Tie Me Chicago

Tie Me Chicago

Copyright 2015

by Chris Bellows

It’s an odd story, but one which I think will amuse, perhaps titillate as well.

Despite my many years of bachelorhood, humping with noted indiscrimination, I’ve never had an Asian girl... woman. Maybe that was the initial attraction. Or maybe it was just her manner, her understated yet alluring good looks, tight black slacks which highlighted firm thighs and a degree of athleticism, black leather boots suggesting authority, loose white blouse which teased... hinting at firm upstanding breasts beneath. Or maybe it was the exhibition... a demonstration of Shibari... Japanese rope bondage.

Rather kinky... rather risque... for a county fair. But I suppose country events have always had some such Bohemian attraction... something prurient... for the adult male attendees. 

So... my story...

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The Macon County fair, for a city guy it’s an attraction. Lots of Games of chance, rides for the kids, blues bands, food for both young and old, bucolic exhibitions of farm equipment, a livestock contest... hogs. I tour, many things not before seen, only read about in books, seen on television. Then I come across this tent, a large sign drawing attention... ‘Tie Me Chicago’.

What’s this? I pause, learning more.

The Asian woman stands on a pedestal, fulfilling the role of circus barker.

“Come one, come all. I’ll tie up any man and have him restrained within five minutes. Ten dollars to the man who volunteers... the bigger the stronger the better.”

The woman in loose white blouse shouts to a crowd of strolling passersby, her announcement causing diversion, a gathering quickly assembling behind me. It’s Illinois, it’s farm country, a woman of Asian descent is considered exotic, I suppose. And as stated, she’s certainly attractive. Plus the air of machismo is evident, burly farm workers disbelieving that the woman, though evidencing strength in her fitness, could so constrain man... big or small.

So it’s no surprise when I glance behind me and note the assemblage is mostly male... their chauvinism aghast with the proffered challenge.

“You sir, you’re a man of size. Come into the tent and earn a quick ten dollars. One hundred if I don’t have you immobilized and under control within five minutes,” directing her words at me.

Well, at six foot two and some 220 pounds, twice weekly gym visits assuring shape, I suppose I appear to be a challenging enough candidate. And though I need not ten dollars, I am intrigued. Then there is also my own machismo. She challenges, her words provocative... and she does so before a sizable growing crowd.

I smile, I nod, the crowd roars with excitement. Her index finger beckons, come hither, as she grins and steps from the pedestal.

I follow, into the tent, as does the assembled crowd, the murmurs growing to a dull roar.

Within there is a stage, three feet high, constructed between the two tent poles. As one would expect, hanging from hooks is a collection of rope, many loops.

“I am Midori Matsumoto, master of the Japanese art of Shibari... the term translated into English as ‘to tie’,” the tone stentorian as she summons me to join her on the stage. “And you sir are?”

“Matt,” for some reason my voice no where near as firm and commanding.

The Midori Matsumoto woman stoops. From a large glass jar labeled ‘tips’ she draws a bill.

“Well, Matt, here is your ten dollars,” extending her hand.

In turn I extend my hand and am shocked. The loose blouse, sleeves long for the heat of summer, proves to be veiling and practical. For as I reach for the ten dollar bill in her right hand, her left instantly loops a length of rope over my wrist. Next her left boot kicks behind my knees, firmly, not enough to damage, but certainly hard enough such that I collapse to the stage floor. As I go down, I am amazed when the hands work with celerity, looping more rope which evidently unravels from beneath her blouse.

The crowd roars approval. Before I can gather my wits, my wrists are not only encircled with hemp, but secured together.

Midori stands over, holding the loose end of the rope, grinning triumphantly. When I attempt to right myself I find that though her end of the rope is slack, her full weight presses it below against the stage floor, booted foot holding me down.   

“Shibari with a little judo,” she smilingly announces to the crowd.

The assemblage laughs boisterously, the noise covering her words as she leans and speaks to me sotto voce.

“No, no Matt, we’re not done,” admonishing my attempt to stand. “Be a good boy for me. Earn your ten dollars.”

I blush. Then I find the woman is indeed athletic, tugging, the rope becoming a defacto leash, forcing me to crawl to where there hang the many loops of hemp, her right boot kicking with authority with each attempt to rise from my knees.

As I am to later read, the art of Shibari began with Japanese warriors placing their captives in bondage for triumphant display. Indeed I am captured... and indeed Midori Matsumoto displays in triumph. For the next five minutes, her hands are busied as I am enshrouded, neck to thighs in rope knotted most artistically. When finished, arms entrapped about my torso, Midori grips a sizable loop at the back of my neck, almost like a handle. She whispers before lifting...

“If you’d like to lick my boots, there will be another five dollars,” mocking wickedly.

I shake my head. She feigns disappointment as an amazingly strong arm brings me to stand upright, the crowd both laughing and cheering.

In humility, I bow my head, I don’t know why. A conquering Midori waves to the mass of impressed onlookers. I note below that the large tip jar begins to fill. Farm folks appreciate entertainment, bold and avant guard. And as the woman formally declared, I am tied up and convincingly restrained... well within five minutes. With her hand remaining gripping the loop, I feel like a puppy, scruff of the neck held within the jaws of a mother hound. And it is then that I realize how comfortable is the labyrinthine web in which I am bound. There is tightness but no pinching, no pain. With my breathing slightly labored, there is no doubt I am indeed under the auspices of this firm exotic woman.

It oddly thrills.

Crowd quieting, Midori shifts to stand facing me. Her hand lowers, ostensibly to loosen a knot. But it brushes against my pubes, prominently outlined by strands of rope strung between my thighs. With her touch I become cognizant that I am hardening. And she is as well. Oddly, Midori does not seem to be daunted, almost expecting what her fingers briefly discover.

“You have enjoyed, Matt,” her tone one of calm authority as she loosens. “Women of authority excite.”

I am shocked when the assembled coils of rope instantly fall to the stage floor, both freeing me and enhancing the mystique of her mastery.

“Do stop into my studio in the city. Tie Me Chicago. It’s an art, Matt. And I can be much more intricate given the time. Yes, you’ll even more enjoy the feel of firm binding hemp,” her invitation coming as the rope about my wrists is unwound, “on bare skin,” her pause serving to emphasize the latter words.

I am grateful her voice is once again low, the inducement only for my ears.