BALLS

Postby sarobah » Sat Sep 19, 2009 4:34 am

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

“Some people think football is a matter of life and death. I don’t like that attitude. I can assure them it is much more serious than that.”
– William “Bill” Shankly

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There is one simple rule that every woman must learn to ensure social harmony and domestic tranquillity. Never get between a man and his football... except to bring him more beer. Of course, we girls are not immune to footy fever. Even I confess partiality to the sight of strapping lads in tight shorts, 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.

Here in Oz, the land of plenty, we have four codes of football, all followed with equal passion. However, in my neck of the woods, the dominant brand is Rugby League, and its highlight is an annual ritual called State of Origin. Now approaching its fourth decade, it is a three-game grudge match between 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 awash with beer, when stout hearts flutter and stiff lips tremble, when the nation – or a goodly part of it – holds its collective breath as titans clash and the gods themselves contend in vain for the attention of men. Or so it is said.

This year, as usual, my boyfriend Rob and I had no great emotional investment in the outcome. By birth and upbringing, I’m an Aussie Rules gal. (For the edification of heathens and heretics, that’s the true-blue, home-grown game. Where I come from, Rugby League is about as popular as a craniotomy, and according to the local folk has the same effect.) Rob, on the other hand, is rumoured to play some foreign variety – socket, I think they call it, or maybe sucker. So it meant little to us that the Maroons were two-up in the series. Nevertheless, when Jack and Sabrina invited us to their place to watch the final match, we saw no good reason to decline.

Jack is my ex-boyfriend. We’d parted on good terms and we still hang out occasionally, to reminisce about the fun times. He is the archetypal man’s man, but he is also a real woman’s man. He’s 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. An excellent partner for my tie-up adventures. His girlfriend Sabrina complements him perfectly. A very successful architect, she is several years older, a tall, striking brunette, at once elegant and athletic, with a vibrant personality, dazzling smile, sparkling eyes, perfect legs and body. 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 veneer; and I’d quickly discovered that they have another connection, one that involved the liberal application of rope.

Now given that fact, I suspected there would be more to this evening than mere football. For the past few months I have been working insanely hard on a research project. As a result, I’ve had neither the time nor the energy for my once regular bondage games with Rob. So when he was unusually insistent that I needed this break, and assured me how much I would enjoy myself, it didn’t take Sherlock Holmesian deductive skills to figure out what was going on.

When we arrived at Sabrina’s house, she greeted us at the door, looking characteristically gorgeous in a blue football jersey that she wore 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 a guy I’d met a couple of times, and I knew he was also a tie-up games aficionado. My suspicions were firming to certainty.

Jack drawled a perfunctory welcome, keeping his gaze affixed to the lifeless TV set, and passed a can of ale to Rob, who had sunken into a cavernous leather armchair.

I looked across to one of the vacant seats, but Sabrina softly cleared her throat, shook her head and waggled her finger, beckoning me to follow her into the kitchen. There Andrea, Luke’s lady love, awaited us. She’s about my age, a medical student, slim and pretty, with tousled, russet-coloured hair and dark, expressive eyes. She’s a no-nonsense, plain-speaking, down-to-earth girl, and if you didn’t understand the subversive allure of tie-up games, you’d never guess that she’d be such an enthusiast. She’s a lot like me in that respect, although we’d never had the opportunity to play together.

Andrea 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 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.

I 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 stripped off my shorts and shoes and slipped into the stockings. They were sheer, white, lace-trimmed silk, expensive and elegant. 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 containing some sort of ghastly mustard-yellow bacon-cheese-and-who-knows-what concoction.

“This should tame the beast for a while,” she said, rolling her eyes in the direction of the living room.

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 – maybe both. Rob smiled indulgently, but winced when Luke gruffly demanded another round of beers. Resisting the urge to put the frosty cans where they belonged, I fetched three from the bar fridge, then retreated to the refuge of the kitchen.

Shortly thereafter, Marcia and Simon arrived, and any lingering doubts about the theme of the party 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, Marcia is a striking woman in her early thirties who radiates power and sexuality. She’s an associate professor of applied physics, and I’ve taken a couple of her classes. I had been surprised when I first discovered our other common interest, but was not amazed to learn that she favours the giving rather than the receiving end of the rope.

Simon took up his position with the guys in the living room and Marcia joined us in the kitchen. She smiled at the three of us in our cute little outfits, and frowned when Andrea told her “The blue will match your eyes.”

Like Andrea, Marcia doesn’t fancy frilly feminine fashion – she’s more the leather pants and biker vest type (though more bitch than butch, if you know what I mean) – but in her cerulean jersey, suspender-belt, stockings and heels, she looked stunning. I could have ravished her myself, had I been that way inclined.

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It was half an hour before kick-off time, the TV 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 Marcia and I brought in the pizzas; and when she had set down her platter Marcia 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 Marcia hard on the backside and she leapt to her feet, a startled look in her eyes and a vengeful curl on her lips. 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 back the expletives.

“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 to 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 bundle of nylon ropes and black silk scarves lying next to Jack’s chair. Not that I wasn’t expecting it, but that was an awfully big pile.

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. Rob has never really “got” 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 Marcia, 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 Marcia, having the power and control. But more to the point, it was not her customary place, and I think Simon 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 television 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 tushie-judging contest,” I promised myself, “someone’s gonna pay with a vital part of their anatomy.”

Not daring to move my head, I nevertheless caught a glimpse, out of the corner of my eye, of Marcia 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. 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 wooden floorboards were hard on my knees, and I noted that Jack had removed the fleecy rug, which now languished in a forlorn heap, 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 a nice and 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 Marcia to interpret and react. They hobbled towards him. He was holding out several coils of nylon rope and some of the black silk 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 silk. 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 Marcia. 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 Marcia, more familiar with being on the other end, 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 polished 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. I was glad that was her not me, because it is so much tighter and more stressful. 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 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.

I’ve said this before and I will no doubt say it again. A stringent elbow tie is not the most comfortable position to be in. As 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 an excessive 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 silk 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 silky texture of more satin pressing against my lips and opened my mouth for the gag. I clamped my teeth on a wad of folded material 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 condition, I was not very comfortable and 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 barely audible against the background of assorted 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, 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 breath 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. Marcia and Sabrina were being bound. By which of the guys I don’t know; maybe all four, because Marcia was making odd guttural noises, both menacing and pleading.

“I’ll get you all for...” she laughed, as her final words were stifled by the ingoing satin.

“She will, count on it,” Simon said.

“Arrgg, arrhhgg,” Marcia moaned.

Her muffled, futile threats actually grew louder and I felt a boot nudge my right side. Something brushed against my shoulder and I was shoved brusquely, but just a little, to the left. Marcia 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 snugly against my other side.

Pretty soon Marcia 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. Not that it wasn’t nice, I have to admit. I don’t mind a bit of helpless frustration. It’s why I like to be tied up.

“Ball’s in play!” one of the guys shouted.

“Oh hell,” I thought, “what’s coming now?”

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DNA is amazing stuff. Nature gets hold of a perfectly good X chromosome, chops off one of its legs and makes everything that could have been so wondrously simple horribly complicated. So you take what’s left, the mutant XY, put it in a nice suit, tell it to watch its manners, and order is restored. But then along comes football, shutting down XY’s higher brain functions, stimulating the burp-and-fart part of the cerebral cortex and unleashing the caveman.

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 girls 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 that you can immerse yourself in 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 has about as much attraction for me as an ulcerated tonsil (okay, that’s a slight, I repeat slight, exaggeration); 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 make you drop everything to see for yourself. You know what I mean, like when you’re walking down the street and someone says “Wow, watch that thing go!” or “Check out that chick’s enormous butt!” or “Hey, get a look at Brad Pitt’s bare naked torso.” (Yeah, don’t we all wish...) Of course, in the context of the evening, it was more “Watch this guy go when he gets the ball!” and “Did you see that move? Poetry in motion!” and “That’s gotta hurt. Here’s comes the replay!”

It’s enough to drive a normal girl to the bat-filled belfry; but when it comes to unrequited curiosity, I am in a cat-massacring class of my own. My friends (and more so my enemies) can attest to this. I become Lady Macbeth, Griselda and Miss Eliza Bennet rolled into one, plus throw in a couple of the Eumenides. I am not, never have been and never will be a mushroom.***

So pretty soon I was beginning to itch and twitch. Marcia beside me let loose with a gurgled growl, quite feeble really, for such a daunting dominatrix. 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 in her being humbled like this... It all sounds pretty trite, but I needed something to pass the time.

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 was not good news for us girls (though I suppose it depends on what you mean by good news) because the guys were 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.

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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 boys were doing. Rob and Simon were still seated, gazing down at me with indulgent expressions. Luke’s chair was empty. I glanced back past my shoulder and 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 black 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. It then occurred to me that we were wearing the maroon jumpers. Wasn’t “our” team losing? That couldn’t be good.

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, Marcia and Sabrina were still belly-down, hog-tied, gagged and blindfolded. Sabrina was lying absolutely still, but Marcia was sort of jittery, her fists were clenching and unclenching, her toes were 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 show their knickers. Sabrina was wearing frilly, apricot-coloured panties and Marcia a pair of black-lace “boy’s cut” briefs. 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 Marcia. He motioned towards Andrea and then to Sabrina. “Get them up,” he commanded.

I interpreted that to mean I was to help Marcia onto her knees, but it was much, much harder in the doing. Hog-tied, she was no help whatsoever; and making it even more difficult, she’s half a head taller than me (standing) and about ten kilos 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 full weight of her feet and lower legs was now borne by the rope securing her ankles to her wrists. It was impossible to hold her feet 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 tiny 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. Helpless, fragile, bowed but not broken, Marcia looked – and felt – almost unbearably sexy.

I glanced at Andrea. She was having a somewhat easier time with Sabrina, who rested her head on Andrea’s shoulder and let her partner keep them both balanced and erect. She looked across at me, managed a grin, 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 Marcia. 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 Marcia’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 Marcia made a startled sound. We almost lost our balance, but Jack steadied us. I inserted my other hand between Marcia’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 again behind her back. Rob was out of his seat and propping up the two girls while Luke was tethering them in a clinch not unlike Marcia’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 captives. 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, relaxed and pitched to one side.

When they’d stopped wriggling and squirming, I switched my attention to Simon, who was still sitting on the couch. He was engrossed in knotting two or three of the black scarves into a single piece, but he turned his interest onto us every so often, mainly to see how his woman was coping with her unfamiliar role. Jack was still tinkering with his little tableau. He attached my bound wrists to Marcia’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 Marcia is a breast-height taller 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 seemed to require an awful lot of fine-tuning.

Simon had at last finished his task and held it up proudly for Jack to inspect. He nodded with approval and Simon leapt out of his seat and got down behind Marcia. 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 Marcia 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, elongated knot, threaded with two more. There were four ends and it took my fuzzy brain a second to work out why. I opened my mouth and bent my head backwards while craning my neck; Marcia leaned forward as far as she could (prompted by Simon’s hand behind her head), until I could just manage to reach my side of the gag. Simon’s other hand was now on the back of my neck and he eased us together until I was able to close my mouth around the knot. Simon tied Marcia’s half of the gag in place while Jack did the same for mine.

The connection was complete. Marcia 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 satin became saturated with our saliva, we swapped that as well. (I hope this doesn’t sound too icky. It’s harder to describe than it is to experience first-hand. Maybe it’s a girl thing.)

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, Marcia, Sabrina, Andrea and I would become supernumerary once more, at least until the football was over. I had no doubt that after that we would 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. He leapt up and bounded down the hallway to answer the knock.

“You’ve got to be kidding!” I thought. “Visitors? Now? Like this?”

I heard a male voice and a female’s laugh, both of which I – with a mixture of relief and dismay – recognized. My brother Alex appeared in the doorway, lugging a six-pack of beers. Coming in behind him was his girlfriend Michelle. She 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. It was pretty obvious which team she rooted for (if you know what I mean).

Michelle came in with her gaze affixed to the television screen, and she performed a rapid, comical double-take and blinked several times when she saw us girls on the floor, Andrea and Sabrina lying on their sides, tethered in a hog-tied bundle and still squirming, Marcia and me on our knees wrapped in quiet embrace. She studied us, with sympathy and fascination, for a short while, then turned to stare at Alex, whose expression was one of delight and satisfaction (but significantly not of surprise). 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. Typical eloquent male-chat: “Who’s leading?” “Blues.” “How much?” “Fourteen six.” “How’s thirsty doing?” (Eh? Then I remember – “Thursty” Thurston is a Queensland player.) “Restart in two...”

Next thing I knew, a shadow was descending and Simon (I think) 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; she bumped into me, and so did one of the males. I could tell the difference because one set of legs was bare and the other wore trousers. It didn’t take a penetrating intellect to realize that the girl was being wrestled to the floor. There was thumping and scraping, which was Michelle kicking to elude the ankle bindings, then flapping and slapping noises as she flailed desperately to extricate her arms from the encircling, tightening ropes.

“No, please,” she laughed, “not the blindfold! You bastards!” she yelled, before her protests were rendered incoherent behind her gag.

I felt sorry for Michelle because she 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.

I had met Michelle through Kate, a former flatmate I’ve written about elsewhere who introduced me to Jack. It was I who then introduced Michelle to my brother. Those of you who have read my earlier true stories will know that Alex tied me up a few times when we were kids. He’s two and a bit years younger than me and we initiated each other into tie-up games. (I realize that I must come across as Spooky Relationship Girl, what with all my bondage connections – brother, boyfriend, ex-boyfriend, brother’s girlfriend, etcetera. However, I call attention to the fact that not all my family and social ties involve actual tying. We do “normal” stuff too.)

What happened after that is a blur. It’s 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 Marcia. 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.

ï‚«ï‚«ï‚«

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 Roaches 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” – that last bit was my normally ever-so-civilized Rob. Have I mentioned how spectator sports do strange things to the XY chromosome, shaving off a million years of evolution? (That’s why I call State of Origin the Origin of Species.)

I knew that we poor damsels would soon bear the brunt of that final adrenaline rush. (Don’t worry, I was looking forward to it. Unless you know how kinky I can be, you will never understand.) The pay-off was not long in coming. Rob and Simon (I presume) unhitched me and Marcia. 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 feminine moans and whimpers, then I was lifted onto my knees and moved across the floor. My blindfold came off and I saw that we five girls were arranged kneeling in a circle – or a pentagon, call it what you will – 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 dishevelled and so must have I. Michelle’s skirt had been discarded, presumably so that her crotch-rope could be more effective. Marcia’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 ourselves and 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 harness, 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 I was forced to hobble forward (try doing that on your knees with bound ankles and a taut crotch-rope!) 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.

“What do you call that?” I heard one of the guys ask. I think it was Simon.

“That’s a rope rosette,” Jack replied.

“You’re making that up,” I said to myself. I knew he was, because 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 had me somewhere on the floor; he untied me but only so I could take off my jersey. I hesitated, wondering if I was going to be stripped completely naked, but I trusted my guy. It isn’t that I am so unfamiliar with showing my all, to friends at least, but there’s a time and a place. Fortunately this was neither the time nor the place.

Rob tied me again. I was still kneeling, and he 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 – so nice of him! 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 Sarah-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 my lil’ bro, 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, are not interested in the details.

It was almost midnight by the time the party drew to a close. The boys amused themselves with us for two or three hours, it must have been, but even they tired of the sport eventually. Anyway, it was mid-week and most of us had places to be in the morning. So when it was over, Michelle retrieved her skirt and the rest of us went back to the kitchen to get back into our street 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, Marcia and Simon, left together. Rob, Alex, Michelle and I hung on 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 goes 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 how it goes down. If it were otherwise, why bother with the ropes at all? Anyway, that’s my view.

However, it was Marcia’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 it about? Well, I think I’ve made my point... it’s the football. I’m sure it has something to do with some complex interplay of hormones and the hypothalamus, but in the end it’s really quite simple. It’s all about balls.

ï‚«ï‚«ï‚«
ï‚«ï‚«ï‚«

* Look it up :o)

** Another one to look up. My brother, who reviews my writings, suggested “drier than a Scotsman’s liquor cabinet” or “drier than a Pommy’s bathmat” but I find those offensive... though not too offensive for this footnote... ’nother :o)

*** More references to look up. Didn’t think you’d be getting homework, did you?

Re: BALLS

Postby sarobah » Wed Sep 23, 2009 6:29 am

To be truthful... if I’d been in charge, I would have come up with some more creative ways of tying us up... and some more interesting things to do with us when we were tied up :o)
But hey, I just tell ’em the way they happened.
~ Sarah
Words, like Nature, half reveal and half conceal the soul within.

Re: BALLS

Postby bondagefan » Wed Sep 23, 2009 10:33 am

Please write more for us to enjoy and please post a picture of yourself gagged.

Re: BALLS

Postby hvspcst » Thu Sep 24, 2009 10:03 am

Sarah, awesome as always :)

Did you get to talk to Marcia, find out a bit more about her experience?

Re: BALLS

Postby sarobah » Thu Sep 24, 2009 2:59 pm

Thanks :o)
I’m thinking about telling the full Marcia story (quite interesting), but I want to consult with her first... confidentiality issues, of course.
~ Sarah
Words, like Nature, half reveal and half conceal the soul within.

Re: BALLS

Postby hvspcst » Thu Sep 24, 2009 4:07 pm

Hey, any story you've got to tell - I'm here to read :)

Re: BALLS

Postby bootzbound » Sat Sep 26, 2009 2:13 am

Being a Kiwi, I'm a great State of Origin fan (Go the Maroons!) but there is no doubt what action would have drawn my attention ;-0. Great story! Is this the first time you've done this on game night? Going to be an annual event? Cheers.

Re: BALLS

Postby sarobah » Sat Sep 26, 2009 3:25 pm

bootzbound wrote:Is this the first time you've done this on game night? Going to be an annual event?

Yes, but a tradition has to start somewhere.
The NRL grand final is next weekend. Seems like as good time a time as ever to keep it going.
~ Sarah
PS, I’m glad you guys like the story.
I am starting to run out of true tales to tell. Perhaps I should ramp up my TUGs activities so I can have something more to write about.
Words, like Nature, half reveal and half conceal the soul within.

Re: BALLS

Postby Magicman » Sat Sep 26, 2009 4:12 pm

I shall be waiting for a story, some time after grandfinal day

p.s. Go the eels:D

Re: BALLS

Postby sarobah » Sat Sep 26, 2009 5:26 pm

Magicman wrote:p.s. Go the eels :D

A man after my own heart.
May you live long and prosper.
Words, like Nature, half reveal and half conceal the soul within.

Re: BALLS

Postby bootzbound » Sun Sep 27, 2009 3:15 am

I say go the Eels as well, the Storm have had their day. Am more interested in hearing about if you get your desired result on the night ;-)

Re: BALLS

Postby barefootboy » Sun Sep 27, 2009 6:45 am

As you might guess I have a thing about feet. Did all 5 of you loose your shoes during this game?
Tied :tied: gagged :gag: and tickled :tickle:

Re: BALLS

Postby sarobah » Sun Sep 27, 2009 7:23 am

barefootboy wrote:As you might guess I have a thing about feet. Did all 5 of you lose your shoes during this game?

Hmm... As far as I can remember, I kept mine on the whole night. Sabrina and Marcia lost theirs early on. I’m not sure about Andrea and Michelle.
Personally, I am not a big fan of stilettos. Granted they look elegant (and some find them sexy), but I’m more a sneakers gal myself.
Though you're a BAREfootboy, I might add that I have recently become a convert to garter/suspender belts, which is why I made a big deal about them in the story.

bootzbound wrote:Am more interested in hearing about if you get your desired result on the night ;-)

Will I score? Why, yes I think I will.

~ Sarah
Words, like Nature, half reveal and half conceal the soul within.

Re: BALLS

Postby barefootboy » Sun Sep 27, 2009 9:44 pm

Yes I ama barefoot boy but it doesn't mean I don't like nylons on women's feet, just not shoes and socks. And tights/stockings don't suit me hence I'm a barefoot boy LoL!
Tied :tied: gagged :gag: and tickled :tickle:

Re: BALLS

Postby barefootboy » Wed Sep 30, 2009 9:58 pm

Some girls like stockings and suspenders...I'm not going to argue.
Tied :tied: gagged :gag: and tickled :tickle:

Re: BALLS

Postby Qarl » Mon Mar 22, 2010 12:58 am

Oh Sarah! You're such a brilliant mind, gifted writer, and playful adventurous spirit. How did this motly crew of TUGs devotees get so lucky to have you share your delightful stories with us? :D

Re: BALLS

Postby bound-black-girl lover » Sun Mar 28, 2010 9:24 pm

I ESPECIALLY loved the "shared gag"--what an concept!
Your detail is incredible!

Re: BALLS

Postby sarobah » Mon Mar 29, 2010 12:48 am

bound-black-girl lover wrote:I ESPECIALLY loved the "shared gag"--what an concept!

I would love one (two?) of these in a ball-gag design. I haven’t come across a commercially made version, so perhaps I could get one made. It is indeed a very intimate way of sharing a bondage experience.

Qarl wrote:You're such a ... gifted writer...

If I rewrote it, I would leave out the sophomoric “humour”.
~ Sarah
Words, like Nature, half reveal and half conceal the soul within.

Re: BALLS

Postby Boundgal08 » Tue Mar 30, 2010 2:29 am

Lovely story again Sarah :D

BG
BOUNDGIRL!
Probably the kinkiest woman you will ever meet!
I am a switch, I like to put a man in ropes and also have a man put me in ropes!
I am the 'Queen of bondage'

Re: BALLS

Postby snobound » Mon Nov 22, 2010 7:14 pm

Fantastic!! How the hell did I miss this??????? It's tough to get me to cross the gender divide and read stories that aren't at least MOSTLY m/m..... Your stories are among the few exceptions.
Try out the TUGs chat! http://chat.mibbit.com/#tugsnet

Re: BALLS

Postby xtc » Tue Nov 23, 2010 4:14 pm

Great writing as usual.
How about, "drier than a camel's jockstrap".
Yes, by all means use "drier than a Pommy's bathmat" I think we all know the Astralian riddle: Q: How do you stop a Pomm stealing your money? A: Hide it under the soap.
As a proud Pomm obviously I believe that only dirty people need to wash.

Wassail!
xtc
Boxer shorts are cool,
but little speedos rule!

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