by Lilia Moon
Chapter Seven
Matteo
Trust. She’s filling all the space in these four walls with hers, and it’s not because she trusts me. Not yet, although that’s found its beginnings. She trusts herself, she trusts the rope, she trusts this place where she’s put down her dandelion taproot to hold her, no matter what happens in the next fifteen minutes.
I take the coil from her hands, letting our fingers touch. Strengthening the side of the triangle that’s weakest. We’re both connected strongly to the rope. What remains to turn this into art is for us to connect with each other.
Her eyes, luminous and brown, close for a long blink, and when they open again, she’s taken off a lot more than her flannel shirt. She’s knows what I’m asking. I don’t need just her body in my ropes. I need some of who she is to bind and hold.
I trace my fingers over the dandelion inked on her shoulder. It’s not strictly necessary to touch to be an excellent rope master, but the nawashi who trained me was as intimate and appreciative with skin as he was with rope, and that’s a lesson I learned deeply and well.
Not that it’s a hardship. Liane’s skin is warm, softly pebbled, reacting to its new exposure to light and air and the drafts of the studio and my breath. I let my fingers trace the arm opening of her tank top. It’s one of those yoga ones with built-in support. No underwires to mess with my rope. Which is good—the nascent trust between us needs touch and time, not demands to take off more clothes.
I circle around behind her, staying close, brushing my body against hers, laying the groundwork this scene deserves. We hardly know each other, but I don’t think that’s going to matter. We both know the rope. I need to let it bring us together. Slowly. In my art, tension is part of surrender.
She breathes as I circle, but stays steady on her feet.
I smile. If I earn the right to have this woman lean into what I offer her, it’s going to matter.
I finish my slow circle, coming to stand in front of her again. I’m not touching her anymore, partly because I need my hands for the rope, but mostly because I’m a guy who takes consent seriously. I don’t use touch to put my foot on the scale. I wait for her eyes to meet mine. “I want to tie a simple chest harness. Something that will give you a taste for what I do without pushing your body overly hard. Maybe some wrist cuffs to go along with that.”
She nods slowly. “Okay. There are two more hanks of that rope if you want it.”
I feel like my birthday just landed without warning. I grin at her as I walk backward over to the tiered woven basket that held the first coil. It doesn’t take long to find its sisters, as beautifully conditioned as the first. I hold her eyes as I walk back, running designs in my head. A simple chest harness to see how she does with feeling bound. Dragonwing ties on her arms, maybe, because I’ve always been an artist who likes decoration. A front tie for her hands—I want her to see how beautiful her ropes are in action.
Her lips quirk. “I feel like the fly who wandered a little too close to the spider web.”
I laugh, but she’s not entirely wrong. And she might enjoy a look inside my head as I do this. “I always have more ideas at this point than I have rope.” I set down the two new hanks and start running the first one through my hands. Finding the ends again. Making the bite in the middle. The basic preparations for every tie. And then I stop, because this doesn’t feel basic, and I want art, not demo.
I want to offer her a chance to lean in, to feel the magic she crafts into her ropes from inside them.
I hold up the midpoint of the rope between us. Loop and ends, ready to go. “It’s a big ask, but I’d like for the rope and my hands to have free rein. Waist up and over your tank top only, but my intention would be to make it personal. Intimate. I want to touch you as I bind you.”
Her eyes widen at the blunt words.
I don’t walk them back. They’re blunt, even in my world. The kink community is good at asking for touch. Asking for emotional connection is trickier.
She closes her eyes and exhales in slow motion.
I give her time. I’ve just asked for a lot—and if she gives me her consent, I mean to take it, and not overly gently. I want her to feel the power in her ropes, not just their softness.
I want her to feel both in me too.
Because this is already personal.
Chapter Eight
Liane
Part of me knows this is insane—but I can’t bring myself to care. I earn my living making rope in the most time-consuming, painstaking way possible. Insanity is my way of life.
He’s a stranger, but he’s not, and even if he is, I still want to say yes. To feel my ropes as they’re meant to be used. To know what it is to feel them wrapped around me, because I know, even now, that it will change every strand I make for the rest of forever.
The artist in me yearns.
The woman is attracted—and afraid.
I like being a dandelion, but there are parts, deep inside me, where I’m not yellow and cheerful. I’m an orchid, beautiful and needy. A fragile flower that wants to bend toward the light. And something in me knows that he’s asking to touch those petals, even if he doesn’t know it.
I don’t know how to tell him that I’m more than the dandelion on my shoulder. That there’s a flower I’m not brave enough to wear on my skin.
Fingers skim the line of my jaw, ever so gently. “What do you need right now, sweetheart?”
It’s a beautiful question—and an impossible one. “I’m not sure yet.” And then the yarn spins itself out and I know. “I might need space after. Or a hug.”
“Either.” He smiles. “Or both.”
I nod, and something in me releases. “Okay. Make me into art.”
He tips his head. “Touch, too?”
He already knows the answer, I can see it. But it matters to him for me to say the words. “Yes.”
“Thank you.” He stands for a long moment, doing nothing but meeting my eyes. Then he starts walking again, around behind me in that close way that lights all my senses on fire. This time, he runs his hands slowly down my arms and slides underneath them. I look down as he passes a loop of rope from one hand to the other. A doubled line, running just under my breasts.
I can hear the quiet noises behind me as rope slides against rope, and his simple hum of pleasure as he works. Then his hands are coming around me again, laying down more tracks parallel to the first. I crane my head, trying to see, but my breasts are in the way.
He chuckles. “Patience. I’ll have ropes where you can look at them in just a minute.”
It shifts something inside me that he knows. The petals of my orchid murmur.
A tug at my back and the band around my chest cinches tight. His arms come around me again, this time wrapping me into a hug over the banded rope. “How does that feel?”
“Strange.” And good. And several more things I can’t quite define.
I feel his smile, just behind my ear. “Good. Let me know if it gets uncomfortable in any ways that you don’t like.”
That’s an odd qualification, but I don’t have time to think about it. His hands are on the move again. This time the rope passes over my chest on a diagonal, heading for my shoulder. His fingers stroke my breast gently on the way back down. Nothing long—just a casual caress that transmits all the way to my toes.
Another tug at my back. This one doesn’t make anything tighter, but he’s humming again. Whatever he can see, he likes it. And I can finally see rope. I stare down at the track of silk and hemp across my chest, watch as a second track joins it, crossing over my heart and heading to that spot on my back where all things are anchored.
Simple—and yet, it touches my orchid. I made this rope to be strong and tender, both, and I can feel it holding me. Feel him cinching it tighter until I know that I’m held. Giving the power of my own ropes back to me.
I see the tear land before I feel it.
Matteo is in front of me before I can react. His thumb
strokes my face, wiping the tear.
Not chasing it away. Rubbing it in.
Making it part of me.
Chapter Nine
Matteo
It’s a good thing I got permission for art, because it’s happening whether I intend it or not.
She makes no moves to wipe away her tears, even though her arms and hands are free. Her stillness is beautiful, just like her wet cheeks. I tuck her hair gently behind her ear and hand her one of the soft cloths from the bench. “Ropes can set a lot of feelings free. Thank you for letting me see yours.”
She sniffles and smiles, swiping at her nose. “You’ve hardly started.”
Only if you’re measuring this thing in fancy knots and laid-down strands of rope. “Ever made anything that’s gorgeous and meaningful and only three feet long?”
It takes her a second, and then she laughs and wipes at her nose again. “Yes. Point taken.” Something hazes her eyes. “Are we done, then?”
Not anymore. Not with what I see in that haze. “Not unless you want to be.” I take the cloth from her and set it back on the bench. “Your hands are going to be occupied soon, so let me know if you need that again.”
She nods, like me wiping her nose for her is no big deal, which surprises me. For many women, it’s an act more intimate than orgasm.
I wrap my fingers around the simple cross over her chest and tug her toward me. Let her feel the control it gives me. The support it gives her, if she wants it.
She wriggles, but not to escape. To experiment. To explore.
I tug again, shaking her a little, which only amuses her. And just like that, she’s back to solid. Curious and vibrant and fine with wherever I plan to take this next. Trusting herself, but the trust between the two of us is growing too.
I run my fingers down the double track of rope, letting the back of my fingers brush the inner side of her breast. I’m really fond of naked, but highlighting curves on a black landscape has its appeal too. I listen to her breathing, calm and with me and capable of standing on her own two feet for a while yet. I debate a moment, because with the luxury of three hanks of rope, I can afford to let my penchant for eye candy run a little wild. I take a second rope and double it and reach for her wrists. Time to see how she feels about bondage that limits her freedom instead of just holding her snugly.
Three wraps around both wrists, and then a fourth, because I want this as comfortable for her as I can make it, and this is damn skinny rope. She’s absolutely silent as I work, so silent that I look up as soon as I can without messing up my loops. She’s fine. She’s not holding her breath, not scared. She’s just still, her eyes glued to the beautiful wraps around her wrists.
It suddenly hits me. I’m tying her up with her own rope. For me, that adds such richness. For her, it’s got to be a lot more complicated.
I keep my hands moving, slowly, with calm, expert certainty. Holding the scene steady in the best way I know how. There are so many cultural stories around bound wrists. So many messages written in blood and pain and fear. My art is about reclaiming the beauty of rope and skin and writing a different story for a world that deeply needs to hear it. But the woman who has entrusted herself to my rope doesn’t know that story yet, and it’s the work of her own hands I’m cinching around her wrists.
Artistry. Deep, taut, gorgeous artistry.
Or disaster.
Chapter Ten
Liane
My hands are tied.
I hear my breath hiss as that hits me somewhere deep, somewhere that wants to run and flail, fight and maim, because he’s using my own ropes to do this to me.
His hands flatten, palms up, holding my hands like some kind of offering. “The choice is always yours, Liane. Always.”
This isn’t about choice. It’s about something far more primal, something that lives in the same visceral soup where art and hate are born. I find words, because I need his. “What do you see when you look at my wrists?” My voice sounds like a rasp, a rusty old one that would never make it in my studio door.
He exhales softly. “Strength. Beauty.”
I manage a breath. Barely.
His voice gets quieter. “Trembling. Power. Need.”
He sees the soup. Some of it, anyhow. “I don’t know what I need.” My words are barely a whisper.
He looks at me, his smile faint and poignant. “Not your need. Mine.” His finger strokes my wrists, tracing around the slipknot holding me captive. “My need to be a part of this.”
I feel the gates that were trying to close inside me halt.
He’s not standing here as my captor. This isn’t an act of restraint, any more than it is when I twist strands together into something beautiful and strong and capable of things pure fiber could never be.
He’s an artist. One who puts himself into what he makes, just like I do.
I breathe out. This isn’t about wrists and bondage. It’s about becoming a part of something bigger than me. When I look with those eyes at the neat parallel strands cuffing my wrists, they’re not at all frightening. They’re beautiful. The light shines on the silk I spent weeks dyeing to just the right shade, and it somehow finds the sheen of my skin, too.
His fingers wrap around my wrists, pressing the rope more firmly into my skin. “You see it now.”
I do. The bindings around my wrists, and the ones around my ribs that held tight while my heart did its flailing. I nod, even though I can feel the tears rising again. I’m good now. I’m not here in anyone else’s idea of what these ropes around my wrists might mean. I’m here in my meaning, and it’s beautiful.
His hands move again, pulling the doubled rope through the crossing over my heart. Using it as the anchor. Attaching my upper arms to my ribs and my hands to my heart. More quick twists of his hands and those loops become the scaffolding for an intricate spider web that presses its growing diamond pattern into my arms and makes my bound wrists the centerpiece of what he’s creating.
I no longer feel captive, even though my hands can barely move and ropes press in on me from every direction.
I feel adorned.
Chapter Eleven
Matteo
My hands have found the rhythm of turn and tug, slip and anchor, which is good, because the rest of me is lost, drowning in rope and skin in a way I haven’t done in a really long time. Her rope is alive in my hands, speaking of its maker, insisting that every stretch, every turn, every layout is a thing of intense beauty, worthy of the skill and focus in which it was crafted.
They challenge me, maker and rope, even as they hold me utterly enthralled.
It’s a show-off design I picked, one that would normally have her elbows behind her back. Dragon wings. A tie that demands expertise, even with a rope nowhere near this thin. My fingers brush automatically under turning points, looking for unruly pockets of pressure that would mar her skin in ways I don’t want it to be marred. Lacing her into a net of her own making, because every inch of this rope I use, it becomes clearer that I’m merely a decently worthy messenger, and the rope my reliable sidekick.
The star of this show is the shin gin, quiet stillness of the woman inside the dragon wings.
So damn gorgeous.
I tie an overhand knot in the last rope, one of my hidden kind that tucks away ends and lets the rope shine instead of the knot work. The design looks different to my eyes, the thin ropes adding an ephemeral feeling, a wispiness, even knowing it’s a far more difficult tie for the woman wearing the ropes.
Liane doesn’t know that, though. She’s as hypnotized as I am by what we’ve just woven between us, a lattice of silk and hemp and trust and stunning craftsmanship and something more, because I’ve done this enough to know when I’ve stepped beyond art. When there’s a living, breathing connection growing out of the ropes and ties.
I trace my fingers over the dandelion inked on her skin, drinking in the wonder in her eyes. Waiting to see if she wants to take it any further, because further is waiting for us if we
choose it.
Her head tips down toward her fingers, bound in place just under her chin. I wrap my hands around hers, checking for coolness. Pale skin. Signs of strain.
Nothing but shining awareness.
I slide my hands up to her shoulders, trace the lines of rope running over to her back. I’ve left her breasts unbound, and that’s suddenly an oversight my fingers deeply regret. I spread my touch a little, brushing over a luscious mound through the latticework. I feel her try to catch herself, a little off balance, and then realize she can’t. If she tips over, her head will hit the ground and bounce, her dragon wings unable to reach out and fly.
I tug on the chest harness, letting her know I’ve got her. Nothing bounces on my watch.
She exhales, but the watchfulness doesn’t leave her. Not entirely. Rope hypnosis has fled, and all that’s left is the fledgling bond growing between us.
Chapter Twelve
Liane
His fingers brush over my breast, a warm wind caressing a fascinated mountain. I can feel myself quivering, the ropes somehow bouncing my shivers back to me and making them bigger.
He tugs on the ropes again, using them to speak to me where his hands can’t. His free hand reaches up behind my neck, cupping, massaging taut muscles until my head is ready to roll off and let him catch it.
He hums, that same pleased murmur he had when he first started tying. His fingers thread into my hair, snugging it in a firm grip, tipping my head to the side. His other hand lets go of the rope, which leaves me bereft until I breathe again and realize the grip in my hair is as secure as any binding. His fingers trace lightly up the side of my neck, a slow meander that teases my skin and has my hands straining to break free.
