: About Me

Pale skin, stretched taut over her huge frame, scored with hundreds of tiny scratches and scars. A testament to all he had invested in her. These very marks were what made her his. She stood before him perfectly still; mute and unyielding. He wielded the batons not as weapons. This was not an act of aggression. It was a performance, and with these instruments he would make her sing; in a language that was universally understood. For who does not understand the roar of a female provoked beyond her reason? It matters not that the roar is an anguished scream or an exultant cry if it is born o...