It’s the ritual of moving backwards, loosening the bonds in stages, untying him as methodically as he was tied.
I’m fascinated by the lovely braided impressions left by rope coiled around his wrists, his thighs, his ankles. They are my marks — temporary, but deeper than they appear.
Even after the rope is removed, he retains his position for a little while. He is held, unbound — mine without without restraint and without reservation.
The marks will fade and he will spring into his own shape soon enough. But in those lovely twilight moments, he is motionless, bound invisibly — he is marked and he is mine.
More on Bondage…
Sitting on the desk, I pulled up my skirt just enough so he could see how wet I was, how much I wanted his attention… [read more]
His arms are so fucking beautiful. When he strains against the ropes, the muscles engage and come into relief… [read more]
The bindings pull tighter. His arms and chest become nothing more than beautiful chiseled flesh for me to admire… [read more]