it. “That should be, oh yes...Sir,” he told me, his breath gently gusting against my face. He had spoken softly, instructively and not at all impatiently, but he still had that gleam in his eye that made me wonder if I was in over my head.
“For as long as we're in the scene,” he explained, “I'm your Dom. I'll take care of you, make sure you're okay with everything we're doing, but for the duration, you’re my submissive, and I'll treat you accordingly. Are we agreed? Are you good to go?”
I blinked at him. This was so not going to work. How could I call another Dom “sir?” It was humiliating and went against all my ideas about myself. I was a Dom.
And besides I’d be on stage in front of people looking at me. The last time was disastrous! There was no way I could do it. Never. Not in a million years. No way, Jose. Nada. Nyet.
“Yes, Sir,” I replied instead, like the tower of strength and resolve I was.
“Good boy,” he said and smiled down at me, and again, the words were almost tender, and they felt like a caress. He nodded, held out his hand again and I took it trustingly. He led me over to the center of the stage where someone had put up a type of wooden rigging, almost like a child’s swing, only without the swings. He let go of my hand and gestured to the floor in front of him. “On your knees, boy.”
I hesitated for a fraction of a second and got a lifted eyebrow. Quickly, I sagged down, feeling as deflated as a balloon somebody had pricked with a pin. I tried desperately to remember what I had read about ropes online. Shibari, it was called in BDSM, the ancient Japanese art of bondage tying. And the newer one I’d read about, Kinbaku, which was more acrobatic and took this skill in an even more emotional and sensual direction.
Master Logan stood over me as I knelt at his feet. In his hand was a coil of new, soft-looking, red nylon rope. Above me were the wooden beams from which—if what I’d read on-line was accurate—I would soon be dangling. I gulped and looked out at Tori for reassurance. Logan pushed my head back down and then kept it there, his hand ruffling through my hair and caressing the back of my neck as he began his lecture. I still managed to angle my head up to watch him. He’d indicated he wanted my eyes down, but I thought he might not notice.
“The rope is unmistakably a symbol of power. Historically, ropes were used to restrain prisoners. I’m wondering what all of you think the word “power” means? To a Dom or a submissive? When I have a rope in my hand, I have the power to bind my submissive and control his every move, even his every emotion. It makes me seem powerful. But a submissive like this one has his own power. Though I will restrict his movements with my ropes, I am equally restricted and controlled by his words. If I frighten him or make him uneasy, he can say a single word and it all stops. If, on the other hand, I tie him with the care and attention he deserves, give him the attention he craves and will even misbehave to get…” here he gave me a long look, showing me he saw me clearly and knew exactly what I was doing. I immediately dropped my gaze, unable to hold his. “Then the strength begins to emerge in him.’
He caressed the back of my head again. “Trust begins to build between us. This is the essence of Shibari and Kinbaku. It fosters a deep emotional connection. The submissive, above all else, wants his Dom's attention focused solely on him. I intend to focus all of mine on this man. He is my canvas and the ropes are my tools. He gives me his trust and in return, I will make him beautiful.” He glanced down at me. “Shibari makes your sub a living, breathing work of art. Even more beautiful than he already is, and I think we can all agree this one is extremely pretty. Your sub suffers for his beauty and for yours, and the finished art is exquisite and should be treated as such.”
He stepped in front of me and knelt down to my level. He lifted my chin with one hand.