Her last words hung in the air, a naked plea that stripped away the final veneer of her professionalism. "Show me you can give me what I actually need."
I didn't answer with words. I answered with a slow, deliberate smile, a predator acknowledging the hare's final, trembling stop.
My eyes were already mapping her desires, the secret constellations of need on her skin glowing just for me. I saw the conflict: her evaluator's mind craved the cold efficiency of metal, but her soul, the trembling core of her, yearned for the ancient art of rope.
For beauty in her bondage.
I turned from the sterile cabinet of modern tools and walked to the small, elegant chest she hadn't seen, my footsteps silent on the thick carpet.
I opened it. Inside, nestled on black velvet, were coils of deep crimson jute rope—honest, unyielding fibers. I chose one coil, the rough texture a stark, abrasive promise against my palm.
