Bound and Gagged at my Bachelorette Party [adult]
photo: The Life Erotic
My friends didn’t guess – I loved every minute of captivity
My five closest friends gathered at my house; they’d hired a limo to take us into town. It was my hen party, to celebrate my last night of freedom.
I hadn’t previously thought of marriage to Michael as being imprisonment, but I guess I will be bound to him, needing to take account of his wishes and opinions. It wasn’t a problem until then, we’d known each other since I started to work in the same building as him. I’ve met his friends, he’s met mine, we share some interests but we have things we do apart.
Shit! I can barely admit this to myself, so I haven’t a clue how I’m going to tell Michael, but here’s what happened that night.
It was Becca’s idea, I think. Vicky found the rope in my mum’s utility room, but Naomi was the practical one, cutting it into pieces so they could tie me up. I didn’t struggle much at first, thinking it was an empty threat, but then I began to get angry. I’d been to the hairdressers for a blow dry, spent at least an hour on my make-up and given myself a mani-pedi the night before. This prank would ruin my look, so hell yeah, I kicked and fought them off.
Even there, I’m not being fully honest.
When Naomi showed me the rope, something dark burst inside me, a yearning to be tied and restrained. Her gold-flecked eyes met mine and I felt a tug of recognition. As if I’d stepped off a precipice and plummeted towards the bottom of somewhere I’d always longed to be, but had never been able to locate.
To the other girls it was just in fun, a game: humiliate the princess.
I know I’m stitched up a bit tight, I always want things to be perfect, but that’s because I’m afraid to be different. Adele firmly gripping my shoulders meant I couldn’t escape, Vicky grabbing my ankles sealed my fate and I was quickly overpowered, wrestled face down into the couch.
I could hardly breathe pressed against its sticky leather surface, which made me so hot.
Naomi tied me really tight, like she knew I’d get bruises, but I welcomed it. My screaming and struggling was all for show, I was drenching my thong while they held me captive, loving the feels of being forced and restrained. Lauren and Becci didn’t have the chops for this, but I was getting into being handled roughly. I swallowed down the proffered vodka, it lit a fire in my veins.
It was a hall pass to get a little wild myself, they’d pass it off as drunken behaviour.
I swore and struggled, a reminder of every thriller or horror film where a woman was taken hostage and I’d slicked my knickers watching. I always experienced a nervous, clawing excitement if women were tied up: bound wrists and ankles making them helpless, tight ropes making their breasts distend while chafing at tender skin, their torn clothes displaying more flesh than was decent. How could they fend off a grasping hand, a stolen kiss? It looked blissful to me.
In the midst of that reverie, a spank landed on my bare backside. A burst of stinging heat engulfed my exposed globes. I’d felt my dress ride up to my waist as I struggled, exposing the peaches of my rear for my girlfriends to see. But I hoped none of them would notice my lust making a dark stain on my panties — or did I? Wouldn’t that complete my erotic humiliation. What might they say?
“Look at her, what a slut!”
“You’re so weird Sarah, are you getting off on this?”
Not Naomi though, I sensed she was a kindred spirit. She would understand. Hadn’t she conveyed her complicity with every knot she tightened? She hadn’t fumbled the bindings when her hands fastened mine, strong and sure, and I’d lay money it was Naomi’s palm that had spanked me. Would she do more? Did she dare to let her fingers delve deeper, into the heated crevice of my pussy, the seat of a steady, drumming pulse?
I waited, listening to the babble of my friends’ voices around me, but no further touches occurred. I wished they’d go and leave me alone with Naomi, I longed to surrender to the heat that I’d seen in her eyes.
“Fuck off!” I shouted, surprising myself, and them too.
“What a potty mouth,” Lauren scolded.
“These’ll shut her up,” Becca, the practical one of our group, pulled something from her bag that rustled.
I was curious, what could she possibly have? A ball gag in her handbag would be ludicrous. Next thing, they’d be plugging my backside or someone would run to my room and grab my Hitachi wand from its hiding place.
My mind was running away with crazy possibilities, a sure sign that being their captive was pressing all my buttons.
They lifted my head, holding taut black fabric in front of my face. Stockings, I guessed. I refused, they couldn’t make me. But they could and they did; Becca held my nose so I’d open my mouth, Naomi tied the fabric tight. When they forced it into my mouth I thought I might cum.
The girls pressed my thighs together to rope them tightly, using another length to fasten my ankles. I was still wearing my high-heeled shoes, so the rope chafed against the ankle strap. Hooker shoes, that’s what my mum calls them. She told me that in her day, nice girls didn’t wear shoes with ankle straps. I want to be anything but nice just now.
Naomi took charge again, leaning in to secure each knot and, amongst the girls’ mingled fragrances, ghosts of flowers, I was sure I could smell the tang of her pussy, because something inside me tingled and flared. We’ve never been that close — Naomi’s a closed book, she is friends with Becca, they roomed together at uni — but now I was longing to get to know her better. She seemed no stranger to ropes and knots, I wonder what else she could teach me.
There is so much I want to learn, but I’m almost out of time — that was my hen night FGS!
Soon they sat me up, fluffed out my hair, adjusted my dress so that I was not showing my backside to the world. Then my girlfriends took turns to lean in and kiss me, posing with their phones held at arm’s length, they took pictures to capture my humiliation, which I hope don’t make it to social media, I’ve a career to think of.
Nobody would believe their lesbian playacting was real, it was obviously staged for the photos. Well, everything except the soft, subtle strokes Naomi was giving to my calves, where the girls couldn’t see.
“The limo’s here,” Lauren cried, with a flourish of her phone.
“Let’s do this.”
Vicky invites discussion as to how they would carry me; then trussed up like a parcel, I was ferried out to the waiting car. It was a struggle, in their spike heels, wearing handbags, but they made it. Then they removed the tights so I could speak.
“You bitches!” I scolded, but I softened it with a smile.
Somebody pressed a glass of champagne into my hand, golden and effervescent, and I gladly took a sip.
“You’ll make such a beautiful bride,” Becca crooned. Leaning in, she kissed me gently on the mouth.
Then, one after the other, they all kissed me, by way of apology;
To which I responded, indicating my forgiveness. But when Naomi kissed me, all thoughts flew out of my head. Her breath was warm and her lips tasted faintly of lipstick, but then she slipped me some tongue, which shook up my emotions like winner’s champagne, fizzing and tumbling chaotically. That one kiss rendered me more intoxicated than all my earlier gulps of vodka, but her stealthy fingers brushing up my calves centred me.
I can’t think straight since that night.
My thoughts jump about, dwelling on how hot it was to be tied uncomfortably tight, to be at the mercy of people I trusted, knowing that at any moment, things could get darker. I was longing for that twist of events. Images of Naomi throw me off balance all the time. I replay her soft kiss, her hard spank and wish I could have responded differently. Her familiarity with rope play excited me and the look of understanding that passed between us — that needs exploring.
I need to tell Michael that I’m not his innocent bride-to-be. That I think I’m bi-sexual and now I’m curious about bondage; but I don’t have much time, our wedding is at three this afternoon.
Inspired by ’s story I considered the bride-to-be’s point of view.