The Weekend She Never Forgot

I remember the exact second I decided she wouldn’t leave my apartment until Monday morning. It was Friday night, just past eleven, and she stood in my doorway wearing a thin summer dress that clung to every curve. No bra. No panties. Just the dress and a nervous little smile that said she knew exactly what she was walking into. Her name was Rose, but by Sunday she’d stopped answering to anything except “please” and “Sir.”

I didn’t speak when she stepped inside. I just closed the door, locked it, and let the silence stretch until her breathing was the loudest thing in the room. Then I told her to strip. Slowly. She peeled the dress off like she was unwrapping a gift for me, and when it hit the floor I had to clench my jaw to keep from grabbing her right there. Her body was soft in all the places I like to bruise—full tits with pale pink nipples already peaked, a gentle swell of belly, wide hips, thick thighs that pressed together when she was nervous. Between them, she was already glistening. The scent of her arousal hit me like a drug.

I walked around her once, twice, letting my fingers trail lightly over her skin—shoulders, spine, the curve of her ass, the inside of her thigh. Every touch made her shiver. When I stopped behind her, I pressed my chest to her back so she could feel how hard I was through my jeans.

“You’re mine until Monday,” I whispered against her ear. “Every inch of you. Every sound you make. Every orgasm. Every tear. Mine.”

She nodded, a tiny, desperate movement. “Yes, Sir.”

That was all I needed.

I led her to the center of the room where the suspension ring hung from the reinforced beam. The ropes were already waiting—natural jute tonight, undyed, rough as hell. I love the way it bites. I started with her wrists, binding them together in front of her with a simple double column tie, then lifted her arms high and hooked the rope to the ring. She rose onto her toes immediately, back arching, tits lifting like an offering. I took my time admiring her like that—stretched, vulnerable, breathing fast.

The chest harness came next. I worked slowly, deliberately, wrapping the rope above and below her breasts, cinching tight until they bulged obscenely between the strands. Her nipples darkened, swelled, begged for attention I wasn’t ready to give yet. Every pull of the rope drew a soft gasp from her lips. When I knotted it off behind her back, she was already trembling.

I stepped close, let my mouth hover just over one nipple without touching. “You’re going to hurt so good for me this weekend,” I murmured. Then I bit down—hard. She cried out, hips jerking forward, trying to grind against nothing. I soothed the bite with my tongue, then bit the other side just as cruelly. By the time I pulled away, both nipples were red, swollen, and shining with my spit.

I added the hip harness next. The rope went low around her waist, then down between her legs. I took my time positioning the knot—right over her clit, thick and unforgiving. When I pulled it tight, she moaned long and low, thighs clenching around the rope. I could see her juices already soaking into the jute.

“Already dripping,” I said, sliding two fingers through her folds. She was scalding hot, slick as sin. I pushed inside without warning, curled my fingers, and she clenched around me instantly. “This greedy little cunt is going to be sore by Sunday.”

I finger-fucked her slowly while I finished the leg ties—futomomo on both sides, folding each thigh to calf so her legs were forced wide and she hung completely open. The crotch rope pulled even tighter now, grinding relentlessly against her clit with every tiny movement. She was panting, eyes glazed, already halfway gone.

I stepped back to look. Goddamn. She was art—pale skin marked with the first red lines of rope, tits crushed and swollen, cunt flushed dark pink and dripping down the rope between her legs. My cock was leaking steadily now, straining against my zipper.

I stripped slowly, letting her watch. When I finally freed myself, I stroked once, twice, smearing pre-cum over the head. Her eyes locked on my cock like she was starving.

“Want it?” I asked, stepping close enough that the tip brushed her lips.

She nodded frantically, tongue darting out.

I let her have just the head—let her suck greedily for a few seconds—then pulled away. “Not yet.”

I moved behind her instead, gripped the suspension ropes, and slammed into her in one brutal thrust. She screamed, body swinging forward from the force. Her pussy was so tight, so wet, it took my breath away. I didn’t give her time to adjust. I started fucking her hard, using the ropes to yank her back onto me with every stroke. The crotch knot ground against her clit relentlessly; her moans turned into broken sobs.

I reached around and twisted her nipples while I pounded into her, pulling until she howled. “You’re just a toy tonight,” I growled into her ear. “A pretty little fucktoy hanging in my ropes.”

She came hard, suddenly, without permission—pussy clamping down on me like a vice, squirting down my thighs in messy pulses. I didn’t stop. I fucked her through it, harder, until she was sobbing from overstimulation.

When I finally pulled out, she hung limp, twitching, cum and her own juices dripping steadily from her cunt. I unhooked her arms, let her collapse to her knees, then fed my cock into her mouth. She sucked like her life depended on it—messy, desperate, gagging when I pushed too deep. I used her hair to control the pace, fucking her throat until spit ran down her chin and onto her bound tits.

I came down her throat with a groan, holding her nose against my stomach until she swallowed every drop.

That was just Friday night.

Saturday morning I woke her with my mouth between her legs. She was still marked from the night before—deep rope burns across her chest, thighs, bite marks on her tits and shoulders. I ate her slowly, lazily, until she was grinding against my face and begging to come. I let her—once—then tied her spread-eagle on the bed with soft cotton rope so I could tease her for hours.

I used everything: ice cubes on her nipples, feathers between her thighs, my tongue everywhere except where she needed it most. I edged her until she was crying, until she promised me anything, everything. Then I flipped her over, tied her in a strict hogtie, and fucked her ass for the first time. Slow at first—she was tight, untouched there—but then harder, deeper, until she was pushing back against me, moaning like a whore. I came inside her with her face pressed into the mattress, her hands and feet bound together behind her back.

Saturday afternoon we did floor work. I tied her in a decorative karada—a full body harness that framed every curve, every sensitive spot. The ropes crossed between her legs again, knot on her clit, and I made her crawl around the apartment like that, following me on hands and knees. Every movement rubbed the rope against her. She was dripping constantly, leaving little wet spots on the floor. I’d stop randomly, make her present herself, finger her until she was on the edge, then pull away.

By evening she was delirious. I suspended her face-down this time, parallel to the floor, legs spread wide in a straddle. Her cunt and ass were completely exposed, swaying gently. I used a vibrator on her clit through the rope while I fucked her mouth from the front. She came so many times I lost count—squirting, screaming around my cock, body shaking in the ropes until she went completely limp.

I left her hanging there while I made dinner. Just rocking gently, covered in sweat and cum, rope marks deep and gorgeous. When I finally lowered her, she couldn’t stand. I carried her to the couch, fed her by hand, held water to her lips. She curled into me like a kitten, whispering “thank you” over and over.

Sunday was slower. More intimate. I tied her in a simple box tie, arms behind her back, and sat her on my lap facing me. We fucked like that for hours—slow, deep, grinding. I kissed every mark I’d left, told her how beautiful she was, how perfect. When she came, it was quiet, shuddering, tears running down her face from the intensity of it all.

Late Sunday afternoon I did one final suspension—partial this time, just enough to take some weight off her feet. I tied her standing, one leg lifted and bound to the side so she was open and balanced on the edge of pain and pleasure. I entered her from behind, slow and possessive, one hand on the ropes, the other on her throat. We stayed like that forever, moving together, breathing together, until we both came in long, drawn-out waves.

When I untied her for the last time, her body was a map of the weekend—rope burns crisscrossing her skin in perfect patterns, bruises blooming purple and yellow, bite marks, handprints. She stood in front of the mirror with me behind her, tracing every mark with trembling fingers.

“Look what you let me do to you,” I whispered.

She smiled, soft and wrecked. “Look what you did to me.”

I wrapped her in a blanket, held her on the couch while she floated. Eventually she looked up at me, eyes clear for the first time in days.

“That was the most intense thing I’ve ever felt,” she said. “Thank you.”

I kissed her forehead. “Thank you for trusting me.”

She left Monday morning wearing one of my hoodies and a pair of loose sweatpants to hide the marks. But I knew they were there. I knew every time she moved, every time she sat down, every time she breathed deep, she’d feel me. She’d feel the ropes. She’d feel the weekend we spent lost in each other.

That’s what shibari is to me. Not just rope. Not just kink. It’s connection so deep it hurts. It’s trust so complete it’s terrifying. It’s taking someone apart piece by piece and putting them back together marked, changed, owned—even if just for a weekend.

I still get hard thinking about her hanging in my ropes, body covered in my marks, cunt dripping, mouth open in silent screams of pleasure and pain.

I still dream about the sounds she made when she finally broke.

And I know she dreams about it too.

Because that’s shibari. Real shibari. The kind that lives under your skin long after the ropes come off.