## The First Day of Summer

Post by sarobah » Thu Jun 13, 2013 4:00 am

This story was inspired by the latest TUGs competition. It borrows a theme from a couple of my previous tales.
The First Day of Summer
1. The Secret Place
We are growing old, you and I. The bones are beginning to creak, the eyesight is starting to dim, and one day, perhaps, the memory will fade of the many wonderful years we’ve had together. There have been good times and bad times, great love and sad loss, so much to celebrate and so little to regret. But a part of our lives will always shine bright, those glorious, golden days of our youth.
Do you remember when we were taken to the secret place? It was the very first day of summer, and the last Saturday before the end of school. I had just turned seventeen, feeling terribly mature and dreadfully sophisticated. You were so wrapped up in your manly pride because you hadn’t shaved all week and it actually showed. We were so absolutely sure of ourselves, so sublimely certain of what we would become. We just knew that someday the two of us would make the world hold its breath. Well, that never happened; but you still take my breath away when you hold me in your arms.
It was one of those sultry, hazy mornings typical of that time of year. The air hung languidly over the suburbs, a thick, clammy blanket of enervating humidity. Growling stormclouds piled up ominously on the horizon, and above us the sun glowed a pallid yellowish grey through the sullen overcast. But we were so happy and feeling so free. You were in a playful mood, and I suggested one last expedition to the waterhole. You smiled, and I blushed because I was afraid you were going to laugh at the idea, at me. But we were both thinking the same thing. We all must grow up, and leave behind our childish games… but not just yet.
It was a ten-minute bicycle ride from where the highway veered sharply away from the river, along a winding dirt road through withered, tangled eucalypt scrubland. (I believe that part of the forest is gone now. Housing estates have crept up to the very borders of the national park.) I wore my favourite bikini. Do you recall it, the purple one with the…? Yes, of course you do. I recognize that twinkle in your eyes. You haven’t changed.
The swimming hole, as we should have expected, was crowded with kids, noisily having kids’ fun. So instead of plunging into the ferment, we chained our bikes to a tree trunk and went for a walk. We stopped in the clearing on the other side of the hill, where the track broadened and a pioneer’s cottage had once stood. It was uncannily silent and dreamily still. We could no longer hear the tumult from the waterhole, and even the birds and crickets seemed to have ceased their chatter to give us our peace and quiet. We sat on a patch of the softer grass. You stroked my hair and I caressed your cheek and we kissed. But our solitude did not last.
The crackling of dry leaves underfoot was the first indication that we were no longer alone. A moment later, half a dozen camouflage-clad figures emerged from the undergrowth. They circled us, staying warily close to the edge of the open space at first, but slowly moving in, until their leader was looming directly over us. Dressed in his battle fatigues, his belt and bandoliers heavily laden with a menacing array of weaponry, his young face streaked with black and olive paint, he looked fearsomely familiar.
But you got up and stared him down. You were almost a head taller, and though he held his ground I could see him beginning to waver.
“Identify yourselves,” he snarled, mustering his mettle to reassert his authority. “What’s your business here?”
You pulled back your shoulders and thrust out your chest, and scanned the menacing semicircle with a blistering glower.
“Go away,” you told him. “Leave us to…” Your voice trailed off, as the commander grinned and his underlings swapped nods and winks.
I shook my head and got to my feet and stood at your side. Our confronters backed away, albeit just a step or two.
“Does your dad know you’re harassing law-abiding citizens?” I demanded.
He stammered something and I’m sure he was about to skulk away; but you couldn’t leave well enough alone.
“What’s so special about this place?” you said.
He turned back towards us. His paint-daubed face darkened. He frowned and his eyes glinted. He looked around at his comrades before responding.
“You don’t know?”
“He wouldn’t be asking if he did, would he?” I snapped… and immediately regretted it.
Jason ignored me and told you about the secret place.
“What is it?” you asked.
“Where is it?” I asked.
I thought my question was no less reasonable than yours, but apparently your brother didn’t think so. He glared at me with undisguised contempt.
“We’ll take you there.” He paused, and I drew in my breath. “On one condition…”
I had a good idea of what was coming, but I stayed silent. So did you, as I recall. (Now don’t start getting defensive. We were both on the same wavelength that day.)
With just a quick shrug, you moved back to give Jason room to come around so I would be facing away from him. I did not move. I had my hands clamped on my shoulders because I was feeling self-conscious standing there in just my bikini, surrounded by these surly, sinister would-be warriors. He took hold of my elbows to pull my arms down and behind my back. He did it gently, but only so I would not resist. I didn’t. I allowed him to cross my wrists and bind them with something… it felt like nylon cord, maybe a tent rope. He knew what he was doing, looping the cord several times to spread the pressure, and cinching the knot to make it secure.
I flexed my arms and rotated my wrists as much as the restraints would permit, wiggled my fingers, clenched and unclenched my fists, not so much testing my bonds as making sure they would not become too painful as time went by, and reassuring me that there was no chance of the blood circulation being cut off if my wrists swelled in the heat and humidity. It felt okay… not exactly comfortable, since Jason had tied the rope tight, but it was not too great a strain. Anyway, I knew there was more to come. Your little brother was nothing if not predictable.
I glanced around. You gave me your usual “Don’t look at me” look. The other kids watched with curiosity and amusement. Judging from those expressions, I must have been their first hostage. On a signal from their leader, the two girls, Donna and Katrina, untied the bandanas from their necks and handed them to him.
Jason was still behind me, and I guessed what was next. He reached over my shoulders and pushed something soft against my lips. I parted them and he pressed the cloth between my teeth with the fingers of both hands. The large wad knotted in the middle of the scarf filled just the front of my mouth, so it was not too disagreeable; but he tugged with pitiless enthusiasm to tie the ends, wrenching my head backwards. Then the shadow of a blindfold descended over my eyes. Jason used the second bandana, and he was just as rough in applying it. My gasp of damseline distress was muffled by my gag into an unladylike grunt. Jason laughed, the other kids giggled nervously… and I’m sure I heard you chuckle.
I wondered if you were going to get the same treatment, but Jason placed his hand between my shoulder blades and brusquely shoved me forward. I took a tentative step or two before halting, afraid I would fall. You gallantly put an arm around behind me, grasping my elbow on the other side to steady and guide me as I shuffled along the track.
From the soothing warmth on the side of my face, I could tell that the sun had come out from behind the curtain of clouds, and that we were moving in a direction away from the swimming hole, further into the woods. My skin tingled to the sudden chill as the canopy closed in overhead. The track narrowed and began to twist and turn. You clung to me more firmly now, saving me from stumbling and tumbling so many times. Swinging, swishing branches grazed my bare legs. They tickled more than prickled, so I didn’t mind. But the encroaching undergrowth meant that this was a trail not well trod. Jason’s secret lair was hidden deep inside the forest.
Bound, gagged and blindfolded, I had no idea of what lay just paces ahead of me. Before long, my muscles began to ache. The stress on my shoulders from having my arms pinned behind me and the effort to keep my equilibrium were starting to drain my energy and my willpower. But pride and curiosity kept me going. It was a strange, disorienting experience. The birds and insects had resumed their buzzing, hissing, chirping chorus, but no one spoke, not you, nor Jason, nor the others. I felt so eerily alone, even within your comforting embrace.
The passage of time became a blur. I don’t know how long or how far we had trudged before the path contracted to the point where you could no longer walk beside me, but instead followed closely behind, gripping my forearms to direct and balance me. I felt helpless and vulnerable and exposed, plus a little afraid. Yet putting my trust in you, having you lead me through the wilderness and protect me from its perils, made it a journey of joy. The goosebumps were not all from the effects of the cool air.
Jason called for the column to halt. I heard a rustling noise, like he was brushing aside the undergrowth to clear a passage. When we moved again, you told me to duck my head. The vegetation closed in completely around us, forming a tunnel that became more and more constricted, until I was forced to lean forward in a deep bow, and you had to take hold of my wrists to steer me. I tallied my footsteps, reaching a hundred before I tripped on an uncovered tree root, almost toppled and lost count. Finally we emerged into a clearing beside a small creek. I could hear its waters bubbling and babbling over the boulders.
The arduous trek had pushed me to near exhaustion, but I was impatient for my first glimpse of Jason’s hideout. Of course, that was not to be; and to this day it remains, for me, a mystery. The only impressions I have are those from behind my blindfold. You’ve never described it, and I think that’s how it should be. For me it will always be a secret place, a fantastical landscape painted in sensations, moods and feelings, not constrained by pictures or words.
I was so relieved and grateful when we reached our destination that I didn’t mind when Jason gruffly ordered me to kneel and I knew I would not be untied. Then two pairs of hands – I think they belonged to the girls – grabbed my arms and lowered me onto my belly. The grass, leaves and twigs were itchy and scratchy against my bare flesh, and I began to squirm. Jason thought I was attempting to escape my bonds, or at least he pretended so. He commanded his minions to hog-tie me. I gulped a garbled protest through my gag, and put up a feeble struggle as they forced my heels up to my backside and trussed them to my wrists. I continued to wriggle about, until the sting of the forest litter beneath me and the jeering mockery from those standing over me became too much. (Don’t give me that innocent look. I knew you were a part of it.)
After that, my memory goes fuzzy. I heard you and Jason and the others moving about. There was splashing and laughing and squealing; and at one stage everything went so spookily silent that I thought you had all abandoned me, hog-tied and helpless, in the middle of nowhere. I started to panic, but I quickly came to my senses. You would never do that… and even Jason was not so depraved. Still, that was how zoned out I was by then, no longer thinking clearly. It was horrible, in a way, but like one of those nightmares that you have when, even as you wake up and are glad it wasn’t real, you’re sort of sorry that you didn’t get to see how it would end. That’s how I felt when finally you untied me.
You took out my gag and daubed the sides of my mouth and chin where the dribble had oozed through the saturated scarf, and gave me a drink from one of the canteens. You helped me brush away the leaf litter which had stuck to my skin and got in my hair. You were so gentle, who’d left me bound and prostrate, suffering discomfort and derision, for so long. I was hoping you wouldn’t say you were sorry for my ordeal, because your tenderness now made it worth the price. We kissed, and your little brother snorted in disgust.
I remained sightless for the hike back to the waterhole. It was late afternoon. Only a few kids were still swimming and playing, and I saw they were giving us odd looks as I removed the blindfold. The wind had picked up and the temperature had dropped. The impending tempest had not yet arrived, but the sky was blackening. As we unchained our bicycles, Jason and his pocket-sized commandos about-turned and marched back into the forest. They were prepared to weather the storm. We arrived home just before it broke.
How many times that summer did we visit the secret place? Sometimes it was with Jason and his friends, more often just you and me. Always I went blindfolded, so I would never discover its location, nor even learn what it was like, except from the impressions of sound and scent. I loved that it remained so mysterious to me. It existed in my imagination, not quite real but more than a fantasy.
It was on our fourth visit, as I recall, that you again tied me up. After that, it became our tradition, and the games we played back then we carried on for many years. Yet after that summer we never went back to the secret place. It was time to move on from childish adventures, we thought. I suppose it still exists, unless that section of the forest has also fallen to the bulldozers. But in a sense it will always be there, a part of our lives. Yes, we did grow up, left behind such juvenile joys. But it’s only when you’ve grown out of that stage as well that you realize that the exploits and explorations of youth, not the duties and labours of adulthood, are what shape you most.

### Re: The First Day of Summer

Post by xtc » Thu Jun 13, 2013 4:51 am

What a pity it's ober 1000 words!
Thanks fpr posting. Superb as ever.
Boxer shorts are cool,
but little speedos rule!
More by the same author: viewtopic.php?f=5&t=22729

### Re: The First Day of Summer

Post by sarobah » Thu Jun 13, 2013 4:26 pm

> xtc wrote:What a pity it's over 1000 words!
> Thanks for posting. Superb as ever.

Thank you.
I am incapable of word-limiting myself. This is one of the reasons why my boyfriend likes me wearing a gag. (There are others... reasons, that is, not boyfriends.)
2. Loose Ends
What is it? I know that expression.
The story isn’t complete?
But it’s as much your story as mine.
Oh… you mean that…
There isn’t much to tell, which is why I’ve never bothered… but you want to hear it anyway. After all these years, I guess I should tie up the loose ends.
It happened a couple of months before Jason took us to the secret place. It involved Rachel… you remember her, don’t you? Of course. She was drop-dead gorgeous… Not as pretty as me? Nice try. I know you had the hots for her. Every boy in the class did... and a couple of the girls. She was the outdoorsy type, while I was more the girl next door. I kept in trim, but she was athletic and graceful, with legs and body that belonged in a chorus line. Her hair was cut short, like a boy; but the way she looked, the way she dressed, the way she moved, nobody could mistake her for one.
We were inseparable back then… closer than sisters, more like Siamese twins. I wonder what became of her. It is such a pity that we lost track of each other after we went off to university. Anyway, do you remember her younger brother, Mark? He was Jason’s age, and they were so alike, in so many bad ways, that they normally didn’t get along. Hence it was disquieting to find them together that day, watching TV.
Okay, I’m moving too fast. I shall backtrack. Rachel and I were on our way home from school. Our final exams were approaching, and we spent most afternoons preparing. That was when you had your job to go to. (Oh, so that’s why I got better results than you. We’ll stick to that theory.) We alternated between her house and mine as our study venue, and on this occasion it was hers. We were slightly later than usual, because Rachel had a hockey team meeting to attend. When we arrived, I was intrigued to see the two boys reclined on the living room sofa, in front of the television. Mark ignored us, but Jason had us focused in a strange, unnerving, lingering gaze as we deposited our schoolbags in the hall.
Before going upstairs to change out of our uniforms (I kept some clothes in Rachel’s closet), we went to the kitchen to prepare a snack. As she poured out two glasses of milk and I cut two slices of fruit cake, Rachel made some funny remark that I don’t recall which got us both joking and giggling. But as I turned to leave, I was startled to find Jason standing silently in the doorway, blocking the exit. I almost spilt my milk. He maintained that odd, inscrutable stare. Behind him, Mark also had a funny look.
“What do you want?” Rachel asked.
“Who were you talking about?” Jason demanded.
I blushed. We had been discussing boyfriends and their… attributes. (Yes, my dear, you got more than the honourable mention.)
“What do you want?” Rachel repeated.
“Something to eat,” Mark called out from the corridor.
Jason pointed to the glass and plate in my hands. “That will do.”
I was about to tell him where to go when Rachel let out a theatrical sigh.
“Let them have ours,” she said to me. “It’s the only way to get rid of pests.”
That final word was the trigger.
She set her snack down on the counter and I did likewise. She stepped backwards as Jason strode past me, into the middle of the kitchen. Mark followed, clutching something in his right hand that he tried to keep hidden. It was a coil of white nylon rope. Rachel spotted it as well, and reacted quicker than I could. But how she did so took me by surprise. As Jason advanced, she continued to back away until she was trapped in the corner where the bench tops met at right angles. Instead of raising her arms in self-defence as I expected, she lowered them to her sides. It was only when Jason seized her shoulders and wrestled her to the floor that she began to resist. But it was too late, because once she was down on the tiles, he could put all his weight on top of her. Although she was slightly bigger than him, her desperate struggles were to no avail.
I guess I could have intervened to save her, but for some reason I didn’t. Perhaps I was more concerned to keep my uniform from being wrinkled or torn in the resulting tussle. Maybe I thought it was poetic justice for her craven submission to the boys’ brazen confiscation of our afternoon snack. In any case, she never called out for assistance, so I watched impassively as Jason raised himself from her body and flipped her dexterously onto her stomach. Her four limbs were flailing wildly about, but Mark entered the fight, holding down his sister’s legs, while Jason pulled her arms behind her back. He deftly wrapped the nylon rope just above her elbows and bound them tight, nearly touching, as she gasped and groaned. Mark then removed her shoes and brought her ankles up to be hitched to her wrists.
It was the first time I’d seen anyone hog-tied in real life, and it looked formidable. The poor girl was puffing and panting. Her face was flushed, she was rapidly blinking and her head was rolling in a slow circular motion. She uttered a string of indecorous curses, but then she stopped squirming, closed her eyes and smiled. While this may have been a new experience for me, I had the feeling it was not for Rachel.
Jason crouched beside her for a minute or so, studying his prize, before Mark tossed him two pieces of coloured material. I recognized them as scarves, made of satin or silk, that I’d seen in Rachel’s dresser drawer. (She never wore them, and at the time I wondered why she had so many.) Jason brushed back her hair and placed one scarf over her eyes, binding it securely about her head. He then folded the other one lengthwise and tied a knot in the centre. He used this to gag her. It was not particularly effective, because the knot wasn’t very big. It didn’t silence Rachel, but it was applied very forcefully to keep it in place and contorted her words into a grotesque burlesque of garbled, strangled noises.
Jason, satisfied with his efforts, nodded to Mark, and looked up at me.
“Grab on,” he said.
He hoisted his captive above the floor by her shoulders, while Mark lifted her by her knees. To prevent her falling from their tenuous grip onto the hard tiles, I took hold of her midsection, and the three of us carried her into the living room. The nylon cord, only a part of which had been used to bind her, trailed along behind.
Sensibly, Rachel held her body straight and stiff while she was being carried, to make our task easier. She didn’t want to be dropped. Only after we set her down on the carpet did she begin to wriggle about, but I think that was down to me. Her skirt had ridden up over her rear end and was stuck there because her wrists and heels were pinned against her backside by the ropes. I pulled it down to cover her knickers and, not aware of what was happening she gasped and flinched, then began to wriggle and twist. I knelt beside her and softly stroked her hair to calm her down. She turned onto her right side, towards me, to shift her weight off her bound hands and feet. She looked so beautiful, fragile and vulnerable. Her chest heaved but the rest of her body remained still. That part of her face not covered by blindfold and gag glistened with tiny beads of perspiration.
Jason ordered me to fetch the snacks and, now outnumbered and deciding that discretion was the better part of valour, I obeyed. When I returned with the milk, Rachel was once more on her belly and the boys had taken off her socks. As I brought out the cake, she was writhing on the carpet and screaming through her gag. Having experienced the excruciating torment of tickle torture, I pitied her; but at the same time there was a part of me which revelled in the spectacle of her ordeal. There was a brief respite while the boys had their afternoon tea and Rachel caught her breath. And when the punishment resumed, I plucked up the courage to intercede.
Of course I knew what the consequences would be. And I admit my motive was not self-sacrifice. As weird as it sounds, I was thinking how Rachel always got to be the centre of attention. Even when helplessly bound and enduring such cruelty. The boys were crouched on either side of the girl, so I seized Jason by the shoulders and hauled him away from her. Taken off-guard, he tried to jump to his feet but fell backwards and ended up sprawled on top of me. Mark leapt up, came around and grabbed my wrists. That allowed Jason to extricate himself from our tangle of arms and legs and grasp my ankles. They stretched me out and spun me onto my stomach. I managed one stout kick which grazed Jason’s temple. He swore, then laughed and sat astride my body, resting on my bottom, with his hands planted firmly on the backs of my knees.
Mark took up the free end of the rope they’d used to hog-tie Rachel. She was too far away, so he dragged her roughly by the shoulders across the carpet to bring her closer to me. The boys positioned us lying side by side, our heads turned facing each other. Unable to comprehend her sudden harsh treatment until she felt my heavy breathing, she sort of smiled and mumbled something through her gag. That’s when I chose to give up the struggle.
But even as I submitted, it occurred to me that the boys already had a couple of Rachel’s scarves on hand for my eyes and mouth. That made me realize my fate was preordained. And to this day I wonder what part Rachel had played in the planning.
Being so thoroughly bound for the first time - hog-tied, gagged and blindfolded - felt very peculiar. It was awkward and stressful, but not painful except where the rope began to irritate the skin of my wrists and ankles. To ease the chafing meant remaining absolutely still, but it felt unnatural to not try to test my restraints or move about to prevent cramping. Jason had trussed me as tightly as he had Rachel, but my parts were not as flexible as hers. With my elbows nearly touching behind me and my shoulders drawn back so far, the strain on my chest made breathing difficult, but not to the point that it was a problem. Of course my gag didn’t make it any easier. My legs were soon stiff and sore. But it felt… nice. It’s the only word I can think of that’s vague enough to describe my conflicting emotions and sensations. You know what I’m like when I am not in control. So there was this natural reaction of indignation and even humiliation, that I was so completely in the power of my two young captors, not really knowing whether I had surrendered willingly or been conquered. And yet it was such sweet suffering. Yes I know that’s melodramatic. In any case, it lasted only until the torture began.
When Mark yanked the socks off my feet, I tried to beg for mercy, but the boys pretended they couldn’t understand my muffled, mangled pleas. I braced myself for the onslaught. Rachel, her arms and legs bound to mine, grumbled and groaned through her gag as I thrashed about; but I was not in a position to spare her any sympathy. It lasted so long that by the end I was so hysterical that I almost… Well, let’s just say my nightmare ended barely in time.
I guess we were prisoners for an hour, maybe a bit more. Mark suggested moving us, still trussed and tethered, up to Rachel’s bedroom so we could be kept tied up and there would be no worry about the parents coming home and finding us in the living room. The boys freed our feet and helped us stand up, with our hands still bound behind our backs; but even with our blindfolds in place we put up such a fight that they finally gave in and untied us. That was at once a relief and a letdown.
We never got to study that afternoon. We sat on the sofa in silence, and the boys left us in peace to recover. When Rachel’s parents came in, they were surprised to see the two of us still in our school uniforms. They must have wondered why our skirts and blouses were so creased and crumpled, but they never asked. And obviously no one ever told what happened, otherwise I would not be telling you all these years later.
It was my first time bound, so I guess I owe Rachel, her little brother and your little brother a debt of gratitude. Come to think of it… so do you.
Anyway, now you know the whole story. The loose ends have been tied and we can go to bed.

### Re: The First Day of Summer

Post by xtc » Fri Jun 14, 2013 6:46 am

Excellent. Great style.
Boxer shorts are cool,
but little speedos rule!
More by the same author: viewtopic.php?f=5&t=22729

### Re: The First Day of Summer

Post by sarobah » Fri Jun 14, 2013 4:42 pm

Here is the other inspiration for The First Day of Summer, published on this site a few years ago and reproduced with a few minor revisions. Both stories are based on a real place and actual people, hence the commonalities.
The End of Summer
People called Rebecca a tomboy. She wasn’t. She was just a free spirit.
Her home was near mine. We lived in a quiet suburb on the edge of the city, but we were never bored. There was a forest nearby, with hills and streams and ferny gullies, and here we spent most of our summer days. There were a few other kids in the neighbourhood, but they were into BMX racing and team sports and that sort of thing, so we didn’t mix with them very often. Rebecca and I were children of the forest.
When we were about thirteen, we found a wonderful hideaway. It occupied a small clearing in the dense canopy of teaks and cedars, with a miniature waterfall and a crystal-clear stream emptying into a pond about half the size of a backyard pool. The ground was covered in a lush carpet of grass and moss. The undergrowth closed in so tightly on all sides that you could find the spot only by accident, as we had done. We may well have been the very first people to come to this special place.
We spent as much time there as we could. We would bring a picnic lunch, and when we tired of sitting around, we would explore the rest of our leafy domain. We happily played the most childish games, far from the censorious gaze of our peers and our elders. These were truly the best days of my life.
Rebecca was my age, athletic and spry but very small for her years. The top of her head barely reached to my shoulders. Her breasts were only just starting to form, perky little bumps on her chest, inconspicuous when she wore anything much at all. She had large, lively blue-green eyes and a light sprinkling of pale freckles. Her straw-blonde hair was cropped short and rather spiky, and in a pair of scruffy jeans and a baggy sweater she was easily and often mistaken for a boy.
“I’m a girl,” she would proclaim with blazing-eyed indignation. She’d huffily pout, clamp her tiny fists on her narrow hips and boldly thrust out her chest, to show off the elusive feminine curve. But it didn’t really matter, and I think she took an impish delight in people being fooled.
In fact, Rebecca was a true innocent, not at all self-conscious about what little there was of her body. At the local waterhole, where we sometimes went to swim with the other kids, she now and then skinny-dipped, quite unashamedly. More often she wore a bikini, as diminutive as the rest of her. She was boundlessly energetic and utterly fearless, but there was nothing boyish about her then.
After we’d found our refuge deep in the forest, we spent less and less time at the swimming hole; and we never shared our secret. As soon as we arrived, she would strip off her clothes and plunge into the icy water of the pond. She’d shriek with delight and shock, and emerge shivering violently and laughing hysterically, and teasing me for not having the courage to join her. I just liked to watch her, and marvel at her unbridled joy.
One day, she went too far with her taunts. While she was standing in the circle of sunlight drying off, I retaliated. We ended up wrestling on the grass. Being so much bigger, I easily pinned her down. I flipped her onto her stomach and pulled her arms behind her back. There were vines hanging from nearby branches, and creepers running along the ground. I bound her wrists with a strand of the vine, and secured her feet with a rope fashioned from the creepers. She squealed and giggled, and when I used her discarded socks to gag her, she glared and glowered, defiant and helpless.
This was a game that afterwards we would play over and over, throughout that summer and into the next. Once, after I had her bound and gagged, to punish her for some indiscretion I stomped off into the undergrowth, pretending to abandon her. I went only a short distance, but when I returned she was panic-stricken and had cried herself into a state of near exhaustion. I quickly untied her. We hugged and I pleaded for her forgiveness. I feared that I had spoiled a good thing. However, she quickly got over it.
Sometimes we reversed roles; but mostly it was I who tied her. Though strong-willed and high-spirited, Rebecca loved the feeling of being powerless and under my control.
Around the time I turned fifteen, my mother was offered an overseas appointment that would keep our family away for a year. Before we left, Rebecca and I made one last visit to our secret hideout. We played tie-up games for most of the day. I bound her to a tree and tickled her until she screamed and begged for mercy. I pinned her to the ground, spread-eagle fashion, at first on her back and later on her belly, and enjoyed her squirming as I caked her with mud and grass. I hog-tied her and watched her struggle in her bonds, puffing and moaning with unrestrained delight through her gag. And as the afternoon sunlight began to diffuse into a dull pink glimmer through the trees, with great sadness we left our special place behind.
When my family and I arrived back, the first thing I did was to call on Rebecca. I was stunned by her transformation. Gone were the unkempt hair, tattered sneakers, shaggy jeans and ragged T-shirt. Standing before me was a gorgeous young woman. Honey-blonde hair caressed her smooth, bare shoulders. Soft contours swelled the lacy bodice of her yellow sundress. She was still petite, her eyes still sparkled, and her lips still curled into a mischievous smile; but no-one would now mistake her for a boy.
Seeing her, I was afraid that our games in the forest were over. To my relief, as soon as she could she took me aside and whispered, “When are we going back?”
She had not been there in all the time I had been away. It was our place, forever, she explained. And on the following Saturday we returned. The clearing was somewhat overgrown but was otherwise as we’d left it. There was no sign that anyone else had been there. Immediately, Rebecca was out of her clothes and into her bikini and splashing about in the water with glee.
“Come on in, the water’s.... f-f-fine,” she called through chattering teeth.
I shook my head, as I always had.
“Chicken,” she said, as she always did.
She came out quivering, her skin turning purple.
“Towel, please,” she demanded.
I was standing near the edge of the pond, clutching it under my arm.
“Towel, please,” she repeated.
“You called me chicken.”
She shrugged her slim shoulders with resignation. “I’m sorry. Forgive me?”
“Too late, I replied. “Now you’re going to have to beg.”
“Never!” she cried and leapt at me, lunging for the towel.
Caught off guard, I toppled backwards, but on the way down I grabbed her arms and we tumbled into the long grass. She fell onto me but I rolled and was instantly on top of her. I seized her arms and pulled them to her side, pinning them with my knees. She gazed up at me and I looked down at her heaving chest under the scant triangles of her bikini top. For a while we said nothing, did nothing. Then I let her up. She dried off and put her clothes on, and we ate our picnic lunch in silence. Something had changed, and I felt a sense of unease, being there alone with Rebecca.
Yet after we’d finishing eating, she giggled like the girl I had always known, lay face-down next to me, and put her hands behind her back. I bound and gagged her, and sat back to gaze at her as she lay helpless in the grass. She turned her head to stare back at me, looking as sweet and vulnerable as she ever did.
In the months that followed, we returned to the forest; but not every weekend. We were no longer children; we had commitments; I had a part-time job. But when we did manage to get there, nothing had really changed. We still played our silly games. Rebecca still plunged into the ice-cold pond and sometimes she skinny-dipped. She still loved it when I tied her up, and so did I.
Then one day, after school, I saw Rebecca with a boy from my class. They were holding hands. He was a good friend of mine and a really nice guy. I turned away before they saw me. That Friday afternoon, I asked if she had made plans for tomorrow.
She shook her head sadly. “David and I...” her words faded out, in a wistful smile.
We never went back to our secret place.
Our schooldays came to end. We attend the same university now, and our paths cross occasionally. Rebecca is studying medicine, and she and David are getting married soon. She is beautiful and elegant and sexy and sophisticated. She has come so far from that tiny, scrawny girl who laughed and squealed with the thrill of the frigid water and the rapture of the ropes.
For all I know, our sanctuary is still there, hidden in the forest, exquisite and untouched... like my memories of those wonderful summer days with Rebecca.

### Such a wonderful...

Post by Mister Mistoffelees » Fri Jun 14, 2013 6:01 pm

...set of tales. The details are exquisite, and the elegiac tone gives all of them a special music. True art!...
Welcome to Snowden! Enter at your own risk...

### Re: The First Day of Summer

Post by mistofoleese » Sat Jun 15, 2013 6:58 am

Gotta agree that was just plain awesome Sarah