The Knot – Part 1: First Knots

The shears lay on the bedside table, big orange-handled safety shears, the sort paramedics use, laid out beside a coil of soft red hemp rope and a neat stack of folded towels.

Daniel looked at them. He was thirty-eight, a paramedic himself, and he knew precisely what the shears were for. That was why he had asked, at the end of the rope-safety workshop they had both attended in the spring, whether Genevieve would use them at home.

"Say the rules," said Genevieve.

She was forty-four, a veterinary surgeon, quietly exacting, with surgeon's hands and a deep distrust of improvisation. She had practised every tie on a mannequin for six weeks. She had learned where not to put pressure. She had learned how to check circulation and nerves, and how to cut a knot in four seconds if she had to.

"The shears stay in reach, always. If either of us wants out, I say Release and you cut, or you undo it, immediately. No ties above the shoulders. Nothing around the neck. Nothing that is left unwatched. You check my hands and feet every ten minutes."

"Good. What else?"

"I tell you the truth. If anything tingles, goes cold or numb, I say so at once."

"And I stop at once." She tucked a stray lock of hair behind her ear. "Say the word."

"Release."

"Good. And what is the other thing I need you to say?"

"That I want to do this."

"Do you?"

"Very much," said Daniel, and his voice trembled, a little, at how much.

"Then sit on the edge of the bed. Wrists together. In front. Where I can see them."

He sat. She knelt in front of him, took the soft hemp in both hands and looked up, once, to meet his eyes. She was the Mistress now, and her voice was low, slow and absolutely steady.

"I am going to bind your wrists. It will be firm, not tight. You will tell me if that changes."

"Yes, Mistress."

The rope slid round his wrists with a dry, soft whisper. She wound it, once, twice, three times, and tied it off with a plain square knot she had practised until her fingers ached. She slid two fingers beneath the cord to check it, as they had been taught. She watched his hands, the colour of the fingertips, the faint pulse in his wrist.

"Is that all right?"

"Yes. It is..." He swallowed. "It's very all right."

"Good." She sat back on her heels, studying him. The rope was red against his pale skin. He was breathing slowly. His eyes were bright. "How does it feel?"

"Like," said Daniel, "I have been holding something up for years, and I've just been told I can put it down."

Continue the story: Part 2 – Release.