When I returned from San Francisco, I decided I wanted to study bondage. I wanted to learn about rope and to how be the dominant player – known as a “rigger” in these circles.
I joined a rope group for female riggers called Hitchin’ Bitches, held every Sunday afternoon in a little known pub. Men were only allowed to participate as ‘bunnies’ (those who were tied up).
I showed up for my first class excited when I spotted the girl across the room. She was tall, athletic, boyish, with short hair. I instantly sensed she was gay. I instantly sensed I liked her.
She was in fact teaching the class; she was the Bondage Professor. The girl had a boy’s name, she was American (I have a fetish for American girls). The subject that day was “pelvis harness”. I discovered she was a highly regarded rope expert in the community, so good she even created and named her own knots.
After class, I enquired about a private lesson.
A couple of weeks later, I found myself at a girls-only play party in a dodgy sauna. I turned my head, and there she was, the Bondage Professor was randomly standing in the same room as me. My heartbeat accelerated. I knew that if I played my cards well, the night could be awesome.
I slipped into the sauna right next to her and suggested that if she needed a bunny for the night, I was her woman. She replied “How does now sound?” She took me to a private booth. It was the size of a fitting room, with Amsterdam red lighting, a mattress on the floor and some kind of beam to be used for suspension.
One of the most intense and troublante experiences of my life began.
She took out some seemingly sophisticated equipment, like only a bondage surgeon could. Ropes of every size, colour and texture, wooden sticks, clothes pegs and other things that I can barely remember or describe.
She first checked if I had any body injuries, then laid down the rules of clear communication;
Don’t say “yes” when you mean “no” as you may jeopardise your safety
You must say if you feel any discomfort or pain
And she added: “Remember. There is no supposed to”
I agreed and before I could finish my sentence she grabbed my wrists and I found myself handcuffed with rope in seconds. She instantly took complete control of me. Oh. My. God.
I discovered that night what complete surrender means. I really was her living doll. I let her manipulate me like a plaything, do whatever she wanted, yet within the boundaries of complete trust. It was a new stage of my life, before I had found it easy to let go around 80%, but never had I fully to 100%. I went beyond that in no time.
She was arranging me into some elaborate positions, twisting me, stretching me, suspending me, her creativity spurred by my hyper flexibility. “Go for it, I am a dancer” I squealed. Whilst she was finishing one creation, I found myself at such ease we would chat as if we were on a date ‘so…what do you do?’, ‘why did you move here?’, ‘how did you get into bondage…..?’ Surreal.
There was a sharp contrast from her shy demeanour as a professor and to this now dominant force. It was as though she were autistic and rope was her only true means of connecting with others.
She was relentless. As soon as she freed me from one position, she would fold me into another . Her creativity was endlessly stunning, she even tied knots with my hair.
As the hours passed, it became more intimate. She went to tug on the zipper. I was surprised when she asked me. “May I?” What a needless question.
I don’t know how many hours we stayed in there, probably close to three. But time seemed suspended, a little like me. We created a timeless dimension in a minuscule physical space.
Close to the end, I began to wonder if she was ever going to actually ‘do’ me in a more traditional way. And then she removed all the rope and gave me a huge hug, she held me tight and I could feel all the intense emotion that we had put into that moment finally release.
The only offending action that night was to go back to the outside world. Inside the bondage cocoon, everything was incredibly soft and respectful.
One question still burned on my lips, “Why didn’t she fuck me?”
Then it became clear to me, in fact she had, in a way that no one had ever done before. The Bondage Professor had fucked my mind.
The title of the post is a tribute to the film director Pedro Almodovar