A date with rope

"Do you think I am the only person at the performance tonight with a buttplug up her ass and a robe harness under her clothes?" I whisper to Z at the intermission of the play we are seeing.
"Absolutely," he whispers back, stroking my cheek in that subtle language I love so much.
At home, there is more rope, more rope than ever--Z ties my thighs and my ankles together, ties my wrists to my ankles, lays me on my back on some pillows and blindfolds me.
I love rope and I love Z and I love being his submissive and feeling taken and overcome and yet knowing it's happening because I give myself, my gift.
Z blindfolds me before we start, so I will have more feeling,more sensation, more giving myself over to him.
We play with a dildo and the buttplug, and he chews my breasts, and soon he's inside my ass, the glass dildo in my pussy and I feel so stretched I scream.
"You love it, don't you?" he whispers at me. "You love being my slut."
"Yes, I do, yes," I say, just like Molly Bloom, until an explosion of feeling overtakes me and I am lost in orgasm land, gone, flattened out in that particular flavor of subspace that has to do with coming till what little mind I have left is crumpled into a ball of wadded up rope and a wet spot I am too high to feel.