His hands chained to the ceiling with his legs spread wide; x marks the spot.
His body covered in a purple bruise; it was art.
His eyes closed with the memories of his family playing behind his lids; he misses them dearly.
'This is only temporary, one day I'll be let free'
A hand came and danced along his skin. The hand traced every inch of his skin, tasting it--
he was taken a week before to be displayed like a piece of art. he was taken a week before to be played like a cello. a week ago he was taken. consent, not.
--Yet he was in lust. He craved the affection he was receiving, he wanted more. He almost felt loved, almost but it was lust.
It felt right, he felt right.
He wanted to be painted like a pretty flower.
He wanted to make the deep vibrating music.
It felt right, he felt right.
He had fallen into lust with the devil, his name spelled Stockholm.
