She bends to the sill,
forehead bowed,
hair falling like a whispered confession.
One hand braced against the world.
The other lost, claiming herself, trembling,
pressing, circling—an offering to the shadow behind her.
He looms. Hooded. Iron in hand.
Faceless. Formless.
The presence she has learned to fear… and to crave.
There is no gentleness here.
No kindness.
Only the darkness that devours words,
the hunger that eats hesitation alive.
She does not wait to be saved.
She meets him there.
She feeds herself with the same relentless hunger
that shattered her silence,
that carved her out of the quiet,
that made her body her own altar.
Shame ignites, then drowns in fire.
Pleasure burns through it.
She trembles between surrender and defiance,
but there is no choice:
She is his.
And in that truth—unequivocal, sacred, unbroken—
she unravels.
Leave a Reply