The ropes creaked as he pulled them taut around her wrists. She clenched and unclenched her hands as he tied them off, then let out a soft sigh. This was not the first time Ila and Idris had played with rope—but it had been the first time since that fateful night her father demonstrated his skills in shibari for a crowd with her as his model.
“Good, Ila?” He asked, his deep voice a gravel roll on the back of his tongue. They’d been home for weeks already—she didn’t remember why the itch for the rope had come back so strong, and supposed that it didn’t matter now.
“Yes, Sir,” Ila said. She was on her knees on her father’s bed, her body bowed forward. Her arms were tied behind her back with a criss-cross pattern of braided hemp rope. He’d just finished with her wrists, and was checking over the rest of her bonds.
She shuffled her weight on the bed beneath his hands. She loved the feel of rope on her skin, the way it creaked when she moved. How it seemed so simple, and yet so much could be done with it. More than the ropes for their own sake though, she loved the man who wielded them with so much confidence and care.