Sacred Revelations by Harte Roxy

hard it seems like it is trying to escape my chest.
    He smoothes his hand down my arm, soft strokes that pull moans from my throat. Every caress, every whisper seems amplified in sensual echoes that course through my bound body. I am ashamed that I want him so desperately. I do want him. My body needs him, throbbing awakened parts of me that I never realized could ache with need before cry out for his touch, my bared shoulder, the length of my spine…innocent glances of flesh touching flesh course through me to make me writhe in painful pleasure.
    “Better?” he asks, kissing my temple, releasing the hold he has on me only enough for me to acknowledge with a nod that we can continue. He loops rope around my chest, above and below my breasts, winding also around the outside of my upper arms, pulling snug, then snugger. Something inside my brain snaps a little and I feel the panic coming back. My heart pumps high in my throat and I want to scream, but I don’t. I squirm on my stomach, ridiculously testing the bonds as he loops rope around my
    waist and hips, knotting and twisting and wrapping as he descends my body, encasing my legs in a rope net. “Hold still.”
    “I can’t.” I say, shaking, breaking my silence, trying to not freak out. “The storm.”
    “Stop worrying,” he commands, pulling his camera from his jacket pocket. “I’m here with you. Nothing is going to hurt you. Trust me.”
    I shake my head, unable to quit worrying, and he takes three quick shots before depositing the camera back into his pocket. Kneeling, he pulls the length of rope between my legs and starts weaving the pattern around my middle. “God, stop worrying. I’m not feeding you to the sharks! It’s called Shibari.
    Haven’t you ever heard of it?”
    I nod, yes, of course, anyone who had hung out as long as I had at Inappropriate Voices , the underground alternative lifestyle newspaper I used to work for, would have heard of it.
    “Then you know it’s Japanese erotic bondage. Have you ever experienced it?”
    “Heard of it, haven’t done it,” I reply shortly, turning my head to stare at the sky.
    “Nice,” he leers, kissing my temple. “Your first time and I get to be the one to tie you up.”
    The first real crack of thunder sounds in the distance. I panic, trying to sit up, succeeding only in flopping around like a fish out of water.
    “Please, please, take me inside,” I beg. “After the storm…”
    He presses a finger to my lips. “It isn’t going to happen. You and I are going to face this storm together, right here on this rock.”
    “No, no, no!” I cry out. “Take me inside!”
    He pushes a bit of bamboo between my teeth, securing it to my face with rope. He takes another picture, a close-up of my face. “I promise to keep you safe.”
    I shake, I cry, I roll around on the top of that rock as well as I can, tied front and back, but it doesn’t make him release me. Pulling the camera from his pocket, he shoots and shoots, thunder rolls, lightning strikes. He is lucky, not a single drop of rain to ruin his camera. I wish it would pour. Maybe then he would stop photographing me and take me inside.
    Rumble.
    The thunder rolls, loud and seemingly directly over head just before the sky seems to open, dropping buckets of rain. I receive my wish for pouring rain, but still he doesn’t take me inside. He aims and shoots, even when my hair is plastered to my face, cold water dripping off my face faster than it rains, pounding rain hitting my body.
    Rumble, rumble.
    I hate the rain, I hate the thunder, and I hate the lightning. He knows these things and yet he keeps shooting. I close my eyes, crying in earnest, afraid. Shaking so hard the rope bites into my arms and legs.
    Hyperventilating.
    It is only when I start screaming that he puts the camera away and sits beside me on the big rock. He holds me, wiping my wet, dripping hair out of my eyes. His own wet hair blows into my face. With each strike of lightning, I