But I’m the kind of domme who always walks forward and my slave, bound by his balls via a short white rope to my ankle, follows, or crawls, a very few short steps behind. It’s not his concern where I’m going; rather, all he has to focus on is staying with me. Where I go, he’s learned, is where he wants to be.
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So that’s how we wound up at Robert’s dungeon one autumn morning, so that I could see his new bondage table and so he could set up an Amity fantasy that simply required fulfilling. Writing to Robert and explaining my fantasy and having him return the email with a paragraph that starts with, “How about…” has to be one of my favorite incoming mail alerts of all time. Robert has this knack not only for engineering great solutions but also for making them kinky. He makes me happy; he turns me into the state of being best called gleeful, even with food poisoning on my agenda.
So with the sun probably shining outside, my slave was in the warm dark dungeon on his back, his legs immobilized upward, his arms bound securely to eyebolts in a metal table, his eyes blindfolded and a chain keeping his head down, and a variety of lengths of lovely white rope securing him in places I hadn’t even imagined needed securing. Robert does rope like artwork and I was both impressed and incredibly turned on.
That’s when we stood back to admire his handiwork.