Sometimes I feel like I'm not submitting to her, and she's not dominating me, but there's something between us, the carrier, translating for us. Sometimes translating improperly, for our benefit. Every step she takes seems laden with malicious intent to me. Every shiver of mine appears to drip with fear to her.
Barely audible whispers, touching my ear, telling me, "Oh no. You don't get to close your eyes. I won't have you hiding from me." And she slaps me again. But then she descends to engulf me, her chest enfolding my mouth and nose, so tightly that all my world is her heart beating. Somewhere, down there, her crotch rubs slickly against me, just out of reach of my throbbing cock. Untouched and wanting. It almost makes me forget what it feels like to breathe. Almost.
I remember the menace. "This time it's going to be different." Without explaining. What's that difference, he wonders innocently? Now I know, and it's too late. She holds my wrists down, crushing me beneath her... oh god, no, not now, please! But I can't even hear myself beg. Once, my wrists almost escape--but then her strength shows itself and she laughs in triumph and lust as she pins me again to our marriage bed, my hands writhing futilely.
I'm going to die, and what is it in her soft chuckle that lets me know she'll change her mind? Nothing. I can hear nothing at all, nothing but static.
Copyright (c) 1998 {hamlet}Ophelia