Yesterday, I had a rope session with my sugar daddy. We went to a studio that practices and teaches shibari, traditional Japanese rope bondage. The intricate knots and beautiful weave the rope creates on my body is intoxicating to the touch and enticing to the eye. My hips are squeezed into a corset of knots, my breasts protrude between the taut rope, and my skin is tickled from the fibers twisted around my wrists. It is a slow process to ease one into an altered state, where pain no longer has the sting it once carried. Endorphins release with every wrap he makes around my body. I am slowly raised from the ground, bound up, and weak to his will. His strong hands pull down on the rope, suspending me into the air. There is no more ground. I am lost in the dizzying rush of my contorted and tightly bound body. Pulling me in different positions, he finds his favorite and observes the beauty of his art. At that moment, I was his medium, a precious creation made by him, for us. I am released, finally. The blood that rushes back into my body elevates me further, and I fall back into his arms and he holds me tightly, and sweetly massages my blood back to circulation. My mind has dissolved, his arousal suspended, boundless.