Nora moaned because she could. Her cunt hurt from needing to come. Every thrust was a punishment until she came. Once more, twice more, three times more he rammed her and with that third thrust she came writhing and crying out his name. As her stomach spasmed, he poured into her, filling her until his scalding semen slicked her thighs.

After, they lay entwined, cock and pussy, arms and legs, blood and sweat and come. Her vagina pulsed around him even as the organ inside her softened. Søren released her wrists and stroked her hair. He held her to his chest.

“I’m sorry. I tried.”

“Don’t be sorry,” she said, meaning for that, for them, for everything. “I’m not.”

Slowly they pulled themselves apart and tenderly tended to each other’s wounds. Nora cleaned Søren’s cuts with alcohol and gauze. The S on her stomach had stopped bleeding. A little antiseptic ointment, and she was good as new. She started to ask him if he wanted some water when a small squeak sounded through the door.

Søren turned his head.

Nora said, “Was that your pussy or mine?”

“Mine, I think.”

He rose up off her, opened the door, and the little black cat sashayed into the bedroom like the guest of honor. She hopped onto the bed with one nimble leap, sauntered over to Nora and let out a meow.

“Guess she’s made herself at home,” Nora said.

Søren sat on the bed, scratching the cat under her chin.

“Are you all right?” Nora asked him.

“I am. You?”

“Still in shock.”

He smiled, almost shyly. “It went better than I thought it might. But if you tell Kingsley, it’ll be foot torture for a month.”

The cat, still unnamed, sat between them. Nora reached across her and touched Søren’s hand.

“Eleanor?”

“You’re cold.”

“I’m fine.”

“You were cold from the second I put the handcuffs on you. Cold sweat. Cold skin. Symptoms of panic.”

He said nothing. The cat shook herself, seemingly for no reason, then leapt onto the pillow. She turned in circles to soften a place for herself, and laid down again, making herself into a soft black donut.

“You were scared the entire time,” she went on, “but you didn’t stop me.” He stroked the cat, long gentle strokes from between her ears to her happy twitching tail. “Things happened to you as a child so awful you begged me once to never even think about it. And I’ve never even asked you what this has done to you.” It seemed fitting they would have this conversation, both of them naked.

She waited. Still, he stroked the cat. Still, he said nothing.

“Søren?”

“Should I have taken you to my mother?” He looked at her once, then returned to petting the cat.

“Maybe,” she said. “And maybe I would have loved being with her. But, knowing me, I would have run away eventually and come back to you.”

That got him to smile. A little. A very, very little.