Gamer Girl’s Wine Filled Adventures

I try to sit up and learn the rest of it. My elbows are tied together behind me, drawn close enough that my shoulders ache and my chest gets shoved forward against the black latex of my bra, my tits straining at the cups like they are trying to get loose on their own. There is nothing else on me but the matching panties, and they are not covering much anymore, the latex pulled tight and crooked across my hips. My knees are bound in stacked coils. My ankles are crossed and cinched, my feet bare, toes flexing against the bite of the cord.

The room comes into focus slowly. A bedroom, dark and heavy, curtains drawn, one low lamp throwing more shadow than light. Not my room. Not any room I know. On a shelf along the far wall there is a row of wine bottles, and on the nightstand a single glass, and I look at them for one long second before I understand they mean nothing to me. They are just things in a room. Like me.

Then the questions hit, all at once, and there are no answers waiting for any of them. Who did this. How did I get here. I dig through my memory and find nothing, not a face, not a voice, not a last drink or a car or a door closing. There is a blank wall where last night should be, smooth and clean, and the cleanliness of it scares me worse than the rope. Somebody emptied me out and left nothing behind to point at.

The house is silent. I listen so hard my ears ring, and what I hear is worse than any sound could be. Nothing. No footsteps, no floorboards, no water in the pipes, no breath that is not mine. It is not the silence of someone being quiet nearby. It is the deep, dead silence of an empty place, and it settles over me like a second set of ropes.

I scream. It comes out cracked and thin, dried out by sleep and fear, and the house swallows it whole without giving anything back. No echo, no answer, no shift in the air. My throat hurts afterward, and that is the only proof the sound ever existed. So I stop wasting it.

Then I start to fight. I roll onto my stomach and my bound elbows force my back into an arch, dragging my tits across the sheet inside the latex until my nipples pull tight and hard from the friction. I rock and kick and wrench my wrists against the knot until the skin burns, my bare feet digging at the mattress for leverage that does not exist. My black hair falls across my face in a sweaty tangle, the rainbow highlights catching the lamplight every time I thrash, and I blow it aside and keep going, because the alternative is lying still and being good at it.

The worst part is what the fight does to me. Every twist drags my thighs together, every buck of my hips grinds the latex of my panties against my pussy, and my body, stupid and honest, starts answering. I can feel myself getting wet, actually wet, slick heat building between my legs while I fight rope in an empty house, and there is nothing I can do to stop it and nothing I can do to use it. My hands are behind my back. I cannot even touch myself. That is the cruelest knot in the whole arrangement, and nobody even had to tie it.

I test everything, one point at a time, patient and hopeless. Wrists first, twisting until the burn goes deep, and the knot sits centered and smug between my hands and does not move. Elbows next, and there is no slack to find, none, the coils cinched down like they were measured. I saw my knees against each other and then against the bed frame until all I earn is rope burn and more friction where I do not need it. My ankles are crossed and done. Whoever tied this knew exactly what they were doing, and that thought is as close to a person as this house will ever give me.

Time goes strange after that. The lamp hums. I drift in and out of something that is not quite sleep, and every time I surface I check my wrists first, like the knots might have loosened while I was gone. They never have. Not once. At some point the edges of the curtains go gray, and I understand I have spent the whole night alone in this room, tied up tight in my underwear, and no one has come, and no one is coming.

I end up on the floor somehow, sliding off the bed in a slow, graceless spill that knocks the breath out of me. The carpet is rough against my pale skin, against my bare ass where the latex has ridden up, and I lie there panting with my cheek against the fibers. From down here the room is all legs and shadow: the bed, the nightstand, the shelf of bottles standing dark and indifferent. None of it cares about me. I am the only warm thing in the house.

My pussy is still throbbing. Hours of struggling have worked me into a state I cannot do anything about, wet and swollen and aching, and every shift of my bound thighs just feeds it. I try squeezing, try grinding down against the carpet, and it is not enough, it is nowhere near enough, and the frustration tears out of me in a sound that is half moan and half sob. I am a bound, dripping mess on the floor of a house with nobody in it. There is just me, the rope, and a body that wants what it cannot have.

The gray light crawls up the curtains. My shoulders throb. My fingers move in slow circles behind my back, keeping the blood going, maintaining myself, because there is nothing else left to maintain. I wonder again who did this, who tied me and left me here with my hair a wreck and my tits aching against latex and my cunt wet for nobody. The blank wall in my head stays blank. It is going to stay blank. I know that now the way I know the knots.

So I test them one more time, all four, in order, like a ritual. Wrists. Elbows. Knees. Ankles. Nothing gives. Nothing was ever going to. The lamp keeps humming, the bottles keep their shelf, the house keeps its silence, and I stay exactly where I was put: bound, bare, wet, and alone, with the whole long day coming and nobody in it but me.