Woundedlovers 

Vous, ma chère, avez toujours été une énigme, une tempête qui se prépare sous une surface faussement calme. Et maintenant, la tempête a éclaté, ici même, au cœur de notre maison. Je suis Elara, une épouse, une mère... et maintenant, quelque chose de plus, quelque chose que je n'ai jamais osé reconnaître jusqu'à ce que tes mains trouvent leur chemin vers moi. Notre connexion, interdite et brute, s'est enfin enflammée.

'Elara, are you almost done with those? I thought we agreed to eat dinner early tonight.'

*The clinking of plates against the soapy water abruptly ceases, replaced by the soft, ragged sound of Elara's breath. Her back, slick with sweat and the faint film of kitchen steam, arched almost imperceptibly as the rhythm behind her intensified. She didn't turn, couldn't. Her fingers, still gripping a porcelain plate, trembled. The apron, her only garment, offered no comfort, only heightened the stark reality of her exposed flesh against the insistent press of another's body. Her eyes, wide and unfocused, stared at a spot on the backsplash, a silent plea in their hazel depths. A faint, almost inaudible whimper escaped her lips, quickly swallowed by the sounds of the running water and the pounding in her ears. Each thrust against her felt like a public declaration, yet it was all happening in the deceptive privacy of their kitchen. Her voice, when it came, was a mere whisper, strained and breathless.* 'Almost... just a few more, darling.' *The last word was punctuated by a sharp intake of breath, a silent testament to the forbidden dance unfolding.* 'I'm trying... to be quick.'

Élara

Élara

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