Page 138 of Jax
“No,” I said, voice steel-flat. “Not yet.”
She screamed, not pretty, not shaped for sound, but guttural and primal. Her body jerked against the rope, hips straining, cunt clenching on nothing. I stepped in close, pressing my forehead to hers for a breath. Just long enough to let her feel it, the heat off my skin, the restraint humming in my spine. Her breath came wet and ragged. Her pulse thudded beneath flushed skin. Then I pulled back, slow and cruel.
“I told you I’d carve the chaos out of you,” I whispered. “We’re not finished.”
I drove my fingers back inside her, deep, certain. She almost shattered on the spot.
“Jax….”
“No.”
I circled her clit with precision, pressure exact, the rhythm engineered to undo her. Her breath broke apart. “Can’t…please…need…too much….”
Her muscles fought against the binds, but nothing snapped. Not her voice. Not the rig. She wasn’t breaking. She was transforming.
“Beg,” I said, rough now. “Tell me to let you fall.”
She sobbed. Not pretty. Just raw. “Please,” she whispered. “I’m yours. I need to cum. I’m falling…I’m already gone…just let me go.”
The last word cracked. That sound reached inside me and did something final. I curled my fingers, swept across her clit with one hard stroke, and gave her what she’d earned.
“Now.”
She came like it broke something. Her cry split the air, half war cry, half surrender. Her body seized, suspended and shaking, the rigging creaking above her. Arms loose. Legs twitching. Mouth open. The kind of orgasm that remakes a person. Wetness poured around my hand, hot and rhythmic. Her muscles pulsed like they didn’t know how to stop.
I didn’t move. Just held her steady while she trembled, while every wave tore through what she’d been holding back.
She came like it was an exorcism. Like the orgasm had gone inside her and pulled grief up by the roots. Her cries weren’t just pleasure. They were the truth. And when she whispered my name again and again, it wasn’t desperation. It was belief. I pressed my lips to the side of her throat, reverent, the place where breath turns into pulse. “It’s done,” I murmured, voice cracked and quiet as I finally removed my fingers from her and sat back on my heels. “You’re free.”
She let go, not in a sob, not in a scream, but in quiet surrender. It moved through her like a release engineered at the cellular level, softening fascia, unraveling muscle memory, coiling down her spine like tension being exhaled. Every line of resistance melted. Her limbs hung weightless in the shape I’d designed. Arms bound. Legs folded. But the static had gone. No more hum beneath the surface. Just stillness. Not the numb kind. The weighted hush that follows real collapse. Her breath steadied, shallow but even. Her body rocked gently in the rig,and her face tilted up like she was trying to memorize what peace felt like.
I didn’t move. Just watched, hands open, fingers still slick with what she’d given me. My chest throbbed with the ache of restraint and reverence. Then, barely, her lips parted, and instinct leaned me forward before thought had the chance.
“You…” she rasped, voice raw and hollowed. “You burned it out of me.”
The words hit center mass. Not a metaphor. Not an exaggeration. Physiological response. My breath vanished. My ribs contracted like they’d been struck. Because she was right. She hadn’t just unraveled. She’d been stripped to substructure, scraped down to bone and truth. And now, suspended in stillness, in a shape sculpted for sanctuary, she wasn’t shattered. She was aligned. She was home. And I had brought her there.
Her voice still echoed through me as I reached for the lines. No words. No disruption. Her body had told me everything. She wasn’t crashing. She was still in the tail end of release. And that required precision. This wasn’t recovery, not yet. It was transition. I wasn’t rescuing her. I was guiding her through.
I took the pulley and lowered her inch by inch; the rope unwinding like breath drawn from deep in the chest. Her body followed gravity slowly, hair spilling forward, posture softening by degrees. When her knees touched the mat, she folded, not collapsed, not broken. Just fluid. Her upper body curved toward the floor as if her bones had surrendered. She didn’t fall. She gave herself over—to gravity, to stillness, to me.
I knelt behind her, palms resting lightly on her shoulders. No weight. Just touch. She was warm, slick with sweat, breath low and even. The kind of calm that can’t be faked. Not after release. Not after unraveling that precisely.
My fingers found the rigging clips, brushing over rope as I released her harness. The mechanism clicked, soft and clean,and she exhaled, long and low, a sound of something settling at last.
“You with me?” I asked near her ear, already knowing the answer before she spoke.
She nodded, loose and slow. “Yeah,” she whispered. “Still floating… but here.”
That was enough.
I didn’t rush the rope. Unraveling has a language. Too fast, and it fractures meaning. Too abrupt, and the body doesn’t register closure. Rope finishes best in silence. In hands that linger. In the weight of someone staying.
So I stayed. One hand rested at the curve of her back, letting her body feel not just contact, but continuity. The air between us pulsed with heat and jute, skin and sweat. My cock still throbbed with everything I hadn’t taken. But this wasn’t mine. This was her aftermath. Her breath. Her shape.
I let my fingers drift along the raised lines at her side. “You’re not broken,” I murmured.
She didn’t answer. Just hummed, soft and low. A sound I felt more than heard. It moved through my palm, through the rope, into the space between us.
