Shibari: Almost a Love Story

I wondered if that explained her physique as much as her riding did. Standing, her legs were still hidden by her baggy riding pants but her tight shirt exposed a trim but muscular waist and a strong back I admired openly more than I felt comfortable admiring covertly her bra-rounded breasts.

"Which rooms?" I asked, because I thought it was expected of me.

"My bedroom, which I finished after I moved in, while sleeping in the lounge, and this."

She had been leading me through a house that had walls only skinned on one side.

She opened a door I was astonished to realise looked like an actual shoji screen. We stepped into a Japanese room.

Apart from a window, light came from gentle, paper-shaded lights on opposite walls. The walls were beautifully finished wood panelling. The ceiling exposed the joists, with multiple eye bolts attached at regular intervals and, in the dead centre, a stainless steel suspension ring with the trefoil pattern of the BDSM triskelion.

"My studio," Ella said.

I was uncharacteristically at a loss for words.

She gave me a crooked smile. "Do you believe me now?"

"I believed you before. But I am very impressed. Are those mats actual tatami?"

"Of course."

She walked in and pointed at one wall. There was a framed photo, A4 height -- I don't know traditional print sizes -- showing Ella, kneeling and dressed in what looked like a kimono, completing a suspension tie on a mostly naked woman whose face was hidden from the camera.

It was as beautiful a shot as any I had ever seen, and I would have said so if I hadn't been struggling with the skin-crawling, unreal, spooky sensation of potentialities crystallising around me. A desire that had been slowly growing for almost two years was suddenly, unexpectedly and with almost banal casualness, within reach.

"Would you like coffee?" Ella asked, shattering my moment like glass.

Her kitchen was, as she said, shit. I doubted it had been designed so much as thrown randomly together, or that the assembler had ever cooked properly for themselves.

But Ella had a very nice kitchen island like an old butcher's block, and seemed to have beaten the setup into something functional.

She also had a very good electric grinder and a very good espresso machine. The two, together, produced a small glass cup of espresso that even I, jaded, cynical and demanding as I am, had to admit met my standards.

Compliment received with smugness, she made herself a cup while I leaned my elbows on the island, watching her and finishing my coffee in a couple of small swigs.

A very large question was hanging in the air, making my skin prickle and putting me on edge.

She turned around with her cup in hand to see me watching her.

"Shoot," she said.

"I think you were talking when we left," I said.

"Ah." she looked down at her cup, then slugged the whole shot in one, ignoring its temperature.

We rinsed cups, left them by the sink, then she lead me to the deck, which hung out over the driveway.

There was one old couch. She sat on one end, pulling her legs up to fold beside her while leaning against the back. I mirrored her pose, something I tend to do that is very probably part of my autism. Since we were both still wearing padded and armoured riding pants, it was a slightly strained pose to hold.

She thought for a second before speaking. I gave her time.

"We are two people with a very specific kink and appropriately large trust issues," she said. "Is issues the right word?"

"Oh, I think so," I said. "Requirements? I've been very badly let down and am now three or four times shy. How about you?"

She shook her head slightly. "Not so much. I mean, I haven't not had to deal with arseholes in and out of relationships, but my issue is that I've learned to vet my partners extremely fucking carefully before I even mention ropes. Too many just think it'd be cool, or think it'd be sexy to be dommed by a woman, or don't know how to be careful."

She sighed. Looked at her fingernails. "Can I ask: What did you think of me last night?"

I looked at her, remembering the dusk and the loose jumper and the deliberate, sociable half-smile. "Reserved. Someone trying to be unobtrusive while watching everyone and wondering if you were going to enjoy yourself."

She raised an eyebrow. "OK, yes, not bad. And?"

"Then, when you came up to me later, I thought I could see you would be an interesting person to know. You noticed my bike, but then completely derailed that line of thought by talking about BDSM. You seemed more like one of Peta's usual friends then but you still seemed polite, not friendly. I suppose you were still measuring me."

"Oh, I was."

"And?" I asked.

"I was attracted to you when we were introduced, and I couldn't work out why," she said. "You were all polite but it felt like it was something you had to practice, but there was something about your eyes that was reassuring. You were in bike jeans and boots, but you didn't seem like any of the macho guys I usually see on bikes like that, despite looking like you worked out. I mean, skinny and almost pretty-boy and you had your hair, but a bit fit."

"I am definitely a pretty boy," I said, making sure my foot-long plait was hanging over one shoulder neatly.

"Where do your arms come from?"

"I'll show you my house sometime," I said. "Where do yours come from?"

She gestured slowly, regally, at her house. "And I do take the bike on serious tracks. I grew up in the country."

"Oh yes, you said." I nodded. "And then, I stuck my foot into someone else's misconceptions," I prompted.

She smiled faintly. "Oh, yes, I was impressed by that. You know, you actually sounded patient and regretful? I was impressed. So I had to talk to you, and I came away from that wondering why Peta had been hiding you from me. But apparently, they don't know anything about your little desires."

"Oh, they know my feelings on gender, but somehow we've never talked about tying people up. Did you work out why you found me attractive?" I very carefully didn't say "were attracted to me".

"Oh, I think so," she murmured, looking at me. "I've never really been attracted to cis men. I need a bit of queer in anyone I'm going to find interesting. Usually, it's more overt, though. But I have to say, apart from your hair, your thumbnails are rather nice."

I grow those nails half a centimetre long and file them round. I used to go longer and pointier, but they didn't really work in motorcycle gloves.

I inspected one and flicked it with my index finger. "I just like them. A small sign of non-conformity. Anna didn't. Her attitude to them was something that made me start to realise she was not good for me. But she really didn't like me touching her with them. Especially not during sex."

"Other people can't understand why not," Ella murmured, one side of her lips twitching upwards.

I let that slide past. It didn't feel like the time for banter.

She cleared her throat. "Why did you agree to have lunch?"

"I was curious, and I don't know many other riders, especially not with my taste in bikes," I said. "Also, you came highly recommended, and I like Gitte and Peta's friends but so few of them are interested in me I was intrigued when one of them wanted to meet."

Most of their friends, after all, were not interested in anyone male, presenting or assigned. I didn't think it was necessary to add that.

"Fair enough." Ella huffed through her nose. "You see, I'm not good at flirting and dating. It's too much like double-talk and bullshit status games. I only date to find out if I think I know enough about someone to still be attracted to them, and then I just straight-out tell them. So, I'm telling you that after everything you said about being tied, I would really, really like to get you in ropes. If you would like me to tie you."

I felt strangely calm, but also light-headed. It wasn't even a sexual offer. She hadn't really mentioned sex and me in the same sentence, apart from a throwaway comment about my thumb. Shibari didn't need to be sex, although it was definitely sexual. It didn't even need to be erotic, depending upon the participants and the viewer. It was sensual, physical. She had said all of that. But she hadn't said anything about how that would apply to me.

But the question had been spoken.

Many years ago, I would have squirmed, panicked and run. Not that many years ago, I would have been over-enthusiastic and freaked her out.

"I've never been tied by anyone else," I said, quietly. "So: Talk to me."

She smiled at me. The first actual full smile I think she had given me. "Good. As far as I'm concerned: the bunny is in charge. You tell me your limits and what you want to explore. I work within that. Obviously, I have my limits in skill and desire and what I won't do, but when I start and I'm the one with the power, I'm working within your parameters. If you want to give me permission to do whatever I feel like, to go wild -- you will still have physical limits. Most people I do sessions with come here to let me play with them but for every one of them, I know their bodies and I know their emotional limits. Any questions so far?"

I was nodding along. Everything she said reassured me, made me more confident in trusting her. I could remember people I had spoken to about arranging dinner who hadn't given me that confidence. "Not yet. No. I do. You haven't told me why you tie. Yes, you told me what you get out of being in charge. What do you get out of tying?"

She nodded with an emphatic whole-torso motion. "Yes. Thank you, no, I haven't. So, my complicated answer: simplest part of it is: immense satisfaction at a complicated skill done well. I get the same sort of satisfaction from cleaning a difficult section of trail on a bike. But I also love how shibari looks, and how it makes bodies look, and I love making beautiful things."

She took a deep breath. "But. The big thing I get out of tying, beyond the fact of tying, is that my domme side... my fetish, if it can be called that, is that I am... aggressively caring. Every mothering instinct I have is exclusively concentrated on trussing someone up and then cuddling them and stroking their hair and whispering reassurances. Don't get me wrong, I will be physically assertive when I tie you, I will push your body around and be rough if you like that and leave you in no doubt that I am steadily taking away your freedom of movement until you are utterly helpless. Or I could tie you clinically and then leave you alone for five minutes in suspension, if that's what you need, but if you give me the freedom to act as I wish, I will smother you with affection, whether we are tying for sensuality or for sex."

When she finished speaking, I couldn't actually respond. I was speechless as my brain locked. I couldn't say how much I desired someone doing that to me, how much I desired being held like that, because my brain was locked with the combination of the enormity of how much I wanted it, and the enormity of how much I had been unaware of how much I wanted that.

I had never thought of myself as touch-starved. I got hugs, and I got time with other people's pets. Yes, I always craved more touch than I got since leaving Anna, and I had realised that if I treated myself to a regular massage, I felt better from more than the actual therapeutic value. But the thought of being held in such a way -- it almost broke my brain.

Part of me realised that Ella had finished speaking, was still waiting.

So, naturally, I started to panic and feel guilty about not saying anything and therefore making her uncomfortable.

Ella, it turned out, was a more astute judge of people than I was, and probably had a level of emotional intelligence appropriate in someone who regularly dommed people for rope sessions.

"You sounded like you may appreciate that," she said. I think her tone was gentle. All I realised from the depths of my turmoil and rising panic was that it wasn't judgemental or impatient.

"I may not have appreciated how much I might appreciate that," I managed to say, shocked into baring the part of my soul I hadn't already bared with hard-learned self-confidence.

"Would you like another coffee?" she asked.

It was a fantastic gesture, offering me the chance to be alone, or simply a brief change of subject to regroup. I was fairly lucky I was in a position to even realise that and decide whether or not to take advantage of it, mind you.

"Do you tell all your rope bunnies that about yourself?" I asked.

"Not all of them," she said.

"Why me?"

"Because with most people I tie, it's not a sexual thing. It might be deeply intimate, or just for laughs, or an exploration of submission, but it's not sexual. So I'm offering to tie you because it'd be a new experience for me and I am always delighted to help people I trust explore that side of themself. But I need to let you know first, because it wouldn't be fair otherwise, that I would be interested in fucking you."

That dropped across all trains of thought with a clang. It had been hanging in the air as a possibility -- even I realise that it would be really odd to have gone where we were going five minutes into our lunch date without, just maybe, ending up at that discussion -- but I am open with all my friends, old or new, and I don't do well with innuendo and suggestion and hinting, and I know there are people who have long-term shibari relationships without involving sex, and it hadn't been said, so: clang.

I gave myself a moment to absorb that. "In ropes?"

"Oh, there are things we can do in ropes, certainly, but..." and she looked less than entirely confident for the first time since she had betrayed a hint of defensiveness when showing me her studio and asking if I trusted her. "But I wouldn't need that."

That shocked me almost as much as my reaction to her admission of aggressive affection had. It took the entire dynamic of the conversation, of me submitting to her, and shattered it without warning.

That was hardly any easier to deal with.

"I haven't had sex for two years," I said. "I've never had sex with anyone who was genuinely dominant more than just liking to be a bit aggressive. And I've never had sex with anyone who can have an entire conversation about a complex, highly skilled kink they've dedicated their lives to and then offered to do me vanilla, if I liked, because they're not just after me for their ropes. I didn't just misunderstand you, did I?"

Ella was almost laughing at my phrasing, biting her wrist to control herself. "No, that's it," she managed to say.

I drew a shaky breath. "That might just be the most sincere offer I've ever had, as well as the biggest demonstration of trust," I said.

That sobered Ella up.

"Fuck," I said, before she said anything else. "Is that offer of another coffee still valid?"

"Please," she said as we stood up, "Tell me you've been masturbating for those two years."

"Frequently, and with great enjoyment," I said with affected dignity. "And because of it, I understand a lot more about my sexuality."

I followed her back through the unfinished house to the kitchen, which had been placed in a stupid position relative to the rest of the house. I mentioned that to Ella, who assured me she knew.

As she busied herself with the grinder and portafilter, I sat on a stool at the island and tried to clear my mind, reset my expectations, and actually look at her with my sexuality.

I would be lying if I said I hadn't noticed she was attractive, even while she was being deliberately unobtrusive at the party. Especially when I arrived at the café. But I don't think about that with most people. I deliberately don't analyse them or notice their sex appeal beyond a background awareness there is some or the initial shock of noticing it. But, looking at her, I saw she had a face I found extremely pleasant to look at, a figure that was disconcertingly sexy when I let myself look at it, even in the baggy riding pants she still wore but especially in that snug T-shirt, and an athleticism that made my mouth water -- when I let myself notice it.

That was when I realised she was almost certainly wearing a bra made for showing off, not the sports bra that other women I know choose for riding. That made me think she almost certainly hadn't worn it or anything like it the night before. I know at least that much about how breasts work. I sincerely doubted it was her usual riding gear, and I doubted it was entirely comfortable inside her jacket. When she turned sideways, I became even more certain that her jacket and bra had been in conflict, there.

It didn't surprise me -- she had, of the pair of us, gone to the meeting intending to have this discussion -- but it did amuse me. Don't confuse me for someone who thinks that deliberately looking nice is somehow cheating. If I know someone has made an effort for me, I appreciate it.

I definitely appreciated it.

She turned around with my coffee, saw me looking at her with a faint smile on my face, and raised one eyebrow.

"I am letting myself look at you properly, since we're facing this conversation," I said.

For someone who had probably made at least that much effort -- apart from anything else, it was quite a tight T-shirt -- she seemed briefly self-conscious, before rallying.

"And do you like what you see?" she asked, as she put a sashay into the step back to the island I was sitting on the other side of.

"Quite a bit," I admitted. "Be honest, is that normally the bra you wear on the bike? It seems a bit push-up to be comfortable under a jacket."

She looked down at her chest then handed me my coffee, completely unfazed by the question. "Not usually, no. And technically, it's not a push-up bra but it's not not a push-up bra. It's my self-confidence bra. I always feel sexier wearing it."

So, maybe it hadn't been for me. But she had worn it because of me, which was good enough.

She made herself a cup and sat opposite me at the island, looking as though she had something on her mind.

"Did you just decide to allow yourself to look at me sexually?" she asked.

"Yes."

"Wow. I just check out everyone, and then think 'nice, pity it's not going to happen'."

"Look, I don't not appreciate all my friends, and I definitely don't not perve a whole lot when I go to a club, but I automatically switch off anything beyond aesthetics when I talk to people. I'm not comfortable enough with interpersonal skills to handle the extra distraction."

"Whatever works," she said, nodding.

I sipped my coffee. Savoured it.

She followed my example.

"So, where are we?" she asked.

The way she said it, it was a bigger question than "where had we got up to".

I studied her. I had to find my feet again. I had to start doing some of the heavy lifting in this conversation. And, I thought as I looked at her expression, I had to reassure her, even if I had misread her and she didn't need it. "You offered to tie me, as a rigger, platonically," I said, holding up my thumb in the traditional counting gesture.

"...Yes," she said.

"And then you said you were interested in jumping my bones, or being jumped, whatever worked." A finger.

She almost did a triple-take at that and had to struggle to keep a straight face. "Yes. Not in those words, but... yes."

"And, you know what?" I continued. "I am actually relieved to meet someone who can say that without being in the middle of a full-on move. It makes me feel immensely flattered, and I'm very grateful you said it, and that you feel that way. And with any other circumstances, I'd suggest, I don't know, a picnic at ... Lake Borumba. Because you're attractive and I like you and apparently we have at least a couple of interests in common and therefore that offer would be too good to be true and we've known each other for a combined time of about 1 hour, so just jumping in would seem a bit impulsive."