All I Want For Christmas....Is To Be Tied Up
Imogen’s dreaming of a tight Christmas!
It was Christmas Eve, and Imogen was getting excited about her plans for the Festive period. But she was also extremely nervous about the train of events that she was about to set in motion. Yet these two conflicting emotions only seemed to make the task ahead ever more enticing, as she braced herself for her trip into the unknown.
Imogen had always loved Christmas. When she was very young, the bright lights, the decked out Christmas tree, the carol singers, the anticipation of Santa’s visit, the smell of roasting turkey and the family opening presents in front of the fire, were for Imogen – as they were for most children - a time of magic and delight. As she’d reached her late teenage years, the allure of alcohol fuelled Christmas parties and time spent with her friends had all added to the joy that she experienced throughout December.
But this year things were going to be completely different. For the past two weeks or so, Imogen had been plotting something a bit special; something that made her shiver with delight at the very thought of what was to come. It was unconventional, to say the least, and not everybody’s idea of how to spend the holiday period. In fact, the whole venture that she was determined to go through with would be anathema to most people; completely at odds with their definition of the ideal Yuletide experience. Yet to Imogen, this, the twenty second Christmas of her young life, was, she hoped, going to be the ultimate Festive experience; the one that she would remember and cherish for as long as she lived.
The strategy was, she knew only too well, a leap into the unknown which could go wrong in so many ways. There were numerous potential pitfalls that could prove extremely embarrassing should her reading of the situation turn out to have been in error. And, although she didn’t like to dwell on such things, the path ahead was fraught with many dangers.
But the thought of how wonderful and magical the whole experience could be, if everything went according to plan, outweighed all these other, negative considerations. She had her heart set on this course of action, and any nagging concerns such as safety, or the motives of her co-conspirator, were never going to persuade her to waver from her intended goal.
And to think that it had all started rather innocuously.
It was the 11th December, and Imogen had been asked to retrieve some papers from her manager’s office. Her manager – Tony – was away from work at a conference that day, and entering the office in his absence was usually frowned upon. However, one of the other managers needed some files containing important documentation with a degree of urgency, and as he was in a hurry to get to his meeting, he had entrusted Imogen with the task of recovering the relevant paperwork. He’d given her a bunch of keys and requested that she hunt around for the missing files. There was one key for the office door, plus several others for the various filing cabinets and drawers that could potentially be the hiding place of the sought after records.
Imogen had let herself in and checked the piles of papers lying on the desk, before – by trial and error – working out which key fitted which lock. Beginning with the drawers on Tony’s desk, she tried inserting each key in turn. The first three attempts proved unsuccessful, but the fourth key slid into place perfectly, and an almost inaudible click as she turned the tiny metal object ninety degrees, told her that the compartments would now slide open. The top two trays yielded nothing of any significance, and Imogen pulled the bottom drawer out with very little faith that this one would be any different. And in regard to the elusive paperwork that she was searching for, this did indeed turn out to be the case.
But what she did stumble upon, lying right at the bottom and hidden from prying eyes by a pile of documents and folders, caused a shudder of excitement to rush up her spine the moment she spied it. In fact, from the second that the picture caught her attention, the official reason for her being in the room at all was immediately erased from her mind. With trembling hands, she pulled the magazine out and studied her find. The shiny cover had the words “Bondage Life” printed in large letters at the top, with “The Magazine for and by Bondage People” in smaller type beneath. But what had first drawn her eyes to this slightly dated looking publication, and the thing that had set her heart fluttering, was the picture that she simply couldn’t stop staring at. For this cover photograph depicted a woman in lingerie and pantyhose, whose arms and legs had been bound tightly and securely with numerous lengths of white rope. A red rubber ball had been crammed into her mouth, attached to which were two leather straps that had been – presumably, as they were out of shot at the rear of her head – buckled together to stop her spitting it out. Far from looking in any way distressed by her apparently perilous situation, however, the woman seemed to be smiling through her gag at the camera.
Imogen opened the magazine and began flicking through the pages. There were many other images within, all along the same lines; i.e. women in various states of strict and inescapable bondage. Some were almost naked save for the flimsiest of attire, while others were clad in tight fitting spandex, latex or leather. All seemed to be enjoying themselves. Although she only had time to briefly scan the printed text sections, the contents – fictional stories, discussions and readers’ letters - appeared to complement the photos in their enthusiasm for the bound female form. Imogen stared at the pages open mouthed, but her surprise at what she encountered was in no way due to disgust or distaste at what she saw; far from it, in fact. No, the primary feelings and sensations that she experienced as she browsed this unexpected find were fascination, curiosity and –she was amazed to discover – sheer delight.
She had always found the idea of being tied up appealing, although until now this attraction had been suppressed and lay dormant within her... well most of the time, anyway. Now, however, as the turn of the glossy pages revealed ever more enticing images, she found herself becoming aroused. There was no getting away from the fact; she wanted - indeed craved - to be like the women in the photos; to experience firsthand what it was like to have someone bind and gag her, then leave her to struggle in her helplessness. In short, she wanted to become one of the “Bondage People” that the cover alluded to.
Tearing her eyes away from the magazine for a few seconds, Imogen rummaged further into the depths of the desk drawer, to see if there was anything else of a similar nature concealed within. She was not to be disappointed. For right at the bottom, her hand came into contact with a plastic DVD case. Pulling this out, Imogen could see from the cover that the contents on this disc were in very similar vein to that of the magazine; the pictures and the words clearly indicating that, if she were to insert this disc into a DVD player, she would be treated to a visual display of various sexily clad young females wriggling and writhing against their strictly administered restraints.
“Have you found those files yet?”
The voice caught Imogen by complete surprise, and caused her to physically jump up from the seat and drop the DVD onto the desk. Simultaneously, the magazine, which had been lying on her lap, fell to the floor. Imogen audibly gasped as she saw her colleague Helen framed in the doorway.
“How long have you been standing there? You gave me quite a fright.”
Helen ignored the question and walked further into the office. Imogen was relieved that it wasn’t one of the managers that had discovered her looking at Tony’s stash of bondage porn, but even so, the fact that someone - anyone - had caught her red-handed was bad enough. Especially as her co-worker had clearly noticed the DVD on the desk and was now making a beeline towards it. As she drew closer, Helen also noticed the magazine lying on the floor. Bending down, she picked it up and glanced briefly at the cover. But instead of the shocked reaction that Imogen was anticipating, she watched as Helen casually threw the publication back onto the desk.
“So, I see you’ve discovered Tony’s little obsession. I’m sure he wouldn’t be too happy if he knew you’d been prying into his personal belongings.”
Imogen was astonished by Helen’s apparent knowledge of her manager’s secret.
“You knew about all this?”
She motioned towards the magazine and book, now lying side by side on the desk. Helen smiled.
“Of course. Ask any of his ex-girlfriends and they’ll tell you stories of how he loved to tie them up good and tight. I thought everyone knew that.”
Once again, Imogen felt a shiver course through her entire body. But as before, this was no indication of fear or repulsion, but instead revealed the burgeoning of an idea that she had been hatching immediately prior to Helen’s appearance.
Imogen had always had a crush on Tony, her line manager, although she’d always been too shy to actually allow this to manifest itself openly. At six years older than her, he always seemed out of reach, especially as there constantly seemed to be a steady stream of women at his beck and call. But she’d heard recently that he was currently unattached, and so had been desperately looking for a way to manoeuvre her way into his affections. And the sight of the bondage literature had given her an idea.
The seeds of the concept that Imogen had been tentatively mulling over in her brain whilst she perused the magazine, had been along the lines of “What if I tie myself up, enclose myself in Christmas wrapping paper, and present myself on Tony’s doorstep on Christmas Eve?” The more she thought about this, the more she liked the idea. Because if he was turned on by women in bondage, then how would he be able to resist a willingly bound package turning up out of the blue? How could he fail to take her in and keep her tied up over the holiday period? It might not have been the most logical of thought processes, and it was most definitely riddled with a whole host of ifs, buts and maybes. But at that moment, this was of no concern to a woman who had just stumbled upon a potentially life-changing discovery.
There were many obvious obstacles to overcome before her plans could be brought to fruition, of course. But she was sure that these could be ironed out before the big day arrived. The one major problem that she had been envisioning, however, was how to tie herself up satisfactorily, then envelop herself in the wrapping paper and transport herself to Tony’s house. The only answer that seemed to spring to mind was that she would need an assistant or confidant to help out with the finer details.
Helen had never been her favourite person. They were work colleagues, but Imogen would never have described her as a friend. In fact, Imogen had to admit that she didn’t really like the woman that much, and she was certain that the feeling was mutual. And this sense of unease between the two had been heightened recently when Imogen had achieved promotion ahead of Helen. Although nothing was ever articulated to this effect, Imogen sensed that Helen had been pretty pissed off by her rival getting the position ahead of her. So now, Helen was not exactly the person she would have wanted to walk in on her at a time like this.
And yet she did need someone to help her out, if her fantasy was to become reality. And it seemed also that Helen did already have some knowledge of Tony’s perversions. So why not ask her to help? If she didn’t procure Helen’s services, then who else could she ask? She would find it extremely difficult to approach any of her friends and explain exactly what she wanted, without them thinking she’d lost her mind and try to talk her out of it. So she might as well utilise the one person who both knew of Tony’s obsession, and also knew that she knew.
Taking a deep breath, Imogen blurted out her projected course of action for Christmas Eve; not daring to make eye contact with Helen as she spoke, lest she became self-conscious and tongue-tied. Her words came out in bursts; fast and so incoherent that she feared the listener wouldn’t understand her garbled and not yet fully formed plans for this theoretical undertaking. Finally, having let her desires out of the bag about how she wanted to be Tony’s bound, gagged and packaged Christmas surprise, she reached the most important part of her monologue. Would Helen be prepared to help out by binding her, parcelling her up, and then transporting her restrained and helpless form over to Tony’s house?
For a few seconds there was total silence in the room, and Imogen found herself blushing profusely. She’d just given away her innermost secret desires to a woman she really didn’t have much time for, and assumed now that Helen would laugh in her face, then use this information to make her the laughing stock of the entire workforce. For a second or two she contemplated retracting her statement; making light of her utterances and pretending that she was only joking. As the silence became unbearable, Imogen stole a quick glance across the room, expecting either a look of utter disbelief or a mocking smirk to be imprinted on Helen’s face. But she encountered neither of these. Instead Helen was smiling in what seemed at the time a far friendlier manner than Imogen could ever remember before.
“Are you serious?”
Imogen still had half a mind to call the whole thing off, but instead plucked up the courage to whisper a self-conscious “yes” under her breath. She was, however, completely taken aback by Helen’s matter-of-fact reaction.
“I had no idea that you felt like that about Tony, or that you had any interest in bondage. But if you’re as into this as you say you are, then you’ll be the ideal Christmas present for him. So in answer to your question Imogen, yes I will help you out, if that’s what you really want.”
For several seconds Imogen was lost for words, before she gathered her thoughts sufficiently and began to speak again; something about getting hold of ropes and wrapping paper seeping almost involuntarily from her lips. But Helen stopped her.
“I’ll tell you what Imogen, don’t worry about a thing. I’ll sort out the bonds and all the other logistics for you.”
As if in a dream, Imogen agreed to Helen’s offer. She was about to speak again, when the sound of voices in the corridor outside informed the conspiring pair that they had company. Quickly grabbing the magazine and DVD, Imogen threw them into the drawer, just as the face of the manager who had given her the keys appeared around the frame of the door.
“Have you found those papers yet, Imogen?”
Flustered, Imogen made some noises that she hoped conveyed a negative response to his enquiry, and promptly returned to the task in hand.
“Well hurry up then, I haven’t got all day. My meeting’s in five minutes.”
In a panic, Imogen fumbled with the keys to the filing cabinets. Within seconds, however, the face had disappeared from the doorway. Helen, too, casually walked towards the exit, but just as she reached the door, she stopped. Turning around, she looked back at Imogen, who was frantically sifting through reams and reams of documents.
“Don’t worry, I’ll ensure that everything is set up and runs like clockwork. I’ll make sure that you really have a Christmas to remember this year.”
For the rest of that day, Imogen seemed to walk around in a trancelike state. She half expected the entire office to be making fun of her by the end of the day, but fortunately this failed to materialise. Had the incident in Tony’s office really taken place, or had she dreamt it? And if the conversation really had occurred, were she and Helen actually talking about the same thing, or had they got their wires crossed somewhere along the line? Had Imogen’s suddenly blossoming fantasies made her believe that Helen was going to help her get into a bondage situation from which she couldn’t escape, then deliver her into Tony’s clutches on Christmas Eve, when in fact Helen had actually been talking about something of a far more mundane nature, which her eager and over-active mind had interpreted in the wrong way?
Imogen went over their conversation in her mind again and again, trying to figure out how her words could have been misconstrued. But every time she came up with the same conclusion. There could be no ambiguity as far as she could tell; she had asked for Helen to help her get tied up, and Helen had readily agreed.
And later that day, she received concrete confirmation that this was the case, when Helen had come up to her desk and enquired – in hushed tones, so that no one else could overhear – whether she was definitely intent on going through with this “bondage escapade” as she’d phrased it.
“I just want to check that you haven’t developed cold feet about the whole thing since this morning.”
Imogen confirmed that she hadn’t. She also noticed her heartbeat increasing significantly at this moment. A sure sign, she told herself, that this was most definitely what she craved.
Imogen’s life carried on as normal over the next two weeks... outwardly at least. Inside, however, she was like a cork in a champagne bottle waiting to be unleashed. On a regular basis, Helen had given her updates on the progress of her preparations, usually by text or email, but once or twice in person.
“I’ve bought some nice soft white rope that will bind you up all nice and tightly” was one message she received.
“I’ve got some lovely festive wrapping material to make you look truly irresistible” was another.
Apart from these brief and to the point communications, the two of them avoided all contact, although there were times when Imogen would look up from her work to see Helen staring across at her and smiling to herself. Once or twice there seemed to be a slightly sinister edge to this smile, and at times like this Imogen was prone to wonder whether Helen’s offer of help might not be all that it seemed. Was she walking into some sort of trap? Was Helen really going to help her out; the same Helen who seemed to have borne a grudge about her own failure to gain promotion, for which Imogen had become the scapegoat? She managed to quickly erase these thoughts from her mind, as the prospect of being Tony’s prisoner over the Christmas period was just too glittering a prize to let such groundless speculation creep into her thinking.
There was, however, one other major chore to take care of before the big day; one which she was dreading having to face. This was telling her parents, who lived more than two hundred miles away and very rarely saw their only daughter except at Christmas and other bank holidays, that she wouldn’t be spending the last few days of the year with them on this occasion. By way of an excuse, she made up a story about having to work in the period between Christmas and New Year, and that friends had invited her to come over to their houses for both Christmas Day and Boxing Day. Her mother had sounded disappointed on the phone when she broke the news, but said that she understood. Imogen hated lying, but the thought of giving up this gilt-edged opportunity to sample the thrill of captivity had made doing so easier. She would, she had promised, try to get home for a weekend sometime in January instead.
And so Christmas Eve finally arrived. The tension had been building up inside Imogen for days now, and the butterflies in her stomach seemed to never take a break. She had, during the days since her pact with Helen had been forged, spent much time deliberating on what to wear for her big adventure. After changing her mind on seemingly dozens of occasions, she’d finally settled on her outfit. Her choice was in keeping with the time of year, she felt; a red skimpy ‘Santa’ dress, trimmed in artificial white fur, low cut and so short that it barely reached her thighs, which she’d bought the previous year for a party. Her legs would be sheathed in silky smooth red tights, to match the dress.
Imogen looked at the clock in her apartment for what must have been the hundredth time that afternoon. It was nearly 5:45 pm. Helen’s final text message, sent this morning, had promised that she would be coming around at 6 o’clock. Stripping off her jeans and t-shirt, Imogen carefully pulled the tights up her slender legs and smoothed out any wrinkles, before slipping the dress on and zipping it up at the back. For a few minutes she admired herself in the full length bedroom mirror; her shoulder length black hair contrasting with the whiteness of the collar. Surely, when Tony saw her attired like this he wouldn’t be able to resist her, would he? Especially if she was all tied up and helpless?
Although she was expecting it, the ringing of the doorbell made her jump. Imogen spent a few seconds composing herself, then took a deep breath and made her shoeless way to the door. Putting her eye to the peephole, she saw the figure of Helen standing beyond in the hallway, a large holdall bag in her left hand. For some reason, she briefly entertained the notion of not opening the door and pretending that she wasn’t in. Why this strange sensation should come over her when she was so looking forward to the coming events, she had no real idea. Quickly, however, she pulled herself together and cast aside these last minute nerves. With hands trembling, she fumbled with the door latch and let Helen into her apartment.
“Wow, you look gorgeous Imogen. Just imagine what Tony will think when he opens his present and finds you dressed like that. He’ll never be able to resist you. It looks like you’re in for a really fun Christmas.”
Imogen felt her face redden at Helen’s compliments, although she couldn’t help but entertain the suspicion that her words weren’t particularly sincerely spoken. But if this slightly fazed Imogen for a few seconds, she was left with little time to reflect on such things now, as Helen seemed keen to get on with the matter in hand. Opening the bag, she retrieved a neatly coiled bundle of white rope. Undoing the securing knot, she let the ends fall to the floor, which allowed Imogen to gauge the length - approximately ten feet, she estimated. Finding the bight, Helen walked the few steps to where Imogen stood.
“Turn around and put your hands behind your back.”
Self-consciously, Imogen did as she was requested – or was it an order? – and waited.
The rope encircling her wrists and then being pulled tight caused a shiver to rush up her spine. It was a reaction that combined both apprehension and anticipation in equal measure. The sensation heightened as Helen wound the cord several more times around her lower arms, before finally cinching it between her wrists and securing the bond with a tight knot; deliberately positioned where Imogen would be unable to reach it with her stretching fingers. As each circuit of the rope slowly made escape less feasible, Imogen found her heart racing and her whole body trembling. But this state of affairs, she realised, owed very little to fear and a whole lot to pleasure. She had experimented tentatively once or twice with light self-bondage, but never before had she been tied by anyone else, nor as tightly as this. It was, she knew instantly, something she would desperately like to experience more of. And as if in answer to this unspoken wish, Helen seemed all too eager to oblige.
The moment she’d completed the securing of this first bond, Helen momentarily took her hands away from Imogen’s arms, in order to get the next rope from the bag. In those few seconds, Imogen twisted and pulled on the restraint to test its efficiency. It was clear straight away that she was stuck, and that neither pulling her hands free nor locating the knot were viable options. It felt so wonderful. And as Helen began binding her elbows as closely together as she could force them, the thrill increased in intensity, until Imogen felt she was going to explode. And she wasn’t even with her partner of choice yet! If simply being tied up caused this much joy, how much greater would be the pleasure when she was at Tony’s mercy?
Being young and supple, by the time her rigger had cinched and secured the second rope, Imogen’s elbows were almost touching. Without a pause, Helen delved once more into the bag and pulled out three more lengths of rope. Sitting Imogen down on the carpeted floor of the living room, she quickly bound the first of these around the meekly compliant woman’s ankles, before working her way up and securing the two remaining cords just below and just above her knees. Needless to say, these bonds were as tight and inescapable as those encircling her arms.
“Okay, that should hold you. Now to wrap you up and make you look like the perfect Christmas present.”
Imogen had been expecting Helen to produce rolls of festive wrapping paper from her bag, so she was surprised to see that, instead of sheets printed with reindeer, snowmen and suchlike, her rigger retrieved six reels of adhesive tape; only rather than the usual mundane dull grey or brown, these were in red, green and white hues - two in each colour. Helen must have seen Imogen’s surprise however, and so pre-empted her next question.
“I decided that wrapping paper was too flimsy and would tear easily. This tape will be a lot more durable and secure, and isn’t as likely to come loose. It’s special bondage tape that sticks to itself but doesn’t bond to skin or hair. Once you’re all snugly wrapped up in it there’ll be no way out for you. I hope you like the colours – very festive aren’t they?”
She picked up a spool of red tape and grabbed Imogen’s ankles. Finding the end, she began wrapping the adhesive strips around her lower legs. For the next few minutes, Imogen watched in fascination as Helen slowly wound the tape time after time around her already bound limbs, gradually working up her calves, past her knees and onwards up to her thighs; making sure that not one speck of her red tights-clad legs remained on view. Coming to the end of the first spool, Helen next chose a green one and carried on where she’d left off; working the never ending strips over Imogen’s buttocks and hips. When she reached the level of her bound hands, these too were incorporated into the cocooning process, thus further removing any slim chance her captive had of getting free.
Not that Imogen’s thoughts were in any way focused on escaping. Each circumnavigation of her legs and body seemed to make her more and more convinced that she had made the correct decision in choosing Helen as her assistant in this affair. The woman certainly seemed to have put a lot of thought into these preparations, and she certainly wanted to make sure that, when she left her trussed up creation on Tony’s doorstep, that there would be no chance of her getting loose.
Just beneath her breasts, the green tape ran out and was superseded by a spool of white. The wrapping process continued apace, until the all-covering mass reached Imogen’s upper arms. At this point Helen began winding the tape diagonally across her breasts, down to her waist and then back up to her shoulders, gradually working up to the neck area. But the process didn’t stop there, as the now completed trapped woman thought it might. Instead, the circuits of tape continued upwards around her throat until they reached her chin.
Up to now, Imogen had said very little during the mummification process, as she was totally in awe of the sight of her body and limbs disappearing within the restrictive sheath of unforgiving tape. At this point, however, she happened to make some remark about how she would never be able to get out of this predicament on her own. This was simply meant as an observation and in no why implied that she had changed her mind about the project or wanted to get free, but it did seem to alert Helen to the fact that she’d forgotten something. Reaching into the bag, she produced a large ball made of soft sponge material. Scrunching this up in her hand, she brought it towards Imogen’s mouth.
“Open wide Imogen. Bondage is never complete without a nice gag. ”
In obedient silence, Imogen found herself doing as she was told, allowing Helen to push the crushed ball between her lips and lodge it behind her teeth. As Helen released her grip, the ball expanded back to its original size, filling Imogen’s cheeks and pinning her tongue to the floor of her mouth.
Imogen tried to answer, but the sound that seeped out was muted and unrecognisable as speech. Instead she nodded to confirm that the gag was causing her no distress.
“Good, that should keep you quiet for a while.”
Helen grabbed Imogen’s long flowing hair and tied it back into a ponytail with a green ribbon, before resuming with the taping process. Over her chin, then across her mouth, Imogen lay motionless as the wrapping process worked its way upwards around her head. With her mouth now sealed, Imogen was reassured to note that Helen was careful to make certain that her nostrils were left clear, as the tape was gently pressed down over the bridge of her nose. As the circling strips climbed ever higher, Imogen was expecting her eyes, too, to succumb to the binding process, but she was surprised to find that Helen bypassed them; leaving a gap of maybe an inch or so to allow her to peer out.
Finally, the tape reached the crown of her head, leaving only her long ponytail sprawling free from the otherwise sealed helmet. At this point Helen began to wrap the remainder of the tape from this spool down under Imogen’s chin and back up to the top of her head. Several times she wound in this direction, each circuit further constricting the movement of her now completely helpless colleague’s jaw.
But even now, Helen still hadn’t finished, and her next actions would not only further confound any future escape attempts, but were also aimed at making the bound up human parcel far more aesthetically pleasing from a festive point of view.
Taking the three unused reels of tape, Helen began strategically winding these in a diagonal criss-cross pattern around the already sealed package, creating a mosaic of green, white and red along Imogen’s entire legs and body. This artistic process continued for several minutes, until Helen was satisfied with her symmetrical design. She stood up and took two steps back to admire her work.
“There, that should hold you. See if you can move.”
Imogen, lying stretched out on the floor, tried to sit up, but it was impossible without the use of her now redundant arms. She lifted her head as best she could and gazed down her body, to be greeted by what looked like a continuous sausage-skin of red, green and white tape, with only the mesh of her tights-clad feet sticking out the end. She wriggled around for a minute or more, trying to work out how, if she really had to, she would go about getting herself out of the tight bindings around her. But it was obvious almost immediately that this would be impossible; she was stuck fast and would remain that way until such time as someone cut her out. She shook her head and tried to convey the message that escape was out of the question. Helen smiled.
“That’s good. Glad my binding technique meets with your approval. I guess you’ll have to rely on Tony as your saviour if you’re ever going to get out of that.”
She glanced at her watch.
“Anyway, time is getting on and I’ve got another engagement once I’ve disposed of you tonight, so we’d better get going. “
She bent down to pick up her bag.”
“Oh, I almost forgot. Here’s one last addition that should leave Tony in no doubt as to when to open his present.”
From the bag she produced a long piece of red ribbon, to which was attached a large gift tag in the shape of a star, one side of which was covered in silver and gold glitter, whilst the other side had a greeting already written on it. Helen held this side up for Imogen to read. The message was simple and only seven words long – “Not to be opened until Christmas Day!!”.
Pulling Imogen up into a sitting position, Helen quickly looped the ribbon around her upper body, and secured it with a neat bow over her breasts.
“There you go. The perfect Christmas gift.”
Imogen’s transportation down to the car-port below the apartment block was, she was soon to discover, a risky operation. What if someone saw them? Surely, the sight of a securely wrapped up woman being forced to hop and jump towards a waiting car would arouse suspicions, wouldn’t it? Helen, however, seemed to have no such qualms, as she bundled her cargo into the lift that would ferry them down to the basement. When they came to a halt and the doors began to open, Imogen was half expecting to be confronted by one of her neighbours waiting to take the reverse journey up to their apartment, but fortunately there was no one in sight. There were only a few vehicles in the underground car park, but Imogen was puzzled when she found herself being piloted towards her own car. She had assumed that they would be travelling in Helen’s. And she must have made some sound that betrayed her surprise at this turn of events, as Helen immediately began to explain her reasoning for this decision.
“I’ve decided that it’ll be best if we take your car, which I’ll leave parked close to Tony’s house. That way, when he does eventually release you, you’ll be able to easily get home.”
The logic of this seemed sound enough to Imogen, although she couldn’t help feeling that everything wasn’t quite as it seemed. Exactly what brought this feeling of unease about, she couldn’t quite put her finger on, and Helen’s next action did nothing to quell the irrational fear that she was beginning to experience. Opening the boot of the car, she grabbed Imogen by the shoulders and began coaxing her into the dark, claustrophobic interior. This time Imogen dug her heels in and tried to stop herself being entombed in the confined space; protesting in muffled tones that she would prefer to be transported lying down on the back seat. Once more, however, Helen had a ready explanation for her method of doing things.
“I can’t risk having you on view in the car, even if you are lying down. We’re going to be travelling through the centre of town, and I will undoubtedly have to stop at junctions and traffic lights. The last thing we need is some passerby seeing you and calling the police. No, the boot is the safest place. Come on, climb in. It will only be for a few minutes.”
Again Imogen had to concede that Helen’s argument made perfect sense. So with some reluctance she allowed her captor to tip her gently into the waiting chasm.
“Okay, here we go. I’ll try to avoid pot-holes and bumps in the road as best I can. See you in a while.”
The noise of the boot slamming shut reverberated around the enclosed chamber. This was superseded seconds later by the revving of the engine, and the sensation of movement quickly followed; slowly at first as Helen negotiated the car-port’s security gates, then picking up speed as the road was reached.
The journey to Tony’s house should, Imogen estimated, take no more than fifteen minutes. So it was with some alarm, after this length of time seemed to have elapsed, that the car was still in motion with no sign of slowing down. Of course, she had no way of accurately gauging the passage of time, so she may – she kept trying to comfort herself with the thought – have got this totally wrong. After all, she’d never before been ferried around in the boot of a car whilst bound, gagged and done up as a Christmas present, so the chances of her over or under estimating the length of the journey seemed a distinct possibility.
But even so, a nagging doubt, which had started almost immediately after she’d been locked in the car’s cramped luggage compartment, now had her mind working overtime. The sly smiles, the (over) eagerness to help get her all tied up, the questionable sincerity, and a host of other considerations, all began to suggest to the now suspicious young woman that she’d been hoodwinked. Helen had no reason to help her; quite the opposite in fact. So why had she trusted this woman to render her completely helpless? It was a rhetorical question for Imogen, as she already had the answer to hand; namely that she had been so overwhelmingly desperate to be tied up and become Tony’s surprise Christmas present, that all other considerations had seemed insignificant at the time.
But this was all just wild speculation. Pulling herself together, she tried to suppress her rising anxiety by telling herself that she was being stupid, and that everything would be fine. In just a few minutes - she attempted to convince herself - they would pull up outside Tony’s house, Helen would place her on his doorstep, ring the bell, then hurriedly make herself scarce, leaving him to find her trussed and helpless form waiting to be picked up and carried into his lair.
And after another couple of minutes, the first element in this hypothetical scenario appeared to be falling into place, as the car slowed to a halt. The events that followed, however, most definitely did not follow Imogen’s script for her anticipated happy ending.
With the engine still ticking over, Imogen heard Helen get out of the car. But then, instead of the expected opening of the boot, a harsh grating noise reached her ears, as if heavy metal doors were being dragged open. Seconds later, the car dipped down again as Helen got back in, and almost immediately they were on the move once more. On this occasion, however, the journey lasted no more than ten seconds before the drone of the engine ceased. For a period of several long seconds there was only silence, before that same sound of the doors – presumably now closing again – sent a shiver running through every inch of Imogen’s bound body. What was happening? Where were they?
The boot slowly opened. Although the light that streamed in wouldn’t have been particularly dazzling under normal circumstances, the contrast to the pitch blackness of the car’s windowless rear compartment meant that for a few seconds Imogen’s eyes had difficulty focusing. As her sight returned to normal, however, she gazed up to see Helen standing over her; a gloating, not particularly pleasant smile on her face. Beyond, she could make out a high ceiling with a neon strip light directly above her.
“So Imogen, fell into my little trap, didn’t you? Well now you’re going to pay for your crimes.”
Imogen squealed at this point, as the realisation that she had been duped, and that her chances of spending Christmas as she had planned seemed to be receding fast. But what “crimes” exactly, was Helen alluding to? Her attempt to ask this question was stifled by her gag, but luckily Helen seemed to get the gist of her prisoner’s garbled enquiry.
“What crimes? Well for starters, how about the fact that you managed to deviously sneak in and steal the promotion that was rightfully meant for me? You know that I was the best candidate for the job, but you managed to flutter those big brown eyes and flash those fake tits of yours at the bosses and win them over.”
Despite the fact that she now perceived herself to be in a whole lot of trouble, Imogen was affronted by this latter insinuation. She tried to let Helen know – truthfully - that her breasts had received no enhancement of any kind. But if Helen did understand her muffled outburst, she paid it no attention, and the gravity of the situation soon caused Imogen’s thoughts to turn to weightier concerns. She did her best to remonstrate that she had done nothing underhand, and that she’d got the job fairly and squarely, but Helen obviously didn’t see things that way and it was apparent that no amount of reasoning was going to change her mind on this issue. But it soon turned out that this wasn’t the only gripe Helen had with her captive.
“And then, to add insult to injury, you try to steal Tony away from me.”
Imogen’s shriek owed as much to surprise as it did to the rising panic that was steadily building within her.
“Yes that’s right Imogen. I’ve had my eye on Tony for months. Yet all of a sudden, you come along and try to steal him from under my nose. Well you know what girlie? It’s not happening. First you come along and take my job, then you try to take my man too? I don’t think so.”
Helen leaned further into the boot and continued in a menacing whisper.
“You want to be tied up for Christmas, do you? Well that part of your request I’m more than willing to grant you. The trouble is that instead of being tied, teased and ravished in Tony’s nice warm bed, you’ll be spending the next few days shut up here.”
Imogen tried to lift herself upwards, in order to take a better look at her surroundings. For a second or two, she managed to raise her head and upper body high enough on her elbows to view the cavernous room that the car was now parked in, before being pushed back to the floor once more. However, this brief perusal of her new environment - with the tyres, engines and various tools and spare parts for car maintenance in evidence - was enough to tell her that they were in some sort of mechanics’ workshop. And Helen was keen to explain their whereabouts.
“This is the garage that my brother works in. It’s on an industrial estate on the edge of town. They’re closed now for the holidays and won’t be open again until 2nd January, so there’s no chance of being disturbed here. There are no houses within a quarter of a mile or so, so the whole area is going to be deserted. That means no one is going to find you here.”
She stood up to her full height again and gazed down smugly at her helpless detainee, who had started to struggle with all her might to get out of the mass of tape that held her in check. At the same time, she began pleading through her gag for Helen to see reason. This cut no ice, however, and in fact only brought forth a bout of sneering laughter from her rival.
“So here’s what’s going to happen. I’m going to leave you shut in the boot of your own car and lock the door of the workshop. Then I’m off to Tony’s house. I’m going to gag myself, handcuff my hands behind my back, knock on the door and let Tony find me all helpless and vulnerable. Knowing how he’s into tightly bound women, if I play my cards right I’ll be able to convince him to keep me tied up over the Christmas period.”
As if to demonstrate her intentions, she pulled a pair of steel handcuffs from her coat pocket and dangled them in front of Imogen’s face.
“I have to admit that there is one thing that I will be forever grateful to you for, and that’s planting the seeds of this idea in my head. So thanks for that Imogen.”
She smiled coldly at her shocked and trembling victim, before checking her watch.
“Anyway, I can’t stand chatting to you all night. It looks like we’re both going to be tied up this Christmas. But whereas I’m going to be enjoying myself in a nice warm loving environment, you’re going to be here all alone. And who’s going to realise that you’ve gone missing?”
She eagerly answered her own question.
“No one, that’s who.”
Imogen tried in desperation to haul herself out of the boot, but Helen simply pushed her back again.
“I’m fairly certain that I’ve tied you up so that you won’t be able to get free. However, desperate times call for desperate measures... and after a day or two here, you will most certainly be one desperate woman. So, maybe you will find a way out of there, who knows?”
Helen grabbed the lid of the boot, and Imogen screamed as loudly as her gag would permit as it slammed down with a loud reverberating crash, simultaneously plunging her into a sea of blackness. Seconds later, the dreaded sound of the workshop’s sliding metal doors being dragged open then swiftly shut again reached her ears, followed by what sounded like a padlock being secured.
For several minutes, Imogen shrieked and howled hysterically through the sponge wadding that filled her mouth. This had to be a wind up, didn’t it? Surely Helen was just doing this to frighten her, wasn’t she? But deep down she knew that this wasn’t the case, and that Helen was deadly serious in her intent to leave her here for the long term. And this assumption was soon confirmed, as the seconds multiplied into minutes, which in turn merged into long, bleak hours.
Banging on the roof of her tomb in her cocooned state proved difficult, and failed to make as much of a commotion as Imogen was hoping it would. And her attempts to summon attention with her mournful screams and cries fared little better. If it was true that the industrial estate was closed until New Year - which seemed more than feasible -then she would be reliant on Helen coming back to let her out. But when was that likely to occur? With a shiver of utter dread, Imogen thought back to Helen’s finally words this evening. For as soon as the boot had been closed, Helen had shouted back her seasonal greetings as a parting shot.
“Good night Imogen. I hope you have a very Merry Christmas...”
And then, immediately prior to the workshop door being closed and locked, she added.
“...and if I can’t get back to let you out, a Happy New Year too!”