Pretty in pink

The rope is surprising.  The restraint more about containment, somehow.  Safe.  The slow pull of each tie, each expert tangle.  The rasp of it, as it pulls against skin, clothing, carpet, itself.   I am a novice.  The tying makes me giggle.  But I’m drawn to it too.  The fingers of the rope master.  The concentration he brings to the task.  The frustration at a wrong choice, the subsequent unknotting and redoing.  I wait.  Try not to move.  Feel myself more contained as the binding holds me.  Not too tight, this first time.  But enough to leave marks when the rope is unraveled.  Pretty in pink.  I’m cupped in roses.