Safensanefun

It was well after dark—one of those gray, seemingly endless winter evenings when snow blankets cushioned and cloud veils covered, leaving only a narrow wedge of cold space between for life to go on. Julie sat in her office chair, staring out the window behind her desk, wondering about that life.

It had been productive overall thus far, she thought, but there were still some challenges to meet; goals to reach.

A gaping void in her soul to fill.

Sighing deeply, she spun her chair back into position at the desk, flipping the file she'd previously been reading closed. So many of her student were people just like her, she thought. People with missing pieces in their lives. Every human being was a puzzle—their state of mind and therefore their place in the world largely depended on nothing more than how many pieces of them were missing, and where those pieces fit.

Missing pieces of the frame meant an unstable nature; more unpredictable and much more difficult to teach. These were the psychopaths, schizophrenics and ADD'ers. Missing pieces of important internal scenes—victims of abuse; personality and learning disorders—were easier to work with, quite a bit more if the student was smart and eager to learn, or the short attention span could be helped along with a creative approach. And then there were those whose frame and bigger pictures were intact, people who just had some normative life disruption and needed help short term to make the adjustment. Students losing their grip too sex, parties; both; the pain of witnessing their parents fight, divorce.

Standing and stretching, Julie slipped her heels back on and closed the blinds against the dreary charcoal landscape. She was sure her frame was intact and thought most of her big picture was as well, but her life hadn't experienced any of those normally troubling little bumps lately; she hadn't moved, divorced, changed jobs, lost a loved one or even gotten a traffic ticket. Hell, her life was as smooth as the glassy ice on the pond behind her office.

Why, then, was she so certain that something was missing?

Sighing, she put the question away. Her linen skirt and silk blouse were rumpled so she opted not to put on the still fresh-looking jacket that hung on the hook near the door. Her heavy overcoat would be enough.

Putting her hands to the small of her back, Julie groaned. Finally, another week had come to a close and she was free to lose herself in her own special brand of escapism. Bending to retrieve her purse from the bottom drawer of her desk, she heard the door open and close, felt a rush of cool air from the outer office, and looked up, her breath catching on a gasp.

She had never seen the man standing on the other side of her desk. He lifted his hand. Pointed at her. "Don't speak."

Words turned to ice in her throat. She saw what he held in his left hand and a wild tremor of realization shook her. Realization of who he was; what he wanted. What he might do with the glinting metal instrument in his hand if she failed to perform precisely as he demanded.

"Come here." He swung his empty hand, finger still pointing, to direct her to the spot directly in front of where he stood, between her desk and sofa.

Without speaking, Julie moved around the corner of the desk, purposefully keeping her gaze lowered to the spot he pointed to. When she stopped, her whole body a scant five or six inches from his, she could see the shined black leather of the loafers he was wearing, the strong lines of his legs encased in buff colored trousers, the dull gleam of his belt buckle; the hard ridge pressing out the placket of his zipper. She swallowed. Hard.

He shifted and the glint of silver in his left hand snagged her attention; fear rippled anew through her tummy.

"Give me your hands. Wrists up," he said firmly.

Shaking, she did so, holding her hands together, palms up, gasping, wondering what he would do. Her breath came out on a hot rush when he put his left forearm under her wrists to support them, using his right hand to unfasten the buttons of her cuffs. Against the pale peach silk of her blouse, his hands were wide, well shaped; masculine in a way that made her jaw clench nervously.

Finishing his task with efficient precision, he used his right index finger to nudge open the peach lips of her cuffs, exposing the tracery of blue veins running hot blood under her skin. Touching each in turn, he seemed to be testing her pulse.

"You're nervous," he said matter-of-factly. "Don't let that get in the way now." Dropping his hands, he took a full step backward. "Now...remove the rest of your clothes. Start with this—" With his left hand, he grazed the lowest button on her blouse not tucked into her skirt, the flash of silver so close to her skin making her shudder.

She didn't want to think again about what might happen if she didn't do what he told her to, exactly the way he ordered...

After gently, slowly drawing her blouse from the mooring of her skirt, she put her fingers on the little ivory button at the bottom, pushing it backward through its anchoring slit, freeing it. The bottom edges of her blouse parted; she moved her hands to the next button. Slipped it out.

Peach silk whispered more fully open, tickling her skin, revealing her navel. Tears stung her eyes and she closed them against the proof of her shame.

Surely, she thought, he'll stop once the clothes are off...surely he'll turn away and leave me. Julie knew that her face and hair were her best features—soft, thick auburn hair and smooth skin, at least for a woman her age, and lovely, long-lashed, blue-green eyes that could spill over with mischief as easily as pain or laughter or intelligent consideration. Those things, and her sensual, loving nature, were the only things she saw as beautiful about herself—certainly her body was lacking. As she slipped another disc from its anchoring silk slit, exposing her belly and the bottom edge of her white satin bra, she felt the wet burn of tears and whimpered, trying not to cry out.

Fingers fumbling, the next button, which lay between her breasts, slipped from her grasp. While she shifted nervously, trying to dry her damp fingertips and get a hold of the button again, she could see his right hand move up slowly, his fingers curling inward until he made a loose fist, knuckles toward her. She flinched when he touched her skin just below her navel.

"Don't stop," he told her, the order both firm and surprisingly gentle. He dragged the knuckle of his index finger around her navel and her skin tightened in response. She waited for taunting or laughter at the very least, but it didn't come.

The last button jumped from her fingers, popping free of its mooring and the blouse parted fully. Julie's full, plump breasts were encased in snug, white, cleavage-enhancing satin. Too big, Julie thought. Just like her. Too generous...too soft.

Ugly.

He slid his knuckle up from the top of her navel, over the upper curve of her too-soft belly, over white silk, her cleavage...to the hollow of her throat. Then he walked around her, sliding that finger under the collar of her blouse until he was standing behind her, his finger gently tugging, and her shirt met gravity and then the floor. Julie trembled in the slightly cool air of her office, gooseflesh raising on her skin.

"The skirt," he murmured.

Julie hesitated...but only until the even colder metal in his left hand met the small of her back, its edge pressing into her spine before moving almost delicately up, grazing her skin. She gasped, careful not to allow even that seemingly inconsequential breath to jar her, or cause that metal to press deeper into the frail protection of her skin.

Moving both hands to her left side, Julie unbuttoned the skirt; unzipped it. She didn't spend even a fraction of an instant attempting to keep it from falling—it slid to the floor with a soft murmur of linen. She flinched at the revelation of her body, now in panties and bra and hose that snugged around her thigh with stretchy lace in a size that she would never have admitted to short of torture or Sodium Pentothal.

She was so perfectly flawed.

The cold metal skimmed the back of her neck and this time, Julie whimpered, shivering helplessly. She felt the hot, slightly rough press of one of his hands on the base of her neck, his palm covering the place where the vertebrae of her spine curved delicately up into her neck, thumb and fingers splayed. The sliding it down her spine, resting at the base. The touch there was more than a light, warm brush of flesh against flesh, electrifying the tiny, soft hairs on her lower back.

He came around her, back to his original position directly before her, and Julie felt an unreasonable stab of pain that he'd made no appreciative comment. She kept her eyes lowered, her brows furrowed with worry.

When he lifted his hands toward her again, she flinched at the flash of silver once more. He offered her his hands, wrists up.

"Unfasten them."

She did, unbuttoning the cuffs of his crisp white shirt, trying not to look at what he clasped in his left hand. When the cuffs were open he spread his arms open and she knew from the stance and his expression what he expected; she lifted her trembling fingers to the top button of his shirt, taking a sliding half step forward. Each inch of male chest that the parting cloth revealed made Julie's heart stammer erratically. By the time the shirt was off and lying, neatly folded according to his orders, on a side chair, she was reminding herself to breathe. Nearly as soon as she had placed the shirt where he wanted it and returned to her position in front of him, he had another order.

"On your knees."

Submission. The order and the idea behind it made her start and breathe haltingly. She had always been strong; in control. Submitting to another human being was as alien to her as God was to an atheist.

The glint of silver.

And she was on her knees.

In that foreign position, she felt as weak and unprotected as a child; giving her will away as easily as blowing out her next breath, and as difficult as death.

She expected more of the fierce voice in which he'd ordered her down; she expected him to take control with iron hands and steel voice and rough will. Instead, he laid the metal from his hand aside, close enough to reach, but away from her, and slid his hands, fingers spread, into her hair, dislodging the pins that held it up in tight confinement, letting it shower down over her breasts, combing it through with almost loving attention. Then his fingers began a slow, methodical massage of her scalp and temples and the nape of her neck and she felt herself slowly melting into the position he'd ordered her into. Relaxing her as he exercised his authority. Odd contrasts, she thought, even as her eyes closed and she heard herself moan a little at the feel of his warm hands on her skin. No one in her life took such time with her, no one paid such careful attention to her hair, her tense neck...and then her shoulders, kneading away her reluctance almost to nothing.

By the time he slid his fingers from her hair with a satisfied moan of his own, she was kneeling there, eyes closed, swaying slightly, completely forgetting what lay on her desk a few feet away from his hand. And again she expected aggressive authority; again she received what she did not expect.

"You've done well," he murmured, giving approval and blessing.

Julie's head fell back a little; she looked up at him through half closed eyes, and saw nothing but approval and—affection?--in his gaze.

"I control," he said softly; firmly. "You obey."

Why was there no viciousness in this, she thought. Why no mocking condescension? She was silent, waiting.

"Give me your hands."

She lifted them, giving silently.

"These hands are mine, to do as I will," he murmured, caressing her palms with his thumbs. He bent as he lifted them to his mouth, kissing each one before straightening and putting her hands where he wanted them. At the button of his trousers. "Open them," he said in a velvet, gravel voice, and her shaking fingers moved to obey even as he continued to touch her; speak to her.

One thumb glided over her soft lower lip. "This mouth is mine, to kiss, to speak, as I will."

The button worked free; the waistline of the fine cloth of his trousers parted. She put her fingers to the tab of his zipper.

His hands framed her face, thumbs caressing over her eyes as they closed. "These eyes are mine, to see what I will."

The zipper came down, little teeth biting at one another, releasing their hold with a soft sound of metal against metal.

His fingers sifted through her hair. "This body is mine. To take pleasure, and to give pleasure....as I will it."

She knew the truth in it. "Yes," she heard herself saying, knowing that his declarations needed no confirmation; his will would reign even without it.

He took her face in his hands, tilted it up to look down into hers. "Yes, what?"

"Yes," she whispered back, afraid again she'd made a fatal error, "Sir."

He nodded once, approving of the tremor in her voice; the way the word sounded on her tongue. Her hands shook harder, forefingers and thumbs tight on the open vee of his trousers, revealing the soft white of his boxers, and the hard ridge of his arousal pushing out at them.

"Take them off," he instructed, murmuring a gruff sound of approval again when she slid her fingers into the waistband of both garments at his hips, tugging them down. He assisted her by lifting each foot so that she could remove his shoes and socks, and then his pants and boxers. Finally, she knelt at his feet, hands folded demurely in her lap and head bowed, with him standing nude and proudly before her, cock already throbbing and hard, ready to take her body as he had taken her will. And again, he gave what was not expected.

Asking for her right hand again, he took it in his left, tugging her upward, to her feet.

"Look at me," he whispered. There was no need for louder sounds in the small space that separated his mouth and her ears. Her gaze lifted slowly to meet his.

"Well done," he whispered, and then his free hand slid to the small of her back, fingers splayed, palm warm and gently on her, pulling her forward, until her breasts were pressed to his chest; her hands went up in an age-old gesture, finding his chest, laying there, ready to push away or caress. Angling his head, he kissed her...first one soft, gentle, gentling motion of his lips whispering over hers. Then firm pressure...letting her feel his lips full on hers. Then she sighed and he took the parting of her lips for his entrance, and his tongue went hot and wet into her mouth, kissing her masterfully; powerfully, until her knees went weak and she nearly forgot that she was so pitifully inadequate.

Instead she felt....as if she owned the world.

Whimpering, she realized that it was too odd a contradiction, to have one's control taken and yet restored all at once. Odd, but real, as real as his hands, one on her back, one holding her hand, as real as his kiss, his voice. His control.

When he had kissed her to nearly madness, he broke away, and she could not tell whose breathing was more disturbed, his or hers. He released her hand with his left, slid his hand into her hair, and pressed her forehead down, onto his shoulder, kissing her temple as if in benediction. As her gaze left his to sweep across the desk, the silver edge he'd laid aside made her remember why she was here, and shudder. He pulled her head back by tugging gently on her hair, looking into her face.

"No fear," he whispered, his countenance serious. "Now...kneel before me."

She crumpled back to her knees. His cock thrust out hard, brushing her cheek and lips, and she felt a rush of liquid heat between her thighs.

"Look at me."

Her gaze rose from the floor, gliding up his well shaped, firmly muscled calves, thighs equally masculine and impressive...up to his hips, swallowing hard at the sight of his shaft, and up his body, finally, when she was breathless, meeting his own.

He slid fingers and thumbs into her hair, holding her face uplifted as he looked down, and somehow the distance seemed only distance, not some measure of status. She felt equal on her knees.

"Touch me," he commanded, and she knew by the sound of the words and the feel of his hands holding her still for the order, that he was not going to give this order again.

He released her, and she sank back on her calves, face turned forward, in a place where, if she moved forward just a little, the lower half of his cock would brush over the fringe of hair over her forehead.

She swayed forward, subtly, feeling the soft strands of her hair touch his straining shaft; heard him taking measured breaths above her. When she pressed forward a bit more, kitten-like rubbing her forehead, her temple, against the velvet-over-steel of his cock, she heard those breaths break for an instant.

She knew that he watched her, and she was terrified and unsure and insecure and aroused all at once. Her temple grazed up his shaft and she rubbed her cheek against his throbbing flesh, turning her head so that just the very corner of her mouth touched him for a scant instant. It was hot and swollen against her skin; a living shaft of fire that tempted her to things she'd never done before. To be what she had never dared be. She turned her face, moving back in the other direction, and her lips brushed him, then the soft skin of her other cheek, and she felt his fingertips in her hair.

He did not remind her that she'd been commanded to touch him; she was certain that her hands were not the only means of providing him pleasure through touch and that he was intelligent enough to not only know that, but also to expect more creative things of her. She spent several fascinated minutes testing the feel of his cock against her skin, her lips, her hair, before finally sitting back again on her thighs and lifting her fingertips to his knees. Lightly settling them there, she drew them upward, drawing pointless, labyrinthian patterns up the fronts of his thighs, one hand on either leg, then down again, only to repeat the seemingly careless tease up the insides of his thighs, fascinated by male skin and hair and the breathing that betrayed him.

Julie forgot the silver instrument on the desk; she was hypnotized by a black snowy night and a dark, erotic new wind that had blown into her life. By being controlled she was seduced; by being commanded she was willing; freely giving.

Her fingertips slid up, increasingly close to the full, already swollen sacs below his cock, and he made a sound in his throat that she could not have misinterpreted. Her fingers glided over the rough skin of his balls, to the root of his cock, just her fingertips, lightly encircling; stroking an inch of his shaft at the base. She could see the obvious tempo of his pulse beating in the slight bobbing of his cock before her; she saw the way his thighs tensed and relaxed in rhythm with her fingers circling, then stroking...circling...

She bent forward, wrapping one hand around the full circle of his cock at the base, lips parting, moving to take one heavy sac into her mouth.

His hand in her hair tightened; jerked her to a sudden, painless stop. Gasping, she stopped, hand still around him, she looked up into a face filled with both arousal and fierce disapproval.

"What were you told to do?" he whispered roughly.

She frowned; thought back to his order. "To...touch," she whispered back, her own voice weak and wavering, nearly breaking, as she realized what she'd done. When he picked up the silver instrument he'd brought with him, clenching it in one hand while his other remained in her hair, she trembled. He held it before her, an inch from her throat, and she shivered.

"I'm sorry," she mumbled, amazed that she could speak at all when there was no breath in her lungs. She hated her own weakness as tears slid down both cheeks, one slithering into the corner of her mouth, giving her a taste of her own fear.

He put the thing back on the desk, out of her reach but well within his own.

"Remember," he said.

Julie nodded quickly. Remember....he was in charge; she was to obey. So simple, and so impossible, all at once.

"Yes," she murmured, glancing at the on the desk. "I'm sorry."

His hands slid down to hold her face in his palms and he turned her face up to his. "Don't fear," he told her firmly; positively. "Learn."

Her hand tightened on the base of his stiff shaft; he moaned, closing his eyes for a moment before looking down at her again, hands moving back to her hair.

Learn.

Learn to submit...to be owned...to obey. TOUCH. Yes, Julie thought as she slid her encircling hand up. She would learn. Learn the feel of silk-over-steel of his cock against her palm. The spiced, masculine scent of his body, the heat of him. The pleasure of them. Julie stroked one hand up his cock. Then down. Up. Down. Slowly, patiently, learning that he moaned every time she squeezed the base; each time her hand passed silkily over the head. She learned that he preferred gentle pressure in some places, firmer in others, marveling at the fact that one hand could give so much pleasure, and so much instruction. She learned, too, that every little moan he made, every murmur of approval, every change in his breathing, made her cunt begin to moisten and swell, making her squirm a little as she knelt on the floor at his feet.

She knew his cock; the hard planes of his thighs, the full, sensitive sacs that fit so perfectly in her palms. She knew the skin of his belly, the rough rasp of his fingers on her scalp; the pleasure of giving him pleasure. And she knew, when he whispered, "Your mouth..." on a gasping sigh, that she would give more. Bending her head, she rubbed her temple against the inside of his right thigh, feeling like the kitten again (which was ridiculous for someone like her, she thought....or it would be, in the real world). The feel of his hot skin being caressed by her soft hair made them both moan. She kissed the insides of his thighs, following kisses with tiny licks with the flattened tip of her tongue and following that with tiny, tiny nibbles, dragging her teeth along the surface of his skin, letting him feel her breath.

Julie ceased to know herself. The demand he made, that she serve, had changed her into something she had never been...and something she had always been, without knowing.

She found the creases of his thighs with the tip of her tongue, sliding up and back along one then the other, all the while, continually stroking his cock with her hand. She found the slight give of soft skin between his balls, pressed her tongue there and drew it upward until she felt the root of his cock pressing the skin, then released him on a moan, only to slide her tongue, flat, hot, kitten-rough and wet, over his balls--one, then the other, then back again. She slipped one into her mouth, cupping her tongue beneath it, cradling it in heat and moisture, sucking delicately, then honored the other with the same.

"No.....no more," he rasped finally, as she allowed one heavy sac to slide from her tongue. His hand came down to covers her as she stroked him.

Julie watched their hands together, stroking, before he told her to release him and move to the sofa. Frowning, she rose to her feet, seeing the way he raised his brows at her, waiting for her obedience. She slid down to lie lengthwise on the sofa as he ordered, one leg thrown up against the back, the opposite foot on the floor.

"Now," he demanded. "Touch yourself."

She rolled her head on the sofa cushion to stare at him, horrified. To do this seemed...almost extreme compared to touching him; certainly it meant exposing herself even more to him; letting him watch her masturbate. It was opening far more of herself to him than just her cunt.

"Cum for me," he whispered, leaning back, his ass against the edge of her desk. He continued stroking his cock and the sight was nearly enough to make her cum without stimulation. It was something she had asked her husband for...something he was uncomfortable with. Something done for HER pleasure...

She kept her face turned toward him, watching. Her left hand slid up to her breast, plucking delicately at the nipple; her right glided down against her inner thigh. Even the fact that she knew, in the back of her mind, that she must look horrid did not lessen her desire to give him anything he wanted. Or the excitement of watching him pleasure himself while watching her.

Her fingers slipped in her cunt. The melted-pearl liquid heat of her most feminine place shocked her at first, then made her moan as she circled her clit with one finger.

"Yes," he murmured to her. "That's right. Take pleasure. And while you do, you know that you are giving it as well."

The words made her hotter; wetter, if that were possible.

"Forget everything else. Think of this. Of your body, of what you need. What you want. Take it, Sweet. Take and drink until you're sated."

She moaned. The timbre of his voice made her shiver with erotic heat; his words made her feel as if she were blossoming, a bud waiting to explode into flower.

"Do you know what it does to me, to have you like this?" he whispered. "To have you under my control...to have you giving to me alone?"

The harsh, masculine moan he made when she whimpered, writhing in pleasure, on the couch, was proof enough. She felt every nerve in her body snap and sizzle with electricity.

"You're so beautiful," he rasped.

Kismet.

She exploded. Back arching hard off the sofa, the words pushed her into the bright abyss where blood imploded and her ears rang and body pulsed, writhing uncontrollably in orgasm. She lay there, spasming, gasping for breaths, as her pleasure rose, broke and ebbed away, and her fingers slowed and her cunt wept; she felt the hot slide of a thick drop of fluid down the channel between her ass cheeks.

He did not speak again. Instead, he walked toward her, putting one knee on the sofa between her thighs, his hands taking her own and holding them above her head. When he left them there, Julie did not draw them back again. Instead, she looked into his face, her chest still heaving for breath.

She watched his eyes as they raked down her body, felt his hands as they followed suit, touching her hair, her face, her throat and shoulders. When he cupped her breasts, Julie's back arched as if she'd cum once again, and she bit her lower lip, whimpering. He held her breasts, his thumbs between them, then slide his right down her belly. Julie closed her eyes, horrified and ashamed of her body. He murmured some soft sound that soothed her soul, and slid one finger down along her wet, swollen lips.

"Mine," he whispered, so softly she almost didn't hear him. Then he bent down, sliding his hands from her breasts to her back, pressing her shoulder blades up toward him; taking one contracted nipple into his mouth.

Julie bit back a scream.

He laved her nipples in the hot wet adoration of his mouth; she felt beautiful simply from the focus of his passion. He pressed down on her, his cock sliding hot and hard through her soft, wet folds; he moved his hips to bring the head to her opening, pressing against her gently, not demanding entrance, but instead teasing at the idea of it, making her squirm beneath him. His mouth continued at her breasts, gently nibbling, licking, sucking, making her feel as if she were the universe and he her child, taking of her body to live.

She felt alive.

She felt like a woman. Again, after so long.

He pressed the head of his cock into her, holding himself in check with just that swollen, thick part of him inside her, and she bucked, wanting more. He denied her, putting his mouth to her ear.

"Mine," he whispered, and then he was inside her, fully, slamming himself into her in one fast, fluid motion, her passage so wet that she gave no resistance, except to stretch to accommodate his size.

"Mine," he rasped again, withdrawing and plunging again, making her cry out at the pleasure. He took her, beautifully, deeply. Quickly. "Say it," he whispered. "Tell me."

"Yours," she breathed, neck arching, wrapping her arms around him. "I'm yours."

He buried his face in her throat, pressing hard into her yielding body, and came, pouring himself into her in hot, possessive streams. He trembled atop her, groaned into her skin, and gave of himself, to her.

They lay sated on the sofa, his body atop hers, for long, long silent minutes while dusty snow began powdering the windows beyond their shuttered eyes. Silent while breathing slowed and bodies cooled and passion ebbed into peace.

And then he rose above her, his face just above hers, and he kissed her mouth.

"Come," he said, taking her hand and bringing her up and toward the desk. Once there, he turned and smiled at her. Kissed her again, and gave his last order of the evening.

"Kneel."

She slid down, taking the place he'd created for her. He reached for the silver on the desk; held it in front of her face with both hands.

The necklace was silver, one thin, blade-like piece curving in a graceful arc suspended between delicate chains on either side.

"I take you," he murmured, his voice serious and full of pride. "I take you as slave, servant, submissive...as all that you offer. And I give myself to you. As Master, protector, lover. And if you accept it, I give you my collar, claiming you."

He held the beloved piece at her throat, waiting. Her eyes filled with tears.

"I take you," she whispered back. "I take you as Master, protector, lover...all that you have to offer. And I give myself to you, as slave, submissive, servant...anything that you require. I accept your collar with pride. I will wear it in devotion."

He smiled down at her; she sighed up at him, face filled with pleasure.

He placed the silver on her neck; she lifted her hair away to allow him to fasten it at her nape. It lay against her skin, cold at first; warming to her body. He took her face into her hands and bent down to her, kissing her passionately.

"Now come," he insisted, taking her hands to pull her up to stand. He took the old quilt from the back of the sofa, wrapping it about her shoulders, cocooning her in warmth. Stepping to the chair, he slipped on his trousers, then took her hand again. He drew her to sit with him on the sofa, tucking her against his side, kissing the top of her head.

"You did well," he murmured, pride obvious in his voice.

"I was so afraid you wouldn't offer it," Julie replied, touching the collar where it now lay, warm, on her throat. She sighed deeply.

"I was afraid you wouldn't accept it," he countered.

Surprised, she turned to look into his face.

"Truly, Rich?" she whispered, awed that he had sought her out, wanted her, claimed her.

He smiled. "Truly, babe," he whispered back, and kissed her.

And somehow, suddenly, she knew.

She really was the most beautiful woman on the face of the earth.