As with my other stories, this is written for a specific person, hence the first person with wannabe second person leanings.
You stand in the middle of the room, arms over your head. Rope cuffs bind your wrists together; the ends run through a hoop in the ceiling, keeping your arms straight, and pool on the floor behind you. There’s almost no give. Even with the extra height from the heels of the long tan boots you wear, your arms are already starting to ache. You are forced to stand as rigidly, your feet wide and your chest pushed out. Exactly how I want you.
But you can’t see any of this, not with the satin cloth I put over your eyes.
I’m sitting behind you, enjoying the view. My gaze starts low, at your feet. The boots hug the contours of your legs all the way to your knees. I continue upwards, over your trim thighs and rest on your naked backside. Your cheeks beg to be pulled apart, to be caressed. I can’t linger here, not without becoming distracted. Your pale back is arched slightly to minimise the strain in your arms. Your hair falls like a dark waterfall to the middle of your back, begging to be played with. I relish the thought of running my hands through it. Finally your head is held defiantly high.