My wrists are bound in front of my body, a different pattern than yesterday. He wraps my legs together from ankle to thigh in what he calls a double-ladder design. It’s intricate and mystifyingly beautiful. To keep my balance, he lowers the winch and attaches a bar to it—sort of a trapeze thing, by no means steady, but if I hold on tight, I won’t topple over. Finished, he tucks the rope ends in. Rising from the floor, his nose brushes close enough to my slit he can’t help but get a whiff of the honey pouring from my pussy, yet he says nothing. Does nothing.
Frustration claws at my insides. Yesterday, he went out of his way to turn me on, it seemed, and it worked. Today, he’s going out of his way to not turn me on, and failing miserably.