<div class="floatright">(http://t0.gstatic.com/images?q=tbn:ANd9GcSBadCQB7tH7yfWujsxz9qb8Xj3tkLgrm9Yg9Qp1SZLAqk7KOv3&amp;t=1)<strong><br/>Sara (http://elliquiy.com/forums/index.php?topic=150938.msg6869979#msg6869979)</strong><br/><strong>Location:</strong> On Dom's bus<br/><strong>Summary:</strong> imitation - the highest<br/>form of flattery.<br/><strong>Tagged: </strong> Dom<br/><hr/>"<strong>Oh yes.</strong>" She blurted in response to what she could only hope was the first thrust of many. Her timing was such that it nearly sounded as if she were affirming her status as an 'insatiable little thing'. Not that she would dispute the title. She was inarguably small, and her long neglected appetite for touch in her bucking hips was hardly subtle. <em>Thing</em> sparked some semantic resistance. Dom likely hadn't used it as a means of dehumanizing her. It may have even been a term of endearment, but it set her mind to wander, even as she riggled for relief beneath him. Was she a thing? The concept of slavery struck Sara as pure absurdity. By Dom's law and his might makes right logic, he could declare her a waste basket if he felt so inclined and it would be so. <br/><br/>The pressure of his weight bearing down on her pubic bone tore her from that line of thought. One of her hands clasped about his wrist, bit it was reflexive not resistance. Sara realized after the fact that she was bracing herself for impact. She tried to resist returning Dom's smirk, but it was becoming increasingly difficult not to enjoy his company - ravaging aside. In an attempt to quell her rising anxiety, she reclined back onto her elbows in a casual mimicry of the posture Dom had held beneath her. "<strong>Alright.</strong>" She whispered, pausing for a labored breath. "<strong>Let's see what you've got.</strong>" Finally a lopsided smirk broke through her defenses. </div>