Rope as Foreplay

I had a sleepless night last night, but in the end it was worthwhile: I finished the edits on a story I’ve been working on with an editor and got an acceptance letter this morning. It was the first time I’ve been asked to revise a story for publication.  Always before I have had simple rejections or acceptances, with the occasional, “We really like this story, but it’s not quite right for this anthology,” type rejection (one of which, “Are You Gonna Be My Girl,” I revised on my own and submitted elsewhere, where it was accepted.) Although I know a lot of writers that despise making editor-requested revisions (or refuse to do so) it was an interesting exercise for me, and in the end I think I got a better story out of it. The thing it highlighted for me was how differently I perceive rope than might the average reader.
For me, the rope itself is foreplay.  When he touches me with his rope, he is touching me with his hands, with his power, with his desire. I feel it right to my marrow. Anymore, just the scent of the hemp rope is enough to make me wet;  the sight of him picking up a piece of rope, uncoiling it, running it through his hands, makes my breath start to come quick and my pulse race.  And he hasn’t even laid a hand on me. It is intensely erotic, and for me, in writing a story about a woman and a man and a piece of rope–even if they are not engaging in overtly sexual acts–I am writing about them having sex. Because that is how I, personally respond to rope.
My story had a slow, erotic build-up to a sex scene at the end. The eroticism was derived from her reactions to the rope that bound her wrists, as opposed to anything he did sexually to her while she was bound. In fact, in its first incarnation, I deliberately made him not touch her in an overtly sexual way. The fact that he didn’t was erotic (and frustrating) to her, just as it would be to me. I’d be on fire, feeling the rope, knowing what could happen, waiting and anticipating.  It would be–and is–a delicious agony, as I wait for what I know must come (in my case either pleasure or pain.)  My story was a subtle attempt to highlight this, and, as such, for another ropeslut such as me, it would probably be highly effective.  But as “mainstream” erotica dealing with power dynamics in relationships, it didn’t convey the sexual punch that the editor was looking for.
“More sex,” was basically what I was told. I was a little nonplussed by that at first. What? The entire story is one long sex scene!  But then I went back and reread it.  Objectively.  And I saw exactly what she was saying.
This is my reality. The picture below is of a scene we did that, on the surface, seems…static maybe.

And for the first half hour-ish, this was all that happened. Well okay, he started out by making me sit at his feet while he sat in a chair, and suck his cock while he tied my wrists to my upper arms, first one, then the other, all the while pushing my head down on his cock whenever I came up for breath.  But when he put me on the floor, that is exactly how I stayed.
What you don’t see is me writhing, not fighting the ropes, but to grind my cunt against the floor.  Opening and closing my legs as far as the ropes would allow, thrusting and pushing as waves of heat and lust washed over me.  The smell and feel of the rope was intoxicating, but it was the sound of the rope hitting the floor behind me, as W coiled and uncoiled it, the thumps of it on the hard wood, that sent shudders through me.
By the time we got around to this part:

I was already so worked up I could have come if he’d blown air on me.  I burned, with anticipation, with frustration, with the need to feel his hands on my skin, my ass, my cunt–and with the uncertainty of what exactly he was going to do.
As it was, sitting on me backwards, grinding my nipple collars into the floor, and mauling my ass, shoving his fingers inside me and in general handling me like a piece of meat, did the trick quite well.  But the point is, I am almost convinced that given enough time to squirm on the floor, I could have come without him touching me at all. I was that aroused just by the feel, sound and scent of his rope on me.
In any case, I went back and revised my story, adding in some actual foreplay, and using orgasm control and denial as the vehicle by which I highlighted her building anticipation and frustration.  And really? For the average reader, I think it works better.
But for me…for me sometimes the rope is foreplay enough.