The first image shocks me. A naked man pushes a nude woman on a swing. Her arms are tied behind her, her legs bound and spread, exposing her glistening pussy. Ropes trace her body like a second skin.
I turn the page and gasp again. In this one, his cock is completely inside her. She hangs suspended, tangled in silk and tension.
Oh my God, oh my God.
I know I should stop, but I can’t. I’m dying to see what’s on the next page.
But I freeze when I hear Slayer’s voice.
“Looks like I caught you snooping. Again,” he says quietly.
When I turn, his arms are crossed. I can feel myself turning pink with guilt.
To my surprise, he laughs.That’s new. Different from when he caught me looking at the books in his alcove at home.
“Come here,” he says, motioning me toward the bed. “And bring the book.”
I do what he says, still curious.
“Have you seen pictures like this before?”
I shake my head as he turns the pages slowly, stopping now and then to explain a position or technique.
“How did you get into this?”
“It’s a long story. Private.”
The pause. That word—and all the weight he gives it—makes me want to ask more. But I know that’s the opposite of his intention. So I respect his boundaries.
Slayer turns more pages, and I ask more questions.
“Why are all the knots different? Why are the ropes tied around their bodies in so many ways?”
“That’s why Shibari is an art form,” he says. “There are special ropes, special knots.”
“Who’s your dealer?” I ask and then wince. “I mean, how do you source your material?”
We both laugh. The tension breaks just slightly, but my pulse is still elevated. I don’t know if it’s from what I’ve seen or the way he’s handling me.
“Look, I’m sorry you found this,” he finally says. “I wasn’t prepared to explain it to you.”
“But I’m so curious. Does it give you pleasure?”
He answers without hesitation. “Yes.”
“And what about the person you’re with? Does it give your partner pleasure too?”
“If it didn’t, I wouldn’t do it,” he says simply. “I wouldn’t engage in the activity.”
“So you do it with some women and not others?”
He goes quiet.
I can see I’m brushing against the dark edges of things—past lovers, maybe past wives—so I hold my tongue on pushing further.
As he continues flipping pages, I realize I’m getting excited. It starts as a smoldering awareness, a tightening in my core, but it blooms fast—my tongue flicking over my lips, my nipples hardening under my robe.
The images are visual poetry. Bodies suspended. Wrapped into stillness. The suggestion of so much trust.
