She was thinking about the infinte possibilities for pleasure: it wasn’t, she realized, about the infinite small details that spring to mind in most people: what goes where, whose head is up and whose down, facing, bestride, top, bottom, back, front. Nor was it about specific acts, or actions — as pleasurable as they all can be. Not penetration, nor whose hands are tied (and with what), who did the tying, blindfolds, gags, toys and implements. Props, all of them, fun in their way, but unnecessary. The human imagination is infinite; and while the human form is limited, yet there are limitless possibilities for two to combine.

All of this, she saw in an instant, when the knot cinched just a bit tighter and she let out a little gasp. It wasn’t discomfort, exactly: it was simply another reminder of the many different ways a body might be trussed with the same length of rope. She stole a glance at the mirror and admired the criss-cross patterns, the dark cords against her fair skin. They had done this countless times, and each time the patterns were different. Today her breasts hung loose, more or less, harnessed and shaped by the soft, thick, twisted cables, the knots positioned to set them off. Her mind wandered, just for a moment, and she considered the myriad reasons he might have left her breasts unbound today. Her nipples stiffened and she felt a flush run through her body. She thought again about the ropes: they were soft, smooth not hemp or jute or even polished cotton, but something much softer and more lustrous. Rayon, perhaps: cruelty-free silk. She took a deep breath, which tightened the web even more. She felt the soft twists pulling her corseted body into itself. She exhaled to loosen the trap, then inhaled again, even more deeply than before, as if to exercise a measure of her own control against the restraint.

When she woke the next morning she slipped her hand beneath the cool silk of her negligee and gently, lightly ran her fingers along her breastbone, around and under her breast, up and under her arm feeling the fading cross-hatch pattern, trying and failing to commit it to memory. The next time, just like the last, the embedded texture would be different. The possibilities, she recognized with great glee, are infinite.