She knows his profile by heart.
She knows each carefully crafted word. She has considered every subtle nuance. She has speculated over any real or imagined hidden meaning. She has painted his image in her mind from the palette of his six-sentence self-description.
She places her hands over her eyes, feeling her palms cool on her burning face..
The fantasy has been with her for as long as she can remember. Sometimes it has lain quiet in the cage she has constructed, curled up like a black-as-night wild cat, sleek and inky, muscular and lean. Other times she has felt it stir, aroused by a word, or an image, or a conversation. Or the unmistakable timbre of command in a stranger’s voice.
Its power makes her catch her breath.
And then there are the times when it becomes hungry. It fills her mind with its presence, it gnaws at her throat, claws at her lower belly, and makes her ache between her thighs.
It is prowling now. She is almost deafened by her own heartbeat drumming in her ears, can hear the noisy rushing of her blood through her arteries and veins, knows her imagination is making her wet. Yet her mouth is dry.
She always believed that she could contain it, repress it, restrain it. That it was her own secret fantasy, her eternal longing, her deep, delicious, dangerous desire. She always believed that her deep, dark, unholy need was forever incarcerated inside herself.
And yet this man …
She stares again at the screen. It fills her room with a pale, bluish, ghostly light. She feels possessed.
A simple click will make contact
Her trembling finger hovers over the keyboard.
© the author writing as Romantic Dominant/Faded Romantic
An old post, but I like it.
Art by William Oxer
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