Her submission was held between his thumb and forefinger.
It didn’t matter where they went, that was where she was, held in the lightest of pinches, the hardest of grasps. They could be around her throat, holding her jaw, thumb in her mouth and finger on her cheek, or pinching her nipple, and that was the only place that was truly here.
Then there were the times where his hand would travel further south, fingers plunging into her, making her gasp and writhe and squirm, the same way every time, while that thumb pressed against her most sensitive spot. He was rarely gentle with her, when he had her like that, fingers moving too fast for her to savour, and too hard for her to relax around. He made her into a spasming creature, jelly on a washing machine.
That thumb, and that finger, were never too gentle, she realised. The rest of the hand could caress, but when those two joined together, they visited crimes on her body. They were a pair of abusers, and she was their abused.
She might mind if they weren’t so very good at their job.
(Source: scentofslave, via slavesdiary)