Faceless.
But beautiful.
Features blurred. Or masked, in the event the angles of her face fall into too sharp of relief.
Faceless and nameless.
Naked.
Bound.
Her body is beautiful.
Soft skin and lush curves, full firm breasts and flared hips.
Supple thighs and firm calves.
Everything a woman is supposed to be.
And I hate her.
What is it that heats your blood? That fires your imagination, that makes your heart palpitate, your knees weak?
What is it? Tell me.
You shake.
It’s how I know I’m getting to you, how I know you feel me even in your half-sleep stupor. I can see your eyes slitting open against their REM cycles even as your body tenses and trembles under my touch. The soft half smile playing at the edges of your lips as you reach for me, murmuring, tells me you think you’re dreaming.
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