Reconnecting

She sat at the kitchen table, twirling the wine glass in her hands. Sangria... as red as its namesake, the light turning it purple in the blue stemware. She'd always loved that stemware, so delicate and yet so strong... she identified with that description; maybe that was why she liked it so. Now there was only one glass left from the set of six she'd started out with, and this one had a tiny chip at the base, as well as tiny scratches on the bowl. Battered over time but not beaten, much like herself.

She thought back to the days when she was much younger and the glasses were new. She'd been so naive, so stupid. Her decisions had been based on nothing more substantial than dandelion fluff, but her heart full of hope. So many years had passed. Yet, what did she have to show for those years? And where was that hope now? Her mind wandered...

...and she came back to awareness as the crash shattered the stillness.

Damnit. That last beautiful wine glass lay in an array of sparkling shards on the floor at her feet. Silent tears rolled down her face as she laid her head on the table before her.

She allowed herself the luxury of crying for about a minute, then shook herself mentally. No use crying over spilled... wine? She laughed mirthlessly as she got up, grabbed the kitchen towel and tossed it over the mess. She walked away from it then, unable to clean it up. At least the towel would keep the cat from cutting her paws on the broken crystal.

She wandered through the living room for a moment, lit a cigarette, looked out the window at the darkness. She checked the time. 4:00am. If she listened carefully, she could hear his steady breathing from their bedroom. She envied

him his ability to sleep. Even when she laid beside him at night, even when she closed her eyes, she never really slept.

She moved into the bathroom, turning on the light and gazing into the mirror. Deep blue eyes stared back at her, tiny lines around them beginning to show her age. She noted with dismay that there seemed to be a few more gray hairs in the thick, red mane. She looked far younger than her chronological age, but even so, the signs of aging distressed her. She wondered if he still found her beautiful and desirable, if he missed her when she left their bed, if he craved her as much as she needed him. Lately, sex had been... nice... but it wasn't the exciting experience it used to be. They'd been through so much recently, and it had driven them into their separate corners.

As she recalled the last time he'd wielded the whip, tears escaped her eyes. Turning out the bathroom light, she crumpled to the floor and succumbed to the sobs...

How long she lay there huddled, she didn't know. But when a firm hand reached out and pulled her close, she jumped. Immediately, she was alert and her pride kicked in. She struggled against him, wiping the tears away with one shaking hand. "Go away," she whispered.

"No," he said simply and tried to draw her closer.

Steeling herself and pulling back, she met his eyes defiantly in the dim light streaming in from the living room. "I'm fine," she lied. "Go back to bed."

"I won't." His hands moved to her shoulders, gripping them tightly and forcing her nearer to his body. Kneeling beside her, he faced her with a grim look, but there was deep concern in his eyes. "You've got to tell me what's going

on."

She tried to smile, to reassure him that she was perfectly okay, but her face twisted into a rictus as she battled the errant trails of wetness slowly trickling down her cheeks. Violently, she pulled away from him and sat on the side of the bathtub, burying her face in her hands.

He stood up, confused and hurting. "I don't understand..." he began. "What is going on? Why aren't you in bed with me?"

She raised her tear-streaked face and flashed a look of steely determination at him. "I will be fine. Maybe hormones... I don't know," she said. "Please go back to bed and leave me alone. Please." She couldn't bear to be in the same room with him, fearing that he no longer wanted her, sure they would never again share the heights of passion they'd once had, positive she wasn't enough for him anymore.

He ran a hand through his hair and let out a small, frustrated sigh. "Would you please tell me what the hell this is all about?" he asked. When she only shook her head and shrugged, he went to her.

Standing before the tub, he gazed down upon her. His heart ached at the sight of her lovely tear-stained face, remembering the times he'd caused such tears.

He felt a stirring in his groin at the memories, hearing in his mind the cries and screams as he struck her again and again, arcing the cat'o'nine perfectly before it came down upon her tender flesh. Oh, gods, no... this was the wrong time. It had been so long... too long... but he'd thought it best not to play considering all the stress she'd been under. And so it had gone for quite some time, until the implements of pain and pleasure became dusty from disuse and their sex became more and more vanilla.

Why was he standing there staring at her like that? She caught his smoldering gaze, shook her head, looked back. Surely she was mistaken... he hadn't looked at her like that in ages. But, no... on his face was the undeniable look of intensity, arousal and dark lust. It was too much. She couldn't go back there only to flounder again once the night was gone. Better

to remain stubborn, never letting him know her weakness.

"My own..." the words escaped him before he could think.

"NO!" she shouted at him, and rushed for the door, hoping she could out-maneuver him enough to escape the confines of the tiny room.

No such luck. Before she'd gone four steps he was on her, hands holding her arms at her sides. "Look at me!" he demanded. Damn the little spitfire, she tried to escape his grasp but only inflamed his desire further. "LOOK AT ME!"

She continued to struggle but the fight was with her own needs more than anything. Her breath was coming in ragged gasps now, her face soaked with tears, her hair wild around her. "Let... go... of... ME!" she ground out from between clenched teeth.

The sharp report of the slap echoed through the bathroom, taking both of them by surprise. He felt ashamed, defeated, and dropped her arms. He dared to look at her face in the dimness and could vaguely see the red mark on her left

cheek. "Oh, gods... oh, shit," he stammered, on the verge of tears himself.

"I'm so sorry. Please... I don't know... I'm sorry." He didn't know what to say. "I... I..." He turned to leave the bathroom, to leave her alone, to go back to the cold bed he'd woken up alone in so often in recent times. He had

no business doing that to her, not anymore.

"Don't go, please," he thought he heard her say, and looked over his shoulder. She stood up, one hand against the wall for support.

Quizzically, he stared for a moment into the fathomless depths of her eyes.

"Don't go," she repeated, her voice a little louder. Taking a deep breath, she closed her eyes to escape his prying ones, and softly said, "More."

Oh, gods, was that really her voice? Did she say that out loud? She craved his control, desperately needed his hands upon her roughly, was almost insane with the desire to have him prove to her that he still needed this as much as she did... but... it had been too long, and her pride had kept her sane. Where was her resolve, her strength? By the gods, what had she done?

Half-weak with frustration and need, she started to turn away from him, angry with herself for almost giving in. In one swift movement, he was advancing on her, before her, pinning her against the cool tile of the bathroom wall.

"What?" he asked, his voice a deep growl borne of his own desire and need.

His power called to her, got inside her and commanded her. Oh, gods... oh, gods... now what? She cringed against the wall, wondering what daemons had possessed her and bidding them gone before they could raise their heads again.

Her head spun as the second slap came, then a third. She was dizzy with need, hot and cold all at once. She tipped her head back, gasping.

His hand snaked through her hair, yanked it hard, brought her face to meet his.

"Do you want more?" he asked, his voice a medley of power and passion.

"Yes..." she sobbed. "Gods help me, yes."

Without another word, he pulled her into the bedroom. He threw her roughly on the bed, where she laid, stomach down, softly crying. He rummaged for a moment through the nightstand's drawer, pulling out a black leather collar. Offering her no choice, he straddled her and slipped the collar under her neck, buckling it at the back of her neck. "You are mine," he told her, "and you will always be. This is the way it must be, this is the way you want it, this is the way I need it."

Rolling her over, he kissed her once, swiftly, before reaching into the long-unused toolbox beside the bed and withdrawing the beloved cat'o'nine along with the wicked viper's tongue. Pausing only a second, he pulled out a set of clamps, then set to attaching them to her nipples. She cried out, relief and desire flooding her mind as surely as her own juices flooded her thighs.

Yes... oh, yes...

She met his eyes and silently mouthed, "I love you," right before he yanked on the chain between the clamps.

Her screams echoed into the night as they found each other... and themselves... once more.