There’s something I’ve been dreaming about lately.
The weight of the rope in my hands.
The slow pull across skin.
The stillness that settles in once the body stops resisting and starts listening.
a story. written in flesh
Not just pain or beauty—but memory. Message. Meaning.
When rope moves across skin, it’s not just contact—it’s conversation.
Sometimes it whispers. Sometimes it screams.
Sometimes it sings through the softest moans or the deepest silence.
And in that space—on the floor or in the air—something happens.
The person in the rope shifts.
Becomes quiet. Still. Focused.
Like a breath being held
Not asleep, not awake
I’ve watched people become art
Rope shows you what you’re made of
It brings out the softness and the brutality.
The surrender and the control.
The ache to be held, and the hunger to be undone.
I don’t take that lightly.
So when I say I’ve been dreaming
I don’t mean for the sake of pretty pictures.
I mean the kind of scenes that leave fingerprints on the soul.
That speak in rope and breath and bruises.
The kind where you stop being a body and become a canvas
Something crafted.
Something broken open and rearranged.
a masterpiece
Curiosity’s a dangerous thing,Are you ready to see what you become
Leave a Reply