Tyler Scot, 411

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Only able to communicate with desperate eyes and silenced groans. Simultaneously, we stress to free-for-all ourselves. I reminisce trees. Two of them, encountering each other. And we are corded to them, to share our suffering. Throats slammed with wooden gags, our sobs mix to create a single, anguished tune. I watch tyler wriggle under the ropes, kneading her fragile flesh against the tough, scratchy bark. I watch the despair in her eyes. She is trapped. And so am I. He hits her with a skinny tree branch till tits and hips are caked with crimson lashes. I cringe at the sound of each stroke and look down at my own fragile breasts, made purple and bulging by the leather around them. My time will come shortly enough. The last thing I recall: he is grumbling and throwing me into a hole. ÒGotta submerge the evidence, I think he said. He frosts me in filth crammed stiffly up to my neck. He brings tyler out, submerges her head, and secures her soles with wooden stakes. After placing a ring gag in my mouth, he unbuttons his trousers and loosens himself, squirting urinate all over both of us. Then he ambles away, abandoning us. I am left with that pic in my mind. A disembodied head and a decapitated assets baptized with the urinate of our captor. Just the thought sends chills crawling down my spine. But I am safe at home. And there is no stud in black. Because it was all just a dream. Right?