La Ligature

Juli 30, 1788  
   
   
Cher D.  
   
The coils of rope had a certain snugness along with their bite. All I could do was sit and watch you wrap me up in it, tighter and tighter. Stopping only to tie off a knot, take up the slack. You said not a word while I remained silent.    
   
This was Shinbari, the ancient Japanese art of rope bondage. You told me you learned of it when visiting Kyoto. You tied my wrists, my elbows then bound my folded legs to my thighs. Le Grenouille, frog position. This forced me into a seated display with my breasts thrust out. Nipples triumphant in the coolness and anticipation. I tested my bonds. They were coarse yet comforting. Every single knot strategically placed out of my reach.    
   
“Have you chosen your word?” you asked. It was my homework assignment. To consider the single key to liberate me from all this. I had played around with many different words. Trying to select one that would impress you, impress me. But in the end only one word spoke to me.  
   
“Tulips,” I said. It came out slowly, exaggerating its two syllables. More of a confession than a safe word.    
   
“The thornless rose,” you mused. I had never thought of a tulip that way. Beautiful and fragile, helpless without thorns to protect itself. It was me in this moment.    
   
After looking me over, admiring your ropework, you took a seat behind me. I lowered my eyes to the black lacquered floor of your playroom. The candlelight danced with the shadows. Light meeting dark, both knowing who would win. No salvation here.  
   
“Close your eyes.” I complied. “Test your bindings. Settle into your helplessness. Feel its tightness, feel its comfort.” Your voice was as smooth as suede. I pictured you in my mind’s eye. Taller than most men, a rugged brawn from breaking horses. Rough hands that wrote such gentle poetry. A man of leisure with no intention of merely lounging about. You could debate Descartes, perform Molière or recite Bordelais. While every woman longed to be whatever you wanted, despite knowing it would never last.    
   
“Beauty is meant to be pursued. A vixen to be snared. To be taken.” The first brush of your fingers across my shoulder quickened my heart. I felt the warmth of your strong hands reach around, cup my breasts. As my nipples hardened, you rolled them between your thumb and forefingers. Gentle at first. Then harder and harder. Until I let slip a moan. But you did not stop. There was no punishment, no consequence.    
   
My mind drifted from sensation to sensation. I felt you lips and fingers on my trussed up body. Going where you wanted, doing what you willed. All the while I was yours. Your toy, your plaything, your pet. Ready to give you anything, but knowing you would take all that want from me. Your thornless rose, helpless in her pose.  
   
Meanwhile down below a sweet dew glistened on parted petals.    
   
TVS  
   
s.