There’s a particular holiness to being bound so tight you cannot move. Arms pinned, legs folded, chest tightened until every breath is precious and small. The crinkle of plastic. The pull of tape. Layer after layer seals you in. Options disappear. Stillness settles. You are caught before you can claim an answer.
Most people hear “erasure” and think of loss. I hear liberation. When your body is shut down and your breath parceled out by another, performance falls away. You do not have to explain. You do not have to perform. Pressure becomes the teacher; surrender, the lesson. That pressure carves a space where release can live.
Cover the mouth. Let the cling film press over lips. Let tape seal sound into muffled ghosts. Each inhale becomes a small grateful thing. Every muffled plea is a prayer. Reduced to sensation, you become pure instrument—edges blurred, identity thinned, attention focused on the single currency of breath.
That precise place—the seam where bondage meets breath, where consent and danger kiss—is where my craving waits. Immobilised is not weakness. It is being witnessed in your most honest form. It is proof that someone else has taken responsibility: for your body, for your breathing, for the permission to let go.
Wrapped. Held. Dissolving into someone else’s care until the boundary between you thins and meaning shifts. Surrender becomes ritual. Pleasure becomes liturgy.
If that landed where you needed it to, there’s more on my page — darker hymns, pulpit whispers, and other rites of surrender. 🖤
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