The Resort Pt. 06

Here I am, back in that sanctum of salubrity, our hotel suite. I'm exhausted, aching all over and chafed in all sorts of places, insect-ravaged and mildly sunburnt, but still psyched up, from our sojourn in the wilderness. As I write this, it is the dawn of our eighth day on Aranea Island, and I'm sitting on the balcony, basking in the misty, rose-tinted glow of another tropical sunrise. This is our last in the Hotel Andromeda. Later this morning we are moving into the Oasis, to become official residents.

The adventure was not exactly what I expected — in some ways better, in others not so much. But it never got boring. We had chosen the two-day excursion over the longer ones, which can last up to five days, because of our limited schedule. But once I'm a Park Ranger I will get to experience everything the island's marvellous natural environment has to offer.

That morning I was the first to be up and about, and waking Daniel was an ambiguous pleasure. Disrupting his tranquil slumber is fun at the time, but I know it's going to cost me. As he shook the fuzz out of his head, he grumpily demanded I bring him breakfast in bed. Instead I barked "Get up!" and he yelled "Get out!" I fled to the sanctuary of the kitchen, to help Rachel. She didn't need assistance, so I retreated to my bedroom to put on my uniform.

My outfit is the trainees' version of the Rangers'. It consists of an olive-green, cotton-spandex, figure-hugging, skin-baring ensemble of slim-fit, midriff-baring, spaghetti-strap tank top, and shorts that come in two styles, "boy" and "booty". I had no idea which of these I was supposed to wear, so I settled on the slightly more substantial boy-cut style, and put the other in my rucksack, along with a spare shirt. According to the handbook, a bra is optional, so I decided to go without; and there wasn't room for knickers under my (very tight) shorts; but I packed one of each for good measure, along with spare socks, handkerchiefs, tampons and some other stuff that might come in handy.

I studied myself in the mirror. I liked what I saw. Even if it's not the most practical bushwalking attire, the women's outfit is flattering, darned sexy, and a great incentive for staying trim.

When I emerged, Daniel had dragged himself out of bed and had dragged on an ensemble suitable for the wilderness. It covered a lot of body parts mine didn't.

"Make sure to put on plenty of sun lotion and insect repellent," Rachel told me.

"You'll need it," Daniel affirmed. "Your..."

"Okay, I get it."

We finished breakfast with plenty of time to spare. The Ranger station is located just a few minutes' walk from the hotel. Rachel and Richard accompanied us as far as the bottom of the hill, and sent us on the rest of our way with the customary "Have a good time and take care."

"And Sarah," Rachel continued, "watch out for your cousin." She paused. "You know what he's like."

Daniel sneered. "Where's that gag when you need it?"

"Don't be cheeky," Rachel growled, with a grin.

I started to wave good-bye, but they were already heading back up the hill.

"Have fun yourselves," I called after them. "Try not to get too..."

"Don't you be cheeky either, young lady," my aunt said, without looking back. (She's only a few years older than me; but sometimes I deserve the adolescent treatment.)

My uncle said nothing. His arm was already around her waist. I was probably right.

"Put your hands out," Daniel demanded. He was holding one of the familiar leather straps.

"Not now," I told him, and he sulkily put it away.

When we reached the station, a wooden two-storey cabin with a broad veranda, forty or so people were assembled or just arriving for the trek. Females clearly outnumbered males. They were almost all around my and Daniel's age.

Mingling with the crowd were seven Park Rangers, three men and four women. The latters' uniform is identical to mine, except in camouflage-pattern green, black and brown instead of plain olive-drab. They wore a collar like all on-duty female staff in the Resort, but no cuffs. As for my shorts dilemma, I saw that it was not a problem. The two styles, boy and booty, were equally represented. Whereas the males are much more comprehensively clothed. My outfit could probably have fit in one of their pockets. Indeed the men are, if anything, overdressed, in poly-cotton trousers, T-shirt and long-sleeved shirt — more functional for hiking and camping but somewhat redundant in the tropical environment.

There were two other trainee Rangers present, a stocky but attractive girl with short-cropped blonde hair, and a lanky, rather unkempt guy who saw my outfit and came over to introduce himself. Tim is good-looking in a slightly washed-out way, fair-haired with faintly puffy eyes. He's taciturn, and gives the impression of someone who takes just enough care with his appearance to not want to come across as grungy or dog-eared. Yet in his uniform, new, neat and crisp, he looked rather dashing.

Five girls in the group wore the resident's collar. I recognized a couple of them from the lessons two days ago. One was Amanda, Daniel's Rope Riggers partner. The other was Jane; and seeing her I was able to spot her brother David. Of course, it was impossible to pick out any off-duty, out-of-uniform male staff. And not surprisingly the other females, the visitors, were without exception dressed more for the beach than the backwoods, apart from their backpacks and robust footwear. (One woman, tall and powerful-looking with raven-black hair and coal-black eyes, appeared to be completely naked but was wearing a minuscule, flesh-coloured g-string. She was the only bare-breasted one among us, but apart from a few admiring looks from the men nobody seemed fazed.) The sun was just beginning its climb over the crest of the ridge, but there was still moisture in the morning air and it clung clammily to my uncovered limbs. So I joined the other women stamping feet and swinging arms to keep warm, and for the time being I envied the men.

(As I've already conceded, the male sex is generally more sensible when it comes to clothes... but where's the joy in that? Anyway, I have an axiom. When you're looking hot you don't mind the cold.)

One of the Rangers saw me and Tim, introduced herself as Laura and acquainted us with her colleagues. They were all friendly and welcoming, with a strong camaraderie and no rigid or punctilious hierarchy beyond chain-of-command exigencies. Laura was in overall charge. We didn't get to say much before she excused herself and stepped up onto the veranda to call everyone together. She waited patiently for the noise to abate.

"Hi, I'm Laura" she announced.

"Hi, Laura," the crowd intoned.

She introduced the other Rangers. A couple, I noticed for the first time, wore tiny lapel badges signifying that they were probationaries or Cadets (which would be my own status for ninety days). Then we were treated to a rather long and somewhat tedious lecture about rules, safety procedures and a few other things. It was all just common sense, really; but I guess it depends on how broadly you define "common" and how narrowly you define "sense". The wind had picked up, and we were starting to shiver... well, the half of our number were. Laura briskly rubbed her bare arms, looked at her colleagues, nodded and announced: "Let's get moving."

One of the men took over the proceedings. He instructed us females to remove our backpacks and place them in a neat stack beside a van that was parked next to the hut. He and one of his colleagues began stowing them in the rear of the vehicle. The males kept theirs, so I knew that there was more to this than simply relieving us of our loads for the impending trek. In the meantime, tubes of sunscreen and cans of insect repellent were passed around for those (not many) who hadn't come prepared. Naturally the déshabillé sex required more spraying and slathering; but as it turned out, in the thickness of the forest we didn't really need the protection.

Meanwhile, Laura concluded the preliminaries with a roll call. Apart from the Rangers there were forty-one hikers including us trainees — altogether twenty-five females and sixteen males. Laura thereupon ordered us girls to form two lines, shoulder to shoulder and facing away from each other about two paces apart. I think we all knew what was coming before we were instructed to put our hands behind our backs. The males came up behind us, apparently spread out along the rows. Nothing happened for a while. Then one of the Cadets began barking orders at us females. I couldn't see him but recognized his voice. His name, I later learned, was Brendan, but I call him the OC. (Officer in Command or Officious Cadet... both worked.) His tone was wantonly harsh. "Stand still! Keep quiet! Feet together! Wrists crossed! Look straight ahead! Wrists CROSSED, I said!" We obeyed and waited once more, for what seemed like ages but was really just a minute or two, not daring to even twitch. Finally I heard feet shuffling to our rear, and then mild gasping and sighing.

I was in the middle of my queue, and since the males were outnumbered I had to wait. It was almost a relief when my arms were seized; but it came so suddenly that I flinched and the guy tightened his grip. And just then, for some reason, one of the girls had started to resist. I don't know why, possibly for no purpose other than to cause trouble, purely for the fun of it, or perhaps because she was being handled too roughly. I took a quick glance over my shoulder (earning a rebuke from the OC) to see her being forced onto her knees by two of the males and quickly subdued. So I decided to play it cool; but my recoil and that other girl's reaction must have intimidated the guy coming up behind me. During my peek I caught a glimpse of him. He was short, sort of good-looking, with a mess of bushy blonde hair and beguiling, sky-blue eyes. I don't know whether he was nervous by nature or merely inexperienced. Perhaps this was the first time he had tied up a strange girl (and they don't come much stranger than yours truly, or so I'm told). Whatever the explanation Blondie (as I shall call him since, I confess with some guilt, I never found out his real name) was having an inexplicably hard time binding me, getting the cord properly looped and cinched. As a result, he was tugging and hauling and heaving on my arms and jerking me about. He began trying to push my elbows together behind me, and it was starting to hurt. I stiffened my arms and was about to protest, but just when I was afraid he was going to do me some real damage he got help from the OC to complete the job.

"Good girl," the OC said as he patted me benevolently on the head. I was grateful for his intervention, even if I found his compliment to be rather patronizing.

Some of the guys had been more efficient than Blondie, and most of the girls were cooperative, because although we outnumbered the males we were quickly bound. The facts that our hands were tied in the wrists crossed position, to minimize the stress on our arms and shoulders, and that the rope employed for the job was soft nylon cord, told me that we were going to be this way for a long stretch.

By the time we were ready to set off, less than an hour had elapsed since Daniel and I left the hotel. But the sun was now high enough in the sky to beat down on us with fierce intensity. The tingling gooseflesh on my skin gave way to glistening beads of perspiration. Meanwhile, the Village was starting to come alive, with resort staff going about their business and guests heading to breakfast or the beach. A few passers-by stopped to see what we were up to. Then at last, just as I was starting to get restless, Laura called out something. I looked to see what was happening, in time to witness her and the three other female Rangers being trussed. Wrists hands were tied in front, so I figured they had responsibilities which required their hands to be at least partially free. It reminded me that while bondage is fun, it's not always easy. (It's not meant to be.) Women working on Aranea Island have to be, if anything, tougher and more skilled than the men. They perform the same duties but bound.

One of the male Rangers called out "Let's move!"

We began marching, us women in a single file, flanked on our right by a second column consisting of the males, spread out more to cover the same length of bodies. We (the girls) weren't tethered, but were ordered to keep close, and at times we bunched up so tight that my breasts nestled between the elbows of the girl (it was Jane) in front of me. But the uneven rhythm and a series of abrupt stops and starts as we headed up the trail caused the column to gradually extend, to about one pace between each of us. That was a good thing, because when the trail got rougher I didn't fancy stumbling into Jane or tripping over the feet of the girl to my rear. This also allowed the males, in places where the track narrowed, to merge into the line. That's when it got a little weird, because now when we suddenly slowed my boobs were pressed into Blondie's backpack; or if he had fallen in behind me, my bound hands nudged his crotch.

Blondie had decided to be my escort for the trek. For although each male was technically responsible for 1.6 females (since the Rangers walked at the head and foot of the column), he focused the whole time on me. Maybe he was being protective, because I was one of the smallest girls, or perhaps he was contrite about his earlier manhandling... or it could just be that he fancied me. He looked fit but also chubby, like an athlete whose baby fat has not yet burned away. But he kept me steady, and even upright a few times on the track, with stalwart hands.

And we did need the guys. Without the use of our arms for balance and steady ourselves, as the terrain got more rugged we would have been in trouble. Even so, several of us came to grief during the hike up the mountainside — nothing serious, but without a stabilizing male hand there could have been some nasty scratches and a sprained ankle or two. So while the essence of bondage, for me at least, is feeling helpless and dependent while at the same time challenging myself and testing my limits, the other aspect — indeed the most important part — is trusting your partner (or playmate or bondage buddy). And this was, after all, why we were there. Hiking in the wilderness is lovely, and a difficult trek adds to the sense of isolation but also of achievement. But to do it bound makes it a true adventure (and I feel a bit sorry for the males, who missed out on this).

A few friends and relatives had stuck around to wave good-bye, and the bunch of bystanders hung about until we passed out of sight, climbing a steepening slope into the forest. We trudged along a muddy track which narrowed and began to meander as it ascended the southern flank of Granite Peak. The summit loomed, murky and sombre through the dissipating mist, in the distance. And as the grade of the path increased it became more slippery, so Blondie decided that I needed extra assistance and clamped his fist around my left upper arm as we walked. That grew to be exasperating after a short while, because it hindered my progress rather than helped. He kept pulling and jolting me. He obviously liked having this physical connection with his captive but was blissfully unaware that for me it was just a nuisance.

Most of the time we marched in silence. The guys started out laughing and joking, trying to act and sound casual, although you could hear the excitement in their voices. It was likely that none of them had ever before herded a column of bound, scantily clad women up a mountainside. It was a first for me too. So everyone was juiced up. But gradually we all went quiet. I and my fellow females were concentrating on staying upright; but we were also rather overwhelmed by the salvo of sensations. I must confess that I found the experience very arousing; and for a while I regretted not wearing a bra under the thin fabric of my tank top. Then I decided to relax and enjoy the experience.

At the very front of the line was Amanda, being escorted by Daniel. I sighted them whenever we passed through a clearing in the forest. I don't know how my conniving cousin had contrived to get this gig, since the leading male and female had a special responsibility, to pace the entire column. But Laura was directly behind them, and whenever we slowed or sped up, halted and resumed, it was obvious that it was she (and not, funnily enough, one of her male colleagues) who was guiding them. In any case, if the lead couple stopped suddenly or took a misstep, the disturbance resonated down the line. So to help her keep a secure footing, my caring cuz was holding tenaciously onto Amanda's bound wrists, and his hand was resting on her backside. Her shorts had ridden up, and I could see that he was fondling the bare flesh. At one point, for a reason I don't care to speculate on, Amanda's fists clenched and her butt cheeks quivered, and she flashed him a glare. But she maintained her silence and did not try to shake off his grip.

Her being so much taller and (no doubt) more sturdy than my compact cousin, it felt a little odd seeing her so helpless and compliant; but one of the joys of submission to the ropes is what I call the inverted power dynamic. This is where the person who normally might have the dominant role, control or power is the one who is captured, tied up, etcetera, by someone who otherwise acts or is seen as subordinate or even inferior. It was manifested in several ways in our group. The women outnumbered the males three to two. Laura was in charge, as senior Ranger. Amanda physically dominated my cousin. I may not have much physical stature but I am (I like to think) a strong, proud, confident high-achiever. Yet we were the ones who were bound — by virtue of being female. And it's not like we were reluctant damsels in distress. We chose to come to Aranea Island. It's why we came here. And while I have no problem with guys being tied up, I believe its one-sided nature here infuses the appeal of the bondage with an erotic intensity.

It also induces a sense of potency. If you're the one in charge while prostrate on the floor, moaning and trussed in a stringent hog-tie, you know you have the power. And the fact is that I like being assertive; but sometimes (because I'm short and skinny with a squeaky voice) I don't get taken seriously, so my assertiveness borders on aggressiveness. As a result, I don't like losing control. But that's what happens when I'm bound. I freely chose to surrender my autonomy. And that's how the ropes become my liberation, freeing me to explore parts of my nature I would otherwise keep suppressed. That takes strength, of body and of will. The stricter the bondage, the more demanding my ordeal, the more satisfying it is. It can be humiliating, even degrading, but there's no shame, only pride in conquering your fears and doubts, overcoming discomfort and fatigue. For to repeat what I wrote the other night: It is not through comfort and complacency that you challenge yourself, define and explore your limits and vulnerabilities, discern and assess your innermost desires, discover and draw upon your own resources, expose yourself to new experiences and open your mind to fresh insights. That, for me, is the appeal of bondage. And I honestly feel that we women, bound (in the non-ropey sense) by tradition, by expectation and by the resultant self-doubt, need this enlightenment more than men. That's why we've come to Aranea Island.

End of pontification.

Daniel looked back, saw me staring at him, and gave me one of his Dick Dastardly grins. He and Amanda thereupon turned a corner and I don't know what ensued. But they must have done a good job, because the line hardly ever faltered.