She has been defeated, smothered with your breasts, her breath stolen away until she passed out beneath you. And now-now that she lays there un-moving, you dismount her, kneel, and softly, gently, insert a single finger into her sex.
You do not move it, stroke, or curl it.
You simply leave it, hold it, feeling as her vaginal muscles without guidance or control, flex and tighten around it, your free hand lightly squeezing your unconscious rival’s un-flexed thigh.
If someone asked you why you would do such a thing – why you would drive a finger into a woman you hate more than words most intimate of places as she sleeps – why you would struggle against her violently, body-to-body, for hours, only to choose such a punishment, you could not answer. In fact, if you asked yourself, you could not say. For after every battle, and every enemy, a victor finds themselves pulled to choose a humiliation that fits – one that speaks to the feud, and the fight that has occurred and has been settled. As there is no recipe, no guidebook, no method that exists somewhere in the madness, there is only the