I couldn’t save myself. It’s July 4. Enjoy!
Ashley’s eyes opened to the harsh fluorescent lights of the gym ceiling and the cold hardwood pressing against her shoulder and hip. She tried to push herself up and her arms wouldn’t move. Her wrists were pinned behind her back, wrapped tight in red rope, the coils digging into her skin with a smooth, unforgiving tension that sent a spike of panic through her chest. She twisted hard and the rope only cinched tighter, the synthetic fibers sliding against each other and pulling the knots more snug against her wrists. She craned her neck to look behind her but all she could see was the bright red rope standing out against her bare skin, loop after loop holding her fast.
Her ankles were bound too. She flexed her feet and felt the same red rope wrapped around them, the loops tight enough that her flesh swelled slightly at the edges. She kicked her legs and the rope held firm, her calves straining against the bindings, her thighs pressing together as she squirmed on the floor. The Santa dress had ridden up during whatever had happened and the cool air of the gym hit her bare thighs. She could feel the fabric bunched around her waist, the fur trim dragging across the hardwood as she moved. Her tits pressed against the front of the dress, the neckline pulling tight with every breath she took, the fabric straining across her chest as she arched her back and tried again to pull her wrists apart. The rope bit deeper and she gasped, the sound echoing off the empty walls.
She didn’t remember anything. One moment she had been running through the routine, the high kicks and the precision formations, counting under her breath to stay in time. The next moment she was here on the floor, bound and alone. The gym was quiet except for the hum of the lights overhead. The bleachers were pushed in against the walls and the basketball hoops hung raised at each end of the court. Her speaker sat silent by the far wall. Her bag was nowhere in sight.
Panic and anger surged through her in equal measure and she fought to keep her breathing under control. She was a Rockette. She had trained her body for years. She could get out of this. She pulled against the rope again, harder this time, putting her shoulders into it, and the rope held like it was made of steel. The knots were behind her where she couldn’t see them and she couldn’t find the ends to work them loose. She twisted her wrists in opposite directions and felt the rope slide a fraction of an inch before tightening again. The friction burned her skin and she could feel the heat rising where the coils pressed in.
She rolled onto her stomach and the dress pulled up around her waist as she moved. Her bare thighs scraped against the hardwood and she could feel the cool air between her legs, the thin fabric of her underwear the only barrier between her pussy and the cold floor. She pushed with her knees and dragged herself forward, her tits pressed flat against the floor, the dress pulling tight across her chest with every foot she covered. The hardwood was unforgiving against her body and every movement reminded her of how little she could do, how completely the rope controlled her.
The bleachers were thirty feet away and it took her several minutes to reach them. She was breathing hard by the time she got there, her hair stuck to her forehead with sweat, her skin flushed pink from exertion and the constant rubbing of the rope. She pressed her back against the metal frame and tried to find a bolt or a seam or anything she could use to work the rope against. Her fingers explored the cold metal behind her but the surface was smooth. The bolts were flush and recessed. She slammed her head back against the bleachers in frustration and the clang echoed through the empty gym.
She sat there catching her breath, feeling the rope against her wrists and her ankles, the tightness of it, the way it held her body without any give. Her shoulders ached from being pulled back and her jaw hurt from clenching it. The fur trim on the Santa dress was matted and dirty from the floor. She could feel the rope marks forming on her skin, the faint ridges where the coils pressed in. She tested the bindings again, slower this time, trying to find any weakness. The rope was wrapped in multiple layers and every direction she pulled just tightened a different section. Whoever had tied this knew exactly what they were doing.
She looked down at herself and her stomach twisted. The Santa dress was a mess, twisted and pulled and filthy, her tits straining against the stretched fabric with every breath, the neckline pulling lower than it was designed to sit. Her thighs were bare and smeared with dust from the floor, the hem bunched around her waist, her pussy barely covered by the thin underwear that had shifted during her struggles. The red rope stood out bright against her skin, vivid and deliberate, framing her body like it was meant to put her on display. Like she was meant to be seen this way. Bound. Helpless. Unable to cover herself or fix her dress or do anything but sit there and struggle.
The thought made her face burn with shame and fury. She pulled at the rope again, hard, her tits bouncing with the effort, the dress shifting against her body but never quite giving her the coverage she needed. She couldn’t adjust it with her hands behind her back. She couldn’t pull the hem down or the neckline up. She was stuck like this, her body on display for anyone who might walk through that gym door. She screamed, the sound tearing out of her throat and bouncing off the walls and the hardwood and the metal bleachers. She screamed again and again until her voice cracked and her throat burned raw.
The gym swallowed every sound and gave nothing back. The door on the far side of the court remained closed. She was alone, bound, and whoever had done this was long gone. She took a shaky breath and felt the rope dig into her wrists as her chest expanded. She pulled hard against the bindings one more time, her back arching, her tits straining against the dress, her legs fighting against the rope at her ankles.
The rope held.
