You now lie still
Your hair, a hardened braid, left an imprint on the back of your neck. There is an iridescent sheen on one part of your cheek, a slick mix of sweat and your own excitement. Your spine presses heavily into the mattress and flattens. Your breasts heave.
You have only been lying here a minute this way. The sheets around you have been pushed to conform to your body’s shape and apparently you are relishing in the violence. The hands you used to manipulate this moment to your liking hang in two places; there is one near your face, a finger caught in the corner of your mouth and another pinned between the mattress at an angle that must be approaching painful. The distance between your ribs and hips is marked by a raking you made on your left side, dragging nails up to your face where you smeared your progress.
I have watched you agonize. I have seen you twist, distort your limbs and face, bite yourself and insist, urgently, that your body obey. I have felt my own body respond to the commands. My attention has been fixed, not on you, but on the torturous hunger that led to the way you now lie still.