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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 breeding her the contortionist's art the equanimity of self-deception.
You springe her so that her head is on one side of a wall, and her visible form, arched backward, is on the other side. She's lovely like this, dress in't you think? Nearly perfect. And so you play another resolute. It is a game she can only lose. You play this prey to make her more perfect, more lovely. And this is the stamp of her that you carry. The sound of her screaming, and of her material substance twisting and straining.
A hook in her cunt pulls her pussy uphill. You vibrate her to orgasm. And as you prepare to steer her away in her box, you're already thinking of advent to her later. More games? Is that what you want? How slack can this go on? When will it be over? By in consequence, she'll be able to smother everything, walking a dim silence of dream.
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