The Knot

Boiling a 10 metre long hank of jute rope made the flat smell strange. Add to that the pulling and stroking and you get a significant workout. And blisters if you're not careful.

It was a present for an old friend. Looking at it coiled in the bottom of my suitcase, I wished for a customs inspection. Ideally, I should probably have conditioned a couple more while I was at it, but I don't think my biggest soup pot is big enough.

For my first attempt I thought it was good enough when I got it to the texture of rough cotton, still a bit coarse but not enough to hurt. Not inadvertently, anyway.

The recipients were very happy. My friend Mr. P likes being tied up and hit with objects that go "swoosh", and his partner, Ms. C, is happy to oblige. In fact, she took to bondage with the dedication of a true geek, amassing an enviable library of instructional literature and videos. I'm hoping they'll ask me to stash the goodies when their kids grow old enough to snoop around.

C's eyes lit up when she picked up the coil. "Oooh, that's nice..." she purred, running the (slightly unevenly textured) rope through her hands.

Quickly, she doubled the rope and tied a knot. "Let me show you something." Holding it in her palm like an apple, she turned to P and told him to open his mouth.

He obliged, biting down on the rope, his eyes closed.

"See, we tried this the other day..." she secured the rope around the back of his head, trailing half of it down the front, half down the back, then weaving the two together into a bodice or corset-like web laced around P's torso, all starting from the knotted gag in in his mouth.

P waited patiently while I complimented C on the ropework.

When she undid the rope she left the knot as it was and put it down on the glass-topped table. It seemed to belong there, surrounded by a swirl of rope, glistening with saliva.