Tangles of red rope reached across her pale flesh, cuffing around her inner thighs, resting at the edges of her lips.
The rope stretched along her stomach, forked diagonally upwards across her tits, where it would grind against her light pink and puffy nipples.
The rope scorched her, leaving behind thin broken lines seared into her flesh. Like dunes in a desert.
She was to remain on her stomach on the floor, her legs held up across her back and bounded by the rope.
Every inch of her was met with the coarse material. It was perverse, painful.
Even though she was only in the middle of their lounge room, she
felt exposed to the world and all its elements. Like a girl, like a lost little girl.
The knots started to itch against her, yet she became its slave, open and willing.
She dare not move, for the rope would only work against her, twisting and digging in a delightful mix of pain and pleasure.
She hated it yet loved it. For every thrill she felt from the sting, the rub of pain, she wanted to relieve her ache. She wanted to dull it, just a little. A little squeeze of her nipples, just a little. But she was bound, left to feel the lingering kiss of the rope.
She had learnt to be still the hard way.
Pressed against the wooden floor, she felt the cool teasing ache of its touch against her nipple. In her absence of reason, a fault of no one but her own she reflected soon after, she tried to move her body up, if only to slightly drag her hardened nipple across the floor, to satiate herself.
But upon even an inch of movement, the rope tightened. It dug a nice crevice into her breasts and began to leave its mark.
Oh, she had whimpered, had tried to flail like someone half her age, but in the end, she was bound to that spot on her stomach.
There she would remain, a wretched prisoner, a willing slave, till he returned home from the shops, just like he said he would.