#bleeding through

Bits and pieces of her life seeped into one another, like watercolours. She couldn’t keep it all separate, as much as she wanted to, as much as she tried. The bits and pieces she kept in their boxes would spill out, and she’d be faced with the truth of who she was then, when she was trying to be who she was now. 

The ribbons were the worst, if only because they leant themselves so well to both worlds, the vanilla, and the submissive. They were a conduit, a thoroughfare between the two versions of herself, so it only made sense that they’d be where the bleed happened most. Bits and pieces spilling over.

She always wore ribbons. Had done ever since she was a little girl. In her hair, on her clothes, around her wrists. Where other girls had bracelets and charms, she had ribbons and bits of string. Looking back, it made a certain perverted sense, but at the time it had been innocent enough. But it was a habit, and one that had carried on to adulthood.

And so she still wore those ribbons on her wrists, and she still played with them idly, when she was waiting, or daydreaming, or just plain dreaming. And, increasingly, she found herself wrapping  both wrists together, an impromptu handcuff, and she’d feel the thrill of that restriction, the loose bondage. 

She’d blush, and look away, her thoughts instantly descending into the depths of her depravity. Once or twice her friends had asked her what was wrong, and she’d mumbled something incoherent. Driven to distraction, and by her ribbons, no less. 

Was nothing sacred any more?