Psychedelia

The room smelled of leather and stale oxygen, a suffocating sanctuary where her name had been left at the door. The hood was more than a mask, it was an erasure, a black void where her identity used to be. She sat on the edge of the mattress, a faceless creature of ink and bone, waiting for the only gravity that mattered in this house of silence.

He didn't need to touch her to own her, the weight of his attention was enough to pin her down. Without sight, every other sense became a weapon used against her. She felt the saliva trail down her chin, a messy mark of her own biological betrayal, while the leather collar reminded her with every breath that she was no longer her own. She was a living sculpture of submission, a dark romance written in the language of muffled gasps and shivering skin, forever trapped in the beautiful, terrifying hollow of his world.

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