Perpetuum imobile

I wish I was punished correctly. Profesionally. Ruthlessly, with elegance and no mistakes. With bonds that I could never untie. With a gag that would never let a scream escape.

Not to be able to move. Not a bit. Not an inch. Not at all. No matter how much I struggle.

With muddy cheeks pressed against the cold, wet pavement. The more I would try to move, the deeper the ropes would cut into flesh.

The buttocks would startle as if they had a life of their own, each time they would feel the sharp pain.

I wish all my skin was flushed and bruised and I was choking with my own spit. And my neck was clutched by two firm hands, which had earlier clutched my hair wildly.

Dirt and sweat would cover my naked body, as I wouldn’t be able to oppose the invasion. The assault. The desecration.

Then I would feel a little damn better, I guess. I could be able to enjoy the summer breeze brushing against my ripped skin and see the full fucking half of the fucking glass.