It is something that falls beyond the furthest reaches of your notice. The small beads of sweat dripping down your naked body, between your squeezing and sitting legs, and then onto your most hated rival’s face. Some seeping into her eyes, others her air-seeking nose, and a few into and past her lips as they fight to remain closed.
A slow dripping humiliation.
A degradation of sweat and suppressed resistance that you miss, as you focus on keeping the woman who tried to ruin you there, trapped between your pressing thighs.
All as, in silence, she suffers. Drip after drip. Drop after drop. The salt of your skin staining her face, as it mixes with her tears of regret, hatred, and sorrow. The sound of such despair filling you with exhausted glee and jubilant satisfaction.