Page 153 of Carrick
“Okay,” she whispered.
He started slow—smooth, deliberate.
Jute whispered over her skin, wrapping her wrist, then sliding across her chest in a clean line of control. The tension built with every pass. Her breath hitched as he drew her elbows back and locked them in place, the rope biting just enough to make her shiver. All precision. All promise.
“I’m using a 6mm single-ply jute,” he explained as he worked, looping around her upper arms. “It’s light, but strong. Stretches just enough to flex with your body. It’ll warm with friction and movement—don’t panic if you feel heat.”
Bellamy’s head tipped back as he cinched the last knot. I stepped in front of her and tipped her chin down. “You stay with me.”
She nodded, eyes locked to mine. Jax moved behind her again, working to secure the uplines to the metal ring.
“I’m going to build afutomomonext,” he said. “Single-leg bind—right leg bent, calf pressed to thigh. That’ll lift your center of gravity, while keeping one leg grounded for balance. Then we’ll lift you into a partial side suspension.”
He worked fast, but never rushed. Everything about Jax in this mode was mechanical grace. Calculated beauty. The rope became an extension of his thought—sinuous, efficient, sculptural.
He tensioned the futomomo tight around her thigh, then stood to examine the lay of each knot, adjusting tension by millimeters. When he reached up to the frame, he clipped into the first carabiner and began to thread in the second suspension line. He pulled her tightly, until she stood on tiptoe.
“You’ll feel the pull on your hips first,” he told Bellamy. “Then in your sternum. Let your breath move into your belly. Don’t resist the lift. Trust the rope.”
She exhaled slow, steady. I stepped in close, one hand on her waist, guiding her forward. Her muscles quivered as she shifted her balance, breath catching when I murmured, “Let go, baby.”
And she did—leaning into the harness of rope, surrendering inch by inch as gravity took over. One leg stayed grounded, toes flexed against the mat, while the other curled back in a bent bind, tension pulling her chest into a graceful arch. Her head tipped slightly, hair spilling like ink down her spine, mouth parted in focus and heat.
Jax moved with precision, lifting her final foot to tie the second futomomo, twin to the first. When he stepped away—she hung. Not floating. Not weightless. Suspended. Offered. Stunning.
Jax adjusted the sideline anchors, stabilizing her sway, eyes scanning the rig from three angles. A single nod—clinical, reverent, satisfied.
She was art. And she was ready.
“She’s balanced,” Jax said. “Still yours.”
“Good.” I stepped in close. My hands slid up her bound arms, around her waist, beneath her breasts—and she shivered. Hard. Her eyes fluttered, breath catching. Already floating.
“You ready for the pain?” I asked.
Her voice was soft. “Yes, Sir.”
The violet wand hummed to life—not loud, but sharp. Sinister. A high, electric whine that promised pain braidedwith pleasure, each pulse tuned to dance right at the edge of unbearable. I held it like a conductor holds a baton—because this wasn’t just play. It was performance. An overture.
And she was my audience of one.
Bellamy’s body tensed at the sound of the charge. Her eyes opened, glassy and wide, already falling. Good girl.
Jax stepped into the shadows, arms crossed, silent. Watching. Monitoring. Present—but not part of the scene. Not yet.
She was still suspended—a face-down hang that tilted her left hip down, rope digging softly into the flesh of her thigh. Her back arched delicately under the tension of the shibari harness, collarbones jutting beautifully with every breath.
I ran my hand down her body, fingers featherlight against flushed skin. “You still with me?” I asked, voice low. She nodded. “Yes.” It came out wrecked—already undone. Perfect.
I traced the ropes across her chest, dragging my fingers along the warm jute, testing the tension where it hugged her ribs. When I slipped two fingers beneath the lowest band and gave a tug, she gasped—just softly. Responsive. Exquisite.
Then I touched the wand to her thigh. The spark cracked lightly against her skin, a soft fizz of sensation that drew a sharp inhale. Not pain. Not yet. Just electricity—delicate, dancing, promising.
I painted her with it, slow and precise, arcs of static skipping over her hip, ribs, navel. Teasing lower, down the inside of her thigh, without touching where she craved it most. She whimpered. Arched. But didn’t beg. Not yet.
“Breathe,” I whispered. She did—shaky, shallow—head tipping back, body shifting subtly under the strain of rope and want. Jax moved in silently, adjusted an upline to account for the torque of her twist. He touched only the rigging—efficient, exact—and once satisfied, stepped away again.
She was trembling. And we hadn’t even started.
