Talent show | trunk, escape, gag | free bondage stories

The Conclave cottages are arranged in a big square with a park in the middle. In that park is a building called the Great Hall. The Great Hall! Doesn’t that sound grand? Actually it’s a simple stage and a few hundred hard wooden chairs under a corrugated aluminum roof. I’ve seen tractor sheds with more style. The Great Hall is open on the sides, so on Sunday morning you can enjoy a sermon while the breeze blows through. This being a rural county in the Midwestern United States, we’re talking Baptist, Methodist, Church of Christ. Denominations that expect you to go one on one with J.C. I don’t think I’ve ever seen a Catholic service in the Great Hall. It’s not that we’re prejudiced. It’s just that they wouldn’t be comfortable there.

Most of the time, though, the Great Hall is used for secular entertainment. My folks say that a century ago, before the age of electronic mass media, big-name entertainers who were on the road would perform at the Conclave. Actors, lecturers, famous travelers. Nowadays, the entertainment runs to amateur magicians, gospel groups, and barbershop quartets. There’s something every evening.

One evening, I was in the Great Hall listening to the Cavaliers of Harmony when someone came in and sat down behind me. I glanced back, and did a doubletake. It was Kathy Miller, a girl I’d gone to high school with. Back then, I ignored her because I was an athlete and she wasn’t cool or pretty. But since she’d been away at college, she’d lost a lot of weight, and now she looked great.

I said hi. She was cool at first, probably because I wasn’t nice to her in high school. But finally I got her talking. She was majoring in Poly Sci at Northwestern and playing field hockey. We ditched the barbershop quartet and walked over to the refreshment stand for a soda.

She’d changed her brunette hair too. In our senior year she wore it long and pulled it straight back, like the other would-be intellectuals in the Poetry Club. Now it was short, curly, sensual. No one would ever mistake Kathy for a supermodel, but with the weight off and muscle on she was a lot more appealing.

Kathy was wearing a blue, sleeveless, one-piece dress. Something about those simple, unadorned dresses drives me crazy. Girls who wear them seem to be daring you to say the magic word that’ll make them take it off. When we finished our sodas I invited her over to the Matthews family cottage.

We sat on the porch swing. Kathy had just gotten in that morning, so I amused her by dissecting the bad acts I’d seen at the Great Hall. Puppeteers who could barely make a marionette twitch. The husband and wife who imitated Abraham and Mary Todd Lincoln. Bad gospel singers, bad tap dancers. She sat close beside me and laughed at my witticisms.

"The Talent Show is this Saturday. Are you going to perform, Mr. Highbrow Critic?"

"I should. I could do an escape artist routine."

"What’s that?"

"It’s a type of night club show. A man ties up a woman on stage, and she has to get loose."

"That’s it?"

"The woman wears a bikini. She shows a lot of skin as she rolls around and struggles to get free."

"This is a real night club act? Since when do you go to night clubs?"

"Actually, I saw it on E! It was a documentary on German cabarets."

"I’m glad you’re cultivating a taste for high culture." She looked at me coolly. "Doesn’t that strike you as just a tiny bit exploitative? And symbolic of society’s oppression of women?"

Feminism! Red alert! I almost backed off. Fortunately she sent me a different signal by absentmindedly touching my foot with hers, so I pressed on.

"You could interpret it that way. Or you could see it as an exhibition of female power. You look at that woman writhing in her bonds, and you think: She’s strong. That man tied her up because he’s afraid of her awesome female power. And you know she’s going to get loose eventually, so that symbolizes her escape from society’s restraints."

"I’m sure that’s what every man in the audience is thinking." Kathy twirled a curl meditatively.

"Anyway, an escape artist act would be a nice break from mediocre banjo players. If only I had a partner."

"How about Carol Siegler?"

"That’s old news. I haven’t seen her since graduation."

Kathy snorted, but softened it with a smile. "I’m not doing anything Saturday night."

"We’d have to rehearse."

Again she trained those intelligent brown eyes on me. It was a weirdly adult gaze, coming from someone my own age. But the game seemed to intrigue her. "All right. I’ll let you tie me up. Once. But no funny stuff, promise?"

I made the Scout salute. "Scout’s honor."

"Didn’t you get kicked out of the troop?"

"I was going to quit anyway."

We went inside the cottage. The carpet on the first floor was ratty, so it was logical to go upstairs, which just happened to be where the beds were. I let her lead going up the stairs, the better to see her bottom sliding back and forth under the thin dress. No panty line. Could she be naked under there? Sweet Jesus, call me home.

I got out my trusty clothesline, and scrutinized her like a sculptor examining a fresh block of granite. She put her hands on her hips. "Well?"

"Turn around and put your arms behind your back."

Smiling cryptically, she obeyed. I arranged her forearms parallel to one another, each hand at the opposite elbow, and tied them in the middle and at both ends. I was careful to place the knots out of reach of those strong fingers. The white clothesline looked great on her tanned skin. When she was tightly bound I took her warm fleshy shoulders and turned her to face me. She stared back defiantly, but I could see the bondage was already working its subtle magic. Something about being helpless releases a woman’s inhibitions.

I had her lie on a bed and roll face down. To make things interesting, I tied her ankles so that the legs crossed in an X. Her dress slid up in the course of this, and I caught a flash of white at her crotch. Maybe it’s immature of me, but I’ve always enjoyed looking up women’s dresses. Like birdwatching, you know?

I used a piece of rope to bring her ankles toward her arms in a loose hog-tie. For the final touch I gagged her with a knotted sash. She protested, but I did it anyway to complete the pretty picture.

"All right. You have been captured. Now try to escape." I sat down on another bed to enjoy the show.

At first she lay quietly, face down, moving only her fingers as she tested her bonds. As I expected, she tried to free her arms, but I had made that impossible.

Then she rolled over, and tried to sit up, but the hog-tie interfered and she flopped back down.

Kathy lay silently, considering her next move.

Suddenly she erupted in a frenzy of action: struggling, squirming, contorting. She strove mightily to get her ankles up to her hands, which were up at her waist, but she couldn’t even reach her ankles, much less untie them. I have to give her credit for trying, though. Boy, was she limber!

In the course of this her dress slid up, and I had a splendid view of her thighs. Man, playing field hockey was really paying off for her. She was wearing tiny white bikini underwear: the kind girls wear on a date, when someone might see. I didn’t try to conceal what I was looking at; I just sat on the next bed and made like a happy audience.

Finally she subsided and lay on her side, breathing heavily. "Rrrt. Nnti mmme."

I joined her on the bed and undid her gag. She licked her lips and looked up at me sheepishly. "I can’t get loose." Her head flopped into my lap.

"You’re not a very good escaper," I said, brushing her hair back from her face.

"How did the German women do in the documentary you saw?"

"Well, they tended to stay tied up."

"Is that so?"

She closed her eyes and raised her face, so I kissed her. It was a real kiss, with lots of tongue. We kissed for several months. Finally we parted. I stroked her hair again and she let her head loll in my lap.

"How about I tie you up and you show me how to escape?" she dared me.

I considered this. Could be kinky fun. But I wanted to be in charge "I’d rather tie you up," I said, casually patting her inner thigh, just below the crotch. "I think you need more practice."

We kissed some more, and while I enjoyed her mouth I played with her below the waist. I started by caressing her thighs, and gradually worked up to her panties, letting my hand lightly drift over her abdomen and crotch and bottom. This certainly counted as "funny stuff" in my book, but Kathy didn’t seem to mind. In fact, she kissed harder, more frantically. When my hand explored her pussy I could feel the pubic hair through the thin cotton fabric, and she raised her hips and pressed her cunt against my palm. She was damp.

"I want to tie you in another position."

"OK."

I untied her. I was a little apprehensive, since if she wanted to bolt, this was her chance, but without prompting she peeled her dress off over her head. "I don’t want it to get messed up," she explained. She hung it on a hook and stood facing me, wearing only the tiny panties and a lacy bra. "How do I look?" she asked, striking a pose.

"Fabulous."

"You didn’t think so in senior year. When you were practically engaged to Carol Siegler."

I sensed she was setting a trap, so I took the humble road. "I was an idiot," I said, as I took off her bra. Nice big boobs, a little crinkly around the nipples. Slight pudgy roll at the waist. I left her panties on because I liked the way the straps sank into her flesh at the hips. I stood behind her, caressing her breasts, and she rubbed her bottom across my hard cock.

"Tonight’s escape artist act is a dramatic interpretation of Goldilocks captured by Papa Bear," I murmured in her ear.

"Eeek, eeek."

"When Papa Bear came home and found Goldilocks sleeping in his bed, he did what any normal bear would do." I tied her hands together in front, then had her lie on the bed, face up. No headboard, just a metal frame to support the mattress, so it was simple to extend her arms over her head and tie the rope to the frame. Then I tied her ankles to the corners at the end of the bed, spreading her legs nice and wide and open for business.

She tugged at her restraints, quite helpless. "What is Papa Bear going to do with Goldilocks?" she cooed, working her hips invitingly.

"Anything he wants." I stripped and began to play with her, fondling her breasts, running my hands up and down her body, kissing her thighs and anything else I wanted. All that muscular flesh aroused a hunger in me. She had biceps! I wanted to tackle her and pin her to the ground and fuck her on the fifty-yard line. Kathy gasped and moaned and struggled. I rubbed her pussy through her panties, savoring the feel of cotton on cunt. She was getting soggy.

I freed one ankle long enough to pull down her sexy little panties, then retied her in the helpless spread-eagle position. Her pubic hair was dark and curly too, with auburn highlights. I buried my nose in it, and licked her cunt. Moaning, she tilted to the side to help me with the angle. I licked from end to end, dredging her fragrant slit with my tongue, intoxicated with her scent.

Ah, there’s that little love button. I took it in my lips and began to suck and squeeze. I nibbled on it hard, using my lips to pad my teeth, and she came with a shriek that scared me half to death. I lay with my head on her thigh as she spasmed and jerked, hoping no one had heard.

"Now," she begged, still writhing. So I lined up the old boner and went for the touchdown. Mmmm, slick. I slammed my pelvis on hers and buried my hands in her hair and we kissed and fucked to oblivion.

Later. I came to. I slid off and sat on the side of the bed. The position I’d tied her in was great for fucking, but she took up the whole damn bed, so there was no place for me to lie afterward. My bones seemed to have melted, so I slid to the floor and slumped against the bedframe.

I checked the time. It was after 11. "Do you have a curfew?" I asked.

"Not really," she sighed. "I told Mom I might go over to Rachel’s or Debbie’s. If I don’t come back to the cottage she won’t worry."

"Good. I want to do some more funny stuff." Wearily I stood.

"How did you know I would like being tied up?" she asked, as I rooted around in the room, collecting what I needed.

"I didn’t know, but in high school you were a nonconformist, so I thought it was worth a try."

"Well, you sure guessed right." Her head flopped back on the pillow, and she stretched, testing her bonds. The bedframe creaked, but lovely Kathy Miller wasn’t going anywhere until I untied her. "I can’t believe I could have such a politically incorrect orgasm. And with a jock to boot." She smiled happily.

"Excuse me, but if you play field hockey, doesn’t that make you a jock too?"

"That’s different. I’m going to law school some day."

"Which would you rather have: orgasms or ideology?"

"Are you going to fuck me again, or are you going to bullshit all night?"

"Silence, sex object. I’m preparing your next politically incorrect orgasm."

I untied her hands. She sat up and massaged the wrists. We kissed and petted a little. Then I made her lean forward so I could retie her hands behind her back. Only when she was tied did I free her ankles; I wanted part of her in restraint at all times. I had her sit up with her legs over the side of the bed, and tied her ankles with rope, leaving about a foot of slack between them.

"What’s the next game?"

"I’m going to kidnap you."

"Kidnap me?"

"I’m going to tie you up and gag you, and put you in the trunk of my car, and take you to my hideout. You will be naked and helpless and utterly at my mercy. The scenario is that I’m an escaped convict. I was hitchhiking, and you, a big-hearted liberal, stopped to give me a ride, with disastrous results."

"No way, Grant. The criminal justice system is nothing to joke about. Do you realize that—"

I cut off her whining by stuffing a folded dinner napkin into her mouth. She tossed her head and tried to push it out with her tongue, but I worked it in until her mouth was tightly packed, and secured it with duct tape. Kathy shook her head and mmmmphed furiously, but was basically mute. Outstanding! The duct tape gave her an authentic captured-by-sex-maniac look. I patted her cheek. "Now don’t go away."

"MWGBN!"

I left her sitting on the bed, protesting inarticulately, and went to get the car. It was pitch dark outside. Everyone except us seemed to have gone to bed, which was not surprising, given that most of the people at the Conclave were farmers who had to be up at 5 a.m.

I backed the car up to the door of our cottage and popped the trunk. It was a rental, less than 5,000 miles on the odometer, so the trunk was empty and clean. I felt the blue carpet. It was reasonably smooth, but I decided to put down a blanket. Kidnapped females appreciate frou-frou touches like that.

Leaving her alone was mildly risky. In fact, when I returned upstairs, Kathy had hobbled over to a dresser and was opening drawers.

"If you’re looking for scissors you’re cold."

She glared at me, and tossed her head angrily. "WMMW MEMVNM!"

I patted her big bare bottom and grinned.

I took a blanket downstairs and arranged it in the trunk. Then I went back up and untied her hobble so she could descend the steep stairs. It was just a few feet from the back door to the car, but just to make sure no one spotted us, I draped another blanket over her and carried her out and deposited her in the trunk with one swift movement. She was a hefty gal, but with my strength it was a breeze. I checked the gag and made sure she could breathe, then closed the trunk. The car was the type in which half of the back seat opened so you could carry skis or long items. I opened the back seat so she would have air, and then climbed in and set off.

Cruising through the hot summer night, as grasshoppers and moths splattered against the windshield, I considered my actions and wondered if I had a criminal streak. Odd how people change. It wasn’t that many years ago, I was a Boy Scout earnestly looking for old ladies to help and good deeds to do. Now here I was driving around Boone County with a naked woman tied up in my trunk. Tied up with knots I’d learned at scout meetings in the basement of the Community Church. This is what happens when a Boy Scout goes bad, I mused.

I drove straight to our farm, of course. Mom and Dad were out of town, so I had the place to myself. We don’t keep animals, and corn doesn’t care if you leave it unattended for a few days. I drove into the big shed where we keep the tractor and combine.

Kathy didn’t fight as I helped her out of the trunk. She looked around, and probably guessed where we were. Family farm or not, the shed looked creepy at night since the only light came from a few small bulbs. Lots of shadows and spooky equipment. The shed was way off the road, and a mile from the next house, so the only sounds were cicadas shrilling in the night. An excellent hideout.

Since her arms were tied behind her back and she was naked, she was already prepped for the next game. The main prop was a little pony cart that I’d played with as a kid. I made her stand between the rails, and strapped a belt around her waist. I tied the traces to the belt on both sides so she could pull the cart.

I figured she could use a break, so I peeled off the tape and extracted the napkin and gave her a drink of water. She gulped it readily and licked her lips. "You are one class A pervert, Grant Matthews," she said. "You ought to be locked up."

"And what does that make you?" I grabbed her pussy, which was nice and juicy, and fondled it strongly. She moaned and took tiny steps forward to drive my fingers in. We kissed, and I finger-fucked her standing up.

"What did you think about when we were driving around?"

"At first I tried to analyze why I enjoyed the fantasy of being kidnapped by a sex fiend. There must be a reason why I’m getting off on such submissive behavior, like some prefeminist housewife. Media brainwashing maybe. But I couldn’t think straight. I kept drifting off into fantasies about what that convict was going to do to me."

"Don’t think. Feel."

"God, how mindless. Why did I have to get kidnapped by a jock?"

She was getting vocal again. So unbecoming in a pony girl. For her next gag I took a thick wooden dowel rod, about an inch in diameter, and wrapped it in a terrycloth towel. I had her bite on it. It stuck out on both sides of her mouth. I secured it with twine wrapped around the back of her head. The rod held down her tongue and kept her from talking, but allowed her to breathe. For reins I tied twine to each end of the rod. Then I climbed into the cart and tightened the twine reins. "Gee up, girl. Let’s go."

Kathy flexed her shoulders. For a moment she just stood there stubbornly. Then she huffed and took a step forward. The muscles in her butt tensed. The traces tightened, and the cart trembled. She leaned forward, and took another step, and the cart began to move. Another step. Soon we were rolling along at a slow walk.

I guided her by tugging on the left or right piece of twine attached to her bit-gag. We rolled out of the shed and onto the asphalt driveway. Once she got momentum, it went fairly easily on the smooth surface. Her weight and muscle made her well suited for this game.

I guided Kathy up and down the driveway, tweaking the reins when I wanted her to turn. I wished I’d thought to bring a flashlight, so I could see her ass muscles flexing. But it was dark, so I had to content myself with starlight glimpses of her bent-forward shoulders, the sound of her panting.

I drifted off into fantasy about a bondage training camp for female athletes. Beautiful female athletes who made themselves my slaves for the sake of physical training. It occurred to me that I could kill two birds with one stone. The days of family farms like ours were numbered because the equipment required to operate them was becoming too expensive. Tractors and combines cost a fortune up front. Plus the maintenance! $700 for a tire! But if I could substitute girls like Kathy... Use teams of naked women in bondage to pull farm equipment... I could save the farm!

After a few laps, I figured she’d been a good sport, so I guided her back to the shed and unharnessed her. Kathy was panting and had a wild look in her eyes. "Good horsy," I said, rubbing her breasts. I undid the gag and tossed it aside, and she kissed me furiously. She was soaked with sweat.

I took her inside for a shower. I left her arms tied behind her back so I could enjoy soaping her up and washing her all over. I paid special attention to the naughty parts, since they’d had quite a workout tonight.

When all was squeaky clean, I took her up to my old room, featuring my athletic trophies and posters of Euro models. By now, I was ready to go to sleep but when I untied her, she pounced on me like a tigress. "Grant Matthews. If you don’t fuck me this instant, I’m going to strangle you," she demanded. So I let her get on top. I was too beat to come, but my pony girl had her own happy ride, impaled on my saddle horn.