Fanny Fucked
It ends. I did not upchuck, did not soil the floor, but I can certainly understand how others would.
The boots tap... to the wall... the length of rattan presumably stowed. As I hear the taps go to the credenza, I am oddly grateful for the strip of cloth blinding me. It is wet, absorbing my tears. Though the woman knows I have been shamefully blubbering, for some reason I prefer not to show I am lachrymal.
It seems the body’s nervous system does not build a form of resistance to the pain... there can be no acceptance... the mind not conditioning. No, each and every stroke brought a jolt... seemingly becoming stronger and more searing.
So yes, I cried and begged. I am sure the microphones picking up every gasped syllable. And I stopped all resistance, no pulling at my bonds
