#metaphors all up in my tags

The Primary Cause

She kissed him first. She felt like that was an important thing to say, even if she was only saying it to herself. It set out exactly who was the instigator here, and who was on the receiving end. She was giving, and he was getting, and that was that. 

It didn’t matter that he was seizing her outright, laying hands on her with an intention to bruise, throwing her on the floor and pinning her down with his bodyweight. It didn’t matter that he’d kissed back just as hard, and she’d felt the thick hairs of his beard against her face, and almost giggled as they tickled her. It didn’t matter that he’d pulled her on top of him and told her to show him the parts he hadn’t seen. It didn’t matter that he’d taken charge.

She’d made the first move, and so everything beyond that was just the aftershocks of that initial quake, each spilling out from the epicenter that was her action. She was the orchestrator, the architect, and the primary cause. The ancestor of her own demise, hoisting her own petard with more than a little glee. 

Besides, it was her who was showing him, not him who was forcibly stealing a peek. She was the one on him, and he was the one underneath her. And in her book, that put her in a pretty commanding position. She just wouldn’t mention the fact his fingers were digging into her hips like a vice, making sure she didn’t go anywhere, and did exactly what he said.

She wouldn’t mention that at all.