struggled.
“Fucking hell, Daniel!” she shouted. “Just stop it now!”
He did not listen, however. Releasing her other wrist, she could feel him moving his hand behind her head. Her free hand flailed and sought for some purchase, some object or weapon even, and she screamed in panic when she felt his hand return to her buttocks, squeezing between the cleft, rubbing wet spittle around her anus.
“No! No!” she shouted, as much furious as frightened. “Not that! You bastard! Fucking hell! Just stop it!”
He paid her no heed, but pressed the head of his cock against her anus, began to use his weight on her. In desperation she had panicked, but now a moment of awful clarity emerged in the seconds before he could tear into her.
“Alfama! Daniel, Alfama! Please, stop! Please! Alfama, Daniel!”
The effect was almost instantaneous. He froze on top of her. She had begun to sob, but he did not console her, did not apologise. Instead, after a few moments lying above her, his body tense, he rolled off her and simply left the room.
She was crying — more from anger than fear, and when at last she climbed from the bed and pulled on a shirt and jeans, her whole body was trembling.
Daniel was outside the front door of the cottage, utterly naked and staring at the distant hills. His broad back was turned to her, a dark silhouette as she approached the bright outline of the doorway. She was shivering, watching him as he turned his gaze to her from the far off horizon. At last she spoke.
“Would you have continued? If I hadn’t... hadn’t said it?”
“I don't know.” His voice was brittle, restrained. “I lost control then. That's... unusual for me. A first time, in fact, but then, you just being you brings up things that are dangerous for me to know. I told you how to stop me. If you hadn’t the wit — nor the will — to understand it is what you want...” The rest of his sentence faded away on the air.
At this, her anger and rage suddenly boiled up inside her. “Who the fuck are you, Daniel? What gives you the fucking right to do this?” Leaping forward from the doorway, she hit him as hard as she could on the back — making him stagger slightly more by luck than by force. “What gives you the fucking right?”
As she continued to punch him, for a while he stood with his back to her and absorbed her blows silently. Then, as she drew back her arm for a final ineffectual blow, he suddenly turned and grabbed hold of her wrist, making her suck in her air in fear and surprise.
“You do,” he told her. “You do, if you want it that way.” His voice was quiet. “Maybe I was wrong about you. Maybe you’re not the one after all. But you give me the right to do everything — if you want it.”
He released her hand and strode back into the house. She fought back the tears, her head a maelstrom of emotions as she heard him moving about upstairs. When he returned down a few moments later, dressed in trousers and a shirt of his own, she had not shifted from the spot where he left her.
“I told you I’d push you,” he said to her, his voice calm, assured, though she did not look at him while he spoke. “And I gave you the key to stopping me. If I surprised you... perhaps I am sorry, though that’s not in my nature. It’s just the way it is. I’m going for a little while. If you want to leave... well, you know where your car keys are. Don’t worry. I’ll make sure all your belongings are returned to Dalrigh. There’s no need for you to come back here.”
She kept her head faced downwards, not out of shame nor even fear of him, but once more full of the feelings of frustration and anger that were so familiar to her. As she heard the Land Rover driving away, she did not look up but, instead, stared down at her left hand, curled as it was in a fist. It felt to her at that moment as though her whole arm was sheathed in steel, a thick, immobile carapace that refused to allow her to move even had she
“Fucking hell, Daniel!” she shouted. “Just stop it now!”
He did not listen, however. Releasing her other wrist, she could feel him moving his hand behind her head. Her free hand flailed and sought for some purchase, some object or weapon even, and she screamed in panic when she felt his hand return to her buttocks, squeezing between the cleft, rubbing wet spittle around her anus.
“No! No!” she shouted, as much furious as frightened. “Not that! You bastard! Fucking hell! Just stop it!”
He paid her no heed, but pressed the head of his cock against her anus, began to use his weight on her. In desperation she had panicked, but now a moment of awful clarity emerged in the seconds before he could tear into her.
“Alfama! Daniel, Alfama! Please, stop! Please! Alfama, Daniel!”
The effect was almost instantaneous. He froze on top of her. She had begun to sob, but he did not console her, did not apologise. Instead, after a few moments lying above her, his body tense, he rolled off her and simply left the room.
She was crying — more from anger than fear, and when at last she climbed from the bed and pulled on a shirt and jeans, her whole body was trembling.
Daniel was outside the front door of the cottage, utterly naked and staring at the distant hills. His broad back was turned to her, a dark silhouette as she approached the bright outline of the doorway. She was shivering, watching him as he turned his gaze to her from the far off horizon. At last she spoke.
“Would you have continued? If I hadn’t... hadn’t said it?”
“I don't know.” His voice was brittle, restrained. “I lost control then. That's... unusual for me. A first time, in fact, but then, you just being you brings up things that are dangerous for me to know. I told you how to stop me. If you hadn’t the wit — nor the will — to understand it is what you want...” The rest of his sentence faded away on the air.
At this, her anger and rage suddenly boiled up inside her. “Who the fuck are you, Daniel? What gives you the fucking right to do this?” Leaping forward from the doorway, she hit him as hard as she could on the back — making him stagger slightly more by luck than by force. “What gives you the fucking right?”
As she continued to punch him, for a while he stood with his back to her and absorbed her blows silently. Then, as she drew back her arm for a final ineffectual blow, he suddenly turned and grabbed hold of her wrist, making her suck in her air in fear and surprise.
“You do,” he told her. “You do, if you want it that way.” His voice was quiet. “Maybe I was wrong about you. Maybe you’re not the one after all. But you give me the right to do everything — if you want it.”
He released her hand and strode back into the house. She fought back the tears, her head a maelstrom of emotions as she heard him moving about upstairs. When he returned down a few moments later, dressed in trousers and a shirt of his own, she had not shifted from the spot where he left her.
“I told you I’d push you,” he said to her, his voice calm, assured, though she did not look at him while he spoke. “And I gave you the key to stopping me. If I surprised you... perhaps I am sorry, though that’s not in my nature. It’s just the way it is. I’m going for a little while. If you want to leave... well, you know where your car keys are. Don’t worry. I’ll make sure all your belongings are returned to Dalrigh. There’s no need for you to come back here.”
She kept her head faced downwards, not out of shame nor even fear of him, but once more full of the feelings of frustration and anger that were so familiar to her. As she heard the Land Rover driving away, she did not look up but, instead, stared down at her left hand, curled as it was in a fist. It felt to her at that moment as though her whole arm was sheathed in steel, a thick, immobile carapace that refused to allow her to move even had she
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