The clock strikes three
Sounds of a sunny Sunday afternoon drift across the garden
Reveries and merry laughter
The branches of the oriental pine rustle in the breeze
Making me twist lazily underneath
The hemp rope cuts sharply into my bare skin
My body weight, suspended, cinching the knots tight.

The bamboo bites deep into the corners of my mouth
Bound tight in place, the rope covers my eyes and encircles my body
Crushing my breasts into strange twisted shapes, arms captured behind me
One leg pointing to the sky, the other bent double and imprisoned
The birds sing
The music plays
The sun shines down, making my body slick with sweat.

I sense your presence before me
Sitting, watching, observing
Is this enough?
Will you add more rope, restricting  me further
Tease me, torment me, punish me, pleasure me
You are silent, I am helpless, only the wind moves
Sounds drift in from faraway places.

The clock strikes four.