Page 49 of Hurts So Good

So I’m tied up, secure or helpless depending on point of view, beginning to get a rush from the tightness of the ropes. And that means I’m sexually immature?

Doesn’t feel that way to me.

“There are two or three Rope Masters in this country, too, but I wouldn’t remotely qualify as one. Even if I am kind of well known in bondage circles…”

He’s attached a rope from the back of the shinju to a hook in the ceiling, and while he’s been talking he’s lifted me three or four inches, just enough that my toes can reach the floor but not my heels.

“There’s a history to Japanese bondage,” my not-Rope Master tells me. “They didn’t have manacles and chains. The police used rope to secure prisoners. Each area had its own traditions and methods. But the culture made it a no-no to tie higher status people with knots, so they used loops instead. Now, with bondage, it’s the same. You only ever use a couple of simple knots. There’s just the one in the entire karada you’re wearing. And the shinju ends in the length of rope that’s holding you on your toes, though for safety I have tied that one off…”

He’s being geeky, but meanwhile he’s winding another rope around my left leg. When he stands up, he threads the tail end through another hook and pulls. This means my leg is held up as though I’m in mid-prance.

“Asymmetrical, you see. Symmetry is too easy, you never see it in Japanese art. It’s the same with ikebana.” This is true; the classic flower arrangements are rarely symmetrical.

I feel a gentle push. Only my right toes are in contact with the floor, and I spin slowly. The semi-suspension makes the ropes tighter now around my breasts. I draw concentration inward, trying to deal with the sensations, adjust to them. My breathing is shallower, more focused. I’m more conscious of my own heartbeat, the blood in my veins. At first it’s a constellation of tiny, teasing caresses. Then, the way a constellation suddenly has a shape and a name, some of those pressures feel stronger than others, more insistent, a not-quite-painful pleasure like a thumb pushing into aching muscles. Unforgiving cords probe and press unrelentingly between my legs. It feels weird and hot at the same time.

He carries on talking as though this is normal conversation. Maybe it is for him.

“Of course, up until the 1800s, bondage was often used as a form of torture for criminal suspects. There was a method that twisted your legs into a lotus position and then pulled your body down onto your legs. The ‘Prawn’, they called it. It interferes with circulation and cramps the muscles. Then there was a face-down suspension with weights on your back, which would have pulled all the joints in your body.”

“You’re telling me this because…?”

“Just because,” he says smugly. He knows he’s putting images of pain in my mind, a not-so-subliminal message that ropework isn’t just about tying the victim down for fucking. And these mental pictures are mingling with the strange pleasures my body is telling me about. I wriggle experimentally.

If I arch my back and push my hips forwards it sends shivers from my pussy all the way to the top of my head…

“The term shibari is recent, from the verb ‘to tie’. Originally it was called kinbaku, which translates as ‘tight binding’ with a subtext of ‘erotic ropework.’”

I don’t care what it used to be called. I’m getting hot and bothered, breathing fast, wondering vaguely if the fact my eyes won’t focus is due to raw excitement or lack of oxygen. My eyelids close of their own volition. In the darkness, the rope holding my body becomes a latticework of pleasure. I can feel the juices, the moisture, gathering in my panties.

“It’s an open question how much history and tradition there is in shibari. It didn’t become a big deal in Japan until the 1950s or 1960s. Even then, it was a secretive, underground thing. By the seventies it appeared in some sex clubs, but that was done for show. You’d have a performance—princess meets bandit who throws a few ropes on her, pulls her clothes off, waves a sword around, fucks her. Fun, but no real technique. It’s only in the last twenty or so years it’s become popular, and actually a lot of the people who’ve developed ‘Japanese’ bondage have been based over here.”

This is a mindfuck. He’s got me to this point and only then told me it’s not what I thought it was. It’s not an ancient secret art; it’s a modern invention that isn’t even really Japanese.

His hand is warm on my ass. My skirt is bunched around my waist due to the ropes that are also chewing at my pussy. “You know,” he chuckles, “you’re not so traditional either. A real Japanese schoolgirl should have white panties, not a black thong…”

Mixed-up images in my head. Pain and princesses and bandits, flogging and spanking and fucking. I try to concentrate, but I’m dizzy with desires the ropework is creating in me.

“Princess. Bandit. Spank! Fuck?”

That’s good enough. It conveys my needs.

He spins me again. I lose all sense of where I am.

“Think of it this way. The Japanese part comes in the aesthetics. You, in bondage, become an artwork. There’s a balance and tension between the immobility of your body and the discovery that even quite small movements will eventually give you an orgasm.”

Eventually?

My belly grinds hard against the rope, my pussy tries to close around it, my clit is huge and compressed and almost in flames. My thighs flex and pump as though gripping an invisible lover.

I have no more words. Just a throaty, needy growl.

“Schoolgirl princess wants to be spanked and fucked?” I open my eyes to see him looking down at me, as though I’ve asked for something not quite proper. Like he’s a bondage expert and I’m a kinky little brat.

He is and I am.

Hands caress my aching breasts. With the ropes in place there’s no way to pull off the blouse and bra. Instead, he pinches my right nipple firmly, through the material.

The sharpness of the pain makes me take shorter, harder breaths.

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