Impression

I love how, when Sir ties my wrists, how quickly the impressions of the ropes settle into my skin. My thumb rubs over the smooth bumpiness of the lines of rope. A curved, dashed line that helps me remember the maintenance of that day. An additional layer to the sensitivity heightened by the blows I can still feel in my skin.

They are pretty. Like extra decoration that fades with time.

Sometimes looking at them excites me. Sometimes it is the feel, and the memory of how Sir tended to his (and my) enjoyment, that excites me.

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