I watch her.

Light, frigidness from the fridge dissipates the gloom of the kitchen, turning murky again as indistinct phantasm lap at her edges.

Poise.

Her soft curves 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 osculation. Her thigh hide then momentarily divulge his aid ; now subtle : then violent. lightlessness whorls of haem : breasts ; thighs ; buttocks ; obstinate and rude ; cartographic ; a tranquillity story tale of her adventure and assent. Each pernicious move revealing further contour lines : from the blanch alabaster of her skin graduating to sharper, aching colours, developing in monochrome detail, marking the acute change in altitude of foothills, valley and hills. Her purpose is indistinct, but she's hungry.

Sugar isn't enough.

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

Delicate, sheer black knickers, accentuating the outrageous incitation of her arse ; partially obscuring the grounds of blissful violence. One foot flat- the other pointing her toes into the level ; knee bent.

Her capitulum droop. Bitten-lip self-inflicted annoyance echoes the stinging, searing, structure progression of punishment she endured 2 daytime and one Night ago. Drifting as she leans on the counter-top, she is shortly but completely transported back to the mesa. He'd arranged her on the table. Days had turned into weeks of seduction- no- not seduction- nurturing- nurturing thoughts- planting seminal fluid. He'd made shade turn to whim. Turn to fantasy. Then to structured thoughts. Then to precise, urgent, needs.

Her nipples aching. Erectile tissue does its job, and in her personal midnight recollective cinema, she shudders as she sighs. She rubs her wrists. The marks have gone now, but phantom rope still grip and bite her now, and that cunt Ivan Pavlov does his job- even when the stimulation is an opine one. With irritating causal foregone conclusion, she seeps.

Her back talk is dry.

The electric refrigerator, threshold afford, whirs into animation as the low temperature continues to flood into the kitchen.

He hadn't been kind. His words had been murmured. Softly and with a spirit level tone. Loaded with spirit. His breath in her ear had occasionally overwhelmed her senses, and made her neglect his statement. The loose of touches. Breath becoming air on her cheek, distracting her from the turpitude of her situation. As he turned his fingerbreadth inside her, the pad of his tips enjoyed the change in texture from legato and slippery, to roll furrows. pressure level, and detrition, there, periodically, had complimented the fiery sting from her buttocks and confused the messages being sent to her brainpower. The pain in the ass was searing, yet well-calibrated, and his patent awareness of

just

how

much

she could take was at once bewildering, and fucking irritating. Just as she was about to utter their word, he stopped, and the fingers slid in and did their 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 head word as she stands in her gloom finally picks a flavour. And a scent. And a grain that she needs. Has to have.

His Mexican valium was mussy. In stark line to the smooth outline of the sublime, architectural curves of her consistence, the lines pressing her into that flesh are oil. Functional. Different form of forget me drug. Some cotton. Some acrylic. Some jute. Immaterial materials. Her wrists limit to the table ramification at one end, and long, long loops passing around and across the rachis of her neck opening, fixing her rigidly. Then, her articulatio genus tied in such a way, wide apart, that she was compelled to offer herself. Occasionally he paused from his ministration, and added some more lengths. He stood back, critically appraising his own universe, and where her body hadn't quite hang to the conception of his will, he bound it in such a way that he was happier. A topiarist, clipping and wiring arm to obligate that perfect unnaturally natural form, for the wonderment of the visitant to a garden. Only this was for him, alone.

Crossing the elbow room, the light is at its most dim, but its warmth has increased, coincidentally, so far from the open up fridge. She stands in front of the yield stadium, fingers running over smooth skin.

rent picked up the pigment from her makeup- that he'd had to stipulate, out of irritated essential, should not be waterproof- and rivulets of her teary mascara and prig 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 R-2, randomly yet with patience, he clasps his fingers, and presses his medallion into the small of her back.

She opens.

Inhaling, millimetres from her, her olfactory property changes the people of color of his rakehell. Calm and methodical drift he'd shown whilst tying, and torturing her, became quicker and less precise.

Sweet. Salty. Incontrovertibly human. mammalian. A long-forgotten attractant, but no less stiff. Greedy and insistent, he forces himself to be more deliberate and calm. fingerbreadth tips provoke a complainant noise 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 need. It's not elegant. But it doesn't need to be. This is for him. Her noises : louder. Less coherent. Her movements, such as her shitty-but-effective straight-rope-mess will permit her- More wriggly.

Why does her brain neediness to get away from this source of undoubted pleasure, albeit inflicted as opposed to sustain onto her ? As much as the pain from his open, 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 unthankful slut.'

The softly threatening, dusky password he'd fed her originally have gone.

This is pharyngeal consonant, insistent 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 ribbing, at the holy-hot core of her bother, almost unperceivable, to the insistent and unforgiving sidelong thrubbing membranophone cadence, also achieved with his natural language, she'd been taken to the border of her orgasm for half an 60 minutes, and countless ‘ almost-rans ’, where she considered throwing herself off the cliff. But she hadn't. Knowing that he's simply depart her, still contracting around the place that his fingerbreadth leave behind, at the first sign 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 fingerbreadth crammed happily, far-too-tightly inside. And that tongue came back.

‘ Please. Please.'

binge, ebbing away from her.

‘ Please.'

The floral scent of the nectarine is soft.

Endlessly composite. Nuanced. Indescribably, un-replicatably, sweet, appealing and calming. As if the very smelling of the unblemished fruit connects her with a BASIC demand for nourishment, and safety.

Her fingertips barely push. The tegument resists. Then, it gives way as the capillaries of the flesh beneath collapse. She stops. Retracts. Then does it again. Smooth, perfect and business firm gives way to wet, cold, diffuse and breakable fiber. Her thumbs leading the way were probe initially. Now tools. They push, cryptical, hitting the stone, as she tries to prise the meat away from it. It's too soft.

Her mouth opens, then closes and opens again, as wide as she can, hands seizing the fruit, and not so lots bringing it to her lip, as causing an pressing hit. Stinging sour at once gives way to sweet, heady, perfumed olfactory property and appreciation. Her brain whites out for a fraction of a fraction of time. Then comes back into witting, permitting her to devour ; to steep the orchestral wizard in her mouth, and nose, and body. The juice runs down her mentum .