Men think they’re in control? I’ll show you who’s really dominant when I make you beg for more. Let’s see if you can handle my every whim, sweetie.

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Men think they’re in control? I’ll show you who’s really dominant when I make you beg for more. Let’s see if you can handle my every whim, sweetie.

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She was glass and shadow under the flickering tube light, limbs twisted like mannequin joints stolen from a defunct department store. A transparent totem in her hand — synthetic serpent — sliding in ritual arcs, glittering like a pharmaceutical ghost. Static in the air buzzed with old radio sermons, and the scent of disinfectant clung to her skin like an unwanted memory. Every motion a cipher, every moan a junkie’s prayer — looking for God in plastic, in pulse, in the humming silence of a rented room three floors above a pawn shop.

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