#dinabby

Abby likes being tied up, giving her weight to the ropes. The way they hug her, constrict her, make her reach the edge of her breath and then strain for just a little more.

Dina is good with ropes. She’s found a few books and studied them carefully. Learned her knots. Learned which fibers irritate and which slip over skin gently. Learned which ones leave marks. What she picks depends on Abby’s mood—and hers.

Today she’s feeling gentle. These ropes don’t bite, but they do squeeze. She hoists Abby’s wrists above her head, leaving her soft belly exposed. She circles across Abby’s chest, her shoulders, pulling tightly. She watches Abby’s eyes droop and her breaths slow through parted lips as she sinks into subspace. 

Abby doesn’t like to be touched a lot when she’s like this. Nothing that would bring her out of it. It’s a brush of Dina’s fingers across her cheek, her bare abdomen, between her shoulder blades. It soothes her. She sinks deeper with a sigh. 

So Dina watches her. Admires. She sits across from her and reads, not paying all that much attention. She’s awed by how long Abby can stay like this, loving every minute of it.

In a few hours, she asks if Abby is ready to come down. Her face scrunches, eyes still closed. “Another few minutes.” So Dina goes to do the laundry while she waits.