Her mind was a cinema, the projector reeling off the past hour in minute detail, and with such raw,

Her mind was a cinema, the projector reeling off the past hour in minute detail, and with such raw, visceral power that she was feeling it pass through her body all over again. Each little thing that flashed before the screen of her mind, and she’d have another electric thrill jolt down her spine.  It happened each time, the moment he was finished, she’d have to brush him off and just be for twenty minutes, or an hour. It wasn’t the clock that she was watching, but each moment of what had just taken place. She needed to process, but more importantly she wanted to squeeze each and every second for as much pleasure as it would give.  After a while, she’d get all bothered again. Squirmy, even. But it was a mellow, happy kind of bothered, where she could just savour it, knowing exactly where it had come from, and where it was going to go. Eventually she’d begin to calm, her heart rate would start to come down, and she could think about relaxing.  When she’d resurface, wandering into the room a little meek, and a little coy, he’d make a quip about her doing her make up, perhaps, or just generally attending lady business, and she’d roll her eyes and smile. And then they’d sit on the sofa, perhaps watch a little television.  But she could never really turn off that cinema in her head. It was endlessly playing reruns, and while she could ignore it most of the time, little things would pull her attention back to it, and she’d be enraptured all over again, bothered and squirmy without a moment’s warning.  He wasn’t entirely oblivious to this fact. -- source link

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