Mallory Robinson and the Whambinis
“Mmph...mmph….” Mallory Robinson grunted into her gag as her captor wrapped the second coil of rope around her torso, just underneath her ample bustline.I’m sure rubbing the backs of your hands under my breasts was ‘just by happenstance’ you perv. Mallory thought as she glanced behind her. And slightly downward, getting a look at the man tying her up.
She couldn’t quite see what he was doing but could feel him tugging on the running ends of the rope. From the pulling, she could feel those running ends winding around ropes pushing her elbows together.
All of this caused her ample breasts to jut out that much more, straining against the fabric of the wine red blouse she wore.
By peripheral vision she could see one half of the Whambini Duo, two out of work stage magicians turned criminals. The Lesser Whambini was her captor, the short bespectacled man with the black handlebar mustache. He was wearing a blue-green double-breasted jacket and trousers, with a red collared shirt and black bowtie and a black tophat with the band of red just above the brim.
Once he was done tying the knots he slid a hand around her, the hand coming to rest on her right breast. Then came the squeeze. And then the other hand joined its counterpart on Mallory’s left breast. And squeezed it as well.
The man went to check his handiwork on Mallory’s wrists, arranged palm to palm behind her back with three windings of rope around them. Two windings cinched between her wrists ensured Mallory couldn’t slip her hands through easily.
“Now to get you upstairs, counselor.” The vile little man said with another squeeze of Mallory’s breasts.
His hands remained on the large mounds as he walked her out of the red brick townhouse’s living room. The sounds of Mallory’s heels clicking against the hardwood floor mingled with indignant ‘mmphs’ from behind her gag as the man led her out of the foyer of the old townhouse, up one flight of stairs and then another.
The man removed his hand from Mallory’s right breast just long enough to open the door to a narrow room that was the house’s attic.
Mallory took stock of the room’s contents. A wooden table with one leg shorter than the others. Three heavy wooden chairs upholstered in red cloth. A full-length mirror. A dresser drawer with a mechanical alarm clock on top of it, its hands were frozen at 12:30. And besides that alarm clock were more coils of rope.
As the pair passed the dresser, the man grabbed a coil of rope before his hand resumed its station on Mallory’s right breast as he led her to one of the three chairs.
As he forced her, with a swat to the butt, to sit down on the centermost of the three chairs he commanded, “Sit down.”
After he had her sitting down he wound the coil of rope around Mallory two times, once again underneath her breasts. The rope was knotted at the back of the chair and the man whistled an aria as he walked back to the dresser, grabbing some more rope.
He grabbed Mallory’s ankles, winding the rope around them and knotting the rope before taking the second piece of rope and tying Mallory’s ankles to a cross-bracing bar connected to the legs of the chair.
He examined Mallory’s bonds and after one more groping of Mallory’s breasts, he smiled toothily.
With a nasal tone, he said, “Now to go find the Great Whambini and move your car. And later we can have some fun. I trust you’ll be comfortable here…”
He walked out of the attic, closing the door behind him and Mallory heard the sound of a skeleton key turning in the door lock.
Comfortable was the last word Mallory would associate with her situation. In addition to her own heart hammering in her ears, Mallory could hear rain steadily thumping against the house’s roof with the occasional clap of thunder and flash of lightning visible through the narrow windows of the attic.
She could see her reflection in the mirror in front of her. Shiny chestnut hair was arranged in a messy updo atop her head, framing a face that required very little makeup. Her red lips were concealed by the folded white cloth of her gag, double knotted behind her head.
Despite being over forty (forty-two to be exact) she still had a body men would describe as bikini ready. Her ample breasts, comfortably a D-cup in her own words, were well accentuated by the push-up bra she wore underneath the wine red blouse.
The blouse had a couple buttons unbuttoned, the first to show a tasteful bit of cleavage and the second had come undone in the struggle with the Lesser Whambini. The way he had tied her up meant that the material of her blouse stretched tightly over her breasts, buttons seeming ready to burst at the first deep breath.
Her black skirt, short and tight enough to be sexy but long enough to be professional, was complemented by black stockings and 3” pumps.
Mallory squirmed against the ropes, letting out the occasional grunt or mewl from behind her gag. Not a single inch of give.
The bastard must have learned his knots in the boyscouts. Mallory thought. Before he got kicked out for tying up his den mother.
“MMMMNNNGFFFFF!” Mallory tried to scream. The sound would not carry any further than the attic door. The driving rain and occasional thunderclap also served to ensure Mallory’s attempt at screaming would not be heard.
Despite this Mallory tried two more times, and squirmed and tugged at the ropes for good measure. This, however, led to nothing more than tiredness. She took in air rapidly through her nose, causing her bosom to heave with each breath.
She glanced down and saw her skirt had been bunching up with all that struggling she had done. The skirt had been just slightly above knee length when sitting down. Now with all her writhing, it rode up, revealing the tops of her black stockings and even the black strips of her garters.
Mallory breathed in and out. Ok Mallory, calm down and think. There has got to be a way out of this…
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To Be Continued…
