~~ The Night — Sore
"Please... Master... be gentle..."
Her voice was a thread. Not even a whisper — a thread. The kind of sound that exists in the space between breathing and speaking, where the vocal cords vibrate but the lungs don't push hard enough to give the words weight.
"It's sore... I can't handle it anymore... please..."
The tears ran from her closed eyes in thin, continuous streams. Not the dramatic, heavy tears of fresh grief — the slow, exhausted tears of a woman who had been crying for so long that the ducts operated on autopilot. They ran down her temples, pooled in the hollows of her collarbones, and disappeared into the mattress beneath her.
