She just left, walking a little wobbly and smiling a smile that says, “I’ve just done something incredibly naughty and loved it!”. Her wrists still bore the slight impressions of the rope, and the crotch of her $200 jeans is visibly soaked through, but she does not care. My tiny loft space/office looks like a rope bomb went off in it. Clothespins and a very wicked looking cane lay amongst the piles of used rope. A large brass ring hangs ominously from one of the eyebolts in the ceiling. The air is thick with that familiar smell: a sweet mix of sweat, her desire, hemp and a slight hint of fear. The casual observer might assume that we had just fucked, but they would be wrong. I need to open a window and air the space out before I set about carefully re-coiling my ropes, but first I stop to enjoy the two items she left behind.

The first, a rather large plate of cookies. I mean, a frightening amount, fresh from the oven and piled high on a plate. Funny, I can always tell how nervous a girl is about playing with me for the first time by the amount of cookies she brings. This girl must have been sacred to death of me. I sample one and then set them aside as a bribe for my neighbors. Nothing like some fresh cookies to soothe the worried neighbors who might fret when they hear the occasional howl and yelp from the shop. The other item? Oh, the other item is special. Her panties, black and (very) expensive French cut silk that hugged the curve of her hips when she disrobed for me earlier Now they’re reduced to so much torn silk and elastic, having been unceremoniously cut and torn from her body while she was bound into a tiny, moaning ball and then stuffed in her mouth as an impromptu gag to muffle her cries. They are still warm and slightly damp with her smell.

Smiling that self -satisfied smile one can only get after having a beautiful woman bring you cookies, strip naked, offer her body to you and then beg for more- I did what I always do. I enjoyed another cookie and proceeded to gently fold up the tiny swath of silk that was her panties and laid it to rest in the box with all the rest. The little wooden case has become overflowing with bits of lace and silk. Each one a tiny reminder of a different woman who has placed her trust in my hands and body in my ropes.

In the old days, I would have been happy to accept a “thank you” blowjob from an eager and damp girl with whom I had just had the pleasure of binding, beating and generally tormenting. But I have grown tired of the whole “sport fucking” thing. It is not that my appetite for sex has waned. Rather, mixing sex with BDSM play creates gray areas, emotional expectations that can often be unrealistic. Once those boundaries are crossed, they can never be un-crossed. I still love to play, to share my love of the rope with as many eager bodies as the universe will allow, but mixing sex with play is something I choose now to reserve for just my partners.

So what do you do when you want to create an inanimate memory with someone while still respecting the no-sex boundary? For me, it has become the act of taking her panties as a trophy. It is not a common occurrence; the taking needs to be both something that can be done (read: with in their boundaries as well) as well as something that fits into the flow of the play we are enjoying.

Before I close the box another pair catches my eye, a thin black cotton g-string, a memory from a long afternoon date with a sweet girl from Portland. Picking them up I recall how I came about to posses them, the way she knelt before me and held them up as if presenting them like an offering. I make a mental note to call her when I am in town again and see how grad school is going for her. I could spend the rest of the day here, but I have rope to make and orders to fill so for now I must close the lid and eat another cookie.

Monk runs 10 miles a week and has lost over 60 pounds since he began to make the worlds finest hemp bondage rope. See it for yourself at www.twistedmonk.com