Laura frees herself

How the hell did it come to this? I had the Queen of Pranks right where I wanted her—trapped and at my mercy. Victory had been inches away when suddenly I found myself dangling upside down, stark naked, with rope coiled around my ankles. My arms were useless, stuck to my thighs by some adhesive, and I couldn’t even protest because my lips were sealed shut by that same adhesive. Worst of all, that smug trickster had positioned me where the town’s prized fishing trophies would've been displayed. She’d scrawled conservationist slogans all over me, making it look like I was staging some reckless protest against illegal fishing.

At least Pedro Surubro, the glorified walrus running the show, couldn’t report me since one of his trophies was an illegally fished endangered species. That didn’t stop him from giving my backside a resounding smack, though.

I lost count of how many people took the opportunity to slap my ass—or cop a feel—some out of anger, others just for laughs. But the real salt in the wound? The do-gooders who praised my "commitment," nodding along like I was some hero while ignoring my muffled protests. Too spineless to help, even when they knew I was trapped. Cowards.

However, the most bizarre moment came from a kid holding two strawberry ice cream cones. With the blood pooling in my skull making me dizzy, his words were lost on me—but I'll never forget the sensation of him jamming both cones straight into my tits before wandering off like nothing happened.

The shock of freezing dessert hitting bare skin nearly made me shriek—thank God my mouth was sealed, or I would’ve unleashed a noise so mortifying it’d haunt me forever. Still, the strangled, muffled and uncharacteristic yelp that escaped was bad enough.

And honestly? You’d have done the same. That icy burn was unreal—my nipples went rock-hard instantly, hidden beneath melting pink sludge. I convulsed like a woman possessed, flailing so violently that one cone smacked straight into some creep’s gaping face. But that final **** thrash did me a favor—the rope around my ankles finally gave way.

Down I went, flopping onto the dock like the world’s most humiliated fish. Faceplanted, arms useless, I had to arch my back and wiggle my knees under me just to get upright—which, of course, left my ass on full display for the gawking crowd.

At last, I managed to wobble upright and stumbled along the pier, my head still swimming as equilibrium slowly returned. With my arms immobilized, my bare chest bounced freely with every step, drawing far too much unwelcome attention. The heckling continued—some crude, most just booing at my retreating form like I was a pantomime villain exiting stage left.

None of that mattered, though. My car was the answer—until reality crashed over me. With my hands fused to my legs, I couldn’t fetch my keys, much less operate the door or the ignition. I kept walking, mind racing. If I intended to escape this nightmare, I at least needed my hands free from their sticky prison. And then there was the mess—graffiti, sweat, tartar sauce, and melted ice cream clinging to my skin. Even if the glue gave way, riding home covered in filth wasn’t happening.

True, I could’ve waited for the adhesive to dissolve on its own, but as the Queen so helpfully pointed out, the formula was experimental. No way to know how long it would last, so you could forgive my impatience.

What sealed my fate was my sealed mouth. I couldn't beg for help, not that anyone would bother anyway. After that spectacle, my reputation had been solidified as the wicked protester who'd rained on their parade. There was only one path left.