He drops the coil at the ground where I’m kneeling. The sound is muffled by the carpet. It’s pretty there, the blue against the sandy beige. I can smell it, the dye, the rope itself.

Tearing my eyes away from it I look up into his eyes. Eyes glittering with intent. With desire.

In his hands the rope becomes a tool to bind me, to hold me in place. To him. The feel of it against my flesh slightly abrades, keeps me feeling slightly drunk. The pads of his fingers brush against me as he’s working, the contrast of the soft yet calloused skin with the rope is delightful.

He winds it around my breasts, across my back, under my arm and around my breasts again. Over stomach and arms, binding, caressing. I’m swaying slightly, as if there’s music in my head that’s enchanting me.

The work continues and is pushed to pinpoint focus. The sound of his breathing, of his movements around me, of my own breathing as it quickens and the occasional moan of pleasure. I can feel the heat of his body as he moves, I can smell him, the shaving lotion he uses that I love so much, beneath that, his own elemental scent.

When he’s done, he stands back and inspects his work and for the first time I look up and into the mirrors, suddenly dazed at the woman reflected there…