Chapter Text
June 12th, 2024 – London (St. Claire Court, Queen Mary University residence) – 4:11 p.m.
“…The beautiful redhead squirmed helplessly in her ropes while the powerful witch-queen Xeres watched her with a teasing smile curling at the corners of her lips.
All those ropes — tied with obsessive perfection — left her completely powerless, at the mercy of her captor. Her gag, an enormous penis gag locked behind her neck with a magical padlock, reduced every protest to a muffled groan, deepening her humiliation even further.
But right then, what slipped past her lips weren’t protests at all, but desperate, breathless moans of pleasure.
The torments she’d endured — the forty lashes, the endless hours hanging from dungeon rings — all of it was forgotten. At that moment, Diana Vaine was begging for the sorceress’s enormous—”
“I—I don’t see why you’re reading this to me.”
The voice cut through the story right before things were about to get really interesting.
It came from Callie Morgan-Saar, standing stiffly in front of her friend Yasmin Farahani, who sat cross-legged on the bed, phone in hand, having just read aloud from Chapter 23 of Diana Vaine: Reluctant Bondage Princess — posted on DeviantArt a week earlier.
Callie tried to sound indignant, even offended, but the bright flush spreading across her cheeks — and her inability to meet Yasmin’s eyes — told an entirely different story.
Yasmin looked up from her phone, a small, knowing smile forming on her lips.
Tall and effortlessly elegant, Yasmin Farahani had the kind of beauty that made people pause — warm brown eyes like strong tea, dark wavy hair falling over sharp cheekbones, and a teasing mouth that always seemed one breath away from a grin. There was something unmistakably Persian about her, in her poise, her warmth, and the soft musical lilt in her voice when she finally spoke.
Callie, by contrast, was the picture of nervous innocence. Petite, slim, with long brown hair and wide storm-gray eyes, she looked like the last person on earth who’d write about penis gags and magical dungeons. Her beauty was quiet, almost fragile — and every emotion she felt blazed openly across her face.
No one needed to guess what she was thinking. You could read her like a headline.
And right now, Yasmin, who’d known her for six years, could tell exactly what was running through that frantic little head.
It wasn’t anything like Why on earth is my best friend reading this filthy stuff out loud?
No, it was more along the lines of:
Oh God oh God oh God — does she know? How did she find it? I’m doomed!
Yasmin could’ve ended the “torture session” right there — but really, where was the fun in that?
No, she lived for moments like this — watching the lovely Callie spiral, floundering to escape a situation she clearly had no way out of.
“You’ve got to admit,” Yasmin said, a teasing glint in her eyes, “this DarkLadyOfRopes girl can write. She’s got real style.”
Standing across from the bed, Callie shifted her weight from one foot to the other, her discomfort practically radiating off her despite her best (and utterly doomed) attempt to look composed.
“DarkLadyOfRopes?” she repeated, forcing a weak laugh as she turned her head away to hide her face. “Never heard of her.”
And she really did have to turn her head away — because, in truth, Callie knew exactly who DarkLadyOfRopes was.
Mainly because… well, she was DarkLadyOfRopes.
Yes, Callie Morgan-Saar — sweet, nervous, innocent little Callie — was secretly a BDSM fiction author on DeviantArt.
And not just any author, either. A popular one.
Over twelve hundred watchers, seventy to eighty favorites on each of the twenty-three chapters of Diana Vaine: Reluctant Bondage Princess, not to mention the spin-offs (Bondage Princesses Sold at the Black Market being one of her biggest hits).
And then there were the comments — dozens of them — praising her vivid imagination, her distinctive style, and her “incredibly accurate descriptions of bondage positions.”
No one was supposed to know.
Not her classmates. Not her professors.
And especially not Yasmin Farahani.
That account had been her secret pride, her guilty pleasure — right up until this exact moment… when Yasmin had somehow gotten her hands on that story and started reading it aloud, all innocent smiles and wide-eyed curiosity.
That was all it took for Callie’s brain to go into full meltdown mode — or, more accurately, straight to DEFCON 1.
Okay. Breathe. Maybe she doesn’t know. Maybe she just—what, randomly stumbled on a BDSM story about a redhead and a penis gag? Totally plausible, Callie. Happens all the time. People just trip over those things online.
God, why didn’t I delete that stupid account when I had the chance? Or at least pick a less incriminating username! “DarkLadyOfRopes”? Really? What was wrong with “BookLover92” like a normal human being?
Okay, okay, just stay calm. Deny everything. You’ve got this.
Yasmin rose from the bed with a smile that said everything Callie didn’t want it to say — the kind of smile that meant you’re not getting out of this one, sweetheart.
She crossed the room, still wearing that maddening grin, and stopped by her desk. There, waiting for her, was her laptop. Well… technically Callie’s old laptop.
It had been gathering dust in Callie’s closet for nearly a year before she’d lent—well, more like given—it to Yasmin after her computer died a month ago. Callie hadn’t thought twice about it; she knew Yasmin’s family wasn’t exactly swimming in money, and besides, what harm could come from handing over an old machine?
Yasmin flipped open the laptop, tapped in the password, and with a triumphant little smirk, turned the screen toward her friend.
There it was. The DeviantArt profile of DarkLadyOfRopes. Logged in. Admin view.
“Well, well,” Yasmin said, her tone pure mischief, “a real mystery, isn’t it, Callie? Somehow, this DarkLadyOfRopes seems to be posting from your old laptop.”
Oh God. Oh no. No no no no no.
Her blood ran cold. Of course. Of course this was happening.
You absolute genius, Callie.
You write twenty-three chapters about magical sex dungeons, upload them under a ridiculous pseudonym, and then you give your best friend the laptop that’s still logged into the account. Brilliant. Truly brilliant. Ten out of ten for operational security.
Her brain supplied the mental image of packing her life into a suitcase, catching the next train out of London, and starting fresh under a new name.
Maybe Clara NotDarkLadyOfRopes.
Cornered, Callie still tried to wriggle her way out of it — grasping at an excuse so ridiculous it collapsed under its own weight.
And of course, the fact that her face was now the color of a ripe tomato didn’t exactly help her credibility.
“I—it must’ve been hacked!” she blurted. “Yeah, that’s it. My laptop got hacked!”
Yasmin couldn’t hold back a laugh.
“Hacked? Really? So what — in your world, hackers don’t steal your data, they give you access to a DeviantArt account with over twelve hundred watchers?”
Callie opened her mouth to reply — she had to say something, anything — but Yasmin spoke first.
“Well,” she said with a grin that made Callie’s stomach drop, “since I now know you’re DarkLadyOfRopes… I’ve decided I want to try this whole bondage thing.”
Callie’s jaw nearly hit the floor. For a few long seconds, she just stared at her friend, completely speechless.
Then, at last, she managed to open her mouth.
“What?!”
***
June 15th, 2024 – Morgan-Saar Residence (West London suburbs) – 1:45 p.m.
“No, Chelsea, you cannot come over this afternoon!” Callie shouted into her phone, exasperation dripping from every word. “I told you I’m using the house for my… my reading session.”
The young Morgan-Saar was pacing the living room of her parents’ gorgeous home, nestled in one of West London’s most affluent suburbs — a perfect reflection of the family’s wealth. That wealth came as much from her mother Carmen Saar’s inherited fortune as from her father’s professional success (not that her mother’s own career as a corporate lawyer wasn’t impressive, but the Saar family’s legacy tended to overshadow everything else).
Now seated on the enormous cream-colored sofa, the gray-eyed brunette was doing her best to convince her older sister — Chelsea, of course — that there was absolutely no way she was allowed to show up at the family house that afternoon.
And for good reason.
Because that very afternoon was when it was happening.
The “bondage afternoon.”
And no, Callie hadn’t picked the name. Or the date. Or anything, really. Yasmin had decreed it would be this Saturday.
Originally, her beautiful Persian friend had suggested hosting the “session” at her own place — a suggestion Callie had immediately shut down. She had barely survived the humiliation of Yasmin discovering her “secret identity” (please, no one ever mention DarkLadyOfRopes again), and she wasn’t about to risk dying of embarrassment in front of the Farahanis.
She’d even had nightmares about it for days afterward — recurring horrors in which Yasmin’s mother would walk in on them, forcing Callie to blurt out increasingly ridiculous excuses.
“Uh… hello, Mrs. Farahani. No, no, it’s not what it looks like. Your daughter’s tied up because… because it’s for a university experiment. Yes, exactly — a university experiment.”
So, faced with what she considered an existential-level threat, Callie had decided the “play afternoon” (or her social death, depending on how one looked at it) would have to take place at her parents’ house instead.
Why? Two reasons.
First: space. The place was huge — two floors, a massive living room, five bedrooms — plenty of room to “experiment” without bumping into anyone.
Second: logistics. Even though it was a Saturday, her mother was away (some kind of family gathering; Callie hadn’t really paid attention), and her father… well, he was easily bribed. A whisky distillery tour lasting five hours — yes, she’d gone for the full premium package — had ensured he wouldn’t be anywhere near the neighborhood.
Her sister, though, was another matter.
Chelsea, five years older, had long since moved out — now living in a stylish flat in central London since landing her job as a financial controller at Saar Unlimited Responsibility (it didn’t exactly hurt to share a bloodline, however distant, with the company’s CEO).
There was absolutely no reason for Chelsea to drop by her parents’ house on a Saturday afternoon.
And yet, somehow, she knew.
It was like she had a sixth sense — an uncanny ability to detect when her little sister was hiding something.
And, like any self-respecting older sister, she fully intended to find out what.
“A reading session? I love reading sessions!” Chelsea replied, amusement dripping from her voice.
“No, you don’t,” Callie answered flatly.
She was doing her best to sound firm, confident even — but inside, she was pure chaos.
There was no way — absolutely no way — she could let her sister show up.
Two people knowing her secret was already bad enough.
Yes, two — because Yasmin, in a moment of catastrophic brilliance, had decided to share Callie’s “talent for erotic writing” with their third partner in crime, Amber Reed, and had invited her to the so-called bondage afternoon.
Callie was fairly sure Amber had no real idea what that actually meant, but the damage was done. Her secret identity as DarkLadyOfRopes had officially leaked. Twice !
And if Chelsea found out too? That would be it. The end.
Her social life, her love life, her family life — all gone.
She could already picture it:
Chelsea showing up at a family dinner, grinning over dessert —
“So, DarkLadyOfRopes, how’s the writing going?”
Or worse, turning up at her university and cheerfully announcing at reception,
“Hi! I’m here to see DarkLadyOfRopes!”
No. No, no, no.
That could never happen.
“Anyway, if you come over, I won’t be able to let you in — I’ll be too busy,” Callie said quickly.
Chelsea’s laugh on the other end made her rush to add, “Reading! Busy reading, obviously!” she stammered, her face now as red as a tomato — thankfully, her sister couldn’t see her.
Chelsea laughed even harder, but the sound was suddenly drowned out by the chime of the front doorbell.
“I have to go!” Callie blurted out in a panic. “And don’t come over!”
She hung up before Chelsea could reply and hurried straight to the front door.
Callie reached the front door, took a deep breath — summoning what little courage she had (which, frankly, didn’t seem all that useful right now) — and opened it.
As expected, she found herself face to face with Yasmin, who had clearly dressed for the occasion.
She wore sneakers, black leggings, and a pink T-shirt, her dark hair pulled back loosely — and, of course, that huge, mischievous smile she always had when Callie was about to suffer.
Beside her stood Amber — their friend from uni — tall and slim, with long red hair and pale blue eyes, dressed in a white tracksuit and tank top.
She looked at the two of them with the expression of someone silently wondering how on earth she’d gotten dragged into this.
“DarkLadyOfRopes! What an honor to see you again!” Yasmin said brightly, grinning from ear to ear.
Callie blushed again, silently swearing that the next time she ever made an account on any website, she’d spend more than two seconds thinking about the username.
She stepped aside to let the girls in.
“For the record,” she said as they walked past, “I’m not the one who came up with this whole idea.”
“Of course not,” Yasmin said with a chuckle. “We’re only here because of your creative writing and that wonderfully vivid imagination of yours.”
Callie rolled her eyes and shut the door behind them, then turned to Amber — who was still eyeing the two of them with the weary look of someone trying to figure out what kind of madness she’d just agreed to.
“So, just to make sure I’ve got this right,” Amber said cautiously, “the plan for this afternoon is… we tie each other up?”
Callie opened her mouth to reply, but Yasmin beat her to it.
“When you say it like that, it sounds so plain,” she said with mock seriousness. “We’re about to be tied up by DarkLadyOfRopes, Amber. Try to sound a little more excited.”
Callie felt every muscle in her body tense.
Excited? Excited?! The only thing she was excited about was the idea of maybe, possibly, dying of embarrassment before this whole thing even started.
She forced a smile — the kind that looked more like a grimace — and gestured vaguely toward the stairs.
“Alright then… I guess we’ll go to my room.”
Her two friends nodded and headed upstairs like they owned the place. They’d been here enough times to know exactly where her room was.
Her room. Soon to be… the scene of her social execution.
Because the truth was, Callie — or, as the internet knew her, DarkLadyOfRopes — had the imagination of a novelist and the hands-on experience of a houseplant.
She’d never done any of the things she wrote about. Not even close.
And now, somehow, she was about to be tested on it. In person.
This wasn’t just embarrassing — this was poetic justice.
“Oh, you like writing about bondage, do you?” said the universe. “Cool. Let’s see you explain this.”
She was already picturing her epitaph:
Here lies Callie Morgan-Saar — writer, dreamer, certified fraud.
Absolutely doomed.
Callie’s bedroom was fairly spacious, and the furniture left no doubt as to her family’s comfortable place in London’s upper-middle class.
A large double bed (far too big for Callie, really), a sleek flat-screen TV mounted on the wall, a wardrobe that probably cost more than all of Yasmin’s and Amber’s furniture combined, and a desk cluttered with a brand-new MacBook, three iPhones (yes — Callie liked upgrading every other year), and framed photos of her and her friends — mostly Yasmin and Amber.
Of course, Yasmin and Amber had seen all this before. They’d been here plenty of times.
No, what caught Yasmin’s attention — and brought a sly smile to her face — was what Callie had laid out neatly on the bed.
Five rolls of gray duct tape. Straight from a hardware store.
And that was it.
Yasmin tilted her head toward her friend, amusement sparkling in her eyes as she feigned surprise.
“Just duct tape? What happened to the chains, the chastity belts, and those ‘penis gags’ you describe with such enthusiasm in your stories?”
Callie turned bright red again and averted her gaze, silently cursing her own life choices. Fortunately, she was spared from answering by Amber, who looked suddenly alarmed.
“Wait — chains and penis gags?!”
The look Yasmin gave her made Callie’s stomach twist.
“There—there’s not going to be any of that today,” Callie said quickly. “Today is… beginner day. Yes. That’s it.”
Another lie, of course.
Callie might’ve been enthusiastic online, but there was no universe in which she’d ever have the courage to walk into an actual sex shop and ask for that kind of gear.
The mere thought of it made her want to crawl under her bed and never come out.
‘Hello, sir. I’d like to buy some chains, a pair of handcuffs, and, uh, two penis gags. They’re for… friends.’
Yasmin sat down on the bed and grabbed one of the rolls of duct tape.
She shot Amber a mischievous look. Amber, in turn, gave her that trademark mix of indifference and mild disbelief — the look of someone already regretting her life choices — before Yasmin held the roll out to Callie.
“Well then, DarkLadyOfRopes — or should I say DarkLadyOfTape — get to work.”
Callie rolled her eyes, silently cursing her past self and that stupid username all over again.
She took the roll, staring at it like it might explode.
One deep breath. One sharp rrrip.
That was the sound of no return.
***
Thirty minutes later…
Okay… maybe this isn’t so bad after all.
Maybe I’ve been completely overreacting, Callie thought, standing at the foot of her bed with — for the first time that day — a faint, genuine smile tugging at her lips.
In front of her, sitting side by side on the bed, were Yasmin and Amber — now “securely” bound with tight wraps of silver duct tape.
Well, securely might’ve been a generous term… but honestly? For a first attempt, it wasn’t half bad.
Both girls had their ankles crossed and encircled several times with duct tape. Then, imitating what she’d seen in countless movies and scenes over the years, Callie had added a few careful wraps just below and just above the knees.
Their wrists were bound too — simple, clean, hands pressed palm to palm behind their backs, held together with a few firm wraps of tape.
Now they were both testing her work, squirming and shifting in their seats.
And — miracle of miracles — it was holding.
“Yasmin,” Amber began, shooting her co-captive a look that mixed irritation and amusement,
“remind me again why I’m spending my Saturday tied up at Callie’s place instead of, I don’t know, going shopping like a normal person?”
Yasmin, still wriggling playfully beside her, let out a small laugh.
“Probably because you’re broke, Amber. Trust me — Callie’s doing you a favor keeping you tied up here. No danger of overdrafts or impulse buys this way.”
Callie couldn’t help but laugh — and for the first time in days, she actually started to relax.
No… more than relax. She was enjoying herself.
Yasmin and Amber weren’t judging her, weren’t mocking her. Maybe her social life wasn’t doomed after all. Maybe her dignity could be salvaged — or at least partially revived.
Okay, she thought, feeling that same unfamiliar warmth rise in her chest, maybe this whole thing isn’t a total disaster after all.
“I am not broke!” Amber protested — mostly for form’s sake, and not very convincingly.
But Yasmin ignored her, turning back toward Callie with that infuriating little grin of hers.
“I think DarkLadyOfRopes should gag her prisoners,” she said sweetly. “Amber talks far too much nonsense.”
Callie felt a spark deep inside her — real excitement, the kind that wasn’t supposed to exist outside her laptop.
She’d written about this feeling a hundred times, described it in vivid detail, shaped it into fantasies…
But now it was here — warm, electric, and very, very real.
She didn’t realize it at first, but something in her had shifted.
She wasn’t desperately trying to save face anymore — or just survive the moment.
Now, she was ready to play along. To lean into it.
This was new territory, but not unfamiliar.
For the first time, the world of ropes and restraint was stepping out of her imagination… and becoming something vividly, thrillingly real.
Callie, enjoying the playful banter, flashed a mischievous grin at her friends. “If it’s the wish of my ‘prisoners,’ who am I to oppose it?” she said, her voice laced with amusement.
She moved toward her wardrobe, pulling it open wide in search of the necessary materials for gagging her captives.
“What is she doing?” Amber asked aloud, clearly confused.
Amber had never been particularly interested in bondage before. Her only reference point was the usual Hollywood portrayal. To her, a little strip of duct tape across the mouth seemed like the perfect gag.
“I think she’s looking for something to stuff in our mouths,” Yasmin replied, her tone calm as ever. “I did a little research yesterday, and apparently, it doesn’t quite work like in the movies.”
Amber rolled her eyes even harder. “You two are both insane.”
The brunette turned around a few moments later, holding up a pair of socks that she quickly separated.
“I really hope you’re joking!” Amber protested immediately. “There’s no way you’re putting one of your socks in my mouth.”
Yasmin chuckled softly but nodded in agreement.
“Yes, DarkLadyOfRopes, you’re getting a little carried away.”
Callie felt her cheeks flush but recovered quickly.
“You’re very demanding prisoners,” she said with a nervous laugh. “I’ll go downstairs and see if I can find something else.”
Callie hurried out of the room, her excitement now clear in the way she moved.
Amber waited until the sound of footsteps on the stairs faded before leaning a little closer to Yasmin.
“You’d better make a move today,” the redhead whispered. “You’re not gonna get a better chance than this.”
Yasmin gave a faint, confident smile.
“Relax. You won’t have agreed to this little bondage afternoon for nothing.”
They kept whispering to each other for a few minutes, low and conspiratorial, until Callie burst back into the room — now proudly holding up two small pink sponges, still in their plastic wrap.
“Will these satisfy my prisoners’ requests?” she asked, her voice practically bubbling with excitement.
Amber and Yasmin traded a look, then nodded in unison.
“If we must,” Amber said with exaggerated weariness, “let’s get it over with.”
Callie’s grin widened. She tore open one of the packages and sat down beside Amber, duct tape at the ready.
“Alright then. Open wide.”
Amber let out a small sigh but leaned forward anyway, clearly resigned to her fate.
“Okay, okay,” she mumbled, “but if this thing smells weird, I swear I’m—”
She didn’t get to finish the sentence.
Callie gently pressed the soft pink sponge against her lips, giving her a nervous, almost apologetic smile before nudging it into her mouth. Amber’s eyes widened slightly at the sensation — not exactly painful, just strange and unexpectedly intimate.
Then came the tape.
Callie tore off a long strip, the sound sharp in the quiet room, and carefully smoothed it over Amber’s lips. One layer. Then another, just to be sure.
When she pulled back, she found herself staring at her handiwork — Amber sitting there, cheeks slightly flushed, testing the tape with a muffled “mmph.”
Callie blushed slightly as she took in the sight before her.
It was done. She had officially gagged someone for the first time — for real, not just in one of her stories.
“My turn!” Yasmin said, giving her a playful wink before opening her mouth wide.
Callie couldn’t help but smile at the sight — her friend sitting there, bound with duct tape, watching her expectantly with her mouth open like some eager volunteer.
All traces of shame had vanished from Callie. What was left now was amusement… and excitement. The thrill of something new.
And maybe, just maybe, something else she wasn’t ready to name yet.
“Come on, DarkLadyOfRopes. I’m waiting,” Yasmin teased, pretending to sound impatient.
Callie opened the second sponge packet and sat down beside the young woman of Persian descent.
“At least when I’m done with you, you’ll finally stop making fun of my username,” she said playfully.
“For a while! I—” Yasmin didn’t get to finish her sentence either, because the sponge was quickly pushed past her lips by a now noticeably more confident Callie.
Once the sponge was firmly in place, two strips of duct tape secured it — the same way she’d done for Amber.
Callie stood up again and took a step back to admire the scene.
What had seemed impossible only a few days earlier had actually happened.
She stayed there for nearly a minute, watching Yasmin and Amber wriggle and test their gags — which, to her satisfaction, seemed surprisingly effective.
For a first attempt, she’d actually done a good job.
The gags were effective, yes — but maybe not quite enough.
Not enough to compensate for Callie’s excitement.
Not enough for how distracted she was.
And certainly not enough for how large the house was.
Because those three things together kept her from hearing the faint sound of a key turning in the front door lock.
“Well, Yasmin,” Callie said, still watching her friends squirm, “not so cocky now, are you?”
The feeling of control was new to her — strange, but thrilling.
She had to admit it: this little amateurish play session with her friends felt a hundred times more exciting than anything she’d ever written.
For the first time, Callie wasn’t thinking about how ridiculous she must look, or what Yasmin and Amber really thought of her.
All that mattered was the moment — the soft rip of tape, the sound of muffled laughter, the sight of her two best friends helplessly wriggling on her bed.
It was absurd, yes. Silly, even.
But it was hers.
And, God, it felt good.
She let out a quiet laugh, one hand brushing a loose strand of hair from her face as she looked at Yasmin’s wide, amused eyes.
There was something almost magnetic in that look — playful, yes, but also… something else.
For half a second, Callie wondered if Yasmin was actually enjoying this a little too much.
The thought sent a tiny shiver down her spine — half nerves, half something she didn’t dare name.
Then, suddenly, Amber and Yasmin stopped moving.
They exchanged a glance — and started laughing into their gags.
Not the playful kind of laughter from before, but something else entirely — a shared, conspiratorial sound that said they knew something Callie didn’t.
And they did.
They’d seen something.
Something that, without a doubt, was about to change the course of their afternoon.
Callie, still facing away from the door, planted her hands on her hips and tried to sound authoritative.
“What are you two plotting now?” she demanded.
“Mmphff!” Yasmin replied, her eyes gleaming with the unmistakable smile hidden beneath her gag.
“Well, well — such unruly prisoners,” Callie said, feigning sternness. “Maybe I should—”
She never got the chance to finish.
Someone had stepped up behind her — and before she could even turn, a sudden shove sent her tumbling forward onto the bed, landing right between Yasmin and Amber, who had oh-so-helpfully made room for her.
Before she could even react, someone — whose touch felt strangely familiar — caught her wrists and forced them behind her back with a quick, practiced motion.
Yasmin and Amber watched, wide-eyed and delighted, as Callie froze in shock, her mind barely keeping up with what was happening.
A sudden zip cut through the air, followed by the swift tightening of something plastic around her wrists.
Callie gasped, twisting instinctively — but the grip only tightened, locking her hands firmly behind her back.
Whoever was behind her moved with unsettling precision, every motion calm, practiced, and sure.
This wasn’t some panicked prank or random grab.
Whoever it was knew exactly what they were doing.
“What the hell is going on?!” Callie finally shouted, twisting on the bed — only to find herself face-to-face with… Chelsea.
Her older sister, twenty-six and effortlessly confident, stood over her with that same athletic grace that made everything she did look easy. Her long blonde hair framed a face that looked far too amused for the situation, and those familiar storm-gray eyes — the same as Callie’s — sparkled with mischief.
“Well, well,” Chelsea said, a teasing smile tugging at her lips. “Now this is the kind of reading session I can get behind. I’ve never liked books much, but this? Oh, this I can definitely join in on.”
Callie’s entire face turned scarlet, the heat rushing straight to her cheeks.
Oh, brilliant. Just brilliant. Out of everyone on the planet, it had to be Chelsea.
Not Yasmin’s mom, not a random delivery guy — no, her big sister, the human embodiment of sarcasm and family gossip.
Callie could already see the headlines:
“Local Woman Found Dead After Being Caught Mid-Bondage by Sister — Authorities Cite Terminal Embarrassment.”
Maybe if she prayed hard enough, the floor would finally do the decent thing and swallow her whole.
Callie sat up, glaring accusingly at Yasmin and Amber. Of course they hadn’t warned her. Of course they’d just sat there, giggling behind their duct-taped mouths while she walked straight into disaster.
The fact that they were both gagged? A mere technicality.
“Chelsea, it’s— it’s not what it looks like,” she stammered.
Her wide gray eyes and the crimson flush burning across her cheeks, however, screamed the opposite.
It was exactly what it looked like.
Chelsea rolled her eyes, laughing as she picked up the roll of duct tape from the bed — and one of the socks Callie had discarded earlier.
“Oh, don’t worry, I’m not thinking anything,” she said, all amused confidence. “I just observe. I knew you were up to something ‘suspicious.’ I figured it was a secret boyfriend or something — but this? This is way better.”
“H-how did you even get in? You don’t have the keys, I—”
“I brought Dad!” Chelsea interrupted with a playful grin. “Brilliant idea, by the way — sending him on that whisky tour. But you know he can’t say no to me.”
Callie’s eyes went wide in alarm.
Her dad was here too? In the house? This was a nightmare!
She opened her mouth to protest — but that was all the opportunity Chelsea needed. With suspiciously practiced ease, she shoved the sock between Callie’s lips.
“Mmppphff!” Callie let out an immediate muffled protest, but the blonde didn’t stop there. With quick, precise movements, she pressed two strips of duct tape over her sister’s mouth — exactly the same way Callie had done to Yasmin and Amber.
“Well, perfect!” her sister chirped. “Nice and fair — everyone’s gagged now!”
The blonde was clearly having the time of her life, Yasmin and Amber were giggling behind their tape, and Callie was silently praying for the sweet release of spontaneous combustion.
Her fun little experiment had officially become a family bonding session. Literally.
If a camera crew burst in next, she wouldn’t even be surprised.
But DarkLadyOfRopes wasn’t done being surprised.
After a quick inspection of her friends’ tape jobs, Chelsea straightened up, hands on her hips.
“Too basic. Hold tight, girls — I’ll be right back with something better.”
“Mmmph?!” Callie yelped, confusion written all over her face.
But that didn’t stop Chelsea, who disappeared out of the room with confident strides.
***
Thomas Morgan considered himself a simple man.
Well—simple might not be quite the right word. Let’s say normal.
Just a normal man surrounded by… special women.
At fifty-six, Thomas had built himself a good life. He was a partner in a consulting firm, made an excellent living, owned his home, was married, and had two daughters. He’d even managed to stay in decent shape — a few extra pounds here and there, and his once-blond hair had turned a little gray, but still, a handsome man (or so his wife claimed).
No, his life was perfectly normal.
His family, on the other hand, was another story.
And right now, he had living proof of that sitting — or rather, standing — in front of him.
He’d been sitting on the living room sofa for about five minutes. When he’d opened the front door for his eldest, Chelsea, he’d immediately realized, judging by the strange noises coming from upstairs, that something unusual was going on.
Yes — unusual was the word he’d settled on. His wife had forbidden him from using “suspicious” to describe that sort of activity. According to Carmen, suspicious sounded far too judgmental.
And from the look of things, the “unusual activity” was far from over — because Chelsea had just come down the stairs and was now heading straight for the bedroom he shared with his wife.
“What are you doing?” he asked, with the weary tone of a man who’d seen everything.
“I’m just borrowing Mom’s equipment,” Chelsea said with a grin. “Don’t worry about it. You can watch a movie or something!”
Thomas rolled his eyes as she vanished from view.
He pulled out his phone, opened his contacts, and tapped on his wife’s name.
After two rings, Carmen’s voice answered.
“Hi, darling! How’s the distillery tour going?”
“I had to postpone it,” he said quickly. “But tell me, is it normal that Chelsea wants to borrow your… ‘equipment’?”
He put deliberate weight on the word — which, in the Morgan-Saar household (well, mostly on the Saarside), had a very specific meaning.
Carmen let out a small, exasperated groan.
“It’s fine, I suppose — but honestly, I wish she’d take better care of her things!”
“And Callie being involved,” Thomas asked cautiously, “that’s… part of the plan too?”
There was a pause. A long one.
“Are you absolutely sure about that?” Carmen’s voice had lost all its warmth now.
“Yes,” he replied after a short hesitation.
“I’ve got a few calls to make,” she said quickly. “I’m heading home.”
And just like that, the line went dead.
Thomas stared at his phone for a moment, then sighed.
That probably meant everything was fine.
Or at least… he really hoped it was.
End of chapter.