Her pain healed him as much as it did herself.
Through her gasps and moans, he felt a piece of himself coming back.
Through her tears, her whispered confession if her fears, heightened by pain, brought out by pain, he found another piece of himself in sharing that moment with her.
Suddenly she was not a stranger anymore, suddenly he understood her behaviour, suddenly it all made sense to her, the past weekend, the past days, the frustrating silences where her tongue froze, words stiff on her lips, things she wanted to tell him but didn’t because she doubted — herself.
He held the chain connecting the clamps to her nipples, he controlled the surge of her pain, opened the door to pleasure. The endless stream of consciousness funnelling itself from her mind to his. He understood the right amount and adjusted accordingly – and she…she understood to trust him, to allow him herself, to allow herself to let go of control, of the desire to hold back. No one had wanted her mind before, why should he? But no, that was not correct. That was something else, something damaging burrowing into her skull. She needed to fight back on that thought because he…he was there for her, and would always be there for her, through the bad and the good, through the pain and the pleasure, through the devastating cries and the moments of raw human vulnerability.
He needed to let go as much as she did, had wanted to before but always doubted himself and his place in her life. Each and every day.
Pulling the chain so that she rose, in anguish, in tears, in pleasure, took every aspect of himself, to look past a gentle nature, to take himself there to that secluded part of his soul she had always marked – and in turn take back there, to show her around the place, the place that was hers.
Through her pain they opened a wave-length only they shared. Maybe it was always there, this ability to communicate, but maybe pain was the tool, however controlled it was – or had to be – needed to take that communication further.