Fiftieth Birthday (F+/F)

[suedenym]

"I still can't believe you agreed to this," Claire said, swirling the pink cocktail in her hand. Ice cubes clinked against the glass as she took a slow sip, her eyes locked on the rope coiled over Miranda's shoulder.

“A bet’s a bet.” Her friend replied , shaking her red curls out if her eyes merely for more to fall over her face.”

“Is that too tight?” Sam asked as she pulled the ropes drawing her friends elbows together behind the silver birch.

Miranda rolled her shoulders experimentally, feeling the rough bark pressing against her bare skin. “Could go tighter on the thighs,” she muttered, shifting her weight between her bare feet as Sam adjusted the knot. The afternoon breeze air was cool against her flushed skin, raising goosebumps along her arms despite the warmth of the sunlight filtering through the leaves above.

The rope dug into the soft flesh of her waist as Claire circled her, humming appreciatively. “You look like some pagan offering,” she mused, trailing a fingertip along the intricate crisscross of hemp around Miranda’s ribs. Miranda arched away instinctively—more from the tickle than discomfort—only to be yanked back by the unforgiving tension of the bonds. Her breath hitched when the movement made the rope between her thighs shift unexpectedly, the sensation sharp and sudden enough to make her toes curl in the dirt.

“Well as im the best kooking ine here at 50 im nit surprised you lot are sacrificing me to win back yiur own youthfull looks and beauty!” She grinned wickedly.

“Hey.” Called Catherine. “Naked women tied to trees dont get to make wuse cracks. Cant we gag her?”

Claire laughed. “She’s got a point. And I’ve got just the thing.”

Miranda stiffened as she heard the rustle of fabric—someone rummaging through a bag, probably. A moment later, her own discarded stockings were pushed into her mouth before cool silk brushed her lips before being drawn tight between her teeth. The knot pressed into the corners of her mouth, muffling her half-hearted protest into a soft hum.

“Better,” Catherine murmured, stepping back to admire her handiwork. The blindfold came next—a black velvet sleep mask, its floral scent still clinging faintly to the fabric—plunging Miranda into darkness. The sudden deprivation of sight made every sensation sharper: the uneven press of bark against her spine, the faint sting where the rope bit into her wrists with each shift of her weight, the small stones in the cool grass under her bare feet.

Around her, the laughter of her friends took on a liquid quality, buoyed by gin and tonic. Ice rattled in glasses; someone sighed contentedly. “Should we leave her like this for a while?” Claire mused, her voice drifting lazily from somewhere to Miranda’s left.

“If this sun gets any hotter,” begal blonde Suzie staring up through her Oakley”s, “l might strip off too.”

Miranda wiggled her fingers—testing, always testing—but the ropes held firm. Her toes, too, flexed against the damp earth, digging shallow grooves into the soil. The movement sent a twinge up her calves, a reminder of how long she’d been standing. Her body was a map of tiny discomforts: the itch on her shoulder she couldn’t scratch, the way her thighs burned faintly from being pressed together by the rope, the cool, slick sensation of sweat trailing down the small of her back.

A mosquito whined near her ear, and she jerked her head instinctively, but the blindfold turned the motion into something clumsy and exaggerated. Laughter bubbled up around her—soft, tipsy, indulgent. "She’s trying to shoo it off," someone said, voice thick with amusement. Miranda exhaled sharply through her nose, the stockings in her mouth dampening the sound to little more than a huff. The gag tasted faintly of salt and her own lipstick.

Her fingers twitched again—not testing the ropes this time, but curling reflexively as a bead of sweat trickled down her inner arm. The sensation was maddening, like a slow-motion itch she couldn’t scratch. She flexed her toes harder, grinding the arches of her feet into the cool earth, seeking purchase against the growing ache in her calves. The rope cinched around her thighs shifted with the movement, tightening just enough to make her breath hitch. It wasn’t painful, not exactly—just insistent, a constant, grounding pressure that kept her hyperaware of every shift and tremor in her body.

Claire’s voice drifted closer, her sandals crunching on the gravel underfoot. “You’re being awfully quiet,” she teased, the citrus tang of her gin clinging to her words. A fingertip traced Miranda’s collarbone, light as a moth’s wing. “Second thoughts?” The question was playful, but Miranda caught the undercurrent—the unspoken out Claire would untie her in a heartbeat if she asked. But she wouldn’t. Not when she could still taste the effervescent bite of the Prosecco that had sealed her fate hours ago, not when the memory of the bet at her divorce party back in March: "I'll find a man before your birthday Claire, or spend your party trussed up and naked."

The rope creaked as Miranda shifted, the hemp fibers groaning against the strain. She exhaled sharply through her nose—half frustration, half amusement. That damn bet. She’d made it drunk on freedom and cheap champagne, surrounded by her girls in Claire’s garden one evening as they burned her wedding album in a galvanized bucket. “If I’m still single by your birthday,” she’d slurred, waving a half-peeled shrimp like a scepter, “you can tie me to a tree. Naked.” The table had erupted in cheers. Six months had seemed like forever back then. Now, with the silk of her own stockings pressing into the corners of her mouth and the scent of Claire’s sunscreen mingling with the earthy musk of sweat and rope, forever felt uncomfortably present.

She should be terrified. The thought slithered through her mind as the ropes flexed with her breath—should be thrashing, pleading, anything but this quiet, humming anticipation coiling low in her belly. The blindfold amplified every sensation: the rasp of bark against her bare shoulder blades, the way the afternoon breeze painted goosebumps down her thighs, the obscene slickness between her legs that had nothing to do with humidity. Fifty-five years old and trussed up like a Sunday roast, her pulse fluttering wild as a trapped bird against her ribs—yet her skin sang with a kind of electric awareness she hadn’t felt since her twenties. A laugh bubbled up, muffled into a choked hum against the gag. Divorce had been paperwork. This? This was alive.

The rope between her thighs shifted again—someone adjusting the knot, probably—and she bit down on the sodden silk in her mouth to stifle a whimper. The friction was deliberate this time, purposeful, and her hips jerked forward of their own accord, seeking pressure. Heat flooded her cheeks. Christ, she was grinding against a tree like some desperate teenager. The realization should have mortified her. Instead, it sent a fresh wave of liquid fire through her veins. Around her, the murmur of conversation continued, oblivious or—god help her—indulgent. Claire’s sandals scuffed closer; Miranda caught the whisper of fabric brushing skin as someone leaned in. "You’re blushing," Suzie observed, her voice thick with amusement. A manicured nail traced the apple of Miranda’s cheek. "Having fun yet?"

"Mmmmppphh" Miranda moaned, wanting to say "No" trying to say "Yes".

A cork popped—sharp as a gunshot in the drowsy afternoon—followed by the effervescent hiss of Prosecco foaming into a glass. Ice cubes clinked; someone groaned in pleasure as the first sip hit. "God, that’s good," Catherine sighed. "Should we feed her some? Or is that against the rules?" Miranda’s pulse spiked. Rules. Right. The hastily scribbled list Claire had produced after the third round of cocktails flitted through her mind: no untying before sunset, no mercy, no touching below the waist , except the feet (unless begged). The last had been added in red lipstick, smudged at the edges where someone’s thumb had dragged across her stomach. A beat passed. Then two. Miranda held her breath.

The opening synth riff of "Tainted Love" crackled to life from Claire’s vintage boombox, tinny but triumphant. Someone whooped. Bare feet slapped against wooden decking as Suzie danced past, her sundress swirling around her thighs. "Oh my god, remember that club in Brighton?" she crowed, catching Miranda’s hip with a playful smack. The contact jolted through her, the sting blooming sweet and hot against her bare skin. Her breath hitched audibly around the gag—enough to make Claire pause mid-pour. "Someone’s sensitive," she purred, trailing a fingertip down Miranda’s flank. The touch was feather-light, deliberate, skating just shy of the ropes digging into her waist. Miranda squirmed, her muscles twitching under the teasing proximity. The air smelled of crushed grass and coconut oil and the faint, ever-present musk of her own arousal. Humiliation prickled at the back of her throat. Or maybe it was hunger.

Ice clinked against crystal. The gesg eas eased out. A flute pressed to her lips—cold, beaded with condensation—tipping just enough for a single, effervescent drop to land on her tongue. Prosecco burst across her tastebuds, bright as a firework. Miranda moaned, her head lolling forward instinctively, chasing the next sip. The flute withdrew with a laugh. "Ah-ah," Catherine chided, her voice thick with amusement. "You’ll have to work for it." A manicured nail tapped twice against Miranda’s collarbone—a silent command. Understanding prickled through her. Slowly, deliberately, she arched her back, letting the ropes emphasize the swell of her breasts. The movement pulled at her shoulders, the burn delicious. Someone’s breath caught. The flute returned, this time tilting generously. She gulped greedily, the alcohol fizzing down her throat, a temporary distraction from the throbbing between her thighs.

“You want out yet Mirry Honey?”

The voice—low, teasing—came from behind her, warm breath skimming the nape of her neck. Sam. Miranda could smell her perfume, something expensive and musky layered over the sharp tang of sunscreen. She shook her head sharply, the motion making the blindfold slip slightly, letting a sliver of golden light bleed through. Another sip of Prosecco would be heaven, but instead the had the rough texture of her own stockings back, and the gag was tightened.

A fingertip traced the shell of her ear, sending a shiver down her spine. "You sure?" Sam murmured, her voice dripping with false innocence. "Because your thighs are shaking, darling." Miranda hadn’t noticed until that moment, but it was true—her muscles quivered with the effort of standing, the ropes now a constant, biting presence. She swallowed around the gag, her throat dry despite the sip of champagne. The truth coiled hot in her gut: she didn’t want out. Not yet. Not when every pull of the rope sent sparks racing along her nerves, not when the occasional brush of fingertips against her hip or shoulder made her breath catch. “You begging yet?”

Miranda shook her head violently. She wanted, but she wasn’t ready yet.

Claire sighed. “I think she’s enjoying this a little too much,” she said, plucking an olive from her martini and tracing it lazily along Miranda’s collarbone. The brine stung the tiny rope burns there, making Miranda flinch—but when the olive was pulled away, her lips chased it instinctively, like a reflex. Laughter rippled around her. “Oh, she is,” Suzie agreed, her sandal scraping against the dirt as she stepped closer. “Look at her breathing—all shallow and quick.”

The observation made Miranda’s breath hitch further. The ropes creaked as she shifted, her hips rocking forward unconsciously—only to be yanked back by the unforgiving tension around her waist. The friction was exquisite, and she groaned low in her throat, the sound muffled by silk. Someone’s fingers—Claire’s, probably—trailed down her ribs, pausing just above the rope cinching her thighs together. “You’re dripping,” Claire murmured, her voice thick with amusement. Miranda’s face burned hotter. She could feel it—the slickness clinging to her inner thighs, the sticky press of sweat-dampened rope against her skin.

Then came the ice cube. Claire’s hand—cold now, damp with condensation—brushed her collarbone before tracing a slow, deliberate circle around one nipple. The sudden shock of cold made Miranda jerk, her back arching off the tree. The ice lingered just long enough to make her gasp before it slid lower, following the curve of her breast. It left a wet trail in its wake, the afternoon breeze turning the moisture into tiny pinpricks of chill. Miranda shuddered, her toes curling into the dirt. The ice melted against her skin, dripping down her stomach in a slow, tantalizing trickle. Someone—Suzie—whistled low and appreciative. “She’s flushed all the way down to her feet,” she observed, her voice smug.

Claire hummed, her fingers still slick from the ice. “Should we do the other one?” she mused, tapping the untouched nipple lightly. Miranda’s breath hitched. She wanted to say *yes*, wanted to say *don’t you dare*, but the gag reduced her protests to a muffled whine. Claire chuckled, the sound warm against Miranda’s ear as she leaned in. “That’s not an answer,” she teased. The second ice cube came without warning—smaller, sharper—dragged in a quick, cruel line from the base of her throat to the peak of her nipple. Miranda’s knees buckled, the ropes biting into her thighs as she sagged against them. The sensation was almost too much—the cold burning, the rough hemp chafing, the heat pooling low in her belly—but she couldn’t pull away. Couldn’t do anything but tremble and take it.

Sam’s hands steadied her shoulders, thumbs rubbing slow circles into the tense muscle there. “Easy,” she murmured, her breath hot against Miranda’s nape. The contrast—Claire’s icy cruelty, Sam’s steady warmth—sent another shiver down Miranda’s spine. Around them, the music swelled—some synth-pop anthem from their youth—and Suzie whooped, her sandals slapping against the wooden decking before being kicked off as she dragged Catherine into a tipsy waltz. The scent of spilled gin and sun-warmed skin hung thick in the air, mingling with the earthy musk of Miranda’s own sweat-slicked body. She could feel every shift of the breeze, every brush of fabric as her friends danced past, every whisper of sound that wasn’t quite drowned out by the music.

The rope between her thighs shifted again—subtle, torturous—and Miranda bit down hard on the sodden silk in her mouth. Her hips jerked forward of their own accord, seeking friction, but the movement only tightened the knots further. A whimper escaped her, high and desperate, before she could swallow it back. Claire’s laughter danced at the edge of her hearing, bright and unrepentant. “God, listen to her,” she crooned, her voice dripping with amusement. A fingertip traced the shell of Miranda’s ear, feather-light. “You’d think we were torturing her.” The touch retreated—too soon—leaving Miranda straining against the ropes for more. Her breath came in ragged bursts now, her chest heaving against the intricate lattice of hemp that held her flush against the tree. She wanted to beg. Wanted to scream. Wanted to grind herself raw against the rough bark until the ache between her thighs dulled to something bearable.

Around her, the party blurred into a kaleidoscope of sound: the tinny pulse of the Spandau Ballet song they’d all slow-danced to at Catherine’s first wedding, the clatter of ice cubes against glass, Suzie’s drunken cackle as she tripped over the picnic blanket. Miranda tried to focus on the music—anything to distract from the slick heat gathering at her core—but then Sam’s hands were on her waist, thumbs pressing into the dimples above her hips. “Still good?” Sam murmured, her lips brushing Miranda’s shoulder. The question was a formality—they both knew the answer—but Miranda nodded anyway, her chin bumping against her chest. Sam’s fingers tightened briefly in approval before sliding away, leaving Miranda bereft. The absence burned worse than the ropes.

Twilight settled like a bruise, purpling the edges of Miranda’s vision where the blindfold didn’t quite block the light. The air grew damp, clinging to her skin, turning the ropes into humid bracelets that chafed with every shift. She flexed her toes again, the dirt now cool and yielding underfoot. Someone—Catherine—had draped a cardigan over her shoulders at some point, the wool scratchy against her collarbones, but the gesture felt more like mockery than mercy. The fabric trapped the heat of her body underneath, amplifying the sweat trickling down her spine. “Cold?” Claire taunted, her fingers skating over the sweater’s edge. Miranda shook her head violently, dislodging the cardigan halfway down her arms. The night air rushed in, raising goosebumps across her flushed skin.

The deck groaned under sudden, clumsy footsteps—Suzie’s bare feet slapping against the wood in time to the tinny strains of “Take On Me.” The song warped as she tripped into the boombox, the pitch wobbling drunkenly before righting itself. Someone shrieked with laughter; Miranda caught the fizzy tang of champagne spilled on sun-warmed skin as Suzie careened into her, hot palms bracing against Miranda’s waist. “Oops,” she giggled, her breath sour with gin. Her thumbs dug into Miranda’s breasts, grounding her as the ropes groaned in protest. The contact burned—too much, not enough—and Miranda arched into it instinctively, her pulse hammering against the gag. Suzie’s grip tightened, her fingers slipping under the edge of the rope cinching Miranda’s arms to her chest. “You’re *radiating*,” she marveled, her voice thick with amusement. Miranda could feel it—the feverish heat rolling off her own skin, the slick press of Suzie’s palms against her ribs. She shuddered, her thighs pressing together reflexively, the rope between them unforgiving.

The music lurched into “I Ran (So Far Away),” the synth line distorted by the dying boombox battery. Claire howled along, butchering the chorus with vodka-slurred abandon. Miranda’s laugh came out muffled, choked—half hysteria, half something darker. The night air curled around her, cool as a lover’s fingers against her flushed skin, but it did nothing to quell the fire licking at her insides. Every shift of the ropes sent sparks skittering down her spine; every accidental brush of fingertips against her bare shoulders made her breath hitch. She was unraveling, thread by thread, and her friends were too drunk to notice—or too cruel to care.

Suzie’s hands lingered at her waist, thumbs tracing the ridge of her hipbones. “Sunset,” she murmured, her voice thick with something Miranda couldn’t name. The word slithered between them, weighted with promise. Around them, the party stuttered—glasses set down with uncharacteristic care, laughter dying mid-syllable. Miranda tensed, her pulse hammering against the gag. Sunset meant rules. Sunset meant release. Sunset meant—

Claire’s fingers curled around the knot at the small of Miranda’s back, tugging just hard enough to make the ropes groan. “You *sure* you want out?” she teased, her breath hot against Miranda’s ear. The question wasn’t playful anymore—it was a dare, a challenge, a gauntlet thrown between Miranda’s bare feet. Miranda exhaled sharply through her nose, her thighs pressing tighter together. The ropes answered in kind, the hemp fibers biting into her skin with every ragged breath. She could feel it—the slickness between her legs, the way her body arched toward every accidental touch, the hunger coiled low in her belly. She shook her head violently, the blindfold slipping another fraction. Golden light bled through—just enough to silhouette Claire’s smirk.

Laughter rippled around her, bright and unrepentant. “Fuck it,” Suzie declared, her sandals hitting the deck with twin thuds. The rustle of fabric followed—her sundress hitting the wood, probably—then the splash of bare feet in water. The hot tub gurgled as she climbed in, the scent of chlorine and jasmine bubbling up into the cooling air. Miranda’s breath hitched. She could *hear* the water sluicing off Suzie’s skin, could *imagine* the way it would cling to her thighs, her breasts, the dip of her collarbones—

Another splash. Claire’s martini glass clinked against the tub’s edge as she stepped in, the ice in her drink melting rapidly in the steam. “God, that’s good,” she sighed, the water sloshing as she settled back. Miranda’s toes curled into the dirt. She could *feel* the heat radiating from the tub—could *taste* the salt-tang of sweat and sunscreen mingling with the humid air. Someone—Catherine—hummed in agreement, the zip of her dress hissing down her spine before joining the pile of discarded clothes. The deck creaked under her bare feet; the water sighed as she slipped in.

Sam was last. Miranda knew it was her by the deliberate way the ropes shifted—Sam’s fingers skimming the knots at Miranda’s waist before retreating. The deck groaned under her weight; the water barely rippled as she entered. “She’s *listening*,” Sam murmured, her voice low and amused. Miranda’s breath hitched. She was—straining for every splash, every sigh, every wet slide of skin against acrylic. The blindfold amplified it all: the *drip-drip* of water from Claire’s fingertips as she reached for her drink, the obscenely slick sound of Suzie shifting her thighs apart under the bubbles, the wet *snap* of Catherine’s ponytail as she leaned back.

[StringTheorist]

Hello @suedenym

An intriguing story that seems to begin half way through, has a middle, but hardly an end, unless you count the hot tub for the other women.

One could conclude this group had been engaging in TUG activities over a long period of time. Miranda is not embarrassed to be naked amongst her friends who are competent at tying up.

The ex husband doesn't know or appreciate his ex spouse.

The story has some characteristics of being composed with the help of AI (substantiated by the user's "Favorite" note) . Several typos that suggest a manual edit.

But an enjoyable story; too bad there was the "not below" rule.

Please continue to be creative for I enjoy stories that are consensual.

ST

[G9Drox]

This was a fantastic read!

[Caesar73]

Truly intriguing!