Perhaps she suffered.

The sensation of her inchoate suffering roused the old sharp flame in him, a mordant pity, a passion almost of cruelty.
'You are awake now,' he said to her.
'What time is it ?' came her muted voice.
She seemed to flow back, almost like liquid, from his approach, to sink helplessly away from him.

Her inchoate look of a violated slave, whose fulfilment lies in her further and further violation, made his nerves quiver with acutely desirable sensation.

After all, his was the only will, she was the passive substance of his will.

He tingled with the subtle, biting sensation.