|Glad Rags by Konrad Hartmann|
The dark fantasy drives Sheldon–the perfectly unresponsive partner. If satisfaction is the death of desire, only death will satisfy his desire. (M/F)
Sheldon looked at Marissa where she sat half reclined on the couch, her legs hanging off the side. He quietly pulled the coffee table away from the couch. He crouched next to Marissa. He wanted to fuck her with a drive that was both hot and cold. But he only wanted her like this, like a limp rag doll. He did not want her if she woke up. Whether she woke up struggling and enraged, or aroused and horny—either outcome would equally disappoint him.
“Marissa,” Sheldon whispered.
“Marissa.” Louder this time.
“Marissa!” he called, not yelling, but loud enough to wake someone from a natural sleep. At this last call, she snorted lightly. The sound bothered Sheldon, but not enough to deter him.
He put his hand on her shoulder and shook her slightly. Her breathing changed, just a bit, but she did not stir.
And so Sheldon knelt down on the floor between her legs and said a prayer. Who he prayed to, Sheldon did not know, but he said it with passion all the same.
“Please,” he said, feeling his lips quiver, building to a tremor that spread through his body. He stretched out his shaking hands, flexing the muscles and them clenching them into motionless fists. “Do not let her wake up until I am finished. Let me have this moment. Let me have it now.”