An Extract from Browning's Video Blog

She lay pure and perfect while I reached for what I needed. Her long chestnut hair fell like a rope in my hands. Twice around that small throat I wound it, pulling it tight. No flinch. No cry. She felt nothing, I swear it. All because of her. All for her. Asian skin flushed under the pressure, body bound, silent as stone. The rope of her own hair became the instrument. Tension hummed through the quiet. She never moved. She took it. Brunette strands biting into flesh, lips parted, eyes half-closed. That was the whole of it. Nothing else. Just her throat, her hair, and the weight of what I chose to do.