Bound to be Dared (F/self, F/F)

[LunaDog]

Many thanks for your very kind words. Nowadays, I have to write a lot for my day job, so I have less energy to also write in the evenings. But here is a new chapter involving these new roommates.

Never mind. It was well worth the wait.

[tugtourist]

This is a really good series!

[Beaumains]

Never mind. It was well worth the wait.

Luckily, this wait is (a little) shorter.

This is a really good series!

Many thanks!

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It was six in the morning, and I was wide-awake. My short night would not be elongated due to the radiant light as the sun penetrated the thin canvas. My alarm would ring in two hours. Another drawback of camping.

But how did I figure out the time? You might wonder. I had to be tied up, right?

Indeed, ropes circled the sleeping bag, but only around my legs. We tried them around my torso as well, but the thin sleeping bag and foam mat pressed the ropes into my skin. Hence, we settled with merely bound legs and a piece of string near my neck to keep the bag shut. A minute ago, I had untied this string by sliding one hand out of the sleeping bag, freeing myself. Kinda. I loved the feeling of ropes around my legs too much. Then I grabbed my phone, disappointed by the clock.

Next to me, Hope was fast asleep. Her long, raven-black hair was tied in a loose ponytail, squeezed between her pillow and head. Sleeping, she was no longer commanding and intimidating. I crept to my backpack and removed one of my LSAT training books, a notebook, and a pen. What else was I supposed to do? I had to study anyway.

Soon, my brain was transported to reading comprehension questions that involved sentence structures no well-meaning person would ever employ, using three implications, two negations, and a handful of expensive words. The topics, ranging from economics and science to sociology and law, were diverse and complicated. This exam would give every normal person a migraine. But, somehow, my mind could deal with such nonsense: decompose sentences into parts, understand how these parts are connected, and then derive a conclusion. That came naturally to me despite not majoring in the humanities. I had to drill practice exams to become faster and more consistent.

Hope groaned when her alarm sounded and accepted her night was over. “Mornin’, Cy,” she yawned before noting my work. “You’re such a fuckin’ nerd.”

I bobbed my head with a grin. Hope changed into her hiking shirt and shorts. She had a real adult job as a low-level HR associate at a Fortune 500 company, which she combined with irregular private domme sessions on the weekends. Looking like a goody-two-shoes and an overachiever would not make me a friend. Meanwhile, Hope had already rolled up her sleeping bag and mat, so I had to scramble out soon, too. “So smart, yet so useless,” she told me as I clumsily changed in the tiny tent and struggled to push the sleeping bag back in its sack.

After a quick, mediocre breakfast, the other girls packed the tents, and we began hiking back to the car. My backpack weighed two-thirds less than yesterday, and I almost enjoyed the hike. Yet, my luck ran out.

“You can’t do that in public!” I hissed as Sujata pulled out handcuffs linked by a foot-long chain.

“Who cares?” she giggled. “I reckoned you were into public play?”

“Hidden public bondage!” I countered. My thin shirt and shorts did not hide metal cuffs. “You should not force your kinks onto others.”

Hope slapped me on the shoulder. “And who’s watching?”

That was a lie. The other day, we saw two dozen people. This early, I expected fewer, but still a non-zero number.

Sujata clicked one cuff around my right wrist. I had not fought back. “And if someone sees us, they see students up to no good. Maybe a hazing. Whatever. They won’t assume you’re horny, kinky, and crazy. They won’t care, Cy. And they won’t recognize you, you silly goose.”

Was that the difference? If you are cuffed in public and alone, it is a fetish, and in a friend group, it is group pressure. Alone, I would be vulnerable, both mentally and physically. For the same reason, bachelor parties ended up burning down the bar.

I predicted that I would have my hands forced in front of me, but Sujata snatched Arwen’s left wrist and pushed it into the other cuff. She blushed merrily. I was known for my dares and could not chicken out. Besides the mental challenges, there were physical ones. On the wide paths, I would hold Arwen’s hand, allowing us to walk in tandem. However, on the technical parts, we shuffled side by side; it was inelegant.

A middle-aged couple with two beautiful Akitas appeared on a thin footpath.

“Goooooood morning!” Hope exclaimed as we passed them. They glanced at my wrist as I gave them an uncomfortable nod. I was flushing. At least Arwen was able to say hi softly as a dog sniffed her knees.

“You two are wimps,” Sujata sneered. “Next time we meet someone, you’ll engage in small talk.”

“You were nude, bound, and tortured in front of 50 bondage enthusiasts at a garden party, and a measly pair of handcuffs goes too far?” Hope added. “We also have bikinis with us. Do you prefer that? Or what about a gag? Or should I add a collar and leash? Be a good girl and show basic human decency.”

I sighed with a red face before turning to Arwen. She nodded obediently.

“And what do you then say?” Sujata asked.

“Eh, yes? Uh, Mistress?” I muttered.

Hope swatted me on my ass. “Big mistake, Cy. You’ll regret that.”

We descended using a less steep path than the previous day. We followed a calm stream, passing fields with goats and cows, holiday cabins, delicious wild black raspberries, and, fortunately, no other people. Until it went wrong.

We passed a pristine lake when five boys in swimming shorts approached, of whom three were shirtless. They were ripped and handsome. We stood on the side to let them pass. Hope checked that I made eye contact and wished everyone a good morning. I did so, all with a fake smile I reserved for the worst Karens at the garden center. Of course, the guys ogled at the chain hanging down my wrist like toddlers seeing a chocolate cake. They could not muster the courage to say something. Perfect. They carried on, peeking over their shoulders as Hope chuckled, examining our crimson faces.

“Which of them do you think I handed the key to?” Hope said.

Had she? That was wicked.

“The blonde one with the curly hair. You like that Disney channel boyband look,” Arwen replied. Was she calling Hope’s bluff?

“He was cute. Would you want to go swimming together? How far would you go for that key?”

“Nah, you can have him. I hope he enjoys bondage, because you deserve to hang from a tree by your ankles as he plays with your titties,” Arwen persisted.

Hope shrugged. She had overplayed her hand. We soon reached the car park. Arwen and I had to climb into the backseat while shackled together while dealing with the rucksacks. Back at the girls’ house, the cuffs were unlocked. I picked up my car and drove to Gregory’s, not for bondage, but to study and have dinner together. Okay, I would be tied up again, but that was not the primary purpose.

[Beaumains]

My sore eyes tried to sparkle as my roommate-to-be and Tangled Maiden waitress Catalina inquired whether I had enjoyed the homemade tortellini dish. “It was great, thank you,” I mumbled, knowing full well that fine was the correct grade.

“Compliments to the chef,” Cecilia added, and Ambrose and Gregory agreed as well.

After taking the LSAT hours prior, I disliked the idea of spending my Friday night socializing at the Tangled Maiden, but I had promised Gregory. I preferred snoozing away for at least 14 hours. I had studied and worked for weeks, even harder than during the actual college term. And next Sunday, I have to work at my favourite garden centre too. My test had gone well, but the others had taken the cue that I preferred not to discuss it. Unwilling to pay the early results fee, I had to wait for a week. Therefore, my wealthy table companions discussed bondage and politics as I nodded in silence, too shy, stupid, and exhausted to add anything intelligent. To prevent boring you with the latter, let me focus on the bondage. That is why you are reading this anyway.

A bondage contest was organized tonight, which was neither an escape competition nor a bound race. In fact, riggers, and not their bound victims, were pitted against each other. Ambrose, Cecilia, and Gregory formed a team, and I was their model. Hence, I could not pull out and hit the hay. I had committed to this job. But, hey, I just had to survive one more night.

The competition had three rounds. The riggers had 20 minutes to tie their model up, and they had to maintain the position for 15 minutes as judges, well, judged. They awarded 0 to 5 points in each of the seven categories of tightness, inescapability, tying technique, difficulty, creativity, composition, and comfort. There were thus 35 points at most in every round.

Although the exact challenges were a surprise, my three riggers had selected my outfit, which was a costume, as was traditional for this contest. I had tried the Spider-Gwen costume earlier this week, and the fabric accentuated my body features as it was a size too small. I wore neither panties nor a bra underneath.

After dessert, I changed into the costume: a skintight catsuit made of polyester, spandex, and Lycra. It was colored in black, white, and some red, and combined with mint green all-star sneakers. I had been confused. My three middle-aged riggers lacked the pop-cultural awareness to recognize a modern cartoon character. I supposed it was an event staple; a competitor had chosen the same outfit.

“That’s so cute, Cy!” Gaia beamed as she passed me in the hallways. She was dressed as a purple anime witch, which I could not identify. The bodysuit and tights left little to the imagination. Her riggers were also all more than a decade older.

“You’re looking amazing too. Good luck tonight,” I replied before attending the briefing together with the eleven other teams. We got assigned a cubicle in the back, shrouded by curtains to prevent us from copying the other teams’ plans. Inside, a crate with white ropes awaited, fitting the Spider-Man theme. A red velvet blanket veiled the first prompt. When the bell dinged, Ambrose pulled it away, revealing a card and a round metal bar stool without a backrest.

The model should not be able to escape or even touch the ground. If the model can produce movements that can topple the stool, that counts as a failure.

My riggers started spouting ideas and let me try various positions. I could sit down while bending forward or backward, or be hogtied on top. They also suggested floating only an inch above the floor, bound below the lowest metal ring. There were many options, but due to the slender and high stool, the height of the center of gravity was crucial. Going lower meant a lower score, but being on top risked failing the challenge.

There was no leader, and they wasted time deciding the tie. Ultimately, they settled on something simple: Wrap me around the chair, pretty high up. I lay on my back on the floor as Ambrose set the chair on my stomach and grasped my knees around its metal legs. Then I was secured with miles of rope to spread my weight. I had to sustain this position for 15 minutes. As my knees only bend backwards, they could not fold in the same direction, so my ankles were fastened to my upper legs. Three people meticulously brushed over my body as they shouted hushed directions, which was a bizarre sensation.

With three minutes left, they put the stool back upright, letting my body hang from the ropes, which six hands adjusted. They pushed a solid ball of latex into my mouth and secured it with a leather strap. Cecilia tugged the Spider-Gwen mask over my head, which she had altered to act as a blindfold. Fabric coated every square inch of my skin.

Still, it was not cozy. Ropes bit into my skin, and one leg pressed against my breasts. The bell rang, signaling that the first round was over, and the curtains were pulled away.

“Looks pleasing, Ambrose,” a woman commented. A hand graced my side, inspecting the knots. “Quite tight. Is she okay?”

“I’m not the biggest admirer of this tie, Greg,” a second judge noted. “It’s technical but uninteresting. You can’t see anything. It’s not sexy or exciting.”

She shook the stool back and forth, and I did not even move a tenth of an inch. No one asked me anything or even recognized my feelings. I was a brick of meat swathed in ropes. I had never experienced bondage in this way. There were no sexual stimulants or anything else that could invoke a particular emotion inside me. I was merely modelling like a doll or mannequin. And blind, I was clueless about my whereabouts.

But I was alive. I had senses, and the blindfolds and bounds amplified every sensation. Cold hands examined the ropes. Shoes stamped on the wooden floor. Pens scraped on the paper to denote our scores. A Polaroid camera snapped pictures. One rope dug into my right hip. It took an eternity before the ten-minute break between the rounds began.

“Are you holding up well?” Gregory questioned after untying me. He handed me a glass of caffeinated water as he clasped my other hand.

The tear on my cheek betrayed my emotional state. “Yeah, kind of. How did we do? And only two more rounds, right?”

“Two more indeed. We were middle of the pack. A girl did a gymnastic bridge on top of the chair. That looked otherworldly.”

Another slap in the face. More flexible and stronger girls would provide better ties and higher scores. I sacrificed my sanity for mediocracy.

Before I had composed myself, the second round commenced. When the bell rang, Ambrose pulled the red cloth away, revealing the second prompt. There was a black wooden cross with a shoe in the middle. One foot had to be strapped inside, and I had to balance on it. The cross would prevent me from falling over. To make it more interesting, we were also given a 6-foot-long wooden pole.

The best solution was obvious. The model would stand straight on one leg with the pole tied to their other leg’s ankle and upper leg, extending it over one’s back to a shoulder and arm. Then, one ties a rope between the end of the pole and the cross. This would draw their shoulders down and their tied leg up. The tighter the rope, the more impressive your Superman pose. I was neither a gymnast nor a yoga aficionado and lacked the balance and flexibility.

We had to keep it simple. My team would tie the pole to my standing knee and the other end to my shoulder, to force my back to arc backward like a bow. Then my arms were bound behind that pole, and my other foot was bound to the pole as well, pointing that foot upward. The handful of knots did not mold me into a particularly elegant damsel, but they did the job. I was stuck. Compared to the first challenge, there were far fewer solutions, so we anticipated many similar ties. My uninspired gag and blindfold did not help.

The judging remained strange. Again, the uncomfortable bondage forced me to concentrate on pain, composure, and balancing as I hung backward, which was unintuitive. And I could put little pressure against my bent back, contrary to a hogtie. I had to appear relaxed to retain decent points in the comfort category as judges touched the knots and commented on my vulnerable state of being. Then I was untied, had cola to keep me awake, and heard I would be suspended.

That was unceremonious. Gregory was saving my first suspension for a special occasion, but now rushed it while I was in the wrong mindset. That is life.

The challenge was to hang from a single ring, and so no part of my body could touch the floor. Easy. Ambrose proposed the classic Spider-Man pose when he halts during his web descent. I would wear a hip harness and hang upside down with my legs spread apart, knees bent, and heels near my crotch. My hands would also be bound there to create the illusion, and Cecilia suggested using black ropes for the elements that were not webbing.

My three riggers went to work and for once cooperated well, finishing with minutes to spare. Then they hoisted me in the air, pulling the rope through the ring. A naughty smirk took over. I was in the air! Flying while my hemp prison carried every ounce of body mass was unimaginably scary and liberating.

Then, before my dopamine high would have even slowed, disaster struck.

The stitching snapped at the worst possible place. Air swept past my bare ass and pussy. Ambrose cursed, staring into my asshole. My attempt to do a side split in a rope harness had caused this catastrophe. Why did they buy one size smaller? Sure, all three had seen my birthday suit before, but this was unintentional and broke the Maiden’s rule.

“Keep calm, Cyan. There’s nothing you can do,” Gregory proclaimed. It was true but unhelpful. Cecilia at least hid my holes with one of the red veils that had hidden the challenges. She also inserted the gag and concealed my blushing face with the hood. She had seen that my eyes and ears were deep red. With a covered face, I could cry freely. It had been a tough day.

After judging, I attended the prize ceremony, but it all seemed like a blur. I do not remember it. We got seventh. Then I drove home and plunged into bed, not even bothering to remove my ruined makeup.

[slackywacky]

Nice addition to this story. Dank je wel.