“Nobody told me there’d be days like these.
Strange days indeed.”
— John Lennon, Nobody Told Me
“I have been finding treasures in places I did not want to search. I have been hearing wisdom from tongues I did not want to listen. I have been finding beauty where I did not want to look. And I have learned so much from journeys I did not want to take.”
— Suzy Kassem, Rise Up and Salute the Sun
Throughout my life I’ve had it easy. That’s not a boast nor a confession, simply a fact. In school I was top of the class in all my subjects. I was captain of the debating team and president of the student council. I think I’m above average good-looking. I’m not sporty but have a trim, healthy figure. This has all come with little effort; and that also is not bragging, because I never really earned it. My best qualities are the product of genetics and upbringing, factors that are not within one’s personal control.
It is the awareness of this unearned privilege which (I hope) has prevented my becoming a smug perfectionist or a spoilt brat. Indeed, it has impelled me to constantly push myself, to pursue fresh challenges, to expose myself to new experiences and open my mind to unexpected insights, to discover what strengths I possess and test where my limits lie. So when I began studying at university and living away from home, my extended horizons expanded my opportunities to explore unfamiliar paths. And where those paths might lead, I had no idea. But that was the point.
I considered several options for on-campus accommodation and settled on Lakeside Hall. I was keen on the ethos of self-reliance, but also on the fact that it was very selective in its admissions policy. I wasn’t being snobbish. Having been an overachiever for so long, I welcomed being a fish out of water and (to continue the piscine metaphor) a little fish in a big pond. And of course, in the transition from schoolgirl to uni student my life did change, in several ways besides moving out of town. I expanded my social life. I tried to become more spontaneous and adventurous. I resolved to stay assertive but be less bossy. I made a real effort to improve my fashion sense. I experimented with alcohol and some other (innocuous) drugs, although I have never seen the appeal of mood-altering substances. I lost my virginity.
I tried to stay true to my boyfriend. Mark and I had been a couple for a few years; and my teenage naïveté led me to believe our relationship would last a lifetime; but it did not survive separation. Although we both went on to tertiary study, we were living three hours’ drive apart. His was a “provincial” university; and as well as being discouraged by the distance, I believe he resented the fact that I attended a more prestigious institution. So while I don’t regret that I gave up my virginity for him, I had no strong pangs about our splitting. Indeed, to be honest, I felt a little relieved to be cutting one of the ties to my adolescence.
In academia I thrived. While I hadn’t found ivory towers or halls of ivy, being a university student was everything I hoped it would be and most of what I expected, with none of the things I dreaded. I loved my subjects, enjoyed my classes, scored well on my exams and assignments.
I got on well with my roommates — tall elegant Zahra, brittle romantic Cassandra, and especially Stephanie, petite, pert and perky. Our quarters were modest though not cramped, and Lakeside Hall had enough amenities that four hundred residents could live together without friction. In fact, when we moved on to twin-share bedrooms in our second year, the break-up was a little traumatic. But Steph and I stayed together, while Zahra and Cassie had the room next to ours. On the other side were lithesome Layla and sultry Selena. Directly across the corridor from them were two guys, Matthew and Tony, who could often be heard, usually late at night, crossing the gap. Steph and I would listen to the climax of their rendezvous through the walls, and sometimes we ate popcorn.
When we returned after the summer break as sophomores, Stephanie was on crutches. She’d sustained an ankle fracture while on an “adventure vacation”. It didn’t surprise me. Steph was a wild child. Notwithstanding her diminutive stature and playful disposition, she was tough, tenacious and utterly fearless. And she displayed those qualities not just in the face of physical challenges, but mental ones as well. She hated being in any sort of comfort zone. However, she wasn’t like me. She had no need or desire to test herself. What she sought was sensation. She wanted to live each moment of her existence as intensely as possible. This took her to some strange places; and I eventually followed, out of curiosity although to this day I’m not sure why I stayed.
Steph belonged to a club devoted to adventure. It was based at Lakeside Hall and had around forty active members, all female. Its guiding philosophy was a form of hedonism, to celebrate “the outré”, going beyond what’s normal and safe, with “ultimate” sports and unconventional challenges. But it seemed to me more thrill-seeking than adventure-loving, and indeed the club was, as much as anything else, a way to prove that women can have balls as big and brassy as any man’s… at least metaphorically. This didn’t appeal to me, and Steph’s injury was my vindication.
She vanished most weekends, to reappear on Sunday evening or Monday morning. I was intrigued but also disappointed, because it meant we shared fewer fun times. So when she invited me to one of their Saturday night gatherings, I eagerly accepted. The theme was “extreme cuisine”. It featured an appetizing assortment of creepy crawlies, bugs, grubs, worms, spiders, boiled, baked and battered. I was proud of the fact that I was far from the first to start heaving and retching. But no one actually vomited.
The following weekend’s activity was an escapade in the wilderness; but I was rostered to work. In lieu of fees and charges, except for nominal levies, Lakeside residents are assigned jobs in housekeeping and catering. I could have arranged to swap schedules but was in any case suffering from a mild cold.
I spent Easter with my family. After that there was an election for the House Committee. I thought about nominating but had sated my taste for student politics in my schoolgirl days. But I was impressed by the fact that most residents took enough interest to vote, and that ten of the twelve elected members were females. I instead answered my call to public service in two ways. I signed up for a refresher program for the first aid course I’d taken last year. The classes were held at Lakeside Hall for residents and were run by Olivia, a qualified doctor engaged in postgraduate study.
I also volunteered as a sophomore counsellor for one of the tutorial groups which mentored first-year students. The group leader, Lorelei, was a postgrad, and we provided advice, assistance and counselling on issues involving the transition from school to university and from living at home to the communal lifestyle of Lakeside Hall. Lorelei was conscientious but not very approachable. So I carried most of the load (which I didn’t mind). My acolytes were four girls, Michelle, Patricia, Priya and Kendra, and two guys who were roommates. The latter stood out not so much because they were the only males in our clique of eight but because they were diametrical opposites personality-wise. Daniel was introverted and socially awkward albeit in a likeable way, intelligent and attentive. Ben, on the other hand, seemed to me a little off — not exactly creepy, but unkempt and shifty-eyed, and more supercilious than he had any right to be. He was condescending towards women and didn’t like getting guidance from us.
On Saturday night before classes resumed after the ten-day Easter break, the Lakeside House Committee hosted a party. The theme was “Naughty Nightie Night”. Twee appellative notwithstanding, it was one of those affairs which had given “Lakeside Hell” a reputation for dissolute depravity on other parts of the campus. And it’s not like the notoriety was entirely undeserved, even if the disapproval was inspired (I believe) mostly by envy. The post-Easter party was a traditional highlight of the sexual and sensual dolce vita. The previous year’s theme had been “playboys and bunnies”, and before that “pirates and their booty”. So it was essentially an excuse for the women to loosen up and let go, strip down and show off. We turned out in our most slinky, seductive lingerie; and while not everyone got into the spirit, most of us did. It was nice to look and feel supersexy and ultrafeminine, to revel in being female. I wore a charmeuse, floral-pattern teddy with garter belt and stockings. The latter were not my standard style… but neither was being out in public in my undies. Stephanie, whose usual mode was sweatshirt and cargo shorts, had transformed from adorable to delectable in a rose pink bra and thong panties and a black lace choker. Most of the males were elegantly attired in tuxedos Bond-style, or outfitted in Hefner-style smoking jackets. So perhaps the gender contrast was sexist; but no one was pressured into anything, and nobody took it seriously.
Around mid-evening Steph found me in the crowd and suggested that I stay away from our room for the next hour or so. She had in tow a young guy I’d seen around the place. The straps of her bra were already dangling unhitched, so she didn’t need to say anything more.
While I never saw Daniel that night, Ben was one of the James Bond wannabes. I noticed that he spent most of the evening hovering around the older girls. His stare lingered a little too long on their lingerie-clad forms, including his sister’s. (Emily was a third-year student, absolutely gorgeous, who for some unfathomable reason doted on her brother.) He complimented me on how sexy I looked, which might seem innocuous, but when combined with unsubtle nonverbal cues it came across as sleazy. Being charitable I think he misread the situation. Even dressed as we were (slutty, if you will), engaging in “normal” social interaction, looking good and feeling great, we didn’t need or want to make a big deal of it. That’s why no one (except Ben and one or two other guys) felt the need to comment, apart from an initial, flattering “You look great!” Those girls who wished for special attention won it with more provocative poses and suggestive words… which was fine. Self-confidence comes in multifarious forms.
Ben also made a point of letting anyone who’d listen know that I was his group counsellor, as if this were important news. He associated clothing, or its lack, with status; and I don’t think he saw women through any lens but his own. Therefore my déshabillé condition redressed his neophyte role on campus.
Now I am aware of my tendency to overanalyze, so I shall move on.
Six weeks after the Naughty Nightie Night, Stephanie invited me to the club’s latest caper. She was unusually coy about the details until she’d wrested an acceptance from me. And when she revealed that it was a “CMNF” party all she got was a blank stare. She clarified, and was mildly surprised when I nodded (albeit in silence). It was one of those club activities which convinced me that the club’s real raison d’être was the pursuit of the thrill. I was curious about how I would cope with such a challenge; and I convinced myself that it would be no big deal to be stark naked in front of friends, acquaintances and strangers. After all, I hadn’t worn much more on the lingerie night. And I was, in a way, reassured that the males were to remain fully clothed. It wouldn’t be an orgy.
Stephanie said I should bring a male partner. Richard and I had been together for a few months. It was a casual affair, more than a fling but less than a love story. But I decided against choosing him, and fobbed him off that Saturday night with some lame excuse. Whereupon Steph hitched me up with mutual friend Jake, and I laughed at her selection because he was openly gay. But she reproached me because that doesn’t mean being “one of the girls”; and Jake told me later that he can appreciate the aesthetic appeal of female nudity. It was hard to argue with that.
As for my outfit, I decided to make an ironical statement — a “sugar-and-spice” ensemble of blue denim miniskirt, tangerine blouse and knee-socks, and big-buckle Mary-Jane shoes. I fixed my hair in unbraided pigtails; and the look would have been complete with painted-on freckles; but I felt that any hint of mockery would seem like false bravado. The venue was a house just off-campus, a short walk from Lakeside Hall, owned by a woman named Charlotte. Most of the people from the “extreme cuisine” banquet were there. Everyone came in male-female pairs. I was put a little off-stride to see Daniel, but was glad that Ben hadn’t been invited.
Charlotte was a former Lakeside resident doing research of some kind at the university. Statuesque and voluptuous, she had an aura of sensuality that she projected onto everyone around her. Her husband James was very handsome even if he gave off a silkily suave “toy boy” vibe. He clung to and was constantly petting and fondling his wife, which she appeared to tolerate rather than enjoy. Apart from that, she appeared to be the one in control. So their relationship had an odd dynamic. It was as if they were role-playing (but it was impossible to tell what was role and what was real).
In my authorial collaboration with Daniel I am leaving him to describe in detail most of what happened that night. But my biggest revelation was that, having overcome a modicum of initial shyness, I had no problem stripping naked, and even enjoyed myself. But taking off our clothes was a drawn-out process, whereas I would have preferred a quick undressing. And with the men watching, I could feel each item being peeled off my body; it was like a chill breeze on my skin. Their male gaze was like clammy hands groping and probing my curves and crevices. I tingled on the outside and tickled inside. I felt my face becoming flushed and my nipples hardening. That, I confess, was disconcerting, like what a guy must feel with an untimely erection, but in my case without clothing to hide it. Yet I didn’t feel embarrassed, at least not as much as I expected.
However, it surprised me that some of the women didn’t react as I did. Either they weren’t as keyed up or they hid it well. By contrast, Charlotte (whose lustrous torso bore no hint of tan lines) made no effort to conceal her arousal. But what none of us felt was visible shame in being naked. I didn’t see anyone try to cover herself. Indeed, doing so would have made her more conspicuous, in no way diverting attention away from her nudity but revealing humiliation rather than confidence and pride.
The men tried to maintain eye contact, but I couldn’t blame them when their field of view drifted southward. Of course, they kept their clothes on. In fact, its one-sided nature gave our nudity an extra piquancy. Yet there was no sense that we females were debased or objectified; and while I hesitate to use the term “empowering”, it was a liberating experience, divesting myself of my inhibitions along with my clothes. The erotic context was undeniable, and yet most of the time I felt less sexualized than on the Naughty Nightie Night. For while it’s been said that the essence of dressing sexy is to show your best and hide the rest, revealing everything allows you to convey assertive eroticism without being wanton. So the mood of the evening was a sort of free-spirited innocence.
Even so, we played some very intimate games. We were relaxing after one of these and had split spontaneously into separate knots of guys and girls. It fascinated me that while the men kept looking at us — they couldn’t get enough of the décor — the female groups had reflexively turned inwards, as if taking a break from the males’ attention. But as a result I was able to see the faces of the other girls when Charlotte and James came into the room bearing large bowls filled with ice cubes. The expressions ranged from alarm to bewilderment to delight. Somebody groaned. I admit that it took me a few seconds to catch on, then I started shivering, before any ice had left its bowl.
Charlotte explained that “ice-play” is a marvellous way to stimulate your brain and body at the same time but in different ways. She announced that we would be blindfolded as well, to enhance the experience. My suspicion that this party was more than merely (merely?) CMNF was solidifying.
We played in two-couple rounds. Jake and I were paired with Stephanie and Dev (short for Devraj, her guy from the lingerie party). We were assigned the second session and watched enthralled as the girls who went before us responded to the ice. Some were jiggly and jittery, others remained passive. When they were finished (and the girls, to my relief, looked disappointed), Stephanie was selected to go next, simply by being nearer to the vacated coffee table. She briefly clasped my hand as Dev wrapped a black satin sash about her head and over her eyes. The two guys guided her, by her arms, to the table, and as she sat her jaw dropped and she emitted a cute and comical “Ooh!” Jake touched the surface of the table and grinned. It was an evil grin. Steph’s body twitched as she lowered her bare backside onto the tabletop, which was made of frigid marble. She squirmed as she lay flat on her back. I shuddered as I awaited my turn.
It was strange watching little Stephanie (and the other girls) being both tormented and titillated by the ice. At one point she whimpered and bit her lower lip which I thought would bleed. She grasped the legs of the table to steel herself and to keep from interfering with the men’s work. She pressed her knees together until the guys prised them apart, but did not resist when Dev ran two lumps of ice down her belly, between her thighs and into her. She wriggled and giggled. When it was over, she almost leapt from the table, still blindfolded, her skin glistening with ice-water and sweat.
“Over already?” she sighed. “Do we get a second go?
Jake beckoned for me to replace her, with a cartoonish leer. He blindfolded me and both guys assisted me to lie down. I expected that the table would have been warmed by Steph; but marble is a wonderful conductor; it had absorbed her body heat completely. So the first contact was a jolt to my system. Yes, it was pretty illogical to be fazed by that, given what was about to happen.
I tried to remain stoical as the two guys began by rubbing the ice on my earlobes, lips and cheeks, along the edges of my blindfold and across my throat. Then they slid the cubes, never lifting them from my skin, over my chest, caressing my breasts and teasing my nipples. I think my body spasmed once or twice. But though I started out tense I soon found myself (to my amazement) relaxed, almost tranquil. It was a weird sensation which should have been unpleasant but was instead delicious. When the ice first touched my sensitized teats I was expecting something like an electric shock. Instead it was more of a tingle, with a slow pulsation as blood rushed in to warm my flesh. The ice was already partly thawed so it wouldn’t stick and could slip and slide over the skin. And the meltwater tickled as it trickled down my sides to pool under my back, bottom and thighs.
Being sightless really did make the experience more intense even though, from having watched the girls who came before me, I knew what was next. The guys stroked my stomach. The water filled my navel and then dribbled into my cleft.
“Spread your legs,” Jake whispered. Gay or not, from the tone of his voice I knew he was enjoying the game.
I braced myself as a hand cupping two cubes settled into my crotch. After a minute or so of chilly massage, the hand pressed the ice into me. I couldn’t hold back a moan. The walls of my vagina constricted, so after he’d removed his hand I held my muscles tight to keep it inside me. There was no numbing or prickling. My body heat quickly melted the lumps, and even as the liquid seeped out of me Jake inserted two more. I knew who it was because I heard James say “Steady, Jake; don’t overdo it.” With that cue, when Jake pulled back I relaxed, and the ice popped out of me.
Dev, meanwhile, had not stopped his stimulation of the other parts of my torso, and also my arms and legs, even the soles of my feet (the only time I felt any real twinges). He missed hardly a spot on my body not in contact with the tabletop. The result was, even though I had prematurely ejaculated my second dose of ice cubes, an ecstasy I have rarely known. And I’m sure that sounds bizarre, especially as it was delivered by a near-stranger and a gay guy. And it would have been embarrassing to be so turned on in front of people I hardly knew; except that they were all going through the same thing… well, half of them, anyway.
Still, I must give credit to the males. They performed well, considering that their pleasure was peripheral. Jake understood and navigated my erogenous zones like a… well, not an expert but a talented rookie.
When that game ended the night was barely half over. In fact, a couple of hours later I found myself volunteering for a second round of ice-play. This time it I partnered with Daniel, and by now we had both shed our inhibitions. This was around midnight, and Jake and I finally left at about three in the morning. It actually felt strange, and oddly erotic, to be getting dressed in the middle of the living room. (The melted ice had long since dried off our bodies; but even that is an agreeable sensation, having the water slowly evaporate from your skin, cooling you as it carries away heat before you begin to warm up.) A couple of girls decided to remain naked as they left, but immediately ran back into the house to put on their clothes. It was freezing outside.
We walked back to Lakeside Hall, about a dozen of us, under a moonless, cloudless, diamond-studded sky. A light but steady breeze lowered the apparent temperature, and I cursed myself for wearing just a miniskirt and a flimsy blouse. But when Jake gallantly offered me his coat I haughtily rejected it. I immediately apologized for my ingratitude, but he laughed it off. I think he believed I was trying to relive my exquisite ordeal with the ice. No; I was just being churlish.
After that night, I began to see the adventure club in a new light. There was a pattern to its activities which seemed more than merely audacious exploits. From the conversation that evening I discovered that Charlotte was one of its founders, and a member of another group I heard mention, the Empyreal Society. This one was more cryptic; Stephanie didn’t seem to know about it; but I didn’t get a sinister vibe. When, from time to time, I inquired from people I thought might know, the brush-offs were good-natured rather than unfriendly. In any case, I would eventually find myself drawn in.
Something else changed. Whenever I encountered guys who had been at the party, they looked at me differently… not in a leering way but rather with respect and admiration. And that might have been my imagination; but at our tute group meetings Daniel seemed a little less reserved, at least towards me. Whenever our eyes connected, I felt naked again, but without discomfort. And while the others in the group must surely have sensed that we shared a secret, to his credit Daniel never let on.
“Bondage is the life of personality, and for bondage the personal self will fight with tireless resourcefulness and the most stubborn cunning.”
— Aldous Huxley, After Many A Summer
(Yes, I know this quotation isn’t about rope bondage; but Huxley’s observation is astute, and the book is worth reading… if you don’t mind monologues.)
The month following the CMNF party was uneventful. There was the last week of classes, and then the revision and exam period. After that I decided to stay on campus for the mid-year vacation, with a couple of trips back home. Stephanie tried to interest me in one of her club’s excursions, without success; but to make up for my refusal I agreed to another Saturday night gathering. Steph called it a “Shibari night”. I did my research and at first declined the invitation; but as before doubt gave way to curiosity, and even excitement. For in my teens my guilty pleasure was the melodramatic romance novel. My favourite subgenre was the bodice-ripper. I fantasized being a damsel in distress — albeit feisty not feeble. So I had always wanted to be tied up, to experience what it would feel like being both helpless and heroic.
The people there were mostly those as on the previous nights, with a few additions and subtractions. (Daniel was one of the latter.) We convened at Charlotte’s house once more. Again we came as couples, and this time I brought Richard. I suspect that he knew about the CMNF party. If he did he showed no resentment. (While I hadn’t felt guilty over leaving him out, I worried that someone would spill the beans. But no one did. The adventure club members were discreet.)
Stephanie by now had moved on from Devraj. She was accompanied by Oscar. He was a first-year student who visited our dormitory often because his sister Alice, a postgrad, shared a room with Jessica, a second-year student like Steph and me. Alice and Jessica had been friends before moving into Lakeside Hall; and both were members of the adventure club. That’s probably how Oscar and Steph became attached. I found him a bit immature, but that no doubt helped him in coping with Steph’s ofttimes frenetic personality. (I mention this because they all will feature in my story.)
We kicked off with snacks and drinks. Those of us who weren’t club regulars nevertheless knew everyone, from preceding encounters. Ominously, Charlotte warned us ladies to avoid the coffee because of its diuretic effect. Ten minutes later she cleared her throat and took off her dress, shoes and jewellery. The rest of us women followed her lead. It was another cold night, but we’d been told to wear a bikini under our clothes. I chose my favourite, the lime green Agustina. The males stayed fully clothed. They tried not to ogle, and none of us seemed particularly fazed at stripping down in front of them. It was not so much different from doing so on the beach, except that this wasn’t a beach, it was a suburban house, and the men remained fully clothed. Of course, with the Nightie Night and CMNF party still fresh in our minds, the nonchalance was not really surprising. I deposited my shirt, jeans, shoes and watch in a corner of the living room alongside the rest of the discarded clothing.
Charlotte explained that a key part of the bondage experience is the tactile sensation, feeling the ropes tight against your bare skin. She said that the pattern and texture of your rigid bonds provide an enhancing contrast with your soft, smooth skin and supple, yielding flesh — a visual treat for your partner and a sensual one for you. And while the erotic essence of bondage is obvious, I must confess that I hadn’t been thinking of it as an aesthetic or sensory experience. James added that tying up a woman is like creating a work of art. Your body is his tableau. Charlotte elaborated. The ropes may follow the natural contours of your curves and crevices or they may create shapes and forms, in ways that bring pleasure to both the artist and his subject. And even though your own role is passive, you participate equally. In fact, the submissive’s is the more profound experience. What your master does is by him but to you. And in that respect it is like having sex (with a man). He is the giver and you are the receiver; your gift to him is the acceptance of his. The power over your body that you surrender to him flows back into you.
(I should add that Charlotte and James used the words “submissive” and “master” simply to mean the person who submits to the ropes and the one who applies them. I should add as well that the evening’s motif was female bondage; but I did get the impression that this is how it always is for them.)
Charlotte concluded the introduction with a reassurance that sounded more like a warning. “Your bondage shouldn’t be easy,” she said. The paradox of sensual bondage is that the more stringent and strenuous it is, the greater the joy for both partners. That was something I had yet to be convinced of. I looked around at the faces of the other women and saw mostly frowns. But I reminded myself of the club’s motto, “Nulla gloriam sine insania” — “There is no glory without madness”; and of Stephanie’s personal philosophy, that comfort zones are for sissies.
Thereafter Charlotte ushered us down a pink-paneled corridor to a large chamber at the rear of the house. There was something weird about that hallway, with its spongy red carpet, subdued lighting and acoustics that reduced the few words anyone spoke to whispers. As we exited into the harsh light at the end, it was like emerging from the birth canal. It gave the strange but distinct impression that it was designed this way, as if the path along the passage represented a rebirth of some kind.
The room had a vaulted ceiling with exposed beams. It was bare of furniture except for a row of tables against one wall, on which were heaped coils of ropes, stacks of satin sashes, a pile of variously coloured vinyl ball-gags and some other paraphernalia. There were mats laid out in rows on the polished wooden floor. Charlotte gave us a moment to take in the sight. The expressions on the faces of the girls around me — wide eyes, open mouths, flushed cheeks, sweaty brows — and the gasps and giggles spoke the unspoken words. Of course, as James began handing out nylon ropes and satin sashes to the males, their expressions were of slightly embarrassed glee. However, while everyone tried not to appear too excited, no one seemed overly nervous. After all, these people had climbed mountains, descended cliffs, jumped out of aeroplanes, eaten bugs. The mission statement of the adventure club was about going beyond conventional margins.
We started with a warm-up of calisthenics and other loosening-up exercises, to enhance our flexibility and endurance, and also to boost our confidence and self-discipline. An unfocused mind, Charlotte explained, is as detrimental to good bondage as an unprepared body. To have control over your responses allows you to immerse yourself in the ropes’ embrace, to receive the full experience and to prolong it. I noticed some of the women nodding and smiling; Stephanie was one. Others, like myself, were more tense. So the workout enabled us to shake off some of the jitters.
The males were not allowed to opt out of this, although some wanted to stand back and enjoy at their leisure the sight of us jigging and bobbing, sweating and puffing and straining in our bikinis. But Charlotte insisted they join in.
“You and your partner must have patience and self-discipline,” she explained. “It makes it more enjoyable for the both of you, and you will be able to tie her up for longer, and more strictly, if she’s relaxed and comfortable.”
Charlotte then told us females to put on our blindfolds. I folded my sash, which was midnight blue, so I could tie it about my head, and Richard then adjusted the fabric to make it fit firmly over my eyes, shutting out every scintilla of light. That was when I felt the first goosebumps on my flesh. As I’d learnt with the ice-play, being rendered sightless is scary because you can’t see what’s coming; it’s arousing because your other senses (hearing, smell, taste, orientation and in particular touch) are stimulated; and it’s romantic, because you must place your trust in your partner.
To spice things up, James asked the males to take a few steps backward, while Charlotte instructed us women to shuffle forward and choose a new partner. The men remained silent as we groped about. My hand rested on the sleeve of a ruffled shirt and I recognized it as belonging to Oscar. There were more girls than guys, so four of the former ended up paired together. They were promised that they would get to swap roles during the evening. (I was somewhat disappointed that I wasn’t one of these. I might have enjoyed being tied up by a girl, and tying her in turn.)
Then we began. Charlotte and James took the lead. They were still working as a couple, and she gave advice, guidance and directions to both sexes, while blindfolded and being bound. It was rather amusing, hearing our coach give her instructions in such a matter-of-fact manner, on how she was to be tied up, while she was being tied. Every so often her deadpan delivery would be interrupted by a squeal, a moan or a heavy sigh, when James hauled extra hard on the rope or wrenched her arms ferociously behind her in a too-stringent hog-tie, or when the intensity of the moment simply got too much for her to keep bottled up inside.
James took over the commentary at those times when he gagged her; but she kept trying to have her say, the words coming out as mumbles, snorts and gurgles. The comical effect lightened the mood at moments when we got into more arduous poses and postures. And I marveled at the rising chorus of grunts and groans reverberating around the room, until I realized that I was part of the choir. I clenched my teeth to stifle my own noise.
“Are we having fun yet?” Stephanie’s voice squeaked after one resounding outburst. Everyone laughed. Then we were gagged.
My attempt at stoicism didn’t work; and after Oscar had pried apart my jaws and thrust the vinyl ball between my lips, I rejoined the babbling cacophony. Dribble and drool oozed from the edges of my gag, and ran over my chin, or across my cheeks or down my neck, depending on how I was trussed and tethered. Bound in a hog-tie, lying on my belly with my arms wrenched upwards behind me and my ankles rammed against my backside; displayed in a frog-tie with my knees spread part, my shoulders pulled back and my breasts thrust forward; squirming in a ball-tie; writhing in a shrimp-tie; dangling in a strappado; I tried not to be a passive prisoner.
Oscar tried to soothe my spirits, stroking my head and massaging my neck and shoulders. He took Charlotte’s advice when she reminded the guys that whenever possible they should wind or wrap the cord around several times, not just to make the binding more secure but to spread the pressure and prevent damage to the skin. He also did a manful job of keeping my bikini in place at times when the contortions of my limbs or the resistance of the ropes threatened its structural integrity.
One compelling lesson for me was that the more restrictive the bondage the better it feels. The ropes deny you the ability to move in the space around you. Your blindfold deprives you of one sensation while stimulating others, and your gag prevents communication (except for primitive guttural sounds). But when you’re cut off from the world, with your entire existence shrunken down to the confines of your bonds, your isolation becomes a connection to your inner being, as you draw on your own resources of willpower and endurance; while at the same time you are intimately bound to your partner, not physically by the rope but emotionally by your dependence on him. You discover strength in your submission, power in your vulnerability, self-reliance in your helplessness, sensuality in your suffering, delight in your discomfort, ecstasy in your agony, euphoria in your humiliation, pride in your shame, intense self-awareness in your sensory deprivation. Your thoughts are as random and chaotic as that sentence, yet crystal-clear. These are the paradoxes which make your bondage both excruciating and exhilarating — the experience of being imprisoned and yet liberated, feeling incredible arousal and unbelievable serenity. You draw energy and vitality from the ropes even as you’re surrendering to their hold on your body.
I had read or heard that you can become so submerged in your bondage that you zone out, you enter a languid, blissful even trance-like state. But I didn’t experience that. I couldn’t relax or let my mind wander. I found it impossible to separate myself mentally from the ropes. I could feel every strand, every fiber, every twist and coil during every second I was bound.
The session was divided into segments, each of which commenced with Charlotte demonstrating some technique and position. Or rather, James demonstrated on her, while she provided most of the commentary. We progressed through stages of difficulty, beginning with rudimentary hands-in-front and simple behind-the-back, crossed-wrist ties. The men used supple nylon cord that felt like it had been treated with softener so it wasn’t abrasive and didn’t chafe or burn the skin. And while we were going through the essentials, it was obvious that many of the guys had not much grasp of the fundamentals, such as cinching to properly hitch wrist and ankle ties. It baffled me that they hadn’t done research, as I had. And even though Oscar was more adept than some, as I sensed from the noises around me, I could have wriggled or kicked free of some of his first efforts. But he quickly improved, encouraged by Charlotte’s reminder.
“Don’t hold back. If it isn’t tight…” Her voice was suddenly smothered.
“It isn’t right,” the men finished for her.
Before we moved on to the more rigorous ties, Charlotte invited the males to try a few simple exercises, like having them attempt to get their elbows to touch behind their backs and trying out the “reverse prayer” position. Even without the extra stringency of rope, most were quite shocked at how difficult it can be, and by the sort of stress it puts on your shoulder blades in particular. Most gave up after a minute or so; but that didn’t deter them when they put us into contorted tangles of trussed-up limbs.
I gasped when my arms were wrenched behind me and bound with my elbows almost touching. This thrust out my chest until I felt the straps of my bikini top straining to near breaking point. My heavy breathing further tested its cohesion. I was sweating and trembling; my skin prickled; my nipples hardened. And that surprised me. I had not expected to be so sexually aroused.
Then came the crotch-rope. We had just come out of a strappado. This had not been as severe as it might have been, but was a challenge nonetheless. Ropes were slung over the ceiling beams. My arms were bound behind me in double hammer-lock style (wrists crossed between the shoulder blades), rather than stretched out backwards. Oscar tied the suspension rope to my elbows and hauled on it until I was on my tiptoes and bent forward. He did this slowly so I could adjust to my shifting centre of gravity and adapt to the increasing strain. It was more uncomfortable than painful at first, but after a while my back and shoulders were hurting. My feet and calves began to stiffen until I feared a full-blown cramp. I was puffing and panting through my gag, hoping my ordeal would soon end but wanting to know how far I could go, how much I could take. On either side of me, in front and behind, the other girls were enduring with the same noises and the same resolve to endure. (During the entire evening, no one used her safe word or signal, and we were proud of that.)
I realized how marathon runners and triathletes feel. They endure for what they extract from the experience. Overcoming adversity, pushing through the barriers allows you to go to a place where your personal power resides.
After a while (I had no idea how long) the suspension rope was slackened just enough that I could stand upright but still on my toes. Charlotte was gagged, so James took over the instructing. Oscar looped a cord around my neck and ran the two strands down my front and between my legs. When he pulled it taut from the rear, it fit snugly into my creases front and back; but this was not all there was. James told the guys to tie a large knot, strategically placed to fit into the groove. It was positioned directly over my clitoris, and with even the slightest movement of my body it performed its work on me. I gulped and gasped, sucking in my spittle past my gag and blowing out bubbles which foamed on my chin and dripped onto my chest. Tottering on tiptoes, I found it was impossible to remain still; and as I reached orgasm I began to twitch and squirm, which produced a feedback of swelling pleasure. The room was full of muffled shrieks and mumbled curses.
Thinking back on it, I’m sure we all overreacted; but the crotch-rope acted like a pressure valve, releasing two hours of built-up tension.
James called for an intermission… well, kind of. The males retired from the room for refreshments, leaving us ladies tied in the lotus position. This involves having your legs, with ankles crossed, drawn up folded to your chest; and you are forced to bend forward at the waist until your shoulders are between your knees and your chin almost touches your heels. A rope is looped behind your neck (not all the way around, so you don’t get throttled) and tethered to your ankles to keep you restrained in your balled-up position. With your hands still bound behind your back, this is a very effective arrangement because you’re completely immobilized, unable to do anything except wiggle your fingers and toes. It’s also very taxing on your muscles and joints. We were still gagged. My jaws ached and my mouth had run dry of saliva so my lips felt parched and cracked. A wafting draught from the air-conditioning felt clammily cold on my skin damp with perspiration. We huddled in complete silence, except for the rasping sounds of breathing through the gags. With my blindfold still in place, I felt completely alone, totally helpless. I lost track of time.
When the men finally returned and I thought the session might be over, I wasn’t sure if I should be happy or sad. In fact we had barely begun. There were many more positions and postures to be put into and torments to be put through, including a bout of tickle torture. For this our gags were removed and we screeched and screamed, begged and blasphemed. We were way past suffering in dignified silence. After that the bondage became more intense. I was trussed in an excruciating hog-tie with my wrists tethered to my ankles and my upper torso strapped in a yoke that tugged on my shoulders to arch my body backwards, so that as I lay on my belly I was staring (blindly) at the ceiling, making pathetic whimpering sounds.
When he released me from the harness and I lay prone, my hands still tied behind my back, Oscar crouched beside me, once again gently caressing my neck, back and shoulders. In my heightened state of receptiveness, the tickle of his fingernails gliding deliciously across my skin made me shiver. I don’t think he realized how stimulating his touch was, until the gooseflesh rose on my quivering body.
“Are you okay?” he whispered.
“Of course,” I croaked.
He pushed the ball-gag into my mouth.
To a degree, at least, I had anticipated the physical reactions I would experience. I knew the ropes and gag and blindfold would mess with my adrenaline, endorphins and hormones. Nevertheless, my emotional response was a revelation. It was not unlike what I felt at the CMNF party. I found my bonds to be in a sense liberating, even empowering; and the stricter the bondage the more I felt this. It was that paradox again. Surrendering control, being forced and tied into all sorts of poses, some of them painful, others degrading, endowed a sense of freedom, to explore and test my boundaries and my feelings. The physical restraints relieved me of emotional constraints. How you react to something that is outside your control can define you just as much as the decisions you can and do make. The ropes acted as a channel, or a doorway, to new perceptions. Most especially, by daring to be vulnerable I discovered my strength.
The bondage came to a close well after midnight. We were released from the ropes and our gags in an unhurried manner so that we could come down slowly. We remained blindfolded as our other senses gradually readjusted. I had been sightless for something like six hours, and once my vision was restored it took a while to adapt, not just to the sudden saturation of light but to the sight of the implements of my bondage and my torment strewn about. I was shocked by the deep pink grooves and ridges and faint purple bruises on my skin, on my arms, legs and torso, which hadn’t bothered me until I saw them. I was suddenly aware that I stank of stale sweat and saliva, that my hair was sopping and my bikini was sodden.
The walk back to Lakeside Hall permitted me to stretch my stiff limbs and flex my aching body. Richard carried my clothes. Though clad in just my damp two-piece (having lacked the foresight to bring spare underwear), I didn’t mind the sharp bite of the early morning wintry air. It jolted me out of my torpor and was soothing on my skin. It was around three in the morning when we entered the lobby, and no one else was up and about to witness us all creeping in.
Richard and I had the room to ourselves because Stephanie stayed on at Charlotte’s place. I was physically exhausted but my brain was still buzzing. I fumbled woozily with the straps of my bikini until Richard pressed my hands to my side and undressed me. I lay passively on the bed while he made love to me with such verve that it hurt. When I woke mid-morning he was gone and Steph was just coming in. She and the others who remained at Charlotte’s had resumed the bondage and did not finish until after dawn. I admired their stamina. I had been pleased with getting through my own session. Even our hostess had looked haggard as we departed. But I remember that shining through the blur of fatigue had been exhilaration, and heightened curiosity. This lingered. It was as if something had been activated inside me, a desire to further explore my limits and limitations.
I never thought to ask Richard who his bondage partner had been; nor do I know how the girl-girl pairs rotated their roles. But Steph and I talked a lot about that night. She was very interested in my reactions and perceptions, to the extent that I realized she was gauging my responses. I could tell that an offer was about to be made.