Yet, in each was a fear, not that the anguish would go on without end, but that it would end all too soon.
Unable to move I watched as they hung there, struggled on the floor or endured the whip. I watched from the torturer’s point of view, imagining myself in their situations; the lash of the whip, my own cries like in the sub-basement, my begging of them not to leave me unsatisfied, and then, at last, my own scream of orgasm.
‘Fuckers,’ I whispered.
I dashed upstairs, kept on going past the third floor, straight up to the steel door. ‘You bastards! You bastards!’ I shouted. My fists pounded on the surprisingly warm metal but, as always, it didn’t give. ‘How could you do this? How? f*****g bastards!’
I broke down and cried, slumped to the floor, a curled up thing with an empty hot hol
