Liminal Time

It was like a breath, held and waiting for exhalation.

That long, long pause as she lay spread, legs raised high, tied to the topmost notch in the tall four-post bed, waiting.

The bite of the clothes pins, the rub of the rough cord that lay against her skin in a long snaking line. The tug of the pins against the tight skin of her ankle was as arousing and painful as the ones that snaked up her inner thighs.

He worked his way up her torso, laying the line, pinching skin. He spoke not a word, intent on his work. She didn’t break the silence or his concentration. Occasionally a sharply in-drawn breath slid from her lips as he tugged her flesh into compliance. The clothespins bit, the rope rasped, and anticipation burned.

Up and over her breasts the line moved under his hands.  Her body ached at each pinchy spot, at each rasp of the line as he worked his way up her body.  Holding here in  liminal time, she tried to not think of what was to come, but to just be, to live in this moment, accepting these small nips of pain.

Looking up at his face, she knew the moment he was done, that her body as his canvas, was complete.

And liminal time unzipped.


inspired by THIS post @ Ancient Owner