Damn it! Caught in a self-bondage session by my roommate!

The bag was light, but anyone who knew what was inside would probably find me ridiculous. Inside was a qipao. Not one of those modified, shorter versions you could wear to class on campus. This was a true, authentic, old-fashioned qipao. The silk fabric was a deep, ink green, with frog fastenings running from the collar all the way down to the waist, and a slit that rose to mid-thigh. I bought it last summer while traveling in Suzhou, from an elderly qipao master in an ancient alleyway. I had never worn it out. Not because there wasn't an occasion, but because— This qipao was my "battle dress" for Shibari. The thought made my face flush. I carried the bag back to my bed, made it, and drew the curtains. The curtains were off-white, thick, and excellent at blocking light. Once drawn, the dorm room immediately transformed into an ambiguous, dim yellow, with only a few slivers of sunlight leaking through the seams, casting golden dust motes in the air. I took the qipao out of the bag. The silk glided through my fingers, its cool, smooth texture making my fingertips tremble slightly. I really loved this feeling. The preparation felt like a ritual. I took off my hoodie and jeans, revealing my underwear—black, with lace trim, another item I had purchased according to non-everyday standards. Then, in front of the full-length mirror, I began to slowly put on the ink-green qipao. The moment the silk touched my skin, I couldn't help but let out a soft gasp. The sensation was so different. Unlike the gentle embrace of cotton, silk had a temper. It clung to your curves, yielded to your movements, yet constantly reminded you of its presence. The process of fastening each frog button was long. With each one I closed, the constriction on my chest tightened a little more. By the time I reached the waist, I could almost feel the fabric pressing against my ribs. Good. Very good. I turned around in front of the mirror. The girl in the mirror looked both strange and familiar—her raven-black hair cascaded over her shoulders, and the qipao's clean lines accentuated her slender waist and full breasts. The slit revealed glimpses of her thigh with every movement, the ink green creating a striking contrast with her snow-white skin. If a roommate had walked in at that moment and seen me standing in the middle of the dorm room like this, they probably would have thought I'd gone mad. After all, usually, I was the quiet one, the one who wore the plainest clothes, the one who always sat in the third-to-last row in class. I was the "model student" who always submitted her assignments on time, never skipped class, and rarely participated in club activities. No one knew what kind of beast lay hidden beneath my demure exterior. I returned to my desk and began to organize my "tools." First, the ropes. These were my most prized possessions—unlike the rough nylon ropes sold at hardware stores, the ones in my hands were hemp ropes specifically for Shibari. Each one was eight meters long and six millimeters thick, meticulously treated and oiled, its surface soft yet incredibly strong. They came in different colors: two bundles of natural hemp, one bundle of deep red, and one bundle of black. Today, I wanted to use the red one. I picked up the red bundle and began to untie it. Untying the rope required patience—no rushing, no fumbling, just following the original winding direction to loosen it bit by bit. It was a good warm-up, allowing my fingers to become familiar with the texture of the rope and my mind to gradually settle. Then, I started to check the other props I would use today. Gag—stored in a velvet pouch, made of red silicone with ventilation holes, and an adjustable strap. This was an important tool to prevent myself from making noise during the binding. Restraints—a few shorter cotton ropes, for final reinforcement. Scissors—safety scissors, placed within easy reach by the pillow. This was the golden rule of Shibari: no matter how skilled, no matter how immersed, you must always be able to reach your escape tool within three seconds. Yes, I enjoyed self-binding, but I wasn't crazy. On the contrary, precisely because I loved this activity so deeply, I understood the importance of safety better than anyone. Everything was ready. I did a final check of the dorm room door—locked, of course. I checked the curtains again—drawn tightly. Finally, I placed my phone on the pillow and set an alarm to ring every forty-five minutes. This was the last safeguard. If I truly found myself in a predicament during the binding and couldn't get free (though theoretically impossible, as I never did bindings I couldn't escape myself), the alarm would pull me back to reality after forty-five minutes. I stood in the center of the room, the deep green qipao gleaming with a dark luster in the dim light. My heart pounded, my palms felt slightly sweaty. This tension excited me, like standing on the edge of a cliff, about to leap. I started with my wrists. This was my most familiar starting move. I brought both arms behind my back, bringing my wrists together. This action pulled my shoulder blades back, naturally lifting my chest, and stretching the qipao fabric tighter. I could look down and see the curve of my chest, the feeling of being bound by myself already beginning. I bit down on one end of the rope with my teeth. Next, the upper body. I wanted to try a structure called "Kikko-shibari," a binding method that forms a diamond pattern across the chest, both aesthetically pleasing and increasing the sense of restraint. I tossed the other end of the rope from behind to the front and began weaving it with my fingers. Starting from the shoulders, I wrapped it around the collarbones, crossed it in front, forming the first diamond. The rope pressed against the qipao, leaving faint marks on the dark green silk. I had to be careful, as operating through the qipao was more difficult than directly on the skin. The fabric would slide, bunch up, and cause the rope to deviate from its intended position. But this difficulty was precisely what I desired—the sensation of being bound through a thin layer of silk was more ambiguous, more tantalizing, than direct contact. The second diamond took shape below my chest, creating a lifting effect that made my breasts appear more prominent. I looked down at my chest, my breathing causing the ropes to rise and fall slightly. The feeling of dancing with restraint was intoxicating. Then came the waist. I picked up another, shorter rope and began to wrap it around my waist. This was more complex than binding my wrists, requiring me to bend over, a movement made clumsy by my bound arms. I knelt by the bed, using my knees against the edge for balance, and coordinated my mouth and one hand to tighten the rope around my waist. The belt wrapped around three times, tied at my side. I kept this knot relatively loose, allowing for breathing room in my abdomen. Yet, even so, I could feel the fullness of my torso being embraced—from top to bottom, my upper body was woven into a single entity by the ropes and the qipao. Finally, the legs. This was the most challenging part, and the one I loved the most. I flipped myself onto the bed, assuming a side-lying position. My legs were straightened, and I began binding them from the ankles. Like my wrists, I wrapped three times to secure, then formed a "folded tie"—binding my lower and upper legs together, creating a bent posture. As the rope tightened, my legs were forced into a bent position, thighs and calves pressed together, knees splayed outwards. The pose was somewhat shameful, forcing my body into an open posture while rendering me completely immobile. Beneath the qipao, I wore black lace panties, and though concealed by the skirt, I knew that any slight movement would cause the slit to reveal a dangerous edge. But this was exactly what I wanted. I continued, connecting the ankle ropes to the wrist ropes. This was a classic "shimenawa" (four-horse tie) structure, but modified for self-binding. I used an extended rope and a special knotting technique, allowing me to bite open the crucial knot at the last moment. With the final rope in place, my body was completely secured to the bed. I tried to struggle. My hands were bound behind my back, connected to my ankles. Any attempt to extend my arms would pull on the leg restraints, and vice versa. I was folded into a compact form, like a meticulously wrapped gift. The ropes exerted even pressure at key points—wrists, ankles, chest, waist. I opened my mouth, preparing to insert the gag, the final "seal." At that very moment, I heard a sound. Not from the dorm, but from outside the door—footsteps, approaching, then the sound of a key in the lock. My heart stopped. In that fraction of a second, my mind went blank. I realized two things: First, the door was indeed locked, but that person had a key. Second, the only person who would have a key to dorm 406 at this hour could only be one of my three roommates, and I distinctly remembered them all going to the library. The sound of the key turning. Click. The door was pushed open. I lay on the bed in an extremely shameful pose—wearing a dark green qipao, legs folded and bound, hands tied behind my back, a red gag in my mouth. The ropes left clear marks on my body, and the qipao's slit had completely opened, revealing a large expanse of fair thigh. Standing at the doorway was a girl in a white t-shirt and jeans. She held two cups of iced Americano, her expression shifting from confusion to shock, and then to a complex emotion I couldn't quite decipher, all within three seconds. It was Lin Xiaowei. To deny, to refute, to tell her to not touch me. But my resistance could only come out as a muffled whimper from my throat, sounding like an invitation. Lin Xiaowei smiled. That smile froze my blood. It wasn't the smile I knew from Lin Xiaowei—it held a dangerous desire, a beast finally unleashed after being suppressed for so long. "I've heard," her fingers stopped on the rope at my chest, then gave it a sudden, forceful flick, "that those who like to bind themselves, truly crave to be controlled. Tying yourself up yourself is always missing something, isn't it?" The moment the rope was flicked, the change in pressure made my breath hitch. I stared at her, at the fire burning in the eyes of the roommate I knew as gentle. "Are you thinking," she leaned closer, her breath fanning my face, "that I'll help you untie it? Are you thinking I'll pretend I saw nothing and leave like a good person?" Her fingers suddenly slid down the rope, stopping at the restraint around my waist. "Too bad," she whispered, her finger hooking the knot, "I've never considered myself a good person." I let out a whimper, unsure if it was a plea or a warning. But Lin Xiaowei completely ignored my reaction, simply admiring my expression as if it were a work of art. "You know, I've been watching you for a long time," she said, her fingers beginning to untie the knot at my waist, "You always sit so properly in class, like a delicate porcelain doll. But when you walk, your waist sways unconsciously, as if searching for something to lean on. That's when I thought... this good girl might have some hidden secrets deep down." The knot was undone. The restraint around my waist suddenly loosened, but before I could breathe a sigh of relief, Lin Xiaowei pulled the rope free and began to play with it in her hands. "As I thought," she brought the rope to her nose and sniffed, "it has your scent. And... the scent of excitement." Shame washed over me, making me wish I could die. She stood up, looking down at me from above. The setting sun cast a golden silhouette around her, obscuring her expression. In her hand, she held the rope she had just untied from my waist, her fingers dancing with practiced ease. "I'll give you two choices," her voice came from above, carrying an undeniable authority, "First, I'll untie you now, and we'll pretend nothing happened, continuing to be ordinary roommates until graduation and we go our separate ways." She paused, then leaned down, her finger lifting my chin, forcing me to look at her. "Second," her eyes glinted dangerously in the dim light, "I'll stay, and use these beautiful ropes of yours to show you what true restraint is. What it means... to be controlled." My heart pounded violently against my ribs. She straightened up and waited. The room was so quiet I could only hear my own breathing—rapid, chaotic, punctuated by the wet sounds from the gag. I could feel sweat trickling down my temples, the burning sensation of the ropes on my skin, and a secret desire stirring deep within my body. This wasn't what I wanted. This wasn't what I planned. But as I looked into her eyes, at the possessiveness and control within them, I knew— Some doors, once opened, can never be closed again. Lin Xiaowei waited for about ten seconds, then smiled. Her smile held understanding, victory, and a certain satisfaction of finally getting what she wanted. "I know," she said, then crouched by the bed again, "Your expression has already told me the answer." Her fingers traced my cheek, her thumb gently wiping away the saliva that had pooled at the corners of my gagged mouth. The gesture was strangely tender, yet it made my whole body tremble. Her fingers hooked around the knot on my wrist, not to loosen it, but to tighten it with malice. A muffled groan escaped me, the gag distorting my voice into a slurred whimper. The rope dug deep into my skin, its friction against the silk of my qipao sleeve a faint rustle. My fingers, which had still had some play, were instantly rendered useless. My wrists were pulled tighter together, knuckles pressed against each other, making even the slightest struggle impossible. "Too loose," Lin Xiaowei's voice came from very close, her breath fanning my earlobe. "If you're going to tie, tie thoroughly. Don't you agree?" I wanted to shake my head, to retreat, but my body was trapped between the bed and her shadow. She loomed over me, the setting sun behind her obscuring her face, leaving only her silhouette. The roommate who was usually slightly hunched, with an air of harmlessness, now stood straight, like a sword finally drawn from its scabbard. Her fingers didn't leave my wrist. Instead, they slid upwards along the rope, past my forearm, my elbow, finally stopping on my shoulders, where my arms were bound behind my back. The area was already aching from the prolonged restraint, and her pressure sharpened the pain, yet strangely mingled with a tingling sensation that coursed down my spine. "Do you know why I skipped class to come back?" she suddenly asked, her fingers fiddling with the rope on my shoulders. "Because this morning, when you left, a patch of red showed beneath your collar. Right here on your collarbone." Her fingertip precisely pressed on that spot, and I shivered all over. "I thought to myself then," her voice dropped lower, as if sharing a secret, "what did our Tongtong do last night to leave a mark in such a hidden place? A hickey? A rope burn? Or... did you do it to yourself?" Her fingers traced down my collarbone, past the side of my neck, finally resting on the ropes binding my chest. The diamond-shaped knots rose and fell beneath her fingers, like a meticulously woven net, and she was inspecting its sturdiness. "Now I know," she chuckled lightly, her fingers suddenly tightening. She inserted them into the lowest knot on my chest, hooking the rope and pulling upwards. "So our model student has been weaving herself a net in the dorm every day. Auto-erotic bondage... what a lonely game." The pressure from the pulled rope forced my chest upwards, tightening the qipao's frog fasteners and making it difficult to breathe. I let out a whimper, not just from discomfort, but from a profound sense of shame at being so thoroughly seen. Her fingers, just like that, moved over my skin through the rope and the thin silk, occasionally pinching the soft flesh where the rope pressed, or lightly scraping her nails over the reddened marks. "Does it hurt?" she asked, no apology in her tone. I closed my eyes, refusing to answer. But she clearly wasn't going to let me off the hook. Her fingers suddenly withdrew, and then— *Snap.* A crisp sound echoed in the silent dorm. She slapped my chest. It wasn't a forceful blow, but a humiliating pat, landing precisely on the sensitive peak that had become more prominent due to the rope's lift. The pain was slight, but the violation shocked me into opening my eyes, looking at her in disbelief. "When I ask you a question," her expression remained calm, even with a gentle smile, "you must answer. Even with a gag, you must nod or shake your head for me. Understand?" Her fingers caressed my cheek, the same hand that had just struck me. The gentle touch formed a bizarre contrast with the earlier violence, leaving me unsure whether to be afraid or to crave more. I hesitated for a second, then slowly nodded. "Good girl," she patted my face as if in reward. "Now tell me, does it hurt?" I shook my head. "Liar," her voice suddenly turned cold. "Rope bondage leaves marks, it constricts blood vessels, how could it not hurt? You just... like this pain. Don't you?" I couldn't deny it. She was too perceptive, or rather, she understood this hidden desire too well. Her fingers returned to the ropes on my chest, and this time she began to untie them. "Your technique is quite skilled," she said as she worked, "the Kote-gaeshi is beautiful, but this knot here is too loose, and the waist belt isn't bearing the load correctly. It's indeed difficult to achieve perfection when tying yourself." I watched her actions in surprise. She wasn't going to untie me, but... re-tie me? "Remember what I said on Wednesday?" she asked. "You said... to ring all night." "Right," she unfastened her towel, revealing her body beneath, and began to dress. Not in ordinary pajamas, but in a black silk slip I'd never seen before. "But I've changed my mind. Not just tonight, but tonight, tomorrow night, and the night after—a full forty-eight hours. In this dorm, besides the old man downstairs at the gate, it's just you and me. And I..." she slipped on an oversized shirt as an outer layer, "am going to make sure every room in this building echoes with your ringing." I swallowed. "How... how do we do that?" She smiled, walked over, and cupped my chin. "First, take off your clothes. All of them." I did. My movements were slow, my fingers trembling. When I was only in my underwear, she shook her head. "I said *all* of them." I unhooked my bra, letting it slide off. Then I pulled down my panties. The air conditioning in the dorm was set high, and the cold air against my skin raised goosebumps. "Kneel." I knelt on the floor, my knees pressing against the cold tiles. The angle reminded me of that laundry basket, of the suffocating darkness. But this time there was light, and there was her. Lin Xiaowei took out the ropes, the black bundle, and the red one. She set the bells aside and first used the red rope to gesture on my body. "Last time I bound your chest, this time we start from below," she crouched in front of me, her finger tapping my lower abdomen. "I'm going to make a decorative belt, but it's more than that." She began to tie. The red thread was thin, thinner than the cotton rope before, like some kind of cruel adornment. She wrapped it around my waist a few times, tied a knot to secure it, and then let the rope extend downwards, forming a panty-like structure at the base of my thighs, but of course, it was openwork. "This is called a chastity tie," she explained as she worked, her fingers tracing my most sensitive areas without touching the core. "It's not to stop you from doing anything, but to remind you—this belongs to me. Every strand of rope is a signature, written exclusively by Lin Xiaowei." As she spoke, her finger deliberately brushed against a certain spot, and I gasped. The bells hadn't even been attached yet, but my breathing already sounded loud in the empty room. Then came the bells. She took out three. Not one, but three. Different sizes, different tones—one high and clear, one deep and resonant, and one in between. "One is too few," she said. "I want a symphony." She tied the largest one onto the belt I'd just fashioned, positioned just below my navel on my lower abdomen. It would brush against the inner thighs when I moved. The medium-sized one she tied to my nipple, just like last time, but this time she pulled it tighter, the metal digging directly into my skin, a confirmation of being marked amidst the pain. The smallest one, she tied to the rope on my ankle. "Now," she stepped back to admire her work, "stand up and walk a circle." I tried to stand, but my legs were numb from kneeling, and even more unfamiliar due to the restraint of the ropes. I gripped the edge of the bed and slowly straightened. As I took my first step, all three bells chimed at once—the crispness from my ankle, the dull thud from my abdomen, the high-pitched ring from my chest. The three sounds intertwined, forming a decadent chord. "Beautiful," she closed her eyes, as if appreciating music. "Walk again, from this end to that end." I took stiff steps, from the dorm door to the balcony. With every step, the bells rang. They chimed with my gait, my breathing, even the tremor of my heartbeat. The worst was the one on my lower abdomen; the friction of the rope and the impact of the bell created a dual stimulation, forcing me to slow my pace and bite my lip. "No stopping," Lin Xiaowei sat on my chair, crossing her legs, playing with an extra short rope in her hand. "On the fourth lap, I want you to tell me if you're wet." This was humiliation. Pure, unadulterated humiliation. But I found myself knowing the answer before the fourth lap even arrived. The ropes were too tight, the bells too frequent, and her gaze too searing. "I'm wet," I stopped, my voice a mere whisper. "What's the rush?" she said loudly, deliberately, "We'll wait." I kept my head down, afraid to look at her. There were still three people ahead of me in line, and I felt like I was about to lose it. The constant pressure of the rope was building pleasure, singular but unceasing, like a slow simmer. Finally, we paid and walked out with our bags. As we passed the cafeteria, she suddenly said, "I'm hungry. Let's get something to eat." "Now?" I froze. "Can't we just go back and eat...?" "I want to eat out," she looked at me, her eyes commanding, "What, got a problem?" I didn't dare say I did. The cafeteria was crowded. We got our food and found a table in a corner. The plastic chairs were hard. The moment I sat down, the rope behind me dug fiercely into my ass crack, while the part in front was pinned so tightly by my weight that I almost cried out. "Sit properly," she said, sitting opposite me and starting to eat, "Don't fidget. You'll draw attention." I tried to stay still, but it was impossible. To eat, I had to move my upper body, reach for food, and these movements tugged at the rope below. Every shift created new friction. Worse still, I was starting to get wet. The rope's friction produced liquid, which in turn made the rope slicker, the friction more direct. I could feel the rope was soaked, sticking to my skin. Every movement made a faint rustling sound, audible only to me. "Your face is so red," Lin Xiaowei watched me, "What's wrong? Uncomfortable?" She asked deliberately. I knew she was. "...No," I said, my voice trembling, "Just a bit hot." "Then lift your skirt and fan yourself?" she suggested, her tone serious. I was close to tears. "Don't... don't do it here..." "Then the restroom?" she put down her chopsticks, "I'll go with you." The cafeteria restroom was on the second floor, less crowded. She followed me in and locked the stall door. The moment the door closed, my legs went weak, and I leaned against her. The rope had been constricting for too long; that area was completely engorged, so sensitive that a touch would make it explode. "Please," I grabbed her hand, "Let me out... or... or do something..." "What do you want?" she asked, her fingers lifting my skirt, looking at the completely soaked purple rope. "I... I don't know..." I stammered, "It's too much... the constant friction... I can't stop..." She flicked the front part of the rope with her finger. I gasped, almost screaming. "Want to climax?" she asked. I nodded, nodding vigorously. "Here?" she smiled, "The cafeteria is right outside, anyone could walk in. Are you sure you want to climax here?" I hesitated. My rational mind told me to hold on, to go back to the dorm. But my body was no longer listening. The rope had been chafing for so long, the pleasure had built to a critical point, needing only a little direct stimulation to erupt. "...Yes," I finally said, my voice as small as a mosquito's, "Please... hurry..." Chapter 8: Silence in the Library Lin Xiaowei woke up before me at seven on Monday morning. She was sitting on the edge of the bed, inserting a battery into her phone. "The control program from last night," she said, shaking her phone, "got an upgrade. Now it has a timer and can automatically increase the intensity based on your accelerated heart rate." I wasn't fully awake yet, my body still aching from being bound and electrocuted the night before. The vibrator hadn't been removed and I'd slept with it inside all night. I could still feel it nestled within me, gently nudging. "Go to the bathroom," she commanded, "take it out, clean it, and put it back in. We're going to the library today, and I want to test the remote function." I obeyed and went to the bathroom. Sitting on the toilet, I reached down, grabbed the small tail sticking out, and slowly pulled the vibrator out. After a night inside, it had been warmed by my body temperature, its surface slick. I washed it clean, dried it, and then reinserted it. I was getting somewhat proficient at this, knowing how to adjust the angle to lodge it in the most sensitive spot. Back in the room, Lin Xiaowei produced a thin purple cord. She said I wouldn't be bound all over today, opting for something "discreet but effective." She had me stand in front of the mirror and lift my skirt. The cord started at my waist and was woven downwards into a simple G-string structure – creating a strap between my legs that pressed right against the base of the vibrator, securing it firmly so it wouldn't slip out or fall. The cord then tightened into my butt crack, tied at the small of my back, and hidden beneath the waistband of my skirt. "Can you feel it when you walk?" she asked. I took a step. The strap between my thighs rubbed against my skin, and the vibrator inside was pushed upwards, deeper. I nodded. "Yes." "Good," she said, helping me put on my underwear, then my long skirt. "Remember, today we're going to the third-floor study room, the row of seats by the window. I'll be sitting diagonally behind you, about three rows back. I won't make a sound, and you won't know when I'll press the button. It could be when you leave now, it could be when you're eating in the cafeteria, or it could be..." She leaned close to my ear, "when you're answering a teacher's question." "There are no classes today," I said softly, "only self-study." "Then it'll be when you're most focused," she smiled. "I love watching you frown." We left. The campus was crowded on Monday morning, the path to the cafeteria filled with students rushing to their early classes. I walked beside Lin Xiaowei, our arms linked, looking like a normal pair of roommates. But only I knew what was hidden beneath my skirt. As we reached the entrance to the cafeteria, my phone vibrated. It was a message from her, just one word: "Test." The next second, the vibrator inside me buzzed to life, set to level three. I stopped abruptly, nearly crashing into the glass doors of the cafeteria. Lin Xiaowei pulled me back, her face a mask of concern. "What's wrong? Did you twist your ankle?" "N-no, I'm fine," I gritted out, feeling the vibration spread through me. "I walked too fast, I got a little dizzy." She steadied me, her hand squeezing my waist firmly – her signal: "Don't blow your cover." We got our food and sat down. The vibrator was still buzzing. Level three wasn't the strongest, but it was enough to make me squirm. I sipped my porridge, each swallow causing my abdominal muscles to contract, which in turn pressed against the device, intensifying the sensation. I could feel myself getting wet, my underwear likely soaked, but the skirt was dark, so it wouldn't show. After five minutes, the vibration stopped. I let out a sigh of relief, only to immediately feel a sense of emptiness. This was her game – the push and pull. She untied the ropes by the bedside, but left the loops on my wrists. Those loops remained, like bracelets, with long tails trailing behind. "Go wash up," she said, "It's okay if the posture is awkward. You'll get used to it with practice." I walked into the bathroom, the ropes trailing from my wrists like an invisible dog leash. While brushing my teeth, the ropes on my wrists dangled, touching the toothpaste foam. When washing my face, the ropes got wet, becoming heavy. She followed me, watching me clumsily complete each action, laughing happily. "Next," she pulled me back to the bedroom after I washed my face, "The clothes you'll wear today." Not a latex suit, but a "rope suit." She used red ropes to weave a garment on my body. Starting from the neck, it wrapped around my collarbones, crossing in front to form the base of a Kote Tsuna. But she didn't stop there. She continued downwards, forming a belt at the waist, and then at the base of my thighs, creating the shape of panties—not covering, but hollowed out, with ropes outlining the form. The most ingenious part was the back. She bound my hands behind me, but in a special way—not together, but in a "prayer position," elbows bent, palms facing each other. Then, ropes were wrapped from my wrists to my elbows, pulled back, forming a complex pattern on my back, like a blooming knot flower. "This is called a rope suit," she stepped back, "Kote Tsuna on the upper body, fundoshi on the lower, hands bound behind. You can walk, you can sit, but you'll feel the ropes with every step. No suffocation like latex, only the bite of the ropes." I walked to the mirror. The red ropes formed a grid on my body, like a fishnet dress, but each strand dug into my flesh, rising and falling with my breath. My hands bound behind me pulled my shoulders back, accentuating my chest, and the grid of the rope suit perfectly covered my nipples, rubbing against them with movement. "More breathable than latex," she said, "but there's a price—latex is uniform pressure, ropes are localized. The more you move, the tighter they bite." She told me to go out to the living room. The floor had just been mopped, and she made me kneel to wipe it—while still bound. I knelt down with difficulty. My knees hit the floor, and my bound hands couldn't support me, so I had to rely on my core strength to maintain balance. The fundoshi part of the rope suit dug deeper, sinking into my inner thighs. I tried to use my mouth to pick up the rag and wipe the floor, but this position caused the chest net to rub against the ground, making my nipples ache. "Not good," she said, "Let's try a different binding." She had me stand up, unbound the rope suit, and changed it to a "labor binding." This time, my hands were bound in front of me, not behind. They were clasped together, wrapped into a thick "fist," and a long rope extended from this fist, connecting to the collar around my neck. She adjusted the length, forcing me to bend over so my hands could just touch the ground. "Now wipe the floor," she said, "like a cat, with your hands." I bent over, my hands forced to the ground, my neck pulled forward by the rope. With every wipe, my center of gravity shifted, the collar on my neck tightened a little, and the rope around my hands rubbed. The rough fibers of the rope dug into the rope loops on my wrists, chafing my skin red. After ten minutes of wiping, I was drenched in sweat, the ropes soaked and darkened. "Enough," she pulled me up, "It's lunchtime. But there are rules for eating." She tied me to a chair. Not simply sitting, but a "seated binding"—hands bound behind the chair back, legs spread, ankles tied to the front legs of the chair, and another rope wrapped around my waist to secure me to the back. She sat opposite me and started eating takeout. I could only watch her, my mouth able to move, but my hands unable to hold chopsticks. "I'll feed you," she picked up a piece of meat and brought it to my mouth, "Or, you can just watch me eat." I opened my mouth, letting her put the food in. This position made me feel like a pet being fed, or perhaps, an ornament placed on the dining table. "Guide me," she instructed, "left hand steady, right hand through, yes, find that crossover point..." It took me a full twenty minutes to form the first knot behind my back. My wrists were bound together, back to back, my fingers able to reach the knot, but when I tried to loosen it, it wouldn't budge. "Continue," she said, "that's just the base. Now add the second layer." The second layer was more complex. She had me use the remaining rope to tie two more knots in the same spot, but in opposite directions—one from left to right, one from right to left, the three knots interweaving, the ends of the rope concealing each other. I repeated this process five times before succeeding. Sweat trickled down my forehead, my arms numb from being twisted for so long. When I finally finished, the knot behind my back had become a tangled mess of cords, my fingers sinking into it, unable to distinguish one from another. "Now," she crouched in front of me, examining my wrists, "try to untie it." I began to try. My right hand fumbled for the nearest rope end and pulled gently. The knot shifted slightly, but at the same time, the restraint on my wrists tightened sharply, the pressure aching against my bones. I quickly let go, afraid to pull again. I switched to another rope end. This time, I found a tail from a different direction and tried to pull it outwards. The result was worse—my wrists were squeezed even tighter, and the knot seemed to shrink, my fingers barely able to find purchase. "Why..." I gasped, my fingers scrabbling uselessly behind my back, "why does it get tighter the more I pull?" "Because you're pulling in the wrong order," she laughed, "the first knot needs to be lifted up, the second pushed down, the third pulled out. But when you tied it yourself, the direction of the rope ends was fixed. The angle you're trying to lift with, your wrist can't possibly turn to achieve. Your joint's range of motion dictates that there's a direction of force you can never apply." She had me try for another ten minutes. I shifted into various positions—on my side, kneeling, even lying on the floor trying to use the ground for leverage—but each attempt only served to dig the rope deeper into my wrists. My skin began to redden, the rope marks becoming pronounced, my fingers swelling from the blood flow. "Had enough?" she asked, "Admit you can't untie it?" I nodded, my forehead resting on my knees, admitting defeat: "I can't... I really can't..." "That's right," her voice held satisfaction, "this is true bondage. Not some role-play where you can call stop anytime, but truly surrendering yourself to the rope, to time, to someone who may or may not come back." She stood up and walked towards the door. "Wait—" I panicked, "where are you going?" "To the market," she said, picking up her wallet, "and to pick up a package. About an hour and a half. You'll wait here, tied, until I get back." "What if..." my voice trembled, "what if there's an emergency, a fire, or..." "There are no 'what ifs'," she interrupted, putting on her mask, "this is trust. You trust I'll come back, and I trust you won't do anything foolish to hurt yourself. Remember, don't struggle, the more you struggle, the tighter the rope gets. Wait quietly, or..." she paused, "enjoy this true helplessness." The door clicked shut, the lock falling into place. I sat on the floor, my back against the sofa, my hands firmly secured by the unyielding knot. The room instantly became terrifyingly quiet, filled only by my own breathing and the occasional sound of my upstairs neighbors' footsteps. At first, there was panic. I tried to untie the knot again, digging at it with my fingernails, pressing against it with my knuckles, even attempting to bite the rope behind me—but the restricted posture made even turning difficult. Every struggle only tightened the restraints on my wrists, until I was forced to stop, my fingers already growing numb, my fingertips cold. Then came anxiety. My phone was on the coffee table, two meters away, but those two meters felt like an eternity. I wanted water, but the cup was in the kitchen; I needed to use the toilet, but the doorknob required turning; I even wanted to adjust my sitting position, but my bound hands offered no support, and every shift sent a tearing pain through my shoulders. Time began to crawl. I lie flat. The catsuit is one-piece, with a zipper running from neck to ankle. She helps me with my legs first. The catsuit is tight, like a second skin of rubber, slowly rolling up, covering my calves, thighs, then my buttocks. With every inch it moves up, the constricting sensation intensifies, as if I'm being encased in an invisible membrane. When it comes to my upper body, she has me slide my arms into the sleeves. The sleeves of the catsuit are fixed, with rubber gloves attached to the fingertips, enclosing my hands as well. She zips up the back, from my waist all the way to my neck, the sound a sharp, rasping hiss. The moment the catsuit tightens, I experience a new kind of restraint. It's not the bite of ropes, but a pervasive pressure. The catsuit offers no room for elasticity; every breath I take, every muscle contraction, I feel the membrane pressing inward. It clings to my chest, my lower abdomen, my inner thighs, like a living thing embracing me. "How does that feel?" she asks, patting my buttocks with her hand, the catsuit making a crisp sound. "Tight..." I reply, my voice muffled through the layers of rubber, "And hot, like being wrapped in cling film." "This is just the beginning," she smiles, taking out the single glove. The single glove is made of leather, long and cylindrical, with a loop at the top and a closed end at the bottom. She has me place my hands behind my back, wrists together, and then shoves both hands into the opening of the single glove. The leather is stiff. My hands are forced into a narrow space, back to back, fingers unable to spread, only able to clench into fists. She tightens the strap at the opening, fastens three buckles, and then pulls upwards forcefully, raising my hands behind me until my elbows are bent at a ninety-degree angle. "Now you can't use your hands at all," she says, patting the top of the single glove where a loop hangs, "I can hang ropes here to lift your hands higher, or tie them directly to your waist." She demonstrates. She takes a short rope, threads it through the loop at the top of the single glove, then brings it around to my front, to my waist covered by the catsuit, and pulls hard. My hands are forced upward, my shoulders pulled back, my chest involuntarily pushed out. Because the catsuit itself is constricting, combined with the forced posture of the single glove, I feel my upper body completely locked, with no room for resistance. "Next," she says, taking a hood from a box. It's a rubber hood, fully enclosed, with openings only for the eyes, nose, and mouth. She pulls the hood over my head, the rubber membrane covering my hair, ears, and neck, leaving only two holes for my eyes, a small opening for my mouth, and two ventilation holes for my nose. Now, my entire body, except for my eyes and breathing holes, is covered by the catsuit. The black rubber gleams under the light, like a sealed doll. "Can you hear me?" she asks. I nod, the catsuit rustling. "Good that you can hear," she says, "Now, I'm going to tie you up. For the whole night." She takes out ropes, but not to tie on the outside of the catsuit – it's too slippery, the ropes would slide off. She takes out special restraints for the catsuit, wide straps with metal buckles that can be tightened. She first adds two restraints to my ankles, binding my rubber-covered ankles together. Then she adds one above my knees, forcing my legs to remain straight. Finally, she fastens a wide belt around my waist, connecting it to the loop on the single glove, pulling my hands up and securing them behind my back. I lie on the floor now, like a black mummy, my body encased in the catsuit, my hands trapped behind me and useless, my legs bound together and unable to separate. Only my eyes are exposed, looking up at the ceiling. She kneels beside me, her hand stroking my chest through the catsuit. The catsuit amplifies the sensation; I can feel every inch of her fingers' movement, yet through the membrane, there's a sense of distance, like being touched through glass. "The catsuit is the best restraint," she says, "Ropes can injure the skin if worn too long, but the catsuit won't. It can be worn all night, so you feel restrained even while sleeping. And..." her hand slides down, over my abdomen covered by the catsuit, "it makes you sweat. The catsuit is not breathable, you'll be soaked, with sweat accumulating inside, like a sauna." She's right. I'm already starting to sweat. The catsuit clings to my skin, heat unable to dissipate, like wearing a rubber raincoat. Sweat seeps from my pores, pooling between the rubber and my skin, slick and sticky. "I'm going to put you in a sleeping bag," she says, taking out a huge black bag, "A rubber sleeping bag. I'll put you inside, zip it all the way up, and you can sleep in it all night." She unfastens the restraints on my ankles, but not the single glove or the waist belt. She has me curl up, then pulls the giant rubber sleeping bag over my feet, slowly upwards, like putting on pants, until my entire body is inside. The sleeping bag is a single layer of thick, opaque rubber film. Once I'm inside, she zips it up, from my ankles to my neck, finally covering my head as well. Now, I am inside the rubber sleeping bag, and she is outside. The sleeping bag is tight, my curled position forced and fixed, my hands behind my back unable to move. The catsuit makes me sweat profusely, and my breathing is restricted to a small hole at the top of the sleeping bag. "Goodnight," her voice comes from outside, muffled, "I'll let you out in the morning. If you need to use the bathroom in the middle of the night..." she laughs, "Hold it. Or, just go in the catsuit. I don't mind." I can't move. The rubber sleeping bag completely envelops me, like a cocoon. I try to breathe, but each breath presses the film against my face, giving a false sense of suffocation. The sweat inside the catsuit increases, trickling down my thighs, pooling at the bottom of the sleeping bag. I hear her turn off the lights, hear her get into bed. And I, encased in the catsuit, my hands locked behind me by the single glove, my position fixed by the sleeping bag, can only lie on the floor, feeling the pervasive pressure and the humid heat, waiting for dawn. This feeling is deeper, more thorough than ropes. Ropes are temporary; the catsuit is permanent. At least for this night, I am no longer Shen Tong. I am an encased object, a sealed gift, waiting for my owner to unwrap me in the morning.