The first times (m/f) **UPDATED**
Posted: Mon Jul 22, 2024 12:07 pm
I've been reading the stories here for a long time now, so here I am sharing a few from my teenage years!
To put it in context, I grew up in France in the 80s, with a certain freedom. The episodes recounted here date from around 199X. I was aged between 11 and 14 and lived in a fairly quiet neighbourhood. I used to spend a lot of time, almost every Wednesday afternoon, at the house of one of my best friends, who lived in the building opposite. We always played the same games, where he was usually the bandit, the villain, the knight, the burglar, the kidnapper... and I was the victim!
Because yes, this friend loved to tie me up. In fact, it was practically the pretext for each of these games: to find a new way of tying me up. I have to admit that I was also curious and that nothing was ever imposed, all I had to do was protest a little and everything would stop immediately and I'd regain my freedom. We played most of the time in his flat, just the two of us. He would dress up vaguely, take a plastic gun, hide in a corner and, as soon as I showed my nose, I was his prisoner. He would then gag me with his hand and lead me to THE chair where I spent many long hours.
His hand on my shoulder meant that I had to sit down and, almost automatically, put my hands crossed behind my back. He would then tie them up with a piece of string or rope, tying the knots as tightly as possible. My arms were tied to the uprights of the chair with tight scarves. And then he'd go ahead and tie my legs with whatever he could find, at the ankles and, rarely, at the knees.
No gag or blindfold, but attempts to untie me, to free me. I deliberately didn't pull too hard on the ties and I was simply a prisoner, Wednesday after Wednesday. The games went on for a few years, never really evolving. Adolescence arrived and we finally took different paths and lives. But I still have precious memories of those hours with him, of our simple, innocent stories!
************
UPDATE: I'm trying a bit more detailed version of thoses games, focusing on one.
**********
It was a typical afternoon in 90s France. I was dressed classically, in one of those black leggings I loved to wear and a simple tshirt. You don't need much more than that when you're 11 to go to your best friend's house, especially as I know exactly what's going to happen, which doesn't hold me back - quite the opposite, in fact.
Saying goodbye to my babysitting mother, walking down my eleven flights of stairs, crossing a street, taking an elevator up to the tenth floor, last door on the far right. Ring the bell, wait, smile: Hey, how are you? As usual, he smiles when he sees me. Just like he has since kindergarten. As always, in fact. We chat for a few minutes before getting down to business: our afternoon game. He suggests something very simple, an abduction, a kidnapping. Nothing more, and that's fine by me. We don't need many more words or preparation: our story writes itself as the hours and the afternoon go by.
He goes off to hide in a corner, behind a door, while I count to 100 in my head. I know what's going to happen. He knows I know. We love it.
97, 98, 99,100: I get up from the sofa and start wandering around, talking out loud. Step by step, I make my way down the corridor, which makes a right angle. He shouldn't be far.
I turn right, move forward a little and there's no lack of it: it was hidden behind a door, absolutely visible under normal circumstances but totally invisible to my eyes. He slips in behind me, a hand immediately gagging me as an arm wraps around me. He tells me not to move, to let him do it to me. That this is kidnapping. That I must go forward and enter the bedroom door on the right.
Caught up in the game, I'm terrified and make no attempt to protest or remove this hand glued to my mouth. He strides forward, forcing me to move at his pace. We enter the room, where there's a chair. He forces me to sit on it, pushes my shoulder down with his hand: “I'm going to tie you up, don't move!†Sitting down, my hands rest on my knees and I don't try to see what he's doing. I wait a handful of seconds and then the order comes, indisputable: “Put your hands behind your back, crossed!â€. Which I do immediately. I love these moments of simulated tension, these moments that precede the arrival of the ties on my skin, without me really knowing why.
He had to find some string this time, not just a piece of twine like some times. In any case, he's focused and I can feel my wrists tightening with each turn. Still silent, I wait for him to finish tying my hands, which happens pretty quickly. I'm not yet trying to test their strength, to reach a knot: first, I have to be completely trapped.
Today, he seems really determined: I can hear a dresser drawer opening, which means he's grabbing scarves. Scarves that he ties around my arms, to the uprights of the chair. He's really squeezing here, which makes me wince. He sees it: “Sorry, but there's no way you're getting away, your ransom is going to make me rich!â€. He now kneels in front of me: “Tighten your legs, now! I obey, of course, and watch him, still as concentrated as ever, tie new ties around my ankles and then my knees. Today's special treatment.
No blindfolds or gags in our games: being tied up is enough. He checks one last time that I can't move or free myself, then goes off to post the ransom note. He leaves me alone, tied to his chair in his room. A moment of solitude that's not at all frightening, and allows me to try and free myself, to play my part now that my kidnapper is gone!
I test the ties with my hands and realize that, if I force a little, it'll be easy to untie me. But I don't want to, it would be too easy, too wasteful. I'd rather play the role of kidnapped damsel in distress. I wriggle in my bonds and search for him with my eyes when he returns, bravado: “I see you didn't manage to untie yourself this time! I've tied you up too well!â€
He quickly checks that I'm really still tied up, smiles at me as he passes, and goes back to checking that the ransom has been paid. This time I decide to play the rebellious captive and struggle in my bonds for real. The tension eases and I regain some freedom of movement, enough to free my hands... just as he returns.
It's a moment we both love, and here it's just as inevitable: she's managed to get loose, now let's make her a prisoner again!
He sees me and immediately understands: “Ah ah, I knew you'd try!†He immediately goes behind my back, grabs my hands with his own and crosses them again. He then picks up the cord that's fallen to the floor and, once again, ties my hands as tightly as he can.
However, once my hands are tied again, he changes plans: “The ransom has been paid, I'm going to take you where I'm going to leave youâ€. This is the last part of the game, parts often similar but never identical in unfolding. So, sometimes, he unties me completely and I run off to the living room. Sometimes, he unties my hands and reattaches them in front of me. Other times, he tries something a little stranger, as seen or read in books like Alice Roy or the Famous Five.
But none of that today: he unties my arms and legs, leaving only my hands tied behind my back, and takes me into the living room, where I sit on the sofa. There, he asks me to turn around and close my eyes. Doing both, I feel my hands being released, the cord removed.
Game over: released, released!
To put it in context, I grew up in France in the 80s, with a certain freedom. The episodes recounted here date from around 199X. I was aged between 11 and 14 and lived in a fairly quiet neighbourhood. I used to spend a lot of time, almost every Wednesday afternoon, at the house of one of my best friends, who lived in the building opposite. We always played the same games, where he was usually the bandit, the villain, the knight, the burglar, the kidnapper... and I was the victim!
Because yes, this friend loved to tie me up. In fact, it was practically the pretext for each of these games: to find a new way of tying me up. I have to admit that I was also curious and that nothing was ever imposed, all I had to do was protest a little and everything would stop immediately and I'd regain my freedom. We played most of the time in his flat, just the two of us. He would dress up vaguely, take a plastic gun, hide in a corner and, as soon as I showed my nose, I was his prisoner. He would then gag me with his hand and lead me to THE chair where I spent many long hours.
His hand on my shoulder meant that I had to sit down and, almost automatically, put my hands crossed behind my back. He would then tie them up with a piece of string or rope, tying the knots as tightly as possible. My arms were tied to the uprights of the chair with tight scarves. And then he'd go ahead and tie my legs with whatever he could find, at the ankles and, rarely, at the knees.
No gag or blindfold, but attempts to untie me, to free me. I deliberately didn't pull too hard on the ties and I was simply a prisoner, Wednesday after Wednesday. The games went on for a few years, never really evolving. Adolescence arrived and we finally took different paths and lives. But I still have precious memories of those hours with him, of our simple, innocent stories!
************
UPDATE: I'm trying a bit more detailed version of thoses games, focusing on one.
**********
It was a typical afternoon in 90s France. I was dressed classically, in one of those black leggings I loved to wear and a simple tshirt. You don't need much more than that when you're 11 to go to your best friend's house, especially as I know exactly what's going to happen, which doesn't hold me back - quite the opposite, in fact.
Saying goodbye to my babysitting mother, walking down my eleven flights of stairs, crossing a street, taking an elevator up to the tenth floor, last door on the far right. Ring the bell, wait, smile: Hey, how are you? As usual, he smiles when he sees me. Just like he has since kindergarten. As always, in fact. We chat for a few minutes before getting down to business: our afternoon game. He suggests something very simple, an abduction, a kidnapping. Nothing more, and that's fine by me. We don't need many more words or preparation: our story writes itself as the hours and the afternoon go by.
He goes off to hide in a corner, behind a door, while I count to 100 in my head. I know what's going to happen. He knows I know. We love it.
97, 98, 99,100: I get up from the sofa and start wandering around, talking out loud. Step by step, I make my way down the corridor, which makes a right angle. He shouldn't be far.
I turn right, move forward a little and there's no lack of it: it was hidden behind a door, absolutely visible under normal circumstances but totally invisible to my eyes. He slips in behind me, a hand immediately gagging me as an arm wraps around me. He tells me not to move, to let him do it to me. That this is kidnapping. That I must go forward and enter the bedroom door on the right.
Caught up in the game, I'm terrified and make no attempt to protest or remove this hand glued to my mouth. He strides forward, forcing me to move at his pace. We enter the room, where there's a chair. He forces me to sit on it, pushes my shoulder down with his hand: “I'm going to tie you up, don't move!†Sitting down, my hands rest on my knees and I don't try to see what he's doing. I wait a handful of seconds and then the order comes, indisputable: “Put your hands behind your back, crossed!â€. Which I do immediately. I love these moments of simulated tension, these moments that precede the arrival of the ties on my skin, without me really knowing why.
He had to find some string this time, not just a piece of twine like some times. In any case, he's focused and I can feel my wrists tightening with each turn. Still silent, I wait for him to finish tying my hands, which happens pretty quickly. I'm not yet trying to test their strength, to reach a knot: first, I have to be completely trapped.
Today, he seems really determined: I can hear a dresser drawer opening, which means he's grabbing scarves. Scarves that he ties around my arms, to the uprights of the chair. He's really squeezing here, which makes me wince. He sees it: “Sorry, but there's no way you're getting away, your ransom is going to make me rich!â€. He now kneels in front of me: “Tighten your legs, now! I obey, of course, and watch him, still as concentrated as ever, tie new ties around my ankles and then my knees. Today's special treatment.
No blindfolds or gags in our games: being tied up is enough. He checks one last time that I can't move or free myself, then goes off to post the ransom note. He leaves me alone, tied to his chair in his room. A moment of solitude that's not at all frightening, and allows me to try and free myself, to play my part now that my kidnapper is gone!
I test the ties with my hands and realize that, if I force a little, it'll be easy to untie me. But I don't want to, it would be too easy, too wasteful. I'd rather play the role of kidnapped damsel in distress. I wriggle in my bonds and search for him with my eyes when he returns, bravado: “I see you didn't manage to untie yourself this time! I've tied you up too well!â€
He quickly checks that I'm really still tied up, smiles at me as he passes, and goes back to checking that the ransom has been paid. This time I decide to play the rebellious captive and struggle in my bonds for real. The tension eases and I regain some freedom of movement, enough to free my hands... just as he returns.
It's a moment we both love, and here it's just as inevitable: she's managed to get loose, now let's make her a prisoner again!
He sees me and immediately understands: “Ah ah, I knew you'd try!†He immediately goes behind my back, grabs my hands with his own and crosses them again. He then picks up the cord that's fallen to the floor and, once again, ties my hands as tightly as he can.
However, once my hands are tied again, he changes plans: “The ransom has been paid, I'm going to take you where I'm going to leave youâ€. This is the last part of the game, parts often similar but never identical in unfolding. So, sometimes, he unties me completely and I run off to the living room. Sometimes, he unties my hands and reattaches them in front of me. Other times, he tries something a little stranger, as seen or read in books like Alice Roy or the Famous Five.
But none of that today: he unties my arms and legs, leaving only my hands tied behind my back, and takes me into the living room, where I sit on the sofa. There, he asks me to turn around and close my eyes. Doing both, I feel my hands being released, the cord removed.
Game over: released, released!
