Page 13 of Mister St. James

He works down my arms, looping each bicep, pinning them just enough to limit movement, but not enough to hurt. Not yet. Each knot is precise, set with two fingers and cinched in a single smooth pull. I imagine him tying ties, shoes, maybe tourniquets in another life. Whatever it was, it translated.

He spins me by the waist, so I can face the mirror, and I can see his hands work: laying the lines flat, running the length through his palm, checking each pattern for symmetry. My tits are unbound, for now, but every breath I take lifts them higher, the friction of the rope at my chest sending little static charges down to my nipples. I am already wet, and can feel the slick between my legs, each pulse of my heartbeat making me clench and drip. I wonder if he can smell it, if the room is thick with my need.

He doesn’t speak for a while, just weaves. Every so often, his fingers graze my ribs, my side, the crest of my hip. Never lingering but always leaving a trace. My skin is hypersensitized, every touch magnified by the slow suffocation of the star-shaped harness on my chest, and the anticipation of what will come next.

The Weaver works down my body, the red running over the dip of my waist and circling my hips. I watch him measure the slack, check the tension, before threading the rope through my legs, front back to back, so it presses directly against my clit. My knees buckle, but he catches me by the shoulders, holding me upright without ever letting go of the rhythm. The rope is taut. I can feel the pressure on every step, every subtle shift in his hands as he adjusts, adjusts, adjusts.

The next passes are a blur, more loops at the thighs, splitting my center and forcing my pussy open, vulnerable, raw. He kneels to finish the pattern, face level with my ass, and for a moment I wonder if he’ll bite me, mark me, brand me with his teeth. He doesn’t. Instead, he looks up the length of my body and smirks, just a flicker, the barest lift of the lips.

“You make it easy,” he whispers, more to himself than to me. “Perfect proportions. Not a centimeter wasted.”

I want to laugh, or curse at him, but all that comes out is a moan. It’s a pathetic sound, needy, animal, almost embarrassing. But he seems to like it because I see the way his hands tremble as he cinches the last knot, and the way his breath falters for just a second as he presses the final rope into place.

He stands behind me, both hands flat at my hips, steadying us both. The rope digs in, not enough to bruise, but enough to remind. My arms are pinned to my sides; my legs splayed, anchored by the lines at my thighs and the cord splitting me front to back. I am exposed, helpless, and high on it.

When he speaks again it’s, low, soft, and right into my ear. “I didn’t think you could be any more attractive, but you’re fucking beautiful like this.”

My head lulls sideways, thoughts collapsing into static. I try to speak, but the only word I can form is, “Please.”

He kisses the shell of my ear, and pulls away. “Patience.”

Hands trace the rope from my neck to my waist, his palm following the contour, thumb dipping into every hollow and ridge. When he reaches the band at my clit, he strokes the rope in tiny, oscillating motions, back and forth, each pass ratcheting the pressure higher. I can’t help it and whimper. He doesn’t shame me, or call it out, just keeps working, methodically, relentlessly.

Every knot, every loop, every drag of the rope makes me more aware of my body. I can feel my pulse in my wrists, in my throat, in my cunt. My nipples are hard enough to ache; my clit throbbing in time with the blood as it pounds in my ears. I don’t think I’ve ever been this wet, not from just anticipation, not from just being watched.

Letting his hands fall, he takes a step back before circling me, examining the pattern and checking it’s symmetry. He adjusts a few lines. Then pulls at one of the harness’s main support knots, lifting my tits even higher, so they threaten to spill out of the cage entirely. I don’t know what to expect next as he pinches a nipple between two knuckles and rolls it hard enough to sting.

“Look at yourself,” he commands.

I do. In the mirror, I am a sculpture, all curved lines and crimson, every flaw disguised, every asset on display. My face is flushed, mouth open, lips swollen and dark. The mask makes me anonymous, but the body is pure exhibition.

“You see it?” he asks.

I nod, or try to. The rope at my neck makes the gesture smaller, more demure than I mean it to be.

“You’re a masterpiece,” he says, reverent, like he’s in church. “A fucking miracle of engineering.”

He presses his palm between my shoulder blades and bends me, just a little, so my ass pushes out, and runs the tips of his fingers beside the ropes along my spine before slipping his fingers beneath it. Each tug dragging the rope over my clit, pressure and friction combining into a tight, hot wire of sensation that threatens to short-circuit my entire body.

He isn’t gentle. Adjusting, and tightening the rope, forcing the line deeper, harder. I whimper, and yelp. My pussy clenching around nothing, desperate for friction, for contact, for something more.

He leans closer, breath hot on my cheek. “I’m going to touch you now. If you are uncomfortable with that, say your word.”

Syntax. He is giving me an out. But I am all in. I want it all. Everything he is willing to give.

I grind against the rope, hips stuttering, cunt flooding. Every movement makes it better, worse, impossible to ignore.

He kisses my jaw, my throat, my collarbone, everywhere the rope doesn’t cover. “You’re shaking,” he says. “I like that.”

My voice is shredded, but I try. “You can do more. I want—” I don’t know what I want. To be fucked? To be wrecked? To be stripped of every thought but this?

He kisses me, full on the mouth. His lips are softer than I imagined. His tongue is sharp, insistent, tasting the sweat and need on my skin. He bites my lower lip, just hard enough to sting, and I gasp.

He twists the rope at my hip, the friction a white-hot spark. “You’re going to come like this,” he promises. “Bound. On display. For me, and everyone else.”

For him, for the mirrors, for the whole goddamn room, for the voyeurs who are watching through the one-way glass. I want that, need that.

I grind against the rope, chasing the pressure. He cups my ass, fingers digging in, not caring about marks or bruises. He pinches my nipple, hard, rolling it, tugging it, the pain and pleasure fusing until I can’t tell them apart.