THE LITTLE PRISONER

Feature Writer: Jacqueline Jillinghoff

Feature Title: The Little Prisoner

Published: 20.10.2021 / Published on Juicy Secrets Club

Story Codes: Young, Bondage, Lesbian

Synopsis: Childish games lead to perverted lusts

The Little Prisoner

I never gave any thought to bondage or kink.  I’ve always been a standard-issue, lick-and-trib sort of lesbian. It took my lover’s ten-year-old daughter to introduce me to the joy of watching a pretty girl struggle against her restraints.

It isn’t as surprising as it might seem. Children have more active imaginations than the rest of us — the girls no less than the boys. Half the time, when you think they’re inhabiting the same reality as you, they are, in their heads, miles or centuries away. A little girl sitting at the dinner table might truly be a princess holding court. Gazing absently out the window, she might be looking down at the earth from an orbiting space station.

Or, lying in her bedroom, she might be the prisoner of a gang of cruel and ruthless pirates.

Carolyn and I had been living together for a month or so, sharing a two-bedroom apartment while I finished my degree and she saved up for the down payment on a house. Missy seemed delighted with the arrangement. Her dad was out of the picture, and she saw nothing remarkable in the fact that he’d been replaced by a woman. Her mom had already brought home a few other special friends before she plucked me out of class for some late-night student-teacher conferencing. (There was a lot of talk about my oral exams.)

Once we became a family, Missy appointed me her big sister. We bonded like glue, because I’m still as much of a kid as she is. Certainly, I’m closer to her age than I am to her mother’s. Carolyn turned 40 this year, so until somebody’s next birthday, she’s exactly twice as old as I am, and I’m twice as old as Missy, which isn’t as great a distance.

Missy’s a lovely child, with a shapelier body than you would expect for a ten-year-old. Nothing up top, naturally, but she’s got noticeable hips, strong thighs, and a sweet peach of a bottom. Her hair is a deep reddish-brown, and she wears it short, because she knows, I’m sure, the style draws more attention to her big brown eyes.

One evening, I remember, before we moved in together, Carolyn and I went to a talent show at Missy’s grade school. Missy, who had no desire to perform, had volunteered as an usher. She was dressed all in black — a lacy, see-through peasant blouse over a long-sleeved leotard, tights, and shiny, round-toed shoes — set off with a pink satin kerchief around her neck. Carolyn had also let her wear a bit of blush and lip gloss for the occasion.

I mention all this only because when she handed me my program, looking me in the eye with her glittering grin, it put a slight but unmistakable twinge in my clit. It might have been the outfit, or it might have been the attitude, but I had never seen such a sexy little girl.

Sexiness, in a child, is all very innocent, nothing more than the pleasure she takes in the way she looks and feels. There’s an element of make-believe about it, of playing dress-up.

At least, that’s what the adults charged with their well-being would prefer to think. But even in kids, make-believe can hook off in another direction entirely. I’d forgotten that lesson, if I ever knew it, until one afternoon when I came home from school early.

My two-thirty class had been canceled. Carolyn still had another hour to teach, followed by some faculty meeting or other, and she told me not to wait for her. I was looking forward to a snack and a hot shower. Missy would already be home, and I was thinking we could surprise her mom by having her dinner ready when she finally got back.

Our apartment opens directly onto a courtyard. I came up the walk and climbed the front stoop, books in hand, and found that the door wasn’t quite closed. Okay, I thought, Missy might have let it slam and forgotten about it. Her shoes and books were just inside, on the mat in the entryway, but the little living room was empty.

I locked the door behind me.

“Missy?” I called.

There was no answer. I peeped around the corner, where the bedroom doors face each other across the bathroom. Our door was open. Hers was shut. I knocked quietly.

“Squirt, you alive in there?”

Still no answer. Just a sudden, violent creaking on the bed.

Now, Carolyn and I respect Missy’s privacy. We would never just barge into her room. If Missy had said “yeah” or “okay”, or “be out in a sec,” I would have left her in peace and headed for the kitchen. But the weird noise alarmed me. If anything was wrong, and I didn’t help because of some rule of household etiquette, I would never have forgiven myself.

Before any of these thoughts were clear in my mind, my hand was on the handle and the door was swinging open.

At once, I knew I had been right to check — and I was sorry I did.

“My God! What happened?”

I sprang toward the bed.

Time slowed to a crawl, the way it does during a catastrophe. I can recall each piece of information as it presented itself, in order of perception. First, there were Missy’s eyes, burning hot and gaping at me in terror. Then there was that pink kerchief — the same one she’d worn at the talent show — stretched taut across her open mouth and tied in a great knot behind her neck. Next, there were her feet, raised behind her, and her arms, pulled back at a painful angle, as though they’d been wrenched from their sockets, and her ankles and wrists bound together in a beehive-shaped ball of brown twine.

And then I saw that, except for the pink gag and the tangled cords, she was naked. Her bare back was curved like an archer’s bow, lifting her tiny pink nipples an inch off the bedspread.

“It’s all right,” I said. “It’s all right. I’m here. I’m here.”

I started picking at the knot in the scarf. Missy tried to talk through the gag, but all I heard was a cascade of broken, muffled syllables.

“Shhh. Shhh. I’ll have you out in a second, and we’ll call the police,” I said. “Are you hurt? Did they — oh, no.”

I couldn’t finish. I didn’t have the courage to ask what I thought — what I knew — they had done to her. Whoever they were.

The damned knot would not budge, and only seemed to get tighter as my panic set in. I tried tearing the gag from her mouth, but even that was hard, because the scarf was packed in solid, stretching her lips into a hideous grimace.

Finally, I managed to work it halfway down her chin, and the first thing she said was, “Don’t tell Mom!”

“What?”

“Don’t tell! Please!”

“Of course we’re going to tell Mom,” I said. “She has to know. And we have to call the police—”

“No!” she said.

“Wait. I’ll get you out, and we’ll talk.”

I went to free her hands and feet.

“Don’t tell anybody!”

I thought she had the presence of mind to worry about what the authorities would do to me and her mother. We had neglected her. We let her stay home alone after school, and she had been attacked. They were going to take her from us. Somehow Missy knew what would happen.

“I was playing!” she said.

Playing. The word hardly registered, but then it dawned on me, in the same slow, piecemeal way that I’d taken in the rest of the scene, that something didn’t make sense. Missy’s wrists, I saw at last, were bound with nothing but slip knots, and the line that held them together was wrapped just twice around her feet. I was able to free her hands in a few seconds.

If I hadn’t come to the rescue so fast, Missy could have done it herself.

“Missy,” I said, “did you do this?”

“I was playing,” she repeated, like that somehow explained everything.

“Playing? Playing what?”

“Pirates.”

“Oh, God. Oh, God.”

“Don’t tell!”

“I won’t. I won’t.”

“Promise!”

“I promise. But … Jesus!”

My clitty was tingling again, the way it had at the talent show, only much more insistently. I forgot about alerting 911 and focused on the spectacle in front of me. There was one detail I’d missed in all the turmoil: Missy had a piece of cord around her waist. And I recognized it now — it was the heavy, 3/8-inch packing twine left over from the move. To that, she’d attached another piece, passing it front to back, like a manilla thong. What a creative little girl she was. I could just imagine how the bristles felt, scratching her asshole and her tender pussy while she pretended to struggle.

I mean, I tried very hard to imagine it.

I traced my finger across the small of her back, along the twine belt, and patted her smooth young buns.

“Do you do this a lot?” I asked.

“Not a lot.”

“But why, uh … why with no clothes on?” I asked.

“They stole them.”

“Who did?”

“The pirates.”

“Oh, I see. So if you get loose, you still can’t run away.”

“Right!”

The rope between her legs told me there was more to it than that, but this was the scenario she was working with.

I held up the line that had bound her wrists.

“But look at this,” I said. “You could have gotten out so easily. It’s like the pirates only wanted to see if you were desperate enough to run away naked.”

Missy had brought the ball of unused twine into the room with her. It was lying on the floor on the far side of the bed, along with a pair of scissors. I cut two pieces, each one much longer than the one she’d used.

“Put your hands behind your back again,” I said.

She obeyed without a murmur. I couldn’t see her full face from where I was sitting, but she might have been grinning.

I haven’t been sailing since I was a girl, when I took lessons at summer camp, but I remember how to tie a bowline and a sheepshank. This situation, I quickly decided, called for a pair of anchor bends. I fashioned one around each wrist, five loops each, and drew them together with a pair of square knots. Then I took the leftover strands and, raising her feet again, threaded them through the coils around her ankles.

Finally, just because I liked the way it looked, I cut a third cord and wrapped it three times around her legs, above the knees.

Now she was hog-tied for real.

“There,” I said. “Let’s see you get out of that.”

She did try, pulling from her shoulders, but all that did was bend her knees more. Then she tried straightening her legs, and all that did was stretch her arms. The effort made her wince.

“Too tight?” I said.

“A little,” she said.

“Too bad.”

I stuffed the scarf back into her mouth.

“Muh-fuh, ickllig, fugglick,” she said, or words to that effect.

“Go on,” I said. “Can’t get away now, can you?”

“Eh-ee-ow! Eh-ee-ow!”

“Oh, no one’s going to help you. There’s no escape. Mwah-ha-ha!”

Her fingers waved helplessly, feeling for knots that were always just out of reach. She squirmed. She clenched her adorable butt. She rolled from one side to the other, straining with all her might. Nothing worked. Nothing gave. Her breathing grew labored, until she blew one last, frustrated gust of air and lay still.

“I should leave you like this till your mom gets home,” I said.

That brought forth a squeal of genuine terror, muffled by the gag, of course, and another fit of frantic squirming.

“Eeesh! Eeesh!” she said, which I took to mean, Please! Please!

“She needs to see what a little perv her daughter is.”

“Ah ee goo! Ah ee goo!”

“You’ll be good? It’s too late for that. You’re my prisoner.”

“’Oh! ’Ooooh!”

“Yes! Yeeees!”

You might be wondering, at this point, the effect Missy’s predicament — real or not — was having on me. At some point during our little melodrama, I’d begun pinching my nipples through my bra. They were hard as stone, and my panties were getting soggy in the crotch.

“Getting warm in here,” I said, kind of lamely.

I stood at the foot of the bed and stripped. Missy lay still and watched, her eyes getting wider as each piece of clothing dropped to the floor. It felt good to get out of my bra. I have big D-cup boobs that Carolyn loves to suck on, and all the straps and underwiring had become oppressive.

It felt even better to get out of my panties. It was like stepping out of a wet bikini bottom, except for the thick smell of pussy that suddenly filled the air.

One hand shot down there instantly, while the other cupped one breast and raised it toward my mouth. My tongue could just touch the nipple — it was tantalizing, but I was really doing it for Missy’s benefit.

“Think you’ll ever be able to do this?” I said. “Lick your own tits? Ever see a girl—oh … fuck.”

The hand in my cunt had taken on a life of its own, beating the sloppy hole with two fingers. Normally, when I come so fast, it’s a small one, but this —

Poor Missy must have thought I’d gone insane, bent over with my knees buckling, my ass out, my tits shaking, my face screwed up like a gargoyle’s. But she seemed to love the show. She strained to keep her head up, never taking her eyes off me.

“Do you play with yourself?” I asked, just to catch my breath.

She said something through the gag, but I was suddenly distracted by her feet — the wrinkly arches, the toe-pads like rows of bleached pebbles — hovering in the air.

“Here, I’m being selfish,” I said.

I climbed on the bed, and, kneeling over her, kissed the deep curves of her arches. She spread her toes and whimpered.

“Tickle?” I said.

“Uh uh! Uh uh!” she moaned.

“No?” I said. “How about this?”

I drew my fingernails along the length of each foot. This time, the giggle was unmistakable.

“There it is,” I said.

She tried to make it hard for me, rocking and twisting, but the more she resisted, the more ticklish she got.

She shrieked and thrashed about, which only brought out the sadist in me. I was merciless, moving from her feet to her tummy, which lay open like a valley of virgin snow.

“Are you going to be good?” I teased her. “Are you going to try to get away?”

She was on her side, helpless and exposed, with the twine digging deeper into her baby-pink slit. I laid off the tickle torture and, twisting the line around my hand, gave it a long, steady pull.

Missy stopped squirming. She closed her tear-filled eyes, and for a long, silent moment her whole being seemed to turn inward. She arched her back so hard I thought it would snap, pushing out her ribs as her cunt clamped down on the stiffened roughness between her legs. Her pussy lips closed around the line like a tiny white fist.

I couldn’t make myself come until I was twelve, but then again, pirates never ran a rope through my twat.

“Wow, sweetie,” I said. “Feels good, huh?”

Gradually, her body relaxed, and, just as gradually, I loosened my grip on the twine.

“Wha wush AHH!” she cried.

“Hm?”

The knot in the scarf no longer presented any difficulty.

“What were you saying?”

“I said, what was that?” she said.

“I’m pretty sure you had an orgasm.”

“I never felt anything like it.”

“Then definitely, you did.”

“Let me loose,” she said.

“Starting to hurt?”

“A little.”

I went to work undoing the knots I had tied so meticulously.

“Did you have an organs, too?” she asked me.

“Orgasm,” I corrected her.

“Yeah.”

“Couldn’t you tell? Of course you couldn’t. You’re ten.”

“So did you?”

“God, yes.”

“Whattsa matter?” she asked.

“Nothing. Orgasms are wonderful. As women, we must reclaim our sexuality.”

“Huh?”

“Never mind. — There, you’re free.”

The last knot had separated. I left her to unravel herself while I went to pick up my clothes.

“And we’re not gonna tell, right?” she asked.

“I’d just as soon forget the whole thing.”

“Whattsa matter?” she repeated.

“Nothing,” I repeated back. “Oh, look at the time.”

Missy joined me in the shower, which she did sometimes, except now it felt illicit somehow. By a small miracle, we had spaghetti and salad ready for Carolyn when she walked in the door.

Missy wore one of my school sweatshirts at the table. The sleeves came down over her fingers, which hid the rope burns on her wrists.

---

We didn’t talk about our adventure in the pirates’ den, though I couldn’t stop thinking about it. I had sex with Carolyn a couple of times, and it was good, it was okay, really, but I was distracted, and she knew it. She was never anything but patient, assuring me over and over that whatever was wrong, we could work through it. But what could I tell her?

And I was scared to death Missy would let something slip. She was as bright and chatty as ever, but I had let things get out of hand, and that had to weigh on her as much as it weighed on me. I kept wondering if I should bring it up, do the whole concerned-big-sister routine, sit her down for a heart-to-heart and tell her that what we had done was a natural act of curiosity and it’s okay to experiment sometimes and touching yourself is healthy and nothing to be ashamed of but she’s still a little kid and I’m in love with her mom and blah blah blah.

You might say I was knotted up inside.

After I’d been sullen and moody for a week, Carolyn left for her usual Thursday evening class, which meant leaving me to watch Missy. I was on the love seat in the living room with my books on the coffee table and my orange Hi-Liter in my hand. Missy sat beside me, already dressed for bed in her flannel nightie and her big yellow Tweety Bird slippers. She liked to snuggle with me when I studied, but tonight, it made me irritable.

“Come on, squirt, I’ve got to concentrate. You can stick around, but—”

“Let her study, sweetie,” Carolyn said as she came out of the bedroom.

She stepped behind the sofa, and I tilted my head back for an upside-down kiss. It was awkward, but she managed to slip in a bit of tongue. The easiest thing was to reciprocate, even if my heart wasn’t in it.

“Oh!” she said. “Keep the motor running till I get back.”

“For sure,” I said.

She gave Missy an over-the-shoulder kiss as well — without the tongue, of course.

“Be good,” she said. “In bed by nine-thirty. I love you.”

“I love you, Mom.”

“I love you too,” Carolyn said to me.

“I know. I’m sorry I’ve been such an almighty bee-otch.”

“For a body like yours, I can forgive anything,” she said. “We’ll talk.”

No, we wouldn’t.

I didn’t hear the door lock. I guess Carolyn figured one of us would do it. Missy and I, left alone on the love seat, looked at each other. She knew what I was thinking, and I knew what she was thinking, and we both knew the other knew. Our family was in tatters, and it was my fault.

“Don’t you have homework?” I asked.

“Did it.”

“Of course you did. Well, I’d like to get through some of this.”

“It’s okay,” she said, but she didn’t sound any more sincere than I had with Carolyn. She got up and went to her room.

I read the same paragraph a dozen times and had no idea what I was supposed to get out of it. My pussy was aching, and just running to the bedroom and jilling off wasn’t going to help. It was going to be a long night, followed by sex I didn’t want to avoid a conversation I wanted even less.

Then the voice came from behind.

“Hey,” Missy called, “can you help me with something?”

“Squirt, I’m busy,” I said.

“Please?”

I looked over my shoulder, and life took on a whole new meaning.

Ten-year-old Missy was standing in her bedroom doorway, wearing nothing but those ridiculous slippers. Her left hand was raised above her head, propped against the door jamb, and from that hand, a single strand of 3/8-inch twine hung in spirals to the floor.

“Come on,” she said. “Tie me up.”

“Missy—”

“I’ll run away if you don’t.”

“Like that? You wouldn’t dare.”

Wrong thing to say. Challenge delivered, challenge accepted. Missy bolted for the front door. She actually got it open and was halfway down the walk, stark naked, before I caught up and snatched her around the waist.

“No you don’t!” I said.

“Let me go! Help! Heeeeelp!”

“Quiet!”

I clapped a hand over her mouth and dragged her back inside, wriggling and clawing like a feral cat.

What can you do with such a little hell raiser? I’m new to this, but I’ve found an effective means of discipline is to tape over her smart mouth, lash her, spread-eagled, to her bed, and give her kitty a thorough tongue-scrubbing. She makes some noise while I’m down there, but the calm, when it finally arrives, is profound.

Then I can take my time and get myself off, straddling her and humping her wherever I feel like it. She knows she has to lie still and take it. Any trouble, and the tickling starts.

Or it might start anyway.

The prisoner is now temporarily subdued. I can get back to studying for twenty minutes or so before she starts writhing and whining again, and the process has to be repeated.

But Mom won’t be home for hours, and my knots are good and tight. The little prisoner is going to learn to behave. Yes, she is.

THE END