I watch her.

Light, cold from the fridge dissipates the gloominess of the kitchen, turning murky again as indistinct shadower lap at her edges.

Poise.

Her soft bend at once appearing and disappearing as she plays tacitly with the milky glow.

She has her own shadows.

The red has subsided and given way to darker candy kiss. Her thighs cover then momentarily reveal his attention ; now subtle : then violent. Black curlicue of haemitin : bosom ; thigh ; buttocks ; obstinate and rude ; cartographic ; a tranquillise narrative tarradiddle of her adventure and acquiescence. Each subtle apparent movement revealing further shape melodic line : from the pale alabaster of her cutis graduating to sharper, aching colours, developing in black and white detail, marking the vivid change in altitude of foothills, valley and hill. Her purpose is indistinct, but she's hungry.

Sugar isn't enough.

It needs to be specific, but she can't put her digit on what, exactly, she needs to waste to silence her screaming brain.

Delicate, sheer black knickers, accentuating the hideous incitation of her arse ; partially obscuring the evidence of blissful wildness. One foot flat- the other pointing her toes into the storey ; knee bent.

Her fountainhead sags. Bitten-lip self-inflicted pain echoes the sting, searing, structured progression of punishment she endured 2 daytime and one Nox ago. Drifting as she leans on the counter-top, she is briefly but completely transported back to the table. He'd arranged her on the table. daytime had turned into week of seduction- no- not seduction- nurturing- nurturing thoughts- planting ejaculate. He'd made nuances turn to impression. Turn to fantasize. Then to structured idea. Then to precise, pressing, needs.

Her mammilla ache. Erectile tissue does its job, and in her personal midnight recollective cinema, she shudders as she sighs. She rubs her carpus. The marks have gone now, but phantom ropes still grip and bite her now, and that cunt Pavlov does his job- even when the input is an envisage one. With irritating causal certainty, she seeps.

Her mouth is dry.

The electric refrigerator, door afford, whirs into life as the frigidness continues to swamp into the kitchen.

He hadn't been kind. His lyric had been murmured. Softly and with a floor tone. Loaded with intent. His breath in her ear had occasionally overwhelmed her sentience, and made her overlook his didactics. The faint of touches. breathing spell becoming air on her impudence, distracting her from the depravity of her spot. As he turned his finger's breadth inside her, the pads of his bakshis enjoyed the change in texture from tranquil and slippery, to ruffle furrows. Pressure, and detrition, there, periodically, had complimented the fiery sting from her tail end and confused the message being sent to her mentality. The bother was searing, yet well-calibrated, and his apparent awareness of

just

how

a lot

she could hold was at once bewildering, and fucking irritating. Just as she was about to utter their word, he stopped, and the finger slid in and did their work. Denying her the soothing caress she instinctively craved, and at once reviled, but using the interfering nerve tract to decoy her brain.

She knows what she wants. The raging of her school principal as she stands in her gloom finally picks a flavour. And a odour. And a grain that she needs. Has to have.

His R-2 was messy. In severe contrasts to the smooth scheme of the sublime, architectural curves of her dead body, the lines pressing her into that shape are fossil oil. Functional. Different variety of R-2. Some cotton fiber. Some acrylic resin. Some jute. Immaterial textile. Her radiocarpal joint limit to the table legs at one end, and long, long loops passing around and across the back of her neck, fixing her rigidly. Then, her stifle tied in such a way, wide apart, that she was compelled to offer herself. Occasionally he paused from his relief, and added some more distance. He stood back, critically appraising his own foundation, and where her dead body hadn't quite crouch to the innovation of his will, he bound it in such a way that he was happier. A topiarist, clipping and wiring offshoot to compel that perfect unnaturally innate form, for the wonder of the visitant to a garden. Only this was for him, alone.

Crossing the room, the light is at its most dim, but its warmth has increased, coincidentally, so far from the receptive fridge. She stands in forepart of the fruit bowlful, fingers running over smooth skin.

Tears picked up the pigment from her makeup- that he'd had to condition, out of pissed off essential, should not be waterproof- and streamlet of her teary mascara and snot adorning his cock rewarded him. Returning to the other end of the table, he sits, and folds his cuffs half-way up his forearms. Loosening rope, randomly yet with patience, he clasps his finger, and presses his decoration into the belittled of her back.

She opens.

Inhaling, millimetres from her, her perfume alteration the colour of his rip. calm air and methodical movements he'd shown whilst tying, and torturing her, became quicker and less precise.

sugariness. Salty. Incontrovertibly human. Mammalian. A long-forgotten attractant, but no less potent. Greedy and insistent, he forces himself to be more deliberate and calm. finger's breadth tips provoke a plaintiff haphazardness from her throat as they open her further.

He inhales again. And pushes his typeface into her. Imprecise at foremost, he's simply satisfying a demand. It's not refined. But it doesn't need to be. This is for him. Her noises : louder. LE coherent. Her drive, such as her shitty-but-effective straight-rope-mess will permit her- more wriggly.

Why does her mentality want to get away from this source of undoubted joy, albeit inflicted as opposed to nurtured onto her ? As much as the bother from his receptive, speedy, palm ? Maybe more so.

As if on cue, he utters :

‘ Don't you fucking dare.'

‘ Don't you fucking dare, you ingrate. You fucking ungrateful slut.'

The softly jeopardise, dusky words he'd fed her earlier have gone.

This is guttural, insistent communication.

One-way.

She picks up an Malus pumila, and considers it.

She begs :

‘ Fingers…'

‘ Please ?'

‘ I need you… I need your fingers…'

Between his tongue-tip vamper, at the holy-hot middle of her painfulness, almost imperceptible, to the insistent and inexorable lateral thrubbing drum beat, also achieved with his tongue, she'd been taken to the edge of her orgasm for half an hour, and countless ‘ almost-rans ’, where she considered throwing herself off the drop-off. But she hadn't. Knowing that he's simply leave her, still contracting around the quad that his fingers leave behind, at the first house of her orgasm. He'd just fuck off to bed. He'd done it before.

‘ Please. Please. Push inside me.'

One, then two, then three fingers crammed happily, far-too-tightly inside. And that tongue came back.

‘ Please. Please.'

Tears, ebbing away from her.

‘ Please.'

The flowered scent of the nectarine is soft.

Endlessly complex. Nuanced. Indescribably, un-replicatably, seraphic, appealing and calming. As if the very smell of the unmutilated fruit connects her with a canonical need for alimentation, and safety.

Her fingertips barely get-up-and-go. The skin resists. Then, it gives way as the capillaries of the physical body beneath crash. She stops. Retracts. Then does it again. Smooth, perfective tense and firm gives way to wet, cold, mild and breakable fibres. Her thumbs leading the way were investigation initially. Now tools. They push, thick, hitting the I. F. Stone, as she tries to prise the sum away from it. It's too soft.

Her rima oris opens, then closes and opens again, as wide-cut as she can, hands seizing the yield, and not so much bringing it to her lips, as causing an urgent hit. Stinging sour at once gives way to sweet, heady, perfumed scent and predilection. Her nous whites out for a fraction of a fraction of time. Then comes back into conscious, permitting her to down ; to absorb the orchestral sensations in her mouth, and nose, and torso. The succus runs down her chin .