THE RESORT (New Revised Edition) M/F

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THE RESORT (New Revised Edition) M/F

Postby sarobah » Sun Oct 03, 2010 5:12 pm

“Every new beginning comes from some other beginning’s end.” – L. Annaeus Seneca
“Vitality shows in not only the ability to persist but the ability to start over.” – F. Scott Fitzgerald

Yes, this is a rewrite of a story that I have already posted and revised. If you liked the earlier versions, I promise that this one is better – longer, tighter and more refined (like TUGs, in fact).
It will not be to everyone’s taste – the resort as described is my personal fantasy.
Off-site I have posted a sketch of the island and, just for fun, excerpts from the Aranea Island Resort staff handbook:

~ Sarah
Last edited by sarobah on Fri Oct 08, 2010 7:43 pm, edited 1 time in total.
Words, like Nature, half reveal and half conceal the soul within.

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Sarah's Journal, Day One. Arrived

Postby sarobah » Sun Oct 03, 2010 5:19 pm

As our plane began its final approach in a wide arc high above the Coral Sea, I watched a tiny fleck of emerald and gold emerge from the crystal blue horizon. It grew steadily larger until it filled the window. We were descending to Aranea – Spider Island.

From the air, it looks spectacular, and somewhat creepy, like a monstrous, misshapen, jade-coloured tarantula. Of course, this is merely the effect created by the yawning bays that cut in on all sides, creating a series of verdant peninsulas that radiate from the central volcanic peak; but in its grotesque appearance the place lives up to its name.

The surrounding waters were teeming with activity, the more spacious inlets dotted with yachts and skiffs and fishing boats. At the entrance to the largest and southernmost bay, a cruise ship lay at anchor. I could just make out from their gleaming wakes etched upon the cerulean a fleet of small ferries delivering passengers to and from the marina located on the eastern end of the cove. Following the curve of the sandy shore, neat rows of buildings shone brilliant white and vivid pink in the glittering tropical sunlight. They pushed up against the forested foothills which enclosed Resort Village in a vast, viridian amphitheatre.

The flight had taken just under six hours. For most of the way, we had nothing but monotonously flat ocean to look at outside, and not much was happening inside either. There were some two dozen other passengers, mostly young couples. Judging by their lovey-dovey expressions, I’d say the majority were honeymooners. There was a group of five girls and three guys, aged twenty-something, at the rear of the cabin. They were in a party mood, although they weren’t causing any trouble. One of the guys couldn’t wait till we got to our destination and had started tying up one of the girls; but the flight attendant quickly put a stop to that. Safety regulations, she explained. He just laughed and shrugged off his disappointment.

We were the only family on board.

“Where are the boys?” I asked Dad. “You said there’d be boys.”

“What am I then?” replied Alex with an indignant frown. I didn’t give my obstreperous baby brother the answer he deserved. Considering where we were heading, I decided that discretion would from now on be the better part of valour.

The atmosphere on a plane full of vacationers is generally the same wherever and whatever the destination – excitement at the outset, settling into languor as the hours pass, rising to exhilaration near the end of the journey, modulating to mild apprehension as you descend, surging to elation as you come in land. The tedium part of the flight had its benefits, though, as I managed to catch up on the sleep I’d missed the night before. I awoke to the buzz of anticipation and the whine of the engines changing mode, and to Alex’s elbow jabbing into my side.

Our objective was the broadest and flattest of the headlands, located on the north-western side of the island. A grass airstrip runs along its spine. It looks scarily narrow from above, which made me feel just a little queasy, especially when we passed through turbulence from the air currents rising and curling over the mountain summit. However, we touched down with hardly a bump, and all the passengers broke into spontaneous applause.

As we began to file out, the captain emerged from the cockpit to wish us a happy stay. She was a pleasant-faced woman of no more than thirty years who spoke with the confident, no-nonsense manner of a veteran pilot. I decided that we had been in good hands.

Meanwhile, one of the flight attendants had spoken quietly to Mum and Dad, and we held back as the rest of the passengers disembarked. By the time we stepped onto the tarmac, the others were already being ushered into the terminal. It was just on mid-day, and a blazing sun was muscling its way through a haze of high cloud. We were greeted by a young lady in her late twenties, slim and tanned, with auburn, caramel-streaked hair and expressive hazel eyes. She introduced herself as Kate, “your hostess.” She displayed a crisp, professional style, not at all compromised by what she was wearing, a barely-there floral pāreu secured by a knot nestled perilously low in her cleavage. Encircling her throat was a black leather choker, buckled at the back, with a leash ring in front – like a dog collar (but more elegant). In addition, she wore bracelets and anklets delicately crafted in the form of fine, braided chains. Attached to the band around her left wrist was a miniature padlock.

After the usual “I hope you enjoyed your flight” and “Don’t hesitate to ask...” formalities, as we followed her to the building Kate gave us a concise briefing on the resort’s highlights, information about our temporary accommodation, a brief rundown of our timetable for the next few days, and a package – which she called a survival kit – containing a map, a restaurant guide, souvenir catalogue, that sort of thing. We were also each presented with a small gift parcel – for the females, a beribboned box containing perfume, scented soap, a pearl-shell hair comb and other girlie stuff. Alex, after managing to draw his attention away from Kate’s sleek legs and décolletage, rummaged through his package, which folded out into a carry bag, containing... I knew not what. After he’d inspected mine with a turned-up nose, I asked him if I could look inside his, and he just snorted and snatched it out of range of my prying eyes. His “you’ll find out” expression left me a tad disconcerted.

Once indoors, we caught up with the last of our fellow passengers awaiting the unloading of their luggage. They gave us some curious looks, since we were getting the VIP treatment, and I felt a sudden surge of self-importance. However, our hostess quickly and slickly deflated my amour-propre with an indulgent smile, the kind that says: “Welcome to the team, but remember, you’re a newbie.”

Dad had collected our bags, and we followed Kate to the exit.

To convey everyone to the Resort Village, about three kilometres from the airfield, waiting outside the terminal was a small convoy of taxis. These are golf-cart type buggies which Kate explained serve as the principal form of transport on the island. There are almost no conventional automobiles, the exceptions being emergency vehicles, a handful of electric-powered shuttle buses, a few delivery vans and some heavier trucks for construction and maintenance. We piled into the cart at the end of the queue, which had no driver, and Kate herself took the wheel. We drove at a sedate pace along a single-lane road, skirting ridges and gullies and grazing the edge of some scarily precipitous coastal cliffs. Kate acted as tour guide, pointing out notable features of the landscape along the way – the imposing charcoal grey monolith of Granite Peak off to our left, Pirate’s Cove on the right, and so on. She assured us that these would be familiar names and places soon enough.

Near the end of our journey, on the western edge of the town, we pulled into a tree-lined cul-de-sac in the midst of a cluster of low, salmon pink and cream-coloured buildings of stark design softened by trim gardens and neat hedges. “This is the staff residential district,” Kate informed us. “We call it the Oasis. Once you’ve had a few days to acclimatize, this will be your home.”

She explained that the Oasis is a largely self-contained community with amenities and services to provide a comfortable lifestyle for five hundred employees and several dozen families like ours. It’s far from luxurious, but no worse than some of the places where we’ve stayed and paid. However, our interim destination lay beyond, so we drove on into Resort Village. This is a compact, fully functioning small town, nestled within the great southern bay, flanked by craggy headlands and hemmed in by steep, forest-shrouded hillsides. Most of the buildings in the centre are high-rise, but on the periphery are picturesque, white-washed cottages and bungalows. The beach is wide and its sands are almost unnaturally golden, with here and there the sprinkled pink hue of crushed coral. Lying some distance off the eastern cape is barren, dune-capped Frigate Island, which shelters Resort Cove from the winds and waves of the open sea.

The streets shimmered in the early afternoon heat; the beach was deserted; the footpaths were almost empty and the sidewalk cafés we passed seemed abandoned. Kate assured us that appearances can be deceiving. At the peak of the holiday period, the resort accommodates up to two thousand guests, and even now, off-season, there were almost that number. Indeed, as we turned onto a broad avenue in the very heart of town, the pedestrian traffic increased dramatically.

There is no operational concept of right-of-way on the island’s thoroughfares, so our buggy slowed down from a crawl to a snail’s pace in order to weave our way through the crowds. There were very few children about, not surprising given the time of year. And it could have been a beach resort like any other, with women strutting around in pert sundresses and microscopic swimsuits, men sauntering about in loud shirts and silly hats. Yet the difference was immediately obvious. Most of the females were bound in some way, hands in front or hands behind the back, or arms pinned at the side. Some shuffled along with shackles around their ankles or hobbles on their knees. A few were being led about on leashes. A lot were gagged. Some were blindfolded, but not many (because, I guess, that would be too extreme, to deprive a woman of her sight in such a bountiful shopping precinct).

Although most people were in couples, there were a few larger groups. One that drew my attention was a party of seven bikini-clad young women, meandering along the street with a single guy in the lead. The girls were bound, gagged and blindfolded, tethered close up to one another with a rope looped around their necks. The young man, looking very self-satisfied, was carefully guiding his captives along the boulevard, using short and long tugs on the front girl’s halter to steer them around and past obstacles, if not with complete success. Kate noticed that we were staring and explained that they were medical students celebrating their recent graduation. Since their arrival they had made quite an impression, memorable even by the singular standards of Aranea Island.

Members of the resort staff were easy to spot. The males were smartly turned out in white or grey slacks and floral-pattern shirts. The women were wearing skimpy sarongs identical to that on our hostess, but either full-length as a strapless dress like Kate’s or folded and tied on the hips as a miniskirt. They – the females that is – also wore the collar, bracelets and anklets ensemble.

We turned out of the main street and continued through the outskirts of the village. We drove by a section where construction was still going on. There, in a vacant lot, was a party of about two dozen labourers, of both sexes. They were bent over rakes and hoes and shovels, busily clearing the site of debris and detritus. The females were strung out in a line in one part of the yard. Like their male counterparts, they were dressed in overalls, with work boots and gloves, but unlike the men, they were manacled hand and foot, as well as shackled together, with thick cables running from heavy metal collars – just like a chain gang. As we passed, one of the prisoners paused to wipe the perspiration off her brow. Her face was begrimed, her hair unkempt, her overalls darkened with sweaty patches. She was hunched over, her body bowed from fatigue or by the weight of her fetters. She saw us and grinned, before returning to her task.

I was still mulling over that strange tableau as we continued up a steep roadway leading to the high ground behind the village, past a sign proclaiming “Regatta Hotel.” This, Kate announced, is to be our home for the next seven days. It sits atop a low hill and provides a magnificent view of the entire sweep of the bay. It is built in a graceful but unpretentious colonial style, set amidst manicured lawns, carefully tended gardens and lush groves of palms and pine trees. In the driveway, chips of fractured granite crunch cheerily underfoot. On a marble plinth flanking the portico is a sculpture, larger-than-life in bronze, of a naked woman bound to a rock.

“That’s Andromeda,” Alex informed us.

“We know, dear,” Mum replied softly.

Kate tarried outside as we went in. The lobby was empty but for us and the receptionist. She was a beautiful, statuesque Polynesian girl, impeccably groomed with a radiant smile. Her tiny pāreu clung precariously to spectacular breasts. It was a miniature masterpiece of structural engineering, being able to stay in place with such modest load-bearing support. Dad’s professional curiosity as an architect got the better of him and he couldn’t take his eyes off it.

“Don’t worry, love,” Mum said, “I’ll take care of this,” as she signed the register and received our keys.

The tone of the hotel is genteel, cosy and informal. There’s no doorman, no attendant to carry your bags and no lift operator; and there are signs all about saying things like “No room service available” and “Please do not tip the staff.” Our suite, located on the fourth floor, is not huge but spacious enough. There’s a living room, small kitchen and bathroom. It has a balcony that overlooks the village and the bay beyond. There are only two bedrooms, and while I don’t fancy the thought of having to share with my brother for a week, such is the price one must pay for paradise.

Alex commandeered the bed by the window, and I was not in the mood to argue. When we’d finished unpacking, which didn’t take long, we all reconvened in the living room, just as Kate rejoined us. She had two parcels with her. She gave one to Mum and the other to me. Inside were a number of colourful pieces of material which it took me a few seconds to realize were sarongs like Kate’s. Then she took her leave, arranging with my parents to meet up with us again tomorrow morning.

As soon as she was gone, Dad said, “Well, now that we’ve settled in, how about we go and get something to eat… and maybe take a stroll to look around?”

My mother nodded agreeably; I shrugged a “why not?” and my brother – predictably – grumbled something no one heard, or cared to hear. The parents disappeared into their bedroom once more and I retreated to mine, shutting the door in Alex’s face. As I shed my travel clothes, I pondered my choices and decided on my lime green Agustina bikini; and I thought I might as well try out one of my new sarongs. It was a perky little number, soft and translucent with a tangerine-hibiscus pattern that coordinated rather well with my bikini. I folded it to wear as a skirt, and hitched it low on my hips with a flamboyant bow on the left side. I checked out the result in the mirror and thought I looked pretty hot. As I opened the door again, Alex shoved past, mumbling something about needing to make rules.

Mum turned out her customary gorgeous in a magenta strapless maillot. She’d done the same thing as I with her sarong, but made a much better job of it – she had chosen a black one with golden orchids that matched her swimsuit perfectly. She studied mine with a frown, then refashioned it, showing me how to gather the ends for a single wraparound, short and sassy with an open leg split. She tied it with a double overhand knot to keep it securely in place. Though I do say so myself, we made stunning pair of sexy vixens.

Dad beamed approvingly, and even Alex seemed impressed. I should add, in the interests of full disclosure, that my father was dressed casually dapper in crisp cream slacks and Hawaiian shirt. On the other hand, my brother – and I should not have been surprised by this – had chosen for his sojourn in the tropics voluminous khaki cargo pants, a scruffy black Motorhead sweater and a pair of scuffed Doc Martens. Mum dolefully shook her head, but said nothing.

We were ready to go, but we all hesitated. We looked at each other for ages – at least, it felt like ages. Finally, Dad said, “So, do we start straight away, or do you two want some time to, you know, get better acquainted with how things work?”

How things work? I rolled my eyes at him. However, Mum just smiled and put her hands behind her back. Dad gave her an appreciative look and reached for the package he’d gotten at the airport. He scrabbled about in it and pulled out a long, thin strip of what appeared to be soft leather. He gently took hold of Mum’s wrists and placed one over the other, securing them with the strap. It was a straight-forward, criss-cross tie, but he stood behind her so close that as he bound her, his chin nuzzled her bare shoulder, and he teased her hair with little puffs of his breath. She closed her eyes and pursed her lips, and her head rolled slowly sideways as he drew her arms more tightly behind her. His eyes lifted and connected with mine; I must have blushed or something, because he winked at me, then lowered his gaze again, down across her gently heaving bosom.

I was about to say “Do you two want to be left alone?” when I glanced over at Alex. He was totally oblivious to what was going on, instead gesturing for me to come nearer. His face bore that supercilious expression he gets when he’s especially pleased with himself.

“Front or rear?” he demanded.

Knowing full well he would do the exact opposite of whatever I said, I in fact said nothing and turned away from him, crossing my wrists over the small of my back. He didn’t try to argue, but got his revenge by giving my bindings an extra sharp tug as he finished. The leather was nicely pliable and about a centimetre wide, perfect for its purpose. I ran my fingertips over the ends that hung loose and discerned that one side was embossed, perhaps with the resort logo (it’s a stylized teal spider, not surprisingly).

“Not too tight,” my dad called across to Alex. My mother waggled her elbows to demonstrate how it should be done just right.

Alex responded with a perfunctory, “Yeah, I know, don’t cut off the circulation,” as he gave one final hard wrench to make sure I got the real message. I did not react, denying him the satisfaction of seeing me squirm.

My parents had already shifted their attention and were discussing what should be next. Dad reached again into his pack and pulled out, with a flourish and an exultant “Ta-dah!”, a large crimson scarf or bandana. Grasping diagonally opposite corners, he twirled it skilfully into a neat blindfold. As he lowered it slowly over her eyes and tied it in place, drawing back with tender firmness, my mother couldn’t hold in a faint gasp, nor disguise a subtle grimace of pleasure. (Their performance had me feeling a little awkward, but it’s nice that they can still get such joy out of a simple tie-up.)

Alex did likewise for me. The scarf was made out of the same diaphanous material as my sarong, so I thought it might be see-through, but after a couple of doublings it was impervious to even the direct sunlight pouring in from the balcony. Actually, I was kind of annoyed at having to wear it, because I was looking forward (yeah, feeble pun) to seeing more of the resort; but I decided not to resist. Anyway, the blindfold has its own perks. I love the enhanced awareness and increased sensitivity that switch on when your vision’s cut off. Things you usually don’t notice or which you disregard or that are below your normal level of perception become part of your sensory input. And so it was in our hotel suite. Wafting into the room on the bay breeze, a lush profusion of exotic aromas, a gaudy mosaic of tastes and flavours and a rich symphony of sounds – birds calling, insects chirping, leaves rustling, the distant roar of surf breaking over the outer reef, the voices of people in the hotel grounds coming and going – piled up against my senses like those waves crashing on the coral. The rush of impressions was as bracing as the salt-sea air.

A discordant noise broke the spell. “Can we go already?” Alex was growling.

“Wait,” Dad snapped back. “Let’s give your mother and Sarah a bit more time to adapt.”

Alex stopped complaining, but he was still behind me holding my arms, and I could feel his impatience in his tightening grip. Unlike Dad, he doesn’t know – or more likely doesn’t care – that when your blindfold goes on, it takes a few moments for you to adjust your remaining faculties; otherwise it can be very disorienting, and instead of a more intense experience you end up just feeling numb. The problem is that my brother hasn’t yet got the message that tying up a girl is a two-way process, that it’s about giving as well as getting. But hey, he’s young, and with enough time I’m sure even he can be educated. If you can train a puppy to keep off the furniture, with a special effort I can civilize my Lil Bro.

“Okay, that’s enough,” Dad proclaimed. “Time to move out.”

Mum said something I didn’t catch, but I heard her sandals making soft scuffing noises on the carpet as she shuffled towards the door, guided by Dad. Alex then clamped his hands on my shoulders to steer me out into the corridor. He shoved and jostled me impatiently, and Dad had to call out: “Don’t be so rough with your sister. It’s not a race.”

As Alex mumbled a reply, I desperately tried to construct a mental image of the hallway, to recall any corners, furnishings or miscellaneous obstructions that might cause grievous injury to my shins or other vulnerable parts of my anatomy. I didn’t quite trust my brother’s navigation skills, and certainly had no confidence in the extent of his mercy for me in my defenceless condition. I needn’t have worried this time... but I always do. Experience has taught me that much.

As we entered the elevator, I could tell that there were at least four other passengers, who must have come down from the upper floors. From beside me, the delicate bouquet of expensive perfume drifted past my nose. Our arms touched and I could feel several ridges of coarse rope wound tightly just above the lady’s elbows. When the car jerked to a halt, she made a noise that was unmistakeably the sound of a grunt through a gag. And as we alighted, I could hear her stumbling forward, so she was probably blindfolded as well. The second couple were on the other side of the lift, and he was whispering to her, but I wasn’t able to pick up enough to get any clear impression in my mind. She didn’t say anything in response, so she was probably gagged as well.

Trying to interpret your surroundings, and trying to get a picture of the people around you, is part of the fun of moving about blindfolded; and with your hands tied as well, the feelings of vulnerability and dependency induce a delightful sense of intimacy, both with your own self, because you have to draw on the emotional, physical and sensory resources within you, and with your partner, on whom you must rely – even when it’s your otherwise insufferable baby brother.

Crossing the lobby, I could sense the presence of several more people around us. Business must have picked up since our arrival. Out on the porch, the tropical sunlight seared the exposed parts of my face and glowed a dull, diffuse orangey red through my mask. Alex assisted me down the steps, with one arm around my waist and the other clutching my bound arms to ensure I didn’t lose my balance. I would have thanked him, except I knew he wasn’t suddenly smitten with sibling affection. He just didn’t want a roasting from Dad in the event that he let me fall. His grip on me was comforting, but it was still nice to feel the congenial cushioning of the spongy lawn grass under my tread.

It was no more than a fifteen-minute journey down the hillside to one of the cafeterias on the boardwalk. We weren’t taking the road we’d driven on the way up, so I guessed we were following an adjacent path, which made the going a little more difficult because I couldn’t rely on memory for guidance. I faltered a couple of times on the uneven pavement, but with a steadying hand from my brother I managed to stay upright. Yet it was exhilarating, being in a strange place and trying to make sense of it all without being able to see my way about or to grope my way forward, feeling helpless and dependent, yet revelling in the thrill of uncertainty and relishing the challenge. Dad kept up a commentary of what we were missing (sightwise) as we descended, while Mum and I sniffed the air for telltale smells and listened for revealing, familiar sounds, and tried to pick up clues from touch and taste. From the sudden gush of fragrance and chorus of insect chatter, I knew we were passing by the gardens near the base of the hill; and I could tell when we got close to the beach from the caress of the onshore breeze on my skin and the gritty, salty tang on my lips. It was all so vivid, the colours in my mind so vibrant and intense, the sounds and scents so sharp, the textures so palpable and elemental, that I kind of felt sorry for my father and brother, missing what I was experiencing in my bonds and behind my blindfold.

Of course, that sentiment never lasts. A sudden spasm of pain surged through the toes of my left foot and up my leg.

“Thanks for warning me about that rock, Alex.”

“You’re welcome, sis.”

As much as I love being a girl, there are times when I think it must be nice being on the free end of the rope and the bright side of the blindfold.

Dad told Alex to choose one of the cafeterias and I think he just pointed out the closest. They found us a place close enough to the water that I could hear the waves lapping against wooden pylons. As the waitress set the table, Alex asked if Mum and I should be untied.

“That’s up to you, sport,” Dad replied.

My brother reached behind me and freed my wrists from the leather strap.

“I don’t feed the birds,” he muttered.

Since the topic of my blindfold didn’t come up, I left it on. I expected that would be the case anyway, because Dad had gone up to the counter to place our order so Mum and I wouldn’t know exactly what we were having. It took a couple of nibbles of my muffin to identify the apricot filling, and a few sips of my drink to make out the sweet zest of guava juice. It was so cool of Dad to give us that pleasure. The anticipation and the revelation amplify the experience. It’s like when you add a drop of dark blue to a tin of white paint, and the white appears whiter; it intensifies the soft, tepid tone. So when you’re wearing your blindfold, the darkness brings clarity.

Once we were finished our afternoon tea, Alex bound my hands behind my back once more. I think Dad had kept Mum tied the whole time, because she giggled a few times and Alex had made a snarky comment about some people not being capable of eating a muffin without making a mess. After that, we continued our stroll along the shore. It was too late in the day to think about swimming. In mid-afternoon at this time of year the sun sinks rapidly below the ridgeline, and while the water stays warm, within just minutes the entire beachfront is immersed in shadow. Of course, I didn’t see this happening, but I felt the sudden tickle of the cooling air on my flesh.

By the time we’d returned to our hotel suite, my arms were aching, because when we departed the café, Alex had tied my hands with my palms together rather than my wrists crossed – which puts a lot of strain on your upper arms and shoulders. I was too proud to complain; and in any case, a little bit of suffering is part of the total bondage experience.

Mum and Dad retired to their bedroom. “Get some rest as well, kids,” Dad said as he closed the door. I kind of doubt they got too much rest themselves, because I heard the lock click.

“Wanna watch TV?” Alex asked. I said okay, and he took off my blindfold. “So long as you keep your mouth shut,” he warned. I had no choice but to concur, since he held the advantage, what with my hands still tied behind my back, and I wasn’t going to beg him for release. Nevertheless, to further ensure compliance, he trussed my ankles with the scarf. I didn’t bother resisting. I sat on the sofa and drew my feet up under me so he could hitch my wrists and ankles together with the loose ends of the strap that bound my wrists.

During an ad break, even though I’d held up my side of the agreement, Alex pushed me down onto my stomach and shortened the rope connecting my wrists and ankles, to put me in a full hog-tie. Then he rolled me onto my side, hauled off my sarong and tried to gag me with it; but I was feeling rebellious. I’m still bigger than him (although the size gap is closing fast), so I managed to fight him off even though tightly bound; but we tumbled off the couch and he landed on top of me, knocking the wind out of my lungs. He jumped up in fright when I started gasping for air, and as I got my breath back and saw his aghast expression, I started laughing hysterically. We didn’t want to disturb our parent’s “rest” so we called a truce. I remained tied up, but the gag and blindfold stayed off.

Around six o’clock it started to get chilly. I knew how quickly the sun goes down in the tropics, but I didn’t anticipate that the temperature would drop so suddenly. I pleaded with Alex to untie me so I could change into something warmer than my bikini. He weighed up the hazards of wrestling me into a gag against the benefits of shutting me up by letting me go, and determined the latter course to be the more prudent.

Mum and Dad emerged from the room not long afterwards, she looking just a little flushed and flustered. There were faint purplish rope marks on her arms and legs that hadn’t been there before. She ignored my smile and Alex’s smirk and suggested that we should dine “in style” for our first night on the island. By that she meant the swank restaurant next to the hotel. Dad rang to book a table, then we got cleaned up and dressed. Mum went for glamour in her vermillion gown with thigh-high side slit and ample décolletage. I went for pretty and pert in my little black babydoll. The guys, even Alex, looked debonair in their smart-casual suits, handsome enough to escort two such knockout babes.

As we went down to the lobby and across to the restaurant, I felt a little uncomfortable because Mum and I were the only females not bound in any way; but we hadn’t been quite sure what the standard would be in a posh establishment. So when we encountered a sign at the entrance insisting that “Ladies must be suitably restrained,” Dad – always prepared – withdrew a couple of long strips of gold satin ribbon from his coat pocket and handed one to Alex. They bound our wrists in front, and my dad showed my brother how to finish off the cinch with a neat, cute rosette. It’s so heart-warming to see a father teaching his son such handy skills... showing him the ropes, as it were.

The place was staffed by a couple of waiters in tuxedos and four or five waitresses in bandeau tops and mini-sarongs of strikingly fluorescent green and black. The women wore the ubiquitous collar and shackles; but as a charming extra touch, the choker was fashioned as a little bowtie. And in contrast to the others we have seen today, their bracelets and anklets were linked by slender silver chains. The wrist coupling gave the wearers just enough freedom of movement to serve dishes, pour drinks and clear tables; and the ankle fetters had sufficient margin to allow them to hobble about the room without too much trouble, even in high heels.

We were greeted by the maîtresse d’hotel, a petite, pretty brunette with a commanding voice and manner. Unlike the waitresses’, her hands were shackled behind her back (it’s the first time I’ve seen one of those tiny padlocks in use), but she didn’t let that interfere with her duties or detract from her authority. She was also very adept at walking in her ankle chain, sort of gliding across the floor by the simple expedient of sliding the feet rather than taking small, mincing steps like the other women. How interesting your job must be when you have to work the whole time shackled hand and foot.

She smiled approvingly at the ribbon binding my wrists and directed us to our table. “Will the ladies be dining sans vue?” she asked as we took our seats.

Dad looked across at Mum and she nodded. The maîtresse just tilted her head and on cue one of the waiters promptly appeared bearing a silver platter. On it was a neat stack of blindfolds. Since our menfolk were already sitting, he stood directly behind my mother and said, “May I, Madame?”

“Certainly, thank you,” she answered. He placed the tray on the table in front of her. They were all of the sleep-mask style but in a variety of designs and colours. She raised her bound hands from her lap and pointed to a black velvet one framed with delicate white blossoms. He slipped the band carefully over her head, gently sweeping back wisps of hair, and adjusted the cover with the smooth, tender touch that is sensual without being too intimate.

“And for the young lady?” He looked across at me.

I chose a mulberry red mask, hand-embroidered with tiny cornflower blue flowers that I thought went well with my dress. The waiter tinkered with the strap for a while to make the fit comfortable. He had cold hands and when they brushed against my cheeks I must have flinched, because a couple of times he paused and apologized and asked if I was okay. I felt like Milady of the Manor being fussed over like that.

I’m glad we again went with the blindfolds, because I love what they call sans vue (or dans le noir) dining. I enjoy the anticipation and the momentary puzzlement and the sudden awareness of what it is you’re eating and drinking. I adore how the loss of one sense stimulates the others, how it arouses the taste buds and heightens your receptivity to aromas and textures as well as the flavours. Admittedly it can get messy if you’re not vigilant, and with your hands bound as well you have to really concentrate on what you’re doing. It means you need to focus your attention on your meal, which adds to your appreciation. It elevates the simple art of dining to a skill, and that’s what the best bondage is all about – it doesn’t limit your experience, but rather enhances it.

As we finished, the maîtresse told us that the blindfolds were ours to keep. We left them on as Dad and Alex took us out onto the terrace to savour the exquisite cold caress of the evening sea breeze. My skin tingled as the goosebumps rose on my legs and arms... such a delicious torment. And while I love to see the moon glisten on the water, as with dining blind there is something very romantic about being in the dark and relying on your other senses for illumination. It’s as if you can feel the moonlight. We stayed a while, then went back upstairs.

Mum and Dad retired almost immediately. Alex agreed to untie me so I could write up my diary, on condition that I first make him his cocoa – a fair trade, although just to be spiteful he insisted that I do it with my hands still bound. Of course, I could have easily freed myself, and there wasn’t much he could have done about it; but that would be too wussy. I can brew a mug of cocoa with one hand tied behind my back, so with two hands tied in front the job is a cinch.

Freed of my obligations, I started working on the first entry of my new journal. And of course, when I was about halfway through my recounting of today’s events, Alex came crashing though the doorway. He didn’t actually crash into, over or through stuff, but my little brother doesn’t do anything or go anywhere without an accompanying tumult. I was already in my PJs, sitting on my bed, concentrating on my writing and trying to ignore him.

“Get out,” he said.


“Get out. I want to change.”

Well, that was not going to happen. Even if I had been inclined to leave, now I had to stay.

“Good grief,” I replied. “Like I care about seeing your scrawny carcass. But if you’re really concerned, I’ll close my eyes.” I pressed them shut. “How’s that?”

“Not good enough.”

So Alex presented me with a set of rules. I have to admit that, unless he had worked this out in advance, it was pretty remarkable that he could come up with them on the spot. Rather than devising some sort of schedule for who should have privacy in the room, when and for how long, or otherwise trying to coordinate our movements, we’ve settled on a simple arrangement. When I want to get dressed or undressed, Alex leaves me alone; and when we’re in there together, I have to be blindfolded, and that’s not just when he’s getting changed but any time at all. So the deal is rather one-sided, but as he pointed out...

“I’m the man of the house.”

“No, Dad’s the man of the house.”

“Then I’m the man of the room.”

There was no point in debating the issue, so I reached for my restaurant blindfold, which I had left on the bedside table. I showed it to him and he nodded with approval.

After he’d gotten into his pyjamas, he tried to sneak out of the room so that I would be left sitting in the darkness, wondering what was going on. But as I’ve mentioned, my brother is physically incapable of stealth. So I get to finish my journal entry – barely – as he comes back into the room, and my blindfold is about to go back on. I have begged for a one-minute respite to add this final thought...

I’m excited about being here on Aranea Island, wondering what thrills and adventures the morrow holds... but I’m hoping there’ll be boys.

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Re: THE RESORT (New Revised Edition)

Postby sarobah » Mon Oct 04, 2010 6:35 pm

aielen wrote:welcome back I missed your stories

Thanks. I have been insanely busy the past couple of months, and it’s nice to be back.
Sadly, I haven’t had much time and energy for playing TUGs, let alone writing about them. Anyway, here’s part two...
~ Sarah
Words, like Nature, half reveal and half conceal the soul within.

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Sarah’s Journal, Day Two. Fittings

Postby sarobah » Mon Oct 04, 2010 6:38 pm

I was awake half an hour before dawn, and went out onto the balcony to sit and think and watch the sunrise. I’m usually the first in our family to be out of bed. I love that lonely, peaceful time of morning, when the night’s reign is ending and the coming day is yet a pallid violet blush on the eastern horizon. The tranquil silence, broken only by the gentle roar of waves on the beach and the distant haunting cries of seagulls, delights and beguiles your senses as the mellow onshore breeze caresses your skin.

The serenity couldn’t last.

“Watcha doing?”

My brother was still half asleep, groggily rubbing his eyes with one hand and scratching his…. Rewind that image... My brother was still half asleep.

“I’m sorry if I woke you,” I said.

“You’re forgiven.”

“No, I mean I really am sorry I woke you up.”

“And as I said, you’re forgiven.”

“Oh, just forget it.”

He dropped into the deck chair beside me, and as if in sympathy with the darkening of my mood, a grey cloud drifted across the face of the sun. Soon it was raining steadily. Naturally I was disappointed; but it’s daft, in a way, how you expect a tropical island to be warm and sunny and dry all the time.

By the time I had showered and fixed my hair, our parents were also up and about. Mum was busy making breakfast, since no one fancied a walk downtown in the drizzle and Dad had figured that the two hotel restaurants would be crowded. As her reward and compensation (because he had pledged that she wouldn’t have to cook for the first few days), Dad tied her to the chair to feed her. She loves that (and who doesn’t?). They were behaving like naughty little kids, as he contrived to smear all of her face and most of her upper body (and some parts lower) in various messy, mushy foodstuffs. So much for all those “Don’t play with your food” reproaches of my youth. He then hauled her off, still bound hand and feet, to the bathroom. Alex and I didn’t hear anything more, except for a few shrieks and squeals, for the next half-hour.

Trying to expel the images from my brain, and remaining positive about a weather change for the better, I put on my Daisy Mae shorts and cherry print halter top. Alex took his turn in the bedroom, and re-emerged in his most eye-catching faux-punk raiment. Mum, who had rejoined us (in her cute little blue and yellow polka dot sundress), and I just shook our heads in unison. However, we didn’t have time for anything else because there was a knock on the door. Dad answered and Kate entered.

She looked dishevelled, in an attractive way, her hair slicked down by the rain, with strands plastered to her cheeks and forehead, her sarong clinging wetly to her curves, tiny beads of water glistening on her bare shoulders. Alex, I could see, was entranced, and Dad also gave in to the lingering gaze. She gave them a few seconds, then treated us to one of her dazzling smiles and promised us that the deluge would soon be over.

“So what’s on the agenda?” Dad asked. Although we have been assured that we’ll have plenty of time this week for touristy stuff, we do have some obligations and appointments to keep us busy over the next few days. So Kate laid out a rough schedule – for this morning, a trip to the clothiers for our fittings. Mum and Dad have their staff uniforms. Alex has his school uniform, I have my TA’s and we both have our Pioneers uniforms. I don’t know too much (yet) about the Aranea Island Pioneers, except that they are some sort of adventure club organized by the park rangers. We’ll be finding out more soon enough, Kate’s assured us.

Dad said, “Are we ready then?” and we all turned again to our hostess. Yet instead of moving towards the door, she shifted closer to Alex, saying nothing but performing a little curtsy and then a slow whirl to face away from him. She placed her hands behind her back. Dad chuckled softly, waiting for Alex to respond. It took him a couple of seconds.

I’m sure my Lil Bro understood at once what was expected of him, but I guess he was taken by surprise by Kate’s gesture. However, when he saw that the rest of his family were watching his reaction, he focused on his task. He drew the insides of her wrists together, trying to be gentle but firm as he fumbled with the miniature padlock to clamp it over both her bracelets. She gasped as he wrenched and twisted her arms behind her. The problem was that he was attempting to keep them straight, while she kept bending her elbows. Alex’s way made it easier for him to manoeuvre the lock into position, whereas Kate’s was less stressful for her. Eventually, of course, she gave in, but while it lasted it was an interesting battle of wills. She is obviously used to getting at least some cooperation from the guy who’s binding her, while my obstreperous little brother is used to having his own way.

Finally done, Alex stepped back to inspect his workmanship. Kate gritted her teeth for a few seconds, then smiled. She wiggled her hands and flexed her arms as if to make sure she was properly shackled. The tension on her shoulders and chest created by the tight cuffing put an additional strain on the front of her already taut sarong and especially on the knot nestled between her breasts. It created an appealing effect, but I don’t think there was much more than friction working against the pressure and gravity to hold her dress in place and prevent décolleté becoming seins nus.

Meanwhile, Dad had begun tying Mum’s hands with the leather strap, in front rather than behind her back; and when Alex was confident that Kate was secured, he did the same for me. I was wondering why we were being bound with our hands in front, until Dad summoned Kate to his side, and hitched Mum’s wrists to hers with a short piece of cord (which must also have come from his gift package, because it was braided with burgundy and teal, the signature colours on the resort logo). I was then added to the ensemble. Alex tied my wrists to Kate’s as well, so that Mum and I were positioned side by side. He wanted to complete the job with blindfolds, but Dad vetoed that – the paths were too slippery from the rain.

And so we set off, with Kate out front, leading Mum and me by our tethers. We no doubt looked a cute threesome as we went downstairs, through the lobby and out onto the hotel driveway. We were so close together that it was rather difficult to see the ground ahead of me even with our sight, and the road was indeed slick and treacherous. On the other hand, Kate’s prediction and my optimism had been spot on. The rain had stopped, and as we started down the slope, sunlight began to push through the clouds and they quickly dispersed.

At the bottom of the hill, Alex asked if it was now safe enough for us to be blindfolded, and Dad agreed. Naturally we weren’t consulted, and Mum seemed rather reluctant, but my brother was already tying mine in place. He was so quick that I didn’t have time to see what he was using before the darkness descended over my eyes; but from the dull red sliver at the bottom edge I could tell it was the scarf I’d worn yesterday. I also didn’t get to see whether my mother offered any further resistance. Even if she did, she didn’t make any noise.

Dad or Alex (most likely the latter) must have been carrying a spare blindfold, because I heard Kate say, “Yes, of course. I can give you the directions from memory.”

She was as good as her word: “There’s an intersection up ahead; we go left; we should be passing the fountain just about now; we’ll need to veer to the right; we must be approaching the boulevard...” and so on. We walked for at least half an hour, and despite my blindfold I could tell that we were moving in a generally south-westward direction, because I could feel the warmth of the sun’s rays on my back and left side. So it was pretty clear that we were heading for the Oasis. At first it was easy going, except that we bumped into the occasional pedestrian. Since I’m sure neither Dad nor Alex would deliberately allow us to collide with anyone, the streets must have been congested with people. Oddly enough, however, apart from soft shuffling noises (which hinted that many of the passers-by were, like us, blindfolded), I heard very few voices, just the rustling of the wind in the trees, the far-off pounding of the waves on the reef and the doleful cries of the seabirds.

Once we had left the built-up area, the roadway became narrower and more uneven. Because Mum and I were abreast of each other, it was impossible for both of us to keep on the path at the same time. So it would have been hazardous to let us proceed unsighted and unaided; but our menfolk were not yet ready to remove our blindfolds. Instead I felt Alex’s hand grasp my right arm, from behind, and since I was on Mum’s left, I realized that he was steadying and guiding the both of us. Most likely Dad was doing the same for Kate. Nevertheless, we three were soon puffing and panting from the exertion, both physical and mental, of maintaining our equilibrium on the corrugated track.

“How’s it going?” Dad asked.

“Good,” Mum replied.

“Easy,” I fibbed.

“We’re almost there,” Kate said, then “Oops!” I don’t know what happened.

Near the end of our journey, Dad ordered us to halt and move over to the side. I could hear feet scraping on the bitumen and the sound of air rasping though gags. The tenor of the breathing was unmistakeably female. A column of women was passing us, at least two dozen from the time it took for them to go by. There was a hesitancy in the footsteps which indicated they were bound and blindfolded, as well as gagged. Alex later informed me that they were resort employees on their way to begin a shift in the village – now that’s an interesting way to start your work day (and, I suppose, really not that much more onerous or arduous than sitting idly in traffic or standing in a crowded bus).

When the breeze suddenly dropped and I started to hear faint echoes around us, I knew we had entered the Oasis and were passing between the buildings. Kate instructed the guys to look for a place with a green-striped awning and a small sign saying “Commissariat.” Just a minute later we had arrived, and Alex released us from our tethers. He kept us bound and blindfolded. Dad must have then taken Kate up to the entrance because I heard them talking. After a while they returned and we went inside. Our blindfolds were removed and I saw we were in a large warehouse, divided into sections by racks and stacks containing all sorts of clothing and other paraphernalia.

We were greeted by a young man who had been lounging on a deck chair reading a magazine. He saw us and quickly shot to his feet. He acknowledged us with a perfunctory nod but became more salutary under Kate’s censorious glare. (I’m finding this very intriguing, the study in contrasts which Aranea Island provides. Here was Kate, in her next-to-nothing sarong clinging parlously to her torso under the strain of the shackling of her arms behind her back, matter-of-factly giving orders as the guy, fully dressed and unrestrained, listened and nodded dutifully. Life here is going to be interesting.)

She dismissed him with a curt tip of the head and turned back to us.

“Let’s start by getting you measured up for those uniforms.”

Dad untied Mum’s hands and Alex untied mine. Then they went off with the guy, while Mum and I followed Kate down one of the aisles.

A young woman came out from behind one of the stacks of shelving and introduced herself as Sandra. Like Kate she was slim, shapely and very pretty, though half a head taller, with sea green eyes, strawberry blonde hair and a light sprinkling of freckles. Instead of Kate’s full-length pāreu, she was dressed in a short, fuchsia-coloured half-sarong with a bright floral bikini; but like Kate (and all female employees, of course) she wore the collar, bracelets and anklets. She guided us to the “dressing room” which was really just a partitioned-off corner of the room. She told us to strip, and though I felt a bit self-conscious, being naked in front of a stranger, she and Kate, who had come in after us, very quickly put me at ease. For instance, when she measured my bust and announced my size as an A cup, she could see me about to protest and pre-empted my objection with a cheery “Let’s call it a B minus.” I had to laugh.

We tried on our outfits. Mum has several – for day and night duty, summer and winter (or what passes for winter here), formal and casual. She was fitted for two one-piece swimsuits and two bikinis, plus a variety of sarongs and wrap skirts, and a cool weather wrap. There is a rather complex and convoluted set of rules for what’s worn when and where and why. For instance, there are two entire pages in the staff handbook devoted just to the sarong. As a skirt, you must wear it low on the hip, with the hemline no lower than mid-thigh. The manual even spells out when it’s fastened in front and when the knot is placed on the hip to expose one thigh (always the left leg – it’s that specific). It makes for a very sexy look, but as I have already seen, it’s not easy to keep on, especially when you’re moving about a lot. So it’s a bit daunting, especially since as a strapless dress it has to be worn without a bra. Sandra showed Mum how to fit the knot snugly in her cleavage to give her boobs maximum exposure without full disclosure. (Typically, the rules are a lot less complicated for the males, because they have just the one basic, year-round, day-and-night ensemble.)

I only got my teaching assistant’s uniform today (since my Pioneers kit won’t be available until later in the week). It’s a mix-and-match bikini set with complementary mini-sarongs. Not exactly the sort of uniform I’m used to wearing, but I can’t wait to tell the gang back home that I get to wear a bikini to work every day!

Sandra packed our uniforms into a box for delivery to the hotel. When we emerged, Dad and Alex were waiting for us, looking bored and impatient, since their fittings had taken just a couple of minutes. We then followed Kate (her hands still locked behind her back) to another section of the room. As we rounded the corner of one of the floor-to-ceiling shelf stacks, what I beheld almost took my breath away. Arrayed before my eyes were rack after rack, row after row of accessories, ornaments and accoutrements, in glittering gold, sparkling silver, glistening black, lurid red, shocking pink, flamboyant purple. The spectacle was at once fascinating and alluring and intimidating.

Sandra, who had trailed along behind us, gave us a moment to take in the sight. I turned to Mum; she was staring open-mouthed. I turned to Dad; he just raised an eyebrow. I turned to Alex and he laughed – it must have been my expression. Sandra produced her measuring tape to determine our neck, wrist and ankle sizes. She consulted her inventory, and then fetched four items from one of the shelves.

“Try these on,” she said.

I am not really sure of the difference between a choker and a collar, but apparently width is the criterion and we were given one of each kind. The choker is two centimetres wide and burgundy in colour, with a simple stud fastener. The collar is twice as wide, secured with a tiny padlock at the back, and to the front is attached a small leash ring. Alex’s eyes lit up (even more) when he saw that feature. I have a feeling that it will get plenty of use in the near future. Both pieces are made of stiff leather and the collar is rather heavy, but they fit snugly without being too constricting. That is especially important for Mum because, as Kate explained, “You’re expected to wear your collar at all times on duty, and your choker whenever you’re in public off-duty.” I will only have to wear mine as part of my uniform, whereas the choker is optional.

Mum frowned as she studied the collar, turning it over and over before putting it around her neck. She deftly locked it into place, but when I tried on mine, I fumbled and Dad secured it for me. Kate assured us that for safety reasons the clasp is made of brittle plastic which can be easily broken, by twisting it sharply. Sandra demonstrated with her own. The padlock snapped cleanly. She then retrieved a new one from the spare parts drawer.

Meanwhile, Kate had called out “Terry!” and the young guy who had greeted us earlier rejoined us. He was carrying a bundle of clothing that appeared to be Dad’s and Alex’s uniforms. He placed them in the box – they took up a lot more space than Mum’s and mine. Sandra then selected a fine silver chain and a leather strap, each about a metre long, from another drawer and handed them to him. It’s interesting that they summoned a male to perform this duty – I guess it’s one of the local customs. He grabbed Kate’s left arm, not being particularly gentle, and spun her around to face away from him, and then attached one end of the chain to the padlock on the back of her collar. He ran the chain once around the link between her bracelets, and back up to the collar, adjusting the final length so her elbows were bent and her wrists fixed in the middle of her back. This put a lot of stress on her arms, because she had to hold them up behind her with the chain pulling on her collar (though not quite to the point of choking her). The strain showed in her face. After that, he tied the leather strap to her leash ring and ran it down her front, between her legs, to secure it to her wrists. To make it reach he had to pull it tight, and this made her grunt loudly and roll her eyes. Mum and I winced, Dad went “Ooh!” and Alex just laughed.

Sandra continued with our fittings and I’m not quite sure what purpose the demonstration served, except perhaps to remind Mum and me of the sort of thing we can expect during the year we will be living here. In addition to our collars, we will have to wear the bracelets and anklets when on duty. They consist of finely crafted silver bands the width of my finger, fashioned in the shape of a braided cord, with a soft matte finish. The fastener is a simple clasp which also serves to lock the rings together. It’s relatively easy to get them off when your hands are free but impossible to remove when you’re properly shackled.

Sandra found me a pair of bracelets that fit and put them on my wrists, with the two parts of the clasp on the palm side (the carpal area, I think it’s called). She brought my hands together and, quite deftly, clamped the rings together in an instant. They felt comfortable – the edges are rounded to prevent chafing, which is important because, while they are snug without being too constricting, when your arms are fixed behind your back there’s going to be a lot more tension. To demonstrate, Sandra released my hands and invited Alex to link them behind my back. Dad did the same for Mum. My ham-fisted brother fiddled clumsily for a couple of minutes, and he was starting to hurt me with his tugging and twisting.

“Stop squirming!” he demanded.

I was about to give him a blast when mercifully the lock snapped shut. It was certainly tight. I had to interlock my fingers to keep my hands together, which of course transmitted the stress from my wrists to my upper arms and shoulders. It’s rather insidious because if you bend your elbows to ease the strain, it simply transfers it back to your wrists. If you don’t mind some abrasion, you can rotate them until they are crossed, easing the pressure somewhat, but you have to be careful that you don’t cut off your circulation. On the plus side, I suppose, keeping your arms straight pulls back your shoulders and pushes out your chest for a nice display – and let’s face it, my boobs need all that sort of help they can get.

My father and brother stood back to admire their handiwork.

“How do they fit?” Sandra asked. “Not too uncomfortable?” I shook my head but Mum just grimaced. She was raising and lowering, bending and stretching her arms.

“Don’t worry,” Kate said, “you get used to it.” That was probably not as reassuring as she intended it to be.

Sandra returned to the shelves and brought back a bundle that she placed on the closest bench top. There were several pairs of leather cuffs, with velvet inside lining and Velcro attachments.

“These are not part of your official kit,” Kate explained. “They’re your fun cuffs.”

There were also some leather and vinyl straps, and Sandra demonstrated one of their uses. She attached it to Kate’s ankle bands to make a hobble, about twenty centimetres long. Dad and Alex followed her lead with Mum and me.

“Don’t make it too strict at first,” Sandra advised Dad and Alex, “because you don’t want her to fall. Try it, be careful,” she told Mum and me.

I took a few small, shambling steps, and when I got my rhythm I was able to shuffle about with not too much effort. Mum was more poised, but still very cautious, because with our arms shackled behind our backs it was easy to lose our balance with no good way of breaking our fall.

“If you do,” Kate cheerily advised, apparently reading my mind (and being less helpful than she no doubt thought), “bend at the knees and try to go down on them.”

She then demonstrated the same graceful, gliding movement that the maîtresse d’hotel had performed at the restaurant last night. “It just takes familiarity and practice,” she announced as she executed a dainty pirouette. Mum and I then practised, and after a few minutes Kate decided that whereas my mother had achieved a sufficient degree of deftness and dignity, I would remain – at least for the foreseeable future – a lost cause.

Sandra handed Dad and Alex each another cable. It had a loop at one end, and at the other a little clip fastener. Dad knew exactly what it was for and immediately snapped it onto the ring on Mum’s collar. Alex got the idea. He couldn’t resist a sharp tug that forced me to jerk forward.

“Bow to me, woman!” he commanded. He pulled downwards on my leash.

“Alex!” Dad growled. “Behave yourself.”

“Later,” my brother whispered, as he let me up.

Sandra placed the rest of the accessories into the box with our uniforms, as Kate led the way again. Dad and Alex followed, with Mum and me in tow, waddling along behind our menfolk. I had a pretty good idea where we were headed, and when we stopped in front of a large cabinet, I knew what to expect even before Sandra had flung open the door.

Inside was a fantastic array of gags, just about every conceivable type of oral appliance, in an assortment of colours and sizes and shapes – ball, bit, butterfly, plug, ring, muzzle and harness gags, in soft leather, polished silver and satin-finished nylon. However, before I could get too excited, my eyesight shifted to the bottom shelf, where resided a collection of true horror devices, like medical and dental gags, the kind that hold your jaws spread apart (for some nefarious purpose, no doubt, that I don’t want to go into). Mum’s eyes widened as her gaze traversed the rows. Mine did as well, as Sandra picked out something that looked sinister, ominous, creepy and yucky. I recognized its menacing form – an inflatable gag.

“Don’t panic,” Sandra laughed. “This is just a fitting.”

She took a little black rubber bladder from a sealed plastic bag, stuck it onto the tube and put it in my mouth, then began slowly, carefully pumping the bulb on the other end of the hose until the flaccid globe swelled and hardened to fill the cavity. It tasted foul, sort of chalky but also slimy; and it was humiliating to have my mouth stoppered up, stuffed and sealed like that, especially in front of Dad and Alex. (My darling Lil Bro moved around so I could see his face, to let me know how much he was enjoying my discomfiture.) Mum looked on dolefully as she awaited her turn.

Sandra prodded my cheeks and the corners of my mouth until finally declaring “This will allow a perfect fit. You want that, don’t you?”

I just nodded.

After writing down my dimensions, she deflated and removed the balloon, put it aside, picked up a new one and went through the same process with Mum. When that was done, she consulted the inventory to choose the right sizes. She selected for each of us a set of six – a standard ball gag (mine with a cherry red ball on a black harness, Mum’s all-black), a ring gag (dreadful thing – I hope I don’t have to wear one too often), a muzzle-and-harness (not one of my preferences, but more secure than most), a “dog bone” (which is a type of bit-gag, but I don’t really like the connotations – maybe it’s to match the “dog collar”), a regular latex plug gag (also known as a penis gag... eww!) and a ball-plug-gag.

My favourite is the last one. It consists of a black, stitched leather panel that is contoured to fit snugly over your mouth. It has a teardrop-shaped plug (mine in a nice girlie shade of pink) which is tapered where it attaches to the inside of the cover. Because the insert is somewhat smaller that on a plain ball-gag, it’s more comfortable to wear; and it’s fixed in place, filling the entire cavity of the mouth without making your jaws ache. (It actually looks like an infant’s pacifier, which I suppose could be construed as a little insulting.) It’s sufficiently malleable that you can bite into it (if you have to!) without chipping your teeth, but durable enough that you can’t damage it. Most importantly, the fact that you can close your lips around it reduces (but of course never entirely eliminates) the drool factor. The material is a tasteless, odourless and washable silicone-based compound, and therefore totally safe, non-toxic and hygienic. The straps are narrow, soft and pliable, removable for proper cleaning, with a buckle that can be adjusted to fine-tune the length. Some girls prefer a Velcro fastener head band, but not me because almost invariably your hair gets stuck in it. Instead, this one has clip-on holders that can be pulled apart for a quick release with a single, sharp tug. So my new ball-plug gag looks good, it’s flexible, comfortable, sturdy, secure and safe – what more can I say? I have raved on about it for long enough.

Alex picked up the ball-plug gag, because he could see how much I was intrigued by it, and wanted to put it in straight away. However, with an apologetic smile, Sandra took it from him. She used an embossing machine to stamp our names onto each of the straps. Every female staff member has her own personal gags, Kate informed us, for sanitary reasons. It’s against policy for gags to be shared, swapped or recycled.

Once they’d been inscribed, Sandra placed them all in the box, to my brother’s chagrin. Mum’s and my collars, leashes and cuffs came off as well. I guess that, since we are not yet certified residents, we are not yet qualified to wear the official accoutrements.

That proved to be the last of our fittings. Terry rejoined us and unhitched Kate’s wrists and ankles. (Once again I found it interesting that – apparently – Sandra was not entitled to release a fellow female from her shackles. I asked Kate about this on the way out. “Not a rule,” she explained, merely a courtesy.” On the other hand, I wondered if it was a breach of courtesy undo another guy’s work – after all, she had been cuffed by Alex. But I didn’t say anything.)

Thereafter Kate accompanied us back to Resort Village. It was not a very long walk from the Oasis, but it was blisteringly hot, and we quickly worked up a sweat. I was weary from the morning’s business and looking forward to some swimming and sunbathing. However, Kate steered us towards a large beachside park on the western edge of the town. She looked up and squinted at the clock tower which loomed over the heart of the central business district.

“Just in time for the show,” she announced.

There were maybe a hundred people in the park, some starting up barbeques and setting out picnic lunches, others just taking refuge under the trees from the heat. We skirted the perimeter, and I knew something was up because when Alex stepped onto the grass Kate asked him to wait. She turned in the direction of the sea, and when my eyes followed her gaze I spotted some unusual movement on the water. Although we were facing away from the sun, the glare was intense, but as I continued to peer out across the bay, I discerned two large rowboats skimming swiftly and silently towards us. A few people in the park had taken notice as well, and as the boats glided to the shore and ran up onto the sand, all heads spun about. Amused curiosity turned to startled excitement as suddenly the air was rent with hair-raising shouts and blood-curdling yells. A dozen or more men in full, colourful pirate regalia leapt out and charged up the beach, heading straight for the bemused spectators. There was laughter and shrieking as the marauders began scooping up surprised women and girls. None of the males in the park made even the feeblest attempt to rescue their accosted womenfolk. They were either still in a state of shock or too busy laughing and applauding, as the squealing captives were roughly bound and hauled off.

One young woman in a white sundress tried to make a break for the safety of the trees but was brought down in a rather heavy tackle by a hulking red-bearded fellow, who wrenched her arms behind her back and tied them with hemp rope. She winced at her brusque handling, and I winced at the extensive chartreuse grass stain on the front of her once pristine dress; but she giggled as she was tossed over her abductor’s broad shoulder. Nearby, a mother and daughter – the girl about Alex’s age – had been cornered by two fearsome blackguards and were pondering fight or flight. When they looked to their menfolk and found no saviour, they resigned themselves to their fate.

It was all very exciting, but looking beyond the spectacle, I noted that only females who were not already bound in some way were caught up. Anybody in restraints, and anyone who put up any sort of genuine resistance, was left unmolested. It seemed to me that the raiders spared those who had settled down to lunch and they also ignored our little party – whether it was because of Kate’s presence or the fact that we were actually outside the bounds of the part I couldn’t tell. Nevertheless, they netted at last twenty captives. And just when I – and the other onlookers, and no doubt the victims – thought the fun was over, the buccaneers abandoned their boats to withdraw inland with their struggling, squawking booty, heading up the road that runs westwards towards – of course! – Pirate’s Cove. A large crowd followed.

“Every two or three days, different locations,” she answered my unspoken question. “It’s not easy to pull off because we want it to be a surprise and a thrill, but at the same time we don’t want to cause too much of a disruption.”

We watched as the last of the captives, two wriggling young wenches slung over the shoulders of their hulking kidnapper, disappeared over the crest of the ridge.

“Do I get to play pirate?”

“Yes, Alex,” Kate said, “you get to play pirate.’

Mum raised her eyebrows. I shook my head. No good could come of this...

There is more I could write about today’s activities, but this journal entry is already too long, and I need sleep. Alex didn’t help. He came into the room (I’m writing this in bed) and according to rule number two I had to put on my blindfold. He stayed an awfully long time, doing only the devil knows what, so I was obliged to wait patiently to get back to finishing this...

We had lunch in one of the many eateries which line the promenade, and spent the afternoon on the beach and later in the town shopping and sightseeing. As soon as we were back in the hotel, at around five o’clock, Mum retreated to her room for a nap, while Dad, Alex and I watched television. We had dinner at a salad and noodle bar, and afterwards took an evening stroll. When we returned to our suite, the box from the Commissariat was sitting just inside the door.

So that’s our second day on Aranea Island. I still haven’t met any boys, but as the saying goes, tomorrow is another day.

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Re: THE RESORT (New Revised Edition)

Postby NiceAndTight » Tue Oct 05, 2010 11:10 am

Like!!!! keep going pleaseeeeee!
Tie me all you want, just don't leave me with a cliff hanger

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Re: THE RESORT (New Revised Edition)

Postby bound-black-girl lover » Tue Oct 05, 2010 3:10 pm

GREAT story--as many times as you revise it!
I enjoy "visualizing" Alex "wrestling (you) into a gag"--a very emotionally-charged concept~you have a WAY with words!

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Re: THE RESORT (New Revised Edition)

Postby sarobah » Tue Oct 05, 2010 3:59 pm

Part the third is on its way!

bound-black-girl lover wrote:I enjoy "visualizing" Alex "wrestling (you) into a gag"--a very emotionally-charged concept

A lot of this is based on my personal experiences and adventures.
In the early years, Alex (who really is my Lil Bro) was my main TUGs playmate. While I was still bigger than him, it was a dilemma – how far to play the damsel in distress, i.e. how much to struggle and resist. Fortunately, the issue was resolved when (1) he grew, and (2) I found other boys to tie me up.

~ Sarah
Words, like Nature, half reveal and half conceal the soul within.

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Sarah’s Journal, Day Three. Mystery

Postby sarobah » Tue Oct 05, 2010 4:07 pm

It’s funny how things can turn out. I awoke this morning mightily annoyed because it was raining again, and by the time we were getting ready for breakfast it had turned into a frightful downpour. So much for your tropical island paradise! But in the end it turned out to be a delightful day.

Hearing the sound of the rain, I rolled over and went back to sleep. So for once I was not the first in the family to be up and about. I fell into a dream. I don’t remember what it was about, except that it was good and I was feeling content; when suddenly I felt myself being rudely shaken out of it. I opened my eyes, blinking away the blur, to be confronted by my brother’s grinning visage. On balance, the blur was better.

“What do you want?” I demanded. My mouth was dry and cottony, as if I’d been chewing on my pillow. Maybe I had been. Maybe it was that sort of dream.

“First this,” he commanded. He was holding my red sash blindfold in front of my face.

“You’ve got to be kidding!” I shook my head and slammed my eyes shut, hoping I was still asleep and that my pleasant dream had gone bad. I opened my eyes again. It wasn’t the nightmare I was hoping for.

“Tell you what,” I groaned, “I’ll just close my eyes and you can say whatever it is you have to say.”

“Rules are rules.”

I could continue to argue, but surrender was the easier course. Sitting up, I tied the band around my head.

“Why are you traumatizing me?”

“It’s breakfast time.”

“That’s it? Thanks. No. Go.”

For all his myriad faults, the brat knows when he’s neither wanted nor needed nor safe from harm. He faded into my oblivion.

On the third hour I rose again (or maybe it was just one). The rain had stopped but it was still dismal outside. I had the place to myself. It was blissfully silent but for a pair of seagulls perched upon the balcony demanding tribute. I grabbed two slices of bread, tossed them one and watched them wrangle noisily over it, ate the other piece, had a shower, drank a glass of milk, fixed my hair, put on my Kiargo black and gold string bikini, painted my toenails, sifted through a pile of pamphlets, put on some make-up, perused the restaurant guide, chatted with the seagulls, changed my toenail colour... I was so bored that I was missing my family. How pathetic is that?

Eventually, the loved ones returned. My mother was excited, my father was inscrutable, my brother was... well, my brother.

“Calm down, Alex. Put your shoes on, Sarah,” Mum called out as she bee-lined for the bedroom. “Please calm down, Alex.”

“What’s the sitch?” I asked.

“We’re going on a mystery tour,” Alex explained.

“Where to?” I asked, innocently enough.

“Um, you do know the meaning of the word mystery?”

I chose not to answer.

“And people say that you’re the smart one...” He stopped to think about that, then slunk away.

Dad chuckled. As I retrieved my sandals from under the sofa, I watched him grab the newspaper and head for the balcony. He flopped into the banana lounge.

“Shouldn’t you be getting ready as well?” I ventured.

“Not coming with you today.”

“Not into the mystery?”

“More like misery.”

“Dad has business, is what he means, honey.” Mum explained. She was wearing her lilac Gottex strapless maillot, over which her sarong was tied low on her hip. She was fixing her hair into a loose bun. “What’s Alex doing?”

“How do I know? I’m not my brother’s zookeeper.’

As if on cue, the bedroom door opened and from it emerged a startling apparition from a 1970s tourist brochure – cream pleated slacks, Bali print shirt, Panama hat, Venetian loafers, Ray-Ban knock-offs. Mum and I just rolled our eyes. I pushed past him, found one of my mini-sarongs which best matched my bikini, wrapped it around my waist and grabbed my Gucci shades.

On the way out, Alex held up two pairs of the handcuffs we’d been issued at the Commissariat.

“Give me a break,” I growled at him.

“Not right now, sweetie,” Mum smiled.

My Lil Bro looked crestfallen as he mournfully put them back in the box.

“You two are no fun.”

We yelled good-bye to Dad, whose nose was by now buried deep in his newspaper. We went downstairs, down the hill, downtown. It was still heavily overcast although the rain had ceased. The air was damp, the ground was sodden and the trees and bushes drooped and dripped. A chilly breeze tickled my bare skin and I started to regret having nothing on but my bikini and sarong. Mum was beginning to shiver as well. Alex was fine… as ridiculous as he looked. There are times when I am envious of the male sex and their fashion sense.

The town centre was almost empty. People were only just starting to emerge from their warm, dry indoors. Mum checked the street signs and we stopped outside a small storefront. We were greeted by a young woman who announced herself as Regina. She could almost have been my twin sister, only older (so not really my twin, I suppose). She was petite, with sandy blonde hair cut in a short, rather masculine style, to go with her boyish figure – breasts perky rather than voluptuous, narrow hips and flat derrière – like I said, could have been my twin. She was wearing a tiny, and I mean really tiny bandeau top, and a mini, really mini sarong. There wasn’t much of her, and a lot less that was covered. Alex couldn’t keep his eyes off her, but she didn’t seem to notice – or care. I guess that when you work in Aranea Resort and you’re female, you get used to being stared at.

She ushered us inside, where two other patrons were waiting to begin the tour with us. One was a woman in her late twenties or early thirties, the other a girl a year or two older than me. Regina introduced them as Annette and Jessica. Both were wearing the staff sarong, Annette’s as a dress, Jessica’s as a skirt. (I’m still not sure what the rules are regarding how it’s worn, or whether it’s a free choice.) They also wore the choker, though unlike Regina not the bracelets and anklets. I know enough by now to be aware that this means they are resort employees who are off-duty. Mum, without her staff sarong and choker, looked uncomfortable for a moment, but Regina gave her a “just relax” smile. We are not officially residents until the end of the week, so we don’t have to conform to the dress code till then.

Regina explained that while the mystery tour experience was a part of our orientation, it would be a fun day. Normally there would be “civilians” (strange word to use for guests) joining us, but the threat of bad weather this morning had kept them away.

“Then we’re ready to begin?” We all nodded and she gestured towards the doorway, but before anyone had moved she turned to my brother with a sprightly smile.

“Alex, it’s up to you to do the honours.”

It took him a couple of seconds to take the hint, but his face lit up in sudden realization and his face cracked in a broad, asinine grin. Mum raised her eyebrows and rolled her eyes (which she does a lot around Alex), and I shook my head. Annette and Jessica looked benevolently amused as Regina turned away from him and placed her hands behind her back, interlocking her fingers.

I try not to visualize what goes on inside my brother’s mind (for there lies madness), but I can imagine what was going through it as he clamped her bracelets together. This time he was adept at handling the tiny coupling. Regina flexed her arms a few times, either to make the fit more comfortable or to show him that she was securely shackled.

“Ladies,” she said, “you can leave your bags behind the counter.” We did so. “And you won’t be needing your sunglasses either.” I was about to say that the clouds had started to disperse when I realized that wasn’t what she’d meant.

Since the rest of us weren’t wearing our accessories, Regina tipped her head in the direction of a cabinet in one corner of the room. “Top shelf,” she instructed, and Alex extracted four sets of handcuffs. They were nothing fancy like the ones we got yesterday, just plain rings made of hard plastic and connected by two links – providing enough length that when your arms are behind you they give you some freedom of movement but not so much that you can slide them down your bottom and over your legs to escape. Regina informed us that with a really strenuous tug they can be pulled apart. That was a bit disconcerting, since I don’t really see the fun in being bound if it’s so easy to get out of; but it’s a safety feature. Perhaps it has something to do with what can happen on the mystery tour. I don’t know that for sure, but it made the day’s agenda suddenly more intriguing.

I must have been frowning while I was having these thoughts, because Mum, misinterpreting my lack of enthusiasm, had taken the initiative and put her arms behind her. She had her palms facing inwards, and she locked her thumbs together to hold her hands in place, because Alex was struggling to get her cuffs on. It was funny to watch my brother become increasingly frustrated and flustered. He had just done the same to Regina with no difficulty, and it wasn’t like family ties were a new thing. But the tiny clasp on each of the rings is located right beside the chain attachment, and in attempting to join them he was trying to avoid touching her backside. To be supportive, she was stoically pushing her hands as far from her body as she could, but this isn’t easy to do when someone is forcing your wrists together behind you, and it was putting a lot of additional strain on her chest and shoulders. She let out a soft grunt and Alex’s expression was pricelessly comical. She winked at me. Of course, as much as I was enjoying my brother’s discomfiture, I knew full well that he would take it out on me. And indeed, when my turn came, he made sure to give my arms a few hard and completely unnecessary heaves and jerks. I looked plaintively to mummy dearest, who just smiled indulgently.

While this was going on, I caught a few glimpses of Jessica and Annett as they awaited their turn. Jessica was fidgety, not knowing what to do with her hands. As she watched us being cuffed, she held her arms rigidly at her side but her fingers were tapping out some random rhythm on her thighs. When Alex moved behind and took hold of her wrists to draw them backwards, she couldn’t suppress a flinch. She grimaced and let out staccato puffs of breath as she was being put in her restraints. I got the distinct impression that she is a novice at this. It’s often easy to forget that not everyone shares the same depth of experience as you.

Annette had a different attitude. I like to classify the reaction to being bound into five types – playful, submissive, stoic, edgy and defiant. Mum and I are stoics, Regina looked to be playful; Jessica was most definitely the jittery, on-edge type. Annette was a defiant. She tilted her head and glared over her shoulder at Alex as he struggled to connect her bracelets. I don’t know if she was deliberately tensing her arms to make it more difficult for him, but if so she only made it harder on herself. Maybe it was part of a game she was playing. I do that a lot. Or perhaps she was a little unnerved by the age difference. Some gals are like that, they don’t like being tied up by much younger guys, and she certainly had a funny expression as she watched Alex shackling his mother. But I don’t really get what the issue is. There are times when you can suck all the fun out of things by being too over-analytical. My personal motto: Sudo non super vegrandis res. Don’t sweat the small stuff.

Naturally, Annette’s show of haughty bravado merely served to inspire my dauntless Lil Bro. We were standing in a rough semi-circle with him at the focus, and he was enjoying his dominance. Well, I could hardly blame him for that. What adolescent boy doesn’t fantasize being the solitary male in command of a bevy of scantily clad damsels? Nevertheless, he was still a bit uncertain, as he glanced across at Regina. She tipped her head with a “You’re the boss” expression, so he went back to the cabinet, rummaged about and withdrew a bunch of long leather straps. Flaunting them at us, he slowly counted out five, draping them one at a time over his left arm and nodding at each of us in turn as he did so. With a flick of his hand he beckoned us to face away from him. Annette grumbled something unintelligible and Mum sighed, but we all obeyed.

Alex started with me. He looped the strap around my upper arms, just above the elbows. It was made of soft, supple leather, lined on the inside with a fleecy material, and secured with a glide or slider buckle for precise fitting. He pulled it as taut as he could, hauling back on my shoulders and drawing my elbows together so they almost touched behind me. It was not exactly painful, because I’m quite limber, but it’s always stressful. Of course, the elbow tie is a perennial crowd pleaser, for what it does in front of you as well as behind.

Regina was next, followed by Jessica. I have to admit that Alex did good work. He was sensitive to each woman’s response as he tested how tight to make the strap. None of us, except maybe Regina, knew how long we would have to endure it. Of course, my brother’s concern was not so much sympathy for our ordeal as for prolonging his own enjoyment of it. Jessica’s ended up so slack that it didn’t serve much purpose, while Regina’s was as severe as mine. I knew he would go easy on Mum, and that was partly because she was wearing her strapless swimsuit. While aesthetically enhancing the display of your chest, the posture puts a lot of strain on whatever’s covering it. Even the Lil Bro has his limits.

Annette, again the last, looked on fearfully, expecting the worst. Alex had his fun with her, yanking the strap so hard that she yelped – more in shock than distress – and then he eased off. Her wan smile of gratitude showed that she had been broken, at least for the time being. And satisfied with that, when he was done my brother stood back, arms on hips and head bobbing in smug conceit as he looked us over, thoroughly pleased with his efforts. Yet while he thought he was finished, Regina had other ideas. She went to the cabinet, squatted with her back to it and reached in, fumbling about until she had what she wanted. It was another bundle of leather straps, these ones finely braided, doubled up into a handle at one end and finishing in a metal clasp at the other.

“You’ve got to be kidding,” a reinvigorated Annette snarled under her breath, as my brother sorted out five of the leashes and discarded the rest. Meanwhile Regina was back at the cabinet, and this time she took out a small stack of scarves, of shiny midnight blue. Alex took them and blindfolded us. I was first, so I don’t know what happened, but I heard one of the others, Jessica I think, emit a soft “Ooh” sound. Alex had triple-folded the cloth to eliminate any trace of illumination, even when I turned my face directly to the window, where sunlight was now streaming in. The satiny texture was cool and tickly against my cheeks.

As the darkness descended, I understood the purpose of the leashes... sorry, tethers. They’re called tethers here. “Leash” apparently has the wrong connotation. Anyway, Alex looped the clasp end about my throat, securing it in a loose-fitting noose, and did something with the handle end. I wasn’t quite sure what he was doing until I felt a tugging on the back of the ring about my neck and realized that the five of us were being hitched together in a line. I sensed that Jessica was directly behind me and quickly discovered that to my immediate front was Regina. We were close enough that I could sniff the subtle fragrance of her perfume, maybe half an arm’s distance.

Our tethering together wasn’t just for the thrill. It had a practical purpose. By keeping the strap in tension, when we got started on our journey we could each follow the lead of the one in front and so negotiate the path in relative safety. Regina must have the trail imprinted precisely in her brain, because she didn’t need much guidance from Alex; in fact she gave him accurate directions all the way, just like Kate had done yesterday. I guess that when you spend so much time blindfolded, you learn to navigate by memory, aided by finely tuned sensory perception and well-honed instinct, as well as some elemental good luck.

A gentle pressure on the back of my neck told me that we were moving off, and there was a small jerk on my throat as Jessica to my rear got the message half a second after me.

“Be careful, there’s a door sill,” Regina warned as we crossed the threshold. I heard the lock click.

Stepping cautiously out onto the sidewalk, I tried to get my bearings. We seemed to be heading eastwards, because I could feel the sunlight, weak though it was, on those parts of my face not concealed by my blindfold. The noise of the street seemed distant, although I could sense the presence of people all around – pedestrians passing by, shop and café proprietors opening up, maintenance workers clearing away the detritus of last night’s festivities and this morning’s inclement weather. With the experience of yesterday’s trek to help us, it was a relatively simple matter to shuffle along in our little sightless queue. Even so, time seems to stretch out when you’re concentrating so hard on where to place each new step, and I was beginning to get a little bored and irritated, not being able to see where we were going or what was happening all around us. Then suddenly it became worthwhile.

We had left the built-up part of the village and Alex was steering us along a cobbled track which ran up a long, slightly undulating slope. I must have been fidgeting in my bonds, because my thoughtful Lil Bro, thinking I was getting wobbly, was walking by my side with one arm around my waist. From the angle at which he was holding me, it seemed that he was using his other arm to steady Regina and keep on her proper course. Yet though she occasionally needed his support, her skill at navigating behind her blindfold was quite remarkable. There was no hesitancy in her pace – which actually made things harder because the tempo was just a little too fast for the rest of us to maintain.

The ground underfoot was smooth but slippery in places, and once or twice Alex had to assist me to keep my balance; and because we were tied together I could tell that the others were having difficulties as well. I felt a constant tugging on the loop around my throat as Jessica staggered along, but I wasn’t in any danger of choking because there was a lot of slack in it. None of us spoke, but there was quite a bit of huffing and puffing. It was really quite strenuous; but just as I was beginning to lament my bonds and blindfold, I became aware that we were passing through a lush garden. The sudden effusion of aromas was so powerful that it was like walking into a wall of scented cushions.

We slowed down to take it all in. The pathway was lined with flowerbeds from which issued a rich emanescence of opulent bouquets and exuberant fragrances, both familiar and exotic – sweet, spicy, pungent, musky, resiny, citrusy, minty, earthy – wafting and mixing in the breeze. The blindfold, as it does, stimulated my senses and heightened my awareness, in fact almost to the point of overload, because without vision it was impossible to separate and highlight individual scents from the potpourri. It was a strange, almost psychedelic experience, intense and intoxicating but at the same time disorienting. Regina informed us that this was called the Aromatic Trail. I would have named it the Perfumed Garden, and I’m surprised the resort people didn’t come up with that one themselves – or maybe they had. For as if on cue, Regina casually added that the sudden rush of sensation causes some blindfolded women to have an orgasm. I almost tripped over in shock. Alex only just managed to save me. I heard one of the women behind me gasp and my mother giggle. I wish I could have seen her face, even half hidden behind her midnight blue mask.

By the time we reached the end I was near exhaustion, not just from the physical effort but also from the sensory inundation. When we finally came to a halt, Alex asked if any of us needed to use the toilet. We all said yes, and I’m sure that the overstimulation had something to do with it. He took off our blindfolds – which was decent of him – but we remained bound and tethered. I blinked and squinted to adjust my eyes to the sunlight, and saw that we were standing on a small ridge or terrace on the side of the mountain, overlooking the village. We were quite high up – funny, I hadn’t noticed how rapidly we’d been climbing – and the view out over the bay and beyond to the open sea was truly breathtaking.

We were in a small park and there was an ablutions block at one end. Once inside, we could have released each other from our bonds without much difficulty, but we didn’t. That would be against the rules, and why agree to the rules in the first place if you’re going to break them whenever it’s convenient? So we had to assist each other in getting the job done. That was hard enough linked together with our hands cuffed and arms strapped behind our backs. In the narrow confines of the stall it required a lot of coordination and considerable gymnastic skill. It would have looked hilarious, if we’d had an audience, because we had to go in two at a time, while the others remained just outside, but with the next in line forced to lean into the cubicle because of our halters. We rotated through. I helped Regina, Jessica helped me, and so on.

Mum presented a special difficulty because, unlike the rest of us wearing bikinis, she had on a one-piece, which was easy to get down but a lot harder for her partner, Annette, to pull back into place with her arms pinioned behind her. Somehow we managed, but on the way out I made the mistake of glancing at the mirror. I have learned from experience that you should avoid seeing your reflection when you are helpless to take remedial action. My hair was a mess and my make-up runny from the effects of the damp air; my sarong was hanging askew from Jessica’s handcuffed attempt to fix it back in place. Indeed, we all looked pretty dishevelled.

When we emerged, Alex had the temerity to demand to know why we’d taken so long. I wanted to punch him... or at least kick him.

Regina inquired about what we thought of the tour so far.

“Interesting,” was all any of us could say. My brother just grinned.

We got ready to set off again. From where we were, the track descended precipitously towards the eastern edge of town. Alex had taken cognizance of the way ahead, which was winding and uneven as well as steep, and he decided not to blindfold us... except for Annette. I’m not exactly sure why she was singled out, although I presume it was because of her earlier bad attitude. She gasped in dismay but didn’t say a word. However, with our eyesight restored, Lil Bro figured that his captives required some further restraining. I knew what was coming when he twirled the first of the scarves into a strand and tied a knot in the middle.

When he realized that it wasn’t big enough for an effective knotted gag, I thought he was going to abandon the enterprise. Not Alex. He folded the material into a rectangular wad and pushed it between my lips. I didn’t resist, but started to regret my acquiescence when he reached down to my waist, took hold of my sarong and whipped it off my hips. He fixed it over my mouth and tied it around my head. It was kind of bulky but did its job. He repeated the process with the others, except for Annette. Because he didn’t have the use of her scarf, which was otherwise engaged, he made her sarong into a cleave gag. These are not very effective unless pulled very taut, which is what Alex did. Annette’s eyes bulged as the material tightened around her head and forced her jaws apart; and while she didn’t struggle as it was being applied, once it was in place she started complaining. That was more than a little pointless – it’s funny how some gals seem to like the sound of their voice muffled and garbled through a gag. As for me, if I cannot say it loud and clear, I keep it to myself (mostly).

While Alex was gagging me, I glanced behind, at Jessica, for her response. It’s always interesting to see how the novice reacts to new situations. She was boggle-eyed when my brother pulled off my skirt – how far did she think he was intending to go? – but she had settled down by the time her turn came. Nevertheless, it was obvious from her expression of distaste and the way she instinctively pressed her jaws together that she was not used to the gag. Alex, however, showed admirable restraint, allowing her a few seconds to relax, to lick her lips and moisten the insides of her mouth to accept the wad of satin. She swayed her head and wriggled her body as he secured it, not much but enough to make it difficult for him to do properly. So he stopped trying to tie it, clamped his hands on the sides of her head and held it rigid until she got the message that he was in command. And when he’d completed the job, to further remind her who was in control of whom, he grabbed her arms and spun her around to tighten her elbow strap. Her eyes widened again and her head lolled as her shoulder blades were wrenched backwards and her chest thrust forward. And like Annette, Jessica learned her lesson and started to behave. I felt so proud of my Lil Bro, that he can be so firm with his damsels when the situation requires it.

Of course, I was wondering how he would handle it when our mother’s turn came; but she made it easy for him by cooperating. However, he hesitated before gagging Regina, but only because she had to give directions. Of course, with her sight restored, she could see where we were going and communicate by means of mouth noises and head movements. So even as Alex was pondering his move, she opened wide to accept her gag. Then, without waiting for instructions, she strode forward. Caught unawares, I was jolted into following her lead as the tether between us stiffened. The same thing happened with Jessica to my rear and so on down the line, to Annette at the end. Being blindfolded, she was taken completely by surprise and uttered a muffled curse as she staggered forward. I didn’t have much sympathy for her (since her attitude was becoming, quite frankly, just a little tiresome), but I did feel sorry for Mum, directly to her front, who had to put up with the jerking and lurching which tugged on her halter.

We had veered off the main path and were treading a narrower trail which runs parallel to the ridge that encloses the eastern end of Resort Village. This stage took about half an hour to complete, and it had only just occurred to me that the first part of the walk must have taken at least twice that long. I hadn’t realized because it’s so easy to lose all track of time when you’re blindfolded and your attention is focused steadfastly on each step you take. It feels like a long time, but you have no way of knowing for sure. Now, without that diversion, I was beginning to regret not having a proper breakfast, although at least the hunger pangs provided some distraction from the dull throbbings in my arms and shoulders. Even my boobs were getting a little sore from the tension of the elbow strap. So I can’t say I was enjoying our little adventure; but that doesn’t mean I wished it would stop. It’s like when you’re having a really weird dream – you hope it’s over soon, but you don’t want to wake up until you find out how it ends.

Eventually we came down off the side of the ridge, emerging onto the headland, a grim, hulking protuberance of taupe-coloured granite, windswept and barren. We continued to a broad causeway constructed of huge boulders, and thence onto a long, tapering sand spit anchored across the mouth of the estuary which empties into the bay. About halfway along, perched upon a rocky outcrop snuggled amongst the spinifex, is a low, coral pink building designed like the hybrid offspring of a Mexican hacienda and a mediæval citadel. Over the gateway, a sign proclaims “The Sand Castle.” I had seen this structure from our hotel suite, but it had been too far away to pick out the details. It is, in fact, a restaurant.

The place was almost empty, with the morning tea customers departed and lunchtime crowd yet to arrive. The ambiance was standard family style, but the decor was ancient Greco-Roman, or at least its colloquial version. We were greeted by the proprietress, a diminutive woman who introduced herself as Marcia. She was wearing a tiny, exquisite slavegirl dress, with all the proper accessories – gold neckband, bracelets and anklets in a baroque, antique design. There were three or four waitresses clearing and setting tables, wearing similar costumes, and a couple of waiters in full-length togas. In fact, the latter were wearing the crimson-edged toga praetexta, attire which only a history geek like myself would know is wildly inappropriate for serving staff. Of course, I said nothing.

Marcia ushered us to a table on the balcony, with a superb view towards Frigate Island and the open sea. Without hesitation, my etiquette-challenged Lil Bro took his seat, leaving his five damsels standing by the table, bound, gagged and tethered in line. Poor Annette was still blindfolded and trying to get her bearings. Marcia inspected us unsympathetically before gesturing to one of the waiters. He acknowledged Alex with a polite tip of the head, but was brusque as he seized Regina by her shoulders and twisted her about to unleash her from me. He shoved her to one side and removed my halter, and then the others. He barked an order at Marcia to help get us ready. For a moment I was taken aback by his gruff behaviour and the insolent treatment of his boss, but of course he was playing his role. In keeping with the theme, Marcia was a mere slavegirl and we were Alex’s captives. At least, I think it was role-play.

Alex stayed in his chair and began chomping on a bread stick as Marcia and the waiter took off our gags and blindfolded us once more. The blue scarves were too saliva-sodden to use over our eyes, but our sarongs, which had served their purpose so well across our mouths, could be moved upwards. The straps around our upper arms were also removed, for which I was grateful. However, our hands remained shackled behind our backs. My brother, ever the considerate one, glowered with displeasure and insisted he was not going to ruin his enjoyment of the meal by having to feed five helpless females. Marcia reassured him that this would be taken care of. She assigned one of the wait staff to each of us – I was assisted by one of the girls. She kept me in pig-out bliss with a sinfully sumptuous serving of newly baked scones spread with a lavish coating of rich strawberry jam, topped by a gargantuan dollop of freshly whipped cream. I happily gorged myself, and my helper was kept busy wiping blobs of jam and cream from my nose, cheeks and chin. I also managed to dribble my grape juice down my front. The girl apologized but I took full responsibility. I had a lovely time. We all did.

Before we left on the next leg of our tour, there was another trip to the bathroom. We were by now sufficiently adroit at doing what was necessary bound and blindfolded, and not being leashed together made it a lot easier. There’s no need to go into the details.

It must have been around about noon when we left the Sand Castle and headed back towards the village. The morning’s walk had left us pretty much exhausted, and our mini-feast had left us stuffed, so Regina commandeered one of the taxis parked behind the restaurant. Our blindfolds and cuffs stayed on (except, of course, for driver Regina) but that was all. When Alex grabbed Annette and I heard her pulling away, I silently cheered for her.

“Let it go, sweetie,” Mum said, guessing, behind her blindfold, what was happening.

Alex replied with a sullen grumble; but it was a timely reminder to him that the privileges of being the sole possessor of a penis in our group extended only so far. I think that for a brief moment he was weighing the odds of successfully wrestling his damsels into submission; but even bound and blindfolded, five feisty females would be more than a handful for one obstreperous adolescent, so he wisely opted for a tactical retreat. He was gracious in helping us into the buggy, and on the way back into the village he good-naturedly described the picturesque scenery for us... Come to think of it, he waxed so lyrical that I now realize that he was, in his inimitable way, taunting us. I was so disappointed. If that was the best he could come up with, I obviously haven’t taught my Baby Bro as much as I like to think.

As the rumbling of the wheels across corrugated bitumen transitioned into smooth rolling across level pavement, I knew we were back in town. When we came to a halt, Alex tapped me on the shoulder and I climbed out. He guided us two at a time across the threshold of one of the buildings, and since hardly a word had passed between him and Regina, I had no idea what to expect. When he uncuffed me and took off my blindfold, as I adjusted my eyes, massaged my wrists, stretched my arms and rubbed my shoulders, I looked about. I saw that we were standing inside an establishment called The Chain Store – no need to guess its product line. Regina quickly assured us that we were under no obligation to buy anything – we were here for a free fitting and a gift. Annette, always the cynic, suggested that the hard sell was reserved for the paying guests, and Regina responded with a good-humoured smile.

We looked about for a while, fantasizing about some of the items, hypothesizing about others. There was something for every part of the body and a few objects that didn’t seem to belong anywhere that I can conceive of. Alex asked Mum about a pear-shaped gadget and she just gave him a funny look. The merchandise came in a range of materials, from plastic to platinum. Not everything was a chain, but that was the general motif. As well as appliances like gags, blindfolds and hoods, there was other gear, like chain mail bikinis (ouch!); and my brother became interested in a showcase full of chastity belts. He called me over and asked me to explain what they were and how they worked. Since he knew perfectly well what they were and how they worked, I ignored him.

There was a couple in the shop who were being attended to by the salesgirl. When she had finished with them, she showed us around the store. Her name was Natalie. She measured me for a beautiful set of fine gold chains – for neck, waist, wrists and ankles – with accoutrements that included connectors to be used in all sorts of different combinations, shackles for elbows and knees, and indeed everything a fashion-conscious damsel in distress could desire. All pieces had detachable fur lining – sheer luxury! She told me how cute I looked in my bits and turned to Alex.

“Doesn’t she look pretty?” she said.

“Huh!” he replied. My brother is nothing if not eloquent.

Alas, the gold chains were not to keep, but Natalie presented us each with an elegant suede-leather choker, mine magenta with a heart-shaped lock. I’m getting quite a collection now. She also introduced Mum, Jessica and Annette to various other interesting devices, like spreader bars, posture bars, yokes, prangers, fiddles. I’m sort of glad I wasn’t expected to try out any of these, because they looked rather demanding. We stayed about half an hour before moving on. We each wore our new collars, but Alex magnanimously chose not to exercise his prerogative to put us in anything more. It was nice to be free for a while.

We piled into the buggy and set off through the village, back towards the docks area on the eastern edge of town. We came upon a small cluster of weather-beaten, white-washed timber structures which I had seen a few times at a distance and assumed were just the old, rundown parts of the resort that hadn’t yet been renovated. Regina set us straight. This is the core of the historical settlement which has been preserved in its original condition. We pulled up outside a building signposted “Courthouse” and disembarked. (Okay, it’s since occurred to me how unlikely it is that in the island’s pre-resort days the population was anywhere near large enough to warrant its own courthouse and jail. Dramatic licence for the tourists, I guess.)

We were met by a man and a woman dressed in old-time police tunics. She had on the ubiquitous collar, but not the bracelets and anklets, which made sense given her character. Of course, in keeping with local fashion, only the guy wore trousers to complete the look. Of course – how un-unexpected! – as soon as we alighted we were arrested on the spot (except Regina). The real surprise was that Alex was taken into custody as well. We were handcuffed, with antique iron manacles, and marched off to the cells. My brother was still in a state of mild shock as we were incarcerated, being for once on the receiving end. Nevertheless, as a concession to his gender, he got off lightly. While his hands were shackled in front, for the rest of us it was hands-behind-the-back. This became a bit annoying because there were flies buzzing about, being irksome and irritating, as is their wont. Alex was kind enough to drive them away from us, at first. Eventually, however, he wearied of being so helpful and left us to fend as best we could for ourselves.

The cell had barely enough room to accommodate the five of us, seated on two metal bunks set against opposite walls, close enough that Alex could perform his fly-shooing task (while it lasted) without having to get up. I should add that he had a ball and chain attached to one ankle. Afterwards, I was a little disconcerted to find out that it wasn’t locked; he could have reached down at any time to free himself; but one must concede that safety should always take precedence over authenticity. (That’s probably why we gals were spared the ball and chain – not out of consideration for our tender natures but because it was harder, with our hands secured behind our backs, to release the ankle restraint in an emergency.)

We spent about half an hour behind bars, sufficient for tedium to set in but not long enough for excruciating boredom. We learnt that you can sign up for an overnight stay, with the complete tin bucket latrine, straw mattress, bread and water experience. You can even join a chain gang, like what we saw on our first day. Not my cup of tea, but whatever floats your boat, I suppose. (Splendid mixed metaphor, there.)

The mystery tour was far from over. It was still but early afternoon. Back in our buggy, we skirted the village, taking a circuitous route that ultimately had us heading due north, up the island’s west coast. I had a suspicion of where we were going, confirmed as we crested the ridge above the Oasis. On the road about halfway to our destination we encountered a ragged line of some twenty or so women and girls, bound and tethered by neck ropes and escorted by about a dozen buccaneer types who were striding up and down the column, urging their prisoners forward with dastardly fervent zeal. Following behind them at about ten paces’ distance, a crowd of spectators was laughing and joking and calling out words of encouragement (whether to the captives or their captors it was hard to tell).

Both groups moved to the side of the roadway to let us pass. Some of the hostages got into the spirit of the game by calling plaintively for rescue. We just shrugged sympathetically and drove on.

Pirate’s Cove is a small deepwater harbour on the south-west coast, enclosed by sheer cliffs and shielded from the open sea by the broken remnants of a wave-shattered prehistoric shoreline. According to local lore, or at least the version I read in the brochure, Aranea Island was once a haven for the buccaneer fraternity; but frankly I don’t believe a word of it. I don’t recall ever reading about pirates operating this far west in the Pacific, at least those of the Blackbeard or Captain Kidd pedigree. Still, it’s a romantic legend, and the rugged terrain provides an apposite setting.

Upon arrival, we were confronted by a fantastic but slightly ludicrous spectacle – a fully rigged pirate ship drawn up on the narrow beach and enclosed on three sides by tiers of bleacher seating. Regina ushered us through the entrance, past two cutlass-wielding sentries, just as a show was reaching its climax with a thunder of cannons, a salvo of musketry, the clash of steel blades, a barrage of salty language, the shrieks of kidnapped maidens and whistles and cheers from the audience.

Instead of showing us to the stands, to my delight Regina took us backstage, where amidst frenetic activity we girls were bustled into a dressing room. As we were squeezed and laced into period costumes, magnificently ornate gowns with gorgeous trimmings and abundant décolletage, the producer gave us a quick briefing. Mum, with her showgirl looks, was given the lead role as Lady Claudia, a beautiful Irish noblewoman who really did exist, or so we’re led to believe. She had been carried off by pirates during a voyage to the colonies sometime in the seventeenth century (albeit in the Caribbean, not the South Pacific) along with her handmaidens. The latter were to be played by Jessica and me. Annette was cast as one of the picaroon crew’s busty serving wenches.

And so we got to star in a rip-roaring, eye-popping, hair-raising, heart-stirring, chest-thumping, bodice-ripping buccaneer saga. Alex had a part too, more a walk-on, as Corky the cabin boy (or whatever – I didn’t pay much attention). The first scene we played was the requisite boarding battle, replete with shouting, screaming and loud explosions, and a prop façade for the boat from which we fair maidens were abducted to meet our fate worse than death. It was actually rather terrifying, because we were slung, kicking and squealing, over the shoulders of our lusty captors who had to leap nearly two metres onto the main stage. With our hands bound behind our backs, we had no way of protecting ourselves if the guys had lost their grip and we’d fallen; but they were well-trained, experienced and athletic, so there was no real danger.

At the opening of the second act, Jessica and I were lashed to the mast while Mum, after the customary mauling and molesting by her evil captors, was forced to walk the plank. She really did – I could hear the splash when she disappeared over the side – but of course it was into a shallow pool just a metre below, out of sight of the cheering audience. (They cheered as the tragic heroine was fed to the sharks? Charming!) Jessica and I were then taken off stage, not to appear again. Apparently the ill-fated handmaidens were tossed overboard to join their wretched mistress. I’m glad that little drama took place off-stage. I had no great desire for a dunking.

We watched the rest of the show from the sidelines. Looking out into the stands, I recognized several of the captive women and girls we had seen being herded down the road toward the cove. Regina explained that they were given free admission and their menfolk got tickets at half-price. Mum joined us, sodden and bedraggled, before we went below to change out of our costumes.

It was now about three o’clock, still quite early, but we were all tired, and the last leg of our mystery tour was something of an anticlimax, which was fine by me. We stopped in at one of the restaurants in the village for afternoon tea. We went behind the scenes to visit the kitchen and got to sample the various dishes as guests of the chef de cuisine. Dining is, typically, sans vue for the ladies, and so all food and drink is prepared with this in mind. Anyway, the most interesting aspect of the visit was that we tasted each dish both with and without our blindfolds in order to experience the contrast. It is illuminating to discover the extent to which sight is involved in our appreciation of food, because it was like eating completely different stuff – not necessarily better but different. Alex took part in the experiment as well, but he just shut his eyes for the dining-in-the-dark, refusing to wear the blindfold. Men don’t wear blindfolds, he told us. Ah, the adolescent male ego!

It was closing in on five o’clock when we returned to our starting point, picked up our things and said thanks and good-bye to Regina. It had been a fascinating day. Jessica and Annette accompanied us to the bottom of the hill and, incredibly, Annette allowed Alex to tie her hands behind her back and blindfold her for the (admittedly brief) walk. I guess it was her way of saying “no hard feelings” for her attitude during the day.

Once we’d parted company with them, my brother nudged my arm.

“Not in the mood,” I deflated him.

“Don’t even think about it,” Mum pre-empted him.

Back in the suite, we described our adventures to Dad, showed him our lovely new collars, and explained to him what he’d missed.

“Oh, and Mum got ravished by pirates.”

“Really? And how was that?”

“Wet,” my mother replied. My father just blinked.

We had dinner in the downstairs restaurant, followed by another night in. Mum and Dad went straight to bed. Alex watched TV while I retired to write up this journal entry. And so, as day three on Aranea Island draws to a close, I wonder what other mysteries and further adventures await us.

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Re: THE RESORT (New Revised Edition)

Postby snobound » Tue Oct 05, 2010 5:13 pm

OH MY GOD!!! I want to go to The Resort!!!! Even if I have to be the one doing the tying.

Your style allows me to visualize each scene in incredible detail, and your characters actually have PERSONALITY and DEPTH! Go figure! Keep it up. I can't wait to read more.
Try out the TUGs chat!

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Re: THE RESORT (New Revised Edition)

Postby bound-black-girl lover » Tue Oct 05, 2010 5:18 pm

Leading an attractive woman on a tether gives the feeling that you are leading a fine horse/mare!
And the (earlier) panel gag with the mouth-filling plug gives the IMPRESSION of being very SILENCING!

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Re: THE RESORT (New Revised Edition)

Postby sarobah » Tue Oct 05, 2010 5:55 pm

snobound wrote:Even if I have to be the one doing the tying.

Yeah, sorry about that.
I guess I’m an old-fashioned gal who believes that the men should wear the pants, do the huntin’ and tie up the womenfolk... Not really :o)
The females-only bondage theme is a product of how the story evolved. If I had the time to start from scratch, the resort would be more inclusive.
bound-black-girl-lover wrote:Leading an attractive woman on a tether gives the feeling that you are leading a fine horse/mare!

Hmmm... a mare... okay... ;o)
bound-black-girl-lover wrote:And the (earlier) panel gag with the mouth-filling plug gives the IMPRESSION of being very SILENCING!

This is my favourite in real life.

~ Sarah
Words, like Nature, half reveal and half conceal the soul within.

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Re: THE RESORT (New Revised Edition)

Postby raisondecoeur » Tue Oct 05, 2010 11:44 pm

You have to become a professional writer - I'll buy all your books!
Where is it I can book for the trip to this resort? I'm afraid I can't afford to stay as a visitor, but I hope they have vacancies ...

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Re: THE RESORT (New Revised Edition)

Postby Chase Ricks » Wed Oct 06, 2010 4:30 am

Am willing to sell off all rights to all my stories and rp characters and even my SSI every year and Income Tax Return just to be a visitor on The Resort!
From whence I came and whence I went heaven said I was too evil and sent me to hell. Demons and devils succeeded in breaking my soul.


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Sarah’s Journal, Day Four. Lessons

Postby sarobah » Thu Oct 07, 2010 1:30 pm

Last night I slept fitfully, still hyped up from the mystery tour. But I awoke feeling wonderful. There was no sign of yesterday’s rain, so I went for a walk. There’s a lookout point on the hill directly behind the hotel, and from there I beheld the day’s first light. A light wind wafted across the waters of the bay. From the shore, a flock of seagulls rose to greet the sun as it crept over the ridge into a cloudless sky. Somewhere in the distance I could hear the clang-clank of trash bins being emptied and the swish-whoosh of a hose on pavement – not the most romantic dawn chorus, but sounds of the town coming to life.

By the time I returned to our suite, Mum and Dad were up and about, and I was assigned the chore of rousing my brother. He looked up at me through droopy eyelids and demanded to know where was my blindfold. I could have argued or acquiesced, but instead I barked “Get up!” and beat a hasty retreat to the living room.

We had only a hazy idea of what was on the agenda for today, but as we were deciding where to have breakfast, we got a call from Kate, asking us to meet her in the lobby at nine o’clock. She didn’t say anything further, and I don’t know if she was being deliberately vague. We were told only that we would be attending a workshop of some kind, and Mum and I were instructed to wear our collars. I was mystified and intrigued.

Because it was still quite early, we ate an unhurried meal in one of the open-air cafeterias on the beachfront, and returned to the hotel just in time to see Kate pull up in her little buggy. Without explaining anything more, she took us on a short drive down the hill to a building near the centre of the village. There was a sign over the entrance, “Rope Riggers.” Dad made a joke about the name and Kate revealed “It’s not what you think.” The place used to be the headquarters of the now defunct Aranea Island Yacht Club.

She ushered us into the lobby, where a substantial crowd had gathered, fifty or so people. About a third of them were teenagers, ranging from Alex’s age to a bit older than me. The adults included the party of eight who had been on our plane, as well as two of the honeymooning couples. Everyone had the look, nervous but excitedly impatient, that you see on, for example, the faces of people queuing for an especially awesome rollercoaster ride. Just as we arrived, they had begun to assemble into three groups in front of notice boards announcing “Advanced”, “Basics” and “Juniors”. By now we had a good idea of what was going on, what sort of workshop this was to be.

After we had signed in at the registration desk, and Kate had departed, Alex and I joined the other kids for the Junior class, which was being marshalled by a woman who looked to be in her late twenties. She announced herself as Sue. She was tall, attractive and athletic. She wore a leotard version of the staff uniform, without the sarong, and the collar without the bracelets and anklets. That prompted me to look around at the other girls. Only two besides myself were wearing the collar, the signature of permanent residents. Of course, it was impossible to tell which of the boys was a resident and who a visitor, except for a guy standing beside one of the collared girls. These were alike enough to be brother and sister. In fact, they looked to be twins.

Sue led us upstairs, to a spacious hall on the second floor. It had been cleared of all furniture except for a row of tables along one wall which were laden with all sorts of gadgets and paraphernalia, including mounds of coiled ropes, heaps of silk or satin material and – most ominously – a bundle of bamboo poles. The floor was spread with soft canvas mats that were being arranged by a rather nondescript, bored-looking young guy who appeared to be about twenty years of age.

“That’s Brad,” Sue explained. “Say hello, Brad.”

Brad looked up from his chore and nodded curtly. He didn’t say hello.

Sue waved a hand in the direction of one of the tables. “This way, girls.”

On it was a multicoloured stack of Lycra, camisole-style leotards. We had to sort through the pile to find a suitable size, and the best I could get was in a rather hideous mustard yellow, saved from terminal ugliness by sparkly emerald trim and a little embroidered butterfly on each breast. Meanwhile, Brad led the boys outside so we could change. I don’t like stripping naked in public, even in front of just girls (not that I have done any other sort of public stripping, of course!), but we were all pretty tense, so I didn’t feel too self-conscious.

“Shoes as well, please girls, and any jewellery,” Sue instructed, and when we were ready, she called out to Brad, and the guys filed back into the room.

Sue clapped her hands and called for us to give her our full attention. She talked for a couple of minutes, briefly outlining what was on the program. She had an easy-going, confident, sympathetic manner that was very reassuring, and a droll wit. She often made Brad the butt of her little jokes, but he took it with casual good humour. It was their way of breaking the ice, and they worked well as a team.

Sue arranged us into male-female couples. The pairings were basically random, but with a plan. Siblings were separated. We were matched with partners of roughly our own age, although where that was not possible she placed an older girl with a younger boy. I assume this was so that we (the girls) wouldn’t feel too intimidated – although for most of us, from what I could tell, that wasn’t really a problem. Alex grumbled at first when he realized he wouldn’t be working with me. Instead he was partnered with one of the other collared girls. She was about my age but almost a head taller than my brother. At first she looked down at him – literally and figuratively – with ill-concealed disdain; but as it turned out, they had very good chemistry together.

There were two girls and one boy left over. The girls didn’t mind pairing up, and Sue claimed the boy (Steven) for herself. I thought it was smart, the way she did that. She didn’t want one of the girls left out, and Steven appeared initially to be surly and unresponsive. Yet immediately she called him over and put her arm around his shoulders, and asked in a kittenish voice if he would be her partner, he was won over. His churlish expression cracked into a sheepish smile and then twisted into a wolfish grin, and we all cheered. Steven turned out to be quite a character, and I don’t know what had been bugging him earlier.

Okay, saving the best for last... my partner was Philip, almost my age, a few months younger. He is quite good-looking and very well-mannered. He seemed shy at first, but we hit it off and wasn’t long before we were like the best of friends. His sister (Nikki) was there as well. She was the oldest girl in the class, very pretty, statuesque and from what I could see a bit of a flirt. She had squeezed into a leotard that was at least one size too small for her stature and it was hugging her curves and crevices with not much left to the imagination. I think it was deliberate that Sue matched her with the youngest boy in the group. She looked distraught because she had been eyeing one of the more mature guys.

Sue began by announcing that the workshop would be divided into three two-hour sessions during the daytime and a three-hour class in the evening. The first was called “Learning the Basics”, and that’s what it was, nothing really new, although we tried out some interesting techniques and picked up a few handy hints about stuff like the best materials to use in different circumstances – rope, tape, that sort of thing. Sue reminded the boys that wherever possible they should wind or wrap the cord around several times, not just to make the binding more secure but to spread the pressure and prevent damage to the skin.

“You should always be thinking of her needs, not just your wants,” she admonished.

She finished her short lecture with the standard “We’re here to learn but also to have fun.” Then she led us girls in a fifteen minute drill of calisthenics and yoga. The boys were invited to join in, but only a couple took up the challenge, and even they dropped out quickly. I thought that was rather wimpy, and I would have made them participate; but I guess it allowed them the opportunity to stand back and enjoy at their leisure the sight of us jigging and bobbing, sweating and puffing and straining in our snug little leotards.

Sue explained (though I don’t think it really needs explaining) that a good warm-up is the best way to prepare yourself, physically and mentally, for a tie-up session, to help you to relax when under stress and also to become more flexible. It makes for a better experience at both ends of the ropes. She also reminded us that a rigorous workout teaches you the discipline that will help you to focus your mind and immerse yourself in your bondage, which allows you and your partner not just to prolong the experience but to get the maximum pleasure and fulfilment out of it.

She used words like “holistic” and “fusion” to emphasize how all the different elements of good bondage should come together. In fact, she described the bondage experience as being like a spiritual awakening. The ropes deny you the ability to move in the world around you, your blindfold deprives you of one sensation, while stimulating others, and your gag prevents communication. But when you’re cut off from the world, with your entire existence shrunken down to the confines of your bonds, your isolation becomes a connection to your inner being, as you draw on your own resources of willpower and endurance; while at the same time you are intimately bound to your partner, not physically by the rope but emotionally by your dependence on him. You discover strength in your vulnerability, power in your submission, self-reliance in your helplessness, sensuality in your suffering, ecstasy in your agony, joy in your shame, intense self-awareness in your sensory deprivation. This is the paradox which makes your bondage so excruciating and so exhilarating – the experience of being imprisoned and yet liberated, feeling incredible arousal and unbelievable serenity.

(I can’t quite remember how much of this came directly from Sue and how much is my interpretation and interpolation of what she said. She didn’t deliver all the information as a seamless whole but rather interspersed with demonstrations of the various positions and techniques. In any case, this is a diary, not a dissertation, so I’ll get back on topic, lest I be writing all night to get finished.)

The preliminary activities also included the boys giving us girls a back and neck massage. Most of the guys were at best half-hearted about this, being impatient to get on with the bondage; but Sue made them take it seriously. It’s good preparation for both partners. “You must exercise patience and self-discipline,” she told the guys. “It makes it more enjoyable for the both of you, and you will be able to tie her up for longer if she’s relaxed and comfortable.” That last bit, at least, got them motivated.

As for me, I revelled in my rubdown. Philip was gentle and very thorough, even if some of the other boys were not, totally missing the point Sue had been making. I have to admit that Alex appeared to be doing a good job with his partner. As obnoxious and obstreperous as he can be at times, at others he really does come through.

After that, we got down to the practical. The session was divided into segments, each of which commenced with Sue demonstrating some technique and position – or rather, Steven demonstrated on her, while she coached. Brad provided some extra guidance, but mostly he stood off to the side observing, with a carefully crafted blasé expression. It was rather amusing, watching our teacher instructing her partner on how she was to be tied up, in such a matter-of-fact manner, while she was being tied, and looking up from her own contorted tangle of trussed limbs to follow our progress as the boys copied Steven’s moves. Every so often her deadpan delivery would be interrupted by a grunt or a groan or a squeak, when he hauled extra hard on the rope or wrenched her arms ferociously behind her or arched her body backwards in a too-stringent hog-tie, or when the intensity of the moment simply got too much for her to keep bottled up inside.

We began with rudimentary hands-in-front and simple behind-the-back, crossed-wrist ties. The boys used supple nylon cord that felt like it had been treated with softener so it wasn’t abrasive and didn’t chafe or burn the skin. And while we were going through the essentials, it surprised me that many of the guys didn’t have much of a grasp of the fundamentals, such as cinching, especially when it came to binding our ankles. I could have wriggled or kicked free of some of the initial jobs in seconds flat. Of course, I’ve had a lot of practice. Philip was more adept than most, although he was a bit too tentative when it came to properly tightening the ropes. I figured it wasn’t my job to tell him, but it did become rather frustrating, knowing how I could escape with just a small effort.

When we came to the more rigorous ties, Sue first put the boys through a few simple familiarizing exercises, like having them attempt to get their elbows to touch behind their backs and trying out the reverse prayer position. Even without the extra stringency of rope, most were quite shocked at how difficult it can be, and by the sort of stress it puts on your shoulder blades in particular. Most gave up after a minute or so, and Sue reminded them that we girls might be tied in these positions for hours! If nothing else, the guys learnt just how tough we really are, and maybe some of then became a little more appreciative of what we put up with.

At the same time, Sue was never patronizing, and at times her delivery was quite risqué – like when she advised the boys to tie our feet with ankles crossed, so the knees can be spread apart. Most of the girls giggled at that, but I don’t think many of the guys got it. To his credit, Philip did – or at least he gave the appearance. Perhaps he was just being polite (which in a way makes it funnier).

Towards the end of the first session we got into even more arduous poses and postures. We practised four in particular. First was the classic hog-tie, which has enough variations that it can always feel fresh and exciting. We began with a straightforward wrists bound to ankles, with the girl lying belly down, flat on the floor. Then we advanced to a shoulder harness to arch the body backwards – though uncomfortable, it looks more painful than it actually is, and many of the guys winced as they wrenched and tied us into position.

Next came the ever popular elbow tie. It’s something I’m familiar enough with, but several of the other girls were left gaping and gasping. We started with a fairly loose binding, which was gradually tightened until – at least in some cases – our elbows came close to contact. Alex’s partner had supple enough limbs that they went all the way to touching, which was impressive to see. Of course, as we know the major attraction is not that it totally immobilizes your arms, but rather the ornamentally enhancing effect it has on your chest. By hauling back on your shoulders it forces your boobs outwards; and for the likes of myself, not generously endowed in that department, the enforced posture is rather flattering. However, Nikki’s figure-flaunting chickens came home to roost. The structural integrity of her leotard was put to the ultimate test and I don’t know how the straps held – more a matter of luck than design, I surmise.

After the boys were done admiring their ropemanship, we progressed to the lotus technique. This is where your legs, with ankles crossed, are drawn up folded to your chest, and you are forced to bend forward at the waist until your shoulders are between your knees and your chin almost touches your heels. A rope is looped behind your neck (not around it, because you don’t want to be throttled) and tethered to your ankles to keep you restrained in your balled-up position. With hands still bound behind your back, this is a very effective arrangement because you’re completely helpless, unable to move anything – except maybe wiggle your fingers and toes. It’s also very taxing on your muscles and joints.

Philip was crouched beside me, gently stroking my back and shoulders. In my heightened state of receptiveness, the tickle of his fingernails gliding deliciously across my bare flesh made me shiver. I don’t think he realized how arousing his touch was, until the goosebumps rose on my quivering skin.

“Are you okay?” he whispered.

“Of course I am, silly,” I whispered back, between my puffing and panting. I reminded him – though not in so many words – of the old formula, “If it ain’t tight, it ain’t right.”

We finished the morning lesson with a strappado. It was a good thing that we ended with this, because after nearly two hours of being tied up and tied down in all sorts of ways, I was pretty much exhausted, and this is one of the ultimate challenges. Because there were no overhead beams for the rigging, we (the girls) had to kneel to do it properly. Philip tied one end of the suspension rope around my bound wrists and, standing with his arm stretched above his head, hauled upwards until my arms were pulled up vertically behind my back and I was forced to lean forward until my forehead almost touched the mat. It would have been a lot harder on me if he’d had the strength to lift me all the way off my knees.

We only had to hold the position for a few minutes, but even by then my arms and shoulders felt like they were on fire. The purpose of the demonstration, Sue explained, was actually to show us that this is not the sort of thing we should try without supervision, at least not until we’re older and more experienced. As I rubbed my poor aching muscles, I could only agree.

The break for lunch was welcome, but the adrenaline was still flowing, so mostly we paced about, trying to work off some of our nervous energy. Philip and I got to chat a while. This is his fifth day on the island. He and his family are staying for two weeks. He was suitably impressed to learn that I am a resident. I also talked to his sister, Nikki. I had thought she was going to be one of those vapid, stuck-up, airhead, bimbo types, but she turned out to be friendly and intelligent.

After the recess, the second class was called “R.E.S.P.E.C.T.” I don’t remember what the acronym stands for exactly, but it was self-explanatory – all about respect (naturally), health, wellbeing, safety, “no means no”, that sort of thing. It didn’t surprise me that this session included gags, because there are so many hygiene and safety issues involved. Each couple was given a ball gag, a bit gag, a ball-plug gag and a ring gag. I was reminded of how much I really, really hate the ring gag. Philip, not unexpectedly and like most guys I know, prefers the ball-gag and said I looked “wicked” with it in place… which I choose to translate as “incredibly hot and super sexy.” On the other hand, I confirmed my new favourite, the ball-plug gag. However, this one wasn’t as quite as nice as the one I got the other day, because it wasn’t tailor-made to fit. Still, it did its job.

First we put them on ourselves, then the boys tied our hands behind our backs and took over. Philip was rather clumsy and caught my hair in the buckle a couple of times. He apologized profusely the first time but laughed on the second, while I tried my best to utter the appropriate profanities through the crimson orb clamped between my jaws.

Sue made a joke of the process. She started with a running commentary and continued as Steven inserted each gag in turn, and she kept the comments flowing as the words decohered into a jumbled mess of Urrrgghs and Mmmffs and Aarrghs, punctuated by intermittent grunts and accompanied by oodles of drool. As one gag came out, her speech resumed its normal pace and tenor until the next one went in… Well, it was funny at the time. We only kept each gag in place for a short while, to give us a “taste” of each. Then we selected which one we wanted to wear for the rest of the afternoon, and I naturally chose the ball-plug.

For the second intermission, we kept our gags in place, so there wasn’t much conversation, not from half the group anyway. Since our hands were still bound as well, sign language was also out of the question. Nikki did make a valiant and comical effort at choreography – I got to like her even more for that. We were allowed a drink of water, but had to take it through a straw, poked into the corner of the mouth between lip and gag. The boys obliged, holding the water bottles for us.

Also during the break, the girl and boy I had taken to be twins came over to introduce themselves – yes, they were twins, Jane and Matthew. They’d seen my collar and wanted to know all about me. Of course, Philip had to speak on my behalf, summoning Alex for back-up to fill in the knowledge gaps. Jane and I exchanged a few significant looks and nods.

The mid-afternoon program was entitled “Limits and Extremes” although there was nothing too radical. We started off with a few popular and some less well-known tie-up games, then moved on to topics like chest-ties and crotch-ropes. This part proved to be very entertaining. In binding my torso, Philip was endearingly careful trying hard to avoid actually touching my breasts while looping the cord between and around them. “They’re just boobs,” I wanted to tell him, but I was still wearing my gag. I ended up giggling so much that tiny bubbles were foaming out of the corners of my mouth and dribbling down my jaw and onto the very chest he was trying to bind up. So much for the hot and sexy!

Meanwhile, Steven and my very own Alex seemed to be making the most progress, because their partners were the best-endowed of us all, and they also appeared to be the least inhibited of the guys. (Hooray for my brother – I have obviously taught him some things well.) However, the couple with the easiest time were the girl-girl pair, who had been alternating in their tie-up and being-tied-up roles throughout the day and not surprisingly didn’t have any problem working on each other’s racks.

On the other hand, even I felt a bit queasy when we got onto the subject of crotch-ropes. The boys learnt (what most of us girls already knew) that there are two basic ways to position the rope, inside and outside the groove. Once again Philip was funny, desperately trying to avoid touching anything sensitive while nestling the cord in its proper place. But I also discovered (with a blush!) why the most effective crotch-ropes are braided or have a strategically placed knot tied into them. I was grateful that we didn’t keep them on long enough for the effect to become visible.

We closed the session with more demonstrations, just Sue and Brad this time, as he tied her in some hanging and dangling positions and into a variety of gymnastic poses which left me breathless with awe and admiration. They warned us that we shouldn’t rush into anything or get too ambitious too soon, but all they really achieved was to make me and probably everyone else want to rush back to our hotel rooms to try out the new moves. (But we didn’t – at least Alex and I didn’t.)

When the daytime workshop was over, each of the boys received a certificate. We girls didn’t get one, which I thought was rather sexist, but I suppose it was because the guys were the ones who did the actual tying. On the other hand, we got to keep our gags, although that was because they aren’t reusable. Those of us girls who were returning for the evening session were told we’d be wearing our leotards again so we should either leave them on or hold onto them until then.

We finished at the same time as the adults. Mum came out looking flushed and fatigued, but radiant, and Dad was looking very pleased with himself. I said good-bye to Philip, because he wouldn’t be coming back tonight, but we parted with a promise to meet up at noon tomorrow. The family has morning and afternoon appointments, but lunchtime is free, so we will rendezvous in the park by the beach. Meanwhile, Alex took his leave from his partner, whose name was Karen. I got quite a shock when she held out her hands for him to bind one last time and then kissed him on both blushing cheeks. I thought that was a lovely gesture. He wanted to tie and blindfold me for the walk back up the hill, but I’d had enough for one afternoon. Mum appeared to be shambling, as if certain parts of her were feeling sore, but I didn’t enquire.

As soon as we were back in our suite, Mum retreated to her room for what was obviously a much-needed nap. Dad, Alex and I watched television and made plans for an early dinner, since we had to be back at Rope Riggers by seven. We found a kebab shop just as the light was fading. Mum didn’t come with us, but when we got back she was in her leotard once more, and I got into mine. We put a change of clothes into a carry bag and then we set off, giving ourselves plenty of time for a leisurely stroll in the twilight. Lots of other people were on the move as well, bearing towards the neon lights of the local nightlife like moths to a street lamp.

When we arrived for the evening program, we found about half the number of people as attended the daytime class. This time everyone collected in the main hall and the families kept together. The session was called “The Three Elements” and I was intrigued to find out what these might be.

Our instructors were a tall, striking, red-haired woman and a smaller, wiry, Japanese man. After introducing herself as Meredith and her partner as Sensei Ryo (I think I’ve got the spelling right), the woman organized us to sit in a semi-circle with Ryo and herself at the focus. She quickly enlightened us to the identity of the three elements – sensuality, vulnerability and strength. These are the qualities which are expressed when a man ties a woman and she submits to the ropes. (And here I was thinking it was just about having fun!) She also talked about the three facets of being – body, mind and spirit, which I think are supposed to correspond to the three elements.

I don’t remember everything she told us, but I’m inspired to do some research in the near future. Essentially, when I am bound, my helplessness is my power. Although it’s a paradox, what this means is that in my captivity resides my freedom – the freedom to define and explore my limits and my desires, to connect with my spirituality and discover my sensuality. My bonds are not restraints as much as they are a doorway or a channel to new perceptions and experiences; and by daring to be vulnerable, I reveal my strength. Of course, all this could have been arcane mumbo-jumbo, but Meredith kept it light-hearted, and Master Ryo had a rather quirky sense of humour. He kept referring to her as his chicchai dorei (I’ve looked it up!) which means his little slavegirl – ironically humorous because she is almost a head taller and was clearly neither passive nor subservient.

Meredith didn’t hold back in any way. As they began their demonstration, she nonchalantly pulled the top of her leotard down to her waist. At that, there was much audible drawing in of breath.

“Don’t worry, ladies,” she laughed, “you can keep yours on this time.”

This time? Alex and I stared at Mum, as she pretended not to notice.

Meredith led the females through some yoga to relax our muscles, and Master Ryo guided us through a few minutes of meditation, to loosen our bodies for the stresses and strains they were about to receive. We were then put through lots of different bondage positions, postures and poses. Some of them were excruciating. “Break through the pain,” Meredith panted through gritted teeth, but I never quite worked out how to do that, or even what it meant. Some were rather humiliating. “That is no more than a condition of your mind,” she declared. “Shame is something that is created inside you; it cannot be inflicted on you.” Some put me in a trancelike state and others raised me to such an intensity of awareness of everything around me that it was like I was floating out of my body and absorbing all the energy of the room.

“You are not doing, you are not having done to you, you are being,” we were told. And just when I thought it was going to get too opaquely esoteric, Master Kyo got scientific, lecturing us on the role of adrenaline and endorphins.

There were other aspects of the bondage art that dorei Meredith and Sensei Kyo covered. I didn’t really get the stuff about aesthetics, that a bound female is like a flower in early bloom, or that the different arrangements of ropes and knots reflect different states of ki or chi.

It made more sense when Meredith described how a skilled ropemaster is an artist and you – the woman being tied – is his composition. The artistry is in how the ropes highlight the beauty and grace of your female body. Their pattern and texture – harsh, geometrical, rigid and forceful – contrasts dramatically and aesthetically with the smooth skin, the subtle yielding flesh, the sensual curves, the soft swells and crevices, following the natural lines of the feminine anatomy in some places, shaping other parts in ways that bring pleasure to both the artist and his subject. That last bit’s important. Just because your role is passive doesn’t mean you don’t participate in the experience. In actuality, while for your partner it’s a visual experience, for you it’s tactile. He beholds the product of his artistry, but you feel it.

A skilled ropemaster is a true craftsman. He knows not just how to tie the ropes in all different ways and places to create a tableau, but how to use them to give you pleasure – like positioning the knots at pleasure points, and drawing the rope slowly and gently across your skin, to induce maximum stimulation and arousal. He moulds your physical sensations, your thoughts and perceptions and emotions. He twists and bends and interweaves them, as he does the ropes, until they begin to merge. Your ropemaster is your dance partner – as the man he takes the lead, but he cannot dance alone, it is a pas de deux. He is your teacher, training you to become a stronger person, in body, mind and spirit. He is also your guide. He conducts you on a journey of exploration, both sensual and emotional. He takes you out of your comfort zone, beyond the realm of the cosy and the familiar, because your bondage, though it may be joyful and challenging – or even just plain fun – should never be easy. It can be – it will be – uncomfortable, sometimes painful, often humiliating, but that’s the point. If it were otherwise, it wouldn’t be worth it. It is not though ease and comfort that you define and explore your limits, discern and evaluate your hopes and dreams and fears, discover and draw upon and channel your inner strength, open your mind to new experiences and fresh insights.

A skilled ropemaster owns you. Once you have surrendered to his control, you are in his power. He exercises complete dominion over your body and thus over your ability to feel pain and pleasure. You feel what he allows you to feel, see what he permits you to see, go wherever he decides you should go. And yet your submission is not about what he takes from you – your freedom, your comfort, perhaps your dignity – but what he gives to you. It’s interesting in that respect that Meredith stopped using the terms “master” and “active partner” and “submissive”, “passive partner” and “slave” and started talking about the “giver” and the “receiver”.

(Of course, she also reminded everyone about safe words and gestures.)

Sensei Ryo contributed with advice to the males in addition to instruction on preparation, technique, positions and safety, including stuff I didn’t know, for example the use and misuse of pressure points, and issues that need to be reinforced, such as the danger inherent in suspension, strappado and the like. His insights included amusing things like how to interpret the difference between a moan, a groan, a gasp, a sigh and a whimper. Meredith demonstrated, while bound in a severe hog-tie, and I think her responses were genuine, because he was doing things to her to elicit the appropriate sound effects. It was entertaining, but at times also wince-inducing.

During the half-time break, Meredith showed us how to remain in tie-up mode even when not actually restrained by the ropes. We females had to do this while the males got to relax with coffee and biscuits (a bit unfair, really, but in bondage some of the fun has to be one-sided). You hold your hands behind your back, fingers loosely interlocked, remaining silent and keeping your head bowed and eyes downcast. I don’t enjoy this kind of overtly subservient posture, because it’s not who and what I am, plus it’s not like you’re physically bound and don’t have a choice; but it’s an acknowledgement of submission to your ropemaster. Sensei Ryo talked at one stage about invisible ropes and blindfolds, and the paradox of the strongest bonds being those which do not tie you down, and I guess this is what he meant.

For the third and final hour, the sexes were segregated. The males went to one of the other rooms for I’m not quite sure what. In the meantime, Mum and I and the other females remained in the hall, and Meredith was joined by half a dozen more young women, including Sue. We were told to take off our leotards. That worried me, because I thought the guys were going to come back. But Meredith explained that this was to be a demonstration, without the males to inhibit us, of how nudity enhances the bondage experience. When you are naked and there is nothing between you and the ropes, this becomes the point of convergence for all your thoughts, emotions and sensations. I’m not so sure that I get this, but it goes back to what she was saying earlier about exploring and celebrating the natural beauty of your body and how it interacts with and relates to the ropes.

Meredith and her assistants tied us in two positions. The first was a “bonding exercise” – I don’t know if the pun was deliberate. We were sorted into pairs of approximately the same age and size, and I was put with Jane from the day class. We knelt back to back, limbs interlocked – our arms box-tied and bound together, my ankles bound to her knees and vice versa. Our heads were drawn backwards, mine onto my partner’s left shoulder and hers on mine, so we could just see into the corners of each other’s eyes. We were held together in place by a rope harness that ran from a ring on the strap at the back of her gag, over my right shoulder, down my front between my breasts and through my crotch to hers, up her body and over her right shoulder to attach to my gag, completing the loop. Meredith gave the position a name, but I don’t recall what it was. We were completely immobilized, and any small movement from either one of us was felt by the other. It was beautifully intimate.

The second was an “isolation” exercise. We arranged ourselves in an inward-facing circle and were tied in another of the lotus positions, sitting cross-legged with our ankles bound, hands secured behind our backs in double hammer-lock style (that’s wrists crossed between the shoulder blades), a halter about the neck attached to our ankles to bend the torso forward, and another rope connecting our breast harness to our ankles to ease the pressure on the neck. Gagged and blindfolded, we were left in this position for the rest of the session. It was uncomfortable, not unbearably so but just enough that it was impossible to separate myself mentally from my bonds. That’s important in this type of bondage, Meredith explained. You must feel every centimetre of the ropes and you must feel them every second that you are bound.

In fact, this sort of stringent, long-duration tie is one of my favourite experiences. As you settle into your enveloping bondage, your resistance fades, your struggles subside. Discomfort, pain and humiliation begin to blur into pure sensation, and you enter a blissful, trance-like state of acceptance and serenity. You slip into a dreamlike state in which time ceases to have any real meaning. Your whole world shrinks down to your bonds. You’re tied stringently enough that your mind doesn’t wander far from the ropes but not so tightly that stress overwhelms the senses. You’re immersed in an eternal moment, or at least that’s how it feels as the initial ecstatic intensity of your bondage slowly dissolves into languid pleasure. At that point you can drift out of your bonds (mentally that is, not physically… of course), to go to that “other place” beyond conscious thought and feeling. If that’s what you are trying to achieve, your bondage can be incredibly liberating. But the sort of bondage we were being taught here was for the opposite effect. You submerge yourself totally in your bondage, drawing energy and vitality from the ropes even as you’re surrendering to their hold on your body.

Eventually, the stress of the severe binding began to overwhelm the other sensations and perceptions. Mild cramping began to set in, nothing serious but enough that I was starting to wonder just how much longer this would go on. But Meredith timed it well. At that moment the session came to a close. We were untied in an unhurried manner so that we could come down slowly. We remained blindfolded, with our hands still tied behind our backs, as our senses gradually readjusted. I lay with my head in Mum’s lap. Her warm, naked skin was soothing and comforting against my cheek. She was gently panting and trembling a little, and I suppose I was too.

What happened after that, until we arrived back at the hotel, is largely a blur, even though it’s not much more than an hour and a half ago. Just as we finished getting dressed, the males came back into the room. We all thanked dorei Meredith and Sensei Kyo and their assistants with an ovation that was somewhat muted – we (the females at least) were still a little too spaced out to get too animated.

It occurred to me as we were walking home that the bamboo poles I’d seen that morning hadn’t been used. I didn’t know whether to be relieved or disappointed, and I asked Mum and Dad about them. They responded with another of their inscrutable looks, so I didn’t pursue it. After supper, I left Alex watching television while I started writing up today’s diary entry…

Today has been... interesting... and tomorrow is going to be a busy day. We’re getting an insider’s tour of the resort, which means shadowing members of the staff as they go about their jobs. That I think will be fascinating. But more important, I’ll be meeting up with Philip.

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Re: THE RESORT (New Revised Edition)

Postby Kyle » Thu Oct 07, 2010 1:54 pm

You're a good writer with a good imagination. Keep it up, I'm starting to want to work at this place too. Even though it's very clearly fantasy it almost sounds real.

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Re: THE RESORT (New Revised Edition)

Postby sarobah » Thu Oct 07, 2010 2:22 pm

A lot of part 4 is based on a kinbaku/shibari session my boyfriend and I attended. It was (to say the least) intense.
~ Sarah
Words, like Nature, half reveal and half conceal the soul within.

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Re: THE RESORT (New Revised Edition)

Postby NiceAndTight » Fri Oct 08, 2010 11:13 am

cant wait! :big: :mrgreen: :mouthopen:
Tie me all you want, just don't leave me with a cliff hanger

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Re: THE RESORT (New Revised Edition) M/F

Postby tugsbd » Sat Oct 09, 2010 8:01 am

Sarah, you are an amazing writer! And I learned so much just reading this story. You know so many things about bondage. Please keep writing!
I love tying and being tied up! Struggling hard but unable to escape. Mouth filling gag. Helpless. Vulnerable.

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Re: THE RESORT (New Revised Edition) M/F

Postby sarobah » Sat Oct 09, 2010 6:02 pm

The story continues with day six. So what happened to day five?
Something went wrong on the journey from my brain to the keyboard.
No worry – each part of the story is essentially self-contained, so we can jump without disruption to the following day. Nevertheless, to fill in the gap until part 5 is repaired:
On her fifth day in the resort, Sarah and her parents “shadow” members of the staff as they go about their jobs, while Alex goes to school. At lunchtime, our heroine meets up with new guy Philip. In the evening, Sarah and Alex receive their Pioneers uniforms (

tugsbd: And I learned so much just reading this story.

So glad I could be of service :o)

~ Sarah
Words, like Nature, half reveal and half conceal the soul within.

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Sarah’s Journal, Day Six. Trek

Postby sarobah » Sat Oct 09, 2010 6:08 pm

Here I am, back in that sanctum of salubrity, our hotel suite. I’m exhausted, aching all over and chafed in all sorts of places, insect-ravaged and mildly sunburnt, but utterly elated, from our sojourn in the wilderness. As I write this, it’s the dawn of our eighth day, and I’m sitting on the balcony enjoying my seventh tropical island sunrise. It’s our last morning in the Regatta, for this afternoon we move into the Oasis and become official residents of Aranea Resort.

My Pioneers adventure was not exactly what I expected – in some ways better, in others not so much. But it never got boring. As usual I was the first in the family to be up and about, and waking Alex was one of those ambiguous pleasures – it’s fun at the time but you know it’s going to cost you. As he shook the fuzz out of his head, he grumpily demanded that I put on my blindfold, but I fled to the sanctuary of the kitchen, to help Mum prepare breakfast. When he had changed into his uniform, I went back and put on mine. I didn’t know which shorts to wear, so I went with the boy-cut pants and put the other pair in my pack. The brochure that came with our outfits didn’t tell us anything about what else to bring, so to be on the safe side I stuck in a standby bra and knickers, some hankies, and an extra pair of socks.

We had breakfast with plenty of time to spare. The ranger station is located just a few minutes’ walk from the hotel. Mum and Dad accompanied us as far as the bottom of the hill, then sent us on our way with the customary “Have a good time and take care.”

“And Sarah,” Mum continued, “watch out for your brother.” She paused. “You know what he’s like.”

Alex sneered. “Where’s that gag when you need it?”

“Don’t be cheeky, young man,” Dad growled.

I started to wave good-bye, but our parents were already heading back up the hill.

“Have fun yourselves,” I called after them. “Try not to get too...”

“Don’t you be cheeky either, young lady,” my mother said, without looking back.

“Put your hands out,” Alex demanded. He was holding one of the familiar leather straps.

“Not now,” I told him, and he sulkily put it away.

When we reached the ranger station, a tidy wooden two-storey cabin with a broad veranda, some fifty or so kids, all in the Pioneers uniform, were already assembled or just arriving, an even number of boys and girls. The sun was just climbing over the crest of the ridge, but because there was still moisture in the morning air it clung icily to my unprotected limbs. I joined the other girls in stamping on the grass and swinging arms to keep warm, and I envied the boys in their long sleeves and trousers. As for my shorts dilemma, I saw that it had not been mine alone. The two styles, boy and booty, were equally represented.

A half-dozen rangers of both sexes were standing off to one side. They were all in their mid to late twenties. Their uniforms were identical to ours except in plain olive drab rather than camouflage greens and browns, and of course the females wore the ubiquitous collar.

One of the women stepped up onto the veranda to call us together, and waited patiently for the noise to disperse.

“Hi, I’m Laura” she announced.

“Hi, Laura,” we all intoned.

She acquainted us with the other rangers. I don’t recall every name, so I won’t mention any. Then she summoned eight of the teenagers to come forward, and she introduced them as ranger cadets. One of them I recognized as Karen, Alex’s partner from the workshop the other day. Laura asked us to thank them for giving up their weekend to help out as camp leaders. We gave them a rousing cheer. Thereafter we were treated to a rather long and somewhat tedious lecture about rules, safety procedures and a few other things. It was all just common sense, really – but I guess it depends on how you define common. The wind had picked up, and we were starting to shiver... well, half of us were. Laura rubbed her bare forearms, looked around at her colleagues, nodded and announced: “Let’s get moving.”

One of the men took over the proceedings. He instructed us girls to remove our backpacks and place them in a neat stack beside a van that was parked next to the hut. He and one of his colleagues began stowing them in the rear of the truck. The boys kept theirs, so I knew that there was more to this than simply relieving us of our loads for the impending trek. In the meantime, a few tubes of sunscreen and cans of insect repellent were passed around, while Laura and two of the cadets conferred and consulted a list of our names. Once we were slathered and sprayed, we were sorted into two groups, balanced by age and sex. We were designated the Reds and the Blues and were each given a small tag of the appropriate colour to clip onto shirt collars (the boys) and left shoulder straps (the girls). I found myself assigned to the Blues. Alex was a Red.

The teams stood apart, separated by a few metres, and already we were deeply into the spirit of the contest, baring teeth and tossing hostile stares across no-man’s-land. Yet Laura thereupon ordered all of us girls to switch sides. Baffled, we crossed over. The cadets had been allocated to the two teams as well, and Karen joined mine, standing next to Alex. I thought it was a sweet gesture, that she even recognized let alone acknowledged him, and he grinned like the proverbial Cheshire cat. But then the male cadets drew the boys on their respective teams aside for a briefing. We girls cooled our heels, no one speaking, but I and no doubt most of us had a good idea of what was coming next.

The boys came back and stood in a row facing us. One of the team leaders ordered us to turn about and get into a line with our hands behind our backs. A couple of girls wavered and the command was repeated, more emphatically. I glanced back towards the rangers, who were watching the action unfazed, so we hurriedly formed a single rank.

The guy in charge (I shall call him the CO, for cadet officer) began barking orders: “Stand still! Keep quiet! Feet together! Wrists crossed! Look straight ahead! Wrists CROSSED, I said!” I could hear his Blue counterpart shouting the same thing at the Red girls. We waited for what seemed like ages but was really just a minute or two, not daring to even twitch. Finally, still astern of us, the CO gruffly informed us that we were now prisoners of the Red team. He continued with his harangue as we stood silently facing away from him, and I could hear feet shuffling behind us. The boys were getting ready for something, and because my attention was diverted I missed most of what we were being told. From the scraps I did manage to pick up, it seemed that the object of the exercise was that over the next two days our Blue teammates would be attempting to rescue us from the clutches of our captors.

I hadn’t anticipated that my Pioneers adventure would be a war game. I had assumed we were in for a couple of days of hiking, camping and all that other outdoor adventure stuff that I love so much (she said with tongue planted firmly in cheek). It would be like the commando games Alex and I used to play with our friends back home, before I (somewhat regretfully) left behind my tomboy days. Back then, we girls usually ended up as the prisoners of the boys, so this was all so very nostalgic.

I took a quick peek over my shoulder, earning a rebuke from the CO, but catching a glimpse of one of the boys advancing upon my rear. He was small, about Alex’s age, kind of good-looking with a mess of shaggy blonde hair. As I felt his hands grasp my arms, I flinched, and maybe that intimidated him, because instead of immediately tying my wrists he just tightened his grip and began trying to push my elbows together. I stiffened my arms and was about to protest, but the girl along the line had started to resist – I don’t know why, maybe for no other reason than to cause trouble, purely for the fun of it. She was forced onto her knees with the help of the CO and quickly subdued. So I decided to play it cool; but even when he got around to binding my wrists, Blondie (as I shall call him, since I never found out his real name) was having an inexplicably hard time getting the cord properly looped and cinched. As a result, he was tugging and hauling and heaving on my arms and jerking me about. I don’t know whether he was nervous or merely inexperienced – probably both. Perhaps this was the first time he had tied up a strange girl (and they don’t come much stranger than me, or so I’m told). Just when I was afraid he was going to do me some real damage, he got help from the CO to complete the job.

“Good girl,” the CO said as he patted me benevolently on the head. I imagine that was for putting up with the rough treatment without complaint, but I found it to be rather patronizing.

By the time we were ready to move out, an hour must have elapsed since Alex and I had left the hotel. The sun was now high in the sky and beating down on us with fierce intensity. The tingling goosebumps on my skin had given way to glistening beads of perspiration. Meanwhile, the village was starting to come alive, with resort staff going about their business and guests heading for the beach or to breakfast. A few passers-by stopped to see what we were up to. At last, as I was getting increasingly restless, Laura called out something, and our CO yelled: “Prisoners, right turn! Company, move out!”

We began marching. I was right in the middle of the line. We weren’t tethered, but we were ordered to keep up close, and at times we bunched up so tight that I could sniff the hair of the girl in front of me. Her shampoo smelled like strawberries. But the uneven rhythm and a series of stops and starts as we headed up the track caused the column to gradually spread out, to about a pace between us. Which was a good thing, because when the trail got rougher I didn’t fancy stumbling into Miss Strawberry to my front or tripping over the feet of the girl to my rear.

“From this point, you don’t talk, you don’t make a sound, you don’t try to escape,” the CO insisted. Since we hadn’t done any of these things, the command seemed superfluous.

“You don’t say,” a squeaky voice retorted from somewhere behind me. Surprisingly, there was no reprimand.

A couple of dozen parents had stuck around to wave good-bye, and the handful of interested bystanders hung about until we passed out of sight into the forest. We trudged along a muddy track that narrowed and began to meander as it ascended the southern flank of Granite Peak. The summit loomed sombrely through the dissipating mist, about two kilometres to our front. As the path got steeper, it became more slippery, so Blondie decided I needed his assistance and clamped his fist around my left upper arm as we walked. That became irritating after a while because it hindered my progress rather than helped. He kept pulling and jolting me. He obviously liked having this physical connection with his captive but was blissfully unaware that for me it was just a nuisance.

Most of the boys were walking alongside us. They were laughing and joking, trying to act and sound casual, although you could hear the excitement in their voices. Of course, if any female made a sound, she was rudely threatened with a gag.

Half a dozen places ahead of me, near the front of the line, Alex was escorting Karen. He was holding onto her bound wrists, and his hand was resting on her backside. Her shorts had ridden up somewhat and I could see Lil Bro was fondling the bare flesh. Every so often, for a reason I don’t care to speculate on, Karen’s fists clenched and her butt cheeks quivered, and she flashed him a glare. But she maintained her silence. He looked back, saw me staring at him, and gave me one of his Dick Dastardly grins.

At first I thought we were going to climb to the very top of the mountain – a daunting prospect, especially with my hands bound behind my back; but after maybe an hour or so the trail began to veer to the left, until we were heading directly west, skirting the summit. The scenery was beautiful and spectacular, as we trekked along the base of a wall of sheer black-and-grey speckled stone, at least sixty metres high. It’s hemmed in by fantastically lush vegetation fed by the constant streams of water flowing down and out of the rock face, and covered in its lower reaches by delicate mosaics of moss and lichen. By now, everyone was hushed by the awesomeness of our surroundings, and the only sound anyone made was the crunching of leaves underfoot – subsumed beneath a shrill chorus of birds and insects and the incessant patter and splatter of the water.

With the forest canopy closing in almost completely overhead, the temperature had dropped dramatically, but the humidity was high and I was feeling its effects. My clothing, such as it was, had become drenched with perspiration, and maddening rivulets ran down my forehead and cheeks, trickling into my eyes and seeping into the corners of my mouth. With my hands immobilized, all I could do was try to blink the sweat away and lick the salt from my lips. More annoyingly, errant tree branches and talons of undergrowth invaded the pathway and clawed at my bare legs, scratching and grazing, and I was incapable of protecting myself. I didn’t mind that my hands were bound; after all, we were prisoners; but I resented the boys for their trousers.

It was still only mid-morning when we crossed over the ridgeline that runs westward from a jagged outcropping of the central peak. At its crest, we were treated to a breathtaking vista, the entire western half of the island. The ground fell away steeply, the verdant lower slopes still enveloped in shadow, to three deeply embayed beaches (one I recognized as Pirate’s Cove) separated by rugged headlands. Recalling the map in the brochure, I recognized the most northerly and deep-set of the inlets as Pioneer Valley. It was flanked on the north-east by a large peninsula, some two kilometres long and bisected lengthways by a craggy spine of barren rock. Beyond that, hidden by the sullen taupe monolith of Granite Peak, lay Adventure Valley.

“Don’t stop, keep moving,” the CO brayed. As we tramped over the rim, I took a last look to the rear. Just visible behind a smaller ridge that snaked off to the south-west was the outer edge of Resort Village. In middle of the cove, the cruise ship was still anchored, and a dinghy was departing for the shore, leaving a spreading silver trace in its wake. Along the curve of the beach I could make out the tiny figures of swimmers and sunbathers, and I could see perched on the hillside above the Regatta Hotel. I thought about Mum and Dad down there and what they might be doing right now. I giggled at the idea. Blondie nudged me forward.

Because this part of the trail was relatively level, we were moving quickly now. After half an hour more, the track bifurcated. One path swerved sharply to the left and fell rapidly away into Pioneer Valley. The Blue team and their captives, who were some distance ahead of us, took that route. They were soon out of sight. We continued in the straight-ahead direction, cresting another ridge before beginning a long, steady descent into Adventure Valley. We had gone only a hundred metres or so when the CO called out “Halt!”

He and his associate organized their men to get us prisoners bunched up again. On command, we turned from column into row. The boys stood behind us again, and I heard a couple of gasps and an “Oh no!” before I realized what was happening. Our captors were blindfolding us. I suppose that was inevitable. After all, we were being taken to the enemy’s camp. Nonetheless, it was a bit scary and definitely demoralizing, which was probably the point. The way ahead did not look any easier to negotiate than what we had already traversed, so I knew we were going to have a difficult time of it. Still, it’s part of the challenge, and as I have always maintained, there’s no thrill without some peril.

Indeed, the going got tough almost immediately. Descending the muddy, greasy, winding track without the use of our hands or the benefit of eyesight caused plenty of slips and spills. Once I tripped over the stub of a tree root protruding from the muck. Blondie helped me to my feet each time I stumbled. He gently brushed away the sticks and leaves and dirt that had plastered to my legs. I was about to thank him for his assistance when I thought, “No, I’m his captive; it’s his responsibility to look after me.” And anyway, a couple of times he adjusted my blindfold to ensure that I remained completely helpless.

On the other hand, he did offer me a sip from his water bottle every so often. I declined (because I’m squeamish about sharing saliva with a stranger), but pretty soon I had a raging thirst to go with my aches and pains. My legs were stinging from the swishing of the undergrowth. I was sweating profusely, due as much to the tension as to the heat and humidity, and my perspiration soaked into the blindfold, making it prickly and uncomfortable. Still, the experience was invigorating and in fact quite exhilarating. It’s been a long time since I have had a test like this of my endurance. I was feeling quite proud of myself, and of all the other girls as well. The trek around the island was much harder on us than on the males, and we never faltered. The boys were probably feeling very pleased with themselves, herding their helpless prisoners down the trail, but I’m sure at least some of them were wondering how well they would cope if they were in our position – bound, blindfolded, bare limbs exposed to the elements. (Actually, I’m sure they would do fine, but I guess the point is that until you’ve faced your big test, you don’t know how you’ll respond. It’s when those moments come that you find out who you really are... Okay, that’s enough philosophy.)

It must have been approaching mid-day when we finally reached our objective. Our blindfolds remained on, but I could tell from the brackish tang in the air and the squish of sandy soil underfoot that we were near the beach. There was no sound of waves, so I knew we were still deep inside the bay, and there was hardly a breath of wind, which meant the area was enclosed by high ground. As I continued to make sense of my surroundings, I got the impression that we were in a prepared campsite, not just out in the middle of nowhere, because the grass felt like it had recently been mown. Somewhere I could hear a tap flowing, an indication of decent amenities – running water, proper toilets, maybe even shower facilities.

Confirming my deductions, the CO announced “Welcome to Camp Commando, gentlemen.” (No welcoming words, of course, for us wretched captives.)

We (the wretched captives) were herded onto a patch of turf and ordered to kneel. After several minutes during which nothing happened (or at least, from my perspective behind my blindfold nothing seemed to be happening), we were told we could squat. It didn’t bother me that we weren’t allowed to sit down because the grass was wet and I didn’t want to get my shorts any more damp and dirty than they already were from my tumbles on the muddy track. But crouching on your haunches is a position that’s hard to sustain for long when you’re fatigued and especially when you don’t have your arms to keep you stable or your sight to maintain your sense of balance. After a while my ankles started to wobble, my calves began to cramp, my thighs began to quiver and my body began to sway. Still, for no reason but pride, I was determined not to surrender to the strain; and the girls on either side of me, puffing and panting, were equally revolved.

Meanwhile, the CO launched into another harangue. We were now in the Red camp, we were informed (as if we hadn’t worked that out!), and we shouldn’t forget that we were still prisoners (as if we needed to be told!). There was to be no talking or we would be gagged, no attempt to move about (what, blindfolded?) or we would be hobbled. Then there was movement and noise all around us, followed by another lengthy, mysterious lull.

It took me a while to work out that the boys had gone off to their barracks to deposit their packs and then to lunch. I was starting to feel the pangs of hunger and regretted my light breakfast. I also hadn’t had anything to drink since leaving the village, so my mouth and throat were parched. The squatting was becoming painfully hard to bear and I was getting bitter at the injustice, when at last I heard the guys returning. I felt something pressing against my lips. For a second I thought I was being gagged and was thinking “That’s not right, I haven’t made a sound,” until I realized it was Blondie holding a sandwich to my lips.

I sniffed but did not bite. “Is that egg?” I whispered.

He paused to check. “Yeah, egg salad.”

I quietly explained that I’m allergic. He apologized, went away and came back with what tasted like cheese and tomato. He was quite obliging, really, considering that I was his helpless hostage. He fed me the sandwich and asked if I wanted more. I declined, so he gave me a drink, plain water but cold, refreshing and gratifying. With that, I was starting to feel good again, but soon afterwards things took another turn for the worse. Not that I’m complaining, naturally, but by mid-afternoon I was definitely beginning to wonder what I had signed up for.

I didn’t know exactly what was afoot, but by listening carefully I could make out essentially what was going on. The guys had split into two squads, one of which went out on patrol – scouting the area for enemy incursions. I was dubious that any sort of attack was likely, since the Blues’ base (my base, really) was so far away, but my teammates and their prisoners had about an hour’s head start getting to and settled in their camp, so it was conceivable that they could launch a raid in the next couple of hours, or possibly after sunset. The latter prospect I found less than appealing. I didn’t fancy the idea of being rescued if it meant blundering through the undergrowth in darkness in my skimpy uniform. It would also mean leaving behind my backpack with all my spare gear.

On the other hand, captivity meant... well, captivity. The remaining boys stayed in the camp to defend it and watch over their prisoners. Because we now outnumbered our guards two to one, even though bound, they decided we needed to be better secured. First they gagged us. I knew that was coming – it was inevitable, really – but we were subjected to bulbous, acrid-tasting, thirst-inducing rubber gags that filled the mouth, making it impossible for us to emit any sound, but nasty. I quickly realized that it was Alex gagging me; I guess Blondie was out on patrol.

A few of the girls chose to offer resistance. I could hear muffled protests through clenched teeth and clamped jaws. Still, I knew it was just a part of the game, because interspersed with the stifled remonstrations were giggles and clowning about. The captors teased and taunted their victims who in turn mocked and cursed their tormentors – well, it sounded like mocking and cursing, because as soon as anyone opened her mouth to say anything, the gag went in and defiant invective became inchoate burbling. And since this was a no-win situation, I resolved once again to play it cool and cooperate.

Alex strapped my elbows, knees and ankles with some sort of tape, then shoved rather brusquely on my shoulders to force me to lie down. He rolled me onto my stomach. So much for keeping off the wet ground! He only had to press against the backs of my knees for me to get the message and bend my legs to bring my heels up to my backside. He completed the hog-tie. It wasn’t very stringent, but my muscles and sinews were stiff and sore from the morning’s exertions, and the grass was itchy and scratchy on my bare limbs.

We were still arranged in line, bound, gagged and blindfolded, prone on our bellies, close enough to each other that we touched. We lay there for what must have been several hours. The tedious monotony became excruciating, and the girl to my right was constantly squirming and fidgeting. To add to the unpleasantness, we were being molested by biting insects. The repellent had worn off or been diluted by perspiration, and being bound we were helpless to protect our exposed skin. Whenever any of us tried to ward off the little devils or to shake off an incipient cramp, she bumped and jolted her neighbours. Each wriggle and twitch sent a tremor up and down the line, accompanied by a ripple of soft grunts and whimpers. Now I think it is a great test of patience and stamina, and also good training in perseverance and self-discipline, to be so trussed up for hours on end, keeping your mind occupied as best you can to stave off the boredom and distract your mind from the increasing discomfort. However, some of the less resilient girls had begun to groan, and someone was thrashing about, jostling us all. This was almost as annoying as the strafing of the insect pests and made it increasingly difficult to release my mind from my bonds.

I was feeling grumpy enough when things got desperate, as my bladder started sending dire warnings. After bearing the strain for ages, getting more frantic, I felt I was just about to burst or – worse – let go, when a final shudder passed along the row of bodies. The girls to my left were being stood up one by one. When my turn came, my legs were freed and firm hands grasped my upper arms to haul me to my feet. We were marched a short distance, kept close together, each girl in physical contact with those in front and behind, so that we could be properly guided by just a couple of escorts. When we reached the ablutions block – yes, I was right about there being decent amenities – we were taken in two at a time and helped by one of the women rangers to... well, by now I knew the drill and didn’t need much assistance.

Greatly relieved, I marched with my fellow prisoners back out onto the grass, and I didn’t mind another hour or so in my hog-tie. Yet this was certainly not what I had expected of my first day in the Pioneers – although in retrospect I suppose I should have anticipated something like this. It wasn’t exactly fun, and the excitement had long since worn off. Nearby, I could hear Alex and the other boys, laughing, joking, playing about (not exactly vigilant about guarding their base, I have to say), and I was feeling just a little bit jealous. Oh well, I guess it was one of those reminders to us, prostrate and hog-tied, that there is a price to pay for being the superior sex.

I could now feel the late afternoon closing in fast, because shadows were sweeping across my legs, raising a light scattering of goosebumps. I started to fret again, irrationally, that we might have to stay like this all night. However, not long afterwards there was a commotion in the camp, excited chatter and laughter. The patrol squad was returning from their mission. I could hear female voices, so it appeared that they had managed to rescue at least some of their girls from the enemy’s clutches. The freed girls decided it was appropriate to exact their revenge on us poor, helpless captives, subjecting us to merciless tickle torture.

I heard one of the rangers say “No, that’s going too far,” but I don’t know what additional suffering we were thus spared.

Then, suddenly, the fun and games ended. We were released from our bonds and, while our blindfolds remained in place, we were allowed to get up, walk around and stretch our cramped and aching muscles. It felt so good when that horrible gag came out. We were even permitted to fraternize with our captors. Blondie and I talked for a while. I can’t recall if he told me his name. He is here on a two-week visit, and he was impressed to discover that I am a permanent resident – I didn’t tell him that I was a veteran of exactly six days. He seemed quite shy and I did most of the talking (which is, of course, not unusual). He was also amused, and pleased, and in a way flattered, to learn that I am almost three years his senior. I might have been a little offended, but I do in fact look younger than my age. I could tell it gave him a thrill to have an “older woman” as his prisoner. Guys do seem to enjoy that sort of thing.

I thanked him for his help when I needed it during the hike over the mountain, and he replied with something like “You’re my prisoner, I have a duty to look after you.” And I said “Well, thanks anyway.” And he said “You’re welcome.” All so civil and polite.

(It’s always interesting, having a conversation with a guy when you’re blindfolded, especially someone you don’t know well. You can’t see him to pick up or convey signals. Your eyes are hidden from him as well, but he can see the rest of your face and he can study your body language. So he has the advantage. You have to be alert and rely on tone of voice and other nuances for cues and clues. It can be frustrating, but it adds a degree of subtlety and – let’s face it – a certain piquancy to the interaction.)

Eventually the blindfolds came off as well. The camp turned out to be better equipped than I had pictured behind the folds of black fabric. As well as the shower and toilet block, there’s a kitchen and mess hall, a shack that doubles as ranger station and medical facility, and a row of prefabricated wooden huts, our sleeping quarters. It’s located right on the edge of the beach and, as I had suspected, deep inside the bay. The sun was still above the ridgeline on the far side of the water, but very close to the rim. Within a few minutes it was gone.

Laura was attached to our camp, and she called us together for a briefing. The game was suspended till dawn, she announced. That made sense; my earlier fears were groundless. You can’t have a bunch of teenagers crashing about in the rainforest in the darkness in the middle of nowhere. So until morning, all operations were cancelled, all allegiances were annulled. We were all the same... Well, not exactly. After a quick wash, we females were called to the kitchen area to prepare the dinner. I’ve never really understood the logic that not having a penis makes you inherently adept at cooking and sewing and stuff like that. Indeed, my inadequacy in such areas is fast becoming legendary. So I basically just hovered on the edges of the action, helping out as best I can and trying to avoid contaminating the food. The girls in the other camp must have had a more onerous job, since we had five of their number to share the workload. The males, in the meantime, engaged in some noisy sporting activity on the beach – football, volleyball, cricket maybe – all I know is that while we made the dinner, they played with their balls. That’s another thing guys enjoy.

After dinner, we sang songs and told stories around a roaring fire. Everyone went quiet to listen to the cheery crackling of the coals and the gentle splashing of the waves and the sinister shuffling and scuffling of the nightlife prowling in forest beyond the friendly circle of light. And as the embers began to wink out, one by one, the moon and stars took over. After that, we retired to our sleeping quarters, austere but homely. I shared with four other girls and one of the cadet leaders, Sabrina. We stayed up late. We talked about boys, we talked about sex, we talked about boys and sex, and then we got onto the important stuff, shoes, clothes and music. It was around midnight when we finally got to sleep. I had survived my first day as a Pioneer and as a captive at Camp Commando.

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Re: THE RESORT (New Revised Edition) M/F

Postby bound-black-girl lover » Sat Oct 09, 2010 6:46 pm

I can understand about losing an entire part, but when you refer to "Pioneer uniform(s)" and then don't describe what they LOOK like on a "fetish" site...

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Re: THE RESORT (New Revised Edition) M/F

Postby sarobah » Sat Oct 09, 2010 7:15 pm

bound-black-girl lover wrote:Arrgh!
I can understand about losing an entire part, but when you refer to "Pioneer uniform(s)" and then don't describe what they LOOK like on a "fetish" site...

Well, I did give you the link :o)
Words, like Nature, half reveal and half conceal the soul within.

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Re: THE RESORT (New Revised Edition) M/F

Postby bound-black-girl lover » Sun Oct 10, 2010 4:11 am

Yes you did! Sorry~ I screwed-up!

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Re: THE RESORT (New Revised Edition) M/F

Postby NiceAndTight » Mon Oct 11, 2010 10:11 am

You are genius!!!!!! :!: :big: :o :D :) :odd: :P :wink: :mrgreen:
Tie me all you want, just don't leave me with a cliff hanger

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Re: THE RESORT (New Revised Edition) M/F

Postby sarobah » Mon Oct 11, 2010 1:44 pm

bound-black-girl lover wrote:Sorry~ I screwed-up!

And who among us doesn’t?
NiceAndTight wrote:You are genius!!!!!!

That’s what I keep telling people!

Here is part 7.
Part 5 is still undergoing repair.
~ Sarah
Words, like Nature, half reveal and half conceal the soul within.

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Sarah’s Journal, Day Seven. Pioneer

Postby sarobah » Mon Oct 11, 2010 1:48 pm

We woke this morning to heavy rain pounding the roof of our quarters. With nowhere to go without getting soaked, we sat on our bunks and resumed our gossip session from last night. Two of the girls were Red team members, so we also swapped descriptions of how we’d spent yesterday. Like us, they had been bound and blindfolded most of the time, and they weren’t exactly sure how they had come to be rescued. All they were aware of was lots of shouting and a couple of screams and crashing noises, then being slung over someone’s shoulder and carried off to freedom. Everyone, including Sabrina, was mystified by how the Red guys had managed to get as far as the Blue camp and back in the time we were hog-tied and helpless in Camp Commando. Our new friends regretted the tickle torture which they had inflicted on us when they arrived, but we said they shouldn’t fret about it – no harm done, all in good fun, etcetera, etcetera.

We talked about lots of other things. In particular, we were inquisitive about our cadet leader and her lifestyle here on Aranea Island. Sabrina is just a few months older than me, and her family (she has a Lil Bro as well, around Alex’s age) has lived here for just over a year. Her parents are both managers in the resort. She’s tall and slender, half-Chinese, half-Irish, with silky-sheen jet-black hair, startling green eyes (emerald or jade – both work, what with her heritage) and the most exquisite Eurasian features. All the females here are so over-the-top gorgeous that I’m starting to get jealous. Like me, she’s finished school and has just commenced her university studies, via correspondence. The other girls were envious when I announced that I am also a resident. They thought it was amazing to be able to go to the beach every day and wear bikinis all day long and get tied up all the time.

Eventually the gabfest broke up, as Sabrina told us it was time to get moving. We grumbled that it was still pouring outside, which had no effect whatsoever. We still had our spare pair of shorts to put on, but we had only been issued with the one shirt, and it was grubby and smelly from yesterday’s ordeal on the track and on the grass. Sabrina said “Not to worry,” as she reached under her bunk, to pull out a carton containing a pile of fresh tank tops. They came in a variety of sizes... except apparently small. I ended up with an oversized one that looked pretty daggy, hanging slack on my frame and perilously low and loose on my boobs. Sabrina told me I couldn’t wear my bra because only strapless ones are allowed with the uniform. I complained that this hadn’t been specified in the brochure, and that it was pretty darn sexist, but she just apologized and advised me to refrain from bending forward as much as possible. Thanks a lot, I replied.

Naturally, the business of making breakfast was allotted to us, the distaff members of the camp community, so we made a mad dash through the rain to the kitchen and set about our chores, while the boys got to spend an extra hour in their dry huts. Still, we had a fun time of it, so long as I disqualified myself from any actual food preparation. As well-equipped as the campsite is, I didn’t expect there to be stomach pumps. We were not exactly dressed for the cold, wet, miserable weather, but inside the kitchen it was toasty, if rather smoky.

The guys did help with the clearing, cleaning and washing up duties after breakfast. With that out of the way, since it was still raining hard, we all assembled once more in the mess hall. The tables were folded and stowed at one end of the room, and the seats rearranged into a U-shape. We played some games, and head ranger Laura gave a short but very fascinating lecture on the ecology of the island. Anyway, I found it fascinating (but of course I’m an unreconstructed nerd). Then the session got really interesting. Gina, the other female ranger, and one of the ranger guys (Ben) came out into the centre of the U.

“And now for something completely different,’ Gina announced.

Well, it was different. I consider myself to be progressive and open-minded, but at heart I guess I’m an old-fashioned gal. So I was rather shocked when she started tying up him. Of course, everyone thought it was a great joke, and she kept up a rather witty repartee throughout, while making some obvious points like how a chest-tie doesn’t have the same impact on a guy, and how a crotch-rope doesn’t work exactly the same way either (which got us girls giggling and the boys wincing). Ben looked somewhat uncomfortable during the show, so maybe this was his first time on that side of the ropes, at least in public. Gina finished the demonstration with the advice that we should always be willing to try new things. I think she may have enlightened some of the girls, but the boys looked pretty much unconvinced.

I knew what was coming next, the call for volunteers, and I said to myself “What the heck?” and raised my hand. Half a dozen of us ended up stepping forward, and Gina invited us to choose our partners. All the guys began to fidget and act preoccupied. Alex glowered and Blondie appeared stricken, but they were not in my sights anyway. Everyone laughed – and no one more appreciably than Sabrina – when I chose as my victim the stentorian CO who had hassled us so relentlessly on the trail yesterday.

He hesitated for a few seconds as he had his own “What the heck?” moment. Even as he grinned and bounded into the centre of the U, he gave an “I will get you for this” look that flashed straight past me to Gina.

We went through a few basic ties. The funny thing is, despite having always been on the receiving end, I assumed it would be relatively easy to reverse the process; but instead I fumbled and bungled, and managed to mangle and mutilate some perfectly innocent and inoffensive knots. It’s like trying to reverse engineer a complicated piece of machinery while blindfolded. But it wasn’t just about skill, it was also about attitude. You have to prepare yourself mentally as well as physically for being tied up, so there’s no reason why it should be any different when you’re the one doing the tying. I just hadn’t thought about it like that, and I have to give my brother and all the other guys some credit. From now on when I’m being tied up, I will have some appreciation of what it involves to be the one applying the ropes.

The CO was, I have to say, very patient with my inexperience. He was clearly ill at ease with playing what to most of us has always been the girl’s role – like wearing a dress to the school formal and letting his partner take the lead on the dance floor. Okay, a tortured analogy – let’s just say it was a new sensation for both of us. It felt weird and a little unsettling, and hey, even kinky. But after a short while he relaxed and ceased his passive resistance, which was a good thing because he was a lot stronger than me, and by flexing his muscles and stiffening his limbs he could make my task nigh impossible. And while I could tell he was glad when his “ordeal” was over, I discovered that it can be almost as much fun to be doing the tying as being tied... well, almost. (Actually, I think he enjoyed himself as well, even if he wasn’t prepared to show it.)

In any case, I think we all felt palpable relief when the clattering of the rain on the rooftop began to ease off and eventually ceased altogether. Laura announced that the war game was back on and we all cheered. Even though the prospect of how I was going to spend another day was rather daunting, there was the thrill of anticipation, and also feeling good about being on the right and proper side of the ropes again. And sure enough, after we were ushered outside and we’d applied more layers of sunscreen and insect repellent to our exposed bits, we prisoners were ordered to fall into line on the sodden grass.

This time we were tied up by the Red girls, and it surprised me not at all that they were even less gentle than the males had been the previous day. The girl who bound me was one of those with whom I had shared sleeping quarters and gossip, but the camaraderie was kaput. For some reason, either because of the novelty or on some other grounds that we were not privy to, they tied our arms in a double hammerlock – with elbows bent and hands up between our shoulder blades. It was very tight and a bit painful, and I don’t think the boys would have gotten away with tying us like that. Then we were given chest harnesses as well. The cord was looped between and around my breasts several times – at least it took up the slack on my outsized top. We were linked together in single file with ropes leading from one girl’s wrists to the chest bindings of the girl behind. As yesterday, I was near the middle. Finally, we were once again gagged and blindfolded. Like I’ve said, I dislike the noisome rubber plug gag we had to wear, but I was more dismayed by the blindfold because something was going on about us and I was desperately curious about what it was.

There was lots of sound and movement all around, while we just stood there for maybe half an hour, completely oblivious to what was happening. Then suddenly we were urged forward and marched back up the track. We continued to climb as the sun rose, and it soon became obvious that we were leaving Adventure Valley. To where and for what purpose I had no idea.

As the trail steepened, it became more and more slippery from the recent drenching, and even more so than yesterday I found it impossible to keep a firm footing. We were yoked about an arm’s length apart, and today I didn’t have Blondie to assist me. From what I could gather, we were being escorted by the five Red girls, and they were, as I’ve mentioned, totally unsympathetic to our plight. Well, I couldn’t blame them for that, because this time yesterday they had been prisoners as well, of my teammates, and they’d suffered as we had.

Every time the girl in front of me or the girl behind me skidded or slipped over, she pulled me down too, and I did the same, so we spent the next couple of hours in a sort of weird conga line dance, slurping through the mud, bobbing up and down, lurching this way and that, pitching back and forward, wallowing sideways. Alex has kindly reminded me of how ridiculous we looked and sounded. Some guys maintain that a girl looks incredibly sexy bound, gagged, blindfolded and tethered, but I felt about as sexy as... well, as sexy as someone who’s slathered in mud and lathered in sweat, grunting and groaning and snorting through a mouthful of rubber. Luckily for us, the mire was so deep and glutinous that we didn’t sustain any major injuries, although when I saw myself for the first time later on, I found out just what a treat I looked, caked in a thick layer of red and brown foul-smelling goo. My arms and legs were covered in tiny scratches, and making things worse, the rain had brought out hordes of ravening insects who assailed my arms and legs without mercy, utterly contemptuous of or completely oblivious to the repellent. The stinky mud coating offered some defence – not my preferred form of protection, but moderately effective. Still, despite (or maybe because of) the torments, this new trek was an exciting challenge, and while fun may not be the correct term, it was anything but boring.

We had been tramping for so long that I figured we must be near the head of the valley when I heard distant shouting. Our girl guards ran up and down the line, ordering us in low voices to crouch beside the track. They shoved us down forcefully when we didn’t react fast enough. As I squatted in the long grass, head between my knees, huddled with my fellow prisoners, I tried to figure out what had occurred, and guessed that the scouts up ahead had come into contact with the enemy. After we’d waited an awfully long time, there were voices close by, including laughter. I eventually made sense of it all. The Reds had managed to free two more of their girls. They were evidently winning the war, because they had rescued seven of their teammates now, while all of us Blue girls, so far as I could tell, were still in captivity.

More time passed, and then we started up the track again. I still had no clear picture of what was going on. The gruelling monotony returned as we continued our trek back in the direction of Granite Peak. We stopped for a rest, a drink and a light lunch. When the gag was taken out, my mouth was horribly dry and I must have swallowed half a canteen of water. Happily, pity prevailed and our captors decided not to replace the gags when we moved off once more. And after that, it was basically nothing that I haven’t already described. We retraced our steps back over the ridge onto the high ground above Pioneer Valley, and then circuited the grand monolith and began the descent towards Resort Cove. Our blindfolds stayed on, but I had a precise image in my mind of the trail ahead. I am fortunate to be blessed with a near-perfect memory, so I could recall and avoid every little obstacle and pitfall in my path... well, most of them. Of course, I had the less than perfect recollection of the other girls in my line to contend with, so the homeward journey was not really any less hazardous.

Once again I had the call of nature to worry about, especially after absorbing so much water. But relief came when, somewhere along the track, we stopped in what appeared (from behind my blindfold) to be a picnic area, because there was a concrete toilet block. We were unhitched and taken in three or four at a time by the Red girls. Here in the privacy of the ablutions, feminine solidarity prevailed over team loyalty and they were gentle and helpful. Once outside, we were on opposite sides again.

While we still had the great stone parapet right up against the left edge of the track, I noticed that our route was not the exact reverse of yesterday’s. We continued to slog directly eastwards long after we should have altered course and headed due south. As a result, it was nearly mid-afternoon and we were still high up on the mountain. Then the column halted and we were unhitched and untied. We waited to be told to remove our blindfolds, and when we did I was hit by a wave of vertigo. We had traversed the entire upper valley, past the town, and were standing on the lip of a precipitous ridge looking out over – this time – the eastern side of the island. It was truly an amazing sight, a broad, deeply indented peninsula blanketed by an impenetrable mantle of tropical rainforest, looking from our vantage point like a gargantuan green claw. The ridge upon which we stood branched into several smaller wrinkles about a kilometre in front of us, and one of these terminated in a boulder field, the only break in the dense jungle canopy, littered with rocks some of which must have been as big as houses. It was an unforgettable scene, and I was glad and grateful that we were permitted to see it.

The rest of the trek home was an anticlimax. We reached the ranger station just as the sun was settling on the western headland. It felt rather strange, being able to hike the remaining distance untied. Indeed, it was something of a letdown. I guess it’s because bushwalking is not my favourite pastime, but the fact is that this last phase was rather dull and tedious, without the challenge of bonds and blindfold – I almost missed that ghastly gag (... almost). I felt sorry for the boys, and for the freed Red girls, that they missed out on the experience. Of course, I’ve never understood the attraction of being on the unbound side of the ropes – but to each his or her own, I suppose.

There was a final opportunity, however. After another trip to the toilet, we reconvened for a ceremony to recognize the Red team’s victory over the Blues. A substantial crowd of spectators, mainly parents and younger siblings by the looks of it, including Mum and Dad, had gathered to witness the occasion. We prisoners – fourteen Blue and seven Red girls – were blindfolded and bound (just a simple wrists crossed behind backs on this occasion) for one last time, to be handed over for what head ranger Laura called our repatriation. Each boy on the Red team was given a miniature trophy. Each girl received a silver medallion. Those of us who were bound were formally liberated and untied. Laura praised us all for our “great effort and great attitude” and told us we were one of the best groups she’d ever taken to Camp Commando (yeah, sure... I bet you’ve said that to every group). We showed our appreciation to the rangers and the cadets with a hearty round of applause.

I retrieved my backpack from the van and Alex offered to carry it for me – how uncharacteristically chivalrous of him. I expected that it was so he could tie my hands for the walk back to the hotel, but he never suggested it – he was just being gallant. I said good-bye to Blondie and a couple of the other girls I had gotten to know. As the crowd dispersed, I pulled Alex away from chatting up a couple of the chicks.

“Call me,” he yelled after them as they walked off.

“I’m sure they’re calling you all sorts of things,” I said. “What happened to your girlfriend?”

He looked at me quizzically before saying “Karen?” He said nothing more and I didn’t press. After all, he was still carrying my pack.

Mum and Dad took one look at me, smeared in mud and muck, and shook their heads.

“I can’t take her anywhere without being embarrassed,” Alex mourned.

The hotel receptionist gaped at me, appalled but sympathetic, as we crossed the lobby. She scrutinized the floor in my wake to see if I was leaving a trail of dirt and detritus. Back in the suite, I was sent straight to the bathroom. When I emerged, feeling refreshed but oddly let down, Mum was holding my poor little soiled and sullied shorts and top at arm’s length.

“These will need some heavy-duty treatment,” she declared.

“Do what you can,” I implored.

We went downtown for dinner. Mum was bound and blindfolded, but I asked Alex to leave me be, having had enough for one day. To my surprise, he agreed. My Lil Bro can be quite the gentleman when he isn’t being quite the nuisance. Later on, sipping cocoa in the living room, he and I described our two days in the wilderness, going into every aspect in elaborate detail. Our parents listened indulgently – “Very nice, honey. Well done, sport. Sounds great, sweetie.”

Alex proudly showed off his trophy.

“What did you get, Sarah?” Dad asked.

I held out my arms and legs to show then the bruises, welts and scratches. Mum sort of clucked and gave me a “You should take better care of yourself” look.

“I bet you have a few of your own from the past two days, Mummy dear.”

“That’s enough for tonight,” was her reply. “It’s getting late and you both look very tired. Time for bed.”

I couldn’t argue with that. Alex graciously gave me a couple of minutes’ head start to get into bed so I didn’t have to put on my blindfold. As much as I appreciated the gesture, it will be nice to have separate rooms. Today we’re leaving the hotel and moving into the Oasis. So this has been an historic day. I am now officially a Pioneer; and we are all about to become official residents of Aranea Island.

What I have learnt since our arrival a week ago (... what, only a week? It feels like so much longer) is to be receptive to new experiences, to try things outside the familiar and explore beyond my comfort zone... I would write more, but I can hear someone moving about inside. It’s just about time for the next phase of our great adventure.

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Sarah’s Journal, Day Five. Shadow

Postby sarobah » Thu Oct 14, 2010 2:36 pm

This is the first part of the missing Day Five. As mentioned earlier, I am not really happy with how it’s turned out. But for better or worse…

Part one

When I woke this morning, I had no idea how the day was going to turn out. Now, eighteen hours later, I can pronounce it a resounding success. The idea of following members of the staff about all day as they went about their jobs sounded distinctly unexciting. But I have discovered, through both observation and experience, that even the routine becomes an adventure on Aranea Island.

Kate phoned at seven o’clock for our final briefing. She didn’t know exactly who we would be shadowing or what sorts of jobs we’d be observing or where we would be going – except for poor Alex. He was less than enthused to learn that he would be going to school today. However, he was quickly reassured by Kate that he would be just visiting and would not be subjected to anything like actual education – heaven forbid!

The Resort workforce is organized in four sections – maintenance and supply, hospitality services, executive and professional services, administration and management. When they start their jobs next week, Mum and Dad will both be employed in maintenance – he in engineering and she in planning. But we were told that today they would be assigned to the other divisions, in order to get a more general overview of day-to-day operations. I was to go with my mother in the morning and my dad in the afternoon. To my good fortune and great delight, I found I was allotted a two-hour break in the middle of the day while the parents attended an orientation lecture. That meant I would have plenty of time for my rendezvous with Philip.

We decided to eat in after Dad volunteered to make the breakfast. He’s actually quite a good cook, so long as he sticks to the basics. Of course, I got the usual “Sarah, for pity’s sake, eat something before you fade away to nothing.” Which I ignored, of course.

When we’d finished, we got into our uniforms. Dad and Alex have only the one outfit to worry about, slacks and shirt, whereas I was told to wear my bikini and Mum her halter-top one-piece but to bring both her bikinis as well. We were to wear the pink hibiscus sarong, mine as a skirt and Mum’s as a dress. That meant she had to detach the halter on her costume, because it must be worn strapless with the sarong. We had to write all of this down. It’s funny that the sex wearing the lesser amount of clothing has the more rules governing how it’s worn… but Aranea is hardly unique in that respect. Of course, Mum and I were also instructed to wear our collars, bracelets and anklets, and to bring three of our gags – the ball, plug and ball-plug varieties. We packed our gear in a couple of carry bags, just as it was time to go.

We were scheduled to meet Kate outside City Hall. Despite the grandiose name, this is just an office building and warehouse at the western end of the central business district. It was about a twenty-minute walk away, and this part of the village, well separated from the cafeterias, restaurants and bars, was almost deserted. Yet even as we arrived, a crowd had begun to gather along the roadside. Soon there were several hundred people. Some were eating takeaway breakfasts, most were brandishing cameras, all were abuzz with anticipation. A few, seeing Mum and me in our staff uniforms, gave us inquisitive looks.

My curiosity was piqued because we weren’t aware of any shows being put on for the tourists at this time of morning. Then a voice called out “They’re coming,” and all faces turned to the west, towards where the ground rose to conceal the Oasis, about half a kilometre distant, from view. As I watched, figures appeared on the crest of the ridge, and thereafter we were confronted by a truly extraordinary sight. At least two hundred, probably more, sarong-clad women were shuffling towards us, strung out in single file. They were ball-gagged and blindfolded, their arms shackled behind their backs, their ankles hobbled. They were tethered to each other by chains linking their collars. They were accompanied by about two dozen young men. These were positioned at regular intervals along the line, languidly chanting “left, right, left, right…” to keep the females in step so they wouldn’t, in their sightless state, trip over each other’s feet.

When the vanguard of the column reached the small plaza in front of City Hall, the women executed a skilful pivot – I say skilful because they performed the manoeuvre without any obvious prompting from their escort – and formed a row with their backs to the building. After thirty had done so, one of the men tapped the next girl on the shoulder and she took a position directly behind her predecessor, so that a second rank was formed, behind the first. After thirty more, a third row was formed, and so on. The spectators broke into spontaneous applause, and I was expecting some sort of ceremony; but instead, once all the women were in formation, one of the men released the first of the prisoners from her bonds, blindfold and gag. He handed her a clipboard. She rubbed her eyes, moistened her lips, massaged her wrists, straightened her sarong and raised a hand to summon the males to gather around her. When they had received their orders of the day, they went along the rows and unhitched a dozen more women, who were brought to the leader. They listened to her instructions, unable to see or speak but nodding their acknowledgement. Only after that were they liberated from their shackles, gags and blindfolds, and amongst them I recognized Kate. They and four or five of the men began freeing the rest of the females, in a selective way, and I realized that these were the section heads getting their teams together. And as the audience dispersed, the workers of Aranea Island went off to their jobs.

When Kate saw us, she smiled and came over.

“Well, did you like the show?” she asked.

Dad and Alex grinned. Mum had a strange look – I’m sure she was thinking that in a few days she would be part of the show. Kate must have read her expression.

“It’s just one of the little rituals we put on for the tourists. Anyway, let’s not be late. Alex…”

My Lil Bro’s face lit up.

“You’re off to school…”

My Lil Bro’s face darkened.

“I will take you, if that’s okay.”

My Lil Bro’s face lit up again.

Meanwhile, we’d been approached by a young man and woman who were standing back, waiting to be introduced.

“Lucy, Matt,” Kate informed us. She completed the formalities and explained the agenda. Mum and I were to be shadowing Matt this morning, Lucy this afternoon; for Dad, vice versa. Then, without further ado, Kate took Alex by the hand and began walking off. I have no doubt at all that he wanted desperately to put her back in her cuffs but didn’t have the nerve to ask. She didn’t volunteer and I don’t know what would have been her response if he had worked up the courage.

As they set off in the direction of the Oasis, Lucy turned to face away from us. I thought she was about to walk off, but she held her spot and put her hands behind her back. There were a few seconds of awkward silence before my dad got the message and drew her wrists together to secure them. As he did so, he couldn’t hold back a sheepish grin, and a wink at my mother. She replied with her usual roll of the eyes. She and I then waited a moment, our arms wavering; but Matt answered with a subtle shake of the head. So I was a bit confused. At first I thought there might be some code or etiquette, that female staff don’t get tied up by their superiors – or in this case our mentors – but during the day I saw several cases of that. I don’t think it was because Dad was there – since he had just cuffed Lucy, that would have been a double standard. I’m sure it was because of me, and that got me worried. Was this going to be the pattern for the rest of the day?

Matt ushered us into the building. The lobby was empty – it was still very early – except for a male and female in reception. While there are not a lot of things left here that surprise me, I got a bit of a shock to see that the girl was chained by her collar to the counter. She had just enough freedom to move about in her workspace but not enough to leave it.

Mum asked the obvious.

The girl smiled, turned to her colleague for approval (apparently that’s important) and unfastened the clip on her collar.

“Health and safety regulations always apply,” Matt explained. “We work on the honour system.” I took that to mean that you don’t release yourself except in an emergency. The girl reattached her chain and returned to her work.

Matt told us to hand over our bags containing our spare uniform bits. We were instructed to keep one gag – since we had a choice, we both opted for the ball-plug. We didn’t have to put it in our mouths yet, just wear it round our necks, ready for when the occasion arose. Matt then took us up to the second floor, and my heart sank. The room was filled with office cubicles, a bank of telephone consoles lining one wall. And that’s where we spent the morning, in the guest information and inquiries unit – or what its denizens facetiously call the “G spot” (for grouses, gripes and grumbles). It was not the most exciting of times. We moved around, observing the various functions and procedures. Most of the staff were women. They weren’t chained to their desks. Some were gagged – not the phone operators of course – but I couldn’t detect any system for who was and who wasn’t. So I asked Matt.

“Personal choice,” was all he said.

Sorry, but I have hard time believing there isn’t more to it than that. I like my gag as much as any gal does, but there’s a time and a place – and on the job isn’t that time or that place. I suspect that the “choice” has more to do with a commitment made to a boyfriend or hubby, or something like that. Nevertheless, the sight of the gags was a reassurance that the resort’s raison d’être is not just a façade for the tourists. In fact, the most important thing I have learned today (and I guess I’m jumping ahead of my story here) is that being a member of the staff is, for the females in particular, not just a job, it’s a lifestyle. We are reminded of that by the collar, bracelets and anklets we are required to wear when on duty and the choker that must be worn at all other times, at least when in public. They are not just part of your uniform, they are symbols of what you are and what you’re not. They become like a part of you. That’s how the males are different. Matt and my dad get to shed their company personas at the end of the working day – it’s their decision. (It’s the same with Alex, of course, and his school uniform.) We don’t. What defines us (the females), what separates us from the males, is what we are twenty-four-seven.

The way Alex, for example, would see it is that having the freedom of choice to be whatever you want to be and do what you want in your own time is one of the privileges of being male, on Aranea Island. And in a way I understand his perspective. The laws and customs of the Aranea community do confer on one sex certain special rights and on the other certain obligations. For instance, it must be quite a treat for a boy to be able to give commands to his big sister and have her obey – like making me wear the blindfold in our bedroom. But I think that’s missing the point, or at any rate it’s only a part of the equation. Bondage is not about equality – how could it be true bondage if it were? But it’s not about inequality either. For me, the pleasure comes from submission to the ropes – I would no more want to swap places with my brother than he would with me. And it’s not about fairness either. Why would it be unfair if I’m happy with the way things are? The appropriate word, I believe, is asymmetry… But I should get back to my story.

We took a mid-morning break in the ground floor cafeteria. By the time we returned upstairs, the flood of inquiries (and a few complaints) from the guest population had abated. Matt told us this was normal, with the next deluge due to begin around lunchtime. So this was the opportune time to hold staff meetings and training seminars. Today, section heads were getting together to discuss WHS protocols relating to front office operations. Which, translated, means workplace health and safety measures for staff dealing face-to-face with the guests. A range of issues had been identified, and I found it not at all astonishing that virtually the entire agenda was taken up with matters involving female staff. One was a recommendation that security personnel be absolved of the compulsion to wear the collar and cuffs, for both practical and symbolic reasons. The proposal was voted down. There simply aren’t enough incidents to warrant such a drastic revision of fundamental policy.

The meeting was chaired by the woman who had taken over the morning’s assembly, and when it was over she came over to say hello. Her name is Maggie and she’s one of the three AIR executive directors. It gave me a thrill to be meeting someone so important, but what happened next even more so. While she was talking to us, Matt moved behind her and lightly tapped her on the elbows. She glanced, hardly moving her head, over her shoulder, and her expression betrayed a flash of annoyance before she placed her hands behind her back and he joined her bracelets. He loosened the gag strap hanging around her neck and pushed the ball into her mouth, before securing the buckle.

“Sorry, ladies” he explained, “the boss has an engagement.” He may have been sorry to us, but there was no apology for her as he roughly seized her upper arms and swung her around and pointed her towards the door. As she walked off, she was taken into custody by another young guy, who already had two women in tow, on short leashes.

“Anyway,” Matt said, “Helen, it’s time for your appointment as well.”

Mum knew what that meant and put her hands behind her back.

As for me, Matt continued. “Sarah, I hear you have a date of your own.”

I didn’t like his rather snide smile, but I didn’t respond.

“Do you need help…”

“No thanks, I know the way… But thank you for the tour. Bye, Mummy.”

She didn’t reply. She couldn’t reply. Matt had just finished tightening the strap around her head.

Outside, it took me a few moments to transition from the artificial light of indoors to the dazzling sunshine. I only just remembered to retrieve my purse from the reception desk and deposit my wrist and ankle cuffs. Then it was a short walk to the park where Philip and I had agreed to rendezvous.

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Sarah’s Journal, Day Five. Shadow

Postby sarobah » Sun Oct 17, 2010 7:19 am

Part two

First I had to meet Alex. His orientation was only for the morning session, and thus it was my onerous duty to assume the role of guardian – over his strenuous objections, naturally. However, since his alternative was to spend the entire day at school, he decided that the company of moi was the lesser of two evils.

He and Kate were waiting for me on a lawn bench in the City Hall plaza. They were happily chatting, but she looked relieved as I arrived. Her wrists were shackled to her collar, in the “prayer” position, and her ankle cuffs were attached, so she couldn’t escape my brother even if she’d been inclined to. Alex, disappointed to see me, reluctantly freed her feet, but he left her hands bound. She took her leave with a reminder that we were to be back on this spot by one o’clock.

As soon as she was gone, knowing what he had in mind I waved my brother away and took off towards the park, calling “Come on” over my shoulder. I suppose he could have been obstreperous, but like me he knows which battles to fight and which to avoid, so he trailed glumly after me. It was only a few minutes to the park. There weren’t a lot of people – it was too late in the morning for breakfast and too early to start picnic lunches – but on cue, just as we entered from one direction so did Philip from the other. We met in the middle, under a vast, ancient palm tree. He was with a boy of about Alex’s age, maybe a little older, whom he introduced as his brother Kevin. After a cursory “Yo” to Alex, they looked me up and down. I gave them a minute to fully appreciate my bikini-clad hotness.

Just as I was about to break the gaze and suggest we get something to eat, Philip asked us to wait for Nikki. It took me a couple of seconds to recall that she was his sister, whom I’d only met yesterday... well, my excuse is that there have been a lot of things happening to jam up my memory. So we found a suitable patch of grass in the shade of a massive palm frond. We exchanged a few idle, awkward pleasantries, and it wasn’t too long before Philip asked if he could tie me up. I resisted the urge to respond “It’s about time” and instead went with “Well... okay…” Alex wasn’t fooled, and I doubt that the other guys were deceived either, but a girl’s got to be a little hard to get.

Philip took from his trouser pocket a coil of white nylon cord to show me, and I nodded my approval. He asked me why I was smiling, and I told him my joke. I don’t think he got it. (Is that a rope in your pocket or are you just happy to see me? Okay, I admit, it’s lame.) I swivelled my body to face away from him and waited impatiently as he pondered how to tie my hands. He did have the basic idea but was working out the details. The thing is that after a day or two on Aranea Island, every red-blooded male has learnt how to truss a girl’s arms to get the most out of… well, let’s not be coy, how to make her boobs stick out. The sophisticated ones know that the more comfortable way for her is with her wrists crossed and elbows bound, and I was pleased that Philip passed this rudimentary test of character. Nevertheless, he couldn’t resist, while binding my wrists, sliding his fingers a little way under the edge of my sarong and bikini pants. I shivered as he did so, but he didn’t react.

Kevin decided to join in and tie my ankles together. My ever helpful Lil Bro showed him how to cinch the loop to make it more secure. They gave me two or three minutes to get the feel of the ropes, and of course allowed themselves the time to give me a good looking over, especially around the chest area. Then Kevin reached for the gag hanging about my neck. Philip said “Wait” – I think maybe he wanted us to talk some more – but was outvoted by his brother and mine. Etiquette bestowed on him, as initiator of the tie-up, the power of veto, but he acceded to the majority. Given the go-ahead, Kevin held the tip of the plug to my lips. I moistened my mouth and let him slide it in.

Oddly enough, it didn’t feel as comfortable as it had when I got it the other day. I guess I was more relaxed then. The snug fit actually makes it rather irritating to wear, because it takes up the entire inside of your mouth and it clamps your lips in place so you can’t make any sound at all except a low murmur. Which is what a gag is for, so I can’t really complain about that; but it also makes it difficult to control air flow around the gag and therefore saliva. I found myself constantly sucking and swallowing, making strange little slurping noises, and wrapping my tongue around the shaft and ball just to get some sort of sensation other than constriction. So now I’m rather conflicted about it being my favourite. A gag, as with all aspects of bondage, shouldn’t be too cosy, but like in a recipe, one ingredient shouldn’t be so sweet or spicy that it overwhelms the others.

The boys were ambivalent about it as well. I know guys prefer the ball gag. But Alex could see my discomfort, and that was good enough for him. He grinned and I glared and he just grinned back.

Philip took me gently by the arms and pushed me down onto my stomach. I always know what’s coming when a guy does that, so I bent my knees to bring up my heels to my backside. He bound my wrists and ankles together. But it was a pretty weak hog-tie, and after a few minutes I was getting restless and the boys were getting bored. So Philip applied one of his lessons from the other day and put me in a harness. Kevin and Alex held my upper torso off the ground while he looped another length of cord under my arms and over my shoulders, and anchored it to my wrists. When it was pulled tight, my body was arched backwards until my boobs only just touched the grass. The guys were very pleased with the effect, and this level of severity is normally something I can endure for a long time – I’ve had enough practice. Unfortunately, because they had only enough rope to wind it around twice, the pressure wasn’t spread and it straight away began to burn into my bare skin. So Philip removed the harness and sat me up so he and Kevin could try out some breast bondage. He seemed a lot less reticent than he had been the other day.

They spared me anything too extreme, but just as they were starting to get creative, a shadow fell over us. I looked up to see the stately figure of a young woman silhouetted against the sky. In her hands were paper bags from which emanated the unmistakeable aroma of deep fried lumps of seasoned congealed fat. The boys immediately switched their attention from my tethered boobs – just in time, because Kevin had fashioned the remaining two pieces of cord into what looked like leashes, and I had no idea what exactly he was planning. Nikki mournfully shook her head as she seated herself on the grass next to me and untied my hands. She smiled when she saw my appalled expression as the guys ripped apart the defenceless paper sacks like ravenous hyenas. Out of one of the doomed bags rolled a small, forlorn bundle. Nikki snatched it up before the pack pounced. It contained two prawn and avocado salad wraps. At that instant she ascended to the status of a goddess.

As I discovered the other day, Nikki is a study in contrasts. She’s just a few months older than me, but way more mature – taller, more curvaceous and more elegant, and at the same time she’s very much down to earth. She was wearing a string tanga and bandeau bikini so tiny it made me feel positively overdressed, and yet she carried it off with panache. Her expression, bearing and attitude signalled a fearsome pride and formidable self-confidence, but she wore about her throat a slavegirl collar from which dangled a ready-to-go ball-gag; and when she spoke she did so in a self-deprecating manner and showed towards her two younger brothers a certain deference that I would never evince towards my own Lil Bro. The contradictions are so obvious that I am sure she’s playing the game. Back home, I bet she’s the ice queen or the iron maiden.

As soon as we’d finished our lunch, while Nikki cleared up the detritus and deposited it in a nearby bin, Philip tied my hands behind my back again and gagged me once more. And, of course, as soon as Nikki returned Kevin and Alex seized her, forced her hands behind her back and her heels up to her butt, and trussed her in a hog-tie, using the rope Kevin had intended for my boobs. She squealed, wriggled about and spat out threats, but her resistance quickly faded after she was silenced with her ball-gag.

Once we were both subdued and helpless, the boys decided to have some fun with us. They positioned us together on the grass, lying on our sides facing each other. They pushed us up close until our bodies were pressed against each other. Philip peeled off my sarong. I struggled violently as he did so because I wasn’t sure how far he was aiming to go, but the other two guys held me down. He undid the tie-strings of my bikini pants and fastened them to the sides of his sister’s thong. Nikki’s eyes, directly in front of mine, bulged as he did so, and I felt her rasping breath on my face.

As usual, knowing what guys are like, I had a good idea of what was coming and steeled my body for the onslaught. Fifteen or twenty minutes of hellish tickle torment ensued, made more fiendish by the fact that we couldn’t writhe and twist in our agony because any major squirming by either Nikki or myself pulled our torsos apart and we risked de-pantsing each other. We cursed our captors though our gags. Until you’ve been through it, you don’t realize that this is one of the worst tortures of all, to be relentlessly, mercilessly tickled and yet you are not just completely helpless but have to hold your body totally rigid.

The boys played with us for another hour or so, but all too soon it was time for Alex’s and my appointment. They let us up but kept us bound and gagged. Philip tied my sarong back in place and brushed the grass out of my hair and off my arms and legs. We looked at each other for a minute or two, and I could see that he was trying to pluck up the courage to say something. His voice was croaky – how cute was it that he was still so nervous?

“Are… you… doing anything tonight?” he finally got out. “There’s this disco…”

I tried to play it cool, not hard to pull off when all you can do to answer is tip your head and flutter your eyelids. I looked to Alex, not for his permission (hardly!) but to ensure we didn’t have any prior family engagements. He shrugged a “Nothing stopping you” and Philip looked very pleased with himself.

“Well, sis, we gotta go,” Alex spoilt the moment, but he was right. He grabbed my purse for me.

However, Nikki was making grunting noises and started vigorously wiggling her head. I thought “Uh-oh,” wondering what she needed to tell us, as her brothers got the message and Kevin released her from her gag.

“Ask her for her room number,” she said. “Regatta Hotel, right?” she turned to Alex.

“Better idea,” he replied. “We’ll come to you. Save you a trip up and down the hill.”

We? Philip and I glared at him. He took his time to savour the moment.

“Kev,” he finally said. “I got the latest Nintendo. It’s sweet as.”

“Awesome,” said Kevin.

I have to give my Lil Bro credit. He had me going there, if only for a minute. I could also see what Nikki had done. They already knew where we were staying – I had mentioned it more than once. So it’s clear that she would make a good social organizer. As her reward, Kevin thrust the ball of her gag back between her jaws while Philip took one of the ropes, fixed it to her collar and with as casual a “See you at six” as he could muster, led her away. Kevin tarried for one last lingering gaze at me… little pervert. He and my Alex would make a great partnership.

Once they were gone, we set off back to City Hall, and by the time we reached the plaza, Dad was waiting there for us, with Lucy. We exchanged pleasantries – well, the three of them did, while I made some noises – before setting off in Lucy’s buggy, right across town to the eastern end of Resort Cove, to the docks area. What followed was a less than thrilling couple of hours. Lucy’s a transportation coordinator, and we got to watch in a haze of ennui as she supervised vehicle movements in, out and around the waterfront.

However, at about three o’clock, she took us down to the main wharf. I was looking over the place, trying to decide what we were supposed to be observing, when she – somewhat impatiently – pointed out into the bay. Anchored offshore, about halfway between the beach and Frigate Island, was a large, sleek, glistening white whale of a cruise liner. It was too far away for me to make out the name but it showed the unmistakeable signs of opulent excess. It was of medium size, stubby but stacked with six or seven decks that I could count, meaning anywhere from four to eight hundred passengers.

As we watched, a small fleet of water taxis appeared from behind the bow, strung out in single file and heading straight toward us. Since they had departed from the far side of the ship, I’m not sure how the passengers had been off-loaded, and it struck me as rather odd that the disembarkation would be on the seaward side, exposed to the ocean waves; but I presume that the prevailing wind is from the south-east and that the anchorage is therefore sheltered by Frigate Island. In any case, the surface of the bay was flat as a tabletop as the little flotilla chugged on towards the shore.

Lucy was on her radio phone, issuing and receiving instructions, so Dad, Alex and I took up a suitable vantage point to view the approaching boats. As they docked, a couple of dozen young women came out of the nearby terminal bearing parcels like those we had received at the airport. The passengers aboard the first four boats came off, were greeted by the hostesses and continued into the building. However, once the remainder of the vessels had pulled in, nothing happened for a good while. Their windows were tinted, so we couldn’t see what was going on. And then the first person appeared. He was dressed in a crewman’s uniform. He had one arm held up, and as he started to walk slowly down the gang-plank, a rope he was clutching at shoulder level went taut. At the other end there now appeared the first of what turned out to be thirty or forty females, of ages from twenty to maybe fifty, wearing everything from microscopic bikinis to flouncy sundresses to jeans and t-shirts; but all were bound, in various ways, gagged with all sorts of appliances, and tethered by the neck with a thin, metallic cable attached at metre-length intervals to stiff leather halters.

Their menfolk walked alongside, carrying luggage but leaving one hand free to steady their ladies, some of whom appeared bewildered and disoriented. Others looked cheerful and all keyed up. Some were giggling, several appeared to be scowling or grimacing and many were clearly embarrassed to be so trussed and tethered. We were standing just a short distance away, and as they passed us by, some gave me a funny look. I’d almost forgotten that I was still gagged, and my hands were still bound behind my back. Even so, it was odd that I would get their attention like that. It was hard to get a grip on what this all meant. (On the other hand, I understood the reason for the delay before they emerged. They weren’t bound and helpless while still out on the open water. That would be dangerous.)

“The ship’s on a stopover,” Lucy explained. What that means is that these are overnight visitors, who sleep aboard the ship – the Pacifica by the way – rather than in the resort hotels. About half the passengers choose to not come ashore at all while, as we saw with the first four boatloads, a lot of the women who do land opt out of the bondage at first. “That will change,” Lucy assured us.

As the very last of the boats emptied, we saw a much different picture. All of the last batch of women were in uniform, and all seemed at ease with being bound and gagged and on their leads. Lucy told us to take a closer look at the first one in line, a well-groomed, distinguished-looking woman with slightly greying hair. I could tell that she was important from the gold stripes on her epaulettes. As they came closer, I saw that she (like her fellow crew members) was bound more severely than the passengers. Her arms were pinioned tightly behind her back, at her wrists and just above the elbows, with thick black flex of some kind. The tether which connected her to the woman behind was not attached to her collar. Instead, she was wearing a bit gag, and the leash was fixed to a ring on the bar clenched in her teeth. The cable then ran not over her shoulder but down her front and between her legs, hitching up and constricting her skirt and forcing her to take small, wobbly steps.

“That’s the X-O,” Lucy whispered.

“What’s an ex oh?” my clueless brother demanded. “Shut up!” he growled as I grunted my disdain.

“Executive Officer,” Lucy replied patiently. “Second in command.”

That surprised me and I thought Lucy must be mistaken, or maybe she was putting us on. But she discretely pointed out a couple of other senior-looking officers in the line-up. And I shouldn’t really have been surprised. The Pacifica calls in, she informed us, every ten days, and most of the crew are veterans who have spent plenty of time ashore. Anyway, it’s good public relations when the top brass get into the spirit.

Soon the docks were deserted once more. It was getting on towards late afternoon, Lucy’s shift was ending and she was ready to head back to the Oasis. Dad asked me if I wanted to be untied and ungagged, but I decided to wait until we got back to the hotel. Lucy dropped us off at the front entrance and Dad thanked her for an interesting and informative day – I don’t believe he was being sarcastic. We made our farewells and went up to our suite. Mum hadn’t arrived when we got back to our suite, so I had a shower and got prettied up.

Our parents were pleased that Alex and I had made some friends and were going out. They were, however, just a little too happy that we would be gone till ten o’clock. Dad’s eyes kept flickering in the direction of their bedroom, and Mum blushed when Alex – as ever my precocious Lil Bro – promised, “Don’t worry, we won’t get back early.”

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Re: THE RESORT (New Revised Edition) M/F

Postby milagros317 » Sun Oct 17, 2010 10:04 am

Great continuation! :D
I love bondage, tickling, and women's bare feet. :D

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Sarah’s Journal, Day Five. Shadow

Postby sarobah » Wed Oct 20, 2010 3:50 am

Part three

I headed for the bedroom and slammed the door in Alex’s face. This was the time for some uninterrupted serious decision-making – should I go cute or casual, frilly or formal, slinky or slutty? After much careful consideration, I chose the powder blue Chambray ruffle blouse and flirt skirt, and my new Qupid strappy sandals. For my accessorizing, I went with the burgundy choker and Velcro fun cuffs with faux vicuña lining, the mulberry red sleep-mask blindfold from the restaurant (because the cornflower blue blossoms match my outfit, of course) and – after some agonizing – the muzzle-and-harness gag (which is not my favourite but the one that minimizes the drool and dribble factor).

It was getting on towards six o’clock when we left the hotel. I allowed Alex to put just one restraint on me, and I wasn’t at all surprised when he chose the gag. Bossy big sis isn’t so bossy when she can’t talk.

Philip’s family is staying in the heart of the downtown area, in one of the fancier establishments. In fact, we had to register at the front desk before proceeding to the tenth floor. Kevin answered the door and ushered us into the living room. There, prostrate on the carpet, was Nikki, hog-tied in a balled-up position. She was enveloped in a mess of knotted and intertwined bikinis, sarongs, pantyhose, tights, scarves – it looked like her brothers had emptied out half her wardrobe to find things to bind her with. Her head was swathed in various items of her clothing, and underneath them I could tell she was gagged, because her screams were muffled as she writhed and squirmed while Philip maliciously tickled her.

Philip looked up, saw me and grinned. I didn’t like that grin. Having crossed the threshold into the room, I had Kevin behind me, barring any attempt at a sudden exit. But I was saved when their mother appeared in the archway which led to the kitchen. I had seen her briefly the other day at Rope Riggers. She’s a beautiful, elegant woman, and she was fabulously déshabillé in a stunning off-the-shoulder gown with a spectacularly low-cut gold-filigreed bodice and side split all the way to the hip. On her sleek left thigh was an exquisite white lace garter, and she wore its twin about her throat as an ultrafeminine choker. It’s easy to see where Nikki gets her beauty and grace.

She stared down at her daughter, wriggling in her bonds on the floor, and frowned.

“Young lady,” she said, “I wish you would stop fooling around” (with only the subtlest hint of irony in her voice).

She had already picked up her purse and, swapping a polite but perfunctory greeting with Alex and me, was headed for the door. When she was gone, I expected to join Nikki on the floor; but instead her brothers disentangled her from her wrappings and lifted her to her feet. They left her hands bound as they frog-marched her to her bedroom. Philip then went off to get dressed as well, while Kevin entertained Alex and – to my surprise – left me alone. I asked permission to remove my gag so I could get a glass of water, and Lil Bro didn’t insist I replace it. He and Kevin were already absorbed in their Nintendo universe.

After a few minutes, Nikki reappeared, having changed into her nightclubbing best. Alex regarded her with a look of stern disapproval. I knew what he was thinking – if he had tied her, she would never have gotten her hands free by herself. I, on the other hand, was jealous, because she looked so incredibly sexy in a gorgeous rose pink chiffon top with a steeply plunging neckline and a black tapered hobble skirt. And it really was a hobble because the hem just above the knees was drawn tight with a slender silver chain. Her ensemble was accented with a black satin ribbon collar and matching lace cuffs, connected with more of the fine chain to a daintily crafted O-ring at belly button level. A black sash encircled her hips for service as either blindfold or gag. Even Alex, having gotten over his initial displeasure, took time away from his gaming to be entranced.

Just as we were about to leave, Philip turned to me. He hesitated and our eyes met. I smiled.

“Which way?” he said.

I put my arms behind my back.

He gave me a light kiss on the neck as he linked my bracelets. Alex, who had continued to watch us, now turned away in disgust.

Our destination was not far away, but it took us a while to get there. There are only two main thoroughfares in Resort Village, but they extend the entire length of the town and connect everything to everything else. Staying close to the shoreline, the Promenade follows the sweep of the bay and is lined with cafeterias, restaurants, bars and nightclubs. The Boulevard runs further inland and curves around the base of the great amphitheatre formed by the encircling hills, and it contains the stores, boutiques and salons, as well as all the agencies for the various services and utilities. Both were crowded, and my hero walked a half-pace ahead of us to clear a passage. Some of the other escorts were not so gallant, and I loved how Philip gently nudged those women who were blindfolded out of our path rather than try to bulldoze a corridor through the multitude. (We were also delayed by poor Nikki, who could take only tiny, measured steps in her speed-limited skirt. Crossing several side-streets, she had to bunny-hop on and off each kerb.)

The Tarantella discotheque is located halfway along the Promenade, near the centre of town. It is your typical brash and boisterous nightspot, jam-packed and pulsating with frenetic energy, thumping music, throbbing beats, flashing lights, gyrating bodies in shimmering sequins and sparkly spandex, diminutive halter tops, wobbly tube tops, overflowing bustiers, parsimonious denim cut-offs and picayune micro-minis. Peppy, preppie, gaudy, grungy, funky, punky, hippie, indie, country, raver, rocker, retro, surfer, skater, skank – you name it, it was swinging and spinning on the dance floor.

Admission to the disco is free, but a sign announces at the entrance that there’s a no-gag rule. I’m not sure why. It was too noisy to talk anyway. Most girls were bound and/or chained and/or leashed in some form or another, and blindfolds were very popular.

Philip released his sister from her cuffs and she disappeared into the swirling mélange. He and I made our way across the room, to where a small space had opened up. He left me there while he tunnelled back to the bar, and returned with two large drinks. They resembled bowls of fruit salad and tasted of ambrosia (non-alcoholic, naturally). Because my hands were still immobile, he nobly held the straw to my lips whenever I nodded to indicate I wanted a sip. (Some guys get tired of that chore, but most like their girl when she depends on them. We like it too.)

When we’d finished our punch, Philip reached into his coat pocket and drew out a silver chain just like the ones on his sister. He clipped it to my choker and tugged on it lightly to lead me out to the middle of the dance floor, just in time for a slow number. He looped the other end of my tether around his own neck and put his arms between mine and my waist, to hold my hands. Our fingers intertwined; and since boys will forever be boys, he gently pressed downwards, so as my arms straightened, my shoulders went back and my breasts were pushed forward against his chest. Our gentle hug-and-sway had the predictable effect. I could feel his heart beating furiously, and further down I felt another part of him stirring. So it was probably a good thing when the tempo of the music picked up. There was more bump and grind, but less chance of Philip – to use a musical term – getting into the groove.

To add variety to the program, each hour there was a novelty event and everyone was encouraged to join in. It was “Dance with a Stranger”, a sort of improvised, freestyle waltz. You’re blindfolded (the girls, that is) and at intervals of about two minutes a gong sounds and you swap partners with the couple closest to you at that moment. So as well as the challenge of making the right moves without your sight, you have to adapt to a new lead you not only don’t know but cannot see. Since most guys are hopeless at anything resembling ballroom dancing, their ability to lead and your ability to follow are severely tested. Much hilarity ensues, but it can also be perilous, and it was probably a miracle that there were no sprained ankles or worse.

After about three hours I was suffering from excitement overload and it was nice to escape the noise and the neon for the cool, dark stillness of the late evening. There weren’t many people about. It was that time of night when most are either already at home getting ready for bed or still cutting loose in the nightclubs. My arms were beginning to ache, so I asked Philip to uncuff me. He agreed, on condition that he hook my wrists to my collar in front. I had no objection except that it was getting chilly. Philip remedied that to both our satisfaction by putting his arm around my shoulder. A couple of times his hand wandered further south than formally sanctioned, but I didn’t complain.

Nikki, however, was in a bad mood because she had wanted to stay on. But Philip had promised their parents that he would have her home well before midnight. She was annoyed, and I couldn’t really blame her, because it was rather sexist, given that she’s two years older; but – as my own Lil Bro continues to remind me – once you’ve submitted to the way of the ropes, you give up your freedom of choice, and you have to take the bad with the good. But I have the feeling she was also a little relieved to have had the decision taken out of her hands. My impression of Nikki is that she’s a sensible, sensitive soul trapped in the body of a party girl who feels obliged to live up to the image. And during the night, someone at the disco had unhitched her chains and reversed them so her arms were pinioned behind her back. That had left her vulnerable and she had received some unwanted attention, so she conceded, just as we were arriving back at their hotel, that Philip’s taking charge had been the right thing to do.

We didn’t go upstairs. Alex came down to the lobby to meet us, and the four of us walked up to the Regatta together. I invited Philip and Nikki to come in for cocoa, but they had to go. We wouldn’t have another chance to see each other for three days, but we arranged for another rendezvous, after my family have moved into our permanent home in the Oasis.

Inside, Mum had welcome news. The package containing Alex’s and my uniforms had finally turned up. We are still not very clear on what the Pioneers are all about, but we’ll be finding out in just a few hours. What I do know is that it is an adventure club associated with the park rangers, who are responsible for managing the island’s natural resources and tourist facilities, preserving the environment and protecting the wildlife, conducting tours, disseminating advice and information and, of course, organizing bushwalking and camping expeditions. That’s where Alex and I come in.

Attached to the box was a curt note instructing us to “Report to the clubhouse at 0700 tomorrow,” along with a map showing the location of said clubhouse.

“Seven o’clock?” my brother wheezed. “SEVEN? In the MORNING?”

“No, dummy, seven PM. It’s a night-club.” (Well, it sounded funny at the time.)

Mum had meanwhile unpacked our uniforms and sorted the various pieces into two bundles. Alex’s pile was by far the bigger. Dad looked down at my brother’s, then at mine, frowned, rubbed his chin and said to me, “Well, where’s the rest of it?”

I merely responded with an “Oh, Dad,” grabbed my stuff and headed for the bedroom to change. Being a devout believer in Murphy’s Law, I was doubtful that the Commissariat people had gotten our sizes right, but everything was a perfect fit. I only had one set, which bothered me somewhat, since we were to be spending two days in the wild. It is in a four-tone camouflage pattern – a snug-fitting tank top with spaghetti straps, and two types of shorts, in “boy” and “booty” style. Also in the kit are a pair of hiking shoes and a canvas backpack containing the usual accoutrements – folded plastic raincoat, water bottle, pocket knife, insect repellent and sunscreen, assorted toiletries including a sheaf of paper and emergency tampons, a small magnetic compass, plastic whistle, a map of the island, a slim survival guide and fieldcraft manual, that sort of thing.

I emerged to show off my new uniform at the same time that Alex came out of the parents’ bedroom. His, not surprisingly, is more substantial for a sojourn in the wilderness – trousers, T-shirt and long-sleeved shirt, webbing belt, bush hat, boots. Though it pains me terribly to say so, in his Pioneers uniform my Lil Bro actually looked rather dashing. But it is certainly true that my entire uniform can fit into one of his trouser pockets. It’s going to be interesting.

After that, Alex left me alone to write up my journal. It’s now approaching midnight and so here I am again, signing off on day five of our new life on Aranea Island, and looking forward to tomorrow and all sorts of high adventure.

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