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The memories stagger in upon me chaotically, as in a fantasy. Insects stinging, drawing . My hands, my bazookas, trapped in stiff metal. My movements secured with hooks buried unfathomable inside my body: I am filled, I am owned. I walk like a marionette, with each step the hooks pull with cruelty inside my a-hole and my fur pie. When I am given away it is solely to be stretched over a log and staked out in the grass; once more I am left vulnerable, unable to protect myself from insects, nibbling my open body. My head secured in place with stakes and a gag. Shrieking as a worm is dangled over my face, crawling into my nose, squirming it is slippery flesh over my tongue and my lips. And yet one memory towers above the rest of my anguish; this guy called it the mala mansio.
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