Reaching inside the basket, you remove a thin rope. Next, you pull out my leather cuffs. I am surprised. I had not realized we were having "this" kind of picnic. With you, though, I learned long ago to expect anything. I suppose that is one of the things that I love most about you. With your hands on my shoulders, you maneuver me to stand under a low-hanging tree branch. You toss one end of the rope over the branch, then pull on it to test the strength of the tree. Satisfied, you fasten my cuffs to my wrists, then my ankles. Sliding the rope through the hook on my wrist cuffs, you tie my arms high above my head. You pull the rope so that I am lifted on my tiptoes, dangling. Stepping back, you admire your handiwork. I am struggling to keep my balance on my tiptoes. You seem to enjoy my wriggling, and even playfully tickle me. You grin when I giggle and try to twist away. I watch as you slide your leather belt from your pants. My eyes widen and my breath quickens in anticipation. You fold the leather belt in half and seem to test the weight in your hand as you study me.
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