Epilogue

A few weeks later Ingrid was sitting quietly in her favourite chair, leaning back with a satisfied smile on her face as she recalled, once again, every glorious detail of their anniversary. She remembered how she had felt waking up the morning after – battered, bruised and lying in pool of her own excrement, her ruptured arsehole unable to hold it back. The feelings that had flowed through her then, as she rubbed herself to a tremendous orgasm, had certainly given her pause for thought.

She was still sitting there when Marcel returned from work.

“Darling, how quickly do you think we could save enough money to let me be your snuff-bunny?”

This story is a fantasy, set in another place, with only the slightest passing nod to our reality as it’s glimpsed on a distant horizon. If this isn’t immediately apparent to you, I strongly suggest you seek urgent psychiatric care.