An image which really, should need no caption. Every detail is stark, cruel, immediately clear.
The thick, suffocating puffer suit in the glass box in the summer sun against the breathable office wear.
The sticky, crawling sweat, the gagged mouth against the clink of ice in the cup, the beads of condensation which drip.
The keys which jingle when she moves, useless to her yoked hands, clinking with each movement, just near enough that she can brush the key-ring with her fingertips if she strains and strains.
Why is she in the box? A punishment? Perhaps. She has done nothing wrong, she knows she has, but to them it makes no difference. Perhaps the other is the real culprit, here to rub it in. Sweet, gloating mockery.
She stares at the drink, but the woman (perhaps the real culprit), only smiles.
"Still haven't unlocked yourself? Silly girl."
"Hot, isn't it?" She takes out a silken kerchief, wipes at the sweat between her breasts, lets out a satisfied sigh.
"Nnnnnnnmmmmgh!!!!" The maddening itch between her breasts has never gone away since the day they put her in the suit, though they'd said it was 'self-cleaning'.
"Sorry, dear, couldn't quite catch that." She giggles, a light, mocking sound, brings the cup right up to the glass.
Slow, sticky dripping of sweat. Please. Just a sip, even a drop, of cold water, of ice-cold condensation.
The woman swirls the cup, letting her hear every lovely clink of ice against ice, takes a long sip. A drop of sweat crawls, and another. A furious, gagged sound. The woman laughs, does it again.
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