She does not expect to be saved.
Her fantasies are the same – telling stares, fingers that linger, a steady rising rhythm, tangled limbs, writhing, heat, sweat, steam. Inside her head, a scream is plucked from deep inside, it slithers into a moan, and purrs its way to a nook of the nape. She imagines how she would lightly sink her teeth onto his shoulder while her claws mark her trespass. She flutters away from the scene in her head and bites her lower lip to the quiver between her legs.
But when he summons her, she couldn’t say yes. Neither could she say no. Resisting is too tempting to resist. The banter, after all, is part of the deed. But she has to be careful not too push too hard nor pull away too long. There is always the risk of being misunderstood.
It is not the promise of commitment nor loyalty that she needs. That would entail measuring her self-worth based on what he would be willing to offer. She is certain to avoid that risk. She will gamble only for, maybe, some interesting conversations, and then for everything else the body could bare. She’s ready for the sarcastic wooing, hopeful for painless separations. Encounters should stretch out for days, occur in intervals of months. It should be a surprise, unexpected but nothing too quick to merely attend to the base needs of the flesh. The rendezvous is already sinful, secret, therefore it must no longer be borne out of juvenile compulsions. It should be intended, savored, endured. She refuses to sneak into a room of pale light, hard bed, stiff sheets. She doesn’t need amour, but she needs to some pleasure in meaning. The elusive nature of their exchange should leave subtle impacts. Like a sequence from a French film. Or a tiny bruise that found its way from the corner of the table to the right hip. Anticipated, quick, unforgettable. She needs reason to continue. She needs it to excite her.
The truth of the matter is that she intends to prolong the fantasy in her head. It should not be that easy for either of them. She needs to feed on the agony of want but without turning it into pain. The body could endure only so much. Or, rather, so little.
She doesn’t need him to fall in love with her. She only needs him to keep her fantasy alive. The memory of his body on her will weigh her down, will push down on her unwilling thoughts until these have been weighed down so low it could only serve to wound the feet. And then, maybe, she will no longer wake up to the same nightmare of a battle lost. At least in this game, the certainty of loss is brought about by her own rules. This time she could throw in the towel and not regret what she could possibly lose.