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The cold dripped slowly into her skin; the touch of soft breath and searching fingers seemed to conspire with the night air to freeze her limbs and fetter her beneath him. She was limp — a doll in his hands — and with gentle strokes through hair and over bared skin, across neck and collars and arms, he lulled her slowly asleep. Perhaps it was not so terrible a sacrifice to be a plaything. One need only look through half-shut eyes.
Then again, perhaps it was.
She awakened to the touch of butterflies beneath her skin, flapping wildly to escape — her? him? her body curled frantically in every direction, frantic lest they escape, and a terrible sound rent the air as she fell forward.
The salt of the ocean danced in her nose and she cried out; but here she was helpless, helpless — and she laughed still, betrayed by her belly to his feathery touch.