The Forgetful Rigger

It was a pro photoshoot of a Shibari session. The rigger was Mr. Knots, the famous Dutch master, a legend in the bondage community. The model was Shanelle Stevens; for her it was the first encounter with Shibari. The photographer was Dora Perrier, well-known for fashion and nude art shots. She had already worked with Shanelle and even remembered the model's name when she arrived, bringing with her a cloud of cigarette smoke, a puff of cold winter air from outside, and several black duffle bags of cameras and equipment. There was also an assistant, a young hippie girl with orange dreadlocks and a flouncy lime-green dress, who went about barefoot, serving coffee and answering the ancient landline phone; she seemed mostly to be there to protect the rigger from any allegations of improper conduct towards the model. The location was Mr. Knots' studio loft in Amsterdam, the converted attic of a large townhouse, with rafters and beams of the roof truss exposed, ideally suited for suspending the models.

The shooting had been a pleasant experience so far for Shanelle. She was 23, a slender girl, pale translucent skin sprinkled with moles, little pointy breasts with puffy nipples, whitish-blonde hair and large blue eyes with a distant look. She was a nude model just branching out into bondage shots somewhat reluctantly and on the advice of her agent who hat told her with bondage as her specialty she'd be able to continue modeling into her thirties or even her forties - model old age -, when she'd no longer be in demand for nude shots. The agent had secured a booking with Mr. Knots for her to try it out. She had been sceptical about being trussed up helplessly, having her pose rigidly imposed on her and being physically handled by a stranger. At the beginning, she had felt quite vulnerable when Mr. Knots started winding the hempen ropes around her.

But not only was Shanelle soon caught up in the familiar quiet bustle of a pro photoshooting, with Dora, a thin nervous forty-something woman in jeans and T-shirt, dancing about her in her socks on the Tatami matting, constantly changing cameras and giving out short, clipped directions in a low voice - she also discovered it was just her thing to be trussed up helplessly. Unexpected by herself, Shanelle's body and mind responded enthusiastically to her being bound. Also Mr. Knots, an elderly man with a shaved head who wore a black, loose-fitting, vaguely Japanese outfit, had a very gentle way with his model, explaining the pose he intended for her and the rope patterns he would use on her before every step, asking for her input, treating her like a colleague, not just an object.

After a few hours in progressive stages of being roped up, Shanelle found herself suspended high up in the air, torso bent forward, head thrown back, arms stretched out and raised behind her, one leg bent back and upward in a right angle, the other foot tied to its knee. She looked like an angel flying high in the watery winter sunshine streaming in through the large roof windows, the neatly and intricately tied hempen ropes turning her into a living work of art. She also felt like an angel, blissful and secure in her bondage. She knew she was a splendid sight. She felt sensual, even aroused in a way she hadn't known before. When Mr. Knots asked her if she wanted to be taken down for lunch break, she declined. Dora got great shots of her being fed a sandwich and a cup of coffee by the hippie assistant while suspended. There was also a video camera running, recording footage for Mr. Knots' Shibari website.

The only downside to the shoot was that Mr. Knots was quite forgetful. He kept mislaying his rope coils, called Dora "Donna" so often that she gave up correcting him, asked his assistant what time it was every five minutes even though he wore a watch, and told the same stale joke five times in the course of the morning. Perhaps he was just a little too elderly to do this anymore, Shanelle thought, feeling sad for the kind, dignified old man. She recognised the symptoms; her boyfriend had a grandfather with the onset of dementia.

While at his job, though, the familiar techniques and procedures seemed to act as a guiderail for his mind, and Shanelle felt quite safe in his hands. He was physically in good shape, too, easily lifting her hundred pounds, never letting her slip or drop, bending her arms and legs into shape with unyielding strength.

Suddenly, though, it was late afternoon, the sun was sinking, everybody was tired. The hippie assistant went home, still barefoot in spite of the winter cold outside. Dora packed up her cameras, reflection screens and other stuff into her various black duffle bags, lit up a cigarette, shrugged on her coat and was suddenly gone, too. Shanelle, still trussed up as a naked motionless angel, found herself alone with Mr. Knots who had started mumbling and shuffling about in the hallway. The lights went out. The outer door slammed. Shanelle heard the rattle of his keys as he locked it for the night.

She couldn't believe it. He had forgotten her! That damn, senile, old... She called after him, started squirming, throwing her body around. There was a moment of panic, her breath ragged, her eyes wide. When she calmed down, her ropes still held her safely, her position unchanged. She should have known better than to entrust herself to an 82-year-old geezer with a sponge for a brain, she scolded herself, realising she had no choice but to settle in for the night in her bondage, hoping he would return in the morning.

Slowly, darkness fell. The lights in the city came on, stretching to the horizon. She had a spectacular view through the windows all around. It was quiet, only the video camera with its winking red LED keeping her company. Thankfully the heating was running full force, so she wasn't cold. Bliss returned. Shanelle was hovering like an angel over the cityscape, naked, trussed up in her graceful pose, the lights playing on her skin. She was a sight to see. And so comfortable was her bondage that she eventually drifted off to sleep.

When Mr. Knots returned in the early morning, he apologised profusely to her for putting her through this ordeal as he took her down, untied her and wrapped her in a bathrobe, but didn't seem too surprised to find her there. Shanelle also noticed his senility seemed gone. He spoke and acted casually purposeful like anybody when he switched off the videocam that had been running all night, extracted its SD recording chip and pocketed it with a grin. It must have captured wonderful footage of her. "I know better now than to doubt the mind of a real master", she told him openly when he handed her the first cup of coffee, the first of many during many shootings with him to come.