I’ve been thinking a lot about bondage lately.
It’s never really been my thing.
I can’t seem to get into the whole “let’s tie some pretty ropes around you, it’ll take three hours to get a lot of pretty knots and a great design and then we’re done” thing.
But lately I’ve been thinking a lot about another kind of bondage.

The kind of bondage where you’re tied down and cut off from movement or escape.
The type of bondage where you’re you’re leashed or tied off or caged because he doesn’t want you to move, because that’s the spot he wants you in.

I don’t want pretty rope dresses or fancy knot work.

I want a collar and leash that only lets me go so far.
I want a spreader bar that forces my legs to stay open no matter what he does.
I want cuffs that keep my hands out of his way.
I want rope and chain that immobilize me or simply keep me where I”m supposed to be.

I want the type of bondage that makes me feel…

Used.
Painfully open.
Vulnerable.
Hugged.
Kept.
Objectified.
Safe.
Scared.
Discomfort.
Owned.
Placed.
Caged.
Small.
Wanted.
Exposed.

Not bondage for the sake of art or skill or perfectly placed erotic knots but bondage for the sake of binding me to him, to where he wants me, to his whim and will.

I want to wake up with rope marks on my legs and wrists.
Or with sore shoulders and hips from too long in one position.
With tears in my eyes because I need to pee and wouldn’t wake him up.

I want to be fucked…
Used…
Beaten and ravished…
While in bonds that make it impossible for me to get away but fully possible for me to struggle and fight and protest until I slump in defeat.

Ahhhh…
Now that sort of bondage could, most certainly, be my thing.

“Bind my ankles with your white cotton rope so I cannot walk. Bind my wrists so I cannot push you away. Place me on the bed and wrap your rope tighter around my skin so it grips my flesh. Now I know that struggle is useless, that I must lie here and submit to your mouth and tongue and teeth, your hands and words and whims. I exist only as your object. Exposed.”

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