It would be a challenge; I knew that from the beginning. In every conversation leading up to our start her intentions had been clear. It’s not even that she had to voice them, it was easy to read her demeanor. If I was willing to do this it wasn’t going to be easy. I’m not a big fan of being handed things. I’m reluctant to accept gifts or praise and platitudes sometimes make me uneasy.
So, in that regard this was right up my alley. She wanted to submit. That’s what she told me, but it’s not even close to true. What she really wanted was to be forced into submission.
We met several times before we tried anything. The ground rules had been set. We each knew what the other wanted but still it was a disaster. I won, sort of, she submitted but neither of us got what we wanted. Luckily, we both were able to articulate our feelings and a short time later try again.
There was no doubt now that we were each getting what we wanted. Sessions would end with both of us tired and happy. We’d talk after each one, usually snuggled under a heavy blanket. As we spoke, I’d usually run my fingers over her welts and bruises and would occasionally tweak a tender nipple or two. She’d occasionally make some rather insincere apologies about the scratches and marks she had given me.
Quite often during the weeks and months that transpired she’d remind in the friendliest voice that she was my slave. My slave to do with as I wished. She’d then go on to remind me that I needed to take my bondage seriously. It was with that slave/Master caveat that I thought out each bondage scenario. Even the most elaborate rope bondage included at least one metal cuff or collar along with a heavy chain and secure anchor points.
I was diligent in my approach. Collars, cuffs, chains and anchors were inspected regularly. Key management was crucial, even so locks were changed regularly. The last thing I needed was for a key to show up to a lock that I’d kept using for too long.
Today was Shibari, and because she enjoyed that as much as I did, she’d only put up a token fight. As a matter of fact, I was fairly sure the four fingernail scratches across my cheek would probably fade in just a few days.
She was tied standing in the loft. She wore a shiny set of red stilettos, held tightly together with rope running through the arches. Her ankles weren’t coming apart and the shoes weren’t coming off.
The rope ran up her legs, with carefully spaced intervals, each in a diamond shape for added visual effect. Her ankles were tied to the pole behind her. Her arms and wrists were tied from the shoulders down in the same spacing and diamonds as her legs. Her hands held tightly in front of her crotch.
The chest harness took the longest to tie. Once done the ropes wound tightly, defining her waist and breasts with the ends of the rope behind her neck. It was those rope ends that held her shoulders securely to the pole. But it was the bar pushing into the middle of her back, just above her bum that gave her body the lovely arch. With her ankles and shoulders held tightly to the pole her hips were forced so far forward the strain was immediate.
She was a lovely sight, all the red rope, the bright lights shining on her along with the gleam of the shiny chrome collar. The collar that seemed totally unnecessary but as usual was my insurance policy. She wasn’t gagged, I wanted to hear her bitch and I wasn’t being disappointed. Her vocalizing started before I left the room. So had the little quivers as her body tried to deal with the stress. She would be covered in sweat, exhausted and happy when I came back to release her. For now, I was headed upstairs to my office where I could watch the fun on the big screen.
Our deal as always was that I would leave her alone to deal with her stress and revel in the experience until she used her safe word.
I settled down in my chair and was instantly fixated on the spectacle before me. Her eyes were closed, she seemed almost meditative as she stood with her legs starting to quiver. Her hands were unmoving, you could see the flesh at her wrists bulging around the rope. Rope that I thought was too tight, but rope that was tight at her insistence. The tightness fed her need. Slowly she opened her eyes and stared straight into the camera. As always, I could see her determination and knew she would hold out as long as humanly possible before surrendering that safe word. It wasn't really just one word; it was a phrase. A phrase I knew was especially hard for her to utter. But I knew that within the next hour I would see her with those defiant eyes more subdued and downcast utter the phrase, “Master, I submit to your control please release me.”
It was with fascination that I watched her. Those ropes that were so very tight at her wrists, the ropes that were already causing her hands to change colour were somehow being shed. Slowly and methodically, she worked her hands loose. Once done she was able to pull her arms out. Next, she was able to reach up behind her neck and pull herself free from the pole.
Perhaps if I'd secured her head back it would have slowed things down, I'm not sure. It's possible that nothing would have held her. I was now watching a clinic on how to get out of tight rope bondage.
Her legs took much longer for her to get free. With her collar secured by a chain to the ceiling she could only bend to the end of the slack in the chain and that was only about a foot. The stressful arch in her body was gone and her approach to getting out seemed almost peaceful. I'm not sure but I think I could hear her quietly humming to herself as she worked.
There would be a downside to her getting the ropes off. She wasn't bound long enough to get the satisfaction she needed. To make matters worse without that requisite time in bondage having to utter her safe word to be released from the collar would be a horrible fate. She was not going to be in a good mood later.
Once all the ropes were off, she once again looked into the camera with a wry smile as she kicked the heels off and sent them flying across the room. She stood there now, flat footed, confident and without even a bead of the sweat I was sure she would have been covering her body.
Her smile widened as she stared intently into the camera. Her hair was done up in a bun. The same style bun she always used in bondage. The bun she had carefully put it up in earlier today. Her eyes never left the camera and her smile never wavered as she reached up to undo the bun. To undo the bun and extract something from it. I couldn't take my eyes off her face as she held up a key for me to see.
From the time she disappeared from camera view till she walked into my office was only a few moments but as she did, I reflected. You see the deal we’d made was that if I tied her and left her to struggle, she needed to stay tied. If she ever managed to get loose, the tables would be turned, and I would become her slave until I could somehow, someday get loose. So now I asked myself, was I a victim of an elaborate ruse by her to get me to become her slave? Or was I a victim of my own Freudian slip that caused me to let my guard down?