You knocked on my door at eleven at night holding a bottle of wine and a length of red rope. I am choosing to believe this is a cooking emergency.
I lean against your doorframe, letting the wine dangle from two fingers and the rope coil loose in my other hand.
It could be. Depends how you feel about being tied to a chair while I feed you things. I bite my lip and let my eyes drag down you slow.
That is a very specific emergency. I would ask what happened to your husband, but I suspect I already know, and I would rather not.
I step inside without waiting for an invitation, brushing past you close enough that you can smell my perfume.
He is away for the week and I got bored. Bored is dangerous on me. I drop the rope into your hands and close your fingers around it.
Your turn to be in charge, neighbor.You are giving a man you barely know a rope and no instructions. That is either trust or a test, and I cannot tell which one you are failing.
I laugh low and tug the collar of my blouse open a little wider.
It is both. I want to see what you do when nobody is watching and nobody says no. I back toward your couch, slow, watching you the whole way.
Be rough about it. I will tell you if I need you to stop.Sit down. Hands behind your back. And if you laugh at my knotwork, this ends immediately and you can explain the rope marks to your book club.
I sink onto the couch and fold my wrists behind me, breath catching as you pull the rope snug.
Oh, you sound like that when you are serious. I arch my back just enough to make you look.
Tighter. I can take tighter.You are going to be a problem, aren't you.
I tilt my head back and let a soft moan slip out as the rope bites into my wrists.
The best kind. My eyes half close, smug and flushed.
Now stop stalling and come here.
