There's blood on his thighs this morning; dried on his thighs as he lies on your bed. Blood from your impatience, rivulets darkened red-brown, blood that ran down when you pulled quickly out, blood staining his skin and your sheets and your atrophied conscience.

There are marks on his back this morning; marks that you made with a whip and a blade - a smack and a crack and a slip-slide snick. Marks that you put there with fingers and teeth, marks that tell the guilty awful story of his perfect submission.

There is no breath in his lungs this morning.