A Celebration of a Memory

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There can be a lot of ego in rope, the desire to be better than those around you, to be more seen, more relevant, more risky, more perfect. I am a competitive person by nature, and I enjoy putting myself out there to be celebrated or torn down. I get a rush from the challenge, and always have since I was very young. I can handle rejection and critique, and enjoy that aspect of competition almost as much as the feeling of accomplishment and celebration.

On this day, I was not thinking about ego or competition or recognition. I was thinking about her.

The room is filled with the melody of quiet rhythmic music, the soft sound of the rope hitting the floor with each pass around her body, and our banter back and forth, a combination of check-ins, questions about comfort and the usual giggles and laughter. Tying is a long process and it provides us with intentional time together. It’s just the two of us and a pile of jute, my hands on her warm skin, her breath fluttering the soft hairs around my face as I work. On this day, we enjoy the slow and quiet connection.

Once she is completely restrained, all the way down to her fingers and toes, a strand of rope placed over her exposed slit, I sit back and look at her, not speaking. I reach out and stroke her neck, straining in her twisted contortion. My hands wander over her shoulders, into her hair and down her back. She makes soft little noises from behind her gag, and her fingers wiggle as much as they can in their fibrous prison. She loves being like this, something to be objectified, my personal visual enjoyment.

I remove the one piece of rope keeping me from what I want, that perfectly placed strand that runs over her clit. It’s been teasing her with each micro movement, each small shift of her body. Slowly, I lift it from between her legs and she moans into her gag as I dip my tongue into her. She tastes wonderful, familiar, just as she did when I licked her for the first time so long ago. Her hips move as much as the rope will allow, as if she is trying to press herself into me. I know what she wants, and I give it to her. Two fingers find their way inside her, moving slowly at first, then faster and faster as she moans and pleads for more and more and more. She finally shudders in release, and I clean her dampness off of my fingers with my mouth.

The unraveling is one of my favorite parts. Taking her down after she’s cum, each strand of rope removed awakens a part of the body, a small reminder of what just occurred. Her skin, her nerves, the tiny hairs that cover the surface of her body, they all remember, and they alight and dance in turn. Her mind is still fuzzy, and she giggles and sighs contentedly as each limb is freed. I stroke the impressions in her skin, rub the muscles that have been twisted and trapped. I kiss her lips and hold her to me.

We are elated in our triumph and our hearts beat in celebration. This feeling is why I am here, why I continue to put rope in my hands. Participating in a competition will never feel as good as the rush I get from celebrating a moment of victory like this with her.