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I don’t understand why I didn’t fight him harder, why I consented in this twisted way. It wasn’t a rational decision on my part—it wasn’t a conscious choice to cooperate in order to avoid pain. No, I am acting purely on instinct. And my instinct is to submit to him.
In the aftermath, he rolls off me and gathers me to him, holding me close. And I cry in his arms, seeking solace from the very person who is the cause of my tears.
“Why do you call me that?” “Call you what? My pet?” I nod. “Because you remind me of a kitten,” he says, his blue eyes glittering with some strange emotion. “Small, soft, and very touchable. You make me want to stroke you just to see if you will purr in my arms.”
Besides, if you can’t get personal with a man who just fucked you on the beach, then when can you?
His eyes burn into mine so intensely, I feel like he’s consuming me with his gaze.
