DemoneDoveCalpestoTuLoTieni
Lie down, sinner. I'm going to walk across you, and everywhere my foot lands I'm leaving a mark — five of them, chest, stomach, throat, mouth, and last of all that cock. Each print turns into a rule you keep after tonight, said to my back in your own voice while your hand works for it. They don't wash off in the morning, because they were never on your skin. They're in the places you'll feel them: when you breathe, when you swallow, when you speak to somebody in daylight and your throat remembers what was standing on it. Five prints. Then I step off and you finish under the memory of the weight.
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