GREETINGS FROM ARANEA ISLAND

Postby sarobah » Thu Dec 08, 2011 5:10 pm

The Bondage Bungalow, Part 1

Hi everyone,

Greetings from Aranea Island! Having a wonderful time! Thinking of you! Wish you were here!

There, I’ve covered all the clichés, so now I can tell you all about our latest adventure. I’m writing to you from the balcony of our suite overlooking the bay, enjoying brilliant sunshine, a lovely cooling breeze and a very tall Piña Colada. The rest of the gang have gone downtown for breakfast and some final-day souvenir shopping, so I should have a couple of hours of peace and quiet to write to you. If they return early, I can always finish this on the trip home.

Unlike our first visit last year, the weather has been all-round superb. Not that we wasted much time or energy complaining then, but in the entire week we’ve been here the sea and sky have been so crystal clear and blue that when you look out towards the horizon, it’s almost impossible to tell where one ends and the other begins. The hotel is luxurious, maybe more than makes me really comfortable, but we’ve only stayed here for the one night, so I have steeled myself to cope with the opulence. Anyway, by this time next week we will be back in the dorm, which I guess balances the karma.

Our plane touched down just before noon in brilliant sunshine. The landing was rather hair-raising, because the strip appears scarily short and slender from above. So coming here by air is so much more exciting than by ship, if that’s the sort of thrill you’re after. However, the flight itself was uneventful, four hours long, with just a little turbulence on the final approach. There were about thirty passengers on board, and it was easy to tell the neophytes from the veterans, by their expressions and overall body language. Nevertheless we were all a little tense; and the knots in the stomach were not due entirely to flying jitters.

Sweet little Kate was the most calm of us, at least on the outside – quite a change from last time. Gina, on the other hand, was even more than her regular bundle of nervous energy. If you touched her, you’d probably get an electric shock. Beth threatened that if she didn’t chill out we might have to tie her down, and didn’t bat an eyelid when we all laughed. It’s hard to tell if she’s being ironic. Our woman of mystery was her usual, enigmatic self... you know what she’s like. You always wonder what going on behind those big, sparkling, dark eyes. She’s so pretty, it would be nice to see what she’d look like if she smiled.

The aircrew remained on board as we disembarked, and took off again almost as soon as our feet touched the tarmac. We were greeted by half a dozen girls from the resort staff. They all looked gorgeous, and it was funny to watch the faces of the first-time guests, who couldn’t keep their eyes off them. The men paid most attention to the barely-there uniforms, while the women focused on the chokers, bracelets and anklets. I saw a couple of the ladies with their hands up to their throats, imagining how their collar was going to feel, and one even spun her head about in the direction of the plane. Too late – it was already picking up speed on the runway.

We didn’t need to go inside the airport terminal. Instead, we divided into groups of five or six to be ushered to the waiting taxis. Our party was just the right size for the last one on the rank. We allowed David the privilege of carrying our luggage; but the five of us didn’t have much – this is a tropical paradise, after all. Our driver was a petite blonde with lustrous blue eyes and a pert smile, who introduced herself as Sarah. As she helped David to load the bags, I couldn’t help thinking that she looked so young. I was remembering how the narrow, winding road she’d be navigating over wanders so perilously close to the coastal cliffs. David was also inspecting her, but with different thoughts, no doubt. I was wearing cut-off denim shorts and a tank top but felt positively overdressed next to Sarah in her tiny hibiscus-and-orchid bikini and strawberry pink mini-sarong. But I’m sure she’s used to the attention. I imagine all the women who work here are.

Any misgivings I had about the girl’s driving skills were quickly dispelled. It was, after all, silly to think otherwise. They wouldn’t assign just anyone to the job of ferrying precious guests about the island. She took us down the track, past the brooding grey mass of Granite Peak on the left and quaint, colourful Pirate’s Cove on the right, until we crested a broad ridge, from which we could look down over the town and out across the bay.

We did not go into Resort Village, but split off from our little convoy and detoured around the northern edge. There was not much other traffic, but we passed a large number of pedestrians, and along the way a picnic ground with several couples and a family of five. Sarah drove on without comment, while the rest of us, except for David, took it in fairly casually. After all, we’d seen this before. He, on the other hand, being the newbie, was mesmerized by the sight of the women and girls. Some were gagged, a few were blindfolded, but every one of them was tied, trussed and tethered in one way or another. Some were being led on leashes, others shuffled along beside the road in hobbles. In the park there were hog-ties and frog-ties, spreadeagles and 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 “shrimp tie” to his wife. Elsewhere, about a dozen guys and squealing girls were wrestling under the fronts of a huge pandanus palm, when two of the young women broke loose and made a dash for freedom. One was quickly recaptured and subdued, but the other was very athletic and outpaced her pursuers. 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.

There were some strange sights as well. We encountered a quartet of Roman soldiers leading about two dozen young women half-dressed in short 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 rig and sweating under the blazing sun. They were trudging beside the road in the same direction as us, but none looked up as we went by. Farther along, we encountered three women in staff uniforms, manacled and blindfolded, being led in file by a fourth who was unconstrained except for a ball-gag and a chain attached to all four collars. The leader was using their tether to guide and steer her sightless colleagues by means of subtle tugs and jerks on the yoke of the first girl, which she then passed on to the next in line. It must have been a difficult thing to co-ordinate, and it occurred to me that it’s something you can do only with practice. (I guess it gives a wonderful new meaning to career skills and on-the-job training.)

David made a remark I didn’t hear – Kate giggled and Beth growled. We were moving slowly, sticking to the island’s very conservative speed limit, so we had plenty of time to take in the sights. Eventually, however, we reached a small housing estate located in a hillside depression on the eastern outskirts of the town. We pulled up in front of a white-painted bungalow clustered with half a dozen others around a leafy cul-de-sac. Although the building itself was modest, it was approached by a rather ornate porch with two full columns flanking the top of the steps. The neighbourhood appeared deserted, but it was lunchtime and the day was hot, so the atmosphere wasn’t spooky or depressing. Our chauffeur remained in her seat as she handed Beth the keys, while David hauled our luggage once more.

Our home for the next few days was compact but comfortable, with kitchen, dining and living rooms, bathroom and laundry on the ground floor, and an interior second storey accommodating three bedrooms and a linen closet. David was naturally assigned one of the bedrooms, while Kate and I shared the second, Beth and Gina the third. Each was just big enough for twin beds, a dresser and a nightstand. Everything appeared normal, until we made a closer inspection. Screwed into the wall at various places and heights around the room were large “eye” bolts. The beds’ headboards and footboards were metal frames, and some of the vertical bars had been both polished to a high sheen and slightly eroded by long-term buffing and abrasion. It did not take much imagination to decipher these clues, but as if to confirm, just as Kate and I were looking at each other meaningfully, we heard Gina’s voice calling.

“Hey guys, come see what I’ve found.”

We hurried back to the ground floor. Nestled under the staircase beside the broom closet was a waist-high cabinet, inside which were three shelves. On the top one was a large assortment of gags, each sealed in cellophane wrap – ball-gags, bit-gags, panel-gags, ring-gags, plug-gags, etcetera. Some had elastic straps, others were buckle-on. There was also a stack of neatly folded scarves or kerchiefs – black, dark blue and crimson and made of a satiny material. Occupying the second row were coils of rope (hemp and nylon) and rolls of tape, plus a collection of collars and chokers. On the bottom shelf were chains of various gauges, cuffs, anklets, tethers and harnesses. There was some other stuff which looked vaguely and ominously familiar.

We four girls looked around at each other, and then at David, who was standing back watching us. His expression was one of both amusement and suppressed excitement. But he didn’t move or say a thing. In fact, there followed a rather uncomfortable silence, until Kate declared “I’m hungry.”

We again looked at David, who took another moment to understand and respond. Then he moved his finger around until it pointed at Beth and then swivelled around towards the kitchen. She nodded, frowned, smiled and shrugged her shoulders as she went off to prepare lunch.

I could see David had been bracing himself for Beth’s onslaught, and when she didn’t react as expected his face lit up, enough for me to get a glimpse of what he was thinking. Again without a word but just a wave of one hand, he ordered the three of us remaining to assemble in the middle of the living room. I thought he was acting imperious until, when he did speak, the first words came out in a barely audible croak, and I realized he was nervous. He told us to stand in a row, at attention but with our arms folded behind our backs. He looked surprised, and even somewhat bemused, when we obeyed him without question.

I’m not sure if you know the full story of how David came to be with us this time. He hadn’t heard of Aranea Island and took it as quite a compliment when we invited him to join us. I joked that he was coming along as our chaperon, and Beth visibly bristled at that. The poor girl really does take everything so seriously. But we didn’t let on about his real purpose until we were in the air and on our way; and I don’t know if he felt flattered or offended to learn what his role was to be. I guess most guys would not look such a gift horse in the mouth; but we five have been together for so long now that we’re like family – more specifically, the way he gets harried and hassled, he’s the little brother and we’re his big sisters.

Yet I could see (out of the corner of my eye because I was standing rigid and facing forward) that he was quickly adapting to his responsibilities and enjoying his newfound power. Nevertheless, being able to order a bunch of girls about and having them comply without hesitation took a bit of getting used to, especially for someone as easygoing as our David. No doubt he was wondering how far his authority might extend – or how far our obedience and tolerance could be stretched. So he began by testing the water. He told us to “straighten up” – grasp our elbows firmly with our hands, pull back our shoulders and push out our chests.

At that last command Gina snarled under her breath, but she did not challenge it. Kate giggled.

David left us standing there, unmoving and silent, for a long time. He went to the “appliance” cupboard to take a full inventory, then he disappeared upstairs for what seemed like forever, and finally he went to have a shower. In all that time, we did not move a muscle nor say a word. I think we showed amazing self-discipline. At one point, Beth came out of the kitchen, no doubt curious as to why everything had gone so quiet, and when she saw us she allowed herself just a wry smile before retreating. To our credit, none of us as much as turned our heads to acknowledge her. We were all aware that this was a test not only of his control but also of our compliance and commitment. How we behaved and responded over the next few minutes or the next couple of hours would decide what sort of vacation we would be having in Aranea Island Resort.

David returned to the room just as Beth was setting out the meal. She had done a good job with the limited provisions stocked in the house. Satisfied with what he’d achieved so far, he said “You can relax now,” and we had our lunch. While we were eating, he made us go over exactly what we were expecting of him over the coming seven days. At one point, Gina grumbled “Do you want it in writing?” but it was pretty smart of him to ensure that both he and we had it absolutely clear and straight in our minds. Even so, during the conversation I saw his eyes flicker uncertainly in Beth’s direction many, many times. I guess he was still suspicious that this was all some kind of diabolical trap.

Apart from that, the only time he looked genuinely doubtful was when we explained the importance of safe-words and signals, and these we really did put in writing, so that there would be no uncertainty or misunderstanding. Kate made up a poster by pasting together four pieces of paper, and taped it onto the wall. Underneath it, dangling from a string, she put a large pair of scissors and a utility knife for use in an emergency. David got the message that his role would not be all fun and games – he had a duty of care as well.

Once the lunch mess had been cleared away, we decided that the rest of the afternoon, until dinner time, should be spent productively, in teaching David the ropes – literally. Indeed, it was a little daunting that of the five of us, the one who was a complete novice at bondage was to be the one putting the rest of us in it. So Gina and I went to the cabinet, carefully selected what we decided he would be needing, brought it back in several piles and dumped it all onto the sofa.

We started with the simple stuff and David proved to be a fast – and keen – learner. The house was designed around a capacious living room, which had a large, fleecy rug spread over polished wooden floorboards. It was therefore set up with plenty of space for games and the choice of a hard or soft surface on which to play them.

Beth appointed herself chief instructor and said “Let’s get started,” but when, after she’d kicked off her sandals, she began unbuttoning her blouse, everyone else just froze and stared at her. She discarded the shirt and then unbuckled and dropped her jeans. David blinked several times, and I’m sure I saw him licking his lips. But when she was down to her bra and knickers, she went no further.

“What’s the problem?” she demanded. “It’s more comfortable.”

Maybe so, but I had a good idea of what she was doing. Our Beth does like to throw the proverbial cat among the pigeons. By stripping down she was being provocative, but by stopping at her undies she was proclaiming her limits. At least that’s my interpretation. In any case, as soon as she had deposited her clothes on the end of the sofa, she turned to David and held out her hands, elbows straight, fists together and clenched. He took up the first of the ropes – about a metre of soft nylon cord – and wrapped it around her wrists a few times. He was, as expected, a complete novice, and so she had to give him elementary advice – for example to lay each loop of the rope flat and not criss-crossing, and to allow some separation between her forearms so that a cinch could be applied (and to ensure that her blood circulation was in no danger of being cut off). They followed that up with another rope just above the elbows. He was a bit disconcerted when she winced as he tightened it until her elbows touched – rookies usually don’t understand the limits of flexibility. At the same time, he was impressed that she didn’t complain.

While they were doing this, Beth proffered more advice, such as to never leave any of us unattended while tied up and especially gagged. He kept interrupting with stuff like “Well, that’s obvious...” and she replied with “I don’t care how obvious it is...” but I knew he was winding her up because I could see his lips moving as he listened – he was repeating the information to himself to lock it in his mind. But she also had a point – even as she instructed him, he was tightening her bonds and the control was, in a sense, passing along the rope from her to him.

When Beth and David were happy with his progress, I stepped forward and turned away from him, so he could apply his first lesson on me but with my arms behind my back. He immediately discerned that this way is a lot more stressful for the subject. I grunted and groaned, and he paused to ask if I was okay. He was reluctant to make my elbow-tie too tight, so I had to tell him to not be such a wimp, and so he tugged on the cord as hard as he could, wrenching back my shoulders, and I gasped, and he apologized, and we both laughed.

Gina and Kate sat on the edge of the rug and watched us with growing impatience. David had taken more than half an hour just to tie Beth’s and my arms. Before he proceeded, however, he decided that we should all pay for my insult to his manhood. He picked out four gags from the variety Gina and I had chosen, and extracted them from their sealed wrapping. We had made sure to select the right sizes, but with his inexperience he didn’t bother to check. He gave Gina and Kate ball-gags. Kate screwed up the face because it was very large for her small mouth, but said nothing and buckled it in place. Since I couldn’t put on my own, he had Kate do it for me. As she did so, she was making soft gurgling sounds from the effort of having to clamp her jaws onto the oversized ball, because although it was made of rubber, it was squeezable only with difficulty.

My gag was the plug type – one with a smooth shaft, not one of those gross ones shaped like a penis, but with a slick, slimy texture and a rather unpleasant plastic taste (which was probably my imagination, since it was made of tasteless, odourless silicone). Fortunately it was optimum sized – the plug was long and wide enough to fill most of my mouth without me having to clamp my teeth around it to keep it from moving about, and not too big that it protruded into my throat or restricted air flow and interfered with proper salivation. Of course, we should have briefed David more thoroughly on the subject of gags and all they involve. But he isn’t stupid, and anyway, it would make an apt topic for discussion at dinner time.

Beth, naturally, had to remain ungagged in order to act as mentor; but to remind her that she was in his power, he hung it around her neck, ready for insertion at his whim.

Gina leapt up eagerly when the next turn came. Of us all, she is the most adventuresome, so maybe she should have waited, because David was improving his technique with each girl, escalating the intensity and starting to experiment. He took only a couple of minutes to tie her arms behind her and then, with more counsel from Beth, he bound her knees and ankles. She was still standing, so when she was completely immobilized, he put one arm across her shoulders and one around her waist and lowered her carefully onto the rug. She wiggled and squirmed, just for the sheer pleasure of it, and David watched her for a minute or so with an odd expression. I guess he was trying to figure out how anyone could get so turned on, lying on the floor bound, gagged and helpless. Like many who have not had the experience, he was focused on how the ropes look rather than how they feel. And since he hasn’t had the chance to switch to the other end of the ropes in all the time we’ve been here, maybe before we go back out to the airport this afternoon he should be given the opportunity.

But to return to our first day... As you know, although she’s tiny and looks so fragile, our Kate is incredibly tough. Well, that was a good thing, because by the time he got to her David had worked up his enthusiasm. He did to her what he had done to Gina, completing the job so quickly that as she lay on the floor, on her belly awaiting the next move on her, Kate was panting and puffing through her gag. Having taken the control from his guide, David informed Beth that he was going to apply a hog-tie, but at least he was conscientious in accepting directions. Once he had secured Kate’s ankles to her wrists, he ran the rest of the cord up and around her elbow rope and made it so tight that her torso was arched backwards and she started to moan.

“Is she okay?” he said to Beth.

“Shouldn’t you be asking her?” Beth replied.

He acknowledged his gaffe with a sheepish grin, but before he could say anything to her, Kate slowly nodded her head. She had twisted her body so that while her legs were still sideways on the rug, her hands were under her backside and her top half was facing upwards, with both shoulders on the floor, so that she could look up at him crouched over her. It must have appeared very uncomfortable from his perspective, because he grimaced as he studied her contorted figure. He was about to help her turn over into a completely face-up position when he must have realized that if he did so, all of her weight, as light as she is, would be resting on her arms. Instead, he placed one hand under her shoulder and the other on her hip and rolled her gently onto her stomach.

“Stay!” he commanded, when she began to wriggle. He thought about that for a second, then amended it to “Stay as you are.” I liked that David was thinking about his words as well as his actions. It was a good sign that he was taking his responsibilities in the right spirit.

With Kate hog-tied, David now returned to Beth with a “What now?” look. She pondered for a moment, and then instructed him to untie her elbows and loosen her wrist ropes. As an immediate afterthought, she added “Please.” When he had done so, she squatted on the rug. With more slack in the bindings on her wrists, she was able to cross them, which allowed her to put her arms over her legs to hug her knees and bring them up against her chest.

“Now tie my wrists to my ankles. This is a ball-tie,” she explained.

She was still squatting and therefore hunched forward, but to enable him to wrap the cord around her ankles she dropped back onto her bottom; and when he had finished she flopped – or more accurately lolled – until she ended up lying on her side. She struggled in her ropes for a few seconds, testing how secure they were. But it was David who decided to add a final touch, running another rope in a loop behind her neck and down between her knees to her ankles, and drawing it taut in order to force her head forward and her body into a tighter, rounder ball.

“Very good; you’re learning,” she declared with gritted teeth.

“This is easy,” he said.

“Maybe for you,” Gina mumbled though her gag, as she continued to squirm.

David stared at her, surprised that she could enunciate despite the red orb filling her mouth, or perhaps wondering if she was about to use her safe word or signal. She was prostrate on her belly, and the only gesture that she made was to raise the middle finger of each hand. He replied in the appropriate way, putting her in a hog-tie like Kate’s, but even more stringent. She stopped twisting and twitching, and whimpered a couple of times, but she couldn’t hold back a soft but telltale sigh of bliss.

As I was the only girl left standing, David wanted something different for me, and Beth suggested a chest harness and strappado. It was obvious from his response that he had no idea what either of these might be, but under Beth’s expert guidance his education was progressing nicely. Once he had threaded the rope over and under my arms behind my back, he looped it about my body, between and around my breasts. He was cautious and rather timid at first.

“You can tie them tight, they won’t burst,” Beth instructed.

I cursed her for that, but none of the words made it past the silicone plugging my mouth. In any case, I didn’t really mind, and David was actually too painstaking, as he tried to avoid unnecessary boob contact. So the process took a while and the whole scene was beginning to feel just a little bit surreal. Indeed, it would have made a bizarre picture – the four of us prostrate, bound and helpless, with the so formidable Beth in her undies trussed in her rolled-up position on the floor, calmly coaching her apprentice, one of the most casual and carefree guys you will ever meet, in the art of tying up women.

But I have to take a break now. Two noisily insistent seagulls have landed next to me on the balcony and are demanding hand-outs. So I shall email you this first instalment, do my duty and fix myself a snack as well.

To be continued...

Re: GREETINGS FROM ARANEA ISLAND

Postby truly_trussed » Thu Dec 08, 2011 6:26 pm

Hi Sarah, I see a possible second career for you as a travel writer. TUGs and travel, what a pair.

Re: GREETINGS FROM ARANEA ISLAND

Postby xtc » Fri Dec 09, 2011 2:34 am

Is it EVER winter on the island? Thanks for starting another story.
Boxer shorts are cool,
but little speedos rule!

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

Re: GREETINGS FROM ARANEA ISLAND

Postby Chase Ricks » Fri Dec 09, 2011 3:39 am

Been almost too long since I read a new story by you sarobah. Glad to see you still have the magic touch.
From whence I came and whence I went heaven said I was too evil and sent me to hell. Demons and devils succeeded in breaking my soul.

Image

Re: GREETINGS FROM ARANEA ISLAND

Postby sarobah » Sun Dec 11, 2011 6:24 pm

I have been out of action for a while with medical issues, but hopefully I am back in full writing mode.

xtc wrote:Is it EVER winter on the island?

Aranea Island is based on a real island resort I have stayed at, with most of the features described in the story except the bondage (unfortunately)... and no, there’s no winter there. Very nice :o)


BTW. For those unfamiliar with my oeuvre, here are my original Resort files:

http://www.scribd.com/doc/75415094/The-Resort
http://www.scribd.com/doc/63087861/AIR- ... emqqihx2zb

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

Re: GREETINGS FROM ARANEA ISLAND

Postby sarobah » Sun Dec 11, 2011 7:01 pm

Stocks and Bonds, Part 1

Dear AJ,

Greetings from Aranea Island.

Well, I’ve been here for a mere three days, but what an eye-opener it’s been already! In some ways the Resort is exactly what I anticipated. In other ways, it is more different than I could have imagined. All things considered, if I may co-opt the title of one of your favourite books, it’s been about ten per cent agony and fifty per cent ecstasy. As for the rest – a weird mélange of excitement, trepidation and bewilderment. I suppose it’s like riding a roller coaster. At certain points you want desperately to get off, but then the adrenaline and other hormones kick in, the fun subsumes the dread, and you are determined to see it through to the end.

Yes, I know that’s melodramatic. My problem is that I came here with the wrong attitude. If I was a member of the regular staff or one of the guests, I would have been better prepared, more flexible and less distracted by expectations and preconceptions. But in my defence, nobody had predicted that Grandpa was going to abruptly announce his retirement and disburse his stock portfolio upon the rest of the family. Overnight I went from destitute student to heiress.

Richard was equally surprised. We hadn’t seen each other in something like two years and I didn’t remember him being so good-looking. Of course, I mean that in a strictly non-creepy way. We’re kissing cousins only in the sense of a peck on the cheek at family gatherings. But we were both pretty much baffled to suddenly find ourselves major shareholders in the Aranea Island Resort. What I knew about it came only from the brochures and a rather innocuous entry in the annual prospectus, and it never occurred to me that I would ever visit the place, or even want to. And yet, here I am.

Although the company runs its own airline, we flew in on a private charter. But that’s the only VIP treatment we’ve received. Which is a good thing, because I don’t think I could ever adjust to thinking of myself as “very important.” We were greeted at the airport by Maggie, the executive director in charge of personnel and management, who was accompanied by a pleasant-looking young man she introduced as Harrison, our driver. That’s actually his first name, and I like it that the staff on all different rungs of the hierarchy relate to each other on such a casual level. Both were in uniform, which I find to be another nice, egalitarian touch – everyone wears it regardless of rank, and no one is exempt. But that, of course, is where the parity ends. Harrison’s outfit was a dapper, if slightly quaint, neatly pressed cream trousers and pallid floral-print shirt. Maggie’s ensemble had more colour but a lot less coverage – a strapless one-piece swimsuit decorated with pink and purple orchid blossoms, and a skimpy magenta sarong-skirt tied low on the hip. Then there were her accessories. Fastened about her neck was a shiny black leather choker with a small ring at the front, and encircling her wrists and ankles were slim golden bands fashioned in the shape of braided cord.

Maggie appeared perfectly at ease as Richard and I gawked at her tiny uniform, her collar and her cuffs. She’s small, of slight build, with dark, expressive eyes. Her hair is chestnut brown, flecked with a few spots of grey, and I was impressed that she has enough self-confidence to not dye it, because otherwise she could pass for a woman ten years younger. She exudes the calm, polite authority of someone who is totally in control of her circumstances and of the people around her. She is also very economical with time and words, not expending too much of either on formalities; and apart from the airport welcome, she did not treat Richard and me with any undue deference. Harrison took our luggage (which was just a bag each) and showed us to our transport, an electric-powered buggy much like an oversized golf cart.

It was mid-afternoon, but on the twenty-minute trip we encountered no other traffic or pedestrians. Maggie explained that this is the slowest time of year, when there are just a few hundred guests, and employee numbers are at half-strength. We drove straight to the Oasis, which is the staff residential sector on the western edge of the town. While far from luxurious, it is a self-contained village with both dormitory and unit accommodation, providing amenities and services for a population of five to six hundred, including families. It’s a typical resort community, with noticeably skewed demographics – there are two females for each male; and I’m pleased to say that women occupy more than half of the senior positions in the company.

We didn’t waste time with a tour of the facilities but instead went directly to our living quarters. I’m sharing with three other girls. Actually, it’s an eight-woman dorm, but since it’s the off-season, four of the beds are unoccupied. Richard’s is across the hall and he shares with one other guy, Ben. I discovered that Ben and Rachel, one of my roommates, are a couple. But don’t misunderstand – this isn’t a monastery. They’ve applied for a place of their own and are on the waiting list.

I found my uniforms had already been delivered, with one laid out on the bed ready to put on. I will tell you about the various pieces and rather elaborate rules later – there are several pages of the staff handbook devoted to that single topic. Indeed, Richard has it easier in this respect – just one style of trousers and two shirts, for day and night, all year round. But I’m not complaining. Mine is cool and comfortable, sassy and sexy. I changed out of my dress into a microscopic halter-top string bikini and a coral pink mini-sarong. Maggie showed me how to tie the sarong – it has to be slung so low that it’s really held up by nothing much more than friction, and the knot must be placed just so on the left hip to expose the thigh. The guidelines really are that specific!

My cousin wandered in just as Maggie was finishing her adjustment of my sarong. He was already in his uniform, and his face broke into a broad grin of approval when he saw me in mine. I performed a little pirouette and immediately regretted it, because Maggie frowned. She’s so no-nonsense that it’s rather intimidating. But then she smiled, and beckoned for Richard to come closer as she opened the bottom drawer of the bedside cabinet. Inside was a neatly packed collection of collars, cuffs, gags and chains. His eyes widened, as I’m sure did mine.

Again, Maggie was no time waster. She took out of the cabinet one of the collars. It’s a burgundy colour, about five centimetres (or three fingers) wide and made of stiff leather, but with a thin layer of velvet on the inside to reduce chafing. There’s a buckle at the back and a D-ring at the front.

“This is your work collar,” she told me. “You’ll wear it whenever you’re on duty.”

I put it on – a perfect size to fit snugly around my throat without feeling too constrictive. It’s funny, when Richard and I were back home completing our questionnaires for the staff database, one of the personal details we had to give was collar size. We both presumed it was for a shirt collar! Well, at least his was.

Maggie reached down into the drawer again and removed a choker that was rose-coloured, narrower and more pliable than my collar, and with a stud fastener.

“You must always wear the choker when you’re off-duty, in public that is.” She explained that there is actually a large range of approved styles, and you are allowed to choose any one of them, just so long as you do.

I don’t really mind this rule. I guess it’s no worse than poor guys who are forced to wear a necktie – not here, of course, because the men get it pretty easy in terms of the dress code... provided they don’t mind the dreadfully unstylish slacks and floral shirt, which in any case they only have to wear during their shift. Of course, the significant difference is that I have to wear it all the time when I go out in public.

Maggie, meanwhile, had moved on. She extracted from the drawer four metal rings like the ones she wore. Without waiting to be asked, I held out my hands and she clamped one of the rings on my right wrist. But then she took hold of my left arm and pulled it towards her until I got the message and turned to face away from her and Richard. She drew my arm behind my back and cuffed it as well. Understanding, I put my right hand behind me as well.

However, instead of completing the job herself, Maggie summoned Richard. He was a little tentative, not surprisingly, and fumbled for maybe half a minute, discovering it to be more difficult than he’d expected to join my shackles by the tiny lock. And since they were not like regular police handcuffs, which have a small chain link, my wrists were pulled together until the insides touched. I found the result to be quite stressful – my arms are not as flexible as I thought they were. So Maggie advised me to interlock my fingers, which lessened the discomfort considerably. I flexed my shoulders, bent and straightened my elbows a few times, to get the position just right. As I was doing so, Maggie smiled and Richard grinned. It was only when I stopped that I realized that, with my arms pinioned behind my back, any movement had the effect of putting strain on my minuscule bikini top, which was already hanging low on my chest by (literally) hardly more than a thread.

This is when I discovered that there are skills to be learnt, besides the professional training, in order for me and my uniform to cope with whatever rigours we’ll subjected to while I’m here. I suddenly acquired even more admiration for Maggie and the other female staff, with a better understanding of what they put up with. At the same time, I can’t say that the sensation of being collared and cuffed was unpleasant – it takes getting used to, certainly, but it’s an interesting challenge... and rather more pleasant (and sexy, in a way) than I had imagined it would be.

Maggie then knelt down to attach my ankle rings. I was grateful that she didn’t connect them.

Like my uniform, I am only required to wear my bracelets and anklets when on duty. And while the difference in outfits between the sexes made sense to me, I still wasn’t quite sure why, unlike the men, female staff have to be identified when off-roster (by the choker). But I was beginning to suspect that working in the Aranea Island Resort is more than a job – it’s a lifestyle.

And as if to confirm my suspicion, Maggie said “Shall we move on?” but instead of actually moving on, she turned away from Richard and put her hands behind her back. Understanding immediately, he secured her cuffs. It took a lot less effort than he had expended on me. Either he was improving his technique or she was more flexible than I am – probably both. She led the way out of the dorm. Richard and I followed, with his right hand clamped on my shoulder. I don’t know why he felt the need to hold onto me. Maybe it was to steady me in case – he thought – I might for some reason lose my balance with my arms immobilized; or perhaps he just needed the physical contact. For the thing is, it hadn’t occurred to me until then that this was a new experience for my cousin as well – not the same as mine, certainly, but unfamiliar and a little daunting.

Outside the building we encountered a few other employees, although Maggie and I were the only females I could see who were restrained. Everyone we passed nodded and smiled a greeting, not exactly obeisant, but with the due respect that underlings show to a superior. Of course, no one gave an indication that there was anything at all unusual about one of the senior managers of the resort being shackled as she was. I recall having the silly thought that it was a good thing this was not a military base where she’d have to return salutes.

She left us in the cafeteria, in the charge of a young woman who introduced herself as roommate Rachel. Maggie went off, her hands still cuffed behind her back. There were about thirty people in the place, some in uniform, others not, most of the uniformed females in their collars and all the other women wearing the choker. No one besides me was bound in any way, and no one seemed to care that I was. Nevertheless, Richard released my hands without being asked or prompted. We had coffee and a biscuit, and Rachel talked about life in the Oasis – mostly inconsequential stuff. From her tone of voice, I could tell that she had a suspicion that Richard and I weren’t the standard new recruits – who are not normally shown around by an executive director – but she had more tact than to inquire further, and so had no idea that we were, in effect, everyone’s bosses.

After we’d had our caffeine and sugar replenished, we went straight back to our quarters. It was getting on towards nightfall. Here in the tropics at this time of year, the sun drops below the horizon so quickly that you can be walking in the sunshine one moment and in darkness the next… well, just about. The time must have been right at the end of a shift, because my other two roomies had arrived just a minute or two earlier: Jessica and Suzi. In the interests of full disclosure, I should say that all three are extremely attractive, and in their bikini uniforms are drop-dead gorgeous. It makes me wonder if the company’s hiring practices are perhaps a little… well, biased. Rachel is a tall, slim redhead with emerald-green eyes: Jessica is a sporty-looking blonde with a very light sprinkling of freckles; Suzi is a small, vivacious brunette who’s built like a showgirl.

We only chatted for a minute or two before Jessica saw the wall clock and said “Bunk time.”

Since it was very early evening, I had no idea what she meant, but I got a shock when she went and stood beside her bed, took off her shoes and then her sarong, and tied the cloth around her head. She lay down on the bed, on her stomach, with her body straight, knees and ankles together, her wrists crossed over the small of her back. She didn’t make another move or a sound. Suzi did the same. Rachel waited for me to get the idea, and I noticed that she glanced nervously at the clock. I took off my sarong, blindfolded myself and took my place. I heard Rachel’s bed springs squeak as I did so.

I didn’t know, then, how long we stayed there. Because I lost all sense of time, it was impossible to tell. It felt really strange, though, just lying there rigidly, my hands behind my back, silent and immobile. But it got weirder. I heard voices at the door – men’s voices. I recognized Richard’s, and I quickly deduced that the other belonged to Ben, his roommate and Rachel’s boyfriend.

I strained to hear what they were saying. Ben was identifying the other girls. He wasn’t crude or anything. In fact it was strange precisely because he was so matter-of-fact in his introductions. Of course, I had no way of telling if any of the girls responded, but when Richard said my name, I wiggled my toes.

“Nice,” Ben said, but since he could only see my rear, I don’t know if he was complimenting my derrière or just being… polite.

They stood just inside the doorway, talking some more. Richard revealed that we are cousins – we look enough alike that it would be hard to miss that we’re related – but nothing else about us except that we are here on “work experience.” It’s a pretty flimsy cover story, but Maggie had assured us that no one will pry too deeply into our affairs. This, after all, is Aranea Island, where the watchword is, indeed, DISCRETION.

Finally, it got downright bizarre. I heard soft footsteps, and then Ben and Rachel whispering. Her bed springs squeaked again, and the two of them left the room together. Richard stayed, so it was pretty obvious what his roomie and mine were up to. So with nothing else to do, Richard pulled up a chair next to my bed and we talked for a while. Suzi and Jessica joined the conversation, but the three of us girls remained prostrate and blindfolded, our wrists still crossed behind our backs, for the entire time.

We discussed all sorts of things. Jessica and Suzi filled us in on stuff that Maggie hadn’t got around to mentioning. For instance, she hadn’t warned me about this situation! And yet it was Richard who asked the obvious question: Am I going to be spending all of my “leisure” hours like this? Jessica chuckled. For a while, yes. It’s part of the “orientation” for new staff… new female staff, that is. It’s to help get us in the right “frame of mind.” What an odd way of putting it! The probationary period lasts for six weeks. She and Rachel are near the end of theirs, while Suzi is a newcomer, like me.

Well, AJ, it appears that I have some interesting times ahead.

Re: GREETINGS FROM ARANEA ISLAND

Postby xtc » Mon Dec 12, 2011 2:04 am

I hope that's not "interesting!" as in: may you live in interesting times!
Always a pleasure to read your easy-paced writing. But, let's face it, should the resort not work at a leisurely pace?
Boxer shorts are cool,
but little speedos rule!

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

Re: GREETINGS FROM ARANEA ISLAND

Postby Chase Ricks » Mon Dec 12, 2011 3:14 am

I agree.
From whence I came and whence I went heaven said I was too evil and sent me to hell. Demons and devils succeeded in breaking my soul.

Image

Re: GREETINGS FROM ARANEA ISLAND

Postby Qarl » Mon Dec 12, 2011 3:54 pm

Hi Sarah,

I loved reading both installments, and I'm glad you're able to write again. Now if I could just book a stay at Aranea Island.... :tied:

-Carl

Re: GREETINGS FROM ARANEA ISLAND

Postby sarobah » Tue Dec 20, 2011 4:00 pm

I am not entirely happy with this instalment, but it’s been a while since my last posting so – for better or worse – here it is.
A Little B & B, Part 1

Dear Deadly Enemy (aka Once and Future Best Friend),

Greetings from Aranea Island.

Yes, I am indeed writing to you from that fabled isle. To be more precise, we are back on board the Bellatrix, with Aranea’s verdant hills and golden beaches shrinking rapidly into the grey mist beyond our churning wake. Not that I got to see a lot of those hills and beaches... but more of that later. In one sense, I’m overjoyed to be putting space between us and the island as quickly as possible. At the same time, I’m feeling a little sad. As much as the last few days have been an ordeal, they have also been an adventure, a challenge and, I confess, a great deal of fun. Yes, I really did write that, and not some imposter.

Of course, it’s all your fault; you know that, don’t you? After all, who’s the one who suggested that we call in there on our way north? When I scoffed you made it a dare. You know I’m a sucker for that. And when Tim and Andrew taunted me, you took their side. Which was fine for you, safe and sound back home. I may possibly forgive you when the rope marks have faded.

We arrived on the high tide, shortly after noon. The wharf, which is located at the eastern edge of the cove, is not large enough for permanent moorings, so we put down anchor in the middle of the bay. The resort has a small fleet of taxis which come out to pick you up and take you in, which reduces congestion and confusion. It did seem redundant at the time, since the docks were devoid of boats and people when we disembarked, but that’s the rule. Once we were ashore, Andrew handled the formalities in the port office, while Tim and I went next door, to the “Visitors’ Centre” to confirm our hotel booking and get directions. Since we were assured it was only a fifteen to twenty minute walk, and our backpacks were our only luggage, we didn’t bother to arrange transportation.

It was while making these arrangements that we got our first taste of Aranea Island, and my first glimpse of what awaited me. The young woman at the desk was a statuesque blonde with a rich tan that her tiny uniform did little to hide. I guess it’s nice to go to work each day dressed for the beach, but that’s not what made Tim and me stare. The girl was wearing a stout leather collar, with a chain attached, the other end of which was fixed to a bolt screwed into one corner of the counter. She had just enough freedom to perform her duties. On closer inspection, I could see that the coupling was a simple clip that she could have removed at any time, so it was more symbolic than a genuine restraint. But the telling point was that she didn’t release herself, even when she had to go to the far end of the counter to fetch some brochures and her tether went taut, tugging on the band around her throat. I guess that’s really being deskbound!

My attention diverted by the collar and chain, I almost missed the fact that the girl’s bracelets, a gold-coloured metal fashioned like braided cord, were not what they first appeared. On the inside of each were the two parts of a tiny lock. They weren’t decorative pieces, they were handcuffs.

Thus distracted, I missed a brief conversation between her and Tim; but as I turned to leave, he said “Wait.”

His tone was just a tad too insistent, and I spun back around to offer my opinion of his personality and parentage. But his plaintive, almost stricken expression made me smile. I forget that I come across so scary at times... or should that be emasculating psycho? However, I then glanced at the receptionist, and she was nodding her head with just the hint of an approving grin... though I don’t know if the approbation was for Tim’s momentary forcefulness or my reaction.

We said nothing for a few seconds, just enough time for Andrew to come into the shop. He looked at the three of us in turn, and got the message quicker than I did. So I was caught by surprise when Tim came up behind me, grabbed my arms and wrenched them behind my back. He pulled my wrists into a crossed position and started winding a piece of cord around them. Naturally I resisted, and it was impossible for him to both keep my hands in the right place and apply the rope. So Andrew stepped forward until we were chest-to-chest. He put his arms around my body to hold them while Tim completed tying my wrists. I struggled for just a few more seconds before surrendering with a whimper.

The boys stood back to study their work, looking both pleased at their feat and relieved that I had not put up more of a fight. I twisted, plied and flexed the rope, which (of course) only made it tighter and more abrasive.

“Just relax, sweetie,” the girl behind the desk advised.

But you know, maybe I’ve had a deprived or sheltered life, because I have never been tied up before, at least not in a way that I couldn’t wriggle out of in a few seconds. So it was a strange sensation, being suddenly rendered so helpless and vulnerable. But what was really weird about it was that I didn’t feel as if I was in jeopardy, or anything like that. It was not like being arrested and cuffed (something I’m sure YOU know all about!) and certainly not what a hostage or kidnap victim would be going through. But neither did I experience any thrill or gush of excitement. In fact, there was something rather soothingly pleasant and familiar about putting myself in the hands of my “captors” – entrusting myself to them, as it were. Indeed, it only occurred to me later that I never said a word (just that little whimper). I wasn’t muted by shock or outrage, but rather by a feeling of ... it’s hard to describe... acceptance and acquiescence. What I was learning was the subversive, seductive allure of the ropes. I think I picked up that phrase from one of the pamphlets I read before our arrival. It didn’t make sense when I first read it, but it sure does now.

That lesson was immediately reinforced. Andrew had moved over to the reception desk and was handed something I couldn’t identify because I only saw it out of the corner of my eye. I was still focused on my bound wrists and didn’t see him approach me from behind. So I was startled when something dark and shiny descended over my eyes. I jerked and shook my head purely in reflex, but he just pressed his fingertips lightly against my temples, and so I kept still while he finished tying my blindfold in place. It was very effective, completely shutting off my vision except for two slivers of purple glimmer where it crossed my nose. Those tiny, tantalizing shards of light actually made it more intimidating, as it was impossible for me to establish an equilibrium.

Again, it’s hard to explain. You might stop reading now and blindfold yourself to try to understand, but it probably won’t work because the difference is that I was not in control of my actions. With my hands bound behind my back, I couldn’t release myself from the darkness. But it’s an intensely sensual, stimulating, and (dare I say it?) arousing experience, to be deprived of one of your senses (your sight) and to have another (touch) compromised. At the same time that you’re feeling the helplessness and vulnerability I’ve described, you are suddenly so much more aware of your surroundings. And that’s the paradox, because instead of feeling isolated, cut off and enfeebled, instead you feel plugged in and connected to everything and everyone around you.

So do it, put on that blindfold and try walking around the room. I bet you don’t remember the exact position of all your furniture, or how big the room is, or precisely where the doorways are located. But before long, perhaps after a couple of bangs and bruises, you’ll be able to move around without having to prod with your feet or put your hands out... in fact, place your hands behind your back and try it like that. In other words, with the loss of some sensitivity comes another and in a way deeper perception, not just of your surroundings but also of your own capabilities. So believe it or not, being bound and blindfolded, and at the mercy of your captors, can be a form of personal empowerment.

I think that insight came from one of the brochures as well. It certainly doesn’t sound like me, does it? On the other hand, maybe I’ve changed since arriving on Aranea Island. And I don’t mean that my experience has changed me. That’s too passive, which as you know is most definitely not who I am. On the contrary, it is I who has adapted, grown stronger, become better. It’s amazing what a strand of nylon cord and a band of purple satin can do.

And yet, of course, it wouldn’t have been that much of a challenge if that was all there was. Neither Tim nor Andrew said anything, so I was again caught off guard when one of them stood behind me and took hold of my shoulders. He gripped me so firmly that I was wondering what was happening, when I felt something pressing against my lips. My instinct was to clamp my jaws, but I knew that would only prolong the struggle, so instead I opened my mouth and felt a rubber ball being shoved between my teeth. It was large and spongy, so once it had been pushed in it expanded to fill my mouth. I couldn’t suppress a momentary surge of panic (after all, it’s the most basic and primal of all our reflexes) and released a deep-throated moan that dribbled out as a soft and rather comical gurgling noise. But I felt doubly embarrassed when I discovered my reaction was unjustified. I could still breathe in spite of my mouthful of rubber (which I must say was also completely tasteless). The ball had an air hole.

The gag was fixed in place with a buckle-on strap, although I couldn’t have removed it by myself, and it wouldn’t have fallen out of its own accord. One of the guys tightened it, more emphatically than he really needed to, and unapologetic. He pushed my head forward until my chin was jammed against my sternum. I responded with a not very dignified grunt. It’s funny, a grunt gets through a gag much more clearly than a groan. It must be because one is short and guttural, while the other is long and resonant and gets absorbed by the stuffing.

Nothing happened for maybe a minute or two. No one spoke, nobody moved. I realized what the boys were doing. They were standing back, studying me, admiring their handiwork. Knowing their eyes were upon me, I was feeling a mix of emotions. Humiliation, definitely. Pride, oddly enough. And some arousal, I have to admit. That last one surprised and in a way shocked me. As you know, for me the loss of control is not one of the major stimulants, let alone an aphrodisiac...

Okay, enough of that. Anyway, what occurred next thoroughly dampened my passions. Andrew suggested it was time to go, and I heard the boys putting on their backpacks. For a fleeting moment I thought that one of them might do the gallant thing, but it was not to be. It took both of them a good deal of time and effort to strap my pack in place over my pinioned arms. The way it was slung, higher than usual, the bottom edge rested directly against the cord binding my wrists, so that each step I took would cause the nylon to chafe the skin. Since I couldn’t complain (at least not with any coherent words), I had to improvise by lifting my hands as high as I could. That made the rope tighter, but I found it had the additional effect of easing the strain on my arms and especially my shoulders, so it was actually an improvement.

Nevertheless, somewhat belatedly the receptionist reminded the boys about me needing a safe signal. She had just the thing, a small, elasticized band that was put on my left thumb, loose enough that I could push it off without difficulty. She mentioned that it was coloured (I think red) for easy visibility. She told the guys that the strictest rule of Aranea Island is that a safe word or signal must not be ignored or disregarded.

Tim said “Of course not,” in a sort of off-handed manner, and I was startled (and impressed) by the girl’s change of tenor. She was quite vehement in repeating the admonition and waited for him and Andrew to reply, in a much more compliant tone, “Yes, we understand.”

I did my heart good to hear my fellow female, chained and cuffed as she was, so feisty in taking charge and putting the boys in their place like that. At the same time, it didn’t really boost my confidence to hear this advice being given. I started to wonder if, and when, and why we would need it.

Re: GREETINGS FROM ARANEA ISLAND

Postby Qarl » Tue Dec 20, 2011 5:06 pm

sarobah wrote:I am not entirely happy with this instalment, but it’s been a while since my last posting so – for better or worse – here it is.


By contrast, I'm not critiquing your work, so it just so happens that I am entirely happy with this instalment. :D Bravo and thanks!

So believe it or not, being bound and blindfolded, and at the mercy of your captors, can be a form of personal empowerment.
I think that insight came from one of the brochures as well. It certainly doesn’t sound like me, does it?


Cute. Of course it sounds like you, or at least the you that wrote the story. ;-)

Re: GREETINGS FROM ARANEA ISLAND

Postby xtc » Wed Dec 21, 2011 2:27 am

Yes, I see the problem. It's difficult to write from the points of view of two different characters. Nevertheless, I see what you're getting at. A brave attempt which I don't think any of us will decry.
Blessed be on this Solstice,
Xtc
Boxer shorts are cool,
but little speedos rule!

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

Re: GREETINGS FROM ARANEA ISLAND

Postby Chase Ricks » Wed Dec 21, 2011 10:29 am

Hope you have a happier holiday then right now in your story vacation. I look forward to reading more.
From whence I came and whence I went heaven said I was too evil and sent me to hell. Demons and devils succeeded in breaking my soul.

Image

Re: GREETINGS FROM ARANEA ISLAND

Postby sarobah » Sat Dec 31, 2011 9:23 pm

Qarl wrote:Cute. Of course it sounds like you, or at least the you that wrote the story. ;-)

The two do indeed overlap :o)

xtc wrote:It's difficult to write from the points of view of two different characters. Nevertheless, I see what you're getting at.

If I had more time and energy, I would write the three stories in three distinctive styles or voices – yes, I am that perfectionist (or obsessive, compulsive, fixated – take your pick).

Shane Bikman wrote:Hope you have a happier holiday then right now in your story vacation..

Not much bondage (she answered glumly).


Stocks and Bonds, Part 2

Dear AJ,

Here is the second part of my adventure. It really picks up the morning after our arrival, because I can describe our first night on the island in three words. Nothing much happened.

Okay, that’s not strictly true, since any new experience is something happening; but compared to what I had already been through and what lay ahead, it was mundane. When Rachel returned, Richard went back to his room. Once he had left, Jessica told me it was okay to get up. The four of us changed out of our uniforms, took off our bracelets and anklets, and swapped our collars for our chokers. Ben came back for Rachel and they left together. The rest of us went next door to fetch Richard, and then strolled across to the staff cafeteria for dinner. There is a restaurant in the Oasis, or you can go “downtown” – into Resort Village – for your meals, but you have to pay. In the café, it’s all you can eat (or want to eat) for free.

There were forty or fifty people in the place, the majority females (although that just reflects the sex ratio of the workforce) and mostly out of uniform. Maybe a dozen of the women were restrained in some way, and three I could see were wearing blindfolds. In each case, she was one half of a couple, which makes sense. Dining alone and literally in the dark would be, to say the least, inefficient.

Although I am still trying to acclimatize to the Aranea Island lifestyle, it has been reassuring to see that for many of the girls being bound and blindfolded is treated as not just a requirement of the job. I don’t really understand the charm – not yet, anyway – but since everyone I have met here is so normal, I have begun to rid myself of some of my preconceptions and prejudices. However, there was a couple in the cafeteria who did get me thinking. At one table were two young women, both in uniform and collared; one was blindfolded and her hands were behind her back, presumably cuffed. She was being fed her dinner by the other, and they were having a lot of sloppy fun with it. Several times when the food or drink got misplaced en route to the mouth, the unfettered one lovingly cleaned the mess off her companion’s cheeks and chin with her tongue, so I guess they are in a relationship (although it’s possible that they were just friends having fun).

But it proved an interesting reality check for me, because after just a few hours I was still getting accustomed not just to the bondage “games” that are played here but to the idea that it’s us females who are on the receiving end. What I gather from what I’ve already seen – although, rather strangely, not explicitly told – is that male bondage is not just absent but forbidden, at least in public. Maybe I should have done more delving into the family business, because I don’t know if that policy is official and enforced, or unofficial but universal, and whether it’s driven by public demand or by institutional philosophy. It does seem unfair.

This is only superficially analogous to the policy regarding staff uniforms. No one questions that it’s the girls who wear the skimpy, sexy outfits, or suggests that the men should be similarly dressed (or rather, undressed); but that’s about image and convention and (let’s face it) who looks better in what. It is not the issue with the bondage. So when I get the chance, I will do some research on the matter.

But getting back to my original point... The female couple clarified something for me, that Aranea Island is not about males tying up females but about females being tied up. Once I had made that distinction, I began to understand the nature of the resort’s appeal – it’s not so much for the lads as for the ladies. With that in mind, when I finish my tour of duty, I will submit a proposal to the Board for a similarly themed resort for the guys. We could be missing out on a substantial market.

But that’s some distance down the time track, and in any case, maybe I’ve been reading way too much into two girls having a good time. We ate our dinner in peace, despite my cousin’s conspicuously transparent desire to have some fun with us. He was especially attentive to Jessica, but he didn’t have the nerve to suggest anything, and none of us volunteered to be his captives. On the other hand, maybe Suzi and Jess felt sorry for him, because when I announced that I was tired and off to bed, they offered to take him on a tour of the local nightlife.

As I returned to the dormitory, the place was now teeming with people coming and going, some in uniform and on their way to work, many coming off duty, others going out for the evening. We exchanged nodded greetings and I received quite a few welcoming smiles. It’s nice that newbies are made to feel at home, almost like one of the family. However, it does make me wonder if Richard and I are doing the right thing, coming here incognito – it’s as if we’re spying on everyone, which is not the case at all. It’s just that we want to experience the real flavour of this place without the fuss and bother that would inevitably follow if people knew he and I basically own the place.

I winked out as soon as my head hit the pillow, and I must have been even more exhausted than I thought, because I slept through the other girls coming in, and the next thing I knew, Rachel had her hand on my shoulder and was shaking me awake.

“Come on sleepy head. This is not the way to start your first day on the job.”

We had breakfast in the cafeteria and performed our ablutions in the communal bathroom. I am a little bit uneasy about the fact that the sexes have equal living space and facilities in the barracks, despite females outnumbering the males two to one. The men’s sleeping quarters are much more spacious then the women’s, since there are just four guys to a room, compared to eight girls. I had intended to raise the issue at our first meeting with the directors, but clean forgot about it because there were so many other items on my agenda. Next time I will make a list.

Maggie had already informed us that Richard and I would be attending an orientation seminar in the morning and a training session in the afternoon. My roomies were due to begin their shifts at the same time, eight o’clock, but Rachel informed me that we had to be in our dorm half an hour before. All of us being relatively new, we each had to consult the handbook to determine which uniform we’d be wearing. (The males have it so much easier in this respect – they wear the same thing every day.) Rachel is employed in the engineering division (she has a master’s degree in environmental engineering – very impressive), Suzi is a computer technician and Jessica is a chef; but their apprenticeship includes all sorts of assignments, and each section has its own variation of the female uniform. I wore the same as yesterday, the tiny bikini and mini-sarong, with of course the bracelets and anklets, as well as my collar. They felt more constrictive than they had before, which puzzled me until I grasped that the sensation was purely in my mind. They felt tighter because I knew I would be wearing them all day.

It was also funny that when I put on my uniform, I felt sexy and sassy, and in a way empowered, being on display in my barely there outfit. But with my collar and cuffs on, the experience changed instantly to consciousness of being exposed and vulnerable. There’s a potent imagery in your shackles, but it’s not just symbolic. At any moment you can be rendered helpless and compliant, and it must take a special focus of mental (and to an extent) physical energy to do your job. It must be particularly hard for the women in positions of authority, like Maggie, and highly qualified specialists like Rachel, to balance the visceral responses to their restraints (which can range from abject humiliation to intense arousal, depending on the individual and on the circumstances) with the responsibilities and demands of their professions.

This feeling became only more palpable when Rachel told me to select one of my gags. I chose the red one with a black, soft leather, snap-on strap. It’s a sort of ball-gag, but the ball is attached by a stubby shaft to the inside of a contoured panel that fits snugly over the mouth, so the inserted part looks like a water drop that is about to fall – or like an infant’s pacifier.

Jess laughed. “I knew she’d go for the trainer.”

“Don’t mind her,” Rachel said. But I blushed, because I realized what she meant. The gag is designed for beginners, like me. I put it in to try it out, and then I was told to hang it around my neck, to be ready for insertion whenever it’s required. On the plus side, it is soft and pliable, and because of its shape it is comfortable to wear. On the negative side, it is rather loose inside my mouth and does practically nothing to prevent me talking – or at least the noises that come out past my lips resemble actual words rather than muffled mumblings. The thing is (and yes, this really is me telling you this), if I’m to be gagged, I want the job done properly. After all, it is still a bit uncomfortable, and if it’s there just for decoration, I don’t see the point of putting up with it. Isn’t that strange? We, the captive women of Aranea Island, are so quickly seduced into becoming accomplices in our own captivity.

Re: GREETINGS FROM ARANEA ISLAND

Postby Chase Ricks » Sun Jan 01, 2012 11:46 pm

Very nice attention to details.
From whence I came and whence I went heaven said I was too evil and sent me to hell. Demons and devils succeeded in breaking my soul.

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Re: GREETINGS FROM ARANEA ISLAND

Postby sarobah » Mon Jan 02, 2012 3:31 pm

Stocks and Bonds, Part 2, continued...

Just as I was strapping on my sandals and thinking it was time to go, Rachel went to her bed and lay down, on her stomach. She adopted the position of the previous evening, her body straight, knees and ankles together, wrists crossed over the small of her back, keeping rigidly still, not making a sound. Jessica and Suzi did the same. This time, however, they had not removed their sarongs to blindfold themselves.

Rachel’s head was turned to the left, facing me. She smiled and winked encouragement as I hesitated. So I took my place, not really understanding why we were doing this, but assuming it’s part of the initiation for new girls. No, “initiation” is not really the word. It’s not like an induction or a rite of passage, but more of a priming or familiarization ritual. It’s getting you used to being restrained (but without the application of actual, physical restraints), it’s teaching you self-discipline, and it’s helping you develop a tolerance for inconvenience and discomfort – all useful skills on Aranea Island.

Unlike last time, nobody spoke, and after a while I began to get restless and increasingly irritated. But I dared not show my feelings, because I didn’t want my new friends to think I was a wimp or a quitter. And I guess that’s another way we get sucked into the “lifestyle” – we push ourselves because it’s a challenge, and we push each other to appease our sense of belonging and satisfy the basic need we have to conform. And we end up turning something that doesn’t really come naturally into an imperative. Yet the funny thing is that once you’ve reconciled yourself to what you are and what you’re becoming, and cleared your mind of the negatives (because it serves no purpose to dwell on these), it actually becomes rather enjoyable. There’s something exhilarating and (yes, I do confess) sexy about lying there, prostrate and passive, not knowing what’s to come, capable of controlling your fate but choosing not to, indeed allowing yourself to be controlled...

Besides, I figured that giving up easily would undermine my cover story. Every female who signs up for a job in the Aranea Island Resort knows precisely what she’s in for. So I waited in silence, but only for about fifteen minutes, before Ben and Richard came in.

I was facing away, towards the nearby wall, but I heard them doing something to the other girls. There was the creaking of bed frames, the chinking of chains, the mumbling, gurgling sound of gags being inserted. When the guys reached me, I thought they were going to join my cuffs behind my back, but instead Ben instructed me to roll over so I was facing upwards, and to fold my hands on my belly. I kept my legs together and my body straight, and stared directly towards the ceiling, avoiding eye contact because I was feeling really self-conscious now, being so docile and compliant, especially in front of my cousin. He took hold of my wrists and arranged my hands so my palms were together in a prayer position at my throat. He locked the bracelets together and to the D-ring on the front of my collar. While he was then shackling my ankles, I tried my hands in different aspects and found that the most comfortable was with my fingers sort of cupping my chin. I glanced down and saw that the chain connecting my ankle cuffs was about thirty centimetres – not long enough, I was certain, to allow me to walk properly.

Richard helped me to sit up, which would have been quite difficult to do unaided, minus the use of my hands and with my body still stiff from lying motionless on the mattress. The other three girls were standing beside their beds. All were gagged and blindfolded; Rachel’s hands were secured like mine, Jessica’s and Suzi’s behind their backs. And while it was rather embarrassing to have submitted so meekly, and to be so dependent on Richard’s assistance, it was in an odd way comforting to see the others. It’s another way in which you are seduced into this lifestyle, sharing your experience with every other female on the island.

And of course, it was the same for Richard, albeit in a completely different frame of reference. Just yesterday, he had been awkward and tentative, and yet this morning I could hear the confidence in the tone and tenor of his voice and could feel it in the firmness and efficiency with which he put me in my bonds. Even so, looking directly at him now, I saw some pity and maybe a little shame in his eyes as he unhitched the strap of my gag to free it from my fettered wrists, and placed the knob up to my lips, nudging and probing gently until I opened up. I could tell he was wondering what it must be like to have this thing clamped between your jaws, not just rendered speechless but feeling helpless and even violated. Yet when he tested it and found that it was loose and wobbly, he pulled extra hard on the band to tighten it. I emitted a sort of grunting growl and my eyes bulged, but he just heaved harder; and his expression and demeanour were – as quick as that – no longer apologetic. For once I had received that bulbous, crimson intrusion from his hand into my mouth, I was – from his newly acquired perspective – tacitly accepting whatever he needed to do to me to get the job done. It’s a cliché, but this place really does change you.

Well, I’ve made it sound like this went on for hours but in reality it was just a few minutes. Nevertheless, Ben looked up at the clock on the wall and barked “Let’s get moving!”

“Yes, move it” Richard chimed in. Which was very unfair of him because there was no way we girls were the ones holding things up. I got to my feet and expected to be blindfolded like the others, but wasn’t. I guess the guys figured I was too inexperienced to be moving about sightless... which was, of course, true. But not too callow for a leash. Richard had a metallic cable of about an arm’s length, with a small clasp at one end and a loop handle on the other. He clipped it onto my collar ring and gave a few short, gentle tugs to lead me out of the room. It was not as difficult, wearing my ankle chain, as I thought it would be, provided I took small, shuffling steps, and the master did not try to quicken our pace.

Richard was watching my feet to make sure I didn’t stumble, which was very considerate of him, but this meant he didn’t pay attention to the rest of me, and every so often my tether, which ran between the palms of my hand, went taut. Because the strain was transferred to the back of my collar, I was in no danger of choking, but the buckle started to chafe my neck. My only way of protesting, besides making undignified noises through my gag, was to push down on the cable with my fingertips, which actually made the abrasion worse for a while; but eventually he got the message and took heed of both ends of his captive.

Ben and the other girls at first trailed behind us. Rachel, Jess and Suzi were tethered in a row, in that order, with a very short link between each of them. They were huddled so close together that Jess in the middle was near enough to sniff Rachel’s silky red hair, and her hands, cuffed behind her back, were tickling Suzi’s belly and teasing the knot holding her sarong in place. The small girl started giggling, and so did Rachel, and I realized that as they were shuffling out into the corridor, Jess was nuzzling the back of Rachel’s neck with her gag. It was amusing but also reassuring to see the three of them making a game out of their predicament. Ben, leading his girlfriend on her leash, looked back to see what was going on and smiled indulgently. That was also, in a way, heartening, because I had pegged him as the type of guy who would brook no nonsense from his prisoners.

(Of course, taking the role of devil’s advocate, I should say that, in the brief time I’ve had to study the phenomenon, I have observed that the men like to see the ladies having fun like this. There is, naturally, a “hands off without consent” rule that is strictly enforced among staff and guests alike. So they do get a kick out of seeing us play with each other – you know what I mean! – and it’s an invaluable outlet for the sexual tensions which inevitably build up on both sides. And in making this point, I am not denigrating the men in any way. In fact I admire the way they manage to contain themselves. They understand – either instinctively or through training – that if they are going to have such control over us women, they must exercise self-control as well.)

The girls were hobbled with ankle chains like myself, but they were practised at moving about in them and soon passed Richard and me and left us behind. I lost sight of them when they filed out into the bright sunshine, while Richard halted me and we waited inside the building for our escort to arrive. It was the first time we had been just the two of us since boarding the plane a day ago. He let go of my leash but left it dangling from my collar. We stood and stared around the hall, occasionally allowing our eyes to make contact. Because I couldn’t speak, we were both feeling ill at ease; and then my cousin did something which revealed just how much he’d been indoctrinated. To regain the initiative, he reached into his pocket and pulled out a large, black satin sash. I shook my head vigorously but then kept still and did not resist as he placed it over my eyes and wrapped it around, knotting it with another sharp tug that jerked me backwards.

I forgot how constrictive was my ankle chain and tried to take a step to steady myself, which only served to throw me further off balance, and I almost toppled sideways. Richard just managed to save me from a tumble by thrusting out both arms to seize me around the waist. I wriggled and he laughed, and as I continued to squirm in his clutches, he flung me about. I giggled through my gag, persisting with my feeble struggle, and when we finally calmed down his hands remained where they were, his fingers smoothly stroking the bare skin of my midriff. I found myself panting and gasping, each breath ejaculating past the edges of the panel covering my mouth in raspy, wheezy, salivary puffs. I could feel my face becoming flushed. My blindfold had slipped from my eyes during our scuffle, and I saw that his face also had reddened. His expression was that of a naughty schoolboy caught in the act.

He took a few deep, slow inhales and grinned sheepishly before resetting my blindfold. And to show who was boss, he placed one hand on the back of my head, grabbing a fistful of my hair, and with the other he readjusted my gag, wiggling and jiggling the ball about inside my mouth until I signalled my abject surrender with a low, sad moan.

We waited once more, until I heard footstsps approaching, male and female (the men wear shoes and the women sandals which have a distinctive clip-clop sound). The guy introduced them – “Good morning, I’m Todd and this is Liza.” She didn’t speak, and I assumed she was gagged. Later, when my blindfold was removed, I saw that her ball-gag was slung around her neck but it glistened with a lingering film of moisture.

The rest of the morning proved, not unexpectedly, an anticlimax. The management takes new staff orientation very seriously, and there were several lessons, seminars and workshops to get through, with no distractions or frivolity. So this is where I shall take a break. In my next letter I tell you how things got more interesting after lunchtime.

Re: GREETINGS FROM ARANEA ISLAND

Postby Qarl » Tue Jan 03, 2012 12:22 am

I've been gone a little more than a week, and delighted to find two new installments in this tale. Thanks Sarobah! Sorry you're not getting your quota of personal TUGs in real life. :( Here's hoping you and your guy, and possibly other friends get to enjoy more games like the weekend you wrote about a few months ago. :tied:

Re: GREETINGS FROM ARANEA ISLAND

Postby Chase Ricks » Wed Jan 04, 2012 12:23 am

Hope you have a better time after lunch.
From whence I came and whence I went heaven said I was too evil and sent me to hell. Demons and devils succeeded in breaking my soul.

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