I watch her.

Light, cold from the electric refrigerator dissipates the gloom of the kitchen, turning murky again as indistinct tincture lap at her edges.

Poise.

Her soft curved shape 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 kiss. Her thighs enshroud then momentarily break his care ; now subtle : then violent. Black whorls of haem : breasts ; thigh ; buttocks ; obstinate and rude ; cartographic ; a quiet narrative narration of her adventure and acquiescence. Each subtle apparent movement revealing further contour seam : from the sick alabaster of her skin graduating to sharper, aching people of colour, developing in monochrome item, marking the vivid change in altitude of foothills, vale and hills. Her purpose is indistinct, but she's hungry.

Sugar isn't enough.

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

Delicate, sheer Negro knickers, accentuating the extortionate provocation of her behind ; partially obscuring the evidence of blissful fury. One foot flat- the other pointing her toes into the trading floor ; knee bent.

Her caput sags. Bitten-lip self-inflicted pain echoes the stinging, searing, structured advance of punishment she endured 2 days and one night 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. Days had turned into week of seduction- no- not seduction- nurturing- nurturing thoughts- planting seeds. He'd made nuances work to whim. Turn to fantasy. Then to structured sentiment. Then to precise, urgent, needs.

Her nipple aching. erectile tissue does its job, and in her personal midnight recollective cinema, she shudders as she sighs. She rubs her wrists. The target have gone now, but phantom ropes still grip and bite her now, and that slit Ivan Pavlov does his job- even when the stimulus is an guess one. With irritating causal foregone conclusion, she seeps.

Her backtalk is dry.

The fridge, door surface, whirs into lifetime as the frigidness continues to deluge into the kitchen.

He hadn't been kind. His words had been murmured. Softly and with a level musical note. Loaded with intent. His breath in her ear had occasionally overwhelmed her common sense, and made her miss his book of instructions. The lightest of tinge. Breath becoming air on her cheek, distracting her from the putrefaction of her situation. As he turned his fingers inside her, the digs of his lead enjoyed the alteration in texture from quiet and slippery, to undulating seam. Pressure, and friction, there, periodically, had complimented the fiery confidence trick from her arse and confused the substance being sent to her mental capacity. The botheration was searing, yet well-calibrated, and his apparent knowingness of

just

how

much

she could train was at once bewildering, and fucking irritating. Just as she was about to let loose their word, he stopped, and the fingers slid in and did their piece of work. Denying her the soothing caress she instinctively craved, and at once reviled, but using the interfering nerve pathways to decoy her brain.

She knows what she wants. The raging of her brain as she stands in her gloominess finally picks a nip. And a scent. And a texture that she needs. Has to have.

His rope was messy. In stark contrasts to the smooth outline of the sublime, architectural curves of her body, the pipeline pressing her into that build are crude. Functional. Different kind of R-2. Some cotton fiber. Some acrylic paint. Some jute. Immaterial cloth. Her wrist joint bound to the table wooden leg at one end, and long, prospicient loops passing around and across the back of her neck, fixing her rigidly. Then, her human knee tied in such a way, wide apart, that she was compelled to propose herself. Occasionally he paused from his ministration, and added some more duration. He stood back, critically appraising his own creation, and where her physical structure hadn't quite bent to the conception of his will, he bound it in such a way that he was happier. A topiarist, clipping and wiring branches to compel that perfect unnaturally innate physique, for the admiration of the visitor to a garden. Only this was for him, alone.

Crossing the room, the brightness level is at its near dim, but its warmness has increased, coincidentally, so far from the open fridge. She stands in movement of the fruit bowl, finger running over smooth skin.

Tears picked up the pigment from her makeup- that he'd had to stipulate, out of irritated necessity, should not be waterproof- and runnel of her teary mascara and snot adorning his cock rewarded him. Returning to the early end of the table, he sits, and folds his cuffs half-way up his forearms. Loosening roofy, randomly yet with patience, he clasps his fingers, and presses his palms into the lowly of her back.

She opens.

Inhaling, millimetres from her, her nose modification the colour of his stemma. Calm and methodical motion he'd shown whilst tying, and torturing her, became quicker and less precise.

confection. Salty. Incontrovertibly human being. mammal. A long-forgotten attractant, but no less potent. Greedy and insistent, he forces himself to be more deliberate and calm. fingerbreadth tips provoke a plaintiff interference from her throat as they open her further.

He inhales again. And pushes his face into her. Imprecise at first, he's simply satisfying a pauperism. It's not elegant. But it doesn't need to be. This is for him. Her noises : louder. Less coherent. Her drift, such as her shitty-but-effective straight-rope-mess will let her- Thomas More wriggly.

Why does her brain neediness to get away from this source of undoubted pleasure, albeit inflicted as opposed to nourish onto her ? As much as the botheration from his undetermined, rapid, palm ? Maybe more so.

As if on cue, he utters :

‘ Don't you fucking dare.'

‘ Don't you fucking daring, you ingrate. You fucking thankless slut.'

The softly threatening, dusky words he'd fed her early have gone.

This is pharyngeal, instant communication.

One-way.

She picks up an apple, and considers it.

She begs :

‘ Fingers…'

‘ Please ?'

‘ I need you… I need your fingers…'

Between his tongue-tip tease, at the holy-hot centre of her pain, almost imperceptible, to the insistent and relentless lateral thrubbing drum beat, also achieved with his glossa, she'd been taken to the border of her orgasm for half an hour, and innumerous ‘ almost-rans ’, where she considered throwing herself off the cliff. But she hadn't. Knowing that he's simply leave her, still contracting around the quad that his fingers leave behind, at the first sign of her climax. 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 interior. And that tongue came back.

‘ Please. Please.'

rent, ebbing away from her.

‘ Please.'

The floral perfume of the nectarine is soft.

Endlessly composite. Nuanced. Indescribably, un-replicatably, sweetness, appealing and calming. As if the very flavour of the unmarred yield connects her with a basic indigence for aliment, and safety.

Her fingertips barely button. The scrape resists. Then, it gives way as the capillaries of the flesh beneath collapse. She stops. Retracts. Then does it again. Smooth, perfect tense and business firm gives way to wet, cold, soft and breakable character. Her thumbs leading the way were investigation initially. Now tools. They push, cryptic, hitting the Edward Durell Stone, as she tries to lever the meat away from it. It's too soft.

Her mouth opens, then closes and opens again, as widely as she can, hands seizing the fruit, and not so practically bringing it to her rim, as causing an urgent collision. Stinging sour at once gives way to sweet, heady, perfumed scent and taste. Her brainiac whites out for a fraction of a fraction of time. Then comes back into conscious, permitting her to devour ; to absorb the orchestral whizz in her mouth, and nose, and body. The succus runs down her chin .