Two points to note: (1) The Aranea Island Resort is a place for exclusively female bondage. There is no particular reason why there is no male bondage, except that it is easier for me to write about. (2) The story is about a family, including a teenage girl and boy. There are some risqué moments but no underage or graphic or explicit sex, no adults tying up children, no torture or other types of physical or psychological abuse (except such torments as tickling and long-duration tie-ups).
THE RESORT
Day 1. Arrival
Day 1. Arrival
As our plane started on its final approach in a wide arc high above the Coral Sea, I watched a tiny speck of emerald and gold emerge from the blue horizon. It grew steadily bigger until it filled the window. We were descending towards Aranea – Spider Island.
From the air, it looks spectacular, and somewhat creepy, like a monstrous, misshapen, jade-coloured tarantula. Of course, this is merely the effect created by the yawning bays which cut in on all sides, creating a series of verdant peninsulas that radiate from the central volcanic peak. But in its appearance the place lives up to its name.
Yet as we got closer, from out of the arachnid grotesquery there bloomed a tropical paradise. The surrounding waters were crystalline clear and teeming with activity, the bigger inlets dotted with yachts and skiffs and fishing boats. Just inside the entrance to the southernmost one, a large cruise ship lay at anchor. I could easily make out from their gleaming wakes etched upon the surface a fleet of small ferries delivering passengers to and from the marina located at the eastern extremity of the bay. Following the curve of the sandy shore, neat rows of buildings glittered brilliant white and vivid pink in the sunlight, pushing up against the forested foothills which enclosed Resort Village in a vast, viridian amphitheatre.
The flight had taken a little under four hours. For most of the trip we had nothing but monotonously flat ocean to look at outside, and not much was happening inside either. There were some two dozen other passengers, mostly young couples. Judging by their lovey-dovey expressions, I’d say the majority were honeymooners. There was a group of eight girls and guys, aged twenty-something, at the rear of the cabin. They were in a party mood, although they weren’t causing any trouble. One of the guys could not wait until we got to our destination and had started tying up one of the girls; but the flight attendant quickly put a stop to that. Safety regulations, she explained. He just laughed and shrugged it off.
We were the only family on board.
“Where are the boys?” I asked Dad. “You said there’d be boys.”
“What am I then?” replied Alex with an indignant frown. I did not give my obstreperous baby brother the answer he deserved. Considering where we were heading, I decided that discretion would from now on be the better part of valour.
The atmosphere on a plane full of vacationers is generally the same whatever and wherever the destination – excitement at the outset, settling into quiet languor as the hours pass, rising to exhilaration near the end of the journey, modulating to mild apprehension during the descent, surging to elation as you come in to land. The tedium part of the flight had its benefits, however, as I managed to catch up on the sleep I’d missed the night before. I awoke to the buzz of anticipation and the whine of the engines changing tune, and to Alex’s elbow jabbing in my side.
Our objective was the broadest and flattest of the headlands, located on the north-western side of the island. A grass airstrip runs along its spine. It looks hair-raisingly narrow from above, which made me feel just a little queasy, especially when we passed through some turbulence from the air currents rising and curling over the mountain summit. Nevertheless, we touched down with hardly a bump, and all passengers broke into spontaneous applause. As we began to file out, the captain emerged from the cockpit to wish us a happy stay. She was a pleasant-faced woman who looked no more than thirty years of age, but who spoke with the confident, no-nonsense manner of a veteran pilot. I decided that we had been in good hands.
Meanwhile, one of the flight attendants had spoken quietly to Mum and Dad, and we held back as the rest of the passengers disembarked. By the time we stepped onto the tarmac, the others were already being ushered into the terminal. It was just on mid-day, and a blazing sun was muscling its way through a haze of high cloud. We were greeted by a young lady in her late twenties, slim and tanned, with auburn, caramel-streaked hair and expressive hazel eyes. She introduced herself as Kate, “your hostess.” She had a crisp, professional style, not at all compromised by what she was wearing, a barely-there floral sarong secured by a knot nestled perilously low in her cleavage. Encircling her throat was a black leather choker, buckled at the rear, with a leash ring in front – like an elegant dog collar. In addition, she wore silver-coloured bracelets and anklets delicately crafted in the form of fine, braided chains. Attached to the band around her left wrist was a miniature padlock.
After the usual “I hope you enjoyed your flight” and “Don’t hesitate to ask...” formalities, as we followed her to the building Kate gave us a concise briefing on the resort’s highlights, information about our short-term accommodation, a brief rundown of our timetable for the next few days, and a packet, which she facetiously called a survival kit, containing a map, restaurant guide, souvenir catalogue, that sort of thing. We were also each presented with a small parcel – for the females, a beribboned box containing perfume, scented soap, a pearl-shell hair comb and other girlie stuff. It was your standard gift offering to newly arriving guests in your typical resort.
Alex, after managing to draw his attention away from Kate’s sleek legs and décolletage, rummaged through his package, which folded out into a carry bag, containing... I knew not what. After he had inspected mine with a turned-up nose, I asked if I could look inside his. He just snorted and snatched it out of range of my prying eyes. His “you’ll find out” expression left me disconcerted.
Once indoors, we caught up with the last of our fellow passengers awaiting the unloading of their luggage. They gave us some curious looks, since we were getting the VIP treatment, and I felt a sudden surge of self-importance. However, our hostess quickly and slickly deflated my amour-propre with an indulgent smile, the kind that says: “Welcome to the team, but remember, you’re the newbie.”
To convey everyone to Resort Village, which is about three kilometres from the airfield, parked outside the terminal was a small convoy of taxis. These are golf-cart type buggies which Kate explained serve as the principal form of transport on the island. There are almost no conventional automobiles, the exceptions being emergency vehicles, a handful of electric-powered shuttle buses, a few delivery vans and some heavier trucks for construction and maintenance. We piled into the cart at the end of the queue. It was the only one without an assigned driver and Kate took the wheel. We drove at a sedate pace along a winding, single-lane road, skirting ridges and gullies and grazing the edge of some scarily precipitous coastal cliffs. Kate calmly negotiated the twists and turns, and any misgivings we had about her driving skills were quickly dispelled. All the while she acted as our tour guide, pointing out some notable features of the landscape along the way – the imposing charcoal grey monolith of Granite Peak off to our left, Pirates’ Cove on the right, the aptly named Razorback Ridge, and so on. She assured us that these would be familiar places soon enough.
Near the end of our journey, on the western edge of the town, we pulled into a tree-lined cul-de-sac in the midst of a cluster of low, salmon-pink and cream-coloured buildings. They were of stark design, softened somewhat by trimmings of tidy gardens and neat hedges.
“This is the staff residential district,” Kate informed us. “We call it the Oasis. Once you’ve had a few days to acclimatize, this will be your home.”
She kept up the commentary, although we already knew most of what she explained from our briefings back home. Even so, the Oasis appeared a lot smaller than I expected for a self-contained community with amenities and services for five hundred employees and several dozen families like ours. It’s far from luxurious, but no worse than some of the places where we’ve stayed and paid. However, our interim destination lay beyond, so we drove on into Resort Village. This is a compact, fully functioning small town, nestled within the great southern bay, flanked by craggy headlands and hemmed in by steep, forest-shrouded hillsides. Most of the buildings in the centre are high-rise, but on the periphery are picturesque, white-washed cottages and bungalows. The beach is wide and its sands are almost unnaturally golden, with here and there the sprinkled pink hue of crushed coral. Lying some distance off the eastern cape is barren, dune-capped Frigate Island, which shelters Resort Bay from the winds and waves of the open sea.
The streets shimmered in the early afternoon heat; the beach was deserted; the footpaths were almost empty and the cafeterias we passed seemed abandoned. Kate assured us that appearances can be deceiving. At the peak of the holiday period, the resort accommodates up to two thousand guests, and even now, in the off-season, there are almost half that number. Indeed, as we turned onto a broad avenue in the very heart of town, the pedestrian traffic increased dramatically.
There is no operational concept of right-of-way on the island’s thoroughfares, so our buggy slowed from a crawl to a snail’s pace in order to weave our way through the crowds. There were very few children about, not surprising given the time of year. And it could have been a beach resort like any other, women in pert sundresses and microscopic swimsuits, men in loud shirts and silly hats. Yet the difference was immediately obvious. Most of the females were bound in some way, hands in front or hands behind the back, or arms pinned at the side. Some shuffled along with shackles around their ankles or hobbles on their knees. A few were being led about on leashes. A lot were gagged. Some were blindfolded, but not many (because, I guess, that would be too extreme, since depriving a woman of her sight in such a bountiful shopping precinct is akin to torture).
Although most people were in couples, there were a few larger groups. One which drew my attention was a party of seven bikini-clad young women, meandering along the street with a single guy in the lead. The girls were bound, gagged and blindfolded, tethered close up to one another with a rope looped around their necks. The young man, looking very self-satisfied, was carefully guiding his captives along the boulevard, using what looked like a coded sequence of tugs on the front girl’s halter to steer them around and past obstacles, albeit not with complete success. Every so often as I watched, I winced as one of his prisoners collided with sidewalk café furniture or a potted plant or something, and she protested with a muffled whimper through her gag.
“Sorry about that,” he would respond with doubtful sincerity; but they were moving too slowly for any real damage to be done.
Kate noticed that we were staring and explained that these were medical students who were celebrating their recent graduation. Since their arrival a few days ago, they had made quite an impression, memorable even by the singular standards of Aranea Island.
“Lucky guy,” Alex said, earning disdainful looks from Mum and me, and a polite smile from Kate.
“Lucky girls,” I said to myself.
Members of the resort staff were easy to spot. The males were smartly turned out in white or grey slacks and floral-pattern shirts. The women were in skimpy sarongs identical to that on our hostess, worn either full-length as a strapless minidress like Kate’s or folded and tied on the hips as a miniskirt. They – the females that is – were also fitted with the collar, bracelets and anklets ensemble. Some were gagged, the ball variety by far the most popular. None of these accoutrements seemed detrimental to how they went about their duties.
Dad nodded his approval and turned to Mum to gauge her reaction, but our focus was suddenly diverted as we turned out of the main street and continued through the Village outskirts. We were driving by a section of the resort where construction was still in progress. In one of the vacant lots, there was a party of two dozen or more labourers, of both sexes. They were bent over rakes and hoes and shovels, busily clearing the ground of debris and detritus. The girls were strung out in a line in one part of the site. Like their male counterparts, they were dressed in overalls, with work boots and gloves, but unlike the men, they were manacled hand and foot, as well as shackled together, with thick cables running from heavy metal collars – just like a chain gang. As we passed, one of the prisoners paused to wipe the perspiration off her brow. Her face was begrimed, her hair unkempt, her overalls darkened with sweaty patches. She was hunched over, her body bowed from fatigue or by the weight of her fetters. She saw us and grinned, before returning to her task.
Just beyond that was a small park. Several couples and a family of five were having picnics on the grass. Kate drove on without comment while the rest of us continued to gape. All the women and girls were hog-tied or frog-tied, prostrate in spreadeagles or dangling in strappadoes. A boy of fourteen or fifteen years of age was playing with two older girls who were most likely his sisters. They were lying on their sides, tied back-to-back with hands bound over their heads, and they were wriggling and writhing on the grass, shrieking and laughing through bulbous ball-gags as their brother tormented them with a tree branch and a very large water pistol. Nearby, their father watched over them with amused indulgence while he applied the finishing touches of an elaborate and awkward looking lotus tie to his wife.
There were other strange tableaux as well. We encountered a quartet of Roman soldiers leading about two dozen young women half-dressed in scanty white tunics. They could have been performers on their way to a show, or guests en route to a costume party. Despite being heavily shackled at the neck, waist, wrists and ankles, the slavegirls looked much more at ease than their captors, who were clad in the full leather-and-metal regalia and sweating under the scorching sun. They were trudging beside the road in the same direction as us, but none looked up as we went by.
Farther along, a dozen guys and squealing girls were wrestling under the fronds of a huge pandanus palm on the side of the road. Two of the young women broke loose and made a dash for freedom, heading in our direction. One was quickly recaptured and subdued, but the other was very athletic and outpaced her pursuers. But when she looked back and saw her friend being pinned to the ground, she returned with her hands up in surrender, and knelt beside her fellow damsels to receive her ropes. Not far away, on a different patch of grass, was another family – parents and two boys in their early teens. The mother and father looked on casually as the kids were hog-tying a young woman who appeared to be in her twenties. She was wearing a staff bikini and her sarong was wrapped around her head, covering her entire face. There was a buggy like ours parked nearby.
I was still mulling over these weird but wonderful sights as we proceeded up a steep roadway leading to the high ground behind the Village, past a sign proclaiming “Hotel Andromeda.” This, Kate announced, is to be our home for the next seven days. It sits atop a low hill and provides a magnificent view of the entire sweep of the bay. It is built in a graceful but unpretentious colonial style, set amidst manicured lawns, carefully tended gardens and lush groves of palms and pine trees. In the driveway, chips of fractured granite crunched cheerily underfoot as we disembarked. On a marble plinth flanking the portico there is a bronze sculpture, larger-than-life, of a naked woman bound to a rock with chains, gazing forlornly to the heavens.
“That’s Andromeda,” Alex informed us.
“We know, sweetie,” Mum replied, smiling benignly.
Kate tarried outside as we went in. The lobby was empty but for us and the receptionist. She is a tall, beautiful Polynesian girl, impeccably groomed with a radiant smile. Her tiny sarong clung precariously to her spectacular breasts. It was a miniature masterpiece of structural engineering to stay in place with such modest load-bearing support. Dad’s professional curiosity got the better of him, and he could not take his eyes off it.
“Don’t you worry, dear,” Mum said, “I’ll take care of this,” as she signed the register and received our keys.
We went upstairs. The tone of the hotel is genteel, cosy and informal. There is no doorman, no attendant to carry your bags and no lift operator. There are signs all about saying things like “No room service available” and “Please do not tip the staff.” Our suite, located on the fourth floor, is not huge but spacious enough, more comfortable than plush. There’s a living room, kitchen and bathroom. It has a small balcony, from which the view is truly breathtaking. Beyond the Village and the bay, the sea and sky are so clear and blue that when you look out towards the horizon, it’s impossible to tell where one ends and the other begins
There are only two bedrooms, and while I don’t fancy the thought of having to share with my brother for a week, such is the price one must pay for paradise. Alex commandeered the bunk by the window, and I was not in the mood to argue. When we were finished unpacking, which didn’t take long, we all reconvened in the living room, just as Kate rejoined us. She brought two large parcels with her. She gave one to Mum and the other to me. Inside were a number of colourful pieces of material which it took me a few seconds to realize were sarongs like hers. Then she took her leave, arranging to meet up with us again tomorrow morning.
As soon as Kate was gone, Dad said, “Well, now that we’ve settled in, how about we go and get something to eat… and maybe take a stroll to look around?”
My mother nodded agreeably; I shrugged a “why not?” and my brother – predictably – grumbled something no one heard, or cared to hear. The parents disappeared into their bedroom once more and I retreated to mine, shutting the door in Alex’s face. As I shed my travel clothes, I pondered my choices and resolved upon my lime green Agustina bikini; and I thought I might as well try out one of my new sarongs. It’s a perky little number, soft and translucent with a tangerine-hibiscus pattern that coordinated rather well with my bikini. I folded it to wear as a skirt. Worn in that style, here it’s called a pāreu (a Polynesian term). I hitched it low on my hips with a flamboyant bow on the left side. I checked out the result in the mirror and conclude that I looked pretty hot. As I opened the door again, Alex shoved past, mumbling something about needing to make rules.
Mum turned out her customary gorgeous in a magenta strapless maillot. She’d done the same thing as I with her sarong, but made a much better job of it – she had chosen a black one with golden orchids that matched her swimsuit perfectly. She studied mine with a frown, and then refashioned it, showing me how to gather the ends for a single wraparound, short and sassy with an open leg split. She tied it with a double overhand knot to keep it securely in place. Though I do say so myself, we made a stunning pair of sexy vixens.
Dad beamed approvingly, and even Alex seemed impressed. I should add, in the interests of full disclosure, that my father was dressed casually dapper in crisp cream slacks and Hawaiian shirt. On the other hand, my brother – and I should not have been surprised by this – had chosen for his sojourn in the tropics voluminous khaki cargo pants, a scruffy black Motorhead sweatshirt and a pair of scuffed Doc Martens. Mum dolefully shook her head, but said nothing.
We were ready to go, but we all hesitated. We looked at each other for ages – at least, it felt like ages. Finally, Dad said, “So, do we start straight away, or do you two want some time to, you know, get better acquainted with how things work?”
I looked at Mum, and she just smiled and put her hands behind her back.
Dad gave her an appreciative look and reached for the package he’d gotten at the airport. He scrabbled about in it and pulled out a long, thin strip of what appeared to be soft leather. He gently took hold of her wrists and placed one over the other, securing them with the strap. It was a straight-forward, criss-cross tie, but he stood behind her so close that as he bound her, his chin nuzzled her bare shoulder, and he teased her hair with little puffs of his breath. She closed her eyes and pursed her lips, and her head lolled slowly sideways as he drew her arms more tightly behind her. His eyes connected with mine, and I must have blushed or something, because he winked at me, then lowered his gaze again, down across Mum’s gently heaving bosom.
I was about to say “Do you two want to be left alone?” when I glanced over at Alex. He was totally oblivious to what was going on, instead gesturing for me to come nearer. His face bore that supercilious expression he gets when he’s especially pleased with himself.
“Front or rear?” he demanded.
Knowing full well he would do the exact opposite of whatever I said, I in fact said nothing and turned away from him, crossing my wrists over the small of my back. He didn’t try to argue, but achieved his revenge by giving my bindings an extra sharp tug as he finished. The leather was nicely pliable and about a centimetre wide, ideal for its purpose. I ran my fingertips over the ends that hung loose and discerned that one side was embossed, perhaps with the resort logo (a stylized spider).
“Not too tight,” my dad called across to Alex. My mother waggled her elbows to demonstrate how it should be done just right.
Alex responded with a perfunctory “Yeah, I know, don’t cut off the circulation,” as he gave one final hard wrench to make sure I got the real message. I did not react, denying him the satisfaction of seeing me squirm.
Our parents had already shifted their attention and were discussing what should be next. Dad reached again into his pack and pulled out, with an exultant flourish, a large crimson scarf. Grasping it by diagonally opposite corners, he twirled it skilfully into a neat blindfold. As he lowered the cloth slowly over her eyes and tied it in place, drawing back with tender firmness, my mother couldn’t hold in a faint gasp, nor disguise a subtle grimace of pleasure. (Their performance had me feeling a little awkward, but it’s so cool that they can still get such joy out of a simple tie-up.)
Alex did likewise for me. The scarf was made out of the same diaphanous material as my pāreu, so I thought it might be see-through, but after a couple of doublings it was impervious to even the direct sunlight pouring in from the balcony. Actually, I was kind of annoyed at having to wear it, because I was looking forward (yeah, feeble pun) to seeing more of the resort; but I decided not to resist. Anyway, the blindfold has its own perks. I love the enhanced awareness and increased sensitivity that switch on when your vision’s cut off. Things you usually don’t notice or which you disregard or that are below your normal level of perception become part of your sensory input. And so it was in our hotel suite. Wafting into the room on the bay breeze, a lush profusion of exotic aromas, a gaudy mosaic of tastes and flavours and a rich symphony of sounds – birds calling, insects chirping, leaves rustling, the distant roar of surf breaking over the outer reef, the voices of people in the hotel grounds – piled up against my senses like those waves out there crashing upon the coral. The rush of impressions was as bracing as the salt-sea air.
A discordant noise broke the spell. “Can we go already?” Alex was growling. “I’m hungry.”
“Wait,” Dad snapped back. “Let’s give your mother and Sarah a bit more time to adapt.”
Alex stopped complaining, but he was still behind me holding my arms, and I could feel his impatience in his tightening grip. Unlike Dad, he doesn’t know – or more likely doesn’t care – that when your blindfold goes on, it takes a few moments for you to adjust your remaining faculties; otherwise it can be very disorienting, and instead of a more intense experience you end up just feeling either numb or too worked up. The problem is that my brother has not yet got the message that tying a girl is a two-way process, that it’s about giving as well as getting. But he’s young, and with enough time I’m sure that even he can be educated. If you can train a puppy to keep off the furniture, with a special effort we can civilize my Lil Bro.
“Okay, that’s enough,” Dad proclaimed. “Time to move out.”
Mum said something I didn’t catch, but I heard her sandals making soft scuffing noises on the carpet as she shuffled towards the door, guided by Dad. Alex then clamped his hands on my shoulders to steer me out into the corridor. He shoved and jostled me impatiently, and Dad had to call out: “Don’t be so rough with your sister. It’s not a race.”
As Alex mumbled a reply, I desperately tried to construct a mental image of the hallway, to recall any corners, furnishings or miscellaneous obstructions that might cause grievous injury to my shins or other vulnerable parts of my anatomy. I didn’t quite trust my brother’s navigation skills, and certainly had no confidence in the extent of his mercy for me in my defenceless condition. I needn’t have worried this time... but I always do. Experience has taught me that much.
As we entered the elevator, I could tell that there were at least four other passengers, who must have come down from the upper floors. From beside me, the delicate bouquet of expensive perfume drifted past my nose. Our arms touched and I could feel several ridges of coarse rope wound tightly just above the lady’s elbows. When the car jerked to a halt, she made a noise that was unmistakeably the sound of a grunt through a gag. And as we alighted, I could hear her stumbling forward, so she was obviously blindfolded as well. The second couple were on the other side of the lift, and he was whispering to her, but I wasn’t able to pick up enough to get any clear intuition. She didn’t say anything in response, so she was probably gagged.
Trying to interpret your surroundings and compose a picture in your mind is part of the fun of moving about blindfolded; and with your hands tied as well the feelings of vulnerability and dependency induce a delightful sense of intimacy, both with your own self, because you have to draw on the emotional, physical and sensory resources within you, and with your partner, on whom you must rely – even when it’s your otherwise insufferable baby brother.
Crossing the lobby, I could sense the presence of several more people around us. Business must have picked up since our arrival. Out on the porch, the tropical sunlight seared the exposed parts of my face and glowed a dull, diffuse orangey red through my mask. Alex assisted me down the steps, with one arm around my waist and the other clutching my bound arms to ensure I didn’t lose my balance. I would have thanked him, except I knew he wasn’t suddenly smitten with sibling affection. He just didn’t want a roasting from Dad in the event that he let me fall. His grip on me was comforting, but it was still gratifying to feel the congenial cushioning of the spongy lawn grass under my tread.
It was no more than a fifteen-minute journey down the hillside to the eateries lining the boardwalk. We did not take the road we’d driven on the way up, so I guessed we were following an adjacent path, which made the going a little more difficult because I couldn’t rely on memory for guidance. I faltered a couple of times on the uneven pavement, but with a steadying hand from Alex I managed to stay upright. Yet it was exhilarating, being in a strange place and trying to make sense of it all without being able to see my way about or to grope my way forward, feeling helpless and dependent, yet revelling in the thrill of uncertainty and relishing the challenge. As we descended, I sniffed the air for telltale smells and listened for revealing, familiar sounds, and tried to pick up clues from touch and taste. From the sudden gush of fragrance and chorus of insect chatter, I knew we were passing by the gardens near the base of the hill; and I could tell when we got close to the beach from the caress of the sea breeze on my skin and the gritty, salty tang on my lips. It was all so vivid, the colours in my mind so vibrant and intense, the sounds and scents so sharp, the textures so palpable and elemental, that I kind of felt sorry for my father and brother, who were missing what Mum and I were experiencing in our bonds and behind our blindfolds.
Of course, that sentiment never lasts. A sudden spasm of pain surged through the toes of my left foot and up my leg.
“Thanks for warning me about that rock, Alex.”
“You’re welcome, sis.”
As much as I love being a girl, there are times when I think it must be nice being on the free end of the rope and the bright side of the blindfold.
Dad told Alex to choose one of the cafeterias and I think he just pointed out the nearest. They found us a place close enough to bayside that I could hear waves lapping against wooden pylons. As the waitress set the table, Alex asked if Mum and I should be untied.
“That’s up to you, sport,” Dad replied.
My brother reached behind me and freed my wrists from the leather strap.
“I don’t feed the birds,” he muttered.
Since the topic of my blindfold didn’t come up, I left it on. I’d anticipated that this would be the case anyway, because Dad had gone up to the counter to place our order so Mum and I would not know exactly what we were having. It took a couple of nibbles of my muffin to identify the apricot filling, and a few sips of my drink to make out the sweet zest of guava juice. It was cool of Dad to give us that pleasure. The anticipation and the revelation amplify the experience. It’s like when you add a drop of dark blue to a tin of white paint, and the white appears whiter; it intensifies the soft, tepid tone. So it is when you’re wearing your blindfold. The darkness brings clarity.
Once we were finished our afternoon tea, Alex bound my hands behind my back once more. I think Dad had kept Mum tied the whole time, because she giggled a few times and Alex had made a snarky comment about some people not being capable of eating a muffin without making a mess. After that, we continued our stroll along the shore. It was too late in the day to think about swimming. In mid-afternoon at this time of year the sun sinks rapidly below the ridgeline, and while the water stays warm, within just a few minutes the entire beachfront is immersed in shadow. Of course, I didn’t see this happening, but I felt the tickle of the cooling air on my flesh.
By the time we’d returned to our hotel suite, my arms were aching, because when we departed the café, Alex had tied my hands with my palms together rather than my wrists crossed – which puts a lot of strain on your upper arms and shoulders. I was too proud to complain; and in any case, a little bit of suffering is part of the total bondage experience.
Mum and Dad retired to their bedroom. “Get some rest as well, kids,” Dad said as he closed the door. I kind of doubt they got too much rest themselves, because I heard the lock click.
“Wanna watch TV?” Alex asked. I said okay, and he took off my blindfold. “So long as you keep your mouth shut,” he warned. I had no choice but to concur, since he held the advantage, what with my hands being still tied behind my back, and I wasn’t going to beg him for release. Nevertheless, to further ensure compliance, he trussed my ankles with the scarf. I didn’t bother resisting. I sat on the sofa and drew my feet up under me so he could hitch my wrists and ankles together with a piece of rope he’d gotten from somewhere.
During an ad break, even though I’d kept faithfully to my side of the agreement, Alex pushed me down onto my stomach and shortened the rope connecting my hands and feet, to put me in a full hog-tie. Then he rolled me onto my side, hauled off my pāreu and tried to gag me with it; but I was feeling rebellious. I’m still a bit bigger than him (although the size gap is closing fast), so I managed to fight him off though tightly bound; but we tumbled off the couch and he landed on top of me, knocking the wind out of my lungs. He jumped up in fright when I started gasping for air, and as I got my breath back and saw his aghast expression, I started to laugh hysterically. We didn’t want to disturb our parents’ rest and recreation, so we called a truce. I remained tied up, but the gag and blindfold stayed off.
Around six o’clock it started to get chilly. I knew how quickly the sun goes down in the tropics, but I didn’t anticipate that the temperature would drop so suddenly. I pleaded with Alex to untie me so I could change into something warmer than my bikini. He weighed up the hazards of wrestling me into a gag against the benefits of shutting me up by letting me go, and determined the latter course to be the more judicious.
Nevertheless, I thought it prudent to thank him profusely for his benevolence.
Mum and Dad emerged from the room not long afterwards, she looking a tad flushed and flustered. There were faint purplish rope marks on her arms and legs that hadn’t been there before. She ignored my smile and Alex’s smirk and suggested that we should dine “in style” for our first night on the island. By that she meant the swank restaurant next to the hotel. Dad rang to book a table and then we got cleaned up and dressed. Mum went for glamour in her Faviana vermillion gown with the thigh-high side slit and ample décolletage. I went for pretty and pert in my little black Talulah baby-doll. The guys, even Alex, looked debonair in their smart-casual suits, handsome enough to escort two such knockout babes.
As we went down to the lobby and across to the restaurant, I felt a little uncomfortable because Mum and I were the only females not bound in any way; but we hadn’t been quite sure what the standard would be in a posh establishment. So when we encountered a sign at the entrance insisting that “Ladies must be suitably restrained,” Dad – always prepared – withdrew a couple of long strips of gold satin ribbon from his coat pocket and handed one to Alex. They bound our wrists in front, and my dad showed my brother how to finish off the cinch with a neat, cute rosette. It’s heart-warming to see a father teaching his son such handy skills... showing him the ropes, as it were.
The place was staffed by a couple of waiters in tuxedos and four or five waitresses in bandeau tops and mini-sarongs of strikingly fluorescent green and black. The women wore the ubiquitous collar and shackles; but as a charming extra touch, the choker was fashioned as a little bowtie. And in contrast to most of the others we have seen today, their bracelets and anklets were linked by slender silver chains. The wrist coupling gave the wearers just enough freedom of movement to serve dishes, pour drinks and clear tables; and the ankle fetters had sufficient margin to allow them to hobble about the room without too much trouble, even in high heels.
We were greeted by the maîtresse d’hotel, a petite, very attractive brunette with a commanding voice and manner. Unlike the waitresses’, her hands were shackled behind her back, but she didn’t let that interfere with her duties or detract from her authority. She was also very adept at walking in her ankle chain, sort of gliding across the floor by the simple expedient of sliding the feet rather than taking small, mincing steps like the other women. How interesting your job must be when you have to work the whole time manacled hand and foot.
She smiled approvingly at the ribbon binding my wrists and directed us to our table. “Will the ladies be dining sans vue?” she asked as we took our seats.
Dad looked across at Mum and she nodded. The maîtresse just tilted her head and on cue one of the waiters promptly appeared bearing a silver platter. On it was a neat stack of blindfolds. Since our menfolk were already sitting, he stood directly behind my mother and said, “May I, Madame?”
“Certainly, thank you,” she answered. He placed the tray upon the table in front of her. They were all of the sleep-mask style but in a variety of designs and colours. She raised her bound hands from her lap and pointed to a black velvet one framed with delicate white blossoms. He slipped the band carefully over her head, gently sweeping back wisps of hair, and adjusted the cover with the smooth, tender touch that is sensual without being too intimate.
“And for the young lady?” He looked across at me.
I chose a mulberry red mask, embroidered with tiny cornflower blue blossoms that I thought went well with my dress. The waiter tinkered with the strap for a while to make the fit comfortable. He had cold hands and when they brushed against my cheeks I must have flinched, because a couple of times he paused and apologized. I felt like Milady of the Manor being fussed over like that.
I’m glad we again went with the blindfolds, because I do so enjoy what they call sans vue (or dans le noir) dining. I love the anticipation and the momentary puzzlement and the sudden awareness of what it is you’re eating and drinking. I adore how the loss of one sense stimulates the others, how it arouses the taste buds and heightens your receptivity to aromas and textures as well as the flavours. Admittedly, it can get messy if you are not vigilant, and with your hands bound as well you have to really concentrate on what you’re doing. It means you need to focus your attention on your meal, which adds to your appreciation. It elevates the simple art of dining to a skill, and that’s what the best bondage is all about. It doesn’t limit your experience, but rather enhances it.
On the other hand, dining with your obnoxious little brother can be a hardship. At one point our waitress must have spilt something, because Alex complained after she’d gone away.
I told him to stop whingeing. “It’s not easy for her, you know.”
“What’s the big deal?” he demanded.
“Think about what it’s like to be working in chains,” I replied.
“I won’t have to,” he said.
“Why not?”
“I’m not a girl.”
“You’re not human.”
“Both of you give it a rest,” Dad growled.
As we finished, the maîtresse told us that the blindfolds were ours to keep. We left them on as Dad and Alex took us out onto the terrace to savour the exquisite cold caress of the evening sea breeze. My skin tingled as the goosebumps rose on my legs and arms... such a delicious torment. And while I love to see the moon glisten on the water, as with dining blind there is something very romantic about being in the dark and relying on your other senses for illumination. It’s as if you can actually feel the moonlight. We stayed a while, then went back upstairs.
Mum and Dad retired almost immediately. Alex agreed to untie me so I could write up my diary, on condition that I first make him his cocoa – a fair trade, although just to be spiteful he insisted that I do it with my hands still bound. Of course, I could have easily freed myself, and there was not much he could have done about it; but that would be wimpy. I can brew a mug of cocoa with one hand tied behind my back, so with two hands tied in front the job’s a piece of cake.
Once freed of my obligations, I started working on the first entry of my new journal. And of course, when I was about halfway through my recounting of today’s events, Alex came crashing though the doorway. He did not actually crash into, over or through stuff, but my little brother doesn’t do anything or go anywhere without an accompanying tumult. I was already in my PJs, sitting on my bed, concentrating on my writing and trying to ignore him.
“Get out,” he said.
“What?”
“Get out. I want to change.”
Well, that was not going to happen. Even if up until then I had been inclined to leave, now I had to stay.
“Good grief,” I replied. “Like I care about seeing your scrawny carcass. But if you’re really concerned, I shall close my eyes.” I pressed them shut. “How’s that?”
“Not good enough.”
So Alex presented me with a set of rules. I have to admit that, unless he had worked this out in advance, it was pretty remarkable that he could come up with them on the spot. Rather than devising a schedule for who should have privacy in the room, when and for how long, or otherwise trying to coordinate our movements, we’ve settled on a simple arrangement. When I want to get dressed or undressed, Alex leaves me alone; and when we’re in there together, I have to be blindfolded; and that’s not just when he’s getting changed but any time at all. So the deal is rather one-sided, but as he pointed out...
“I’m the man of the house.”
“No, Dad’s the man of the house.”
“Then I’m the man of the room.”
There was no point in debating the issue, so I reached for my restaurant blindfold, which I had left on the bedside table. I showed it to him and he nodded with approval.
After he’d gotten into his pyjamas, he tried to sneak out of the room so I would be left sitting in the darkness, wondering what was going on. But as I’ve mentioned, my brother is physically incapable of stealth. So I get to finish my journal entry – barely – as he comes back into the room, and my blindfold is about to go back on. I have begged for a one-minute respite to add this final thought...
I’m excited about being here on Aranea Island, wondering what thrills and adventures the morrow holds... but I’m hoping there will be boys.