Part One
All through my teenage years I had a major crush on Rachel. A year older than me, she was gorgeous — slim but shapely, with honey-blonde hair, sparkling hazel eyes and a cutely crooked smile. In our younger days we played together, exploring the suburbs on our bikes and spending many happy summertimes on the beach, which was just a short ride away. Her little brother Paul often tagged along, and other neighbourhood kids took part in our adventures; but I always felt that Rachel and I shared a special, unbreakable bond.
When she started high school, however, things changed. Even after I joined her there, and though we still saw each other almost every day, we continued to drift apart. She had her own circle of friends now, and it only made my infatuation harder to endure that she was popular with everyone. She was clever and conscientious, always at the top of her class, a gifted athlete. She was fearless, elected to the student council and not afraid to take on the authorities over issues she believed were important. She had a generous nature, volunteering to coach younger pupils in the remedial reading class. Rachel was adored by her classmates and loved by her teachers. She was aware of how pretty and sexy she was, knowing what effect she had on people. But while she could be a flirt, she was never a tease.
Our paths often crossed in the schoolyard; and though she was constantly surrounded by her admirers and acolytes, Rachel was not the type of girl to ignore a friend who did not follow the crowd. Those were my proudest moments, when the other kids saw me talking to the most beautiful and popular girl in the school. I was not shy in letting everyone know we were next-door neighbours. But that only increased my torment; for while I was sure I had no personal prospects for romance, I was besieged by potential suitors seeking an introduction or a recommendation.
Of course, thinking back now, I realize that I idealized Rachel. The truth is, however, that at the time I idolized her. But we had virtually nothing in common any more. And it offered me no hope or consolation that she did not appear to have a boyfriend. I once cautiously brought up the subject, only to receive an impatient response, “Oh, there will be plenty of time later for that.” She wasn’t being cruel. She was genuinely oblivious of my feelings toward her. I kept my passions hidden. But so did she. Beneath her blithe façade there was another Rachel — a girl whom I had no reason to suspect existed.
The revelation came just after the start of her senior year, on a sultry late summer afternoon. Most days after school we would walk home together. A free spirit, she would skip along the street without a care in the world, prancing and pirouetting, her little pleated skirt swirling outwards and upwards.
“Come dance with me!” she would call out, laughing. I never did, content just to gaze at her sublime body and perfect legs in ecstatic motion.
Normally we parted at the front gate, but this time our coming home had been delayed because Rachel was tutoring, and to make up for it she invited me to come inside for a drink and a snack. (It probably never occurred to her that I hadn’t minded being kept waiting.) Paul was in the living room; cartoons were playing on the TV. Rachel left me in the kitchen and went to change out of her uniform. I heard her talking to her brother. It sounded like they were arguing, but then both laughed.
I waited a few minutes, before going to see what was keeping Rachel. She was still in the living room, still in her uniform blouse and skirt and socks. She was kneeling on the floor in front of Paul, who was seated on the sofa, but facing away from him. Her arms were behind her back, and she was close enough that when Paul leaned forward and reached out, he was able to seize her wrists and wrap a length of white cord around them. She gasped as he bound her hands in a not very gentle manner; but she did not resist as he looped more of the rope about her arms just above the elbows, and drew it tight, pulling back her shoulders with a sharp tug that made her groan.
I watched this happening in silent, enthralled bemusement. After testing her bonds with some twisting and flexing, Rachel looked up and blushed. Judging by her expression, I was certain she had forgotten my presence. Paul looked up as well, grinned, and with a wave of the hand beckoned me to join him. Neither of them spoke a word.
Given the circumstances, I think I remained splendidly calm. Paul had a second coil of rope which he gave to me. It was nylon, the width of a finger, very pliable with a fluffy texture, as if it had been soaked in fabric conditioner. From that evidence and the skilled, confident way in which Paul had knotted and cinched it around her arms, I was sure this was not the first time he had tied up his big sister. While I was thinking this, Rachel had bent her body until her forehead was touching the carpet, and then she slumped sideways and stretched out her legs so that she ended up lying straight, on her belly, her feet together. I looked at Paul, he nodded and I crouched beside Rachel and began to tie her ankles together. She flinched when she felt my fingers on her calves, because they lingered there a couple of seconds too long. Her legs were as soft as silk, as sleek as satin, but her skin tingled at my touch.
Copying Paul’s action, I fashioned a sort of noose which, when placed over Rachel’s ankles, tightened and cinched, held her feet securely together. She now lay helpless before us; but Paul was not finished. He knelt down by her side opposite me, seized her feet and bent her knees until her heels were pressed against her bottom. He used the last piece of cord to connect his sister’s ankles to her wrists. She moaned. The harshly constrictive way she was bound arched her torso backwards. She was puffing and panting. Beads of perspiration sprinkled her brow.
She glanced up again at me, as I squatted over her delightfully quivering, trussed-up body. Her face was flushed, but whether it was from embarrassment or the strain of her bonds I could not tell. She started to say something.
“Stop your complaining,” Paul snarled.
“I wasn’t.” she whimpered. But it was too late. He leapt up and rushed off to the kitchen as the poor girl, apparently familiar with what was coming, breathed a pitiable sigh. He returned with a roll of masking tape. Rachel shook her head and opened her mouth wide, but I clamped her jaws shut, stifling a squeal as Paul tore off four strips of the tape and sealed her lips. After a few muffled protests she went silent. She lay before us hog-tied and gagged, as Paul and I took our seats on the sofa, he watching cartoons once more while I watched Rachel. Oddly enough, it was only now, once she had been thoroughly subdued and completely powerless to free herself, that she really began to struggle, twitching and wriggling and writhing on the carpet. But gradually her movements grew more feeble. I thought she must have exhausted herself; then I saw that her fists were slowly clenching and unclenching. Although her ankles were protected by her socks, her wrists were turning pink from chafing by the rope.
Paul was showing no interest, so I wondered if I should speak up. However, I am ashamed to say that I was not keen for her ordeal to end. Rachel was more lovely, more sexy, than I had ever seen her. During her squirming her skirt had ridden up her thighs. She was wearing boy-cut sports briefs, and I laughed out loud at the thought that I felt relieved that they allowed her somewhat more dignity than the little cotton knickers she showed to the world as she danced along the street. Paul turned to give me a funny look and even Rachel glanced up to see what amused me. Unfortunately for her, it gave Paul new inspiration.
He slid off the sofa again and pulled off her socks. Anticipating what was about to befall her, the girl started shrieking even before he and I began a relentless, hideous tickle torture. Convulsing violently, she begged for mercy, swore vengeance and damned our immortal souls; but her pleadings, threats and curses rasped out from behind her gag as gurgled grunts and guttural growls. She finally went limp, sweating and trembling but otherwise drained of all stamina. I stopped the torment, but Paul continued until he eventually grew bored with her suffering and returned his attention to the television.
By now Rachel had been tied up for at least an hour. Shadows were creeping into the room as the sun sank behind the trees on the western side of the house. I had to use the bathroom and was worried that Rachel might be feeling the need even more, after all the energy she had expended. But I was not going to ask and I was not about to suggest to her brother that she be freed. I took the opportunity to dash across the fence to deposit my school bag and leave a note for my parents. That made me wonder how Rachel’s mother would react if she arrived home now.
Indeed, shortly after I got back, I heard a car pull into the garage and then the front door open and close. It was obvious where Rachel had acquired her captivating looks and sensual style. A divorcée, Marilyn was a tall, impeccably attractive brunette with the legs of a showgirl and the body of a swimsuit model. She was an attorney of some kind — environmental law, I believe — and she wore expensive, tailored business suits with stiletto heels, stockings and short skirts which hinted at a suspender belt underneath. Everyone in the neighbourhood turned to watch whenever she went by. Yet she cultivated a formidable, almost scary, persona and I found myself getting nervous as she came into the room.
The woman frowned and shook her head at the pathetic sight of her daughter lying bound and helpless on the floor, peered quizzically at her son and then at me. She shrugged her shoulders, dropped her jacket and briefcase onto the coffee table and strode into the kitchen.
“It looks like I’m preparing dinner again. Thanks, guys.”
“You’re welcome,” Paul called after her, grimacing with regret even as he did so. He quickly released Rachel from her bonds.
Rachel raised herself onto her knees, straightened her skirt, smoothed out her blouse, massaged her wrists, rubbed her ankles, stretched her jaws and puckered her lips. Her eyes were downcast but every so often flickered up to catch my gaze. It didn’t bother me that she saw that I was staring at her the whole time. We were both feeling a little awkward. We had both, each in our own way, exposed more of ourselves than we had ever done before. She went upstairs to finally change out of her uniform. Paul went back to his cartoons, ignoring me. (We had never really gotten on.)
I decided that I would not wait for Rachel to come back to the living room. What if she didn’t, and I was left there looking and feeling forlorn? So, still puzzled by her lack of surprise at what she’d seen, I said a quick good-bye to Marilyn and went home. What else could I have said? “I enjoyed helping your son to tie up your daughter”?
The next morning I met my neighbours outside their house. Rachel scampered ahead to meet a couple of her friends. “Come on,” she sang out, but as usual I declined. I contented myself with the sight of the three girls cavorting a dozen paces in front. But I also wanted a private moment with Paul. We did not say much for some time, but it was he who brought up the subject that was on my mind.
“It’s sis’s idea,” he said. He only called Rachel “sis” when he was blaming her for something (which, come to think of it, was a lot). “It’s how she gets rid of her stress. A bit weird, if you ask me.”
“And you just go along with it out of little brotherly love,” I thought.
“I go along with it just to keep her quiet.” He chuckled. “Well, it works for a while, doesn’t it?”
That was not very enlightening, but I could see the logic. Rachel was the classic over-achiever, and we all need some sort of pressure release valve. What it did not explain was my presence. I didn’t believe, not for an instant, that she had forgotten that I was in the kitchen. But we had reached the school gate, where we parted. Things went back to normal. Neither of us mentioned Rachel’s stress relief.
So I thought that was the end of it. A once-in-a-lifetime opportunity had come along, I made the most of it, and now we’d moved on.
How wrong I was.
***
It was nearing the end of term. The tension was building. Rachel was never in danger of falling below her straight-A standard, but the strain was showing in her face, her voice, her overall body language.
Students in the senior school only had to attend school for exams, so both of us had the day off. Around lunch time, Rachel called out my name across the fence.
“Do you want to come over?”
“Yes, I will bring my books.”
Although she was a year ahead of me, we often studied together.
“Oh, okay” she replied, “but I thought we both might need some stress relief.”
I think at that moment me heart leapt into my throat and my head spun completely around. At least that’s what it felt like. I don’t think Rachel was deliberately echoing her brother’s words. It was a phrase she had probably used enough times that it just rolled off the tongue. As I suspected, the tie-up episode that Tuesday afternoon had not been the first. But this time Paul was at school.
The girl was as stunning as usual, in a snugly fitting, pink halter-neck top and skimpy floral-pattern shorts. I could not help but stare. Her face reddened slightly, which made her even more beautiful. We went inside her house, she asked if I wanted a snack and I declined. I followed her into the living room, and on the coffee table were the two coils of white nylon cord, a purple satin scarf and — something I had never before seen in real life — a ball-gag, large and red on a leather buckle-up strap. I executed a classically comical double-take. Rachel grinned and slowly nodded. Her face was no longer flushed, but I’m sure mine was.
And so we began our second tie-up session, as quickly and as simply as that. No build-up, no dancing about, no explanations, no (for want of a better word) foreplay. I was glad we didn’t speak because my mouth was dry. But my hands were sweaty and began to shake, and then something quite extraordinary happened. Rachel knelt in front of me and reached out to take my hands in hers. She held them tightly for at least two minutes, during which time neither of us spoke, just stared into each other’s eyes. At that moment I realized two things. One was exhilarating, that this gorgeous, intelligent, sophisticated young woman was submitting to me, putting herself totally in my control. The second thing saddened me, because it confirmed what I had known but never quite accepted. Despite the intimacy of what was about to happen, I could tell from how she looked at me that being her pressure valve was as close as I would ever get to Rachel.
Strangely enough, I don’t remember much about the bondage. She was very compliant, more so than when Paul and I had subdued her. Without her brother’s guidance it took me a long time to work out how to apply the ropes. In fact, after some frustration Rachel started giving me directions, between gasps and grunts, and it was all I could do to stop myself laughing out loud at the situation. The victim was instructing her captor on how she was to be rendered helpless.
The result was a hog-tie much more constricting than the first. I was not really aware of just how uncomfortable it was until I turned her onto her left side and could see how much her body was bent rearwards. Her shoulders, bare and silky smooth, were pulled back at a formidable angle, which pushed out her chest. Rachel’s breasts were not large, but she had a perfectly proportioned figure, and locked in this position she was almost unbearably sexy. She was breathing heavily, and the tell-tale signs of arousal strained at the thin fabric of her halter-top.
I took up the purple scarf, which I’d assumed was to be her blindfold, folded it lengthwise, drew it over her eyes and tied it around her head. She sighed and smiled as I made it tight. There was something about taking away her sight, making it so I could gaze upon her while she could not see me, that was as sensual for Rachel as it was a thrill for me. It reduced her, already immobilized, to a state even more powerless and exposed.
The gag was different and yet the same. It didn’t stop her making noise, even if it prevented lucid words coming out. But like the blindfold, its purpose was not so much to serve as a restraint as to be a symbol of restraint. I got that message when I pressed the ball (a semi-pliable rubbery plastic, with small perforations) against her lips. She resisted its entry at first, clenching her jaws, but relented a little too quickly to be convincing. Nevertheless, she pouted as I pushed the orb into her mouth; it deformed slightly as it passed between her teeth and expanded behind them. The air holes proved efficacious, because the entire cavity was filled, her cheeks bulged and the front edge of the ball protruded from her mouth. However, securing the strap was more difficult than I anticipated, and the girl groaned as I struggled to fasten the buckle.
Once the job was done, I sat on the couch to admire my work. I had no idea how long I should leave her in that condition. She had no way of letting me know when she’d had enough except by squirming about, and if I had known then what I know now I would have been prepared with some sort of safety signal. So every few minutes I asked if she was okay. Each time she shook her head; but when I asked if she was ready to be freed, she shook her head again.
It was nearly two hours before I made the unilateral decision. Rachel had been comprehensively bound for about half that; but it was still a long time, and when she was released she was clearly exhausted. How I longed to take her in my arms, to comfort her with hugs and kisses, but instead I brought her a drink, and she lay on the carpet, silent and motionless, for another thirty minutes or so, until she was fully recovered. After that, until Paul came in, maybe an hour later, we studied together as if nothing unusual had occurred. Too late I realized that the rope and blindfold and gag were still there on the floor, but he didn’t even blink. He just nodded.
“My work is done,” he said.
Rachel giggled, and it took me a few seconds to get the message.
The games had only just started.
Sarobah
Australia
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Sarobah's stories
- 01 - The Adventure Begins (mm/f)
- 02 - Mayday (F+/F+) in Archives for Adults
- 03 - The Obligatory Babysitter Story (mf/f)
- 04 - Bond-Expo (M+F+/M+F+) in Archives for Adults
- 05 - Captured Commando (f/f)
- 06 - Slavegirl (M+F+/F+, M/F)
- 07 - Uniformity (m/f)
- 08 - Tent Ropes - The True Story (FFF/M, M+/F+)
- 09 - Tent Ropes - Fiction (FFF/M, M+/F+) in Archives for Adults
- 10 - Family Ties (m/ff, m/fff)
- 11 - Setting the record straight... Family Ties, # 2 (m/ff) Story from Sarobah's brother Alex
- 12 - The other end of the rope (m/ff, m/f) Story from Sarobah's brother Alex
- 13 - Adventures in Tieland (f/m, mmm/f, m/ff) Story from Sarobah's brother Alex
- 14 - Setting the record straight... The awesome foursome (f/f, m/fff) Story from Sarobah's brother Alex
- 15 - Back in the game! (M/F)
- 16 - The Resort (M/F, m/f, M+m+/F+f+)
In Archives for Adults - Balls: The rematch (MMMM/FFFF)
- Birthday Girl (M/F)
- The Girl Next Door (M/F)
- Tie-up Tuesday (M/F)
- The prisoners' dilemma (m/f)
- Château Chaînerie (mmf/f)
- THE TIE-UP CHRONICLES (Continued) (m/f)
- Two first times (m/f)
- Adversity (F/F)
Index of all stories in the "Archive for Everyone" section
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Index of all stories in the "Archive for Adults" section
