“It’s a game of tag,” Calvin says.
“Tig,” Gabe interrupts.
Calvin snorts. “That’s not a word, and it’s definitely tag.”
“Not in Sheffield, it isn’t.”
“You’re in the south now, Gabe. You need to talk properly.”
“I’m going to pretend you didn’t say that,” Gabe says in a disgruntled voice.
“I’m only teasing.”
“Uh-huh.”
“You were telling me about British Bulldogs?” I prompt now that they’ve stopped their playful bickering.
“Two people stand in the middle of the field,” Cal explains. “They’re the bulldogs. Everyone else is at one end. The aim of the game is to get from one end of the field to the other without getting caught by the bulldogs. If you get caught, you become a bulldog.”
“It pays to be fast,” Gabe says, securing rope around my chest below my pecs.
“It sounds brutal,” I say.
“In theory, it’s not,” Calvin says.
Gabe laughs. “In theory.”
“You’re not supposed to rugby tackle each other. You’re meant to tap the runners to catch them, just like you would in tag.”
Gabe laughs harder. “You must have gone to a very civilised school if that’s how you played it. I have distinct memories of getting tackled to the ground. Maybe schools banned it.” He begins to tie another rope below my ribs.
“That would explain why our princess has never heard of it,” Calvin says. “Who’d have thought ten years could make that much of a difference to break time games?”
I’m not sure whether to laugh at his comment or not. “We played tag at school,” I say instead.
Gabe passes another rope around my hips, and then there’s tugging as he threads it around the third band, right over my belly button, then the second and first bands, creating a central column. He works his way back down the four bands of rope. As nice as it would be to see the knots and twists in the rope, I’m enjoying the sensation of the rope tugging me ever so slightly each time Gabe secures it. He adds four ropes over my shoulders, no doubt to spread my body weight when I’m suspended.
“I’m going to tie your arms now,” Gabe tells me.
“Okay, Daddy.”
“Clasp your hands together.”
I obey, and he passes rope around my wrists, tying them to my thigh before moving up my arms to bind the widest part of my forearms. He pulls them together except for space for a large knot that brushes against my skin. Finally, he ties my arms above my elbows so they’re resting over my stomach. I’m aware of him adding more rope to secure the final loop to the centre of the chest harness he’s created.
He checks the strength in my hands and then says, “All right, baby boy, I’m going to suspend you now.”
He attaches ropes to the centre of the chest harness and the point where my wrists are tied to my thigh. Moments later, the ropes pull up and tight, and I’m slowly lifted from the floor. Gently, he pushes my left leg up and rests the sole of my foot against my opposite thigh, binding it in place. It’s almost like he’s creating a Roman Centurion’s boot around my leg, with a central column running down my shin to my ankle and laces at regular intervals around my calves. He secures my leg to my wrists, holding it in place before asking me to push each of my feet against his palm.
“I feel great, Daddy,” I assure him.
I don’t need to be able to see to know that people are staring at us. It doesn’t detract from the intimacy of Gabe binding me, but it does make the process more thrilling.
“I’m going to change your position,” he says.
“Okay, Daddy.”
He adjusts the ropes so my body is at an angle, my head lower than my legs. I’ve never been suspended in this orientation before. Blood rushes to my head, and I take deep breaths to stop myself from panicking.
