She awakens slowly to her bonds, the way a sleeper awakens to find limbs caught in the folds of their blanket.
At first the sensation is a warm and encompassing pleasure, a reminder that one is safe and cared for: it is the voice of the womb comforting a mind unknown to the senses. Then as more of the conscious mind returns to the fore, alighting through the meagre pounds of flesh that houses Id and Ego, the bonds become known as a prison. She twitches and shakes for a second, praying her mind is playing tricks on her.
Her arms are tied behind her back, a delicate tracery of belts working up along the leather sleeve that covers her from the upper arm to her wrists wrinkling slightly as she moves. Her hands are engulfed in a spherical rubber mitten, not that she can feel her fingers moving within the rubbery confines of the inflated sphere.
Her legs are similar bound, but separately so: each limb carefully folded back on itself so it ends at the knee, the foot able to stroke against th
