THE TIE-UP CHRONICLES

Postby sarobah » Tue Oct 09, 2012 12:52 am

When I posted this previously, it was meant to be the final edition of the chronicles of my real-life tie-up adventures. The problem with formatting of the older messages in the forum has given me the opportunity (or excuse) to edit and repost.
Some points to note: (1) The stories contain some philosophical musings and other ramblings and take a while to get to the fun stuff (i.e. the tie-up games). (2) All the stories here are true. I have taken liberties with the dialogue, but that is the limit of my dramatic licence. (3) The first few chapters deal with my early years, age 11-17. There’s nothing to be disturbed about, but you should know. (4) All my TUGs are GTU – girl/s tied up.


THE TIE-UP CHRONICLES

Memoir is how we try to make sense of who we are, who we once were, and what values and heritage shaped us. If a writer seriously embarks on that quest, readers will be nourished by the journey, bringing along many associations with quests of their own.
– William Zinsser, Inventing the Truth
1. First Light

We shall not cease from exploration
And the end of all our exploring
Will be to arrive where we started
And know the place for the first time.
– T. S. Eliot, Little Gidding

There is a saying: You can never go home again. Which means that when you leave to make your own way in the world, things inevitably change, people move on. And even if some things remain the same, you haven’t. You have outgrown what you were. Old roots have withered and you’ve put down new ones. So what you have are your memories, and it seems to me that the best you can do is not to mourn what you’ve lost or try to reclaim what you’ve left behind, but instead to move on to explore new realms and maybe in the process discover more of yourself.

On the other hand, Robert Frost wrote: “Home is the place where, when you have to go there, they have to take you in.” There’s truth in that as well. The place you grew up in will always be special. And so, although it’s been more than half a decade since I flew from the cosy nest, whenever I go back to see my parents I try to make time to revisit old haunts and reconnect with former playmates and school friends. And sometimes, particularly on a summer afternoon when the sultry air hangs torpidly over the neighbourhood, in my head the wall that separates the present from the past begins to dissolve. Through it I can see myself as I was – in some ways not so different from what I am today, in other ways changed so very, very much. And now and then the window opens up altogether into a doorway, and in my imagination I can step through. That’s how vivid the memories can be.

Of course, the house to which I returned was not exactly the ancestral home. My family had moved in just five years before I moved out, a couple of months after my thirteenth birthday. And yet during that time I managed to build up a stockpile of happy reminiscences, and among the fondest have been those of the tie-up games I played back then. Not that I’ve given them up now, but having left teenage innocence in my wake, you might say they’ve become more “sophisticated.” Nevertheless, I cannot help but feel just a little wistful for that not so distant but receding world of my girlhood.

This is why I decided to produce a chronicle of my tie-up adventures, so they never completely fade away. And the best means of ensuring their preservation is to share them. At the same time, I remain constantly aware of how easy it can be to slip over the fuzzy line that separates reality and fantasy. While you do your best to stay faithful to the truth of the events as they actually happened, imperfect recall and fertile imagining inexorably intrude. And you have to appreciate that memory can act like a magnifying glass. In looking back, things in your past don’t seem smaller and more remote, as you might expect. Everything looks bigger. Places you haven’t been to for years, people you hadn’t talked to since long before you left home, loom larger and closer than they were in reality.

And so it may be with my tie-up games. Indeed, I have only a vague recall of my very first. I was eleven years old. We were living at the time near one of my mother’s relatives, who has a son almost exactly my age named Andrew. (By my reckoning, we are third cousins.) Back then I was an unreconstructed tomboy; and he and I were the co-founders of a neighbourhood band of a dozen or so prepubescent adventurers, whose shenanigans as often as not culminated in someone getting tied up. Although sometimes the tables were turned on the boys, usually it was one or all of us girls. And that was doubtless my doing.

From a very young age I was fascinated by the damsel-in-distress scenes I saw in movies and on television and read in books. In my fantasies I was that damsel – the kidnapped princess awaiting rescue by her handsome hero, the haughty contessa abducted by the swashbuckling pirate, the beautiful heiress carried off to the harem by some dark-eyed sheik, the Indian maiden who falls into the hands of cruel cowboys, the brave pioneer girl taken by savages, the fearless lady detective overpowered by the arch-villain’s evil henchmen. I imagined myself in all the classics. My favourite scenario, however, was the superheroine-in-jeopardy – Lara Croft, intrepid and imperilled; Wonder Woman finding herself on the wrong end of her magical lasso; Buffy the Vampire Slayer getting Spiked (or perhaps that’s a different fantasy!).

And yet apart from the standard pre-adolescent girl-versus-boy animus, I did not really associate our juvenile antics with my dreams and reveries. That was until the day when we had a family wedding with a backyard reception. To my great dismay, I had been coerced out of my usual ensemble of scruffy jeans, frayed T-shirt and tatty sneakers and into a hideously feminine, lavender-coloured party frock, festooned with frills and lace and ribbons and bows. It was petite, pert and pretty, and naturally I hated it. And since Andrew and I had maintained a strenuous competition for the leadership of our gang, I was so glad that none of the other members were there to see me like this. Andrew, meanwhile, looked stiff and uncomfortable, albeit rather dashing, in a three-piece suit. To make himself feel better, he made fun of me, so I chased him around the yard and we ended up in a narrow alleyway between the house and the fence. We scuffled for a minute or two, until Andrew pinned my arms behind me in a double hammerlock.

Although I would essentially stop growing not long afterwards, at eleven I was of average size for my age, and in fact slightly taller and heavier than Andrew. Why I gave up the battle was mainly on account of my dress, which I did not think could withstand the rigours of combat. And so I waited passively as he held my arms behind my back with one hand. I was beginning to wonder what he was doing, until he started wrapping something around my crossed wrists – it took a couple of loops for me to catch on that he was using his trouser belt. It didn’t have enough length and the leather was too inflexible for it to be really tight; but I didn’t try to break free or twist my hands out of it; and so far as I can recall this was the first time ever that I had allowed myself to be bound without any sort of struggle. It felt good, and that’s when I realized that putting up resistance was not the most thrilling part of being tied up.

And yet, at the time, I wasn’t really sure why I was so excited, why my skin was tingly and I was shivering even though it was a warm day, why the belt’s coarse texture around my wrists felt like the caress of finest silk. I must have been wriggling, because Andrew thought I was trying to escape and gave my arms a sharp downward tug, which caused me to almost lose my balance. I whirled around to face him. We stood glaring at each other, and then he laughed. His eyes glittered and began flitting about. Figuring that he was trying to work out a way of further restraining me, I decided I really should, for my own self-respect, make some attempt at either fight or flight. However, at that instant my mother came round the corner, to find out where her sweet little angel had got to. Seeing us, she shook her head disapprovingly but said nothing. Andrew just grunted his displeasure at the intrusion and released my hands, and we returned to the festivities. It was a frustrating anticlimax, but at least there was cake.

After that day, Andrew had the upper hand in our contest for neighbourhood supremacy. Yet it wasn’t my capture at the side of the house which had undermined my authority. It was the humiliating picture of me in my ghastly party frock, which Andrew gleefully painted in many words on many occasions for our friends. Gang leaders don’t wear girlie frills. Still, I don’t recall us playing any more tie-ups. In any case, this chapter in my life lasted only a few more months, before my family moved on to our next home.

I had almost forgotten the incident, until I began writing my memoirs. But what I have now come to recognize is that those few minutes on a Saturday afternoon long ago would prove to be one of the formative moments in my enduring love affair with bondage games. It was the point of departure on my journey to self-fulfilment and self-discovery.

There was, however, a sequel of sorts, when I met Andrew, for the first time in ages, not long ago. We’d known that we attended the same university, but had not before encountered each other on campus. Remorseful for not keeping in touch, we took our lunch down to the edge of the Great Duck Pond and found a pleasant place on the grass in the shade. We soon began reminiscing about our childhood escapades, and I wondered if he remembered that time when he made me his prisoner.

He frowned, straining to recall. Then he smiled, nodding slowly as the images came into focus.

“Are you still into that?” he asked.

“Into what?”

“Being tied up.”

He was grinning again, but when I smiled back his eyes widened. And it suddenly occurred to me that maybe he’d been joking, and that I had revealed more of myself than I should have, or needed to. Then I must have blushed, which only made it more obvious.

“Oh, don’t be embarrassed,” he continued. “My wife and I sometimes...”

“Your wife? I wasn’t aware...”

That changed the subject for a while, as we filled each other in on the other details of our lives that we hadn’t yet got round to sharing. But as the conversation petered out, on impulse I slipped the belt from my shorts and draped it over my hands as I held them out towards him, palms together.

“For old times’ sake,” I said. To give us both an escapeway, I winked and grinned.

He stared at me hard, for just an instant, before taking the belt and looping it around my wrists. The strap was just long enough to go comfortably twice around, but when he fastened the buckle to make it secure, it squeezed my arms together in front of me, and I winced.

“Sorry,” he muttered, but then he laughed out loud, with exactly the same relish as he’d shown that day more than ten years before.

Of course, I didn’t experience the usual thrill – it was too mechanical and dispassionate. And then a couple of passers-by made me feel self-conscious. I buried my bound hands in my lap until they were gone, and the spell, for what there was of it, was broken. Anyway, I had a class to get to, so I began trying to undo the buckle with my teeth. I was making some progress but stopped when I saw I was leaving bite marks. Andrew finished the job, releasing me. I must have appeared flustered because he looked apologetic. I replaced my belt.

“It takes you back, doesn’t it?” I said.

“Yeah,” was all he replied. He shook his head – I don’t know why.

Thereafter we departed, with the usual “Let’s keep in touch” and “You have my number” banalities. I have in fact seen him a couple of times since then, and met his wife, but there have been and very likely will be no more tie-up games between us.

Re: THE TIE-UP CHRONICLES

Postby sarobah » Tue Oct 09, 2012 1:41 am

2. Backyard Buccaneers

“Are you a pirate or man-o-war?” cried we.
Blow high! Blow low! And so sailed we.
“I am no man-war but a pirate,” said he,
“Cruising the coasts of High Barbary.”
– Sea shanty

Entering my teenage years was an especially agreeable time for me because, after many years of moving about, the family was finally settling down and I could make new and lasting acquaintances. For up until then, except for brief interludes, my closest companion and collaborator was my brother Alex. He’s two and a half years my junior, and we have always had an ambiguous, ambivalent, antagonistic relationship. When we maintained our semi-nomadic existence, he and I were never in one place long enough to make long-term friendships with other children, so we often had to rely on each other for company. At the same time, our lifestyle made it hard for our parents to find a babysitter for Alex when one was needed. The duty fell to me, because the difference in maturity was much greater than our age gap. That was when I had to stop being playmate and become bossy big sister. As a result, we developed an intense sibling rivalry which endured long after he had reached responsible adolescence. I used to call him my Baby Bro, and when I did he had all sorts of colourful names for me. Our enmity was always good-natured, but I had to fight a never-ending war to shore up my superiority, and he waged a relentless campaign to undermine it.

Although it took him a longer time than it should have to get the message, Alex had an ally working for him, and it was one that lurked inside me. Ever since I was a little girl, inspired by those tales of damsels in distress, I had been intrigued and excited by the prospect of being tied up. To this day, though by now a seasoned, sophisticated and somewhat battle-scarred veteran, I still adore the feelings of helplessness and frustration and indignation, the sensory isolation and emotional introversion that come with being bound and gagged and blindfolded. Not because I’m masochistic, weak and docile. In fact, I’m pretty much the opposite. What I find exhilarating is the struggle – not against the ropes or my captor, but against my own fears and frailties. It is the test of my strength and endurance which is the thrill, whether it ends with the sweet savour of success or the bitter taste of defeat.

But I especially love it when I’m tied up by guys, and I have made it my mission to be bound by the men in my life. I have tied up a male or two, and a female here and there, and I’ve been tied up by girls. Nevertheless, I prefer to be on the receiving end, with guy-on-girl my personal style. And I confess that this is when my submissive tendencies, which I otherwise keep suppressed, come to the surface. To yield to the ropes and surrender to the one who binds you, to exchange your freedom for absolute and intimate dependence, is an exquisitely pleasurable experience that makes sense only to those who feel it.

My earliest tie-up games and my brief encounter with Andrew at the wedding reception had not lived up to my fantasies, nor did they kindle new ones, so far as I can remember. Indeed, it was another two years before my first truly memorable adventure. It was when I was captured by pirates.

My family stayed in a couple more places before finally settling into our permanent home. It’s a rather posh house in an upscale part of town. The suburb is interwreathed with parks and surrounded by extensive bushland, and the beach is within bicycle-riding distance. The yard is large, with a swimming pool, lush gardens and an elegant gazebo. It was the closest thing to paradise for two kids unaccustomed to such trappings of the good life.

It took Alex and me a while to make new friends in the neighbourhood. We had arrived at the beginning of the summer vacation, so we hadn’t had much opportunity to fit into the school community. That did not really bother me, since I enjoyed my own company and liked nothing better than to be alone with a good book. My brother, on the other hand, was more gregarious. On the next block lived Cameron, who was between Alex’s age and mine, and they quickly became pals.

I was not enamoured of Cameron. I found him to be smug and supercilious around me but obsequious towards Alex. In retrospect, I guess I was too judgemental, but it had quickly become clear that he had a crush on me. He was at that stage in many a boy’s adolescence when aversion or indifference to the opposite sex is starting to give way to attraction and he isn’t quite sure how to deal with it. But to a self-absorbed teenage girl, the infantine love of a gauche twelve-year-old was cause for disdain; but the irony is that it was he who, with the able assistance of my Baby Bro, inducted me into the tie-up games that I have loved and played ever since.

It was a hot and humid summer day about a week into the school vacation. Alex and Cameron were exploring the nearby forest and no doubt terrorizing the local wildlife. I decided to spend the afternoon relaxing poolside with a book. It was She Captains by Joan Druett, an engrossing history of the travels and travails of women who went to down to the sea in ships.

I was, aptly as it turned out, just starting Chapter 5, Captured by Corsairs, when the boys returned from their foray into the wilderness. They were on the other side of the pool fence, Cameron leaning on it and staring at me. More specifically he was gazing at my bikini-clad body... even though at that age I didn’t have much to show in the way of bumps and curves.

“Seen enough yet?” I said, and his face reddened.

“Watcha reading?” my brother demanded.

“Go away,” I replied.

Since this had no effect, I held the book up for them to see the cover.

“Girl pirates?” Cameron snorted, recovering his kilter. “Gimme a break.”

“Sure,” I answered, in a most obliging tone. “Arm or leg?”

He looked at me with a quizzical expression.

“Forget it,” I said. I tried to get back to my reading. However, there is nothing like the mention of pirates to set a pair of young boys’ hearts aflutter. After the inevitable “Arr, me hearties” and the obligatory “Avast, ye scurvy dogs” and the classic “Shiver me timbers,” they disappeared into the house. Tranquillity was restored... but not for long. They re-emerged a few minutes later, decked out in full regalia. I had to give them credit for improvisation, even if was only the rare seventeenth century buccaneer who wore blue denim breeches and a Radiohead-emblazoned tunic. The lusty lads fought a series of noisy skirmishes all over around the yard until they had chased each other into exhaustion. They stumbled into the pool enclosure to soak their heads, and then collapsed on the lawn gasping for breath.

“Why don’t you go back inside and watch TV?” I said, then added rashly, “and leave me in peace.”

Regaining his manly vigour, Alex scrambled to his feet and swaggered up to me. “I got a better idea,” he growled. “What ya think, matey?” He turned to his advancing comrade, who responded with a malevolent grin.

“For sure, a comely maiden.” Cameron flourished his weapon and let the blade rest on my shoulder, its tip against my throat.

“Surrender, me lovely, or you will feel the sharp steel edge of me cutlass.”

“Well, actually, it’s plastic...”

“Quiet, wench,” my brother scowled.

“Aye,” his shipmate exclaimed. “The lass makes fine booty.”

So they talked the pirate talk, and did it well; but could they (as the saying goes) walk the walk? So setting down my book, I resolved to test their mettle. I must confess, looking back on the moment, that the thick air, warm breeze and stifling humidity had been making me drowsy. The reading and sunbathing had begun to pall, and the lure of excitement and danger must have gotten the better of my good sense.

Notwithstanding their picaroon braggadocio, I was bigger than either of my adversaries, and even against them together I could have prevailed. And indeed, as I bounded off the sun-lounge to challenge them, they balked and backed off. We stood staring each other down for a couple of seconds; but before they rallied for a counterattack, fearing for the wellbeing of my expensive tangerine Agustina string bikini, I chose retreat as the better part of valour. I elbowed Cameron out of the way, sending him into a spin. Alex attempted a tackle, sprawling empty-handed and cursing on the lawn. With an ear-piercing squeal, I made a dash for the house. (I’m not by nature a screamer. It just seemed right, under the circumstances.)

As I reached the pool-fence gate, the thrill of the chase kicked in, and on impulse I veered off my escape route. Cameron having recovered his balance and Alex his dignity, the boys charged after me, driving me away from my safe haven. Cornered at the far end of the yard, I turned to face my pursuers.

“No quarter!” my brother shouted as he lunged with his sword.

I seized the blade and wrenched it from his grasp. So quickly disarmed, he just stood and gaped at me, with a comical, stunned mullet expression. Cameron backed off, shaking his head. This abduction was not going as planned.

I waved the sword about in a suitably menacing fashion, pondering what the next move should be. Despite their setbacks, my would-be kidnappers were not prepared to give up just yet, whereas my own enthusiasm for the fight was beginning to wane. I considered my predicament, and then I thought, “Oh, what the heck!”

I flung down my weapon and raised my hands. “I surrender.”

Suspecting some kind of trickery, the boys held back. I gave them a “Well, what are you waiting for?” look.

Alex reacted first. Tentatively, he reached out and grabbed my left wrist. When I didn’t offer any resistance, with reinvigorated bravado he spun me about and twisted my arm behind my back. Cameron did likewise. With both my arms pinned, I was frog-marched up the yard and forced to kneel beside the pool.

“We should get a good price,” Cameron said.

“Not likely... too skinny.”

I protested.

“Then let’s make her walk the plank.”

Alex thought this was a good idea; but the pool had a collapsible diving board, the kind that is folded and stowed away to save space. It always took a few minutes to set up. Would Cameron be able to handle me while my brother did the job?

“We’ll tie her up,” Cameron proposed.

Alex agreed. “I’ll get some rope.”

The boys released my arms, but Cameron put me in a headlock. I was on my hands and knees and he crouched beside me, his arm wrapped about my neck. I began to struggle... but not too hard. His grip was not so tight that I couldn’t breathe. I could have thrown him off, but I was not eager for a wrestling match, since he had me at a distinct disadvantage. The tie-strings on my bikini weren’t strong, certainly not battle-tested. It was a reprise of my moment of truth in my flimsy little party dress with cousin Andrew two years before. So after some token squirming and whimpering, I relaxed in Cameron’s clutches, stoically awaiting my fate.

Alex returned from the garden shed with a number of long strands of nylon cord (from a large spool our dad used for tying plants onto latticework along the edges of the veranda). The boys drew my arms behind my back once more. They were not gentle, especially Cameron. He wasn’t sadistic, but I could tell that he liked having me in his power. I sighed and groaned, but got no pity.

In what followed, my brother proved remarkably adept for someone who later claimed to be a novice at tying up captives. When I obligingly crossed my wrists, he pulled them apart and looped the cord around each. I wasn’t sure what he was doing but was thinking how easy it would be to work myself free from such an amateurish job. But he pulled my palms together and wove the ends of the rope around and between my wrists several times before applying a cinch. This not only immobilized my hands completely, it also put considerable stress on my arms and shoulders. It wasn’t exactly painful but uncomfortable, and not like in my fantasies. I could not hold in a wretched moan.

I was still kneeling. While Alex was to my rear, securing the knots, Cameron squatted in front of me, gripping me by the forearms to keep me still. When he’d completed binding my hands, my brother gave me a sudden hard shove and I toppled forward. Cameron had let go of my arms and was holding me with one hand on my back, the other at my waist. He only just managed to catch me by the shoulders before I pitched forward and planted my face in the lawn. He eased me downwards until I was lying on my stomach. Alex invited him to tie my ankles and showed how to apply the same noose-and-cinch he had used on my wrists. They must have thought I would begin kicking about, because my brother put his weight on the backs of my knees – which only had the effect of making my legs bend.

“Keep ʼem straight!” he barked.

“I’m trying to!” I was going to add something profane, but decided that, given my situation, discretion was for sure the better part of valour.

As soon as they had had me bound hand and foot, my captors stood up to admire their handiwork. I began twisting and writhing, testing my bonds. It was all I could do now to show my pluck. Yet I soon gave up, wondering where my little brother had learned his craft and marvelling at how quickly he’d mastered it. In any case, my flopping about on the ground just made them laugh; and as I wriggled, the freshly mown grass was horribly itchy against my bare skin.

The boys decided that their hostage now required a gag and a blindfold. Alex ripped off his bandana and wrapped it around my head. As it was drawn over my eyes, I recognized our mother’s expensive red silk scarf.

“You ruin that and you’re good as dead,” I told him.

“Quiet, wench,” my brother snapped back, tightening the knot with a harsh tug that jerked my head backwards. As he did so, Cameron thrust a wad of crumpled cloth between my lips. I was too taken by surprise to clench my teeth or emit more than a pathetic whimper before the material filled my mouth. It reeked and tasted of perspiration, and I was so disgusted that I managed to spit it out. Cameron attempted to reinsert it, but I clamped my jaws until Alex made him desist. In misguided gratitude, I opened up so he could gag me with another piece of the cord, wrapped around my head three times. It pinched and gouged the sides of my mouth and my cheeks. Cameron’s smelly, sweaty headband might have been preferable.

Bereft of hope now, I ceased my struggles and went limp. Once I’d relaxed my muscles, easing the strain of the ropes, I was beginning to enjoy my predicament. Despite the indignity, no longer under my own control I discovered an unexpected sense of calm and contentment. Lying there trussed and powerless made me feel not weak and feeble but rather strong and self-reliant. I realized just how tough I was, allowing myself to be taken prisoner by these pint-sized pirates, whom I could have so curtly brushed aside. And at each step of the ordeal, I found myself curious and eager to find out what else they had in store for me.

But unlike the sensuous embrace of the bindings and the blindfold, the gag is invasive and insidious, an intrusive reminder of your hopelessness and vulnerability. And I’m not at all fond of the cloth and rope varieties. At first dry and astringent, the cloth quickly becomes sodden with your saliva and maddeningly irritating. The rope is worse, as I’ve described. But gagging is an integral part of the bondage experience, which ought not be too cosy. It should take you out of your comfort zone. At least that’s how I see it.

Nevertheless, I began to regret having surrendered so easily; but then things got worse. Although I couldn’t see them, I guess the boys must have become bored with just gawking at me as I lay helpless on the grass, and decided liven up the game with some torture. They poked and prodded and tickled me with their swords, flicked and slapped me with my towel until I was puffing and panting and begging for mercy – a plaintive cry which trickled out through my gag as a gargled mumble.

“What’s she trying to say?” Cameron said.

“Speak up, lass,” Alex sneered.

As the relentless torment continued, I began to roll about again, and in my spasms, my blindfold came off and my gag came loose. I yelled and swore revenge, and they just laughed and carried on. Cameron refastened my blindfold but not the gag. That might have been out of pity, but I think they preferred my pleading and squealing to come out lucid and pure. It was funnier that way.

After that, for a change of pace Alex advised putting me in a hog-tie. Cameron giggled at the word, and my brother explained, sounding irritated. Whereas I was intrigued because I had seen plenty but had never yet experienced one for myself. Unfortunately, Alex had reached the limits of his expertise. I co-operated, but his handling was still rough. He forced my legs up and pressed my heels hard into my backside. He wound the rope around my wrists and ankles only twice, not enough to spread the pressure and prevent chafing. I could get relief only by arching my body backwards, which quickly became agonizing and exhausting. And Cameron was not helping. He had the job of keeping me still. He clamped one hand between my shoulder blades and the other on my waist. I wasn’t resisting, but whenever I tried to ease the tension on my wrists and ankles he shoved me back down flat.

Alex was aware of my suffering and attempted to tighten it with a yoke about my neck, but he couldn’t devise a way of anchoring it without choking me – he hadn’t yet figured out how to apply a proper harness. Well, he was yet but a lubberly naif in the art of tying up kidnapped maidens. This must have dampened his enthusiasm. Even when the focus of interest is a tied-up girl in a teeny bikini, young boys have a short attention span, so they eventually tired of their sport. Alex released my ankles and helped me to my feet.

“Pay the ransom or walk the plank,” he demanded.

The price of liberty was to make them afternoon tea, and since I was not sure that they wouldn’t toss me in the pool with my hands still tied behind my back, I agreed to their blackmail. They marched me, bound and blindfolded, into the house to the galley. They untied my hands and restored my sight, but lashed my ankles together once more so I wouldn’t try to escape. After I made sandwiches, I was set free, and my first authentic tie-up game was over. The bold buccaneers debarked for places unknown, and I returned to my book and to catch the last rays of the sinking sun. My mother arrived home from work around five o’clock and sent Cameron packing.

“Did the boys behave themselves?” she inquired as I came inside. Alex gave me a funny look – half accusatory, half supplicatory.

“No worse than usual,” I answered.

“That’s nice, dear,” she replied, not really listening.

She didn’t seem to notice the fading pink marks on my wrists and ankles, so I’m not sure that “They tied me up, tortured me and threatened to drown me” would have evoked a much different response.

Cameron moved away from the neighbourhood not long after this. I wasn’t sorry to see him go, but I guess he would be surprised, and maybe even pleased, to know what a big impact our game that day was to have on my life since then. And as for Alex, he was still my Baby Bro, but after that day our sibling dynamic was subtly changed. Naturally, I hadn’t let on to him about how much I enjoyed being la demoiselle en détresse. So from his point of view he’d won a great victory by capturing and subduing Bossy Big Sis, righting a lifetime of wrongs, exacting vengeance for insults and injuries real and imagined, establishing his ascendancy, if only for an hour or so on a sultry summer afternoon.

Re: THE TIE-UP CHRONICLES

Postby xtc » Tue Oct 09, 2012 2:30 am

". . . a hideously feminine, lavender-coloured party frock, festooned with frills and lace and ribbons and bows."

Can we see a photo? Come on, please, pleeease!


Thanks for re-posting. Your writing is always a pleasure to read.
Boxer shorts are cool,
but little speedos rule!

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

Re: THE TIE-UP CHRONICLES

Postby sarobah » Tue Oct 09, 2012 3:29 am

xtc wrote:". . . a hideously feminine, lavender-coloured party frock, festooned with frills and lace and ribbons and bows."
Can we see a photo? Come on, please, pleeease!

Do you really think that if I had a photo of that dress I would show the world???
:shock:

3. Mediaeval Mayhem

Those darling bygone times ... with their delicious fortresses, and their dear old dungeons, and their delightful places of torture, and their romantic vengeances, and their picturesque assaults and sieges, and everything that makes life truly charming! How dreadfully we have degenerated!
― Charles Dickens, Dombey and Son

Will no one revenge me of the injuries I have sustained from one turbulent priest?
― King Henry II

Perhaps I should be embarrassed that my Baby Bro is the one I have to thank for my induction into tie-up games. Over the next few years there would be many more opportunities for him to capture and tie up Bossy Big Sis. Of course, there was nothing icky or yucky about our games. It was simply that I had caught the bondage bug, and because we still travelled around a lot on account of our parents’ professional commitments, oftentimes Alex was my only available tie-up buddy. And even when we weren’t away from home, it was not an easy task to develop new prospects. I couldn’t just go around asking guys to tie me up. I was already starting to acquire a reputation as “that weird chick” for reasons that had nothing to do with ropes and gags and blindfolds.

Indeed, it would be several months before our next adventure. The occasion was Alex’s birthday party. He had a keen interest in the history of the Middle Ages, second only to his passion for pirates. As a result, he decided his celebration should have a mediaeval theme. The guests came in character; most of the boys dressed as knights, the girls as ladies of the court. My parents had imposed a rule that all costumes be home-made (so it didn’t turn into a “who can afford the most expensive outfit” competition), but some of them were really quite elaborate and adorable. Alex, always the individualist, decided he would be a monk, and he looked disturbingly authentic (although in my view more Rasputin than Saint Benedict or Friar Tuck).

When the party was in full swing, the adults retreated indoors, leaving me and my friend Susan in charge of the proceedings. For the dubious privilege of entertaining a pack of unruly adolescents, and for a modest fee, we had given up a sunny Saturday afternoon. We stuck to the mediaeval motif in the sorts of amusements and activities that we organized, although – to my brother’s puerile chagrin – I drew the line at jousts and mêlées. Nevertheless, Susan winced and gasped as the girls romped and tumbled in the grass and dirt in their sumptuous dresses.

I hadn’t known Susan very long. She was in my class at school, and in many respects the reverse of me – a tall brunette, well-developed for her age but temperamental and rather standoffish. We didn’t really get on that well, but we were both relatively new to the neighbourhood, so we were drawn together. I called her the Anti-Sarah and she called me Bizarro-Susan. On this day, she looked every part the princess in an exquisite, off-the-shoulder green Guinevere gown with a gold-trimmed lace-up bodice. My own persona was sort of a cross between Maid Marion, Morgana Le Fay and the Lady of the Lake.

Everything appeared to be running smoothly, until I was forced to assert my authority over some trivial incident involving food in flight. It came as no surprise that the instigator was the Mad Monk, and he thereupon resolved that the malapert maiden must get her comeuppance. So in his capacity as a man of the cloth, Alex organized a witch-hunt. Gathering his flock, he denounced me; and despite my avowals of innocence, he demanded that I undergo trial by ordeal. This received a rousing reception from his acolytes.

Knowing all too well my brother’s capacity for villainy, I had a good idea where this was heading. Yet I submitted without remonstration, albeit with a defiant “this will not be forgotten” glare. Alex laughed that off and ordered me to remove my veil and waistband. Both were rather expensive – an embroidered chartreuse headscarf and a braided suede belt – but with the mob closing in, I could only obey. The little faces around me showed that endearing mix of excitement, curiosity and guilt that kids feel when they’re not quite sure if the fun they’re having will get them into trouble. I looked across to Susan, who was standing a safe distance away. With a not so sympathetic smile and an insouciant shrug of her décolletage, she let me know that I was on my own.

I gave over my garments and Alex wasted no time. He grabbed my shoulders and spun me around, seized my wrists and bound them behind my back with the veil. He then turned me to face him again and looped the belt around my neck, to make a halter. This he used to lead me through the jeering throng to the side of the swimming pool. Standing on the edge, staring at the shimmering surface of the water, and not sure whether I really was in for a ducking, I hastily confessed to a host of crimes. I admitted heresy, blasphemy, spell-casting, demon-raising, all the usual transgressions, with a couple of supplementary trumped-up charges thrown in by my accuser for good measure, like bearing false witness and scolding. My learned brother certainly knew his litany of sins. Thus and thereafter, to shouted chants of “Burn the witch!” I was dragged away.

Princess Precious was not making any attempt to render aid, and no dashing knight came riding to my rescue, so I resigned myself to my ignoble fate. I was paraded around the yard on my leash, hands bound, the multitude frolicking around me, mocking and taunting. The procession meandered its way up towards the house. We stopped on the patio and I was secured to the corner post. Alex assigned the task to a couple of the girls, who untied my wrists and pulled my arms behind the post before binding them again. I offered no resistance but they made a hard job of it as they fumbled with the knots. I felt a touch of anguish as the scarf stretched and stressed. Meanwhile, Alex was growing impatient. I showed my disdain for his unholy sacrament with a defiant tongue-poking, though I knew that would cost me further.

The halter was taken from my neck and used to tie my ankles. This was so I couldn’t lash out when they began torturing me; and because he didn’t trust the skills of his two assistants, Alex used one of the cords he wore with his robe to hold me more firmly to the post. He passed it under my arms and twice around my torso, crossing between my breasts. He relished tugging it to tight that I gasped, but I said nothing, not giving him any more satisfaction than was forced out of me.

My interrogation began with some fiendish tickling. In vain did I plead and protest that I had no more iniquities to confess. My face was smeared with detritus of the birthday cake and I was sprayed with water and fizzy drinks. To add realism to his tableau, Alex sent a couple of his minions to collect faggots (that’s sticks and twigs) which were piled around my feet. Since there is only so far that historical authenticity can be taken, these were not set aflame but instead used to flail and further tickle me. I giggled and wriggled and called down curses upon my tormentors, and we all had a thoroughly good time.

Disturbed by the noise, my mother came out of the house to see what the commotion was. She looked at me, bound and covered in mess and laughing hysterically. She frowned, slowly shook her head and muttered “Carry on” before going back inside. We carried on.

When the posse grew weary of my persecution, they looked about for a fresh martyr, and all eyes fell upon Susan. It took her a second to react; but before a hand could be laid on her she threw up hers in contemptuous refusal. When that appeared to have no effect on the menacing mob, she frantically turned towards me, but all she got was an unsympathetic grin. Still tied to the post, I was in no position to help even if I had the will to do so. However, Alex wisely decided that the game had gone as far as it could without serious repercussion. So when his new prey made it plain that she would not submit without a fight, he backed off. He half-heartedly tried to rally support among the knights to capture the ladies, but the intended victims would have none of that and the witch-hunt fizzled.

Susan pre-empted a renewed assault by arranging some diversionary activities, and she punished me by leaving me, alone and ignored, tethered on the patio. When she decided assistance was needed, I was finally released, sodden and sticky and caked in various congealed foodstuffs. The party ended just before sunset.

After that day, Susan’s and my friendship began to cool, because we didn’t have much in common and she became more and more convinced that I was peculiar. I could hardly blame her for that, but we eventually turned enemies when we competed for the affections of a boy named Matthew. I won, but my triumph would prove to be a pyrrhic victory.

As for my tie-up games, following the mediaeval mayhem they picked up in frequency. They have yet to end.

Re: THE TIE-UP CHRONICLES

Postby sarobah » Tue Oct 09, 2012 10:03 pm

4. War Games and Tent Ropes

O talk not to me of a name great in story;
The days of our youth are the days of our glory.
– Lord Byron, All For Love

In truth it should be noted that children’s games are not really games. Children are never more serious than when they play.
– Michel de Montaigne, Essays

If someone who has been around less than two and a half decades can claim to have had a golden age, mine was during my high school years. Which doesn’t mean that my life thereafter has been relentlessly downhill – in fact I am proud of what I’ve accomplished since then. But for sheer excitement, spectacle and drama, nothing beats being at an age when you’re old enough to enjoy some independence but everything around you is still fresh and bright, if occasionally baffling, and you take on the world and all its wonders and mysteries and terrors with an electrifying, energizing, crystal-clear certainty.

Of course, that clarity gets clouded over when you reach adulthood – not a bad thing over all, but there are times when you miss it. And when you try to reclaim it, even if only in your memory, that’s when you realize that it really is gone. But what you find, in the end, is that for every episode in your life that has been lost or half-forgotten, you gain more potential, new experiences and, hopefully, a better understanding of yourself.

I am reminded of this by a weird incident that happened not long after we’d moved into our new home. At the end of the street is an extensive area of bushland which stretches from the edge of the city, through the farm belt and past the commuter suburbs to the foothills of the Great Dividing Range. My brother Alex and I had quickly reconnoitred its fringes, but the first time I got to thoroughly explore the forest was early in the summer not long after our arrival. It was a hot, hazy day. The weather was humid, the atmosphere heavy and unsettled.

I have always loved my solitary rambles in the wilderness, but the terrain here was crisscrossed and dissected by sharp ridges, deep ravines and jagged escarpments, which became more rugged the farther I penetrated. I was thinking of turning back, until I passed over a high crest and was presented with a breathtaking sight. Before me the ground fell away into a narrow, deep valley spattered with gnarled, scrubby eucalyptus trees and strewn with massive outcrops of weathered basalt, some the size of houses. Awed by my surroundings, I wandered about for maybe an hour, perhaps two. It was an eerie, almost trancelike experience. I distinctly remember that there was not a breath of wind, and I recall no sound at all. The usual cacophonous chorus of insects and birds had strangely been silenced. I felt dislocated in space and time, as if transported to another world. And yet eventually, reluctantly, with the sun sinking in the western sky, I had to leave. There was no difficulty in getting home, because all I had to do was stay on a north-easterly course until I reached the highway that ran past our suburb.

I didn’t get a chance to return for several weeks. By then Alex and I had made friends in the neighbourhood, and to them I mentioned the valley. None of the kids recognized it from my description, even though they were familiar with most parts of the forest. And while we spent many happy hours and days playing and hiking there, I never rediscovered it. Sadly, a few years later, around the time I left to start at university, much of the area was cleared a housing estate, so wherever it was, my mysterious magic valley is probably now lost forever.

To this day, a decade on, I wonder if it really did exist, or if it was just a waking dream, induced by the oppressive conditions, my enveloping fatigue and an overactive imagination. But real or not, I like to think that my secret valley is still there, somewhere, awaiting the return of a wide-eyed girl who has, in a sense, never stopped searching for it.

***

As previously noted, for a good part of my adolescence I was a tomboy. Indeed, I preferred the company of boys to that of other girls because they were more fun to hang out with. They were more adventurous. They played more exciting games. They wore more sensible clothes. They got away with more mischief (even if it was unfair that they could play the “boys will be boys” card). I didn’t mind getting dirty and I wasn’t afraid of creepy-crawlies. I was interested in things the guys liked, and had little time for the stuff that my sex was supposed to be into, like shopping and shoes. I didn’t gossip (much), I didn’t spend hours on the phone, I didn’t do dainty or ditzy.

That doesn’t mean I wished I had been born a boy or that I didn’t have my girlie-girl qualities. In fact, I had the best of both worlds. My comrades treated me as their equal, but at the same time not just one of the guys. I kept enough of my girlishness intact to remind them of what I was and what I wasn’t. When I was around they watched their language, their jokes and their general manners (most of the time, at least). I liked that they were comfortable with me being part of the gang. Sometimes I played the flirt and I liked to show off. While (to my mother’s frequent despair) my gamine uniform was the aforementioned ragged jeans, unkempt sweater and scruffy boots, I also loved my miniskirts and bikinis. The guys appreciated that side of me, because it gave them a degree of coolness to have me in their ranks. Being moderately popular at school, I even drew a couple of other girls into the group.

One of our favourite haunts was the bushland adjoining our suburb, big enough that you could trek for hours without encountering another hiker or coming upon a road. Alex and I and our friends spent most of three summer vacations there, tramping and camping and organizing war games. And when I felt the need for serenity and solitude, I would go off on my own, on all-day rambles which took me over just about every square metre of the forest. Yet there was always something novel to chance upon, and each new place was so remote and unspoilt that I felt I was the first human to stumble into it. Perhaps I was.

Even so, I never again found my secret valley. However, in one part of the forest erosion had created an almost as spectacular landscape. The eroded remnants of a long-extinct volcano, it was dominated by a fortress-like cluster of grey monoliths, and encircled by steep-banked ferny gullies which formed a natural moat. It was an exciting and mysterious place to explore and play in. We called it the Citadel.

Our war games in particular could be quite elaborate. On occasion we mustered as many as two dozen players, although the average number was ten to twelve, ranging in age from around Alex’s to mine, mostly boys but including three or four girls. We’d track and pursue, ambush and capture each other. The most popular scenario was aptly named Commando. We split into teams and one would establish a base inside the fortress. Their mission was to defend their territory by sending out patrols to frustrate their opponents’ attempts at infiltration. If the attacking team managed to successfully penetrate the enemy defences, the roles were reversed. The game often lasted from dawn till dusk, and we’d set up overnight camp inside the sheltering ramparts of the Citadel.

The rules of the game could be complicated. At first we played paintball, but the protective gear was too hot and cumbersome so we devised a tag system. An enemy was “killed” by tagging, literally. If you were ambushed or cornered by an opponent, you were marked with an adhesive patch. You were then out of the game until you could exchange tags with someone on the other side. This was arranged through periodic ceasefires, but also done on trust. To avoid a kill tag, you could allow yourself to be taken prisoner, but that was at your enemy’s discretion. It was rare because it meant the captor had to guard and escort his captive back to his base, exposing himself to the foe. On the other side, being captured meant you were effectively out of the game until you could manage to escape or the two teams negotiated a prisoner exchange.

It was marvellous, childish fun, but I enjoyed it especially as it was more than just chasing and scrapping, it involved strategizing, exploring, probing and manoeuvring. It was a lot like chess, but with dirt and sweat.

Unlike most of the players, who worked in squads, I preferred to operate solo, relying on my own skills and resources. As well as appealing to my independent spirit, this gave me a chance to enjoy the peace and quiet beauty of the forest. Therefore I usually acted as a scout, and I became very good at subterfuge, concealment and camouflage. These came in handy on the day I captured Vanessa.

On this occasion, the second week of the summer vacation when I had just turned fifteen, we’d mustered a record turnout, about two dozen players. We planned our operation on a fittingly grand scale – three days and two nights. We split into our two teams and after the first day’s action we retired to the Citadel. Our sanctum was so completely shielded from the elements that we didn’t need to pitch tents, preferring to sleep under the stars. We cooked our dinner over the campfire and told scary stories around its glowing coals until the last embers winked out and the inscrutable darkness closed in.

The second day started out cool and overcast, but by mid-morning the sun had burned through the clouds and the air had turned hot and unpleasantly humid. I was on the attacking side and was halfway through my customary lone patrol. I was due to rendezvous with my teammates on a hilltop we called Twin Pines Ridge, but at this point was not very far from the Citadel. I was reconnoitring the enemy’s defensive positions, when I heard the distinctive crackling of dry leaves underfoot. I found a suitable hiding place beside the track and, peering out from between two tall clumps of grass, I spied Vanessa.

One of the girls who joined us now and then, Vanessa was statuesque and pretty, about a year older than me. She was a talented athlete, although not the sort of girl you’d expect to be running around in the forest playing make-believe soldier; but she was the girlfriend of one of the core group members. She turned up on our first day dressed not in the de rigueur fatigues, but in a halter-top and booty shorts (albeit in the proper camouflage colours). She was the sort of girl for whom looking good trumped common sense. But I will give her credit that she went along with our juvenile games and never complained.

Overheated and clammy in my dungarees, I revised my opinion of Vanessa and her minimalist couture until I saw the scrapes and scratches on her bare arms and legs. As I discovered, feeling sore and sorry for herself, she had deliberately become separated from her patrolling squad and was making her way back to home base at the Citadel. She was following an open trail to avoid the prickly undergrowth, and passed right by the spot where I was lying, no longer in hiding but in ambush. I didn’t normally engage the enemy, even one-on-one, but she was looking so vulnerable that I thought I’d take the chance. I bailed her up and on impulse announced that she was my prisoner. She looked dejected and thoroughly defeated, but I was a little baffled that she agreed to capture rather than a tagging. It occurred to me that she had maybe gotten herself lost in the green labyrinth of narrow, twisting paths.

When I ordered her to put her hands behind her back, she was surprisingly compliant. She flinched when I crossed her wrists and began binding them. I used a length of cord I extracted from the first aid kit I carried on my belt – I guess it was supposed to be a snakebite tourniquet. And she cringed when I blindfolded her, using a large, square bandage from the kit. But she didn’t resist, nor say a word. I didn’t really think that she was going to be any trouble, but because she was nearly a head taller than me, the blindfold was a practical precaution. At the same time, I should confess that I was feeling a little sadistic. Yet when, to make sure she was properly bound, I heaved on the rope, she groaned so piteously that I felt a slight pang of regret.

Nevertheless, I gave her a mild shove in the back and she stumbled forward. Holding one arm, I guided my helpless, hapless captive along the track, feeling sorry for her as she staggered and nearly tripped several times on the uneven ground. Her head was turning and tilting as she strained to listen for cues and to catch glimpses of her surroundings from under the edges of her blindfold. She was making soft panting and gasping noises, and rivulets of perspiration glistened on her arms and legs.

As it turned out, compassion for my prisoner proved my undoing. In this part of the forest where the canopy was sparse and light penetrated to the floor, the undergrowth was thick and thorny, so we were forced to keep to the track, to avoid further laceration to Vanessa’s unprotected limbs. That made us visible and thus exposed to ambush. However, it was my own fault as well. The oppressive heat had made me somewhat groggy, but I should have been more alert.

My mind had begun to wander when I heard movement about fifty metres up the trail, beyond where it curved around a large embankment. I hauled Vanessa off the path and pulled her to the ground, behind a hedge of thick shrubbery and into a patch of long, spiny grass. I dumped myself over her body, pinning her legs with mine and forcing both my hands over her mouth. After a few muffled protests, she went quiet and still. Being so much bigger than me, she might easily have pushed me off and broken free; but she remained passive, momentarily paralyzed from the shock of my sudden assault.

I lay sprawled across her for several minutes, until I could hear nothing but the birds and insects. The poor girl began to whimper. She must have been in some pain, because her bound arms were being squashed under both her weight and mine; and I was pressing my hands down very hard on her mouth to keep her silent. When finally I determined that I had been spooked by a false alarm, I helped her to her feet and back onto the trail. I brushed away the leaves and twigs that had gouged into the skin of her arms and legs and midriff, and I checked that her blindfold and the rope binding her wrists were still secure. I then thought it wise to gag her as well. She was wearing an elegant satiny neckerchief that was ideal for the purpose, and she flinched when I unknotted it. She must have realized what that portended.

“I promise not to make a sound,” she whispered.

“You just did,” I said, being horrible.

We had started moving and I was folding the material into a wad when suddenly I found myself surrounded. Engrossed in my task, I had blundered into a trap. I expected to be tagged but offered my surrender by raising my arms and clasping my hands behind my head.

The enemy squad consisted of three guys, including Vanessa’s boyfriend, and another girl. They freed my captive, and as our roles were suddenly reversed, her expression turned from timid, submissive pout to malevolent, vengeful grin. She grabbed my arms and twisted me about, employing the same rope and blindfold that I had used on her, but much tighter and more roughly applied. I’m sure she wanted to gag me as well – which would only be justice from her perspective – but there must not have been anything to use apart from her expensive scarf, and so I was spared that indignity.

When her comrades were assured that I had been operating alone, that this was not an elaborate ruse of my own, Vanessa volunteered for the job of getting me back to their base. I thought it strange that her boyfriend was happy to ditch her for a second time, especially after what had happened the first. Their hushed conversation made me suspect that she was being given directions to follow, confirming my suspicion that she’d been lost when I encountered her. Nonetheless, unlike mine, Vanessa’s luck held.

After stumbling blindly – literally – along the rough track, I was thankful when we finally reached the enemy camp. Vanessa had been much less indulgent that I had been when she was my hostage, making me walk on my own, guided only by the occasional push or jostle, and letting me fall every so often. When I did, instead of helping me up, she nudged me with her shoe and I struggled to my feet – very difficult to do when bound. Yet I really couldn’t blame her. I think I had caused some damage when I forced her down in the grass, so she was not in a merciful frame of mind.

We had to climb a rocky hillside and traverse a steep-sided depression. I recognized the topography, even from behind my blindfold. We had reached the Citadel. I could hear a couple of voices as we approached. I think the guys holding the fortress were astounded that the teen queen had managed to take a prisoner. Exhausted, I collapsed in a breathless heap when finally ordered to halt.

After I had recovered, I was made to sit astride a coffee-table-sized boulder until it was decided what should be done with me. Then Vanessa and another girl hauled me off my seat and dragged me into the amphitheatre-shaped hollow that formed the core of the Citadel. My hands were untied, but only so I could be secured with my back up against a tree. It was too large for my outstretched fingers to connect on the other side, so the rope was attached to my wrists and slung around the trunk, then pulled taut. I knew what was coming next, so when I felt the material brush against my lips, I parted my jaws and accepted the gag. It was a piece of cloth which felt greasy but had no taste or smell, so my mouth didn’t become too dry or over-salivated. I never found out what it was and I should have, because it made excellent gagging material.

I was left tied in a sort of half-crouching position, my back and shoulders pressed firmly against the tree trunk, for about an hour. After just a short time, my thigh and calf muscles started to cramp and my arms began to ache pretty badly. Fortunately my feet were left untied so I could move my legs somewhat to keep up the blood circulation. I was too proud to protest, though even with my gag I could have made some furious grumbling noises. Anyway, I thought I could more easily work myself free than if I had been bound standing upright. Yet despite my best efforts, I didn’t manage to escape, and spent the rest of the day in captivity. There were to be no prisoner exchanges that day.

To be honest, though, I had no firm intention of escaping. In fact, when my guards took pity and untied me, I was disappointed. I had already started to realize that being tied up was the best part of the game. So I taunted them with how easy it would be for me to get away, until in sheer exasperation they trussed me up to that tree again. I was treated well, with a drink of water every so often, and for a few minutes each hour or so I was untied and permitted to stretch my limbs and massage and flex my muscles. Nevertheless, this was the longest tie-up I had yet endured. I had never enjoyed myself more.

During my ordeal, people were coming and going in the camp, although I believe that Vanessa stayed around for the entire duration. It certainly did not surprise me that she never ventured beyond the security of the Citadel again that day. Whenever anyone returned to base, the first thing they would do was to visit me to taunt and torment me. One of them was Jaz, my study buddy who shortly before this had become my magician’s assistant and helped me produce my Escape Artiste act (which will be described later). Rather cruelly, he teased: “Try getting out of this one.” In the meantime, Vanessa and the other girl subjected me to interrogation utilizing methodical tickle torture. Their pretext was to discover the location of my team’s field headquarters. I held out, revealing nothing but my anguish, under extreme duress. Yet I knew they were not really interested in whatever information I had to offer; they just wanted to make me suffer.

When the game ended for the day and my teammates came into the camp just before sundown, they joined in making sport of me, especially and not surprisingly my little brother. The funny thing is, though, I was hoping they would leave me tied up during the night, or at least until it was time to hit the sack. But this was not to be (and properly so). The next morning, I was expecting to be a prisoner again and was rather ambivalent about the prospect. However, my associates reluctantly exchanged me for a couple of kill tags. I resumed my solo scouting and we never did manage to capture the Citadel.

There were two other times when I was tied up during our war games. Each should have turned out more exciting than was the case, and would have if I had just been more creative. On the first occasion, there were eight guys (as I recall) and just the two girls, myself and Sheree, a fellow tomboy. To make the play more interesting, I proposed that Sheree and I should be prisoners from the outset. We would be taken off by our respective captors, and the aim was that each team would try to retrieve its girl from their opponents. It seemed a good idea. The problem was that within half an hour I had been rescued, and Sheree was freed not long afterwards, so the rest of the game stuck to the conventional Commando format. Still, it was fun while it lasted, because just before the two teams split up, I suggested to my guards that maybe they should tie my hands to prevent my escaping at the first opportunity. They readily agreed. Sheree gave me a withering look as her captors concurred and her arms were wrenched behind her back.

The other time was when I was the only female playing and my own chauvinist-cad teammates decided I was a liability, so they traded me to the enemy in what was meant to be a prisoner exchange. I got rather a shock when one of my supposed comrades tied my hands behind me, put me over his shoulder and tramped up the hill to the meeting place and handed me over. And it would have been amusing to remain their prisoner for the rest of the game; but I now had something to prove, so I quickly escaped. But it was a worthwhile challenge, to run off and hide and make my way through the bush to locate my own crew with my hands bound behind my back.

When we reunited, they reluctantly took me back, nonetheless impressed by my derring-do. They were about to release me when I told them “No, you sold me out, so I’m now your prisoner.” It was an act of sheer bravado, to show the boys just how tough I was. But that was, of course, only part of my motivation. For me, once again, there was more joy in being a captive than a comrade. Not surprisingly, the guys liked escorting a tied-up girl, and I loved being helpless, having them assist and protect me from all the hazards of nature. However, this time I really had become a liability. So after a while, because I was slowing them down, they threatened to tie me to a tree and leave me there for the duration of the game. Although it was a bluff, I got the point.

***

There were two other adventures on this theme that are worth recounting. And if they seem familiar to readers au fait with my oeuvre, it’s because they inspired a couple of scenes in one of my fictional stories, Tent Ropes. This is what really happened.

Not all of our forays into the wilderness were to play our Commando games. Sometimes we just hiked and explored. These expeditions ranged far from home, because about an hour’s drive away there is a national park which reaches down to the coast on one side and up into the mountains. A half a dozen times each summer my friends, Alex and I would venture into the foothills for a day’s trekking, and on a couple of occasions we camped overnight. Our average age was barely fifteen, but we were by now experienced bushwalkers, who understood the hazards and took all the necessary precautions. I guess it’s a measure of our competence and self-reliance that our parents allowed us to go out on our own.

Yet Alex was not terribly enthused. His attitude to physical exertion has always been that you’re allocated just so many heartbeats in your lifetime, and why use them up before you need to? So I’ve presumed that he was motivated to take part mainly by sibling rivalry. For although I have never been very athletic, I’ve always prided myself on my physical and mental stamina (which are, as we in TUGs know, vital preconditions for a strict tie-up). Alex could not allow himself to be outdone by a mere girl. For him it was a fundamental law of nature that anything Big Sis could do, Lil Bro could do better.

It didn’t work out that way, of course. This one time, we were preparing to embark on the homeward leg of a two-day hike. My brother was the odd man out in a party of my friends and me; and he was in a surly mood by the time we’d hit the sack the previous evening. The sun was already above the tree line when he crawled out of his sleeping bag, moaning and groaning. He grumpily devoured the hearty breakfast we had cooked while he slept, and he looked on sullenly as the rest of us cleaned up, cleared up and packed up.

“It’s what I do, it’s what I am,” was his only response to my reproach. Adamantine Alex did not want to admit that he was exhausted from the first day’s trek. So naturally I had to goad him, and naturally I set my own trap.

I finally got him to concede that yesterday’s exertions had worn him out.

“But that was a breeze,” I just had to tease.

“I carried your gear,” he said with a sneer.

I suppose he was right about that. The boys had indeed carried heavier packs than us girls, but they were, after all, bigger and stronger. We had actually been quite fair – I thought – in assigning the burden according to body mass. However, since I was not going to appeal to his innate chivalry, I proposed that today we even up the weight. The rest of the gang were standing about, following the argument, and the other girls (Beth, one of our regulars, and Julie, who had recently joined the group) were none too pleased at my striking a blow for equality.

After we’d redistributed the gear and hitched up our loads, Alex declared: “Now we’ll see who’s got the balls.”

I ignored his non sequitur. On anatomical grounds alone, I couldn’t win that one. Instead I uttered the fateful words: “I could do this with one hand tied behind my back… what the heck, both hands.”

Now you’d think I would know better. It was either my impulsiveness or my subconscious that kicked in, as both are wont to do. So my brother issued the inevitable challenge, for which I am ever the sucker

“Oh yeah? Well, let’s find out. You got what it takes?”

“Bring it on.”

And so it happened, just like that.

At this early phase of my tie-up experiences, my friends knew little about them, except those that were in-role, so to speak, such as in our war games. So they were surprised when Alex retrieved a couple of ropes from one of the tent kits and I placed my hands behind my back. Of course, we immediately encountered a problem. With my rucksack in position, they didn’t reach all the way, I couldn’t even link fingers. Nevertheless, my enterprising brother found a solution. He tied my left wrist to a short strap hanging from the underside of the pack, and my right wrist to a ring on the other side used for holding my water bottle. It was not the most elegant of ties, but it was effective in keeping my arms immobile. I tugged and twisted a couple of times to test their effectiveness.

“Not bad,” I concluded, and he grinned. Everyone else looked at us in an odd sort of way – curiosity mixed with some apprehension and a little bemusement. Then Alex and the other guys turned expectantly – and perhaps a little too eagerly – to the other girls. Beth and Julie vigorously shook their heads. They were still staring incredulously at me. I just smiled and shrugged.

We set off along a broad track which quickly narrowed as we entered the rainforest. It was dark and damp and chilly inside, with a thick canopy of caliginous green frondescence blocking out the sunlight. Our path was flanked by the moss-covered trunks of lofty red cedars, Antarctic beeches and regal tree-ferns. It was lovely and yet spooky. We’d walked this trail several times, and I would fantasize that we were tramping through Mirkwood en route to the Lonely Mountain.

The cool environs made my flesh tingle – I was wearing just a tank top and shorts – but in a way proved my salvation, for without my hands I could not have wiped away sweat or brushed away flies and mosquitoes. That would have driven me crazy, I’m sure. Even so, a few strands of my hair had come loose from my headband and kept drifting into my eyes, and I spent much of the morning blowing and puffing to keep it away. Worse, with my hands bound it was hard to maintain my balance on the track, slimy and slippery from a recent downpour. My unsympathetic friends ignored my plight.

At a rest stop in mid-morning, Beth gave me a drink from my canteen and asked if I’d had enough. I just laughed, said it was fun and suggested that she try it as well. She just dolefully shook her head and helped me back to my feet.

Meanwhile, my brother had found a new source of energy, tapped from my own flagging reserves. He was bounding along the track, making all sorts of strange noises, despoiling the undergrowth, scaring the wildlife and taunting me without mercy. I pulled furiously at my bonds, trying to squeeze a hand through the loops, desperate to land just one satisfying, silencing blow.

When we stopped for lunch, none of my companions was willing devote any time to feeding me, so Alex showed magnanimity to untying my right hand. I discovered that, even if I’d wanted to, I couldn’t reach my left one to free it as well. Then it was back to hands-free trekking. The afternoon stage was especially strenuous, over a series of ridges and valleys, and there were some fallen trees blocking the trail. These I had to scramble over by myself, which proved difficult and perilous without the use of my arms. I ended up with a few scratches and bruises – nothing serious, but transient mementos of my perseverance, my endurance and my complete lack of common sense.

We reached our final destination at about three in the afternoon, with one final moment of discomfort for me. We came out of the forest into a tourist carpark where, as prearranged, my mother and the mother of one of the other boys were waiting to take us home. They each gave me a quizzical look when they saw that I was bound to my own backpack, but mummy dearest simply made her usual raised-eyebrows, You two at it again? gesture at Alex and me. I have no idea what the other woman made of it.

Almost exactly a year later, as I recall, during another of our camping-and-hiking adventures, I tied up my first boy. I had assistance, of course, since he wasn’t a willing victim. But the real point is that being in command of the ropes was a new experience for me, and is still something that I don’t fully understand. I cannot grasp in my mind the appeal of tying up someone else when you can be on the receiving end. I just do not see the fun of it. But I don’t dwell on this mystery, and I don’t begrudge anyone their personal brand of pleasure... since otherwise I might not have anyone to tie me up.

There were seven of us that day, four guys – Alex and his friend Hamish, my classmates Rick and Oz – and three girls. Rachel was my best friend (who would feature in a couple of subsequent episodes) and Beth was Rick’s girlfriend. After several hours of trekking across rugged terrain and through thick forest, we had halted in the early afternoon beside a pond about the size of a domestic swimming pool, fed by a small creek, in a clearing amidst a stand of majestic beech trees. It was a sublimely beautiful place, and a perfect site to establish our camp.

After we’d put up the tents, on a patch of grass as soft as velvet, the boys began collecting and cutting firewood and digging a latrine, Meanwhile we girls unpacked the rest of the gear, which took just a few minutes, then stripped down to our bikinis and made for the pond. (Now I should say, in defence of self-reliant womanhood, that the guys had insisted on doing all the heavy, hairy-chested manwork.) But when I tested it with a tentative toe, I discovered the pure, crystal-clear water was also icy cold, so we made a hasty, noisy retreat. The males just shook their heads with incomprehension and soon afterwards set off downstream with their fishing rods. Hamish, however, volunteered to remain in the camp, to put the finishing touches to the fireplace, since it was his masterwork. At least it was in his imagination, and we tried not to disabuse him... except for Rachel.

She was in a playful mood. After teasing Hamish about the quality of his “erection,” she accused him of staying behind just so he could “perv” on us in our bikinis. When he finally reacted, to escape retribution she made a sudden dash for the pond and plunged in. I, not wishing to be outdone in the impetuosity stakes, leapt in after her. Beth followed, wading in timidly. We were, of course, insane. The shock passed through my body like an electric charge.

Hamish witnessed our bravado with baffled amusement, but Rachel continued to taunt him. He refused to take the bait. But our fearless audacity had its limits, and as we emerged shivering from the frigid water he made fun of us – as well he might, I must confess. Nevertheless, a grappling match ensued after Rachel engaged in some counter-abuse. In feminine solidarity, Beth and I joined the fray, and together we got the better of outnumbered Hamish. At first, he was happy to be overpowered by three bikini-clad termagants; but Rachel resolved that he needed tying up.

The closest thing to hand was a surplus tent rope, so I grabbed it and when we had him on his knees, while the other two girls wrenched his arms behind his back, I began wrapping it around him. However, we quickly discovered how difficult it is to restrain someone when they are struggling desperately to evade the ropes. We gave up trying to pull his flailing arms behind his back, but we managed to bind his wrists in front. Securing his thrashing feet was even harder. We pushed him onto his stomach, but just as we succeeded, the other guys returned to camp.

Hamish manfully kept up the fight, while his buddies stood by and laughed. But as he was beginning to break free of his bonds, Rachel, Beth and I decided that the game had run its course. We let him up, and with all the dignity he could muster, our victim peeled the ropes from his limbs and torso.

“We found a good fishing spot,” Alex casually announced.

“Nice,” Hamish answered, just as nonchalant. “You girls can stay and watch the camp.”

“Thanks,” we said.

However, there was a follow-up – inevitable, really. After dinner, cooked over the fire in a hearth which turned out to be a first-class facility, we watched the gleaming ashes slowly grow fainter while clouds of cinders rose like whirling dervishes into the evening air to dance among the stars. Fatigued by the day’s hike, entranced by the fading fire, I was in a dreamy mood as the darkness closed in around us.

We had brought two tents with us, but just three sleeping bags. They weren’t heavy but were bulky, on top of everything else that we had to haul on our backs. The boys had gallantly ceded them to us girls, but Rachel offered to free one up by sharing with me. That got us some funny looks, but when Beth and Rick volunteered to make a similar sacrifice, that took the attention away from us. However, Rachel and I weren’t “an item” – or if we were, I never suspected.

Of course, soon after we had settled and snuggled in, Hamish exacted his revenge for the afternoon’s indignities. Enlisting the aid of the other boys and traitorous Beth, he pounced, trapping and trussing us inside the sleeping bag. Rick and Hamish lifted us while the others passed the ropes under and around us in four loops, at the chest and waist level, knees and ankles. They could make them very tight, because the padding of the bag acted as an effective cushion. Our pleas for mercy fell on deaf ears as we were squashed up against each other. And that’s how we spent the rest of the night and the early morning, our bodies pressed and held together, cheek to cheek, arms pinned and legs interlocked, our curves and crevices dovetailing in a soft, warm, sensuous embrace. Maybe we were an item...

We were released from our cocoon about an hour before dawn when Rachel begged to be allowed to use the toilet. It was Beth who had to grumpily crawl out of her own sleeping bag to free us. The boys, it seemed, weren’t going to. And that was the end of it. I was half-hoping that I might be forced to repeat my bound footslog of the previous summer; but remembering the agony as vividly as the ecstasy, I wasn’t going to volunteer.

Eventually, the war games and camping trips came to an end. In fact, that was our last big expedition into the wilderness. Around about my sixteenth birthday, my girlie-girl tendencies began to prevail over my tomboy traits, and I swapped the dirt and dungarees for make-up and miniskirts on a more permanent basis. I regret that now, because it’s only with maturity that I realize that one does not preclude the other. However, my tie-games were only just beginning. In particular, I was perfecting my fantastic Escape Artiste routine.

I would share more bondage escapades with Rachel, but sadly we have drifted apart since then. And apart from my brother, I haven’t seen the rest of the gang in ages. But the fond memories of those carefree days of my mid-teenage years remain as strong and as fresh as ever. So Thoreau was only partially correct when he wrote:

We now no longer camp as for a night, but have settled down on earth and forgotten heaven.
– Henry David Thoreau, Walden

Re: THE TIE-UP CHRONICLES

Postby sarobah » Wed Oct 10, 2012 11:06 am

5. Rope Tricks

A few can touch the magic string,
And noisy fame is proud to win them:
Alas for those that never sing,
But die with all their music in them!
– Oliver Wendell Holmes, The Voiceless

I have always been a show-off.

My theory is that this is a major part of the appeal of tie-up games, for the partner on the receiving end. When you’re being bound, you are undeniably the centre of attention, the focal point, the star attraction. I noticed this at a very early age, as I first began to entertain my damsel-in-distress fantasies. When reading an adventure story or watching a movie or television show, who doesn’t sit up and pay special attention when the heroine is captured and tied up by the villain and his henchmen, when the superhero or secret agent is chained up or strapped down?

My show-offiness has manifested itself in different ways over the years. In my late pre-teens, around the same time that I was co-founding my neighbourhood gang with cousin Andrew, I had a brief and unspectacular showbiz career. My mother, who was in her day a champion ballroom dancer, had high hopes that I would follow in her footsteps, and enlisted me in a song and dance troupe. We performed at local fairs and school fêtes, at shopping centres and malls. Despite minimal training, by virtue of sheer determination, enthusiasm and a moderately high adorability rating we began to make a name for ourselves, and I acquired a taste for the limelight. Unfortunately, my budding avocation as a showgirl was torpedoed by reality, in the form of a profound and embarrassing lack of ability – I have inherited none of my mother’s flair, elegance or style. So it came to pass that by the age of twelve I was a burnt-out, washed-up has-been.

However, one of the talents I did manage to develop during my precocious adolescence was to become a rather gifted amateur magician. I have always been fascinated by illusions, mysteries and puzzle-solving. (It’s how I acquired a passion for astronomy, which is now my profession.) After seeing a stage act during my dancing days, I set about trying to decipher the secrets, and in the course of my investigations I became quite the expert. Once I figured out how a trick worked, I tested my theory by trying to reproduce it, and then improve on it. And thus was a star born.

I perfected my craft in the ideal setting, the birthday party. At first I wasn’t very good in public. There’s a big difference between being technically adept and being entertaining; but it’s marvellous what you can get away with when everyone’s full of cake, ice-cream and fizzy drink, and the average age of your audience is in single digits. Yet from this modest beginning, over time I expanded my range of venues to include school variety shows and the occasional fête... nothing big-time, but gratifying enough for a grandstander like me. I also developed an extensive repertoire of stunts and illusions; but the highlight of my act was the Escape Artiste.

At about the time that my showgirl ambitions were tanking, I read a biography of Ehrich Weiss, a.k.a. Harry Houdini, the world-famous illusionist and escapologist. I was fascinated not just by his amazing skills but also by his side-line, debunking phony psychics and spiritualists. His unrelenting search for truth, his skepticism and his powerful analytical ability made him one of my scientific heroes. And so it came about that I was able to combine the three passions of my youth – magic, science and tie-up games. How could that not set any slightly deviant young girl’s heart aflutter?

The skill of a successful conjuror lies in the technique of audience misdirection. That’s why science is, I believe, a key component of stage magic. It requires an understanding of psychology but also of physics and mechanics, physiology and some occasional chemistry. But I was also able put to work – in a nice irony – my experience of failure in the rhythmic arts, and my forté was the trick gone wrong. I would gull the spectators into thinking I was inept and then pull off the big illusion which left them breathless and applauding. But this is not an easy routine to master, the double deception, because if you don’t get your timing spot on, it looks like you really are an incompetent who just managed to get one right. So I made sure that I threw out enough hints that my act was not all it seemed by introducing a mislead from the very beginning. I had a male assistant who would come onto the stage in the traditional magician’s outfit – tuxedo, tails and top-hat. I would then make my entrance, prancing about squeezed into a tiny sequinned leotard and would, of course, be mistaken for the assistant.

(Most people don’t understand the role of the assistant. She – it’s almost always a she – is not just there to hand the magician his props and look glamorous in a barely-there costume. Her real job is to divert the audience’s attention, because many of the illusions are really quite simple.)

So the crowd would get a kick when I took over the performance, and this was the cue that there was something not quite right about the act, and that the audience should ditch their preconceptions and expect the unexpected. Thereupon, once they were primed, I’d wow them with my awesome comedic and conjuring talents. And the climax of the show would arrive when I was tied up by an audience member. I would struggle frantically in my bonds, looking helpless, before making my last-second escape, Houdini-style.

A couple of times I performed the famous gypsy rope trick, but mostly I stuck to a straight-forward get-tied-up-and-escape routine. I won’t explain how these worked, because a good magician never reveals her secrets. I will say only that it comes down to how the ropes are applied. You try to choose a reluctant volunteer, who is unlikely to improvise, and it is a good bet that the average person will be unfamiliar with bondage techniques. So the magician (or in my case, my assistant) helps out with useful guidance. It’s the same with a card trick – with some simple management the conscripted helper, both flustered and flattered at being called upon, and eager to please, can be manipulated into doing whatever you want. For this reason, I usually picked a male, because he would be feeling both self-conscious and excited at tying up a scantily clad female. He wouldn’t notice that he was being controlled, and the audience was so amused by his reaction that they didn’t notice either. Of course, on the odd occasion my “dupe” would prove more adept than I anticipated – but that worked almost as well. If I failed to escape, it just became part of my botched-trick act and heightened tension when I tried it again. This type of act is carefully planned.

Although I had been considering it for some time, the Escape Artiste came to fruition one Saturday afternoon when I was breaking in new partner Jasmiran – Jaz, everyone called him. He was a gorgeous guy, part Sri Lankan, part something else and – like me – mostly nerd. We were classmates and study buddies. Still in the terminal chapter of my tomboy phase, I was developing a geek streak, and I introduced Jaz to the wonders of astronomy as well as the excitement of our war games. He got me interested in chess (at which I turned out to be very good) and judo (which I quickly abandoned for the same reason I gave up my dancing dreams). He was not, however, my boyfriend – and that fact proved to be one of the squandered opportunities of my teenage years. We were too young to know how to convert friendship into romance without spoiling the relationship we had.

Up until I recruited Jaz, my brother Alex had been my assistant, but he was getting tired of being the flunky and he began trying to steal my thunder. My prima donna ego couldn’t tolerate being upstaged by a minion, so he had to go. Luckily for me, Jaz saw my act at a mutual friend’s birthday party and mentioned how impressed he was, so I took him on.

On the Saturday in question, we were rehearsing for an upcoming show. It was to be one of my biggest gigs to date, and we had been practising a couple of weeks – all except my pièce de résistance, which I had been considering for a while but was still just a vague concept. We ran through the routine part of the act once. Then Jaz’s eyes sort of popped when I began taking off my clothes. We were in my living room and he obviously thought I was about to seduce him. He was casting his gaze in all directions, probably wondering where my parents were – though whether in hope of rescue or fear of discovery it was impossible to tell.

His appeared to calm down when I divested only as far as my stage costume. I had converted one of my swimsuits – a purple Letarte bandeau-top one-piece with halter strap – by adding sequins and ribbons.

“Time for a dress rehearsal,” I explained.

He nodded, not yet convinced that I didn’t have designs on his virtue. But that’s when my inspiration crystallized. I told him to wait and excused myself, and when I returned, his eyes bulged a second time. I dumped a bundle at his feet – a bunch of faux silk scarves that I sometimes used in my act, and a couple of coils of nylon cord.

“Yes, you’re going to tie me up,” I said, and described in outline some of the rope tricks popular on the stage. “We’ll start slow, get the feel of it and improvise.”

I picked up one of the ropes and handed it to him. He played with it for a few seconds, running it across his palms and exploring the texture with his fingers. He tugged and twisted it. I guess he was thinking that it was somehow fake or doctored.

“It’s real,” I assured him.

I turned away from him, put my hands behind my back and crossed my wrists. I waited for him to respond.

“Now you have to take control,” I told him, as I took control. I guided him through the steps, the moves, the ties. At first he was nervous, trembling slightly as he fiddled and fumbled. I explained how to loop the cord around and between my wrists, and fazed him by immediately slipping out of his carefully knotted bindings. We gradually built up the inventory – elbows, knees, ankles, culminating in everyone’s perennial favourite, the full hog-tie. Yet each time, I escaped within seconds. Jaz was becoming increasingly frustrated and mystified. For dramatic effect, at one point when he thought he had me at his mercy, I wriggled and writhed; and he even said, his voice quavering, “Are you okay?” just before I flipped onto my back, contorted my body and handed him the ropes.

Jaz was so relieved – he must have started believing there really was something to this magic – when I apprised him of the mistakes he’d been making. Mainly, it was that he was doing what I told him. That “you have to take control” spiel was the clinching misdirection. Because, as any experienced practitioner of the ropey arts will know, there are ways of tying loops so that they come undone with a simple tug – they aren’t true knots at all. And the reason I was able to confound Jaz so completely was that I had been practising these techniques beforehand, on a dummy I had contrived from an old dressmaker’s mannequin. Still, there’s a world of difference when you’re the one being tied and your arms are behind your back and you can’t see what’s happening. But in that respect, I must give full credit to my partner, who followed my instructions to the letter.

I showed him my methods and we ran through the moves maybe a dozen times, until our act was polished and we were thoroughly drilled... and getting bored.

“Okay,” I said at last, “now let’s try some of the real stuff.”

He gave me another perplexed look.

I knelt on the carpet and put my hands behind my back again. This time Jaz tied my wrists and ankles without too many directions. I still had give some because, like most novices, he left the ropes too loose, not wanting to cut off my circulation and having no idea how to make them both tight-fitting and comfortable. After that, he proved a quick and keen learner. The expression on his face showed that he was starting to enjoy the game, even if he was still somewhat bemused by it. As I got to my feet, a bit wobbly with my hands and feet bound, he held my arms to steady me, and I thought I could feel him still shaking a little, from the excitement.

I told him to join a couple of the scarves to blindfold me. Next, I had him use the rest of the rope that was binding my wrists to tie my arms just above the elbows.

“Harder!” I demanded, as he pulled gently on the ends. “I can do cartwheels in this.”

He tugged forcefully, and my arms and shoulders jerked backwards. I gasped.

“Sorry,” he mumbled; but I sensed behind my blindfold that he was grinning.

There was still plenty of rope left over, so I asked him to run a halter around my neck and apply a simple chest harness.

“Now wrap it between and around my breasts.”

He giggled at the word. Oh good grief, I thought – teenage boys!

“Let’s try doing the hog-tie again,” I said when he’d finished that task.

Jaz replied “Uh-huh” and took hold of my waist to help me lower myself onto the carpet, but I thought it would be better on the sofa. I shuffled over – my ankles were still bound – and he did not give me any support as I flopped onto it. He lifted my legs up so I could lie straight out, on my stomach. But it turned out that it would have been easier for me prone on the floor. My face was buried in a satin pillow, so I had to left my head up and back to breathe properly; and my boobs, already under stress from the chest and elbow ropes, were wedged between two seat cushions.

Jaz crouched or knelt beside me as I bent my legs to bring my feet up to my backside, and he secured my wrists to my ankles. He made it loose, but I didn’t insist on a more stringent tie because I was not very comfortable and already beginning to regret my impulsiveness. However, probably as revenge for my teasing him earlier, he left me squirming and puffing and grunting for quite a while. Finally I asked to be released; and he just laughed.

He didn’t make me beg, but when he did at last untie me, I was both relieved and embarrassed. Who’d have thought?

It only occurred to me much later that I really liked Jaz, and I may have ruined an opportunity that afternoon. Usually the archetypal control freak, I really loved submitting totally to him. I was giving the orders, but he had the power. Yet I was not mature enough to handle the vulnerability and humiliation of being so helpless and dependent. And after that, I put up an emotional barrier between us, using our stage act and our study sessions to keep our relationship “platonic.”

This happened nearly ten years ago. I have a vague recollection of guiding Jaz through the process of putting a crotch-rope on me. However, I have some doubts about this. He had enough of a problem looping the rope around my chest, let alone running it between my legs, so that may be a false memory.

We went through the entire routine one last time, including the rope tricks. I gathered up the ropes and scarves, and put my shirt and skirt back on.

“So what lesson have we learned?” I asked.

His brow furrowed.

“That you’re weird?”

“Well, yes; but in terms of the performance...”

“I suppose it’s about building dramatic tension. Have the audience rooting for you to get out of it but also being turned on by it.”

“Congratulations. Here endeth the lesson.”

I was so proud of my protégé. Another young soul corrupted.

After that, except on stage and in rehearsal, we played no more tie-up games. As I’ve mentioned, our relationship didn’t develop. Eventually he acquired a genuine girlfriend, and she became anxious that we were spending so much time together. And so, with great sadness we dissolved our partnership.

In the meantime, the revamped act was a hit. Jaz turned out to be a slick performer, and I hammed it up, making the magicks in my skimpy, sexy showgirl costume. I would wince and gasp and strain against my bonds long enough that the audience believed I was utterly helpless, and then – viola!

After Jaz, I went through a succession of partners. I conscripted my boyfriend Mattnew once, but he suffered a mild case of stage fright. In all, I performed the Escape Artiste routine maybe two dozen times. Probably the high point came at the end of my schooldays, when I was invited to perform at the seniors’ farewell concert. What made this occasion so memorable was that I drafted from the audience a teacher on whom just about every girl had a crush. It was a thrill to have him tie me up in front of the entire school assembly. I was almost tempted to flub my act so he could have the honour of untying me as well, but professional pride prevailed.

I have now retired from the stage. Nevertheless, one day I may return to the spotlight; and if I do, I still have plenty of tricks up my leotard.

Re: THE TIE-UP CHRONICLES

Postby bound-black-girl lover » Thu Oct 11, 2012 3:48 am

This story NEVER gets "olde" (especially the part with you capturing and controlling Vanessa)!
Any tales from your past/youth that you have NOT told us of?

Re: THE TIE-UP CHRONICLES

Postby sarobah » Thu Oct 11, 2012 5:13 pm

bound-black-girl lover wrote:Any tales from your past/youth that you have NOT told us of?

Not really. I haven’t written about times like when my brother bet me I could walk home from school all the way blindfolded, or how my boyfriend would tie me up for a few minutes during a study session, because there really isn’t much else to say.
I have tried to make my old stories a little more interesting by filling them out with extra details, hopefully without embellishing beyond the bounds of (what Stephen Colbert calls) truthiness.


6. Family Ties: Brotherly Bonds

Families are like fudge, mostly sweet with a few nuts.
– Unknown

Family is just accident... They don’t mean to get on your nerves. They don’t even mean to be your family, they just are.
– Marsha Norman, ʼnight, Mother

I sometimes wonder how I acquired my penchant for tie-up games. It has been a part of me for as long as I can remember. And like many aspects of one’s basic character, it’s hard to separate the nature from the nurture – in other words, the innate qualities that you were born with from your personal experiences since then and the environment in which you grew up.

For example, I have never had any indication that I inherited my “kinks” from my parents. Judging by the way they reacted when their suspicions about me were confirmed – a sort of amused, indulgent scepticism – my guess is not. So as far as I can tell, there was nothing in my genetic makeup or my upbringing that made me the way I am.

The closest I ever saw to a tie-up game involving my parents was at one of their workplace staff picnics. These events are a chance, and more importantly an excuse, for people to have fun and act silly, take off their masks of sobriety and respectability, and either play out their fantasies or be their real selves. The game was one of those dumb things dreamt up for just this sort of occasion, a husband-and-wife contest. The ladies were taped to chairs, and the men had to each fetch a big, gooey cake, navigate an obstacle course and feed it to their wives. The catch was that the men were blindfolded and they had to follow the directions of their womenfolk, who called out instructions over the rest of the shouting and the laughs of the spectators.

Much hilarity ensued. For me however, the joy was seeing my mother strapped helplessly to her seat, hands bound behind her back and ankles to the chair legs, having the time of her life as her face was smeared with glop and gunk. Afterwards Alex and I teased her mercilessly – “Look at the mess you’re in. We can’t take you anywhere!”

Later on there was a race for the kids called Babysitter. The contestants were organized into teams each consisting of a teenage girl – the babysitter – and a couple of preteens – the brats. It drew on the stereotype that all babysitters are teenage girls and all preteens are brats... which is fairly accurate, I guess. Each of us babysitters had her knees taped together and was blindfolded. Each of the brats held a rope that ended in a noose, both of which around the girl’s waist, pinning her arms at her sides. The idea was that we had to “run” the race disabled by our blindfolds and hobbled by our taped legs. The brats were supposed to be guiding us with their ropes but, true to form, they tended to pull against each other. The race was across a course consisting of inflated rubber obstacles, so there was lots of tripping and tumbling, spills and thrills, with cheers and jeers aplenty from the crowd. Fortunately the ground was soft.

Needless to say, my team won. After all, I had an unfair advantage, being more familiar with hobbles and blindfolds and ropes than the average fifteen-year-old. My brats were the terrible twins, whom I shall call John and Jane. They were aged about ten and – come to think of it – are to this day the youngest of all those who have had the sublime pleasure of tying me up. When we received our prizes, I was still trussed (though sans blindfold), and with the ceremony over, the twins led me to the shade of a nearby tree. There we sat for a while, and the kids tried out some bondage techniques of their own. There was nothing that I couldn’t have slipped out of in seconds, but I let them have their way with me. Little Jane was much the more accomplished, and she approached the job with an earnest enthusiasm that bodes well for some future boyfriend or girlfriend.

My little brother wandered over to sneer, but he actually looked just a tad jealous. For as I’ve mentioned, it was Alex who first began tying me up (after that false start with cousin Andrew). Since then we’ve both moved on, of course, and I should again clarify that there was nothing icky or yucky about our tie-up games. The world need not fear two-headed Alex-minors or thirteen-fingered mini-Sarahs.

From Alex’s point of view, each time he captured and subdued me he won a grand victory over Bossy Big Sis. And yet, in his bid to right imagined wrongs and establish his pre-eminence, I don’t know if it really occurred to him that my role as la demoiselle en détresse was a self-chosen one; and in this his raison d’être was threefold. I needed someone to tie me up, and he tied me up. I enjoyed being tied up by boys, and Alex, for all his drawbacks and shortcomings, was a boy. But there was something else as well, another aspect to my love of TUGs. I call it the inverted power dynamic.

This is a favourite theme in my fictional stories as well as my true-life adventures. It is where the person who normally has the dominant role, control or power in a relationship is the one who is captured, tied up, etcetera, by someone who otherwise acts or is seen as the subordinate. Its various forms include the bound babysitter, the boss in bondage, the tied-up teacher. As a variation, I am attracted to situations in which where one or two captors subjugate a larger number of captives. However, the form I am most familiar with is being tied up by my little brother.

I have always been fascinated by the dynamics of having, exercising and sharing power, and I guess that for me the main appeal of the IPD is the “comeuppance” factor – the triumph of the little guy. However, on a deeper level I think it’s also a way of addressing, through fantasy, ingrained anxieties about the nature and distribution of authority and status. That is why I am not referring here to the popular culture image of the powerful businessman/politician who visits the dominatrix dungeon once a week. While I have a very assertive, indeed controlling personality, and have always been an overachiever (almost to the point of obsessive), I don’t see my tie-up games as any kind of pressure valve. Surrendering control, through tie-up games or its “grown-up” manifestation, bondage or my slavegirl role-play, is for me not so much a release from the pressure (I like pressure!) but a way of exploring and testing my limits. So as strange as it may appear to some people, I feel most powerful and self-reliant when I’m tied up and helpless.

As Alex is two and a half years younger than me, the little brother big sister IPD fit the bill perfectly. Even that first time, beside the swimming pool, although outnumbered I had a physical advantage. Over the ensuing years, I lost that particular edge, but I could still have held the mental and moral ascendancy. Yet it was I who subverted my position. Alex was at most my accomplice. He didn’t mind being used, because it suited his own agenda, but that’s the way it was.

He and I continued to explore our mutual interest. Over the years we built up an impressive collection of damsel-in-distress clips from television shows and movies. We watched them together, and since many of these scenes were unrealistic, we discussed how things could have been done better – like how to apply an effective gag. And sometimes he practised on me. Now I repeat that there was nothing creepy about this (and I don’t think that the lady doth protest too much). I should add, however, that he was never on the receiving end. I don’t know whether this was his general preference, or if it was simple masculine pride that he would not let himself be tied up by his sister. The point is, and I know it’s a cliché, that he learnt the ropes from me. And to this day I don’t believe my brother has ever felt what it is like to be tied up.

A couple of weeks after my fifteenth birthday, we were staying overnight in Sydney during a trip around the country. Our parents had been invited to present a joint paper at a conference. We booked into an expensive hotel with splendid views of the magnificent harbour and the city lights on the north shore beyond, a well-stocked bar fridge, plush furnishings… all the accoutrements except those which would appeal to a teenage girl and boy, a television set and video games console. That was very odd, and our parents were sympathetic, but their “It’s only for one night” apologia fell on stubbornly deaf ears. They even offered us front-row seating for a two-hour presentation on dynamical adaptation and self-organizing systems. We politely declined.

So given the build-up, I’m sure you can guess what happened.

***

A half-hour after our parents are gone, my brother is prowling restlessly about the living room.

“I’m bored,” he whines.

“So am I... with your complaining,” I reply. “Why don’t you read your magazine?”

“Finished it. This place sucks.”

“So get over it already.”

That works like a charm... if only. As soon as I get back to my novel, the air is rent by a cacophony.

I throw down my book. “Do you really have to make that awful noise?”

“I’m singing. It’s called talent. You wouldn’t understand.”

No, apparently I don’t; but my peace-and-quiet has been overthrown, and it’s not coming back.

“So let’s do something,” I say. “What about a game of cards?”

“Strip poker?”

“Don’t be a perv.”

“Just a suggestion. Why would I want to look at you? In any case, we got any cards?”

“Okay, good point; so how about...”

“Nah, too boring.”

“Good grief, Alex, I didn’t even get to say it.”

“Whatever you say, it’s going to suck. Girls are boring.”

“Don’t mess with me, brat boy. I can still take you down.”

“You can’t talk to me like that. I’m the man.”

“Okay man, if you’re so bored you’re going to make my life a misery, you can tie me up.”

Did I really say that? Okay, I did. Let’s go with it, I decide. The novel had been a bad choice anyway.

“What’s in it for me?” he sulks.

“When you’ve got me tied up, I can’t beat you up.”

“Yeah, that works.” He looks about the room. “What are we gonna use?”

I ponder the problem for a few seconds.

“I’ve got exactly the thing. Wait a tick.” I fetch the two pairs of pantyhose from my bedroom. I hate wearing tights of any kind, and this strikes me as the best use for them.

He flexes and stretches the nylon. “Yeah, these will do the job,” he declares with the voice of authority.

“Try not to ruin them,” I snarl. There’s a formal dinner tomorrow night, and I will need one pair for that.

I ask him to assist in moving the coffee table. Under our feet, the thick, springy shag carpet is perfect for our needs. Then we stand facing each other, for a few seconds. I’m waiting for Alex to make the first move.

Finally, he splutters: “Right, this is... what we... here we go. Put your hands out.”

“No,” I say, turning away from him, “behind me.” I cross my wrists over the small of my back.

He’s adept at this part of the operation. He’s done it before. He loops one pair of my pantyhose around my wrists in a criss-cross pattern, vertically cinching the end result. However, he’s not used to working with such elastic material, so it takes a couple of goes to get it right, with me constantly admonishing: “Make it tighter. It doesn’t hurt.”

“Just be quiet and let me do it,” he grumbles.

Finally, he gives my arms a solid tug. “Done. Pretty good job, huh?”

“Not bad,” I concede, “for an amateur.” I take a minute to draw in some deep breaths. I try to wrest my arms apart, applying tension and torsion, to no avail. I feel my heart rate jumping, my pulse quickening. It’s a natural response when your body finds itself suddenly entrapped.

“Now do my feet the same way. Hold on, it will be easier if I sit down.” I move towards the sofa.

“No, not there, on the floor,” he orders.

“Fair enough.” It’s not worth an argument. “Now, only use one leg of the stocking. Just do it, and then I’ll explain.”

“Stop interfering,” he growls. “I’m in charge here.”

I’m sitting with my knees bent, one ankle over the other, but Alex grabs and separates them, placing my legs side-by-side rather than crossed. It isn’t as comfortable for me, but it’s easier for him to loop and cinch. It still takes him a lot of time and effort, but he’s done nice work. With a final yank, he makes it a snug fit, though I wince at the thought of my innocent pantyhose being tortured so. I begin to regret that decision. Still, the die is cast and c’est la vie.

While I’m getting the feel of my bonds, Alex starts fiddling with the other leg of my tights, trying to decide how to put it to best use.

“Give me a moment to get the circulation going,” I say. There is a dull throbbing in a vein in my left ankle, which subsides after I’ve wiggled and waggled my feet to stimulate the blood flow.

“Your toes have turned blue!” my brother exclaims.

“That’s my nail polish, smart-arse.”

He mutters something inaudible, then out loud: “How’s it feel?”

“Feels good,” I say, “not too harsh, not too easy, just right.”

“Then stop struggling, Goldilocks.”

“I’m not struggling, I’m... Hey!”

Without a warning or a “please excuse,” Alex who’s moved behind me grabs my shoulders and jerks me backwards, at the same time flipping me over so that I flop onto my stomach.

“Let me up!” I yell.

“No way... down you go, where you belong.”

“Fine... you win,” I state the obvious. “So what now?”

“What ya got in mind?”

“I’m your prisoner, dork... Okay, since I’m down here and not going anywhere, I’ll tell you what to do.”

I guide him through a hog-tie, using the free leg of the pantyhose. It’s probably one of my weirder moments, lying prone on the floor, being tied up by my little brother as I spell out the instructions. When it’s complete, I frantically wriggle about.

“See if you can get out of that,” he says proudly.

“What do you think I’m trying to do?”

“Dunno... maybe the carpet has fleas.”

“Maybe you have brain damage. Ouch! You lowlife...”

My darling brother slaps me between the shoulder blades, hard. “Watch yourself. Your arse is mine now.”

“Enjoy it while you can.”

“You’re not getting out of it. I told you. Give up?”

“Yes, I give up. Congratulations Alex, you’ve done your first solo hog-tie.”

He allows himself a self-satisfied snigger as Bossy Big Sis squirms on the carpet in her bonds. The elation passes quickly. Such is the attention span of the adolescent male.

“So is that it?” he says.

“Bored already?” So typical of him... I’m just getting to enjoy myself. “Okay, go get three handkerchiefs... big ones... clean ones!”

I look up and watch him as he scurries out of the room. I try to sit up, but it’s harder than I anticipated, so I give up.

I’m thinking “Wouldn’t it be funny if Mum and Dad come in right now?” when Alex returns with several handkerchiefs, which he dangles in front of my face.

“How about these?”

“They’ll do.”

“What for?” he asks.

He cannot be that dim, surely.

“Fold the first one a couple of times... No, chucklehead, diagonally.”

“You’re asking for it.”

“Sorry; but now you’re doing it right. So tie it around my head... for gawdsake, over my eyes. It’s a blindfold, dumb-arse.” I know I’m going to pay for my insolence before this night is through, but how else will the boy learn?

“Pull harder. That’s better. I can’t see a thing. So what are you doing now?”

“Wouldn’t you like to know? That’s why you’ve got a blindfold.”

I can’t dispute the logic. Nevertheless, I ask again and I get an answer. So much for keeping me in the dark.

“I’m folding another handkerchief, making a... umm...”

“Wad.”

“Yeah, wad. Okay, so open up.”

For a moment I consider resisting, but I think the better of it.

“Not too far. If I choke to death, I’m telling on you.”

“I know what I’m doing.” He sounds indignant.

I part my jaws and the cloth goes in.

“See, I know how to do this.” He cleaves it with the third handkerchief. “How does that feel?”

“Mmmff!”

“Pardon?”

“Mmmff!”

“I’ll take that to mean: You’ve done an excellent job, Alex. You’re the boss of me.”

“Mmmff?”

“I’m glad we agree. Well, that’s it. I’m off to bed.”

“Mmmff-fff! Mmmff-fff!”

“Bye-bye. Nightie-night.”

“Mmmm!!”

“Ha, just kidding! Where’s your sense of humour?”

“Gurrrg.”

“Oh, there it is.”

This goes on a while longer.

It’s now been maybe two hours since the game began. For all his earlier whingeing, my brother has found something to keep himself amused. He’s reading the magazine he claimed he’d finished. Meanwhile, I’m still lying on my belly on the carpet, hog-tied, gagged, blindfolded and starting to cramp up. Alex must be keeping an eye on me, because as soon as I begin to really writhe and twist, he unties me. I’m a bit unsteady as he helps me to my feet.

“There you go. All over. How ya feeling?”

“Oh, geez. I was just starting to have fun... not! Let me just stretch my legs.” The cricks and kinks soon vanish and the twinging and tingling quickly fade. “Wow! That was intense. Nice work bro; though I think my pantyhose needs life support. You’re going to make some girl very happy one day.”

“If she’s a weirdo twisted freak like you.”

“That’s the only kind you... oh, forget it. Help me with the coffee table.”

It’s not long after this point that our parents arrive back at the hotel.

I make them cocoa as they get changed.

“How did the presentation go?” I ask my mother as she comes into the kitchen.

“Great. We expect to be in Stockholm for the awards next year. Has Alex gone to bed?”

“Just now. Poor little guy was totally worn out.”

“I’m not surprised. Did he behave himself?”

“We stayed busy.”

“Good. Your brother needs to be kept on a very short rope.”

“That’s just what I’ve been thinking,” I say, handing her the mug of steaming chocolate.

Re: THE TIE-UP CHRONICLES

Postby sarobah » Fri Oct 12, 2012 7:22 pm

7. Three’s Company, A Foursome is Awesome

Our siblings. They resemble us just enough to make all their differences confusing, and no matter what we choose to make of this, we are cast in relation to them our whole lives long.
– Susan Scarf Merrell, The Accidental Bond

Siblings are the people we practice on...
– Pamela Dugdale, Time magazine

The episode in the Sydney hotel room was typical of what Alex and I got up to in those days, made memorable more by the setting than anything else in particular. And undoubtedly the “inverted power dynamic” was the key element for both of us. But already the winds of change were reshaping our sibling bonds. I could no longer act the part of Bossy Big Sis with plausibility or impunity; for though I still call him my Lil Bro, by then he had not only outgrown me in physical stature but had matured enough that I could not for very much longer play that card either.

Nevertheless, our tie-up games continued; and sometimes we had company.

My best friend in high school was the aforementioned Rachel. She was gorgeous, one of the cool chicks who always said the right things and wore the latest fashions, whose hair was always perfect and whose skin never broke out. She got invited to all the best parties; and wherever she went, in school, at the mall, on the beach, she was enveloped by a cloud of admirers and acolytes. Had I the relevant tendencies, I might have had a crush on her.

Although in many ways we were polar opposites, we got on well together. I think Rachel appreciated that I never gave her the superstar treatment, and I liked her because she was... well, Rachel. And over time we absorbed a part of each other’s personalities. I became one of the “in-crowd, and under my influence she became more of a free spirit. I found out recently that she is carving out a career for herself as a TV presenter, and I take some credit for rounding out her character.

By the time we were sweet sixteen we were virtually inseparable. We were good students as well as party girls, and we weren’t overly distracted by the male sex. In fact, we disdained the very notion of boyfriends. Our rationale was: Why be content with one apple when you can have the whole tree (or in Rachel’s case, the orchard)?

However, there was a fly in the ointment.

The fly was, not surprisingly, my precocious brother. He and Rachel had a love-hate relationship, except without the love. Almost three years her junior, he was besotted with her, but like many a would-be lover spurned, his unrequited infatuation turned to obsession and then to scorn. Okay, I am perhaps exaggerating; but Rachel did her best to ignore him, and there were occasions when she had to put him in his place. Unfortunately, her flirty nature meant that at times she came across as a tease, which did nothing to dampen his passion. So Alex decided that she, and I by association, needed to be taken down a peg or two. Or maybe he just wanted to tie up two hot chicks – the prettiest girl in the neighbourhood and his own recalcitrant big sister.

The opportunity arose one day after school. Two or three afternoons a week, Rachel and I got together for a couple of hours of study, alternating between her house and mine. My previous study buddy had been Jaz; but that partnership had been terminated by his girlfriend, who apparently didn’t understand that a meeting of minds does not always entail a merger of body parts.

On this day, we were set to study at my place. We changed out of our uniforms – Rachel and I kept spare clothes at each other’s place – and got settled in my bedroom with our books. But I had a slight headache and couldn’t properly focus. So instead we went downstairs, to the kitchen for a drink and then into the living room. We lounged on the carpet and talked about the usual girl stuff – boys, music, clothes and whatnot. We quickly gave away any thought of schoolwork that afternoon.

Before long, Alex wandered in and switched on the television. We objected, but he ignored us and put on a DVD. It was an old episode of Wonder Woman, the Lynda Carter series. Alex and I both loved the show, and this particular instalment was one of our favourites, because in it Diana Prince gets tied up twice. So Rachel and I started to watch. (For aficionados, it was season 2’s The Man Who Made Volcanoes.)

Now my brother and I have conflicting versions of what happened next. My recollection is that Rachel got absorbed but began making fun of the program. She scoffed at how WoWo could end up twice bound by characters she could have taken down without raising a single bead of superheroine sweat. I tried to explain that by surrendering she was demonstrating her power. Alex, being provocative, asserted that maybe she just liked it. Rachel scoffed and started getting obnoxious about “the whole flaky bondage thing.” I could not allow that to go unchallenged; but neither she nor I caught on that we were being set up by an evil genius.

Engrossed in the story, Rachel had got off the floor and was sitting next to my brother on the sofa. According one of Alex’s renderings of the event, she was being provocative, brushing her bare leg against his trousers. In another and more likely version, they bumped when one or the other or both became too demonstrative. Either way, they began grappling. So as the closing credits flashed onto the screen, I decided that my girl needed to be taught a lesson. I reached up and seized her feet and tried to haul her off the sofa. She squealed and grabbed the closest thing, my brother’s arm. He shook free of her grasp and scampered away as I jumped up and leapt upon her. We wrestled for a moment before rolling off the sofa and tumbling onto the carpet.

Though she was slightly bigger and stronger, instead of fighting me off Rachel went limp and allowed me to straddle her midsection and press her shoulders to the floor. I decided that, despite her submission, she deserved a punitive tickling, so I dragged her arms to her side and pinned them there with my knees. She now realized that she was helpless and began to resist, trying to flip me off by twisting and bucking her body. She was laughing so much her eyes were brimming with tears.

Until this point Alex had been content to sit back and enjoy the chick fight, but now he saw that his insidious plan might actually come to fruition. He disappeared into the kitchen and came back bearing a roll of paper masking tape. (We had used this before when he tied me up. I’ve always preferred it to duct tape, because it is less abrasive and irritating on the skin, even if it requires more layers to make it secure.)

Rachel was still giggling, but she stared with wild eyes as my brother began pulling out a long strand of the tape. Nevertheless, when I raised myself off her, she let me turn her onto her stomach. I took hold of her wrists and could feel her pulse racing. I pulled her arms behind her back and wrapped the first strip of tape around her wrists, as Alex tore off a second. It took a few pieces to finish the job, especially as my prisoner belatedly began to struggle. I think she had underestimated the strength of the tape and thought she could just pull her arms apart at will. By the time she recognized the awful truth, it was too late. She jerked her body sideways and I was thrown off, and we scuffled on the carpet. With her hands bound behind her, Rachel’s resistance was feeble and futile.

My brother now decided to join the fun in a more active way. He grabbed Rachel’s knees. She was caught off-guard by his sudden move and tried to kick him away; but he lay across her legs to keep them still while I taped her ankles. Once that was done, she gave up the fight. We stretched her out lengthways, still on her belly, and Alex forced a strip of tape over her mouth. She managed to pull her jaws open, and called down curses upon us, until I clamped them shut and my accomplice applied several more layers.

I lay on the floor next to our captive to study her face. She looked so sweet and innocent and helpless, hair dishevelled, big brown eyes wide and staring, nostrils flaring. She was breathing with a shallow, rapid panting and making pitiable little whimpering noises. Naturally, we had to complete the job with a hog-tie. She resumed her pointless defiance by trying to keep her legs straight. I was working hard at bending them when Alex tried jabbing the backs of her knees with his fingernails; and when that didn’t work he slapped her hard on the backside. In reflex, she kicked up her heels. We seized her feet and forced them upwards, attaching her ankle bindings to her wrists.

When we were finished, the poor girl looked quite stupefied; but it was a good thing that she was properly gagged. The tape over her mouth was wrinkling and crinkling in a way which hinted at some ripe obscenities trying to work their way through. She squirmed and rolled over a couple of times, and I couldn’t resist the urge to carry out some more tickle-torture. Alex wanted to tape over her eyes, but I vetoed that. Rachel had very nice eyebrows and lashes that she probably wanted to keep. He also started to mess with her clothing, but I said no to that as well. (I should add, in his defence, that he strenuously denies that last bit happened.)

We left Rachel hog-tied for no more than ten minutes, as Alex and I sat on the couch making fun of her for mocking our tie-up games. Then I knelt beside her and detached her ankle bindings from her wrists. Thinking it was over, she tried to sit up; but I forced her back down. It was a spur of the moment thing that I lay over her, on my stomach, my body at right angles to hers so that we formed a cross. Rachel made a startled gurgling noise as I rested my full weight on her and put my hands behind my back.

I didn’t need to say a thing. Alex obligingly bound my wrists with the tape, then my ankles, completing the job with a gag. Rachel was protesting as best she could, to no avail. She was writhing and twisting beneath my body. I knew I didn’t weigh enough to hurt her arms. Anyway, I positioned myself so that the hollow of my stomach was over her hands. It was her pride that was injured. We must have looked a treat.

I don’t know how long we lay there, bound and gagged one atop the other. Alex watched an entire new episode of Wonder Woman, so it must have been close to an hour. I was pretty much used to that. There is something about a long-duration tie-up which appeals to my abnormal psyche. After the flow of adrenaline subsides, there is an enveloping feeling of helplessness, as tension turns to tedium, which becomes an exquisite torment that doesn’t dull the senses but rather heightens every sensation, intensifies every little movement. Your world sort of folds in on itself. Your horizon shrinks down to your ropes and gag and blindfold.

Of course, I can speak only for myself. It must have been excruciating for Rachel, who had a low boredom threshold at the best of times, let alone when immobilized by tape and by the overlying body of her best friend. Beneath me, when I wasn’t completely zoned out, I could feel her breathing hard and trying to wiggle out from under my weight. Then Alex decided he should blindfold us. He didn’t apply the tape, of course, but instead made use of – for some possibly symbolic reason that I cannot fathom – two of his shirts, which had an unpleasantly musty laundry hamper smell. He then returned to Wonder Woman.

Seeking to amuse himself when the episode ended, Alex lifted me off Rachel and lay me down on the floor next to her. He removed our blindfolds so we could be eye to eye, and she was glaring into mine. After that, he took us each by the shoulders and raised us to a kneeling position, facing each other. He tried to bind us together, but the tape wouldn’t stick, so he gave up and left us to extricate ourselves.

I started working at the tape around my wrists. Once I had managed to get a fingernail under the edge and began scratching away, I was able to slowly but surely cut through until, in about fifteen minutes, I was free. Watching Rachel struggle in vain, I felt sorry for her, but I nevertheless prolonged her ordeal for a few minutes more. She deserved it.

We had a stimulating conversation consisting of “Mmmm” and “Gmmm” and “Mmmff-ff,” plus some stuff I couldn’t understand But when we heard my mother’s car pulling into the driveway we ripped off the tape. Rachel nervously stroked her puckered lips, but out came a stick of gloss and all was well again.

Until that day Rachel was, so far as I am aware and except for our cocooning in the tent that time, a tie-up “virgin.” Therefore I was a little concerned what her delayed reaction would be. Over the next few she didn’t talk about it, and I was afraid she was creeped out by the whole experience. Then again, I am prone to overanalyzing things, so I resolved to just put it out of my mind, unless she brought it up. Alex, on the other hand, couldn’t let it go. He mentioned it to me a few times, although I don’t know if he brought it up with Rachel. In any case, I think he’d decided by now that she was out of his league and thus out of reach. But at least he had his memory of that one brief, shining moment when he got to tie up the girl who haunted his fantasies.

If only he’d known that he was soon to live the dream of just about any red-blooded teenage boy.

***

One of the other girls with whom I socialized was Sandra. She was tall and athletic, with straw-blonde hair and a light sprinkling of freckles, very pretty with a radiant smile that she rarely showed, because she could turn moody and aloof at any time. We were not as close as Rachel and I, but at school we were the trendsetting troika. Most Friday evenings we would go out on the town, setting the place ablaze with our short skirts, high heels, hip moves and bad attitudes. However, on the night before Sandra’s birthday, we were having a girl’s night in at my house. My parents had gone to see a show, and left us with Alex and a pizza delivery. My brother undertook to confine himself to his bedroom with his Playstation if we allowed him to select the pizza toppings. His choice was fit for neither man nor beast and therefore ideally suited to his own taste; but he thereupon refused to honour his promise and established himself in the living room.

“I’m the man of the house,” he declared.

So Rachel, Sandra and I retreated to my room, leaving him the unchallenged master of his domain. Yet it did not take long for him to come banging on my door. He burst in, no doubt expecting to find his three pyjama party girls pillow-fighting in lace teddies and frilly baby-dolls. He was sorely disappointed and hid it not at all. He skulked out of the room under verbal bombardment.

Not long after that, however, Rachel and I began wresting each other and tried to tie each other up with whatever we could find. I don’t recall what set us off, but it may have had something to do with my brother’s incursion and the memory of that afternoon a few months before. In any case, Sandra sat back and watched us rolling and bouncing on the bed, not knowing whether to intervene, and if she did, on whose side.

Then came the critical moment. I had Rachel face down, but she was starting to wriggle free, so I yelled out: “Alex, here’s your chance!”

I should have known that my brother was lurking within earshot. There was a pounding on the floorboards as he came stomping up the stairs and storming into the room. Rachel groaned “Not again!” and Sandra gave us all a very strange look. However, I immediately regretted my impulse and snarled at a mystified Alex to back off. He retreated, and Rachel taunted him by showing off her hands, half-bound with a pillow case. Yet what then occurred was one of those bizarre episodes you look back on and ask yourself: Did it really happen like that?

I said, “Let’s take this downstairs” and vaulted off the bed and out the door. I led the way to the kitchen where I made coffee (probably the last thing four hyped-up teenagers needed at that moment). Everyone was bemused, most of all Alex for whom a never-to-be-repeated opportunity appeared to be slipping away. As for myself, I was cognizant that I’d entered “the zone” – that freaky, single-minded state which precedes many of my best tie-up adventures.

We were sitting at the dining room table sipping our coffee when, acting upon the urge, I got up and went around to stand behind Rachel. Her eyes and then her head followed my movement until she could see me no more, but she didn’t get up. I drew her hands behind her back and tied them with a tea towel. She didn’t protest or resist, just grinned impishly when it was done; but suddenly she leapt out of her seat and made a dash for the living room. I tackled her and we went crashing to the carpet. Fortunately for Rachel, without her hands free to break her fall, she landed on top of me. It was a rather silly thing for me to have done, and I was momentarily winded.

Everything then got stranger, as I said (or wheezed, still breathless): “It’s tie-up time.”

My quick-thinking brother raced back to the kitchen and returned with the masking tape, very likely the same roll he had used on Rachel and me before. Sandra, motionless at the table, watched him in silent apprehension, until I, sitting on the floor with Rachel, beckoned for her to join us. Amazingly, she did so. (I’ve wondered, since then, what made her comply – if maybe she had a history I was not aware of.)

I lay on my stomach and Rachel did also, next to me. I told Sandra to do the same, and she hesitated for just a second or two. With an “Oh, what the heck” nod and shrug, she lay beside me opposite Rachel. When I said to put her hands behind her back, she giggled nervously but obeyed.

Alex started with Rachel, removing her tea towel tie, which had come loose anyway, and replacing it with tape. He bound her ankles, and she whispered something inaudible just before her gag went on. He then moved on to me. There was just enough room between our bodies that he could crouch between us to do the job properly. He proceeded to put me into one of my most stringent ever hog-ties. As well as my wrists and ankles, he also taped my knees and elbows, much tighter than I was used to. Once I was properly bound, he straddled my backside to apply my gag. His dead weight on my feet and hands wrenched my arms backwards until it felt like they would be torn out of their sockets. I grunted loudly – not the most elegant of sounds – but when Alex said “Too tight?” I dismissed him with a testy “Get on with it!”

The unnecessary roughness made me I think my brother was assessing my limits in order to gauge how receptive the other girls would be.

The style of gagging was a new one for me. Alex instructed me to open my mouth, and he used the first two strips of tape as a cleave gag before sticking several more pieces over my entire mouth. It was rather uncomfortable; but very effective. My last words to Alex were to remind him to be gentle – not in applying the tape (too late for that), but in taking it off.

My brother then returned to Rachel, although I saw she got off with a less severe hog-tie than mine. In the meantime, Sandra was incredible. While Rachel and I were being dealt with, she lay on the carpet, face down, hands behind her back, waiting patiently and silently for her turn to come. This was several minutes, and at any time she could have simply got up and ended her part in the game. She never spoke a word, but watched her friends being bound and gagged with an enigmatic smile, which made me again wonder if maybe she was not the novice I’d believed she was.

I should also pay tribute to my brother, who handled the situation with aplomb. How many fourteen year-old boys would have the cojones to take control the way he had and methodically tie up three older girls, including his sister, with hardly a whimper of protest from his captives? Furthermore, he worked with alacrity, knowing that at any moment any of us – in particular Sandra – might balk and bring the game to an end. For even my obstreperous little brother was not so foolhardy as to try tying up three unwilling victims. He would likely have had in his thoughts the fate of Hamish when he had taken on three feisty females.

So I assumed he would go easy on Sandra, just as I was afraid that she would turn off or freak out and the fun would be over. I was wrong on both counts. She gasped and groaned as she was being bound. However, she was a gymnast, and her supple body gave her a flexibility which made her hog-tie less arduous than Rachel’s and mine. She started to relax, testing her bonds but showing no sign of pain or apprehension.

Nevertheless, when Alex held a strip of tape in front of her face, she screeched, “You’re not putting anything in my mouth!” Alex promised he wouldn’t, but she insisted, “I won’t make a sound, I swear.” He ignored her plea, but he contented himself with a single strip across her lips.

My brother’s work complete, his three bound captives lay in a row on the living room carpet. Sandra’s and my heads were turned to face each other, and her “I don’t believe this is happening” expression was priceless.

“Look straight ahead,” Alex growled.

Although he had us at his mercy, Alex’s interest began to wane once we were helpless. It could hardly have been otherwise. There was not much more he was able to do. So he left us to squirm on the carpet for a long time. This is – as I’ve mentioned – part of the game for me, but Rachel and Sandra didn’t seem to mind much either. My biggest concern was that our parents would come home early and Alex wouldn’t have had time to free us. Explanations would have taken some interesting turns, no doubt.

However, eventually and inevitably, the game ended. Sandra sighed in relief as the tape was peeled off. Alex did a good job in making sure the process was gentle and painless, and I was proud of him. Since I had suffered the most, when I was released and tried to stand up, I almost collapsed. I had to be steadied and assisted to the sofa. Still I couldn’t complain, any more than a marathon runner complains at the finish line. (I actually ran a half-marathon once – I will take two hours of being tied up over those two hours of agony any time.) My brother simply gave me a “serves you right” look, and I don’t think I got much more sympathy from my girlfriends. Alex gathered up the bundle of used tape and took it away. I don’t know where he stowed it or if my mother ever wondered what happened to the roll of masking tape she kept under the kitchen sink.

The rest of the night was remarkably unremarkable. After our parents came in, Alex and I accompanied Rachel and Sandra as they walked home. He played the hero, protecting his three damsels from whatever perils lurked in the moonlight shadows. From Dick Dastardly to Sir Galahad in a single evening… only my brother.

Some more tie-up adventures lay in store for Rachel, but I don’t know about Sandra. We never talked about what transpired that Friday night, except in a few oblique references; but she seemed cool about the whole thing. In fact, I think she may have liked sharing what was, to her, our little guilty secret. When we passed Alex in the schoolyard, they exchanged some meaningful looks.

Not long afterwards, largely due to Sandra’s influence, Rachel and I each acquired that second most important of a girl’s fashion accessories, a studly boyfriend. Matthew, who asked me out for the first time at Sandra’s birthday party, was soon immersed in the weird and wacky World of Sarah. (This, by the way, was the guy who at the centre of the rift between Susan and me. As it turned out, I exchanged a friend for a jerk... but that’s a story for later.)
Last edited by sarobah on Thu Nov 29, 2012 5:09 pm, edited 1 time in total.

Re: THE TIE-UP CHRONICLES

Postby Zaphod » Sat Oct 13, 2012 5:50 pm

I'm having a blast reading all these stories of yours. You have quite a way of writing, and I'm loving the quotes to open each chapter. I consider myself pretty good at English, but your excellent vocabulary has had me referencing the dictionary a couple of times (e.g., gamine). Thanks for sharing these stories, and I look forward to reading the next chapter!

Re: THE TIE-UP CHRONICLES

Postby sarobah » Sat Oct 27, 2012 4:54 pm

As a result of the recent problems with the board, my latest instalment has disappeared. That’s easily fixed, but three comments and my responses have gone as well. I can’t recall the replies, unfortunately, but here’s chapter 8 reposted. It is slightly different from the original.

8. The Naughty Schoolgirl

Schoolgirl sweetie with a classy kind of sassy,
Skirt climbing way up her knee.
– Steven Tyler and Joe Perry, Walk This Way

So girls, if the man you need just won’t come across,
Put on a uniform and show him who’s the boss.
– Greg Macainsh, Women In Uniform

After I had published the first edition of the Chronicles, I decided that the title of this chapter is rather inane. But the fact is I was indeed a naughty schoolgirl. Throughout my teenage years I was undisciplined, insubordinate and rebellious. However, I generally avoided reprisal by being a straight-A student. (Okay, I got a C in Phys Ed, but since it didn’t tarnish my academic record I wore my metaphorical badge of demerit with pride.) It also didn’t hurt that I got involved in all sorts of social and cultural activities. I was vice-president of the student council, captain of the debating team, and a founding member of the astronomy club. I even joined the chess club. I certainly kept myself busy, if not always out of trouble.

My defiant streak and association with cool girls like Rachel and Sandra helped disguise the geekier qualities evident in my classroom and extracurricular activities. On the other hand, it was harder to keep suppressed the kinky side of my nature. In fact, there were a few occasions when my penchant for tie-up games worked its insidious way into my school routine. One of these I have already described – my Escape Artiste magician’s act, which I performed at school fêtes, concerts and shows, the most celebrated occasion being the seniors’ 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 employing awkward euphemisms like “rent a senior”). Kids – at my school members of the student council – are sold at auction to fellow students. It’s philosophically problematic, I guess, but it’s popular and brings in heaps of money for charity. The tradition is that the slaves have to serve their owners for a day. Because humiliation is apparently great entertainment, they are usually made to dress up in outlandish costumes, in addition to running errands, carrying schoolbags, etcetera... all in the name of fun and school spirit.

The tradition almost died at my school. Besides the not-to-be-dismissed issue of trivializing slavery, there was growing criticism 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. And as a student councillor, on account of my philosophical objections I belonged to the abolition faction (which was ironic, given some of my proclivities).

When I was outvoted, I volunteered for 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. That suggestion was greeted keenly, and we settled on an ancient Roman theme. I drafted my ancient 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 year’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 tiny, cute slavegirl tunic made out of a dyed bedsheet. We each carried an advertisement inscribed on a wooden panel that was slung around our necks. Mine said PVLCHELLA CELTICA – VNVS PRÆVIVS ERVS (which is Latin for “pretty little Celtic female – one previous owner”). However, the pièce de résistance was my lovely set of chains. The manual arts guys had done an excellent job fabricating some formidable-looking restraints – 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 from Year 9. I fetched a very good price, in fact the second highest of the day. My owners paraded me about the quadrangle on a halter, showing off their newly acquired property to some cheers (for them) and jeers (for me). After that, my time in servitude was an anti-climax. The next day I was made to wear my slavegirl costume but not my shackles. Not unexpectedly, my young mistresses were more severe than my masters. I was at their beck and call at morning tea and lunchtime, and – hardly to my surprise – I enjoyed that experience. My only regret about the whole thing is that I don’t know what happened to those chains. They would have come in handy at some of the parties I’ve been to recently.

Yet it was not such escapades as this which created my naughty schoolgirl reputation. That came from one of my other facets – the rebel.

I grew up in a political environment. My parents have always been active on social and environmental issues. From their struggles, very early in life I learned to pick which sort of battle to take on – a cause that’s worth fighting for but a campaign you have some prospect of winning. In my schoolgirl days, that cause was our uniform.

At our school, the uniform and dress code didn’t allow girls to wear trousers. Now I have nothing against wearing dresses. My tomboy days are a distant – though admittedly sometimes wistful – memory. 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 – not much of a concession when there’s a major 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 it’s your choice, all power to you – but if it’s compulsory, that’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: “If I am forced to wear a skirt, no-one is going to tell me how to wear it.” So most of us wore them very short. In that way, I guess, we were rebelling and conforming at the same time. The fact that the school never imposed – or at least never enforced – a minimum skirt length indicates that the authorities didn’t see it as a “decency and decorum” 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. We were never harassed or punished for our stand against what we perceived as blatant sexism, and when the rule change was made, the principal paid tribute to our resourcefulness and commitment. Nevertheless, I had consolidated my radical reputation. (This was quite timely, because the crowd I was hanging out with at the time had me tagged by the general population as an up-and-coming bimbo.)

The boys on the student council also deserve commendation for their role. More than two-thirds of the members were girls, which was a rather sad indictment of the attitude of most boys in the school, who had no interest in getting involved in student self-management. Of course, those who did were the enlightened minority, so it was no great surprise that they endorsed our cause.

By contrast, my brother and my boyfriend were initially opposed. 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 girl’s legs.” Matthew’s attitude posed more of a dilemma. 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 me because of my incipient bimbo persona, and although I can’t be sure, I think he was already 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 wasn’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 too much fun of me could open up a career for him in opera – singing soprano. They even supported me with some aspects of the campaign. Then, on the first chilly, windy day after our great victory, I put on my skirt. My brother said “What the...?” and when I got to school my boyfriend said “What the...?” 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 don’t mind the cold.

On the way home that same afternoon, Matt was being a right royal pain in the posterior. He and I walked to my house from school together most days. Sometimes I invited him in for a drink or a swim in our pool, and sometimes we studied. There was still the odd occasion when Rachel and I got together with the schoolbooks, but we took different subjects; and anyway, by now we had each forsaken our anti-boyfriend oath. On this afternoon, it was still cool and overcast. A storm was brewing on the western horizon. Gusts of wind were swirling around us, playing peekaboo games with my skirt. Matt wasn’t helping, pulling my hands away when I tried to hold down the hem, and flicking up the back every so often when the breeze had died down. The streets were deserted, which spared an unwary public a flash of my knickers; but as we approached my house, I promised that if he did it once more I would rip him a new orifice.

He just smiled, then dashed ahead to open the gate for me.

“Thank you, kind sir,” I said.

“You’re welcome, my lady,” he replied.

Nevertheless, as I passed through, he did it again. I swore, he laughed, and a grappling match ensured on the front lawn. When he had me pinned down, I yelled surrender and offered afternoon tea as reparation.

I fulfilled my promise of cake and Coke. Afterwards, as I was clearing up, he asked where my brother was. The two got on well together. (This should have been my first hint that there was something fundamentally wrong with my boyfriend.) I told him that Alex was probably at football training, and Matt responded with a strange guttural noise. It was the sound he made when he was trying to hide his thoughts. He wasn’t aware of this “tell” and I didn’t tip him off. (And it only occurred to me later why Alex liked to play poker with Matt.) He was remembering, no doubt, another afternoon a couple of months before.

***

In life there are no rewinds, only flashbacks.
– Unknown

It was one of the first times Matt had come over, and Alex was away on a school camping trip. So 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 pour 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 argue?

We finished our drinks and took to the living room sofa. We dallied awhile, but when Matt started unbuttoning my blouse I pulled away.

“Time out, tiger,” I declared.

He mumbled something and dolefully shook his head as I stood up, straightened my blouse and brushed the creases out of my skirt.

“Where you off to?” he demanded.

“Upstairs to change.”

He started to follow me.

“Not likely,” I said. “Get the books out.”

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 Matt quickly overpowered me. He turned me onto my stomach and pulled my hands behind my back.

He didn’t do anything straight away. I was still gulping 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.

“Ready?” he said.

“For what?” I asked.

“I think you know,” he replied. That’s when I realized my secret kinks were not so secret after all.

He sat down square on my backside. I grunted under the sudden weight. He seized my wrists and raised my arms behind me until they were over my shoulders. It didn’t hurt much, but it was not exactly painless; and I yelled at him to let go.

“Sure, babe,” he said, “in just a minute.”

He bound my hands. I could tell from the material’s texture that he was using my school tie, which he had taken off while he was fiddling with my blouse.

He 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 a solid kick to the side of his face. He muttered something and shook his head. I didn’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 maliciously as I fought back.

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 about as difficult as I anticipated; but 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 I was more bothered by the fact that he’d been rummaging through my drawers and closet.

Matt ordered me to lie down again, and knowing that fightback was futile, 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 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 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 “Too much?” I said “Do your worst!” Not the wisest response, under the circumstances.

I started to squirm again. Placing a hand on my brow, Matt forced my head backwards. Although he said “Open wide, baby,” 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 my muzzle the noises came out as muffled groans and gurgles.

Matt gallantly adjusted my skirt, which had ridden up to expose my undies on account of my wriggling about; but then he spoilt the effect by smacking me hard on the butt before 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 Matt’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, 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 – if not my dignity – intact.

After a long, long time, he untied me and we put in an hour or so of study, as if nothing unusual had happened. It was a nice little postscript that I aced the physics test and beat the pants off my boyfriend (not literally).

***

As I was washing the cups and plates, from our snack, Matt came up behind me and began playing with my skirt again. I slapped his hand away, but he reached around to grab the lapels of my blouse and pull it off my shoulders. The top button popped off and bounced into the sink.

“Idiot!” I shrieked.

“Oops,” he whimpered.

I whirled around to confront him, at the same time bringing up my right knee, which scored a fortuitous direct hit in his groin. As he doubled up gasping, I went to his aid, fearful for my boyfriend’s procreational potential. It was apparently a ruse, because he recovered awfully quickly, and two seconds later he had me prostrate on the floor.

I was on my stomach, pressed against the cold, hard kitchen tiles. Matt 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.

“Give in?”

“Yes, I submit.”

“Completely?”

“Totally. Absolutely.”

“Good. Don’t move. Look straight ahead, not at me.”

His weight lifted off my body. He moved across the floor and sat leaning against a cupboard, watching me. I remained still, on my belly, arms at my side, staring straight ahead.

“Sit up,” 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.

“Not on your skirt,” 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, “Do it.”

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. I winced and he chuckled, pleased with himself. I began to wonder what was next. I could have guessed.

“Hands behind your back.”

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. He must have got it from the cupboard under the sink when I was facing away. He then applied an elbow harness 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. Unlike my brother, a precocious desperado, it was doubtful that Matt knew how to apply a yoke without the risk of choking me. Instead, 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 – it was indeed nylon cord – to tie 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.

“Lie down, face down,” he ordered. “Knees bent, feet in the air.”

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 – his handkerchief, I think – and a gag. That was the worst part. He used a dishcloth – a clean one, but it tasted linty and musty. He didn’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. Unfortunately, since I love the feel of a well-applied crotch-rope, it was neither tight nor effective, running over my skirt as well as my knickers. Nevertheless, having rendered me utterly 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 found the game hilarious.

After that 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 other’s eyes. He ran his free hand up my leg, pushing up my skirt and baring my thigh all the way – but he didn’t take it any further. He fondled my hair and gently stroked my face. Then he began to unbutton my blouse once more. 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. Undressing me would not have taken him into new territory, but even I – back then – drew the line at being stripped while tied up and powerless.

He got up, leaving me wallowing on the tiles, and then began dripping water on me, aiming for my face and my chest and my nether regions. The more I writhed and twisted to avoid it, the more he poured and the louder he laughed. And, it was at this point that Alex wandered in. Even ignoring the ropes and gag, I must have looked a sight, my hair dishevelled, clothing soaked, blouse half open, my body contorted by the hog-tie and crotch-rope, rolling about on the kitchen floor. He casually stepped over me to make himself a sandwich.

“Carry on, kids,” my little brother said 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. In a way, that was the hardest part of my ordeal, having to swab the entire floor with my hands tied behind my back. With my bound feet, I had to slide across the tiles on my backside.

My poor school uniform suffered as much as I that afternoon. The skirt was wrinkled, wet and mucky from the floor; my blouse had lost a button; even my school tie was in a wretched condition from the knotting and stretching. And when my parents arrived home, greeting Matt on his way out, I had the ironing board and sewing kit out.

“Look honey,” Dad exclaimed. “Sarah’s being domestic! Get the camera!”

My mother just rolled her eyes, glanced towards the front door where my boyfriend had just passed, and smiled.

Matt and I played other tie-up games, but those first two times were the most memorable. One time, we went to a fancy dress party as Goths. (As TUGs aficionados know, a costume party is a splendid opportunity for mainstream bondage fun.) I guess that showed subcultural insensitivity, and when I acquired some Goth friends I realized that my playtime dress-up was their lifestyle. Nonetheless, at the time it seemed a great joke. Matt put me on a leash and in handcuffs. We took a bus to the party and got some interesting responses from the other passengers. At the party, I wore the cuffs all evening, sometimes in front and other times behind my back. In the latter case, if I wanted a drink or something to eat, I had to ask someone to feed it to me. I ended up with a lot of liquids down my front and food on my face. On the other hand, the only people who took advantage of my helpless state were other girls. The guys behaved like true gentlemen.

Matt and I broke up not long after this, once we’d graduated from high school. He had 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 could not have blamed him for disliking the idea of a long-distance relationship, but he acted very self-centred when I was not prepared to sacrifice my dreams. It was a pity, because I thought we had made a cute couple. Of course, five years on, being where I am now, knowing what I know, I have nil regrets.

Re: THE TIE-UP CHRONICLES

Postby cloud » Sun Oct 28, 2012 4:48 am

Don't worry, one of them was me asking you some questions about what your friends thought about you and if you got any of them into bondage, which i really wanted to know the answer for myself really.

So, again, let me congregation you on writing such good and interesting story's with the correct balance of background information and action, and for shearing your past with us all.


p.s. Dam, got to read all of chapter 8 to find the changes.... will do this in a bit ;)

Keep the coming.
Oh, a TUG! Do I have to play alone?
First Fictional Story (chapters 0-18): Moved Closer by Bondage

Re: THE TIE-UP CHRONICLES

Postby sarobah » Thu Nov 01, 2012 5:24 pm

cloud wrote:Don't worry, one of them was me asking you some questions about what your friends thought about you and if you got any of them into bondage, which I really wanted to know the answer for myself really.

I can’t remember my original reply – I should have kept a copy. Basically, it was that unfortunately I haven’t kept in enough contact with the people from my teenage years to know how many young lives I have enriched and/or corrupted.
cloud wrote: Dam, got to read all of chapter 8 to find the changes.... will do this in a bit.

Sorry... blame the site glitch. I wouldn’t have revised if the previous version hadn’t disappeared :o)


9. Leather and Lace

Someday, someone will walk into your life and make you realize why it never worked out with anyone else.
– Unknown

The Promised Land always lies on the other side of a wilderness.
– Havelock Ellis, The Dance of Life

When I left home to start university, I found myself feeling lost and alone. Leaving behind one’s family and childhood friends is, of course, one of the rites of passage to adulthood; but for me the pain of separation from my kindred spirit Rachel, and on top of that a spiteful breakup with boyfriend Matt, had me feeling empty and aimless. I roamed the campus like a wandering hermit seeking enlightenment but finding only mystery and confusion.

Yet at the same time, there was this sense of wonder and exhilaration. The place was big and busy, in some ways exactly what I’d expected, in other ways bewildering, so unlike high school and so different from my comfortable, sheltered childhood. But once I got past the disorientation, I found everything and everyone to be familiar and friendly. Now in my fifth year, I can hardly imagine any other life, and I owe a lot of this to my flatmate Kate.

In addition to several residential colleges and dormitories, students have access to subsidized accommodation in a sprawling complex of small twin-share apartments on the edge of the campus known simply as the Village. This is where I had my home. While far from luxurious our home was cosy enough, and Kate was fun to be with. She was a more outrageous version of Rachel, at once a wild child and a woman of the world. Though we were both new and the same age, she picked up the rhythms of university life almost as soon as she crossed the threshold. We lived together for only our freshman year, but during that time we formed an inseparable bond.

Kate had an uncannily efficient social radar. Out of the blue she’d remind me, “Don’t forget Mary’s party at the Clubhouse Friday night,” and I would be like “What party? Who’s Mary? Where’s the Clubhouse? How do you know these things?”

Maybe she was merely more observant than me, because on weekends the Village could be a wild and wonderful place – noisy and crowded and exhaustingly vibrant. If I had to devise a communal motto, it would be Bibo ergo sum.* Then again, it’s easy to misjudge. There have been rumours of ritual virgin sacrifices; but I don’t believe them. Where would they find a virgin in the Village? It is said that its denizens (known, naturally, as the Village People) personify the Seven Deadly Sins; but in my year of residence I witnessed just five. On the other hand, I didn’t get out and about as much as some folks.

Just before Easter, the Village was the venue for one of the biggest celebrations of the semester. The theme was, naturally, Playboys and Bunnies. I’m sure there’s a dissertation waiting to be written on how the Messiah metamorphosed into the Easter Bunny, which morphed into the Playboy Bunny; but I shall leave that to the theologians and move on to the revels. Kate and I made ourselves cute little outfits, from black one-piece bandeau swimsuits to which we attached the defining cottontail, then added the requisite ears, collar, cuffs and fishnets to complete the ensemble. It was a crazy night, with thumping music, gyrating bodies and free-flowing beer. People spilled out of the ground floor apartments and onto the footpath. Although Easter was early that year (the end of March), it was not the best weather for being outdoors in our tiny costumes; but I shook off the shivers and danced away the goosebumps. Kate found other ways of keeping herself warm. Being a light drinker, I stayed sober and appointed myself guardian of my flatmate’s virtue.

When we woke the following morning – late, but still ante meridiem – Kate was feeling remorseful as well as queasy. She apologized for ruining my night, and I reassured her that she hadn’t. I added that I had my own faults and foibles, and this got us into a heart-to-heart which lasted most of the rest of the day. We shared each other’s secrets and described our fantasies in tantalizing detail. That is when I told her of my long history of tie-up games. Given what she had revealed about herself, I knew she wouldn’t be too shocked, but I was nonetheless surprised by her response. Without missing a beat she said: “Well, Sarah dear, I think I have just the right guy for you.”

Now I wasn’t particularly interested in a new boyfriend at this stage; and when a few days later Kate blithely announced that she had set me up for a blind date, I couldn’t hide my displeasure. She just laughed it off and promised that she’d made suitable arrangements – a crowded place, under bright lights, with plenty of exits. She didn’t catch on that this was hardly comforting. But in fact everything turned out fine. I knew Jack from having encountered him in the Village. He was two years older than me and an engineering student (but I didn’t hold that against him). He was handsome and intelligent, charming and courteous, with a wry, slightly offbeat sense of humour. The date was uneventful, but we hit it off so well that he asked me out again the following night. Unfortunately, I had been studying and working hard, and when the time came I was struck with a blinding headache. Not wanting to spoil our evening, I didn’t cancel; but as a result I drank a little too much wine. Afterwards, as he walked me home, the night air cleared my head of both my lingering headache and the alcohol buzz, but I was in a giddy state of mind.

I didn’t intend to bring up the subject of tie-up games, but as we were joking I said something foolish along the lines of “If you kidnapped me right here, right now, no one would ever know.” He laughed and scolded me that I really shouldn’t say stuff like that. But then he told me I would make a beautiful hostage. I giggled and he chuckled, and we both fell into an awkward silence. At just that moment a few spots of rain descended upon us. It was a timely circuit breaker, and we raced each other the rest of the way to Kate’s and my apartment.

The roomie was nowhere to be found. I made coffee, and Jack and I sat and chatted for maybe an hour as we dried out (we hadn’t got very wet). Having already broached the subject, I brought up the issue of bondage games. I talked about my experiences and Jack added little to the conversation, allowing me to prattle on as he listened politely and diligently. The rain never let up, so when it was finally time to retire I offered him the couch to sleep on. I never hinted at anything else and he showed no expectation of something more than a place to lay his head. Nevertheless, when I retired to the bedroom, I impulsively put on a frilly little baby-doll negligée. Honestly, I wasn’t planning a thing, but when I’m in such a mood the exquisite embrace of satin and lace enchants my sleep with the most pleasant of dreams.

Yet not long afterwards, the effects of the wine and coffee inevitably took their toll. To get to the bathroom, I had to go through the living room. I crept past Jack apparently asleep in the darkness; but when I returned the light was on and he was sitting up. He had put on his shirt and trousers, as if preparing to leave, but his shoes and jacket were still where he’d left them.

Feeling suddenly exposed in my nightie, I cringed and crossed my arms over my front, while he looked me over. Then I turned away, already betrayed by my instant of hesitation. I went into my room, but I could hear the floorboards creak as he followed me. I felt my heart begin to beat faster, with apprehension and excitement.

I did not close the door behind me. I sat on the edge of my bed, my hands at my side, knees pressed together. Jack said nothing as he loomed in the doorway, silhouetted against the cheery glow from the living room. I could not see his face, but I could hear his breathing, deep and slow. He hit the light switch and then just stood there with his arms folded, leaning against the door frame, silently watching me. I started to feel squirmy, my hands began to fidget, and my eyes flitted about. I tried to not look at him, but it was impossible to look away.

We maintained our standoff (for want of a better word) for what was most likely just a few seconds but felt like minutes. I didn’t invite him into the room and he was not going to invade. He hardly moved so much as a muscle, and his gaze shifted only the length and breadth of my body. Self-conscious again, I tugged furtively at the hem of my nightie to draw it down, and when our eyes briefly met I flashed him a coy smile. With that, he raised one hand, pointed towards me and the bed, and made a twirling gesture with two fingers.

Without a sound, I crawled up fully onto the mattress and lay flat on my stomach. I had my arms stretched out, but when nothing more seemed to happen, I put my hands behind my back and crossed my wrists. It was my signal to proceed, and I could hear him moving about. He seemed to be taking his time and there were shuffling noises, but I did not turn or lift my head to see. I don’t really care for surprises, but I wanted to discover what he had in store for me one moment and one sensation at a time.

I felt the innersprings rise and sag as he sat or knelt beside me on the bed. He placed his hand on the top of my head, fondling my hair before running his fingers down the back of my neck and across my shoulder blades. As he did so, he pressed his nails into my bare skin, just enough to make the flesh tingle. He played with the halter-strap of my negligée. He caressed my arms with long, tender strokes. Our fingers entwined and I squeezed his hand to let him know I was ready.

He began carefully weaving something around my wrists. I couldn’t tell what he was using to bind me, but there was a familiar, soothing quality about its soft, supple texture. In his manner, Jack was genteel yet strict, permitting no resistance but not forcing anything. My body quivered. I couldn’t help myself as a wave of sheer delight swept over me. This man had talent which could only have come from years of experience and practice, educing the most intense response from the simple act of tying my hands.

When it was done, our fingers interlocked again, and his played with mine, teasing me with the freedom he enjoyed but which my bonds denied me. Then his hands resumed their journey southwards, traversing my derrière, lingering briefly to explore the swells and creases before gliding over my thighs, and down my legs, along my calves to my heels. By the time he’d reached my ankles and was tying them, I was gasping into my pillow.

My heart was racing now, my flesh was clammy, my breathing had turned rapid and shallow. Though I tried to keep still, I was trembling and starting to wriggle as I felt the telltale, tickling thrill inside me. I tried desperately to suppress my arousal, or at least to not show it. I wasn’t really sure how far I wanted this to go.

Skilfully and tactfully, gently but firmly, he eased my tension, grazing his fingernails along my arms and legs, massaging my calf and shoulder muscles, toying with whatever it was that bound my wrists and ankles, then asserting his control by seizing my head with one hand on my brow and the other under my chin, compelling me to stare straight ahead, towards the base of the headboard. The mattress rebounded as he alighted from the bed. A minute passed while I heard him moving about again. Then a hand closed over my mouth and I felt something fuzzy and roundish being forced between my lips. I clamped my jaws for a second, then surrendered. Whatever filled my mouth was spongy, with a cottony taste, and it took just a moment to realize my gag was a couple of balled-up socks.

“Don’t bite down on it,” he said. So far as I recall, it was the first word either of us had spoken since he entered my bedroom. “You’ll just push it into your throat.” To secure it, he used a stocking that he must have taken from the dressing table. The material he had used to tie my hands and feet didn’t feel like nylon, but I had my suspicion of what it was.

He said, “If you’re okay with this, clench and unclench your fists.”

I did so and awaited his next move.

He blindfolded me with a pair of my pantyhose that he had to wrap around my head several times to shut out the light. Finally, he bent up my legs to tie my wrists to my ankles. I couldn’t hold back a faint moan as I was bound into my most cherished position.

Jack remained on the bed beside me for a long time, mostly just looking at me. Sometimes his hand would wander over my back, arms and shoulders, play with my hair, tickle my feet. I suppose he was thinking how much further he should take this. But when he slid his hand up my thigh and under the edge of my nightie, I flinched, and he quickly pulled back. He couldn’t suppress a quiet sigh, but it was probably a good thing that he went no further. There would always be a next time.

Maybe as punishment, perhaps as reward, he left me hog-tied for the rest of the night. He made it loose enough that I was comfortable and could with no great difficulty have untangled the knots; but I didn’t and I don’t really know why. I knew there would be discomfort later on, and it wasn’t that I feared he would come in and check up on me. I think I wanted to keep something of his with me as I slept. He did remove my gag. (I would have made a fuss if he hadn’t.) He drew a sheet and blanket over me and left me alone with my dreams.

When I awoke, I was still hog-tied and blindfolded. I could tell it was morning because the warm sunlight was streaming into the room and splaying across my legs. During my sleep, I had somehow tossed about enough to slough off my covers. I was dying to stretch my arm and leg muscles; they weren’t cramping yet, but I was feeling stiff and my limbs, back and shoulders were aching. I tried to sit up but couldn’t. After a while, I heard the door opening, and a voice. It was Kate. She made a couple of jokes at my expense, and that’s when I discovered what Jack had used to bind me, some of my bras. (I’m not sure why, but I find it incredibly sexy to be tied up with your own undies. It’s the intimacy, I suppose.)

Kate started to untie me. However, Jack came in and insisted that I remain blindfolded and my hands stay bound behind my back. They led me out to the kitchen, where my roommate and my new playmate had already made breakfast. They took turns feeding me toast and dosing me with much-needed caffeine.

For all her extroverted, sophisticated persona, I think that Kate had been just a little shocked at seeing me lying on the bed bound and blindfolded with my own underwear. She talked about it, in private, for days afterward, and though she never once said “What’s it like?” I knew the question was there on her lips, waiting to be asked. But it never was, and I never got round to tying her up.

However, that’s not the end of it. About six months later, Kate did get her taste of tie-ups.

There is a town a couple of hours’ drive from where I live which has a reputation for “alternative” lifestyles. I won’t name it because recently the community has been trying to clean up its image of drop-outs, drugs and dreadlocks. Needless to say, it is a magnet for hippies, punks, goths, stoners, grungies, freaks, ferals, utopians, new-agers, sea-changers, tree-changers and backpackers. Each year, in September, they all come together for the Springfest, a combination of country fair, fun carnival and arts-music festival. Jack and I decided to go and we took along Kate. Her boyfriend du jour had intended to join us but cancelled at the last minute.

We spent much of Saturday in the flea-market. Jack dutifully trudged along behind his womenfolk, suffering in silence and fulfilling his role of patient, tenacious beast of burden as we pushed on relentlessly from one handicraft and clothing stall to the next. He finally came to life in the leather goods section, where he spotted a rack of swimwear. I was not very impressed when he recommended Kate and I indulge ourselves. I’d always thought leather might chafe in the most sensitive places; but these were made of beautifully soft lamb skin chamois. So after a little more prompting and a good deal of flattery, I bought a bikini and Kate a little playsuit. That evening in our hotel room, when we tried on our new acquisitions, I had to admit that as well as looking superbly sexy, the leather felt wonderful.

Jack casually nodded his approval. Then he left us to wander down to the nearest pub for a couple of beers and to seek advice on a good, cheap restaurant. When he returned, he was carrying a paper bag that he put away without comment. After dinner, we donned our tie-dyes, beads and sandals for the evening festivities. The highlight was a young woman fire dancer who juggled flaming torches bare-breasted. She wouldn’t want to miss a beat was all I could think.

The following morning I wasn’t surprised when Jack suggested I wear my leather bikini; and Kate didn’t need much convincing to put on her new outfit. But then Jack brought out his mysterious paper bag and emptied its contents onto the table. Again I wasn’t really surprised when out tumbled two leather collars and a number of long, narrow rawhide straps.

Kate gave me a quizzical look as I picked up one of the collars, studied it for a moment and then put it around my neck and buckled it in place. She stared at its partner, frowned at Jack, grimaced, then shrugged and put hers on as well. Jack attached two of the straps to our new fashion accessories to make leashes. And that’s how we went to the fair. It says much of the nature of Springfest that we received only a few second glances from passers-by as Jack led us about all morning on our tethers. I was somewhat disappointed that my bikini and Kate’s playsuit didn’t attract much attention. Compared to many of the fairgoers, especially the women, we were if anything overdressed. Kate remained dubious about the whole business of being on a leash. Of course she could have rebelled at any time, but she played along like the jolly good sport she was.

Once we had toured all the exhibits and revisited the market stalls, Jack veered off in the direction of the ubiquitous beer tent. He found us a small space in one corner, and before he went to the bar to get our drinks he tied the ends of our tethers to one of the tent poles. Kate’s eyes rolled several times, but she stoically pressed her lips together, and she didn’t free herself. Just then a couple of likely lads – stereotypical urban cowboys in broad-brimmed Stetsons, enormous belt buckles and fancy boots that would never have trodden in a cow pat – began to chat us up.

When Jack returned, one of them asked if he wanted to sell his pets.

“Sorry, not for sale.”

Pets indeed, I thought. But before I was able to even start my drink, Jack took it away from me and set it down on a nearby railing. He whispered to the fellow (Steve) who’d offered to buy me and pulled something out of his pocket. It was one of the leather straps, which he handed over. Steve took hold of my wrists and brought my hands together. Jack, ever so helpful, intervened. “No, the other way.” So Steve clamped his hand on my left shoulder and brusquely shoved me until I turned to face away from him.

Before I could oblige further, he seized my wrists and wrenched my arms behind my back.

“Steady there, mate,” Jack said, but he didn’t interfere. It was an amateurish job anyway. I could have pulled my hands apart no trouble... but of course I didn’t.

Steve’s friend was more polite. “Front or back?” he asked Kate.

“Front please,” she answered.

We had by now started to attract the interest of some of the other patrons, and I was sort of glad Jack had no more leather straps to pass around. After that, I finally got my drink, albeit with the invaluable assistance of Kate. Jack satisfied himself with a brace of beers and we set off again. However, when I had to go to the toilet he released our hands. Still, we remained on our leashes for the rest of the day. I had hoped that Jack might blindfold us and lead us about like that for a while – it would have been interesting. But he didn’t think of it and I didn’t suggest it, mainly because of Kate.

We left Springfest around three o’clock. Kate drove because Jack had managed to fit in several more beers before departure. He let Kate keep her collar. I don’t know if she ever wore it again.

At the end of the year, I checked out of the Village and into an official student residence on-campus. It was not as entertaining, but less hectic and thus more conducive to study. Then I got my own apartment. Kate and I saw little of each other after that. She has since graduated with a law degree, a gorgeous fiancé and hopefully some fond memories of her kinky little flatmate.

As for Jack, he and I were a couple for about twelve months. He eventually fell for another girl, but I didn’t hold a grudge. In fact, we separated on good terms, and he and Sabrina are now my best friends. We’d had a lot of fun together, even if our relationship had never really progressed beyond the superficial. Jack often tied me up, but while the Springfest weekend came close, nothing ever equalled that marvellous very first time, after our second date. In fact, I sometimes wonder if perhaps we’d moved too fast. I had given in to instinct and impulse, and perhaps that took away some of the magic. What do you do for an encore? Well, there was the sex, but that’s not what we’re talking about here.

***

Life begins at the end of your comfort zone.
– Neale Donald Walsch, Conversations with God

Jack and Sabrina are an extraordinary couple. They seem the perfect embodiment of the principle that opposites attract, but I see them more as yin and yang. He is the archetypal man’s man, but he is also a real woman’s man. He’s a no-nonsense, take-charge sort of guy, strong enough to be tender, secure enough to admit his faults and not take himself too seriously, confident enough to always be in control yet never failing to be considerate and generous, able to give as easily and as readily as he takes. His lady love complements him perfectly. A very successful architect, Sabrina is several years his elder, a tall, striking brunette, at once elegant and athletic, with a radiant personality, dazzling smile, sparkling eyes, perfect legs and body, and a sharp intellect. She’s the sort of woman who would veer away from a guy like Jack if she encountered him casually at a party, but she had the perception to see through his rough-hewn exterior; and I’d quickly discovered that they have another connection, one that involved the liberal application of rope.

Although she is, in her professional life, an assertive, independent woman, who owns both the houses they live in and is the principal breadwinner, Sabrina enjoys what I have called the inverted power dynamic – a strong, self-reliant female who submits willingly and joyfully to her man.

As with my brother and his girlfriend (a story I will tell at a later time), it was I who brought Jack and Sabrina together. Our tempestuous relationship had lasted just over a year, and around the time that we were beginning to go our separate ways, I was a member of a group at university which I will call the Women’s Adventure Club. That’s not the true name, but it conveys the right flavour. It’s a group of likeminded gals who get together once a month for an “extreme” adventure. Our exploits weren’t really that wild, though more for want of opportunity than daring. For example, I had done some parachuting and that was how I originally came to join. We were mainly about doing crazy things, but we were also involved in feminist politics on campus. In fact, to be honest I think our raison d’être was as much as anything else to prove that we had balls as big and brassy as any man’s... at least metaphorically.

So when it came my turn to nominate a suitably “out there” adventure, I had just the thing. The previous month’s theme had been “extreme cuisine” – a delectable assortment of creepy crawlies, boiled, baked and battered – and in the wake of that exquisite experience, my suggestion received a more positive reception than it might have otherwise. I proposed a night of bondage games. There were a dozen of us (an average attendance... two more than for the bugs ’n’ slugs banquet) and several brought along boyfriends. (There were also some girlfriends, but these were already members.) As it turned out, Jack and I were the only pairing with any sort of genuine TUGs know-how, and so it was not surprising that it became a night of guys tying up girls, guided by Jack as ropemaster-in-chief and me as demonstration model. Guy-on-girl has always been my preference, of course, but in this case it was easy to rationalize. The mission statement of the WAC is that as members you are supposed to undertake the unfamiliar, explore and test your limits, go beyond your comfort zone. For me, this is the essence of bondage, and that night it meant being the ones tied up.

It was a cold night outside, so most of us were wearing jeans and sweaters and coats. But eyes began to widen and jaws began to drop when I started taking off my clothes. As I stripped down to my brassiere and briefs, I explained that a major part of the sensual experience of being bound is to feel the ropes tightening against your bare skin. Jack added that tying up a woman is like creating a work of art. The ropes, when applied properly, highlight the beauty and grace of her body. Their pattern and texture – harsh, geometrical, rigid and forceful – contrasts dramatically and aesthetically with the smooth skin, the subtle yielding flesh, the soft curves and crevices, following the natural lines of the feminine form 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. Indeed, while for your partner it’s more a visual experience, for you it’s tactile. He beholds the product of his artistry, but you feel it… you are it.

(Actually, I learned most of this from my classes in Shibari, the Japanese art of rope bondage. But it’s the gist of what Jack and I said that night. I should add, as well, that I am not denying the artistry and pleasure of male bondage; but that was not our focus.)

With some reluctance, the other girls began undressing. It’s funny – we’d jumped out of a plane, abseiled down cliffs, eaten bugs, even chased sewer rats (the rodent variety, not the fratboys), and this was the first time I’d seen any of them hesitate. But in spite of some blushes and giggles, everyone complied. (Two kept their shirts on because they weren’t wearing a bra.) Meanwhile, as Jack began handing out the ropes, straps and scarves, the half-dozen other boyfriends had the nervous-guilty-delighted looks of kids who’d broken into a candy shop.

We started off slowly, with light, playful bondage, but rapidly progressed to more strenuous and exotic positions – hog-ties, lotus-ties, shrimp-ties, strappado, etcetera. Each of the guys had two girls to work on, which kept their hands full. At one point, they had us all trussed and gagged, squirming on the floorboards, moaning and groaning, making so much noise that it was surprising that people in other parts of the building didn’t raise the alarm.

Late in the evening, we switched places, two females tying up each male. Unlike us girls, the guys kept all their clothes on, and they only got a brief taste of the ropes. It was approaching midnight and we were all pretty much exhausted. However, it amused me that Jack appeared decidedly uncomfortable during the time he was on the receiving end. And I don’t know how many of the Women’s Adventure Club were inspired by their experience that night, but as we were getting dressed Andrea, one of the newer members, drew me aside to whisper that she and her boyfriend had been “experimenting” and had found the lessons to be very “motivational.” I never worked out exactly what she meant by that, but Andrea and Luke will feature in upcoming episodes in my memoir.

Sabrina, on the other hand, was not present that night. Having graduated, she was no longer member of the club. Nevertheless, she’d heard about our TUGs night and sought me out for an interrogation. We’d known each other vaguely for a few months, having met at a party while I was still living in the Village.

As I’ve described, there are always parties going on there. Incidentally, the underlying theme of most of these seems to be that females should wear as little clothing as possible. There’s Halloween, of course, but also the aforementioned Playboys and Bunnies, the Naughty Schoolgirl (naturally!), Pimps and Hoes, Nightie Nights, Lace and Lingerie, Board Shorts and Bikinis, Beer and Bikinis, the Bikini Ball and Bikini Bash, Mardi Gras and Arabian Nights (think harem girls and belly-dancers). At Christmastime they have Santa’s scantily clad Little Helpers and the ever-popular Ho-Ho-Hoes, and there’s the all-time classic Toga Party. My favourite was Buccaneers and their Booty (don’t we all love a double entendre?). Jack went as pirate captain Calico Jack and he took me along as his plunder. Unlike my Goth experience, I didn’t spend the entire night restrained (more’s the pity). However, we made our grand entrance with me slung over his shoulder, hands tied behind my back and ankles bound together (and showing the requisite amount of booty, I must say). It was in this position that I was introduced to Sabrina. Since Jack and I were then in the process of amicably splitting up, she was available and I soon learned that she also had an interest in bondage. I therefore facilitated their getting together. The chemistry worked immediately.

They returned the favour by setting me up with Rob. Like Jack and Sabrina, on the surface Rob and I seem very much different. He is imperturbable, taciturn and tolerant. I am passionate, voluble and volatile. He is anything but dominant by nature, and while my public persona is very assertive (at my workplace I am known – behind my back, of course – as “that little bee with an itch”), in my personal relationships I am submissive. Yet we’ve been together for three years now, and although it’s a rather hackneyed expression, we really are soul mates.

Until we became a couple, Rob had no practical experience of bondage, and for a long time he remained skeptical about our tie-up games – indeed rather uptight. And at first I was shy about revealing this side of my nature. But our third serious date was his birthday, and we were in a restaurant when I gave him his present. After he’d opened it, I dropped the ribbon onto the table and reached across, placing my palms together. I said something corny about having me gift-wrapped. After some further coaxing, he bound my wrists, feeling very self-conscious doing it in public. However, none of the other patrons appeared to notice, and our waitress just smiled. And having broken the ice, I was thereafter able to lead him all the way into my weird and wonderful world of kink.

As you can imagine, it can be frustrating trying to show a newbie the ropes when you are the one who wants to be tied up. But while he has never truly understood the appeal, he has always been a sweetheart about indulging my passions. We’ve a long way to go, but he is keen to learn. Of course, for his efforts he deserves a special reward, and I have my means of keeping him happy.

* “I drink therefore I am.”

Re: THE TIE-UP CHRONICLES

Postby bound-black-girl lover » Sat Nov 03, 2012 2:09 am

"I discovered what Jack had used to bind me, some of my bras. (I’m not sure why, but I find it incredibly sexy to be tied up with your own undies. It’s the intimacy, I suppose.)"
I COULDN'T AGREE MORE!

Re: THE TIE-UP CHRONICLES

Postby sarobah » Thu Nov 29, 2012 5:08 pm

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 Season

There 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 Times

Bill 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...

Re: THE TIE-UP CHRONICLES

Postby cloud » Fri Nov 30, 2012 7:44 am

Warning: This story contains some sexual content, semi-nudity, mild coarse language, bondage and football.


nooo.... not football..... ;)

Well, very good and detailed story, but I cant believe them all... watching football just ignoring you lot on the floor bound and gaged.... Cant wait for any more parts that you have to add.

p.s. you have gone from chapter 9 to chapter 11, not sure if this is intentional, if you have missed of a chapter or just lost count.
Oh, a TUG! Do I have to play alone?
First Fictional Story (chapters 0-18): Moved Closer by Bondage

Re: THE TIE-UP CHRONICLES

Postby sarobah » Thu Dec 06, 2012 4:42 pm

cloud wrote:I can’t believe them all... watching football just ignoring you lot on the floor bound and gagged.

Since I won’t pretend to understand how the male brain works (or at least how it connects to the other organs), I won’t attempt an explanation.

You have gone from chapter 9 to chapter 11, not sure if this is intentional, if you have missed of a chapter or just lost count.

Well spotted. I had some problems with Chapter 10 and it is being rewritten. Each chapter does, for the most part, stand up alone, so it should not interfere with the storyline too much. The only discontinuity is that Ch. 10 introduces Michelle.

And speaking of discontinuity, the rest of this chapter (11. Balls) is being posted in the “More... Intimate TUGs” section. I wanted to keep the entire work together, but have decided that the next part is inappropriate for a “general” audience.
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