The sun peaked through the slotted blinds, cast shadowed striped patterns across her pale form, but she dreamed of the room pitched in midnight. Her hands lazily wandered to the juncture between her thighs as she explored the darker places.
He would come in, slowly and carefully at first, not alerting her sleeping form to his presence and just listen to the silence. Tentatively he would turn on his flashlight, a beam penetrating the heavy darkness, seeing a small foot at first and following the curves and contours of her naked, unconscious body.
She was exposed, wholly, so drugged that the covers were too much of an effort to drag over herself before she crashed into the darkness.
She was lovely laid out in this manner, so vulnerable and open, one knee bent to a parted thigh, almost exposing the very essence of her. Her nipples were hard and he would feel himself stir and grow in his own desire.
He would strip naked, still trying to maintain some quiet. Reverently, he would touch an ankle, follow the straightened leg, thigh, hip, waist. He would cup a delicate breast, the sliver of light that he placed on the nightstand highlighting the globe prominently. He would appreciate the plumpness, the softness of the skin, and his thumb would stroke up to the nipple.
She of course continued her deep slumber despite her nipple rising more firmly from the attention.
He would sit on the edge of the bed, closer to her, and reach out to grasp both breasts, squeezing a bit and watching her face for a reaction. There wasn’t one. One hand would position to the front of her throat, the fingers and thumb seeking her pulse on either side. He gently pressed in, felt the thrumming of life at his fingertips.
She was so beautiful defenseless.
Her face was so unconcerned. He would withdraw his hand from her throat and slap her across a cheek; the sharpness of noise cracking against the stillness. Indifferent, her face would turn away from him. His fingers would dig under her cheekbones as he roughly flips her aloof face towards him. His hands take note of the coolness of one untouched cheek versus the fiery heat of the other.
Suddenly he is impatient, he can no longer wait. He tears apart her legs, he would spear himself inside of her depths, push past the dispassion of resistance inside of her, and penetrate as deeply as he could. He leans forward, paws at her breasts, bites into the rosy buds. She is unresponsive no matter how hard he thrusts but he is determined to find satisfaction in her body anyhow.
Her whole body flows with the pounding of his hips, passively clings to the mattress rather than his intrusion. He smells starkly her sex and his sweat in the oppressive room and suddenly would wish to rid himself of her.
But not until she yields him pleasure. Through no action from her, he can still come, he knows this and pursues it fully. He simply couldn’t pull himself away from her at this point. He was torn between wanting her issue a noise or shiver of excitement, or capitulate until her body swallows him wholly. Frantically, violently, he thrusts into her body, his arms would wrap around her waist and pull her more fully against him; he likes how her back arches, a scene for fucking.
He feels the heat and explodes inside of her very depths, holds tightly and firmly, deep as he can while he finally feels the relief that her body conceded.
Exhausted, his arms would release her, her body dropping away from him. He would withdraw as quickly as he could, step backwards and almost trip over his pile of belongings, and sweep them up. Desperately, he would exit the room as quickly as possible, leaving the small light accentuating her shadowy form.