Sophie’s folly (F self)

[Janbound]

Sophie shook her head for the fiftieth time trying to shake curly red hair out of her eyes, but each time she tried some other hair went in. She was 18, heading to university, equally comfortable with boys or gitls for intimacy, and she was currently handcuffed to her mothers bed. She tried to pull her hands closer together. Her meaty bare feet rattled in the cuffs at the bottom corner of the bed as she moaned into the ball gag in her mouth.

She had been playing her piano. She liked metal music but her mother insisted she learn classical piano first. Her mum marvelled how she could turn “Moonlight Sonata” into “Run to the Hills.”She had just finished practicing a Beethoven sonata when she heard a crash upstairs. The noise was coming from her mothers bedroom. Sophie had crept up the stairs, barefoot as usual, and peeked in through the door.

Her mother wasn’t home. Sophie had seen her leave earlier, heading to the gym in her usual tight leggings and crop top. The noise was coming from the closet. Sophie had opened it, and found a box had fallen from the top shelf. It had burst open, spilling its contents across the floor.

Sophie knelt down, her bare knees pressing into the carpet, and picked up a photograph. It was her mother, younger, maybe in her early twenties. She was tied to a wooden chair, ropes crisscrossing her body, her mouth stuffed with a red ball gag. Another woman, older, with short black hair, was standing behind her, a feather duster in one hand, the other gripping her mother’s chin. Sophie’s fingers trembled as she flipped through more photos. Her mother blindfolded, her arms pulled taut above her head, her toes curled as another woman traced a feather along the soles of her bare feet. Her mother bent over a bench, her skirt lifted, a woman’s hand reddening her exposed backside through her tights. But there was more.

The box wasn’t just full of photographs. It had spilled open to reveal an assortment of bondage equipment. Sophie ran her fingers over the soft leather cuffs, the metal clasps cold against her skin. There were ropes of varying thicknesses, some braided, some smooth. A red ball gag, just like the one in the photo, sat nestled between a pair of black leather gloves and a riding crop. Sophie swallowed hard, her throat dry. She picked up the gag, running her thumb over the smooth rubber surface. It felt heavier than she expected.

Beneath the gag, she found a set of metal handcuffs, the kind police used. The weight of them in her palm sent a thrill down her spine. She clicked one around her wrist experimentally, the cold metal biting into her skin. The sound of the ratchet tightening was sharp, final. A folded length of black silk caught her eye next, and when she shook it out, it revealed itself to be a blindfold, the edges embroidered with tiny silver stars. She pressed it to her nose—it smelled faintly of lavender and something muskier, a scent she couldn't place but that made her stomach tighten.

Sophie hesitated, then slid the blindfold over her eyes. The world vanished. She exhaled, and the darkness felt like a presence pressing against her skin. Fumbling, she managed to cuff her free hand behind her back—awkward, clumsy, the metal teeth catching on the hem of her “Slipknit” T-shirtt—but finally, the second cuff snapped shut. Trapped. The sensation was dizzying. Her breath hitched as she tested the cuffs, twisting her wrists just enough to feel the unyielding restraint. The bed creaked beneath her as she shifted, her toes curling into the sheets.

She wanted to see herself like this. Needed to. The keys glinted on the floor, unseen by her. She twisted her head left and right, rubbed her face on the pillows , eventually dislodging the cloth over her eyes. Sophie stretched her leg, her bare foot flexing, toes splaying wide. The first brush against the keys sent them skittering under the bed—fuck—but she hooked one with her pinky toe, dragging it closer. The metal was cool against her skin. She pinned it between her big and second toe, lifting it with agonizing slowness. Every muscle in her body was taut. The key hovered, then slipped. Sophie bit down on the gag, muffling a frustrated groan.

Second try. She arched her back, lifting her hips to angle her foot higher and dropped them knto the bed next to her. Picking them up in her fingers, the key scraped against the cuff’s keyhole. Missed. A bead of sweat slid down her temple. She adjusted, curling her toes in frustration. The metal clicked against metal—yes—but the angle was wrong. Her calf burned. She exhaled sharply through her nose, shifted her weight, and tried again. This time, the key slid home. A twist. A click. Her wrists were free. One wrist free. Sophie yanked her arm forward, gasping as blood rushed back into her fingers.

She didn’t undo the other cuff. Instead, she rolled onto her stomach and reached for the second set— the ones she meant for her ankles. The hinges were stiff. Sophie clicked them open and shut once, twice, testing. Then she sat up, spread her legs, and fastened the first circlet around her left ankle. The second followed with a soft, metallic snick. She flexed her feet, admiring the way the chain pulled taut between them. Her toes wiggled—pink, slightly dusty from the kitchen floor earlier—against the rumpled duvet.

Sophie rolled onto her side, then onto her knees, wobbling as she fought for balance. She almost laughed at herself—here she was, crawling across her mother’s bed like some kind of captive animal. The thought sent a fresh wave of heat through her. She grabbed the loose cuff dangling from her wrist and, with clumsy determination, dragged it behind her back until it found its mate. The click was louder this time, final. She was trapped. Properly trapped. Sophie inhaled sharply through her nose, the ball gag pressing against her teeth.

The full-length mirror on the fitted wardrobe door reflected her back at herself. She blinked—was that really her? The girl staring back had wild red hair, half-escaped from its messy ponytail, cheeks flushed pink. The gag stretched her lips obscenely wide, a glint of saliva at the corner of her mouth. The cuffs forced her shoulders back, her chest pushed forward in a way that made her suddenly aware of her own nipples pressing against the thin fabric of her shirt—why wear a bra when she wasnt going out. Below, the chain between her ankles glinted as she shifted, the movement sending a jolt through her thighs. She looked… owned. The realization made her stomach twist.

Her breath fogged the rubber ball slightly with each exhale. She tried to speak—just a muffled, wet sound—and the absurdity of it hit her all at once. She was alone in her mother’s bedroom, trussed up like a prize pig, and yet she’d never felt more awake. Her toes curled against the carpet, the rough texture grounding her even as her mind raced. She jerked her wrists experimentally, just to feel the bite of metal. In the mirror-Sophie’s eyes darkened.

The chain between her ankles clinked when she tried to shuffle forward. Her balance wavered—one wrong move and she’d faceplant into the dresser—but she managed a clumsy hop toward the wardrobe. The mirror loomed larger now, merciless in its clarity. She could see the imprint of the gag’s straps digging into the corners of her mouth, the way her lower lip glistened. The cuffs weren’t police-issue after all, she realized; the edges were smoother, rounded. Professional. Custom. Her mother’s. The thought should’ve horrified her. Instead, her knees trembled.

Sophie shook her shoulders, making her chest bounce under the Slipknit logo. The movement jostled the loose fabric, dragging it tight across her nipples for a fleeting second—enough to make her gasp against the gag. She did it again, slower this time, watching in the mirror as her own body betrayed her. The shirt slipped lower, revealing the pale freckles dusted along her collarbone. She arched her back, testing the cuffs’ limits, and the hem rode up, exposing a sliver of stomach and yhe green jewel of her bellybutton bar. The air against her skin was cooler than she expected. She wondered, wildly, if her mother had lain like this too. If she’d twisted against the same restraints, if her breath had hitched the same way.

Hopping in place made the chain between her ankles sing. She twisted, trying to glimpse her cuffed hands—but the angle was all wrong, her wrists bound too low behind her back. All she could see was the faint red imprint of metal on one wrist where she’d struggled earlier. She flexed her fingers, stretching them toward the ceiling, and the movement tugged at something deep in her shoulders. A good ache. The kind that lingered. Sophie rocked onto her toes, then let herself fall backward onto the bed. The impact jolted through her, rattling the headboard against the wall. Above her, the window’s curtains wobbled lazily, the shadows slicing across her bare thighs.

Her toes wiggled in the air—ten pink stars against the bedroom’s dim light. She curled them, uncurled them, admiring the way the ankle cuffs caught the glow. The left one was slightly tighter. She could feel the ghost of her own pulse beneath the metal. A shiver ran up her legs as she imagined someone else tightening them—her mother’s hands, maybe, those pianist fingers twisting the screw until Sophie’s breath hitched. She arched her back, lifting her hips just enough to make the hem of her shirt ride higher. The cool air kissed her stomach. The belly ring glinted.

Sophie rolled onto her side, the chain between her ankles clinking softly. The keys were still on the bed, half-buried in the duvet. She nudged one with her knee—closer—then hooked her fingers around it. The metal was warm from her own body heat. She hesitated. The cuffs were heavy, comforting. The gag muffled her breathing into something ragged and wet. She didn’t want to stop. Not yet. But the rational part of her brain—the part that remembered her mother’s gym session ended in twenty minutes—won out. She twisted the key. The first cuff sprang open with a click that sounded too loud in the quiet room.

She had one more thought—tied to the bed. She uncuffed her left ankle, laid out two more sets of cuffs. Laying back on yhe bed she stretched her hands and feet tomthe four corners of the bed, gazing at the brass bars and wondering if her mother had ever been tied to the bed as she was planning to do to herself.

Sophie's fingers trembled as she clicked the first cuff around her ankle, the metal cold against her pulse. She stretched her leg toward the bedpost, exhaling sharply when the chain pulled taut. The second cuff followed, pulling her legs apart. She knew an escape plan was important so placed the ring with the keys on around the middle finger of her right hand. Next the third cuff—each click louder than the last, echoing in the quiet room. A shiny cuff now dangled from each wrist as she stared at her gagged mouth and messy hair in the mirror.

Lying back she stared at the ceiling, before she stretched her arms up and out. She clicked the cuff from her left wrist aroun the metal bars of the bed head. Relising this was the point of nomreturn she stretched her hand to the opposite corner of the bed.

When she fastened the final one around the solind , unyeilding metal,of the bed frame, she let her body go limp, testing the restraints. The chains held firm, leaving her splayed across the mattress like a starfish. The position was more vulnerable than she’d anticipated; every shift of her hips made the cuffs dig in, and the bed’s slight bounce amplified the sensation of being utterly trapped.

A bead of sweat trickled down her temple as she twisted her wrists experimentally. The metal groaned softly, but the cuffs didn’t budge. She inhaled sharply through her nose—the gag’s rubber taste mingling with the faint lavender scent of the sheets—and arched her back, straining against the bonds. The movement tugged at her shoulders, a delicious burn spreading down her spine. Her toes curled against the cool air, the anklets clinking as she flexed her feet. The mirror caught her reflection: flushed skin, wild hair, eyes dark with something between panic and exhilaration.

Sophie stretched her neck, raising her head to see herself more clearly. The angle was awkward—her chin tilted up, the tendons in her throat standing taut—but the glimpse was worth it. Her wrists were pulled wide, the cuffs gleaming against her freckled skin. Her chubby thighs were spread wide up to the frayed hems of her denim shorts. The pink soles of her feet flapped, the pads of her toes contrasting with the chipped blackmpaint of her nails. The Slipknot shirt had ridden up further, exposing the curve of her waist and the silver barbell piercing her navel. She swallowed hard, watching the way her throat moved. The gag forced her lips apart, a thin strand of saliva connecting her lower lip to the rubber ball. She looked… ruined. Beautifully ruined. The thought sent a jolt through her, her thighs pressing together instinctively.

She wriggled harder now, twisting her hips side to side, making the chains rattle against the bedframe. The sound was sharp, musical. Each movement sent little shocks through her—the cuffs biting into her ankles when she stretched her legs too far, the tug at her wrists when she arched her back. Her breath came faster, fogging the gag in short bursts. The duvet bunched beneath her, the fabric rough against her bare shoulders. She rolled her head back, staring at the ceiling as she tested the limits of her bonds again. The metal didn’t give. Neither did the bed. Sophie exhaled sharply through her nose, her chest rising and falling rapidly.

A cramp started building in her left calf, but she ignored it, flexing her foot instead. The anklet shifted, the chain brushing her skin like a cold finger. She hooked her toes around nothing, imagining someone trailing a feather along the arch—slow, teasing. Her hips jerked at the thought, making the bed creak. The movement sent a fresh wave of heat through her. The shirt clung to her chest now, damp with sweat. She twisted her wrists again, just to feel the cuffs press into the tender spots they’d already marked. The pain was sweet, grounding. Real.

Her messy red curls, unlike Sophie herself, had broken free from the hair tie and niw lay plastered accross her face. Sophie tried to blow the strands away, but the gag made it impossible—just another layer of helplessness she hadn’t anticipated. The room was silent except for her ragged breathing and the occasional creak of the bedsprings as she shifted. She tugged her wrists again, harder this time, relishing the sharp protest of metal against bone. The pain lanced up her arms, sharp and bright, mingling with the throbbing between her thighs.

Sophie shook her head for the fiftieth time trying to shake her curly red hair out of her eyes, but each time she tried some other hair went in. She froze. Was that a creak from the house settling—or something else? Again. Unmistakable. The jangle of the door lock; the squeak of a hingen the creak of trainers on wooden floor.

[Redman]

Looks like Sophie is in over her head. *Tsk tsk.*

Also... "Slipknit?" I wonder what Corey Taylor thinks about this...

[Bondageboi]

Wow what an excellent start for a new character.


“Slipknit.” Did they tour with “Motorboat” and “Deep Pimple”?

[tiedinbluetights]

An amazing story, well worth the time to take and read, and re-read. I love the slow build-up of discovery and self-exploration, of discovering one's own fantasies. Every detail is spot on, from the cramps, to the will to push past the pain, even enjoy some of the painful sensations and the emotional state of helplessness that the predicament she got herself into brings. Love the way the story ends to, leaving it open like that knowing she won't end up permanently trapped in her self inflicted predicament, but at what cost.

Bravo