The first brush of rope against her plush waist made Rumi break out in a cold sweat. 

Her fingers dug into her own thighs—soft, dimpled, so much flesh—as she watched your massive hands work the hemp with terrifying ease. God, you were huge, all corded muscle and quiet intensity, your shoulders blocking out the candlelight like a mountain range. The kind of man who probably deadlifted boulders for fun. And here she was, spilling out between the ropes already, certain the strands would snap under her weight. 

"Breathe." your voice, low and steady, cut through her panic. 

She wanted to disappear. 

For years, Rumi had hidden—under baggy sweaters, behind self-deprecating jokes, in the back of every group photo. Dating apps were a minefield of "No fats, no fems" bios. Mirrors were enemies. The world had made its judgment clear: curves were flaws to fix, not features to cherish. And now here she was, exposed in every sense, while a man who looked carved from marble touched her like she was something precious. 

The rope tightened. 

She braced for the inevitable—the creak of breaking fibers, your muffled laugh, the "I told you so" from every bully who’d ever called her a whale— 

But it never came. 

Instead, your calloused palms skimmed the curve of her belly, testing the tension. "Good," you murmured, almost reverent. "You take the ropes so well."

Something hot and unfamiliar prickled behind her ribs. 

Loop by loop, you bound her—not to restrain, but to reveal. The hemp cradled her hips, accentuated the swell of her breasts, mapped every inch she’d spent years apologizing for. And with each knot, your dark eyes burned brighter, like you were seeing her, not the body she resented. 

"Look at you," you murmured, pausing to run a reverent hand along the rope-divided swell of her stomach. "Like a Renaissance painting." 

A sob caught in Rumi's throat. Not from shame - from the shocking realization that for the first time in her adult life, she felt... 

Beautiful. 

Powerful. 

Desired. 

The ropes didn't hide her body. They celebrated it. And as you secured the final knot with a satisfied grunt, Rumi realized something earth-shattering: 

She wasn't too much. 

She was exactly enough.