When she first saw him, it became a problem to not see him.
Something about the strange man held her attention in a fashion somewhere between a breathtaking sunset and a horrible car accident. He seemed more in focus than the world around him. His lines seemed more crisp. He seemed to exist more than a normal person should, and something about the absolute nature of his existence managed to feel more believable. Comforting. Then she looked into his eyes, and saw into his terrible mind.
She saw into the chaos of the male psyche. There was an elaborate history of pain feeding like coal into a fire, shaping into competitive vigor, anger, and distrust. Behind the walls of aggression and tension there was a deep tapestry of lust, the details of such causing intense shock even to a mind as lustful as her own. These visions of hateful and passionate fucking bombarded her like an illness. It infected her desires. Such acts of selfish cruel lovemaking. So much disrespect and calculated harm powered by a distrust towards all woman-kind. He was a king in his mind. A God. It was beautiful.
Suddenly and absolutely she was convicted in her needs. She wanted to be his. She needed to be the prop for him to play out all of his egotistical sexual desires. She wanted his strength to overpower her, and to make her faceless. The thought of being his conduit of masculine excess made her spine feel like liquid mercury. She wanted to belong to him, to not matter, and be used at any moment, and for any reason.
