the life and musings of a kinky slut


She wore it under her jacket. It was cinched tight. The strands laid above and below, as well as between her breasts. She choose soft poly nylon rope, though she would not feel the texture through her clothes.

She flung on a jacket and buttoned it up. No one would notice; no one would’ve cared, but she didn’t feel like exampling it. She just wanted to be in rope.

The binding was like a constant hug. With each breath she felt the tight chest harness she’d placed around herself.

She wore it because she wanted to, because she needed to. She wore it to hold in her emotions, to comfort and quiet her thoughts, to feel free as she bound off this part of herself.

As she walked, as her body moved, she felt it. As she sat, stood, laughed, talked, she felt it. It was what her body desired, what she desired. It made her think of him.

It made her think of their weekend together on the beach. Of their cup of coffee on that cold January day. Of meeting, falling for, and saying goodbye to him.

It was January again, cold again, and she thought of him again. So she wore it.

She remembered the way he liked to tie it, remembered each bend, each knot. She copied his form because she could not copy the moments. The rope hugged her, loved and caressed her when he couldn’t.

And as she played the young kinkster, the care free girl, the solo poly lover of life and fun, chatting with people who didn’t know and would never know him, her thoughts drifted to that beach, to that weekend. To eyes meetings, lips brushing, and lives forever altered.

When she came home, she took off the jacket. She slipped into bed. And, though she knew she must remove it in the morning, she wore his harness all night to remember him.

Categorised as: Gen Fiction | Rope

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