Tied and Tied Again She wasn’t a good girl. Not completely. There wasn’t enough

Tied and Tied Again

She wasn’t a good girl. Not completely. There wasn’t enough docile in her to allow it. Instead she’d fight back, a thousand little battles fought even though she knew she’d lost the war. As much as she wanted to surrender, some switch in her mind refused to allow it, refused to kneel and take it like a good little girl. Instead she made him fight for it, force her into a position where she had no other option.

The rope had wrapped around her hands like a challenge, and she’d accepted it with gusto. The muscles in her forearms tensed, binding just as tight as the rope that wound around them. His hands were fast, efficient, and utterly confident, moving with the kind of casual skill that comes from repeating an action a hundred thousand times. And when it was done, she had stared down at them, admired the knot, and tried to pull free.

He always smiled when she did this, and she did it every time. But whens he wrapped those bound arms around his head, pulling him in close to her, she made her bondage his, tying him almost as completely as he had her. They kissed, and she clung to him as he whispered in her ear, words like ‘Brat’, 'naughty’, and 'fucked’ falling like hail on a windscreen, a constant ratatat that was just as alarming as it was soothing.

She wasn’t a good girl. She didn’t have it in her. But he made her one. Every time. Wore down every last bit of resistance in her and made her surrender.