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He’s always so smug when he makes her come at this time of the month. She’ll be cranky and irritable, the waistband of her trousers pressing against her bloated belly, the clenching cramps making her wince, but if he asks, she’ll pretend everything’s OK.

And then he’ll get that knowing look on his face, and whip out a towel and have her knickers down around her ankles before she’s even processed what’s happening, and then she’ll be whimpering as he swirls his tongue over her clit, and his fingers slam into her, all the way up to her cervix, with a force she sometimes thinks he saves up for these moments, because she couldn’t handle it if she weren’t bleeding, and everything is hyper-sensitive and she’s aware of him and it doesn’t take much before she’s moaning her way through an orgasm.

The relief of it. She’ll be floating, temporarily free of the pain, too relaxed to fret about the fresh blood soaking into the towel beneath her, and then – he’ll just be so delighted with himself, as though this proves something vital about how women can’t possibly get by in the world without a man, about how she needs him, and the irritation will rise up again.

Which is when he fucks her, deep, fast, delicious, and makes her come again, and she can’t sustain the energy to be annoyed at that self-satisfied smirking, because it feels too fucking good and like so many things with him, she’ll let it go.