I don’t ask.
I take.
Not your consent—
that, you gave me
long before the rope—
but everything else:
the fear,
the fire,
the part of you that aches
to be undone.
You move like prey,
and I smile—
because you know
you’ve already been caught.
Rope coils in my hands
like a living thing—
it wants you.
So do I.
Not gently.
Not sweetly.
But the way storms want the sea.
I push you
not with force—
but gravity.
The command in my breath,
the snarl behind my calm,
the way I press you
face-down
before the first knot
even bites your skin.
You flinch.
I growl.
You stay.
Good.
Your hips twitch
as I pull the rope tight—
a sharp sound,
like breath against teeth.
You want rough,
you want ruin,
and I will give it
in loops and knots
that leave no question
who you belong to.
You’re moaning now,
not from pain—
but from pressure,
from being seen
by something
not quite human.
You’re not a doll to dress.
You’re an animal I’ve claimed—
with jute for claws
and breath for bite.
You thrash,
I hold.
You beg,
I growl again,
Mine.
And the rope answers for me—
tightening,
marking,
owning.
When I leave you there—
gutted, gasping, glowing—
I don’t need to say a word.
The knots speak.
And your body remembers.