Page 82 of The Hangman's Rope

“Thank you, baby,” he murmured against my skin and his breath was warm and suffused me with a glow from the crown of my head to the soles of my feet.

He rigged me into a snug chest harness as he’d done before. Similar to the one he had taught me to do on myself before I left him for home, but more intricate, more decorative than I could ever dream of attempting.

The deep royal blue of the bamboo rope felt like warm silk against my skin, but also turned my pale flesh almost translucent, the light blue tracery of my veins beneath my skin more prominent visually, by some trick of the light or the color of the rope. When he finished the chest harness, my arms behind my back, wrapped tight to my body with the bindings, he brought out another hank of rope, throwing it out behind him, the tendrils of fiber slapping the carpet and making me jump.

“Just a little more, baby, then I’m going to hang you from that ring and suspend you off the ground, and if you’re game –I’m gonna play with that pretty pussy of yours until you cum all over my hand and then my cock.”

He was behind me, whispering in my ear, causing me to involuntarily shudder with desire as he tested my hands with his, rubbing my fingers between his own, making sure the blood flow was good and my fingers were warm.

It was hard for any part of me to be anything else when he talked to me like that.

The cognitive dissonance hit me with enough force to nearly knock me off my feet. It was something I was going to bring up in therapy – this overwhelming and nagging feeling that after what I’d been through, that I wasn’tsupposedto like sex – but I did. I loved the way Hangman touched me. I loved the feel of him against me, wrapped around me, and inside me. I loved everything about how beautiful and revered he made me feel, and how with him, I didn’t feellessthanas a result of what had happened to me.

He made me feelnormalwhen I sometimes felt anything but, and that was precious to me and one of the main reasons I had wanted to return here. My mother treated me as though I were made of thinnest glass, as fragile as a soap bubble – and I hated that.

In counterpoint, the look of pity and just – Idon’t knowthat my dad cast in my direction… it bothered me, more than words can say and I just wanted so badly to be away from those looks, the constant asking if I was alright, the jumping to do things for me as though I was some sort of invalid now… mixed with his bizarre ranting and raving on the phone the second I stepped a toe out of lockstep with his plans or whatever for me…

I knew they meant well, but I couldn’t handle it. I felt like I could never come back to myself around that treatment and while Hangman was certainly careful of me, it didn’t feel like it was because of this one bad thing that’d happened to me. It feltas though he was careful because he was afraid that he would break me somehow – not that I was already broken.

The difference, in some ways, was subtle – in others, it washuge.

He attached rope at one hip, sliding the folded loop of twisted fibers under the rope riding over my hip, sliding the long, long, tail of it through the loop and cinching the new bit of rope to the old securely.

I stood still, almost in a meditative space as he wove a latticework of rope around and down one leg, tracing under my ass cheek and between my legs in such a way that it made me want to press my thighs together.

“Open up those legs for me, baby,” he murmured, kneeling in front of me. He waited patiently for me to part my legs for him again, and made quick work of finishing off the rope at my ankle, leaving a long tail of it to trail behind my foot.

He loosed another length of rope, and I loved watching it spiral out behind him – yetstillI jumped at the ‘whap!’sound it made against the carpet. I laughed nervously and he chuckled with me, before he dipped to one knee beside me and repeated the process on the other leg with this new length of rope.

When I was a lacework of rope from neck to ankle, he looked up at me and said, “Now this is where I need you to trust me. Can you kneel down here for me, Sweetpea?”

“Um,” I tried and laughed a little uneasily. With my arms bound behind my back, it was a bit harrowing and ungainly, but I managed as he praised me under his breath, and the low soothing tone made me shudder with a deep and hidden pride and pleasure.

“Good girl,” he breathed, and he knelt beside me at a ninety-degree angle and put his arm out, across my upper chest, fingers loosely curling around my opposite upper shoulder as he instructed me carefully, “Now lean forward slow and easy andtrust that I’ve got you – I’m not going to let you face-plant, I swear it.”

I leaned slowly and carefully into his arm and he lowered me gently and equally as carefully to the floor to lay on my stomach.

I breathed easy, and turned my head to press my cheek to the carpet and with a swiftness and a deftness I didn’t know he possessed, he was pulling the rope tails at my ankles and bending me at the knees, my heels going to my butt, my legs opening, my sex exposed.

I gasped, and he paused and checked in with me, but lord – I liked it. Ilovedthe feel of this.

Blue light flashed and the boom that accompanied it had him throwing his body over mine to protect me. The startlement of it wrenching a cry out of my chest as the lights went out and we were plunged into a near perfect darkness.

“Easy baby, you’re okay – we’re okay, the power just went out.”

“I know,” I said and bit the words off when they came out higher and a little shriller than I intended them to.

“I’m going to grab some candles. Do we need to stop, or are you okay to just lay here a moment like this?” he asked.

“I’m okay,” I said quickly.

“Two seconds,” he vowed and he gave me a light smack on my bare bottom. I yipped and couldn’t help the giggle that escaped from between my teeth.

He returned with a candle already aglow and set it on the chest of drawers above me. He set another on the bedside table and lit it, and another on the other bedside table and got that going.

“Jesus, you look perfect in candle light,” he said turning back to me. I had already begun to sink back down into whatever comfortable space this put me in. That place where everything was just a warm, tingling, and pleasant blank where I didn’thaveto think I didn’thaveto feel anything other than what he did to me.

He stripped, but where I couldn’t see him. Just where I had to listen to cloth rub against cloth, leather whoosh against denim as he undid his belt… my pussy grew wet, and I felt so vulnerable and exposed, but it wasn’t like when I was paralyzed from that awful drug – this was different. This was exciting. This sparked an anticipation in me, a craving, and I wondered what was supposed to happen next, because I just didn’t know…

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