by Gray Miller
Brian finished the tie on her wrist, making sure the final loops were not impairing circulation, and stepped back, for a moment, to examine the drakenfly tie. The final tails of rope had been coiled like a tight spring along her sacrum, and the symmetry of the glowing bands added a strength and stability to the power growing as she breathed into the ropes.
He closed his eyes, for just moment, to try and feel the energies as they grew, and that’s when they attacked. A wave of desolation washed over him as the tiny imperfections in the knots were magnified, the subtle imbalances in the tails, even the tiny tufted frays along the rope, all suddenly seemed to be chinks in the field of power they were building. He could feel the pain in his knees,left from the strain of sitting in seiza, and it seemed to pulse with the same rhythm as he’d felt from the rope and the breath, a dull ache building. Suddenly Brian’s arms seemed to acquire a hollowness, his hands a spastic tremor. He couldn’t see the ropework in his mind, couldn’t even open his eyes, and with a rush of white noise he felt his balance begin to tilt in the room.
Francesca felt the attack as well, but in a different form. Her power had always come from the ability to visualize herself with an objectivity that lent a self-voyeuristic thrill to the process, an added layer of mental stimulation to whatever activity she was part of. Her responsiveness to the opening of her robe had come not only from the sensation of the silk sliding across and suddenly exposing the curve of her breast, but also from her awareness of how that sudden exposure of the dark pink bud would look, the special sensuality of revealed flesh.
Now that awareness was gone. There was nothing but a growing discomfort as she lost the breath, lost the glowing contrast between rope and skin, lost any visualization of her situation, and with it the safety and security that had been building with…
Brian. The one thing she realized was still there—though she had a feeling he wasn’t aware of it—was that thread of connection between herself and Brian, that had started when their eyes met at the beginning of the ceremony. She fought the gray tide of noise that seemed to filling her head, pushing down through the fog of diminished awareness to find that glowing tendril of connection. She pulled up the sense memory of the first touch on her shoulder, magnified it until she could feel again the warmth of his hand cupping her, turning her, the dance beginning, and then sent that feeling with as much force as she could through the connection to try, somehow, to reach him…
Brian’s eyes snapped open as the white noise flooding his senses was shattered by the clear crystal note of the bond of power came from Francesca. With a rush of synaesthesia the elements of the room came into focus, seeing the smells of the incense, feeling the light of the candles on his skin, the scent of blue silk and silver rope filling him, driving away the insecurities. The variances in knots and rope that had seemed like weaknesses a moment before suddenly were revealed for what they were, expressions of individuality and the powerful ephemerality of this experience. He felt his shoulders loosen as his arms again filled with the power and energy infused in the art of the rope. Taking a small step forward, he reached up and touched her shoulder again, reinforcing the connection. Her skin was warmer than before, and he let the heat of his palm merge with it, blending their breathing as well as they both continued the cycle of feeding the energy to the drakenfly binding traveling down her back.
Then he turned her again to face him, her robe falling open again, soft beige skin glowing in the light in contrast to the dark sheen of her robe falling in parallel down her body. Their eyes met, and the last vestiges of fear that had come from the attack were washed away in the smile they shared. “Thanks,” he said softly, and reached for the second coil of rope. She thought she could feel the frustrated impotence of the Repressors as their destructive influence was countered and then overcome by their confident sharing as the ceremony continued.
Brian held the rope in his hands a moment, considering her body and trying to see where the strands wanted to lay to let the power flow. The initial tie had been a base to build from, a grounding strength akin to the casting of a circle in a Wiccan ritual. It was a necessary part, to open her body and mind and provide a circulation of energy from which to draw for the rest of the ceremony, but the next part was in some ways more important. Casting the circle is one thing; it’s what happens within the circle that really counts. And what Brian would create with the rope, drawing its intricate design around her body and through her awareness, would give them the power and effect they needed.
Suddenly he saw it—the opening steps, at least, and deeper in his consciousness a glimpse of the final tie, the pattern. Frustratingly, there was no more than a glimpse, but it was enough; he knew where to begin.
From the front, the only evidence of the bindings flowing down her back was the two loops around each shoulder, gleaming silver bands pulling the robe apart. Brian pulled a loop of rope through each of the bands, stretching a single strand of rope just under the hollow of her throat, and began pulling the loops through, like wings appearing on either side. As he pulled the rope, he kept his eyes on hers, knowing that she was feeling the line stroking up along her thighs, the slight rise of her mons, the insides of her breasts, the first direct sexual contact hitting them both with a slight widening of the eyes, a deepening of the breath, and a thickening of the pulse. When did I become aware of her pulse? Brian wondered for a moment, but there it was, strong and throbbing in the curve of her neck.
He let the tails fall down along the outside of her breasts, and slowly knelt again in seiza. His hair softly brushed her belly, unintentionally, as he gathered the tails and drew them each around the outside of her thighs, reaching around to gather behind her. He was very careful not to touch her directly, allowing their proximity to charge the inches of air separating them with implied contact. She also didn’t move at all, allowing the feeling of the ropes to heighten the connection, focusing as the lines traveled in parallel around the lower curve of her ass, their constriction pushing them up slightly, still covered by the silk but suddenly feeling more exposed and open.
Brian continued the wrapping twice around her upper thighs, and as her legs were drawn tighter together Francesca could feel her labia, thick with the beginning of arousal, pushing together. She fought the urge to shift her thighs and let them rub Oh, yes, rub! together. She focused instead on the breathing, more and more, letting the energy from the ropes in her arms meet and flow across the line drawing against her sternum, down the sides of her breasts, the corresponding glow of arousal from each radiating out from the stiffened nipples, and letting it circle around her vulva, the flow building and radiating waves that excited her more. She felt the slow gathering of energies in her body continue to rise, the methodical pace lending a strength to the tide of pleasure that was still only hinted at, only a burgeoning promise deep in her mind.
Brian finished the wraps and fed just the tips of the tails through a simple overhand knot at the meeting of her upper thighs. He stood smoothly again, not stepping back, allowing their almost-touch to continue to charge their awareness, and brought his gaze to hers. His face held a relaxed expression, open and devoid of any lasciviousness, matching her calm half-smile. He began pulling the tails up through the knot, slowing the process and subtly pulling the ropes so that their surface occasionally brushed her mons, the friction of the tails coming through the knot causing a slight vibration in the bands cupping her ass, heightening her awareness of it. She managed to maintain composure until all but a third of the rope tails had been drawn through, and then a small but unmistakable shiver went through her, just for a moment. The connection between them suddenly sharpened into a pull, giving it the strength of a high-tension line.
The currents of energy began to thicken in the air between them, and she realized the sensitivity of her hands at the beginning had spread to the rest of her body, with the energy seeming to vibrate through her as it flowed through the ropes. Time to shift the visualization, she realized. She forced he
rself to divert a portion of her awareness to the target, casting out and finding, rather easily, the Senator’s son twenty-three miles away. He was glowing with the raw lust of any teen, and his own particular power, reinforced by the privilege of his family, cast out from him in her mind’s eye like pseudopods, hungrily grasping at the eager auras of the women at the party with him.
Brian must have caught a glimpse of her visualization, because he gave a soft chuckle as he used the tails drawing up from her crotch to loop into the rope at her sternum. “So that’s the secret of you Urban Sex Mages,” he murmured softly. “It all really does come down to tentacle sex?”
For a moment she was taken aback by his levity, and a small burst of anger came out of her awareness. How dare he make light of this? We’re working to—and suddenly she gasped as he cast the tails around the back of her knees, pulling them suddenly and breaking her balance. She felt a rush of terror as she began to fall forward, her hands bound behind her helpless to break her fall, then another rush of sensation as his skin suddenly met hers, body pressing against her, taking her weight easily and holding her there, off balance, floating in a state between upright and horizontal.
He held her there while their breathing matched again, then continued to lower her to the floor, folding her knees with a light pressure to her legs and then helping her lift her spine until she, too, was in seiza, facing him. “Misdirection. Works every time,” he said with a showman’s confidence, and she was reminded that a part of his power was in his ability to manipulate not so much the rope as the audience that watched, using their power to feed into his art and increase its potency. And in this case, he’s got an audience of exactly one, and he got what he needed. Though her breathing had calmed, the pulse in her neck was twice as fast as before, and she felt tiny snaps like sparks bursting over her skin from the rush of blood. The ropes were clearly glowing now, pulsing with every breath.
He stood again, looking down at her as he held the tails of the rope. “Endgame. Are you ready?” She nodded, and closed her eyes, surrendering to the feeling of the connection completely, letting her awareness fade from self and other to simply the moment. Had she been capable of verbalizing, she would have thought it a grand place to be, but she was too busy being there… .
Brian grounded himself, feeling his heels push into the rug, feeling his connection to the ropes he held and the energy that circulated and moved through her and the twining strands flow through his legs, his shoulders, seeming to fountain out of the top of his head… and then began to pull the tails up, in a diagonal line across his body, his empty hand travelling downward in the same diagonal, the classic tenchi heaven-and-earth symmetry lending its own power to the process.
As the tension increased, Francesca’s body was drawn down tighter and tighter by the ropes, her head sinking as her spine folded down over her knees. Her golden hair fell and draped her face, brushing her legs as her forehead finally came to rest on the carpet. Her breathing was deep and slow, the relaxed pace belying the tension revealed in her arms as the silver bindings held them straight and long against the curve of her back.
When she was all the way down, Brian felt the connection between them diminish, but it did not worry him. She was deep in trance now, and was working, he knew, to entwine herself with Jonathan Allenton’s psyche, to bring him into the connection. Brian simply maintained his own measured breathing, his own flow, knowing that he was still a part of her strength and providing the support and grounding she would need to find her way back.
The repressors tried to hit them again, this time with a more direct assault, a barrage of images and sensations cascading against them both. Francesca was too deep to even register it, and it broke like a helpless frothy wave against her trance state. Brian caught some of it, though, a series of twisted, banal sexual images trying to insinuate their way into his awareness of his own sex, a grinding litany of voices and suggested desires don’t you want that cunt tits would be so nice bigger rounder mouth sucks cock take it harder trying to break his connection.
This time he felt no fear, no chance of losing his connection. His awareness of the joyful sharing now was so much better than any of the hinted debaucheries that they were helpless before it. He stood for a moment with the tails held up over her tightly bound form, basking in the shared breaths of pleasure that flowed between them, and actually laughed aloud at the now-pitiful attacks, and even was able to glimpse for a moment the poor drugged-out emitters the repressors were using to fuel their attack. He took a moment to send a pulse of the joy he had to them, a quick burst across the conduit they’d unknowingly created (just a taste, don’t worry, plenty more where that came from, just kick that habit, buddy) and then slammed the connection down firmly and irrevocably.
He had work to do.
His movements were quicker now, but still smooth and deliberate, as he drew the rest of the rope in and around her curled form to seal the binding and give Francesca the reserves of power she would need to change the boy’s (Man, he reminded himself, if he were a boy he would not be so dangerous) sexual awareness.
He drew the tails up over her trapezii again, laying them down along either side of the knots securing the bindings of her arms, and looped them down through the cleft in her buttocks, tying them to the bindings on her thighs and drawing them tight, knowing that the feeling of her glutes being divided would arouse her further and lend her more power, while the energies flowing down and across her spine would continue to circulate and feed back into her work. He quickly drew the tails of the rope up again along her side and began the final sealing of the ritual, winding the ropes into themselves in tight coils that gave no exits to the energy involved.
He pulled the final coil tight into itself, and sat back in seiza, back where he’d started, hands this time cupped in his lap, his thumbs touching, and simply concentrated on providing a grounding support as she did her part.
Francesca was still in trance, still breathing, and her mind was twenty-three miles east, where a man, barely twenty, was sitting at a party, looking into the depths of a lousy beer and only half aware of the flirty babble of the woman next to him. She continued to join his awareness until she could feel everything from the chill condensation on the plastic cup he held to the smell of the patchouli on the woman next to him. She knew the faint aftertaste of the Ethiopian food he’d had for dinner, she knew the hard pressure of the bar on his elbows. She went deeper, feeling his ennui, his boredom at the ease with which he did the few things expected of him, and felt his hidden despair at the knowledge that his father and the machine he was part of had his future all planned out. She knew, along with him, that he might as well enjoy the woman next to him, let her feed on him as well, she as hungry for a taste of the entity he was part of as he was bored with it.
Francesca felt all that, and fed into it. She gave him more of the trapped feeling, more of the feeling of being bound, of being held helpless and without the possibility of movement. She let him feel her own body, overlapping it on his subconscious as a mirror to his feelings of being trapped, and amplified it, until he found his eyes beginning to fill with tears.
Then, when he was on the verge of giving in to the overwhelming feelings of despair, when his tears were just about to flow, when the thoughts of mindless sex with the woman were beginning to be replaced with images of the gun he had in the case back home… just at that point, she began to move.
It was a tiny movement, a soft flexing against the ropes that bound her, but he could feel it. He could feel the resistance of her body against the ties that wrapped her, the seeming hopeless struggle. At first that was all she could do, flex her muscles against the ropes, in some cases feeling the knots even more hopelessly tighten. Yes, feel this. The struggle. The need to be free. The hopelessness of realizing that not only have you been entangled far more than you knew… but that you have let it happen to you, even encouraged it.
He felt it, and the woman cooed happily as she felt his bicep
tighten under his jacket where she hung on his arm. Jonathan didn’t hear her, his thoughts deep within. He flexed again involuntarily as Francesca increased her blending with him and intensified her struggle.
Brian watched her hands writhing in the bonds before him, fingers twisting like sea anemones as her arms tried to flex up and down. Her back began to arch, shoulders pushing forward and back, and slowly her muscles began to find tiny places in the loops and strands where they could slip under, change position, small pockets of slack created here and there. There is hope. There is a point to the struggle. You are life, within this binding, and you have the advantage of being able to improvise. Adapt. Overcome. Suddenly a loop came off of one wrist, and Francesca let out a long, slow breath as her body found a release. At the bar, Jonathan also let out a slow breath, but still ignored the bustle around him. The woman had left in search of more susceptible prey, finally realizing that her charms were not being seen at all. The young man continued to stare at the surface of the bar, the rich wood grain seeming to draw his gaze and shift into a liquid flow as he continued to sense something growing inside.
Francesca’s torso was twisting violently from side to side now, her wrists freed up to the elbows from the drakenfly binding. She had lifted her torso up halfway, but was drawn back down by the ropes across her shoulders, which slid partway down with every twist, but refused to go further. Her breathing was ragged, now, still deep but punctuated with the effort and force of her struggle. She felt a moment when it seemed that a particularly emphatic twist almost had the loop off, and she added a shake of her shoulder to try and send it further… and lost her balance, feeling again that moment of panic as she realized there was nothing to catch her as she fell to the side, her head about to hit the floor—
