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We continue walking as he answers, “Back in the library, I asked if you would deceive me.”
“And I said no.”
“You shook your head.”
“Same thing.”
“And I said ‘Let’s make sure.’ I’m going to give you a preview of what happens if youdotry to deceive me.”
He stops in front of a set of double doors and unlocks them. We step inside and soft lights come on. The entire room is decorated with erotic photography between sculptures of metal and marble.
I’m not really in the mood for art because my mind is fixated on what he just said, but my eyes are drawn to a set of sepia photos of women, mostly naked except for an open robe or a see-through gown, posing seductively.
Rafe follows my gaze. “Those are from the late nineteenth century.”
My gaze travels to several black-and-white photos that show only parts of the body: a man’s chest and groin behind bars, a woman’s backside adorned with what looks to be candlewax, and a cropped photo of a woman with her hand between her thighs. The shadows on the bodies are intriguing, the light perfectly placed to tease and entice.
My body can’t help but react, though my mind returns to the question: what kind of preview am I getting?
“Have a favorite?” Rafe asks me.
“Umm...I don’t know,” I reply as I look over a photo of a woman suspended upside down in rope bondage.
“Pick one.”
I choose the oversized print of two women fondling each other underwater.
He seems intrigued. “Ever been with another woman?”
“No.”
I almost admit that my sexual experiences are pretty limited, but he doesn’t need to know and probably doesn’t care. What does the room have to do with the preview he alluded to?
He stands in front of the photo with the rope bondage. “I like this one for the shibari handiwork, the asymmetrical tie.”
“It looks very uncomfortable.”
“It’s supposed to be. See how one of her legs is free? It’ll get very sore dangling there without the support of any rope.”
Though I can’t imagine being the woman in the photo, she does look sexy with rope crisscrossing about her crotch, wrapped around her bent leg, and framing her perky breasts.
“What exactly is shibari?” I ask.
“In short, it’s the art of Japanese rope bondage, though there are other terms in the Japanese language that are more appropriate, depending on the context.”
“Is this shibari something in your, um, repertoire?”
He walks over and stands in front of me. His eyes seem to glimmer. “It is.”
My breath skips. “Oh.”
“It’s my favorite form of art.” He looks me over. “Since you’re new to rope bondage, I might start off with a simple rope dress. The rope would go over your neck first, then down your front.”
With his finger, he traces the route of the rope above my clothes. “There would be a knot here, here, here, and here.”
He points down the middle of my torso: the center of my collarbone, just above my nipple line, below my breasts, and at my waistline.
His finger drops down to my crotch. “And finally one down here. Right against your clit.”
