by Lilia Moon
I can feel some of the crankiness even Betsy and a cute kitten couldn’t shake, leaching away as my fingers stroke art.
She pulls over a second stool, far enough away we won’t be brushing against each other accidentally. I don’t know her well enough yet to know if it’s intentional. The Dom in me would want to know, but he’s always been easily overruled by the rope master. I bend the rope in my fingers again. Thicker than what I usually work with, but supple and tempting. “This is incredibly pliant for jute.”
She’s watching my hands, and her cheeks are rosy again. “It’s a blend. I know a lot of my clients are purists, but a carefully done blend can add the best of both fibers to the finished product. That one’s about fifteen percent silk added to my favorite jute.” She hands me a second hank of rope, about four feet long. “This is what it feels like newly made. The silk makes conditioning a bit trickier, but I think the final product is worth it.”
There’s passion and deep knowledge in her words, and they both stir something inside me that hasn’t had enough time to breathe lately. My fingers work their way along, feeling the twist, testing the bend. It’s got the light fray of new jute rope, but even in its primal state, I can feel the softness. I double it up and wrap it around my own wrist, testing. I’m partial to the forms of shibari that rely on friction, and the rope needs to be able to hold on to itself.
Her breath hitches beside me.
I tamp down the reaction that tries to light in me. I’m not a purist, and she’s a genius with twisted strands. That’s why I’m here. The sexy voice and curves straight out of a pin-up calendar are just distraction.
Outrageous distraction. I want to take the rope from her hands and bind her in it, and then spend the rest of the night rubbing scented oils into all the skin I can reach. Respecting the rope. Honoring the woman. Pleasing the hell out of myself.
And soothing the rest of the cranky beast I drove here with, which is entirely the wrong reason to do anything. Especially when I can see the hesitation that comes along with her hitching breath.
She might make rope, but she’s never let it bind her.
Chapter Four
Liane
I don’t know where he goes when his eyes get that look, but wherever it is, it’s deadly. Potent, snapping energy, but with the kind of control that lets you know he’s the guy in charge of whatever he’s about to unleash.
Or not. Because whatever I can feel from him, he’s not actually moving.
I swallow. This is no time to go off on a poetic fantasy about a hot guy. He’s a customer, and he’s looking at my ropes the same way he just looked at me. With eyes of focused lightning.
I try to find a question that will let me stop feeling like the lone tall tree in the forest. “How did you get into rope tying?” I can’t quite say bondage, even though he’s clearly very comfortable with who he is and why he’s here.
He uncoils the jute blend from around his wrist and runs it along the back of his hand, which somehow isn’t any less potent.
I pull my eyes up to his, and swallow again at what I see there. He knows what he’s doing to me.
“My first job after college took me to Japan for a couple of years. A friend took me to watch a shibari demonstration. I was a pretty serious rock climber back then, so I knew a fair amount about rope and knots, but I’d never seen it as art.”
I wonder if he knows how much his eyes shine as he remembers. “Rope can be beautiful.”
He smiles, and it’s as deadly as the lightning. “Rope and rigger and person willing to be tied. The art is in the interaction between them.”
I know exactly what he means. Part of me lives in the rope in his hands. I can feel my cheeks getting hot.
He’s still running the jute over his skin, working it in his fingers, but it’s me he’s watching. I look down, mesmerized by his hands. Shaken by what they’re stirring in me. “That’s probably not a good rope for what you want.” He does complicated ties—he said so in my client questionnaire. “It would take a lot of work to get it to soften enough for your needs.”
I can feel my mind skittering toward that thought and away from it at the same time as I babble, telling him things he already knows.
He nods, but he’s still not looking at the rope. “You can ask, Liane.” His voice is gentle and steady and inviting. “I’m only just now realizing this is probably as unusual for you as it is for me. I’ve got a hundred questions about how you make your rope. Maybe you’re just as curious about how it gets used.”
Curious isn’t the word for what’s going on in my belly right now. “I’ve Googled. And I’ve asked. A few customers have been willing to share. One sends me pictures.” I can feel my cheeks flushing, but I’m determined to own this. “She’s putting together a book. Her images are beautiful.” And some of them give me shivers, just like his hands are now.
He reaches for another piece of rope on my bench. “Samara? Her work is amazing.”
I wince, hard, as realization hits. “I’m sorry, I didn’t realize you would know her. I can’t talk about my clients.” I’ve already said far too much.
He shakes his head, studying me. “I can promise you that Samara won’t care. She’s a total exhibitionist.”
He’s not wrong about that, but I’ve still said more than I should have. I’m not used to having customers in my studio, especially really unnerving ones.
His eyes soften. “Thank you for being concerned. Not all of us are public about what we do. It might help you to know that riggers who are really good at their work are a small group, and your ropes come up in conversation a lot. I helped Samara with a suspension scene a couple of months ago. I should have recognized her ropes as yours.”
I somehow imagine all my customers live out there in the big wide world in separate little bubbles, even though I know it isn’t true. Almost all my business comes from referrals. Nothing stays on my website long enough anymore for new people to find. “She’s been really helpful with testing new blends for me.”
His eyes sharpen with interest. “How do I get onto that list?”
I wince. I’m utterly failing at my job of wooing an important customer. “It’s not anything formal. She came to me wanting something that would be easier than straight jute on her hands. We’ve been working on some fiber blends and conditioning methods to make a rope that would work better for female riggers.”
His head tilts. “Seriously?”
That fires up some part of me that doesn’t care if I screw this up. “It isn’t weakness to want rope that bends more easily.” I know most rope-bondage masters are men, but that seems like a product of tradition and misogyny, not skill. Most rope makers are men too.
He’s entirely still on his stool long enough for my heartbeat to pound guilty awareness into my brain. I want to crawl into a twine basket and hide, but it’s long past time I handled this like an adult. “I’m so sorry. I’ve had comments from a few clients that have rubbed me the wrong way, but you’ve never been one of them.”
He smiles. “You stand up for your people and your craft. I like that.”
That’s a generous response when I just abraded him with words made out of my most prickly hemp. “I really am sorry.”
The wattage on his smile turns up several notches. “Unnecessary apology accepted, especially if you show me some of the blends you’ve been working on.” He holds up the hank he’s been playing with. “I grew up on a farm, so my hands are tough, but I also like to work with intricate designs. Rope with this kind of bite and more give would be great for that.”
Of course it would. Which means I just sandpapered him over his genuine interest. I shake my head. I should probably go bang my head against a bench and knock some sense into it. Instead, I reach for the layered basket where I keep my most special projects.
The one with an apology appropriate for a rope master.
Chapter Five
Matteo
I can tell this rope is special before I s
ee it. She’s touching it differently. Treasuring it.
She takes out a coil of burnished gold and lays it on the bench in front of me. “This is hemp, silk, and bamboo.”
My fingers jump to grab it before she changes her mind—and nearly toss it over my head. It’s light as a feather, or at least far less weight than I was expecting for hemp.
She laughs, and it’s a gorgeous sound that leaches the rest of the awkwardness right out of her body. “The silk and bamboo make it lighter. I wanted to keep the earthy feel of hemp, and the smell, but balance it out with fibers that offer lightness and strength.”
The rope is conditioned and prepared, and I know just how much work that takes, but you can only soften something so much from its primal state. I give a sharp tug, and the feel between my hands is a marvel, and not of the kind I expected. Softness usually comes with trade-offs this doesn’t have. “Will it handle suspension?”
She backs away, palms in the air. “I don’t know. There’s no reliable way to calculate. It’s strong, but I can’t make any promises.”
She doesn’t need to. I’ll chat with Samara, queen of crazy-ass suspensions, when I go home. I uncoil the length of rope, my hands measuring off the eighteen feet or so I’m holding. Finding the middle. Doubling it back on itself. The very first moves I teach any beginner, but even those are enough to tell this rope is wondrous. “How did you condition it?” I can’t smell anything but hemp, which is what I associate with fresh rope, not something this pliant and smooth.
“Oil’s bad for the bamboo and silk, so I spun the hemp wet, which produces a softer yarn. I tried that with the bamboo and silk as well, but that just got me a hot mess, so this isn’t a true blend. There are seven plies in each strand—three of the bamboo-silk blend spun with a tight twist, and then four of the wet-spun hemp.”
I have my eyeballs as close to the hemp as I can get them. “How’d you get the silk to match the color of the hemp?”
“Dye. It took several tries to get it right, especially with the hemp darkening as it conditions.”
I know now why the rope is so smooth. Most riggers, including me, burn the fuzz off our ropes. This one was done with friction. Repeated rubbing over a surface with enough catch to smooth the fuzz down. Old school, time consuming, and stunning in its results.
Especially in rope this thin. My fingers are aching to bend and wrap. A modified karada. Something that shows off every inch of pliable strength. But thin comes with risks. I wonder if she knows. “Why the smaller diameter?” This rope would be fantastic even at the usual six millimeters.
She clears her throat. “I’ve been experimenting. A few of my clients have been requesting it.”
There’s something in her voice besides nerves. “I haven’t seen any go up on your site.”
“No.” She swallows, her fingers crimping against her jeans. Then she huffs out a breath and reaches for the conditioned hank I set down. “I read that wider rope is less likely to cause unintended pressure points or pain.”
The Dom in me snaps to attention. “It can, but any kind of rope can be dangerous if it’s poorly used.”
She raises her eyes to meet mine and nods. “I know.”
It bothers her. The idea of making tools that might be abused. “I teach ropes classes and do a lot of demos. It’s always a concern—that someone will learn the basics and go home and try something they aren’t remotely ready for.”
She nods slowly. “How do you deal with that?”
In a whole lot of ways she can’t. “I mostly do my demos at the club where I’m a member, where there are other experienced eyes watching and supporting people as they learn a new kink. And I have rules for anyone who takes my classes. Complex ties and suspensions have to be tried at the club first.”
She sighs. “I can’t do any of that. I have customers as far away as Japan. Except for a few people like Samara, I just have to send out my rope and hope they have some safe place like your club to use it.”
I smile, because the rope in my hands suddenly makes sense. “You made this for her. To suit her hands and her skill.”
She nods quietly. “I did. She talks with this amazing respect about the people she ties up, and she’s always asking me how the rope will feel for them. I wanted her to have something beautiful to use that didn’t hurt her hands.”
I’ve seen Samara babying her hands after a long scene. Heck, I’ve felt my own ache. This rope, in the right hands, is an absolute gift. “Samara and I could give you a short list of riggers worthy of this kind of rope. This is treasure, Liane. You should make more of it. And whatever you’re thinking of charging for it, you need to raise your price. A lot.”
She makes a face. “I already charge ridiculous amounts. I made Samara squeak.”
I can’t stop the laugh. “I’d have paid really good money to see that.”
She grins at me. “We were on Skype. It was kind of funny.”
I can only imagine. Samara is lithe Domme elegance all the way down to her bones. She’s also not a rope master with stupid amounts of money in the bank. “Two lists, then. Riggers who should get Samara’s prices, and those who should get mine.”
She takes in a deep breath and looks me straight in the eye. “I don’t know if I can trust you with this rope yet.”
She’s like one of her blends—silky soft with the toughness of jute when you least expect it. And I’m done denying my deep attraction to that. “Fair enough. How about you give me a chance to prove it?”
She swallows. “What do you have in mind?”
Her voice is steady, but every other tell she has is wobbling.
I reach out slowly, giving her plenty of time to back away. I take her wrist and wrap the doubled rope into the beginnings of a two-column bind. “Let me show you how I’d work with your ropes, sweetheart. Let me tie you.”
Chapter Six
Liane
I can’t look away from his hands. I need to see his eyes, to know whether it’s his softness there or his lightning or something else, but I can’t move my gaze off the rope and my wrist in his hands. He’s wrapped it twice around, two passes of doubled rope, held by some kind of elegant knot he did one handed without looking.
Because his eyes aren’t on the rope. He’s looking at me.
“Liane.” His voice has some of the lightning in it now, but not much. “I need your words. You don’t have to do this. But if you want to, if you’re curious, I’d love to show you.”
I clear my throat, which feels coated in hemp fuzz. “What would you do?”
He runs a finger slowly along the rope around my wrist. Touching it and touching me. Making us something together that we aren’t apart. “Something simple for you and a little trickier for me. Your rope wants to be fancy, but I can make it an easy tie for you. Your chest and arms, maybe.” He tugs gently on the sleeve of my flannel shirt. “Do you have something more form fitting you can put on?”
My breath stutters a little. Relieved. Strangely disappointed. In Samara’s pictures, the people she’s tying up are always naked. “I’m wearing a tank top.” I start to shrug out of my shirt and realize the binding on my wrist is in the way.
He releases it, and I feel oddly naked. More naked than when I drop my shirt on the bench.
His eyes skim the simple black tank. The dandelion tattoo on my shoulder. The curves that have never pretended to be anything but abundant. “That will work very well.” He steps into me and sets a hand on my shoulder, tracing his fingers along the abstract lines of the tattoo. “Tell me about this.”
It’s somehow not a question I’m expecting. “It’s a dandelion.”
He chuckles. “Tell me something I don’t already know.”
I make a face at him, and suddenly whatever was wavering in me feels steadier. Lighter. “They’re cheerful and resilient and bloom where they land.”
“Hmm.” There’s a smile in his voice. “I like that.”
I do too. I inhale and remind myself why I wear it. I
’m not fragile. A little rope isn’t going to break me.
His fingers are still skimming me, lightly brushing skin that pebbles in the wake of his touch. “I’d like to know the story behind it.”
I shrug, but I can’t find words to talk about dandelions. Not while he’s touching me like this. It’s opening an intimacy that’s making it hard to breathe.
His fingers slide under my chin, gently lifting my eyes to his. “There are two ways I can do this. Like a demo, where I show you a pretty tie and let you see your rope in action and then I untie you and we go have some of those snacks you mentioned.”
The hemp fuzz in my throat doubles. I don’t want that choice. I want the one he hasn’t said yet. The one the lightning and the softness are offering.
He smiles. “Or I can show you what art feels like from the inside. What can happen when rope and rigger and person being tied enter a space that none of them can get to alone.”
He speaks of my rope as if it’s alive, just like I always imagine it to be. But this isn’t just about me and my rope. He would be there too, and all I really know of this man is what I think I see in his eyes.
He takes a half-step back. “It’s a true choice. I’d be honored to do either. Or neither, and that holds when we get started too. The choice is always yours.”
He’s not just saying it. He means it—it vibrates in his voice, in the lines of his body, in the sincerity written all over his face. He doesn’t think bendy rope is weak and he clearly doesn’t think the people he ties up are either. He’s just very gracefully put all the power in my hands, and he’s literally backing away to give me the space to decide what to do with it.
I reach out and touch the rope I made to be used for something good and strong and holy. And make my choice. “Art. Please.”