A Quiet Few Hours (F/f) - Part 1a & 2 now available
Posted: Thu Oct 23, 2025 7:17 pm
A Few Quiet Hours
Part 1 - From Jo's Perspective
It had been months since my last visit to Rachel’s. The world had changed a lot — divorce, lockdowns, those strange years where everything felt paused. But when I texted her on a Thursday night saying, “Still got that thing in the spare room?”, she replied within ten minutes:
“Always. Saturday?”
Rachel and I weren’t close in the traditional sense. We didn’t go for coffee or exchange birthday cards. Our friendship sat in that odd but perfect space between convenience and complete trust. We had one thing in common — we both needed an outlet. Her need was to be pinned, held down, overpowered. Mine was more still: quiet surrender, escape, stillness. A space where I could disappear for a while — quite literally.
And she understood that. That’s what made it work.
I arrived a little after eleven, Tesco bag in hand with a bottle of wine for her and a sandwich for me. Rachel answered the door in her usual weekend joggers and oversized hoodie, hair scraped into a bun. She grinned when she saw me, like I was the punchline to a private joke.
“Well, look what the cat dragged in,” she teased, stepping aside.
“Missed you too,” I said, brushing past her into the warm hallway.
The wrestling came first — it always did. It was part of the rhythm, the warm-up. Rachel needed it; she craved that moment of being held down, pinned in place. For me, it was like flipping a switch. I could focus, move, lead.
She came at me fast, like she always did, full of energy and zero strategy. But I’d done this enough times to know how to handle her. A few quick steps, a pivot, and she was on the floor. I straddled her hips, pressing her wrists gently but firmly into the carpet. She squirmed for effect, grinning up at me.
“You love this,” I said.
“Maybe,” she said, mock-defiant.
I held the position just a little longer than necessary, letting the moment settle before releasing her. We kept at it for a while — her attempts to escape, my practiced holds, the playful resistance. It was more of a dance than a fight. I always won. She never really minded.
After maybe forty minutes, we both flopped down on the floor, panting and flushed.
Rachel sat up first. “So, champ… you ready?”
I smirked. “You know I am.”
The spare room hadn’t changed — same faded blue carpet, same slightly wobbly IKEA wardrobe, same double bed with mismatched sheets. The sleepsack was already laid out, spread across the bed like a waiting shadow. Black, shiny, creased in places from storage, but familiar. Comforting, in a way.
It wasn’t high-end — a cheap eBay buy we’d split the cost of, back in the early days. But it did the job. The material was some fake leather-latex hybrid that squeaked a little when you moved it, not that you could move much once you were in it.
Rachel helped me out of my sweatshirt and socks while I climbed onto the bed and positioned myself over the open sack. This part was always a little clumsy. We’d done it enough to be efficient, but not slick. It took both of us to get my legs fed down into the narrow end, feet snug at the bottom, arms tucked by my sides. She worked the zipper slowly up past my hips, chest, collarbones — until it stopped just below my chin.
A small plastic clasp clicked under the zip — a little safety catch. Then, finally, the soft tug of a padlock at the foot of the bed. Just a little loop and chain to stop me from rolling off. Rachel’s idea, from our third visit.
“There,” she said, brushing her hair back with one hand and sitting on the edge of the bed. “Nice and snug.”
“I’m not going anywhere,” I murmured.
“That’s the point.”
The first few minutes were always strange. There’s a moment where your brain realizes you're not in control anymore, and it tries to negotiate. You’re fine. You can ask her to let you out. You’re safe. But that moment passes, and in its place is something quiet. Surrender. Stillness. A different kind of awareness.
Rachel stayed with me for a little while. She loved teasing — brushing my hair back just to tickle my neck, whispering nonsense threats in my ear, asking if I could still move (knowing full well I couldn’t). I gave her a token struggle just to make her laugh, but I was already sinking into that strange calm.
“I could leave you here all day,” she said at one point, lying beside me, head propped on her elbow.
“Wouldn’t be the worst thing,” I replied.
She snorted. “You’re so weird.”
Then, she got up, smoothed down her hoodie, and said, “I’ll be in the lounge. Shout into the baby monitor if you need anything.”
With that, she left — taking my phone, my keys, and my bag with her. It was always part of it. She knew it made me feel even more detached from the outside world. I couldn’t check the time. Couldn’t scroll. Couldn’t distract myself. Just… exist.
Time passed. Could’ve been two hours. Could’ve been four. At some point, I stopped trying to guess.
It was quiet, save for the faint hum of her old house — the creaks, the occasional car outside. My thoughts came and went like waves. Old memories. Random song lyrics. Arguments I should’ve handled better. Future plans. Regrets. Hopes. There’s something about being so utterly still that forces you to take stock.
I wasn’t scared. I wasn’t anxious. I was… held.
I’d always craved that, I think — not being touched, but being contained. Safe in stillness. Invisible but protected.
Eventually, the door creaked open again. Rachel padded in barefoot and looked down at me with a crooked smile.
“Had enough?”
I nodded.
“Say please.”
I rolled my eyes. “Seriously?”
She sat on the edge of the bed, leaned down, and gently pressed a finger to my forehead.
“Say it.”
I let out a breath. “Please. Please unzip me.”
“Try again.”
“Rachel, come on…”
She just waited, amused.
I sighed, then gave her what she wanted. “Please, Rachel, will you let me out? I’ve been good.”
“That’s better.”
She unfastened the clip at the top, slid the zip down slowly, theatrically, and freed me like a magician revealing a final trick. My arms tingled as they regained circulation. I sat up, rubbing at the marks the material had left on my shoulders, and looked at her.
“Thanks,” I said simply.
She grinned. “Same time next month?”
I smiled back. “Yeah. Let’s.”
viewtopic.php?t=24474 Part 2 - A Different Night
viewtopic.php?t=24473 Part 1a - Rachel's Perspective
Part 1 - From Jo's Perspective
It had been months since my last visit to Rachel’s. The world had changed a lot — divorce, lockdowns, those strange years where everything felt paused. But when I texted her on a Thursday night saying, “Still got that thing in the spare room?”, she replied within ten minutes:
“Always. Saturday?”
Rachel and I weren’t close in the traditional sense. We didn’t go for coffee or exchange birthday cards. Our friendship sat in that odd but perfect space between convenience and complete trust. We had one thing in common — we both needed an outlet. Her need was to be pinned, held down, overpowered. Mine was more still: quiet surrender, escape, stillness. A space where I could disappear for a while — quite literally.
And she understood that. That’s what made it work.
I arrived a little after eleven, Tesco bag in hand with a bottle of wine for her and a sandwich for me. Rachel answered the door in her usual weekend joggers and oversized hoodie, hair scraped into a bun. She grinned when she saw me, like I was the punchline to a private joke.
“Well, look what the cat dragged in,” she teased, stepping aside.
“Missed you too,” I said, brushing past her into the warm hallway.
The wrestling came first — it always did. It was part of the rhythm, the warm-up. Rachel needed it; she craved that moment of being held down, pinned in place. For me, it was like flipping a switch. I could focus, move, lead.
She came at me fast, like she always did, full of energy and zero strategy. But I’d done this enough times to know how to handle her. A few quick steps, a pivot, and she was on the floor. I straddled her hips, pressing her wrists gently but firmly into the carpet. She squirmed for effect, grinning up at me.
“You love this,” I said.
“Maybe,” she said, mock-defiant.
I held the position just a little longer than necessary, letting the moment settle before releasing her. We kept at it for a while — her attempts to escape, my practiced holds, the playful resistance. It was more of a dance than a fight. I always won. She never really minded.
After maybe forty minutes, we both flopped down on the floor, panting and flushed.
Rachel sat up first. “So, champ… you ready?”
I smirked. “You know I am.”
The spare room hadn’t changed — same faded blue carpet, same slightly wobbly IKEA wardrobe, same double bed with mismatched sheets. The sleepsack was already laid out, spread across the bed like a waiting shadow. Black, shiny, creased in places from storage, but familiar. Comforting, in a way.
It wasn’t high-end — a cheap eBay buy we’d split the cost of, back in the early days. But it did the job. The material was some fake leather-latex hybrid that squeaked a little when you moved it, not that you could move much once you were in it.
Rachel helped me out of my sweatshirt and socks while I climbed onto the bed and positioned myself over the open sack. This part was always a little clumsy. We’d done it enough to be efficient, but not slick. It took both of us to get my legs fed down into the narrow end, feet snug at the bottom, arms tucked by my sides. She worked the zipper slowly up past my hips, chest, collarbones — until it stopped just below my chin.
A small plastic clasp clicked under the zip — a little safety catch. Then, finally, the soft tug of a padlock at the foot of the bed. Just a little loop and chain to stop me from rolling off. Rachel’s idea, from our third visit.
“There,” she said, brushing her hair back with one hand and sitting on the edge of the bed. “Nice and snug.”
“I’m not going anywhere,” I murmured.
“That’s the point.”
The first few minutes were always strange. There’s a moment where your brain realizes you're not in control anymore, and it tries to negotiate. You’re fine. You can ask her to let you out. You’re safe. But that moment passes, and in its place is something quiet. Surrender. Stillness. A different kind of awareness.
Rachel stayed with me for a little while. She loved teasing — brushing my hair back just to tickle my neck, whispering nonsense threats in my ear, asking if I could still move (knowing full well I couldn’t). I gave her a token struggle just to make her laugh, but I was already sinking into that strange calm.
“I could leave you here all day,” she said at one point, lying beside me, head propped on her elbow.
“Wouldn’t be the worst thing,” I replied.
She snorted. “You’re so weird.”
Then, she got up, smoothed down her hoodie, and said, “I’ll be in the lounge. Shout into the baby monitor if you need anything.”
With that, she left — taking my phone, my keys, and my bag with her. It was always part of it. She knew it made me feel even more detached from the outside world. I couldn’t check the time. Couldn’t scroll. Couldn’t distract myself. Just… exist.
Time passed. Could’ve been two hours. Could’ve been four. At some point, I stopped trying to guess.
It was quiet, save for the faint hum of her old house — the creaks, the occasional car outside. My thoughts came and went like waves. Old memories. Random song lyrics. Arguments I should’ve handled better. Future plans. Regrets. Hopes. There’s something about being so utterly still that forces you to take stock.
I wasn’t scared. I wasn’t anxious. I was… held.
I’d always craved that, I think — not being touched, but being contained. Safe in stillness. Invisible but protected.
Eventually, the door creaked open again. Rachel padded in barefoot and looked down at me with a crooked smile.
“Had enough?”
I nodded.
“Say please.”
I rolled my eyes. “Seriously?”
She sat on the edge of the bed, leaned down, and gently pressed a finger to my forehead.
“Say it.”
I let out a breath. “Please. Please unzip me.”
“Try again.”
“Rachel, come on…”
She just waited, amused.
I sighed, then gave her what she wanted. “Please, Rachel, will you let me out? I’ve been good.”
“That’s better.”
She unfastened the clip at the top, slid the zip down slowly, theatrically, and freed me like a magician revealing a final trick. My arms tingled as they regained circulation. I sat up, rubbing at the marks the material had left on my shoulders, and looked at her.
“Thanks,” I said simply.
She grinned. “Same time next month?”
I smiled back. “Yeah. Let’s.”
viewtopic.php?t=24474 Part 2 - A Different Night
viewtopic.php?t=24473 Part 1a - Rachel's Perspective
