Her fingers tense to the touch of my lips, as I trace my tongue unhurriedly from one to the next. Her palms are downwards against the board, and I feel the tiny hairs on the back of her hand rise under my lips. She has beautiful hands. I kiss her knuckles, then move on towards her wrists, where I linger to savour how the ropes hold her firm, passing three times round her wrist and the board which is cut exactly to her shape. I am glad we had this board made; a simple affair made from thick, laminated wood and cut to a shape made from tracing round her naked body with a marker pen, and we both remember the simple excitement that exercise alone caused us, not just from the journey of the pen and my hand which guided it, but from the anticipation of why she was being traced in this way. The completed board, slightly padded, is now mounted horizontally on stout tubular metal legs well able to take her weight and my own.
I open my eyes to see how the ropes hold her for my pleasure. I...
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