IT’S THAT TIME AGAIN


It’s time for the next short story competition.

The topic is “It Was That Time again” or, if you prefer, “It’s That Time again”.

Look at the rules in the February 2020 folder before posting.

Good luck.

Feeling My Way (m/f)

Stories that have a significant measure of truth to them should go here.
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OldTUGger
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Feeling My Way (m/f)

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Feeling My Way (m/f)
by OldTUGger


In the small town where I grew up, people knocked on our front door all the time.

It was a friendly town. Everyone knew everyone else, and people were forever dropping by simply to say hi. So when I heard a knock at the door, I dutifully laid my stack of records (!) down on the stereo console (!) and went to answer.

It was Cynthia. A few weeks earlier, I had hogtied her as part of a playful, innocent TUG (https://www.tugstories.com/viewtopic.ph ... 884#p47884), and I figured that after her father discovered her, trussed and red-faced on our living-room carpet, her TUGging days were finished. Gone. Kaput. Or, as Monty Python so famously put it, they had “joined the choir invisible.”

Or so I thought.

“Hi, Jake. Can I come in?” she said with a coy smile.

(And no, she wasn’t coming on to me already. For Cynthia, a coy smile seemed to be second nature. She was preternaturally sexual for her age, which was 14 at the time, and that description applied both to her attitude and to her topography.)

“Hi, Cynthia! What brings you to town today?” I asked, drinking in her appearance. Blonde, a little on the short side, but with a body that already had reached porn-star proportions. In short, the girl was well and truly endowed. “She’ll never drown,” someone once said of her.

And on this day, she had put her assets rather spectacularly on display. A pink tank top, strained to its limit, could not fully contain her pulchritude. Underneath the tank top, a fantastically tight black lace bra contributed to what can best be described as the dramatic lifting and cantilevering of her magnificent bosom.

I could tell the bra was lacy for two reasons – one, the tops of its cups peeked out on either side of the tank-top straps; and two, the tank top was so thin and tight that the lace pattern showed clearly through.

“I thought I’d drop by and see you for a while,” she said.

“Me? Why me?” (Hey, I was a late bloomer, and a rather thick-headed one at that)

“Well, I thought you might want to take a walk down by the creek with me, and bring that bag you keep in your bedroom.”

Well, I might have been a slow-on-the-uptake late bloomer, but even I realized instantly that Cynthia had issued an invitation that could not have been more explicit even if it had been spelled out in large, bold-faced block letters and printed on fluorescent orange paper.

“Um, sure,” I said, with as much savoir-faire as was possible, given that my jaw hung slack at the time. “Wait a sec while I fetch it.”

I was home alone that day, thank goodness, so grabbing my rope bag and strolling out the back door with Cynthia attracted no one’s attention.

“Cynthia?”

“Yes?”

“What exactly do you have in mind?”

“Well, Jake, I’ve seen the way you look at my boobs. And, thanks to that little incident a few weeks ago, I know how nice it feels to be tied up. If you’ll tie me up again today, my boobs are yours to enjoy for as long as I stay tied up.”

My memory isn’t clear after all these years, but I think I stumbled over my own feet when she said that.

“We’ll have to find a place that’s out of everyone’s sight,” I said.

“Why don’t you tie me to the basketball goal?” she suggested. “It’s behind the garage and the outbuilding. No one could see us there.”

We strolled down the hill, around the two buildings, and walked onto the basketball court. Standing next to the 4-inch steel pipe that served as the goal’s stanchion, I did a slow 360, making sure we wouldn’t be seen. Sure enough, Cynthia was right. Had she scoped this out before she knocked on the door?

“OK, Jake, tie away,” she said as she backed up to the pole.

I secured her crossed wrists with old-school Boy Scout square lashing. Cinched bindings around her ankles, thighs and waist welded her body securely to the post. All that remained was to “decorate the play area,” so to speak.

Starting at the base of her breasts, I wrapped a doubled rope upward three or four times, which had the effect of pushing her décolletage farther skyward. A final rope went over her shoulders, crisscrossed between her breasts and continued around her sides, looping around the pole at top and bottom and even more firmly pinning her to it.

“Nice,” she breathed softly. “Now do what you’d like to do.”

I started at her waist, tracing the ropes with my fingers until my hands reached her sides, and then walked my fingers up her ribs to the sides of her breasts. Through the tank top, I could feel the firm ridges formed by the straining fabric of her bra. Slowly, cautiously, I let my fingers explore the bulging mounds, tracing the edges of the bra’s lace and plumbing the depths of Cynthia’s cleavage before diving inside the bra’s warm, dark recesses.

As my fingertips brushed her nipples, her breath caught in her throat and she let out a low moan.

“That feels soooo nice,” she purred.

I left one hand to massage a rapidly hardening nipple while the other hand wandered south. As soon as it touched the inside of her thigh, though, she spoke up.

“Sorry. No contact south of the Equator,” she said firmly.

Appropriately chastened, I returned my full attention to her magnificent mammaries. She and I spent the better part of a half hour there on the basketball court, with her bound rigidly to the goal and me reveling in all the carnal delights my fingertips were allowed to explore.

As much as I would have liked to seek future relations with my oh-so-willing captive, it was not to be. She took a very practical approach to her wants and desires, and she apparently got from me exactly what she wanted – to be bound and felt up. I asked her for dates, but she always turned me down. I hinted that I’d like to tie her up again, but she deflected every overture.

I’ve been fortunate to bind many women in my time. I’ve bound their wrists, and I’ve bound their breasts. And every time I pull a rope across those delicious upper-body contours, I can’t help but think of that brief but memorable escapade with my precociously sexual friend.

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BindPam
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Post by BindPam »

I like that you respected her limits. That....doesn't always happen when they're not talked about first :o

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OldTUGger
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Post by OldTUGger »

BindPam wrote:
1 month ago
I like that you respected her limits. That....doesn't always happen when they're not talked about first :o
Thank you. I was taught a sense of honor at a very early age. It has served me well ever since.

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slackywacky
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Post by slackywacky »

OldTUGger wrote:
1 month ago
I was taught a sense of honor at a very early age.
Something that is missing a lot nowadays...

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Post by BindPam »

slackywacky wrote:
1 month ago
OldTUGger wrote:
1 month ago
I was taught a sense of honor at a very early age.
Something that is missing a lot nowadays...
I found that out the hard way a few years ago. I'm really glad you and OldTUGer feel the way you do.

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Post by Mask6190 »

Thanks for sharing that experience. You're are a lucky and respectful gentlemen :D

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Post by Beetlebailey13 »

Thank you for sharing this story and post! You're Truly a Lucky Guy! And Honorable Scholar and Gentlemen
" No use to struggle, my dear, you're tied up much too tight for escape! However, I'd be in your debt if you would try... "

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Post by The G-Man »

Nice story, and gratifying how you respected her limits.

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redtogo
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Post by redtogo »

BindPam wrote:
1 month ago
I like that you respected her limits. That....doesn't always happen when they're not talked about first :o
I think it is always best to discuss limits first. That way you stand a better of keeping a good friendship than running the risk of losing it.

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Post by OldTUGger »

redtogo wrote:
2 weeks ago
BindPam wrote:
1 month ago
I like that you respected her limits. That....doesn't always happen when they're not talked about first :o
I think it is always best to discuss limits first. That way you stand a better of keeping a good friendship than running the risk of losing it.
You' are right, of course. Unfortunately, horny 14-year-olds don't always think with their brains. ;-)

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