Two Years Prior
Of course he imagined it. How couldn't he? It wasn't an obsession so much as a preoccupation, something to busy himself with when the need took him. It was never the same, not really, but it always ended in the same way. The way she came to him would change—she'd be quiet one day, angry the next; it depended upon his mood, really. More often than not he imagined her defeated, giving in, surrendering to her own wicked desires. He imagined the way she wouldn't fight when he pulled her to himself, how she'd press her knees together against his hand, the way she'd look when he threw her upon the bed, the couch, the floor. He particularly liked the thought of sliding his fingers up her skirt, of listening to her beg for more and hate her own screaming desire.
On days when she had been particularly exasperating, he'd picture her defeat, big guilty tears that caught on her eyelashes as she opened her legs for him, her fingers balled in the sheets as he thrust inside her. He almost always pictured her beneath him, her lithe legs wrapping about his waist, soft voice begging him to be gentle. He liked the thought of her carnal shame, her guilt as he rammed himself inside her and she enjoyed it. He imagined her disgusted gratitude, the way she'd let him pick her up and shove her into a wall, against the floor, on the table; anywhere where she could be caught beneath him.
Giving in always came easy to her in his imaginings. Sometimes, when he was feeling particularly sentimental, he'd imagine giving her her first orgasm. (He had no way of actually knowing if it would be her first, of course, but in his fantasies, he made it so.) He adored the thought—her tense, shaking legs, gasping breath. He wanted to take this last thing from her, to feel her finally unspool at his fingertips, his tongue, his lips. Very rarely did he think of kissing her, but when he did, it was of his tongue pressed behind her teeth, fingers darting over her virginal skin. He wanted her to come undone for him, to want him so badly it hurt her. He wanted her on her knees before him, her pretty little mouth on his cock. He wanted his fingers in her hair, tugging her braid, twisting her ponytail between his fingers. He wanted her to strain at her tears, to tire of fighting, to let him lay her out and ravish her the way he desired.
He pictured her arching back, soft breasts. He pictured her naked skin, the way she would slip her clothes off before him, unsure and perfectly seductive as she let them fall to the floor about her feet, shivering in her fear as she carefully held back tears. He imagined taking her warm body into his cold hands, imagined letting his tongue slide over the gentle swell of her breasts, the expanse of her ribs shuddering as she stepped into his grip. He wanted her to lay herself open like a sacrifice, to hush her harsh words and give herself over to his greater mastery.
In the dreams where she was quiet, he was always a kind lover, stroking her hair, taking his time before finally pressing himself inside her, into her tight warmth. He'd comfort her softly, make sure she was laid out upon cotton and feathers and silks. He imagined the muted gasps she'd give, how he'd shush her, kiss her neck, explore her body with his mouth. He imagined her flustered embarrassment, how she wouldn't meet his eyes while he was between her legs, how she'd look in breathless ecstasy when he slid his tongue against her, listening to the whine of her moral dissolve.
In the dreams where she came to him angry, it was all plaster and drywall and wood floors; teeth and moaning and having to try very hard not to break her. In those dreams, buttons would pop as they ripped at clothes and she'd hold him about the shoulders, cry out his name as her climax tumbled out of her unexpectedly. He pictured her neck bruised with bite marks, lips swollen and soft. He imagined the look on her face as he pressed himself entirely inside her, how he'd tower over her first, make her beg. He imagined her unkind fingers trembling as she touched his cock, how she would gasp as he ground himself against her, bite her lip and tell him to go to hell. And he would go, would gladly tumble down into the inferno if it meant that first she would let him come inside her. It would be the first time they were ever on the same side of anything.
And sometimes, on the rarest of occasions, he'd imagine something much quieter. He imagined the coldness of a winter night, the silence in their bedroom as he pretended to sleep. He thought about her slow hand, moving hesitantly over his chest, creeping below the blanket. He imagined her curious fingers, unapologetic as they moved down until her warm hand pressed to his cock, how he'd betray himself with a shaking gasp. He conjured the smell of her hair, her lips brushing against his neck, and the dark, how it would blind them both as she crawled on top of him, let her hands wander up his shirt. He thought about the welcome weight of her body against his, the way he would press his tented erection between her legs, the sound of skin and silk as she discarded her clothes, her nakedness hidden by the night. He imagined her trembling hands taking his, bringing them to her bare skin, sighing as he welcomed the invitation with a tight grip, his palms pressed to the firm swell of her erect nipples in the cold air. He imagined the curve of her hips as he brought his hands down over her, caressing her, wandering over her pale frame with a quietness the day could not afford. He imagined the slick wetness of her arousal, the sudden, dizzying warmth of her around him, her heavy breath as he penetrated her, slow and wanting. He imagined the quiet way she would moan as he moved inside her, the feeling of her knees against his ribs, the metronyn of her breath in the dark as she rode him. He imagined the crescendo of her orgasm, the shivering, blissful contradiction of so much heat in so cold a room.
And afterwards… afterwards she'd crawl beneath the covers, turn her back to him, and he'd fall asleep. The next morning, they'd say nothing, would act as if nothing had ever happened. It was how it always had to end. There was no other way.
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AN-
Hello my Heathens!
I'm going to try my damndest to get a chapter up next week, but I'm going to be traveling, so I don't know how much of a signal I'll have. Sorry in advance, but I'll be doing my best!
Cheers
