He Tied Me to the Bamboo and Let the Beast Out

When we met, we had the usual conversation, the one that opens any chat between people like us: what role do you have. I told him I considered myself a sadomasochist, and he laughed. He didn’t understand why I didn’t simply call myself a switch. It took him a while to get it. He got it the first time we did a session, something light, a little nonsense with spanking in some random club, and he discovered that the more dominant he got with me, the less attention I paid him.

Not because I was bratting. Not because I was disrespecting him. But because what we had agreed on was SM, not a dominance-and-submission relationship. And I’m sick of people who don’t understand that BDSM isn’t reduced to that. Ours is something else: a sadist and a masochist who session together, without submission, without master, without slave. A top-and-bottom relationship, with all the power asymmetry that comes with it, but without me handing over my will. He handles the rope. He doesn’t handle me.

I arrive at his place with my stomach nearly empty. He let me know today would be shibari, and I’ve already learned not to eat heavily before coming, because we always end up doing transitions and I never know what position I’ll end up in. There’s nothing worse than hanging upside down with food half-digested. I go into the rope room and find everything laid out: the suspension point set up, the bamboo already in place up high, taut, waiting.

Before stepping on the tatami, I take off my shoes. I never step on it with street-soiled soles; I know it would bother him and I understand why. I go over to the stool by the entrance, beside the wardrobe where I keep my session clothes. Everything I decided to leave at his house for these afternoons is there. I strip almost completely and stay only in my panties.

He always tells me he won’t take off a single garment without my permission. But this time we had already talked: either I stayed naked, or I brought something I wouldn’t mind losing. I’m wearing plain white cotton panties, the ones he calls “period panties.” They could be, yes, but they’re not the ones I truly use for shibari, because they breathe and rip easily at the seam. Before coming, I took out a couple of stitches with the seam ripper, as I always do when he announces he plans to tear them off me. It’s something we both enjoy. I take a silk robe from my shelf and drape it over myself.

I walk to the center of the room. Before kneeling, I gather my hair into a bun, twist the braid and arrange it high on my head, on the crown. I start to warm up the muscles, mobilize them, loosen them. I take my time in silence, check for any tight spots, make sure everything responds. I hear him coming down the hallway. I take off the robe and throw it into a corner. That annoys him, but he already resigned himself to it.

I breathe slowly. First shallow, abdominal, and little by little I expand the air into a full breath: abdomen, ribs, collarbones. I lower the rhythm. My heart grows quieter with every exhale. I relax, start to drift off. I definitely feel him coming up beside me, even though I didn’t hear him take off his shoes or his clothes. I’m still amazed by how ethereal he becomes when he wants to.

He makes a little noise on purpose so I know he’s there. He knows my habit of breathing with my eyes closed, he knows that if I relax enough I disconnect from everything and go off into my own world. I half-open my eyelids and smile at him. He gives me the slightest smile back and places the furoshiki with the ropes near us, that package wrapped in the Japanese style. He opens it. He takes the first rope by the loop, combs it, untangles it. He looks straight into my eyes and his gaze darkens. He waits. I stretch my neck under that gaze and give the smallest nod. That’s the signal.

And right there, at that exact instant, he lets the beast out.

I notice the change in the energy he projects. From something calm he turns into something untamed, wild, almost savage. He grabs my bun and yanks upward, moves behind me, stretches my neck, exposes it for him. He bites right where my right collarbone meets my throat. Bites hard. I feel every one of his teeth, the incisors, the canines, some molar. It wouldn’t be the first time he squeezes so hard he breaks my skin and blood starts to spill. But today he holds back. He has another idea in mind.

I feel his naked body pressed against my back and I notice his hard cock jamming between my shoulder blades, hot, thick, already hard as an animal before a single rope is even on me. He moves it slowly, rubbing it against my skin, and I feel the wet tip leave a sticky trail right between my shoulder blades. He laughs very softly, almost a growl, and whispers in my ear that today he’s going to have it like that for the whole session, hard and waiting, and that he’ll collect his due afterward. His breath raises the hairs on my nape. I clamp my thighs together by instinct and feel my cunt get wet even before he starts tying me.

I feel the shadow of his hand near my face and the pressure of the rope crossing my face. A long time ago I learned that, when he starts tying, he simply does and undoes as he pleases: something inside him makes the decisions and I adapt, or I stop him with the safeword. I remember the endless talks that preceded the first rope. That was the price I paid so that now he can tie me without asking.

He rests his nose on the bite mark and inhales my scent. He barely runs his tongue over the mark, as if he wants to caress it and soothe it a little. He slides his nails from my shoulders to my wrists. His left hand holds one wrist, extends the arm, turns it until the thumb faces the floor. The other hand bends my elbow and pulls the arm back, settles it into place until the shoulder is locked. He repeats with the other arm. He ties my wrists together behind my back and starts building the takate kote.

I feel the first pressure high on my chest and on my deltoids. He runs the rope through hard, its bite hurting my skin. When he finishes the first line, I check the tension at my wrists, move my fingers, verify there’s no improper pressure on my hands. Everything’s fine. He watches me start the check, and while I do it he runs the second line, the one under the breasts. Since I’ve got a large chest, he has to lift it: from behind he wraps around me, catches first one nipple and then the other between two fingers, and raises them.

He pinches them viciously, stretches them upward until they tear a gasp from between my teeth. He rolls them between thumb and forefinger, squeezing so hard that the tips turn purple, hard as stone. He doesn’t stop there. He bends down, sucks one whole nipple into his mouth, keeps it entirely inside that hot mouth of his, and then suddenly lets go to bite it. I jerk. He lets out a dark laugh and does the same to the other one. His tongue lashes it, his teeth trap it, he drags it almost an inch away from my chest by pulling with his mouth, and a whispered “motherfucker” slips out of me, which he loves hearing. He straightens up with my breasts red, swollen, shining with saliva, and under their own weight I feel the tension against that firm hold. He passes the rope, arranges it, makes sure it runs where it should, tightens it just below the nipples so they stay offered, lifted, closes it at the back.

Before finishing off the kanuki, the underarm closure, he leaves the rope and moves to the front. He lifts my face. I open my eyes, and as soon as I focus on his, slap. A dry slap twists my face sideways. Rage hits me. He knows I hate it. But precisely that rage, that frustration rising inside me, is what gives him pleasure: knowing part of me would hit him back and I can’t, with my hands tied behind my back. I look at him again. Let it be useful for something, let my fury feed his sadism.

He grabs his cock with his right hand, gives it a couple of shakes in front of my face, already shining with pre-cum seeping from the tip, and rubs it across my closed lips. “Open,” he says, and it’s not a request. I clench my teeth out of pure stubbornness. He gives me another slap, now on the other side, and seizes my jaw with the hand that smells like me, pressing my cheeks until my mouth parts a little. Then he shoves his cock in to the hilt, without care. I feel the thick tip slam into my throat and gag. He pulls out, spits on his cock, and pushes it back in, this time slower, deeper, until my nose hits the hair of his pubic mound. He holds me there for a few seconds, my eyes fill with tears, saliva drips down my chin and the tied breasts. When he yanks it out, a long string of spit hangs between his glans and my lips.

“Good girl,” he murmurs, and he knows I hate hearing him say it. He fucks my mouth three, four more times, with short, filthy thrusts, until I run out of air and nail him with a murderous glare. He laughs, pulls away, and his spit-slick, red cock is left trembling in front of him, pointed at me. He wets his lips with his tongue and, grazing my chest with his knuckles, goes back behind me. He closes the structure properly. From the central line of my back he pulls the rope and forces me to move where he wants, under threat of losing balance. With his foot he makes sure I keep my legs closed, ankle to ankle, knee to knee, so tight not even a blade of grass could get through. He kneels, ties my legs, compacts them, creates taut friction that bites into my flesh. He secures that rope to the hip.

There’s a structure at the ankles to suspend from there, another in the takate for the arms. I don’t know what he’s planning. He sets a lifeline on the trunk structure and another on the ankle one. He starts lifting me. He leaves me lying face down, and since the points are one at ankle height and one in the middle of my back, I have to clench my glutes and tense my abdomen so I don’t bend and hurt myself. He balances me. I end up in a perfect horizontal, parallel to the floor, a meter above it.

He grabs the ropes and pushes me. He lets me swing, rocking me slowly. Little by little the body gets tired. Every second adds a little more fatigue, the ropes bite where they pass, and I know this has barely begun. He comes closer, lifts my head by the chin, holds it, and slaps my face again. I glare at him and he smiles. He takes a blindfold from his pocket and covers my eyes.

With each rope, one moves further away from herself. You become vulnerable, restricted, and little by little wings grow and the journey begins. I went to my cave, that old acquaintance. A place warm and at the same time cool, perhaps a little damp, dark, full of silence and stillness. My senses switch off one by one. Sight, gone. Hearing, gone. Smell, gone. Taste never even appeared. Only touch. Tension. Stillness. Immobility. Pressure. Alertness. Vulnerability. Calm.

Calm.

***

I feel distant impacts on my body. I can’t make out with what. Only the blow of something lashing me and the pleasure of pain climbing up the nerves, from the point of impact upward. From the buttock it rises along the spine and spreads toward the head and the sex: on one side it causes wetness, on the other it feeds this delicious calm, that dull, still pleasure pain produces as it expands. The sensation spreads through the whole back of my body. Sometimes I feel only half an impact, I suppose part of the blow is taken by the ropes, because when I perceive half the intensity I can also feel the fibers vibrating.

I hear footsteps around me. The muscles start getting tired of keeping me straight. A rope passes around my waist and lifts it over the rest of my body, leaving my ass raised in a convex curve. Without any care, hurting me, he slips his hand between my thighs. There’s barely any space, and I feel him force it open. He reaches my panties, already soaked through in the crotch area, grabs them from behind and pulls, pushing them between the folds of my wet cunt.

The fabric digs into my inner lips, sinks between the folds, wedges itself right in the wet slit, and the cotton absorbs all the juice I’ve been building up since he started tying me. He rubs my clit with the panties, using them like a rough gag. He stretches until it hurts. I moan. That gets him hard. I tend to swallow my noises; there’s no point giving him that delight for free, and precisely because of that, every time he manages to wring a sound out of me, his hard cock shifts where it is. I don’t need to see it to know. I smile inwardly. He loosens the fabric and, with one last brutal tug, tears them apart. The unstiched seam gives way, the cotton splits with a dry sound and I’m left with my cunt bare, shining, throbbing, the red imprint of the panties still stamped into my skin.

He crawls his hand back between my legs, now with no barrier at all, and runs two fingers through my slit from back to front, gathering the wetness. He spreads it over my asshole and swollen lips. He reaches my clit and pinches it. I bite my lip. I am not making a single sound. He notices, and starts massaging it. Slow circles, tight circles, he knows exactly how it’s done because we’ve been at this for months. Two fingers pry me open and a third enters, sinks knuckle-deep into my cunt, and I feel him twisting inside, looking for that spot that makes me jump. He finds it. There. He presses upward and my whole bound abdomen tightens, so much that the ropes protest against my ribs.

He adds a second finger. And a third. He’s fucking me with his whole hand, with short, muffled, obscene thrusts. I can hear the splashing, the wet, filthy sound of my soaked cunt swallowing his fingers, and he knows that sound embarrasses me so he makes it louder, with more wrist. His other hand never leaves my clit. He crushes it, pinches it, releases it, grabs it again. I feel the orgasm climbing up my legs and he feels it too, because he yanks the fingers out just when I’m about to come and leaves me empty, trembling, with my cunt opening and closing on nothing like a hungry mouth. He laughs. I hear him lick his fingers, suck them one by one, and he tells me in my ear that I taste like a whore and that the next time he comes it’s going to be on my face, not before.

He takes his hand away from my center. With the other he gives my ass a brutal spank. If my hip hadn’t already been fixed to the bamboo I would have lost the tension and collapsed. Another spank, in the same cheek, in the same spot, and another. The flesh burns, his hand leaves its mark on my ass. With his thumb he parts my cheeks and spits on my asshole, I feel the saliva fall hot and run down toward my cunt, mixing with what I’m already leaking. He pushes his thumb in there, into my ass, up to the knuckle, while two fingers from the other hand return to my cunt. He puts them in at the same time. He’s opening me through both holes and my entire dead weight, hanging from the ropes, makes every movement of his feel twice as intense.

He shortens the lifeline at the ankles. I end up diagonally, slightly head-down. He keeps tightening and moving ropes, and I feel my weight redistribute with each advance toward the position he decides is the right one for me at this moment. I end up upside down, hanging from a single point, the ankles. I feel the shadow of the floor close to my face.

And how that shadow recedes, slowly, when I hear the mechanism that raises the whole bamboo. The swaying tells me he’s lifting me with it. With so much movement I’ve come out of what I consider my bottom space, my cave. I open my eyes and find only the blindfold cloth. I frown, try to make it fall to the floor so I can see again, but I can’t do anything. I click my tongue, annoyed. He notices my intentions. I hear him walk away, open the wardrobe, come back.

He puts a leather hood on me. I feel the material caress my whole face, and before closing the corset at the back to fit it snugly, he takes the blindfold off. He keeps tightening the strap that presses the mask against my face. He cinches it so tight I feel the pressure all over my face, my nose and lips pressed against it. It’s a strange sensation, a little suffocating, painful. He’ll think I had it coming for trying to take the blindfold off. I already know it’s better not to complain, so I resign myself.

Upside down as I am, my cunt and ass are right at his face level. I feel it before I hear it: his hot breath between my thighs spread by the ropes. And suddenly, the tongue. Wide, flat, long, coming up from my clit to my asshole in one lick that tears a muffled moan from me through the hood. He does it again. And again. He plunges into my cunt with his whole mouth, sucks my lips, slurps loudly, bites my swollen clit until I jerk hard hanging from the bamboo. I feel his beard scraping the inside of my thighs, his nose digging underneath me, his tongue going as deep inside me as it can. He’s eating me whole, without mercy, and I can do nothing but hang there and take it.

Just when I feel myself going again, he pulls back. He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, I hear it, and gives my exposed cunt a sharp slap. The smack is wet, outrageous, and the sting shoots up to my belly. Another slap. Another. He’s spanking my cunt and clit directly, and I, with the hood suffocating my noises, bite down on the leather gag inside so I won’t scream.

I hear a couple of steps, I don’t know if toward me or away from me. Blood pounds in my temples, and with the mask on I’m a little disoriented. Upside down, in this situation, everything puts me on alert, unsettles me, it’s the opposite of relaxing. And then I hear it.

Bzzzz.

I recognize the crackle. Shit, that thing is terrifying. I tense. I stay still. No. It doesn’t hurt. For a second I become aware of my position: the takate holds my arms and shoulders straight, it’s even comfortable. I check my hands. Perfect. I feel the rope at my feet readjusting, slipping a little, and for an instant I think, “oh, oh, I’m falling.” The rope goes still. The one on my legs tightens, it doesn’t quite hurt, I like this kind of tension. I focus on him.

I feel some light blows, maybe too light for my taste. It gives me time to adapt, warms up the area he has chosen to punish. Little by little the intensity rises, and there comes a point where it becomes pleasant, very pleasant. I feel like a pendulum. Broken, I orbit, sometimes I spin faster and get dizzy. After all, I’m disoriented, with no sense of space or time or anything. My groin pulses more and more. I can’t feel anything else but the bite of the whip on my skin. Some strokes open the flesh, I feel blood and sweat running down my body, hear a faint dripping beneath me. I don’t know which of all my fluids it is. Blood. Sweat. Tears. The juice still leaking from my untended cunt, running down my stomach to the breasts squeezed by the takate, and from there to the floor. It doesn’t matter. I keep hanging, and let it take me.