Chapter 2 #2
The rope was beautiful—thick, soft, expertly braided Japanese jute dyed in a deep crimson that would look stunning against her pale skin.
I’d spent years learning shibari, the art of rope bondage, and it had become one of my favorite things to do while at the club.
There was something meditative about it that quieted my mind in a way nothing else could.
The process of wrapping and winding, creating patterns and knots, transforming a woman’s body into a work of art—it was like the inverse of my job.
On the force, I dealt with chaos, with destruction, with people tearing each other apart.
Here, I could create . I could take something beautiful and make it more so.
Last week, I’d secured Charlotte to the St. Andrew’s cross, which had been satisfying in its own way—the vulnerability of being spread and displayed, the way the flogger had painted streaks of pink across her back and ass.
But tonight, I wanted something more that would take us both into a deeper, more intimate headspace and territory.
I took off my shoes and socks, then my shirt, and returned to where she stood, letting her hear my footsteps and feel my presence drawing closer. Then I stopped behind her and lifted the blindfold in my hand—soft black silk and lined with padding that would be comfortable against her eyes.
“I’m going to blindfold you now,” I said, my voice low but clear. “Your body is mine tonight, Charlotte. Mine to move however I want. You’re going to stay relaxed and trust me. Let your limbs go limp when I lift them. Don’t try to help. Just let me do the work.”
I secured the blindfold gently over her eyes, adjusting the elastic at the back of her head. She was plunged into darkness, and I watched her inhale sharply, adjusting to the loss of her sight.
“If at any point you need a break, the word is yellow,” I reminded her. “If you need to stop completely, it’s red. But unless you say those words, your body belongs to me. To pose. To play with. To bind however I choose. Understood?”
“I understand, sir.” Her voice was steady, but I could see the rapid flutter of her pulse at the base of her throat.
I pressed a kiss to the curve of her shoulder. “You trust me?”
“I trust you, sir.”
I stepped back and began to work.
The first loop of jute went around her chest, just above and below her breasts, creating a harness that would support her upper body. I worked slowly, deliberately, letting Charlotte feel each wrap of the rope as I wound it around her. The jute was soft but firm, gripping without biting.
With each pass of the rope, I fell deeper into that meditative state I craved.
My hands moved almost of their own accord, muscle memory guiding me through patterns I’d practiced hundreds of times.
My mind quieted, the constant background noise of the job—the cases, the victims, the endless frustrations—fading to nothing.
Here, there was only this. The rope in my hands. The woman before me. The art I was creating.
I bound her arms behind her back in a box tie, her forearms resting against each other in the small of her back, shoulders pulled gently back in a way that thrust her chest forward.
Then I started on her legs, creating intricate wraps around each thigh, her knees, her ankles.
The crimson rope looked even better against her skin than I’d imagined—vivid and striking, like she was being embraced by flames.
Charlotte relaxed with each limb I lifted, trusting me completely, letting me position her however I wanted. Her breath had slowed, deepened. I recognized the signs—she was sinking into that same headspace I was, that place where the world fell away and there was only sensation, only the moment.
When the ground ties were complete, I attached the rigging lines to the ceiling hooks and began to lift her.
Slowly. Carefully. I watched the ropes take her weight, her body rising inch by inch from the floor until she was suspended about three feet in the air.
Her head and chest were more upright than horizontal, but her bound legs were pulled back and spread open in a partial hogtie position that curved her spine in an elegant arch.
I stepped back to admire my work.
She was breathtaking.
The red ropes crisscrossed her body like an elaborate latticework, emphasizing every curve, drawing the eye along her shape in a way that seemed intentional and artistic.
Her breasts hung full and heavy, caught in loops of rope that framed them without crushing.
Her ass was lifted and presented, the rope between her cheeks creating a subtle, teasing pressure.
Her auburn hair, mostly loose now, cascaded down like a waterfall of flame, swaying slightly with every breath she took.
She looked like a goddess. Like something too beautiful to be real, conjured from fantasy and suspended in midair for my pleasure.
“Now,” I murmured, stepping closer to trail my fingers along her suspended body. “How do you feel?”
“Good, sir.” Her voice was slurred, dreamy. Already floating. “I feel... safe. Relaxed.”
I smiled, though she couldn’t see it. Her head was in that beautifully fuzzy space I loved to take subs to, where they could drift and everything felt cottony and warm and nothing existed but sensation.
I spun her slowly, admiring her from every angle. The way the rope created patterns on her skin. The way her body hung in perfect suspension, completely at my mercy. The way her breath came in soft little sighs, like she was already in heaven and I hadn’t even really touched her yet.
“You’re stunning like this,” I told her, praising her. “A work of art. A masterpiece.”
I went to the armoire and retrieved a small vibrator—slim and curved, but powerful.
My cock twitched as my arousal roared back to life.
When I’d been focused on the rigging, on creating the ties and ensuring her safety, I’d been in that meditative space.
But now that the work was complete, I rushed back into full awareness.
I was achingly hard. Had been for a while, I realized. My cock was straining against my pants, demanding attention.
Soon. But first, I had plans for my beautiful bound slut.
I returned to Charlotte and wrapped an arm around her lower waist to steady her, stopping any slight spin from the suspension. Then I slid the vibrator between her legs.
She was soaked . So wet that the slim toy slipped into her pussy with almost no resistance, her body welcoming it eagerly.
Charlotte gave a long, low whimper. I could see her thighs trying to clench, trying to squeeze around the intrusion, but the rope held her legs apart and made any movement impossible.
I retrieved more rope and created a crisscross pattern over her pussy, between her thighs, securing the vibrator inside her. I positioned one of the knots right at her clit, a constant tease, something she could almost-but-not-quite grind against.
She was trembling now, tiny shudders running through her suspended body. I knew she was waiting for me to turn the vibrator on, so I didn’t. Not yet. Instead, I circled to stand in front of her and tweaked one of her nipples. Charlotte’s breath hitched, her entire body jerking in the ropes.
“I remember these from last time.” I rolled the nipple between my fingers, watching it stiffen further. “So sensitive. You loved it when I used the crop on them. Do you remember how hard you came when I gave them just a little pain?”
“Yes, sir,” she gasped. “I remember.”
“Such responsive little things.” I pinched harder and she shuddered. Then I lowered my head and took one nipple into my mouth, sucking hard before grazing it with my teeth.
Charlotte cried out, trying instinctively to twist away—but she couldn’t move. She was completely trapped, suspended and bound, unable to do anything but take whatever I chose to give her.
“Please, sir,” she groaned. “I—I want—I need—it feels so—”
“Shh.” I released her nipple and kissed the valley between her breasts.
“Someday I’m going to make you come just from playing with these sensitive nipples.
Tie you up differently—maybe hanging from your wrists, toes barely touching the ground, twisting and begging while I tease and pinch and torture them until you come untouched. ”
Her moan was pornographic.
“Would you like that?” I asked, pulling back to look at her face—her lips parted, her skin flushed, her expression blissful even behind the blindfold. “You know only the most sensitive sluts can come that way. And you are...”
“I’m your greedy slut, sir,” Charlotte said instantly, obediently. Like she couldn’t wait to claim the title. Like she needed me to know how willing and eager she was.
God , she was perfect. She just knew what I wanted, what to say, was able to read my desires just as I read hers. That we were already so attuned to each other after only one session together before tonight was exhilirating.
“That’s right.” I reached up and pulled the last pins from her hair, letting the rest of those auburn strands cascade down completely. “Such a good little slut for me, and only me.”
She moaned at that.
She was so fucking gorgeous trussed up in red ropes, her hair wild, her body displayed for me. I wished I had any artistic talent—I’d paint her like this, capture this moment forever. Maybe someday, if she trusted me enough, I’d ask if I could take photos. Create a record of what we did together.
“You know what else good, obedient sluts like to do?” I cooed in her ear, letting my breath brush against her skin.
“What, sir?” Charlotte breathed.
“They love to come.” I reached between her legs and pressed against the rope where it crossed over her clit, making her gasp.
“It’s all they think about. All they want.
They just can’t help themselves. They need to come, over and over, until they can’t think anymore.
So tonight...” I turned the vibrator on its lowest setting.