Playing Knotty (5 page)

Chapter 7

T
he flu?”
Ian couldn't help sinking down his couch at the sound of the voice on the other line saying the words no one wanted to hear from a bondage model two days before a workshop.

Lizzy sounded like hell, too: groggy, hoarse, throaty in a way that was by no means sexy. “Yeah, you heard me.” She coughed wetly, and Ian held the phone away from his ear with a grimace by reflex. “Sorry. I know it's in two days.”

“But we're booked.” Ian ran a hand over his face, despair settling into his stomach. “We've got the space and a bunch of confirmations.”

“I'm sorry, Ian. You know I'd do it if I could.” Another fit of coughing ensued. “But you needed to find someone new anyway, right? I told you this was going to be my last class now that I've got the bartending gig.”

Ian closed his eyes and leaned back. He'd been putting off finding another model, hoping to convince Lizzy to stay on, and now he was screwed. How was he supposed to run a workshop on bondage without someone to tie up? “It's fine, Lizzy,” he lied. “I'll call the Boston group. Maybe someone will be available.”

“I hope you find somebody.” She sounded sincere, and he knew she was.

When they hung up the phone, Ian pulled his laptop over and called up the site for his local FetLife group. Trying not to sound too desperate, he typed up his request and sent it out into the ether. Maybe someone would be checking email and reply. Otherwise, he would have to cancel, most likely. And shit, he did not want to cancel.

Or he could call Emma. The voice in the back of his head put forth the suggestion as if it were normal, as if he could just call up the woman who hadn't even wanted to go to his workshop and yet who clearly had been a bundle of arousal when last they'd spoken. He had heard the breathy hitches in her speech, the way her voice had trembled when she was trying to answer. He may not be able to read her body language, but he knew those sounds, and damn if it wasn't hotter than he had imagined. He wanted to see how she responded to him in person, wanted to wrap the rope around her wrists and see her eyes go wide, wanted her to understand how erotic bondage could be.

His cock twitched at the thought, and he pressed his palm to it through his jeans. She'd gone to the website. Several times over the two weeks since he'd last spoken to her, he'd gotten himself off with thoughts of her browsing those pictures, imagining it was her in the ropes. And now, with Lizzy canceling, he didn't know what he really wanted. It would be better for him to work with someone experienced, someone from the group. That way, there were no errant feelings involved, nothing sexual. His workshops were always lighthearted and fun, relaxed. How could he keep that demeanor if it were Emma he was demonstrating on?

And yet another part of him hoped no one would reply, that he'd have to call her and ask. There was a good chance she'd say no. But if she said yes? He was already half-hard thinking about it. Surely it was a terrible idea for that reason alone. Ultimately, though, as a professional, he could distance himself from the task at hand. He'd tied up many women, beautiful women, and had always been able to remain neutral. Sometimes they'd approached him afterward and he'd taken them to bed, bound them hand and foot like they'd asked, and then fucked them into blissful oblivion. During the event, though, he could will his body into passive detachment.

He was an instructor. He was a professional. This should be easy for him.

Or maybe all of it would be moot. Maybe someone from the group would reply, and he'd use that person as a model, the most sensible course of action.

By nine o'clock that night, no one had replied except with regrets, and he sat with his phone in his lap and stared at the blank screen. There was only one thing left to do.

Emma picked up on the second ring. “Ian?” She sounded uncertain and maybe a little curious. “What's up? I found some extra chairs, by the way, so you don't have to bring any.”

“What? Oh, good. Thanks.” He had forgotten about the chairs. “Well, I've, um, got a problem. I was hoping you could help me out.”

A pause. “Sure, if I can.”

He twirled a pen between his fingers. “This is really unconventional. I'm sorry. I wouldn't ask if I had any other options.” She didn't reply, but he could hear her breathing on the other end. He exhaled and continued. “My bondage model has the flu. I've asked around, but nobody's available. I was going to cancel, but then I thought maybe . . . if you were interested, or . . . I mean, not completely opposed to the idea, maybe you would do it?” Another long pause. God, he'd give anything to be able to see her face, to know how to proceed. He was terrible at phone interactions. He pushed on. “It's not difficult. You don't have to take your clothes off or anything. And . . . it's not sexual. I mean, it's only a workshop. It's not a kink event. I just need someone to demonstrate on. And I'll pay you. I always pay my models.”

“How much?”

The question took him by surprise; that wasn't the response he was expecting. “Well, I usually pay twenty-five dollars per hour, and it's a two-hour class, so fifty. I know it's not a lot, but it's the standard rate, and—”

“I'll do it.”

His first response was relief. He didn't have to cancel after all, and she was willing to do it. But something didn't sit right. Was she really that hard up for cash? “Emma, is this . . . I mean, it's not sexual, but it's kind of intimate, and if you're only doing it for the money but you really don't want to do it, I'd feel shitty. I could give you the fifty dollars, if that would help, and postpone the class until Lizzy's better.”

Her response was clipped. “I don't need your charity, Ian. I said I'd do it, and I'll do it. You don't need my reasons, right? You just need someone to demonstrate on. You said yourself it isn't difficult.”

Her answer wasn't completely satisfying, but he felt somewhat better, and if he pushed the issue she might hang up on him, and then he'd be screwed. “No, it's not. Thanks! Thanks a lot, Emma.” He let the relief he felt show in his voice.

“So is there anything I need to know or do?”

“No, just wear comfortable clothes.”

“I can do that.”

For a second time, he wished he could see her face, understand what she was feeling and thinking. Over the phone, he had to take her at her word. “Thanks again, Emma. I owe you one.”

“It's . . . no problem. I'm happy to help a friend.”

When he hung up, Ian scrubbed his hands over his face, unable to stop picturing Emma writhing in her bonds. He would need to jerk off right before the workshop or this would be far more difficult than he anticipated.

E
mma stared at
the phone after hanging up, her heart beating a tattoo inside her rib cage. Holy hell. She was going to be a bondage model for Ian Cooper.

The reasons why this was a terrible idea were scrolling through her head like the opening credits of
Star Wars,
but she tried to ignore them in favor of
Holy hell, I'm going to be a bondage model for Ian Cooper.
And with the fifty dollars, she could buy some groceries other than ramen.

She flushed, thinking of his offer to simply give her the fifty dollars and let her skip the workshop. It was generous but insulting, if those two emotions could coexist. Their conversation had left her feeling both comforted and embarrassed. He didn't need to know about the tightness of her budget. She hadn't accepted for the money, though, not entirely. It had been too long since she'd been intimate with anyone, and after browsing his website, she was curious. This was her chance to try it out, see if she liked it, and if she spent the evening fantasizing that Ian was tying her up for real, no one would know. Regardless of her reasons, in two days' time, Ian was going to be tying her up in the back room of her shop and paying her for the privilege. She only hoped she could keep it together.

Chapter 8

W
hen she closed up
that Sunday night, Emma counted the till three times before she could be assured of her accuracy. It wasn't like her to get so distracted. She prided herself on being methodical and precise; her strengths lay in routine, detail-oriented tasks like alphabetizing books and counting change. With Ian arriving any moment, though, it took all her concentration to correctly enter the combination to the safe.

Upon finishing closing procedures, Emma sat down on her high stool behind the counter and rested her forearms on the countertop, trying to release her tension with some deep-breathing exercises.

When the bell above the door rang, all her tension came flooding back like some kind of tension tsunami. So much for accessing her inner Zen. Ian smiled at her as he walked into the shop, and the warmth of his smile did nothing to calm her down. Ian wore a button-down long-sleeved shirt open over a T-shirt and a pair of dark jeans that fit just right in all the right places. He'd gotten a haircut since she last saw him, light brown hair a little messy, a little spiky, attended to but not overdone, light scruff on his jaw making him look relaxed in a really nice way. Shit. She should have laid claim to Ian back when he was a dorky kid in a maroon blazer, because this guy was way out of her league.

Nonchalance would be key here. “Hi.” She flashed him what she hoped was a winning smile, affecting confidence she didn't feel. “You need some help with those bags?” She gestured to the two black suitcases he was rolling in with him.

“No, I've got it.” He walked toward the back room, and she followed, not sure what else to do. “Thanks again for doing this, Emma. You're a lifesaver.”

“Hey, I'm happy to help out.”

When he had laid both suitcases down, he turned back to her. “Is that what you're going to wear?”

She looked down at her skirt and blouse and flushed. “Oh! Right. I need to change. I didn't want to wear my casual clothes to work. Because they're casual and all that. Um . . . I'll go upstairs and change.” She ducked into the stairwell so she didn't have to look at him grinning at her making a fool out of herself. If she didn't pull herself together, she was going to look like a complete ass during the workshop.

When she reemerged, he was just moving the last chair into a wide U-shape that took up almost the entire space of the workroom. He looked up at her and took in her new outfit, his eyes scanning the length of her body. Emma wished she could hide in the bathroom again. When she'd laid out the T-shirt and yoga pants on her bed this morning in anticipation, they had seemed like a good idea. She'd forgotten how snugly the fabric clung to the curve of her ass and hips, how the T-shirt stretched across her breasts, but under Ian's appraisal, it was difficult to think of anything else.

“That's good. You'll be more comfortable like that.”

Was he staring at her breasts or reading her shirt? She glanced down at the “Prologue” logo across her chest, and when she looked up again, Ian was putting three six-packs of bottled water into the staff fridge. From one suitcase, he withdrew a couple of yoga mats and spread them out on the floor, the edges curling under. Then he sat to untie his sneakers.

“I left my shoes upstairs.” Emma looked down at her own feet, bare pink toes against the hardwood floor, and felt more exposed than she had expected.

“You'll want to be barefoot anyway. It's better for the mats.” He set his shoes side by side near the door and returned in plain white cotton socks. Being barefoot made everything more intimate somehow.

Emma watched, fascinated, as Ian began unpacking coils of rope. He laid them out in a particular order, carefully arranging them at the front of the room.

Catching on to the fact that she was watching him, Ian looked up, smiling. “You want to come a little closer? I'll show you what these are.”

“They're coils of rope,” she said, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world, because it
was
pretty damn obvious, but she walked over anyway and sat down across from him.

“I use different lengths for different tasks. I ask my guests to bring some, too, but I always bring extra in case they don't have enough. There's more in the bags.” He rested his hand on each coil in turn. Emma noticed that his fingers were long and expressive, probably quite nimble. Wondering what they would feel like on her skin, she blushed.

“So you're a Dom?” The question was out before she could think about it. She'd read about BDSM before and had been wondering ever since their last meeting.

He looked up, meeting her eyes. She couldn't read his expression, wasn't sure if he was confused, amused, or wary. “No.”

“But you do bondage. Ropes. Isn't that, like, a BDSM thing?”

Ian took the end of a rope in his hand, running it across his palm as he thought. “Well, it
is
the ‘B' in ‘BDSM.' ” Wait, was he laughing at her? Emma couldn't figure out if she was supposed to be offended. “But I'm not really a Dominant in the way most people think of it. I just like rope play.”

“For sex?” Emma needed to have a stern talk with her mouth if it was going to keep blurting out questions like that.

“Yes, for sex.” Now he was definitely laughing at her, the corners of his eyes crinkling as his lips curled up, and how had she never noticed the warmth of his smile? “And for workshops like this. Oh, which reminds me.” He lifted up on one hip to pull out his wallet and fished out two twenties and a ten. “Your modeling fee.”

Emma got to her feet to put the money in her purse, the payment making it all very real. She was going to do this. When she returned, Ian was tying and untying knots in one of the ropes. She sat opposite him. “I've never done anything like this.”

“I gathered.” He wrapped the rope around his own wrist, then unwrapped it. “Don't worry, Emma. It's not that big a deal. If I do anything you're uncomfortable with, tell me and I'll stop. I don't want to frighten you.”

“I'm not frightened.” She was telling the truth. What she felt wasn't fear. Well, maybe a little, but mostly she felt excitement. And . . . arousal. “It . . . it makes me feel really vulnerable.”

“That's true.” Ian met her gaze, his brown eyes sharp. Now he was back to weaving basic knots, tying them and untying them swiftly and deftly, his fingers dancing over the ropes while he kept his eyes on Emma. She felt hypnotized. “But I'll take good care of you.”

Emma cleared her throat, meeting his gaze for an instant. “I know you will.”

Ian looked down at the rope in his hands, then handed it to her. “Here, take a look. It's not going to bite you.”

She took the rope gingerly, surprised at how soft it was. “What kind of rope is this?” she asked.

“It's cotton. There are a lot of rope options, but I like cotton rope for my classes because it's pretty easy to find.” He took one end and rubbed it between his fingers. “It softens up nicely with use, and you can wash it when you need to.”

Emma dropped the rope, grimacing. “Ew.”

Ian laughed, an easy chuckle that seemed so familiar, it immediately put her back at ease. “Don't worry. This rope is only used for classes.” He handed it back to her.

“How did you get into all this, anyway?” Emma played with the end of the rope. “Ropes, I mean. I read the website, but it wasn't specific.”

Ian looked off to one side, thinking, his hands working unconsciously to tie and untie knots. “It wasn't as far a leap as you might think. A lot of my hobbies involved rope, you know, Boy Scout stuff, camping, and then I did some sailing my first year of college. But it's not like you really do those things and think, yeah, bondage and sex.”

Emma laughed. Relaxing a bit more, Ian looked back down at the rope in his hands and continued. “I went to this fetish workshop back in college, my sophomore year. I got dragged to it by this girl I was sort of seeing. She thought it was hot and all, but I was hooked. I read everything I could find on the subject, and then when I found the kink scene, I started taking classes.” He shook his head, staring off into space again. “It's hard to explain to people who aren't into it, but the whole process is meditative. It's a way for me to unwind when work gets too much. It's just . . . beautiful. And erotic. I love everything about it.” He chuckled, pushing his glasses up his nose. “That probably all sounds ridiculous to you.”

Emma shook her head, captivated by the passion in his voice. “No. It doesn't sound ridiculous at all.”

The bell above the door rang, interrupting the moment. Emma and Ian both pushed to their feet, Ian checking the clock on the wall. “That'll be the first guests.”

W
ith the room
nearly full, everything seemed a lot more professional. Right. This was business. Emma walked up front near Ian with feigned confidence and took the empty chair next to his.

Intent on the ropes laying on the floor in front of them, Emma didn't pay much attention to Ian's introductory speech. She pressed her knees together and held her hands in her lap, at least remembering to laugh when the other people in the room laughed. Ian spent the first part of the class talking about safety, consent, safe words, safe scenes, and the role of bondage both in and out of BDSM. She fogged over through most of it, looking around her room at the couples gathered there. Four of the couples were heterosexual, one couple was two men, and one was two women. They all seemed about her age; a few couples were perhaps a bit older, maybe in their mid-thirties. They weren't all necessarily couples, of course. She hadn't asked Ian about that. Did people frequently take these classes with friends? Or just with sexual partners? By taking the attention off herself and focusing on the guests, she was able to relax. As she relaxed, she realized from the body language of some of the guests that they were nervous, too, and that made her feel somewhat better.

Emma tuned back in to Ian as he was explaining the different types of bondage, including Western, Japanese, and suspension bondage. He began passing around laminated photographs of different people, men and women, in different types of bondage. Emma recognized them from his website.

After the introduction, it was time to begin, and they moved to the floor, where everyone unrolled the yoga mats they'd brought to sit on. Ian sat down so close to her that his knee was pressing against hers, and her entire focus seemed to center around that one patch of skin and how incredibly warm it felt, even through the layers of their pants. Ian had everyone start by tying a few knots, instructing them, going over the movements until everyone could tie a square knot, a lark's head, a double coin knot, a double fisherman's, and one or two others. Emma used his rope, not wanting to stand out as the person who wasn't participating. At least it gave her something to do. Ian got up to supervise everyone's basic knot-tying, giving Emma the opportunity to absolutely
not
check out his ass in those jeans. He finished his perusal of the room with her, crouching down to look at her lark's head knot.

“That's very good, Emma.” He squeezed her hands where they still held the rope, meeting her eyes, and she found it hard to look away. “Are you ready?” He asked the question quietly, so even the people next to them couldn't hear, and she nodded, not trusting her voice enough to speak.

He turned back to the group, kneeling down again next to Emma. “It looks great, everyone. Let's move on to the good stuff.” He began uncoiling one loop of rope. “Emma has agreed to let me model all the ties on her. She's a great sport.” He smiled at her in a completely nonsexual way, but when he brought her hands in front of her and turned her toward him, her heart fluttered in a way that was certainly not platonic.

“I'm going to demonstrate the ties, then have you all try.” He brought the rope up to her hands, and she let out a breath she hadn't realized she'd been holding. This was it.