which somehow reminded him of silk stockings, never failed to arouse him, and make him think of what it would be like to slide into those lips, over her pink tongue, and touch her throat, to nuzzle her neck and inhale the scent of her hair. It never failed to remind him of the sleeping demon which sometimes came awake with a vengeance. He would imagine other, more violent openings, and what tones the voice would take on when he, the demon, forced her, violated her, and hurt her as they danced on the edge of pain and pleasure. A thousand times he undressed her, watched her parade before him in an array of silky garments and stockings. A thousand times he had her for the first time, in her mouth, her pussy, her ass. A thousand times he caressed her bottom, felt the weight of her breasts, clothed and unclothed, brushed his hands over her nipples through her garments, rolled her nipples naked under his rough fingers. A thousand times he heard her squeal as he unexpectedly pushed his fingers into her, held her tightly to him as he explored her openings, ran his hands over her, lifted her skirt, ripped off her panties and forced her over a couch to take her without prelude or ceremony. A thousand times he came, spurting into her, either pulling out, or holding her as his cock softened and slid out of her, his come falling between her thighs. And it was only the beginning.
So, what was different about this time? How was this fight not like the others? It was her voice. She heard her tone and her words and her volume and the guts behind it and the self that she was afraid to expose in an affair as shaky as theirs. WHAT ARE YOU, 10 YEARS OLD? A voice so true it startled her, a voice loud enough that she finally heard how contradictory previous voices had been. A simple and silly grouping of words, a juvenile lashing that just jumped out from behind her lips. Her voice—which somehow reminded her of how smart she can be.
photo credit: sodahead.com