Page 106 of Jax
I could tell she wasn’t afraid, but every part of her was primed. Not frozen. Not defensive. Just tuned in to an anticipation so sharp it left no room for anything else.
She stood where I placed her, surrounded by a silence that wrapped around us like a living thing, and I let her feel the weight of it—the pause before contact, the stillness that stretches time and pressure alike. Then I moved behind her, letting the first length of rope slip across my palm and trail slowly across her back, not a tie, not even a line, just sensation, the softest declaration of intent.
She flinched, just slightly, but not from fear. From the contact. From the shift of the moment, stepping forward and touching her first.
“Turn around for me,” I said, low and smooth, already anticipating how she’d move when I bound. “Let me see you.”
She obeyed, slow, deliberate, eyes locked on mine like she couldn’t afford to blink. Her mouth parted slightly, chest rising on instinct like her body was already trying to draw me in.
God, she looked sacred like this. Bra strap barely containing her, soft leggings hugging her hips, every inch of her charged with restraint. Her nipples pressed against the fabric, her thighs trembling just enough to betray how hard she was holding herself still. And her eyes, sharp, searching, were asking for something more.
I didn’t speak. Just stepped into her space, filling her vision without touching, letting her feel the nearness of my body like a promise. The rope lifted, grazing her collarbone before dragging in a slow, deliberate line across the top of her chest. A brush. A warning. A taste.
She shivered.
I began thetakate kotewith measured care, looping her upper arms, pulling across her chest in smooth, deliberate passes. The rope cinched just beneath her breasts, and with each pull, she leaned into it like gravity had shifted. The jute whispered against her skin while my fingers worked in rhythm, breath, wrap, pull, an equation written across her body in tension and restraint.
The first hitch locked everything into place, and the sound she made was more breath than voice, as if the rope had reached inside her and stolen the air from her lungs.
“You feel that?” I asked, my voice a murmur beside her ear. “That tightness across your chest?”
She nodded, but I wanted more.
“Use your words.”
“I feel it.” Her voice cracked like the truth cost her something to say. “Everywhere.”
“Good,” I whispered. “That’s the point.”
I moved behind her again, letting my fingers trace the line of her upper back, not to tease, but to ground. She leaned in, barely, but enough to register; an instinctive pull toward contact, toward something steady.
I adjusted the rope between her shoulder blades, refining the tension as I worked it into a diamond pattern, clean, functional, but undeniably beautiful. A corset of stillness, precision, and restraint. Her breath snagged at the sensation, her spine reacting before she could think. My hand slid down the center of it, and she arched with a kind of raw, involuntary grace.
She was already unraveling, and I hadn’t even finished the structure of the tie yet.
“Breathe through it,” I murmured, cinching a loop beneath her sternum. “Let it hold you.”
“I can’t think,” she said, her voice a little wild now, breathy, unguarded. “I feel like…like everything’s louder.”
“It is louder,” I said. “Because there’s nothing left to distract you. It’s just you. This moment. Your body. My rope.”
I grazed my lips over the edge of her shoulder, didn’t kiss, just hovered. Let the heat of my mouth meet the heat of her skin. She gasped.
“You don’t belong to me,” I whispered against her skin, letting my breath stir the wisps of hair clinging to her damp neck. “Not yet.” She swallowed hard.
“But you’re mine tonight,” I said, letting the words settle like heat. “And I’m going to make you feel that with every knot.” A sound broke from her, quiet, aching, and wrecked. I stepped back, letting her tremble, letting her miss the weight of me for a beat before I dropped to my knees.
“Lift your right leg.” She moved slowly, her muscles already muddled by arousal and restraint. I guided her calf upward, folding it against her thigh, my palm braced behind her leg to keep it steady as I wrapped the rope. Layer after layer compressed muscle and fabric as the rope covered her leg until she was anchored in place. A highfutomomotook shape on her leg,built for pressure, exposure, tension. Her hip adjusted forward under the pull, tipping her pelvis just enough to draw the soft curve of her belly into the light.
I looked up. Her chest rose in quick, shallow bursts. Her cheeks were flushed. Her lips, parted and slick. Her hands stayed bound behind her, useless. All she could do now was feel.
“You okay?” I asked. She nodded. I didn’t move.
“Check-in,” I said, firmer this time.
“I’m okay.” She licked her lips, voice catching. “I’m really okay.”
“Good girl.” The words slipped before I could stop them, and her exhale hit sharp, like I’d lit a fuse beneath her skin. I cinched the final knot at her ankle, locking her leg into one long, trembling line.
