One minute she’s riding her bike in the country. The next, cable-ties hold her to a chair in a dank basement. You stand before this helpless young woman. She is in your power. There are games you want to play with her. Sadistic games. It is something in your body that drives you to do these things to her. Perhaps it is a form of love. Because in your eyes, her body grows more beautiful by the hour. Until there is an imprint of her wherever you go, whatever you see, whomever you are with. And you begin to wonder if you will ever get free.
You lean down and open a door set into the floor. Shackled and chained, she lies sideways in a shallow box below floor level. She quickly learns to smother sound, maybe to smother everything. You praise her. You’re teaching her the contortionist’s art the equanimity of self-deception.
You trap her so that her head is on one side of a wall, and her body, arched backward, is on the other side. She’s lovely like this, don’t you think? Nearly perfect. And so you play another game. It is a game she can only lose. You play this game to make her more perfect, more lovely. And this is the imprint of her that you carry. The sound of her screaming, and of her body twisting and straining.
A hook in her cunt pulls her pussy upward. You vibrate her to orgasm. And as you prepare to put her away in her box, you’re already thinking of coming to her later. More games? Is that what you want? How long can this go on? When will it be over? By then, she’ll be able to smother everything, walking a dim silence of dream.
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