He thinks of the Insex set as an autopsy room, where bodies are laid out, sliced, and cracked open. He thinks of the show as vivisection, as a method of discovery, every ounce of female flesh – a book. And her hair falling down about her throat, her painted lips and eyes, the endless fabric of young skin, her limbs, fingers, hair, cunt – a library.
He studies her. He tests her endurance during the first hour with metal, the next hour with wrap after wrap of rope, and for the third hour, rubber. He weighs her down, ties her body into knots, encases her, then relents. After he is finished with the first torments, he begins.
She is determined to survive the removal of layers, the loss of skin, the dissection of her outer layers. This is how he searches for that which he can not help but desire. Her.
The gentle slope of her shoulders when her arms are bound back. Her eyes moist, like she’s a lake, an ocean, spilling out, overflowing, influenced not by him, or any man on earth. She is under the influence of the moon.
Her cunt goes wet with wanting, the expectation of ropes. Her breasts are wrapped, those insatiable nippled fruits, prepped for their ordeal. They grow livid as the seconds pass, as the pressure grows, as the weight of her body hangs, and her purpled breasts are wrung dry.
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