Too Much Rope

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.

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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.

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