. Gently nestling the vibrator between my spread legs, pressing the bulbous tip against my pussy lips and flicking the power on, keeping the setting low.
"Here?"
"Kinda." Squirming, unintentionally, unable to help myself pushing forward, trying to press my crotch more firmly against the low insistent buzzing. Wanting it, wanting to cum. "Not quite."
"No?" Small chuckle, which could be taken as an overstep. Teasing me beyond the privileges of a shoot, especially when Ted adds, like a casual throwaway.
"Maybe I'll change the shoot to a tease and denial, make it a half hour length."
And in some ways it is an overstep, taking advantage of the tied model, a display of power. Quite a common occurrence though: the site owner, rigger, producer. Whatever they want to be called, you'll find banter on most shoots, an easy back and forth between workers, the difference between other workplaces and a porn shoot, a bondage porn shoot, is that the teasing has that extra dimension of power.
The dynamic in play: me tied and helpless, Ted in charge, it lends an edge to the banter, the playfulness of a teasing back and forth skewed to highlight our roles. None of which bothers me, none of which can be changed.
Those in charge, like to be so, like to push and prod the boundaries. And fortunately for them- I'll get around to explaining at some point -I get a thrill out of rolling with it.
"Bastard." Laughter coming out broken, failing- to my ears -to hide the fact of my arousal at the idea. Biting my lip and squirming some more.
Suddenly desperate for an orgasm, only because Ted joked of denying it.
"What about." Professional after all, because that's how reality- mostly -works. "This?"
"Fffuuuuuuuuuccck." Buzzing suddenly right there, pressing into my pussy, contact with my clit. "Oh shit." Gasping out a breath as Ted briefly cranks the power. Testing. Teasing, pushing just a little. "Right there, fucking...."
"Perfect." Shutting it down.
Biting my lip to prevent the frustrated moan escaping. Sitting still whilst Ted wraps thick black tape around the vibrator and my leg, pinning it in place. Reaching in to spread my pussy lips, to manoeuvre the wand tip in close, pressing tight against me. The false intimacy of it all, touching somewhere so private for work, not for sex but for a paid thing.
Using more tape to gag me, wrapping my head a dozen times, tight, first passes going inside my open mouth, the rest over it, Ted smoothing each pass down, making the gag effective. Tidying up my hair and outfit, more false intimacy, touching my breasts, tugging on each nipple in turn to ensure they poke through the gaps.
"Okay?"
"Gggssssfff." Nodding. Waiting whilst Ted uses his connected laptop, wires snaking all over the room for tripods and a mounted light. The large flatscreen coming alive, mirroring Ted's laptop screen as he skates and clicks through various menus, files. Bringing up an old video file, something from his site and I don't recognise the model.
Flatchested, skinny and pale skinned, ring through her nose and messy blonde hair, darker nest semi concealing her pussy. Naked, hogtied and ballgagged on a wooden framed double bed, nondescript room as backdrop.
"And." Pressing play, because on screen the girl moves, slightly. Taking a breath and pretending to wake up. "Rolling."
Taking my time, but not forever. Stirring to life, letting out a small moan as I stretch, flexing, pushing crotch and chest up off the chair but only slightly, the ropes preventing more. Wriggling, testing the limits of my restraint even whilst the blonde does similar and, I can't not watch her, can't not see, be aroused by the linking of our situations.
Moaning as she moans, in solidarity. And it's lucky this isn't a denial shoot.
Because there's no fucking way I'd be able to prevent orgasm under these conditions.
Kick in my crotch as the vibrator comes alive, low, maybe one third power. Ted circling with camera in hand, closeups of my gagged face, drool leaking out and eyes wide.
Putting the camera down and stepping- properly -into shot. Dark blue jeans and black 'ACDC' tee, short off blonde hair and trimmed goatee. Smiling.
Walking a circuit of me, tugging at ropes whilst I squrim in response, moaning. Feeling the buzzing like a slow burn, trickle feeding me pleasure and on screen the blonde has rolled to her side, small breasts bouncing as she thrusts them at me.
Ted leaning in from one side, kissing and licking each of my exposed nipples in turn, already erect, like small rocks. Every inch of me super sensitive, pleasure cranked, coursing through me. Moans becoming whimpers as each nipple is clamped in turn, harsh pinching of metal teeth.
Nodding, quick glance at the screen and a smile for the blonde, who moans back, on her belly again and actively fighting the ropes.
Ted sliding the vibrator power upwards before leaving me, from one third to full, a second kick.
Making a second pass with the handheld, and with an effort I hold out, blinking, shaking my head as though that alone can deny the rising tide of pleasure. Shaking my chest, bouncing. Moaning at the world, at Ted. My complete fucking helplessness, straining at the ropes, shaking my arms and legs, fighting as the blonde is fighting.
Moaning, straining. Slowly losing the battle and I can't climax with Ted so close, circling and taking his sweet fucking time. It isn't in the script.
I'm supposed to climax, loudly- and that won't be a problem -with all the camera's having a clear view. I'm supposed to climax alone, not with company- Ted -in shot. But it's all fast becoming too much, the bondage and the girl on screen mirroring me, pushing and thrusting, small chest bouncing and I can't hold out I can't.
Hurry the fuck up and let me cum.
Begging, and Ted, finally. Stepping back out of shot, a thumbs up.
Counting to ten, fifteen. Twenty. Holding out that small bit longer. A half minutes final pushing and moaning, bucking and wriggling within these tight ropes.
A small victory.
And I let go. Drinking the blonde in, on her side legs spread wide, offering me her pussy. Asking for attention and in my head she's here, in the room, begging for relief I can't give, jealous of mine, of the orgasm fast approaching, denied to her because it's my turn and maybe tomorrow I'll be bound, and she'll be the one screaming. Begging.
Climax ripping through me, screaming into the gag as my body locks up, one foot bouncing, crazy speed whilst I ride the high of the release. A real thing, genuine pleasure taken from my bondage, from the teasing and being forced to watch the blonde, pain from the clamps and the tight ropes. Discomfort.
Everything mixing. Exploding outwards.
Ted leaving me bound, filming the slow sink back down, moans growing quieter head flopping, spent. Blinking, chest rising falling rising but slower, calmer.
Perfect, he tells me over a coffee downstairs, soft rain falling outside and Ted offering a taxi, or a lift. But no, after that I want to walk, to feel the rain, another sensation and besides I work outdoors, some of the time.
It's just rain.
Leaving, smiling because he'd said perfect which is good. And not every shoot ends with a climax, most times I'm left frustrated, walking or riding home body all a mess.
Makes a change.
In six days, I start the new job. And in three I move into the apartment, the Commission having given me time, a month to sort various issues: the lack of somewhere to live being highest priority.
First though, today, the old job.
Although, but actually first: this.
"It's like," shaking his head, stood on the far side of my Hayabusa, like a physical divide, "you aren't meant to fuck with God."
"She isn't standard." Patting the fairing, matt black smoothness. Shaking my own head. "Ship sailed years ago."
Which Bobby knows, because we talked it over on the phone, a conversation we've just repeated, almost word for word, in person.
And here's the thing, Bobby's point. Suzuki produced the original- series one -Hayabusa in ninety-nine, and for various reasons it swiftly attained a status akin to Godhood amongst the biker community, so very fast, so much- too much? Never -power. The fact of the series one becoming increasingly rare, years passing and Suzuki updating, series two and so on, each successor somehow less.
The ninety-nine Hayabusa isn't the fastest, but it still maintains and provokes that same awed reaction in places, and some within those same places believe, firmly and adamantly that God should not, can not be bettered.
So don't try.
However. The but in all this, and my counter point. I found this particular God, or Falcon, because Hayabusa means falcon, in pieces. Someone had blown the engine, and sold the bike for spares. Someone else had subsequently attempted a rebuild, only achieving a respray of the fairing, a sourcing of nothing useful, before part exchanging what still amounted to a bare shell.
Which is where I came in, stage left and jaw on the actual floor. Love at first sight, despite the complete lack of over half the original engine, the exhaust, suspension. A shell.
But fuck me I could almost feel it vibrating from across the room, calling to me, softly, whispering dark secrets and promising unrivalled speed.
In order to rebuild the ninety-nine I'd had no choice but to use aftermarket parts. Desecrating God.
And now, with a major service due, more work then I can accomplish with my own knowledge and tools, I've decided why not take everything up another notch. More power, more speed.
Scars on my left leg and side itching, ignored.
"I know." Hands up, surrender as he had on the phone, otherwise what point my coming here. "Just...."
"I know." Nodding, my own half surrender, because I happen to agree, but with regards my Hayabusa it's a mute point. "Can we talk spec, Bobby?"
"Sure Brooke." Smiling now, running his own hand down the fairing, a caress much like you'd do to a lady, taking in her curves. Enjoying the shape of her. "Come into the office, let's fire up the web and see what the Japanese are offering."
An hours lively debate, discussion. My wishlist versus Bobby's knowledge of what can, what shouldn't be done. Leaving the Hayabusa behind, deposit paid, timescale agreed.
Catching two trains, a taxi, heading the wrong way, further from- temporary -home, heading to work.
Bondage modelling. A job, but for me somewhat of a lifestyle choice too, because I enjoy it. Love it, the tight ropes and the struggles. The helplessness. Mostly I work with, shoot with female's, but the industry is male heavy at least on the site owner front. So it's a balancing act.
I don't seek out female sites due to safety- ha, and I'll get around to explaining at some point -concerns, it's solely down to the fact I prefer, date women. On that front I'm not overly attracted to men, and therefore if I'm getting bound and gagged, isn't it nice to find my- pretend -captor sexy?
"Plymouth." Smiling, gesturing me inside. "You made it."
"No thanks to the railway." Shaking my head and stepping through the door. "Sorry again Ted."
"All good."
Ted, because I prefer to work female's sites but don't dislike working with men. Added to which I haven't worked a shoot in close to a year, for various- Carnival -reasons, and Ted's request, his choice of shoot is good, simple.
A perfect first step back in, spoiled by a cancelled train, a half hours wait for the following service, twice as busy so an hour spent standing.
Luckily Ted's schedule could accommodate my lateness.
"Bathroom."
"Great." Contract signed, payment transferred, I head upstairs, leaving Ted to finish setting up in the lounge. Closing the bathroom door but not bothering with the lock. I'll shortly be bound and gagged, helpless, completely at Ted's mercy.
Think his walking in on me here isn't really a concern, in light of that.
Some shoots, a rare few I- the model -pick my own outfit, sometimes within a specified range. Some shoots I'm naked, and so it doesn't matter, and some the site owner has already bought or otherwise prepared something. This time though, it's my own outfit, which following a discussion, my sending a half dozen photos, Ted chose this one.
A nightie, except not really. Or at least not the kind you'd wear to bed. Something to tease, something leaning heavy on the kink.
Black mesh, fishnet design with gaps between the crisscrossing strips of fabric large enough to slip a couple of fingers through. Tee style high neckline and long sleeved, the material elasticated so it moulds and hugs my figure, every curve, every detail picked out. The hem is short, barely covering my butt and beneath I'm naked, no bra or thong, having arranged the various gaps so both nipples are poking through.
Blatant, nothing left to the imagination, all my ink on show. Lighthouse perched atop a rock and sailing through clouds on the outside of my left leg, chained mermaid in side view on the left arm. Sharks jaws, gaping wide just the bones and teeth, surrounding my belly button. A sports bike, anime style bikini clad rider, busty with hair flying back on an invisible wind, medieval lance lowered as she races across my left side lower back.
These four- perhaps my major ink pieces -and more. Left side awash with the blackness of it.
Back into the lounge, finding Ted ready, waiting. Sitting myself down in the single wooden chair, placed in the rooms rough centre, sofas to the back and side, large flatscreen in front.
Small wriggle, getting comfortable, releasing the tension and I don't get nervous before a shoot, don't worry at the fact of being bound by a stranger. The tension is sexual, not fear but arousal, because I'm into it, but need to at least try and remain calm.
Until Ted calls action anyway.
Simple wooden chair, four legs and no arms, a low back of solid wood, dark red seat cushion.
Rope, which I'd always choose if asked. Ted securing my wrists and elbows behind, pinned tightly together the low chair back allowing me to press against it, my arms dropped down and that panel of wood between. Binding my wrists to a crossbeam running between the two back chair legs, binding my chest too, rope above and below to squeeze my F cups, pinning me further to the chair.
Ankles, each one tied high up to a rear chair leg, forcibly spreading my own legs wide, nightie riding up and stretching open, shaved pussy completely on display.
Ted, kneeling in front of me, wand vibrator in hand and I'm so exposed, so completely and totally helpless now. He could do anything.
Instead he follows the plan, obviously. Gently nestling the vibrator between my spread legs, pressing the bulbous tip against my pussy lips and flicking the power on, keeping the setting low.
"Here?"
"Kinda." Squirming, unintentionally, unable to help myself pushing forward, trying to press my crotch more firmly against the low insistent buzzing. Wanting it, wanting to cum. "Not quite."
"No?" Small chuckle, which could be taken as an overstep. Teasing me beyond the privileges of a shoot, especially when Ted adds, like a casual throwaway.
"Maybe I'll change the shoot to a tease and denial, make it a half hour length."
And in some ways it is an overstep, taking advantage of the tied model, a display of power. Quite a common occurrence though: the site owner, rigger, producer. Whatever they want to be called, you'll find banter on most shoots, an easy back and forth between workers, the difference between other workplaces and a porn shoot, a bondage porn shoot, is that the teasing has that extra dimension of power.
The dynamic in play: me tied and helpless, Ted in charge, it lends an edge to the banter, the playfulness of a teasing back and forth skewed to highlight our roles. None of which bothers me, none of which can be changed.
Those in charge, like to be so, like to push and prod the boundaries. And fortunately for them- I'll get around to explaining at some point -I get a thrill out of rolling with it.
"Bastard." Laughter coming out broken, failing- to my ears -to hide the fact of my arousal at the idea. Biting my lip and squirming some more.
Suddenly desperate for an orgasm, only because Ted joked of denying it.
"What about." Professional after all, because that's how reality- mostly -works. "This?"
"Fffuuuuuuuuuccck." Buzzing suddenly right there, pressing into my pussy, contact with my clit. "Oh shit." Gasping out a breath as Ted briefly cranks the power. Testing. Teasing, pushing just a little. "Right there, fucking...."
"Perfect." Shutting it down.
Biting my lip to prevent the frustrated moan escaping. Sitting still whilst Ted wraps thick black tape around the vibrator and my leg, pinning it in place. Reaching in to spread my pussy lips, to manoeuvre the wand tip in close, pressing tight against me. The false intimacy of it all, touching somewhere so private for work, not for sex but for a paid thing.
Using more tape to gag me, wrapping my head a dozen times, tight, first passes going inside my open mouth, the rest over it, Ted smoothing each pass down, making the gag effective. Tidying up my hair and outfit, more false intimacy, touching my breasts, tugging on each nipple in turn to ensure they poke through the gaps.
"Okay?"
"Gggssssfff." Nodding. Waiting whilst Ted uses his connected laptop, wires snaking all over the room for tripods and a mounted light. The large flatscreen coming alive, mirroring Ted's laptop screen as he skates and clicks through various menus, files. Bringing up an old video file, something from his site and I don't recognise the model.
Flatchested, skinny and pale skinned, ring through her nose and messy blonde hair, darker nest semi concealing her pussy. Naked, hogtied and ballgagged on a wooden framed double bed, nondescript room as backdrop.
"And." Pressing play, because on screen the girl moves, slightly. Taking a breath and pretending to wake up. "Rolling."
Taking my time, but not forever. Stirring to life, letting out a small moan as I stretch, flexing, pushing crotch and chest up off the chair but only slightly, the ropes preventing more. Wriggling, testing the limits of my restraint even whilst the blonde does similar and, I can't not watch her, can't not see, be aroused by the linking of our situations.
Moaning as she moans, in solidarity. And it's lucky this isn't a denial shoot.
Because there's no fucking way I'd be able to prevent orgasm under these conditions.
Kick in my crotch as the vibrator comes alive, low, maybe one third power. Ted circling with camera in hand, closeups of my gagged face, drool leaking out and eyes wide.
Putting the camera down and stepping- properly -into shot. Dark blue jeans and black 'ACDC' tee, short off blonde hair and trimmed goatee. Smiling.
Walking a circuit of me, tugging at ropes whilst I squrim in response, moaning. Feeling the buzzing like a slow burn, trickle feeding me pleasure and on screen the blonde has rolled to her side, small breasts bouncing as she thrusts them at me.
Ted leaning in from one side, kissing and licking each of my exposed nipples in turn, already erect, like small rocks. Every inch of me super sensitive, pleasure cranked, coursing through me. Moans becoming whimpers as each nipple is clamped in turn, harsh pinching of metal teeth.
Nodding, quick glance at the screen and a smile for the blonde, who moans back, on her belly again and actively fighting the ropes.
Ted sliding the vibrator power upwards before leaving me, from one third to full, a second kick.
Making a second pass with the handheld, and with an effort I hold out, blinking, shaking my head as though that alone can deny the rising tide of pleasure. Shaking my chest, bouncing. Moaning at the world, at Ted. My complete fucking helplessness, straining at the ropes, shaking my arms and legs, fighting as the blonde is fighting.
Moaning, straining. Slowly losing the battle and I can't climax with Ted so close, circling and taking his sweet fucking time. It isn't in the script.
I'm supposed to climax, loudly- and that won't be a problem -with all the camera's having a clear view. I'm supposed to climax alone, not with company- Ted -in shot. But it's all fast becoming too much, the bondage and the girl on screen mirroring me, pushing and thrusting, small chest bouncing and I can't hold out I can't.
Hurry the fuck up and let me cum.
Begging, and Ted, finally. Stepping back out of shot, a thumbs up.
Counting to ten, fifteen. Twenty. Holding out that small bit longer. A half minutes final pushing and moaning, bucking and wriggling within these tight ropes.
A small victory.
And I let go. Drinking the blonde in, on her side legs spread wide, offering me her pussy. Asking for attention and in my head she's here, in the room, begging for relief I can't give, jealous of mine, of the orgasm fast approaching, denied to her because it's my turn and maybe tomorrow I'll be bound, and she'll be the one screaming. Begging.
Climax ripping through me, screaming into the gag as my body locks up, one foot bouncing, crazy speed whilst I ride the high of the release. A real thing, genuine pleasure taken from my bondage, from the teasing and being forced to watch the blonde, pain from the clamps and the tight ropes. Discomfort.
Everything mixing. Exploding outwards.
Ted leaving me bound, filming the slow sink back down, moans growing quieter head flopping, spent. Blinking, chest rising falling rising but slower, calmer.
Perfect, he tells me over a coffee downstairs, soft rain falling outside and Ted offering a taxi, or a lift. But no, after that I want to walk, to feel the rain, another sensation and besides I work outdoors, some of the time.
It's just rain.
Leaving, smiling because he'd said perfect which is good. And not every shoot ends with a climax, most times I'm left frustrated, walking or riding home body all a mess.
Makes a change.
Wonderful description of the shoot, @RopeBunny.
A List of my stories:An Unlikely Savior Completed
Spy Task Force Completed
Tale of an Archer Completed
The Bandit Scout on Newhome updated 05/30/23
-
BlissfulMisery
- Centennial Club
- Posts: 414
- Joined: 3 years ago
No, it does not. Was less a criticism and more of a 'seeing the usually invisible hand of the author putting a thumb on the proverbial scales' wink and nod.RopeBunny wrote: 1 month ago
Something I'm aware of, on both counts, and totally a case of artistic license, doing what I want and ignoring what should be realistic.
Wanted Brooke in a penthouse apartment, new territory. But yes a three bedroom in the sky won't be cheap, hence the port and flood plane angle, the knocked down pricing and I'm- fairly
Not that it matters, not in a story, not so much.
Of course - obvious reasonsRopeBunny wrote: 1 month ago The gazebo. Simply explained by my wanting a pole/post of some kind up on the roof
For obvious reasons
-
About how it goes - the eternal paradox/contradictions of power play.RopeBunny wrote: 1 month ago Suddenly desperate for an orgasm, only because Ted joked of denying it.
Seems Plymouth got her 'wish' on it becoming a tease and denial shoot after allRopeBunny wrote: 1 month ago But it's all fast becoming too much, the bondage and the girl on screen mirroring me, pushing and thrusting, small chest bouncing and I can't hold out I can't.
Pleasure, teasing, and pain - as always a question of mixing and matching to ones preferred tastes. But when the cocktail is made right, makes for an unforgettable bondage experience.RopeBunny wrote: 1 month ago genuine pleasure taken from my bondage, from the teasing and being forced to watch the blonde, pain from the clamps and the tight ropes. Discomfort.
Really liked the way you captured the complex interplay of intense sensations in this whole chapter - not unusual of course, but still worth pointing out.
To be fair, feels like the same ends up happening a good portion of the time when it is *not* a shoot - just for different reasonsRopeBunny wrote: 1 month ago And not every shoot ends with a climax, most times I'm left frustrated, walking or riding home body all a mess.
Makes a change.
Thanks
You know, I hadn't of it like thatBlissfulMisery wrote: 1 month agoSeems Plymouth got her 'wish' on it becoming a tease and denial shoot after allRopeBunny wrote: 1 month ago But it's all fast becoming too much, the bondage and the girl on screen mirroring me, pushing and thrusting, small chest bouncing and I can't hold out I can't.
Amused now, with myself, somehow I wrote the shoot into a tease/denial without actively thinking/trying to
003.
Ranger. The role they'd- the Forestry Commission -dangled almost a year ago, attempting to keep me but instead I left. Feeling the pull, the lure of Carnival.
Turns out the Commission don't forget who the hard workers are, or were, though. Because no sooner had Carnival- The Carnival of Chains, to give my creation it's deserved title -wrapped, Sam happy, me happy. Within days of the final curtain an email had landed, inviting me back to headquarters.
To talk about my future.
Ranger. Something new, a role without a base, no one woodland or park to manage. Instead ALL- deliberate capitals -the wood and parkland under Forestry Commission ownership is, technically, mine and those three other Ranger's domain. Travellers, which the name implies, roaming, heading wherever the Commission needs extra hands: covering sickness, easing a heavy workload.
Going to be a fair amount of time spent away, I've been told. Warned, though there isn't currently anyone to miss, to miss me in return. Dorothy has written, providing me an address for correspondence and the whole back and forth, letters, it's all my idea. Because why not be different. We aren't dating, though I miss her, and am missed in turn according to the four pages I received.
But we're doing the right thing, Dorothy free to fly, to enjoy her adventure and me free to live my own.
When she returns, if, there's an unspoken maybe. Nothing either of us is waiting for, but maybe.
Two days after starting. Orientation day one, being shown the equipment we four Rangers mostly know, humour between us, three guys across the spectrum of early thirties to mid fifties and me, varying levels of experience within forestry and interestingly, points scored and by lunchtime I've proven my worth.
I am not the least experienced one there, and despite looking like a- ha -model, the others warm to me by degrees as I continually muck in, lifting and carrying, uncaring of dirt and oil stains. A- group and solo -photoshoot throughout which I try very hard not to be Plymouth, constant internal muttering to keep my chest in, not to give the camera 'that' look, not to lick my lips.
Posing with chainsaws. Carl- in my opinion somewhat excessively using the C word -and me mock sparring, like duelists whilst the other two laugh. Whilst the photographer looks horrified, some young office type girl. Probably never even seen a tree.
Day one ending with a shared meal, swapping stories and it feels good to be accepted, to be recognised for my skills within the field, to be more then a pretty face and an oversized bust the other's glance at when they think I'm not looking.
Honestly.
Day two is paperwork, signing for various things, updating various licenses: chainsaw, tractor, making sure we're- the Commission, behind us -covered. Two of us given postings that afternoon. Henry, the fifty something, sent towards but not quite into London, covering someone's emergency leave. And me, sent to god.
Damn.
Fucking, Scotland.
For ten days. Some parkland is getting an award, a stamp of Royal or government approval, and so headquarters have deemed extra help necessary.
Driving home, to a half unpacked apartment, no time yet to properly fill the space, make it mine. Packing my gunmetal wheeled suitcase, ridged frame. Clothes but not many outside of work stuff, bathroom essentials and laptop, two books.
Rope, vibrator and gags, plastic cable ties and stopping myself there. Can't help wanting to bring the essentials and I almost feel naked without some kind of bondage equipment nearby.
Sending out messages, friends, people I'd made plans with for the coming weekend, a party to celebrate the new apartment. Cancelling and promising to reschedule once I'm back.
Knowing, highly suspecting the party to be a thing cursed, never to actually happen given all the conflicting schedules in play.
Bed, sleeping in fits and starts, the long road infesting my dreams, turning me restless and by oh four hundred I'm awake.
Driving north.
We've been provided with vans, the usual size- think motorway patrol -but jacked slightly at the rear to accommodate oversized and doubled rear tyres, for offroading. Dark green with 'Forestry Commission' on each side plus the logo. Comfortable enough seat and a working DAB radio, sat nav but I prefer my phone, suction cupped holder on the windscreen to my left.
Road atlas, because it just feels like a good idea. In back shelves line one and a half sides, room left for the sliding side door. Someone went to the trouble of measuring and working it all out, because each shelf, or compartment if you prefer, fits a specific tool or item, and there's a mesh net in front of each shelving unit, which I secured before leaving. Elasticated and tight to the wood.
Idle daydream of letting someone pin me on the far side of that crisscrossing mesh, wondering how it would feel. Take the mesh away and use me instead, solid metal fixings on each corner, strong enough to hold me spread eagled- standing -in place, and sure, some stuff will slip out but, is that really the point?
Such thoughts entertaining me as the miles tick slowly by.
Making it to the site: Valley Glenn, late afternoon, deep inside and beyond the Scottish border, so far north I'd expected snow. The park is, predictably given the name, a valley. Small stream running across the floor, fed at one point from above, a waterfall, not wide nor overly energetic but it does cascade down over ten feet of solid drop. Impressive.
Parkland, scattered single or groups of trees, a whole stand- group -of conifer which on closer inspection turn out to be pines. One part of one half of the valley is woodland, the rest open parkland, the whole designated a park.
Run by Molly, late forties her shoulder length brunette hair tied back. Glasses, body beginning to spread, thickness at upper arms and legs, belly though she's still curvy, mostly in shape and the job goes some way to keeping us that way.
Molly, boss for the next ten days, who hates me on sight.
"So you're the Ranger." Looking me up and down from behind her desk, end of shift, closing down. Scowl on her face, annoyance at something, and linking scowl to her dismissive tone most likely she hates me.
Either me the Ranger or me specifically.
"Wasted journey," a shrug, crossing her arms and leaning back, "of course."
"How so?"
"Because we've got it covered. My team. This." Waving, throwing her arm out at me, another dismissal. "Sending you is just headquarters panicking. Unnecessary."
"Well." Shrug of my own, feeling Plymouth stir somewhere in the back.
I am not meek, I do not- unless I'm feeling submissive, and Molly is definitely not calling that side of me to the fore -blink.
Biting back, and fuck her.
"They sent me, and I'm here now. So," Leaning forward, taking up her space and that's something I do well. My canons, like a ships prow, leading the charge and Molly forced to lean back. Retreating.
"Either put me to work, or I'll go find something I." Emphasising the word. Me, not her. "Feel needs doing."
Reaching down, flicking at her piled paperwork.
"Can't say I'll be following your plan. So...."
"Fine." Huffing, someone who hates to lose and tough fucking luck. "Come back tomorrow, oh seven thirty."
"Perfect." Straightening, tone and demeanor returning to normal because I don't want to fight her.
But I won't roll over.
"Whatever you need, Molly." Offering a smile and she blinks. "Put me to work, I've got your back."
"Well...." Thoughtful, half a smile back. "Tomorrow, Brooke."
Off to the hotel, booking in and eating robotically, autopilot too tired to pay any attention to my surroundings. Stripping off and falling into bed, sleeping.
And the following morning I'm up and out, the crisp early air, so far north everything that much colder and me grateful for the bulky orange hi-vis jacket. Driving to Valley Glenn ready to work, ready to be a team player having assumed Molly will of climbed down from yesterday's annoyance.
No.
Obviously she went home, she thought about it, and decided she still hates me.
"The stream needs dredging." Running a finger along the wall mounted map of Valley Glenn, glancing back to smile- somewhat evil -at me. Some kind of punishment detail, she assumes. Hard physical labour and her spending the day mowing, using the ride on, barely any effort.
Only seeming more annoyed at my casual shrug, indifference and I happen to like hard physical labour. Thrive on it, how else was I able to manage and maintain Owl alone? In my case appearances- slim, busty, looking like someone who'd rather sunbath or attend some function then spend the day knee deep in water, raking out weeds and assorted sludge -are definitely deceiving.
"You'll be with Owen and Eddy." Waving a hand towards the office door, the two thirty something men outside, gathering tools and so forth onto a tractor hauled flat bed trailer when I'd walked passed. Both competent looking guys, average build, one of them clean shaven the other sporting a well trimmed moustache.
"And no flirting." Pointing, tone implying a threat, some great weight of a punishment if I so much as kiss, flutter my eyelashes at Owen or Eddy. "What?"
The word flaring, anger rising because now I'm laughing.
"I don't date boys."
"Oh." Shutting up, caught out and there's a wedding ring on her finger, a framed photograph of Molly and what must be the Mr on her desk, couple of kids, but even so she looks me up and down, followed by a quick glance at herself.
"The stream." Into the silence, into Molly's slight apparent shock, as though she's never encountered a girl who prefers girls before? "Got it." Tipping a salute, not mocking. "Boss."
Proving my worth, earning respect I shouldn't have to earn, but uncaring because I don't see it as proving shit, or earning whatever. I'm working, doing my share, hauling the load. All I'm doing is what I did every- damn -day at Owl, and places before that. In truth I don't care what Molly thinks, of me, whether she's trying to break or otherwise prove herself right in some manner.
I work, hard, because I enjoy the work. Forestry is who I am.
As someone once commented: Trees and bondage and bikes, the three pillars of Brooke slash Plymouth, and on any one of those subjects you'll find nothing but total commitment, from me.
Owen and Eddy proving far more welcoming, the three of us falling into the easy familiarity of workers pursuing the same goal. Owen- moustache -being a keen wargammer, miniatures he assembles, paints and pitches in battle against others.
Some local girl he clearly likes, who he stalks from tournament to tournament and who, reading- as a girl myself -between the lines of his various stories quite clearly likes and is stalking him in turn.
No doubt eventually one of them will make a- non dice rolling -move.
Eddy's obsession is tractors, familiar and a shared interest. His interest cranking up a whole five notches once I begin explaining it was me who secured the current JCB deal, all those shiny new Fastracs.
All of this, my continued hard work, is likely why by the end of day two Molly begins to soften. She still can't talk to me without scowling, still can't seem to see me as an equal, as though yes we're both girls in a male dominated industry, yet somehow it's as though she thinks my journey has been easier, and therefore I'm undeserving of her friendship.
Or something?
But there's a truce of sorts.
On the third day, a Saturday, I stay late. Retiring to the hotel at approaching twenty-one hundred hours, barely in time for dinner. Settling for burger and chips, simple and quick to make trying to do the chef a favour. Eating without enthusiasm, tired, spent, and washing the food down with a couple of beers. Propping up the bar and something.
Likely my smell, my general disarray, both the product of a long day spent felling and hauling- by hand -those pine trees Molly had earlier selected for removal. The old formula: dead, dying, diseased, dangerous and crossing.
I'm not approached, by any of the numerous young men and women populating the hotel bar, all dressed and scrubbed, looking fabulous. Heading out and all I want is bed.
One more beer first.
Trudging up the stairs, ignoring and half forgetting the presence of the lift until I step out onto the third- top -floor. Glaring at it as I pass, even opening it's doors. Mocking me, laughing and I consider flipping it off.
Going- walking, because now I don't trust the lift -back down to the van, collecting my axe and shutting the lift up.
"Well played." Finding a smile instead, humour, mock bowing. Wandering off down the corridor to my room.
Opening the door and stepping inside, fumbling for the switch and muttering, sure I left the curtains open this morning? Shouldn't there be more streetlight from outside filtering in?
Blinking, unable to find the switch and by now I've noticed a dim glow emanating from one corner, out of sight, the source and did I leave a bedside light on?
Clomping- boots, impossible to walk quietly -forward and jumping, as she jumps. Both of us equally surprised it seems and.
Yes, I'm tired, possibly too tired to accurately remember the state of curtains and light switches from almost seventeen hours ago. But.
Fucking, but.
I think I'd remember having left a lingerie clad, ballgagged hogtied in metal cuffs lady on my bed.
Wouldn't I?
Ranger. The role they'd- the Forestry Commission -dangled almost a year ago, attempting to keep me but instead I left. Feeling the pull, the lure of Carnival.
Turns out the Commission don't forget who the hard workers are, or were, though. Because no sooner had Carnival- The Carnival of Chains, to give my creation it's deserved title -wrapped, Sam happy, me happy. Within days of the final curtain an email had landed, inviting me back to headquarters.
To talk about my future.
Ranger. Something new, a role without a base, no one woodland or park to manage. Instead ALL- deliberate capitals -the wood and parkland under Forestry Commission ownership is, technically, mine and those three other Ranger's domain. Travellers, which the name implies, roaming, heading wherever the Commission needs extra hands: covering sickness, easing a heavy workload.
Going to be a fair amount of time spent away, I've been told. Warned, though there isn't currently anyone to miss, to miss me in return. Dorothy has written, providing me an address for correspondence and the whole back and forth, letters, it's all my idea. Because why not be different. We aren't dating, though I miss her, and am missed in turn according to the four pages I received.
But we're doing the right thing, Dorothy free to fly, to enjoy her adventure and me free to live my own.
When she returns, if, there's an unspoken maybe. Nothing either of us is waiting for, but maybe.
Two days after starting. Orientation day one, being shown the equipment we four Rangers mostly know, humour between us, three guys across the spectrum of early thirties to mid fifties and me, varying levels of experience within forestry and interestingly, points scored and by lunchtime I've proven my worth.
I am not the least experienced one there, and despite looking like a- ha -model, the others warm to me by degrees as I continually muck in, lifting and carrying, uncaring of dirt and oil stains. A- group and solo -photoshoot throughout which I try very hard not to be Plymouth, constant internal muttering to keep my chest in, not to give the camera 'that' look, not to lick my lips.
Posing with chainsaws. Carl- in my opinion somewhat excessively using the C word -and me mock sparring, like duelists whilst the other two laugh. Whilst the photographer looks horrified, some young office type girl. Probably never even seen a tree.
Day one ending with a shared meal, swapping stories and it feels good to be accepted, to be recognised for my skills within the field, to be more then a pretty face and an oversized bust the other's glance at when they think I'm not looking.
Honestly.
Day two is paperwork, signing for various things, updating various licenses: chainsaw, tractor, making sure we're- the Commission, behind us -covered. Two of us given postings that afternoon. Henry, the fifty something, sent towards but not quite into London, covering someone's emergency leave. And me, sent to god.
Damn.
Fucking, Scotland.
For ten days. Some parkland is getting an award, a stamp of Royal or government approval, and so headquarters have deemed extra help necessary.
Driving home, to a half unpacked apartment, no time yet to properly fill the space, make it mine. Packing my gunmetal wheeled suitcase, ridged frame. Clothes but not many outside of work stuff, bathroom essentials and laptop, two books.
Rope, vibrator and gags, plastic cable ties and stopping myself there. Can't help wanting to bring the essentials and I almost feel naked without some kind of bondage equipment nearby.
Sending out messages, friends, people I'd made plans with for the coming weekend, a party to celebrate the new apartment. Cancelling and promising to reschedule once I'm back.
Knowing, highly suspecting the party to be a thing cursed, never to actually happen given all the conflicting schedules in play.
Bed, sleeping in fits and starts, the long road infesting my dreams, turning me restless and by oh four hundred I'm awake.
Driving north.
We've been provided with vans, the usual size- think motorway patrol -but jacked slightly at the rear to accommodate oversized and doubled rear tyres, for offroading. Dark green with 'Forestry Commission' on each side plus the logo. Comfortable enough seat and a working DAB radio, sat nav but I prefer my phone, suction cupped holder on the windscreen to my left.
Road atlas, because it just feels like a good idea. In back shelves line one and a half sides, room left for the sliding side door. Someone went to the trouble of measuring and working it all out, because each shelf, or compartment if you prefer, fits a specific tool or item, and there's a mesh net in front of each shelving unit, which I secured before leaving. Elasticated and tight to the wood.
Idle daydream of letting someone pin me on the far side of that crisscrossing mesh, wondering how it would feel. Take the mesh away and use me instead, solid metal fixings on each corner, strong enough to hold me spread eagled- standing -in place, and sure, some stuff will slip out but, is that really the point?
Such thoughts entertaining me as the miles tick slowly by.
Making it to the site: Valley Glenn, late afternoon, deep inside and beyond the Scottish border, so far north I'd expected snow. The park is, predictably given the name, a valley. Small stream running across the floor, fed at one point from above, a waterfall, not wide nor overly energetic but it does cascade down over ten feet of solid drop. Impressive.
Parkland, scattered single or groups of trees, a whole stand- group -of conifer which on closer inspection turn out to be pines. One part of one half of the valley is woodland, the rest open parkland, the whole designated a park.
Run by Molly, late forties her shoulder length brunette hair tied back. Glasses, body beginning to spread, thickness at upper arms and legs, belly though she's still curvy, mostly in shape and the job goes some way to keeping us that way.
Molly, boss for the next ten days, who hates me on sight.
"So you're the Ranger." Looking me up and down from behind her desk, end of shift, closing down. Scowl on her face, annoyance at something, and linking scowl to her dismissive tone most likely she hates me.
Either me the Ranger or me specifically.
"Wasted journey," a shrug, crossing her arms and leaning back, "of course."
"How so?"
"Because we've got it covered. My team. This." Waving, throwing her arm out at me, another dismissal. "Sending you is just headquarters panicking. Unnecessary."
"Well." Shrug of my own, feeling Plymouth stir somewhere in the back.
I am not meek, I do not- unless I'm feeling submissive, and Molly is definitely not calling that side of me to the fore -blink.
Biting back, and fuck her.
"They sent me, and I'm here now. So," Leaning forward, taking up her space and that's something I do well. My canons, like a ships prow, leading the charge and Molly forced to lean back. Retreating.
"Either put me to work, or I'll go find something I." Emphasising the word. Me, not her. "Feel needs doing."
Reaching down, flicking at her piled paperwork.
"Can't say I'll be following your plan. So...."
"Fine." Huffing, someone who hates to lose and tough fucking luck. "Come back tomorrow, oh seven thirty."
"Perfect." Straightening, tone and demeanor returning to normal because I don't want to fight her.
But I won't roll over.
"Whatever you need, Molly." Offering a smile and she blinks. "Put me to work, I've got your back."
"Well...." Thoughtful, half a smile back. "Tomorrow, Brooke."
Off to the hotel, booking in and eating robotically, autopilot too tired to pay any attention to my surroundings. Stripping off and falling into bed, sleeping.
And the following morning I'm up and out, the crisp early air, so far north everything that much colder and me grateful for the bulky orange hi-vis jacket. Driving to Valley Glenn ready to work, ready to be a team player having assumed Molly will of climbed down from yesterday's annoyance.
No.
Obviously she went home, she thought about it, and decided she still hates me.
"The stream needs dredging." Running a finger along the wall mounted map of Valley Glenn, glancing back to smile- somewhat evil -at me. Some kind of punishment detail, she assumes. Hard physical labour and her spending the day mowing, using the ride on, barely any effort.
Only seeming more annoyed at my casual shrug, indifference and I happen to like hard physical labour. Thrive on it, how else was I able to manage and maintain Owl alone? In my case appearances- slim, busty, looking like someone who'd rather sunbath or attend some function then spend the day knee deep in water, raking out weeds and assorted sludge -are definitely deceiving.
"You'll be with Owen and Eddy." Waving a hand towards the office door, the two thirty something men outside, gathering tools and so forth onto a tractor hauled flat bed trailer when I'd walked passed. Both competent looking guys, average build, one of them clean shaven the other sporting a well trimmed moustache.
"And no flirting." Pointing, tone implying a threat, some great weight of a punishment if I so much as kiss, flutter my eyelashes at Owen or Eddy. "What?"
The word flaring, anger rising because now I'm laughing.
"I don't date boys."
"Oh." Shutting up, caught out and there's a wedding ring on her finger, a framed photograph of Molly and what must be the Mr on her desk, couple of kids, but even so she looks me up and down, followed by a quick glance at herself.
"The stream." Into the silence, into Molly's slight apparent shock, as though she's never encountered a girl who prefers girls before? "Got it." Tipping a salute, not mocking. "Boss."
Proving my worth, earning respect I shouldn't have to earn, but uncaring because I don't see it as proving shit, or earning whatever. I'm working, doing my share, hauling the load. All I'm doing is what I did every- damn -day at Owl, and places before that. In truth I don't care what Molly thinks, of me, whether she's trying to break or otherwise prove herself right in some manner.
I work, hard, because I enjoy the work. Forestry is who I am.
As someone once commented: Trees and bondage and bikes, the three pillars of Brooke slash Plymouth, and on any one of those subjects you'll find nothing but total commitment, from me.
Owen and Eddy proving far more welcoming, the three of us falling into the easy familiarity of workers pursuing the same goal. Owen- moustache -being a keen wargammer, miniatures he assembles, paints and pitches in battle against others.
Some local girl he clearly likes, who he stalks from tournament to tournament and who, reading- as a girl myself -between the lines of his various stories quite clearly likes and is stalking him in turn.
No doubt eventually one of them will make a- non dice rolling -move.
Eddy's obsession is tractors, familiar and a shared interest. His interest cranking up a whole five notches once I begin explaining it was me who secured the current JCB deal, all those shiny new Fastracs.
All of this, my continued hard work, is likely why by the end of day two Molly begins to soften. She still can't talk to me without scowling, still can't seem to see me as an equal, as though yes we're both girls in a male dominated industry, yet somehow it's as though she thinks my journey has been easier, and therefore I'm undeserving of her friendship.
Or something?
But there's a truce of sorts.
On the third day, a Saturday, I stay late. Retiring to the hotel at approaching twenty-one hundred hours, barely in time for dinner. Settling for burger and chips, simple and quick to make trying to do the chef a favour. Eating without enthusiasm, tired, spent, and washing the food down with a couple of beers. Propping up the bar and something.
Likely my smell, my general disarray, both the product of a long day spent felling and hauling- by hand -those pine trees Molly had earlier selected for removal. The old formula: dead, dying, diseased, dangerous and crossing.
I'm not approached, by any of the numerous young men and women populating the hotel bar, all dressed and scrubbed, looking fabulous. Heading out and all I want is bed.
One more beer first.
Trudging up the stairs, ignoring and half forgetting the presence of the lift until I step out onto the third- top -floor. Glaring at it as I pass, even opening it's doors. Mocking me, laughing and I consider flipping it off.
Going- walking, because now I don't trust the lift -back down to the van, collecting my axe and shutting the lift up.
"Well played." Finding a smile instead, humour, mock bowing. Wandering off down the corridor to my room.
Opening the door and stepping inside, fumbling for the switch and muttering, sure I left the curtains open this morning? Shouldn't there be more streetlight from outside filtering in?
Blinking, unable to find the switch and by now I've noticed a dim glow emanating from one corner, out of sight, the source and did I leave a bedside light on?
Clomping- boots, impossible to walk quietly -forward and jumping, as she jumps. Both of us equally surprised it seems and.
Yes, I'm tired, possibly too tired to accurately remember the state of curtains and light switches from almost seventeen hours ago. But.
Fucking, but.
I think I'd remember having left a lingerie clad, ballgagged hogtied in metal cuffs lady on my bed.
Wouldn't I?
-
BlissfulMisery
- Centennial Club
- Posts: 414
- Joined: 3 years ago
Consciously you decided against the idea, but it seems your subconscious pulled you at least halfway (it was sort of both after all) into that direction 'against your will' - as usual the subconscious is in charge, and one is merely the passenger along for the ride...RopeBunny wrote: 1 month ago Amused now, with myself, somehow I wrote the shoot into a tease/denial without actively thinking/trying to
And yes, parallels to be drawn there with dominance/submission dynamics too
-
Seems like someone (someones?) has a soft spot for more traditional manners of communication.RopeBunny wrote: 1 month ago Dorothy has written, providing me an address for correspondence and the whole back and forth, letters, it's all my idea. Because why not be different. We aren't dating, though I miss her, and am missed in turn according to the four pages I received.
Imagining that scene made me laughRopeBunny wrote: 1 month ago Posing with chainsaws. Carl- in my opinion somewhat excessively using the C word -and me mock sparring, like duelists whilst the other two laugh. Whilst the photographer looks horrified, some young office type girl. Probably never even seen a tree.
Chainsaw licenses? Yep, this story is *definitely* set in Britain (just poking funRopeBunny wrote: 1 month ago updating various licenses: chainsaw, tractor, making sure we're- the Commission, behind us -covered.
- am aware that this would likely be needed in this sort of professional context)Yes indeed, the essentials
Now that is a callback! One of those things you do not remember at all, until it comes up.RopeBunny wrote: 1 month ago Eddy's obsession is tractors, familiar and a shared interest. His interest cranking up a whole five notches once I begin explaining it was me who secured the current JCB deal, all those shiny new Fastracs.
Ah yes, of course, the entirely necessary battle to assert dominance over an inanimate objectRopeBunny wrote: 1 month ago Trudging up the stairs, ignoring and half forgetting the presence of the lift until I step out onto the third- top -floor. Glaring at it as I pass, even opening it's doors. Mocking me, laughing and I consider flipping it off.
Well that is quite the cliffhanger to end on. Hilariously convenient room mix-up? Stalker 2.0 (or 1.0 making a return)? Bondage quota strikes again? I suppose we will be finding out next time...RopeBunny wrote: 1 month ago I think I'd remember having left a lingerie clad, ballgagged hogtied in metal cuffs lady on my bed.
Wouldn't I?
Fast response deserves an equally fast response
Trying to think of new workers, the- largely wasted but corporate deemed necessary -orientation day, what idle people will do to misbehave.
And people, some people can't help mock fighting. The fact of Brooke willingly joining in serving to highlight her bonding with the three- guy -Rangers.
But. To my knowledge there is a specific set of tests, an accredited course and assessment criteria that earns a licence to operate a chainsaw. Legally, which is likely the difference. Using one whilst working, probably insurance requires the certificate.
An old- lost -story, a plot point I didn't follow up on. Tend to write Plymouth as very flirt heavy stories, offering up several opportunities, several interested females for her to bind and gag, be bound and gagged by.
Following which I let the story flow, taking some avenues forwards whilst abandoning others.
As a side note I do recall enjoying the JCB interactions, can't remember why it didn't come to anything now?
Thanks for commenting.
As it was meant toBlissfulMisery wrote: 1 month agoImagining that scene made me laughRopeBunny wrote: 1 month ago Posing with chainsaws. Carl- in my opinion somewhat excessively using the C word -and me mock sparring, like duelists whilst the other two laugh. Whilst the photographer looks horrified, some young office type girl. Probably never even seen a tree.
Trying to think of new workers, the- largely wasted but corporate deemed necessary -orientation day, what idle people will do to misbehave.
And people, some people can't help mock fighting. The fact of Brooke willingly joining in serving to highlight her bonding with the three- guy -Rangers.
So of course things could've changed since I was in a position to know such things, about such things. And I'm fully aware chainsaws are available to buy, that any adult in the UK can buy and use one, without a licence.BlissfulMisery wrote: 1 month agoChainsaw licenses? Yep, this story is *definitely* set in Britain (just poking funRopeBunny wrote: 1 month ago updating various licenses: chainsaw, tractor, making sure we're- the Commission, behind us -covered.
But. To my knowledge there is a specific set of tests, an accredited course and assessment criteria that earns a licence to operate a chainsaw. Legally, which is likely the difference. Using one whilst working, probably insurance requires the certificate.
IndeedBlissfulMisery wrote: 1 month agoNow that is a callback! One of those things you do not remember at all, until it comes up.RopeBunny wrote: 1 month ago Eddy's obsession is tractors, familiar and a shared interest. His interest cranking up a whole five notches once I begin explaining it was me who secured the current JCB deal, all those shiny new Fastracs.
An old- lost -story, a plot point I didn't follow up on. Tend to write Plymouth as very flirt heavy stories, offering up several opportunities, several interested females for her to bind and gag, be bound and gagged by.
Following which I let the story flow, taking some avenues forwards whilst abandoning others.
As a side note I do recall enjoying the JCB interactions, can't remember why it didn't come to anything now?
All will be revealed, soon if I can get s shift onBlissfulMisery wrote: 1 month agoWell that is quite the cliffhanger to end on. Hilariously convenient room mix-up? Stalker 2.0 (or 1.0 making a return)? Bondage quota strikes again? I suppose we will be finding out next time...RopeBunny wrote: 1 month ago I think I'd remember having left a lingerie clad, ballgagged hogtied in metal cuffs lady on my bed.
Wouldn't I?
Thanks for commenting.
004.
Staring.
She stares at me. I stare back. Or perhaps I'm staring at her first?
Forties, darker skin at forearms and lower legs, tanned the rest of her pale. Hair going grey- maybe late forties or even early fifties -curling and tickling her ears, cut short. Large- naturally so, not like mine -breasts barely contained within a black lace bra, G cups and size fourteen curves, butt cheeks swelling out around a black thong. The shape of her, wide at bust and butt, skinny waist and thick thighs.
It looks, to my tutored eye to be self bondage: police style metal cuffs at wrist and ankle, arms pinned behind and a third set of cuffs to complete the hogtie.
Noticing, what light there is- bedside lamp as I'd thought -reflecting off a small ring of keys, on the floor.
Oops.
With an effort she manages to spit the ballgag out, working her lower jaw so the still buckled whole slips down around her neck.
"Get the fuck out."
"Pretty certain you aren't supposed to be able to do that."
"What?" Confused by my calm, interested tone, or my lack of complying with her shouted request. Order.
"The ballgag." Taking a step forward and she squirms, the futility of her position, that all she can do is shout. "You shouldn't be able to spit it out. It," taking another step, which allows me to lean against the wall, the corner where short corridor meets room proper, arms crossed beneath my bust, offering her a small smile.
"The gag shouldn't be loose, you shouldn't be able to spit it out or what's even the point?"
"Point?" Blinking at me, before rapidly shaking her head, to clear it.
"Get the fuck out."
"Of my own room?"
"Of your...." Mouth open, hanging open. "What?"
"This is my room." A shrug. "And you're welcome to stay, but I'm not helping."
"Not helpi...." Word drying up, a confused frown. "What? Helping?"
"Not helping you escape." Another shrug, unable to prevent the smile. "So you'll probably be staying anyway."
Another stare off, watching emotions rise and die on her face, her body language changing, cycling.
Anger, building herself up to shout, again. To demand I leave my own room and I'd like to see her try. Switching out for confusion, a frown, at me, my casual pose, easy confidence tumbling off me.
Glancing around, both of us, seeing the room through our own, each other's eyes: normal, double bed sat high and a cushion style headrest fixed to the wall, small shelves in lieu of bedside tables, a desk with one chair, armchair in the corner and small wardrobe slash shelf unit across one wall. Wall mounted flatscreen, not exactly large.
Seeing too: the complete lack of anything denoting the space as mine, until you- I -open the wardrobe, revealing clothes, my suitcase properly stowed away. Her stuff still on the desk, overnight bag open, clothes and bathroom stuff spilling out.
Seeing the revelation in her eyes: my room, a single nod to acknowledge the point, the apparent fuck up at reception, double booking.
"Fuck."
"Indeed." Can't help the grin, amusement at our positions, that she can't simply get up and leave, that she's helpless in a strangers room and.
Isn't that supposed to be my thing?
Feeling my nipples tingle, my pussy throb as she bites her lip, legs pressed together and a brief squrim. Obvious arousal, that someone can see her, is watching her in this bound state, that furthermore that same someone appears to have power over her.
That, on one level this is no longer self bondage, but real bondage.
"I could." Tentative, offering her opinion. "Escape without your help."
"Fucking." Brief laughter. "Doubt it." Nodding downwards. "Your keys fell onto the floor."
"Fuck." Laughing too, release of tension her body spasming, all over shiver.
"Don't suppose," stretching, pushing that high chest towards me, eye contact and my turn to shiver as I feel the charge jump. "You'd help a lady out?"
"Sure." Stepping forward and bending down, collecting the keys, tossing them onto the bed.
"There."
"Great, than.... Hey." Voice climbing in sudden surprise as I come around the bed, leaning in. "What are you...?"
"I need a shower." Making a show of smelling my armpit. Fuck. Running a hand through matted and sawdust infused hair. "So."
Dropping to my knees on the floor, leaning in elbows and forearms on the bed, hands right up close to her, my face close too.
"I'll shower, you can. Well." Smiling. "Enjoy struggling, basically. And I'll fix the gag for you before I go wash."
"Oh. Um." Looking at me, eyes darting around though, like she's looking for a way out, a way to refuse.
And all whilst I can smell her arousal, see the erect budding of her nipples.
She's into it, wants it, to be gagged and abandoned to her bondage. She's likely just too shy to ask, or admit it.
"Good." Nodding as though she actually did, admit it. And no protests as I reach out, opening her mouth to accept the ballgag. Sighing as she bites down, turning into a low moan as I reach around, F cups pressing into her face whilst I tighten the straps.
Preventing her from spitting it out again.
"Well." Kissing her cheek. "Enjoy."
"Ggggssssssfffmmmmnn." Slow nod, eyes gone half lidded, losing herself to it all.
Taking my time in the shower, in part because I'd promised myself this, a long soak, easing tired muscles.
Giving her time, too though. Letting her struggle, finding and testing the limits of her self bondage. Time to hunt for the keys, to squirm and roll across the bed, bucking and humping, breasts bouncing muscles working.
Picturing her, hands straying to breast and crotch, imagining the sweat she's building, the moaning, becoming more so as she fails to escape. Frustration building, which if she's anything like me will just build arousal, a vicious loop. Working herself up.
Or.
Gasping, plunging two fingers inside myself at the thought: is she free? Will she slip inside the bathroom, joining me, bringing those cuffs, the gag. Taking me, cuffing me. Or instead waiting in the room, cuffs in hand and ordering me onto the bed, cuffing and gagging me.
Keeping me. Using me.
No. Finally done with the shower, washed and clean, wasting time on a daydream, time to shut off the water and dry off.
Opening the door to find- ha -the keys, on the floor again. And on a whim, feeling cheeky I drop the towel, coming naked around the bed, watching her body stiffen at the sound of my soft footfalls.
Watching her eyes widen at the sight of me, inked, toned, canons bouncing with each step, leading the way as I climb up and lay down beside her, on my back one arm bent up underneath my head, the other holding up the keys, dangling them in front of her face.
"Can't help but wonder how you manage to escape, normally." Rolling my head to grin at her. "When you aren't breaking into someone else's room?"
"Ppppgggdddd." Shaking herself at me, not angry, not frustrated mad, but frustrated because I'm teasing and she can't stop me. "Gggrrrssstt dddfffgggmm fffppmm."
"Well." Looking thoughtful, as though what she'd said actually makes sense. "Maybe, but the fact is you're still cuffed. And."
Darting in to kiss her gagged lips, taking advantage.
"In my opinion you look really fucking cute, too."
"Mmmmffffssslllmm." Pushing her chest out, shaking it. Eyes constantly straying to mine.
"Okay." Nodding, sensing the limit approaching, no clue of her experience and it's a fine line between playing and taking advantage. "Hold on."
Rolling in close, reaching around to loosen and pull off her gag, tossing it behind me but remaining close, on my side our breasts lightly touching, feeling the tickle of her bra lace against my nipples. Faces close.
"Better?"
"I'd." Working her jaw, finding a smile to show she's playing, not being mean. "Like to see you do better."
"Better?"
"At fucking escaping." Stretching, as though to emphasise her point. "Shit isn't easy."
"Okay."
"Oh." Blinking. "Kay?"
"Sure." Tingles hitting me like a kick to the belly, suddenly my whole body is covered in them, surrendering to this stranger. "I'll get you out, and we'll see if I do any better."
Staring at me as I smile back, doing a better job of remaining calm, her own chest rising falling rising, flood of adrenaline, thinking no doubt of what's being discussed.
"I can." Licking her lips. "Gag, you?"
"I'll be gagging myself." Suppressing a shiver.
"And." Nodding, still breathing too fast, another lick. "If you don't get out then...."
"Then...."
Leaning in, slow, deliberate. Licking a slow trail up her belly and over one bra clad breast, feeling her nipple hard against my tongue.
"I suppose whatever happens won't be up to me." Looking her in the eye, losing the fight and this time the shiver erupting down the length of me. "Will it."
Not a question, and I did say I'd explain later, so.
How many adult models actually, really love the work? As a percentage, and no I don't have a clue either. But, I do. Love bondage, the helplessness gives me a thrill, an adrenaline rush and like any good addict I'm afraid I chase that dragon, all the way into the cave, asking for more.
Please.
It isn't true helplessness if you can escape, and so as a rule I only want tight bondage, real, bondage. Even on a shoot I want- demand, insist -on being bound to the point escape is impossible. I don't want to escape, and worse- dangerous -I don't want to be freed, either.
I am aware, of the danger, of the stupidity of allowing virtual strangers- most site owners aren't friends, not on first meeting, plus there's others, like now, tonight in this hotel room -to bind and gag me. But I don't care.
I'm a surrender junkie, a rope whore.
Bind me. Gag me. Own and abuse me, and I'll come back tomorrow, asking for more.
Have I been taken advantage of? Yes, silly question. Putting yourself at the mercy of others, constantly, eventually someone's bound- ha -to overstep the line of decency, to take advantage.
Have I learned my lesson? No, silly question. Although I am- occasionally -careful, more aware of consequences, which is Kira's fault.
My stalker. A problem dealt with. A long story.
So. Offering to place myself in bondage, with this older lady. Dangerous, but I can hear the dragon calling, can see him, just around that next bend.
Time to start chasing.
"Meant to put these on a string." Holding up the keys, me kneeling on the bed, cuffs and ballgag close by and her, the older lady, still dressed in her lingerie, standing. Fidgeting. "So if they fall on the floor, you could reel them back."
"Right." Flashed smile. "Fuck."
"Indeed." Smiling back. Not bothering with string, though, because she didn't, and because of the dragon.
Placing the keyring down behind me, not close to the edge, on the half of the bed I don't plan laying on.
"Give me ten minutes."
"Ten?"
"To escape." Holding the gag in both hands, looking at her. "Ten seems fair, don't you think?"
"I." Shaking herself, pulling attention away from the nakedness of me. Nodding. "Ten, right. And...."
"And whatever." An easy shrug, hiding the shiver of willing surrender. "But I've got work in the morning."
"Work...." Definitely having trouble focusing, making me smile.
"Right." Shaking herself again. "Me too."
"Okay." As far as agreements go it's pretty fucking thin, but since when did I care.
Buckling on the gag, moaning quietly as I pull the strap tight, leather digging in either side of my jaw. Legs out in front, pressed together as I click the first set of cuffs into place, locking my ankles.
Glancing up, seeing her gaze fixed on what I'm doing, sat down now in the chair, legs spread- unconsciously -wide.
Locking half of the third cuff around my ankle cuffs, that short chain. Nodding, staring at the ceiling my attention elsewhere, cuffing my wrists behind by feel, taking my time, clicking each wrist tight, and another click to make sure, metal digging in at four points now. Already secure but not finished.
Laying down, flopping, controlled fall. Bending my legs backwards, reaching with my hands, arching my back. Moaning at the effort and it's been awhile since I locked myself up.
Success, though, finding the loose cuff and hooking the open metal hoop around my wrist cuffs, the short metal chain again. Clicking it closed, tight.
Done.
"Dddtttfffmm." Blinking at her. "Ggpppfff."
"What?"
"Dddtttm fffttsssmmmnnnnn." Shaking my cuffed limbs, laid on my belly. Start the fucking clock. "Pppffgggmm."
"Oh." Laughing. "Right. Um." Glancing around, standing and retrieving a phone from the desk. "So." Clicking, swiping. Waving her screen at me the digits 10:00 visible. "Carry on."
And unfortunately- for us both -I'm good at this, at bondage. Which means escaping isn't hard.
For five minutes though I let her watch me. Plymouth, performing for an audience of one. Bouncing and rolling atop the bed, from belly to laid on my side, facing her. Bucking and squirming. Fighting the cuffs, moaning, straining. Thrusting out my chest in counterpart to flexing my arms and legs, pushing both limbs backwards and wriggling.
Checking on the keys, making sure but for now leaving them alone.
Watching her, watching the obvious arousal climb higher. Unable to sit still, hand straying to her crotch.
Three times, standing and taking a hesitant step forward, backing up and sitting down.
"Wait." Holding out one hand, stop and me now with keys in hand, legs flopped lose of the hogtie, the first- connecting, the hogtie cuff -pair of cuffs off, tossed from the bed.
"Please." Standing as I pause, watching her. Stepping closer and this time not stopping, climbing up onto the bed, reaching over me, taking the keys and I don't stop her.
Throbbing in my pussy at the fact, the willing surrender of my freedom, legs rubbed together to enhance the sensation.
"I." Unbuckling the gag, tossing it, rolling away from me to place the keys on a bedside shelf and rolling back, close but not touching, one arm folded and propping her head up. Looking at me, something like hunger.
"Can we talk?"
"About the fact you're kidnapping me?" Laughing as she jumps, guilt flashing across her face, making to roll back towards the keys.
"Relax." Stopping her with the word, my smile. "It's fine."
"I could free you, though?"
"Not when you clearly don't want to." Shake of my head, a stretch, wiggling my fingers. "I'm good, but...."
"But?"
"How about you strip too?"
Which she does, breathing a little fast, blush climbing her cheeks whilst reaching around to unstrap the bra, wriggling out of her thong.
Laying on her back, breathing out and I wriggle closer, pressing myself into her side, one arm automatically slipping underneath me, pinning me to her. Head nestled on her shoulder, one leg forced between my two, heat of her upper thigh on my damp crotch.
"I'm only staying one night."
"Then stay here." Kissing her neck, sighing as her free hand finds my breast, tracing idle patterns, skating and circling the already erect nipple. "If you want."
"Please." A nod, rolling- slowly, unsure but willing -in to face me properly.
And slowly, building up to it, we fuck.
Dry humping, for an age all we do is grind, and kiss. Her hands all over me, exploring breasts and pussy, stroking the length of me from neck to upper thighs. Gripping my butt and rolling, bringing me ontop as she pivots over onto her back.
Scooting up the bed, at my asking, leaning back and spreading her legs, and me wriggling to lay between them. Using my tongue on her pussy, licking and teasing, getting her off. Laid on my side so she can see my breasts, using her foot towards the end, teasing at my nipple with her toes.
Coming to me post orgasm, taking charge, pushing me down and climbing ontop, one hand snaking down and thrusting inside, humping me, her weight pressing me down, other hand groping and squeezing at my breast. Humping, fingers diving in and out, fast and hard, no mercy. Racing me to it, covering my lips in kisses.
Body rocking atop mine, causing me to rock and bounce, F cups bouncing and jiggling. Moaning, panting, cuffs digging in underneath, pinned by her weight and mine, wrists rubbed raw by the humping motion and tomorrow I'll have marks that won't heal until the evening.
"Cumming." Panting, breathless. "Cumming, I'm. Fuck, fuck fuck fuck oh shit."
"Do it." Grinning down at me, more kisses, tilting and twisting her head, lips finding my nipple. "Cum for me."
Laughing- joy -as I scream, body locking up.
Rolling off me as I climb slowly down, removing the cuffs and pulling me into a hug. Slow kisses I return.
Using the bathroom, back into bed and cuddling, murmured words about alarms and in the morning as mine goes off she stirs, dis-entangling herself from me, rolling over and dropping back to sleep. Smiling.
Gone when I return that evening.
Leaving a single sheet of paper, hotel headed, the top sheet of the notepad on the desk.
'Wendy x'
Followed by an email address but no phone number, and.
'Can I see you again?'
Staring.
She stares at me. I stare back. Or perhaps I'm staring at her first?
Forties, darker skin at forearms and lower legs, tanned the rest of her pale. Hair going grey- maybe late forties or even early fifties -curling and tickling her ears, cut short. Large- naturally so, not like mine -breasts barely contained within a black lace bra, G cups and size fourteen curves, butt cheeks swelling out around a black thong. The shape of her, wide at bust and butt, skinny waist and thick thighs.
It looks, to my tutored eye to be self bondage: police style metal cuffs at wrist and ankle, arms pinned behind and a third set of cuffs to complete the hogtie.
Noticing, what light there is- bedside lamp as I'd thought -reflecting off a small ring of keys, on the floor.
Oops.
With an effort she manages to spit the ballgag out, working her lower jaw so the still buckled whole slips down around her neck.
"Get the fuck out."
"Pretty certain you aren't supposed to be able to do that."
"What?" Confused by my calm, interested tone, or my lack of complying with her shouted request. Order.
"The ballgag." Taking a step forward and she squirms, the futility of her position, that all she can do is shout. "You shouldn't be able to spit it out. It," taking another step, which allows me to lean against the wall, the corner where short corridor meets room proper, arms crossed beneath my bust, offering her a small smile.
"The gag shouldn't be loose, you shouldn't be able to spit it out or what's even the point?"
"Point?" Blinking at me, before rapidly shaking her head, to clear it.
"Get the fuck out."
"Of my own room?"
"Of your...." Mouth open, hanging open. "What?"
"This is my room." A shrug. "And you're welcome to stay, but I'm not helping."
"Not helpi...." Word drying up, a confused frown. "What? Helping?"
"Not helping you escape." Another shrug, unable to prevent the smile. "So you'll probably be staying anyway."
Another stare off, watching emotions rise and die on her face, her body language changing, cycling.
Anger, building herself up to shout, again. To demand I leave my own room and I'd like to see her try. Switching out for confusion, a frown, at me, my casual pose, easy confidence tumbling off me.
Glancing around, both of us, seeing the room through our own, each other's eyes: normal, double bed sat high and a cushion style headrest fixed to the wall, small shelves in lieu of bedside tables, a desk with one chair, armchair in the corner and small wardrobe slash shelf unit across one wall. Wall mounted flatscreen, not exactly large.
Seeing too: the complete lack of anything denoting the space as mine, until you- I -open the wardrobe, revealing clothes, my suitcase properly stowed away. Her stuff still on the desk, overnight bag open, clothes and bathroom stuff spilling out.
Seeing the revelation in her eyes: my room, a single nod to acknowledge the point, the apparent fuck up at reception, double booking.
"Fuck."
"Indeed." Can't help the grin, amusement at our positions, that she can't simply get up and leave, that she's helpless in a strangers room and.
Isn't that supposed to be my thing?
Feeling my nipples tingle, my pussy throb as she bites her lip, legs pressed together and a brief squrim. Obvious arousal, that someone can see her, is watching her in this bound state, that furthermore that same someone appears to have power over her.
That, on one level this is no longer self bondage, but real bondage.
"I could." Tentative, offering her opinion. "Escape without your help."
"Fucking." Brief laughter. "Doubt it." Nodding downwards. "Your keys fell onto the floor."
"Fuck." Laughing too, release of tension her body spasming, all over shiver.
"Don't suppose," stretching, pushing that high chest towards me, eye contact and my turn to shiver as I feel the charge jump. "You'd help a lady out?"
"Sure." Stepping forward and bending down, collecting the keys, tossing them onto the bed.
"There."
"Great, than.... Hey." Voice climbing in sudden surprise as I come around the bed, leaning in. "What are you...?"
"I need a shower." Making a show of smelling my armpit. Fuck. Running a hand through matted and sawdust infused hair. "So."
Dropping to my knees on the floor, leaning in elbows and forearms on the bed, hands right up close to her, my face close too.
"I'll shower, you can. Well." Smiling. "Enjoy struggling, basically. And I'll fix the gag for you before I go wash."
"Oh. Um." Looking at me, eyes darting around though, like she's looking for a way out, a way to refuse.
And all whilst I can smell her arousal, see the erect budding of her nipples.
She's into it, wants it, to be gagged and abandoned to her bondage. She's likely just too shy to ask, or admit it.
"Good." Nodding as though she actually did, admit it. And no protests as I reach out, opening her mouth to accept the ballgag. Sighing as she bites down, turning into a low moan as I reach around, F cups pressing into her face whilst I tighten the straps.
Preventing her from spitting it out again.
"Well." Kissing her cheek. "Enjoy."
"Ggggssssssfffmmmmnn." Slow nod, eyes gone half lidded, losing herself to it all.
Taking my time in the shower, in part because I'd promised myself this, a long soak, easing tired muscles.
Giving her time, too though. Letting her struggle, finding and testing the limits of her self bondage. Time to hunt for the keys, to squirm and roll across the bed, bucking and humping, breasts bouncing muscles working.
Picturing her, hands straying to breast and crotch, imagining the sweat she's building, the moaning, becoming more so as she fails to escape. Frustration building, which if she's anything like me will just build arousal, a vicious loop. Working herself up.
Or.
Gasping, plunging two fingers inside myself at the thought: is she free? Will she slip inside the bathroom, joining me, bringing those cuffs, the gag. Taking me, cuffing me. Or instead waiting in the room, cuffs in hand and ordering me onto the bed, cuffing and gagging me.
Keeping me. Using me.
No. Finally done with the shower, washed and clean, wasting time on a daydream, time to shut off the water and dry off.
Opening the door to find- ha -the keys, on the floor again. And on a whim, feeling cheeky I drop the towel, coming naked around the bed, watching her body stiffen at the sound of my soft footfalls.
Watching her eyes widen at the sight of me, inked, toned, canons bouncing with each step, leading the way as I climb up and lay down beside her, on my back one arm bent up underneath my head, the other holding up the keys, dangling them in front of her face.
"Can't help but wonder how you manage to escape, normally." Rolling my head to grin at her. "When you aren't breaking into someone else's room?"
"Ppppgggdddd." Shaking herself at me, not angry, not frustrated mad, but frustrated because I'm teasing and she can't stop me. "Gggrrrssstt dddfffgggmm fffppmm."
"Well." Looking thoughtful, as though what she'd said actually makes sense. "Maybe, but the fact is you're still cuffed. And."
Darting in to kiss her gagged lips, taking advantage.
"In my opinion you look really fucking cute, too."
"Mmmmffffssslllmm." Pushing her chest out, shaking it. Eyes constantly straying to mine.
"Okay." Nodding, sensing the limit approaching, no clue of her experience and it's a fine line between playing and taking advantage. "Hold on."
Rolling in close, reaching around to loosen and pull off her gag, tossing it behind me but remaining close, on my side our breasts lightly touching, feeling the tickle of her bra lace against my nipples. Faces close.
"Better?"
"I'd." Working her jaw, finding a smile to show she's playing, not being mean. "Like to see you do better."
"Better?"
"At fucking escaping." Stretching, as though to emphasise her point. "Shit isn't easy."
"Okay."
"Oh." Blinking. "Kay?"
"Sure." Tingles hitting me like a kick to the belly, suddenly my whole body is covered in them, surrendering to this stranger. "I'll get you out, and we'll see if I do any better."
Staring at me as I smile back, doing a better job of remaining calm, her own chest rising falling rising, flood of adrenaline, thinking no doubt of what's being discussed.
"I can." Licking her lips. "Gag, you?"
"I'll be gagging myself." Suppressing a shiver.
"And." Nodding, still breathing too fast, another lick. "If you don't get out then...."
"Then...."
Leaning in, slow, deliberate. Licking a slow trail up her belly and over one bra clad breast, feeling her nipple hard against my tongue.
"I suppose whatever happens won't be up to me." Looking her in the eye, losing the fight and this time the shiver erupting down the length of me. "Will it."
Not a question, and I did say I'd explain later, so.
How many adult models actually, really love the work? As a percentage, and no I don't have a clue either. But, I do. Love bondage, the helplessness gives me a thrill, an adrenaline rush and like any good addict I'm afraid I chase that dragon, all the way into the cave, asking for more.
Please.
It isn't true helplessness if you can escape, and so as a rule I only want tight bondage, real, bondage. Even on a shoot I want- demand, insist -on being bound to the point escape is impossible. I don't want to escape, and worse- dangerous -I don't want to be freed, either.
I am aware, of the danger, of the stupidity of allowing virtual strangers- most site owners aren't friends, not on first meeting, plus there's others, like now, tonight in this hotel room -to bind and gag me. But I don't care.
I'm a surrender junkie, a rope whore.
Bind me. Gag me. Own and abuse me, and I'll come back tomorrow, asking for more.
Have I been taken advantage of? Yes, silly question. Putting yourself at the mercy of others, constantly, eventually someone's bound- ha -to overstep the line of decency, to take advantage.
Have I learned my lesson? No, silly question. Although I am- occasionally -careful, more aware of consequences, which is Kira's fault.
My stalker. A problem dealt with. A long story.
So. Offering to place myself in bondage, with this older lady. Dangerous, but I can hear the dragon calling, can see him, just around that next bend.
Time to start chasing.
"Meant to put these on a string." Holding up the keys, me kneeling on the bed, cuffs and ballgag close by and her, the older lady, still dressed in her lingerie, standing. Fidgeting. "So if they fall on the floor, you could reel them back."
"Right." Flashed smile. "Fuck."
"Indeed." Smiling back. Not bothering with string, though, because she didn't, and because of the dragon.
Placing the keyring down behind me, not close to the edge, on the half of the bed I don't plan laying on.
"Give me ten minutes."
"Ten?"
"To escape." Holding the gag in both hands, looking at her. "Ten seems fair, don't you think?"
"I." Shaking herself, pulling attention away from the nakedness of me. Nodding. "Ten, right. And...."
"And whatever." An easy shrug, hiding the shiver of willing surrender. "But I've got work in the morning."
"Work...." Definitely having trouble focusing, making me smile.
"Right." Shaking herself again. "Me too."
"Okay." As far as agreements go it's pretty fucking thin, but since when did I care.
Buckling on the gag, moaning quietly as I pull the strap tight, leather digging in either side of my jaw. Legs out in front, pressed together as I click the first set of cuffs into place, locking my ankles.
Glancing up, seeing her gaze fixed on what I'm doing, sat down now in the chair, legs spread- unconsciously -wide.
Locking half of the third cuff around my ankle cuffs, that short chain. Nodding, staring at the ceiling my attention elsewhere, cuffing my wrists behind by feel, taking my time, clicking each wrist tight, and another click to make sure, metal digging in at four points now. Already secure but not finished.
Laying down, flopping, controlled fall. Bending my legs backwards, reaching with my hands, arching my back. Moaning at the effort and it's been awhile since I locked myself up.
Success, though, finding the loose cuff and hooking the open metal hoop around my wrist cuffs, the short metal chain again. Clicking it closed, tight.
Done.
"Dddtttfffmm." Blinking at her. "Ggpppfff."
"What?"
"Dddtttm fffttsssmmmnnnnn." Shaking my cuffed limbs, laid on my belly. Start the fucking clock. "Pppffgggmm."
"Oh." Laughing. "Right. Um." Glancing around, standing and retrieving a phone from the desk. "So." Clicking, swiping. Waving her screen at me the digits 10:00 visible. "Carry on."
And unfortunately- for us both -I'm good at this, at bondage. Which means escaping isn't hard.
For five minutes though I let her watch me. Plymouth, performing for an audience of one. Bouncing and rolling atop the bed, from belly to laid on my side, facing her. Bucking and squirming. Fighting the cuffs, moaning, straining. Thrusting out my chest in counterpart to flexing my arms and legs, pushing both limbs backwards and wriggling.
Checking on the keys, making sure but for now leaving them alone.
Watching her, watching the obvious arousal climb higher. Unable to sit still, hand straying to her crotch.
Three times, standing and taking a hesitant step forward, backing up and sitting down.
"Wait." Holding out one hand, stop and me now with keys in hand, legs flopped lose of the hogtie, the first- connecting, the hogtie cuff -pair of cuffs off, tossed from the bed.
"Please." Standing as I pause, watching her. Stepping closer and this time not stopping, climbing up onto the bed, reaching over me, taking the keys and I don't stop her.
Throbbing in my pussy at the fact, the willing surrender of my freedom, legs rubbed together to enhance the sensation.
"I." Unbuckling the gag, tossing it, rolling away from me to place the keys on a bedside shelf and rolling back, close but not touching, one arm folded and propping her head up. Looking at me, something like hunger.
"Can we talk?"
"About the fact you're kidnapping me?" Laughing as she jumps, guilt flashing across her face, making to roll back towards the keys.
"Relax." Stopping her with the word, my smile. "It's fine."
"I could free you, though?"
"Not when you clearly don't want to." Shake of my head, a stretch, wiggling my fingers. "I'm good, but...."
"But?"
"How about you strip too?"
Which she does, breathing a little fast, blush climbing her cheeks whilst reaching around to unstrap the bra, wriggling out of her thong.
Laying on her back, breathing out and I wriggle closer, pressing myself into her side, one arm automatically slipping underneath me, pinning me to her. Head nestled on her shoulder, one leg forced between my two, heat of her upper thigh on my damp crotch.
"I'm only staying one night."
"Then stay here." Kissing her neck, sighing as her free hand finds my breast, tracing idle patterns, skating and circling the already erect nipple. "If you want."
"Please." A nod, rolling- slowly, unsure but willing -in to face me properly.
And slowly, building up to it, we fuck.
Dry humping, for an age all we do is grind, and kiss. Her hands all over me, exploring breasts and pussy, stroking the length of me from neck to upper thighs. Gripping my butt and rolling, bringing me ontop as she pivots over onto her back.
Scooting up the bed, at my asking, leaning back and spreading her legs, and me wriggling to lay between them. Using my tongue on her pussy, licking and teasing, getting her off. Laid on my side so she can see my breasts, using her foot towards the end, teasing at my nipple with her toes.
Coming to me post orgasm, taking charge, pushing me down and climbing ontop, one hand snaking down and thrusting inside, humping me, her weight pressing me down, other hand groping and squeezing at my breast. Humping, fingers diving in and out, fast and hard, no mercy. Racing me to it, covering my lips in kisses.
Body rocking atop mine, causing me to rock and bounce, F cups bouncing and jiggling. Moaning, panting, cuffs digging in underneath, pinned by her weight and mine, wrists rubbed raw by the humping motion and tomorrow I'll have marks that won't heal until the evening.
"Cumming." Panting, breathless. "Cumming, I'm. Fuck, fuck fuck fuck oh shit."
"Do it." Grinning down at me, more kisses, tilting and twisting her head, lips finding my nipple. "Cum for me."
Laughing- joy -as I scream, body locking up.
Rolling off me as I climb slowly down, removing the cuffs and pulling me into a hug. Slow kisses I return.
Using the bathroom, back into bed and cuddling, murmured words about alarms and in the morning as mine goes off she stirs, dis-entangling herself from me, rolling over and dropping back to sleep. Smiling.
Gone when I return that evening.
Leaving a single sheet of paper, hotel headed, the top sheet of the notepad on the desk.
'Wendy x'
Followed by an email address but no phone number, and.
'Can I see you again?'
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BlissfulMisery
- Centennial Club
- Posts: 414
- Joined: 3 years ago
I would not read much into the speed of my responses given my sporadic visits here (for various boring real life reasons), but I do appreciate the sentiment!
Yes, fairly certain you are correct, just could not resist making the (bad) joke.RopeBunny wrote: 1 month ago
But. To my knowledge there is a specific set of tests, an accredited course and assessment criteria that earns a licence to operate a chainsaw. Legally, which is likely the difference. Using one whilst working, probably insurance requires the certificate.
Cannot remember myself either, but I think it had to do with it being a side storyline that mostly got wrapped up?RopeBunny wrote: 1 month ago As a side note I do recall enjoying the JCB interactions, can't remember why it didn't come to anything now?
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Brooke asking the *real* questionsRopeBunny wrote: 1 month ago "The gag shouldn't be loose, you shouldn't be able to spit it out or what's even the point?"
Ah, so 'hilariously convenient room mix-up' is the winner.RopeBunny wrote: 1 month ago "This is my room." A shrug. "And you're welcome to stay, but I'm not helping."
Love this line, how it says pretty much everything about the dynamic playing out.
And even beyond dangerous, entirely absurd for a dozen practical reasons, of course. But I suppose that is why it ends up being a fantasy to chase - maybe part of the fun is in seeing how close one can get to the 'ideal'.RopeBunny wrote: 1 month ago I don't want to escape, and worse- dangerous -I don't want to be freed, either.
Well given Brooke's track record with relationships I am going to say 'maybe a few more times but you are out of luck past that'
Not to worry, I'm not always around either, but I saw you’d posted and happened to have enough spare time to respond. The comment (by me) was just giving voice to my thoughtsBlissfulMisery wrote: 1 month ago I would not read much into the speed of my responses given my sporadic visits here (for various boring real life reasons), but I do appreciate the sentiment!
That's the oneBlissfulMisery wrote: 1 month agoAh, so 'hilariously convenient room mix-up' is the winner.RopeBunny wrote: 1 month ago "This is my room." A shrug. "And you're welcome to stay, but I'm not helping."
As to whether we see more of Wendy, remains to be seen. I think yes, easy enough to slot her back in and out, as it were. But my stories do tend to flow in directions not initially planned at times, and so she could wind up abandoned due to better prospects.
Case in point Kira, who wasn't meant to be a stalker but the idea just emerged, and then grew.
005.
Been awhile since I've worked ten days straight. There was never the need at Owl, I had a weekly quota of hours, which roughly worked out to either a five or four day week. But so long as the woodland was maintained, no complaints filtering back to headquarters, how I divided the time was left to me.
Carnival, any of the three, busy times both prepping and performing. But not ten solid, long days of hard physical labour busy.
Ten days. Hard days, but worthwhile, Valley Glenn transformed, neat and tidy to the point it almost looks man-made, a fake park, everything too perfect and.
"I hate it."
"Definitely." Molly, day following day becoming less confrontational, more friendly. And here, at the end finds us stood side by side, worn out, dirty. But smiling.
"It's what they want, though." A shrug, headquarters, the visiting dignitaries and I still can't remember if it's royalty or government, or both. Still don't care enough to ask, I won't be here after all. Check out this morning, suitcase in the works van, driving- halfway, got a stop to make -home later.
"True." I nod, tilting to the side so I can stretch without my outflung hand punching Molly, who side glances at me, chest now angled towards her.
"Want to get a drink?"
"Now?"
"Just a pub dinner." Glancing down, brushing sawdust off her jeans leg, which act has no effect on her overall dirty appearance. "Nothing fancy, or long, I know you're driving back south tonight."
"Sure." Okay, why not. Doubt we'll ever make it to friends, but if Molly wants to share a meal, celebrate or whatever. Sure.
Following Molly's sensible- husband, two kids -silver Volvo estate, the four wheel drive car model, looking slightly jacked up like a mini monster truck. Ten minutes brings us to 'The Cauldron' which, inside is what you'd expect, wooden bar running a dog leg around two sides at the buildings centre, pool table and a couple of gambling machines, small restaurant space down three steps off to one side, somehow quieter, the flatscreen- sports, always sports -muted by wooden partitions.
Finding a booth, sitting opposite. Silence whilst we look over the menus, Molly offering, me counter offering and having swapped smiles we both get up. Order: pie and chips for her, a pint. Cheeseburger and chips for me, water.
Sitting back down, waiting. Hunting for something to say, at a loss and searching for the right mix of friendly but not too far, this woman who seems okay but still scowls on occasion, times she thinks I'm not looking.
"I wanted to apologise. Brooke."
"Right." Nothing I need, gone from here today and unlikely to be coming back. We all hate, and are hated in turn, at times. Sometimes there's even a reason.
I won't pretend it's easy, but I'm learning, trying where possible to do the mental equivalent of sticking it in neutral, coasting. Because if I can't change whatever it- Molly hating me on sight, no obvious reason -is, what point working myself up over it?
"Don't worry." Raising my water in toast, whatever it is, was, is fine.
"No. I." Clearly this is why I'm here, like a trick, really, but not the good kind. Not like a trick where I'm going to wind up bound and gagged, which- tricking someone into bondage -is near impossible anyway, but still. Molly wants, needs to say this. So.
"Okay." Drink down, hands on the table, clasped and leaning slightly forward. Looking at her. "Thing is, Molly. We're good in my book. Yes, you rode me hard. Pushed, not much by way of friendship or professional courtesy in return." Thinking.
"At first. But." A shrug, turning one hand over, making a fist, opening the hand again. "I'm out, and we achieved what I was sent here to achieve so. You fill out your report, I'll write mine."
Taking a drink, watching her, the fidget of one hand, turning her glass around on the coaster. Issues, something inside seeking release.
"Whatever it is, say it."
"I...." Glancing up at me, taking a deep breath, courage.
"I blamed you." Shaky laugh escaping her. "There isn't even, really, anything wrong but I blam-"
Movement, our food and Molly's words stopping mid flow, blinking, small blush though what she's embarrassed about I don't know?
Silence continuing until we're alone again, stabbing a chip with my fork, waving it at her by way of permission, showing I'm still listening.
"He was watching you."
"Watching." But I'm not stupid, or slow, halfway through the word and I'm making connections, racing ahead.
"Plymouth."
"Her." Nodding, shaking herself. "Sorry. You."
To which I could joke, comment on how sometimes the distinctions, the place where Brooke ends and Plymouth begins is a fluid thing. At times I'm not even sure who I am, but, now isn't the time for humour.
"Me." Nodding. "So, you." Thinking. "Caught him watching something featuring me?"
"Not caught." Shake of her head. "I went on his phone." Small laugh, slight crazy leaking in. "Nothing I haven't done a hundred times, or him using mine. But there was an opened tab, he'd forgotten to close Google down, and...."
"And it was my video."
Nodding, seeing it as she saw it, watching through Molly's eyes, and it doesn't matter which one, which video. Bondage is bondage, porn is porn.
Or, it isn't of course, but for the purposes here it is.
"We've got." Another halfway crazy laugh. "There's always been sex, he's always wanted me. Still." Stabbing her own chip, anger flaring. "Wants me. So." Looking at me, not angry at me specifically, I see now, but at the point. "Why the fuck does he need to watch you?"
"Honestly." What do I, can I say to that?
"Has he ever tied you up?"
"Tied...." Blinking, like a detail forgotten, focused solely on the fact of porn, not the specifics. "I. Well."
"Maybe he was. Is." A shrug, feeling the fact out, the possibility. "Curious? Maybe."
Reaching out, slowly, offering my own hand towards hers and after glancing down, looking back up. Molly smiles, something genuine and warming. Taking my hand in hers.
"Could be he's been thinking of this new thing, like a new dynamic to try, with you, but to be fair bondage is pretty scary, sometimes, the first time you see or stumble across it."
"It looked. I mean, you." Laughter sounding healthier this time, I smile in response. "Looked."
Blushing, eyes on my chest, which I take to mean it was a naked, or close to naked shoot.
"Fun?" I offer. "Interesting, different." Pausing. "Bad, painful and wrong? These are all right answers, Molly. What I'm into, or him watching this doesn't mean you have to like it too."
"Um." Small shy smile chasing across her face. "Interesting?"
Answering, picking her word and in my opinion it's a good choice.
"Which is good." Giving her hand a squeeze. "You've just got to figure out a way to tell him that now."
Which has us both laughing.
"I won't apologise for who I am." Shaking my head, putting down the half eaten burger and it's quite large. Too much. "What I do. I'm not naive or stupid enough to think there isn't a negative to porn, a bad side and that it doesn't do harm, to some people in some places. But I enjoy it, and so long as people want to watch me, I'll work."
"I didn't know you worked here though." More details, filling in the gaps. My gaps. "Knew there was a Ranger coming, and I'd said no but might as well of been talking to a fucking wall."
Which, again we both laugh. A shared thing and the Forestry Commission, like any big corporation it can be hard to communicate sometimes.
"And then I walked in." Nodding. Seeing this too. Me, Plymouth but wearing Brooke like a disguise, and through Molly's eyes I can see what that must've looked, felt like: a taunt, the same porn star, stepping onto her toes and her personal space, come to help.
The last person she wanted to see.
"I didn't mean to be mad." Grimacing, though having heard, having seen her tale play out through Molly's eyes, what other reaction was there? "At you."
"It's fine, though." Nodding because I get it. "Natural response given what you discovered."
Molly nodding too, agreeing.
"Why this work, too, though?" Curious, anger tamped and put away, no longer needed. "I've been watching you."
"I saw you watching." Not bitter, no anger from me either. "Guess it isn't a particularly obvious pairing, trees and bondage."
Plymouth unhelpfully offering up numerous instances when trees and bondage definitely do pair, and me taking a quick swallow of water to hide the smile.
"Why do you do it?"
"Porn?" Raised eyebrow and I laugh, Molly laughing too. Another step climbed, getting along and it- leaving tonight -doesn't matter, really, but I'd rather not be hated for something I didn't directly do.
"The Commission." Tossing a chip at her. "Good chance we both work with trees for the same reason?"
"To be outside." Thoughtful, looking at me as I nod, agreeing. Molly continuing. "Seeing the change when you finish-"
"-except for today."
"Except for today." Her turn to nod. Woodland should look, be natural, not trimmed and swept to perfection.
"Fascinated by it all." My turn, Molly nodding. "College, learning about the workings of trees, plants. None of my friends will walk through woodland with me because I-"
"-Won't stop pointing shit out." Hand over her mouth to stiffle the laughter. "Drives my husband and kids fucking nuts."
Silence, settling. Finishing our meals with occasional small talk, shared smiles and it's almost a shame, the distance because it really feels like we could be friends.
Until Molly- hiding my smile -invites me home for family dinner anyway.
"I should." Biting her lip, standing outside. "Talk to him."
"I would." Nodding, hands in my jeans pockets, staring up at the oncoming dusk and we've stayed too late. Talking, later then I'd planned anyway. "Might be," the idea suddenly there, and maybe, "he even left that video for you to find. On purpose."
"Maybe?" Musing, thoughtful.
"Nervous though, Brooke." Which ought to be funny. Late forties and married for at least a decade? Two? Guessing. "What do I even." Shaking her head, hand running through unwashed hair. "How do you even ask to be tied up?"
In my experience it's usually being let out afterwards where the problems start, getting tied up is easy, getting out, not so much.
Made worse in my case by the fact I don't want to be let out. Usually.
"Come here." Walking to my van and opening the side door, parked in the far corner of the small lot, hedge on two sides, Molly's Volvo on the drivers side. Molly following, darkness reaching out and half swallowing us both, nothing but a faint glow, streetlights beyond the hedge, out on the road.
A second idea, Molly's words the catalyst.
"Here." Suitcase open, finding and delving into the plastic carrier bag- so stylish -of bondage supplies, yanking out a handful of rope, several assorted lengths all coiled and neat. Holding them out. "Just," grinning in the darkness, "throw this at him, or something."
"Fuck." Taking the ropes, sounding impressed before her tone switches to a kind of playfulness.
"Do you always travel with rope?"
"Outside of what the van comes stocked with?" Being playful back, Molly nudging me, I laugh. "Always."
"I." Looking down at the rope, breathing out. "Want to, but...."
"First time doing anything new is hard."
"True." Nodding.
Head darting up, looking at me as though she's just had an idea of her own.
"Tie me up."
"What?" Blinking, unexpected, the shift and not three hours ago I still thought we were enemies of a sort.
"Please." Holding out the ropes. "You'd know how to do this stuff?" Followed immediately by laughter, stupid question. Shaking her head and I'm smiling too. "Right. I mean, I'll be less nervous, with him, if I already know."
Looking at me, waiting. Fidgeting, and there's an angle for blackmail, sort of, the fact of the tension I'd unknowingly caused her, using it as leverage. Which wouldn't work, but I appreciate her not trying, appreciate Molly asking without begging or twisting things somehow.
"Right." A nod, and Molly smiles, giggles too fast. Nerves. "Sure. Just." Thinking fast, looking left, right.
Van blocking the view, hedge close but not pressing in, some small strip of grass between van and hedge, and in the corner flanked by Molly's car nobody needs to come anywhere near us.
"Lay down."
"Right." Shivering, not cold, both of us in jeans and Forestry Commission dark green tees, boots. The tees are fitted, hugging Molly's small belly, the curves of her C cup bust, my own supersized F's are, as usual fighting the fabric, straining.
"Five minutes." With Molly on the ground, laid on her belly I start at her ankles, binding them side by side, my movements quick, sure even in the dim light. "And I'll let you go."
"Five?"
"Ten, then." A shrug she can't see, and I'm not even sure that was her point.
Except Molly doesn't protest the doubled timer.
"Wrists."
"You want...?"
"Side by side." Taking hold and correcting her. Binding. "To each his or her own, and I've done plenty of variations but-"
"-Just an old hand at kidnapping ladies in pub carparks."
Small nervous laugh, fidgeting, finding her wrists already pinned together even though I'm still working on the wrist rope. Sucking in a breath.
"Don't say kidnap." Teasing. Half teasing. "This." Tugging on her rope, Molly's arms bouncing up and down as I- literally -tug on her strings. "Binding someone in public, this is how you get arrested."
"Shit, really?"
"Probably." Yanking the final wrist knot, Molly grunting as the rope digs in.
"More?"
"Is there." Rolling onto her side, looking up at me, pivoting and flexing her body, trying to sit up and failing, twice. All whilst I try not to stare, try hard not to become too excited by Molly's struggling.
"Is there more?"
"Chest." Hunkering down, not really thinking- that she's married, that it isn't that kind of play -first, reaching out to run my hand across Molly's belly, fingers catching the underside of her bra. "Could hogtie you."
"Hog. Tie?"
"Wrists to ankles. Makes struggling more." Smiling at her, winking. "Interesting."
"Oh."
Too dark to see her blush, but I can hear it in her voice. The ropes, the proximity of me and my general inability to not flirt, the constant fact of me teasing and playing with my food. Molly, at least fifty percent my prisoner, beginning to succumb to my unintended lure.
"Probably best." Swallowing, fighting that urge and to be fair as I've said: I'm not a bitch, a tease and a flirt, but I had no intention of fucking her.
"Let's stick to this."
"Probably best." Nodding to agree. "How does it feel?"
"Not bad." Still laid down, on her back wrists pinned beneath her, giving it a fair go at struggling for freedom.
I decide to watch the narrow strip of carpark visible beyond the van awhile. Feels safer.
"Tight."
"Tight good?" Not looking down, lest I see her breasts bouncing, tee riding up to expose her bra, possibly the wristband of her- imagined -thong peeking out above her low slung jeans.
Stop it Brooke.
"Or tight bad?"
"Tight. Um." More struggles, and I can see her moving in my corner vision, just not detail. "I don't hate it, and. I think, it could be fun, as part of sex."
"Great." Which it is.
It is great that Molly seems- first impressions -to enjoy bondage, which is a great thing to do, and is great to do as part of sex.
Letting her go, lest our luck runs out. Handing over the rope and I've got a whole plastic box full at home.
Hugging, kissing Molly's cheek and whispering her luck, receiving a whispered reply, wishing me a safe journey.
Watching her drive off first, letting out a breath, a shiver as I step down off the bondage high, unresolved due to Molly not being something I'm allowed to touch, play with. Due to it not being me bound, and I always prefer it if I'm the one covered in ropes.
Time to leave, driving home via a hotel near Manchester tonight, and headquarters tomorrow, my own review a thing they want in person, due to the nature of why I was sent, due to headquarters being directly on my way anyway.
Time to leave, to move on.
Been awhile since I've worked ten days straight. There was never the need at Owl, I had a weekly quota of hours, which roughly worked out to either a five or four day week. But so long as the woodland was maintained, no complaints filtering back to headquarters, how I divided the time was left to me.
Carnival, any of the three, busy times both prepping and performing. But not ten solid, long days of hard physical labour busy.
Ten days. Hard days, but worthwhile, Valley Glenn transformed, neat and tidy to the point it almost looks man-made, a fake park, everything too perfect and.
"I hate it."
"Definitely." Molly, day following day becoming less confrontational, more friendly. And here, at the end finds us stood side by side, worn out, dirty. But smiling.
"It's what they want, though." A shrug, headquarters, the visiting dignitaries and I still can't remember if it's royalty or government, or both. Still don't care enough to ask, I won't be here after all. Check out this morning, suitcase in the works van, driving- halfway, got a stop to make -home later.
"True." I nod, tilting to the side so I can stretch without my outflung hand punching Molly, who side glances at me, chest now angled towards her.
"Want to get a drink?"
"Now?"
"Just a pub dinner." Glancing down, brushing sawdust off her jeans leg, which act has no effect on her overall dirty appearance. "Nothing fancy, or long, I know you're driving back south tonight."
"Sure." Okay, why not. Doubt we'll ever make it to friends, but if Molly wants to share a meal, celebrate or whatever. Sure.
Following Molly's sensible- husband, two kids -silver Volvo estate, the four wheel drive car model, looking slightly jacked up like a mini monster truck. Ten minutes brings us to 'The Cauldron' which, inside is what you'd expect, wooden bar running a dog leg around two sides at the buildings centre, pool table and a couple of gambling machines, small restaurant space down three steps off to one side, somehow quieter, the flatscreen- sports, always sports -muted by wooden partitions.
Finding a booth, sitting opposite. Silence whilst we look over the menus, Molly offering, me counter offering and having swapped smiles we both get up. Order: pie and chips for her, a pint. Cheeseburger and chips for me, water.
Sitting back down, waiting. Hunting for something to say, at a loss and searching for the right mix of friendly but not too far, this woman who seems okay but still scowls on occasion, times she thinks I'm not looking.
"I wanted to apologise. Brooke."
"Right." Nothing I need, gone from here today and unlikely to be coming back. We all hate, and are hated in turn, at times. Sometimes there's even a reason.
I won't pretend it's easy, but I'm learning, trying where possible to do the mental equivalent of sticking it in neutral, coasting. Because if I can't change whatever it- Molly hating me on sight, no obvious reason -is, what point working myself up over it?
"Don't worry." Raising my water in toast, whatever it is, was, is fine.
"No. I." Clearly this is why I'm here, like a trick, really, but not the good kind. Not like a trick where I'm going to wind up bound and gagged, which- tricking someone into bondage -is near impossible anyway, but still. Molly wants, needs to say this. So.
"Okay." Drink down, hands on the table, clasped and leaning slightly forward. Looking at her. "Thing is, Molly. We're good in my book. Yes, you rode me hard. Pushed, not much by way of friendship or professional courtesy in return." Thinking.
"At first. But." A shrug, turning one hand over, making a fist, opening the hand again. "I'm out, and we achieved what I was sent here to achieve so. You fill out your report, I'll write mine."
Taking a drink, watching her, the fidget of one hand, turning her glass around on the coaster. Issues, something inside seeking release.
"Whatever it is, say it."
"I...." Glancing up at me, taking a deep breath, courage.
"I blamed you." Shaky laugh escaping her. "There isn't even, really, anything wrong but I blam-"
Movement, our food and Molly's words stopping mid flow, blinking, small blush though what she's embarrassed about I don't know?
Silence continuing until we're alone again, stabbing a chip with my fork, waving it at her by way of permission, showing I'm still listening.
"He was watching you."
"Watching." But I'm not stupid, or slow, halfway through the word and I'm making connections, racing ahead.
"Plymouth."
"Her." Nodding, shaking herself. "Sorry. You."
To which I could joke, comment on how sometimes the distinctions, the place where Brooke ends and Plymouth begins is a fluid thing. At times I'm not even sure who I am, but, now isn't the time for humour.
"Me." Nodding. "So, you." Thinking. "Caught him watching something featuring me?"
"Not caught." Shake of her head. "I went on his phone." Small laugh, slight crazy leaking in. "Nothing I haven't done a hundred times, or him using mine. But there was an opened tab, he'd forgotten to close Google down, and...."
"And it was my video."
Nodding, seeing it as she saw it, watching through Molly's eyes, and it doesn't matter which one, which video. Bondage is bondage, porn is porn.
Or, it isn't of course, but for the purposes here it is.
"We've got." Another halfway crazy laugh. "There's always been sex, he's always wanted me. Still." Stabbing her own chip, anger flaring. "Wants me. So." Looking at me, not angry at me specifically, I see now, but at the point. "Why the fuck does he need to watch you?"
"Honestly." What do I, can I say to that?
"Has he ever tied you up?"
"Tied...." Blinking, like a detail forgotten, focused solely on the fact of porn, not the specifics. "I. Well."
"Maybe he was. Is." A shrug, feeling the fact out, the possibility. "Curious? Maybe."
Reaching out, slowly, offering my own hand towards hers and after glancing down, looking back up. Molly smiles, something genuine and warming. Taking my hand in hers.
"Could be he's been thinking of this new thing, like a new dynamic to try, with you, but to be fair bondage is pretty scary, sometimes, the first time you see or stumble across it."
"It looked. I mean, you." Laughter sounding healthier this time, I smile in response. "Looked."
Blushing, eyes on my chest, which I take to mean it was a naked, or close to naked shoot.
"Fun?" I offer. "Interesting, different." Pausing. "Bad, painful and wrong? These are all right answers, Molly. What I'm into, or him watching this doesn't mean you have to like it too."
"Um." Small shy smile chasing across her face. "Interesting?"
Answering, picking her word and in my opinion it's a good choice.
"Which is good." Giving her hand a squeeze. "You've just got to figure out a way to tell him that now."
Which has us both laughing.
"I won't apologise for who I am." Shaking my head, putting down the half eaten burger and it's quite large. Too much. "What I do. I'm not naive or stupid enough to think there isn't a negative to porn, a bad side and that it doesn't do harm, to some people in some places. But I enjoy it, and so long as people want to watch me, I'll work."
"I didn't know you worked here though." More details, filling in the gaps. My gaps. "Knew there was a Ranger coming, and I'd said no but might as well of been talking to a fucking wall."
Which, again we both laugh. A shared thing and the Forestry Commission, like any big corporation it can be hard to communicate sometimes.
"And then I walked in." Nodding. Seeing this too. Me, Plymouth but wearing Brooke like a disguise, and through Molly's eyes I can see what that must've looked, felt like: a taunt, the same porn star, stepping onto her toes and her personal space, come to help.
The last person she wanted to see.
"I didn't mean to be mad." Grimacing, though having heard, having seen her tale play out through Molly's eyes, what other reaction was there? "At you."
"It's fine, though." Nodding because I get it. "Natural response given what you discovered."
Molly nodding too, agreeing.
"Why this work, too, though?" Curious, anger tamped and put away, no longer needed. "I've been watching you."
"I saw you watching." Not bitter, no anger from me either. "Guess it isn't a particularly obvious pairing, trees and bondage."
Plymouth unhelpfully offering up numerous instances when trees and bondage definitely do pair, and me taking a quick swallow of water to hide the smile.
"Why do you do it?"
"Porn?" Raised eyebrow and I laugh, Molly laughing too. Another step climbed, getting along and it- leaving tonight -doesn't matter, really, but I'd rather not be hated for something I didn't directly do.
"The Commission." Tossing a chip at her. "Good chance we both work with trees for the same reason?"
"To be outside." Thoughtful, looking at me as I nod, agreeing. Molly continuing. "Seeing the change when you finish-"
"-except for today."
"Except for today." Her turn to nod. Woodland should look, be natural, not trimmed and swept to perfection.
"Fascinated by it all." My turn, Molly nodding. "College, learning about the workings of trees, plants. None of my friends will walk through woodland with me because I-"
"-Won't stop pointing shit out." Hand over her mouth to stiffle the laughter. "Drives my husband and kids fucking nuts."
Silence, settling. Finishing our meals with occasional small talk, shared smiles and it's almost a shame, the distance because it really feels like we could be friends.
Until Molly- hiding my smile -invites me home for family dinner anyway.
"I should." Biting her lip, standing outside. "Talk to him."
"I would." Nodding, hands in my jeans pockets, staring up at the oncoming dusk and we've stayed too late. Talking, later then I'd planned anyway. "Might be," the idea suddenly there, and maybe, "he even left that video for you to find. On purpose."
"Maybe?" Musing, thoughtful.
"Nervous though, Brooke." Which ought to be funny. Late forties and married for at least a decade? Two? Guessing. "What do I even." Shaking her head, hand running through unwashed hair. "How do you even ask to be tied up?"
In my experience it's usually being let out afterwards where the problems start, getting tied up is easy, getting out, not so much.
Made worse in my case by the fact I don't want to be let out. Usually.
"Come here." Walking to my van and opening the side door, parked in the far corner of the small lot, hedge on two sides, Molly's Volvo on the drivers side. Molly following, darkness reaching out and half swallowing us both, nothing but a faint glow, streetlights beyond the hedge, out on the road.
A second idea, Molly's words the catalyst.
"Here." Suitcase open, finding and delving into the plastic carrier bag- so stylish -of bondage supplies, yanking out a handful of rope, several assorted lengths all coiled and neat. Holding them out. "Just," grinning in the darkness, "throw this at him, or something."
"Fuck." Taking the ropes, sounding impressed before her tone switches to a kind of playfulness.
"Do you always travel with rope?"
"Outside of what the van comes stocked with?" Being playful back, Molly nudging me, I laugh. "Always."
"I." Looking down at the rope, breathing out. "Want to, but...."
"First time doing anything new is hard."
"True." Nodding.
Head darting up, looking at me as though she's just had an idea of her own.
"Tie me up."
"What?" Blinking, unexpected, the shift and not three hours ago I still thought we were enemies of a sort.
"Please." Holding out the ropes. "You'd know how to do this stuff?" Followed immediately by laughter, stupid question. Shaking her head and I'm smiling too. "Right. I mean, I'll be less nervous, with him, if I already know."
Looking at me, waiting. Fidgeting, and there's an angle for blackmail, sort of, the fact of the tension I'd unknowingly caused her, using it as leverage. Which wouldn't work, but I appreciate her not trying, appreciate Molly asking without begging or twisting things somehow.
"Right." A nod, and Molly smiles, giggles too fast. Nerves. "Sure. Just." Thinking fast, looking left, right.
Van blocking the view, hedge close but not pressing in, some small strip of grass between van and hedge, and in the corner flanked by Molly's car nobody needs to come anywhere near us.
"Lay down."
"Right." Shivering, not cold, both of us in jeans and Forestry Commission dark green tees, boots. The tees are fitted, hugging Molly's small belly, the curves of her C cup bust, my own supersized F's are, as usual fighting the fabric, straining.
"Five minutes." With Molly on the ground, laid on her belly I start at her ankles, binding them side by side, my movements quick, sure even in the dim light. "And I'll let you go."
"Five?"
"Ten, then." A shrug she can't see, and I'm not even sure that was her point.
Except Molly doesn't protest the doubled timer.
"Wrists."
"You want...?"
"Side by side." Taking hold and correcting her. Binding. "To each his or her own, and I've done plenty of variations but-"
"-Just an old hand at kidnapping ladies in pub carparks."
Small nervous laugh, fidgeting, finding her wrists already pinned together even though I'm still working on the wrist rope. Sucking in a breath.
"Don't say kidnap." Teasing. Half teasing. "This." Tugging on her rope, Molly's arms bouncing up and down as I- literally -tug on her strings. "Binding someone in public, this is how you get arrested."
"Shit, really?"
"Probably." Yanking the final wrist knot, Molly grunting as the rope digs in.
"More?"
"Is there." Rolling onto her side, looking up at me, pivoting and flexing her body, trying to sit up and failing, twice. All whilst I try not to stare, try hard not to become too excited by Molly's struggling.
"Is there more?"
"Chest." Hunkering down, not really thinking- that she's married, that it isn't that kind of play -first, reaching out to run my hand across Molly's belly, fingers catching the underside of her bra. "Could hogtie you."
"Hog. Tie?"
"Wrists to ankles. Makes struggling more." Smiling at her, winking. "Interesting."
"Oh."
Too dark to see her blush, but I can hear it in her voice. The ropes, the proximity of me and my general inability to not flirt, the constant fact of me teasing and playing with my food. Molly, at least fifty percent my prisoner, beginning to succumb to my unintended lure.
"Probably best." Swallowing, fighting that urge and to be fair as I've said: I'm not a bitch, a tease and a flirt, but I had no intention of fucking her.
"Let's stick to this."
"Probably best." Nodding to agree. "How does it feel?"
"Not bad." Still laid down, on her back wrists pinned beneath her, giving it a fair go at struggling for freedom.
I decide to watch the narrow strip of carpark visible beyond the van awhile. Feels safer.
"Tight."
"Tight good?" Not looking down, lest I see her breasts bouncing, tee riding up to expose her bra, possibly the wristband of her- imagined -thong peeking out above her low slung jeans.
Stop it Brooke.
"Or tight bad?"
"Tight. Um." More struggles, and I can see her moving in my corner vision, just not detail. "I don't hate it, and. I think, it could be fun, as part of sex."
"Great." Which it is.
It is great that Molly seems- first impressions -to enjoy bondage, which is a great thing to do, and is great to do as part of sex.
Letting her go, lest our luck runs out. Handing over the rope and I've got a whole plastic box full at home.
Hugging, kissing Molly's cheek and whispering her luck, receiving a whispered reply, wishing me a safe journey.
Watching her drive off first, letting out a breath, a shiver as I step down off the bondage high, unresolved due to Molly not being something I'm allowed to touch, play with. Due to it not being me bound, and I always prefer it if I'm the one covered in ropes.
Time to leave, driving home via a hotel near Manchester tonight, and headquarters tomorrow, my own review a thing they want in person, due to the nature of why I was sent, due to headquarters being directly on my way anyway.
Time to leave, to move on.
-
BlissfulMisery
- Centennial Club
- Posts: 414
- Joined: 3 years ago
Indeed. Flow based writing/storyboarding. Has its drawbacks, but you pull it off well!RopeBunny wrote: 1 month ago
As to whether we see more of Wendy, remains to be seen. I think yes, easy enough to slot her back in and out, as it were. But my stories do tend to flow in directions not initially planned at times, and so she could wind up abandoned due to better prospects.
Case in point Kira, who wasn't meant to be a stalker but the idea just emerged, and then grew.
-
Nothing like a bit of mutual suffering work to instill some comraderyRopeBunny wrote: 1 month ago Molly, day following day becoming less confrontational, more friendly. And here, at the end finds us stood side by side, worn out, dirty. But smiling.
Not wrong there, Brooke.RopeBunny wrote: 1 month ago "Fun?" I offer. "Interesting, different." Pausing. "Bad, painful and wrong? These are all right answers, Molly.
Feel like that is the first time Brooke really *directly* thought about herself as two different people. Obviously she has always thought about the two sides of herself as somewhat separate, but I do not remember her ever referring to 'Plymouth' as something akin to an entirely different personality.RopeBunny wrote: 1 month ago Plymouth unhelpfully offering up numerous instances when trees and bondage definitely do pair, and me taking a quick swallow of water to hide the smile.
Not an issue (and I could just be forgetting some previous example), just something curious that stood out to me.
More Brooke wisdomRopeBunny wrote: 1 month ago In my experience it's usually being let out afterwards where the problems start
Oh please, Brooke. You are in a bondage story - genre tropes demand the bondage quota be fulfilled. You should know this by nowRopeBunny wrote: 1 month ago "Tie me up."
"What?" Blinking, unexpected, the shift and not three hours ago I still thought we were enemies of a sort.
Think of it as the next in your series of 'good bondage samaritan deeds'.RopeBunny wrote: 1 month ago Watching her drive off first, letting out a breath, a shiver as I step down off the bondage high, unresolved due to Molly not being something I'm allowed to touch, play with. Due to it not being me bound, and I always prefer it if I'm the one covered in ropes.
Then again, the last time Brooke did something like this, she ended up with an obsessed stalker
Thank youBlissfulMisery wrote: 1 month ago
Indeed. Flow based writing/storyboarding. Has its drawbacks, but you pull it off well!
Used to be I'd write a pages worth of plan before starting a new tale, but two things kept happening.
- I'd find myself wishing the tale along, eying up something fun id planned, still a ways off only I want to write it now
Which unfortunately often led to frustration, to my simply ending the tale since I wasn't enjoying writing the build up.- Added to which I started to find what I was writing bending away from the plan, nee ideas and directions, which appealed more so why stick to the plan?
Regardless, I much prefer this flowing style I've developed, and am glad it comes across well on the page.
Wanted, within the chapter, the back and forth, I wanted Brooke to be aware and to show the fact of porn having a negative side.BlissfulMisery wrote: 1 month agoNot wrong there, Brooke.RopeBunny wrote: 1 month ago "Fun?" I offer. "Interesting, different." Pausing. "Bad, painful and wrong? These are all right answers, Molly.
Was a difficult thing to write, that Molly hated- at first -Brooke for who she is, almost at times felt like I was trying to justify the entire Plymouth story base.
Think it came across okay, think Brooke came out of it okay though.
Pretty certain? Sure I've done this before, treating Plymouth like a separate entity inside Brooke's head, like a split personality.BlissfulMisery wrote: 1 month agoFeel like that is the first time Brooke really *directly* thought about herself as two different people. Obviously she has always thought about the two sides of herself as somewhat separate, but I do not remember her ever referring to 'Plymouth' as something akin to an entirely different personality.RopeBunny wrote: 1 month ago Plymouth unhelpfully offering up numerous instances when trees and bondage definitely do pair, and me taking a quick swallow of water to hide the smile.
Not an issue (and I could just be forgetting some previous example), just something curious that stood out to me.
Recall commenting in a previous story regarding how Brooke would assume that most would think she did have multiple personality disorder, or similar, yet for her it wasn't the case, only the fact that doing bondage felt like slipping into someone different.
Plymouth able, willing and wanting to cast off the usual worrys of life, such as safety concerns and so on.
Almost tempting to do some kind of 'quota based storyBlissfulMisery wrote: 1 month agoOh please, Brooke. You are in a bondage story - genre tropes demand the bondage quota be fulfilled. You should know this by nowRopeBunny wrote: 1 month ago "Tie me up."
"What?" Blinking, unexpected, the shift and not three hours ago I still thought we were enemies of a sort.
Something crazy, making no sense but built around the idea of a 'bondage quota' as a real thing.
Might have to....
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
006.
Sarah. Not stalking me and- thanks, Kira -I happen to know, intimately, what that looks and feels like.
Unfortunately- because there's no helping or saving me -at times it was fun. A thrilling game, until it wasn't. Until Kira went too far. But Sarah isn't stalking me, she works here, the onsite sales presence at Port West, which means she has every reason to roam the development.
Somehow, though, we keep meeting.
"Forestry Commission?"
"That's what it says on the side." Patting the vans flank, closing the side door. This had been the day before Scotland, still no Hayabusa- updates, photos from Bobby. Progress reports.
And besides it's only overnight, parking the van at home.
Each of us Rangers, there's space allocated locally for van storage, the central works department, overnight storage for council machinery: tractors or bin lorries, road sweepers. The Forestry Commission is government owned, so bedding in behind a locked council protected gate makes sense.
Whatever site, mine being just shy of twenty miles from Port West, gaining a shipping container within which we- I -can store tools, carry out routine maintenance of such, allocated parking next to the container for the van.
Helpful, in my case that there's room inside the container for the Hayabusa, which- usually, once I get it back -I'll ride out to collect the van.
"Never pictured you as an outdoors type."
"No?" Tanned skin, visible muscles though I suppose both could be explained if Sarah thinks me a gym bunny obsessed with her appearance. Which I'm not. The tan and muscles are unavoidable, a consequence of the work.
"What did you think I did?"
"Some kind of secretary?" Frowning, half smiling as I laugh, office- desk -work being something younger me vowed to never do.
Itching in my head, those holes. Gaps in my memories, lasting impact of the bike accident that left scars outside and in. Something? Some vague notion that I have worked in an office, though it's all blurred in with a handful of bondage shoots, times I've dressed in shirt and skirt. Hard to tell.
"I'm not an office girl." Shake of my head. "Trees-" bondage, like a playful shouting inside, Plymouth waving her hands and jumping, chest bouncing and I try not to smile - "outside, the only work I ever wanted to do."
"Huh." Nodding, leaving me to it.
Scotland happens, a handful more days.
"Off anywhere fun?"
"As it happens." Half shouting back, opposite sides of the road, Sarah at the head of a small invasion force, it looks like. A family of five, parents in their thirties and three kids, ranging from something like ten down to a pushchair, and I can't easily see inside due to the angles. Due to my not being interested enough to stare.
Attention taken up by Sarah, long hair tickled- as mine is -by the wind, wearing a dark blue dress today, the above knee hem being tugged at by the wind too. Lightweight black waterproof with the developers logo stamped on the left breast, unzipped and yes- yes I looked, and yes -the dress does show off her cleavage. The whole ensemble made somewhat comical by the addition of black wellington boots, mud caked.
Seeing her notice me back, skinny fit black jeans half faded up the fronts of both legs, tucked into lace up black army boots. Cropped yellow 'Trimuph' tee visible due to my black biker jacket being unzipped, forced open by the press of F cups. Sunglasses.
"Off to collect my bike."
"The...." Thinking, still walking and by this point we're almost opposite. "Black?"
"It's still black." Nodding, despite she hadn't asked, can't know I've had the internals completely overhauled. "You working."
"Got a stunning four bed, newly released."
"So that's," attention, switching to include the parents, because the dad at least I'd seen glace my way at the mention of bikes.
"A study each, and all the kids in together." Grinning, offering the joke out. "Right?"
"Sounds like a wonderful plan." The wife, smiling back whilst her husband laughs, whilst the oldest- boy -giggles and the younger girl pulls a face.
Tipping them all a salute, walking on.
Exchanging waves, a nod and or a smile over the following not quite week. Closing her office door, turning at the sound of the Hayabusa, returning from two days spent covering a weekends holiday absence in Wiltshire. Raising my hand as Sarah waves. Waiting for the lift inside Panama, accompanied by a forty something guy and his husband, leaning into each other and all three turning to look as I come out from the stairs.
Spotting her, being spotted in turn, on and off.
"Wash mine when you're done?"
"Your." Standing, dropping the sponge into the still half full soapy bucket, second bucket of clean water still full beside it, for washing the bubbles off the bike after. "Bike?"
"My car." Smiling, amused. "I don't ride."
"Right." Not even with the boyfriend?
Cloudy, but a nice day. No work and I'm off out later, soon, so am taking the opportunity to clean the Hayabusa before showing it off. Black Adidas with pink stripes and grey spandex shorts, black 'White Fox' pullover hoodie a slightly baggy fit as is normal, but a- baggy -eight still doesn't account for my F cups, shape of my bust still apparent. Naked beneath, living dangerously, sleeves rolled up as the act of washing builds a sweat.
Sarah's in her- it appears -usual white shirt and black trousers uniform, blonde hair tied back where mine is loose, regretting the fact as it keeps spilling into my eyes.
"Are you free, Brooke?"
"Free?"
"For a." Quick fidget, flashing me a smile. "Need to do a follow up, a post moving in assessment and talk."
"Oh."
Something inside, some instinct or extra sense calling her out on this. Something inside disbelieving, on some level knowing it isn't real.
I just don't know why?
"Sure." Making a half circuit of the bike, which to be honest was already clean, I was simply killing time, fiddling. Showing her some love. "Might want to stand back."
Watching Sarah retreat, picking up the bucket of clean water and tossing it in three spots around the bike, rinsing off the bubbles.
"Okay." Having poured the soapy water down the nearest drain, stacking the buckets and picking both up, nodding for Sarah to take point. "Come on."
Making small talk, walking the short distance from my allocated- all the two plus bedroom apartments have one -garage to Panama. Riding the lift up, Sarah leaning against the opposite wall, facing off her arms crossed, mine on the railing, leaning back slightly buckets on the floor beside. Is she looking at my chest?
I'm looking, glancing at hers.
Walking the final flight of stairs, the switchback from six to seven. Opening the door and gesturing Sarah in first, following her through to the main area, the lounge leading via a wide arch into the kitchen. Noticing, seeing Sarah take note of which highlights the fact to my eyes.
How empty the apartment looks.
"Just you?"
"Just me." Nodding, feeling the irrational need to defend myself rising. Gesturing to the armchair. "And Arthur."
"The octopus," amused smile, "is called Arthur?"
"Arthur," smiling back, offering up the title and uncaring what Sarah thinks regarding my loneliness coping mechanisms, "Scourge of the Thirteen Seas. Ruler of Atlantis, the Twisting Shadow."
"Wow." Sounding impressed, nodding.
"I," waving back at the kitchen, "need a drink, so." A shrug. "Carry on."
"Carry...?"
"The assessment." Definitely faking. "I'll be here if you have questions."
"Right." Nodding, too fast. "Well. Um."
Like she's thinking on the fly and I force a neutral expression onto my face.
"Any complaints?"
"None."
"Issues?"
"Someone down below smokes an awful lot of weed." Grinning, to show I actually don't care, the smell only sometimes managing to rise up onto the terrace, and it isn't exactly a bad smell anyway.
"Ha." Shaking her head, smiling too. "Garage okay?"
"Perfect." I nod. "Couldn't do much more to keep the bike safe."
"Only the bike in there?"
"Tools." A shrug. "Works van stays at work."
"No car, no second bike."
"No." Is she fishing? I'm not helping her out, not going to spell- boyfriend -the fact of my singleton status out for her.
"I need to...." Making a circle gesture, sweep of her arm encompassing the apartment.
"Sure." Leaning back on the counter, a nod. "Go look around." Smile leaking out. "Assess the walls and ceilings."
"Right." Nodding back. "Yes."
Walking off, leaving me alone in the kitchen, smile becoming a smirk as I see Sarah pause and stare up, become statue like for a half minute before nodding at one patch of ceiling that looks no different from the other.
Moving on, out of sight.
Returning some fifteen minutes- so long I'd considered going hunting -later, nodding as she walks back into the kitchen as though making mental notes. Honestly, and for the fun of it, feeling playful, curious, I decide to call her out.
"All." Serious, tone and face. "Completed?"
"Yes." A nod, a thumbs up she quickly drops, likely unprofessional. "Thank you, Brooke."
"Happy to help." Nod of my own, dropping the bomb. "You'll send me the form, I assume?"
"Form?"
Victory flashing through me, delicious quick tingle of it blooming at Sarah's confused, panicked face.
"The report." Like it's obvious. "I'd like to read your findings, and of course I'll be happy to sign it, send it back."
"Oh." Actually retreating towards my door, reaching out behind her. "Right. Well...."
"Tomorrow?"
"Yes." Like drowning, throwing herself towards my flung lifesaver. "Tomorrow, in your...."
"Letterbox." Helpful, grinning at Sarah's retreating back.
Not even making it to a ten count- once I'm alone -before the laughter erupts.
Going through to my bedroom, to change. Raised eyebrow at what I discover: inside the wardrobe, the master bedroom having a small walk in style room for clothes, in one corner of which I've- temporarily -stashed all my ropes and gags, vibrators and cuffs. Bondage equipment, all contained in a five high plastic drawer unit, each drawer a different pastel colour.
Each one labelled, if only for the amusement I'd felt at writing 'Gags, various' on a sticky backed label, placing it on the second drawer down.
Two of the drawers open, when I always- Al. Ways -leave it closed. The rope drawer, three coiled lengths half spilling out and a forth, rope left on the floor as though dropped, the whole scene speaking of a sudden noise, of panic.
That forth rope is uncoiled, fashioned into some crude form of self tie: a couple of loops, slip knots to tighten without help.
"Can't wait to read that report." I muse, swapping out shorts and Adidas for jeans and lace up boots. Hoodie for a vest top and biker jacket. Three Kings patch on the back, my gang, my friends.
Helmet, keys and phone. Bank card. Leaving the apartment, heading off to a King's meet, the AGM no less, Annual General Meeting, a chance to show off the improved Hayabusa, a chance to talk and laugh with friends I haven't properly seen in awhile. Because the Three Kings is my gang, but I moved away, Owl Wood being too far for regular forays back to home turf.
Forays, yes, but occasional, the gaps between stretching too far, too often.
One of the main motivations for taking the Ranger position was it allowed me to come home, so to speak, since each of us- Rangers, the four of us -can, has been sent anywhere, since the other three already had houses, and since I was between homes, I was allowed to pick my base location.
So why not return to King territory, so far as a motorcycle gang can be said to have such. Isn't like there's a biker war on or anything.
Not one I've been told about anyway.
Hiring out the top floor of a social club, car park large enough to accommodate the fifty odd bikes, plus assorted cars. The atmosphere boisterous but good natured, a dozen conversations happening at once, people seeking me out to comment on the bike even whilst I do the rounds.
Catching up, sharing friendship.
"Brooke."
"Hey, Morgan." Expression on her face: balancing, standing before the long drop on an- imagined -ledge, until I smile, and we're good. Morgan, who I dated for a short while, who became 'Thirteen' as I once became 'Plymouth' all whilst we dated, who got distracted by and led astray by some dickhead with a- quite cool actually but still, shitty -white Japanese Subaru WRX.
And I tried, at the time, I fucking tried to win, I fought for her and she.
Didn't.
Fucking care. But that's awhile ago now, we've made up, since, talked and shared a drink, and I may never fully trust her but we're okay. She's a King, which counts for something, too.
"Can we talk?"
"Aren't we now?"
"Ha." Clinking glasses with me, beer for- came with someone? -her and diet coke for me. "I meant talk. Talk."
"Right." Modelling talk, interesting. "Sure, message me?"
"Anytime?"
"Anytime." My turn to clink glasses, not hating the small tingle in my belly Morgan's proximity is causing.
Wondering at what she needs, wants?
Train of thought stopped by the meeting, called to order.
The Three Kings, now- in some sense -two. An old gang, three friends, bikers wanting to share a passion with others, each King- two white one black on the right, the gang patch all three chess pieces stood close, the angle low, Kings looming -representing a founding member.
One of whom died.
There was a girl: Lilly, my first serious girlfriend and the absolute fucking stink of the fact, my accident and she's mostly lost to the holes. Lilly died, a three- Lilly and parents -bike convoy, taken out by a truck suffering a blowout on the motorway. Lilly's dad was an original King, and the two remaining founders, both of an age where retirement- from work -is closing in, up on stage, looking tired.
Actually tired, wanting to pass on the torch, the running of the gang and here we are, all together so what a perfect opportunity to vote, to appoint three new leaders.
Three- new -Kings.
A standing ovation, one of the two openly crying, hugged by his friend and- damn my fucking scarred memories -a scattering of similar emotions throughout the hall, those closest to the dead King, despite it being close to five years ago now.
Still missed, a lost brother, sister and- Lilly -sister.
Voting, papers already arranged on a table off to one side, box- slot in the top -already waiting beside the papers, someone to watch, ticking off names as we deposit our chosen list. Three names each.
Who would make a good King?
Doesn't, he or she doesn't have to be young. For five minutes I ponder, thinking, eyes roaming the room, considering candidates and we're all eligible.
Good natured, mostly hushed conversations whilst the votes are counted, people taking the opportunity to get another round in. Me, winding up in a heated debate with Winston regarding modifications, something he knows more then most about.
Winston, the first name called and applause follows him to the stage. Son of the black founding King, and a good- legacy -pick. Early thirties, Winston races scramblers professionally, his involvement in bikes limited to off roading.
Connor, the second name, someone I'm only aware of on nodding terms, a different crowd within the Kings. Early thirties but, I think, older then Winston, a rugby players build to Winston's tall lean frame beside him. Connor rides a chopper, what you'd picture if someone said biker gang.
And.
Me? Apparently, blinking at my name body frozen, limbs refusing to work until I'm given a friendly push from the side, those I'd been stood beside laughing without malice, a pat to my shoulder and a shouted- over the third go round of applause -congratulations.
Up on stage, hugged by Winston, by Connor, the three of us stood, boys flanking me.
Plymouth the King.
Fuck me.
Sarah. Not stalking me and- thanks, Kira -I happen to know, intimately, what that looks and feels like.
Unfortunately- because there's no helping or saving me -at times it was fun. A thrilling game, until it wasn't. Until Kira went too far. But Sarah isn't stalking me, she works here, the onsite sales presence at Port West, which means she has every reason to roam the development.
Somehow, though, we keep meeting.
"Forestry Commission?"
"That's what it says on the side." Patting the vans flank, closing the side door. This had been the day before Scotland, still no Hayabusa- updates, photos from Bobby. Progress reports.
And besides it's only overnight, parking the van at home.
Each of us Rangers, there's space allocated locally for van storage, the central works department, overnight storage for council machinery: tractors or bin lorries, road sweepers. The Forestry Commission is government owned, so bedding in behind a locked council protected gate makes sense.
Whatever site, mine being just shy of twenty miles from Port West, gaining a shipping container within which we- I -can store tools, carry out routine maintenance of such, allocated parking next to the container for the van.
Helpful, in my case that there's room inside the container for the Hayabusa, which- usually, once I get it back -I'll ride out to collect the van.
"Never pictured you as an outdoors type."
"No?" Tanned skin, visible muscles though I suppose both could be explained if Sarah thinks me a gym bunny obsessed with her appearance. Which I'm not. The tan and muscles are unavoidable, a consequence of the work.
"What did you think I did?"
"Some kind of secretary?" Frowning, half smiling as I laugh, office- desk -work being something younger me vowed to never do.
Itching in my head, those holes. Gaps in my memories, lasting impact of the bike accident that left scars outside and in. Something? Some vague notion that I have worked in an office, though it's all blurred in with a handful of bondage shoots, times I've dressed in shirt and skirt. Hard to tell.
"I'm not an office girl." Shake of my head. "Trees-" bondage, like a playful shouting inside, Plymouth waving her hands and jumping, chest bouncing and I try not to smile - "outside, the only work I ever wanted to do."
"Huh." Nodding, leaving me to it.
Scotland happens, a handful more days.
"Off anywhere fun?"
"As it happens." Half shouting back, opposite sides of the road, Sarah at the head of a small invasion force, it looks like. A family of five, parents in their thirties and three kids, ranging from something like ten down to a pushchair, and I can't easily see inside due to the angles. Due to my not being interested enough to stare.
Attention taken up by Sarah, long hair tickled- as mine is -by the wind, wearing a dark blue dress today, the above knee hem being tugged at by the wind too. Lightweight black waterproof with the developers logo stamped on the left breast, unzipped and yes- yes I looked, and yes -the dress does show off her cleavage. The whole ensemble made somewhat comical by the addition of black wellington boots, mud caked.
Seeing her notice me back, skinny fit black jeans half faded up the fronts of both legs, tucked into lace up black army boots. Cropped yellow 'Trimuph' tee visible due to my black biker jacket being unzipped, forced open by the press of F cups. Sunglasses.
"Off to collect my bike."
"The...." Thinking, still walking and by this point we're almost opposite. "Black?"
"It's still black." Nodding, despite she hadn't asked, can't know I've had the internals completely overhauled. "You working."
"Got a stunning four bed, newly released."
"So that's," attention, switching to include the parents, because the dad at least I'd seen glace my way at the mention of bikes.
"A study each, and all the kids in together." Grinning, offering the joke out. "Right?"
"Sounds like a wonderful plan." The wife, smiling back whilst her husband laughs, whilst the oldest- boy -giggles and the younger girl pulls a face.
Tipping them all a salute, walking on.
Exchanging waves, a nod and or a smile over the following not quite week. Closing her office door, turning at the sound of the Hayabusa, returning from two days spent covering a weekends holiday absence in Wiltshire. Raising my hand as Sarah waves. Waiting for the lift inside Panama, accompanied by a forty something guy and his husband, leaning into each other and all three turning to look as I come out from the stairs.
Spotting her, being spotted in turn, on and off.
"Wash mine when you're done?"
"Your." Standing, dropping the sponge into the still half full soapy bucket, second bucket of clean water still full beside it, for washing the bubbles off the bike after. "Bike?"
"My car." Smiling, amused. "I don't ride."
"Right." Not even with the boyfriend?
Cloudy, but a nice day. No work and I'm off out later, soon, so am taking the opportunity to clean the Hayabusa before showing it off. Black Adidas with pink stripes and grey spandex shorts, black 'White Fox' pullover hoodie a slightly baggy fit as is normal, but a- baggy -eight still doesn't account for my F cups, shape of my bust still apparent. Naked beneath, living dangerously, sleeves rolled up as the act of washing builds a sweat.
Sarah's in her- it appears -usual white shirt and black trousers uniform, blonde hair tied back where mine is loose, regretting the fact as it keeps spilling into my eyes.
"Are you free, Brooke?"
"Free?"
"For a." Quick fidget, flashing me a smile. "Need to do a follow up, a post moving in assessment and talk."
"Oh."
Something inside, some instinct or extra sense calling her out on this. Something inside disbelieving, on some level knowing it isn't real.
I just don't know why?
"Sure." Making a half circuit of the bike, which to be honest was already clean, I was simply killing time, fiddling. Showing her some love. "Might want to stand back."
Watching Sarah retreat, picking up the bucket of clean water and tossing it in three spots around the bike, rinsing off the bubbles.
"Okay." Having poured the soapy water down the nearest drain, stacking the buckets and picking both up, nodding for Sarah to take point. "Come on."
Making small talk, walking the short distance from my allocated- all the two plus bedroom apartments have one -garage to Panama. Riding the lift up, Sarah leaning against the opposite wall, facing off her arms crossed, mine on the railing, leaning back slightly buckets on the floor beside. Is she looking at my chest?
I'm looking, glancing at hers.
Walking the final flight of stairs, the switchback from six to seven. Opening the door and gesturing Sarah in first, following her through to the main area, the lounge leading via a wide arch into the kitchen. Noticing, seeing Sarah take note of which highlights the fact to my eyes.
How empty the apartment looks.
"Just you?"
"Just me." Nodding, feeling the irrational need to defend myself rising. Gesturing to the armchair. "And Arthur."
"The octopus," amused smile, "is called Arthur?"
"Arthur," smiling back, offering up the title and uncaring what Sarah thinks regarding my loneliness coping mechanisms, "Scourge of the Thirteen Seas. Ruler of Atlantis, the Twisting Shadow."
"Wow." Sounding impressed, nodding.
"I," waving back at the kitchen, "need a drink, so." A shrug. "Carry on."
"Carry...?"
"The assessment." Definitely faking. "I'll be here if you have questions."
"Right." Nodding, too fast. "Well. Um."
Like she's thinking on the fly and I force a neutral expression onto my face.
"Any complaints?"
"None."
"Issues?"
"Someone down below smokes an awful lot of weed." Grinning, to show I actually don't care, the smell only sometimes managing to rise up onto the terrace, and it isn't exactly a bad smell anyway.
"Ha." Shaking her head, smiling too. "Garage okay?"
"Perfect." I nod. "Couldn't do much more to keep the bike safe."
"Only the bike in there?"
"Tools." A shrug. "Works van stays at work."
"No car, no second bike."
"No." Is she fishing? I'm not helping her out, not going to spell- boyfriend -the fact of my singleton status out for her.
"I need to...." Making a circle gesture, sweep of her arm encompassing the apartment.
"Sure." Leaning back on the counter, a nod. "Go look around." Smile leaking out. "Assess the walls and ceilings."
"Right." Nodding back. "Yes."
Walking off, leaving me alone in the kitchen, smile becoming a smirk as I see Sarah pause and stare up, become statue like for a half minute before nodding at one patch of ceiling that looks no different from the other.
Moving on, out of sight.
Returning some fifteen minutes- so long I'd considered going hunting -later, nodding as she walks back into the kitchen as though making mental notes. Honestly, and for the fun of it, feeling playful, curious, I decide to call her out.
"All." Serious, tone and face. "Completed?"
"Yes." A nod, a thumbs up she quickly drops, likely unprofessional. "Thank you, Brooke."
"Happy to help." Nod of my own, dropping the bomb. "You'll send me the form, I assume?"
"Form?"
Victory flashing through me, delicious quick tingle of it blooming at Sarah's confused, panicked face.
"The report." Like it's obvious. "I'd like to read your findings, and of course I'll be happy to sign it, send it back."
"Oh." Actually retreating towards my door, reaching out behind her. "Right. Well...."
"Tomorrow?"
"Yes." Like drowning, throwing herself towards my flung lifesaver. "Tomorrow, in your...."
"Letterbox." Helpful, grinning at Sarah's retreating back.
Not even making it to a ten count- once I'm alone -before the laughter erupts.
Going through to my bedroom, to change. Raised eyebrow at what I discover: inside the wardrobe, the master bedroom having a small walk in style room for clothes, in one corner of which I've- temporarily -stashed all my ropes and gags, vibrators and cuffs. Bondage equipment, all contained in a five high plastic drawer unit, each drawer a different pastel colour.
Each one labelled, if only for the amusement I'd felt at writing 'Gags, various' on a sticky backed label, placing it on the second drawer down.
Two of the drawers open, when I always- Al. Ways -leave it closed. The rope drawer, three coiled lengths half spilling out and a forth, rope left on the floor as though dropped, the whole scene speaking of a sudden noise, of panic.
That forth rope is uncoiled, fashioned into some crude form of self tie: a couple of loops, slip knots to tighten without help.
"Can't wait to read that report." I muse, swapping out shorts and Adidas for jeans and lace up boots. Hoodie for a vest top and biker jacket. Three Kings patch on the back, my gang, my friends.
Helmet, keys and phone. Bank card. Leaving the apartment, heading off to a King's meet, the AGM no less, Annual General Meeting, a chance to show off the improved Hayabusa, a chance to talk and laugh with friends I haven't properly seen in awhile. Because the Three Kings is my gang, but I moved away, Owl Wood being too far for regular forays back to home turf.
Forays, yes, but occasional, the gaps between stretching too far, too often.
One of the main motivations for taking the Ranger position was it allowed me to come home, so to speak, since each of us- Rangers, the four of us -can, has been sent anywhere, since the other three already had houses, and since I was between homes, I was allowed to pick my base location.
So why not return to King territory, so far as a motorcycle gang can be said to have such. Isn't like there's a biker war on or anything.
Not one I've been told about anyway.
Hiring out the top floor of a social club, car park large enough to accommodate the fifty odd bikes, plus assorted cars. The atmosphere boisterous but good natured, a dozen conversations happening at once, people seeking me out to comment on the bike even whilst I do the rounds.
Catching up, sharing friendship.
"Brooke."
"Hey, Morgan." Expression on her face: balancing, standing before the long drop on an- imagined -ledge, until I smile, and we're good. Morgan, who I dated for a short while, who became 'Thirteen' as I once became 'Plymouth' all whilst we dated, who got distracted by and led astray by some dickhead with a- quite cool actually but still, shitty -white Japanese Subaru WRX.
And I tried, at the time, I fucking tried to win, I fought for her and she.
Didn't.
Fucking care. But that's awhile ago now, we've made up, since, talked and shared a drink, and I may never fully trust her but we're okay. She's a King, which counts for something, too.
"Can we talk?"
"Aren't we now?"
"Ha." Clinking glasses with me, beer for- came with someone? -her and diet coke for me. "I meant talk. Talk."
"Right." Modelling talk, interesting. "Sure, message me?"
"Anytime?"
"Anytime." My turn to clink glasses, not hating the small tingle in my belly Morgan's proximity is causing.
Wondering at what she needs, wants?
Train of thought stopped by the meeting, called to order.
The Three Kings, now- in some sense -two. An old gang, three friends, bikers wanting to share a passion with others, each King- two white one black on the right, the gang patch all three chess pieces stood close, the angle low, Kings looming -representing a founding member.
One of whom died.
There was a girl: Lilly, my first serious girlfriend and the absolute fucking stink of the fact, my accident and she's mostly lost to the holes. Lilly died, a three- Lilly and parents -bike convoy, taken out by a truck suffering a blowout on the motorway. Lilly's dad was an original King, and the two remaining founders, both of an age where retirement- from work -is closing in, up on stage, looking tired.
Actually tired, wanting to pass on the torch, the running of the gang and here we are, all together so what a perfect opportunity to vote, to appoint three new leaders.
Three- new -Kings.
A standing ovation, one of the two openly crying, hugged by his friend and- damn my fucking scarred memories -a scattering of similar emotions throughout the hall, those closest to the dead King, despite it being close to five years ago now.
Still missed, a lost brother, sister and- Lilly -sister.
Voting, papers already arranged on a table off to one side, box- slot in the top -already waiting beside the papers, someone to watch, ticking off names as we deposit our chosen list. Three names each.
Who would make a good King?
Doesn't, he or she doesn't have to be young. For five minutes I ponder, thinking, eyes roaming the room, considering candidates and we're all eligible.
Good natured, mostly hushed conversations whilst the votes are counted, people taking the opportunity to get another round in. Me, winding up in a heated debate with Winston regarding modifications, something he knows more then most about.
Winston, the first name called and applause follows him to the stage. Son of the black founding King, and a good- legacy -pick. Early thirties, Winston races scramblers professionally, his involvement in bikes limited to off roading.
Connor, the second name, someone I'm only aware of on nodding terms, a different crowd within the Kings. Early thirties but, I think, older then Winston, a rugby players build to Winston's tall lean frame beside him. Connor rides a chopper, what you'd picture if someone said biker gang.
And.
Me? Apparently, blinking at my name body frozen, limbs refusing to work until I'm given a friendly push from the side, those I'd been stood beside laughing without malice, a pat to my shoulder and a shouted- over the third go round of applause -congratulations.
Up on stage, hugged by Winston, by Connor, the three of us stood, boys flanking me.
Plymouth the King.
Fuck me.
-
BlissfulMisery
- Centennial Club
- Posts: 414
- Joined: 3 years ago
So the 'proper' way had a tendency of not working out, and you pivoted.RopeBunny wrote: 1 month ago
Used to be I'd write a pages worth of plan before starting a new tale, but two things kept happening.
- I'd find myself wishing the tale along, eying up something fun id planned, still a ways off only I want to write it now
- Added to which I started to find what I was writing bending away from the plan, nee ideas and directions, which appealed more so why stick to the plan?
Regardless, I much prefer this flowing style I've developed, and am glad it comes across well on the page.
Although in fairness, I would argue that the 'proper' way is whatever way actually gets you to keep going. Can definitely sympathize with the frustration you are talking about, when it comes to large bodies of work/projects like this. Better to do things in a way that keeps one engaged, rather then creating extra barriers.
And certainly nothing wrong with adapting the original plan when you come up with better ideas!
Honestly the impression I got was less about 'porn having a bad side', since she seemed like she was more talking about bondage in general. But I do think it worked, even if maybe not *exactly* the way you apparently intended. Enjoyed the little subplot with Molly.RopeBunny wrote: 1 month ago
Wanted, within the chapter, the back and forth, I wanted Brooke to be aware and to show the fact of porn having a negative side.
Was a difficult thing to write, that Molly hated- at first -Brooke for who she is, almost at times felt like I was trying to justify the entire Plymouth story base.
Think it came across okay, think Brooke came out of it okay though.
Maybe you have. I could be misremembering. I definitely remember you getting extremely close to that line, but maybe you had actually crossed it at some point. Just something that stood out, so I mentioned it.RopeBunny wrote: 1 month ago Pretty certain? Sure I've done this before, treating Plymouth like a separate entity inside Brooke's head, like a split personality.
RopeBunny wrote: 1 month ago
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')Indeed - else she might suffer an existential crisis, learning that she is merely a figment of someones imaginationRopeBunny wrote: 1 month ago
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
-
Nah, entirely wrong kind of bunnyRopeBunny wrote: 1 month ago both could be explained if Sarah thinks me a gym bunny obsessed with her appearance
Why do I suspect this will be/end up being an ex-boyfriend...RopeBunny wrote: 1 month ago "My car." Smiling, amused. "I don't ride."
"Right." Not even with the boyfriend?
In fairness, someone being awkward about it (fidgeting) is usually a pretty good sign something is up.RopeBunny wrote: 1 month ago "For a." Quick fidget, flashing me a smile. "Need to do a follow up, a post moving in assessment and talk."
"Oh."
Something inside, some instinct or extra sense calling her out on this. Something inside disbelieving, on some level knowing it isn't real.
I just don't know why?
Also her talking about a 'post moving in assessment' is a pretty strong sign she is making it up - what would that even be
I would say Brooke is being a little mean here... but Sarah did try to (jokingly) press-gang her into washing her car for her earlier. So fair play and all that.RopeBunny wrote: 1 month ago "Happy to help." Nod of my own, dropping the bomb. "You'll send me the form, I assume?"
"Form?"
Victory flashing through me, delicious quick tingle of it blooming at Sarah's confused, panicked face.
Archeologist Brooke is on the case!RopeBunny wrote: 1 month ago Two of the drawers open, when I always- Al. Ways -leave it closed. The rope drawer, three coiled lengths half spilling out and a forth, rope left on the floor as though dropped, the whole scene speaking of a sudden noise, of panic.
That forth rope is uncoiled, fashioned into some crude form of self tie: a couple of loops, slip knots to tighten without help.
In seriousness, pretty poor form of Sarah to abuse her trust and snoop like that. Fortunately for her, Plymouth is not the type of person to care much about things like that.
And of course yet another callback to what is a pretty old story by this point (time flies!)RopeBunny wrote: 1 month ago "Hey, Morgan." Expression on her face: balancing, standing before the long drop on an- imagined -ledge, until I smile, and we're good. Morgan, who I dated for a short while, who became 'Thirteen' as I once became 'Plymouth' all whilst we dated, who got distracted by and led astray by some dickhead with a- quite cool actually but still, shitty -white Japanese Subaru WRX.
And I tried, at the time, I fucking tried to win, I fought for her and she.
Didn't.
Fucking care. But that's awhile ago now, we've made up, since, talked and shared a drink, and I may never fully trust her but we're okay. She's a King, which counts for something, too.
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.RopeBunny wrote: 1 month ago There was a girl: Lilly, my first serious girlfriend and the absolute fucking stink of the fact, my accident and she's mostly lost to the holes. Lilly died, a three- Lilly and parents -bike convoy, taken out by a truck suffering a blowout on the motorway. Lilly's dad was an original King, and the two remaining founders, both of an age where retirement- from work -is closing in, up on stage, looking tired.
Sounds about right for her reaction. Have to say I was *not* expecting that (well, being fair, I was expecting it as soon as it came down to the secret ballot, but definitely was not expecting the story to go this direction before this point).
Makes me very curious as to where you plan to take this!