Rescue part 2

Written and illustrated by C. L Foster


I am dreaming.
         I am on a ship, bound to the prow: a masthead. My
         breasts are bared to the sea - a sacrifice of dignity to
         appease the waves - and I can feel cords about my
         wrists, stretched taut, pulling my arms above and
         behind me, suspending me over the waves. My feet are
         chained, an anchor dangling from them. The salt foam
         of the surf washes me, little fish nipping delicately at
         my nipples, my pubic hair, as the cool water rises. It is
         a pirate ship. I am at their mercy, but I will be rescued.
         The Captain is angry. The sea rises; I am not doing
         my job. Water washes over the deck, and I see my blue
         exercise mat swept into the sea, the keys to my
         handcuffs still on it. I am told I must walk the plank. I
         am a Princess, my hands tied behind me, prodded by
         swords as I stride boldly to the end of the plank, my
         head high, waiting for my swashbuckling hero to rescue
         me. I plunge into the sea, the anchor pulling my legs
         down, water rushing upward over me as he swoops
         from the sky and catches me. I am a mermaid, he a
         dolphin; and we swim, breathing water like air as we
         watch the pirate ship sink in the storm. I am lashed to
         him, like a sail bound to a mast, arid I see that my
         champion is the Captain in disguise. We laugh at our
         secret joke, and sink into the soft loam of the sea bed,
         bound together, intertwined, merpeople snared in
         seaweed. "Save me," I murmur through my gag. "I will,"
         he whispers. He kisses me, my mouth open to his, his
         arms tied around me like seaweed. He strokes the rope
         marks from my wrists as we kiss, our mouths taped
         together, our tongues entwined like rope. We are
         knotted inextricably as one, trapped in each other; my
         crotch rope cleaving between his cheeks, pressing our
         loins together, holding him inside me. The sea bed is
         dark. I want to see him. If s hard to turn my head. His
         tongue fills my entire mouth; I cannot speak. My eyes
         are blindfolded. I want to see him. "Don't look," he
         warns. I open my eyes.
         I am alone.
         The sun is gone, my bedroom dark. Strange shadows
         37
         
              paint the ceiling. The thick, wadded gag fills my tiny
             mouth. He is not there.
              I close my eyes again, but he has gone. He has left
             me. He never came.
              I'm scared.
         
         
         
              A week passed. I considered carihg out the simple
             plan I had thought of in the attic: going to her door,
             introducing myself and asking her out; but I couldn't
             bring myself to do it. Just looking at her made me so
             nervous and excited that I was afraid I would babble
             like an idiot if I tried to speak to her. And worse yet, she
             might recognize my voice and be too ashamed to have
             anything to do with me. But mainly I didn't want to feel
             that I was approaching her because of what I'd seen;
             because of something I had no right to know. So I
             waited, hoping that simple chance would bring us
             together. It did.
              At least I think it was chance.
              The following Saturday I was mowing the lawn when
             she came out to me and asked If I could mow her lawn
             as well. She'd pay. I stood there - shirtless, the
             summer sweat shining on my chest, white shorts
             scarcely concealing the sudden excitement I felt -
             watching her mouth as she spoke. I leaned on the
             vibrating mower because I thought I might be shaking
             and I didn't want it to show. I said I'd be happy to. She
             smiled and walked back into her house.
              It took me maybe an hour to mow both lawns -
             record time. I felt such a sense of relief. This was it: the
             innocent chance encounter. I didn't have to make an
             excuse; I wasn't knocking on her door and asking her
             out because I had seen her naked in bondage; I was
             mowing her lawn. She'd ask me inside, we'd talk, get to
             know each other, I'd casuaily ask her out. All as if last
             week had never happened. It was perfect.
              When I had finished I knocked on her door and she
             invited me inside. The house was cool and dim, the
             sweet, clean smell of air conditioning washing from a
             vent upon my face. I had planned to be suave and
             relaxed, but she was wearing a pink T-shiri cut off an
             inch above her navel, and her nipples stood in gum-
             drop hard relief from the smooth curve of her breasts. I
             don't think she was wearing a bra. Suave and relaxed
             went right out the window.
              "Would you like something to drink?" she asked.
              "Yeah, please." I tried to be cool, watching her pretty
             ass bounce into the kitchen, then offer me an all-too-
             familiar view as she bent into the refrigerator. I looked
             away. Last week never happened, I thought. This is the
             first time we've met; last week never happened.
              It didn't help.
              "Yo~l have to excuse the way I'm dressed," she called
             in, "but I've been working outside, and it's so hot." She
             was putting ice into a couple of glasses. "I must look a
         
         
         38
         mess.
         "Hey," I said, running my hand down my bare chest,
         "You're wearing more than me."
         She smiled. "Barely."
         I blinked. Was she flirting? Or was that just an
         innocent comment? I began to feel my perspective

         slipping again, desire invading logic. I shook it off.
         "What were you working on, outside?" I asked. It was
         weak, but I had to keep up the conversation. "I didn't
         see you while I was mowing."
         "Oh, just some stuff," she said lightiy. "On the patio."
         She was pouring the drinks now. "I want to thank you
         for helping me with the lawn. I usually do it myself, but
         my mower broke down."
         "My pleasure," I said gallantly. "Any time."
         That smile again. "I'll keep it in mind."
         I smiled back. So far, so good. All I had to do was
         maintain my cool, be charming, and find a way to ask
         her out without seeming too pushy. I suddenly
         remembered the wind had been blowing outside. I
         wondered if my hair looked stupid.
         "Here you go." She handed me a soda. Her hand was
         small and soft as it touched mine. I smiled at her.
         'nhanks."
         I looked down to take my drink, and in that instant I
         realized what it was that she had been doing on the
         patio. It was the same thing that I had been doing
         earlier that morning; and I knew this because, except
         for the fresh color of the mark, the bright pink rope
         burn which circled her wrist was almost a perfect
         match for my own.
         Looking up I could see that her eyes, too, had locked
         on the startling symmetry of our wrists. Feeling my
         gaze, her eyes flitted to mine, then fell to the carpet as
         she withdrew her hand and demurely placed it behind
         her back. She bit her lower lip. It had lasted for only a
         moment, but it was enough. We both knew what the
         other had seen, and what secrets that moment had
         revealed. We had both given ourselves away to someone
         who could read the signs.
         I drank, and we stood there. I drank again. My brain
         swam; I had to think, to say something; but no words
         would come. I could feel my opportunity slipping away,
         and I was letting it. I drank again. '~This is real good," I
         blabbered. '~Thanks."
         She nodded silently, still not looking at me. She
         raised her glass to drink, but suddenly realized that a
         rope burn marked that wrist as well. There was an
         awknard moment as she almost lowered her arm, then
         hesitated as she realized that would only draw more
         attention to her hand. Finally she took a sip and
         quickly lowered her glass.
         "Is, um  she said, "ten dollars enough?"
         I was being dismissed. "Oh, more than." I couldn't
         even think. "Sure, yeah."
         I watched that ass bounce to her purse, and as she
         dug through it she spoke with her back turned. "Can I
         
         I
         ask you something?"
         "Sure."
         Finding her wallet, she came back to me. "Were
         you..." a long hesitance, then her eyes meeting mine,
         "Were you the one?"
         Time stopped. I could feel the blood flowing to my
         face, my heartbeat quickening like a spy caught with
         classified documents. I wanted to look away, but her
         eyes held me: I was a deer on the highway hypnotized
         by approaching headlights. I realized I was taking too
         long to answer. "The one what?" I said, attempting
         nonchalance.
         She said nothing. Just looked at me. My face flushed
         deeper, and I saw hers do the same. At length I nodded,
         silenfly.
         She exhaled, her eyes dropping away from mine. A
         shadow of a smile kissed her lips. "I sort of thought so.
         I mean..." her voice trailed off, her eyes on my wrists.
         She paused, licking her lips, becoming serious. '~Thank
         you. She held my eyes. "I mean, when I was tied up,
         you could have... that is... "She faltered, looking away.
         "I just... thanks."
         I looked at her. She was so delicate. So small.
         "Any time," I whispered.
         She looked at me, startled. Shock overwhelmed me. I
         couldn't believe I'd said that. Of all the stupid,
         insensitive, dumb, cavalier comments I could have
         made...
         Her cheeks began to turn hot, and she looked down,
         avoiding my eyes. We stood there, not looking at each
         other, dumbfounded for what to do next, until finally
         she met my eyes again, her expression uncertain.
         "I'll keep it in mind," she said.
         I stared at her, my eyes trapped like a butterfly in the
         amber of that gaze, trying to guess what she wanted -
         what I should do. She seemed to be waiting. I wanted to
         kiss her. Her mouth was so soft, her lips parted ever so
         slightiy... It was my move. I leaned toward her...
         And she withdrew. It was a tiny, involuntary
         movement - her gaze fell, her head turned almost
         imperceptibly - but her feeling was clear. I turned
         away. "I'm sorry," I mumbled. I felt like a fool. "Um  I
         started, "I have to go. I've got more... work  I found
         myself opening the door, stepping outside. The sun was
         blinding. I welcomed it. I didn't want to see, I didn't
         want to be seen. I just wanted to disappear.
         I sat in my room for about ten minutes, staring at the
         ceiling, regretting the stupid, presumptuous thing I'd
         done. I replayed the moment in my mind a hundred
         times, imagining I'd handled it differentiy, wishing I'd
         had it to do over again, coming up with a dozen witty,
         charming, reassuring, or profound things I could have
         said; should have said: thinking it over and over until I
         couldn't think anymore and I had to get out. I threw on
         a shirt and went out the door, announcing that I was
         going out I'd be back in an hour or so.
         I didn't come home until midnight.
         Everyone had already gone to bed when I got in, and
         that suited me just fine. I was over the initial
         mortlilcation of my blunder, but I had spent the entire
         day thinking in circles, speculating on what she
         wanted, wondering what, if anything, I should do next;
         and I was too tired to talk to anyone. I turned on the
         television and watched some mindless late movie on
         cable for about an hour, then took a shower and went

         up to bed.
         I was under the covers and just about to hit the light
         when I noticed the envelope on my desk. There was a
         yellow post-it note stuck to it. My first thought was to
         leave it until morning, but something told me I
         shouldn't wait. I climbed out of bed.
         The post-it had a brief message scrawled in my
         brother's hand:
         "Lady next door came to see you this morning but
         you were gone, so she left a note. I've gone to bed so
         DON~T WAKE ME Up TO ASK ABOUT IT!!!!"
         I tossed the yellow note aside and tore into the
         envelope. It contained a small silver key and a piece of
         paper with two words written on it:
         "Save me."
         It took almost five seconds for the meaning of this to
         register. It took slightly less time for me to get
         downstairs and out of the house.
         
         
         
         The moon has risen now.
         Its pale light filters through the window, creeping
         about my room as though uncertain if it wants to stay.
         It won't touch me. I lie in a pool of darkness in the
         center of my bed, and the light avoids me. I think it's
         afraid. I squirm weakly in my bonds, hoping to attract
         its attention, hoping to entice it closer. Maybe if I can
         touch it I can make a shadow on the moon, and he will
         see it. If he sees my shadow on the moon, he'll have to
         come. He'll know where I am, and he'll come for me.
         I awake with a start at some noise. I was dreaming -
         or at least I think so - it's hard to tell the difference
         any more. Am I still dreaming? The moonlight is
         touching me. I hear another noise: a door closing,
         footsteps. I hear my name called. My heart leaps: ifs
         him! Oh God, oh God don't let me be dreaming - not
         again. I hear his footsteps, his voice. I try to call out,
         but I can make only a tiny mew, like a kitten. If he
         thinks I'm a cat, will he ignore me? I mew and mew,
         writhing against my restraints, bouncing my ass on the
         bed, hoping the springs will squeak, but they don't. I
         hear him moving in the house, rushing about, calling
         for me. He'll never find me, I'm sure. It's taking too
         long; he'll tire and leave. Suddenly a light floods the
         hall. A silhouette appears in the door: him. He came.
         He came for me.
         He stands in the door, looking at me, his bare chest
         rising and falling as he catches his breath. He's
         
         
                                            39
                      beautiful. Joy and relief washes through me in a flood
             of emotion almost too deep to bear, and I feel my eyes
             fill with tears. I'm saved. I want him to touch me, to tell
             me I'm not dreaming. I make a little sound.
             "Hi," he says, uncertainly; then after a moment, "Are
             you all right?"
             I nod - a tiny movement in my restraint.
             He steps into the room. "Do you want me to untie
             you?"
             I look into his eyes: deep, warm shadows within the
             backlit shade of his face. His form looms close and
             strong over me; masculine, protective. A moment ago I
             would have given anything to be free - to relax my
             spine, the tension in my arms - but suddenly
             everything is different. I feel safe, protected; fatigue
             vanishes as the sweet erotic pleasure of my bondage
             begins to return, washing away all wish for release. I
             want to be vulnerable for him. I want to be bound. I
             shake my head.
              He moves to the side of my bed, slowly, his gaze
            caressing my naked form. I am spread out for him,
            bound and on display. "You're so beautiful," he
            whispers. He kneels on the mattress beside me. "May I
            touch you?" he asks.
              I can scarcely believe it. I long for his caress, tremble
            with desire; and he asks permission. I close my eyes
            and tilt my head back with a sigh, further arching my
            back to lift my breasts closer to him. My breath is
         40
         quick, each moment seeming an eternity to wait, until
         finally I feel his hand brush my cheek. I jolt at the
         contact, then turn my head to it, tiny sounds escaping
         my throat as his fingers stroke the weiness from my
         face. "Whafs the matter?" he asks. "Were you afraid?" I
         nod. His fingers move to stroke my hair. "Ifs all right,"
         he soothes, "I'm here now." But the emotion is too deep,
         the longing too powerful. I feel the tears welling up. I
         want him to hold me, to lie on me, to crush me with his
         weight; I want him to wrap himself around me and
         become part of my bondage. I'm afraid to open my eyes;
         afraid he'll vanish again, leaving me alone, awakening
         from a dream. I don't want it to end.
         I feel his lips touch my face, his hand caressing my
         collared throat, moving down to gently fondle my
         breasts as he whispers to me. "Have you been here
         since this morning?"
         I nod, my face brushing his.
         "I'm sorry." He kisses my eyes, his lips stealing away
         my tears. "I just got back. I came as soon as I found
         your note." He kisses my mouth, my lips still sealed
         behind their tape gag, while his hand squeezes my
         breast, rolling my nipple between his fingers. Warm
         pleasure trickles through my body at the sensation.
         I feel his weight shift as he sits back. He is looking at
         me. My eyes are still closed, but I can feel it. He is
         looking at my outstretched arms and my cuffed wrists,
         my taped mouth, my naked breasts. "Pretty lady," he
         .1
         
         I
         whispers, rubbing my nipple. "My pretty, pretty
         princess. My damsel in distress."
          I squirm under his attentions. My hero, I think.
         My knight.
          His hand glides slowly down my belly. "I've looked
         for you so long," he says, his fingers tracing
         delicately along my crotch rope, moving toward the
         center of my longings, "and now at last I've found
         you. His palm cups my mound, pressing against it,
         squeezing, until a tremulous, breathy moan escapes
         my taped mouth. "I'll never lose you," he whispers.
          His fingers play between my bound and open legs,
         teasing my inner thighs, scarcely touching my little
         muff. I start panting, my body quivering with desire.
         I try to move my hips, to press myself once more
         against his hand, but he won't let me. He taunts me
         with his fingers, brushing delicately at my sensitive
         labia, my clitoris, but no more. I want to beg him
         for more, but I can only moan softly through my
         gag.
          "Do you like that?" I nod frantically, whimpering.
         He plays me softly, like a violin, the pitch of my
         voice rising and falling on the tide of his whim. I
         feel his lips touch my belly, my breasts, my nipples:
         he suckles me gently, then suddenly withdraws, his
         fingers abandoning my loins. "Maybe I'll keep you
         like this for a while." He stands, leaving the bed. I
         hear footsteps. I'm afraid to open my eyes, afraid
         he'll be gone. I squirm, whimpering desperately.
         "Maybe all night, if you like." I jump as he kisses
         my thigh. I feel his hands under my bottom, lifting
         me up, spreading my cheeks apart. He's between
         my legs. "Maybe longer." I feel the soft warmth of
         his kiss on my vulva, and melt into rapturous,
         writhing ecstasy as he touches me with his mouth.
          I know I am not dreaming.
         
         
         
          Dawn has found its way to the window.
          I watch her sleeping beneath me. She's so
         beautiful, so perfect; everything I've ever dreamed
         of, or ever could. I glance at the window. Day is
         coming. I hesitate to wake her, but I know I have to.
         It's Sunday, and I'll be expected.
          I kiss her eyes, and she wakes, softly.
          "It's morning," I whisper. "I promised I'd untie
         you, remember?"
          She squirms, sleepily, nuzzling her cheek against
         mine. "Not yet," she whispers. "A little longer." Her
         mouth finds mine, her hot tongue asking entry. I
         permit it.
          "I have to go," I say at length. "I ran over here in
         my underwear. If I wait until everyone's awake it'll
         be hard to explain coming home."
          "Tell them you were rescuing a damsel in distress,
         and lost your suit of armor."
          I smile at her. I've kept her bound, as I said I
         would; although the gag is gone, and I've replaced
         the harsh steel handcuffs with a silken scarf. She
         still wears her collar and the cords which anchor it
         to the bedposts, but I've removed the chain which
         connected it to her crotch rope, letting her relax her
         spine. I stroke her upstretched arms and kiss her.
         "I have to leave," I insist.

          She pouts, sticking out her lower lip so prettily
         that I just have to suck on it for a minute. "When
         will you be back?" she demands when I finish.
          "This afternoon," I promise.
          "Should I tie myself up?" she asks, brightly.
          "No!" The tone of my voice surprises us both. I
         soften. "At least not so you can't get out."
          "But I want you to rescue me.
          I smile. "I know. I like that too... but I don't want
         you to do it anymore. It's too dangerous. You don't
         know what could happen. How did you even know
         I'd show up last night?"
          She looks into my eyes, her expression one of
         absolute trust. I feel as though she can see my soul.
         "I knew." Her voice is soft, but certain. "I knew
         you'd come for me.
          I look at her face, and realize I can't argue.
         Somehow, I know she's right. "Just don't do it," I
         say, gently. "Promise me.
          She pouts again. "Will you tie me up, then?"
          "Maybe," I tease. "If you're bad.
          "What if I'm good?"
          I smile a sly smile. "Then maybe," I lick her
         protruding lower lip, "I'll let you tie me up.
          A big, mischievous grin slowly works its way
         across her face.
          "I think I'll be good," she says. ~
         
         
          Stories and Fantasies play an important role in
         the bondager's world, especially in areas where
         fictional characters can do things that real people
         cannot. Our stories often contain elements that are
         unrealistic because one healthy function of fantasy
         is to imagine and enjoy stories that we know full
         well we can't act out. (A classic example is that
         married people often fantasize about sexual
         activities with friends; they recognize its value as
         fantasy, and would find acting it out very
         imp ractical.f
          We know our readers are aware of these lines
         between reality and fantasy. Though it is a popular
         fantasy, a person in restraint should not be left alone
         for ANY length of time. Also, bondage time-limits are
         regulated by the person in bondage, according to
         what amount of time she/he feels is comfortable and
         safe. These, and other logical safety considerations,
         should not be confused by or with our imaginary
         scenarios of fiction.