Ring My Bell

      Rose de Fer

      I don’t like the way he’s eyeing the ropes.

      No, that’s a lie. If I’m honest, I do like the way he’s eyeing the ropes. A lot. And I can’t help the little tingles of pleasure and the weakness in my knees as I imagine what he could do with them. But there’s no way I can admit that to him. No, my fantasies are my own dirty little secrets, nothing I could ever share with another person.

      But here’s the thing. Do I really have to admit it to him? Can’t I just feign nonchalance and pretend I’m not desperate to know how it feels to have my wrists bound and stretched up over my head, the position forcing me onto my toes? To have my ankles tied to the bedposts and my legs spread wide so I can’t close them? To have my long hair twisted and twined into an elegant knot and secured to a bar that holds my head in place? Can’t he just read my mind?

      If these images sound specific it’s because I’ve downloaded a few photos. Well, more than a few. Probably hundreds. I live in mortal terror of a computer crash that will send me to the data-recovery experts who will get a privileged glimpse into my private fantasy world. Or perhaps more than a glimpse. What if one of them found the pictures as arousing as I do and perused the whole extensive library? Would I be able to tell from the knowing grin as the guy handed my laptop back to me? What if he happened to be an expert rigger who was looking for someone willing to submit to his coils and knots? What if …

      Oh, who am I kidding? That would never happen. That’s the sort of ‘meet cute’ that only happens in cheesy romcoms. And anyway, why am I thinking about some nonexistent computer geek shibari master when Brian is weighing the lengths of spare rope in his hand and looking up at the bells like that? More to the point, why is he looking at me like that?

      Blushing, I avert my gaze, peering up into the tower as if I’m fascinated by the bells. In actuality what I’m fascinated by are the long ropes descending from them and held teasingly out of reach. They might be the legs of a fluffy multicoloured octopus suspended over our heads.

      ‘Pretty,’ I say. It’s an empty, meaningless word, just something to fill the silence.

      ‘Have you ever rung bells?’ Brian asks. He puts the coil of rope back on the scarred wooden table by the font and moves to my side.

      ‘No,’ I say. Then I remember. ‘Well, kind of. One time. When I was a kid.’ At his expectant look the embarrassing memory returns and I look down at my feet.

      Brian laughs. ‘You got pulled off your feet, didn’t you?’

      I cover my face and nod, remembering the humiliation of the event. I’d only thought to ring the bell once and scamper away before anyone saw me. But the bell had other ideas. The vicar told me off, my sisters laughed at me and my parents looked as ashamed as if I’d spat on the altar.

      ‘You’re adorable when you’re embarrassed,’ Brian says, which only embarrasses me further. My face is burning.

      ‘So you know how to ring bells?’ I ask, desperate to change the subject.

      ‘I’m sure I haven’t forgotten. My uncle and I used to help ring the changes here when I was a boy.’

      The image seems incongruous. Somehow I can’t picture Brian doing anything so churchy. With his ripped jeans and long hair and Celtic tattoos he seems out of place here. But perhaps he was once a rosy-cheeked choirboy, just as I was once a fresh-faced little girl in plaits.

      He runs a hand through his hair and I watch the simple gesture, remembering the feel of his hands on me in the club the night we met. We weren’t able to shout over the pounding dance beat but we managed to communicate well enough without our voices. And we’d spent the last few hours before the sun came up in a nearby Travelodge, where we didn’t sleep at all. Neither of us was keen to return to our respective mundane jobs in the morning but we kept each other company with rude texts throughout the day, reminiscing over our antics the night before. It kept me sane until the evening, when we could meet up again.

      We had dinner, then each other. I was only halfway out of the sleeves of my stretchy red top when he pushed me down on his bed and kissed me hard. In that one moment I felt a wave of excitement beyond anything I’d ever known. I was completely helpless until he drew back to strip me the rest of the way and all night I kept hoping he’d pin me down or suggest some other way of restraining me.

      A scene popped into my head from a film I’d seen where a man asked his lover, ‘May I blindfold you?’

      ‘Don’t ask her,’ I’d moaned at the screen in frustration. ‘Just do it!’

      I imagined Brian asking me politely if he might tie me up and it was like someone had thrown ice water over the fantasy. He knew my body so well already; how could he not know what was in my subby little mind? He shouldn’t need to ask; he should just know.

      A muffled bong snaps me out of my reverie and I blink in surprise, forgetting for a moment where I am. All those sleepless nights catching up with us, no doubt. Well, me anyway.

      Brian has released one of the long bell ropes and my eyes go wide as he takes hold of the fluffy grip.