## The Naughty Schoolgirl

Post by sarobah » Tue Apr 07, 2009 6:25 pm

The Tie-Up Chronicles
7. The Naughty Schoolgirl
So girls, if the man you need just wonâ€™t come across,
Put on a uniform and show him whoâ€™s the boss.
â€œWomen In Uniformâ€ by Greg Macainsh
I was indeed a naughty schoolgirl. I was undisciplined, insubordinate and rebellious. However, I avoided reprisal by achieving straight-A results (okay, I got a C in PE, but Iâ€™m talking about subjects where I wasnâ€™t a complete spazette). It also helped that I got involved in all sorts of social and cultural activities. I was captain of the debating team, a founding member of the astronomy club, vice-president of the student council and the first of my sex to chair the council sports committee (which was kind of strange, since the closest I came to real sport was a vigorous game of speed chess). I certainly kept myself busy, if not always out of trouble.
There were a couple of times when my penchant for tie-up games worked its insidious way into my school routine. One of these I have already described â€“ my Escape Artiste magicianâ€™s act, which I performed at school fÃªtes, concerts and shows, the most celebrated occasion being the seniorsâ€™ farewell assembly. Then there was the time I was sold into slavery.
Many schools have a fund-raising event called Slave Day or something similar (often using euphemisms like â€œrentâ€). Senior students â€“ at my school members of the student council â€“ are sold at auction to fellow students. Itâ€™s not politically correct, but itâ€™s popular and brings in heaps of money for charity. The tradition is that the slaves have to serve their owners for a day. They are made to dress up in outlandish costumes, run errands, carry schoolbags, etcetera... all in the name of fun and school spirit.
Besides the philosophical issue of trivializing slavery, there was growing criticism of our event that it was becoming a farce. The slaves had turned it into more of a fancy dress party for themselves, so consumer interest was dropping off and with it revenue. Some of the teachers found it disruptive. Another criticism was that it was rather sexist. Most of the slaves were girls. This was not surprising, since we made up more than two-thirds of the student council. (Boys were in general too â€œcoolâ€ â€“ i.e. apathetic â€“ to get involved, but thatâ€™s another story.) Also, we tended to earn higher profits, because both boys and girls bought female slaves, whereas the males were bought mainly by girls.
As a student councillor, I belonged to the abolition faction, but when I was outvoted I joined the organizing committee and resolved to put my own imprint on the event. I convinced my colleagues that to revitalize it, and justify it on some sort of educational grounds, we should go for historical authenticity.
After some prompting from yours truly, we decided on an ancient Roman theme, and I drafted my history class to work out the details. We enlisted other departments, getting the fashion-and-design people to make costumes and the art and technology classes to put together some realistic props. The revamped Slave Day proved a fantastic success and we raised a big pile of money. In fact, we almost doubled our takings over the previous yearâ€™s effort. For me personally, besides basking in the glory of my achievement, the highlight was my turn on the auction block.
For the occasion, I wore a cute little slavegirl tunic (that I still wear at toga parties). We each carried an advertisement inscribed on a little wooden panel that was slung around our necks. Mine said IVCVNDVS CELTVS VIRGO. VNVS PRÃ†VIVS ERVS (which is Latin for â€œFair Celtic maiden. One previous owner.â€). However, my piÃ¨ce de rÃ©sistance was my lovely set of chains. The manual arts boys had done an excellent job fabricating some formidable-looking restraints â€“ bracelets, anklets and collars, linked by heavy gauge chain. They only had the time and resources to manufacture six of these ensembles, and naturally I volunteered for one of them. Our hands were shackled in front and held in place with a leather strap around the waist, and connected to our collars and ankle fetters by the chain.
We had a big audience, just about the entire school, both kids and teachers. It was a marvellous experience, albeit a little daunting for some of my nervous fellow slaves. The bidding was furious, and I was bought by a consortium of two boys and two girls in Year 9. I fetched a very good price, in fact the second highest of the day. After that, my time in servitude was an anti-climax. My owners made me wear my slavegirl costume but not my shackles. Not surprisingly, my young mistresses were more severe than my masters. My only regret about the whole thing is that I donâ€™t know what happened to those chains. They would have come in handy at some of the parties Iâ€™ve been to recently.
Now none of these escapades created my naughty schoolgirl reputation. That came from my other facet, the rebel.
I grew up in a political environment. My parents have always been active on social and environmental issues. From their experience, very early in life I learned to pick my battles â€“ a cause thatâ€™s worth fighting for but a campaign you can win. In my schoolgirl days, that cause was the uniform.
At our school, the uniform and dress code didnâ€™t allow girls to wear trousers. Now I have nothing against wearing dresses, in fact it will always be my preference. However, it was skirts all year round, on even the coldest and windiest days. To compound the injustice, the boys had the choice of shorts or long pants. We females had the option of ankle socks or tights â€“ not much of a concession when thereâ€™s a wind-chill factor.
Though it may seem trifling, to us at the time it was a big deal. Besides the weather, there were other issues. A skirt inhibits movement and limits your freedom of action. If itâ€™s your choice, all power to you â€“ but if itâ€™s compulsory, thatâ€™s different. It was not really a question of modesty, since we could wear the skirt long. Most of us, however, did the exact opposite. Our attitude (well, my attitude) was: â€œIf I am forced to wear a skirt, no-one is going to tell me how to wear it.â€ So most of us wore them very short. In that way, we were conforming and rebelling at the same time. The fact that the school never imposed â€“ or at least never enforced â€“ a minimum skirt length indicates that the authorities didnâ€™t see it as a â€œdecencyâ€ issue, simply one of tradition.
I joined the fight for equality and after a two-year struggle, early in my senior year, we achieved success. The main reason I applied for and won a seat on the student council was this. In retrospect, I must give due credit to the teachers and administrators â€“ we were never harassed or punished for our stand, and when the rule change was made, the principal paid tribute to our resourcefulness and commitment. Nevertheless, I had consolidated my reputation as a rebel. This was timely, because the crowd I was hanging out with had me tagged by the general population as an up-and-coming bimbo.
My brother and my boyfriend were initially opposed to the cause. I understood Alex enough that I could readily translate his argument of Why do girls want to dress like guys? as I like to look at girlâ€™s legs. Mattâ€™s attitude was more problematic. He was my first real boyfriend. He was good-looking and intelligent. He did well in class, though he was more of a jock than a scholar. I suspect that he was first attracted to be because of my incipient bimbo persona, and although I canâ€™t be sure, I think he was aware of my fondness for tie-up games. Still, we studied together, he respected my boundaries, and he could be quite the charmer. So I wasnâ€™t very happy when he scoffed at my campaign for sexual equality.
Nevertheless, I eventually brought both of them around, by bullying, bribery and blackmail. Matt in particular decided that making fun of me could open up a career for him in opera â€“ singing soprano. They even supported me with some aspects of the campaign. Then, on the first cold day after our great victory, I put on my skirt. My brother said â€œWhat the...?â€ and when I got to school my boyfriend said â€œWhat the...?â€ I tried to explain that I had been fighting for the principle not the pants, but they muttered something about the impenetrable fog of the female mind. What did they know? When you look hot, you donâ€™t mind the cold.
On the way home that same afternoon, Matt was being a right royal pain in the posterior. He was flicking up the back of my skirt, showing an unwary public my knickers. When we arrived at my house, I promised that if he did it again I would rip him a new orifice. That led naturally to jokes and chuckles and a grappling match on the front lawn. When he pinned me down, I yelled surrender and offered afternoon tea as my reparation.
I called out for Alex. He wasnâ€™t around. I fulfilled my promise of Coke and cake.
Afterwards, as I was clearing up, Matt revived his oh-so-hilarious game with my skirt (at least this time in the privacy of the kitchen) and I renewed my threat. He laughed it off and we tangled again; but unbeknownst to him, I had been taking Tae Kwon Do lessons for about a year. So I prevailed? No, I was hopeless at the martial arts and all I achieved with my prowess was to land one kick in his tenderest region. As he doubled up, I went to his aid, fearful for my boyfriendâ€™s future procreational potential. It was, of course, a ruse, and two seconds later he had me prostrate on the floor. If you donâ€™t know whatâ€™s coming next, you are very, very new to the world of tie-up games.
----FLASHBACK----
Matt and I walked home from school together most afternoons. Sometimes I invited him in for a drink or a swim in our pool, but I preferred to study in the afternoon and early evening, so normally we parted company at my front gate. We also had to contend with my brother, who for some reason or other didnâ€™t get along very well with my friends (plus a goodly portion of the human species). However, one day a few months before the trousers campaign reached its dÃ©nouement, the Bro was away, on a school camping trip, and therefore someone elseâ€™s problem. Matt seemed to have developed a brat radar, because he picked up on that and dashed ahead to open the gate for me.
â€œThank you, kind sir,â€ I said.
â€œYouâ€™re welcome, my lady,â€ he replied.
We really did talk like that. I wonder why folks thought we were dorks.
My gentleman waited on the threshold, with keen, impatient eyes.
â€œCome in,â€ I yelled as I raced up the path. He beat me to the door.
We had the place to ourselves for at least three hours before my parents arrived home from work. As I headed for the kitchen to get us drinks, I suggested an afternoon of study, for an upcoming physics test. Matt said okay. Before we hit the books, he insisted on a kiss and cuddle. And who was I to disagree?
We finished our drinks and took to the living room sofa. We dallied awhile, but when Matt started unbuttoning my blouse I pulled away.
â€œTime out, tiger,â€ I declared.
He mumbled and dolefully shook his head as I stood up, straightened my blouse and brushed the creases out of my skirt.
â€œWhere you off to?â€ he demanded.
â€œUpstairs to change,â€ I responded.
He started to get up and follow me.
â€œNot likely,â€ I said. â€œGet the books out.â€
Just as I reached the doorway, he called to me. I stopped and turned. His look of disappointment morphed into a salacious grin. I caught the signal a millisecond too late.
With a shriek and a curse, I spun around to make my escape, but he seized my right arm and twisted it behind my back. Holding me in a hammerlock, he dragged me back to the sofa. I broke free of his clutches and we began to wrestle. We rolled off the sofa and he fell on top of me. I was winded, and Matt quickly overpowered me. He turned me onto my stomach and pulled my hands behind my back.
He didnâ€™t do anything straight away. I was still groping for breath. He was kneeling astride me and for a few seconds gently massaged my back and the sides of my rib cage until the gasping stopped.
â€œReady?â€ he said.
â€œFor what?â€ I asked.
His answer was to sit himself on my backside. I grunted under the sudden weight. He grasped my wrists, and to give himself room to manoeuvre, he raised my arms behind me until they were over my shoulders. It didnâ€™t hurt much, but it wasnâ€™t exactly painless; and I yelled at him to let go.
â€œSure, babe,â€ he said, â€œIn just a minute.â€
He bound my hands. I could tell from the texture that he was using my school tie, which he had taken off while he was fiddling with my blouse.
Matt thought he had me subdued. He got off my bottom, rolled me over and began to tickle me. I fought back with my feet and after several wild shots landed what must have been a painful kick to the side of his face. He muttered something and shook his head. I didnâ€™t improve my position by giggling, and retribution quickly followed. He pulled his belt from his trousers. He dangled it before my eyes, but before I could start to worry over what was about to happen, he began wrapping it around my ankles. Again he discovered that it is not so easy to restrain a struggling, kicking captive; but his strength eventually prevailed. He added insult to my injury by laughing that as I fought him, all I achieved was to flip up my skirt and show him my knickers. He switched me back onto my stomach.
Now that he had me helpless, he stood up and walked out of the room. I was facing away but heard his footsteps on the staircase and I was mystified. I reached down, and after some fumbling managed to undo the belt. I freed my legs and struggled to my feet. With my arms bound behind my back, that was more difficult than I anticipated, on the polished wooden floor with nothing for traction; and just as I succeeded he returned carrying a small bundle. It contained a scarf, the cord from my bathroom robe and a sash from one of my dresses. I knew then that my ordeal was far from over; but funnily enough I was more bothered by the fact that heâ€™d been rummaging through my drawers and closet.
Matt ordered me to lie down again, and knowing it was futile to resist, I obeyed. Again it was hard to do in my bound state, and he offered no assistance; so I had to kneel, then droop to one side, flop onto one arm and roll onto my belly. He knelt down by my side and started to work on me. He placed one hand on my neck to hold my head down and used the other hand to stretch out my legs and push my ankles together. This time I did not resist. He once again secured my ankles. He then looped the sash around my upper arms and drew it so tightly that my elbows almost touched. It hurt, but when he asked â€œToo much?â€ I giggled and said something like â€œDo your worst!â€ which was probably not the wisest thing, under the circumstances.
I started to squirm again and was making rather silly gulping noises. Placing a hand on my forehead, Matt forced my head backwards. Although he said â€œOpen wide, baby,â€ I kept my teeth firmly clenched; but only for a moment. He tickled me under one arm and when I unlocked my jaws to squeal, the gag went in. It was my scarf, an expensive one, which he had knotted in the middle. The silk left a raw, astringent taste in my mouth, and it quickly became sodden with my saliva. I was protesting and laughing, but through the gag the noises just came out as muffled groans and gurgles. Very graceful was I.
Matt gallantly adjusted my skirt, which had ridden up my thighs on account of my wriggling; but then he spoilt the effect by putting me in a full hog-tie. He grabbed my ankles and bent my knees until my heels touched my bottom. He fastened the cord to the bonds around my ankles and arms, and pulled it taut. I was now completely disabled, but for my writhing. I had no realistic hope of freeing myself, but it was fun to try, and it was getting my boy excited.
I was helpless in Mattâ€™s power and he was not inclined to be merciful. He pulled off my socks and tortured me with a savage foot-tickling. Following that, he left me lying on the floor, all trussed and gagged, as he sat on the sofa, watching television. At one point, the cad even used my prone body as a footrest. At least he left my clothing â€“ if not my dignity â€“ intact.
After a long, long time, Matt untied me and we put in an hour or so of study, as if nothing unusual or untoward had happened. It was a nice little postscript that I aced the physics test and beat the pants off my boyfriend (not literally).
----FLASHFORWARD----
I was on my stomach on the floor, pressed against the cold, hard kitchen tiles by Mattâ€™s weight. He was lying atop me, wrapping his legs around mine to keep them from flailing about, pinning my arms to my side. I felt his hot breath against my right ear. He blew away the strands of hair.
â€œGive in?â€
â€œYes, I surrender.â€
â€œCompletely?â€
â€œTotally. Utterly. Absolutely.â€
â€œGood. Donâ€™t move.â€
His weight lifted off my body. He moved across the floor and sat leaning against a cupboard, staring at me. I remained still, on my belly, arms at my side, staring straight aheadâ€¦ but seeing my boyfriend out of the corner of one eye. He looked relaxed.
â€œSit up,â€ he commanded. I did so, facing directly away from him. I drew my knees up to my chest and placed my hands on the floor beside me.
â€œNot on your skirt,â€ he said.
I turned just a bit and looked over my shoulder towards him. I expected him to rebuke me, but he just laughed and said, â€œDo it.â€
I lifted myself slightly, pulled out my skirt from under me and sat again. I could feel the cold and the pattern of the tiles through my knickers, and I began to wonder what was next. I could have guessed.
â€œHands behind your back.â€
I obeyed. He scrambled across the room to me and tied my arms, with the insides of my wrists together, cinched to make it tight but bearable. I had no idea what he was using to bind me, but it felt like nylon cord (which he probably got from the cupboard under the sink). He then applied an elbow tie and looped a rope around my neck as a halter. I was worried for a second or two; but before I could ask him to stop he had thought the better of it and removed it. He took hold of my shoulders and twirled me around. As my legs spun within his reach, he grabbed my feet and lifted them until I fell back, lying on my pinioned arms. He used more rope â€“ it was indeed nylon cord â€“ to secure my ankles.
He sat back again to watch me testing my bonds. I said nothing, and I did not give him the satisfaction of looking anywhere near him. I wriggled for a couple of minutes, then gave up.
â€œLie down, face down,â€ he ordered. â€œKnees bent, feet in the air.â€
Hog-tie I thought. Hog-tie it was.
He had fun, making it a drawn-out affair, ensuring that I felt intensely every bit of it. He added a blindfold â€“ his handkerchief, I think â€“ and a gag. That was the worst part. He used a dishcloth â€“ a clean one, but it tasted dry and linty. He didnâ€™t put it all the way in my mouth, for which I was grateful, but rather between my teeth and secured with a double strand of the cord. It was just as effective as a stuff-and-cleave gag. He added a crotch-rope, revenge for the kick he said; but he was not very good at doing it right and it had no real effect on me.
Once I was helpless, Matt played with me for a while. He turned me onto my right side and let me fall onto my back and arms, heaved me onto my left side and allowed me to flop onto my belly. He continued, trundling me in this fashion all the way across the kitchen floor and back again. He thought it hysterically comical, to have me trussed and helpless rolling about like that.
After this little game lost its novelty, he put me on my side again and lay down next to me. He pulled off my blindfold so we could gaze into each otherâ€™s eyes. He fondled my hair and gently stroked my face. Then he began to unbutton my blouse. I snorted and gibbered through my gag, but he halted the process at my waist. He toyed with my bra straps, but when he caught my death stare he stopped.
Tiring of that, he got up, leaving me wallowing on the tiles. He began dripping water on me, aiming for my face and my breasts and my nether regions. The more I writhed and twisted to avoid it, the more he poured and the louder he laughed.
It was at this time that my brother Alex wandered in. By now he was used to seeing his â€œlittle bigâ€ sister being tied up. Even allowing for the ropes and gag, I must have looked a sight, my hair dishevelled, clothing soaked, blouse half open, skirt wrinkled from the effects of the crotch-rope and the rolling about on the floor. He casually stepped over me to make himself a sandwich. He said â€œCarry on, kids,â€ as he departed.
Once he released me from the hog-tie, my beloved boyfriend kept my hands and feet bound and commanded me to mop up the water on the tiles using the cloth that had been my gag. If you think that was the easy part of my ordeal, try wiping an entire floor surface area with your hands bound behind your back, and you having to slide about on your backside because your feet are tied. Not so easy.
This was not the most extreme tie-up game that Matt and I played, although in some ways it was the most kinky. Sadly, we broke up not long after graduating from high school. He reacted badly when I told him I was going away to university (because the course I wanted was not available on our local campus). I couldnâ€™t have blamed him for not desiring a long-distance relationship; but he was very self-centred about it. It was a pity, because I thought we made a cute couple.

### Re: The Naughty Schoolgirl

Post by sarobah » Tue Apr 07, 2009 6:36 pm

Postscript: I thought this chapter was just risquÃ© enough that it belonged in the â€œintimate TUGsâ€ file. Naturally, some of the story has been embellished, but only due to faulty/creative recall and dramatic licence with the dialogue. I try to be as true to what really happened as I can.
Post-postscript: In the interests of full disclosure with regards to my school uniform, I refer those who havenâ€™t seen it to my Webshots page:
http://good-times.webshots.com/album/564933539GccHqK
I am the mad-looking chick in the first and second photos (and Iâ€™m in a few others). In the final two, â€œShowgirlsâ€ and â€œShowgirls Exposedâ€, Iâ€™m the one on the far right â€“ not very good quality, but the last was the seniorsâ€™ farewell concert when I performed my finale Escape Artiste routine.
Somewhere I have a couple of photos of one of my early mediaeval moments and the slave sale. If I ever manage to extract them (itâ€™s technical) I shall post them... but donâ€™t hold your breath.
~ Sarah
Words, like Nature, half reveal and half conceal the soul within.

### Re: The Naughty Schoolgirl

Post by Tony » Wed Apr 08, 2009 1:54 pm

Your stories are absolutely lovely, Sarobah. Wish I could be in them.

### Re: The Naughty Schoolgirl

Post by canuck100 » Wed Apr 08, 2009 3:47 pm

> Tony wrote:Wish I could be in them.

Well said! Exactly how I feel too
Great stories Sarobah. Thanks for sharing them with us.

### Re: The Naughty Schoolgirl

Post by bound-black-girl lover » Wed Apr 15, 2009 4:50 pm

Dear Sarah:
I don't THINK I posted anything "wrong" but my last post to you was mysteriously DELETED without explanation!
So here goes again:
For story "Tying up a Schoolgirl" go to "Stories of Tie-Up Games" home-page and scroll-down to section: "Archives"
then look for the calendar for the year: "2000" and then click-on the month: "Sep."--the story (by "John") will be story
number four (4). [If you want to see an "appropriate" picture go to the web-site: "Robs Damsels in Distress" (in the U.K.!)
and click on the "Sales" page for his ONLY d.v.d. and look at the cover (the actress is an ADULT)!]
Keep up the good stories!
Stuart
(N.Y.C.)

### Re: The Naughty Schoolgirl

Post by sarobah » Wed Apr 15, 2009 5:00 pm

Zanev explained there have been some lost posts.
Thanks, I found the story. I was unaware of (or forgot about) the old archives.
I see that the story is a spoof. It reminded me how prone we are to clichÃ©s â€“ but I think that is due to the nature of the subject. There are only so many ways you can describe a hog-tie, etc.
~ Sarah
Words, like Nature, half reveal and half conceal the soul within.