by Roz Lee
“You’re beautiful, too, Ava.” He nods toward my pale face in the mirror. “I know you don’t believe that, but I see it. And in this room, I am the Master.”
I study my reflection but I don’t see anything beautiful about my curves. My body is stiff with tension and my hands are clenched by my side. I shake my head, then shrug, trying to release some of the tightness across my shoulder muscles. “I’ve been called strong before. Capable. Annoying, at times.” I let out a light laugh, trying for casual. “Even bitchy. But beautiful? I’ve never been called that. Before now.” I didn’t mean to add that last bit. It sounds fragile and weak. The involuntary exposure annoys me.
He touches my shoulder and I turn from our reflections to face him. There is pity in his eyes, and I hate it, but there is something else behind the pity that has my heart racing even faster and sends an aching pulse directly to my core. Desire. The knowledge claws at my system and tears my hesitation to shreds.
“All righty then. Let’s do this, Roane.”
“No, Ava. From this point I’m in control. Not you.”
My lips part, but before I can say anything further he pushes me down onto the bench seat. “Now we will start.”
“Wait. Um…” My mouth is dry. “Don’t we need a safe word, or…something?” My voice fades at the amusement that animates his features.
“You could always say stop.” He crosses the room to the sideboard and retrieves several long sections of rope from one of the cupboards. Is he still amused? I can’t tell. “We don’t need a safe word as such, unless you want one. Rope bondage is inherently unsafe, but I know what I’m doing.” He shrugs. “Better than almost anyone, of course.” His self-confidence borders on arrogance and yet I know he’s correct. He is a Master. “I will check on you regularly. Your circulation. Your well-being. You must answer me when I ask, but I trust that you will. Do you trust that I will do the right thing by you, Ava?”
Do I trust him? He’s the world’s best. I’ve seen his work. Something in me relaxes just a touch. “Yes. I do trust you.” As much as I can ever trust anyone.
“Good. Now back to your safe word. What would you like it to be?”
He is still laughing at me, and my mind goes blank. I can’t think of a single word. He looks like a predator, watching and waiting, ready to pounce, and I finally blurt out, “Tiger.”
His mouth quirks, but then his shoulders lift in capitulation. “Tiger. Sure. Use that word if you want to pause or end our game. At any time.” He grins then, with a feral cast to his features that only enhances his similarity to the animal in question. “But you won’t.”
3
I expect the rope to be scratchy
He starts with my wrists, wrapping them several times and then creating an intricate knot that sort of folds back on itself. He calls that first one a double-column tie. He continues to wrap, and even though my hands are positioned in front rather than behind and I make an effort to study what he does, I have no idea how those knots work. Even if I did, with my wrists bound together like this I have no chance of getting any of it undone.
The other end of the rope disappears up toward that pulley system near the ceiling, but at this point I’m still seated. My anxiety continues to lurk in the wings, and when he re-positions my arms in a type of prayer pose in front of my breasts and then casts a couple of larger loops around my torso, the apprehension kicks into overdrive. One of my usual coping mechanisms is to breathe slow and deep, but the loops around my chest are quite close-fitting and when my breathing starts to escalate the restriction becomes uncomfortable.
My throat is tight, and a tiny moan escapes. Why am I doing this? What do I really know about him? What if he wraps me so tight I can’t breathe? What if… I don’t think I can… Oh, my God…
“You’re doing fine, Ava. Let it out.”
Let what out?
“Focus on the rope. What does it feel like against your skin?”
Okay. I can do this. I’m strong. The rope. Focus on the rope.
I expect it to be scratchy against my skin, but it isn’t. Instead, the rope glides over the contours of my body like the caressing fingers of a lover whose sole purpose is to provide pleasure for his partner. Roane is clearly a Master. I remind myself he’s had lots of practice, but it doesn’t stop the trail of goose bumps forming in the wake of the silken strands and though I fight to control it, a shudder wracks my body as the sensation wends its way once again to my traitorous clit.
“It feels…pleasurable.”
“Yes. Let it out, Ava.”
The only thing that wants out is my panic, and I refuse to give in. I shake my head violently but the rope is there again, together with the exciting brush of his fingertips as he weaves some kind of intricate pattern around my body. I love his fingers on my skin. They are warm, and firm, and the gentle touch mirrors the exciting feel of that cord slithering over my limbs and then pulling taut as he fastens it around me. I’m panting a bit and it’s starting to get painful. The rope. It’s so tight…
I press my lips together, trying to contain my emotions, but the anxiety is ballooning as fast as my desire and the breathlessness increases.
“I’m not sure… I’m not sure…”
He pauses and in the silence it’s as if I can hear my own heartbeat pounding in my ears. Fast. Staccato. Out of control.
“Do you want to use your safe word?”
Yes. No. I shake my head. These two warring factions inside my body are tearing me apart, and yet another of my coping mechanisms has been taken away. Instead of the freedom to pace back and forth across my office, giving me precious minutes to tamp my emotions back down, I’m now tethered to that damn pulley ring attached to the ceiling, and I can hardly move at all.
Another moan forces its way out of my throat, and Roane’s hand immediately cups my naked ass. He strokes me there, as if calming a skittish kitten, and while the anxiety decreases a little my desire ramps up, throwing everything out of balance. I start laughing, wondering if he knows just how close I am to the edge, but he presses a finger to my lips.
“Shh. You’re doing well, Ava.”
Am I? How would I know? The only time I’ve ever seen a shibari performance was when I visited a lifestyle festival in New York several months ago to find out why Connor had insisted on booking this particular rigger. Roane. They all talk about him with reverence, whispering his name as if he’s some kind of demi-god in the field of BDSM. I went there prepared to roll my eyes and ridicule. I discovered a man who took my breath away from the very first second I saw him, and witnessed a display that populated my thoughts, and my dreams, long after I returned home.
He’s good. More than good. His concentration and skilled precision is utterly fascinating. As I looked around the room that day I saw avid intensity mixed with awed respect on the faces of everyone in that audience. My face probably reflected the same.
Connor was right. Roane is a Dominant. And right now that Dom is reaching between my legs to feed a loop of rope along my moist seam and up over my clit. Just the thought of his hand down there makes me hover on the precipice of an orgasm. The nub poking out from my labia is so swollen and sensitized that when he pulls gently, making a tiny adjustment to the lay of the cord, I can’t contain an intense shudder that wracks my whole body from head to toe.
I catch his satisfied smirk and strangely, it enhances my excitement. So he’s a man after all, not a machine, and part of him must enjoy turning me on. It’s not all about making me submit. His cock has grown hard as he continues to wrap me. I can see the outline of his bulge tenting those dark trousers, and it’s an impressive size. I don’t remember him being aroused like that during the session I watched with Nicole as his model. I would have noticed, I’m sure. The moment he appeared on stage I was more aware of his presence—every nuance of expression, every move, every breath—than I’ve ever been of anyone.
Even back then, before I officially met him backstage after the show, there was
part of me that recognized and celebrated Roane’s effect on my system. His influence was so compelling that I dreamed for several nights after that event of his hands, his lengths of rope, encircling my body like a strange cocoon offering warmth and security.
During the day I dismissed the dreams as ridiculous fantasies. But at night…
The memory of those New York dreams, and the many that have followed since I returned to Melbourne, invades my mind and a fresh rush of cream releases from my vagina. I want to growl with the frustration of not being able to move. Not being able to touch myself to relieve the growing pressure of arousal.
I ache to reach out and unzip his trousers. Is he circumcised beneath that fabric? I have no idea where he is originally from, so I can’t even guess based on heritage or culture. All I know is that he maintains three homes—one each in Melbourne, New York, and Tokyo—and that his shibari performance and workshop services are in such high demand that he is estimated to be worth a small fortune.
As he moves back and forth around me I catch tantalizing glimpses of his hard-on. What would he do if I darted my head forward and nipped at his erection? Would he punish me with even tighter restraints? I’m so tempted to give it a try. I want to lower that zipper with my teeth and watch the turgid flesh spring free, and then lean over to take him fully into my mouth and sample his exotic flavor. But I’m helpless, bound by these rope shackles.
The frustration bursts out of me. “What do you need me to do, Roane? Please. Tell me.”
He lets out a little snort. “Nothing. Whilst you are in this session, I am in charge of everything.”
“But—”
“Stop talking.” His admonishment is quiet, but once again I detect that steel edge in his tone. He adjusts a line of rope running beneath my breasts, and then his fingers graze one of my nipples, ever so gently. For some reason it stops my breath altogether. It’s not the rope. It’s his touch. I want to feel it again. I need to feel it again. Why does the lightest of touches on my breast send a message directly to my sex?
“What is the rope made of? I thought it would be jute or something. Rough.”
He sighs then; one that sounds like a long-suffering parent stuck with a petulant child. I know he wants me to be quiet, but I have to talk. If I can’t move, how else will I maintain control?
He’s moving, circling me again, and I shift my head back and forth, trying to figure out where he is and what he’s planning next. Is he close? Is he standing back, studying my form and working out where his next loop is likely to go? Does he like what he sees when he looks at me? My anxiety begins to escalate again, and I’m trying desperately to hold it in when his warm breath tickles my ear. “It’s made of soft cotton. Not my usual choice, but it’s perfect for a beginner like you.” His voice is low, with a touch of wry amusement underlying the words. “It’s non-slip. And machine-washable. Great for things like this.”
His touch on my pussy is feather-light as he strokes the whole length of my seam with the end of yet another piece of rope. Again a spurt of wetness escapes my channel. Oh my God, did he see the fluid come out that time? I try to shift my legs more tightly together, but his firm grip stops me. He runs his hand from my inner thigh down one leg to my ankle and grasps firmly, bending my leg until my calf hits the back of my thigh. This position pulls my leg sideways and my pussy is almost fully exposed except for that one line of rope embedded along the slit. He binds my bent leg once, twice, and then a third time, with a look of intense concentration as he works to secure the loop.
He’s totally involved in this, whereas I, despite my arousal, still retain a sense of disengagement. I’m enduring it, waiting for the session to be over so I can move freely and have full control over my own body once again.
He looks up from his crouched position beside me, and I lose myself in the brilliant depths of his gaze. I could drown in those pools of emerald. “This won’t work for either of us unless you commit.” There’s a thread of annoyance in his tone and the urge to placate him fills me. But then he says it again. “Let it out.”
“Let what out, for fuck’s sake?”
Pity shimmers within the green. “You know, Ava.”
“I don’t.” Don’t pity me, Roane. Please. Don’t pity me. “I can’t.”
4
I’m not going to keep you suspended
Perhaps my silent plea is visible in my eyes. Perhaps he sees the betraying tremble of my chin as I fight to stay in control. I don’t know what drives him to suddenly reach out and caress my jawline. It’s the most loving gesture I’ve ever felt and it is almost my undoing. I look past him, up toward the ceiling, biting at my lip and trying not to blink until those damn tears are absorbed back into my eyes.
When he touches me again it’s not on my face, and I yelp at the unexpected shock of his thumb sliding beneath the cord to rub my clit, back and forth several times. My legs, one free, one bent and bound, involuntarily slide open wider to give him easier access. My whole body is betraying my brain, it seems.
“You’re so wet,” he says, and I hear the echo of my own wondering thirst in his words. However unwanted it might be, I do desire Roane and I can tell that he returns the feeling. There’s no point denying it to myself any longer, nor to him. He can see it in my body’s response to his nearness, and if I’m reading desire in his avid gaze, then I’m sure he’s reading it ten-fold in mine.
I’ve wanted this man ever since I first laid eyes on him, and there’s no way he wouldn’t be aware of it. Not when my glistening pussy is laid out directly in front of his eyes.
Does Nicole feel like this when Roane touches her? He says they don’t have that kind of relationship, but how could they not, when this rope, like an extension of his hands, both contains and incites so much intense emotion? A flare of jealousy ignites deep in my belly, only adding to the mix of confusion and heady excitement.
“Yes,” I start to answer. “This is…oh!” I gasp as one of his fingers slips inside my channel. I can’t remember what I was about to say. I can only raise my mound upward, lifting my ass off the bench seat and using the ropes to help propel the lift. I push hard into his finger fuck, clenching my muscles around the digit and trying to force him deeper.
“Do you want to use your safe word, Ava?” He adds a second finger, thrusting as deep as he can, cupping my butt with his other hand and encouraging my back-and-forth rhythm. “You can. If you wish.”
“No. I don’t wish.” I’m panting, speaking between clenched teeth, and that’s when I hear the pattern of his breathing change and become almost as ragged as my own. I can’t contain myself. A deep groan vibrates up and out of my throat. “Roane. I hate this. But I want you, so much.”
I’m not sure what I’m asking, but as fast as he entered me, his fingers are gone from my body. I want him back inside me. I want him to release me from these shackles. I want to be fucked by him until I reach that delicious place of oblivion that a good orgasm brings. I want his hard cock rammed inside my body, buried right to the base so our bodies connect as one.
Oh God, I’m an emotional mess.
I drop my ass back onto the bench seat, hating the empty feeling inside and somehow even more sensitized in that area than before he breached me with his fingers.
“All okay?” He checks my hands and feet, presumably for circulation problems, and I feel the moist slide of my own juices still fresh on his fingers as he touches me. I nod, wondering how he can move from pleasure to business and back again so effortlessly, when I’m craving him so badly I feel like I’m about to explode. I pray for him to return and give my greedy cunt more attention. I’m on fire, but definitely not with pain.
Instead he moves away, out of my line of vision. Where is he? What’s he going to do next? Is he—?
“Oh!” He’s working the pulley. With my arms strapped in front of my breasts and my torso wrapped in loops, I’m pulled inexorably upward off the bench. With one leg bent in half I’m off balance instantly and I have no
choice but to let the rope take me. I expect him to stop when I’m fully standing but he keeps going past that limit until I’m forced onto the tiptoes of my unbound leg, and into a position where my body is tilted slightly backwards. My mound is even more exposed like this, with my bound leg pulled sideways. I have no proper purchase on the rug with my toes and no chance, even if I wanted it, to shield my pussy from his view.
Thank God I shaved everything this morning.
Now I am uncomfortable to the point of pain, but the protest that leaves my lips is still not my safe word. It sounds like a pathetic, inarticulate squeak. I’m not surprised it doesn’t stop him. What’s wrong with me? Why don’t I just blurt out our agreed safety signal and be done with this nonsense?
When the lifting motion finally stops he reappears to stand in front of me. His eyes have darkened and his breathing is even shorter than it was. The further my immobilization progresses, the more he is turned on. His lips are slightly parted and I see the glint of his teeth, and once again I’m reminded of a predatory tiger with its prey. His gaze is too strong, too intense and finally I can’t take it any longer. I look away, twisting my head to the side.
Oh my God. “You’re naked!” When did he remove his clothing? He’s completely starkers, and he looks so fucking hot I almost orgasm on the spot. His erection is even more impressive than the constraints of his trousers hinted at, and I laugh a little to try and hide my ogling. My voice goes all squeaky, like it isn’t working properly. “You have an all-over tan.”
His skin cries out for my touch, and yet I can do nothing with these bound wrists but drink in the view. Soft and inviting, like rich creamy caramel, and yet the layers of hard muscle beneath are so clearly defined that he could easily work as a model, perhaps for a sexy aftershave campaign. I know from reading his bio that he’s a couple of years older than me, but his physique is so finely honed he could pass for someone in his twenties.