They never had enough time.  They didn’t even have some time. They just had the

They never had enough time.  They didn’t even have some time. They just had the odd hour, snatched from time’s oppressive dictatorship here and there, wrenched from their schedule. It was something they had to fight for, and sacrifice to bring about. But they made it work, somehow.  It meant their time together was a whirlwind of sensation. All their conversation was taken care of before they met, all the mental needs stowed away so that only the physical remained. It was just as well; if they tried to shoehorn conversation is they’d barely be able to fuck.  He’d surge through the door and she’d swing her arms around his neck. Lifted off the ground, she’d cling to him and he’d all but run to the bedroom, knocking the walls in a stamped of lust. And they’d fuck. And he’d tie her up. And he’d make her his, one hour at a time. He’d learnt how to be efficient with his Dominance. But it was when he’d left that she felt it the most. She’d lie on the floor, the room littered with the detritus of their passion. Ropes coiled on the floor like an abandoned Jackson Pollock experiment, some sort of method in the random spools and curls. Cuffs scattered in the corner like shell casings at a murder scene. Her energy, her mental productivity, the victim.  She’d stare at the ceiling and bathe in the imprint his presence had left in the room. He hung in the air like perfume, and the walls seemed to be trying to return to their normal size, having being forced to expand to accommodate the sheer power of him. The windows were always open. She had to air him away, otherwise her life would be a wash. She’d spend her waking hours in that room, trying to catch some ghost whisper of his smell, or a forgotten echoe of his voice when he called her ‘mine’.  But for every hour he spent with her, she needed another to recover. It was almost like she had him for two, then. But almost is never quite good enough. -- source link

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