The thing about spreader bars is that, by themselves, they don’t really do what you expect they might. They spread the ankles apart, of course, because they’re a pole of metal, and that’s what poles of metal do when you lodge them between two objects. But unless I tie you down, stretch you out, force you to be bound and more than a little determined, you’re going to be able to close those legs.
So do it. The spreading isn’t the point, even if it is eponymous. If I want you spread I’m perfectly within my powers to do so, to pull out the rope, hang you by that hook in the ceiling, or tie you down to the bed. Tempt me. Tease me with your defiance, as if it’s something that’s going to survive the night, like it’s some shelter you can hide under during the storm.
It’s your face that does it, you see. You go for a reaction, thinking that if you can subvert my intentions, break away from the purpose of the bondage, then suddenly you’re the one in control, that you’ve wrestled some of it back, that you’ve one-upped me. But what you’re forgetting, what you keep forgetting, is that this isn’t a battle, it’s a war. And you keep committing yourself to conflicts that don’t matter, while I keep winning the ones that do.
And you’re going to end up waving the white flag. And I’m going to be smiling when you do.
