“So,” I said to her, my hand idly playing with a bit of jute, “Would you be up for a bit of rope?”
A. had been snuggled nicely, back against my chest, for the duration of the movie (Hard Candy, and a better portrayal of a mindfuck I’ve never seen). She grinned and said “I’m never not in the mood for rope.” I emptied out the rope bag from the last party (two lengths of jute still tangled, a mess of 4.5mm linen rope, one jute length neatly coiled, and a pair of torn panties. It was a good party) and thought about it…then just kept the linen, grabbing my Special Rope instead. It’s 4 strand Bavarian hemp, a rich red that was bought just after the dissolution of my poly family. It has a thick, luscious weight to it, and a deep organic smell that makes one think of musk.
“I’m not feeling nice,” I warned her, in a kind of negotiation. “I’m not feeling like being sensual and all Oh, are you feeling the soft rope- like.” I emphasized this by grabbing her hair, forcing her head down to the carpet, then releasing her. “Are you up for that?”
She nodded. “Sure. It’ll be what I’m used to.” I took that as a bit of a challenge, and it was a not-so-subtle reminder that this was the first private scene with one of the most sought-after ropesluts in this town. If I were one of those kinds of doms, I would say something like “A lesser top would have been intimidated,” or some bravado crap like that. Fuck that, I was intimidated; two nights before she’d been worked over by Mistress Jade, a pro domme affectionately known as the “Queen Bitch of Madison.” A good friend of mine, and because of that, I know she’s harsh.
But what can a guy do? I did my best to clear my mind, grabbed a length of red, and began on her legs.
Stripping the pants off was a pleasure in and of itself; she didn’t exactly submit to my fingers on the fastenings as much as have an air of “Ok, we’ll let him do this, see where he goes with it.” When her long legs were bare (“Sorry, I’m a little stubbly,” she said, and I smiled, running my hands up the strong thighs) I began with a tight wrap around the upper thighs, two bands about four inches apart, the rope winding around itself to pull tighter. I grabbed a length of my second best rope, a rich green German hemp, and did the same to her calves and ankles.
Her eyes and breathing had changed, as I’d turned her into a bit of a mermaid. From the waist down she was almost bare-skinned and immobilized, and as I lifted the tiny loop between her ankles up, raising the legs, we both became aware of how much this exposed her fine ass…something to be aware of later.
I grabbed the thin linen rope. Time to get mean.
It’s all about anticipation. I tied one end of the linen to the loop between her ankles, letting the rest of the fifteen feet fall to the floor. Letting her see what I was doing, I began lacing it loosely from the ankle to the band highest on her thigh. After about four loops, I pulled the remaining linen up through the legs and stood over her.
There is a certain kind of pleasure to this kind of scene that is ascetic, that does not go for the simple, easy pleasures of skin on skin, finger to clit and nipple. The body becomes merely a construct of flesh and blood and bone to bend and shape with the rope, and the mere fact that the nudity is incidental becomes a part of the rush, the freedom of losing one’s identity in a bubble of deliberate time. It’s an objectification fetishist’s dream.
Remarks, during and after, puntuated with cry, gasp, slap and moan:
“Huh. Didn’t expect that you’d have the skills to match your reputation.”
“You’re not supposed to know how to do that!”
“Not supposed to know that, either!”
“You’re like Bergelmir, the Blacksmith of Pleasure!” (This required some explaining; apparently in the Lucifer comic there is a character who plays Loki’s brother. Bergelmir is the mirror to his evil brother, and rather than being the Architect of Pain he is the Blacksmith of Pleasure).
“I think some continental plates shifted there, somewhere…”
The scene was everything a rope scene should be – it pushed us both to the edge, it was emotionally charged, and I found at the end I did not feel exhausted – she gave energy back, through nuzzle and lick and such that left me happily joyful. We were, in fact, not a little shaken by this – we were different species, you see, she monogamous, me polyamorous, and so we were wary of any attachment.
Well, I was, anyway. She laughed when I said that, telling me that it was practically plastered across my forehead. “But you are like a diabetic in the land of plenty,” she chuckled. “Everything you want and need is all around you – you simply can’t metabolize it!”
I laughed with her – for a moment. Then it sank in…and I realized I had more things to think about that night.
Follow