being Plymouth (MF+/F+) *FINISHED 20/12* *Good to see you all*

[RopeBunny]

006.
Carnival.
Part one.

Not a grand wide space, but nor is the theatre small. A capacity around the five hundred mark, and almost every seat full.

Dark blue curtain blocking the slightly curved stage, the top third and centre of which is obscured by a ginormous hanging flatscreen. Currently blank.

Time. The lights dim, the general background murmurs fall silent.

A spotlight strikes, centre stage.

Enter Plymouth, pushing through the dark blue fabric. Black thigh high slip on boots and a string bikini the same colour, triangles barely containing her canon sized breasts. Black top hat perched atop her blue haired half shaved head, and an open red coat like a fetish version of a ringmaster, black belts hanging loose left and right, a long tail at the back.

Behind Plymouth, on a collar and lead, emerges Fayth Hill. Dressed only in a skimpy half lace nightie, plunging neckline and string like shoulder straps, high hem you can almost. Almost. See her thong clad crotch. Silver chain wraps and binds her upper body, wrists crossed in front, breasts squeezed and arms pinned. The chain wrapping up around the neck, gag like forced into the mouth.

"Welcome." A mic hooked over one ear, discreet and wire like the bulb positioned just right, before Plymouth's mouth. "Everyone."

Arms spread wide, still holding Fayth's lead.

"To the Carnival of Chains."

A bow, top hat doffed then placed back as she stands. Smiles.

"We ask that you remain seated throughout, and remind you that," a shrug tone becoming teasing, "no matter how much you may wish it, there will be no nudity tonight."

"Rules."

Shauna. And you've already looked in the slim yet well made glossy brochure, bought in the lobby. Have already seen the models names and photos.

Dark skinned and black haired. Curvy. Shiny wet look black leggings and barefoot the same as Fayth, a white shirt with the sleeves rolled up and open at the collar, cleavage visible.

"No nudity but." Stopping beside Plymouth and dropping all but the end of the long chain she'd been holding. Sound like a rattling thunder. "Plenty of fun."
"Fun." Plymouth, nodding.

"We've got quite the show for you." Plymouth, talking as Fayth looks on, as Shauna kneels and begins wrapping chain around her ankles. Legs becoming pinned together a padlock clicked closed.

Wrapping higher.

"A carnival of bound and gagged ladies." Not reacting as Shauna snares her wrists behind, wrapping them, wrapping more to pin them to her waist. "Eager and willing to please."

Wrapping higher.

Breasts, above and below. Squeezed and looking damn good.

Higher.

Chain wrapped and wedged in Plymouth's mouth, willingly held open and now forced to remain. A final padlock to seal the metres upon yards of chain. Plymouth cocooned. Immobile. Helpless.

"Ladies. Gentlemen." Shauna takes Fayth's lead from Plymouth, her hat too. She turns to the audience, bows.

"Enjoy the show."

Shauna walks Fayth through the curtains central gap, abandoning Plymouth alone on stage.

She stares out at the audience.

Wriggles, proving her inability to escape.

Hops an on the spot circle, chest bouncing and whilst she does the ginormous flatscreen flickers to life. Some hidden camera, or cameras, providing close ups and angles of her bound body.

As Plymouth slowly lowers herself, from standing to kneeling to a controlled collapse laying down.

Rolling gently around, moaning. Struggling.

After prehaps five minutes two crew appear. All of them, backstage workers male and female are dressed in black boots and blue zip front boiler style worksuits.

Setting down a long box, coffin like only smaller metal edges and some form of thickened see through plastic on all the sides and top, and bottom. A snug fit for Plymouth whom they lift- one at the shoulders the other the feet -up and lower inside. Closing and locking the lid as she continues to struggle.

Walking away. Transparent coffin left behind. Plymouth, left behind. Locked in chain and now locked in the box.

Left to struggle some more.

Until those same workers return. Pick up the box and carry it through the curtains.

Which swing open to reveal the first set in mid build. A running theme of the show: things being placed and models being bound not behind the curtain but in full view, allowing you to see the bondage.

According to the brochure the models swap and rotate each show, each one taking multiple turns at each spot the only exception being that beginning scene you just witnessed.

And now.

Mini, or crazy, golf.

Three holes.

The first featuring a windmill, to the slowly turning blades of which Shauna has been bolted, still in her shirt and leggings. Metal ridged clamp like hoops fix her ankles and wrists to the far end of each sail, whilst a ballgag fills her mouth.

Long black hair dangling.

The second features Pixie Queen, a skinny flat chested girl with flame red hair cut into a short messy bob. Dressed in tiny grey spandex gym shorts and a pink sports bra, plenty of white skin showing including a giant colourful snake curling and climbing her right leg. She's been post tied with ropes, wrists and elbows behind the post and her, legs together. Rope as a gag her neck wrapped too. Around her a slide, helter skelter style, twists and spirals down. The hole includes a long two tiered gentle run up to the entrance of the slide ramp, the hole behind her.

Third, lastly.

Plymouth, free and in only her bikini no coat or boots, walks back on stage. Kiss and a wave flung out as she approaches the final hole, is strapped in place.

A wooden board, raised to stand upright against which she stands. Two crew use the fixed belts to pin her body to it. Arms by her sides but not touching legs apart not too wide. Belts at wrist and ankle, elbow and knee, waist and chest. Neck, forehead. A ballgag.

Stepping back and a thumbs up. The windmill comes to slow spinning life, as does the third hole. Slowly, smoothly, Plymouth is lowered forwards like a damsel over a lava filled pit. Lowered into the bottom half of the box that her board is the lid of, a box the balls must be shot into. A box seemingly full of upward pointing sharp spikes. Which, as the box closes, certainly appear to be perilously close to touching Plymouth's exposed skin.

Fayth reappears as the crew leave, with her is Natalya: curvy frame like Fayth but with a chest equal to Plymouth's. Hair dyed white but skin all over tanned. Haunted house and graveyard ink design climbing her right leg, a wolf howling on left bicep and a skeleton stood tall up her spine with arms spread wide from shoulder to shoulder.

Both are wearing too short tartan pull up pleated skirts and tiny vest tops with no bra.

Behind them walks Ashe: curvy and plump, thick limbs and round belly. Asian skintone and black curling hair. Wearing a bra and thong. Ashe's arms are pinned behind with a black leather armbinder and she's gagged by a full head harness. The armbinder is somehow combined into a golf bag, hanging down from one side out of which a half dozen clubs protrude.

Fayth and Natalya bow at centre stage. Then, without talking yet employing plenty of arm waving and gesturing, at least some of it eliciting laughs from the audience. Purposefully it seems. The two golfers, followed by their bound caddy, spend close to twenty minutes shooting all three holes.

Progress followed both by watching the stage, and the flatscreen too, those cameras providing better angles at times. Closeups.

And at the end, no clear winner but keeping score wasn't exactly the point, the audience murmurs as the models are freed, as the golf holes are removed and all six ladies walk off stage.

Returning minutes later now all dressed in variations on the theme of lace bras and thongs. Skimpy and largely see-through. Hinting and teasing.

As the crew wheel in a long wooden frame, like a fence made up of horizontal and vertical boards with arm sized gaps between, the whole structure as long as the stage and half as tall again as the models.

A crew member delivers a large plastic tub, full of rope, to the stage.

The models, to more general murmured laughs from on stage and in the seats, play rock paper scissors to elect a winner.

Ashe tonight. Who rope binds each of the others to the wooden structure, one at a time those yet to be tied leaving stage left or right, re-entering one at a time as required.

As you watch.

Fayth is bound standing, her limbs splayed into an X as she faces front. Ballgagged.

Shauna is hogtied, laying down yet on her side to face front, her back lashed to the boards one leg pinned up high to prevent her closing them. She too is ballgagged.

Plymouth and Natalya are bound back to back either side of a vertical post from which all the horizontal boards are attached behind, making the post stand proud and out, allowing this tie to occur. Plymouth's wrists are tied in front of Natalya, to her waist, her own are bound crossed and raised upwards overhead. Both girls breasts are criss-cross cinched in tight ropes figure eight style. Squeezing and pinching. Both are gagged using the same long scarf.

Pixie Queen is bound kneeling, facing to the side, facing Plymouth. Pixie's face is pressed up against Plymouth's crotch a complex harness tie of ropes pinning her there. Pixie's arms lifted up and straight out behind, a strappado pose. She's ballgagged too, the red rubber sphere buried in and no doubt rubbing constantly on Plymouth's pussy.

Ashe. Satisfied. Takes up a riding crop from the now half empty tub. She spends ten plus minutes walking slowly up and down, back up the line of bound girls. None of whom are struck hard, small insistent taps, a half dozen each time to breasts or belly. Crotch. Butt. Enough to elicit a moan and a wriggle from the victim.

Sometimes she simply runs and trails the crops tip along the exposed flesh of a model, making them squirm.

And of course each time she spanks Pixie's butt it makes her wriggle, makes her ballgag rub harder against Plymouth. Who wriggles too. Which causes her bound wrists, her fingers, to stray and rub against Natalya's thong. Which makes her moan and wriggle too.

Eventually each girl, starting with Fayth and running down the line, is freed. But in such a way that they wind up with wrists metal cuffed in front, collared, leads attached to the wooden frame.

Each freed girl is led towards Fayth and tethered in place, making an expanding group.

Once all five are there, cuffed and collared, Ashe takes up all the leads, and off stage they go as the curtains swing closed.

Intermission.

The message floating into being on the screen as the house lights come up, as the low bass line heavy track that's been a constant though rarely noticed companion this whole time becomes slightly louder.

End of part one.

[BlissfulMisery]

And so we come to the Carnival (Redux)! Or at least the first part, I suppose.

Very much reminds me of a magic show in the presentation, certainly I imagine this was part of the inspiration.

I like the change of perspective, as it sells the atmosphere quite well, although there is a bit of a strange mix of 2nd and 3rd person (well, specifically one line in second person).

Shauna. And you've already looked in the slim yet well made glossy brochure, bought in the lobby. Have already seen the models names and photos.

I am actually not sure if this is just me misunderstanding something when it comes to English tenses and persons, but this fragmented sentence does stand out from the rest of it in a fashion that does not seem intended.

An interesting idea with the 'bondage collage' at the end, although it is a little hard to visualize the exact design of the frame they are attached to, given the varying ties (and by extension their varying requirements). An issue of pacing, I suppose - bogging things down with extensive verbiage would not make sense.

[Beaumains]

That's quite the show! Much happening and so many different bondage positions. I agree with Blissful Misery that pacing this is quite difficult as you want to have interesting ties but cannot describe them fully without slowing everything down and get a very hard-to-read text.

[RopeBunny]

So.

There isn't going to be a Carnival part two.

Obviously in the world of the story there is, it wouldn't be a popular show if come the interval you were asked to leave.

But I can't write a second act.

I've tried, ideas on paper and I made it halfway through writing, but it didn't flow or come across well. And so I'm going in the direction you'll find below, somewhat of a summery.

pacing this is quite difficult as you want to have interesting ties but cannot describe them fully without slowing everything down and get a very hard-to-read text.

An issue of pacing, I suppose - bogging things down with extensive verbiage would not make sense.

This of course, pointed out by you both, could well be the issue I ran across. Much to cram in, and me unwilling to stretch the chapter too far.

Regardless. Decision made and on we go.

[RopeBunny]

Oh.
Did you forget the

?

On Thursdays we build. Friday to Sunday we six models strut, struggle, our way across the stage. Mondays we pack. Tuesday and Wednesday we travel.

That becomes my. Our. Life.

From Spain to Portugal and full reverse, east to Italy before curving north through Austria to Poland. West finding Germany by way of Denmark, France and back through the tunnel home, only we power onwards towards Wales and slingshot north to Scotland.

All this and various countries between. A non stop rolling road.

Each coach comes with armchairs and sofas, a decent toilet in back, kitchen lengthways beside with microwave and fridge. Running water. Comfortable and spacious. The seats and sofas fold, recline becoming bed like and that's where we sleep: models plus Daniel- sharing a sofa with Shauna -in one crew and Trevor in the second. Whatever city we're playing there's always a truckstop or campsite nearby.

Keeping costs down.

Tuesday and Wednesday. Driving, not always all of both days the distances city to country vary. Sometimes, reliving early days Trevor drives, taking over the lead eighteen wheeler for a stint, and when he does I ride with him. Talking, not about a shared past I mostly don't remember but instead we tell stories.

Trevor, a wealth of knowledge and a constant, genuine, interest in my own tales. My own life experiences. Whatever we were to each other, and I don't ask nor does he offer to tell, clearly we got on.

"Plymouth."
"Ashe."

In Prague Ashe hits on me.

We, half of us- can you guess -model under real names, the rest of us for varying reasons don't.

Ashe's real name is Japanese and not easy, due to the inflections, unless you're a native speaker. I do happen- Lily, more of that long mostly happy splinter from my past I do remember, but won't tell, at least not today -to know a fair amount of the tongue, enough to get by.

But we're all on easy terms, happy to use model names in something approaching affection.

Maybe that's why?

"We were all heading out." Waved gesture behind her, out the stage- we'd all been pitching in with setting up -door. "Find a local pub."
"All?" Raised eyebrow and a look around, all isn't many admittedly, but still enough to cause a scene if we descended en masse.

"Just us girls." Meaning the models.

"Right." Nodding, do I want to go out?

"But." Ashe's word recapturing my attention. "I wondered. Perhaps." Showing me a small smile, and only now I'm clocking that she's dressed up beyond the jeans and 'Carnival on tour' tee we all wear four days out of five.

"Prehaps?"
"I could buy you." Small step closer, reaching out to take my hand gently in both of hers. "Us." Glancing into my eyes. "A pizza?"
"Right."

And. You know, I'm flattered. To be asked. To be hit on by anyone is a big deal.

Because. And it's going to sound like an ego boosting thing to say, but it isn't meant to be. I know I'm pretty, it's kinda in the job description, and I'm popular enough, sell enough content as a model to prove out the fact. I see the looks I get, even tree stained and wearing my chainsaw helmet, covered in dirt trudging from worksite to tractor in Owl Wood, I see the looks- male and female -cast my way.

I. We six, plus sized Ashe down to skinny flat chested Pixie, are pretty.

So. "I'm flattered."

But. "But."

"Still too early?" Said with a rueful grin as she drops my hand. Too early despite it having been months now since the split began, months even- because of the tour and associated planning -since I made it official by cornering her in McDonald's.

"Still." Possibly always? I can't believe so, and certainly hope not, but she still haunts my dreams, occasionally wandering with a dancers grace and poise to spin and bounce.

God damn that bounce.

In my waking mind. A distraction I can't seem to bury. A girl I can't seem, yet, to put down and walk away from.

Bikes and bondage, my two favourite likes.

Sorry trees, close third.

My two had been her two, the best I've- that I remember -encountered since Lily.

"Maybe." Playfulness in Ashe's voice bringing me back, smile on her face. "We could just play instead?"

Which is tempting, of course. Day after week of Carnival, of being tied and bound and gagged. Bondage with no happy endings because of the rules. All six of us sexually frustrated to varying levels.

I know some of them have 'played' already, finding quiet moments. Indulging.

But.

"Not tonight." A smile to remove whatever sting, small shake of my head.

Not tonight. But.

When?

Fayth and me take photos, Natalya too. Those of us, Daniel included, with relevant experience and expensive camera's.

Between shows we compile, create, the book companion to Carnival. Choosing photos to go alongside the various snippets of writing, all six of us models, Daniel and Trevor, even the crew are encouraged to note down interesting thoughts and observations along the way. Out of this we create a sort of flowing timeline, words and pictures telling the story.

The Carnival of Chains, on tour.

The book will be a glossy hardcover, a limited run.

Was the plan anyway, until the publishers email, with us enroute to Italy and the book nothing more then rough drafts, a teasing half dozen images placed on the online order page by way of enticement.

Which.

Oops. But. Awesome.

Worked a little too well. Pre-orders have already sold out the run, so, we negotiate to have more printed, taking the advice of experts- the publishers -on how many more to green light. Trevor and myself paying the deposit, swallowing down my worry. What if we have excess left? Lost money.

Not a chance.

An endless parade of foreign cities, and for each I learn the native tongue, as does Shauna. There's no script beyond that first scene, no speaking parts save for ours. So we learn French and German, Italian and all the others besides.

Practicing mostly without gigging for that introduction, and me additionally for the finale.

Each model, the order random but with me always sixth of six. Each of us, to end the show we step on stage, walk to the front and bow, wave, blow kisses. Whatever you want to do by way of a thank you to the audience.

And as the applause dies out the next of us comes, chain and a ballgag, a padlock or two in hand which we use to bind the previous girl. Quickly yet tightly, a hogtie or leaving her standing, arms behind or in front. Something fast.

And then you bow, wave.

And then the next model walks out.

Until it's my turn, to step out and bind model the fifth, somehow. Leaving five bound and me, standing central.

My turn to wave, to take a bow my ringmasters hat once again perched, my fetish looking- going to be keeping this outfit -coat on.

"Thank you." Mic assisted I declare, arms thrown wide, smile on my face as beside me the girls struggle and wriggle, putting on one last performance of helplessness.

"One and all. It has been a pleasure to host Carnival, here."

Insert city name.

"We are grateful you came. And, maybe." Playing up the thoughtful expression hand cupping chin.

Smile breaking out.

"One day the Carnival of Chains will return."

Arms flung wide. The applause, and each time I worry, panic even, that it won't. But each time it returns, building and growing as I walk the line bending when necessary to kiss each chained model's cheek. Returning to the centre, a final salute hand off the peak of my top hat as the curtains swing closed.

Done.

Onwards to the next city, the next show.

Until the last.

England. Birmingham, having divebombed all the way down from Scotland to Exeter on the south coast via Manchester, hooking east to Brighton, north to Leeds, we end in the rough centre.

Tears, from all of us both before curtain up and after. Hugging, the usual post show huddle becoming something else knowing we'll all disperse tomorrow or straight away: models catching planes and trains home, coaches dropping various crew off enroute. Trevor supervising the return of his trucks.

And me, back to the woods, back to my life.

We toast champagne. I give a speech of sorts. We made it, the crazy train, still in one piece and on the rails. Guided safely through the storm of our making.

What a ride.

It's nearly midnight as we pile out the stage door, laughing now high spirits the sadness of parting done.

And suddenly, ghost like stepping off the low wall, coming forward all too real wiping the smile off my face stealing the laughter from my throat her sheer impossibility of being here.

Now.

Morgan.

I stop, nobody else the other's barely seeming to notice they're a man down, continuing on.

She smiles, something small. Building. The act, smile becoming a nervous tongue flick out across her lip ring brings a small upturn to my own mouth.

Her mouth opens. Closes.

She frowns, which involuntarily widens my smile, which brings hers back.

Morgan opens her mouth a second time, takes a deep breath.

[BlissfulMisery]

I've tried, ideas on paper and I made it halfway through writing, but it didn't flow or come across well. And so I'm going in the direction you'll find below, somewhat of a summery.

This of course, pointed out by you both, could well be the issue I ran across. Much to cram in, and me unwilling to stretch the chapter too far.

Regardless. Decision made and on we go.

Fair enough. It would have been a scene with a large amount of moving parts, very difficult to describe in words, so I certainly understand the reason as to why.

Still, the chapter seems to have turned out fine with a - as you said - summary of sorts. The highlights as it were.

Bikes and bondage, my two favourite likes.

Sorry trees, close third.

Hah!

An interesting aside with Ashe. Wonder if it will lead to anything, or simply remain a small ego boost for Brooke.

And of course the 'fated' encounter with Morgan! A great set of lines, describing the complex and conflicting emotions of the situation using nothing but expressions/body language. A great finisher (and cliffhanger/teaser!)

[RopeBunny]

I could say plenty, but.

I won't.

Because. Well.

Because I don't want to rant or equally to dive into personal things. What matters is.

I'm back

I'll just pause here a moment so you can all tell me how much I've- my stellar story spinning skills -been missed

Anyway. Consider these three new chapters the stories end. I could go further, and still may pick Plymouth straight back up in a new story as opposed branching and beginning something else.

The trouble with Plymouth though, and eagle eyes might spot the hints of such in this fresh writing, is that I'm always only one or two steps away from diving into deep dark waters.

With her I can't seem to keep things light, I just want to go full Mistress/slave all the time

So. Enjoy, and of course I'm glad to of found my wandering way back. Home.

RB

[RopeBunny]

007.

"Plymouth?"

Only, whatever Morgan had been about to say, or do, she's interrupted by Trevor. The looming bulk of his stocky old man boxers frame appearing at my side.

Eyes leaving the ghost before me, still not quite believing she's here, now, I look beside me. At Trevor.

Beyond Trevor.

Fayth. Standing on the corner, arms crossed. Frowning. Watching.

The old guard.

And there'd been something of the high noon brewing, it had felt like deep down where imagination rules all. Morgan and me stood directly opposite, matching easy poses masking a rising tension, the unknown future her- ghost of my past -appearance has opened up.

But now Trevor. Fayth. Allies by my side and Morgan outnumbered.

Outgunned.

Why is she here?

I'm "Fine." Though. Half shouted as I half turn to Trevor, taking and squeezing his rough hand whilst my eyes find, lock onto, Fayth's.

"All good." A nod for her. "Okay."

In my corner vision I see Morgan's head turn, see her jump. Small but visible. Spotting Fayth.

Who, after a handful of seconds. Sizing and weighing the world. Fayth nods, uncrossing her arms and stuffing hands into jean pockets.

As Trevor stays a moment longer, eyes on Morgan as she watches back.

We've talked plenty.

He knows who she is, what she did.

"Okay." Patting my hand with his free hand. "Plymouth." A nod, and I let go, dropping both hands to my sides.

Breathe out.

"Miss." Nodding to Morgan. No outward threat, save for his eyes, his tone.

I watch him walk away, back to Fayth and brief words exchanged, small blown kiss from her before the corner swallows my backup, back up.

Turning to face Morgan as a slight breeze chases down the narrow road, ruffling our hair and enhancing the gunfighter imagery even more.

From nowhere, unannounced the laugh bubbles up out of me.

"What?" Taking two steps forwards, a skittering step back. "B?"

Which, the use of I don't notice.

"I forgot my gun."
"Right?" Confused, which makes me laugh again. I wave it off.

"Feels very high noon." Gesturing from her to me, Morgan follows eyes roaming the space, looking up at the streetlight, like moonlight just so happening to illuminate the narrow road between us all whilst we two remain largely in shadow.

"Have you come to shoot me?"
"No." Re-taking that second step bringing herself fully into the light. Tartan trousers hugging slim legs, mostly black and grey, some dark blue hinted in the clearly non standard pattern. Small humped belly poking through between a cream canvas belted waistband and her fitted black tee, Kings leather jacket unzipped.

Stunning.

Which is probably why.

"To kidnap me?"

Scattergun laughter from her, stopped almost as soon as begun and then Morgan's blushing. Darting eyes up and down me.

Carnival tee black and tight across my large chest, shorts, small grey spandex the outfit only meant to convey me from theatre to hotel.

All those of us not already homeward bound are booked into the same Hilton, a last night treat.

I'm very underdressed for a chilly evening, showing far too much inked skin.

The yawn, like the laughter is unannounced. Jaws stretched wide and arms out, head to the sky and eyes suddenly heavy. Body and muscles spent as the weeks and months, Carnival over, it all comes crashing in on me.

"You need sleep."
"Yeah." Another yawn, hand up to cover my gaping mouth, a half smile as Morgan grins. "Sorry."
"S'okay." A nod. "Not like you knew I'd be here."
"No." Tamping down on the sleepiness.

Just five minutes. Give me five and I'll sleep for a year. Promise.

"Should I be happy to see you?"
"That's." Looking down at her feet, back up. A shrug. "Not entirely my decision is it." Taking another couple of steps and stopping just out of grabbing.

Kissing.

Range. Hands in her pockets.

"B?"
"Oh?" Too tired, a flood I can't hold back, a rolling wave I can't calm.

"B?"
"What?" Blacked out for a second. I blink, smile somewhat lazily at Morgan's small frown. "Plymouth."

I nod. Yes. I'm Plymouth. Step forward and throw my arms around Morgan, too fast and she can't, doesn't, back away as I pin her arms to her sides, hugging.

"Come by the house tomorrow," half whispered in her ear, vaguely aware of a tenseness in her body vanishing, Morgan relaxing against me.

Press of her chest into mine.

Feels good.

"I'll make dinner and." Stepping back, letting go. I nod, reach out to pat Morgan's shoulder. Miss. Patting the top of her E cup instead.

Feels good.

"We can talk." Yawning. "Thirteen. Kay?"
"Tomorrow." A nod I half see, turning around, half walking half stumbling away.

[RopeBunny]

008.

But I don't manage more then six hours. Sleep, despite it being my first proper non fold out or reclining bed in months, I'm a naturally early riser, and besides even the heavy, thick fog of sleep barely manages to obscure the fact of her.

Morgan.

Coming to dinner at my invitation.

And that, the associated butterflies, are enough to stop anyone getting a lay-in.

Awake and dressed, my much travelled suitcase packed, I find Trevor and Daniel tucking into scrambled egg on toast in the hotel restaurant.

"Shauna?"
"Still asleep." Knowing grin, guess she's not a morning person. Daniel leans across the table to kiss my cheek.

"Morning Trevor."
"Plymouth." Leaning back into my leaning in from behind friendly hug, reaching up to pat my hand. "Joining us?"
"Just for water and this." Tossing my liberated- from the basket on the long table we guests help ourselves from -banana and orange onto the table.

I sit.

"Your trucks?"
"Already back in the yard by now." Checking his silver wristwatch. "Coaches too I dare say."
"Just us to disperse then."

Trevor and Daniel nod, all three of us thoughtful. Silent.

"I won't have the final tally for awhile yet."
"No rush." Peeling my banana, the orange now just a pile of skin. "You'll," looking at him, "ring me?"
"I thought prehaps you'd like to meet?"
"Sure." Which maybe means he, Trevor, wants to meet? And the possible why I couldn't say. But, I can spare an afternoon somewhen early next week or the next, or whenever, ride the Hayabusa.

Which I've missed.

To wherever he lives.

"So...?"
"I'll." A smile, because I'd already said as much prehaps. "Ring, when I know, and we can set something up?"
"Perfect."

I nod, slotting the- date and time unknown -appointment into my inner diary.

A walk, a train, another train, and finally a taxi brings me slowly bouncing up through into Owl Wood. Home.

Finding everything largely where I left it, in my house at least. Evidence of Stan's comings and goings, the big boss filling in both my pickup and tractor aren't where I left them, coffee mugs reordered on the shelf in my kitchen, fresh milk.

Good of him.

In the fridge and a hand written letter on the table. Which I read, nodding and thoughtful towards the observations and suggestions being made regarding ongoing work the wood could use.

No criticism, I wasn't- hard and dedicated worker, friend to trees -expecting to find Stan poking holes and pointing out things I haven't done. Because I have, done them.

Because I love my job.

But. Older, more experienced, what he's done is cast that knowledgeable eye across my woodland, and note down what I might want to tackle throughout the coming year.

Which, sure boss, I can do that.

Starting tomorrow.

I get changed, or at least I swap out trainers for boots, zip up my King's jacket, belting it closed at neck and waist. Helmet on, and outside I wheel my metal clad beast, my personal two wheeled hurricane of pure power.

Hayabusa. Even thinking the name, running a hand across the bright almost luminous green Japanese character ghosting out from the matt black flank.

Always makes me shiver.

Howling, the bike and me grinning, I near fly- it feels -to the supermarket. It's already mid afternoon, and I didn't set a time with Morgan, didn't, really, set or discuss anything with Morgan.

Could she be coming just to tell me goodbye?

Again.

I mean, what would be the point? Seeking me out, agreeing to dinner in my house, only to deliver bad news.

Is it too much to hope for good things?

Is it asking too much that she'll want to cuddle?

I wander, unsure after so long eating mostly sandwiches and sharing pizza, a fruit heavy diet to balance out all that not so healthy food being on the road seems to attract. Wandering the aisles, unsure what I fancy.

Morgan.

Stop it.

What do I want to eat?

Morgan.

I mean it.

Smiling to myself, finding a tiger baguette and cheese, sauce, mince and veg but I'm not feeling pasta, so just the bolognese and bread.

Packing everything carefully into my green camouflage messenger bag and back home I go.

Daydreaming, as much as you can whilst riding anyway, which means I'm caught completely off guard by the other bike, screaming unnecessarily fast- high revs and a low gear, attention grabbing -passed me on the dual carriageway. I blink as they let off, dropping back. Move aside, tricky, careful, making room two bikes side by side in one lane.

And by this point I've clocked the helmet, the King's patch sitting proud on her jacket.

The familiar slim profile and shock of black hair escaping the helmet.

Morgan. Playful wave to match the entrance. I raise a hand back, gesture her to go first.

After you.

Laughing as, with her gently beginning to pull away I floor it, howling overtake.

She flips me off at the next roundabout, visor up to show me amused eyes.

And I want to kiss her.

We play leapfrog all the way back, a game she- small bike, fun but not the weapon I'm sat astride -can't hope to win. But we aren't playing for keeps.

"One day."
"If I let you." Forgetting the tension that should be here, because of our last- McDonald's, the increasingly desperate attempts by me to heal what she seemed so set on breaking -meetings. I grin, helmet off and patting my saddle.

Good beast.

Morgan grins back, and it seems she's forgetting too, half dancing across the space and me a single step at the last, closing the distance as she, with familiarity, snakes an arm around my waist pinning us together.

As I reach up and brush helmet hair off her face, that long fringe.

"Anytime you think you're ready you just let me know." Faces close together and I can near taste the cigarette she must've smoked before setting off. "I'll fight you."
"I'll beat you." Cocky, leaning her forehead against mine, voice dropping low.

"You'll try."

She blinks, and as I move in for the kiss Morgan apparently- one of us, finally -remembers our recent history. That we aren't, in fact, an item.

Stepping back and breaking contact in a blur, leaving me hanging a rising tide and humming inside, precursor to the kiss.

"Oh." Suddenly out of sorts, I look from her to me, the distance. "Right."
"Sorry."
"You could've at least kissed me first." Tutting smile, half playful. "Before remembering you weren't supposed to."

Small smile in return, a small nod but she doesn't offer to rectify the mistake.

"Come on." Breaking what feels like. Something. The good kind of something. Trying to rise here I can feel that familiarity, from moments ago, trying to return. "Let's go inside."

Morgan sits whilst I cook, the table being in the kitchen, a larger room to accommodate the dual cooking and socialising functions. She sips water, smoking having asked first and of course I- still -don't mind. Jackets and boots shed we're both in blue jeans, white 'Roxy Girl' tee on her a black Carnival- I've, all of us workers have about six of them each -tee hugging my assets.

"Where's the pasta?" Confused, making a cheeky show of pushing her dark red sauce covered meat and various vegetables around the plate. Searching.

"Just bread." Making a show myself, forking a mouthful of food onto a buttered slice of baguette, cheese already sprinkled liberally over my plate, half melting.

"Honestly." Glancing up, catching me watching, grinning as she butters her own slice. "Coming back from Europe with all these fancy foreign ideas."

I toss. Kind of my go-to move, throwing harmless whatever happens to be around at people by way of flirting or attempting to win an losing argument. A balled up wad of kitchen towel at her, she, more daring or perhaps foolish, returns fire with a sauce covered chunk of mushroom. Which sails over my shoulder.

"Oops."
"Now come on," failing to contain the laugh, Morgan already giggling, "it isn't that bad."

We eat in silence, because I don't know how to start, and besides which it's. Surely? Morgan's job anyway.

Right?

Silence, but companionable. Numerous flicked glances both seen and I'm sure missed because we're both busy eating. Smiles, nervous mostly but there, and exchanged.

We eat, then she helps me wash up.

All without speaking.

By which point, fuck it, I decide to do something crazy, or bold.

Bit of both.

"Come on." Holding out my hand.

"What?" Looking from my hand to my face. "Where?"
"Upstairs." Taking her hand, gentle but firm tug. She follows. "I'm going to hogtie you on the bed, and then you'll have to talk to me or else I'll be gagging you too."

Which stops her, dead. Her stalled momentum tugging me to a stop. I turn around.

"Well." Gentle but insistent tug on her hand. "Coming?"

Waiting. Watching, a smile scooting on then off her face as Morgan looks at me.

Licks her lips, tongue darting across the silver ring.

I shiver.

She sees me, her smile widening, staying.

"Okay." A nod. "Okay."

[RopeBunny]

009.

The whole thing happens like a dream.

Surreal.

In my room Morgan, unasked and unprompted, climbs up onto the bed, kneeling, arms behind her.

Breathing fast, E cups going up down up inside her tight tee.

Taking rope from a drawer I climb up behind her, kneeling too.

Not thinking, the words half flirt half threat spilling out in a near whisper.

"If I don't bind you tightly you'll run away."
"I'll?" Stopping, beginning to turn her head but then stopping that too.

Shiver chasing across her body.

"Yes." Whispering too. "You should." Another stop, another shiver. "Make sure."

So I do.

Wrists bound side by side, a long rope, plenty left.

Small gasp from Morgan as I reach around and unbuckle her, slide jeans and thong down passed her pert butt.

Use the remaining rope to bind wrists to waist, turning that waist tie into a crotch tie. Doubled rope passing front to back down under between her legs, coarse fabric tight against her slit after I pull in the slack, riding up. Rubbing.

I pull her clothing back into place, concealing my work.

Carry on.

Elbows, using brute strength to force a meeting, using the left overs- another long rope -to wrap her chest. Not touching, making damn sure not to touch, but I tug and guide, nestling the bindings against her E cups. Squeezing them.

Morgan moaning, low, soft, the first of many and it isn't a protest. It isn't please stop or no that's too tight too much.

Instead she lays. Falls. Forward, belly and breasts bouncing off the mattress and then still.

Waiting for me to finish.

Legs pinned together. Ankles, knees, upper thighs. The jeans will stop it all pinching, but she's well and truly stuck.

Even more so as I bend her legs up and over, making Morgan a C curve, connecting ankles to elbows behind her.

Tight.

Unforgiving.

Using two lengths of skinny rope, little more then string thickness but stronger, I finish up.

Binding her big toes together.

Capturing and wrapping, braiding the rope into her hair as I make a knot like tail, binding that to her ankles too, forcing Morgan's head up off the bed, pinning it in a raised back position.

Putting the last, unused, handful of coiled rope lengths away I sit down in the armchair. My bedroom happens to be a good size, room enough for the chair, which is small and cozy, and positioned next to the window.

A place to sit and read in the sun, or to sit and watch the world.

Or, to sit and regard my efforts.

Morgan. Now pretty well fucked. Hogtied. Seems to emerge out of a daze, body giving a small shake as she looks left and right, just about able to peer far enough around to spot me.

I smile.

Getting a half smile back, a lick of her lips and an attempt at stretching. Which she can't do beyond lifting her bound arms up and back, in turn moving her legs, although nothing actually moves beyond an inch or so.

And the act clearly aggravates her crotch rope because Morgan's breath suddenly catches and a small sigh escapes her lips.

"Can you." Rolling, falling, onto her side and bounce struggling up the bed. Head finding and resting on a pillow, body. Breasts. Facing the centre. "Come here?"

Hopeful smile.

"Hi."
"Hi."

I'm laid facing her, the distance close though not touching. But almost. Faces close enough I can feel the breath when she talks.

"So."

After fuck knows how long a silence. Laid here staring into her eyes as she stares into mine. Breathing, the occasional squirm accompanied by a quiet moan and by now is she wet?

Because, being this close and looking at her perfect trussed body I damn sure am.

"Right." Blinking, eyes becoming focused. Morgan takes a deep breath.

Another.

"I'm sorry. B."
"Okay." I nod, the fact of her in my bed, the two of us so close to fucking it's a wonder I've still got my clothes on. Everything basically pointing to the fact forgiveness has already been given.

But.

It lifts me considerably all the same to hear her say it.

Morgan licks her lips, continues.

"You're my first serious relationship."

Not you were, you, are. Her word choice brings a quick shiver, a happy tingle which I tamp down.

"The first girl. The first anyone." Quick barked laugh, I know she's dated boys. "That I really cared about. With you has been the first time in my life I could picture a shared future. The first time I wanted one."

"And I wanted to follow you." Glancing down, or not since her hair binding won't allow anything beyond an eye flick.

But- smiling -I can see she's drawing attention to her inflated chest, a near mirror to my own. Because we're porn stars.

Which is the point.

"But then it all...."

Looking at me, mouth working and eyes going sad. And.

I don't, decision made. I don't need to hear the why of it. I can mostly fill in the blanks, given whose bed- fuck you call me Si -she's laid in. Somehow she strayed, by means fair or foul Morgan left me for him. Stayed with him.

But.

Now she, it seems, is back.

And she's sorry.

Which, really, is all- that she's back, and that she realises the mistake -that matters to me.

"Hush." Finger pressed to her lips. "I don't need details."

She kisses my finger, butterfly light pecks, I smile.

"The fact you're here." Bringing my body closer to hers, chest gently pressed to chest now. "In my bed."

Morgan's tongue flicks slowly out, running up then down my finger.

"Trussed up."

Slipping my finger into her mouth, sliding in, out. She moans, body arching towards me, pulling at the tight ropes. Straining.

And eye contact throughout. The want in hers, equaling that shown clearly in mine.

I've missed her.

Bikes. Bondage.

Mine are hers are mine. We are, in so many ways, a perfect match.

"This is where you want to be," pulling back just a tiny bit, asking with my serious tone and with my eyes, "right?"
"Yes."
"Well then the rest is just noise." Moving close. Closer. Grasping Morgan's butt to press her rope bound crotch into mine.

"Tell me or don't." Bringing my lips so close they brush hers as I speak. "But I love you, and I'm just happy you're back."

That word, prehaps.

Eyes flashing briefly wide.

Morgan hears. But I don't, my focus is all on her. Her body. Her lips.

Trussed up, tied up, helpless. Willing. I make her mine again.

Kissing. For the longest time, minutes that might well last hours, we kiss and nothing more. My hand on her butt and breasts pressed into breasts. We kiss, tasting and smiling, trading moans that are low and soft.

Pleasure.

"I." Breathed out as we pause, eyes slow blinking. "Love you, B."
"I love you too Thirteen." My reply a ghost like whisper, lust and happiness. Thirteen, her stage name and my name for her. Like B, a term of affection.

And at some level I note the exchange, but I'm. We're. Too lost in the flow to really react.

Watching me with wide eyes, an unashamed grin, as I lay beside her stripping. Body bouncing in the fight to shimmy jeans down long legs, breasts bouncing some more as my tee and bra are yanked up, off, tossed away.

Naked I roll back in, stripping her too.

As well the ropes allow: jeans and thong puddled and caught around Morgan's upper thigh, barely clear of her tied crotch. Tee and bra similarly messy, behind her head and no further thanks to a hair tie.

But she's exposed.

I take advantage.

Sex. Fast. Hard. I attack with all the built up lust and want of months spent not getting any. Weeks of missing her, night following night unsatisfied. More kissing as my hands roam her body, fingers tweaking nipples, hands groping and squeezing breasts. Jerking that crotch buried rope and Morgan laid there powerless to stop any of it.

Panting and bucking, moaning louder and faster. Trying to fuck the crotch rope even whilst I use it to fuck her.

And at the end she's silent, as always. Body near dancing up and off the bed but now screams or volume beyond the panting. Eyes locked and biting her lip.

Collapsing.

Spent.

Grinning I free her, ropes off and tossed, discarded anywhere they land.

Flopping back down myself, on my back and Morgan sliding across the bed to lay beside me, on her side one arm draped across my belly whilst one of mine supports her head.

Smiling.

Content.

[BlissfulMisery]

Well, it seems being away has not dulled your abilities. Glad to see you back!

I'll just pause here a moment so you can all tell me how much I've- my stellar story spinning skills -been missed

Indeed

In some ways a slightly anticlimactic ending, but it would have been strange for Brooke to insist on rehashing the past - ultimately as she herself implies, it does not matter much.

Very much enjoyed the descriptions/use of language as well (as usual) - not going to quote every single one of course, but just some examples of lines I thought were evocative.

Helmet on, and outside I wheel my metal clad beast, my personal two wheeled hurricane of pure power.

A place to sit and read in the sun, or to sit and watch the world.

Or, to sit and regard my efforts.

The yawn, like the laughter is unannounced. Jaws stretched wide and arms out, head to the sky and eyes suddenly heavy. Body and muscles spent as the weeks and months, Carnival over, it all comes crashing in on me.

Overall an appropriate send off for Brooke and Morgan - a cozy scene of them back together again, one of them tied up. As it should be

Although I fear that if you were to continue the story at a later date (as you mentioned), we might find that something has happened to Thirteen (unfortunate or otherwise) - you have a tendency to try to 'reset' things when picking them back up again. Not criticizing it - it makes sense, as it allows you to write the story you want, rather then being chained to an old one. But just an amusing observation