She Loves Being Chained
You tell that Velvet Minx likes chains:
Rope is a treasure and takes me to a very special, serene place, but chain, chain trancends all bonds.
After an hour or so in rope a degree of give occurs. If one wriggles and burrows enough the rope slackens slightly. Heat from your skin softens it a touch. There is always the possibility of teeth finding an end and slowly uncoiling knots. Even if you never escape and never wish to, a part of you knows you *could*.
Steel is unyielding. Nothing loosens this imprisonment. No amount of acrobatics releases the captive. Different weights of chain and padlock. Heavy thick and harsh around your neck. The padlock resting in the hollow of your throat. Its mass a burden on your soft skin. Waist wrapped in more chain, wrists shackled. Thin chains crisscrossed over black spike stilletos and padlocked into place.
There is the initial shiver of cold as the chain first meets hot skin. It warms into you. But when you move, after hours held subjugated, links left lonely are now ice cold again and brush your skin once more. The enticing shiver returns.
Chain cuts into your skin, padlocks pull, shackles resist every movement.
Chained in a corner. Neck collared to steel pinned to bolt in the wall. Way out of your reach even if you desired to make the change. Which you don’t. Enthralled by the confinement.
