… solipsubmissive …

The realization came with the sharpening of the air.  It crackled around her, rife with energy, pregnant, thick with the promise of violence.

Already, the wind increased, sweeping in from the sea, rushing up the jagged face of the cliff to emerge, triumphant, atop the bluff.  It seemed to hang in that space, savoring its victory, before recalling its purpose and racing, wailing, across the land.

She stepped outside to greet it, and it buffeted her skirts and hair with calculated fury.  She glanced, only once, to the north.  From there he would come, as he always did, and though she always watched, she never managed to see him approach.  She stepped back inside the cottage to stir the soup and stoke the fire.  The lightening came, the thunder crashed, and the wind howled, protesting the tightly closed windows and doors, hovering angrily outside looking in.

When she smelled the rain, she knew her time had come.  She knelt upon the pelt in the center of the floor, leaned forward, upon her hands, her back to the door.  The wind died too, for a moment, as she stared, fixedly, at the wall, holding its breath the way she held hers, as though he controlled it as easily as he controlled her.

Without warning, the door flew open and he was there, the wind waking and sweeping along, smugly, in his wake.  As always, he’d just beat the rain.  She could hear it, falling hard in saturating sheets, the craggy earth welcoming the relentless punishment.  Lightening flashed behind him, casting his shadow, dark and dreadful, across the wall at which she stared.  She flinched, started to cry out, but the sound was quickly stifled by the hand he clapped over her mouth.

She struggled then; she always did.  Despite her accepting pose, her physical acquiescence to the idea of him, the terror always won in those first instants, coiling in her belly and spreading, hot and dangerous, throughout her body.  He’d learned, early, to subdue her mouth first, and her flailing hands with their sharp, scratching nails.  He’d been the victim of both, on numerous occasions, and it was never the better for her.  She’d not learned, though, so he’d adapted, taking away her chief weapons with the calm efficiency of a seasoned hunter.

The scent of her terror came off her in waves, pulsing and metallic.  He savored it, lowered his head to her neck, sinking his teeth into the soft flesh where it met her shoulder.  She stiffened beneath him, the pain registering sharply, bringing her clarity from the terror induced mindlessness.  She dropped to her elbows, and he loosened the grip on her mouth and jaw.  She gasped, drawing in a long shaking breath, then tilted her head to the side, allowing her hair to fall away from the teeth still buried in her neck.

She felt the hand fumbling with her skirts, felt him toss them up across her back.  He released her neck as she arched her back, pushing her face down into the pelt of fur.  His hand found her slick wet folds, his rough fingers pushing harshly inside her.  He thrust them with little regard for the pain, held her head down with the other hand, grunting in his heated lust for her agony.  Her knees lifted from the floor with each invasion, and her cries reached his ears, though muffled by the matted fur beneath her face.

He removed his fingers and flipped her, roughly, onto her back, then pushed her blouse up over her breasts.  She spread her legs, willingly, and he came between them, but did not enter her, did not take advantage of the offering she made.  Instead, he grasped each breast in a hand, mauling them and molding them, then bringing his mouth to each.  Not enough, the mark on her neck.  Not enough the soreness, already, of her sex.  No, the blank canvas presented by her soft, white, quivering flesh begged for his torment, and he answered the call with his teeth and with his hands and with his nails.

Not until her whimpers became moans and her moans became screams did he fuck her, and when he did, it was brutal and hard and unforgiving.  Her hands, no longer a worry for him, found his forearms, her legs wrapped around his back, her heels digging insistently into his buttocks, begging without words, for completion.

And he fell completely on her.  His fists found purchase in handfuls of her hair, and he pulled and he pushed and he filled and he fucked.  Her mouth opened and closed in pain and pleasure, and, as he surged inside her one last time, he met it with his, thrusting his tongue inside as he emptied himself at the portal to her womb.

The lightening flashed, gentler, and the answering thunder rolled instead of crashed.  The wind lost interest, and retreated through the still open door, called back to its friend, the sea.  The fire died, too, the soup forgotten, as they slept, entwined, on the floor.

She held him close, though she knew it didn’t matter.  He would be gone before she woke, both he and the rain.  And she, like the earth, refreshed.