George preferred cuffs. But that day she’d gone for rope—rope in every colour of the rainbow, wound around me as bright as birthday bunting. I was kneeling, legs bound and spread wide, my arms—also bound—braced in front of me so I wasn’t flaunting my wares to the world. Knots crisscrossed my torso, the ropes vanishing over my shoulders and into the shadows between my legs. It was one of the few times I was looking directly into the camera lens and I was grinning like I’d just spotted the loophole in a deal with the devil. Which could have been incongruous with my pose but, somehow, wasn’t—as
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