Czar Gregovivk
“Help?!” I repeat the word to make sure I understood what came from her small lips.
I see her press her knees together and squeeze her trembling fingers tighter against them. Her eyelids remain closed, her chest rising and falling rapidly with each breath she takes.
“Macro, a friend who brought me here, last week...” She hesitates, biting her lips as if she’s confused. “He... He said that maybe...”
She lowers her head, getting more nervous, shaking her head slowly from side to side.
“Look into my eyes when you’re talking to me, little bird!” I say in a calm tone, but firm enough for her to understand it was an order. Her response is quick. She obeys and lifts her head, locking her eyes onto mine, making my dominant soul feel a pang of pride at her obedience. “Go on with what you were saying, Miss Shot.”
“Macro told me that I could find someone in Sodoma who could help me,” she says slowly, allowing me to see how she’s a step away from getting up and running out of the room, scared.
“What do you need help with, little bird?” I lower my voice and uncross my legs, standing in front of her.
I maintain eye contact as I slowly approach her. Her chest moves faster, rising and falling, her nostrils flaring as she looks at me, cornered.
“I can’t control some of the things I feel, some disturbing desires...” She lowers her head and rubs her fingers harder against her legs.
“What kind of desires are troubling you, little bird?” I stretch my arm and touch my fingers to her chin, making her lift her head to me. “Keep your eyes up.”
Her black eyes are deep, like a lost constellation in space, filled with fear and anguish, almost cruel to see in her eyes.
“I asked you a question, little bird, answer me!” I say more harshly, not allowing her to move her head.
Her eyes wander, looking at something in her field of vision, capturing her attention. I turn my face over my shoulder and search for what she’s looking at, finding the sculptures that Sieta bought at a fair in Greece and brought to decorate my small room. The delicate little woman sculpted in porcelain is naked, kneeling, with her arms stretched forward, her wrists and ankles bound, looking down at the floor.
“Perfect, don’t you think?” I ask quietly, releasing her chin and returning my eyes to Mabel.
She only shakes her head slowly back and forth. She closes her eyes and runs her hand through her hair in despair. I move toward the 40cm statue and pick it up, walking slowly with it and stopping near Mabel, studying her in silence.
“The tribute of Empress Messalina to Pan,” I say calmly, looking at the statue and lifting it, placing it before my eyes. “It represents the submission of the submissive before her master.”
I analyze the delicate sculpture with more attention and observe the curve of her raised buttocks, her back arched down. The ropes pass around her body between us and bind her. And looking at the ropes, I realize what really caught Mabel’s attention.
“A representation of the true tribute of trust between the master and his submissive.” I crouch down and break the line of dominance, where my presence standing in front of her intimidates her.
I leave her visibly more comfortable when she opens her eyes and meets my gaze at the same height. She relaxes the muscles in her fingers and relieves the pressure she was putting on her knees.
“Do you see the ropes on her body?” I draw her attention back to the statue, tracing my fingers over the rope on the porcelain woman’s back. “This is shibari, better known as bondage.” I raise my eyes to Mabel and see her watching the tip of my finger tracing the rope. “Do you know what bondage is, little bird?”
“Tying up, restraining your partner during sex...” she whispers, lost, looking at the immobilized woman.
“Usually yes, but bondage isn’t always a sexual practice,” I answer her calmly, studying her without missing a single reaction from her body. “Moreover, bondage can also be used with other BDSM practices.”
I hand her the sculpture and leave it on her lap, watching the air get caught in her chest, her body frozen and her hands raised, unsure whether to pick up the sculpture or not.
“There are many practitioners who use it with sadomasochism or the domination and submission between the master and the submissive.” The corner of her mouth twitches, sucking her lower lip and biting it slowly. “It varies depending on the type of experience they are seeking, pleasure or...”
“Pain,” Mabel says quietly, finally stretching out her hand to touch the sculpture.
“Yes, that too.” With every second I study her, watching her lost, looking at the porcelain submissive Messalina, I find myself more curious about the strange little bird resting in my house. “But it’s not just about pain, Mabel. A good master, to apply shibari, must keep in mind that the first and most precious rule is that it’s not about subjugating your submissive. It’s a game where the woman makes a choice. As much as she is tied and restrained, the submissive has the power to stop whenever she wants; everything ends when it becomes uncomfortable for her.”
“And what if she doesn’t know when to stop?” Her voice is broken, filled with fear and melancholy, matching her anxious gaze. “What if she has no control over her desires, sir?”
Mabel doesn’t understand the significance her words hold, how she stirs my sadistic and dominant side with every “sir” that escapes her lips, and I hold back. I keep them on a short leash before I truly let them do as they please with the little bird of submissive and frightened soul.
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