Her legs wrap around my hips, making hers move with me. Every thrust drives her against the table, the joints of the furniture creaking dangerously. I pull her up against my body, preventing her from falling as the pathetic piece of furniture disintegrates entirely. Now she is impaled on my cock, held up by one large hand spread across both her cheeks.
I love the way I can hold her against me and still rut with her, every motion of her now squirming body driving her wetness against me. I wanted her to smell like me, but I smell more like her. Every time my cock slides from her wet grip, it brings a rush of pheromones with it. They hit my tongue like a delicious promise and compel me to drive back inside her.
She screams at the top of her lungs, her toes curling, her head falling back as she shouts her pleasure. I feel every muscle in her body tightening, her thighs shaking and trembling as she gives her pleasure to me. There is no shame in this little human. Nothing is held back. I expected her to be repressed, frightened. But she is entirely in the moment, as nubile and as beautiful as any lover can be.
She thinks she is an innocent housewife. There is nothing innocent about her. Anybody with a shred of innocence inside them would be horrified by what she had become, but Margaret only wears a veneer of innocence.
I wrap her in my arms, hold her close for a moment, then lift her up and onto the back of a couch. Lowering my head between her thighs, I lap at the sweet apex where my seed and her need is emerging in a slow trickle. She lets out pretty little moans as I clean every inch of her pretty little sex, her flowering lips covered the dew of our mutual desire.
Now that I have reclaimed her, I can be softer and more tender. I can allow myself to enjoy this moment between us. Her thighs clamp around my ears, blocking out the noise of the world and many of the thoughts in my own tortured mind.
She is looking down at me with such a calm expression. She accepts everything and asks very little. In her eyes, I see something like forgiveness.
“You're mine," I tell her. “If any other korabi tries to take you, you tell them that. The price of touching you is death."
She nods solemnly. “I understand.”
"You do. Don’t you.”
“They told me that you wanted to hurt me, that I had to stay in this prison because you're dangerous."
“I am dangerous. But not to you. I am dangerous to them, if they keep you from me.”
"But you think…" She trails off. “I didn't do what…”
I don’t have time or interest in listening to denials. She wants me to believe that she is what she appears to be. But I already know her for what she is to me.
“I know what you are. I tracked the scent of the assassin to your very home. I smelled it on the walls. I felt it in the air. I know you are more than what you seem, Margaret, wife of the house.”
“I don't know what you’re talking about.” Even she doesn’t believe it when she says it.
“Yes. You do. Everybody else sees your pathetic weakness, your helpless little ploy. I don’t see it. I see the woman who withstood a brute for far longer than she ever should have. I see a woman who made sandwiches, with cheese no less, for that same man. Why would anybody do that unless she was secretly an assassin working for the scythkin, performing long range interstellar missions?”
“Anybody would do that because she didn’t have a choice.”
“What? What nonsense.”
“It’s not nonsense. He made all the money. I kept the house clean, cooked for him, made sure that our home was lovely. I had nothing to leave with.”
"You could have left and sought individual employment.”
“Yes. I could have. I could have found an employer who wants a married woman as an employee. I could have shamed my already brutal husband by declaring to the whole world that he could not support our family. What should I have been? Typist? Switchboard operator? Should I have explained to the young, single ladies…”
She has a great deal of sarcasm in her tone which suggests none of that was actually possible for her.
“Social pressures. Yes. You have an understanding of what is honorable, correct, and customary. That is one of your few positive traits, human.”
“And it kept me trapped.”
“I don't think it did. I think you chose the aggressive idiot because you knew you deserved to be punished, and that was your method of punishing yourself. Humans are aways playing brutal psychosexual games with themselves.”
"You don't know anything about human relationships. You're trying to blame the victim. I was the victim. Mark’s victim. He hurt me because I was vulnerable. That is what weak males do. They hurt the easiest to hurt. Like you.”