poeticdesires

Category: Rope

  • Second Wind

    We met in the Dungeon soon after parting by the pool. He chose the suspension rig to the left of the stage. I sat down my things, slipped off my sandals.

    “Should I take off my clothes?”

    “I like to unwrap my presents.”

    He unrolled what he had dubbed his ‘big bundle of ow’, a blanket with implements nestled inside of it. One of them included his piece of graphite (shit), but one of his toys was not the Twisted Bitch (thank Christ). He had two floggers, including his big whomping flogger, as well as three or four canes and some rope. I stretched, prepared myself for what was to come. He rigged his ring to the frame.

    I stepped to the center of the rig, relaxed, hands resting behind my back. He uncoiled a length of rope. Dragged the chord across my chest. Wrapped it around my neck. Stepped behind me. Pushed his body against mine. My hands felt his cock through his pants. Massaged him as he ran the rope along my skin and breathed into my ear.

    He pulled my hair tie from my head. Let it drop to the floor. Let my locks flow down my back.

    His hands slid down to mine. Raised them. Bound them. Brought my hands into the air above my head. Secured them to his ring.

    He kissed my cheek. Punched my back. Stepped in front of me. Punched my chest. Kissed me more. Traced his fingers from my face down to my chest. Pulled my strapless dress and bra down. Wrenched my boobs. Pushed my dress to the floor. Grabbed my ass. I kicked my dress away. He unhooked my bra. Tossed it aside.

    He slapped and punched my chest and ass.

    Picked up his flogger. Attacked my back. My ass. Hit my boobs. Went for my nipples, occasionally catching my rings for a split second.

    He picked up a cane. Wailed on my ass. Grabbed my hair. Pulled me into a back band. Caned my breasts. Came across my nipples. I cried out.

    And then a hand was inside me. He fingered my pussy, dancing his digits in my wetness. And another strike came from his cane, burning sensations on my ass. More fingering. More pain. Alternating the mean with the sweet.

    He put down his cane. Picked up his paddle. Again attacked my ass. But, again, his fingers found my cunt, working his magic inside me. I begged, pleaded to cum.

    “Not yet.” He had one specific demand. “On the third strike.” I knew they would be brutal. I always had to earn my orgasms. One hard smack. A second. And then finally a third.

    I pulled myself down onto his hand. Rode his fingers for every single molecule of my cum. Screamed and cried out my ecstasy.

    He stood. Loosed my wrist rope. Dropped me down to my knees. Kept my hands elevated. Secured the rope again. Pulled out his cock.

    He grabbed my hair. Pushed my face onto his cock. Fucked my face. Sunk deep into my throat. I relaxed into his will. Until I had to breathe. Until I could take no more. Until I pulled away. But he held my head. But he insisted. But he wanted his cock inside me.

    He pulled my head back. Let me breathe for a moment. Then did it again. And again. And again. I gagged, yet yielded to his will. Took all of him in me.

    He rubbed his cock against my face. Let me suck on his balls. Let me play with his cock with my mouth.

    He reached up. Let down his rope. Brought it between my legs. Pulled me down into a reverse hogtie. Secured my wrists to my ankles.

    I felt his cock rub against my pussy lips and ass cheeks. Felt how hard he was. Felt as he reached over to his bag. Slid on a condom. Slid inside me. I moaned my pleasure. Moaned his name. He grabbed my hips. Pulled my body onto his cock. Fucked me hard on the floor as I took all of him, yet wanted more.

    He came. Slid out of me. Reached his fingers inside me. Finger fucked me til I begged for his permission. He gave it. With his yes, I felt the race of orgasm through my pussy out to his hand. Out to my lower back. Down into my thighs. Up my spine. My thank you. My sounds. My cum.

    He untied my ankles. Untied my wrists. Pulled me into his lap. Stroked my hair as I curled up into him. Lightly kissed my head. Sunk into his exhausted state, his second wind spent.

  • DGG #10: Shibaricon pt 3

    Some pizza, a pair of shoes, rope, rape play, and goodbyes.
    The last installment of my Memorial Day Weekend adventure.

    listen to ‘010_DGG Shibaricon 2013 pt 3’ on Audioboo

  • DGG #9: Shibaricon 2013 pt 2

    The second installment of my fun over Memorial Day weekend.
    Cigars, the Cabaret, and my sternum, oh my…

    listen to ‘009_DGG Shibaricon 2013 pt 2’ on Audioboo

  • Breakthrough

    “I just wanted to say thank you for creating the bamboo rig and encouraging people to play on it. That was the first time I’d self suspended at an event in a year. I’d had an incident before which left me skittish. That tie felt like a breakthrough for me. So, thank you.” – Monday afternoon

    It was late Sunday night. Not quite the end of open play. Maybe two or three hours before the dungeon was to close.

    I was somewhat tired. The past few days of Shibaricon had taken its toll. But I wasn’t exhausted. I still had some steam left in me. But what to do with it?

    I thought maybe I’d drop into my voyeur headspace, roaming around the dungeon, watching scenes.

    And then my friend Meliffica approached me.

    “Could you self suspend? This guy created this awesome rig and all he wants is for people to use it.”

    I turned, stepped closer to it. It was a larger structure made from bamboo and lashed at the top. It looked similar to a swing set, its triangular middle triggering memories of my childhood. On its sides were two smaller triangular areas. These seemed perfect for small, intimate ties.

    I thought about it for a moment.

    “Okay, I’ll go grab my rope.”

    I switched out my bootblack kit for my rope bags in my room. I then threw on a pair on panties and headed back down stairs.

    I rested my bags by one of the smaller triangles. I took a breath. The nerves had already come.

    I happened to glance right and saw Gray tying. I glanced forward and saw Dov playing. More nerves.

    I stopped. Closed my eyes. Took another deep breath.

    Fuck it.

    I dumped out my rope bag. Picked out five 30s and five 15s, four red and one black of each. I placed them within arms reached of where I would hang. I took off my hoodie. Stripped down to just my bra, panties, and boots. I pulled out my gray flag and rested my safety shears on it.

    I stretched.

    I stepped inside the triangle. Rigged my ring.

    I took off my necklace.

    I breathed again, eyes closed, head rested against my ring.

    This is for me, and no one else.

    I opened my eyes. I began tying.

    As my hemp adorned my body, my hands remembered my standards. Swiss seat on my hips. Three bands across my chest. Ankle cuff to the right boot. A short length to lift my hips. The long tail on the ankle cuff to pivot me.

    I sat in my Swiss seat, raised the tail of my right ankle’s tie, and looped it through a carabener. Slowly, I raised my leg. Pivoted my body. Went inverted.

    My left hand found my left boot. My right hand held my right leg’s line. I rested in my body.

    The rest of the world melted away.

    I existed in the pressure on my lower back, which held most of my body weight. The swimming sensation in my head as the blood rushed towards it. My breathing. The slow turn of my body as the ring held me just above the floor, yet high above the world.

    I let my left boot go and allowed my hand to skim the floor. To feel the delicate sway as I moved ever so slightly in my ties. It was if I felt the ebb and flow of life in my fingertips.

    I allowed my right leg to come down, raising my body to a horizontal position, and locked off the cuff. Reaching down, I grabbed a 15. Larks head to my chest. Ran through a carabener. Locked off. My left leg tucked above my right. I closed my eyes. Lazed in ties.

    Again came the gentle sway. Small movements as gravity played with my rig.

    Coming back, I reached down, this time for a 30. Ankle cuff on my left boot. Through a carabener. Down behind my head. Locked off. Neck support, yes, but my whole body weaved into my ropes. My hands laid on my stomach. I relaxed.

    Did I want to try going sideways? Practice the new knot I learned on Friday? Do something with my arms?

    No.

    I was in my happy rope place, but I also wanted my floor time.

    I released my head. Lowered a leg. Then the other. Loosed my chest and hips. And I sat on the carpeted floor. My lines still attached to my body.

    My right ankle cuff became a futomomo, as did my left. As I tied, I remember Wykd_Dave’s words on how to tie. On tension. On being present in every inch of the rope. My chest line wrapped through each futomomo and attached back to itself, pulling my torso down. I felt an urge, and went with it. I reached out, grabbed my leather cuffs, and put them on my wrists.

    I sat. I breathed. Eyes closed. Taking in my body. My breath. My being. Sinking into my flesh. Melting away life. Letting everything else besides my body and my breath not exist in this moment. I found my Zen. I rested in that space.

    Centered in myself. Centered in my ropes. I sat.

    When it was time, I released my chest line, keeping tension, feeling the movement of my hemp throughout my being. I untied each futomomo with concentration, running my rope with as much intention as when I put it on.

    As I lived in my headspace, someone who had looked on came over and asked if I was okay.

    It felt like a window had crashed in. It was gone. My center. My Zen. One sentence and it was gone.

    I gave them a head nod and a yes.

    I continued to untie, but my love felt sullied. Too many thoughts and emotions came rushing in. Too many of the no-good-very-bad thoughts. All the things I didn’t want to think about or feel in what was to be a time of happiness.

    I had opened myself up. Exposed my being. And with one sentence, the light, my Zen, was gone. Whereas before I swam in soft calm, now my mind was a tempest of darkness.

    I shoved my rope into my bag. Took down my ring. Threw my hoodie and my skirt on. Gathered up the rest of my things.

    I couldn’t bring myself to put my necklace back on. It went into a bag. Trying to stem the tide of emotions, I instead tied my gray flag around my neck.

    I rushed upstairs.

    I dropped every thing and grabbed my netbook. Made my way to the lobby.

    Opened a new file. Named it ‘Emotional Diarhea’. Started typing.

    It was 2:30am. I didn’t know how long I would be at that table writing, but I knew I would not finish anytime soon. The storm in my mind ragged.

    But then, thankfully, not thirty minutes into my emotional expulsion, I was invited to tacos.

  • DGG #8: Shibaricon 2013 pt 1

    This is the first of three installments on my fun times at this year’s Shibaricon.  Yup, you read that right.  Three podcasts just on one event.  Needless to say I had a lot of fun with a lot of friends.  Happy 10th anniversary to Shibaricon, as well as second anniversary to RopenSpace at the event.  Enjoy.

    listen to ‘008_DGG Shibaricon 2013 pt 1’ on Audioboo

  • Flying

    I was nervous to ask the question, but, like many things in my life, I did it anyway.

    “Hey, you still need a bottom for your afternoon classes?”

    The first class we attended was Newaza to Fly.

    It was a large class. The instructors, the DV8 crew, encouraged people to double up on frames. What they were teaching wouldn’t be dynamic. We could get close.

    And we did. We found a spot on the large wooden square frame, one of many pairs who chose the rig.

    We laid out a sheet. I put my things aside. By the wall. Took off my shoes and jacket. Stretched. Dragon prepped his ropes.

    The concept behind the class was simple: start from the floor and gradually ease your bottom into the air. Less risk. More control of tension. And less stress on the bottom (in case of nervousness).

    Dragon threw a TK on my frame. As he wrapped his ropes around my torso, my nerves both remained and softened. I didn’t know how my body would react to being suspended. I hadn’t flown in quite some time. But the last person to lift me into the air was Dragon. I trusted him.

    Yet, I didn’t completely trust my body. Didn’t trust the strength I had shown before. Didn’t trust that I would be able to live in rope again.

    But as each moment passed by, jute tight against my skin, and more applied still, my body remembered how much I loved rope. Remembered the feel, the comfort. Remembered how soaring made me calm. Centered me. Engulfed me in a love of myself, pulsing in waves out to the world.

    As he weaved his TK, I closed my eyes. As the instructor talked, I got lost in rope. I leaned against the floor. Dragon tied my left leg. Then my right, and my hips. He secured his lines. And, applying the central idea behind the class, he slowly lifted me. One section at a time. Checking tension on his lines. Raising me just inches off the ground.

    Yet it felt like I soared.

    I drifted in a bliss of comforting rope. My eyes closed. My being in my body. Floating high above the world.

    When he lowered me, I laid on our sheet. Body pressed against the floor. No longer floating above it all. Still full of joy, and happiness. And I remembered why I loved to fly.

    After Newaza to Fly, Dragon and I attended Thinking Rope. Wykd_Dave and Clover taught a class about breaking down your ties, finding the little habits we all have, and improving them to improve your technique and skill.

    Dragon, for his tie, chose to put me in a TK, again. Over and over, he untied and tied a TK on my chest. I felt the ropes go on and the ropes come off from half a dozen to a dozen times.

    As he worked, it felt like I worked to. I stretched in between ties. I relaxed my shoulders. Felt my hands and wrists. Felt in my body.

    By the end of our two classes together, I had regained my courage. My conviction in the strength of my body. I felt like a badass rope bottom again, flying high.

  • Sternum

    It all started Saturday night…


    “Move your hands. Move your fucking hands.”
    “I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”
    “I’m going to punch you in your chest. Twice. If your hands get in the way, I will punch you more. If you take the two punches, that will be it for your sternum. Can you do that? Or do you want me to keep punching your sternum?”
    “I can. I can do it.”
    “Okay.”

    I held his other arm. The one not going to punch me. The one resting on my chest. He reared back. Landed his blow. I sobbed, and prepared again.

    “One more.”

    He reared back. Struck harder. I sobbed harder.

    “Good girl. Such a good girl.”


    Then came Sunday morning…

    “Go ahead and partner up if you want to practice this.”

    I looked back at him. A few head nods later and I was on my back as he hovered over me. Scott went over how you would initially look for signs of injury in someone. The head. The spine. The chest.

    As I laid there, I remembered FrozenMeursault already knew this stuff. It was a part of his job. As Scott continued to talk, my partner sat beside me, not taking any notes. Instead, he got comfortable, leaning his elbow onto my sternum and resting his head in his hand. I started to screeched.

    “Sh, we’re in class.”


    And then there was after lunch…

    Dragon needed a partner for two classes. I wanted to be in rope. And he’d tied me before. So I volunteered to be his rope bottom.

    Our first class was Newaza to Fly. I found my happy place in his ropes. Our second class was Thinking Rope. Dragon worked on breaking down his TK and figuring out all the ways to make his tie better.

    Once, during a slight lull in the class, he remembered where I’d been attacked the night before. And that morning. And now, by him. He fashioned a different TK, with shoulder straps that crossed right over my sternum. The fit was tight. It hurt like a bitch. He smiled.

    But wait; there’s more…

    At the end of Thinking Rope, people gravitated either out of the class or towards WykdDave & Clover.

    Rough happened to look back on me as I was chatting about my day.

    “People keep attacking my sternum. Every time I mention that I was hurt or show off my bruises, my friends, who are Sadists… Want. To. Hurt. Me. Why did I open my mouth?”

    I saw the look in his eyes. The devilish glee. He crept towards me. I knew what was about to happen.

    “Shit.”

    One hand went to my hair. The other formed a fist. Went for my chest. Burried his knuckles into my sternum. I wiggled. I tried to get away. I screamed.

    “Why are you screaming,” he whispered into my ear. “We are in class.”
    “I couldn’t help it. My lizard brain kicked in.”
    “We are humans. You can overcome your lizard brain. Be a big girl and not scream.”

    He dug his hand in again. I didn’t wriggled this time. I took his pain. My muscles convulsed. My mouth stretched open. My eyes pursed shut. But I didn’t scream.

    “Now that’s a big girl.”

    I heard the evil grin in his voice.


    Not done yet…

    “How are you doing?”
    “I can’t tell you because you’ll hurt me.”

    I was walking from class. It wasn’t five minutes later. I was going to meet up with people for pizza. I thought I was safe.

    But then, somehow, Gray and Spicey were in front of me. And Gray asked that question. And I can’t lie to him.

    They both stopped. My arms instinctively crossed in front of my chest.

    “Everytime I tell people about how my sternum keeps getting targeted, they all hurt me.”

    I whimpered my explanation. I’m sure it was like evil candy to his sadistic ears.

    “Put your arms down,” said Gray. I did.

    “Open your jacket.” I parted the fabric. My chest was on full display.

    I saw his hand come close. I prepared for the blow. I flinched as he only slightly tapped my sternum.

    “What’s been happening to her?” asked Spicey.
    “People have been giving her sternal rubs.”
    “Where’s the sternum?”
    “This. See this. Right here.”
    “That?”
    “Yes, that. That is the sternum. That right there.”

    They both jammed their fingers into the center of my chest. I whimpered through my pain.

    Spicey’s anatomy lesson done, we headed upstairs.

    “My friends keep hurting me.”
    “You know, if you didn’t say anything, it wouldn’t happen.”
    “I can’t help it. It’s in my nature.”


    Yup, again…

    I sat on the couch, waiting for people to show up for pizza. Nomad sat beside me. I was happy she was there.

    “I keep getting hurt. People keep attacking my chest. It’s been, like, six people now.”

    I looked to my right.

    “Shit. Ava. I forgot. You’re a switch.”

    I saw the look in her eye. Knew what was in store for me.

    She scooted closer. Pushed her fingers into my sternum.

    It was the lobby. There is no play in the lobby. My face contorted. My body shook. But I didn’t scream.

    “If you’ll let me make you shiver and shake like that, I’ll fuck you.”


    My chest was given a reprieve for the evening, but not for the rest of my visit…

    It was time to go. The Closing Ceremony had ended. Rope given away. Money donated to charity. Time for the goodbyes.

    I spoke to Dov, who I’d barely seen during my weekend. I started bragging about my bruises. After he said he wouldn’t hurt me.

    I showed him my thighs. My arms. And then, my sternum.

    “You have no idea how hard it is for me to not hurt you right now. Just give me one.”
    “Oh, okay. Since you asked.”

    I braced myself. He held his hand flat, parrallel to my chest. He bent his middle finger. Readying the knuckle. He swung back. Then forward. Connecting in the center of my chest.

    “And, because it’s the sternum, I don’t have to hit you again for symmertry.”

    Thankfully.


    And now, the last…

    Our gradual exit from the ballroom crept like a snail up a tree.

    Rough looked at me. And remembered. And stuck out his pinky finger.

    “Oh god.”
    “It’s just my pinky.”
    “Yes, but your pinky is mighty.”

    He came in close. Leaned forward. Drove his nail into my chest. Twisted one way. Then the other.

    I scrunched my face. Splayed open my mouth. But again, I didn’t scream.

    “Good girl,” he said, putting his digital weapon away.

    He hugged me bye, one of many that afternoon.

    I took a picture of my chest the morning after I got home. The bruise, because I proved that yes you can get a bruise on your sternum, looked kind of like a heart. Sweet, and fitting, for my Shibaricon adventure.

  • Crotch Rope

    ~ erotica ~

    My clit throbbed. I hadn’t cum yet. The rope had only been on me for a few minutes.

    He’d taken out the coil, my rope, and knelt in front of me. I’d let my hands laze in his hair as he worked. Wrapped once around my hips. Once under my ass. Knotted. Threaded the rope down between my lips. Brought it back up. Made a knot. Pulled tight through my pussy. Passed under the bands in back. Yanked down. Ran under the bottom band. Brought the rope back up. Tied it again. Tight. Knotted the excess around my waist loosely.

    “Good. Go put in the laundry.”

    My face asked a question; my voice was silent.

    “You heard me. Go put in the laundry.”

    I harrumphed before walking away.

    Immediately, with my first step, I felt it. Every movement was different. Every swish of my hips. I bent to pick up the basket. I took the stairs to the basement. I filled the washer, bending and lifting. Never had a hated choir been so fun. I bounced back up the stairs. Up was so much more fun than down.

    I stood in front of him.

    “Sit,” he said.

    And here I am now. Minutes later.

    He looms over me. I can’t help but squirm in my chair. Even the slightest movement is wondrous. Full of an almost guilty pleasure.

    He just looks down on me and smiles.

    “Stop.”

    “But…”

    “Stop.”

    I don’t move.

    But I can’t not move. I bite my forefinger. And pulse. Pulse my clit against the knot. And look up at him with my puppy dog eyes. I beg without words. Let him see my torment. My pain. He loves to see my pain.

    He bends down. Whispers into me ear.

    “Go to bed.”

    I gasp, then scamper to our room. Every step is more glorious than the next.

    I pull back the covers. Again, I sit. Then lay down. And then writhe. Face down. Snaking my body against mattress. Fucking myself with my rope. With the knot he tied. And it grows. And grows.

    I turn my head. He’s there. Staring. Smiling.

    “Are you close?”

    “Almost.”

    “Get closer.”

    I ease my hips up and down. I feel him watching me. My breathing quickens.

    “Please?”

    He flicks open his knife. I feel a yank on the rope. A moment of ease.

    And then he’s inside me. And he’s pulling the rope in time with his thrusts. And the knot is against my clit. And he’s pumping in and out.

    And I scream, “Please?”

    “Yes.”

    And I scream again.

    Afterwards, I feel a little sad. Until he kisses my cheek, smiles, and says, “It’s still long enough for next time.”

  • Xavier

    ~ erotica ~

    “What are you looking for tonight?”

    He sat in seiza, black kimono and matching pants perfectly pressed, arranged just so. His face was plain.

    “Something different.”

    “I have rope. You have your body. From there where would you like to go?”

    “Hmm…”

    You could always find him in the same spot every Friday night, on his personal mat, under the same suspension frame, ready and willing to tie all comers.

    “Hemp, jute, or MFP?”

    No one knew which he liked more. If he even had a preference. He was aloof, mysterious.

    “MFP?”

    “Humiliation?”

    “Um. Yes?”

    I really didn’t know what I wanted. Didn’t know what to expect from him. Had no idea how my night would go. But I knew he intrigued me, so why not push a boundary.

    “Are your clothes destroyable?”

    “Yes.”

    “All of it, down to your shoes.”

    “Ah.”

    “Take off your shoes.”

    I’d seen him tie all types.

    “What is your safeword?”

    “Red.”

    “Any play off limits? Any hot buttons?”

    “Use safer sex supplies if the spirit so moves you. Otherwise, have at. I’m feeling very orange tonight.”

    Different bodies. Different genders. Levels of dynamic.

    “Any health issues? Medications. Nagging pain. Stupid little things going on.”

    “Nope. I’m good.”

    Sometimes he was just the guy that took the pretty girl up and brought her back down.

    “Last time you ate? Any alcohol?”

    “Dinner about two hours ago, and no.”

    Sometimes he was sensual.

    “Anyone I should talk to before we start? Any dynamics? Partners?”

    Captivating.

    “Nope. I’m single.”

    I loved to watch him play, however he played.

    “Who do I contact if something goes wrong?”

    “The DMs on duty are all my friends. They’ll know what to do.”

    And, on the occasion, he was mean.

    “Are you ready?”

    Now those were the best.

    “Yes.”

    “Good. Then we begin.”

    I don’t know where the knife came from. Maybe the sleeve of his kimono. Maybe it was on the mat beside him but I just didn’t see it. All I do know is that he sprung up, lightning fast, and was at my neck in an instant.

    A hand in my hair. The blade against my skin. He traced the tip along my chin before gliding down. One quick flick. A small tear in my sundress. He released my hair. And then rip. My dress was spilt in two down the front. I wore no underwear. One more yank and the fabric was off of me. I was naked in a matter of seconds.

    A knee to the back of my thigh had me on all fours on the mat. I heard the familiar soft thumps of a rope coil flung free. He wrenched my wrists from the mat. Tied them together by my lower back. Jerked up. Pulled on my hair. Attached the rope to my mane. Added in tension. More tension. Craned my neck back.

    I looked up at him, nervous yet thrilled at what else he had in store.

    He looked down on me, face still blank. Eyeing me as if he were puzzling something out.

    He sunk down to his knees, his crotch inches from my face. Instinctively, I licked my lips.

    “Do you require a condom for oral sex?”

    “Not at all.”

    I eyed his crotch. The warmth from his slap lit up half my face. He grabbed my throat.

    “Open.”

    I parted my lips. He pulled his cock out from his pants. Stroked it with his free hand. Was already quite hard. Teased his head near my mouth. Stayed just out of reach of my tongue.

    “Let me lick it. Suck it. Enjoy it. You’ll love it when I blow you.”

    This time his cock smacked my face. Once. Twice. Then he slammed his cock into my mouth. I gagged. Then relaxed my throat. Used my tongue a little. Moaned from having him inside my mouth. He didn’t move his cock, just kept it there until I almost lost my breath.

    He stood up. Looked down on me. Cock still hard and out.

    And then he pissed all over my face. Into my hair. I turned my eyes away.

    “No longer so talkative?”

    I looked up at him. Rage. Pure rage. And lust. Carnal full body lust. I wanted him even more.

    “No words are necessary when you’re having fun.”

    I spat at him. Sprayed his piss and my spit onto his kimono. He was down, hand on my throat again.

    “You’re fun. More fun than the rest.”

    “So I’ve been told. Thank you.”

    His lips met mine. We kissed, our tongues almost fighting in the playful way young lovers sometimes do. I never imagined he could kiss that well.

    He sat back. Reached over my body. Untied his rope. Rested in seiza in front of me. I didn’t know what to say, so I said thank you. He closed his eyes, nodded. Looked on me.

    I was high, a rush of hormones from the scene. He was more fun than even I dared hope. I lept up and was about to bop off to the shower when he tilted his head up and asked a simple question.

    “Next Friday?”

    “I’d love to. See you then, Xavier.”

  • Connection

    It had been months since I was in someone else’s rope. I came to the party knowing I wanted that experience, knowing I wanted to be tied, but not sure how I would get it (or even if I could).

    But then, life working as it does, I began speaking with a rigger friend. As we chatted, it occurred to me, Hey, maybe we could play.

    I asked politely and they accepted.

    It would not be a D/s scene, as they were submissive, but they could service top. This was fine with me; I just wanted to be in rope.

    I stripped down to my underwear, stretched, took down my hair, took off my necklace, and we began.

    They started with a TK, making it quite tight to accomplish their intended goal. They secured the chest harness to the rig above, cinching me up a bit. Next they added hair bondage, playing with my mass of curls. Then they included my favorite part of their tie: a blind fold graced my face. After the gift of darkness, they attached a cuff to my right ankle and lifted my leg.

    As they worked, we chatted at times. They asked me how I felt, checked my hands often, but also worked with an efficiancy that I admired. I fell into my rope space, wanting to show them affection and appreciation for their time, nuzzling my head or brushing a finger against them.

    With my one leg lifted, they stepped away for but a moment. And then I felt the kick. They smacked my left leg with their foot, testing to see if I would fall. They tried to buckle my leg a few times. I giggled, their kicks not very malicious, and held strong.

    Then more rope graced my body, wrapping around my left thigh and rising my leg into the air. I rested my weight into my chest tie, felt my body move, felt how I could adjust pressure here and there in the ropes with my being lifted into the air.

    I’d never been rigged in that way before. It was somewhat challeging, but mostly fun and different. I loved the feel of the constriction across my chest, the pull of the rope in my hair, the way my body swayed in this position in the air.

    Freeing the rope attached to my hair from their ring, they wrapped the rope around my mouth, creating a gag. They gave me a little spin, first wrapping it on, and then unwrapping the rope from my mouth.

    It was then time to come down. As per my request, they left the blindfold on as they lowered me to the ground. With almost all the rope off of me, we sat under the rig for about ten minutes, cuddling and chatting, my eyes still shadowed.

    It wasn’t that I had forgotten the feeling of the connection between rigger and bottom. In fact, it wasn’t til we were on the floor that I realized indeed how much I had missed the connection.

    Our time wasn’t D/s, though that is something I love. There wasn’t impact or sexual play, though I adored that type of interaction. With my friend, that was not what our time was about. It was me and another relating through this medium, getting to know each other in this way, an introduction of how we could be in this moment.

    Yes, I want a Dom. Yes, I want a Daddy. No, this friend cannot be that.

    But, for me, for that evening, for that time spent connected with my friend, what we had in those moments was enough.