Memoires F/f

Postby lasse672000 » Sun Sep 09, 2012 12:01 pm

“She’s in her room, ready and waiting for you!” I could hear my father say, when he answered the front door. I couldn’t hear who he was talking to, but that didn’t matter, because I already knew who it was.
I started shuffling towards the door, so I’d be at least half-way there, when she opened it. In the mirror, I made sure that the wrist-cuffs, which held my hands snugly behind my back, weren’t too tight, and that ankle-cuffs weren’t either. I didn’t want them to fall off, at the same time as I didn’t want to experience any loss of circulation in my hands or feet. It’s quite painful; or so I’ve heard, anyway.

Whenever my parents have to go somewhere for a longer period of time, they always call on the services of a friend of theirs. They have done so, ever since I was a little girl and, for whatever reason, continue to do so to this day. I usually go over to her flat (it’s only across the landing, so it’s not far), and stay there until just before they come back home.
There’s nothing unusual about that, right? Well, maybe not, but how it got started is.

It started a few years back, when she caught me messing with some things I shouldn’t have. She got some mittens, put them on my hands and wrapped tape around them, below the thumbs, so I couldn’t take them off. She took them off, just before was supposed to go back home. That, of course, made it impossible for me to do anything the whole time I was there, but neither of us cared about that. In fact, I loved it so much I misbehaved again, the next time I was there. This time, on purpose. And sure enough, she put the mittens back on, and they stayed on until I went home.
This time, though, she asked me when she took them off:”I could tell you did that on purpose. Didn’t you?”
As hard as it was, I had to look her in the eye, and admit to the fact. The only answer I got was a raised eyebrow and an “M-hm?” which could have meant just about anything.

A few weeks went by, but one Friday, I was at her apartment again. This time, though, she gave me a small, round package, almost like a ball. When I opened it, I discovered it contained two pieces of soft rope. She took it; put my hands together in front of me, and gently wound it round them. She tied it off, held up a mirror in front of me, and asked:
”How do you like that?”
I took a thorough look at my bound hands, and told her I liked it. “Could I have them tied like this until I go home?” I added.
“’Course you can, darling!” she smilingly said. “Or would you like me to tie them behind your back, instead?”
I thought about it for a minute, and replied:”Sure, go ahead. I could give it a try, anyway. But if I don’t like it, could you tie them like this again, please?”
“OK!” she said, as she released my hands, only to tie them together again behind my back.
”All right, how’s that?” she asked.
“Good, I guess.” I replied. “I think I actually prefer my hands being tied together like this, instead of in front of me. I don’t know why; but it gives me, like, a feeling of helplessness I like. Strange, isn’t it?”
Without answering the question, took another piece, bent down and tied my knees together.
“And now; are you still OK with it?” she anxiously asked. I tried to take a step, noticed I barely could, but also noticed: I didn’t really care. I was beginning to love being tied up more and more, and I told her so.
“OK, good. Fine!” she remarked. “As of today; whenever you come over here, I will tie you up: if, when, and any way I feel like. If you say it’s OK, that is. Do we have a deal?”
“We do.” I confirmed.

The years passed by, and I really relished the thought of the two of us having this secret.
We soon started using coarser rope, alternating with cuffs; but having said that, we were very careful never to leave any marks, which could raise any questions.
I’ve been fastened spread-eagle to her bed-posts or sitting in dining-room chairs; I’ve had my wrists tied or cuffed together behind my back or in front of me. We’ve been at my apartment, where I’ve been doing my homework, wearing my wrist- and ankle-cuffs, and tied by the waist with rope to the desk-chair, among many other things.

All the secrecy went out the window one day when my mum, in a by the by- sort of a way said:
”Look hun, she’s told us what you to have been up to. I must say I feel, rather both your father and I feel, a lot more at ease actually knowing who’s tying you up. But please, don’t keep anything else a secret, huh? If you want to be tied up, we’re happy to do it for you. Just say the word, and we’ll do it.”
When she said that, my whole world came crashing down around my ears, at first. Then I actually felt quite relieved that I wouldn’t have to lie to them anymore.
The day after, we went shopping for my own set of wrist- and ankle-cuffs. We also bought lots and lots of rope. Our neighbour still have the original set of cuffs, and I use them almost every time I’m over there. Nowadays, I even got my own gag. Two of them, in fact.
But, I don’t know why, maybe I’m getting old, or maybe not having to keep it a secret anymore has got something to do with it, but the thrill has gone out of it.

Oh, don’t get me wrong, I still love being cuffed or tied up in various ways, but the excitement has somehow disappeared, now that it’s not a secret anymore between two strangers, as it were.
Oh well, maybe I’ll find it, if I look hard enough.
Whazzzz up!.

Re: Memoires F/f

Postby Plueschbabycd » Wed Sep 19, 2012 1:56 am

Yes I also want more.
Thank you
"Don´t dream it, be it." Dr. Frank N. Furter in Rocky Horror Picture Show