When He touches her

“Come upstairs,” He said. He knew what she wanted, what she needed. She rose and followed him obediently. What precisely awaited, she was never quite sure. All that she knew was that it would fix her tonight, and somehow He knew the formula. He took care of things. He took care of her.

What would it be tonight? Would it be slow and gentle, melting into her curves, gentle licks on her nipples, stroking her hair? Would it be reaching between her legs to feel the hot wetness, slowly stroking her until she begged?

Would it be hard and fast, primal, animal, almost angry, filling her with life and drama and erasing the tangled mess in her mind of her fucked-up day? Would He enter her within minutes of access to the body He adored and desired?

Or would it be creative, taking His time with the ropes, slowly, limb by limb, one body part at a time, making her His beloved charge, and taking her as wholly as He wanted her, as she was unable to do anything but receive the pleasure He knew how to give perfectly, completely? 

Or would it just be…quiet? Touching. Stroking. Nothing sexual, but wholly intimate in a way that almost made her weep, recalling it later.

Any of those things, all of those things, were part of a life she was learning to enjoy, to feel she deserved. And it mattered that all of those things were with Him. Not with anyone else. Him.

Strange and funny, charming and weird, difficult and desirable: He was a different kind of thing, of relationship, of life, than she had ever known. And oh, she was scared. But hopeful and happy and strong enough to know that whatever the future held, and however long or short it lasted, this will have been worth it.