Zen and the art of bondage. That should be a title somewhere, if it wasn’t one of the most
Zen and the art of bondage. That should be a title somewhere, if it wasn’t one of the most hokey titles I think I’ve ever had the misfortune of writing. The ‘art’, as if it’s about expression rather than just getting one another off, drinking in the feel of the restriction, and feeling bound. As if it’s some higher pursuit, rather than just getting in touch with your inner captive, and relishing in that. Because that’s all it is, when you boil it down, get the condensed reduction that is bondage, being tied by a rope. You enjoy the feeling. You get off on the restriction. It’s not art. It’s grimy, dirty. It’s real. Art is ephemeral. It floats above reality. The 'zen’, part, though? I can get behind that. Tying someone up is a trance, and I can see your eyes glaze a little, too. You turn into a bundle of nerve endings, feeling the braid of each rope, the fibres as they twist and turn against your skin. I’m feeling them too, sliding through palms and fingers, wrapping them around one another into knots. It’s manual labour of the most hypnotic kind, letting me shut my brain down to that core of focus that just wants one thing; you, bound, restrained, and utterly helpless. And once I’ve got that, the rest of my brain starts back up, and I can have some fun with you. That’s when we can get ephemeral. That’s when we can skirt the ceiling of reality. -- source link
#bondage#actually winced#oh well#dominance#submission#erotica