I haven’t had rope in… years. YEARS. At least 4 years. It was my first thing I fell in love with in the kinky world. Long before I loved a man or a woman, I loved rope. It didn’t matter who was on the other end of rope, l felt at peace and alive all at once when rope touched me. Then as the years drifted by and I loved a man and a woman and then I destroyed the person I was to become the woman I am, rope remained. But the years did drift right on by without rope.
She and I met nearly a year ago. We were in each other’s orbit and she approached me about playing with rope. I hesitated. I have never seen her play with anyone using rope. I gave a vague answer and we continued to orbit each other slowly.
A shared secret, a comforting glance across the room, and slowly the bonds of friendship started and strengthened. I saw her play with a person using rope and I knew I’d be safe with her.
. . . . . . .
We laid a few tapestries down on the hardwood floor and negotiated quickly. I sat in nothing but panties. She wore fishnets and a devilish smile. She blindfolded me and began to slide rope across my skin. I was laid down and the fan hit my sweaty, nervous skin. I tried to slow my breathing but a thousand thoughts bombarded my brain and I started to panic.
*I’m naked and fat there’s scars and sweat what if I’m not a good bottom I don’t want to just lay here while people stare at me she’s probably not going to have any fun I’m the worst I should have never asked her for rope tonight!*
I decide my brain is robbing me of this experience with this beautiful woman. I breathe deeply and slowly let every thought go. I purposefully give myself over to this moment and tune into every sensation. I begin to pay attention to the rope, her hands, the shift of the cloth under me, the way she breathes.
She’s bent my good arm and tied it tightly. I flex my fingers and I can touch my face. I set up a slow repetitive motion with my fingers. I attempt to find her skin with my other hand and I find her leg.
She scratches me down my chest and her nails scrape across my scar. The pain is unfamiliar and white hot. I don’t want to alarm her or scare her by drawing attention to it so I slowly untangle my fingers from her fishnets and cover my scar.
The fan is blowing, I’ve stopped sweating and the air turns from refreshing and cool to cold. I decide that along with the bite of rope, the slide of rope across my skin, the touch of her fingers on my skin, I’m going to just soak this in. I begin to shiver and the rope slices across my thigh hotly.
The dichotomy of sensation is intoxicating. I feel drunk. Moans escape and rope tightens. Over and over she pulls rope across me, I shiver and cry out. She leans over and I feel teeth sink into the top of my thigh.
I want to grip her hair and beg for more. Instead I shiver and hold my breath.
I don’t have a memory of her removing the rope but she’s over me, her red hair looks like sun beams and her voice cuts into the fog.
“I’m not going anywhere”
We relax into each other and our foreheads touch. She smells like a warm fire.
I’m covered in a blanket and fed strawberries. I try to gather myself quickly. But I feel drunk and happy.
I try to help her put her rope back properly but honestly I’m a mess and I feel like the rope all tangled up. A disheveled mess.
Eventually I’m me again and she’s herself again. But for delicious moments we were just skin, rope, moans and fishnets.