There you have her, trapped between your powerful and squeezing thighs. After so many curses hissed, after so many slaps and scratches inflicted upon one another.
And though before, if you had caught her so, she would have wrenched and wriggled — gouged and bit … now she is tired. Spent. And barely able to tighten her fingers around your flexed legs. A show of weakness accompanied by another, that being her pretty, tear-stained face once, and then again, sliding down into your waiting and war-wet cunt.
The moment is delectable and delicious. Her expression of fear and regret unforgettable and intoxicating.
She is yours, and she knows it — in some ways more than you.
Hope for Mercy though she does, asking for it, as she lets her lipsticked lips press into and linger atop your kitten, her suffering will continue.
Until you have purged it completely. The hatred she stoked within you for oh so long.
Until neither you or she have any interesting in seeing one another or speaking ever again. You because she has proven to be your lesser and undeserving of your attention. And she because your cruelty still haunts her. In her dreams. As she lives. And for years yet to come.