Stories of Tie Up Games

I’ve been working in a story. Pure fiction. Christmas hols gave me the chance to finish.

"Hey you look so Smart in that Uniform. St Catherineks isnt it.” Two middle aged women stood next to a silver car. Audi ii thiugh and big one too A4, A6. Not that i know that much about cars. Both wore jackets, skirts, tights and heels.

I adjusted my tie automatically, fingers brushing the embroidered school crest as the smaller woman circled around behind me. Their car idled at the curb, doors still open—a silver sedan with rental plates. "Yeah, thanks. The bus stop is actually—"

The taller one cut me off with a too-bright laugh. "No, darling, we need the *Regency Hotel*." Her perfume smelled like old lilies and something medicinal. "Otjer sidemof the park isn't it? Behind those flats?" Her manicured nails dug into my blazer sleeve while she spoke, steering me toward the curb.

Behind me, gravel crunched under heels. "Tell us," the second woman purred. Her breath hit the back of my neck—spearmint gum and cigarettes. My schoolbag straps slipped through my fingers as I gestured left, toward the footpath between the betting shop and newsagent. "That alley goes straight—"

A gloved hand clamped over my mouth. I tasted wool and chemical leather cleaner as my head snapped back against something soft—the taller woman's chest. My shoes scuffed concrete as they pivoted me toward the car's gaping boot. The smaller one grabbed my wrists with surprising strength, her rings cold against my skin. Between them they lifted me off my feet , then threw me in face down.

The boot smelled of stale tennis balls and spilled petrol. My blazer rucked up and i lost a shoe as they pressed me inside, rough carpet on mt face.. "Stay still, little scholar," the taller one murmured, stuffing a wad of fabric between my teeth. It tasted metallic, like pennies left in a gym bag. My school tie tightened around my cheeks as she used it to secure the gag.

The smaller woman yanked my arms backward with practiced efficiency. I heard the click of plastic—zip ties biting into my wrists before I could even twist. The sharp edges dug into the soft skin where my watch usually sat. My trousers rode up, grey socks slipping down as I kicked uselessly, my remaining lace-up thumping against the wheel well.

"Ankles," the taller one shapped. The boot light flickered as she leaned over me, casting her shadow across my legs like a puppet show gone wrong. Her nylons hissed against the boot edge as she knelt, wrapping something thin and biting around my ankles—a rope, some wire? its ridges pressing deep enough to leave marks. My calf muscles cramped instantly.

"Tighter," the smaller one said—not to me—and suddenly my knees bent backward, heels mashed against my bottom. Something looped between my wrists and ankles yanked everything together, spine arching unnaturally. My blouse buttons popped against the carpet. A high whimper escaped around the gag; I sounded like a stepped-on dog.

The taller woman crouched beside the boot, silhouetted by the afternoon sun. She pulled my phone from my blazer pocket with two fingers, as if handling evidence. The screen lit up with missed texts from Mum—*Where r u?*—before she tossed it onto the pavement with a plastic crack. My watch came next, the stainless steel bracelet cold against her palm for half a second before joining my phone. The smaller one upended my schoolbag—physics notes, half-sucked mints, tampons—spilling everything across the curb, as she threw it away. No devices, No GPS, no “find a friend, no trace.

Then the sack came down—rough burlap scratching my eyelids shut—just as their car boot thunked shut above me. The world shrank to the stink of petrol and my own panicked breaths against the gag. The boot latch clicked. Darkness.

Engine vibrations thrummed through my cheek pressed against the carpet. First gear, second—the car lurched forward, throwing my bound body against a toolkit. Something metal dug into my ribs. My knee cracked against the wheel arch as we rounded a corner too fast, the sudden centrifugal force making my stomach lurch. The women's voices filtered through the back seats, muffled but urgent: "--toll road after Dartford--" "--change plates at the--"

Tires screeched. The sackcloth fibers itched my nostrils with every panicked inhale, dust tickling my throat until I choked silently against the gag. Through the rough weave sounds from passing cars strobed orange across my vision like hellish fireflies. My bladder clenched when the car hit a pothole, the impact jolting my spine against the restraints.

Somewhere above me, the women debated routes in casual murmurs—"A12's crawling with ANPR cams"—as if discussing grocery lists. Their leather seats creaked; a radio clicked on. Violins swelled—something classical—drowning out my muffled whimpers. The taller one hummed along off-key. My saliva soaked through the fabric gag, the metallic taste mixing with boot fumes until my head swam.

Imhad no clue how long when the engine cut: hours probably. Silence, then the chirp of an electronic parking brake. Gravel popped under tires as we rolled to a stop. I'd lost all feeling in my hands; the zip ties had long since stopped burning and just *existed*, like extra bones fused wrong. Cold seeped through my blouse where sweat stuck it to my back. The women's doors thunked open—four heels on pavement now, circling the boot. My lungs seized as the latch released with a pneumatic hiss.

Light stabbed through the burlap sack. Hands grabbed my ankles—not unkindly, just efficient—and snipped whatever bound the hogtie. The sudden rush of blood to my hands and feet felt like stepping on needles. They liften me out setting ke kn my feet.

“Hop," the taller one commanded. Her nails bit into my shoulder as she hauled me upright. My remaining lace-up scraped against pavings. Someone grabbed my arms and pushed me forward. I stumbled forward, by ankles still bound, knees buckling as they guided me down onto what felt like paving stones. Each hop sent shocks up my shins. The burlap scratched my eyelashes raw whenever I blinked.

Pavement became gravel, which shifted underfoot—loose, sharp pebbles jabbing through my sock—then abruptly gave way to spongy grass dampening my sole. The air smelled different here: mown lawns and diesel fumes replaced by pine resin and something fungal. A slate step rang hollow under my toe. Wooden decking creaked as they marched me forward—four, five hops before halting me on what felt like indoor flooring. Waxy. Linoleum?

Hands spun me backward. The shoulder shove came right as my knees hit chair legs—a hard wooden seat catching me mid-collapse. My bound ankles knocked against its legs with a dull thud. The taller woman’s breath warmed my ear as she slit the zip ties with surgical precision. "Arms back," she murmured. My shoulders screamed as I obeyed, wrists brushing the chair’s spindles as my blazer was removed. The rope rasped against bare skin—first my left wrist, looped twice before cinching tight enough to dent flesh. Then the right, lashed so close to the backrest I couldn’t twitch a finger without twanging the fibers.

The smaller woman worked methodically, circling the chair with nautical knots. Every pass dug deeper: chest harness biting into my ribs, thighs strapped to the seat until the wood grain imprinted my trousers. My blouse rode up where the ropes crossed my stomach, exposing a strip of skin to the damp air. The taller one crouched to secure my ankles—not to the chair legs, but to some iron ring bolted to the floor, doscarding my remaining shoe in the process. The metallic scrape rang louder than her humming.

Then silence. No goodbyes, no mocking—just four heels clicking away across linoleum. A door sighed shut. A lock turned. Cold seeped up through my socks from the hard floor underneath the chair.

The gag still filled my mouth, my tongue swollen and dry against the fabric. My vision swam from the burlap sack—blurry shapes resolving into a dimly lit space with a single bare bulb swayed slightly overhead, casting jerky shadows across vague shapes. The air smelled of mildew and disinfectant, or was it the sack, with an undercurrent of something sweetly rotten—like forgotten fruit left in a locker.

Minutes stretched, marked only by the slow spread of pins and needles through my legs. The ropes didn’t budge, no matter how I twisted my wrists—just ground deeper into my skin with every experimental shift. The chair’s wooden seat dug into my thighs, the rough edge of the seat pressing uncomfortably into the backs of my knees. Every breath hitched against the chest harness. My blouse clung damply to my back.

Then—a metallic scrape. A bolt sliding back. The door swung inward with a groan of hinges, letting in a gust of cooler air that smelled faintly of pine. Footsteps—the click of foir heels, again—approached. The burlap loosened suddenly, fabric rasping against my cheeks as it slid upward to pool around my forehead. I blinked against the sudden light, my pupils contracting painfully. The bulb overhead burned brighter than I’d realized.

“Smile,” the taller woman murmured, holding up a camera with a flash that exploded white-hot behind my eyes. The smaller one leaned in, pressing today’s crumpled tabloid against my chest—*Tory MP Resigns in Scandal*, the headline screamed—just as the shutter clicked.

“Proof of life,” she explained, almost conversational, as she moved around me. Another flash—this time angled to capture my bound wrists straining against the ropes—visible my crumpled blouse sleeve. Mynear rings and necklace were removed. *more proof it’s me* I guessed.

Something was pressed over my eyes, rpthen buckled behing my head; a blindfold? Thick , black, not even the vaugue outlines through the sack now. The taller woman’s fingers lingered at the clasp—adjusting, testing give—before trailing down to my collarbone. Her nail scratched deliberately along my throat as she leaned close, her breath hot against my ear. "Keep struggling," she whispered, almost tender. "It photographs better." The camera flashed again—once, twice—capturing my flinch as her other hand twisted my hair into a makeshift ponytail, yanking my head backward to expose the gag’s intricate knots.

The fabric wad came out with a wet pop, leaving my jaw slack and aching. Before I could scream, something smooth and rubbery pressed against my teeth—cold, ridged, tasting of hospital-strength disinfectant. The ball gag’s straps cinched tight behind my head, the buckle clicking like a seatbelt locking into place. My moan came out muffled, cartoonish; the sphere forced my mouth open wide enough to make my jaw joint ache instantly. Drool welled at the corners, dripping down my chin onto the tabloid still pressed to my chest.

“Better,” the shorter woman said, wiping my chin with a tissue before folding it neatly into her pocket. The camera flashed—once, twice—catching the way the black rubber stretched my lips obscenely. My tongue curled uselessly against the ball’s ridges, probing for weaknesses that weren’t there. The taller woman crouched to fiddle with my blindfold again, her knuckles brushing my cheekbone as she adjusted the padding over my eyes. “Don’t want you seeing—ah— any *unnecessary* sights.” Her jacket rustled as she straightened up.

Keys jingled. Footsteps retreated across linoleum—eight clicks, then silence. The door creaked open, exhaling a draft of pine-scented air, then slammed shut with a hollow thud. The bolt slid home with a sound like a rifle cocking then the click of the lock.

Alone.

The realization hit harder than the ropes. I wriggled—just to prove I could—but numb fingers barely twitched against their bindings. My toes slid across linoleum slick with condensation from my own sweat, damp socks finding no purchase. The blindfold pressed deeper with every frantic head shake, the padding swallowing sound until my own whimpers seemed distant, underwater.

Something creaked above me—a pipe? A loose floorboard?—and I froze mid-struggle, breath hitching. The ropes hadn’t budged; if anything, the chest harness seemed tighter, the fibers now etching themselves into my ribs with each shallow inhale. My bladder pulsed a warning. I clenched my thighs together, the motion making the chair groan. The iron ring anchoring my ankles hadn’t so much as squeaked.

A drop of sweat slid down my temple, tracing the curve of my cheekbone before soaking into the blindfold’s padding. The air smelled like moldy bread and industrial cleaner—like the school janitor’s closet after half-term. Distant traffic hummed through the walls, too rhythmic to be accidental. A highway? My tongue pushed uselessly at the gag, the rubber ridges imprinting themselves on the roof of my mouth. Saliva pooled under my tongue, thick and metallic.

My little finger twitched slightly—just a millimeter—but the rope it found didn’t budge. The rope crossing my chest creaked when I arched my back, the fibers biting deeper into my ribs. A high whine escaped around the gag, lost in the dripping of a distant tap. My toes curled inside damp socks, sliding against linoleum slick with condensation. The iron ring anchoring my ankles felt colder now, leeching heat through my socks.

The blindfold muffled sound oddly—my own breathing sounded underwater. Somewhere to my left, pipes groaned inside walls. I strained to listen past the rasp of rope against wood. A car passed outside—close enough to rattle the window frames—then silence again, heavier than before. My tongue pressed ridges into the gag’s rubber surface, mapping its imperfections like Braille. The taste of industrial cleaner lingered, mingling with the sour tang of panic.

*How long before…….*

Ever aspect of this story is perfect, the descriptions, your feelings, the scene setting, everting. Well done!

A terrific story, very descriptive. I am hoping there is more to come.

Typos but fun.

Wow. Very evocative writing! If I had a criticism, it would be that I feel it should be more emotional - more focus on what you're feeling emotionally. But the description of what you're experiencing there is amazing!

Wow!

When I was your age, bit younger actually, I had kidnap fantasy, but I wore a skirt and tights not trousers.

I had no idea how long i sat tied to that chair, Hours? I'm sure it was at least one hour but could not tell: the hard wood on my bottom, the strain on my arms, the ug of the iron ring on my ankles.
The room smelled of mildew and old sweat, and I sat in darkness. not even the glow of a single flickering bulb overhead. I sat alone. I moaned a few times, the strain on my jaw from the ball.

After, I don't know how long, the door creaked open with a sound like a dying animal. Footsteps. Not heels this time. Softer. Bare feet? Socks? rubber soles? No too loud. Stockinged feet maybe. Was it the women returning, or someone else.

"Don't make a sound!" the instruction was clear. Fumbling behind my head and suddenly the ache in my jaw became all the more real as the ball was eased out. A glass of water was pressed to my lips.

"Listen." the voice came from the other side. They were both here.."We aren't cruel. We dont want to hurt you. We just..... need you here for a few days. Don't be trouble and it will all be alright."

The glass pulled away from my lips, water dribbling down my chin onto my blouse. My jaw still aching from hours biting on that gag. I swallowed hard, throat still dry from the gag. The footsteps circled—barely audible, slow, deliberate. Then a hand brushed against my shoulder, fingers lingering just a second too long. Testing.

The ropes at my ankles loosened first. The sudden release sent prickling fire through my legs, and I gasped as circulation slammed back into them.

"Stand," the voice commanded—not unkindly, but with no room for argument. Hands steadied me as I swayed, my knees buckling under the unfamiliar weight of standing after so long bound.

Every step sent needles shooting up my legs, each footfall a betrayal of my own body’s numbness.

The hands guiding me—small, firm, unmistakably feminine—didn’t let go, even when I stumbled into what felt like a tiled wall. The hiss of a shower turning on, the sudden burst of steam. I was untied, but remained blindfolded. I will not give you full details but it was totally humiliating.
I was allowed to ease my bladder then shower, The unbearable relief of lukewarm water against my bare skin, sluicing away hours of sweat and fear. I gasped as it hit my face, the blindfold soaking through but never loosening. I was given fresh clothes: shorts, t shirt, fresh undies. But then my hands tied behind my back once more. still blindfolded I was walked over cold tiles onto thin carpet and sat again at a chair. Not tied this time.

The food came first—a spoon clinking against porcelain, then the warm press of metal against my lips. Chicken broth, thick with soft carrots and rice. I swallowed greedily, choking once before slowing at the sharp tap of the spoon against my teeth. "Small bites," the same voice murmured, almost amused. The water followed, cool and sweet, tipped carefully into my mouth until I turned my head away, breathless.

Between spoonfuls, I caught fragments—fabric rustling, a quiet exhale, the faint scent of clinical soap beneath something sharper, also medicinal. Once, when I coughed, fingers brushed my neck, checking my pulse with clinical detachment. "Good," came the verdict, and the spoon returned. They were efficient, these captors. Methodical. The meal ended as abruptly as it began, the bowl withdrawn with a scrape.

Silence settled, thicker now. The blindfold clung, damp and itchy, but worse was the weight of unanswered questions pressing against my ribs. A chair creaked nearby; someone settling in to watch. I flexed my fingers behind my back, testing the give of the new restraints—softer than the previous rope but still secure. The realization sparked a ridiculous flicker of relief.

I inhaled sharply, tasting salt and the metallic tang of my own fear. "Why me—" But the gag cut me off as the evil rubber ball was again shoved between my teeth before I could finish. A quiet chuckle, almost apologetic. "Wrong choice." I was walked back to the room. hands tied behind my back, blindfolded, gagged, my bare feet feeling the transit from threadbare carpet to wood to cold linoleum on concrete.

Standing my elbows were again tied behind me, followed by rope tied around my arms and chest, pinning elbows to my back. I was helped to sit on something soft. a mattress? Springs dug into my bottom in places. More ropes: ankles, below knees. then I was pushed onto my side and a thin scratchy blanket thrown over me.

"Good night sweetheart." a faint unconvincing chuckle and soft foot steps followed by the door closing and the bolt slid across.

I lay there, eyes burning against the blindfold, the rubber ball stretching my jaw wide. The ropes had been tied with meticulous precision—not tight enough to cut circulation, but with no slack to wriggle free. Every shift of my hips made the mattress springs groan, the sound obscenely loud in the silence. My breath came fast through my nose, warm air cycling back against my face from the damp fabric covering my eyes.

Time dissolved. The darkness behind the blindfold shifted from black to a strange, pulsing grey—maybe dawn filtering through a high window I hadn’t noticed before. The gag grew slick with saliva, my tongue pushing uselessly against the unyielding rubber. I tested the ropes again, twisting my wrists in tiny increments until the fibres bit into skin. A whimper escaped, swallowed by the gag.

Something skittered across the floor—a mouse, maybe, or the scuff of a shoe left too long in the corner. The air smelled of dust and my own sour sweat. I tried to count breaths, but lost track after two hundred. The mattress dipped slightly under me, as if someone had sat at the edge—but when I jerked my head up, no hand came to steady me. Just the phantom weight of loneliness.

Excellent part 2

This is an incredible story! You are a very good writer. Your writing is thoughtful and detailed and puts me right in the scene. Never ever stop writing, you have a real talent. Thank you for this and please continue!

I tied to think about how people would kidnap a sixteen year old, no sex involved so I choose older female kidnappers

I want to concentrate in how i feel

Great!

Hope you won't be released or freed before Sunday evening that you can tell us in many chapters about your different experiences from every single day in your hostage week.

Merry Christmas.

Yatta9999 wrote: 3 weeks ago ... If I had a criticism, it would be that I feel it should be more emotional - more focus on what you're feeling emotionally. ...

I do think this is fair to mention, esp. 1st part. Overall a fine read! Second even better. Loved it.

I lay on the bed waiting. It was more comfortable than the chair, just about, but there was still a strain on my shoulders. I wriggled my fingers and flexed my knees but I was lying on my side and was takimg my weight through my shoulder. I tried rolling over and lay on my back but it squeezed my arms. Latpying on my fromt a put pressure on my chest so,found in uncomfortable to breathe, so rolled baxk,in my side. Of all three positions face down was the least unpleasant, so there i lay.

The ball they'd used as a gag was quite bad, not too tight, but I couldn't talk, just whimper into it, and my jaw was really aching. I tried wiggling around, wondering how much slack I had to move, but I didn't dare make too much noise in case they heard me and tightened the ropes again.

A faint creak in the floorboards outside the door made my breath catch—were they coming back? The footsteps paused, and I froze, straining against my blindfold to see something, anything, but it was useless. Then the steps moved away, fading into silence, and I let out a shaky exhale through my nose.

My hips ached from lying in the same position, and my wrists throbbed where the ropes dug in. The shhet was wet with saliva now, as i drooled round the gag, making my skin itch under the fabric straps. I twisted my fingers, testing the knots again, and felt the faintest give—not enough to escape, just enough to make my pulse jump.

I must have fallen asleep at some point, because when I woke, the house was eerily silent—no footsteps, no muffled voices, just the faint hum of a refrigerator somewhere downstairs. My mouth was parched, the gag now a stale, swollen lump pressing against my tongue, and the ache in my shoulders had settled into a dull, persistent throb. The blindfold had slipped slightly, letting in a sliver of dim light, but it was useless—just enough to remind me how completely trapped I was.

Rolling my head against the pillow, I tried grinding the fabric against the sheets, twisting my neck side to side like a dog scratching an itch. The blindfold shifted a fraction—just enough for the rough stitching to scrape my eyelid—but stayed stubbornly in place. A frustrated noise escaped my gag, half-growl, half-whimper, and I forced myself to stop before the sound drew attention. The air smelled like dust and sweat, stale and cloying, and I realized with a jolt that I had no idea how long I'd been here. Hours? Days?

When the blindfold finally came loose, it happened by accident—my thrashing knee caught the edge of the sheet and yanked it upward, dragging the fabric across my face in a sudden, slick slide. Dim Light drifted into my vision, yet, blinding and surreal after so long in darkness. Blinking furiously, I gulped air through my nose, eyes watering as they adjusted. The room was small, almost bare, walls with peeling paint, a chair tipped sideways on the carpet, a high window through whuch some moon light flooded. The door.

My pulse hammered in my throat as I writhed forward, rolling off the bed with a muffled thud onto my knees. My bound ankles made standing almost impossible, so I rocked onto my hip, twisting like a fish on a dock, until I could brace my shoulder against the wall. Every inch was agony—rope burns flared along my wrists, my muscles screamed—but the door was right there, the handle glinting in the sliver of moonlight. I lunged.

The latch was old, but solid. I saw that there was a slide in top. Pressing my back against the wood for balance, I hooked my fingers on to the metal lever and jerked upward. For a heart-stopping second, nothing happened—then, with a rusty screech, it clicked. The door swung inward an inch, revealing a dark hallway beyond. A giddy, disbelieving sound bubbled up behind the gag.

I almost face-planted hopping forward, my bound ankles forcing me into a ridiculous, lurching gait. The hallway stretched left and right, but my eyes locked onto the staircase at the far end—narrow, steep, lit only by a single bulb , unlit, dangling from the ceiling. My thighs burned instantly, every hop a precarious gamble between balance and speed. I imagined them hearing me—the muffled thumps, the creak of floorboards—but desperation drowned out caution.

Imtried to gop down the steps. Halfway down, my foot slipped on the edge of a step. I pitched forward, biting back a scream as the banister dug into my ribs, stopping my fall by sheer dumb luck. The impact rattled my teeth, sent fire through my side, but I clung there, panting through my nose, my pulse hammering loud enough to drown out the creaks of the house settling. Below me, the ground floor yawned dark and silent.

I inched the rest of the way down on my bottom, thumping each step painfully, my ankles still lashed tight. The front door loomed ahead—heavy oak, deadbolted, with a chain lock dangling like a taunt. No way I was getting through that. But the kitchen—there’d be knives, scissors, anything sharp enough to saw through ropes. I rolled onto my knees, shuffling toward the dim glow of a nightlight plugged in near the fridge.

“What was that?”

Her voice—sharp, alert—sent a bolt of terror down my spine. Frozen mid-shuffle, I barely breathed as footsteps padded somewhere above, muffled but unmistakably moving toward the stairs. The kitchen counter was only three feet away, the gleam of a knife block just visible—so close, yet impossible to reach before they'd see me. My pulse roared in my ears as I scanned for cover, spotting the gap beneath the breakfast table. I lunged sideways, ribs protesting, just as the overhead light flicked on.

A torch beam sliced through the dark, swinging wildly—then suddenly pinned me like a spotlight. I squeezed my eyes shut against the glare, but not before catching her silhouette: tangled bedhead, oversized sleep shirt hanging off one shoulder, bare toes curling against the cold linoleum. The gun in her other hand looked comically large in contrast, her grip awkward, trembling slightly. "Jesus, she's loose," she hissed over her shoulder, voice frayed with sleep. The torchlight trembled with her grip, casting jagged shadows up the walls.

“On your knees girl. You’re oure going to suffer for this!!”

Great part again. I'm curious how hard you will be punished for your escape attempt.

Keep going.

I was knocked to the floor and sat upon then my blindfold was pulled vack kver my eyes. I heard the other woman enter and then the sound of ripping tape. My blindfold was reinforced as tape was wound round my eyes and over my ears and mouth. My head must have been kne tape ball, just my nise protruding. I felt my legs pullud up and a tigjt rope was tied around my wrists and ankles hogtying me so tight my chest was lifted off the floor.

I was left lying on the cold hard floor as they argued: “I say we should kill her. Shekll be no trouble then.”

“Shut up with your dumb ideas. They'll pay," the other woman insisted, her voice low and rough like gravel under tires. "The ransom demand's already out. We just gotta keep her quiet another forty-eight hours." The stale scent of cigarette smoke clung to her words as she paced near my head, each footstep sending vibrations through the floorboards into my aching ribs.

The first woman scoffed, kicking my bound legs sideways with her bare foot. "You think she's gonna stay quiet after this?" Her fingers dug into my shoulder, rolling me onto my back as she leaned down—hot breath seeping through the tape over my ears. "Little rabbit here already tried hopping away. Next time, she'll scream through that gag loud enough to bring the whole block down." A metallic click followed—knife? Gun?—but the weight of her knee pressing into my stomach was answer enough.

"I gotta better idea." The gravel-voiced woman yanked me upright by the rope between my wrists and ankles, my spine arching painfully. "It’ll keep her secure and male her suffer; thunk twice if she wants to escape again, but she wont be able to escape.” My pulse spiked as her fingers traced the edge of the gag, testing its tightness. "You make one sound," she drowled, " and I'll peel this tape off with your lips still attached."

My legs were cut free from the hogtie and i was pulled to my feet by my hair. Forced to hop as I was dragged through the building i was thrown back against something. Then i felt more rooes tighten round my chest and legs. I was being tied to a post. They must have been working intandem as i felt ropes round me ankles being tied at the same time as my elbows were pulled further behind me. The metal pole dug into my back as i was tied to it at ankles, shins, thighs, waist, chest, soupoulders. There was even a rope tied round my neck!

“I’ll sleep on thin damn sofa incase she gets any more stupid ideas. And tie these bells on her, shell wake me if she breaks free.” I fent more ropes round neck and stomack being tied with something fastened to them. “Dont move a muscle sweetie or you’ll suffer.”

The ropes bit deeper with every shallow breath—my ribs already bruised from earlier struggles—and the cold metal post leached warmth from my skin. The bells tied around my neck and waist jingled faintly with each tremor of my body, a mocking soundtrack to my helplessness. Footsteps retreated, followed by the creak of a sofa spring, but the oppressive silence that followed was worse. My jaw ached against the gag, my nostrils flaring as I sucked air through my nose, tasting dust and the sour tang of my own fear.

I tested the restraints cautiously, flexing my fingers and curling my toes—microscopic movements that wouldn't disturb the bells. The ropes didn't yield, but the sensation of blood rushing back to my fingertips grounded me. The women's voices had faded, replaced by the occasional shuffle of fabric from the sofa. The tape over my eyes was complete and showed me nothing—only darkness—no light, no landmarks. My thighs burned where the rope crossed bare skin, the friction a constant reminder of how thoroughly I'd been immobilized.

The discomfort from the gag was unrelenting, but worse was the sharpness in my left heel—like a nail or shard of glass pressing just hard enough to threaten puncturing skin with any movement. My ankles were tied so tight i couldnt change position. Scrabbling with my toes just scraped splinters into the pads. The damn pole must've been salvaged from some demolition site. Every tiny shift sent fresh pain lancing up my calf, forcing me to balance my weight on my toes to relieve the pressure. Each minute stretched into eternity, my muscles trembling with the effort of staying perfectly still. The bells remained silent, but my heel throbbed.

A tear escaped under the tape, trailing hot down my cheek before soaking into the thick bandages. My shoulders spasmed from the unnatural angle, elbows nearly touching behind me. Breathing too deeply risked tightening the chest ropes; breathing too shallow left me dizzy. I focused on the distant hum of a refrigerator—something mechanical, predictable—to stave off panic. Until a floorboard groaned near my feet.

Fresh cigarette stench preceded her. "Crying won't loosen those knots," Gravel-Voice murmured. Her calloused thumb wiped my tear away roughly, then pinched my earlobe hard enough to make me jerk. Bells chimed. "Good. Means you're still learning." She exhaled smoke through her nose directly above me—I felt the heat of it—before her footsteps retreated again.

The rope around my neck flexed with every swallow, the coarse fibers scraping against my windpipe. A whimper tried to escape but caught in the gag, transforming into a choked gurgle. My calves seized violently, the muscles knotting like fists beneath my skin. Stars exploded behind my taped eyelids as I rode out the cramp, toes curling involuntarily against the nail digging into my heel.

The sob that finally broke free was muffled but unmistakable—wet, ragged, humiliating. The sofa creaked in response. I held my breath, but the damage was done; the bells at my waist jingled faintly from the shudder that wracked my body. Footsteps approached, slow and deliberate, stopping just close enough for me to feel body heat radiating through the chill of the room.

"Aw, look at you," the first woman cooed, her voice dripping with syrup-thick mockery. Her fingernail traced the edge of the tape over my lips, catching on a loose corner and pressing it down hard, enough to make my eyes water. "Bet you're regretting that little escape attempt now, huh?" She pressed something cold and flat—the blade of a knife?—against my collarbone, dragging it downward until it snagged on the rope between my breasts. "Next time, we'll see how quiet you stay when I start carving pretty patterns into that pretty skin."

The knife vanished, but the threat lingered like a ghost in the air. I heard the rasp of a lighter, smelled fresh smoke curling into the darkness, and then—blessed relief—their footsteps retreated again. The door clicked shut. Silence. Just the thrum of my pulse in my ears, the occasional metallic clock or creak from the biilding settlind, and the ceaseless, gnawing pressure of the ropes. Hours bled together. My toes went numb first, then my fingers, pins and needles chasing the numbness up my legs in cruel waves. The nail in my heel became a distant ache, my body adapting to its presence like a tree growing around a fence post.

Dawn must have come—the tape over my eyes stayed black, but the air shifted, the stale cigarette stench giving way to something damp and earthy seeping through the walls. A pipe groaned somewhere in the building. My bladder ached, but the humiliation of wetting myself paled compared to the terror of drawing their attention again. I focused on the rhythm of my breathing, counting each inhale, measuring the stretch of seconds between the sofa's creaks. The ropes had settled into my skin now, the initial bite dulled to a constant, bearable pressure. That scared me most of all—how quickly my body accepted this.

The cold bit into me in just a thin t shirt and shorts—not the crisp chill of morning air, but the creeping, marrow-deep freeze of abandonment. The metal post leached warmth from my spine, my sweat cooling to an icy film between skin and rope. My toes had long since gone numb, but now the cold climbed higher, seizing my calves, stiffening my thighs. I imagined frost forming on my eyelashes beneath the tape, my breath crystallizing in the gag. The bells at my waist stayed silent, their cheerful jingle at odds with the slow, inevitable surrender of my body to the cold.

A draft slithered across the floor, carrying the scent of mildew and something fainter—coffee brewing. The women were waking up. My stomach twisted at the thought of their hands on me again, but the cold had settled so deep into my bones that even fear couldn't warm me. The ropes had loosened slightly overnight, not from any effort of mine, but from the natural give of the fibers. Enough to let blood flow back into my fingertips with a stinging rush, not enough to slip free. I flexed my toes experimentally, hissing through the gag as feeling returned in sharp, needle-like jabs.

Footsteps approached, accompanied by the clink of ceramic—mugs. "Morning, princess," Gravel-Voice crooned. Her fingers dug into my hair, yanking my head back against the pole hard enough to rattle my teeth. "Sleep well?" The sarcasm was thick as she began sawing at the rope around my neck with what felt like a serrated knife. Each tug sent vibrations through my bruised throat. The rope gave way suddenly, and I sagged forward only to be caught by a fist in my collar. "Ah-ah. No falling." She sliced through the chest bindings next, the blade skimming my skin—a warning disguised as efficiency.

My shoulders screamed as they were finally allowed forward, elbows popping audibly. Blood rushed back into my arms in a torrent of white-hot pins and needles, so intense I nearly vomited into the gag. The women worked swiftly, slicing ropes at my waist, thighs, knees—each severed coil falling to the floor with a thump. When they reached my ankles, the sudden release sent me crumpling to my knees. The impact jolted through my bruised shins, the cold concrete biting into my bare skin. The nail that had been lodged in my heel for hours tore free with a sickening scrape, leaving a wet trail of blood in its wake.

Gravel-Voice hauled me upright by my collar again before I could fully collapse, her fingers digging into the tender flesh beneath my jaw. "Hop it off," she growled, shoving me forward. My legs buckled immediately—muscles turned to liquid fire, nerves shrieking with every attempted jump. The second woman caught me under the arms, her grip impersonal as she half-dragged me across the room. The bells still tied around my waist jangled mockingly with each staggering lurch. My toes dragged against the rough concrete, the numbness receding only to be replaced by the agony of a thousand needles stabbing into my soles.

I was half carried half dragged to the bathroom where i got some relief in a process far too humiliating tomdescribe before i was dragged again to a ither room and forced to a wooden chair. The tape over my mouth ripped away with a merciless jerk, taking patches of skin with it. I gasped—raw, open-mouthed—but Gravel-Voice's hand clamped over my lips before any sound could escape. "Not a peep," she hissed, her thumbnail digging into my cheekbone. The dry toast she shoved against my teeth tasted like sawdust, my swollen tongue struggling to push it back far enough to chew without gagging. Water followed in a plastic cup, tipped so violently it sloshed down my chin and onto my already ruined shirt.

The second woman’s voice cut in “Eat fast," she muttered. "We' have things to do." The toast turned to glue in my mouth, each swallow scraping my throat, but I forced it down. The water was lukewarm and tasted of bleach, but I drained it greedily, my hands shaking so badly the cup rattled against my teeth. Gravel-Voice snatched it away before I'd finished, her knuckles brushing my split lip—deliberately. "Good girl," she mocked, patting my cheek hard enough to sting.

The cloth came next—a stained dishrag reeking of mildew and bacon grease, shoved between my teeth before I could protest. Tape followed, wound tight around my head in overlapping spirals, the adhesive tugging at my hairline and sealing my lips with brutal efficiency. It pressed my ears flat, muffling the world to a dull roar. My nostrils flared against the stench of the rag, my breath coming in panicked huffs that fogged the inside of the tape. The women worked quickly, their fingers impersonal as they reinforced the gag with another layer, then another, until my head was a throbbing prison of pressure and stink.

“Shall,we tie her to the chair for the day?”

“No. I think she’d benefit from more standing lessons.”

Hands grabbed my arms, hauling me upright before my trembling legs could find purchase. The wooden chair scraped backward as they dragged me back toward the post—bare feet sliding over splintered floorboards, toenails catching and tearing. Gravel-Voice’s knee jammed into the back of my thigh, forcing me onto that cursed post:narrow and unyielding— its edge biting into my flesh through the thin shorts and t shirt.

Rope circled my ankles first, cinched so tight the coarse fibers disappeared into swollen skin. They worked upward with methodical cruelty: knees forced straight against the metal, thighs lashed until the muscles bulged unnaturally, waist bound with a loop that hooked into the restraints behind me—each tug pulling my spine harder against the pole until my ribs ached with every shallow breath. When they reached my shoulders, they yanked my arms back at a sickening angle, elbows nearly touching as the rope dug into already raw wrists. The final touch was the noose around my neck—loose enough to breathe, tight enough to remind me.

The first hour was fire—muscles burning, toes curling against the concrete to relieve pressure, the post’s edge sawing into my tailbone. My bare feet flat on the floor. The nail from earlier no londmger skewering my heel, but uncomfortable under my arch. There were enough other things causing me discomfort to worry about, not least the profressive burning in my calves as as i stood immobile.

The television marked the passing of time. Daytime TV at its most tortuous. I heard myself reported on the news. No memtion of kidnap, just “The search for a missing schoolgirl comtinues.” From the description it sounded like they thiught inwas alreadt dead.

One woman had left the apartment. The other, Gravel Voice, alternated between glaring at me and flicking through channels. Every few minutes she would pause in front of me, wave her cigarette smoke in my face, and ask if the princess needed anything in a mockingly sweet voice. I remaiend silent—not that I could speak—just staring blankly ahead through the tape. She laughed, ruffled my hair, then returned to the sofa. I stood immobile, ankles rubbed raw, shoulders screaming, waiting for the next humiliation.

By hour three, my body had carved grooves into itself to accommodate the restraints; the pain dulled to a numb throb, punctuated only by the occasional cramp that left me sweating and whimpering into the gag. The silence was worse than daytime TV. I traced its slow arc across the day, counting off seconds in my head, wiggling my toes, counting seconds by their movement. The women came and went, their footsteps deliberately heavy, their laughter sharp as they flicked cigarette ash onto my bare feet.

A new pain announced itself—sharp, electric—a muscle spasm seizing my left calf. My toes curled inward, nails digging into the grimy floorboards as I fought to stifle the involuntary jerk. Too much. I tried tomstiffle a scream and a sob, faintly, a delicate betrayal. Gravel-Voice sighed, unfolded herself from the sofa, and strolled over, her body heat indicating her close proximity and swallowing me whole. "Tsk tsk," she chided, pressing her thumb into the dip of my collarbone just long enough to hurt. "Bad girl."

The second woman returned, slamming the door hard enough to make the bells at my waist tremble. "Lunch” she muttered, tossing a grease-stained takeout bag onto the counter. The scent of fried food made my stomach lurch—whether from hunger or nausea, I couldn't tell. Gravel-Voice stepped back, appraising me like a rancher inspecting livestock. "Forty-eight hours," she mused, tapping her cigarette ash onto my shoulder where it sizzled against sweat-damp fabric. "Think you can keep standing that long, princess?"

A very beautiful and engaging story, really. Of course, if the holidays give you this much scope for imagination, you should stay home more often.
Happy New Year to you and your family

Really excellent Tale. The detailed Descriptions. The Story-Building. Well done!

Great again.

Well, I think you have no choice as to stand that long - hope you have a strong bladder.

Wow. Amazingly evocative and horrifying description of what being a prisoner would (I presume) actually be like!

amazing