I watch the way you breathe when I bring the rope.
The hush before the storm.
You bloom in stillness,
and I thread my will through your limbs like silk.
Wrist,
ankle,
knee—
knots that whisper ownership,
each pull a question I’ve already answered for you.
You give me your weight like a secret,
spilled into my hands
in strands of tension and obedience.
I wind you slow—
a patient predator.
The world falls away
until it’s just skin and silk and hush,
your breath hitching like a trapped bird
that doesn’t really want to fly.
You giggle when I test the binds.
Cute.
You know better.
That grin won’t save you
from what comes next.
I prowl the lines I’ve drawn on your body,
mapmaker of moans,
cartographer of surrender.
Every knot sings a story:
one of trust, of ache,
of power that tastes like honey on my tongue.
Tonight, you’re not my lover—
you’re my art.
Tied up in craving,
suspended in need,
and every inch of you
begs for me
like prayer on the edge of breaking.