Chapter 2: Chlorophene the Druid
Megan sat against the hard mud-baked wall, her wrists lashed back and up to her shoulderblades in reverse-prayer. In locking her wrists against her back, more braided-vine ropes banded her chest, making her modest breasts strain against the fabric of her jumper. Her legs were tied Indian-fashion, knees out and level, ankles counter-crossed and corded tightly. To top things off, a hawsered line ran from ankles to neck-loop, hunching her forward. Any comments she might have made were silenced by a natural woven fabric that formed an uncompromising gag.
Standing over her was the bean-pole figure of the druid, her dress (cut from the same coarse material of the gag) barely masking her lanky limbs and slender torso. Her round lash-bordered eyes glimmered, her hair a sharp blonde fall with an afterthought of green.
“So that fixes you,” the girl laughed. “Now you sit tight while I collect some special herbs. Once I grind them up, I'll paint your titties and snatch, even the bottoms of your feet. And once it's on, it jangles your nerves, making you think you're being stroked, fondled, tickled. By the time it wears off you'll be a weeping wreck.” She reached down and lifted the witch's chin with a long slender finger. “This is what comes from trespassing.”
And then she left, leaving poor Megan squatting in the forest girl's home.
The little witch closed her eyes and thought back to how she'd gotten there.
She'd followed the abandoned rail line west to the boundary of the forest, the steel rusty, the sleepers rotting. In some places weeds, even soil, covered the disused tracks.
The vibrant forest was located on the far side of a low hill, one penetrated by a tunnel. In this she crept, one hand on the tunnel wall, carefully feeling for footing with her sandals. At one point a bevy of bats fluttered past but Megan paid them little mind – not because she was a witch but because she was practical. Eventually a shimmering lime disk came into view, the far end of the tunnel.
She stepped out into a thick forest, new trees pushing up, a flourishing ecosystem. The slow reversal of population allowed such growths to reclaim the fields and villages abandoned in the fall of man.
She did her best to follow what was left of the tracks. At one point a tree grew up in the roadbed, the torn-away rails floating ten feet above the ground encased in living bark. With every step, the signs of the rail line became less distinct. At the point she nearly lost them completely, she spotted a low mushroom-like cottage set back amongst a fist of trees.
She'd smiled to herself, helloed the house, started up the low grade. Halfway there, the snare she'd quite missed zipped up her feet and wrenched her upwards, heels high. Woody II, with its bundled provisions, dropped to the grass. Her face had scarcely begun to pinken when the lanky druid rose from a bush. Megan would have formally introduced herself but she was too busy trying to keep her skirt from falling down over her hips, displaying her bloomers.
The druid, her gold/green hair sharp and straight, her eyes reptilian-round, looked up at her as she unlooped a generous amount of vine-rope. “Looks like I've caught a rabbit. Let's truss it up and hear it squeal.”
Which is how Megan had ended up locked up in a tension-trembling discipline tie, peering around the small cottage, waiting for the druid's return and the promised basting.
The interior was nice, rustic, cute and close. In a way it reminded Megan of her own small house above Sheepish. She would have liked to look about, perhaps pick the various curiosities up and examine them closely, but with her fingers numbing high against her back there was little chance of that.
Or was there?
She'd wondered if her curse would save her. She could make anything unscrew, unlock, and untie. Handy for getting old trunks open. Frustrating when bound tight and awaiting a partner's sexual whims. For years, Megan could only sigh in frustration when she'd thought about how nice it would be to be bundled up tight in someone's bedroom, unable to move, unable to cry out, stripped and trussed and owned. Then she'd gotten two reprieves. One was when her original staff, one charged by her former coven (who'd cross-sabotaged one another in a flurry of treachery), had taken it upon itself to bind her up and force her to study her craft. Oh, it had been hard work but the staff rewarded her carnally, too (just the though of what it had done to her set a wet shiver though her locked-open pussy).
The other time was deep in the Pit, when she found that Goldwaith Elixir blotted out her power (and turned her into a randy little rope-slut).
Could it be that this druid had some sort of power, some sort of nature-spell which would counteract her own magic and keep the knots tight? Would she stay tied and bowed until the lithe girl returned to grind up her horrible cream and set poor Megan's passions aflame?
With fearful realization, she rather hoped so.
But the poor witch was only to get a taste of the tension and anticipation of sexual domination. She'd only begun to settle in rope-locked bliss when, suddenly, unexpectedly, and frustratingly, the rope between her scrunched breasts began to undo. Megan watched the knot slowly back out. Her fingers detected the lengthening lead as the tight knot that had been been so inaccessibly placed between her wrists unraveled. Within five minutes, Megan found herself sitting on a floor surrounded by limp coils of defeated vine-ropes.
She sighed to herself when the dropping gag permitted it.
Oh well.
She collected up the ropes which had locked her trim body too well and too briefly, located her staff where it leaned in the corner, got herself ready.
The druid, when she returned, never knew what hit her.
One moment she was chuckling in sordid anticipation of painting her prisoner's sexual organs with her secrete sauce. She knew how effective it could be, having used it on herself on many a lonely night (and finding herself in the frantic wreckage of her bed the next morning). To think of her cute little prisoner moaning and rocking in her domineering, locked-forward cordage while the first wave of passion struck was nearly too much. Perhaps after watching her guest flail in rope-straining desperation for an hour so so, she'd use a little ointment on herself. Talk about positive feedback!
But these dreams were shattered when her own vines flashed around her like tentacles. In an instant, her hands were tied palm-to-palm behind her back, her arms looped up all the way to her sharp shoulderblades. More ropes 'X'ed between her boobs, the flattening fabric revealing perking nipples. Other sets locked around her legs, folding them up, forcing her to sink in her frogtie. Suddenly she'd gone from dominant to submissive in three lust-racing heartbeats.
Megan strolled over, carefully walking around her vanquished ex-captor, checking the bindings for completeness. Though she didn't say anything, she found several of the knots tied with boot-lace bows, totally unsuitable for granting her reluctant captive some well-earned vengeance. As her little fingers re-knotted (and tensioned far tighter than needed) the errant ropes, she found herself wondering about this.
Woody II's power was slowly draining, making its bondage sloppy; Megan didn't need a gauge to know that. Further, her own power's were diminished – she'd actually gotten to enjoy her bondage before the curse spoiled it. Was there something in this brooding forest that was overcoming her magic?
She wondered what it would be like to be a normal young woman, without her mystical power to save her rear when it got tied down by some woman with deliciously demented plans. It was a scary realization that set her heart to thumping.
“Ow, not so tight,” the green girl moaned as her bindings pressed deeper into her sweat-prickled flesh.
Megan smiled, reached down, pinched her ass. The druid yipped.
“You better let me go. It will be worse for you if you don't.”
“I'll take that chance,” Megan tinkled, sitting on a low stool facing her captive, removing her sandals, making herself at home. “I'm Megan, village witch of Sheepish.”
“Chlorophene,” the other admitted lowly. “Of the endless forest.”
“Well, Chlorophene, let's see what goodies you collected.” With that, Megan picked up the dropped herbage and carried it to the kitchen counter. None of it she recognized. She nosed into a few of the bark-bound recipe books but didn't find anything that looked suitable (the closest thing, a special herb-baste, noted it was 'good on muffins', but the little witch wasn't sure of the context).
“Look, I've got to dominate you,” she said, turning and leaning against the counter. “Why don't you tell me how to make your sauce and we'll both try some. You'll just get a little more, that's all.”
“Nope,” Chlorophene denied, shaking her gold/green locks. “Not a chance.”
“Then,” Megan purred, “I'll have use some of my own tricks.” As she said this, her girlish hand collected two roots from a side dish. These she dipped into a pot of butter, lubricating them up. Smiling sweetly (which beaded sweat on the nervous Chlorophene's brow), the innocent-appearing girl padded back, dropping down to kneel nose-to-nose with her captive. She set the two gleaming roots aside then reached into her pocket.
“Since you won't talk, and since I can't trust you to kiss, there's no reason to leave you your lips.”
“Mffff. MFFFF,” the dominated druid exclaimed as the gag was tied with firm insistence. Megan leaned in to reach around to knot it fast but when she was done she didn't lean away. Chlorophene found her close presence disturbing.
And Megan was close, grinning directly into her face, her eyes dancing. In them, Chlorophene suddenly realized there was more to this shy little girl she'd snared than she'd thought. In her dancing eyes, the druid caught a glimpse of the Megan who'd been strapped down in Rani's lair, her body racked with elixir-deprivation, a total toy. She saw the Megan who'd ridden the Night Mail in a steel box, locked in by her coven and shipped to the busty Petunia Goldwaith.
That fact that this outwardly-unassuming girl as now matter-of-factly looping one arm around her bony shoulders while her other hand explored the druid's rope-locked body.
“Oh, look at this. Your titties are so perfect. See how pinchable they are? How sweet. And you're so slender; I can feel your ribs, even your hips. And let's feel a little lower. Oh, how wet you are...”
Chlorophene's head was back, her hair tangled, her moans humming against her tight gag.
Then came a pause from the dancing fingers. The druid cracked a dazed eye open.
“Perhaps I do have something for you,” Megan chuckled low. A moment later, Chlorophene's leaf-green eyes flashed open and she rose up on her knees but it wasn't enough to prevent Megan from pushing the root-bulb deep into her tender vulva.
“Ut! Ut! UOooooooooh.....”
Megan held her close, so close she could feel the witch's heartbeat tapping against her own, their heat and sweat mixing. The druid didn't dare move, not with that thing jammed inside her. How could it get any....?
It did.
She gasped in pure indignant protest Megan's clever fingers pushed down between her legs, further than the first time, nimbly rotated, then pushed upwards. Chlorophene tried to clamp down, to deny passage, but the butter-coated bulb defeated her sphincter muscles. The trespasser went in with a near-audible pop. Again, green eyes flashed in amorous panic.
Then Megan raised her hands and twirled them a certain way...
And down between her legs, inside the druid's puss and anus, the root-bulbs...
...began squirming.
“UM! UM! UMMMMMMM!”
“Yes, isn't that nice? Those bulbs are pulsing and throbbing deep within you, wiggling to get free. I'll bet it feels just like a manni's fleshy rod, doesn't it.”
Chlorophene couldn't nod. She could hardly move, balanced as she was on knee-tip. Against her thin clothing, her nipples stood out in sharp relief. Megan grinned and give them both a happy flick.
She held the girl for a while, feeling her writhe and wiggle as her tireless tubered toys shifted and shuddered. Eventually she lay the sex-shaking victim on the thick rug, standing over her, watching her struggle in breast-heaving, hip-tossing abandon. With her pretty features graced with an oddly-modest blush, she crossed back to the kitchen, fetching her own root, dipping it in butter. Then, after carefully removing her white panties, she lay on the soft bed, dress up, knees wide.
“Here we.... gooooooo. Ahhhhhh.”
=< O >=
The next day the two stood on the cottage's doorstep, Megan in her cheery blue jumper, Chlorophene in her birthday suit. The later was roped for traveling with braided vines locking her body up and her arms down against her apple-like buttocks. Cinched lines over her nipples and knots in her twat guaranteed that every step of the journey would be filled with sensations. Her neck-leash lay comfortably in Megan's small palm.
“I don't know what you're talking about,” the green-hued girl huffed.
“I know what I heard. You were wailing on about your sacred grove, from which all magic flows. I'd like to see it.”
“You already have. You stuck a root into it.”
“Nice try,” Megan chirped. “Let's go, my little green captive.”
And thus Chlorophene, in her rope-rigged, g-zone-wrapped state, learned that the journey of a thousand steps begins with a soft, sharp intake of breath.
05.09.11
story continues in Gai-Shift - Green Chapter 3: Fairies & the Sacred Glade
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