A.N. I really do have to apologize for this piece. Even I am not satisfied with it. No plot really. No meaning. But I present it to you regardless. Again I hope you can forgive me for this less then spectacular piece.

He had told her eight o'clock.

She glanced at the cheap wooden clock that rested on top the fireplace mantel, the tiny, tinny sounds noting the passage of time, dragging it out, lengthening it. Every second, every tick, took her further from the appointed time.

The clock had quickly become the enemy.

She rested on the couch in front of the fireplace, staring absently into the orange flames. Beckoning flames, dancing pillars of heat and smoke that called to her, lulling her forward into its welcome heat. How easy it would be to submit to its silent call. How easy it would be to put herself willingly into that fire, banishing her eternal heartache, an eager sacrifice. She pulled her thick blanket closer around her barely clad body, smothering her desperate thoughts of fire and blood.

He would come soon.

He said he would.

How often had she fallen into his trap, succumbing to his promises of passion, of ruthless sex. How often had he left her to wait in agony, sometimes never showing up. Never giving her a reason for his absence. And how many times had he come to her, without apology, without reason, and she had been waiting for him, anxious, eager even for the feel of his hard body on top of hers. Thrusting. Always thrusting. Claiming her body, her soul, while he gave her nothing but the feel of hard flesh pounding into her, a moment of passionate sex before leaving her again. Always leaving her again.

But he had promised.

I want to touch you, take you, make you my own again. I love being inside you, feeling you squeezing me, having you soft and submissive beneath me. I want to fuck you until you're moaning loudly, so loudly like you always do. Let me come over tonight. Let me have you like I have a thousand times before.

And she had agreed, his smooth words of sex arousing her beyond her control, making her want him, making her wet for him. He would come to her and he would fuck her like he always did. Fuck her hard, fast, deeply and thoroughly. Never making love to her, only fucking. Always fucking.

How low it made her feel.

She could never say no.

Her hand slid down her silken nightdress, the flimsy black gown barely brushing her thighs. She was naked underneath, always naked and willing for him, and the scent of her own arousal titillated her own senses. Her body, so excited, so aroused from mere memory, cried for a release, any kind of release. Four hours had passed since his appointed arrival time. Four hours of sexual images flooding her mind, countless positions enacted inside her brain. And she could be in control. She could spin him over, placing him on his back and she took him inside her body, riding him at her own pace. He would be loving in those fantasies, grasping at her breasts with his large hands, kissing her deeply, as though he could never get enough. He would fuck her repeatedly, hundreds, thousands of times, never having enough of her. And she would welcome him each time, the powerful thrust of his engorged flesh, his hot mouth sliding over and down her body, tasting her, teasing her into orgasm. And she would cry out as she came over him, around him, squeezing him with the force of her release.

In her fantasies, he would hold her, be with her, never leaving again.

In her fantasies, he would tell her he loved her.

She slid a finger down the slippery junction between her slender thighs. Dripping wet only for him. Gingerly, she touched that hard protruding bit of flesh, moaning slightly when bolts of intense pleasure shot through her body. Only a few thrusts of her own fingers would cause her to orgasm she knew, only a moment of tantalizing circles inside her warm body to free her from the taut tension that held her. She eased a finger inside herself, the act of penetration so erotic, so thrilling.

But it wasn't him. It wasn't his solid arousal surging into her.

Sighing in distress, She allowed her finger to slip from herself as she lay back into the couch, cuddling with a thick pillow, the hem of her nightgown twisted around her waist. She pulled the blanket to her chin, as though the fabric could stop the fantasies, the memories that continued to assault her. A flame caught a piece of wooden log, eagerly latching onto the unburned substance, devouring it with sharp popping sounds that caught her attention. A tear slid down her smooth cheek and she cursed herself. A thousand times he had done this, leaving her stranded, leaving her alone when all she wanted was his company. A thousand times had he promised sex, thorough loving, and not arrived to fulfill his vow. A thousand times had he come to her on a later day, fucking her without apology, without remorse. For he knew she would receive him, would open eagerly for that sensual glide of his thick hard flesh as he slid easily into her welcoming warmth. Without a word. Without a promise. Only the slick sounds of his rapid thrusting, the seductively sensual melodies of labored breathing were allowed to penetrate the silence.

She was always so welcoming for him.

Sometimes, he would demand her to scream when she came around him. Always sex words, never love words. His name was forbidden wherever he decided to fuck her, the thought of it too possessing to him, as though by yelling his name at the height of sensation he brought her to would brand him as her own. Instead he demanded words of a lesser threat, words that would bring upon her own release. Countless times had she yelled for him to fuck her harder, faster, groaning aloud when he complied, grinding his hips against her, rough and so good. Always so good.

Against a wall. On her hands and knees. Always was she willing to please him, to welcome him into her body. He was like a disease she could never be rid of, a sensual, sexy plague that tormented her, haunting her thoughts, her daydreams. He filled her mind only with himself until she was only an empty shell of her former self. Until she became his own personal slave, submissive and willing. Only for him. Always for him. She supposed there had been a point in the beginning when she could have escaped his hold on her. But his brown eyes had held her so captive, short dark brown hair, his tall muscled body holding her attention until it was too late. And his smile, that sexy sensual smile that spoke purely of sex, would always be her undoing.

The phone rang once, twice. Quickly she glanced at the clock, taking swift note of the time. Four and a half hours late. It was him on the phone, telling her he would be there within the hour. He offered no apologies, no promises.

As usual.

Anger built up within her, an emotion so far detached from her it felt foreign to her empty heart, but she quickly suppressed it. Instead she hung up the phone, settling her body more comfortably into the couch to wait for him.

He was coming to her again.

He had said so.