Contrast

Exactly ten minutes after she arrives at my house we are naked and fucking on the floor in front of the mirror in my bedroom, and I am holding her body tight against mine, crushing her between me and the floor and driving into her hard, in the specific way that I know makes her shake. Bite marks from my teeth are livid on her shoulder. Her face is wet with drool.

The image of her, small in my arms, distressed, scrabbling at the floor, clutching for any part of me she can reach… it’s a beautiful one. But as I fuck her I am thinking of her before – how she was when she arrived at my house.

Back then, just minutes ago, she was fully dressed, proper and serious. She had come from work. In the hallway she unwound a scarf from her neck. She hung up her coat. Stretched. Accepted a glass of water and drank it demurely. She was self-contained and civilised.

“How have you been?” she said. Small talk.

“Well. Busy. Yourself?” Even smaller.

Now she has no breath to speak. Her neck is in the crook of my elbow and she is gasping, contorted. Drooling and scrabbling, non-verbal, naked. An abased little creature who is alive and struggling in my arms, her body tight and tense, splayed under mine.

She moved from one state to the other so quickly. So easily. How swiftly the veil of properness fell away when we were alone in my bedroom. One moment clothed and calm. The next kneeling, bending to wrap her lips around my dick, whimpering and quivering, indecently excited.

The contrast between the two seems too acute to be real. It is this that I think of as I come. Overlapping images. Our naked bodies reflected in the mirror, fucking violently. The memory of her standing in my hallway, smiling, unwinding her scarf from around her neck.