Notes

Why is it impossible to think of anything but him? Those lustful eyes, the velvety baritone voice, the unwavering grip meant to mark its territory. How frustrating it was for the only remaining trails of him to be the purplecolored bruises left on her milky skin. She yearned for his rough embrace that would engulf her small being in his large, overbearing arms. He wouldn't hold back: the thought of him mercilessly taking what he wanted made her tremble out of excitement. She didn't want to be treated like a porcelain doll, but wanted to discover how much it would take for her to break. To explore her utmost limits, the point at which she would merely be reduced to a gibbering mess, begging for mercy. Yet, in spite of her numerous cries he wouldn't cave in, temporarily abandoning his benevolence, fully surrendering himself to the primal urges to possess and control. She wouldn't be able to escape and he would revel in that fact. The sight of the usually strong-willed, loudmouthed woman being shut up for once aroused him immensly. For the first time the overthinker wouldn't be able to form a coherent thought, all the while pretending to preserve some of her crushed pride. How sweetly would the tears running down her cheeks taste, how beautifully would the smeared, black mascara taint her fair complexion. At one point he would grab her chin forcefully, forcing those teary brown eyes to quiver under his domineering gaze. Truly adorable, the way she averted them to the wall, floor, left, right, anywhere but to him. He'd tighten his grip, tacitly voicing his command and she would have to obey, timidly glancing up, only to be locked in the fixated stare of his piercing eyes.