The blood in her ears ringing like bells in a cathedral, every heartbeat threatening to violate her visible composure. Inside she's racing, on the outside she's calm.
It's how he likes it.
You're a good girl aren't you?
She's on her knees. Arms raised up behind her head. Wrists tied tightly. Blindfold secure. The wood on the deck isn't worn enough to stop the splinters from nestling themselves into the skin on her knees and calves. Her shoulders are numb, blood drained from her arms, the muscles aching. The rope is too tight around her wrists, she can't feel her fingertips, it chafes with every pulse. There's nothing to see. There's the smell of the salt tanged air, the feel of the breeze against her naked body, the sounds of the water licking its way up against the sides of the ship and falling away. Over and over and over again.
It feels like an eternity. It feels like hell. It feels like vulnerability and submission and fear and anticipation all entangled into one wretched
blissful
ball in the pit of her belly.
It's how he likes it.
Good girl. Pretty girl.
His footsteps aren't silent enough
left, right, left
to escape her heightened senses. He's not far enough away that she can't smell him... she can almost taste the salt of the sweat
he glows, look at him glow
she imagines is on his neck, on his forehead, the bare skin of his chest, welling in every definition of his muscled body. Losing herself in the wanting, the unbearable craving... but never enough so she breaks position.
She learned quickly.
Good girls don't get the whip.
Every hair stands at attention, he's close. He's so close. The gentle lull of his breath, she's fighting against her muscles, pleading with herself to stay still, stay calm,
good girl
not to stretch up to feel it on her skin. Her mouth waters, remembering how he tastes, how he feels when her lips are wrapped around him,
such a good girl
the taste of his seed spreading over her tongue.
don't break god no don't break
He brushes her hair back from her ear
My well behaved little girl.
slipping it around to the back of her head
don't break, can't break
making a tight fist, and wrenches her head back. She gasps. The pain is nothing compared to the relief of movement, the all-encompassing wave of yearning she feels at his touch. His lips are on on hers, insistent, dominating, his tongue is around hers, his hair falling around her face, beads of sweat find their ways down his cheeks to meet hers
