The Bride of Larkspear

What distinguishes this bed is the woman attached to it--her wrists tied behind her to one of the excessively sturdy bedposts. And this being a work of Eros, she is, of course, naked. My bride does not look at me. She is determined, as ever, to shunt me to the periphery of her existence, even on this, our wedding night. I touch her. Her skin is as cool as marble, the flesh beneath firm and resilient. I turn her face to look into her eyes, haughty eyes that have scorned me for as long...
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What distinguishes this bed is the woman attached to it--her wrists tied behind her to one of the excessively sturdy bedposts. And this being a work of Eros, she is, of course, naked. My bride does not look at me. She is determined, as ever, to shunt me to the periphery of her existence, even on this, our wedding night. I touch her. Her skin is as cool as marble, the flesh beneath firm and resilient. I turn her face to look into her eyes, haughty eyes that have scorned me for as long as I remember. "Why are my hands tied?" she murmurs. "Are you afraid of them?" "Of course," I reply, "A man who stalks a lioness should ever be wary." "And what does a man do when he has caught said lioness and put her in a cage?" I brush aside a strand of hair that has fallen before her eyes. "He teaches her that captivity can be wonderfully enjoyable."