POLLY LEARNS THE ROPES

BY WINSTON

Note: Obviously, this never really happened.

It was another of those days when Daddy was away at some seminar or another, and Uncle Ricky was visiting Mommy. Of course, he wasn’t my real uncle, just a friend of Mommy’s who worked with her. It seemed that Uncle Ricky spent a lot of time at our house when Daddy was away. Mommy had a pair of black leather pants that she liked to wear when Uncle Ricky was over. What was weird was that Mommy never wore them when Daddy was home. I don’t know if he even knew she owned them. But when Daddy was away and Uncle Ricky was at the house, Mommy always wore them – them, and her black leather jacket, even though we were inside the house. They’d laugh and chat for awhile, sitting next to each other on the couch, then Mommy would tell us, “Polly and Tim, go find something to do!” And off we’d go, usually to our rooms, out to the garage, or even away from the house. I’m only eleven, but I could figure out that something was sure up. I wasn’t entirely sure what, but I had my guesses.

Anyway, this was one of those days. Daddy was away, Uncle Ricky was over, and Mommy had her leather things on. We all sat around in the living room and talked and laughed, until as expected Mommy asked Tim and me to go play somewhere else for awhile. Uncle Ricky had his new camera with him, and was talking about taking some pictures. I wondered if that meant he and Mommy wanted to go somewhere else. We live in a pretty neighborhood, and I could imagine Uncle Ricky wanting to take some pictures in the hills behind our house, maybe. I didn’t know what ropes and tape might have to do with that, though, although Uncle Ricky mentioned those, too. Mommy giggled – a funny kind of giggle, deep in her throat. She had her hand on Uncle Ricky’s thigh, high up near his hip. I thought it looked like Uncle Ricky’s hand was under Mommy’s butt, but I’m pretty sure that I couldn’t be right about that. I mean, Uncle Ricky sometimes used to put his hand under my butt, when I used to sit in his lap (though I’m too old to do that now, of course), but that was just for support. Mommy wasn’t in his lap, so why would she need support?

Tim and I went out into the garage to play. I’m a majorette in school, and Tim says I look like a superheroine when I’m wearing my twirler costume – red spandex leotard covered in small red spangles, with gold spangles in the shape of a diamond over my chest, along with shiny red and gold gloves, and white stovepipe boots – so we often play superheroes and I wear my twirler costume. I’m Ultragirl; Tim pretends to be the evil supervillain and ties me up, then I try to get free. Usually Tim doesn’t tie me up all that well – he’s still only nine, and I guess sometimes he can’t pull the ropes very tight. So I usually get free pretty easily. Still, Tim has been getting better, so I have to keep on my toes these days.

This time, Tim went out to the garage while I went upstairs to change. I threw off my clothes, then slipped into my twirler costume, pulling on the long gloves and zipping up the boots. Heading back down the stairs, I noticed that Uncle Ricky’s eyes followed me all the way out to the garage. Weird.

Out in the garage, Tim had turned off the lights. I stepped into the gloom. The door slammed shut behind me, and something hard poked into my lower back. I froze, in mock terror. Behind me, in a voice trying to be deep and menacing but that would have frightened nobody, Tim laughed and threatened me with mortal peril, pressing the hard something more sharply into me and ordering me up against the wall. Slowly I turned, backing towards the wall with my hands raised. Tim poked me again, this time in my tummy, with what turned out to be Daddy’s power drill – Tim was pretending it was a ray gun or something. He backed me up against the wall, then ordered me to tie my own ankles to one of the beams along the wall of the garage. He tossed me one of my old jump ropes, then stepped back. I bent over from the waist and tied the rope around my white booted feet, binding them tightly against the base of the wall post. Tim held the “gun” on me all the while.

“Now the knees,” he ordered, handing me another jump rope. I complied. This was actually pretty clever of Tim, I thought; by making me do the tying, the bindings would be better than if Tim did them himself. As if reading my mind, Tim put down the “gun” and checked the bindings, making sure they were tight enough. Satisfied, he dragged over a chair and stood on it.

“Raise your hands,” he commanded, still in that pseudo-deep voice. This was new. Usually Tim tied my hands behind my back, which (to tell the truth) made it pretty easy to get free. But now, as I raised my hands over my head, Tim revealed a handful of plastic tie straps. Standing on tiptoe on the chair, he bound my wrists to the wall beam, separately – another first, as he usually tied them together – then snugging them tight. Too tight, actually. I was stretched out rather uncomfortably, wondering what Tim had in mind next – and also wondering if it was going to be quite so easy to get free this time. I tried to twist my hands, seeing if there was any play in the straps. No go. My fingers started to tingle right away, I guess because my arms were raised and because the plastic tie straps we pulled so tight.

This wasn’t going as planned, and I said so. “Those straps are too tight, Tim,” I complained. “My arms hurt.”

“Who’s Tim?” he asked in his supervillain voice, pretending to look all around. “I don’t see any Tim in here.”

“I’m serious! My arms hurt!”

Another menacing chuckle. “Your day of pain is only just beginning, Ultragirl!”

Obviously he thought I was still playing. Or maybe he was happy that for once I wasn’t acting like I was going to get free right away. Or both. He took another jump rope and wrapped it around my chest, winding it first above, then below my breasts (where I hoped to have real boobs some day, but so far what Mommy calls the Boob Fairy hasn’t come visiting) and then tying it off behind the wall post. One more rope bound my arms tightly at the elbows. I was stretched out, completely unprotected, and slowly realizing that I had no idea how to get free … and now Tim was coming back with Daddy’s power drill.

To my horror, he depressed the trigger, and the drill bit buzzed to life. The little idiot had plugged it in!

“Tim, no!” I yelped. “Stop it right now!”

“I told you,” he said, coming closer, “there’s no one named Tim here!”

He held the drill up to my face, depressed the trigger again. The drill bit spun dangerously within a few inches from my face.

I’d had enough. “MOM!” I yelled. “MOM!!”

Tim immediately pulled the drill back. Far from being mollified, he looked angry. “Oh, yeah, right, some Ultragirl you are!” he grumbled. “I finally beat you, and you have to go crying to Mommy. You’re just a big baby!”

“I am not!” I said hotly. “Drills are dangerous! You’re being a moron!”

“Am not!”

“Are too! Moron!”

“FINE!” Tim dropped the drill; it bounced off the concrete floor. He stormed away, fists balled up.

“Wait! Untie me!”

“No way!” He pulled the door open, then paused. The bin with Daddy’s used work rags was right there next to the door. Tim looked at the rags, then looked back at me. A very mean smile surfaced on his face.

“What?” I asked … but I already guessed. Sure enough, Tim grabbed a handful of dirty rags, then came back over. “Open your mouth,” he said.

“No way! MOM!” How could she not hear me? What were she and Uncle Ricky doing?

Tim pressed a dirty rag to my lips, which stopped me from yelling again. But I refused to open my mouth. The rag was old, faded red and stained with black; it smelled like oil and grime. No way was that going in my mouth!

After a few moments of shoving the rag into my face, Tim pulled back – and then he punched me in the tummy! It shouldn’t have hurt so much, but Tim never hit me before and I didn’t see it coming. But he hit me really hard. Besides, I was all stretched out. My breath whooshed out of me. I gasped to draw another breath, and that’s when Tim shoved the dirty rag into my open mouth.

I couldn’t breathe. I tried to get air in, but my mouth was full of foul-tasting cloth that made me want to throw up, and my nose didn’t seem big enough to get any air. I jerked against my bonds, violently wrenching my shoulders and feeling ropes and straps biting into me. My head banged against the post. Black flashes came and went in my vision.

Slowly I got ahold of myself. Air was reaching my lungs, although they hurt. It seemed like every muscle in my body had just been pulled, and I had an all-over Charley horse.

Tim wasn’t finished with me. No sooner did I start to get my breathing under control than he popped up in front of me with Daddy’s roll of duct tape. He tore off one strip, then another, then a third, pressing them tightly over my mouth, sealing the filthy rag inside. I tried to shove the rag back out with my tongue, but couldn’t. “Mmmmmph!” I said, glaring at Tim.

He glared right back. “Serves you right!” he hissed. “You were gonna tell on me!”

I nodded emphatically. Darn right! I didn’t mind being tied up, usually, but no way was he supposed to play with Daddy’s drill! I mean, if his grip slipped even a little, or if his arms got tired, he might really hurt me!

And, I realized, he still might. Tim was picking up the drill again!

“Mmmmph! MMMMMPH!” I squealed into my horrible gag, but no real words came out. Tim held the drill up to my face again, and pulled the trigger. The bit whirred into action, about an inch from my face. I could even feel a little breeze from the whirling bit.

“Whatcha gonna do now, Ultragirl?” he whispered.

Slowly he moved the buzzing drill down toward my throat, then back toward my left ear. The noise was incredible. The drill trailed lower, down my chest and towards my belly button. I realized I was crying now, helplessly.

I looked at Tim. He looked at me. His expression was very strange – part anger, part … excitement? Somehow I could tell that he really wanted to push the drill in closer, maybe even brushing the deadly tip against my belly. Or maybe even deeper! But … he couldn’t really want to hurt me, could he? Could he?

The spinning bit hovered there, buzzing over my tummy, while Tim considered what to do next. One hand left the drill and stole to the growing bulge in the front of his jeans; as a result, his hold on the drill got wobbly. I sucked my tummy in as far as I could.

And then Tim lowered the drill even further, towards my crotch.

I couldn’t help it; I peed myself. I was so scared! My crotch got all hot and sticky as me leotard soaked through with my urine. A sour smell filled the air.

“Yuck!” Tim cried, disgusted. He took his finger off the trigger and turned away. “That’s really gross, Polly!” He waved his free hand in front of his face.

I couldn’t answer through my sobs, or through my gag. I ached all over, I stank of my own pee, and I was still tied to this horrible post.

Tim set the drill down, picked up the duct tape and another rag. “Serves you right, you big baby,” he grumped, using the oily rag to wipe away my tears. He also wiped off the snot I could feel running out of my nose.

Then he tore off another strip of duct tape and pressed it down tightly over my eyes. I was blind!

“MMMMMPH!!” I protested, but it was too late. I heard him peel off another strip, then another, pressing each over my eyes in a criss-cross pattern. I couldn’t see a thing. No light got through. I was blind and dumb, and tied to a post to boot. I didn’t feel like Ultragirl any more; I felt very small and very afraid.

Through my hitching breaths, through my frightened moans, I listened for Tim. What was he going to do next? Threaten me with the drill again? Do more than threaten? I waited for the sound of the drill, terrified.

Instead, I heard Tim walk softly away. The door snicked open, clicked closed. I was alone in the garage, bound and gagged and utterly, completely helpless.

***

I waited. And waited. And waited some more. I knew Tim wouldn’t leave me here forever; and if he tried, it wouldn’t work because Mommy or Daddy would find me. Eventually. But I stank, and my whole body hurt, and I didn’t want to play this game anymore. Ever.

I tried to get myself free. There seemed to be a bit of play in rope around my ankles; I could move my feet a little bit inside my boots. A little bit. But because my legs were also tied at the knees, I couldn’t move my ankles very much at all – certainly not enough to pull free. Meanwhile, my arms and hands were now completely numb.

Time passed, slowly and very painfully.

After what seemed like ages, I heard the door open again, softly. Almost stealthily, it seemed. Tim had come back to … do what? Gloat? Use the drill again? Set me free? Apologize? I had no idea. I tensed up, wondering what was next.

After several moments, I relaxed a tiny fraction. No sound at all. Had Tim come back? Or had he just peeked in through the door? Was anybody in here with me?

I listened as hard as I could. And then I noticed, not a sound, but a smell. A new smell. Over the stink of my own pee, I could smell aftershave. It smelled like the aftershave Uncle Ricky liked to wear.

“Mmmph?” I queried through the gag.

In response, a pair of large, rough hands were placed against me. The thumbs were over my nipples; the fingers reached around me, under my upstretched arms and over my shoulder blades. Big hands! Not Tim. Slowly the hands moved down my body, then back up. The big thumbs found my nipples again and started circling them, pressing down.

Now there was a new sound. I could hear someone breathing, close, deep and heavy. A big hot body suddenly pressed full against me, rubbing up and down against me. The heavy breathing sharpened. I felt a something hard, like a belt buckle, grinding into my tummy; below that, a hotter bulge of something pressed hard into my crotch; it reminded me somehow of the bulge I felt in Uncle Ricky’s lap when I used to sit there, the bulge that pressed into my bottom. I remembered Uncle Ricky gasping sometimes when I shifted against that bulge; it sounded a lot like the gasping I heard now.

Fingers joined the thumbs at my nipples, pinching me hard. I whimpered into my gag, but that just made the pinching even harder. Worse, the fingers started pulling and stretching my nipples under the nylon fabric. The rubbing of the heavy hot body against me grew tighter; I was being crushed against the wall post. I yelled into my gag in protest, but hardly any sound came out.

Suddenly the body pulled away. The gasping receded. For several moments all was still. The gasping leveled out, became more normal breathing, quieted. Then I felt a fumbling at the ropes around my knees. Someone was untying me! I couldn’t believe my luck. The rope around my knees loosened, was whisked away. Next I felt the rope around my ankles being loosened, as well.

I wished whoever this was – Uncle Ricky? – would untie my arms before he finished my ankles, because they were so numb and cold. But I was just happy that I was being untied. In the back of my mind, I started imagining telling Mommy about this – Tim would be in SO much trouble!

As the rope pulled free from my ankles, I immediately stretched one leg, easing out the kinks. Suddenly rough hands grabbed the leg and pulled it tightly to one side, angled upward, pressing the booted ankle against the next wall beam over. To my horror, I felt the rope being re-tied around my ankle! And this tying was much tighter, much more painful – it bit tightly into the boot leather and pressed it deep into my skin, cutting off the feeling in my foot. The unseen hands then grabbed my other leg; I tried kicking out, but couldn’t see my assailant and so couldn’t really do anything but flail. That leg, too, was pulled sharply sideways and upwards, then bound tightly to the adjacent wall post.

My numb arms now came screaming back to life; with my legs pulled up and out to either side, my feet couldn’t support me any more, and the tie straps around my wrists were now bearing almost my whole weight. I started crying again, realizing that my ordeal was far from over.

Through my sobs, I heard the quiet electric whine of a digital camera being turned on. It sounded just like the chime Uncle Ricky’s camera made. Someone was taking pictures of me! The electronic shutter sound kept clicking and clicking. Sometimes it was close to my face, as if whoever it was wanted close-ups of my teared, gagged, tape-blinded face. Other times the sound came from down near my crotch, as if they wanted close-ups of between my legs.

The heavy breathing was back, now, too, ragged and rough.

Eventually my captor tired of taking pictures; the shutter sounds stopped. But then the hands were back. Now the fingers slipped under my leotard, grabbing my nipples directly and pinching them, pulling them. The pain was excruciating. I’d heard some of the girls at school talk about how nipples were supposed to be something boys (or maybe even some girls) touched to make you feel good – I’d even played with my own nipples, a few times, in my room by myself, and enjoyed the tingling sensation – but there was none of that here. The fingers were rough, digging cruelly into me as they pinched, and the fingernails bit into my tender flesh. I shook my head no, over and over and over, screaming into my gag all the while, but it made no difference. I was still helpless, and my captor could do with me what he wanted.

Suddenly the big hot body was back, pressed against me again, grinding into me. My right nipple was released, but then there were rough fingers fumbling at the damp crotch of my leotard. There was a sound of cloth tearing, and I felt cool air against my privates. The fingers started playing with my lips, sliding in and out of my little slit. I gasped as the fingers brushed my clitoris, then flicked it, then pinched it. Waves of mingled pain and pleasure shot through my vitals. My hips started twitching and bucking, beyond my control. I was hoarse with screaming into my gag.

The hands left me – both the one at my nipple and the one at my pussy. I heard a belt buckle being loosened, jeans being unbuttoned. I knew what came next, and there was nothing I could do to stop it. I was about to be raped, and I was helpless – bound, gagged, with my legs stretched painfully apart and my poor vulnerable pussy exposed. I was wracked with futile sobs.

But I was wrong. There was a whooshing sound, then a sharp crack – and pain exploded against my exposed left thigh. The bastard was whipping me with his belt! Another whoosh, another crack, and my right thigh was in agony. Again, and this time my exposed left armpit was the target – I hadn’t expected that. The pain was immense, unbearable. My gagged shrieks found a new level of hoarse futility. Blow after blow rained down on me – my thighs, my arms, my leotard-clad belly. I waited in horror, knowing that my exposed pussy would prove too rich a target to be left alone for long. But he was patient, stroking me relentlessly with lash after lash from his belt, until it seemed my whole body must be raised in welts, glowing redly.

There was a pause. I tensed. A whoosh, a crack! Pain like nothing I could have ever imagined detonated in my vagina as the belt bit into it. I was lost in searing waves of agony. Again the belt landed, and again, and yet again, finding the same tender target each time. I was dying, I knew it – no human could endure such pain. My body fought against its bondage with no conscious input from me. I was an animal, nothing more, grunting and spasming mindlessly against my bonds, against the pain…

I must have passed out. I came to slowly, still bound. I didn’t know how long I had been out. My body was still on fire; my smooth little pussy felt like it had to be dripping with gore. But there was another feeling down there, too – breath. Someone’s breathing was sighing hotly against my tortured labia. I felt something wet – a tongue – brush against me, licking my slit, playing briefly against my swollen clitoris. Involuntarily, I moaned in response.

That was all it took. I heard him stand. His hands fell upon me again – on my shoulders, this time. With a grunt, my assailant hoisted his entire weight onto me. I was fully awake again, miserable and afraid. My arms, already in agony, discovered a whole new level of pain. But then I forgot about my screaming arms as something huge and hot and hard shoved its way inside me, tearing through my hymen and slamming deep, deep into my belly. My cries became hoarse, guttural grunts into my gag as my captor’s huge cock ravaged me. I’d learned about sex with men from Mommy and in school, but they said it was supposed to be enjoyable. There was nothing enjoyable here – just wave after wave of tearing, burning pain.

But my body responded, and to my horror I found that my hips were bucking and spasming in response to my assailant’s thrusts. This spurred him to greater effort, and his huge member pushed deeper and harder and faster into me. I couldn’t scream any more; I had no breath. Instead, I just gasped and moaned into my gag. This, too, seemed to motivate my captor.

One hand on my shoulder crept inward, towards my throat, and wrapped tightly around it. As it squeezed, my air was cut off and I stopped breathing completely. Now my whole body was spasming uncontrollably as it fought for air, all the while being plowed mercilessly by my assailant’s engorged cock. Dimly I heard hoarse, rasping breathing in my ear, a male voice grunting my name, over and over and over. Black spots flashed in my darkened vision.

And then came the climax. My assailant stiffened abruptly, his whole body going rigid and slamming into me, shuddering against me as he cried out. I felt my own corresponding orgasm, my first, brought on by pain and force. Dimly, I wondered if I would feel his cum pumping into me, but I couldn’t. Then even that thought receded. I was fading … fading …

Suddenly the clamped hand left my throat. I sucked air in as fast and hard as I could, though my nostrils again didn’t seem nearly big enough. My awareness started to return. I could feel again my agonized arms, my tortured pussy, the huge hot thing still buried deep inside me. My distended vagina felt all sticky – blood, probably, mingled with his cum. My throat was raw, both from my own screams and from my near strangulation. I wondered if there would be bruises on my neck, or down there below, to go along with the whip weals.

We stayed like that for some time, him still hanging off of me, his cock still rigid inside me, and me trying to get my breath back through my tiny nostrils and my hitching sobs.

Abruptly he pulled himself out of me, climbed down off of me. At last. My body started to relax, ever so slightly, and I dimly started to wonder – to hope – if my ordeal might be reaching its denouement.

I heard him fumble with his trousers. Heard him buckle his belt – that hateful belt – back on.

Then silence.

Minutes passed. Was he still in the room? I hadn’t heard the door open or close, but I was in so much pain I might have missed it. I listened intently, concentrating.

Millimeters from my ear, the power drill exploded to life. The high screaming whine spiked into my ear, into my brain. I screamed.

The drill died.

Silence.

Then a voice, whispering into me ear: “Tell anyone, you little fucking slut, tell anyone ever … and next time I’ll rape you with this fucking drill.”

Silence again. Snick as the garage door opened; click as it closed. I was alone.

***

Some time later I heard the door open again. A gasp, then running footsteps. The tape was peeled back from my mouth, from my eyes (losing some eyelashes and eyebrow hair in the process). It was Tim, his eyes huge with concern and fear.

“Are you okay?” he asked, frantic.

There was no way to legitimately answer that. “Untie me,” I asked, plaintively, and Tim rushed to respond. Once I was untied I pushed past Tim, staggering up to my room and closing the door. Slowly I peeled off my stinking twirler costume, then looked at myself in the mirror, trying not to cry still more at what I saw. Then I started cleaning myself up, moving slowly and painfully.

***

All that was weeks ago. Since then I’ve worn high-collared, long-sleeved blouses or shirts, with long pants. None of the damage was permanent, and the bruises and welts have mostly faded. Ultragirl survives.

I told Tim that he couldn’t tell anyone about finding me like that, although I didn’t – I couldn’t – explain why. He didn’t understand; but then, since he was the one who tied me up to begin with, he was pretty happy to agree. Mommy doesn’t seem to suspect anything, but then, she seemed awfully hazy when she finally came out of her bedroom that day. Maybe she had too much to drink, or … something. But she didn’t notice how much it hurt me to walk, and how careful I was as I moved painfully about. By the time she was herself again, I was walking more normally. And I’d sewn up the crotch of my twirler costume, and wiped the dried blood off the tops of the white boots, so she didn’t notice those, either. Honestly, I didn’t ever want to wear or even see that outfit again – the associations were too awful. Ultragirl might have survived, but I didn’t think she’d be making an appearance anytime soon. But I couldn’t just leave things as they were; if Mommy or Daddy had seen the torn crotch, or the blood on my boots, they’d have too many questions I didn’t want to answer.

I have unasked questions of my own, too. A part of me wants to ask Mommy about the red marks I saw around her wrists, marks like those around my own wrists and ankles. I want to ask, but then I remember Uncle Ricky wanting to take pictures of Mommy, and talking about ropes and tape. I remember Mommy giggling in response. I wonder if maybe Uncle Ricky tied Mommy up, after she’d had a few drinks (too many drinks?), then he left her alone in her room to come down to the garage to rape and torture me. That would at least explain why she didn’t come to help me when I cried out for her. I wonder if Uncle Ricky maybe tied up and fucked us both that day.

I wonder, but I won’t ask. I can’t. To ask I’d have to tell. And if I tell, Uncle Ricky (I’m pretty sure it was him) will shove that cold steel drill bit inside me and … No, I can’t ever tell.

I guess I’m lucky that Uncle Ricky didn’t make me pregnant. Quite the opposite – within a couple weeks, I had my first-ever period. Mommy thought it was early – I’m eleven, and I guess that could be a little early – but said, “My little girl is becoming a woman!” If she only knew. I think back on that horrible afternoon, about the way my skinny hips bucked in time to Uncle Ricky’s thrusts, the way my body shook as I had my first-ever orgasm, and I wonder if being a woman is all that great. Could my body – not me, but my body – have somehow … liked … being raped?

As for Uncle Ricky, he looks at me differently now when he comes over. It’s an adult look, like he wants me – like he thinks maybe he owns me. And like he and I have a secret. Well, maybe we do. Mommy notices that look, I think, and she’s not happy about it. But I can’t say anything to her. That drill …

As for me and Tim, Mommy doesn’t need to tell us to scram when Uncle Ricky is over these days. Not any more. Daddy leaves, Mommy puts on her leathers, Uncle Ricky shows up, and we’re out of there. No questions and no delays. But now I stay in my room, by myself. I remember Tim threatening me with the drill, rubbing the bulge in the front of his jeans. Little Timmy’s growing up, I guess, and I suppose it’ll be any day now that he starts looking at me the way Uncle Ricky does. I don’t want him to get any more bright ideas about me.

I have to think that things aren’t finished yet between me and Uncle Ricky, regardless of how I try to avoid him. I think we’re going to have at least one more encounter, someday – maybe someday soon. If so, I hope I survive the experience. But I think it may be inevitable. I know he likes women – he’s with Mommy all the time, after all – and I’m a woman now. But he also likes little girls, apparently, so I’m stuck either way.

Why do I think these things? Well, as I said, there’s those looks he gives me. And I can feel his eyes following me, whenever I’m in a room with him – even if Mommy or Daddy are there. But it’s more than that, too.

Last week was my birthday. Uncle Ricky was over, and he got me a present. A very expensive present. Daddy was surprised; Mommy was not only surprised, she was – I think – a bit suspicious. Maybe even a little jealous. Uncle Ricky just smiled … and looked at me that way he does now. Like we have a secret.

Uncle Ricky got me a black leather jacket. Just like Mommy’s.