His spittle splashes against a cheek now purpling for want of air, mingles there with her own sweat and tears. She cannot tell if it is more or less shameful than that other, thicker mess: a burning rain that showers down on her heaving, aching chest, stinging against raw skin where his nails have raked the delicate flesh of her breasts. She cannot tell, except that both are hot against feverish skin, and that skin - on her breasts, her face, her belly, her bloodied and throbbing cunt and thighs - wants desperately to crawl away from the touch, her whole body itching as though to recoil from itself. His seed runs like boiling oil along the inside of her breast, pools in the hollow of her ribs and navel; and she wants to scream. She wants to scream, and to curse, and to scratch out his eyes; but there is no air to draw into her aching lungs, and his face swims and blurs before her, spots of light bursting in her vision, and her body will not obey her. Nothing, it seems, will obey her. She cannot even cry out.
She cannot laugh, either, in the face of his threat. She has no doubt at all that he means it; and it would frighten her - does frighten her - except that there are no generations to come. In this moment, in this black despair, that horror that has dogged her for years has become a comfort. There are no generations to come. There is no future to threaten. If there is one thing she clings to, in all of this bitter hurt, it is that he has been sold a poor parcel of goods, too; that when she thinks of the future, she sees only blackness and shadow and death, and the inevitability that for a time she held at bay is only hastened in this moment, in the choking grip of his hand and the bone-deep throbbing ache between her thighs. What generations to come?
But it is not a hollow threat, even so. The future is empty; the past is beyond saving; but the present is neither. She had thought it was. She thought she knew what despair was. She knows better now.
Do not let go, she wills him, even as her body, spurred by animal instinct, raises its hands to pull weakly at his wrist; even as her swollen, bloody lips open to gasp for air that will not come. Do not let go. Sooner let me die; and then I will not know what I have lost.
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sforzinda
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Date: 2022-02-03 12:54 am (UTC)She cannot laugh, either, in the face of his threat. She has no doubt at all that he means it; and it would frighten her - does frighten her - except that there are no generations to come. In this moment, in this black despair, that horror that has dogged her for years has become a comfort. There are no generations to come. There is no future to threaten. If there is one thing she clings to, in all of this bitter hurt, it is that he has been sold a poor parcel of goods, too; that when she thinks of the future, she sees only blackness and shadow and death, and the inevitability that for a time she held at bay is only hastened in this moment, in the choking grip of his hand and the bone-deep throbbing ache between her thighs. What generations to come?
But it is not a hollow threat, even so. The future is empty; the past is beyond saving; but the present is neither. She had thought it was. She thought she knew what despair was. She knows better now.
Do not let go, she wills him, even as her body, spurred by animal instinct, raises its hands to pull weakly at his wrist; even as her swollen, bloody lips open to gasp for air that will not come. Do not let go. Sooner let me die; and then I will not know what I have lost.