Belle - Tied Collection

The raid in the Hollow was proceeding as usual. The Bangboo proxy was calmly going about its work when, all of a sudden, it began making strange, jerky movements—before finally falling silent and standing frozen in place, its gaze becoming vacant and unfocused. Nicole, one of the expedition members, approached the Bangboo and tapped it with her bag, but it didn’t budge.

In same time - Random Play.

Deep within the secluded back office of Random Play, the usual rhythmic hum of the HDD terminal is swallowed by the tense, heavy stillness of an ambush. Belle, the usually sharp and lively half of the legendary proxy duo Phaethon, finds herself entirely stripped of control, bound securely to her own rolling desk chair.

“Mmphm!”

Thick coils of reflective silver duct tape wind tightly around her slender torso, pinning her arms behind the backrest and pressing firm against the bright fabric of her cropped top and jacket. Her dark, asymmetric hair—parted with its familiar clip—falls messy across a thick black blindfold that completely robs her of her keen sight. Beneath it, a tight red cloth gag muffles her voice, swallowing every sharp retort, tactical warning, and panicked breath into choked, desperate whimpers that escape only as stifled “mmphs” Her legs, clad in dark compression tights and urban boots, are bound together at the thighs, knees, and ankles with punishing thoroughness. Strands of tension run through her arched frame as she strains against the unrelenting adhesive bindings, beads of nervous sweat tracing her flushed skin under the faint glow of the workstation monitors. Cut off from her controls, her brother, and the safe digital conduits she effortlessly commands, the brilliant navigator of the Hollows is left completely vulnerable at the very center of her prison of binding

“Grmgh!”

Bell continues to writhe, trying to break free; she was caught in the act while helping her friends, and now she has no way of seeing exactly what they stole or what the attackers’ true objective was. But the room remained quiet—until the door opened and she heard hesitant footsteps. They moved slowly around the hall, then gradually approached the door behind which the bound owner of the video rental shop was being held.

The raid in the Hollow was proceeding as usual. The Bangboo proxy was calmly going about its work when, all of a sudden, it began making strange, jerky movements—before finally falling silent and standing frozen in place, its gaze becoming vacant and unfocused. Nicole, one of the expedition members, approached the Bangboo and tapped it with her bag, but it didn’t budge.

In same time - Random Play.

Deep within the secluded back office of Random Play, the usual rhythmic hum of the HDD terminal is swallowed by the tense, heavy stillness of an ambush. Belle, the usually sharp and lively half of the legendary proxy duo Phaethon, finds herself entirely stripped of control, bound securely to her own rolling desk chair.

“Mmphm!”

Thick coils of reflective silver duct tape wind tightly around her slender torso, pinning her arms behind the backrest and pressing firm against the bright fabric of her cropped top and jacket. Her dark, asymmetric hair—parted with its familiar clip—falls messy across a thick black blindfold that completely robs her of her keen sight. Beneath it, a piece of white adhesive tape with a large red cross on it, as if echoing the "Mute" effect, muffles her voice, swallowing every sharp retort, tactical warning, and panicked breath into choked, desperate whimpers that escape only as stifled “mmphs” Her legs, clad in dark compression tights and urban boots, are bound together at the thighs, knees, and ankles with punishing thoroughness. Strands of tension run through her arched frame as she strains against the unrelenting adhesive bindings, beads of nervous sweat tracing her flushed skin under the faint glow of the workstation monitors. Cut off from her controls, her brother, and the safe digital conduits she effortlessly commands, the brilliant navigator of the Hollows is left completely vulnerable at the very center of her prison of binding

“Grmgh!”

Bell continues to writhe, trying to break free; she was caught in the act while helping her friends, and now she has no way of seeing exactly what they stole or what the attackers’ true objective was. But the room remained quiet—until the door opened and she heard hesitant footsteps. They moved slowly around the hall, then gradually approached the door behind which the bound owner of the video rental shop was being held.

“Mmphph! Mmfff!”

Deep within an abandoned, dimly lit warehouse on the industrial fringes of New Eridu, the heavy, stagnant air smells of dust, damp concrete, and cold metal. Belle, the spirited and quick-witted navigator behind Phaethon, finds herself cornered far outside the safety of Sixth Street, rendered completely helpless in the shadows of towering cargo crates. Slumped low against the chilling surface of an unyielding concrete wall, her arms are pulled tightly behind her back, pinning her against the rough partition. Thick coils of heavy silver duct tape wrap mercilessly around her ankles, binding them firm and robbing her of any chance to scramble to her feet or push away from the encroaching dark. Across her lips, a wide strip of gray adhesive seals her mouth, stifling every sharp threat, call for help, and nervous murmur into strained, muffled breaths that catch in her throat. Her signature cropped jacket—bold in its stark contrast of black and vivid orange—hangs disheveled around her frame, while her messy blue locks spill across her brow, held only by her familiar yellow hair clip. One amber eye squeezes shut in a wince of sheer vulnerability and wounded pride, while the other glances sideways through the narrow aisle of stacked cartons, glistening with unspoken panic. Stranded in the hollow silence of this forgotten storage floor, the brilliant proxy is cut off from Wise, her HDD terminal, and the city lights outside, left to shiver in the cold grip of captivity. The young woman continued trying to break free from the ribbons until she heard footsteps. Whose could they be? Hadn’t her captors left? The footsteps drew nearer, and Belle pressed herself against the wall, attempting to hide from prying eyes—breathing heavily through her nose, her mouth still gagged.

“Mmphph! Mmfff!”

Deep within the shadows of an abandoned warehouse on the industrial fringe of New Eridu, the silence is broken only by the muffled, shallow cadence of strained breathing. Belle, the spirited and sharp-witted navigator behind the legendary proxy Phaethon, finds herself thoroughly subdued and trapped in the narrow alcove between towering cardboard crates. Slumped helpless against the cold, bare wall, her situation has grown far more dire. Thick, unrelenting bands of silver duct tape wind across her chest, torso, and shoulders, firmly pinning her arms behind her back and constricting her dark, orange-accented attire. Her legs are bound with meticulous care—broad strips of adhesive secure her thigh, knee, and calf, leaving her bare foot pressed uselessly against the dusty concrete floor, completely stripped of her mobility. Beside her on the ground, a forgotten pair of scissors lies just out of reach. Across the lower half of her face, multiple layers of heavy tape form a dense, inescapable gag that swallows any clever retort or desperate plea into muffled, helpless whimpers. Disheveled strands of her dark blue hair frame a face flushed pink with heat, exhaustion, and mounting dread, with beads of sweat tracing her temples. As an imposing shadow looms over her from the aisle above, her amber eyes look upward—wide, glassy, and filled with a fragile mix of indignation and vulnerability, realizing that the brilliant proxy is utterly at the mercy of her captor. The young woman continued trying to break free from the ribbons until she heard footsteps. Whose could they be? Hadn’t her captors left? The footsteps drew nearer, and Belle pressed herself against the wall, attempting to hide from prying eyes—breathing heavily through her nose, her mouth still gagged.

Random Play closed its doors for the night; Belle’s brother had gone away on business, leaving her all alone in the building. Before long, she had stowed her outerwear in a closet and was moving calmly through the premises, dressed only in grey undergarments—one of the few ways to cool off on such a sweltering night. Suddenly, the entrance door swung open, and three people burst inside. Belle let out a squeal and covered herself with her hands.

“Tie her up!”

Their leader commanded, and two of them lunged toward Belle.

Five minute later

-Mmmpgh! Mmmph!

Now, Belle kneels upon the patterned rug, her form rendered immobile by an intricate lattice of coarse hemp rope that traces the contours of her body with deliberate, unyielding precision. Her arms are drawn tightly behind her back, wrists crossed and bound so that the rope bites into the soft flesh of her forearms; additional coils wind upward around her biceps and across the upper chest, forcing her shoulders into a rigid, arched posture. A broad, layered band of the same rope encircles her torso just beneath the swell of her breasts, lifting and compressing them within the thin grey fabric of her Calvin Klein brassiere until the material strains against the pressure. Further strands descend in a careful diamond pattern over her midriff, cinching her waist and disappearing beneath the elastic waistband of matching grey briefs that cling damply to her hips. Below, the bondage continues with methodical thoroughness. Thick loops secure her thighs together just above the knees, while tighter bands bind her calves and ankles, locking her lower legs in a kneeling position that leaves her feet flexed and her weight resting fully upon her heels. Every coil has been drawn taut enough to leave subtle indentations in the smooth, glistening skin—skin that shines with a fine sheen of sweat, as though the effort of remaining still has already begun to tax her. A wide strip of silver duct tape seals her mouth, pressed firmly across her lips and cheeks so that only the softest, muffled sounds can escape. Her short blue hair falls in slightly disordered strands around her face, one orange earring still visible, while her heterochromatic eyes—one a vivid green, the other a warmer amber—remain wide and alert above the gag. In the dim, cluttered room around her, posters and scattered objects form a casual domestic backdrop that only heightens the contrast of her constrained stillness. Belle remains there, held by the ropes in a posture of perfect, helpless tension—every curve of her body outlined and emphasized by the careful geometry of her bonds Shortly thereafter, the robbers took the money from the cash register along with a few rare cassettes, leaving the shop owner behind in that state. As they departed, they failed to close the door completely; Bell tried to crawl toward it to shut it somehow, but she didn’t quite make it. Standing in the doorway, a figure is looking straight at her.