We played in rope last night. Well, I was in rope. He’s got this new hemp, quarter inch, I think? I love the smell of it, the punitive feel of it, where it puts my head. But I dislike the scratchiness. It distracts me from everything else that I am experiencing. And the size of this rope in particular – it makes being tied tight, or suspended, even more challenging.
I say even more, because rope, something I love and used to feel absolutely confident in, is now something that I too often feel anxious about. It adds an element to a scene that makes it hard for me to go anywhere else but into a battle with myself, with my body, with my desire to please, to submit, versus simply trying to persevere. To last long enough to make it worth V’s time and effort to tie me. I know he loves to. And I love him to. But I always feel like I am letting him down by not handling it better. Staying in it/up longer. Not being able to enjoy other kinds of play along with it without being so distracted by the rope itself that I can’t participate. Note: he never ever makes me feel all this. This is all me, coming from where I was, what I could do, what I did do, before.
Last night though, it was different. And…the same. The same battle with myself, but then, somewhere in there, I lost myself in the rope. I was so far, so deep, that coming out was like coming out of a trance.
He suspended me first. I was all in my head. Anxiety and the surety that I would fail screaming at me, telling me I couldn’t do it anymore, that I couldn’t give him what he wanted, that I couldn’t be what he wanted. I don’t know how long I stayed up, probably only minutes, while he smacked my ass in between adjusting the ropes. I wanted to be there longer, but I couldn’t manage it.
But then, when brought me down, instead of taking me out of the rope completely, he just…rearranged the tie. He never let me completely down, I was never free – I was just on one leg instead of flying. And as I hung there, my arms in a box tie behind my back, one leg tied up, the other balancing precariously, it happened.
I fell into the rope.
All there was was the rope and me, two parts of a whole – in opposition, but also in an intimate embrace. I felt the edges of it, digging into my skin; I felt the way it held me tight. The roughness was a reminder that I was made of skin. The tightness a reminder that I was safe in its embrace, even as it lashed me, as it made me pay for every movement with fire.
The leg I balanced on ached, my ass felt every blow from the paddle as if he was bludgeoning me, though I know he was barely tapping me – every sensation was heightened. And in between every whack I fell further into that space, further into the rope itself, into being one with the rope and yet floating far above it.
At some point he switched legs on me, when my hip began to scream and I was brought back into reality with him. The rope across my chest and under my breasts was fire, but also comforting. It was a pain I had adjusted to, and I leaned into it, testing its edges, as he brought out the new singletail I had gotten him. Then there was the fire of the rope and the fire of the whip; and that’s all there was in my world.
He fucked me then. In the rope, on one leg up. I registered it, and I think I grew wet and began to push back against him, wanting the juxtaposition of the pleasure and the pain. Wanting to be filled, to feel his semen dripping down my legs. But I was also so far gone that I don’t know now whether he did or not: there was only physical sensation. Me, the rope, his cock pushing in and out. I do remember coming back to reality when he brought out Baldy. The brief moment he was no longer inside me, in contact with me, it was like being splashed with cold water, jolted out of the space I was floating in. “I can’t, I can’t,” I said, referring to Baldy. The touch of it was like fingernails on a chalkboard, I was that on the edge of being overwhelmed by sensation.
Sometime shortly thereafter I found myself down, on the floor, in his lap. I have flashes of memory, of him loosening the ropes, of the agony to my leg releasing – and the feeling of both relief and a sense of loss as the rope came away from my skin. We did all the things we do at the end of a scene. Cuddled, put toys away, wound rope. Maybe we talked, tho I couldn’t say for sure about that. We did end up heating up our dinner and eating on the couch…or maybe at the table? I know at some point we ended upon the couch while he watched something and I wrote here. I was blissfully befuddled, riding the wave of endorphins and his approval.