«Hours earlier, Steve had committed a large bank robbery. He had kidnapped Ms. Wilson, the teller, to prevent her from sounding the alarm. He brought her to his own house to hide until darkness fell. Once there, he tied and gagged Ms. Wilson tightly in one of the back rooms, leaving her completely immobilized and defenseless. The ropes bit into her wrists and ankles, a thick cleave gag stretched between her teeth, her muffled struggles absorbed by the walls.


Shortly after, while Steve was leaving the room, he heard a knock at the door. It was Sahrye, the Scout Leader, who had arrived to sell cookies.

Sahrye was a very attractive young Latina woman who appeared to be about twenty-four to twenty-six years old. She had a curvaceous body: prominent breasts that pushed against her uniform shirt, thick legs that filled out her knee-high socks, and wide hips that gave her silhouette an hourglass shape. She wore the complete Scout Leader uniform: a fitted olive green button-up shirt, a red neckerchief tied at her collar with a sliding gold clasp, a short green skirt that ended well above her knees, white knee-high socks, and brown leather shoes. Two high ponytails framed her face, giving her an innocent and playful appearance that contrasted sharply with the curves beneath her clothing.

Sahrye began speaking animatedly about the scout cookies. She gestured with her hands, shifted her weight from foot to foot, and the short green skirt fluttered against her thighs with each small movement. Her smile was wide and genuine, her brown eyes bright with the anticipation of a sale.

Steve, realizing that she had probably seen too much—his face, the open door to the back room, perhaps even heard the muffled sounds of Ms. Wilson's struggles—decided not to let her go. He convinced her to play a game of "Cops and Robbers," telling her that he would "steal" all her cookies as part of the game. The naive, foolish Sahrye, excited because she believed she had found an easy customer, accepted with a laugh. Her ponytails bounced as she nodded.

Soon he had her sitting on the sofa. She sat with her legs together, her hands in her lap, the cookie box on the coffee table beside her. He took out three rolls of white rope.

He took her hands. He pulled them behind her back, one at a time, until her wrists crossed at the small of her spine. He wrapped the rope around them, circling again and again, pulling each loop until her palms faced outward and her fingers curled uselessly. He knotted the rope tightly, her arms now pinned behind her.

Then, he tied her ankles. He wrapped the coarse white rope around her brown leather shoes, circling her ankles three times, pulling each loop snug against the fabric of her socks. The rope pressed into the soft cotton just above the rubber soles. He knotted it firmly, her feet now locked together.

Second, he tied her knees. He wrapped the rope above and below her kneecaps, circling her legs together so she could not separate them. The short green skirt rode up as he worked, revealing more of her thick thighs, the skin warm and smooth where the hem touched. The rope bit into the fabric of her knee-high socks, leaving deep creases in the white cotton.

Third, he tied her thighs. He wrapped the rope around the widest part of her legs, just below where the green skirt bunched against her hips. He pulled each loop tighter than the last, cinching her thighs together so tightly that they pressed against each other, flesh meeting flesh through the thin fabric of her underwear beneath the skirt. The white rope stood out against her warm skin.

From the waist down, she was completely immobilized.

Sahrye was still smiling, still thinking this was a fun game. She giggled through her smile, her ponytails swaying as she turned her head to look at her bound legs.

When she asked about Ms Wilson, —Steve answered calmly:

"She's resting in her bedroom."

In reality, Ms. Wilson was tightly tied and gagged in that same bedroom, struggling in silence on the bed, her muffled groans unheard through the closed door.

Steve continued. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a large pair of used women's underwear—Ms. Wilson's, removed from the teller earlier. The fabric was soft from washing, worn thin in places, the gusset faintly marked. He approached Sahrye's face.

He pushed the large pair of used underwear deep into her mouth. The fabric filled her oral cavity completely, pressing against her tongue, her palate, the inside of her cheeks. She tasted cotton and something else—something intimate, musky, the unmistakable scent of another woman's body. Her eyes widened at the sensation, but she did not yet understand. She still believed this was part of the game.

Then he tied a white cloth tightly around her head, covering her mouth and the bulging fabric beneath. The cloth pressed against her lips, her cheeks, her chin, forcing her to bite down on the underwear. He knotted it behind her head, pulling the knot so tight that the cloth stretched the corners of her mouth.

Sahrye, still believing this was part of the game, made playful sounds through the gag. "Mmmmph!"—a cheerful, muffled noise, as if she were pretending to be captured in a ***'s game. Her ponytails bounced as she shook her head lightly, testing the gag.

But the man did not stop.

He added more rope around her chest and arms. He wrapped the white rope around her torso, circling above and below her breasts, pulling each loop tight against her olive green uniform shirt. The rope squeezed her prominent breasts, pressing them against the fabric, flattening them slightly but also pushing them upward so they swelled above the rope line. The coarse fibers bit through the thin cotton of her shirt, marking deep grooves across her chest and back.

He passed the rope around her upper arms, pinning them to her sides. More rope circled her elbows, pulling them together behind her back so her shoulder blades pressed against each other. Her arms were now locked against her torso, unable to move separately from her body.

The ropes marked her deeply. White lines crossed her olive green shirt like a cage. Her breasts were pushed forward, trapped beneath the rope, the fabric of her shirt stretched tight across their curves.

Then he lowered her to the floor.

Sahrye slid off the sofa, her bound legs unable to catch her, and landed on her side on the carpet. The impact knocked the breath from her lungs, and a muffled "Oommph!" escaped through the gag. He rolled her onto her stomach.

He bent her legs backward at the knees, forcing her ankles up toward her bound wrists. He took another length of rope and connected her ankles to her wrists, pulling the rope tight so her body curved into an arch. The hogtie was complete: her back bent, her hips lifted off the floor, her face pressed against the carpet.

In this position, her short green skirt slid upward on its own, bunching around her lower back. The fabric exposed the back of her thighs, the curve of her buttocks, and the orange bikini underwear she wore beneath.

He placed a tight crotch rope between her legs.

He took a long piece of rope, passed it under her belly, then between her thighs from front to back. He pulled it tight—very tight—so the rope pressed firmly against her covered vulva through her orange bikini underwear. The coarse fibers ground against the soft fabric, against the sensitive flesh beneath. He tied it off at her lower back, then passed another length from back to front, creating a loop that cinched even tighter.

The crotch rope was not for restraint. Her legs were already tied. Her body was already immobile. The crotch rope served only one purpose: to press, to rub, to remind her with every breath, every small movement, that her most intimate place was trapped beneath coarse white rope.

Beneath her skirt, her underwear was visible now that the green fabric had bunched around her waist. She wore bikini-style panties in a bright, intense orange color with pink trim along the edges. They were quite cheeky—the back of the underwear was small, barely covering the upper curve of her buttocks, sinking between her round and firm cheeks. The orange fabric disappeared into the cleft of her rear, leaving most of her ass completely exposed. The pink trim framed the edges of her cheeks like a border around bare skin.

From behind, the orange bikini looked like two small triangles connected by a thin strip of elastic. Her round buttocks, smooth and warm and firm, bulged out on either side of the fabric. The skin was pale where the sun never touched, soft-looking, vulnerable. The pink trim contrasted sharply with her natural skin tone, drawing the eye directly to the exposed curves of her rear.

The crotch rope passed directly over the narrow strip of orange fabric that covered her vulva, pressing it deep into the cleft between her legs.

Sahrye began to struggle harder as she realized this was no longer a game.

The shift happened somewhere between the hogtie and the crotch rope. Her playful "Mmmmph!" sounds changed in pitch—higher, more urgent. Her eyes, which had been amused and curious, widened into circles of brown panic. Her bound body began to twist, to pull, to strain against the white ropes.

But the hogtie was too tight. Her wrists were locked to her ankles, her back arched, her hips lifted. Every time she pulled against the ropes, they only bit deeper into her skin. Every time she twisted her torso, the crotch rope shifted against her covered vulva, the coarse fibers rubbing through the thin orange fabric.

Her short green skirt rode up completely during her struggles. The fabric bunched around her waist, exposing her entire lower body from the hips down. Her bright orange cheeky bikini underwear was fully visible now—the small front triangle, the thin side straps, the tiny back that disappeared between her round buttocks. The pink trim gleamed under the room's light. The white crotch rope cut across her orange underwear like a stripe of snow on autumn leaves.

She struggled desperately. Her bound legs kicked uselessly, unable to separate. Her arms pulled against the ropes behind her back, unable to reach the knots. Her head thrashed from side to side, her ponytails whipping across the carpet, the white cloth gag pressing against her lips, the used underwear still filling her mouth.

But the ropes and the crotch rope only rubbed more against her crotch with each movement. The friction was constant, insistent, impossible to escape. Every breath pushed her belly against the floor. Every twist of her hips dragged the coarse rope across the soft fabric of her bikini, across the sensitive flesh beneath.

Tears of frustration and fear appeared in her eyes. They slid down her cheeks, wetting the edge of the white cloth gag. Her muffled sounds became broken, hiccupping—not playful anymore, but desperate. Pleading. The sounds of someone who understood, too late, that no one was coming to untie her.

Much later, when people arrived at the house looking for Ms. Wilson—a concerned neighbor, a coworker who had called the bank, perhaps the police—they found both women. Sahrye and Ms. Wilson, completely hogtied, gagged, and struggling in different rooms of the same house

Sahrye was on the living room floor, exactly where Steve had left her. Her short green skirt was still bunched around her waist. Her bright orange cheeky bikini underwear was still exposed, the crotch rope still pressed between her legs. Her face was wet with dried tears. Her white cloth gag was stained with saliva. Her two high ponytails had come partially undone, strands of dark hair sticking to her damp cheeks.

She was still struggling weakly, too exhausted to fight properly but too terrified to stop. Her brown eyes, when they saw the rescue team enter, filled with fresh tears—this time of relief, but mixed with something else. Shame. Humiliation. The knowledge that strangers had seen her like this, bound and gagged on a stranger's floor, her underwear exposed, her body displayed.»

«It makes you want to kidnap her and tie her up,in addition to gagging her in uniform, daily clothing or naked»

«Is this supposed to be a lil kid. Shit.»