Every one of these moments must withstand scrutiny — she must feather her nest with these scenes, preparing to highlight his brutality, his dehumanization of her, his reduction of a living woman into body parts, appetizers. Is she capable of meaningful consent under the circumstances, with this man pressed against her like the barrel of a loaded handgun? He is coercing her, every day that passes, and she’s losing parts of herself that she would never have thought possible. It’s on her to wait and wait until she outlives him or she doesn’t. All her other maneuvers are desperate little reflexive kicks.

“You’re eager tonight,” Bedelia says. No doubt she sounds as distracted as she is. Her forearms press into the sheets, as she lies there on her belly. Hannibal lifts the hair from the nape of her neck, twisting it into a pale rope in his fist.

“Does that upset you?”

Hannibal breathes against the side of her throat, very near to her ear, where the hooked back of one earring pricks into the hollow behind her jaw. He isn’t out of breath, or breathing heavily, even with his cock inside her and her tight hole aching from the sudden breach. He enjoys a little pain, hers and his own alike, and she allows her body to make the helpless sounds it makes under strain. She can perform breathless, whimpering pleasure without even needing to lie. His body is laid over hers closely and his head is bent low; Hannibal’s tongue darts across her nape like the blade of a knife, tasting the sweat there.

His mind is elsewhere too. Hannibal craves variety, and for the most part he is able to cater to his own tastes with the vividness of his imagination — taking a stroll through his mental Rolodex and determining who to fuck. She can feel his slickness coating her thighs already, mingling with the lubrication of her cunt — before he began he pressed his cock through the folds of her with deliberate wicked slowness, getting himself good and wet, teasing her aching clitoris with every nudge and rub. Now, he does not seem particularly interested in her clitoris. Hannibal fucks her deeply, and his hips strike against her in quick sharp jolts; Bedelia lifts her hips to let him in, only for him to press her shoulders down against the mattress with sufficient force to leave her imagining bruises. Bruises would be good for her exit strategy.

His left arm braces her, and the heel of his big hand settles against her collarbone, just pressing. She grinds against the pillow beneath her hips, sparking with anger as the bones of his fingers shift like beads there at the hollow of her throat. Each demanding thrust presses the air from her lungs, until she can no longer cry out but only groan wordlessly through bared teeth — her climax has already come and gone, heaving her overstimulated and raw, and he spills himself inside her like so much evidence.