Nylon Rope Musing
I opened the dark cold cavern, a small creek of the hinges is heard echoing. The faint smell of leather and rubber wafts from the depths of my secret collection.
Today I picked up some rope. Fifty feet of black nylon. I had forgotten how sensual it is for me to play with. I like the weight, the sheen, the texture. When it starts to unravel I imagine crisp bold lines placed just so, however I want. I start to imagine body parts that I get to touch and jiggle and lick and blow on. I like the sound of the fibers as they slide through my fingers. The sound of it pooling on the floor.
I miss the alert skin on a submissive’s back as I rub my fingers along the length of the lines to manage them. The flutters of muscles and nerves, the changes in breath. The confinement that I create at my command. How the submissive’s mind melts into a comfortable state of helplessness. The freedom that comes with their exhales. I miss the way I whisper, "Let is all out," my hand on their belly encouraging them to press the stress forcefully out of their lungs. I bind them shut, the cage collapsed, only for a moment while I watch their eyes during the short shallow breaths.
I miss creating a handle along the spine that I can push and pull and drag. A handle that I can attach to their hair, to their hands, to their feet. The process of slowly taking more and more as I desire it. I miss the process of contorting them to expose their body to me, to see breasts decoratively adorned with woven lattices along the sternum. I miss the rope that arches their back, that spreads their legs, that binds their elbows.
I always want a bigger taste of the bliss of controlling and being controlled by being bound. I can never get enough.
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