Part 1
It all started in August 2019, before COVID — when Tracey, my college friend, decided on a major.
My name is Mugdha, which means “innocent,” “tender,” and “spellbound.” It’s pronounced “moog-dah.” I’m an engineering major in my junior year at Boston College, and my parents are from India. I stand about 5’6” and have long, straight jet-black hair and almond-colored skin. I have an athletic build, and I work out with the treadmill and weights about once a week. Every Wednesday I take a yoga class at the college gym.
I’m often told I have an exotic beauty, or that I look like an Indian princess. I sometimes catch people — women as well as men — looking me over when I’m in public. I don’t return their gaze. I’m shy and retiring by nature, so I feign embarrassment at such attention and compliments, while inwardly I feel flattered, and enjoy the attention.
I met Tracey in my Freshman year. We had a lot of the same classes and wound up hanging out a lot, so naturally we became friends. She has the same build, but she’s a little taller, has a ruddy complexion and long strawberry-blonde hair. I started calling her “Trace” for short, so she nicknamed me “Moogie.” Our mutual friends sometimes refer to us as “Salt & Pepper” because of our contrasting looks, and the fact that we spend a lot of time together. Neither of us has a steady boyfriend, even though we get lots of male attention.
Whereas I’m shy, Tracey is assertive, always ready with a plan for bar-hopping or partying, always outspoken about school, which instructors she thinks are good, and which ones she thinks are jerks. Tracey suggested we split an apartment, and in the spring of our freshman year we found an older house that had been made into a duplex. The owners are a middle-aged couple who live upstairs, and they agreed to rent us the first floor apartment, which had two bedrooms as well as a living room.
It’s located on a pretty, tree-lined street in Newton, which is a suburb of Boston. It’s close to the “T,” which is what they call public transportation in Boston. I’m able to commute to school, and Tracey can usually find a parking spot for her car. Moreover, the apartment gives us a quiet study space, and solitude.
That private space was a big part of what happened in the 2019 fall semester, the start of our sophomore year. Though we were both doing well in school, Tracey hadn’t chosen a major yet. I knew it was bothering her, and she was often sullen and reserved around the house. I suspected she ditched classes, because I came home a couple of times to find her asleep on the couch in our living room, her hair askew, wearing her plaid pajamas.
It bothered me, too. Worse yet, I had no idea how to comfort her in her listless state, and it left me feeling a little lost. Then one Monday in early September I saw her talking to some other female students in the student union . She was wearing khaki pants and a light-blue button down shirt — an unusual look for her — and her hair was pulled back in a dark-blue scrunchy. She spotted me, waved, and jogged over.
“Moogie, guess what! I settled on a major!”
“What did you pick?”
She grinned smugly.
“C-J…Crim-in-al Just-ice,” she said, drawing out the words for effect.
“Excellent! I’m so happy for you.”
“Yeah, I’m pretty psyched about it, too. “I’m just talking to some other CJ majors right now. Seeya later?”
“Yep.”
We hugged and she trotted back to the other students.
That evening over dinner we talked about the various careers she could pursue with her new major. We were sitting near a window at a local bistro, one of our favorite places. I thought she might fall into another funk, dithering about life beyond college. But I needn’t have worried.
“I want to become a cop,” she said. I put down my salad fork and tucked my legs under me.
“Well, that makes sense,” I said. “You know, you always take charge, Trace…you’d be good at that. I can definitely picture you as a police officer.”
“’Pol-ice Officer,’” she said chuckling. “That sounds so formal, Moogie. I guess that’s just the engineer in you talking.”
I grabbed the check when we finished, but she snatched it out of my hand.
“My treat!” she said. “I insist. You’ve been so supportive over the past weeks. I don’t know what I would’ve done without you.”
“Hey, we’re friends!” I replied. “That’s what friends do.”
I woke up early Wednesday morning and dressed for my yoga class. It was still warm out, so along with my white Reeboks, black quarter socks and black yoga pants, I wore a black spandex crop tank top that hugged my curves and showed off my belly-button and steely abs.
I popped into the kitchen to fill my water bottle and found Tracey sitting at the kitchen table, working at her laptop. Her hair was pulled back in a black scrunchy, and she was wearing a dark blue polo shirt, khaki cargo pants and black shoes — typical of the cop-like outfits that she’d taken to wearing recently.
“Good morning,” I said cheerily. “Hunting bad guys already?”
She giggled. “Hardly. I’m doing the whole drop-add thing so I can get going on my CJ courses. Are you home around lunchtime, as usual?” she asked, looking up from her screen.
“Yep. Will you be home too?”
“I should be. I’m expecting a package. If it arrives soon, I’m going to head to school to pick up my CJ textbooks.”
“Ok, seeya later.” I headed down the hall and out the door, and almost stumbled on a brown Amazon box that was sitting on the porch. My engineer brain estimated the dimensions: about 8” wide, 12” long and 2” deep. I picked it up. It was heavy, marked "one-day delivery," and addressed to Tracey.
“Tracey!” I called through the open door, “your package is here!”
She bounded down hall and was on the porch in a flash. “I’ll take that!” she laughed, grabbing the box from my hands. Then she went back into our apartment and shut the door.
“Whatever,” I thought as I shouldered my book bag and headed to school.
I returned around noon, and found Tracey waiting for me in the living room. She stood up from the couch as I put down my book bag. She was holding her right hand by her side.
“Hey there, I want to show you something,” she said mysteriously.
“What?”
“These!” she said, holding up a pair of silver handcuffs.
“Wow, are those the real thing?”
“Sure, lemme show you!”
And with that, she grasped my left wrist firmly and snapped one cuff on it. Then she calmly walked my cuffed arm behind me, grabbed my right wrist and snapped the other cuff onto it.
“Ta-da!” she said.
I whipped back around toward her.
“Holy Cow!” I laughed, wriggling my hands in the cuffs. "I’m glad you’re taking your new major so seriously!”
“They even came with this book on how to use them…see?” she said, holding up the key and a white paperback manual. She flopped back down on the couch, patting the spot next to her.
So I sat on the couch too — with my hands still cuffed behind my back. The couch cushions are really soft and sinky, so I sat on the edge, leaning slightly forward, so I wouldn’t fall back on my arms. Tracey watched me adjusting my position and put the book down.
“Here, let me double-lock them for you,” she said, reaching behind me.
“What does that mean?” I asked looking over my shoulder.
“The double-lock mechanism ensures the cuffs won’t accidentally tighten up on you…if you’re moving around. I read it in the manual.”
Even so, I felt her grasp both cuffs, and heard the unmistakeable sound of her tightening each of them by two clicks. Then I heard two more almost inaudible clicks, which I presumed to be Tracy manipulating the double-lock thingy she’d explained.
“There, a regulation collar, if I do say so myself! Now let’s check out the manual!” I was leaning forward already, so it was easy to see things Tracey was pointing out as she flipped through the pages.
It may seem strange that Tracey didn’t take off the cuffs, or that I didn’t ask her to take them off. I mean there I was, in my apartment, sitting on the couch with my best college friend, as usual — except with my hands manacled securely behind me. Part of me was just happy to have the old Tracey back, and I wanted to keep being supportive.
But in other parts of my being, I felt all kinds of new, pleasant sensations and emotions that I couldn’t name or sort out at that moment.
We must’ve sat there for a good half-hour, reading about how the cuffs worked, and studying the various illustrations and handcuffing techniques. The manual said they were hinged cuffs, and I could tell they were definitely tight. Finally she shut the book.
“Let’s go to the kitchen, Moogie…I want to show you my textbooks!”
So I followed her down the hallway into the kitchen. We sat at the table, and we spent another 20 minutes talking about her books, her new criminal-justice classes, and the classes she’d dropped. Eventually she smiled with satisfaction, tucked her new books into her backpack, and looked at me.
“So, did I do a good job?” she asked, her blue eyes twinkling.
“With the cuffs?” I twisted my wrists a little. “Yes, you’ve got me locked up good. I could never get out of these.”
She got up, pulled the key from her pocket and leaned over behind me.
“Super,” she said, unlocking the cuffs. “I’m really into this, and I want to be good at it.”
I felt a slight rush when the cuffs came off. Even though they hadn’t hurt me at all, I self-consciously rubbed my wrists, like you see people do in the movies and on TV. I realized I’d been holding my breath as she unlocked the cuffs, so I sighed deeply.
“Well,” I said, trying to sound casual, “I’m sure you will be!”
Part 2
However, I was anything but casual. The incident should’ve been forgotten in the hurly-burly of schoolwork, but I felt terribly distracted by what had happened. I’d never been arrested or tied up, and I rarely wore bracelets. But I couldn’t get over how I’d had Tracey’s heavy-duty, escape-proof bracelets restraining me.
At night I tossed and turned, re-running the incident over and over in my mind. I marveled at how quickly and easily she’d taken me. She was taller and stronger, and she definitley knew how to use those cuffs.
The truth was, I liked the feeling of being restrained. Nothing in my life so far had ever generated such a unique thrill. But this truth didn’t set me free. We were often alone in the apartment…might she grab me and cuff me again? She’d said that she was “really into this.” What did she mean by that? Being a cop, cuffing me, or both?
I fantasized about other scenarios. Maybe I could get myself arrested? Or perhaps I could take a babysitting job, and get myself tied up while playing cops & robbers with the kids? I quickly dismissed those ideas as improbable, impractical and costly — not to mention embarrassing. But actually asking Tracey to cuff me again felt weird and embarrassing, too.
By Friday I was utterly checked out, and my mind was racing with ways to bring about a replay. In calculus class I sat at the back, and furiously scribbled things that might inspire Tracey:
• Casually ask about actual arrest procedures, to get her to “demonstrate” a proper arrest on me;
• Taunt her…tell her that her first cuffing attempt was lame and escapable, and she should try again;
• Tell her that as an engineering student, I could figure out a way to pick the handcuffs, and offer to show her;
• Do something “bad” in the apartment (e.g., leave the milk out, make noise when she’s trying to sleep) and suggest she “arrest” me as punishment;
• Tickle her so she’ll pounce me back and cuff me.
I looked over the list and realized that the only lame thing was my scheming. Tracey could read people well — that was part of her assertiveness — so she’d easily see through my deceptions. The demonstration canard would only work once, if at all, and I didn’t want to pick my way out of her handcuffs — once they were on me, I wanted them to stay on me, at least for a while.
Moreover, I didn’t feel like fooling her into it; ultimately, I wanted Tracey to want to lock me up. In other words, I hoped she was truly “into it,” as she’d hinted. She’d been so kind, even offering to double-lock the cuffs for my safety and comfort, and I ached for her to take command of me again.
When class ended I tore up my paper of crazy schemes and decided on an even more desperate one. I hurried to the T so I could get home ahead of Tracey. I even jogged a little from the station to our apartment.
She wasn’t there, so I rushed into my room, stripped, and put on the workout clothes I’d worn Wednesday. They were clean; I vaguely remembered washing them sometime during the mental fog that followed Wednesday afternoon. I grabbed my textbooks, headed to the living room and sat on the couch.
This, I thought, was the “scene of the crime.” We usually went out on Friday night, but I was hoping that the same place and same clothes would spark Tracey’s memory, and prompt her to show off her skills again. After all, she’d just bought a shiny new pair of hinged handcuffs; with me as her willing partner, why wouldn’t she want to try out her new “toy” on me again, just for fun?
About ten minutes later I heard her bumping up the porch steps and opening the front door. I quickly cracked a book and pretended to read it.
“Hello,” she said as she passed the living room and headed to her room.
She hardly noticed me. I got up and walked to her room, which was just off the kitchen. Her door was open, and she was just pulling on a pair of jeans to go with her maroon tank top.
I leaned against the door jamb and placed my hands behind me. My heart was beating wildly with anticipation. Here she was, and here I was, in the same clothes. I felt as light as a feather — that was sitting on the lip of a precipice.
“If this doesn’t give her the hint,” I thought, “nothing will.”
She looked up.
“Hey, why aren’t you dressed?” she asked. “It’s Friday night…don’t you want to go out?”
My heart sank. I looked down.
“Well, you know, I’m kind of tired tonight,” I said. “I really want to stay in tonight, and lie low. We both had a big week…”
“You mean me finding out I want to be cop, right?” she grinned, pulling off her purple scrunchy and tousling her hair. “Well, I thought we’d head out to Scaramouch’s…that’s where all the CJ majors hang out, and I want to mingle, network and celebrate. You sure you don’t want to come?”
“No, you go ahead.”
“Suit yourself,” she said, brushing past me and down the hall. She paused and looked back. “Are you ok?” she asked, her eyes full of concern. “You haven’t been yourself lately.”
“No, I’m fine…it’s just…it was just a big week, that’s all.”
“Ok, catch ya later!” she said, and she was out the door.
I spent that evening on the couch, still in my workout clothes, channel surfing. It was like Tracey and I had switched roles. Now she was exhilarated and happy, and I was sullen and depressed.
At one point I made up my mind to use her handcuffs on myself, and I snuck into her room. Then I felt guilty. It would mean going through her stuff, and I couldn’t do that. Anyway, she’d discover I’d rifled through her belongings, and what if I got stuck?
So I grabbed her purple scrunchy off her dresser instead, took it back to the living room and sat on the couch. Aromas are powerful memory enhancers, so I sniffed the scrunchy and caught the scent of the Paul Mitchell lemon sage shampoo Tracey used. That helped me reminice about Tracey taking me prisoner, so I put her scrunchy behind my back and twisted my wrists into it. It was snug, but it wasn’t Tracey’s handcuffs, so I wriggled out of it and fell asleep on the couch.
Despite my fatigue, I dozed fitfully. At one point I woke up, imagining Tracey hobnobbing with the other CJ majors. Maybe she was telling them how she’d cuffed me, and they were having a good laugh about it. I couldn’t take that, I thought…I’d have to move out, and change schools. What would I tell my parents?
Then I fell into a deep sleep, and dreamt that I was walking across the campus quad. I saw Tracey entering Gasson Hall, a tall grey Gothic building with a clock and bell tower. She didn’t see me, so I followed her through the heavy oak doors and into the rotunda.
She was nowhere to be found, and when I looked up and saw the statue of the Angel Michael, my surroundings suddenly fell away…I was falling through deep space, accelerating faster and faster…the stars blurred…I wanted to scream, but had no voice.
I awoke in a cold sweat, gasping for breath. I stood up, strode into the kitchen and guzzled a giant glass of water. Eventually my pulse returned to normal. I turned off the TV, and made myself a cup of chamomile tea. I sipped it slowly, cradling the warm cup in my hands.
A terrible dream! One thing was certain: my relationship with Tracey — and with myself — had changed in some radical, unexplained way. Furthermore, I had to avoid Tracey, for her sake, as well as my own. I’d spend more time on campus and hit the books harder than before. This thing, whatever it was, would ultimately lead to greater discipline on my part, which was a good thing. I’d move out at the end of the semester.
I yawned and looked at the stove clock. 11:45 p.m. Well, no time like the present to embark on my new plan, I reasoned, and headed off to bed.
I woke up around 7:30, the bright autumn sun shining through my window. A good day to get caught up, I thought. I crept to my bedroom door and opened it a crack. The light was off in the kitchen…no Tracey? I listened…nothing. Good. I slipped out of my pajamas, threw on my robe, and tiptoed across the hall to the bathroom.
“Hey!”
Almost made it, I thought. I peeked around the corner and saw Tracey in the kitchen.
“Hey yourself,” I said, feigning a yawn. “How was your networking mission?”
“Great! I…”
I ducked back into the bathroom, closed the door partway, turned on the shower and got in. “I’m in kind of rush, Trace,” I called out over the noise of the shower. “Talk to me while I get ready…ok?”
Tracey stood outside the door and yakked about the CJ majors she’d met and all the things she’d learned. I responded with “uh-huh” and “cool!” and other non-committal expressions. As she talked, my mind drifted to other things. I studied the white soap suds coursing slowly down my brown curves, and thought suddenly, “I’m truly beautiful, and I’m going to be okay.”
“Oh Mugdha…?” Tracey’s voice interrupted my reverie. “I may have some of them over for study sessions…it that ok with you?”
“Fine!” I said, louder than I liked. My irritation was showing, and I realized I’d have to bear down harder on my feelings.
The weekend flew by. I studied late into the night at the library on Saturday, bolted out early on Sunday and managed to avoid Tracey. My feelings settled down, and my focus returned. Doing homework was a joy again, as was the solitude. She texted me a few times and invited me out for dinner, but I kept my answers short: “sorry, studying,” or, “busy.”
I woke up early on Monday, determined to keep up this routine. I threw on dark sweat pants, my white Reeboks and a loose-fitting red t-shirt. But when I returned at about 9 p.m., I saw flashes in the front window — a sign that the television was on, and that Tracey was watching it.
She was home. No big deal, I thought. Just go in, say hi and walk on by.
But I began to tremble as I mounted the steps. My palms began to sweat as I opened the door.
Just walk on by, I repeated to myself. But I felt myself melt a little as I caught sight of Tracey sitting on the couch. She was my friend, and despite my irritation, I missed her.
Her voice did me in.
“Moogie! Where ya been?!” she said, muting the TV with the remote. “By the way, I just found one of my scrunchies on the couch. How’d it get in here?”
I settled on the ottoman opposite her, clutching my book bag.
“What are you watching?” I asked. I almost stammered, I was so nervous.
“Some cop show,” she said, looking at the TV. “You know, ever since I started my new classes, these things seem super corny.”
I was barely listening. My eyes had become fixed on the end table, and the shiny object that was lying on it.
The handcuffs. My heart skipped a beat. Tracey, me and her handcuffs were all together in the living room again. And she was still talking.
“…like, they do all kinds of things real cops would never do, and they’re always soooo dramatic…you know what I mean? Hey, what’s wrong?”
I looked at her, and she fixed me with her piercing blue eyes. Involuntarily, my eyes flickered to the end table, then back to her.
Her jaw dropped. She’d seen that I’d seen the cuffs. Our eyes met again.
“So that’s why you’ve been acting so weird!” she burst out. “Oh Moogie, I promise I’ll never handcuff you again!”
I didn’t know what to say, and I didn’t want to say anything. Yet I couldn’t look away.
Her mouth gaped in astonishment as she finally grasped the truth. Then she grinned from ear to ear, and grabbed her cuffs off the table.
“C’mon,” she said. “Let’s take care of you. Stand up, turn around, and put your hands behind you.”
I wordlessly complied. Within a second I felt the cold metal cuffs closing about my wrists, and heard the rapid clicking sound as Tracey ratcheted them tight. I shuddered, and all the tension of the past few days seem to evaporate. Relief enveloped my entire body, and I let out a deep breath.
There it was again, that reassuring weight of handcuffs locked on my limbs. Tracey drew the curtains, locked the front door, sat back down on the couch and un-muted her cop show. I looked around for a place to sit, then took two steps toward the couch.
“You’ll probably be more comfortable sitting on the floor, Moogie,” she said, “with your back against the couch.”
I looked down at the floor at the area she indicated, then hesitated. I heard Tracey giggle.
“Face the TV, and go to your knees first,” she said. “Then sit on your right hip…don’t worry, I’ll help you.”
I knelt, then slowly leaned toward my hip. She caught me by the shoulders as I slumped over, and eased me to the couch. Then she helped me scooch around so my back was resting against it.
“Now bend your legs and place your feet flat on the floor, so you don’t slide down,” she said.
I obeyed, easily finding my balance. She gathered up my hair, pulled it away from my face and secured it at the back of my head with her scrunchy.
“Here,” she said, settling a sofa cushion behind my neck. “This should make you feel even more comfy.”
Indeed I was...sitting there, tightly restrained, my helpless fingers touching the cold wooden floor, the grey-blue light of the television illuminating my cozy form.
Part 3
That was our first session, based on our mutual interest: Tracey liked to handcuff me, and I liked being handcuffed by her.
Certainly some of it had to do with her strong interest in law enforcement. She used me to practice handcuffing techniques, and I’d eventually become her “suspect” in an entire arrest scenario, which included cuffing and frisking me; placing me in the back of her car and securing me there with the seatbelt; then driving me back to our apartment to conduct mock booking procedures. She learned many of these methods from her handcuff manual, or from training videos online.
But as our first session showed, Tracey also enjoyed her power over me, and she got a kick out my awkwardness and increased shyness while cuffed. During that session, for example, she suggested we go for a walk before bed. I was shocked at the idea, but she just threw a coat over my shoulders to hide my pinioned wrists.
“This is our secret,” Tracey said firmly. “No one has to know.”
Then she grabbed me by the upper arm and walked me out the door, like she was escorting a prisoner to jail. It was a cool adventure to be restrained in public. I truly had no idea where she was taking me; but as I said, I become more even more reserved while captive, so I couldn’t muster up the nerve to ask.
Besides, the suspense was almost intoxicating, and my imagination ran wild. We’d role-play extensively in the months to come, but during that walk, on my own, I pictured myself as a poor innocent girl inadvertently caught up in some white-collar crime, or as a reluctant witness who Tracey was charged with detaining and protecting.
We also felt the excitement of flouting our secret under the unknowing noses of our neighbors, all snug, comfy and ignorant in their little houses and apartments. We only walked around the block, but I almost asked Tracey to keep me cuffed all night.
We rarely discussed our “play” openly, and she never mocked me or demeaned what we did. We didn’t use terminology like “domme” or “sub.” Tracey wasn’t domineering, and she kept it light. We treated it as a hobby, and we evolved our own codes, signals and terminology.
This also helped define boundaries, and prevented the sessions from interfering with schoolwork. So our lives went on normally, except that Tracey always had her cuffs handy at home, and she was always happy to lock me up. She never interrupted me while I was studying, but our casual encounters in the apartment usually led to informal sessions, if time allowed.
If we struck up a conversation at the kitchen table, for instance, she’d deftly step behind my chair and cuff me while we chatted. When we washed clothes together in the basement laundry room, we’d hang out down there during the dry cycle — except with me sitting on the floor against a pole, my arms shackled together behind it.
Sometimes if she heard me yawn and stretch while studying, she’d peek into my room and ask if I needed a break. I’d always set my books or laptop aside, roll over on my tummy, get comfortable and present my hands to her. Sometimes she’d sit on the bed and visit with me, but if she was hitting the books hard, she’d set her cell phone timer for 15 or 20 minutes, and leave me handcuffed until the time was up.
If she was watching TV, I’d stroll in, ask what was on and reflexively turn around so she could gently lock the cuffs on my wrists. That led to us binge-watching Riverdale one Saturday afternoon, with me alternating between sitting on the couch, the ottoman or cross-legged on the floor. Tracey fed me popcorn, and I dutifully offered my hands for re-cuffing after my bathroom breaks.
She always made sure to cuff me with my palms facing out — another technique that ensured I was securely restrained. I could do nothing with my hands when they were manacled in that position.
From our practice sessions, I learned different arrest stances — like my hands on top of my head, fingers interlocked, or my hands on the wall, legs spread. So if I wanted some cuff-time, I’d simply find Tracey and assume an arrest position. She’d smile, stop what she was doing, shackle me, and put me on the timer.
If she happened to be studying on those occasions, I’d go sit at my desk so as not to distract her. I always took a few seconds to look in the mirror and admire how her cuffs looked on my wrists.
Occasionally I’d wander into the living room and sit on the floor just beneath the front window, where I could peep at cars, neighbors and other pedestrians. They couldn’t see me from their angle, and had no idea that they were passing by me, a chained prisoner, just yards away.
For the rest of September and into October, Tracey only used her handcuffs on me. Who could blame her? They were new and shiny, like jewelry, in addition to being fast, efficient and secure. As an engineering student, I liked those aspects, too.
By mid-October I could count on being Tracey’s prisoner for several hours a week. For me, our apartment came to represent stability, study, solitude — and occasional captivity.
Whether I was on the T, on campus, or in class, I often experienced the phantom sensation of being handcuffed, and I’d daydream about being at home, under Tracey’s control. When my yoga teacher announced that she was teaching us the “handcuff stretch,” I almost laughed out loud.
Around that time, Tracey advanced our play to another level.
What Are Friends For? Part 9 added (F/F)
What Are Friends For? Part 9 added (F/F)
Last edited by Proteus75 3 years ago, edited 9 times in total.
Wow what a great start, please keep going!
Your writting is very detailed and a pleasure to read, and damn, I can't Imagine the creativity you need to literally NAME a character in the adult section of a TUG forum "innocent". I'd say you can't make this stuff up, but apparently you just did...
Only criticism on my part is that the ending of the chapter seems somewhat sudden, though maybe that's just my dissapointment of witnessing the chapter end shining through.
So please continue & Kudos to an excellent start to Tug-story-writting/ Posting!
Your writting is very detailed and a pleasure to read, and damn, I can't Imagine the creativity you need to literally NAME a character in the adult section of a TUG forum "innocent". I'd say you can't make this stuff up, but apparently you just did...
Only criticism on my part is that the ending of the chapter seems somewhat sudden, though maybe that's just my dissapointment of witnessing the chapter end shining through.
So please continue & Kudos to an excellent start to Tug-story-writting/ Posting!
Thank you! Yes there's more on the way -- that's why there's the hard break you noticed.redlukas wrote: ↑3 years ago Wow what a great start, please keep going!
Your writting is very detailed and a pleasure to read, and damn, I can't Imagine the creativity you need to literally NAME a character in the adult section of a TUG forum "innocent". I'd say you can't make this stuff up, but apparently you just did...
Only criticism on my part is that the ending of the chapter seems somewhat sudden, though maybe that's just my dissapointment of witnessing the chapter end shining through.
So please continue & Kudos to an excellent start to Tug-story-writting/ Posting!
This was a nice start. I enjoy your writing style and appreciate your good grammar.
My favourite thing about this is that you know when to begin a new paragraph. Lots of writers will allow their paragraphs to go on forever, resulting in a wall of words that looks more like a texture than a story.
Hopefully, we'll get to see this escalate beyond a pair of handcuffs soon!
My favourite thing about this is that you know when to begin a new paragraph. Lots of writers will allow their paragraphs to go on forever, resulting in a wall of words that looks more like a texture than a story.
Hopefully, we'll get to see this escalate beyond a pair of handcuffs soon!
Looking forward to see where this story goes, great start thanks for posting
This. Is. SO. Good.
Seriously, this is an amazing start. I can't wait to read more.
Seriously, this is an amazing start. I can't wait to read more.
If you add new chapters by editing them into the first post, the thread will not rise back up on the page - and eventually drop off page 1. So, if possible, at least add a small comment to the thread when you add chapters. Thank you!
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LatexLover
- Centennial Club
- Posts: 244
- Joined: 4 years ago
Please continue. I’m eager to see where this goes.
Thanks, there’s more to come.
Yeah, that’s a great point, thanksTomYi wrote: ↑3 years ago This was a nice start. I enjoy your writing style and appreciate your good grammar.
My favourite thing about this is that you know when to begin a new paragraph. Lots of writers will allow their paragraphs to go on forever, resulting in a wall of words that looks more like a texture than a story.
Hopefully, we'll get to see this escalate beyond a pair of handcuffs soon!
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slackywacky
- Millennial Club
- Posts: 2622
- Joined: 5 years ago
- Location: Canada
Great story, good writing. Will there be more? Part 3 kinda leaves us wanting more...
Thanks for reading. Feel free to comment.
Slackywacky, also @DeviantArt
My active stories:
Slackywacky, also @DeviantArt
My active stories:
- All in the family - Updated 21/03
- Bondage model by choice - Updated 10/04
- Hitchhiker - Updated 29/03
There is, look later tonight.slackywacky wrote: ↑3 years ago Great story, good writing. Will there be more? Part 3 kinda leaves us wanting more...
Part 4
It was a weeknight — a Thursday. I remember because I’d stayed up until 2 a.m. writing a longish paper for my government class, only to rush to school six hours later to help finish an engineering group project I was involved in. I might’ve gotten four hours of sleep.
Fatigue started catching up with me on the T, but I felt good about knocking out my assignments. My evening was free, and I looked forward to a relaxing dinner and a shower before snuggling under the covers for a nice long rest.
Of course, a cuff session would be nice too, but I knew Tracey was super busy with schoolwork of her own. She’d done an outstanding job getting up to speed in her new CJ classes, but our course loads and assignments had precluded any cuff training, or fun-cuffing, since the previous Sunday.
I walked through the front door at around 5:15 p.m., tiptoed to the kitchen, and saw that Tracey’s door was closed. “Oh well…” I thought, and headed to my room.
But a few moments later her door opened, and she appeared in the hallway outside my door. Clad in a gray hoodie, jeans and dark socks, she looked dressed for an all-nighter of schoolwork.
“Hey Moogie,” she said. “What’s going on?”
“Nothing much,” I said. “My group project — and that big fat government paper — are both turned in…done.” I put my backpack on my desk chair and flopped down on my bed.
“Well that’s excellent! I’m about…oh, I’d say I’m about five hours from a big break myself. I just turned in a paper for my Criminology Intro course, but our Criminal Law project is due at noon tomorrow.”
“Oh my,” I said, suppressing a yawn. “Are you gonna make it? Do you need any help?”
She laughed. “That’s sweet, Moogie. No, we’ll be fine. We’re going to do a conference call in about a half hour to check our progress, so I thought I better come up for air before then. But, I could use some company.”
“Really?” I sat up.
“Sure,” she said, winking at me. “Give me a few minutes, then come to my room.”
After using the bathroom, I quickly doffed my beige Capris, sage scoop neck shirt, bra and panties — everything. It was liberating to strip after the recent time crunch, and I shivered as goose pimples rose on the backs of my arms and thighs.
I wanted to be comfortable for the session, so I chose to wear my own loose-fitting plaid pajamas. Mine have red and green bands, with thin black and yellow lines, on a white background. The soft flannel of the pajamas caressed my skin and warmed me as I slipped them on.
Thinking ahead, I rolled the sleeves up past my wrists. I rounded out my outfit with white, low-cut socks and my black moccasin slippers. I tied my hair into a French braid, gave myself a last look in the mirror and headed to Tracey’s room.
Tracey had changed clothes, too. She was wearing a bright red pullover, black leggings, and her shiny, black lace-up half boots — which made her seem even taller.
This was an outfit normally worn for going out. But here in our apartment, she looked dressed for…dressed for what? A sly smile played about her face as she held her cuffs by the hinge, at the ready. I was dumbfounded.
“God, Trace, you sure look great!” I blurted out.
“Thanks! And you look comfy. My call starts in about 15 minutes…are you all set?”
I whirled around, placed my hands on top of my head, interlaced my fingers, and waited, my heart beating with anticipation.
Click…gritch! went the first cuff as Tracey locked it around my right wrist; then a mild pinch and jerk as she used it to pull my arm and hand down and behind my back. She held it there firmly, grabbed my left wrist and pulled my left arm and hand down and behind my back. Click…gritch! once again, and my hands were snuggly and comfortably locked up, palms facing out — and out of the way.
But this time I felt unusually passive when Tracey tightened and double locked the cuffs. Was it her pending conference call, or the difference in the way we were dressed? I sensed her increased authority and presence, and in my pliant state, I felt obligated to ask where I should sit.
“Do you want me on the floor…? I said quietly, looking over my shoulder at her. “Or on the bed?”
Tracey was staring pensively at her closet.
“Hang on a sec,” she said.
While I stood there, manacled in my pajamas, Tracey slid her closet door open, pushed some clothes aside, knelt and began to throw her shoes toward the opposite end. They made booming noises as they landed, and I flinched a few times.
She emerged from her closet holding a pair of black knee-high stockings. What in the world was she up to?
“Sit on the bed, Moogie,” she commanded.
Bewildered, I obeyed her automatically, then watched in astonishment as she squatted down, pushed my ankles together and quickly wrapped one of the stockings around them. Using a figure-eight pattern — around and between and around again — she quickly tied them securely together.
Then she looped the other stocking between my ankles vertically, crossing it over and under the first stocking several times. This cinched my ankles even tighter, sending more tantalizing sensations up my legs and throughout my entire body. She’d knotted the stockings over my pajamas, which made them ride down slightly.
I was bound hand and foot for the first time in my life — and I was ecstatic. As I stared in wonder at the intricacy of my ankle ligatures, Tracey spoke again.
“Stand up,” she said.
Excited, I jumped up at her order, and nearly fell over. She grabbed my upper arm, steadied me and tipped her head toward the closet.
“Now get in.”
I shot her an incredulous glance…that space she’d cleared was for me! The grip of her bindings seemed to intensify, and I wavered about, struggling for balance. But Tracey gripped my arm harder and held me upright. The closet seemed very far away.
“Just hop, Moogie,” she said encouragingly. “I’ll help you.”
So I did. With Tracey holding me by the arm, I hopped…once…twice…then three times until I was at the closet door, standing before the narrow cell she’d prepared. Then I hesitated, trying to figure out how to get on my knees with my ankles so stoutly tied.
As if she was reading my mind, Tracey grasped me under my armpits from behind. Though I was bound hand and foot, her warm, strong hands imparted a sense of safety to my being.
With Tracey easing my descent, I slowly fell to my knees and slumped to my left hip. Then, she slung her right arm under my knees, wrapped her left arm around my torso, lifted me slightly, placed me in a sitting position at the end of the closet and swung my legs in. The room and closet were carpeted, so there was little chance I’d slide down.
Still reeling, I looked up at Tracey obediently. But she simply gazed down at me tenderly and brushed a lock of my hair away from my face. She glanced over her shoulder, then back to me.
“My conference call is about to start,” she said, standing up. “We’re gonna keep you shut up in my closet during the call…ok?”
Absorbed in my new restraints and close surroundings, I remained speechless.
“I also want to say…” she paused, smiling down at me. “That you’re amazing, Moogie.” She slid the closet door shut, leaving me in semi-darkness. Moments later I heard her conversing. I couldn’t make out what she was saying, but her tone was buoyant and bright.
You’re amazing, Moogie…the remark echoed in my ears, and my heart seemed full to bursting. I was thoroughly tied and confined, and it was wonderful. In just a few swift moves, Tracey had escalated our play, and totally made me her prisoner.
Then I felt sheepish, and a little guilty for ever doubting her plan for me tonight. I blinked back some tears of gratitude when I thought about how I felt now, compared to weeks ago.
I flexed my limbs slightly, appreciating the strength of my bonds. Though the floor was hard under my rear end, my position was stable, and it left enough space for my cuffs between my back and the wall.
In the dim light I could just see my ankles. The black stocking looked interesting against the bright fabric of my pajamas. Tracey’s clothes smelled faintly of her Ralph Lauren cologne, and I thought about her, talking with her fellow students, while I sat captive just a few feet away.
When I tried to shimmy a little higher on the wall, my pajama bottoms rode down even lower, exposing the top of my butt cheeks. With my hands cuffed palms out, I couldn't pull my pants up.
I felt a little silly, and I smirked to myself. Tracey would appreciate this, I thought. I had allowed her to tie me up, and now she was going to get a free peek at my fanny.
Oh my God, I thought suddenly, what's to stop her from spanking me? Was she into that? Or more importantly, would I mind if she did? She was full of surprises tonight, and the idea gave me a mild thrill inside. A little would be ok, I decided — but only if she kept me tied up.
I heard footsteps, then the door slid open. I squinted as the harsh light poured in. My eyes adjusted, and I saw Tracey kneeling in the open door. She was holding her cell phone, and she had her earphones in.
“Uh-huh, yep,” she was saying, “I get that.” She put the phone down and nodded occasionally as she started to fuss with something in her hands. It was one of her red bandannas — folded into a narrow band — and she was tying a knot in the middle of it.
Oh…my. Tracey had huge grin on her face, but my jaw dropped at the thought of being gagged. She took that as a cue — and her opportunity. She pushed the knot deep into my open mouth, pulled the ends of the bandanna around to the back of my neck, then cinched and knotted it tightly.
Bur she wasn’t done. She plucked an oblong white object off the floor and held it near her face. Smirking evilly, she flicked her wrist, and the object unspooled into my lap.
It was a long elastic bandage, the kind used for sprained limbs. I had no time to react before Tracey began winding it around and around my jaw, making multiple overlapping layers over, above and below my mouth.
She was like some master craftsman, her hands rapidly whipping around my head, gently tipping my head back and fourth, pulling each ply tight, compressing my lips, enswathing me into total silence.
All the while, she continued to converse on her group call — as if I wasn’t there. With the layers of bandage firmly locking the knotted gag into my mouth, Tracey tucked the ends under the bandanna at the back of my neck, and knotted it as well.
She slid the door shut, and I heard her footsteps receding. What could possibly come next?
It was a weeknight — a Thursday. I remember because I’d stayed up until 2 a.m. writing a longish paper for my government class, only to rush to school six hours later to help finish an engineering group project I was involved in. I might’ve gotten four hours of sleep.
Fatigue started catching up with me on the T, but I felt good about knocking out my assignments. My evening was free, and I looked forward to a relaxing dinner and a shower before snuggling under the covers for a nice long rest.
Of course, a cuff session would be nice too, but I knew Tracey was super busy with schoolwork of her own. She’d done an outstanding job getting up to speed in her new CJ classes, but our course loads and assignments had precluded any cuff training, or fun-cuffing, since the previous Sunday.
I walked through the front door at around 5:15 p.m., tiptoed to the kitchen, and saw that Tracey’s door was closed. “Oh well…” I thought, and headed to my room.
But a few moments later her door opened, and she appeared in the hallway outside my door. Clad in a gray hoodie, jeans and dark socks, she looked dressed for an all-nighter of schoolwork.
“Hey Moogie,” she said. “What’s going on?”
“Nothing much,” I said. “My group project — and that big fat government paper — are both turned in…done.” I put my backpack on my desk chair and flopped down on my bed.
“Well that’s excellent! I’m about…oh, I’d say I’m about five hours from a big break myself. I just turned in a paper for my Criminology Intro course, but our Criminal Law project is due at noon tomorrow.”
“Oh my,” I said, suppressing a yawn. “Are you gonna make it? Do you need any help?”
She laughed. “That’s sweet, Moogie. No, we’ll be fine. We’re going to do a conference call in about a half hour to check our progress, so I thought I better come up for air before then. But, I could use some company.”
“Really?” I sat up.
“Sure,” she said, winking at me. “Give me a few minutes, then come to my room.”
After using the bathroom, I quickly doffed my beige Capris, sage scoop neck shirt, bra and panties — everything. It was liberating to strip after the recent time crunch, and I shivered as goose pimples rose on the backs of my arms and thighs.
I wanted to be comfortable for the session, so I chose to wear my own loose-fitting plaid pajamas. Mine have red and green bands, with thin black and yellow lines, on a white background. The soft flannel of the pajamas caressed my skin and warmed me as I slipped them on.
Thinking ahead, I rolled the sleeves up past my wrists. I rounded out my outfit with white, low-cut socks and my black moccasin slippers. I tied my hair into a French braid, gave myself a last look in the mirror and headed to Tracey’s room.
Tracey had changed clothes, too. She was wearing a bright red pullover, black leggings, and her shiny, black lace-up half boots — which made her seem even taller.
This was an outfit normally worn for going out. But here in our apartment, she looked dressed for…dressed for what? A sly smile played about her face as she held her cuffs by the hinge, at the ready. I was dumbfounded.
“God, Trace, you sure look great!” I blurted out.
“Thanks! And you look comfy. My call starts in about 15 minutes…are you all set?”
I whirled around, placed my hands on top of my head, interlaced my fingers, and waited, my heart beating with anticipation.
Click…gritch! went the first cuff as Tracey locked it around my right wrist; then a mild pinch and jerk as she used it to pull my arm and hand down and behind my back. She held it there firmly, grabbed my left wrist and pulled my left arm and hand down and behind my back. Click…gritch! once again, and my hands were snuggly and comfortably locked up, palms facing out — and out of the way.
But this time I felt unusually passive when Tracey tightened and double locked the cuffs. Was it her pending conference call, or the difference in the way we were dressed? I sensed her increased authority and presence, and in my pliant state, I felt obligated to ask where I should sit.
“Do you want me on the floor…? I said quietly, looking over my shoulder at her. “Or on the bed?”
Tracey was staring pensively at her closet.
“Hang on a sec,” she said.
While I stood there, manacled in my pajamas, Tracey slid her closet door open, pushed some clothes aside, knelt and began to throw her shoes toward the opposite end. They made booming noises as they landed, and I flinched a few times.
She emerged from her closet holding a pair of black knee-high stockings. What in the world was she up to?
“Sit on the bed, Moogie,” she commanded.
Bewildered, I obeyed her automatically, then watched in astonishment as she squatted down, pushed my ankles together and quickly wrapped one of the stockings around them. Using a figure-eight pattern — around and between and around again — she quickly tied them securely together.
Then she looped the other stocking between my ankles vertically, crossing it over and under the first stocking several times. This cinched my ankles even tighter, sending more tantalizing sensations up my legs and throughout my entire body. She’d knotted the stockings over my pajamas, which made them ride down slightly.
I was bound hand and foot for the first time in my life — and I was ecstatic. As I stared in wonder at the intricacy of my ankle ligatures, Tracey spoke again.
“Stand up,” she said.
Excited, I jumped up at her order, and nearly fell over. She grabbed my upper arm, steadied me and tipped her head toward the closet.
“Now get in.”
I shot her an incredulous glance…that space she’d cleared was for me! The grip of her bindings seemed to intensify, and I wavered about, struggling for balance. But Tracey gripped my arm harder and held me upright. The closet seemed very far away.
“Just hop, Moogie,” she said encouragingly. “I’ll help you.”
So I did. With Tracey holding me by the arm, I hopped…once…twice…then three times until I was at the closet door, standing before the narrow cell she’d prepared. Then I hesitated, trying to figure out how to get on my knees with my ankles so stoutly tied.
As if she was reading my mind, Tracey grasped me under my armpits from behind. Though I was bound hand and foot, her warm, strong hands imparted a sense of safety to my being.
With Tracey easing my descent, I slowly fell to my knees and slumped to my left hip. Then, she slung her right arm under my knees, wrapped her left arm around my torso, lifted me slightly, placed me in a sitting position at the end of the closet and swung my legs in. The room and closet were carpeted, so there was little chance I’d slide down.
Still reeling, I looked up at Tracey obediently. But she simply gazed down at me tenderly and brushed a lock of my hair away from my face. She glanced over her shoulder, then back to me.
“My conference call is about to start,” she said, standing up. “We’re gonna keep you shut up in my closet during the call…ok?”
Absorbed in my new restraints and close surroundings, I remained speechless.
“I also want to say…” she paused, smiling down at me. “That you’re amazing, Moogie.” She slid the closet door shut, leaving me in semi-darkness. Moments later I heard her conversing. I couldn’t make out what she was saying, but her tone was buoyant and bright.
You’re amazing, Moogie…the remark echoed in my ears, and my heart seemed full to bursting. I was thoroughly tied and confined, and it was wonderful. In just a few swift moves, Tracey had escalated our play, and totally made me her prisoner.
Then I felt sheepish, and a little guilty for ever doubting her plan for me tonight. I blinked back some tears of gratitude when I thought about how I felt now, compared to weeks ago.
I flexed my limbs slightly, appreciating the strength of my bonds. Though the floor was hard under my rear end, my position was stable, and it left enough space for my cuffs between my back and the wall.
In the dim light I could just see my ankles. The black stocking looked interesting against the bright fabric of my pajamas. Tracey’s clothes smelled faintly of her Ralph Lauren cologne, and I thought about her, talking with her fellow students, while I sat captive just a few feet away.
When I tried to shimmy a little higher on the wall, my pajama bottoms rode down even lower, exposing the top of my butt cheeks. With my hands cuffed palms out, I couldn't pull my pants up.
I felt a little silly, and I smirked to myself. Tracey would appreciate this, I thought. I had allowed her to tie me up, and now she was going to get a free peek at my fanny.
Oh my God, I thought suddenly, what's to stop her from spanking me? Was she into that? Or more importantly, would I mind if she did? She was full of surprises tonight, and the idea gave me a mild thrill inside. A little would be ok, I decided — but only if she kept me tied up.
I heard footsteps, then the door slid open. I squinted as the harsh light poured in. My eyes adjusted, and I saw Tracey kneeling in the open door. She was holding her cell phone, and she had her earphones in.
“Uh-huh, yep,” she was saying, “I get that.” She put the phone down and nodded occasionally as she started to fuss with something in her hands. It was one of her red bandannas — folded into a narrow band — and she was tying a knot in the middle of it.
Oh…my. Tracey had huge grin on her face, but my jaw dropped at the thought of being gagged. She took that as a cue — and her opportunity. She pushed the knot deep into my open mouth, pulled the ends of the bandanna around to the back of my neck, then cinched and knotted it tightly.
Bur she wasn’t done. She plucked an oblong white object off the floor and held it near her face. Smirking evilly, she flicked her wrist, and the object unspooled into my lap.
It was a long elastic bandage, the kind used for sprained limbs. I had no time to react before Tracey began winding it around and around my jaw, making multiple overlapping layers over, above and below my mouth.
She was like some master craftsman, her hands rapidly whipping around my head, gently tipping my head back and fourth, pulling each ply tight, compressing my lips, enswathing me into total silence.
All the while, she continued to converse on her group call — as if I wasn’t there. With the layers of bandage firmly locking the knotted gag into my mouth, Tracey tucked the ends under the bandanna at the back of my neck, and knotted it as well.
She slid the door shut, and I heard her footsteps receding. What could possibly come next?
Not so innocent any more, is she?
This just keeps getting better. The dynamic between Tracy and Moogie is wonderful. The storyline is great, just the right balance of credibility and fantasy.
If you keep this up, I'll have to find a thesaurus to have enough superlatives...
This just keeps getting better. The dynamic between Tracy and Moogie is wonderful. The storyline is great, just the right balance of credibility and fantasy.
If you keep this up, I'll have to find a thesaurus to have enough superlatives...
Thank you very much! I really appreciate the encouragement.NotSeen wrote: ↑3 years ago Not so innocent any more, is she?
This just keeps getting better. The dynamic between Tracy and Moogie is wonderful. The storyline is great, just the right balance of credibility and fantasy.
If you keep this up, I'll have to find a thesaurus to have enough superlatives...
-
LatexLover
- Centennial Club
- Posts: 244
- Joined: 4 years ago
This is getting really good. The interactions between them are so innocent yet so, so sexy.
This story is just great! 
LatexLover wrote: ↑3 years ago This is getting really good. The interactions between them are so innocent yet so, so sexy.
Part 5
With the gag she’d spun over my mouth, Tracey’s capture of me seemed complete. I sat there stunned, and utterly subdued. This wasn’t one of those movie gags that a damsel clenches desperately and mews through. It fixed my lips and mouth soundly, effectively muzzling me.
Just the same, the steady pressure of the bandage relieved the pinching constriction of the bandanna underneath. As with everything else, Tracey had done a thorough job. I was comprehensively bound, so I settled in to enjoy it.
Despite my sleep deficit, I didn’t feel too tired. The excitement of this session must’ve recharged me. It definitely recharged Tracey, too. Her natural energy had seemed to surge as she worked on me, strengthening my bonds to render me more helpless.
This made her happy, I thought, and that made me happy. Along with her joy and the consoling surety of her fetters and ligatures, I felt flattered at being the object of her creativity. I was her other “project.”
I recalled my previous plans for tonight, and how I’d been looking forward to bed. That seemed forever ago. All day long I’d been moving around, interacting with people, working, strolling across campus, taking the T…now look where I was. This was my free evening — and now I was Tracey’s prisoner.
But, I wondered, how long would this evening last? We’re gonna keep you shut up in my closet during the call, she’d said…but she didn’t mention anything about releasing me.
I thought back to the many sessions we’d shared. If I wasn’t on a timer, something incidental — bedtime, a TV show ending — always brought the session to a close. Didn’t she also say that she was “about five hours from a big break”? Or was she pulling an all-nighter, as I’d suspected?
Was I going to be her captive that long? Would I mind? How would her project partners feel if they found out that Tracey’s other project — me — had been chained, bound and gagged in her closet while they were rushing to complete their assignment?
Still, I felt strangely proud of enduring this situation, which was Tracey’s creation. And it felt heady to be in her power, not knowing what was next. I eagerly waited for her call to end, so I could find out what else she had planned for me.
I fidgeted, and ran up against the comforting strictures of my bonds. I heard typing and several voices…she must have her partners on speakerphone, I thought. A fuzzy warmth encompassed me as my earlier fatigue returned. My bindings and gag seemed to close more tightly about me while my eyes grew heavy, and closed.
Soon I had a mental picture of myself, trussed up in my pajamas, secreted in Tracey’s closet. I imagined that I was an Indian princess, kidnapped by Tracey. I heard her on talking on the phone, and I pretended that she was demanding a ransom for my release…my head dipped forward, then back…
I was on a warm beach somewhere...enfolded in a hammock that held me suspended in the air. A sweet tropical wind was blowing. Moved by the breeze, a fragrant palm frond began to tickle my face…
My eyes blinked open. I was awake, and Tracey was stroking my cheek. Her desk lamp was the only light in the room, and its rays made a halo of her blonde locks.
“Wake up, Moogie…you ok?”
I shook myself, and stretched where I could. I was still strictly tied in Tracey’s closet. I was stiff, but otherwise ok.
“Mmm-mmm,” I murmured through my gag.
“What?”
“Mmm-mmm!”
“’Uh-huh,’ you say…? Moogie, are you saying that you’re ‘okay’?”
“Mmmmmm…mmm-mmm-mmm!” I nodded furiously now, so she’d understand.
She scanned me up and down, then gazed fondly into my eyes.
“You look adorable this way…I feel like taking a selfie with you!”
“Mmm-mmm!” I shook my head.
“Don’t worry, I won’t…but I sure do feel like it.” She stood up and walked to her desk, and I saw that she’d changed back into her jeans and hoodie.
My heart leapt as the doorbell rang. Tracey ran back to the closet.
“Don’t worry, that’s just Grubhub…I ordered some food.” She shut me in again, and dashed down the hall.
I heard her speaking with the delivery person and setting paper bags on the kitchen table. The aroma of spicy food wafted into my small prison…she must’ve ordered from our favorite bistro.
She walked back into the room, and the thin ribbon of light under the closet door winked out. What now? Was she just going to leave me here? And again…would I actually mind that?
The door slid open.
“I turned off the light so your eyes could adjust,” she said carefully. “Let’s get you ready to hop into the kitchen.” She began to vigorously knead my calves and thighs.
Outside of medical professionals, no woman — or man for that matter — had ever touched me in this way before. But Tracey’s hands didn’t stray. Her massage felt strange and wonderful, and my flexibility returned. Then she began giving me directions, and helping me move.
“Can you raise your legs a bit? That’s it. Now I’m just going to cradle you by your legs and back, and turn you so you’re facing out. Good. Now use your butt and legs to scooch out of the closet…that’s it…that’s it…keep coming…”
I felt cool air and rough carpet on my buns as my pants slid down even farther. But gagged as I was, I could never make Tracey understand that. So with her encouragement, I kept struggling forward, my pajama pants riding down, until I was out of the closet.
“Good job, Moogie,” she said. “Now I’m going to grab onto you and lift you up…are you ready?”
I had no doubt Tracey could do this, so I nodded. She straddled my legs, squatted, and wrapped her arms around me. Then in one mighty heave, she raised me to my feet.
I wiggled around, trying to find my equilibrium, causing my pajama bottoms to slide down even farther, all the way to the tops of my knees. I flashed hot with embarrassment as Tracey grabbed me up in a fierce bear hug to stabilize me.
I felt safe in her warm embrace, but I’d literally pantsed myself. Had she noticed? Expecting a sharp ass-slap, I tensed my cheeks defensively.
“There you are,” she said, clasping my waist. “Whoa…are your PJs falling down?”
Hugging me with her left arm, Tracey reached down and pulled up my pants with her right hand. Then she held my bicep and turned me toward the door. So no spanking then, I thought. Focusing on the kitchen light, I bent my legs slightly and began to hop.
“Uh-MMMfff! Uh-MMMfff! Uh-MMMfff!” I grunted with the effort of each hop. I paused after three hops, and Tracey gave my arm a squeeze.
“Do you want to stop…?” she asked. “Do you need to rest?”
I shook my head stubbornly and hopped two more times to the threshold.
“Hold up,” she said. “The kitchen floor is slippery.”
But I’d already stopped. Tracey had a full-length mirror near her bedroom door. Transfixed by my reflection, I took in the full truth of my situation.
My black moccasins were fixed primly together, as if I was standing at attention. The plaid fabric of my pajamas bunched around the thick, knotted stockings that bound my ankles. From there, my legs rose in a single column, stiff and immobile.
I was leaning forward slightly to keep my balance, and my shoulders and arms draped limply behind my back, to my hands. The glinting handcuffs encircled my wrists tightly, holding my hands awkwardly outward to rest inertly in the small of my back.
The wide white bandage enveloped my mouth, making my cheeks bulge upward, forcing all my powers of expression into my eyes. My mounting feelings of surrender seemed poured into my wide, unblinking orbs, which were still fixed on the image of my tautly bundled form.
Ruthlessly muted, bound hand and foot in my pajamas, I looked every inch the kidnap victim. I saw Tracey in the mirror, too. She was standing behind me, staring at the mirror. Beaming, she slipped her arms around my waist, put her chin on my shoulder and hugged me from the back.
“Like I said, Moogie,” Tracey whispered. “you’re adorable.”
Then she was all business again, grabbing the nearest kitchen chair and placing it before me. She took me by the elbows and helped me turn around.
“OK, now just have a seat,” she said.
It was a relief to be off my feet and sitting normally. She spun the chair around and pushed it toward the table.
“Are you hungry…? I got fries and two classic hamburgers, your favorite, one for each of us.”
I was thinking about a thousand other things. But she’d gone to some trouble, so I nodded slowly.
She poured two glasses of lime seltzer and set two plates on the table — but only one set of utensils. She put a hamburger and some fries on a plate, and cut the hamburger into four pieces.
She walked around to the back of my chair, massaged my neck muscles for a moment, and began tugging at the bandage.
“I did such a good job,” she said softly, “it seems a shame to un-gag you.”
She carefully peeled the bandage from around my mouth and jaw, gently hooked her index finger under the bandanna, and pulled the knot from my mouth. She left the soaking wet cloth dangling around my neck.
I licked my lips, flexed my jaw muscles a few times and breathed deeply. I looked at the stove clock. It was almost 9 p.m. — I’d been bound for over three hours straight!
“Here,” Tracey said, holding a seltzer glass to my dry mouth. I gulped it greedily, and she tipped the glass until I drained it. She grabbed a napkin and dabbed at some drops of seltzer that had run down my chin.
She sat down and pushed the plate in front of me. “You gonna eat?” she asked cheerily.
I was un-gagged, but I still felt tongue-tied in her presence. It seemed strange to talk after the hours of enforced silence.
“I’ll have some fries,” I finally said, my voice cracking slightly.
I leaned forward, and she fed me fries while she munched her burger and talked on about her project. They were making good progress, though one of the guys on the project was “really lame,” Tracey said.
“He obviously hasn’t done the reading…he asks a billion questions.” Tracey was saying.
I tried to pay attention, but I was preoccupied. I kept shifting my feet and flexing my hands, enjoying the strength of Tracey’s unyielding bonds. And despite my initial relief, I felt crestfallen that she’d removed my gag. The bandanna remained hanging from neck…was she keeping it handy?
But Tracey went on nonchalantly — as if I hadn’t been deliberately stifled and under her command for the last three-plus hours — as if she didn’t still have me sitting cuffed, bound and powerless next to her.
“Oh yeah, I wanted to tell you, we were able to use that Excel trick you taught me…our arrest statistics make sense now!”
She was so kind to me...she is so kind to me, I thought. But how and when would this end?
“I should be able to get my part done by midnight, then we’ll do a last check-in tomorrow morning.”
Midnight, I thought dreamily. I wasn’t gagged, but like with our very first session, I didn’t want to say anything.
I watched Tracey intently as she finished her food and guzzled the last of her seltzer. She wiped her lips, turned to me, and smiled.
“Soooo,” she said, putting her hand on my knee. “How ya doin,’ Moogie?”
At her touch, a feeling — part vulnerability, part longing — overwhelmed me. Summoning my strength, I stood up and took a short hop toward her.
“Hey, what are you doing?” Tracey said. “Are you ok?”
Targeting a spot next to Tracey’s chair, I squatted down halfway, flexed to my tiptoes, tipped forward and — all on my own this time — dropped to my knees. Unafraid, I wriggled forward and laid my head on her lap.
“Moogie, I don’t understand…” her voice trailed off.
The handcuff hinge rattled a little as I adjusted my position. I turned my head sideways, facing her stomach, so I could look up at her.
High above, she looked down, her eyes full of genuine concern for me.
“Tracey,” I said quietly, “can you still use some company tonight?”
Her tense expression broke into a grin.
“Of course!” she said, laughing heartily.
I laughed too — with joy, with relief.
With the gag she’d spun over my mouth, Tracey’s capture of me seemed complete. I sat there stunned, and utterly subdued. This wasn’t one of those movie gags that a damsel clenches desperately and mews through. It fixed my lips and mouth soundly, effectively muzzling me.
Just the same, the steady pressure of the bandage relieved the pinching constriction of the bandanna underneath. As with everything else, Tracey had done a thorough job. I was comprehensively bound, so I settled in to enjoy it.
Despite my sleep deficit, I didn’t feel too tired. The excitement of this session must’ve recharged me. It definitely recharged Tracey, too. Her natural energy had seemed to surge as she worked on me, strengthening my bonds to render me more helpless.
This made her happy, I thought, and that made me happy. Along with her joy and the consoling surety of her fetters and ligatures, I felt flattered at being the object of her creativity. I was her other “project.”
I recalled my previous plans for tonight, and how I’d been looking forward to bed. That seemed forever ago. All day long I’d been moving around, interacting with people, working, strolling across campus, taking the T…now look where I was. This was my free evening — and now I was Tracey’s prisoner.
But, I wondered, how long would this evening last? We’re gonna keep you shut up in my closet during the call, she’d said…but she didn’t mention anything about releasing me.
I thought back to the many sessions we’d shared. If I wasn’t on a timer, something incidental — bedtime, a TV show ending — always brought the session to a close. Didn’t she also say that she was “about five hours from a big break”? Or was she pulling an all-nighter, as I’d suspected?
Was I going to be her captive that long? Would I mind? How would her project partners feel if they found out that Tracey’s other project — me — had been chained, bound and gagged in her closet while they were rushing to complete their assignment?
Still, I felt strangely proud of enduring this situation, which was Tracey’s creation. And it felt heady to be in her power, not knowing what was next. I eagerly waited for her call to end, so I could find out what else she had planned for me.
I fidgeted, and ran up against the comforting strictures of my bonds. I heard typing and several voices…she must have her partners on speakerphone, I thought. A fuzzy warmth encompassed me as my earlier fatigue returned. My bindings and gag seemed to close more tightly about me while my eyes grew heavy, and closed.
Soon I had a mental picture of myself, trussed up in my pajamas, secreted in Tracey’s closet. I imagined that I was an Indian princess, kidnapped by Tracey. I heard her on talking on the phone, and I pretended that she was demanding a ransom for my release…my head dipped forward, then back…
I was on a warm beach somewhere...enfolded in a hammock that held me suspended in the air. A sweet tropical wind was blowing. Moved by the breeze, a fragrant palm frond began to tickle my face…
My eyes blinked open. I was awake, and Tracey was stroking my cheek. Her desk lamp was the only light in the room, and its rays made a halo of her blonde locks.
“Wake up, Moogie…you ok?”
I shook myself, and stretched where I could. I was still strictly tied in Tracey’s closet. I was stiff, but otherwise ok.
“Mmm-mmm,” I murmured through my gag.
“What?”
“Mmm-mmm!”
“’Uh-huh,’ you say…? Moogie, are you saying that you’re ‘okay’?”
“Mmmmmm…mmm-mmm-mmm!” I nodded furiously now, so she’d understand.
She scanned me up and down, then gazed fondly into my eyes.
“You look adorable this way…I feel like taking a selfie with you!”
“Mmm-mmm!” I shook my head.
“Don’t worry, I won’t…but I sure do feel like it.” She stood up and walked to her desk, and I saw that she’d changed back into her jeans and hoodie.
My heart leapt as the doorbell rang. Tracey ran back to the closet.
“Don’t worry, that’s just Grubhub…I ordered some food.” She shut me in again, and dashed down the hall.
I heard her speaking with the delivery person and setting paper bags on the kitchen table. The aroma of spicy food wafted into my small prison…she must’ve ordered from our favorite bistro.
She walked back into the room, and the thin ribbon of light under the closet door winked out. What now? Was she just going to leave me here? And again…would I actually mind that?
The door slid open.
“I turned off the light so your eyes could adjust,” she said carefully. “Let’s get you ready to hop into the kitchen.” She began to vigorously knead my calves and thighs.
Outside of medical professionals, no woman — or man for that matter — had ever touched me in this way before. But Tracey’s hands didn’t stray. Her massage felt strange and wonderful, and my flexibility returned. Then she began giving me directions, and helping me move.
“Can you raise your legs a bit? That’s it. Now I’m just going to cradle you by your legs and back, and turn you so you’re facing out. Good. Now use your butt and legs to scooch out of the closet…that’s it…that’s it…keep coming…”
I felt cool air and rough carpet on my buns as my pants slid down even farther. But gagged as I was, I could never make Tracey understand that. So with her encouragement, I kept struggling forward, my pajama pants riding down, until I was out of the closet.
“Good job, Moogie,” she said. “Now I’m going to grab onto you and lift you up…are you ready?”
I had no doubt Tracey could do this, so I nodded. She straddled my legs, squatted, and wrapped her arms around me. Then in one mighty heave, she raised me to my feet.
I wiggled around, trying to find my equilibrium, causing my pajama bottoms to slide down even farther, all the way to the tops of my knees. I flashed hot with embarrassment as Tracey grabbed me up in a fierce bear hug to stabilize me.
I felt safe in her warm embrace, but I’d literally pantsed myself. Had she noticed? Expecting a sharp ass-slap, I tensed my cheeks defensively.
“There you are,” she said, clasping my waist. “Whoa…are your PJs falling down?”
Hugging me with her left arm, Tracey reached down and pulled up my pants with her right hand. Then she held my bicep and turned me toward the door. So no spanking then, I thought. Focusing on the kitchen light, I bent my legs slightly and began to hop.
“Uh-MMMfff! Uh-MMMfff! Uh-MMMfff!” I grunted with the effort of each hop. I paused after three hops, and Tracey gave my arm a squeeze.
“Do you want to stop…?” she asked. “Do you need to rest?”
I shook my head stubbornly and hopped two more times to the threshold.
“Hold up,” she said. “The kitchen floor is slippery.”
But I’d already stopped. Tracey had a full-length mirror near her bedroom door. Transfixed by my reflection, I took in the full truth of my situation.
My black moccasins were fixed primly together, as if I was standing at attention. The plaid fabric of my pajamas bunched around the thick, knotted stockings that bound my ankles. From there, my legs rose in a single column, stiff and immobile.
I was leaning forward slightly to keep my balance, and my shoulders and arms draped limply behind my back, to my hands. The glinting handcuffs encircled my wrists tightly, holding my hands awkwardly outward to rest inertly in the small of my back.
The wide white bandage enveloped my mouth, making my cheeks bulge upward, forcing all my powers of expression into my eyes. My mounting feelings of surrender seemed poured into my wide, unblinking orbs, which were still fixed on the image of my tautly bundled form.
Ruthlessly muted, bound hand and foot in my pajamas, I looked every inch the kidnap victim. I saw Tracey in the mirror, too. She was standing behind me, staring at the mirror. Beaming, she slipped her arms around my waist, put her chin on my shoulder and hugged me from the back.
“Like I said, Moogie,” Tracey whispered. “you’re adorable.”
Then she was all business again, grabbing the nearest kitchen chair and placing it before me. She took me by the elbows and helped me turn around.
“OK, now just have a seat,” she said.
It was a relief to be off my feet and sitting normally. She spun the chair around and pushed it toward the table.
“Are you hungry…? I got fries and two classic hamburgers, your favorite, one for each of us.”
I was thinking about a thousand other things. But she’d gone to some trouble, so I nodded slowly.
She poured two glasses of lime seltzer and set two plates on the table — but only one set of utensils. She put a hamburger and some fries on a plate, and cut the hamburger into four pieces.
She walked around to the back of my chair, massaged my neck muscles for a moment, and began tugging at the bandage.
“I did such a good job,” she said softly, “it seems a shame to un-gag you.”
She carefully peeled the bandage from around my mouth and jaw, gently hooked her index finger under the bandanna, and pulled the knot from my mouth. She left the soaking wet cloth dangling around my neck.
I licked my lips, flexed my jaw muscles a few times and breathed deeply. I looked at the stove clock. It was almost 9 p.m. — I’d been bound for over three hours straight!
“Here,” Tracey said, holding a seltzer glass to my dry mouth. I gulped it greedily, and she tipped the glass until I drained it. She grabbed a napkin and dabbed at some drops of seltzer that had run down my chin.
She sat down and pushed the plate in front of me. “You gonna eat?” she asked cheerily.
I was un-gagged, but I still felt tongue-tied in her presence. It seemed strange to talk after the hours of enforced silence.
“I’ll have some fries,” I finally said, my voice cracking slightly.
I leaned forward, and she fed me fries while she munched her burger and talked on about her project. They were making good progress, though one of the guys on the project was “really lame,” Tracey said.
“He obviously hasn’t done the reading…he asks a billion questions.” Tracey was saying.
I tried to pay attention, but I was preoccupied. I kept shifting my feet and flexing my hands, enjoying the strength of Tracey’s unyielding bonds. And despite my initial relief, I felt crestfallen that she’d removed my gag. The bandanna remained hanging from neck…was she keeping it handy?
But Tracey went on nonchalantly — as if I hadn’t been deliberately stifled and under her command for the last three-plus hours — as if she didn’t still have me sitting cuffed, bound and powerless next to her.
“Oh yeah, I wanted to tell you, we were able to use that Excel trick you taught me…our arrest statistics make sense now!”
She was so kind to me...she is so kind to me, I thought. But how and when would this end?
“I should be able to get my part done by midnight, then we’ll do a last check-in tomorrow morning.”
Midnight, I thought dreamily. I wasn’t gagged, but like with our very first session, I didn’t want to say anything.
I watched Tracey intently as she finished her food and guzzled the last of her seltzer. She wiped her lips, turned to me, and smiled.
“Soooo,” she said, putting her hand on my knee. “How ya doin,’ Moogie?”
At her touch, a feeling — part vulnerability, part longing — overwhelmed me. Summoning my strength, I stood up and took a short hop toward her.
“Hey, what are you doing?” Tracey said. “Are you ok?”
Targeting a spot next to Tracey’s chair, I squatted down halfway, flexed to my tiptoes, tipped forward and — all on my own this time — dropped to my knees. Unafraid, I wriggled forward and laid my head on her lap.
“Moogie, I don’t understand…” her voice trailed off.
The handcuff hinge rattled a little as I adjusted my position. I turned my head sideways, facing her stomach, so I could look up at her.
High above, she looked down, her eyes full of genuine concern for me.
“Tracey,” I said quietly, “can you still use some company tonight?”
Her tense expression broke into a grin.
“Of course!” she said, laughing heartily.
I laughed too — with joy, with relief.
This is adorable! Oh, yeah, it's getting sexier by the moment, too, but... awww... Moogie finding her 'inner submissive' and Tracy guiding her every step of the way.
Now, the question remains, is Tracy really that oblivious to the effect she's having on Moogie? Or is she playing with her? And finally - what will Tracy do to Moogie next? Back to the closet - or something else?
I guess we'll find out...
Now, the question remains, is Tracy really that oblivious to the effect she's having on Moogie? Or is she playing with her? And finally - what will Tracy do to Moogie next? Back to the closet - or something else?
I guess we'll find out...
-
tickletied84
- Centennial Club
- Posts: 490
- Joined: 6 years ago
- Location: Scotland
Nicely written, developing the story well. Intrigued to see where they end up and how it progresses.
Keep up the good work!
Keep up the good work!
Part 6
That night the scope of our mutual interest expanded exponentially — thanks mostly to Tracey trussing me up thoroughly, and imprisoning me for hours. But thanks to me, the session continued, and we later assimilated keeping her “company” as one our signals for a session — thus preserving the relatively unspoken nature of our mutual interest.
But I’d also made a grand gesture that signaled …well, what? Kneeling handcuffed and bound before Tracey wasn’t just about wanting the session to continue. I guess I was expressing my gratitude, and assuring her that taking me prisoner was really ok with me — I mean really, really, really ok with me!
But I was to discover much, much more about myself when the session resumed later that night.
After we finished laughing, Tracey helped me to my feet and back into my chair. She fed me some more fries and a bite our two of my burger as we talked about school and our upcoming assignments. My bashfulness had abated, so I spoke quite freely and easily even though I was still cuffed and bound.
I finally got around to admitting that I needed a break, and by wordless accord, she helped me hop to the bathroom before untying my legs, removing the sodden bandanna from around my neck and un-cuffing my hands. Then she hugged me, said she’d see me in a bit, gave a little wave and shut the bathroom door.
I used the bathroom, then decided to take a quick shower. I couldn't guess what Tracey might do to me next, so I thought it best to get my bedtime preparations out of the way.
My conflicting sensations coalesced into new pleasures under the jets of water; the warm soapsuds limbered me up while evoking the fascinating muscle memory of my hands manacled behind my back and my feet tautly bound.
I also took time to wistfully appreciate the faint marks Tracey’s bonds had left on my wrists and ankles; they showed that she was still on me, and with me, even when I was alone.
I put my cell phone on the charger and checked the time: 10:23 p.m. Then, guided by some unknown impulse, I sprayed some perfume on my neck, and near my waist. Following the same impulse, I grabbed something from my dresser drawer before re-donning my pajamas, socks and slippers.
I found Tracey at her desk, wearing her headset and talking on the phone. I spotted something bulky in her back pocket before she stood up and pointed to the bed.
Her handcuffs and what looked like her dark green bathrobe sash were lying in the middle of the baby-blue comforter. One of her pillows was near the modest headboard, but another one was arranged at a right angle to it, farther down and at the edge of the bed. I went to lie down, but she shook her head, grabbed her cuffs and motioned for me to turn around.
I placed my hands on my head, and she fettered me in the “stacked” configuration, with the handcuffs positioned vertically, and my arms locked horizontally. Like the palms-out position, this was an extra measure of security and mild discomfort that didn’t allow me to do anything with my hands.
However, it also lifted my hands into the middle of my back, off my fanny and out of the way — which was fine with me.
Anticipating the gag, I opened my mouth, and Tracey gently wedged something soft, smooth and cylindrical between my lips. She instantly cinched it tight, and I felt the same smooth, silky material on my jaw and the back of my neck. Then she clamped some similar material over the first object, wrapped it about my jaw and knotted it tight. I couldn’t make out what the gag was, but like the cuffs, it electrified me.
As did Tracey’s firm hold on my bicep, guiding me to kneel on the bed. She patted a spot on the comforter near the wall, so I slumped hip-first onto it, then onto my side. Grabbing my hips, Tracey lifted me toward the center of the bed and rolled me onto my stomach.
It was perfect! I was now lying with my head on the main pillow, and the right half of my torso on the perpendicular pillow. This elevated my body somewhat, alleviating the pressure on my chest and allowing me to breathe easily. Again, Tracey had thought of everything.
I felt her tying my ankles with the bathrobe sash, then drawing them toward the foot of the bed. I turned partially on my side to watch her looping the sash around the foot of the bed, but she gave my calf a playful slap and I rolled back again.
She yanked the slack out of the sash, lashed it firmly to the bed frame and smoothed the folds and creases out of my pajamas. I wondered…had she missed the other thing I had on?
Maybe not. As she walked toward the head of the bed, I felt Tracey’s fingertips running up my legs toward my butt — now harnessed in its own sweet way by the black spandex T-back thong I was wearing. Beneath my PJs, I could sense the taut thong accentuating my own rock-hard cheeks, swelling the plaid flannel pajama fabric into unmistakable round contours that were imminently and irresistibly spank-able.
But she resisted, instead lightly grazing my hip, sending tingles dancing up and down my form and amplifying the iron-tight sensations of my bonds. Still on the phone, she appeared before my muzzled countenance, smiled and pointed to her desk. She pressed her palms together, placed them next to her cheek and shut her eyes — indicating that I should sleep. Then she turned off the lights and returned to her work.
I felt a mild pang of shame…like me, she was not to be distracted from her schoolwork. I sighed deeply, sinking into her comforter and my renewed captivity as she ended her phone conversation. I tried to sleep, but I couldn’t resist gazing at Tracey as she typed, and marveling at her lean muscular silhouette in the light of her laptop. I shut my eyes, thought about my upcoming assignments and eventually nodded off.
Tracey’s weight on the bed woke me up. The room was completely dark now, and the bedsprings swayed and squeaked as she clambered around on the narrow space between me and the wall. The rocking stopped and I felt her warmth next to me.
After a moment she rolled over, and slowly slipped her hand under the waistband of my pajamas. Then she slid her hand down — and beneath — the top of my thong. She shifted slightly, then exhaled deeply. A few minutes later I heard her breathing evenly, and it seemed like she was napping.
For me, time seemed to stop. My entire body remained tense, wholly focused on Tracey’s warm hand touching my intimate skin, stretching my thong, pulling it tightly and provocatively against my nether regions. I dared not relax my cheeks for fear of waking her.
But despite my helplessness, and despite myself, I began to press my hips downward, further stimulating myself with the thong. Yes, yes, yes! I finally admitted it to myself: I was turned on, and probably had been from the first time she’d cuffed me, those many weeks ago.
Those strange new feelings had been a faint overture of the longing that had now grown into a full concert — complete with the slow rhythm of my thrusting pelvis beneath Tracey’s hand, pushing against her bed and rubbing my own sex toward a finale.
Was Tracey asleep, or was she fully aware of what was happening to me? Did she want me to come, or had her hand strayed onto my fanny accidentally? Did she realize that for me, it was about more than just being bound? Or by tying me up, was Tracey trying to explore her own feelings for me? I was afraid my orgasm would awaken her, and that she’d reject me.
But my mounting arousal drowned out those questions. My hip movement pressed the other bonds deeper into my flesh, intensifying them and redoubling my hunger for sexual release. I bit down hard on my gag, but that seemed to turn me on more. And still Tracey’s hand remained in my thong, adding tension, tugging at my reins, tempting me to go from a trot into a canter. Why in the world didn’t she wake up?
That night the scope of our mutual interest expanded exponentially — thanks mostly to Tracey trussing me up thoroughly, and imprisoning me for hours. But thanks to me, the session continued, and we later assimilated keeping her “company” as one our signals for a session — thus preserving the relatively unspoken nature of our mutual interest.
But I’d also made a grand gesture that signaled …well, what? Kneeling handcuffed and bound before Tracey wasn’t just about wanting the session to continue. I guess I was expressing my gratitude, and assuring her that taking me prisoner was really ok with me — I mean really, really, really ok with me!
But I was to discover much, much more about myself when the session resumed later that night.
After we finished laughing, Tracey helped me to my feet and back into my chair. She fed me some more fries and a bite our two of my burger as we talked about school and our upcoming assignments. My bashfulness had abated, so I spoke quite freely and easily even though I was still cuffed and bound.
I finally got around to admitting that I needed a break, and by wordless accord, she helped me hop to the bathroom before untying my legs, removing the sodden bandanna from around my neck and un-cuffing my hands. Then she hugged me, said she’d see me in a bit, gave a little wave and shut the bathroom door.
I used the bathroom, then decided to take a quick shower. I couldn't guess what Tracey might do to me next, so I thought it best to get my bedtime preparations out of the way.
My conflicting sensations coalesced into new pleasures under the jets of water; the warm soapsuds limbered me up while evoking the fascinating muscle memory of my hands manacled behind my back and my feet tautly bound.
I also took time to wistfully appreciate the faint marks Tracey’s bonds had left on my wrists and ankles; they showed that she was still on me, and with me, even when I was alone.
I put my cell phone on the charger and checked the time: 10:23 p.m. Then, guided by some unknown impulse, I sprayed some perfume on my neck, and near my waist. Following the same impulse, I grabbed something from my dresser drawer before re-donning my pajamas, socks and slippers.
I found Tracey at her desk, wearing her headset and talking on the phone. I spotted something bulky in her back pocket before she stood up and pointed to the bed.
Her handcuffs and what looked like her dark green bathrobe sash were lying in the middle of the baby-blue comforter. One of her pillows was near the modest headboard, but another one was arranged at a right angle to it, farther down and at the edge of the bed. I went to lie down, but she shook her head, grabbed her cuffs and motioned for me to turn around.
I placed my hands on my head, and she fettered me in the “stacked” configuration, with the handcuffs positioned vertically, and my arms locked horizontally. Like the palms-out position, this was an extra measure of security and mild discomfort that didn’t allow me to do anything with my hands.
However, it also lifted my hands into the middle of my back, off my fanny and out of the way — which was fine with me.
Anticipating the gag, I opened my mouth, and Tracey gently wedged something soft, smooth and cylindrical between my lips. She instantly cinched it tight, and I felt the same smooth, silky material on my jaw and the back of my neck. Then she clamped some similar material over the first object, wrapped it about my jaw and knotted it tight. I couldn’t make out what the gag was, but like the cuffs, it electrified me.
As did Tracey’s firm hold on my bicep, guiding me to kneel on the bed. She patted a spot on the comforter near the wall, so I slumped hip-first onto it, then onto my side. Grabbing my hips, Tracey lifted me toward the center of the bed and rolled me onto my stomach.
It was perfect! I was now lying with my head on the main pillow, and the right half of my torso on the perpendicular pillow. This elevated my body somewhat, alleviating the pressure on my chest and allowing me to breathe easily. Again, Tracey had thought of everything.
I felt her tying my ankles with the bathrobe sash, then drawing them toward the foot of the bed. I turned partially on my side to watch her looping the sash around the foot of the bed, but she gave my calf a playful slap and I rolled back again.
She yanked the slack out of the sash, lashed it firmly to the bed frame and smoothed the folds and creases out of my pajamas. I wondered…had she missed the other thing I had on?
Maybe not. As she walked toward the head of the bed, I felt Tracey’s fingertips running up my legs toward my butt — now harnessed in its own sweet way by the black spandex T-back thong I was wearing. Beneath my PJs, I could sense the taut thong accentuating my own rock-hard cheeks, swelling the plaid flannel pajama fabric into unmistakable round contours that were imminently and irresistibly spank-able.
But she resisted, instead lightly grazing my hip, sending tingles dancing up and down my form and amplifying the iron-tight sensations of my bonds. Still on the phone, she appeared before my muzzled countenance, smiled and pointed to her desk. She pressed her palms together, placed them next to her cheek and shut her eyes — indicating that I should sleep. Then she turned off the lights and returned to her work.
I felt a mild pang of shame…like me, she was not to be distracted from her schoolwork. I sighed deeply, sinking into her comforter and my renewed captivity as she ended her phone conversation. I tried to sleep, but I couldn’t resist gazing at Tracey as she typed, and marveling at her lean muscular silhouette in the light of her laptop. I shut my eyes, thought about my upcoming assignments and eventually nodded off.
Tracey’s weight on the bed woke me up. The room was completely dark now, and the bedsprings swayed and squeaked as she clambered around on the narrow space between me and the wall. The rocking stopped and I felt her warmth next to me.
After a moment she rolled over, and slowly slipped her hand under the waistband of my pajamas. Then she slid her hand down — and beneath — the top of my thong. She shifted slightly, then exhaled deeply. A few minutes later I heard her breathing evenly, and it seemed like she was napping.
For me, time seemed to stop. My entire body remained tense, wholly focused on Tracey’s warm hand touching my intimate skin, stretching my thong, pulling it tightly and provocatively against my nether regions. I dared not relax my cheeks for fear of waking her.
But despite my helplessness, and despite myself, I began to press my hips downward, further stimulating myself with the thong. Yes, yes, yes! I finally admitted it to myself: I was turned on, and probably had been from the first time she’d cuffed me, those many weeks ago.
Those strange new feelings had been a faint overture of the longing that had now grown into a full concert — complete with the slow rhythm of my thrusting pelvis beneath Tracey’s hand, pushing against her bed and rubbing my own sex toward a finale.
Was Tracey asleep, or was she fully aware of what was happening to me? Did she want me to come, or had her hand strayed onto my fanny accidentally? Did she realize that for me, it was about more than just being bound? Or by tying me up, was Tracey trying to explore her own feelings for me? I was afraid my orgasm would awaken her, and that she’d reject me.
But my mounting arousal drowned out those questions. My hip movement pressed the other bonds deeper into my flesh, intensifying them and redoubling my hunger for sexual release. I bit down hard on my gag, but that seemed to turn me on more. And still Tracey’s hand remained in my thong, adding tension, tugging at my reins, tempting me to go from a trot into a canter. Why in the world didn’t she wake up?
...and it just keeps getting better and better...