A Living, Squirming Pool Toy (M/F)

[OldTUGger]

There comes a time in many TUGger’s lives when the innocence of childhood yields to the hormonal attractions of adolescence.

While it’s always nice to bind a member of the opposite sex, it’s only natural for the mind of a testosterone-suffused teenage male to wonder what the bindee might look like without some of that oh-so-pesky clothing. In the summer between my junior and senior years of high school, I found out.

Renee was a very pretty girl, a year or two younger than I, and distinctive in that she possessed a voice delightfully out of proportion with her slender body -- a husky voice, slightly hoarse, with the penetrating timbre of a foghorn.

I still remember that voice, mainly because of something she once did during a high-school basketball game. I was at the free-throw line, preparing to shoot the front end of a one-plus-one, when I heard Renee. Her voice drowned out even the cheerleaders’ “see that basket, see that rim, c’mon Jake, sink it in” cheer.

“SINK IT, JAAAAAKE!” she thundered. I sank it.

Renee lived only a couple hundred yards down the road from my house, but she seldom hung out with the dozen or so teenagers, boys and girls, who formed what I would call the “core youth contingent” of our tiny town.

It wasn’t because she wasn’t pretty (she was), it wasn’t because she was poor (she wasn’t), and it wasn’t because she was socially awkward (she most certainly wasn’t). She lived with her aunt and uncle, and she just seemed to prefer their company to ours.

Well, most of the time, anyway. One hot summer day she showed up at the town “swimmin’ hole,” a deep pool in a nearby creek.

There wasn’t much else for teenagers of our era and socioeconomic status to do during the dog days of July and August than to spend hours swimming and splashing around in the closest body of water. I don’t know if the heat drove Renee out of her house, or if her two closest girlfriends talked her into coming, but she came.

And, teenagers being teenagers, the guys gravitated toward the girls and vice versa. The guys stood in chest-deep water, girls perched on their shoulders, while the girls attempted to toss one another into the drink. Girls splashed guys, and guys grabbed kicking, squirming girls and tossed them unceremoniously into the deepest part of the sand-bottomed pool.

Renee, who on that day wore a pastel fluorescent floral-print bikini, had brought along an inflatable mattress-style pool float. This particular float sported a grab line, a twisted nylon rope threaded through grommets located around the mattress’ perimeter.

Sometime during the afternoon, a couple of the smaller guys decided they were going to give Renee an epic ducking. They were both somewhat larger than she, but she fought so wildly they couldn’t gain control of her.

Ever the gentleman, I decided to intervene.

I grabbed her float and, working quickly, un-knotted the grab line and stripped it through the grommets. Rope in hand, I joined the melee. The two little guys saw what I had in mind, and each grabbed one of Renee’s forearms and held on for dear life.

“Pull her hands behind her,” I ordered.

“Oh, no you don’t, Jake! Don’t you dare!” she warned, giggling and kicking at her would-be captors.

The not-so-dynamic duo holding Renee’s arms struggled mightily, but ultimately managed to cross her wrists behind her back. I threw a lark’s-head loop into the line, slipped it horizontally around her wrists, pulled it snug, passed the free ends vertically around her wrists twice, cinched the wraps with a single loop and secured the lashings with a quick knot.

“Hold her still, I’m not done,” I said.

Six feet of rope remained, and I wrapped the free ends snugly around her waist twice, pinning her bound wrists to the small of her back. A final knot finished my handiwork.

To this day, I can’t remember what Renee said during all this. My impression, though, that it was loud, quite threatening and shockingly profane. The girl desperately deserved to be gagged, but alas, all the towels hung in the bushes more than 50 feet away.

At that moment it occurred to me that, having just tied Renee up, I would be a complete fool to immediately turn her over to the two guys seeking to duck her. “Let me have her for a while. You’ll get your turn,” I told them.

They handed her over. Her wet bikini top clung enticingly to her small but delightfully contoured breasts. The white waist ropes highlighted the hourglass contours of her midriff. Her curly hair formed a golden frame around her face, and her cornflower-blue eyes blazed with playful fury.

I slid behind her and, grasping her waist ropes in my right hand, tugged her backward so she leaned against my chest.

“Relax. I’m not gonna hurt you,” I whispered into her ear. She quieted down.

I towed her into deeper water. When it reached waist-deep on me -- chest-deep on her -- I stopped.

My hands slid to the small of her waist. Those hands, large enough to easily palm a basketball, nearly encircled her. I marveled at how small and delicate she seemed. Buoyed by the water, she weighed next to nothing.

“I could dunk you now, but I won’t,” I said, sliding my right hand up her back. “But I might just undo your bra.”

“Don’t you dare!” she shouted.

“Would you rather I undid the string on your bikini bottom?”

“NO!”

Holding her by her waist, I backed into the deepest part of the pool. The water rose up Renee’s torso, and she gasped as it approached her chin.

“One flick of my wrists would put you under right now,” I whispered.

“Please don’t,” she pleaded quietly.

“Don’t worry. I’m too much of a gentleman to take advantage of a tied-up girl.”

“Gentleman?!” she roared, her foghorn voice reverberating off the nearby railroad trestle. “You tie me up and manhandle me, and you call yourself a gentleBLUBBBBBB?!”

“I am a gentleman,” I countered, as she gasped for breath and shook creek water from her dripping locks. “Had I not been, I would have held you under a lot longer than two seconds.”

I waded back into shallower water, and as I did I rolled Renee onto her side, cradling her shoulders in my right arm and her thighs in my left. Had we not been waist-deep in water, I might have looked like a groom carrying his bride across the threshold.

Now there’s an image for you -- a soaking-wet groom, dressed in swim trunks, carrying a bound, bikini-clad blonde through the door of their exotic honeymoon retreat. Ah, the stuff of which dreams are made…

Much to the chagrin of Renee’s would-be drowning squad, I untied her before they could get their hands on her again. She seemed genuinely grateful.

Like many TUG moments, my binding of Renee was something that happened on the spur of the moment and nothing more. I graduated and went away to college, and within a year we had lost touch with each other.

A couple of years ago, quite to my surprise, Renee sent me a Facebook friend request. Seeing her name again sent me immediately back to that hot summer afternoon -- that magical afternoon when a short length of rope from a pool toy gave me my first hands-on experience with the delicious contours of a bound, scantily clad girl.

I cherish that memory still.

[Deleted User 93]

Great story

[Fordman]

Great to see this story back again, brings back many of my own fond memories.

[Canuck100]

Great story

[Cleavegagger]

A moment to Remember i think, loved to read it