Reflections

I remember the way my supposed arrogance infuriated her in the beginning. Had she not been intrigued with me, as I was with her, she would have stayed well away. She did not. I considered her mine far before she understood the veracity of my claim. The first time she sauntered into my presence, unconditionally unafraid of men and what men might do to one such as her, I knew I would own her. I knew at some point I would cuff her with the back of my hand for some slight or another. I knew I would chain her. I knew I would collar her soft throat. I knew I would rape her, repeatedly and at length, when and where I chose to do so. In those first weeks, I kept her on the second floor of my Anbar domicile, and treated her like a tasty snack, something one craves in the middle of the night. I expected her to be ready for it when I grabbed her by the ankle and dragged her into the hall, and she was. Oh, she was offended to be treated so abjectly, so rudely. She told me as much, and it only made her all the more delicious. I was not gentle most nights. You see, Noemi was more like kanda than ka-la-na. She was intoxicating, surely enough, but she was deceptively addicting as well. Once whetted, one's appetite was never fully sated. Some candies are meant to be enjoyed in small doses. After a taste or two, the sweetness becomes cloying, and one has one's fill. Not Noemi. Each lick lit the flames further. Each bite kicked the beast inside me a little harder, urging it on, goading it. Once I was set upon her, I would not stop until she was devoured fully and completely. The fucking was as much about sexual satiation as it was about the compelling desire to dominate her. I did not have much control over my desire, if any. Even today, after traveling with her to the western edge of the world, sleeping in a dozen cities large and small, each with its own temptations, its own beauties, Noemi is an obsession. I wonder if she knows how tenuous my renewed grip on the reins is, how the beast inside of me still growls. In the midst of Turian luxury and indulgence, right at this moment, does she know what I am thinking? Does she know what I write of as she passes before me, the scent of her skin distracting me? Can she guess that I am imagining the curve of her ass lifted to my hands after she is stripped and thrown to her belly on the floor? Is she wise enough to fear it, just a little?