Rope is the most beautiful thing I’ve found in BDSM. It appeals to every value I have about art, from the mindful process of preparing your tools to the way you make sculptures out of flesh. You can identify a rigger by her work in the same way others can spot a Manet by his palette. You can create pain and pleasure without more than an accidental touch and finely tune the emotion of your bottom with a cleverly chosen knot. The more of rope I see, the more I respect it.
Even so, I will probably never be suspended because being bound without rope feels more restrained to me. A man who can conduct my body like an orchestra is the living, breathing jute of my fetish world.
The mind excites me. It doesn’t give me the aesthetics of shibari or the physical feeling of restraint, but a creative and evil man can suspend a bottom from his own damned sky. He can create predicaments without a single knot. To hell with rope. He hangs me by the cord of my own lust until it becomes excruciating.
I don’t know jute from hemp, but I do know the kind of man who can leave my mind spinning around over a thousand furious questions: “When will he? What will he? Can I will I please let me please…” Give me the man who can make me that desperate, and I’ll show you the very foundation of D/s.
Of course, a dominant like that can achieve more with tools than without, but in the same way that traditionalist riggers are often purists about their techniques, I’m a purist about the mental side of D/s. I love the mindful process of a dominant who can create pain and pleasure without anything beyond an accidental touch. He can finely tune the emotion of his submissive through a cleverly chosen sentence. Put all those skills together and you will ultimately build my submission.