You unscrew a small jar of cream, and you tenderly apply it to each nipple and its areola. An exotic, spicy, slightly medicinal smell fills my nostril.... ‘Spikenard, like in the poem,’ you say. I smile. You’ve been looking for the rare spice since before we met. It cools me. ‘Water?’ you ask. I nod. You bring the cup to my lips again. I sip. And swallow. I look up at you through my tears. Pleading. I can sense you hesitating. ‘More’, you say neutrally. I know you’re not talking about water. I. La douleur vous est familière, la compagne de chaque jour, et en même temps la traîtresse qui vous humilie chaque fois qu'elle le peut. Ce traitement habituel vous a insensibilisé à l'horreur de la souffrance, elle en a fait le déclencheur du plaisir, votre humiliation permanente, votre fierté brisée.Un gémissement vous échappe, vite dissimulée tandis que le garde accélère son mouvement, vous le connaissez, c'était lui le premier, le premier à vous avoir souillée, il n'en a jamais réellement. More

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