10. Something about ropes

      It’s not too often that the ropes come out. When they do, the evening’s adventures tend to revolve entirely around them, and there’s so much else we like to do! So for the most part, ropes are a special occasion. There are a lot of other methods of bondage in our arsenal that are less all-consuming while still providing the restraint that I often crave. I am good with this, because the ropes are so special to me that I like ceremony of it. The infrequency that’s almost denial but not quite, keeps my longing for them alive, so that when he brings them out, like he did last night, the experience is more like sex worship than anything else.

The very first time he ever pulled them tight, equalizing, duplicating the pressure and confinement of my right side with my left, something shifted at the core of me. Something that had been there always, something that I’d been holding but never looking at, never examining, suddenly demanded my attention… Forced me to notice it, in that moment of complete symmetry, to see what it really was and always had been. The involuntary gasp that escaped me at that moment, I will never forget. It reached from the beginning of me to my very end.

Historically, I had always loved restraint. We had any number of leather straps and buckles and bindings, and my husband had learned early on that I had to be truly bound, it had to be real, because if I could get out, I would. Still it wasn’t anything near fetishistic, and he periodically worried that all the true kinks in our sex life belonged to him. He worried that while I was always more than happy to try out any of his whims, and enjoyed them along with him, he was the only freak between us. So when I first got a load of kinbaku, my reaction was as exciting to him, as it was to me. He was compiling a slide show of erotic stills, that we could watch when we wanted something more artistic than overt pornography. He knew I’d like it given my proclivities, but whatever response I gave to that first image made him immediately go back and get many, many more. After that it was straight to the selection of beautiful ropes of varying colors and widths and materials, learning our preferences with research and trial and error and intricate shibari knots. Eventually our catalogue of erotic stills came to include photos of me, bound and writhing under labyrinthine patterns, in complex arrangements. It was years and years ago, but still I’m not sure there is any sight sexier to me than my husband, with his shirt sleeves rolled to the elbow, in total concentration on the complicated binding of my body, almost to the disregard of myself.

That’s what did it, I think. That’s what brought to light what should have been obvious. My fascination with restraint wasn’t about the restraint itself, it was about submission. It was, and is still, about the giving over of my will. It’s about surrendering, becoming an entity created at the whims of this man, to whom I am devoted utterly, from the presentation and actions of my body, to the inner responses and pathways of my psyche. Bondage is only one of the ways that I reach it now – pain, fear, task setting, exhibitionism and any number of other exercises are all further means to the same end – but those ropes were the first, and they will always be my favorite.  

Last night he chose the dark red ones. He knows me so completely that I can hide nothing from him, even that which I’m not consciously aware of myself, so of course his choice fit my mood precisely. (There are two different shades of pink, for the inclusion of certain elements of shame and debasement I’ve touched briefly on before, in reference to the awful/fabulous Barbie effect. There is a light blue for nights when the beauty of our delirious, complicated sex life manifests in appreciation of that beauty itself. The red is for the darker, lurking facets of fucking and being fucked. There are also black ropes and white ropes for the stark, naked mind-frames, when everything is stripped away but the fundamental truths of sex.) I think I went silent as soon as he reached for the soft bag that holds them all.

First he lay me on my back and spread my knees. He tied my ankles to the highest point of my thighs in thick, multiple wraps that cinched tight, between. Often he binds my breasts and ties my arms and hands behind me, so that I cannot touch myself. Last night he took my wrists to the same cinch at my thighs, instead. Tied my hands flat against the ropes, so that I couldn’t reach my pussy that was maybe two inches from any of my outstretched fingers. I could feel the ropes though, and after he played with my pussy, mercilessly pinching my clit but offering no release, he left me there, watching me squirm and grope at them, from a distance, smiling at me. It was ecstasy, and I lost myself in it for I don’t know how long, just reveling in the sensation and the feeling of the fibers biting into my flesh, leaving their marks on my skin. Finally he knelt over my face and put his cock in my mouth, amusing himself, alternating between forcing me to reach and try to catch the tip in my lips, stretching as best I could, helplessly, to suck more of him into myself, and thrusting it deep, pushing that head against the back of my throat, cutting off my breath.

Next, he untied me from the first position and rebound my thighs – in fewer wraps, so that I could feel the individual lengths of rope – passing the ropes up around my ass and then down between my legs. A harness. He ended with a fat knot right in my pussy, forcing it out to either side and preventing any actual access. He got the switch out then, and went to work hard on everything that was bound, flipping me ass up, face down and back again. He swung harder than he usually dares at those sensitive areas, because they were largely protected by the ropes, but it only made those strikes more biting, more concentrated on the in between places left bare, my exposed outer labia and that lovely indentation at the very top of the innermost thigh, that so loves to be punished. He had me writhing and riding the edge of orgasm for so long that when he finally knelt between my legs and lifted my hips onto his lap, pulled the ropes to the sides and pushed his cock into my ass, I was unable to muffle my cries; on the brink of soul shaking orgasm, I called him by name. I called my husband’s name from the throes of passion for so many years, that sometimes it just happens out of deep, ingrained habit. Sometimes, since fully embracing my submissive nature, I fail to call him Sir on purpose, because I am relentlessly and instantaneously punished for it, every single time. Sometimes he takes my by the throat when he’s doing so, and forces me to admit that. (The first time he did that, when he showed me how he knew it wasn’t an accident, ah, that’s another mentally core-rending, earth-shattering moment that will live with me, forever.)

I don’t know if I did it on purpose or not, last night. Honestly. I didn’t know at the time and I still don’t. I was so completely swept up in physical and emotional sensation that there was no rational, linear thought with which to examine it. It was all one, breaking wave of love and desire and fulfillment that I only know the tears, the sobbing release that came of it all. It’s the feeling I get to relive the next day, when I carefully straighten and  loop the freshly washed ropes into neat, knotted cords, and reverently tuck them away again, until next time.

 (And the song of the post is...)