Beth’s Story: Prank and Counter-Prank (f/f, F/ff)

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Weird Aunt Ettie
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Beth’s Story: Prank and Counter-Prank (f/f, F/ff)

Post by Weird Aunt Ettie »

Beth’s Story: Prank and Counter-Prank

Introduction

This story belongs in a completely different fictional world to the New Hobby series with a completely different cast of characters.

I began writing it long before Covid-19 or lockdown had come on the scene, but I got stuck and have only just blown the dust off it and finished it. Accordingly, although it is written in the present tense, the action takes place in 2018.

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Last edited by Weird Aunt Ettie 2 years ago, edited 1 time in total.
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Weird Aunt Ettie
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Post by Weird Aunt Ettie »

Beth’s Story

Part 1: Prank

My Mum is a security freak and that’s what started all this. My parents and I live in a small house (two former farmworkers’ cottages knocked into one) some distance outside a village which is itself quite isolated. ‘Middle-of-Nowhere, England’ in other words. Definitely not a high crime neighbourhood. Despite this, Mum is meticulous at locking the doors even in broad daylight with all of us at home.

Coming back from a shopping trip, Mum will typically park the car in the driveway at the side of the house, take out as many bags as she can carry, lock the car, carry the bags to the kitchen door at the back of the house, unlock it to let herself in and re-lock it behind her before unpacking anything. If there are more bags, she will let herself out of the kitchen door, re-locking it behind her, unlock the car, retrieve the next batch of bags, re-lock the car, unlock the door to let herself back into the kitchen. Rinse and repeat until done. I’m sure you get the picture.

Now to be fair, Mum was brought up in a fairly rough inner-city area. Anything that wasn’t behind a locked door or nailed down could disappear within minutes. Most of the time Dad and I cope with this behaviour with tolerant amusement and the occasional eye-roll when we think Mum won’t notice. Other times, it can drive us bonkers. One of the major points of contention is my hobby. I make doll’s houses. Alright, it’s not an obvious jump from that to home security, but, trust me, it will become clear.

When I was very young, like most little girls, I had a collection of dolls. I remember when I was about 10, really wanting to own a doll’s house. I looked at what was available, both in local shops and online, and rapidly became frustrated. With the limited resources available to a 10-year-old, I could afford almost nothing. Anything that was within reach financially didn’t look worth buying. Anything that came even close to meeting my expectations was astronomically expensive.

“Why not make your own?” my Dad suggested. It was one of those lightbulb moments. There was a shaft of heavenly light from the sky and angelic choirs. Well, actually, no, there weren’t, but it was such an empowering moment that there should have been. Dad was supportive and helped me get started with a basic tool kit (essentially a sharp knife, a steel ruler and a cutting mat).

My early efforts were fairly rudimentary, with cardboard packing cases begged from the local supermarket as the main material, but I had well and truly caught the bug for making things. Over the years, my skills developed rapidly. I learned the concept of a scale model and how to draw up plans and how to build from them. (The fact that my Dad is an architect and my Mum a graphic designer helped no end in this.) I learned increasingly sophisticated woodworking and other workshop skills. By the time I was 13, my efforts were saleable and I marketed them first through eBay, then through Etsy. The money I made was ploughed back into better tools and workshop equipment. Now, at the age of 17, I can usually sell a finished doll’s house for between £200 and £300, depending on size and sophistication. Except for a few commissions, these are 1/12 scale collectors’ items and really too delicate to be used as children’s toys.

(I haven’t forgotten I was talking about home security. Be patient; I’m getting there.)

My main work area inside the house is a small spare bedroom that I effectively appropriated a few years ago when my hobby was making me run out of space in my own bedroom. This room houses a large work table in the middle of the room with a side table that takes my computer and printer and has room for laying out drawings.

The main structure of my doll’s houses is either plywood or medium-density fibreboard. Working with these requires quite serious power tools which produce a lot of noise and dust and are thus somewhat incompatible with domestic tranquility and the clean environment I like to keep in my work room. Accordingly, I have a second work area at one end of a former agricultural outbuilding across the back yard from the house. (The rest is given over to garden equipment, bicycles, and the usual sort of outdoor domestic clutter.)

On Fridays, school finishes at lunch-time, which generally gives me the house to myself for most of the afternoon. This is one of the most productive periods of the week for my hobby. If I’m near the beginning of a doll’s house, I will typically be to-ing and fro-ing between my work room and the outdoor workshop carrying pieces of wood as I mark them up and work on them. For convenience, I simply leave the back door of the house and the workshop door unlocked. There is a small lobby between the outer door into the yard and the door from there into the kitchen. The family’s outdoor shoes are kept there together with coats and hats and scarves. That’s where I jettison the outworn and laceless walking boots I use as workshop boots when I come in and don them again on the way out so that I don’t tread sawdust through the house.

My Mum and her business partner operate extremely flexible Friday afternoons. Officially their office is closed at that time (dating from the time they both had young children to collect from school) but they work on for a while if necessary. An early finish will also often lead to a trip to a local café for some unwinding time. Accordingly, my Mum’s time of arrival back home is fairly unpredictable.

Of course, as soon as Mum is back home, my cavalier treatment of the house security has to stop and I have to lock doors behind me. Naturally, it’s not unknown for me to be caught out by Mum arriving home to find the back door unlocked and me working away quite obliviously in one of my work spaces. I behave quite contritely through the ensuing ear-bashing, but Mum and I both know that I have no real intention of changing my habits.

During one of these contretemps, Mum came out with the remark, “One of these days I’ll come home to find the house ransacked and you bound and gagged!”

That comment set me thinking: what if Mum really did come home to find me bound and gagged? The shock of finding me tied up would be a bit of pay-back for all the times she’d given me a hard time about security. And I’d be able to point out that the only way I would ever end up tied up like that would be if I arranged it myself.

I had a mental image of exactly the scene I wanted to stage. I would be gagged and tied to a chair in a classic damsel-in-distress pose while all around me the kitchen would be in chaos. The problem was how to achieve this, I would need to tie myself up convincingly and I hadn’t the slightest idea of how to go about it. I did the obvious thing and searched for information on-line.

My research proved to be more of an education than I had bargained for. It turns out that there are quite a lot of people out there who go in for tying themselves up recreationally. Who knew?

A lot of the how-to information on tying oneself up placed the emphasis on how to escape again afterwards. Quite a reasonable precaution, but my plan was to be completely helpless so that Mum would have to release me. Another issue with most of the techniques I found was that they left telltale signs of how the tying had been achieved which would give the game away immediately.

I eventually found some instructions on how to tie my own hands behind my back. There was a length of rope amongst the junk in the workshop, so I set to work to see if I could replicate the method. I spent an entire afternoon trying to get it to work and failed miserably. Either I couldn’t get the binding to tighten at all or I ended up with something so loose I could wriggle out of it in seconds.

I wasn’t about to give up on my plans so I enlisted some help from my friend Anja. (It’s pronounced ‘Anya’ but her mum is Swedish, hence the J.) Anja’s mum is a professional escape artist. Not many people have one of those in their circle of friends, but one must make the most of the resources available. Given her mum’s profession, I reasoned that Anja might well also know how to go about tying someone up and might be able to help me. I broached the subject one evening when I had gone home with Anja after school and eaten with her family.

Anja just stared back at me and blinked when I asked if she would be prepared to tie me up. Undaunted, I expanded on the background and described my plan to pull a prank on my mum.

“Cool prank,” Anja commented, “but are you sure you’ll be OK? Have you ever been tied up before? Do you know what you’re letting yourself in for?”

“Oh, yes,” I replied, crossing my fingers behind my back, “I know what it’s like being tied up.”

Suitably reassured, Anja agreed to help me stage the fake burglary the following Friday.

Accordingly, when Friday came, Anja travelled with me on the bus from school but got off with me two stops earlier than she usually would. We walked the short distance to my house and I unlocked the workshop then let the two of us into the kitchen through the back door.

We had agreed that the scenario we would stage was that I had been overpowered and tied up shortly after my arrival home from school. I took off my school shoes, my wonderfully comfy black Mary-Janes, and left them in the lobby at the back door (we have a strict rule against wearing outdoor shoes in the house). I took off my navy blue school blazer and hung it on the back of one of the kitchen chairs, dumping my school bag on the seat of the same chair. This wasn’t unusual behaviour for me as I would often potter around in the kitchen making a mug of tea before taking my things up to my room and changing out of my school uniform. For added realism, I even made a some tea while Anja was organising the things she had brought with her. I left the tea next to the kettle as if I hadn’t had a chance to drink it.

“That’s a lot of rope,” I commented, staring at the enormous quantity of cordage Anja had unloaded from her rucksack.

“You want the whole damsel-in-distress thing so I’ve brought fifty metres.”

“Fifty metres!” I echoed in a mixture of surprise and horror.

“You’d be surprised how much rope you can get through tying someone up really thoroughly.”

I nodded silently, questioning my own sanity at instigating this plan.

Anja moved one of the kitchen chairs out into the middle of the room. “Ready to start?”

“I think so,” I replied. “I came in, took my shoes off, put my blazer and bag on the chair, put the kettle on and made some tea then...”

“...then someone tied you up,” Anja finished, with a suitably evil grin. “Are you going to be OK like that?” she added. “Trousers might be more comfortable.”

“Mum knows I only wear trousers to school in really cold weather and she might well remember what I was wearing this morning.”

Our school uniform allows either black trousers or a navy blue skirt over black tights. For comfort, I prefer leggings and that’s allowed, but as a substitute for tights, not for trousers. So, from the feet upwards, I was wearing ankle length black socks pulled up over black cotton leggings with a shortish navy blue pleated skirt. We can wear white shirts either with or without a school tie. If we don’t wear the tie, the collar of the shirt has to be the type that’s designed to lie flat and not have buttons right to the top. That’s the kind I prefer and I had a navy blue V-necked sweater on top.

“Sit down so I can work out the best way to tie you to the chair,” Anja said.

Taking a deep breath, I sat down on the chair. Our dining chairs are traditional wooden ones with quite tall narrow backs which taper in towards the top. Yet another product from a well-known Swedish supplier of flat-pack furniture.

“The top of the chair comes well up above your shoulders, which makes it a bit easier for me and probably more comfortable for you,” Anja commented. “Put your hands behind the back of the chair and see if your arms are long enough to cross your wrists.”

“Are you making comments about my height again?” I asked in mock indignation. Anja is a willowy blonde at least 175 centimetres tall, maybe more. At 150 centimetres, I’m well below average height. I’m not in any way fat, but no-one would ever describe me as willowy.

While we’re on descriptions, I’m not a blonde either. I have typically English mid-brown hair. I hate having long hair (I don’t like the way it feels on the back of my neck and it keeps getting caught in the hinges of my spectacles) so I wear it in a short pixie cut.

Anyway, back to the story. I crossed my wrists as requested and Anja nodded her approval. Apparently my arms were long enough.

“Right, let’s get going,” Anja announced, selecting one of her bundles of rope. “You can relax your arms for now. Sit with your bottom as far back in the chair as it will go.”

I shuffled myself back on the chair and Anja set to work winding a length of rope around me and the chair at waist level. She finished off with a neat arrangement that bunched the band of rope together each side of my waist between me and the vertical sides of the chair. Anja explained that this was called ‘cinching’. It was certainly very effective, holding me firmly in place without being uncomfortably tight.

“I’ll do your legs next,” Anja announced, selecting more rope.

Anja wrapped a length of rope several times around my ankles then formed a cinch (I was learning the terminology) between them, significantly tightening the turns of rope. Anja tied a knot to secure the binding but left two long tails of rope trailing from it. She slid a finger between the rope and my leg, commenting to herself, “That’s about right.”

She repeated the binding just below my knees and then above (I had to lift my legs for her to do that one). Again, the knots were tied with long tails of rope left over.

I learned the reason for the excess rope when Anja fastened off the ends of my ankle rope to the chair legs, virtually immobilising my feet between them. She tied off the ends of my knee bindings to the top of the chair legs. The rope above my knees was taken down over the sides of the chair seat to do this, pinning my legs down to the chair seat.

“How’s that so far?” Anja asked.

I was lost for words and eventually just said, “Wow.”

I was trying to be cool about the whole thing, but the slight tremor in my voice gave me away and Anja was onto it in an instant. “Are you sure you’ve been tied up before?”

“I told you I’d tried to tie myself up but couldn’t work out how to,” I reminded her. “I did manage to tie my legs together, but it didn’t feel as secure as this.”

“Is that it?”

“Well, my cousin tied me up when I was little and she was babysitting me.”

“Rough babysitting.”

I leaped to my cousin’s defence. “Not really. It was my idea. She’d been reading me a chapter of a book each night at bedtime and the heroine was kidnapped so I thought I ought to be tied up and gagged while I was listening to the story.”

“Living the part! So what did your cousin do to you?”

“She just used a pair of my long socks to tie my wrists behind my back and my ankles together and tied a hanky over my mouth. I could have wriggled out if I’d wanted to.”

Anja considered this a moment then said, “So, you’re telling me you haven’t ever actually been tied up properly.”

“Umm, no,” I admitted.

“We can just stop now,” Anja suggested. “I can untie you and pack up the ropes and none of this ever happened. I won’t tell on you.”

I took a deep breath and drew on my reserves of courage. “No, I want to do this. Please finish tying me up.” Courage. Maybe bravado. Or something. I wasn’t sure myself.

“Oooooh Kaaaay. Cross your wrists behind your back and I’ll do the next bit.”

I put my hands behind the back of the chair, crossed my wrists as instructed and wriggled my upper body and arms into what I hoped would be a reasonably comfortable position.

Anja studied my pose critically. “You might be better off with a thicker sweater, you won’t get so much pressure from the ropes that way.”

“The story is that I got home from school and was tied up before I could do anything else,” I pointed out, “so I’ll just have to make do with my school uniform sweater.”

“OK, I’ll do my best not to pull anything too tight, but you may still have rope marks on your skin for a few hours.”

Anja selected another piece of rope and quickly tied my wrists together. I could feel her wrapping the rope around my wrists first horizontally then vertically before tying a double knot. I felt Anja pushing a finger between the rope and my skin, first on one wrist, then on the other, just as she had with my ankles.

“If I can’t get a finger in like that, then I’ve tied it too tight and it will hurt you eventually,” she explained.

“I thought it would have to be really tight to prevent me escaping.”

“Really tight means your fingers go numb and it could even cause permanent damage.”

I must have looked alarmed because Anja immediately added, “It’s OK, I’ve made sure you aren’t in any danger of getting hurt, but I’ve made sure you can’t escape either.”

“I’m glad you know what you’re doing,” I said, relieved.

“It’s pretty much the family business, so I’ve had a lot of experience tying up and being tied up.”

As she was speaking, Anja selected a long length of rope, found its centre and folded it double. She stood behind me and reached round to pass the doubled rope around my arms and body and the back of my chair so it was just above my elbows and below my breasts. She must have formed some sort of running hitch behind me because she was able to pull it snug just by pulling the doubled end of the rope.

“Not too tight?” she asked.

“It doesn’t hurt and I can still breathe,” I replied.

“Sounds about right,” Anja said, wrapping the rope around me another time. I could feel movement as she threaded the rope through what must have been quite a big knot by now and then brought the rope around me again, this time higher up, above my breasts and below my shoulders.

“I’m almost done now,” Anja told me. “Give your arms a bit of a wiggle to let the ropes settle and see if you can find the most comfortable position.”

I did as I was instructed and discovered that there was a bit of wriggle room. It wasn’t exactly comfortable being tied up, but I wasn’t in any serious discomfort. I found what I thought would be the best position.

“This is OK,” I said.

“Fine, I’m just going to fasten the ends of your wrist binding to the ropes around your waist and chest so they support the weight of your arms and we’re done.”

I felt Anja doing that and was surprised to realise that it did improve my comfort.

“OK, you’re done, and...” Anja glanced at the kitchen clock “...it’s about twenty to two. What time do you expect your mum back?”

“It varies,” I replied. “I’ve never known her back before two. It’s usually getting on for four, but it can be later if she goes out to a café with her business partner.”

“So you’re probably going to be tied up for two hours! That’s a really long time when you’ve never been tied up before., not properly tied up anyway,” Anja said, suddenly turning very serious. “I really don’t think this is a good idea. Why don’t I just untie you? Like I said before, it can be like this never happened.”

I wasn't about to give up my plan after all this effort. “I’m sure I want to go through with this. It’s my choice and my risk.”

“I still don’t think you know what you’re letting yourself in for.”

“I’m still sure,” I said firmly, at least partly to convince myself.

“OK, if you’re really set on this.”

“I am. Just gag me and you’re done. It’s my problem from then on.”

“OK,” Anja conceded. I could hear the reluctance in her voice. “You said I could borrow your bike to get myself home,” she reminded me.

“Of course you can. It’s in the workshop across the yard. If you need to use the lock, the combination is my birthday.”

“Which I really ought to remember,” Anja prompted with a grin.

“Fifth of March,” I reminded her, “and it’s 2001, the same as you.”

“So five, three, zero, one?”

“Got it.”

“OK, now for your gag.”

“Wait a moment!” I exclaimed abruptly.

“Getting cold feet?” Anja asked.

“No, it’s just that we need to make the kitchen look as if someone has ransacked it.”

Anja hesitated. “That’s going to make a lot of mess,” she pointed out.

“I think it’ll give the right effect if you just open all the cupboards and drawers,” I suggested, “It’s just the initial impression we’re going for.”

Anja nodded agreement then, as suggested, worked her way around the kitchen opening everything.

“That works nicely,” I said approvingly.

“Now, back to your gag. The bad news is that there is no way of making a gag completely comfortable, but I’ll do my best.”

“I experimented a bit when I thought I might be able to tie myself up,” I commented, “but I couldn’t find a way to silence myself completely.”

“No gag will do that,” Anja explained. “Basically, if you can breathe, you can always make some noise. If you had something stuffed in your mouth, that would kill most of the sound, but I’m not going to do that.”

“Why not?”

“Safety. You’re going to be tied up and on your own, so I’m not risking anything that you could swallow or choke on.”

Anja rummaged in her bag and produced a red cotton bandanna. “Classic damsel-in-distress gag,” she announced. “I’m going to tie it between your teeth and leave it at that. You’ll still be able to mumble a bit and probably make yourself understood but no-one will hear you outside this room.”

Anja folded the bandanna into a band and eased the centre into my mouth before tying the ends at the back of my head. “How’s that?” she asked.

“If ho-hay, ah fink,” I replied indistinctly.

“After this little adventure is over, I want the ropes back,” Anja told me firmly. “So get your mum to untie the knots when she frees you and not to cut the rope. If the knots are too hard to get undone with fingers, the handle of a wooden spoon works well to tease them open.”

I nodded my understanding rather than trying to talk through the gag.

“Last word of warning,” Anja said, adopting a serious tone. “You’ve got rope against the bare skin of your wrists. If you struggle too much, you’ll hurt yourself. Trust me, rope burns are no fun.”

I nodded again.

“OK then, good luck,” Anja said as she let herself out of the kitchen.

I heard the back door close then a moment later a more distant thump as Anja closed the workshop door after taking my bike. After that, it was very quiet with just the ticking of the kitchen clock to keep me company.

I was certain that Anja had done a thorough job of tying me up, and the whole point of this prank was for my Mum to find me tied up, but the urge to see if I could escape was irresistible. I kicked my legs to see if I could get my feet loose to no avail. I twisted my hands this way and that but the wrist binding remained absolutely firm. I tried pushing the gag out from between my teeth with my tongue and again achieved nothing.

I gave up my struggles and relaxed in my bonds as much as I could. I was definitely completely helpless and that seemed oddly satisfying. The friction I had felt on my wrists as I struggled reminded me of Anja’s words of warning and I decided not to try it again.

Two soft bongs from the kitchen clock announced two o’clock. I glanced at the clock to check. Had I really only been tied up for twenty minutes so far? The prospect of another couple of hours of this suddenly seemed like a very long time.

I thought about some of the things I might have been doing on my current doll’s house project that afternoon. I briefly felt frustrated that I couldn’t do any of them but that feeling was quite quickly replaced by a sense of calm as I realised that in giving control of my freedom to Anja, I had also absolved myself of any pressure to do anything. It was paradoxically liberating being tied up.

My thoughts settled down into peaceful musing as I sat there. I was surprised at how much I was enjoying being tied up. I may even have dozed off for a while. I certainly remember suddenly returning to alertness as I hear my mother opening the back door and coming into the kitchen.

“You’ve left the back door unlocked again...” was my Mum’s opening salvo as she came into the room. Whatever she was going to say after that faded to nothing as she took in all the open cupboards and drawers and her daughter trussed up and gagged on a chair.

I glanced at the clock. Twenty past four. I had been tied up for over two and a half hours, rather longer than I had bargained for.

Mum overcame her initial shock, which had temporarily rooted her to the spot and rushed over to me, leaving her handbag and work bag on the floor.

“You poor thing,” Mum said, fumbling with the knot of my gag. It took her a moment to get it untied. I swallowed hard a couple of times to get my mouth feeling a bit more normal.

Mum surveyed the kitchen again then said, rather more crossly, “I warned you something like this would happen if you left the door unlocked.”

“And I told you it would only happen if I organised it myself,” I replied. My voice didn’t quite sound the way it normally did, but it was more-or-less working again.

Mum looked around the kitchen again and I could see the realisation dawning on her that the apparent chaos in the room was mostly in her own mind. She focussed on me again and looked me up and down, taking in the impressive amount of rope securing me. “You did this yourself?” she asked incredulously.

My little scenario had clearly made an impression, so I waited a few seconds before confessing, “Well, it was my idea but I got Anja to tie me up.”

Mum walked slowly round me, examining Anja’s handiwork. A half-smile appeared on her lips and I started to have a premonition of something bad about to happen.

“So, if you didn’t tie yourself up, I don’t expect that you can untie yourself either?”

The tone of Mum’s voice made the comment into a question. I had a feeling of impending doom, however I answered. I decided that my only option was the truth. “No, I’m completely stuck.”

“It must be pretty uncomfortable being tied up like that?” Mum observed, again inviting an answer.

In truth, I was getting a little bit uncomfortable after all that time but I wasn’t in any kind of pain or distress. Should I tell Mum that it was really bad and that I needed to be released now? That would reflect badly on Anja and there might just be repercussions for her, so I went for the truth again. “Actually it’s not too bad. Anja was really careful to make sure that she didn’t hurt me and that I was as comfortable as possible.”

The silence that followed was excruciating. I was sure that Mum was leading up to something, but I couldn’t work out what.

“Well, seeing as you’ve gone to all that trouble, it would be a pity for your Dad not to see it,” Mum said. I was right, the impending doom had impended.

I glanced at the clock again. Not quite half past four. Less than ten minutes had passed since Mum came in. Dad’s office closed at half past five and he was usually home sometime between six o’clock and quarter past, depending on which bus he caught. That meant I would be tied up for another hour and a half at least.

“You could just take a picture on your phone,” I suggested.

“But the real thing is so much more impressive,” Mum countered.

A direct appeal was all I had left. “I’ve been tied up a long time, can’t you just untie me now please?”

“If you choose to get tied up, you can’t really expect to choose when to get untied,” Mum pointed out.

I wasn’t sure of the logic in that statement, so I just persisted with pleading. “It was just meant to be a bit of a joke to make a point that nobody was going to tie me up unless I organised it myself. And I’ve done that now, so can I be untied please?”

“Well, if it’s such a good joke, it’s only fair that Dad gets to see it too,” Mum countered.

“Please?”

“I’ve made my mind up,” Mum replied firmly. “Now, would you like a drink of water before I put your gag back?”

“Yes, please,” I replied, accepting defeat.

Mum half-filled a tumbler with water and held it to my lips. I slurped at it thirstily.

“Not too much or you’ll need the toilet,” Mum warned. She removed the tumbler and wiped my chin with a piece of kitchen paper.

Mum picked up the now rather soggy bandanna from the kitchen table where she had put it. “Open wide,” she instructed, like a dentist. She re-inserted the gag between my teeth and knotted it behind my head.

I worked my mouth from side to side to settle the gag into a comfortable position.

Mum watched me then commented, “I’m not sure that will do much to keep you quiet.”

“Ih tuvvent, uh Anga fed ih wov fayfuh if ah wov eff awome,” I mumbled in reply.

Mum had no trouble decoding that as ‘It doesn’t but Anja said it was safest if I was left alone.’

“I thought it couldn’t be much good,” Mum commented. “I’ll find you something better.”

I silently cursed myself for an idiot as she left the room.

Mum returned with a dark green scarf that I recognised as a long cotton one that she sometimes wore on cool spring or autumn days. She found the centre of the scarf and tied a knot in it before removing my bandanna. There was no point resisting, so I let her work the knot in behind my teeth and then tie the ends securely behind my head.

“That should work better. Try saying something.”

I mumbled incoherently in reply. Sure enough, what remained of my my voice was almost inaudible.

“Good, now I can get on with some work in peace and quiet,” Mum announced. She unloaded her laptop and a sheaf of papers from her work bag. After making herself a mug of tea, she settled down at the kitchen table. “I need to get this proposal out in draft tonight,” she commented as she started typing.

I sat watching Mum work as there wasn’t much else I could do. I was always genuinely impressed at the speed she could type when she was composing a document from scratch. I estimated that she was cruising at something over 70 words per minute. I can just about top 50 when I’m copy typing, but actually working out what I’m saying is much slower and always leads to long pauses for thought.

This went on for about ten minutes than Mum turned to me and said, “It’s really distracting having you stare at me like that when I’m working.”

I could see her point, but there was very little I could do about it, trussed up on a chair like that.

Mum stood up, went briefly to the lobby at the back door and came back with a blue woollen scarf with narrow red stripes, my school scarf. She wrapped it across my eyes twice and knotted the ends behind my head.

“That’s better,” I heard her say as she resumed work.

Unable to move, with nothing to see and soothed by the soft rhythmic rattle of Mum’s typing, I once again fell into an odd mental state. I really can’t say if I dozed off but I was definitely in a semi-comatose state. As before, I was snapped back to full alertness by the sound of the back door. I turned my head in the direction of the door, even though I couldn’t see anything.

“Hiya...” That was my Dad’s voice. Whatever he was about to say in greeting cut off abruptly, presumably as he set eyes on his thoroughly bound and gagged daughter. “Why is Beth all tied up like that?” he continued, finding his voice after a long pause.

“It was her own idea,” Mum replied in a very matter-of-fact tone. “I’m sure she’ll tell you all about it. Now, I need to get this proposal finished and emailed before I do anything else.”

There followed various shuffling sounds which I interpreted (correctly as it turned out) as Mum gathering up her laptop and papers then decamping to the small office that she and my Dad shared.

“Am I supposed to turn you loose now?” Dad asked, sounding rather bemused by the situation.

I nodded my head emphatically in reply.

I heard Dad walk across the kitchen then felt him brush against my shoulder as he loosened the knot on my blindfold then unwound the scarf from around my head. I blinked in the light then tipped my head forward so that he could untie my gag.

The gag hadn’t been particularly uncomfortable but it was still an enormous relief to have it taken off. I attempted to ask for water, but all that came out was an inarticulate croak.

Dad nevertheless got the message and filled a tumbler at the kitchen tap. He held it so that I could take a sip. I swallowed, licked my lips and took another sip. I didn’t want to risk any more pressure on my already rather full bladder, so I nodded to indicate that I’d had enough.

“So, your own idea?” Dad prompted.

“Umm, yes,” I admitted. My voice sounded a little odd, but it was functional. I went on to explain the reason for my predicament, giving Anja the full credit for the tying.

“So how did Mum take it?” Dad asked.

“Well, shock when she saw me first.”

“I assume that was your plan?”

“I wanted to make my point dramatically,” I explained. “And it worked,” I added with a grin.

“And did she see your point?”

“Not really. I think she thinks I’ve just confirmed how vulnerable I am when I leave the door unlocked.”

“And perhaps she left you tied up to show how vulnerable you are?” Dad suggested.

“I would only be vulnerable if there was anyone around here to break in and tie me up,” I pointed out. “I think she was just pissed off at me.”

“I can see why she might be.”

“Dad, I’ve been tied up for a long time and I’m getting a bit desperate for a pee. Could you get me loose please?”

“Two minutes with a kitchen knife should do that,” Dad said making his way to the cutlery drawer.

“Sorry no,” I said. “The ropes belong to Anja and she wants them back intact. She said that if the knots are too tight to untie with fingers, you can use the handle of a wooden spoon to tease them open.”

Dad dutifully returned with a wooden spoon and ten minutes later had all the knots undone. I fled to the toilet.
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Weird Aunt Ettie
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Post by Weird Aunt Ettie »

Beth’s Story

Part 2: Counter Prank

In the weeks that followed my prank, there was an uneasy truce between Mum and me. I continued my habit of leaving the house door and the workshop door unlocked when I was doing work that involved repeated trips in and out. Mum stopped complaining every time I did this but I could feel disapproving eyes on me if I passed her in the kitchen on my way in or out.

A month or two after my prank, I was working on a project that would make the most of my latest tool purchase. I had long fancied making a doll’s house in that ornate German ‘gingerbread cottage’ style with lots of intricate woodwork. It would take an insane amount of time and patience to do it by hand with a fretsaw, so I had invested the proceeds of a couple of sales in buying a small laser cutter. It sounds dramatic and James-Bondish but it’s a fairly benign piece of equipment that takes a pattern set up on a computer and cuts it into a piece of thin plywood about the size of a piece of typing paper. It’s fully enclosed, so not at all dangerous. It does, however, produce a bit of smoke, so I installed it in the workshop not in my indoor workroom.

I had set up the design for a pair of fancy bargeboards for my latest project one Thursday evening and set the cutter to do its work on Friday morning while I was at school. (Bargeboards are the wooden boards that finish off the end of a roof at a gable.) As soon as I was home, I went up to my bedroom and changed into the disreputable old clothes I wear for my hobby. The bottom half is a pair of formerly black (now charcoal grey) leggings which are decidedly baggy at the knees and also a bit short for me now. The shortness doesn’t matter as I wear a pair of long socks on top. My upper half is an old navy blue sweater that used to belong to Mum. It’s very scruffy and wearing very thin at the elbows, but warm and comfortable.

I went out to the workshop, putting my feet into the old walking boots I use as workshop boot as I went. The laser cutter was showing a steadily flashing green light to show that it had finished its work. I switched it off, lifted the lid and took out the sheet of plywood containing my bargeboards. I was delighted with the result and carried it back into the house.

As I entered the kitchen, I stepped out of my boots and left them at the back door. I was expecting to go back outside later, so, as usual, I left the door unlocked.

Back in my work room upstairs, I put some music on then sat down to carefully separate the bargeboards from the surrounding waste plywood.

I was totally focused on the task when I felt something poke into my back between my shoulder blades. I froze in shock.

“Now, do exactly as I say.” The voice was female and crisply enunciated, with one of those upper class English accents that speaks of generations of privilege.

“Put your work down carefully; I don’t want you to damage it.”

I did so.

“Now stand up slowly and don’t turn round.”

As I stood up, I could feel that whatever was pressing into my back was hard and circular. I was horrified to recognize it as the muzzle of a gun. I tried not to shake uncontrollably as I stood.

“I don’t want to hurt you, but I am going to tie you up,” the voice continued. “Do you understand?”

I couldn’t get my voice to work, but I nodded.

“Good. Cross your wrists behind your back and I’ll make a start.”

Now I’ve read enough detective stories to know that if there is a gun pressed into your back, you should have the advantage of knowing exactly where the gun is. You are supposed to be able to whirl around and grab the gun off your would-be captor. That has always seemed to me like a very good way to get a large hole blown in yourself, so I did no such thing.

The pressure of the gun against my back disappeared and I could hear the unmistakeable sound of duct tape being peeled off a roll. Again, my detective story training suggested that with both my assailant’s hands on the tape, she couldn’t be pointing the gun at me. Could I make a run for the door before she could aim the gun? I felt that the odds might be just in my favour, but the cost of failure rather outweighed any advantage of escape, so I crossed my wrists behind me and awaited developments.

My assailant, now captor, quickly wrapped four or five turns of tape around my wrists. Even without being able to see what was going on, I could sense that she knew exactly what she was doing and that the tape would undoubtedly be applied smoothly with a minimum of wrinkling. I also knew that one or two layers of tape could be broken fairly easily but that I would need to cut through this many layers to escape.

“Now tuck your elbows tight against your sides.”

Once again, there was the sound of tape being pulled from the roll. I felt the loose end being struck to my arm, just above my left elbow. I got sight of my captor (definitely captor now) as she proceeded to wind tape around me, pinning my elbows tightly to my ribs. She went around me at least five times. She varied the angle of the tape slightly so I ended up with a fairly broad wrap going both above and below elbow level and completely immobilising the joints.

I didn’t have any expectations of what a female burglar should look like, but I was nevertheless astonished that I was apparently being taped up by a female ninja. She was dressed from head to toe in black: black leggings, tight black roll-neck top, black trainers, black nitrile gloves. Her head was covered by a black stocking that was neatly finished off with a knot at the top of her head. The stocking was so dense that I couldn’t make out anything of her features; I was surprised she could see through it. The outfit left little to the imagination regarding her physique: she was clearly built like an athlete or a dancer.

The first band of tape was followed by a second one, lower down, so it came about half way between my wrists and elbows and held forearms firmly against the small of my back. Again, there were four, five or maybe even six turns of tape.

“I’m going to do your legs next,” the ninja informed me, “but I’ll need you on the floor for that. Lean back and I’ll get you down gently.”

I had little option but to trust the woman, so I did as I was instructed and she supported my weight by the elbows, lowering me to the floor gently, as promised.

The next application of tape was to my ankles. The lady ninja squatted down by my feet and wrapped tape around my ankles, having first crossed them. She followed that with two more bands of tape, one just below my knees and one at about mid-thigh level.

“I just need to gag you now. Open your mouth, please.”

I stared in horror at the enormous yellow ball that she seemed to be about to put in my mouth.

“Don’t worry – it’s foam. It will fill your mouth but it won’t hurt you and you can’t choke on it.” She squashed she ball between her fingers to demonstrate.

I really had no option, so I opened my mouth and allowed her to push the foam ball in behind my teeth. It was alarming, but nowhere near as bad as I feared.

“Now close your mouth and purse your lips.”

I shut my mouth, feeling the pressure of the ball filling it as I did so, and did my best to purse my lips as I did so.

“Tighter,” the ninja instructed.

I did my best to comply and was rewarded with a layer of tape across my mouth. I recognised the medical smell immediately; it wasn’t duct tape but sticking plaster. Firm pressure from my captor’s fingers pressed the plaster across my mouth and into the contours of my face. Even without seeing what she was doing, I could tell from where she was pressing that the plaster must go from ear to ear and from just below my nose to the point of my chin.

“I think you might be safer with these off,” the ninja lady said, removing my spectacles and transferring them to my work table. Without saying another word, she left the room, closing the door as she went.

I lay staring at the out-of-focus ceiling for some time, too stunned by what had happened to do anything else. Once my whirl of confused thoughts calmed down a bit, I listened carefully, expecting to hear the burglar turning other rooms in the house, but could near nothing. It seemed as if I might be alone in the house, but, if so, why had I been tied up?

Nothing seemed to make much sense, but I decided that my only sensible course of action was to see if I could escape from this cocoon of tape. My only experience of being tied up was still the prank on my Mum that I had set up and that had been with ropes on a chair not tape on the floor so I had no idea how to go about freeing myself. General struggling seemed to be a good starting point. I was surprised how much rolling around on the floor I could do, despite being trussed up as I was.

I paused for breath, inhaling heavily through my nose as my mouth was covered. I didn’t seem to be achieving anything so far. I knew that if I could nick the edge of the tape, I might be able to persuade it to tear. Unfortunately, I am fanatically tidy in my work room. There were any number of useful sharp objects on the work table but nothing down on the floor, not even offcuts of wood with convenient rough edges.

If I could get myself upright, I might be able to use one of the knives that I knew were lying on the table. I could scoot around on the smooth laminate flooring quite easily, but, with my ankles crossed and my legs taped the way they were, I couldn’t bend my knees enough to get any purchase with my feet. I eventually managed to prop myself up against the wall with my legs stretched out in front of me. It was an improvement in that I no longer had my weight on my bound arms but got me no closer to freedom.

As I sat regaining my breath, my eye caught something lying on the floor. As it was out of focus without my spectacles, it took me a moment to resister that what I was looking at was an off-cut of copper pipe a few centimetres long. I have lots of useful offcuts of this and that, but they’re all in a scrap-box in the workshop. As I say, I’m meticulous about keeping the floor of my workroom clean, so an odd piece of pipe definitely shouldn’t have been there. After a moment, the penny dropped: that was the ‘gun barrel’ that had been pressed into my back. I had never been in any danger of being shot at all.

There didn’t seem to be anything to do but to sit and wait. At least I was less uncomfortable propped up against the wall, so I stayed in that position. I could see the clock on the wall above my work table but, without my spectacles, I couldn’t resolve the hands enough to read the time. Somehow that seemed to make sitting and waiting take even longer.

As is often the case on a Friday, although I expected my Mum to return home before my Dad, there was no way to predict when that would be. I could have a wait of several hours ahead of me. All I could do was to sit and hope to achieve some sort of Zen-like calm.

As it was, I think I must have dozed off, possibly in reaction to the earlier adrenaline surge. I can’t have slept for more than a second or two as I was brought to my senses with a shock by toppling over sideways. I couldn’t be bothered to try getting myself back into a sitting position so I settled for a sort of semi-foetal position on my side. Not exactly comfortable but tolerable.

After an indeterminate time of just lying and waiting, I heard the door to my work room open. I turned my head to see who it was, hoping for anyone but the burglar.

“Hold still and I’ll snip your wrists free.” It was my mother’s voice. She sounded perfectly calm and collected, not at all like someone who can just come home to a ransacked house and discovered her daughter trussed up on the floor.

I felt her hand steadying my arm and there was a sharp snip and a lessening of pressure on my wrists.

“You can do the rest yourself,” Mum said, putting the scissors down next to me. Before I could react, she had left the room and shut the door behind her.

There was clearly something going on and I seemed to be the victim, even if not in the way I thought I was a few minutes earlier.

After being tied up for who knew how long, my hands were fairly clumsy with the scissors. The tape securing my arms to my body was also tending to keep my hands behind my back, which didn’t help. nevertheless, with determined snipping and peeling, I had all the tape off me within about 10 minutes. I noticed as I worked to free myself that the tape was black and shiny unlike most duct tape. I tentatively identified it as Gorilla Tape, which would probably have defeated a much more determined escape attempt than the one I actually attempted.

I couldn’t shift the sticking plaster across my face, so I retrieved my spectacles from the work table, put them on and headed for the bathroom. With a certain amount of scraping using my fingernails, I managed to lift a corner. After that, it was just a matter of working the plaster off my face, trying not to take the skin with it. Eventually, I was able to spit the foam ball into the bathroom bin together with the screwed up plaster.

On the assumption that was where my mum had gone, I went downstairs, slightly unsteady on my feet after being tied up.

I found mum in the kitchen. She wasn’t alone and the sight that greeted me was more bizarre than I could have imagined. Mum was one of three sitting around the kitchen table. The second person was Marta, Anja’s mother and professional escape artist (although she’s mainly a producer of shows these days). Marta was dressed in a tight black sweater and leggings. Although the gloves were gone, as was the stocking over her head, revealing her short blonde hair, this was very obviously the ninja burglar who had wrapped me up in tape. Marta and my mum were both holding mugs of tea and had been deep in conversation until I entered the room.

“You OK?” Marta asked.

I’m not sure how you’re supposed to answer that when it comes from a woman who has left you bound and gagged on the floor, so I just nodded. Apart from anything, my attention was completely focused on the third person at the table, my friend Anja, blindfolded, gagged and trussed up on a chair with an immense amount of rope.

“Marta and I will take our tea outside and leave you and Anja to chat,” my mum said, standing up and leading Marta out to the benches in the back yard.

I stared at Anja, utterly astonished at her predicament. She was wearing a heavy sweater, which I recognised as a favourite of hers. It’s grey with zig-zag decoration around the yoke and above the cuffs in black, white and red. (Both elbows are heavily darned but it remains a favourite.) She was also wearing dark blue jeggings with black and red striped knee-length socks pulled up over them and a pair of black Converses on her feet.

Anja was sitting on a chair which I recognised as a garden chair from her house. It has tubular steel legs running up to a circular pressed steel seat which is slightly dished. Two more tubular steel members lead out from under the seat and up to an oval pressed steel backrest similar to the seat. The whole thing must have been painted bright red when it was new, but years of sunlight have turned it pink.

Still mesmerised by the sight of my friend tied up like that, I looked at her from all angles. Her arms were behind her back and also behind the chair’s backrest. They had been arranged so that her forearms were horizontal. She was wearing a pair of red mittens, presumably both to protect her skin and to make escape that much harder. Her wrists were bound securely together with the arrangement Anja had taught me to call a cinch. As well, the binding was secured to the vertical support tubes where they were welded to the backrest. That part of the chair’s structure had also been used as a major anchor point for the ropes securing Anja to the chair. The ropes were arranged to run in pairs or threes or fours rather than singly. (I later learned that this was to prevent the rope from putting too much pressure on the captive.)

“I suppose I’d better get you out of that,” I said, rather more weakly than I had intended.

Anja nodded her head emphatically in reply.

I started by removing Anja’s blindfold. It was just a grey knitted headband with a fleece lining that had been pulled down over her eyes, so it was easy just to slide it up off the top of her head. As I did so, a black sock fell into Anja’s lap, having been folded up as a pad over her eyes under the headband.

Anja blinked in the light and looked around, presumably to confirm where she was.

The gag had to come off next. Like mine had been, it was a wide strip of sicking plaster, covering her face from just below her nose to the point of her chin and stretching from ear to ear. It had been pressed firmly into the contours of her face. One corner of the plaster had been folded under, so there was a convenient point to grip to peel it off. I grasped it between thumb and finger and pulled, using the fingers of my other hand to try to stop it tugging on Anja’s skin too much. When the plaster was off, Anja ejected the foam ball that had been in her mouth. I caught it and tossed it into the sink.

“Thank you,” Anja croaked hoarsely.

“I’ll get you some water.” I held a mug of water to Anja’s lips while she slurped a mouthful.

“Better.”

“I’m guessing this is payback for the stunt we pulled on my mum a few weeks back, but how did you get involved?” I asked.

“Pre-emptive detention.”

“Huh?”

“Your mum enlisted my mum to get her own back on you,” Anja stated quite slowly and clearly, as to a backward child.

“I’ve got that much,” I confirmed.

“So when I got home from school, I found my mum already dressed up as a cat burglar and deep in fairly obvious conspiracy with your mum. It wouldn’t have taken me long to work out the agenda on my own, but they went for a pre-emptive strike as soon as I was in through to door. I was relieved of my phone and my schoolbag, with my laptop in it, and told to get dressed for being tied up.”

“Hence the big sweater?”

“Yes,” Anja continued. “Mum escorted me to the bathroom and stood guard while I did my business then took me to my bedroom. I had already worked out that they were preventing me from warning you what was happening so as soon as I was in my room, I looked around for some way to communicate. My phone and laptop had already been confiscated and I quickly established that the controller for my PS4 was gone, so I couldn’t message you using that either. One of the handsets for the landline sometimes gets left in my room, but she’d got that too, so I just had to give in.”

“Thanks for trying anyway.”

“Sorry I couldn’t do better. It looked like I was just going to have to take what was coming to me. I’ve been tied up often enough to know what’s going to be most comfortable, so thick sweater, leggings over tights, thick socks, mittens,” Anja glanced down at what she was wearing to emphasise the point, “even though it’s a bit cosy for today.”

“I could have done with a bit more padding when you tied me up,” I agreed.

Anja smiled. “I did warn you. Anyway, I got changed and followed my mum downstairs. She had a huge load of rope already set out and she’d brought this chair in from the garden. I just had to sit down and let her truss me up.”

“This sounds a bit drastic just to stop you from tipping me off,” I pointed out.

“Mum explained that as she was tying me up. It was also payback for my part in pranking your mum.”

“I didn't know there would be any comeback on you when I thought the idea up,” I said, genuinely sorry for getting her into this.

“I didn’t either, but it’s really not your fault.”

“So they brought you here tied to the chair?” I asked.

“Yes once I was tied up and gagged and blindfolded, they lifted me up on the chair and put me in the back of my mum’s van. I was left sitting there in the van for quite a long time after they parked before they brought me into the house. That was probably when my mum was tying you up.”

“You knew what was happening?”

“Only because my mum went into full supervillain gloat mode and explained the plan to me once she had me tied up and gagged.”

“Wow.” I was genuinely impressed at the level of planning our two mums had put into the exercise.

“Any chance of getting me untied now?” Anja asked.

“Sorry.” I surveyed the cocoon of rope holding my friend. “Umm, where do I begin?”

“Well, I was tied to the chair before my hands were tied and then my arms roped, so work backwards from that.”

With that piece of information, I was able to see more clearly how Anja had been secured. Her body was tied to the chair with a band of maybe four or five turns of rope around her waist and the same again higher up, just below her arms. Both of those were also secured to the chair’s backrest. There was rope over both her shoulders, three strands over each, fastened to her chest rope. There was more rope connecting her chest and waist ropes and that continued down between her legs and was fastened off to the supports for the chair’s back rest. Anja’s legs were secured to the chair legs with rope just below each knee and at each ankle. Her arms were tied so that her forearms were horizontal across the back of the chair with the wrists tied together and to the ropes securing her to the chair. Her hands went through this binding in opposite directions so it was impossible for her to use both hands to attempt an escape. Finally (as if that wasn’t enough), there was a coil of about six turns of rope around her upper arms and the chair.

I remembered Anja’s suggestion to use the handle of a wooden spoon to help to tease knots open when I had been tied up and fetched one from the kitchen drawer. While I now had a good idea of the order to tackle the ropes, it sometimes involved quite long pauses to work out exactly which knot was the next to attend to.

It didn’t take too long to get Anja’s arms and then hands untied. She immediately jettisoned her mittens onto the floor and started massaging her wrists as I worked on untying her legs.

I was into a rhythm now: untying a knot, pulling the rope it controlled loose and then locating the next knot. Getting the ropes holding Anja down onto the chair untied seemed fairly quick, but I noticed that the whole untying job had taken almost 20 minutes. I suspected that Anja’s mum hadn’t taken significantly longer to tie her up.

“Bathroom!” Anja announced and disappeared upstairs.

While she was away, I did my best to gather the rope into something like a reasonably tidy heap on the kitchen table.

When Anja returned, I saw that she had shed enough layers to be more comfortable on a warm day. She was down to a red tank top worn over ribbed black tights with her red and black socks pulled up over them and her black Converses (which she must have taken off to get her jeggings off) back on her feet. Her thick sweater and jeggings were bundled up under her arm.

“Tea?” I asked, having already boiled the kettle while she was upstairs.

“Yes, please. It’s safe to drink something now I’ve been to the loo!”

I poured two mugs of tea and added milk to mine, leaving hers black. By unspoken consent, we took them outside, where we found our mothers sitting on a garden bench together, deep in conversation.

Anja and I sat down on another of the three benches we have in the back yard. The adults’ conversation drew to a close and a slightly awkward silence followed.

I broke the ice by speaking first. “OK, mum, I see your point. I really thought the only way you would ever come in to find me bound and gagged was if I arranged it myself. It never occurred to me that you could arrange it too.”

I turned to Marta. “Thank you for going easy on me. I think being taped up like that might be the scariest thing that’s ever happened to me.”

“When did you work out that it wasn’t a real burglary?” Anja’s mum asked.

“I started wondering when I saw that piece of pipe on the floor and worked out it had been your ‘gun’, but I wasn’t really sure until mum freed me. Your posh English accent had me completely fooled; I didn’t know you could do that.”

Marta laughed. “This accent?” she said, once more sounding like aristocracy. “When I learned English in Sweden, my teacher had an accent like that and the vowel sounds in Swedish aren’t really all that far away from posh English. You hear it to some extent with many Swedes speaking English, but I had it in spades. When I came to Britain, it just sounded ridiculous, so I took lessons from a voice coach to sound the way that British people expect a Swedish woman to sound.”

I just shook my head in wonderment.

You will be pleased to hear that my mum and I reached a mutual understanding after that. I made an effort to be a little more careful about security and she made an effort to worry a bit less.
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TamatoaShiny123
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Post by TamatoaShiny123 »

This is...SO GOOD!!!!!!!!!!! :D :D :D :D
Caesar73
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Post by Caesar73 »

Very good story!
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Dpsiic
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Post by Dpsiic »

This is amazing I hope there is more ❤️
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Post by harveygasson »

Fantastic story
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JulieG
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Location: Tied up and spanked over your knee, or in the dungeon tormenting you!

Post by JulieG »

O lovely couple of stores there. thank you.
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TiedFemboy
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Post by TiedFemboy »

Such a well written story, great read!!
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