Home alone with the neighbour (F/m)
Posted: Fri Dec 19, 2025 11:51 am
The rope slipped again, frayed ends scratching against Jamie's bare thigh as he cursed under his breath. His fourth attempt, and he still couldn’t get the knot tight enough on his wrists behind his back without it loosening the second he shifted. The heat from the fireplace clung to his skin, making the white fabric of his t-shirt stick uncomfortably to his shoulders while the black shorts twisted awkwardly around his waist.
A sharp rap at the front door froze him mid-motion.
Jamie's stomach lurched—no one was supposed to be home for hours. The rope slid from his fingers as he twisted toward the sound, pulse hammering loud enough to drown out the crackling fire. The knock came again, deliberate and familiar. Mrs. Harlowe. His mum’s friend always knocked like that, three quick taps with her plump knuckles before letting herself in. He hadn’t even heard her car pull up over the wind rattling the old sash windows.
The door creaked open before he could move. "Jamie Love? you in here?" Her voice carried down the hall, followed by the click of her boots being kicked off onto the mat. He scrambled backward, bare feet slipping on the hardwood, but the couch blocked his escape. The ropes lay coiled on the floor like a guilty confession.
Mrs. Harlowe rounded the corner, her thick woolen skirt swishing against her tights. She stopped dead, eyebrows shooting up beneath her fringe. The silence stretched—Jamie could see the exact moment her gaze flicked from his flushed face to the discarded ropes, to his shirt rumpled from struggling. The corner of her mouth twitched. "Well." She adjusted the sleeves of her oversized pullover, knuckles brushing the pearls at her throat. "This is... unexpected."
Jamie's ears burned. He opened his mouth—some half-formed excuse about a school project dying on his tongue—when she tutted and stepped closer. The scent of lavender and damp wool enveloped him as she bent to scoop up the rope. "You're using the wrong knot, darling." Her fingers, surprisingly deft for someone who baked scones every Sunday, tested the frayed end. "reef knots, or sheet bend would hold better than this granny knot nonsense."
He blinked. That wasn't the reaction he'd braced for. The ropes dangled from her hands, the worn fibers catching the firelight as she tilted her head. "Though if you're serious about restraint work..." A slow, knowing smile curled her lips. She didn't wait for an answer, already looping one end around her own wrist in a fluid motion. "The trick is tension here—" a sharp tug made the rope bite into her skin, "—not brute force."
Jamie swallowed, not sure whatbthis new , unexpected twost was leaging to.
“Put yiur hands behind your back.” She barked, as if an order.
“W-what?” Jamie stammered, his throat suddenly dry. Mrs. Harlowe’s smile didn’t waver, but something in her eyes sharpened.
“You heard me, boy. Hands behind your back. Unless you’d rather explain this little scene to your mother when she gets home?” Her tone was light, almost playful, but the implication hung heavy between them. Jamie’s pulse throbbed in his temples as he hesitated—then slowly, reluctantly, crossed his wrists behind him. The old floorboards creaked under her knees as she knelt behind him, her woolen skirt brushing his bare arms. Her fingers, warm and firm, guided his wrists into position. “There. Now keep still.”
The first loop of rope bit into his skin with startling precision, tighter than he’d ever managed on his own. Jamie inhaled sharply as she worked, her breath hot against his neck while she murmured instructions—“Thumb here, see? Stops the circulation cutting off”—as if this were a perfectly ordinary knitting lesson. “There. Thats whatvyiu eanted isnt it?”
The ropes were cool and rough against his wrists, yet the way Mrs. Harlowe’s fingers lingered—pressing just a little too long against his pulse point—made his skin prickle.
He nodded.
She tugged experimentally, and Jamie gasped as the coils cinched tighter, the fibers creaking under the strain. “Good boy,” she purred, her voice dropping an octave. The words sent an unexpected jolt down his spine.
Mrs. Harlowe shifted back on her heels, taking in her handiwork with a tilt of her head. “Well?” she asked, smoothing her skirt over her knees. “Was this what you were aiming for, or are we just getting started?” Her gaze raked over him, lingering on the flush creeping past his collar. The fire crackled, casting long shadows across the ropes round his ankles and knees, the knots pulled loose so they dangled.
Jamie swallowed, twisting experimentally. The ropes held his wrists firmly, but without pinching—nothing like his own clumsy attempts. “I—I just wanted to see if I could do it,” he muttered, staring at the pattern her tights made against the rug. “For… for a book I’m reading.” The lie tasted stale even to him.
“Younwanted tomfell whatbir was like being all tied up didn’t you? Mrs. Harlowe’s chuckle was low, rich like the molasses she stirred into her Christmas puddings. Her fingers trailed along the rope binding his wrists, making Jamie shiver despite the fire’s heat. “Books,” she mused, tapping his nose with a fingertip. “Such funny little liars they make of us.” The hem of her skirt brushed his knee as she leaned in, the wool scratchy against his bare skin. “But tell me—did your book mention how the ropes feel when they’re done properly? The way they dig just enough to remind you they’re there?”
Jamie’s breath hitched as she abruptly yanked the loose rope around his knees taut, the sudden pressure locking his legs together. “N-no,” he admitted, muscles tensing as she began weaving another knot with quick, practiced movements. The scent of her rosewater perfume mixed oddly with the hemp’s earthy tang, dizzying in the close air between them.
Her thumb pressed into the tender hollow behind his knee, making him jump. “Ah-ah,” she chided, pulling the rope tighter. “Keep still or you’ll chafe.”
Jamie gritted his teeth as the fibers bit into his skin, the sensation sharp and strangely electric. Mrs. Harlowe’s breath warmed the back of his neck—slow, measured, like she was counting stitches in a sweater instead of securing a teenage boy to his own living room chair. The contrast made his stomach flip.
“Do younwant to know whatbit feels like to be tied up properly?”
Jamie’s throat tightened. He gave the smallest nod, his fingers curling uselessly against the ropes. Mrs. Harlowe’s smile widened as she reached onto the floor—producing another length of rope, this one softer, darker, coiled like a sleeping serpent.
With a sudden flick of her wrist, she loosened the clumsy knots Jamie had attempted earlier, the ropes slithering away like shed skin. He gasped at the sudden freedom—only for her to seize his ankle and yank it sideways, wrapping a fresh coil around it in one fluid motion. The new rope was thicker, the fibers rough against his bare skin. She worked quickly, looping figure-eights above and below his knees, each twist tighter than the last. Jamie bit his lip as the pressure built, his muscles twitching under the relentless cinch. “Breathe,” she reminded him, though her own breath came quicker now, her cheeks flushed. The wool of her skirt rasped against his shin as she leaned in to secure the final knot at his thigh, her knuckles brushing dangerously close to the hem of his shorts.
Her hands moved higher still, sliding up his thigh with deliberate slowness. The wool of her skirt scratched against his bare leg as she knelt closer, her breath hot through the thin fabric of his shorts. “Lift,” she commanded, tapping his hip. Jamie obeyed wordlessly, his stomach twisting as she threaded the rope beneath him, looping it twice around his thighs before knotting it off with a sharp tug. The pressure was immediate, the ropes locking his legs together in a way that left no room to squirm.
Mrs. Harlowe sat back on her heels, admiring her work with a painter’s satisfaction. The ropes crisscrossed his legs in neat, methodical lines—ankles, knees, thighs—each knot snug without cutting off circulation. Jamie tested them, shifting his weight, but the bindings held firm, the fibers groaning softly under the strain. “There,” she murmured, brushing a loose strand of hair from her forehead. “None of that amateurish flailing now.” Her fingers lingered on the rope at his thigh, tracing the tension. “Feel that? Proper restraint should be… inescapable. But not cruel.” The distinction sounded practiced, rehearsed, as if she’d said it before.
“No running away now. Domyounwant your arms doing too?”
“Yes please.” Jamie found himself,saying, more confident than before.
Mrs Harlowe chuckled again, and she was already reaching for the thicker rope to go around his elbows and chest.
“Hold still now.” She stepped behind him and tugged his elbows together. The rope slithered around his arms, rasping against his skin as she pulled it tight—much tighter than he could ever manage on his own. Jamie gasped as the pressure locked his shoulders back, arching his chest forward. Her fingers brushed the nape of his neck as she knotted it, sending an unexpected shiver down his spine.
The final ropes looped around his torso, cinching his arms flush against his back. Mrs. Harlowe tugged experimentally, her breath hot against his ear. “Too much?” she murmured. Jamie shook his head, pulse thrumming where the rope pressed into his ribs. It wasn’t painful—just relentlessly *there*, like a second skin he couldn’t shrug off.
She sat back on the edge of the coffee table, skirt riding up to reveal a sliver of reinforced control tops on her tights. Her gaze lingered on Jamie’s parted lips. “Now,” she mused, tapping a finger against her own mouth. “What’s a proper restraint without a gag?” The question hung between them, weighted with implication. Jamie’s throat clicked as he swallowed. She smiled, slow and deliberate, and reached into the pocket of her pullover. The fabric rustled as she withdrew a neatly folded red bandana, its edges frayed from use. “Unless,” she added, unfolding it with a snap, “you’d rather scream?”
Jamie’s pulse stuttered as the fabric fluttered between her fingers. He’d never tried that part beforecon himself though the way his breath hitched now suggested some part of him had anticipated this-+and his fantasies of the girls in his class, and some teachers, always inclyded them being gagged. Mrs. Harlowe tilted her head, watching the realization dawn in his eyes.
“Open,” she instructed, rolling the bandana into a thick strip. The scent of laundry starch wafted up as she leaned in, the wool of her pullover scratching against his bare shoulder. Jamie hesitated—then parted his lips obediently.
The fabric pressed against his tongue, dry and faintly bitter with old detergent, before she looped a second tight between his teeth. His jaw ached instantly at the forced stretch. Mrs. Harlowe’s fingers knotted the ends at the nape of his neck with brisk efficiency, her chubby fingers cold against his skin. “Bite down,” she advised, tapping his cheek. “Helps with the drooling.”
Then she stood, brushing invisible lint from her skirt, and walked away without another glance. Jamie jerked against the ropes, the coffee table rattling as he strained forward abd kicked it—but the ropes held firm. The gag muffled his startled noise as her footsteps receded toward the kitchen.
The faucet hissed. Cupboards creaked open and shut with the practiced rhythm of someone who'd visited this house a hundred times. Jamie twisted his wrists, the rope biting deeper with each futile twist. The fireplace spat an ember onto the hearth, the sudden pop making him flinch. Somewhere beyond the archway, Mrs. Harlowe hummed—a tuneless, distracted sound—followed by the clink of a spoon against ceramic. The smell of instant coffee bloomed in the air, bitter and familiar.
Jamie strained to hear over the blood pounding in his ears. The refrigerator door sighed open—the rattle of milk being poured, too much, judging by the wet splatter against the countertop. She wasn't hurrying. That was the worst part. Every movement was deliberate, unhurried, as if she'd forgotten he existed altogether. His knee knocked against the chair leg, sending a dull throb up his thigh. The ropes around his ankles had begun to chafe, the fibers grinding against his skin with every twitch. He tested the gag with his tongue—cottony and thick, already soaking with saliva.
The softbfootsteps returned, slow and measured. Mrs. Harlowe stepped into view holding a steaming mug and a plate of chocolate biscuits, her tights whispering against each other as she settled onto the couch. She took a sip, smacking her lips theatrically. "Ah. Needs more sugar." Her gaze flicked to Jamie's flushed face, his shoulders hunched forward against the ropes. "You look thirsty." She swirled the mug, watching the liquid slosh against the rim. "Shame."
Jamie let out a muffled groan, twisting his head to glare at her. The gag pulled tight at the corners of his mouth, the fabric damp with spit. Mrs. Harlowe sighed and set the mug down with a clink. "Oh, don't give me that look," she chided, brushing biscuit crumbs from her skirt. She leaned forward, pearl necklace swinging, and flicked the rope between his knees. "You're the one who wanted this.” The sudden shift to almost accusation made Jamie freeze. Her smile widened. "I saw the ropes under your bed when I brought up the laundry up yomhrlp yourvmum last week dear.."
His eyes widened. Mrs. Harlowe chuckled at his expression and reached into her pullover pocket, producing a slip of paper. “You really should pay attention to where you leave your... fantasies.”
Jamie’s stomach lurched. The folded corner of notebook paper—the same one he’d doodled sketches of knotted ropes on during math class—fluttered between her fingers before she tucked it away into the folds of her baggy pullover. “Quite the inventive mind yiunhave!” She teased.
He thrashed, bare legs scraping against hardwood, but the ropes held him mercilessly in place. The gag muffled his panic into a strangled groan as Mrs. Harlowe leaned in, her perfume cloying now. “Shhh,” she murmured, patting his cheek. “No one needs to know. Unless,” she added, straightening his skewed t-shirt collar with a tug, “you’d prefer I mention it to your mother over tea?”
“Hecshook his head violently.”
“Or maybe i just leave you here. All tued up for mummy to find when she gets home from work.” She grinned “Her little tied up boy.”
Jamie's muffled scream vibrated against the bandana as he arched backward, every muscle burned with the effort—his shoulders wrenching against the ropes, thighs straining uselessly beneath the meticulous coils, toes curling against the cold wood. The more he struggled, the deeper the fibers bit, until the very air smelled of hemp and his own panicked sweat.
Mrs. Harlowe took another leisurely sip of coffee, steam curling around her smirk. "I really love these biscuits." She turned the plate slightly, letting the firelight glaze the chocolate digestives with a tantalizing sheen. With deliberate slowness, she selected one from the edge—always the crispiest—and held it just inches from Jamie's nose. The scent of cocoa butter and vanilla flooded his senses; saliva pooled under his tongue, soaking the gag until it clung to his lips like a second skin.
"You'd love them too, wouldn't you?" She nibbled the edge with exaggerated relish, crumbs dusting her pearl-buttoned cardigan. The biscuit snapped between her teeth—a sound as sharp as the ropes cutting into Jamie's wrists. Her eyes never left his as she chewed, the rhythmic motion of her jaw somehow obscene in the quiet room. When she finally swallowed, she traced the rim of her mug with a fingertip. "But you cant est with that gag in yiur mouth.” she sighed, before placing the plate slowly, deliberately onto the rug between them. The plate sat near Jamie's bound ankles.
Jamie's nostrils flared at the rich cocoa scent wafting up—just close enough to taunt, far enough to be irredeemably out of reach. Mrs. Harlowe crossed her legs with a whisper of nylon, the reinforced toe of her tights catching firelight as she leaned forward. "Poor thing," she murmured, not unkindly. Her thumb swiped a smear of chocolate from the corner of her mouth, then—slow as honey dripping—brought it to Jamie's lips. The sweetness bloomed against the fabric of the gag, bittersweet and fleeting. He whimpered, straining forward—but she'd already withdrawn, chuckling at the damp stain left behind.
The coffee cup clinked against its saucer as she set it down, steam curling into the charged air between them. Jamie watched, pulse hammering, as she selected another biscuit—this time holding it horizontally between two fingers like a cigarette. The chocolate coating gleamed under the overhead light as she dragged it teasingly along his lower lip, leaving a melting trail in its wake. "Mm. Suppose you could lick through the gag if you tried hard enough," she mused, watching his tongue dart uselessly against the fabric. Her knee brushed his bound shin. "Not that it'd help." The biscuit disappeared between her teeth with a decisive snap.
Jamie's stomach growled audibly as she chewed, the sound earning a delighted chuckle from Mrs. Harlowe. She reached for her mug—still half-full—and swirled the contents thoughtfully. The liquid sloshed dangerously close to the rim when she abruptly thrust it toward his face. Jamie flinched, ropes creaking as he jerked back, but she merely tapped the mug's warm base against his gagged mouth. "Thirsty?" Condensation dripped onto his t-shirt as she pulled it away to sip herself, leaving him straining against his bonds with renewed desperation.
Her fingers—still sticky with chocolate—brushed his kneecap absently. Then froze. "My, my." The sudden shift in her voice made Jamie's breath hitch. Her fingertips traced the sensitive hollow behind his knee experimentally. "You're trembling." Her gaze flicked up, catching the way his shoulders tensed. A slow grin spread across her face. "Are you ticklish, Jamie Love?"
The ropes suddenly felt twice as tight. He shook his head violently, but the lie died when her nails skated up his inner thigh—light as spider silk—and his legs jerked against their bindings with a muffled yelp. Mrs. Harlowe's laughter was rich and warm, the sound curling around him like the steam from her abandoned tea. "Oh dear," she cooed, tapping his nose with a powdered-sugar-dusted fingertip. "What a terrible liar you are."
Her touch traced feather-light circles along his ribs through the thin cotton of his t-shirt, and Jamie bit down hard on the gag to stifle a gasp. The sensation was unbearable—not pain, not pleasure, just white-hot *awareness* crackling under his skin like static. His toes curled against the hardwood as her fingers danced upward, pausing just below his armpit. The knowing glint in her eyes turned predatory. "Shall we test how long you can stay quiet?" she murmured, breath hot against his ear.
Mrs. Harlowe began at his soles—bare and vulnerable, twitching under the first grazing touch of her fingertips. Jamie's muffled laughter vibrated against the bandana as she scribbled invisible patterns along his arches, the sensation skittering up his spine like spilled marbles. Then her nails replaced fingertips, sharp crescents scraping methodically between each toe. His back arched off the chair, ropes biting into his thighs as he bucked wildly. "Tsk, tsk," she chided, catching his knee in a viselike grip. "Struggling just makes it worse." The nails migrated upward, skating along his Achilles tendon—slow, torturous—before digging into the delicate hollow behind his knee. Jamie's scream was a wet, choked thing against the gag, tears pricking at the corners of his eyes.
With a suddenness that knocked the breath from his lungs, she flipped him onto his stomach. His cheek smacked against the rug, fibers scratching his skin as she swiftly gathered his wrists and ankles together behind him. The new ropes rasped against his skin—thicker, rougher than before—looping figure-eights around his limbs until every joint was drawn taut in a brutal hogtie. Jamie gasped as the position arched his back, exposing his soles completely. Mrs. Harlowe adjusted the final knot with a satisfied hum, her knee pressing between his shoulder blades to test the tension. "There," she breathed, tapping his left foot with something cold and unyielding—the handle of her wooden spoon, still damp from stirring her coffee. "Now we can *really* play."
The first stroke of the cold fork promg edge dragged along his arch with glacial slowness, the varnished wood oddly slick against his skin. Jamie's entire body convulsed, a strangled shriek tearing through the gag as the sensation exploded behind his eyelids—sharp, unbearable, yet somehow *more* than tickling. Mrs. Harlowe chuckled darkly, rotating the fork to trace the curve of his heel with its tip. "Sensitive here, aren't we?" Her free hand clamped around his ankle, pinning it in place as the prongs danced upward to scribble furious circles beneath his toes. Jamie thrashed like a hooked fish, ropes sawing into his flesh, spit soaking the gag as laughter and panic warred in his chest.
She switched tactics abruptly, dropping the fork to spider-walk her fingers up his ribs—the sudden shift from cold torment to relentless teasing left him disoriented, hyperventilating against the bandana. The nylon of her tights rasped against his bare calf as she straddled his legs, her considerable weight anchoring his squirming form to the rug. "Count for me," she purred, nails skating along the dip of his lower back. When he could only manage garbled noises, she sighed and pinched the sensitive skin behind his knee hard enough to make him yelp. "Ah well. We'll work on that."
The spoon handle made its return, tapping a staccato rhythm from his pinky toe to his arch—light, almost playful, until it wasn't. Jamie's scream was cut short as she jammed the handle into the hollow beneath his toes, twisting it in slow circles like she was stirring that damned coffee. His vision whited out at the edges, toes curling violently against the relentless pressure as she tutted. "Tsk. And we've barely started." The metal edge scraped upward, catching on every ridge and callus before wedging between his first two toes with surgical precision.
Jamie's body jackknifed, ropes biting into his thighs as she pinned his ankle with one hand and worked the spoon with the other. The cold metal dragged along his sole in slow, wet strokes—mimicking the path of her tongue along a biscuit's edge—and his gagged shrieks dissolved into hiccupping sobs. Mrs. Harlowe's breath hitched oddly as she watched him unravel, her grip tightening when his heels drummed against the rug. "Oh, you're *delicious* like this," she murmured, abandoning the fork to rake her nails down his arch in one swift, merciless stroke.
His reaction was immediate—a full-body spasm that nearly toppled them both. Tears soaked the rug beneath his cheek as she alternated between feather-light scribbles and firm, kneading pressure against his instep, tuning his sensitivity like a violin string. The scent of his own sweat mixed with the chocolate-sweet residue on her fingers, dizzying in its intimacy. Jamie's wrists strained against their bindings, the ropes groaning with every convulsive twist, but Mrs. Harlowe merely clucked her tongue and dug her thumb into the tender spot beneath his toes. "Shhh," she soothed, even as her other hand spider-walked up his ribs again. "Breathe through it."
Then, abruptly, she stopped. The absence of touch was almost worse—his skin still thrumming with phantom sensation as she rose from his trembling form. Jamie gasped against the gag, chest heaving, and craned his neck just enough to watch her settle onto the sofa with a satisfied hum. She crossed her ankles neatly, the reinforced toes of her tights mere inches from his face. The scent of coffee and leather polish clung to her knee-highs as she pulled out her phone, scrolling with one hand while the other absently massaged the arch of her own foot—a casual cruelty that made his stomach flip.
Jamie lay, still panting from the intesnse tickle torment, as he breathed he could not help but smell her ecemted, yet slightly sweaty feet. His eyes locked on her sole as she wiggled her toes. He imagined her hogtied on this very rug— gagged, barefoot, squirming— as his fingers slid over her wrinkled soles and between her toes.
A sharp rap at the front door froze him mid-motion.
Jamie's stomach lurched—no one was supposed to be home for hours. The rope slid from his fingers as he twisted toward the sound, pulse hammering loud enough to drown out the crackling fire. The knock came again, deliberate and familiar. Mrs. Harlowe. His mum’s friend always knocked like that, three quick taps with her plump knuckles before letting herself in. He hadn’t even heard her car pull up over the wind rattling the old sash windows.
The door creaked open before he could move. "Jamie Love? you in here?" Her voice carried down the hall, followed by the click of her boots being kicked off onto the mat. He scrambled backward, bare feet slipping on the hardwood, but the couch blocked his escape. The ropes lay coiled on the floor like a guilty confession.
Mrs. Harlowe rounded the corner, her thick woolen skirt swishing against her tights. She stopped dead, eyebrows shooting up beneath her fringe. The silence stretched—Jamie could see the exact moment her gaze flicked from his flushed face to the discarded ropes, to his shirt rumpled from struggling. The corner of her mouth twitched. "Well." She adjusted the sleeves of her oversized pullover, knuckles brushing the pearls at her throat. "This is... unexpected."
Jamie's ears burned. He opened his mouth—some half-formed excuse about a school project dying on his tongue—when she tutted and stepped closer. The scent of lavender and damp wool enveloped him as she bent to scoop up the rope. "You're using the wrong knot, darling." Her fingers, surprisingly deft for someone who baked scones every Sunday, tested the frayed end. "reef knots, or sheet bend would hold better than this granny knot nonsense."
He blinked. That wasn't the reaction he'd braced for. The ropes dangled from her hands, the worn fibers catching the firelight as she tilted her head. "Though if you're serious about restraint work..." A slow, knowing smile curled her lips. She didn't wait for an answer, already looping one end around her own wrist in a fluid motion. "The trick is tension here—" a sharp tug made the rope bite into her skin, "—not brute force."
Jamie swallowed, not sure whatbthis new , unexpected twost was leaging to.
“Put yiur hands behind your back.” She barked, as if an order.
“W-what?” Jamie stammered, his throat suddenly dry. Mrs. Harlowe’s smile didn’t waver, but something in her eyes sharpened.
“You heard me, boy. Hands behind your back. Unless you’d rather explain this little scene to your mother when she gets home?” Her tone was light, almost playful, but the implication hung heavy between them. Jamie’s pulse throbbed in his temples as he hesitated—then slowly, reluctantly, crossed his wrists behind him. The old floorboards creaked under her knees as she knelt behind him, her woolen skirt brushing his bare arms. Her fingers, warm and firm, guided his wrists into position. “There. Now keep still.”
The first loop of rope bit into his skin with startling precision, tighter than he’d ever managed on his own. Jamie inhaled sharply as she worked, her breath hot against his neck while she murmured instructions—“Thumb here, see? Stops the circulation cutting off”—as if this were a perfectly ordinary knitting lesson. “There. Thats whatvyiu eanted isnt it?”
The ropes were cool and rough against his wrists, yet the way Mrs. Harlowe’s fingers lingered—pressing just a little too long against his pulse point—made his skin prickle.
He nodded.
She tugged experimentally, and Jamie gasped as the coils cinched tighter, the fibers creaking under the strain. “Good boy,” she purred, her voice dropping an octave. The words sent an unexpected jolt down his spine.
Mrs. Harlowe shifted back on her heels, taking in her handiwork with a tilt of her head. “Well?” she asked, smoothing her skirt over her knees. “Was this what you were aiming for, or are we just getting started?” Her gaze raked over him, lingering on the flush creeping past his collar. The fire crackled, casting long shadows across the ropes round his ankles and knees, the knots pulled loose so they dangled.
Jamie swallowed, twisting experimentally. The ropes held his wrists firmly, but without pinching—nothing like his own clumsy attempts. “I—I just wanted to see if I could do it,” he muttered, staring at the pattern her tights made against the rug. “For… for a book I’m reading.” The lie tasted stale even to him.
“Younwanted tomfell whatbir was like being all tied up didn’t you? Mrs. Harlowe’s chuckle was low, rich like the molasses she stirred into her Christmas puddings. Her fingers trailed along the rope binding his wrists, making Jamie shiver despite the fire’s heat. “Books,” she mused, tapping his nose with a fingertip. “Such funny little liars they make of us.” The hem of her skirt brushed his knee as she leaned in, the wool scratchy against his bare skin. “But tell me—did your book mention how the ropes feel when they’re done properly? The way they dig just enough to remind you they’re there?”
Jamie’s breath hitched as she abruptly yanked the loose rope around his knees taut, the sudden pressure locking his legs together. “N-no,” he admitted, muscles tensing as she began weaving another knot with quick, practiced movements. The scent of her rosewater perfume mixed oddly with the hemp’s earthy tang, dizzying in the close air between them.
Her thumb pressed into the tender hollow behind his knee, making him jump. “Ah-ah,” she chided, pulling the rope tighter. “Keep still or you’ll chafe.”
Jamie gritted his teeth as the fibers bit into his skin, the sensation sharp and strangely electric. Mrs. Harlowe’s breath warmed the back of his neck—slow, measured, like she was counting stitches in a sweater instead of securing a teenage boy to his own living room chair. The contrast made his stomach flip.
“Do younwant to know whatbit feels like to be tied up properly?”
Jamie’s throat tightened. He gave the smallest nod, his fingers curling uselessly against the ropes. Mrs. Harlowe’s smile widened as she reached onto the floor—producing another length of rope, this one softer, darker, coiled like a sleeping serpent.
With a sudden flick of her wrist, she loosened the clumsy knots Jamie had attempted earlier, the ropes slithering away like shed skin. He gasped at the sudden freedom—only for her to seize his ankle and yank it sideways, wrapping a fresh coil around it in one fluid motion. The new rope was thicker, the fibers rough against his bare skin. She worked quickly, looping figure-eights above and below his knees, each twist tighter than the last. Jamie bit his lip as the pressure built, his muscles twitching under the relentless cinch. “Breathe,” she reminded him, though her own breath came quicker now, her cheeks flushed. The wool of her skirt rasped against his shin as she leaned in to secure the final knot at his thigh, her knuckles brushing dangerously close to the hem of his shorts.
Her hands moved higher still, sliding up his thigh with deliberate slowness. The wool of her skirt scratched against his bare leg as she knelt closer, her breath hot through the thin fabric of his shorts. “Lift,” she commanded, tapping his hip. Jamie obeyed wordlessly, his stomach twisting as she threaded the rope beneath him, looping it twice around his thighs before knotting it off with a sharp tug. The pressure was immediate, the ropes locking his legs together in a way that left no room to squirm.
Mrs. Harlowe sat back on her heels, admiring her work with a painter’s satisfaction. The ropes crisscrossed his legs in neat, methodical lines—ankles, knees, thighs—each knot snug without cutting off circulation. Jamie tested them, shifting his weight, but the bindings held firm, the fibers groaning softly under the strain. “There,” she murmured, brushing a loose strand of hair from her forehead. “None of that amateurish flailing now.” Her fingers lingered on the rope at his thigh, tracing the tension. “Feel that? Proper restraint should be… inescapable. But not cruel.” The distinction sounded practiced, rehearsed, as if she’d said it before.
“No running away now. Domyounwant your arms doing too?”
“Yes please.” Jamie found himself,saying, more confident than before.
Mrs Harlowe chuckled again, and she was already reaching for the thicker rope to go around his elbows and chest.
“Hold still now.” She stepped behind him and tugged his elbows together. The rope slithered around his arms, rasping against his skin as she pulled it tight—much tighter than he could ever manage on his own. Jamie gasped as the pressure locked his shoulders back, arching his chest forward. Her fingers brushed the nape of his neck as she knotted it, sending an unexpected shiver down his spine.
The final ropes looped around his torso, cinching his arms flush against his back. Mrs. Harlowe tugged experimentally, her breath hot against his ear. “Too much?” she murmured. Jamie shook his head, pulse thrumming where the rope pressed into his ribs. It wasn’t painful—just relentlessly *there*, like a second skin he couldn’t shrug off.
She sat back on the edge of the coffee table, skirt riding up to reveal a sliver of reinforced control tops on her tights. Her gaze lingered on Jamie’s parted lips. “Now,” she mused, tapping a finger against her own mouth. “What’s a proper restraint without a gag?” The question hung between them, weighted with implication. Jamie’s throat clicked as he swallowed. She smiled, slow and deliberate, and reached into the pocket of her pullover. The fabric rustled as she withdrew a neatly folded red bandana, its edges frayed from use. “Unless,” she added, unfolding it with a snap, “you’d rather scream?”
Jamie’s pulse stuttered as the fabric fluttered between her fingers. He’d never tried that part beforecon himself though the way his breath hitched now suggested some part of him had anticipated this-+and his fantasies of the girls in his class, and some teachers, always inclyded them being gagged. Mrs. Harlowe tilted her head, watching the realization dawn in his eyes.
“Open,” she instructed, rolling the bandana into a thick strip. The scent of laundry starch wafted up as she leaned in, the wool of her pullover scratching against his bare shoulder. Jamie hesitated—then parted his lips obediently.
The fabric pressed against his tongue, dry and faintly bitter with old detergent, before she looped a second tight between his teeth. His jaw ached instantly at the forced stretch. Mrs. Harlowe’s fingers knotted the ends at the nape of his neck with brisk efficiency, her chubby fingers cold against his skin. “Bite down,” she advised, tapping his cheek. “Helps with the drooling.”
Then she stood, brushing invisible lint from her skirt, and walked away without another glance. Jamie jerked against the ropes, the coffee table rattling as he strained forward abd kicked it—but the ropes held firm. The gag muffled his startled noise as her footsteps receded toward the kitchen.
The faucet hissed. Cupboards creaked open and shut with the practiced rhythm of someone who'd visited this house a hundred times. Jamie twisted his wrists, the rope biting deeper with each futile twist. The fireplace spat an ember onto the hearth, the sudden pop making him flinch. Somewhere beyond the archway, Mrs. Harlowe hummed—a tuneless, distracted sound—followed by the clink of a spoon against ceramic. The smell of instant coffee bloomed in the air, bitter and familiar.
Jamie strained to hear over the blood pounding in his ears. The refrigerator door sighed open—the rattle of milk being poured, too much, judging by the wet splatter against the countertop. She wasn't hurrying. That was the worst part. Every movement was deliberate, unhurried, as if she'd forgotten he existed altogether. His knee knocked against the chair leg, sending a dull throb up his thigh. The ropes around his ankles had begun to chafe, the fibers grinding against his skin with every twitch. He tested the gag with his tongue—cottony and thick, already soaking with saliva.
The softbfootsteps returned, slow and measured. Mrs. Harlowe stepped into view holding a steaming mug and a plate of chocolate biscuits, her tights whispering against each other as she settled onto the couch. She took a sip, smacking her lips theatrically. "Ah. Needs more sugar." Her gaze flicked to Jamie's flushed face, his shoulders hunched forward against the ropes. "You look thirsty." She swirled the mug, watching the liquid slosh against the rim. "Shame."
Jamie let out a muffled groan, twisting his head to glare at her. The gag pulled tight at the corners of his mouth, the fabric damp with spit. Mrs. Harlowe sighed and set the mug down with a clink. "Oh, don't give me that look," she chided, brushing biscuit crumbs from her skirt. She leaned forward, pearl necklace swinging, and flicked the rope between his knees. "You're the one who wanted this.” The sudden shift to almost accusation made Jamie freeze. Her smile widened. "I saw the ropes under your bed when I brought up the laundry up yomhrlp yourvmum last week dear.."
His eyes widened. Mrs. Harlowe chuckled at his expression and reached into her pullover pocket, producing a slip of paper. “You really should pay attention to where you leave your... fantasies.”
Jamie’s stomach lurched. The folded corner of notebook paper—the same one he’d doodled sketches of knotted ropes on during math class—fluttered between her fingers before she tucked it away into the folds of her baggy pullover. “Quite the inventive mind yiunhave!” She teased.
He thrashed, bare legs scraping against hardwood, but the ropes held him mercilessly in place. The gag muffled his panic into a strangled groan as Mrs. Harlowe leaned in, her perfume cloying now. “Shhh,” she murmured, patting his cheek. “No one needs to know. Unless,” she added, straightening his skewed t-shirt collar with a tug, “you’d prefer I mention it to your mother over tea?”
“Hecshook his head violently.”
“Or maybe i just leave you here. All tued up for mummy to find when she gets home from work.” She grinned “Her little tied up boy.”
Jamie's muffled scream vibrated against the bandana as he arched backward, every muscle burned with the effort—his shoulders wrenching against the ropes, thighs straining uselessly beneath the meticulous coils, toes curling against the cold wood. The more he struggled, the deeper the fibers bit, until the very air smelled of hemp and his own panicked sweat.
Mrs. Harlowe took another leisurely sip of coffee, steam curling around her smirk. "I really love these biscuits." She turned the plate slightly, letting the firelight glaze the chocolate digestives with a tantalizing sheen. With deliberate slowness, she selected one from the edge—always the crispiest—and held it just inches from Jamie's nose. The scent of cocoa butter and vanilla flooded his senses; saliva pooled under his tongue, soaking the gag until it clung to his lips like a second skin.
"You'd love them too, wouldn't you?" She nibbled the edge with exaggerated relish, crumbs dusting her pearl-buttoned cardigan. The biscuit snapped between her teeth—a sound as sharp as the ropes cutting into Jamie's wrists. Her eyes never left his as she chewed, the rhythmic motion of her jaw somehow obscene in the quiet room. When she finally swallowed, she traced the rim of her mug with a fingertip. "But you cant est with that gag in yiur mouth.” she sighed, before placing the plate slowly, deliberately onto the rug between them. The plate sat near Jamie's bound ankles.
Jamie's nostrils flared at the rich cocoa scent wafting up—just close enough to taunt, far enough to be irredeemably out of reach. Mrs. Harlowe crossed her legs with a whisper of nylon, the reinforced toe of her tights catching firelight as she leaned forward. "Poor thing," she murmured, not unkindly. Her thumb swiped a smear of chocolate from the corner of her mouth, then—slow as honey dripping—brought it to Jamie's lips. The sweetness bloomed against the fabric of the gag, bittersweet and fleeting. He whimpered, straining forward—but she'd already withdrawn, chuckling at the damp stain left behind.
The coffee cup clinked against its saucer as she set it down, steam curling into the charged air between them. Jamie watched, pulse hammering, as she selected another biscuit—this time holding it horizontally between two fingers like a cigarette. The chocolate coating gleamed under the overhead light as she dragged it teasingly along his lower lip, leaving a melting trail in its wake. "Mm. Suppose you could lick through the gag if you tried hard enough," she mused, watching his tongue dart uselessly against the fabric. Her knee brushed his bound shin. "Not that it'd help." The biscuit disappeared between her teeth with a decisive snap.
Jamie's stomach growled audibly as she chewed, the sound earning a delighted chuckle from Mrs. Harlowe. She reached for her mug—still half-full—and swirled the contents thoughtfully. The liquid sloshed dangerously close to the rim when she abruptly thrust it toward his face. Jamie flinched, ropes creaking as he jerked back, but she merely tapped the mug's warm base against his gagged mouth. "Thirsty?" Condensation dripped onto his t-shirt as she pulled it away to sip herself, leaving him straining against his bonds with renewed desperation.
Her fingers—still sticky with chocolate—brushed his kneecap absently. Then froze. "My, my." The sudden shift in her voice made Jamie's breath hitch. Her fingertips traced the sensitive hollow behind his knee experimentally. "You're trembling." Her gaze flicked up, catching the way his shoulders tensed. A slow grin spread across her face. "Are you ticklish, Jamie Love?"
The ropes suddenly felt twice as tight. He shook his head violently, but the lie died when her nails skated up his inner thigh—light as spider silk—and his legs jerked against their bindings with a muffled yelp. Mrs. Harlowe's laughter was rich and warm, the sound curling around him like the steam from her abandoned tea. "Oh dear," she cooed, tapping his nose with a powdered-sugar-dusted fingertip. "What a terrible liar you are."
Her touch traced feather-light circles along his ribs through the thin cotton of his t-shirt, and Jamie bit down hard on the gag to stifle a gasp. The sensation was unbearable—not pain, not pleasure, just white-hot *awareness* crackling under his skin like static. His toes curled against the hardwood as her fingers danced upward, pausing just below his armpit. The knowing glint in her eyes turned predatory. "Shall we test how long you can stay quiet?" she murmured, breath hot against his ear.
Mrs. Harlowe began at his soles—bare and vulnerable, twitching under the first grazing touch of her fingertips. Jamie's muffled laughter vibrated against the bandana as she scribbled invisible patterns along his arches, the sensation skittering up his spine like spilled marbles. Then her nails replaced fingertips, sharp crescents scraping methodically between each toe. His back arched off the chair, ropes biting into his thighs as he bucked wildly. "Tsk, tsk," she chided, catching his knee in a viselike grip. "Struggling just makes it worse." The nails migrated upward, skating along his Achilles tendon—slow, torturous—before digging into the delicate hollow behind his knee. Jamie's scream was a wet, choked thing against the gag, tears pricking at the corners of his eyes.
With a suddenness that knocked the breath from his lungs, she flipped him onto his stomach. His cheek smacked against the rug, fibers scratching his skin as she swiftly gathered his wrists and ankles together behind him. The new ropes rasped against his skin—thicker, rougher than before—looping figure-eights around his limbs until every joint was drawn taut in a brutal hogtie. Jamie gasped as the position arched his back, exposing his soles completely. Mrs. Harlowe adjusted the final knot with a satisfied hum, her knee pressing between his shoulder blades to test the tension. "There," she breathed, tapping his left foot with something cold and unyielding—the handle of her wooden spoon, still damp from stirring her coffee. "Now we can *really* play."
The first stroke of the cold fork promg edge dragged along his arch with glacial slowness, the varnished wood oddly slick against his skin. Jamie's entire body convulsed, a strangled shriek tearing through the gag as the sensation exploded behind his eyelids—sharp, unbearable, yet somehow *more* than tickling. Mrs. Harlowe chuckled darkly, rotating the fork to trace the curve of his heel with its tip. "Sensitive here, aren't we?" Her free hand clamped around his ankle, pinning it in place as the prongs danced upward to scribble furious circles beneath his toes. Jamie thrashed like a hooked fish, ropes sawing into his flesh, spit soaking the gag as laughter and panic warred in his chest.
She switched tactics abruptly, dropping the fork to spider-walk her fingers up his ribs—the sudden shift from cold torment to relentless teasing left him disoriented, hyperventilating against the bandana. The nylon of her tights rasped against his bare calf as she straddled his legs, her considerable weight anchoring his squirming form to the rug. "Count for me," she purred, nails skating along the dip of his lower back. When he could only manage garbled noises, she sighed and pinched the sensitive skin behind his knee hard enough to make him yelp. "Ah well. We'll work on that."
The spoon handle made its return, tapping a staccato rhythm from his pinky toe to his arch—light, almost playful, until it wasn't. Jamie's scream was cut short as she jammed the handle into the hollow beneath his toes, twisting it in slow circles like she was stirring that damned coffee. His vision whited out at the edges, toes curling violently against the relentless pressure as she tutted. "Tsk. And we've barely started." The metal edge scraped upward, catching on every ridge and callus before wedging between his first two toes with surgical precision.
Jamie's body jackknifed, ropes biting into his thighs as she pinned his ankle with one hand and worked the spoon with the other. The cold metal dragged along his sole in slow, wet strokes—mimicking the path of her tongue along a biscuit's edge—and his gagged shrieks dissolved into hiccupping sobs. Mrs. Harlowe's breath hitched oddly as she watched him unravel, her grip tightening when his heels drummed against the rug. "Oh, you're *delicious* like this," she murmured, abandoning the fork to rake her nails down his arch in one swift, merciless stroke.
His reaction was immediate—a full-body spasm that nearly toppled them both. Tears soaked the rug beneath his cheek as she alternated between feather-light scribbles and firm, kneading pressure against his instep, tuning his sensitivity like a violin string. The scent of his own sweat mixed with the chocolate-sweet residue on her fingers, dizzying in its intimacy. Jamie's wrists strained against their bindings, the ropes groaning with every convulsive twist, but Mrs. Harlowe merely clucked her tongue and dug her thumb into the tender spot beneath his toes. "Shhh," she soothed, even as her other hand spider-walked up his ribs again. "Breathe through it."
Then, abruptly, she stopped. The absence of touch was almost worse—his skin still thrumming with phantom sensation as she rose from his trembling form. Jamie gasped against the gag, chest heaving, and craned his neck just enough to watch her settle onto the sofa with a satisfied hum. She crossed her ankles neatly, the reinforced toes of her tights mere inches from his face. The scent of coffee and leather polish clung to her knee-highs as she pulled out her phone, scrolling with one hand while the other absently massaged the arch of her own foot—a casual cruelty that made his stomach flip.
Jamie lay, still panting from the intesnse tickle torment, as he breathed he could not help but smell her ecemted, yet slightly sweaty feet. His eyes locked on her sole as she wiggled her toes. He imagined her hogtied on this very rug— gagged, barefoot, squirming— as his fingers slid over her wrinkled soles and between her toes.