Tying Her

I circle her slowly as my hands unwrap the rope. She’s wearing jeans and an olive green bodysuit with a fabric/mesh combo up top, no bra. I notice the subtle movement of her neck when she swallows and let myself savor the anticipation radiating from her.

Next, my rope is around her forming a lark’s head at the top of her chest. I stand before her and tighten as I look her in the eyes. She smiles as she looks at me, she smiles and she holds my gaze as firmly as my rope holds her.

Who’s in charge here? I get the sense she can’t wait to tie me. Or maybe it’s my desire to submit to her? I’m losing it. She’s an exquisite distraction —several inches taller than me, small tits, small waist, shapely ass, tattoos, and a pixie cut.

Hair falls in my face as I turn to walk around her once more, my rope moving across her right shoulder. I reach down and take her right arm, folding it behind her. I sense her surrender and, like her, it’s magical in its simplicity.

She points her chest forward, leaning back into the arm-bind a bit more. I watch as she slips further into subspace, her long elegant neck enticing me.

The more I circle her, seductively eyeing her, the more she surrenders, melting in the heat of my focus, my full attention, my rope as extensions of my hands.

With my real hands, I want to touch her without touching her, so I run my fingers along every inch of rope on her body.

I run my fingers over the rope, barely grazing her skin but sometimes being unable to avoid it. And when I’m unable to avoid it and I touch her, that accidental touch is more erotic than the tying itself.

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