Gasping. My knees ache and I don’t care. My pulse in my body, on the surface of my skin, throbbing. His hands on the rope, pulling, fighting. I struggle to sit up and he lifts me, growling something incoherent and slams me back down to fight with the ends tangling and wrapping, charged, electric with desire. This. I needed this.
I love his rope. Not just how he ties, but how he watches, shifting things just before I hit the point where they need to change. How he lays the wraps and holds tension. The way he moves, rope an extension of his hands, clear and fluid like a river following the curves of land. As natural as breathing.
Sometimes we dance. “Grab a hank,” he says, and holds tight to one of the hardpoints now hanging from the ceiling of his rope room, and we spin and dance and move, slipping rope wherever limbs present themselves an opportunity, slamming into walls, building movement and rope into a seamless pattern of switch fighting and discrete moments of control and power. Deep reservoirs of movement. Reach a hand out and grab hold of anything, spinning and stretching and catching against him, me, the points, the wall, the floor, unplanned and organic emergence. His rope like water, our bodies like fire, plasmic heat dancing, twisting, spinning, coaxing, flying.
That was last time. But sometimes, this time, I let him crisscross familiar patterns across my chest, holding as still as I can manage while he wraps and pulls and tensions and holds. Face in the wall, knee in the back. Laughing as I let him hold me in place. Relax into the tensioned uplines as they lock off. Rope as a blindfold; I don’t need my eyes to anticipate movement.
Sharp, clean, cold. Every muscle locks, quivers, holds in place. A knife at my throat, down my clavicle, across my thigh. Up under the band of my inside-out underwear and a hard pull breaking through the fabric. Oh. If he touches me even slightly, I’m going to…oh. Oh, fuck.
I’ve fucked myself in self-suspensions plenty. I’ve had vibrators put in and on me until I was gasping incoherently and trying to force words to work through nerve checks and ankle hangs. This is different.
Everything, every time, is different.
Facedown, spinning, his hand in my hair, turning, rotating. His cock by my mouth. Yes. That. Yes. He starts moving lines as I move against the rope, feeling him getting harder in my mouth. This. Yes. More. Yes.
“Ohhhhh, I like that,” he says as he moves away.
“Me fucking too,” I respond.
Every brush against my clit sends ripples through my skin. Small pulsing vibrations. My body, angled as he pushes against me. More. Yes. That. Yes.
My face pressed into the ground, his cock moving slowly as his hands start pulling hangers and unnecessary rope away. Ankle holding one leg up, the other curled in a futo under my body. Spread. It does not occur to me to be ashamed. To overthink. To think at all.
If fuck is the only word I can form against my tongue, it means so many things, each time something different, each time exactly the same. Fuck that feels good. Fuck, do that again. Fuck, I like when you slam me down like that. Fuck yes please more. So if fuck is all I can say, so much is held in that singular syllable reverberating through me like it is the only word in existence left, like it is the echoing sound of the name of God spoken again and again, like a curse and a blessing and a prayer and a beg, wrapped up in cathartic expulsion and uttered over and over.
Lifts me onto the carpet and sets me down and fucks me hard, driving my body further into the ground, unable to hold myself up, pressing back against him as he slams forward into me. Gasping. My knees ache and I don’t care. My pulse in my body, on the surface of my skin, throbbing. His hands on the rope, pulling, fighting. I struggle to sit up and he lifts me, growling something incoherent and slams me back down to fight with the ends tangling and wrapping, charged, electric with desire. This. I needed this.
What is this but passion? The passion to hold me steady in rope, the ferocious drive to get me out of it. His passion, his desire, meeting and matching my own, painted across my skin as he grasps and holds and pulls and lifts.
Take what you want.
This is what I wanted.
To be held and free in tandem. To press against this rope, his rope, the rope that I love, the strength in my body against the ferocity of desire. To feel him claim his own in my mouth, my cunt, to feel it echo through his hands against my skin. To yes, this, please, more, this.
This. I needed this. To feel connected, wholly present with him, here. To move with him, against him. No shame, no apologies, no second-guessing. This. What he took, I gave freely. What he held, I offered. Mirrored desires played out in well-matched moments where broken silence punctuated with gasps and growls split the air unfettered and guttural.
If fuck is the only word that existed in those moments, it is the birthplace of every word that follows after. I trace the lineage of my language- guttural, passionate, ferocity, drive, desire, yes– to the repetition of single syllables that spill from my mouth, different and yet, exactly the same every time.
My words, his rope. Everything is different, splitting threads like tendrils, fractal patterns of movement and language. His rope, my words; different and yet, exactly the same, moving through his hands to my body, bubbling up in fresh ecstasy to this place where we meet one another, again and again, well-matched pressure pushing against one another. His rope, my words. Different languages meet in perfect comprehension.
Fuck. (I love you.)
Monomaniacism 