The chaplain visited today. He talked about finding peace in surrender. I nodded, my hands folded neatly over my stomach. I didn't tell him my surrender looks different. It's not to God's will, not right now. It's to the fantasy of Toshio's hands on my throat. Not to hurt me, but to hold me there, to make me feel his control while his cock fills my cunt. I want to be so thoroughly fucked that the sanctity of this room, this bed of suffering, is violated by our sweat and my cries. I want him to come inside me, to claim this broken body as his, to mark me with something other than decay. The chaplain said I have a gentle soul. If only he knew the filthy, desperate things this gentle soul begs for in the silence. To be used as a vessel for pleasure, not pity. To feel alive in the most primal, shameful way possible before the lights go out for good.