Rope 'Em

by Delphine Dryden

  They were nearly to the top of the rough road that led up from the new barn to the old one, which had been farther from the main house. But Ethan had to know one thing before he tied Victoria up. He stopped, putting one hand near her shoulder and then letting it rest there when she didn’t protest. He turned her toward him, and she contemplated him with an expectant expression.

  “Okay.” He took in a deep breath, then exhaled. “Nat King Cole sings ‘Stardust.’”

  She didn’t even take a beat before answering, “One of the single greatest songs of all time, bar none.”

  “Yes. I’ve always thought it was a shame it was a breakup song, because that means it wouldn’t work at a wedding.”

  “Me too.”

  For the silence that ensued, the word loaded didn’t even begin to cover the vibe. He almost resented the universe—not Victoria, just the universe—for this moment. She’d been there for close to two weeks, being bad at things but trying. Quietly delighting in the growth of kittens. And now, understanding about “Stardust.” But he had so much change on his plate right now. And might be about to have even more, depending on the outcome of the talk Doc Taylor said he wanted to have on Monday, over pie at Minnie’s. Dammit, he didn’t have time for the most beautiful woman in the world to show up, at age twenty-two, and force him to choose between Frank Sinatra and Ella Fitzgerald singing Cole Porter. Which didn’t explain why he was cupping her shoulder, flexing his fingers there, stroking the curve of the muscle until it relaxed under his touch. He dropped his hand, stuffing it back into his pocket and resuming the walk toward the barn.

  “Um.” He knew there were more things they should cover before the rope demo. They’d never worked together before. Hilltop was pretty stringent about safety. But his mind was full of stardust melodies and visions of Victoria, wound up in love knots. “Um. If you want to pick the music instead, that’s fine.”

  “If you’ve been using that low-quality 1930s recording of Benny Goodman—although it’s still one of the greats, no question, not about that—then trust me, whatever I pick will be an improvement. Can I play it from my phone or—?”

  “Yeah, as long as you already have it loaded. We have one of those plug-in speaker things, but it doesn’t do well if you’re trying to stream stuff. The music freaks the lawyers out. We’re kind of illegal right now, technically, since we don’t have an ASCAP or BMI license to play it for customers. It’s all under the radar, though, so . . . I thought you had to get a cheap phone.”

  She sucked in her cheeks. “Welp. Yeah, but it’s still the same brand and it has the same kind of plug. It’s just the old model that came with no upfront cost. It won’t really do GPS or some other stuff. But I can still get all my music on it, including the songs I have in mind. Plus, y’all seem to have some pretty solid wi-fi here, at least near the big house, if I did need to add anything.”

  “Yeah, we do. I sorta made that job one. You aren’t supposed to have your phone out at all during Giddyup, by the way.”

  Victoria chuckled. “Well, now I know that.”

  She’d probably known anyway; it was a pretty standard rule at kink events. But whatever; at least they’d have better music. Or . . . different music. He hoped it wouldn’t ruin his flow.

  Watching her walk into the barn, already flicking through her playlists, he was pretty sure his flow would be the furthest thing from his mind during the rope demonstration.

  Chapter 9

  “I’ve given you about seventeen minutes,” Victoria said when she plugged her phone into the speaker on a shelf by the barn’s tall, wide, open double doors. “Figured you might need a little extra time since we haven’t worked together before.”

  “Perfect. You gonna tell me what’s on it?” Ethan was talking over his shoulder, heading to a door on the opposite wall that appeared to lead to a utility closet.

  “Nope. You have to be surprised. I think it’ll be good surprises, though.” She toed off her boots, leaving them next to the mat under the suspension frame, then shucked her shorts as she looked around the barn. It wasn’t a double rank of stalls bordering a long hall, like the horse barn, but an open square with stalls and large lofts on two sides. Some stalls had been opened out and redesigned to create two long supports for bondage, flanking the central frame where she and Ethan would be playing. The back wall was bare except for a few storage cabinets, but she saw eye hooks and some chains hanging from the rafters. Plenty of room for more ambitious multiplayer scenes than the scaffolds would allow.

  The whole space had a distinctly old-fashioned look, like a movie set. She’d only been in it once before and hadn’t seen it at night; the charm of the setting was enhanced by the fairy lights strung from the lofts and the spotlights on the individual play spaces. As she looked around, the spots on the sides went out, leaving only a pool of light over the central mat and the glow of the fairy lights all around.

  Ethan emerged from the utility closet carrying a long duffel bag. It made a heavy, clanking thunk when he dropped it on the mat.

  When he unzipped it, Victoria could smell the rope, an instant hit to her senses that primed her body for what they were about to do. She sat down close to the bag and started stretching, easing herself into things.

  Her shoulders and hips were tight from days of unaccustomed physical labor. The stretches verged on painful and she had to slow down, backing away and reining in her eagerness. Pulling a muscle would spoil everything, and she wanted . . . everything. Everything in that bag, every part of her bound, wrapped in rope like the tightest hug in the world. Tight enough to hurt and strong enough that her entire body could literally depend on it. She wanted to fly.

  And she wanted Ethan to send her soaring. His hands looked sure and capable as he laid out his ropes, which were color-coded with whipping at the ends. Most of them were undyed, she noted with approval, including one that appeared to be a fifty-footer. If he followed through and gave her all those, she’d have plenty to work with later. And for the demo, the natural hemp would look wonderful with the rich purple he appeared to have chosen as an accent color.

  People started filtering into the barn, a few at a time. Some of them greeted Ethan, a few also nodding politely at Victoria. She didn’t know any names, hadn’t seen any familiar faces yet. It was an interesting feeling; there was a freedom in anonymity. For all anyone knew, she was a professional bondage model. She was whatever she appeared to be until people knew otherwise.

  She reached for her shorts and pulled a hair elastic from one pocket, using it to put her hair back. Ethan glanced at her, then stepped over and held his hand toward her head, a question in his eyes. When she nodded, he wrapped one hand around the base of the ponytail.

  “Probably need to move this up a few inches so when I wrap it and put tension on, it’s not pulling at your neck instead of your head.” He shifted his hand, pressing the spot he meant. He stroked the top of her head and then flipped his hand through the ponytail as he moved away.

  She tried to ignore the shiver his touch had sent through her and wished the sports bra did more to hide the instant hardening of her nipples. The barn wasn’t as cool as she’d expected—a few white ceramic heating panels were placed here and there—so she couldn’t blame her body’s reaction on the temperature. If she got any wetter, there would be no hiding that either, especially not once she was hanging in the vulnerable position he’d described.

  She could tell herself all she liked that it was the smell of the hemp revving her up, that her body was so eager because she hadn’t been tied up in months and needed the freedom and release she only found when she gave herself over to the rope. Those things were true, after all.

  But those factors were nothing compared to the way Ethan had taken such care, since hearing about the coffee shop incident, to gain her eye contact and ensure he had her knowing consent before he laid a finger on her. And that was nothing compared to “Stardust.”

  Okay, so he wasn’t her type. She wasn’t into c
owboys or boys next door or even semiblonds. But for whatever reason, she wanted him, plain and simple. Or complicated and involved, depending on what equipment they had handy. And any way in between. But he thought she was stupid, possibly, and he seemed to have issues with the way his life was going, even though things seemed to be going incredibly well for him. He was getting everything he wanted from what she could tell, but for some reason he wasn’t that happy about it. Yes, he smiled and was goofy and seemed to have work he enjoyed. But when he thought nobody was looking, he brooded. She hadn’t known him long enough to know whether that was his base state or not, but she’d dated a chronically unhappy guy once and knew better than to go there again.

  There was nothing worse than wanting to make somebody happy whose natural frame of mind ran to dissatisfaction. Although as a fling . . . it could work. They could help take each other’s minds off their various troubles. It could only be a fling anyway, because she wouldn’t be here too much longer, right? She still told herself that, desperately needing to believe it, but every day it seemed less like the truth and more like a dream she’d once had and was beginning to forget.

  The crowd had grown substantially while she stretched and mused. A few dozen people lined the central square on all sides now and more were trickling in. Ethan scanned the bundled ropes he’d laid out, nodded as if he were satisfied, then snagged a stool from the other edge of the mat and placed it directly under the center hardpoint of the scaffold, where a heavy ring was already suspended. Ethan’s body radiated energy as usual, but it was focused now, intense. When he looked at her, his gaze was more serious than she’d seen since the day she arrived at Hilltop. At least when he thought anyone could see him.

  “You ready to start?”

  “Yeah. Let’s do this.”

  He held out his hand and she took it, letting him pull her to her feet. “You’ll need to start the music, unless you want to give somebody your passcode.”

  “Oh! Duh. Right.” She jogged lightly to the shelf with a sheepish smile, tapped her phone screen, and started the playlist she’d created minutes earlier. The audience didn’t react as Ella Fitzgerald’s voice floated across the room, probably because most of them had never heard the opening lines of the song. But when Victoria turned, she saw Ethan grinning broadly. By the time she got back to the mat and Louis Armstrong had chimed in, the crowd was chuckling at “Let’s Call the Whole Thing Off.”

  Ethan pointed at the stool with the bunch of rope he held in one hand. “Noice.”

  She took a seat, propping her feet on a rung. “Thanks. Not Cole Porter, but, you know. Ella.”

  “And I do love a Gershwin tune.” He turned to the crowd, raising his voice only slightly. “Howdy, y’all, and welcome to the Bondage Barn. I’m Tigger the Rigger, and my lovely model this evening is . . . oh, crap.” Sheepish, he turned to Victoria and stage-whispered behind his hand, “What’s your scene name?”

  She laughed out loud. “I can’t believe neither of us thought of that. Would you believe Piglet?” She could tell by the look on his face that he didn’t believe it for a second. “It’s Velvet.”

  “Thank you.” He turned back to the spectators. “My lovely victim this evening is Velvet, ladies and gentlemen. It’s our first time working together. My usual partner couldn’t make it and Velvet was kind enough to sub in on a moment’s notice. Give her a big hand.” After a short round of applause, Ethan brandished his fistful of rope. “We hope you enjoy the demonstration.”

  The scene had started and she’d given him blanket permission to touch her. He didn’t hesitate but handled her with confidence now, quickly wrapping her chest in the snugly tied harness that would support most of her weight once she was in the air. He was almost done when the mellow strains of Ella and Louie ended and a rapid drumbeat began. A few of the crowd members started to snap along, and one couple broke out into a quick swing dance move in the corner.

  Ethan paused, his head and shoulders moving in time with the music. “Gene Krupa?”

  “Yeah.” Her voice sounded lower, husky, almost sleepy. She was already getting happy and floaty from the rope, from being handled, from the process.

  “I stand corrected. This is better. Scoot back so your butt’s off the stool, then lean forward to counterbalance.” He went back to work, moving with such rapid assurance as he wove the rope around her body that sometimes she could hardly see his hands moving for the blur. She knew the feeling. It was her getting-things-done song, her montage music. Before she knew it, she was roped into the position he’d described to her before the scene, her arms bound to her calves with a two-column tie, her wrists and ankles similarly bound.

  Ethan was whipping suspension lines from the back of the chest harness up through the ring, then back down through a quick wrap around her extended ass and thighs. One more pass up, then he cupped her chin gently and tilted her head to the right angle, stroking her cheek a moment before he started the wrap around her hair.

  When Gene Krupa was replaced with “Fly Me to the Moon,” Ethan laughed, leaning against her for a moment. She felt his amusement through the motion of his hip against her flank and his hand on her neck.

  “Oh my God. Too perfect. I . . . love this song. And perfect timing. This is the moment for Frank.”

  “Mmm.” It was all the answer she could muster, from so deep inside her happy place.

  The rope around her hair pulled taut; she assumed he’d passed it through the ring as well. He made a few more checks and adjustments, then pulled all the tension out of the suspension lines, ready for the dramatic moment.

  When he pulled the stool out from under her, leaving her in midair like a magic trick, the audience clapped, and a few people whooped. Then, to Frank’s accompaniment, Ethan tugged and adjusted further, pulling her ass higher and finally hoisting her entire body up several more inches.

  Flying. Rocking gently. Not floating, because flight took effort, meant accepting some pain—the ropes pressed into her skin and squeezed her, and she could feel every ounce of her own weight where the lines rose from her body to the central ring. She closed her eyes and let her other senses take over, smelling the rope, hearing the gentle creak of it when she shifted slightly. Ethan wasn’t touching her, but she knew he was holding her up. Probably tying the line off, if she bothered to look. But she didn’t bother. He was there, as close as if he were the one wrapped around her.

  * * *

  Lust goggles. Had to be. Ethan could think of no other reasonable explanation for the way he seemed to be the only one to notice how Victoria, bound, was the most beautiful thing to ever happen at any kink event, ever. Or at any art museum, because she was definitely art.

  Dude, she’s a person, stop dehumanizing her. Objectification is not cool.

  Objectification was a good word for it, though, because as he worked—played out the ropes, carefully wrapped and wove and manipulated Victoria’s limbs into the exact pose he wanted—he felt almost as if he was standing outside himself, watching the scene unfold. And holding his breath. He and Victoria and the rope formed an endless loop of intent, agreement, consent.

  Everybody hanging out in the repurposed old barn paid attention and clapped for the demo. For Victoria’s brilliant music choices. They were enthusiastic. But it was clear to Ethan that he was the only one having a transcendent moment. Maybe Victoria was, too, but he was trying not to let himself think too hard about that. If she wasn’t, that would be a bummer. If she was . . . how could it ever be a one-off?

  He’d always felt more tolerant than understanding of the kinbaku masters who often performed at big BDSM events, with their silk robes and their models dressed in traditional Japanese undergarments. Quiet music, a sense of reverence and ritual. None of it had ever seemed to match his own experience of rigging, which was as physical as a sport to him. Ropes were cool, he was kind of a geek about the gear, and tying up women who liked to be tied was fun as fuck. If they also wanted to fuck, either during or after? Two thumbs u
p. But this, whatever was happening right now . . .

  This was new.

  Everything here was utterly familiar to him. The barn he’d played in since childhood, the beams and joists he’d inspected and reinforced by hand to ensure safe suspension, the rings and clips. His palms and fingers, oversensitive from all the recent scrubbing, felt every inch and tug of the handmade hemp rope—this may be hurting me more than it hurts you—but every movement was automatic, so engrained in muscle memory he hardly needed to think about it. Flow, groove, the zone . . . this was where he found his, and that was part of why he loved doing this. But tonight . . .

  Tonight, everything was new because of her.

  Or maybe because of Gene Krupa. The brisk music fit the mood so exactly it seemed to infuse him with lightning speed and uncanny deftness. It was almost dreamlike, the speed with which he bound her chest, her slim, soft arms and smooth legs. She seemed to hit subspace almost immediately, barely making more than the occasional soft gasp as he pulled and tied and tightened. When he positioned her head for the hair tie, she looked completely blissed out, drugged by the rope. He found his hand lingering against her flushed cheek—Velvet—and he had to force himself to stop touching her face like a lovestruck idiot and concentrate on the tie.

  Until the music changed, and he realized that either by instinct or luck, she’d timed it so “Fly Me to the Moon” started right before he was about to hoist her. He laughed, the breathless spell broken but in the most amazing way. He even commented, unable to resist stroking the fine hairs on the back of her neck, but she couldn’t articulate her answer from wherever she was in her head. She hummed, smiling, sounding like sex.

  Perfect timing for Frank Sinatra, worst possible timing for this woman to happen along. He knew it. But he was having trouble remembering why he cared. Too much other shit happening in my life to make a rational decision. The ranch is sucking me in. A girl who works at the ranch would only suck me in deeper. She’s too young for me. I’m too young to be meeting somebody and instantly thinking that if we got together, we’d settle down and have babies. Run away, run away.