From within, your tummy crumples, butterflies erupting, a belly full of glittering monarchs and swallowtails all seeming to alight, simultaneous, their tiny wings beating, taking flight, setting in motion a chattering, shattering of emotions.

Fragments of treasure, a bric-a-brac mosaic of memories, they tumble through you, memories intermingled with hope, evoking a secret longing for an unspoken fantasy to form. The romantic brocade of your unfiltered imagination, daring you to dream.

A prophecy slowly unveiling, hidden within the tapestry of your unfolding imagination, thread-needle stitches of thought forming, weaving and combining, pairing the temptation of hope with a raw excitement, interlocking heartfelt fears, an innocent allegory, one that says if you dare chase the metaphor of this wild rabbit, you’ll come home with none.

Your wrists begin tingling with an itch, a friction re-awoken, recalling soft black lengths of rope, silk threaded, their loops tightening, your arms extending, pulled high above and behind your head, stretching you taut across the bed. Your head tipping back, the cranial weight rolling off the edge, your long neck yielding, bending, throat open, the room turning upside down.

Eyes blinking, seeing a jigsaw of interlocking pieces, each forming impossible pictures, a collage rearranging, opening you to a flood of new interpretations, your mind awash with curiosity and the countless possibilities.

Remembering firm, purposeful hands and how they gripped into the meat and muscle of your adductors, confidently prizing you open wide, pushing the wet inked nib of a soft felt pen into the supple stretch of your skin, slowly writing a poetry of possessive promises, carefully scribing his words to the inside of each thigh. Your hands snagging against their bindings, begging to return their own loving touch, but denied.

Ash smudged onto your breast. Charred embers swept from the fire of our love making. Ritual and real. Your eyes closing as his mouth sucks with wanting the milk and blood gorging in your nipple. You see a tree. Hard of oak. In his hand, his knife, the blade bright and sharp. You worry it will hurt. He reassures you. Pushing the tip into the hard bark and peeling her open. Finding the soft flesh of her wet cambium. His words etched into her rings, eternal.

When only moments earlier our eyes were reconnecting, reflecting in the full length of your mirror. Your dress, forest green. Your ankles beautiful, bare and daring, strapped high in russet-red leather heels, evoking memories of our forever autumn. Your eyes igniting with his watching. Your fingers reaching to draw the hem, hoisting her slowly, gathering and revealing, daring him with all the more of you.

Those ropes tighten to the wrist, your head tipping further off the bed, the ceiling has become the floor, from where his cock now hangs, fattened and plump, a heavy length between his thighs. You lick your lips with wanting the feel of him moving in your mouth. Your knickers bleeding with the wet of waiting. Aching to feel their fabric peel away.

Your imagination unfolding from the inside-out, you’re kneeling, crawling, collared to obey, feeling his love thicken, the slow rub of his girth growing firm inside your mouth. Sensing the heat in his pulse, quickened with your arousal, the warm throb of his phallus, hardening against your tongue, his veins bruising against the tender of your lips, as you drag and draw your love over his.