The sun was golden, the grass soft under bare toes as Ben returned to the house from his garden office. He met quite the vision within the lanai - Sandra Silvers and Carissa Dumond - two stunning, unsuspecting sirens in swimwear sunning sublimely, simply sizzling to see. They saw him and smiled, and Ben, well he had that look in his eye. The dangerous one.

Sandra, in a tight pink one-piece that hugged every inch of her curves, the fabric clinging like a second skin. Her long silver hair swayed as she laughed, bare feet brushing the warm stone pavers. Carissa, looking the vintage vixen on fire in her orange triangle bikini, stood just behind Sandra, toes curling dark hair tied up, innocent, flirty, completely unprepared.

Ben moved like a shadow.

In seconds, the ½-inch sash cord was in his hands—thick, silky, unforgiving. He didn’t speak. Just smiled.

Sandra gasped as he spun her around, her bare soles skidding. The rope bit into her waist first, crisscrossing over her back, then looping under her arms, pulling her elbows tight behind her. The cord wrapped again—tighter—binding her upper arms to her ribs, her chest pushed forward with every strained breath.

Carissa tried to run. One step. That’s all she got. Ben caught her by the wrist, yanked her back, and in one smooth motion, had her tied just like Sandra, soon ropes digging into her hips, waist, chest. Her bikini top strained as the sash cord pinned her arms behind her back snugly.

Then came the gags. Red cloth, folded thick, stuffed into their mouths. No begging. No screaming. Just wide, panicked eyes and bare toes curling into the grass as Ben knelt, securing their ankles with tight wraps, making sure their soles stayed exposed, vulnerable, perfect.

“Hop,” he said.


And now we see the women.


They wobble in to view; pink and orange swimwear bright against watery blue, bound bathing beauties hopping on stiff legs toward the pool’s edge, their breasts swaying with every awkward bounce. The sash cord digs into their skin, the white rope standing out against their swimsuits, the tension pulling their bodies into helpless columns.

Then … SPLASH.

They are thrown in the deep end, first Sandra, then Carissa tethered tightly, plunged into the deep blue.

Underwater, time slows.

Their legs kick uselessly, locked in ropes, arms pinned, gags blooming red in the ripple-light of disturbed depth. Bubbles explode from their noses as they twist, trying to right themselves, their bare feet flailing, toes pointing in panic. The sash cord holds - every knot intact - the water swelling the fibers, making their clinging grip ever tighter.

Sandra’s pink suit shimmers as she rolls, her white-gray hair fanning out like a halo. Carissa’s orange bottoms gleam, her dark tanned legs thrashing, toes curling and stretching as she fights to surface.

But Ben isn’t done.

He sits at the waters edge, watching them struggle.
No rescue.
No mercy.

Just oxygen fading in gasps and gulps as under the surface desperate race to escape… or sink in pleasure.

Some women get saved.
These ones? They get to suffer… and love every exhilerating second ;-) :-)