The Rope and High-Heel Position

Backstage at the Edmonton Fashion Collective's winter showcase, the air smelled of hairspray and adrenaline, that particular cocktail that made her skin prickle under the stage lights. Her thigh-highs clung like a second skin, the lace tops biting just enough to leave faint red marks she'd only notice later, when the leather boots came off. Across the room, a man in a tailored black coat watched her through the reflection of a vanity mirror, his gaze as deliberate as the slow drag of his thumb along the rim of his whiskey glass.

She'd seen that look before, on patrons at private auctions, on collectors examining porcelain dolls, but never directed at her. Not like this. The after-party invitation materialized in her hand without explanation, embossed with coordinates instead of an address, the ink still warm from the printer.

The elevator doors swallowed them whole, soundless as a sigh. Velvet-lined walls absorbed every whisper, every shift of her stilettos against the brass floor grates. His fingers brushed the small of her back, not guiding, just testing, and her spine arched instinctively, the sudden pressure drawing her stockings tighter against her thighs.

Outside, the city glittered like broken glass, but inside, the only light came from the single button glowing at the top of the panel. No numbers. No emergency stop. Just an unmarked ascent, slow enough to make her aware of every inch between her ribs and the heat of his sleeve beside her.

"Tell me," he murmured, his breath stirring the fine hairs at her nape, "do you always hold your breath when you're being watched?"

She exhaled sharply, hadn't realized she'd been doing it, and the sound was swallowed by the thick velvet walls. The elevator groaned, a low, metallic sound that vibrated up through her stilettos and into the arches of her feet. His fingertips traced the scalloped edge of her stocking lace, following the divot where her garter clip dented the skin. The pressure was a paradox, featherlight yet impossible to ignore. The kind of touch that made her wonder if she'd imagined it until his nail caught, just once, on the raw silk of her inner thigh.

Then, the doors parted on a rooftop swallowed by mist, the cold biting at the exposed strip of skin between boot and stocking. He didn't move except to slide his hand into his coat pocket, withdrawing a spool of velvet rope the exact shade of her heels. "You'll want to hold onto something," he said, nodding toward the steel beam overhead, its surface polished to a mirror shine. His smile was all teeth, no apology. "Unless you'd rather test your balance."

The first loop tightened around her ankle, snug as a promise. The second caught her mid-step, the sudden resistance sending a jolt through her calf. She gasped, and the rope trembled like a live wire, not enough to hurt, just enough to remind her how little slack she had. He crouched, his boots creaking as he adjusted the tension, his thumb pressing into the delicate hollow behind her knee.

"There," he murmured, admiring his handiwork. "Now we can both watch."

Her heel hovered an inch above the rooftop tiles, the angle forcing her weight forward onto the ball of her foot. Every shift sent tiny tremors up her thighs, the muscles quivering with the effort of staying poised. The wind caught the torn hem of her dress, flicking it against the backs of her knees, a teasing counterpoint to the relentless grip of the stockings. She could feel the cold steel beam overhead, its shadow cutting across her clavicle like a second set of fingers.

He rose slowly, deliberately, the scent of whiskey and wet leather curling between them. His palm skated up the back of her thigh, pausing just below the lace edge where the skin flushed pink from the pressure. "Tell me," he said, his voice rough against her ear, "do you still think this is about balance?"

The champagne flute appeared in her periphery, its rim beaded with condensation. He tipped it sideways, letting the liquid spill in a slow, glittering arc down the arch of her foot. The bubbles fizzed against her skin, icy trails evaporating almost instantly in the wind, except where they pooled in the hollow of her ankle, trapped between leather and rope. She shuddered, her toes curling involuntarily, and the beam above her groaned in sympathy.

His tongue followed the champagne’s path, lapping at the droplets clinging to the buckles of her boot. The metal was cold against her flesh, but his mouth was warmer than the alcohol, his breath huffing against the sensitive skin behind her Achilles tendon.

"Look at you," he murmured, his lips grazing the taut nylon stretched over her calf. "Already trembling, and I haven’t even touched you properly."

The rope tugged, not sharply, but enough to make her gasp. The heel of her boot slipped another fraction, the angle now precarious enough that her entire body thrummed with the effort of maintaining the pose. Her thighs burned, the muscles fluttering under the sheer stockings, and she realized with a jolt that she wanted to fall, wanted the sharp, sudden release of gravity winning.

He caught her wrist just as her balance wavered, his fingers circling the delicate bones with possessive precision. "Not yet," he chided, pressing her palm flat against the steel beam. The metal was slick with mist, her fingers leaving smeared prints behind. "The view’s too good from up here." His thumb found the frantic pulse at her wrist, pressing down just hard enough to make her whimper.

"And we’re nowhere near the edge."

The second pour of champagne hit the back of her knee, the shock of cold making her jerk against the ropes. The liquid pooled in the crease behind her leg, trickling down in slow, erratic paths that mirrored the shivers racing up her spine. He caught a droplet with his tongue, his mouth hot against the sensitive hollow, and she swore she could feel the shape of his smirk through her stockings. "You taste like panic," he murmured. "Sweet. Salty. Like you’re already thinking about the fall."

• BDSM Restraints

• Rope Play

• Collars and Leashes

• Spreader Bars

• Blindfolds

• Lingerie + Stockings

  
  

Her breath came in shallow bursts, fogging the air between them. The rope creaked as she shifted, the leather of her boots groaning in protest. Every movement sent tiny shocks through her, the bite of the garter clip, the drag of wet nylon against her thighs, the relentless pressure of his gaze tracing the quiver of her lower lip. When his teeth grazed the lace top of her stocking, she arched violently, the sudden motion pulling the rope taut with a sound like a violin string snapping.

The city below blurred into streaks of gold and shadow, but up here, everything was crystalline, the sting of the wind, the musk of damp leather, the way his breath hitched when her heel finally, finally slipped free. "There it is," he whispered, his voice thick with satisfaction as her body went taut against the ropes.

"That perfect moment when you realize," his hand slid up her thigh, fingers splaying over the frantic flutter of her pulse, "you’re not afraid of falling. You’re afraid of how much you’ll like it."

Her stocking snagged on something, a rivet, the edge of his belt buckle, and the sound it made was obscene, a slow unraveling that sent heat flooding her cheeks. He caught the frayed thread between his teeth, tugging gently until the nylon stretched translucent over her kneecap. The cold bit at the exposed skin, but his mouth was there instantly, searing a path from the torn seam to the trembling crease of her thigh. "Look down," he commanded, and she did, watched his tongue dart out to catch the champagne still dripping from her suspended boot, his lips glistening with it.

The rope groaned as she twisted, her hips rolling forward instinctively, seeking friction against the empty air. He let her dangle there, let her feel the delicious strain of her own muscles begging for release, before his palm cupped the heat between her legs through the ruined fabric. The pressure was maddening, not enough, never enough, but when she rocked against him, he pulled away with a low chuckle. "Patience," he chided, dragging his thumb along the sodden lace. "You’ll thank me later."

A shudder wracked her body as the elevator chimed faintly in the distance, a ghost of a sound, barely there, but enough to make her realize how far they’d drifted from the world below. His fingers tightened around her hip, anchoring her as the wind howled through the alcove, sending her dress flaring like a tattered flag. "Almost," he murmured against her neck, his teeth grazing the frantic jump of her pulse. "Almost time to see what happens when you stop holding on."

Her heel slipped another fraction, the leather groaning against the rope’s grip, and the sudden shift sent a bolt of white-hot awareness up her spine. She could feel every thread of her stockings unraveling, every bead of champagne drying sticky on her skin, every ragged breath he took against her collarbone. When his palm finally slid between her thighs, the heat of it seared through the damp lace, his fingers curling just enough to make her jerk against the ropes.

"There it is," he growled, his voice thick with triumph. "That perfect, messy moment when you forget how to stand."

The rooftop lights flickered, casting jagged shadows across his face as he leaned in, his lips brushing the shell of her ear. "Tell me," he whispered, "do you want to fall slow," his thumb circled once, deliberate, just shy of where she needed it most, "or fast?" The rope creaked ominously as her balance wavered, her body straining toward his touch like a compass needle swinging true north.

Somewhere below, the city hummed, car horns, laughter, the distant wail of a siren, but up here, there was only the ragged symphony of their breathing, the wet sound of his fingers working the ruined lace, the sharp, staccato gasp she couldn’t swallow when the rope finally gave way. He caught her mid-fall, his arm banding around her waist, and the laugh he let out was dark, delighted. "Now," he said, pressing his forehead to hers, "we begin."

Her knees hit the rooftop tiles, the impact shuddering up her thighs, but his grip never faltered. He dragged her backward against him, her spine flush with his chest, her ass cradled between his thighs. The cold bit at her bare skin where the stockings had torn, but his hands were everywhere, palming her ribs, skating up her arms, dragging her hair aside to expose the frantic flutter of her pulse. "Watch," he commanded, tilting her chin toward the steel beam overhead, where the velvet rope swayed like a pendulum. "Watch what happens when you stop fighting it."

Her heel dangled from the loop, the leather gleaming under the rooftop lights, and the sight of it, abandoned, suspended, sent a fresh wave of heat pooling between her legs. His fingers found her then, slipping beneath the torn lace, and the groan she let out was half-relief, half-ruin.

"There you are," he murmured, his lips brushing the shell of her ear as his thumb circled once, twice, just shy of where she needed it. "All that tension, just waiting to snap."

The wind howled through the alcove, tearing at her dress, at his coat, at the last frayed threads of her composure. His teeth grazed her shoulder, his breath hot against the gooseflesh rising there, and when his fingers finally, finally pressed inside her, the sound she made was swallowed whole by the night. "That’s it," he coaxed, his voice rough with approval as her hips jerked against his hand. "Let me hear how much you like falling."

Her thighs trembled, not from the cold now, but from the relentless drag of his fingers, the way his palm ground against her with every thrust, the leather of his gloves catching on the damp lace still clinging to her hips. The rope swayed above them, her abandoned boot casting a long shadow across his chest, and she realized with a jolt that she could see herself in the polished steel beam, her hair wild, her lips parted, her body bowed back against him like a drawn bowstring.

He curled his fingers just so, and her vision whited out for a heartbeat, her muscles clamping down around him as if trying to keep him there forever. "Look at you," he murmured, his free hand splaying across her abdomen, holding her steady as she shook.

"Taking it so well. Like you were made for this."

His thumb circled her clit, slow and merciless, and she sobbed, her nails scraping against his forearm as another wave crested, sharper this time, brighter, like lightning splitting the sky.

Somewhere below, the elevator chimed again, a distant, dissonant note in the symphony of their breathing. He didn’t stop, didn’t slow, just pressed his lips to the shell of her ear and whispered, "Again." The command sent a fresh tremor through her, her body already wound too tight, too close, but when his teeth sank into the tendon of her neck, she came anyway, her back arching, her cry ragged and raw against the wind.

His fingers withdrew slowly, leaving her twitching and oversensitive, the cool air biting at the wetness between her thighs. She expected him to turn her around, to push her onto the cold tiles, but instead, he lifted her effortlessly, her legs wrapping around his waist out of sheer instinct, her ruined stockings catching on the rivets of his belt. The steel beam loomed above them, her abandoned heel swaying like a metronome counting down to something inevitable.

The first thrust was brutal, purposeful, the angle forcing her to take him deeper than she thought possible. Her nails scraped across his shoulders, finding purchase in the sweat-damp fabric of his shirt, and the sound he made was half-growl, half-prayer. Every snap of his hips sent her dangling stiletto spinning, its shadow flickering across his face like a strobe light catching the moment before a fall.

She could feel the rooftop vibrating beneath them, or maybe that was just her, shaking apart in his arms, the city lights blurring into streaks of gold and neon. His hand tangled in her hair, tugging her head back to expose the column of her throat, and when his tongue laved over the pulse point there, she knew he could taste it: the panic, the pleasure, the dizzying certainty that this elevator only went one way.

The wind tore at the remains of her stockings, the lace unraveling stitch by stitch like a slow-motion confession. She could see every detail in the polished steel beam, the way her lipstick smeared across his collarbone, the precise moment her thigh-highs slid down to her knees, the wet gleam of his lower lip when he caught a drop of sweat from her temple.

"Tell me," he growled against her jawline, his breath scalding, "do you still think you can walk away from this?"

Her laughter was raw, unhinged, the sound swallowed by the groan of the elevator cables beginning their descent below them. His grip tightened on her hips, fingers digging into the bruises already forming, and the pain was so sharp, so perfect, that her vision swam with it. The champagne flute lay shattered somewhere nearby, its shards catching the moonlight like a constellation of bad decisions.

His next thrust was slower, deliberate, the drag of his body against hers calculated to make her feel every ridge, every scar, every unspoken promise. She arched into it, her back curving like a bowstring drawn too tight, and when his teeth closed over the tendon behind her ear, she came with a sound that wasn’t a scream so much as a surrender. The rope above them swayed wildly, her abandoned stiletto spinning in lazy circles, its shadow tracing figure eights across his shoulder blades like a tally of all the ways she’d lost count.

The elevator hummed faintly below them now, its ascent a distant vibration through the steel grates under their knees. He pulled her closer, his palm splayed between her shoulder blades, pressing her chest flush against his until she could feel the ragged rhythm of his heartbeat through three layers of ruined fabric. His exhale was hot against her temple, whiskey-scented and uneven, and when he spoke, his voice was rough with something that wasn’t quite triumph. "Look at me," he commanded, but she already was, her pupils blown wide, her lower lip caught between her teeth. The rooftop lights flickered, catching the sweat sheening his throat, the precise moment his control frayed at the edges.

Her thighs trembled where they straddled him, the torn stockings sliding down to bunch at her knees, the cold air biting at the damp skin beneath. He shifted his grip, one hand tangling in her hair to tilt her head back, the other skating down her spine to palm the curve of her ass, not guiding, just claiming. The angle changed everything; the next thrust hit deeper, harder, and she gasped, her nails scoring crescent moons into his biceps. The wind snatched the sound away, but he felt it, the way her muscles fluttered around him, the way her breath hitched when his thumb found the sensitive spot just below her navel.

Somewhere beyond the alcove, the city pulsed, car horns, distant laughter, the occasional siren, but up here, there was only the wet slide of their bodies, the creak of the rope above them, the slow drip of condensation from the abandoned champagne flute pooling between their tangled legs. His lips grazed her collarbone, his tongue darting out to catch a bead of sweat before it could slide between her breasts. "Tell me," he murmured against her skin, his voice dark with something like reverence, "do you still think this was about the height?" The elevator chimed again, closer now, but neither of them moved, too busy mapping the wreckage they’d made of each other, one shuddering breath at a time.

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