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

[Beaumains]

I am not sure what you are setting up here, but it seems like Chehkov's gut feelings. So far we have seen mostly unrelated shoots, and I suspect that story will somehow be tied together (literally and figuratively). Well done.

[BlissfulMisery]

Given the lack of desire to self-promote, seems Plymouth is getting a bit famous - or perhaps just full of herself

Probably going to have to bind her next time we play, just to make sure this: the recent it seems run of her binding me, doesn't become a thing. Because I'm not looking to be anyone's slave, no matter how much my traitor body wishes otherwise.

For all her love of surrender, she certainly seems to have a bit more dominance in her since the accident. Or perhaps it is merely a reaction to her... not exactly fear, but hesitation I suppose, over submitting *too* much, too far. An interesting development, even if perhaps I might be reaching a little too far to draw half-baked conclusions.

I am not sure what you are setting up here, but it seems like Chehkov's gut feelings.

Have to echo this sentiment. In the context of Brooke's misgivings, the little private chat between Simon and Morgan at the end seems far more ominous then it normally would be.

A wild guess, but perhaps Brooke shall be finding herself having to play the hero and rescue (perhaps more figuratively, or perhaps literally) her girlfriend from her own brush with falling too deep into submission?

Well, whatever ends up happening, I am certain it will be something interesting

[RopeBunny]

seems Plymouth is getting a bit famous - or perhaps just full of herself

Famous, preferably. A reputation as a model good at her job. Definitely not trying to put her across as big headed

For all her love of surrender, she certainly seems to have a bit more dominance in her since the accident. Or perhaps it is merely a reaction to her... not exactly fear, but hesitation I suppose, over submitting *too* much, too far.

On the right thread here can't say/promise Brooke won't dip too far down at some point. I enjoy writing it too much to say I'll never go there again. But. Am trying to make her a couple degrees more sensible. Because, logic, post Deborah/Stephanie any sane person (and even sometime crazy Plymouth ) would surely be a tad more careful regarding not falling back into someone's dark pit.

So far we have seen mostly unrelated shoots, and I suspect that story will somehow be tied together

Unrelated save for the fact of Plymouth being the centre, the story at its heart is in large part simply her living day to day. Working the woodland job and the modelling job.

I am not sure what you are setting up here

Well, whatever ends up happening, I am certain it will be something interesting

I'm definitely setting something up, maybe more then one something

All will play out in time. But I will say this all, Morgan becoming Thirteen and the shoots so far, is all like a prelude to the main story idea I had.

I (think I've already said something along these lines?) needed to tell this part, to set up the next.

Thanks for commenting, next chapter below happy weekend everyone.

[RopeBunny]

004.
Midnight Peril.
Shoot two.

"How far would you say was long distance?"
"To do a shoot?" Adrian, mug of coffee in hand frowns, at me. Scratches the stubble on his cheek.

"No, silly." Leaning sidewards to nudge her husband Sonya tuts loudly, waves her own mug out into the kitchen, towards where I'm sat looking the contract over. "She means for dating."
"Oh." Nodding whilst still looking confused, the combination quite cute, making me smile.

"Well." Glancing at his wife. "We went to the same college. So."
"Not long distance at all." Picking up my own coffee, frowning down into it, putting it back.

"Nah." Shaking his head. "You know how it goes. Captain of the football team and head cheerleader."

By which point I'm grinning, suppressing a laugh. Sonya smiling too as she playfully slaps her husband's large belly.

"Destined to be together." Adrian finishes with a cheeky wink at me, turning to blow Sonya a kiss.

"Don't mind him." Pulling 'him' into a sideways hug, kiss on his cheek. "We met at a gig." She laughs. "Didn't even know Adrian went to my college until we'd been on three dates."
"Really?" Laughing too.

"That's me." Playing along, nodding whilst receiving another kiss, a playful squeeze of his side. She loves him, plain to see. "Completely invisible."

The point of it all: I wouldn't call myself and Morgan long distance. It isn't far, her parents house to my woodland house, but, it is too far to simply drop in unannounced, or to stay over as often as we'd like.

But, it's still somewhat early days for us, less then six months.

Just.

So, give it time.

And besides I'm over for- family -dinner later. Morgan doing her own solo shoot today.

So, probably, we'll both be horny, and in need of a good rope assisted cuddle.

I'm back with Sonya and Adrian as she teasingly promised, back for a second shoot.

Although surprisingly, because of her teasing, Sonya and me are both getting tied rather then her binding me whilst he films.

Upstairs and Adrian leaves us alone, in the bedroom to change. Sonya and me strip off naked discarding jeans and a tee, baggy joggers for her plus a baggy vest. Bra. Thong.

"I meant to ask." Turning at her voice, finding Sonya already halfway around the bed we'd been stood either side of, clothing piling up atop the duvet. She's naked, we both are now.

Belly and breasts, the latter quite invitingly, wobbling as she walks. Sitting herself down on the bed corner next to standing me.

And I've got no shame or shyness when it comes to group nudity, you can't really be a porn model, star, and care about such things.

So I stand firm, arms loosely crossed beneath my jutting rounded F cups. Raise an questioning eyebrow.

"Your leg?" Pointing.

"Bike crash." A shrug.

"May I?"
"Oh." She's half reaching already. I, no shame, acting without thinking which is likely why I get into so much trouble, decide to be helpful.

Lifting my leg up and placing it, stretching straight heel resting beside Sonya's butt so my scarring is basically in her face.

Not flirting, she's married and I'm happy, but I suppose it is a very forward thing to do.

"It's impressively long." Running a fingernail up the branch like semi faded but permanent red line that runs from below the knee right up to my breast. Not flirting either, but it is a very forward thing to do.

I fight to stay still and not shudder as her finger reaches and passes my butt cheek.

Heading back down.

"I hope you've done the sensible thing and switched to four wheels?"
"Actually." Grinning as Sonya pauses, looking up. "I bought a faster bike."

We both laugh, Sonya playfully swatting my butt.

Time to get dressed. Bedtime thick comfy onesie's that zip up at the front from crotch to neck, both of us leaving them open all the way. Both outfits are a snug fit, sized too small on purpose to show off Sonya's belly and curves, my own super sized chest which the outfit completely fails to contain.

Sky blue covered in coloured flowers for Sonya. White covered in prancing My Little Pony characters for me.

"Are you two done giggling?"
"We're ready." Sonya calls out, Adrian having knocked before speaking. Coming in now.

Sonya and me lay down on the wooden King sized bed, the duvet with our clothes dumped in a corner, just a yellow bottom sheet and matching pillows remaining. We lay back to back, and Adrian gets to work.

Matching wrap gags, thick black tape all around the head, plastering hair down completely covering the mouth. First couple of layers inside forcing the jaws apart, then more and more to seal it up.

Soft moan, Sonya behind me. Already gagged I moan back as Adrian leans in, pulling up the hoods on our outfits, tucking stray hair in.

Everything nice and neat until we start struggling.

Metal cuffs on my wrists and ankles, arms pinned behind. Matching cuffs for Sonya the small chain placed around behind my own, meaning that once cuffed she's pinned to me, and me to her.

Our bodies locked together back to back, on our sides facing out left and right.

Checking we're both okay, Adrian begins filming.

We go slow, Sonya and me. Gentle moans, no big struggles just small wriggles and stretches. Testing, checking.

Her butt pushing back against mine.

My hands feeling and exploring her cuffs, seeking a release as Adrian climbs half up onto the bed, filming.

Somehow managing to half roll onto our backs, towards each other just enough we can rub cheeks. See her eyes. We moan at each other, I thrust, push my chest out Sonya wriggles making hers bounce.

That rounded belly too.

More struggles. But content not panicked. The tag and description will be something about girlfriends having bedtime fun, no hint of foul play or danger.

And no happy ending of course. No climax no touching, not this shoot.

Which makes Morgan's message all the more frustrating to discover as I check my phone prior to climbing on the Hayabusa.

'B.

Shoot running over, need to cancel x'

"Running." Staring at the screen, thoughtful frown. "Over?"

Since when does a shoot run over time?

What is she even doing? I didn't ask, wanting her to have the privacy if she wished, figuring she'd tell, if she wanted. Thinking too on the flipside of those shoots where the model gets fucked, would Morgan want to tell me about that? Would she want to hear about mine?

I don't know.

So. Her mystery shoot is running long, for some reason.

Fine.

'Okay. Be safe. Ring me? x'

Stopping halfway home for gas and a stretch, finding.

'I'm safe x'

But no missed call.

Which I stare at a short while. Not sure why but.

Something?

[BlissfulMisery]

Famous, preferably. A reputation as a model good at her job. Definitely not trying to put her across as big headed

Ahh but fame often goes to one's head... But I understand what you mean, it was more of a (bad) joking remark.

On the right thread here can't say/promise Brooke won't dip too far down at some point. I enjoy writing it too much to say I'll never go there again. But. Am trying to make her a couple degrees more sensible. Because, logic, post Deborah/Stephanie any sane person (and even sometime crazy Plymouth ) would surely be a tad more careful regarding not falling back into someone's dark pit.

True.

I'm definitely setting something up, maybe more then one something

Well then...

As for the chapter...

It seems the plot thickens. A nice showcase of some of the awkwardness of both being in the line of work that they are as well.

And indeed a shoot running 'overtime' is... suspicious. Why do I have the distinct feeling (cough foreshadowing cough) that this shoot is with a certain 'Simon call me Si'?

Hopefully Morgan is not getting in over her head - perhaps she shall be retracing Brooke's path in more ways then one...

[RopeBunny]

(cough foreshadowing cough)

Hard not to be too obvious sometimes. Don't want to write a mystery type story, don't want/need people to puzzle. But, don't want to come out and say it either, hints first then the reveal.

Coming soon, writing now....

[Beaumains]

Ah, yes, drama starts unfolding. We got ourselves a proper cliffhanger. This can go so many ways. It can either be Plymouth worrying about nothing, making her seem paranoid, or Morgan is in genuine trouble. Well done.

[RopeBunny]

This can go so many ways.

Well.

Some, not all of the answers but some.

Trust me on that.

Some of the answers can be found below

[RopeBunny]

The end.
?

Basically.

We break up.

Though I'm fucked if I- at first -know why?

[RopeBunny]

Thinking out loud to other people.

"It just...." Staring off into space, words drying up because what more is there? Almost three weeks and by now even an idiot would know.

Because she hasn't phoned.

Doesn't answer when I phone.

Doesn't reply to my half dozen attempts at messaging.

Hasn't.

"Damn it." Sudden flash of anger, slamming my hand down on the shopping trolleys orange handle.

She, Morgan, hasn't even told me it's over.

"Fucking," more anger, the words a snarl and in this moment I would ride over there and confront her, I would ride my Hayabusa right up the stairs into her bedroom and, "coward."

Breathe. Brooke.

No point. She's made her intentions clear, the complete blanking of me these past two weeks after that first week of steadily failing communications.

If I saw her I might just punch her.

Or kiss her or.

And suddenly I'm laughing, a half crazy sound because work and life and everything just blurs sometimes.

"Miss?"
"I could kidnap her." Turning to voice my nonsense to the fifty something shelf stacker, just him and me, aisle to ourselves since it's gone ten at night.

Popped out because I needed air, the rush of wind and freedom only the bike can provide. Needed to escape from it all.

Late night shopping, despite I'll likely not buy anything, a good excuse.

"Kidnap who?" Frowning, maybe because of the crazy laugh and my broken look: tee with no bra and joggers not jeans and on the bike I really should know better.

Or maybe he's just enjoying the view? My breasts are pretty visible, jacket and helmet in the trolley, tee hugging my assets.

"Just." Wave of my hand, another laugh and a tutting shake of my head. "My ex."

Small fire dying inside, I've not called her that before.

"Oh." Nodding. Thoughtful. I stay put, nothing but time anyway and not tired despite working like the possessed most days, throwing myself at Owl Wood by way of attempting to bury her.

I stretch, breasts pushing up and out arms wide.

Wish someone would bind me, here and why not they could put me on sale.

How much do you suppose I'd go for?

Should I get a barcode tattoo?

"Boyfriend trouble?"
"Girlfriend." Stepping closer trolley abandoned mid aisle I lean back against the shelf he's stacking, hands stuffed into pockets staring at the vaulted ceiling above. Staring at nothing. "She's ghosting me."
"Ghosting?" A frown, glasses off, polishing.

"Won't answer my calls."
"Ah." Glasses back on, a nod. "Left you to figure things out yourself has. Um."
"She."
"She." Picking up another plastic bottle of squash, stacking it. "So you'll kidnap her and...." Thoughtful, glancing at me but I simply smile. Shrug.

"And nothing I guess." Pushing off from the shelf. He, this guy I don't know, he probably isn't into it, the ropes. Can't see the train of my thoughts, that meandering line where I- could, somehow -kidnap Morgan and then bind her to me.

Or.

"Stupid."
"Well." I glance across, he's bouncing a squash bottle, tossing and catching prehaps a half foot up then down. "You're a pretty lady." Showing a half smile, well meaning. "If I might say so. Miss?"
"Thank you." Smiling back.

"No doubt this girl has done bad things, hurtful things." Slight grimace, prehaps memories of his own past surfacing. "But." Catching the bottle, a shrug. "A pretty lady, once recovered, need not be lonely for long."

Which is, actually, quite a nice thing to say.

"So." Losing the fight not to grin, feeling playful and suddenly happy, rising. Embracing the feeling knowing it won't stay for long. "I shouldn't kidnap her?"
"Well." Spreading his hands, arms, wide. "Not unless you believe she'd want you too?"

To which I laugh, because maybe, once, before she walked away.

A game we perhaps should've played.

Before.

And I'm back to sullen, but manage one more quick smile, for him only trying to help.

Back to my trolley.

Onwards.

Surprised, coming up for a week later to discover a truck parked next to my woodland home.

Surprised, because yes there's a decent access loop road running right alongside out front, but it isn't built for the eighteen wheeler- black cab and dull red tanker trailer -that not only negotiated it but managed to reverse park between home and barn too.

In my tractor, towing nothing but with a cab full of chainsaw and two stroke fuel. My tractor handles the in woodland tracks better then the Commission liveried pickup. Approaching, I frown.

Are they lost?

With realisation hitting seconds before I come around to the barns front having approached from behind and above a snaking track from deep within, turning the corner to find Morgan's dad climbing out the cab lunch bag in hand.

"Brooke." Having covered half the distance from truck cab to where I've parked, half reversed into the barns gaping maw like entrance. His voice neutral as I slide out the cab, dressed in chainsaw proof dark blue chaps belted and zipped atop black ripped jeans and steel toed boots. An oil and wood, grass stained white tee covering my sensible grey sports bra that doesn't quite hide what I'm packing.

Very obvious large humps.

Orange helmet on my head, mesh eye and face guard, ear defenders, folded up.

"Chris." Neutral too, a nod as I remove the helmet, run a hand through sweaty hair pushing it back.

"How are you?"

Which earns him a flashed glare, Chris puts a hand up like defence.

"Fair point, sorry."
"Why are you here Chris?" Fighting for that neutrality. I sweep an arm crosswise towards the woodland. "It's done." Taking a breath. Calm. Looking at him. "I didn't even do anything wrong and it's done." Voice dropping to something like pleading. "Right?"
"Would you share lunch with me?"

Holding up his bag, bright green once now as oil stained as my outfit. I crack a smile, nod.

Sure.

Point to a bench I dragged from out back to around front not too long ago.

Fetch my own lunch from the cab: sandwich, apple, drink. Not nearly enough for a hard working girl but.

Most days, these days, I seem to misplace my appetite.

We sit down on opposite ends, Chris tucking into his half a baguette stuffed full of pork and stuffing with gusto, me taking nip like bites of my own. Sipping coffee, his own flask smelling likewise.

"Nice out here."
"Quiet." Nodding agreement. "Plus," waved hand behind me, "I like the woods."
"What got you into forest work?"
"Didn't want to drive a desk."

Chris laughs, I crack a smile at him.

"I liked. Like." Bite of sandwich. "Trees. Tall, old. Did you know they talk?"
"You're shitting me?"
"Nope." Smiling, warming up. The companionship forgetting for the moment who he is, who stands behind him.

"Signals not words, but." Sip of coffee. "Warnings mostly, disease or attack."
"Well." Taking a bite, musing. "Fuck me."

"What can I do for you Chris?" Asking because you don't drive a monster like his tanker down a narrow road for nothing. "If she wanted me she'd be here herself."
"Well."

Taking a moment, eyes on the shifting clouds, white puffballs slowly racing by.

"She doesn't know I'm here."
"Right."
"Nor does Wendy."
"I, see?" Wendy, Morgan's mum.

I really don't see.

"She's changed Brooke."
"Not talking about the ink and," pinching my tee and pulling, lifting it off my own canons and letting go so it pings back to hug them, "her looks are we?"
"No." Shaking his head. And like before his eyes weren't on my chest. Aren't.

And like before it's nice to see, because to me that means he clearly loves his wife.

"She was happy with you and."
"And she's not now?"
"No, she still smiles and bounces around. But." Last bite of baguette. "But this new guy it's like nothing to total obsession like that."

Clicking the fingers on one hand.

"We don't hardly see her, she's working or she's over there."
"His house?"

Chris shows me a shrug.

"We haven't asked. She's an adult after all, free to come and go. But."
"You worry?"
"When we do see her she's just," finding the word, a sip of coffee, "she smiles but it's. Distant?"
"Right."

Funny, bad but it isn't like I can do anything about it, feeling I know who. He. Is. Too many pegs slotting into too many holes right now.

"Again though." No more coffee, I take a bite of apple, grimace, wave it at him. "If she wanted me she'd be here. What is it you're here to ask?"
"Talk to her."

Which earns him a bitter laugh.

"I." Breathe, no point getting mad. "Tried. We were doing well. I, almost."

Loved. But I can't say the word I hadn't yet had courage to say to her.

And now I can't.

"She's on lates all week."
"Gate crash her work?" I laugh again, even whilst liking the idea, Morgan backed into that inescapable corner.

Have to talk to me now bitch.

Okay. Breathe.

"She won't suddenly drop." Him. Fuckhead. "Just because I show up in a pretty dress. Thirteen and Plymouth back being one happy fucking rope family."

And it takes me a second, a half dozen. The silence stretching out following my angry outburst. Bitter. Not thinking.

And then it hits, my head twisting to face Chris fast like a snapped spring. Mouth open in shock at my slip.

But he only nods.

"Thirteen." Showing me a smile. "Is that the name she chose?"
"You...?"
"Knew?" A shrug. "About you, Brooke?"
"Plymouth." Breathing my other name out like a whispered secret.

"Not at first. But." Looking at me, not embarrassed an older man comfortable in life. "Before her surgery. You'd been dating maybe three months we had that barbecue remember?"

I nod, smile. My parents, mum and Roman, Morgan's family, all meeting up someplace in the middle to spend a sunny afternoon grilling and eating. Tossing a flying disc, taking a long ambling walk through the country park to work off the food.

A happy day.

"Well." Another thinking pause, lining things up in his head it looks like. "I showed some photos to some workmates. You and Morgan. I was." Small laugh. "Happy for her, and you."

I smile, nod.

"One of the guys recognised you." Tutting. "Damn near fell out of his seat, stupid prick offered to show me a video." Chris scowls at the imagined coworker.

"Like I'd want to see my daughters girlfriend with no clothes on."

"And you," as he's already said Morgan's an adult, so it really doesn't matter but, he hadn't acted any differently around me, at all, "didn't mind your daughter dating a." Quick lick of my lips.

Chris fills the blank in for me.

"Porn star."
"Model." I shrug, half smile. "If I'm feeling polite."

He smiles back, shakes his head.

"She was happy with you. And," a shrug, "I figured maybe one day this would happen."
"Thirteen?"
"Thirteen." A nod. "Wanting to join you. And why not. So long as she's safe and happy."

"And you think she'd be happier back with me is that it?"
"I think she always looked grounded with you. Maybe this new guy obsession is safe too, good for her too. But my dad gut says you're better for my daughter then him."

Patting his gut, making a half joke out of it, we both smile.

"Even if I go." Feeling it out, still liking the idea because I did, do, have strong feelings. Caring enough to fight, for her. She just hadn't given me the chance. "She might not," won't, won't, won't, like traitor whispers which I angrily swipe away, "ditch him for me."
"Maybe not." Standing, stretching. "But will you talk to her at least? Show her you still care."

And then he has to come across the space to hug me, because now I'm crying. Missing Morgan, sad and unhappy that some wanker stole her, just wading in where he wasn't welcome.

Or wanted.

Unless she.

No, or did she want...?

Fuck.

"Only if you want to." Stood apart again, showing me a small smile. Hope. "I'm a little sorry I came to you with all this, but."
"No." Head shaking. "I'm glad you came, Chris. I." Deep breath, no more tears Brooke. "Do, care for her still. A lot. I'll go and see her. And."

A helpless shrug. All I can do is talk, and ask, and show her I'm here and willing to come halfway, to hold out my hand.

If she's willing to reach out and take it.

[RopeBunny]

Confrontation.
and.
Aftermath.

I wasn't expecting it, but logically, in hindsight looking back afterwards.

It was always a possibility.

Aware of the shift patterns at McDonald's I arrive twenty minutes before Morgan's due to clock off, the clock winding and climbing up towards eleven, the building and car park ghost town deserted.

Crazy half hope that somehow this doomed venture will succeed, that we'll leave together. Happy and smiling.

Kissing.

And I have to believe that, in the chance of that, or what's the fucking point even riding out here.

I've therefore dressed to impress.

See what you're missing as it were.

Faded blue jeans that wrap skintight around my long legs and black steel toed boots. Kings jacket unzipped to show off a white vest top out of which a pink lace bra peeks, a low neckline showing everything.

F cups you could fall into and become lost.

I hope.

Morgan's bike isn't outside. Maybe, pausing as the door hisses open, it's around back?

Maybe her dad was wrong?

No.

Bored. My heart leaps, thuds against my ribs, as I see her. Leaning on the counter head down peaked cap covering her eyes. Doodling on something. Bored.

Uniform not meant to flatter but the grey top nonetheless hugs Morgan's E cups, the black trousers showing off her slim waist, the sexy- to me -bump of her small belly above.

I make it almost to her before my booted feet seem to register. Breathing fast, managing not to shake a mixture of hope and still slowly burning anger I'm trying my best to not allow out.

"Help y...." Looking up, a glance that stops. Mouth working eyes flashing wide, gaze darting to me and my helmet, my chest and. Beside me?

"Hi." Smiling at her, only half forced it feels too wide, semi crazy. I laugh, try again.

"I."
"You shouldn't of come Brooke."

Brooke, not B. My heart sinks, plunging deep in seconds all the hope leaving.

I feel empty.

What fucking point in coming?

And in storms the anger.

"No?" Voice up to half shouting just on that one word. Morgan flinches.

Good.

"You can't. Fucking." Throwing a hand out to one side, like tossing trash. "People get dumped they tend to get told."

Speechless. I stand and silently rage, arguments flaring and dying behind my eyes, gaze drilling holes in those fantastic E cups, her pretty black hair framed face.

I'd kiss her, leap this fucking counter and pull her into my arms kiss her and drown myself in those breasts. Even now.

If she only asked.

And Morgan speechless too but a very different kind. She, clearly, doesn't want me here, doesn't want to do this.

Doesn't want to explain.

"Damn it." Slamming a hand on the counter. Morgan jumps. "Fucking talk to me. Tell me why."

Tears leaking, vision blurring at the edges.

"Brooke." Softer, biting her lip ring and I used to find that simple act so damn sexy.

"I." Flaring, one last spark making my wasn't even aware I'd say it declaration a shout. "I love you for fucks sake."

Like a bomb, my words, the detonation rocking Morgan backwards.

Her face softening, a smile, small but growing.

"You...."

And.

Maybe.

Footsteps behind me, Morgan's smile. Changes. Whatever words she'd been about to speak drying up and dying. Her eyes flicking to the side.

Again.

I turn, on some level already knowing.

Si.

Standing behind me, hands in jeans pockets a black waterproof unzipped blue tee with the Subaru badge in yellow underneath.

Smiling.

"You."
"Plymouth." Sounding somewhat amused, not pissed like me, not upset or worried. "How's life?"

Like he really means it. Fucking.

"Him?" Swinging back towards Morgan. "Me." Mouth wide, words forming but I can't get them out. I try again.

"For, him?"
"I...." Like a caught rat, blinking. She doesn't want to talk to me, doesn't want to explain herself.

And I can, probably, piece most of it together anyway.

Some line he's fed her? Some stream of compliments, some promise of being a team in bondage land: date me and I'll make you a star.

Or prehaps she just likes his huge cock? Likes it better then my.

And all at once I need to leave.

This, being here was.

"A mistake."
"Excuse me?"
"No." Stepping in close, wagging my finger in Si's face and who gives a fuck if he pushes or hits me. "You girlfriend stealing sack of shit."

Looking from Morgan to Si, and she looks, composed now I can see secret smiles being exchanged, shared looks that mean.

Not tricked, she wants to be with him.

Over me.

"Fuuuuuuuuccckk." Screaming the word out at the world, turning and walking out.

Almost colliding with a white WRX, sat low and a ridiculously large spoiler, black vented bonnet.

Almost, for a double heartbeat of seconds, I restrain the urge to kick it, to throw my helmet at the passenger side window.

Instead. Calm.

Not a fucking chance.

But I somehow make it onto my Hayabusa.

Eat that fucking Jap piece of white shit for breakfast I think with a grim smile.

Somehow I make it home, pure rage propelling me to dangerous speeds, lucky to not be caught.

Lucky to not wipe out. Again.

Home, where I can't sleep.

Where dawn finds me tossing, turning. I climb out of bed, down a half bottle of milk and dress. No shower, no point.

No. Fucking. Point.

I work the day on autopilot, only returning to the barn, to home, as the sun sinks below the treeline, as it becomes too dark to work.

Cook a dinner I don't want but my body needs.

A second sleepless night.

Bursting into tears in the middle of the woods, following which I spend close to ten minutes screaming myself hoarse with rage.

Chopping a tree down all wrong, the chainsaw a weapon in my hands. The tall beech crown half dead, falling and the upswinging base comes very close to delivering a potentially killer uppercut.

I need sleep.

So.

Small dinner, tomato soup and crusty bread. Followed by a long hot bath, soft music.

And, like a flash of inspiration whilst I soaked, something- I hope -guaranteed to calm me.

Naked, in my room.

First a ballgag, the smallest one I own red ball more for esthetics then any practical use, were I to talk you'd likely understand three words in four perfectly.

Ideal for sleeping, no chance of being too uncomfortable.

Two pairs of metal cuffs, one on the ankles, one to lock my wrists in front. Neither cuff has a chain, I tend to prefer this design which forces the limbs to cross or be held ridged side by side, pinning them like touching, heightening the sense of helplessness.

Key placed across the room and underneath an upturned empty mug. Out of sight and yes in the morning I'll have to.

Have to.

Struggle and crawl or hop over there.

Duvet pulled up, I lay on my back. And, slowly at first that rising happy feeling spreading, ballooning in my crotch and nipples, running down and up into my belly. Warmth, contentment.

Eyes closed, I reach down, teasing a finger across my pussy slit. Again. Soft moan into my gag arching my crotch up, down.

Hands up to stray and skate across my breasts, fingers finding a nipple gentle squeeze and twist.

Another moan.

Hands back to my pussy, damp, yearning for touch mine or anyone's. I slip inside.

Working, thoughts drifting creating and imagining a nameless faceless someone. A girl young and busty.

Older and flat chested.

Large rounded belly. Black skinned. Asian long black hair bound into a tail that swishes as she climbs atop me smiling down.

Hands slipping, sliding in then out. Moaning louder faster.

Bringing myself to climax, locked up and teased and fucked by this unknown lady my body bouncing and bucking at the end, moaning like screaming like release.

Sleeping ten solid hours.

Waking, dreamy and a slow smile. Pleased and, I'm still mad at her but.

I feel better.

Rolling over, reaching for my phone with hands pinned into an awkward cross by the cuffs.

Grinning some more at the thought I now have to wriggle and struggle across the room, earning my freedom.

Swipe my phone awake.

Finding an email from Daniel.

Work.

[RopeBunny]

Why do I have the distinct feeling (cough foreshadowing cough) that this shoot is with a certain 'Simon call me Si'?

the little private chat between Simon and Morgan at the end seems far more ominous then it normally would be.

See you're still- somehow -reading my notes

[BlissfulMisery]

See you're still- somehow -reading my notes

Well in fairness I do not think this is a case where it was hard to predict given the quite explicit foreshadowing

Although I had expected the first time to be a red herring, with things only changing a bit later. Not that there is anything wrong with doing it the way you did.

Wish someone would bind me, here and why not they could put me on sale.

How much do you suppose I'd go for?

Should I get a barcode tattoo?

This little bit is both a nice amusing aside, but I also really like how it speaks to her mental state - getting easily distracted, for she does not want to think about the thing that is bothering her.

Fetch my own lunch from the cab: sandwich, apple, drink. Not nearly enough for a hard working girl but.

Most days, these days, I seem to misplace my appetite.

Another nice detail, similar to the previous, although along different lines of course.

"I."
"You shouldn't of come Brooke."

Brooke, not B. My heart sinks, plunging deep in seconds all the hope leaving.

I feel empty.

What fucking point in coming?

And in storms the anger.

I am sure I sound like a broken record, but I really do like a lot of bits in these chapters. Have not even mentioned all of them.

Although perhaps it should be 'What was the fucking point in coming?', as the current wording reads a little off.


But overall, the situation looks quite bleak for Brooke.

If this were not a fictional story, I would assume she would simply mope about for a while, eventually get over the breakup and move on to something (or someone) else. The typical outcome.

But since this *is* a story, I predict that something might happen to throw a wrench in the works. Perhaps Morgan is not quite as happy as she seems in her new relationship - her reaction when he showed up was... concerning (instantly changing her demeanor when he was around and immediately 'siding' with him). Although one example is hardly definitive proof of anything untoward, and perhaps I am just reading way too much into it.

And even if things are going well, perhaps something will happen to Morgan that will make her reconsider.

Or maybe I am just completely off base

Either way, I suppose I shall have to wait and see.

[RopeBunny]

Although perhaps it should be 'What was the fucking point in coming?', as the current wording reads a little off.

Nope, it's supposed to read as is. The way Brooke thought it. And thoughts aren't always correctly worded.

Thanks for commenting, interesting to read your notions on what might happen, where it (Morgan and Si and Brooke) might be going.

Saying nothing of course

[RopeBunny]

005.

"Want a hug?"
"No."

Laughing.

"Yes."

Because, feeling better, trying to move forward and bury a past I can't apparently change. Can't have her back I tried and she said no.

I told her. Morgan. Fuck me I even confessed my love, and it changed nothing.

Or. Well. It might've, changed things, but then he. The wanker. Si the girlfriend stealer showed up. And. Nope.

Over.

I fought, tried to fight, but. No.

So we move on.

I laugh some more, playfully shove Daniel as he stands looking at me arms open then dropping to his side, back up. Unsure is he supposed to hug me or not?

"Come on." Grabbing keys out my shorts pocket and blipping the dark green pickups alarm off. "Let's make a start."
"Sure." Nodding. "Right."

Daniel grabs a duffel and a backpack from the boot of his sensible Ford hatchback, tossing them, gently, into the truck bed.

Climbing up beside me and off we go, careful and slow keeping an eye out for dog walkers or hikers on the track.

Heading through Owl Wood, heading for the train tracks.

"I've never seen you at work."
"Fucking," shooting a glance at him, shifting down to second as we start uphill, "liar."
"I mean doing a normal job."

I grin back. I knew that, and he knows I knew.

Owl Wood. My, wood. Day to day it doesn't need much: drive, walk in some cases, all the tracks, doing a basic check making sure nobody set up camp or tried to burn half the left side hill down. That takes maybe an hour, two, and I make sure to do it four days a week. Especially Mondays, post weekend.

The rest of the day, the week is down to me. Recent working- attempting to -myself to death aside so long as things get done, so long as Owl Wood remains well maintained I'm my own boss.

I can work short days, start early or finish late. I can take the day off, prehaps even two in a row.

Some things have to be done at set times, what grass needs mowing, needs mowing monthly or six weekly- if I'm living dangerously -from March or April until around Halloween, depending on temperature and rainfall. Hedges, the farm hedge for instance, are best trimmed post growing season in winter or very early spring.

I have, kind of, a plan. Tacked up and much scribbled on. Things to do and when to do them. Area's of Owl that require focus: a stand of cedar to thin out, an old oak becoming boxed in by younger faster growing birch and hazel.

The overall point is I've got leeway for things like today, no boss to ask permission of.

"Why am I wearing this again?"

Amused, fingering the orange zip front vest with white like hi-vis strips up over each shoulder and across the chest. Put on over his black Godzilla tee and blue jeans it looks slightly too large on Daniel's narrow shouldered slender frame.

"Safety." Pulling up in front of the gate, shutting off the engine and leaning forward, looking left and right on instinct as though any moment a train could, will, appear. Thundering impossibly along when I've been told, assured, that none are running today.

"Because." Serious face, mimicking a man's stern tones. "The railway must be considered live and dangerous at all times."
"Live," amused, I flick a glance, spot the grin, "and? Dangerous."
"Something like that he said." I smile back, open my door. "Come on."

It's a two track railway, one for Up the other Down.

Those capitals are important by the way.

No, I don't remember why.

Two tracks, cutting through Owl Wood, severing about a third off behind locked gates either side of the tracks, that third staying private because the railways said no. No public crossing point here only these gates, for the Forestry Commission worker.

Me.

Which meant a day long course, me the only woman, which even were I not decked out like a porn star would've guaranteed me an endless stream of side glances. The least knowledgeable person there, from a trains point of view, I learned all about general track safety, where and how to stand, how to deal with several kinds of rail specific emergency.

How to properly cross the tracks.

No. Seriously.

And it's in a straight line, not stepping on the shiny metal parts.

That one I do remember.

This track, running through Owl Wood, is freight only, rarely used.

And today, because I phoned this morning, using my official voice to speak clearly and precisely to the signaller, there are no trains.

I'm supposed to check before using the crossing you see, confirming nothing coming, phoning again to confirm I'm clear of the live and dangerous track.

I'd told him, the signaller, that I had at least a dozen large trunks to drag across the gate to gate gap, an hour or two's work.

Could I?

Yes.

But I phone again, just to check. Because the railway is all safety first, checking and confirming. A clear understanding it's called.

"And we're good."
"Excellent." Still unable to hide his smirk. Daniel, standing close by listening to me talk officially using the phone in its grey box, mounted on a post beside the gate.

I swat him. Playful not hard.

Pickup locked, Daniel's bags and a couple of tools: bowsaw and billhook, for appearances, in hand. Through the gate which I lock behind us.

Left turn, we set off wandering along beside the track, single file picking our way carefully along the uneven ballast.

Around a gentle right hand curve, prehaps a half mile far enough to take us away from the gate, from any of the marked paths.

The lone signal standing tall beside the opposite line, facing away from us. Our destination.

"There used to be a yard."
"Yard?"
"For freight wagons." Talking whilst Daniel unpacks and sets up, testing the camera and sorting the rope. Whilst I change.

Glancing around, not nervous or embarrassed to be discovered in a state of undress. Nor were we to be seen doing, what we're about to do.

Not embarrassed, never, I like what I am. Love my jobs, both of them.

But, if seen. Well. I'm not sure how I could adequately explain this?

To whomever high up the Forestry Commission food chain I'd be summoned in front of.

Best not be seen then.

"Plymouth?"
"What." He's caught me grinning, I wave it off.

"I found a map."
"Of the wood?"
"Owl Wood." Nodding. In my house there's an office, a bookcase, on which amongst other things I'd discovered a pile of rolled maps, including Owl Wood circa 1950, showing a vast yard of sidings branching from the tracks, here at the signal. All of it gone now save the bare frame of an engine shed deep within.

"You can see the old track bed." Gesturing, curving with my hand, drawing through the air. "The entrance curve."
"I mean." Standing right behind me, very close and peering down my arm. "Maybe?"

They used it for ordinance in Big two."
"Big two huh."

Amused, I turn and shove him. Playful.

And, if I didn't prefer girls, and if he wasn't happily in love with Shauna, my friend too, and a fellow model.

I think Daniel and me could work.

I've kept my black steel toed boots on, plus the faded blue denim shorts. Hot pants because they are tiny. Belted with khaki canvas, the end hanging down. Up top I'm wearing just the orange hi-vis vest, a size small my F cups pushing the half unzipped front open.

"Ready?"
"Ready." Backing myself up against the signal, a tall grey metal post it's black rectangular box showing red from the single lens is a good couple of feet over my head, below which a black metal plate holds the signals unique identity number stamped in white.

Daniel post ties me: arms reaching around the metal cold against my skin, wrists bound crossed, bound to the post. A chest tie, rope to squeeze my F cups, fixing my upper body in place.

My hi-vis vest scrunched up, Daniel spends a moment, reaching inside to rearrange my breasts, lifting them, spreading the vest open just right. Neither of us commenting or finding his touching of me weird.

Work mode.

Necessary.

Legs bound together at ankle and knees, tied off to the metal post too.

Wadded cloth offered up, I open wide, tasting cotton as black tape is wrapped around my face to seal it in.

And, lastly.

With me already tied, helpless, Daniel takes the roll of special tape from his bag that I'd handed over at the barn. Yellow and black diagonal striped tape.

Caution tape, that you might use to corden off or warn of an unsafe or broken thing.

Like a signal with a girl attached.

Clearly no longer working properly.

Ha.

Daniel wraps the tape from ankles to forehead, back down. Taking his time, making sure to cover my gag but not my chest, making sure it looks good basically.

And then he, stepping back and checking I'm good, films me.

Another shoot where I'm supposed to be inanimate, not moving or talking, not acknowledging the camera. No moaning or drooling, no struggling.

As though I am a part of the signal.

The whole experience giving me- good -chills.

I know, because of what the two Domme's tried to snare me into, that I was once- at least once if not more -a slave.

I don't remember much of my past before the crash but I do remember the shoot I did for them after, bound and hanging, suspended from the ceiling. They'd left me there, slowly swinging and turning, abandoning me as though I were a thing not a person.

Being treated as such, then and now, for me it's quite a turn on.

Daniel circles, having approached from some distance away as though 'finding' me. He zooms in, out, hankering down then coming back up. Walking around behind me, back the other side.

I make sure to keep my eyes front, not following or watching.

Find myself, first shoot since it happened, missing Morgan. Missing company and rope play, a partner in crime because I'm going to be horny later.

Fuck, I'm horny now.

But I won't have anyone to help with that.

Now she's gone.

At which point an idea pops into being.

Which I share with Daniel on the drive back to my house, the barn and his car.

He listens, nodding occasionally.

"Okay." As I step back from hugging him goodbye. "I'll." A shrug, a smile. "Make some calls and let you know?"
"Great." Smiling back, a thumbs up as he drives off.

[BlissfulMisery]

Nope, it's supposed to read as is. The way Brooke thought it. And thoughts aren't always correctly worded.

Fair enough - creative license it is

Thanks for commenting, interesting to read your notions on what might happen, where it (Morgan and Si and Brooke) might be going.

Saying nothing of course

Of course

And you are welcome!

It's a two track railway, one for Up the other Down.

Those capitals are important by the way.

No, I don't remember why.

Another nice detail. Small things like that really liven up the text, although of course this is not the only example in this chapter.

Amused, I turn and shove him. Playful.

And, if I didn't prefer girls, and if he wasn't happily in love with Shauna, my friend too, and a fellow model.

I think Daniel and me could work.

I see she is already looking for her rebound - although that is quite a few obstacles in the way of this particular pairing

Overall quite an interesting shoot, although the surprise was unavoidably spoiled by the locale.

Even more interesting is whatever her new idea is. A few possibilities, although most of the obvious I would reject outright.

Either way, another fine addition to the tale, albeit a little transitionary. But such a thing is important - Brooke needed a little time to 'come down' after all the excitement, and showing some of that helps translate it to the reader.

[Beaumains]

You keep pumping out so many words in short a short time. Hard to keep up .

I can feel for Brooke, losing Morgan in such a bad way. But, I really like you included it. Often, in these kind of stories, such kind of hardship is not told. Sure, characters get kidnapped, have sad backstories, or have to deal with sudden surprises, but the slow process of emotional healing is rare. It gives Brooke more character than just like a bondage model (and so does the very realistic and extended description of her job). I can feel her loneliness and pain in my heart.

[RopeBunny]

Even more interesting is whatever her new idea is. A few possibilities, although most of the obvious I would reject outright.

So I'm wondering now, with the reveal posted below, what your 'obvious' possibilities were?

And @Beaumains thank you. I like to go for realism at times, telling suh plot twists as this break up, actually making it part of the story. It's enjoyable for me to write.

[RopeBunny]

The meeting.

London. Soho. 'The Lost Sheep' is a traditional English pub, strong but pleasant beer and woody smell and an actual log fire against one wall. No hanging flatscreens instead an old Wurlitzer blinks and pulses brightly in the far corner. Chalkboard menu to one side of the curving bar topped by pie of the day.

Steak and onion apparently.

I'm a half hour early. Buzzing the whole train ride in, full of energy like a rocket with her fuse already lit yet still tethered to the launch pad.

Early, and yet I find Daniel and Shauna already waiting.

"Honestly." Smiling at skinny messy haired him. "Did you camp out overnight?"
"Actually." Pushing glasses back up his nose, smiling back and giving his girlfriend's clasped hand a brief kiss. "We came yesterday."
"Really?" Laughing.

"London." Spreading his arms wide as Shauna scoots clear of the table, leaving the booth and coming for a hug. "Why not make a proper trip of it."
"Indeed."

Having hugged me Shauna steps back: dark skinned with straight black hair, enhanced breasts that seem to be the go to for most porn stars, C cups sitting high on her curvy frame.

"Hey Plymouth."
"Shauna." Flashed smile shared, we've worked together, which I don't remember, but apparently- according to her -it was 'fun.'

Note the teasing quotation marks, that's all her.

"It's good to see you."
"Likewise." Stepping back. "How you holding up girl?"

I seesaw a hand.

So so.

"Anyone else here?" Hopefulness leaking through. Please.

"Elwood is a no show."
"Right." Quick nod although he's just a name and no face. I frown. "Is he...?"
"Wishing us well. Busy, moved on."
"Right."

And then their twin smiles register.

"What?"
"I took the liberty of reaching out." Daniel waves, towards the bar behind me. A magician executing his trick.

I turn to look, half stumbling out of my seat moments later, grin spreading to match hers.

Fayth Hill.

Coming towards our booth drink in hand, a living legend in the bondage world.

"Plymouth."
"Fayth." Stepping into the hug, flash bulb sideshow of partial memories lighting up inside as her body presses into mine.

Sharing food in a sunny American garden, her house?

Tied back to back on chairs, Bat and Supergirl wearing non canon cosplay that nonetheless would poll quite well with at least half the reader base were it ever introduced to print.

Fucking, and drunk. Fayth bound with scarves and socks.

And, more bizarrely, walking. Sneaking I feel certain? Into Fayth's bedroom, finding her asleep post orgasm a video of me, a porn shoot, still running on her laptop.

Blinded by the flash bulb montage I attempt to turn the hug into a kiss.

Which Fayth doesn't return.

"Oh." Slightly embarrassed, stepping back. "Um. I'm." Reaching up to rub my head, the shaved and scarred left side. "I was remembering."
"Oh." Frown becoming a cheeky kind of smile. "Well in that case."

Stepping back in. Twice, give or take a few years, our ages yet she doesn't look it. Curvy twelve frame enhanced by D cups pointing the way. Long hair, blonde and tumbling.

I clock the kiss before it happens, enough time to respond.

Shauna's overloud cough splitting us apart.

"When did you get in?"
"Last night." Gesturing across towards the booth, Daniel and Shauna hands clasped again, she waves back. "Your friend said you could use some help."
"Yes." Grateful and pleased beyond words to see Fayth, easily the most famous of us all. Models. To count her as a friend.

To of risen so high.

"Well." From beside and behind, from towards the entrance. Male, gruff old man's tones. "Seems I'm not the only early bird."
"Trevor." Naming him even as I turn. Early sixties and built like a boxer, stocky frame all muscles and angles. Cropped white hair and stubble.

Some hint of past intimacy, something? But I can't summon detail only the fact we have.

We order beers and a large plate of chips, the pile surrounded by sliders topped with cheese and shredded pork. A half dozen dipping pots of various sauces: ketchup and mayo, hot sauce.

"Blue cheese?" Daniel, mock horror becoming a laugh as I throw a beer mat at him.

"Thank you." Looking around the booth. "All. Honestly, this is. Sort of." Another seesaw hand. "Running away. But I'm hoping you'll all help, and come too."
"To the National Exhibition Centre?"

Daniel, who I only told the bare bones of my plan to, enough to hook him, and I'd hoped the rest of them, in.

The three of us have come- without prior agreement -dressed in our tee's: black, the legend printed on the front, same as those sold. But on the back of ours is printed the date we ran from and to, plus 'Crew' writ large across the shoulders.

Everyone who worked it got one.

Including her. Deborah.

Although, petty yes but who the fuck cares? I stole, liberated, hers when I walked out of Stephanie and her house.

Fayth, a first- with luck -timer is wearing a purple vest top. Trevor in a football tee vertical blue and white stripes.

"Not this time." Shaking my head, taking a bite of beef and grinning around it. Dropping my shock.

"I thought we could take the Carnival of Chains on tour?"

Trevor nods, thoughtful.

Shauna whistles "Soooo cooool" under her breath.

Daniel's mouth drops.

"To the states?" Fayth, munching a chip. "Is that why I'm here?"
"I didn't know about a tour." Daniel, recovered and now smiling, shakes his head.

"Europe." I answer. "Like a big circle." Drawing such in the air with a chip. I turn to Trevor. "Could we, logistics wise?"
"Well." Thoughtful some more. Trevor, the now retired but still holding considerable pull over the family business he created: It's A Smalls World, global shipping, trucks.

"Ideally you'd need to downsize."
"I was thinking theatres." Glancing around them all again, in my head I'm waiting for a laugh, to be called crazy. "There must be some that'll take an adult show?"
"No doubt." Trevor nods. "With the proper planning, and some flexibility at this early stage regarding preference of route, I see no reason why you couldn't drive a loop of Europe."

"So we'd need trucks?"
"Trevor runs." Patting his hand, not thinking the over-familiarity coming easily until it registers. I pause, my hand in mid-air, glancing at him having been looking at, responding to Fayth.

He smiles, says it for me.

"I'm still somewhat in charge of the family logistics business." An old man's chuckle. "Enough so I could 'borrow' let's say two eighteen wheelers, plus the same number of luxury coaches from an old associate who owes me.

All of us smiling as he does the air quotes with his large hands.

"I'll match you." Looking Trevor in the eye so he knows I mean it. "Financially, if you'll match me for outlay?"
"Of course." Patting my hand now. "So much fun the first go round, how could I not."

The money from selling my house, plus a large portion from the original Carnival, and a wedge of modelling profits. All sat there doing nothing. Hayabusa aside I'm not a big spender. No luxury holidays or repeated beauty treatments.

I can't ask, expect, Daniel or Shauna to front this. Nor Fayth, not knowing because she wasn't here the first time.

"One problem."
"Only one?" Teasing tone, but my heart slumps at Daniel's bringing the fact forward.

"The name." Leaning in to finger write it on the table, leaving a ghost like trail. "Are we even sure someone didn't." A helpless shrug. "Copyright or trademark or whatever it?"
"Damn." Frowning. Of all my several dozen fences to clear, I hadn't thought of that particular obstacle.

"Easy enough to find out though," Shauna, sitting forward too, "right?"
"Well." Thinking, trying to picture who I'd need to ring. "Ye-"
"Actually."

Trevor. And I could kiss him. Reaching into the attache style brown leather briefcase he's bought along and pulling out a wedge of papers.

"I took the liberty several weeks after the event wrapped of buying the name."
"Oh, wow." Fayth, next to Trevor and best able to see the documents. Nodding. Smiling.

"You'll just need to sign them." Looking at me. "Plymouth."
"Me?"
"You." Nodding and smiling at my surprised tone. "I named you. Um." Looking slightly embarrassed for all I don't actually think I ever told it to him. "Brooke. The Carnival of Chains as an operating name belongs to you, once these papers are signed."
"Brooke." Grinning at him.

Trevor blushes, huffs but not mad.

He bought me the name.

Damn.

We talk for the next two hours.

Notes get made, lists. Tasks divided up.

We leave, splitting three ways, all of us eager, keen, to begin.

[RopeBunny]

The preparation.

One month of madness, of Fayth living with me, of working days in Owl Wood and evenings spent buried in the details of Carnival.

At least it- objective achieved -takes my mind off Morgan.

Except for the nights that is. In the long dark quiet I miss her, still, an ache and an anger. Why?

Why did she leave me for him?

I'd, still, take her back.

More then once Fayth cuddles me. Some dynamic from before that I've forgotten, or just her greater age and experience. Whatever, sometimes, after that first time knocking, coming in late evening to discover me crying. Naked. Fayth stripping off too and wordlessly climbing in beside me, hugging me close until morning.

We don't fuck, nobody ties anybody. But, sometimes she holds me.

And I'm grateful.

A month. Trevor and me throwing cash at every problem, unsure what return we might get ours the gamble, ours the greater reward should we see profit.

Should, we profit.

Theatres are organised and booked, a rough circle from Spain counter-clockwise through Europe ending in England by way of Scotland and Wales.

Keeping the numbers down, keeping the show small. Fayth organises three additional models, close friends willing to work the whole block for a reasonable four figure set fee. Almost five. Both her, Daniel and Shauna take a small fee, gambling the rest on that profit.

The workers: drivers and helpers, are on salary, with Trevor covering half that cost as part of the agreement that allows us access to both them and the vehicles.

Props are discussed with relevant manufacturers and built, extra money to speed the process along. And on the day Fayth travels to Heathrow to meet the inbound models Daniel, Shauna and me spend three giggling hours road testing everything.

Merchandise too is taken care of. A variation on the tee from last time, choice of colours and a list of cities and dates marching down the back.

Daniel takes photos, documenting everything for the book we intend producing post tour.

Everything comes together.

We rent a warehouse space for that final week, all of us together models up on stage, Daniel working the lights and camera, crew learning the routine of what to move and when. And Trevor, the sole initial audience sat on a folding chair out 'front' of our tape marked 'stage' watching, gauging what works and what to tweak.

All of us learning, a sharp curve.

I go to see Mack. Deciding, fuck it, to be honest about why I need such a block of time off.

Why can't I be truthful? I'm not ashamed.

Owl Wood doesn't need day to day care, but those checks: hazards and campers, need doing. Mack delegates to do them himself, to take a look around.

The unspoken point that he's, wants to, check up on my progress. That I could return to find lists of tasks needing doing, on his say so.

Fair enough.

"Thank you."

Early morning, coffee in hand the sun rising on us all. Models. Crew. Trevor and Daniel. Everyone stood loosely grouped in front of two eighteen wheelers and two luxury coaches.

And all of them looking to me, leader of the good ship crazy train.

The Carnival of Chains, on tour.

"All of you." Looking from face to face, Daniel toasting me with his cup, a smile from Fayth and Trevor's small nod.

Doing great Plymouth.

"I know we've got a long road ahead, and." Trying on a smile. "You all know your jobs, we're a team."

Smiles from the crew, a couple of thumbs up and a salute off the peak of his baseball cap from Ron, one of the coach drivers. A proper old boy.

We've bonded well.

"To Carnival." Raising my cup. "Let's go out there and invade Europe with this awesome piece of craziness we've birthed."

"Carnival." Comes the ragtag reply.

And away we go.

[BlissfulMisery]

So I'm wondering now, with the reveal posted below, what your 'obvious' possibilities were?

Various things, but generally I expected one of two major directions - either her reaching out to other models in some way (multiple possible reasons to do so, mainly collaboration), or her trying to do something to figure out what happened with Morgan.

The latter being generally not a great idea, but certainly plausible given her mental state. Also less likely, given the fact that she shared the idea with Daniel, and he would have probably counseled her against it. Hence my comment about 'reject outright'.

Having said that, was not expecting something as involved as what it ended up being. Seems the Carnival is back in town

but apparently- according to her -it was 'fun.'

Note the teasing quotation marks, that's all her.

An amusing quip by Brooke - a bit of almost fourth wall breaking, depicted as if she is telling someone the story. Not sure if that is for the better or not.

A nice exchange with Fayth too - Fayth at first being polite and then Brooke admitting she does remember. A nice 'recap' there too.

And a nice 'montage' as they get everything together. Just enough detail to be clear, without bogging the story down in details, summarizing the process of Plymouth assembling her 'all star bondage team/crew' (not literally, but it gives that sort of vibe) - the "good ship crazy train" indeed

Wonder if they will end up bumping into Morgan at some point, or if this will be its own unrelated adventure. On one hand, it would be a little convenient. On the other, Morgan *is* a bondage model, and there has been (limited) foreshadowing in that respect...

[RopeBunny]

So I'm wondering now, with the reveal posted below, what your 'obvious' possibilities were?

Various things, but generally I expected one of two major directions

So it seems you were half right, one of two a collaboration of sorts albeit a small (only six models) one.

Guess I could've worked out and written some form of Morgan stalking and information gathering, in fact an idea for such is bubbling up even as I write this.

I'm that good/fast

But. No. It didn't occur, and bringing back Carnival is fun. One of my more favourite creations.

Wonder if they will end up bumping into Morgan at some point, or if this will be its own unrelated adventure.

Obviously saying nothing, and I know you don't expect me too.

But I will say and it isn't really a spoiler, Morgan isn't one of the three 'close friends' models. Logically after all how could Morgan, a newbie, be a close friend of Fayth already?

Thanks for commenting.

[BlissfulMisery]

So it seems you were half right

To be fair, the options were somewhat exclusive with each other, and the net cast was a wide one, so not much of a 'prediction'.

Guess I could've worked out and written some form of Morgan stalking and information gathering, in fact an idea for such is bubbling up even as I write this.

I'm that good/fast

But I will say and it isn't really a spoiler, Morgan isn't one of the three 'close friends' models. Logically after all how could Morgan, a newbie, be a close friend of Fayth already?

Given the fact that Brooke is one of the main organizers for the whole event, I would have been quite surprised if Morgan was a part of it without her knowing (or commenting on it). I had meant 'bumping into Morgan' in the sense of her showing up at one of the showings perhaps, or otherwise encountering Brooke in some other manner. Obviously not that likely, but plausible at least, since she is a model as well.

Thanks for commenting.

As always, you are welcome.

[Beaumains]

Interesting twist of events. Normally, here you would expect that the Morgan storyline is over, we had an interlude, and now the next storyline is set up. A new adventure for Plymouth. The transition may appear quite rough, a risky business venture just after heartbreak, but I am sure you will tie it all together, somehow.

[RopeBunny]

but I am sure you will tie it all together, somehow.

I will