THE (LAST) RESORT

Postby sarobah » Sun May 19, 2013 4:45 pm

I have finally added a couple of new chapters to my magnum opus. Since the original version was posted three years ago, The Resort has been rewritten (and hopefully improved) a couple of times – the last update published off-site. In this new edition there have been quite a few minor revisions and a couple of major ones.
Two points to note: (1) The Aranea Island Resort is a place for exclusively female bondage. There is no particular reason why there is no male bondage, except that it is easier for me to write about. (2) The story is about a family, including a teenage girl and boy. There are some risqué moments but no underage or graphic or explicit sex, no adults tying up children, no torture or other types of physical or psychological abuse (except such torments as tickling and long-duration tie-ups).



THE RESORT

Day 1. Arrival

As our plane started on its final approach in a wide arc high above the Coral Sea, I watched a tiny speck of emerald and gold emerge from the blue horizon. It grew steadily bigger until it filled the window. We were descending towards Aranea – Spider Island.

From the air, it looks spectacular, and somewhat creepy, like a monstrous, misshapen, jade-coloured tarantula. Of course, this is merely the effect created by the yawning bays which cut in on all sides, creating a series of verdant peninsulas that radiate from the central volcanic peak. But in its appearance the place lives up to its name.

Yet as we got closer, from out of the arachnid grotesquery there bloomed a tropical paradise. The surrounding waters were crystalline clear and teeming with activity, the bigger inlets dotted with yachts and skiffs and fishing boats. Just inside the entrance to the southernmost one, a large cruise ship lay at anchor. I could easily make out from their gleaming wakes etched upon the surface a fleet of small ferries delivering passengers to and from the marina located at the eastern extremity of the bay. Following the curve of the sandy shore, neat rows of buildings glittered brilliant white and vivid pink in the sunlight, pushing up against the forested foothills which enclosed Resort Village in a vast, viridian amphitheatre.

The flight had taken a little under four hours. For most of the trip we had nothing but monotonously flat ocean to look at outside, and not much was happening inside either. There were some two dozen other passengers, mostly young couples. Judging by their lovey-dovey expressions, I’d say the majority were honeymooners. There was a group of eight girls and guys, aged twenty-something, at the rear of the cabin. They were in a party mood, although they weren’t causing any trouble. One of the guys could not wait until we got to our destination and had started tying up one of the girls; but the flight attendant quickly put a stop to that. Safety regulations, she explained. He just laughed and shrugged it off.

We were the only family on board.

“Where are the boys?” I asked Dad. “You said there’d be boys.”

“What am I then?” replied Alex with an indignant frown. I did not give my obstreperous baby brother the answer he deserved. Considering where we were heading, I decided that discretion would from now on be the better part of valour.

The atmosphere on a plane full of vacationers is generally the same whatever and wherever the destination – excitement at the outset, settling into quiet languor as the hours pass, rising to exhilaration near the end of the journey, modulating to mild apprehension during the descent, surging to elation as you come in to land. The tedium part of the flight had its benefits, however, as I managed to catch up on the sleep I’d missed the night before. I awoke to the buzz of anticipation and the whine of the engines changing tune, and to Alex’s elbow jabbing in my side.

Our objective was the broadest and flattest of the headlands, located on the north-western side of the island. A grass airstrip runs along its spine. It looks hair-raisingly narrow from above, which made me feel just a little queasy, especially when we passed through some turbulence from the air currents rising and curling over the mountain summit. Nevertheless, we touched down with hardly a bump, and all passengers broke into spontaneous applause. As we began to file out, the captain emerged from the cockpit to wish us a happy stay. She was a pleasant-faced woman who looked no more than thirty years of age, but who spoke with the confident, no-nonsense manner of a veteran pilot. I decided that we had been in good hands.

Meanwhile, one of the flight attendants had spoken quietly to Mum and Dad, and we held back as the rest of the passengers disembarked. By the time we stepped onto the tarmac, the others were already being ushered into the terminal. It was just on mid-day, and a blazing sun was muscling its way through a haze of high cloud. We were greeted by a young lady in her late twenties, slim and tanned, with auburn, caramel-streaked hair and expressive hazel eyes. She introduced herself as Kate, “your hostess.” She had a crisp, professional style, not at all compromised by what she was wearing, a barely-there floral sarong secured by a knot nestled perilously low in her cleavage. Encircling her throat was a black leather choker, buckled at the rear, with a leash ring in front – like an elegant dog collar. In addition, she wore silver-coloured bracelets and anklets delicately crafted in the form of fine, braided chains. Attached to the band around her left wrist was a miniature padlock.

After the usual “I hope you enjoyed your flight” and “Don’t hesitate to ask...” formalities, as we followed her to the building Kate gave us a concise briefing on the resort’s highlights, information about our short-term accommodation, a brief rundown of our timetable for the next few days, and a packet, which she facetiously called a survival kit, containing a map, restaurant guide, souvenir catalogue, that sort of thing. We were also each presented with a small parcel – for the females, a beribboned box containing perfume, scented soap, a pearl-shell hair comb and other girlie stuff. It was your standard gift offering to newly arriving guests in your typical resort.

Alex, after managing to draw his attention away from Kate’s sleek legs and décolletage, rummaged through his package, which folded out into a carry bag, containing... I knew not what. After he had inspected mine with a turned-up nose, I asked if I could look inside his. He just snorted and snatched it out of range of my prying eyes. His “you’ll find out” expression left me disconcerted.

Once indoors, we caught up with the last of our fellow passengers awaiting the unloading of their luggage. They gave us some curious looks, since we were getting the VIP treatment, and I felt a sudden surge of self-importance. However, our hostess quickly and slickly deflated my amour-propre with an indulgent smile, the kind that says: “Welcome to the team, but remember, you’re the newbie.”

To convey everyone to Resort Village, which is about three kilometres from the airfield, parked outside the terminal was a small convoy of taxis. These are golf-cart type buggies which Kate explained serve as the principal form of transport on the island. There are almost no conventional automobiles, the exceptions being emergency vehicles, a handful of electric-powered shuttle buses, a few delivery vans and some heavier trucks for construction and maintenance. We piled into the cart at the end of the queue. It was the only one without an assigned driver and Kate took the wheel. We drove at a sedate pace along a winding, single-lane road, skirting ridges and gullies and grazing the edge of some scarily precipitous coastal cliffs. Kate calmly negotiated the twists and turns, and any misgivings we had about her driving skills were quickly dispelled. All the while she acted as our tour guide, pointing out some notable features of the landscape along the way – the imposing charcoal grey monolith of Granite Peak off to our left, Pirates’ Cove on the right, the aptly named Razorback Ridge, and so on. She assured us that these would be familiar places soon enough.

Near the end of our journey, on the western edge of the town, we pulled into a tree-lined cul-de-sac in the midst of a cluster of low, salmon-pink and cream-coloured buildings. They were of stark design, softened somewhat by trimmings of tidy gardens and neat hedges.

“This is the staff residential district,” Kate informed us. “We call it the Oasis. Once you’ve had a few days to acclimatize, this will be your home.”

She kept up the commentary, although we already knew most of what she explained from our briefings back home. Even so, the Oasis appeared a lot smaller than I expected for a self-contained community with amenities and services for five hundred employees and several dozen families like ours. It’s far from luxurious, but no worse than some of the places where we’ve stayed and paid. However, our interim destination lay beyond, so we drove on into Resort Village. This is a compact, fully functioning small town, nestled within the great southern bay, flanked by craggy headlands and hemmed in by steep, forest-shrouded hillsides. Most of the buildings in the centre are high-rise, but on the periphery are picturesque, white-washed cottages and bungalows. The beach is wide and its sands are almost unnaturally golden, with here and there the sprinkled pink hue of crushed coral. Lying some distance off the eastern cape is barren, dune-capped Frigate Island, which shelters Resort Bay from the winds and waves of the open sea.

The streets shimmered in the early afternoon heat; the beach was deserted; the footpaths were almost empty and the cafeterias we passed seemed abandoned. Kate assured us that appearances can be deceiving. At the peak of the holiday period, the resort accommodates up to two thousand guests, and even now, in the off-season, there are almost half that number. Indeed, as we turned onto a broad avenue in the very heart of town, the pedestrian traffic increased dramatically.

There is no operational concept of right-of-way on the island’s thoroughfares, so our buggy slowed from a crawl to a snail’s pace in order to weave our way through the crowds. There were very few children about, not surprising given the time of year. And it could have been a beach resort like any other, women in pert sundresses and microscopic swimsuits, men in loud shirts and silly hats. Yet the difference was immediately obvious. Most of the females were bound in some way, hands in front or hands behind the back, or arms pinned at the side. Some shuffled along with shackles around their ankles or hobbles on their knees. A few were being led about on leashes. A lot were gagged. Some were blindfolded, but not many (because, I guess, that would be too extreme, since depriving a woman of her sight in such a bountiful shopping precinct is akin to torture).

Although most people were in couples, there were a few larger groups. One which drew my attention was a party of seven bikini-clad young women, meandering along the street with a single guy in the lead. The girls were bound, gagged and blindfolded, tethered close up to one another with a rope looped around their necks. The young man, looking very self-satisfied, was carefully guiding his captives along the boulevard, using what looked like a coded sequence of tugs on the front girl’s halter to steer them around and past obstacles, albeit not with complete success. Every so often as I watched, I winced as one of his prisoners collided with sidewalk café furniture or a potted plant or something, and she protested with a muffled whimper through her gag.

“Sorry about that,” he would respond with doubtful sincerity; but they were moving too slowly for any real damage to be done.

Kate noticed that we were staring and explained that these were medical students who were celebrating their recent graduation. Since their arrival a few days ago, they had made quite an impression, memorable even by the singular standards of Aranea Island.

“Lucky guy,” Alex said, earning disdainful looks from Mum and me, and a polite smile from Kate.

“Lucky girls,” I said to myself.

Members of the resort staff were easy to spot. The males were smartly turned out in white or grey slacks and floral-pattern shirts. The women were in skimpy sarongs identical to that on our hostess, worn either full-length as a strapless minidress like Kate’s or folded and tied on the hips as a miniskirt. They – the females that is – were also fitted with the collar, bracelets and anklets ensemble. Some were gagged, the ball variety by far the most popular. None of these accoutrements seemed detrimental to how they went about their duties.

Dad nodded his approval and turned to Mum to gauge her reaction, but our focus was suddenly diverted as we turned out of the main street and continued through the Village outskirts. We were driving by a section of the resort where construction was still in progress. In one of the vacant lots, there was a party of two dozen or more labourers, of both sexes. They were bent over rakes and hoes and shovels, busily clearing the ground of debris and detritus. The girls were strung out in a line in one part of the site. Like their male counterparts, they were dressed in overalls, with work boots and gloves, but unlike the men, they were manacled hand and foot, as well as shackled together, with thick cables running from heavy metal collars – just like a chain gang. As we passed, one of the prisoners paused to wipe the perspiration off her brow. Her face was begrimed, her hair unkempt, her overalls darkened with sweaty patches. She was hunched over, her body bowed from fatigue or by the weight of her fetters. She saw us and grinned, before returning to her task.

Just beyond that was a small park. Several couples and a family of five were having picnics on the grass. Kate drove on without comment while the rest of us continued to gape. All the women and girls were hog-tied or frog-tied, prostrate in spreadeagles or dangling in strappadoes. A boy of fourteen or fifteen years of age was playing with two older girls who were most likely his sisters. They were lying on their sides, tied back-to-back with hands bound over their heads, and they were wriggling and writhing on the grass, shrieking and laughing through bulbous ball-gags as their brother tormented them with a tree branch and a very large water pistol. Nearby, their father watched over them with amused indulgence while he applied the finishing touches of an elaborate and awkward looking lotus tie to his wife.

There were other strange tableaux as well. We encountered a quartet of Roman soldiers leading about two dozen young women half-dressed in scanty white tunics. They could have been performers on their way to a show, or guests en route to a costume party. Despite being heavily shackled at the neck, waist, wrists and ankles, the slavegirls looked much more at ease than their captors, who were clad in the full leather-and-metal regalia and sweating under the scorching sun. They were trudging beside the road in the same direction as us, but none looked up as we went by.

Farther along, a dozen guys and squealing girls were wrestling under the fronds of a huge pandanus palm on the side of the road. Two of the young women broke loose and made a dash for freedom, heading in our direction. One was quickly recaptured and subdued, but the other was very athletic and outpaced her pursuers. But when she looked back and saw her friend being pinned to the ground, she returned with her hands up in surrender, and knelt beside her fellow damsels to receive her ropes. Not far away, on a different patch of grass, was another family – parents and two boys in their early teens. The mother and father looked on casually as the kids were hog-tying a young woman who appeared to be in her twenties. She was wearing a staff bikini and her sarong was wrapped around her head, covering her entire face. There was a buggy like ours parked nearby.

I was still mulling over these weird but wonderful sights as we proceeded up a steep roadway leading to the high ground behind the Village, past a sign proclaiming “Hotel Andromeda.” This, Kate announced, is to be our home for the next seven days. It sits atop a low hill and provides a magnificent view of the entire sweep of the bay. It is built in a graceful but unpretentious colonial style, set amidst manicured lawns, carefully tended gardens and lush groves of palms and pine trees. In the driveway, chips of fractured granite crunched cheerily underfoot as we disembarked. On a marble plinth flanking the portico there is a bronze sculpture, larger-than-life, of a naked woman bound to a rock with chains, gazing forlornly to the heavens.

“That’s Andromeda,” Alex informed us.

“We know, sweetie,” Mum replied, smiling benignly.

Kate tarried outside as we went in. The lobby was empty but for us and the receptionist. She is a tall, beautiful Polynesian girl, impeccably groomed with a radiant smile. Her tiny sarong clung precariously to her spectacular breasts. It was a miniature masterpiece of structural engineering to stay in place with such modest load-bearing support. Dad’s professional curiosity got the better of him, and he could not take his eyes off it.

“Don’t you worry, dear,” Mum said, “I’ll take care of this,” as she signed the register and received our keys.

We went upstairs. The tone of the hotel is genteel, cosy and informal. There is no doorman, no attendant to carry your bags and no lift operator. There are signs all about saying things like “No room service available” and “Please do not tip the staff.” Our suite, located on the fourth floor, is not huge but spacious enough, more comfortable than plush. There’s a living room, kitchen and bathroom. It has a small balcony, from which the view is truly breathtaking. Beyond the Village and the bay, the sea and sky are so clear and blue that when you look out towards the horizon, it’s impossible to tell where one ends and the other begins

There are only two bedrooms, and while I don’t fancy the thought of having to share with my brother for a week, such is the price one must pay for paradise. Alex commandeered the bunk by the window, and I was not in the mood to argue. When we were finished unpacking, which didn’t take long, we all reconvened in the living room, just as Kate rejoined us. She brought two large parcels with her. She gave one to Mum and the other to me. Inside were a number of colourful pieces of material which it took me a few seconds to realize were sarongs like hers. Then she took her leave, arranging to meet up with us again tomorrow morning.

As soon as Kate was gone, Dad said, “Well, now that we’ve settled in, how about we go and get something to eat… and maybe take a stroll to look around?”

My mother nodded agreeably; I shrugged a “why not?” and my brother – predictably – grumbled something no one heard, or cared to hear. The parents disappeared into their bedroom once more and I retreated to mine, shutting the door in Alex’s face. As I shed my travel clothes, I pondered my choices and resolved upon my lime green Agustina bikini; and I thought I might as well try out one of my new sarongs. It’s a perky little number, soft and translucent with a tangerine-hibiscus pattern that coordinated rather well with my bikini. I folded it to wear as a skirt. Worn in that style, here it’s called a pāreu (a Polynesian term). I hitched it low on my hips with a flamboyant bow on the left side. I checked out the result in the mirror and conclude that I looked pretty hot. As I opened the door again, Alex shoved past, mumbling something about needing to make rules.

Mum turned out her customary gorgeous in a magenta strapless maillot. She’d done the same thing as I with her sarong, but made a much better job of it – she had chosen a black one with golden orchids that matched her swimsuit perfectly. She studied mine with a frown, and then refashioned it, showing me how to gather the ends for a single wraparound, short and sassy with an open leg split. She tied it with a double overhand knot to keep it securely in place. Though I do say so myself, we made a stunning pair of sexy vixens.

Dad beamed approvingly, and even Alex seemed impressed. I should add, in the interests of full disclosure, that my father was dressed casually dapper in crisp cream slacks and Hawaiian shirt. On the other hand, my brother – and I should not have been surprised by this – had chosen for his sojourn in the tropics voluminous khaki cargo pants, a scruffy black Motorhead sweatshirt and a pair of scuffed Doc Martens. Mum dolefully shook her head, but said nothing.

We were ready to go, but we all hesitated. We looked at each other for ages – at least, it felt like ages. Finally, Dad said, “So, do we start straight away, or do you two want some time to, you know, get better acquainted with how things work?”

I looked at Mum, and she just smiled and put her hands behind her back.

Dad gave her an appreciative look and reached for the package he’d gotten at the airport. He scrabbled about in it and pulled out a long, thin strip of what appeared to be soft leather. He gently took hold of her wrists and placed one over the other, securing them with the strap. It was a straight-forward, criss-cross tie, but he stood behind her so close that as he bound her, his chin nuzzled her bare shoulder, and he teased her hair with little puffs of his breath. She closed her eyes and pursed her lips, and her head lolled slowly sideways as he drew her arms more tightly behind her. His eyes connected with mine, and I must have blushed or something, because he winked at me, then lowered his gaze again, down across Mum’s gently heaving bosom.

I was about to say “Do you two want to be left alone?” when I glanced over at Alex. He was totally oblivious to what was going on, instead gesturing for me to come nearer. His face bore that supercilious expression he gets when he’s especially pleased with himself.

“Front or rear?” he demanded.

Knowing full well he would do the exact opposite of whatever I said, I in fact said nothing and turned away from him, crossing my wrists over the small of my back. He didn’t try to argue, but achieved his revenge by giving my bindings an extra sharp tug as he finished. The leather was nicely pliable and about a centimetre wide, ideal for its purpose. I ran my fingertips over the ends that hung loose and discerned that one side was embossed, perhaps with the resort logo (a stylized spider).

“Not too tight,” my dad called across to Alex. My mother waggled her elbows to demonstrate how it should be done just right.

Alex responded with a perfunctory “Yeah, I know, don’t cut off the circulation,” as he gave one final hard wrench to make sure I got the real message. I did not react, denying him the satisfaction of seeing me squirm.

Our parents had already shifted their attention and were discussing what should be next. Dad reached again into his pack and pulled out, with an exultant flourish, a large crimson scarf. Grasping it by diagonally opposite corners, he twirled it skilfully into a neat blindfold. As he lowered the cloth slowly over her eyes and tied it in place, drawing back with tender firmness, my mother couldn’t hold in a faint gasp, nor disguise a subtle grimace of pleasure. (Their performance had me feeling a little awkward, but it’s so cool that they can still get such joy out of a simple tie-up.)

Alex did likewise for me. The scarf was made out of the same diaphanous material as my pāreu, so I thought it might be see-through, but after a couple of doublings it was impervious to even the direct sunlight pouring in from the balcony. Actually, I was kind of annoyed at having to wear it, because I was looking forward (yeah, feeble pun) to seeing more of the resort; but I decided not to resist. Anyway, the blindfold has its own perks. I love the enhanced awareness and increased sensitivity that switch on when your vision’s cut off. Things you usually don’t notice or which you disregard or that are below your normal level of perception become part of your sensory input. And so it was in our hotel suite. Wafting into the room on the bay breeze, a lush profusion of exotic aromas, a gaudy mosaic of tastes and flavours and a rich symphony of sounds – birds calling, insects chirping, leaves rustling, the distant roar of surf breaking over the outer reef, the voices of people in the hotel grounds – piled up against my senses like those waves out there crashing upon the coral. The rush of impressions was as bracing as the salt-sea air.

A discordant noise broke the spell. “Can we go already?” Alex was growling. “I’m hungry.”

“Wait,” Dad snapped back. “Let’s give your mother and Sarah a bit more time to adapt.”

Alex stopped complaining, but he was still behind me holding my arms, and I could feel his impatience in his tightening grip. Unlike Dad, he doesn’t know – or more likely doesn’t care – that when your blindfold goes on, it takes a few moments for you to adjust your remaining faculties; otherwise it can be very disorienting, and instead of a more intense experience you end up just feeling either numb or too worked up. The problem is that my brother has not yet got the message that tying a girl is a two-way process, that it’s about giving as well as getting. But he’s young, and with enough time I’m sure that even he can be educated. If you can train a puppy to keep off the furniture, with a special effort we can civilize my Lil Bro.

“Okay, that’s enough,” Dad proclaimed. “Time to move out.”

Mum said something I didn’t catch, but I heard her sandals making soft scuffing noises on the carpet as she shuffled towards the door, guided by Dad. Alex then clamped his hands on my shoulders to steer me out into the corridor. He shoved and jostled me impatiently, and Dad had to call out: “Don’t be so rough with your sister. It’s not a race.”

As Alex mumbled a reply, I desperately tried to construct a mental image of the hallway, to recall any corners, furnishings or miscellaneous obstructions that might cause grievous injury to my shins or other vulnerable parts of my anatomy. I didn’t quite trust my brother’s navigation skills, and certainly had no confidence in the extent of his mercy for me in my defenceless condition. I needn’t have worried this time... but I always do. Experience has taught me that much.

As we entered the elevator, I could tell that there were at least four other passengers, who must have come down from the upper floors. From beside me, the delicate bouquet of expensive perfume drifted past my nose. Our arms touched and I could feel several ridges of coarse rope wound tightly just above the lady’s elbows. When the car jerked to a halt, she made a noise that was unmistakeably the sound of a grunt through a gag. And as we alighted, I could hear her stumbling forward, so she was obviously blindfolded as well. The second couple were on the other side of the lift, and he was whispering to her, but I wasn’t able to pick up enough to get any clear intuition. She didn’t say anything in response, so she was probably gagged.

Trying to interpret your surroundings and compose a picture in your mind is part of the fun of moving about blindfolded; and with your hands tied as well the feelings of vulnerability and dependency induce a delightful sense of intimacy, both with your own self, because you have to draw on the emotional, physical and sensory resources within you, and with your partner, on whom you must rely – even when it’s your otherwise insufferable baby brother.

Crossing the lobby, I could sense the presence of several more people around us. Business must have picked up since our arrival. Out on the porch, the tropical sunlight seared the exposed parts of my face and glowed a dull, diffuse orangey red through my mask. Alex assisted me down the steps, with one arm around my waist and the other clutching my bound arms to ensure I didn’t lose my balance. I would have thanked him, except I knew he wasn’t suddenly smitten with sibling affection. He just didn’t want a roasting from Dad in the event that he let me fall. His grip on me was comforting, but it was still gratifying to feel the congenial cushioning of the spongy lawn grass under my tread.

It was no more than a fifteen-minute journey down the hillside to the eateries lining the boardwalk. We did not take the road we’d driven on the way up, so I guessed we were following an adjacent path, which made the going a little more difficult because I couldn’t rely on memory for guidance. I faltered a couple of times on the uneven pavement, but with a steadying hand from Alex I managed to stay upright. Yet it was exhilarating, being in a strange place and trying to make sense of it all without being able to see my way about or to grope my way forward, feeling helpless and dependent, yet revelling in the thrill of uncertainty and relishing the challenge. As we descended, I sniffed the air for telltale smells and listened for revealing, familiar sounds, and tried to pick up clues from touch and taste. From the sudden gush of fragrance and chorus of insect chatter, I knew we were passing by the gardens near the base of the hill; and I could tell when we got close to the beach from the caress of the sea breeze on my skin and the gritty, salty tang on my lips. It was all so vivid, the colours in my mind so vibrant and intense, the sounds and scents so sharp, the textures so palpable and elemental, that I kind of felt sorry for my father and brother, who were missing what Mum and I were experiencing in our bonds and behind our blindfolds.

Of course, that sentiment never lasts. A sudden spasm of pain surged through the toes of my left foot and up my leg.

“Thanks for warning me about that rock, Alex.”

“You’re welcome, sis.”

As much as I love being a girl, there are times when I think it must be nice being on the free end of the rope and the bright side of the blindfold.

Dad told Alex to choose one of the cafeterias and I think he just pointed out the nearest. They found us a place close enough to bayside that I could hear waves lapping against wooden pylons. As the waitress set the table, Alex asked if Mum and I should be untied.

“That’s up to you, sport,” Dad replied.

My brother reached behind me and freed my wrists from the leather strap.

“I don’t feed the birds,” he muttered.

Since the topic of my blindfold didn’t come up, I left it on. I’d anticipated that this would be the case anyway, because Dad had gone up to the counter to place our order so Mum and I would not know exactly what we were having. It took a couple of nibbles of my muffin to identify the apricot filling, and a few sips of my drink to make out the sweet zest of guava juice. It was cool of Dad to give us that pleasure. The anticipation and the revelation amplify the experience. It’s like when you add a drop of dark blue to a tin of white paint, and the white appears whiter; it intensifies the soft, tepid tone. So it is when you’re wearing your blindfold. The darkness brings clarity.

Once we were finished our afternoon tea, Alex bound my hands behind my back once more. I think Dad had kept Mum tied the whole time, because she giggled a few times and Alex had made a snarky comment about some people not being capable of eating a muffin without making a mess. After that, we continued our stroll along the shore. It was too late in the day to think about swimming. In mid-afternoon at this time of year the sun sinks rapidly below the ridgeline, and while the water stays warm, within just a few minutes the entire beachfront is immersed in shadow. Of course, I didn’t see this happening, but I felt the tickle of the cooling air on my flesh.

By the time we’d returned to our hotel suite, my arms were aching, because when we departed the café, Alex had tied my hands with my palms together rather than my wrists crossed – which puts a lot of strain on your upper arms and shoulders. I was too proud to complain; and in any case, a little bit of suffering is part of the total bondage experience.

Mum and Dad retired to their bedroom. “Get some rest as well, kids,” Dad said as he closed the door. I kind of doubt they got too much rest themselves, because I heard the lock click.

“Wanna watch TV?” Alex asked. I said okay, and he took off my blindfold. “So long as you keep your mouth shut,” he warned. I had no choice but to concur, since he held the advantage, what with my hands being still tied behind my back, and I wasn’t going to beg him for release. Nevertheless, to further ensure compliance, he trussed my ankles with the scarf. I didn’t bother resisting. I sat on the sofa and drew my feet up under me so he could hitch my wrists and ankles together with a piece of rope he’d gotten from somewhere.

During an ad break, even though I’d kept faithfully to my side of the agreement, Alex pushed me down onto my stomach and shortened the rope connecting my hands and feet, to put me in a full hog-tie. Then he rolled me onto my side, hauled off my pāreu and tried to gag me with it; but I was feeling rebellious. I’m still a bit bigger than him (although the size gap is closing fast), so I managed to fight him off though tightly bound; but we tumbled off the couch and he landed on top of me, knocking the wind out of my lungs. He jumped up in fright when I started gasping for air, and as I got my breath back and saw his aghast expression, I started to laugh hysterically. We didn’t want to disturb our parents’ rest and recreation, so we called a truce. I remained tied up, but the gag and blindfold stayed off.

Around six o’clock it started to get chilly. I knew how quickly the sun goes down in the tropics, but I didn’t anticipate that the temperature would drop so suddenly. I pleaded with Alex to untie me so I could change into something warmer than my bikini. He weighed up the hazards of wrestling me into a gag against the benefits of shutting me up by letting me go, and determined the latter course to be the more judicious.

Nevertheless, I thought it prudent to thank him profusely for his benevolence.

Mum and Dad emerged from the room not long afterwards, she looking a tad flushed and flustered. There were faint purplish rope marks on her arms and legs that hadn’t been there before. She ignored my smile and Alex’s smirk and suggested that we should dine “in style” for our first night on the island. By that she meant the swank restaurant next to the hotel. Dad rang to book a table and then we got cleaned up and dressed. Mum went for glamour in her Faviana vermillion gown with the thigh-high side slit and ample décolletage. I went for pretty and pert in my little black Talulah baby-doll. The guys, even Alex, looked debonair in their smart-casual suits, handsome enough to escort two such knockout babes.

As we went down to the lobby and across to the restaurant, I felt a little uncomfortable because Mum and I were the only females not bound in any way; but we hadn’t been quite sure what the standard would be in a posh establishment. So when we encountered a sign at the entrance insisting that “Ladies must be suitably restrained,” Dad – always prepared – withdrew a couple of long strips of gold satin ribbon from his coat pocket and handed one to Alex. They bound our wrists in front, and my dad showed my brother how to finish off the cinch with a neat, cute rosette. It’s heart-warming to see a father teaching his son such handy skills... showing him the ropes, as it were.

The place was staffed by a couple of waiters in tuxedos and four or five waitresses in bandeau tops and mini-sarongs of strikingly fluorescent green and black. The women wore the ubiquitous collar and shackles; but as a charming extra touch, the choker was fashioned as a little bowtie. And in contrast to most of the others we have seen today, their bracelets and anklets were linked by slender silver chains. The wrist coupling gave the wearers just enough freedom of movement to serve dishes, pour drinks and clear tables; and the ankle fetters had sufficient margin to allow them to hobble about the room without too much trouble, even in high heels.

We were greeted by the maîtresse d’hotel, a petite, very attractive brunette with a commanding voice and manner. Unlike the waitresses’, her hands were shackled behind her back, but she didn’t let that interfere with her duties or detract from her authority. She was also very adept at walking in her ankle chain, sort of gliding across the floor by the simple expedient of sliding the feet rather than taking small, mincing steps like the other women. How interesting your job must be when you have to work the whole time manacled hand and foot.

She smiled approvingly at the ribbon binding my wrists and directed us to our table. “Will the ladies be dining sans vue?” she asked as we took our seats.

Dad looked across at Mum and she nodded. The maîtresse just tilted her head and on cue one of the waiters promptly appeared bearing a silver platter. On it was a neat stack of blindfolds. Since our menfolk were already sitting, he stood directly behind my mother and said, “May I, Madame?”

“Certainly, thank you,” she answered. He placed the tray upon the table in front of her. They were all of the sleep-mask style but in a variety of designs and colours. She raised her bound hands from her lap and pointed to a black velvet one framed with delicate white blossoms. He slipped the band carefully over her head, gently sweeping back wisps of hair, and adjusted the cover with the smooth, tender touch that is sensual without being too intimate.

“And for the young lady?” He looked across at me.

I chose a mulberry red mask, embroidered with tiny cornflower blue blossoms that I thought went well with my dress. The waiter tinkered with the strap for a while to make the fit comfortable. He had cold hands and when they brushed against my cheeks I must have flinched, because a couple of times he paused and apologized. I felt like Milady of the Manor being fussed over like that.

I’m glad we again went with the blindfolds, because I do so enjoy what they call sans vue (or dans le noir) dining. I love the anticipation and the momentary puzzlement and the sudden awareness of what it is you’re eating and drinking. I adore how the loss of one sense stimulates the others, how it arouses the taste buds and heightens your receptivity to aromas and textures as well as the flavours. Admittedly, it can get messy if you are not vigilant, and with your hands bound as well you have to really concentrate on what you’re doing. It means you need to focus your attention on your meal, which adds to your appreciation. It elevates the simple art of dining to a skill, and that’s what the best bondage is all about. It doesn’t limit your experience, but rather enhances it.

On the other hand, dining with your obnoxious little brother can be a hardship. At one point our waitress must have spilt something, because Alex complained after she’d gone away.

I told him to stop whingeing. “It’s not easy for her, you know.”

“What’s the big deal?” he demanded.

“Think about what it’s like to be working in chains,” I replied.

“I won’t have to,” he said.

“Why not?”

“I’m not a girl.”

“You’re not human.”

“Both of you give it a rest,” Dad growled.

As we finished, the maîtresse told us that the blindfolds were ours to keep. We left them on as Dad and Alex took us out onto the terrace to savour the exquisite cold caress of the evening sea breeze. My skin tingled as the goosebumps rose on my legs and arms... such a delicious torment. And while I love to see the moon glisten on the water, as with dining blind there is something very romantic about being in the dark and relying on your other senses for illumination. It’s as if you can actually feel the moonlight. We stayed a while, then went back upstairs.

Mum and Dad retired almost immediately. Alex agreed to untie me so I could write up my diary, on condition that I first make him his cocoa – a fair trade, although just to be spiteful he insisted that I do it with my hands still bound. Of course, I could have easily freed myself, and there was not much he could have done about it; but that would be wimpy. I can brew a mug of cocoa with one hand tied behind my back, so with two hands tied in front the job’s a piece of cake.

Once freed of my obligations, I started working on the first entry of my new journal. And of course, when I was about halfway through my recounting of today’s events, Alex came crashing though the doorway. He did not actually crash into, over or through stuff, but my little brother doesn’t do anything or go anywhere without an accompanying tumult. I was already in my PJs, sitting on my bed, concentrating on my writing and trying to ignore him.

“Get out,” he said.

“What?”

“Get out. I want to change.”

Well, that was not going to happen. Even if up until then I had been inclined to leave, now I had to stay.

“Good grief,” I replied. “Like I care about seeing your scrawny carcass. But if you’re really concerned, I shall close my eyes.” I pressed them shut. “How’s that?”

“Not good enough.”

So Alex presented me with a set of rules. I have to admit that, unless he had worked this out in advance, it was pretty remarkable that he could come up with them on the spot. Rather than devising a schedule for who should have privacy in the room, when and for how long, or otherwise trying to coordinate our movements, we’ve settled on a simple arrangement. When I want to get dressed or undressed, Alex leaves me alone; and when we’re in there together, I have to be blindfolded; and that’s not just when he’s getting changed but any time at all. So the deal is rather one-sided, but as he pointed out...

“I’m the man of the house.”

“No, Dad’s the man of the house.”

“Then I’m the man of the room.”

There was no point in debating the issue, so I reached for my restaurant blindfold, which I had left on the bedside table. I showed it to him and he nodded with approval.

After he’d gotten into his pyjamas, he tried to sneak out of the room so I would be left sitting in the darkness, wondering what was going on. But as I’ve mentioned, my brother is physically incapable of stealth. So I get to finish my journal entry – barely – as he comes back into the room, and my blindfold is about to go back on. I have begged for a one-minute respite to add this final thought...

I’m excited about being here on Aranea Island, wondering what thrills and adventures the morrow holds... but I’m hoping there will be boys.

Re: THE (LAST) RESORT

Postby sarobah » Sun May 19, 2013 5:53 pm

Day 2. Fittings

I was awake half an hour before dawn, and went out onto the balcony to sit and think and watch the sunrise. I’m usually the first in our family to be out of bed. I love that lonely, peaceful time of morning, when the night’s reign is just ending and the coming day is still but a pallid violet blush on the eastern horizon. The tranquil silence, broken only by the gentle roar of the waves on the beach and the distant haunting cries of seagulls, delights and beguiles your senses as the mellow onshore breeze caresses your skin.

The serenity couldn’t last.

“Watcha doin’?”

My brother was still half asleep, groggily rubbing his eyes with one hand and scratching his…. Rewind that image... My brother was still half asleep.

“I’m sorry if I woke you,” I said.

“You’re forgiven.”

“No, I mean I really am sorry I woke you up.”

“And as I said, you’re forgiven.”

“Oh, just forget it.”

He dropped into the deck chair beside me, and as if in sympathy with the darkening of my mood, a grey cloud drifted across the face of the sun. Soon it was raining steadily. Naturally I was disappointed; but it’s daft, in a way, how you expect a tropical island to be warm and sunny and dry all the time.

By the time I had showered and fixed my hair, our parents were also up and about. Mum was busy making breakfast, since no one fancied a walk downtown in the drizzle and Dad was convinced that the two hotel restaurants would be crowded. As her reward and compensation (because he had pledged that she wouldn’t have to cook for the first few days), Dad tied her to the chair to feed her. She loves that (and who doesn’t?). They were behaving like naughty little kids, as he contrived to smear all of her face and most of her upper body (and some parts lower) in mess and mush. So much for all those “Don’t play with your food” reproaches of my youth. He then hauled her off, still bound hand and feet, to the bathroom. Alex and I didn’t hear anything more, except for a few shrieks and squeals, for the next half-hour.

Trying to expel the images from my brain, and remaining positive about a weather change for the better, I put on my Daisy Mae shorts and cherry print halter top. Alex took his turn in the bedroom, and re-emerged in his most eye-catching faux-punk raiment. Mum, who had rejoined us (in her cute little blue and yellow polka dot sundress), and I just shook our heads in unison. However, we didn’t have time for anything else because there was a knock on the door. Dad answered and Kate entered.

She looked dishevelled, in an attractive way, her hair slicked down by the rain, with strands plastered to her cheeks and forehead, her sarong clinging wetly to her curves, beads of water glistening on her bare shoulders. Alex was entranced, and Dad also gave in to the lingering gaze. She allowed them a few seconds, and then treated us to one of her dazzling smiles. She promised us that the deluge would soon be over.

“So what’s on the agenda?” Dad asked.

Although we have been assured that we will have plenty of time this week for touristy stuff, we do have some obligations and appointments to keep us busy over the next few days. So Kate laid out a rough schedule – for this morning, a trip to the Oasis for our fittings. Mum and Dad and I have our staff uniforms; Alex has his school uniform; he and I also have our Pioneers outfits. As for the latter, I don’t know too much (yet) about the Aranea Island Pioneers, except that they are some sort of adventure club that’s organized by the Park Rangers. We’ll be finding out more soon enough and will like it, or so Kate’s assured us.

Dad said, “Are we ready then?” and we all turned again to our hostess. Yet instead of moving towards the door, she shifted closer to my brother, saying nothing but performing a little curtsy and then a slow whirl to face away from him. She placed her hands behind her back. Dad chuckled softly, waiting for Alex to respond. It took him a couple of seconds.

I’m sure my Lil Bro understood at once what was expected of him, but I guess he was taken by surprise by Kate’s gesture. However, when he saw that we were watching his reaction, he focused on his task. He drew the insides of her wrists together, trying to be gentle but firm as he fumbled with the miniature padlock to clamp it over both her bracelets. She gasped as he wrenched and twisted her arms behind her, but she said nothing. The problem was that he was attempting to keep them straight, while she kept bending her elbows. Alex’s approach made it easier for him to manoeuvre the lock into position, whereas Kate was trying to ease the stress on herself. Eventually, of course, she gave in, but while it lasted it was an interesting contest of wills. She is obviously used to getting at least some cooperation from the guy who’s binding her, while my obstreperous little brother is accustomed to having it all his own way.

Finally done, Alex stepped back to inspect his workmanship. Kate gritted her teeth for a few seconds and then smiled. She wiggled her hands and flexed her arms as if to make sure she was properly shackled. The tension on her shoulders and chest created by the tight cuffing put an additional strain on the front of her already taut sarong and especially on the knot nestled between her breasts. It created an appealing effect, but I don’t think there was much more than friction working against the outward thrust of her torso and the downward pull of gravity to hold her dress in place and prevent décolleté becoming seins nus.

Alex, to my disgust, was almost salivating. He doesn’t get many opportunities to shackle a gorgeous woman, let alone one so decoratively close to bursting out of her top.

Meanwhile, Dad had begun tying Mum’s hands with the leather strap, in front rather than behind her back; and when Alex was confident that Kate was secured, he did the same for me. I was wondering why, unlike Kate, we were being bound with our hands in front, until Dad summoned Kate to his side, and hitched Mum’s wrists to hers with a short piece of cord (which must also have come from his gift package, because it was braided with burgundy and teal, the signature colours on the resort logo). I was then added to the ensemble with Alex attaching my wrists, so that Mum and I were positioned side by side, to the rear of Kate. He wanted to complete the job with blindfolds, but Dad vetoed that. He said the paths were too slippery from the rain.

And so we set off, with Kate in front, Mum and me behind. We no doubt looked a cute threesome as we went downstairs, through the lobby and out onto the hotel driveway. But we were linked so closely together that it was difficult to see the ground in front even with my sight, and the road was indeed slick and treacherous. If Mum and I drew back to get a better view of what lay ahead, this dragged Kate’s arms upwards and she was forced to bend forward in order to alleviate the pressure on her back and shoulders, which simply pulled us in close once more. It became like a little dance, and got quite frustrating and fatiguing. I heard Alex laughing at us, off to one side, and shot him a quick vengeful glare. He didn’t seem at all fazed.

On the other hand, Kate’s prediction and my optimism had been spot on. The rain had ceased, and as we started down the slope, sunlight began to push through the clouds and they quickly dispersed.

At the bottom of the hill, Alex asked if it was now safe for us to be blindfolded, and Dad agreed. Naturally we weren’t consulted, and Mum seemed rather reluctant, but my brother was already tying mine in place. He was so quick that I didn’t have time to see what he was using before the darkness descended over my eyes; but from the dull red sliver at the bottom edge, I deduced that it was the scarf I’d worn yesterday. I also didn’t get to see whether Mum offered any resistance. If she did, she didn’t make a sound.

Dad or Alex (most likely the latter) must have been carrying a spare blindfold for Kate, because she said, “Yes, of course. I can give you the directions from memory.”

She was as good as her word. “There’s an intersection up ahead; we go left; we should be passing the fountain just about now; we’ll need to veer to the right; we must be approaching the boulevard,” and so on. We walked for at least half an hour, and in spite of my blindfold I could tell that we were moving in a generally south-westerly direction, because I could feel the warmth of the sun’s rays on my back and left side. So it was pretty clear that we were heading for the Oasis. At first it was easy going, except that we bumped into the occasional pedestrian. Since I’m sure neither Dad nor Alex would have deliberately allowed us to collide with anyone, the streets must have been very congested. Oddly enough, however, apart from soft shuffling noises (which hinted that many of the passers-by were, like us, blindfolded), I heard very few voices, just the rustling of the wind in the trees, the far-off pounding of the waves on the reef and the doleful cries of the seabirds.

Once we had left the built-up area, the roadway became narrower and more uneven. Because Mum and I were abreast of each other, it was impossible for both of us to keep on the path at the same time. So it would have been hazardous to let us proceed unsighted and unaided; but our menfolk were not yet ready to remove our blindfolds. Instead I felt Alex’s hand grasp my right arm, from behind, and as I was on Mum’s left, I realized that he was steadying and guiding the both of us. Most likely Dad was doing the same for Kate. Nevertheless, we three were soon puffing and panting from the exertion, both physical and mental, of maintaining our equilibrium on the corrugated track.

“How’s it going?” Dad asked.

“Good,” Mum replied.

“Easy,” I fibbed.

“No problems here,” smart-Alex added.

“We’re almost there,” Kate said, and then “Oops!” I don’t know what happened.

Near the end of our journey, Dad ordered us to halt and move over to the side. I could hear feet scraping on the bitumen and the sound of air rasping though gags. The tenor of the breathing was unmistakeably female. A column of women was passing us, at least two dozen I estimated from the time it took for them to go by. There was a hesitancy in the footsteps which indicated they were bound and blindfolded, as well as gagged. Alex later informed me that they were resort employees on their way to begin a shift in the Village. Now that’s an interesting way to start your work day (and, I suppose, really not that much more onerous than sitting idly in traffic or standing in a crowded bus).

When the strength of the breeze suddenly dropped and I started to hear faint echoes of our footsteps around us, I knew that we had entered the Oasis and were passing between the buildings. Kate instructed the guys to look for a place with a red awning and a small sign saying “Commissariat.” Just a minute later we had arrived, and Alex released us from our tethers. He kept us bound and blindfolded. Dad must have then taken Kate up to the entrance because I heard them talking. After a while they returned and we went inside. Our blindfolds were removed and I saw we were in a large warehouse, divided into sections by racks and stacks containing all sorts of clothing and other paraphernalia.

We were greeted by a young man who’d been lounging on a deck chair near the entrance reading a magazine. He looked vaguely familiar – perhaps I had seen him during our tour through the Village yesterday. I found out later his name is Trent. He saw us and quickly shot to his feet. He acknowledged us with a perfunctory nod but became more salutary under Kate’s censorious gaze.

(I am finding this very intriguing, the study in contrasts which Aranea Island provides. Here was Kate, in a next-to-nothing outfit clinging parlously to her torso under the strain of her arms pinioned behind her back, matter-of-factly giving orders to this guy who, fully dressed and unrestrained, listened and nodded dutifully. It’s a fascinating conjunction, with so much symbolism and portent. I’m sure that life here is going to be interesting.)

She dismissed Trent with a curt tip of the head and turned back to us.

“Let’s start by getting you measured up for those uniforms.”

Dad untied Mum’s hands and Alex untied mine. Then they went over to Trent and walked off with him, while Mum and I followed Kate down one of the aisles.

A young woman came out from behind the tiers of shelving and introduced herself as Sandra. Like Kate she is slim, shapely and very pretty, though somewhat taller, with sea green eyes, strawberry blonde hair and a light sprinkling of freckles. Instead of Kate’s full-length sarong, she was dressed in a short, fuchsia-coloured pāreu with a bright floral bikini; but like Kate (and all female employees, of course) she wore the collar, bracelets and anklets. She guided us to the “dressing room” which was really just a partitioned-off corner. She told us to strip, and although I felt self-conscious at being naked in front of a stranger, she and Kate, who had come in after us, very quickly put me at ease. For instance, when she measured my bust and announced my size as an A cup, she could see me about to protest and pre-empted my objection with a cheery “Let’s call it a B minus.” I had to laugh.

We tried on our outfits. There are several – for day and night duty, summer and winter (or what here passes for winter), formal and casual. We were fitted for two one-piece swimsuits and no less than three styles of bikinis, plus a variety of sarongs and skirts and a cool weather wrap. Despite the variety, no one can accuse Aranea Island women of being overdressed. It’s not exactly the sort of uniform I’m used to wearing, but I can’t wait to tell the gang back home that I get to wear a bikini to my job every day!

There’s a rather complex and convoluted set of rules for what’s worn when and where and why. For instance, two entire pages in the staff handbook are devoted to just the sarong. As a pāreu, you must wear it low on the hip, with the hemline not below mid-thigh. The manual even spells out when it’s to be fastened in front and when the knot should be tied on the hip to expose one thigh (always the left leg – it’s that specific). It makes for a very sexy look, but as I’ve already seen, it’s not easy to keep on, especially when you’re moving about a lot. So it’s a bit daunting, especially since as a strapless dress it has to be worn without a bra. Sandra showed us how to fit the knot snugly in the cleavage to give our boobs maximum exposure without full disclosure. Kate watched us during the fittings but couldn’t be of assistance because her hands were still locked behind her back.

The rules are a lot less complicated for the males, of course, because they have just the one basic, year-round, day-and-night ensemble – trousers and shirt and a weather-proof jacket. But it’s funny that the sex wearing by far the lesser amount of clothing has by far the greater number of regulations governing how it’s to be worn.

Sandra packed our uniforms into a box for delivery to the hotel, along with copies of the handbook. When we emerged, Dad and Alex were waiting for us, looking bored and impatient, since their fittings had taken just a couple of minutes. We then followed Kate to another section of the room. As we rounded the corner of one of the floor-to-ceiling shelf stacks, what I beheld momentarily took my breath away. Arrayed before my eyes were rack after rack, row after row of bondage accoutrements, ornaments and accessories, in glittering gold, sparkling silver, glistening black, lurid red, shocking pink, flamboyant purple. The spectacle was at once captivating and intimidating.

Sandra, who had trailed along behind us, gave us a minute to take in the sight. I turned to Mum. She was staring open-mouthed. I turned to Dad. He just raised an eyebrow. I turned to Alex and he laughed – it must have been my expression. Sandra produced her measuring tape to determine our neck, wrist and ankle sizes. She consulted her inventory, and then fetched four items from one of the shelves.

“Try these on,” she said.

I am not really sure of the difference between a choker and a collar, but apparently width is the criterion and we were given one of each kind. They are both soft leather. The choker is two centimetres wide and burgundy in colour, secured with three press studs. The black collar is twice as wide. Mine is held in place with a simple latch, whereas Mum’s is fastened with a buckle and tiny padlock at the back. On the front of each collar is a small tether ring; but Sandra mentioned that a leash can be attached to the choker as well. Alex’s eyes lit up (even more) when he heard that. I have the feeling this feature will be getting plenty of use in the very near future. Both pieces are made of stiff leather and the collar is rather heavy, but they fit snugly without being too constricting. That’s important because, as Sandra explained, “You’re expected to wear your collar at all times when you’re on duty, and the choker off-duty whenever you’re in public.”

Mum frowned as she studied the collar, turning it over and over before putting it around her neck. She deftly locked it into place, but when I tried on mine, I fumbled and Dad secured it for me. Kate assured us that for safety reasons the clasp is made of brittle plastic which can be easily broken, by twisting it sharply. Sandra demonstrated with her own. The padlock snapped cleanly. She then retrieved a new one from the spare parts drawer. I’m not really sure why that precautionary feature is required, and it kind of bothers me. After all, what happens here that an easy-to-remove collar is so de rigueur? And in any case it only works for the wearer if her hands aren’t restrained.

Meanwhile, Kate had called out “Trent!” and he rejoined us. He was carrying a bundle of clothing which appeared to be Dad’s and Alex’s uniforms. He placed them in the box. Sandra then selected a fine silver chain and a leather strap, each about a metre long, from another drawer and handed them to him. He grabbed Kate’s shoulders, not being particularly gentle, and spun her around to face away from him, and then attached one end of the chain to the padlock on the rear of her collar. Her hands were, of course, still cuffed behind her. Trent ran the chain once around the link between her bracelets, and back up to the collar, adjusting the final length so her elbows were bent and her wrists fixed in the middle of her back. This put a lot of stress on her arms, because she had to hold them up behind her with the chain pulling on her collar (although not quite to the point of choking her). The strain showed in her face. After that, he tied the leather strap to her leash ring and ran it down her front, between her legs, to secure it to her wrists. To make it reach he had to pull it tight, and this made her grunt loudly and roll her eyes. Mum and I winced, Dad went “Ooh!” and Alex just laughed.

Trent then went back to... whatever it was he was supposed to be doing. But it’s interesting that a male had to be summoned to perform this operation with Kate, given that Sandra was there and could have done it. When I later asked Kate about this, she explained that it’s not a rule, just one of the local customs that females don’t restrain each other if there’s a male around to do the job. I have no problem with that. For all its faults and foibles, the masculine sex does have its uses.

Sandra continued with our fittings, and I’m not quite sure what purpose the demonstration had served, except perhaps to remind Mum and me of the sort of thing we can expect while we’re living here. In addition to our collars, we’ll have to wear the wrist and ankle bands when on duty. They’re made of finely crafted silver the width of my finger, fashioned into the shape of a braided cord, with a soft matte finish. The fastener is a simple clasp which also serves to lock the rings together. It’s relatively easy to get them off when your hands are free but impossible to remove when you’re properly shackled.

Sandra found me a pair of bracelets that fit and put them on my wrists, with the two parts of the clasp on the palm side (the carpal area, I think it’s called). She brought my hands together and deftly clamped the rings in place. They felt comfortable. The edges are rounded to prevent chafing, which is imperative because, while they are snug without being too constricting, when your arms are fixed behind you there’s going to be a lot more tension. To demonstrate, Sandra released my hands and invited Alex to link them behind my back. Dad did the same for Mum. My ham-fisted brother fiddled with it clumsily for a couple of minutes (or at least it seemed like minutes), and he was starting to hurt me with his tugging and twisting.

“Stop squirming!” he demanded.

I was about to give him a ferocious tongue-lashing when mercifully the lock snapped shut. It was certainly tight. I had to intertwine my fingers to keep my hands together, which of course transmitted the stress from my wrists to my upper arms and shoulders. It’s thus rather insidious because if you bend your elbows to ease the strain, it simply transfers it back to your wrists. If you don’t mind some abrasion, you can rotate them until they are crossed, easing the pressure somewhat, but you have to be careful that you don’t cut off your circulation. On the plus side, I suppose, keeping your arms straight pulls back your shoulders and pushes out your chest for a pleasing display. And let’s face it, my boobs need all that sort of help they can get.

“How do they fit?” Sandra asked. “Not too uncomfortable?” I shook my head but Mum just grimaced. She was raising and lowering, bending and stretching her arms.

“Don’t worry,” Kate said, “you get used to it.” That was probably not as reassuring as she intended it to be.
I gave them a couple of hard yanks.

Kate smiled. “They’re not like the collar. You can’t break out of these.”

That didn’t concern me, since I was just curious. Nevertheless, I wondered how that fits in with safety rules and procedures.

Sandra returned to the shelves and brought back a bundle of items that she placed on the closest bench top. There were several pairs of leather handcuffs, with velvet inside lining and Velcro attachments.

“These are not part of your official kit,” Kate explained. “They’re your fun and fashion cuffs.”

There were also some leather and vinyl straps, and Sandra demonstrated one of their uses. She attached one to Kate’s ankle bands to make a hobble, about twenty centimetres long. My father and brother followed her lead with Mum and me, then stood back to admire their handiwork.

“Don’t make it too strict at first,” Sandra advised, “because you don’t want her to fall.”

“Try it, be careful,” Kate told Mum and me.

I took a few small, shambling steps, and when I got my rhythm I was able to shuffle about with not too much effort. Mum was more poised, but still very cautious, because with our arms pinned behind our backs it was easy to lose our balance with no good way of breaking our fall.

“If you do,” Kate cheerily advised, apparently reading my mind and trying to be helpful, “bend at the knees and try to go down on them.”

She then demonstrated the same graceful, gliding movement that the maîtresse had performed at the restaurant last night. “It just takes familiarity and practice,” she announced as she executed a dainty pirouette. Mum and I then practised, and after a few minutes Kate determined that whereas my mother had achieved a sufficient degree of deftness and dignity, I would remain – at least for the foreseeable future – a lost cause.

Sandra handed Dad and Alex each another cable. It had a loop at one end, and at the other a little clip fastener. Dad knew exactly what it was for and immediately snapped it onto the ring on Mum’s collar. Alex got the idea. He couldn’t resist a sharp tug that forced me to jerk forward.

“Bow to me, woman!” he commanded. He pulled downwards on my leash.

“Alex!” Dad growled. “Behave yourself.”

“Later,” my brother whispered, as he let me up.

Sandra placed the rest of the accessories into the box with our uniforms, as Kate led the way again. Dad and Alex followed, with Mum and me in tow, waddling along behind our menfolk. I had a pretty good idea where we were headed, and when we stopped in front of a large cabinet, I knew what to expect even before Sandra had flung open the door.

Inside was a fantastic array of gags, just about every type of oral appliance conceivable, in an assortment of colours and sizes and shapes – ball, bit, butterfly, plug, ring, muzzle and harness gags, in soft leather, polished silver and satin-finished nylon. However, before I could get too excited, my eyesight shifted to the bottom shelf, where resided a collection of true horror devices, like medical and dental gags, the kind that hold your jaws spread apart (for some nefarious purpose, no doubt, that I don’t want to go into). Mum’s eyes widened as her gaze traversed the rows. Mine did as well, as Sandra picked out something that looked sinister, ominous, creepy and yucky. I recognized its menacing form – an inflatable gag.

“Don’t panic,” Sandra laughed. “This is just a fitting.”

She took a little black rubber bladder from a sealed plastic bag, stuck it onto the tube and put it in my mouth, then began slowly, carefully pumping the bulb on the other end of the hose until the flaccid globe swelled and hardened to fill the cavity. It tasted foul, sort of chalky but also slimy; and it was humiliating to have my mouth stoppered up, stuffed and sealed like that, especially in front of my dad and Alex. My darling Lil Bro moved around so that I could see his face, to let me know how much he was enjoying my discomfiture. Mum looked on dolefully as she awaited her turn.

Sandra prodded my cheeks and the corners of my mouth until finally declaring “This will allow a perfect fit. You want that, don’t you?”

I just nodded.

After writing down my dimensions, she deflated and removed the balloon, wiped off my saliva with a cloth and put it aside. She picked up a new one and went through the same process with Mum. When that was done, she consulted the inventory to choose the right sizes. She selected for each of us a set of six – a standard ball gag (mine cherry red on a black harness, Mum’s all-black), a ring gag (dreadful thing – I hope I don’t have to wear one too often), a muzzle-and-harness (not one of my preferences, but more secure than most types), a “dog bone” (which is a type of bit-gag, but I don’t really like the connotation), a regular latex plug gag (also known as a penis gag... “Ee-yew!” as they say in the classics) and a ball-plug gag.

Sandra instructed us to select one each. Mum and I both chose the ball-plug and she handed them over to Dad and Alex. I moistened the inside of my mouth and ran my tongue over my lips a few times, because I still had the aftertaste of the inflatable gag. When Alex inserted the plug, I decided that this would be my favourite. It consists of a black, stitched leather panel which is contoured to fit snugly over your mouth. It has a teardrop-shaped stopper (mine in an attractive shade of pink) that is tapered where the shaft attaches to the inside of the cover, rather like a pacifier. Because the plug is somewhat smaller than that on your ordinary ball-gag, it’s more comfortable to wear. It’s large enough to take up the entire cavity of your mouth, without forcing your jaws apart and making them ache. It is sufficiently malleable that you can bite into it (if you need to), but durable enough that you can’t damage it if you do. Most importantly, the fact that you can close your lips around it reduces (but of course never entirely eliminates) the drool factor. The material is a tasteless, odourless and washable silicone-based compound, and therefore totally safe, non-toxic and hygienic.

On the negative side, the snug fit actually makes it rather irritating after a while, because the plug fills your mouth and the panel clamps your lips in place so you can’t make any sound at all except for a low murmur. Which is what a gag is for, so I can’t complain about that (and Alex informed me that this is indeed its best attribute). But it also makes it difficult to control the air flow. There are several small holes to enable you to breathe through the gag, but the result is that the air mixes with your saliva which has nowhere to go but down your throat, so you are constantly sucking and swallowing, and making strange little slurping noises.

The straps are narrow, soft and pliable, removable for proper cleaning, with a buckle that can be adjusted to fine-tune the length. Some girls prefer a Velcro fastener, but not me because almost invariably your hair gets stuck in it. Instead, this one has clip-on holders that can be pulled apart for a quick release with a single, sharp tug. So my new ball-plug gag looks good, it’s flexible, reasonably comfortable, sturdy, secure and safe – what more can I say? It may not look as sexy as a straight ball-gag, but for every other feature it’s hard to beat. Of course a gag, as with all aspects of bondage, shouldn’t be too cosy, but like in a recipe, one ingredient should not be so sweet or spicy that it overwhelms the others.

As I was pondering all this, Alex could see my furrowed brow and misinterpreted my reaction to the gag. My compassionate Lil Bro smirked at me with the appropriate Schadenfreude. I glared at him and he just grinned back. But then Sandra asked him to remove it, and when he had done so she used an embossing machine to stamp our names onto the straps of each of our new gags. Every female staff member has her own personal ones, Kate informed us. For sanitary reasons it’s against policy for gags to be shared or swapped or recycled.

Once they had been inscribed, Sandra placed them in the box – all of them, to my brother’s chagrin. Our collars, leashes and cuffs came off also. I was a little disappointed as well, but I suppose that, as we are not yet certified residents, we aren’t qualified to wear the official accoutrements.

This proved to be the last of our fittings. Trent rejoined us to unhitch Kate’s wrists and ankles. That surprised me, since she had been cuffed by Alex and I figured it would be a breach of courtesy to undo another guy’s work. Indeed, she turned to my brother with an apologetic expression but said nothing, nor did anybody else, and I’m wondering if it was just a reflex action by Trent.

He sauntered off without a word, and Sandra wished us well for our time on Aranea Island. Thereafter, Kate accompanied us back to Resort Village. It was not a very long walk from the Oasis, but it was blisteringly hot and we quickly worked up a sweat. I was weary from the morning’s proceedings, glad that we were not bound, and looking forward to some swimming and sunbathing. However, as we approached the western edge of the town, Kate steered us towards a large beachside park. She looked up and squinted at the clock tower which loomed over the heart of the central business district.

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

There were maybe a hundred people in the park, some starting up barbeques and setting out picnic lunches, others just taking refuge under the trees from the heat. We skirted the perimeter, and I knew something was up because when Alex stepped onto the grass Kate asked him to wait. She turned in the direction of the sea, and when my eyes followed hers I spotted some unusual movement on the water. Although we were facing away from the sun, the glare was intense, but as I continued to peer out across the bay, I discerned two large rowboats skimming swiftly and silently towards us. A few people in the park had taken notice as well, and as the boats glided to the shore and ran up onto the sand, all heads spun about. Amused curiosity turned to amazed excitement as suddenly the air was rent with hair-raising shouts and blood-curdling yells. Twenty or so men in full, colourful pirate regalia leapt out and charged up the beach, heading straight for the bemused spectators. There was laughter and shrieking as the marauders began scooping up surprised women and girls. As the startled victims screamed for rescue and begged for mercy, none of their male companions made even the feeblest attempt to intervene. They were either in a state of shock or too busy laughing and applauding, as the squealing captives were roughly bound and hauled off.

One young woman in a white sundress tried to make a break for the safety of the trees but was brought down in a rather heavy tackle by a hulking red-bearded fellow, who wrenched her arms behind her back and tied them with hemp rope. She winced at her brusque handling, and I winced at the hideous chartreuse grass stain on the front of her once pristine dress; but she giggled as she was tossed over her abductor’s broad shoulder. Nearby, a mother and daughter – the girl about Alex’s age – had been cornered by two fearsome blackguards and were pondering fight or flight. When they looked to their menfolk and found no saviour, they resigned themselves to their fate.

It was all very exciting, but looking beyond the spectacle, I noted that only females not already bound in some way were caught up in the attack. Anybody in restraints, and anyone who showed signs of putting up genuine resistance, was left unmolested. It seemed to me that the raiders spared those who had already settled down to lunch and they also ignored our own little party; whether it was because of Kate’s presence or the fact that we were outside the bounds of the park I couldn’t tell. Nonetheless they netted more than two dozen captives. And just when I – and the other onlookers, and no doubt the victims – thought the fun was over, the beastly buccaneers abandoned their boats to withdraw inland with their struggling, squawking booty, heading up the road running westwards in the direction of – naturally! – Pirates’ Cove. A large crowd followed.

“Every two or three days, different locations,” Kate answered my unspoken question. “It’s not easy to pull off because we want it to be a surprise and a thrill, but we also don’t wish to cause too much disruption.”

(I’m not so sure about the surprise. There were an awful lot of females in the park who were not bound in some way – more than we’d seen in one place since arriving here – thus making them fair game for the pirates. And I noticed that only a couple of the intended prey put up a genuine struggle. My guess is that most of the victims know beforehand exactly what is going to happen. But acting surprised is all part of the game.)

We continued to watch until the last of the captives, two wriggling young wenches slung over the shoulders of their hulking kidnapper, had disappeared over the crest of the ridge.

“Do I get to play pirate?”

“Yes, Alex,” said Kate, “you’ll get to play pirate.”

Mum raised her eyebrows. I shook my head. No good can come of this...

There is more I could write about today’s activities, but this journal entry is already getting too long, and I need sleep. Alex hasn’t helped. He came into the room (I’m writing this in bed) and according to rule number two I had to put on my blindfold. He stayed a long time, doing only the devil knows what, so I was obliged to wait patiently to get back to finishing this entry.

We had lunch in one of the many eateries which line the promenade, and did get to spend the afternoon on the beach. Later we went shopping and sightseeing. As soon as we were back in the hotel, at around five o’clock, Mum retreated to her room for a nap, while Dad, Alex and I watched television. When Mum rejoined us, we had dinner at a salad and noodle bar, and afterwards took an evening stroll. When we returned to our suite, the box from the Commissariat was sitting just inside the door. Mum and I left the guys in the living room with their television while we tried on our uniforms and tried out some of our new accessories.

So that’s our second day on Aranea Island. I still haven’t met any boys, but as the saying goes, tomorrow is another day.

Re: THE (LAST) RESORT

Postby sarobah » Mon May 20, 2013 4:20 pm

Day 3. Mystery

It’s funny how things can work out. I awoke this morning mightily annoyed because it was raining again, and by the time we were getting ready for breakfast it had turned into a frightful downpour. So much for the tropical island paradise! But in the end, it turned out to be a delightful day.

I rolled over and went back to sleep. So for once I would not be the first in the family to be up and about. I fell into a dream. I don’t remember it much, except that it was good and I was feeling content; when suddenly I felt myself being rudely shaken into the reality of wide awake. I opened my eyes, blinking away the blur, to be confronted by my brother’s grinning visage. On balance, the blur was better.

“What do you want?” I demanded. My mouth was dry and cottony, as if I had been chewing on my pillow. Maybe I had been. Maybe it was that sort of dream.

“First this,” he commanded. He was holding my red sash blindfold in front of my face.

“You’ve got to be kidding!” I shook my head and slammed my eyes shut, hoping that I was still asleep and my pleasant dream had gone bad. I opened my eyes once more. It wasn’t the nightmare I was hoping for.

“Tell you what,” I groaned, “I’ll just close my eyes again and you can say whatever it is you have to say.”

“Rules are rules.”

I could continue to argue, but surrender was the easier course. Sitting up, I tied the band around my head.

“Why are you traumatizing me?”

“It’s breakfast time.”

“That’s it? Thanks. No. Go.”

For all his myriad faults, the brat knows when he’s not wanted, not needed and not safe from harm. He faded into my oblivion.

On the third hour I rose again (or maybe it was just one). The rain had stopped, but it was still dismal outside. The family must have gone downstairs to eat, and I had the place all to myself. It was blissfully silent but for a pair of seagulls perched upon the balcony demanding tribute. I grabbed two slices of bread, tossed them one and watched them wrangle noisily over it, ate the other piece, had a shower, drank a glass of milk, fixed my hair, put on my Kiargo black and gold string bikini, painted my toenails, sifted through a pile of pamphlets, put on some make-up, perused the restaurant guide, chatted with the seagulls, changed my toenail colour... I was so bored that I was missing my family. How pathetic is that?

Eventually, the loved ones returned. My mother was excited, my father was inscrutable, my brother was... well, my brother.

“Calm down, Alex. Put your shoes on, Sarah,” Mum called out as she bee-lined for the bedroom. “Please calm down, Alex.”

“What’s the sitch?” I asked.

“We’re going on a mystery tour,” Alex explained.

“Where to?” I asked, innocently enough.

“Um, you do know the meaning of the word mystery?”

I chose not to answer.

“And people say that you’re the smart one...” He stopped to think about what he’d said, then slunk away.

Dad chuckled. As I retrieved my sandals from under the sofa, I saw him grab the newspaper and head for the balcony. He flopped into the banana lounge.

“Shouldn’t you be getting ready as well?” I ventured.

“Not coming with you today.”

“Not into the mystery?”

“More like misery.”

“Dad has business, is what he means, honey.” Mum explained. She was wearing her lilac Gottex strapless maillot, over which her pāreu was tied low on her hip. She was fixing her hair into a loose bun. “What’s Alex doing?”

“How should I know? I’m not my brother’s zookeeper.”

As if on cue, the bedroom door opened and from it emerged a startling apparition from a vintage tourist brochure, in cream pleated slacks, Bali print shirt, Panama hat, Venetian loafers, Ray-Ban knock-offs. Mum and I just rolled our eyes. I pushed past him, found one of my sarongs which best matched my bikini, wrapped it around my waist and grabbed my Gucci shades.

On the way out, Alex held up two pairs of the handcuffs we’d been issued at the Commissariat.

“Give me a break,” I growled at him.

“Not right now, sweetie,” Mum smiled.

My Lil Bro looked crestfallen as he mournfully put them back in the box.

“You two are no fun.”

We yelled good-bye to Dad, whose nose was by now buried deep in his newspaper. We went downstairs, down the hill, downtown. It was still heavily overcast although the rain had let up. The air was damp, the ground was sodden and the trees and bushes drooped and dripped. A chilly breeze tickled my bare skin and I started to regret having nothing on but my bikini and pāreu. Mum was beginning to shiver as well. Alex was fine, as ridiculous as he looked. There are times when I envy males and their fashion sense.

The town centre was almost empty. People were only just starting to emerge from their warm, dry indoors. Mum checked the street signs and we stopped outside a small storefront. There we were greeted by a young woman who announced herself as Regina. She’s small but curvaceous, with champagne blonde hair styled in a striking layered razor cut. She was wearing a tiny, and I mean really tiny bandeau top, and a mini, really mini sarong. There wasn’t much of her, and a lot less that was covered. Alex couldn’t keep his eyes off her, but she didn’t seem to notice, or care. I guess that when you work in Aranea Resort and you’re female, you get used to being stared at.

She ushered us inside, where two other women were waiting to begin the tour with us. Regina introduced them as Roz and Amanda. Both were wearing the staff uniform. Roz is in her late twenties or early thirties, brunette, with a trim, compact body and expressive, dark hazel eyes. Amanda is a girl of nineteen or twenty, tall and slim, honey blonde and sweet-faced. Both have short-cropped hair styles. Indeed, “boy” cuts appear to be common here, and for a while I thought this might just be some quirky local trend; until a more prosaic reason occurred to me. Aquatic activities like snorkelling and scuba-diving are a popular pastime with the residents, and for that long hair can be problematic.

However, there could be no mistaking them for boys. They each had on the little floral-pattern sarong, albeit in different ways. Roz wore hers as the strapless minidress, like Kate’s, whereas Amanda had opted for the skirt like Regina, except it was knotted in front rather than on the hip. I’m still not sure what the rules are, whether it’s individual choice. But it’s obviously the case that if you wear it full-length, tied at your bosom, you’re not permitted your bikini top; so it can be perilous for gals like Amanda and me who are not especially voluptuous. On the other hand, if you have fabulous legs, like Roz, the dress allows you to show off every bit of them because it’s very short. They also wore the choker, though not the bracelets and anklets. As we learned yesterday, this indicated that the two were off-duty at the time.

Mum looked uncomfortable, because she was wearing neither her choker nor one of the regulation sarongs, but Regina gave her a “just relax” smile. Since we are not officially residents until the end of the week, we don’t have to adhere to the full dress code until then.

With Mum appeased, Regina explained that while the mystery tour experience was a part of our orientation, it would be a fun day. Normally there would be resort guests joining us, but the threat of bad weather meant that the first scheduled tour would not begin for another hour. “So there will be just us on this one.”

“What’s the usual number?” Roz inquired. (She asked the most questions during the day. From this I assumed that she was to be employed as a guide or hostess; but it turns out she’s some sort of technical specialist, and was simply curious. She certainly has the technician’s no-nonsense, down-to-earth, matter-of-fact, plain-speaking approach to everything.)

“Twelve per group,” Regina answered. “Normally we have more than the one gentleman...” She tipped her head towards Alex with a subtle gesture I didn’t interpret straight away.

“So, are we ready to begin?”

We all nodded and she looked towards the doorway, but before anyone had moved she turned to my brother with a sprightly smile.

“Alex, it’s up to you to do the honours.”

It took him a couple of seconds to take the hint, but his face lit up in sudden realization and then cracked into a broad, goofy grin. Mum raised her eyebrows and rolled her eyes (which she does a lot around Alex these days), and I shook my head. Roz and Amanda looked puzzled at first, then benevolently amused as Regina turned away from him and placed her hands behind her back. She straightened her elbows and interlocked her fingers.

I try not to visualize what goes on inside my brother’s mind (for there madness lies), but I can imagine what was racing through it as he clamped Regina’s wrists together. Having learnt from yesterday’s effort, this time he was adept at handling the tiny coupling. Regina flexed and stretched a couple of times, either to make the fit more comfortable or to show him that she was properly restrained. And when he was done, after looking around at the rest of us to make sure we were suitably impressed, he placed his hands on her shoulders and ran them slowly down her pinioned arms, lightly drumming his fingers as he did so. He gently grasped her wrists and jiggled her bracelets to confirm they were secure. And while this was happening, Regina closed her eyes and licked her lips with the tip of her tongue. Her nostrils flared and her chest heaved as she drew in long, deep breaths. It’s nice to see that living for a while on Aranea Island doesn’t make you blasé about your bondage.

“Ladies,” she said, regaining her composure but puffing just a little, “you can leave your bags in the box behind the counter.”

We deposited our belongings in a plastic crate.

“And you won’t be needing your sunglasses either.” I was about to say that the clouds had started to disperse when I realized that wasn’t what she meant.

She then tipped her head in the direction of a cabinet in one corner of the room. “Top shelf,” she instructed, and Alex extracted four sets of handcuffs. They were nothing fancy like the ones we got yesterday, just plain rings made of hard plastic and connected by two links – providing enough length that when your arms are behind you they give you some freedom of movement but not so much that you can slide them down your bottom and over your legs to escape. Regina informed us that with a really strenuous tug they can be pulled apart. That was a bit disconcerting, since I don’t really see the fun in being bound if it’s so easy to get out of; but it’s another safety feature. Perhaps it has something to do with what can happen on the mystery tour. I don’t know that for sure, but it made the day’s agenda suddenly more intriguing.

I must have been frowning while I was having these thoughts, because Mum, misconstruing it as lack of enthusiasm, had taken the initiative and put her arms behind her back. She had her palms facing inwards, and had to lock her thumbs together to hold her hands in place, because Alex was struggling to get her cuffs on. It was funny to watch my brother become increasingly frustrated and flustered. He had just done basically the same to Regina with no difficulty, and it wasn’t like family ties are a new thing. But the catch on each of the rings is located right beside the chain attachment, and in attempting to join them he was trying to avoid touching his mother’s backside. To be supportive, she was stoically pushing her hands as far from her body as she could, but this is not so easy to do when someone is forcing your wrists together behind you, and it was putting a lot of additional strain on her chest and shoulders. She let out a soft moan and Alex’s expression was pricelessly comical. She winked at me.

Of course, as much as I was enjoying my brother’s discomfiture, I knew full well that he would take it out on me. And indeed, when my turn came, he made sure to give my arms a few hard and completely unnecessary heaves and jerks. I looked plaintively to mummy dearest, who just smiled indulgently.

While this was going on, I caught a few glimpses of Amanda and Roz as they awaited their turn. Amanda was fidgety, not knowing what to do with her hands as she beheld us being fettered, grimacing and grunting. She kept her arms rigidly at her side, but her fingers were tapping out some random rhythm on her thighs. When Alex moved behind and took hold of her wrists to draw them backwards, she couldn’t suppress a flinch. Her face contorted and she gasped several times as she was being put in her shackles. And when my brother was finished, she twisted her wrists around her cuffs, raised her hands as high as she could and tried to straighten her arms (finding it was painful to do so). The struggle with her restraints caused her to wriggle about, and when her squirming strained the thin fabric of her flimsy top and her boobs threatened to spill out, she blushed a bright pink. I got the distinct impression that Amanda is a novice at this. It’s easy to forget that not everyone shares the same depth of experience as you.

She joined Mum and me, standing patiently next to Regina as everybody’s attention now turned to Roz.

I classify the reaction to being bound into five types – playful, submissive, stoic, edgy and defiant. My mother and I are stoics, Regina looked to be playful; Amanda was most definitely the jittery, on-edge type. Roz was a defiant. She glared over her shoulder at Alex as he endeavoured to connect her bracelets. I don’t know if she was deliberately tensing her arms to make it more difficult for him, but if that was the case she only made it harder on herself. Maybe it was part of a game. I do that a lot. Or perhaps she was a little unnerved by the age difference. Some women are like that; they don’t enjoy being tied up by much younger guys, let alone a boy, and her face certainly bore a peculiar expression as she had watched him shackling his mother. But I don’t really get what the issue is. There are times when you can suck all the fun out of things by being too oversensitive. My personal motto: is Sudo non super vegrandis res. Don’t sweat the small stuff.

Naturally, Roz’s show of haughty bravado merely served to inspire my dauntless Lil Bro. He was taking great pleasure in his position of dominance. Well, I could hardly blame him for that. What adolescent boy doesn’t fantasize about being the solitary male in command of a bevy of scantily clad damsels? Nevertheless, he was still a bit uncertain, as he glanced across at Regina. Without a word spoken, she smiled and tilted her head in a “You’re the boss” way, so he went back to the cabinet, rummaged about and withdrew a bunch of long leather straps. Flaunting them before us, he slowly counted out five, draping them one at a time over his left arm and nodding at each of us in turn. With a flick of his hand he beckoned us to face away from him. Roz grumbled something unintelligible and Mum sighed, but we all obeyed.

We were standing in a rough semi-circle, facing towards the large storefront window. Around a dozen people had collected just outside the shop and were looking in. I think they were waiting to begin their own mystery tour. There was a young couple; she was blindfolded and he was whispering to her, no doubt explaining what she was missing out on. She was naked but for a microscopic g-string. Nudity is not forbidden on Aranea Island (not for females, anyway), and bare breasts are not infrequent, although such displays are normally confined to the beaches and parks.

My concentration was wrenched back inside. Alex had started with me. He looped the strap around my upper arms just above the elbows. It was composed of soft, supple leather, lined on the inside with a fleecy material, and secured with a glide or slider buckle for precise fitting. He pulled it as taut as he could, hauling my shoulders backwards and drawing my elbows together so they almost touched behind me. It was not painful, nor even particularly uncomfortable, because I’m quite limber, but it’s always stressful. Of course, the elbow tie is a perennial crowd pleaser, for the way it enhances your bustline. The tighter it is in the back, the more agreeable the effect on your frontage (from the point of view of your audience, at least).

Regina was next, followed by Amanda. I have to admit that Alex did good work. He was sensitive to each woman’s response as he tested how tight to make the strap. None of us, except maybe Regina, knew how long we would have to endure it. Of course, my brother’s concern was not so much sympathy for our ordeal as for prolonging his own enjoyment of it. Regina’s elbow tie was as severe as mine, but I knew my brother would go easy on Mum, and that was partly because she was wearing her strapless swimsuit. While aesthetically enhancing the display of your chest, the posture puts a lot of strain on whatever’s covering it. Even the Lil Bro has his limits. And in that respect, Amanda’s ended up so slack that it didn’t serve much purpose. Alex must have understood that she was not ready for anything more stringent. In addition, her earlier wiggling about had pushed her bikini top so far down that all that appeared to be holding it in place were – and I feel squicky just writing this – her aroused nipples.

Roz, again the last, looked on fearfully, expecting the worst, and with good reason. Alex had his fun with her, yanking the strap so hard that she yelped – more in shock than distress – and then he eased off. Her wan smile of gratitude showed that she had been broken, at least for the moment. And when he was done, my brother stood back, arms on hips and head bobbing in self-satisfied conceit as he looked us over, thoroughly pleased with his efforts. Yet while he thought his work was complete, it was Regina who had other ideas. She went to the cabinet, squatted with her back to it and reached in, fumbling about until she had what she wanted. It was another bundle of leather straps, these ones finely braided with a metal clasp at each end.

“You’ve got to be kidding,” a reinvigorated Roz snarled under her breath, as my brother sorted out five of the leashes and discarded the rest. Meanwhile Regina was back at the cabinet, and this time she took out a small stack of scarves, of shiny midnight blue. Alex took them and blindfolded us. I was first, so I don’t know what happened, but I heard one of the others, Amanda I think, emit a soft “Ooh” sound.

Alex had triple-folded the cloth to eliminate any trace of illumination, even when I turned my face directly to the window, where sunlight was now streaming in. As the darkness descended, the satiny texture was cool and tickly against my cheeks.

Alex grabbed my shoulders and shifted me sideways until I sensed that I was standing directly behind some-one. It took me a while to realize it was Regina. We were close enough that I could sniff the subtle fragrance of her perfume, no more half an arm’s distance between us. My brother looped one end of the strap around my neck and secured it with the clip in a loose-fitting noose. I had an idea what he was doing. There was a soft tugging on my halter and I moved very slightly forwards, to hear a faint click as he snapped the catch on the other end of the tether to the back of Regina’s collar. Then I felt pressure on the back of my yoke as one of the other women was harnessed to me. It was Amanda.

Once the five of us had been hitched in line, a gentle pressure on the back of my neck told me that we were to be moving off, and there was a small jerk on my throat as Amanda to my rear got the message half a second after me. I quickly grasped that Alex was leading Regina – at the vanguard of our little column – by her leash, doing so with little tugs that were transmitted via our tethers along the line. By keeping the strap in tension, when we got started on our journey we could each follow the lead of the one in front and so negotiate the path in relative safety. Regina must have the trail imprinted precisely in her brain, because she didn’t need too much guidance from Alex. In fact she gave him accurate directions all the way, just as Kate had done yesterday. I guess that when you spend so much time blindfolded, you learn to navigate by memory, aided by finely tuned sensory perception and well-honed instinct, in addition to some elemental good luck.

“Be careful, there’s a door sill,” Regina warned as we crossed the threshold. Alex hadn’t alerted us, but it’s possible that was due to being careless, not callous. I heard the people at the shop entrance shuffling aside to let us pass. There was a nervous giggle from one of the women, who was no doubt picturing in her mind how she would look in her own little procession a half-hour from now.

Stepping cautiously out onto the sidewalk, I tried to get my bearings. We appeared to be heading eastwards, because I could feel the sunlight, weak though it was, on those parts of my face not concealed by my blindfold. The noise of the street seemed distant, although I could sense the presence of people on every side – pedestrians going by, shop and café proprietors opening up for business, maintenance workers clearing away the detritus of last night’s festivities and this morning’s inclement weather. With the experience of yesterday’s trek, it was a relatively simple matter to hobble along in our little sightless queue. Even so, time stretches out when you’re concentrating so hard on where to place each new step, and I was beginning to get a little bored and irritated, not being able to see where we were going or what was happening all around us. Then suddenly it became worthwhile.

We had left the built-up part of the Village and Alex was steering us along a cobbled track which ran up a long, slightly undulating slope. I must have been fidgeting in my bonds, because my thoughtful Lil Bro, thinking I was getting wobbly, was walking by my side with one arm around my waist. From the angle at which he was holding me, it seemed that he was using his other arm to steady Regina and keep her on course. Yet though she occasionally needed his support, her skill at navigating behind her blindfold was really quite remarkable. There was no hesitancy in her pace – which actually made things harder for the rest of us because the tempo was just a little too fast to sustain.

The ground underfoot was smooth but slippery in places, and every so often Alex had to assist me in staying upright; and because we were tied together I could tell that the others were having difficulties as well. My brother must have had his hands full keeping the five of us on our feet, and for that I must give him due credit. It’s a nice feeling, being vulnerable and dependent, but I admit that it can also be quite scary, because with your arms pinioned behind your back, you are in a helpless and perilous position. Not only is it extremely hard to maintain your balance, but if you do fall you cannot protect yourself. Still, it’s part of the thrill, and a true test of your feminine fortitude.

I felt a constant tugging on the loop around my throat as Amanda staggered along, but there at least as no danger of my choking, because there was a lot of slack in it. None of us spoke, but there was much huffing and puffing. It was really quite strenuous; but just as I was beginning to lament my bonds and blindfold, I became aware that we were passing through a lush garden. The aromas were so potent that it was like walking into a wall of scented cushions.

We slowed down to take it all in. The pathway was lined with flowerbeds from which issued a rich effusion of opulent bouquets, familiar and exotic – sweet, spicy, pungent, musky, resiny, citrusy, minty, earthy – wafting and mixing in the breeze. The blindfold, as it does, stimulated my senses and heightened my awareness, in fact almost to the point of overload, because without my vision it was impossible to separate and highlight individual scents from the potpourri of fragrances. It was a strange, almost psychedelic experience, intense and intoxicating but at the same time disorienting. Regina informed us that this was called the Aromatic Trail. I would have named it the Perfumed Garden, and I’m surprised the resort people didn’t come up with that one themselves – or maybe they had. For as if on cue, Regina casually added that the sudden rush of sensation causes many blindfolded women to have an orgasm. I almost tripped over in shock. Alex only just managed to save me. I heard one of the women behind me gasp and my mother giggle. I wish I could have seen her face, even half hidden behind her midnight blue mask.

By the time we reached the end of the Trail, I was near exhaustion, not just from the physical effort but also from the sensory inundation. When we finally came to a halt, Alex asked if any of us needed to use the toilet. We all said yes, and I’m sure that the overstimulation had something to do with it. He took off our blindfolds – which was decent of him – but we remained bound and tethered. I blinked and squinted to adjust my eyes to the sunlight, and saw that we were standing on a small terrace on the side of the mountain, overlooking the Village. We were quite high up – I hadn’t noticed how rapidly we’d been climbing – and the view over the bay and beyond to the open sea was out of this world.

Nestled amongst the trees was a concrete ablutions block. Once inside, we could have released each other from our bonds without too much difficulty, but we didn’t. That would be against the rules, and what’s the point of submitting to rules in the first place if you’re going to break them whenever it’s convenient? So we had to assist each other in getting the job done. That was hard enough linked together with our hands cuffed and arms strapped behind our backs. In the narrow confines of the stall, it required intricate coordination and considerable gymnastic skill. It would have looked hilarious, if we’d had an audience, because we had to go in two at a time, while the others remained just outside, but with the next in line forced to lean into the cubicle because of our halters. We rotated through. I helped Regina, Amanda helped me, and so on.

Mum presented a special difficulty because, unlike the rest of us wearing bikinis, she had on her one-piece, which was easy to get down but a lot harder for her partner, Roz, to pull back up into place with her hands clinched behind her. Somehow we managed, but on the way out I made the mistake of glancing at the mirror. I have learned from experience that you should avoid seeing your reflection when you are helpless to take remedial action. My hair was a mess and my make-up runny from the effects of the damp air; my pāreu was hanging askew from Amanda’s handcuffed attempt to fix it back in place. Indeed, we all looked dishevelled.

When we emerged, Alex had the temerity to demand to know why we’d taken so long. I wanted to punch him ... or at least kick him.

Regina inquired about what we thought of the tour so far.

“Interesting,” was all any of us could say. My brother just grinned.

We got ready to set off again. From where we were, the track descended precipitously towards the eastern edge of town. Alex had taken note of the way ahead, winding and uneven as well as steep, and decided not to re-blindfold us... except for Roz. I’m not exactly sure why she was singled out, although I presume it was due to her earlier bad attitude. She gasped in dismay but didn’t say a word, at least not straight away.

However, with our eyesight restored (apart from Roz’s), Alex figured that his captives required some further restraining. I knew what was coming when he twirled the first of the scarves into a strand and tied a knot in the middle. When he realized that it now wasn’t big enough for an effective gag, I thought he was going to abandon the attempt. Not my enterprising brother. He unknotted and folded the material into a rectangular wad and pushed it between my lips. I didn’t resist, but started to regret my acquiescence when he reached down to my waist, took hold of my pāreu and whisked it off my hips. He fixed it over my mouth and tied it around my head. It was kind of bulky but did its job. I don’t like any sort of cloth stuffed in my mouth – in fact I hate the dry, musty taste – but the glossy texture of the blindfold scarf made this one bearable.

While Alex was gagging me, I glanced behind at Amanda, for her response. It’s always interesting to see how the novice reacts to new situations. She was boggle-eyed when my brother pulled off my skirt – how far did she think he was intending to go? – but she had settled down by the time her turn came. Nevertheless, it was obvious from her expression of revulsion and the way she instinctively pressed her jaws together that she was not used to being gagged. Alex, however, showed admirable restraint, allowing her a few seconds to relax, to lick her lips and moisten the insides of her mouth to accept the wad. Her eyes widened again and her head swayed slightly as he reached down to remove her skirt. The knot was positioned just above her crotch and as he grappled to untie it, she shivered... but bravely kept her silence.

She was still agitated when Alex put the folded material around her head. She tried to spit out the wad, but before she could succeed he spun her around, clamped a hand over her mouth and put his other arm around her shoulders to pull her into a tight embrace. She’s almost a head taller than my brother, with a wiry athleticism, and could likely have fought him off with relative ease, but for her arms being pinned behind her back. She struggled in the clinch for perhaps a minute before giving up her resistance. Nevertheless, when Alex let her go, he took a couple of steps backwards to give her space. She thought about her situation for a few more seconds, then slowly blinked and bowed her head in submission.

Alex extracted the saliva-soaked clump from her mouth and refolded it. Amanda didn’t say a word, but she opened her jaws wide when it was time for reinsertion. He told her to bite down on the stuffing to make sure that it didn’t go too far in and cause her to choke. She nodded meekly, finished with her show of defiance. He completed the job, securing the gag with a sharp tug of the ends that elicited a gargled moan. And to further remind her of who was in command, he grabbed her arms and rotated her again to tighten her elbow strap. As her shoulders were wrenched backwards and her chest thrust forward, her eyes bulged. He turned her to face him once more. He gently took hold of her bikini top where it had slipped and lifted it back up to cover her breasts. It was a gesture of benevolence but also a demonstration of his absolute control over her.

It was fascinating to observe their little pantomime. They each played their part in a drama with a predestined outcome – his triumph and her vanquishment. I suddenly realized that Amanda, though a novice, was no naive ingénue. And I felt so proud of my Lil Bro, that he can be so firm with his damsels when the situation requires it. On the other hand, there are times like this when his precociousness gives me chills.

Of course, three women remained to be muzzled. Mum was next, and Alex gingerly removed her sarong. She whispered something to him. I don’t know what it was she said, but he grinned as he pushed the stuffing into her mouth. She clenched her teeth when it was halfway in, and he tied the cover in place without any fuss. However, when he turned to Roz and Regina, I wondered what was coming. Neither was wearing a bra under her dress. Yet his solution was so simple and obvious that I realized the ceremony with the sarongs was just a ritual to reinforce his ascendancy. Since arriving here, Alex has kept a couple of the pliable leather straps in his pocket, for impromptu use on me or any other female he can get his paws on; and so he employed these to hold the two women’s gags in place.

Roz had learned her lesson and was not misbehaving, but this hadn’t relieved her of the blindfold. And although she kept her silence for a short while, once we were headed down the track she started complaining again because we were now going faster and this was causing her some problems. Her remonstrations were pointless and more than a little ridiculous, but it’s funny how some girls like the sound of their own voice even when muffled and garbled through a gag. As for me, if I cannot say it loud and clear, I keep it to myself (mostly).

Regina was the last to be gagged. Alex hesitated, but only because she had to give the directions. Of course, with her sight restored she could see where we were going and would be able to communicate by means of grunts and other assorted noises, plus head and eye movements. So even as Alex was considering his move, she opened wide to accept her gag. Then, without waiting for instructions, she strode forth. Caught unawares, I was jolted into following her lead as the tether between us stiffened. The same thing happened with Amanda to my rear, and so on down the line, to Roz at the end. Being blindfolded, she was taken entirely by surprise and uttered a muted curse as she staggered forward. I didn’t have much sympathy for her (since her attitude was becoming, quite frankly, just a tad tiresome), but I felt sorry for Mum, directly to her front, who had to put up with the jerking and lurching which tugged on her halter. At least Alex had the decency to walk beside Roz on the way down the side of the ridge, to keep her from tumbling (and taking the rest of us with her).

We had veered off the main path and were treading a narrow trail that runs parallel to the ridge enclosing the eastern end of Resort Village. This stage occupied about half an hour, and it had only just occurred to me that the first part of the walk must have taken at least twice that long. I hadn’t realized because it’s so easy to lose all track of time when you’re blindfolded and your attention is focused steadfastly on each step you take. It certainly feels like a long time, but you have no way of knowing for sure. Now, without that diversion, I was starting to regret not having a proper breakfast, although at least the hunger pangs provided some distraction from the dull throbbings in my arms and shoulders. Even my boobs were getting a little sore from the tension of the elbow strap. So I can’t say I was enjoying our little adventure; but that doesn’t mean I wished it would stop. It’s like when you’re having a really weird dream – you hope it’s over soon, but you don’t want to wake up until you find out how it ends.

Eventually we came down off the side of the ridge, emerging onto the headland, a grim, hulking protuberance of taupe-coloured granite, windswept and barren. We continued to a broad causeway constructed of gigantic boulders, and thence onto a long, tapering sand spit anchored across the mouth of the estuary which empties into the bay. About halfway along, perched upon a rocky outcrop snuggled amongst the spinifex, is a low, coral pink building designed like the hybrid offspring of a Mexican hacienda and a mediæval citadel. Over the gateway, a sign proclaims “The Sand Castle.” I had seen this structure from our hotel suite, but it had been too far away to pick out the details. It is, in fact, a restaurant.

The place was almost empty, with the morning tea crowd departed and lunchtime customers yet to arrive. The ambiance was standard family style, but the decor was ancient Greco-Roman, or at least its colloquial version. (Maybe this is where the Roman legionaries and their slavegirls were heading the other day.) We were greeted by the proprietress, a diminutive woman who introduced herself as Marcia. She was wearing a tiny, exquisite slavegirl dress, with all the proper accessories – gold neckband, bracelets and anklets in a baroque, antiquarian design. There were three or four waitresses clearing and setting tables, wearing similar costumes, and a couple of waiters in full-length togas. In fact, the latter were clad in the crimson-edged toga praetexta, attire which only a history geek like myself would know is wildly inappropriate for serving staff. Of course, even had I been able to say something, I would not have. I have come to understand that reality and fantasy rarely intersect.

Marcia ushered us to a table on the balcony which offered a superb view towards Frigate Island and the open sea. Without hesitation, my etiquette-challenged Lil Bro took his seat, leaving his five damsels standing by the table, bound, gagged and tethered in line. Poor Roz was still blindfolded and trying to get a sense of her surroundings. Marcia inspected us unsympathetically before gesturing to one of the waiters. He acknowledged Alex with a polite tip of the head, but was brusque as he seized Regina by her shoulders and twisted her about to unleash her from me. He shoved her to one side and removed my halter, and then the others’. He barked an order at Marcia to help get us ready. For a moment I was taken aback by his gruff behaviour and the insolent treatment of his boss, but of course he was playing his role. In keeping with the theme of the establishment, Marcia was a mere slavegirl and we were Alex’s captives. At least, I think it was role-play.

Alex stayed in his chair and began chomping on a bread stick as Marcia and the waiter took off our gags and removed the straps from around our upper arms, for which I was grateful. The saliva-sodden scarves and the three discarded sarongs were collected and placed on a vacant chair. However, our hands remained shackled behind our backs. My brother, ever the considerate one, glowered with displeasure and insisted he was not going to feed five helpless females. Marcia reassured him that this would be taken care of. We were blindfolded once more, with red sashes.

We were each allocated one of the waiting staff to assist us. The girl assigned to me kept me in pig-out bliss with a sinfully sumptuous serving of newly baked scones spread with a lavish coating of rich strawberry jam, topped by a gargantuan dollop of freshly whipped cream. I happily gorged myself, and my helper was kept busy wiping blobs of jam and cream from my nose, cheeks and chin. I also managed to dribble my grape juice down my front. The girl apologized but I took full responsibility. I had a lovely time.

We all did. The four women were assigned male helpers, and from the tittering and sniggering, I had a strong hunch that there was more going on than mere hand-feeding. Alex snorted in disgust a couple of times, as I regretted being left out. I heard Mum giggle and wondered what Dad was doing at that very moment.

Before we set out on the next leg of our mystery tour, there was another trip to the bathroom. On our second occasion we were sufficiently adroit at doing what was necessary bound and this time blindfolded. Not being leashed together made it a lot easier.

It must have been around about noon when we departed the Sand Castle and headed back towards the Village. The morning’s walk had left us pretty much exhausted, and our feast had left us feeling even more lethargic, so Regina commandeered one of the taxis parked behind the restaurant. All she had to do was say something to the attendant. Our blindfolds and cuffs stayed on (except, of course, for driver Regina) but that was all. When I heard Alex grab Roz, probably to reapply her gag, or maybe the elbow strap, and she started to pull away, I silently cheered for her.

“Let it go, sweetie,” Mum said, guessing, behind her blindfold, what was happening.

Alex replied with a sullen grumble; but it was a timely reminder to him that the privileges of being the sole possessor of a penis in our group extended only so far. I think that for a brief moment he was weighing the odds of successfully wrestling his damsels into submission; but even bound and blindfolded, four feisty females (we couldn’t expect resistance from Regina) would be more than a handful for one obstreperous adolescent, so he wisely opted for a tactical retreat. He was gracious in helping us into the buggy, and on the way back into the Village he good-naturedly described the picturesque scenery for us... Come to think of it, he waxed so lyrical that I now realize that he was, in his inimitable way, taunting us. I was so disappointed. If that was the best he could come up with, I obviously haven’t taught my Baby Bro as much as I like to think.

As the rumbling of the wheels across corrugated bitumen transitioned into a smooth rolling across level pavement, I knew that we were back in town. When we came to a halt, Alex tapped me on the shoulder and I climbed out. He guided us two at a time across the threshold of one of the buildings, and since hardly a word had passed between him and Regina, I had no idea what to expect. When he uncuffed me and took off my blindfold, as I adjusted my eyes, massaged my wrists, stretched my arms and rubbed my shoulders, I looked about. I saw that we were standing inside a place called The Chain Store. Regina quickly assured us that we were under no obligation to buy anything – we were here for a free fitting and a gift. Roz, always the cynic, suggested that the hard sell was reserved for the paying guests, and Regina responded with a good-humoured smile.

We looked about for a while, fantasizing about some of the items, hypothesizing about others. Here there was something for every part of the body, and a few objects which didn’t seem to belong anywhere that I can conceive of (or indeed want to). The merchandise came in a range of materials, from plastic to platinum. As well as appliances like gags, blindfolds and hoods, there was other gear, like chain mail bikinis (ouch!); and my brother became interested in a showcase full of chastity belts. He called me over and asked me to explain what they were and how they worked. Since he knew perfectly well what they were and how they worked, I ignored him.

There was a couple in the shop. The female was already blindfolded but was using her sense of touch and smell to guide her appraisal of the goods. When they were finished, the salesgirl showed us around the store. Her name was Natalie. She measured me for a beautiful set of fine gold chains – for the neck, waist, wrists and ankles – with accessories that included connectors to be used in all sorts of different combinations, shackles for elbows and knees, and indeed everything a fashion-conscious damsel in distress could desire. All pieces had detachable fur lining – sheer luxury! She told me how cute I looked in my bits and pieces and turned to Alex.

“Doesn’t she look pretty?” she said.

“Huh!” he replied. My brother is nothing if not eloquent.

Alas, the gold chains were not to keep, but Natalie presented us each with an elegant suede leather choker, mine magenta with a heart-shaped lock. I’m getting quite a collection now. She introduced Mum, Amanda and Roz to various other interesting devices, like spreader bars, posture bars, yokes, prangers, fiddles. I’m sort of glad I wasn’t expected to try out any of these, because they looked rather demanding. The most fearsome was an apparatus that Roz was put into. It consists of a bar in the form of a yoke which braces around the throat like a solid collar. At the ends of the bar are wrist cuffs, so the wearer’s arms are extended to the side; but also attached to the collar part is a rod which connects to another bar with ankle cuffs to splay the legs. The rod and spreader are adjustable, as Natalie demonstrated by shortening and lengthening them, forcing poor Roz into some uncomfortable positions – bent forward with her head between her knees or the other way with her body arched backwards, feet forced so far apart that she winced and pleaded for release (but she had a good laugh when she was liberated from the horrid contraption). Alex was invited to do some of the adjusting, and he enjoyed himself immensely.

We stayed about an hour before moving on. We wore our new collars, but my Lil Bro magnanimously chose not to exercise his prerogative to put us in anything more. It was good to be free for a while.

We piled into the buggy and set off through the Village, back towards the docks area on the eastern edge of town. We came upon a small cluster of weather-beaten, white-washed timber structures which I had seen a few times from a distance and assumed were just the old, rundown parts of the resort that had not yet been renovated. Regina set us straight. This is the core of the historical settlement which has been preserved in its original condition. We pulled up outside a building signposted “Courthouse” and disembarked. (Okay, it’s since occurred to me how unlikely it is that in the island’s pre-resort days the population was anywhere near large enough to warrant its own courthouse and jail. Dramatic licence for the tourists, I guess.)

We were met by a man dressed in an old-time police uniform and a woman in a short and shabby grey tunic labelled “Trustee” across her chest. Of course, she wore the ubiquitous collar, bracelets and anklets, which was fitting for her character.

As soon as we alighted we were (no surprise) arrested on the spot, except for Regina. The real surprise was that Alex was taken into custody as well. We were handcuffed, with antique iron manacles, and marched off to the cells. My brother was still in a state of mild shock as we were incarcerated, being for once on the receiving end. Nevertheless, as a concession to his gender, he got off lightly. While his hands were shackled in front, for the rest of us it was behind the back. This became a nuisance because there were flies buzzing about, being irksome and irritating, as is their wont. Alex was kind enough to drive them away from us, at first. Eventually, however, he wearied of being so gallant and left us to fend for ourselves as best we could.

The cell had barely enough room to accommodate the five of us, seated on tatty mattresses on two bare metal bunks set against opposite walls, close enough that Alex could perform his fly-shooing task (while it lasted) without having to get up. I should add that he had a ball and chain attached to one ankle. Afterwards, I was a little disconcerted to find out that it wasn’t locked; he could have reached down at any time to free himself; but one must concede that safety should always take precedence over authenticity. (That’s probably why we gals were spared the ball and chain – not out of consideration for our tender natures but because it was harder, with our hands secured behind our backs, to release the ankle restraint in an emergency.)

We spent about half an hour behind bars, sufficient for tedium to set in but not long enough for excruciating boredom. We learned that you can sign up for an overnight stay, with the complete tin bucket latrine, straw pallet, bread and water experience. You can even join a chain gang, like what we saw on our first day. Not my cup of tea, but whatever floats your boat, I suppose. (Splendid mixed metaphor, there.)

The mystery tour was far from over. It was still just early afternoon. Back in our buggy, we skirted the Village, taking a circuitous route that ultimately had us heading due north, up the island’s west coast. I had a suspicion of where we were going, confirmed as we crested the ridge above the Oasis. On the road about halfway to our destination, we encountered a ragged line of some twenty or so women and girls, bound and tethered by neck ropes and escorted by about a dozen buccaneer types who were striding up and down the column, urging their prisoners forward with a dastardly fervent zeal. Following behind them at about ten paces’ distance, a crowd of spectators was laughing and joking and calling out words of encouragement (whether to the captives or their captors it was hard to tell). Both groups moved to the side of the roadway to let us pass. Some of the hostages got into the spirit of the game by calling plaintively for rescue. We just shrugged sympathetically and drove on.

Pirates’ Cove is a small deepwater harbour on the south-west coast, enclosed by sheer cliffs and shielded from the open sea by the broken remnants of a wave-shattered prehistoric shoreline. According to local lore, or at least the version I read about in the brochure, Aranea Island was once a haven for the buccaneer fraternity; but frankly I don’t believe a word of it. I don’t recall ever reading about pirates operating this far west in the Pacific, at least those of the Blackbeard or Captain Kidd variety. Still, it’s a romantic legend, and the rugged terrain provides an apposite setting.

Upon arrival, we were confronted by a fantastic but slightly ludicrous spectacle – a fully rigged pirate ship drawn up on the narrow beach and enclosed on three sides by tiers of bleacher seating. Regina flashed her ID that she whisked out of who knows where, and ushered us through the entrance, past two cutlass-wielding sentries, just as a show was reaching its climax with a salvo of musketry, a thunder of cannons, the clash of steel blades, a barrage of salty language, the shrieks of kidnapped maidens, whistles and cheers from the audience.

Instead of showing us to the stands, to my delight Regina took us backstage, where amidst frenetic activity we gals were bustled into a dressing room. We were squeezed and laced into period costumes, magnificently ornate gowns with gorgeous trimmings and abundant décolletage, as the producer gave us a quick briefing. Mum, with her showgirl looks, was given the lead role as Lady Claudia, a beautiful Irish noblewoman who really did exist, or so we’re led to believe. She had been carried off by pirates during a voyage to the colonies sometime in the seventeenth century (albeit in the Caribbean, not the South Pacific) along with her handmaidens. The latter were to be played by Amanda and me. Roz was cast as one of the picaroon crew’s busty serving wenches.

And so we got to star in a rip-roaring, eye-popping, hair-raising, heart-stirring, chest-thumping, bodice-ripping buccaneer saga. Alex had a part too, more a walk-on, as Corky the cabin boy (or whatever – I didn’t pay much attention). The first scene that we played was the requisite boarding battle, replete with shouting, screaming and loud explosions. The boat from which we fair maidens were abducted to meet our fate worse than death was a prop façade, but it was rather terrifying, because we were slung, kicking and squealing, over the shoulders of our lusty captors who had to leap nearly two metres onto the main stage. With our hands bound behind our backs, we had no way of protecting ourselves if the guys had lost their grip and we’d fallen; but they were well-trained, brawny and experienced, so there was no real danger.

At the opening of the second act, Amanda and I were lashed to the mast while Mum, after the customary mauling and molesting by her wicked abductors, was forced to walk the plank. She really did. I could hear the splash when she disappeared over the side – but of course it was into a shallow pool just out of sight of the cheering audience. (Applause as the tragic heroine is fed to the sharks? Charming!) Amanda and I were then taken off stage, not to appear again. Apparently the ill-fated handmaidens were tossed overboard to join their wretched mistress. I was glad that little drama took place off-stage. I had no desire for a dunking.

We watched the rest of the show from the sidelines. Looking out into the stands, I recognized several of the captive women and girls we had seen being herded down the road toward the cove. Regina explained that they were given free admission and their menfolk got tickets at half-price (which, of course, was labelled ransom). Mum joined us, sodden and bedraggled, before we went below to change out of our costumes.

It was now about three o’clock, still quite early, but we were all tired, and the last leg of our mystery tour was something of an anticlimax, which was fine by me. We stopped in at one of the bistros in the Village for afternoon tea. We went behind the scenes to visit the kitchen and got to sample the various dishes as guests of the chef de cuisine. Dining is, typically, sans vue for the ladies, and all the food and drink is prepared with this in mind. Anyway, the most interesting aspect of the visit was that we tasted each dish both with and without our blindfolds, in order to experience the contrast. It is illuminating to discover (or at least have confirmed) the extent to which sight is involved in one’s appreciation of food, because it was like eating completely different stuff – not necessarily better but different. Alex took part in the experiment as well, but he just shut his eyes for the dining-in-the-dark, refusing to wear the blindfold. (Oh, how much I love the adolescent male ego!)

It was closing in on five o’clock when we returned to our starting point, picked up our things and said thanks and good-bye to Regina. It had been a fascinating day. Amanda and Roz accompanied us to the bottom of the hill and, incredibly, Roz allowed Alex to tie her hands behind her back and blindfold her for the (admittedly brief) walk. I guess it was her way of saying “no hard feelings” for her attitude during the day.

Once we’d parted company with them, my brother nudged my arm.

“Not in the mood,” I deflated him.

“Don’t even think about it,” Mum pre-empted him.

Back in the suite, we described our adventures to Dad, showed him our lovely new collars, and explained to him what he’d missed.

“Oh, and Mum got ravished by pirates.”

“Really? And how was that?”

“Wet,” my mother replied. My father just blinked.

We had dinner in the downstairs restaurant, followed by another night in. Mum and Dad went straight to bed. Alex watched TV while I retired to write up this journal entry. And so, as day three on Aranea Island draws to a close, I wonder what other mysteries and further adventures await us.

Re: THE (LAST) RESORT

Postby sarobah » Tue May 21, 2013 6:48 am

Day 4. Lessons

Last night I slept fitfully, still hyped up from the mystery tour. But I awoke feeling wonderful. There was no sign of yesterday’s rain, so I went for a walk. There’s a lookout point on the hill directly behind the hotel, and from there I witnessed the day’s very first light. A gentle breeze drifted across the waters of the bay. From one corner of the beach, a flock of gulls rose to greet the sun as it crept over the ridge into a cloudless sky. Somewhere in the distance I could hear the clang-clank of trash bins being emptied and the swish-whoosh of a hose on pavement – not the most romantic dawn chorus, but sounds of the town coming to life.

By the time I returned to our suite, Mum and Dad were up and about, and I was assigned the chore of rousing my brother. He looked up at me through droopy eyelids and demanded to know where was my blindfold. I could have argued or acquiesced, but instead I barked “Get up!” and beat a hasty retreat to the living room.

We had only a hazy idea of what was on the agenda for today, but as we were deciding where to have breakfast, we got a call from Kate, asking us to meet her in the lobby at nine o’clock. She didn’t say anything more, and I don’t know if she was being deliberately vague. We were told only that we would be attending a workshop of some kind, and Mum and I were instructed to wear our collars. I was mystified and intrigued.

Because it was still quite early, we ate an unhurried meal in one of the open-air cafeterias on the beachfront, and returned to the hotel just in time to see Kate pull up in her little buggy. Without explanation, she took us on a short drive down the hill to a building near the centre of the Village. There was a sign over the entrance, “Rope Riggers.” Dad made a joke about the name and Kate revealed “It’s not what you think.” The place used to be the headquarters of the now defunct Aranea Island Yacht Club.

She ushered us into the lobby, where a substantial crowd had gathered, fifty or so people. About a third of them were teenagers, ranging from Alex’s age to a bit older than me. The adults included the party of eight who had been on our plane, as well as two of the honeymooning couples. Everyone had the look, nervous but excitedly impatient, that you see on, for example, the faces of people queuing for an especially awesome rollercoaster ride. Just as we arrived, they had begun to assemble into three groups in front of notice boards announcing “Advanced”, “Basic” and “Juniors”. By now we had a good idea of what was going on, what sort of workshop this was to be.

After we had signed in at the registration desk, and Kate had departed, Alex and I joined the other kids for the Junior class, which was being marshalled by a woman who appeared to be in her late twenties. She announced herself as Sue. She was tall, attractive and athletic. She wore a leotard version of the staff uniform without the sarong, and the collar without the bracelets and anklets. That prompted me to look around at the other girls. Only two besides myself were wearing the collar, the signature of permanent residents. Of course, it was impossible to tell who among the boys was a resident, except for a guy of about my age standing beside one of the collared girls. These were alike enough to be brother and sister. In fact, they looked to be twins.

Sue led us upstairs, to a spacious hall on the second floor. It had been cleared of all furniture except for a row of tables along one wall which were laden with all sorts of gadgets and paraphernalia, including mounds of coiled ropes, heaps of silk or satin material and – most ominously – a bundle of bamboo poles. The floor was spread with soft canvas mats which were being arranged by a rather nondescript, bored-looking young guy whom I judged to be eighteen or nineteen years of age.

“That’s Brad,” Sue explained. “Say hello, Brad.”

Brad looked up from his chore and nodded curtly. He didn’t say hello.

Sue waved a hand in the direction of one of the tables. “This way, girls.”

On it was a multicoloured stack of Lycra, camisole-style leotards. We had to sort through the pile to each find a suitable size. The best I could get was in a rather hideous mustard yellow, saved from terminal ugliness by sparkly emerald trim and a little embroidered butterfly on each breast. Meanwhile, Brad led the boys outside so we could change.

“Shoes as well, please girls, and any jewellery,” Sue instructed, and when we were ready, she called out to Brad, and the guys filed back into the room. Naturally they gave us in our leotards the once-over, even if many of us were actually wearing somewhat more than we had before the change.

Sue clapped her hands and called for us to give her our full concentration. She talked for a couple of minutes, briefly outlining what was on the program. She had an easy-going, confident, sympathetic manner that was very reassuring, and a droll wit. She often made Brad the butt of her little jokes, and he took it with casual good humour. It was their way of breaking the ice, and they worked well as a team. I suspect that the stand¬offish attitude was part of his Mr “I’m-so-cool” persona.

Sue arranged us into male-female couples. The pairings were basically random, but with a plan. Siblings were separated. We were matched with partners of roughly our own age, although where that was not possible she placed an older girl with a younger boy. I assume this was so that we (the girls) wouldn’t feel too intimidated – although for most of us, from what I could tell, that wasn’t really a problem. Alex grumbled at first when he realized he wouldn’t be working with me. Instead he was partnered with one of the other collared girls. She was about my age but almost a head taller than my brother. At first she looked down at him – literally and figuratively – with ill-concealed disdain; but as it turned out, they had a good chemistry together.

There were two girls and a boy left over. The girls didn’t mind pairing up, and Sue claimed the boy (Steven) for herself. I thought it was smart, the way she did that. She didn’t want one of the girls left out, and Steven appeared initially to be surly and unresponsive. Yet immediately she called him over and put her arm around his shoulders, and asked in a kittenish voice if he would be her partner, he was won over. His churlish expression cracked into a sheepish smile and then twisted into a wolfish grin, and we all cheered. Steven turned out to be quite a character, and I don’t know what had been bugging him earlier.

Okay, saving the best for last... my partner was Philip, almost my age, a few months younger. He is quite good-looking and very well-mannered. He seemed shy at first, but we connected, and it was not long before we were like the best of friends. His sister, Nikki, was there as well. She was the oldest girl in the class, very pretty, shapely and from what I could see a bit of a flirt. She had squeezed into a costume that was at least a size too small for her stature and it was hugging her curves and crevices with not much left to the imagination. I think it was deliberate that Sue matched her with the youngest boy in the group. The girl looked distraught because she had been eyeing one of the more mature guys.

Sue began by announcing that the workshop would be divided into three two-hour sessions during the daytime and a three-hour class in the evening. The first was called “Learning the Basics” and that’s what it was – nothing really new, although we tried out some interesting techniques and picked up a few handy hints about stuff like the best materials to use in different circumstances: rope, tape, that sort of thing. Sue reminded the boys that whenever possible they should wind or wrap the cord around several times, not just to make the binding more secure but to spread the pressure and prevent damage to the skin.

“You should always be thinking of her needs, not just your wants,” she admonished.

She finished her short lecture with the standard “We’re here to learn but also to have fun.” Then she led us girls in a fifteen minute drill of calisthenics and yoga. The boys were invited to join in, but only a couple took up the challenge, and even they dropped out quickly. I thought that was rather wimpy, and if it had been my choice I would have made them participate; but I guess it allowed them the opportunity to stand back and enjoy at their leisure the sight of us jigging and bobbing, sweating and puffing and straining in our snug little leotards.

Sue explained (though I don’t think it really needs explaining) that a good warm-up is the best way to prepare yourself, physically and mentally, for a tie-up session. It helps you to relax when under stress and also to become more flexible. This makes for a better experience at both ends of the ropes. She also reminded us that a rigorous workout teaches you the discipline that will help you to focus your mind and immerse yourself in your bondage, which allows you and your partner not just to prolong the experience but to get the maximum pleasure and fulfilment out of it.

She used words like “holistic” and “fusion” to emphasize how all the different elements of good bondage should come together. In fact, she described the bondage experience as being like a spiritual awakening. The ropes deny you the ability to move in the world around you, your blindfold deprives you of one sensation, while stimulating others, and your gag prevents communication. But when you’re cut off from the world, with your entire existence shrunken down to the confines of your bonds, your isolation becomes a connection to your inner being, as you draw on your own resources of willpower and endurance; while at the same time you are intimately bound to your partner, not physically by the rope but emotionally by your dependence on him. You discover strength in your vulnerability, power in your submission, self-reliance in your helplessness, sensuality in your suffering, ecstasy in your agony, joy in your shame, intense self-awareness in your sensory deprivation. This is the paradox that makes your bondage so excruciating and so exhilarating – the experience of being imprisoned and yet liberated, feeling incredible arousal and unbelievable serenity.

(I can’t quite remember now how much of this came directly from Sue and how much is my interpretation and interpolation of what she said. She didn’t deliver all the information as a seamless whole but interspersed with demonstrations of the various positions and techniques. And although she tried to keep it pitched at a level her audience could understand, a lot of it fell on deaf ears. In any case, this is a journal entry, not a dissertation, so I’ll get back on topic, lest I be writing all night to get finished.)

The preliminary activities also included the boys giving us girls a back and neck massage. Most of the guys were at best half-hearted about this, being impatient to get on with the bondage; but Sue made them take it seriously. It’s good preparation for both partners. “You must exercise patience and self-discipline,” she told the guys. “It makes it more enjoyable for the both of you, and you will be able to tie her up for longer if she’s relaxed and comfortable.” That last bit, at least, got them motivated.

As for me, I revelled in my rubdown. Philip was gentle and very thorough, even as some of the males were totally missing the point Sue had been making. I have to admit that Alex appeared to be doing a good job with his partner. As obnoxious and obstreperous as he can be at times, at others he really does come through.

After that, we got down to the practical. The session was divided into segments, each of which commenced with Sue demonstrating some technique and position – or rather, Steven demonstrated on her, while she coached him and us. Brad provided some extra guidance, but mostly he stood off to the side observing, with a carefully crafted blasé expression. It was rather amusing, watching our teacher instructing her partner, in such a matter-of-fact manner, on how she was to be tied up, while she was being tied, and looking up from her own contorted tangle of trussed limbs to follow our progress as the boys copied Steven’s moves. Every so often her deadpan delivery would be interrupted by a grunt or a groan or a squeak, when he hauled extra hard on the rope or wrenched her arms ferociously behind her or arched her body backwards in a too-stringent hog-tie, or when the intensity of the moment simply got too much for her to keep bottled up inside.

We began with rudimentary hands-in-front and simple behind-the-back, crossed-wrist ties. The boys used supple nylon cord that felt like it had been treated with softener so it wasn’t abrasive and didn’t chafe or burn the skin. And while we were going through the essentials, it surprised me that many of the guys didn’t have much of a grasp of the fundamentals, such as cinching, especially when it came to binding our ankles. I could have wriggled or kicked free of some of the initial jobs in seconds flat. Of course, I’ve had a lot of practice. Philip was more adept than most, although he was a bit too tentative when it came to properly tightening the ropes. I figured it wasn’t my job to tell him, but it did become rather frustrating, knowing how I could escape with just a small effort.

When we came to the more rigorous ties, Sue first put the boys through a few simple familiarizing exercises, like having them attempt to get their elbows to touch behind their backs and trying out the reverse prayer position. Even without the extra stringency of rope, most were quite shocked at how difficult it can be, and by the sort of stress it puts on your shoulder blades in particular. Most gave up after a minute or so, and Sue reminded them that we girls might be tied in these positions for hours! If nothing else, the guys learnt just how tough the so-called “weaker sex” really is, and maybe some of then became a little more appreciative of what we can put up with.

At the same time Sue was never patronizing, and at times her delivery was quite risqué, like when she advised the boys to tie our feet with ankles crossed, so the knees can be spread apart. Most of the girls giggled at that, but I don’t think many of the guys got it. To his credit, Philip did – or at least he gave the appearance. Perhaps he was just being polite (which in a way makes it funnier).

Towards the end of the first session we got into even more arduous poses and postures. We practised four in particular. First was the classic hog-tie, which has enough variations that it can always feel fresh and exciting. We began with a straightforward wrists bound to ankles, with the girl lying belly down, flat on the floor. Then we advanced to a shoulder harness to arch the body backwards. Although uncomfortable, it looks more painful than it actually is, and many of the guys winced as they wrenched and tied us into position.

Next came the ever popular elbow tie. It’s something I’m familiar enough with, but several of the other girls were left gaping and gasping. We started with a fairly loose binding, which was gradually tightened until – at least in some cases – our elbows came close to contact. Alex’s partner had supple enough limbs that they went all the way to touching, which was impressive to see. Of course, as we know the major attraction is not that it totally immobilizes your arms, but rather the ornamentally enhancing effect it has on your chest. By hauling back on your shoulders it forces your boobs outwards; and for the likes of myself, not generously endowed in that department, the enforced posture is rather flattering. However, Nikki’s figure-flaunting chickens came home to roost. The structural integrity of her leotard was put to the ultimate test and I don’t know how the straps held – mostly a matter of luck, I surmise.

After the boys were done admiring their ropemanship, we progressed to the lotus technique. This is where your legs, with ankles crossed, are drawn up folded to your chest, and you are forced to bend forward at the waist until your shoulders are between your knees and your chin almost touches your heels. A rope is looped behind your neck (not all the way around, because your partner doesn’t want to throttle you) and tethered to your ankles to keep you restrained in your balled-up position. With your hands still bound behind your back, this is a very effective arrangement because you’re completely helpless, unable to move anything – except maybe wiggle your fingers and toes. It’s also very taxing on your muscles and joints.

Philip crouched beside me, gently stroking my back and shoulders. In my heightened state of receptiveness, the tickle of his fingernails gliding deliciously across my bare skin made me shiver. I don’t think he realized how arousing his touch was, until the goosebumps rose on my quivering flesh.

“Are you okay?” he whispered.

“Of course I am, silly,” I whispered back, between my puffing and panting. I reminded him of the old formula, “If it ain’t tight, it ain’t right.” He chuckled, as if he’d never heard it before.

We finished the morning lesson with a strappado. It was a good thing that we ended with this, because after nearly two hours of being tied up and tied down in all sorts of ways, I was pretty much exhausted, and this is one of the ultimate challenges. Because there were no overhead beams for the rigging, we (the girls) had to kneel to do it properly. Philip tied one end of the suspension rope around my bound wrists and, standing with his arm stretched above his head, hauled upwards until my arms were pulled up vertically behind my back and I was forced to lean forward until my forehead almost touched the mat. It would have been a lot harder on me if he’d had the strength to lift me all the way off my knees.

We only had to hold the position for a few minutes, but even by then my arms and shoulders felt like they were on fire. The purpose of the demonstration, Sue explained, was actually to show us that this is not the sort of thing we should try without supervision, at least not until we’re older and more experienced. As I rubbed my poor aching muscles, I could only agree.

The break for lunch was welcome, but the adrenaline was still flowing, so mostly we paced about, trying to work off some of our nervous energy. Philip and I got to chat a while. This is his fifth day on the island. He and his family are staying for two weeks. He was suitably impressed to learn that I am a resident. I also talked to his sister, Nikki. I had thought she would be one of those vapid, stuck-up, airhead, bimbo types, but she turned out to be friendly and intelligent. I was also intrigued that Alex and his partner were still together and appeared to be really hitting it off. I think he had proved himself. Her name is Karen and she’s only been on the island with her parents a few days longer than us.

After the recess, the second class was called “R.E.S.P.E.C.T.” I don’t remember what the acronym stands for exactly, but it was self-explanatory – all about respect (naturally), health, wellbeing, safety, “no means no”, that sort of thing. It didn’t surprise me that this session included gags, because there are so many hygiene and safety issues involved. Each couple was given a ball gag, a bit gag, a ball-plug gag and a ring gag. I was reminded of how much I really, really hate the ring gag. Philip, not unexpectedly and like most guys I know, prefers the ball-gag and said I looked “wicked” with it in place… which I choose to translate as “incredibly hot and super sexy.” On the other hand, I confirmed my new favourite, the ball-plug. However, this one was not as quite as nice as the one I got the other day, because it wasn’t tailor-made to fit. Still, it did its job.

First we put them on ourselves, then the boys tied our hands behind our backs and took over. Philip was rather clumsy and caught my hair in the buckle a couple of times. He apologized profusely the first time but laughed on the second, while I tried my best to utter the appropriate profanities through the latex orb wedged between my jaws.

Sue made a joke of the process. She started with a running commentary and continued as Steven inserted each gag in turn, and she kept the comments flowing as the words decohered into a jumbled mess of Urrrgghs and Mmmffs and Aarrghs, punctuated by intermittent grunts and accompanied by oodles of drool. As one gag came out, her speech resumed its normal pace and tenor until the next one went in.

We kept each gag in place for just a short while, to give us a taste of each. Then we selected which one we wanted to wear for the rest of the afternoon, and I naturally chose the ball-plug.

For the second intermission, we remained gagged, so there wasn’t much conversation, not from half the group anyway. Since our hands were still bound as well, sign language was also out of the question. Nikki did make a valiant and comical effort at choreography – I got to like her even more for that. We were allowed a drink of water, but had to take it through a straw, poked into the corner of the mouth between lip and gag. The boys obliged, holding the water bottles for us. And of course Alex made a game of it, teasing Karen by inserting and then withdrawing the straw several times before his victim could suck out more than a few drops. Come to think of it, there may have been some sexual symbolism in that, but I prefer not to think about it.

As we waited to begin the next session, the girl and boy whom I had taken to be twins came over to introduce themselves... well, the boy introduced them. They are indeed twins, David and Jane. They’d seen my collar and wanted to know all about me. Of course, Philip had to speak on my behalf, summoning Alex for back-up to fill in the knowledge gaps. Like Karen and myself, they are also newcomers to Aranea, which explains their attendance at these lessons. Karen, Jane and I exchanged a few significant looks and nods, but it was frustrating to be unable to correct some of the misconception and misrepresentations, especially those emanating from the twisted mind of my psychotic Lil Bro. So it was a relief when the final part of the program commenced. It was entitled “Limits and Extremes” although there was nothing too radical about it.

We started off with a few popular and some less well-known tie-up games, then moved on to topics like chest-ties and crotch-ropes. This part proved to be very entertaining. In binding my torso, Philip was endearingly careful, trying hard to avoid actually touching my breasts while looping the cord between and around them. “They’re just boobs,” I wanted to tell him, but I was still wearing my gag. Instead I ended up giggling so much that tiny bubbles were foaming out of the corners of my mouth and dribbling down my jaw and onto the chest he was trying to bind up. So much for the hot and sexy!

Meanwhile, Steven and my very own Alex seemed to be making the most progress, principally because their partners were the best-endowed of us; but they also appeared to be the least inhibited of the guys. So hooray for my brother – I have obviously taught him some things well. However, the couple having the easiest time were the girl-girl pair, who had been alternating in their tie-up and being-tied-up roles throughout the day and not surprisingly didn’t have any problem working on each other’s racks. (Being tied up by another girl has not been high on my agenda, but they looked to be having so much fun that it may be worth experimentation.)

On the other hand, even I felt a bit queasy when we got onto the subject of crotch-ropes. The boys learnt what most of us girls already knew, that there are two basic ways to position the rope, inside and outside the groove. Once again Philip was funny, desperately trying to avoid touching anything sensitive while nestling the cord in its proper place. But I also discovered (with a blush!) why the most effective crotch-ropes are braided or have a strategically placed knot tied into them. We didn’t get to try out these, but Steven tied one on Sue. Even through the fabric of her leotard the effect was clearly intense, and I was relieved that she didn’t have it on long enough for the inevitable result to become visible.

We closed the session with more demonstrations, just Sue and Brad this time, as he tied her in some hanging and dangling positions and in a variety of gymnastic poses which left me breathless with awe and admiration. They warned us that we should not rush into anything or get too ambitious too soon, but all they achieved was to make me and probably everyone else want to rush back to our hotel rooms to try out the new moves. (But we didn’t – at least Alex and I didn’t.)

When the daytime workshop was over, each of the boys received a certificate. We girls didn’t get one, which I thought was unfair, but I suppose it was because the guys were the ones who did the actual tying. On the other hand, we got to keep our gags, although that was because they aren’t reusable (on anyone else, that is). Those of us girls who were returning for the evening session were told we’d be wearing our leotards again so we should either leave them on or hold onto them until then.

We finished at the same time as the adults. Mum came out looking flushed and fatigued, but radiant, and Dad was looking very pleased with himself. I said good-bye to Philip because he wouldn’t be coming back tonight, but we parted with a promise to meet up at noon tomorrow. My family has appointments in the morning and afternoon, but lunchtime is free, so we have arranged a rendezvous in the park by the beach. Meanwhile, Alex took his leave from Karen. I got quite a shock when she held out her hands for him to bind one last time and then kissed him on both blushing cheeks. I thought that was a lovely gesture. He wanted to tie and blindfold me for the walk back up the hill, but I’d had enough for one afternoon. Mum appeared to be limping, as if certain parts of her were feeling sore, but I didn’t enquire.

As soon as we were back in our suite, Mum retreated to her room for what was obviously a much-needed nap. Dad, Alex and I watched television and made plans for an early dinner, since we had to be back at Rope Riggers by seven. We found a kebab shop just as the light was fading. Mum didn’t come with us, but when we got back she was in her leotard once more, and I got into mine. We put a change of clothes into a carry bag and then we set off, giving ourselves plenty of time for a leisurely stroll in the twilight. Lots of other people were on the move as well, bearing towards the neon-lit nightlife like moths to a street lamp.

When we arrived for the evening program, we found about half the number of people as attended the daytime class. Karen was there, and the twins, but we didn’t get a chance to talk. This time everyone collected in the main hall and the families kept together. The session was called “The Three Elements” and I was curious to learn what these might be.

Our instructors were a tall, striking, red-haired woman and a smaller, wiry, Japanese man. After introducing herself as Meredith and her partner as Sensei Ryo (I think I’ve got the spelling right), the woman organized us to sit in a semi-circle with Ryo and herself at the focus. She quickly enlightened us to the identity of the three elements – sensuality, vulnerability and strength. These are the qualities which are expressed when a man ties a woman and she submits to the ropes. (And here I was thinking it was just about having fun!) She also talked about the three facets of being – body, mind and spirit, which I think are supposed to correspond to the three elements.

I don’t remember everything she told us, but I’m inspired to do some research in the near future. Essentially, when I am bound, my helplessness is my power. Although it’s a paradox, what it means is that in my captivity resides my freedom – that is, the freedom to define, explore and test my limits and desires, to connect with my spirituality and discover my sensuality. My bonds are not restraints as much as they are the doorway or a channel to new perceptions and experiences; and by daring to be vulnerable, I reveal my strength.

We had already been told most of this earlier during the day lessons, and of course it could have been nothing more than arcane mumbo-jumbo. However, Meredith kept her delivery light-hearted, and Master Ryo had a rather quirky sense of humour. He referred to her as his chicchai dorei which means – I’ve looked it up! – his little slavegirl. It was ironically humorous, because she is almost a head taller than him and is clearly neither passive nor subservient.

Meredith didn’t hold back in any way. As they began their demonstration, she nonchalantly pulled the top of her leotard down to her waist. At that, there was much audible drawing in of breath.

“Don’t worry, ladies,” she laughed, “you can keep yours on this time.”

This time? Alex and I stared at Mum, as she pretended not to notice.

Meredith led the females through some yoga to relax our muscles, and Master Ryo guided us through a few minutes of meditation, to loosen our bodies for the stresses and strains they were about to receive. We were then put through lots of different bondage positions, postures and poses. Some of them were excruciating. “Break through the pain,” Meredith panted through gritted teeth, but I never quite worked out how to do that, or even what it meant. Some were rather humiliating. “That is no more than a condition of your mind,” she declared. “Shame is something that is created inside you; it cannot be inflicted on you.” Some put me in a trancelike state and others raised me to such an intensity of awareness of everything around me that it was like I was floating out of my body and absorbing all the energy of the room.

“You are not doing, you are not having done to you, you are being,” we were told. And just when I thought it was going to get too opaquely esoteric, Master Ryo got scientific, lecturing us on the role of adrenaline and endorphins.

There were other aspects of the bondage art that dorei Meredith and Sensei Ryo covered. I didn’t really get the stuff about aesthetics, that a bound female is a flower in the instant before the bloom, or that the different arrangements of ropes and knots reflect different states of ki or chi.

It made more sense when Meredith described how a skilled ropemaster is an artist and you – the woman being tied – is his composition. The artistry is in how the ropes highlight the beauty and grace of your female body. Their pattern and texture – harsh, geometrical, rigid and forceful – contrast dramatically and aesthetically with the smooth skin, the subtle yielding flesh, the sensual curves, the soft swells and crevices, following the natural lines of the feminine anatomy in some places, shaping other parts in ways that bring pleasure to both the artist and his subject. That last bit’s important. Just because your role is passive doesn’t mean you can’t participate fully in the experience. In actuality, while for your partner it’s a visual experience, for you it’s tactile. He beholds the product of his artistry, but you feel it… you are it.

A skilled ropemaster is a true craftsman. He knows not just how to tie the ropes in all different ways and places to create a tableau, but how to use them to give you pleasure, like positioning the knots at the receptor points, and drawing the rope slowly and gently across your skin, to induce maximum stimulation and arousal. He moulds your physical sensations, your thoughts and perceptions and emotions. He twists and bends and interweaves them, as he does the ropes, until they begin to merge. Your ropemaster is your dance partner – as the man he takes the lead, but he cannot dance alone, it is a pas de deux. As the poet manipulates words to create aesthetic patterns and evoke emotional responses, the master uses his ropes. He is your teacher, training you to become a stronger person, in body, mind and spirit. He is also your guide. He conducts you on a journey of exploration, both sensual and emotional. He takes you out of your comfort zone, beyond the realm of the cosy and the familiar, because your bondage, though it may be joyful and challenging – or even just plain fun – should never be easy. It can be – it will be – uncomfortable, sometimes painful, often humiliating, but that’s the point. If it were otherwise, it wouldn’t be worth it. It is not through ease and comfort that you define and explore your limits, discern and evaluate your hopes and dreams and fears, discover and draw upon and channel your inner strength, open your mind to new experiences and fresh insights.

A skilled ropemaster owns you. Once you have surrendered to his control, you are in his power. He exercises complete dominion over your body and thus over your ability to feel pain and pleasure. You feel what he allows you to feel, you see what he permits you to see, go wherever he decides you should go. And yet your submission is not about what he takes from you – your freedom, your comfort, perhaps your dignity – but what he gives to you. It’s interesting in that respect that Meredith stopped using the terms “master” and “active partner” and “submissive”, “passive partner” and “slave”, and started talking about the “giver” and the “receiver”.

Of course, Sue also reminded everyone about safe words and gestures. Sensei Ryo contributed with advice on preparation, technique, positions and safety, including stuff I didn’t know, for example the use and misuse of pressure points, and issues that need to be reinforced, such as the dangers inherent in suspension, strappado and the like. His insights included amusing things like how to interpret the difference between a moan, a groan, a gasp, a sigh and a whimper. Meredith demonstrated these while bound in a severe hog-tie, and I think her responses were genuine, because he was doing things to her to elicit the appropriate sound effects. It was entertaining, but at times also wince-inducing.

During the half-time break, Meredith showed us how to remain in tie-up mode when not actually restrained by the ropes. We females had to do this while the males were able to relax with coffee and biscuits (a bit unfair, really, but in bondage some of the fun is going to be one-sided). You stand with legs and torso straight, feet together, hands behind your back with fingers loosely interlocked (or alternately arms folded behind your back), remaining silent and keeping your head bowed and eyes downcast. I don’t enjoy this kind of overtly subservient posture, because it’s not who and what I am, plus it’s not like you’re physically bound and don’t have a choice; but it’s an acknowledgement of submission to your ropemaster. Sensei Ryo talked at one stage about invisible ropes and blindfolds, and the paradox of the strongest bonds being those which do not tie you down, and I guess this is at least partly what he was referring to.

For the third and final hour, the sexes were segregated. The males went to one of the other rooms for I’m not quite sure what. (Alex has refused to tell me and Dad hasn’t mentioned it, so I’m doubly intrigued.) In the meantime, Mum and I and the other females remained in the hall, and Meredith was joined by half a dozen more young women, including Sue. We were told to take off our leotards. That worried me, because I thought the guys were about to come back. However, Meredith explained that this was to be a demonstration, without the males to inhibit us, of how nudity enhances the bondage experience. When you are naked and there is nothing between you and the ropes, this becomes the point of convergence for all your thoughts, emotions and sensations. I’m not so sure that I get this, but it goes back to what she was saying earlier about exploring and celebrating the natural beauty of your body and how it interacts with and relates to the ropes.

To reassure us, Meredith (who was already bare-breasted), Sue and the other assistants stripped naked as well. They tied us in two positions. The first was a “bonding exercise” – I don’t know if the pun was deliberate. We were sorted into pairs of approximately the same age and size, and I was put with Jane from the day class. We knelt back to back, limbs interlocked – our arms box-tied and bound together, my ankles bound to her knees and vice versa. Our heads were drawn backwards, mine onto my partner’s left shoulder and hers on mine, so we could just see into the corners of each other’s eyes. We were held together in place by a rope harness that ran from a ring on the strap at the back of her gag, over my right shoulder, down my front between my breasts and through my crotch to hers, up her body and over her right shoulder to attach to my gag, completing the loop. Meredith gave the position a name, but I don’t recall what it was. We were completely immobilized, and any small movement from either one of us was felt by the other. It was harsh but also beautifully intimate, and the sensitivity to each other’s bodies was wonderfully enhanced by our nudity.

The second was an “isolation” exercise. We arranged ourselves in an inward-facing circle and were tied in another of the lotus positions, sitting cross-legged with our ankles bound, hands secured behind our backs in double hammer-lock style (that’s wrists crossed between the shoulder blades), a halter about the neck attached to our ankles to bend the torso forward, and another rope connecting our breast harness to our ankles to ease the pressure on the neck. Gagged and blindfolded, we were left in this position for the rest of the session. It was uncomfortable, not unbearably so but just enough that it was impossible to separate myself mentally from my bonds. That’s important in this type of bondage, Meredith explained. You must feel every centimetre of the ropes and you must feel them every second that you are bound.

In fact, this sort of rigorous, long-duration tie is one of my favourite experiences. As you settle into your enveloping bondage, your resistance fades, your struggles subside. Discomfort, pain and humiliation begin to blur into pure sensation, and you enter a blissful, trance-like state of acceptance and serenity. You slip into a dreamlike condition in which time ceases to have any real meaning. Your whole world shrinks down to your bonds. You’re tied stringently enough that your mind doesn’t wander far from the ropes but not so tightly that stress overwhelms the senses. You’re immersed in an eternal moment, or at least that’s how it feels as the initial ecstatic intensity of your bondage slowly dissolves into languid pleasure. At that point, you can drift out of your bonds (mentally that is, not physically… of course), to go to that “other place” beyond conscious thought and feeling. If that’s what you are trying to achieve, it can be incredibly liberating. But the sort of bondage we were being taught here was for the very opposite effect. You submerge yourself totally, drawing energy and vitality from the ropes even as you’re surrendering to their hold on your body.

Eventually, the stress of the severe binding began to overpower the other sensations and perceptions. Mild cramping began to set in, nothing serious but enough that I was starting to wonder just how much longer this would go on. But Meredith timed it well. At that juncture, the session came to a close. We were untied in an unhurried manner so that we could come down slowly. We remained blindfolded, with our hands still tied behind our backs, as our senses gradually readjusted. I lay with my head in Mum’s lap. Her warm, naked skin was soothing and comforting against my cheek and brow. She was gently panting and trembling a little, and I suppose I was too.

What happened after that, until we arrived back at the hotel, is largely a blur, even though it’s not much more than a couple of hours ago. As we were finishing getting dressed, the males came back into the room, just in time for them to give us some interesting – and interested – looks. We all thanked dorei Meredith and Sensei Ryo and their assistants with an ovation that was somewhat muted. We (the females at least) were still a little too spaced out to get very animated.

It occurred to me as we were walking home that the bamboo poles I had seen that morning hadn’t been used. I did not know whether to be relieved or disappointed, and I asked Mum and Dad about them. They responded with another of their inscrutable looks, so I didn’t pursue it. After supper, I left Alex watching television while I started writing up today’s diary entry.

Today has been... interesting... and tomorrow is going to be a busy day. We’re getting an insider’s tour of the resort, which means following members of the staff about as they go about their jobs. I think it will be fascinating. But more important, I’ll be meeting up with Philip.

Re: THE (LAST) RESORT

Postby xtc » Tue May 21, 2013 6:50 am

I do hope tht Cannuk will transfer this to the Hall of Fame as a result of this re-post.
Boxer shorts are cool,
but little speedos rule!

More by the same author: viewtopic.php?f=5&t=22729

Re: THE (LAST) RESORT

Postby sarobah » Tue May 21, 2013 4:20 pm

My near-obsessive need to revise and extend this story is, I fear, reaching the point of diminishing returns. Each additional chapter sucks in an ever greater investment in time and energy. I’m still working to get the tenth completed. On the other hand, the format is open-ended, so I could continue adding new episodes indefinitely… in theory.

Day 5. Shadow

When I woke this morning, I had no idea how the day was going to turn out. Now, eighteen hours later, I can pronounce it a success. I have a better understanding of how this place works and what life will be like here. The idea of shadowing staff members all day as they went about their jobs had sounded distinctly unexciting. But I have discovered, through observation and experience, that even the routine becomes an adventure on Aranea Island.

Kate phoned at seven o’clock for our final briefing. She didn’t know exactly who we would be with or what sorts of jobs we’d be observing or where we would be going... except for poor Alex. He was less than enthused to learn that he’d be going to school. However, he was quickly reassured by Kate that he would be just visiting and not be subjected to anything like actual education. Heaven forbid!

The resort workforce is organized into four sections: supply, maintenance, hospitality and administration. We could not cover everything in a few hours, and of course we’re already familiar with how day-to-day operations and infrastructure are managed. So today’s orientation program was planned to give us a general overview from the point of view of typical staff members. Mum also had some meetings to attend.

We decided to eat in after Dad volunteered to make the breakfast. He’s actually quite a good cook, so long as he sticks to the basics. Of course, I got the usual “Sarah, for pity’s sake, eat something before you fade away to nothing,” which, of course, I ignored.

When we were finished, we got into our uniforms. We had been given specific instructions on what to wear. For sure, Dad and Alex have only the one outfit for all occasions, slacks and shirt, so for them it’s not a big deal. For Mum and me the rituals are more elaborate. I was told to wear my “bikini style A-3” which according to the handbook means the triangle-top slider bra and tie-string bottoms; and Mum her halter-top one-piece, although she was instructed bring her bikinis as well, because in each section the women wear a different style. We were to wear the pink hibiscus sarong, mine as a pāreu and Mum’s as a dress. That meant she had to detach the halter on her costume, because it must be worn strapless with the sarong. Naturally we were directed to wear our collars, bracelets and anklets, and to bring two of our gags. I chose the ball and ball-plug. We packed our gear in a couple of carry bags, just as it was time to go.

We were scheduled to meet Kate outside City Hall. Despite the grandiose name, this is a rather nondescript office building and warehouse located at the western end of the central business district. It was a brisk ten-minute walk away, and this part of the Village, well separated from the cafeterias, restaurants and bars, was almost deserted. Yet even as we arrived, a crowd had begun to gather along the roadside. Before too long, there were several hundred people. Some were eating takeaway breakfasts, most were brandishing cameras, all were abuzz with anticipation. Many of the women were bound but there were no blindfolds, a good hint of an imminent spectacle. A few of the bystanders, seeing our uniforms, gave us inquisitive and – in a couple of cases – oddly disapproving looks.

My curiosity was piqued because we weren’t aware of any shows being put on at this time of morning. Then a voice called out “They’re coming,” and all faces turned to the west, towards where the ground rose to conceal from view the Oasis, which was about a kilometre distant. As I watched, figures appeared on the crest of the ridge, and thereafter we were confronted by a truly extraordinary sight. At least a hundred (perhaps a lot more) bikini-and-sarong-clad women were shuffling towards us, strung out in single file. They were ball-gagged and blindfolded, their arms shackled behind their backs, their ankles hobbled. They were tethered to each other by chains linking their collars. Each had a purse or shoulder bag slung around her neck. They were accompanied by about two dozen young men. These were positioned at regular intervals along the line, languidly chanting “Left, right, left, right…” to keep the females in step so they would not, in their sightless state, trip over each other’s feet.

When the vanguard of the column reached the small plaza in front of City Hall, the women executed a skilful pivot – I say skilful because they performed the manoeuvre without any obvious prompting from their escort – and formed a row with their backs to the building. After two dozen had done so, one of the men tapped the next girl on the shoulder and she took a position directly behind her predecessor. The next then came to a halt behind the second last girl in the front row, and so on so that as the new rank was formed they could file into their places while still tethered. After twenty-four more, a third row was formed, etcetera. The spectators broke into spontaneous applause, and I was expecting some sort of ceremony; but instead, once all the women were in formation, one of the men released the first of the prisoners from her blindfold and gag. He held up a clipboard for her to read. She blinked rapidly a few times to adjust her eyes to the sunlight, straightened her sarong with her still-shackled hands, and moistened her lips. Her assistant raised a hand to summon the other males to gather around her. When they had received their orders of the day, they went along the rows and unhitched a dozen more women, who were brought out to the front. They listened to their instructions, unable to see or speak but nodding acknowledgement. Only after that were they liberated from their cuffs, gags and blindfolds, and amongst them I recognized Kate. They and four or five of the men began freeing the rest of the females.

There appeared to be a particular order in the way they went about this, and it quickly occurred to me that these were section heads getting their teams together. As the women were released, they stood about chatting until it was time to go, as if this were nothing special... which, I guess, from their perspective was the case.

And so, as the audience dispersed, the workers of Aranea Island went off to their jobs.

When Kate saw us, she smiled and came over, reapplying her lipstick.

“Well, did you like the show?” she asked.

Dad and Alex grinned. Mum had a strange look – I’m sure she was thinking that in a few days she would be part of that show. Kate must have read her expression.

“It’s just one of the little rituals we put on for the tourists. Anyway, let’s not be late. Alex…”

My Lil Bro’s face lit up.

“You’re off to school…”

My Lil Bro’s face darkened.

“I will take you, if that’s okay.”

My Lil Bro’s face lit up again.

Meanwhile, we’d been approached by a young man and woman who were now standing back, waiting to be introduced.

“Lucy, Matt,” Kate informed us. She completed the formalities and explained the agenda. Mum and I were to be shadowing Matt this morning, Lucy this afternoon. For Dad, it was vice versa. Then, without further ado, Kate tapped Alex lightly on the shoulder and began walking away. As he followed, I have no doubt at all that he wanted desperately to put her back in her cuffs but did not have the nerve to ask. She didn’t volunteer and I don’t know what would have been her response if he had worked up the courage.

While they set off in the direction of the Oasis, Lucy turned to face away from us. I thought she was about to walk off, but she held her position and put her hands behind her back. There were a few seconds of awkward silence before my dad responded and drew her wrists together to secure them. As he did so, he couldn’t hold back a sheepish grin, and a wink at my mother, who replied with her customary roll of the eyes. She and I then waited a moment, our arms wavering; but Matt answered with a discreet shake of the head. So I was a bit confused. At first I thought there might be some code or protocol, that female staff don’t get tied up by their superiors – or in this case, our mentors – but during the day I saw several cases of that. I don’t think it was because Dad was with us. Since he had just cuffed Lucy, that would have been a double standard. I’m sure it was because of me, and that got me a bit concerned. Was this going to be the pattern for the rest of the day?

Lucy said something to Dad, and he replied “See you later” to Mum and me. Then they were off, and Matt ushered us into the building. The lobby was empty – it was still quite early – except for two receptionists, a male and a female. While there are not a lot of things left here that surprise me, I got a bit of a shock to see that the girl was chained by her collar to the counter. She had just enough freedom to move about in her workspace but not enough to leave it.

Mum asked the obvious.

The girl smiled, turned to her colleague for approval (apparently that’s important) and released herself.

“Health and safety regulations always apply,” Matt explained. “We work on the honour system.” I took that to mean that you don’t let yourself loose except in an emergency. The girl reattached her chain and returned her attention to her paperwork, while her associate dealt with us.

Matt told us to hand over our bags containing our spare uniform bits. We were instructed to keep one gag, and since we were given the choice, we both opted for the ball-plug. We did not have to put it in yet, just wear it around our necks, ready for when the occasion arose. Matt then took us up to the second floor. My heart sank. The room appeared bleakly barren, filled with office cubicles, a bank of telephone consoles lining one wall. And that’s where we spent the morning, in what is officially the guest information and inquiries unit but what its denizens facetiously call the “G spot” (for “grouses, gripes and grumbles”). It was not the most exciting of times. We moved around, observing the various functions and procedures. Most of the staff were women, who were not chained to their desks. Some were gagged – not the phone operators of course – but I couldn’t detect any scheme for who was and who wasn’t. So I asked Matt.

“Personal choice,” was all he said.

Sorry, but I have hard time believing there isn’t more to it than that. For a start, no workplace I’ve been in features “personal choice” as an employee option, especially if it has an impact on staff performance. And in any case, I like my gag as much as any girl does, but there’s a time and a place – and as far as I’m concerned, on the job isn’t that time or place. I suspect that the “choice” has more to do with a commitment made to a boyfriend or husband, or something like that. Nevertheless, the sight of the gags was a reassurance that the resort’s raison d’être is not just a façade for the tourists.

In fact, the most important thing I have learned today (and I guess I’m jumping ahead of my story here) is that being a member of the staff is, for the females in particular, not just a job but a lifestyle. We are reminded of that by the collar, bracelets and anklets we are required to wear on duty, and the choker that must be worn at all other times, at least when in public. They are not just part of your uniform, they are the symbols of what you are, and what you’re not. They become like a part of you. That’s how it’s different for the males. Matt and my dad get to shed their company personas at the end of the working day; and it’s the same with Alex and his school uniform. We don’t. What defines us as females, what separates us from the males, is what we are twenty-four-seven.

The way Alex, for example, would see it is that having the freedom of choice to be whatever you want to be and do what you want in your own time is one of the privileges of being male, on Aranea Island. And in a way I can understand his perspective. The laws and customs of this community do confer on one sex certain special rights and on the other certain obligations. For instance, it must be quite a treat for a boy to be able to give commands to his big sister and have her obey – like making me wear the blindfold in our bedroom. But I think that’s missing the point, or at any rate it’s only a part of the equation. Bondage is not about equality – how could it be true bondage if it were? But it’s not about abject inequality either. For me, the pleasure comes from my submission to the ropes, and sometimes – oftentimes – this means accepting that there is a degree of... well, I guess the word is asymmetry. It’s part of the package of being a girl, and I would no more want to exchange places with my brother than he would with me. So the obligations and impositions are one-sided, and that may seem unfair. But how can it be unfair if we’re all happy with the way things are?

I am starting to digress from my story once again, but the point is that I think the resort’s rules and customs do not just reinforce but actually define the ethos of Aranea Island. You cannot “sell” the lifestyle to the guests if you don’t believe in it and follow it yourself. But I should get back to my story, which in any case illustrates my argument much better than tedious exposition.

We took a mid-morning break in the ground floor canteen. This was, in fact, one of the few places where I have not seen a single blindfold or gag, and minimal use of wrist and ankle cuffs. I’m sure that’s because it’s a self-serve facility, and with females outnumbering the males by about three to one it would make the process very slow and cumbersome if it were otherwise. Mum and I had coffee, and she insisted that I eat at least a banana. I humoured her, picking out the smallest in the bunch.

By the time we returned upstairs, the flood of inquiries (and a few complaints) from the guest population had abated. Matt told us that is normal, with the next deluge due to begin around lunchtime. So this was the opportune time to hold staff meetings and training seminars. We were permitted to sit in, along with Matt. Not all starting employees get this sort of star treatment, just like they don’t get assigned a chaperon like Kate – there are just too many. However, new families are not so common, and a special effort is made to assist us in our assimilation. Plus, Mum and Dad are not just run-of-the-mill workers. (Hmm, that comes across as rather snobby – but it’s true.)

Today, the section heads were getting together to discuss WHS procedures relating to front office operations. Which, translated, means workplace health and safety measures for staff dealing face-to-face with the guests. A range of issues had been identified, and I found it not at all astonishing that virtually the entire agenda was taken up with matters involving female staff. One was a recommendation that security personnel be absolved of the compulsion to wear the collar and cuffs, for both practical and symbolic reasons. This proposal comes up every so often, it seems, and it was voted down. There simply aren’t enough incidents of a kind to warrant such a drastic revision of fundamental policy. If you’re female, you wear the collar and cuffs.

Two-thirds of senior personnel here are women. That number accurately reflects the ratio of the staff in general, but it’s still unusual to see so many of my sex in higher level corporate positions. The presence of two distinguished visitors was acknowledged, everyone acting polite if somewhat formal. The meeting was chaired by the woman who had presided over the morning’s assembly, and at its conclusion she came over to say hello. She’s tiny – it’s so nice to finally have an adult who’s smaller than me – and looks about forty, but well-preserved. I don’t mean that in any patronizing or belittling way. It’s just that you can tell a person’s approximate age from subtle clues – like faint lines about the eyes and corners of the mouth – and yet she has an otherwise flawless complexion and a body any chick half her age would kill for. There are a few flecks and streaks of grey in her chestnut brown hair (cut in the short style so fashionable here) which she has not dyed over; and that’s a pretty reliable indicator of self-confidence.

Her name is Maggie and she’s one of the resort’s executive directors. And now I know that the top echelons of management are not exempt from the regulations, because she was wearing the de rigueur skimpy sarong, collar, bracelets and anklets. Plus, of course, she had been part of that extraordinary pageant earlier in the day.

Maggie surely knows all about us, but she seemed genuinely interested in our goals and plans as a family, and in particular my decision to defer full-time university and hopefully take on a casual position as a teaching assistant. “We’re very proud of our school,” she said, but before she could continue, Matt came up behind her and politely tapped her on both her elbows. She glanced over her shoulder, hardly moving her head, although her expression betrayed a flash of annoyance as she placed her hands behind her back. She blinked a couple of times and wobbled a little as he connected her bracelets. He wasn’t very gentle, showing no deference to her seniority. In fact, I think he enjoyed making her wince. She looked as if she were about to say something more as he loosened the gag strap hanging around her neck. Just as her lips began to move, he pushed the ball between them, into her mouth.

“Sorry, ladies” he explained, “Maggie has an appointment.” He may have been sorry to us, but there was no apology for her as he roughly seized her upper arms, swung her around and pointed her towards the door. As she was hustled away, she looked back and nodded a good-bye, before being taken into custody by another young man. He already had in tow two women from the meeting. He attached a leash to Maggie’s collar and led his three captives off to their conference.

Matt read my expression. “We’re normally a bit more casual; but there’s a delegation of VIPs arriving this afternoon. Word is, there’s another bunch of bigwigs coming in from head office any time now.” He groaned. “It’s getting so you can’t move for all the corporate brass hanging about your neck.” He didn’t catch my secret smile. Two ironies in one sentence.

“Anyway,” he continued, “Helen, apparently you have an engagement as well. It’s time.”

Mum said nothing but put her hands behind her back.

As he secured her cuffs, Matt turned to me. “Sarah, I hear you have a date of your own.”

For a second I thought he was being snide, but realized he just meant I had somewhere else to be. I didn’t respond except for “Thank you for the tour. Bye, Mummy.”

She didn’t reply. She couldn’t reply. Matt had just finished tightening the strap around her head.

Outside, it took me a few moments to transition from the artificial light of indoors to the dazzling sunshine. I only just remembered to retrieve my belongings from the reception desk. Then it was a short walk to the park where Philip and I had agreed to meet. But first I had to meet Alex. His orientation was only for the morning session, and it was my onerous duty to assume the supervisory role – over his strenuous objections, naturally. However, since his alternative was to spend the entire day at school, he decided that I was the lesser of two evils.

He and Kate were waiting for me on a lawn bench in the middle of the City Hall plaza. They were happily chatting, but she looked relieved as I arrived. Her wrists were shackled in front, to her collar, hands in the “prayer” position, and her ankle cuffs were attached, so she couldn’t escape my brother’s company, if she had been so inclined. Alex, disappointed to see me, reluctantly freed her feet, but left her hands bound. She took her leave with a reminder that we were to be back on this spot by one o’clock.

As soon as she was gone, knowing what he had in mind I waved my brother away and took off towards the park, calling “Come on” over my shoulder. I suppose he could have been obstreperous, but like me he knows which battles to fight and which to avoid, so he trailed along glumly after me. It was only a few minutes to the rendezvous point. There weren’t a lot of people – it was too late in the morning for breakfast and too early to start picnic lunches – but on cue, just as we entered from one direction so did Philip from the other. We met in the middle, under a vast, ancient palm tree. He was with a boy of about Alex’s age, whom he introduced as his brother Dean. After the customary, cursory “Yo” to Alex, the brothers looked me up and down. I gave them a minute to fully appreciate my bikini-clad hotness.

Just as I was about to break their inspection by suggesting we get something to eat, Philip asked us to wait for Nikki. It took me a second to recall that she was his sister, whom I’d met just yesterday. My excuse is that there have been a lot of things happening to clutter up my memory. So we found a suitable patch of grass in the shade of a massive palm frond. The boys’ eyes widened a bit when I took off my pāreu and laid it neatly beside me. I gave them the usual “Don’t get excited” look. I didn’t want it grass-stained.

We exchanged a few idle, awkward pleasantries, and it wasn’t too long before Philip asked if he could tie me up. I resisted the urge to respond “It’s about time” and instead went with “Well, okay…” Alex wasn’t fooled, and I doubt that any of the boys was deceived, but it’s a girl’s prerogative to play hard to get.

Most guys prefer to tie rather than cuff a girl – it’s more intimate – so I removed my bracelets and anklets and laid them on the grass nearby (rather than in my bag, so I wouldn’t forget to put them back on later). Philip took from his trouser pocket a coil of white nylon cord. He asked me why I was smiling, and I told him my joke. I don’t think he got it. (“Is that a rope in your pocket or are you just happy to see me?” Okay, I admit that’s lame.) He held it out draped across both hands and I stroked it a couple of times – it was soft and silky – before nodding my approval. I was pleased by his observance of the etiquette – not all guys are so thoughtful.

I swivelled my body to face away from him and waited impatiently as he pondered what sort of artistry he could produce.

Then he took hold of my wrists and drew them gently behind my back. He wanted to bring my hands together in the palm to palm position, but I crossed my wrists and held them there, and he got the message. Of course, if he had insisted, I would have given in, but I was expecting that he’d learned enough from yesterday’s class to know which is the more comfortable way, and that he’d be gentleman enough to apply the lessons. It’s a good if rudimentary test of character, and I decided that Philip had passed. But he then started wrapping the cord around my upper arms. I had to smile, because I could predict that this was coming. Boys will be boys, and one of the first thing they discover, if they haven’t worked it out already, is the pleasing visual effect that a stringent elbow or biceps tie has on a girl’s chest.

“Why are you laughing?” Alex demanded.

“Not laughing,” I replied, “Just having fun... Ugh!”

Philip pulled hard to tighten the knot.

Dean had by now joined in and was trussing my ankles. My ever helpful brother showed him how to cinch the loops to make them more secure. Once that was done, they allowed me two or three minutes to get the feel of the ropes and themselves time to give me a good looking over. Then Dean ordered me to kneel so they could get a better view. They were surprised that, from my sitting position, it was almost impossible for me to do so. Obviously they have never tried to change position when bound hand and foot. So naturally they made a game of it. Philip, trying to be gallant, was encouraging, while Dean and Alex mocked my futile efforts as I flopped onto my side and wriggled about on the grass.

Philip took me gently by the arms and I thought he was going to lift me to my knees. Instead, he rolled me onto my stomach. I always know what’s coming when a guy does that, so I bent my knees to bring up my heels to my backside. He bound my wrists and ankles together. And in the process, he couldn’t resist allowing his fingers to crawl a little way under the edge of my bikini pants and press into the flesh. I shivered as he did so, but he didn’t react.

Even as he was doing this, Dean reached for the gag still hanging about my neck. He held the tip of the plug to my lips. I’m sure he was taunting me and thought I would resist, but I countered with a “Thank you” as I moistened my mouth and let him slide it in.

Once they had me helpless in my hog-tie, there wasn’t much the boys could do with their captive, so they ignored me and talked about the sorts of things boys talk about – sports, women, cars, women, computer games, other stuff, women. I wasn’t really listening, being absorbed in my bondage, except when the subject of me came up. Philip complimented Alex on having a sister like me.

“She’s cool and she’s hot!”

Alex reciprocated in kind, and suggested maybe they could swap Nikki and me.

I felt flattered by the accolades, until they started on discussing my attributes in detail. It was nothing terribly offensive, but being referred to in the third person and evaluated while lying on the grass in front of them unable to respond was a little humiliating… and what girl wants to hear that “her tits could be bigger”?

I realized that I was being teased, but because I was beginning to get bored, I protested with a few loud grunts through my gag. Naturally, that provoked them. On Philip’s instructions, Dean and Alex took hold of my upper arms to raise my torso off the ground, while he tied another piece of cord around my shoulders and anchored it to my wrists to put me in a harness. When it was tightened, my body was arched backwards until, as I lay on my belly, my boobs only just touched the grass. The guys were very pleased with the effect, and this level of severity is normally something which I can endure for a long time – I’ve had enough practice. Unfortunately, because they had only enough rope to loop it twice, the pressure wasn’t spread and it straight away began to burn into my unprotected skin. I was soon squirming, puffing and panting, so Philip removed the harness and sat me up in order that he and Dean could try out some breast bondage. They both seemed a lot less reticent than they’d been yesterday.

They spared me anything too extreme, but just as they were starting to get creative, a shadow fell over us. I looked up to see the figure of a statuesque young woman silhouetted against the sky. In her hands were paper bags from which emanated the unmistakeable aroma of deep fried chunks of seasoned congealed fat.

“Lunch, boys,” Nikki declared.

The boys immediately switched their attention from my tethered boobs – just in time, because Dean had fashioned the remaining two pieces of cord into what looked like nooses, and I had no idea what exactly he was planning. Nikki shook her head dolefully as she seated herself on the grass next to me. She glanced at her brothers and mine for permission and then untied my hands. Dean nodded his approval and I took out my gag.

Nikki smiled when she saw my appalled expression as the guys ripped apart the defenceless paper sacks like ravenous hyenas. Out of one of the ravaged bags rolled a small, forlorn bundle. She snatched it up before the pack pounced. It contained two extraordinarily delicious-looking prawn and avocado salad wraps.

“Not for you,” she snarled at the three males. At that instant she ascended to the status of a demigoddess.

As we ate our lunch, Dean told us – Nikki and me – that we were not to speak, but we just ignored him. She studied my bracelets and anklets with admiration, and said how lucky I was to be living here on the island. As I had discovered the other day, this girl is a study in contrasts. She’s about a year older than me, but way more mature – taller, more curvaceous and more elegant, and at the same time she’s very much down to earth. She was wearing a string tanga and bandeau bikini so tiny it made me feel positively overdressed, and yet she carried it off with panache. Her expression, bearing and attitude signalled a fearless pride and a formidable self-confidence, but she wore about her throat a slavegirl collar from which dangled a leash clasp and a ready-to-go ball-gag; and when she spoke she did so in a self-deprecating manner and showed towards her two younger brothers a certain deference that I would never evince towards my own Lil Bro. The contradictions are so obvious that I am sure she’s playing the game. Back home, I’m willing to bet she’s the ice queen or the iron maiden.

Once we’d finished our lunch, while Nikki cleared up the detritus and deposited it in a nearby bin, Philip hog-tied and gagged me once more. And, of course, as soon as Nikki returned Dean and Alex seized her, forced her hands behind her back and her heels up to her butt, and trussed her in a hog-tie as well, using the rope Dean had intended for my boobs. She squealed, wriggled about and spat out threats, but her resistance quickly faded after she was silenced with her ball-gag.

Once we were both subdued and helpless, the boys decided to have some more fun with us. They positioned us together on the grass, lying on our sides facing one another. They pushed us up close until our bodies were pressed against each other. Philip undid the tie-strings of my bikini pants. I struggled violently as he did this, because I wasn’t sure how far he was aiming to go, but the other two guys held me down. He fastened them to the sides of his sister’s thong. Nikki’s eyes, directly in front of mine, bulged, and I felt her rasping breath on my face. And suddenly the darkness descended. I could tell from the coloured sunlight fringes at the edges of the cloth that I had been blindfolded with my sarong.

As usual, knowing what guys are like, I had a good idea of what was coming and steeled my body for the onslaught. Fifteen or twenty minutes of unmerciful tickle torture ensued, made more fiendish by the fact that we couldn’t writhe and twist in our torment because any major squirming by either Nikki or myself pulled our bodies away from each other and we risked de-pantsing ourselves. We cursed our captors though our gags.

The boys played with us for about an hour or so, but all too soon it was time to go. They let us up but kept us bound and gagged. Philip tied my bikini bottoms and skirt back in place and brushed the grass out of my hair and off my arms and legs. We looked at each other for a minute or two, and I could see that he was trying to pluck up the courage to say something. His voice was croaky – how cute was it that he was still so nervous?

“Are… you… doing anything tonight?” he finally got out. “There’s this disco…”

I did my best to play it cool, not so hard to pull off when all you can do to answer is tip your head and flutter your eyelids. I looked to Alex, not for his permission (hardly!) but to ensure we did not have any prior family engagements. He shrugged a “Nothing stopping you” and Philip looked very pleased with himself.

“Well, sis, we gotta go,” Alex spoilt the moment, but he was right. He grabbed my purse for me, and gathered up my bracelets and anklets.

However, Nikki was making grunting noises and started vigorously wiggling her head. I thought “Uh-oh,” wondering what she needed to tell us, as her brothers got the message and Dean released her from her gag.

“Ask for the room number,” she said. “Andromeda Hotel, right?” she turned to Alex.

“Better idea,” he replied. “We’ll come to you. Save you a trip up and down the hill.”

We? Philip and I glared at him. He took his time to savour the moment.

“I got the latest Lara Croft,” he finally said to Dean.

“Awesome.”

I have to give my Lil Bro credit. He had me going there, if only for a minute. I could also see what Nikki had done. They already knew where we were staying – I had mentioned it more than once. So it’s clear that she would make a good social organizer. As her reward, Dean thrust the ball of her gag back between her jaws while Philip took one of the ropes, fixed it to her collar and with as casual a “See you at six” as he could muster, led her away. Dean tarried for one last lingering gaze at me… little pervert. He and my Alex would make a great partnership.

Once they were gone, Alex and I set off back to City Hall, and by the time we reached the plaza, Dad was waiting there for us, with Lucy. We exchanged pleasantries – well, the three of them did, while I made some gaggy noises. Lucy told us that I could keep my hands bound with the cord, that I didn’t have to wear my cuffs, and then we set off in her buggy, right across town to the eastern end of Resort Bay.

We headed into the wharf area. What followed was a less than thrilling couple of hours, but Lucy herself was an interesting enough study. She’s the transportation coordinator for the entire docks, but appears to be in her mid-twenties, so she is either very youthful looking for her age or must be something of a prodigy, to have such a high rank. The waterfront was not very busy, and in fact we spent the time observing her job in a haze of ennui, but she supervised vehicle movements in, out and around the place like a choreographer. Although it meant nothing to me, Dad and Alex were fascinated by the balletic interplay of machinery and equipment – boys love big toys. When they didn’t have their eyes on Lucy, that is.

She is small and slim, with an impish face framed by ash blonde hair in a rather shaggy bob-cut that makes her look even younger. But there’s none of the little girl innocence about the way she wears her bikini and pāreu. She knows how to create the maximum visual impact. The shoulder straps of her top kept slipping off her shoulders and her hands were in perpetual motion pushing them back up. She could have just tightened them to keep them in place, so I’m sure it was a calculated effect. She wore the pāreu slung so low on her hips that just one more centimetre of slippage would have rendered it superfluous. And yet it did my feminist heart proud to see this wisp of a girl, wearing next to nothing, ordering and bossing about big, husky men. I noticed that every so often one of the guys would stare pensively at the slave collar encircling her neck, the ball-gag hanging on its strap next to it, the shackles on her wrists and ankles. However, the docks are not just the only place on the island where I’ve seen more men than women, but also where there is very little staff bondage at all. The latter is no doubt due to WHS regulations.

At about three o’clock, Lucy took us down to that part of the wharf adjoining the passenger terminal. I was looking about, trying to decide what we were supposed to be observing, when she – somewhat impatiently – pointed out into the bay. Anchored offshore, about halfway between the beach and Frigate Island, was a sleek, glistening white whale of a cruise liner. It was not the one we’d seen from the air the other day, and it was too far away to make out the name, but it showed the unmistakeable signs of opulent excess. It was of medium size, stubby but stacked with six or seven decks, meaning anywhere from four to eight hundred passengers.

As we watched, a small fleet of water taxis appeared from behind the bow, strung out in a single file and bearing straight for us. Since they had departed from the far side of the ship, I’m not sure how the passengers had been off-loaded, and it struck me as rather odd that the disembarkation would be on the seaward side, exposed to the ocean waves; but I presume the prevailing wind is from the south-east and that the anchorage is therefore sheltered by Frigate Island. In any case, the surface of the bay was flat as a tabletop as the little flotilla chugged on towards the shore.

Lucy was on her transceiver issuing instructions, so Dad, Alex and I took up a suitable vantage point to view the approaching vessels.

“It’s not a lifeboat,” Dad informed Alex. “It’s called a tender.”

I could have told him that, but I wasn’t in a condition to say anything.

As the first one docked, a half-dozen or so young women emerged from the nearby terminal building carrying parcels like those we had received at the airport on our first day. The passengers came off, were greeted by the hostesses and continued inside. These numbered around sixty. They could have been tourists arriving at any tropical resort, and were decked out in the paradigmatic gaudy shirts and voluminous shorts, sarongs and sundresses, flip-flops and sandals, hideous hats and silly sunglasses.

Once the second boat had pulled in, nothing happened for a good while. Their windows were tinted, so we couldn’t see what was going on. And then someone appeared, a crewman. He had one arm held up, and as he started to walk slowly down the gang-plank, a rope he was clutching at shoulder level drew taut. At its other end there now appeared the first of what turned out to be about thirty females, of ages from around late teens to early fifties. They were wearing everything from bikinis to frocks to jeans and t-shirts; but all were bound, in various ways, gagged with all sorts of appliances, and tethered by the neck with a thin, metallic cable attached at metre-length intervals to stiff leather halters.

Their menfolk walked alongside, carrying luggage but leaving one hand free to steady their ladies, some of whom appeared bewildered and disoriented. Others looked cheerful and all keyed up. Some were giggling, several appeared to be scowling or grimacing, and many were clearly embarrassed to be trussed and tethered. It was obvious that they were not used to being bound like this, at least not in public. We were standing just a short distance away, and as they passed us by, some gave me a funny look. I’d almost forgotten that I was still gagged, my hands still tied behind my back. Even so, it was rather odd that I would get their attention like that. Perhaps they hadn’t thought through what their experience would be, and to see me standing casually on the dockside awakened them to what Aranea Island Resort is really all about.

The gangway rocked slightly from the small swells washing up against the pier, and some of the women, in particular those who had been blindfolded, almost lost their balance and had to be braced by their partners. Seeing them, I immediately understood the reason for the delay on board before they disembarked. They had not been bound and helpless while they still out on the open water. That would be too dangerous.

Lucy had been directing traffic, but as the new bunch moved slowly towards the building she came over to us.

“The ship’s on an overnight stopover,” she explained. “Most of the passengers will be sleeping aboard since there aren’t enough hotel beds and other facilities in town.”

Dad and Alex nodded but didn’t say anything. Their lack of curiosity annoyed me because I was still gagged and had some questions. Like how often the cruise ships come in, and do many of the people choose to remain on board the entire time of anchorage in the bay? And also, why are there not enough rooms in the Village when the place is only half-full? I suspect that the answer to my second unspoken query is that most women don’t want to spend the night ashore. That makes some sense, since their sojourn is merely a drop-in visit. But I don’t know why Lucy didn’t just tell us that. Oh well, the world is full of unsolved mysteries.

Perhaps Lucy was about to explain, but before she could continue, a rather fearsome looking fellow came up behind her. Without acknowledging his presence or skipping a beat in her exposition, she placed her arms to her rear and he forced her wrists together, brusque enough that she gasped. When her hands were secured behind her back, he returned to his normal duties while she broke off her commentary and began walking towards where the third boat had pulled away and a fourth had berthed.

“Come on,” she laughed. “It’s time for the meet and greet.”

We mounted the gangway and it was indeed difficult to stay upright as it swayed beneath us. Dad assisted me and Alex helped Lucy. We were welcomed as we stepped onto the deck by the skipper, who nodded a cordial greeting to Lucy, shook hands with Dad and Alex and gave me an indulgent – and rather patronizing – smile. He ushered us into a large canopied area behind the wheelhouse where a few dozen people were gathered. There were some bulging eyes when they saw Lucy and me, but even as we arrived the male passengers had started binding their ladies. The crew members, men and women, were moving about, giving advice and assistance.

Dad stayed with Lucy and the captain, while Alex and I decided to be helpful. There were three families from what I could see. One of these was having some problems, and I guessed that this was their first time. The husband was preoccupied with his wife, leaving their son to tie up his two sisters. He was a bit younger than Alex. The girls looked to be around sixteen or seventeen and could have been twins. I could tell that they were willing to be bound but were being difficult, which reinforced the impression that this was a novel experience for them. One of the girls stood passively with her hands behind her back while her brother struggled with the other, and when he gave up in frustration and turned to her, she began playing up as well. The boy was getting quite agitated, and so we intervened.

When the girls beheld me bound and gagged, they settled down a bit because (I presume) they could see I was not in any discomfort. Then, under Alex’s direction, their brother grabbed one of them and spun her around to face away from him, but he immediately calmed her by placing his hands lightly on her shoulders and running them down the length of her arms, slowing and gently drawing them behind her back as he did so. He crossed her wrists and looped the cord about them, and Alex showed him how to apply the cinch. The second girl then co-operated without any more fuss. Once they were helpless, they both squirmed and whimpered, but had that tight-lipped grin you see on people who don’t want to reveal how much they’re actually enjoying themselves. They twisted their bodies about to inspect each other’s bonds, then turned back to their brother and looked as if they were about to say something, when their eyes opened comically wide. Their father was in the process of gagging their mother, who was already tightly bound at the wrists and elbows and blindfolded with a black sash. He had one hand on her forehead to hold her head back and still as he pressed a large orange ball between her jaws. The gurgled moan that dribbles out as the gag goes in, which is so familiar to tie-up veterans like me, must sound scarily exotic to the ingénue.

Alex handed his protégé a wiffle-type ball-gag (the one with breathing holes), stripping away the cellophane wrapping and holding it up by one end of the elastic strap so that both girls could view it with boggling eyes. The boy chose one of his sisters at random and she meekly opened her mouth wide; but as soon as the ball touched her lips she clenched her teeth – just a fraction of a second too late. Though she bit down on it, the ball was inside her mouth. Seeing this, the other girl surrendered to her fate without resistance.

While Alex was helping out, my gallant father went to the assistance of three young women – a tall blonde, a small brunette and a curvaceous redhead. The latter had tied and gagged her companions, so Dad volunteered to do the same for her, and she accepted his offer with a smile that was both coy and coquettish. She swivelled her hips halfway to facing him, with a slow and sinuous motion, as he bound her hands behind her. To secure the cord, he had to pull her arms back towards him, which put stress on her flimsy bikini top, akin to the effect of an elbow tie. I think she was about to speak to him when he pushed the gag into her mouth. I wonder what she was going to say.

By this time, every female on the deck had been gagged and bound. The gagging included Lucy and the two crew members, though I didn’t see who worked on them. Only about half the women were blindfolded. Unlike the passengers on the previous boat, there was no tethering, so each family or group simply departed when they were ready. While Alex accompanied Lucy and me, Dad escorted two-thirds of the threesome.

As soon as she was on dry land once more, since the worker who had cuffed and gagged Lucy did not come back, Dad released her.

Altogether, six boats came in. As the very last emptied, the women were in uniform. In contrast to so many of the passengers, they all appeared totally at ease with being bound, gagged and leashed, and so I assume this particular ship makes regular calls here. Lucy advised us to take a closer look at the first woman in line, a well-groomed, distinguished-looking woman with slightly greying hair. I could tell that she was important from the gold stripes on her epaulettes. She (like her fellow crew members) was bound far more severely than the civilians. Her arms were pinioned tightly behind her back, at the wrists and just above the elbows, with thick black flex of some kind. The tether which connected her to the woman behind was not attached to her collar. Instead, she was wearing a bit gag, and the leash was fixed to a ring on the bar clenched in her teeth. The cable ran not over her shoulder but down her front and between her legs, hitching up and constricting her dress and forcing her to take small, wobbly steps.

“That’s the X-O,” Lucy whispered.

“What’s an ex oh?” my clueless brother demanded. “Shut up!” he growled as I grunted my disdain.

“Executive Officer,” Lucy replied patiently. “Second in command.”

She discretely pointed out a couple of other senior officers in the line-up. I found this a little surprising, but I suppose it’s good public relations that the “brass” get into the Aranea spirit.

The X-O lifted and tilted her head in our direction as she and the others shuffled by. It was impossible to tell if she was smiling, but she nodded and winked a greeting. Lucy replied with a nod and a smile.

Soon the docks were deserted once more. It was getting on towards late afternoon, Lucy’s shift was ending and she was ready to head back to the Oasis. Dad asked me if I wanted to be untied and ungagged, but I decided to wait until we got back to the hotel. Lucy dropped us off at the front entrance and Dad thanked her for an interesting and informative day. We made our farewells and went up to our suite.

Mum arrived just after we got back. Matt brought her in cuffed and gagged. Dad gave them a funny look, but he could hardly object since he’d been doing the same to Lucy. As she went off to her bedroom to change, Dad mentioned dinner and Alex and I explained our plans. So we had a light meal, just milk and sandwiches, and discussed the highlights of our day. My brother’s big disappointment has been that there were no tie-ups allowed at school.

“Not even the teachers,” he grumbled.

To be continued...

Re: THE (LAST) RESORT

Postby sarobah » Tue May 21, 2013 5:29 pm

Continued...

After that it was time for some serious decision-making. For my debut into the local social scene, should I go cute or casual, frilly or formal, slinky or slutty? After much careful consideration, I chose my powder blue Chambray ruffle blouse and flirt skirt, and new Qupid strappy sandals. For my accessorizing, I went with the burgundy choker and Velcro fun cuffs with faux vicuña lining, the mulberry red sleep-mask blindfold from the restaurant (because the cornflower blue blossoms match my outfit, of course) and – after some agonizing – the muzzle-and-harness gag (which is not my favourite but the one that minimizes the dribble factor – copious drool being not the best way to impress a boy).

I hadn’t been sure how our parents would take the news that Alex and I were going out alone. In fact, they were pleased that we had made new friends. They were, however, a trifle too happy that we’d be gone till ten thirty. Dad’s eyes kept flickering in the direction of their bedroom, and Mum blushed when Alex – as ever the precocious Lil Bro – promised, “Don’t worry, we won’t get back early.”

It was getting on towards six o’clock when we left the hotel. I allowed Alex to put just one restraint on me, and wasn’t at all surprised when he chose the gag. Bossy big sis isn’t so bossy when she can’t talk.

Philip’s family is staying in the heart of the downtown area, in one of the fancier establishments. We had to check in at the front desk before proceeding. Like her counterpart at City Hall, the receptionist was chained by her collar to the counter top. I’ve wondered why the girl at the Andromeda is not, and have decided that each place sets its own policy. This one smiled approvingly at my collar and gag as Alex announced our names. She consulted a register, then nodded and smiled again. I’m guessing that it has a list of staff and family members, because her manner seemed to indicate that she knew we were residents.

Also unlike our own, the Regatta Hotel has a porter (actually here they’re called stewards), a handsome young guy in awfully unstylish white trousers and kitschy floral shirt. I have to say that the resort’s uniforms do not flatter the male staff. Whereas the women’s outfits are cute and sexy, the men’s are neither. I have a feeling that the contrast is designed that way, to put the focus where it belongs (and I have no problem with that). John – I read his name tag – said hello, and as he gestured for us to follow, he gave me a thorough looking up and down. I was wondering if he does that to all the girls who walk in the door, as he turned to the receptionist and smirked while she frowned. I don’t mean to imply that he made me feel uncomfortable; it’s just that it was a rather laissez-faire attitude for an employee in such a swank establishment.

John left us at the elevator. We went up to the tenth floor, the Regatta being the tallest building on the island. Dean answered the door and ushered us into the living room. There, prostrate on the carpet, was Nikki, hog-tied in a balled-up position. She was enveloped in a messy mesh of knotted and intertwined bikinis, sarongs, pantyhose, tights, scarves and etcetera. It looked like her brothers had emptied out her entire wardrobe to find things to bind her with. Her head was swathed in various items of her clothing, and underneath them I could tell she was gagged, because her screams were muffled as she wriggled and writhed while Philip maliciously, mercilessly tickled her.

Philip looked up, saw me and grinned. I didn’t like that grin. Having crossed the threshold into the room, I had Dean behind me, barring any attempt at a sudden exit. But I was saved when their mother appeared in the archway which led to the kitchen. I had seen her briefly the other day at Rope Riggers. She’s a beautiful, elegant woman, and she was fabulously deshabillé in a stunning off-the-shoulder gown with a spectacularly low-cut gold-filigreed bodice and side split all the way to the hip. On her sleek left thigh was an exquisite white lace garter, and she wore its twin about her throat as an ultra-feminine choker. It’s easy to see where Nikki gets her beauty and grace.

She stared down at her daughter, struggling in her bonds on the floor, and frowned.

“Young lady,” she said sternly, “I wish you’d stop fooling around” (with only the subtlest hint of irony in her voice). Nikki squirmed in futile indignation, but her mother was already, purse in hand, headed for the door, swapping a polite but perfunctory greeting with Alex and me.

When she was gone, I expected to join the girl on the floor; but instead her brothers disentangled her from her wrappings and lifted her to her feet. They untied her hands but grabbed her arms and frog-marched her to her bedroom. Philip then went off to get dressed as well, while Dean entertained Alex and – to my surprise – left me alone. I signalled my request for permission to remove my gag so I could get a glass of water, and Lil Bro did not insist that I replace it. He and Dean were already absorbed in their Playstation universe.

After a few minutes, Nikki reappeared, having changed into her nightclubbing best. Alex was enchanted and I was jealous, as she looked so incredibly hot in a rose pink chiffon top with steeply plunging neckline and a black tapered hobble skirt. And it really was a hobble because the hem just above the knees was drawn tight with a slender silver chain. Her ensemble was accented by a black satin ribbon collar and matching lace cuffs, connected at belly button level with more of the fine chain attached to a daintily crafted O-ring. A black sash encircled her hips, ready for service as either blindfold or gag.

Just as we were about to leave, Philip turned to me. He hesitated and our eyes met. I smiled.

“Which way?” he said.

I put my arms behind my back.

He gave me a light kiss on the neck as he linked my bracelets. Alex, who had continued to watch us, now turned away in disgust.

Our destination was not far away, but it took us a while to get there. There are only two main thoroughfares in the Village, but they extend the entire length of the town and connect everything to everything else. Staying close to the shoreline, the Promenade follows the sweep of the bay and is lined with cafeterias, restaurants, bars and nightclubs. The Boulevard runs further inland, curving around the base of the great amphitheatre formed by the encircling hills, and it contains the stores, boutiques and salons, as well as all the agencies for the various services and utilities. Both were crowded, and my gallant hero walked a half-pace ahead of us to clear a passage. Some of the other escorts on the street were not so chivalrous, and I loved how Philip gently nudged those women who were blindfolded out of our path rather than try to bulldoze a corridor through the multitude. We were also delayed by poor Nikki, who could take only tiny, measured steps in her speed-limited skirt. Crossing several side-streets, she had to bunny-hop off and onto each kerb.

On the way, I was reminded of just how small Resort Village really is. It’s virtually impossible to miss seeing people you know. First we encountered Sue (our tie-up tutor from yesterday), strolling the esplanade with her partner (boyfriend or husband). She was wearing a little yellow party dress and her off-duty collar. Her mouth was crammed with a large, bulbous butterfly gag which looked not at all comfortable. Her hands and elbows were secured very tightly behind her back, her upper arms pinned to her side and her knees shackled together with lengths of heavy-duty chain. She was being led on a leash, also chain, which was attached to her collar at one end and her companion’s trouser belt at the other. With her legs fettered at the knees, she could only sort of waddle along the street. She was breathing heavily and panting through her gag. Little beads of perspiration glistened on her face, neck and shoulders. Her eyelids were drooping like she was exhausted or zoned out, but she nodded a tired greeting when we saw each other. I was impressed that she recognized us. The couple appeared to be heading towards the nightclub strip, but I was more interested in where they’d been.

Further along, I witnessed an even more intriguing scene. A party of eight people were making their passage through the crowd. In the lead was Maggie. All were in evening dress, the men in expensive suits, the women in exquisite gowns, so I assume they were coming from or on their way to a formal reception. Maggie, accompanied by a gentleman I presume to be her husband, was adorned with exquisite jewellery that included a gorgeous silver choker and matching chain leash, plus wrist, elbow and ankle cuffs. Her hands were shackled in front, but secured to another silver chain encircling her waist, while her elbows were bound behind her back, so her arms were completely immobilized. She was blindfolded but not gagged, and conversing with a man walking alongside, opposite her husband, who was quietly guiding her with her tether. The other women were bound but not gagged, blindfolded or tethered. They were also very elegantly attired. One was wearing an awesome strapless chiffon dress which barely contained her charms even before it had begun to slip under the stress of her arms being pinioned behind her back. From their wide-eyed expressions, and the amusement and bemusement on the faces of their partners, I had a good idea who these bondage neophytes were. At dinner Mum had told us she’d met a delegation from the Ministry of Tourism. Their tour of inspection was an eye-opener, I’m sure.

One twosome who grabbed my interest as they went by were two extremely attractive and familiar-looking young women, a blonde and brunette wearing skimpy satin-lace teddies in white and black respectively, complete with the requisite garter belts, stockings and stiletto heels. The blonde was severely bound, gagged and blindfolded, being led with the customary neck halter. That was not in itself such an unusual sight; but her partner had an identical gag, blindfold and bridle dangling from her throat ready for use. So I am guessing they were swapping places every so often. (Indeed, Philip later enlightened me that they are staying at the Regatta. They are a lesbian couple and one of them is a celebrity whose name I recognized but shall not mention.)

Just after this encounter, we reached the Tarantella discotheque, located halfway along the Promenade near the centre of town. It’s for under-21s and alcohol-free, but apart from that it’s your typical brash and boisterous nightspot, jam-packed and pulsating with frenetic energy, thumping music, throbbing beats, flashing lights, gyrating bodies in shimmering sequins and sparkly spandex, diminutive halter tops, wobbly tube tops, overflowing bustiers, parsimonious denim cut-offs and picayune micro-minis. Peppy, preppie, gothic, gaudy, grungy, funky, punk, hippie, hip-hop, indie, raver, rocker, retro, surfer, skater, skank – you name it, it was swinging and spinning on the dance floor.

Admission was free, but the doorway was guarded by two security officers, a man and a woman, the first I have seen, or at least been aware of. She was wearing the standard bikini and hip-hugging pāreu, but khaki-coloured. I also noticed that, although she wore the collar, bracelets and anklets, these are different from the usual in that there are no locking or other fastening attachments, so their function is purely symbolic. This is obviously is a safety feature. The subject had been had been brought up at the staff meeting this morning. You don’t want to be grappling with an unruly patron if he can snap your wrists together and render you helpless, or otherwise be hampered in dealing with an emergency.

I estimate that there were about a hundred teens in the place. That must have been a significant fraction of the island’s population aged 16 to 21; I didn’t see anyone much younger. Most of the girls were bound and/or chained and/or leashed in some form or another; blindfolds were popular, though not gags. That made sense. Dancing makes you thirsty, and it would be reprehensible for a guy to keep his girl gagged all evening. Apart from that it would not have been an issue, since the music was too loud for anything resembling conversation.

Philip released his sister from her cuffs and she disappeared into the swirling mélange. He and I made our way across the room, to where a small space had opened up. He left me there while he tunnelled back to the bar, and eventually returned with two large drinks. In the meantime, I had managed to fend off a couple of predators. With my hands immobilized behind me, they might have posed a problem; but they were harmless, and indeed everyone was well-behaved.

The drinks were like bowls of fruit salad. Philip didn’t release my hands but held the straw to my lips whenever I nodded to indicate I wanted a sip. (Some guys get tired of that chore, but most like it when their girl is helpless and depends on them. We like it too.)

When we’d finished our punch, Philip reached into his coat pocket and drew out a slim leather strap. He clipped it to my choker and tugged on it lightly to lead me out to the middle of the dance floor, just in time for a slow number. He looped the other end of my tether around his own neck and put his arms between mine and my waist, behind my back to hold my hands. Our fingers intertwined; and since boys will forever be boys, he gently pressed downwards, so as my arms straightened, my shoulders went back and my breasts were pushed forward against his chest. Our gentle hug-and-sway had the predictable effect. I could feel his heart beating furiously, and further down I felt another part of him stirring. So it was probably a good thing when the tempo of the music picked up. There was more bump and grind, but less chance of Philip getting into the groove, so to speak. During another slow number, he released my hands and cuffed them again in front so I could put my arms around his neck for a more romantic close-up.

To add variety to the program, each hour there was a novelty event and everyone was encouraged to join in. It was “Dance with a Stranger”, a sort of improvised, freestyle waltz. You’re blindfolded (the girls, that is), and at intervals of about two minutes a gong sounds and you swap partners with the couple closest to you at that moment. So as well as the challenge of making the right moves without your sight, you have to adapt to a new lead, whom you not only do not know but cannot see. Since most guys are hopeless at anything resembling ballroom dancing, their ability to lead and your ability to follow are severely tested. After a few rounds, to make it more interesting, the girls’ hands are bound behind their backs, and much hilarity ensues. But it can also be perilous, and it was a minor miracle that there were no sprained ankles or worse.

After about three hours I was suffering from excitement overload and it was nice to escape the noise and the neon for the cool, dark stillness of the late evening. There were not many people about. It was that time of night when most are either already at home getting ready for bed or still cutting loose in the nightclubs. My arms were beginning to ache, so I asked Philip to uncuff me. He agreed, on condition that he hook my wrists to my collar in front. I had no objection to that. In fact, as it was getting chilly, with my hands locked just below my chin, I could hold my arms against my chest to conserve body heat. Philip helped out by putting an arm around my shoulder. Every so often his hand wandered down my back, to fondle my rear end or play with the hem of my skirt and my knickers underneath. I didn’t complain.

Nikki, however, was in a bad mood because she had wanted to stay on. But Philip had promised their parents that he would have her home well before midnight. She was annoyed, and I couldn’t really blame her, because it was rather sexist, given that she’s two years older than him. But, as my own Lil Bro will continue to remind me, once you’ve submitted to being bound, you give up your freedom of choice, and you have to take the bad with the good. On the other hand, I had the feeling she was also a little relieved to have had the decision taken out of her hands.

My impression of Nikki is that she is a sensible, sensitive soul trapped in the gorgeously ripe body of a party girl who feels obliged to live up to the image. She discovered the downside (she eventually admitted) when someone at the disco unhitched her chains and reversed them so her arms were pinioned behind her back. She had quickly rued her compliance, because in the crowded confines it left her vulnerable, and she received some unwanted attention. So she conceded, just as we were arriving back at their hotel, that her brother’s taking charge had been the right thing to do. Like a true gentleman, he didn’t rub it in.

Alex came down to the foyer to meet us. Dean accompanied him but wasn’t interested in a late evening stroll to the Andromeda. However, before heading back up in the elevator, he insisted on gagging and blindfolding his sister, for no particular reason. He employed her black sash for the blindfold, and – to no one’s surprise – produced a ball-gag. She didn’t refuse, so Alex turned to Philip.

“You don’t have to ask him for permission,” I pre-empted. But the protocol here is that whoever last bound me has the initiative.

“Be my guest,” Philip replied, and as my reprimand he added, “She’s all yours.”

His brother decided to join in, and as soon as Alex had unhitched my bracelets from my collar, Dean, positioned at my rear, seized my wrists and pulled them forcefully behind my back. As he shackled me, Alex raised my blindfold into place and inserted my gag. Dean tightened the strap. Then he wished us good-night.

By now I was quite proficient at negotiating the path up the hill without my sight, but Philip held me all the way, to keep me warm as well as guide me. It was very romantic, or it would have been except that Alex was talking adolescent nonsense the whole way. Meanwhile, I was also rather concerned for Nikki, because she was puffing and gasping through her gag. I have no idea what was happening, but I suspect that my beloved Lil Bro was tormenting her in some way.

When we reached the hotel, Alex invited Philip and Nikki, on my behalf, to come up for cocoa. I have to admit that it considerate of him to do so, as I didn’t want the night to end just yet. The reception desk was unattended, but a cleaning crew was working its way methodically across the lobby floor with mops. There were four of them, one male and three females. The latter had short tethers attached to their ankle fetters, which could not have made it easy to do their job. One was wearing a ball-gag, but it didn’t interfere with her work. They all nodded a salutation as we passed.

Mum greeted us with good news. The package containing Alex’s and my Pioneers uniforms had finally turned up. As Nikki and I were released from our bonds, Mum unpacked our uniforms and sorted the various pieces into two bundles. Alex’s pile was by far the bigger. Dad looked down at my brother’s, then at mine, frowned, rubbed his chin and said to me, “Well, where’s the rest of it?”

I merely responded with an “Oh, Dad,” grabbed my stuff and headed for the bedroom to change. Nikki came in with me but poor Philip was left standing on the far side of the closing door, looking tragically crestfallen.

Being a devout believer in Murphy’s Law, I was doubtful that the Commissariat people had gotten our sizes right, but everything was a perfect fit. I tried on each part and Nikki gave her assessment – “That’s cute... that’s hot... that’s pretty.” The uniform is very much figure-hugging, and I couldn’t help feeling how better her more curvaceous body would have filled it. I sensed that she was thinking the same.

Also in the kit was a canvas backpack containing the usual accoutrements to remind me of just where I would be wearing my snug little outfit – a folded plastic raincoat, water bottle, pocket knife, insect repellent and sunscreen, assorted toiletries including toilet paper, tissues and a couple of bandages, a small magnetic compass, torch, pen knife and tin whistle, a map of the island, a survival guide and field craft manual, plastic bags for waterproofing and stowing soiled clothing items, that sort of thing. Yet I still have only a vague idea of what the Pioneers are all about, although we will be finding out soon enough. What I do know is that it is an adventure club associated with the Park Rangers, who are responsible for managing the island’s natural resources and tourist facilities, preserving the environment and protecting the wildlife, conducting tours, disseminating advice and information and, of course, organizing bushwalking and camping expeditions.

Attached to the cover of the manual was a curt note instructing us to “Report to the Ranger station at 0700 tomorrow,” along with a map showing its location.

I called Alex into the room. He came in and close on his heels was Philip, disheartened to see me in my fluffy full-length PJs. Before I could say anything, my brother glared at me and Nikki, and tapped an index finger next to his eye. I sighed and put on my blindfold. Nikki tied hers in place as well.

I broke the bad news.

“Seven o’clock?” my brother wheezed. “SEVEN? In the MORNING?”

“No, dummy, seven PM. The Pioneers are a night club.”

Philip and Nikki had to go home soon afterwards. We won’t have another chance to see each other for three days, but we’ve arranged for another rendezvous, after my family have moved into our permanent home in the Oasis. When they’d left, Alex wanted to go to bed, so I retired to the kitchen to write up my journal. It’s now after midnight and so here I am again, signing off on day five of our new life on Aranea Island. Although will I miss Philip, I am looking forward to tomorrow and all sorts of high adventure.

Re: THE (LAST) RESORT

Postby sarobah » Wed May 22, 2013 3:03 pm

Day 6. Trek

Here I am, back in that sanctum of salubrity, our hotel suite. I’m exhausted, aching all over and chafed in all sorts of places, insect-ravaged and mildly sunburnt, but still psyched up, from our sojourn in the wilderness. As I write this, it is the dawn of our eighth day, and I’m sitting on the balcony, basking in the misty, rose-tinted glow of another tropical sunrise. This is our last in the Hotel Andromeda. This afternoon, we are moving into the Oasis, to become official residents of Aranea Island.

My Pioneers adventure was not exactly what I expected – in some ways better, in others not so much. But it never got boring. Yesterday morning I was, as usual, the first in the family to be up and about, and waking Alex was one of those ambiguous pleasures. Disrupting his tranquil slumber is fun at the time, but I know it’s going to cost me. As he shook the fuzz out of his head, he grumpily demanded that I put on my blindfold, but instead I fled to the sanctuary of the kitchen, to help Mum prepare breakfast.

When he eventually joined us, as much as it pains me to say so, Alex looked rather dashing in his Pioneers uniform – poly-cotton trousers, T-shirt and long-sleeved shirt, all in a greens-and-browns camouflage pattern, plus a webbing belt, bush hat and trail boots. All pristine, crisp and neat – normally anathema to my brother.

“Well, don’t you look dashing?”

Ugh! I had thought it, which was bad enough, but did our mother have to come right out and say it?

Before things got worse, I retreated to the bedroom to don my own uniform.

“Make sure to put on plenty of sun lotion and insect repellent,” Mum said, as she turned her attention back to the stove.

“You’ll need it,” Alex affirmed. “Your...”

“Okay, I get it.”

I had to concede his point. Like his, mine’s in camo-pattern, but the resemblance ends there. My entire outfit could just about fit in one of Lil Bro’s trouser pockets. It’s a cotton-spandex, figure-hugging, skin-baring ensemble of slim-fit cropped spaghetti-strap tank top, and shorts that come in two styles, “boy” and “booty”. I had no idea which of these I was supposed to wear, so I settled on the slightly more substantial boy-cut style, and put the other in my rucksack. Unlike Alex’s, my kit doesn’t include boots, but I have a decent pair of hiking shoes. According to the handbook, a bra is optional, so I decided to go without; and there wasn’t room for knickers under my shorts; but I packed one of each for good measure, along with spare socks, handkerchiefs, tampons and some other stuff that might come in handy. The instructions were also that I should wear my collar.

I studied myself in the mirror. I liked what I saw, even if it’s not the most practical bushwalking attire.

We had breakfast with plenty of time to spare. The Ranger station is located just a few minutes’ walk from the hotel. Mum and Dad accompanied us as far as the bottom of the hill, and sent us on the rest of our way with the customary “Have a good time and take care.”

“And Sarah,” Mum continued, “watch out for your brother.” She paused. “You know what he’s like.”

Alex sneered. “Where’s that gag when you need it?”

“Don’t be cheeky, young man,” Dad growled.

I started to wave good-bye, but our parents were already heading back up the hill.

“Have fun yourselves,” I called after them. “Try not to get too...”

“Don’t you be cheeky either, young lady,” my mother said, without looking back.

“Put your hands out,” Alex demanded. He was holding one of the familiar leather straps.

“Not now,” I told him, and he sulkily put it away.

When we reached the station, a wooden two-storey cabin with a broad veranda, some fifty or so kids, all in Pioneers uniform, were assembled or just arriving. There was an even number of boys and girls, the age spread from around Alex’s to a little older than me. Half a dozen girls wore the resident’s collar.

The sun was just beginning its climb over the crest of the ridge, but there was still moisture in the morning air and it clung icily to my uncovered limbs. I joined the other girls stamping feet on the grass and swinging arms to keep warm, and I envied the males in their long sleeves and trousers. (I have an axiom, “When you look hot you don’t mind the cold.” Easy enough to say, but putting it into practice takes a little more grit.) As for my shorts dilemma, I saw that it had not been mine alone. The two styles, boy and booty, were equally represented.

Watching us gather, six Rangers were standing off to one side, two men and four women. They all appeared to be in their late twenties to mid-thirties. Their uniforms were identical to ours, except in plain olive-drab colour rather than camouflage greens and browns (plus collar but no cuffs),

One of the women stepped up onto the veranda to call us together, and waited patiently for the noise to abate.

“Hi, I’m Laura” she announced.

“Hi, Laura,” we all intoned.

“I’m the Senior Ranger and these are your camp leaders.”

She acquainted us with her staff. Since I don’t recall every name, in the interests of fairness I won’t mention any of them. Then she summoned four of the boys and four collared girls to come forward, and she introduced them as Ranger cadets. One of them I recognized as Karen, Alex’s partner from the workshop the other day. Laura asked us to thank them for giving up their weekend to help out as team guides. We gave them a rousing cheer. Thereafter we were treated to a rather long and somewhat tedious lecture about rules, safety procedures and a few other things. It was all just common sense, really – but I guess it depends on how broadly you define common. The wind had picked up, and we were starting to shiver... well, half of our number were. Laura briskly rubbed her bare arms, looked at her colleagues, nodded and announced: “Let’s get moving.”

One of the men took over the proceedings. He instructed us girls to remove our backpacks and place them in a neat stack beside a van that was parked next to the hut. He and one of his colleagues began stowing them in the rear of the vehicle. The boys kept theirs, so I knew that there was more to this than simply relieving us of our loads for the impending trek. In the meantime, tubes of sunscreen and cans of insect repellent were passed around for those who hadn’t come prepared.

Meanwhile, Laura and two of the cadets conferred and consulted the list of our names. There were 48 of us altogether, half of each sex. Once all us girls – who needed it the most – were slathered and sprayed, we were all sorted into two groups, balanced by age and gender. We were designated the Reds and the Blues and each given a small tag of the right colour to clip onto shirt collars (the males) and left shoulder straps (the females). I found myself assigned to the Blues. Alex was a Red.

The teams stood apart, separated by a few metres, and already we were into the tribal spirit, baring teeth and tossing hostile stares across no-man’s land. Yet almost immediately, Laura ordered all of us girls to switch sides. Baffled, we crossed over. The cadets had been allocated to the two teams as well, and Karen joined mine, standing next to Alex. I thought it was a sweet gesture, and he grinned like the proverbial Cheshire cat. But then the male cadets drew the boys on their respective teams aside for a whispered briefing. The rest of us cooled our heels, no one speaking, but everyone had a good idea of what was coming next.

The boys came back and stood in a row facing us. One of the team guides ordered us to turn about and get into a line with our hands behind our backs. A couple of girls wavered and the command was repeated, more emphatically. I glanced back towards the Rangers, who were watching the action unfazed, as we hurriedly formed a single rank.

The cadet in charge (I shall call him the CO, for cadet officer) began barking orders: “Stand still! Keep quiet! Feet together! Wrists crossed! Look straight ahead! Wrists CROSSED, I said!” I could hear his Blue counterpart shouting the same thing at the Red girls. Having obeyed, we waited for what seemed like ages but was really just a minute or two, not daring to even twitch. Finally, still astern of us, the CO gruffly informed us that we were now prisoners of the Red team. He continued with his harangue as we stood silently facing away from him, and I could hear feet shuffling behind us. The boys were getting ready for something, and because my attention was diverted I missed most of what we were being told. From the scraps I did manage to pick up, it seemed that the object of the exercise was that over the next two days our Blue teammates would attempt to rescue us from the clutches of our captors.

I hadn’t anticipated that my Pioneers adventure would be a war game. I’d assumed we had signed in for a couple of days of hiking and camping. It would be like the commando games Alex and I once played with our friends back home, before I (somewhat regretfully) left behind my tomboy days. Back then, we girls usually ended up as the prisoners, so this was all so very nostalgic.

I took a quick peek over my shoulder, earning a rebuke from the CO but catching a glimpse of one of the boys advancing upon my rear. He was small and about Alex’s age, kind of good-looking with a mess of bushy blonde hair. As I felt his hands grasp my arms, I flinched, and maybe that intimidated him, because instead of immediately tying my wrists he tightened his grip and began trying to push my elbows together behind me. I stiffened my arms and was about to protest, but one of the girls down the line had started to resist – I don’t know why, possibly for no reason other than to cause trouble, purely for the fun of it. She was forced onto her knees with the help of the CO and quickly subdued. So I decided to play it cool; but even when he got around to binding my wrists, Blondie (as I shall call him, since I never found out his real name) was having an inexplicably hard time getting the cord properly looped and cinched. As a result, he was tugging and hauling and heaving on my arms and jerking me about. I don’t know whether he was nervous or merely inexperienced – probably both. Perhaps this was the first time he had tied up a strange girl (and they don’t come much stranger than yours truly, or so I’m told). Just when I was afraid he was going to do me some real damage, he got help from the CO to complete the job.

“Good girl,” the CO said as he patted me benevolently on the head. I imagine that was for putting up with the rough treatment without complaining, but I found it to be rather patronizing.

“I’ve been tied up more times than you’ve had hot dinners,” I wanted to say but didn’t.

The fact that our hands were bound in the wrists crossed position, to minimize the stress on our arms and shoulders, and that the rope employed for the job was soft nylon cord, told me that we were going to be this way for a long stretch.

By the time we were ready to set off, an hour must have elapsed since Alex and I had left the hotel. The sun was now high in the sky and beating down on us with fierce intensity. The tingling goosebumps on my skin had given way to glistening beads of perspiration. Meanwhile, the Village was starting to come alive, with resort staff going about their business and guests heading to breakfast or the beach. A few passers-by stopped to see what we were up to. Then at last, just as I was starting to get restless, Laura called out something. I looked to see what was happening, in time to witness her being trussed by one of her deputies. He tied her hands in front, and while I was not surprised that the female Rangers were bound, I kind of resented that they got it easier than us Pioneer girls. But I knew how irrational that was, because one of the best things about being bound is that you don’t get to choose the most comfortable or most convenient way you’re to be tied Anyway, I figured they had responsibilities which required their hands to be at least partially free.

As I was pondering this, our CO yelled: “Prisoners, right turn! Company, move out!”

We began marching. I was right in the middle of the line. We weren’t tethered but were ordered to keep close, and at times we bunched up so tight that I could sniff the hair of the girl in front of me. Her shampoo smelled of strawberries. But the uneven rhythm and a series of abrupt stops and starts as we headed up the track caused the column to gradually spread out, to about one pace between each of us. That was a good thing, because when the trail got rougher I didn’t fancy stumbling into Strawberry Locks to my front or tripping over the feet of the girl to my rear.

“From this point, you don’t talk, you don’t make a sound, you don’t try to escape,” the CO insisted. Since we hadn’t done any of these things, the command seemed superfluous.

“You don’t say,” a squeaky voice retorted from somewhere behind me. This elicited a few giggles but, surprisingly, no reprimand.

A couple of dozen parents had stuck around to wave good-bye, and the bunch of bystanders hung about until we passed out of sight into the forest. We trudged along a muddy track which narrowed and began to meander as it ascended the southern flank of Granite Peak. The summit loomed, murky and sombre, through the dissipating mist about two kilometres distant. And as the path got steeper, it became more slippery, so Blondie decided that I needed assistance and clamped his fist around my left upper arm as we walked. That grew to be exasperating after a short while, because it hindered my progress rather than helped. He kept pulling and jolting me. He obviously liked having this physical connection with his captive but was blissfully unaware that for me it was just a nuisance.

Most of the boys were walking alongside us. They were laughing and joking, trying to act and sound casual, although you could hear the excitement in their voices. It was likely that none of them had ever before herded a column of bound, scantily clad females up a mountainside. It was a first for me too. So everyone was juiced up. Of course, if any girl made a sound, she was rudely threatened with a gag.

Half a dozen places ahead of me, near the front of the line, Alex was escorting Karen. He was holding onto her bound wrists, and his hand was resting on her backside. Her shorts had ridden up, and I could see my Lil Bro was fondling the bare flesh. Every so often, for a reason I don’t care to speculate on, Karen’s fists clenched and her butt cheeks quivered, and she flashed him a glare. But she maintained her silence. He looked back, saw me staring at him, and gave me one of his Dick Dastardly grins.

At first I thought we were going to climb to the very top of the mountain – a daunting prospect with my hands tied behind my back; but after maybe an hour or so the trail began to veer to the left, until we were heading directly west, skirting the summit. The scenery was stunningly beautiful as we trekked along the base of a wall of sheer black-and-grey speckled stone, towering sixty metres or more above us. It is hemmed in by fantastically lush vegetation irrigated by the constant streams flowing down and out of the rock face, and covered in its lower reaches by delicate mosaics of moss and lichen. By now, everyone was hushed by the awesomeness of our surroundings, and the only sound anyone made was the crunching of leaves underfoot – subsumed beneath a shrill chorus of birds and insects and the incessant patter and splatter of the water.

With the forest canopy closing in almost completely overhead, the temperature had dropped dramatically, but the humidity was high and I was feeling its effects. My clothing, such as it was, had become drenched with perspiration, and maddening rivulets ran down my forehead and cheeks, trickling into my eyes and seeping into the corners of my mouth. With my hands immobilized, all I could do was try to blink the sweat away and lick the salt from my lips. More annoyingly, errant tree branches and talons of undergrowth intruded onto the pathway and clawed at my exposed arms and legs, scratching and grazing, and I was incapable of protecting myself. Yet I did not mind that my hands were bound. After all, we were prisoners. But our trousered captors did nothing to shield our bare limbs from the rapacious briers and brambles.

It was still only mid-morning when we crossed over the ridgeline that runs westward from a craggy outcropping of the mountain. At its crest, we were treated to a breathtaking vista, the entire western half of the island. The ground fell away steeply, the verdant lower slopes still enveloped in shadow, to three deeply embayed beaches, separated by rugged headlands. The southernmost I recognized as Pirate’s Cove; and recalling the map we’d been given, I identified the most northerly and deep-set of the inlets as Pioneer Valley. It was flanked on the north-east by a large peninsula some two kilometres long and bisected lengthways by a broken spine of blistered, barren rock. Beyond that, hidden behind Granite Peak’s jagged haunches, lay Adventure Valley.

“Don’t stop, keep moving,” the CO brayed. As we tramped over the rim, I took a last look to the rear. Just visible behind a smaller ridge that snaked off to the south-west was the outer edge of Resort Village. In the middle of the cove, the cruise ship was still anchored, and a dinghy was departing for the shore, leaving a spreading silver trace in its wake. Along the curve of the beach I could make out the tiny figures of swimmers and sunbathers, and I could see, perched on the hillside above, the Andromeda Hotel. I giggled at the thought of what might be happening in our suite at that moment. Blondie nudged me forward.

Because this part of the trail was relatively level, we were moving quickly now. After half an hour more, the track bifurcated. One path swerved sharply to the left and fell rapidly away into Pioneer Valley. The Blue team and their captives, who were some distance ahead of us, took that route. They were soon out of sight. We continued in the straight-ahead direction, cresting another ridge before beginning a long, steady descent into Adventure Valley. We had gone only a hundred metres or so when the CO called out “Halt!”

He and his associate organized their men to get us prisoners bunched up once more. On command, we turned from column into row. The boys stood behind us again, and I heard a couple of gasps and an “Oh no!” before I realized what was happening. Our captors were blindfolding us. I suppose that was inevitable. After all, we were being taken to the enemy’s camp. Nonetheless, it was a bit scary and definitely demoralizing, which was likely the point. The way ahead did not look any easier to negotiate than what we had already traversed, so I knew we were going to have a difficult time of it. Still, this was part of the challenge, and I have always held to the principle that without some peril there is no thrill.

Indeed, the going got tough almost immediately. Descending the muddy, greasy, winding track without the use of our hands or the benefit of eyesight caused plenty of slips and spills. Once I tripped over the stub of a tree root protruding from the muck. Blondie helped me to my feet each time I stumbled. He gently brushed away the sticks and leaves and dirt that had plastered to my legs. I was about to thank him for his assistance when I thought, “No, I’m his captive; it’s his responsibility to look after me.” And anyway, a couple of times he adjusted my blindfold to ensure that I remained completely helpless.

The straps of my shirt had slipped off my shoulders, and Blondie tried to be helpful by putting them back in place for me. I recoiled once again from his touch, and that must have hurt his feelings, because he brusquely grabbed my arm and hustled me forward. I don’t think he was being mean, just covering up his embarrassment. But still I said nothing.

A couple of times he offered me a sip from his water bottle. I stubbornly declined, but pretty soon I had a raging thirst to go with my aches and pains. My legs were stinging from the swishing of the undergrowth. I was sweating profusely, due as much to the tension as to the heat and humidity, and my perspiration soaked into the blindfold, making it prickly and uncomfortable. Still, the experience was invigorating and in fact quite exhilarating. It’s been a long time since I have had a test like this of my endurance. I was feeling quite proud of myself, and of all the other girls as well. The trek around the island was hard, and we never faltered.

The boys were probably feeling very pleased with themselves, herding their helpless prisoners down the trail, but I’m sure at least some of them were wondering how well they would cope if they were in our position – bound, sightless, bare limbs exposed to the elements. Of course, it wouldn’t be a fair test because we are used to being tied up and blindfolded. And actually, I’m sure they would do just fine; but I guess the point is that until you’ve faced your big test, you don’t know how you will respond. It’s when those moments come that you find out who and what you really are...

It must have been approaching mid-day when we finally reached our objective. Our blindfolds remained on, but I could tell from the brackish tang in the air and the squish of sandy soil underfoot that we were near the beach. There was no sound of waves, so I knew we were still deep inside the bay, and there was hardly a breath of wind, which meant the area was enclosed by high ground. As I continued to make sense of my surroundings, I got the impression that we were in a prepared campsite, not just out in the middle of nowhere, because the grass felt like it had recently been mown. Somewhere I could hear a tap flowing, an indication of decent amenities – running water, proper toilets, maybe even shower facilities. The very thought picked me up.

Confirming my deductions, the CO announced “Welcome to Camp Commando, gentlemen.” (Naturally no welcoming words for us wretched captives.)

We (the wretched captives) were herded onto a patch of turf and ordered to kneel. After several minutes during which nothing happened (or at least, from my perspective behind my blindfold, nothing seemed to be happening), we were told to squat. It didn’t bother me that we were not permitted to sit because the grass was wet and I didn’t want to get my shorts any more damp and dirty than they already were from my tumbles on the muddy track. But crouching on your haunches is a position that’s very hard to sustain for long when you’re fatigued, and especially when you don’t have your arms to keep you stable or your sight to maintain your sense of balance. After a while my ankles started to wobble, my calves began to cramp, my thighs began to quiver and my body began to sway. Still, for no reason but pride, I was determined not to surrender to the strain; and the girls on either side of me, puffing and panting, were equally resolved.

I don’t think the CO was being deliberately cruel, although perhaps he wanted to keep his prisoners fatigued and disoriented. Meanwhile, he had launched into another harangue. We were now in the Red camp, we were informed (as if we hadn’t worked that out), and we shouldn’t forget that we were still in captivity (as if we needed to be told). There was to be no talking or we would be gagged, no attempt to move about (what, blindfolded?) or we would be hobbled. Then there was noise and movement all around us, followed by another lengthy, mysterious lull.

It took me a while to work out that the boys had gone off to their barracks to deposit their packs and then to lunch. I was starting to feel the pangs of hunger and regretted my light breakfast. I also hadn’t had anything to drink since leaving the Village, so my mouth and throat were parched. The squatting was becoming painfully hard to bear and I was starting to feel bitter when at last I heard the guys returning. I felt something pressing against my lips. For a second I thought I was being gagged and was thinking “That’s not fair, I haven’t made a sound,” until I realized it was Blondie holding a sandwich to my lips.

I sniffed but did not bite. “Is that egg?” I whispered.

He paused to check. “Yeah, egg salad.”

I quietly explained that I’m allergic. He apologized, went away and came back with what tasted like cheese and tomato. He was quite obliging, considering that I was his helpless hostage. He fed me the sandwich and asked if I wanted more. I declined and thanked him, so he gave me a drink, plain water but cold, refreshing and gratifying. With that, I was starting to feel good again, but soon afterwards things took another turn for the worse. Not that I’m complaining, naturally, but by mid-afternoon I was definitely beginning to wonder what I had signed up for.

I didn’t know exactly what was afoot, but by listening carefully I could make out essentially what was going on. The guys had split into two squads, one of which set out on patrol, scouting the area for enemy incursions. I was dubious that any sort of attack was likely, since the Blues’ base (my base, really) was so far away, but my teammates and their prisoners had enjoyed about an hour’s head start getting to and settled in their camp, so it was conceivable that they could launch a raid in the next couple of hours, or possibly after sunset. The latter prospect I found less than appealing. I did not fancy the idea of being rescued if it meant blundering through the undergrowth in darkness in my skimpy uniform. It would also mean leaving behind my backpack with all my spare gear.

(In fact the issue with our packs made me question how well this war game had been thought out. What was the point of us taking extra gear into captivity if there was a chance of being rescued?)

The remaining boys stayed in the camp to defend it and watch over their prisoners. Because we now outnumbered our guards two to one, even though bound, they decided we needed to be better secured. First they gagged us. I knew that was coming – it was inevitable, really – but we were subjected to bulbous, acrid-tasting, thirst-inducing rubber gags which filled the mouth, making it impossible for us to emit any sound. I quickly realized, from the sinister chuckle, that it was Alex gagging me. I guess Blondie was out on patrol.

A few of the girls chose to offer futile resistance. I could hear muffled protests through clenched teeth and clamped jaws. Still, I knew it was just a part of the game, because interspersed with the stifled remonstrations were giggles and noisy clowning about. The captors teased and taunted their victims who in turn mocked and cursed their tormentors – well, it sounded like mocking and cursing, because as soon as anyone opened her mouth to say anything, the gag went in and defiant invective became inchoate burbling. And since this was a no-win situation, I resolved once again to play it cool and cooperate.

We had been alternately kneeling and squatting for so long now that my legs were becoming numb, so it was actually a relief when I heard scuffling and grunting down the line and quickly worked out that we were being hog-tied. The boys were making a game of it, with joking and teasing, and I could hear muffled squawking and squealing. My arms touched those of the girl next to me, and I could feel her breathing heavily and trembling as we awaited our turn. Suddenly, I pitched forward as two hands shoved on my back to force me down onto my stomach. The grass was dry by now, but it was itchy and scratchy under my bare limbs and midriff. My assailant strapped my elbows, knees and ankles with some sort of tape, in doing so wrenching back my shoulders. I moaned behind my horrid gag, and so did the girl beside me, so we were all getting the same rough treatment. The boy – I don’t know if it was Alex – only had to press against the rear of my knees for me to get the message and bend my legs to bring my heels up to my backside. He completed my hog-tie as I gasped and groaned. It was not very stringent, but my muscles and sinews were stiff and sore from the morning’s exertions.

We were still arranged in line, now bound, gagged and blindfolded, prone on our bellies, close enough to each other that we were in physical contact the whole time. We lay there for what must have been two or three hours. The tedious monotony became excruciating, and the girl to my left was constantly squirming and fidgeting. To add to the unpleasantness, we were being molested by swarms of biting insects. The repellent had worn off or been diluted by perspiration, and being bound we were helpless to protect our arms and legs. Whenever any of us tried to ward off the little devils, or shake off an incipient cramp, she bumped and jolted her neighbours. Each wriggle and twitch sent a tremor up and down the line, accompanied by a ripple of soft grunts and whimpers.

I think it is a great test of patience and stamina, and also good training in perseverance and self-discipline, to be so trussed up for hours on end, keeping your mind occupied as best you can to stave off the boredom and to distract your mind from the increasing discomfort. However, some of the less resilient girls had begun to moan, and someone was thrashing about, jostling us all. This was almost as annoying as the strafing by the insect pests and made it increasingly difficult to release my mind from my bonds.

I was already feeling grumpy enough, when things got desperate, as my bladder started sending dire warnings. After bearing the strain for ages, getting more frantic, I felt I was just about to burst when a final shudder passed along the row of bodies. The girls to my right were being stood up one by one. When my turn came, my legs were freed and firm hands grasped my upper arms to haul me to my feet. We were marched a short distance, kept close together, each girl in physical touch with those in front and behind so that, still blindfolded, we could be properly guided by just a couple of escorts. When we reached the ablutions block – yes, I was right about there being decent amenities – we were taken in two at a time and helped by the women Rangers. I hadn’t seen any of our camp leaders since the departure from Resort Village, so I have no idea if they had tagged along with us for the entire hike or gone on ahead.

Of course, it would have been easier for everyone, and certainly quicker, if we’d been untied before we went in and then put back in our bonds when we came out… but it seems that nothing is ever that simple on Aranea Island. The woman who helped me was Laura. I could tell from her voice. From the way she assisted us, I could also tell that her hands were still bound in front. She guided me to one of the stalls and I backed into it. With my arms tightly strapped I still needed her assistance – not the most dignified chore for the senior Park Ranger. Yet I felt greatly relieved as I was frog-marched with my fellow prisoners back out onto the grass, and I didn’t mind another hour or so in my hog-tie.

While it was certainly not what I had expected of my first day in the Pioneers, in retrospect I suppose I should have anticipated something like this. It wasn’t exactly a fun-filled episode, and the excitement had long since worn off. Nearby I could hear Alex and the other boys, laughing, joking, playing about (not highly vigilant about guarding their base, I have to say), and I was feeling just a little bit jealous. Oh well, I guess this was our reminder that there is price to pay for being the superior sex.

I could now feel the late afternoon closing in fast, because shadows were sweeping across my legs, raising a light scattering of goosebumps. I started to fret again, irrationally, that we might have to stay like this all night. However, not long afterwards there was a commotion in the camp, excited chatter and laughter. The patrolling squad was returning from their mission. I could hear feminine voices, so it appeared that they had managed to rescue at least some of their females from the enemy’s clutches. The freed girls decided it was appropriate to exact their revenge on us poor, helpless captives, subjecting us to merciless tickle torture. I heard one of the Rangers say “No, that’s going too far,” but I don’t know what additional suffering we were accordingly spared.

Then, suddenly, the game ended. We were released from our bonds and, while our blindfolds remained in place, we were allowed to get up, walk around and stretch our cramped and aching muscles. I massaged my wrists, pink and raw from ten hours of being bound. It felt so good when that horrible gag came out. We were even permitted to fraternize with our captors, even if we couldn’t see them. Blondie and I talked for a while. I can’t recall if he told me his name. He is here on a two-week visit, and he was impressed to discover that I am a permanent resident. I didn’t tell him that I was a veteran of exactly six days. He seemed quite shy and I did most of the talking (which is, of course, not unusual). He was also amused and pleased, and in a way flattered, to learn that I am almost three years his senior. I might have been a little offended, but I do in fact look a fair bit younger than my age. I could tell it gave him a thrill to have an “older woman” as his prisoner. Guys do seem to enjoy that sort of thing.

I thanked him for his help when I needed it during the hike over the mountain, and he replied with something like “You’re my prisoner, I have a duty to look after you.” And I said “Well, thanks anyway.” And he said “You’re welcome.” All so civil and polite.

(It’s always interesting, having a conversation with a guy when you’re blindfolded, especially someone you don’t know well. You can’t see him to pick up or convey signals. Your eyes are hidden from him as well, but he can see the rest of your face and he can study your body language. So in that respect he has the advantage. You have to be alert and rely on tone of voice and other nuances for cues and clues to get the true meaning of his words. It can be frustrating, but it adds a degree of subtlety and – let’s face it – a certain piquancy to the interaction.)

Eventually the blindfolds came off as well. The camp turned out to be better equipped than I had pictured from behind the folds of black fabric. As well as the shower and toilet block, there is a kitchen and mess hall, a shack which doubles as the Ranger station and medical facility, and a row of prefabricated wooden huts, our sleeping quarters. It’s located right on the edge of the beach and, as I had suspected, deep inside the bay.

The sun was still above the ridgeline on the far side of the water, but very close to the rim. Within a few minutes it was gone.

Laura called us all together for a briefing. Her wrists were still tied, and in fact were connected to her collar with a short length of cord, so her fists were clenched just under her chin as she addressed us. I noticed green stains on her knees, so she had been kneeling on the grass for some time just like the rest of us. Her male colleague was standing to one side, watching the proceedings, but the other woman was out of sight.

Hostilities were suspended till dawn, she announced. That made sense; my earlier fears were groundless. You can’t have a bunch of teenagers crashing about in the rainforest in the darkness in the middle of nowhere. So until morning, all operations were cancelled, all allegiances were annulled. We were all the same... Well, not exactly. After a quick wash, we females were called to the kitchen area to prepare the dinner. I’ve never really understood the logic that being born without a penis makes you inherently adept at cooking and sewing and stuff like that. Indeed, my inadequacy in such areas is fast becoming legendary. So I basically just hovered on the edge of the action, helping out as best I can and trying to avoid contaminating the food. As well-equipped as the campsite is, I didn’t expect there to be stomach pumps.

The girls in the other camp must have had a more onerous job, since we had five of their number to share the workload. The males, in the meantime, engaged in some noisy sporting activity on the beach – football, volleyball, cricket maybe. All I know is that while we made the meal, they played with their balls. That’s another thing guys enjoy.

After dinner, the leaders and guides volunteered to clear and clear up (both sexes – a pleasant surprise!), and then we sang songs and told stories around a roaring fire. Everyone went quiet to listen to the cheery crackling of the coals and the gentle splashing of the waves and the sinister shuffling and scuffling of the nightlife prowling in the forest beyond the friendly circle of light cast by the flames. And as the embers began to wink out, one by one, the moon and stars took over. After that, we retired to our sleeping quarters.

It was still quite early, no more than about nine o’clock. I wanted to stay outside and study the stars under a pristinely dark sky. It’s one of the reasons I have been looking forward to joining the Pioneers. Unfortunately, it was becoming overcast, so I went into the hut. It was austere but liveable, with bunks to accommodate four other girls and one of the cadets. The latter’s name is Sabrina. She’s my age but has been living on the island for nearly a year. We also shared with one of the Red girls, Cassie.

Nobody was getting ready for bed. Everyone was still hyped up and wanted to talk about the day’s fun and games, and about all our adventures on the island. As the permanent residents, Sabrina and I were the centre of attention. We shared our experiences and exchanged our thoughts and feelings, until we were interrupted by a shout from outside, a gruff male voice.

“Make yourselves decent! We’re coming in!”

We knew immediately what was happening. So much for the game being over for the night.

Having come in late, I was still in my shirt and shorts, but the others had stripped down to their underwear. No one brought pyjamas. Someone had lent Cassie a camisole and pair of knickers, since her pack was still at the Pioneer Valley camp. Sabrina managed to grab her shirt but it was too grimy to put back on, so she flung it aside. Then she stood silently beside her bunk, feet together, hands clasped behind her head. She knew the routine, and we followed suit, except Cassie. As we did so, three of the guys came into the hut. One of them was Blondie. They inspected us for a minute or two. The girls in their undies squirmed as they were being scrutinized, which is a bit funny since I in my uniform was not wearing that much more. (But it’s all about context.) We were then ordered to lie face down on our beds, arms behind our backs, Cassie as well.

“Why do I..?” she began to protest.

“Fraternization with the enemy,” Blondie informed her. He grinned proudly as his comrades nodded their approval.

Fraternization? What was she supposed to do, being assigned to the same quarters as us? But after a tense few seconds she obeyed. Yet we might have all resisted. It would have been interesting had we gone through with it. The six of us could have overpowered the three boys with relative ease. We could even have started a camp-wide uprising. But it would have taken someone to initiate the act of defiance, and no one did. So, after that fleeting pause (during which I saw a look of consternation on Blondie’s face), we took to our bunks. I lay on my belly, hands resting on my backside, and awaited my turn.

Blondie made sure he got to do me. Our wrists and ankles were bound, with tape applied lightly. So I figured we were in for a long-term tie-up, perhaps all night. We were blindfolded but not gagged. The latter is a definite no-no for unsupervised captives. I must have sighed or something, because Blondie stroked my head tenderly a couple of times to show his sympathy. However, he then wrapped the tape around my biceps and finished off with a final, harsh tug.

Then the guys left us. From somewhere outside, most likely one of the other huts, I could hear shouting and laughing. I have since asked Alex about the commotion. The two Rangers, Laura and Wendy, had been abducted from their quarters and dragged down to the water for a dunking.

Left alone tied up, we did what any half-dozen teenage girls are going to do when confined to barracks and are too hyperactive to sleep. We gossiped. We talked about boys, we talked about sex, we talked about boys and sex, and then we got onto the important stuff, shoes, clothes and music. To a fly on the wall it would have looked and sounded pretty strange, us lying in our undies on our bunks, bound hand and foot and blindfolded, nonchalantly chatting away.

We didn’t remain that way all night, but it must have been a couple of hours before we were released. One of our deliverers was Alex. I introduced him to the other girls, and one of them ruined my evening by saying out loud, “He’s cute.”

There was cocoa in the mess hall for anyone who wanted it. I declined. I got out of my yucky uniform. When the other girls returned, we swapped more gossip. We stayed up late, still keyed up from everything which had transpired. It was around midnight when we finally got to sleep. I had survived my first day as a Pioneer and as a captive at Camp Commando.

Re: THE (LAST) RESORT

Postby sarobah » Wed May 22, 2013 7:22 pm

Day 7. Pioneer

We woke to the depressing sound of heavy rain pounding the roof of our quarters. Having nowhere to go without getting soaked, the six of us stayed in the hut, sat on our bunks and resumed our gossip session from the previous night.

We swapped descriptions with Cassie of how we’d spent yesterday. Like us, the Red girls had been bound and blindfolded most of the time, and she was not exactly sure how they had come to be rescued. All she had been aware of was that after a couple of hours in the Blues’ camp, she heard shouting and screaming and crashing noises, and then was grabbed and slung over someone’s shoulder and carried off to freedom. We were all, including Sabrina, mystified by how the Red raiders had managed to get as far as the Blue camp and back in the time we remained hog-tied and helpless in Camp Commando.

Our new friend regretted the tickle torture she had inflicted on us, but we said she shouldn’t fret about it. No harm was done, it was all in good fun, and she would have gotten the same if our roles had been reversed. In any case, rescue had proved worse than captivity, she said, showing us the dressing on a rather nasty gash on her forearm. Her teammates had treated her more like a stolen trophy than a liberated comrade. If there’d been any doubt, Blondie and his friends had proved that last night.

We talked about other things as well. In particular, we were inquisitive about our cadet Ranger and her life here on Aranea Island. Her father is an engineer in the maintenance department and her mother teaches at the school. She’s small and slender, half-Chinese, half-Irish, with silky-sheen jet-black hair, startling green eyes (emerald or jade, both work with her heritage) and the most exquisite Eurasian features. All the females here are so over-the-top gorgeous that I’m starting to get jealous. Like me, Sabrina has finished school and has recently commenced her university studies, via correspondence. She has two younger brothers, one of whom was at that moment in the Pioneer Valley camp.

The other girls were envious of her and me. They thought how amazing it must be to live next right to the beach and be able to wear bikinis all day long and get tied up all the time.

We recounted our favourite bondage experiences. Lisa was pretty much a novice. She’s pale and fragile, looks so delicate you’d be afraid she’d break in half if the ropes were pulled too tight.

“What? Your boyfriend doesn’t tie you up?” Cassie was incredulous.

“Well, maybe once... or twice.” Lisa flashed a coy smile.

Rebecca looked gloomy. “I miss mine.” That provoked some rather unkind eye-rolling.

“I wonder if we’re going to be tied up all day today,” said Joanne, a tall, athletic girl with a husky voice and a magnificent bustline.

“Oh, I think that’s on the cards,” replied Rebecca, shaking her head ruefully.

We turned to Sabrina for confirmation. She nodded and smiled. “It’s why we’re here, ladies.”

I looked more closely at Rebecca’s face, and she had a sort of wistful expression. Maybe she doesn’t like to be tied up. I take it for granted that all girls do, but that’s just my assumption. I actually remember seeing Rebecca at Rope Riggers the other day, and she was with a guy who could have been a brother, boyfriend or new acquaintance. She didn’t seem unhappy then.

Eventually the gabfest broke up as Sabrina, with a heartfelt sigh, informed us that it was time to get moving. We grumbled that it was still pouring outside, which had no effect on the decision whatsoever. She told us we had fifteen minutes to get dressed and freshen up, and then report to the kitchen.

Each of us except Cassie still had our spare pair of shorts to put on, but we had only been issued with the one shirt, and it was soiled and smelly from yesterday’s ordeal on the track and on the grass. Sabrina said “Not to worry,” as she reached under her bunk, to pull out a carton containing a pile of fresh tank tops. They came in a variety of sizes... except mine. As the smallest girl, I ended up with an oversized one that looked awfully daggy, hanging slack on my frame and perilously low and loose around my boobs. Sabrina told me I couldn’t wear my bra because only strapless ones are allowed with the uniform. I complained that this hadn’t been specified in the brochure, but she just apologized and advised me to refrain from bending forward as much as possible. Thanks a lot, I replied.

“And I suppose the boys get to sleep in,” said Lisa, as she stared bleakly out into the chilly downpour. She looked down at her skimpy uniform and gave her bare arms a brisk rubbing.

“Of course, you silly girl,” Joanne responded. “How else would they survive in the wild?”

“But anyway,” Sabrina laughed, “the kitchen’s nice and warm.”

I got half-soaked in the mad dash through the rain, but she was right about the kitchen. Besides the stoves, there was the heat emanating from twenty bodies bustling about. With so many hands at work, the business of making breakfast was hardly an arduous chore, and we had a fun time of it. Nevertheless, it was a bit galling as I laboured, to think of my brother and Blondie and the other males snug in their warm, dry quarters. When they filed into the mess hall an hour later looking bleary-eyed and bedraggled, I could not muster any sympathy at all. However, afterwards they did help with the clearing, cleaning and washing up duties.

At the tables, we spontaneously segregated ourselves by sex, but the Red and Blue girls mixed freely. Ranger Wendy sat beside me. She’d heard of my interest in astronomy and promised that I will have lots of opportunities for stargazing. In fact, there is a small observatory located on one of the ridges flanking Palm Cove, and she happens to be responsible for it. We made a tentative appointment for next weekend, when there’s a nearly new moon and the skies will be particularly dark. She turned to stare out the misted window into the deluge. “Provided the weather clears.”

Once we got the work out of the way, since it was still raining hard we all assembled again in the hall. The tables were folded and stowed at one end, the seats rearranged into a U-shape. We played some innocuous games, and Laura gave a short but fascinating lecture on the ecology of the island. At least I found it fascinating (but of course, I’m an unreconstructed nerd). Then the session got really interesting. Wendy and the male Ranger, Ben, came out into the centre of the U.

“And now for something completely different,” she announced.

It was. We all had a good laugh when she started tying up him. She kept up a rather witty repartee, while making some obvious points like how a chest-tie doesn’t have the same impact on a guy, and how a crotch-rope doesn’t work exactly the same way either (which got us girls giggling and the boys wincing). Ben looked somewhat uncomfortable during the show, so maybe this was his first time on that side of the ropes, at least in public. But I could also see that as he relaxed he was beginning to enjoy it. Wendy finished their demonstration with the advice that we should always be willing to try new things. I think she may have enlightened some of the girls. Most of the boys looked unconvinced, but not all of them.

I knew what was coming next, the call for volunteers, and I said to myself “What the heck?” and raised my hand. Half a dozen of us ended up stepping forward, and Wendy invited us to choose our partners. All the guys began to fidget and act preoccupied. Alex glowered and Blondie appeared stricken, but they were not in my sights anyway. Everyone laughed – and no one more than Sabrina – when I chose as my victim the stentorian CO who had hassled us so relentlessly on the trail yesterday.

He hesitated for a few seconds as he had his personal “What the [expletive]?” moment. Even as he grinned and bounded into the centre of the U, he flashed an “I will get you for this” look that blazed straight past me towards Wendy.

We went through a few basic ties. The funny thing is, despite having always been on the receiving end, I assumed it would be relatively easy to reverse the process; but instead I fumbled and bungled, and managed to mangle and mutilate some perfectly innocent and inoffensive knots. It’s like trying to reverse engineer a complicated piece of machinery while blindfolded. But it wasn’t just about skill, it was also about attitude. You have to prepare yourself mentally as well as physically for a tie-up, and there’s no logical reason why it should be any different when you’re the one doing the tying. I just hadn’t thought about it like that, and I have to give my brother and all the other guys some overdue credit. From now on when I’m being bound, I will have an appreciation of what it involves to be the one applying the ropes.

The CO was, I also have to say, very patient with my inexperience. He was clearly ill at ease and it felt weird and a little unsettling for me as well. But he quickly gave up on his passive resistance, which was a good thing because he was a lot stronger than me, and by flexing his muscles and stiffening his limbs he could have made my task impossible. And while I could tell he was glad when his ordeal was over, I had discovered that it can be almost as much fun to be doing the tying as being tied... well, almost.

In the end, everyone got a turn at the role reversal, if only for a brief time. Nevertheless, we all felt palpable relief when the clattering of the rain on the rooftop began to slacken and eventually ceased altogether. Laura announced that the war game was back on and we all cheered. Even though the prospect of how I would be spending most of the day was rather daunting, there was the thrill of anticipation, and also the good feeling of being on the right and proper side of the ropes once more. And sure enough, after we had gone back to the hut to grab our gear and deposit the packs in front of the hall, we prisoners were ordered to fall into line. We applied more layers of sunscreen and insect repellent to our exposed bits.

I was wondering how the males’ few minutes tied up would affect the treatment of their prisoners, who were to be bound for most of the day. In fact, this time we were tied up by the Red girls, and it surprised me not at all that they were even less gentle than the guys had been yesterday. The girl who did me was Cassie, with whom I had shared sleeping quarters and gossip last night and this morning; but the camaraderie was now kaput. For some reason, either for the novelty or on some other grounds to which we were not privy, they bound our arms in a double hammerlock – with elbows bent and hands up between our shoulder blades. It was very tight and a bit painful, and I don’t believe the boys would have gotten away with tying us like that. Then we were put into chest harnesses as well. The cord was looped between and around my breasts several times. Well, at least that took up the slack on my outsized top.

I began to really wonder what we were in for as we were sorted into pairs. I was coupled with Sabrina, standing two arms’ lengths behind her. And with what happened next, I assume we were matched because we are almost the same size, rather than because we are both residents. Two long wooden poles – I think they were tent poles – were placed on our shoulders to connect us, held in place with yokes of rope anchored to our chest harnesses. Rags were tied around the poles where they rested on our bare shoulders to prevent chafing and slipping. The result was quite an intricately fashioned rig, and I had already figured out its purpose when our backpacks, two of the boys’ kits and a couple of other sacks of heavy stuff were slung from the poles, between Sabrina and me. It was a similar set-up to how you see the porters hauling the baggage and supplies in those old safari movies. I don’t know why they had us carry the bags and equipment back from Pioneer Valley instead of in the van, but I guess they wanted to make the homeward journey even more interesting and challenging than the outbound trek. It was.

Sabrina and I were second in the column, directly behind Laura and Wendy. They both looked startled and a little shocked when Ben and the CO seized them and dragged them to their places at the front of the queue. Their surprised reaction puzzled me, because they had been bound along with the rest of us yesterday. Maybe they were play-acting; or perhaps this was a genuine ambush, payback for the morning’s fun and games. They grunted and moaned but put up no tangible resistance as their captors handed them over to the boys to be trussed and yoked.

It was Alex who gagged Laura, and I groaned as Blondie, with a creepily genial “Hello again” expression on his otherwise beatific face, advanced on me with a plug gag (not the ball variety) and blindfold. As much I dislike having that noisome phallic rubber shaft filling my mouth, I was more dismayed by the blindfold. Yesterday’s had made the hike over the mountain so much more arduous. I wasn’t alone in my feelings, because I could hear the muffled sounds of threats and curses emanating from behind the gags to my rear.

After that, we just stood there in line for maybe half an hour, bearing our burdens, wondering what was going on. I heard the CO giving instructions, and relaxed a little when he told the boys to be especially vigilant with us, making sure we didn’t get into any serious difficulty or become exhausted from carrying our loads. He wasn’t saying anything new, but it was reassuring because it meant I could relax – mentally if not physically – and enjoy my impending ordeal.

Then suddenly we were urged forward and began our march back up the track. We continued to climb as the sun rose, and it soon became obvious that, as I expected, we were leaving Adventure Valley. As the trail steepened, it became more and more slippery from the recent drenching, and even more so than yesterday I found it impossible to keep a firm traction. The sway of our dangling loads made it extra hard to keep our balance. But despite the CO’s admonitions, we didn’t get much assistance, or for that matter sympathy. Instead of Blondie or any of the other guys, I was being escorted by one of the Red girls, who seemed totally unmindful of my plight. Well, I couldn’t really blame them, because this time yesterday they had been prisoners as well, of my teammates. They’d suffered as we had, and we were the only ones on whom they could vent. On the other hand, I’m wondering if they were feeling just a bit resentful, to be missing out on the bondage. That was hardly my fault, but it didn’t make any difference.

Every time Sabrina skidded or slipped over, she pulled me down too, and I did the same, so the fourteen of us prisoners spent the next few hours in a sort of weird conga line dance, slurping through the mud, bobbing up and down, lurching this way and that, pitching back and forward, wallowing sideways. Alex has kindly reminded me of how ridiculous we looked and sounded. Some guys maintain that there is nothing sexier than the sight of a skimpily clad girl bound, gagged, blindfolded and tethered, and muddied to boot, but I felt about as sexy as... well, as someone who’s slathered in slime and lathered in sweat, who’s grunting and groaning and snorting through a mouthful of rubber. Luckily for us, the mire was so deep and glutinous that we didn’t sustain any major injuries, although when I saw myself for the first time later on, I found out just what a treat I looked, caked in a thick layer of red and brown foul-smelling goo. My arms and legs ended up covered in tiny scratches, and making things worse, the rain had brought out hordes of ravening insects who assailed my unprotected limbs without mercy, utterly contemptuous of or completely oblivious to the repellent. The stinky mud coating offered some defence – not my preferred form, but moderately effective. However, I was afraid that leaches would come oozing out of the slime and attach themselves disgustingly to my legs. Still despite (or maybe because of) the torments, this new trek was an exciting challenge, and while fun may not be the correct term, it was anything but boring.

We had been tramping for so long that I figured we must be near the head of the valley when I heard distant shouting. Our girl guards ran up and down the line, ordering us in low voices to squat beside the track. That was hard enough with our pole-suspended burdens, but they shoved us down forcibly when we didn’t react sufficiently fast. As I huddled in the long grass, I tried to figure out what had occurred, and guessed that the scouts up ahead had come into contact with the enemy. After we’d been crouching there a long, long time, there were voices close by, including laughter. I eventually made sense of it all. The Reds had managed to free two more of their girls. They were evidently winning the war, because they had rescued seven of their teammates by now, while all of us Blue girls, so far as I could tell, were still in captivity.

More time passed, and then we started up the track again. I still had no clear picture of what was going on. The gruelling monotony returned as we continued our slog back in the direction of Granite Peak. We stopped for a respite, which included a drink and a light lunch. Our carry poles remained in place, which made it hard to get any actual rest, but when the gag was taken out, my mouth was horribly dry and I must have swallowed half a canteen of water. Happily, pity prevailed and our captors decided not to replace the gags when we moved off once more. After that, it was basically nothing that I haven’t already described. We retraced our steps back over the ridge onto the high ground above Pioneer Valley, and then circuited the grand monolith and began the descent towards Resort Bay. Our blindfolds stayed on, but I had a precise image in my mind of the trail ahead. I am fortunate to be blessed with a near-perfect memory, so I could recall and avoid every little obstacle and pitfall in my path... well, most of them. Of course, I had Sabrina’s imperfect recollection to contend with, so the homeward journey was not really any less hazardous. She stumbled a lot more than I did, but it made no difference which of us first lost her footing.

Once again I had the call of nature to worry about, especially after absorbing so much water. But relief came when, somewhere along the track, we stopped in what must have been a picnic area, because one of the guys spoke of a concrete toilet block. But we didn’t use it, because it would have taken too long to unhitch us from our yokes and then replace them afterwards. So, instead, we were taken into the nearby scrub by the Red girls. Here feminine solidarity prevailed over tribalism. They were gentle and helpful. Of course, once we were finished, we were on opposite sides again.

While we still had the great stone parapet of Granite Peak right up against the left edge of the track, I noticed that our route was not the exact reverse of yesterday’s. We continued to trudge directly eastwards long after we should have altered course and headed due south. As a result, it was nearly mid-afternoon and we were still high up on the mountain. Then the column halted and we were unhitched and untied. We waited to be told to remove our blindfolds, and when we did I was hit by a wave of vertigo. We had traversed the entire upper valley, well past the town, and were standing on the lip of a precipitous ridge looking out over the eastern side of the island. It was truly an amazing sight, dominated by a broad, deeply indented peninsula blanketed by an impenetrable mantle of tropical rainforest and looking, from our vantage point, like a gargantuan green claw. The ridge on which we stood branched into several smaller wrinkles about a kilometre in front of us, and one of these terminated in a boulder field, the only break in the dense jungle canopy, littered with rocks some of which must have been as big as houses. It was an unforgettable scene, and I was glad and grateful that we were permitted to see it.

The rest of the trek home was an anticlimax. From now on, each of us carried his or her own pack. The boys had the temerity to complain about that, but I’m sure they were playing provocative. The ones who got it worse were the seven Red girls, who didn’t have their own kits and as a result got to haul some of the other baggage, which was heavier. However, none of us was tied. We reached the Ranger station just as the sun was settling on the western headland. It felt rather strange, being able to hike the remaining distance untied. Indeed, it was something of a letdown, and as much as I can enjoy bushwalking, the fact is that this last leg was rather tedious without the challenge of bonds and blindfold. I almost missed that ghastly gag!

There was a final opportunity, however. After another trip to the toilet, we reconvened for a ceremony to recognize the Red team’s victory over the Blues. A substantial crowd of spectators, mainly parents and younger siblings by the looks of it, had gathered to witness the occasion. We prisoners – all the Blues and five Red girls – were blindfolded and bound (just a simple wrists crossed behind backs on this occasion) for one last time, to be handed over for what Senior Ranger Laura called our repatriation. Each boy on the Red team was given a miniature trophy. Each girl received a silver medallion. Those of us who were bound were formally liberated and untied. Laura praised our “great effort and great attitude” and told us we were one of the best groups she’d ever taken to Camp Commando. (Yeah, and I bet you’ve said that to every group.) We showed our appreciation to the Rangers and the cadets with a hearty round of applause.

Alex offered to carry my pack. How uncharacteristically chivalrous of him. I expected that it was so he could tie my hands for the walk back to the hotel, but he never suggested it. Maybe he really was being gallant. I said good-bye to Blondie and a couple of the other girls I had gotten to know. As the crowd dispersed, I pulled Alex away from trying to chat up a couple of the chicks.

“Yes, call me,” he yelled after them, as they walked off.

“I bet they’re calling you all sorts of things,” I said. “What happened to your girlfriend?”

He looked at me quizzically before saying “Karen?” He said nothing more and I didn’t press. After all, he was still carrying my backpack.

Mum and Dad, who had come down to see us, took one look at me, smeared in mud and muck, and shook their heads.

“I can’t take her anywhere without being embarrassed,” Alex mourned.

The hotel receptionist gaped at me, appalled but sympathetic, as we crossed the lobby. She scrutinized the floor in my wake to see if I was leaving a trail of dirt and detritus. Back in the suite, I was sent straight to the bathroom. When I emerged, feeling refreshed but oddly unsatisfied, Mum was holding my poor little soiled and sullied shorts and top at arm’s length.

“These will need some heavy-duty treatment,” she declared.

“Do what you can,” I implored.

We went downtown for dinner. Mum was bound and blindfolded, but I asked Alex to leave me be, having had enough for one day. To my surprise, he agreed. My Lil Bro can be quite the gentleman when he isn’t being quite the nuisance. Later on, as the four of us sipped cocoa in the living room, he and I described our wilderness adventure, going into every aspect in elaborate detail. Our parents listened indulgently... “Very nice, honey. Well done, sport. Sounds great, sweetie.”

Alex proudly showed off his trophy.

“What did you get, Sarah?” Dad asked.

I held out my arms and legs to show then the bruises, welts and scratches. Mum sort of clucked and gave me a “You should take better care of yourself” look.

“I bet you have a few of your own from the past two days, Mummy dear.”

“That’s enough for tonight,” was her reply. “It’s getting late and you both look very tired. Time for bed.”

I couldn’t argue with that. Alex graciously gave me a couple of minutes’ head start to get into bed so I didn’t have to put on my blindfold. However, the graciousness couldn’t last. When he came in, he wanted to tie me down. Either he saw that this as the last easy opportunity to put me in my place, or he was afraid that I would get up in the middle of the night to exact retribution for recent insults and injuries. Of course I refused, and not just because Mum and Dad don’t permit overnight tying in case there’s an emergency like a fire. At the same time, I felt just a little a bit sad saying no. I was still hyped up and it might have been a nice outlet for my pent-up energy.

So we went to sleep... and this is me writing on the morning of day eight. It’s an historic morning. We are leaving the Hotel Andromeda and moving into the Oasis, to become permanent residents of Aranea Island.

What I have learnt since our arrival a week ago (What, only a week? It feels like so much longer...) is that I am going to encounter all sorts of new experiences and sensations here; and what I must continue to learn is how to be receptive to them, to try things outside the familiar, to explore beyond my comfort zone. I realize that there will be times when it’s going to be difficult for me, that along with the sweet there will be the bitter.

It won’t all be roses,
Role-play and poses;
And not all grandstanding.
The games are demanding.

I would write more, but if this is the best my poetic muse can produce, it’s better that I quit right now. Anyway, I can hear someone moving about inside. It’s time for the next chapter in our grand adventure.

Re: THE (LAST) RESORT

Postby sarobah » Thu May 23, 2013 2:59 pm

Day 8. Oasis

I awoke this morning still stiff and sore. Sleeping in was an attractive option, but I had two journal entries to complete, so I dragged myself out of bed, quiet as the proverbial mouse so as not to rouse Alex, and took up my usual spot on the balcony.

Luckily I had several hours of uninterrupted peace and quiet. Having gone to bed so early, I was up at around three o’clock. Accordingly, I had almost finished as, for the last time from this place, I watched the renascent daylight creep across the rooftops of the town below. I had a further sixty minutes or so to review and edit, and was just winding up when I heard the nearest and dearest moving around inside. They were already dressed, which meant they had been up and about for some time. So I must give Lil Bro some rare credit for not disturbing me. For sure, the peace and quiet never last, but I take what I can get. But now he was being his normal self, grouchily complaining of lack of sleep despite having had four hours more than me. On the whole, I’d had the harder time of it in the wilderness, so I thought his attitude was rather wimpy.

“Don’t harass the poor boy,” Mum chided.

“All I said was ‘Man up’,” I protested.

“Go get dressed,” she side-tracked. “You can’t go downtown like that.” (This being our last morning at the Andromeda, we were having breakfast in the style in which we are unlikely to become accustomed.)

“Too daring?” I said, looking down at my nightie and then pointedly across at her minuscule Seafolly bandeau bikini. She chose to not respond, so I went off and changed into my Azzura minihipsters and Roxy crisscross halter top and Balenciaga slingback sandals. I topped it off with my burgundy choker.

As I returned, Dad was fastening Mum’s collar. He was playfully tugging at her hair, pretending that it kept getting stuck in the tiny lock.

“Stop fooling about,” she grumbled, but she couldn’t do much about it because her wrists were already cuffed behind her back.

“Your turn,” Alex said, but he walked past me and into the bedroom. “Lady’s choice… what’s it to be?”

I told him what I wanted and waited in the living room, watching my parents. He had secured her arms behind her in the “box” position. This is normally one of the more comfortable ways, but he had attached her cuffs to the rear of her collar with a leather strap, and she had to lift her hands high up her back to relieve the pressure on her neck. There was no danger of choking because of the way the collar is shaped, but the result was nevertheless quite a strain on her arms and shoulders. Her eyes were closed, she was biting her lower lip and breathing heavily. He kissed her, and as he drew away, he pushed into her mouth the shiny dark orb of her ball gag. He tenderly brushed a few errant strands of hair away from her eyes as he tied the black satin blindfold in place. He took one of the leashes and lightly grazed the clasp over her bare shoulders and throat before fastening it to the ring on the front of her collar. She shivered and moaned softly through her gag as he drew it slowly, lovingly down her neck, over her breasts, across her belly and between her legs. In connecting it to her wrists behind her back, to make it reach he placed a hand on her head and gently pushed. As she bent her body forward, he tightened the strap to keep her in her forced bow. She was quivering slightly at the knees and her fingers drummed against her elbows to diffuse the tension building within her. Just seeing them, I began to feel all tingly and goosebumpy.

Distracted, I forgot about Alex until his hands came around from behind me and seized my elbows. He pulled my arms back with such force that I gasped. My wrists were somewhat chafed and my muscles still aching from the treatment of the last two days.

“Be more careful,” I growled.

“Stop whining,” he snarled back. “Don’t be such a girl.”

“I am a girl!”

“Well, take it like a man.”

“That doesn’t make... Ugh! Now you’re doing it deliberately!”

I had been pretty certain that his “lady’s choice” offer was humbug, that Alex would ignore whatever preference I’d expressed; and I was not to be disabused. But I have to admit that it’s more fun when you don’t know what’s coming, although my Lil Bro’s surprises are rarely congenial. I had asked for the fleecy cuffs and was not at all shocked when he clamped my right wrist over my left and began binding them with the nylon cord. He looped more of it around my shoulders to fashion a harness, to the back of which he attached my wrist bindings. I think he was about to funnel the free end between my legs, but he decided that a crotch-rope was just a little too icky to be putting on his sister. So instead he ran it up over my left shoulder, between and around my boobs, back over my right shoulder and again around my wrists. And as if the yoke were not stringent enough, he looped the last of the rope around my waist to make my arms completely immobile. He wasn’t gentle.

“What’s the big deal?” he demanded, as he wrapped more cord about my biceps and hauled until I grunted in a very unladylike fashion.

Dad, who had finished preparing Mum, was watching our progress. “How about both of you calm down,” he finally interrupted. “Alex, don’t hurt your sister. Sarah, do you want to be tied or not?”

“Of course I do. It’s just...” There really not much more to say, even if I could have. Alex pushed the ball-plug between my teeth. For my blindfold, he went with the sash rather than the mask.

As we left the suite, I could hear Mum’s shuffling feet and panting, rasping breath. She was having a hard time of it, so I know she was loving every bit of it.

From what I could take in of going on around me, there were quite a few people moving about in the foyer. In the week that we’ve been here, business in the resort has increased significantly. The slow season is coming to a close. And in the same time, I have learned how to pick out, solely from the different types of sounds they make, the state of the women and girls around me – those who are blindfolded, those who are gagged, those who are hobbled, what they’re wearing and even what they’re bound with. When deprived of your sight, you really do become more receptive to clues and cues, more sensitive to your environment.

On the other hand, the novelty of negotiating my way down the hillside and into the Village with only my sharpened senses to guide me and the dubious assistance of my intransigent brother to keep me out of trouble has long since faded. Still, we had a nice breakfast in the cafeteria where we’d eaten lunch on our first day. With the enhanced clarity of the blindfold, my senses were almost overwhelmed by the aromas wafting off Dad’s and Alex’s feast of bacon, eggs and thickly buttered toast – basically one huge cholesterol molecule. Mum and I had muesli, croissants and juice. We had been unshackled and untied, but Alex proposed that we remain gagged. For a brief moment I thought he was being serious.

After that, since we were not scheduled to move into the Oasis for a few hours, we decided to finally spend some more time on the beach. Although it is our eighth day here, this was only our second opportunity. So it was pleasant to feel the golden grit between my toes and the gentle waves washing over my body. Dad had picked a spot at the eastern end of the bay, sheltered by the headland and Frigate Island, so the surf was not very high; but it was also the less crowded part. I was glad we were well away from the area most susceptible to pirate raids. I wasn’t in the mood for being carried off as buccaneer booty. In fact, towards noon we did see and hear a commotion at the far end of the strand, about a kilometre distant.

Safety regulations forbid any sort of beach bondage, which I think makes good sense, because there is always someone who will do something silly. Since that someone in this case was likely to be Alex, at least three of us decided it was a good rule. Still, without even my choker I felt a little exposed. It may be that I am becoming assimilated into the local culture to the extent that I feel almost naked without my accessories; but it may also be that I’m turning into a snob. The collar and choker are our badges of residency, what separates us from the garden-variety tourists. Good grief, did I just write that? We’ve hardly arrived here and I’m already I’m looking down my nose at the commoners!

But speaking of naked... I was a little shocked to see that several women were swimming and sunbathing topless. It was Alex who explained that although full nudity is prohibited on the shore directly in front of the Village, bare breasts are not against the rules, provided you maintain at least minimal coverage once you’ve left the beach. The policy is set out in the handbook, and it was no surprise that Alex had found and read that part. Naturally he remarked that bare boobs should be compulsory. Dad chuckled. Mum rolled her eyes and whacked him on the shoulder.

“Except for you, Sarah,’” my beloved Lil Bro shook his head. “What would be the point?”

“Small things amuse small minds,” I replied.

Alex laughed. “Yeah, I agree...” He thought about what he was agreeing to, shrugged and turned his attention to a couple of bronzed beauties nearby. To be clear, that’s two girls and four... Well, anyway, not long after we’d settled, a thick layer of clouds had built up; but far from ruining our morning, it kept the sand from getting too hot and us from getting sunburnt. At lunchtime we found a half-empty bistro, a rarity at that time of day, and once nourished we returned for the last time to the Andromeda.

Back in our suite, Alex was being his usual obnoxious. I had already packed my bags except for what I’d be needing for the afternoon, while he had kept putting it off until Dad growled at him to “Get a move on!”

“Sarah, come and help me,” Alex called from the bedroom. I came in from the balcony.

“Please,” I said.

“You don’t have to ask permission. Just come and help me.”

I didn’t bother to debate. And since my peace had already been broken, I went into the bedroom.

“Forgotten something?” he demanded, as I began sorting through the drawers.

“Do you want me to help you or not?”

“I don’t make the rules.”

“Actually, that’s exactly what you’ve been doing.”

“Well then, rules are rules.”

This was one more battle I was not going to win without some cost. So with a shrug and a sigh, I took up my blindfold (the one from the restaurant) and put it on.

We began to pack his stuff, but even then Alex succeeded it making it a travail. That’s one of his few genuine talents.

“Leave me out a pair of socks,” he instructed.

“Will these ones do?” I asked.

“No, dummy, they’re different colours.”

“When I can’t see, how am I supposed to know?”

“I thought you knew everything.”

I could hardly argue with that. When we’d finished, I expelled Alex from the room to change into my denim skirt and calypso blouse. While I was doing so, Kate must have phoned, because when I came out, the menfolk had taken our luggage down to the ground floor. When they returned, we did a final check to make sure we’d left nothing behind, left no mess, left no appliances on, left no windows open. And as we assembled for the last time in the living room, Mum turned away and placed her hands behind her back. She was wearing her little powder blue sundress which has a drawstring belt. Dad untied it, slid it from around her waist and bound her wrists with it.

“Nice touch,” I thought.

Alex came up behind me and clamped his hands on my shoulders. In pure reflex I started to pull away from him. So even though I quickly stopped resisting, he grabbed my arms and forced me into a kneeling position by the simple expedient of ramming his knees into the back of mine. He tied my elbows first, behind my back. That’s not something he used to do, so he must have picked it up during our lessons the other day. It makes it easier to bind the wrists nice and tight. But because I was kneeling, to tie my hands he lifted my arms until they were slanted upwards behind me, forcing me to bend forward until my chin almost touched the carpet.

I must have groaned or grunted.

“Be careful,” Dad called out; but I wasn’t distressed at all, just surprised.

“Nice knickers,” my charming Lil Bro announced.

“Alex...” both our parents snarled at once.

“Geez, you can’t even pay someone a compliment...”

I didn’t respond. And as the shadow of the blindfold fell across my eyes, I took one last look at the place where we had spent such a marvellous week. And to think that the adventure is only just beginning…

Alex helped me to my feet. “Do we gag them?” he asked.

“That’s up to your mother and sister.”

We didn’t object, and Alex had already picked out the ring gag. Have I said how much I hate this one? But it was too late to protest. In fact, I hadn’t suspected which gag was going in until I was instructed to open really wide and felt the ring pressing behind my top row of teeth.

The metal hoop is wrapped in soft rubber or latex, so it doesn’t injure the roof of your mouth or your tongue. When you try to close your jaws, it bends very slightly, so it’s more flexible than many gags (it has to be to permit a safe and secure insertion). Also, it’s the type that best allows you to breathe. Nevertheless, my overall assessment was once more confirmed. It’s very uncomfortable because even with the elasticity, it holds your mouth open wide so rigidly that you feel like you’re getting lockjaw. You can make all sorts of noises, but none of them elegant or coherent. And it causes you to drool uncontrollably unless you can exercise inhuman self-control. I can’t, so it wasn’t long before the dribble oozed its way out through the ring and from the corners of my mouth, trickled down my jaw and dripped onto my chest and slithered under my blouse between my boobs and down my tummy. Alex was amused.

Dad asked “Are you okay, honey?” I just nodded and emitted a gurgled “Yesh...” as Alex shoved me towards the door. Pride would not permit any other response, of course. We took the elevator to the lobby where Kate was waiting, and then she drove us through the Village to the Oasis and the apartment that is our new home. It’s on the second floor. It’s compact, meaning not very big but efficiently designed to feel more capacious than it is in reality. All six rooms are clustered around a square central space. Navigating anticlockwise from the front door, you encounter first the dining and living room, then a small but well-appointed kitchen, and then the bathroom. At the opposite end of the apartment there’s the master bedroom and two single bedrooms. The place is not luxurious by any means, but it’s comfortable.

My room is too tiny to be anything other than sparsely furnished, but the window above my bed provides a sublime view out over the bay. I don’t have a lot of closet volume, although that is not a serious issue since most of the time I won’t be wearing a lot of clothes. However, the decor is dreadfully clichéd. Alex’s room is wall-papered in a blue-tinted boys-own theme of rocket ships, racing cars and cartoonish bikini babes, whereas mine is dressed up in a frilly pink-hued parody of girlieness, the walls festooned with balloons, bedecked with blossoms and butterflies, splashed with colourful ribbons and bows, crawling with cuddly teddy bears and cute kittens. The only things missing were fairies and unicorns. Kate apologized that it hadn’t been redecorated after the previous occupants departed. But my indignation was compounded by the fact that somebody had heard about a member of our family having an interest in astronomy and jumped to the conclusion that it must be one with testicles. Because also in Alex’s room was a new and elegantly framed star map, while beautifully detailed scale-model globes of the Moon and Mars were suspended from the ceiling. My Lil Bro was gracious enough to relinquish them without demanding a price. (Of course, when Dad was putting them up in my room, Alex did make a predictable joke about the two big balls well hung over my bed, but that was it.)

I also took a peek into the master bedroom. It looked normal, except upon close inspection. For screwed into the walls at various places and heights are large eye-bolts. The headboard and footboard of the double bed consist of metal frames, and some of the vertical bars have been both polished to a high sheen and slightly eroded by long-term buffing and abrasion. It did not take much imagination to decipher these clues. In fact, a length of light gauge silver chain still dangled from one of the eye-bolts. I asked Kate if these are standard fittings in residences here and she just smiled.

It was still early afternoon, so I made a phone call to Philip’s suite in the Regatta Hotel. His mother answered and said Alex and I could come round. Mum and Dad had business to attend to that would keep them busy for a couple of hours, so they told us to be back by dinnertime, “… and you can invite your friends if you want.”

Kate is pretty perceptive. She’s pegged me as a show-off. So she said it was okay for me to wear one of my uniforms. I chose the orchid string bikini and cerise pink pāreu, plus my collar, bracelets and anklets. I let Alex cuff my wrists in front and attach them to the ring on my collar. Kate advised that I should always have my own gag with me, and of course my prescient Lil Bro said “Well, yeah,” and held up my ball-plug gag and red sash blindfold, ready to go. He applied them and we left.

By now I am so used to moving about in my restraints that after Alex had taken me downstairs and out of the building, I reckon I could have found my own way to the Regatta. In fact I’ve seen more than a few women making their way around the Village unaccompanied while bound and even blindfolded. Indeed, there appears to be a sort of etiquette – people give them plenty of leeway but no one interferes to lend a hand unless they get into difficulties. I will try it myself some time... but not quite yet.

We met Philip, Dean and Nikki in the lobby of their hotel. Alex said “She’s yours,” and Philip detached my wrists from my collar and uncuffed them, but only to shackle them behind my back.

After a brief conference, Dean and Alex decided they would go downtown while Philip took me for a walk along the beachfront. I hadn’t heard a sound from Nikki, so I assumed she was gagged. Indeed, when Philip took off my blindfold, I saw that she was very thoroughly trussed, with a tether attached to a belt tightly encircling her bare midriff. The two boys volunteered to take her, and she looked stricken as she was led away. But my sympathy for her plight stopped short of empathy since it left me alone with Philip. He took out my gag and left it hanging at my throat, and tied my red sash about my neck as a scarf. I wondered if he was being gallant in not blindfolding me. However, he showed his true colours – as a red-blooded male, that is – by untying my sarong from my hips and wrapping it around my head and over my eyes.

We had a pleasant walk and talk. Philip was tender and considerate in the effort he went to in order to guide me properly, much more than Alex has been. He kept by my side, with one arm around my shoulders to steer me and the other on my tummy to keep me steady.

His family are due to fly home in four days. That should give us a few more opportunities to get together; but in the meantime I have to decide where it goes after that. Should we take the chance of a long-distance relationship, or just make the most of what we have in the here and now? As I thought about it, I started to feel a little melancholy, and I was glad I was wearing my blindfold; but Philip could hear the choke in my voice. He sat me down on one of the park benches. He kissed me, on the lips, then his mouth moved down my neck and shoulders, to my breasts and then across my belly. I was beginning to tremble as his fingers played with the string-ties of my bikini pants, but instead they passed on to unshackle my wrists. I kept my arms behind my back as he drew me into a hug, until he took hold of my hands and moved them to his waist. We caressed and cuddled for a while. And cocooned within the entrancing darkness of my blindfold, my barriers began to fall as the inhibitions melted away. I almost forgot that we were in public… and wished we weren’t.

Dean and Alex met us at the Regatta just after we arrived back there, with Nikki still in tow. We went up to the tenth floor. Philip’s parents – they insisted I call them Caroline and Rob – were in the living room. Philip removed my blindfold and tied it back in place about my hips. Before he replaced it with the sash, I looked about. Caroline was in a bikini but looked sweaty and flushed. Her limbs and torso bore the unmistakable, bright pink crisscross marks of recently applied ropes. Nikki was already on the floor, having been forced down by Alex and Dean as soon as they entered the suite. The boys were busy putting her in a very severe-looking hog-tie, and all she could do was squirm about and make plaintive noises, as little bubbles arose and popped at the edges of her gag. And I have no idea what the poor girl had endured at the hands on my brother and his evil associate while they were downtown, but her forehead, cheeks, nose and chin were smeared with multicoloured glitter, her blindfold was daubed with two large blue spots and her gag painted bright red, to make up her face in a grotesque clown mask. Her belly and legs were plastered with some sort of fluorescent green slime.

I asked if the family wanted to join ours for dinner, and they all appeared delighted at the prospect... except there was no way of telling what Nikki was thinking. She just whimpered.

With some apprehension I phoned and Dad answered. He conferred briefly with Mum and said they’d be happy to have company. In fact, they invited everyone to be their guests at the Bayview restaurant, which is located in the Oasis. (I should explain that meals are provided free for staff and the families in several cafeteria-style establishments; but there is also the Bayview and another place when you want to dine in style. It’s open to tourists – who are not excluded from the Oasis – but few bother to make the trip.)

So Alex and I waited while the others got ready, including Nikki who sounded mightily relieved to be free of her bonds. But she stoically accepted her fate when she emerged from the bathroom and was immediately seized and bound. I heard Caroline being gagged, and then my turn came. I was already cuffed and blindfolded, and Philip allowed Dean to gag me. He wasn’t gentle, ramming the shaft into my throat and almost choking me, though he did apologize.

Rob had already rung for a taxi and so we only had to wait a couple of minutes. The journey took longer than I thought it should, and we made a lot of turns, but being unable to see what was happening and unable to ask, I don’t know why. The young woman driving had a voice that sounded familiar, but I have met so many staff this past week. She could tell from my outfit that I was a resident, but since I was gagged she otherwise paid no attention to me. I think the males were unforthcoming about what route we were taking to deliberately keep their womenfolk even more in the dark than we already were. Boys do like to play with their toys.

When we arrived, Alex showed everyone up to the apartment. I was released from my bonds so I could get dressed, and Rob removed his wife’s gag so the four parents could get acquainted. I put on my black baby-doll dress and burgundy choker; and I pulled out the “fun cuffs” I received during our fitting the other day. I asked Philip to use these, because they are fleece-lined and my wrists were getting sore again from chafing. He agreed and cuffed my hands in front and then attached them to my choker. He called over his sister, freed her hands and instructed her to put one of her arms between mine. He tied her wrists with the ribbon he had been using to bind her, and then made a collar out of the scarf she’d been wearing as a blindfold and secured her wrists to it. As a result, Nikki’s and my arms were interlocked and we were forced to stand close together and slightly turned to face each other. We would have been in a kissing position except that she is so much taller than me that my nose was under her chin. I guess we could still have kissed, if we had been so inclined.

Dad and Rob were inspired by Philip’s creativity. Caroline and Mum were asked to stand beside each other. Caroline’s hands were already bound behind her, so Mum was told to put her left arm between Caroline’s right arm and her body, and then her arms were also tied behind her back. The way they had been linked, they could walk fairly easily, if a bit wobbly, side by side. Nikki and I had much the harder job of it, even more so after our blindfolds went on. (Dean borrowed one of mine for his sister.)

We eventually reached the restaurant. It was only a short distance from the apartment block, but Nikki and I slowed down the pace considerably. There was no ““Ladies must be suitably restrained” sign at the entrance, like in the restaurant next to the Andromeda, and we didn’t dine sans vue. There was too much to talk about. Philip and I made plans for his remaining days on the island. The parents hit it off and arranged another dinner date. Dean and Alex organized an after-schooltime rendezvous. Nikki had two glasses of wine and flirted with the waiter.

On our way out, Philip cuffed my hands behind my back and then reached into his pocket. He showed me a piece of slender cable of about arm’s length long. It was one of the burgundy and teal, braided leather leashes.

“May I?” he asked.

“Of course… please,” I replied.

He fixed it to the small ring on the front of my collar. After he secured my blindfold, we left the others behind to go for a stroll along the moonlit beach. Out of their sight, I recalled a conversation I’d had with Mum the other day.

“Remember, Sarah, just because a boy puts you on a leash, that doesn’t mean he owns you,” she said.

“Yes, Mummy dear.”

“I mean it, Sarah.”

“Sorry. I get it.”

“That’s okay, honey. It also doesn’t mean you can’t have a nice time.”

We did have a nice time, but a chilling breeze was blowing off the bay so we went inside. Our guests stayed just a few minutes more.

I went to bed with a strange sense of disorientation and, rather surprisingly, a feeling of aloneness. It was lovely to have a bedroom all to myself once more, but after so many days of sharing with Alex, I almost missed not having the Lil Bro there to annoy me. I even did a quick scan for my blindfold, to ensure it was close at hand, before I remembered it was no longer de rigueur. Nevertheless, the wellspring of my continual torment was but a thin wall away.

And so ends this first phase of our island adventure. There’s nothing to add except... it’s only just begun.

Re: THE (LAST) RESORT

Postby sarobah » Thu May 23, 2013 6:30 pm

Day 9. Resident

Now that we have settled into our apartment, I have begun to realize just how small it is. Our stay in the Andromeda Hotel suite gave us a chance to acclimatize, but this is now our permanent abode, and it’s going to take a bit more adjusting. Still, our new lifestyle offers more than enough compensation.

After breakfast, we got dressed to begin our first day as official residents. Dad and Alex looked dapper – if a little quaint – in their white slacks and floral shirts. Mum and I consulted the staff handbook for our outfits. There is a chart with several variables (job description, work environment, day of the week, time of the year, current weather conditions) and it specified for both of us the “bikini style A-2” which is the balconette bandeau top and side-gather hipster bottom, to be worn with the pink hibiscus pāreu tied on the left hip. It even specifies sandals, not covered shoes, so I put on my Qupid strappies. Just as I was fastening my collar, bracelets and anklets, I heard a knock on the front door.

I came out of my bedroom to find Philip waiting. He had promised he would try to make it this morning, to see me off for my first day at work. Dean was with him and expressed surprised to see Alex in his school uniform. It must not have occurred to him that my brother’s vacation was over when we took up residence in the Oasis. Then came another knock. It was executive director Maggie.

“The parade is getting organized,” she announced.

Mum and I grabbed our bags and we all went outside, to the large area of freshly mowed grass at the northern end of the complex. On the way, Maggie showed the proper professional courtesy towards our two visitors, asking if they were enjoying their holiday and appearing genuinely interested in what they had to say. Philip and Dean were flattered by her interest, because it was obvious that she was someone of importance. Indeed the three boys, including Alex, appeared spellbound by this tiny, charismatic woman, half-clad in her barely-there sarong, wearing her collar and shackles, yet radiating self-assurance and authority. I’m hoping there’s a lesson in that for them, but I’m not confident that my Lil Bro will absorb it.

A large number of staff had begun to assemble and more were arriving, mostly females, some of whom had already been prepared – that is to say, cuffed, gagged, blindfolded and hobbled with ankle chains. All the men were engaged in getting them ready for the pageant, assisted by a few of the women and half a dozen boys and girls. Ranks were beginning to form (in reality a single file that zigzagged across the lawn) when Maggie called out for attention as she strode into the middle of the gathering. Everyone stopped what they were doing. Those women already rendered sightless tilted their heads or leaned forward to catch her words.

“Ladies and gentlemen, you are no doubt aware that there’s a new sheriff in town,” she began. There was laughter, cheers and some jokes. She said a few more words and then formally introduced Mum, who came forward and said a few words before introducing Dad, Alex and me. I was glad that we weren’t called out to the front; but Philip and Dean were impressed by our VIP reception.

At the time, I had thought it rather odd that this was the occasion for our coming out. However, it has since occurred to me that it is the only opportunity when so many of the staff are congregated in one place. Mum and I had been informed that participating in the daily procession to Resort Village is not mandatory, although most women choose to do so. Nevertheless, I had the feeling there was a tacit expectation that we be a part of it, or at least that it would be ungracious to opt out. But to tell the truth, I had been looking forward to this experience since we first became acquainted with it on our shadowing day. (Only four days ago? It seems like forty.)

I took my ball-gag, red sash blindfold and ankle chain out of my bag and gave them to Philip, then slung the bag over my shoulder diagonally. I put my arms behind me and Philip clamped my cuffs together, and then he inserted my gag. Dad was doing the same for Mum, while Dean and Alex wandered over to where a group of women without partners were working on each other. When the two boys offered their services, the ladies welcomed the extra pairs of hands… or at least they didn’t object. One of them was Sandra, who had looked after us in the Commissariat the other day.

Dean and Alex managed to cuff, gag, blindfold and hobble several of the women, and as they finished with each pair, one of the men led them off to their positions in the line, which was by now almost a hundred bodies in length, and still growing. Meanwhile, Maggie returned to us and directed Dad and Philip to take Mum and me to the very rear of the assembly, where a smaller cluster was being prepped. As soon as she had done so, a young man approached and she nodded and placed her hands behind her back.

At this point Philip applied my blindfold and steered me to the end of the secondary queue before connecting the chain to my ankle cuffs. I realized that we had been assigned to the newcomers’ group, which is not expected to keep pace with the veterans who have been making this trek to the town for months or even years. There were about twenty of us, and once in line we were tethered by leashes clipped to our collars. I could tell we were about an arm’s length apart, and that my partner in front was very tall because of the way our connecting cable lightly grazed my chin as it slanted upwards to her neck. Mum was placed behind me.

Upon a command from one of the men, the column began moving and we started on the kilometre-long march. After that, I don’t know what happened with Dad and the boys. For all I knew they could have been strolling along beside us, or they may have gone their own ways immediately. By the time we reached our destination, only Philip was left. In the meantime, it had been an arduous but interesting challenge. After shuffling uphill along a path that ran parallel to the high ground on our left, for most of the journey we followed the road which curved around the ridge behind us on its way to Pirate’s Cove. Traversed on foot, it felt a lot less smooth than it had when we were riding in the buggy, but it was relatively straight and sloped gradually downwards to the outskirts of the Village. I could roughly measure our progress by the rising volume of the noise from the spectators lining our route, but also by the panting and puffing sounds of myself and my fellow prisoners as fatigue set in. It was not a huge distance, but with blindfolds and hobbles hindering our movement and gags restricting our breathing, it quickly became heavy going.

And yet the most irritating part was the young man with a gratingly high-pitched voice pacing us by bellowing “Left, right, keep it tight, left, right, keep it tight…” constantly and almost directly into my ear. The cadence was necessary to keep us from bunching up or stumbling over each other’s feet, but was no less annoying for that.

When finally a halt was called, our newbies’ group did not form rows like the rest of the women, but instead just stopped and waited at the rear of the assembly. The procedures we had witnessed the other day were thereafter repeated, with Maggie calling out names, orders and assignments. There was more shuffling, and when Philip removed my blindfold I saw that Mum was gone and both the staff and the crowd were quickly dispersing. About half of all the women had been released from their bonds, while the rest were led away as they were. I had no idea what I was supposed to do or where I was expected to go, but it was Kate who, after she’d been released, came up to us and said “Time to go.” Philip took out my gag and detached my ankle chain and put them in my bag, but left my hands cuffed behind my back. We made arrangements to meet at lunchtime, and then Kate ushered me away. She wanted to know all about my boyfriend, and when I declared that he is not my boyfriend she just smiled and insisted on knowing everything anyway.

And so I began my first day as an employee of the Aranea Island Resort. When I started this journal, I promised myself that it would not become cluttered with the boring and depressing minutiae of my part-time job. So suffice it to say that I found myself back in the information and inquiries unit, not answering calls but logging and cataloguing comments, complaints and responses. It was not uninteresting or especially difficult work, but it was work nonetheless, and I was glad when noon arrived.

I am assigned here for six weeks and have two bosses. Lillian is in her early thirties, statuesque and graceful but somewhat aloof in her manner, with flowing, flaming red hair and eyes the colour of gleaming blue sapphires. She is in charge of “customer interaction” – the phone answering part of the operation. She has an intimidating mien and a withering glare, and I am glad that I got through my first day without incurring her doubtlessly dreadful wrath.

Her colleague Gordon, who was the only male in the section today, is responsible for “information management” – the stuff that I do. He is a short, ruggedly handsome guy a bit younger than Lillian, who looks like he’d be more at home on safari and thus faintly ridiculous in his crisp cream trousers and rambunctiously florid shirt. But he’s so diffidently soft-spoken that you strain to hear what he’s saying; and he appears to languish in a perpetual state of existential gloom, despite spending his working day supervising a roomful of bikini-clad females.

The morning was uneventful. There is no mandatory bondage while on duty because we’re out of the public’s view, but it’s impossible to forget what’s going on beyond the walls of your workplace when you’re wearing your collar and cuffs. During the mid-morning break, a couple of the girls gagged themselves – I don’t know why, but I didn’t emulate them. I was desperate for my coffee and cake. I got to speak with a few of my co-workers, who seemed unaware of my family connection, or were either uninterested or disinterested. That’s fine by me, and I hope the anonymity lasts.

When lunchtime arrived, Philip was there to meet me. He cuffed me but kept me ungagged so we could talk, and left off my blindfold so we could walk at a reasonable speed back to the Oasis. I wanted to try out one of the staff cafeterias there. I wasn’t sure if Philip would be able to eat free of charge as well, but he came prepared to pay. Before we had gone too far, however, Kate caught up to us, accompanied by Gordon. I was a little bit annoyed, Philip more so. But it couldn’t have been a coincidence, and I guess they were checking up on me. And it’s funny – I still don’t know what Kate’s job title is or exactly what her responsibilities are. They must surely cover more than babysitting a family of newcomers, but that’s what she has been doing for most of the past nine days.

She asked how my first morning on the job had gone. I made a guarded joke about how great it was except for my tyrannical overseer, and to my relief grumpy Gordon thought it was mildly humorous.

We passed one refectory, which Kate claimed she couldn’t recommend but didn’t saying why. Instead we moved on to another that’s located just around the corner from our apartment. A sign over the door announces “Ocean View Dining Hall” but it looks like an ordinary cafeteria to me. It’s self-serve, with seating for about a hundred at full capacity. It was about half-full when we arrived. Most of the patrons were in uniform but some were not and there was just one woman not wearing a collar or choker. None were bound in any way, at least not that I could see. Kate told Philip that he could eat for free.

Philip unlocked my cuffs, we got our meals and found a table. Our escorts took a different one to give us some privacy. But I couldn’t help but stare at Kate in astonishment and admiration as she set about devouring a gargantuan conglomeration of proteins, fats and sugars. Given her svelte figure, she must burn off one heck of a lot of calories in nervous energy… or something. Next to her, Gordon was so lovingly tender with his macaroni cheese that I was thinking, “For pity’s sake, eat it or marry it!”

Philip and I shared a seafood basket, and afterwards we made it back to City Hall just in time for the afternoon shift to begin. Since I had to leave for my three o’clock appointment, and there wasn’t much work going on, this has so far been an easy way to earn my wage.

As I was about to sign out, Lillian called me over to her work station. I worried that I might have done something wrong, but she just smiled and told me to take off my sarong. For tying on the hip it’s folded in half, so she instructed me to open it up. Then, to illustrate what to do, all of a sudden she reached behind her back, unfastened her bikini top and took it off, smoothly and without the slightest inhibition. Gordon was watching, but she was completely unfazed and unabashed as she untied her pāreu and retied it over her boobs, turning it from skirt to strapless minidress. I followed her lead, but faced away from our one-man audience… not so much, I confess, out of shyness as to avoid a less than flattering comparison with Lillian’s outstanding assets.

Because I didn’t think the interview would last long, Philip and I had arranged that we would meet and walk back to the Oasis together once more. He was waiting outside the building with Dean and Nikki and another girl. Philip introduced their friend as Jenna. She’s tall like Nikki, with implausibly blonde hair and a to-die-for figure. Both girls wore bikinis that were little more than tiny triangles held in place with cotton yarn. I’m sure Jenna’s very pretty, but her face was distorted by a monstrous ball-gag secured in place by a leather harness that ran under her chin and up across her forehead and over the top of her head. She wasn’t blindfolded but could only half-open her eyes because of the gag straps. Nikki, on the other hand, had a band of coloured cloth masking her eyes, and it amused me that it provided more coverage than everything she had on the rest of her body. Both girls’ arms were pinioned very tightly behind their backs, and they were connected to each other by a rope tied about their waists. Jenna looked somehow familiar, and then I noticed the fading, two-day-old scratches on her legs. She had been one of my Blue teammates during our sojourn in the wilderness.

Philip cuffed and gagged me, but since I was in a hurry to get to my meeting there was no time for anything else. We moved quickly, so to ensure his two captives could keep up, Dean took off his sister’s blindfold. The three followed us at a short distance, Dean leading the girls on a double halter and having fun with them. They would go a dozen paces or so, and then he would bring them to a sudden halt with a sharp jerk on their leashes; and then they would have to trot to catch up to Philip and me. He kept this up the whole way, and with their encumbrances poor Nikki and Jenna were soon sweating and puffing and groaning.

When we stopped outside the Aranea Island School, Philip took out my gag. I told him my appointment would take half an hour and that Alex’s classes would be finishing soon, and I asked if he would mind waiting. Dean pre-empted his brother’s answer. He wanted to see Alex again, but was also curious to know what school is like here. During the wait, he and Philip could entertain themselves tormenting their two hapless prisoners.

I had my interview, in the aptly named Education Office located adjacent to the school. To summarise the results, I was assured that my university program could begin on schedule and that my mentor would be one of the teaching staff, who is working on her PhD. There are no current openings as a teacher’s aide – the job I was hoping for – but I have been promised a position on the short list. (Despite my disappointment, I’m actually glad that my family connections have not won me any special consideration.) I also applied for a Ranger cadetship and was promised that my acceptance is virtually a fait accompli, not least because of my astronomy background.

So I came out feeling, on the whole, very pleased with myself and my prospects. There was a small crowd waiting for me – Philip, Dean, Nikki and Jenna, plus Alex and two boys about his age in school uniform. From the latter’s reaction when they saw me, I have no doubt that my Lil Bro had speedily made friends by boasting about his gorgeous, tremendously endowed Big Sis. They identified me immediately by my collar and sarong, and I must say… although they were not exactly dismayed by what they saw, they showed more interest in the two busty beauties Dean had on his twin leash. (I don’t know what had happened during my meeting, but Jenna in particular, now blindfolded, appeared more dishevelled and sweaty than she’d been before I went inside.)

Philip and I tried to make a quick getaway, leaving the damsel duo to their fate, but their plaintive protests from behind their blindfolds and through their ball-gags were too pitiful to ignore. So instead we all went together to the Ocean View Dining Hall. I still wasn’t certain what sort of reception we’d get, with four guests in our party, but we had no trouble at all ordering fries and milkshakes. Nikki and Jenna had to eat and drink theirs bound and blindfolded, each “assisted” by two of the guys. It was not a pretty sight.

Philip apologized that he couldn’t spend time with me tonight as his family has another engagement. He didn’t say what it was, but judging from his expression it was obviously not something he was looking forward to. We still have four days before he has to leave, and I am going to treat that as a half-full rather than half-empty glass. We also had an hour or so to amuse ourselves, so we all went to the quadrangle, the grassy area where we’d assembled this morning, and found a shady tree. Nikki, Jenna and I then got a good “workout” – that’s the euphemism for a session of rather brutal bondage. However, it’s gratifying to discover that the most moderate of our captors were Alex’s two henchmen. As long-term residents, they’ve become quite blasé about tying up girls. One of them glowered when Dean started tampering with Jenna’s flimsy bikini tie-strings; and though they didn’t say anything, it was made clear that “Don’t take advantage” is one of the cardinal rules. That’s good to know.

I never got to speak to Jenna, so I don’t know her story. Perhaps I will see her again before she goes home. I could tell from her expressions and responses that she is something of a prima donna. That’s not a criticism, because so am I, to an extent. Although she’d been quiet and passive up until then, as soon as the boys had her prostrate on the grass she began kicking up an unholy fuss. The more rigorous and intricate and restrictive the bondage they put her in, the more she reacted. She never stopped wriggling, writhing and squirming, making all sorts of distressed and outraged noises. It took some of the focus off Nikki and me... which was, I guess, both a good and a bad thing.

The boys must have been playing with us for about an hour when suddenly they stopped. They were gracious enough to remove our blindfolds so we could see what had grabbed their attention. I was lying on my belly, hog-tied and gagged. Nikki was suspended in a strappado from a tree branch and Jenna was trussed in a balled-up tangle of limbs. When I rolled onto my side and looked up, I saw a line of women coming from the direction of Resort Village. The procession was considerably smaller than this morning’s, presumably because staff knock-off times are varied. There were perhaps fifty marchers, being shepherded by half a dozen men. Near the middle of the column was Lillian, whose imposing height and cascade of flaming red locks made her very conspicuous. Chained and hobbled, gagged and blindfolded, shuffling down the path, stooping slightly so her neck tether could reach the collars of the girl in front of and behind her without choking her, she didn’t seem nearly as formidable as when she was running the show in the call centre. After she’d been unhitched from her partners, she waited until a boy who appeared about eleven or twelve years old came forward to claim her. As he led her away, still in her bonds, one of Alex’s friends called out to her young escort and he replied with a casual salute.

It was odd, because when I had spoken with Lillian I had the distinct impression that she was married but without kids. Perhaps he’s a neighbour, or the son of a colleague of hers or her husband’s, and it’s his responsibility to collect her each evening and take her home. I know that some of the women here take their bondage quite seriously both on and off duty, but I hadn’t picked Lillian to be one of them.

Thereafter, my first day as a bona fide citizen ended with a quiet night indoors. Dean had left with Nikki and Jenna once more in tow, while Philip accompanied me to our apartment before promising to return in the morning. Dad made dinner and Mum arrived with perfect timing. Over our (very pleasant) meal, we each discussed our experiences and adventures. I gave them my good news. Mum described a day taken up with tedious conferences. Dad was his usual taciturn self. Alex recounted his inaugural school day in intricate and superfluous detail. He’s disillusioned that there is no tying up allowed in class or during recess and lunch break, indeed anywhere on the campus; but he likes that his teachers wear bikinis… “Even the Principal, Ms Parnell!”

The name struck a chord. She’s my mentor. Alex saw my grin and demanded to know the joke. After I’d explained, his jaw dropped. My brother is not paranoid for nothing. When he thinks his enemies are teaming up against him, he is most likely correct.

After dinner I went straight to bed, but before we dispersed we took a family council vote. The decision was unanimous. Be it resolved that Aranea Island is a great place to live!

Re: THE (LAST) RESORT

Postby sarobah » Mon May 27, 2013 6:51 pm

This chapter has not turned out exactly the way I planned. The story is evolving as I write it. I hope it has not wandered too far away from the original theme.

Day 37. Cadet

Nobody told me there'd be days like these. Strange days indeed.

This time yesterday I was with my family and friends in our cosy little apartment, getting ready for bed with a bellyful of birthday cake and a head lightened by my first glass of champagne. Now I’m sitting alone at a desk in a corner of my dormitory, typing as fast as I’m able to record, before lights-out, as much as I can of this strange, maddening, exhilarating day. There have been so many of these here on Aranea Island that it’s making me giddy.

I awoke with my head still throbbing from last night’s celebrations. I have only a dim recollection of what happened. I’m sure I drank just that one glass. But yesterday was hectic, the evening was eventful, and I think it was exhaustion, not the alcohol, which got the better of me. The last thing I can clearly recall is the Lil Bro obnoxiously belting out a mangled chorus of “Girl, you’ll be a woman soon” until we all begged him to shut up.

I crawled out of bed to find the floor beneath my wobbly feet strewn ankle-deep in shredded wrapping paper, discarded ribbon, tattered plastic packaging and other birthday detritus. I certainly don’t remember dumping all that stuff in my room, so that must have been Alex’s doing. There were strips of the multi-coloured tape tied around each of my wrists and one of my ankles. I have no idea how they got there. I shambled out the door and into the bathroom for the blessed refreshment of a nice long shower, and then put on one of my new camisoles.

I could hear Mum in the kitchen, so I joined her preparing a hearty breakfast for our still sleeping menfolk. She was in her nightie, the pink silk teddy and peignoir, with strands of gold and silver tinsel encircling her throat and binding her hair in a tousled bun. She looked even more bedraggled than I felt. In fact, there was something not quite right about her, and it took me a moment to realize that her teddy was inside out, as if she’d pulled in on in a hurry, or in the dark, or.... I wondered what she and Dad had gotten up to after the guests left and Alex and I went to bed.

She glanced up from the bench top when she heard my footsteps.

“What are you grinning at?” she demanded.

“Nothing important.”

“How’s the head?”

“Fine, thanks.”

“I trust you slept well.”

“Good enough.”

“I want you to eat something this morning.”

“Oh yes, mummy dearest.”

“None of that nonsense,” she growled. “You’re not a child anymore. You shouldn’t have to be…”

“Oh good, you’re going to use that against me from now on!”

She just smiled. I took my place beside her, slicing and peeling stuff.

“Who knows what you’ll be eating – or not – when you’re on your own?”

“I won’t be on my own,” I protested.

“You know what I mean.”

She was right, of course. So I joined Dad and Alex at the table. I gulped down half a cup of coffee, chomped on a carrot, nibbled a piece of unbuttered toast. I felt bloated.

For all her admonitions about breakfast, Mum didn’t sit down with us, but went instead to get ready for work. She had to leave early because she’s organizing a conference for another bunch of bigwigs who are flying in from corporation HQ. She came back to clear the table while Dad went to get dressed. I washed the dishes. Alex, as usual, disappeared until the work was done.

“Time to go,” Dad said. He cuffed and blindfolded Mum in the living room. Normally they’d wait, but this morning she would not be part of the daily procession to the Village. It’s one of the few she’s missed. When they were ready to leave, she called me over to give me a kiss and wish me well.

Naturally I had to tease her, turning around so that she, unable to see, planted her lips on the back of my head.

“Very funny,” she said, “very grown up. Anyway, take care.”

“Thanks,” I replied, with a bona fide kiss. I straightened her blindfold and adjusted the top of her sarong.

“Yes, take care,” Dad dittoed, adding a hug to the smooch.

“I think I’m gonna throw up!” my Lil Bro scowled.

“You’re all class, Alex.”

“Thank you, Sissy. I’m glad to finally get some recognition.”

“Okay, we’ll leave you pair to fight it out. Bye.”

There were two taxis parked outside our building, which was unusual since personal transportation is not a privilege of rank here. Seated in the first was Maggie. It actually took me a few seconds, watching from the second storey window, to identify her behind the blindfold. With her were three other passengers, two women and a man, none of whom I recognized. They weren’t wearing staff uniforms, but the females were collared and bound. They were not gagged and seemed to be engaged with Maggie and their male companion in a lively conversation.

Dad put Mum in the second taxi and climbed in beside her. Besides the driver, they were sharing with two men, who reminded me of the Blues Brothers, because they were wearing dark business suits in defiance of the tropical heat. Both had alighted to offer gallant assistance to the lady in bonds and blindfold. They seemed disappointed that despite her restraints she didn’t need their help.

It took no special detective skills to deduce that the strangers were the advance party for the bigwig shindig. They must have driven directly from the airfield, because Very Important Visitors generally stay in one of the hotels in town and would not otherwise be coming through the Oasis. And it’s uncommon for newcomers to be bound so quickly after their arrival, whereas I’ve noticed this with VIVs. They want to integrate into the community straight away, to demonstrate to the rank-and-file that they’re not clueless novices.

And it was very obvious that they were. The males showed the unmistakable signs of amusement, bemusement and arousal. The seats in the buggies are positioned so the occupants can face each other, and even from my distance I could see that the Blues Brothers sitting opposite Mum couldn’t keep their eyes off her. They were shifting their gaze from her décolletage to her thighs (bared all the way when her sarong parted as she sat), and up her sides to her shoulders, which were pulled backwards by the pinioning of her arms. They were no doubt feeling a tad sleazy because the object of their attention could not see them gawking. So Dad broke the ice by grabbing hold of Mum and twisting her half around so they could see how her wrists had been cuffed. She gasped at the sudden move and one of the men winced when he saw just how firmly her arms were braced; but she remained silent and nodded solemnly at something someone said.

The women in the taxi with Maggie had the demeanour typical of bondage virgins. They appeared apprehensive and self-conscious yet already slipping into sensual harmony with their bonds. Their posture was tense, but their overall disposition was calm – a sure sign that the power of the mind to adjust to the ropes is winning out over the natural response of the body to resist. Their hands were bound behind their backs with leather straps, as were Maggie’s (which explains why the two men were surprised by Mum’s cuffs), and their skirts were furrowed by crotch-ropes which ran, rather loosely, up to their collars. Up until this point they still had their vision, but after a word from Maggie the man put sleep-mask blindfolds on each. Then the driver, a young woman, turned around and offered him three ball-gags – red, yellow and green. She gave instructions while he applied the red one to the woman sitting beside him. He fumbled for a while. (It’s easy to forget that inserting and securing a ball-gag is not so straightforward for a first-timer.) The woman, though startled when she felt the silicone orb pressing against her lips, did not defy it. She had a rather hard time as he pushed and shoved to get the thing into her mouth, and he jerked her head back and forth and sideways to position and buckle the strap; but she tried to keep still and not struggle. I had to admire her tolerance, because it must have been quite an ordeal, for a newbie.

The other woman, sitting opposite, appeared confused and nervous behind her blindfold, her natural feeling of vulnerability intensified by the distressed noises coming from her colleague. However, with more confidence the man quickly gagged both her and Maggie. They had to lean forward until their heads were almost between their knees so he could fasten the straps. All three laughed through their gags and shook their heads at a funny remark he made.

In the meantime, Mum received the same treatment from her fellow passengers. The Blues Brothers tried to work together, which only made it more difficult for her, since applying a ball-gag involves both pushing and pulling. It was like when you see two ants trying to carry a large crumb back to the nest and they’re tugging against each other. Dad was just sitting back and grinning, and when they had at last completed the job Jake and Elwood looked very pleased with themselves. After all, it had taken just three minutes for two men to gag one helplessly bound woman.

The first taxi had already departed, and once the second was out of sight, I returned to my bedroom. I took off my camisole and knickers, and as I laid out my Pioneers uniform on the dresser top, and placed alongside it my accessories – bracelets, anklets and collar – I paused to stare at my image in the mirror once more. I was not displeased by what I beheld. I don’t think I’m beautiful but I guess I’m pretty, if you like the elfin look. My beige blonde hair is apparently one of the fashionable shades, but it hangs to my shoulders lank and undisciplined. I shifted my line of sight lower. I am proud of my legs, but my body is a little on the skinny side. My breasts could be a cup size bigger. The chubbiness of adolescence has melted away from my hips and belly, but smooth curves have given way to angular severity... a less than subtle hint that the boundary between my self-discipline and self-denial is becoming blurred. (Mummy dearest is right. I should eat more.) I studied further down. Silken wisps embroider the soft contours, forming a delicate veil across the pristine portal of my womanhood. (Goof grief, did I really just write that? I must be tired.)

Nothing has changed since yesterday, of course. But over the past five weeks so much has – maybe not in my physical appearance, but in my experience and my awareness. And as I snapped shut the metal rings around my wrists and ankles, and locked the leather band about my throat, they did feel somehow different... more constricting and yet liberating. By the time I take them off when I go to sleep tonight, I will not be the same girl – woman – I was when I put them on. I have, for the first time, left the nest. But a lot else happened in those sixteen hours.

I put on my backpack, then selected my gag – the ball-plug – and slung it round my neck. On impulse, I retrieved the red sash blindfold from the drawer and tied it in place. I went to the living room to wait for Alex, managing for once to avoid bumping into the walls and furniture. I heard Lil Bro’s tongue click with approval when he saw me. He took hold of my hands, and linked my cuffs to the ring on the front of my collar, where he also clipped on a leash. Then I felt a heavy weight on my back. He was attaching his schoolbag to my pack.

“Hey, I’m not your slave,” I snarled.

“Yes, you are,” he replied. (I am so going to miss him.)

It was too late to argue. We had to get going. Alex guided me downstairs and then led me out of the building and along the path towards the school. On the way he met a couple of his friends. They tried to hitch their bags onto my back as well, but gave up in frustration. I knew they would fail, so I didn’t bother to protest. After that the boys ignored me except when my darling sibling every so often forced me to pick up the pace by tugging sharply on my tether.

My destination was not the school but the building next door, which the Ranger Headquarters shares with the Education Office. We were met by a young woman whose voice sounded familiar. She took custody of my leash, while Alex unloaded his schoolbag and then gave me a good-bye hug. That was actually rather touching.

“Be safe and be happy,” he said. Have I become that much of a cynic that I expected it to turn into a joke at my expense?

I followed my new escort into the building, feeling both curiosity and dread. Once inside, I was relieved of my backpack, bonds and blindfold.

“Hello, Cadet Sarah. Welcome to the Aranea Island Park Rangers.”

“Thanks, Sabrina. It’s nice to see you again.”

I hadn’t had contact with her since my first-week adventure in the wilderness. Instead of the camo-pattern Pioneers outfit, she now wore the olive-drab Ranger uniform. (It’s very flattering, especially on the trim, athletic bodies of the women Rangers. Instead of the “boy” shorts that are worn in field, the bottom half is a tie-string bikini brief.) I was about to congratulate Sabrina on her promotion when out of the adjacent office came Laura, the Senior Ranger. She was accompanied by her deputy, Richard, whom I’d seen about the place but had not officially met.

We talked for a couple of minutes. Sabrina mentioned how I was interested in astronomy, and Richard referred to my academic record. Laura assured me that I have a lot of potential. Once I get done with basic training and serve my internship as a cadet, I can apply to become a fully-fledged Ranger. I don’t know at this point whether that’s the career path I wish to follow. (Heck, I haven’t even made it through my first day yet!) But I was glad that no one brought up my family pedigree. Whatever transpires, I want to be evaluated on my own merits.

Anyway, that was the end of the formalities. I was given just a cursory briefing about my four-week apprenticeship. “The best way to learn is though experience, and you will get plenty,” Laura intoned. That sounded more ominous than she probably meant it to be. She glanced at the clock on the wall.

“They should be back soon,” Richard said.

I guessed he meant returning from breakfast. The Rangers begin their day at dawn and take a meal break a couple of hours later.

Laura and Richard wished me well and left me in the charge of Sabrina. We walked down to the cadet barracks, and as we passed the school I saw that Alex and his friends were standing just inside the fence. Off to their right, the procession to Resort Village was under way, but their attention was focused on the roadway leading up to the gate. Approaching were a woman, a girl and a boy. Vanessa and Tim are our neighbours, but I haven’t had much to do with them, because I find both to be rather self-absorbed. She is sixteen and he’s fourteen. Alex and I have our disagreements, for sure, but these two exist in a state of near continuous conflict. Normally Vanessa is the more overbearing, but this morning her brother had the upper hand. The girl was very snugly wrapped in a web of rope that extended from her neck to her knees. Her arms were bound tightly behind her back in a double hammerlock. Blindfolded, she was being led on a leash which was fastened to the strap of her gag. Unable to see, with her legs knees trussed, and being pulled forward at a half-trot, she was stumbling along with the assistance of Fiona.

Another of our neighbours, Fiona is a teacher and on weekends the island’s chief scuba diving instructor. Alex likes her, even though he claims she’s a strict disciplinarian in class. It wasn’t until they reached the gate that I saw that her wrists had been cuffed together. Since bondage is forbidden on the school grounds, Alex dashed forward and offered to release her wrists. Fiona smiled graciously and looked towards Tim, who nodded his agreement. (This meant that he’d cuffed her, because local protocol gives the prerogative to whomever has done the binding.) After her hands were freed, Fiona went into the school while Alex and his comrades helped Tim to extricate Vanessa from her rope cocoon. They were still at it when Sabrina and I turned the corner to enter the main Oasis complex.

My dormitory is located on the basement level of one of the apartment blocks. It’s small, with just two bedrooms and a common bathroom. Sabrina ushered me into the women’s quarters. One of the four beds had a bare mattress, so I deduced that I’d be sharing with two others. The furnishings are sparse, to say the least. Each bunk has next to it a dressing table and a locker. At one end of the room there are two desks and four chairs. At the other end are an empty bookshelf and a padlocked metal cabinet. This is to be my accommodation for the next twenty-eight days.

Sabrina’s manner changed dramatically as soon as we entered the room. Her lips pursed and her eyes narrowed, as she directed me to my bed and curtly ordered me to take off my clothes. When I had done so, I folded my shorts and top and placed them in the bottom drawer of the dresser, and put my shoes under the bed. I stowed my knapsack in the locker unpacked. Then I waited as Sabrina consulted what looked like a checklist. She took her time, deliberately I believe. And as much as standing there stark naked – except for my collar and cuffs – made me feel uneasy, the door leading to the corridor was wide open. That made me especially nervous.

But no one interrupted us, and finally she told me to open the top dresser drawer. I took out a tan-coloured cotton dress and a pair of underpants and put them on. The design of my uniform is – to say the least – minimalist. It’s so short that it barely covers my knickers even when I’m standing up straight. It hangs loosely on spaghetti straps, precariously low on my chest. Since I’ve been wearing it, I’ve had to train myself to do things without leaning forward, because even a slight tipping from the vertical has me flashing both boobs and backside. It’s cool and sexy, but I feel like I’m wearing my nightie. It certainly isn’t what I thought I should be wearing for the things I expected to be learning as part of the Ranger curriculum – bushcraft and stuff like that. But nothing is predictable or straightforward on Aranea Island, if you’re a girl.

Sabrina now ordered me to lie on the bed, on my belly, with my head turned to the right on the pillow (so I was facing towards the door), legs together, arms behind my back. I assumed she was going to cuff me, but instead I was instructed to just keep my wrists crossed, my elbows as straight as possible. She left and came back maybe ten minutes later. I could hear someone else with her.

“You can get up.” Sabrina’s voice was still quite stern, but softer. She then departed.

I sat on the edge of the bed and began massaging my arms and shoulders. They were aching from the strain of being held rigid for so long.

I recognized two of the new faces immediately – David and Jane, the twins from the Rope Riggers class. Trailing behind was a lanky, somewhat disreputable looking character with unkempt red hair, whom Jane introduced as Perry. Jane had on the same tiny dress as mine, and I noticed that unlike the males she was barefoot. They wore khaki dungarees, David’s neatly pressed, Perry’s rumpled and creased.

Jane went to her bunk, on the other side of the doorway, and began sorting through her locker. She removed her choker and replaced it with the full collar. As she did so, she dismissed the guys with a wave of her hand. Then she lay on her stomach on her bed and nodded to me. I resumed the position.

“Relax,” she laughed. “Try not to tense your muscles so much. We could be here a while.”

She was also faced towards the door, so we could look at each other. I bent my arms a little.

We stayed that way for around half an hour, and we talked the whole time. Jane and her brother are a bit older than me, and this is their fifth day in training. Our roommate is Rachel, who is nearing the end of her course, as is Perry. They are all doing university studies by correspondence, and it did not really surprise me to discover that the rest of the cadets are as well. It’s one of the requirements for admission to the program. There are twenty altogether, not counting us novitiates – more than I had assumed – but the attrition rate is high because the average sojourn on the island for staff and their families is less than two years. The twins are the youngest residents who are neither permanent employees nor dependents. Their parents returned to the mainland a month ago, and they have been allowed to remain to try for full-time jobs in the Park Ranger corps.

It felt very odd, having this conversation while prone on my belly with my arms behind my back. Jane seemed completely at ease, and when I asked she just laughed again.

“It’s all part of the conditioning,” she explained.

I wasn’t really sure what she meant until I heard David and Perry moving around freely outside the room. In fact, every so often one of them would poke his head through the doorway. I think they were checking on us, making sure we were still in our positions. But after about the sixth time, Jane yelled “Go away!”

I guess “conditioning” is the euphemism for “toughening up.” But I do understand. The Park Rangers have one of the most demanding jobs of all the resort staff, and for the females it can be particularly challenging, both physically and mentally. So we need to practise self-discipline to harness our inner reserves of strength and resilience. At least, that’s how Jane expressed it… and it sounded as if she was reciting from the handbook. I don’t disagree, and I’m not turned off, but it is definitely not what I had anticipated.

Just as I was beginning to wonder how long we’d be lying there, David wandered in to casually announce: “We start in ten minutes.”

When Jane didn’t move, I knew what to expect. David came up behind me, seized my wrists and locked the bracelets together. He then did the same to his sister. We were not gagged or blindfolded, but after just thirty minutes of being immobile, my limbs were stiff and I needed his help to get to my feet. I was not permitted to put on shoes or sandals, and the faux marble tiles were uncomfortably cold underfoot. We were taken down the hallway to a small classroom where our two fellow cadets were already at their desks. As her brother uncuffed her, Jane introduced our roommate Rachel. Perry, seated next to her, was wearing fresh, unwrinkled overalls.

The morning session was more in line with what I expected, the ecology and meteorology of Aranea Island. It took three hours and was all very interesting, but I was rather mystified. I’m the absolute beginner and the twins are still newbies, while Rachel and Perry are veterans, so to speak, and yet we were all sitting in on the same lesson. I hypothesized that the Rangers bring in experts at various times and arrange the schedule of classes accordingly. And this turned out to be correct, because I recognized our presenters.

During the morning tea break I spoke to the woman.

“Did you enjoy your drive this morning?”

She gave me a puzzled look and I explained that I had spied on her and her colleagues from my apartment window.

Professor Hartley is a specialist in environmental engineering. She and her husband are here for the bigwigs’ conference and came in a day early specifically to present our lecture. After a quick trip into the Village to deposit their luggage in their hotel, they had returned to the Oasis. She looks about forty and speaks with a sort of weather-beaten English accent. She was no longer in her business suit, but wearing the de rigueur strapless sarong. I could tell that she was feeling uncomfortable with how skimpy her dress was. She kept reaching down to tug at the hem to pull it further along her thighs, but stopping when this began to draw the top edge down her bosom. She was also constantly fiddling with her collar and cuffs. I was right with my first impression. This is her first visit to the island.

The professor was called away before I could interrogate her further, and I didn’t tell her that earlier in the day my mother had been in the taxi behind her. However, at lunchtime she gave me a curious look when Maggie arrived, said hello to me and whispered something to her. Just then, the other Professor Hartley came up behind her, seized her arms and wrenched them behind her back. She grunted and then frowned, but smiled as she was shackled and led away.

“We’ve all learnt something today,” I said to myself.

Sabrina came in to inform us that we had forty minutes for lunch. Then she did something which sums up the lifestyle here so delightfully. She turned to face away from Perry and put her arms behind her back. He grabbed her wrists and locked her bracelets together with a gusto that made her grimace. But even as she was being shackled, she was reprimanding him for his sloppy appearance at breakfast time.

“Yeah, ma’am,” he drawled, as he tugged sharply downwards.

“Just be more… Oh!” she gasped as the shudder went through her.

Meanwhile, Jane, Rachel and I were hitched together by David, my wrists cuffed in front and linked to the rear of Rachel’s collar, with Jane set in place behind me. Perry then assisted in blindfolding us. We were marched outside and down the street to one of the cafeterias. There we had to eat our lunch with our blindfolds on and our hands still fettered but attached to our own collars. It was a messy operation. I could feel the detritus crusting around my mouth, oozing over my chin, dripping and dribbling onto my chest and into my cleavage. I have no idea what other diners were thinking. The staff canteens are probably the only places on the entire island where most women are not bound in some way or another. On the other hand, Ranger cadets in training must be a not uncommon sight. The boys cleaned us up as best they could using paper napkins.

It had taken me a while to realize that Sabrina wasn’t with us. When we returned to the classroom, she was with the other cadets. There are twelve females and eight males. Some of them I recognized from our Pioneers adventure. We had a brief get-acquainted session before they were called away to a class on first aid. Rachel and Perry joined them. The twins and I were instead treated to a three-hour lecture on the mission, history and organization of the Park Ranger corps. It was the sort of information that needs to be taught, but you’d think they’d come up with a more exciting or at least less excruciating way of presenting it… and this is from a girl who has been left hog-tied on the living room floor for six hours.

At the end of the session it was lovely to be able to get up and stretch our limbs, but Jane and I were immediately ordered back to our dorm. There, following Jane’s lead, I reclined on my belly on the bed once more. The two of us chatted for a while; then her voice faded as she drifted into sleep. I lay there unmoving and silent, thinking how weird this was, wondering if I was even allowed to part my knees or uncross my wrists. This looks to be how I will be spending most of my “leisure” time for the next four weeks. It’s like being tied up but without the ropes.

I lost all sense of time, but eventually I must have dozed off as well, because I suddenly heard the springs of Rachel’s bed squeak as she also took her place belly-down in her bed.

She said nothing, but there were voices – David’s and Perry’s – just outside the doorway.

“Don’t get up, girls,” Perry said. “Not on our account.”

Jane, now also conscious, grunted some obscenity.

“Charming,” Perry continued.

“Go away,” Rachel growled.

“Come on,” David said. “Let’s go find some…”

His words petered out as they receded down the corridor. I resented the males for their freedom. I was getting dreadfully bored. At least when I’m tied up I can struggle against my bonds or get absorbed into them. Just lying there was merely relentlessly tedious. And now I was wide awake as well. Yet none of us moved. It wasn’t fear of the consequences of disobedience which kept us prostrate and immobile on our beds. I, and I’m sure the other two girls, really wanted to do this right. This is an important test of not just our compliance but also of our strength and self-discipline.

It was probably close to six o’clock when Sabrina returned and told us to get ready for dinner. All that meant was swapping our collars for the off-duty chokers, as the two guys strode into our room and demanded that we stand at attention facing the wall next to the metal cabinet. Perry opened it and I heard the clinking of chains. They clamped our bracelets together behind our backs and attached chains to our ankle cuffs with just enough slack to permit us to shuffle along. Then they connected our collars with heavy-gauge chain. The links were as wide as my finger, and it was actually a good thing I was shackled so closely behind Rachel that I could smell her hair, because the weight would have been quite onerous had the chain been much longer. Jane’s was locked onto the rear of my collar and we made a snug threesome.

There was the sound of cellophane being unwrapped and the sudden thrust of a bulbous plug between my lips. While David was busy chaining us, Perry applied our gags and blindfolds. He wasn’t gentle, brutally wrenching my head backwards. I couldn’t understand why he was suddenly so rough until I heard Sabrina’s moan at the back of our little queue. She would be joining us for dinner… literally. There was a gasp and another moan and more clinking of chains. Perry just couldn’t resist making the most of his opportunity to get even with her for the reprimand earlier in the day. Jane, Rachel and I suffered the collateral damage.

With superfluous warnings from our guardians to “Take it easy” and “Mind your step” (at least it wasn’t “Watch your step”), the four of us warily negotiated the stairs leading up to the ground floor and out of the building. We were led on a shambling stroll through the Oasis. I don’t know in which eatery we ended up, but we seemed to have travelled in a circle. We were still denied our shoes, and the gravelly pathway was harsh beneath our bare feet. A chilly evening breeze was blowing off the bay and I shivered in my little dress. Jane was as well. We were close enough that her front was pressed against my rear, and her body was shaking quite vigorously. To warm at least a part of her up – that part which my manacled hands could reach – I treated her to a massage. She squealed through her gag but didn’t seem too distressed.

The cafeteria was crowded when we at last arrived; but as we entered there was a sudden, momentary drop in the noise level, and I pictured in my head a hundred or more pairs of eyes turned in our direction. Then the conversations picked up again as David and Perry steered their four exhausted and bedraggled captives to an available table. They uncuffed our hands from behind our backs, but only to secure them in front and to our collars, the way we had been shackled at lunchtime. When the gags came off we ordered our dinner, which the boys went to fetch so we wouldn’t have to be unchained. So thoughtful of them.

I don’t know if I will be eating all my meals this way for the next four weeks… in other words, whether this is a set part of the regimen. It’s sloppy and not very dignifies. So much for being told throughout my youth to mind my table manners. Nevertheless, we talked and joked, and every so often Sabrina and Rachel would gush out a stream of near-hysterical giggling. I don’t know what was happening, but I’m guessing David and Perry fall short of the standard dinner table etiquette. When we were finished, we were marched back to our barracks manacled and chained together in the same way as when we’d left.

In the dorm, Jane and I were informed we had assignments to complete. The guys and Rachel got the rest of the evening to themselves and went off somewhere. These extra impositions were already beginning to wear my forbearance thin, but Jane just shrugged away any resentment. In any case, when Rachel returned an hour later and we were still working on our essays, she had to resume the bed position. Unlike before, she tied a blindfold in place. She never spoke. I don’t know if she was under orders to maintain silence, or if she didn’t want to disturb Jane and me as we worked.

Sabrina had left us each with a thousand-word essay to write. Mine was simply titled Applying the Hog-tie. I would have preferred to write about the topic from my own point of view rather than the binder's. The end product is hardly a literary masterpiece, and because I struggled to reach the word count, it wanders off-topic near the finish. But for the sake of posterity, here it is:

“The hog-tie is, in the opinion of most aficionados, the classic bondage position. As the name indicates, the technique has been borrowed from a method for restraining pigs and other animals; but it has become perhaps the most popular of all bondage poses. The hog-tie has many variations, but in its most basic form it consists of the subject lying prone on her belly or side, with all four limbs bound. Usually her hands are tied behind her back, with her knees bent and heels drawn up so her wrists and ankles can be connected to each other.

“The appeal of the hog-tie, on both ends of the rope, is that it leaves the subject completely immobilized and vulnerable. If properly applied, this position is virtually inescapable, rendering her utterly helpless and at the mercy of her binder. It is unlikely to be comfortable, but this is of course one of the attractions. If well-applied, it can be an intensely sensual and enormously satisfying experience.

“The restraints normally used are ropes, although any binding agent can be employed which does not cause physical injury or undue stress, such as tape, bandages, scarves and straps. The material should not be too stretchable – for example stockings – since this will be ineffective in producing the desired effect. Metal cuffs and chains should only be applied in a stringent or long-term hog-tie if suitably lined or padded. As in all bondage, the knots or fastenings should be kept out of the reach of the subject’s fingers, and indeed this is a key feature of the position.

“The degree of stringency – or alternatively of slackness – should be determined by the flexibility and endurance (both physiological and psychological) of the subject, but also by the length of time she is to remain in her bondage. Comfort and stress levels can be adjusted by a lengthening or shortening of the tether between the wrists and ankles, which can be in close proximity, touching or overlapping. If her body is supple enough, the hog-tie can be applied in such a way that her torso is arched backwards, even to the extent of lifting her knees off the floor. One way of simply achieving this is to have her right wrist bound to her left ankle and vice versa for a crisscross effect. Another is to apply a chest or shoulder harness, to which the ankles are secured. Having the knees and/or elbows bound is another way of making the hog-tie more restrictive. As well as producing a more satisfying result for the tying partner, these optional extras intensify the experience for the subject.

“There are a number of variations and refinements which can be added to the basic hog-tie. These include the frog-tie, in which the subject’s legs are tied in such a manner that the knees are kept apart (resembling a crouching frog). Although she has somewhat more freedom of movement than in a conventional hog-tie, her crotch is exposed and made accessible. The box-tie involves the subject’s arms folded behind her back. In this case, the wrists and ankles will not be in contact, but the strain on her arms and shoulders is minimized. The subject may also be placed in a kneeling position or lying face-up, although this is generally painful as her weight will be resting on her bound limbs. Another variant is the bridge position, in which the subject’s body forms a bridge or arch, with her weight resting on her knees and shoulders. Depending on how the ropes are applied, this pose can be relaxing or strenuous; and it has sexual connotations that may not be palatable to some women.

“Since the hog-tie has been traditionally used for torture, it requires a degree of expertise on the part of the tying partner. It can be very stressful and may be quite painful, and unless due care and attention are maintained there exists the potential for serious harm to the subject. The major problem arises if breathing is restricted. Since pressure is put on the abdomen, there is a risk of postural asphyxia in a particularly strict hog-tie. The hazard will be exacerbated if the subject is tense or struggles against the ropes. However there is also a danger that excessive strain in the arms and shoulders will result in injury up to and including dislocation of the joints.

“Care must also be taken to ensure that at the points of direct contact where the pressure is greatest (the wrists and ankles), the binding material does not abrade, chafe or cut into the skin, or interfere with blood circulation. For this reason, self-tightening or slip knots are not recommended. As in all bondage, it is best that several loops of the binding material be applied, to spread the area of contact and therefore the pressure. Because of the risk of strangulation, only an expert should apply any kind of neck yoke or halter. If the subject’s head is to be pulled back in a strict hog-tie, it is best (and more attractive) to attach the wrist and ankle bindings to the rear of a gag or a full head harness. Tying her hair is, for obvious reasons, not advisable.

“Because of the complications that can arise in a severe hog-tie, especially if the subject is to be bound for a prolonged period, she should not be left unattended or unmonitored (as is the case, of course, with all bondage). While some discomfort and possible pain are acceptable and even desirable, the tying partner should be alert to the reactions and responses of his subject and attentive to her needs and wishes. He must be prepared to end the session immediately if she appears unduly distressed. It is also prudent to have the subject thoroughly prepared beforehand, both mentally and physically. A soothing massage can loosen tight muscles to give her more flexibility and higher tolerance. This will allow for a longer and more enjoyable session.

“To sum up, the hog-tie is one of the most pleasurable, visually appealing and effective of all bondage positions; but except in its milder forms it is not for the novice at either end of the rope.”

Jane completed her work a few minutes before me and lay on her bed in the now familiar pose, but also, like Rachel, tying on her blindfold. I did the same. Only after Sabrina had come to collect our essays were we allowed some free time. I was starting to wonder if we’d have any at all. My roommates left me alone to write up my journal.

And so ends my thirty-seventh day on Aranea Island, and my first as a Ranger cadet. If the experiences of today are anything to go by, the next twenty-seven will be interesting.

Re: THE (LAST) RESORT

Postby jsherwood » Wed Sep 17, 2014 4:17 am

I just love this story!

Re: THE (LAST) RESORT

Postby sarobah » Wed Oct 22, 2014 2:48 pm

Thank you. I do have another instalment in the writing stage, but I am struggling to get it finished.
I may have to post the first part without a guarantee of finishing it.

Re: THE (LAST) RESORT

Postby Mr Underheel » Wed Oct 22, 2014 5:49 pm

Your skills are amazing, detail is incredible, imagination is limitless! Thank you!!!

Re: THE (LAST) RESORT

Postby xtc » Thu Oct 23, 2014 2:07 am

When you're ready, let me know and I'll move the story out of the archives.