Spicy Hot
Stifled laughter, ironic applause follow me as he ascends a staircase, his assured steps echoing on the wood.
Shame is an acid that flows through my veins. Hotter than latex, sharper than handcuffs. I am the echo of the screams they tore from me, the taste of semen and dried tears on my skin, the living memory of violation and forced pleasure.
The door opens and then slams shut with a dull thud, suddenly isolating the world. The noise of the party becomes a distant murmur, muffled. The air changes. It is cooler, calmer. I sense leather, wood, and… sandalwood. His scent.