Page 46 of Jax
She didn’t ask where we were going, didn’t speak when I unlocked the door, didn’t bolt when it opened. She just stepped inside, like someone who already knew better than to ask questions she wasn’t ready to hear the answers to. I let the door close behind us and didn’t speak right away. The silence mattered more than anything she could’ve said if she’d been braver. Or more afraid. But she wasn’t either. She was simply aware, in that quiet, primal way a body recognizes the boundary it’s approaching, even if the mind hasn’t caught up.
That was how I knew I had her attention.
She paused a few steps in, eyes scanning the space—walls, hearth, the iron rack stacked with split wood. She didn’t fidget or smirk. She just looked. I could tell it wasn’t what she expected, which meant the room was already doing its job. Good.
Her gaze caught on the far wall, and I didn’t need to follow it to know what held her attention. The dozens of hanks of rope, arranged with intention, categorized by different fibers andthicknesses, coiled and hung with care. Not just equipment. A vocabulary.
She didn’t say anything, but her arms crossed again in that unconscious, protective motion that likely made her feel steadier without tipping into surrender. She still wasn’t comfortable with the proximity, that much was certain, but she wasn’t running. I made a mental mark in the ‘win’ column.
After a moment I walked past her into the room and across to the wall of rope, took down a coil of 6mm jute, and let it settle in my palm. It carried weight, scent, texture. The memory of friction. I loosened it slowly, deliberately, then dropped to the floor and crossed my legs.
Let her see how I handled it.
I began a simplekaradaweave, meant to go over the chest, nothing showy. The kind that taught rhythm and restraint, that made your body memorize structure before anything else. Behind me, the air shifted. She lowered herself near, angled just slightly, not close enough to join but close enough to observe. She was still unsure, but she was watching. That was enough.
Without looking up, I said, “Rope needs to breathe, just like the body it binds. Pull it too tight, and it stores tension in the wrong places. Too loose, it knots itself. Treated right, it listens.”
She took her time before answering, her tone flat but threaded with curiosity. “You talk about it like it’s alive.”
“No,” I said, fingers threading another knot, slow and clean. “I talk about it like it’s honest.”
Her voice lightened, a flicker of humor slipping in like a shield. “So… is this like knitting for men with trauma?”
I glanced up, slow and steady. No smile graced her expression, but the shape of one lived somewhere behind it. “You’re not ready for the answer to that.”
Her brows lifted, but she didn’t argue. She kept watching the rope instead, like she was trying to figure out what it was doingto her before she gave it more weight by asking. I adjusted the weave slightly and kept going, letting the silence stretch, not to create tension, but to hold her steady. She’d followed me here. She hadn’t run. And now she was on the floor, eyes locked on a length of jute sliding through my fingers like it was speaking a language she hadn’t learned, but could still feel in her body.
That was good. It meant we were moving forward. Towards what, I wasn’t sure yet, but we were moving, nonetheless. I made a mental note to examine that feeling in greater depth later.
She didn’t speak for a while after that. No sarcasm. No quips. She didn’t shift. Didn’t fidget. She just stayed still, focused, every part of her alert and coiled like she knew something was about to tip, and didn’t want to miss when it happened. I didn’t offer instruction, or fill the air with explanation. Rope scenes didn’t begin with knots. They began with attention. And hers hadn’t drifted once.
The jute slid between my palms, soft with age, warm with memory. The rasp of fiber against skin was something I’d always trusted. Truth didn’t announce itself in words. It surfaced through motion and rhythm, through the quiet pull of resistance in every purposeful line.
When the last knot in thekaradarested against my thigh, I leaned back just enough for her to see the full shape of it.
“You know what this is?” I asked.
She paused before answering. “A net?”
Not far off. “Karada.Body rope, used in certain kinds of bondage. It can be decorative. Erotic, if you want it to be.” I turned the harness slowly in my hands. “But that’s not why I tie it.”
She leaned in slightly. The atmosphere shifted. Her sarcasm didn’t show up. But her curiosity did.
“Engaging in rope bondage, being tied like this, it isn’t about helplessness,” I said, adjusting one of the central knots with my thumb. “It’s about alignment. Tension. Intention.”
Her brow furrowed. “Intention?”
“Every knot has intention, in bondage. Pressure goes where focus is needed. You restrict movement in one place to bring attention to another. It’s not just a rope; it’s structure.”
I reached for another coil and fed it through my fingers as I continued.
“Most people think bondage is about stopping movement. But real rope, the kind that works in your head as much as your body, isn’t about stillness. It’s about rhythm and purpose. Every movement becomes deliberate.”
I let that breathe before adding, “Predicament bondage is the purest version of that.”
Her focus sharpened. I saw it—the flicker of interest, the spark of hunger.
“It’s about choice, you see.” I said. “Forcing the rope bottom to choose between two difficult options. For example, you lift your arms, and one section tightens. Lower your head, another bites deeper. Shift your hips, and something else presses harder where you didn’t expect it. You’re not just bound. You’re inside a living equation.”
