Stories of Tie Up Games

Maybe a little darker this time.




Amy padded barefoot downstairs in her pink sttripy pyjamas to find her mother already dressed for work: a smart silk blouse on top of black lycra leggings and slipper socks pulled over the cuffs.

“Ready for another day off school?” Julie asked with a cheeky grin to her daughter.

“Erm. Yes.” She gingerly replied.

“Well dont drink too much, have something to eat. Brush your teeth , go to the bathroom and then wait in your bedroom.”

“Erm . Wait for what?”

“Me.”

Twenty minutes later, Amy sat in bed under the covers, the taste of mint fresh on her teeth when her mother opened the door, entering with two rolls of silver tape. She pulled the covers back exposing Amy’s legs in their pink cotton covers then sat on the mattress next to her.

“Hands behind your back child!”

Amy realised this was th price for her second day off school “ill” and complied. Julie began to wrap silver tape around her daughter’s bare wrists. Amy gasped at the adhesive’s sting against her skin, cold and metallic-smelling as Julie pulled each wrap taut. The tape scraped her arms with its gritty texture while her mother’s breath came steadily behind her – calm, rhythmic, unhesitating. *How many times has she done this?* Amy thought, twisting her fingers uselessly as the binding tightened. The tape dug deeper with every layer, sealing her arms like industrial packaging.

“Tight enough?” She asked as she moved jer attemtion to her daughter’s elbows. “Comfy?” Amy knew the questions were largely rhetorical and meant to tease her.

“Got that done.” Julie said. “Now lets do your body.”

Amy tensed as her mother tore off a fresh strip of tape and pressed it firmly onto her upper arm, just above her boobs. The adhesive pulled on the pink cotton as Julie pulled the tape diagonally across her chest, flattening the striped pyjama top against her ribs. Amy gasped as the sharp adjesive scent filled her nostrils again, her skin prickling beneath the fabric. Julie worked quickly, anchoring each around her daughters arms and torso, ensuring her arms were not just bound together but welded to her back, the silver bands crisscrossing Amy’s shoulders like luggage straps, then circling her torso just below her breasts and around her tummy and hips. The relentless pressure squeezed Amy’s diaphragm, forcing shallow breaths as she watched the silver bands multiply. *This isn't just tying me jp for the morning,* Amy thought, her pulse thudding in her ears. *This feels... permanent.*

“OK, lets get those legs done.”

Amy’s breath hitched as Julie tore the second roll of tape and pressed it against her ankles over the pyjama trousers. More wraps were added firmly: across her pajama-clad thighs, just below the knee, around her calves. Four five times, pressing her legs together. The adhesive grabbed the pink cotton instantly, the cold bite making Amy flinch. Julie pulled it tight, circling her legs twice, three times, four, five, with methodical precision, each wrap compressing the fabric until the stripes blurred into flat bands. Amy tried to flex her ankles, but the tape held them immobile, the gritty texture scratching against her skin. She could smell the sterile, chemical tang of the tape mixing with the faint scent of her mother’s perfume—something floral and incongruously cheerful. *She’s done this before,* Amy realized again, watching her mother’s steady hands. *Many times.*

Julie paused, surveying her work, then reached behind her and produced a small reel of black electrical tape. Amy’s eyes widened—this was new. Without a word, Julie knelt at the foot of the bed, lifted Amy’s bound feet, and tore off a short strip to start using the smaller reel. She pressed the glossy tape firmly against Amy’s big toe and wrapped tape round its partner, pinning them together. The vinyl tape was thinner, tighter, biting into the tender skin between her toes with a sharp, plasticky sting-uncomfortable but not painful. Amy whimpered, her toes cramping instantly as the unfamiliar restraint robbed her of even the smallest wiggle. Julie smoothed the last strip with her thumb, her expression focused, almost clinical. “There,” she murmured, more to herself than Amy. “No wandering today.”

Next, Julie grabbed a pair of clean white ankle socks from Amy’s drawer. Amy recoiled instinctively, understanding dawning as her mother unfolded one sock. “Mom, plea—” Julie silenced her with a sharp look, balling the sock tightly in her palm. The cotton smelled faintly of lavender detergent, a jarring contrast to the situation. She pressed the wad deep into Amy’s mouth, the fabric filling her cheeks and pressing her tongue flat against the floor of her mouth. A muffled cry escaped Amy as, for a fleeting moment she panicked. Julie held it firmly in place, her fingers cool against Amy’s flushed cheek as she began to wrap more tape around her head, holding her hair out of the way.

The tape circled once, twice, three times over the sock—tight, unyielding layers sealing Amy’s jaw shut. The adhesive pulled at her skin and hairline, sharp and medicinal, while the sock absorbed her frantic saliva, leaving a chalky dryness on her tongue. Amy squeezed her eyes shut, focusing on the rhythmic *shhhhk* of the tape unspooling and the hollow sound of her own breathing through her nose. Julie’s thumbs pressed the last strip smooth above Amy’s ear, her expression detached, as if she were packaging fragile cargo. She stood, brushing invisible lint from her leggings. “That should keep you quiet and cozy,” she said, her tone unnervingly pleasant. “Be good.”

Julie walked to the door without looking back, her slippered feet silent on the carpet. The latch clicked softly behind her, a sound as final as a tomb sealing. Amy’s muffled sob hit the sock gag, thick and futile. Alone now, she strained against the bonds—silver tape compressing her ribs, pinning her arms flush against her spine, legs fused from thighs to ankles. Each twist sent jagged sparks of pain where the tape bit into her wrists and ankles, the gritty adhesive scraping like sandpaper. She tried to kick, but the tape held her legs in a vise, the electrical tape between her toes a cruel, pinching reminder of her helplessness. The room’s quiet pressed in: the hum of the radiator, the distant tick of a clock, the frantic drumming of her own pulse in her ears.

Suddenly the door opened and her mother returned, this time carrying two small gauze make up patches. “Don’t wantbyou to,be disturbed or distracted do we?” *Rhetorical,question as ever. Even if I wasnt gagged*

Julie carefully placed one pad over her Amy’s left eye, holding it in place with a square of silver tape, repeating the process a few seconds later on the right. Amy inhaled sharply, gasping through her nose as her vision was robbed from her and her world became darkness.

”One last thing Darling.” A pair of noise cancelling headphines were placed over Amy’s ears. She did nit hear the ripping of tape but felt it as ince again, wrapped around her head, holding the cups of the phones pressed to the sides of her head: no chance to shake these free.

Julie patted her shoulder through the layers of tape. Her voice came muffled and distorted as she leaned close: “We can’t have you hearing anything that might upset you, can we?” Amy felt the mattress shift as her mother stood; she felt rather than heard footsteps retreating – nothing more than vibrations through the bedsprings now. Slipper socks on carpet throughnthe mufflimg , active headset.

The silence was absolute, profound, and terrifying. Not the quiet of an empty house, but a pressurized vacuum. No radiator hum, no clock tick – just the frantic rush of blood in her ears and her own shallow, whistling breaths through her nostrils. The dark wasn't mere absence of light; it was thick, smothering velvet. Panic surged, cold and immediate. She strained violently against the tape, her back arching off the mattress. The silver bands dug deeper into her ribs and shoulders, the gritty adhesive scraping raw patches on her wrists and ankles. A muffled scream tore from her throat, choked instantly by the sodden sock gag filling her mouth – tasting of stale cotton and desperation. The tape around her head held firm, anchoring the headphones like a vise. Her struggles sent sharp jolts of pain through her pinched toes bound by the electrical tape, a cruel counterpoint to the ache blooming across her immobilized body. *I’m buried alive,* the thought screamed in her mind. *She’s buried me alive.*

A fine story!
It would be even better if Amy had a younger sister who will find her in her helpless state and play with her.

Nice continuation. I enjoyed this a lot too, although I‘m not the biggest fan of tape.
You’re really doing a good job

Makes me want to take the day off school

Nice story, enjoyed reading

A minute passed. Or maybe ten. Time stretched and warped in the dark. The only proof she still existed was the pressure: the tape constricting her chest, the wet heat of tears seeping past the gauze patches, the dull throb of her twisted fingers trapped behind her back. She tried to roll sideways, imagining she could somehow slither off the bed. But Julie had anticipated that – the tape crisscrossing her legs not only fused them together, but also made all betvthe slightest fkex impossible. She was pinned to the mattress like a butterfly pinned to cork. The faintest tilt of her hips could not begin tomflip her over. A sob hitched in her throat, useless. *She’s done this before. Planned it.* The realization slithered through her panic – this wasn’t improvisation. The electrical tape between her toes, the gauze patches, the headphones... each layer engineered to erase her senses methodically. Amy burst out laughing into her gag.

She froze mid-laugh. The sound had been muffled, distorted, but unmistakable. Somewhere deep in her chest, a jagged hysteria bubbled up. *This is insane.* Her mother had wrapped her like an Amazon package. Cotton pyjamas, ... and industrial-grade restraint. The absurdity of it clawed at her ribs. But beneath the laughter lurked something darker: the growing certainty that Julie hadn’t just *done* this before—she’d *practiced*. The precision of the tape job, the strategic placements... No way this was amateur hour. Who had she practiced on.

Amy thrashed again, twisting her torso violently enough to case herself some pain but she could not peel any of the tape from ther body. Her breath came in ragged bursts through her nose, nostrils flaring against the lavender-scented sock gag. She arched her back, toes curling instinctively against the unforgiving vinyl tape binding them, but her legs stayed welded together, useless. The headphones pressed harder against her ears as she strained, amplifying the whoosh of her own panicked breathing until it drowned out everything else.

Exhaustion hit her like a dropped curtain. Her muscles trembled, then gave out. She slumped back onto the mattress, the tape creaking faintly with the movement. Sweat prickled along her hairline beneath the tape, mixing with the tacky residue of the adhesive. The darkness behind the gauze patches swam with phantom shapes—brief flashes of her bedroom ceiling she could no longer see. Her ribs ached from the effort, the silver bands around her torso now feeling less like restraint and more like a skeletal embrace. *No use,* she admitted silently. *No fucking use at all.*

And then—something shifted. The panic receded like a tide pulling back, leaving behind warm, viscous calm. The pressure of the tape no longer registered as confinement, but as a full-body embrace, the snug weight of a cocoon. She inhaled deeply through her nose, the lavender from the sock gag mingling with the industrial scent of the tape, and realized her heart rate had slowed. Her trapped fingers twitched behind her, not to escape, but to press deeper into the binding, testing its firmness. The gritty texture of the tape against her wrists sent an unexpected shiver down her spine, a sensation bordering on... pleasant?

The darkness behind the gauze patches stopped being oppressive. It became a velvet sanctuary, a private theater where she could focus on every tactile detail: the way her pyjamas clung damply to her skin beneath the tape, the rhythmic pulse of her own breath moving the silver bands across her ribs, the faint creak of the adhesive flexing as she experimentally tensed her thighs. Even the pinch of the electrical tape between her toes morphed into a grounding presence, a sharp counterpoint to the enveloping pressure everywhere else. *It’s like being hugged,* she thought, and the realization shocked her—not because it was strange, but because it felt like her mummwas there, huggingbher all over.

Her gagged mouth stretched into a smile beneath the layers of tape. The sock tasted less like chalky cotton and more like proof—proof that she was *held,* that she couldn’t ruin this moment by speaking, by begging, by being anything other than perfectly restrained. She arched her back slightly, just to feel the tape resist, and a quiet thrill hummed through her. Julie hadn’t just immobilized her; she’d sculpted her. The crisscrossed silver bands weren’t just restraints—they were *attention,* meticulous and consuming. Amy exhaled shakily through her nose, her nostrils flaring against the scent of her own trapped warmth mingling with the adhesive.

The darkness behind the gauze patches deepened, swirling into something liquid and tactile. She felt herself sinking—not into the mattress, but into the restraint itself, the tape becoming a second skin. The pressure on her ribs morphed into the weight of hands pressing her down, phantom fingers tracing the paths Julie’s tape had mapped. Amy’s breath hitched as the imagined touch slid lower, following the silver bands around her waist, dipping beneath where her pajama top was fused to her skin.

In the dream, the tape wasn’t tape at all—it was silk, endless coils of it winding around her, binding her arms not behind her back but above her head, her fingers interlaced with someone else’s. The scent of lavender detergent sharpened into jasmine, thick and heady, and the sock gag dissolved into a warm palm pressed over her mouth. "Shhh," whispered a voice that wasn’t Julie’s, low and teasing. Amy arched into the touch, the electrical tape between her toes replaced by bare feet sliding against cool satin sheets. Her dream-self moaned, the sound trapped deliciously behind that phantom hand.

The darkness behind the gauze patches fractured into shapes—not her bedroom, but a dimly lit space with high ceilings, the walls lined with hooks and coils of rope in every color. Someone was humming, the vibration resonating through Amy’s bound body like a plucked string. She tried to turn her head, but the silk restraints held her fast. A fingertip traced the path of the tape that had crossed her body earlier, but now it dipped beneath fabric that gave way effortlessly, baring her skin to the humid air. "You like this," the voice murmured, not a question. Amy’s dream-self nodded frantically, her hips lifting off the mattress in silent pleading.

The touch ghosted lower, following the phantom silver bands to where they’d cinched around her thighs, but now the pressure wasn’t restrictive—it was a slow, torturous squeeze that made her whimper into the nonexistent gag. The jasmine thickened, cloying, and the ropes anchoring her wrists above her head tightened with every ragged breath. She could feel the bed—no, a table—beneath her, cool and unyielding as the dream reshaped itself into something darker. The humming stopped. "Stay," the voice commanded, and Amy’s body obeyed before her mind could protest, every muscle locking in perfect submission.

Fingers—real or imagined, she couldn’t tell—trailed down her legs, counting each wrap of tape as if taking inventory. The pressure shifted, dipped, and suddenly the silk restraints were replaced by something heavier: leather straps, buckles clicking faintly as they adjusted to her squirming. A hand fisted in her hair, tilting her head back. She felt breath against her collarbone, warm and uneven, before a hand ran through her hair. The moan that tore from her was soundless, swallowed by the dark and the weight of her own helplessness.

Dream-Amy’s body arched—not to escape, but to press closer to hands that knew exactly how to twist pleasure from restraint. The phantom voice whispered again, this time right against her ear: “You’re so good like this.” The praise sent a shudder through her, electric and sweet. She tried to nod, to beg without words, but the dream hand tightened in her hair, holding her still. “No,” the voice chided, amused. “You don’t get to ask.” The denial sent heat pooling low in her stomach, her thighs pressing together instinctively, only to find them already fused by unseen bonds.

The hands returned, gliding down her legs with possessive slowness, pausing to dig thumbs into the tender hollows behind her knees. Amy’s breath hitched—the touch was real enough to make her forget the tape, the gauze, the headphones. Fingertips traced the paths where Julie’s silver bands had been, but now they dipped beneath imaginary fabric, nails scraping lightly over sensitive skin. Every inch of contact burned, contrasting deliciously with the cool leather straps her dream-mind had conjured. A low, approving hum vibrated against her shoulder blade. “Perfect,” the voice murmured. “Just… perfect.” The word curled around her like smoke, intoxicating.

Then—the first brush of fingertips against her soles. A feather-light stroke, almost accidental. Amy jerked, a muffled squeak escaping the sock gag. The tickling intensified immediately, fingers spidering up her arches, skittering between toes still bound by electrical tape. The sensation was unbearable—not painful, but merciless, a relentless onslaught that sent spasms through her immobilized legs. She thrashed uselessly against the mattress, her laughter trapped behind layers of cotton and adhesive, coming out as frantic, whistling bursts through her nose. Tears soaked the gauze patches, the salt stinging her sealed eyelids. The hands didn’t relent, mapping every twitch, every desperate flex of her pinned ankles.

Fingernails scraped deliberately along the sensitive hollows of Amy’s arches, sending fresh convulsions through her body. The touch was clinical, almost experimental—less playful than observational, as if cataloging reactions. Amy arched, her back straining against the tape crisscrossing her legs, the silver bands biting deeper with every jerking movement. The tickling was relentless, fingers dancing along the edges of her bare fedt, pausing just below where the tape cinched her big toes together. A choked scream vibrated in Amy’s throat, equal parts panic and involuntary delight. *Stop—no, don’t—* butball sounds muffled by tape and sock, her mind gibbered, torn between begging for reprieve and chasing the electric sensation coiling low in her stomach.

The tickling eased abruptly, replaced by the flat of a palm pressing firmly against her sole—not rough, but decisive, like a doctor checking for fever. Amy gasped through her nose, her body trembling with aftershocks. Then the head phines came off, and the voice of her mother, low and amused, unmistakably Julie’s: “You twitch just like your father did.” The words landed like a slap. Amy froze. Her father? The man who’d vanished when she was six, leaving behind only a half-packed suitcase and a single Polaroid of him grinning in a leather chair? The mattress dipped as Julie shifted her weight, her fingers resuming their torment—slower now, more deliberate. “He hated this part,” she murmured, almost conversational, as her thumb circled Amy’s anklebone. “But you? You’re *squirming.*”

“Anyway. Lunch time. Do you needva bathroom break?”

Amy shook her head vigorously—she wanted this nightmare to end, not pause. Julie clucked her tongue, peeling the headphones away but leaving the gauze patches firmly taped over Amy’s eyes. “Good girl.” The mattress groaned as Julie shifted her weight, then Amy felt hands hook under her armpits, hauling her upright with a grunt. Her legs—still fused from thighs to ankles—dangled uselessly. “Hop,” Julie commanded, guiding Amy’s bound feet to the floor. The tape between her toes pinched sharply with each awkward shuffle toward the door, her mother’s hands steering her by the shoulders like a marionette. The staircase loomed unseen; Amy’s stomach lurched as Julie nudged her forward. “One step at a time. Sit on yiur bum and shuffle down. Don’t fall.”

The descent was a humiliating crawl—Amy bumping down each stair on her backside, her taped legs thudding against the steps, the banister digging into her shoulder. Julie’s socked feet padded behind her, occasionally correcting her trajectory with a firm push. At the bottom, strong hands yanked her upright again. “Almost there,” Julie murmured, guiding her toward the kitchen. Amy’s nostrils flared at the scent of tomato soup—homemade, the way Julie only made it when someone was sick. The chair scraped against linoleum as Julie positioned her, then pressed down on her shoulders until Amy’s knees bent stiffly, her taped thighs squeaking against the plastic seat.

The gag came off with a wet *pop*, the sock dragging against Amy’s teeth. She gasped, her jaw aching, her tongue thick with cotton-flavored dryness. Before she could speak, the cold rim of a spoon pressed against her lower lip. “Open,” Julie commanded. The first mouthful was a little too hot—Amy flinched, but Julie didn’t pause, scraping the spoon against her teeth to deposit another welcome mouthfull. Soup dribbled down Amy’s chin, pooling in the hollow of her throat. Julie tutted, dabbing at it with a napkin like Amy was an infant. “Messy,” she chided, then slid the spoon back between Amy’s parted lips. The broth was rich with basil, the way Amy loved it, but the taste turned ashy in her mouth.

“Mom—” she croaked after swallowing the third spoonful. Julie’s expression didn’t change, but her grip tightened imperceptibly on the spoon. “You said Dad—” The spoon returned abruptly, cutting her off. A carrot chunk caught against Amy’s front teeth. She chewed mechanically, her pulse hammering as Julie watched her with unnerving patience. The pause stretched just long enough for hope to flicker—*she’ll answer*—before Julie reached for the discarded sock gag, still damp.

Amy twisted her head away with a whimper, but Julie’s fingers slid effortlessly into her sweat-damp hair, guiding her back. “Ah-ah,” she murmured, pressing the wad back into Amy’s mouth with practiced ease. The lavender scent had soured, mingling with the taste of tomatoes. Amy bucked as the tape circled her head again, sticky strands catching her lower lip mid-protest. Julie patted her cheek, then gripped her under the arms again, hoisting her up. “Let’s get you comfy,” she said, steering Amy toward the living room.

Each hop sent jolts through Amy’s pinched toes, her thighs straining against the tape’s brutal embrace. The sofa loomed—soft, cream-colored, already dented where Julie had clearly sat earlier. A paperback lay splayed on the armrest, its spine cracked at chapter twelve. Amy’s knees hit the cushions first, her torso following in a stiff, graceless collapse. The momentum rolled her onto her side, her face pressing into the throw pillow’s embroidery—*Bless This Mess*. Julie chuckled, arranging Amy’s bound legs neatly, then draping a knitted afghan over her before replacingbthe headphones.

Great continuation.
I wonder into what bondage situations Julie put Amy's father.

Very original story! I love it. I wonder how the truth about the father is going to unravel to Amy. And what are going to be the next predicaments Amy shall have to endure.

An excellent part 2! I can’t wait for the update!

This is great, so descriptive, well written.