Last night dreamt that Arundhati Roy, dressed in black loose-fit jeans, combat boots, and leather
vest, meted to me a lashing so brutal that, were it not for the chains connecting my wrist
restraints to the ceiling, I would have collapsed to my knees. Her silver curls (I can see from the dream vantage) bounce about her
face, flinging sweat, as she delivers blows. And dreaming I can also see that behind me her
expression is the one I know from TV: there is nearly a sweetness to it, belied by that
wonderfully fierce and irreverent spirit.
When, finally, my back is battered pink she approaches and leans her weight against me, pressing me to the wall. Her breath on my skin is enough to make me quake.
"Well then," she says, her lips caressing my ear as she glides the flogger's handle the length of my arm. "I know the sounds you make when in pain."
Her teeth clench my earlobe, I shake.
"Now I'm going to make you moan."
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