Chapter 10: Rope

Armand's rope was red hemp, coiled in a neat figure eight on his dining table.

He had cleared the furniture to the walls.

A steel ring was screwed into the ceiling beam above the empty floor.

"Page eleven," he said. "Bondage. Restraint. Being helpless."

"Yes."

"You've done nothing like it."

"I want to."

"Strip, and stand here."

I took off my clothes and stood on the rug under the ring.

He walked around me with the rope over his arm.

"I have done this for twenty years," he said. "I'm going to tie you, and then I'm going to hurt you."

"You can't undo it yourself. If you need out, slap three times on the nearest thing. I'll cut you free in two seconds."

"I won't need it."

"Then you'll be the first."

He began with my wrists.

He brought them behind my back, crossed, and wound the rope around them with steady practiced turns.

It was rough on my skin and it tightened with every loop.

He laced it around my arms above the elbow, then across my chest, above my breasts and below, pushing them out.

Each knot pulled.

Each pull sent a small hot flare through me.

By the time he knelt to bind my ankles, I couldn't move my arms at all.

"How does it feel?" he asked.

"Tight."

"Good."

"Helpless."

"Better."

He ran a rope over the ring and hauled it taut.

My body lifted until I stood on my toes.

I gasped. The weight pulled at my shoulders.

I swayed, bound, stretched, completely at his mercy.

"Breathe out," he said. "Slowly. Do not hold it."

I breathed.

"Good."

He stood back and looked at me for a long time.

Then he picked up a flogger from the table, a thick bundle of soft leather tails.

"Eight to start."

The first stroke landed across my back with a dull slap, and the sensation was broad and warm, unlike the paddle.

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