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For a long time, I had only known the studio from the outside. A sober old building, inconspicuous, a narrow doorbell with a name that gave nothing away. Nevertheless, I knew what awaited me inside: ropes, space, time—and someone who knew how to read them. I was nervous, but not afraid. Nervousness was part of the decision I had made long ago.
The rigger opened the door with a calm smile. He was not a man of grand gestures. His voice was low, matter-of-fact, warm. We sat down at the table first, wooden, worn, with a pot of tea. The conversation was thorough and slow. Limits, desires, no-gos. A safeword that didn’t sound playful, but practical. I said I was new to rope, but not new to letting go. He nodded, took notes, didn’t look me in the eye, as if he wanted to give me space to hear my own words.
He explained kinbaku not as a technique, but as a language. Ropes are sentences, knots are commas, pauses are important. Trust is the grammar. I noticed how my shoulders sank, how my breathing became calmer. It was strangely intimate to talk so soberly about closeness.
The room was clean, almost minimalist. Mats, hooks in the ceiling, neatly coiled ropes. He let me choose: cotton or jute. I chose jute because it smelled more honest. He examined the ropes carefully, rubbing them briefly across his palms as if to wake them up. Then he asked me to stand in the middle of the room.
The first touches were matter-of-fact. He wrapped the rope around my wrists, not tightly, just snugly. “Tell me if something’s wrong,” he said, and waited. I didn’t say anything because nothing was wrong. The tension wasn’t in my body, but in the anticipation. Each knot was explained, not out of obligation, but out of respect. I felt involved, not helpless.
With each pull of the rope, my body became more present. I felt my posture, my weight, the way I stood. The rope guided me without forcing me. As my arms were raised higher, a tremor came over me that was less fear than surrender. He noticed it immediately, placing a hand on my back, firm and calm. That gesture was more important than anything else.
Time lost its meaning. I don’t remember how many layers of rope there were, only that each had its own temperature. Warm from his hands, cool during the breaks. He worked with concentration, almost meditatively. I heard his breathing, steady, controlled. There was never a moment when I felt alone.
When he led me to the ceiling hooks, he asked again. I nodded. The nod was not automatic, but a decision. The floor slowly receded. Not floating, more like being carried. My body learned a new kind of balance. The ropes held me, but even more so did the knowledge that he had every inch in view.
In the silence, I heard my own blood rushing. Thoughts came and went without lingering. I was not empty, but clear. Being submissive didn’t feel small here, but focused. I was there, completely.
He spoke little. When he did, it was precise. Once he asked about my breathing, once about my hands. He touched me to check, not to tease. Nevertheless, every touch was intense. It wasn’t about arousal in the usual sense, but about a dense form of closeness.
When he released me again, slowly, controlled, I felt a gratitude that was surprisingly sober. No exuberance, no drama. Just a deep sense of rightness. He untied the knots as carefully as he had tied them. The rope left my body, but the memory remained.
After the session, we sat at the table again. Water, a blanket around my shoulders. Debriefing, as important as everything before. He asked how I was doing. I searched for words and found simple ones. “Held,” I said. He smiled, a little more this time.
When I left, the street outside felt strange, louder than before. I no longer wore ropes, but something had settled. Trust was no longer an abstract concept, but something that could be tied. Knot by knot.