What he has done to her

She does not know what he has done to her.

She studies her face in the mirror. She wonders if others can see the hunger in it.  She wonders if she is betrayed by the wild, yearning look in her eyes. She is certain that she is wearing her lust like a badge.

She brushes her finger tips lightly across her lips. It sends an electric jolt through her body. A lay-line of desire that tingles from breast to belly to thighs.

It fully reawakens the ache inside her. She almost gasps at the intensity of it. A certain, steady, endless throb. Impossible to ignore. A ball of longing that radiates from her burning sex to every part of her being. Her skin reacts to any touch. Even the brush of her clothes makes her dizzy with need.

Its urgency overwhelms her. As it does every distracted day. Every tortured night. There is no respite even when she sleeps. Her dreams are a decadent tangle of limbs, whips and ropes, desperate mouths, probing tongues and deep penetration.

She can bear it no more. She is on her knees. She lets her fingers trail across her cheek, down her neck. She imagines she is in his hands. She takes her nipples between thumb and forefinger and squeezes until she gasps. Pain and pleasure. His religion.

She finds herself slick, wet and swollen. She rubs herself roughly. Brutally. Savagely. The pure heat of her arousal shocks and thrills her.

Her climax is violent. It rips and tears through her. Her body shudders and dances erratically. She is engulfed by it and yet still somehow manages to keep her fingers working. Both hands. Forcing herself onwards. The way he would do.

The next tidal wave is unstoppable. It drowns her. She is breathless, exhausted, trembling. Weak, Helpless. She has no strength left. She collapses. She sobs and laughs and shakes her head in amazement.

She does not know what he has done to her.

But she hates it.

And she loves it.

.

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© the author writing as Romantic Dominant/Faded Romantic

Art by William Oxer