The first knot is nothing. A whisper of jute against skin, a brush of something that feels more like a caress than a restraint.
“Breathe,” she murmurs.
I do. Or at least, I try.
Her fingers move with a patience that unnerves me—so sure, so studied, so intricate. Amber lamplight flickers, shadows shifting with every deliberate pull of the rope. My wrists, crossed delicately behind me, are her first canvas. She binds them with practiced grace, smoothing over each intersection, checking for tension. Ensuring comfort. Ensuring control.
“You’re quiet,” she muses, her voice a low, calming hum. “I wonder what’s happening in that pretty little head of yours.”
I swallow. My pulse thuds like a ceremonial drum.
I had asked for this.
But now, as the ties tighten—gentle, unyielding—I feel a flicker of resistance.
She notices. Of course she does.
I shudder as she cinches the next knot at the small of my back, the intricate web of binds coaxing my body into perfect alignment. I know this isn’t about trapping me—it’s about revealing me.
“How does it feel?” she asks, her fingers pressing lightly against the ropes, feeling the way they shift against my skin. Watching. Always watching. Testing my reaction.
“Like… I can’t move.”
She hums. “You can. If you truly needed to.” A hand trails down my waist, grounding me, reassuring me. “You know that, don’t you?”
I nod.
“Good girl.”
A slow exhale. The warmth of her praise spreads through me, deeper than the ropes, deeper than the heat simmering in my core.
I trust her.
That’s why I let her pull the next loop lower, wrapping around the curve of my hips, the knot pressing into the softness just below my navel. She cinches carefully—never too harshly—just enough to remind me of what I’ve surrendered.
The rope glides across my skin—wrapping, weaving, cinching. Each pull draws me deeper into her pace, her control, her craft.
She binds my arms to my sides, framing my ribs in a lattice of jute, pressing just enough to make me aware of every inhale. Of every inch of space I can still claim.
Of how much I am giving her.
A soft chuckle. She tests the tension, lifting my bound wrists slightly, inspecting the symmetry, ensuring nothing might break the threshold from restraint into pain.
She shifts behind me, her lips grazing the curve of my jaw. My breath shudders. The knots hold.
“You know,” she murmurs, tilting her head, “ropes do more than hold you still.”
I shiver.
She leans in, pressing her lips just below my ear, her voice an incantation.
“They make you tell the truth.”
I still. A pause. A pulse.
Her fingers ghost over the knots, barely grazing my skin. A mere vibration through the strands and—oh—I feel it. The shift in pressure, the electric hum between sensation and submission.
“What else do you feel?” she prompts.
I swallow. “Like…” My breath catches as she tightens the last knot. My feelings, too big for my small body, leak out—revealing my first truth:
“Like you’re holding me together. I feel…” My voice catches. “Exposed.”
A satisfied sound escapes her throat.
She bends her head to kiss the small tear at the corner of my eye. Her fingers linger on the binding, skimming over the intricate lattice stretched across my ribs. I am fully restrained now—suspended in stillness, caught in a tension that is delicious.
She steps back, surveying her work, her creation. Her fingers drift over the rope’s path, slow and reverent.
“Good,” she murmurs. “Let it happen.”
Then, a single resolute tug—not cruel, but firm—tightens the weave around my body, pulling me straighter, forcing my shoulders back, my chest forward.
I gasp.
“Still with me?” she asks, her lips so close.
I nod. “Yes.”
A pause. A test.
“Say it.”
I exhale, my voice barely a whisper. “I’m with you.”
The words land between us, heavy with meaning.
She exhales something close to a laugh, indulgent and pleased, as her fingers trace the ropes framing my ribs. “You’re beautiful like this,” she murmurs.
I turn my face toward her, seeking the reassurance of her gaze. She meets me without hesitation.
“No one has ever bound me like this,” I confess.
A satisfied smile spreads across her lips.
Her fingers hook beneath a shoulder knot, testing its hold, pressing me deeper into her hold.
“No one else ever will,” she promises.
And fuck—that makes me melt more into the binds. A warmth rushes through me—a wild, dangerous relief. I hadn’t realized how much I needed to hear that.
She adjusts the final knot. Then she leans in, her breath a feather-light stroke against my ear.
“Now,” she whispers. “Tell me something true.”
The words strike like lightning.
My stomach knots tighter than the bindings at my ribs. I want to deflect. I want to tease, to laugh, to pretend this is just a game. But she has left me nowhere to hide.
I struggle, just for a moment, against the ties—not because I want to escape, but because I need to feel them hold.
Her hands smooth over my arms, her touch a protective golden wing—warm, grounding.
“Shhh,” she soothes. “I’ve got you.”
And I give in. The tension dissolves. The fight slips away. My body melts into the binds, into her hands, into the certainty of her presence. I release a breath I hadn’t known I was holding.
A truth tumbles from my lips.
“The truth is… I don’t want to be untied.”
xoxo, Firefly ❤️🔥