pain

The craving ache. It never leaves her.

Sometimes it’s a gnawing shadow, barely discernible, a shadow that follows her even in the dark.

Other times it’s a dull pain in the pit of her belly, as if the butterflies that yearn to flutter their wings are struggling in their cocoons.

When the night is cold, the moon an icy globe in a sable sky, the ache is sharp, like a shard of glass buried beneath her skin.

Then there is the burning, cramping lump in her throat, the one she fights, the one that threatens to overpower her, to force her to release the rain from her eyes.

There is no hot hand to light her skin, no shoulder upon which to bury her head, no lips to whisper wicked secrets, or to make her gasp as they travel their teasing, moist warmth across her body.

There are no shackles to grace her wrists, there is no blindfold to sink her into rich darkness, no leather tendrils to fire her flesh, or ropes to free her from the binds of her life.

Having had it, she cannot live without it, and yet…she must…

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