The scene was deceptively simple. A single hard chair. A coil of navy-blue rope. And him—the man with the calm, clinical demeanor of an engineer. He never raised his voice. He didn’t need to. He circled her like a cat, the soles of his shoes whispering on the concrete floor.
He left the sentence unfinished.
She shivered. The command was redundant. The Kikkou pattern chest harness he’d just finished was a masterpiece of geometry, pulling her shoulders back, lifting her breasts, and constricting each breath into a conscious, deliberate act. Every inhale was a choice. Every exhale was a surrender. --- Real Time Bondage 2009 09 18 Head Games Marina
He smiled. It was a small, knowing thing. He picked up a length of rope—a thin, harsh line of hemp—and began to tie a single, intricate knot in the air before her eyes. A Celtic heart. A sailor’s fancy. Her mind, starved of distraction, latched onto the pattern. Loop. Twist. Pull.
The first head game began.
“The noise,” he whispered. “What does it say?”
He walked to the empty chair, the one she’d assumed was for her. He sat down in it, facing her. Then, with excruciating slowness, he began to tie the rope around his own wrists. The scene was deceptively simple
Marina knelt in the center of the frame. Her world had shrunk to three things: the coarse weave of the jute rope biting into her wrists behind her back, the slow thrum of blood in her ears, and the voice.