11. Balls
Football is not a game but a religion, a metaphysical island of fundamental truth in a highly verbalized, disguised society, a throwback of 30,000 generations of anthropological time.
– Arnold Mandell,
The Nightmare SeasonThere is great noise in the city caused by hustling over large balls from which many evils may arise which God forbid...
– King Edward II, royal proclamation, 1314
Warning: This story contains some sexual content, semi-nudity, mild coarse language, bondage and football.Once upon a time, in the Land of Oz, there ruled a mighty and benevolent prince. His righteous deeds were countless. And of all the blessings bestowed upon his grateful subjects, the most splendid was Football. To this day, though memories have dimmed and monuments have decayed, the advent of Football is celebrated throughout the realm in story, song and sacrament. And each year the tribes still gather in their holy places to carry on the noble quest and rekindle the intrepid spirits of their ancestors.
But such are the ways of men that, over time, disputation and heresy divided the followers of Football. They turned in anger against each other, until the country was cleaved into hostile factions. Each claimed theirs as the one true Code. And yet, with the passage of time and the ebbing of passions, peace was restored and the factions went their separate way, preserving their own rituals and calendars. But in the most auspicious years, when the planets are aligned, the people of Oz are again as one, downing tools and sheathing weapons to pay homage to the heroes and saints of Football. Of such a glorious legacy, the good prince would have indeed been proud.
***
Some people believe football is a matter of life and death. I am very disappointed with that attitude. I can assure you it is much, much more important than that.
– William Shankly,
Sunday TimesBill Shankly may have been the legendary manager of Liverpool FC. Nevertheless, here in Australia his famous declaration on the importance of football ranks as a tepid understatement. This being the land of plenty, we have four distinct codes, and each is followed by its devotees with an equally fervid passion. Yet the dominant brands are Australian Rules and Rugby League. For the sake of the unacquainted, the former might be likened to basketball played on two soccer fields placed end to end, and the latter to two Neanderthal clans bruting it out in a paddock. (I may be slightly biased.)
In my neck of the woods, Rugby League maintains a marginal supremacy, and its highlight is an annual rite known as the State of Origin Series. Now in its fourth decade, it is a three-game grudge match between neighbouring states – New South Wales (the Blues, fondly known as Cockroaches) and Queensland (the Maroons, or Cane Toads). It is a contest of mythic proportions, when the streets are festooned with bunting and the pavements awash with beer, when stout hearts flutter, stiff lips tremble and strong men weep with parochial pride; when the population holds its collective breath, as titans clash and the gods themselves contend in vain for the attention of men.
The event is, naturally, a celebration of testosterone and a reaffirmation of manhood. Of course, as is well-known, a diet of football and its accompaniments – alcohol, salts and fats – has de-evolutionary effects. You see, DNA is funny stuff. Nature takes a perfectly good pair of X chromosomes and chops a leg off one of them, thus making what could have been wonderfully simple dreadfully complicated. So you put the XY mutant in a nice suit and tell it to watch its manners, and order is restored. But then along comes football, suppressing XY’s higher brain functions, stimulating the burp-and-fart part of the cerebral cortex and unleashing the caveman. Thus the State of Origin is more like the Origin of Species. Accordingly, there is but one simple rule that every female must learn if she is to ensure social harmony and domestic tranquillity. Never get between a man and his football... except to bring him more beer.
For sure, women are not immune to footy fever. Even I confess partiality to the sight of strapping lads in tight shorts, their legs pumping, thighs bulging, sweat glistening on muscular forearms, making passes, thrusting, plunging and penetrating, going all the way, looking for an opening and banging it in to score. Some people see all sorts of sexual imagery in this, but I don’t get that. To me it’s all about how the players handle their balls.
Nevertheless, neither Rob nor I have had any emotional investment in the State of Origin’s outcome. The fact is that by birth and upbringing I’m an Aussie Rules gal. Where I was born, Rugby League is about as popular as a craniotomy and, according to the local folk, has the same effect. So on the night of the third and final game of the series, it meant little to either of us that the Maroons were two-up in the series. Nevertheless, we are in the minority in our social circle, and when Jack and Sabrina invited us to their place to watch the match, we saw no good reason to decline.
Jack and Sabrina live in a neat little bungalow in one of the “leafy outer suburbs.” Sabrina designed it herself, and the house reflects her personality – understated elegance. We were the second couple to arrive. Andrea’s car was parked in the driveway. She is the Andrea who had spoken to me about her “experimenting” on the Women’s Adventure Club bondage night. I had only known her a short time prior to that and we have never become close friends. Russet-haired and dark-eyed, a no-frills, plain-speaking, down-to-earth type, she can be annoyingly inflexible and not easy to get along with. I would not have thought her the type who would have an interest in tie-up games (but I was less surprised that she favours the giving rather than the receiving). That she is an aficionado seems to me an eloquent tribute to their subversive allure.
Andrea’s presence confirmed my suspicion that there would be more to this evening than mere football. For the past few months I had been investing nearly all my effort and energy into my academic research. As a result, my “play” time had been severely truncated. So when Sabrina was uncharacteristically insistent that I needed a break, on this of all nights, it didn’t take Sherlockian deductive skills to figure out what was going on.
They must have heard us pull up, because Sabrina greeted us at the door. She looked her usual gorgeous, wearing a blue football jersey as a minidress. From beneath the hem peeked a black lace suspender belt. Below that were fishnet stockings and stiletto heels. She ushered us into the living room, where Jack and Luke were planted in front of the television, quaffing beer and staring at a blank screen.
Luke was Andrea’s on-and-off boyfriend. They are in many ways the polar opposites of Jack and Sabrina, and I thought they made a discordant couple. He is indolent and complacent, one of those guys who is arrogant without very much to be arrogant about. But his and the volatile, strong-willed Andrea’s relationship worked well most of the time. So while everyone who knew them expected them to break up any day, something kept drawing them back together. My impression was that they took out their frustrations on each other during their tie-up sessions. I certainly would not want to have gotten between them when the ropes started flying. I can also see them arguing tooth-and-nail over who should be on top.
Jack drawled a perfunctory welcome, keeping his gaze affixed to the lifeless TV set. He passed a can of ale to Rob, who had sunken into a cavernous leather armchair.
I looked across to one of the vacant seats. Sabrina softly cleared her throat, shook her head and waggled her finger, beckoning me to follow her into the kitchen. There Andrea awaited us. She was wearing a maroon jersey, with white lace garter briefs and stockings – a quirky but sexy departure from her usual sweater, jeans and sneakers. She was wobbling on unfamiliar high heels as she wrestled a pizza from the oven, and when she saw me gawking, she replied with a sardonic smile and a tilt of her head towards the far end of the counter.
“There’s yours,” she said.
“So it’s that sort of party...”
“What did you expect, sweetie?”
This had Sabrina’s fingerprints all over it, so to speak. The wonder was that she had persuaded Andrea to go along – more so because Andrea was a final-year law student.
I just shrugged, took off my blouse and pulled on the maroon jumper. It was a couple of sizes too big for my frame, which made it just long enough to cover my rudiments. I pulled off my pants and shoes. The stockings were sheer, white, lace-trimmed silk, expensive and elegant. They caressed my legs like an attentive lover’s gentle hands. As an impoverished postgrad, I am not used to such luxury. Sabrina helped me attach the suspenders to my knickers, with clasps decorated with tiny burgundy ribbons. The ensemble was completed with a pair of stylish stilettos. The outfit made up for in quality what it lacked in quantity, and it must have cost a pretty penny.
When we’d finished, I studied our reflections in the glass oven door.
“Go team.” I said.
“Go serve,” Sabrina replied, as she handed me a large bowl stacked to overflowing with corn chips and another which contained a ghastly mustard-yellow concoction that smelled of bacon, cheese and who knows what?
“This should tame the beasts,” she said, rolling her eyes in the direction of the living room,“... for a while.”
As I set the bowls upon the coffee table, the men nodded with approval. I don’t know if it was my food offering or my attire – probably both. Rob smiled indulgently, but winced when Luke gruffly demanded another round of beers. Resisting the urge to put the frosty cans where they would never see the light of day, I fetched three from the bar fridge, then retreated to the refuge of the kitchen.
Shortly thereafter, Amanda and Simon arrived, and any lingering doubts about the party’s theme were dispelled. They are true devotees of the bondage lifestyle. In their relationship, she is the dominant and he the submissive. Statuesque, with butterscotch-blonde hair that she keeps chopped and streaked, Amanda is a striking woman in her early thirties, a go-getting business executive who radiates power and sexuality. She and Simon met Jack and Sabrina when the two women were working together on an architectural project and discovered their shared passion for the ropes (albeit at opposite ends).
Like Andrea, Amanda doesn’t go for extravagant feminine frippery in her fashion. She’s more into leather pants and denim jackets, though she’s not what anyone would call “butch.” As Simon took his place with the rest of the menfolk, she was called to the kitchen, where Andrea couldn’t resist a smirk while gesturing towards the sole remaining bundle on the counter.
“The blue will match your eyes.”
Amanda’s cerulean gaze sharpened, her lips curled and her nostrils flared; but she didn’t hesitate as she stripped completely naked. She has a showgirl’s figure, toned, tanned and curvaceous, with a light sprinkling of freckles and a rose-coloured heart shape that could be a tattoo or a birthmark on her left breast. Without inhibition, she took her time getting into costume. And I’m sure she was being satirical when she extracted from the pocket of her discarded trousers a pair of frilly knickers. It would have been interesting if any of the men had wandered into the kitchen while she was in her
déshabillé state... but of course they were comfortably encouched in the living room, awaiting service.
***
It was half an hour before kick-off time, the television was now on, and the boys were following the pre-game action. Jack and Luke were debating the relative merits of the opposing sides. Rob was following their discussion with a casual indifference, while Simon was just looking bored. He came to life when we brought in the pizzas; and when she had set down her platter Amanda settled into his lap for some snuggle and cuddle. He started to unhitch one of her stockings from her suspender belt and I was wondering how far they would go, right there in front of us, when Jack interrupted with a loud and disapproving “Harrumph!”
Simon slapped Amanda hard on the backside and she leapt to her feet, a startled and vengeful look in her eyes. I thought “Now you guys are in for it,” but to my surprise she said nothing. She just stood there, refastening her stocking, glaring at Jack and then at Simon, then back to Jack, gritting her teeth and holding everything in. Jack grinned and she pouted, but then she laughed.
“Get the other girls,” Luke commanded me. He could have just called out to them, but I didn’t question his order. I went to the kitchen, poked my head through the doorway and said, “You’ve been summoned.”
“Let the games begin,” Andrea muttered as she trailed after Sabrina into the living room.
“Line up,” Jack instructed, and clapped his hands.
The men were seated in a crescent formation focused (naturally) on the television set. We formed a row inside the curve, facing them. That’s when I first saw the pile of nylon ropes and black satin scarves lying next to Jack’s chair. Not that I wasn’t expecting it, but that was an awfully big mound.
The men sat there and studied us for a while, saying not a thing, as we stood at attention, staring back at them. Rob kept his gaze fixed on me, although every so often he stole a peek at the other girls. When his attention returned to its rightful place, we looked straight into each other’s eyes. His expression showed the usual wry amusement. He has never really understood the bondage games I have played for half my life, and I suspect that most of the time he simply goes along to see how far I will take it and where it will end.
Simon never took his eyes off Amanda, although they flickered upwards and downwards. She must have kept her own levelled at his, because whenever he glanced up at her face he quickly looked down again. His countenance was one of bemusement, but also a sort of self-satisfied irony. This was a position he is not normally in with Amanda, having the power and control. But more to the point, it was not her customary place, and I think he relished the switch. I wasn’t so sure about her. Meanwhile, Jack and Luke just sat back and enjoyed the view, their eyes flitting back and forth as they scanned and scrutinized us. However, I noticed that Luke kept looking past us, at the TV screen. Even when you’re semi-clad hot stuff standing at attention, waiting to be bound, it’s hard to compete with football.
Jack, perhaps noting Luke’s distraction, made a twirling gesture with his hand and we turned round to face away from them. He ordered us to “straighten up more” and clasp our hands behind our heads. I felt the back of my jersey riding up. “If this becomes a butt-judging contest,” I promised myself, “someone will pay.”
Not daring to move my head, I nevertheless caught a glimpse, out of the corner of my eye, of Amanda next to me. I was interested in her reaction. She was posed stiffly erect, looking proud and impassive, making no sound. To my left, however, Andrea was restless, trying to suppress a giggle. Her feet began to twitch.
“Stand still!” Jack barked, and then, in a lower voice, “Kneel.”
Technically speaking, his orders were a contradiction; but acting on the principle of
lex posterior derogat priori * we knelt. The polished wooden floorboards were hard on my knees, and I noted that Jack had removed the fleecy rug, which now languished forlornly in an alcove at the far end of the room. That was cruel of him.
There was, however, some compensation, from the television. At that moment, the cameras entered one of the locker rooms, where the players were in the final stages of getting into their uniforms. It was an unexpected treat for me, but it caused Luke to refocus his interest on us girls.
“Turn back this way,” he growled. “Let’s get the show started.”
I thought it already had...
With a heavy heart, I bade farewell to the beefcake and we shuffled around, still on our knees, hands still clasped behind our heads.
Jack was leaning sideways, deliberating in a whisper with Luke; then he inclined the other way to confer with Rob. My guy passed the message on to Simon, who was at the end of the line. They nodded in unison, allowing Jack to take the lead.
“Blues forward,” he commanded.
It took a second for Sabrina and Amanda to interpret and react. They hobbled towards him. He was holding out several coils of nylon rope and some of the black satin scarves. He dropped the bundle at his feet. Sabrina hesitated until, upon a nod from Jack, she unclasped her hands and reached down to pick it up. At first she held the rope and scarves at arm’s length, then clutched them to her bosom, stroking the nylon and caressing the satin. She looked up at Jack. I couldn’t see her face, but he smiled and winked at her and tipped his head in my direction. Sabrina looked over her shoulder straight at me and also smiled and winked. Hers was exactly the same expression as Jack’s. It was quite an extraordinary performance.
Simon tossed more rope and scarves to the floor in front of Amanda. Her head was bowed and she never looked up, so unlike her normally haughty self. She fondled the materials just as Sabrina was doing; but with a subtle difference. She appeared to be testing the cord for pliancy and durability. (I thought that was so interesting. Sabrina was imagining how the rope and silk would feel, while Amanda, more familiar with being on the other side, was working out how best to apply them.)
They spun about in unison and crawled across the floor to get behind us. I felt Sabrina’s touch on the back of my neck, gently pushing, so I bent forward until my forehead was just off the wooden boards. A couple of my suspenders popped as I did so. My fingers were still interlocked behind my head; but Sabrina pried my hands apart and drew them behind my back. She crossed my left wrist over my right and looped the rope around and between them four times. She had a light touch, going slowly and gently. I think it was less for my benefit than for her own, or maybe for our audience, because she was also very strict. When, just for an instant, my body tensed, she yanked harshly on the rope to keep me still. I must have whimpered or groaned, ever so softly, because I felt her fingernails brush soothingly over my arms.
I glanced across at Andrea. Her hands were being bound in the palms-together position. To do this properly required Amanda to tie the elbows first (otherwise the rope stress would be on the carpal bones, which is not a good thing), and Andrea gasped. I was glad that was her not me. Since I’d been deprived of my regular tie-up games in recent weeks, my muscles and joints had lost some of their flexibility. However, my sense of relief ebbed as Sabrina started winding another rope around my own elbows. When she heaved on it and cinched it, I couldn’t hold in a loud and most unladylike grunt as my arms were wrenched together and my shoulders jerked backwards.
As I’ve mentioned previously, a stringent elbow tie is not the most comfortable position to be in. So far as I’m concerned, it’s more entertaining for the beholder than for the beheld; but it is most efficacious on a damsel, especially one such as I, whom nature has not blessed with a generous mammary endowment. (Translation – it makes your boobs stick out.)
I was still kneeling, bent forward, head almost touching the floor. Sabrina gave me a tender, reassuring pat between my shoulder blades, then clamped a hand on my brow and dragged my head backwards. It could only go back so far, and I was staring at the guys’ feet. Simon’s were jumpy, Rob’s were fidgety, Luke’s were tapping, Jack’s weren’t moving. I suppose that all meant something. When Sabrina let go of my forehead, I held the position as she placed black satin over my eyes and wrapped it around my head. It was soft and sensuous and blocked out every bit of light. I started to lower my head again, but she pulled it back with a rather nasty tug. I felt the texture of another scarf pressing against my lips and opened my mouth for the gag. I clamped my teeth on a wad of folded satin that was threaded with another of the scarves. She secured it, pulling hard on the ends. Her forceful manner again took me by surprise.
Sabrina gave me a couple of minutes to immerse myself in the experience of my bonds. Being out of practice and out of condition, I found it rather stressing. But over the years I have developed techniques to ease the strain, like relaxing my muscles to prevent cramping and flexing them to aid blood circulation. With such little exercises to help me, I take pride in my endurance, so the more strenuous the tie-up the more I like it. Nevertheless, it felt a bit weird, and that was not just because I was off my game.
I could hear murmured comments from the guys sitting above us, as they sat and watched Andrea and me being bound and blindfolded and gagged. Their muted voices were barely audible against the background of sounds from the television set – the cheers of the crowd, the analyses of the sports reporters, the revving up of the players in their dressing rooms. But when I focused to hear what our menfolk were saying, I had to suppress a giggle. Their commentary on the state of our bondage was interspersed with animated discourse on the impending football. I wasn’t sure whether to be relieved or amused or offended.
My thoughts were interrupted by Sabrina’s hands seizing my shoulders and dragging me backwards and askew until I flopped onto my right side. She bent my legs until they were folded with my knees nestled up to my chest and my heels against my backside, and then she started tying my ankles. When she’d finished that job and inserted a new rope between my bound ankles, I knew where this was going – to everyone’s perennial favourite, the hog-tie. She interwove the cord between my wrists and ankles and then hauled tight, which had the effect of stretching my body out straight from knees to neck. The shock of the sudden manoeuvre forced air from my lungs, out past the edges of my gag in a gurgling puff of impotent protest.
With a prod from Sabrina, I rolled onto my stomach. I performed my customary wiggle, wriggle and struggle – the “I am not a pushover” routine, Rob calls it – but I quickly became breathless. I really must start working out more (with ropes), I told myself. Things then went quiet and still. Behind my blindfold, I had not a clue what was going on, until somewhere astern of me I heard scuffling, shuffling sounds. It didn’t take much to discern what was happening. Amanda and Sabrina were being bound. By which of the guys I don’t know; maybe all four, because Amanda was making odd guttural noises, both menacing and pleading.
“I’ll get you guys...” she laughed, as her final words were stifled by the ingoing satin.
“She will, count on it,” Simon said.
Amanda just moaned and whimpered.
But then her muffled, futile threats grew louder, and I felt a boot nudge my right side. Something brushed against my shoulder and I was shoved brusquely to the left. Amanda was being lowered, no doubt hog-tied like myself, into a position wedged between my body and Andrea’s. Sabrina’s trussed up form was then pressed against my other side.
Pretty soon Amanda went silent. One of the very first things I learnt as a damsel in distress is that you don’t fight your gag for too long – it sucks your mouth drier than a perfluoroalkyl polymer.
** However, she continued to squirm and twist, and after a short while that became irritating. Each time she bumped into me, I bumped into Sabrina next to me and she bumped back. They’re both a lot bigger than me, and when the momentum got going I started to feel like a squishy Sarah sandwich.
“Ball’s in play!” one of the guys shouted.
“Oh hell,” I thought, “what’s coming now?”
***
So picture the scene that evening on the living room floor of Sabrina’s house. The guys are lounging in lordly splendour as we four gals lie prostrate at their feet, half-dressed, hog-tied and helpless. And what’s happening? All non-blindfolded eyes are fixed on the television screen. At least, I imagine they were. For the next forty minutes, so far as I could tell we were ignored.
Now don’t get me wrong. I enjoy a long-duration tie-up. I love the way the isolation and powerlessness gradually envelope and eventually overwhelm the senses. I adore how the ecstatic intensity of the moment slowly dissolves into the languid pleasure of the minutes and (with any luck) the hours. I revel in the feeling of strength and vitality and stamina, because you have to be strong to submit so willingly to the ropes. It’s almost a mystical experience into which you can immerse yourself completely.
However, the boys hadn’t made it easy. The wooden floorboards were uncompromisingly hard under me, and whenever one of us tried to shift her weight to relieve the pressure, because we were squashed together it set in motion a wave of jostling and a low chorus of annoyed grunts that travelled from one bound and gagged body to the next. It wasn’t very dignified, and for the first time in a long while I was feeling just a little embarrassed. Nevertheless, that’s not what miffed me most.
An exciting game was being played out on TV. As I think I’ve made clear, football normally has about as much attraction for me as an ulcerated tonsil; but it does have its moments. And around the time that I started to feel my first minor cramping in the calf muscles, the match came alive. The Cane Toads scored first. The Cockroaches quickly replied. There was much of the cheering and the hissing and the booing and the wailing and the gnashing of teeth. Then things calmed down again. It was bad enough – exasperating and unfair – that we could only listen to the action as background noise. At least I knew what was going on. But as the drama ebbed and the thrill subsided, even that was taken away. When your senses are already heightened by the ropes and the blindfold, you become aware of every nuance of sound. When you know something’s happening but you’re being kept literally in the dark, it’s like a tickle you can’t scratch. (Of course, that’s a reaction you’re all too familiar with, literally, when you get tied up a lot.)
I know the guys were taunting us, because they were making the sorts of comments that normally oblige you to drop everything you’re doing and see for yourself. Like when you’re walking down the street and someone says “Wow, watch that thing go!” or “Check that out!” or “Hey, get a look at Brad Pitt’s naked torso.” Of course, in the context of the evening, it was more “Did you see that move? Poetry in motion!” and “That’s gotta hurt. Here comes the replay!” The suspense is enough to drive a normal girl to the bat-filled belfry; but when it comes to curiosity, I have always been in a cat-killing class of my own.
So pretty soon I was beginning to itch and twitch. Amanda beside me let loose with a gurgled growl, but I had no sympathy, since she was the one who had been moving about earlier, making things uncomfortable for me. Anyway, I felt a lovely gush of
schadenfreude. This must have been so humbling for our daunting dominatrix.
After what seemed ages, something happened that got the boys agitated and arguing, apparently to do with an eight-point try (whatever that is) which put the Blues out in front. I knew it was getting on towards the half-time interval, so that could be either good or bad news for each of us on the floor (depending on her proclivities) because the guys sounded very so animated, especially Luke and Jack. Those two take their football seriously, as well as their bondage. Putting the two together could make for some interesting fun and games during intermission.
And sure enough, just as things were settling down once more, the half-time horn sounded, and the TV sound volume suddenly dropped to just above audible. I heard and felt someone moving around behind us and standing over me. Hands grappled with the ropes that bound my wrists and ankles and suddenly they were free. I kept my hands behind my back, not sure what was coming next. When I felt a light tap on one arm and another on the back of my head, I removed my blindfold. It took a few seconds to adjust to the light. I looked up, keeping my head lowered but my eyes raised just enough to see what the men were doing. Rob and Simon were still seated, gazing down at me with deadpan expressions. Luke’s chair was empty. I glanced back past my shoulder. He was leaning over Andrea, untying her.
I turned back and gazed up at Rob. He smiled down at me benevolently. I touched my finger to my gag, he nodded and I gratefully extracted the sodden satin from my mouth. I pursed and licked my puckered lips and exercised my aching jaws. Andrea permitted herself a loud sigh as she did likewise.
Jack snapped his fingers and I turned my head to face him. He lifted his hands; Andrea and I got the message and raised ourselves to a kneeling position. On either side of me, Amanda and Sabrina were still belly-down, hog-tied, gagged and blindfolded. Sabrina was lying absolutely still, but Amanda was jittery, her fists clenching and unclenching, her toes curling and uncurling. I was still wearing my stilettos, but I noticed that theirs were off. I also saw that the backs of their jerseys had been pulled up to display their knickers. Their stockings had been unhitched from their suspender belts and rolled down their thighs to their knees. That was interesting.
Luke pointed to me and then to Amanda. He motioned towards Andrea and then to Sabrina. “Get them up,” he commanded.
I took that to mean I was to help Amanda onto her knees, but it was much, much harder in the doing. Hog-tied, she could be of no help whatsoever; and making it even more difficult, she’s almost a head taller than me and quite a bit heavier (she’s slim, but I’m skinny). With much puff and perspiration, I manhandled her until she was in a semi-upright position – I say semi because the only way she could prevent herself from toppling sideways or rearward was to lean forward against me. The weight of her feet and lower legs was now borne by the rope securing her ankles to her wrists. It was impossible to hold them up to counteract the downward drag for more than a few seconds at a time; and the tensing of her body by the ropes towed her shoulders backwards and thrust her chest forward. As her breasts strained against the front of her jersey, her breathing took on a peculiar rhythm, one minute deep and deliberate, the next minute rapid and shallow. Her head lolled in dreamy slow motion, and she blew rasping gusts of air out from the corners of her gag. Little beads of sweat sprinkled her brow and began to form rivulets that pooled at the top edge of her blindfold before soaking into the satin.
I glanced at the other pair. They were having a somewhat easier time of it, with Sabrina resting her head on Andrea’s shoulder and letting her partner keep them both balanced and erect. She was still blindfolded, but Andrea looked across at me, managing a grin, and then up at Luke.
I think the guys were playing impromptu. Jack must have had a flash of inspiration, because all of a sudden he crouched behind Amanda. I was holding her with one hand on her shoulder, the other on her hip. Jack seized my right hand and, while he said nothing, he positioned it to make clear that he wanted me to reach between Amanda’s left arm and her torso – not easy to do because her arms were pinioned tightly behind her back. When I got my hand through, Jack grabbed it and pulled it all the way past my elbow. His action came as a shock. I gasped and Amanda made a startled sound. We almost lost our balance, but Jack steadied us. I inserted my other hand between Amanda’s right arm and side. My hands didn’t connect behind her back right away; so Jack hauled us into a tight hug until he could cross my wrists and lash them together.
I looked across once more to Andrea and Sabrina, who were being worked on by Luke. Like us they were face to face, but Andrea’s hands had been bound behind her back again. Rob was out of his seat and propping up the two women while Luke was tethering them in a clinch not unlike Amanda’s and mine, weaving the ropes between their arms and their bodies and finishing it off with a loop between their legs which was fastened to their wrists. He pulled on this with gusto, extracting loud muffled protests from his victims. When Rob let go, they stayed upright for a minute or so, wobbly but supported by each other. However, the strain on their knees, which bore all their weight upon the wooden floor, quickly got too much to withstand, so with a sigh from one and a soft moan from the other, they gave up the struggle and pitched to one side. They wriggled and squirmed for just a minute or so before going still.
I switched my attention to Simon, who was still sitting on the couch. He was engrossed in knotting more of the scarves into a single piece, but he turned his interest to us every so often, mainly to see how his mistress was coping with her unfamiliar role. Jack was still tinkering with his little tableau. He attached my bound wrists to Amanda’s, then ran the remainder of the same rope between her legs and mine and tied it around my ankles. This drew the lower parts of our torsos into a snug embrace. Because Amanda is a breast-height bigger than me, our upper parts also interlocked nicely, which must have appealed to Jack’s aesthetic sensibilities, because he spent quite a bit of time adjusting us to make the fit perfect... or at least, I think that’s what he was doing. My rear end required an awful lot of attention during the fine-tuning.
Simon had at last finished his task and held his creation up proudly for Jack to inspect. He nodded with approval and Simon leapt out of his seat and got down behind Amanda. He placed his hands gently on her forehead, drawing them down in tender caresses over her temples and cheeks, toying with the edges of her blindfold and gliding his fingertips over her lips and the clump of satin which cleaved them. Her head was tilted backwards and rolling slowly to left and right. The pace of her breathing had quickened. Her chest swelled as her body, already tensed by the ropes, responded to Simon’s stimulation, and from just the touch of our breasts I could feel her blood pumping faster and stronger.
Suddenly Amanda inclined her head forward. Simon took her gag from her mouth, but before she could react he inserted his new one. The wad consisted of two scarves fashioned into a single, large knot, threaded with two more. It was large enough that when I bent my head forward, half of it was protruding from Amanda’s mouth. I closed my lips around it and Simon used his fingers to push the material in for a good fit. He then tied Amanda’s side of the gag in place while Jack did the same for mine.
The connection was complete, our embrace consummated with nylon rope and satin scarf. Amanda was still flushed and breathing heavily. There was something incredibly, profoundly intimate in the way each gentle puff of warm air from her nostrils flowed smoothly into mine, in how our lips met from opposite sides of our shared gag and, as the silk became saturated with our saliva, we swapped that as well (which may sound icky, but at the time it felt deliciously sensual.)
This part of the game seemed to have gone on for hours; but it was still half-time at the stadium, so it cannot have been more than about fifteen minutes. I suspected that when the on-field play resumed, we females would become supernumerary once more, at least until the football was over. I had no doubt that we’d be providing the post-match entertainment. Yet there was one more surprise.
I was just starting to tune out to my surroundings and immerse myself in my bonds when there was a loud banging and everyone, at least those of us not blindfolded, looked up startled. Except Jack, who appeared to know who was knocking. He leapt to his feet and bounded down the hallway to the door.
“You’ve got to be kidding!” I thought. “Visitors? Now? Like this?”
I heard two voices and a laugh, which I – with a mixture of relief and dismay – recognized. My brother and his girlfriend appeared in the doorway, Alex lugging a six-pack of beers. Michelle was attired in a denim miniskirt and an electric-blue football jersey tastefully emblazoned with a rampaging cockroach trampling and stomping a bloated, prostrate cane toad. She came in with her gaze affixed to the television screen, and performed a rapid, comical double-take and blinked several times when she saw us on the floor, Andrea and Sabrina lying on their sides, tethered in a hog-tied bundle and still squirming, Amanda and me on our knees wrapped in quiet embrace. She studied us, with sympathy and fascination, for a short while, and then turned to stare at Alex. His expression was one of delight and satisfaction. He smiled at her and dismissively shrugged his shoulders. She just frowned.
“Hi girls,” Alex said. “Don’t get up.”
After that, the guys ignored us for a minute or two while they discussed the football. It was your typically eloquent male-chat: “Beer?” “Yeah.” “Who’s leading?” “Blues.” “How much?” “Fourteen six.” “When’s the restart?” “Two minutes.” “Beer.” “Thanks.”
Next thing I knew, a shadow was descending and Simon secured my blindfold once again. Then something else happened. There were sounds of a scuffle.
“Oh no!” Michelle cried out, and followed up with a yelp and a squeal. There was more shuffling about; someone bumped into me. It didn’t take a penetrating intellect to realize that the girl was being wrestled to the floor. There was thumping and scraping, as she began kicking out to elude the ankle bindings. Then there were flapping and slapping noises as she flailed desperately to extricate her arms from the encircling, tightening ropes.
“No, please,” she begged, “not the blindfold! You bastards!” she yelled, before her protests were rendered incoherent behind her gag.
I felt sorry for Michelle. She so loves her football. It was unbelievably mean of the guys to deprive her, especially when her team looked to be winning. But I guess that’s the price you pay for your tie-up games. Sometimes you don’t get to choose.
What happened after that remains a blur. It was when I entered the dreamy state, what I call the zone, when you shut out all extraneous information and become totally absorbed by, indeed into, your bonds. Of course, it was impossible to forget or ignore that I was rather intimately attached to Amanda. Since all of her weight was pressing on her knees against the wooden boards because of her hog-tied posture, she was starting to show some signs of stress. So after a while, I tilted and we collapsed sideways. I wondered if the boys would set us upright again, but we were left alone. Obviously the football was getting exciting – more exciting than five bound females lying helpless on the floor. On the other hand, we weren’t going anywhere.
***
I don’t know how the game progressed. I don’t even know the final score. I do know that poor Michelle refused to resign herself to her fate and never stopped complaining – as much as she could though her gag. It did her no good, and this must have been excruciating for her. She could hear her beloved Cockroaches running rampant but was denied the pleasure of witnessing their triumph.
The match ended with the traditional punch-up, and the guys expressed their satisfaction with a “good game and a bit of the biff to cap it off” – this line from my normally ever-so-civilized Rob.
I knew that we poor damsels would soon bear the brunt of that final adrenaline rush. The pay-off was not long in coming. Rob and Simon (I presume) unhitched me and Amanda. We’d been clinched together for almost an hour; my back and arms were cramped and sore, my legs aching, my wrists and ankles chafed from the rope. Rob replaced the twin-gag with a single, personal one, then turned me onto my stomach and bound my hands once more behind me, finishing with a new elbow-tie. He trussed my ankles and concluded with a crotch-rope that connected my wrists to a yoke about my neck. He took time with the crotch-rope to make it extra snug in the right places. How thoughtful.
There was a jumble of sounds around me, including some moans and whimpers, then I was lifted onto my knees and moved across the floor. My blindfold came off and I saw that we were arranged kneeling in a circle, or pentagon, facing inwards. Above each of us stood our man – Rob and me, Jack and Sabrina, etcetera. Though all our blindfolds were off, we were still gagged, our hands bound behind our backs, elbows and upper arms also tied. We were all panting hard from fatigue and excitement. The other girls looked tired and dishevelled, and so must have I. Michelle’s skirt had been discarded, presumably so that her crotch-rope could be more effective. Amanda’s and Sabrina’s stockings had been pushed all the way down to their bound ankles. Andrea’s were still secured to her knickers by the little burgundy ribbon suspenders, but mine had come loose and were starting to slip down my thighs.
Jack said something – I wasn’t listening – and the men crouched down behind us. The blindfolds went back on. The guys must have taken them off just so we could see each other before the fun times resumed. Rob poked a strand of rope between my arms and my body and pulled it through, then repeated the procedure several times before looping it above, below and between my breasts. When he had completed the yoke, he ran another rope through the criss-cross in my cleavage. I had no idea what he was doing until I felt a sharp tug and was forced to hobble forward until I felt the shoulders and then the bosoms of the women on either side of me. We had been drawn into a tight circle by our chest harnesses.
“What do you call that?” I heard one of the guys ask. I think it was Simon.
“A rope rosette,” Jack replied.
“You’re making that up,” I said to myself.
Once we had been set into our “rosette” there was nothing much left to do with us. So within a couple of minutes we were on the move again. From this point on, though, I can only describe my own experience, since I was isolated from the other girls by my blindfold. Rob untied me, but only so I could take off my jersey. He tied me again.
I was still kneeling, and Rob was behind me applying the rope when I felt someone’s hands on my bare thighs. I flinched but resisted the urge to react any further. One of the men was re-attaching my stockings to the clasps on my knickers. After that, it was just Rob and me for a long time. He took off my gag so he could indulge himself in some sloppy, slurpy kissage, then it went back into place and he turned his attention to other parts of me. That felt just a little weird, what with the other people present, including Alex, but that’s the point, I was not alone. I heard some very interesting sounds emanating from other parts of the room. I’m sure that you, Gentle Reader, would not be interested in the details.
It was around midnight when the party drew to a close. The boys had amused themselves with us for a couple of hours, but even they eventually tired of the sport. Anyway, it was mid-week and most of us had jobs or classes to attend in the morning. So once it was over, Michelle retrieved her skirt and the rest of us went to the kitchen to get back into our ordinary clothes. As I handed the expensive silk stockings and fine pair of stilettos to Sabrina, she smiled and said to keep them as a souvenir.
Luke and Andrea and Amanda and Simon left together. Rob, Alex, Michelle and I stayed a while longer. Jack reassured Michelle that he’d recorded the game if she wanted to see it, but I don’t think she was placated. For a while she seemed quite angry that she had missed her beloved football. The thing is though, that we often adopt a persona for our bondage games. It’s play-acting and I think we do it because there’s always that nagging feeling that what you’re doing (or having done to you) is just a little too kinky for “normal” people. I have noticed on the couple of other occasions we’ve been tied up together that Michelle likes to go all the way in playing the damsel in distress. So maybe she was faking the annoyance. Or perhaps not. Still, my attitude is that when you do what we do, although it’s consensual you don’t always get to decide what happens to you. If it were otherwise, why bother with the ropes at all? Anyway, that’s my view.
However, it was Amanda’s experience which intrigued me the most that night. Here’s a lady who is used to being on top, to being the one applying the ropes. I’m not saying you can’t switch, but I have never seen her in that position before. It was a fascinating new perspective, and just as interesting was Simon’s transformation, temporary though it might have been. And what brought this about? Well, I think I’ve made my point... it’s the football. I’m sure its effect has to do with some complex interplay of chromosomes, hormones and hypothalamic functions; but in the end it’s really quite simple. It’s all about balls.
__________
* Lex posterior derogat priori = The later law overrules a prior one.
** Look it up. (You weren’t expecting to get homework, I bet.)
To be continued...