[She looks alarmed at his reply, of being told that he's injured elsewhere and still feels their sting, even though it must have been ages since they were first inflicted. But before she could be any more tactless, he raises his arms and removes his shirt, quite promptly changing the subject.
He begins to pull down the long skirt, heavy with pearls and diamonds sewn into the cloth, and she raises her hips slightly for him. With her stockings gone, there is only her intimates remaining underneath, just as white and fragile as the rest of her ensemble. When the dress finally comes off, tangled on the floor with their other clothing, it's then that she thinks the worst is over, except—
Well, she never thought anyone would have seen that one, as concealed as it was. Where it comes from seems like an obvious answer, already presenting itself—after all, her husband's temper and fondness of liquor is the hot topic of fierce gossip in many social circles. But that isn't what he asks, and for the first time, something worse than regret, more troubling than distress comes over her expression, the faint traces of a terror, revived by an old and awful memory.]
—Yes.
[She admits in a quiet murmur, the sweetness and clarity absent from her voice, sounding as bitter as she has ever sounded, sour and cynical and deeply upset, as if it is a new complication. It's still fresh, dark and not yet turning an ugly yellowish color as it heals. She can still feel the phantom throb of it when he touches it, even with how gentle he is.]
no subject
He begins to pull down the long skirt, heavy with pearls and diamonds sewn into the cloth, and she raises her hips slightly for him. With her stockings gone, there is only her intimates remaining underneath, just as white and fragile as the rest of her ensemble. When the dress finally comes off, tangled on the floor with their other clothing, it's then that she thinks the worst is over, except—
Well, she never thought anyone would have seen that one, as concealed as it was. Where it comes from seems like an obvious answer, already presenting itself—after all, her husband's temper and fondness of liquor is the hot topic of fierce gossip in many social circles. But that isn't what he asks, and for the first time, something worse than regret, more troubling than distress comes over her expression, the faint traces of a terror, revived by an old and awful memory.]
—Yes.
[She admits in a quiet murmur, the sweetness and clarity absent from her voice, sounding as bitter as she has ever sounded, sour and cynical and deeply upset, as if it is a new complication. It's still fresh, dark and not yet turning an ugly yellowish color as it heals. She can still feel the phantom throb of it when he touches it, even with how gentle he is.]