ROPED IN

Adrea Kore

I thought I knew what rope felt like. Hard, salt-roughed rope that rigged a sail. The chafe of hessian rope against thigh on a makeshift swing. And knots? Practical things. Functional elements that kept your shoes on.

But this—this seductive slither of an embrace, trailing around my neck, snaking over and around both arms, encircling my waist like a possessive lover—this, I am not prepared for.

He hasn’t even tied a knot yet.

You wanted me here. Wanted to experience more (how did you put it?) elaborate possibilities than tying my wrists to the headboard.

Over dinner, you pushed the flier across the table: The Japanese Art of Shibari—Erotic Rope Bondage. I sighed, knowing there was no escape. You’re indefatigable when it comes to your kinky predilections. The sigh was partially an act; I’m more reserved than you, and relish coasting in the slipstream of your adventurous nature.

“I love it when you rope me into new experiences.” I raised my wineglass to yours to emphasize my pun.

“You know it’s my pleasure. Next Thursday night—I’ll pick you up.” You smiled, a conspirator’s smile.

On our first date, three drinks in, I revealed my tendency to orgasmic excesses. Six months later, our connection remains intense; you enjoy discovering just how multiorgasmic I am. You see sexuality as a skill to be practiced and developed, like cooking or tango dancing.

We arrive at the workshop and exchange hellos within the group. At the first opportunity, you nudge me forward as a volunteer.

“When you’re tying, you may have preconceived ideas about what knots you’ll tie, what shape you’ll create… but the rope, once it makes contact with that body, may have other ideas.” The facilitator, Nick, introduces himself as a rope dojo, a master practitioner of Shibari.

“This is a beginner’s class—no human origami creations for you guys yet.”

People laugh, relaxing visibly. I feel you watching me.

“There’s lots to explore, without even tying a knot. I’ll teach you two basic knots later, but first we’ll explore weight. Gravity. Connection.” His eyes, ice blue, project a clarity of purpose.

I glance down at the rope. Red, not dull brown.

Gleaming with a silken texture, not rough. It slides sinuously against my skin, reminding me of last night; the teasing sensation of your thick tresses along my torso. Your fingers deep inside me, your breasts against mine, I’d writhed with each orgasmic surge you coaxed from my cunt.

Focus.

“Rope has its own intuitive intelligence. It responds to different bodies in different ways.”

His movements are deliberate, yet fluid, like a jiu-jitsu master. As he speaks, he knots my wrists together in front, then bends my elbows up into prayer position. He loops the rope around my neck, exerting gentle pressure, until my head tilts forward, as if in supplication.

I hear sounds of appreciation. He’s captured an archetypal pose. For a moment, I feel like a penitent saint. Sans halo.

I flush—he’s somehow intuited my submissive tendencies. As the knots were tied around my wrists, a tumult of emotions moved through me. Vulnerability. Desire. Need. I feel the rope around my neck like a snaking current of energy, whispering erotic possibilities.

“I’m getting ahead of myself, but I wanted to show you the beautiful potential of Shibari.”

His expert hands retrace the path of the knots, releasing me from my silent prayer, leaving the rope looped around my arms. My body shivers involuntarily from the release of tension.

“Think of the rope as a tangible manifestation of connection with the person you’re tying.”

Tangible. Connection. Each place the rope has touched, heightened awareness flares across my skin. Surveying me, his eyes glint with the intent of a craftsman creating a masterpiece.

“See—no knots yet. But even with something simple like this, you can begin to experiment with the connection, to play with weight and gravity.”

He moves closer behind me. I’m aware of the scent of pine, his warm breath across my shoulders. He hauls gently, destabilizing my balance. I fall backward onto his chest and his hand moves to the small of my back, supporting me. He rocks me, back and forth, rights me, and topples me again onto the broad expanse of his chest. Being rocked in this way transports me into a pre-lingual state. I feel the thud of his heartbeat through my back, sending pulsations of heat into my belly, shooting down into my sex. My lumbar spine bucks against his hand. Several times. I look up at him.

“You could just play here for a while, slowly building trust. Or…” He pauses, and in my ear, whispers, “Ready?” I nod.

In one lithe move, he takes all my weight, lowers me to the floor, and turns me onto my stomach. I sense more rope being coiled around my upper arms.

Dizzy. The circle of people feels out of focus.

“To be a good tier, you need to be able to read the body and flexibility of your subject. To be an exemplary tier, you must learn to listen to the rope.”

I feel him tying an intricate knot in the center of my back; hear the subtle swish of ropes through the air as they’re deftly manipulated. The knot seems to radiate heat, as if a hot stone has been placed on my skin.

He runs a hand down to my foot, bending first one knee, then the other, securing both ankles. This constant play of tension and release, this deft manipulation of my body in ways beyond my control, tugs at a primal place deep inside my womb. The traction caused as my stretched arms strain back to reach my lifted ankles releases pent-up sexual energy, coiled in my abdomen. My whole body begins to writhe as waves of orgasms course through me.

Nick crouches beside me, turning me on my side, his hand remaining in the small of my back, grounding me. “Are you okay?”

“Yes,” I nod, smiling. “Very okay. I’m just, umm… sensitive to stimuli.”

“Wow,” he says. “Beautiful.” He addresses the group as he begins to untie me. “You’ll sometimes see this response in particularly receptive people. In any group, you’ll see a diverse range of responses. Let’s take a quick break, then we’ll start exploring in partners.”

People disperse, some smiling at me, as Nick helps me to sit up. I’m panting and disoriented. You move toward us.

“I think I need some water,” I venture.

“I’ll take care of my Yasmin.” You help me up, and lead me toward our bags. “That looked intense,” you whisper, as you hand over my water bottle. I nod, gulping thirstily.

“It was. Beyond words.”

Afterward, people chat and mingle. You’ve disappeared. Five minutes later, you’re back, smiling your conspirator smile, and when we’re alone again, you announce:

“I’ve arranged a one-on-one Shibari session for you. My treat.”

I hug you, appreciating your generosity. Then I motion to the merchandise table.

“Marla? Can we get some of that rope? In fact, can we get a lot of it?”

You take my hand, and kiss me.

“You’re not going anywhere tonight.”