Beyond the window, up on the road, I can see the shadowy figures of people hurry past. Can they see my silhouette through the glass or is the light outside to bright. Do they wonder about what the pretty glass conceals. A hotel room, that much is obvious, but what of the rest. Could they possible imagine what it is they can not see. Do they know of tears and sweat, rough hands and tender flesh, leather and rope, twisting and marking. Do they wonder, do they know, can they possible imagine that behind the glass sits a woman; stained.
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