von Constanze O. Wild.| llustrationen von Matthias Kyoro
The next morning, I woke up from a dim mixture of sex, dream and pain because I heard voices. I cautiously opened my eyes, but before I could see sharply, I knew it had not been a dream. It
was reality. I felt the pulsation of my intruders again, although not as extremely painful as yesterday. The walls of my prison were hanging down again and the door was open. Light fell into my
dungeon. As I focussed on the voices – they were speaking French again, and it was impossible for me to understand anything – I saw number 6 standing in front of the cell door. I slowly recognised
details. Today, she wore a pink skirt and a rubber mask with vulgar thick, bright red lips made of rubber. Her eyes were still mirrored and tubes protruded from her nose and ran down her back.
The short frilly skirt could not hide the numerous tubes, bags and cables that dangled between her legs as if it were the most natural thing in the world. The transparent rubber of her catsuit was …