rope
So today… We play with rope. After I wrote a little bit about it you asked if I actually tied people up. I explained that I’m no expert but can do it safely, then held your hand and asked you if you’d let me tie you. I think you found the slight shyness in my voice cute, and the intensity in my eyes a little hot.
After some discussion and teasing you said yes, and the predatory look came to my face again, which you have come to learn is linked with a desire to feed or please you.
“I’d like to go over the rules again,” I say, unpacking little bundles of jute rope from a red mesh bag, along with paramedic’s scissors.
You’re lounging on your bed, being distractingly hot in a nightdress I bought you for your last birthday. “You give me rope-burn, I give you acid burn?”
I grin and pull tight a bolt of rope for effect. It makes a snapping noise. “You’ll have a hard time if you’re tied. Trust me, though, you’ll want to let me. I’ve got a surprise.”
Your lips twist in an unconvinced purse. “No pressure. If you back out you get the surprise anyway. But the rules are important, so: I’m in charge in that I’m removing your ability to move, and while you’re tied I get to do whatever we have agreed I can to you. But you’re in charge, because nothing happens to you that you don’t want. Safe words are traffic light system: green for go, meaning you’re okay with everything happening; yellow for caution, I shouldn’t go harder, and we will talk about it before you decide whether to stop or continue. Red means stop, no questions, I don’t even untie you I just take those safety scissors and cut the rope. You get cuddles, or space, whatever you need, and you get told over and over you did the right thing, because you will have. You’re in control of how much control you give me.”
You’ve heard it before but you figure I seem to be enjoying looking like the responsible Dom, so you nod acknowledgement.
“Right. Well then, you’d better give me your hand, hadn’t you?”
You take a moment to pretend to consider it, then relent, holding out your hand. I stroked your cheek, keeping eye contact for a moment, then select a bolt of rope and begin to tie.
I’ve mentioned this before, describing how it prevents tension from strangling the wrist, eye always to safety: a double-column tie. The rope is slightly rough on your skin. When I tug on it, the completed knot does not slip at all; instead, the multiple wraps comfortably pull your hand where I guide it. You look up from your captive limb and find me staring into your eyes, gauging.
A decision clearly made, I smoothly kneel on the bed and guide your arm behind your back. You were kneeling, too, so we’re belly-to-belly, though I am clothed in dark jeans and a shirt, having dressed up a couple of degrees for the occasion. You smell my aftershave.
The rope proceeds on a complicated path, passing around upper and mid arms, drawing both wrists to the opposite elbows. It passes around your chest, below the breasts, before the swell of pudge that blossoms below it. As each short bolt of rope ends I bring in another and join them, never releasing tension, never giving leeway to wriggle free. A complicated stem grows at your upper back, holding the whole rig together.
At one point you murmur, “yellow.”
Without releasing tension I stop dead. “Are you okay?”
“Yes. Just checking you’d stop. Go on.”
I smile and kiss your cheek again. You couldn’t stop the kiss if you wanted to: your arms may have well been sewn together behind your back.
Finally I tuck in a loose ends behind you and sit back, still keeping connection with you in the form of a firm hand on your shoulder. “There. Box tie. How does it feel?”
You flex your shoulders, arms, lats. You try twisting to get leverage. Nothing. If you were going to work free, it would take a while. You meet my eyes and shake your head. “I want my suprise.”
Predatory flash of the eyes. Perhaps you feel a little uneasy, being so restrained, but I’m no threat. “My dear Rey. Close your eyes. Breathe. Stay here on the bed. I’ll be back in a few minutes.”
It’s surprisingly freeing not having to move, anywhere to be, anything to do. After three minutes your mind chatter has still not reappeared.
I do, though. I’m carrying a large heatproof bag, Deliveroo style. Unzipping it, savoury scents fill your bedroom.
“I’m going to feed you until your belly strains the rope.”
Saliva has already flooded your mouth. Whether you were hungry or not, the idea makes you ravenous. I take out the first of many cardboard-lidded silver trays and reveal the contents.
“Appetizer: breakfast-for-dinner. Bacon and sausage cremated, just as you like it.”
You watch me select a sausage and raise it before your eyes. Your impulse to take it is halted by the rope. Your lean forward, and I pull it away, a teasing smirk on my face.
“You’re going to get lost in the pleasure of me stuffing you full of pound after pound of food, I know you. So I want you to look at me, open your mouth that I love so much, and make me feel how much you want to be filled up.”
Oh, a fucking challenge. You can smell the charcoal char, the fat of the pork; hear the crackle of the skin as my finger grip tightens. If it means you can begin your meal, you decide to play along.
Eye contact. You know your eyes are hypnotic—I’ve certainly told you. Achingly slow you lean forward more, and the morsel does not retreat. You lick your lips to wet them and feel a little flutter seeing my eyes widen as your mouth opens. Even bound, you have such power over me. Slight extension of the tongue, receive the meaty, salty overture gliding over its curve with a sudden and violent rumble of your stomach. Perfect time to snap: with an angle of your head you draw it between your molars and crush it in one powerful motion. Did you make me gasp? You think you heard me gasp.
You appear to have satisfied my desire for a show. I murmur something addled and appreciative, and the meal begins in earnest. Full English becomes Thai, slightly cool as it was delivered earlier than the rest. I feed you with hands and fork, brushing the sable hair back from your face, occasionally dabbing at your perfect lips with a napkin. We have to manoeuvre you so you’re sitting on the edge of the bed at one point.
After Thai you now feel full. Normal people full. There is so much more room inside you, and your belly roars for more, quickly working on the Pad Thai and curry to make room for more. We travel the world together, country after country disappearing down your throat and swelling a bulge beneath the rope beneath your tits: China sends rice and something spicy you haven’t tried before; German Bratwürste are consigned to darkness with small bread and reckless hunger. India makes a good showing, but an entire tiffin’s three curries don’t make a dent on your ravenous desire to stretch and be sated.
Sometimes while you’re chewing I reach and touch your middle, feeling a bowling ball grow there. My eyes are distant, picturing some digestive hell with a kind of longing. Whatever. There is more to consume.
America, land of the free, sends two burgers well-done and an entire rack of baby-back ribs, extra cooked by me in an oven. The succulent flesh breaks beneath your teeth. You pay no mind to the sauce on your cheek: only the warm glow of consumption matters. To either of us.
Your belly is now emitting warning noises. Optimistically digested food behind to siphon into your intestines, recruiting more of your gut into the cacophany.
Stinging pain rises and falls in your side. Perhaps you would eat and eat till something broke, but alas, the box is almost empty. Only a chocolate cake remains, chocolate icing rosettes clustered about its top. I cut you a quarter and feed it to you from my hand, relishing each scrape of your teeth as you cram it in, ram it down your aching oesophagus into your protesting stomach.
All four quarters, and you lick my hands clean.
I kiss your forehead, your cheeks and your lips, coming away with chocolate on me, too. Your eyes are alternately fiery and glazed with sleep. I kneel behind you on the bed and untie the knots, rubbing where the rope had left marks, and then holding you from behind.
My hands are on your stomach, my spread thighs framing yours. You feel my kneading, searching touch help your vocal gut with its prodigious load. Sleep comes at some point, but the massage continues in some form all through the night. I kiss your neck, and at midnight taste your mouth. We spend the night together, and wake late.
“… Breakfast?” Is your first word to me in the morning. I don’t know if it’s a request or an appellation.