The Resort Pt. 02

Meanwhile, Kate had called out for Trent and he rejoined us. He was carrying a bundle of Richard's uniform bits, which he placed in the box. Sandra then selected a fine silver chain and a leather strap, each about a metre long, from another drawer and handed them to him. He grabbed Kate's shoulders, not being particularly gentle, and spun her around to face away from him, and then attached one end of the chain to the padlock on the rear of her collar. Her hands were, of course, still cuffed behind her. Trent ran the chain once around the link between her bracelets, and back up to the collar, adjusting the final length so her elbows were bent and her wrists fixed in the middle of her back. This put a lot of stress on her arms, because she had to hold them up behind her with the chain pulling on her collar (although not quite to the point of choking her). The strain showed in her face. After that, he tied the leather strap to her collar ring and ran it down her front, between her legs, to secure it to her wrists. To make it reach he had to pull it tight, and this made her grunt loudly and roll her eyes. Rachel and I winced, Richard went "Ooh!" and Daniel just laughed.

I'm not quite sure what purpose this had served -- perhaps to show how the chain and strap can be used, or maybe to remind Rachel and me of the sort of thing to expect while we're living on Aranea Island. In any case, Trent then went back to whatever it was he was supposed to be doing. But it's interesting that he had been summoned to perform this operation with Kate, given that Sandra was there and could have done it. When I later asked Kate about this, she explained that it's not a rule, just one of the local customs that females don't restrain each other if there's a male around to do the job (unless the girls are a couple... it gets complicated). I have no problem with that. For all its faults and foibles, the masculine sex does have its uses.

Sandra continued with our fittings. In addition to our collars, we must wear the wrist and ankle bands when on duty. They're made of a finely crafted silvery metal the width of my finger, fashioned into the shape of a braided cord, with a soft matte finish. The fastener is a simple clasp which also serves to lock the rings together. It's relatively easy to get them off when your hands are free but impossible to remove when you're properly shackled.

Sandra found a pair of bracelets that fit my wrists and put them on me, with the two parts of the clasp on the palm side (the carpal area, I think it's called). She brought my hands together and deftly clamped the rings in place. They felt comfortable. The edges are rounded to prevent chafing, which is imperative because, while they are snug without being too constricting, when your arms are fixed behind you there's going to be a lot more tension. To demonstrate, Sandra released my hands and invited Daniel to link them behind my back. Richard did the same for Rachel. My ham-fisted cousin fiddled with it clumsily for a couple of minutes (or at least it seemed like minutes), and he was starting to hurt me with his tugging and twisting.

"Stop squirming!" he demanded.

I was about to give him a ferocious tongue-lashing when mercifully the lock snapped shut. It was certainly tight. I had to intertwine my fingers to keep my hands together, which of course transmitted the stress from my wrists to my upper arms and shoulders. It's thus rather insidious because if you bend your elbows to ease the strain, it simply transfers it back to your wrists. If you don't mind some abrasion, you can rotate them until they are crossed, easing the pressure somewhat, but you have to be careful that you don't cut off your circulation. On the plus side, I suppose, keeping your arms straight pulls back your shoulders and pushes out your chest for a pleasing display. And let's face it, my boobs need all that sort of help they can get.

"How do they fit?" Sandra asked. "Not too uncomfortable?" I shook my head but Rachel just grimaced. She was raising and lowering, bending and stretching her arms.

"Don't worry," Kate said. "You get used to it." That was probably not as reassuring as she intended it to be.

I gave them a couple of hard yanks.

Kate smiled. "They're not like the collar. You can't break out of these."

That didn't concern me, since I was just curious. Nevertheless, I've wondered how this fits in with safety rules and procedures. While there is some reassurance in the fact that the key is clipped onto the lock for easy access by someone else, it's out of the wearer's reach (unless she has freakishly long fingers).

Sandra returned to the shelves and brought back a bundle of items that she placed on the closest bench top. There were several pairs of leather handcuffs, with velvet inside lining and Velcro attachments.

"These are not part of your official kit," Kate explained. "They're your fun and fashion cuffs."

There were also some leather and vinyl straps, and Sandra demonstrated one of their uses. She attached one to Kate's ankle bands to make a hobble, about twenty centimetres long. My uncle and cousin followed her lead with Rachel and me, then stood back to admire their workmanship.

"Don't make it too strict at first," Sandra advised, "because you don't want her to fall."

"Try it, be careful," Kate told Rachel and me.

I took a few small, shambling steps, and when I got my rhythm I was able to shuffle about with not too much effort. Rachel was more poised, but still very cautious, because with our arms pinned behind our backs it was easy to lose our balance with no good way of breaking our fall.

"If you do," Kate cheerily advised, apparently reading my mind and trying to be helpful, "bend at the knees and try to go down on them."

She then demonstrated the same graceful, gliding movement that the maîtresse had performed at the restaurant last night. "It just takes familiarity and practice," she announced as she executed a dainty pirouette. Rachel and I then practised, and after a few minutes Kate determined that whereas my aunt had achieved a sufficient degree of deftness and dignity, I would remain -- at least for the foreseeable future -- a lost cause.

Sandra handed Richard and Daniel each another cable. It had a loop at one end, and at the other a little clip fastener. Richard knew exactly what it was for and immediately snapped it onto the ring on Rachel's collar. Daniel got the idea. He couldn't resist a sharp tug that forced me to jerk forward.

"Bow to me, woman!" he commanded. He pulled downwards on my leash.

"Daniel!" Richard growled. "Behave yourself."

"Later," my cousin whispered, as he let me up.

I prudently said nothing.

Sandra placed the rest of the accessories into the box with our uniforms, as Kate led the way again. Richard and Daniel followed, with Rachel and me in tow, waddling along behind our menfolk. I had a pretty good idea where we were headed, and when we stopped in front of a large cabinet I knew what to expect even before Sandra had flung open the door.

Inside was a fantastic array of gags, just about every type of oral appliance conceivable, in an assortment of colours and sizes and shapes -- ball, bit, butterfly, plug, ring, muzzle and harness gags, in soft leather, polished metal and satin-finished nylon. However, before I could get too excited, my eyesight shifted to the bottom shelf, where resided a collection of true horror devices, like medical and dental gags, the kind that hold your jaws spread apart (for some nefarious purpose, no doubt, that I don't want to go into). Rachel's eyes widened as her gaze traversed the rows. Mine did as well, as Sandra picked out something that looked sinister, ominous, creepy and yucky. I recognized its menacing form -- an inflatable gag.

"Don't panic," Sandra laughed. "This is just a fitting."

She took a little black rubber bladder from a sealed plastic bag, stuck it onto the tube and put it in my mouth, then began slowly, carefully pumping the bulb on the other end of the hose until the flaccid globe swelled and hardened to fill the cavity. It tasted foul, sort of chalky but also slimy; and it was humiliating to have my mouth stuffed and sealed like that, especially in front of Daniel and Richard. My darling cousin moved around so that I could see his face, to let me know how much he was enjoying my discomfiture. Rachel looked on impassively as her turn approached.

Sandra prodded my cheeks and the corners of my mouth until finally declaring "This will allow a perfect fit. You want that, don't you?"

I just nodded.

After writing down my dimensions, she deflated and removed the balloon and wiped away my saliva with a face cloth. She went through the same process with a new bladder for Rachel. When that was done, she consulted the inventory to choose the right sizes. She selected for each of us a set of six -- a standard ball gag (mine cherry red on a black harness, Rachel's all-black), a ring gag (dreadful thing; I hope I don't have to wear one too often), a muzzle gag (not one of my preferences, but more secure than most types), a "dog bone" (which is a type of bit-gag, but I don't particularly like the connotation), a regular latex plug gag (also known as a penis gag... "Eww and yuck!" as they say in the classics) and a ball-plug gag.

Sandra instructed us to select one each. Rachel and I both chose the ball-plug and she handed them over to Richard and Daniel. I moistened the inside of my mouth and ran my tongue over my lips a few times, because I still had the aftertaste of the inflatable gag. When Daniel inserted the plug, I decided that this would be my favourite. It consists of a black, stitched leather panel which is contoured to fit snugly over your mouth. It has a teardrop-shaped stopper that is tapered where the shaft attaches to the inside of the cover, rather like a pacifier. Because the plug is somewhat smaller than that on your ordinary ball-gag, it's more comfortable to wear. It's large enough to take up the entire cavity of your mouth, without forcing your jaws apart and making them ache. It is sufficiently malleable that you can bite into it (if you need to), but durable enough that you can't damage it if you do. Most importantly, the fact that you can close your lips around it reduces (but of course never entirely eliminates) the drool factor. The material is a tasteless, odourless and washable silicone-based compound and therefore totally safe, non-toxic and hygienic.

On the negative side, the snug fit actually makes it rather irritating after a while, because the plug fills your mouth and the panel clamps your lips in place so you can't make any sound at all except for a low murmur. Which is what a gag is for, so I can't complain about that (and Daniel informed me that this is indeed its best attribute). But it also makes it difficult to control the air flow. There are several small holes to enable you to breathe through the gag, but the result is that the air mixes with your saliva which has nowhere to go but down your throat, so you are constantly sucking and swallowing, and making strange little slurping noises.

The straps are narrow, soft and pliable, removable for proper cleaning, with a buckle that can be adjusted to fine-tune the length. Some girls prefer a Velcro fastener, but not me because almost invariably your hair gets stuck in it. Instead, this one has clip-on holders that can be pulled apart for a quick release with a single, sharp tug. So my new ball-plug gag looks good, it's flexible, reasonably comfortable, sturdy, secure and safe. What more can I say? It may not look as sexy as a straight ball-gag, but for every other feature it's hard to beat. Of course a gag, as with all aspects of bondage, shouldn't be too cosy, but like in a recipe one ingredient should not be so sweet or spicy that it overwhelms the others.

As I was pondering all this, Daniel could see my furrowed brow and misinterpreted my reaction to the gag. My uncompassionate cuz smirked at me with the appropriate Schadenfreude. I glared at him and he just grinned back. But then Sandra asked him to remove it, and when he had done so she used an embossing machine to stamp our names onto the straps of each of our new gags. Every female staff member has her own personal ones, Kate informed us. For sanitary reasons it's against policy for gags to be shared or swapped or recycled.

Once they had been inscribed, Sandra placed them in the box -- all of them, to my cousin's chagrin. Our collars, leashes and cuffs came off also. I was a little disappointed as well, but I suppose that, as we are not yet certified residents, we aren't qualified to wear the official accoutrements.

This proved to be the last of our fittings. Trent rejoined us to unhitch Kate's wrists and ankles. That surprised me, since she had been cuffed by Daniel and I figured it would be a breach of courtesy to undo another guy's work. Indeed, she turned to my cousin with an apologetic expression but said nothing, nor did anybody else, and I'm wondering if it was just a reflex action by Trent. He sauntered off without a word, and Sandra wished us well for our time on Aranea Island.

Thereafter, Kate accompanied us back to Resort Village. It was not a very long walk from the Oasis, but it was blisteringly hot and we quickly worked up a sweat. I was weary from the morning's proceedings, glad that I was not bound, and looking forward to some swimming and sunbathing. However, as we approached the western edge of the town, Kate steered us towards a large beachside park. She looked up and squinted at the clock tower which loomed over the heart of the central business district.

"Just in time for the show," she announced.

There were maybe a hundred people in the park, some starting up barbeques and setting out picnic lunches, others just taking refuge under the trees from the heat. We skirted the perimeter, and I knew something was up when Daniel stepped onto the grass and Kate asked him to wait. She turned in the direction of the sea, and when my eyes followed hers I spotted some unusual movement on the water. Although we were facing away from the sun the glare was intense, but as I continued to peer out across the bay, I discerned two large rowboats skimming swiftly and silently towards us. A few people in the park had taken notice as well, and as the boats glided to the shore and ran up onto the sand, all heads spun about. Amused curiosity turned to amazed excitement as suddenly the air was rent with hair-raising shouts and blood-curdling yells. Twenty or so men in full, colourful pirate regalia leapt out and charged up the beach, heading straight for the bemused spectators. There was laughter and shrieking as the marauders began scooping up surprised females. As the startled victims screamed for rescue and begged for mercy, none of their male companions made even the feeblest attempt to intervene. They were either in a state of shock or too busy laughing and applauding, as the squealing captives were roughly bound and hauled off.

One young woman in a white sundress tried to make a break for the safety of the trees but was brought down in a rather heavy tackle by a hulking red-bearded fellow, who wrenched her arms behind her back and tied them with hemp rope. She winced at her brusque handling, and I winced at the hideous chartreuse grass stain on the front of her once pristine dress; but she giggled as she was tossed over her abductor's broad shoulder. Nearby, two girls had been cornered by a pair of fearsome blackguards and were pondering fight or flight. When they looked to their menfolk and found no saviour, they resigned themselves to their fate.

It was all very exciting, but looking beyond the spectacle I noted that only females not already bound in some way were caught up in the attack. Anybody in restraints, and anyone who showed signs of putting up genuine resistance, was left unmolested. It seemed to me that the raiders spared those who had already settled down to lunch and they also ignored our own little party; whether it was because of Kate's presence or the fact that we were outside the bounds of the park I couldn't tell. Nonetheless they found plentiful prey, netting around two dozen captives. And just when I -- and the other onlookers, and no doubt the victims -- thought the fun was over, the beastly buccaneers abandoned their boats to withdraw inland with their struggling, squawking booty, heading up the road running westwards in the direction of -- naturally! -- Pirates' Cove. A large crowd followed.

"Every two or three days, different locations," Kate answered my unspoken question. "It's not easy to pull off because we want it to be a surprise and a thrill, but we also don't wish to cause too much disruption."

(I'm not so sure about the surprise. There were an awful lot of females in the park who were not bound in some way -- more than we'd seen in one place since arriving here -- thus making them fair game for the pirates. And I noticed that only a couple of the intended victims put up a genuine struggle. My guess is that most of the quarry know beforehand exactly what's going to happen. But acting surprised is all part of the game.)

We continued to watch until the last of the captives, two wriggling young wenches slung over the shoulders of their hulking kidnapper, had disappeared over the crest of the ridge.

"Do I get to play pirate?"

"Yes, Daniel," said Kate, "you'll get to play pirate."

Rachel raised her eyebrows. I shook my head. No good can come of this.

There is not a lot more to write about today's activities, as they were pretty mundane. We had lunch in one of the many eateries which line the promenade, and did get to spend the afternoon on the beach. Later we went sightseeing and shopping. (I purchased some more bikinis because you can never have enough.) As soon as we were back in the hotel, at around five o'clock, Rachel retreated to her room for a nap, while Richard and Daniel watched television. (How exciting!) I sat on the balcony reviewing and editing last night's journal entry. Once Rachel had rejoined us, we got dinner at a salad-and-noodle bar, and afterwards took an evening stroll. When we returned to our suite, the box from the Commissariat was sitting just inside the door. Everything was there except for my Park Ranger uniform, its absence explained by a note saying that it would arrive in a couple of days.

I wondered if Sandra had found it strange when we gave our delivery address as the hotel and not the Oasis. Rachel surmised that we were probably not unusual after all, that quite a few new resort employees want to savour the guest experience before taking up their duties, particularly at this time of year when lower occupation rates, cheaper tariffs and staff discounts make it a relatively low-cost vacation. She and I left the guys in the living room with their television while we tried on our uniforms and tried out some of our new accessories.

So that's our second day on Aranea Island. It's been an eye-opener; and as the saying goes, tomorrow is another day.