The rope loops over my right wrist, once, twice, then again, and again—too many times for me to count. When he’s done, I’m bound wrist to elbow. I relax my shoulders, and my whole right arm stays secured to the cross.
“This is my favorite type of tie,” he tells me. “Strong. Secure. Safe. Wriggle your fingers for me?”
I do. The rope is tight, not so tight it will cut off circulation, but tight enough that I can’t possibly move my arm away.
“Good girl.”
He ties my left arm, moving more slowly. His breath stirs my hair. I flex my forearms, enjoying the grip. If I’m lucky, they’ll leave a ladder of faint marks.
He steps away and has me wiggle my fingers again.
I take the opportunity to rock backward, testing the limits of the bind. He’s right; it’s perfectly secure. Maybe it’s overkill to loop the rope from wrist to elbow, but it feels lovely. And there’s no mistaking the message: you can’t get away.
“What’s your safe word?”
“Elyria.”
“Elyria.” His inflection turns the word into a song. Instead of wrenching my gut, it soothes me. Or maybe I’m already drifting into subspace, relaxed by the security of the ropes.
“You look beautiful like this, little bird. Tied so tight you can’t fly away. Not unless I allow it. Do you like it?”
“Yes, Sir.” I let the ‘sir’ slip before I can catch it, but he doesn’t make a big deal about it. Maybe he agrees that it fits the moment.
Then his exhale rushes out of him, and I sense the ‘sir’ affected him more than I first thought.
He pauses a long moment, his breath stirring my hair.
“You still have marks from the last time.”
“Yes, Sir. I like them.” I need them.
“Do you?”
“I like being able to feel them.”
Something smooth and flat strokes down my back. It feels like the flap of a crop. He circles a particularly sore spot and presses on it. “Is this tender?”
I bite back a whimper. “Yes.”
“And now?” More pressure in that one fiery spot, hard and unrelenting.
“It hurts,” I gasp.So good.
“And you like the hurt.”
“Ineedit.”
“Well then, little bird. Let me give you what you need.” He steps back. “We’ll start with the crop this time.” There’s a snap, and the implement strikes my side, right on the tender swell of my hip. He hits it again. And again. The same spot, over and over, until I’m gasping and sweating, wrenching at the ropes. But with the way I’m tied, I can’t go far. I try to pull my arms out of their bonds, but there’s no escape.
“There you go.” He probes the red-hot patch of skin. “Nice and red now. Shall I make it bruise? It will be tender tomorrow. You’ll feel it when you walk. And if you need it. . .” He leans in close enough the fine hairs on my back rise. “You can press on it. And think of me.”
I’m crying now, tears mixing with snot as I sob into the cross.
“My poor little bird. So small and fragile and at my mercy.”
Snap! The crop bites that one aching spot again. Pain erupts and flows like lava through me, stealing the air out of my lungs.
“Let me set you free. Make you fly.”
