I Don't

You drape the rope over the back of my neck. You pull it taut, scrape my breasts, starting from the outside, tracing their heavy curve. The nipples redden and stand up as you pass over. You let the rope fall slack in my cleavage.

Pinch your nipples, you say. Pull them out from your body.

I always do what you ask.

You tighten the rope again, move it up the insides of my breast, hold it still against my whitening aureoles.

Pull harder, you say.

I do.

In no hurry, you saw the rope back and forth, first gently, the friction builds, burns, the heat spreads. It hurts. My jaw clenches and my fingers want to let go, a twitch at the knuckle you know how to read.

Don't move, you say.