The rope

The gym was empty when I coiled the rope. Chalk on my hands, rust tank, holds quiet behind me. The adults I coach were gone. I looked at the coil on the floor and knew I did not want it used on a route tonight. I wanted it on me. I texted Rex from the bench: home. I am asking. Bring nothing. I will bring the rope.

When he came in I put the coil on the table and said it again with my mouth. I want my wrists tied. Living room. Your knots, the ones we practiced with our clothes on. Not the gym. Not a client. Not the harness. His hands. He said the terms back. I could flex and he would check the color of my fingers. I could stop us with our word. Then he looked at me until I said please, now.

He tied a cuff in front of my body, snug, not fancy, a finger sliding under the rope to prove it was not biting. I tested it. Solid. I could still hold his shoulder. He walked me to the couch and sat me on his lap facing him, rust tank pushed up, shorts off, the rope resting between us where we could both see it. Then he used his hands and almost nothing else. Two fingers along my cunt, not in it, until I tried to rock down and take them. He shook his head. Palms on my thighs. A thumb circling my clit until my stomach jumped, then gone. Again. Again. I swore at him and he smiled like a man who had been given a job.

He put those fingers in my cunt when I asked with a full sentence. He fucked me with his hand and stopped every time my breath went high. The rope tugged when I forgot and pulled. He checked my fingers, kissed them, and started over. When he finally let me come it was on his hand, my cunt clenching, my forehead on his, the knot easy to reach. He untied me before the aftershocks finished, rubbed my wrists, and kept fucking my cunt with his fingers until I stopped shaking. The coil ended the night on the floor again, but it was our floor.