Shibari is art. I should be able to keep you in a tasteful display in my living room, a conversation piece for guests to comment on. I’ll show my guests my art as I like—I can redo the ropes, demonstrate how it squirms when I tighten them, gag my art with two fingers to keep it silent.
When my guests go home, my art will beg me to be released. Obviously, I’ll ignore this. It’s art. It will beg to service me in exchange for freedom.
This too, will be ignored. I’ll make new patterns, tracing the warm, delicate surface of my art, the grooves where the ropes have taken root. It calms my mind to have something to work on.
What a gorgeous image. The body is a lovely thing. Sculpted and unable to move even an inch, my perfect form. The red ropes accenting soft, malleable skin. The art no longer resists. The look in its eyes is one of desperation.
