Off school part 3 F/f)

[Sian91]

as Julie sat on the sofa she picked up her laptop and comtinued her work, tapping away carefully, as if having her daughter bound and gagged nextvto her was the most normal thing imaginable. She paused occasionally tomtake a slurp of her coffee, and sporadically to scrape a fingernail diwn the sole of the helpless Amy.

Amy, fir her part, tried to get comfortable, rhe cushions were soft, however she was forced to lie on her bound arms. Gagged, blindfolded and with headphones playing the sounds of sea on rocks she was largely oblivious to the world outside her own head, save fir her mother’s intermittently teasing fingers.

Julie glanced at her, “Are you enjoying the time off school?” she said, not that Amy could hear her. “All tied ip, gagged, deafened, isolated. I womder what you are thinking of.” Amy felt herself being rolled onto her side, the tape which bound her ankles together limiting her mivements as she assumed a foetal position. Julie brushed the hair from Amy’s face then continued typing. Her inbox was filling up with messages, mostly unimportant, but one caught her eye. Amy’s teacher had sent some work through. The first day of absence had been too chaotic; today and tomorrow were enfirced by the school, so it was only fair to assume work would arrive. Julie's plan had been to keep her daughter tied up until such time as she would usually get home, but niw there was real,world,to,focus on. She tickled Amy’s bare feet again.

Amy tried to concentrate on the rhythmic pulse of the waves crashing against the rocks in her headphones, but her mother’s touch kept pulling her back to reality. She recalled her mother’s offhand remark earlier—"You twitch like your father“ The memory flickered in her mind, sharp and unexpected. Had that been a hint? A warning? Or just idle chatter? The tape around her wrists dug deeper as she squirmed, the dull ache mixing with the tingling sensation of Julie’s nails tracing lazy circles on her soles.

Her father had vanished years ago—no goodbye, no explanation. Just gone. Amy had been too young to remember him clearly, but sometimes she imagined his laughter echoing in the empty spaces of the house, high-pitched and breathless, like hers whenever Julie decided to torment her. Was that why her mother did this? Some twisted way of keeping him present? The thought slithered into her mind, unsettling and sticky. She squeezed her eyes shut behind the blindfold, willing the idea away, but Julie’s fingers danced faster now, relentless, as if sensing the turmoil beneath Amy’s skin.

Julie studied her daughter’s tense posture, the shallow rise and fall of her chest beneath the pink pajamas. The tape had started to fray at the edges where Amy had been straining against it. Part of her wanted to peel it off, to let the girl stretch her limbs and breathe properly—but another part, darker and hungrier, still wanted her to suffer a little for bunking off school,yesterday.

"Maybe," she murmured, more to herself than to Amy, "just a little longer."

Julie shifted her gaze back to the laptop, scrolling through the assignment Amy’s teacher had sent—a geography worksheet on coastal erosion. Ironic, given the oceanic soundtrack currently keeping her daughter isolated from the world as she made muffled whimpers. The corners of Julie’s mouth twitched. She could picture it now: Amy hunched over the kitchen table later, wrists still faintly pink from the tape, racing against the clock to finish her work before dinner. A productive, appropriately miserable afternoon. That would be suitable quid pro quo for missing two days of school.

She reached over and peeled the headphones from Amy’s ears first, placing them onto the coffee table. The blindfold came next, her nails catching briefly in Amy’s tangled hair as she ripped the tape away. Amy blinked rapidly against the sudden light, her pupils pinpoint, the whites of her eyes pink and watery from exhaustion. Julie didn’t give her time to adjust—just grabbed her by the elbow, hauling her upright with a grunt. "Hop," she ordered. Amy’s knees trembled as she tried to balance, bound ankles making each movement stilted and awkward. Julie watched chuckling as she wobbled toward the dining chair like a newborn fawn, finally collapsing into it with a thud, breathing hard.

Julie knelt beside her. Firstly freeing her arms from behind her back, the silver tape hissed as she temoved it, before she unspooled a length, looping it around Amy’s left wrist and securing it to the chair’s armrest. Then another strip—this time diagonally across her chest, pinning her torso snug against the wooden back. She worked methodically, smoothing the tape flat with her palm, ensuring it wouldn’t bunch or loosen. Amy flexed her fingers, testing, her right hand twitching freely while the other strained uselessly against its bonds. Julie slid Amy’s laptop across the table with a soft scrape, flipping it open. "You’ve got two hours," she said, imdicating the task. “And if you so much as touch that gag, im going to tape your wrist to the table so you can only touch the keyboard.

Amy swallowed, her throat dry from the gag. The laptop screen glared at her, brimming with ”erosion” , “tidal” , “shireline” . She tapped a key—once, twice—her fingers stiff from hours of immobility. Her left arm tugged instinctively against the tape, but Julie had done her job well; all it earned her was a dull burn where the adhesive bit into her skin. She adjusted her posture, the chair creaking beneath her, then glanced sidelong at her mother. Julie had settled back onto the sofa, legs crossed, tyling on her laptop with one hand while the other idly traced the rim of her coffee cup. Amy knew that look—half-distracted, half-alert, like a cat pretending not to watch a bird.

She typed another sentence, her toes curling under the table. The question bubbled up again—*What did you mean about Dad?*—but the gag reduced it to a wet, shapeless noise. Julie’s gaze flicked over, sharp. "Mm?" she hummed, not bothering to pause her typing. Amy shook her head quickly, dropping her eyes back to the screen. She could feel her pulse in her fingertips, erratic and too fast. The tape across her chest constricted with each breath, the pressure just shy of painful. *Focus on the work*, she told herself. *Coastal erosion. Waves. Rocks.* But her mind kept circling back to her what mum meant about her twitching like her father. Julie’s comments, teasing, she p seemed to skirt the edges of it—was dad ever,tickled like she had been, surely nit tied up too.

“Back to work Amy. You can stare into soace and daydream when you are blondfolded again.”

Julie’s voice sliced through Amy’s thoughts. The laptop keys clicked louder now, uneven and frantic as Amy tried to bury herself in the geography assignment. She glanced at the clock—only thirty minutes had passed. Her wrists ached where the tape pulled, the metallic scent of sweat mingling with the faint chemical tang of the adhesive. Across the room, Julie stretched lazily, her blouse riding up to reveal a sliver of stomach before she settled back into the sofa with a sigh.

The last question on the worksheet blinked accusingly at Amy: *Explain how human intervention exacerbates coastal erosion.* She typed haltingly, her right hand navigating the touchpad while her left remained pinned to the chair. A cramp was forming in her thigh from sitting unnaturally still, and she rubbed her bare feet in the caroet to stretch off; but shifting meant Julie’s attention—and Julie’s attention could mean unpredictable fingers tracing her ribs or soles. So she hunched forward, breathing shallowly, and pretended the words on the screen mattered more than the dull throb in her limbs.

At 3:28, her fingers hovered over the ‘submit’ button. Two minutes early. Too eager would mean suspicion; too late could mean punishment. She chewed her lower lip beneath the gag, watching the digital clock tick. 3:29. A bead of sweat slid down her temple. She inhaled sharply—*now*—and clicked just as the numbers flipped to 3:30. The screen refreshed with a green checkmark. *Assignment Complete.* Amy sagged against the tape, her chest heaving as if she’d run a mile.

Julie’s shadow fell across the table before her fingers did. "Let’s see," she murmured, scrolling through Amy’s assignments. Her nail tapped once against the touchpad. Amy flinched. But Julie only chuckled, low and throaty, and reached for the roll of silver tape. "Normally," she said, peeling off a strip with a *thk-thk* sound, "you wouldn’t be home till four." The tape hissed as she wound it around Amy’s right wrist, securing it to the chair’s other armrest. "So." Another strip, this time crossing her collarbones. "We’ve got thirty minutes to kill."

Amy’s breath hitched as the blindfold descended again—black fabric this time, softer than the tape but no less absolute. The world vanished. Then the headphones, sealing her in with the crash of waves once more. Julie reapploed the gag. A small torment. Or a trap. Amy’s tongue pushed uselessly against the cloth, tasting salt and cotton. *Thirty minutes*, she thought. *Half an hour of—*

The first touch came at her right sole—Julie’s fingers skating up the inside of her arch, slow as rising tide. Amy jerked against the chair, but the tape held firm. Julie exhaled, amused. "You twitch," she murmured, her voice muffled through the headphones, "just like him." The words slithered into Amy’s skull, sticky with implication. *Like him.* Like Dad. Her stomach knotted. Had Julie done this to him too? Tied him up after work, tracing idle patterns on his feet while he strained against the bindings? The image flashed—her father, bound and laughing—and evaporated just as quickly.

Dinner was spaghetti bolognese, steam curling off the plates as Amy twisted noodles around her fork. The overhead light cast harsh shadows—Julie’s fingers drumming the table, the faint pink marks still visible on Amy’s wrists. She’d scrubbed them raw in the shower, but the ghost of adhesive lingered. Her phone buzzed in her pocket; Snapchat notifications from friends oblivious to her day of enforced isolation. She shifted, bare toes curling against the cold tile. "Pass the parmesan," Julie said, casual as if they hadn’t spent the afternoon in silent combat. Amy reached—too fast, her sleeve riding up to reveal a strip of reddened skin where the tape had bitten deepest. Julie’s gaze flickered, but she said nothing. Just sprinkled cheese over her pasta with deliberate precision.

“Mum.” Amy stumbled , unable to form her following words. “Wht, what wha. About twitching. Dad. Twitching like dad. Me?”

Julie chewed deliberately slow, the fork clinking against her teeth. She studied Amy—the way her knuckles whitened around her water glass, the damp hair curling at her temples from the shower, the faint tremor in her bare foot tapping the chair leg. Finally, she swallowed. "You don’t need to know. And dont ask, unkess you want to spend this evening all tied up and gagged too.l

[Wheezy]

Part 3 let’s go!! Can’t wait for the continuation!