Rachel Adams & Portia Everly – No Soliciting – Part 2

Face down on their crushed bound breasts, moaning helplessly into the massive sponges taped tight into their mouths, the two saleswomen writhed within the cruelty of their hogties. Thin nylon rope welded their elbows together behind their backs, while biting twine dragged their toes to their wrists, folding them into shapes meant only for agonized endurance. Any fleeting hope of relief vanished the instant their hair was cinched back to their elbows, every movement now punishing, every struggle heightening the increasing discomfort of the rope prison that held them.

Minutes stretched into an eternity. No knot eased. No coil slipped. With each passing second their discomfort deepened, and a terrible understanding crept in that this was no longer a demonstration but a predicament, carefully crafted to subdue and humiliate the two helplessness women. The last doubt faded fully when pads were taped over their eyes and blaring headphones sealed away the world.

Now they could struggle only in darkness, deafened and muted, their bare feet exposed, their freedom suspended entirely at the whim of their new master.

Unable to slip free of their chair ties earlier, neither woman proved her tape superior. He seized upon that failure, and devised another test trading adhesive for rope. Their legs were bound. Their elbows were crushed together behind their backs. Thin, biting strips of leather circled and cinched their breasts, turning every breath into a reminder of restraint. Then he told them to struggle.

They obeyed.

Despite the mounting discomfort, both writhed within their bonds, muscles straining, shoulders burning. It was a clever predicament. To win his favor, one would have to escape alone. Helping the other only helped them win. So they grunted and wriggled in isolation, each fighting for herself while he watched.

But no freedome came. No knot yielded. No loop loosened. Their efforts dwindled into little more than helpless squirming, thick strings of drool spilling past the huge ballgags wedged between their teeth as silent proof that neither tape, nor pride, nor determination could grant them release.

Their ballgags were removed only to be replaced by massive sponges, stuffed past their lips and taped in place with brutal efficiency. Rolled onto their stomachs, each woman grunted as he drew their ankles up to their wrists, cinching them tight and lifting their bodies just enough to steal every hint of slack. The beginnings of their hogties were set. Portia met Rachel’s wide, helpless stare, silently wondering how escape could even exist within such an unyielding crush of rope.

Then their toes were bound to their ankles. Finally, their hair was drawn back and tied to their elbows.

They could barely move.

Yet the task was cleat. Struggle for release.

They writhed across the floor, capable of little more than rolling onto their sides. They moaned. They grunted. They strained. But no freedom came, only the slow, merciless rise of agony as every effort failed.

When he returned, it was not to free them, but to deepen their plight. Pads were taped over their eyes. Headphones sealed over their ears. Once more they struggled, now knowing the truth that escape had never been the intent. They had given themselves to him, and he had accepted their gift.

Wrapped in tight rope, bent into shapes of painful tension, they were nothing more than helpless packages and ready to be carried away and made to endure whatever their new master had planned for his two new toys.