filled and fooled


Tied to my mind


I wrote this quickly so forgive my grammatical or flow errors.  Feedback totally welcome!!

I cleaned the garage the weekend before last, it was long overdue after our move here in 2011.  We’ve even had a yard sale since moving but I was able to dig out boxes that I hadn’t seen for probably 10 years.  Shuffled between garages, their content wasn’t of any particular importance to me.  Don’t get me wrong though, I’m not a pack-rat at all, I let go of belongings as easy as friends (ouch!), and tend to live in the moment where I can play back memories without the things they attached to.  But the boxes represented certain moments in life that I wasn’t letting go of.

I was happy to realize that I had found the wooden crate that held the tools my dad had gathered for me to keep in my first car.  At 17 I was driving an hour each way to and from college, and he wanted me to be prepared for everything.  I gently moved through the items, screwdrivers and a hammer rusted together and some kind of unknown part, that salty air did a number those years in the garage.  I remembered the times I used the tools, the times I used the ice scraper at 5:00am cursing the winter, the time I fixed a flat all alone in the dark. The time I thought I could sleep in the back of the car instead of driving home too late.

It wasn’t long before I was needed inside the house, one of the kids was screaming and I had to come to the rescue.  After I resolved the issue I realized I had something from the box in my hand still.

Becoming cognizant of the it in my hand now, I stroked the soft rope as I talked to the kids, and felt the weight of it in my hand.  When I was able to focus on my thoughts again I was taken back to the night in the snow, where my amazing dad tied a Christmas tree to the top of my little car, so I could drive it back to my apartment and decorate it with my friends. [Note: This kills me as I write this. An adult and parent, knowing your daughter wanted so badly to grow up and get away, having to help her be cause she wanted to spend this holiday with friends instead of family…]

As I went through the range of emotions gathered in the memory with this new adult perspective I stroked the soft rope, feeling the tickle of the ends, the almost-chenille quality.  I went back to the garage to put it away.

“I didn’t even realize I was carrying this rope around with me.” I told my husband as I passed by, looking for a good spot to store it.  As with most things I say to him, it should have evoked a bit of a sexual response, when I said it I began thinking about the use of rope in BDSM so I thought he would too.  However, I moved on from the thought quickly because I noticed he was pretty immersed in his organization project.

But the rope was heavy in my thoughts as I went about ticking off my to-do list that day. I’ve never been apt to read bondage stories, or posts, and we have handcuffs for play but we never use them; rope just isn’t something I think about.  My mind wasn’t really there yet, I wasn’t creating a play scenario in my head, at that point.

What I was focusing on, is how much I coveted that rope when I untied the christmas tree that night 18 years ago.  I had carefully coiled the soft fiber around my hand and elbow, just like I was taught.  This was the rope I always wanted to play with when I was a young girl.  It was the softest among all the others.  Growing up in the mountains rope is just something you have around, it is a great tool with many uses.  Even little girls, like us at maybe 10 or 11, we’d build forts in the woods using frayed and decomposing ropes early residents had left behind with their pile of tin cans.

This was a special rope; as I lay down that night I was still thinking about it.  Very hazy memories crept through those moments between wakeful and sleeping, pushing my mind to the very dark corners with dusty memories left alone for so long.  This was that rope I curled up in, that day I tried to run away when I was 9, but instead of running away I just hid in the bed of my dad’s old pickup truck glad I had found the softest one there.  I hugged it, I stroked my cheeks with it, comforted by just the pure silk of such a hard-working tool.

The next morning I wasn’t bound to the memories of the old rope anymore. But I was drawn back to it by midday, first just touching it again as I passed by in the garage, then later thinking about how it would feel around my wrists or my ankles, or even binding my tits tight like I’ve seen in photos.  On my next pass by it in the garage, impulsively I grabbed the coil and went straight to my room, closing the door.  I laid the four pieces of rope side by side on the soft brown comforter and sized them up, fiddling with the crudely cut ends. Why did dad cut *this* rope for me? Right, the tree tied down in several places, passing through the slightly open windows to the hand holds. {sigh}  The rope had aged, it wasn’t as smooth or flexible as before, but it still had the pretty sheen it reflected in my memory.

I wasn’t sure what to do at this point, alone in my room for probably just a moment, when suddenly I’m jolted by a,  “Momeeeee!”  He must of smelled my engrossment in something other than him.

“Just a minute!” I yelled back.

I hurriedly put the rope away and tended to his needs.  It is my job after all.

Over the next several days I found coils of rope everywhere in my house.  It didn’t feel odd, just that my eyes had opened to something we always had around too.  During the days I got a minute to myself I would read a bit more about bondage. It started me thinking about how vulnerable I would feel if I couldn’t move.  And how that vulnerability would make every touch important, even the lightest caress would carry a power unique for me to yield to.

It took a few more days to process the thought of letting go and trusting my partner to take care of me.  And often I asked myself why my life could be enriched by play like this. I didn’t feel I was missing anything before.

Passing by my bed one particular day I did something I never thought to do before.  I inspected the possibility of threading a rope through the bottom of the platform style frame.  It appeared all four corners rendered the possibility of secure ties if I was so inclined.  I moved past the thoughts fast without attaching too much sexual energy, it was important to me that I was able to explore some thoughts that I had pushed away not long ago, but I need to take this slow.

I guess this is my first step, talking about a desire I didn’t know existed a couple weeks ago.  I can’t even call it a desire, perhaps just an interest.  The rope is hanging up in the garage now, and I haven’t really thought about being tied up for a few days.  I didn’t really discuss this with my husband, but the thought has been pressing enough that I felt I needed to come here to let the thoughts fly free.  Perhaps he will read this and take me on a journey I didn’t know he could take me on.  Perhaps someone else will read this and encourage me to try something on my own…not sure what I want.


11 thoughts on “Tied to my mind

  1. I love the palpable connection you have to the rope, it makes for a very sensual and imagery heavy piece of writing. I really liked this post, quite a bit and have been mulling over what I wanted to say to you about it. It’s beautiful, and I love that it made you want to try something new. I’m a fan of rope-play for the reasons you described and others.

    The rope is so different from handcuffs. It’s like a living thing, breathing against your skin. It has a scent, a taste, a feel that are all very particular to rope (and all different depending on the material used to make it). I enjoy cuffs (we have some custom leather cuffs and we have shackles too) but rope will always be my go to for bondage.

    I hope you get a chance to explore it if you decide that you want to. The only thing I can tell you is to have fun, make sure your skin can breathe, and keep a pair of emergency scissors nearby. And in case you like it and want to get more serious about it, the internet is riddled with excellent instructional videos and how to guides, etc. :]


    • I’m so glad you liked this post!! :). I’m not sure if we will try anything, but its good to know the info is out there easy to find, if we ever need it.

      Your second paragraph was so sensual and stimulating, damn, if I wasn’t convinced to try before I am now! Hah!

  2. Rope is so different from handcuffs, rope is intimate. As one passes the rope across the skin there is a connection. It is a slow process one that includes a physical connection, an intimacy that grows from the twinning of the coils around the skin.

    While with handcuffs with a flick of the hand they are clipped in place and done, with rope it is a progression. One as each coil is wrapped, some refer to it as being hugged by rope.

    With rope you are the easel, it become more then just being bound and helpless it is art.

    Your post is beautiful, an intimacy of it’s own with such memories.

    • This was a comment I wanted to put special thought into, because it was pure poetry. I followed your words and just thinking, just imagining myself as the art, it was intense and totally fathomable. Thank you so much.

  3. G, I think you have always been an excellent writer. The way you weave history into discovery and then into possibility is so lyrical and I’m just lucky to read what you write – whatever it is about. What a poignant remembrance. What would your dad say reading this story – maybe without the BDSM references? XO, Jayne

    • He would make the point that the rope was a symbol my attachment to being a little girl. I will write more later, needed again…..

    • Okay, now that compliment, wow! Thank you so very much. You made my month I think!

      I think my dad might be happy to read that I took something from the experience, I am grateful for him.
      Xoxox back at you!

  4. G (or I suppose Greta now?!) 🙂 this was a lovely post. Touching and tender and sensual…and I can just sense a bit of the yearning in you, maybe not full-blown, but a curiosity…

    That was the way it happened for me – not the circumstances, but the discovery of a curiosity I never knew was there, never had an inkling of, until one day – there it was. And (surprisingly or not?) it too was about rope. About being tied; being restrained. Rope, in particular, has a magic to it that other kinds of restraints do not (for me.) It can be brutal (which I crave at times) but it can also be sensual and beautiful. Being held in rope bondage makes me feel…sexy and sexual in a way that just standing there/lying there doesn’t. Like a wild animal being held back…it’s primal almost. I love to pull and strain against it, love the roughness of it on my wrists and ankles, the slight give even as it is tightening…and how beautiful I feel in it.

    Of course I discovered a love for much more than just rope…but rope can be enough. Even now, I think if I had to give up everything but one thing…it is rope I would keep.

    • I feel what you are saying, and I love that you read this as intended. It makes me feel awesome when someone feels my writing.

      And now after reading your response, and your relationship to rope, I might have a bit more than a yearning.

  5. I’m with Jayne! Your writing is beautiful and I didn’t notice any problems with flow. This flowed like a river! Silly you!

    It is too early for me too decide what I think about the subject. I’m late although it’s not even 6AM….I’ll be back. Now I’ll be thinking of being tied up all day! Lol!


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