bondwriterstories
patreon
Leaving Your Window Open - Chapter 1
🕑 Added 2022-07-16 04:44:21 +0000 UTCThe title is based on this commission Corazon did for tapegod02. It is the idea the poll a few weeks back suggested to handle first.
Chapter 1. Rid of their Parents
“You know we haven’t needed a babysitter in years, mom! It’s waste of money,” Rick reassures his mother.
The slender 39-year-old woman has checked everything is in order—mainly that the fridge is full enough to satisfy her three boys’ voracious appetite for three days. She stands on the threshold, ready to go, admiring her sons. Rick is blessed with being a handsome boy, with straight blond hair and big blue eyes; the lovely eleven-year-old’s smile and rosy cheeks always get him the favours of the adults around him.
Ben and Mark, his older siblings, stand at his sides. They’re one and three years older and made upon the same mould. Although their mom is proud of the display, she’s looking forward to her weekend without them at an inn in the countryside with her husband.
Their children make a perfect picture, but being around them can wear her out at times; they make noise and bring mayhem indoors, still enjoying children’s games and their boasts, brags, and threats. They’ve become quieter in the last few months, but she’s now discovering the joy of having three boys who stay at home a lot; they disappear in their rooms for hours at a time, and she doesn’t mind being away from sulky teens.
At least, they’re well behaved, and they help around. The common spaces remain relatively tidy, and when she and her husband go out, they don’t fear leaving them home alone.
They’ve proved they can be trusted; the house isn’t a mess when they return—to the contrary, and no damage is inflicted to the furniture or appliances.
The boys get close enough to their mom’s standards that she doesn’t worry about leaving them for what other parents would deem a very long time. It’s only six-thirty, but they’re already wearing their pyjamas like good little boys, which is enough for her and her impatient husband.
“Come on, darling,” he chides. “The boys will manage. You’ll text them anyway.”
“We’ll send you updates,” Ben promises.
Their mom pictures herself riding through the countryside, and spending time in the spa afterwards. She’s off.
At long last, their parents leave. The boys walk them to the car in the alley. The big house and the three acres of yard will be just theirs once the large sedan passes the gate. The boys wave, a healthy grin brightening their faces. Once the vehicle is out of sight, Ben and Rick turn towards their older sibling, their smiles changing.
Mark has seen these grins before. He was expecting them. The boys are going to play kidnap, for three full days to make it more exciting. His brothers have gotten better at it, and he’s looking forward to their experiments.
The late spring evening is balmy, a sign that the good days are coming. Mark wonders whether he’ll be trussed up to a tree like a few weeks before. He feels a shiver down his spine.
“Let’s get inside. We’ll start right away,” Ben cheerfully suggests.
Rick picks a rucksack from the entrance closet and points to the living-room. Chairs and furniture offer anchoring points to immobilize a bound boy, while sofas and carpeting provide mattresses to hogtie someone. Ben picks a hidden nerf-dart gun from under a cushion.
“Hands up!” he yells at Mark. His older brother complies, a pained smile on his lips.
“Why do you attack me, mister, I have nothing to give you.”
“Sit down,” Ben orders, waving at the metal tube chair with his plastic gun’s muzzle. “And shut up. You shouldn’t have come meddling in our lair. Now you’ll stay our prisoner.”
Ben gets the ropes out and wraps a first coil around the wrists Mark docilely offers him. The chair is convenient, its low back allowing to tie the arms solidly together and to the frame. The rope handcuffs have long dangling ends, which Ben uses to pin his older brother’s hands to the bottom slat and weave a crotch rope. It pulls his purple pyjama bottoms up his crack.
It’s only part of a series of ropes keeping Mark’s arms together. There are eight woven above his elbows and under his armpits, all linked to a central piece that prevent them from sliding.
Ben crosses his brother’s ankles and lashes them. He pulls the rope’s ends at the back and wraps them around the chair’s legs, keeping Mark’s socked toes an inch above the ground. With wrists and ankles imprisoned, the victim realizes his situation is dire.
“I can’t move, please don’t hurt me. I won’t say anythrggrmmrmmmbblll!”
“No, you won’t,” Rick smirks, clamping his leather-gloved hand over his brother’s mouth. “And we’re going to make sure you don’t.” He grins, proud of his wit.
Rick has bandanas at hand; he keeps the older boy’s mouth shut while grabbing them. Ben faces Mark and points a dart gun at him.
“Open up! Let Rick stick the hankies in your mouth. They’re clean, but I’ve got socks if you prefer.”
Mark complies, and three rolled bandanas slowly fill his mouth, gathering behind his teeth and pushing his tongue down.
The fiends discovered a few weeks back the merits of adequate stuffing, and they’ve tested plenty on Mark: a sponge, towel paper, and various garments like socks or underwear. They were clean—most of the time—but the tykes loved putting their big brother down by pointing out the humiliating stuff he had to suck on.
Rick uses a roll of thin surgical tape as a cleave-gag, pulling Mark’s mouth corners together. The half-inch of stickiness spins around the older boy’s head twice.
“No way you spit the hankies,” Rick declares triumphantly. He folds another large bandana in diagonal, then four times to get a three-inch band. He sets it carefully upon his brother’s lower face before he pulls the ends tight over his nape in a square knot, which transforms the bandana in a vice gripping his jaws.
“Perfect,” Ben says. “Don’t wait for me. I need to water the plants,” he says, using the euphemism allowed in their household for that physiological function.
Rick faces Mark, inspecting the bonds and noticing how inescapably they’ve trussed him up.
“You have one hour to try and escape. If you don’t succeed, you’re our prisoner until Monday, 7:00 p.m. when our folks get back.”
“Mrrffmgr?!” Mark wonders, twisting in his tight ropes, having no clue whether there’s a way out. His brothers’ roping skills have improved faster than his escape artistry skills.
The three days of captivity have been implied since the succeeded in having their parents rekindle their matrimonial happiness.
“I see in your eyes you’re wondering what we’re up to. We’re up to no good, that’s for sure,” his sibling says, adding a crystalline laugh to entice his audience.
Mark opens wide eyes as he spots shapes behind Rick. They cross the door threshold. Two black silhouettes are pushing Ben forward; he can’t call out; he’s as thoroughly gagged as he is and tied in an equally stringent way.
The men drop him behind the couch and leave. Mark doesn’t lose hope; he tries to warn Rick something is going awry, but the urchin’s amused looks and veiled threats don’t cease.
“If you fail, you’ll be our prisoner for three days. You’ve got half an hour left to pass the test. Go on, fight like a man and get out of our ropes.”
Mark realizes his alerts don’t carry out the urgency he attends, so he stops making noise. A humming sound on the other side of the room reaches Rick’s ears for the first time. He frowns and spins on his heel.
He takes three steps and sees his brother lying on his face; he spots the knot on his nape, which explains the inarticulate speech the lad delivers.
Rick turns to his chair-tied sibling, surprise in his eyes, but shapes coming from his side have him turn around, much too late. The two cat burglars are already on him.
Rick is a witty lad, prone to observation, and he spots they are male, the tight black Lycra outlining their pecs and broad shoulders. Five feet ten and five feet four—and strong hands, which seize him and twist his arms to prevent him from moving.
“Who are you, bastards?”
His question isn’t answered, and further verbal provocations do not yield any result.
“What the fuck are you doing?” the boy asks as the two fiends bind his wrists and ankles.
His attackers stay mute. A leather gloved hand gets off his shoulder to land on his mouth and shut him up. Rick keeps shouting, but his attempt is well muffled. His dampened calls join his brothers’ protests in a harmonious echo.
Mark and Ben witness their little brother’s gagging. The fiends cram a ball of white cloth inside his mouth and bind a tight bandage across his lower face. His cheekbones stick out and his struggle is thwarted by the man holding the scarf’s ends once knotted.
The two burglars then bind him in a tight hogtie, sparing no rope to immobilize their prey. They’ve done this before. A crotch rope gets Rick to insult them further behind his gag and his brothers to plead. The attackers do not care and finish turning the younger sibling into a sausage.
They leave him wriggling on the floor and go inspect Mark’s bonds. The boy feels totally helpless and imagines the worst that can happen. Mark can’t help finding the slender men, wrapped in tight black Lycra, hot. The black hoods and sunglasses conceal their features. The intruders lean in to check the knots, tightening a couple of them. The high-level difficulty is made into an impossible-to-beat challenge.
Not a word was spoken. The burglars leave the room and the three brothers fighting with their restraints. They hear the burglars climbing the stairs. What is going on? The muffled exchanges remain animated.
