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There is no greater feeling than rope against the skin. Not soft rope...the hard twine kind, that would burn you if you grabbed on to it to tight as it slid through your hands.

The kind that leaves fossil like indentations on your flesh. Tied tightly, knotted neatly, growing into your skin.

The numbness you feel as it is bound around your hands, feet, and everywhere in between. Tucked between the hot mound, lips wrapped around it tightly, aching to grind into it with every motion. Wedged in between the buttocks, up and around the waist, forming a thick lined corset, compressing every breath.

Fastened in tight with a collar fit for a Queen. From the collar, hands bound to the chest under the chin, forcing into a slave position. waiting.

How long can you wait, in pain, almost agony? Allowing the pain to then turn to a slight discomfort, forgetting the pain, concentrating on the pleasure that awaits.

The rope between the legs is now moist, wet, softening with every little squirm. kneeling in a position, ass in the air, every sway in the wind allows a twinge of pleasure to rush through the body, feeding your face a hot red glow, partly from anger, lust and then excitement.

Waiting...

The burn, the intense and over powering burn of a wide, broad thick mans hand, across the buttocks. Forcing the bound kneeler forward, onto the face, with a grunt, unable to move. Helpless, totally dependent.

The rush of pain, then...the heat. The heat of the hand raises the skin, allowing a cool sensation around it, but a total burn elsewhere. Another, and another, over and over, the left and then right side.

The pleasure raises in the bottom of the throat, escaping in low to high grumbles of begging. the rope between is pulled and tugged, wetness escapes down milky white tattooed thighs.

Pure excitement fills the room, the scent of a woman being bound, the sound of a woman being pleasured and the vision of a woman completely submitted.

The Rope hangs in my closet, awaiting it's next torturous visit

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