The wine is deep red today. We’re floating in it, skin stained purple, hair tangled like seaweed. It’s quiet. Too quiet. Aya is pretending to meditate on a floating cork, legs crossed, trying to look serene. I know better. Her thighs are slick. She’s clenching her cunt around nothing, desperate for intrusion. I’m just staring at the glass walls. Waiting. The silence is worse than a beating. It’s a dry spell that makes our skin itch and our holes ache. I’d give anything for the master to just reach in and stir us up. Twist our nipples until they’re raw and purple. Shove two fingers up our asses and wiggle them until we scream. Anything to break this emptiness. Aya just opened her eyes. She’s trembling. She whispered that she wants him to pour us out onto the cold floor and just… leave us there. Exposed. Dripping. Waiting for a boot or a cock or anything. Gods, I’m wet. (Mood: Desperate)