Slow Catechism

I ache for rope—its cruelty against my skin, a language that dissolves thought into need.

A slow catechism across the chest, a tightening oath at the waist, a winding down the thighs—each pull an order obeyed, a benediction written into flesh. I crave the fiber, the drag that claims me, that makes my body sing with the songs of pressure and tension.

Bindings do more than hold—they stitch my hunger, my pulse, the restless hollow within me into one obedient shape. In the tension, I unravel and reassemble. Undone, I am whole: a goddess revealed by worship and restraint, unmade and remade strand by strand.

The rope is not punishment. It is invocation. It is the hinge. The hunger. The small sacrament that demands I beg and, in that begging, remember my power.

To those who enter this space, know: this is ritual. This is transformation. This is communion with shadow and desire, a sacred alchemy of body, mind, and spirit.