RESORT - THE SEQUEL

Postby sarobah » Fri Jan 15, 2010 8:44 pm

Believe it or not, I was recently asked (not by any of the contributors to this forum, who are far too astute and sophisticated) if this island resort actually exists. My answer – no it doesn’t, which is why it’s in “Fictional TUGs” (Duh! withheld on compassionate grounds); but it’s based on some true events and real people.
Another thing – I promise that I will not, under any circumstances, revise and rewrite this story (unless I change my mind).
~ Sarah



THE RESORT REVISITED

Ms Sarah J. Bond
Dear Ms Bond,
We are pleased to confirm your appointment to the position of trainee park ranger at the Aranea Island Resort, commencing on the first of December this year. As discussed at the time of your interview, as part of your orientation you are required to complete a ten-day introductory program to familiarize yourself with all aspects of our operations. Accommodation, meals and uniforms are provided free of charge. It is understood that if you choose to accept this offer, you agree to abide by all the conditions of employment as set out in the staff prospectus...


As our plane begins its final approach in a wide arc high above the turbid waters of the Coral Sea, I recall the queasy feeling I had when I first looked down on that awfully narrow landing field. It’s been four years since I was here with my family, and I wonder if the place has changed much. From above, the island still looks like that monstrous, misshapen, jade-coloured spider with the charcoal grey hunchback. Around it there is more activity than I remember. The larger inlets are dotted with yachts and skiffs and fishing boats. At the entrance to Resort Cove, two cruise ships are anchored, and I can just make out from their shimmering wakes on the turquoise surface of the bay a small fleet of water taxies ferrying passengers to and from the shore. The Village itself appears the same, a little more distended at the edges, with the built-up area pushing farther up the surrounding hillsides. There also looks to be fresh construction at the south-western extension of the bay, a new marina on the eastern side, and some sort of development on Frigate Island, off the south coast.

The plane is filled mostly with vacationers, who don’t look so much different from those on my first trip. The atmosphere on board is the same – excitement at the outset, settling into languor as the hours pass, rising to exhilaration as we near our final destination, modulating to apprehension as we descend, surging to elation as we land. While the rest of the passengers disembark, I and the other two apprentice park rangers hold back, partially out of courtesy but also with a sense of self-importance. We’re not just spectators now, we’re players!

The flight attendant acknowledges our amour-propre in her slickly professional style, an indulgent smile that says both “Good-bye, thanks for flying...” and “Welcome to the team.”

Having slept through most of the overnight trip, I have learnt only a few sparse details about my fellow trainees. Lucy is a sweet-faced, hazel-eyed girl of about twenty-two, athletically slim, with caramel-blonde hair that she keeps in an unflatteringly shaggy razor-cut style. She has a degree in environmental engineering and seems to be the type who’d be most at home tramping through the bush in a pair of tattered shorts, scruffy khaki singlet and well-worn trail boots. She comes across as somewhat ingenuous even though she’s very bright, and hardly the sort whom I would have expected to apply for a job here. Jason is not so different, a slightly built, ginger-haired, nerdish-looking guy, with flashing green eyes and a permanent wry grin, as if he’s onto some joke that he’s keeping to himself. He’s about my age (so Lucy is the senior citizen of our trio) and his specialty is rainforest ecology. He makes an insipid remark about the Three Musketeers, and Lucy replies “Let’s hope we’re not the Three Stooges.” I think I’m going to like our Lucy.

By the time we’re on the tarmac, the other passengers are already in the terminal awaiting their luggage. It’s mid-morning and a blazing sun is muscling its way through a haze of high cloud. We’re greeted by a woman of around thirty. She’s slim and tanned, with short, auburn hair and a crisp, businesslike manner that’s not at all diminished by her barely-there sarong, the silver chain choker adorning her neck, and the elegantly crafted shackles encircling her wrists and ankles.

“Hello, I’m Kate.” Her delivery is terse and efficient. “Welcome to Aranea Resort. I will be your counsellor during your probation. Don’t worry about your bags. They’ll get delivered.”

She asks if any of us have been here before, and I say yes without elaborating. Lucy and Jason are first-timers. Kate just nods.

We’re ushered to one of the golf-cart type buggies that serve as the principal form of transport on land (there being no cars or trucks on the island, except for emergency vehicles). Kate herself drives, and along the way she points out some of the highlights – the imposing monolith of Granite Peak off to our left, Pirate’s Cove on the right, and so on. I do my best to look and sound like the all-knowing, been-there-done-that veteran, until we pull into a tree-lined cul-de-sac in the midst of a cluster of low, salmon pink and white buildings of stark design softened by tidy gardens and manicured hedges. I’m mystified until suddenly I realize that this is the new development at the south-western end of Resort Cove that I spotted from the air.

“This will be your home. We call it the Oasis,” Kate informs us.

I won’t go into the descriptive details. Suffice it to say that the Oasis is a largely self-contained community with amenities and services to provide a comfortable lifestyle for several hundred employees and a couple of dozen families. It’s far from luxurious, but no worse than some places where I’ve stayed and paid.

We’re shown to our quarters. Lucy and I have a twin share apartment on the first floor of one of the housing blocks. It’s reasonably spacious and well-appointed, with a kitchen, bathroom and living area. Jason has a single room down the corridor. Amazingly, our personal effects have already arrived and are stacked in a neat pile just inside the door.

After a quick tour of the rest of the complex, it’s down to business. We’re taken to what Kate calls the Commissariat to be issued with our uniforms. We’re measured and fitted for our various outfits, which are placed in labelled cartons, except for what we take to the dressing room. My day uniform consists of the short, bright, multicoloured floral pāreu that has become so familiar. It’s lightweight and translucent, wrapping just twice around the torso, and wearing it you feel almost naked. It’s secured with a knot that nestles very low in your cleavage – Kate shows me how to tie it for maximum uncoverage while maintaining structural integrity. On the beach in this I would be hotness incarnate, but it feels just a little weird wearing it as my work clothes (or lack thereof). Lucy looks fabulous but blushes and giggles when she sees her mirrored image. I should add that Jason is very smooth and stylish in his tasteful white slacks and sea-green safari shirt; but it’s hard to ignore the fact that my entire outfit could fit into one of his trouser pockets.

My ensemble is completed with a high-crowned sun visor and espadrille sandals, but then Kate calls us girls over to where a large locked cabinet stands in a corner of the room. Jason trails along behind, his curiosity piqued. I have a hunch of what’s inside, confirmed when Kate opens it up to reveal row upon row of glittering gold and sparkling silver accessories and accoutrements. She consults our files for our neck, wrist and ankle measurements and sorts through the inventory. She hands Lucy and me each five pieces.

“Try these on to be sure of the fit. You will be responsible for them, and if any parts go missing, contact me or your project supervisor straight away.”

The choker is heavy, although I doubt that it’s solid silver, but flexible enough that it can be put around your neck torque-style, and fastens with a clasp at the back. It has a soft matte finish and is sculpted in the shape of three braided cords each the width of my little finger. It’s well-crafted, rounded on the edges to prevent chafing, and when it snaps into place it feels snug without being too constricting. That’s important, because, as Kate explains, “You’re expected to wear your collar at all times in public, on and off-duty.”

Lucy frowns and studies hers, turning it over and over, running her fingertips along the inside and then the outside, before putting it on. Strange, I thought she’d know this... but then it occurs to me that the only reason I know is because I’ve been here before.

I clip on my wristlets and anklets, which are of the same design as my collar. The first time I did this, four years ago during the mystery tour, I wasn’t sure how they locked in place. Now I see that I can fasten them and take them off with a quick flick of the little catch. Unless, of course, my wrists are shackled together, in which case my fingers can’t make the connection. To show us, Kate orders me to hold out my hands and she deftly clamps the miniature padlock over tiny rings on the palm sides of my bracelets. She invites Jason to do the same with Lucy. He fumbles for a few seconds before getting it right.

Cuffed in front is painless enough. Lucy raises and lowers and stretches her arms a few times to get used to the feel of it. Then Kate says “Now let’s try the other way,” as she unhitches my hands and nudges me gently on the shoulder to get me to face about. I do so and put my hands behind my back. I already know from experience that this way is not so easy, because the bands are joined to each other on the insides of the carpal area, between the wrist and palm, so it’s very tight even with your elbows bent. If you have to straighten your arms, it puts a lot of strain on your shoulders and chest. Naturally, Kate tugs downwards on my arms to get me to do just that.

If you don’t mind a bit of abrasion, you can rotate your wrists until they are crossed, easing the pressure somewhat, but you have to be careful that you don’t cut off your circulation. In any case, the severity of the restraint serves two purposes. One, it’s impossible to wriggle out of, not matter how gymnastic you are. Two, as the shoulders are drawn back, the chest is pushed outwards, producing an aesthetically pleasing result (especially for a B-cupper like me). Jason, judging by his expression, appreciates the result.

“How do they fit?” Kate asks. “Not too uncomfortable?” I take note that she says “not too uncomfortable” rather than “comfortable enough” – it’s an interesting difference.

Lucy mumbles something. She half turns away and holds her hands out behind her, expecting to be unshackled; but I know better. Kate starts towards another cabinet and we follow. Either I’m psychic or I’ve already got the rhythm of this place, because before she even flings open the door I say to myself, “Gag time.”

Yet even I am momentarily taken aback by the formidable array of oral appliances, every conceivable type of gag, in an assortment of colours and sizes – ball, bit, butterfly, plug, ring, muzzle and harness gags, in soft leather, polished silver and satin-finished nylon. On the bottom shelf are some horror devices like medical and dental gags, the kind that hold your jaws spread apart for some nefarious purpose. Lucy’s eyes widen as her gaze traverses the rows. Mine do as well when Kate selects an inflatable gag, something that is a long way from my favourite.

“Don’t panic,” she laughs. “This is just a fitting.”

She takes a little black rubber balloon from a sealed plastic bag and puts it in my mouth, then begins pumping the bladder until the flaccid globe swells and hardens to fill the cavity (I am well aware of the imagery here). She prods my cheeks and the corners of my mouth until finally nodding and declaring “Perfect fit.” After writing down my dimensions, she deflates and removes the balloon, then goes through the same process with Lucy. What she does then is really quite ingenious. With an embossing machine, she stamps out two small disks inscribed with our statistics, which she then secures to our chokers. That way, whenever we are to be gagged, we can be given the optimum size. Very thorough.

Jason is a bystander during all of this, but he’s enjoying the show. For me it’s pretty routine, whereas I’m not so sure about Lucy. Her expression is hard to read – some qualms and misgivings is the message I’m receiving, and again I’m questioning her foreknowledge of this place. But I shouldn’t be critical of her naïveté. Sometimes I forget that not everyone has enjoyed the same happy life as mine.

Kate has one more treat in store for us. She goes over to a shelf on the far wall and brings back three silver chains about twenty centimetres long. She gives one to Jason and she crouches down and links my ankles; he does likewise with Lucy; then Kate does herself.

“This is another thing you’re going to have to get used to,” she informs us.

That sounds ominous, but I’m impressed that she’s teaching by example. We shuffle about the room for a couple of minutes to get the feel of our hobbles. Kate demonstrates the same graceful, gliding movement that the maîtresse d’hotel performed at the restaurant on my first visit. Lucy proves more adroit than I (who’s been known to trip over her own feet even without an ankle chain) and treats it as a game, speeding up, veering about, pirouetting, giggling when she loses her balance because her hands are bound and is saved from falling on her face by Jason’s quick reaction.

After a few minutes of practice, Kate decides that Lucy has achieved a sufficient degree of deftness and dignity while I am a lost cause. So she finishes off with a cheery change of subject.

“How about some lunch?”

She puts her hands behind her back and nods at Jason. He grins like a cheeky schoolboy, steps up and shackles her wrists. I’m not sure whether this is a standard lunchtime ritual, a personal habit of Kate’s or a gesture of camaraderie with Lucy and me. In any case, she leads the way out of the Commissariat building and then falls back to allow Jason to escort his three manacled captives down a shrub-lined pathway, to a building signposted – what else but? – “Dining Hall”.

Inside it’s a regular self-serve eatery with seating for about a hundred at full capacity, although it’s nearly empty when we arrive. Kate offers Jason her hands for release, and he ponders playfully before unlocking her wrists. He does the same for Lucy and me, but we retain our ankle fetters. By now I’m starting to get used to them. On the other hand, my cuffs have come off just in time. My little strapless pāreu is being held in place by not much more than friction, and without my hands to provide relief, gravity and the outward-thrusting pressure of my bonds are threatening to turn my décolleté into seins nus.

I gain some insights into my new friends from what they eat for lunch. Lucy devours a gargantuan conglomeration of proteins, fats and sugars that leaves the rest of us goggle-eyed in astonishment and admiration. With her showgirl figure, she must burn off one heck of a lot of calories in nervous energy. Kate picks tentatively at a little mound of celery, apple and carrot – a gal after my own heart! Jason is so lovingly tender with his macaroni cheese that I’m thinking, “For pity’s sake, just marry the damn thing!”

That done, Kate takes us back onto her golf-cart for a tour of the resort. It lasts about two hours. There isn’t much I haven’t seen already. There’s no operational concept of right-of-way on the streets, so our buggy weaves at a snail’s pace in and out of the pedestrian traffic. From ground level, the village hasn’t changed much, just gotten a bit bigger and maybe more congested. Of course, this is the peak holiday period, whereas when I was here with my brother and parents it was off-season. There do appear to be more families and fewer older people. I notice that there seems to be less overt bondage, and maybe that’s because there are more kids around. There are still a few unknowns, but I’m sure that over the next couple of weeks I will get to better understand the dynamics of the place.

However, just when it’s beginning to feel almost passé, Kate checks the “town hall” clock tower and pulls into a parking bay at the western end of the beach.

“Just in time for the show,” she says.

There are a few dozen people sitting in the adjacent park, mainly under the trees to escape the blistering early afternoon heat, finishing their barbeques and picnic lunches. An observant few spot some unusual movement on the bay, and as I squint against the glare of the sunlight on the water, I can make out two large rowboats skimming silently towards the shore. Everyone watches with amused curiosity as the boats run up onto the sand under their own momentum, and suddenly the air is rent with shouts and yells as a dozen or more men in full pirate regalia leap out and charge up the beach, heading straight for the bemused spectators. There’s laughter and shrieking and (very mild) cursing as the marauders begin scooping up surprised women and girls and carrying them off to their boats. None of the men in the park attempts to rescue their womenfolk –they’re too busy laughing and applauding – as the squealing captives are bound and carried off.

One young woman in a pristine white sundress tries to make a break for the safety of the trees but is brought down in a rather heavy tackle by a hulking red-bearded fellow who wrenches her arms brusquely behind her back and binds them severely with hemp rope. She winces at her rough handling, and I wince at the big chartreuse grass stain on the front of her once pristine dress. Then I notice her staff collar (which probably explains the less than gentle treatment). Nearby, a mother and daughter – the girl is about sixteen – have been cornered by two fearsome blackguards and are pondering fight or flight. When they look to their menfolk, father and son, who just stand back amused, they resign themselves to their fate, to be bound hand and foot and slung over the shoulders of their abductors.

Looking beyond the spectacle, I take note of the fact that only females who are not already bound in some way are taken. For example, a pair near us who have already been tied up by their boyfriends are left unmolested. No girl under about fourteen is captured, nor is anyone who puts up anything any sort of genuine resistance. I point this out to Kate and she nods with approval, and I feel myself flushed with pride, like a schoolgirl who’s just been made teacher’s pet.

Just when I – and other onlookers, and no doubt the victims – think the fun is over, the raiders abandon their boats and withdraw inland, heading towards Pirate’s Cove with their struggling, squawking booty. The crowd follows, and only when they’ve all disappeared around the ridge does Kate turn to us.

“Every two or three days, different locations,” she answers our unspoken question. “And yes, your turn will come, sooner or later.”

“No one knows the day or the hour,” Lucy intones.

“So it’s not a matter of expecting the unexpected, it’s more expecting the expected,” Jason adds.

“Been there, done that,” I say, and describe my magical mystery tour.

“And do I get to play pirate?”

“Yes Jason, you get to play pirate.”

By the time we finish the grand tour and are on our way back to the Oasis, the sun is sinking rapidly towards the western headland and the line of shadow is sweeping across the bay and village. Kate finally permits Lucy and me to unhitch our ankle chains, and informs the three of us that we are now officially off-duty. We retreat to our apartment and I collapse onto the bed, with the blessed relief of sleep overtaking me almost as soon as my head hits the pillow.

It seems like I have only been out for a few seconds when I feel myself being poked and hear a soft voice: “Wake up, Sarah.... come on, wakey-wakey.” Outside the window is darkness, the chirping of crickets, the far-off mournful cry of a forest bird and the low beat of music playing somewhere in the distance.

“Jason and I are going for dinner. You coming?”

“No, you go ahead.”

“You’ve hardly eaten anything all day!”

“Thank you, mother.”

“Alright then. See you later.”

I close my eyes to sleep again but can’t. It doesn’t matter because I’m refreshed by my nap, so I go to take a shower. I unpack my bags and decide on my denim skirt and white embroidered eyelet blouse. I remember to put my collar back on.

The roomie returns around seven o’clock and is ready to turn around and go back out again. We decide that we should complete our inspection of the resort facilities with an evaluation of the nightlife. Lucy, it doesn’t surprise me, opts for a grungy t-shirt, frayed jeans and shabby sneakers. The ultimate party girl she is not. And the evening itself is undramatic. Neither Lucy nor I drink (alcohol, that is), while Jason imbibes only in moderation, and none of us is a disco diva. We try out half a dozen nightclubs and bars, and there’s nothing I haven’t seen before. At the last one we visit, there’s a cover charge, but as we are about to turn away the doorman sees Lucy’s and my chokers and lets us, and Jason, in for free. Lucy, whom I have noticed tugging at and fiddling with her collar a few times, is at least partially reconciled to wearing it by the benefits it brings.

Yet her mood swings again when Jason invites us both to dance. As we get out of our seats, he holds up something to the flashing lights for us to see – two slim leather straps each about a metre long with a loop handle at one end and a small metal clasp at the other. He must have picked them up at the bar, or maybe from the obliging doorman.

Lucy glares at it and shakes her head vigorously. “No way,” she growls.

He looks crestfallen, but I get the joke and explain, “The man always leads.”

Jason grins like a dog with a big bone and snaps the clip onto my collar. With that, Lucy relents. I imagine she’s thinking “I’d better get used to this,” or maybe she’s thinking “I’m gonna get Sarah for this.”

I don’t know if it’s any consolation to Lucy that about half the chicks on the floor are in on the joke and are leashed. A few are blindfolded and some have their hands bound, but I think these work best with soft music and slow dancing, and we don’t hang around, since we are, the three of us, too fatigued for a long stay. No worries – it’s only our first night. Anyway, Jason gets to take his two pretty pets home on their leashes.

Back in our apartment, we invite Jason in for coffee. Lucy is about to remove her harness when I take the end of hers from her hands and tie it to mine, leaving about half an arm’s length between us. She gives me a queer look but then shrugs, spins about and heads for the kitchen, pulling me along with her. However, no tug-of-war develops – luckily for me, because she’s bigger and stronger – because the galley is small enough that we work at opposite counters without even pulling our tether taut. But when we bring the coffee and cookies back into the living room, Jason has cleverly grabbed the place on the middle cushion of the three-seater sofa. Without unhitching – and neither of us is going to be the one who gives in – Lucy and I will have to sit on either of him and lean across his lap. That’s neither dignified nor conducive to hot coffee drinking, so we have to squeeze into the single-seat armchair. This is what I love about tie-up play, and what I’m trying to teach the neophyte Lucy – even the simplest situations have ramifications and complications.

There’s one final ritual to perform. When it’s time for Jason to go – that is, when Lucy with laudable directness announces “Time to go, Jason” – I leap out of the chair, this time dragging her with me, and drop to my knees in front of him. Lucy has no choice but to join me on the floor, other than engage in a neck-stretching contest, but she emits a low-pitched gnarling sound that’s either displeasure or surprise, or both. Our position makes it easy for Jason to just reach forward from his seat to detach our leashes. Still, it’s plain to see that Lucy is not the sort of girl to kneel before any man.

Still looking bemused, Jason lays the two straps on the sofa, says good-night and leaves.

“What was that about?” Lucy demands as soon as the door closes.

“That which a man hath put together, it is fitting that only that man shall put asunder.”

Well, technically, I put us together, but that’s just a detail.

As I get into bed, I imagine that Lucy thinks I’m weird. That’s something I can live with – I have so far. At the same time, my companions continue to intrigue me. It’s as if they’ve both been living such a sheltered existence that today’s experiences are brand new to them. Maybe that’s the case; and perhaps it is I who has been leading a life less ordinary than most. Even so, I’m as excited as they are curious about what fresh delights and challenges await us.

*****

Lucy is already up when I awaken. I have always been a sunrise person, and it’s nice to not have to sneak about the place so as to avoid waking people up. She and I are not exactly kindred spirits, but we have enough in common that I think we’re going to get on well together, maybe even become permanent roommates.

The kitchen is small, more a kitchenette really, but well-equipped. However, we don’t have anything for breakfast but those little hotel packets of coffee, tea, sugar and biscuits – which would be more than enough for me, but by now I know enough about Lucy and her appetite to realize that a trip to the mess hall is in order. But just as we’re getting ready to leave, there a rap on the door. It’s Kate – she must be an early riser as well, because she’s already in uniform and looking like she’s raring to go.

Lucy says nothing but her “I’m not getting my breakfast, am I?” expression says it all. Kate reads it.

“Don’t worry, you’ll be taken care of. Now, go get dressed.”

The expression “get dressed” is the essence of irony when you’re a female and working at the Aranea Resort. To get into my day uniform, I have to take stuff off. You wear the tiny sarong braless, and the only knickers you’re allowed is a buttock-baring black thong; but I’m not complaining (really, I’m not). How many mainstream jobs are there where you get paid to look so super-sexy? Still, the sun is only just starting to nudge its way through the rosy-hued clouds of dawn, and a chilly breeze is gusting in off the bay, raising goosebumps on my exposed arms, legs and shoulders as we depart the building.

Kate and I wait until we’re on the pathway before pulling up Lucy. “Forgotten something?” we ask as one. She grins, rolls her eyes and races back to the apartment. She comes out a minute later with her collar now in place, and we wait another minute while she puts on her bracelets and anklets. While we’re stopped, Jason catches up to us, and I fleetingly resent his warm slacks and Taslan nylon waterproof jacket. (Lucy and I have one of these as well, but we’re only permitted to wear it in times of storm and tempest. It’s one of the privileges he enjoys for being a guy, I suppose. Oh well, we’re working in the tourist industry, where it’s all about image and ambience.)

“Today, you will be shadowing members of the staff,” Kate informs us as we head towards the Bunker – what the locals call the administration block or nerve centre of the resort. “You should get a broad-spectrum overview of how the place works, what people do, the sorts of things you may have to deal with...” She continues, but I’m not really listening. I’m looking around. The Oasis is crowded with resort staff coming and going, to-ing and fro-ing, hundreds of them. You suddenly become aware of just how big this operation is, not from the number of tourists on the promenade and the boulevard, but by the size of the workforce. We’re on an island in the middle of the Pacific Ocean, six hours’ flight from the nearest mainland, and there are people everywhere.

Outside the Bunker, Kate introduces us to our mentors for the day. Mine is Selena (or Celina? I think it’s Selena) who is a supervisor in the “customer service” (euphemism for “complaints, gripes and grumbles”) department. Jason is shadowing Brad, unit manager (whatever that is) in the transportation section. Lucy’s eyes light up when she’s introduced to Maria, deputy director of catering. I catch the twinkle in Kate’s own eyes as she informs my famished roomie of her assignment.

Now this record is not going to be an itinerary of our travels around the resort for the next ten hours, or a litany of the grievances, major, minor and imagined, that Selena and her staff have to deal with, day in, day out. I discover what I have already assumed, that people are basically the same everywhere, with essentially the same demands and expectations. I’m more interested in the people I’ll be working with.

Selena is petite, dark-haired, dark-eyed, in her early thirties, with a formidable, almost intimidating manner. I suppose she needs to be tough, not so much in dealing with the customers but to keep her staff from maiming or murdering said customers. Yet I’m probably going to sound like a stuck record (the old folks from the primordial days of recording on vinyl will know what that is) mentioning this sort of thing over and over again, and maybe I’m old-fashioned; but I am very much beguiled and intrigued by her situation. The sight of this diminutive, elfin-faced woman in a handkerchief-sized dress, wearing slave collar and shackles, and bearing the unmistakable pink criss-cross pattern of recently applied rope marks on her arms and thighs, taking charge and giving orders and issuing commands and making grown men cry (okay that’s an exaggeration – making grown men whimper) is but one of the delightful paradoxes of this job.

During the lunch break I see Selena’s other side, when she’s able to let down her guard and relax. She introduces me to her husband, Martin, and I get a bit of a shock because he’s one of her subordinates and she hasn’t been showing him any favours that I’ve seen. Martin in turn presents one of his workmates, Colin.

The Bunker canteen is crowded, so we take our food and drink onto the lawn outside. With just a whisper exchanged between her and Martin, Selena casts a wistful gaze at her lunch, places it to one side and prostrates herself on the grass, on her belly with her hands behind her back. She bends her legs up so she can grip her ankles. Martin then gets to work, locking her left bracelet to her left anklet and right to right. He spreads her knees apart and I wonder how far he’s about to go, right here in front of us, in public; but he just slaps her hard on the backside, she yelps, and he begins opening his lunch pack. I’m left wondering if this is an everyday thing, or if she’s being punished for her earlier, unwifely attitude. Either way, she doesn’t seem to mind. She just lies there, wordless but panting slightly – her enforced posture becomes a strain after a short time – as her meal goes uneaten.

While this is happening, Colin is watching me, studying my face to read my expression. I pick at my food, and as soon as I put the box aside he grins and makes a gesture with his fingers like tying a knot. I get the message (of course!) and lie on my stomach beside Selena.

Colin and I have been chatting a bit. He’s a nice guy, good-looking in a dishevelled sort of way. He seems impressed that I’m a park ranger (albeit a trainee). Nevertheless, it feels rather odd surrendering myself to be bound by a guy who was a complete stranger just fifteen minutes ago. He hooks me up in the same way as Selena, but he straps my wrists and ankles together so it’s more of a real hog-tie position – and more strenuous. He turns me on my side, facing away from him, and glides his fingernails along the bare skin of my back, gently but with enough pressure to make the flesh tingle. He runs his nails from the nape of my neck, across and between my shoulder blades, to the top edge of my dress. He nudges the material downwards a little, but goes no further. Instead, he does the same with my legs, starting at my toes, moving up my calves to my knees, then reversing direction to travel up my thighs, crossing over from one to the other as his nails zig-zag towards my hemline. His fingers creep underneath to explore; but again he knows when and where to stop, just enough to make me quiver and shiver. I get the impression that the male population of Aranea Island have many opportunities to hone their skills.

I must be moaning or sighing, because Selena turns her head to look at me. Our eyes make contract for just an instant, when suddenly hers widen. I’m still trying to interpret her reaction when a hand is forced over my mouth. I feel something soft and bulbous pressing against my lips, and I defy it for a few seconds – an automatic reflex – before allowing it to penetrate. It’s a spongy rubber ball that plugs my mouth so completely I can’t even make my usual gag noises. I like how he has done it so quickly that I haven’t had time to prepare myself. It’s so much more exhilarating when you don’t know what’s coming.

Just before I’m blindfolded, I see that Selena is getting the same treatment. Then Colin resumes his journey of discovery around my body. He strokes my hair and caresses my cheeks, to soothe my spirit as the aching in my arms and legs begins to gnaw away at my patience and stamina and I begin to squirm. He slides the top of my pāreu off my breasts to fondle my nipples and I start to moan again; but he resists what must be a strong urge to play farther down. And all too soon, the lunch-break ends.

Selena and I are raised up onto our knees. Colin plucks the rubber ball from my mouth – it takes a couple of tugs to get it out from behind my teeth, and a dribble of saliva oozes indecorously from my lips, down my chin, onto my naked breasts. He takes off my blindfold and frees my wrists and ankles. I brush myself down – my boobs, sarong and legs are encrusted with bits of grass and other lawn debris – before hitching up my dress. Martin keeps his wife shackled while he performs that duty himself, with special care and attention to certain parts. Still gagged, she mumbles something that might be thanks or may be a threat.

“Well, thank you for the very nice time,” Colin says.

“Thank you” I reply.

With that, the men are up and off, leaving me to free Selena from her fetters. She grabs a few mouthfuls of her forsaken lunch before we head back to work. We run into Martin and Colin a couple of times during the afternoon. Colin smiles a greeting to me, with a respectful nod to the boss, but otherwise it’s business as usual.

That’s the highlight of my first day as a probationary trainee park ranger. Already I’m starting to form some conclusions about this job and place, in a funny way crystallized by my experience with Colin. Before today I might have considered myself “easy” for allowing a guy whom I’ve known for literally just minutes to get so close and go so far. But things are becoming clearer. In the fundamentals, my job is not so dissimilar to what I’ve done before. I’ve worked in hospitality as a waitress, I’ve been a salesgirl, I’ve worked with kids. My outfit is rather less than I’m used to, but it’s the added extras that make it interesting.

I really like having to wear my five rings – they’re not just part of the uniform, they become part of you; and the fact that I must wear the collar off-duty is a constant reminder that this place is indeed different. The males, like Jason and Martin and Colin, get to shed their company personas at the end of the working day, but as for me and Lucy and Kate and Selena – we live it twenty-four-seven. Okay, that’s another exaggeration, but not by much, and there’s no doubt that for us this isn’t just a job, it’s a lifestyle.

Yet where this going, where I am heading, I don’t yet know. Tonight, however, I get to find out a little more about the journey.

Re: RESORT - THE SEQUEL

Postby bound-black-girl lover » Sat Jan 16, 2010 5:54 pm

Do the "Trainee" Park Rangers when they are elevated to "Full" Park Rangers get to wear "more appropriate"
"park ranger-type" uniforms [i.e.: short-sleeved button-front (for EASY opening when their hands are bound behind their backs) khaki shirts, khaki shorts and thick knee-high socks] or is that too "old school"?
--a UNIFORM fan!

Re: RESORT - THE SEQUEL

Postby sarobah » Sat Jan 16, 2010 11:15 pm

There are separate outfits for resort staff and park rangers (including trainees). At this stage of the story, Sarah and her friends haven’t tried out the ranger uniform, which is described in the original story.
Incidentally, the clothing issue is one of the things I’m not making up (well, not completely). For example, the Camp Commando episode in the first story is based on a camp I attended in my younger days, where we had uniforms, an army-style tunic, but only the guys got to wear the pants. Not really appropriate for bush-walking. (And, as in the story, we girls had to do the cooking! I wasn’t impressed.)
Regarding the other resort uniforms – well, once when I was waitressing… but that’s another story.
However, as for easy-opening, I shall leave that to your imagination :o)
~ Sarah (also a big uniform fan)
Words, like Nature, half reveal and half conceal the soul within.

Re: RESORT - THE SEQUEL

Postby Qarl » Tue Mar 30, 2010 11:01 pm

You caught me by surprise again! Your stories are usually so chaste, or the sensual activity is hinted, implied, or offstage. I was therefore surprised when your, I mean her nipples got played with at the end, leaving you, I mean her moaning. :wink:

Having just read the Resort earlier, I was quite pleased to find a sequel. It must be hard to re-immerse yourself in a world that you invested so much in the first time. I was only too glad to go back there with you! Thanks for the new installment!

-Qarl
Last edited by Qarl on Wed Mar 31, 2010 2:58 pm, edited 1 time in total.

Re: RESORT - THE SEQUEL

Postby Boundgal08 » Wed Mar 31, 2010 10:02 am

Very good indeed as always :D

Cheers,
BG
BOUNDGIRL!
Probably the kinkiest woman you will ever meet!
I am a switch, I like to put a man in ropes and also have a man put me in ropes!
I am the 'Queen of bondage'