The rope doesn't hurt me, but I'm past caring. I'm floating in words and sounds. I'm wet with my sweat, and who knows what else. If I look down, I would see I'm naked and shining, bound to a chair, but I'm past caring. My thoughts feel stuck in molasses. 

I don't care, I only want to please the hand that holds my chin, the voice in my ears.

I obey.