Caught in the act (F/m)

[Bondageboi]

The duct tape hissed against itself as Marcus pulled another strip taut around his ankles. "Shut up already," he muttered, though no one else was in the cramped garage except pidgeoms cooing outside the cracked window as he sat on yhe square of old carpet on the comcrete floor. He carefully continued wrapping his ankles, anive and below knees and thighs just under his shorts.

"Marcus?" The sudden voice made him jump. His mother stood silhouetted in the doorway, gardening gloves still on her hands. She stepped closer, her gaze drifting from the coiled tape roll to his bound legs. Her expression didn’t change—no shock, no anger—just a slow blink as she knelt beside him. Tiny gravel bits stuck to her knees from the driveway. "Need a hand with those arms?"

Marcus’s throat tightened. He’d expected yelling, maybe the sharp sting of a slap. Not this. Not her calmly remiving her gloves as she knlet besides him, her jeans scraping on the oil stained floor.

Her fingers brushed the tape above his knee where it dug into soft skin. She didn’t look at his face yet—just studied the bindings with the same focus she gave her prize-winning roses. "Bit tight here," she murmured, her thumbnail tracing the edge. "Circulation’s important, sweetheart." The scent of damp earth clung to her shirt. “But you’ll learn”

Marcus held his breath as she picked up the roll. The tape screeched again when she tore a long strip cutting with her teeth. He flinched at the sound. “Hands behind your back sweetie.” Her hands circled his left wrist—dry and rough from gardening—lifting it gently toward his other arm. "Lock your fingers.”

“Shall i do your arms too?” She did nit wait for an answer. Her knuckles pressed against his spine while she looped the tape several times around his thin forearms. The adhesive bit colder than he’d expected. She smoothed a wrinkle with her thumb. "Every escape artist needs practice," she whispered against his ear. "Gotta feel the squeeze before you learn the wriggle." Outside, a pigeon fluttered against the window like trapped applause.

The tape circled round his body—three times over his shoulders, four times across his chest, pinning elbows tight. Marcus inhaled plaster dust and the sour tang of old motor oil from the garage floor. He could feel his heartbeat through his shirt as his mum wrapped tape round his tummy, pinning his hands to the small of his back. The bindings compressed his lungs. He imagined roots tangling beneath garden soil, strangling each other slowly.

"Comfy, sweetie?" Her voice drifted from behind him, soft as dandelion fluff. He felt her knuckle brush a strand of hair off his neck before her palm pressed flat against his spine. The pressure made him aware of his own trapped breath. Outside, the scrape of gravel under car tires—someone pulling into the driveway nearby? Marcus strained to hear footsteps, but heard only his mother’s steady breathing near his ear.

The final strip hissed as she tore it. Not tape this time—longer, thicker. Something opaque and woven. Marcus caught a glimpse of frayed blue nylon rope clutched in her dirt-streaked hand. "Found this in the shed," she murmured, looping it high around his biceps. It pulled tighter than the tape. Much tighter. Each twist dug into muscle until his fingertips prickled numb. He imagined roots coiling around tree trunks. Silent. Relentless.

“Now. Are you going to try and callfor help?” His mum asked.

He grinned back at her. “I might do. What are you going to do about it?”

She sat down and removed her left wellington boot.

Marcus frowned at her grey, sweaty sock, the way she peeled it off deliberately slow. The silence thickened like cooling tar. She didn't answer his question about calling for help. Instead, she bunched the damp sock into a tight ball, the knitted wool stretching obscenely. The sharp smell of wet earth and sweat bloomed between them, mixing with the garage’s stale oil scent. He tried shifting his weight, but the rope bit deeper into his biceps, sending needles down his trapped arms. Her gaze remained fixed on the sock, a strange calm settling over her features like dust.

Before he could twist away, her free hand clamped firmly over his forehead, tilting his head back against her chest. The rough denim scraped his scalp. Her other hand shoved the wadded sock deep into his open mouth. It filled the space instantly, pushing his tongue flat against the roof, the wool fibres catching on his teeth with a dry scrape. He gagged violently, eyes watering, thrashing against the ropes binding his shoulders. Her grip tightened, holding his head immobile as she wrapped tape around his head , sealing his lips over the sock.

The tape crinkled against itself, circling his skull four times—over his cheeks, under his jawbone—pulling his lips painfully taut. All sound muffled instantly. Marcus heard only his own choked breathing through his nose and the distant flutter of pigeon wings trapped outside. The sock absorbed his saliva, swelling thickly against the gag seal. His mum leaned close, her voice a blurred vibration against his gagged ear. "Shh. Listen now. I cant go around with one sock on.”

She slowly removed her other boot, followed by the twin, grey sweaty woolen sock. Her bare foot slapped softly against the concrete floor. Marcus watched her toes flex against the cold surface, knuckles whitening where her grip tightened on her remaining sock. The silence became a physical weight against his gagged lips. She slowly drew the tight wollen band over his eyes.

Darkness swallowed him. The wool pressed damply against his eyelids, heavy with the reek of dried sweat and garden soil. Sounds sharpened—the frantic scrape of his own breathing through flared nostrils, the drip-drip of condensation from a pipe somewhere overhead. He felt her fingers fiddling as the knit was tied at the back of his head. A few moments of silence . Thecclimp of boots. Then came the metallic click of the garage door latch sliding home.

Marcus froze. He strained against the ropes digging into his shoulders and arms, the tape biting around his waist. Nothing gave. The bindings held him rigid, immobile. He heard gravel crunch directly outside the door—her boots walking away. A car engine coughed to life nearby, idling rough for a few seconds. The sound of wheels rolling slowly over loose stones grew fainter, then vanished completely. The pigeons' cooing filled the vacuum. Sweat trickled from his hairline, stinging the tape edge near his temple. His gagged mouth worked uselessly, the sodden sock packed tight against his palate. Cold seeped through his shorts from the unforgiving concrete floor. He was loving this.

The next thirty minutes was anextacy of restraint, struggle, failure and frustratiom. crawled by. His arms began to ache in numbness of bring pinned back. His legs, taped together from ankles to thighs, pulsed with pins and needles as his feet became colder and he waggled his toes. Then, the crunch of gravel returned, lighter this time. The garage door latch rattled violently. Light flooded the concrete floor as the heavy metal panel scraped upwards, revealing a silhouette against the afternoon glare.

His mother stood framed in the doorway, transformed. The earthy gardening gloves and muddy boots were gone. Instead, she wore a sleek black vest top that clung to her shoulders and arms. Grey, baggy joggers pooled loosely around her ankles, bunching slightly above a pair of cheap, worn flip-flops. Her bare toes gripped the rubber strap. She carried a plastic shopping bag dangling from two fingers. The scent of cut grass still clung faintly to her, layered now with something sharp and chemical like bleach. She kicked a loose stone aside with her flip-flop and stepped inside, letting the garage door clang shut behind her.

Marcus strained against the ropes pinning his arms to his back. Blindfolded, gagged, he tracked her through sound alone—the slap of her flip-flops against concrete, the rustle of the plastic bag as she set it down near his bound legs. He heard fabric shift as she knelt, then felt her fingers brush the taut rope digging into his biceps. The contact was unexpectedly gentle. "Thirty minutes," she murmured. Her voice sounded different—flatter, detached, like she was assessing seedlings. "Not bad for your first real test." The flip-flop scraped as she shifted position. "You didn't scream." It wasn't praise. Just observation. Cold seeped through Marcus's shorts where he sat. “So what should I do with you now?”

Marcus made a whimpering groan into the gag.

“Untie you? Leave you here? Send you all tied up to granny, or Aunt Lucy? I wonder what they'd do with a little tied up boy?”

Marcus bucked wildly, ropes biting, gagged cries muffled and thick. His movement scraped bare elbows against the gritty floor. The plastic bag rustled as she pulled something out—long, thin, metallic. Scissors? His pulse hammered against the tape sealing his lips.

Her flip-flop tapped impatiently. "Settle." A cold point pressed against the tape near his neck—not cutting, just resting. The blade's chill seeped through his skin. "Granny would use knitting needles," she mused, tracing the rope downward. "Scrape them over your bare feet. Test how much a ten-year-old squirms." The scissors clicked open near his ear.

Marcus jerked his head away, gagged whines escaping. The metal slid lower, slipping under the gag and she began to cut his bonds away. Her breath warmed his temple. "Aunt Lucy?" A pause. "She'd leave you wrapped tighter than this. Under her bed." The scissors snipped air sharply beside his cheekbone. He froze. "Silent boy. Dark boy." The blade tip hooked his shoulder as she began to free his arms as she exposed the goosebumped skin. Cold air prickled.

“Then there’s my friend Lisa.” Her voice dropped lower, huskier. The rope slackened around his biceps as she sawed through it. "I wonder what she’d do. Shall I give her a call?”

[MommysNB]

Loved this story! Well thought out and written. I love how she whispered veiled threats of what family members may do to him. Her friend Lisa sounds devious! Thank you for sharing!

[milagros317]

Her friend Lisa sounds devious!

I concur. In part 2, his mother should send him to Lisa, who has been prepped with many ideas to torment Marcus.

[Misbehaving88]

Great story. Can't wait to see what Lisa has in store for Marcus.

[JC1991]

Will Aunt Lucy wrap him like a mummy before putting him under the bed?!
I know I keep asking, but there's not enough mummification on this site.

[Derftg]

Can’t wait to see what will happen to him in the next part!! Maybe his mother could put him all tied up in the trunk of their car and carry him to a family reunion including his Aunt, his Granny, his mother and her friend Lisa…