The insistent braying of the alarm clock nags me awake from a fitful slumber and a weird dream that lingers on the edge of recall. Yawning and stretching, I reach for the curtains above my head and draw them back. A stream of sunlight floods the room. The rims of the shadows cast upon the far wall appear to shimmer. Though it is just on dawn, there is heat already in the air. It is going to be another scorching day.
I lie there for a while, not yet fully awake, watching the sunbeam creep up the sheets towards me. When it reaches my face, I finally muster the energy to kick off the covers and roll out of bed onto wobbly feet. I make my unsteady way to the bathroom as, at the other end of the corridor, I hear my mother already up and about, preparing breakfast.
A quick shower rouses me to full awareness. I dry myself, drag a brush across my flaccid hair, rummage through the clean clothes hamper for a pair of fresh knickers. I don’t find any, so it’s back to my bedroom to break out the crisis kit. It’s a good thing I keep an emergency supply in my silk and satin drawer.
It’s still dark in the house, except in the kitchen, where Mother is locked in combat with a sizzling panful of sausages and tomatoes.
“Good morning,†she says, not looking up. “Sleep well?â€
“Yeah, great,†I mumble. “I’m almost out of clean undies.â€
“That’s odd,†she replies. “I distinctly remember you doing the laundry last night.â€
“Yeah, very funny.â€
I look more closely as she wields the spatula over the frypan. Encircling her wrists are faint, braided bands of dimpled pink skin. There are similar marks around her ankles, extending up her calves and past her knees, disappearing under the hem of her chemise.
“How far up do those rope burns go, Mummy?†I ask, with as much naïveté as I can muster.
“Don’t be cheeky,†she says. “Either help me here or go wake up your brother.â€
Choosing the lesser of two evils, I head back down the hallway to Alex’s room. The door carries a big sign in bold, black letters: KEEP OUT! DO NOT DISTURB! THIS MEANS YOU!
I rap as hard as I can. A muffled voice from the other side demands: “Wotcha want?â€
“Time to get up,†I announce.
“Get lost!â€
There is a dull thud, as something heavy strikes the other side of the door.
“I’ll go away when I know you’re up,†I answer defiantly.
I summon the nerve to grasp the doorknob. With a determined twist, I open the door and fling it back. My little brother is perched on the end of his bed, clutching his pillow in menacing fashion. The room is in its usual state of disarray. The walls are adorned with – apart from the grime and particles of what appears to have been food in a previous life – the usual adolescent boy posters: thrash metal bands, jet fighters, rocketships, bikini babes, skateboarders, basketballers. Looming directly over his bed is a life-sized portrait of the doe-eyed Terminator chick from the Sarah Connor Chronicles, and beside it a naked woman draped in chains being molested by a brace of giant winged serpents. That’s just depraved. None can match the leather-clad Terminatrix from T3.
“I see you’re up now,†I say, tilting sideways to evade the pillow as it arcs through the air towards my head.
“Are you deaf, and can’t you read?†he demands.
“I’m just following orders, which are to get you moving.â€
I dodge again, back away and slam the door.
Safe once more in my own room, I pack my books into my schoolbag and lay out my uniform. I check my email and my to-do-today list. By the time I’m finished, my father and my brother are already seated at the table. Dad, engrossed in the newspaper, acknowledges me with a terse “Morning, Sarah.â€
“Good morning, Daddy dearest.†That elicits a benevolent chuckle from him and a gagging gesture from Alex.
“Ignore him,†Mother advises. She looks already fatigued as she sets down a plate stacked high with toast.
“Ignore who?†I reply. “Do you want some help? Don’t get up, guys.â€
“If you insist,†Alex responds.
“Thanks, honey, you can get the juice.â€
Dad folds his paper and puts it aside.
“So what’s happened in the world overnight?†Mother asks, as she pours him coffee.
“Senator Bond is in strife again. Big sex scandal.â€
“Not another one? That woman really needs to get a hobby.â€
“She has one... she just doesn’t use him.â€
“I said hobby, not hubby.â€
“Uh, okay. Well, the story is she was tied up in a meeting with a couple of her aides.â€
“I’m not surprised. She was bound for trouble.â€
My attention starts to wander and I don’t hear the rest of the conversation. I’m not really that involved in politicians and their hanky-panky, cranky-spanky, and whatever else they get up to. Anyway, this is Friday, and I’m more interested in where I’m going this evening, what I’ll be wearing, whom I’ll be teasing tonight. (Yeah, I am a flirt, but heck, I’m still a sweet sixteen. I don’t want to be tied down just yet.)
As soon as breakfast is over, I dash to be the first to the bathroom so I can take my time. Then it’s back to my bedroom to get into my uniform. After our parents have left for work, I’m still primping and preening myself when I’m interrupted by a loud banging on my door, followed by my brother’s ever-annoying voice.
“Move it sizzle, or we’ll be late.†(He always calls me “sizzle†– short for “sisâ€, of course.)
I resist the urge to hurl solid objects – that’s his forte. Instead I just heave a sigh and open my jewellery drawer. Which will it be today? Feeling sentimental, I choose the sterling silver bracelet and choker set my family gave me last birthday. I snap the slender, chain-link bands onto my wrists. To the left one is attached a little golden heart engraved with an S; from the right one is suspended a miniature lock and key. I hitch up my backpack and join Alex, who is by now waiting for me on the front lawn.
“About time,†he says with a grumpy glower. “Let’s get going.â€
I hold out my arms. Alex opens the tiny lock and closes it around both my bracelets, but he does not secure it. I lift my hands until my chin is sort of cupped in my hands, and he fastens the lock around my collar. That done, I am about to step out onto the footpath when he searches in his bag for a moment before drawing out a cherry-red plastic ball, to which is fixed a thin black leather strap.
“Do we really need that today?†I ask, with as plaintive an expression as I can devise.
“Shut up and open up,†my brother growls.
“Well, which is it to be?â€
But I don’t push my luck. I part my jaws, the gag goes in and I clamp my teeth around the crimson orb. Alex buckles it in place.
“That should keep you quiet,†he declares.
“Aaargh, urgghh, ulggg...†I retort.
It’s not that I normally object to my gag. It’s part of the ensemble. But we’re meeting Rachel and Brad this morning, and I need to discuss our tonight plans. Oh well, my lil’ bro likes to remind me who’s on which end of the rope. I can’t argue with that (not now, anyway).
Rachel is my best friend, despite the fact that she’s the cheerleader type while I’m more the bookworm. Brad is a classmate. He and Rachel are dating, although they’re not officially boyfriend and girlfriend, at least not yet. We meet up with them about fifteen minutes’ walk from the school. It’s already hot, and a searing wind is blasting us in arid, dust-raising gusts. It’s deranging my hair and playing peekaboo games with my skirt. (That’s Alex’s fault. Had he any decency, he would have secured the ball-gag strap over, not under, my hair.)
Rachel’s hands are tied behind her back. Now I suppose if Brad were a true gentleman, he would be carrying her bag, but instead it is hiked up near her shoulders to make room below for her bound hands. She’s wearing a bit-gag. That’s something I personally dislike; it’s uncomfortable and leads to yucky drooling. Rachel certainly doesn’t look delighted with hers. She has to lean forward so as not to dribble on the front of her blouse... but Brad obviously likes it, and what’s a girl to do when she wants to please her guy?
Rachel’s gag has a novelty. Attached to the rubber-covered rod clenched between her teeth is a length of small-gauge chain. Brad holds the other end and is leading his girl by this unusual tether. To my disquiet, my brother nods in approval. He and Brad salute each other with a high-five and a mutual “Yo, broâ€â€™. How unspeakably passé, I think, but since I can’t speak, I grunt a greeting. Rachel garbles a reply.
We pass a few more couples on the way to school, and leashes do seem to be in fashion this season. We stroll through the gate just before bell-time. Alex releases my hands. I take out my gag and absent-mindedly hand it to him. He recoils with a disgusted “Ewww!†so I neatly fold the strap and stow it in my own bag. Meanwhile, Brad removes Rachel’s gag and takes her into his arms for a sloppy kiss.
“Unhand that girl,†a stern voice rebukes him from afar. “But first you can untie her. Classes are about to start.†The attitude belongs to Mr Hitchcock (we call him Hitchknot), the deputy principal, who is striding across the quadrangle towards us. He’s burly, big-bearded, gruff and irascible, the type of teacher you respect, love and fear all at the same time. He suddenly veers off in a different direction, to herd a clutter of kids towards the assembly hall.
“Lose the chewing gum, mister...†he bellows. “Too much make-up, young lady... Put away those handcuffs, young man.â€
My first lesson of the day is Physics with Mr Roper. It’s my favourite subject and the topic is string theory. We’re given some knotty problems for homework. After that it’s English Literature with Ms Shackel. We are studying early twentieth century authors, and at the moment we’re reading W. Somerset Maugham. [Do I really need to spell out Maugham’s most famous novel?]
Morning recess is not as much fun as it used to be. Earlier this year, tie-up games were banned during the short break, which I suppose makes sense for the younger kids; but I don’t think it’s fair that the same rules should apply to us senior girls. Last week, I was part of a delegation to discuss the issue with the principal, Mrs Hawser, and with any luck a decision in our favour is forthcoming. But I digress...
After recess, we have art. This is my least-loved subject, but at course selection time it was either that or PE, at which I am completely hopeless. In art, I prefer the theory to the practical, although today we’re doing macramé, so at least I can pick up some useful skills. The rest of my lessons make up a dreary litany of the trivial and the tedious; but each spirit-sucking minute brings us closer to the weekend.
Lunchtime is normally busy for me, because I’m Little Miss Finger in Every Pie. However, I always keep my Fridays free for socializing, even though that meant giving up the chair of the social committee (ironic, no?). As arranged, I meet Rachel under the trees behind the science block. She’s with Brad and Matt, which pleases me, because Matt is a guy I’ve had my eye on, and I know he likes me too. Maria’s also there. She’s one of Rachel’s pompon-waving friends. [I am not getting into the whole POMPON versus POMPOM debate. That leads only to tears and recriminations.] As a result, we don’t have a lot in common; but we get on well. Ours is not one of those schools where it’s the jocks and cheerleaders against the geeks and nerds. Anyway, she’s brought along her beau Harry, who’s an old study buddy of mine.
Rachel and Maria have put down a blanket on the grass and are laying out a picnic.
“Where’ve you been?†Rachel asks.
“Talking to Mr Fetterman about my assignment. What’s the occasion?†I ask, as the girls set out a modest feast of sandwiches (which Rachel proudly declares she made herself), juice and some sort of sticky bun. The boys are sorting out the other stuff.
“Tee gee eye eff,†Maria explains.
“Good enough.â€
I look about for a good place to plant myself, trying not to be too obvious. Matt pats the blanket next to him. I kick off my shoes and sit down beside him, drawing my feet up under my skirt.
“Everything ready?†he asks Rachel, and she nods. “You in for it?†he says to me.
“You betcha,†I reply. I turn away from him and place my hands behind my back, wrists crossed left over right. For some reason, Matt reverses the positioning and slowly binds them with nylon cord. He could have just connected my bracelets, but he obviously prefers to do his own work. He gently jogs my arms and I flex my wrists and wiggle my fingers, to show that I’m properly bound. Meanwhile, Brad ties Rachel’s hands in front but then secures them to her ankles so she’s just as helpless. Maria’s hands are behind her back, like mine, but Harry loops a rope around her waist and pins her arms tightly to her sides. She grimaces, in silence, as he pulls hard to make it snug.
I’m still facing away from Matt and I tingle when I feel his hands stroking my cheeks and caressing my neck. He gently undoes and pulls away my tie. He places it over my eyes, and as he secures the blindfold, I take one last look about me. This area of the schoolyard is almost deserted, except for us and a group of younger kids who are playing nearby, in spite of the heat. While Matt has been tying my hands, a couple of the boys chase and corner a girl against the fence. She laughs and screams as they force her to the ground and begin trussing her arms and legs. Two of her friends, instead of making their escape, come to her assistance and are quickly subdued by the other boys. It looks like the three girls are about to get the full hog-tie treatment.
“Ah, the sweet innocence and boundless energy of youth,†I’m thinking as the darkness descends. I hear the girls’ giggling and squealing suddenly become muffled.
My reverie is curtly interrupted when I feel Matt’s hands probing under the hem of my skirt. What’s he up to? But all he does is grab hold of my ankles and pull them out so he can tie my feet together. Yeah, like I’m gonna try to jump up and run away. Still, it feels nice.
We have a quiet picnic lunch under the trees. Matt feeds me a sandwich – chicken, not really my favourite. He’s not very good at it. Half the sandwich misses its target and crumbles into my lap. I suspect there’s more to this than mere clumsy when he awkwardly holds the juice bottle to my lips and lets its contents dribble down my chin and onto my pristine white blouse. I can’t protest because that will only bring a torrent of orange-and-mango down upon my defenceless chest. My suspicions are confirmed when a slice of sticky bun ends up daubed over every part of my face that isn’t covered by my blindfold.
(It’s kind of endearing, really, how a boy displays his affection for a girl without trying to show it. When you’re little, he will punch you on the arm or pull your hair. Once you get older, he will smear you with food and drink when you’re tied up. Guys never change, they just get bigger; they don’t grow up, they just grow more hair. How can you not love ’em?)
Behind my blindfold, I’m wondering what the others are doing. From where Rachel’s sitting I can hear soft slurping noises. Either she is an even sloppier diner than I, or else she and Brad have moved on to other things. Maria is whispering something, presumably to Harry, but I can’t make out what she’s saying. And just as I’m getting relaxed, there is the harsh clamour of the school bell. It’s especially jarring when, without your sight, your other senses are magnified.
With a sigh and a fumble that feels like a grope (well, he’s allowed one, for overall good behaviour), Matt unties me. We pack up the remnants of our picnic and I brush the detritus from my skirt and blouse. With a growing sense of futility I rub and scrub at the smudge of orangey wetness on my torso. I put my tie back on and try to position it to hide the stain. It doesn’t work.
Dolefully we file into the classroom for the afternoon session. Even I am bored, and I’m like the Brainiac. It’s just too oppressively hot, and anyway, everyone’s focused on the weekend. Three o’clock somehow arrives, and I’m thinking not a minute too soon (... well, yeah, that’s how them hours and minutes work... wow, my brain must really be stuck in fuzzy mode). When blessed relief finally arrives, we all pile out of the building and disperse into the suburbs. There is no more joyous sight or sound than a school emptying on a Friday afternoon.
I rendezvous with Matt, Rachel and Brad at the gate. Brad already has his girl bound and wearing her gag-and-leash combo. I put my hands behind my back, but Matt says “No, let’s try this,†and tells me to place them instead at the back of my head, fingers intertwined. He locks my bracelets together and attaches them to the rear of my collar, so I can’t lower my arms. It’s not the most comfortable pose to be in, but of most concern to me is that passers-by will think I’m all messed up, what with that big orange stain on my chest exposed.
As we hit the pavement, a maroon coupé pulls up to the kerb and the passenger door swings open. Ms Trusscott, my history teacher, flits by us, leaving in her wake a breezy “Have a nice weekend, kids,†as she slides into the vehicle. She drops her briefcase onto the back seat and leans across to kiss the guy (husband? boyfriend? illicit lover?) at the wheel. She then turns away from him, facing out the side window, and gives us a smile and a wink as she puts her arms behind her back. She winces, just a little, as he draws the rope tight. I twist about and wave good-bye with my manacled hands as the car moves off.
“Keep still!†Matt complains, because at that moment he’s fixing my gag in place.
“Let’s do the mall,†Brad suggests.
“Outstanding,†Matt agrees. Rachel and I nod our assent.
It’s half a dozen blocks away, but the unrelenting heat of the early part of the day has abated as the sky’s grown overcast. Nevertheless, sizzling has only turned to sultry, and it’s a salubrious change for the better when we finally reach sanctuary in the mall’s air conditioned comfort. However, at the entrance we are confronted by a stony-faced security guard who unfolds his humongous arms to flick a handful of fingers, each the size of the beef sausage I had for breakfast, dismissively in our general direction.
“Sorry girls, those gags gotta come off. Regulations.â€
Geez, you’d think the mall management would be happy for the peace and quiet. Oh well, I don’t make policy.
Matt grumbles as he loosens the strap and extracts the red ball from between my lips. He doesn’t take it off completely, leaving it to hang forlornly about my neck. Brad does the same with Rachel, which means that he can still use the gag as a halter to keep Rachel on her leash. That comes in handy (for him at least) whenever we pass a dress/shoe/bikini shop.
We spend about an hour in the mall, and it’s not very exciting. Call me a traitor to my sex, but hanging about in a shopping centre ranks low on my list of priorities. The boys indulge themselves with a bag of doughnuts, while Rachel and I share a milkshake. Matt is very kind and patient, holding the drink for us, but I notice that Brad is less charitable. His attitude is decidedly old-school: what’s the point of tying up a girl if you then have to wait on her (bound) hand and foot?
Anyway, since we’re going out again tonight, we need to conserve our energy and ration our funds. So after that we head for home. The boys leave us ungagged so we can finalize our arrangements for the evening. Matt sees me to the front gate. He sheepishly asks if he can come round, and he breaks into a massive grin when I say “See you at seven.â€
Alex is in the living room watching television. He releases my hands. He wants to tie me up, “just for practiceâ€, but I decline. I’m too tired. Also, I want to get my homework done so it isn’t hanging over my head all weekend.
Our parents get home around six. Dad offers to help out in the kitchen but Mother shoos him away.
It’s a quarter to seven when I emerge from my room geared up for the nightlife in my favourite outfit, a mauve ruffle top with a deep-V tulle bustline, and a black, layered taffeta miniskirt. It’s a little excessive, but this is my first real date with Matt and I’m in that sort of mood. For my accessorizing, I’ve decided on my five-piece bracelet-anklet-collar set, in black leather with silver clasps and amethyst inlays – pretty and functional and matches my dress. I finish off the ensemble with my suede studded shoulder-strap handbag.
My family is just sitting down to dinner. I do a couple of little pirouettes in the doorway. My mother smiles. My dad frowns. My brother smirks. That means I got it just about right.
“Sit down and eat something,†Mother commands.
“No thanks, not hungry,†I reply.
“You’re skinny as a beanpole,†Dad says.
“What exactly is a beanpole?â€
“It’s a thing that’s very skinny.â€
“I dunno, she looks fat to me.â€
“Don’t talk with your mouth full, Alex. And keep it full.â€
I take a seat and nibble at a bread roll.
“Don’t choke on that crumb,†Dad frets.
Matt arrives right on time, or rather in the nick of time.
“Gee, I would love to stay and finish the banquet...†I call over my shoulder as I head in leaps and bounds for the door.
“Back by midnight,†Dad barks from the table. Mother follows me to the front room, fussing with the back of my skirt and brushing an errant hair from my shoulder.
I’m pleased that Matt has scrubbed up well, in neat slacks and a polo shirt, a parent-pleasing alternative to his usual tatty jeans and scruffy top. In the doorway he proffers the customary and expected “Wow, you look terrific.†After a quick meeting of eyes with my mother, he gives me a light kiss on the cheek.
“Front or back?â€
I hold my hands out, palms touching, and I notice my mum cannot contain a complaisant smile and slight nod of approval as Matt links the bracelets.
“Have fun, you two.â€
As soon as we’re around the corner and out of sight of the house, we stop. Matt separates my bracelets and I put my hands behind my back, and he clips them together again.
“Did you bring...?â€
“Uh huh, in my bag.†I suppose I should have got it out beforehand, so he doesn’t go rummaging about amongst my personal stuff; but a girl doesn’t want to seem too eager.
“Be gentle,†I say, but I don’t think he gets it. He reaches into my handbag and withdraws my brand-new gag. It’s of the butterfly style, though not the inflatable kind. It’s easier to wear than the ball variety and there’s not so much of the drooling, even if it doesn’t look quite so sexy. Matt straps it in place. He then unravels a plastic cable that he takes from his pocket. There’s a tiny padlock on one end which he clips to my collar for a ready-made tether.
Rachel and Brad await us at the bus station. She looks amazing in a pretty but rather daring scarlet jersey plunging neckline tunic dress that’s backless and braless, and (with Rachel-like incongruity) white knee-high socks. Her hands are pinioned behind her back and her arms pinned to her side with a golden-braid rope, and Brad is leading her by a halter composed of the same material. Unlike me, she isn’t gagged, but he quickly remedies that. There’ll be no idle chatter from the damsels.
We catch the downtown bus. It’s crowded, not surprising on a Friday night. Matt does the chivalrous thing and lets me have the last seat, but I have to share with a stern-visaged matron who regards my bound hands and gag with a “when I was you age†sniff. A couple of stops onward, Harry and Maria join us. She’s wearing a frilly white blouse and a pink hobble skirt – it really is a hobble because the hem has been drawn tight just above her knees with a tasselled cord. Her wrists are bound at her waist and her arms kept immobile by a rope that binds her elbows in a behind-the-back harness. She has to bunny-hop up onto the step and down the aisle, wobbling precariously when the bus moves off, but there’s a vacant seat near mine and she falls into it with a grateful sigh.
Our destination is an under-18s disco. Admission is free, but once again there’s a no-gag rule – what’s the older generation got against gags, anyway? Inside, it’s the usual brash discotheque scene – thumping music, throbbing beats, flashing lights, spinning and gyrating, sequins and spandex, halter-tops and micro-minis, preppie, grungy, skater, rocker, retro. Most girls are bound or chained or tethered, and a few guys as well. (That’s nice. I may be old-fashioned, but I’m all for equality.) Matt leads me up onto the floor; and when it’s a slow number he unclasps my bracelets behind my back, and refastens them in front so I can put my arms around his neck for dreamy dancing. Rachel and Brad join us; Harry and Maria remain in the booth for some other recreation.
After about three hours I’m suffering from excitement overload and it’s nice to escape the noise and the neon for the cool, dark stillness of late evening. We take the bus back to the suburbs; this time it’s almost empty. Up the back are half a dozen girls and a single boy. They’re playing an impromptu tie-up game and he already has four of his companions in various stages of bound, gagged and blindfolded. Lucky guy.
Matt and I arrive back at my house at around eleven o’clock. On the doorstep, he frees my hands, takes out my gag and takes off my halter. We kiss and I invite him inside – into the house for supper, that is.
My parents are still up.
“Look at this, Dad, we’re early. That means we have a bonus hour for next time...â€
“Sorry, love, it doesn’t work that way.â€
“I didn’t think so. Ah well, it was worth a try.â€
Mother makes hot chocolate and puts out a plate of cookies, and Dad draws up four stools to the kitchen counter. While Matt uses the bathroom, I go to my bedroom and I bring out two black satin scarves. I give one to my father and one to Matt. They tie our blindfolds in place so that we can finish the evening with a sensuous cookie-cocoa culinary experience. How romantic! We talk about stuff for maybe half an hour. When it’s time for him to go, Dad offers to drive Matt home but he says no thanks. I see him out to the front gate.
“So watcha doin’ tomorrow?†he says.
“Soccer in the morning, grandma’s in the afternoon.â€
“Oh...†He looks disappointed. “You know Donna’s party is tomorrow night.â€
“Yeah... we should go together?â€
His uncertain frown dissolves.
“See you at six?â€
“Six it is.â€
“Bye then.â€
“Bye.â€
“Bye-bye,â€
“Be gone, jackass.â€
I’m still in a buzz as I topple into bed and slide under the covers. The tingling caress of the crisp cold sheets against my bare skin holds back the enveloping sleep, but not for long. The darkness embraces me, it enshrouds my thoughts as the memories of the day flicker and fade.
The insistent braying of the alarm clock nags me awake from a fitful slumber and a weird dream that lingers on the edge of recall...