The Found Thing - 2#

She twists soft silk rope around it's left foot, binding the function.

She mirrors on its right.

Thing's feet lie pale and bound, slimed green-blue veins appear like streams between the rivers of rope. Thing is on its back, mewling like an animal. She bends its left leg at the boney knee, splays a knotted foot to the side and loops it with the length spare, over the wooden bow of the bed.

She mirrors on its right.

With the loose slung over ends she ties each single rope around its pairing wrist. She tightens the shackling. It is hard to move. Thing can spread and close the limbs but not shift from its back.

An awkward and difficult position.

Thing is bent half crabbed, its pale ribs curving like its spine. Its brown soft nipples point to the ceiling. She strokes her fingers down these ribs, knocking bones like instruments. Thing's groin quivers pleasantly as it squirms like a leech on the cotton skin of the bed sheet. The mound of its pelvis protrudes violently, its muscles are sunk to its bones, it's heart is pulsing. It is ready to be his. It is ready to be good. It is ready to please and be tortured.