#bound hands

There was a soft rustle as the lace tied behind her wrists, locking her hands into place. A finishing touch, right at the beginning. She thought about mentioning this to him, but there was a steel in his eyes that brokered no space for humour. And so she remained quiet.

His hands strayed down from her bound wrists to her exposed rear, and gave her a reassuring squeeze. Then that was it. No more contact, the impression of his hand lingering on her nerves for a few moments, but then he was gone, a few steps behind her, just watching. She frowned, turned, and he shook his head. A finger did a slow pirouette in the air, and she huffed, facing the wall again.

“What…” His tut rang out clear in the air, cutting her off before she’d even begun. The bindings at her wrists were feeling less erotic and more frustrating now, her hands wanting to move and fidget, and yet all she could do was have them clasp one another, the most unsatisfying of movements. 

They stood there like that for moments, minutes, hours. Too long, in her mind. Too long before his hand eventually wandered back out, around her stomach, then up and against her chest, his fingers rough and to the point. When he spoke he didn’t sound as breathy as he normally did, his husk nothing out of the ordinary.

“What have you learnt?” It wasn’t rhetorical. More’s the pity.

“Umm..” She stalled. She didn’t stall well.

His hand came down hard on her chest, hard fingers against soft breast.

“Try again.” A reprimand.

“Patience?” It was a guess. Informed, but still far from confident.

“No, beautiful. I think patience is one virtue you’re never going to quite master.” He paused, and there was that almost imperceptible slick note that let her know he was smiling. “You’ve learnt that you don’t initiate. That you remain still, and quiet, and receptive, until I make the first move.”

Silence hung in the air, filled with unspoken words. He picked a few.

“Well, at least that’s what you will have learnt, once I etch it into your skull.” His other hand had found its way between her legs. It was rubbing.

“And exactly how I do the etching, well…” The fingers pushed a little hard, just as his fingers came down on her breast again. “There are a few ways we can do that.”

Not all bondage is inherently erotic. Some is bondage for bondage’s sake, there to serve a little reminder that you’re not free, you don’t have the same freedoms as other people. Practical freedoms, like the ability to walk across a room without struggling against chains hobbling your feet. Or hanging your hands by your side, or reaching them above your head. 

Bondage is the easiest, most practical reminder of one’s submission, and for some, it feels far more alien not to be constricted than it is to be bound. Freedom feels unnatural, almost a guilty pleasure, something they should hide and be ashamed of.