The kimono

You open the door, and I walk in. The room is quiet, but the mats are already laid out, the bamboo is hung waiting, and bundles of ropes lie neatly on the floor. The scent of jute, and wax, of bamboo and fiber laces the air. There is a feeling of peacefulness despite the edge of anticipation.

Wordlessly you look me up and down. You take in my shy smile, as I take in the room which you have prepared – silently suggesting to me that you have a desire, a plan. As you look at me, you walk toward me and suddenly grab at my hair. Initially, gently, moving it away from my face but then gripping it tightly at the back of my neck. A small noise comes from between my lips as the strands pull, and my face is lifted up to you.

Our eyes meet, and your other hand moves to my mouth. Traces my lips. They part almost voluntarily, licking at the tips of your fingers. As you force yourself into my mouth I find I can’t move against the grip of my hair. My stomach starts to tingle. Will you be pleased by me? What do you need?

Although I can’t know, you seem satisfied. Your fingers leave my mouth as I start to gag, and you use your fistful of my hair to guide me to the tatami.

I reach into my bag and pull out a cotton kimono. I feel shy – this is a step away from my comfort, something I’ve not worn before. I take off my dress as you watch me, your gaze making me feel even more timid. It is as though you’re waiting for me to trip or stumble. I can feel my breath coming more quickly, and try to calm my nerves by concentrating on folding the garments in the corner of our square. Your silence is a little unnerving. Perhaps there really is nothing to say, but still – I am unsure whether I am giving what you expect and need,

You kneel near me and pick up the kimono. Running it through your hands you open the material and look up at me. I smile bashfully and stand there, nearly naked, stripped in your gaze. I try to concentrate on nothing more than the deep blues, hues of fuchsia and gold in your hands. And then somehow, what happens, makes me feel even more exposed. You begin to dress me. You hold the kimono’s wide sleeves open for me to slide my arms in. You fold the material around me, wrap the sash around my waist and knot it for me. It is a strange contradiction, to feel more bare the more you dress me. I feel unsettled by the way you kneel at my feet, instead of me at yours. By the way you dress me, instead of expose me.

You tug on the ribbon, pulling me to my knees in front of you. As your knees move, I know where I should sit. I move quietly until I am sitting in seiza, my neck in front of your chest, my hands on my knees. You pull my hair back off my shoulders and twist it to a knot. I feel your hands on my shoulders, passing over my body, feeling my muscles, telling me you’re here – you have me – that this is now for you. Sometimes my eyelids close and I see only through the knowledge of your touch. Other times I look, watch your so-familiar hands as they run over me. Notice where they linger, how your breath changes, your grip changes, as you contemplate your next move.

I hear the familiar snap of the rope being undone. I glance right and see your fingers, two of them, holding the bight. The loop of rope settled between your index and middle fingers, your thumb – free – holding my entire wrist. The bight is a question as it pauses there: a question I will forever answer with a ‘yes’. The question: Do I realize, that this is the last moment of my freedom, and do I submit to your tie?

Your hands, so strong, take my wrists and pull my arms behind me until I’m ready as you need. The rope moves across the new material, and you begin to tie me with the rhythm we both know so well.

The ropes grip my wrists, pin my arms. Then comes the loop that will encircle my torso. The second rope, cut to fit. And then the third – this one looping up to the bamboo. And instead of feeling a tug onto my knees or feet there comes a destabilizing nudge to my right shoulder. You push me, firm but gentle, until the coarse tatami meets the skin of my cheeks. The material of the kimono moves slightly up my thighs, my legs bending on the mat.

My lower leg cedes to your grip. I feel your hands running up my calf, exploring inside my thigh, pressing me and pushing into tender muscles until a deep moan builds inside. With one hand holding my limb firm, the other loops rope around my ankle. I feel the length pull tight as you fix it under your own body weight, and reach for another spool.

You pull my other, upper leg, roughly to you. Squashing my foot as close into my thigh as possible, you begin to tie a vicious futomomo. I feel the rope cut across my shin already, no matter how I flex or extend my foot.

I hear a carabiner click, and then the tug as you pull it toward the bamboo. The motion lifts my leg from the floor, and I realize how exposed I will be. The material of the kimono starts to ride further up toward my waist. I can no longer close the gap with my lower leg as the rope that wraps around my ankle is trapped underneath you. And here, I realize what you want. For all the material I have around me – you have me in your sight.

You pause, sit back next to me, and spend time looking at your leisure. Your hands wander over me, eventually reaching up to my neck. I feel the stiff prickles of a rope gag press insistently between my lips, and open dutifully. You tie it tight behind my head, and hold my nose, hold my neck, control my breath and my breathing. We play this game as long as you wish. Sometimes I feel the panic of the pain that rises in my chest – yet I hear you breathing right by me and know that with this perverse mind game you mean: “I’m breathing – you aren’t… but I know when you will need to.”

When you let go, you check to see what effect this is having. You feel the wetness, you know that in my shame, I am exposed and betrayed by my own body before you. Your fingers – so strong, so smooth, so familiar, so insistent – grab at the material around my breasts, exposing them, too, from behind the folds of cotton and the ropes.

I sense your motion on the mat around me, feeling the movement of my ankle. You pull it backward toward my back, bending me backwards until my toes feel the feather-light tickle of my hair. Tying me like that, I am as stretched and exposed as one could possibly imagine. If I try to move my neck, the drool from the now-saturated gag chokes me as it drips down my throat. The alternative, possibly preferable, is to move slightly and let it run to the floor beside me, dampening my cheek.

Exposed as I am, kimono wide open, you come back to my chest. You press, prick, squeeze, clamp my nipples. Again, it’s a game we play, and we play for your pleasure. I can’t move, speak, barely think. I feel your fingers between my legs again, I feel the cool smoothness of a dildo. It is intense, filling, aching and I moan with each thrust. I think you are still playing on my shame, the knowledge that for all my arousal I can’t, won’t, orgasm for you.

You leave it inside me, and move around. Somewhere in my mind I find the power to open my eyes. The black lens of your camera greets me, and clicks. That camera, which can make me so utterly self-conscious. That camera, which right now, barely registers in my messed-up mind. Your delight and joy to capture moments on film. And when I see that picture later, it says only one thing: The eyes. The eyes are swimming in some crazed emotion – you’ve taken my body, my pride, my shame, my speech, my mind… and they plead the answer to the question posed by the bight: Yes. Yes, I submit.

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