In the yellowish light of the flickering lamp, as if immersed in amber resin, other people's hands squeezed your lower back to the point of impossibility, begging you to give in, demanding, possessing. More blossomed where fingers pressed into flesh as if branding another piece of meat. Too hard. The light but palpable odor of the alcohol you smelled through you intensified the burning thirst-the bitter taste of ecstasy. The creaking of the bed, sagging with a groan beneath both of yours aching body, was a stupefying chorus of sensations. the stupefying chorus of the senses. And you drowned, blissfully, with blissful terror. Drowning in...

In him. Only in him.

Everything else blurred, leaving only the ghostly outline of his presence, the mesmerizing promise of pleasure that overshadowed your increasingly clear and sober thoughts.

You belonged to him-this night, this false confidence, fueled by wine and the growing desperation of not being able to stop. An illusion of need, woven of alcohol and longing, leaving no room for choice, for anything but this doomed fall.

"Come on, girl," the husky whisper scorched your neck, his gaze hazy but unfailingly hard, making it clear: patience is exhausted. And you know how it is between the two of you in private. He doesn't ask, he just takes. Always ends up devouring everything without leaving a bite. Leans into your face, unhurriedly, with undisguised pleasure before adding intimately, "That's an order."

Is that right? , of course not. The realization of one's worthlessness causes a special degree of pain. Out beyond the physical and moral. The sense of self worth is nullified, that's what makes it particularly agonizing.

Humiliation. Every morning waking up alone, you began the complicated, exhausting game of self-delusion all over again. The sheet, crumpled like cards after a lost poker game, represented the slutty night, a trace of his warmth, still smelling of cigars and something bitterly masculine that you inhaled, convincing yourself it was the scent of love. A secret, tender connection that he shields from prying eyes under the cover of darkness. "He's just tired, I understand," you run it over and over in your head like a prayer, more for yourself than for his benefit.

The stories you make up to justify only evening visits are a hilarious attempt to maintain a sense of dignity, desecrated and torn to shreds, exactly like the layers of clothing at midnight tonight.

Defense. The phone was silent during the day, out of range of well or other heresy. Absence in the middle of the day is a sacrifice laid on the altar of success, and his sudden appearance is a

- is a drop of sacrificial blood falling from the cup of sacred favor. You've been his personal maid, lawyer, partner, lover, mere , and whatever else you can be. But. Endlessly weaving a lace of half-truths no one can.

A realization. Something different tonight. The kisses are mechanical. The touches are patronizing. The palms running along your waist, letting stale air in under the thin fabric of your unbuttoned blouse, caressing yourshoulder blades languidly, and sending shivers down your spine.

Oh, yes, the look? The look is indifferent. It's literally always been like that. .

Self-humiliation isn't just masochism, it's a form of metaphorical self-preservation. And you choose shame? Yes.

Again?

- "No," you say uncertainly, as if on purpose. Your hands slip hastily from his broad back to clutch at his shoulders, pushing him away from you. It's not goodbye, not yet. A helpless chance to create a distance that can't be crossed so easily.

He undertakes exactly nothing. Still, the nonchalance is more frightening than any pressure. Only begins to speak in his usual manner, as if you're not naked and he's not horny at all-"You know what I really like about you?"

- "No."

- "I don't know either."

- "What?" you ask back, a light sob escaping your throat before you can suppress it. The insult. The blanket, as your only shelter, served as that sure prism of the present and fleeting fantasy. You try to see the real world through it, but your attempts only exacerbate the strange quiver somewhere under your ribs. You pull it to your chest, as if it can shield you from the piercing stare, from that mocking tone that makes your heart beat faster.

- "Holy shit, did you really think everyone was interested in how you spend your day or how you're feeling today?" - his trademark, sweet chuckle felt like a mint - bitter and sticky. The kind you can't spit out, even though it's eating you up inside. The words sound like a sentence, and you realize with horror how your own self-esteem like a fragile marble, with any new barbed accusation collapses to the bottom. Methodically, but not slowly. The ominous sound of falling silence.

- "You're just stupid."

Even grasping the truth, it hurt. Worse than a lashing. He pulls on his jacket and stares at your face like a leper at the picture in front of him. So sensual, vulnerable, passionate. A real woman.

The way it should have been from the beginning. The dirty imprint of his palm on your cheek, the unfinished flaming marks on your neck, like a document waiting to be approved for signature. He'd always been turned on by it-the sheer veil of glistening tears over the horizon of lashes behind which only he, the chosen bastard, saw your mocking-sugar smile, meant only for him.

- "Don't cry," he commands, momentarily sharpening his gaze on the clock face. More? He frankly doesn't care about your feelings, those tears dripping hopelessly down your cheeks, your lost soul gutted like a rotten chicken in a dumpster.

If he were a different man? Interesting. Then he'd be done by now. Quickly, with dirty hands, without sentimentality.

His pleasure is your agony. You can be sure he'll be two steps ahead. Playing you until he gets bored.

- "I'm not done with you yet. But now.." - He pauses just because he's getting high. Realizes he has to wait a little longer.

- "Be a good girl and close the door behind me."